#mild trauma mention

[conkers-thecosy]

Bagginshield-tober / Day 6 / Recovery

Hey folks! Here's my offering for day six of the "Bagginshield-tober" prompt list, by the lovely @smolestboop 💛

You can also find these little snippets compiled into one fic on AO3 - day seven is posted there too, but it's only a short one!

This one is a liiiiittle angsty, so be warned, but as always there's an element of hurt/comfort and a fluffy end, which hopefully balances it out.

Hope you enjoy!

~*~*~

It had been three weeks since Thorin and Bilbo had begun to share one another’s beds.

It was perfectly innocent, of course, and Bilbo had gone out of his way to explain that in hobbit culture it was more than acceptable to share a bunk with friends or family for comfort. Co-sleeping, he called it. In truth, it wasn’t the first time they had done so, as on the road to and from Erebor, they had often slept side by side for warmth and safety. Not just the two of them, either - all of the company had piled in wherever there was a space.

Now in Bag End, they never began the night in bed together. They would say goodnight as they always had, then head to their respective bedrooms. It was September now, and much cooler, so they were able to shut their doors once again. Still, since that first night when Thorin had been incapable of ignoring Bilbo calling his name in such distress, they had both come to an unspoken agreement; if one had a nightmare, then the other would knock on their door and quietly ask if they wanted company.

It seemed to settle them both, and often once they were in the same bed, feeling the weight and warmth of the other beside them, they would both settle into a much more peaceful slumber than if they were apart.

Tonight it was Thorin who had cried out, and Bilbo who had come to him, quietly asking if he had need of him. Thorin had accepted the comfort, wishing he was confident enough to ask the Hobbit to start the night with them sharing a bed, and spare them both the distress. He would only say it was platonic, and of course it would be, but in his heart he wished fervently that it might turn into more, that it might in turn answer another question that he longed to ask, but dare not.

He was shocked and shaken to wake again the same night from another nightmare, despite Bilbo already being beside him. Awakening with a muffled cry, his body taut and chest constricted, he was confused for a moment to find a small hand pressed gently over his heart.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” Bilbo shushed him softly. “Just a nightmare, Thorin. It’s not real.”

Thorin looked up with wide eyes as Bilbo leant over him, sleep-tousled and concerned, and felt immediately ashamed. He didn’t know why, couldn’t hardly think straight, but it felt like some kind of failure to still be woken so, even with Bilbo as close as he was. Like he was too broken, too used up to ever recover, that he would always be haunted by the horror of his own actions.

“Try to breathe,” Bilbo pressed, his voice quiet, as though afraid they might wake others despite being the only ones in the smial. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” he grit out, turning on the mattress so his back was to Bilbo.

There was a long pause, and Thorin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe normally again through sheer willpower and shame alone. Then Bilbo spoke carefully.

“Would you like for me to leave?”

Thorin’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Had he frightened Bilbo? Did he want to leave? But no, surely if that were the case, the Hobbit would simply have gone without a word. He had been trying to offer comfort, and Thorin had snapped at him for it, but only because there was something so unsettling to be looking that the version of Bilbo that tormented his dreams, and waking to be faced with the same visage, only soft with concern for one who did not deserve it.

Still, Thorin knew he was greedy by nature. Selfish. Hateful. He could not help but reach for the things he wanted, even when it was wrong to do so.

“No.”

Another silence followed, shorter this time, before Bilbo sighed quite quietly. “I will not be offended if you wish to be alone, Thorin.”

“No, please,” Thorin shook his head against the pillow, hating how pathetic and weak he sounded. “Please stay.”

Bilbo immediately settled himself back on the bed, and the dwarf was surprised when, instead of simply laying side by side as they always had, not touching and being very careful of one another’s space, an arm was draped carefully over his waist. His heart jumped again, only for a different reason, and he felt the Hobbit press his soft, warm body flush against his broad back.

“I’ll stay as long as you like,” Bilbo promised, his breath puffing against Thorin's shoulder and disturbing his hair very gently. It was hard to breathe again.

Thorin didn’t know how long they lay like that, Bilbo holding him as a lover might, his small hand finding its way back over his heart, the warmth of it seeping through his sleeping tunic and into his skin, into his very bones. His breathing became even again, and he knew that Bilbo was still awake, if only from the way he was still holding him almost protectively. There was a time not too long ago where he would have scoffed at such a notion, but now… now he felt safer than he had in a long time.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Thorin murmured into the night.

