#June of Doom: Captured

[zrisewrites]

Welcome to the beginning of my @juneofdoom short story series, Captured. It's a set of stories no longer than one thousand words, and filled with angst, witty banter, desparate attempts of escaping--both mentally and physically--assassins, and a possible romance...

Enjoy.

Part One: Darkness ~ Katrina's POV

Word Count: ~500 Content Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of death, drugged

As soon as my mind clears, I know three things:

I’m in the wrong place.

My mind’s not completely cleared yet.

That handout chocolate definitely had something in it.

A cloth’s tied tight over my eyes, so the world’s all darkness. Not to mention the tape plastered over my mouth. But it's... fine. I’ll just… do what Vic taught me.

Breathe. Listen. Focus. Then act.

I take a slow, quiet breath through my nose, focusing on my other senses. The air’s stale with the scent of… metal. And sweat. My hands are mostly out of commission—pulled behind my back. I stretch my fingers up, feeling course rope against the sleeves on my wrist. A bulk of tight knots. It’d take forever to untie those… so that’d have to be the first thing on my plan of action.

I focus on the sound next—or the almost complete lack of it. Somewhere in the distance—maybe down a hall—a faint sound echoes. I can’t tell if it’s human, or just noise from a city. But it seems more isolated. Too big and loud, in this desolate silence.

So… somewhere isolated. Taken by that blasted chocolate connoisseur, maybe. 

I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. It feels like someone stuffed my brain with candy wrappers—it hurts. Not an ache, or a stabbing, but a pricking shift of a thrumming pain every time I move.

Great start to the morning.

The scrape of a door echoes down the hall, followed by a thudding set of footsteps. I tense, digging my fingers up into the rope knot. 

The footsteps quiet.

I hold my breath, ears pricking as I try to pick up any sort of noise. Any sign of their direction. Any indication of—

“Hello there, little assassin.” A voice murmurs from behind, right by my ear. I jump, half lurching forward, a muffled gasp slipping from my throat. 

He laughs, cloth rustling from behind. “So jumpy already… I expected more.”

A gloved hand prods at my cheek. I jerk back. The tapes rips from my mouth, leaving behind stinging cheeks and the heavy weight of curse words I can't say, because my head's too stuffed with whatever they drugged me with.

“Where—am I?” I push out, my words slurred and weak.

He laughs softly again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That’s… why I blasting asked.” I spit. 

Imbeciles. Why else would I ask a question?

The cloth around my eyes tightens, then falls away. I blink in the dim lighting, taking in the room. Bare, grey walls. A flickering lamp in the corner. A shelf with a box and a wind of rope. My attacker—kidnapper—tormentor nowhere to be seen. So, behind me.

“Don’t worry, little assassin.” 

I wish I could place the dude’s voice. It’s not the connoisseur. No one I remember. Why do they want me?

“It’ll all be revealed soon. For now… how would you like some company?”

A door before me swings open, a cloaked figure in the doorway. He jerks a boy into the room. The boy’s blindfolded, hands bound like mine. But I recognize him anyways. The torn black suit. The mussed black hair with a streak of gold. And his hazel eyes that flicker to mine the minute they tear his blindfold off.

Elliott Banks. The boy who killed my mother.

[onlythegoodpretzels]

"I hate to see you like this."

"I thought I would enjoy your defeat after all this time, but really it's sad, isn't it? Once so powerful, and now I can't even chain you properly."

Rauru's ears twitched, which was still a mistake. The Demon King's gloom stung cold and heavy where it smeared his face. Trying to leech in, sicken him.

Rauru bared his teeth. Even without his secret stone, the light in him seared the gloom back. Not enough to banish it. But enough to keep it from taking him. "You...have done nothing. Too weak to approach, perhaps? Your beasts' skills...do not impress me, either."

He focused on the slow hot pulse of energy from his missing right arm. Link was there, somewhere. Fighting. Using his magic. Listening?

"You, lecture me on weakness?" Ganondorf flicked his hand. In a flurry of gloom another small monster snarled into existence, standing menacingly over Rauru.

Provoking the Demon King, immobilized and surrounded with his foul creatures. Somewhere out there, Zelda was very cross with him.

Rauru pressed his elbow back against the rock. He thought vaguely he could feel a sword in his hand. Link's hand. The sword that seals the darkness?

He smiled. "Maybe...you will find where my power has gone. And we will see."

____________________________________________________________

Loosely a follow up to this post -- Rauru survived sealed with Ganondorf and shares the arm with Link (which means at some point it'll pop back in and all hell will break loose here! :D).

Been imagining this restraint option with his ear piercings forever. So fun to finally put it together.

_____________________________________________________________

Slight alteration of @juneofdoom day 12's dialogue prompt. So much of this prompt list is so inspiring for me! Thanks for putting it together!

[otp-after-dark]

🔥 Absolute Blasphemy: They Butchered Nick and June — And They Butchered the Whole Damn Point of THT

Oh, I'm going scorched earth now.

A love story built on blood, sacrifice, and rebellion… reduced to nothing.

TL;DR: Nick gets on a plane that might be rigged to explode. June just lets him. The show runners expect us to call that “love” or “closure.” No. This is character assassination, a betrayal of everything Margaret Atwood built, and a complete erasure of the core themes that made The Handmaid’s Tale matter. And if I have to hold onto my own damn ending to make peace with it, I will. Because the one they gave us? It’s a disgrace.

❌ Nick Blaine Would NEVER Do This. And June Would NEVER Let Him.

Let’s rewind to who these two actually were.

Nick Blaine isn’t just some brooding side character. He’s been a co-lead since Season 1 — a man caught in a fascist regime who chose resistance every single time it meant protecting June.

In Season 1, he coordinates June's escape to the Boston Globe.

In Season 2, he makes sure June survives childbirth and helps coordinate her escape (again) to get her out.

In Season 4, he literally helps orchestrate Fred’s murder as a gift to June.

In Season 5, he makes it clear he’ll never let her go and love anyone but her.

So now you're telling me this man — this careful, bleeding, haunted man — just gets on a plane he has to at least suspect is rigged with no contingency plan, no warning, no desperate last-minute glance, no whispered plea? He might not know the plane is rigged — but he’s not stupid. And even if he didn’t know, it makes it worse that he left without a word, without a glance, without any instinct to reach for her. The Nick we knew would never walk away from June like this. Whether he knew or not, the show robbed him of his voice, his fire, and his final stand.

And June — the woman who launched a rebellion, helped smuggle dozens of children out of Gilead, murdered her rapist, survived ritual torture and psych ops, and stared down Serena Joy and Aunt Lydia with fire in her eyes — now just watches him go?

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t fight. She accepts it.

This is not them. This is not the Nick and June we bled for. This is emotional fraud.

😤 And the Worst Part? FRED WAS RIGHT?

“Every love story is a tragedy if you live long enough.” – Fred f***ing Waterford

Let me tell you something: When FRED, the rapist, tyrant, manipulative narcissist who tried to justify every monstrous thing he did with flowery biblical metaphors, becomes the voice of thematic truth in your show? You’ve failed. Spectacularly.

Because when Fred said that line, it was supposed to be ironic. It was supposed to highlight how he romanticizes suffering while enacting horror. It was supposed to expose his hypocrisy.

But now? Now it’s just… true? Nick and June — the one relationship built on shared survival, silent sacrifice, unspoken longing, and acts of revolution— are left with nothing? And we’re supposed to nod solemnly like, “Yes, Fred was right. All love dies eventually”?

NO. NOPE. HELL NO.

The whole point of Nick and June was that their love transcended the regime. It was never allowed. It was never convenient. And it still endured. That was the story. That was the point.

If Fred was right, the entire narrative collapses in and of itself.

🤬 This Is Narrative Cowardice.

Let me be clear: I can handle tragedy. I can handle heartbreak. I’m not asking for sunshine and babies.

But this isn’t tragedy. This is narrative negligence.

A tragedy would have been:

June dragging Nick off the plane at gunpoint, only for them to be captured.

Nick sacrificing himself but leaving behind a message, a choice, a voice.

June choosing to go with him, knowing it’s doomed, and facing the consequences together.

What we got instead was:

Nick walking to a likely death like a resigned bureaucrat.

June barely reacting.

Zero resistance. Zero passion. Zero truth.

It’s not tragic. It’s lazy. It’s gutless. And it reeks of a writing room that either lost its nerve in the current political climate or no longer believes in the story they were telling.

🧨 This Is Not Atwood's THT. This Is Prestige TV Pretending to Be Smart and Politically Safe.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. This finale isn’t just disappointing — it’s cowardly. It’s prestige-washed, watered-down, and terrified of its own legacy.

Margaret Atwood didn’t write a metaphor. She wrote a warning. Every horror in The Handmaid’s Tale was pulled from history. The pain. The punishments. The systemic control of women’s bodies. All of it has happened before.

At its core, her book carried one thesis: Oppression thrives on silence. Resistance lives in memory, desire, and identity. Even in captivity, even when stripped of everything, a woman can still rebel — by remembering herself.

