#tw: mentions of drawing as a torture method.

[mad-hunts]

are you out of your fucking mind?

as barton rose his lighter up to the end of his cigarette, one hand cupped around the edge of the butt until it was lit, he looked out on the horizon for a moment. it didn't even occur to him at the time that mary might not approve of his methods of quote unquote 'getting someone to talk' until he'd heard her speak. barton was almost always surrounded by his kids, after all, whom were quite familiar with how irrational he could be. or maybe she was just trying to provoke him for the sake of provoking him? barton honestly had no idea, but he waited for the sound of hooves gallooping against the ground to finally glance at her.

barton blew out some smoke through his nostrils as the horse he'd gotten passed by them and drew the man they were trying to get information out of behind them. a half-suppressed snort came from him at the sight, before he was tilting his head at the other and speaking over the man's screaming, ❝ mm, what, is this disturbing you? you can always look away if you want. though why your conscience might've decided to make an appearance now, of all times, is honestly a complete mystery to me. ❞ barton was not at all taking this as seriously as he should've, it seemed, as he suddenly took his cigarette out of his mouth.

he closed his hands around his lips then as if he wanted to project his voice, shouting at the man, ❝ hey — mister volkman, are you ready to tell us what you meant by 'we aren't going to be free for much longer?' or are you going to continue being stupidly stubborn? ❞ barton paid extra attention to mister volkman, as the man was called, as the horse dragging him behind them passed by once more and heard him say ❝ y-yes, oh my god, just get me off of this damn horse! ❞ the dollmaker turned to mary with a snide smile as if to say 'works every time' and stood up, calling out a loud 'whoa!' to the horse in order to get them to stop. it seemed to work, as the mare slowly but surely halted in front of barton.

and as if he wasn't quite satisfied with how much he'd rubbed it in mary's face that he got him to give up on not talking, barton squinted at her through his mask to convey his pride towards this even further. barton stood up and approached the horse before reaching into the bag he had to offer the mare an apple to eat, looking at mary all the while, ❝ you still feel strongly about asking me if 'i'm out of my fucking mind?' this is an efficient way to get something out of someone, and you have to admit, it's also a bit funny. ❞

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

*

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

Okay you know what? If no one else is gonna do it, i will. I give you: Destiel!Steddie >:)

(mentions of suicidal ideations below, for one little blurb; if you want to skip it, do not read from "The angel looks sad.." to "Pushing past that the best he could,". plus there is now self harm (? kinda, (MENTIONING HERE:) eddie cuts his palm to draw a sigil w/blood like in the show) and mentions of torture and hell if that counts as a tw/cw! read carefully, friend!)

If dying wasn’t bad enough, and crawling his ass out of his own grave (thank you Wayne for not cremating him like a hunter should be) wasn’t the worst thing that’d Eddie ever had to do, being backed into a rickety old abandoned barn absolutely covered in various warding sigils while whatever it was that’d left that raised handprint scar on his shoulder is still fighting it’s way through the door, may be it.

Had they been anywhere near any coast, Eddie’d think it was just a hurricane they hadn’t thought to figure into their smiting plans, but they were in the middle of the damn prairies and this goddamn barn creaked and groaned and against the battering winds (and also something maybe definitely not natural).

He and Wayne were shoulder to shoulder, shotguns at the ready, taking worrying glances back and forth through to the night sky between the boards that make up the barn’s roof and to the door in front of them. The hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck have been standing on end since they finished the last sigil, and despite pulling all his hair up off the back of his neck, those hairs have a thick sheen of cold sweat glazed over top of them.

Both their gazes snap back to the main doors of the barn as they fly open. Shotguns raised immediately to the…man(? Nope, not man. Can’t be, can it?) walking slowly and methodically over salt lines and sigil after sigil carved into the floor. (Okay, maybe just man..)

This man (Creature? Thing? Whatever…) is probably the most handsome person Eddie’s seen in his whole life. He’s got sun-kissed skin adorned with freckles, and very floofy and soft-looking sandy colored hair. And that only makes what they are about to do that much sadder. Sigh, goodbye beautiful man.

Eddie and Wayne spare the smallest glance to each other before letting shells fly into the man’s torso as he strides closer. Each light hanging from the ceiling explodes as he walks under it, showering him with glowing orange sparks.

What the fuck?? Eddie’s heart had already been hammering in his chest, but now it was going so fast it felt like it was about to vibrate right out of his skin. He had a quick thought about how in the hell Wayne’s old man heart was handling this, but fuck, he’s been through way more than Eddie had.

Bullet after bullet, shot after shot, did nothing to stall whatever creature this was. He just kept gliding forward, completely unaffected. 

He and Wayne shared a panicked glance and quickly abandoned their shotguns, each picking up something else to try and kill this thing. Eddie grips the First Blade tight and turns. It’s already there. Looking at him in…relief?

“What are you?” he growls at the intruder.

“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” It says (in a smooth, lovely voice), like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“Oh yeah? Thanks for that.” Eddie lunges forward and stabs his knife directly into the creature’s chest.

Nothing happens. Ok, not demon then.

Eddie is stunned, leaving the hilt sticking out from the thing’s ridiculous yellow sweater, he backs away.

The thing looks down at his chest, then back up at Eddie, something like exasperated fondness painted over his features, then raises his hand and pulls the knife out. He drops it to the floor, its focus still trained on Eddie.

Eddie glances at Wayne, and sees his uncle raise a crowbar to the creature and swing. Eddie can see this thing’s beautiful hazel eyes harden in the fraction of a second it takes Wayne to swing, then it throws an arm out to his right, catching Wayne’s blow and turning the rest of his body to face him. His other hand comes up and he places two fingers to Wayne’s forehead. Wayne’s face droops and he drops to the floor.

The thing drops the iron crowbar and turns back to Eddie, looking even more exasperated. “We need to talk, Theodore. Alone.”

“Like hell we do. And don’t call me that.” Eddie ignores the creature and skirts around him to check on Wayne. He crouches down and checks his pulse. Perfectly fine. And..is he snoring?

“Your friend’s alive.” the creature tells him, offhandedly, while he paws through one of the books he and Wayne had brought with them.

“He’s my uncle. Now, who the hell are you.”

“My name would be incomprehensible to you, Theodore.”

“Well then what do I call you? Also seriously, cut it out with the ‘Theodore’ crap.”

“What am I to call you then?”

“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” 

The thing smiles at him, “Call me..Steve.”

Eddie’s face scrunches up “Steve? Really?” Steve nods.

“Well okay then…I’m Eddie. Not Theodore. No one calls me Theodore.”

“Very well, Eddie.” He goes back to Wayne’s book in his hands.

“Okay. Now, again, what the hell are you?”

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Right. Let me clarify. What are you, really?”

He looks at him then, head cocked and brows furrowed. (Cute. What the fuck shut the fuck up no he isn’t!) “Do you not believe me?” He places the book down where it was and turns to face him.

Eddie snorts “No.”

“This is your problem, Eddie, you have no faith.” he smirks crookedly at him.

Suddenly, thunder crashes outside the barn and lights up the thing in front of him. Each flash of the light reflects the shadows of huge wings on the wall and ceiling behind him, growing and unfurling to a huge span, despite the significant lack of tangible feathery appendages

After his little show, Steve ducks his head slightly, his eyes still boring into Eddie. Had he not blinked this whole time?

“Some angel you are,” Eddie scoffs at him “You burned that woman’s eyes out of her skull.” He fights back a shudder thinking back to that particular sight.

Steve actually has the audacity to look slightly embarrassed at that. “I warned her not to try and see my true visage. Most are unable to perceive my true form…or my true voice.”

Eddie knows what he’s talking about immediately “That ear-splitting, window-shattering sound in the gas station after I came back. That was your real voice?”

“Yes. Some people, some…special people, are able to hear me as I am. I believed you were one of those people. I was mistaken.”

“Uh huh, and so what visage are you in now? Holy middle school teacher?”

The angel looks down at himself and pulls at the ruined yellow sweater and jeans. “This is a vessel.”

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?”

The angel looks sad. “No. He was a broken man. One who did not wish to be of this earth any longer. We made a deal: I brought him to heaven and he gave me the use of his body.”

Oh. Damn. And Eddie just shot and stabbed the poor guy.

Pushing past that the best he could, Eddie continues. “I’m not buying what you’re selling pal. Why would an angel be sent to pull me outta hell.”

He was trying to be rhetorical, but Steve answers anyway. “Good things do happen.”

“Not in my experience they don’t.”

Steve furrows his brows. “What’s the matter, Eddie?” he steps closer, seeming to look right through him. He must come to some conclusion because he says “You do not think you deserve to be saved.”

Oof. Looks like he peered right into Eddie’s soul for that one. 

“You are important, Theodore Munson,”

“Don’t call me that like you know me, motherfucker.” Eddie spits out.

Steve cocks his head once again, eyes looking both confused and angry. “I do know you, Theodore Munson. I stitched your body, soul, and very existence back together with my grace." He steps closer, crowding in close to Eddie, who does not waver from his spot. “I know you completely. Body and soul. And you are important.”

Trying his damndest not to be flustered at that, Eddie says “And who decided that?”

Steve smirks “God.”

He reaches out and places his hand directly over the scar on Eddie’s shoulder and suddenly he’s waking up(???) on the floor of the barn. Wayne is stirring beside him as well, grumbling out a long string of curse words.

Sunlight peeks through the barn walls, and the angel is gone. “Jesus H. Christ!”

———

The two hunters are silent all the way back to Wayne’s.

As soon as they step across the threshold, Eddie drops his duffel and starts to pace across Wayne’s open kitchen/living room.

“What can this even mean? Was he serious? Angels, Wayne! Angels?! We need to do research, we need to figure out wards and how to kill them…” He was rambling, mostly to himself, keeping Wayne’s inevitable questions at bay.

He didn’t want to believe what the strikingly beautiful man had said in that barn, but Eddie knew better. Even before the proof of the creature easily walking past all their known warding spells and sigils.

Eddie knew where he was before he wasn’t. Before he’d clawed his way out of a shallow grave that had looked like a bomb’d gone off right over where the center of his chest would’ve been, the trees surrounding all collapsed outward around him when he’d emerged.

Eddie knew he had been in hell, and had been tortured for 30 years.

Beaten. Tortured. Killed. Ripped apart. Stitched whole again for his tormentors to start all over.

Then the real kicker: he’d swapped places. For what seemed to be 10 more years, he did the torturing.

That’s what made this whole thing so unbelievable. Not that heaven and hell existed, he knew better, but that the big man himself sent one of his own to pull him out of hell. That Eddie was worth saving, that he hadn’t done the things he’d done while down there. Obviously God would know, had to know, what he’d done. And yet.

“Where are we even going to find shit like that?” Eddie asks aloud.

“Only one place to start, my boy.”

Eddie looks up in time to catch the book Wayne tossed at him. 

Oh. Duh. It was a bible.

“I don’t think this will help us, Wayne.”

“True, maybe not this version.” Wayne scrubs the scruff on his chin with one hand, the other on his hip. “Wonder what the oldest version of that book is that we can get our hands on.”

“Museum? Church?” Eddie aimlessly flips through the bible, thinking of what ruse he’d have to pull together to get his hands on an old enough copy.

“I don’ think I have it in me to pretend to be a nun.” Wayne beats him to it.

Eddie snorts, “Don’t sell yourself short, old man, you could pull it off if you wanted.” He sits down at Wayne’s old home computer and turns it on. “I wonder if there are any archive scans of some old as shit ones online.”

Hours of research later (mostly to do with how slow Wayne’s connection was), the two hunters had a couple possible warding/banishing sigils, the main one of which (and the most repeated) needed to be drawn in the user’s own blood.

“No word on how long it’ll stay active?” Wayne asks from his seat in front of his fireplace after Eddie explains what he’d found.

“Nothing, just that it must be drawn in the user’s own blood.” Eddie reads from his notes “Maybe that means you can paint one by your recliner and be able to use it forever.”

Wayne scoffs and takes another drink of his beer. Eddie moves towards the front door, flipping open his knife. “I’m gonna put one by the front door for now, I guess we’ll see if it works if Stevie boy shows his mug around here again.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you boy?” Wayne laughs.

“Shut it, old man.”

—--

About a month had passed since first meeting the angel who pulled him out of hell.

Eddie wanted to believe that it wasn’t real, pretend the longer that they went without seeing Steve, that the whole thing was just their imagination. Or something.

Obviously if heaven needed him for something, Steve would’ve been back sooner, right?

Well tough luck for him, because a month and a half after that night in the barn, a beautiful vision of sandy brown hair, hazel eyes, and sunflower yellow sweater materialized in Wayne’s kitchen in a gust of wind.

Eddie definitely didn’t drop the toast he’d been munching on in surprise, nor did his hands fly downward in embarrassment of being caught in just his boxers.

Okay maybe he did.

“Jesus H. Christ! A little fuckin’ warning maybe??”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunched together as he looked the other man up and down. “My apologies, Eddie, what would you like me to do next time?”

Eddie blinked at him, surprised that the angel was willing. “Well I know it must be great and real convenient to just appear where you want, but we have a door you know.” Eddie gestures towards the front door, “You could always appear there and oh, i don’t know, knock?”

The angel looks towards where Eddie had indicated, face still scrunched in confusion. “Very well, Eddie, I will do just that.” and blinked away.

Before he could react, Eddie hears a knock on the front door. “Damn, that worked? Coming!” he yells, heading to the door.

He pulls it open, only to find the front porch empty.

“What in the hell? How the fuck do you know what a ding-dong-ditch is?!?” He yells to nothing and slams the door back closed.

“I do not.” Steve’s voice comes from directly behind him.

“Fucking hell!” Eddie spins around, “What happened to knocking??”

Impossibly, the angel manages to look even more confused. “I did knock. Then I came right back to the kitchen to find you gone.”

All Eddie can do is laugh. “You are something else, Stevie,” he pats the other man’s shoulder and scoots around him to the steps. “Just stay down here, I will be right back as soon as I’m dressed.”

He sees Steve’s hand raise, fingers poised to snap and–

“There, now you are dressed, can I please–”

“Dammit, I can dress myself!” Eddie immediately starts pulling off the suit jacket Steve had decided he should be dressed in. “Just… stay down here, take over Wayne’s armchair, I don’t care, I will be right back, ‘kay?”

He turns and trudges up the stairs to change, “Where the hell’d he even find this suit?” Admittedly, he did a good job. The red shirt and black tie with the black suit is about what he’d pick for himself, but he doesn’t even remember owning a red dress shirt.

Eddie pulls on a well-worn pair of black jeans and an even more well-loved Metallica tee, grabbing up one of Wayne’s flannels and his pocket knife as he heads back out of his room and down the stairs.

He’s almost at the bottom of the stairs when he comes to the sigil he’d drawn on the stairwell wall. Hidden from the front door’s view, but close enough to use if needed. He places his palm in the middle…nothing extraordinary happens.

“Stevie? You there?”

“Yes, Eddie, I am here.”

Damn, so a month and a half is no good. “Okay, just making sure you didn’t leave.” He hears Steve’s footsteps coming closer to the stairwell. Shit. Eddie Flips open his knife and cuts his palm, quickly drawing a new sigil beside the old one. “Almost done, be down soon.”

Steve appears at the bottom of the stairwell as Eddie finishes and steps down the last couple steps. “See, this is what Eddie really is, not that monkey suit crap you had me in before.”

Steve’s face scrunches “I think I prefer the suit.”

“Well I don’t.” There’s a slight pause, “Hey Steve?”

“Yes Eddie?”

“Sorry about this in advance, tell me all about it when you get back?” It’s a risky time to try a one-liner, just in case this doesn’t work and the angel gets pissed, but he couldn’t resist.

“Eddie, what are you–” Eddie slams his hand to the new sigil and the house is engulfed in a blinding white light.

He opens his eyes, and Steve is gone. “Stevie? You there?”

