#threats of violence tw

[lxmitlxss]

this call - @littlemissuicidex --➤ Zack

" Hey, listen. Okay?? How many times do I have to tell you not to go wandering off without me?? What if someone weird had showed up and tried to kidnap you again, huhh?? " He's irritated, he sounded irritated - but his posture told a different story. He wasn't worried, in fact he looked relaxed. If someone did try to grab her, he'd just slice them in half, end of story. " Whatever, just stay close, okay? "

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Primetober Day 4: With Friends Like This…, with all bonus prompts (Fighting, verbal abuse, and destruction of property.)

Dragon AU. In an act of defiance, Tommy tries to damage other parts of the “hoard” Dream keeps him trapped in. Dream, coldly furious, makes Tommy regret it without even lifting a finger. Warnings for self harm, suicidal thoughts, kidnapping, abuse, torture, referenced mutilation, referenced child death, dehumanisation, infantilisation, possessive behaviour, and threats of violence.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s knuckles bled.

Wood and bone and stranger material aside lay rend to nothing in the hoard of treasure, the magic inside them diffusing into the air. Shards of glass and crystal dug deep into his skin, leaving wounds Tommy could only hope would scar, marring his skin, breaking him too.

If he could not leave this gilded prison, he’d tear off the gold and refuse to play nice. He’d bite and scratch and scream and make himself no longer worthy of hoarding.

Prime knows how long he’d been in this cave. He couldn’t see the days change, and Dream’s sleeping schedule was erratic enough that he couldn’t rely on that either. He’d grown a little taller, and his hair was a lot longer, so it had to have been a while, yet the images of blood and fire and pain still felt like it was yesterday, waking him up with screaming fits the rare times he caught sleep.

He was sixteen when his home was destroyed. When the monster from the storybooks burnt everything to the ground, gutted soldiers effortlessly through their armour, tore kids hiding in the corner to shreds. Tommy was the only survivor, though trophy seemed the more appropriate word. 

If you were to ask Dream, he’d say it was because Tommy was the only person he’d met with the guys to stand against him without trying to hide behind iron shells and sharp sticks, with only his fists and a scared yet determined look in his eyes. Tommy got the impression it was more because being the great and terrible monster who destroyed villages for fun was a lonely life, and he was just the unlucky son of a bitch chosen to try and play therapist to a fucking dragon, but he knew better than to say it. He wanted at least one working arm, if nothing else.

He liked to imagine he was grown now. No longer a child under any stretch of the imagination, no matter how little Dream treated him like a “hatchling”, as he called it in his weird way of speaking. He was grown, and no one could call him a kid again without them being the childish one. He was mature now, like Tubbo was.

That thought felt like a flaw through the chest. Prime, he missed Tubbo. At least he never saw him die. He could delude himself into believing he escaped, somehow. It was a blatant lie to himself, and he knew that, but it served to cushion the blow, just a bit.

So did breaking things.

Priceless artefacts lay shattered, rare collectables and historic art pieces and ancient magic. Gone, destroyed, bloodied. They were a part of the same hoard Tommy had been trapped in, Dream seeming to view chasing him down, hurting him until he couldn’t move, and dragging him back to the literal gilded cage he spent most his time in as a game, and Tommy reckoned they’d been there longer than he’d been alive times, like, a billion. They weren’t doing anyone any good.

But even if they would, he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. He just wanted to hurt Dream. He wanted to show him he wasn’t a cute little pet human to coo over and torment, a jewel to keep locked up in a display case. No, he was Tommy, angry, violent, human. If Dream wanted to hold him captive, he had to know that Tommy would make it as difficult as possible.

And maybe, just maybe, Dream would kill him, and he could join Tubbo.

He breathed heavily, exhaustion overtaking him, and he dragged himself up the endless pile of useless stuff to the soft blankets and endless pillows at the top. Even if it meant locking himself back into a display, he didn’t mind. Maybe then Dream would see what he did. Maybe then Dream would fucking listen to him.

Halfway up, though, he felt a heavy tug on the back of his tunic, the only warning before claws dug into his back and he was dragged back to the ground. He landed with a thud, before something shifted and in a flash, he went from a paw holding him down to the weight of a person pinning him.

Opening his eyes, Tommy looked up at his own face.

That was one of the torturous things about Dream- his insistence on parading a parody of Tommy’s form around. Warped, a sickly pale green and with his monstrous features slapped atop, but still recognisably Tommy as of his capture, the same scratch wounds on his arms, the bruises on his face, and almost unscarred, unlike the mess of burns and cuts and injuries coating Tommy now. It was uncanny, and still, it made Tommy long for a time he’d never get back, when he felt whole in body, mind and soul, and not an empty shell.

“Tommy.”

Dreams��� voice was calm, eerily empty of any emotion. His face was blank, too, and that was scarier than anger. Dream loved being able to emote in his human form- grinning and giggling like an idiot whenever he was mildly happy, crying his eyes out when he was a little disappointed. Not even bothering with that told Tommy that whatever he felt, it was so far past bothering to even show. He wasn’t even sure if that thought made sense, but it was hard to make sense out of anything through the blind panic.