That’s who Offred was. That’s who June used to be. A narrator who named her pain. A woman who found rebellion in wanting, in loving, in refusing to disappear.

And early on, the show got that. It gave us fire. It gave us June spitting in Fred’s face. June orchestrating Fred’s murder and kissing Nick like a blood-soaked thank-you.

Her love with Nick wasn’t soft. It wasn’t quiet. It was survival. It was resistance. It was a threat to Gilead itself.

But now? Now June is muted, judgmental, and a hypocrite. Nick is neutered and pro Gilead. WHAT?! And their love — once radical — is treated like a tragic inconvenience.

The final insult? Fred f***ing Waterford gets the last word.

That line should’ve been mocked. A narcissist’s delusion. A warning of how tyrants romanticize the violence they cause.

Instead? The show treats it like the truth. Like the point.

That’s not a tragedy. That’s a betrayal.

This finale isn’t bold. It’s not emotionally mature. It’s not a reflection of trauma or nuance.

It’s storytelling that’s scared of passion. Scared of fire. Scared of the very themes it once claimed to stand for.

This isn’t Atwood. This isn’t feminist. This isn’t revolutionary.

It’s politically safe. Emotionally hollow. And I reject it completely.

✅ The Ending That Still Makes Sense (a summary of my ending)

Forget this muted finale.

In my ending — the only one that makes emotional sense — Nick finally snaps. He stops playing the good soldier. Stops pretending he doesn’t care. He shows up at June’s door like a man on fire.

And June? She’s already past the point of no return. Done with pretending Canada is salvation. She’s ready to do something reckless. Dangerous.

He opens the door. She gets in the car. There’s blood on her hands. Tears in her eyes. But clarity, too. And she says it:

“We’re in this together. Fucking drive.”

That’s it. That’s all it ever had to be.

Two people who loved each other too hard for the world they lived in. Who chose each other in the face of death. Who didn’t walk away.

Not passive ghosts. Not tragedy porn. Not whatever the hell this finale tried to sell us.

This Finale? UNFORGIVABLE.

You don’t get to build Nick and June as a story of love under fire, love as resistance, love as something holy and real in the middle of hell — and then tell us that none of it mattered.

You don’t get to give Fred Waterford the final word on love. You don’t get to strip June of her fight. You don’t get to neuter Nick and erase his heart.

We remember who they were. Atwood got it right. And we’re not buying this lame ass crap.

[ghostlykiss]

Fyrebird

The last in the June/Nat Daggerfest works finished just in time.

"In Slavic mythology and folklore, the Firebird (zhar-ptitsa) is a magical and prophetic glowing or burning bird from a faraway land which is both a blessing and a harbinger of doom to its captor." (wiki)

Based off of Slavic mythology but with a twist (zhar-ptitsa do not have human forms, and their feathers do not light the way to one's love or destiny)

A single fyrebird feather can act as a light for an entire room, glowing brightly even after being removed. The legend states that a feather removed from the bird's mortal form will lead one to their love, destiny, or heart's greatest desire.

The human form is often that of a beautiful woman, and is considered the most difficult to trap. Once captured, the wielder of the tether dooms themselves to the end prophesied by the bird, one that is often prolonged and brutal.

Variants and close up under the cut

[s10127470]

@fantasticfourforever, @void-f3lt, @black-but-mildly-sunny, @chochochlorine1, @alaris-peregrine, @ariel-seagull-wings, @lovingbookslibrariesartprune

I'm sure a good chunk of you reading this are aware of my upcoming fanfic, "Tales of The Fantastic Four".

The series is gonna be action-adventure comedy, seeing Marvel's First Family going on adventures anywhere and everywhere, all while accompanied by their many friends.

The series will take heavy inspiration from various pieces of media.

The exciting action and adventure of classic adventure serials, the Indiana Jones films, and Jonny Quest.

The unabashed campiness of Robert Rodriguez films and Batman: The Brave and the Bold.

And the wit and sharp comedy of The Road to movies, Looney Tunes, The Simpsons, Hanna-Barbera, and SpongeBob SquarePants.

The series will premiere either this Memorial Day weekend or the beginning of June.

And in honor of its nearing release, I decided to share some of the planned episodes for this series.

So without further ado, let's begin!

Doomed: The series premiere. The Fantastic Four are off to New York City for the annual World Genius Convention, where many of the greatest minds in the world (some of whom are their close friends) will be meeting up to discuss what achievements they've made. However, Doctor Doom, who was banned from the Convention for obvious reasons, decides to use a spell to turn everyone there into zombies under his control in order to rampage around New York (to give them all a bad name) and destroy The Fantastic Four.

The Krees and The Skrulls: The Fantastic Four find themselves having to protect the romance between a young Kree and a young Skrull, after they fled their home planets to escape the wrath of their respective people, who happen to be bitter enemies.

Along Came a Spider: The FF and some multiversal variants of Spider-Men visit a universe set in a retro-futuristic version of the 1960s. While there, they meet the Spider-Man of that universe, who's still a teenager. However, things don't exactly well since this Spidey.....is a selfish, spiteful jackass. And during their time there, their patience quickly wears thin. However, the group will soon find out what this Spidey truly needs: a friend.

Batter Up: The FF and some multiversal variants of The X-Men travel back to 1897 Boston to watch a game of The Boston Beaneaters in action. But after an incident that ends up accidentally injuring the whole team, The X-Men step in to take their place and help them win the season.

The Jungle Madness: The FF travel to Wakanda to visit The Black Panther for vacation. But while having a beach day at a jungle lagoon, they suddenly find themselves having to protect themselves and the people of Wakanda from the local wildlife, which is acting far more aggressive than usual.

It Takes a Planet Eater to Eat a Feast: After using a special device that Reed made to warn off Galactus on the aforementioned planet eater when they comes to Earth yet again, a malfunction occurs and accidentally turns him into a human. As they (along with The Silver Surfer) try and figure out what to do with him, the annual Key West Eating Competition is right around the corner and the family are planning on competing in it, hoping they can win it this year. But luck could be in their favor as they find out that Galactus still has his massive appetite, even as a human.

Happy Birthday, Hydra Supreme!: It's the Captain Americas birthdays, and The FF (along with all the other multiversal variants) are throwing a party! However, the party is suddenly crashed by the forces of Hydra, all being lead by a figure known as Hydra Supreme. Everyone ends up getting captured and brought back to a universe where Hydra ends up ruling the world. So now, they have to find a way to escape. But before they make it out, they'll also discover the shocking secret on who Hydra Supreme is.

Dead the Red: Franklin and Valeria find themselves being dragged by Fox Deadpool back to The Caribbean in the year 1715 in order to find authentic pirate treasure. However while there, Deadpool keeps getting mistaken by nearly everyone for a notorious pirate Captain that looks pretty similar to him known as Dead the Red. As you would expect, Deadpool starts using this to advantage. But this quickly goes south when he gets confronted by the actual Dead the Red.

Well that's all for now!

What do you guys think about these episode ideas?

And if you could, I'd like to hear some ideas for future episodes!

[wingedjewels]

