#referenced whump of a minor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

actress4him · 2 years ago

Note

>_>

<_<

~Psst~

Gimme 'Gilded Cage' for the bthb

For 'anyone' *wink wink*

This totally isn't someone you know o.o

*gasp*

Who could this be from?? And how did they possibly know that the very day this ask was sent, I was talking with Izzy about wanting to write something for the new AU using this prompt??

You must be psychic, Anon.

Introducing the new (well, not SO new at this point, but new to Tumblr!) Brumaria universe, The Royal AU. This piece is pre-Bruno, however, and hopefully sets up Kamaria's side of the story well enough that it doesn't require extra explanation. If not, feel free to ask questions, I love to ramble about ocs (especially Brumaria!) and aus.

Also this got, uh...really long, so, yeah.

Taglist: @painful-pooch (who obviously had NOTHING whatsoever to do with this ask), @badthingshappenbingo

Shadow of Death Masterlist

Fandom: Original Work

Prompt: Gilded Cage

Contains: fairly mild whump of a minor (14yo), lady whump, referenced parental death, referenced war, referenced fire, manhandling, non-graphic stabbing (not of the minor), hitting, prejudice, hunger, corporal punishment

Kamaria slips in and out of the throng of people like a shadow, unnoticed by most. It’s market day - the perfect opportunity for making a living. While the people of Ethorcon shout and haggle and admire stalls full of goods, she eyes their wrists and belts.

There’s a lady who doesn’t belong in this part of town, some noblewoman entertaining herself by watching how the simple folk live. It’s fairly common. Kamaria follows closely behind her and the girl who’s probably her maid, reaching easily between them to release the clasp of her golden bracelet and let it slide silently into her palm. She disappears immediately into the crowd again, waiting until she’s out of their sight before opening her fist and transferring the trinket to the hidden pocket she created for herself in the folds of her tattered skirt.

Brushing by a busy stall of dried meats, she tips a piece off the edge and into her other hand. It goes into her pocket, too. There’s already a pouch of roasted nuts nestled inside. She’ll eat one herself, and save the other for Aisling. The orphanage workers do what they can to feed them, but it’s never enough - which is why Kamaria takes to the streets as often as she can.

She won’t be able to stay for much longer, though. Too much time in one location is just asking to be caught, so she needs to make her last finds good ones.

There are actually a few brave Navarians out today, risking the scorn of all the true Ethorconites and the prices that the merchants raise as soon as they see them. She skirts around the small group, letting her eyes linger for just a moment on the rich earth tones of their clothing. She misses when everyone around her was dressed like them.

Once she’s put some distance between herself and the other Navarians, not wanting to risk any possibility of them being accused of anything, she spots her next target - a man with a large shoulder bag. There’s not as much of a guarantee that she’ll snag something of great value, but she can’t help the curiosity that pulls her toward it. She sidles up nearly beside the man, waiting until his head is turned the other direction before she sticks her hand inside, fingers closing around the first item of substance she feels and smoothly sliding it back out.

She doesn’t look at her new treasure until she’s in a nearby alley. It’s…a knife. Small enough that the tarnished brass hilt fits in her not yet full grown hand. Carefully, she removes it from its sheath. The piece may be old, but the blade seems to be in good condition, and she can tell just by looking at it that it’s sharp.

Thoughtfully, she tucks it into her pocket alongside the other items. This one she won’t sell, maybe. She likes the weight of it in her hands, the feeling of safety it brings.

She takes her usual route back to the orphanage, crisscrossing through alleys and abandoned back streets. No one looks up when she walks inside. For the most part, the workers allow the children to come and go as they please. It’s up to them to arrive on time for meals if they want to be fed, and to come in before the doors are locked for the night if they want a bed. At first she thought she would hate it here, and she does hate that she’s stuck in the capital city of Ethorcon, no longer within the borders of what used to be Navar. But she can’t pass up the food and shelter the orphanage provides, and at least they don’t try to control her.

She hasn’t thought of leaving, anyway. Not while Aisling needs her.

The small girl’s brown eyes light up when Kamaria enters the bedroom they share with four other Navarians, the room next door reserved for several Ethorconite children. “Did you bring anything interesting this time?” she whispers in the language the two share.

The room is currently empty, so Kamaria sits down on the floor mat with her and begins to empty her pocket. She holds out the two food options first. “Which do you want?”

Aisling hums, considering, then taps her finger on the pouch of roasted nuts. Passing it over, Kamaria takes a bite of the dried meat before reaching into her pocket again. “I haven’t checked to see what’s inside yet,” she explains as she drops a small purse into her lap, tugging it open. The two girls eagerly count out the coins inside, then hurriedly put them back, Kamaria running to hide it beneath the broken floorboard before returning to the bed.

“Look at this.” She displays the bracelet, and Aisling gasps in delight.

“So pretty! Can I try it on?” Giggling, she holds out her hand.

Kamaria smiles a little and acquiesces, slipping the dainty, expensive piece around her frail wrist.

The girl laughs again, twisting her hand so that the gold catches the light. “Someday, I’m going to be a rich lady and own hundreds of jewels.”

Snorting, Kamaria takes the bracelet back. “Being rich isn’t anything to strive for. The rich think they’re better than everyone, but their lives mean nothing. Strive for…independence, instead. And a position where you can help those who can’t help themselves.”

She turns her back to place the bracelet inside the hiding spot with the purse, trying not to think too hard about Aisling’s future. The way things are now…she may not live to be Kamaria’s age, much less to achieve riches or power.

“Tomorrow I’ll take a bit of the money and buy us some more food.” She returns to the bed, settling down next to Aisling and leaning her back against the wall. She can still feel the weight of the knife in her pocket. “Is there anything you’d like me to look for?”

Popping one of the roasted nuts into her mouth, Aisling chews thoughtfully. “Apples,” she declares finally. “And chocolate!”

Kamaria elbows her in the ribs, not too hard. “I stole the chocolate, you goose. We can’t afford luxuries like that.”

Aisling pouts, but it’s obviously playful. “Well then, can you steal some more chocolate next time you go out?”

Huffing a bit of a laugh through her nose, Kamaria shakes her head. “I’ll do my best.”

They sit in contented silence, munching their food, until a loud knock sounds on the front door of the house. Kamaria tenses, sitting up straight.

Aisling grabs onto her arm. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She tries to keep her voice calm, despite her body language. “Someone’s here. But no one ever visits.”

There’s a murmur of one of the workers answering the door, and a louder man’s voice responds. “We are here on behalf of His Majesty King Alaric, ruler of Ethorcon.”

Aisling’s grip on her arm grows tighter, whether in fear, shock, or excitement, she doesn’t know. Kamaria personally feels anger start to bubble in her chest at the mention of the man’s name. He’s the reason all of their parents are dead. He’s the reason that her home is a pile of ash, that she’s had to steal and beg and dig through rubbish for the past two years in order to survive. He’s the reason that they each take turns waking up during the night, gasping for breath with tears pouring down their cheeks.

“His Majesty requires a child. A Navarian child, to be exact.”

Another voice, slightly deeper. “King Alaric wishes to show his goodwill toward the former people of Navar by taking in one of their orphans as his own. They will be raised in the castle as royalty and afforded every advantage.”

“What a marvelous opportunity for one of our poor young ones!” That’s one of the workers. She sounds blown away. “They’ve all been through so much. Well, I can take you to see our boys over here, there are four of them -”

“Not a boy,” the first man interrupts. “We’re not looking for an heir to the throne. A girl will be more…suitable for him to bestow his goodwill upon.”

“Of course. We only have two Navarian girls, I believe they’re in their room.”

Kamaria jumps up off the mat and places herself in between Aisling and the door, allowing them to still see her but not come near. Her mind is racing with the conversation she’s just overheard. The king wants to adopt one of them. To turn them into a…a princess. It sounds too far-fetched to be true. All the Navarians know that he hates them. He invaded their kingdom solely to conquer it and extend his power, slaughtered them by the thousands, and now claims that they are citizens of Ethorcon but sits idly by while the real Ethorconites treat them like the dirt under their feet. And now he wants one as his daughter?

The door opens, and her hands clench into fists. The worker enters first, beaming. “Ah yes, here they are.”

Two men in rich attire enter, glancing back and forth between the two of them. The bald one looks her over closely, from her frizzy brown braid and dirt-streaked skin to her patched clothing and bare feet. “How old are you?” he demands.

She considers not answering, but doesn’t see the point in the end. “Fourteen.”

He sighs heavily. “That’s older than I was hoping for. Harder to train.”

The other man, the one with the deeper voice, nods toward Aisling. “The little one looks to be around the right age.”

The bald man doesn’t even glance her way. “She’s sickly, can’t you tell it just from the look of her?” He turns toward the worker, clearly exasperated. “You said these are the only two Navarian girls you have?”

“She wouldn’t be if you took her.” The words are out Kamaria’s mouth before she can fully decide whether she should say them. “She’s frail now, yes, but with proper food and access to a physician she’d flourish, I’m certain of it.” And she’d be able to be a rich lady with hundreds of jewels, like she wants.

She doesn’t want to be separated from Aisling, she’s become like a little sister to her. She isn’t sure, either, that the castle is the best, most loving place for her. But if it means guaranteeing her survival…

Besides, she has no intention of going with these men herself, and if she’s taken then there will be no one to look after Aisling, to bring her extra food. This is how it needs to be.

“I’m not taking that risk,” the bald man grunts. “The older will have to do. Come.”

He nods his head toward the door before turning to walk out, as if he expects her to follow him just like that. Kamaria stands rooted to the floor, heart pounding and thoughts swirling.

“Come,” the other man repeats, holding out a hand to her. “You’ve been chosen. This is a great honor for you.”

“No.”

The bald man turns, and they both stare at her. “No?”

She lifts her chin, gathering her courage. “No, I won’t go with you. I don’t want to go, you’ll have to take her, instead.” She looks briefly back over her shoulder at Aisling, who’s watching everything silently with wide, fearful eyes.

Taking two slow steps toward her, the bald man huffs. “You behave as if you have any say in this matter, girl. We are acting on behalf of His Majesty, and you will do as we command.”

Kamaria’s anger flares. “His Majesty has never cared anything about my existence before, and he can live without it now. I want nothing to do with him. If he wanted to extend his goodwill, then he should have refrained from murdering my family and my people.”

The fury in her heart is reflected back at her in the man’s expression. As the other man mutters something like, “Are you sure that you want this one?”, he stalks toward her. She takes a few quick steps backwards away from him.

“I haven’t the time for this.” Lunging forward, he grabs her by her waist and yanks her into him, wrapping one arm around her and beginning to drag her toward the door.

Kamaria forgets how to breathe. For a moment, she’s one of the women that she sees in her nightmares, being carried off by laughing soldiers while the town burns around them.

She’s brought back to the present by Aisling’s screech. “Kamaria!”

“No! Let go of me!” She fights, digging her heels into the floor as best she can, hitting and scratching his arm and anything else she can reach. “I’m not going anywhere! Let me go, I will not be your stupid princess!”

The knife in her pocket knocks into her leg as if politely reminding her of its existence. She clamors for it wildly, somehow managing to get it out and fling the sheath to the ground.

“I said let me go!” She has no idea how to properly use a knife, but she has plenty of access to drive the point of it into his arm near the elbow.

He curses loudly and she’s suddenly free. Knife still in hand, she runs back toward Aisling, who’s sobbing uncontrollably, only to be tackled to the floor by the second man. He pins her there, and she screams, memories from the night of the fire washing over her again.

“The little minx stabbed me!” the bald man roars. “Get that knife away from her! You let these children have weapons?”

She can’t see anything but the wooden floor, but she tries to stretch out her arm so that the knife is out of reach. It doesn’t matter, though. The man on top of her holds down her arm and wrestles the knife out of her grip, handing it off to someone else.

She should have just left it for Aisling. Now it’s gone to waste, like the bracelet and coins hidden underneath the floorboard that the little girl won’t be able to sell.

“Get her out of here!” the bald man growls. “I clearly have my work cut out for me, teaching this one even basic manners.”

She’s flipped over onto her back, large hands holding her wrists tightly, then yanked up off the floor and thrown over the man’s shoulder. Beating and scratching on his back and kicking her legs doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Aisling screams her name again, and she cranes her head up to find her tear-streaked face.

“Ai-Aisling…stay strong for me, okay? Stay…stay strong.”

The younger girl sobs again. “Please don’t leave me!”

She’s carried out the door and around the corner before she can respond.

The carriage ride through town is tense. Kamaria is too angry and afraid to enjoy the novelty of it, crushed in between the two men on the bench seat. She tries to fling herself out the door at one point, and gets backhanded across the face so hard that she falls into the opposite wall.

It’s the first time anyone has ever hit her. With all of the violence she’s seen in her life, it shouldn’t feel as sickening as it does.

She spends the rest of the ride in her seat, staring at a spot straight ahead of her with her mind racing with thoughts of what’s ahead.

The second man walks her into the castle with a firm grip on her arm that she wants to shake off but tries her best to ignore. It’s obvious she’s not getting away from them anytime soon. She’s never been anywhere close to a castle before, much less inside of one, and despite her determination to hate every inch of it she can’t help but gape. Every surface seems to shine. The floor is cold beneath her feet, and when she looks down she can nearly see her reflection in it. Above her, the ceiling stretches almost as high as the sky itself, and staircases with polished railings wind up toward long balconies.

“This way.” Her arm is jerked, and the bald man leads them through a door and into a series of hallways and stairs that seem to never end. Kamaria tries to memorize the route, in case she gets the chance to escape.

At last they go through another intricately carved door, into a room that looks to be a bedroom but is so huge it could fit an entire house inside. There’s a bed against one wall, with a blue canopy over it and heavy curtains at each post. Pillows are piled on top of the covers. In the corner sits a dainty table with two matching chairs, and on another wall a sofa with even more pillows. Opposite the bed, nearly the entire wall is taken up by glass doors leading out onto a balcony.

“These will be your chambers,” the man holding her arm announces. He glances over at her dumbfounded expression. “See, this arrangement isn’t all that bad, is it?”

She quickly reins in her shock, throwing a glare back at him. “I don’t want any of this. Not when it comes from him.”

The bald man whirls around and slaps her cheek, not nearly as hard as the first hit but enough to turn her face to the side. “We’ll start your first lesson now. You will refer to His Majesty with respect and honor at all times. Understood?”

She clenches her jaw and stares him down, refusing to respond.

Taking a step forward, he grasps her chin hard between his fingers, tilting her head back to stare down into her face. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she spits. She understands. That doesn’t mean she’ll do it.

A quiet knock sounds on the open door behind her, and the bald man looks up and releases her chin. “Come in, let’s hurry this along.”

Several women appear, most wearing matching plain dresses. Kamaria watches them warily.

“Lord Roderick,” the one who doesn’t match the others begins, addressing the bald man. “This is she?”

“Yes. Get started right away, there’s no time to waste. You -” he turns his attention to the others, whom she guesses are maids -“go draw a bath. She’s absolutely filthy, and this hair is a disaster.”

She wants to snap something back about how he’d be the same way if he was forced to live on the streets and actually had hair, but decides to keep her mouth shut this time. It would likely only get her slapped again, unless he wouldn’t do it with the maids around.

A few of the maids curtsy and disappear through a door on the other side of the room. The woman who spoke approaches her, and the man finally lets go of her arm, going to shut the door to the bedroom.