Nothing.

“Well, let's see how long this takes.” He pulls out his phone and starts a timer.

–

It’s about 3 and a half hours until Steve returns.

Eddie hears the flap of wings and pulls out his phone to stop the timer.

“Three and a half hours seems pretty long when you can just teleport everywhere, Stevie.”

“I was unable to return until just now.”

He turns to face the angel from where he’s been crafting the most sandwich of all sandwiches, and the laugh on his lips dies before it can even begin.

Steve looks like a kicked, dejected puppy. Eyebrows pulled up, eyes wide and shining, plump, kissable lips pulled taught and downward into a pout.

“Oh Stevie, don’t look so dejected.” Eddie muses and turns away before he can do something stupid like pull the other man into a hug and pepper his face with kisses until he smiles again. Not like Eddie been thinking about it or anything, gotta tamp down the idea though, right?

“You want a sammich? That must’ve taken a lot out of you.”

“No, Eddie, I do not want a sandwich. I want you to tell me why you used a banishing sigil on me.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, angel, I can assume you’re a good guy all I want but I wanted to make sure what I found would get rid of others like you just in case.” he picks up his finished sandwich and turns to face Steve, leaning back against his mess on the counter as he takes a bite, speaking around his mouthful. “Where’d you end up, anyway?”

The angel’s face had morphed into an angry frown (at least it looked like anger; it didn’t seem like conveying emotions was something he’d gotten a grasp on yet.) “A small town in Indiana.”

“Really? Indiana? You don’t immediately get thrown back up to heaven?”

“No, we are just blasted backwards from the sigil. We are unable to return to that spot until the ward wears off.”

Eddie swallows “You said ‘we’. There are more of you then.”

“Of course there are, Eddie, I have many brothers and sisters.”

“Are all of them the good guys then? Won’t try to hurt anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Well if they do, at least we know that this sigil will work to get rid of them.”

Steve pondered that for a moment. “Please do be careful with that sigil, Eddie. If an angel is heavily injured, the sigil may banish them from existence permanently, not just from you.”

“Good to know, thanks Stevie.” he takes another bite of his sandwich. “Now, what is it that you needed?”

Part 2 is here!! | NOW ON AO3

[swndmehelp]

Oc explanation time because I’ve been forgetting to do it. Imma start with my Fallout New Vegas OC because I’m obsessed with her. Also TW for mention of torture and stuff like that.

Jem was an NCR (New California Republic) Ranger, she was 18 when she first joined. She’s one of youngest people to join the NCR Rangers being at the age of 19. She was 21 when she was kidnapped by the legion. When I draw her she’s 23 years old so it’s been 2 years since the events of her getting captured.

She is one of Manny Vargas cousins he talked about when you first meet him and she was close with Boone during her time with the NCR before she was captured. When Jem was captured she was brainwashed into becoming a legion assassin. They found old pre-war tech that could register an electric shock to whoever had them and they implanted them down her spine and come other places so she would do as they say with the threat of shocking her if she attempted to fight back or go against them, they also did a surgery in which ruined her vocal cords causing her to not be able to talk a lot after and removed her tongue a couple times to give her some other discipline other than other torture methods. She was very efficient when she was with the legion taking out multiple NCR soldiers at a time.

Later Jem was recaptured by the NCR and went under sever psychological and physical care to try and get her back to normal and out of legion mindset. She was trained to attack and/or kill any NCR personnel so it was difficult at first but they managed to help her not attack instantly. She still had a high chance of relapse so they didn’t instantly bring her back to the Rangers when she started getting better. After she was proven to be mostly recovered they recruited her to be a medic at Camp McCarran.

She had scars in each corner of her mouth from when they removed her tongue, she has one across her throat from the vocal cord surgery, and one down her chest and back from when they implanted the shock tech (they never removed it so it still poses a threat of relapse).

Imma make character sheets for my characters later I’ve just had no motivation.

[friendlylemonade]

Tw: torture mentions, description of torture

does anyone remember that really weird fnaf ar trailer? I’ve looked online, but I can’t find it anywhere. I remember seeing, presumably Vanessa, doing some weird stuff, I only really remember her looking up something like an ‘eagle wing’ torture method I think it’s called. It was (I think) from the viking age, where they’d reverse the spine and ribs so it’d look like ‘wings’ and she got a really graphic picture drawing of it and used it as her calendar picture. She did some other stuff that I can’t remember. There was also a text saying something like, “are you okay, van?”

Am I going crazy? I swear this was an actual ad/trailer. Seriously, am I the only one who remembers this?

[lumpofwhump]

Do you know how one would write brainwashing whump? For context: Girl has to fight her adoptive older brother who was kidnapped in the middle of the night by a dude who is obsessed with dolls. I wanna make it painful for him since he’s the oldest between him, the adoptive sister and his bio sister so he’s gonna be thinking about them and when they find him the light in his eyes are gone, and he’s way too compliant to his kidnapper. (I’m prolly gonna ask a lotta whump blogs sorry)

TW: Torture, cults, mention of institutionalized child abuse

Do you mean how one would write the brainwashing process itself? Oh boy, here comes the infodump!

What we think of as brainwashing has a lot in common with torture and interrogation, as well as cult tactics of control (and methods used in “troubled teen” programs, but do not get me started on that or we’ll be here all day). So a lot of the same methods of making someone compliant and suggestible work here too, especially in combination with one another:

Food deprivation (including small portions or nutritionally unbalanced diets)

Social isolation/solitary confinement

Sensory deprivation/sensory bombardment

Bathroom deprivation

Sleep deprivation

Holding stress positions for long periods of time.

Forced repeated exercise

Some things that you can also play around with are:

“Struggle sessions” or “encounter groups,” where a group of captives are made to insult or scream at each other, weaponizing their relationships, insecurities, and even responses to stress for hours on end without break (except possibly of their minds 🙃).

Thought-terminating clichés - phrases whumper uses to immediately shut down positive comments about the targets or other forms of verbal resistance, until whumpee internalizes this.

Having the whumpee listen to recordings that espouse the whumper’s point of view for hours on end, especially if this is the only semblance of social contact they have.

Reenactment or forced confession sessions where the whumper progressively gaslights the whumpee into believing that their targets have harmed them or others. For instance, whumpee has to write a list of every interaction they’ve had with their loved one they can remember. Whumper rejects the list as untrue or incomplete, making them write it again. Rinse and repeat for five, ten hours, no bathroom breaks, no food, no sleep, nothing, until whumper gets something closer to what they want. Then, on another occasion, have whumpee reenact a negative interaction with whumper, and whumper makes it sliiiiightly worse. Repeat the process until whumpee believes their target is a fucking abusive monster.

Closer to the end of the process, have whumpee “practice” violence against effigies of the intended targets, or actors (especially if they’re other captives!) to desensitize them to it.

I honestly wouldn’t use nonconsensual drugging in writing brainwashing, as 1) it’s unpredictable and 2) it can wear off, but if that’s a theme you like, it’s fiction, so have fun!

If you, or anyone else reading this, wants to do a deep dive into this, I’d recommend the following:

Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: A Study of ‘Brainwashing’ in China by Robert Jay Lifton.

Declassified CIA Interrogation Manuals from the 60’s and 70’s (I dug them up on Google a few years back).

Poisoner in Chief: Sidney Gottlieb and the CIA Search for Mind Control by Stephen Kinzer: Ultimately more about what doesn’t work in reality than what does, but holy GOD is the CIA infinitely more fucked up than you think.

Books, podcasts or documentaries about specific cults - Synanon, Scientology, and the People’s Temple (AKA Jonestown) are the ones I’ve read/listened about most.

The Lucifer Effect by Philip Zimbardo. Even given the criticisms (to say the least) of the Stanford Prison Experiment, it still has a lot of valuable information.

Help at Any Cost by Maia Szalavitz, about the “troubled teen” industry of boot camps and modern day reform schools that draw a lot from the cults of the 60’s and 70’s. (HEAVY CW for child abuse.)

This is probably more than you wanted, but I hope it helps!

[caffeinatedopossum]

Alright here we go, talking about my ✨️religious upbringing ✨️

Tw for uhh idk descriptions of torture and stuff ig??

So for reference I was only allowed to befriend or talk to people my parents approved of so I wouldn't know how bizarre any of our beliefs were or weren't. Some people that fit into the group of folks I wasn't supposed to engage with were: non-Christians, children who were public-schooled, and really anyone who disagreed with my parents. Everything I read, watched, or heard was also censored by them. ESPECIALLY anything involving evolution- it was to the point where my family would get rid of any book I had that mentioned it or anything about the earth being over 6,000 years old. I even remember sitting down at the kitchen table with my parents and one of my favorite drawing books when I was about 6 years old and being guided to black out any words that went against our beliefs with a sharpie.

Another, more ridiculous example of this is the warrior cats books, a series me and my siblings ADORED. Now the only reason we were allowed to read these books was because our dad (the Head Of The Family™️) allowed it while our mom, if she had her way, would never let us read it- "why, because of heresy"? You might ask BUT NO it was because they allowed 'female soldiers' and my mom believed that women should never be in the military.

The stuff that really troubled me though is the things we were taught about the rapture. My parents made no attempt to even hide this stuff from me until I was an appropriate age (if that's possible) because I was hearing about this stuff as young as 5 years old: firstly, I was told that the rapture would happen during my lifetime. Secondly, I was told that when it happened, one of two things would happen to me. Either I would be spared and go directly to heaven after dying a painless death, after which I would wait for the rest of the believers and we would all fight in the last battle against hell with the angels OR I would be left behind to endure 7 (or 14, I don't remember) years of plagues, wars, famines, and torment. I was told that the suffering would be so severe that anyone left would crawl into caves and beg for rocks to crush them to death. Alternatively, "the enemy" (non believers) would eventually hunt down all the Christians and threaten to renounce christ and if we didn't, we would be tortured and killed but if we did, we would be allowed to live but even if we repented, we would eventually go to hell for the only sin God would never forgive. We were in fact given specific examples of what this torture might entail too, including but not limited to: being slowly burned alive, having fingernails pulled, water boarding, crucifixion (I think? My memories of these details are... fuzzy) and other such methods.

I was told that the rapture would "happen when no one expects it" and I took this literally, believing that if I could convince myself everyday that the rapture WOULD happen that day, I could single-handedly prevent it. I also think it's worth mentioning that despite the fact I was incredibly terrified of this happening, I couldn't show it because it would be seen as a sign of disbelief/distrust in God.

[cinnamonest]

Yandere Genshin -- murder methods

Whilst I work on archiving and organizing reqs/asks, have this that I've been saving for a while now -- first I had bois and corpse disposal, now some of the bois and murder methods, yay!

TWs: dark yandere, all kinds of murder and violence obviously, torture mentions, gore, viscera, one eyeball torture mention, mentions of being eaten by animals, all under a cut

I feel like the default answer would be to say Albedo would poison people but actually... that's too gracious, in his opinion. He's a very spiteful, jealous and possessive yan so he wants to genuinely make his victims suffer, like they made him suffer by existing and interacting with darling. It's only fair (equivalent exchange is the law of alchemy y'know) to make them feel the same pain. So if possible, he might use a form of poisoning that would cause the victim intense pain before dying, but that isn't too easy to make, as obtaining ingredients can be difficult. That being said, he doesn't need to make it super slow and torturous, just enough to get rid of the itch, the need to physically exert that anger. In the end that most likely manifests as throat-slitting. Comes up behind them and grabs them by the collar or hair and does it in one swift motion. It's perfect because they can't make enough noise to draw attention, it's enough to get out the anger, and he gets to look them in their terrified eyes as the light slowly leaves, staying alive just a few seconds long enough to get his satisfaction.

There are very few circumstances that would lead Venti to kill, which is why I didn't mention him in the disposal post, but his method is essentially also disposal, and very befitting of him -- he simply lures them to a set destination, that destination being that little cliffside where his favorite flowers grow, and just... lets a rather powerful gust of wind sweep them right off the side. He's very squeamish and very guilty, so he wants to avoid the reality of his actions as much as possible. He stands at a distance, he covers his ears and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to hear the yelling, the gut-twisting crack and splatter as they hit the rock below, he doesn't want to see it happen. It's one of the few circumstances under which he practices self-delusion, letting himself believe it was an accident, refusing to even acknowledge he did it. Unfortunately, he knows the one thing he has to do is go check, lean over a bit and look down to make sure they're dead, but he only does so for a matter of seconds.

And there are even less circumstances in which Bennett would kill, but when he does, it's actually surprisingly smart for him. He organizes an accident. He's very familiar with how accidents happen, how slight mistakes can set off a chain effect, and knows how to make anything look like a freak accident. He'd go for something remote, not up close -- the most likely I can see is crushing. They just happen to be standing right in the perfect position, and someone stumbles over a conveniently placed object, to which they knock something off, they fall and hit the wall, and the vibrations of that just so happen to cause the chandelier that was apparently way too loosely tied to fall, or they stumble straight into the statue on the edge of a balcony and knock it right onto poor victim's head, crushing them. In that way, not only can he do it indirectly, but he can make it happen right in front of people, so that there's no doubt it was a total accident.

I’ve mentioned that Chongyun and Xingqiu both are somewhat unlikely to murder, and would only do so out of slipping into a manic state or panic/impulse respectively. So the forms it takes are quick, simple, and not premeditated. It's most likely a simple stabbing on Xingqiu's end, he ends up just ramming his sword straight through their body, impaling them, and once they fall to the ground he panics and just crawls on top of them and stakes it through their body over and over until they stop moving. He's hesitant and scared of it all, nudging the body with his foot to make sure they're dead before running away. Chongyun on the other hand goes for bludgeoning, crushing the skull in. He's a bit stronger physically and can manage it. The claymore he has would also do some slicing damage, of course, but it's heavy enough that slamming the dull sides in is enough to crack a skull and, with repetition, cave the head in entirely.

As for the worst ways to die, Kaeya and Xiao are pretty closely tied with Razor, theirs being worse in terms of agony, but his might actually be the worst from a mental torture standpoint. Being slowly ripped apart by vicious animals is not exactly the ideal way to go. But most importantly, they won't wait for the victim to be fully dead to start eating them. So the poor person gets to watch their very guts being eaten as they die, and something is frankly incredibly horrific about the idea of slowly losing consciousness as everything goes numb, looking up and seeing these monstrous creatures holding your limbs and organs in their mouths, a sort of mortal, primal disgust and horror and realization of death that the others can't compare to. He participates, of course, even though he's lacking in the claws and teeth they have, it doesn't mean he can't do his fair share of raking his hands into the split flesh and using strength to pull the arms and legs out of sockets. As I said in the disposal post, there's just... literally nothing left by the end of it. The whole body is gone, save maybe a few single bones they didn't fully consume and instead choose to chew on.

Xiao and Kaeya have in common that they're both vicious, vicious bastards that are spiteful and violent and can easily sink into the depths of utter depravity in their anger. Both will torture. Xiao is slightly worse because he has absolutely zero squeamishness, he's basically just mentally preprogrammed to not be bothered in any capacity by gore, and he's more desensitized, whereas Kaeya can't 100% turn off the natural human squeamishness/aversion to gore, and also because he has no concept of a human's capacity for pain and blood loss. Kaeya has experience in torture from years of having to interrogate people, and knows exactly how far you can push the body before they die. Xiao on the other hand has no experience in that, when he's dealing with anything he's always aiming to kill. So as a result, Kaeya's lasts longer and he knows the exact killing blow, Xiao ends up just going and going and ultimately ends up killing them sooner than he'd actually intended by accident. Kaeya's is slower, starts off with small things like ripping off nails and eyeball torture, freezing patches of skin, and ultimately the body won't be too mutilated by the end of it -- most of the torture is on the skin layer, and he only moves to either stabbing in the guts or slitting the throat at the very end.  Xiao on the other hand goes straight to gutting and ripping off body parts, so while it's shorter, it's more brutal, and by the end of it the body is mutilated beyond recognition and completely torn apart, gutted and mutilated.

