#in some dingy prison cell

[cult-of-the-eye]

the most insane fic idea came to me hear me out, it's the 19th century, jon is at oxford and he is living life as normally as he can get, only occasionally getting splitting headaches and visions of other people's trauma. he gets kidnapped by a strange man who preaches about apocalypses, chosen ones and eyes. oh and he also might be in love with him. cue the most toxic, one-sided jonelias to ever have been seen

[frogchiro]

tumblr ate this ask so I am sending it again!!!

just imagine, your apartment is of course, so dingy, so eventually your shower HAS to break, so you need to use neighbor! ghosts

needing to use his soap (and has he already used that towel??) and just coming out smelling like his musk and seeing him in the living room afterwards ahhhh!

Thank you for sending this to me again dear!! This has been on my mind for so many days ahhhh!!

Both the apartment and piping had seen...better days, obviously. You had of course trued to tidy it up and make it look like a home and not a prison cell but, well, there was only so much you could do yourself and any kind of attempt of communicating with the owner of the building either led to a dead line over the phone or some drunken warbles that never led to anything actionable.

So it was really only a matter of time and running out of luck when the pipes and shower head let out a ominous clank and spurted out ice cold water making you scream and run out of it while cursing like a sailor. Of-fucking-course this would end up like this! You knew you couldn't on that good for nothing of a landlord and you'd have to get this fixed yourself but it was already Friday evening, every service is closed already and would be closed until Monday and you sure as hell won't go sweaty and dirty for three days because some dickhead didn't bother to fix the water :((

But...there was always one more option. One which made you nervous and twitchy. You could always go to your lovely neighbour, Simon, and ask him if you could use his shower.

Just imagine Simon's delight at seeing you still trembling from the shock of cold water and asking him quietly if you could please use his shower? Just until Monday? Yours broke and-

And after that Simon kinda tuned out and honed only onto the request if your could use his shower. His shower. A place where he barely fits his huge, burly body all naked, where he jerked off so many times to images of you in his head and then was angry at how much sperm he wasted down the drain when it could've been inside you :((

He's so so happy to let you in and tells you to 'make yourself right at home lovie'. And he's even more happy when he sees you walk out of the bathroom in your comfy pink PJs and a fluffy bathrobe, all content and happy and, the most important, you smell like his heavy, musky soap that he uses :(( You smell like him! Si takes it that you're marked as his </3

[thebucketpail]

Of course the one time I actually fill a prompt I forget to save it and end up losing it to the tumblr void.

Alas, if I find it I'll link it but until then, have this.

Tw: light gore, mentions of vivisection

____________

This wasn't the team's first lab break in and it definitely wouldn't be their last. That is to say, they've seen alot of shit. Alot of mad scientists and what resulted from their insanity, their cruelty. But they had never expected to find something like this on what was supposed to be a low stakes mission.

Robin had been the first to find the dingy little cell, not far from the main lab, and stood stunned in abject horror as the others came in behind him.

"Oh god," he heard Arrowette whisper, followed by a litany of strangled gasps and the sound of Superboy's knuckles cracking.

It was terrible, but Robin couldn't manage to tear his eyes away from the curled up teen tied to the wall.

The boy was unconscious, his stark white hair, matted with grime and some green substance, covered the top of his face, a muzzle covered the bottom. What was left visible was littered with cuts and angry purple bruises. Whatever clothes he had been wearing were tattered and torn, displaying yet more injuries.

What was probably the worst, as far as Robin could tell, was the dirty gauze haphazardly taped to his neck. The dressings were soaked through with more of that green liquid, which Robin relised with a hobble sink to his gut was probably the kid's blood.

Robin swallowed the bile threatening to rise to his throat and turned back toward his team. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, new plan," he said, doing his best to keep his leader voice, "Superboy, you get those chains off him. Team, this is no longer an Intel mission, this is search and rescue. Impulse, Secret, Arrowette, fan out. Check the rest of the building for any other prisoners. If you find anyone then report immediately. WG, you call back to Red. I'll see what I can pull out of their database. Remember to keep your heads."

A round of nods was all he got in return before everyone set out on their tasks.

Robin had just wormed his way to into the system when Superboy walked in, the unconscious kid in his arms, and a seriously pissed expression on his face.

"I never thought Cadmus could go this far," he growled, brows furrowing.

Robin grunted on acknowledgement, then made a light sound of surprise as the archaic system finally loaded.

"Well then it's a good thing we aren't at Cadmus then," he mumbled disbelieving as he dove further and further into the newly available files. Quickly, he pulled an empty USB from his utility belt and set to work downloading what looked important, facility locations, blueprints, documents, research, etc.

"Where are we then?" Superboy asked, setting the kid down to peer over Robin's shoulder.

"Some place called the GIW, ghost investigation ward," Robin murmered, "according to these files, they're some kind of government org, designed to hunt and study ghosts. Our guy over there," he jutted his chin toward the kid, "is apparently really powerful. They have alot of files on him and something called the ghost zone."

Suddenly they were interrupted by a serious of loud crashes followed by shouting and Impulse zipping into the room.

"Heyguyswegottago," he sped out before taking in a huge lung full of air and continuing at a slightly slower pace. Slightly. "Reinforcements just arrived and they don't look like they're happy to see us. We couldn't find anyone else other then some asshole scientists. Cissie kicked their butts."

Robin nodded and pulled the USB from the port. "Tell the other to meet back at the super cycle, it's time to go." Impulse nodded and sped back off.

--------

It wasn't their best escape, but it certainly wasn't their worst. Those GIW agents were persistant bastards but it wasn't anything the supercycle couldn't handle.

They were en route back the cave when Superboy called out, "Hey Rob, you might wanna see this." He and WG had been tasked with administering first aid (to the best of their abilities) to their rescue, so that wasn't exactly something Ribin was thrilled to hear.

He let Supercycle switch to auto pilot before climbing to the back seat to see what had his team so freaked out. And yeah. That would do it.

If he thought the neck wound was bad, that was nothing. What was left of the kids torn shirt was removed to reveal a massive Y-shaped incision across his chest. The scars were red and inflamed, mottled with angry bruises and so, so many tiny holes, giving the impression that the wound had been stitched uo and reopened on numerous occasions. The implications of the wound was clear.

Robin set his jaw as he met Superboy's eyes. The confusion was prominent. he didnt know what to do.

"Just do you're best to clean it for now," he said, "we'll have Red look at him when we get back to base."

As Robin settled back into the driver's seat, he mentally added the GIW to his list of enemies. Anyone who had the power to do that, government or not, was going down

[happyhauntt]

and i am coming home to you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: there are some things that cannot be saved. nikolai swears she won't be one of them.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: serious angst, pre-established relationship, descriptions of injuries, blood and torture, oc was held as a prisoner of war, allusions to ravka's war with shu han, suicidal thoughts if you squint. trauma. fluff & romance but in an angsty way. nikolai is so in love and so am i.

─── word count: 2.5k.

     There’s a soft, dusky twilight bleeding in through the window. The last few seconds before the sun goes down, and the shadows stretch like yearning fingers out of all the cracks and crevices.

     Anya used to love the sunset. Used to lay in her bedroll beneath the trees and wait for the world to go quiet. All the colour would bleed away until the blue and black and stars were the only witnesses left.

     She loved the sunset until one day, the darkness came and never left. It settled over her like a second skin, and that once-familiar comfort became something she feared she’d never shake off. She feared she would die there, in the dark.

     Once or twice, she even wished for it.

      The dark comes calling again, now. It no longer feels like an old friend. The light fades from the window, cloaking the cabin in a strange half-dark. The waves crashing against the sides of the ship are a dull roar in the back of her mind. An unwelcome accompaniment to the rest of her terrible thoughts. Her head aches. Her skin burns.

     He saved her, but what was left of her to save? What is left of her now but a ghost, a corpse, a pile of skin and bones and blood that can do nothing else but scream and scream and scream?

     That's what it feels like. Her body. Her heart. Little more than a carcass left to rot, picked over by crows.

     She would love him if she could. A fierceness rests between her lungs, the single spark of life left within her after they stripped her of the rest. This, she'd cradled close, clutched between gnarled, bloody fingers. This is his. This, they couldn't tear from her if they tried.

     And they had tried.

     The bed rocks beneath her. After so long trapped in a dingy cell, the mattress should feel like the height of luxury, stuffed with goose feathers and lined with linen, but it all feels like stone. She tastes blood in her mouth, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own. The silk sheets ghost over her flesh, feeling sharp as razor blades.

     Anya never learned to love her cage, but she doesn’t trust freedom, either. Not yet.

     It's not that he's the reason she lived. He isn't her reason to keep breathing. Anya Kamenev is her father's daughter, and has endured untold horrors, and if there is one certainty in the world, it is that she is not weak. She survived for herself, for her parents, for her country. She wanted to be home again. The trees blossoming in the summertime, fresh ripe fruit on her tongue, winter air that smells like snow.

     She wouldn't die like this. Not at their hands. Anya would go quietly in her bed at a ripe old age, surrounded by people who loved her. Or she'd go to her knees on a battlefield, still screaming as the bullets rip her wide open, and with her last breath, she'd take them down too.

     Not like this. Not in a dark laboratory, or a torture chamber. Not at their hands. Anya is stubborn. She'd bleed green if someone told her she was wrong. She'd make it true.

     But he loves her. He loves her, and that is everything. He’d appeared before her like a vision sent by the Saints, like something holy in a place she knows no god would ever touch. Like a miracle. On the bad days, his love is blossom trees and fresh fruit and winter air combined. He has held her hand through darkness, guided her through battle, and even when he left for his apprenticeship, he'd kissed her like it was a promise.

     They'd taken everything else. Broken her bones and slashed her skin. Wrought her apart to scratch at her soul. She'll bear the scars for the rest of her life, long after the wounds are healed. Her body will never be the same. Her mind may never recover.

     But this wasn't hers to give up. This is his. Loving him had been a candle in the darkness. A reminder that she was human still. A reminder that even in the blackest night, dawn will come again.

     But now, lying alone in his bed in a dim cabin, Anya grows restless. The mind is a strange thing, and something about this safety feels foreign to her. There are voices in the walls. The shadows have eyes. The ship lurches in the waves and she swears there is a hand right there, reaching out—

     She's on her feet before she realises what she's doing. She never was a girl built to run — her instinct has always been to stay, to fight — but this is different, and blood doesn’t always feel like blood when you touch it.

     Her knee buckles beneath her the moment she puts weight on it. A strangled shriek escapes her lips as pain streaks through her like lightning. The cabin door slams open, and Nikolai appears. His tailored-red hair glows in the candlelight, a halo of bronze. His face is still different, crooked nose and freckles and green eyes, but he will never be unfamiliar to her.

     He crosses the room in two strides and falls to his knees beside Anya. His teal overcoat has been abandoned, and what remains is a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, still speckled with her blood. Her stomach twists at the sight of it as his hands find her shoulders. Something solid, finally; her guiding light once more.

     The chill that had stolen over her body vanishes where he touches her, and Anya leans into him heavily, her face pressed into the warmth of his shoulder. An agonising moan rises up within her, but she holds her breath. She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

     "You shouldn't be up, love." His voice is still the same soothing cadence in her ear. One hand brushes through ragged, tangled girls. It seems someone tried to brush her hair while she was unconscious; bathed the worst of the blood away, changed her into fresh clothes, but the scent of iron still lingers on her skin. His fingers catch in a knot, but the sharp spike of pain on her scalp goes unnoticed. The rest of her is screaming too loudly.

     "I cannot be in that bed any longer." Anya shakes her head, once, and breathes in the salt-and-cedar scent of him. Hands outstretched, clawing blindly, she grasps him tightly and swears she'll never let go again. "I cannot be here."

     How long had the Shu held her? How many days have passed since they killed the last member of her unit, since his cries grew too quiet and she'd been left alone with her worst nightmares? Had anyone notified her parents? What will they say, when they learn the truth? When they discover their worst fear has come to pass, and their darling daughter was tortured for being Grisha?

     "You cannot be anywhere else, Nastya," says Nikolai. He sounds like aching. His lips brush against her temple as he speaks, voice soft as silk. His hands are gentle, too, as he scoops her up from the floor and settles her back onto the bed. She holds herself stiffly, choking back another scream as her knee jostles and jerks.

     He winces as if every choked-off cry is a blade through his heart. He murmurs sweet apologies as he readjusts the pillows and perches on the bed beside her, close enough to touch, wary of disturbing her leg any further. His hands linger on hers. The tips of his fingers trace light patterns over the inside of her wrist.

     For a moment, nothing has changed.

     "Do you need anything, Captain?" The voice in the doorway is a little startling, and for a second Anya is back in that cell. She stiffens as the woman watches them both, a soft frown toying at her mouth. Golden eyes shine with pity.

     Nikolai rolls his lips together for a moment. "Perhaps some water, please, Tamar." The woman nods, and tugs the door closed behind her as she departs, leaving the pair wrapped in stony silence.

     Nikolai's eyes trail over Anya, searching, inspecting her injuries as if committing every scar to memory. He cannot count how many times he has done this since he found her. Sitting on the bed just like this, close enough to feel the warmth of her, counting each breath as if they might be her last. His eyes harden at the bruises on her throat, the gash across her cheek. Sweeping lower, his gaze settles on her knee again. He swallows roughly. Darkness sweeps over him like a burial shroud.

     The skin of Anya's leg is mottled, black and yellow and purple, a medley of half-healed bruises intermingled with fresh ones. They hurt her. They broke her. And for the first time since he left Ravka, anticipating a bright and shining future filled with adventure, Nikolai is drowning in regret.

     "Tolya did his best, but he's not a healer." His throat feels tight, like there's smoke in his lungs. Her skin is littered with newly-pink scars and stitched-up wounds. Her leg is the worst of it. Nikolai doesn't recall seeing injuries like this, even in the army. "We'll get you healers when we dock. The best healers. They'll be able to help with the rest of it. They'll be able to—"

     "Fix me?" Anya sounds hollow. His eyes snap to hers, and he finds someone staring back at him, but it isn't Anya. It isn't the girl he fell in love with. Somewhere within, she might be hiding, but here and now, he's faced with a ghost. "I lost count of how many times they broke it. Sometimes they'd drag a healer in to mend the bone, and then... snap. Other times they'd just leave it. There are some things that can't be fixed if you break them enough."

     A rough shake of his head. His heart sits like lead in his chest. "We'll fix it. You'll be good as new in no time, Nastya, I promise you."

Silence falls over them for a moment, filled with nothing but crashing waves and crackling candles. His fingers keep drawing circles over her wrist, and her pulse flutters gently beneath his touch. Her hands remain in her lap, pale and thin.

     "How long was I gone?"

     He doesn't need to ask what she means by that. His heart squeezes. "Six weeks, we think. They reported you missing-in-action when your unit didn't reach the checkpoint."

     Nausea rises like a tidal wave in Anya’s throat. Six weeks? Every horrible moment had felt like an eternity, and yet she never believed, never could have guessed it had been that long.

     "Sturmhond came to find me. Why?"

     An old fury lashes through him, one that had only settled when he laid eyes on her, half-dead in that dingy cell. Fingers curl into trembling fists as that anger rises again, unbidden, but not at her. Never at her. His jaw ticks at the memory. "Command thought attempting a rescue would be too... risky." He spits the word through gritted teeth. The Saints only know what he’ll do the moment he gets his hands on the First Army General responsible for that decision. "They couldn't prove you were in Shu Han, and crossing the border to rescue you would have risked an international incident."

     A necessary sacrifice. Collateral damage. A most unfortunate loss. That's what the bulletin had read, when he finally received it. Sturmhond kept up-to-date on Ravka, its military engagements, its economy. When he'd docked in Os Kervo eleven days ago and sent the twins out for supplies and information, the last thing he expected to hear was that a scouting group had gone missing near the Shu Han border.

     His last correspondence with Anya had mentioned that she was being deployed there, that she'd been tasked with leading a reconnaissance mission with the aim of finding new ways around the Fold. It had only taken a little digging to discover the names of the personnel who'd gone missing.

     He sees Lieutenant Colonel Anya Kamenev: MISSING IN ACTION every time he closes his eyes. It might be seared onto his brain forever.

