#tw restrained

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 15, 28

“Get me out of here!” | Rescue | Gag

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba, @tildeathiwillwrite

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Contains: restraints, gag, suspicion, non-life threatening injury

WC: 750

Bleeding, fraying edges

Stupidly, the food taster hoped that when the chair fell onto its side—bringing him with it—he would somehow find himself graced with the good fortune of having loosened the ropes on his arms, legs, and torso.

Alas, his luck had at last run dry. His arm, pinned between the chair and the floor, flared with agony and then went numb, deadened to the point where he couldn’t tell quite how injured it was.

Bucking and struggling against the restraints, even with the chair halfway overturned, did little but scrape his skin even more until it was nothing but swollen, bleeding, fraying edges. The knot in his mouth kept his shouts for help woefully subdued, and the thick material sucked away moisture until he was certain he would die of thirst.

By the time the door to his prison reopened, he was soaked with sweat, limp, and on the verge of tearfully agreeing to provide his assistance in murdering a queen.

But the voice that called his name was not the one he expected.

The world tilted the right way again, restored to its proper orientation, and worried hands tore at the gag and the ropes. “You idiot! I told you that you’d get caught up in trouble! Why don’t you listen to me?”

Half-laughing, half-groaning as greatly unwelcome sensation flooded into his arm, the food taster said, embarrassingly sincere, “Okay. I admit it. I should’ve listened. I’m sorry. Now get me out of here.”

“Damn right you’re sorry.” His friend grasped his arms. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know,” the food taster admitted, a little dizzy when he tried. “How long . . . ?”

His friend replied, but it was then that the food taster realized that his rescue had not been executed independently. A girl in a palace uniform watched him with wide, sympathetic eyes, while a man stood by the door, hunched and silent as he kept watch over the corridor.

“You made friends,” he observed stupidly. The ghost of a smile flicked over the girl’s face.

“Yes. I suppose.” Giving only a raised eyebrow and mere moments as warning, the governor’s son pulled the food taster to his feet, propping him upright to support his trembling limbs. “We, well—we’re not done yet, either.” As if to punctuate this statement, the girl nodded. “She’s looking for someone, too.”

“And we’ll find her,” the girl said adamantly, folding her arms.

The food taster’s stomach sank. “Her? The girl who lured me here? She works for that mad prince.”

As the girl responded tightly, “So do I,” the man by the door went rigid.

“You’ve changed your tune,” his friend said, paling. “I thought . . .”

“He wants me to kill his mother,” the food taster explained in a rush. “The queen. Break some curse and then help poison her. That girl’s the one who—she was looking for me. Because he told—”

A wave of dizziness washed over him as the silent stranger with blood streaking his face and neck turned to meet his gaze.

Overwhelmed by the taste in the air, that salt-and-acid tang of a curse, the food taster nearly gagged.

“You, too,” he said, his heart racing as he pointed toward the man. More cursed gold. How? Why? How many people did the prince manipulate like puppets? “You work for him, too.”

The man’s mouth twisted, and his fingers curled into fists.

“I don’t think so,” said the girl. “I’ve never seen him before. We freed him from another cell here.”

“How can we be certain, though?” the governor’s son asked, cold and wary. “If he can’t say anything?”

The gold around the man’s throat glinted.

The food taster staggered forward, reaching out his non-benumbed hand. “It’s this, isn’t it?”

The metal seemed to sizzle against the man’s skin; the taste of magic burned the air.

The man tried to jerk away, fear and fury contorting his features, but the food taster—the cursebreaker—wrapped his fingers around the chain.

“Explain yourself, then.”

The chain snapped.

The man fell backwards, chest heaving, eyes gleaming and wide, as the cursebreaker collapsed to his knees. Breaking through the fog in his mind—too much magic, too much exertion, too much, too much—came the stranger’s voice, rusty as ancient iron.

“Never mind me,” he rasped. “I want to save her, too. My sister.” He choked as if he suppressed a sob. “I see things. I know things. And I know we have to find her. Now.”

June of Doom Masterlist

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

[cats-and-confusion]

LOOK AT HIM HHHHRRGHHAGGHRHRHRHRHHH

[mycroftrh]

There’s a post floating around about how Zuko not telling the Gaang how he got his scar reflects him “taking accountability” for his actions, instead of manipulating them by guilt-tripping them and placing responsibility onto Ozai, his adult abuser.

There are some replies to it pointing out that in general Zuko tends to not be manipulative (or lie) even when it would serve him, and explanations offered for this ranging from the Watsonian (largely “he’s autistic” and variants thereupon) to the Doylist (“he’s being narratively contrasted with very manipulative Azula”). Some other comments about him not wanting to share private trauma with people he doesn’t know well.

But in this particular case I don’t actually think it’s any of that, really, from Zuko’s point of view, because the most fundamental thing of it is that he’s an abused kid.

People don’t tend to appreciate how much growing up surrounded by the language of abuse, and/or in a culture of abuse (as Zuko was - dozens of people saw Ozai burn him, and none objected), affects you. It’s not just about the trauma directly. It’s about being forcibly taught that this is normal and deserved to the degree that you genuinely don’t realize most of the world doesn’t.

It’s about casually mentioning things about your childhood and everyone responding with shock and horror, and you being confused, because you had no idea that was yet another thing about your life that wasn’t normal. It’s about how you eventually realize you just can’t talk about the first couple decades of your life at all without being accused of trauma-dumping and guilt-tripping and manipulation, being punished again for failing to protect others from the discomfort of hearing second-hand about something you had to live through with a child’s body.

And the thing is? Zuko isn’t at that last sentence’s point yet, when we see him with the Gaang. He’s before that, at the “does not yet realize this isn’t normal” point. We know this, because of how he responds to Iroh at the end: kneeling in front of him waiting for punishment. He doesn’t think abuse is abnormal; he thinks it’s a natural and deserved response to his poor behavior, so thoroughly that he believes even Iroh would do it. All the way to the end of the show! (After he’s had any opportunity to say anything to the Gaang!)

Whether he would choose to explain his scar to the Gaang if he knew it would make them like/forgive him is a moot point. He had no idea that it would. With his frame of reference, he assumed their reactions would be somewhere in the range of “yeah, why are you whining about something that normal and mundane, I don’t bore you with stories of how Gyatso used airbending to punish me” to “dang, how badly did you fuck up to deserve that? you must be even worse a person than we realized” to “he went easy on you and should’ve done worse”.

It would never occur to him to share the scar story to get the Gaang to like/forgive him, because he has no way to know that they would react with shock and horror instead of dismissal or putting even more blame on him.