Diluc is also pretty torturous in nature, the difference is that he's more likely to kill in a sudden snap of anger rather than premeditating it like Xiao/Kaeya and, as a result, it's quicker and more direct, but still not particularly slow. Ironically, normally a man of few words, in that moment he really verbally tears into them, he wants to speak his mind and express his anger and hatred fully, and see the fear in someone's eyes. He stabs them through the gut, twists the knife, but doesn't pull it out -- that makes them die faster. He's strong enough to restrain them while he snarls in their face about how much he hates them, how much he'll love to watch them die, all the vitriol comes out all at once in a low growling voice and then he just kind of goes for it -- slashing, hacking, intentionally drawing it out a bit by not stabbing directly into the organs.

And Zhongli doesn't want to get his hands dirty, you know? Too much of that after all these years... but he's not merciful either. Much like Bennett, he opts for crushing. Takes that whole "wrath of the rock" thing to another level. That way he can just sit back and watch them suffer -- not too heavy, he doesn't want it to be an instant death, but it's not too long. A few crushes and finally one takes the head and that's the end of them. He won't talk too much, he mostly talks before, not during, in a matter-of-fact sort of way, but he doesn't get enraged -- they're not worth that, he thinks, so he keeps his cool, merely looking down on them and informing them he's about to kill them with a cold, apathetic, arrogant sort of way, like he’s merely about to crush an ant.

Scaramouche is the opposite, he wants to get up close and personal, and kind of like Diluc, he wants to spit in their face and tell them how happy killing them makes him. He goes for asphyxiation. This can take a few forms -- he might drown them, dunking their head underwater long enough for them to take water into the lungs, or he might hang them from the ceiling, but most likely he goes directly for the throat with his own two hands. He's not... the biggest or most muscular man in the world, so he ties them up first, or, more than likely, does something like stab their hands into the ground so they can't move without agony. He just clamps two hands down on their throat and squeezes tight until the light leaves their eyes -- it's not too complicated, quite simple really, and it gives him a rush like nothing else.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The General (Part 7): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: the General makes you train, you wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into, and plans are revealed. 

wc: 2K

tw: none

a/n: Thank you for being patient, sunshines! 7.5 will be out tonight as a huge thank you to all of my followers and anons who are reading. You all are just amazing. 

masterlist

“Take a break!” The heavy rake is tossed to the ground,and you struggle for air, panting and coughing. Torturing you with the rake-swinging seemed to be Geto’s objective today, and it’s taking the life out of your body. 

As you rest on your back - facing the sky - there’s a massive gust of air above you, and you tilt your head back to see a tiny, raven haired boy standing above you. He’s fanning you eagerly, face scrunched up in frown as he exerts all of his energy on the fan. Your first reaction is to stare at the child in fascination; the next is to laugh. 

“Junpei…” you chuckle, and the child stops, letting the fan drift to his side. “You’re too sweet.” He nods once, huffing out a short breath, then starts fanning you again, making your hair blow back behind your ears. 

“Giving Lady y/n a nice breeze, Junpei?” Geto asks, walking towards you two with the rake in his hand. 

“Yes, Master Geto,” Junpei affirms, scrunching his face up even more as he increases  the force of his fanning. Geto leans on the rake and watches the scene with a small smile on his face, and you allow Junpei to continue his task for a moment longer before standing. You grin at the child, placing a hand on his head as you murmur:

“Thank you, sweet one.” His hair bobs as he bows to you, then to Geto, and dashes off into the camp once more. You watch the child run off, his hair flying in the stale air of the mid-day. 

“You have quite a few admirers, I see,” Geto begins, and you shake your head. “First, little Itadori, now Junpei… who’s next, I wonder?”

“I would like to wager a certain General would be next in line to try and win my hand,” you reply; Geto straightens up immediately and walks closer to you, a lazy grin painted on his face. 

“Well, it seems that General might have quite a difficult time getting past your growing line of suitors.” You both chuckle, and Geto tilts up your chin with a forefinger. You’re prepared to kiss him - well, that is until he stops and says:

“Only six more sets of ten swings to go.”

_______________________________________________________________________

 You can barely bring your spoon to your lips during lunch. 

“My Lady, do you require assistance?” 

You shake your head no, but your arms are screaming please help us. 

It was one thing to have to swing until the sun went down. It’s an entirely different thing to not only swing seventy times but also run laps around the field like a soldier in training. You felt exhausted by the third lap, but Geto encouraged you to run more; his hands on his knees as he watched you turn into a floundering fish on land. 

The other women surely watched you train with a curious eye. No one dares to ask why you allow Geto to reduce you to mush in full view of the camp, even though they know why you let him do it. 

Because he turns you to mush when they’re not watching, as well. 

“Master Geto?” Kaori shouts, standing from her seated position on the tarp laid out in the grass. 

“No, don’t!” you cry out, but she’s already trudging down the field, leaving you behind as she calls Geto’s name over and over again. You curse softly, sitting down your soup with agonizing slowness and try to stand from where you’re sitting, but your legs will not move an inch. 

“She can barely move; how do you expect her to eat lunch and remain healthy if you render her arms useless? Then you walk off, leaving her to her own devices! You don’t pay me enough to feed her like you do during dinner.” Kaori is stomping back up to you, followed closely by Geto, who is shrugging on his haori and appears to be rather alarmed. “You should take better care of your captives, Master Geto. Look at her!” 

You try your best to look as painless as possible, but the facade is broken when Geto extends a hand out and you grimace as you try to reach your own hand out. His face falls instantly and without speaking, he hoists you up into his arms. “Kaori, bring her soup, please. I’ll feed her myself.” Your head rests against his broad chest limply, and the way that his heart beats wildly against your ears oddly soothes you. You’re in pain, yes, but you’re not completely immune to the way he makes your heart stutter and trip over itself when he’s near you. And you’ve never been as near to him as you are now. 

“When you are in pain, you need to say something,” Geto chastises as he lays you in the bed, folding a fur up before resting you against it and sitting beside you. “Kaori made it sound like you were dying.” 

“I wasn’t dying,” you retort. “I tried to prevent her from saying anything.” 

“So, you thought I wouldn’t find out later?” When the head maid deposits the soup bowl into Geto’s hands, he looks up at you and raises a brow. 

“No, I--” 

“Open.” A spoonful of clear onion soup is presented to you, and you obey, knowing your argument is completely lost already. “It’s my duty to make sure you’re taken care of while you’re here,” he continues, offering another spoonful. “You should let me know when you’re struggling, or when you need something.” 

Your mouth is full of soup, so you can’t reply like you want to. But what would you even say? Would you tell him that you’ve been struggling between your plan - which had been altered slightly over the past few days - or would you tell him you needed him in more ways than one?  

“Master Geto,” a voice calls out at the opening of the tent. You don’t recognize the voice at all, but when the person walks through the flaps, you recognize his face. His wide, dark blue eyes are all-too familiar, and the young man’s mouth presses together in a thin line at the sight of you being spoon-fed by Geto. This is the same man who captured you when you tried to run away the first time. 

“Yuta, I’m glad you’re here. What do you have for me?” Yuta… The name rings a bell along with the memory of Nanami mentioning him when talking about the new emissary. Yuta produces a thin roll of brown paper and hands it to Geto. 

“They’re not going to send another emissary.” The implications of this knowledge brings the weight of the world down on your shoulders, and you look to Geto’s face, which is blank. 

“Wait, but that means--” you’re quickly interrupted by Yuta’s sharp eyes cutting to you, and Geto chuckles. 

“That means I’d better get you all settled in the next village as soon as possible.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

“What if the elders don’t agree to his plan?” you wonder aloud, and Kaori runs water down your arms before answering softly. 

“Then he will wipe the village out, my Lady.” 

“But how? And single handedly?” 

“I won’t claim to know how he does it. I have never been privy to his methods, nor would I want to be.” 

You think about Kaori’s words long after the bath was over, alone in the bedroom and wrapped in furs. The thought of Geto slaughtering an entire village is chilling, but his truly ruthless side was not something you had been exposed to. You shake thoughts of death out of your mind and stand from the bed, dragging the fur pelt behind you as you stride over to Geto’s desk to eye his newest plans. 

The page full of black and red ink marks is unfamiliar to you, and you can’t make heads or tails of the drawings despite looking at it from different angles. The mystery of the paper engrosses you fully - so much so that you don’t hear someone approaching you from behind. 

“They’re formations.” Yuta speaks behind you, and you jolt, knocking your hip against the table. 

“I b-beg your pardon?” you stutter, clutching the pelt around you tightly. 

“Formations... for battle.”  Yuta reaches over to point at a circle and then to the arrows moving away from it. “This is the center of the formation - where Master Gojo will be - and this,” he points to the triangle at the head of the formation. “Is where Master Geto will be.” 

“Why is Gojo well-protected and not Geto?” The inquiry is met with laughter as Yuta slides the paper away from you. 

“He’s not being protected. He’s protecting everyone else.” 

“And when is this occurring?” Yuta raises a brow, looking over at you with a tender gaze. 

“Haibara and Gojo are negotiating with the closest village as we speak, but we could encounter the Imperial Warriors at any time. This could happen tomorrow, if I’m being honest.” 

“Tomorrow?” Your shock doesn’t affect the young man at all, and he steps away from you, eyeing you carefully. 

“I won’t say anything further. Geto is protecting you from this information for some reason, and has obviously commanded Kaori to say nothing as well.” With this, he exits, and you’re left looking at the squares, circles, and triangles while wondering where you fit into all of this mess. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Your encounter with Yuta gave you more questions than answers, and when the bed dips behind you, you roll over to meet Geto face to face, intent on getting answers.

“I thought you were asleep.” You don’t respond to the statement, instead sitting up fully and pushing your hair out of your eyes. 

“You should have told me that you could go to war at any time.” Geto frowns, sliding in next to you and tilting his head to the side. 

“I’m waiting on word from Haiba--” 

“And that. What happened to my village after you took me?” 

“Little one, I haven’t touched your village. You would know if I made any decisions about the fate of your peers.” 

“Kaori doesn’t know what happened to her family, and she’s just a maid! Why would you feel obligated to tell me - a captive - about my family?” 

“You’re more than just a captive to me, y/n. You know that,” he whispers, blinking slowly. 

“Right, I’m a pawn,” you grunt. “I asked you to tell me your game, and now I’m asking you again. What do you plan on doing with me while you’re away at war? I know you’re not stupid enough to leave me here while you’re away and can’t keep an eye on--” 

Geto puts up a hand, trying to stop you from speaking. “You’re right, I hav--” 

“Did you know I tried to run away?” The General looks at you, face blank. “But I came back and…” You fumble for the words, but they don’t feel right in your mouth. So, you rephrase. “I came back because…” You pause. You remember the reason you justified coming back, but it doesn’t make sense now. You can’t even say you followed your own plan. It had fallen by the wayside the moment Geto’s lips met yours; that you knew for a fact. 

“Nanami watched you; I knew you left the tent the moment you began walking across the camp,” he admits, and your lips part in surprise. “But you turned around. I came to confront you after dinner, and that’s why I was at the tent when you started to yell. My anger overshadowed my disappointment, but then even that was overshadowed by my desire to have you.” 

“Then why--” 

“I’m not leaving you here; you’re absolutely right about that. I wanted to wait to tell you when the time was right, but… I suppose now is the time. Your carriage will leave as soon as Gojo and Haibara send word back to me about the village. I’m sending you home.”

TAGLIST: @kamisamaundercover​ @jotazinha @just4readingfics​ @mxhi​ @sammytamaki​ @brownskinnedgirll​ @keelyshayee​ @leanne-tamashi​ @vabybizzle​ @amaris9​ 

[droughtale]

Daily Routine (Droughtale)

Okay this is the most fucked thing anybody in our system has ever written. This was written by our headmate Weniviere (she/her).

If you’ve seen this drawing, you’re well aware that Lily was captured by a flower named Echo. How and why she was kidnapped will be revealed through Celest’s journey, but the point being is that she has been stuck with them for around twelve years by the time Celest has come.

This takes place seven years into that (five years before Celest’s arrival.) And this will not be a fun thing to read by any means.

Mega TW: Rape/sexual abuse. The main actions are not detailed, but are highly referenced/implied. There is two moments written in detail, one of which is forced-kissing and the other is non-consentual hickeys. Other triggering content includes psychological torture, stockholm syndrome, masochism (as a trauma response/coping method), disassociation/derealization, manipulation, dehumanization, degrading, forced labor/slavery, starvation, mentioned suicide/self-harm, and references to physical torture.

Theres also the consumption of blood, but...this is droughtale. Its all about a drought and thirst. Don’t think we need to explain much further there.

Note: “Echline” is basically echoflower blood. It’s the juices inside of echoflowers. In our AUs, it causes temporary paralyzation when drank. It also is hydrating to drink and good for cleaning (similar to hand-sanitizer.)

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Lily could say with confidence she had adjusted to her newly assigned routine.

It had only been a month since the schedule had changed, but Master had been patient, understanding that she needed re-conditioning. For that, she felt grateful, as it meant that punishments for slipping up were more merciful.

More than anything, Lily was excited . As terrifying and dizzying as the last few weeks had been for her, she could honestly say that she was becoming not only skilled in her newly assigned tasks, but was adjusting to the change of pace quickly and efficiently. She couldn’t help but feel pleased with herself, which was a nice and extremely rare feeling to experience so early in the morning.

Over the last seven years, it had grown far less often that such feelings of pride rose up in her chest and squeezed at her lungs. She welcomed the feeling with desperate, open arms – anything to drown out the screaming noise in her head that had begun haunting her. It had started the day her body had been claimed, and seemed to only grow louder the longer she sat or lay still. But she wouldn’t be letting those voices abuse her today; not when she could force the pride she felt to yell louder.

Michael probably wouldn’t have been so proud. He probably would have felt disgusted with the confidence she felt in this. But it was no matter; he had yet to come back, and seeing as it had been weeks, she agonizingly had to admit he probably never would...

...But that was beside the point of the current matter. The current matter was that she get through her day flawlessly; no mistakes. No slip-ups. She was going to make Echo proud of her. Maybe even proud enough to receive a reward!

Oh, what would she be given? The options were all so wonderful, dancing around in her mind in an almost taunting manner. Food could never fail to bring her begging on her knees, even before it became such a limited treat. Her heart had always gone soft for food.

Her last reward had been four days ago; it was, of all excellent options her Master so generously kept for her, a bowl of mac and cheese. The flavorful cheddar made it easy to distract herself from the salty iron that stung on her taste-buds, from the blood the noodles had been cooked in. She basked in the memory of it; sweet, melty cheese, delightfully dancing on her tongue.

Echo had even said it was possible that she may be rewarded a cinnamon bunny if she continues being a polite and well-behaved pet, or an unspeaking prettied-up doll. She sure hoped that would be her reward today; she was going to persevere this with all her soul, if it offered even the slimmest of chances of her favorite treat blessing her tongue. Not to mention a bit of weight inside of her stomach.

She shook off her thoughts of food, smacking her face to snap out of the trance and get out of bed. It wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark – she knew far too well that Echo did not take kindly do hurting herself, even when it’s an accident. When and how she physically suffered was a privilege owned by them, and them alone.

Sitting up on her mattress, she glanced at the clock above the metal door. It read 5:30 AM – perfect. Thirty minutes to prepare herself as best she could. The newly found schedule had thrown off her sleep, due to her body’s readjustments to her new physical duties...but it was no bother. It’s not as if sleep would rid her of the exhaustion she felt by the end of the day. She just hoped that this time, the aching sorrow squeezing her soul would be worth it.

She got out of bed, ignoring the sound of cracking bones, and the shivers of pain they sent through her as they snapped in her body; bone rubbing into bone, or piercing and jabbing muscle and skin. It was a delightful experience, and she wished she had time to press on every tortured spot on her body, so she could feel that pleasurable ache that rocked through her when she did, leaving her gasping and whimpering. Every wound and strain put on her was but a symbol of Master’s care for her; the dedication and effort they put into training her.

