#still ironing out some details but the bare bones are there

[aceofwonders]

thinking up character concepts to COPE

latest being an arrogant dwarf business man turned reluctant druid because a nature spirit cursed him after he leveled a sacred grove to build something over it

[lola-writes]

Duty Is Sacrifice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Velaryon/Strong!reader

Word Count: 2,6k

Themes & Warnings: Winterfell, pov. first person, feelings realization, fluff and smut, fingering, orgasm

Summary: Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

Song: Skin and Bones (Cinematic) - David Kushner

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

The wilderness beyond the Wall sprawled before me atop the outlook, an uncharted immensity dripping with anathema. A frozen wasteland, it held a cold that seemed to seep into your very soul, promising to turn your bones to ice with a single, lingering glance.

The stories from the seasoned rangers down below had painted a vivid picture, but this, this was a masterpiece beyond mere words. The frigid air, a living entity, tore at my dark hair and the borrowed furs – those very furs my stubborn pride had initially dismissed. Now, the only thing missing from mirroring those same hardened rangers was a permanent furrow etched between my brows, a testament to countless nights spent battling the elements. 

Their Lord was a wall of warmth which prevented the gnawing chill from consuming me. His massive form broadened at my side, his very presence thawing me. Turning to him, I observed the furrow deepening between his brows as he regarded me, though it wasn’t a testament to the cold, but rather something concerned. 

“Winterfell beckons, Princess,” he said, his timber thick with northern accent, “Let us return to warm you.” 

His gloved hand, rough yet surprisingly gentle, reached out for me. Relief washed over me as I grasped it, the worn leather a welcome anchor against the treacherous turret steps.

“Blazing fires. Hot stew. How’s that sound?” His stoic expression nearly cracked to the rumble in my stomach. I noticed I was still supported in his grasp well beyond danger, when I felt his thumb tracing reassuring circles on the back of my hand, sending a delicious shiver snaking down my spine.

Gently, I returned it to my side. “That would be most pleasant, thank you my Lord.”

Days had bled into one another at his side, treating, feasting, drinking, strategizing, and though I had no doubt I had fixed him as an ally to my mother’s claim, some other heat beneath the veneer of alliance had begun to simmer in his gaze, a spark that mirrored the disquiet blooming in my own chest.

The iron cage groaned its descent down to Castle Black, echoing through the black shaft like cries of the damned. From the moment I stepped foot in Winterfell, he’d woven a tapestry of comfort. He recalled every detail I mentioned in passing, and behind his every effort to make me feel at home was a gesture conforming to something I’d previously told him I enjoyed – a steaming mug of my favorite herbal tea, a book on a subject I’d once expressed interest in. He was unlike any man I’d encountered. Each word he uttered was a silken caress, so gentle it felt like he feared his own timber could bruise me. But a heavy weight had settled in my chest. My replies had now become clipped, mere whispers that barely escaped my lips. There was so much more at stake now beyond my desires. Duty loomed heavy on my shoulders. I feared any careless words or lingering glances could brittle the alliance with the Starks to pieces.

We mounted our horses and begun our nigh-on two days ride back to Winterfell. Though not as biting as the Wall’s teeth, the wind on the Kingsroad still carried a relentless edge. The only warmth to be found radiated shyly from the small fires Cregan’s bannermen had built, and the thick fur I wove tightly around myself at night.

As the colossal granite form of Winterfell finally clawed its way up from the horizon, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me, settling heavy in my bones. Dismounting was an ordeal. Every muscle in my body throbbed in protest from the days’ ride. My legs, leaden weights, buckled before I could even consider lowering myself. 

But before I could hit the ground, strong arms, surprisingly gentle, encircled my waist, and lifted me from the saddle before I could even think to react. 

We stood there, my body swaying slightly in his arms, our eyes lingering on each other for a second beyond my comfort. His eyes, normally the clear blue of a summer sky, were now a stormy gray, swirling with unspoken concern. A tremor of something akin to fear danced in my chest, battling the unexpected flutter at his touch. 

“Apologies, my Lord,” I stammered, cheeks flushing with a heat that had naught to do with exertion. “Dragon saddle is one thing, but I fear horseback is another entirely.” I smiled apologetically. 

Cregan’s fingers lingered on my waist, a gentle caress that singed through my leathers and into my very skin, sending a jolt through me. He withdrew them slowly, and my side ached from their absence. 

“Fret not, Princess,” he rumbled, his voice a warm current, “Two days on horseback have felled men twice your size.”

I giggled to his obvious attempt at comforting me. “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied, taking trembling steps toward the castle.

Once in my chambers, I collapsed onto the bed; sleep, thick and heavy, stealing the day. When I finally opened my eyes, the only light in the room spilled from the dying embers in the hearth. 

A gnawing hunger, cold and insistent, hollowed my gut. With a deep breath, I rose, and dressed in my house colors, the fabric thick with responsibility. Then, I descended the steps in my hunt for scraps.

The massive oak doors of the Great Hall ground open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the flickering, golden glow of a roaring fire. Laughter and the murmur of rough voices hung in the air. Fur cloaked figures huddled around the immense hearth at the far end, casting dancing shadows on the towering walls. Lord Stark sat amidst his bannermen; tankards raised in boisterous revelry. 

The merriment dipped as I entered. Heads swiveled my way, some splitting into knowing grins. The bannermen rose in unison, scattering like startled crows, their boisterousness replaced by a respectful chorus of greetings and a flurry of curt bows. 

“My regrets for missing supper,” I said, drawing Cregan’s heavy gaze. His shadowed form, a giant even in the flickering firelight, rose with a quiet grace that belied his imposing physique. 

“You need not worry,” he said, ladling steaming stew from a small pot over the fire and offered me the bowl with one hand. A grateful smile lit my face as I accepted it. 

“You grow quite comely as a serving girl,” I jested, a flicker of triumph igniting in my chest when his mouth quirked up into a faint smirk, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes, a rare concession on his normally stoic face. 

I settled onto the bench beside his chair and began devouring the stew, its meat and vegetables soothing the ache in my belly. As I ate, I stole glances at Cregan, his face bathed in the rich firelight, a mask of unreadable emotions. 

Regret, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in my chest as I observed him. I had a duty fulfilled, but a heart unsatiated. I had come to Winterfell to remind him of the oath his house swore to my mother, and he had not left me wanton. Yet, the journey back to Dragonstone loomed large in my mind. The prospect of leaving him, perhaps for a very long time, cast a long shadow. Unless he too agreed to join us.

“The Queen’s sworn allies are too few to win a war for the throne,” I declared, my voice tight with the weight of responsibility, “She needs your men.”

His jaw clenched, his stoicism returning like a steel mask. “Cursed be the Hightowers,” he growled, venom lacing his voice. “But winter is coming. War of dragons is never a small ordeal. If the Queen is in need of my men to defeat the usurper, you must allow me to wait out the winter.”

Despair clawed at my throat. Memories and tales of past winters surfaced, stretching on for months, even years. Without the full support of the North, we could be crushed before winter even loosened its icy grip. Perhaps reduced to cinders beneath the wrath of the dragons. 

“It will be too late,” I pleaded, the urgency in my voice cracking the carefully constructed façade I had built.

Cregan met my gaze, his eyes a stormy gray. “It’s the best I can do, Princess. I hope you will forgive me.”

A spark of anger ignited within me, battling the tendrils of despair. “You swore an oath, Lord Stark.”

He held my stare, unwavering. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “You will have two thousand greybeards that can be ready to march at once.”

“What of you?” My voice trembled, tears welling up before I had the strength to stop them. “What if this is goodbye?” 

Understanding suddenly dawned in his eyes, and his brows furrowed in what I thought was despair. He came to sit beside me, the wood groaning under his weight. His large, calloused thumbs painted the tears across my cheeks. 

“I assure you, Princess,” he said softly, “This is not goodbye.” His hand came up to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. “I swear it,” he vowed, steel threading through his words. Hope surged through me; a lifeline cast into the churning sea of anguish. 

Starks do not forget an oath. 

“The Hightowers were doomed the second they put the imposter on that throne,” Cregan rumbled, his voice a low caress. 

The space between us seemed to have dissolved, his calloused hands engulfing mine in a firm, reassuring grasp. Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, tension dripping like honey. I waited for him to say something else, but he remained still, quiet, his fingers slowly and gently exploring mine, each touch sending sparks of lightning up my arms. I met his gaze, my breathing shallowing as I realized his lips were but a whisper away, his dark eyes shimmering with heat, flickering with an unspoken hunger that seethed beneath my skin with each second. 

“Their betrayal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his fingers ceased their dance with mine, and began their path up my arms, “…will not go unpunished,” he said thickly, his hands now grazing my upper arms, up my shoulders, ceasing at the curve of my neck, the movement sending a sizzling sensation through my blood. 

With the cold that had plagued me so these last few days, I began to fever. My lips parted as if I was suddenly short of breath, and I felt a curious pulse that drifted between my thighs. My whole body, like to an unseen force, drew closer to him, and he tensed beneath his leathers. His frame vibrated with desperate restraint, the fire in his eyes warring between duty and sacrifice. 

“I am a man of honor,” he groaned. My stomach tightened as his hands inched up my neck and traced the line of my jaw, his coarse thumb brushing across my lips. 

Something tugged on my stomach from the inside as the fiery heat of his fingers burned through my skin. My breaths came out ragged and shallow while he remained silent, as though he was immersed in concentration. 

Without knowing the full implication of my words, I whispered, “Dishonor me.”

For the storm, only just contained, raged wild in his eyes, a low growl sounded from deep in his chest before he crashed his lips to mine. 

I received them with a low, beckoning gasp. My palms came up to his neck, my nails running the length of it as he explored my lips, the roof of my mouth, my teeth, and under my tongue. Then his lips traced my jaw, finding my ear, breathed his warm air into it, nibbled my lobe, then covered my throat in wet kisses. I tilted my head to grant him access, as low, sensual mewlings poured from my lips, something carnal infiltrating my veins.

His hands came down to my waist, and I gasped in surprise when he lifted me and placed me in his lap, my legs latching around his back. 

He was so big and warm and hard. His eyes were lazy and dark as his fingers began to lightly trace down the side of my neck, then hooking into my dress to bare my shoulder. He kissed it with an open mouth and moving tongue, and I quivered beneath his touch. Then, with a sharp sound of a tear, he had pulled my dress all the way down my abdomen. 

He groaned at the sight of me, his lips slightly parted, his hands delicately cupping my breasts as if he’d found treasure. When the cold made me shiver, he leaned into me to lend me his warmth, while his lips tantalized me, drawing close to my hardened nipple, blowing it with hot air, then backing off, kissing across my breastbone to the other, until I forced his mouth to it.

He hummed with throaty satisfaction, latching onto it and giving it one slow suck, grazing the skin with his teeth. I threw my head back with a gasp. White heat shot like lightning between my thighs, before pulsing into an empty ache. I swayed into him, bucking my hips into his groin, feeling him harden beneath me. He suckled my other breast in warm, slow pulses, circling the areola, drawing panting moans out of me, before he found my lips again. 

Gathering my skirts, he moved his hands underneath them, gripping the fullness of my thighs, kneading them, squeezing them, to the point it pinched me, and I bit his bottom lip in protest. 

Cregan Stark was a gentle giant in all matters but things salacious. 

A throaty sigh escaped his lips as his hands found my buttocks, kneading the flesh between his fingers. Hot, slick tingles pooled between my thighs, and my fingers curled in his hair. My body hummed in anticipation as his finger slid downward, a groan pouring out of me as he grazed over my wet opening. 

“Oh, Princess.” The words were like magic on his lips, shooting through my core in throbbing pulses. 

His other arm snaked around my waist, locking me to his body as he explored and moistened my folds, leaving me a bucking, moaning mess in his lap. 

I felt empty and sickly. A fog had infiltrated my vision, my skin, my mind, my inhibitions. I coveted him. I needed him, more than I needed anything else. His eyes alone could touch inside of me, but I could not explain the pulsing, throbbing, delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and I ached for more. I felt unfinished, incomplete. 

Until he slid a finger deep inside me, and I gasped. Hot, sweet pressure filled me, and once I adjusted, he introduced another, threatening to overfill as he fingered me. 

Fast and then lazy. 

Over and over. 

The room filled with wet squelching noises and my moaning squeals. His deeper, throatier moans vibrated through his chest and lit me on fire, burning in my lower stomach, blazing, desperate for feed, or I would disintegrate. 

My nails dug desperately into his shoulders, as any attempts of filling myself up to completion were in vain by the power of his grip around my waist. He trailed every inch of my neck, kissing it as it if were my mouth, with lips, tongue, and teeth. His fingers penetrated deep and curled inside of me, rubbing something within that sent pressure bursting into tingles and flames, my veins burning up like dragon fire, and stars sparkling behind my eyelids. I cried out with the purest ecstasy as my body shuddered and clenched around his fingers, and he groaned against my skin with dark satisfaction as I clung to him desperately.

Once my trembles ceased and I managed to catch my breath, he took my cheeks in his hand and kissed me fiercely, passionately, his fires still boiling for release.

“I am coming with you,” he declared.

Tag list: @koyaa66648 @longlivemyblues @melsunshine @urdadsfavs @the-great-ladyg @barackosteaa @elysyannemimi @80sstradlin @hgyura @telltale-vixen @nyxbranwenn @tortargaryen @naxal-jlt @flowercrownsandherondales @red-hydra @lanadelray1989 @crumbledcastle28 @midnightcrw @prismaudee @nsr-15

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)

In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.

Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior

[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

"Damn it!"

The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.

"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."

You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.

"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"

"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"

"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows. 

"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.

"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.

"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette. 

You swallow. 

Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves. 

"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago. 

"No." 

That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.

Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.

Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?

You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess. 

Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick. 

"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."

"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"

You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture. 

"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"

"H-huh? What for?"

You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity. 

"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."

You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.

"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.

"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"

"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly. 

The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery. 

The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.

Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details. 

"Wakasugi has been taken."

A chaotic murmur ensues. 

"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."

Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh. 

If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family. 

"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching. 

"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds. 

"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.

"What did you say?" 

Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.

"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."

"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.

There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job." 

He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.

"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.

"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."

The tall yakuza smirks mockingly. 

"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."

Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.

"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him. 

Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.

"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.

"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."

No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.

He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats. 

He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects. 

"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.

If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.

"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."

The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes." 

Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already. 

The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant. 

"Where's everyone?"

"They ran away."

"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.

"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."

He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.

"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.

"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"

"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."

He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.

"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"

Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's. 

"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"

"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out. 

But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin. 

You grimace a little at the mental image. 

The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.

You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips. 

"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.

"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."

He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.

"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.

So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."

"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.  

Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie

[pinkiemachine]

GOTHAM FILES: SEASON 3

Okay, so from here on out, things may get a little more bare bones, as i haven’t put quite as much detail into the next few seasons…

After season 2 comes JUSTICE LEAGUE: HEROES RISING, and is immediately followed by THE MIGHTY TEEN TITANS. (I have the first two seasons for that show outlined, and in it we start to see Dick begin to want to spread his wings a little more.) Then after all of that, we get Gotham Season 3. We begin with a small time skip. Dick is now 17, he’s more than ready to get out of Bruce’s shadow, they’re fighting more often, they’re not as in sync as they used to be, especially as the premier is all about Bane, the man who breaks Bruce’s back and nearly kills Dick. Bruce almost relives his greatest nightmare and he can’t bring himself to allow that to happen again. They manage to team up and together they defeat him, but it was an exceptionally close call for everyone. These past few years, Bruce has been learning to actively be there for someone else. Dick NEEDED him to be there for him, personally, and Bruce had gotten so used to just tuning people out that it was hard for him to actively be a part of someone’s life like that. Now, though, he’s beginning to relapse a little. Dick’s almost an adult and can take care of himself. He feels like now’s a good time to start pushing him away and going back to a solitary oyster. Dick doesn’t take this very well, but he’s also glad to have an excuse to strike out on his own, so… oh well. He’s off to become Nightwing and work full time with the Titans.

While he’s away, Bruce spends a few days completely alone. We check in on how things are going with Catwoman, and the two of them are still kinda flirty and beating around the bush, but neither one of them feels like they’re in a place to really make a move, you know? They still got issues.

THEN who should appear in crime alley… but a young teenager named Jason Todd. He’s trying to steal the Batmobile’s tires. Batman confronts him, but he’s not scared. In fact, he actually tries to attack Bruce with a tire iron. Kid had guts! So much so that he actually gets Bruce to laugh. But seriously, he does need to set this kid straight, he can’t be going around jacking people’s tires. Jason can’t exactly go home to his parents, though. He doesn’t have either. He’s alone, living on the street, hanging with some bad people. His dad was never around from the start, and his mom was… in a bad place. Literally and mentally. Now she was gone too. So, Bruce tries to get Jason set up in the foster care system, but… yeah, in Gotham, that’s not much better. He finds him back out on the streets a short while later. And this time, instead of stealing the tires, Jason tries to stow away in the Batmobile to get inside the infamous Bat-Cave. Okay, now Bruce needs to put a stop to this. At first, he only intends to bring him back to the cave as a means of scaring him straight, but the longer he hangs around, the more Bruce is kinda actually growing fond of him. When he wasn’t acting like a total punk, he could be very funny and charismatic. And again, the kid had no where else to go, so… despite the fact that Bruce said he wouldn’t have another kid… he lets Jason stay a while… which turns into forever, because Bruce signs the papers and Jason is legally under his care now—what? Bruce doesn’t know what just happened. Anyway, Jason is here now and for him, adjusting to the Manor is a much bigger deal than is was for Dick. He shows up with all of his belongings filling up one plastic bag and his first night, he feels like he can’t even sleep in the fancy bed. He’s more comfortable just laying on the floor. He was really put off by the whole “fancy Manor life” thing, but now that he’s here, he starts to become really appreciative and almost never asks for very much. He’s also beyond excited to head back to school. He dropped out when he was, like, twelve. He was a good student and eager to learn. He liked learning. Nearly laughed in Bruce’s face when he showed him the Gotham Academy uniform, though. Anyway, his journey to becoming Robin started when he was just down in the Cave one night, using some of the workout equipment. Bruce suddenly found himself giving pointers and before long they were training together and the next thing he knew, Jason was asking if he could wear the Robin mask. Bruce is naturally very hesitant… but then, behind his back, Dick shows up and takes Jason, as Robin, out for a night on the town. He definitely thinks Jason’s got what it takes. He’s a tough fighter. And Bruce could use the company/backup. Bruce still doesn’t think it’s a great idea, but he allows it.