A Major Visit (read info text for story) by Lacerta Bilineata Via Flickr: IMPORTANT: for non-pro users who read the info on a computer, just enlarge your screen to 120% (or more), then the full text will appear below the photo with a white background - which makes reading so much easier. THE VIDEO OF THE WOODPECKERS IN MY GARDEN: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lE_Dk3S3B3Q MY BEST PHOTOS (MOSTLY NOT YET ON FLICKR): www.lacerta-bilineata.com/ticino-best-photos-of-southern-... THE STORY BEHIND THE PHOTO: The great spotted woodpecker (Dendrocopos major) is probably my favorite bird to photograph, but that fella had me waiting even longer than the elusive jay: It took me well over a year to finally get a shot form a close enough distance, and it literally required help from the heavens - but more on that later. Ever since I saved a young woodpecker as a kid - the little guy had gotten himself entangled in one of the nets our local farmer had put over his cherry trees - I've had a particular affinity for this beautiful species, and when I decided to feed the birds in my garden in early 2023 (for reasons you can read all about here: www.flickr.com/photos/191055893@N07/52994208987/in/datepo... ), I naturally hoped I would also get a visit from Mr. or Mrs. D. Major. But no member of the Picidae family showed up that winter, and when spring arrived and I laid out some cherries in my epic struggle to capture the Eurasian jay (a tale you can find here: www.flickr.com/photos/191055893@N07/54147481326/in/datepo... ), I again harbored the hope the fruit might do the trick and also attract a great spotted woodpecker. Alas, the species simply never came close enough to my garden to even see my buffet for birds. I didn't blame them; there was just nothing on my premises to attract them from afar: no old trees nor any dead wood that could have competed with the gorgeous chestnut forest around our village, and so 2023 went by without a visit of either Mr. or Mrs. Woodpecker. Cut to spring 2024, which brought some major changes to my garden. For one, our whole region was drowning in seemingly endless rain, and the upper part of my garden looked like the world's dirtiest swimming pool. After a winter that had been catastrophically dry, in late February heaven's floodgates suddenly opened and then hardly ever closed again until the beginning of June. We'd often had prolonged rainfalls in spring in the past, but this was a whole new dimension, and the effect on nature was quite drastic. There were floods and landslides all over, and the pollination of many plants simply didn't happen, because the constant downpour had taken a terrible toll on insect life (I had to pollinate the zucchini plants in my garden myself with a cotton swab, because even when the sun was out, there were hardly any bees to be seen). For many birds in our region this spelled doom, because the cold and damp weather conditions coincided with their breeding season. I noticed there were more species than usual coming to my garden, because in their desperate search for food, even otherwise rather shy birds left the forest and flew farther distances. And thus it happened that in May 2024 a pair of great spotted woodpeckers - a male and a female - finally came to check out my garden. I shamefully admit I was over the moon (after all, the reason for their visit was certainly nothing to be joyful about). To my surprise they ignored the cherries I had laid out on the tree trunk in front of my shed: what they instead went absolutely crazy for were hazelnuts. Observing the couple was so much fun - and incredibly fascinating. They first "chiseled" a few tiny holes into my fig tree with their impressive beaks (and, as I later discovered, also into the wooden table underneath my pergola 😂 ), then they would each collect a single hazelnut from the tree trunk and hammer it with great precision into one of the holes. Once the nut was in place, they would hack it into little pieces which they would then gobble up. This, however, did not go unnoticed by the ever attentive local jay. The clever fella liked my buffet for birds well enough, but he knew I was lurking behind the shed's wall next to the tree trunk where I fed the birds, and THAT he didn't like. But now all he had to do was wait until the woodpeckers carried a hazelnut to the fig tree, where it was at a much safer distance from the nasty human, and as soon as the nut was fixed in its hole and ready for the taking, he would bully away the rightful owner who had done all the work and cheekily steal it (I was even able to film this behavior once, it happens at the 1minute-10seconds mark: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lE_Dk3S3B3Q ). Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. D. Major didn't let such rude behavior from the locals deter them from my garden; as long as I made sure there were always enough hazelnuts to go around, they accepted the fact that they would lose one to the jay every once in a while and kept coming - and thus I got lots of opportunities to photograph them. After two weeks, the pair even surprised me with the most wonderful gift: they brought Junior along and fed him in the fig tree (which you can also see in the clip I linked above: Junior is the one with the red "cap"). It seems my garden is now an integral part of their territory even when I don't feed them, and they visit it every day. But this may also have to do with another change that occurred in my garden in spring '24, namely that I - among many other things - dragged at least two dozen old tree stumps into it, which the woodpeckers love. The only downside is that they feel so territorial about my garden now that they chase away any green woodpeckers that want to come near, which means I don't have a chance to get a photo of those beautiful birds - but I don't wanna complain; I'm more than happy, and I know you just can't win them all. 😊 As always, many thanks for reading and commenting: have a great start into the new week everyone! ❤🙏😊

[mechdeer]

Drink

June of Doom Day 24: Disoriented/Fainting/Blurred Vision

Warnings: captivity, rough handling, slapping, passing out, forced blood drinking

"Get up."

The voice was muddled, as if it had been spoken underwater. Visten tried to open his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut when the room tilted around him.

A hand gripped his arm, painfully tight, and yanked him to his feet. His ears started to ring. The soldier was saying something else, but Visten couldn't understand him. A jolt of pain - a gloved hand slapping across his face - teetered him briefly into consciousness. He was being dragged to the door of the cell, which was open, more soldiers standing in the torchlit hallway beyond.

Then Visten's legs buckled beneath him, and everything went black.

He suspected it was only a few seconds before he regained his senses. He was in the hallway, being half-supported, half-dragged by two soldiers. He quickly closed his eyes, hoping they wouldn't notice he was conscious. It would be easier that way.

They weren't gentle with him. They lugged him up the stairs like a sack of grain. At the top, a door opened, and when Visten's foot cracked into the doorframe he couldn't hold back a yelp.

He was shoved into blinding brightness and fell to his hands and knees in the dirt. It took a long time for his eyes to adjust. His arms trembled with the effort of keeping him upright.

There was the murmur of voices, the whinny of horses, the clink of armor. Then a shadow fell over Visten, and he managed to crack open his eyes enough to make out the hazy image of the Lieutenant.

Visten tried to scramble back, but he only toppled over, knocking up a cloud of dust that made his lungs burn, but he was too weak to cough. The Lieutenant crouched before him. His handsome face was twisted into a smirk, and when his lips peeled back further, it revealed the gleam of his fangs.

Visten wasn't sure he'd survive another feeding right now.

But the Lieutenant shoved up his left sleeve, baring his pale forearm, and lifted it to his mouth. His fangs pierced the skin, and then the Lieutenant extended his arm towards Visten's face. Two drops of dark blood had welled to the surface.

"Drink."

"No," Visten choked out, twisting his head away.

The Lieutenant gripped Visten's hair and shoved his mouth against his forearm. The coppery tang of blood flooded across Visten's tongue. He tried to pull away, but his own feeble strength was useless against the vampire. He was forced to swallow, and suddenly energy poured into his body, as bracing as cold water. Without really meaning to, Visten sucked more blood into his mouth, and felt every muscle bloom with new strength.

The Lieutenant shoved him away. "That's enough."

Visten sat back, gasping for air. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and it came away bloody. Horror seized him. He'd just drank a vampire's blood. And he felt fantastic. Then, piercing through the amazement like a sword, came the rage. He'd been kept in that weakened state for days, dizzy and disoriented with blood loss, and the Lieutenant could have fixed it - and simply chose not to.

"You bastard," Visten snarled. He lunged forwards with renewed strength, but guards swarmed up behind him and yanked him back. He could see, now, behind the Lieutenant, a carriage: one with bars over its windows. More soldiers were milling about the courtyard, some on horseback. "Where are you taking me?"

The Lieutenant regarded him cooly. "This dreary place was only ever meant to be temporary." He waved a lazy hand towards the stronghold, its cracked stone and ivy-choked towers. "You didn't think I lived here, did you? I'm insulted," he crooned.

"They'll come for me," Visten growled, as he was shoved towards the carriage. But how many times had he said that already, in the days since he'd been captured? And with every time, he became less and less sure of his own words.

[chaotic-orphan]

Master post of series:

{Slowly moving updated versions of these series to @macknus account, if you'd like to read updated versions :) [23/09/24]

All the links bring you to part one and the next parts are linked at the bottom of the post!

To be Finished Drabbles…

Intoxicating fear

(Scared hero x telepath Villain) [male hero/villain]

Delirious villain x hero caretaker

Vendetta

(heroes vs villain war) [gen neutral, everyone]

Defiant Leader x confident villain

Heroic betrayal

(hero betrayed by other hero) [female whumpee/male whumper(s)]

The stranger

(vigilante Whumpee) [male whumpee/whumper]

The immortal Hunter

(vampire whump) [male whumper/whumpees]

Semantics

(royal whump: Usurper x Noble - fair warning, Usurper is a lil freak) [fem whumpee/male whumper]

Villain’s gift

[Supervillain gives Villain a present for their birthday]

The hero and the infant

(grumpy hero x superhero sidekick)

Partners in Crime

(Charismatic Whumpee, goons and Powerful Whumper) [male whumpee/whumper]

A Benignant Mischief

(Fantasy found family, young elf outlaw captured by enemy kingsmen whose orders are to capture any elf for trial before the King/ hurt/comfort— ish, it’s giving fuzzy vibes) [male whumpees]

Febuwhump 2025 Masterpost

WHUMPTOBER 2024 👻

Febuwhump 2024 Masterpost

Winter Whumperland 2023

TMT December Prompt Calendar 2022

Hero/Villain Drabbles:

Whump drabbles Masterpost

June of doom (JoD):

JoD Day nine: part one / part two / part three

( I intend to make this into a series I just forgot about it until today)

[khentkawes]

June of Doom Day 26: Shackled

26. “When will you learn?” | Sleep Deprivation | Shackle | Injury Reveal

Part 3 of my 4 part Musketeers fic for @juneofdoom (Primarily filling the "shackle" prompt, but Aramis is also pretty exhausted at this point, and he never does learn that windows don't make good doors)

Fandom: BBC Musketeers (2014)

Characters: Aramis

Timeline: post-season 3

Word count: 2.1k

Note: I tried to research 17th century drugs, poisons, and sedatives, and then decided that was too much work for this story, and it’s not like The Musketeers is the most historically accurate show anyway. Aramis assumes he was drugged with opium (which at least existed in this time period), but he isn’t sure, and neither am I. Let’s just say it was something that induces unconsciousness but also leads to hallucinations, disorientation, and general confusion. Okay? Cool.

This is part three of a four part story. Click for Part 1 and Part 2.

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

Part 3/4

Aramis figured he must have been unconscious (or hallucinating) most of the night. It had been a couple hours before dusk when he arrived at St. Germain-des-Pres. His goal had been to meet with the abbé and return to the Louvre before it grew dark, using the evening crowds of people returning home to ensure he went unnoticed. He had no idea how long it had taken his assailants to move him (or where they'd moved him to), but based on the soft light slanting through the narrow windows, Aramis suspected it was now early morning.