[potato-lord-but-not]

….can u show us the arkayne drawings pls 👉👈

yknow what yeah I can I’ve lost all respect for myself

[carbonfiction]

Desperatly need more mean!Matt content of any form bc im still not over the thigh choke-out on the stairs🙂‍↔️

That being said, whatever you do, dont imagine him squeezing his thighs around your head when your blowing him, making your already fuzzy head worse bc it pushes him so much deeper into your throat that it has you sputtering and gagging, slapping at him a little to no avail.. 😵‍💫 especially do not imagine it with him then cooing and chuckling, calling you sweetpea when you look at him all teary and struggling, heartbeat thudding😵‍💫

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Days 6, 8, 18, 27, 28, alt prompt

“They don’t care about you.” | Abandoned | Chair | Headache | “Or what?” | Defiance | Gag | “You poor thing.”

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Contains: bound, gagged, blindfold, threats, betrayal

WC: 1080

A curse that needs breaking

The food taster was submerged in darkness.

He knew, in reality, he was bound, gagged, and blindfolded . . . but with the dregs of the sedative poison still coursing through him, he felt like he’d fallen into a pool of nothingness.

Perhaps a pool of nothingness would have been preferable.

He recoiled when the black cloth was ripped away, groaning as a sudden onslaught of light burned his eyes. The headache which had already been pounding away at his skull before he was arrested—and then drugged and abducted—magnified tenfold.

“Poor thing,” said a woman’s voice. It was calm, serpentine, and imbued with a sense of of unspeakable cruelty. “He looks terribly confused.”

Confused was one way to describe it. The food taster stared at the two figures in front of him, who he’d only seen from afar during the royal ball: the queen and the crown prince.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. A thick knot of fabric pressed against his tongue, muffling his words. “Let me go!”

The prince’s eyes glittered. “Let you go? Or what?” He snorted. “What will you do to me, cursebreaker?”

The food taster jerked furiously against the rope binding him to a stiff wooden chair, more questions trying to spill out, each one garbled and fruitless.

“I’ll take that out,” said the prince calmly, watching him struggle with amusement, “if you promise to behave. I know it might be difficult for a peasant to act civilized, but I’ll ask that you at least try.”

The food taster’s muscles stilled.

How did the prince know where he had come from? Where could he possibly have learned?

The ghost of gold links brushed his skin; the phantom of blood-red lips grazed his.

Oh.

“You look distressed, boy,” said the queen. “Trust me, things are only going to get worse if you don’t cooperate.”

Cooperate with what, exactly?

“I can take it from here, Mother,” the prince said, his voice stiff. “No need to . . . subject yourself to what comes next.”

“Do you think I’m squeamish, my son?” Her eyes, silvery-grey, snapped. “Weak?”

The prince bowed. “Not at all . . . Your Majesty.”

Appeased, the queen slipped away. The prince sauntered forward to tug the gag from the food taster’s mouth. “You’re fully awake, yes?”

The food taster eyed him warily. “Unfortunately.” He tried unsuccessfully to dislodge the rope. “Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

The prince’s eyes narrowed. “How easy it is to tell you’re nothing more than a farmer. No one’s ever taught you how to speak to royalty.”

Bristling, the food taster suppressed a reminder that the man in front of him had once been as common as he was. “What was the point of arresting me if it wasn’t even real?”

“Oh, it was real enough.” The prince shrugged. “You stole my charm, after all. And . . .” His smile grew more feral. “And broke right through the magic on the south gate. Didn’t you?”

Cursebreaker  . . .

“That wasn’t me,” he tried, and the prince burst into a dark laugh.

“Don’t try any of that. I know what you can do.” He dangled something from his fingers—a gold chain. The food taster flinched as he realized what it was . . . and who it had come from.

“She . . . she works for you?” he asked dully.

Another sinister chuckle. “We’ll call it that.”

Again, he felt the fairylike brush of her kiss. “She . . .”

Hadn’t danced with him and listened to him ramble on because she wanted to, hadn’t cared about a damn thing he said. And that strange, sudden kiss? It had meant nothing.

She’d spooled him in, waiting for the information the prince wanted—knowing all the while her betrayal was nigh.

“Ah,” said the prince, eyeing him. “She told me, you know. The dance, the kiss. I’m almost sorry for sending the little slut after you. But  . . .” He smirked. “It seems to have worked.”

The food taster looked away, his face burning.

“Now. Let’s talk about what you’re going to do for me.”

“For you?” the food taster repeated. “I don’t think so.” The burn of torn skin chafing against rough rope seared through his wrists as he twisted them again.

The prince sighed. “Are you sure? If you do as I say, you might live another day. That power of yours is remarkably useful.”

“So I’ve heard,” he ground out. “Why would I help someone who does . . .” He tried to wrench himself free. The chair tipped slightly before settling back on the floor. “This?”

“It’s not much,” said the prince. “Merely a curse that needs breaking.”

The food taster blinked. “What?”

The curse-maker, needing a curse destroyed?

Holding up his hand, the prince said, “Family relationships can be so . . . fraught. You’re rather lucky your parents sold you off when they did.”

The food taster caught it then: the heavily disguised scent of an old curse, drifting from a ring on the prince’s finger.

“You see, I come by my gifts honestly,” said the prince tightly. “So. You’ll break this miserable piece of metal right off me. Then, you’ll prepare a poison. A lethal one.”

The food taster couldn’t breathe. “For . . . ?”

“For my mother.” The prince’s eyes gleamed. “And then I’ll take the throne, at long last.” He took a step toward the food taster. “But I can’t do any of that until this curse is gone.”

“No.” There was no thought, no question. “I won’t.” Using his gifts to orchestrate a murder?

He couldn’t.

“Perhaps you need time to consider your options,” said the prince. The food taster grunted as the gag was shoved back into his mouth. “I’ll leave you a while. I’m confident you’ll see sense—make the choice that’s best for you. And your friend, if he doesn’t simply abandon you here. Your poor peasant parents, even. I’m sure they miss their son. Perhaps they’d like a reunion?”

The veiled threat forced out a cry of horror, making the food taster choke on the cloth as it was tightly retied behind his head.

“I wonder. Would they be proud of the kind, selfless man you’ve become?”

Terror washing over him with a ferocity like he’d never felt before, he could only roar a garbled, “Hey!”

But the door was already closing.

The prince and his curse were gone.

He was alone, utterly at the mercy of his captor, and—if he wanted to survive the night, as it was rapidly becoming clear he very well might not—without much of a choice in his fate at all.

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.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 22

Path of Hurt Prompt; "Captivity" + "Recapture"

Day 22 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV/Whumpee: Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 498

TWs; captivity, recapture, injured, blood, trauma, PTSD, panic attack, references to torture

Drip...