“I’m going to measure you for a new gown,” the woman explains, holding up a measuring tape. Without waiting for a response, she sets to work wrapping it around various parts of Kamaria’s body while the two maids that are left assist her and write down the numbers she calls out. Kamaria stands stiffly, unsure of what to do or where to put her arms. She’s uncomfortable with all the hands in such close proximity to her, but at least these are female and aren’t hurting her right now.

“I have everything I need,” the seamstress announces eventually. “The fabric and trim is already chosen, and we’ll all work on this tirelessly until it’s done.”

“Good.” Roderick gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “See that you do. If all goes well I want to introduce her to His Majesty by tonight.”

The three of them curtsy and exit the room. One of the other maids peeks out from the door they’d exited through. “Her bath is ready.”

Roderick places a hand on her back and prods her forward. A bath…actually sounds rather nice. She is filthy, though she’d prefer that not be pointed out by this horrid man, and she’s certainly not going to let on that she’s grateful for anything they’re forcing on her.

The bathtub in the next room is, of course, also fancier than anything she’s ever seen. Roderick ushers her inside and leaves, and the maids immediately descend upon her, hands grabbing at her clothes. With a wordless shout, Kamaria swats them away, backing up until she bumps into the wall.

“We only wish to help you undress, Your Highness,” one explains, as if that somehow makes their intrusion better.

“Keep your hands off me! I’m not a Highness, and I definitely don’t need help getting undressed! Nor do I need you watching me get undressed! I’m not a child, I can bathe myself perfectly well.”

Roderick throws open the door and steps inside again. “Lower your voice, girl. You’re a princess now, there will be no shouting and causing a ruckus.”

She glares at him, arms crossed protectively over herself. “I’m not a princess, and I’m not staying here so there’s no need for me to adhere to all your stupid rules. You may have conquered Navar, but that doesn’t mean that -”

Stepping forward, he grabs a fistful of hair on the back of her head. “I said to lower your voice, and unless you want your head shoved into the water in that tub, I suggest you also keep war talk out of your mouth.”

Kamaria snaps her mouth shut, fury sparking in her eyes. She doesn’t want to follow this man’s orders, but she has no doubt at this point that he’ll follow through on his threat and she’d rather not be drowned.

This can’t last. She keeps hoping maybe it’s a nightmare that she’ll wake from soon, but even if it is reality…it can’t last. Either they’ll realize that this is a terrible decision and send her back, or she’ll escape somehow. There’s no way that she’s actually going to be stuck here for more than…a few days, maybe weeks.

So maybe, for now, she should just play along. Not enough to make them think that this actually is a good idea, but enough that she doesn’t keep getting hurt by this man. She can let her displeasure be known, but learn to stop before he gets too angry.

He stares her down for a few more seconds before deciding she’s done talking for now and releasing her hair. “Behave yourself and do as your maids say. Just hurry up and get in the bath.” Exiting the room, he slams the door shut behind him.

Kamaria narrows her eyes at the maids. Her maids, he’d called them. Well, if they’re her maids, and she’s supposed to be a princess, then they should listen to her, right? “I will undress myself. I don’t want you to touch me.”

The maids glance at each other. “I suppose it’s alright this time,” one replies. “In the future, though, Your Highness, your gowns will be much more complicated, and you’ll need help removing them.”

There’s no way she’s letting anyone put their hands all over her like that, ever. She’ll just have to figure out the so-called complicated gowns herself until she can get out of here. “And I don’t want you staring at me while I undress, either. Do royals have no sense of modesty, or is that an Ethorconite thing?”

Reluctantly, they turn their backs and allow her to undress and slip into the hot water herself. In all honesty, it feels extraordinarily nice, but not nice enough that she’s ready to turn her back on her people to indulge in it for the rest of her life.

An awkward hour later, Kamaria sits in front of an ornate mirror, wearing undergarments that cover nearly enough of her to be an actual gown and are made of the softest fabric she’s ever touched. Each of the maids is yanking a comb through her still-damp hair, trying to get rid of the never ending tangles, while they discuss how to style it when they’re done.

“A braid,” she says simply.

One of them frowns at her reflection. “A braid is too simplistic, Your Highness. You’ll need something regal to meet His Majesty.”

“Then multiple braids. That’s how the Navarian nobles style their hair.”

The maid sighs, turning her attention back to a particularly stubborn snarl. “You’re a princess of Ethorcon now. Not Navar.”

Kamaria jerks her head away, putting a hand to her sore scalp, and glares into the mirror. “So? What is the point of the king adopting a Navarian if you’re just going to try to turn me into an Ethorconite?” She reluctantly lowers her hand, allowing the combing to continue. “We all know that he doesn’t actually care anything about ‘extending goodwill’. Which means the only reason for him to do something like this is to try to fool people into thinking that he does actually care about us.”

“You shouldn’t talk about His Majesty that way.”

She continues on without pausing. “And if that’s the case, then shouldn’t I actually look like who I am? Doesn’t he want to be able to show me off and make sure everyone knows that it’s a Navarian he’s taken in?”

These thoughts have been occurring to her through everything that’s happened, but saying them aloud makes them much more terrifying and sickening than turning them over in her head. She’s a trophy, that’s what she is. What he wants her to be, at least. A shiny new thing that the king can wave around and use to prove how wonderful he is, while continuing to do absolutely nothing to actually help her people.

“There will be an announcement of your adoption in due time, and the people will be informed of your heritage then. But Lord Roderick and His Majesty want you to look the part of the princess of Ethorcon. And braids are not part of a traditional hairstyle here.”

“But -”

The door opens, and Roderick strides back into the room. “Are you still arguing?”

She snaps her mouth shut, transferring her glare to his reflection before finding her courage again. “I will have a braid somewhere in my hair.”

“You will do what you’re told, or you’re going to regret it.” He walks up beside her, and she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hide her immodesty. He just grabs her chin again and turns her face toward his. “At least you clean up decently, though you’ll look much better once that hair is dealt with.” His other hand comes up to brush across the purple bruise that has begun forming on her cheek, and she flinches away.

“Would you like us to do something to cover that, my lord?”

“Don’t bother.” He turns and walks back toward the door. “His Majesty will understand. I’m going to check on the seamstress’ progress and attend to a few other matters. Be sure her hair is finished by the time I return.”

She’s never had to sit still for so long in her life. It feels like all of her hair is going to fall out of her head by the time they’re done, but she does have to admit - to herself, at least - that they do a good job of making her curls look soft and shiny for the first time in two years. And the updo that they settle on is elegant and regal - for an Ethorconite, that is.

When she’s finally allowed a moment alone in the privacy of the bathroom, the first thing she does is tug out a section of hair on the side and braid it, then pins it back into place. She studies herself in the mirror. She’s thinner than she used to be. The last years have hollowed out her cheeks and made her collarbone more prominent, though nothing like poor Aisling’s. And now she looks ridiculous in this fancy foreign style, and she hasn’t even put on a gown yet.

At least she has the braid now, though. She’ll cling to any part of Navar that she can, no matter how hard they attempt to strip it all from her.

Eventually the maid knocks on the door, probably worried that she’s doing something drastic like destroying all their hard work by adding a braid to her hair. While she was inside, the second maid brought up a tray with lunch from the kitchen. Kamaria can smell it as soon as the cover is removed, and finds herself drawn to the table where it sits.

There’s so much food, and it’s all supposed to be for her. Poultry with a golden sheen, steaming vegetables, bread with butter pooling on top. For the longest time she just stares at it all. She wants it. The hunger that’s been a constant presence in her life for two years suddenly lurches to the forefront of her mind, demanding that she stuff everything on the tray into her mouth as quickly as she can.

But she also can’t stop seeing Aisling’s face. She’s the one who needed this, not Kamaria. It isn’t fair, that she should sit here in luxury and eat her fill of the finest foods, while her friend stays behind and continues to suffer.

“I can’t eat this.” She takes a step back, hand pressed against her stomach, eyes still fixated on the overflowing plate.

The maid sighs. “Why not, Your Highness? I understand that it’s not the cuisine you’re accustomed to -”

“I’m not accustomed to anything except scraps of whatever happens to be available!” she shoots back. “I just…I can’t. I can’t.” How can she explain that eating this food would feel like betraying the only person she’s cared for since losing her family? They wouldn’t understand, and they don’t need that kind of personal information about her.

“Well we’re not going to feed you scraps, Your Highness. You must eat.” She gestures to the food. “You don’t have to worry about going hungry anymore, all your needs will be provided for here.”

That’s the whole problem. But she’s right about one thing, she has to eat something. Especially if she ends up needing to escape from this place, if they don’t just kick her out, she’ll need energy and strength.

Reluctantly, she walks over and takes a seat and begins picking at the food. It’s delicious, but it’s so rich that she can barely stomach it, and guilt accompanies every bite. She only makes it through a small fraction of the pile before she’s pushing it away.

“I’m full.” She waves a hand without looking at the food again. “The two of you can have the rest if you’d like.” This isn’t the orphanage, food isn’t a rare and precious commodity. It’s doubtful they want to eat your leftovers, Kamaria. Among the children it was incredibly rare for someone to leave any of their food, but on the occasion that it happened there would always be a tussle to split the rest.

She spends the rest of the afternoon being trained by first the maids, then Roderick, on the perfect curtsy with which to greet the king. Despite her disdain for the idea - and her great desire to come up with the most disrespectful greeting she can to substitute - she tries her best to copy them and follow the instructions, especially once Roderick arrives and starts threatening to slap her around again. He’s still not happy with her performance by the time they end the lesson, but throws up his hands with a sigh and declares that it will do for now.

Finally, the seamstress arrives with the finished gown. She’s forced to let the maids help her slip it over her head and lace it, partially because Roderick is still lurking and she doesn’t feel like being hit for arguing again, and partially because they were, unfortunately, correct, and she probably wouldn’t be able to wrangle all of the fabric and reach the laces herself. The dress is a deep red, and it feels expensive, silky and smooth and so much skirt that she feels twice as heavy once it’s on.

Roderick stares her down critically, a scowl permanently painted on his face. “I suppose you’re as ready as you’re going to be. You look the part, at least.”

“How did this braid get here?” a maid gasps, and Kamaria can’t keep a smirk from quirking her lips.

“Never mind, it’s hardly noticeable and we don’t have time,” Roderick growls. “Let’s go.”

Her nerves rise as she’s led through the castle halls once again. She’s only a commoner, she’s never met anyone like a king before, and certainly not King Alaric, whom she’s heard so many stories about. Obviously she doesn’t care anything about making a good impression on him. She’d rather he take one look at her and immediately order Roderick to send her back.

But…this is the man who destroyed her country. This is the man who ordered his soldiers to kill her family and burn her home.

At one point, as a foolish, grieving child, she’d sworn that if she ever stood in his presence she would kill him herself. Now she’s expected to pretend to be his daughter.

The doors to the throne room tower over her head, ornately carved and inlaid with gold. They swing open suddenly, and she finds herself in the largest room she could ever imagine, with the king staring down from his throne a great distance away.

She freezes. Her feet won’t move forward, refusing to carry her into the same room as her mother’s murderer.

A hand on her back shoves her through the doorway. She nearly trips over the long skirt of her dress, but still can’t take her eyes off the man at the other end of the room. He’s as stern-faced and intimidating as she’d imagined, face pale beneath his black hair and beard and eyes bright and intense. They watch her every move as Roderick gives up on her walking herself and drags her by the arm.

The walk seems to go by in an instant and take an eternity all at once. Suddenly they’re at the foot of the steps that lead to the throne, and Roderick is pinching a bruise into her arm. Right, curtsy, she’s supposed to curtsy. Was she even planning on doing so? Maybe she was going to just stand here and refuse. It’s too late now, she’s already moving. Everything that they taught her this afternoon has escaped from her mind, though, and whatever motion she makes is clumsy and awkward. She can hear Roderick sigh quietly next to her.

“Your Majesty, may I present the Navarian girl that you requested. I’m afraid she will require quite extensive training before she’s ready to make an appearance as a princess, but rest assured that I am up to the task.”

King Alaric just keeps raking his eyes over her, stoic expression never changing. “How old is she? I thought you were getting a little one.”

There are so many things she should say to him, but they all stick in her throat. The emotions swirling through her chest are fighting against each other. She feels at once everything and nothing.

“Fourteen, I believe she said. I was originally planning for younger, but unfortunately she was the best option.”

The words finally take shape and burst from her lips. “No, I wasn’t! Aisling was the best option, I told you so right then and there, she would have flourished here and she would have been happy to do whatever you wanted.”

Roderick grabs her arm in the same place he was pinching it earlier. “You will hold your tongue in the presence of the king,” he hisses.

She tries to pull away from him, glaring daggers. “I told you I didn’t want to come here. If you want a perfect, obedient princess then you’ll send me back, because I will not be her.”

“Shut up, girl!” He twists her arm hard, wrenching her shoulder, and she gasps in pain. “I apologize on her behalf, Your Majesty. As I said, she requires extensive training. And the other child she’s referring to was sickly and frail, so don’t let her deceive you. She was the best choice…” He throws her a disdainful look. “Such as she is.”

King Alaric leans back in his throne, expression still unreadable, as Kamaria continues to glower at them both. “I must say I’m disappointed. I was hoping to have something I could present to the people sooner rather than later. I trust that your outing was discreet, at least?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The orphanage worker was the only one outside the castle who knew of our mission, and she was paid handsomely to hold her tongue until the proper time.”

The king sighs, looking her over one more time. “Fine. Start your training and make sure absolutely everyone knows that she is to remain unknown until I make the announcement. I’m counting on you, Lord Roderick, to make this work.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I will not fail you.” He bows his head, still firmly gripping her arm.

“Does the feral child have a name?”

There’s a pause, and Roderick shoots her a look, jaw tight with anger. She raises one eyebrow at him - oh now you want me to speak? Now that someone is actually bothering to find something out about me? - and the anger grows. He jerks his head toward the king, prompting her to answer.

She lets the silence linger for another moment before answering. “Kamaria.”

The king scoffs. “Of course. Well, at least there will be no mistaking that she’s Navarian.” He waves a lazy, ring-laden hand. “You’re dismissed.”

Kamaria has never been so glad to leave a room, though she’s furious that her hope to be sent back right away has been dashed. Part of her wants to run back and argue some more, to show the king just how bad of an idea this really is, but even if she had the courage, Roderick isn’t giving her that choice. He doesn’t let go of her arm until they’re back in the bedroom that’s been designated as hers.

Unfortunately, he’s just as angry as she is at how that meeting went. She’s gotten glimpses of what this new life under his control is going to be like throughout the day, but it’s that evening that she’s fully shown just what to expect from his training.

#bad things happen bingo #gilded cage #original content #whump of a minor #lady whump #lady whumpee #referenced parental death #referenced war #referenced fire #manhandling #stabbing #hitting #prejudice tw #hunger tw #corporal punishment #the shadow of death #kamaria the assassin #royal au #whump writing

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faofinn · 2 years ago

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DAY 16: semi-conscious

@febuwhump

Everything was…hazy. Nothing really made sense, and he wasn't entirely sure where he was, or, if he was honest, who he was.

He was warm though, and rarely in much pain. There were people around, talking to him, but their words were fleeting and he never managed to make them out.

They’d been trying to get Harrison out for a long while. He’d been known to them from a young age, but his family were difficult and without formal social services intervention, their hands were tied.