     Anya’s eyes fall closed. Her jaw is tight. With pain or anger, he cannot tell. It was a sound tactical decision, she thinks. She cannot blame them for that. She might even have made the same call.

     But her leg screams at her. Nikolai's hand squeezes her own. Your country abandoned you. The words ring through her mind like a death knell.

     "You disagreed with their decision?"

     That familiar crooked grin slips over his face. He almost looks like a boy again, and not the man who loves her, made world-weary by the things he’s seen. They could be home again. It almost makes her cry. "Ravka was concerned about tensions with Shu Han. Nikolai Lantsov was unable to risk an international incident. Sturmhond had no such concerns."

     A ghost of a smile. His heart twinges at the sight of it. "Your letters never mentioned why you chose the name Sturmhond."

     "I'll tell you some other time, darling. It's quite the tale." He leans and kisses her forehead, lingering a few long moments just to breathe her in, feel the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

     She'd been so pale when he found her. So cold. He thought he'd been too late. Every moment of the past eleven days had been agony as they docked in Shu Han and scouted out any scrap of intel they could find about Ravkan prisoners of war.

     "We'll dock soon. I sent word ahead to the generals, to let them know you've been liberated. I'll take you home."

     Home. A long journey around the Fold, most likely through Fjerdan territory, and then a trek up to Balakirev, and yet— A whimper escapes, almost too quiet to hear. Home. She thought she'd never see it again.

     "They'll want to question me, though." The thought of interviews, of recounting every detail of her torture, of having to admit that she's Grisha, that they killed the rest of her unit but spared her for experimentation, it all makes her sick.

     Nikolai shakes his head. His eyes are steel. "If they want to try, they'll have to go through me. Now sleep, love. Rest. I'll be right here."

     When sleep comes for her, finally, it does not come with those long, yearning fingers. Anya fears she will never love a sunset again, nor wish for the blissful peace of the night. But Nikolai lies down beside her, wraps her up in warm, solid arms, his chest beneath her head. She hears him breathing in her ear, a slow and steady rhythm, though she knows he isn’t sleeping.

     He’ll stay awake the whole night, to keep her demons at bay.

[buglord-isaac]

Ghost and Soap were on a simple search and rescue mission. Get to the prisoner, release him, get out. No one seemed to be guarding this prison anyways, it was dingy and smelled like crap. Johnny was almost jealous of Ghost’s mask. At least that thing would block out some of the smell.

As they got further into the prison, Johnny couldn’t help but let out small coughs. The smell was horrible, it burnt his throat. Ghost gave him a small look, both disapproving of the noise he made and curious about why he was making the noise.

“Fuckin’ disgusting in here…”

“Aint it just.”

“Maybe I shoulda brought a mask too, then we could match.”

“A mask would’ve been practical.”

Johnny smiled a bit. It was fun to joke around and see Ghost’s reaction. Even more fun to do so when Ghost was Simon. Johnny watched as Ghost turned his head fast to look behind him and clapped a gloved hand over Johnny’s mouth. He could see focus in those eyes. And he was right. There were footsteps on the floor above.

And there was nowhere to hide. Lockers, desks, prison cells, cabinets. Each were far too small or would be able to see through. Still, Ghosts eyes were focussed. Scanning the room until finally he found what he was looking for.

Johnny was silently ushered through the room to a small storage room. He gave Ghost a doubtful look, but was shoved in anyways. Ghost followed, and shut the both of them into the darkness. This room could barely hold them. Johnny could feel Ghost’s breath hitting his face. His own was hitting Ghosts shirt. Their bodies were pressed hard against each other.

Together, they listened to the footsteps. The odd talking here and there, then listened as they left. Expectantly, Johnny looked up at Ghost.

“We ain’t leaving until we’re sure they’re gone.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“It is, but we have to deal with it.”

Ghost was still focussed, Johnny could tell. But Johnny was starting to get uncomfortable. He had tried to push away from Ghost this entire time as to not interrupt his focus, but he had enough of the shelves cutting into him. As he moved, they pressed together more.

Johnny watched the rise and fall of Ghosts chest. He ran a hand over his waist and up Ghost’s back, holding his hand there.

His heartbeat was fully calm.

Johnny looked up at him. “You’re sneaky, you know that, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“You’re in here because you want to be.”

Simon looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to be here with your rank sweat?”

Johnny smiled. He saw the shift in Ghost’s eyes when he became Simon for him again. “Same reason I’d want to be with yours. Smells leagues better in here than out there.”

“Disgusting.”

Johnny didn’t respond. He slid both hands down to Simon’s waist and held it. The close proximity felt amazing. They had kissed a few times before. Stolen kisses and some deep ones when Simon had really needed the help.

“We’re on a mission, Soap.”

“Johnny.”

He pushed Simon against the door. It was a quiet motion, thank god. Simon looked up at the roof as an attempt to ignore, but Johnny knew he wanted this. Simon’s heartbeat was so calm.

“Don’t you want to utilise this moment? Especially if we’re going to stay here.”

Silence.

“It’s dark. You could take your mask off and we could make out like animals.”

“Animals don’t make out.”

Johnny rolled his eyes, but felt Simon’s hands trailing up his own body, then leaving it again to reach to his face.

“But I do want to utilise this moment, you’re right.”

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: implied torture

“[Hero], I– I’m so sorry…”

The hero doesn’t even look at the villain. Their head is bent, staring distantly at a crack in the concrete floor. “It’s okay.”

The villain had called the superhero’s bluff. Tried to, at least. They never thought a superhero could be so cruel to one of their own. But the superhero had been more than happy to prove them wrong, to make the villain watch him inflict nothing but agony on the hero until they’d finally spat out exactly what the superhero wanted.

The supervillain probably doesn't stand a chance now. They don’t care.

Even from their own dingy cell the villain can see the blood seeping mockingly through the hero’s shirt. Their palms rub together mindlessly like that’ll erase the crimson nightmare from their hands. They seem like they’re barely conscious, blankly honed into the tiny blemish on the floor like it’s a portal they’re waiting to open.

None of this is okay. The hero’s just saying that. The villain kind of wishes they’d just gone and died in the street like the supervillain had intended. At least that would’ve saved them both from this.

The hero is sitting on the floor, not moving except to scrub at their hands, but the villain is restlessly pacing back and forth. They have so much pent up energy from the last hour—it has to go somewhere.

“We’re gonna get out,” they say into the silence.

“We’re not.”

The villain turns to the hero a little harsher than they meant to. The hero flinches even from several metres away, and the villain’s heart crushes just that little bit more. “We are, [Hero]. We’re gonna get out and [Superhero] is never gonna touch you again.”

The hero makes some noise that is clearly meant to be a scoff but comes out as more of a broken sob. “Big dreams.”

The villain doesn’t bother commenting on that. “No window, no lockpicking.” They glance around for ideas. “No bribery, I’d assume. No help.”

“How long were you here before… we spoke?”

The villain pauses. “In prison? I don’t know, a few days.”

The hero frowns. The villain doesn’t like it. “Have you not tried breaking out before?”

“I didn’t think I had anything to live for before.” The villain carries on glancing around to avoid looking at the way the hero’s face twists like they don’t believe them.

-

“There you are, you little shit,” is the greeting the superhero gives the villain. “Your codes were bullshit, weren’t they?”

He glares at them expectantly. There’s a lump in the villain’s throat that words seem to be stuck behind. “I– I gave you what you wanted.”

“Like hell you did.” The superhero throws an aimless hand over his desk. The villain’s papers are all over the place, various scrawls across their pages in a clear attempt to figure them out. “Your so-called codes didn’t work.”

The villain’s mind is blank. That can’t be right. They gave him the fucking codes. He should be descending on the supervillain this very moment, but instead he’s here, claiming they don’t work—

“Wouldn’t want your special sweetheart to feel the consequences of this, would we?”

The villain’s gaze snaps back to where the superhero’s smirking at them knowingly. They want to smack that look clean off his face. He knows too much, and now he’s using it all against them. The hero is back here, suffering the fate they fell into the villain’s grasp trying to escape, and they’re back here because of them. The villain feels sick at the thought.

“I gave you the fucking codes,” the villain spits. “It’s not my fault if you’re too thick to use them.”

The superhero’s face momentarily twitches in hatred, but it doesn’t last long. “Not to worry,” he says smoothly. He waves a hand for the security guard at the door to step forward. “I’m sure I can get an answer out of you pretty easily, hm?”

For a moment the villain can feel the burn of rope on their wrists, their throat sore, their eyes hot with tears of sickness and horror and guilt.

The security guard touches a hand to their arm, and before they can think about what they’re doing they turn around and punch him in the face.

The superhero’s on his feet immediately but the villain’s already moving. A quick boot to the middle keeps the security guard on the floor, and they meet the superhero at the desk without a thought. He tries to point a pistol at them but they butt it out of his hand, kicking it across the floor for good measure.

The superhero throws a fist at them and connects with their shoulder with the fury of the sun. The villain stumbles and the superhero’s confidence throws him in for a second blow. They dodge back, just, jabbing an elbow into the side of his face. The superhero staggers with an enraged cry and the villain leaps the desk to make for the gun.

It’s in their hand before either of the two can realise what’s happened. “Okay,” the villain says slowly. Their shoulder is throbbing but they have no time to think about it right now. “I’m gonna leave, and you’re not gonna say jackshit when I do.”

The superhero laughs, the sound wet with blood. “You won’t get far without death following you.”

“My paperwork’s still encoded. I’m not too worried.”

And with that they’re out into the corridor, more than happy to spend the superhero’s bullets on anyone stupid enough to come near them.

An alarm whirrs, drooping the halls in flashing red light. They’re lost, unaccustomed to wandering the corridors alone, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll get to where they need to be. They just have to survive first.

“Don’t worry, [Hero],” the villain whispers, like saying it outloud is a promise. “I’m coming.”

(next part)

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns @morning-star-whump @epiclamer

[wordholic]

longing is the place of exile

pairing: aerin valleros x f!mc

summary: Aerin and Aria return to the Deadwood and confront their feelings.

note: rated G but there's some mentions of mc's experience while being held captive in the shadow's realm (such as valax taking mc's blood). wc: 3.9k. takes place around ch5. i wrote this solely because i wanna smooch his little face. and also i wanna study him under a microscope

comments and reblogs are always welcomed <: (tagging @choicesficwriterscreations ) ao3 link

Aerin had always had, in his mind, a plan for jailbreak. 

Sure, yes, siding with the Shadow Court, threatening a priestess' life, and committing fratricide made life imprisonment a somewhat sound punishment, but he wouldn't be caught dead resigning his years to a dingy, run-down prison tower. He'd much rather spend the rest of his life hiding from guards and living in shadows. 

Over the year, the plan had grown from a mere idea to an intricate web of schemes and back-up plans, as well as back-up plans for those back-up plans. In fact, if he hadn't been dragged out of the depressing cell to go on an 'adventure' with Morella's heroic saviors, he probably would've broken out in a month or two. 

Well, that was in the past anyway. Right now he found himself craving (for the first time) the cell’s creaky cot and undisturbed silence– gods, the silence–

Imtura's thunderous snores seized the moment. With a stifled groan, he rolled over, facing the crackling campfire.

The group had been forced to spend the night here in the Deadwood after a long day of trekking and fighting off monsters. While the notion of resting was pleasant at first, it soon proved to be difficult. It's a miracle any of these people managed to fall asleep, Aerin thought as he got on his feet and planted a step on the dry forest floor–

ZAP. A savage pain jolted up his leg. He cursed under his breath and stumbled back onto the ground, temporarily paralyzed by the sting assaulting his muscles. He'd forgotten all about the barrier Tyril had set up around his tent. He might not be behind bars, but he was still a prisoner.

"Aerin?"

His head snapped up. Immediately he caught Aria staring at him from the other side of the fire, partly startled, partly suspicious. "What are you doing?"

Something compelled him to put on an act, so he did, spreading his numb leg out and positioning himself in a way that wouldn't show how much discomfort he was in. "I find it impossible to fall asleep in a place like this."

Aria shot a knowing glance in Imtura's direction. A lopsided grin crept up to her lips. "It does take time to get used to that."

"Glad you agree. My solution was to go for a walk, but…" he gestured vaguely at the space around him. "That is also impossible."

She nodded. Then he realized that it was much stranger that she was awake as well. "And you? Don’t tell me you’re still not used to that."

"Please, that snore is nothing to me." She cast a meaningful look into the dark woods beyond the camp. "There's just… a lot on my mind, I suppose. I was going to take a walk myself."

Their eyes met once again. A silent understanding was passed, and after some contemplation, she added, "You should come with me."

He made a doubtful hum. "Should I? I mean, it's the middle of the night, and your friends here think that I'm a ticking time bomb. You're not scared some harm may come to you out there?"

To his surprise, she smirked at the mere idea. "We'll be safe from monsters as long as we don't make much noise, plus we both know you're no match for me. And to answer your question, I'm not scared of you, even if it's against my better judgment."

She came to a full height before him, limned by the dancing fire behind her, and he held his breath.

"After you," she said with a flourish, motioning outward. "My advice is to stick to the right side."

Still skeptical, Aerin stood up once again and took a cautious step, this time leaning toward said side of the opening. Amusement took over his expression as he made it out without being electrocuted.

"I don't suppose your mage friend made a slip while casting my shield?"

"...Let's just say I have more trust in you than all of them combined."

With that, the two set off at a leisurely pace, Aria illuminating the path in front of them with a wooden torch and Aerin waiting for the right time to break the silence. All around them, crickets chirped in harmony. The air was dry and still. Lifeless trees were shrouded in pitch black where the flame couldn't reach, concealing whatever dangers lurked within them. 

It suddenly seemed less of a good idea to be wandering around in the dead of night, but at least… Aerin debated with himself. At least they get to spend some time without everyone else keeping their watchful eyes on him.

"So," he started, stealing a glance at the back of her head. "A penny for your thoughts? Specifically those that managed to keep you up after a whole day of toil."

Out of the corner of his gaze, he could see her trying to tether her emotions to the ground, but the flash of trouble was unmistakable. It seemed that he wasn't the only one putting up a front. 

Just as he thought she was going to ignore him completely, she shook her head. "I'm worried about the others." 

"Is this about the extremely depressing moment you guys had earlier?" The question escaped him.

Aria shot him a withering look before returning her attention to the road, but it was enough to confirm his suspicion.

A year ago, the five of them had been formidable, no doubt drowning in glory and praise, victory and pride. They'd been Morella's newest legends, the ones who managed to pry off the Shadow Court's icy, greedy grasp. They still were, at least that's what Aerin believed, but time had passed. It was as Aria had pointed out: they were tired and still hurting from grief. They'd gone different paths, too. They might've managed to find their rhythm with each other before, but things had changed, and it's not easy to recreate the same picture with new puzzle pieces. 

It wasn't anyone's fault but time's, but he could still see on her shoulder the impossible weight of responsibility. The world was hers to save again, and this time she also had her companions to stress over. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it would be the worry etched between her brows.

Though he supposed that she couldn't have changed much, given that she'd been captive the whole time. 

He chewed on his lip, this time threading his words delicately. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly happened when you were in the Shadow Realm? I mean, I know the gist, but Mal said that you'd mostly slept through it, and I seriously doubt that."

Aria swallowed hard. He wondered if they were thinking about the same thing– the barren, devastated land, the despair and hopelessness permeating the air. 

Somewhere off in the distance sat a lonely log. They took their time heading towards it and sat side by side, shoulders brushing against each other in the newfound proximity. This close, Aerin could properly observe the wavering flame burning in her eyes and the way it painted shadows across her countenance.

She was every bit as beautiful as the day they'd met, and he could never tell her that.

"Mal was right, I was out cold for the most part… but I still remember what happened," she started. "I remember the room they kept me in, the leather straps bound around my limbs. I remember regaining consciousness every once in a while and feeling devastated when I saw that I was still stuck in the same place… that no one had come to save me.

"Usually I would wake, and then Valax would come and take my blood until I passed out again. The cycle went on and on. I was no more than a helpless prey waiting to be slaughtered. There were times when I thought that I was going to die there, that one of those days I would slip into unconsciousness and that would be it. I was going to die in another realm, away from my friends and Kade."