“I- I-“Tommy’s voice died in his throat.

“Quiet.”

Tommy shrunk, instinctively expecting a broken bone, another missing finger maybe, but Dream just stared down, expressionless. “I know what you’re trying to do, hatchling.” His tail wagged aggressively behind him, thumping loudly on the ground in contrast to how eerily calm he looked. “You’re trying to piss me off, so I decide you’re not worth keeping, and I’ll let you go or kill you, right?”

Tommy nodded his head, unable to speak.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, little one.” Dream let out a barking laugh, one that lacked any humour. “I don’t care about how valuable something is for you humans. Gold, silver, gems, your sticks you use to access magic and scribble papers, they only matter because they interest me. And Tommy… you’re far more valuable than any other thing here. Unlike all my other trophies, you’re fun to play with.”

Dream smiled slowly, baring sharp teeth awkwardly stuck into a human mouth. The memories of such razor-sharp blades digging into his flesh sent phantom pain through the scars left by them, agonising enough that he couldn’t help but whimper. There was no ambiguity as to what he meant by that, and it sent a chill up Tommy’s spine. He wouldn’t even be allowed to die, not while the monster from his nightmares had fun torturing him like a cat would a mouse.

“But of course, I can’t let you just get away with that, can I? I have a reputation to upkeep.” There was a faint hint of what might have been sadness in that, barely peeking through his unreadable tone, but it disappeared as soon as it broke through. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve shown me that doesn’t work, haven’t you?”

He grinned again, and Tommy’s stomach dropped. “No, no. The second you step out of line again, Tommy, I’m going take you to show what happened to your little human lair, and I’m gonna destroy one more for each little mistake you make. And I’ll make sure you see every second of it. Maybe I’ll even bring some humans back to take my time playing with, before I get bored of them. Maybe I’ll make you hurt them too.”

Tommy felt sick. He couldn’t even bear to think about- about the outside, about his home. The image of it, picturesque and whole in his memories, still caused him to tear up, let alone the nightmares. The idea of seeing it now, ruined and shattered, seemed horrific, and even worse was the idea of anyone else going through the same thing, seeing their home burnt to the ground, dying horribly in the wreckage. Or being brought back to- to really, just be tortured, and then probably eaten once Dream got bored or hungry or whatever, without even the scattered, confused kindness Dream tried to show to him.

And the idea of doing what was done to him to others? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. No. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing that agony.

Tommy tried his best to stay calm, to be a Big Man, but like a goddamn pussy he couldn’t help himself but burst into tears.

Absently, Dream ran a claw gently across his face, curiously tracing the path of the tears, eyes widening slightly in fascination. “Don’t worry. Just be the perfect treasure, and that won’t have to happen, ’kay?”

“H-how?” Tommy’s voice was strangled, terrified. It took all he had left to even say them. “How do I- do I stop that?”

“Just don’t try stupid shit again, alright? And talk to me. It’s interesting, hatchling. I’ve never had anyone to talk to before.” It was said so casually, but even in this state, Tommy was struck by how fucking sad that was. Dream really was doing this out of loneliness, wasn’t he? Maybe… maybe it wasn’t so bad to stay here, and be friends with Dream.

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, hating how weak he sounded. “J-just, please. Don’t hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t promise that.” Dream sounded sad again. “I- I exist for a reason, y’know, Tommy. Some things are made to ruin. They don’t have a choice. Do you think I want this? This pile of useless goods? This lonely existence? There needs to be a villain for every hero.” Dream sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about this. It’s- I’m not meant to; humans and hatchlings aren’t to know.”

The idea seemed strange. That Dream was as much a prisoner as Tommy… it didn’t make sense, yet Tommy found an odd sense of kinship in it. Maybe that’s why Dream seemed so oddly fascinated that he chose to fight him. Maybe he’d fought his role already. Maybe… he could find a way to make Dream only hurt him.

Or maybe it was a lie. But Tommy would let himself believe a comforting one, if only to give him the strength to stop Dream from doing what he did to him to anyone else.

After all, no one but Tommy deserved it.

[areiacannaid]

Declination

What if Halt joined Morgarath instead of the Rangers? A small AU based off of this prompt/story idea from @nilswolf8.

Link to read on AO3

“I could use a man like you in my ranks.” Morgarath said, finally getting to the point behind the clandestine nighttime meeting he had summoned Halt to.

“I can’t say I care much for the idea of being used.” Halt replied, truth cutting through the sarcastic way he had phrased it. 

“Merely an expression,” Morgarath assured with a wave of his hand. “Regardless, I would value someone with talents like yours. And there’s much that I could offer you in return for your services.”

And, now that the offer was out in the open, Halt allowed himself to consider it.