Drip...

Drip... 

Lancelot listened to the curious sound, slowly opening his eyes and wrinkling his nose at the sickening stench of fear that mingled readily with the similarly heavy scents of iron and blood. The air was cold and damp.

Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips. It oozed slowly from a carving upon his left shoulder, tracing rivers of crimson down his arm before collecting between the metal shackle and his skin. So close was the metal to his sore, broken skin that the blood now pooled up and over the outside of the cuff like an overflowing dam. It offered his abraised wrist a modicum of relief. Scarlet glistened in the low light as it invariably flowed down down down, following the swell of his knuckles and the length of his fingers to splash into a coagulating puddle on the floor, steadily staining the cold ashen stone into a dirty red. 

As Lancelot's eyed adjusted to the low light he was struck with an air of... familiarity.

No, it couldn't be.

It was...

The haze of his half awake state shattered before the realisation he had just made, eyes widening in horror.

This, the very same room he had once been tortured in before, but as a boy, not a man, this, the room he knew without a shadow of a doubt had been picked on purpose to hold him, to break him. This, the place that echoed in his nightmares day after day, the same sight, the same scents, even the sounds were achingly, hauntingly familiar.  

His own, shuddering breaths. The incessant sound of blood splattering across the floor. The flickering of the torchlight in the brazier across from him. The awful scents, the pain of his wrists... the restricted movement, restraints bolting him upright to the slab of wood and metal he was strapped to. The thick belts across his chest, hips, and thighs. The shackles at his wrists and ankles. All of it, all of it, the Goddamn same. 

Shit. SHIT!

Lancelot struggled fiercely. Nausea, pain, desperation all swelled within him, quickly giving in to a blind panic, no longer responding to the hellish toment of his injuries so strong was his fear, battling and raging against the restraints to no avail. No matter how hard he tried it was utterly in vain. 

He felt something snap within him as the terror gave way to a soothing wave of icy numbness, it set his teeth on edge and his head spinning, his arms, legs, face even his tongue prickled and tingled like he'd been struck by lightning. 

Left alone in the dark with the biting swarm of his own panic, Lancelot found himself losing every shred of will he'd held onto so firmly. His body shook and quaked. At times he cried out, whimpering and weeping, whilst at others he laughed near maniacally from the utter absurdity of the situation he had somehow found himself in, again.

The hours stretched on and on.

Rewrote something I wrote a while ago for the main fic for today's snippet since my work has gone slightly mad and I appear to have inherited a tattoo studio, since my boss is leaving and I am the only other person here. I think I now need like twenty of those job title card things, its hectic, I'm stressed to all hell, but hey at least I don't have to worry so much about getting caught writing hardcore smut at work anymore since I have no coworkers to catch me...

Anyway... Thanks for reading as always, onto the next!

[atlantis-area]

TAEMIN Advice MV Shooting Behind

[appri-dot]

How about this duo 🥰

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Mind over Mind - Hero Whumper Villain Whumpee

Warnings: torture, violence, forced compliance, mind control

Summary: Hero almost loses the fight against Villain... until she uses her unique powers to flip the tables.

Villain and Hero had been fighting for only an hour when both of them started to falter from exhaustion, but that's just the kind of fights they got into. Quick. Intense. Violent. Bloody. The kind that's hardly survivable for long.

Hero wielded two wickedly sharp daggers in her hands, while Villain had one in his left, and a serrated hunting blade in the other. Their weapons clashed together repeatedly, showering sparks onto the ground as they fought fiercely for the upper hand, both of them covered in sweat, bruises and dozens of vicious injuries inflicted by their opponent.

"Don't you ever know when to give up?" Hero grunted through gritted teeth as she blocked yet another one of Villain's attacks.

"Nope, apparently not," Villain sneered, and slashed a blade across Hero's ribs, slicing open a deep gash that made her cry out in pain. It was all the opening he needed. He didn't give her a chance to recover.

Villain closed the distance between them and brutally pummeled Hero with a series of quick blows, too fast for her to block or dodge. He punched her gut hard enough to crack ribs, before landing another blow on her jaw with a concussive amount of force, making her head snap back -- and the peak of the fight was over just like that.

Hero faltered and stumbled back with a broken, rattling wheeze, falling to the ground, and Villain descended on her like a bird of prey, wrapping a strong hand around her throat and lifting her up to pin her against a wall, squeezing hard.

Hero's eyes widened as she clawed desperately at the hand cutting off her air, thrashing uselessly in Villain's grip with slowly failing strength.

"The real question is... do you know when to give up?" Villain chuckled coldly.

Blood trickled from both corners of Hero's mouth as her terrified gaze locked with Villain's.

STOP! A booming voice suddenly roared in Villain's head, making him jerk back in surprise, losing his grip on Hero so that she crumpled to the ground, gasping and choking and coughing blood, her eyes still locked intensely on Villain.

Something brushed against Villain's mind that made him shiver, like claws brushing lightly against his brain, wandering and prodding uncertainly, as though searching for a hold. Then those claws turned sharp, deadly, sinking in.

Villain's whole body went stiff, muscles locking in place as that same voice spoke again.

That's right... obey.

Villain's blood went colder than ice, his face going pale as a slow, stretching pain spread through his body, setting every nerve on fire with excruciating agony as it sank into every part of him.

His mouth gaped, he tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice.

He was rooted to the spot with fear as Hero slowly picked herself up off the dirt, gasping and panting as she caught her breath, rubbing her neck where Villain's hand had been mere seconds away from crushing her windpipe.

She straightened with a groan, staggering a little before finding her balance, one arm wrapped protectively around her bleeding midsection. Then a crooked grin that was part-grimace broke out on her face as she spat out a mouthful of blood.

"My, how the tables have turned," she taunted, though it came out in a shallow, weak rasp of air.

"H-How..." Villain breathed, eyes enormous as they watched Hero with sudden wariness.

Because I never reveal all my playing cards, the voice echoed in his head. It sounded like Hero's -- but her mouth hadn't moved.

My single biggest advantage is letting people underestimate me, the voice continued.

Fear -- genuine, raw fear pulsed through Villain's entire being when he tried to move -- but physically couldn't.

He swallowed hard, fighting to tamp down the rising panic and maintain any shred of composure.

"W-What are you doing... how are you doing this?" He snarled, finally snapping out of the shock.

Hero limped towards him until she was inches away, the icy blue depths of her eyes boring into his, full of righteous anger.

"Surprise... my superpower isn't limited to super strength." She grinned wolfishly at his confusion, the utterly bafflement on her enemy's face.