Realizing she had already spent four minutes just getting out of bed, she knew she needed to quicken her pace if she were to be ready for her Master’s awakening. Hurriedly, she fixed the sheets on her bed, fluffing the pillow and folding the blanket neatly. By the time she was sure that the bed would be to Echo’s liking, she had used up yet another three minutes of precious time.

Lily knelt down to browse through the clothes Echo had provided the night before. They were folded neatly by her mattress, which made her cheeks go warm with a blush – it was not often that they folded her clothes for her. It was a kindness she had earned, and she wished she could boast it to the world.

The clothes chosen were a lot more covering than what she had grown to expect the past few weeks. Instead of a bikini or lingerie, she was provided with a skirt and loose crop-top. Both of which, of course, were made of fabrics colored Echoflower blue. Lily couldn’t help the excitement that pounded in her damaged heart – it had been weeks since she had worn something so comfortable!

Her collar and a bag of Echline wipes were neatly placed out as well. It was evident what day she would be having; a pet day. She much preferred to be a pet. Toy-days were agonizing in comparison, as she was forced to sit or lie paralyzed and helpless as Echo played with her however they so desired.

Often times, on toy days, she had no choice but to get lost in the pool of her unwanted thoughts, sinking in them until she couldn’t see any light leaking through the waves and currents; when everything turned dark and muffled. Her head and soul grew tight the deeper she sank, feeling as though they’d pop from the pressure. The pressure would grow stronger, and stronger, crashing into her and tugging at her insides, constricting her until she exploded from it. It was only after that release that she could escape the wretched water that had spread throughout her mind.

She shook her head. Dwelling on it right then was a waste of time. She picked up the wipes, carefully getting to work cleaning her body as best and thoroughly she could in such short time. She couldn’t help but whimper at the way it stung and burned whenever it brushed over the cuts on her skin; like hand sanitizer on an open wound. She couldn’t tell if the pain provided relieving bliss or if she was in psychological misery.

Wiping off the remains of the previous day’s bedtime-routine was the hardest part of her morning cleaning. It always dried on her skin overnight, making it a struggle to peel off. She was extra careful to not let any of the seeds fall and get lost on the floor; Echo would be furious if flowers were to grow in her room, especially if it were due to her own incompetence.

But the most difficult part of it wasn’t how well it stuck to her skin, or how careful she had to be not to make a mess. It was the mental warfare that reigned in her mind, as she fought against her body’s natural urges. Seeing the result of Echo’s pleasure, coated in the space between her thighs...it forced her to bite down the bile rising in her throat, swallowing hard and taking deep shaky breaths.

There was no time to cry; crying was best done at night, when it was all over. She had to keep her mind focused if she wanted to get through the day as peacefully as possible. So, she ignored the agonizing ache within her mind and soul, trying her hardest to focus only on the task at hand, rather than the feelings and thoughts trembling through her body.

It was ironic, in a way, that the results of Echo’s pleasure disgusted her so much...and yet their pleasure was exactly what she was aiming for today. Exactly what would get her a reward.

She felt so dirty, and sticky, and marked. And it hurt – not the physical soreness of being used so roughly, no, that’s not what hurt her. It hurt that she was being used at all . It hurt that she was no longer a person in Monsters’ eyes. She was many things; a murderer, the cause of the drought, a toy, a doll, a human pet, a personal slave. But not a person. Never a person.

And now, the only one she had left in the Underground that treated her as a living being was gone. She wondered if he stopped seeing her livelihood that day. Maybe seeing her get repurposed in such a perverted way disgusted him to the point where he wanted no part in it. No part in her life. She wondered if her parents would think that way too, if they were to see what had become of her.

It took every fiber of strength in her soul to blink back the tears gathering in her eye, and to calm her shaky breaths.

Once she finished cleaning herself thoroughly, she put the dirty wipes back in the bag they came in, tucking it in the corner and glancing at the clock. She only had seven minutes to get dressed. Not the best amount of time, but it would make-do. She really needed to get quicker at wash-up, but that was something that would take practice and experience, both of which she was still lacking in.

She carefully slipped into the skirt and crop-top, twirling and giggling joyfully. She liked the way the skirt swayed against her body. It had been so long since she’d last worn one, and she was so grateful Echo had chosen it for her today. It had been quite some months since she had felt this cute! Not to mention comfortable.

She clicked her collar into place, adjusting it so her name-tag was in the right spot. As always, it was tight against her throat, squeezing the rope-burns on her neck uncomfortably. It choked ever-so-lightly, but was nothing she couldn’t handle; nothing compared to when Echo’s vines or roots were lodged in her throat, creeping down into her lungs. If she had learned to breathe through that, then she wouldn’t allow a simple collar to bother her.

The clock struck 6AM, and the alarm rang. It sounded of bells, crashing together in a cry of warning. A sound of alert, which made her ears ring and her head feel dizzy.

She dropped down in front of the door, adjusting her body to be kneeling submissively. In her head, she began to count to thirty, trying to drown out the blaring alarm blasting through her eardrums. It was when she reached twenty-eight seconds that the metal door clicked open, and the alarm automatically turned off.

Echo’s vines slipped through the cracks of the door, gently pulling it open the rest of the way. Their mouth turned upwards into a grin upon spotting her, to which she could feel her heart pound and soul tremble.

“Why good morning, my sweet sunflower!~” they paused, giving her a chance to respond...after several seconds of silence, their smile turned more genuine, and their voice became a satisfied whisper, “Oh, what a good girl! Speak.”

She tries to keep the pride bubbling in her chest from creeping into her voice, but some of it slipped through despite her best efforts, “Good morning, Master...!”

“Oh my! Someone is in a good mood. How delightful,” they chuckled, offering a vine to her,

“Stand. It's time for some breakfast. I sure am hungry!”

Lily nodded, standing and gently taking their vine into her hand, to which it snaked its way around her arm, tracing a flower-pattern repeatedly on her shoulder. She shivered at the sensation; even after so many times experiencing it, she was unsure if it was pleasurable or repulsive.

She tried to ignore the aching in her stomach, begging for its own fill. She would eat later. She just had to do well today. Her hunger wouldn’t go unrewarded, not today.

“I think this is a pancake morning, don’t you?” they asked, in a sweet and curious tone, as they led her through the living room and into the kitchen (which also doubled as a dining room.) Lily tried to ignore the desperate ache in her stomach, as it growled yearningly at the mention of food.

“I will eat later,” she thought insistently to herself, “My efforts won’t go unrewarded this time. I will be fed today. I will. I just need to be strong. I just need to be obedient. I need to keep being a good girl.”

She nodded, forcing a smile. Echo either didn’t notice the force behind it, or was amused by the strain, because they made no annoyed comment.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Echo let go of her arm, settling in at the dining table, petals twitching. She glanced at the clock. 6:04 AM. She had fifty-six minutes at most, but it was best to be done before 6:30 if she wanted to avoid boring Echo. Boring them always led to negative consequences; not punishments, just...uncomfortable behaviors.

She had made pancakes enough times to remember every ingredient, without using one of her three lifelines. She hoped not to use any lifelines during her cooking today. If she was able to succeed without asking for assistance, she may receive an extra reward – and that was a chance she just couldn’t pass up, especially when she felt ready to collapse at any moment from the emptiness of her stomach. In fact, the thought of a meal was quite literally the only thing that gave her the strength and will to stay conscious and on her feet.

The first thing she did was turn on the stove, at a low setting. She had learned very quickly just how important heating the stove was, back when she was first being trained. It heated up much slower than any of the stoves on the surface did – likely because most Monsters’ preferred cooking with fire magic than some stovetop. Back then, she had turned it on after preparing the ingredients...she had panicked, begging for It to heat up faster, as the clock ticked down.

She could still remember it in vivid detail. The vines pinning her to the stovetop, the skin of her back and chest pressed against the slowly heating metal, the smell and sensation burning and boiling, the feeling of Echo’s teeth scraping into the melty skin that peeled easily and agonizingly off of her muscles, the feeling of their long slimy tongue sliding into the open wound, and-

She shook her head, snapping herself out of it before she fell too deeply to escape. That would not be happening again today. As far as she was concerned, it would never happen again. It had been seven years since then, and she had not slipped up once in that time. Her lesson was long since learnt.

Swiftly, she opened the cupboards, pulling out a cast-iron pan, a medium glass bowl, oil, flour, baking soda, and sugar, setting them neatly on the counter. Swiftly, she moved on to the fridge, gathering the containers of cooled blood and echline, and sliding them onto the counter as well. She could feel her Master’s eyes following her every move, and a familiar feeling settled in her chest – a feeling she could best describe as how rabbits must feel when stalked by wolves.

She pulled out every measuring cup and spoon she knew would be necessary, and grabbed a whisk. Even after all these years, it still annoyed her that they didn’t get an electrical mixer, as it would make the process of cooking and baking much easier for her frail arms...but the excuse they made, that it would waste electricity, seemed fair to her. They were on a limited supply, aside from the batteries and machinery that they managed to gather from the dump, and wasting that on such mundane things was understandable to avoid.

By the time she had measured, poured, and whisked the batter together, it was 6:11. She slid each dish she had used aside, stacking them to be cleaned later, before preparing the cast-iron pan with some oil and pouring 1/3rds of the pancake-batter into it. Behind her, Echo whistled in an impressed manner.

“You’re moving fast today, arent’ya? What a good girl. I might give you a treat!~”

Lily felt her face heat up, both from the compliment and the excitement of receiving a reward. She didn’t say anything in response – she wasn’t supposed to, unless told to speak – however, she did turn her head to smile gratefully in their direction. Their eyes lit up at her smile, and they licked their lips, smirking pridefully. It made her heart race, seeing that look on their face...though she wasn’t sure if it was racing in a good way.

She hastily turned back to her cooking, flipping the pancake to let the other side cook. Once it was finished, she swiftly grabbed a plate from the nearby shelf, and scooped it onto there. She repeated this process with the rest of the batter, ending up with three large pancakes in total. The time was 6:27.

She drizzled some of the refrigerated blood atop, much like one would do with syrup, before grabbing a fork, knife, and napkins and swiftly serving Echo their breakfast.

“Good girl!” Echo exclaimed, clapping their vines proudly, “Come sit with me when you’re done.”

Lily nodded obediently. She could feel her hands trembling – the anxiety that had been building in her gut seemed to be finally taking effect – but she didn’t let it disrupt her as she put the ingredients back in their respective spaces. It took only around three minutes to complete, as she didn’t need to do the dishes or clean the counters until later, and she felt relieved to have this part of her morning routine finished.

Carefully and cautiously, Lily climbed into Echo’s embrace, closing her eye in exhaustion, as she felt their icy-cold vines curling around her body. It wasn’t often that she was allowed to sit at the table – the floor was where she was typically assigned – so she knew that the fruits of her labor were already beginning to pay off.

Slowly, she could feel their vines creep around the bare skin of her waist and stomach, squeezing firmly, but not quite uncomfortably. She pressed her ear into Echo’s stocky chest, listening to the sounds of their breathing and swallowing, as they helped themself to their meal.

“Mmm~! It’s quite delicious, sunflower. You sure know how to treat a fella like me, dontcha?”

One of their vines traced against her cheek, firmly grabbing ahold of her chin and tilting her head upwards. She opened her eye, aware that they wanted her to look. Their gaze had a predatory lust, their grin reeking of danger. But she knew they wouldn’t take it too far; not so early in the morning, when it would leave her exhausted for the rest of the day. No, they always saved the worst of it for evening, when her duties had been completed...or while she was still completing her duties, as a test of her focus.

They leaned forward, and she did too, knowing fighting was futile. Her mouth met theirs, and their tongue snaked its way around hers, slimy and invasive as it squirmed around her mouth. It tasted of blood, which immediately forced her to fight the urge to gag...but underneath that wretched flavor was the sweetness of the pancakes, which her stomach howled and ached painfully at, and her tastebuds tingled excitedly. It made her kissing more enthusiastic; she would do anything for more of that tasteful delight. Her body screamed at her desperately; begging, pleading for her to provide it with substance of any kind. But she had nothing to give except for a lingering aftertaste of a meal that wasn’t her own.

After several minutes of this, Echo broke the kiss. Their face and petals glowed pink with pleasure. She could feel that her face was heated, too, but not from attraction of any kind. No, her face was hot with humiliation, as shame spread through her, and settled uncomfortably in her soul. She felt so perverted. So dirty. But no tears escaped her eye, despite how badly she yearned to sob. She couldn’t exhaust herself with tears; not if she wanted to have energy to spare later.

“What an enthusiastic pet you’ve become! I see you are beginning to enjoy yourself. I knew you would. You just needed some time to accept it!” they swooned, winking at her. Their taunting teases made her heart pound, aching with each beat. She could tell that they could see her self-hate...and she could tell it aroused them, as well. But they made no comment on it, simply returning their attention to their breakfast.

A few minutes later, they finished their meal. Their grip on her grew loose enough for her to get out without any trouble. She did exactly that, slipping out of their lap, before collecting the dishes on the table and stacking them on the counter for later cleaning.

Echo stretched as they got out of their seat. Lily knew all too well what was next on the schedule; she could feel the pressure rising inside of her, her lungs constricting as panic bubbled its way through her veins. She was hyperventilating, gasping for breath.

Echo scooped her into their vines, cradling her softly as they moved out of the kitchen, back through the living room and down into the hall. They spoke in a soft adoring tone, of which she assumed was supposed to soothe her, but only made her heart race faster.

“Shhh...it’ll be alright, my precious sunflower. Remember, I will only be gone a few hours. It’s for your own good, my sweet pet. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself, now, would I? Speak.”

She nuzzled her face into their vines, desperately wrapping her arms around their neck. She could feel her whole-body shivering in dread. Her voice came out shaky and meek; pathetic.

“...Hu-hurting m-myself would b-be selfish...”

Echo nodded, patting her back softly as they stopped in front of the closed door to the isolation room, “You remembered! Good girl. And why would it be selfish? Speak.”

“B-because i-it makes y-you f-feel unappreciated a-and...l-like y-you're a b-bad caretaker.”

Echo nodded once more, whispering “good girl” under their breath as they set her down in the corner of the hallway. They used their small roots to pick the lock of the nearby supply closet (they preferred that over keys, as Lily had stolen the keys before). They went inside for a moment, humming to themself before pulling out handcuffs, a neck-brace, and a helmet with a face cage.

They shut and re-locked the door, gesturing for Lily to stand. She did so obediently, though her knees felt so weak that it was difficult to keep her balance. Echo seemed to take notice of this, gently holding her still as they put her hands behind her back and cuffed them.

“Oh, sunflower, you know it brings me no joy leaving you here. But unfortunately, I have work to attend, and I cannot rely on you not to do something idiotic, can I? Don’t you know how worried I would be, to come home and find you have run away, or worse, decided to end your life? I would be all alone again, with nobody to love me...”

Guilt weighed on Lily’s soul at the look of sadness that settled on her master’s face. She wanted nothing more than to hug them and kiss them. To caress their petals and whisper words of reassurance. But she had not been given permission to do so, so she just...stared at them empathetically.

Carefully, Echo slipped the helmet on her head, clipping it into place. She still remembered when it had become a routine part of isolation; when they had caught her bashing her head into the wall, bloodied and hardly conscious. It was an attempt to get the noises blasting from every end of the room to shut up. She had felt overwhelmed and disoriented, as the room always made her feel. All she could think at the time was that if her head was broken, the sounds would stop. But Echo had found her before she had taken it too far, and now made sure it wouldn’t happen again. The neck brace had been added as an extra measure, to be sure that she didn’t find a way to snap her neck.

Echo carefully removed Lily’s collar. However, before slipping on the neck brace, they leaned in and scraped their teeth teasingly against her neck, nibbling at it softly. A shudder of pleasure ran down her spine, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her throat.