This is also the season when they adopt Ace, the German Shepherd, aka Bat Hound! Jason finds him and smuggles him home one night, and Alfred discovers him immediately, then Jason begs Bruce to let him stay. Says that he can come along on missions too, be extra backup. Bruce initially doesn’t bite, but… the dog does make Jason happy… fiiiiiiine the dog can stay. (He and Ace end up becoming real good friends, lol.)

Later, we tackle the Arkham Asylum storyline, there’s more villains introduced, more appearances of old favourites, Batgirl shows up, Nightwing shows up, AND THEN…

Tragedy.

Joker has Jason’s mom in the season finale. Acting impulsively, Jason goes alone to save her… and ends up failing. Joker captures him, brutally tortures him, but Jason refuses to give up. He’ll never stop fighting. In the end, he manages to break free and get his mom to safety, but he can’t stop the rest of Joker’s evil scheme in time. Before Bruce and the others can show up to save him, a bomb explodes in the warehouse where Jason was held prisoner… Bruce finds his body in the rubble. Jason is dead.

His worst nightmare has come true again.

Thus marks the beginning of a very dark time in Bruce’s life.

Part 4 👇

Part 2 👇

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event v2024

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader Style: cisfem Character: Rob Lucci Vibe: NSFW Consensual AU: Soul Mates Prompt: Erotically Charged Fight Gift Giver: @jintaka-hane

Summary: You've experienced the worst side of Soul Mates being a reality - your long term relationship had found their soul mate and left you. So you dove into martial arts as a means of distraction.

Lucky (?) for you, it's what causes you to finally meet your soul mate.

Content Notes: canon levels of violence, oral, rough sex, mentions of blood, cream pie,

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

There wasn’t a protocol for this, but even if there was, Lucci wasn’t certain that it would do him any good.

His initial attack failed. Whether by dumb luck, or your own skill, he’d missed. That had become a problem. In this world, with its rules, and his job, he had to eliminate his target with the first strike. Anything less invited a terrible risk, and of all the statistical possibilities, that risk came true with you.

Your eyes were wide with fear as you tumbled away. The way you got back to your feet left him with the distinct and sudden impression that you hadn’t been merely lucky.

Realization marred your beautiful face, as he was sure it was twisting his.

Soul mates.

Lucci hadn’t given the concept much thought. With his job, with his skills, with the blood on his hands, what right did he have to consider something as pure as love? And beyond even that was the very laughable idea of soul mates.

He’d never loved anything save himself, and even that love was cruel.

All of his arrogance, all of his sureness - everything was used for the government. There was nothing of him to be concerned with. Nothing to stop him from doing the tasks required of him, whether it was years under cover, or a few days spent stalking some poor hapless fool.

Looking at the man who had invited himself into your home, you feel a powerful conflict of emotions. How dare he come in uninvited! How dare he mean to kill you!

HOW DARE HE BE YOUR SOUL MATE!

Everyone had one. The curse of this world, as far as you were concerned. Because while everyone had at least one, no one was promised to find theirs. There were no red strings of fate to guide people, no services provided by the government to help you find yours. Nothing but the cold hard truth of it, and nothing to protect you from simply falling in love.

It was your broken heart that had distracted itself by learning how to fight. It was sorrow of a love lost to the very concept of soul mates that you had honed your skills with all the fervor of a desperate monk. That you could dedicate yourself to a love that would never find another damnable soul mate.

That love had saved your life when the chill of death ran up your spine moments earlier and bade you move.

And it saved you for this? For your soul mate?

“You bastard!” You growl, charging at the stunned assassin. You knew he was reeling just like you should be. Whatever state he was in, he didn’t have your rage, and it shook off the powerful desires threatening to crack your bones.

He dodges the strike, but barely. You feel strands of his hair slip through your fingers as you pivot. Shock twists to something akin to confusion on his face, and he bats away another swing. He seems ready to attack you, but his body stutters, and the confusion on his face turns to anger as you lash out again, forcing him to take another step back.

“How?!” He growls, grabbing your wrist at the end of a series of punches. His grip is locked like iron, and you can’t escape it, but somehow it’s still gentle. You understand he could break it easily, but he’s not even trying.

“Why now!” You roar. “Why years too late?! Bastard!” You repeat, stepping in and driving your free hand into his stomach. Whether the words, or the bold movement, something caught him off guard enough to force the air from him.

His grip on your wrist loosens and you pull it free. “You asshole!”

You hear him growl, more like a beast than a man, and as he straightens there’s no more confusion in his eyes. He matches your strikes, knocking your blows aside and dodging your attacks with a fluidity he hadn’t shown in his shocked state. Irritation is written plainly on his handsome face, and anger swells in you again as you start to realize you can’t best him.

Anger, but no fear. You’re not sure why. He tried to kill you - he can kill you! You should be afraid.

Once he sorts out the rhythm of your fighting style, he draws you in. Lucci’s too experienced to be concerned about someone with just a couple years of fighting under their belt, but there’s a strange feeling of pride in his gut. You’re not bad. At the very least your instincts make up for what you lack in skill, and that’s what put you both in this predicament.

Getting both your wrists this time he turns you, folding them behind your back and pinning you roughly against the wall. You try to kick yourself away from it, but he forces your leg to the side and puts his knee right between your thighs, using his height to nearly lift you off the floor.

“Ahhhhnngh ❤️!” Your euphoric cry causes both of you to freeze.

“…”

“The hell was - nnnnnnngh!!” He pressed his knee into your crotch again and you couldn’t supress the jolt that went through you.

“What a pleasant sound.” He leans against you, cheek pressed against your head as he holds you in place. His breath is hot against your ear. “Far better than before.”

He pulls you up enough to tease his lips against your neck, making you shiver and moan softly. Letting go of your wrists he puts his hands on the wall on either side of you, keeping you effectively pinned.

You have enough space to turn and face him, and maybe it’s a mistake to do so.

Grabbing the collar of his shirt you pull him in, or he allows you to, or you will him to allow you. Who cares, his lips against yours are a flood of pleasure and heat. You don’t let yourself think about it, about everything leading up to this. The rollercoaster of emotions was too much and you let your desires guide you.

He pulls his shirt off when your hands tug it up. The shift of his muscles, the lines of scars, the deep ink of tattoos, everything was known to you, and everything left you wanting more. You pulled at his belt as he tossed the shirt aside. He interrupts your attempts, pulling your shirt off and tossing it aside.

Your clothing is barely shed enough to be out of the way. He pulls you into another kiss, unhooking your bra and leaving you to take it off as he yanks his troublesome belt free.

The metallic clatter barely registers. Heavy, heated kisses are trailing down your stomach as he crouches down in front of you. You weave your fingers through his hair while he tugs your pants down and away. One leg, and then the other, he hooks your thighs with his arms and lifts you easily, pressing your back into wall as his mouth dives into your pussy.

Your fingers tighten in his hair and you cry out into the air. Trapped between him and the wall there’s no escaping the demanding man between your thighs. Heavy searching licks note every sound and twitch and it only takes him a couple minutes to have you shivering from his actions.

His tongue’s buried in your pussy and you don’t even know his name yet.

Holding onto his hair you push yourself into his face as your pleasure crests. There’s no reason to hold back, and he laps up every second of your messy pleasure. Sharp eyes cut through your hazy gaze and he brings you down slowly, keeping your ankles at his shoulders as the tip of his hard, thick cock pushes against your dripping hole.

“Say it,” he commands, pressing against you. He’s desperate and half mad, but he seems to be holding back as much as he can.

You shift, looking at the beast between your thighs before looking back up at him. “Please.”

He pushes in, just the tip, and you moan, hands against the back of his neck. “Lucci,” he says, and you gasp, groaning as he pulls back out.

You don’t have to be soul mates to know what he wants.

“Please, Lucci,” you mean to say more, but apparently all he wanted on your lips was his name. Pushing into you he devours your gasp of pleasure, kissing you deeply. Hands gripping your ass, he holds you steady as he  takes you, barely giving you time to breathe or think.

Heavy thrusts, rough husky gasps falling from his lips that crash into your skin, hot and deep as the cock threatening to split you in half. There’s little more than pleasure in the harsh treatment, the pressure of the wall against your skin is a dull, useless ache you can’t be bothered to recognize. The sting of sharp nails digging into your ass as he fucks you against the wall are ticklish compared to the dizzying heat of his hungry and demanding kisses.

Lucci nearly bites into your neck when he finally releases your lips. You’re sure the frantic hold you have on him is trickling blood down his back, as the second orgasm slams into you. Every brush of his skin against yours feels amazing, every brush of his breath against your sweaty skin has you nearly crying for relief. Your orgasm causes his, and you can feel him twitching deep inside you, pressing you shakily against the wall as a few final, wet thrusts leak your combined pleasure down the curve of your ass and onto the floor.

Soul mates.

You collapse into a pile of bones and exhaustion on the floor when he pulls out of you and eases you down. You regard one another in the haze of the sweetest afterglow you’ve ever known, and you wonder idly which is stronger.

This new bond?

Or his devotion to the government?

[hannahssimblr]

“I have to say, this is an impressive body of work.”

I shift in my seat, “By impressive do you mean that it’s good, or that there’s a lot of it?”

This gets a laugh. “Both,” says the man, Paul, flicking through a sketchbook with tattooed hands, fingers stained from nicotine. I notice things like this now. Hands. I notice their lines and their bones, all their interesting details, and perhaps Paul himself could gauge this now as he pours over my figure studies where there are pages upon pages of hands, old and young, my friends, my sisters at the piano, an old woman clutching at a handrail on the train, and my own, a hundred times in different ways, blisters, plasters, hangnails and bruises from the rugby pitch.

The woman, Ida, shuffles through a stack of watercolour paintings I did last summer, mostly seascapes, the beach and the rushes, the whitewashed houses and rusted iron of the Wexford coast. Just looking at them I can recall the grit of sand under my bare feet as I warmed them on the deck of our holiday home behind my portable easel. In three months I’ll return again for one last summer, and after that I expect I’ll miss it there. 

“And you said you didn’t do a portfolio preparation year?” She says, peering over the rim of her glasses. 

“No, I’m still at school.”

“Highly unusual for a sixth year,” her eyebrows climb up her forehead, “You've clearly dedicated a lot of time to this.”

I shrug, “Yeah, I like making art, I don’t know.”

It’s difficult to tell what this woman is thinking. Everything about her is harsh, dramatic, from the sharp fringe that sits straight and neat above her brows to the slash of her mouth, thin lips, pointy chin, hard eyes, but I have to assume for the sake of my own self esteem that she doesn’t positively loathe my portfolio. She spends some time looking through my work, slowly, methodically, sometimes leaning closer to frown at something, maybe some proportion that’s off, bad composition, a clumsy attempt at ambient occlusion that doesn’t hit the mark… 

“It’s beautiful,” she says simply, and I exhale. 

“Oh look, a familiar face,” Paul holds a portrait to Ida, “That’s the girl that we were interviewing a few people before this, what was her name again?”

“Michelle,” I say, “My girlfriend.”

Paul nods, “Michelle, right! Good likeness,” and places the notebook back onto the table. Leaning back in his chair, he cracks his knuckles, “Look, Jude, there’s no two ways about it here, your work is outstanding. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a portfolio that hits every mark, every requirement and goes beyond, I mean,” he lets out a puff of air and gestures to the table, “this is nuts. And for a sixth year? Come on. This stuff would blow some of our third and fourth year college students out of the water.”

I feel like I could melt off the chair with relief, but try to suppress my utter delight so that they don’t think I’m too hungry for validation.

“Cool.”

“It’s the sensitivity,” Ida adds, “Your observation skills, your sense of weight, movement, knowledge of anatomy. It’s rare to see this kind of work from a secondary school student. Your efforts are just… so impressive.”

“And look, we know it depends on your Leaving Cert points, and yeah, that’ll be a contributing factor when it comes to acceptance, but, like,” Paul looks over the table again, tossing his hands up conclusively, “as far as I’m concerned, we’ll see you in September.”

Ida’s mouth curls into a smile, “We hope. If you choose us.”

If I choose them? Am I dreaming? How have I become the kind of person who is coveted by an art school? Surely not. Surely soon I’ll wake up and discover that this whole interview has been a product of my dreams. Too much time spent stressing out over art, the requirements, the brief... Almost certainly I’ve fallen asleep somewhere and none of this is real. 

“That’s really kind of you to say. I’m glad you liked my stuff.”

“Blown away,” says Paul, and he leaps to his feet to shake my hand like I’ve just won a prize, “all we need is a pass in the Leaving Cert, you can surely manage it.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I do.”

They’re smiling at me as I gather up my work, and still smiling as I give them one last sheepish wave from the door, and I realise I am still smiling too as I face the hallway of waiting students, staring at me with portfolios rested against their knees. I probably shouldn’t look too overjoyed, it might knock their confidence, so I try to look very bored instead as I pass by, though I may explode from the inside out.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[nightcourtz]

00. Prologue

pairing: feysand x OC (at some point)

notes: i'm not sure what this is, only that it's something that's been plaguing my thoughts for a while now. bear with me while i get this show on the road...

warnings: mentions of murder, death of a loved one (not detailed), violence

The Void’s footsteps were silent as she made her way through the frigid marble dungeons. At this hour, only she and the mice were awake.

     Their nimble feet scurried along the chilled floor, little teeth nibbling at her boot-clad toes; their bites were like prickly kisses, but she welcomed them, embraced their affection as the dull ache of their teeth sank in with each step she took. She let herself succumb to the familiarity of pain, let herself relish in it the deeper and deeper into the cold she went.

    Her pace was unhurried as she passed the plethora of once-occupied cells reeking of blood and bitter waste. Phantom screams echoed in her ears as she continued down, down, down, but she paid them no mind.

     Each one of the victims, the ones that she had handpicked and captured one by one, was gone now, all of them dead by her hand; and they deserved it, deserved every second, every ounce of the pain she’d subjected them to.

     There was only one more to inflict her wrath upon.

     Atticus Voss.

     The scattered torches lining the walkway flickered as she reached his cell at last.

     He lay there, heavy iron shackles clamped around his too-thin wrists, his bloodied and bruised body limp where he lay in front of his tray of barely touched food. From where she stood, however, she could see that the male was still breathing. His breaths were slow, but still. He was alive.

     She smiled. That was all that mattered, anyway.

     The Void surveyed her victim for a few seconds more as she unlocked the bars of the cell and neared closer.

     “Having fun down here, Atticus?” she baited, her lilting voice penetrating the silent space before her. When he didn’t answer, she nudged his body slightly with her boot, ignoring his pained grunt as she took in the state of his injuries. “If I’m being quite honest, I thought you’d be done for at this point. Our last session was quite… efficient.”

     “Fuck you,” Atticus rasped, and he didn’t waste a single second before spitting at her feet.

     The Void clicked her tongue in distaste. “That’s disgusting, and not very nice. What happened to that Autumn Court charm I’ve heard so much about?” 

     “Oh, just you wait,” he snarled. “Once my High Lord hears about this, he’ll show you real charm. Right after he severs the head from your body.”

     She crouched before him, meeting his eyes through the obscuring mask she wore. “You know,” she whispered, voice low and sinister between the two of them, “your friends said the exact same thing before I killed them all. They all thought Beron was coming to save them, to avenge them. Well… they’re nothing but bones now. And. He’s. Still. Not. Here.”

     Atticus thrashed against his shackles and flared his nostrils, eyes glinting with unbridled rage in the light. “You’re lying.”

     The Void chuckled humorlessly. “I have no need to lie.”

     She reached up, grasping the edges of her mask and setting it on the cold, dank ground beneath her. She then stretched out two hands, her touch gentle on each side of Atticus’s temples.

     Bringing her face down, her dark and empty eyes met his. Her grip had tightened around his head, and his brow furrowed at the stabbing pressure. Long and sharp fingernails dug into the tender flesh until he hissed sharply and tried to yank his head away.

     The Void held firm. 

     She did not break eye contact, nor did she flinch away as his eyes raked over her features in alarm, as his eyes flickered to the mask laying a few feet away and back to her face, a certain familiarity shifting in his gaze at last.

     “You’re…” he whispered, voice trembling slightly, “you’re his daughter, aren’t you? Symeon Bloodsmith’s daughter. You have his eyes.”

     The Void bared her teeth in a menacing smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners in wicked delight, and nodded slowly. Kept nodding as she murmured, “Yes, I was. But you killed him, and now you must die.”

     And before Atticus could respond, before he could start begging for the Mother’s mercy, The Void tightened her grip on his head and splattered it against the cell wall.

     She sat there for a moment afterward, watching as his blood and brains trickled like a stream down the gray stone. Watching as a puddle of dark red pooled around his battered and twitching body.