Would his attackers return for him soon? And what did they want with him? If they wanted him dead, then drugging him and leaving him in a cellar was a curious choice.

His mysterious captors apparently did not trust that the sedative in his system would be sufficient to prevent his escape. It was nice not to be underestimated, Aramis thought wryly. Not as nice were the metal cuffs that circled his wrists, each attached to a separate chain; both chains had several feet of slack that trailed along the ground, the ends affixed to an iron ring embedded in the stone wall. The chains were long enough to allow movement (though not, Aramis noted, long enough to let him reach the stairs on the opposite side of the cellar). They were not up to the quality of restraints that were used in the royal prisons, but they were strong enough that he wouldn’t be able to break them.

Aramis tried not to wonder what it said about his life that he was so intimately familiar with cuffs and shackles that he could assess their quality with a glance.

Probably it was the shackles that had triggered the memories of his imprisonment by Rochefort and his capture by Grimaud. The nightmares, given new life by the opium (or whatever it had been) he'd been dosed with, all centered around times he’d found himself in chains. Not coincidentally, those were some of his darkest memories, and even realizing they had been nothing but opium-induced visions, he struggled to fully shake them off.

Clearly the effects of the drugs, though lessened, had yet to fully subside. His head still felt fuzzy, and sudden movements made him dizzy. More worryingly, he could occasionally hear whispers of voices. At first, he thought that it was his captors, whispering outside the door or their voices carrying from somewhere above on the main floor of the building. But the whispers took on the voices from his nightmares. At times he swore he could hear Athos despairing of his poor judgement, Porthos mocking him for bringing such trouble on himself, Tréville scolding him for endangering those around him. At least Rochefort and Grimaud had remained silent since he'd regained consciousness. 

But perhaps his visions also provided a clue to his captors’ identities. He found himself thinking of Louis, of the threats he’d made against Aramis in life and the way he seemed to haunt Aramis in death. He wondered if this was the late king’s revenge, if his captors were Louis’s supporters, following through on the king’s orders to keep Aramis away from the queen and the dauphin.

Or perhaps it was just standard politics. There were many in France who resented Anne’s position as regent, who conspired to overthrow the regency to take the young king’s power for themselves. Taking Aramis out of the equation would weaken Anne’s position.

Aramis simply didn’t have enough information to infer who was behind his capture, so he turned to investigating his surroundings instead. He began a thorough examination of his makeshift cell, beginning by inspecting the walls, moving along the wall in one direction until he ran out of slack in the chains, and then reversing direction. He couldn’t reach the far wall where stairs led to the only door, nor could he reach the barrels stacked next to the stairs. The narrow windows were too high for him to reach. Other than the ring in the wall that secured his chains, he found nothing of note. Next he examined the floor, searching for any discarded tools or debris that he could use. He hoped to find something that he could use to release the pin that kept the shackles tight. If he could loosen it somewhat… But Aramis found no tools, not even a nail. All he found were a few small stones that appeared to have come loose from the wall, which were better than nothing, though not be much.

He took the stones with him and then settled down to examine the chains – one link at a time.

“I should have had you hung when I had the chance,” Louis’s voice said, coming from somewhere nearby.

Aramis grit his teeth, glanced up quickly to see his new hallucination leaning casually against the wall. He returned to his task, inspecting the next chain link.

“You would ignore your king?” Louis’s voice took on that affronted tone he’d often used, the one that made him sound a bit like a petulant child.

“I would ignore a hallucination of a dead king, yes.”

“Well, if I’m a hallucination, your mind must be farther gone than you thought.”

Aramis groaned. “It’s just the opium… or whatever was in that wretched concoction.”

“Ah, the delusions of wishful thinking. You know that wore off hours ago, otherwise you’d still be unconscious.”

“Then perhaps you are the result of the concussion. Being hit on the head repeatedly tends to do that to man. It’s something of an occupational hazard.” Aramis paused. His head was pounding again, and he knew he shouldn’t say anything more. But… “You wouldn’t know anything about that, living your life coddled like a child, constantly advised and protected by more capable men.”

Was it petty? Yes. But Aramis had held his tongue with Louis for years. He felt no need to speak gently to a version of Louis that was conjured by his own mind.

“My, my. Strong words from the man who was kidnapped by two common thugs. Not so capable as you like to believe yourself, it seems. Blame your predicament on the opium or the concussion if you wish. But no, I think your feeble mind has just reached its breaking point. This is why commoners shouldn’t be allowed to rule. It’s too much for their limited faculties.”

Aramis had examined every link in the chain attached to his left wrist. Nothing. He dropped it and began his examination of the chain attached to his right.

“You’re determined; I’ll give you that. It won’t do you any good though.”

Aramis continued to ignore him.

“You will die here, and no one will even know what became of you. I told you that you’d never be allowed near the queen or my son. And now, that promise will finally come to fruition. You thought my words died with me, but the commands of a king cannot be ignored, only delayed. You will never see my son again.”

Aramis growled and turned, throwing a stone at the image of the dead king. As the stone hit the wall, the image vanished. Aramis grumbled as he returned to his task, looking down at the chain and… there. One damaged link, about two feet from the cuff. There was a groove cut into the link, weakening it. He grabbed one of the stones, a narrow one, flattened at one end, just the right size and shape so that he could insert the stone into the oblong chain link, and then twist the stone to exert pressure, stretching and weakening the already damaged link until the fault caused it to snap – or so Aramis hoped.

“Your brilliant escape plan… is a rock.”

That time the voice sounded like Athos, with his signature deadpan delivery that made him sound supremely unimpressed with Aramis – as usual.

When Aramis looked up, there was no one there. Of course there wasn’t. But if he was only hallucinating voices, not images, he could at least call that an improvement.

It took time. Far too much time. But eventually, the damaged chain link snapped. Aramis stared dumbly at his freed right hand and the two feet of chain that dangled from it. Wrapping the chain around his wrist to keep it out of the way, he turned his attention to the other shackle.

Aramis used the stones to help him bend the broken chain link until it was mostly straight. Then, carefully and painfully, he pressed the sharp point of the broken link against the pin that held the shackles closed. It slipped out of place on his first try. And multiple times after that, the bent chain link not quite fitting the pin hole. He held his left hand still, pressing the cuff against his knee to keep it from shifting and tried again. Minutes went by, his grip slipping and his fingers cut by the sharp edges of the broken chain. As he maneuvered the cuff into a better position, a sharp edge on the metal dug into the flesh of his left hand, just below the thumb, slicing into it. With both of his hands cut and bloodied, the work was even more difficult, and Aramis was acutely aware that the longer it took to free himself, the more likely his captors would return.

After what felt like hours, he finally managed to dislodge the pin enough to loosen the tension on the cuff and squeeze his bloody hand free. Actually, the blood probably helped him slide free of the shackles more quickly.

His left hand completely free, Aramis debated using the same method to release the shackle still around his right wrist. But before he could, he heard footsteps. Aramis rushed across the cellar, crouching behind the stacked barrels beside the stairs.

The door creaked open slowly. A foot landed on the top step, then another. When the man was halfway down the staircase, Aramis reached for his leg and pulled, throwing the man to the rest of the way so he hit the ground hard. With a quick kick to the head to keep him down, Aramis turned and dashed up the stairs. When he opened the door to emerge from the dark cellar, he nearly ran head first into another of his captors, a man who was apparently standing guard and was somewhat stunned at Aramis’s sudden appearance. Aramis didn’t hesitate, wrapping the chain still attached to his wrist around the man’s neck and pulling it taut. As the man choked, he tried to cry out. Aramis heard more men stirring within the house and he quickly looked around him. To his left was a staircase that led to the second floor of the building. To his right, a corridor that led in to the rest of the house... and the voices of multiple men who were unlikely to allow Aramis to just waltz out the front door.

Shoving the choking man down the stairs to the cellar, Aramis slammed the door behind him and then dashed up the stairs. It wasn’t the most promising escape route, but Aramis was unwilling to fight the remaining guards with nothing but his bare hands, certainly not while concussed and in unfamiliar surroundings. All of the advantage would be on the other side. Upstairs, he hoped that he’d find a weapon of some sort to aid his escape.

At the top of the stairs, he slammed and bolted a door behind him, moving quickly into the next room, and bolting that door as well for good measure. It would, at least, slow them down a bit.

Aramis looked around him, searching for a weapon or another means of escape. He became aware that this was a fairly large house, though it didn’t appear to be lived in. As he moved through the upper chambers, noting sparse furniture littering the rooms, he began to feel that he’d only trapped himself further. He heard commotion downstairs and knew he was rapidly running out of time.

The sound of a musket shot broke through the air. Aramis listened, but no answering shot came. Then there were shouts, feet running, and the clang of swords.

Aramis had no idea what was going on downstairs, but decided it was, at least, a distraction. He searched the house quickly, checking possible escape routes. He considered his chances of escaping out a window, but it was higher than expected – a consequence, he expected, of the basement and the sloping terrain.