Funny, isn't it? It's almost like... you don't have control over yourself anymore.

Again, Hero's mouth didn't move.

Hero bent over and picked up Villain's own fallen dagger, pressing it into his hand and resting the tip against her chest without a glimmer of fear.

"Go ahead, give it your best shot," she purred. "All it takes is one little push to kill me... try it if you can."

Villain shuddered as those strange mental claws tightened on him.

He gripped his dagger hard, mustering every inch of willpower in him to end it, to finally kill his greatest enemy, be rid of the menace -- his hand trembled, but he couldn't bring the blade forward.

"Don't tell me you're too weak for murder," Hero mocked with a dramatic gasp.

Villain's brow furrowed, and he held the hilt tighter, pushing, yanking against those restraints shackling him in his own mind. The blade jerked forward an inch, but no more than that, and Hero let out a cold, heartless laugh, easily swatting the weapon out of Villain's hand before roughly grabbing his jaw hard enough to bruise, forcing him to look straight into her cruel eyes.

Villain let out a weak whimper, ashamed that the sound even slipped out. But he was injured, and in pain, confused, and so, so scared... fear was a new feeling for him. He was the most powerful villain in the entire city, strong enough to beat Hero on several different occasions -- but never had he been rendered so vulnerable, so useless before, like a puppet with strings, at the complete mercy of his enemy.

Hero carefully wrapped her other hand around his throat, and step by deliberate step, backed him up until he was pinned against the opposite wall. She applied the same pressure that Villain had put on her windpipe earlier, and Villain's chest started heaving as he struggled to keep drawing air. His eyes went huge with disbelief, he couldn't even fight, his arms weren't working right. None of him was, bound and chained by some invisible force.

Spots danced in his vision, and right when he thought he would pass out the pressure on his neck vanished, leaving him taking great gulping gasps of air.

Hero leaned in close, her head right next to his face.

"Doesn't feel very good, does it?" She hissed into his ear before pulling back.

Her fingers trailed down his chest, almost seductively, running over the shredded lines of his suit where long gashes had sliced through and ripped the leather. They stopped at his stomach, grazing over a particularly deep slash right below the ribs.

Villain shuddered with a wince, a low moan escaping him, and he cursed himself for it.

Hero stared at him, then dug her fingers viciously into the wound, never breaking eye contact, her expression deadpan and impassive.

Villain screamed in sheer agony and writhed, which was more like weakly twitching against the bonds holding him in one place.

Hero took her fingers out, and Villain was left trembling all over with pain, his injury throbbing. His head lolled forward, breathing harsh and ragged as he recovered.

"Huh, even agony can't let you break free," she murmured aloud, as though she were experimenting with Villain, testing the limits of her ability. It was dehumanizing, degrading, and flat-out terrifying to know that Hero could do whatever she wanted to him. Holding his life in her hands.

"S-Stop it... L-Let me go..." Villain croaked. He couldn't help the shakiness in his voice, and Hero's eyes lit up at hearing it. "S-Since when could you even do this?" He added.

"Since always," Hero answered flatly. "I just never show it. I don't use this power often, because it is unfathomably taxing on my body in ways you couldn't even imagine, but today... today I'm feeling violent." Her teeth bared into a feral grin, making Villain shiver uneasily.

"I haven't practiced using it much, so I'm curious to see what potential... motivations might be enough for your willpower and desperation to let you break free of my hold." She tilted her head to one side, a lethal predator in every slight movement. "I can break you in so many ways beneath the surface," she whispered dangerously.

"Let's see how strong your resolve is, hmm?" Hero's gaze dropped down where a dagger was, and she stomped on the hilt, skillfully flinging it up into her waiting hand.

Villain whimpered again anxiously, squirming and eyeing the bright metal, and she pressed the blade against his lips.

"Shhh... all you have to do is raise your left hand when the pain becomes too much, and I'll stop," she said mischievously. A deadly game for her, toying with her new victim like a plaything.

Hero leaned close again, her breath ghosting above Villain's carotid artery as she scraped her teeth lightly against his neck, teasing, violating his space.

She trailed the sharp edge of the blade down his bare arm, not breaking skin at first as she smiled coldly. Then she sliced it deep without warning, tearing a ragged wail from Villain as she started carving into his flesh over and over again while her enemy screamed his throat raw.

Villain tried desperately to push her away, to stop the excruciating agony, do something but stand there and take it... but he couldn't. He physically couldn't.

Tears of pure pain spilled out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, hiccupping sobs breaking up his breaths at the sheer intensity of it, every time the blade left a fresh mark of fire in his flesh.

He could feel the warm blood sliding down his arm to drip on the floor with every pounding heartbeat, endless suffering. It was worse when she switched from his arm to the sensitive skin of his abdomen, and he screamed and yelped and cried out as the metal bit his skin repeatedly. Hero showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Eventually the screaming devolved to agonized moaning and pathetic whimpers as Villain lost strength, his throat burning fiercely in the aftermath of all his loud cries.

Now, listen closely...

That voice returned in his head, and his stomach churned with dread. He couldn't take any more torture. Any more pain. His whole body was blazing with it.

Take the knife from my hand, and put it against your throat...

Hero held the dagger in her hand invitingly, stained with Villain's own blood.

Villain moaned as his shaky hand automatically lifted to take the blade, then his body betrayed him by resting the sharp, cool metal right under his chin. He swallowed against it, throat bobbing fearfully.

Saw through your neck.

Villain's eyes widened with terror, hand trembling as he fought against the mental claws Hero had sunk into him. But it was no use. The blade started slicing through his skin, and Villain closed his eyes, another teak leaking out as he accepted his fate.

...Now stop. Villain's body instantly obeyed, stiffening in place.

Villain took a rattling breath, cautiously opening his watery eyes to gauge Hero's expression, which was dark and unreadable.

I want you to remember this moment, her voice hissed into his mind, remember that I held your life in my hands... that I could have killed you right now... and I want you to run away from here with that memory, and the scar on your neck will remind you of me every time you look in the mirror. Run, and never come back. If I EVER see your face again... I will not stop.

And suddenly, a rush of cold washed over Villain, an aching absence of a hollow void that opened up, and Villain collapsed on the ground, panting as he felt those vicious mental claws retreat, releasing him at last.

Hero stepped back, eyes narrowed. "You have ten seconds to remove yourself from my line of sight before I change my mind. Run, or die. Ten."

Villain peered dizzily up at her, his face pale with blood loss. "...You're bluffing," he wheezed in disbelief.

"That is a theory you're certainly welcome to test. Nine." Hero's face stayed harsh and cruel, and Villain lurched to his feet with a gasp, not willing to risk the chance she'd given him.