“Don’t apologise,” Bilbo replied, his words like a caress against Thorin’s skin. “You’re still healing, and it takes time.”

Thorin closed his eyes and sighed. “I may never heal fully.”

He felt Bilbo offer some approximation of a shrug from where he was pressed up against his back.

“Maybe, but it will get easier, I’m sure of it,” the Hobbit said. “And I will be here to help, no matter how long it takes. I will be here for the duration, I promise.”

There was such conviction, such earnest faith in his words, that Thorin had no choice but to believe him. He did not remember falling asleep after that, but he must have done almost immediately, the lingering promise of forever giving his fraught mind the peace he so craved, and a fresh hope for eventual recovery.

[hatgame]

[actress4him]

June of Doom 2023

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Day 9 - “I should have listened to you.” | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke 

Contains: lady whump with male whumper, captivity, restraints, beating, stress position, mild blood, implied starvation, head trauma, hair pulling, death mention, broken ribs, dislocation mention, brief dog and master imagery

.

.

There isn’t much to see in the basement. Lainey inspects every concrete block, every crack in the foundation, every plank on the steps, every lock on the door, and finds absolutely nothing useful. It still feels better than just sitting around, though. Not that she’s blaming Isa for sitting, she can’t even help it with that chain around her neck. That thing makes Lainey want to punch something every time she thinks of it. But she also has a feeling Isa wouldn’t be helping her look even if she could get up and move. 

It doesn’t take long for the man to return. She’s just come back down the stairs from checking out the door when the locks start to slide open, so she spins around and plants her feet, glaring up at their captor, trying to ignore the way her heart is suddenly threatening to break through her ribcage. 

He’s not much to look at, either. Just an unattractive, scraggly bearded man, like someone you might see loitering outside a gas station and walk quickly past on your way inside. For good reason, apparently. 

“Have you come to let me go?” she demands as he starts down the stairs. “To let us both go?”

He scowls back at her. “I see you haven’t yet learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut.”

“You think I’m going to listen to you? Some low-life who gets his kicks from kidnapping and chaining up young women?” He’s getting closer, and part of her wants to back away, but her pride and anger won’t let her. “I bet you’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you? Probably never had any friends at all. Is this the only way you can get anyone to hang around you? Locking them in your basement?”

She sees the swinging fist coming, but can’t get out of its path. It smashes into her face with a force that sends her over backwards, head cracking against the wall as she hits the ground. Her vision cuts out, then comes back swirling and spinning. There’s something bitter and metallic pouring over her lips. It takes far too long for her to realize that it’s blood. 

As she sits there, stunned and in pain, the man advances. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her up off the floor, dragging her toward the center of the room. Her feet stumble clumsily after him. 

“I told you to shut up. You’ll figure out I mean what I say sooner or later.”

He throws her down, and she just barely keeps her head from smacking concrete again. Her arm isn’t so lucky, unable to move from its restrained position and getting crushed between her body and the floor. 

For an instant, she sees Isa, sitting directly in front of the assault. She has her head turned to the side, staring off at some unknown point, face blank. 

Then a boot is buried in her stomach. Lainey doubles over, coughing and gasping for air that seems to have vanished. The man doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath, though. He keeps kicking, pounding the toe of his boot into her ribs and back and legs over and over and over again. She curls up as best she can, trying instinctively to protect her organs, but all she can do otherwise is lie there and groan and sob.

It seems to last forever. Part of her thinks she actually might die right then and there. But then the kicks stop. He reaches down and grabs her by her bound wrist, pulling her backwards across the floor. She moans again as her shoulders bear the brunt of the pressure and as every sore part of her is jostled. 

He drops her again, and a chain rattles behind her. A moment later her wrists are being pulled upward once more, but this time the chain sounds accompany it, and this time it doesn’t stop. They keep being dragged up toward the ceiling until she’s forced to move, scrambling with leaden limbs to get her feet underneath her and stand. The chain seems to be hooked to the ziptie around her wrists. She can’t straighten her back or lift her head, shoulders wrenched as far backwards as they’ll go and wrists stuck up high. 