He heard a crash coming from far too close by. That would be the doorframe breaking as someone smashed through the door he’d bolted at the top of the stairs. He gripped the chain attached to his right wrist, prepared to swing it as a weapon if necessary.

He moved to the nearest window and swore. He’d hoped his days of window escapes were over. After all, he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

-> Part 4

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 15, 28, 30

Rescue | “Say something.” | Shock

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba

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Contains: restraints, suspicion, fear, blood

WC: 1080

A man or a monster?

The seer blinked to wakefulness, stunned he wasn’t dead, only to face another astonishment:

Two strangers shoving their way into his room.

He stared blearily at the intruders: a wispy-haired servant girl and a wan-faced northerner.

Wait . . .

He knew that man, not from life, but from his vision.

The girl gasped at the sight of him, and the seer registered a tightness, a wrongness, down his face: dried blood from the aftermath of his vision, the most violent and disorienting he’d ever endured. Sitting up from where he’d collapsed, he swiped his fingers—not, to his surprise, sliced to ribbons by broken glass—beneath his nose as if to wipe it away.

“What happened to you?” the girl asked, her voice quivering.

At the same time, the man said in a voice thick with disappointment, “It’s not him.”

“But—look. He’s a prisoner, too.” She pointed toward the chain, still snarled around his legs, asking, “Who . . . who are you?”

“Imprisoned for what, though?” the man asked, dragging a hand anxiously through his hair. “We don’t know. Maybe he’s dangerous. We should just go—we need to find—”

Panic spiked through the seer. His first real chance at escape in five years, and they were going to walk away.

No. No. He couldn’t let them leave him here, not now. Think. What were they doing here, and how could he win their aid?

The other northerner, newly captured. This man had to be looking for him.

“Wait . . .”

The seer realized with a start that the man had frozen in place, eyes wide with shock and fixed directly on the seer’s face.

“I . . . saw you,” he said slowly, dazed. “My window. You broke it.” He stepped back, pulling the girl with him as if to shield her. “But you weren’t really there.”

His blatant fear made the seer’s throat ache.

“I saw things,” the man said shakily. “Horrible things. Evil, bloody, atrocious things. But they led me here. Did you do that to me?” The astonished fearfulness morphed to anger. “How? What are you?”

So he’d really done it, then—shattered that man’s window, manipulated the real world from the realm of the ethereal. A feat so impossible he’d never even considered trying it.

His brother’s bloodstained smile flashed in his mind.

“What are you?” the man repeated, more forcefully now. “Some sort of demon?” When the seer only shook his head, he snarled, “Why don’t you answer? Say something!”

His hand hovered over the dagger at his side.

With his heart beating painfully up to his throat, the seer brushed his hand over his throat, then his lips, shaking his head again.

“He can’t speak,” said the girl softly. Her eyes, he saw with surprise, had filled with tears. “He’s trapped here, and he can’t even talk. We have to help him.”

“No, we don’t,” the man said through gritted teeth. “Something odd is afoot here, and we need to move. Don’t you want to find your friend?”

“Yes,” the girl shot back, “I do want to find her, and I know you want to find your servant—”

“My friend.”

“Fine, your friend, but—”

What she’d said sank in: her. The seer bolted upright. Was she looking for his sister? Could it be mere coincidence that she was looking for another girl at the same time the prince had taken her away for some horrific punishment?

The answer to how he would earn their trust hit him swiftly. Wait, he mouthed. Please, wait.

If they understood, he didn’t know, for he didn’t wait to find out. All he perceived before he let himself fall into a vision was that they didn’t flee from him—at least, not yet.

He yearned to seek his sister, to find where she was and what she was enduring—but finding the captured northerner first would be the quicker way to earn this man’s trust.

He was coughing blood, clotted and dark, when he returned to the waking world from a locked room where a confused prisoner wriggled fruitlessly and wildly against his bonds.

That way.

They both recoiled when he reached out a bloodied hand to point in the direction of the captive northerner.

“I think he wants to lead us,” said the girl uncertainly. “Is that it? You’ll help us find our friends?”

The seer nodded.

The man took a step forward, still wary. But his hand had drifted slightly farther from his blade.

“Which are you?” he asked harshly. “A man or a monster?”

But before the seer could confess the truth in answer, the girl said, “I’m freeing him.” She brandished a ring of iron keys, obviously stolen. “You said it yourself. We haven’t got much time. He might be our best chance at finding them.”

Yet the man grabbed her arm again, holding her still, fixing his gaze on the seer.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said slowly, “or what you are.”

Neither, thought the seer miserably, did he.

“We’ll let you out of here. But our help isn’t free. You’re going to find my friend, and hers. A girl who works here, a maidservant.”

The seer swallowed, dread for his sister’s unknown fate creeping through his limbs.

“You can find them? You know where they are?”

At a loss for how to explain without words, the seer nodded and touched his temple.

“What does that mean?” the man asked helplessly. The girl, too, seemed utterly baffled.

Please.

“Be careful,” the man said, watching as the girl fiddled nervously with her keys. “Do you want me to do it?”

She seemed to consider it heavily, looking over the seer once more before she said, “No. I’m not frightened.”

Trying to hide the emotion on his face, the seer wiped fresh blood from his nose and held still as she tiptoed forward.

For the first time in five years, the shackle clicked open, and it stayed that way.

“Now take me to my friend,” the man ordered. “Time to uphold your end of the bargain.”

The seer’s steps almost faltered as he crossed the threshold of his prison cell.

Free.

He might have wept with gratitude or whooped with joy if the pressing perils from his visions weren’t crushing in around him.

Free.

He was free, and the moment he found his sister, he would do everything in his power to ensure she was, too.

He would win freedom for them both, or he would die trying.

June of Doom Masterlist

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@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Lou Reed - City Hall, Sheffield, England, June 1, 1974

It's totally Christmas in June this week — at least if you're into previously uncirculated soundboard recordings of Doom & Gloom favorites. First, we listened to a SBD of Television in 2004. Now, we're going back to 1974 to check out this heretofore unknown tape of Lou in Sheffield! Thank you to weaponsetc for sharing this one with the rest of us — they are always coming up with the goods!

Interestingly, this show takes place on the same evening when Lou's old sparring partner John Cale was over in London, playing that famed show with Ayers, Eno and Nico at the Rainbow, which was later released as June 1, 1974. Lou's own June 1, 1974 isn't quite as momentous as Cale's, but it is a very solid, up-close-and-personal capture of the Sally Can't Dance band finding its feet. I've been enjoying this era of live Lou more than I have previously. The funkiness/crunchiness is working for me these days, I guess. Lou and his band's collective energy is good, plenty of chemistry, with Lou offering encouraging asides to his sidemen. Also cool to hear keyboardist Michael Fonfara's various textures — plenty of ARP action, of all things, especially on the go-for-baroque version of "Heroin." The extremely lowdown "Waiting For The Man" is also a highlight — "Big and evil!" as Lou exclaims happily.

Reed and Cale would hook up a little bit later, as detailed in Will Hermes' King of New York bio. "Reed was in the bathroom a while, so Cale went to check on him; he found his old drug buddy with an evidently clogged needle. rivulets of blood trickling out from multiple holes in his arm, as if Reed was unable to land a good shot. 'I quickly tied his arm off, inserted the needle into the best vein I could find, and let it rip,' Cale recalled." That's what friends are for!

[the-golden-comet]

✨Happy Fanfiction Friday!✨

Hellooooo~! This week has been very busy with leadership meetings, and I have six more in June (end of fiscal year. Lots of reports. Lots of retreats) so I haven’t been as active with the motivational days. I’ve also been writing my own story 🧞‍♂️, so it may take a while for me to respond if you tag me (please still do! I love to hear from you all. lt may just take me a little bit to respond 💖). Just know that you are lovely and I appreciate all your beautiful art ✨

However, this post will serve as my weekly contribution, as it has already reached so many artists and writers. I am so thankful it did, because y’all need to hear it. You lovely people need to hear these things. No more tearing yourselves down; it’s time to lift artists and writers up like the beautiful souls you are 💖

Speaking of supporting writers, it’s time for my fanfic recs. I’ve read a lot of your stories so far, so here are just a few of the myriad of lovely works I have had the pleasure of reading recently:

I Am Your Lover (I Am Your Jailor) by @justabigoldnerd (18+)

OKAY, you maybe saw me gush about this yesterday but it’s true— @justabigoldnerd masterfully crafts a fantasy narrative between Illya and Solo from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. His handling of heavier topics mixed with a lighter prose makes this just a gorgeous piece of literature. It’s got gay knights, a gay prince, and sex. Yes, I’m biased.

Also interwoven in between are some of the TENDEREST and FLUFFIEST moments that will make your heart melt. The villain in this story will make you viscerally upset—just as a heads up. @justabigoldnerd accomplishes all of these complex emotions so incredibly well, and I HIGHLY recommend you read it for yourself.