He stumbled into an awkward, adrenaline-powered run, limping heavily away as fast as he could while Hero's voice trailed after him.

"Eight... seven... six..."

She never got to five before Villain was out of sight, slipping away into a dark alley. Gone. Never seen or heard from again.

I appreciate any and all feedback from my peers! 😁 (and if anyone has any other Hero x Villain prompt ideas or things they'd like to see more of feel free to share them and I might write a story for it)

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Do we think color has ever been put (back) into solitary confinement as punishment or for safety reasons during his stays in a ward (or wards) before

[scribblers-shadowlands-arc]

Naga tboy who despite effects of T feels cold cause being cold blooded in winter sucks.

Your movie night immediately turns into cuddle session with him wrapping his tail in coils around your legs. Pants are off of course, skin on skin contact warms you up better. The rest of him melt into puddle around you. He insufferably adorable being wrapped around you like this.

T made him hella needy though. It not long before you feel him starting to grind against your ass, with a tip of his tail itching closer and closer to band of your panties risking to brush over your girlcock. He whiness into your ear, hands wondering over your body but not too far yet.

You giggle, grab his hands and guide them under your crop top then give 'em a squeeze. All hell let loose after that.

He knows you love to do it while high, so he bites you and the sweet warmth of his venom spreads through your body. Panties are gone and he stroking you with his tail. His tongue halfway down your throat already and tits definitely gonna be all in bruises next day. Then venom hits for real.

It already was hard to breath. Now your lungs was on fire with lust. You try to twist to fully face him, but coils are holding you in places way to strong

After attempt he wraps himself tighter around you and push you into matress, face down, ass up. His stroking drive you crazy and you start rut into tip of his tail wrapped around you. You fill his chest against your back, his teeth nibbling your neck make it tingling. With each passing moment strength leaving you, body grows hotter, now you one who whines and pleads.

He didn't tease you for much longer. Hearing enough of begging he work his coils to turn you around. Drunk on his venom is hard to focus but glint of his scales, his unblinking eyes, bratty grin make everything worse. Out of his cloaca two swollen tdick picked out, twitching a bit. Seeing them you moaned and bucked your hips.

He push you down even more, completely removing your ability to move. At this point you may as well be his toy. Then he eagerly press himself against you and started to grind.

You moan and whimp and try to struggle to get out of his grasp and on top of him, but venom made you weak and it's not like you can fight against naga three times your weight and size.

You at his mercy and now his mercy ment throting to edge you for how long HE wants. Thankfully it wasn't that long, he got you close couple of times and denied you, but eventually he let you cum. It made things worse though.

Now, when you were so much more sensitive he let you slide in. He bottomed out and relaxed his coils, and just sat on top of you, loming forward, pinning your hands above your head, carresing your cheek with tip of his tail.

Your girlcock twitching inside him, you couldn't take it any longer and started to move, thrusting up, slow, sluggish, so adorably pathetic. He met your attempts with his grinding, groaning in return, baring his fangs, hissing when he hit just right spot.

It took some work for you to get close a second time. He didn't edged you though, and just let you cum.

Then with you still inside he wrapped himself around you again and laid on top like a blanket, showering you in kisses. Soon he rolled you both to the side so you could fall asleep.

Morning meet you with the worst hangover ever and him apologizing for messing up amount of bites

[chicaneryatelier]

Younger Roche inspired by Anoke's 'Major Design Flaw' fic series!

Behind Cut- Nekkid Roche tied up by Iorveth and unhappy about it. If you don't want to see that, don't go behind the cut!

[despoticmouse]

If Spearmaster ripped off the flesh covering where it’s mouth would be, would there just be a hole, a normal mouth, or a deformed mouth under there? Would it be able to consume food through whatever is under there?

Ehhh let’s agree not to worry about any of that 🫡

[fallenwhumpee]

*strolling up to a counter* Hii, may I please have a 1,2,7/8,6,1/23/25/13 and 4/9? :D

Whumpee: 1 - Leader (couldn't stop myself, I love leader whump too much haha-)

Caretaker: 2 - Right hand

Whumper: oh, what if it's a combination of 8 - mentor and 7 - villain? :O

Dynamics: 6 - team

Tropes: 1 -self sacrifice, 23 - rescue. 25 - buried alive (maybe even 13 - left for the dead, if it works? :O)

Dialouge: 6 -"I can't walk", 9 - "You're still alive"

Thank you very much for making this and I hope I'm not going too crazy, haha (*>w<) Absolutely feel free to get rid of some parts or add additional ones, and not writing this if the inspiration doesn'tcome is completely oke too. :D I think the most important part is that you enjoy the proccess as much as possible ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

Have a wonderful day, virtual hugs and a cookie 💕🍪～(´∀｀～)

Hiii! Glad to see you here hehehe. Turned buried alive to stuck in an underground bunker. Enjoy!

Warnings: Knife, starvation, restrains, delirium(?) -> from this ask game <-

Leader was out of breath. They couldn't run anymore. they were cornered. They hated themselves for not seeing the trap. But how one even prepared for this? To be completely understood by the enemy in tactics and mind?

They stopped absurdly, watching the team from behind. Whumper had figured Leader out, so be it. But there was no way they could understand what Leader would do for their team.

Right Hand noticed first. Of course they did. Leader taught them well. Taught them how to lead. How to protect. To see when sacrifice was needed for survival. And at that moment, all Leader could do was smile bitterly.

I'm so sorry for burdening you so early, they mouthed, before locking the metal door through the alarm. Tech had spent ages to disable it from far, but it was so easy from inside. Leader didn't turn back as Whumper's forces got to the room from the remaining entrance.

"I won't let you get them," they stated. Leader wouldn't lose. Because their goal wasn't their own survival. It was to keep their team alive.

"I never wanted them. They were only obstacles between you and me," Whumper chirped. A shiver ran down Leader's spine, and for the first time in their life, they felt afraid for themselves. The team is safe, they tried to assure themselves. They can't truly hurt me.

Slowly, Leader turned back. There were guns pointed at them, all in safe distances. Leader wasn't fast enough to take on these much armed men out. "If I knew you wanted me that bad, I'd bring you flowers. I'm rather bare at the moment."

Whumper laughed. Not the loud, gloating kind Leader had expected. Quieter. Sincere. Like they were sharing a joke only the two of them understood. But Leader didn't. There were only misunderstandings with someone beyond reqsoning.

“You always were funny when you were terrified.”

Leader didn’t flinch. Even as cold sweat traced down their spine, even as their lungs still burned from the run, they kept their stance casual. They wouldn't fall for such bait. They had to save strength.