And then they got news that things had truly broken down with the family, that Hars was in hospital critically unwell, and that he needed the support of ARCC. A young wolf all alone, he needed a pack. Needed people behind him. Fred and Sheila had a lot on their plates, and so they spoke to Steve and asked him to reach out to the kid. He’d been doing such a great job working with the more troubled kids, and they knew he’d be a good fit to give Harrison the support he needed.

So he headed to the hospital, intending just to touch base with Harrison’s care team, get some more information, and speak to the kid if he was up to it. He understood how critical things were, that he was still somewhat sedated amongst other things, but it would be good to at least see him.

He’d bought a little stuffed animal, too. He knew it was daft, the kid was 13, after all. But it felt right, somehow, to offer him a little bit of comfort amongst it all. Hospital was a scary place, no matter how old you were. It was a little ginger tabby cat, the softest toy he’d found in the shop, and he hoped it would bring the kid some comfort.

After a nice conversation with Harrison’s nurse, they let him into his room. It was quiet, aside from the soft noises of the medical equipment, and he took a careful seat next to the bed. The boy in the bed looked small, asleep under the sheets, pale with his hair a mess. As so not to disturb him, Steve carefully tucked the cat up next to him. After a moment’s deliberation, he took his hand, squeezing it gently. He wasn’t sure how aware the boy was, how much he’d remember, but he wanted to make an effort.

“Hi, kid. I’m Steve.” He said, his voice soft. “You’ve really been through the mill. I’m really sorry it happened, but you’re safe now. Got a whole pack looking out for you.”

His words were gentle, as was his touch. He fought against the sedation, squinting at the man. He didn’t recognise him, though he doubted he would have anyway. The scents were all wrong, mixed with the sterility of the hospital.

Steve hummed. “Hey. Didn’t expect you to wake up. It’s okay, you’re safe.”

He blinked slowly, taking a moment to just try and figure out what was going on. He finally noticed the new arrival on the bed, and frowned. It took a little longer for him to manage to reach for it with the hand not in Steve’s, a small smile playing on his face.

Steve smiled back. “Thought you might like a friend.”

"Mine?"

“Yeah, he’s for you.”

"Oh."

“He’s not got a name though, you’ll have to think of one.”

He almost gave a shrug. That was too much to think about.

“For later.” Steve soothed, aware the boy would be struggling. “Are you in any pain?” He asked gently.

He shook his head. It wasn't pain, just…uncomfortable.

“No pain is good.”

Harrison hummed, shuffling slightly to get more comfortable. He instinctively pulled the cat closer, giving Steve's hand a soft squeeze.

“That’s it, you get comfortable.”

It didn’t take much for Harrison to fall asleep again, and he soon drifted, safe and content. He woke a little while later, and couldn't quite believe the man was still there.

Steve let him sleep, glad he was getting some rest. God knows he needed it. When he woke again, he didn’t move for a minute, letting him adjust to being awake again.

He gave a small smile, trying to clear his throat. "Hi."

“Hi.”

"It hurts a little."

“Here, where’s your button? We’ll call a nurse in.” Steve said softly, standing up.

"I don't know."

“I’ll have a look, is that okay?”

He nodded, his lip trembling slightly. "I'm sorry."

“It’s alright, you’ve not done anything wrong.”

"I have." He whimpered quietly.

Steve easily found the buzzer, and pressed it to bring the nurse in. He sat down afterwards, not wanting to intimidate him further.

He pushed the cat away from him, worried he was going to be told off. "I'm sorry."

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve said gently. “The cat is yours and you don’t need to be sorry.”

"No."

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.”

"Why?"

“I’m not that kind of person.”

Despite the pain, Harrison struggled to stay awake, stuck somewhere between conscious and the past.

Hesitantly, Steve moved the little stuffed cat closer to the boy. “It’s alright. Nobody is going to hurt you now.”

"I wasn't bad." He murmured. "I wasn't."

“You‘ve not been bad.” Steve said, his heart breaking. “You’re alright. Going to get you some painkillers.”

"I didn't say anything." He looked straight through Steve, focused on something, someone that wasn't there.

“It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

He gripped the cat absently. "I was good."

“You’ve been so good.” Steve told him. “You’re okay.”

Harrison gave a tiny nod, finally hearing Steve. "I was good."

“You’ve been so good.” He repeated.

"Oh, Steve, you're still here?" The nurse asked, finally answering the call bell. "Is everything okay?"

“Hi, sorry. Wanted to stay until he woke again. He was saying he was in a bit of pain, I wondered if he could have anything extra?”

"Yeah, of course. I'll go grab him something. Bless, he's just getting used to being awake again, isn't he?"

“Yeah, he is. Trying to be a consistent person for him. Thank you.”

"He definitely needs that."

“Yeah, exactly.”

They weren't long, returning with some pain meds. She shook Harrison’s arm gently, speaking softly to him. "Hars? Sweetheart? Got your painkillers."

He gave a quiet noise in acknowledgement, too deep to do much else. She took that as his recognition she was there, it was more than most would usually get anyway. It didn’t take long to give and she hummed, stepping back.

"There you go, I'll leave you two alone."

“Thank you.” Steve said gently.

Harrison whimpered softly, reaching out for the older man. "Steve?"

Steve was surprised he’d remembered his name. “Yeah?”

"Thanks."

“Oh, you’re welcome.”

Harrison smiled then, still semi-conscious, everything still hazy. And for the first in a long, long time, he felt safe.

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samtheacesheep · 1 year ago

Text

Work Description:

Melissa Chase breaks Milo Murphy, the villain, her sworn enemy, out of prison. Her view of herself and her world crumbles before her eyes.

#whumptober2023 #no.15 #‘I don’t need you to help me I can handle things myself’#suppressed suffering #‘I’m fine’#mml #fic #implied/referenced torture #minor whump #mml fairytale au #I wrote a thing

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whumpitisthen · 2 years ago

Text

Today Is His Special Day!

Tws: for child endangerment, minor whump (nothing actually happens, has happened or will happen, but whumpee strongly suspects that that may not be the case anymore)

< Masterlist

Today might be the single most stressful day of his entire life.

He has been trying to get ready for today for a few months now. More accurately, a few years. Since he was old enough to understand that life isn't quite as easy for everyone else around him. Quite as certain. Quite as safe.

For a long while he was under the impression that his life was insignificant and unfair; that everyone else had it better simply because they were adults. They worked because that was their job, that is what adults do. They are the responsible, smart, strong ones who were supposed to take care of him. His job was supposed to be learning, and having fun. Enjoying his childhood. And yet, he was working as much as anyone, in his own eyes.

However — a few years back, his visual on the world drastically changed.

He suddenly knew that life could be far worse for him. He witnessed what truly goes on behind the scenes; what everyone around him never had the heart to tell him. He saw the brutality from a front row seat, and no matter how he cried at his 'caretaker', they would not stop until they deemed the punishment severe enough.

Worst of all, the violence didn't end there. From then on, at an age much too young, he was shown again and again how good he really had it. Slaves, servants, colleagues, friends... None of them were free of their wrath. The smallest mistake could lead to horrifying results. An offhand remark could send them into such a lust for blood, the very air around him could be felt changing at the exact moment something inside them would snap.

His caregiver would hurt people. A lot. Physically. All the time. And they didn't even do it for the right reasons; though what could be considered the right reason to hurt anyone that badly is a mystery to him still. They did it because they wanted to. To force agony under their skins and watch them writhe. They found it amusing; sometimes alluring. The rush. The power. The fear. A twisted fascination for ruined bodies.

They would smile while beating someone into the dirt, laugh when they would scream in desperation. Sometimes, they would even lure them into a trap — they would have the unfortunate soul say something they didn't really mean, or do something they knew they shouldn't really do just so they could correct them.

He always knew his guardian was a powerful figure in the community he was part of; that much was clear in their mannerisms and actions, as well as the other's whenever they were around. He knew they were a little mean with other adults, but he chalked it up to nothing more than stress, or his own imagination. He always assumed it was normal; they were the boss around here after all, that is how someone who rules should act. They knew best, they held the well-being of the rest in their hand. Until he was allowed to see it with his own eyes; until he was no longer sheltered from the visible repercussions of misbehaviour by the person enacting judgement, he would have said he wished to be an outsider like all the others. Someone else, someone more important, someone people would pay attention to. He wanted to be older, so he could have a say in his own life.

Now, he is scared. His thoughts are racing. His skin crawls and shivers. He hasn't even got out of bed yet.

He has been scolded before, but never hurt. He works for the same person that would torture someone else for the hell of it, so the possibility is there. If he was allowed to see real punishment, it must mean there is a reason he was made aware of it. It's Chekhov's gun. Once shown, it will have to go off at some point.

He has to talk to them about it. He loves them, he really does. They are the one who take care of him, protect him, feed him. They make him laugh, let him sleep in their bed after a nightmare without hesitation, treat them with kindness. They are as close to a parent as it ever got for him. But his childish curiousity would have never allowed him to keep himself in the dark.

So they had the talk. He asked all the questions he wanted to, and his guardian answered each and every single one truthfully. He remembers every single word from that conversation so clearly, ironically, as if his life depended on that information; —

"Did you hurt Mr. Owen's eye the other day? His face was all bruised and he didn't seem to want to tell me why." — An off-handed start. Casual. Like it is a normal thing to conversate about over dinner.

"Yes. He spoke out of turn. You know I can't stand that." — They did it for no reason. Of course. That wasn't even a question.

"Have you been hurting everyone all this time?" — A little push. They should pick up on where this is going already. They surely do.

"Yes." — No elaboration needed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" — An important question.

"You were too young to know." — Ah. He was too young. Was. His heart stutters, but he trudges on.

"Why now?" — Was it intentional? A conscious choice? A decision, to expose him so suddenly to what lies ahead of him?

"It had happened already, and I could not take it back. You aren't a kid anymore either. I assumed you were mature enough." — It wasn't supposed to happen, but he is supposed to be able to handle it by now. Because he is not young anymore. He is old enough. Why does it feel like his ribcage is shrinking?

"Why do you hurt them?" — A pointless question. One to deter his own thoughts. He already knows the answer.

"Because they deserve it. Because they need to remember their place. Because I want to." — Because they want to.

"Isn't scolding them enough?" — A half-hearted suggestion.

"Not enough. Not for me." — If it was, they wouldn't take so much time out of their day to beat someone into a pulp as punishment for not keeping eye contact long enough.

"Why isn't it enough for you?" — A desperate question, though it comes out as smooth as a compliment.

"Why would it be? Why wouldn't I hurt them for messing up? That's how they learn." — How they learn. The ones powerless to stop them. If that's how they learn...

"...Why don't you hurt me then?" — A terrifying question. Almost an invitation. He hopes it doesn't come across that way.

"You're my family." — Right.

"You hurt your brother that one time too..." — A question, but hidden. If he deserves it, though he's also your family, how come I don't?

"Well, he's an adult, he can take it." — He's an adult.

He's an adult.

Of course. He hasn't seen them hurt anyone but grownups. All the ones that they are supposed to be on even grounds with. He doesn't see many people his age around, but maybe that's for good reason. The only kid around is him; taken under the wing of this sadistic monster.

He did not ask more questions, though one little thought he cannot chase from his mind. As he pulls air into his chest again by force, and lets it slither out of him in a hopeless sigh, the words are a constant buzz. He will have to ignore them for the whole day. He knows it will be impossible.

He will work the whole day like he does any other day because that's what he is supposed to do, like all the adults. He was taught well the consequences of failing to follow orders.

He will stumble home after an exhausting day — narrowly avoid breaking down in the doorway from the same words that were buzzing in his head having turned into screaming — to greet his guardian with a smile.

There they will stand with a warm expression, a present in their hands and a birthday cake on the table, proudly telling him he is an adult now. How incredible it is that's he's really all grown up. How he can drink, and see all the horror movies he wants, and all these other news that are supposed to be great and fill him with joy.

And there he will be, holding back tears, because the only thing running through his mind will be the one question that has haunted him ever since the talk, burning his throat; —

"Will you... hurt me, too?"

#whump #my writing #whump writing #fear #sadistic whumper #bad caretaker #minor whump #child endangerment #nothing actually happens or has happened or will happen #spoiler alert: he will ask the dreaded question and the answer will be #of course not. why would i ever hurt you?#bc caretaker may be a horrible monster but at least they keep whumpee safe right #right guys #theyre my second ever caretaker ive ever written give it up for my second ever caretaker #dont expect any more any time soon #referenced torture #referenced abuse #carewhumper

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wangxianficfinder · 2 months ago

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Fic Finder

Nov 14th

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1. Hello, I am looking for a fic that I think is wangxian. It was based on the ballad The Highwayman, and it ends tragically. It should be a complete work. Thank you!

Found by asker as a Star Wars fic -

Nov 14 #1 requester, I think I’ve found it but it’s a Star Wars fic. If a wangxian version exists, I’m happy to have it, but I think it’s solved. Always fun separating out the fic memories from a fandom obsession transition period…

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2. I hope you can help me find this one. It was a Twitter threadfic. In that LWJ proposed to WWX but WWX said no because he didn’t believe in marriage. They go to a wedding and the groom gets cold feet but LWJ helps him. Seeing that made WWX want to marry him but by then it was LWJ who changed his mind and WWX was heartbroken .

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3. There was this fix where wwx was a funeral arranger? Or something like that and lwj and wwx established relationship but then madame yu and her husband died and it focused on like grieving and stuff, there was also yanli and jiang Cheng and showed like the sibling bond I can’t find it I been trying for ages now

FOUND? grave goods by luckymarrow (E, 28k, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, mortician!wwx, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Marriage Proposal, abrupt tonal shifts, Tragicomedy, Comedy, Romance, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Adoption, Implied/Referenced Abuse, for lan parents, it’s not described and is all backstory, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Married WangXian, brief daddy kink, the barest hint of consensual non-consent, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, BDSM)

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4. Hello! I'm looking for a couple of fics I lost sight of a long while ago!

A) The first one took place during the Cloud Recesses Arc: all the swords are stolen at night by 'Wei Wuxian' who is later found badly injured in the forest. He had been attacked by the future Wei Wuxian/ Yiling Laozu.

B) The Second One took place after the Siege, and I'm pretty sure the spirits of the Wen Remnants attacked others? I don't remember much about it, I'm sorry.

Thank you in advance and I appreciate your service a lot

4A)

FOUND? For the Dust and the Dirt by Nyxelestia (M, 63k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Time travel Fix-It, Cloud recesses study Arc, It gets worse before it gets better, WWX Whump, Hurt/comfort, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending)

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5. Ok hi sorry can’t remember much but school in tilling WWX is teacher there LWY moves there to teach also become friends a misunderstanding make WWX not speaking to LWY after LWY follows a Yao and finds WWX fighting it on a rooftop they defeated the Yao and LWY asks WWX “you’re wearing crocks?” WWX is that what you are going with …, or something like that

As always THANK YOU for all that you do for us 😁 @bkpmystinen

FOUND? An Unscheduled Stream by trippednfell (M, 68k, WIP, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern Cultivation, Misunderstandings, BAMF WWX, BAMF Wen Popo, WWX cultivates resentful energy but keeps his golden core, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Presumed Enemies to Lovers, Not Yunmeng Jiang friendly, Time Skips, Dual Cultivation - Not the Sexy Kind but ALSO the sexy kind, POV Multiple, Hurt/Comfort, Horny wound tending) I'm not sure about the crocs bit, but WWX and LWJ definitely end up fighting yao on the roof of the school.