Her posture slouched as she recounted the past, head bowed as if trying to fold into herself. There was a noticeable tremble in her hands, and Aerin would give anything to be the one to hold her close and tell her she was still alive and safe, except he didn't have the right. He hadn’t even known about her abduction until just a few days ago.

"Even worse was the nightmares. There were horrors when I was awake and horrors when I was asleep, and I was always alone in my dreams. Sometimes I would see Tyril and the others, but they'd be wrong. They were cruel and vicious, and it was either that they did terrible things to me, or that I'd have to do terrible things to them. Those dreams terrified me, and I was always drenched in sweat when I woke up.”

Nightmares were not new to Aerin, and if he had to be honest, the 'creaky cot' and 'undisturbed silence' never did help much. He hadn't had one good night's sleep since he'd been defeated, not when he knew that he was doomed to be a prisoner, a traitor, a monster for as long as he breathed, and probably long after he was dead too. 

And if he did manage to escape confinement, who's to say that he'd be safe from those affiliated with the Shadow Court and wanted his head on a spike? And now he was also against the Ash Empire, no less. The stakes had only gotten higher.

The point was, he knew how the mind could turn into your worst enemy. That was probably why sitting next to Aria and adventuring with her after all this time felt surreal to him– because she was always different in his dreams. Sometimes cold and unforgiving. Other times hurt and broken. But never as… genuine and honest as she was now, heart on her sleeves and all.

She suddenly laughed, trying futilely to dispel the gloom with a shake of her head. "I'm lucky I forgot everything that day; otherwise I wouldn't have been able to make my escape. But these memories have a way of returning. They’ve been surfacing from time to time, haunting my mind." 

Her shaky fingers were clenched around the cloth on her lap, and Aerin knew that any one of her companions could take her hand and have it mean more than a thousand words from him, but they were alone and he couldn’t bear seeing even more hurt color her features.

So he reached out and wrapped his arm around her, and when she rested her head on his shoulder, his heart shuddered.

“It’s like the whole world’s moved on but I’m still stuck here.” 

“I know what you mean.” He whispered, recalling all the times he’d sat by the barred window and strained his ears for the sounds of the outside world. “…I wish I’d known earlier what happened to you.”

She scoffed good-naturedly. “So what, you could escape from the luxurious prison and come save me?” 

"Sure, maybe I would've figured something out."

Aria said nothing to that, lost in thoughts. Then, with a start, she tore herself away and restored the distance between them, brows tight with a thousand unspoken thoughts. "Whatever. It's all in the past now." 

Aerin had a feeling she wasn't just referring to the kidnapping.

As silence draped around them, she let the strong, determined mask slip over her face again. The whole day both of them had been hiding behind false pretense.

"Wait," she craned her head, frowning. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

She raised a finger, prompting him to keep quiet, and he rolled his eyes.

A beat later, she stood up and grabbed the torch. "There's water nearby." She illuminated the foliage around them and began following the general direction in which the branches and scarce leaves were bent. Aerin scrambled to his feet and followed suit.

"Should we be wandering even further out?" he asked.

She merely shrugged. After a few minutes, it became apparent to him that she was no longer a stranger to the road she was taking. The twists and turns she took were concise. Something had clicked in her head. 

She'd been here before.

And so had he, as he soon discovered.

They'd managed to find their way back to that fateful lake. It was precisely as he remembered– glimmering with an abundance of magic, casting whimsical hues on its surroundings. The moon managed to reach down through the grotesquely crooked branches to shine down on the water, specking it with starry sparks. For once, the air smelled like something other than depression and death. There was sweetness in every breath he took, courtesy of the dreamlike flowers that bloomed along the shore.

"Just how I remember it." He bent down to rub a smooth, roundly shaped leaf between his fingers. "We did have some good time here, didn't we?"

Aria rolled her eyes so far back that she probably strained something, but he didn't miss how she crossed her arms stiffly, eyes darting around as if desperately looking for a distraction. "If by 'good time' you mean playing me like a fiddle, then yea. We sure did."

Hurt bled back into her face, and he angled his own away before it could crack his facade. He knew hiding behind snarks was never going to grant him the olive branch that he wordlessly longed for, but it was still tenfold easier than asking for the impossible– her forgiveness.

Yet still, what she said wasn't true, and he couldn't let that become her impression of how that night went down.

"I know how this sounds after everything I've done, but I wasn't trying to trick you that night." 

Her expression was evasive. Unreadable. "What were you trying to do then, if not to bribe my trust?" 

"Nothing," the response was immediate. "There was no ulterior motive, Aria. Everything I said was true, and everything I did, I did it out of my heart."

He wished that he'd been a better man. Maybe then he wouldn't be standing where they'd laid their souls bare, trying desperately to make her understand. What good would it do if she believed him anyway? A criminal and a villain, he was never destined to be anything more than a footnote in her story. He could never force his way back into her life, let alone attempt to heal her wounds when he'd been the one to wield the knife. 

But she was the only soul who ever truly saw him as he was, and she'd been the person he'd wanted to hurt least in his grand schemes, despite how little that meant now. He just couldn’t let his feelings go unspoken.

Finally, she lifted a tentative gaze to him. He could see the exact moment her armor shattered. The slightest bit of hope crept into her expression, and it quickly seeped beneath his ribs as well.

"I can't trust you when there's still so much I don't know, Aerin," she says quietly. "I've been trying to understand why you joined the Shadow Court. I had a hunch that your family played a part in your decision, but the picture's still hazy."

The memory of his family was an ache that he actively avoided. He still felt rage gnaw at him when he thought of all the ways they disregarded him, and he’d be lying to say that he regretted the way the Blade of Shadow protruded from his brother’s chest. He did what he had to do.

He drew in a deep breath. It'd never been easy to broach this topic, but if he'd managed to open up at this same lake with the same person a year ago, maybe he could do it again. 

"Fine. I'll tell you everything." He took a seat on the soft grass and patted the spot next to him. Shortly after, Aria followed suit, quietly encouraging him to go on.

So he did. More than two decades of neglect and belittlement came tumbling out, as well as the shadows that lurked in the corners of his dreams, beckoning him to the other realm, promising him all the power he needed to change the world.

"Most people were so preoccupied with getting on my brother's good side that they didn't realize what a bleak future awaited Morella if it was to fall into his hands, and for the few that weren't busy singing praises, they cared too much about their status to speak up. Anytime I appealed to the court, they shot me down like I was some babbling kid. Eventually, I reckoned that no one was going to take me seriously."

"I'm guessing that's where the Shadow Court came in?"

He nodded. "They promised me power, and my brother would've plunged Morella into a living hell. I thought…" He balled his hands into fists, staring narrowly out at the tranquil water. "I thought I could finally get everyone to see things my way."

"Even if it meant sacrificing the lives of innocents? Even at the cost of my friend?" Aria speared him with a look, and he averted his eyes. 

"...It was my only option, and I was willing to take it."

She turned away, seemingly mulling over his words. Now that the truth was out in the open, a weight had been undoubtedly lifted from his mind… but the bitter taste of guilt lingered. The sins had been committed. There was no undoing the harm he'd done, regardless of how noble the cause might've been.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "Have you ever had second thoughts?"

"I suppose I have," his mouth curled into a bittersweet smile. "The whole time we were walking along this lake, I was lamenting our ill-timed meeting, even more so when I welcomed you at the palace. I couldn't stop wondering how things could've changed if we'd met sooner…" He trailed off, realizing himself. With every thread of memory unspooled, the defense around his heart was crumbling piece by piece. "Though I suppose there's no use dwelling in the past, is there?"

"I supposed not, but we still have the future ahead of us. You can still do better. Make up for what you've done."

That stupid, innocent hope crawled back again, yawning in his chest, pushing away all the doubts that'd been plaguing his mind. "You really think so?"

He held his breath as she reached out and placed her hand atop his. Her skin was calloused from all the tireless fighting, but it was warm and familiar. It was only when his hand instinctively turned over to grab her fingers that he realized he'd underestimated just how much he missed her.

In return, she gave him a brief squeeze. It lasted only for a split second, but he felt as though it could ground him. "I know so." 

Tranquil as the night was, the space around them felt tight all of a sudden. There was a tingle in his hand that longed to graze her skin, a tightness in his throat that threatened to spill whatever softness he'd been burying inside him, and he knew that he should look away before his face said something he couldn't take back, but it was impossible to do so when violet and turquoise waves were rippling across her features, highlighting the longing the mirrored his own.

His heartbeat was going so fast, he was surprised it was still safely contained within him. My heart still beats for you, the confession died on his tongue. Did he even have the right to say something like that, after all this time?

At first he thought that he'd imagined her lilac eyes darting down to his lips, but then she leaned forward imperceptibly, boldly. Her other hand, trembling, came up to hold his cheek.

"Are you sure?" Was all that he could muster in that closeness.

"I'm sure." 

Her eyes drifted close, and she slanted her lips against his. 

It was sweet and cautious, but enough to light up every nerve in his body. Whatever resolve that'd been holding him back dispersed as her tongue swept across his lower lip, and he readily parted his mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He untangled their hands and moved to cup her neck, relishing the way her pulse quickened under his thumbs. 

The tension lining her torso melted away as he tipped her head back, letting whatever that was unutterable to him spill into her open mouth, desperately and eagerly, with the likeness of a man starved of oxygen. He'd spent the better part of the past year dreaming (and resisting to dream) of having her this near again, and it was even better than anything he could've imagined. She was here and real and smelled like home, even though he had never understood what the word meant. Her fingers were tangled in his curly hair, drawing from him noises of contentment with each tug, and he couldn't help but trace his hands over the contours of her body before coming to a rest on her lower back, praying silently that this moment would stretch out forever and ever.

The moment ended eventually, as all things did. Face flushed and out of breath, he pulled away and dared to glance at her.

There was the slightest hint of hesitation behind her glossy eyes, like she was replaying in her head what'd just happened. Suddenly, with her face a breath away from his, he had a feeling he was back in the Shadow Court's macabre throne room again, holding her at knifepoint, feigning indifference at her bruised and crestfallen look. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was right in believing that there was no way she– or anyone, for that matter, would give him a chance again, let alone forgiveness. 

A defeated sigh interrupted his racing train of thoughts. There was a wistful smile that Aria couldn't quite fight back as she knocked her forehead softly against his, letting their breaths swirl together. 

"I just can't seem to listen to reason when I'm around you," she murmured, gaze downcast. "But I do trust that you can walk a different path, Aerin. Not to mention…" her next words came out in a hurry. "I can't do all this… saving the world business without you."

He couldn't help but chuckle, his heart thumping like a gavel inside his chest. "Feels like the world’s always depending on you."

This time her smile went all the way, reaching every corner of her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "What can I say? I am a hero." She shrugged. "I guess what I'm trying to say is… I need you to stay with me. No matter what comes, we'll figure it out, I promise."

His heart squeezed at the confirmation; he wasn't as damned as he thought he was. She'd still have him, even as he was. The yearning in her eyes was a living thing, and after all this time, what was he to say except yes, yes, I will stay with you?

So he brought her knuckles up and pressed his lips to them, like hot wax making its mark, like a prayer, a promise. "I'm not going anywhere."

[yanderes-galore]

Could you do your prompts 4, 17, and 53 for TMNT 2012 Donatello?

Of course! @okchijt helped me with the plot as they have for a lot of the fics this run so I hope you enjoy this ^^ I do love writing delusional Donnie.

Yandere! 2012! Donatello Prompts 4, 17, 53

"My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it."

"You look so cute in those clothes! I think I picked well...."

"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?"

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Post kidnapping plot, Manipulation, Delusional behavior, Paranoia, Overprotective behavior, Trackers, Isolation, Forced affection, Forced relationship.

You struggle with the clothes left for you. Donnie had left you some items to wear "for your safety" and was awfully adamant on making you wear them. They looked like an outfit you'd normally wear... with some key differences.

Trackers lined the clothing, not just that but other tech was place in the clothing. Most of it you had no idea what it did but according to Donnie is was to keep you safe. When it came to his delusional mind... that could mean anything.

As a result the clothing became clunky and a bit uncomfortable to wear. It both looked decent yet too much. What didn't help was the entire time you struggled with the clothing to put it on, your phone was blowing up.

Anger boiled within you as you finally manage to pull the outfit on your body. The sizes were right but the overwhelming amount of tech made it rub against your skin in an irritating fashion. The last thing you could focus on was the overwhelming amount of calls and texts vibrating your phone.

With a frustrated groan towards your situation you stand up and move the phone across the room. You stare longingly at the locked bedroom door Donnie checked before he left, then entire thing decked out with security. This really did feel like a high tech prison cell.

You pace about the room in an attempt to ignore the ringing cell. Instead the noise irritates you more and you nearly want to break the device. Swallowing your anger, you bite the bullet and turn off the device to soothe your frustrated mind.

Donnie has a mission... a job to do away from you. The mutant shouldn't even be contacting you if he's with his brothers. You're going to ignore him...

You're going to take a nap... it's all you really can do.

In an attempt to take a break from it all you fling yourself into the dingy mattress. You sigh softly and ignore the feeling of clinging dread deep in your stomach. You'll deal with him later... you can't entertain him right now....

. . . .

*BANG*

You don't even recall falling asleep. It just felt like you hit the mattress for a second. Just as you were getting comfortable the door on the door is flung open once everything is disabled. You almost shoot out of your bed when you're meet with a heaving Donnie, eyes frantic and worried.

The moment Donnie's eyes meet your wide tired ones he lets a sigh of relief slip. You mentally place your frustration in a jar before placing a smile on your face. It appears he's in another one of his... frenzies.

"Donnie? What's wrong? I'm still right here!"

The wind is knocked out of you with how quickly Donnie pulls you to his chest. You clunk against his hard shell and feel his bone crushing grip. He nuzzles into you in his hug and mutters curses under his breath.

"I left you a few voice mails, why didn't you pick up?" Donnie's voice is still frantic as he pulls away, worried look on his face. Not wanting the turtle to find out you shut off the phone right now... you prepare a little white lie.

"I was busy! I spent so much time getting the new outfit you gave me on that I didn't have a chance. You really shouldn't call me on missions anyways...." You mumble, excusing your previous behavior with something you hoped was believable.

Donnie barely even ponders the last thing you said, quickly pulling away to get a better look at your outfit. You see the mutant's eyes light up excitedly as his eyes drift up and down the outfit. You sigh thankfully... he seems appeased.

"Oh, Chinchilla!" Donnie coos with a big smile on his face. You cringe internally at the affectionate nickname he calls you. "You look so cute in those clothes! I think I picked well...."

"Of course you did!" You encourage, hoping Donnie forgets all about the phone issue. It appears he has as he holds your face to shower you in praises.

"You've been so good for me lately! Always so obedient and loving... you make me SO happy!" Donnie praises, pulling you into another crushing hug. You would've tolerated such a thing until he peppers you in unwanted kisses.

There's no use in struggling against his affection. It keeps him compliant and you fear upsetting him will warrant more unneeded tech. For now... you'll make things work.

"My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it." Donnie whispers in your ear, barely hiding his toothy grin. Right after the mutant goes back to nuzzling your skin. Wanting to play into his delusions you wrap your arms around him. You mirror his smile even if you don't mean it and agree.

"Of course! I'm glad you think it looks good...." You agree. Donnie may be too delusional to know it but you don't mean any of what you say. You just know good things happen if you play along...

If you give him what he wants, he may start removing tech from you. Any amount of freedom he gives you is a chance to change things. You just need to play along.

The more you play your role... the more freedom you have...

More freedom... means a better chance at escaping your prison.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Wildefire AU: Out of Sight

cw: adult language, implied violence, implied starvation, bruises, the prison industrial complex lol

° ° °

Sarah swore she'd had a plan when she stepped through the doors to the prison, but it had all gone to shit pretty quickly. 

Hugo had helped her fabricate an identity as a journalist, fake ID and online credentials and everything, and posed as the director of a web-newspaper to get her an interview with a low-level criminal at the Fielding Detention Center.

She was really there for Uriah.

Alexei had been the one who'd found the CEO—former CEO—shut up in one of the dingy cells. He'd broken into Fielding to try and collect information from a different inmate, but happened upon Fox instead.

"He's… he's just in some cell?"

"Should count himself lucky he's not in the Tower. Bastard's got enough enemies."