Five Years Is a Long Time to Not Call Your Mother by @poorreputation

Okay so this is Part 2 of their fic Dimples, which legit made me ugly cry with how good it is. So when this showed up in my inbox, I SCREAMED with joy. This is the sequel to this wonderful story on the fic’s birthday, and I cannot WAIT to see how it goes (though I will wait, because art this good takes time to make ✨)

Doom Metal Love Story by @fortunatetragedy

Okay I may be breaking my rules here with an original work, but FUCK the rules because THIS 🤌✨ beautiful story captures the raw and rigid emotions of Royston and Cole (what I’ve read so far), a beautiful train scene that I could paint in my mind thanks to @fortunatetragedy’s amazing prose work. Any story that can get me to paint a picture in my head like that is deserving a shoutout.

Speaking of fucking the rules:

LunuL by @autism-purgatory

This one. Right now. Drop what you’re doing and read it. Beautiful futuristic sci-fi with mad science thrown in and mixed masterfully, cyborg and cybernetic enhancements, and a beautiful bond between Leo and Ren, this is a must read. He works so hard on worldbuilding and it SHOWS, and his details are STILL beautifully crafted. Seriously, go read it.

That is all for now, but again—SO MANY STORIES. This doesn’t include the beautiful originals I’ve read here on Tumblr (Before Deluca by @dyrewrites has captured my heart with the insanely romantic storytelling style). Now, because of all of your wonderful and inspiring tales, I’m off to write my own ✨

[lithub]

June 16, 2025

Today, we’re thinking about the brutal business of fact-checking, finding yourself in queer historical fiction, and the future of climate writing!

On Lit Hub dot com:

Isabel Ruehl considers Austin Kelley’s novel The Fact Checker and the business of truth. | Lit Hub Criticism

Why John le Carré’s work is more relevant than ever: “He is not an idealist—he knows these men and women are doomed—but an existentialist who dramatizes the necessity of individual struggle.” | Lit Hub Politics

Diana Arterian explores the life and death of Agrippina the Younger, the obsession behind her new poetry collection. | Lit Hub Craft

Phil Melanson on writing queer historical fiction and seeing yourself in the past. | Lit Hub Criticism

Dylin Hardcastle recommends books that capture the expansiveness of queer love by Alana Portero, James Baldwin, Lars Horn, and more. | Lit Hub Reading Lists

When art imitates life: Who was the real woman behind André Breton’s Nadja?  | Lit Hub Criticism

“Antiquity was not in good repute everywhere.” How monks preserved classical culture and paved the way for the Renaissance. | Lit Hub History

Why Dante and a collegiate technical writing class inspired Robert P. Baird to embrace the humanities. | Lit Hub Craft

“The sun sinks low as I follow my brother up the deer path from the river.” Read from Evanthia Bromiley’s new novel, Crown. | Lit Hub Fiction

From around the internet:

“The enormity of climate change generates a conceptual boundlessness that can outstrip any single writer’s capacity for inventiveness.” Keith Woodhouse considers the future of climate fiction. | Public Books

(Doctor-writer) Danielle Ofri explores the long tradition of doctor-writers. | The New Yorker

“There’s a tabloid soap opera that Goth’s casting conjures, her real-life entanglements mirroring an Austenian plot tailor-made for TMZ.” On cinematic adaptations of Jane Austen’s novels. | The Paris Review

Jessica Bennett profiles E. Jean Carroll, who wrote a secret book. | The Cut

The apocalyptic relevance of C.F. Ramuz’s Into the Sun after a century. | 3:AM

“What if they make us suffer? What if we make them suffer? Each prospect is horrifying in its own way…” On AI, Martha Wells, and a history of robots in literature and film. | The New Yorker

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[otaku-girl-ao3-fics]

Hunt | Kraven x Dmitri | 4.8k | Explicit

Kraven the Hunter | 4.8k complete | Sergei x Dmitri | Explicit 30 days, 30 fics | Aaron Taylor Johnson character masterlist | AO3: Otaku_girl

Summary: “You’re a monster.”

“I saved you. I came for you, the moment I heard. I arranged all of this to protect you."

“He was still our Papa. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Cold eyes stare back at him. Taking a step back instinctively, before Dmitri can tumble down the bank and back into the frigid water, hands are on him, lifting him.

"Run."

When Dmitri accepts Papa’s invitation to go on a hunt with him, the last thing that he expects is an encounter with Sergei.

Author's notes: June of Doom day 9: Hunted

Hunt

“You killed him.”

“I think you’ll find the bear did that.” There isn’t a hint of humour on his face, not a single muscle moves as Dmitri swallows hard, forcing down the choked sob that threatens to bubble up. The hand around Dmitri’s neck remains steady. 

“Why do you care? He was willing to sacrifice you. For what, power? He has more than enough power to last a lifetime.” Sergei pauses, tilting his head minutely to one side. “Well, had.”

Straining against Sergei’s hands, Dmitri meets his gaze. There is no trace of the man that he knows, the man that he loves, in those cold, calculating eyes. “You’re a monster.”

Sergei’s expression hardens, fingers flexing around the delicate column of Dmitri’s throat. “I saved you. I came for you, the moment I heard. I arranged all of this to protect you. Do you think he would have let things go on as they were?”

Tears trickle down his cheeks, splashing against Kraven’s hand. Dmitri’s voice cracks as he speaks. “He was still our Papa. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Cold blue eyes stare back at him. Sergei’s — no, Kraven’s, Dmitri tells himself — hand finally falls from his throat, allowing him to draw in a blessedly deep breath. Taking a step back instinctively, before Dmitri can tumble down the bank and back into the frigid water, hands are on him, lifting him, manoeuvring him neatly over a broad shoulder until he hangs like a sack of potatoes. Dmitri’s eyes widen, not quite believing that is happening. He reaches for Kraven, scrabbling against his jeans, trying to kick his way out of the other man’s hold to no avail.

“Put me down!”

“Are you going to run again?” comes the low, rumbling question. Dmitri’s fists pound against his back; it’s not enough to make him so much as budge. 

“I only ran because you told me to.”

“Would you rather have stayed to watch?” 

Read the full fic on ArchiveOfOurOwn: Hunt by Otaku_girl

Want to read more?

Like my work? Check out my other fics and master lists. Primarily writing for Aaron Taylor Johnson and Mathew Baynton characters; slash (canon) and x Reader (never y/n).

My mains: AO3 - Otaku_girl (the only place to read all of my work) | Tumblr - Otaku-girl-ao3 | Fics only blog - @otaku-girl-ao3-fics

Hunt (4872 words) by Otaku_girl Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Additional Tags: Smut, canonical level of violence, Canonical Character Death, (off screen), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Half-Sibling Incest, Predator/Prey, Hunted, primal play, Rough Sex, Forest Sex, Fear Play, Running, Hunt and capture, Hunting trip, Capture, Biting, Submission, Dominance, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Anal Fingering, Get Together, Shameless Smut

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 3 “Well, well, well…”

| Hiding | Ambushed | Stalking |

More June of Doom, more Caged Founder.

Elijah learns how they mean to keep him captive as Tristan shows off what the ritual did.

Warning for violence, and Tristan's creepiness(veiled Rape threat)

-----

It takes Elijah six days to wake after the ritual, he’d been left unchained, laid on the floor, they had arranged for him to be washed and his clothes replaced.

Aya hadn’t questioned why Tristan had looked so pleased at the long white tunic along with the plain slacks.

It’s proof of Tristan’s confidence in the magic is the fact he’s the first to enter the cell after they receive a word of movement being heard, Aya following.

It was just the three of them again, Tristan hadn’t wanted anyone else and Aya saw no reason to risk anyone if the spell had failed so she told the witches to remain outside, to seal the room if anything went wrong.

Elijah lunged for Tristan the moment he realised there was nothing to stop him, Tristan made no attempt to move or avoid the attack.

Aya watched as Elijah froze, his hand wrapped around Tristan’s throat but the hand didn’t tighten to choke, to crush his throat or tear his head off, things she knew he could do, things he had done when they captured him.

Elijah’s brows furrowed for a second before he moved again, it was clear he had aimed to take the other man’s heart only to find his hand came stop, resting flat against his chest almost like a lovers caress.

She saw the way Elijah’s eyes widened as he looked at his own hand in shock before he looked away from it to Tristan’s face.

Aya didn't need to see that to know he was smiling.

Elijah stumbled backwards, growing understanding and concern appearing on his face.

“Well, well, well…” Tristan called as he stalked after their retreating Sire. “Having trouble Elijah?” Tristan asked before catching the other man’s wrist, using his shock to pull it towards him dragging Elijah with it.

Elijah's attempts to free himself were weak if barely there. 

“Tristan.” he hissed. 

“This is working far better than I had thought.” Tristan mused, as Eijah continued to struggle to free his wrist.

“What have you done?” Elijah asked, looking between Tristan and her, she refused to let anything appear on her face even as she noticed a hint of fear in his voice, this was for the best of their people.

Elijah would come to understand and accept that, he didn't have a choice in that now.

“What I told you I would.” Tristan answered “I keep my word after all. Ensured you can no longer be a threat to any of those born into your Sireline.”

He had barely finished speaking before he struck,  Aya almost missed the movement Elijah suddenly stumbled back but not far as Tristan kept the hold on his wrist and used it to pull him back.