Echo sucked the skin fondly, tracing their tongue along the vertebrae of her neck. She could feel herself melting into the wall behind her, and her already weak knees gave out. Echo just laughed adoringly, pulling back and admiring the flush on her face, as she stared up at them helplessly on the ground. Her heart was racing so hard that it made her nauseous.

“Awww~! What a sensitive girl you are,” they swooned joyously, as they carefully slipped the

brace around her neck, opening the door to the isolation room, “Now, head on inside, sunflower. We can pick up on that after my work and your chores, hm? Speak.”

“...Y-yes, Master...”

“Excellent girl.”

And with that, she crawled her way in (which was rather difficult to do with her hands behind her back), and watched as the door slid shut behind her, clicking as it locked.

She laid on the hard metal floor, shivering from the cold. At least she had more clothes on than any of the previous days this month, making the chilled room a bit more bearable. Still, it wasn’t anywhere close to as comfortable as the attire she used to be allowed, but she doubted Echo would ever allow her to return to that now.

She closed her eye and concentrated on slowing her breathing. She had found that if she could fall asleep before the noise began, then not only would she be able to get some extra rest and energy, but she would also sleep through isolation altogether. More often than not, though, she was incapable of drifting off in time, too panicked to put her mind at enough ease, and was forced to suffer through the next ten hours drowning in noise that made her feel like ripping into her skin and tearing out her hair.

This torment was nothing new, of course; she had experienced this on a daily for the last seven years, ever since she was captured. But despite that, it was one form of suffering she couldn’t seem to get used to, despite how often she was exposed to it. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t hear her own thoughts – or form any thoughts at all – with all the noises blaring in her ears. Or maybe it was because of how small the room was; how small the room made her feel, as if the walls were closing in on her, and she was being suffocated.

But more likely than anything else, it was probably because she was forced to listen to the most shameful and traumatic recordings of her own voice for every second of every hour she was isolated. Recordings of her screams, cries, and whimpers. Her pleading words and desperate begging. Recordings of words she was forced to say; words she knew her loved ones would be disgusted to hear coming from her mouth. And over the last month, it had become even more torturous; sounds of moans and gasping, of dirty pleas, and shuddering breaths.

It was all a reminder of what she deserved. Of her failures. Of the punishments she had earned. Of the disappointment she had caused for Echo. Of how unworthy she is. And it was not something she wished to dwell on, especially for so long.

Her soul shuddered in desperation and perseverance; she would sleep. She needed to sleep. Sleep before it begins. Sleep before it’s too late. She wouldn’t let it torment her today. She just needed to shut off her mind…

Next thing she knew, she was being softly shaken awake by bright blue vines. Relief and delight swelled in her chest. She had actually managed to fall asleep – had actually managed to sleep through the mind-numbing torment that would have ripped her into a mess of confusion and loneliness; of screaming, and blurs of colors, and desperation.

Her luck was extremely high that day, and she couldn’t have been more thankful.

Her hands were uncuffed and her helmet and brace had been removed. They clicked her collar back onto her neck, adjusting it in place. Once they had finished that, she hugged her Master, planting kisses of joy on each and every one of their petals. Echo chuckled at her enthusiasm, blushing at the affection.

“My, my, somebody is happy to see me! What a sweet girl...I see you slept while I was gone.”

Insecurity and fear twisted in her stomach. Would they be mad about that? Did they want her to stay awake the whole time? It was only now hitting her that this was the first time they had ever caught her sleeping here. She had never been told not to sleep here, but she also hadn’t been given permission to. She should have asked, she should have checked, she was going to be punished, they were going to bring her to the chamber, or the cooler, or the machine, she wasn’t ready for it, wasn’t prepared, she wasn’t, she wasn’t-

She was only pulled out of her train of thoughts when they hugged her firmly, and soothingly began to rub her back. She didn’t realize it, but she had begun hyperventilating; had begun slipping into a panic attack.

“Shhhh...oh my sunflower, it’s quite alright. There is nothing wrong with getting some rest while you are here. I could never be frustrated with you over something like that. As long as it is not disrupting your sleep-schedule, alright? Breathe.”

Lily obeyed, taking deep shuddering breaths in, and exhaling them softly. In her head, she repeated the same phrases over and over, until the instinctual panic within her subsided.

“They aren’t angry. I did nothing wrong. I am okay.”

Once she had calmed again, Echo straightened themself out, getting up and offering a vine to her. She took it without hesitation, stroking her fingers against the smooth and fuzzy surface.

“Now, now, I need you to get to work tidying up the house. Will you do that for me? Speak.”

“Yes, Master. I will do anything to make you happy.”

It was a trick question, seeing as she didn’t have a choice either way. But she knew exactly what they wanted to hear. Their petals fluttered happily, and they pulled her out of the isolation room, shutting the door behind her and picking the lock to the closet door once again, to put away the supplies she had just been wearing.

“Oh, what a fantastic girl you are~! So well-behaved today. Go on now and get your work completed, my flower. You will come see me in my bedroom when you are done, yes?”

She nodded obediently, well aware of the routine. Echo chuckled, patting her head.

“Good,” they said, voice husky and filled with yearning, before heading off to their room.

Lily rushed through her chores as fast as possible. Dishes, laundry, gathering and taking care of trash (including the bag of used echline wipes from that morning,) wiping down tables and counters, sweeping, mopping, dusting. She kept a close eye on the clock, anxious with every minute that ticked down. It was 5:37 PM when she had begun her chores, and by the time she was done, it was 7:19. Luckily, there was never much to clean, seeing as she did this every day, so her focus was less on being thorough, and more on being quick.

She took a minute to catch her breath, wiping the sweat from her face and taking a quick trip to the restroom. Once she was done, she quickly wiped down the restroom as well, and swiftly headed towards Echo’s room.

She knocked on the door softly, to which they sing-song called back “cooomeee innn~!” They were laid across a yoga mat on the floor, face-down. She knew what to do; she was just waiting for the permission to do it.

“On your knees.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

“Good girl~ now help an old fella out, won't you? My vines are feeling so tight after today’s work.”

She began massaging their vines. She knew exactly how much pressure to apply – where to touch, where to avoid, where to rub, where to push. Their body vibrated with purrs, soft moans escaping their mouth as their petals flushed. They always seemed to enjoy this to an uncomfortable extent, of which made Lily’s mouth feel dryer than usual, and her arms feel tense. But, as she always did, she powered through it, spending around an hour taking care of all of their knots and tensions. When they finally gestured for her to stop, her arms were aching and trembling from how much work she had put them through the last few hours.

Slowly, Echo stretched, pulling themself up. She knew what was coming - #5 of her schedule, the last event before bedtime and any possible rewards. Horror, disgust, terror, dread – they all bubbled and boiled in her veins, crashing in hot waves through her heart and soul, as Echo slid their way out the door to check how well her chores had been done.

“Go wait on the bed, my pet...~ I will be there once I see how good of a girl you were.”

She did exactly that. She sat herself on the bed, staring at the blanket as tears built in her eye. She was shaking so heavily, the entire bed squeaked underneath her. She shut her eyelid tightly, feeling as though she had been punched in the gut, and decided to go into her happy space. The space in her mind that she had created when things were just too painful. When life was too scary; when she needed to suppress the memories and pretend all of what was happening was fake. Just a nightmare. Its just a nightmare.

Everything that happened for the next three hours was a foggy mess in her mind. She was crying and begging. Writhing and gasping. Pleasure and pain shot through her every move. She could hear them whispering and speaking words of praise. But the sensations were all she could process. The words and actions behind those sensations...they were just noise and color. Not real. It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be. Her mind wouldn’t acknowledge it as such. When it was finally over, the exhaustion and strain her body had been put through crashed down on her all at once, as the fog lifted from her mind. Her throat and lungs burned, like the very air she breathed was made of flames. Her legs were numb and useless. Her chest and stomach itched from the rubbing of vines against them. Her arms were sore from being bound and held above her head for so long. But most dreadfully, everything between her thighs ached from overstimulation...and was once again covered in a thick coating of

Echo’s pleasure, which she would have to clean the next morning. Her soul felt like it may tear itself apart from the psychological agony of what she had been put through. But her head – her emotions and thoughts – they just felt empty. Disconnected. Unable to connect with the reality of what she had just been subjected to. Echo spoke, but their words were all just muffled noise. They scooped her into their vines, carrying her off to the dining room, and it was only then that she finally processed a single thought.

“I get a reward.”

Excitement and pride dimly rose in the back of her head, as her stomach practically flipped in bliss. For the first time in four days, she had pleased them enough to be fed . She didn’t even care if they kept true to their word of giving her a cinnamon bunny – she just wanted something in her stomach. Something to prove that what she had done that day was worth it.

Vines gently held her head up as her tongue burst with the joy of sweet icing and cinnamon. It was so creamy, and soft, and sweet – so delightful, like a dream, like a piece of heaven blessing her through all of the hell she was just put through. She liked the way it melted on her tongue. She liked the way it stuck to her teeth. She liked the way it felt sliding down her throat, making its way to her underfed stomach.

The bliss of one was already so magical and dream-like, that when she was fed a second and third one, she felt as though she may faint from shock. She was in tears again, but for the first time that day, they weren’t of agony. They were of relief; pure, unbridled relief.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” was all she could think. Whether that love was for the food or for Echo, she couldn’t quite tell; she just knew that having her starving, underweight body provided for made an overwhelming amount of love rush through her soul. When the food was finished, Echo carefully brushed and flossed her teeth, before bottle-feeding her echline to keep her hydrated and wash down her throat. Her body slowly fell limp as the paralyzing symptoms took effect.

She was taken to her bed and tucked in. Echo kissed her forehead, whispering a soft “Goodnight, Lily” as they headed out of the room to finish preparing for the next morning. Lily felt satisfied and proud; her day had been worth it, in the end.

By the time Echo had returned with the clothes and wipes for her next morning cleanup, she was long asleep.

[cant-think-of-anything]

All my energy was used on the fic, you don't get a title

Basically I took the scenes of lord of shadows and replaced the characters

( @littlx-songbxrd helped me develop the plot a lot so thank you Zia)

TW: descriptions of blood and injury, mentions of homophobia and ableism

Thomas had quickly come to the conclusion that he hated the land of Fae. Not because the location itself harboured ill experiences, but rather because of his travel companions.

He glanced at said travel companions. Alastair and Christopher were attempting to assemble a fire, struggling greatly because London wasn't exactly a place of forests. Alastair's face was stern with concentration, eyebrows drawn together as they always were, a permanent appearance of disapproval. His lips were turned down slightly, frustration causing him to scrunch up his face.

It wasn't adorable, Thomas scolded himself, it was intolerable. And entirely unenjoyable. He breathed a sigh, turning away from them and back at the rushing waters of a river. They'd been sent to be audience to the Seelie court and request their assistance to defeat Belial. It was a useless excursion, the Faerie wouldn't intervene unless their own land was being threatened. But the Clave had sent them regardless.

Christopher called his name, his voice a whispered yell as to not draw attention from whatever lurked in the forests. He picked his way back, settling on his sleeping mat and looking up. Without a fire, only moonlight made anything visible. Christopher had curled up already, but Alastair was awake. He was staring up at the stars his eyes wide with something like wonder.

The sight was disarming, but Thomas turned away, before Alastair caught his stare. Nothing good could result from that. The Sanctuary was a few weeks past, and what had started as longing glances and tortured pining turned into short tempers and quick annoyance. They hadn't talked, not the way Thomas desperately wanted to, but they had argued and bickered nearly every time they crossed paths. And he despised it.

Curling his hand into a fist, he turned onto his side and willed himself to sleep.

____

Alastair was fairly certain they were lost. It was as if Faerie shifted everytime they were on the correct path, and it accomplished nothing but adding to his frustration. And apparently, Thomas's.

"We should go north." He said, his eyes glinting with annoyance.

"Are you stupid? Do you want us to get killed? We'll end up there either way."

"Your method would take longer and time is something I don't fancy to waste."

"And your brilliant solution is to- what? Traverse through an entirely unmapped territory? It's far too dangerous, and I would like to keep my head adjoined to my body."

"Maybe sometimes it would do you some good to do something dangerous."

"Oh?" Alastair whirled towards him, their faces inches away from the other, each sparked with anger. "Do something dangerous? Like you? To my memory, it got you imprisoned!"

"Perhaps it would suit you to travel in solitude! Since you always seem to prefer that anyway!"

"I do not-"

"I really do not think we should be causing this much of a disturbance," Christopher chimed in, his face twisted in confusion, head swiveling between both of them. "They're simply... directions?"

"Without directions." Alastair said, "you end up lost." His eyes stayed locked with Thomas's, head tilted to meet his infuriating height.

"We won't get lost," he hissed back.

"For someone with a tattoo of a compass you truly have a horrendous sense of direction-"

"We could just," Christopher started, flipping the map over, before looking up with wide eyes. "Go through here." He gestured at the map.

"Absolutely wonderful. Let's leave, I wish to depart as soon as we're able."

A few moments passed before a loud screech like noise emerged from the forests. Because why, Alastair thought drawing out his weapons, would anything ever be simple for him. Christopher and Thomas pressed closer when the creature burst forth from the trees. And really creature was the only world he had for it. It appeared as a demon but not one Alastair had ever studied, and from the looks on the others faces they hadn't either.

"Do we-"

The creature lunged faster than any demon could, a flash of the murky green that colored it's scales. It's claws flashed, charging at Thomas. Alastair briefly registered slipping in between the two, lodging the wooden shaft of his spear between it's jaw. He sought out Christopher sliding under the thing to stab it with his blade, killing it quickly but not quickly enough to prevent when the creatures claws raked against the top of his chest.

Air rushed out of his lungs and he felt familiar arms wrap around him, catching him before he could fall. His eyes fluttered shut on their own record. He fought to regain conciusness, he refused to be unconscious around the likes of his companions, but he felt himself dragged into blackness regardless.

---

Christopher was accustomed to his friends odd relations. He had certainly gained enough practice observing the spats they often had. But whatever anger his cousin held towards Alastair was always a puzzle to him. He was sure it was a puzzle to them too considering their never ending shifts in emotion.

He looked over at Thomas who's face was twisted in something between intense worry and sorrow. His eyes dropped to Alastair who had still not woken up, bandages covered the scratches that stretched from his shoulder to the top of his neck. He winced remembering the injury, bleeding profusely with no runes to stem it. His own worry for Alastair had occupied much of his mind. James and Matthew would be furious at such a thing but Christopher found he didn't care.

"I'll go stand watch," Christopher offered, making his way to the outside of the cave they'd taken shelter in.

Thomas hated being in debt, he remembered. When they were younger he would never accept help unless it was forced upon him, his stubborn nature preventing it. And now after Alastair had risked his life twice to help him, he must feel like he owed something.

Christopher pulled himself onto one of the rocks resting outside of the cave and tipped his head back. He missed his home. Not whatever had overtaken it in the months past, he missed Henry, he missed his parents who he'd barely conversed with since before the killings had happened. He missed Alexander even if the child cried a storm. He glanced up at the sky, noticing the first rays of dawn breaking through the clouds. He pulled himself off of his rock with a sigh. He wished for normalcy more than anything. But he doubted it would grace them anytime soon.

He ducked under the entrance of the cave, opening his mouth to call out for Thomas to get ready to depart. But Thomas wasn't awake.

He was curled onto his side, facing Alastair, both evidently asleep. Their hands stretched out the distance between them and were laced together.

Christopher sucked in a breath. "Oh, Thomas," he breathed.

He'd known of his cousin's vauge feelings for Alastair from the time that Thomas was quite a bit shorter than him. But he hadn't fully understood what the two felt towards each other. He knelt between them, gently attempting to pry their hands apart, but both their grips tightened. As if through the small action they were able to pour every unsaid emotion they'd held.