     She pulled out a soft cloth from her pocket and dabbed at her bloodstained face with mute resignation, grabbing her mask when she deemed herself clean enough.

     Turning on her heel, she made her way back to the entrance. Up, up, up, she went, leaving the rest of his body for the mice to eat.

[duncanor]

WAIT PLEASE CONTINUE TALKING ABOUT THE LEGATO BDSM AESTHETIC FROM THOSE TAGS IM SO DEEPLY INTERESTED (I care legato so much)

First off, I’m truly sorry for how long I took to answer ya. I often forget I even got an Ask-box ahah!

As to my opinion on why “The Leather/BDSM-like aesthetic is important to Legato’s character”...

I know my original post was a bit vague but it’s truly less about how “cool” he looks, and more about the symbolism of it. Legato outfit is outwardly menacing. It's a silent threat. Similar to those birds who evolve to have brighter colors to warn off predators.

And sure the metal skull looks sick, but it isn't as bone chilling (ah-ah). When he's first introduced, everything just Stop so you can take it in the Danger reeking from him. He’s bound by leather straps, got giant metal spikes coming out of his shoulder like some sort of fucked up pauldron, as well as bits of a real human skull directly sewn into the hard leather of his coat.

(Adding to that my UNPROVEN suspicions that the skull belongs to Legato’s abuser..)

And that’s just his outfit. He’s surrounded by similar things. His weapon is truly the less subtle example of this.

A mix of different truly lethal weapons in the form of an Iron-maiden/sex-toy/stress-Toy. The face of the weapon bound in leather with only one of her eyes being visible. (similar to how Legato usually only got one eye visible because of his hair).

It’s blatant and disturbing. It’s depraved Flesh and deadly Metal.

Then, he gets his spine broken by Knives. And where does that put him?

In a metal sarcophagus pretty similar to (once again) an Iron-maiden. He stays there for the most of the story. Bound to it, stuck, mangled. Yet he’s still as terrifying as ever if not more. Sometimes portrayed similarly to a butterfly cocoon, waiting to hatch and release something more powerful..

And finally, his resident-evil goons.

They aren’t really interesting nor are they developed as anything more than Legato’s barely human servants. They got no dialog, no personality, no free will.. Nothing but an imposing mass of flesh in hard leather binding them, blinding them. They look like they come straight from an Hellraiser movie.

Even Legato’s powers themselves are a manifestation of his trauma. They’re metal wire used to fully control bodies against the will of their owner. Making them slaves and most often than not leaving them as a mass of mangled flesh.

Even Legato’s name itself meaning “bound” in Italian. (Thanks to @jackalandhare for this information btw)

In conclusion,

Legato's whole aesthetic reeks of his trauma. It's suffocating, eerie, menacing and binding in seemingly debilitating ways at times, as well as kinda sexual in undertones. It’s Legato abuse and pain on display. And I think all of these details, this aesthetic is a big insight on Legato Bluesummers as a person and what he went and is going through.

HOWEVER, that is not to say Stampede approach will be uninteresting! The symbolism is still strong with Orange. They tend to channel it through a more solid World Building.

We know they planned to add lore on colored hair in link with sexual slavery. And the design of the metal skull as well as his arm, probably implies some sort of body modification more similar to the other Eye of Michael experiments.

I just think it’s a bit unlucky that the change in aesthetic made us lose this much symbolism wise..

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Numéro 23

Part 2

Guess what, ya girl finished a snippet on the plane!!

Words: 1.28 k

TW: Violence, bone fracture, slightly depressed and pretty anxious hero, questionable agency, bone fracture, guns, attempted murders, restraint mentioned

The file was dropped onto their desk curtly, no words spoken, like every other assignment Hero got. Their newest target didn't have a name, no alias of some sort, and the picture of them had shown them fully masked in a sleek, black suit, no inch of skin showing; a faceless caricature. However, their kill count, in three digits, was important enough that any other details seemed inconsequential next to it.

Besides, Hero had been taught to treat their targets more like tasks than people. 

So the crime-fighter trained till they were left dead on their feet, till their knuckles were all ripped skin and covered in bloodstains, till their exhausted muscles felt like they were on fire. 

“Hero! Don’t you think you’re going a little overkill, boss?” Sidekick asked, folding their arms across their chest and leaning against the doorframe.

The young hero was the closest thing to a light in the agency’s pitch black darkness; the soul that gave life to a lifeless place, like a flame lighting the slowly dwindling, half-melted candle that was the older crime-fighter’s life. 

“I. . .can’t, Sidekick,” the hero replied breathlessly, hauling their form up for yet another pull-up, having done so many that they’d lost count. “This new target is unlike all the others before the-”

“Yeah yeah, but when are you not being paranoid about one of your enemies?” the teenager replied, cutting them off. 

“Their kill count is in three digits,” the crime-stopper retorted almost impatiently.

“Bloody hell,” Sidekick interjected, eyes going wide.

“Watch your language,” Hero chided, but a sly smirk danced across their face. 

“Okay, I wasn’t expecting that, but what good will it do if you show up to fight this bloody - sorry - serial killer exhausted? Weren’t you the one who kept lecturing me on the importance of rest for maximum work efficiency?”

The hero may have been stubborn, but they realised their protegé was right. They couldn't risk showing up to fight someone like their mystery killer while tired, so they decided to make their way home.

Normally, a hot bath would easily clear their head. Sure, they could still feel the tension blissfully seep from their form, the warmth relaxing overworked muscles, but their mind remained a raging firestorm of anxiety. It frustrated them how they couldn't even enjoy something this simple, the one moment where they no longer had to think or be whatever the hell they needed to be at the moment. "At least I smell nice," they scoffed, wishing to get this over with much faster. 

They let out a heavy sigh, leaving the tub and slipping into a bathrobe, trudging to the desk in their room to use the old, but still functional laptop. Ironically, being a hero barely payed for rent. 

For someone so high and mighty, their little terrorist wasn't completely difficult to find. Or maybe the hero was really a 'natural with the keyboard', since it had taken them a bit of hacking to find their target. Who's to say? 

Changing into their suit, Hero stared at their reflection with such intensity, that it would look to most people like an attempt to shatter it to a thousand shards by just looking at it. In reality, their own harsh gaze bore into the dark corners of their mind, wondering for the umpteenth time if they were enough. It didn't matter because they'd still have to do this anyway, whatever the cost.

"Target spotted," they whispered into their comm, standing on their knees for long enough that their muscles ached, waiting for their enemy deigned to show up. 

"I will engage now." 

The killer's movements resembled that of a panther, and the crime-fighter would have been lying if they'd denied finding it graceful. They were fast and agile, almost impossible to keep up with, not even giving them the chance to reach for the gun in their waistband. But the hero was no slouch either. They aimed a harsh kick to their enemy's shins, their body slamming into the asphalt with an audible thud. Still, the figure in black remained undeterred, kicking the crime-stopper on top of them in the ribs, sending them toppling down across the street, making their head throb and effectively destroying their flimsy communicator.

The hero swore, muttering something ironically much more profane than what they'd chastise their sidekick for, but they rolled away, out of the bastard's reach, quickly getting back on their feet. Their assailant was quick on their feet, chasing after them, but Hero was faster. They'd managed to slip behind an old building, trying to quiet their laboured breathing. They slowly reached for the gun in their waistband, removing the old magazine and replacing it with a new, loaded one.

They waited painstakingly for their target to reach the perfect spot.

Bang. They fired, aiming for the kill, three perfect shots. 

Except the bastard was wearing bullet-proof armour, the bullets ricocheting off of them uselessly. They were certain that underneath their dark cowl, the criminal must have had an infuriatingly smug smirk on their face, but right then, they recieved an entirely self-satisfied tilt of the head to the side. 

Their only option was to destroy a piece of the armour and shoot them there. 

The fight between them continued being a draw, one striking, their opponent blocking, and neither causing any real damage. Until the killer had managed to back Hero into a corner, kicking them to the ground and twisting their leg into a horrid angle, the crime-fighter crying out in pain as a grotesque crack rang in their ears. Tears sprang in their eyes and with whatever little movement they could manage, they furiously ripped their nemesis's mask off.

It wasn't the face of a stranger, like they'd expected, nor was it the face of someone entirely close to them, not that there were many people, aside from their sidekick, who obviously wasn't the ruthless murderer before, instead, it was their quiet lab partner from college, Villain, the one that sat next to them every day, brought them coffee and the occasional dessert, and doodled silly cartoons in their notebook to keep them both sane during boring classes, the closest thing they had to a friend that had nothing to do with the agency.

Their mouth was left agape, their eyes wide, their whole world spinning, but Villain didn’t even blink. They fired, straight into the hero's chest, utterly remorseless, no readable expression on their stone hard face.

Hero woke up. Woke up? What the hell? But Villain had killed them, yet here they were, lying on a soft mattress underneath a wonderfully thick comforter, with their leg in a cast, bandages crisscrossed across their chest. The only thing ruining the strangely mellow coziness they felt (possibly painkilling drugs) was the fact that they were handcuffed to the nighstand. 

The bullet had missed their heart. But surely an expert marksman like Villain wouldn't miss, right? This, for some strange reason, was intentional. 

We like to believe that our expectations have a foundation in truth, that they are of considerable value, that they can have even the slightest effect on any future outcomes. Yet, that is a fool's dream, a fruitless effort to calm a racing mind in fear of the unknown. Just when you are at the peak of your certainty, when you fully believe your fate is sealed, a spontaneous twist, the slightest change sets you on a path you were never aware existed. Our choices, our words, our actions have meaning, yet they only hold the power of a few tidal waves in the vast unpredictable ocean that is our future because destiny is a weapon one can only hope to master.

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[orqheuss]

Even the iron still fears the rot PART 4

(Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow/GN!Reader ANGST)

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Summary:

Ominis is pushed far past his limits as Leona presses him for information about your whereabouts. Back at the castle, your search is beginning to look hopeless.

Word count: 8k

Tags: torture, blood, gore, broken bones, body horror, eye horror, emetophobia, graphic depictions of violence, cruciatus curse, threats of murder, strangulation, dissociation, J.K. Rowling canon history

AN: Did i research wand cores and wand wood extensively for this chapter? yes, yes i did.

Read at your own discretion

The professors were silent as Imelda recounted her story, leaving out no detail that could help persuade them in your cause— no stone unturned in the story of the disappearance of Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt. She still had Sebastian’s wand clutched tightly in her hand, the green and black checkered handle catching the light every so often as she paced the length of the room, hoping to expel some of the frantic energy building in her gut. You were not much better. Your leg was bouncing rapidly against the ground, your boot continuously tapping on the marble floor below and sending a tiny tapping to bounce around the room. The nails on your left hand had been bitten to stubs, tiny cuts beginning to bleed on your cuticles as you stared unseeing at the wall across from you— your mind plagued with images of what could be happening to your closest companions. 

They could be absolutely anywhere, you thought; anywhere across the entirety of the highlands of Scotland. It had been nearly a day at this point since they left for Hogsmeade, smiling and laughing about all the candy they were going to eat together when they got back and were finally able to drag you away from your extra assignments. No one imagined this happening to them in the peaceful town— no one thought that any harm would come to anyone now that Rookwood, Harlow, and Ranrok had been defeated. How naive you were. Poachers were still littered about the area, their teeth bared and ready to snatch anyone connected to you and your ancient magic between their snarling jaws. It was only a matter of time before they tried a different game to lure you into their trap.

Ominis’ wand, tightly grasped in your right hand and held above your heart, was your only means of sanity. You looked down at the long, black-toned wood in anguish, the magic inside thrumming against your fingertips— your only solace that one of the boy’s you loved was still alive. You prayed desperately to any deity, any preternatural being that was listening for Sebastian to be there with him— conscious, breathing, alive. 

Yes, it had only been a day since they had left, but to you it felt like centuries. 

You tightened your hold on the wand, desperate for a little bit of sanctuary in this tremulous storm of a situation, and tried to focus on the soft pulse of the blond’s magic inside— like you could feel his heartbeat through its strange, effervescent sentience. Everyone in the castle knew about the rare properties of this particular blackthorn wand— how it helped the young blind wizard traverse around the castle day in and day out, as well as how it was able to help him in even the most challenging duels. But, what they didn’t know was that it was magically linked to him in more ways than one. The Slytherin let you hold it once, one late night when he had successfully snuck you into the Slytherin common room upon the behest that you wanted to see a mermaid. You remember how it vibrated in your hands, the pulse only getting stronger as Ominis released the wooden instrument entirely and let you turn it about between your fingers. He revealed to you, in a hushed voice that sent shivers down your spine, that it was made special for him by Olivander— made only with things that personally resonated with his magic so it would be a perfect fit, some magical ingredients found as far away as across the Atlantic Ocean. 

This was also the night that he revealed to you more of his reasonings for wanting nothing to do with his family. 

As a muggle-born, you didn’t really know anything about the magic world outside of Hogwarts, and recently Uagadou, thanks to Natty, so when he told you about the magic school of North America, Ilvermorny, you were fascinated. Ominis delicately spun the tale of Isolt Sayre, the founder of the school across the sea, and his family ties to her lineage. You remembered how animated his voice was— how it lifted and fell with each newly revealed section of her life, how his hands joined in the fray when he told the harrowing story of how she had fled from his great-great grandmother Gormlaith Gaunt and disguised herself as she sailed to the “new world,” how his eyes sparkled when he told you about how she went against everything she had been raised to believe and not only adopted two boys that were not from the sacred twenty-eight but also married a muggle. 

You had never seen him so animated before, so enthralled in what he was talking about that nothing else mattered to him besides telling you everything he knew about this part of his history. He had never smiled that big around you before, you thought. There was a small chip in one of his canines that kept catching your attention— a little bit of personality, of human-ness in the normally prim and proper display he put on for the rest of the school. 

You remembered how the glow of the black lake shone on him, making his eyes look like tiny crystal balls that held your entire future in their swirling depths, and his hair look like tiny strands of pure, silken gold spun by The Fates themselves against his porcelain skin. 

In that moment, he had never looked more beautiful. 

The story concluded with him gently taking your hands into his, his palms cradling the backs of yours as he ran his thumb along the smooth wood of his wand. In a hushed voice, only for you to hear, like it was a secret that no one else could ever know, he explained then that the core of his wand was what made it so special— so unique to the others at the school. It was made with a sliver of the horn from a Horned Serpent, a magical creature only found in North America, as they had become extinct in Europe. Olivander had to have his core shipped in specially because of its properties. Ominis explained that Horned Serpent cores were exceedingly rare— only the two Boot boy’s, Isolt’s children, had them from what he was aware, and they died long ago. It helped him move around the castle with echolocation, emitting a low, musical note that only he could hear whenever something was in his way, or whenever danger was near. Not only that, it was perspective to his parseltongue, something he had to grow to accept rather than resent. Isolt was also a known parseltongue, and near the end of his fifth year, when he first found out about her, he reasoned that if she felt no malice about this particular talent then there was little need for him to feel the same. It was a part of him, just like everything else that he had come to accept with the help of you and Sebastian. 

You remembered talking with him for hours, only stopping when the sun began to breach over the horizon and awaken the common room around you. Ominis, the gentleman that he is, walked you to your common room door before bidding you goodnight with a gentle kiss on the back of your hand. You watched him from the barrels as he turned on his heel and began his walk back to his room, the red light at the tip of his wand blinking like a star on a cloudless night. 

Looking at the wand in your hands again, you asked it silently, desperately with your mind to blink to life once again— to point you in the direction of its owner so your boys could be safe and in your arms once again. Alas, no light came to help. 

“—? Are you with us, dear?” 

A hand lightly took you by the chin, tilting your face upwards and forcing your eyes away from the piece of wood you had been emotionlessly staring at for some time. The soft green and red tones of professor Garlick’s hat and hair were the only things you could see through the tears that burned in your eyes. You hadn’t even realized you had been crying until that second. A heaving, shaky breath made its way out of your lips as you shook your head lightly to clear your thoughts, a hand coming up and rubbing away the water that threatened to fall from your lower lashes. Garlick’s sympathetic face became clearer to you, her smile small but soft as she kneeled in front of the chair you had plopped into not long after entering the classroom. She gently took your hand, rubbing her thumb back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion as she tried to ground you back in reality. You wished it was Ominis and Sebastian touching you. 

Garlick tucked a tuft of your hair behind your ear before casting a look over her shoulder at her fellow professors, saying something that you couldn’t quite hear. Even though your eyes had cleared, it still sounded like you were underwater— like you were drowning and no one was coming to drag you back up to the surface. You didn’t dare look at the other professors, knowing you would find various forms of pity and sympathy in their eyes. You didn’t need pity, you needed them to get out there and find your best friends. 

Your eyes fell back downwards as the hand still cradling the blackthorn wand in your lap was gently pried open, making room for a second, lightly colored wand to join the first— yew wood, Sebastian’s wand. Your eyes began to water again when you saw them both together, side by side in your hands like their owners were in their everyday life. Professor Garlick cleared her throat to get your attention again, letting you take another deep breath and meet her gaze before beginning to speak. Her voice was tender, soft, like a mother consoling their crying child. 

“We are going to send out a search party for your friends first thing in the morning, I promise.” You opened your mouth, a protest dangling at the tip of your tongue, before she leveled you with a slightly harder, more strict stare. Your jaw closed with a soft click. “There would be no use looking for them in the middle of the night— there is no way of knowing where they are or who has them. It would be a suicide mission, and you know it. We will look for them right at first light when the chances of seeing them are higher.” 