When he had first come to Araluen, he’d had a vague idea of joining the Rangers. That was how he had been trained, and their high, influential, position in Araluen was no secret. He’d been interested in seeing what he could gain by working his way up to the top of such an organization. Although he had always preferred to work in the shadows, power promised a sense of control and protection in a way nothing else could manage. Halt had spotted his opportunity when he met, and saved, Crowely in that tavern. But the Rangers were not the seat of power they had once been and the tides of war were shifting.

Which left his choice between Crowley and Morgarath. He knew enough to guess that Crowley might be the safer person—but, in the end, it really wasn’t about people.

Halt had learned long ago there was no such thing as love or loyalty. People only ever used others for as long as they had something to gain, and then simply discarded them when that use had run its course. All that really mattered was how much one could extract from those connections before they invariably died.

The choice really came down to what could be attained in the end, and what path offered the greatest chance for survival.

Halt had no real sense of connection to the Rangers. That had ended the day his old life had, deep within the cool blackness of the river that had nearly claimed his life.

A sharp memory of pain caused him to reach a hand towards his chest. The passage of time had done nothing to temper his memory of that day, and he doubted it ever would. He’d been reborn from the water that had been intended as his grave. He’d clawed his way to the bank, gasping for breath, water stained red and pink with the blood his injuries dripping around him. His mouth had been seared with the ash of desperate but unheeded words—the last time he had ever called for mercy or help.

His fingers brushed against the twisted scar tissue beneath his clothes, but felt no sensation save for the numbness of severed nerve endings. It was a blank nothingness that matched the cavernous feeling that had settled deep inside his chest since that day. He didn’t know if he even remembered anymore what it truly felt like to feel.

Everyone he'd ever thought he’d loved had either tried to kill him, or had left him to die. So, connections and sentiment meant nothing to him.

In the end it really was an easy choice. Morgarath simply had more to offer than the Ranger’s ever could. He had the greater odds for victory and therefore promised a greater chance of survival and a greater chance of potential gain. It was the smarter, more logical option. And he’d be lying if he said he was unsympathetic to anyone daring to rebel against a vitiated King and bring an end to the corrupt nobility he so despised.

“Well, what do you say?” Morgarath’s sibilant voice broke the grip of his revelry.

“I’d say we should talk terms,” Halt said.

Morgarath smiled, eyes bright with a calculating light. “Let's hear them then.”

He listened as Halt stated his counter offers, reasonable terms for spoils and a higher more autonomous position on Morgarath’s ranks.

“Prove your worth to me and you will have all that you asked for,” Morgarath said, holding out his hand to signal his agreement.

Halt took the offered hand.

~x~X~x~

Halt stood in the wreckage of a burning village, the place where the last vestiges of the King’s army had fled after their crushing defeat at Hackham Heath. The King and several of his knights had escaped—but they had been the only ones to do so.

Halt’s strategy, combined with Morgarath’s Wargal army, had decimated the King’s forces. They had chased the last of them here to this village; a place they had tried, and failed, to find refuge and defensive footing.

The broken remnants of the King’s army had not been enough to defend this small village from the massive force of Wargals Morgarath had sent. That was clear enough from the carnage around him. The bodies of Wargals, soldiers, and villagers lay intermingled where they had fallen: the unavoidable price of war.

Halt inhaled the sharp smoke from the fires burning around him, his bow at full draw and leveled at the last standing soldier—if a child could really be called an enemy soldier.

The boy, no more than twelve years old at the most if Halt had to guess, stood defiantly, sword held defensively in front of him, eyes shining with wild determination. Before his feet sprawled the unmoving bodies of Wargals and even a few men that he had slain. Behind him, clinging desperately to his legs was a younger boy, probably no older than five if he had to guess, and very likely the last survivor of the villagers that had once called this place home. His large brown eyes were blown wide in pain and primal terror.

“Why haven’t you released your arrow?” Morgarath’s sneer came from behind him. “He is the enemy. One less of them breathing is all the better for us. Or is his age too much for your scruples, Halt?”

“It isn’t that,” Halt said blandly. “It’s that killing him would be a waste. I saw him before when I reconnoitered the King’s army camp. He’s the son of Sir David; the newly appointed Battlemaster to the King. I figured he'd be worth more to you alive as leverage.”

“Indeed?” A vicious gleam came to life in Morgarath’s eyes even as his lips curled in a cruel smile. “Then size him and kill the village boy.”

Halt saw the older boy’s eyes widen at that callous order, flashing for the first time with fear and, just as quickly, calculation hastily covered.

He brandished his sword as the soldier’s closed in.

“If I’m worth something to you alive then so is he,” he addressed Morgarath, indicating the younger boy with a tilt of his head. “He’s my brother. If it’s ransom you want, my father would pay for us both.”

“Your brother?” Morgarath challenged scathingly.

“Illegitimate, but yes. My father fell in love with his mother when he was last stationed near this village,” he explained hastily.

As Halt watched the boy, he found himself feeling an unexpected measure of interest towards him. He was skilled in combat, seemed more intelligent than the average knight, and was quick on his feet.

He was also a liar.