Christopher wasn't a stranger to the way the Clave treated anyone they viewed as different. The way they shut down every attempt Henry had made to better the Shadowhunter world, the way they would continue to deny any of his own attempts. They claimed to want happiness and order for all but the moment someone proved to differ from their standards they would shut them down and rid of the evidence. They would remain under the pretense of fairness while they claimed credit for any accomplishments him or his uncle managed to force into them.

Thomas never had chosen himself, never his own happiness. Christopher let go of their intertwined hands, then looking at Thomas's face. It was almost drawn up in concentration. He stood, glancing at them once more before returning to the front of the cave and yelling for Thomas to wake up so they could depart to the castle. It wasn't as much as he wanted to do, but it was all he could.

___

Thomas dumped their small pile of belongings near the foot of the bed. The Seelie Queen had apparently chosen graciousness that night and permitted them two rooms. Christopher claimed the first one, leaving Thomas and Alastair to occupy the other. Not that Alastair had woken yet.

Thomas crossed the room, refusing to look where Alastair was laying on the bed, where he would soon need to lay next to him. He made his way to Christopher's room, too tired to truly marvel at the tall marble pillars and regal decor adorning the halls and bedrooms. Christopher was cross-legged on the bed, scrawling something into a notebook under the dim lights that shone through the waterfall close to the wall.

He pulled himself onto the bed next to him, worrying at the material of his nightshirt. Christopher looked up after a moment, fixing his peculiar eyes on Thomas.

"Are you all right Tom?"

The question shouldn't have startled him as much as it did. "I'm okay."

Christopher lips tightened. "You're lying. You usually do when people ask you."

Thomas breathed a soft sigh, pulling his legs up onto the bed. "I know."

Christopher studied him for a few moments, debating something in his mind before saying "You don't have to sacrifice yourself to make us happy Thomas. Anyone who truly cares for you will not love you any less for your decisions."

Thomas startled, looking at him with widened eyes. Something in his heart sped up, as if a weight had lifted from it causing it to beat faster in it's absence. "I don't- I don't understand-"

A hand gripped his forearm. "Go back to your room Thomas. I suspect he'll wake soon."

___

When Alastair woke he wasn't in a forest. He had known the Faerie were images of royalty but the room seemed ridiculously extravagant. He wanted to pull himself up in the bed but a sharp sting on his neck forced him back down.

The door swung open then, Thomas entered with a odd look on his face. It switched to overwhelming relief when he saw Alastair.

Swallowing, Alastair rose a hand his neck. The Faeries must have worked on the wound, it had healed over somewhat but not enough to relieve him of the pain.

He heard Thomas clear his throat. When Alastair looked up again, he'd moved to the other side of his bed. "You had gotten injured in the forest. We're in the Seelie Courts now, you've been indisposed for a few hours."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what else to add.

Thomas stared at him for a few unnerving moments before making a frustrated noise. He slid onto the bed, folding his legs underneath him and giving Alastair an imploring sort of look. "I'm sorry. For everything I've done. And I'm sorry I couldn't give you the right words in the sanctuary. I'll try to give them now."

Alastair inhaled sharply, from surprise rather than pain. "I don't understand. You shouldn't be apologizing-"

Thomas half smiled before cutting him off. "Let someone apologize to you for once. You deserve as much after the way we've treated you."

Biting his lip and looking away, Alastair noticed the pile of clothes and other luggage in the corner of the room. Oh. He turned back.

"Well Mr. Lightwood I find your apology to be satisfactory, despite it still being unnecessary."

Thomas smiled fully then and something in Alastair's chest loosened.

"Does this mean I am permitted to use the bed alongside you?" His voice was teasing.

"As long as you manage to stay on your side of it."

But that rule was quickly broken, Thonas shifted close and carefully curled his body around Alastair, his head resting on in his curls and limb wrapped loosely around him. Alastair breathed a small breath of relief before pressing his face into Thomas's neck and sleeping peacefully for the first time in years.

Happy birthday Zia!! Ilysm and you deserve literally every good thing in the world, you're amazing and very talented and yeah <33

Tagging: @adoravel-fenomeno @thewarthatsavedmylife @eugeniaslongsword @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @foxglove-airmid @littlx-songbxrd @alice-got-the-blues @writeforjordelia (lmk if you want to be added or removed)

I'll tag @youngreckless for thomastair week

[phis-corner]

How about #34 and #9 on the fluff/angst list?Ship is yours to decide

34- “Please don’t do this.” 9- “You meant too much to me.” | Platonic Timari

Note: reverse robins au, where Tim was the one captured by Joker instead, choosing to take his own life instead of break under torture. Marinette, having given up LB post Hawkmoth’s defeat, chooses to take up her dead brother’s mantle after seeing Bruce spiral. She is also Bruce’s biological child in this au.

I got reaaaally into reverse robins, and this is the result. 

TW: suicide mention

Her father and Alfred are being increasingly shifty about the Red Hood, abruptly stopping conversations when she enters the room and changing the subject when she brings up the mysterious man who’s been picking off the corrupted people in this city.

So she makes a plan to look into it in her own time, carefully watching and observing to find a free time slot, and seizes the opportunity.

Dad is at a WE meeting because Lucius threatened him with no gadgets for a month if he didn’t show again, Alfred is asleep (because he is actually human, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary), and Damian is in Bludhaven with Jon, both working their respective day jobs as an officer in the BPD and a journalist.

Marinette silently logs into the Batcomputer, bypassing the security on Hood’s file with a little help from Oracle (hey, Steph was being kept out of the dark too, and they were both curious.)

She reads the basic information, and scrolls down to the DNA section.

Her blood runs cold when she sees the information listed there, because how can it be a match?

He’s dead.

Dead.

Captured by the Joker, tortured near the breaking point, before taking his own life with a shard of broken glass to preserve their secrets.

She watched them lower his body into the ground. Watched as his friends and family stood there, under the clear blue sky, which seemed too pretty for such a terrible day.

Watched as his teammates broke down around his grave, as Bruce’s face crumpled when everyone else is gone.

Watched Damian, two weeks later, finally show up and leave a single purple hyacinth, kneeling in front of the headstone and tracing the letter with a single finger, head bowed, before leaving. 

She searched up the meaning of the flower. I am sorry, please forgive me.

She mourned him.

Mourned a brother, so kind and intelligent, who never really knew how much he meant to all of them.

She has her own suspicions about how he was captured in the first place, but pointing fingers would do more harm than good.

Her father spiraled again, after he died.

She didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to introduce a new Robin, and slowly let the world forget about the second. Robin should have died with Tim.

But Batman will not stop, and as long as he keeps fighting, he’ll need a Robin to hold him back.

Marinette dons the costume, two months after they bury him, and tries to forget that this uniform, his spare, still smells like him.

She’s wearing a dead boy’s clothes.

Alfred helps her make a new one after that first night.

Eventually, he does accept her as Robin. He trains her harder than he did both Damian and Tim.

She pushes through.

And now, four years later, there’s evidence proclaiming that he’s alive.

Alive, and on a killing spree, weeding out Gotham’s corrupt at the very center, strategically taking people out to topple the system.

A laugh escapes her, even as her shoulders shake with tears, because the methods are so familiar, so Tim, that she doesn’t know how she didn’t notice earlier.

She asks Jason to cover for her that night. 

He agrees without any questions, seeing the serious look on her face. Marinette has never been more grateful for the boy she and Dad found stealing the tires of the Batmobile.

After Batman leaves (Robin is benched until Red Hood is taken care of, whatever that means), and she pretends to go to bed, she opens her closet and pushes against the hidden panel in the back wall, revealing a spare uniform.

Robin escapes out her window, even though she knows that Alfred will have been alerted by the window opening.

Too bad for them, though, because she removed all the trackers except the emergency beacon, which can only be activated from her side.

The Red Hood is elusive, but she knows his tricks. She keeps up with him as he turns corner after corner, jumps from building to building, until he stops on the roof of Wayne Enterprises.

“Robin.” He says, helmet filtering out any signs that it’s her brother underneath. “But you’re not really Robin, are you? You’re wearing a dead boy’s clothes.”

She can’t help it, she flinches at how casually he speaks of his own death.

“Tim.” She tugs at the uniform, which has never fit right, despite it being tailored to her exact measurements. “What happened to you?”

“What happened? I died, that’s what happened.” The helmet comes off with a click and a hiss of air, and then it’s just her brother, older, eyes violent green, face twisted into a sneer. “I went off to follow the lead on the Joker myself, since Big Bird shut the door in my face and told me it wouldn’t amount to anything, got myself captured, and ended my own life to preserve their secrets. But you should know all of that, Replacement.”

The nickname is like a dagger to the heart. “I never wanted to replace you, the same way you didn’t want to replace Damian.” She says steadily, staring straight into his eyes even as her heart skitters frantically. “I was keeping Robin’s legacy alive.”

“Robin should have died with me.” 

“You know as much as I do that Batman needs a Robin, and Batman would not stop fighting as long as he lives.” She replies. “I never wanted to be Robin, Tim. It’s been four years, and it still feels like it doesn’t fit. But there was nobody else to do it, no one else to bring him out of that spiral.”

Tim is silent for a moment, so she continues.

“Come home, Tim. Please. We’ve all missed you so much. Dad isn’t the same anymore. No one is. We can be a family again.”

“Don’t you see, Marinette? I was never meant to be Robin, either. I was just that one annoying kid who wouldn’t leave Bruce alone, the one who blackmailed him into letting a second Robin out onto the streets. Even after I moved in, I was just that one kid who never really belonged, the outsider trying to insert himself into a family, pretending that Bruce cared for me as much as he did his biological children. Bruce only allowed me to stay in the Manor because I knew his secret. Damian made no effort to hide his disgust around me. You- you were the only one in that house who treated me like an equal.”

He draws a gun and points it at her, and she hears the safety click off. “But you’re Robin. He shouldn’t have made another child Robin. He should have said no, let the legacy die.”

“Tim,” She pleads. “Please don’t do this.”

Something in his eyes waver for a moment, fading to blue, before they harden into acid green again. “You meant too much to me. Let’s see if you mean enough to Batman too, enough for him to arrive on time.”

The gun goes off with a bang, and she feels the bullet enter through a crack in her armor, burying itself in her torso.  The pain is nothing new, but overwhelming all the same as her entire body seems to be on fire.

The last thing she does before everything goes black is calibrate the beacon to send the signal to Nightwing only, before smashing the button with all her remaining strength.

I hope Flamebird gets them here on time.

There are two reasons why she chooses to send it to Nightwing, and Nightwing only. One being because Damian doesn’t know that Tim is alive, and despite everything, he deserves to.

The other?

She doesn’t trust her father to make it.

permanent tags

@wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fantasyislive @chocolateherringtacofan @junarvion @susiej1118 @aestheticnpoetic @toodaloo-kangaroo @ladybug-182 @itsmeevie01 @g-arya @souleateralicestein @nightstarblue @i-is-mysterious @moonystars14 @vixen-uchiha @the-flapdoodle-noodle @labschaos @nathleigh @jalaluvsu @kaithehero @iamablinkmarvelarmy

unspecified @momothefemur @indecisive-mess-named-me @laurcad123 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @sassakitty @fusser90

[emachinescat]

Murdoc + Ithika + Mac

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 14 - “I didn’t mean it”

Summary: As an artist, Murdoc prides himself in taking his time with his work - he never loses control.  Except one time, with his favorite boy genius.  He always imagined that when he finally made MacGyver cry, it would be his finest moment.  Now, he’s not so sure.

Characters: Murdoc, Mac, Jack

Words: 3,454

TW: torture, broken bones, Murdoc being his creepy little self

Note: Happy Valentine's Day – the store was all out of chocolate, so I got you Mac whump! ;) The allusions to Ithika are from Homer's epic by the same name, but even more so from the incredible poem by C.P. Cavafy. The muse mentioned, Melpomene, is the Muse of Tragedy.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

- From “Ithika” by C. P. Cavafy

Murdoc enjoyed taking his time.

He was an artist, after all, and artists didn’t slap together a masterpiece in an afternoon – not the ones worth anything, at least.  Most spent days studying their subjects, becoming intimately familiar with every line and curve and element – the shading, the lighting, the vibrancy of the colors.  The very best didn’t even consider touching brush to canvas until they had developed a personal relationship with their subject – for how can a true artist paint that which he does not know deeply?  Why bother recreating that landscape or tea kettle or sad-eyed little girl or bowl of fruit if it could be any landscape, tea kettle, little girl, or bowl of fruit?  Why would someone paint something that wasn’t theirs?

Murdoc knew his subject very well.  He, like a true artist, had studied it in a variety of settings.  He’d watched and learned, dug deep into the core of its being, drawn out every secret and motivation and loss and love.  He understood what made his subject tick.  He’d even done some brief sketches, practicing each brushstroke with care, waiting patiently for the day he could at last, intricately, evoke that muse sought by the Romantics, that evasive Melpomene, and breathe his masterpiece to life.  Or, more accurately, to death.

And now, after years of watching, interacting, teasing, sketching, his time had finally come.  Months of planning had been sunk into this particular endeavor.  And now, unlike the first time he’d been introduced to his subject, he hadn’t been commissioned by anyone.  This portrait was personal, deeply personal.  He finally had his subject right where he wanted it.  The canvas was bare and waiting for the artist’s touch.  Murdoc had chosen his palette, mixed the colors – it might be cliche, but he was a sucker for red, black, and blue.

Now that his moment had finally arrived, however, it didn’t mean that he could rush through the actual creation process.  The act of studying one’s subject matter was slow and deliberate.  So must be the painting.  

***

Murdoc studied his canvas slowly, methodically, unsurprised that it wasn’t exactly blank.  MacGyver stood, hands chained above his head, attached to a grate above.  His bare toes just reached the cold concrete below.  His jacket and Henley had been removed – he shivered slightly from the chill of the basement.  Murdoc liked to think it was from fear.  

“Oooh, this one’s fun, MacGyver!” Murdoc crooned as the blonde boy wonder eyed him scornfully.  It was quite entertaining how expressive his prey’s pretty blue eyes could be.  Murdoc briefly brushed the tip of his little finger against the scar of a bullet wound on MacGyver’s chest.  MacGyver jerked back from the touch, though his expression remained stoic.

“Jealous that you weren’t the one who did it, Murdoc?”  He sounded confident enough, but Murdoc knew his subject quite well by now.  MacGyver was shaken.  For once, he had no control, nothing to work with, no way to escape.  He was at his captor’s mercy – Murdoc could do whatever he wanted, and MacGyver knew that.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared with what I’ve got planned for you, Angus,” Murdoc simpered sweetly, circling his catch of the day, dark eyes darting across more scars and recent cuts and bruises.  He pressed directly into the dark center of a boot-tip bruise on MacGyver’s side, relishing the sharp intake of breath it elicited.  “Someone on your last mission in Volgograd left their mark, I see.”

He circled back around to face his victim, who did a subpar job of hiding his surprise at the observation.  “That was highly classified.  How did you–”

“I’ve been watching you for a very long time, MacGyver.  But you had to have known I would.  After all, you’re my closest friend, and I know where you live.  It’s kind of silly that you never moved, but maybe you just figured I’d find you even if you did.  I wonder – have you always tossed and turned in your sleep or is that a more recent development?”

True horror flashed momentarily in blue eyes, tugging Murdoc’s lips up into a satisfied smile.  “Oh, yes, your nightmares are very entertaining.  I do hope the majority of them are about me.  Oh, oh, oh!  And I especially love it when they’re so bad you have to call your watch dog to calm you down.  I wonder how Dalton’s taking your disappearance, by the way?  I’m sure he’s in for some nightmares of his own.”

“He’ll find me, if I don’t escape first.”  MacGyver’s bravado was both highly endearing and incredibly tiresome.  Same old, same old.

“Doubtful,” Murdoc purred.  “I mean, I know you well enough not to make stupid mistakes, my friend.”