And that’s how he leaves her. He doesn’t say another word, just walks off, footsteps echoing through the nearly empty room. She cranes her head to the side to see him pick something up off the stairs before disappearing up them.

She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Before now, the worst pain she could remember was a broken arm from her highschool softball days, but between her throbbing head, her burning shoulders, and the fiery pain that shoots through her ribs every time she breathes, this is way worse. 

“That was my food.”

She tries to look over at Isa but can’t get her head to lift that high. “Wh-...what?”

Isa’s voice grows a little louder, a bit higher pitched. “He was coming down to bring me food and water, and probably unchain me, and you screwed it all up disrespecting him like I warned you not to.”

Lainey scoffs, hardly believing her ears. “Do you…do you realize…you sound like a dog right now? Waiting for your…master to feed and water and unchain you?” She winces at the increased pain in her ribs that talking creates, trying to shift her position. “And…I’m the one who just got…beaten up so…pardon me if I’m not overly concerned about your food.”

“And whose fault is that?” It comes out practically a growl, the most emotion she’s heard out of her so far. “I told you not to make him mad. I told you it would get you hurt. I’ve been here for five years, remember? I’ve tried it all before. I’ve figured out how to survive. But if you don’t want to listen to me, fine. Refuse to save yourself any pain. Learn everything the hard way, like I did. Just…can you at least leave me out of it?” Her voice wavers at the end, going quiet again. “I haven’t eaten in days, because he was gone to get you. And the two bottles of water he left me ran out hours ago.”

Isa sounds like she’s about to cry, and Lainey finds her own throat tightening in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to rob Isa of her first food in days. She wants to help her, not cause her more trouble. But she’s being an idiot, isn’t she? The woman’s right, she’s managed to survive for five years, and it’s stupid for Lainey not to listen to her advice, no matter how much it makes her skin crawl to think of sucking up to that man. 

“I’m sorry.” She tries again to look at her, and manages to catch at least a glimpse of her face. “I should have…I should have listened to you. You’re right, it’s…my own fault that I got hurt. And I didn’t think about…you suffering from it.” She pauses, breathing through the pain and thinking about her response. “I can’t…promise that I’ll do exactly what you want. I’m not good…at holding my tongue. But, uh…I’ll try.”

There’s silence for a long time. It’s a struggle for Lainey not to find some way to fill it, despite her painful position. 

“I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have,” Isa murmurs finally. “And I’m…honestly terrified that you’re gonna make things even worse. Keeping on his good side is so tentative. I just want to keep things as…easy as possible. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Lainey breathes. “I, um…I get it.” She considers her next words carefully before deciding to take the leap and say them. “Hey, do you…still have the water bottles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you roll one over to me?”

“They’re empty.”

“I know, just…just do it if you can.” She can hear movement and the slight crackle of thin plastic. A few seconds later an empty bottle rolls to a stop several inches from her foot. “Hey, nice shot. Lemme just…” Very carefully, grimacing with each movement, she steps on the heel of first one sneaker, then the other, removing them and kicking them behind her. Then she strategically uses her toes to pull off one sock, too. Isa mutters warnings about dislocating her shoulders here and there, but Lainey is determined to make this work.

Stretching out the bare foot, she drags the water bottle closer. “It’s still got drops of water left in it, so if I focus, I can…” She lays her foot across the bottle and closes her eyes. This is much easier to do with her hands, but the foot will have to do in a pinch like this. It takes almost a full minute of concentration, but eventually the droplets start to grow, dripping down into the bottle. The process gets faster as it goes, until there’s water swirling all through the bottle, filling it.

“There we go.” Satisfied with her work, Lainey takes careful aim and shoves the bottle back in Isa’s direction. “I can’t make you food, but…I can at least do that.”

“Water magic.” The plastic crinkles in Isa’s hand again.

“Yep. I’m…not very skilled at it, but…expanding water that’s already there…isn’t so hard.”

There’s no answer for a moment, but it sounds like Isa is taking a drink. “Thank you,” she says softly when she’s done.

“Yeah,” Lainey replies, equally as soft. “No problem.”