The young village boy was not any blood relation of his despite his story, Halt was certain. His tells were minor ones, but they were there. He was merely trying to protect the younger boy from death, though Halt couldn’t piece together a motive as to why—he couldn’t fathom what the boy possibly stood to gain from it.

Every word had been a falsehood. But the greed in Morgarath’s expression showed plainly that he hadn’t caught it. He seemed far more interested in the added leverage of a potential scandal. Halt, for his part, said nothing. It wasn't his responsibility to keep Morgarath from being manipulated by a child. That was something the Warlord should be able to do for himself.

“Take them both,” Morgarath ordered.

Halt shrugged. It didn’t matter much to him either way. 

~x~X~x~

“Perhaps you could tell me why it is that your father doesn’t value your life enough to agree to my demands?” Morgarath’s raging carried almost as loudly through the dungeon passages as the anguished sounds of screaming did.

It had been over a month since the capture of the two boys, since the Battle of Hackham Heath where King Duncan had escaped with his a few of his knights and commanders. The King had holed up in a fortress in the far north, with eighteen fiefs still under his command. Morgarath’s ploy to use Sir David’s son, or rather ‘sons’, as leverage had not met with the success he wanted.

Having received a less than favorable response to his ransom and blackmail demands, Morgarath had flown into a rage and decided to vent it on the object of his anger. Halt’s mouth turned down faintly at the uselessness of it all. Like all emotions, rage was ultimately pointless and would fix things as little as torturing a child for the decision of their parents. Which was to say, not at all.

Morgarath would have been better served to lower the conditions he set for the boys’ safe return. Halt had always known that no knight with the barest trace of loyalty or duty to his King would have agreed to such concessions—even if he did profess to love his son. The life of two boys weighed against the safety of what little remained of Duncan’s kingdom was a clear logical choice.

Halt rounded the corner, stepping past the guards there. They did nothing to stop him as he’d become a more than familiar figure.

“Were you just that much of a disappointment to him or does he just not care?” Morgarath demanded of the Battlemaster’s son.

Halt entered the cell silently, watching as Morgarath lunged at the helpless knight’s son, watched as the youngest boy strained against the chains holding him, tears streaming down his face as he screamed desperately, despite his obvious exhaustion, for Morgarath to stop. For his part, the knight’s son was far past the point of words, past even the point of screaming anymore. He did not answer the furious warlord. The lack of response only seemed to infuriate Morgarath more.

“Maybe my demand wasn’t taken seriously enough. Maybe I’ll start chopping off pieces to send to him. Maybe then he will listen! Maybe then he will start to care!”

As he said it, he drew and raised his sword, edge down for a cutting stroke at the boy beneath him. The boy’s eyes, though barely conscious and filled with pain, still glistened defiantly. Brave and defiant, just as the younger one was.

Halt felt something unidentifiable stirring in his chest at about the same time he felt the idea, which had been stirring in the back of his mind ever since he’d predicted the failure of Morgarath’s ransom scheme, solidify into clear purpose.

“Hold a moment, if you would, Lord Morgarath,” Halt said calmly, but loud enough to be heard as he stepped forwards.

“You had better have a good reason for interrupting me,” Morgarath hissed venomously, stopping his blade mid-swing by only the barest frenzied grip of his self-control. 

“I do. Before you damage him irreparably," Halt said, gesturing toward the downed boy with an inclination of his head. “I have a proposition. Why don’t you give both boys to me?”

“For what purpose?” Morgarath asked.

The rasp in his voice and the clenching of his fingers told Halt that he was only seconds away from losing his temper entirely. Halt knew he needed to be concise and quick if he wanted to be successful.

“The way I see it, if their father already refused the deal, it's unlikely there is anything you can do that would cause him to suddenly value his children more than his duty or position. But they can still be useful to us. The King still has many Rangers left at his disposal and they even now give him a greater advantage in this war. I figured that you could use a similar advantage. What if I could train for you, your own force of assassins with the skills of the Rangers? We could rival and surpass Duncan in every aspect. These two,” he indicated the boys, “could be the start to it. I see potential in them already.”

“And if you are wrong about them?” Morgarath asked, though Halt could see that he was already growing interested in the idea, the familiar hungry gleam was back in his gaze.

“Then,” Halt shrugged, “you can finish what you started.”

Morgarath seemed to think a moment before sheathing his sword.

“If you want them, take them,” he said dismissively, words languid. “They are no longer of any use to me.”

[untoldsoup]

This is Chapter Three part TWO! Please read chapters one, two and 3 (part one) FIRST!

Note: any derogatory comments about Mario being a little person will get deleted and you will be blocked.

PLEASE READ TAGS

Tags: tw:cartoon violence /tw:(mild) body horror/ tw:blood/ tw: injuries/ tw: minor character in danger/ tw: verbal abuse of a minor character/ tw: manipulation/ tw: major character death/ tw: minor character death/ tw:death threats

So happy I managed to get this update out on schedule. Thank you all for being patient waiting two months between updates, these pages take time! Anyway, this is the end of the flash back, we will be back to the present with the next chapter! And well, things are heating up, as you can see :)

I spent a lot of time on this, so if you like it, let me know! thank you all for reading :)

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

Previous: chapter 3(part 1)

Next: chapter four part one

Start from the beginning Here!