“I escaped from the sewers, and you’d drugged me.”

“I intended for you to escape that day.  I needed to draw your friends in, to focus their attention on finding you while I attended to other business.  But this time – you’re mine.”  At the fervor in his words, a shudder entirely unrelated to cold clinked the chains restraining his victim.  Murdoc smiled, then continued.

“But now, there is no ulterior motive.  I grabbed you for no other reason than because I wanted to.  You are hidden away quite well, even more securely than last time, I’m afraid.  And you will not be left alone, not even for a second.  There may be things in this room you could use to escape, but they’re useless to you in your position.  And I am not going to take my eyes off of you.  You won’t have a chance to wriggle your way out of this one, MacGyver.  Ooooh, is that fear I see on your face?  No?  We really must change that.”  He tutted.  “Defiance and bravado really are your bread and butter, aren’t they, Angus?  What are you, an action hero from a cheesy 1980s TV show?”  Silence, though the fiery glare spoke more loudly than words.  

Murdoc clapped his hands together.  “Well, there’s no time like the present.  What do you say, MacGyver?  Let’s get started.”

***

Three hours later, Murdoc admired his work.  It was a slow process.  He painted with precision and care, layering the colors just so, balancing the strokes, the lights and darks and brights.  His brushes were many – laid out on the table before him were knives and pliers and blow torches and hammers and whips and cattle prods and other more specialized tools that he liked to work up to.  He also had an oversized meat tenderizer, made of steel.  He rarely used it – too garish for his refined tastes – but it did look nice and scary looming over the other instruments.

So far, he’d only used his knives and the cattle prod.  The masterpiece was starting to come together, but it was hardly complete.  He prowled around his artwork.  MacGyver’s trembling had increased.  He gasped for breath as Murdoc appraised his work – burns and cuts, some deeper than others – made a nice foundation.  The drip of blood across bare flesh outshone any Pollock painting.  He’d practiced his blending techniques, jabbing the cattle prod directly into the center of the lovely bruise he’d noticed earlier.  MacGyver hadn’t been able to hold in his yell of pain.  

Music.

“Are you enjoying our time together?” Murdoc asked.

MacGyver uttered a creative string of curse words that made Murdoc proud.  He whistled appreciatively.  “Who knew the boy scout had that in him?  I’m almost impressed.”

“Yeah, well,” MacGyver said, hissing as he shifted and pulled at his many wounds.  “Almost is about all you’ll ever be, Murdoc.”

Murdoc had been reaching for his trusty pair of pliers (those toenails could sure use a trim!).  He paused, his back partially to his captive, fingers hovering over the tool.  He was used to MacGyver’s sass, but what he’d just said hit a sour note that the hit man couldn’t shake.  He didn’t know if it was the tone or the words themselves.  “Excuse me?”  He tried to sound amused, but his voice was tight, as if it had been squeezed out of him.

A clink of the chains, a grunt of pain that didn’t lighten Murdoc’s mood as it should have.  Then, MacGyver elaborated.  His voice was clipped in pain, breathless, but conviction lined every syllable.  “You are doomed to live a life of almost, Murdoc.  Nothing is ever going to be enough for you.  Why do you think you take so long to get anything done?  Why do you spend so much time talking and taunting and watching and waiting?”

Murdoc didn’t move, his hand still inches away from his delicate instrument that caused pain but did no lasting damage.  “I’m an artist.”

“You’re afraid.” 

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear winning.”

Murdoc laughed, a forced, uncomfortable sound that he’d never heard come from his own mouth.  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Angus.  Are you sure the pain isn’t getting to your head?”

MacGyver pressed on relentlessly.  “You crave attention.  You need a challenge.  That’s why you picked me.  And you’re afraid of what happens if you beat me.  If I die, there’s always that possibility that you won’t find another playmate.”

Still, Murdoc didn’t move.  His words, despite their teasing jaunt, had a forced quality to them.  “Awfully full of ourselves, aren’t we, MacGyver?”

He could hear the triumphant smile in his adversary’s voice.  “I’m just stating the truth, Murdoc.  You might torture me, you might have your fun.  But at the end of the day, you’re going to slip up somehow.  It’s your way of making sure the game goes on.  Without that challenge, what are you?  Just an angry voice screaming at the sky, no purpose, no point.  You say you’ve studied me, Murdoc.  You’ve watched me and know me.  Well, in doing so, you’ve shown me yourself, too.  You’re not going to kill me today.  You’re never going to kill me.  

“I don’t know what exactly I’ve done to deserve this… honor,” he continued, placing particular derision on the last word, “but you’ve become obsessed with me, Murdoc.  Believe me, I don’t like saying this any more than you like hearing it.  But it’s how I know I’m going to walk away from this.  If I’m gone, so is your fun.”

Murdoc prided himself on maintaining control over his emotions.  An artist, though he might express the inner workings of his soul on canvas, could not let his feelings control the brush, control him.  Look what had happened to Van Gogh – sure, beautiful work, but his emotions controlled him, destroyed him in the end.  Murdoc didn’t make mistakes like that.  He waited.  He didn’t lash out in anger.  It wasn’t because he wanted MacGyver to live, oh no.  His fondest dream was to see the blonde boy cry, to watch him squirm and beg for mercy, and then, finally, only when he’d really begged for it, to send him to his death.  MacGyver had no idea what he was talking about.  

It wasn’t even MacGyver’s words, his cocky belief that he was important enough to his torturer to keep alive, that sent Murdoc over the edge.  It was the tiny little voice, way back in the darkest, most depraved corner of his already dark and depraved mind, the one that spoke not in the voice of Murdoc, but one that sounded more like Dennis, the first casualty of Murdoc’s career – himself.  The voice said, plainly, without emotion, You know he’s right.

And that was the catalyst for the tsunami of rage that crashed into Murdoc, pummeling his well-practiced and unshakable resolve to take his time.  That was what spurred his frozen body into movement, curled his fingers around the handle of the meat tenderizer, that brash, archaic tool, rather than the pliers.  That was what spit his next words out of his mouth as if they were poison, words that finally – beautifully – caused Angus MacGyver’s eyes to widen in real fear: “You are going to walk out of here?”  A sadistic, mad giggle.  “My dear Angus, it will be a miracle if you ever walk again.”  

He hefted the heavy steel implement in his hand, pulled back, and lunged.  MacGyver tried to back away, the chains around his wrists cackling and clicking against one another in his desperation.  They held firm, and the meat tenderizer slammed full force into MacGyver’s left kneecap.  Murdoc felt the crunch of bones.  He heard the bestial howl, the scream of anguish, the body-jerking, breath stealing cry of a man in so much pain he lost himself.  He watched MacGyver’s face drain of color, recognized the moment when the pain became too much, and saw the tear-streaked face go slack, the chin thud against the battered chest and stay there. 

For a moment, Murdoc experienced the euphoria one could only find in hurting that special someone in such a catastrophic way.  He relished in that moment the scream, the agony, the writhing and loss of control.

Then the moment ended – and far too soon.

Immediately after, the weapon dropped out of Murdoc’s limp fingers.  It smashed into the floor below, with the jarring clang that only metal on concrete can produce.  He looked at the limp, hanging form before him, and something twisted inside of him – a feeling he’d never known.  It wasn’t guilt, nor revulsion.

It was, however, regret.

He didn’t understand it.  He should be overjoyed.  MacGyver was completely at his mercy.  Murdoc could kill him now.  Carve that bleeding heart out like a villain in a fairy tale would.  But then, he realized, MacGyver would be gone.  Forever.  Even now, his kneecap had been crushed, shattered into tiny fragments of bone and cartilage, and unless he got treatment of the highest quality, and soon, he’d almost certainly be crippled.  Even if he had extensive reconstructive surgery, his career as a Phoenix agent could still be over.

Wasn’t that what Murdoc had wanted?  To end MacGyver’s pesky existence, to win at this game of cat and mouse?  To create his most spectacular masterpiece with his greatest enemy?  That’s what he had dreamed of for years now, what he’d studied and practiced and yearned for.  And yet – 

What was it that hoity toity Greek poet had written?  Murdoc had read “Ithika” long ago, a random page in a poetry book of a man he’d killed.  For some reason, the poem had attached itself to his mind and never let go.  He could remember it even now:  

Keep Ithika always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for.  But don’t hurry the journey at all.  Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithika to make you rich.  Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.  Without her you wouldn’t have set out.  She has nothing to give you now.

And he understood.  The poem was supposed to be inspirational, for fools so focused on their goals that they missed the journey of life along the way – a mundane, silly sentiment.  But now Murdoc could see – MacGyver’s destruction was his Ithika.  Perhaps Cavafy had a point – maybe he had been a bit of an artist himself.  And MacGyver had been right about some things, wrong about others.

He was right in that Murdoc wasn’t ready to end the game just yet.  But it wasn't fear that held him back, that urged him to take his time.  It was joy.  Joy of the journey.  The little pleasures of life that are so often passed by in the grand scheme of things – the poet had been speaking of knowledge, of friendship, of love, of experiences.  Murdoc’s little pleasures were things like fear, drawn-out suffering, playing with his food and watching it squirm.  He relished that joy.  He wanted more of it, and if MacGyver died, or was out of commission as a spy, that joy would diminish.  Even if MacGyver lived, it wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t play along.

Murdoc made his decision.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a burner phone.  He dialed a number he’d memorized long ago, put the phone to his ear.

A fierce Texas twang answered before the first ring had run its course.  “Murdoc, you son of a bitch–”

“Temper, Jack,” Murdoc drawled.  He shivered in excitement at the mental picture of the inferno in Dalton’s eyes.  “You just assumed it was me – imagine if it were your mother on the other line.”

“I can scent the devil from a mile away.”  Murdoc heard muffled voices in the background, knew the call was being traced.  

“Don’t waste your time running a trace, you grumpy old hound dog.”  His words were light, yet he allowed the slightest hint of urgency to infect them.  “I’ve had my fun for today.  I’ll text you the address.”  He paused.  “Oh, and bring one of those fancy whirly-birds you like to use for medical emergencies.  I might have been a little… over zealous this time.”

He closed his eyes, gorging on the incalculable levels of hatred in Jack Dalton’s next words.  “If you hurt him–”

Appreciation turned to irritation.  Murdoc rolled his coal eyes to the ceiling.  “Weren’t you listening, you brute?  Obviously, I hurt him.  Quite a bit actually.  You should have heard him scream.”

A short silence.  Then – “You didn’t let me finish, you overgrown sewer rat.  If you hurt him, I am going to tear you limb from limb.  I don’t need any of your fancy tools.”

“Hmm, that was almost intimidating,” Murdoc teased in his most good-natured tone.  “But you’ll have to find me first.”  He let the words linger for just a moment, then continued: “Anyway, ta-ta for now.  I’ll text you the address.  I’ll be long gone by the time you get here, but feel free to bring all your little friends for a game of hide and seek.  Though I have a feeling that you’re going to be more focused on sweet Angus.”

He hung up, texted the address, then turned to a feebly stirring MacGyver.  Pity he was waking up right as Murdoc had to leave.  Whimpers that would have torn the very soul out of Jack Dalton erupted unbidden from MacGyver’s lips.  Glazed blue eyes cracked open, regarding Murdoc with a mixture of terror and acceptance.  Though he had regained consciousness, MacGyver still hung limply from the chains, too weak and in pain to move.

Murdoc stepped forward, eliciting the tiniest of flinches  Even that motion made MacGyver cry out.  But Murdoc didn’t hurt him again.  Instead, he said, “Your friends are on their way.”

MacGyver’s voice rasped in the aftermath of his screams.  “You’re letting … me go… Why?”  

“Got bored, I suppose.”  No way was Murdoc going to let MacGyver know he’d been right, even if only a little bit.

MacGyver didn’t respond – maybe he didn’t know how to respond; more likely, he could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, amidst the torrent of pain.

Murdoc started to step away, then turned back, studying his latest draft of the elusive masterpiece that he would continue to dream about and that would fuel his passion and creativity for years to come.  He pulled off one black glove, placed his hand on a pale, cold cheek.  MacGyver jerked back feebly from the touch, grunting at the pain it produced.  Slowly, Murdoc wiped one of the fresher tears away with his thumb.  It might have been a power play.  It might have been a show of comfort.  Even the hit man didn’t know.  He glanced down at the shattered knee, swollen and misshapen, a grotesque monster straining to break free from the unrelenting fabric of the khakis.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, moving his gaze up from the deformed knee to lock his black eyes with fearful, anguished blue ones, “I didn’t mean it.”

He walked away, casting one final look over his shoulder before he left his art behind for the coming Phoenix agents to admire.  “Until next time, MacGyver.”

And despite the extensive search conducted by Phoenix once MacGyver had been loaded onto the chopper, on his way to the best orthopaedic surgeons in the country, Murdoc had once more disappeared, like a ghost.

That night he dreamed about his Ithika, and this time, it was enough. 

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Amaratha Othonos AGE & BIRTH DATE. Currently 27, reincarnated on December 1st, 1993 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Kobalos OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Poppy Drayton

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, cannibalism, torture, suicide, slavery mention ) Amaratha was the older sibling of two, born in a small village outside of Thebes. But the village was different from the rest of the Greek world, where the taboo was celebrated, and none so revered as Dionysus. The cultists worshiped the god of madness above all others, spreading his religion to anyone who crossed their paths, despite the open scorn and derision they received. Amaratha was no exception to this, a mischievous young girl who was devout in her faith, using her innocent appearance to lure in unexpecting travelers. Those who were not converted were offered as sacrifice to their god, the flesh turned into a feast as the people partook in depravity. The opinions of the small minded mattered little to her, for they had the favor of Dionysus, and lived only to please him and themselves. 

And so the god blessed their village, the cult they created in his worship. Though both Amaratha’s parents had passed on by that point, she and her brother received the blessing, becoming kobaloi along with the rest of their people. Grown into a young woman by that point, there was seldom she took more enjoyment out of than her newfound powers, spinning tales of horror and madness inside the minds of those that caught her ire. Men from Thebes who pursued her hand were quick to fall victim to her machinations, and her brother protected her from those inside the village that wished to claim her as well. Amaratha’s spirit was fierce and independent, and detested the thought of being tied down to anyone she felt undeserving — which was all of them. She remained unmarried her entire first lifetime, until the woman found her end in a wolf’s jaws. It was a messy, bloody thing, and in the end as she laid in the dirt struggling for her last breaths, it was done with the satisfaction of knowing the wolf had gone first. 

She came back in their village once again, only a few years later. A different family, this time, but her brother was still there as well, and once her memories came back it was as if nothing had ever changed. But nothing can last forever, particularly something built on the bones of madness and depravity. The end for life as they knew it came with the arrival of Philip ll of Macedon. The king had overtaken the city of Thebes, chaffing the freedom the cultists had grown accustomed to. It was through Amaratha’s meddling that the thought was put into the head of his bodyguard, a manipulation that led to Pausanias of Orestis striking back against the wrongs he had endured from his once-lover king. If only she could have known what the fallout of such actions would lead to. 

With Philip II dead, Thebes began to rebel against the rule of outside forces, denying Alexander the Great’s authority. The new king responded violently, and the city found itself no match to the strength of his army. Their entire village was razed, and those who had not died in the assault were to be sold into slavery. But Amaratha had no intentions of being taken quietly. She was always clever, and quick, and all it took was just one moment of distraction for her to jump to her feet and rush the closest soldier — but instead of attacking, the kobalos threw herself at him and impaled herself on his spear. Even if she had still been a human woman, without the knowledge of her reincarnation, there was no thought worse than to be at the mercy of the Macedonian soldiers, and so she took fate into her own hands. With such a mortal wound inflicted upon herself, she held no value as a slave anymore, and was left to choke on her own blood as the village that was her home burned to ashes around her. 