She stood to her full height, holding out her hand for you to do the same. Once you were on your feet, she took your face into her hands, running her thumbs across your cheeks and wiping away the tears that gathered there. She gave you another soft smile, begging you to believe her, to not go looking for trouble like you tended to do with her eyes. 

“We will bring them back, dear. I promise you.” 

Professor Sharp cleared his throat to your left, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He leveled a stern glare at you and Imelda, his voice leaving no room to argue when he spoke.

“Now, to bed with the both of you, and don’t even think about sneaking out and going to look for them yourselves. Let us handle this.” 

Both of you nodded, turning to leave the room and let the professors continue to discuss the best course of action for the morning. You knew they were right, there would be no point looking for them in the dark. Even if they hadn’t been taken and they were simply stuck somewhere in the woods, it would be impossible to find them. Still, a pulsing anger began to burn under your ribs at the idea of just going to bed while they were out there somewhere— scared, alone, wandless.

Imelda grabbed your cloak sleeve once you were out of earshot, pulling you quickly behind the statue along the far left wall of the courtyard and whispering urgently. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to listen to them?!” 

You scoffed at the incredulous expression that clouded her face, a devilish smirk stretching across your own cheeks in return. 

“Of course not! It’s like you don’t know me at all. Meet me outside the covered bridge— one hour. Bring your broom.” 

Imelda nodded, a smile pulling at her lips as she saluted you, quickly turning on her heel and running in the direction of the dungeons as you ran off towards the kitchens. 

There was no way you wouldn’t go looking for your Slytherin’s. They were yours, and Merlin help the bastards that took them, because through hell or high water, you would find them. 

Dawn streaked through the tiny cracks in the stone wall, illuminating the inside of the ruined penitentiary. The soft pitter-patter of rain stemmed from the countryside just beyond the fortresses walls, creating small puddles of mud on the cell floors and making the space incomprehensibly colder for the two young men resting inside. Both had curled into themselves in the night, trying to preserve the smallest iota of heat in their bodies. Even then, their skin had begun to have a blue tint to it. Their teeth chattered unconsciously in their mouths— their bodies' way of keeping them moving and warm. With no blankets to shield themselves, no pillow to rest their head and keep their smaller extremities warm, the chilled autumn breeze slipped through any crack it could find and leeched all warmth from their skin. The night held very little good, true sleep for the pair of Slytherin’s. Each boy tossed and turned, nightmares upon nightmares flickering behind their eyelids and thoughts of what was to come in the morning dancing through their skulls like little demonic dream snatchers. 

Sebastian was shaking the hardest out of the pair for a different reason than the encapsulating cold. Each and every cut on him stung harshly as his body fought against the foreign materials littered in his blood— dirt and dust and grime from the decrepit stone floor. The night on the rocks had not been kind to the freckled boy. He was still badly injured from his session of torture; each shift of his weight brought a new wave of pain. He could feel where his bones had broken and were stitched back together with magic; the little shards that didn’t quite make it into their proper positions stung as they pierced the inner mechanisms of his anatomy. He rolled around restlessly, sweat beading on his brow as a fever scorched through him— the cuts criss-crossing his body slowly becoming infected from a mix of the cold and any other disgusting creatures that could be found swimming in the soil. 

He knew that if they didn’t get help soon, he would die in there. 

Just before the sun reached its highest peak in the sky, a crack sounded through the stone prison, waking both boys with a jolt as their brains switched to high alert— the predators had come back. Sebastian stumbled to his feet first, glaring at the three kidnappers with unbridled rage as they made their way closer to their cages. Leona looked him up and down from the other side of the bars, lightly chuckling to herself at his state. She took in his arm wrapped around his abdomen like it held in all his organs, the twitch in his face whenever he moved wrong and agitated one of his wounds. Her eyes scanned him from top to bottom, feet to temple, and ended her journey on his smoldering, scorching hot sneer. Even with everything she did to him the day before, even after sleeping through the blistering cold, he still had so much life in those eyes. For a moment, she was almost worried about what he would do to her after her plan for today. But, all of that stress flittered away in the autumn breeze once she caught sight of the sweat that beaded on his brow. He was deathly pale, his entire body shaking and shivering against the infection that wracked through his body. She chuckled again, louder and with a much more mocking tone— he would not survive long enough for her to care about what would happen after today. 

Nothing could stop the slow death that awaited him— something so muggle, something so distinctly human, not even magic. 

Leona winked at the brunette, smiling ruefully at his demise and turned towards the blond across from him. He was poised in the corner of his cell, eyes wide and head whipping to and fro as he listened for their approaching footsteps. The black-haired vixen admired him from the bars, her grin stretching further across her face. The cuts on his face had long since stopped bleeding, leaving streaks of red and brown covering his cheeks, only broken apart by the tear tracks that spilled from him yesterday. Every inch of him was on edge, like his whole body was being pulled taut by an invisible force. She could smell his fear in the air, the stench of his terror masking the pungent aroma of the other boy’s rage. The blond’s lips may be pulled back in a brave snarl, but she knew better— her was terrified. Good, she thought. He should be. With a flick of her wrist, she unlocked the door and stepped into the cage with the snarling beast. 

Ominis whipped his head in her direction, hearing her footsteps and breaths as she drew closer to his frozen form. He growled low in his throat, his animalistic instincts taking over in the life or death situation he has found himself in, and geared himself to charge at the target of his anger. He was going to make her pay for what she did to Sebastian— what she was preparing to do to him. With a roaring wail, he pushed off from the wall and ran blindly at the poacher that held them captive. Right as he got close enough to pounce, where Leona could feel his rancid breath against her cheek, she grabbed at his collar and flung him harshly into the bars just beyond, watching as the boy crumbled to the floor in a mess of limbs and panting breaths. She laughed at Ominis’ pain, regarding him in the new light and silently giving him credit for his gusto. She would have fun breaking this one. 

The Rookwood sister stepped back, letting the boy get his bearings before she summoned a dining chair into the space. Wand poised in front of her like a dagger, Leona levitated the youngest Gaunt into the air, throwing him into the chair and conjuring rope to wrap around his body. Anger burned in his eyes as his wrists were tied down to the armrests and his legs were bound together. He thrashed against the binds, cursing the woman and struggling with every bit of strength he had left. The woman stalked towards him with a confidence only a murderer would have; her steps were sure, her head raised above her squared shoulders in triumph— a queen at her coronation— a knight swaggering into a battle that she knew she would win. She leaned close, one hand braced next to where his hand white-knuckled at the wood and the other grabbing a fistful of his hair, yanking it back. A hiss escaped through his clenched teeth at the sudden pain. 

A shout came from the adjacent prison cell. “Leave him alone, you bitch—” 

“Shunpike, shut him up would you?” 

Sebastian’s threats and growls were silenced quickly. Not even the sounds of his fists harshly slamming against the iron bars could be heard in the small space. Ominis felt truly alone without the presence of the brunette’s voice. 

Leona leaned even closer to the blond, her honey breath fanning across the apples of his cheeks. The boy’s face twisted in disgust at her closeness. 

She laughed at his resilience. “We did a little digging on you, blondie. Ominis Gaunt, right? Your parents would pay a pretty galleon for your safe return.” 

She pulled harder at his roots, reopening the cut on his forehead from the force and sending a trickle of blood down his brow. Her other hand raised to his face, ghosting her sharp nail along his cheekbone and collecting a drop of the sanguine ichor. She licked the metallic life force from her finger, a smile stretching further across her face as she tasted her next meal. 

“Tell me where the brat with ancient magic is and maybe there’ll be enough of you left to return to them for a proper burial.” 

A wry smirk stretched across Ominis’ face as a short bark of a laugh tumbled from his lips. A look one could only describe as smugness glimmered in his irises. “Merlin, you even sound like a cunt. You obviously didn’t dig deep enough; my parents can’t stand me, and I refuse to enter a battle of wits with someone so dolefully unprepared—” 

A harsh slap rang through the small space. The blond’s head rocketed to the side, his cheek stinging from the impact and the fresh slices in his skin from the woman’s rings. She roughly grabbed him by the chin, forcing his face to meet hers once again. 

“I am going to wipe that smirk right off your face, you impudent mammothrept.” With her thumb, Leona smeared some of the blood from his fresh cuts along his jawbone. “You just gave up your one saving grace in here.” 

With that, she wrapped her hands around the sides of his head and roughly brought his face downwards on her knee, splintering his nose further and jostling the already angry break. A sharp cry came from the young blond, the force ricocheting his head backwards and sending a spray of blood down his front. Sebastian silently screamed out for the boy, his knuckles bruised and sliced nearly down to the bone from trying to punch his way out. 

With a laugh, the woman took the heel of her boot and slammed it down onto the fingers of Ominis’ wand hand, breaking each and every one of them into tiny little bits of bone and flesh. The air filled with screams of agonizing pain. 

Sebastian slammed his eyes shut at the sound, tears of anguish trailing down his face. His lover’s wails still pierced his ears, now even louder than before. 

It was truly cruel how much your other senses heightened when you couldn’t see.

Leona smiled at the boy’s screams, shutting her eyes and relishing in the delicious pain she caused. A dark, breathy chuckle drew her out of her prideful musings. She snapped her eyes back to the cowering blond, a look of angered shock painting her visage. He was laughing at her? She’d just broken half of his fingers, and he was laughing? 

Ominis raised his head from where it had slumped in agony, somehow meeting the piercing eyes of the torturess. Even with the blindness, Leona could feel his gaze dig deep into her soul. A deranged smile stretched across his face, eyes alight with a barely concealed fury and teeth stained a light pink from how hard he bit his tongue. Pain bled at the edges of his voice, but the words were clear and filled with a sardonic, vainglorious tone. 

“You don’t scare me. We both know what my family— my father is capable of. Whatever you do to me, he has done ten times over.” A steely madness danced in his eyes. “You are but a bug beneath my shoe— you and your pigeon-livered brother.” 

Leona roughly grabbed the boys’ chin, squishing his face between her fingers and dragging him almost entirely out of the chair. Ominis’ impertinent smile widened at the rage burning in the woman’s aura. Her breath felt like icicles across his cheeks, teeth bared behind her snarl as if she was ready to tear out his throat. 

“I’m going to make you wish you were never born.” 

She threw him back into the seat, watching as it rocked back and forth with his weight before raising her arm and backhanding him brutally across his already scarred cheek, opening a slice in his lip and filling his mouth with even more blood. No noise left him— only the sound of skin mutilating skin echoing around the chamber as she slapped him again for a second time, the force rocking his neck in the opposite direction and nearly giving the boy whiplash. The blond slowly turned his head back to face in Leona’s direction, nothing reading through his expression other than the slight tilt downwards of his eyebrows and his scathing eyes peeking out from under his jostled hair. Rearing his head back and puckering his lips, he spit a mix of saliva, blood, and the bit of his cheek that he bit off into the poachers face. Her nostrils flared as she felt the chunk of flesh land on her cheekbone, sliding down her face and leaving a snail trail of blood before dropping to the ground with a soft plop. Her vision painted red, an inhuman, primal growl ripping from her throat in unencumbered wrath as she pounced on him. Her fists wrapped around his scrawny neck, squeezing the life from him and throwing the both of them to the ground, chair and all. 

Sebastian cringed at the sound of Ominis’ head smacking harshly against the stone below, a muted sob squeezing through the gaps of his molars. 

Stars burst behind the young Slytherin’s eyes as all the air was knocked out of his chest— the hand crushing his throat leaving no room for oxygen to enter his lungs and replenish the supply. He struggled against her hold, a ringing screaming in his ears and clouding all of his other senses. All he could focus on was the burning in his chest and the bright light that slowly took over his mindseye. His lungs ached. Leona pushed all of her weight onto the boy's larynx and chest, her knee pushing with all of her strength against his abdomen, pressing him deeper and deeper into the ground and stealing more of the life from his eyes. Ominis had never known what it felt like to drown, but in that moment he was sure it wasn’t much different than the suffocation clawing under his ribs. He had minutes, maybe seconds left before he completely lost consciousness— his skin an even more pronounced bluish-purple now than it was when he was asleep. The eerie coldness of death crept through his body, his limbs beginning to lose the fight to hold on to that last semblance of life that squeezed at his heart. Only the sound of his beloved lover’s names could be heard in the staunchly quiet space as they fell from his parted lips; his eyes began to flutter closed for what felt like the last time— eternal sleep wrapping its arms around his tired form and ushering him into the cold, perpetually lonely afterlife. 

You had been looking for Ominis and Sebastian for hours by the time the sun first began to rise over the hills. Once you both met up at the covered bridge, you and Imelda took one end of the Forbidden Forest a piece, her starting at the northern end and you the southern before meeting in the middle. No matter how sound your reasoning was— ashwinder’s were more likely to conglomerate in already made camps, and nearly all of them near Hogwarts and Hogsmeade were in or around the forest, after all— they were nowhere to be found. You felt like a mad man, casting revelio nearly twice as much as you did last year for your begrudgingly useful field guide, and that was a lot. But even still, there was not one trace of your boys in the forest. 

The next logical place to search was the scene of the crime. You sent Imelda to go search the far end of the Hogsmeade woods, and you would search near the area where she had found the blood earlier. With a nod and a quick point in the right direction, you both were off to continue your hunt. 

Upon landing in the clearing, the first thing you noticed was the strong, putrid scent of blood. At one point this was probably a lovely spot, one where couples could come and have a picnic after a day of shopping in town, just enough out of the view of civilization that not many would even know to come looking there. Now, it looked like a crime scene. Imelda was right, there was so much blood around the space, much more than was healthy, much more than you wanted to see knowing that it belonged to the two men you were in love with. A constant, foreboding sickness pooled in your stomach at the sight and smell, its claws catching on the delicate skin of your throat as it clawed its way up towards your mouth. Fighting to swallow down the bile bubbling just under your jaw, you hesitantly stepped onto the earth below, dropping your broom where you landed and shakily approaching the center of the tiny clearing. 

You could see most of the struggle happened in the middle. The ground was still undisturbed, even after all this time— like the animals of the forest refused to go near it out of fear. Four sets of footprints dug into the soft grass below, one in front of another while two flanked on either side. Three kidnappers, you concluded. You could take three people. 

Squatting down towards the ground, you examined the first dried patch of blood. Time dyed the once crimson ichor the same color as the earth below, only the stark green of the grass leaving a trace of where the first boy had been struck. While the earth was the same, the air had had time to change, taking the scent of Ominis and Sebastian into its arms and carrying them away like leaves during the first snowfall of the season. Your only clue for which boy stood where you were now was revealed as the sun streamed through the tree branches above. The rays danced in the air around you, catching on a few hairs buried within the browned blood— pure, golden life against grotesque, dismal death. Ominis. Your throat began to close as tears threatened to tumble down your face. He had been struck over the head, that was the only logical conclusion. Head wounds bled a lot, much more than any other part of the body unless they struck a vein. This provided little solace for your scattered, panicked mind. Head wounds could also be fatal. You fingered at the softly vibrating wand in your pocket, calming your trembling slightly. He wasn’t dead, you told yourself, repeating it like a mantra as you stood up and began to make your way to the second patch of dried blood— not dead, not dead, not dead. 

One of the pairs of footprints had walked over to the second boy, the shapes noticeably smaller than the other two— perhaps a woman, or a wiry man? They seemed to take their time to get to the other boy, their footsteps precise and soft, almost dancer-like, before they became noticeably darker in the spot where they stopped. They stood there for some time— talking to him? Taunting him? Sebastian was angry, that much you could tell. His heels were dug deeper into the ground than the front of his foot, like he had skidded to a halt before quickly getting into dueling position. The trio must have had Ominis before they got to him. There was a slight dip in the ground behind his left foot, like he at one point considered turning and running for help but decided against it. It would be the biggest betrayal to him to leave a friend in need. You sighed, shaking your head slightly.

Stupid, stubborn Sebastian. 

As much as you hated to admit it, you loved that about him. You loved his unwavering loyalty— his bullheadedness. 

You heaved a breath, steeling yourself to approach the tree just beyond the brunette’s footprints. It truly did look like a boulder crashed into it. There was a notable concave in the front, about the diameter of a quaffle, maybe a little bit more. You approached the mark, leaning close to get an idea of what could have caused it. Your heart leapt into your throat at what you found, your hand trembling as you carefully pulled one of the loose pieces of bark away. There was more blood there— just a little bit, a small splatter from a quick impact. Nestled amongst the pale skin of the tree, much like the puddle across the clearing, were a few scattered pieces of hair. These were dark brown in color, the light making them look like bits of melted chocolate. Two head wounds— two heavily bleeding victims. 

You grappled hopelessly at the side of the tree, digging your fingernails into the bark as you leaned on it for support, dry heaving against the putrid bile that threatened to spill as the seconds ticked by. This was too much, you thought to yourself. You were never squeamish before— not when it was your own blood, your own wounds, at least. But, these were your best friends, the two people you loved more than anyone else in the world, and they were hurt. Not only that, but they were likely hurt, dying, dead, because of you. 

You thought they would be safe going to Hogsmeade without you, but it seems that they were in twice as much danger— take the fawns if you can’t get to the doe. Ominis and Sebastian, unsafe in their supposed safety. What a terrible oxymoron. 

Something small on the ground caught your attention, your eyes widening as a guttural sob poured from your tightened chest. You dropped to your knees where you stood, watching your hand from seemingly outside of your own body as your trembling fingers picked up a small, black button from the tall grass below. It was smooth in your hand as you ran your thumb across its surface, tears finally making their way down your face and splashing around it like a drizzle before a hurricane. 