This is a sequel, please read "Change" comic first!

[bailey-calinao]

“There is only one ass here and I am looking right at him,” she practically hissed as her eyes narrowed more towards her and her nostrils flaring up from her anger.  “Do you actively just go around to piss people off or am I just lucky?”  Bailey asked, curious about the other.

“Here, let’s get you some food and see what is faster, my blade or your food to the heart.”  The vampire offered as some kind of fun experiment the two could do with each other.  Bailey ran her pad of her thumb against her blade to test the sharpness and nicked herself, she brought it to her lips to taste before returning her sights on the man.  Why was she allowing some pesky human to bother her this much?  If they were not in Greywood, she would have ended this the moment he decided to open his mouth.

Within less than a second, she was right in front of him and her fangs on display.  “What’s wrong?”  She questioned with amusement on her features.  The vampire then licked her lips, “I can hear your heart beating faster.  Could it be that you're nervous?”  Bailey questioned.  “No, please do stay.  I have built up quite the appetite and,” her eyes ran along his body.  As he began to inch away along the wall, she remained in place.

“Come back, I’m not done playing.”

"Really? I couldn't tell," Jesse commented, tone still more light-hearted and smartass-y than what the woman obviously wanted to deal with. "You know what they say about assuming things, it makes an ass out of you and me." And there was a flash of his grin, because he thought he was oh so clever and funny.

"Actually, it's through his stomach-- meaning food," Jesse said, giving her an idle glance as she toyed around with a pocket knife that came out of seemingly nowhere. That wasn't necessarily anything that bothered him, mostly because he had experience with pocket knives himself, though last time he owned one was years ago. And, to be honest, he figured she was one of those all talk and no play types; a hardass that wanted to look like she would just cut out his heart but wouldn't actually...

That was, until he literally blinked and suddenly, the girl was in his face with a pair of fangs on full display. Jesse flinched backwards, shoulder-blades knocking back against the wall hard. "Jesus Christ," the male exhaled sharply with both hands raised protectively, that teasing jackassery from before having traded immediately for what was a very obvious display of fear and jump in heart rate-- he hadn't come here to get murdered by a fucking vampire. Clearly, she was seconds away from just full on snapping and as foolish as he could be, he wasn't always stupid. Christ, he'd only been joking around. "Right, whatever, have the fuckin' room, okay? I'll just go off and fuck myself, shit--" As he was saying all of this, Jesse eased along the wall to get out from being cornered by her, until he was free to simply ditch through the very door he just came from.

God, he fucking hated Greywood.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was taking an exam at school, except Chica from FNAF was there and if I made one wrong move she’d fucking kill me.

[punk-in-docs]

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you. Aeliana wraps the belt around your waist. When it cinches tight - so does the last vestige of your freedom.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

~

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[serickswrites]

Used to It

Warnings: emotional abuse, threat of violence, captivity of sorts

"Whumpee, you are the most useless waste of space I have ever seen!" Whumper shouted as Whumpee walked into the room carrying a tray of tea cups and biscuits.

"I'm sorry, Whumper," Whumpee said bowing low.

"You are late! Really, I'm going to have to beat it into, aren't I?"

"Yes, Whumper, you probably will need to," Whumpee agreed. They raised their head an inch. "Would you still like me to pour the tea?"

Whumper flipped over the tray, sending the cups and saucers flying. The china broke as it struck the wall, the biscuits bouncing off the floor, and the tea creating a large puddle at Whumper's feet. "We don't want it now! Caretaker was just here for a quick visit and you took too long!"

"I'm sorry, Whumper. I'm sorry, Caretaker," Whumpee said as they bowed low once more. "Let me clean this up."

"Whumper," Caretaker said, finally finding the words to speak. They had no idea Whumper was like this. Had no idea Whumper treated their servants so poorly. "Really, it's not that bad. I only had half an hour before I needed to be off, that's not enough time to prepare all of this. Really, don't worry about it."

"No, they need to learn how to be a proper servant. I was told they were the best. That they had learned from the best. And they've given me nothing but trouble. Maybe I should cast them out. That would serve you right to be so useless! Or perhaps a daily beating is what you need."

Whumpee didn't say anything but continued to clean. Caretaker felt so uncomfortable listening to Whumper berate the poor servant and watch Whumpee agree with everything Whumper said. "Whumper," Caretaker tried again. "Why don't you go outside, you can walk me out. I'll just go freshen myself up for the journey."

"That's a splendid idea. I do hope that your visit wasn't ruined by Whumpee's complete incompetence."

Caretaker stood up carefully. "Not at all. I'll meet you outside."

Caretaker didn't move until Whumper left the room. "Let me help you," they said as they knelt down next to Whumpee. "I'm so sorry they treated you that way."

Whumpee didn't look up. "It's ok, I'm used to it. And besides, I've had much worse things happen to me. This is nothing."