"Maybe we can use him."

Lex's expression had become unreadable when she'd said that, but Sarah could hear the way his heart sped up, the slight hitch in his breath.

She didn't want to work with that asshole either, but their resources were few and far between when it came to anything that could stand against Corp, and someone who'd once held power—someone who'd been betrayed by the rest of the city's leaders—could be a huge asset. Even if that someone was Uriah Fox.

If she could just talk to him, maybe he'd give her something they could use. As unpleasant as the man was, everything Sarah had heard about him told her he was petty as hell. He'd probably jump at the chance to strike back.

To Alexei's credit, he didn't try and convince her otherwise when she told him her plan.

Sneak in, have a chat, get lost before anyone important knows I'm there.

"Do what you want. As long as I don't have to look at him, I don't care."

She'd agreed at the time, but now, selfish as it was, Sarah almost wished she'd asked Lex to come with her. If things went south, it would be nice to have someone whose powers were good in a fight.

"Zhang is Chinese."

"Good morning," she said brightly to the guard at receptions. "I'm Andrea Zhang, with Skyline Weekly?"

She'd complained to Hugo about that one.

"It's the only profile on here that even remotely matches you. No one's gonna know."

"What if the guy who lets me in is Chinese?"

"Yeah, right."

Yeah. Right. He was white. Maybe in his thirties, with close-cropped brown hair. He regarded her with a bored expression, flipping through some papers on the desk.

"Zhang… Zhang… ah, here." He nodded to the door behind him. "That way. I'll buzz you in."

That easy, huh? Sarah figured she'd at least have to have one of those through-the-glass phone calls like on TV, but here she was, going into the prison proper without so much as an escort.

Certainly simplified matters.

Lex had already given her a general direction to look for Fox. She walked past the reinforced doors leading to the common area, cafeteria, and yard, all connected by this one long hall to give the guards easier access. Sarah peeked through the doors' embedded windows as she went, scanning the scattered groups of prisoners for any sign of Uriah. 

She wasn't all that shocked when she didn't see him. If he was here, it was because the rest of the Corp bigwigs wanted to forget him. Out of sight, out of mind.

She pressed on down the winding corridor, past more doors leading to cell blocks and supply closets and… was that the fucking room with the chairs and the bulletproof glass and the phones? They did have one, but the lazy-ass guard would rather send a journalist in alone than do the work to keep a civilian safe.

She shouldn't have expected anything less from the prison system in this city. With that level of neglect shown to citizens, how badly were they treating the inmates? Sarah had to push aside her disgust.  She had a mission. Even beyond the task of meeting Uriah, she needed to take down Corp. Once the city was free from their grasp, she could worry about the state of the prisons.

The further she went, the emptier it seemed to get. She was passing single cells now. The one she peeked into was practically featureless. A grate in the floor probably served as the bathroom, but other than that, there wasn't even a mattress. And there were a ton of similar doors.

Fucking hell, did they put every prisoner in solitary? It was completely inhumane— nope. No. Later.

Sarah closed her eyes, sharpening her hearing. Listening for movement, for heartbeats, would be quicker than checking every single door.

Of course, she picked up the usual annoyances. The sharp buzz of the fluorescent lights above her, the roar of the AC unit, even the slight hum of electricity traveling the building's inner wires. But somewhere in the muddle of sound, she could hear it.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

A heartbeat. Just one, so that was either a really great sign or a really bad one. She kept her eyes closed, running a hand along the wall to keep from running into anything, and followed the sound.

It grew louder and louder, until she had to re-dull her hearing to avoid being deafened by it. This was it. Fox was on the other side of this door.

And shit, there was only a single, small window in the door, high enough that she'd have to stand on her toes to peer in. And while she'd be able to hear him, he probably couldn't hear her. Did that mean she'd need to open the door? What if he tried something? Surely the asshole was desperate enough to—

Her thoughts were cut short as her ears picked up a small gasp inside. No, not a gasp, a wince.

Well that was almost to be expected. Someone like Fox was bound to incite a lot of brawls with his smarmy, self-important attitude.

But when she stood on her toes to get a look inside, she sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth.

Lex had told her Uriah was here. She'd never thought to ask what state Uriah was in.

The blond man was curled up in the furthest corner of the tiny cell, thin arms wrapped around his bare chest, head tucked against his knees. A good chunk of his hair was matted with dried blood, and his skin was covered in purpling bruises. She couldn't see his face, but she could still pick out the bruises lining his jaw, color trickling in towards his mouth. Something inside her twinged, and Sarah decided she'd allow it. She didn't have to like Fox, but right now, it was pretty easy to pity him. Poor guy'd had the rug ripped out from under him, only to find a flight of stairs at his back.

She sharpened her hearing again, kneeling to get eye level with the doorknob. It was locked, as she'd expected, but good hearing was for more than just eavesdropping, and careful listening paired with a bobby pin made for quick work of the lock. She could hear Uriah's heart rate suddenly speed up as she turned the handle, and immediately softened her ears against it.

He lifted his head as she pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling it closed if only to escape notice. His eyes were wide—well, one eye was wide, the other was practically swollen shut—and his face was gaunt and bloodied.

Sarah let out a breath. "Uh. Hi."

"S-Spyglass?"

"Ah, so you do remember me." She crossed her arms, then remembered she wanted to get him to cooperate, not scare him, and uncrossed them. "It's nice to know you at least knew who I was when you sent an assassin after me."

Uriah raised a shaking arm, as if to shield his face. "Please— I'm sorry, I—I know sorry doesn't m-mean anything, but please, please don't hurt me—"

Shit, that had probably sounded vaguely threatening. "No, no. I'm… I'm not here for revenge or whatever." She sighed. "I… actually had a few questions for you."

"I'll tell you anything you want, I'll comply, please don't—"

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Sarah cut in. Had she sounded threatening again? Was it possible to not sound threatening to the poor guy right now? She tried again.

"I have some information I really need. I won't hurt you if you can't answer my questions, okay? They're just questions."

She waited for Fox to nod. He never took his eyes off her.

"First, do you know of any fail-safes in place for the Hero CEOs? Backup plans that let Corp get away scott-free if we do manage to pin something big on them?" Like how they used you as a scapegoat? She didn't say that part out loud. If that wound wasn't still fresh, it was constantly being re-opened in this environment.

Uriah nodded, but didn't actually say anything. She tried to keep her voice soft as she prompted,

"Like what?"

"I… I don't know, I… I can't remember. E-everything I had, everything good, was on my personal network."

"Network?" Sarah raised an eyebrow.

"Computer. A—a specific computer."

She sighed. "Which I don't imagine you currently have on you."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop." Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you know where this specific computer is?"

"Still at Titanium. In a—a vault."

"That I presume you know how to access?"

He nodded.

"Tell me." It would be a fucking doozy of a mission, but that computer could be a gold mine. Secrets, conspiracy, fail-safes… Corp's dirty laundry. If they could break in, maybe Hugo could hack the network.

"There's a code."

"Of course."

"A-and a fingerprint scanner."

"Of. Course." Fucking of course. Because there had to be something there special enough that Uriah Fox would just have to be brought along. It was entirely possible he was making that part up in a bid to get free. If Lex were here, he'd suggest just cutting off a finger, and she'd be hard-pressed to ignore the idea.

But despite her annoyance, despite knowing the truth of Uriah Fox, that he was a power-hungry, horrible man who was willing to send assassins after literal children to keep his reputation, she felt kind of queasy at the thought of hurting the trembling thing he'd become.

She… she needed time. She needed a new plan. The info about the computer was great, but she doubted Fox would be able to offer much more in this state. 

As she opened the door, peeking outside, Uriah piped up behind her.

"Where..?"

"I need to think. Thanks for the answers." She stepped out—

"Wait! Please… please, take me with you."

Her stomach sank, laden with equal parts dismay and pity. Yeah, his situation sucked, but the idea of keeping him around, of bringing him back to the team… no thank you. If the fingerprint bit was true, they'd find a way to synthesize it, and they shouldn't need Fox to get into the laptop.

"Sarah, please—"

"Using my name won't help." She did look back then, and wished she hadn't. Fox was on his hands and knees, looking up at her with teary, pleading eyes.

"You're a hero. Y-you save people."

Real heroes save everyone. Hadn't she told Lex that? Did it make her a hypocrite then, to want to turn her back on the person responsible for so much of her misery? Who'd killed her old team leader, who'd tortured one of her friends for a year?

Maybe it did. But it still felt justified.

"I was a hero," she said. "You made me a rogue."

She pulled the door closed behind her, dulling her hearing to lessen the sharpness of Uriah's pleas, and began to briskly walk back down the hallway.

With the uninspiring security, she probably could've walked right out the front doors without signing out, but Sarah stopped by the desk again anyway.

"Zhang," the guard mumbled. "Done so soon?"

"I got what I needed," Sarah offered, clutching the pen a little too long after signing her name in the visitor log. "I… heard a rumor while I was inside."

"A rumor?"

She set the pen down. "Yeah. Supposedly Uriah Fox is in here somewhere." What was she saying? Was she about to threaten the guard into treating Fox better?

"Is that what you heard?"

"It's what I heard. Though I didn't see any sign of him, so I don't know how true it is."

His eyes darted to the pen at her fingertips. "Off the record?"

Sarah nodded. "Off the record."

The guard leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, Fox is here, all right."

She feigned surprise. "Really? What did he do? I heard it was something about embezzlement?"

"Something like that," the guard agreed.

"Where is he?" Sarah ventured. "Like I said, I didn't see him."

"He's been in solitary for a while now," the guard replied.

A while. How long was a while? How long had it been since he'd been thrown out? Two months? Three?

"What did he do?"

"Existed." The guard chuckled. "They put a man like that---who's spent his entire life stepping on other people---in a cell block filled to the brim with men who've been screwed over by him and others like him. What'd you think would happen?" He thumbed through the stack of papers on his desk idly. "The first few weeks, it was all we could do to keep him alive. It's a miracle he's still kicking, honestly." He leaned in, conspiratorially. "Between you and me, there's at least two guards on staff who have beef with the guy, and I know they've been paying him visits."

Sarah grit her teeth, trying to make it sound casual when she replied, "And you aren't stopping them?"

"Why would I? It's Fox."

It's Fox.

That was her logic, too. Why would I? It's Fox.

Why would I?

Because real heroes save everyone. And whether Uriah likes it or not, I'm still a hero.

She forced a smile, rolling the pen back to the guard. "Well, have a great day," she said, not waiting for him to reply before turning on her heel and marching out the doors.

Whether she liked it or not, she'd be back. And Fox would be leaving with her.

She'd be back.

° ° °

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise , @whumpy-daydreams

and @whumpwillow @turn-the-tables-on-them this one's for you guys lol

[freesia-writes]

Chapter 4: Instigation

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance.

COVER ART BY @zaana!! And this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D

Master List of Chapters

Tech was inspecting the repairs.

He followed a few wires, brow furrowed as he calculated their paths with bright brown eyes behind his angular helmet. He traced them again, from the base of one plug to the port it entered. Lowering his visor, he considered the blueprint for this particular capacitor, noting the differences before him. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and raised a finger to his ear.

"Hunter?" "Go ahead," came the reply. "I cannot determine precisely how, but the capacitor is functioning at twice the usual limit. It is as if the wattage has been doubled, but all I can see are some crossed wires that, by my estimation, would overload it if ignited. And yet, it is running efficiently and showing no signs of deterioration. I am concerned that our new passenger may plan to sabotage us, but I do not yet see how." "Why don't you go find out?" Hunter responded. "We both know that is a job far more suited to you, as I lack the traditional social skills to navigate such a precarious retrieval of information," Tech responded, corners of his mouth frowning with unease.

"That wasn't a question, Tech."

The transmitter clicked off. Tech lifted his visor, took one last long look at the capacitor, and closed the panel. It seemed like a ridiculous waste of time to question the hostage, as she was surely unwilling to comply with any requests that weren't her own. But his curiosity was getting the best of him. The capacitor simply should not be functioning at that level. He turned toward the lift and the door slid open in front of him. He stepped inside, activating his recording system as the doors closed and the floor lurched downward. A moment later, the door whooshed back, revealing a less-than-hospitable cargo hold with a makeshift prison on one side. The lights were dingy, though thankfully not flickering. This was an area more suited for Wrecker's living quarters, piled high with dusty supplies and dirty crates. The prison had held a number of quarries over the years, and it had been modified and improved with each use. Tech ascertained the holding cell as he approached; it seemed intact and he had every reason to believe it was. And there was the prisoner. Vel, she had said. No last name, no other information. She sat on the bench, knees folded into her chest, arms across the top. Her head rested upon them, face downward, hair scattered across. Tech hesitated, unsure if this was a good time. He started to turn back toward the lift when he heard a dry voice. "What do you want?" she asked, not moving from her position. "I am sorry to interrupt," Tech began, "But I was looking--" "What is it you're interrupting? My pointless captivity? Being held against my will by you 'heroes'? I'm not exactly studying Zygerrian jewelry making in here."

"Ah, yes. Good point. I am unsure as to the future plans for your placement," Tech responded, uncomfortable yet unfazed, "But I would be remiss if I did not inquire further as to your repairs on the Marauder when I was... unavailable." "Yeah, you like that little trick?" she said, still unmoving. "I used to make a lot of money with that modification. Off the books, of course." "You have performed it on other vessels?" Tech asked, coming closer now, "How did you manage to adjust the wattage to avoid overheating, considering the specific limitations of different ships?" "I didn't cross all the wires, only certain ones. Positive charges cancel each other out, right? But increasing the overall function is possible by overriding the capacitor's internal regulator. They use the same model on a variety of ships, but instead of building them all different sizes, they just adjust the regulator. I don't know where you got yours, but it was set for a ship half this size." At this, Tech stiffened slightly, "We bartered for it in a Corellian shipyard, with a trader who knows his machinery inside and out. I personally ensured that it was compatible with our system." "Ah, Corellian. What a surprise. They would never lie for profit, would they?" Vel replied. "Well, I suppose anyone could theoretically lie for profit, but I cannot see the reason that this particular--" "Believe whatever you want, Tack. It's working better now, isn't it?" "Yes. It is. And it's 'Tech', for the record," he said, looking up the purchase order and merchant history on his datapad. He turned to leave, typing away, but paused for a moment and looked over his shoulder. Vel was still curled up, rocking her head back and forth ever so slightly, lifting one foot and then the other, in a pose that was somehow defeated yet indignant. "Would you like some additional sustenance?" Tech asked, bringing up the inventory on his screen. "It is my understanding that the rations can become tiresome to those who prefer variety." Finally, movement. Vel lifted her head from her arms, her dark and messily-textured hair shifting back around her face. She was incredibly plain, with virtually nothing to distinguish her from so many others of her kind. Clothed in a simple black tunic, grey leggings, and black boots, she could be dropped off at virtually any spaceport and blend right in. She tilted her head to the side, regarding the clone in front of her with a jaunty air. Tech waited for an answer, remaining silent as he observed her response. She pursed her lips, seemingly torn between the desire to be completely independent and the desire for anything but the dull ration bars that had been her diet since her capture. "What does it matter?" she asked, leaning back against the wall to unfold her legs in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, returning her head to the bowed position in her hands. "I've got nowhere to go and nothing to do. Might as well have nothing to eat."

"I fail to see the line of reason throughout those statements," Tech replied, adjusting his visor down over his goggles, "But I will accept your decision." With no further indication of interaction from Vel, he turned to the lift and stepped inside, watching her for a moment before the doors closed.

Tag List: @merkitty49 @vimse @arctrooper69 @dystopicjumpsuit @starrylothcat @ghostperson69 @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @dreamie411 (If you're on my regular tag list, let me know if you want to be tagged in this; I didn't want to spam ya!)

Click here to join or leave the tag list. <3

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: Faith and Freedom

Story Intro | Contents [Warnings] | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: blood, injury, illness, guy whump [all just leftover stuff from the last few chapters :) no new bad stuff]

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 3650 || Approx reading time: 15 mins

Faith and Freedom

Teaser: “Just give me a minute,” he said, grunting and coughing as he sat up. After a moment, he drew up his knees and rested his forehead there. “Feels like I’m dying.”