Her next cycle, she came back as the daughter of a powerful Athenian politician, who used Amaratha as little more than a bargaining chip to strike an alliance against his rival. But she was quick to leave such a life and her husband behind, the moment her memories returned to her. The kobalos went back to what was once her home, hoping to find some trace of where her people had been taken. Instead, all she found was ruins, and the truth of the matter was that she would not meet any of her kin again for nearly a hundred years. Perhaps it was fate, or simply coincidence that she and her brother would eventually end up in the same city, but the overwhelming relief of finding him again forged their bond even strong than it had been before; they remained together for the rest of that incarnation, and began devising methods to seek each other out in the ones that followed. 

But Amaratha never had any choice in where she would end up next, frustratingly. Nor the fact that the majority of her memories remained locked away until she reached adulthood. The more that time passed by, the more her reincarnations began to spread further across the world. And all the while, the woman still served Dionysus faithfully, even though he never offered anything in return again, not even a word. She spread chaos and discord wherever she went, creating problems where none existed simply for her own entertainment. From commoners to kings, no one was safe from Amaratha’s influence if she had the means to influence them. 

One of her favorite lifetimes happened to be in Russia. Her name had been Tomila Fedotovna at the time, and her typically dark tresses had turned nearly as white as the snow that covered the ground. The year was 1,560, and Ivan IV Vasilyevich had already settled into his reign. Though he had not yet earned the moniker that would follow him through history, Amaratha could see the tsar’s instability simmering beneath the surface, just needing the right push to come out. What a terrible thing it was, when his tsaritsa came down with a sickness in the summer, taken from the world before the turn of the next season. Poison, they whispered, and most importantly, the tsar believed so as well. His second and third wives followed in similar fashion, only stroking the paranoia inside Ivan the Terrible, which Amaratha all too happily provoked. While the tsar looked for enemies all around him, he never suspected the doe-eyed daughter of one of his boyars. 

She never did give him a moment’s peace, watching him descent further into madness with each atrocity, even the accidental murder of his own son. And when he finally died, all that was left of the Rurik dynasty was his feeble and ineffectual son Feodor. Though Amaratha had already died and reincarnated by the time of the last Rurik’s death, it was satisfactory enough to know that she had been the cause when her memories returned years later, as well as directly led to the Time of Troubles that wracked the country. 

And yet, perhaps one of the most important of her lives took place in the early 1800s England. She was Elizabeth, the daughter of a simple servant, and it was a life far less glamorous than those of times past, but the young girl was oblivious to such knowledge. All she knew was that she loved her father, and that they were going to live in a grand house with a kind man. It was nice, and happy for a time, until one evening she was awoken from her bed and taken away from the estate by the kind man. She was too young to know the details at the time, but her father had died, he had said, and so he was going to take care of her now. She never thought to question the fact that throughout the entirety of her youth, he never changed, or ask for the truth of what happened that night. It was only when she turned eighteen that he sat her down and told her the truth; that he was a vampire, and indirectly led to the death of her father — of that life, as Amaratha was starting to get her memories back of who she used to be.

The two things coupled together were difficult to handle, and so the kobalos packed up what little things she could call her own and left. Off to think, to readjust, to slip into the skin of Amaratha again rather than Elizabeth. But it had been a long time since she had felt such familial affection, having not crossed paths with her brother in her two recent lifetimes, and she found herself missing the company of the vampire she had come to think of like a father. It took a few years of stubbornness, an attempt to return to her old life of detachment, before she gave in and sought him out again. There was comfort to be found in the fact that, despite her continued reincarnations, his immortality meant he could never truly be lost to her, once her memory returned each time. In each of her lifetimes that followed, she would always end up seeking him out again, even if they did not stay together the entire time. 

Because, as much as she loved her surrogate father, Amaratha still craved the belonging of her own people. Whenever rumors gained traction of someone with mythical abilities, she was quick to follow, in an attempt to locate her brother or the rest of their kin. It’s what sent her back to Russia, to track down a man known as Rasputin, where she found a witch that had captivated the people of Russia, including the empress. While not a kobaloi like she hoped, she still found great amusement in the mystic man, and the two formed a friendship that lasted until his premature death. 

It also led her to the door of a genasi in the 1980s, though that matter ended much worse for Mara. She forgot her own cardinal rule, the thing that kept her species protected — anonymity. For anyone who knew their tricks could no longer be deceived by them, and once she revealed the truth of herself to the person she thought a friend, a different side of them emerged. There had been a string of murders across the country, but she had not put two and two together until she found herself strapped down in his basement. What followed was excruciating, hours spent in torment, drawing out her pain for their enjoyment. It was in her last moments when, with a final bit of strength from her anger, Mara swore that she would come back for them and repay tenfold — the genasi smiled, and bid her good luck, before finally slicing her throat. 

Her most recent reincarnation happened in Spain, a child abandoned outside of a police station by parents that either couldn’t or didn’t want to keep her. Though she was quickly taken in by a local family, in the end it was not to be, and the girl ended up going into the foster system, where she would never be adopted out of. The name they gave her had been Daniela Marin, but it never felt quite right rolling off the tongue, even if she couldn’t figure out why. She was quick to return to her original name when the memories returned, and the first thing she did upon her reawakening was pay the genasi a visit, fulfilling the promise she made before her death; without the element of surprise, Mara proved a much greater adversary, capable of reversing any curse they attempted to throw at her, inflicting a much greater suffering than what she had endured. 

From that day on, she spent the next decade traveling around Europe, rebuilding her wealth and causing torment to those around her. She had plans to seek out both her brother and adoptive father, eventually, but they were fast-tracked with the sudden loss of her magic one day. Though her brother’s location had yet to be discovered, the vampire was much easier to track down, and it was concern for him that ultimately led Mara to Corinth Bay, unaware that what she’s sought after throughout all her lives also awaits inside.

PERSONALITY

+ fearless, resourceful, playful - impulsive, self-indulgent, devious

PLAYED BY Abby. CST. She/Her.

[whumping-every-day]

(This is reaallly specific I’m sorry) Do you have any ideas for a whumper that attempts to murder a character and make it look like a suicide? (Bonus points if the character someone survived) I live for the angst.

OOoohhh, I love this trope!!! Thank you so much for sending this in!��

Also, for those of us who may be more affected by this topic; TW for mentions of suicide below! 

---

- If the whumper wants it to look like suicide, then they wouldn’t be able to have much fun beforehand. Perhaps they get around that by hanging the whumpee, but the whumper draws the process out and chokes the whumpee out repeatedly before finally allowing them to die. 

- Perhaps the whumper chooses drugs, but they pick a drug that causes an agonizing, slow death. I’m talking drugs that constrict your chest muscles so that you slowly suffocate to death, or hallucinogenic drugs that make you feel like your skin is burning off. Something that’ll have the whumpee convulsing and seizing and choking on their own spit. Even if the whumpee did survive, they would carry the remnants of that kind of overdose for the rest of their life! 

- The good ol’ hairdryer in a bath! This one is fun, because it means the whumper can shock the whumpee as much as they want through other means, before delivering the final jolt. There’d be no evidence of the torture beforehand. 

- Pushing the whumpee off of a tall building. This one is an oldy, but a goody! 

- And finally, my favourite (and the most fucked up O.o) Drugging the whumpee with a paralytic. They can feel everything that happens to them, but they can’t move. The whumper lies them down in the tub, and then slowly and methodically slits their wrists. Maybe they stroke the whumpee’s hair as they bleed out. 

[sofreddie]

The Winchester Way - Part 13

Summary: Sam wakes after falling unconscious and learns something new about Mary.

Characters: Mary, Sam, John

Word Count: 1,726

Warnings: Angst, TW: Suicidal Ideation, Mentions of Torture

A/N: HEED THE WARNINGS!!! Years ago I saw a movie, called The Life of David Gale. Brilliant movie, you should watch it. Anyway, in the movie, they talked about a modern psychological torture method and I researched it further. The Securitate are the real secret police of the former Republic of Romania. And the torture technique mentioned was one of their favorites. It’s pretty sick, the general concept of what they did.  Anyway, there’s your random education for the day. But I used that as a sort of inspiration for what John did to Sam in a way. Yeah, equally sick, I know. UNBETA’D. Feedback is appreciated. : )

Series Masterlist

Previously…

“Give it back, Y/N. Don’t make me take it from you.” He reached out his open hand, waiting for her to return it. Y/N paused, before sighing, slowly walking forward to place it in his hand. Sam growled with impatience as she hovered close to his hand, causing her to jump and drop the pendant. Sam’s eyes went wide as it fell, hitting the ground, bouncing and rolling. His eyes jumped to Y/N. A lump formed in her throat, knowing whatever was coming wasn’t good. Might as well make it count, she thought as she suddenly stomped on the pendant with her heal. A crunch was heard before the room exploded in blue light, blinding them. Then nothing but the sound of Sam’s agonizing screams.

Mary sat on the side of her bed, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. It happened almost every night now. She’d feel the pull of her Soul calling to her, beckoning her back to Heaven where it resided. She’d remember her time there.

Though she had only died for a few short minutes, her time in Heaven seemed to stretch on in the best way. She’d get caught up in herself, arguing with herself over staying or going, and finally struggling to silence her Soul. She was aware, every time that John was there. Every time he tried to bring her back, snap her out of it. But she couldn’t. If she broke her focus, she’d lose and give in to the sweet promise of Heaven.

Mary knew she couldn’t leave. She so desperately wanted to, but couldn’t. John had gone against everything he knew and believed in just to keep her by his side. But it changed him. The more Crowley threatened to take Mary away, the worse things John did to keep her there. The darkness and weight of his actions seeped deep into him, staining his heart and Soul. Mary watched with guilt and silence as John changed into a monster.

But what could she do? Everything he did, he did to keep her by his side. She knew she’d do the same for him. And while John was becoming increasingly sinister and spontaneous, his love and demeanor towards Mary never changed. When he held her, when they lay together, he was her John, the man she fell in love with, built a life with.

If she was no longer there, Crowley couldn’t use her as a pawn. But then everything, all that John did and became, would then be without reason. Mary couldn’t handle the guilt of all of the pain, the darkness, the complete disregard for the traditions of The Way...it was all because of her.

With time, her misery consumed her. Her secret of being soulless, feeling her connection to Heaven, all of it was her burden to bare alone. Hers and Crowley’s. It slowly ate at her, consumed her. Until day in and day out, outside of the trances, all she could think about was her and John dying. Maybe if they were both gone, the world would be right again.

Sam came to, wincing from the pain in his head and body. What the Hell happened? He forced himself to open his eyes and sit up. He was in his room, the overhead light turned off, the room dimly illuminated by the soft lighting of his desk lamp. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a silhouette sitting in the chair by his desk.

“You’re awake.” John said, standing from the chair and turning on the overhead light before moving to Sam’s beside.

“What happened?” Sam asked, genuinely confused, as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, clutching his head.

“Seems you were attacked by Y/N.” John stated. Y/N.

“Give it back, Y/N. Don’t make me take it from you.”

Sam shook his head as flashes came to his mind, pieces of his memory clicking into place. Sam remembered the necklace, but didn’t feel it’s weight resting against his chest. He unconsciously rubbed his hand over his chest, confirming its absence.

“How do you feel?” John asked carefully, biting his lip as he watched Sam with scrutiny. I don’t feel anything, Sam remembered. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed with sadness and anger. “What’s going on, Sam?” John asked again, drawing Sam’s full attention to him. Another flash, and Sam remembered John beating Dean. Remembered he had helped. Remembered he threw him in the dungeon.

“I don’t feel anything, really. A headache, I guess.” Sam said, keeping his voice calm and indifferent. He stood, fighting against the pain he felt, hiding it. Sam felt panicked. As his memories came flooding back to him, he felt one thing very clearly...rage. Rage for John, for what he had done to Sam, to Dean, what he had made Sam do…

Sam knew he couldn’t reveal any of this to his father. John wasn’t stupid. He was cunning and strategic and brutal. Sam knew he’d somehow end up in the dungeon like Dean.

“What happened to Y/N?” Sam, again, trying to maintain a level tone. John smiled, patting his son on the back.

“Don’t worry. She assaulted you. Hell, some might argue she tried to kill you.” John’s smile grew sinister as he faced Sam. “And Hunters don’t kill other Hunters.” John teased. More memories and Sam’s anger grew more. His nostrils flared and John noticed. “Are you angry?” John goaded in mock concern.

“No, Sir.” Sam was quick to reply, getting himself back under control. “Just disappointed I couldn’t address the situation myself.” Sam gave a half-smirk to John. John laughed heartily.

“Good to see you’re ok.” John responded, walking towards the door. “You can see to her when you’re well.” He added before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Sam let out a long breath as he let his wall crumble and allowed himself to process...everything.

Regardless of the whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside of him, Sam still had responsibilities. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, but his memories continued to return to him in painful flashes.He spent a long time in his room, quiet and thinking over everything.

“I won’t leave, I promise!” The words reverberated off the walls of Sam’s mind as he remembered the look on Y/N’s face as she spoke them, the absolute fear there. Then he remembered. He had said the same, felt the same, as he looked up at his father from the table. Sam quickly realized that John had stolen his Soul, making him a shell, a perfect soldier.

Sam had read, years before in his constant learning and research of the world, about a group called the Securitate, a secret police agency of Romania. They were known for one of their preferred methods of torture, wherein a victim was bound, forced to swallow the key, and left to die, usually by suffocation, knowing the whole time their freedom was within. Sam couldn’t help but feel sick, the ghostly burn of the pendant reminding him of its former place, his proverbial key within.

Sam did get sick then, hurrying to the wastebasket and releasing all the contents of his stomach in violent heaves. His emotions, for so long gone, were overwhelming. The memories of what he had done, of how everything twisted and became so perverse. It was why he wanted to leave to begin with, he saw it coming.

Sam quickly adjusted himself, wiping his face on his sleeve and standing to attention when he heard his door quickly open and shut. He was shocked to see Mary there, breathing heavy and staring up at Sam.

“Mom?” Sam asked cautiously. He didn’t know if she too was aware of the necklace, of what had been done. He only knew he had to pretend nothing had changed and trust no one. At least until he could figure something out.

Mary didn’t move. Still leaning against the door, she looked up at Sam, her eyes slightly wide. She slowly stood straight, walking towards Sam and tucking his hair neatly behind his ear while he rested her hand on his cheek lovingly.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered. Sam hadn’t heard her talk much at all in years because of her illness. They all just assumed she was hit with madness that gradually got worse. Some sort of brain deterioration. Sam remained wary as he removed Mary’s hands from him and shuffled her to sit in the chair by his desk.

“Why are you sorry?” Sam fought to keep his tone level.

“Where’s your necklace?” She glanced to the spot where it usually lay before meeting his eyes again. Sam swallowed hard, his hand instinctively going to his chest once more. She stood and looked deep into his eyes. “Are you...you again?” She whispered. Mary was scared, Sam could see that. She loved her son, but in the absence of a Soul, he had become John’s errand boy. Mother or not, Sam would put her in her place for any insolence. That is...if he was still under John’s control. She turned from him then.

“After that hunt, when Crowley brought me back, my Soul stayed in Heaven.” Sam’s eyes widened at hearing her words. Were they all without Souls? “I haven’t felt right here since. I stayed, for John,” she looked at Sam again, “for you boys. But I’m tired.” She sighed out the words, her shoulders slumping with the admission.

“Mom, what are you saying?” Sam eagerly asked, maneuvering them both to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m saying,” She sighed against, sitting up straight and staring him in the eye, “I’m saying that I don’t belong here. I belong in Heaven, with my Soul.” Sam shook his head frantically, understanding dawning on him. “But I won’t leave without John.” She added. Sam’s mind reeled at her words. Mary stood to leave.

“You and your brother...take back The Way. Make it mean something again.” She whispered sadly before leaving the room. Sam gripped at his hair, his face going red with too much to process. Take back The Way? How? What did she mean? Back to Heaven? So many questions. He didn’t know what to do, who to turn to. He needed Dean.

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