“I’m not terrified,” Leader simply said. And perhaps it was that simple. Leader wasn't terrified. Leader had insurance. The agency had a whole will to go over if Leader couldn't find a way out of this hell. The team was in good hands.

Whumper stepped closer. The armed soldiers didn’t move—because they didn’t need to. They were just the net. Whumper was the spider.

“No,” Whumper agreed, tilting their head. “Not yet.”

Leader’s jaw tightened.

“It was a good move,” Whumper went on, gesturing lazily to the locked door behind them. “A little dramatic. But you always were the noble one. I wonder—did they even see you do it? Or will they turn around and just… find you gone?”

Leader didn’t answer.

Whumper stepped closer. They were inside striking distance now, and Leader didn’t move. They couldn’t. Not with so many rifles trained on them. Not when Whumper was baiting them into making the first move.

“I know you, you know,” Whumper said, almost softly. “I know what you fear. What you hide. You didn’t just seal that door to protect them. You sealed it because if you saw the look on their faces - if you saw how much it would break them - you’d hesitate.”

Leader’s throat bobbed. “Stop pretending you understand me.”

“But I do.” Whumper smiled, and it didn’t touch their eyes. “You think you're the one who made your team strong? That you've trained them well enough to keep going? Maybe. But they’ll unravel faster than you think without you. And you know it.”

Leader’s fists clenched. “If you want to kill me, just do it.”

“Oh no,” Whumper murmured. “I want you to fight for your own life for once. No  noble sacrifices. No plans. Just you and your will to live.”

And then, without warning, something struck Leader across the head—sharp, hard, and fast.

The world tilted. Leader stumbled, a fist flying over their head. And then they fought. They fought and bled and they tried, more and more people lunging at them and it hurt. Yet they kept fighting because they couldn't surrender. It simply wasn't their nature. They fought for what felt like hours, their body slowly breaking and their limbs aching with backlash. At the end, someone must have gotten bored because Leader froze with a knife to their gut.

They fell.

Whumper taunted. Leader didn't - couldn't -  listen. And Whumper got bored finally, leaving Leader there to die by themselves. The last thing they heard before the blackness swallowed them whole was a shadow's voice, soft and pleased:

“You're coming with me.”

-•-

Leader didn't expect to open their eyes again, but they were glad to be proven wrong. Being alive was cold. Their wrists burned from strain and metal restraints, their body sluggish.

Wait, metal restrains?

It took Leader's whole strength to stay stay still, not panic. They were left to die. Did Whumper change their mind? They didn't remember.

Calming themselves as best as they can, Leader tried to understand. They were underground. That much they could tell by the dampness in the air, the silence, the faint scent of old stone and rot. There was no sound of life. Just the dull, echoing drip of water from somewhere, a hum of a generator, maybe

Then came the voice.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

“Well,” said the Villain, calm and amused. “Still alive. Just barely.”

Leader opened their eyes. The world swam, but the face hovering above them sharpened slowly into clarity.

Their former mentor.

“You,” Leader hissed, hate rising like bile.

“Me,” Villain agreed, crouching in front of them, brushing dirt from their shoulder with a touch that made Leader want to flinch. “Dragged you out before your end. You should be grateful.”

“You’re working together now?” At least that would explain why Leader was outsmarted.

A short laugh. “Hardly. I just hate letting people waste potential. Especially mine.”

Leader spat at their feet. “I’m not yours. Not anymore.”

Villain’s eyes cooled. “Still stubborn, then. Good. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Leader didn’t respond. They didn’t need to. Villain already knew. Just like Whumper. Everyone who ever claimed to understand them did the same thing: they underestimated the line Leader wouldn’t cross just because it would hurt their team.

“You’ll betray them eventually,” Villain said, standing. “When it’s just you. When it’s quiet. When your ribs ache and your mouth is dry and your mind starts to go soft with starvation. You’ll see how little your nobility means. Shout when you change your mind.”

Leader didn’t look at them. Didn’t blink.

So Villain sighed and turned to go.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” they added as a ladder was thrown down. “There’s enough air to last you a while. I’m very precise. I want you to feel the moment you regret everything.”

And with that, they heard metal clang and a valve close.

Darkness swallowed Leader whole.

But they didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

They closed their eyes.

And breathed.

The team was alive.

That was enough. So they didn't try to check concrete walls like coffin. They didn't try the sealed door. The dark didn’t frighten Leader.

At first.

They had trained for worse. Deprivation drills, isolation chambers, and days without food. It was gifts Villain left Leader with when they were still at agency. They had starved for three days straight in the northern frost during winter. This was nothing.

So they waited. They kept count—of breaths, of heartbeats, of the tiny noises the earth made as it settled around them. The drip of the leak. The faint hum of the generator upstairs that faltered once, then resumed. They watched the dark with open eyes, blinking only when their eyes burned. Watched it as though something would change.

It started with the ache. Deep in the belly, then up through the ribs. A hollowing pain, sharp and raw, that quickly became familiar. At first, Leader tracked time through it. Guessed how much must have passed. They’d breathe through it, shift positions, press hands to their abdomen like that could fool the body into thinking something was there. But nothing ever came. And it hurt. Leader only then remembered the knife.  Their dirty shirt was soaked— by what, they couldn't tell. They could only hope it was blood and nothing else.

Eventually, the ache turned to nausea. Then numbness. Then fire again. It circled too often, too rarely. They couldn't grasp the time. But Leader didn't scream. That was important. They couldn’t scream or beg. Not because no one would hear them—but because it would mean giving the dark something. It would mean feeding it with fear, letting it grow teeth.

Water came once. Maybe twice. A slosh from a pipe above, dripping into a bowl they hadn’t noticed before. They drank. First, greedily. Then slowly. Then not at all, because their stomach hurt too much. Hunger was sharper than thirst. It crawled up from the gut, gnawed at the spine, the ribs, the base of the skull. It wasn’t pain anymore. Just… pressure. Then dullness. Then nothing.

Hallucinations came after a lifetime.

At first it was voices—Right Hand calling out, confused. Tech arguing, asking for coordinates. Laughter. Gunfire. They saw light that wasn’t there, shapes flickering in the edges of their eyes. Sometimes they heard the door unlock. It never did. They dreamed, too, but there was no difference between dreams and waking and hallucinating. In one moment, they were holding the team together, barking orders. In the next, they were curled on their side on rough stone, cradling a memory that couldn’t keep them warm.

They stopped moving.

It hurt too much. The muscles refused. Bones ached from pressure and cold and stillness. The restraint around their wrist was forgotten, part of their flesh now. Hunger no longer clawed - it purred. A heavy thing curling up in their gut, whispering that it would all be over soon.