Caretaker didn't want to think about what traumas Whumpee had experienced if they thought this was nothing. "Well, at the very least, let me help you."

"It's ok, Caretaker. Really, I can take care of this. You said you have a long journey ahead of you. Go freshen up."

"Thank you," Caretaker said after a pause. "Whumper called you Whumpee, that's your name? Whumpee like the lost royal of our rival kingdom? I only ask because that's an unusual name around here."

Whumpee finally looked up at that. They watched Caretaker carefully before answering. "Yes, the very same."

"Unusual name around here."

"It's a family name," Whumpee said quickly. "Thank you for your help," Whumpee stood up. "I really must be on my way."

Caretaker watched with growing dread as Whumpee walked away. They had no idea how Whumper got their servants. And they had no idea how or why the lost royal from the rival kingdom came to be a servant in Whumper's home.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @artisticdemon

[untoldsoup]

This is a sequel!! Please read "Change" first!

Cover art

Chapters One and Two: you are here.

Chapter Three: here

------

This took a long time to make and I put my heart and soul into it so let me know what you think!! I'm hoping to have chapter three out by March but its a really big chapter so it will take some time :)

Anyways, this is the start of the comic! I jump right into things so hopefully it isn't to confusing. Also this is pretty much the last time you see Bowser's human form, it's mostly koopa from here on out. This comic will be pretty long so its going to take a long time to finish but I hope everyone will enjoy it! I will have content warnings for the next chapter as things start to get crazy moving forward.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I haven’t played this stupid game in 6 months. This is a sequel to Prospects, this time featuring Bailey.

Agreement

The envelope shook in your hand. “This should suffice.”

Bailey took it from you, not bothering to meet your eyes as she slit the top and took the slip inside. Whitney, dressed for the ride ahead— or fight; whatever came first— in his sweats and t-shirt, stood with his back to the door. Despite your assurance, he had insisted on sitting in on this final transaction as if the mountain of cash you had worked yourself ragged to obtain would not be enough to settle the score, as if your being there were not dependent solely on your value as a worker, as if Bailey— who now looked up at you over the check between her fingers and her half-rimmed glasses— would care beyond that if you were gone.

The ground swayed beneath your feet.

Bailey leaned back in her chair, gesturing to Whitney with the check. “This was your idea?”

You could not bring yourself to look back at him, but you could imagine his expression. It was the same as when you had when you had met Briar and Avery a few days before; cool, unflinching, as though you were an item at a pawn shop he was trying to get a good price on. You supposed you were, in a sense. “Yes.”

Bailey nodded slowly, taking in your figure, your stance. You squirmed under her gaze. “And the child’s yours, I take it?”

“Yes.”

She considered as much. “You know,” she mused, “your… what would the word be? Fucktoy?”

He scoffed. “For our purposes, property.”

“Oh, hardly.” She leaned her elbows on the desk, fingers lacing together under her chin. “Not officially at least, not until our terms are settled.”

“What terms are there to settle?” You picked at your cuticles, heart pounding in your throat. “Is that not how much—“

“That’s how much my best earner was worth before.” Her smile was sweet like cough syrup, sharp like whiskey. “I’m a businesswoman you understand; it would hardly make much sense for me to part with my greatest revenue stream for its raw material costs.”

You looked back at Whitney. He kept his eyes trained on the woman in front of you. “And how much would it take for you to part ways with your charge?”

She sighed in mock contemplation. “Oh, I don’t know.” She sucked her teeth. “Another fifty percent ought to do it.”

The words echoed in your ears. You swallowed back panic as you went back to staring at the floor.

“Fifty?” His sneer was audible. “The fuck you take me for?”

“Someone desperate.” She gestured to you. “Someone willing to take when they can get and leave.”

“A bitch, you mean.”

“So long as we’re being frank.”

“You—“

“Do you know how much that child is worth?” You shut your eyes as you felt her own take you in. “Do you know what sort of market you could appeal to with a matching set?”

You heard a rustling of cloth behind you. Whitney’s voice was as cheerful and bright as you had ever heard it. “So long as we’re considering the lives of people that matter,” he smiled, “I’m curious; how much is your life worth?”

There was a pause, a laugh from Bailey. “That bitch,” she sighed. “First that file—“

“This actually isn’t Laundry’s, surprisingly enough.” You heard the clinking of metal parts as he gestured to you. “Friend of a friend who lives in the country; I promised him the deed to this shithole if your position found itself empty.”

Despite yourself, you turned to face him. He held the pistol in his hand with the confidence of a man unfazed by its weight. In the back of your mind, you wondered if he would be tried if he went through with it, whether the cops would come or care or whether they would write it off as the result of one of Bailey’s “ungrateful brats”. You could not for the life of you decide which would be preferable.

“So,” he continued, finger twitching, eyes shining, “I think it best if we tried renegotiating terms.” He gestured to you. “Either you take the money and I take your cash cow off your hands—“ He steadied his aim, “— or I redecorate your office with your insides and you get to find out whether the contents of that envelope are worth shit in hell.”