FOUND? Roadside Attractions by Bodldops (T, 10k, WangXian, Teacher WWX, Teacher LWJ, The power of organized aunties)

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6. Heyy! I'm looking for two fics:

A) Omegaverse, modern au, wei ying is an omega and jc is an alpha and wy lives w the jiangs and i think there's this sort of expectation that he's gonna marry jc or atleast that's what jc wants, but wy gets pregnant by lwj and moves out after a fight then yeras later lsz and jl go on a date and that's how wy and jc meet again, cos jc's there when wy goes to dinner to meet jl's parents and uncle and turns out its the jiangs obviously, and basically jc's really stalkery and jealous after that but lz protects him.

B) modern au, omegaverse, lxc goes to pick up lwj from school and finds out a kid jc is his mate. he's disgusted and goes away for a while. when he comes back jc is older now. i don't remeber much but wy and lz are the side couple and wy is a beta as far as i can remeber, and there's a scene where jc wakes up in the hospital and wy and lz are kisisng and jc's kinds like fucking finally yk but yea!

Thank you! Love you guys!!

@body-inabyss-heart-inparadise

6A)

I recognise the fic though I can't remember the name. The author deleted all their works from AO3 a few months ago, if I recall correctly. I know it's also been on other fic finders.

FOUND? 6a is Meant To Be (But Not That Way), dm me ~dripping-moonlight

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7. Hello,

Ficfinder request.

Modern but with magic or cultivation. LWJ is a magical creature(?) hunter working for some kind of agency to protect humans.

The rest of the sects(from my memory) are families of magic creatures(?) but WWX has some kind of ‘half-breed’ status so when he goes through the magic/darkness detectors at LWJs work he doesn’t set them off.

Much of the fic is from LWJs pov but there is a great chapter from WWXs pov when he fully lets his powers out and we get badass WWX.

I feel like it was mdzs+ some anime but i don’t know which anime. 🥺 @empiresprince

FOUND? our reflections as seen (when the water stills) by chatonnerie (E, 121k, WangXian, XuanLi, Modern, Tokyo Ghoul Fusion, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, This is a ghoul au, but everyone is also in university, so dumb energy is peak, Gore, Body Horror, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Biting, our reflections as seen (when the water stills) [PODFIC] by Opalsong) OHHH 7 IS THE TOKYO GHOUL AU IT’S SO GREAT AND ALSO THERE’S A PODFIC WHICH IS ALSO ABSOLUTELY AMAZING (I was too excited sorry for a million replies, but) It’s so good that there’s absolutely no tokyo ghoul knowledge needed, reads like a fun creature!modern!au kinda this way, has been one of my comfort listens for several years now

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8. Hello, I am looking for a fic, where Wei Wuxian runs away from Lotus Pier, right after he was brought there and Jiang Cheng kicked him out and threatened with dogs (when they were children). I think that Wei found his father? Not sure, but I have a feeling that this fic was found here and I forgot to save it. Thank you in advance.

FOUND? 🔒 the world wags on by justdoityoufucker (T, 5k, WCZ & WWX, WCZ & LQR, WCZ/LQR, canon divergence, pre-canon, not everyone dies au, not Jiang friendly, past child abuse, canon Jiang family relationships, parent-child relationship, not YZY friendly, pre-relationship) has elements of the world wags on but it isn't a perfect fit.

FOUND? In Another Life by SingingInTheRaiin (M, 21k, wangxian, time travel)

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9. Hi, I’m looking for a fic where after wwx is found during the sunshot campaign Jiang Cheng pretends his demonic cultivation is just the Jiang clan’s secret technique and uses that to keep the other sects off their back. I’m pretty sure it was from jc’s pov, and compared wwx, jc, and jyl to different bodies of water at the start of it (though I could be wrong about that part)? Thank you for the help

FOUND? Three kinds by apathyinreverie (T, 7k, wangxian, JC & WWX, canon divergence, protective JC, twin prides of yunmeng dynamics, soft WWX, smitten LWJ, worldbuilding, fix-it, golden core reveal, fluff, siblings)

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10. Hello! I'm looking for a wangxian reality TV fic. It's a dating show and lwj is a participant while wwx is his camera man. They try to keep their relationship a secret but by the end the crew discovers them and has wwx brought in as lwjs partner. I think lwj proposes to wwx at the end and that Mo xuanyu was involved as the participant who stayed the longest

FOUND? After the Final Rose by azurewaxwing (E, 55k, wangxian, modern, reality show au, secret relationship, fluff & angst, happy ending, bachelor LWJ, cameraman WWX, smut)

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11. Hello! I'm so sorry to bother you but I've tried doing all my own searches and just can't find it. There's a fic series where Madame Yu cut off Wei Wuxian's hand before the fall of lotus pier and the Wen siblings took him in to help him recover. He ended up leaving the Jiang sect and starting his own and he and Wen Qing became amazing at making spiritual prosthetics. I know it's a series and I know I loved it but I can't find it anywhere! Thank you for your help! @queerlyloud

FOUND? 🔒 a star called sun by thelastdboy (E, 120k, wangxian, SL/XXC, JC & JYL & WWX, JYL & LWJ, WWX & WN & WQ, JYL/JZX, Canon Divergence after Xuanwu Cave, Fall of Lotus Pier, But worse!, Power Imbalance, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Not Everyone Dies AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Sunshot Campaign, Miscommunication, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Major Character Injury, Loss of Limbs, Chronic Illness, Seizures, WWX’s Three Months in the Burial Mounds, Wēn Remnants Live, Wēn Remnants Deserve Better, WWX Creates a Sect | Yílíng Wèi Sect, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note, Hurt/Comfort, Selectively Mute LWJ, Service Animals, Crows)

FOUND? 💖 from the other side of sorrow by Sour_Idealist (E, 127k, JC & WWX, JC/WQ, JC & WWX & JYL, JYL & WQ, WangXian, WWX & JYL, JYL/NHS, LXC/JGY, JGY & NMJ, JGY & WQ, Canon Divergence, Golden Core Fix-It, Golden Core Transfer, canon-typical family dysfunction, Torture, secondary character death, Canonical Character Death, Comfort Sex, Femdom, Choking, Cock Slapping, Cunnilingus, Series Context Provided, Under-negotiated Kink, Mentions of canon-typical violence, Clan Leader JYL, Sunshot Campaign, JYL POV, spiritual weapons, Sect Leader WQ, Biased Narrator, Slow Burn, sect politics, Trauma, D/s elements, Reconciliation Sex, Reconciliation)

FOUND? 🔒💖 in payment, a hand series by justdoityoufucker (M, 10k, wangxian, not jiang friendly, amputation, injury recovery, self reflection, abusive YZY, families of choice)

~*~

12. Hello! I started reading a Tangled x MDZS fic which I remember being pretty long. It was with lwj as Rapunzel and wwx as Flynn Rider. I started reading it but then decided I don't want to and now I regret it 😭. The part that I read was exactly like the start of the movie, with wwx complaining about how his wanted poster looked and all that jazz.

FOUND! we sit in the sunset glow by moonsteps (T, 36k, WangXian, Tangled AU, Fairy Tale Elements, Strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Curses, Sharing a Bed, Minor Violence, Traveling, Falling In Love) for the tangled AU, it sounds like it could be it starts just like the movie with Wei ying complaining to lil apple abt how he looks in his wanted poster😂

~*~

13. Hey buddy, Hope you are doing well!

I'm searching for a fic. The only thing I remember is just a scene. The cloud recesses is hosting lectures and and guest disciples from all sects are visiting. I think it is after the war with the wens. It's a cannon divergence I think. The scene I'm referring to is, two of the disciples are from Su She's (Su Minshan, I think the full name is) and the sect heir is just a kid below 10. At some point others makes fun of him and his sister when they present gifts at the beginning of the lectures and LWJ kinda defends them, I think....

That's all I remember. Thanks in advance! @grrumpywoof

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14. Hello , I am looking for a fic where Jang Cheng dies instead of Jang Yanli at nightless city. Then she moves back to Lotus Pier and becomes sect leader, and lan wangji ends up living there too. Also, wei wuxian is brought back to life earlier, and by xue yang. lan wangjis back takes longer to heal.

Thank you!

FOUND? picking up the pieces by KouriArashi (M, 111k, JYL & LWJ, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Alternate Canon, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Regret, Family, Kid Fic, Families of Choice, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, canon typical political bullshit, Eventual Happy Ending)

~*~

15. I'm in search of two time travel fics: A) WWX has traveled back to CR. LXC hears him playing dizi (wangxian among others) and recognizes it as something LWJ composed (possibly same fic, though I may be conflating details, he realizes in lessons WWX is pretending to be less skilled at the dizi than he actually is). B) LWJ travels back in time from right after the 30 lashes and ends up in the burial mounds early w/the wens, still seriously injured and bleeding through his robes. Thank you guys! @moku-youbi

15B)

FOUND! The Cottage Amongst the Gentians by Enigmatree (T, 5k, WangXian, LXC & LWJ, Time Travel, LWJ and WWX time travel from post nightless city to before jin ling's celebration, or, I give WWX back to 13-years-grief LWJ like he deserves, Hurt/Comfort, Feat. LXC being a good brother who'd love to know what the fuck is happening, WWX goes to Gusu with LWJ after time travel; the fic, Domesticity) maybe?

~*~

16. Hi I'm looking for a arranged marriage fic where lwj and wwx both are in love with each other but the marriage is arranged by their families. On the wedding day wwx overheard a conversation between lwj and his best friend who also have initials of ww the best friend had found a letter addressed to ww written by lwj confessing his love and think lwj is in love with him and he is trying to convince lwj to not marry and give him a chance. Their married life is full of misunderstanding.

FOUND? A Marriage Story by DeviyudeThoolika (E, 38k, wangxian, NMJ/LXC, married wangxian, but there are some complications, because it’s marriage, Sex is complicated, Angst and Pining, Pining while fucking, Mature elements, Mutual Pining, HEA, Arranged Marriage, Sort Of, Misunderstandings, of epic proportions, One True Pairing, Good Sibling JC, Good Parent YZY, Fluff and Angst, in that order, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone Loves WWX, Angst and Hurt/Comfort)

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17. Hello! I would like to ask for help in finding a wangxian fic:

Modern with magic

I remember that Wei Ying got injured in Xuanwu cave together with Lan Zhan. In the Lan hospital he was denied help because he was fired (?) from the Lan org and later received a bill to pay for expenses.

He is saved by Wens.

Few years later Lan Zhan and Lan Xichen seek his help in some kind of case. Wei Ying says something along the lines of "I don't work with Lans".

Later Lan bros find out it was Su She's fault in how WY was treated.

I would really appreciate your help in finding it! ❤️‍🩹 @popugaj-ara

FOUND? 🔒 Wish I could forget the taste of your skin and the feel of your hands pinning me down by KizuKatana (E, 63k, wangxian, WQ & WWX & WN, Modern Cultivation, weapons-grade thirst, Getting Back Together, Trying REALLY hard to not still like your Ex, but failing, BAMF WWX, BAMF LWJ, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, LWJ’s canonically big dick, sort of a ‘thirsting for your co-worker ex’ vibe, it eventually gets worked out, Mutual Pining, Guest-starring LWJ’s canonically poor communication choices after romantic cave encounters, novel canon relationship dynamics, basically this fic is about escalating sexual tension)

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18. hi there thank you for finding fics for us

there is a fic where WWX is a teacher in Yilling and LWJ accepts a teaching job at the same school, they become friends and then a misunderstanding (not uncommon btwn them) WWX ignores LWJ LWJ follows a trail of a yao sees WWX fighting it on top of the school roof when landing he sees is WWX and then asks "Are you wearing crocs?" I think WWX tells him is a comfortable wear

please/thank you @mysticalyunique

FOUND? Roadside Attractions by Bodldops (T, 10k, WangXian, Teacher WWX, Teacher LWJ, The power of organized aunties)

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19. hi this is for the fic finder! i remember the fic so well but i fear it may be deleted bc i just can’t find it in my bookmarks? so wwx after dropping off the face of the earth due to Wen Drama is a folk punk (?) musician along with wen ning and they live in a van, and jingyi is a huge fan, he drags sizhui to a show where they realize this guy might be lwj’s long lost best friend <3 call lwj over and they reunite, lsz is actually wwx’a bio child whom lwj adopted, they get to know each other etc

FOUND? your heart is a muscle by howodd5ever (E, 47k, WangXian, Modern AU, Pacific Northwest, folk punk, Adoption, WWX is LSZ's Parent, as in bio parent, WQ is LSZ's bio mom, brief mention of past wwx/wq hook up, chosen family, ljy and lsz are best friends, wwx is a folk punk singer, wn is a folk punk singer, Getting Together, Eventual Smut, fan boy ljy, protective big brother lxc, Happy Ending, I promise)

~*~

20. Hi! This is fic finder. A ghost WWX after the first burial moubd sige. His ghost is in YMJ. JWY makes WWX to teach. WWX trains JL. And then there are a conference in lanling where WWX goes too. Thats all i can remember. Thanks! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

FOUND! Death of a Ghost by Gotcocomilk (E, 107k, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Mutual Pining, Parental WWX, BAMF WWX, he is a beast and I love him so much, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Ghost Sex)

~*~

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic finder #wangxian fic search #the untamed #wangxianficfinder #long post

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birchbow · 9 days ago

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Chapters: 3/17 Rating: Mature Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara, Lord English (Homestuck), Doc Scratch (Homestuck), Homestuck Ensemble, Calliope (Homestuck), The Felt (Homestuck), It's really a 'everybody is around doing things' fic I genuinely don't know how to tag this Additional Tags: Winter Soldier Pastiche, with everything that entails so read carefully!, Humanstuck, Urban Fantasy, Home-Brew Magic System Shit Don't @ Me, Time Shenanigans, Karkat Vantas Makes Bad Decisions This Is A Forewarning, Polyamory Negotiations, Hurt/Comfort, Lord English's Fun-Time Brainwashing Time-Travel Torture Gang, Aftermath Of...... Everything....., Past Torture(physical/psychological/spiritual/emotional--largely inexplicit but not entirely), Past Brainwashing, Possession, implied/referenced past rape/non-con, (sexually not described in detail and more explicity nonsexual Cal-flavored intimacy/tenderness), God Finds It Funny To Hurt You But Also Won't Let You Die, Let's be clear: plotty gamzee whump with a, Happy Ending

Chapter 3: An Insolent Nonbeliever

You’d do whatever the fuck you had to, to keep him here with you. You’d carve out your heart and feed it to him, if you thought he’d remember the taste.

#homestuck #gamzee makara #karkat vantas #dave strider #davekat #gamkar #anyway happy new year! I simply MUST go to bed I worked all night and I'm so tired and having SUCH bad heartburn haha #KVvTEG

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steviewashere · 4 months ago

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Look After You

Pairings: Steve Harrington & Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Father, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Rating: Teen and Up CWs: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Violence, Blood & Injury, Implied/Referenced Homophobia Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Whump, Platonic Stancy, Nancy Wheeler is a Sweetheart, Nancy Wheeler Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Injured Steve Harrington, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Minor Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, But Their Relationship is a Key Stone to the Whole Plot, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Dad is an Asshole, Use of Queer as a Slur (Steve Referring to Himself) Title from "Look After You" by The Fray

🫂——————🫂 The car crawls on the wet asphalt. It’s dark, cold, sprinkling now that the heaviest part of the downfall has subsided. And Nancy isn’t going to take any risks with driving tonight. Not after all she’s survived.