The world beyond the prison walls was cloaked in shadow, with thick cloud cover blocking out the stars, leaving only the yellow gas street lamps to illuminate a city that had mostly gone to sleep. Two frantic figures, a boy and a girl—a thief, a prisoner who had been set free, and his rescuer, who had spent four long year being Baden Hatchett’s wife and who no longer knew what she was—stumbled through the streets. He did not speak, nor did she; rather, they fled in silence, letting their ceaseless, hurried footfalls break the peace of the autumn midnight. It was not long, however, before the boy’s strength waned, his steps growing unsteady and his breathing more laboured.

The hand that was still clutched in the girl’s went slack.

And the thief fell.

Fear spread through her, so strong it sent numbness to her toes and fingertips, as the boy hit the ground. “No!” Dropping to her knees, shaking his shoulder as gently and urgently as she could, she breathed, “Please, please, no, no, no, wake up, wake up—”

He groaned, blinking open eyes that in the gloom appeared a much darker hue than the gold-and-green colour she knew them to be. “What?”

She almost collapsed to the cobblestone, too, but not with exhaustion; rather, it was with relief that she’d been able to rouse him. “You…you scared me.”

He glanced around, seeming to perceive that he was on the ground and woozy. With a soft groan, he took a deep breath and let his head fall back against the stone. “Fuck. Just…”

The girl swallowed. “I’m scared you’re…” She wanted to say, too weak to keep going, but how would he react to those words? If she’d ever said such a thing to Baden, he would have slapped her hard enough to leave a bruise for a week.

“Just give me a minute,” he said, grunting and coughing as he sat up. After a moment, he drew up his knees and rested his forehead there. “Feels like I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” He couldn’t be; she wouldn’t allow it, not after everything she’d gone through to get him out of that awful prison cell. She glanced around, wishing it weren’t so dark. It had been a blessing as they crept from the prison grounds, but now it served only to make the towering houses and unlit storefronts seem dingy and menacing. “We need to get somewhere safe. It’s only going to get colder, and you need to eat. And drink. And rest.”

“What?” he said, half-heartedly mocking. “Can’t I stay at your house?”

She clenched her jaw and refused to take the bait. It was too cold, and she was kneeling in a puddle, and the wind was picking up into a sinister sort of howl, and she was too frightened to chase down whether the teasing was good-natured or not. “I’ve got an inn room booked, but we need to make it there.”

The secret note for Alice, hidden in the returned copy of The Scarlet Letter—tucked into the last marked page and written in the tiniest hand she could form: As I am unwell and cannot make the arrangements myself, could you please visit the Whitemoor Inn and book a room for my cousin, Lucy Cooper, for one night? I’ve enclosed enough funds to cover her stay.

One night for a young woman named Lucy Cooper to fleetingly exist, and come morning, she would dissolve into the ether, gone forever—as would the girl and the boy who’d occupied her room.

“A room booked?” he repeated, holding his head now. “You—you actually got some kind of plan? Seriously?” His eyes were still hazy with pain, but he was alert, and his gaze had gone wide. “You got money?”

“Yes,” she said, “I do.” She’d had one chance, one, between Baden letting her out of her room and him taking her to the prison to beg for forgiveness—one fleeting blissful moment when no one’s eyes had been on her. She’d taken as much money as she could from the safe in his study, the one he thought she didn’t know about.

That wasn’t all, though. In her coat pocket, sewn into the lining, there hid as much jewelry as she’d dared to take from the box on her dresser—enough to pawn for extra funds, not so much that it would weigh down her clothes or jingle as she walked.

Finally, there was the second half of her entreaty to Alice: if her friend had come through for her and done as she asked, a parcel waited for “Lucy Cooper” at the inn, containing a necklace and a ring, all she could reasonably and surreptitiously fit into Alice’s book. They would fetch a good price somewhere. Of course, the girl had no way of knowing if Alice had acquiesced, but she’d picked that friend over the other for a reason. Marguerite would never have gotten involved, but Alice was sensible and kind, and she knew—she knew. So surely, surely, she’d made the arrangements.

As long as that was true, and as long as the innkeeper didn’t turn them away at the sight of her companion, they would have somewhere warm and safe to sleep for the night.

If only the thief didn’t look like he had just stumbled out of a street brawl.

“Do you think you can keep going?” Her voice slipped out high-pitched and breathy. Too many worries, too few answers to soothe them.

He fixed her with a look of pained, miserable resignation. “Gonna have to.”

She pressed a hand to his face again. Despite the chill of the night, it was still hot. “I’m scared...” She couldn’t finish her thought.

The thief groaned again as he got cautiously to his feet—not pulling away when she held his good arm to steady him—and said, “Scared? Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

For a moment, she didn’t even know what to say. Her eyes roamed from his blood-flecked shirt to his black-and-blue skin to the entirely useless arm in Mrs. Bristow’s apron-sling.

They landed on his lips, which were ever so slightly quirked upwards.

“Well, good,” she finally managed. “If—if we are set upon by an army of kittens, I’m very glad you’ll be here to defend me.”

He choked out a laugh, coughed, and took a few wary steps, letting her cling to his arm; he wobbled slightly, but he stayed upright. “Lead the way, princess.”

She was going to have to do something about the name problem.

As they moved through the winding streets, she stuck close to him, partially because she feared he would pass out again, but also because she had never wandered the city at night before, by herself or with anyone else, and the warm presence of his body—beaten and worn-out though it was—gave her a peculiar sense of security. She knew it was probably false.

Still, she clung to it anyway.

“What am I to call you?” she dared to ask after a while. Although she was, indeed, desperate for an answer, she also worried that if she remained too quiet, he’d slip back into unconsciousness. “Am I allowed to know now?”

“Don’t get all uppity about that,” he mumbled. “Can you blame me for being suspicious?”

No, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She merely pointed the way down a nearby street. Almost there. They had to be almost there. “That’s not an answer.”

It was a long while, it seemed, of something happening behind his eyes that she could not decipher, some tug-of-war between giving a real answer and not until he at last told her, “I don’t have a name.”

Another lie, of course; he had a name, but he didn’t trust her with it. What a surprise. Why should he? All she had done was give up her entire life and risk everything to break him out of prison. “Please.”

He bit his lip and again took a long time to answer. “I…I can’t.” His gaze flitted around, as if he expected someone to burst out of the dark and streak towards them. As if he feared they were being followed.

Why should her chest feel so tight? He came from a life of crime—of course he was perpetually suspicious. Surely, he had to be. It had been foolish to hope for he might give a straight answer. “Something. Anything.”

After a moment, after a third agonizingly long pause, he said, “Fox.”

“Fox?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

A phrase she’d heard the day Baden found her in his cell drifted back to mind. “Fox-thief…”

He stiffened. Yanked his hand from her grasp. “Don’t—don’t. Don’t call me that. Please.”

“All right,” she said, horrified. “I won’t.”

When silence fell again, she didn’t chase it away.

He stumbled once more, dropping to his knees but staying conscious, and when she pulled him up, her tears blurred her vision enough that it obscured the strain in his features and the violent shaking of his limbs.

Finally, when the inn loomed before them, she pointed at its dimly lit door. “This one.”

“This one,” he repeated. Voice weaker now, words slightly slurred. He was failing by the second, she realized, perhaps having depleted the frenetic, urgency-fuelled strength that had helped him run once Mrs. Bristow got them beyond the prison gate.

“Let me go in first,” she said. “I’ll settle up if I need to and come get you.” That, she supposed, was the best course of action. The innkeeper might not notice her bruises—but Fox? A superstitious person might take one glance and conclude that he had risen from the very pits of hell.

“Okay,” he said, bracing his good arm against the wall, and she turned on her heel and hurried inside.

The woman who presumably ran the inn was dozing, and no wonder; it was the middle of the night. Her eyes snapped open, however, at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“My name is Lucy Cooper,” said the girl whose name was not Lucy Cooper. “One Mrs. Wright made arrangements for my room a few days ago, I believe?” Too late, she remembered she was wearing trousers. “I—um—please excuse my appearance. I’ve been...um...I’ve been travelling.”

The woman peered down at a piece of paper in front of her, appearing merely drowsy and rather bored. “Just one night?”

Relieved that the woman either hadn’t noticed or did not care what she was wearing, the girl said firmly, “Yes. Only one.” Once Baden learned that she was missing, he would search for her, and at some point, he would speak to Alice, and Alice, not knowing what else to do, would lead him here.

He would find neither Breanna Hatchett nor Lucy Cooper in this inn.

Instead, the boy called Fox and the girl who was called—well, who was called something—would be long gone.

“You’re already settled up for the room.” The woman tapped a list of meals and their fees and turned it towards the girl. “You want to pay for food, too?”

“Yes. I would.” The answer rushed out. “Whatever you have now, if you please, and some breakfast, too, before we depart.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and glanced toward the grandfather clock behind her, which displayed an hour not typically associated with taking a meal. “Now?”

“Yes,” repeated the girl firmly.

The woman frowned. “We might have some broth still,” she said. “It won’t be hot anymore.”

“That’s all right.” She paused. One more inquiry before she paid. “Did Mrs. Wright leave a parcel for me, by any chance?”

With a sigh, the woman turned away to rummage somewhere behind her. After a few moments, she returned with a wrapped box, slightly crumpled but intact. “There you are, Miss Cooper.”

“Thank you.” The girl took it gratefully, promising silently that she would one day find a way to repay Alice for her kindness.

As the innkeeper took the money and filled out the rest of the paperwork, the girl tried to steady her breath, bracing herself against the new fears that rushed in. Never mind the fact that she was renting a room for herself and a strange, half-clothed, terribly battered man who bore only a false name and who was not her husband. Now she had to contend with bringing him inside without drawing attention. What if the woman took one look at his bloody skin and the tattoo on his arm, and threw them out?

“All finished up, Miss Cooper.” The woman handed her a key. It lay cold and heavy in her palm.

At first, she couldn’t find the man in question at all. It took a few moments to realize he had sat down on the ground, back against the wall, slumped and half-conscious.

“Fox,” she whispered, tapping his uninjured shoulder, eliciting a moan. “Wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered open. “Hmm?”

“We can go in now.” He groaned, and she tried again to rouse him. “Do you want to sleep out here in the cold?”

“Not really,” he mumbled, letting her help him to his feet. “I’m so fucking tired. Everything…everything hurts.”

“I know,” she said, her heart cracking open in her chest. “We’ve got our room. Let’s find it.”

In the narrow, lamplit corridor where she located their room, he leaned against the wall, waiting for her to finish struggling with the key in the lock. With his head resting on his good arm, as he breathed heavily from the climb up the stairs, he watched her, or seemed to, although his eyes kept drifting closed.

“Bed. Now,” she said, pointing toward it when they made it inside. His exhausted gaze swept the room, obviously counting.

“Just one. It’s for you,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be absurd.” She pulled him toward the lumpy-looking mattress with its yellowed sheets and woollen quilt. “You’re hurt and sick. Lie down.”

“You gonna sleep on…what? The floor?”

He really thought she would be able to sleep? After everything? “Never mind about me. Get yourself in that bed, now, before I throw you into it.” She resisted the urge to clap a hand to her mouth and backtrack as she realized she had practically shouted at him. “Uh—” Fox was staring at her with a wide-eyed expression she could not read. “I mean…please.”

He laughed. It was weak and riddled with coughs, but it was genuine, and relief swept over her like a warm wind, because…

Because if she’d ever ordered Baden around like that…and threatened him like that…no matter how empty the threat was…

“There should be a meal waiting downstairs,” she said. “I’ll go get it. You can rest, but you must at least drink. If you fall asleep, I’m going to wake you.”

Fox sat heavily on the bed. “You’re the boss, princess.”

By the door, she paused. Princess. The name was silly, and she got the feeling he wasn’t using it to be cruel, but her thoughts on the matter of her name had been boiling over since she gave the innkeeper her false one. The girl closed her eyes, imagining who she would have to be once the light of dawn broke. Someone courageous and clever, someone who faced her fears instead of burying them or running scared. Someone who was bold enough to grasp the life she wanted with both hands.

Hopes and memories flashed in her mind, bringing with them disembodied faces and disjointed pictures—flames, ink, books, blood, and a heavy sunrise filled with promise.

She let her eyes fly open, the answer to the question Who am I? coming to her in a sudden burst.

“You can keep calling me Bree,” she told him, and he raised his eyebrows. “I decided I like it after all. So that’s—that’s my name now. Bree. Bree Scarlett.”

Fox nodded slowly, his eyes on hers, repeating the name to himself, at first under his breath, then a touch louder, as strong as his weak and tattered voice would go. “Bree Scarlett. I…I like it, too.”

Cheeks suddenly blazing hot enough to be unintentionally—and newly—eponymous, Bree Scarlett hurried away, closing the door behind her. As she bounded down the stairs, tempted to take them two at a time like a giddy schoolgirl, she repeated her name to herself, and she found that the very taste of it on her tongue filled her soul with glee.

***

Defying her own prediction, Bree did fall asleep, the siren’s song of slumber suddenly irresistible the moment she let herself rest, and she awoke curled against the wall, which was where she settled after determining that the room’s wooden chair was even less comfortable than the floor. She startled awake with a gasp, trapped for a moment in the dizzying space between the waking and sleeping worlds, wondering where on earth she was and how she had gotten there.

She took one look around, and reality came crashing down: she had run away from her husband, set his prison on fire, and sprung a thief from jail.

Bree waited for the panic to set in, for the bone-breaking terror that, at any moment, Baden would burst through the door and tear her to shreds for her betrayal and her crimes.

It did not come.

Instead, she felt strangely calm, detached from the chaos she had wrought in her pursuit of freedom. Her eyes wandered over the room, with its wood-panelled walls, slightly uneven floors, and inarguably paltry sleeping spaces, trailing her gaze over the door and the window that by some miracle remained silent and unassailed by constables pounding and breaking through. It was a veritable marvel, how unafraid she felt.

As she looked around, her inspection paused upon the boy who called himself Fox.

He was still asleep, lying on his side, looking for all the world serene despite the blood still crusting his skin. Her throat tightened, horror creeping through the short-lived peace she’d just been enjoying as she took in the sorry sight of him again.

How many of those wicked bruises had been dealt by Baden himself?

She forced away the thought. There was little she could do right now about the guilt that stole through her and would not retreat; however, she had a new problem to contend with that she could solve. Fox had fallen asleep so quickly after she brought him water and the inn’s lukewarm broth that he hadn’t even gone under the wool quilt, and now he shivered in the chill of the night air.

Bree searched for something to keep him warm. Ah—there—her jacket, abandoned in a crumpled heap near the door.

How furious, she thought, her fatigue doubling as her husband invaded her thoughts again, Baden would be if he could see how carelessly and messily she’d flung aside her clothes. And how furious he would be if he knew how much she wished she could simply escape the thought of him for even a few minutes.

How furious he would be to see her pausing at the bedside of his foe, gently laying her own clothing over his body and tucking in the sides to keep him warm.

For a moment, it seemed as if her mission to blanket Fox’s shivering form without waking him had been a success, but as she turned away, his fingers curled around her wrist, the unexpected touch sending a jolt through every limb.

“Why?” His voice was rough, thick with sleep and whatever sickness ailed him. But the word was intelligible.

“You’re cold,” she said. “I could see you shivering.”

“No.” When she turned slowly back to him, his eyes were open. Bleary, yes, but he knew her. And he remembered what she had done for him. “Why. Are you. Doing this. Hel… Helping me?”

Good god, what was she supposed to say to that? What explanation was there?

“Because,” she said, failing to banish from her mind the image of him chained and on his knees, horrified at the sight of her for fear that it would bring him more agonizing pain, “you didn’t deserve what he did to you.”

He watched her, still shivering. “I…am. You know.”

“You are, what?”

“A criminal. A thief. In. In…IA.”

The cough that had been so quiet while he slept returned. Bree bit her lip, wondering what to say to quell his anxieties and allow him to rest. “Sleep more,” she said, deciding to ignore what he had mumbled—what he’d told her like she didn’t already know. “I’ll be here.”

“Bree.” He winced, overtaken by some phantom pain whose source she could not discern. “Bree. Don’t…”

He didn’t finish, and for a moment she thought he had fallen asleep mid-sentence. But his eyes were still on her when she looked back down. “I won’t leave.”