Elijah looked back up blood trickling down the side of his face before the split in his eyebrow, caused by one of Tristan's ring healed. 

Elijah narrowed his eyes looking between them before with a quick movement ripped his wrist free the sickening cracks explaining how.

A trapped animal could chew their leg off to escape, Elijah broke his wrist and hand to slip it from Tristan's hold, before vanishing in a burst of speed.

Aya feels a rush of air behind her but as she turns all she sees is the blur as he escapes before she could grab him.

“Running Boy.” Tristan called, dropping his voice and changing his cadence, Aya recognised who was trying to mimic, but Elijah's reaction made it clear as for a second he froze.

Just enough time for Tristan appeared in front of him, both hands wrapping around his throat.

“He got close, did he?” Elijah asked, smirking as if he wasn't the one in danger, before shifting from amusement to an almost disappointed tone, “I thought i told you to run-”

Elijah's words were cut off when his back slammed into the wall hard and Tristan’s hands squeezed, cutting off Elijah from speaking any further.

Aya know it’s instinct that has Elijah suddenly gripping Tristan’s arms as he chokes. Yet he can't do anything, he can't break or bruise or even dig his nails, so Aya watches as Elijah Mikaelson holds Tristan’s wrists uselessly.

After a time Tristan releases him, stepping back and watching as Elijah fell to the floor gagging and coughing as his body tried to take in the air it didn't really need.

The marks around his neck were almost a black collar, and as he tried to speak the only sound to escape a broken weeze, vocal cords still too damaged.

Tristan didn't let him heal as he grabbed him by the hair and dragged him toward, back to the middle of the room.

“It seems you're going to need a lesson to help you accept your new situation.” Tristan said with a false put upon sigh.

Aya watches as Tristan unleashes years-centuries of resentment and hate, taunting their sire as he does, Elijah doesn't let out a sound, other than the sharp grunts of pain he couldn't stop.

Aya suddenly realised why Tristan had been so pleased by the tunic, as even with Elijah’s healing preventing any marks remaining the white showed the blood clearly. 

----

“Of course there is one fall back about this.” Tristan said as he stepped back from the crumpled form of Elijah. “Anyone outside of the Strix could also be of your sire line so really shouldn’t let you leave now, since you can't defend yourself.”

Red eyes surrounded by dark veins became visible as Elijah gathered the strength to push himself into a sitting position. Tristan stepped back toward Elijah, lifting one foot up to place on his chest and push him back down.

"However the Strix, to repay it's heroic founder's choice of undergo the spell to protect them from him, will forever protect and guard their Patriarch." Tristan explained.

"Your story is that I volunteered for this." Elijah asked in disbelief, sounding breathless from the pressure on his chest.

 Tristan's foot trailed from his chest down one of Elijah legs before it stopped over his ankle, he smiled down.

“You’ll play along with this little story.” Tristan said, making it clear it wasn't a question.

Elijah glared back, Tristan grinned and placed his weight down slowly.

All their hearing caught the sound of bones cracking and breaking.

Elijah hissed but make no other noise and pulled his other leg to him.

“I’d like an answer.” Tristan told him as he twisted his foot, grinding the bones beneath it.

“Fine.” Elijah growled but sighed when Tristan stepped back, dark veins fading and eyes return to the human brown.

“I suppose that’s everything sorted then.” Tristan said pleasantly after watching Elijah on the ground for several moments.

“Not quite,” Elijah spoke quietly as he surprised them both as he pulled himself back up, not putting any weight on that leg but straighten up he turned to Aya, ignoring Tristan, "Aya, they were your people, you led them to their deaths. Shouldn’t you avenge them.”

It’s his eyes, looking at her with disappointed like she was the one that failed him, that abandoned her, that killed her people.

She shouldn't.

She didn’t attack those who weren’t a threat.

And Elijah wasn’t anymore, he couldn’t harm any of them and he couldn’t take them with him if he got killed, the Strix wouldn’t let him risk himself.

But the dead were not coming back.

Gavriel was dead, Mary was dead, Akana and Kaze were dead, they followed her for centuries and they were gone.

She let go of her control and let out her anger her grief.

She came back to herself as she caught sight of Tristan watching silently with a raised eyebrow.

Elijah looks up at her, tongue licking the blood from his lip as the split heals. Her hands were covered in blood, his blood, the blood that had made her, a gift once, now it tied them all as one.

Something Elijah would have to accept.

The disappointment was gone from his eyes, replaced with triumph and she almost flinches as she realised she had played into his hands.

Let him used her to punish himself for the hesitation that had led him to this.

He would use this as a reminder every time she would approach him to work with the Strix.

'Fine' she thought taking a breath before she hit him again.

If he wished to be nothing but a prisoner he could be.

Loyalty is a fine trait, noble but like everything else, too much destroys, our friend will destroy himself one day. Gavriel had said in despair, once in the aftermath of Mikael.

Eventually, the boredom, having nothing to focus on would drive him to re-join them.

She turned and walked away, she didn’t want to see the sight of him anymore.

 —--

Elijah watched as Aya stormed away, his blood still on her fists, even as all his injuries healed, a simple beating wasn’t going to leave a mark.

He pushed himself back up, refusing to let it show when his newly healed ankle rolled under his weight.

His healing was slower, likely an aftereffect of healing from the ritual, time without blood and this recent altercation.

Correction he thought If they had kept going they might have left a mark.

And he could do nothing, they hadn't been lying or overconfident, Elijah couldn't harm them in any way.

He couldn't free himself from Tristan's hands, couldn't defend himself, hadn't been able to break Aya’s neck, he had felt his hand freeze up before he could touch her.

It might just be Tristan and Aya, he'd have to find a way to check on that with the rest of Strix, but he doubted it.

“I'll have clean clothes and a washcloth sent, we can't have our honoured founder looking such a state.” his first sired voice dragged him from his thoughts

Elijah couldn't withhold the grimace at the reminder of the mess he must look, blood and other fluids must have stained him during the beating while he was distracted by the pain.

“You're enjoying this too much.” He told Tristan, mostly to ignore his slip.

“Really how so?” Tristan arched a brow at him, as if the glee wasn't glittering in his eyes didn't give him away.

“I can smell your excitement.” he said, his disgust clear, Tristan enjoyed bringing pain to others, along with their past, this had to be one of Tristan's dreams.

“Which means Aya could and yet she left you with me, knowing you couldn't defend yourself.” Tristan chuckled as he made the veiled threat but Elijah met his look unimpressed, even before he added “Fear not, you know I don't force that, it should be your honour for any of my attention.”

Elijah knew Tristan, which meant he knew his limits, unless he had changed much in the last nine hundred years, Tristan’s pride couldn't take needing to force himself on another.

And Tristan could and would only change for Aurora.

“You understand now don’t you? There is no other place for you, what use are you to your siblings when you can’t defend yourself, how many out there will you be helpless against.“

“I will not simply-” he started, stopping suddenly as Tristan closed the space between them to appear right in his face.

“No, you won't will you?” He didn’t flinch as Tristan laid a hand on his cheek gently, he wasn’t going to ever flinch from Tristan de Martel he swore to himself. “but I will enjoy watching you give in.” Tristan leaned closer to his ear to whisper “and helping you learn those lessons.”

Elijah drew himself up to his full height, making the most of the difference between them to look down on Tristan. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with being physically helpless, Klaus had pushed him past his limits after Katarina had escaped, Mikael’s training on some day could be best described as him attacking until his sons learnt to take his hits and stay upright.

Pain he could take, he had been raised to bear it.

Tristan met his disdainful look with a polite smile but smug eyes.

Unfortunately Tristan knew him far more than he ever wanted an enemy to.

“I've sent word, your siblings know you’ve returned to the fold.” Tristan called back as he stopped at the door.

“They won't-” he started to quickly, cursing him mentally for revealing to much by just that as Tristan cut him off.

“Really?” he asked mockingly, amusement clear in his voice even as he kept his tone mild “from my reports your brother has grown quite paranoid over the centuries. Isn't that why two of your brothers remain in their coffins?”

The door shutting was loud in the silence as Elijah found himself alone, unchained but more trapped than ever before.

The door may be unlocked but surrounded by vampires he couldn't fight back against. He sank to the floor, cracking the flooring with supernatural strength and let out a heavy breath.

That strength meant nothing when he couldn't use it.

He was in trouble.

[mariacallous]

Last week, a popular radio host for the France Culture station, the humorist Guillaume Erner, confessed that he had had enough of the “Jewish question.”

“It seems to me there’s enough in the campaign platforms of the National Rally, France Unbowed, or any other party, so that we need not base our vote on the Jewish question,” he said. “More than weariness, I feel exhausted in the face of this daily Judeo-obsession, one which has become suffocating since Oct. 7.”

Erner is not just the genial voice on France’s flagship station; he is also a sociologist who teaches at the University of Paris, a scholar who studies antisemitism, and a member of a Jewish family decimated by the Holocaust.