You knew this button; it was the one from Sebastian’s cloak. You had been pestering him for weeks to get it fixed properly, tired of listening to him complain about having to sew it back on all the time and pricking his fingers on the needle. Whenever you offered to do it for him, or take it to Gladrags for him so Mr. Hill could do it proper, the brunette just kept shrugging you off, saying that he could fix it himself. It must have fallen off again in the struggle. 

You remembered your most recent conversation about that accursed button. You had been walking towards the Undercroft after Potions, laughing about Garreth’s most recent concoction, or more rather aptly, explosion, when the tiny black thing popped off his cloak, rolling away and lodging itself underneath one of the benches in the Transfiguration Courtyard. Sebastian sighed, a groan falling from his mouth as he leaned his head against the nearest column in annoyance, lightly hitting his forehead against it twice before pulling away and accio-ing the button back into his hand. 

He had turned to you again, frowning at the laugh that was barely contained in your smile, before bemoaning to you like a petulant child. “I really thought I got it to stay this time!” 

You remember laughing then, your hand patting his shoulder in a placating manner. “Can I fix it for you, now?” 

He smiled as soon as you came in contact with him, only for it to turn into a faux-exasperated sigh when you spoke. His hands fell onto your shoulders as he shook you lightly, a chuckle dancing at the corners of his words. 

“Such a Hufflepuff, you are! Always offering to help me with things.” He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours as his voice dropped to a soft murmur. You remembered how hard your heart was beating. “Don’t you ever get tired of being so nice?” 

Your words were nothing more than a breath, a rouge blush creeping up your neck from the close proximity. If you leaned the tiniest bit closer, you could kiss him. For a moment, you thought he was going to do just that. 

“T-that’s part of my charm.” You cleared your throat, swallowing against your noticeable stutter. “How else am I going to keep you around?” 

He leaned away then, a mischievous smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth from your flustered state. “That it is. Though, I keep you around for more reasons than just your beguiling advantageousness.” 

He winked at you then before sighing again with a fake, lighthearted annoyance. “Fine, you win! You can fix my cloak. The button better stay on this time.” 

You remember the soft look that took over his face when you laughed loudly at his words, like the sun was shining on his face for the first time and all he could do was bask in its warmth, before offering you his elbow. 

“Oh how generous of you! I will get right on that, my liege.” 

You looped your arm through his, walking together once again to your little hidden piece of solitude to study and duel the rest of the day away. 

Now, in that little clearing that smelt of damp earth and old, stale blood, that tiny button had been left behind for what might be the last time. 

It was amazing, how such a small thing could have such a large impact on the world around it. 

With the weight of two lives heavy on your shoulders and the crushing pressure of heartbreak against your ribs, you finally let yourself sob, and cry, and wail, and grieve for the two friends who had been taken because of this magical gift that you never once asked for in the first place. 

Just as quick as it started, it was over. 

Ominis inhaled the air around him greedily once Leona’s hands unclenched themselves from around his throat, fighting against his body's need to drop everything and rest. His heartbeat pounded in his skull; he could feel the blood from whatever new wound he had seeping through the dirt covered floor, coating the edges of his ears and dyeing his hair a color that would rival any Weasley. The woman staggered to her feet, all of her grace gone momentarily from the obnoxious barbaric-ness of her actions. She brushed the dust from her clothes, smoothing down her wild nest of hair and wiping the fluids from her face. A sigh panted from her lips against the breaths she heaved into her throat. 

She at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed of her actions. “Apologies, I lost myself there for a moment.” She cleared her throat, gesturing to the jockey closest to her. “Albathane, pick him up.” 

Her head turned to the side at the sound of the prison door being opened, Albathane’s heavy steps echoing off the walls, only for her to do a double take at the state of the other boy across from her. She smiled at his apparent distress— the tear tracks on his face, mingling with the dirt and grime that covered every inch of his skin, the delightfully crimson blood that bloomed on his knuckles, the waves of pure terror that shed from his curled form in the corner of his cage. 

She tisked, “Oh dear, that won’t do at all. No closing your eyes, little snake, I want you to see and hear every second of your friends' pain. I want you to watch me torture him and know that you could have stopped it.” A dastardly idea sparked a fuse in her brain as she got the attention of her other henchman. “Shunpike, bring him here, would you? I think it’s time we gave him a show.” 

A sinister grin spread across the face of the large man as he entered Sebastian’s cell. The boy fought desperately against the strong arms trying to corral him, throwing punches and kicks at the man but feeling no give at all in his grip— it was like fighting against a brick wall. He dragged the freckled boy out of the room by his hair, laughing at the silent swears that would make a sailor blush pouring from the brunette before aggressively shoving him against the bars holding Ominis and Leona. Shunpike grabbed Sebastian’s arms with one hand, the other still dug deep in his curls, and held him still like he weighed nothing more than a grain of sand. A look of pure horror spread across the boy’s face as he got a good, close look at his beloved— he couldn’t look away, couldn’t close his eyes even if he wanted to. 

Albathane tipped Ominis’ chair back to its upright position, yanking the blond’s head up to meet the gaze of the woman by his blood soaked hair and chuckling at the whimper of pain that exited the boy’s clenched teeth. A black eye was already beginning to bloom around the left side of his face, coloring the skin around his eye socket a concerning shade of purple and red. Leona smiled, her canines somehow more serrated and sharp like her disturbed behavior was the world's smoothest whetstone, and unsheathed the dagger hiding in her boot. The blade was curved like a raptors claw, the steel catching the bits of sunlight visible through the thick rock and revealing an intricately decorated handle. Her hand was wrapped tightly around the carving of two snakes, their bodies tangled together in a spiral up to the hilt of the blade where each of their heads were posed to strike the other. It looked like their fangs were made of actual bone— actual, real life snake fangs. Sebastian wouldn’t question it if venom was still intact in the silken teeth. The woman stalked towards Ominis, watching his resolve crumble with each step she took closer to him. He could hear the air break around her blade, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest. 

With one hand, she pressed her thumb against his brow and pulled the skin taut, widening his left eye and taking away his ability to close the lid. He jerked savagely against the binds cutting into his circulation, the skin of his bare wrists rubbed raw and bleeding from the coarse rope. Panic curled its tentacles around his still hoarse throat and squeezed as he hopelessly tried to move farther away from the dangerously sharp woman and her even sharper knife. When he felt the cold, unforgiving steel press against his under-eye skin, a hair's length from the delicate film of his cornea, everything in his body stilled; even the incessant belabor of his heart ceased its movement. 

Sebastian felt bile rise in his throat. 

They weren’t even torturing them for information anymore, they were doing it because it was fun. 

Ominis’ eyes flicked back and forth in a hysteric frenzy. He had never truly wished for sight before, not really, but at that moment he couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse that he couldn’t see the feral smile on Leona’s face reflect in the blade. Blood pebbled where the dagger pressed into his skin— even the lightest touch scarring him from the sharpness. The woman’s eyes were wild as she watched the red dot drip down his cheek. 

“Do you like my new toy? Goblin forged— very sharp. One wrong move and—” She made a noise akin to a pop. The boy shivered at the insinuation, a whimper falling from his lips. 

The poacher hummed in thought, pretending to ponder her next move and prolonging the dread that pooled in the blond’s eyes. “What do you think would happen if I just slipped the blade up a little further? You’re already blind, after all. It would be as easy as using a melon baller.” 

The dagger slid minutely against his skin, the blade brushing against Ominis’ bottom lashes. He croaked strangled pleas of mercy, every ounce of rebellion that had once festered within him snuffing out like a bonfire during a rainstorm. Tears spilled over the sides of the steel, trailing downwards and catching on the dueling snake fangs— little drops of haunted venom falling to the ground below and wetting the sleeves of the woman threatening his life. He dare not move a single muscle lest the anlace move higher. 

Leona snickered at the blond’s cataclysmic fear. She relinquished her hold on his head, nodding at the other poacher to do the same, and moved the knife away from Ominis’ face. He could only sigh in relief for a moment before the curved blade made contact with his thigh, cutting through the flesh like butter and nearly scraping bone. White hot agony blazed through his blood, singeing his veins from where they ended in his toes and started in his brain as he fought desperately to stay conscious. Sebastian could only describe the blond’s sound as a harrowing, unbearable howl. He had never heard anything like it before— never wanted to hear anything like it again. 

The raven-haired huntress twisted the dagger, opening the wound even more and spilling a small river of blood into the earth. Her smile was colored ravenous. 

“Last chance, tell me where I can find your little friend and we’ll let you both go.” 

Swirling deep within his soul, Ominis felt his last, atom-sized iota of bravery. He harnessed it— letting it paint war-torn masterpieces across everything he could: his eyes, the curve of his angry frown, the tautness of his shoulders, and the coldness of his voice when he finally spoke. 

“We will never tell you where they are, never in a million years, no matter how much you try to torture it out of us.” His breathing was labored underneath the bravado, each word spoken through painful seizures of his lungs as whiteness crept up the corners of his blackened vision. “We would rather die.”

Leona sighed deeply, a falsely sympathetic frown turning her lips as she brushed some of the blond tresses of the boy behind his ear and cradled his face. “Pity, this could have been so much easier. I suppose we just have to lure them here some other way. We have their name, at least, thanks to you.” 

She turned to where Shunpike stood, still pressing Sebastian’s face into the solid metal bars. “Put him back in his cage, I’m nearly finished with this one.” 

Ominis gulped, fearful of what “nearly finished” could mean. With a wave of her wand, the chair underneath the boy as well as the ropes binding him still fell away, disappearing into the magic ether and sending him tumbling to the ground. He groaned, the shocks rippling through his body and reminding him of every other injury he had sustained in his time in this personal hell. The woman stood over his crumpled form, leveling her wand on his twitching body and dealing her final blow. 

“Crucio.”

A familiar pain flooded Ominis’ senses, and silent cries scratched at his throat. 

Sebastian counted the seconds she held the boy under the spell, each passing minute sending a renewed spike of terror through his heart. 

Five minutes. She held the curse steady for five minutes before she released him. 

The blond sobbed violently into the dirt below as flashbacks sliced through his memory. The sinister voices of his father, his mother, and his siblings rang loud like a church bell in his ears— their words of pure malice cutting down to the bone. Even still with the cruelty of his family, they had never held the curse for that long. 

His voice was nothing but a meek tremble as he whimpered into the ground. “Please…please just fucking kill me.” 

Leona laughed as she walked to the cell door, turning towards the boy once more and baring her teeth in a victorious smile. “Now where would the fun in that be?” 

She callously depulso’d him into the wall, watching as his head smacked backwards into the stone with a sickening crack. 

Shooting a wink at the trembling brunette and admiring the resignation in his tear-filled eyes, a distinct opposition of the living spark they once held, she took the arms of her partners and disappeared as quickly as they came. 

No matter how loud Sebastian yelled, how hard he pounded on the iron bars, Ominis did not move again.

***

like what you read? here's more!

[joompheart]

This one is Andrew. I'm really glad to finally have a kinda definitive picture that I can point to and go "that's what she looks like," and I'm looking forward to doing the same for the rest of my OC's. Long, detailed description below the cut.

-Age range: 16-21

-Physical attributes: Disgustingly lean. Almost nothing but muscle, skin, and bone. Think “teenage Olympian.” Strong for her size but not big enough to be “actually actually” strong. Shortest of my OC's, maybe 5'7” to 5'9”? I have a tendency to kinda homogenize heights with my characters but I still don't think of her as diminutive. Dark hair, approx shoulder length. Can be a couple inches longer or shorter though. [Maybe she looks a little sickly in this picture, that's just because I'm bad with color. Any human skin tone would be fine, I think the colors of her armor go well with every one I can conceive of].

-Magic specialty: Andrew is the most severely minmaxxed out of all of my characters, focusing on physical enhancement and melee combat. She's optimized for movement speed, strength, agility, grace/ coordination, and reaction speed. She also has some talent for enhancing objects, but only her own possessions. In a fair fight Andrew wins against every other character except Theodore, you just can't touch her. [Andrew I mean].

-Armor: Basically like at the end of Halo 4 where they take off Master Chief's Mark VI MOD MJOLNIR armor, it's a (supposed to be black or dark grey but the red looked better for this) skintight bodysuit with armor plates sealed on. The armor plates are small and rounded to reduce any drag or chances to snag on the environment when moving at speed, and to keep a lower profile (or at least as low as you can go when you're bright yellow-gold). Andrew was a zealot/ corpo assassin so this armor was made to be worn under more conventional clothes and could be at least partially hidden with magic. The armor plates are not exceptionally strong, but very light. They're mostly to facilitate wearing her thrusters.

-[An armor plate of note would be her cup, which is worn as a thong. Think something right out of a Radical Dream/ Rindou demon exorcist hentai, except the protection is actually real and not just ostensible lol. I point this out because you can't really see from this angle, but it feels important to the whole outfit and character for me. It's not like Andrew is supposed to be really sexy, she's got the most uncomfortable body of all of my characters. But leaving no armor there would feel sparse, and using a more conservative plate would feel lame. Idk. Idk it feels important.]

-Thrusters: Andrew can move stupid fast and could probably jump out of atmosphere if she had to, but she can't fly. This means that when she's really moving she would actually be at her slowest in free fall, or even worse at the apex of a jump. To counteract this she has sort of “reverse jetpack” thrusters on her armor angled up to push her back down to the ground, where she can get back to peak performance. Thrusters are concentrated on her upper back, but there are also some on the back of her shoulders, some right on top of her (damn near nonexistent) boobs, one above her cock, and on the back of her calves. Think kinda like Iron Man repulsors, though that makes me feel a little lame to say lol.

-Sword: The inception of this character was really enjoying the Odachi animations in the game Nioh, so that's what her sword is like. Try to imagine her padding along, holding it down in front of her, blade forward, hands crossed so her dominant right palm is down and her supporting left palm is up, tip of the blade just barely gliding above the ground. The sword is just metal with no inherent special qualities, albeit a space alloy that's more durable than anything we've got on earth and holds and edge really well. However, due to her strong bond with it, Andrew can magically enhance the durability and cutting ability of the blade even further, as to slice through rock and even metal with little resistance. Additionally, the length of the blade is magically variable. The sheath for the blade is only about a foot long, and the length of the blade for a given use is determined by how “long” the blade is unsheathed. The sheath is tied with cord so Andrew can stow her sword and attach it to/ hang it on her armor when not in use. The cord's length is also magically variable, so she can kinda “yo-yo” when her blade is too long to comfortably reach manually. In that way she can quickly change the length of the blade mid-fight, throwing the sheath to the tip of the sword to pull back to the hilt and then yanking it back off revealing that the blade is now several feet shorter (or vice versa).

-Partial Biography: Daughter of the governor of one of 2 colony mining cities, one of many children. Neither the eldest or the youngest. When Penelope (doesn't technically but effectively) kills the governor and the city is overrun with Penelope's cult [he doesn't lead it, hes just a prominent member. But that's off topic.], Andrew and her family flee to the other city on the other side of the planet. Andrew's aptitude for magic, both inherited from her father and developed on her own, leads her to be enlisted as a sort of political assassin for the governors of that city. Over time her convictions are loosened by the nature of her work and she's assigned a final suicide mission to kill Penelope and as much of his cult as she can, basically being told she's fired and that's the last listing they're leaving her with.

-Personality: Frustrated and vengeful, feels strongly about the concept of “justice.” Andrew is reckoning with having lost so much faith in the system that she and her father believed in, how she can possibly make “the world” “better” when her primary skill set is extreme overkill murder, and if her hate for Penelope and his cult even matters. Used to a high standard of living, if a little spartan. Very very very capable in action, moving efficiently and with little pretense. Very driven, expects to always know what her next goal is.

-Associated NiN songs: “The Wretched”

[lulaypp]

Lulaypp's Foliage of Lost Fics #1: Psychedelic

Note: Welcome to the first of few. The first of my unfinished/abandoned/kind-of-terrible fic dump collection thing. This is one I love a lot, the concept and torture was fun. But the pacing and decline of mental state had never sat well with me, and a few touches goes into ooc territory, and some lines ended up being weird.

Details of Fic: Nearly 7k words, Batfam Fandom, Jason-centric (and really there is barely anyone else around aside from some nameless villain), Whump with Emotions. Contains Hallucinations (ranging between just strange and gruesome), Non-consensual Drug Use (a heavy theme throughout the fic), Torture, Electric Torture, Broken Bones, Blood & Injuries (vivid, some hallucinated and some real), Sleep Deprivation

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

Jason ground his teeth against the cry that wanted to tear out of him. The sharp, painful prickling insistently charged throughout his body as he convulsed uncontrollably. He tried to still his limbs against the spasms; locking his joints, clenching his fist or pressing down onto the cold metal surface, keeping his eyes screwed shut and pushing his head back into the table. Predictably, none of it worked, and the involuntary jerks alone were starting to hurt horribly. Mix that with the steady flow of electricity thrown into him through the table he was strapped to, his broken bones forcibly shifting with each convulsion despite the restraints holding down his limbs, the searing headache that had been plaguing him for far too long, and his lungs feeling tighter and tighter as seconds ticked by. 

He struggled to get a breath in, air coming in slivers before forced back out. A whine slipped past his throat as the pieces of bones in his broken leg moved. He wasn't sure if he was pulling against the cuffs around his wrists or they were just happily jerking away on their own. 

When the electicity finally stopped, he gasped, chest still feeling tight, but he could at least breathe and that is good right? 

It definitely shouldn't hurt this much. 

"Identities," a voice boomed into his ears making him wince at the sheer volume off it. 

Jason wet his lips, tasting the iron of a split, and coughed out a glob of blood before answering, "Wha' 'akes you thin' they-" He was forced to paused to suck in a painful breath and he knew that something was really wrong with his body. "-that they have... i'ntities." 