“No.” He closed his eyes. “Don’t fuck me over. Please.”

Even now, he feared she would betray him. Bree blinked back tears.

“You won’t, right?”

“I promise I won’t,” she whispered. Gently, she tried to pull her arm away, yet his fingers didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. So quiet, so indistinct, it was difficult to make out. “For saving me.”

Unable to bring herself to speak, and uncertainly unable to give the reply that came to mind, Bree swiped at her face with her free hand, her treacherous tears spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back.

She did not move until his fingers loosened and fell away—until the boy called Fox was asleep once more, perfectly still save for the rise and fall of his bruised, battered chest.

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@starlit-hopes-and-dreams

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[blooming-violets]

Creature Like Me || Chapter Two: Not Friends

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

Chapter Two Warnings: physical, mental, and emotional scars from being tortured, eluding to male sexual slavery (non consensual), miscommunication resulting in attempted brief, unwanted touch 

[link to chapter index]

“My name is Aylin. I am a hunter but not to you. You no longer belong to these sadistic people. Now, you belong to me.” 

Something shifted behind his defeated eyes. A subservient, placid look replaced his broken expression. He gave a silent nod. 

She took a deep breath, centering her floating, terrified thoughts back inside the safety of her brain. She could do this. She could handle the next few hours. Her mind was made up. She was going to steal Peter from his pack of captors. This was her idiotic plan. 

If all else failed, plan B would involve putting a bullet in the back of his head. There were always other options. 

“Okay,” she nodded back. “Let’s go.” 

Aylin strode over to one of the covered windows and grabbed down the dingy blanket being used as a makeshift curtain. She tossed it over to the nude, cowering man. 

“Use that to cover yourself until I find you some clothes. I don’t need you running around naked. You’ll draw unwanted attention if we come across anyone.” 

He immediately obeyed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and hugging it close to hide himself from view, “Where are we going?” 

She paused on her way to the door. She didn’t actually know. She wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Her plan was haphazardly thrown together. If she thought about it for too long, the bullet option would start to seem more appealing. 

“Somewhere safe,” she spun around to face him. He hadn’t moved from his prison cell between the bunk beds. “Here are the rules that I expect you to follow. I will keep you safe as long as you do what I say, when I say. From the looks of you, I think you need protection. You’re not going to get very far in your state. Don’t lag behind or else I’ll be forced to chain you to me. I doubt you want to be in chains again. The final rule, the biggest of them all, absolutely no turning into a wolf. If I even catch a hint of you shifting, I won’t hesitate to put you down. Right now, I am your protector. Not your enemy. Unless you start to shift. Got it?” 

Peter nodded, heavy lids giving a slow, squinting blink in her direction, “I couldn’t turn even if I wanted to. Can we get going? I can’t stand for very long. I feel…dizzy…” 

Aylin watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his legs gave out. 

“Shit,” she hissed, flinching at the sound of his body hitting the wooden floors. “God damn it.” She hurried over to his side and knelt over him, gently tapping his cheek, “Hey! Wake up! We don't have time for this.” 

He gave a quiet groan, eyes fluttering open. He was weak but alive. 

“Good,” she breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure why she felt relieved. His death would make everything easier and set her back on the right course. “There you are. Try not to die on me, ya? I need you around for a little bit longer. Let’s get you to my car. You can rest in the back seat. Can you stand?” 

Peter responded with nothing but labored, shallow breathing. His sad eyes stared up at her, trying to study her face through his blurry vision. 

“Peter?” She whispered, repeating her question. “Can you stand?” 

The corner of his chapped lips tugged into the smallest of smiles at the sound of his name, one he hadn’t heard spoken to him in a long time. His hoarse voice hardly stood out above the pounding rain, “Why won’t you kill me?” 

Aylin’s eyes flicked to the open door then back to her hostage. It was only the two of them here. Despite being in such a close proximity to a werewolf, she felt at ease. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not until he got his strength back, at least. For now, he was weak and malleable. 

“I already killed someone today,” she answered honestly. “I did what I was supposed to do. I don’t see the point in ending you when you could be useful.” 

“And after I’m done being useful? What then? Will you finish the job you started?” He kept the tiny smile hidden under his scruffy beard but she saw it peaking through. 

She licked her lips and nodded, “Most likely, yes.” There was no point in lying. When she was done squeezing him dry of all the information he held, she would kill him. That was her duty to her guild. That was her one purpose in this world, to kill werewolves. 

His smile grew, “Good. I’ll hold you to it.” Peter struggled back onto his feet, rewrapping his blanket around him, and stumbled to the open door. “Let’s get this over with then.” 

Aylin followed quietly behind, a hand hovering over her gun, and keeping a careful eye on the back of his head should he try to run. 

He gripped tightly onto the railing, nearly sliding down the length of the wet, rotting stairs, and staggered barefoot into the dirt path. He paused to take in his surroundings, flinching at each rain drop that hit his face. She watched in soft curiosity as he tilted his head back, the falling water washing over his dirt streaked face, and filled his lungs with the soggy, forest air. It was probably the first time he had tasted fresh air since he was locked up. A desperate, unhinged laugh fell from his lips. The sound circled around her like a warm hug. She couldn’t tell if those were tears or raindrops rolling down his gaunt cheeks. A look of heavenly bliss settled over his sickly features. A ghost of a smile flashed across her own face at the sight of the freed man before she quickly wiped it away. This was not a time for celebrations. 

He was not her friend. 

He was simply going from one place of captivity to another. 

“Follow this path to the left. It will bring us back to the main clearing,” she ordered him.

She thought it would be best to keep him in front of her instead of behind. Sergei’s guild rules rang in her head. They had been branded into her brain since she was a child. Never turn your back to a wolf. Never trust a wolf. Never listen to a wolf. Never befriend a wolf. Wolves are not to ever be trusted. They will lie and manipulate whoever they can to get what they want. Sneaky, vile, horrible creatures who need to be wiped out. Werewolf genocide was the only option. The only true way to have peace. 

Peter opened his blanket, holding it out against his back, so he could feel the cold rain on his skin. His eyes were closed, head still tilted back, and a soft smile on his face. He shuffled off in the direction she said, quietly laughing to himself, or sobbing, she wasn’t sure. It was hard to think that he could possibly be manipulating her right this very second. All she saw was the genuine excitement of a captive man allowed to walk free. 

Or, as free as her leash would allow. 

He hesitated in his hike when he came across the slaughtered body of his own kind still laying where she fell. His head cocked to the side as he studied the dead wolf. 

“You did this?” He asked, glancing behind him, sizing her up. He looked mildly impressed. “Tiny, little you?” 

“No, she was struck down by a vengeful god,” the sarcasm and annoyance dripped from every word. She would hardly consider herself tiny or little. Her body was thick, muscular, and strong. A warrior’s body. Maybe she was a hair shorter than average but certainly not tiny. She hated being referred to as such. “Keep moving, asshole.” 

He held up his hands in defense, “Alright, jeeze, I’m goin’. I just wanted to see exactly who I’m working for. Does that make you a vengeful god then? Is that how you see yourself?”

Aylin ignored the mocking tone of his question, not wanting to engage with him any more than necessary. The sight of Sierra made her pull her crossbow back off her shoulder. It was a warry sight. The rain had washed away most of the blood. Her long snout hung open, ivory fangs as thick as her two fingers poked out from under her lips. Her dark fur had been soaked through by the rain and a muddy puddle was forming around her body. It reminded her exactly what she was dealing with. Peter was no man. It didn’t matter how weak he was. He was still a monster. She paused to load another arrow into her crossbow, aiming it at Peter’s back. 

He turned when he heard the arrow lock into place, raising his brow, “Have I finished my usefulness to you already? That was faster than I anticipated.” 

Aylin refrained from rolling her eyes, keeping her face hardened, “Better safe than sorry, wolf. Keep walking, I didn’t tell you to stop.” 

His shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh and turned back. As he shuffled onward, he spoke, more to himself than to her, “I liked Sierra, you know. She didn’t ask for any of this. She was nice. A bit full of herself but she had a decent heart.” 

Her heart. 

“Shit,” Aylin mumbled under her breath. She was supposed to cut out the wolf’s heart and bring it home with her. It was part of the ritual. There wasn’t any time. That would involve gutting an animal, breaking through her rib cage, and digging around in her goopy slush until she found what she was looking for. She couldn’t have her back turned to Peter for that long. He would take advantage of that situation without hesitation. It was in his nature to strike when her defenses were down. 

She should just kill him. 

If she came back heartless, Sergei would consider this hunt a failure, even if she claimed she slain her beast. He would need the physical proof. She had never failed at anything in her life. What would her guild think of her then? She was meant to be one of the best young hunters. They were counting on her. The thought of them looking at her with disappointment filled her with dread. 

Her chest felt tight. 

Sergei wanted a protégé. He wanted someone to mold into a future version of himself. He wanted it to be her but what did she want? She had no idea anymore. This was the only life she knew. She was afraid of failing him, afraid of failing herself. 

Lost in her growing anxiety, Aylin stumbled face first into the hard back of Peter as he stopped short, “What the f-”

He whipped around and held a heavy hand against her mouth, silencing her with a harsh, “Shh.” His eyes sparked to life. It was the most alert she had seen him. “We’re not alone.” 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as his words sunk in. She took a step back, becoming more attentive to her surroundings, and raised her bow, eyes scanning the dark treeline. Every crunch of a twig or rustle of a bush drew her sights. 

“How far away is your car?” He whispered. 

“It’s-” What if this was a trick? What if he was manipulating her? This could be his plan for an escape. She didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anything. She couldn’t sense the same danger he claimed to feel. 

“Hey,” he hissed, pulling her attention back to him. “They are coming. They know something is wrong. They are about a mile out and can cover that ground in roughly two minutes. We need to move.” 

Tricks or not, he was right. The longer they hung around the camp, the more at risk they were. Once Sierra’s pack found out she was dead and their captive was gone, they would be ready for a fight. She couldn’t take on an entire pack by herself. It would mean a certain death. 

“Keep going straight ahead,” she ordered, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “Hurry.” 

Peter broke out into a sprint. She easily stayed directly on his heels as they ran towards the clearing. From far off in the distance, a high pitched howl shot up into the sky. It was followed by an echoed symphony of similar howls. 

He hadn’t been lying. The pack was on their way. 

Aylin picked up the pace as they barreled out into the open. 

“Up that hill to the left!” She shouted to him. “My car is on the other side!” 

Peter made a sharp turn and darted towards the hill. He made it about halfway up before the mud gave out under his feet. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and clutching at his chest. She scrambled up beside him, ready to leave him behind to get ripped apart if it came down to it. 

“Get up,” she pushed him. “Keep moving.”

His face was turning a sickly shade of green. His eyes rolled in their sockets. He was barely able to keep standing. The run was too much for him. She wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. 

The barrage of angry snarls were growing nearer. They had reached the Whispering Pines. They had seen the aftermath of her visit and they were out for blood. The hunt was on. This time, she was the prey. 

“Peter, get up!” She cried. 

Aylin slung her crossbow back onto her shoulder, giving up easy access to her weapon for the sake of helping him, choosing to risk her life for his. She grabbed onto his arm and yanked him back to his feet. The blanket fell from his grasp, getting caught in a gust of wind, and blowing back down the hill. She didn’t care. They had to keep going. If he didn’t get up, she was going to leave him. 

He did his best to stumble beside her, an arm wrapped around her shoulders as a crutch to stay upright. Just as they crested over the hill, the pack of wolves burst into the clearing. She refused to stop and assess exactly how many were on their tail. Her car was straight ahead. She’d never loved the sight of her beat up, dent covered, 87’ Toyota Corolla more than when she was running for her life towards it. It became a beacon of safety. An escape. Her only way out. 

She could hear the wolves ascending up the hill. They were faster than her. She wouldn’t make it without diverting their attention. Aylin shoved Peter forward, turning around, and grabbing the gun from her hip. Now was the time for power, not stealth. 

“Get in the back seat! Door’s unlocked!” 

She planted her feet firmly against the ground, gun raised steadily with both arms, ready to shoot the first furry monster she saw. The large head of a wolf appeared over the top of the steep hill, sleek white fur and glowing amber eyes, was exactly where she aimed. The gun went off without hesitation, the bullet piercing right between those golden orbs. A flurry of yelps from its friends followed as the blood splattered wolf went limp and rolled back down the hill. It was enough of a distraction for her to have time to finish the run to the car. 

She leaped over the hood, seeing Peter already in the backseat, and ripped open her front door. She thanked her own blessed hindsight for leaving the doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition for an easy exit. 

The car rumbled to life and she slammed on the gas, sending them jerking forward. In the rearview mirror, she watched as an enormous black wolf stood hunched over in the middle of the darkened, rainy road. The beast's eyes seemed to glare directly back at her reflection. It didn’t follow, only watched, heavy smokey breaths puffing out its salvia coated jaws. A chill settled over her at the unnerving sight and she focused her attention back on the road. She had a sinking feeling this wouldn’t be the last she saw of that wolf. 

Aylin let out a long, low exhale. Her hands were shaking as they gripped the wheel. Tears clouded her vision. She came too close to death for her liking today. She would have never been able to take out an entire pack on her own. They would have shredded her into pieces. 

“You don’t have to worry. They’re not following,” Peter’s voice cut through her rising panic. He spoke as if he could sense her fear. “They’re choosing to stay with Lorina. You killed her, if you’re wondering.” 

She wasn’t. She didn’t care what happened after she shot. 

She took another shuddered breath, trying to expel her anxiety, “You know all their names? Even when they’re in wolf form?” 

Peter nodded, she watched him through the mirror as he slouched against her seats, “Yeah. I know everything about them. That’s why you took me, remember? For information?”

“Right…right…information. ” She steadied her breathing. After a few moments of quiet, she decided to ask her first question. “Who’s Kateri?” 

When Peter failed to answer, she glanced back in the mirror. His head was lulled to the side of his shoulder, his body curled up against the door, and his eyes closed. Through parted lips he gave soft, wheezy breaths. He had either fallen asleep or passed out.

Aylin set her sights on the road in front of her, wondering how the hell she ended up with a naked, unconscious werewolf in her back seat. A quiet chuckle slipped out of her at the thought. She’d gone insane. She’d lost her mind. Sergei would be appalled if he ever saw her like this. She’d have to keep Peter away from the guild. They wouldn’t care for her hostage idea. They’d kill him without hesitation before she could even explain her plan. Or worse. If she wanted to give the guild the upper hand of eliminating an entire pack, she would need to keep Peter safe from both the werewolves and the Silver Colts. He was her secret. 

Once she found out everything he knew, she would put an arrow through his eye, and everything would go back to normal.

“Earth to Peter. Wake up. We’re here.” 

He snapped to attention with a loud snort, wild eyes darting around the confines of the car, and a panicked look settling on his face. 

“I wasn’t sleeping. ‘M sorry. I was listening,” he mumbled, apprehension evident in his tone. 

Aylin frowned. She turned around in her seat to look back at him. He had been out cold for the entirety of their two hour drive. 

“You’re alright,” she offered, a hollow, vain attempt at comforting his uneasiness. “You’re not with those people anymore, remember? You’re allowed to sleep if you need it. We’re at our first stop.” 

She nodded over her shoulder out the front window to the motel they were parked in front of. It was the safest place for them tonight. No one would know them here. 

“I already went in and got us a room. It’s the one right in front of us.” Aylin dangled the key from her fingers and tossed it back to him. His arm shot up to snatch it out of the air. He hadn’t even been looking in her direction when he caught it. Even half asleep and groggy, his reflexes were still remarkable. “I think you should go in first and take a shower. You need it. It’s about two in the morning so I doubt anyone will notice you walking naked a few steps from the car to the door. Just be quick.” 

Peter nodded. His hand hovered over the door handle, staring expectantly at her, like he was waiting for verbal permission to leave her sight. 

“Go!” She urged him. “I’ll follow you in a second.” 

He did as he was told and jumped out the door. Aylin watched as he ran through the rain towards their room. He struggled with the key for only a moment before the door opened up and he disappeared inside. She was doing her best not to stare for too long at his naked form. Even a monster deserved some dignity and privacy to his own body. 