It’s hard to spot what’s ahead of her through the droplet covered windshield. She turns the wipers on—squeak…squeak…squeak. Turns up the heater another notch on the dial when her fingers begin to ache again from the cold. And lowers the volume on the radio—“Barracuda” by Heart begins to dwindle—the crackling through her speakers from a tape Jonathan gave her as a gift. “Fitted with the best tracks I could find that suited you, Nance.”

She has more tapes in the center console. One from Robin, a mash of Madonna and The Beatles that she suspects came from lingering Vecna anxiety. A short and sweet mix from Eddie—Dio becoming a new favorite band, surprisingly. And an old, tired tape from ’83, crafted specifically for her by Steve. She remembers the effort he put into it. How he nervously gave it to her, how his hands shook, his smile fond and lightly embarrassed. There were songs on it that he liked, noticeably Queen and Springsteen; but there was Bowie and Blondie, too—for her, genuinely just her. All in all, the center console is a good representation of love she’s had over the years—new friends and old. The only tape not in the car being one from Barb, dusty and lingering in a box of trinkets shoved far and deep into her bottom dresser drawer.

Barb is still honored among her things. Some of her clothes. There’s a pair of lenses she left, that Nancy has since fitted for her own reading glasses—ones that she wears when marking in loopy cursive in the same type of journal she always saw Barb writing in. It’s the principal of moving on, she thinks. Not quite leaving all of Barb behind, but honoring her in the small ways that matter—and in that, it’s forming new friendships while repairing ones formerly broken. To be loved; to be remembered; to be taken care of, even if it’s just music in her car.

Even if it’s pulling slow to the next red light and in the corner of her eye, on the left in the steadying rain, she spots a figure on the sidewalk. Hunched in, carrying a heavy sack on their back, hair floppy into their face—a battered face. And if they didn’t cross under a streetlamp, she probably wouldn’t have recognized them. But it’s the blue Adidas on their feet that she notes. With a crank, then two, and another that threatens to jam her window into the car door—

“Steve?!” She calls out. The figure stops. Startles frantically. Whips their head around, eyes darting, mouth frowning. And then they look at her. His eyes wild and scared and hazy. Her stomach drops low. “Hey! Where’s your car?!”

The rain pelts down. Heavy and heavier as she idles at the stoplight, now green. His hands are nervous in front of him, smushing palms together, fingers tangling with one another. Then, he just shrugs. But his face does something…complicated. It twitches like he’s thinking. It frowns like he knows she won’t like the answer. And so he settles for absence, like she’d ever think he’s actually stupid.

“Why don’t you get in mine, Steve?!” she shouts over the heavy rain, “I can take you where you need to go! You’re gonna get sick and we know how Robs is going to react to that!”

It’s the mention of Robin that makes him move. Slow and hesitant, hefting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders. Sluggish in a way that worries her—a reminder of concussions, of blood soaked shirt scraps, and the inevitable infection that had come in the aftermath. She thinks he looks—not exactly cowardly, but something so timid that it’s child-like. Small and shaky.

The passenger door opens with a soft click. And he climbs in, shoe making a gentle squish to the floor of the car, and the subtle squeak of his drenched clothes on the leather seat. His sack goes to the footwell, overflowing and tight against the glovebox, probably heavy on the tops of his feet. He shuts the door with his right hand, but she catches a glimpse of his left where it rests on his thighs. The contours of his knuckles are shadowed with blood, dried in the creases of his skin. There’s a jagged scratch to the edge of his palm that she wonders at, if it reaches down to the underside of his hand, where it ends, if it’s still bleeding. He scrunches his fingers minutely, but quickly straightens them again, as if it hurts to move them. And she’s sure it does. She’s very sure it does.

She looks back out the windshield when he settles into the seat. The light turns yellow, then red. Green light just missed, so she’ll stall. Fiddles with the knobs on her dashboard—cranks the heat high, turns the radio completely down. Shifts the air vents on her car so that they all point at him, rather than her. And soothes at the way he closes his eyes, soaking up the heat on his obviously cold skin—goosebump riddled and lips slightly blue. Wipers forced to their max capacity, fast and squeaking.

“So…where are you heading, Steve?” And she looks back, not head-on. Tilts her head, looks sideways and almost down her nose at him.

He shrugs, eyes still closed. Even though they’re hidden from her, she can tell he’s forlorn. Tight wrinkles between his brows. A frown still sitting stubborn. “I don’t know,” he breathes.

Nancy nods. Taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “Can I ask about…about the face?” she wonders quietly.

The way his jaw tightens, she thinks there won’t be an answer. His throat works, muscles strained, veins protruding, Adam’s apple tired. But then, his lower lip wobbles and his eyes peel open half-lidded, and he’s looking out the passenger window. Even through the rain on the glass, she can see the tears he must’ve been trying to recede. Fast and plenty, some tinted pink from the bit of blood still caked around his eye, the others crystal clear and showcasing the rapid flush of his ruddying cheeks. “Not yet,” he whispers, “can we just drive for a little bit?”

Instead of pushing, like she wants to do, she just looks at the road—light finally green—and goes under the speed limit. Empty streets, still slick asphalt, she’ll oblige. “Anywhere in mind or do you want to just go sightseeing?”

He snorts wet and snotty. “You still have that constellation book in your center console?”

“Hey,” she scolds, mock-offended, “I told you that in confidence!”

His head thunks against the side of the door, hair rustling as he looks to her. She feels his eyes on him, but won’t look over again just yet. “There’s no one else around,” he murmurs, “and besides, I was kidding. I don’t know where I wanna go.” Steve sighs heavily. “Don’t know if my face is very welcoming right now anyway.”

She clicks her tongue. “Yeah,” she reluctantly agrees, “think the…the blood and stuff would put people off.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. Hesitantly, she broaches the next subject, “Taking walks at night with what seems like a load of hiking gear. Did you take on a new exercise plan or something?”

“Nope,” he answers quietly—he’s been weirdly quiet the whole time—“just seeing where my feet would take me, I guess. Out of town or…wherever.”

“Out of town,” she repeats slowly. “And your car wasn’t good for that?”

He shrugs. “Dad told me I couldn’t have it, since he tossed me out. Not like I can do anything about that, it’s in his name.” Then, at that, he inhales sharply through his nose, eyes wide—wider than she’s ever seen them. Catching up all at once to what he said. “I didn’t—You didn’t hear—Forget that I”—

“Did he do that to you?” She asks, teeth gritted. Chest tight.

“My dad? My dad’s an asshole.” She remembers all the times he’d say that. Brushing over the shit he’d been thrown. Trying to convince her to not meet his parents.

He doesn’t answer now.

“Steve, if he did this, you can press charges. You can…We can tell Hop”—

“And get everyone else involved? No thanks.”

Reluctantly, Nancy finds a spot on the curb that’s completely empty, and pulls over to it. He begins to reach down into the footwell, scrambling for his bag, panicked in all his gestures. She stops him with a soft hand on his forearm. He freezes, but doesn’t look over.

“Steve,” she whispers, “what were you going to do tonight? Where were you going to go? If…if your dad is after you or something, we can stow you in my basement, I can—I’ll get Jonathan to remove the stick in his ass for a night so you can”—

“I was going to skip town, okay?” He forces himself to speak, mangled and garbled as it is. “See if I could find a passing car outside of the limits, hitch a ride, maybe end up somewhere else. That’s what I was going to do. I don’t wanna…nobody else needs to know about all of this. I don’t want anybody else to get involved. This is between my dad and I, alright?” Finally, he looks up from the footwell. Still hunched over. Hands still shaking and gripping to the backpack straps. Tears streaming down his face again.

She makes a decision, stubborn as he is, and turns on the overhead light.

In the sickly yellow glow of the car’s light, she can see all the damage done to him. There’s a cut on his right cheekbone most likely formed from a wedding ring. Dark, plum bruising around his left eye. Swollen face, blood caked around his nostrils—hopefully not broken. A cut on his lip. Another cut on his hairline. There’s bruising on his neck, in the shape of fingertips. And when she looks down his arm, past the curled edge of his t-shirt sleeve, there’s bruising there, too.

“I should shoot your dad in the fucking face,” she finally says. “Why’d he do this to you? If anything, you’ve been out of his hair for years now. He has no reason to go after you. No fucking reason at”—

“It’s because I’m a queer, Nance,” Steve spits. Not venomous, something humiliated and heated. “Okay? I’m a fucking queer. I’m dating—Eddie and I are dating. Wayne should’ve been the only one to know, but somehow my dad found out. Went snooping in my room or…or maybe one of my neighbors saw Eddie leaving my house looking a little more rumpled than he arrived. But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m a queer and my dad doesn’t like that.

“And if you’ll excuse me, I think I should get back on the road and get the fuck out of here before my dad can come cruising around, find me, and do me in worse than Vecna could’ve ever.” He rips his arm out from under Nancy’s palm. Struggles with hefting the backpack onto his lap. And reaches for the door handle.

Yet, he still stops himself when Nancy pulls him back in. Forces him back into his seat. Keeps sat and still.

He looks back to her, understandably upset.

She takes pause. Looks back and forth at his wet eyes—one half-shut, forced by the swelling of his face. Her hands are on his biceps, sat where those bruises are, and all she does is stroke her palms up and down. Soothing. “That’s okay, Steve,” she murmurs, “I don’t care that you’re queer. That you’re gay or—or something else. I care that you’re safe.”

“I’m not safe here in town,” he retorts, voice shaking.

Her hands move to his forearms. Where his skin is still cold. “You don’t even have a jacket on. You don’t…you don’t know who’s going to pick you up. What that person could be like. I can’t just let you step out of my car and walk back down the road.” In front of her, he begins to crumble all over again. Realizing, all too fast and all too much, that she’s unfortunately right. “Can I take you somewhere else? Maybe to Eddie’s? If you don’t want to explain all of this again to somebody like Hopper or my dad or even Robin, then at least talk it though with somebody who’d fully understand the severity.

“I can clean you up with my first aid kit. But I’m not letting you walk out of everybody’s lives. Even if I know you aren’t, you have no guarantee the next time you’d be able to reassure the people who care about you.” She squeezes his arms. Lightly, so gentle it could’ve been nothing. And when his tears come fast again, she holds his face between her palms. At least his face is warm, she thinks, and at least he isn’t fighting me.

Steve sniffles. Doesn’t and won’t make direct eye contact with Nancy. Forlorn, again, to the tip of his nose. “You won’t tell anybody else?” He asks, small, timidly.

“No,” she merely whispers, “it’s not my business. And I shouldn’t have forced it out of you. For that, I’m sorry. I just…I’ve seen you too close to death too many times. I’m not letting it get you because you think you’d be better off with strangers, with people who don’t care about you the way we do.” She strokes her thumb at a spot of crusted blood on his right cheek. Where it had burbled out of the cut. “If I hadn’t found you, would you have ever told anybody where you went? Would you have told Robin? Eddie?”

He sighs through his nose. Closes his eyes again. Swallows hard and shakes his head softly. “I don’t have enough cash for a payphone, so I guess I wouldn’t.”

“Right,” Nancy murmurs, “let me clean you up, okay? I’ll take you home, to Eddie’s. And maybe…one of these days, y’know, we can figure out a plan. A pact. Get all of us out of this shithole.”

“Shithole,” Steve echoes. Snorts. “Never heard you say that before.”

She grins, even though he can’t see it. “Blame Mike for that one. He’s uh…he’s creative, that’s all I’ll say.”

The clean up doesn’t take long. Some rubbing alcohol on fast food napkins. A tube of Neosporin. Band-aids. All done in relevant silence. With his head still in her hands, his throat working over and over as he can’t pinch his nose to prevent more tears. His hands slowly warmed in her grip as she wraps a bandage over the nasty cut on his palm. Where that particular injury came from, she doesn’t know, but knows better than to ask.

And in the drive over, they make the same small talk. About plans for college—for Emerson. Of Family Video, customers, minimum wage. She jokes that Eddie’s got her hair. And he just laughs, full from his belly and gravelly the way it always had been—even tells her that Eddie made a comment along the same lines.

When he disappears inside of the Munson’s trailer, she feels relieved, not satiated, but soothed. And when Eddie comes out, pajamas and all, wraps his lanky arms around her torso, pulls her in fast and hard, drops a kiss to her head of curls—she knows that Steve is in good hands.

“Wheeler, you’re a fucking hero,” Eddie remarks.

“I wasn’t just going to let him be miserable.”

“Seriously, Nancy, you’re my fucking hero. I don’t know where he’d be without you.”

Somewhere else, she thinks, somewhere else without us. Bruised and scared and small.

“Don’t think about it,” she says, “get him better though, please.”

“Will do, Nance. Get home safe?” Eddie breathes, arms still tucked around her body securely. He’s scared, she can tell, but half-relieved all the same.

“I always do.”

🫂——————🫂

#stranger things #platonic stancy #steddie #minor steddie #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst and hurt/comfort #cw abuse #cw blood

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obikinbb · 23 days ago

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✨Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire✨

Author: @usakostar Artist: @aberrantcreature

Word Count: 20,000 words Rating: Explicit Pairing(s): Obi-Wan Kenobi / Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader Archive and Content Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions of Violence Key Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Fantasy, Tragedy, Mystery, Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Mild Gore, Eye Trauma, Whump, Minor-character death, Murder, Kidnapping, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Angst, Loneliness, Force Dyad (Star Wars), Force Visions (Star Wars), Force Bond (Star Wars), Dreams and Nightmares, Sith Artifacts (Star Wars), Sith Magic & Rituals (Star Wars), Curses, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), Implied/Referenced Torture, Drinking to Cope, Suicidal Thoughts, Descent into Madness, Unreliable Narrator, Manipulative Sheev Palpatine, Original Character(s), Ambiguous/Open Ending

Summary: Anakin has been waiting for Obi-Wan for years, for him to come and end his torment.

The horror of it all, the absolute nightmare he’s been living, the devastation he’s visited upon the galaxy - Anakin has all but forgotten what life was like before he was forced to become a monster.

He is a dying star. And Obi-Wan Kenobi his last hope.

If only the man knew.

[Link to fic] [Link to art]

#usakostar #aberrantcreature #obikin big bang 2024 #obikin

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swamiiyasssss · 9 months ago

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Dragonfly In Red

Jason Todd + Vigilante!OfficeSiren!Reader

This Hood would never have thought he'd fell in love with a goddamn suit. Tall, dark and gorgeous, she was the wildest of his dreams. A dragonfly amongst the birds, the bats, standing out too much for his own liking.

The suit's got secrets; He intends to take it all for his own.

Dragonfly In Red by yasswami Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Batman: Arkham (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Jason Todd/Reader, Jason Todd/Original Female Character(s), Jason Todd/Original Character(s), minor Luke Fox/Reader Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Titus | Damian Wayne's Dog, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Stephanie Brown, Joker (DCU), Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Lucius Fox, Luke Fox, Arkham Asylum Inmates, Arkham Asylum Staff (DCU), Riddler (Batman 1966), Jim Gordon Additional Tags: Slow To Update, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Episode: s01e09 Enemies and Lovers, Lazy Sex, Hate Sex, NSFW, Smut, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Vigilantism, Vigilante Reader, Blood and Violence, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Blood Kink, Blood As Lube, Recreational Drug Use, Bondage and Discipline, Chair Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Body Horror, Body Worship, Corporate core, Office Sex, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Restraints, Angry Sex, Angry Kissing, Fake Character Death, Survivor Guilt, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Office SIREN reader, suits & bandages, whump, can u notice i got a thing for blood aha

Jason bares his teeth. “ I find a dragonfly, ensnared in my trap.”