Leader didn’t resist it.

There was no fight to win. Only silence.

Sometimes Leader forgot which way was up until their skull hit stone again. They knew they passed out, because they’d wake in new positions, mouth dry, heart skipping beats like it was confused to still be working.

Sometimes, they thought they spoke. Maybe to Villain. Maybe to Whumper. Maybe to the team. They imagined apologizing. Explaining. Sometimes, just whispering names to remember them in order. They forgot their own once. It came back. Slow. Sticky. Like crawling through wet leaves. They didn't hear their own voice.

They laughed once. It sounded like choking.

Then came the smell of rot. They weren't sure if it came from the cell or their own body. Infection, maybe. The cuffs tore their wrists bloody after too many unconscious jerks.

The first time Villain returned, the light burned. A cold, yellow spill through the opened hatch above, and the ladder clattered down like laughter.

“You’re still alive,” Villain observed, devoid of any other emotion.

Leader didn't lift themselves from the floor. Their voice was foreign, low. “That disappoints you?”

“No,” Villain said lightly, crouching beside them, holding out food. “Still loyal?”

Leader didn’t speak. They only smelled their own blood anyway.

Villain smiled with just the edges of their mouth. “Suit yourself.”

Villain pulled back. They left a bruise that time. Fingers curling around Leader’s face with almost parental intent, thumb pressed just a little too hard against their cheekbone, before slapping as if they were still a naughty intern.

The second visit came after hunger stopped being hunger and became quiet. As if Leader’s body had forgotten to want. Muscles didn’t ache anymore. They simply were not. Time passed. Or didn't.

“You’re not even trying,” they noted. “I expected you to try digging. Scratching. Begging.”

Leader scoffed. Their lips cracked when they spoke. “You taught me well.”

That earned them a sharp kick—not hard enough to kill, just enough to remind. Pain had begun to feel like proof of existence. Leader hissed, curling inward. There was blood again.

“Still no change of heart?”

Silence.

Villain stood. “Then I'm done with you.”

Leader heard the door - hatch - again.

“You don’t have to die for them,” Villain said quietly. “They’re probably already replacing you. You know how fast these things move.”

Leader didn't answer.

“I could pull you out,” Villain offered. “Patch you up. Feed you. Clean you. Give you a new life.”

There was only silence after.

-•-

It started as a tremor.

Leader didn’t believe it at first. The infection had made illusions out of smaller things. Phantom footsteps, rescue teams that were only echoes of memory. But this… this vibration was different.

Real.

A scrape above. Then, a clatter. Stone against stone. Something shifted. The sealed lid, too heavy to dream of moving, began to Leak light. The pressure changed. Subtle, but it hit Leader like a gasp of fresh breath.

A second passed. Then another. Then, the lid pushed aside with a strained grunt. Dust fell in sheets. The beam of a flashlight broke into the cell.

Then—

Leader blinked against the white glare, breath stuck on their throat.

Not Villain. Not a hallucination.

It was Right Hand..

Right Hand dropped something—metal clanking against stone. A ladder. The shaft shook as they half-fell down , then knelt beside them. A warm hand brushed gently under Leader’s jaw, lifting their head.

“Leader. Hey. Look at me.” Their voice was rough, breaking. Why were they crying? “I’ve got you. We’ve got you. You're safe now.”

Leader’s eyes rolled back in their head. They forced them open again. Right Hand was still there. Still real.

“Right Hand…” Leader murmured, almost a question, an apology they had to get put of their chest.

“Shhh.” Right Hand cradled them, pushing away the thoughts and cold from Leader.. “You’re going to be okay, Leader. I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

Leader tried to push themselves up, but their body didn’t obey. Their limbs were stiff, like they had forgotten how to move, how to function. They had to get up, wanted to get up. Villain could come back. They would come back and then Right Hand would be defenceless with Leader burdening them.

“I… I can’t… walk,” Leader whispered, not registering the words. Their paranoia was supposed to stay inside. But they couldn't stop themselves. “I can’t…”

They were trembling. Their body was growing heavier with each passing moment, as though gravity itself had decided to weigh them down. They were a wreck and a burden, all the things they didn't want to br.

Right Hand’s hand came to their forehead. Cold. Leader leaned towards the cold. Their thoughts dissolved.

“I know,” Right Hand said softly. “I’m not asking you to walk. I’m carrying you.”

Leader opened their mouth to protest, to tell Right Hand not to risk it, but the words didn't come. They couldn’t make sense of what they wanted to say anymore.

“Hey. Look at me,” Right Hand said, their voice gentle but commanding. “Look at me.”

Leader’s eyes struggled to focus, but there was something in Right Hand’s gaze that grounded them. Thr cold hand left their forehead for a moment, but next their wrists were free. They didn't know - or care - how. Then the handover to their back.

“You’re gonna be alright, I promise,” Right Hand continued, voice steady.

Leader nodded—or maybe twitched. It didn’t matter. Right Hand moved fast, looping one arm under their shoulders and the other under their knees, lifting with a grunt. Leader hissed through their teeth. It felt like tearing open their stomach again.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Right Hand muttered. “You’re light as hell. That’s not a compliment.”

Leader wanted to laugh at that, but the sound that came out was closer to a gasp. The pain was distant now, muffled like sound underwater. The world swam as Right Hand cradled them close, navigating the narrow shaft with slow, careful steps. Each jolt sent pain ricocheting through their bones, but they clung to consciousness, focusing on Right Hand’s breathing, the steady rhythm of it. Not a hallucination. Not a dream. Real.

There was shouting above. Muffled. Urgent. Tech’s voice. Sharp, commanding.

“Exit’s not secure—we’ve got three minutes tops!”

“Medical’s ready, just get them up!”

The light widened. Then warmth hit Leader's skin—real warmth. Flashlight? Sunlight? They couldn’t tell, but it was not the dark. Leader sucked in a breath that didn’t taste like mold and rot. Their lungs burned with fresh air. Their vision blurred again, but it wasn’t darkness that swallowed them this time—it was too much light.

They were passed off—hands under their back, people murmuring, equipment beeping. They were floating. No, being carried again. Blankets. Needles. Medic's voice was too close.

“What did they do to you…” Youngest murmured, but Leader couldn’t answer. Their throat was raw, and everything ached. They blinked once. Twice.

Then everything went quiet.

-•-

The next time they woke, it was in a clean cot. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air. Wires ran to their wrist. Tubes. Machines. But no restraints. No stone. No rot.

Right Hand had was asleep sitting upright, a data tablet slipping from their fingers. Their head rested awkwardly against the wall, neck bent too far.