You cast your gaze back towards her. Bailey looked between the two of you, lips pursed. “You’re more desperate than I thought.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and reached into her shirt pocket. “Let me give you some advice, kid.”

You shut your eyes again at the click of the safety. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

She pulled out a carton of cigarettes, tapping one out and sticking it between her lips. “He isn’t a better person than I am, you know.” She took a lighter off her desk. “He’s not going to take better care of you than I am, isn’t going to wish you off to some fairy tale land where you’ll never know hardship; if anything, he’s going to fuck you over harder than I do.” She lit it, took a drag, smiled, exhaled.

“You fucking—“

“And you.” She pointed the cigarette at him. “Whitney, yeah? You think your life’s going to get better by being a father?” She leaned her head on her free hand. “I’ve been stuck with this job for thirty years now; the only thing that thing—“ she waved the cigarette in your belly’s general direction, “— is good for is an accessory to the walking ATM it’s stuck in.”

You could hear his voice shake; with what, you could not tell. “So help me God if you say one more thing about my fucking kid—“

“Let me say my piece.” She stood up, taking another drag and blowing it in your face. “If I were you,” she sighed, “I’d see if Harper couldn’t make an exception to get that thing out of you while it’s not breathing. Short of that, I’d ship it here.” She leaned forward, resting her hand on the surface of her desk. “But if I ever find your brat at my doorstep,” she promised, voice lowering, “if I ever see you or that thing here again, I’ll make your time here look like a stay at the Ritz-fucking-Carlton.” She stuck the cigarette back between her teeth, tilting your head up to look her in the eye. The resemblance between her and Whitney was apparent; you wondered if that was just what the eyes of monsters looked like. “I will make your child pay for however much you would have made me twofold, and I will sell their body— whole or piecemeal— to any dumb fuck who asks for what I’m sure will be a pretty young thing like them. Do you understand me?”

You could not breathe.

Her grip on your jaw tightened. “Are you deaf?” She brought you closer, and you whimpered at the sensation. “I asked you a question. Do you understand me or don’t you?”

You shut your eyes as her nails dug into your skin. You dug your own into your palm as you forced yourself to nod.

She kept you there a moment— for what, you did not know— before pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shot open, and you swallowed back tears— of relief, of sadness, of panic— as she released you, collapsing to your knees and gasping for air. “Good.” She took the check, slipping it into her pocket before sitting back down. “Leave before I change my mind.”

You pulled yourself to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to cling to Whitney. He glanced down at you, letting you bury your face into his shoulder as he took one last look at your former guardian. Wordlessly, he pulled the two of you out into the hallway, past the children gathered by the door, past the garden and Robin and the stairs and the threshold and finally, with a smile of untempered relief and satisfaction, across the street, into the truck parked there, and away from that miserable town, and as you watched the buildings you had come to know as parts of your home flew past, as you watched people you recognized from school rush into the forest and students— like you, you registered vaguely, desperate for money, for purpose, for anything— lean against street corners, you wondered if this would be any better, if this was more desirable, if this was emancipation or a different, crueler kind of ownership.

You mumbled a goodbye to the bus stop as it passed. Only then did the tears really start.

[disabled-dragoon]

Anyone involved in or supporting the far-right riots currently going on in this country are not welcome on this blog. I think it's disgusting and I'm not going to argue with you because you're wrong.

On another note, I'm glad to see the people turning up to help clean up and counter the violence. It never should have happened in the first place, the fact it is ongoing is absolutely disgraceful, but it's relieving to see that not everyone in the local area is so willing to be taken in by far-right thugs.

Stay safe everyone <3

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was being chased by Michael Myers and eventually got him to stop by telling him if he didn't, I'd turn him into Scythian Leather. Don't Google that.

[hindulivesmatter]

You deserve to be raped with your clit cut and uterus busted.

it is far too early in the morning for this you sick, sick fuck. I hope you never know what peace looks like in your life. I hope your friends and family find out you send messages like these and fucking disown you. You are a disgrace to humanity and all things kind and good. Fuck. You.

[rowiewritesstuff]

TFP Yandere Ratchet - The Protective Yandere

At first, Ratchet didn’t really want anything to do with you. You were just another human, taking up space in the base. He was certain you’d be just as annoying as the children- hopefully not as bad as Miko. He’s not sure he could take that. 

When he met you, he was rather rude to you. He brushed you off when you asked anything, and eventually you stopped talking to him. You had noticed his want to be alone, and you respected it. 

Instead, you kept to yourself. You were training to be a doctor- a surgeon, more precisely. Most of the time you were at base, you had your nose in a book. Your focus was hard to break- even Miko’s loud guitar playing didn’t stop you from studying the material for an upcoming test. 

Ratchet is actually fairly observant for a bot who pretends he doesn’t care. He sometimes watches you from the corner of his eye when you’re not looking. You never seem to stop studying. Everyday the bags under your eyes get worse, and he definitely notices it. 