Red Hood/You. Dark & Explicit Themes. Mind the Tags.

#jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd #jason todd x oc #dc universe #fanfiction #moodboard #aesthetic #yasswami

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gothcsz · 2 months ago

Text

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XX.

GIF by bestintheparsec

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The night of the ritual.

WORD COUNT: ~9.1k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: dead dove: do not eat!, kidnapping, mc is held hostage, allusions to SA (nothing explicit. will be explained later on), hallucinations, humiliation, wound care, hurt/no comfort, crime thriller vibes are vibing, demon worship, cult ritual, supernatural elements, non-consensual drug use, angst, whump, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i'm missing any other tags please let me know.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: i’m going to hold y’all’s hand when i say this... i am putting paloma through it 😓 i was initially going to just bang everything out and post it in one big chapter, but as i was writing... i just felt like it would be better if we let the suspense of it all do its thing and end with a cliffhanger. i am a sucker for ‘em, even if they’re so frustrating (in the best way possible) 😭 i hope that all the lore revolving the cult has been concise and strong enough to hold up during the ending bit of this. i wish i could say things are going to get better from here but they’re not… they’re actually going to get worse 🤠 as always, feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it 🖤

♰ read on ao3. ♰

♰ playlist | pinterest | series masterlist ♰

When ten minutes pass, Javier brushes it off. She’s probably just caught up in something. It’s nothing to worry about.

But when twenty minutes roll by, that’s when the unease creeps in. He starts pacing the living room, fighting the urge for a cigarette, glancing at the clock.

Where is she?

By the time half an hour has come and gone, he’s dialing the library, wondering why Paloma hasn’t come home yet. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. His stomach tightens, and he wills himself to remain calm. She’s probably fine.

At the hour mark, Javier’s behind the wheel, speeding into town. Maybe she’s still upset from the argument they had earlier, and instead of coming home, she went to Tammy’s.

But when Tammy tells him she hasn’t heard from Paloma for a few days now, a knot twists in his chest.

Panic threatens to take hold, but he pushes it down. He can’t let it consume him—not yet. Not until he has a real reason to worry.

But she has that damn habit of disappearing to sulk in random places when she’s upset. And that habit is gnawing at him now.

He drives to every spot he can think of, the abandoned tracks, the clearing behind the cemetery, the creek—but there’s no sign of her.

That terrible feeling grows, heavy and unshakable. He marches into the sheriff’s department, jaw set, not caring who sees the frantic look in his eyes.

He storms the file room, ripping through boxes. His hands tremble as he plucks out the file he’s searching for.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, jaw tightening as the photo of Paloma’s mother stares back at him.

Now, he has a reason to panic.

He should have known when he first laid eyes on it. The familiarity of her features—her eyes, her hair, her smile; it was all too close to Paloma. Too close to ignore. But he had, all because his mind was completely elsewhere at the time. Now look where that got him.

It’s like a scene from a horror film, where everything snaps into place too late.

The recent victims; brunettes in their mid-twenties with similar features, similar backgrounds—they resembled her.

The staged chamber, the gore, the man who killed himself.

All of it was leading to this, tying up the gruesome mystery with a neat little bow, like a gift Javier wishes he could burn. They had been played—manipulated, distracted from seeing the bigger picture.

Whoever orchestrated this whole thing has been after his girl from the very beginning.

He fights the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, to tear down every shelf in the room in a fit of blind rage.

But what would that solve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rage won’t lead him to her. Fear won’t undo what’s already been set in motion. All he can do is cling to hope, even if it’s slipping through his fingers.

The ultimate goal of this fucked-up cult—their twisted mission—is to birth the flesh reincarnate of their so-called, bullshit deity.

His blood runs cold at the thought of Paloma being used in some horrific ritual, being touched, violated, forced into madness.

He’s shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. But he forces himself to breathe—slow, deep, steady breaths, locking the perturbation away.

Javier puts out an APB, his voice tight as he details her car, her appearance. Every word feels surreal, like it’s not really him saying it, like he’s watching someone else’s nightmare play out.

Romeo’s going to hear this, and he’s going to have to explain how they missed all the signs, how Paloma has been in danger this whole time.

The weight of it presses down on him like a thousand pounds of guilt.

Gathering what he needs and delegating some of the overnight officers at the station, he frantically drives to the Leighton house.

He’s already chain-smoked half a pack. That nasty habit he’s been trying to shake is clinging to him. The file in his hands feels too light for the bomb he’s about to drop.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? How do you tell someone their wife’s past is tangled in a nightmare, and that their daughter—a woman they both love—is at the heart of it? How do you stay composed when you’re barely holding yourself together?

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

Javier’s barely set foot out of his truck when Romeo’s fists twist in his shirt, shoving him hard against the vehicle.

The impact rattles through him, but all he can see is the wild, desperate look in the sheriff’s eyes—a terror that matches his own but runs even deeper, cutting into every line on his face.

“Romeo, listen to me!” Javier’s voice is authoritative, that familiar guarded wall of stoicism building as his trademark defense mechanism to the absolute anxiety that’s gnawing away at his body. “This is gonna be hard to hear—I’m barely making sense of it myself—but I need you to listen if we’re going to figure this shit out.”

Romeo’s grip tightens, then slowly loosens, and Javier seizes the moment, shoving the older man back, no longer giving a fuck about keeping the peace.

He yanks the folded photo from his jacket pocket and holds it up, letting him get a clear look. “Tell me. Is this Paloma’s mother?”

Romeo’s gaze flits to the photograph, and the recognition that floods his face is immediate.

His fingers snatch the photo from Javier, and his expression cracks, aging him in just a matter of seconds. “Where did you get this?” His voice is barely a whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

Javier’s own dread deepens. “From the old files,” he says, voice hollow. “The ones from the original group. She’s connected to all of this. They both are.”

He takes a breath, then begins to explain everything he knows. He lays it out, bit by bit—the tangled web of what Paloma had uncovered, the twisted threads that pointed to this cult, the fake leads that had kept them chasing shadows. Every word feels like glass in his throat.

Confusion, fear, anger—every emotion etched on Romeo’s face makes Javier feel like he’s the one who has failed.

“Did you know about any of this?” he asks, though he already knows the answer from the lost look in Romeo’s eyes.

His mouth opens, then closes. He seems to gather himself, shoulders dropping under a weight he’s only just begun to grasp. “None. When I met Abby… she was just a woman startin’ over. She’d moved into a small house near the church. Said her parents had passed and she needed a fresh start. Picked a random town—that’s how she ended up here.” The sheriff’s gaze drifts to a place Javier can’t reach, caught in the bittersweet memory of his late wife.

“Paloma said she found this out by going through her mom’s things,” he says carefully, each word a stone dropping into his gut. “But I don’t think she was telling me everything.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded as they lock eyes in an unspoken understanding.

They need answers, and every second they waste is another second Paloma could be slipping further away.

“Before we make accusations,” Javier says, forcing himself to stay grounded, “we need to dig through their belongings. There has to be something there—a lead, a hint—something that’ll tell us who’s behind this.”

“But you already know who it is, don’t you?”

Javier’s eyes darken, and his jaw locks as one name barrels into his mind, clear and hateful: August.

The red flags he had dismissed, convinced they were just a byproduct of his hate for the guy, now stand out like beacons.

He meets Romeo’s gaze, a grim certainty settling into his features. “I believe it’s Augustus Dixon and his group.”

Romeo’s face twists with anger, and he grits out, “Motherfucker—” His fists clench, his whole body radiating fury.

“Be pissed off later. We’ve got a job to do.”

They stalk up the stairs, both men moving with purpose—Romeo heads for his wife’s things while Javier makes his way into Paloma’s room.

It feels surreal, even wrong, to be rummaging through her life like this. The last time he’d been in this position, it was in Jessica’s room, and even then he could see the resemblance her space shared with Paloma’s—but he’d never thought he’d be here, seeing his girl as a victim.

His fingers skim over a leather-bound book tucked away on the top shelf in her closet, hidden behind a jewelry box. It’s as if she’d placed it there purposefully, stowed away out of reach.

When he pulls it down, he realizes it’s a scrapbook brimming with photographs and clippings.

Inside, he finds images of Calmana, surrounded by groups of men and women, all dressed in matching, traditional attire. A towering cathedral looms in the background, religious iconography scattered throughout—symbols he now recognizes from his research.

Maps, faded with time, span several pages, and in the center lies an intricate, sprawling family tree with Paloma’s name written at the bottom.

He spots envelopes tucked between the pages, each one addressed to her in cursive hand.

He calls out for Romeo, and the sheriff is by his side almost instantly, his expression a twisted mix of hope and dread.

“What’d you find?”

Javier silently hands him the scrapbook, keeping the envelopes for himself.

One by one, he opens them, unfolding each paper. His breaths come out ragged, and he feels his stomach drop as he reads.

They’re love poems—explicit, filthy in their adoration. Line after line, they detail all the things August wants to do to her, each word penned with obsession.

The praises he lavishes on her, how he calls her a spectacle, the power he insists she wields—it’s like poison seeping into Javier’s mind.

His hands start trembling, and the implications tighten around him like a noose.

Romeo, sensing his agitation, reaches out, his voice rough. “What’s that—what did you find?”

Javier jerks the papers away, swallowing hard. “Trust me. You don’t want to see these—not now.”

“Let me see them, Javier! Goddammit, my daughter is in danger!”

Before their back-and-forth can spiral any further, Javier’s walkie talkie crackles sharply, an officer’s voice coming through:

“A dark green, 1970 Buick Electra matching the APB put out an hour ago has been found in Lake Fraiser alongside an unidentified female body.”

The air thickens and shatters as Javier and Romeo lock eyes, both of them wearing the same look of wide-eyed horror.

“Romeo—” Javier tries, reaching out, but the man is already out the door, the scrapbook falling from his hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud that reverberates in Javier’s chest.

He mutters a quick fuck and scoops it up, rushing after him, yet the sheriff is a blur, tearing down the driveway with the kind of desperation only a father can muster when everything he loves is on the line.

Now that he’s left alone, Javier grips the railing, and the weight of it all—of losing her—comes crashing down. His heart’s splintering, his chest tight, mind skidding out of control.

This is what he’s been running from all along—failure… loss… grief. Now it is all coming back, circling like vultures, ready to take the one thing that’s ever brought him true happiness.

But he forces himself to breathe, to anchor his mind to the one cold comfort he has left. “He wouldn’t kill her. He needs her.” The words taste bitter, chilling him, but they hold him steady.

Paloma is at the center of this plan—there’d be no sense in taking her, just to end it so abruptly.

Despite everything, he finds a sliver of reassurance in that cruel logic. He clings to it with everything he has, because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Javier pulls up to Lake Fraiser, where the scene is a flurry of first responders, flashing lights reflecting off the water’s dark surface in sharp reds and blues.

He parks haphazardly, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the truck, heading straight toward the area cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

His heart slams against his ribs as he spots Romeo, kneeling by the edge of the lake beside a body draped in a white cloth, his face blank, almost empty.

Javier’s eyes dart to the surrounding officers, scanning each one, trying to get a read on the situation before he speaks.

“Is it her?” His voice breaks the stillness.

Romeo doesn’t look up, his gaze locked on the covered body. “…No.”

Relief floods through him, dizzying him for a moment before his gaze lands on a tow truck pulling Paloma’s car away from the scene.

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow back the bitter uncertainty rising in his throat.

Romeo stands slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands, his expression hardening as he relays, “Just got a call from the hospital. Our girl from the woods finally woke up. Tonight of all nights.” He chuckles dryly. “Asked to speak with me specifically. So I’ll head that way tomorrow after she’s been stabilized properly… which means you’ll be in charge of all this.” He gestures around them vaguely.

The pulsing emergency lights cast fractured shadows over their faces.

“It’s best for you to step back momentarily. Clear your head. You’re too close to this,” Javier adds quietly, “She’s your daughter.” And while Javier is her lover and every inch of him is fraying at the edges for her, he understands that his pain won’t amount to the agony that Romeo is drowning in.

The sheriff’s silence stretches, words hesitating on his tongue, until finally, with a quiet confession, he murmurs, “I was too harsh on her. On you. I was an asshole, and if it’s any reconciliation—thank you for tryin’ to get her out of this shitty town.”

Javier’s caught off-guard but doesn’t show it, the self awareness on his behalf is appreciated. “I’d do anything for her.”

Romeo studies him for a moment, as if measuring the resolve behind his words, then he nods, his expression taut, “Gonna start combing through everythin’ back at the station. Probably call Olsen, see if he’s got any cameras ‘round the library so we can get a timeline goin’.”

These two men are similar in that regard, backing themselves into their jobs to mask the turmoil inside. They talk through some of the procedures before Romeo is pulled away by other officers, leaving Javier to handle things here.

He forces himself to switch gears, to summon every bit of authority he has left to do his job. He’s got a dead body to assess, a team to command, and then—then he’ll focus everything he’s got on finding Paloma.

Paloma stirs awake, the pitch darkness of the early morning pressing in from all sides.

She’s disoriented—a dull ache in her head and the sting of thick, abrasive rope biting into her wrists.

Her hands are suspended and bound above her, tethered tightly to an old, rusted pipe overhead, which creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She can feel the grit of dried blood matting her hair against her temple, the aftershock of Sloane’s vicious hit with the bat ringing sharp behind her eyes. Her boots are missing, leaving her barefoot against the cool concrete ground.

As reality sharpens around her, she realizes this isn’t a dream and it nauseates her, instilling panic in her heart.

She barely remembers the car ride or the way they dragged her down here, everything muddled from the hit she’d taken until she’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now, the throbbing intensifies as she tugs instinctively at the ropes, her wrists burning, but no amount of pulling loosens her bonds.

Frustration and terror mix, unwieldy coiling in her chest and tears sting at her eyes despite her attempts to fight them back. She doesn’t want to imagine what they plan to do to her.

She knows Javier and her father have to be looking for her. They must be tearing themselves apart with worry. She can almost hear her father’s harsh reprimands and Javier’s quiet, determined rage—they’re relentless when it comes to protecting her.

They’ll find her. They have to.

The cellar door creaks open and she freezes, her pulse skittering as August, Sloane, and Gabriel descend the stairs.

The dim light barely touches their faces, but she doesn’t need to see them clearly to know what they’re capable of.

She tries to hold her head high, pushing back the tears, refusing to let them see the fear that’s boiling inside. She won’t give them that satisfaction, not if she can help it.

Their footsteps echo against the walls of the basement. August stops just close enough that she can feel his presence invading her senses, suffocating, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, P,” he drawls, voice dripping with the charm that managed to slither its way into her heart.

What she once found magnetic in him is now hollow, a mask that hides something so unfathomable.

“Pretty nasty cut ya got there.” Sloane’s voice drips with fake sympathy. Her eyes glint with that special brand of cruelty she’d always kept hidden behind a guise of friendship.

The satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable, like she’s savoring every moment of seeing Paloma in such a vulnerable state.

The urge to spit in their faces, to lash out, is almost unbearable, but she remembers her daddy’s lessons, advising her to stay calm, to never let them know how afraid she really is.

Every word of advice he’d ever given her about self-preservation hangs heavy in her mind.

She keeps her face blank, her mouth a hard line.