Leader tried to speak, but only managed a croak. Right Hand startled awake anyway.

“Leader,” they said, instantly alert. “You’re up. Hey. Hey. Don’t move, you’re still—”

“Team?” Leader rasped, eyes barely open.

“We’re fine. All of us. We regrouped. We found you.” Right Hand’s voice cracked on that last word. “Took too damn long, but we did.”

Leader stared at them, struggling to speak. “You saw. At the door. I—”

“I know.” Right Hand leaned in, their voice quieter now. “I know why you did it. We don’t blame you. Just… angry at your crazy stunts.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not painful. Alive was good. Together was better. And everything was alright if they had the luxury to be angry.

Leader closed their eyes for a moment. “Villain?”

“Gone. Retreated when they realized we were coming. Coward with an attachment complex.” Right Hand paused. “They won’t get near you again.”

Leader turned their head slightly. “Was I gone long?”

Right Hand hesitated. “Eighteen days there. Another week in Medbay”

Leader blinked. That long. That short. It didn’t matter anymore.

“You held on,” Right Hand added, softer now. “No one believed you would’ve made it through that. But you did.”

Leader breathed in. Deep. Shaky. Tried to piece together. But their thoughts slipped.

“I’m sorry,” Leader said finally.

“For what?” Right Hand asked, eyebrows pulling together.

“For putting you in my place,” Leader whispered. “For leaving.”

“You didn’t leave us,” Right Hand said defensively. “You saved us. And now we’ll look after you. That’s how this works. We carry each other.”

Leader only smiled.

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 3, 10, 18, 19

Ambushed | Smoke | Self-defence | “This can’t be happening!”

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Contains: angst, very brief mention of corporal punishment, ambush, arrest, restraints, corrupt guards, fantasy chloroform, knocked out

WC: 940

Burnt sugar and rotting flesh

The stars were coldly curious, just barely visible now that the sun was almost set. The food taster walked the streets with purpose, toward the palace, toward its high walls and iron gates. His feet ached from the countless steps he’d taken that day as he scoured the city for any word of the girl. His bones creaked with fatigue, his head ached with confusion, his throat pinched with thirst, his chest burned with frustration.

How could no one know who she was?

Guilt, too, prickled at his conscience. He shouldn’t have slipped away in secret. Really, he shouldn’t have even considered leaving without permission. After all, he was sworn to bend to his employer’s whims and well-being, no matter how friendly their bond. Worse, sneaking away before dinner meant he was shirking his duties outright. If word of his disobedience reached the governor? Unquestionably, there would be some measure of punishment awaiting him once they returned to the north.

Whatever that turned out to be—withheld wages, a stern warning, a lash or two with a switch—mattered little. Tonight, it was all insignificant.

He promised himself: another hour of searching, and if his efforts still turned up nothing, he would give up.

When he approached the royal palace’s south gate, his steps faltered.

The air . . .

It was different here.

It didn’t reek, exactly, but it was . . . unwelcoming. Magic lay thick and impassable over the iron bars, spikes, and locks—a curse dense enough that the area even appeared unguarded.

Don’t even try, the spell warned.

Ignoring the acrid tang of hostility on his tongue, the food tester pressed his hands to the lock.

The spell holding it together snapped.

He stepped back, mystified but undeniably pleased that it had worked. Palms slick with perspiration, he slid the mechanisms apart, piece by piece.

“Oi! You!”

Perhaps the area was not as undefended as he thought.

The food taster cursed under his breath, jolting away from the broken lock as harsh voices rang through the air.

“Yes . . . ?” he asked, trying to exude an air of bewilderment as a line of soldiers advanced toward him.

Too late, he realized they were shouting his name.

How did they know his name?

Much too late, he considered that his friend’s dire predictions might actually come true.

“Breaking in, were you?” asked the leader. “Caught you red-handed.”

Had they been looking for him? Waiting for him?

“How . . . how do you know me?” he stammered.

His earlier confidence that he might successfully defend himself was downright laughable. Two guards seized his arms, too strong for him to shake off, while the leader rifled through his pockets.

“Hey! Get—get off!”

The leader paid him no heed; he merely smiled in triumph, displaying the girl’s gold charm with a flourish. “Well. I was told I’d catch a thief tonight. Looks like I did.”

“I’m not a thief,” the food taster protested. “I wanted to return it!”

His objections went ignored.

“You’re under arrest,” the leader said, locking a pair of manacles over the food taster’s wrists.

“You can’t arrest me!” he yelped. “I haven’t done anything!”

The guards looked pointedly at the gate’s broken lock.

“Get moving,” said the leader, pushing him forward. A malicious sort of amusement coloured his tone. “Tell it to the . . . courts.”

“But I—”

Someone shoved him again, rattling the chain, and the food taster stumbled, falling silent in defeat.

They hauled him into a dimly lit office, demanding a full confession. The room boasted dusty, windowless walls and cold grey flagstone for a floor. It stank of old magic and suffering.

With his heart in his throat, the food taster repeatedly defended his innocence. More than once, with irritation unchecked and running rampant, a guard slammed his chained hands back to the table or clipped him hard on the ear.

To his great alarm, his explanation of “I wanted to find her and give it back to her; also, I think she might be in grave danger,” appeared to hold very little sway.

“Oh, save it,” said the leader impatiently, “and shut up.” To the other guards, he said coolly, “I’ll handle the rest of this. Leave us.”

Dread washed through the room when the other guards vanished, although the food taster couldn’t have said why.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he insisted.

“Honestly? I don’t care.”

The food taster’s mouth dropped open as the guard lifted the statement he had just finished painstakingly recording, holding it tauntingly against a torch set into the wall.

The paper flared into smoke and flame.

“What are you doing?” the food taster cried, struck with horror.

“Well, you see . . .” The guard dropped the charred remains of the parchment to the floor. “Someone wants a word with you. In private.” He lowered his voice. “No trail left behind.”

A sickening scent met his senses in a violent assault: a heavy, cloying smell, like burnt sugar and rotting flesh.

Poison.

Not just any poison. He cursed his too-deep knowledge of the subject, for he knew right away what this poison was for. He knew when that soaked cloth clamped over his nose and his mouth, the pungent chemical would cut off his air and overwhelm his senses, muddying his thoughts and sending him straight into the depths of oblivion.

This can’t be happening.

“No! Don’t—”

The last thing he felt was the guard’s free hand holding him down to quell his struggles.

The last thing he heard was his own panicked, muffled breaths.

The last thing he saw was shackled hands growing slack, and the yellow candlelight fading to impenetrable, unforgiving darkness.

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.