The fact that even these credentials will not absolve Erner from charges of antisemitism underscores the resilience of the “Jewish question” in France. Galvanized by Hamas’s massacre of more than 1,000 Israelis last year, followed by the killing of tens of thousands of Palestinians in the Israeli military invasion of Gaza, that question looms even larger following the European Parliament election, which was held in France on June 9. When the voting led to an overwhelming victory by the extreme-right National Rally party, President Emmanuel Macron made the disastrous decision to dissolve the National Assembly and schedule new elections less than three weeks later, on June 30.

Most surprising of all, perhaps, is that several prominent French Jews have publicly expressed a willingness to vote for the National Rally (RN)—a party with its roots in the National Front, a group founded by the openly antisemitic politician Jean-Marie Le Pen.

The Twenty Days of Macron—which will assume the same historical significance as the Hundred Days of his idol, Napoleon—are nearly up, yet the battlefield is not what the president had imagined. Macron had expected a resurgence of the same coalition he led in previous electoral campaigns, pitting the supposedly reliable “republican front” of socialist to neo-Gaullist parties against an outnumbered National Rally, the far-right party led by his perennial nemesis, Marine Le Pen.

Yet the RN, with its electoral ranks burgeoning with new recruits from both the right and left, now dwarfs Macron’s floundering Renaissance party. In the first round of voting this Sunday, the RN is projected to win slightly more than 36 percent, while coalition led by Renaissance will capture barely 20 percent.

Moreover, Macron must fight on not one, but two fronts. Running well ahead of his party in the projections, hovering at 30 percent, is the New Popular Front. The coalition was formed by a popular left-wing politician, François Ruffin, after Macron’s dissolution announcement.

In an appeal that went viral, he compared the current moment to 1936, when a confluence of social, political, and economic crises swept the original Popular Front into office. This coalition of the socialist, communist, and radical parties had been conceived two years earlier, birthed by a failed but bloody attempt by anti-republican and antisemitic forces to overthrow the government.

Invoking the name of Léon Blum, the French Jewish socialist who became the original Popular Front’s prime minister, Ruffin declared that just as the Popular Front defended the republic then, it could do so now. An extreme right-wing government, he affirmed, “is not inevitable!”

But it was no more inevitable that Ruffin’s rallying cry would succeed. The New Popular Front consists of the same parties—France Unbowed, the French Communist Party, the Ecologists, and the Socialist Party—that formed the doomed New Ecological and Social People’s Union after the 2022 legislative elections. Wobbly from the start, this earlier coalition fell to pieces last October, when events in Israel and Gaza heaved the “Jewish question” front and center across much of the world. But this was especially and painfully true in France, a nation whose collaborationist government had, three-quarters of a century earlier, assisted Nazi Germany’s Final Solution to that perennial question.

As a result, when France Unbowed parliamentarian Danièle Obono described Hamas as a “resistance movement,” a firestorm of outrage ensued. The party’s former leader, Jean-Luc Mélenchon, fed the widespread fury when he refused to describe the slaughter of Israeli civilians as an act of terrorism.

One month later, the conflagration destroyed the bridge between France Unbowed and its partners when Mélenchon and his close circle refused to participate in the march against antisemitism. Though their stated reason was the participation of Le Pen and her lieutenants in the march, it did not prevent the separation between France Unbowed and its partners from turning into a bitter divorce.

Mélenchon has since kept these fires burning, most recently with an observation made on his blog that antisemitism “remains residual” in France. In the face of the meteoric rise of antisemitic incidents in France—in 2023, more than 1,600 occurred, most of them after Oct. 7—Mélenchon’s remark reflected indifference at best and insouciance at worst.

After an appalling incident in a Paris suburb in mid-June—the alleged torture and rape of a 12-year-old Jewish girl by three adolescents spewing antisemitic insults—Mélenchon quickly announced his “horror” over the crime while condemning “antisemitic racism.” But this was too little, too late for the legion of critics who insist that his words and silences contributed to the toxic atmosphere that made such a crime possible.

Those critics included a crucial member of the New Popular Front, Raphaël Glucksmann. He is the grandson of left-wing Zionists and militant labor organizers who emigrated to France from Eastern Europe between the wars, as well as the son of André Glucksmann, a leading member of the nouveaux philosophes, who pummeled their predecessors on the left for defending the crimes of Soviet communism.

The young and telegenic Glucksmann, after a career in journalism and filmmaking, entered French politics stage left, won a seat in the European Parliament earlier this month with a solid 14 percent of the national vote for his party—about the same that Macron’s grouping won—and now represents the last great hope of French socialism.

When the parties launched discussions over the formation of the New Popular Front, Glucksmann insisted on several conditions. He demanded that the joint statement include a message of unwavering support for Ukraine’s struggle against President Vladimir Putin’s Russia as well as for a two-state solution for Israelis and Palestinians.

Moreover, Glucksmann also stipulated that the statement contain a declaration that the Hamas massacre was, in fact, a terrorist attack, as well as a condemnation of antisemitism. He largely achieved these aims and, while acknowledging the hasty nature and difficult compromises that they entailed, he declared that they were necessary to prevent France, in a matter of days, from “sinking into the abyss.”

For the French Jewish community, the abyss long had just one name: the National Rally, formerly known as the National Front. They have not been persuaded by the long campaign pursued by Le Pen to de-demonize a party co-founded a little more than half a century ago by her father, Jean-Marie Le Pen. The elder Le Pen was a Holocaust denier and antisemite, a worldview shared not only by his co-founder, Pierre Bousquet—who served during World War II as an officer in the Waffen SS—but also by the Nazi-curious and Vichy apologists in the movement’s ranks.

Since inheriting the National Front in 2011, the younger Le Pen has declared the Holocaust as the “summum of barbarism” and rebranded the party’s packaging by purging its ranks of its more embarrassing elements, including her father, and renaming it the National Rally. Yet the party’s original ingredients are largely untouched. Over the past few weeks, journalists have uncovered several RN candidates who have trolled or posted racist or antisemitic opinions online—prompting additional purges.

Yet this game of whack-a-troll obscures what the scholar Cécile Alduy calls the “ideological matrix” of the RN: the principle of national preference. This shared ideal of Le Pen père et fille, though the latter has renamed it “national priority,” would create a new category of second-class citizens. It would entail a constitutional amendment that would deny medical care and social services to undocumented immigrants, as well as deny automatic citizenship to the children of undocumented immigrants who are born in France.

Not only would this law make the already desperate lives of tens of thousands of human beings in France yet more desperate—part of the law’s raison d’être—but would also make a mockery of the humanist and universalist heritage of French republicanism.

The RN’s worldview threatens not only those who are not yet French citizens, but also those who already are. Earlier this month, the party’s president and probably the country’s next prime minister, Jordan Bardella, reassured “French citizens of foreign origin” that they have nothing to fear from his government. The fact that he employed this phrase suggests that these same citizens have everything to fear.

As the columnist Thomas Legrand observed, this phrase not only has no legal standing, but also that the last time it did was in 1941, when the antisemitic legislation of the collaborationist Vichy regime distinguished French Jewish citizens from their non-Jewish compatriots. It was, moreover, one of the administrative steps taken by Vichy that facilitated the eventual deportation of more than 70,000 French (as well as foreign) Jews to the death camps.

Nevertheless, the prospect of a New Popular Front government dominated by France Unbowed has made what once seemed impossible—the rallying of French Jews to the National Rally—all too possible. During a campaign stop in Marseilles last week, Glucksmann was lambasted by a Jewish woman for his role in the coalition. “As a Jew, you should be ashamed of yourself!” He subsequently noted the irony that Jews are now practicing what antisemites have always practiced: “I was reduced to my name and origin.”

Yet more striking was a recent public statement made by Serge Klarsfeld, the universally admired Nazi hunter who wrote the definitive account of the Final Solution in France. Insisting that the National Rally had “evolved” and now “supports Jews,” whereas France Unbowed is a “resolutely anti-Jewish party,” he urged French Jews to vote for the former.

This was not a sudden or impulsive decision by Klarsfeld. Last fall, he welcomed the presence of the National Rally at the march against antisemitism, describing both it as “fréquentable” or respectable, thus rewarding Le Pen’s long courtship of the Jewish vote.

At the same time, the influential French Jewish intellectual Alain Finkielkraut, author of dozens of works, including the early and brilliant book The Imaginary Jew, confessed that to prevent the spread of antisemitism, he might be “constrained” to vote for the RN. The situation confronting French Jews, he observed, is “heartbreaking.”

No doubt it is. But it is also heartbreaking that such admired and prominent figures like Klarsfeld and Finkielkraut—both of whom should really know better—are now willing to vote, even if they hold their noses, for a party whose ideological roots are buried in the rancid soil of racism and antisemitism.

It also happens to be a party that has shown persistent admiration for Putin’s Russia, an enduring hostility to those who do not adhere to traditional gender norms, and an ongoing problem of running candidates who express sentiments that are as racist and antisemitic as the founders of the movement that spawned the National Rally, making the words of Klarsfeld and Finkielkraut yet more heartbreaking.

Most heartbreaking of all, though, is that regardless of the results of the second round of voting on July 7, the Jewish question in France will also persist.