“Silent treatment, huh?” August steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers are inches from her forehead when she sees the sick satisfaction in his eyes, and she can’t suppress the involuntary grimace as his fingers hover over the gash near her forehead.

The moment of weakness feels like a win for him, his smile widening as he grazes her wound, pressing just enough to send a wave of pain radiating through her skull and a fresh stream of blood to trickle out.

Sloane watches her reaction, faux innocence weaving through her sneer. “You make for a pretty damn good damsel in distress. Thought you’d put up more of a fight, if I’m bein’ honest. You really disappointed me, doll face.”

Paloma’s grip tightens around the rope until her knuckles ache. She wants to tell her off, to fight and scream—but instead she just turns away, refusing to even look at them.

August’s hand cups her chin as he forces her to meet his eyes, eyes that once held promises of affection and loyalty now filled with something so dark and consuming.

His fingers dig into her soft skin. “I need you to look perfect, little dove. All stitched up and pretty.” His thumb trails along her chapped bottom lip. “Gabriel,” he calls, not even glancing back at the other man, “Tend to that. Tonight’s a big night, after all. Lots to prepare for.”

There goes that trepidation again. Her mouth twitches, half-ready to break her silence and demand to know just what the hell he’s talking about. But she’s already committed to keeping quiet.

Gabriel lingers behind them, shifting uncomfortably, the first aid kit clutched tight in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands there as usual, eyes flicking from Paloma to his partners, some part of him clearly unsettled yet too cowardly to intervene.

He’s her best shot of getting out of here, she just knows it.

“‘S’okay, you ain’t gotta talk,” August’s coos. “I actually prefer you like this—makes things a hell of a lot easier. The others…” He snorts, shaking his head.

How many other unfortunate women had been dragged down here, suffering at his hands?

“Too squirmy, too squeamish—like fuckin’ pigs.” His laughter is mirthless and Sloane joins in with loud, exaggerated snorts that mimic a pig’s squeal. The sound claws at Paloma’s ears.

There’s this twisted admiration in his stare as he studies her. “That’s why I knew I needed to have you. No one else on this planet holds a candle to the magic you have, Paloma. You should stop bein’ so scared and embrace it.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a whisper.

His hand snakes down from her jaw, tracing her neck, lingering in an unsettling crawl between her breasts before settling at her hip.

His fingers dig in, and she flinches, her body stiffening in revulsion. He smirks at her reaction, savoring her discomfort like a fine wine.

“I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?” His tone is falsely tender. "Gotta make sure everythin’ is perfect. Can’t afford any fuck ups now—I’ve been way too patient for this."

He steps back at last, allowing Gabriel to shuffle forward with the kit in hand.

With a jerk of his chin, August motions for Sloane to follow him. She blows Paloma a mocking kiss and winks with a saccharine sweetness that really piles on the hatred that burns a little hotter for her specifically.

The heavy cellar door slams shut, casting them back into dim silence as the first pale light of dawn begins to creep through the basement windows.

Paloma’s heart pounds as their shadows disappear, leaving her helpless in the creeping morning light.

“What are you goin’ to do to me?” Her voice is hoarse, each word scraping her dry throat like sandpaper, but she can’t keep quiet now that they’re alone.

Gabriel wordlessly drags over a stool, placing the first-aid kit on top. He opens it, sorting through supplies as though she isn’t even there.

Paloma yanks at her restraints, the old pipe groaning in protest. “Fuckin’ say somethin’,” she snaps, anger edging her desperation. “It’s the least you could do—just… tell me.” She hates the pleading tone that slips through, the last thread of her control unraveling as she imagines what fate awaits her.

His gloved hands move to clean her wound, and she clenches her jaw against the sting, glaring at him as if she could force him to talk through sheer will. He’s careful and practiced, clearly having done this before.

“The Crimson Rite,” he mutters, brows furrowing as he concentrates, his voice a barely audible murmur. “It’s where the conception will happen… on the altar of incarnation.”

Paloma’s heart stumbles, her mind racing to piece together the fragments. “What the fuck are you even sayin’?” Her voice wavers, but there’s no denying the chill in her spine.

She knows what those words mean on their own, but together, they paint a picture she’d rather not face—the harrowing reality of how August truly plans on using her.

“August’ll explain,” he replies, brushing her off with the indifference of a man following orders. “He��s better at that shit than I am. I just do what he asks and stay outta the way.”

“Like a fuckin’ coward,” she spits.

The needle pauses, its sharp tip hovering an inch from her skin, and he raises his eyes. “You get all lippy with me, but keep your mouth shut around them? What, I ain’t intimidatin’ enough for you?”

She holds his gaze, defiance simmering behind the exhaustion in her stare. “Nothing about you’s intimidatin’ enough to keep me from tellin’ you exactly what I think.”

His lips twist downward, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he resumes stitching, each tug at her skin rougher than the last.

“At church that day, you were warnin’ me, weren’t you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the memory of that awkward conversation rattling in her mind. “S’not too late, Gabe. You can still help me outta this… We both can be outta here ‘fore the sun comes up.”

There’s a lapse, just for a second, in his eyes—something she wants to believe is regret, a part of him she hopes she can reach.

The sliver of optimism she’s mustered might awaken that dormant part of him buried under layers of August’s bullshit and the bitterness life has forced him to swallow.

But he shakes his head slowly, avoiding her gaze as he finishes stitching her wound, his hands deft. “You don’t get it. Don’t matter if I do the right thing. He’d find us—he always does.” He sprays her wound with a numbing mist then covers it with a small gauze.

“He wouldn’t find us,” she insists, her voice fraying. “Daddy would protect us. He’d make sure we’re safe.”

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? He promise you that or somethin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you don’t look all that safe.”

A bitter, frustrated cry escapes her as he begins to pack up his kit, her pleas bouncing off him like stones against steel.

“Please, Gabe, don’t leave me down here alone,” she chokes out, and the words twist something deep inside her, pulling her further into a desperation she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Breakfast’ll be down in a few hours,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself, keeping his voice low and detached. “Probably get you a shower at sundown so you ain’t all sweaty and grimy. Needs you all fuckin’ pristine.” The last words slip out like a hiss, a disgusted edge in his tone. “S’gonna be a long day for you down here. Scream all you want; ain’t nobody around worth a damn to hear it. You got a better shot at rubbin’ the skin off your wrists than gettin’ out of that rope.”

Paloma snaps, her control breaking in a flood of panic and fury as she yanks at her restraint, her wrists burning as she curses him, calling him every name her mind can summon.

The words pour out in a desperate torrent, trying to cut him, to provoke something human out of him, anything.

But he stays silent, barely flinching, his face a mask as he gathers his things, turning his back on her without a word.

When the cellar door finally slams shut, it echoes through the basement, and her last shreds of resolve crumble as she sinks into sobs.

The thoughts come in fragments, jagged and bitter, cutting her deeper than any wound.

The way things were left with her father—how they’d argued and he looked at her with that final, dismissive silence, like she’d become a stranger for daring to chase her own life beyond their town.

The love that took root so unexpectedly, so completely with Javier. He came into her life at the perfect time, pouring a rare, tender kind of intimacy into her soul; the kind that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.

He was a good man who’d endured his own share of hardships —and she let their last conversation end in anger and frustration. She’s just like her father.

Perhaps if she had told him the full truth about how she came across her mother’s past, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

This mess—it’s her inheritance. Not a blessing like August wants her to believe, but a curse Calmana left behind, the forced sins of her mother she didn’t choose but can’t escape.

Her suicide is starting to make more sense.

It all makes her feel like a lamb at slaughter, her life never really hers, and now her blood and body are an offering to feed whatever he believes she’s meant to bring to life.

The promise of an explanation later on hangs over her like a guillotine. Does she even want to know? Will it make a difference?

She got herself kidnapped by trusting them all, falling for August’s romantic words and impressive knowledge. All of his lies. She’d thought she was smart enough to see through him, to keep a grip on her own heart, and instead, she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her.

Sloane was right—she is the helpless damsel she always denied being, someone who hadn’t fought hard enough to save herself.

Paloma has to believe she’s got people searching for her, that they’re smart enough, relentless enough to find her before night falls. She has to cling to that hope, however fragile, because right now it’s all she has.

Her cries fill the empty space around her until exhaustion claims her in silence.

The basement is her prison as the sun traces its lazy arc above.

The day drags on in a haze of stale air and the natural sounds of bugs chittering about. On occasion, she’ll hear people walk by or see their shadows through the small windows.

She's trapped here, the only visits marking the hours coming when Gabriel brings a bucket for her to relieve herself—like she’s some kind of animal—or sets down a tray of food she refuses to touch.

“You need to eat,” he says, setting the tray with her dinner on the floor. His hands working on cutting the thick rope binding her wrists, each tug and scrape freeing her a fraction at a time.

“What’s the point? M’gonna die anyway,” she mutters, exhausted but still pissed. “Won’t matter if I’ve got a full stomach or not.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not goin’ to die, Paloma. You’re too important to all this. How haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Oh, forgive me if I haven’t picked up on all your twisted bullshit,” she snaps. “You all speak in fuckin’ tongues and riddles. No one’s told me a damn thing that makes any sense.”

At last, the final fiber of rope snaps, and the weight drops from her wrists. She lets out a low, relieved sigh as her arms fall to her sides, stiff from the hours of suspension.

The ache in her shoulders is intense, and her wrists are lined with red from the coarse bondage.

“Don’t try anythin’ stupid,” he warns, his voice low. “They might not kill ya but they’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead.”

She doesn’t doubt it, so she reins in her impulses and instead glances at the food, the bitterness slowly giving way to resignation.

If the chance to escape comes, she’ll need her strength. She takes the cup, drinking greedily, barely noticing the water spilling down her chin—it’s just a relief to feel the dryness ease, something grounding in a nightmare that feels endless.

The meal tastes dull, but she swallows it down anyway, each bite a fight to hold onto her sense of self, to stay sharp.

Gabriel watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression.

“I tried leavin’ years ago, when August first started buildin’ the group.” He looks down, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “But he caught me at the train station. Gave me the ass-beatin’ of my life. Locked me up in a shed in the middle of the woods for days, left me there until I learned my lesson. I swear, I lost every bit of myself in that dark place.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “After that, I never thought ‘bout leavin’ again... not until he got his sights set on you.”

Paloma’s chewing slows, her eyes flitting over to him, reading the conflict etched in his expression.

For August to treat Gabriel, his so-called “brother,” with such brutality to keep him in line... it makes all too much sense now, why he is August’s silent shadow, obeying every command.

“His obsession with you is different. Everythin’ suddenly became different. He has this way of makin’ you submit to him that gets me wonderin’ if all this Eurynomos shit is actually real.”

The twisted loyalty, the deep-seated fear that’s tangled around them like shackles, intertwined with stories of divinity.

She’s barely scratched the surface of what August is capable of.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers, sympathetic to what he’s been through. “I’m sorry... ‘n I get why you’re scared, but there’s two of us now. We could make a run for it, slip away while we have the chance.”

Her food is forgotten as Paloma edges closer, her gaze steady and imploring. For a moment, he genuinely considers their escape.

But the heavy, thunderous creak of the cellar doors breaks through the moment, both of them jerking apart.

She scrambles backward until her back presses against the cold, damp wall, her heartbeat racing as Gabriel stands abruptly from his stool, his face hardening again.

It’s only August this time, his usual shadow—Sloane with her biting sneers—thankfully absent.

He strides down with a bag in one hand and shower supplies in the other, eyeing her like she’s some prized possession he’s been itching to inspect.

“Unrestrained, ate her dinner, and didn’t even try to run? My, my. Little dove, you’re such a good girl.” He passes the items to Gabriel as he steps closer, and she hates the way she’s wedged in a corner, wishing she could melt into the wall or skitter away like a mouse.

He crouches, gently moving the gauze out of the way, his sharp gaze examining the stitches worked into her head wound. “S’lookin’ better already. Now, let’s get you a shower. I can smell you from here, and, sweetheart, it’s not exactly appealin’.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks, the cruel curve of his lips almost congratulatory. “There she is. Glad to see that fire hasn’t died just yet, my love.”

With a vice-like grip, his hand latches onto her arm, dragging her up to her feet and across the basement to a sad excuse for a shower—no curtain, nothing remotely resembling privacy, just exposed plumbing and mildewed tile. He shoves her into the cramped space, gesturing at her with a command that chills her: “Strip.”

Her stomach tightens, and she squares her jaw. “Turn around.”

A laugh bursts from him, sharp and mocking. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? You may be special, darlin’, but that don’t mean you’re runnin’ shit. Now strip, or I’ll tie you up and rip that little outfit off myself.”

She grits her teeth, fists clenched. “No.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a darker, crueler expression.

In a flash, his hand is around her throat, shoving her harshly against the slimy tile, the back of her head meeting the hard surface making her cry out in pain.

Her breath snags as his grip tightens around her neck, the cool press of a switchblade grazing the scar on her hip, making her pulse hammer in her ears. “Don’t push me,” he growls, the blade’s edge nicking her skin just enough to sting. He knows exactly where she’s sensitive, and he revels in her flinch. “I’ve told you—I don’t like hurtin’ you, but I will if I have to. Strip. Now.”

He releases her, the air rushing back into her lungs, making her cough.

Her hands tremble as she peels away her clothes, starting with the long, flowing skirt that puddles around her ankles, leaving her in just her underwear and camisole.

August’s eyes rake over her, and his silent demand pulls at her last nerve.

She swallows back her tears, fingers shaking as she slides the straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and then stepping out of her underwear, kicking the pile aside.

Now entirely naked, her arms wrap protectively around herself to shield what she can. She looks away, the sting of indignity making her skin crawl, willing herself not to cry.

August steps forward, adjusting the shower’s dial, and the pipes clank and groan as water finally bursts out of the rusted shower head, icy at first. She shivers, her teeth clattering, and only once the water turns warm does the chill ease up.

A snap of his fingers brings Gabriel closer, setting the shower supplies within reach. August then places them at her feet, his mocking gaze never leaving her as he drags a worn wooden chair up, seating himself like a perverse audience settling in for a show.

Paloma doesn’t move, clinging harder to her body, her nails digging into her own skin, praying he’ll lose interest and turn away. But he just smirks. “Don’t be shy, P. Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” His tongue drags over his lips, blue eyes glittering darkly, drinking in her discomfort.

She would rather die where she stands than have him touch her, lingering his hands over her body like a wolf savoring his meal. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms fall to her sides, shoulders curling inward, as she begins to wash herself.

The hot tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks, each drop hiding the sobs she’s swallowing.

August’s stare trails over her figure, his smirk deepening every time she flinches under the weight of it.

He doesn’t hide his hunger, watching her every movement—the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the sway of her shoulders as she soaps herself in silence.

Gabriel’s eyes stay firmly on his boots, shame evident in his posture.

Finally, she shuts off the water, chest heaving as she swallows down the humiliation, covering herself again and feeling his satisfaction lingering in the room like a toxic cloud.

A towel lands at her feet, and she grabs it, pulling it around her trembling frame, feeling like her skin might crawl right off her bones.

“Got this dress made just for you,” August says casually, standing then pulling out a white dress and red flats from a worn bag. He tosses them onto the chair he’d just been sitting in, not making any effort to move or look away, and she swallows back the lump in her throat.

She’s barely holding herself together, her fingers fumbling with the towel as she dries off, eyes darting between the two men.

One won’t meet her gaze, too timorous, and the other stares at her with lecherous eyes.