"Answer it, Red Hood or we'll go for five minutes." 

He tried to not flinch at the threat, rolling his unmasked eyes. "Fine fine. Batman is Bats One. Nightwing is Bats Two. Bats Four is, obviously, your's truly. Or maybe it isn't obvious since Three came in after-" 

The was a sigh in response, quickly followed by a backhand. Apparently, this guy lacks a sense of humour. How was it that Dick managed to win all the villains over by cracking jokes? How unfair. "Five minutes it is." 

Jason closed his eyes against the erratic thundering dread in his ears and heart. A scream tore out of him as strong volts charged into him. His bare back felt like it was burnt from where it was directly touching the table. He struggled to jerk out of the leather cuffs holding his limbs as he spasmed and gasped. His heart and lungs felt like crumbling and bursting at the same time. Seconds passed, minutes. He must have blacked out at one point as when he dragged his eyes open, the electricity had stopped, and he was certain it hadn't been five minutes yet. Unless if his internal clocked was far too messed up by now. Which, while not too surprising, just showed how long he had been here. 

"Identities," the voice demanded again. 

It was a bit of a struggle for him to turn his strapped-to-the-table head, but he managed it and glared at the guy. He was far too tired for coherent words. 

"Still a no? How about we switch up the power. That was two, so does four sounds good to you?" 

Jason wanted to curse the man out but only managed a tired snarl. His breaths were coming in stuttered, laboured gasps, his heart was trying to break out of his already partially broken ribcage and his brain could hardly process any coherent thoughts. 

"Power five for two then." 

That was the only warning he got before the volts started again. His back arched from the table as a breathless scream-whine trailed out of him, his vision going white. He clawed, at the metal suface, at the cuffs, trying to get away. The bliss of unconsciousness was quickly approaching when it stopped, giving him several seconds of break before starting up again. He trashed against the restraints, scrambling and clawing and tugging. He barely felt the wounds around his wrists reopening and his sprained ankle screeching in the midst of the flooding electricity. The volts would stop periodically before running again, successfully keeping him awake and in pain. His chest felt tight and the bones of his broken arm ground against itself. 

When it finally stopped for real, his mind was reeling and nauseous. He collapsed limp against the table, drained and exhausted, sucking in desperate breaths. 

"Identities," was repeated. 

A tired groan left him as he tried to pull his eyes open. He wasn't successful. "God. Stop it already," he hissed between short puffs of breaths. "We both know... know that... I wouldn't tell you even... if I do know." 

"Oh, we both know that you do know who they are." 

"Then 'm not-" He coughed, lungs bursting and clenching, and he gritted his teeth against a pained moan. 

"I will let you reconsider your choice." 

He heard footsteps fading away before a door screeched open and slammed closed, the grating, loud noise making him wince. Edges of sleep pulled at his mind, and he couldn't fight it. 

But something pulled him back. A sharp, short burst of electricity pulsed from underneath him and jolted him awake. His eyes were slipping shut and it happened again. And again. 

He cursed. Cursed the man, the table, the cuffs, his situation as a whole. He wasn't getting any sleep any time soon. 

- 

He moved his eyes to the door as it swung open. His mind and sight were muddled with exhaustion and pain, a thick fog hazing over his vision and thoughts. He had passed out at one point, but someone had come over and slapped him awake before threatening to waterboard him if he fell under again. Jason hated bending down to threats, but he wasn't interested in getting drowned either. 

The blurry moving dots that he assumed was the tormentor entered, closing the door before approaching. "I don't suppose that you have changed your mind." 

"Bite me," Jason snarled. "Why don't you go back to where you belong?" A hand suddenly patting his cheek roughly made him jump. 

"I don't doubt that that is where you belong as well, even if you are on the opposite side of crime. But that is no matter." 

There was a heavy thunk followed by sounds of rummaging, the sound reminding him of Bruce or Tim shifting through their toolboxes and the comparison did not help his feeling of dread. He startled when something cold and heavy tapped on his right forearm, slowly moving to his wrist and hand. His first guess was a crowbar, which fuelled his panic, but the weight felt different (perks of being beaten to death by a crowbar!). Heavier. Specifically, the head that was softly landing on... It was a hammer. 

It was then that the tool was raised higher and slammed down onto the back of his index finger. He hissed, reflexively trying to pull away as another hit smashed onto the knuckle. The hammer continued to move to his other fingers, hitting the joints until they break and shatter. It hardly paused between one pound and the next, leaving him gasping. His entire hand was radiating with burning hot agony that licked fires up his arm, but he refused to let out any more than a hiss. That was before three of his broken middle fingers the grasped tightly and pulled and twisted roughly, making him scream, vision sparkling. 

"Identities." 

Wow, he was starting to hate that word. He tried to conjure and throw a fancy mix of profanities, but the man probably had seen it coming as the hammer slammed onto the back of his hand. Repeatedly. He bit his lip against a cry. It felt like his entire hand was shattered. He did scream, however, when something dug into his hand, hooking onto the broken bones, and pulled. His struggles made it worse, causing the claw- it was the hammer's claw, it had to be- to bury deeper. 

As he was trying to breathe through the agony raging across his limb, he felt a hand pressing down onto his probably dislocated knee. "'go of me, you jerk," he hissed, trying to move his leg away without making it painful. 

"You tell me their identities, then I might," the man said as he pressed harder onto the joint before something smashed onto it. 

Jason let out a strangled noise as the thing slammed repeatedly in rapid succession, making his vision spark and spasm. He clenched his fists, regretting it as it pulled against the hammer dug into his right hand.  Something pushed down onto his knee and his lips bled as he bit it hard, screwing his eyes shut against the onslaught. He didn't get to hold back the scream that left him as the table charged to life, electricity crackling into him. Every convulsion caused blinding agony to burn from his broken leg and hand, pulsing into his mind. 

It stopped just before he could have a chance to black out. His mind was left thrumming with exhaustion and pain. He was really tired. 

He felt something cold and metal grasping his broken little finger before it squeezed and twisted. He clenched his eyes shut and could only try to breathe. 

- 

Jason grumbled out a curse when he noticed that his broken right hand was kindly wrapped in a bandage of sorts. It just meant that they were intending on keeping him around for a while. At least the hammer was gone. He had woken up again to the room being empty and the table, thankfully, turned off. He didn't dare to shift his lower half, not wanting to risk aggravating that newly broken knee and the older broken calf, as he tested the leather restraints again, pulling and twisting. They dug into the existent chaffing on his wrists, but he kept at it. They were wrapped tight around his limbs with no obvious latches, he assumed they were probably hidden somewhere underneath the table. The other possibility, which he'd rather not be a reality, was that there were somehow no latches or locks, the ends of the cuffs sewn together or something. The leather was definitely of good quality, not wearing even a bit no matter how hard he tried scratching and clawing at them. Whoever this guy was, he definitely had good funding or just happens to have access to a lot of quality stuff; the table, the cuffs, the fact that Red Hood was still unable to escape for an estimated week. 

He hated that he had no idea who the person who caught him was. Red Hood had just happened to be checking in on a suspicious looking dilapidated warehouse after helping Red Robin in an exhausting battle with Killer Croc and Clayface. Before he could do anything effective about it, he was jumped by too many people, knocked out, and apparently dragged to where he was stuck now.  

Well, not quite. They drugged and threw him in some room with a simpler collection of restraints, but they didn't account for the Pit's enhancements and the drugs practically flew over him and he had nearly succeeded in breaking out. Very nearly succeeded. 

And now he was stuck here, with leather straps pinning his wrist, ankles, upper arms and head to an electrifying table, and the leader of whatever this was trying to dish out Batman and the rest of the family's identities out of him. Like that would ever happen. While interrogation might not be the worst kind of capture, it was definitely somewhere high up in the list. It got very annoying, especially when the interrogator had the nerve to believe that he would bend down to their demands if they hit him hard enough. 

Jason took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. At least they let him pass out this time around which was relatively nice. The table was perpetually cold against his bare back, and it caused the bits of burns left there to twinge every so often, especially when he moved. It didn't necessarily hurt, but it was definitely uncomfortable. 

The door opened and Jason snarled as footsteps came closer, two people from the sound of it. Yup, this was not going to be fun. 

A person stepped into his field of view, a lackey most likely, and started rummaging through a bag of sorts. It wasn't long before he found what he wanted and pulled out an empty syringe, fitting a needle at the end. 

Jason's eyes widened as panic swished in his mind. "Get that away from me," he growled when the syringe came close. He struggled against the cuffs and practically tried to tear out his limbs from his restraints when the tip of the needle touched his right forearm. His heart thumped loudly in his ears as the tip pressed into his skin, a sound strangling out of him. He bucked and twisted as his vision went hazy. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to not fall into a full-blown panic attack, it was just a stupid needle, and bit his tongue when he felt the thing pull out. 

When he dared to look again, he managed to catch a glimpse of red in the tube just as it disappeared into the bag. Blood. His blood. He could almost laugh, good luck trying to find anything with it. Bruce had made sure to keep any kind of trail untraceable. Even if it wasn't so, the Pit had messed up with his physiology, and he was still legally dead, thus no new medical records. 

His eyes jumped to the leader guy as the man came from his left and he snarled. "You won't even get anything from it." 

"I'll get what I want," the man replied evenly before he, surprisingly, left with the other guy. But, unsuprisingly, not before turning the table on at a low voltage. 

- 

Jason believed migraines and headaches to be two different things, despite having simmilar symptoms. Like... pixies and fairies. Or elves and pixies. And he hated having both at once. This was one of the times when he wondered how Tim had been able to pull off that one month sleepless marathon. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe he could use some coffee right now. His point still stands, headaches were a nuisance while migraines deserved to be in Arkham more than he himself did. Not that he should be in the asylum. 

He winced as another sharp jolt of electricity sparkled, keeping him up and awake just as he was about to fall asleep. 

The door opened and he counted two people approaching. He cursed silently and glared at the first person to come into his line of sight. It was the leader-guy-person. 

"Anything to say before we start, Red Hood?" 

Jason broke into a cocky grin. "You can kindly go to-" A hand was slammed over his mouth and he scowled. That was rude. 

Before he could bite it, however, it was removed and he fished out a random creative collection of words from his brain. But he froze when he saw the same other guy from before coming with the same bag in hand. 

The bag was opened and a syringe was pulled out, partially filled with something off-white. Jason wanted to scramble back in panic but it plunged in and pulled out before he could. Whatever that was, it was already inside him. He didn't know what in the world was that and it was in him. 

"What did you do?" he growled, trying to not expose his fear and panic. 

"Let's just say history makes for a very good inspiration." 

Jason snarled as his mind echoed with dread. Not good. Not good. This was very very bad. 

Another filled syringe was pulled out as he tried and failed to pull away. 

- 

The dim lights were starting to burn into his eyes and he closed them with a groan. Only open them again when a clown creeped into the darkness. He turned his head away from the light. He really hated drugs in all shapes and forms. 

There was a murky voice saying something and he only knew what was being said due to the repetition of the word. "Identities." That was all the guy had been saying through out this entire thing. 

He didn't know whether or not they had concluded that he was more immune to chemical things, but whatever they had been giving him just happened to be strong enough to override his defences. It was adding to the migraine and making his mind feel muddy. The table charged again and he groaned. He also felt like vomiting. Horribly. He was only holding it back because he would probably choke on bile with his current position and drugged mind. 

He hated getting drugged, with or without his consent. He hated drugs as a whole. And he didn't know what on earth had they given him. It might have been a mix of things. Judging by the wierd things dancing around his vision- were those tiny Nightwings with bunny ears?-, it might be a sort of hallucinogen. 

A cold sharp thing poked at his arm again and he tried to twist away. He was never successful as the needle went through despite his struggles, throwing whatever concoction the syringe was filled with. Why couldn't they just continue to beat him up? Why this stupid drug thing? 

Something snatched his jaw, forcing his eyes back to the light. He hissed. The voice was too close when it growled, "Identities, Red Hood, and this would be over." 

It took a bit for him to understand what was being said. "'ot h'penin', b'stard." His own voice sounded echo-ey and far... 

He flinched as a sudden creaking and slamming sound echoed everywhere. He gasped when the electric table started up again at low power, keeping the flow steady. The bunny Nightwings turned into one and hopped onto his chest. He scowled at it as it booped his nose with its paw-hand. 

"You're an idiot, you know that?" It suddenly talked! It talked! In a squeaky Dick's voice to boot! 

Jason wasn't interested in having anyone in the room seeing him talk to his own hallucination and resorted to internally replying, "You're saying like it is news. You're going to have to be a bit more specific as to what exactly you're referring to." 

Bunny Nightwing- or Bun-Wing, he decided- gestured to the world around them. "You are pumped with gallons of who-knows-what and you are still stuck here." 

"Oi. No no. This was not my fault. I did not sign up for this." 

"It so is." It sing-songed. 

“Then enlighten me on just how is this my fault.” 

"Couldn't even stop yourself from getting caught. You really are such a trouble maker. You never change." 

Okay. That hurt. How was it that his own hallucination was so mean to him? "You're mean. I hate you. Why can't you do something useful. Like turning off this table? Or the lights?" 

Bun-wing rolled its eyes. "You just said I am your hallucination, you idiot. Unless if you want to hallucinate the lights being off, then be my guest." 

Jason nearly huffed out loud. He tried shifting to, hopefully maybe, find a position where the shocks won't hurt as much, but forgot that he was a half-mess of broken bones. He gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, stars and fireworks flashing in his mind. 

"Stop moving, you idiot. I'm gonna fall off." 

"Stop calling me an idiot, you selfish jerk. And don't look like Dick if you're not going to behave like one." 

"You prefer it if I look like someone else? How about someone with a better sense of humour?" 

It cackled, sounding too close to him, and Jason snapped his eyes open, glaring. 

Bun-wing had the nerve to look victorious. "Then I'm staying as I am. Besides, how do you know that this isn't how Dick behaves when he isn't around you? Maybe Dick had always been hiding all of his real feelings from you, trying to be the 'good big brother'." 

Why was it that his mind decided to conjure something who liked to rattle off his stashed away insecurities? "You know that I no longer think that.” 

"Do you, though?" Jason didn't get to retort when it snapped, "Language." 

"I hate you." He pointedly turned away from it. But it didn't stop talking. 

- 

"Stop it," Jason finally growled out loud, certain that the room was empty. Bun-wing spent the past minutes-hours prattling on and on, either about some stupid inane thing, or uprooting one of Jason's many deeply buried fears and insecurities.  "Just stop it 'lready and shut up." 

"Why, Little Wing? Scared? That it might be true? That dad wouldn't find you again?" 

"You shut up. He's not my 'dad' an' y'know nothing." 

"But, Jay, I'm your mind. So technically, everything I say is what you believe." 

"Te'nicality's stupid." 

"It is, but it doesn't make it less true. You're the outcast of the family, if you're even part of it in the first place. You're the Pit-crazed murderer maniac who nearly killed Tim. You're the failure Robin who died." 

"’said, shut up." Jason shifted his wrist in the leather cuffs. Maybe he could pull his hand out and strangle the imaginary rabbit. 

"I'm just saying what you are. What Bruce thinks you are. You don't even belong with us." 

Those were not what Bruce thought of him. He kinda knew that. Bruce had said it himself when Jason had admitted his doubts. 

"You forget, he nearly killed you by slicing you neck, letting you bleed out and get caught in an explosion. He didn't try to save you, remember?" 

He would never forget about it, the night still haunting him. The contempt in Batman's face. The batarang searing into his neck. The burn and crumble of the building around him.  

"I'll say that is a pretty good example of how much Bruce hates you. If he now acts like he doesn't, we both know how much of a good liar he is. He-" 

"Just shut up!" Jason bit his lip, trying to breathe. Whatever stupid things his hallucination was saying was not true and he knew that. But his brain was feeling murky and was apparently too messed up to care. He wanted to throttle that stupid rabbit. 

"No, you don't." 

"I may be imagining you but that doesn't mean I don't want to kill you, you pretentious-" 

"Language." The rabbit booped his nose again and that was starting to get really annoying. 

He scowled. "Ge' off me. You're heavy." His chest was starting to hurt from where the bunny had been hanging out for the past array of minutes. 

"No, you idiot. I weigh nothing but thoughts. Your chest is just having problems with itself." 

That... that didn't sound right. "What d'you mean by that?" 

Bun-wing rolled its eyes. "You are so dim sometimes." 

"Can you stop insulting me an' get to the point? I know that I am a stupid idiot, even if you haven't been telling me that for the past who knows how many hours." 

It looked smug and victorious. "Allow me to enlighten you, Jay Jay." 

Jason cringed at the new nickname but didn't protest as the hallucination would only irrate him further. 

"You battled Killer Croc and, if I remember correctly, both you and Tim concluded that you had cracked some ribs. Time skip several hours or so, you arrogantly thought that you could get out of here and you collected even more injuries. We skip again, you spent days here, on this table, getting shocked to oblivion. I'd say that your chest and maybe lungs and even your heart is not too happy with you." 

He ground his teeth. Now that he was paying attention to it, he could feel the pain coming from inside his chest. He had also forgotten about the table slowly pulsing in shocks up until now, his drugged mind having thrown the detail into the back burner. And now he couldn't stop feeling it, the light prickles coming from everywhere underneath him, periodically jolting him; not strong enough to be outright painful, but definitely uncomfortable. Mixed with his current state of mind, his head was starting to feel a little more than slightly sick. 

- 

Jason had gone back to ignoring Bun-wing, hating the squeaky voice of his brother coming from the imaginary rabbit. It was dreadfully annoying. Not mention some of its words just hit too close to home. 