When the door closed in front of her, she slumped back against her seat with a sigh. She was tired from the drive. The adrenaline from being chased had worn off. Her body was starting to ache. It was begging for sleep. Her early morning conversation in the woods with Sergei already felt like a lifetime ago. She wanted to curl up in her own bed, in her own home, and forget this entire situation she had put herself in.

Instead, she forced herself up, and ducked out into the rain. Puddles formed over the badly paved and cracking parking lot. The flickering, red neon lights standing tall above the rundown building reflected the word “MOTEL” off the watery ground. This was the first safe place she thought to stop. The silence of the drive gave her enough time to better form her plans. She knew where she was going to bring Peter tomorrow. There would be no working shower there so this provided the opportunity to actually get himself clean. They could rest for the night, get themselves sorted out, and then be on their way in the morning. 

Aylin jogged over to the trunk of her car, head ducked down from the chill of the rain, and lifted the latch. She had packed some much needed items when she prepared for her hunt. Her homemade first aid kit sat in a large, clear storage box. Next to it was a small bag of extra clothes and some overnight items. Her mother warned her that she might be bloody or hurt by the time she finished the hunt so she needed to be fully prepared. Grabbing both the box and the bag, she tucked them under her arms, and slammed the trunk closed.  

The motel was nothing to be amazed by. It hardly cost her anything for one night which was good because money was the one thing she hadn’t thought to bring. The room’s cheapness was reflected in the décor. A faded red, shag carpet covered the floors. The shag had lost its fluffiness decades prior and now gave off a scummy, unwashed appearance. A single overhead bulb was all that currently lit up the small room. It cast greenish yellow shadows over the peeling wallpaper. Aylin crossed the space to switch on a table lamp perched on the scuffed side dresser next to the bed. She opted for a single bed room as it was the cheapest option. She didn’t plan on sleeping much anyway. Peter could rest while she sat at the round table tucked into the corner of the room and worked on finalizing her plans. 

The sound of the shower turning on drew her attention to the closed bathroom. She hoped Peter could find a little bit of respite under the warm water. She might be a hunter but it was merely a means to an end. She didn’t think the wolves needed to be tortured before their demise. Some of her guild thought differently. A lot of them had loved ones who had been a victim of a werewolf attack. Whether that was the reason that drew them to join the Silver Colts or a result of their joining, some hunters really wanted the wolves to suffer for their existence, believing that death was too easy. 

Peter looked like he had suffered enough for one lifetime. 

As long as he cooperated with her questioning, she would make his inevitable death as painless as possible. 

Aylin dropped the first aid kit onto the end of the bed and unzipped her bag of clothes. She pulled out a pair of dark gray, fleece jogger pants. They were her favorite lounge bottoms and the thought of having to share them with Peter annoyed her, but he needed something to wear, and this was his only option. The extra top she packed was a simple, white camisole which she doubted Peter would fit into or want to wear. The joggers would have to be enough. 

She laid them out on the bed for him and plopped into a stiff, floral patterned armchair by the table. There were questions she should be thinking of to ask him and half baked plans to finalize but all she could do was lay her head on the cold surface and close her eyes. She hadn’t even removed her jacket yet. Her pants were soaked through from the rain, her hair had fallen out from her ponytail and hung in wet strands over her cheeks, her socked feet sloshed around inside her boots. A hot shower sounded amazing but she’d rather give her spare clothes to Peter. She wouldn’t want to shower then have to get back into these dirty, wet ones. She could wait until tomorrow when she finally got back home. She let herself rest, dozing off, until the sound of the bathroom door opening jerked her up onto her feet. 

Peter sheepishly emerged from the other side, a cloud of steam following him out the door. He wore a white towel around his waist and ran a pruny hand through his long, shaggy locks. When he shook his head, water droplets flung off the ends and haloed around him. He reminded her of a dog after a bath. 

“Who knew there was an actual person under all that grime?” She forced a smile and walked over to him, tossing the pants into his hands. “Those are for you. They’re mine so they might be a little short on your legs but it’s better than a towel. I’ll find you something nicer to wear when we reach our final stop.” 

He blinked a few times, gazing down at the pants like he’d forgotten what clothes felt like. 

His sights focused back onto her, “These are yours?”

She struggled to read his expression and gave a silent nod.

“You’re giving them to me?” He looked lost inside of his own mind. Confused. Nervous. 

“Yes? Is that okay?” She was starting to feel as confused as he looked. They were just some old sweatpants. The way he cradled them in his hands made them seem like they were prized jewels. 

Then, that same placid, subservient look she saw cross his face back in the cabin settled behind his dulling eyes. It was like she was watching what little light he had left drift away into the dark. He carefully placed the pants back onto the bed, his shoulders sagging, and his head bowing. 

“Okay,” he whispered. 

Without giving her any warning, Peter pulled the towel from his hips and dropped onto his knees in front of her. His hands reached out to grab for the hem of her pants, trying to tug them down her legs. Her heart shot up into her throat in a panic. As he fumbled with trying to take them off, she slapped him hard across the face, stumbling away from his hold and crashing into the opposite wall. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” She cried. “Stop!” 

Her hand automatically reached the gun still attached to her hip. She pulled it from the holster, cocking it, and pointing it at his forehead. Her breath was heavy as she glared at him in horror. 

Peter frowned, looking perplexed. Disoriented. He didn’t seem fully present. Still, she refused to lower the weapon between them.

“I-” he stuttered. A hand went up to cup the reddening mark blooming over his cheekbone from her slap. He was struggling to process what had occurred just as much as she was. “Don’t you-…you…you gave me something.” 

Aylin gave him a bewildered expression, responding with a breathless, “What?” 

“You gave me a gift. Don’t you want me to thank you for it? I thought…” His voice trailed off, a rejected darkness shadowing his face. “That’s what she always wanted. That’s what I’m supposed to do when I’m given something...” 

Aylin let what he was saying sink in, the realization of the situation becoming clear. She released her held breath and closed her eyes, allowing her body to relax. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. He was conditioned to believe that kindness was transactional. It was becoming more and more obvious what the pack was using him for. He was trained to service those around him. She let out a huff and put her gun down, tucking it back where it belonged. The threat was over. 

“No. I don’t want that.” She tried to push away the residual panic still electrifying her skin from his actions. She tried not to blame him for it. It wasn’t his fault he’d been traumatized and kept as someone’s pet. He was doing the only thing he’d been trained to do. His survival instincts had kicked in. 

“Put those pants on, sit on the bed, and don’t move,” she ordered.  

Aylin turned around as he did, hugging her thin jacket closer to her chest. No one had ever attempted to touch her like that before. Consensual or otherwise. She couldn’t control the fast flutter of her heart or the nerves tumbling around in her stomach. He had scared her. She would have preferred if he burst into a giant wolf rather than whatever the hell he had just attempted to do. He had caught her off guard and she didn’t like that. She felt weak, like she had lost the upperhand. 

When she heard the creak of the mattress, she turned back around, hardening her face so as not to show him how rattled he had made her, “New rule. Do not touch me. Ever. Got it? I am not one of those animals. I’m not a deplorable beast void of morals. I don’t play by their rules. If I give you something it’s because I want you to have it. Not because I want something in return. Especially not whatever the fuck you were trying to do. Understood?” 

He nodded, resembling a scolded child, shame clouding his vision. She almost felt bad for him. 

“It’s not your fault. Just don’t do it again,” Aylin grumbled, shoulders finally relaxing. She wanted to change the topic and never talk about what happened. “So, uh, how long were you locked up for? Because it seems like it was a long time. You clearly need to be deprogrammed.”  

Peter shrugged, giving a soft sigh, his voice a mere whisper, “I don’t know. What’s the date?” 

“I guess it’s past midnight, so it's April 11th.” 

“What year?” he asked. He was refusing to look in her direction, keeping himself blocked from her gaze with his wet curtain of hair. 

“...2017.” She hesitated, watching him process that information. 

“A little over two years, then.” He cleared his throat, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap. “I wasn’t always in the cabin though. I think I’d only been there a few months. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time is something you forget exists after a while. Everything blends together.” 

Aylin chewed on her bottom lip, thinking things over. All she could feel now was pity. She felt sorry for pulling a gun on him. 

Even if he was a terrible beast. 

“Can I brush your hair?” Her question came out of nowhere. It wasn’t even something she’d been expecting to ask but she’d been staring at it since he left the shower. It reminded her of Sergei’s untamed, long mane of hair. She didn’t want to associate the two with each other. 

Peter gave a slow, hesitant nod, still avoiding her eyes. He looked like he was only agreeing because he was afraid of her. 

She reached for her overnight bag and pulled out a brush, trying to keep her voice pleasant, “Why don’t you sit at the table?” 

He pushed himself up and headed in that direction, keeping a wide, respectful berth from her. Once he was seated, she stood behind him, looking at the damage to his hair. It was full of thick tangles that matted together into one big clump in the back. 

“Okay, I’m going to start brushing it now. I’m going to touch your head,” she wanted to give him a warning before she did anything. It seemed like the respectful thing to do for someone who was traumatized to the touch of others. 

Aylin placed her hand on the top of his scalp, watching him jump at the touch even with the warning. She waited until he relaxed again before gently running her fingers down his hair to collect a small handful in her palm. Then she started to brush out his snarled ends. 

“What were you doing before they captured you?” She asked, trying to make small talk and still get information on this broken creature. 

Peter sighed, settling further into the chair, “I was on my own.” 

“Do you have a…pack…or friends…family or whatever it is you werewolves do?” 

He was silent for a bit before finally giving his head a small shake. She couldn’t see his expression but she watched his shoulders tense up. Her question had struck a nerve.  

She let it slide for now, not wanting to upset him further, “Who was that white wolf that I shot? Laura, I think you called her.” 

“Lorina,” he corrected her. “Lorina Dodson.” 

“Yeah, whatever, what’s her deal?” 

He shrugged, “She came from a wealthy family. That’s where they got the money to buy the summer camp. She was their personal piggy bank. I think she killed her husband and got away with it because she was rich. She wanted an adventure. Found it in a pack of wolves. She wasn’t born one. She convinced them to turn her.” He paused then added. “She was particularly fond of beatings. That’s all I really know.” 

Aylin’s eyes traveled down to his bare back as he leaned forward. The scarring looked even worse now that he wasn’t coated in layers of dirt. She paused her attempts at brushing out his matted hair to graze her finger down his back, tracing over his scars. He shivered under her touch. 

“Did she do these?” She whispered. 

“Most of them, yeah,” He sighed. “She had a lot of anger issues and didn’t always play well with everyone else. When she’d get frustrated with them, that’s when she would come and visit me.” 

Aylin locked her jaw, an unfamiliar anger clawing up her throat, “Then I’m glad I killed her.” 

She tossed the brush onto the table, ready to put their current topic to rest, “I don’t think I can untangle your hair. We should just cut it off.” 

“We?” He turned in the chair to look back at her. It was the first time since he tried to take her pants off that he allowed himself to do so. The second they made eye contact, he quickly turned back around, head down. 

A coy smile flashed across her face at his nervousness. He was rather sweet. She didn’t mind having to share a motel room with him. 

“Well it’s your hair. I’d do the cutting but you’d give the go ahead.” 

He reached up to run his hand over the back of his head, “It is really long, huh? 

Aylin dug through her first aid kit and pulled out a pair of small, sharp scissors. They weren’t meant for hair cutting but they would have to suffice. 

She held them up, “What do you say? You ready for a new look?”

He was very handsome under all that hair, she decided. 

It wasn’t the best cut job she had ever seen. She was not a hairdresser but it was better than before. 

His hair sat tighter against the sides of his head while still having some decent shaggy length on the top. It was even starting to curl a bit as it dried. The matting was all gone, which was most important. 

Aylin sat perched on the side of the bathtub while he sat cross legged on the tiled floor in front of her. Clumps of hair lay scattered around him. She ran a hand over the top of his head to fluff up the drying, dark locks, satisfied with her work. 

He looked like a proper gentleman now. Well, almost. 

“I think you look great,” she said proudly. “Will you let me trim your beard next?”  

Peter scooted around to face her, “Do you want to?” 

“It’s not up to me. It’s your beard.” 

He considered her statement, mulling it over, “If you want to, you can.” 

She couldn’t help the amused smile that lit up her face, “Do you want that, Peter? You’re allowed to have your own opinions.”

He gave a hesitant nod, “Okay. You can cut it.” 

“Come here,” she ushered him closer. 

Taking his scraggly beard between her fingers, she carefully started snipping, her attention focused on the job at hand. It wasn’t until she was finished with the first side of his face that she noticed the way he was staring. 

Peter’s eyes had gone soft. His breath was shallow and relaxed. He gazed at her with a look of curiosity, awe, and appreciation, like he couldn’t quite figure her out but was enjoying her company. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. 

Aylin raised her eyebrows, pausing from her trimming to lock eyes with him, “For what?” 

He swallowed, shame casting over his face, “For before. I didn’t mean…I-I didn’t want…I shouldn’t have tried to touch you without asking. I thought…that’s what you wanted…” 

She responded with a heavy sigh, dropping her hands to her lap, “I forgive you. I don’t know exactly what they did to you, or what they made you do, but you don’t have to do that anymore. All I want from you is information. That’s it.” 

“And then you’ll kill me,” he stated. 

She hesitated. Her stomach ached for some unknown reason. She didn’t want to think that far ahead. She’d rather stay in the present. 

“Yeah. Then I-” she took a deep breath. “Then I kill you.” 

A sleepy smile flicked over his lips, “Looking forward to it, boss.” 

“Give me your face. I’m almost done.” 

He leaned forward, closing his eyes, to let her finish. 

If he wasn’t the creature from her nightmares, she might actually enjoy being around him. He was sweet. Handsome. Gentle. With a freshly cleaned, trimmed exterior, he was beginning to look more human. She had to keep reminding herself that this was not a friendship. They were never going to be friends. He was only acting this way because he was malnourished and severely traumatized. If he was at full strength, he would be a deadly weapon, a monstrous force to be reckoned with. He wouldn’t hesitate to sink his teeth into her flesh and tear her apart. They were natural born enemies. 

“All done!” She announced. “It’s a bit patchy in parts because I don’t have a razor but I can see your pretty face now. Do you feel better?” 

Peter blushed at being called pretty and ran a hand over his scruff with a smile, “I forgot what it felt like to be clean. Thank you.” 

“You should go look through my first aid kit on the bed. I bet your knees could use the attention. You could throw some antibiotic ointment on them and then patch them up. There’s gauze and tape in there. A bit of padding might help them not hurt as badly if you have to kneel down. I’ll clean up the bathroom while you do that.” 

He stumbled up onto shaky legs. Her joggers only reached to his mid calf but they hung loose around his waist, even with the strings pulled tight. He could probably use a decent meal too. Maybe they could stop somewhere in the morning. 

When she finished sweeping up his hair with her hands, she dumped it into the trash, and slipped out the door. Peter was carefully sticking gauze pads over the raw, worn down wounds. He lifted his head to smile at her when she entered the room. She found herself smiling back.

They were not friends. 

“We should get some sleep, too. The sun will be up soon enough and we have to be out of here by eleven.” 

He nodded, rolling down the pants, and tidying up his mess. 

Aylin flicked off the lights, letting the room fall into a quiet darkness, “You sleep on the bed. I’m going to finish up some things. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.” 

Peter glanced between her and the bed, frowning, “Are you going to sleep?” 

She shook her head, lying, “Nah, I’m not tired. You get some rest. I know you need it.” 

Slowly, he crawled up to the pillows, curling himself into a tight ball over the covers. His body tensed then sluggishly relaxed. He hadn’t felt the comfort of a bed in years. Despite his weak attempts at trying to fight it, sleep grabbed him within seconds. His body was too tired, too broken, to resist the temptation of a soft bed in a safe place free of his chains.  

Aylin gave a quiet sigh, watching him enviously, and wishing she was in her own bed. She leaned against the door leading to the outside. Even with all the locks in place, she felt nervous. She wasn’t sure how well wolves could track. She didn’t know if they were already hunting them. Sitting in front of the door felt safer. If it dared to open, she would be the first to know. 

After only a few moments of her body relaxing, she fell onto her side, curled up on the old carpet, and dozed off. 