One day (a few months after your first day at the base) he approaches you and asks you what you’re reading - despite already knowing. You’re surprised he talked to you at all, considering how he was before. You’re honestly a little timid responding to the normally grouchy medic, telling him you’re reading a book on surgical techniques and that you’re trying to become a surgeon. 

He begins asking you about them, trying to see the similarities between Cybertronian medicine and Human medicine. He is a little shocked to see that some techniques are similar- though not too many. 

Ratchet slowly begins warming up to you. He lets you ask questions about Cybertronian biology and sometimes even lets you get some hands-on practice for more minor injuries on the other Autobots. You have a skillful hand- careful, steady, and reliable. You soon become the Autobot’s second medic. 

You begin to fall behind in your studies. While you’re excelling at Cybertronian medicine, you begin to mix up some of the procedures. That makes you do poorly on an important test, making your grade go from an A+ to a C-. You quickly realize that you can’t both be a human doctor and a Cybertronian doctor. 

It’s a weekend day that Ratchet came to pick you up that you decided to tell him. During the ride to the base, you picked at your fingers in anxiety. Ratchet, knowing you from all the times he’s watched you, asked what was wrong.

“Ratch… I don’t know if I can keep learning from you. I’m falling behind in my studies- a-and I’ve worked super hard to get them as high as they were. They’re letting me take a make up test, though. I need to study for it.”

Ratchet quickly pulled off to the side of the road. He didn't say a word as he began driving to a large rock formation, going behind it. You got the message and quickly hopped out of his cab as he transformed. 

Ratchet looked down at you with a light glare. “What are you talking about? I’m teaching you valuable information! Where else could you get some hands on experience like this? In this city? That’s absurd. You should be more grateful.” Ratchet took a slight step forward as he huffed at you. 

You took a slight step back. Ratchet hadn’t really talked this aggressively to you before- even before when he was brushing you off. His attitude was making you incredibly nervous. 

“I do appreciate all that you’ve done for me. Really, I do. I’ll still help out with everything when we have medical emergencies at base. But until I get my grades up? I need to focus on my human studies. I can’t just give up my dream like that. I’ve wanted this since I was a little kid.” You looked up nervously at him. Surely he would be reasonable?

He was silent for a moment. Ratchet looked at you, his thoughts going a mile a minute. “I can… help you study, perhaps. It’s for your teacher Mr. Morrison, right?”

A sigh of relief left you. For some reason you couldn’t pinpoint, you were scared of Ratchet for a moment.

You gently nodded. “Yeah, I just need to work on biochemistry for his class. He can be really strict about it, and last time I didn’t do so well.”

A dangerous gleam flashed in his eyes that went unnoticed to you. Ratchet transformed and took you to base where he helped you study for the make-up test. 

After you went home, Ratchet did some research of his own. After all, he had access to government computers. Mr. Robert Morrison was his name. Age 45, living on Monroe Lane. No wife, no kids, or friends. No one.

Ratchet, with that knowledge, waited until all of the bots had gone to recharge to leave the base. He drove out of the town, traveling several miles. Soon, he came to a stop outside of a large home. It was a farmhouse, with a few horses outside of it. A man sat on the porch, cigarette in his mouth. He looked in confusion at the ambulance that parked a few feet from his porch. 

“Hello? Why are you here?” Morrison demanded. Ratchet refused to say a word, sitting in silence as he sized up the lanky man who was making his way to the driver’s window. 

Quickly, he transformed. Morrison screamed in fear as Ratchet snatched the unsuspecting man up by his leg. The now-upside down man struggled to escape the giant robot. 

“You’re Robert Morrison?” Ratchet questioned.

“H-how do you know my n-name?” The man stopped struggling, but remained shaking in fear. 

“Good. You’re him. You’re going to do something for me, okay Robert?” Ratchet glared down at him.

“Y-yes! Anything, anything you want!” Snot and tears fell from the man’s face as Ratchet scoffed at him in disgust.

“You have a student. Their name is (Y/N). I want you to give them top marks for the rest of the time they’re in your class. Do you understand?”

“Th-this is about… a grade?” Morrison looked on in confusion. 

“Are you going to change it, or will I have to use this?” Ratchet transformed one of his hands into a sharp surgical blade. 

“N-no! Please! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Please, let me go!” 

Ratchet dropped the man to the ground. Morrison yelped in pain as he fell to the ground. He quickly turned to Ratchet in fear. “What are you?”

Ratchet said nothing as he transformed into his alt-mode. He drove right in front of the man, inches away from his face. Morrison shivered in fear as the bot spoke in a low tone. 

“If you tell anyone about what happened here, you’ll find out just what I am. Not that anyone would ever believe you.”

With that, Ratchet left the man on the ground in the dust.

You were surprised the next day to get an apology from your teacher, claiming he had graded your test wrong. He changed your grade the same day. When did he get a cast on his arm?

 When you got back to base, you apologized to Ratchet and let him know the good news. A small smile graced his face as he patted your head. Now you can learn Cybertronian medicine again, and stay with him.