Instead he closed his eyes and tried to remember quotes from Alice In Wonderland. He couldn't. But the attempt made for a good distraction. 

A sudden slam made him jump. His eyes snapped open and he hissed as the light burned. And he cried out when something pressed down and ground onto his shattered knee. Joker flickered above him, crowbar twirling. But fizzled out when a different voice spoke. 

"Identities." 

Jason cursed viciously, ignoring Bun-wing's "Language." 

"So you have yet to give in." 

"Wouldn't. Ge' 'ver it." 

"You're reeeally sure you wouldn't? I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," Bun-wing taunted. 

"Just shut up already, you pre'entious 'mpostoring deadweight," Jason snapped. 

"Rude," the rabbit kicked his chin lightly. 

At the same time the leader villian guy spoke up, "Tell me, Red Hood. What is it that you see? What do you see and hear?" 

Jason wordlessly glared at the man. 

The fizzy shocks that had been emitting from the metal surface underneath him jump to a viciously strong voltage. 

- 

"You're wrecked." 

Jason closed his eyes and ears; the latter obviously figuratively; from the words. 

"Come on, Jason. It is not like I'm real. We both know that." 

Nope. No. There was no one talking beside him. If he didn't see it, then it wasn't real. 

A scoff. "Are you really giving your imagination the silent treatment?" 

He wanted to sleep. The table had been off for ages yet he was still kept up by his own mind. He was beyond exhausted. 

"C'mon, Jay. Don't be like this." 

It had to be two or three days since he last slept. His internal clock had gone out of the window and he wasn't wholly sure if his interrogator had a schedule. He wasn't even sure if that guy was even real half of the time. His hallucinations, in a long run, started to get confusing. 

"Jason..." 

He whined and finally turned his head to meet Tim by the table. "Please just stop talking and let me sleep, Red." 

Imaginary-Tim took a sip from his mug of limitless coffee, his neck tie sparkling with tiny glittery bats. "Sorry. You kinda said you probably shouldn't earlier." 

At least having this Tim was better than Bun-wing. Imaginary-Tim wasn't as annoying or willing to hurt as the rabbit. "Did?" 

"They threaten to waterboard you again if you fall asleep." 

Jason vaguely remembered that. He had fallen asleep at one point, gotten a bit of a nightmare -thank you, Bun-wing- and had woken up drowning. His trashing had successfully reignited all his injuries; broken legs and arms shatered wrist and hand, the awful thing in his chest, the stinging burns on his back, and a whole array of unidentifiable throbbing all over him. It still hurt now and he wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere until it all went away. But he couldn't do that, he's still stuck to the table. And imaginary-Tim had clarified that he couldn't help. 

...But maybe... he could... "Red?" 

Imaginary-Tim raised an eyebrow. 

"Can you- Can you maybe like..." Jason felt hesitant and slightly embarassed to voice it out, even to his own hallucination. 

But Tim, smart even in Jason's imagination, deduced what he wanted. Or maybe just knew since this Tim was just a conjurance of his own mind. 

Imaginary-Tim reached out a hand and patted Jason's hair. And Jason melted. He knew that he was just imagining things and he couldn't even feel it, but just the thought of it was nice. Imaginary-Tim’s fingers was the most comforting thing he had ever felt in days. 

- 

So, the gaggle of people holding him had apparently decided to keep him constantly and steadily drugged by hooking him up to an IV thing. He also assumed at it was making sure he didn't die of dehydration. 

He had asked imaginary-Tim how long had it been since he last slept and the hallucination merely replied that he didn't know because he hadn't slept either. He missed that figment of his imagination. Tim had left him alone at one point. 

His interrogator hadn't come by even since the IV pole had been set up. He hadn't been able to willingly stay up anymore. He suspected that something in the concoction of fluids injected into him was doing that for him. 

Joker leered over him, elbows pressing onto his aching chest. "Come on, Jay Jay. You're being awfully quiet." 

Jason turned away but there was a Joker there too. 

"Not finding a punchline?" 

He closed his eyes but something raking over his bare chest made him open them again. 

"We can always turn this party up a notch!" Two other Jokers stepped into view, all wielding crowbars. 

- 

It wasn't real. He knew that. But it felt so vivid. 

"..S-stop..." 

The Jokers went on giddily thunking their crowbars all over him, ignoring. It hurt despite it all being in his head. His heart was beating erratically as his chest felt caved in. His shoulder was shattered again and again despite never been broken in the first place. He tried to tell himself that it was just his hallucination, this wasn't real, but it was starting to get muddier and muddier by the minute. 

“Let me tell you a joke, Jay-kins,” one of the Joker spoke up, grabbing his jaw to turn his head to meet green eyes. “What bird dies in flames and comes back to life?” 

A robin. Him. 

The grin widened. “Bet you think its you, eh?” 

Another Joker made a buzzer sound, “No-se-ree! You got that wrong.” The crowbar was raise before “Fore!” and it slammed onto his shattered knee and he screamed. “Guess again, Hoody.” 

He couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. Couldn’t think. There was just so much overwhelming pain coursing and pulsing through every inch of him. And the worse part was that he knew it wasn’t real. 

All three pairs of manic green eyes suddenly swivelled up to behind his head. "Oh look who decided to join the party!" they chorused as they melted into one. 

At first Jason thought that it was the bad guy again. But the familiar dark figure entering Jason's periphery proved him wrong. For a moment, for a short sliver of moment, he hoped that it was real. 

"Look who I brought!" Jason flinched at the voice of Bunny Nightwing, the rabbit hopping onto the table. 

Batman stepped closer, emotionless as ever. 

Jason knew what was going to come. He’d had this nightmare before. He struggled in vain. The cuffs were still holding him too tight. "No... no please no..." 

Batman snarled and pulled out a batarang. 

- 

The blade trailed down his chest from his neck again, drawing patterns over his heart, tracing over the scar near his throat. It was pressed deep enough to break skin. But there wasn't any blood or new cuts. He realistically knew that, despite the flows of red that shines in the blinding light. All the while, Batman, one hand moving the batarang through the flow of blood, was by his head, free hand almost gently combing his hair, whispering words. Assurances. 

"Shh... It's okay, Jason. A little more." 

"That's it. You can hold on a little longer can you?" 

"Now that didn't hurt too much, didn't it? Can you take a little bit more, Jay? 

Jason sobbed and tried to get away. The twisted words, the sharp batarang, the gentle hand, they were all too jarring and confusing for him to coherently comprehend, messing up his head even further. He couldn't even jerk his head away from the fingers with the strap holding him in place. 

How was it that he was hallucinating all of this? Maybe this was- No. It couldn't be real. This wasn't real. He couldn't let himself think that. 

He bit his lip against a cry as the batarang hooked at his skin and pried it open, back arching from the table as he struggled. He whined the blade pressed down onto the scar at his neck, causing a fresh flood of red to gush out. 

"Shh.. shh... You can take it, Jay," Batman whispered, fingers brushing back his bangs. "You're going to stay strong for me aren't you?" 

Jason screwed his eyes shut against the brimming tears but a pair of furry paws pulled them open again. 

"C'mon, Little Wing." Bun-wing rolled its eyes from were it was hovering by his head. "Stop trying to run off." 

Jason summoned what little strength he could fish out of his addled brain and glared at the rabbit. 

- 

He opened his eyes with a gasp when something cold and wet crashed onto him. Trying to blink his vision clearer, Jason realised that he passed out at one point and greatly hoped that they were not going to hold on to their threat. His sight remained blurry as a voice pierced the ringing in his skull. 

"Identities." 

He tried to get his tongue to cooperate and throw out a curse, but it was a mumbled, slurred response. His thoat felt dry and rough. 

"I am assuming that you have yet to give in?" 

He glared at the villian leader guy– well, the blob which he believed was the villian leader guy– and growled. 

"Then we'll go again.” 

His heart fell. He hated the drugs and the hallucinations it made his mind conjure. He never liked those things in the first place. And he was afraid of what too much of it would do to his mind and body. The childhood fear of being dependant on it. He could already feel the more immediate side-effects of overdose; the relentless nausea, his erratic heartrate, the throbbing-over-pounding headache, the deep layering pains in his chest. And he wasn't keen on meeting any of his imaginary conjurance again. Why couldn't this guy be more physical? He wouldn't even complain against the usage of a crowbar. 

He forced his mouth to work. "'ou- You guys 're 'finitely n-not th'mos'... creative people in'th'world." 

There was a dark chuckle of amusement. "Don’t tempt me, Hood. I can get very creative. Set up the new drip and make sure to increase the potency." 

A hand grabbed his bound arm and Jason struggled, feeling a needle threatening to pierce his skin. But he wasn't strong or free enough to fight or get away as the sharp tip went in. His heart was pounding in his ears as he still kept on trying to break free, twisting his wrists, borken or not, in the cuffs. 

His broken knee was suddenly twisted and he screamed, vision flashing with stars. His movements faltered as the pain pulsed and throbbed, mind fizzing between the agonising shifts of broken bones and the dreading pricks of needles in his arm. 

When it all finally stopped, he struggled to catch his breath, lungs feeling far too compressed and throat too tight. He winced when the lamp overhead was adjusted to shine directly into his eyes and flinched at the sound of the door slamming close as the people left him alone. For now. 

- 

His entire head was a throbbing mess of aches. The dark walls of the small space crumbled around him endlessly despite the too bright light coming from somewhere. Was it the way out? But he couldn't dig himself out, tied down as he was. And- and the dirt was going to suffocate him and- 

No, he wasn't buried. He was somewhere else. The table. Empty room. Not underground. 

He tried to blink away the hazy hallucination around him. It just blurred further and he closed his eyes. 

Not real. Not real notrealnotreal- 

A half cry left him as he clenched his broken hand in attempt to ground himself to reality, focusing on how the skin tore further. That was real, he chanted in his mind, the things he was seeing wasn't. He curled his fingers in tighter and sucked in a shaky breath. 

A touch on his shoulder and a familiar voice made his eyes snap open. 

No. Please please no. 

Batman stood over him, a snarl curling his lips. He raised a crowbar, bringing it down and it stabbed as a batarang. Jason screamed as the blade sunk into his chest, twisting in his heart. He struggled against the restraints, ignoring the way his movements pulled at his shattered knee and tore further into his wrists. 

The crowbar pulled out before the table shocked him with a quick burst of electricity. He let out a breathless cry as, at the same time, the glinting metal weapon impaled his knee. Fingers touched his hair and he tried to run away, hearing soft incoherent words getting whispered in his ear. 

"Stop!" He finally sobbed out when the batarang started to peel the skin of his right wrist. "St-stop... please just- just stop..." 

His breath hitched as he heard Batman’s, "Shh, Jay. It's alright. We've got you." 

It wasn't alright. It wasn't alright. He knew this wasn't alright. He also knew that this wasn't real but it was hard to believe that when Batman was hovering above him, hurting him. And he could vividly feel every single pain inflicted upon him. 

He whined at a particularly harsh wrenching of the crowbar still embedded in his leg. Breathing was getting too hard, his heart was pounding loud and uneven in his chest and it all hurt. Fingers pried open his half-clenched broken fist, pressing it down, as he spasmed against a new flood of electricity. "B, please stop. Please..." 

"Stay still, Jay." Reprimand was in the tone. "Stop moving. But you never were good at listening to orders. I shouldn't expect much from you." 

Jason flinched. All in his head. All in his head.  Not real. There was no way Bruce would say that. But knowing all that didn't make it hurt any less. 

He suddenly felt his legs getting moved and realised that the leather cuffs and straps holding him down were gone. He didn't waste any time and scrambled back as far as he could, not caring when he fell of the table. He just needed to get away. Far, far away. 

Batman followed him and he tried to get up and run, but he was too hurt and weak - weak, helpless, useless - and collapsed before he could even get his legs under him, a pained moan and whine escaping his throat. His knee was pulsing and shrieking and he curled up on the floor with a whimper despite his mind screaming at him to get away. 

"Jason," a different voice called out. It wasn't Batman. It wasn't Bun-Wing or Joker or anyone else who would hurt him. He peered between his bangs and saw Tim. Red Robin was crouched in front of him, a hand outstretched. "Jay. Hey. It's just me, alright. I need you to stop moving or you'll hurt yourself further, okay?" 

Jason couldn't understand the uttered words but he knew that Tim hadn't hurt him. His little brother never had. He kept still as Tim shuffled closer and moved the outstretched hand onto his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. 

"I need you to calm down and breathe slowly, Jason. I don't know what you're seeing, but I know that not all of it is real. Can you stay still while me and Bruce check you for injuries?" 

Bruce? He wanted his father. Longed. 

But then Batman stepped closer and he flinched back. He whimpered as Batman gently touched his face, thumb stroking across his bruised jaw. He wanted to run, but he was too exhausted. Hurt. Batman tugged him from the floor, wrapping a large black thing around him, and he let it happen. Tim was still there, holding the broken leg, and Jason screamed raggedly when it was straightened. 

A soft, rumbly voice pierced through the pain-fuelled haze and he looked up when something brushed his bangs. Bruce’s strong gaze met his and he felt his breath catching in his throat. Bruce was here. He melted as his father embraced him, trembling and whimpering into the armoured chest. He felt safe. 

It probably was a hallucination, much like Tim, but he would take this comfort even if it wasn't real. 

[stormwaterwitch]

Idk if you've been asked this recently (very sorry if have, feel free to just delete this), but do you have any tips for creating your own pantheon? I'm currently trying to make one for my own fantasy world (that could easily become just my own personal pantheon to work with as a witch), but I keep hitting roadblocks. Mainly due to the fact that I want them to have multiple domains (ideally 3-4 things they're considered to be connected with) but, like, how do I know which ones? How do I decide their symbolism? Do they have holy tenants they would like their followers to adhere to?

Basically, I get very overwhelmed trying to create the small details before I really even have the big details and it's very frustrating. Any advice? Or maybe just a list of details that need to be known/created first. I don't even know at this point.

Heya!! :D I do have some tips and links that might be able to help in this regard!

When I was first making/working with The Jeweled Court I found this discussion by @thiscrookedcrown to be the most helpful thing ever! Here's more info from a previous ask I answered that goes into some more detail about how I made my pantheon! As for details to know/ think about:

This is a lot so I'mma cut it to save your dash :'D

Step 1: BARE BONES- WHO ARE THEY? One thing that really helped me was deciding what "element" my god/desses would reside over first. I had 12 elements and 10 gods to work with so from there it was just divvying up who got what. That being said YES there are STILL some overlaps. The link/discussion by @thiscrookedcrown was the most helpful to me here as it talked about Realms of Influence which helped me get things into perspective when figuring out who everyone was. Example: +The Sapphire Queen is my Goddess of the Oceans +The Pearl Empress is my Goddess of Freshwater/Lakes and Rivers Both are technically water based but The Sapphire Queen is the one who I associate the most with Water as an element because Oceans are just that much bigger than lakes and rivers.

Example: +The Sapphire Queen's realm of influence includes Travel (By Boat) +Lord Diamond God of Wind's realm of influence also includes Travel (By Land) Example: +The Emerald God is the God of the Harvest (Food related) +The Pearl Empress is the Goddess of the Harvest (Season related) AND HEY: It's okay if there is overlap! There is nothing wrong with overlap just as long as you can know at a glance who goes with what.

Step 2: BROAD DETAILS- GROUPING THINGS TOGETHER So that was my first real step in piecing it all together. So once I got my Elements placed with my Gods I went further into ANYTHING that could be associated with that element (granted this took me a long time to iron out and a lot of musing and thinking 'Oh hey that might be cool for XYZ' Example: +The Gold Knight- God of the Sun and Elemental Master of Light +Lord Ruby- God of the Hearth and Elemental Master of Flames

Both of these guys have Candles as part of their associations as candles have both Flame and produce Light. HOWEVER: Bonfires would be ONLY for Lord Ruby as it is definitely more flame related and Lanterns would be ONLY for The Gold Knight as they are there to produce light. Something else I found really helpful was to go by Aesthetics and what felt right/seemed right for each god/dess. (The Pearl Empress got a lot of fruit associations this way as she's a Goddess of seasons)

Step 3: SYMBOLISM- +AESTHETICS GALORE+ Since my Pantheon is partially Pop Culture inspired I had a base starting point for what I could count as symbols for several of my god/desses.

Example: +The Silver Lady- Goddess of the Moon and Elemental Master of Space (a very loose interpretation from Princess/Neo Queen Serenity from Sailor Moon. Thus from that I was able to start with a basic idea of symbolic things)

Associated with:The Stars, Navigation, Darkness, The Moon, Hope Other Names: Serenity, Luna,Selene Symbols: (Most things found/referenced in the Manga/anime) Rabbits Crescent Moon Rhinestones Compasses  Lotus blossoms Dresses Cats Crystals Sweets Star Candy Opal Moonstone Silver

Colors: (When choosing Colors I got a flash of the Silver Millennium Kingdom set against the backdrop of space) Dark Blues Deep Purples Silver White Mythical Animals: Pegasus (Helios Reference)

So for those particular God/desses it was easier and from that base I was able to have similar ideas for the other gods who weren't from other pop culture. Some were very basic/bare bones for a long time.

Example: +The Obsidian Emperor

Death, Protection, Spirit

Associated with:

Smithing, Metalwork, Death, Omens, Divination, Mining

Other Names: N/A

Symbols:

Chains

Metallic colors

Metal Jewlery

Hammer

Shield

Raven

Bones

Pendulumns

So don't worry if you don't have the exact specifics right away. Building is a long journey and discovering things as you go along is part of the fun :)

Step 4: RELATIONSHIPS- TOUGH LOVE OR GENTLE GUIDE? Using your current base from steps 1-3 can help identify what kind of personality they might exhibit. If you still feel stumped feel free to lean on an alignment chart for guidance!