She slips on the dress, it’s something she would’ve picked for herself under different circumstances; calf-length, delicate ladder lace along the trim, cap sleeves, and three charmeuse red ribbons that match the shoes.

But the beauty of it feels like a cruel mockery against the ugliness of this moment.

“You look so beautiful,” August purrs, “Get a good look at yourself.”

She’s forced in front of an antique mirror, the glass warped and cracked, but she can still make out her reflection.

The dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised skin, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faded pallor of her face against her outfit—she looks like a ghost.

His hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her hair aside as he leans in, trailing his nose against her skin and inhaling deeply. “You smell like summertime.” He presses his lips to her neck, and bile rises in her throat.

Then, he pulls back, her mother’s cross pendant in hand, fastening it around her neck with a satisfied smile.

Her heart clenches once she sees it. She’d left that at Javier’s, tucked away safely with all the other things she moved out of her childhood home in preparation for their big trip.

The thought of August being in his space, doing God knows what, gets her alarmed. “What did you do to him?”

August looks momentarily confused by her query, but then his smirk grows as he eyes the pendent and sees that look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious narc. He ain’t been home all day. He’s out there, sniffin’ around for you like a lost dog. Thought about killin’ him, but… I think he’d suffer more thinkin’ he failed you. Just another life he couldn’t save, huh?”

The words press against those bruising, sore spots on her heart. She scowls, throwing back as much defiance as she can muster. “You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” Her voice trembles, but she knows Javier and what he’s capable of.

He just shrugs, the malicious glint in his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But Sloane?” He grins, knowing how even mentioning her gets under Paloma’s skin. “Now, I think she could.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond, moving to bind her hands again, this time in smooth silk restraints that feel uncharacteristically gentle against her wrists.

Time moves in slow motion, she becomes unresponsive, like a melancholic statue, as he brushes her hair, fussing over her appearance as if she were some doll, changing the gauze over her stitches.

Her hope of getting out of this has diminished. Gabriel won’t help her and August has run the two men competent enough to figure this out in circles, so tangled up in deceit to find her.

The evening melts into night, shadows deepening when he finally leaves, just to return moments later with a steaming cup of tea that smells rancid and earthy, like decay.

“Drink up.”

She shakes her head, refusing it, but he pries her mouth open, forcing her to swallow the scalding liquid. It’s bitter and burns her throat, her tongue singed as she swallows unwillingly.

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” he taunts her, wiping away some of the remnants that spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The effect is immediate; her mind hazes, thoughts swirling, until her body feels sluggish, as if it is no longer tethered to her.

Just as her vision starts to fade, a red, body-length veil is draped over her, the fabric casting her world into blood-hued darkness.

“I need to see it again.”

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose at Romeo’s request, fingers then pressing hard against his closed eyes as the footage gets rewound.

It’s the only evidence they have—a single security camera capturing what transpired. The grainy video shows her crossing the street, pausing, and then August and his accomplices stepping into view. She runs, disappearing off-camera for what feels like a lifetime, before being dragged back and shoved into the bed of the truck.

Each time Javier watches, another shard of him breaks away.

Romeo shifts beside him, watching the screen with unrelenting focus. He’s insistent, searching for anything, some small clue to pinpoint where they went.

Javier, though, is at his limit, fighting the urge to hurl the screen across the room.

“Romeo,” he begins, a little strained, “we’re not going to find anything new here.”

“We missed shit before. Can’t afford to miss anythin’ now.”

They’d spent the whole damn day combing through the trio’s hometown, hoping for any piece of intel, some breadcrumb that would lead them to the group’s hideout.

The search had been maddeningly fruitless. Fayette’s local authorities helped spread the word, but there was nothing, no tracks, no whispers, no real leads to follow.

Every registered address tied to the three was a dead end. Their only childhood homes, a trailer park, had burned down over a decade ago, leaving no trace, no history to sift through.

Everyone close to them—parents, guardians—were either dead, in prison, or admitted. The few family members with any sense had cut ties long ago.

“They were hellraisers,” the retired sheriff had muttered. That’s all the town could say, the simple acknowledgment that the trio had always left destruction in their wake.

The only useful piece of information they dug up was that August had left his job at a local grocery store to work for some woman, an outsider no one really knew.

She’d shown up, taken August with her, and he’d returned a few years later with a more hardened resolve, recruiting Sloane and Gabriel.

After torching some local acreage and serving time for arson, they’d vanished from Fayette until the recent spree of murders started.

“He’s been planning this for a long time, Romeo. They knew how to hide; they’ve done this before.” Javier mutters, frustration simmering in his tone.

They’d tried running a partial plate of the truck, only to come up short once again.

Javier moves near the blinds, unable to keep watching her kidnapping, glimpsing the sea of people that make up their search parties gathered in their too small department.

The faces blur together, civilians and first responders alike, all waiting for direction.

“It’s probably best if you go to the hospital and get Harper’s statement. She’s cleared to talk, right?”

Romeo takes a beat longer to respond, clearly grappling with his own anguish. “Yeah. Got the official call ‘bout ten minutes ago.”

“If anyone’s got something to give us that can break this open, it’s her.”

The room is quiet except for the low murmur of voices spilling in. The tape finally ends and Romeo’s gaze falls to the corner of his desk, where a lone photo of Paloma sits; she’s grinning with his cowboy hat perched high on her head, radiating joy.

He stares at it like he’s trying to draw strength from that moment, then he slowly picks it up, pressing his lips together in thought, handing it over to Javier.

“Here. This is the one I used for the flyers.”

Javier swallows hard, taking it, his thumb grazing over the image, his own heart sinking. This is the Paloma he can’t let slip through his fingers, the one who belongs right here, laughing and safe. Not wherever she was now.

Romeo’s tone holds firm determination. “Do what you gotta do. For her. You understand me?”

Javier just nods, no words left to offer in the face of everything unsaid.

The sheriff lets out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that speaks of too many hours awake, too many close calls, too many second chances lost to bad luck or timing or whatever fate is left to them.

He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders, steeling his expression as he leaves the office, moving through the throng that instantly swells around him.

They close in with questions, worry, and hope—all of it colliding in one tense space.

Seeing them converge on Romeo, Javier takes a steadying breath and steps out right behind him, his presence commanding even in his silence.

He straightens, letting the authority in his stance speak for him, his gaze hard as he begins relaying their plan with swift, unyielding precision.

The world tilts and sways as Paloma returns to half-consciousness, vision still muddled from the drugged tea that has her head feeling like it’s filled with lead and limbs sluggish.

She’s seated upright in an ornate, over-decorated chair with her hands still bound in front of her. She tries to blink away the fog clouding her mind, but the red veil over her face continues to shroud her vision.

Her stitched wound throbs faintly, then suddenly, she’s being lifted and carried by four indistinct figures.

The swaying motion makes her sick, but she’s too weak to cry out, her voice nothing more than a ghost lodged in her throat.

She starts to feel the dampness of the humid Texas night pressing into her skin, the scent of flowers floating in the air, sickly sweet as it mixes with the distant smell of incense.

She’s paraded down a candlelit path where kneeling figures line the walkway, bowing in silent reverence. The sound of murmuring voices hums around her like a distant, dreadful lullaby.

Finally, the procession stops, and her chair is lowered to the ground.

Her surroundings feel unreal, like a fever dream she’s trapped inside. A dark shadow moves in front of her, reaching to pull her to her feet. She tries to make out their face, but it’s just a dark, hollow blur.

Her legs tremble as she takes a few shaky steps, guided by an iron grip that steers her from the soft earth to a hard surface. Somewhere to her right, she hears a voice—August's—so sharp that it almost makes her ears bleed.

“We have to capture this moment.”

Paloma’s body is positioned, hands adjusting her like she’s an ornament rather than a person. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, her body swaying as they try to hold her up.

Her mind is a mess, every thought tangled, every movement slow, as if she’s moving underwater.

She falls, just as she hears the flash of a camera, her legs finally giving way, but hands grip her before she hits the ground, lifting her, steadying her as her head lolls to the side.

Then, in one swift motion, the veil lifted from her face.

August stands there, close enough that she can see every cold line in his face, conforming into possessive delight.

He’s dressed to match her, red bows on his collared shirt, the same lace design on his pants.

Her skin crawls as his fingers trace the side of her face, his voice a leering purr. “My special little dove.”

He pulls her close, spinning her so that she faces their creation in her honor. The white marble gleams in the halo of the candlelight, surrounded by a sea of blood-red spider lilies, their spindly petals stretching out like claws.

Candles of every size and shape cast their shadows over the altar, illuminating the intricate carving of their emblem, miniatures and other offerings strewn about.

“All for you,” his lips brush against her ear.

The hands surrounding her are unyielding as she’s lifted and maneuvered onto the cold slab, the hard surface unforgiving beneath her back.

Her wrists are freed only to be tied again, the silk binding each one to a small stone pillar at each side.

Her ankles follow, strapped to the pillars near the end of the altar, legs bent slightly and spread, leaving her trapped and exposed.

Her breath quickens, each ragged inhale catching in her throat as the reality of her fate crashes down with brutal clarity. The red veil is drawn back over her face.

Tears blur her sight, mixing with the snot and sweat as she starts to sob, desperate cries spilling from her lips, pleas tumbling out in a desperate stream that echo out into the vastness of the field.

“Please… please, let me go. You don’t have to do this, please.” Her words come out strangled and slurred but she’s ignored. She jerks against her restraints, each movement growing weaker as the drug saps her strength.

August stands before his followers, his voice low yet electrifying, every declaration steeped in reverence and simmering triumph.

“For centuries, we have waited in the shadows, prayed in whispers, bound by oaths that our forebears swore. Those before us dreamed of this moment, yet they were weak, too fearful to claim what was rightfully theirs. We will not repeat their mistakes. The bloodline of the first, the birthing bloodline, flows through her veins, and she is ours. Eurynomos will have a body made of flesh and bone, a place in this realm, because of us.”

Paloma shakes her head side to side, desperate to block out August’s devious words. Just as a surge of strength flares within her, sharp fingers dig into her shoulders from behind, pressing her back down, anchoring her in place.

Through the haze of drowsiness, her blurred vision lands on Sloane, looming over her with a short, black veil shrouding her face. Beneath it, Paloma can make out an expression as evil as it is watchful.

“No more dreams. No more consuming or offering flesh that rots before dawn. Our devotion, our patience, has led us here. We are the last of our kind—the ones who bring forth the new age. Now is the time for fulfillment. Now is the time to step into the eternal night and bring our deity home.”

His gaze sweeps over the bowed heads, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his eyes as his words coil around them like a vow.

Sloane relinquishes her hold, seemingly fading away.

He approaches her slowly, each step deliberate, his hand drifting up the length of her body. His fingers come to rest on her cheek, stroking gently, almost reverently.

August leans in, his nose brushing against hers, and without a word, he presses his lips to hers, a slow, possessive kiss over the sheer material of the veil.

She wants to pull away, to resist, but she’s trapped within herself, her will slipping as though he’s holding the reins to her very soul.

When he pulls away, his voice lowers to a rhythmic timbre, the words twisting together in an incantation she can’t understand.

Each syllable makes her sink further into delusion, the compromising position heightening her vulnerability.

The weight of her own helplessness crushes her as she lies there.

Suddenly, the speaking stops. An unnatural silence blankets the moment, thieving sound until it’s just her shaky, pitiful cries. Even the cicadas quit their insistent chirping.

Paloma blinks, barely able to see through the veil, but she watches August step back until his figure is swallowed by the darkness beyond the altar.

She shivers as a chill wind flows over her body, extinguishing the flames around her and plunging her into the night, save for the heavy, luminous moon hanging full and merciless above.

Two glowing eyes flicker into view at the far end of the clearing. They hover, eerie and inhuman, watching her with a predatory patience.

A twig snaps in the shadows. Her breath catches. Another snap, closer this time.

Blood rushes in her ears, but above the pounding, she hears something else—labored breaths, thick and wet, the sound too guttural to be human.

Her body locks up and quivers as a shadow casts up to the very heavens, emerging from the backdrop of trees, its form towering and monstrous. It seems to stretch endlessly, merging with the dark sky above, as if it could reach out and seize the lunar sphere.

Paloma tries to scream, but her body is frozen, paralyzed in a state of unholy dread.

Her eyes widen, tears leaking silently, her throat closing tight as the figure moves forward.

The dark, hulking mass leans over her, and she feels something press down on her belly, then sharp claws caress her bare legs, creeping upwards, scratching at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

Her chest tightens as if she’s having a heart attack, fright coursing through her like poison. She can’t breathe, feeling herself teeter on the edge of consciousness.

Black spots swallow her field of view as her eyes roll to the back of her head, and in that instant, she’s slipping away, her mind yanking her away from this horror, casting her into the darkness of her own making as she loses herself, the terror too great to bear.

#pedro pascal #javier pena fanfic #javier pena fic #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fic #javier peña x ofc #javier pena x ofc #narcos fanfiction #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #feels wrong tagging this as smut so i won't!

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ao3feed-brucewayne · 2 months ago

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Erstwhile (Bruce Wayne's Teenage Years)

by Forget_Me_Snowdrop “What do you mean Bs been ‘de-aged’?!” Tim’s voice chimed in his ear. “I mean he was here and now there’s an unconscious kid in his place!” The resemblance Bruce had to Damian trying on the batsuit was bordering on uncanny and it set confirmation in Dick’s mind that he had been correct with his assumption this was some sort of de-age situation. Or; While on patrol, Bruce got de-aged to his teenage self that had yet found the outlet which is Batman. It's up to his kids to get him back to his actual age; not without learning that the Bruce they know is so far different from the young Bruce they're with. Words: 2273, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: Gen Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake (DCU), Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Duke Thomas, Cassandra Cain, Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown Relationships: Batfamily Members & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Everyone Additional Tags: De-Aged Bruce Wayne, Age Regression/De-Aging, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Background Case, Not Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Bruce Wayne, Teen Bruce Wayne, Young Bruce Wayne, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Jason Todd is a Batfamily Member, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Acts Like a Sad Wet Cat, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, not beta read we die like Thomas and Martha Wayne, Emo Bruce Wayne, but not battinson, Batfamily (DCU), Metahuman Duke Thomas, Depressed Bruce Wayne, not every batfam member lives in the manor, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Injuries, Bruce Wayne Whump, POV Third Person via https://ift.tt/LquTZ7n

#IFTTT #bruce wayne #batman #the dark knight #the caped crusader #gotham #dcu #dc #ao3 #ao3feed

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samtheacesheep · 1 year ago

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Work Description:

Melissa Chase was crushed when her best friend Milo disappeared.

Now she is older, tougher, and meaner. But a chance encounter with a figure from her past starts to tear down her walls.

———

@cantdanceflynn this time the contents are your fault /positive

#whumptober2023 #no.13 #infection #mml #fic #minor whump #sickness #implied/referenced torture #I wrote a thing

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inevitably-johnlocked · 5 months ago

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stephy bephy baby baby girl, um

any list noone asked for yet but you have?

ASFSADF I LOVE when y'all use silly names for me!

You KNOW I do!! Here's today's that been in my drafts for a few months! Enjoy!!

Please note that because so many of these fics are from my old lists, they will be FFNet links, so if you have them on AO3, let me know, but otherwise let me know if any links don't work.

POV SHERLOCK 3rd PERSON Pt. 4: ANGST / ANGSTY FLUFF or BAMF FICS Pt. 2