The sunlight sneaking through the curtains painted her closed eyes with bright, warm light. It pulled her from her slumbered, dreamless state. She hadn’t even remembered allowing herself to fall asleep. Her body had taken over and forced her exhausted mind to rest. Yesterday had been the longest day of her life. She was glad that it was over. A new day was dawning. 

Aylin yawned, giving a big, satisfying stretch. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and forced herself to  sit up, taking note of the pillows under her head. 

She was on the bed. 

She scanned the room for Peter, finding him sprawled out and softly snoring on the floor. His back was pressed against the door exactly where she had been resting. 

The vaguest memory of being lifted while she slept crept into the head. She remembered how warm he was, how strong his arms felt wrapped around her. She remembered feeling safe. 

He had switched spots with her, giving her the comfort of the bed, while he took the floor. He broke the no touching rule but she could forgive him just this once. 

At any point during the night, he could have ran. She was so out of it, she probably wouldn’t have even noticed him leave. She would have been powerless to it. He could have escaped. He could have been free. 

He could have left her, doors unlocked, and vulnerable while she slept. Completely defenseless.  

But he didn’t. 

He stayed.

Her heart lurched at the realization. Somewhere inside his beastly brain, he felt a loyalty to her. She had saved him. She had broken him from his chains. She had been his protector, killed for him, and didn't leave him behind. He was returning the favor by staying. He knew it would end in his death but he still stuck by her side. There were worse things than death, he knew that all too well. 

They weren’t friends. 

But they weren’t enemies, either. 

They were something else. 

Something in between. 

[Chapter Three]

🌒A reblog will automatically put you onto the chapter three tag list. If you enjoyed what you read, please leave a comment! It would make this writer very happy and more likely to continue writing.🌔

A/N: Thank you to @liz-allyn​ for inspiring, like, half of this story. Even if it happened a while ago and she might not even remember but it still lived in my head forever thanks to you. 

Tag List:  @dinosun @sordidfairytale @moonyslove78​ @sincericida​ @raindropstearsandtea​ @leleleea @folkloriansoul​ @apollomoonlive @aliceherenot221bts @briseisgone @lazyxsquirrel   @its-crystalli  @fav-fanficssss @ms-wild-card-56   @wanderlustaflame 

[raineandsky]

#29

The little basement is as dingy as dingy gets. The villain’s never been a fan of what’s down these stairs, but the supervillain had insisted that he take on feeding duty whilst the other villains go off doing what he’d rather be doing—kicking heroic ass and ignoring the consequences that come with winning.

Today, though, the supervillain clearly doesn’t care for the villain’s inner turmoil. So here he is, padding down the stairs with a small bowl of food that smells disgusting. His steps echo into the empty space as he touches down at the bottom; the place is near unoccupied, except for the little jail cell at the opposite end of the room.

The atmosphere is painful as the silence is filled with the villain’s shuffling. He taps on the metal bars of the cell he pauses in front of, although he has no need to. It’s not like this place has any privacy.

“Lunch is served,” the villain says flatly. He leans down to scoot the bowl through the hole in the bottom of the door. The hero watches from the other side, their eyes stuck to the food pushed towards them but not entirely focused on it.

The hero has seen better days. The last time the villain saw him, he was defending a little group of hostages from the villain with his life—and oh, how he paid for it.

He looks so small now, scrunched up nervously against the back wall of his tiny cell. Scars that he definitely didn’t have before he got here litter the fragments of skin on show, the newer wounds still staining his arms and face a sickening crimson. He flinches at the sound of the bowl grating across the concrete floor.

“[Supervillain] isn’t taking it easy on you, is she?” the villain continues idly, uncomfortable with the thick silence sinking into the room. “She’s been in a good mood recently because of you.”

The hero’s expression barely changes. “You have to tell her that I have nothing else to give her.” His voice is quiet, rough with hours of strangled use. “Please, she thinks I’m hiding something and I’m not—”

“It’s not really anything to do with me. I mean, if anything—” The villain reaches into his back pocket to pull out a cow prod, the end crackling with electricity as he flips it on. “— I think she was hoping I’d get something out of you. She very pointedly gave me this before I came down here.”

Back in the day, the hero would’ve laughed at such a threat. Now, he cringes away from the rod, pressing himself desperately into the wall behind him. “No, no, please—”

“Ah, I don’t intend to use it. Just for show.” The villain turns it off with a click. “I don’t think I could convince you to tell me anything you haven’t already told her.”

“I already told her everything!” the hero cries dejectedly. “She thinks I have some last secret I’m hiding, but I swear, I don’t know—”

“What’s she asking about?”

The hero heaves a shuddering breath to get himself under control. “Wh– what?”

“What’s she so insistent you’re hiding?”

The villain leans casually against the cell bars as the hero’s gaze dips to his hands hopelessly. “One of your villains,” he says after a moment, though it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it from how he’s forcing the words out. “She said someone went missing. She thinks the agency has them but I swear on my life I don’t know where they’ve—”

“That’s it?” The villain snorts nonchalantly. “I can answer that for her.”

The hero somehow deflates even more. “I’ve been here this entire time, at the mercy of your fucked up boss, and… and you knew?”

“Didn’t think she was looking. Thanks, [Hero].” The villain stands upright with a sigh. “I’ll go sort this. You’re welcome.”

“I’ve been tortured for nothing?”

The villain starts for the stairs, blocking out the dismal wails of the hero as he climbs up them. He feels a little sick, if he’s honest. He’s not the biggest fan of heroes, of course, but he’s also not the biggest fan of keeping prisoners either—and for it to be over this. The guilt is going to gnaw at him for a long time.

He meets the supervillain at the top of the stairs, a smirk lining her expression at the sounds of the hero’s pain below. “Good time?” she asks innocently.

“You’ve been asking about the dumbass that went missing?” he snaps, and there’s a flash of surprise across her face before she catches it.

“Obviously. I want to know—”

“That was me,” the villain hisses coldly. “I killed them, and I dumped them in the river afterwards. You didn’t consider asking around with us first? You looking for an excuse to hurt a hero?”

The supervillain is speechless. “They were one of our own.”

“Not one of mine.” The villain turns on his heel, more than ready to leave this conversation. “They were talking about turning against you. You’re fucking welcome.”

[newwavenosferatu]

[Confirming SchreckNet VPN...]

[SchreckNet VPN Confirmed. Do Not Deactivate]

Evening Sewer Rats and Creeps alike. It's quiet tonight, both Kindred and Kine seem content to stay in their own little homes and havens. Given my uh... recent transgression against the Masquerade I thought I would stay in and tend to my Spawning Pool. After checking on the rats and other beasties, I fed on a few and headed back to the one little area of my haven with any electricity: my desk and computer. So, I have decided to regale you with the story of my Embrace, and how I came to be what I am tonight.

I was born to a French-Irish immigrant family in a small town in Indiana. My life was unremarkable, filled with novels and music and very little else. One night in September of 1984, I was walking home from a goth night held at some dingy house venue. I was on a horrid blend of alcohol and diet pill speed, slowly making my way back to my place. I heard someone call my name, and I stopped, turning around to see if maybe someone from the party was trying to get ahold of me, maybe I left something behind, I don't know. I turn around to continue walking and see movement out of an alley I was about to walk past. I tentatively go to take a look, foolishly walking further down the alley. I feel a weight on my back, and thin, almost skeletal arms and legs wrap around me. I feel this rush, almost like sex on acid. This euphoric rush spreads out from my head, all the way down to my toes, and I go limp. I felt myself fall onto the concrete.

When I awoke, I was in some dingy room, with bricked up windows and full moldering furniture speckled with ancient dust. The room I was in was lit only by a single oil lamp. letting of a foul smoke that filled the room. Piles of books, newspapers, old TVs and radios were stacked against the walls and piled on tables. Scrawled writing on stained papers formed a makeshift carpet on the floor. The worst part? There was no door, only a hatch in the ceiling. It must have been at least 20 feet up to the hatch.. Just as I am fully realizing the gravity of my fuckup when get a look at myself reflected on an old 50s TV set. My skin has turned a sickly greyish blue, an is covered in lesions and cuts. As I scream in horror I see all my teeth have elongated, especially my incisors. My eyes sunken in my face and colored a milky black. My ears had begun to point. I collapse to the floor, completely overwhelmed. I howled and cried, only more disgusted when my tears are streaked with thick globs of blood. After what seemed like days. I felt my body slowly rearrange itself into this new, grotesque form. I felt my organs shrivel, my muscles tighten and atrophy. My skin shrunk, like I needed something to make me more skeletal. My teeth moved, stretched and sharpened into a maw of fangs, with my incisor teeth like long daggers poking out of my lips. I looked like a bad Halloween costume , a kitschy Count Orlok and Siouxsie Sioux mash up. My makeup was gone, but with eyes twice their original size in sunken eye sockets, I didn't need anything to make my eyes any more dramatic. My once carefully maintained teased hair matted and full of bits of trash and debris.

Eventually, I heard a squeaking clank, and was met with dozens of live rats falling like rain into my squalid new home. I found my teeth sunken in to one of the poor things neck before I even knew what was going on. When I came to my senses, I was covered in gore and bits of fur, met with the sight of many tiny corpses covering the floor. The hatch was closed once again. I cried harder then than I ever have before. This time my tears were crimson, running down my face and leaving scarlet lines as they drip down. Looking at myself again, it became clear to me human was no longer a word I could use to describe myself. No longer wrought by pain, my metamorphosis seemed complete. I began to actually look around my filthy prison cell, reading what I could of the scrawling in the books and sketches. Over and over, the words "Embrace", "Kindred", "Nosferatu", and "Camarilla" popping up all over the place. When I heard the hatch begin to turn open I scream at my unseen captor. "Come on fuckface! You did this to me but don't have the balls to face me? I'll rip your fuckin' throat out when I find you!" I was met with eerily jovial laughter, and a rope ladder fell from the hatch. I climb up and am met with a face looking just like my new visage.. She was tall, with almost comically large pointed ears and half of the skin on her face missing.

Over the next few weeks, I was instructed in the nature of what I am, what it means for me, and what my new "life" was going to consist of. I was told of the enigmatic Ivory Tower, the rebellious Anarchs and fanatical Sabbat. I learned of many clans of Kindred and what else is lurking and scheming in the night. I drank the blood of a woman my Sire had turned into a Blood Doll, and learned to savor its taste. I was taught in the arts of Obfuscate and Animalism, and how to use them to survive these nights. My sire, who by the way is called Signe, eventually introduced me to the local Camarilla one Elysium, and I felt an uncomfortable mix of dread and excitement. This new unlife is surely to be infinitely more complex than my simple mortal existence.

I stayed with Signe for most of the 80s, and learned a great deal from her. Over time however, she began to expect so much of me, and one night I fled. Like a child running away, I returned to her hours later, and professed my apologies and embarrassment. She was heartbroken however, and told me of a Childe of hers who left her decades ago and went Sabbat. We cried together and I tried to explain all my complex feelings, but the damage was done. She told me it was time to get a haven of my own, to learn what it really means to be Kindred, to be a Sewer Rat. I left, wandering the city at night, hiding in sewers during the day until I met Tufts again.. She was as close as I ever got to a friend in life, and we became even closer in death.

Well, I suppose that's enough rambling for tonight. Stay safe, Kindred. I have a strange feeling tonight.

[End of Transmission]

[xamaxenta]

Weird scifi fantasy au where Ace is a superhuman of some kind, experimented on and then he escaped and ended up in a gross fightclub/ring scenario

He’s the crowd favourite, he’s got no qualms, alot of the blood smearing the arena floor are his opponents who he killed against unforgiving concrete

Thinks himself something akin to a beast, he doesn’t know how to human, someone save him 🥺

And this is where Marco a behaviourist and psychiatrist comes in and Sabo a staunch advocate for human rights and dedicates himself to helping those in need

Marco meets Ace in the holding cell of a dank dingy prison, he’s still covered in blood, a kaleidoscope of bruises running up his arms and across his jaw, finger shaped bruises burning off his arms because theyre from the iron grip of someone slipping out of their death throes and into strange rigidity

He’s already broken his handcuffs and he tries the bars and snarls when they give with a raspy groan, Marco says nothing and politely watches him bend solid iron outwards, poor wretched creature has had enough of confinement

Pays bail and has a lost little puppy monster follow him home

[lululeighwrites]

how dare you

characters: summoner leigh, (possessed) gunter, anankos

content warnings: imprisonment, coercion, betrayal from a lover, bad end (?)

The door of the dungeon cell creaks open on its rusty hinges, emitting a noise so deafening it would cause anyone in their right mind to wince.

Of the three now present in the damp and crumbling alcove—the degenerating, his puppet, and their prisoner—none reacts to the piercing sound as it grates against their eardrums.

Leigh feels nothing, unflinching from their detainment along the back wall of the cell, arms drained of all sensation from where they hang above their head, wrists cuffed together in magic-resistant bonds from a metal chain attached to the ceiling.

“Call to me the power of those from other worlds,” Anankos demands. From his cloak he retrieves the stolen legendary relic of the summoner, tossing it towards Leigh and allowing it to skate along the rocky floor, stopping at their feet.

“And perhaps you’ll see more of this world than the dingy confines of this cage.”

“It’s impossible,” Leigh clarifies, unwillingly to meet the gaze of their captors, “I can only summon on Askr’s dais, and we’re a long way from there, aren’t we?”

“Then how about this one? One of my vassals has enlightened me on its origins, and the power it was once imbued with: that of another world, and another you.”

Leigh’s nerves flare at that, raising their head just as the entombed god pulls a second Breidablik from his cloak, heart jumping into their throat as they gaze upon the relic lacquered icy black and marred by the damage of those who tried—and failed—to retrieve its potential for themselves.

“I… I don’t know. Why would I ever try? It’s a memento from the past; a gift from someone that’s long been forgotten.”

“It seems yet another concerning similarity appears before us, summoner,” Anankos mocks, tucking the relic away. “I bestow gifts as well, and given your unwillingness to help, I feel it’s time for you to receive it.”

Madness—more than that which already permeates the air—descends upon the cell within that moment. No sooner has Anankos rolled up his sleeve and drawn blood with the flick of a wrist, running thick and grainy down his arm, than Gunter has come to tower over Leigh, hand squeezing their clenched jaw in a forceful attempt to pry their mouth open. His efforts are in vain as they resist the excruciating pressure applied to their mandible, unwilling to yield their freedom so easily, and using the remainder of their strength to do so.

“You humans are so stubborn to submit willingly before your god. No matter—my vassal, do not allow my blood to go to waste.”

For a moment, Leigh finds respite, watching as Gunter finds the wound along the silent dragon’s arm, drawing the rancid ichor into his mouth—but not consuming it himself.

“Enough. Go forth and create for me a new puppet—use any means necessary.”

Soon enough, he’s on them again, dragging their chin up and mashing their lips together. Leigh’s resolve remains strong, jaw locked and lips pressed into a firm line, trying their damndest to wrestle free of the hold he has on them. 

Their heart aches, knowing this is not him. Knowing that not once during the time they’ve spent together, he’s never forced himself upon them. Knowing that, as their muscles ache and their mind tumbles further towards exhaustion, feeling nearly defeated, that a kiss from him would soothe all their worries—

Leigh gasps, the sensitive flesh above their hips exploited as gauntlets sharp and dangerous dig in, unknowingly having slid beneath the fabric of their tunic in their moment of weakness. A stabbing pain courses through their chest as the fetid blood coats their mouth and pours down their throat, uncertain if the burning sensation is a side effect of Anankos’ curse, or the aftermath of their trust shattering like glass before their eyes.

They try to heave, hoping to expel some of what’s already been done, but it is too late, the forgotten king’s power establishing a new home within them with haste.

“Cease your resistance,” Gunter barks, hand finding their throat and hoisting them upwards. “Know your place as a vassal for he who has been forgotten.”

Somewhere, they know he is in there, buried beneath the anger and sorrow Anankos’ power feeds off for his path of destruction. Leigh feels much the same, body electrified with hatred and cynicism they’ve never once felt before. This is not them, a voice muffles from the broken pieces of their former selves.

This is not the love they once shared.

“Never,” Leigh chokes out, warm tears streaming down their cheeks to mix with the mess of blood along their chin, “Not for me, and not for you either.”

divider by saradika