From learning HOW your god/dess acts you can then figure out what kinds of people will follow them.

Example: +The Gold Knight- God of the Sun and Keeper of Justice +Lord Diamond- God of Wind and Trickster Deity

A thief would most likely follow Lord Diamond's teachings than The Gold Knight's.

Now you can move into how to followers might show reverence to the gods by looking through your symbols and their personalities.

Example: +Princess Amethyst- Goddess of Time and Knowledge: Followers often wear necklaces that contain sand in them to represent an hourglass +The Sapphire Queen- Followers will carve hair ornaments out of driftwood to wear showing their devotion.

Step 5: DEPICTIONS- WHAT DO THEY LOOK LIKE?

This step was hard for me, for a while they had no real forms but I decided that had to change and so I made designs for them keeping everything from the previous steps in mind. The drawing was the easy part once I had all my ducks in a row ^^

From Top to Bottom: Princess Amethyst, Lord Diamond, The Emerald God, The Gold Knight, The Obsidian Emperor, The Pearl Empress, Princess Rose Quartz, The Sapphire Queen and The Silver Lady

And to shamelessly plug my own story

This whole group is featured along with a lot of their world building/lore in my story Fragments of Magic: Shards of Allunatia Book 1.

[nicejewishgirl]

fuck the last few months have been hell. I’ve had to worry about my survival and more so my mother as we both have had very serious hospitalizations but it just happened again in Thursday. Every day feels traumatizing. I’m in a nightmare that I can’t wake up from. There’s been so much stress, chaos, and turmoil. My family dynamics have me on edge.

Now my parents and I all have covid bc our local hospital sucks at covid protocols. I didn’t even go inside but got it from my parents (who were masked most of the time even in her hospital room) a couple days later. I’ve never had covid so this was the cherry on top. It’s too much. Like no fucking more!!!

I don’t even want to write out the things that have happened because it makes it feel so much more real and it just upsets me to write out such fatal shit. I still plan to operate jewsforpalestine but I’m literally trying to make it day by day whether that’s due to my own illness or taking care of my mother as if I was a trauma nurse. I haven’t eaten in a couple of days because of the stress and because of how bad my flareup is / possibly from covid.

I haven’t even told you all about how I need full reconstruction on both feet and how the surgeon said my deformity was a 10/10 😍 and that he’s never seen feet so bad (on the x-ray) as all my bones are crunched up and in the wrong spot which is why I have several stress fractures in both feet. I am seeing a few other surgeons as this guy was awful but I also have yo see colorectal surgery to fix my colectomy…. which is fucking frightening.

I’m also trying to manage my severe iron deficiency anemia while constantly worrying if my mom was/is going to make it. Seriously, this last scare really had me panicked. I don’t even feel comfortable saying what it is because it’s her life but what happened was serious… being covid positive complicates her recovery even further. I barely leave her alone and constantly hovering over her. I’m so scared…. I rarely show it though.

There’s soooo much more that I still haven’t mentioned from these past few months but I just wanted to say that I’m still alive 👋… barely lol but I just need to vent. Covid just pushed me over the edge. I’m still free Palestine and still really want to create a collective of like minded folks but I have been in full on crisis, fight or flight mode and haven’t been able to do one thing other than trying to get by.

As I’m typing this, I’ve fallen asleep multiple times creating a variety of typos. I’m not having fun or even doom rolling, watching tiktok, or whatever, etc. I’m taking care of my mom, my dogs, the house, cooking, cleaning, making all of our appointments, dealing with insurance etc. and then fall asleep by 8pm because of my fatigue. My exhaustion (largely due to my anemia & still’s) prevents me from doing soooo much and the lack of oxygen to my brain has definitely effected my cognitive ability, concentration, and executive functioning.

I can’t wait for things to calm down so I can start this project along with answer some of my latest messages that require a detailed response! I also just want to be able to breathe and know that things will be ok. I just wish someone could wrap their arms around me and tell me that but I’m on my own in that regard… hence why my pathetic ass is posting here. 💗

[saintnightshade]

13 October 19??

The Village of Ashwood

Estd. 1600s Puritan Era on the outskirts of New England

The Village of Ashwood was small and overgrown, taken over by the forest when it was stumbled upon in the early 1900s by a construction company. Future Ideals bought up the land in the area with the purpose of flattening the forest to begin building a cluster of condos. A few months into the work all contact had been lost with the workers on the land, only a handful of men had been present at the worksite during the estimated time of the incident. After hours of silence, superiors had been sent out to investigate the site and determine the cause of the lack of communication. When the men arrived at the site they could not locate any of the workers, all construction vehicles had been running as though the drivers had turned them on only to leave immediately after. There were opened lunch boxes set out with some of the food being partially eaten, it's as if everyone had completely disappeared mid-action.

Police were called, as those in charge of the project feared the workers were run off by violent "tree-hugging" environmentalists. The police ventured around the perimeter of the immediate area the workers had the majority of their vehicles settled before scouting further into the forest work area. They followed a path of freshly cut tree trunks before coming to a stop near a very faded stone marker, the name etched in it barely legible as "Ashwood". It seemed to the officers present that the workers had uncovered an old town of some kind and perhaps their curiosity simply got the better of them and they abandoned their work to explore the town. It was fairly deep into the woods, sunbeams barely managed to penetrate the thick forest canopy. The officers continued their search into the old town, looking over what seemed to be ancient homes made of logs and stone. Some of the hovels had caved into themselves after centuries of rot weighing them down, others were miraculously tethered together by thick green vines. Plush vibrant moss-covered nearly everything along with masses of small delicate flowers, the area smelled earthy and wet, but nestled beneath that sweet scent of flowers was the odor of decay and iron.

An hour or two into their investigation the officers had still yet to find any of the workers, a frantic call from the deepest part of the town called out to the other officers. One of their own had finally found something and it didn't bring them any hope of finding the missing workers. The officers all gathered at the far end of the town where a worn stone slab lay beneath a large tree that had been carved into, forming the crude silhouette of a woman. The area made their skin crawl and their hair stand on end; each officer later stating they struggled to fight off the desperate urge to run out of pure fear-induced instinct. From the trees hung the brittle bones of centuries-old humans, more bones surrounded the stone slab, and under the light of their lanterns the officers made out old brown stains. Strange effigies were strewn about that had somehow withstood the test of time, being tied together with twine and a wad of crusty brown fabric, it looked to be a crudely shaped person. All of this was not what the lone officer had called them to see so frantically. Looking over the eerie place of supposed worship closer brought in new details and had the officers calling in for backup.

Decorating the hanging ancient bones, dulled by time, were shreds of fresh meat dripping warm blood onto the forest floor. Amongst the old bones now hung new additions, freshly scraped of all viscera leaving them a mix of ivory and bright pink. A lunch box sat on the stone slab, now visible with a multitude of lanterns closing in on it and inside of it sat a lump of meat later identified as a human heart. It had belonged to one of the missing workers and had a single chunk torn from it by what seemed to be an animal of some kind, the teeth marks left behind were determined to not be human. Along the thick base of the tree were numerous handprints identified as those of grown men; left in blood. The handprints slowly managed to climb the tree to where the head of the carved woman was set, they caressed her face with single digits and left only a delicate gore-painted smile behind. The air was odorless when they first entered the small grove but after taking in the scene it suddenly reared up with an awful stench hitting the officers with a force that finally sent them all running and gagging all the way back to their vehicles.

The fresh remnants in the forest that day were found to have belonged to a single man and the rest of the workers were never found and have never been cleared of suspicion though the families all vehemently deny their loved ones' involvement in such a horrific affair. The area was deemed a crime scene and eventually, the publicity became too much for Future Ideals and they abandoned the area entirely, taking a huge loss. They eventually turned it into a show of goodwill and deep condolences to the families by allowing it to be fenced off to the public in the hopes that the events of that day would eventually be solved. It certainly earned them the brownie points they were going for and they continued their plans a mile or so off from the area with no objections not long after. Speculation ranged from a case of mass hysteria or some obscure bacteria being kicked up in the construction process and driving the workers insane were thrown around news stations, papers, articles and eventually internet forums. There were two things many people looking into the case could agree on; the area that was found was a Puritan village and no Puritan, during that time, would ever worship anyone outside of the Christian God. So who was the woman that was carved so lovingly into that tree?

As the decades dragged on, the village of Ashwood became a local legend that eventually made its way onto the internet. Locals told stories of strange lights flickering deep in the woods at night and eerie chanting that carried on the wind. Some claimed to have seen ghostly figures moving through the trees, while others spoke of a dark presence as tall as the trees that seemed to lurk just beyond the edge of the forest. Despite the rumors, the authorities refused to investigate the village any further and the area was left to decay and crumble even further in the darkness. The case of the missing workers grew colder as the years went by, finally being written off as a crazy hermit killing the worker and driving the others off. But some brave or foolish souls still ventured into the woods, seeking to uncover the truth behind the mystery of Ashwood or simply for the thrill of investigating an area drenched in murder and tall tales. With every handful of people that went into Ashwood rumors would spread that half of them never came back out or that no one who went in ever came out again. Leaving any further disappearances attributed to Ashwood unverified.

-LiliesForDinner Signing Off

 Lily had always been fascinated by the stories surrounding the village. She spent years researching the history of the area, reading old documents and accounts of the strange events that had taken place there over the centuries. Lily started a blog detailing the history and everything she learned during her research, she may have embellished a little but people like reading about the gory bits! Eventually, she decided to make the journey to Ashwood herself, armed with a flashlight, camcorder, polaroid and a sense of adventure. It was Hallow's Eve, she decided it was the perfect day for a spooky adventure and it would certainly amass her more attention from the paranormal board! Just wait until she gets all the photos developed and the video! She made a post on the forum announcing her plans and she couldn't wait to get back home and start editing. The night was perfect, not too cold, no rain and there was a gentle breeze that would hopefully add to the atmosphere. As she made her way deeper into the woods, the trees seemed to close in around her, their branches creaking and rustling in the wind. She felt like she was being watched, and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was following her.

As she approached the village, the air grew thick and heavy, and she heard the sound of chanting echoing through the trees. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should turn back, but her curiosity got the better of her. It could be some others putting together a Halloween setup or... Satanists trying to summon the devil. Either way, it's good footage. As she stepped into the clearing where the village stood, she saw that the village still seemed to be in the same state of stagnant decay from all those decades ago as if stuck in that time. The buildings were still in the same state of collapse and still overgrown while the air was thick with the smell of decay. But there was something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Then she saw the tall figure in the shadows, watching her from the edge of the clearing. It was humanoid, but its skin was sickly white, its face framed by long black stringy hair that seemed to writhe behind it. As she stood there, frozen solid and stared, it began to move toward her, its steps slow and deliberate. She took note that it seemed to glide. Lily wanted to run, to get as far away from the creature as she could, but her feet were rooted to the spot. It stopped in front of her and she realized then that it appeared to be a woman dressed in a tattered old dress and as Lily looked up, up and up her breath caught in her throat as she met its face. There were no eyes, no nose, only a mouth that slowly began to split open into a smile to reveal rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth. It leaned down and she could feel its cold breath on her neck, it reeked of decay and the sound of its rasping breath filled her ears and turned her blood cold. Then it spoke, its voice was sickeningly sweet and melodic.

"Welcome to Ashwood," it said. "I've been waiting for you, you're just in time for dinner."

[eva-cybele]

meetings

With a sigh, Kaede wiped a small amount of blood from her lower lip, head still aching with the aftermath of whatever that vision had been. They were coming more frequently now, more intrusively, and she was beginning to get very tired of it.

A large hand landed on her shoulder, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. It wasn’t often someone was able to sneak up on her – the horns were good for more than just stabbing people who tried to hug her from behind, after all – but when she looked up into warm brown eyes of Thancred Waters, it all made sense. The damned rogue was sneaky.

“Back in Ul’dah already, I see? And causing even more of a stir than you did before, it seems.”

Kaede reached up and shoved a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes, shrugging off Thancred’s hand. “I had a commission here.”

“You’ve been up to more than that, I would wager.” He raised an eyebrow at her hand, where it lingered by her temple. “Headache? Visions, maybe?”

Sharply lowering her hand, she narrowed her eyes. “It’s none of your concern.”

He raised his arms in a shrug, unbothered by her irritation. “I suppose it’s not. Though, if you wanted to know more about your… particular condition, I might know someone who can help you.”

Kaede’s attention sharpened, and she focused more fully on the midlander man next to her. “Alright, I’m interested.”

Thancred’s mouth curled up on one side in a smirk, and he turned, waving Kaede to follow after him. “I have some business to attend to, why don’t you come with me? I’ll give you some more details after. Plus, you might have a more personal interest in this matter than I do.”

She wanted to refuse, to go in to her room and wash off the dust from Copperbell Mines, but curiosity tugged at the corner of her mind strongly enough that after a moment, she relented and followed. All the questions she peppered Thancred with while they walked were met with vague non-answers, and Kaede felt herself get more frustrated, even as she realized their steps were taking them towards the Mordion Gaols.

Thancred worked his charming magic on one of the guards, a sizeable sack of gil changed out for a small iron key. He walked unerringly and confidently to one of the many cells, resting his arms on the bars. “Marzanna Kimbatuul, I assume?”

Kaede didn’t know what she’d expected, but certainly she never would have dreamed that it would be another auri girl.

She blinked and looked again, but though the other woman’s scales black were inky, midnight black – unlike the pale gold of Kaede’s entire family – there was no mistaking the sharp horns and heavy tail, the patterns of scales over forearm and cheek and leg. She was au ra, and more specifically, she was xaela, whom Kaede only knew from her mother’s stories of the Dawn Father and his war against the Dusk Mother.

The girl turned her head slightly, the eerie glow of vivid green eyes only barely visible past a shroud of black hair. “What the hell do you want?” Her voice was deep, with a rasp to the edge of it, and an accent that was somehow both foreign and familiar.

“You seem to be in a bit of trouble. And some associates of mine have told me about you, so I thought I’d come lend you a hand, is all.” Thancred dangled the key from one finger, like a man trying to lure a cat to play.

Turning more fully, she raked a dismissive glance over Thancred, then focused her gaze on Kaede. The moment their eyes locked, the headache returned full-force, plunging Kaede back into a haze of strange, disjointed images and sound.

The strong arms of a father, a beautiful man’s brilliant smile, the sound of feminine laughter. Songs echoing out over open ocean, the feeling of a mother’s hands in her hair. A brother’s concerned lecture as he wraps a bandage. A beach, soaked in blood. The smell of gunpowder and ceruleum. And underneath it all, a murmur in a language that she could almost-but-not-quite grasp – musical words in a husky woman’s voice that felt familiar, somewhere deeper than her bones.

Her sight slowly clearing, Kaede blinked and came back to herself, her spirit feeling like it was still half-unmoored from her body. Other visions made Kaede a bystander, but these seemed almost like her own memories, except that they clearly were not hers. The other girl – Marzanna? – groaned and opened her eyes as well, holding her head in a way that mirrored Kaede.

Before Kaede could open her mouth to ask if she, too, had seen something, the girl stood with a snarl, pointing a finger at Kaede. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

Confusion gave way to indignation, and Kaede’s head snapped back as if she’d been struck. “I have done nothing. I did not ask for any of this!”

Alarm breaking through the normally cool, unflappable calm that Thancred exuded, he held up his hands and stepped between them. “Allow me to explain – the power the two of you share is called the Echo, and it’s the reason my employers, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, are interested in you both. It can be a touch… unpredictable when two Echo-bearers meet for the first time, that’s all. Marzanna–”

The xaela girl snapped her glare to Thancred, scowling. “It’s Marz. Drop the rest.”

“–Marz, then. This is Kaede Kazarishi,” he waved a hand towards Kaede, who was still hovering a few steps back. “And I believe that the two of you are the only au ra present in all of Eorzea at the moment, in addition to sharing a profession and a gift. I thought that perhaps you would be interested in meeting each other, even if you were not inclined to take me up on my offer to learn more about the Echo.”

Marz’s glare turned a little more considering, and she tilted her head at him. “Can I learn how to control it?”

Thancred lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not the person to ask about that. But I can introduce you to the woman who would know.”

“What’s the catch? You bail me out, help me with these fucking visions – what’s in it for you?” Marz folded her arms over her chest and scowled again. Kaede privately agreed with her assessment, but remained silent, watching Thancred’s face for any response.

The man glanced between the two auri women, then threw his hands up in the air and sighed. “We want you to join us. Help us with our mission. That benefits you, as well as us. So just… come to Vesper Bay, and you can hear the full pitch. Or don’t, and that’s your decision as well.” He unlocked the cell door with a flourish and stepped back. “As for your freedom – consider it a gift, from a man who didn’t think that beating the piss out of some swiving merchant was worth being locked up for.”

As Marz stepped out into the torchlight of the hall, Kaede saw several large, dark blotches on her skin and frowned. She started to reach out a hand, small amount of aether converging in her palm, but Marz stepped away and shot her a glare so potent that she retracted it. She stomped out of the gaol, leaving Thancred and Kaede to themselves – and Thancred quickly excused himself, as well.

Fine, then. If that’s how you want to be.

The stories she’d been told of the xaela in her youth had not been kind, but the siren call of another au ra was too strong to care about the divisions of clan. Kaede found herself hoping that the sullen, angry girl would take Thancred up on his offer, and decided to head to Vesper Bay to see if she might see her again.

But first, she needed a damned bath.