[anxiety-banana]

Y'all you wanna hear a very strange mental health discovery?? Good because I'm going to tell you okay I used to be able to read very gruesome stuff. Like intense battle gore, mental and emotional trauma, the likes, but nowadays I have to heed trigger warnings. Talks of anorexia and eating disorders really get to me. I have to be careful reading and writing about panic attacks. I have to check in with myself and whether I'm okay reading certain themes at the moment.

And you know what? That's how I know I'm healing. I forced myself to be numb to a lot when I was younger. And sure, I can still deal with a lot of gore and trauma etc. but I actually have to heed trigger warnings for the first time. I'm being careful, and taking care of myself that way.

So yay!! Good job AB <3

[kakusu-shipping]

Talk it out

so... It's been a year. How about some more Overwatch Self Insert Fanfiction because. You know. I'm normal.

Mountain's Peak (Part 1)

Nepal Sanctum (Part 2)

In which Zenyatta and I do not talk it out

"You must learn to BLOCK, brother!" Ramattra's voice boomed in a hearty laugh as he locked arms with Zenyatta, easily hoisting the smaller monk from the ground.

"I apologize I was not built with bullet proof eye beams for arms." Zenyatta snarked, brushing himself off, taking account of any new scratches he may have gained from hitting the hard stone floor.

The two Omnics stood in a training ground of sorts. The Shambali wasn't one for violence, but still had a space for learning martial arts, a small platform alone in a corner at the top of some shakily built stone steps.

Those who'd used this temple before the Monks have moved in may have found more value in fighting than Mondatta, using training as a sort of meditation. Humans were more effective at using their minds when their entire bodies were involved as well.

"Heads up," Another of the Omnics who'd joined Ramattra and Zenyatta for training called, "Human, 3 o'clock."

Speak of the devil...

The human in question was Emile, a child claiming to be an Omnic healer. Another mechanic who thinks he knows Omnic's bodies better than they do. He was short, young, with white hair and red eyes, and was annoyingly fascinated with Zenyatta. Perhaps become the monk had, regrettably, saved his life.

He stood at the bottom of the short stairs that led to training, wrapped tightly in four layers of Master Mondatta's own robes. He looked like a marshmallow. It made Zenyatta want to set him alight and see if he'd turn golden brown, or bun charcoal black.

"Allow me.." Ramattra spoke softly into Zenyatta's sensor, handing the smaller Omnic his staff as he stepped between Zen and the marshmallow, taking a step down one stair.

"Human, good to see you!" The Ravager's voice came out chipper enough, he'd been practicing feigning agreement with humans, "It is rather cold out here, is it not? You'd best head inside lest you catch something worse than a cold this time."

The human had been living in the Monastary for 3 months now and in that time seemed to have been hit with every possible issue a human could catch due to the cold and altitude of the Shambali mountain. If Master Mondatta physically had a heart it surly would have exploded with stress by now.

"Right..." The human spoke softly, voice muffled into the 3 scarves wrapped around his head like a mummy's gauze. They rung their small hands together and stared that disgustingly big eyed stare at Ramattra, "I just.. wanted to see what you all were doing...?"

"Oh, it's rather boring, I am just teaching my siblings some basic self defense. Nothing you would find interesting I'm sure." Ramattra continued his false chipper tone, clasping his hands together as he leaned forward slightly to be more at height with the human without having to get any closer to him.

Emile's eyes lit up as he reached to pull the scarf away from his mouth, "Self defense?? Like Hand to Hand combat??" Ramattra stood back up, and even leaned back some from the human's sudden excitement. Perhaps the ravager should have lied, as now the human was doing that freaky muttering to himself, this time about the types of combat a Ravager would be programed with, seeing at they were designed to carry heavy pulse rifles but capable of handling most weapon types and even improvisation on the battle field going so far as to use their fellow Null Sector robots-

"That's Enough." Zenyatta's voice barked.

Emile snapped from his train of thought to find Zenyatta standing between the human and Ramattra, the larger Omnic gripping tightly to himself, collapsed into a crouch on the stairs as others from their group comforted them.

"Wh-.. O-Oh! Oh I'm sorry I f-" Emile rushed to apologize, but stopped as Zenyatta stomped down the short stairs.

"You Forgot?" Zenyatta finished Emile's attempt at explanation, "You FORGOT?" He spoke louder, now toe to toe with the small human. The two were the same age, but Zenyatta had the privilege of being built at adult height, where as the human before him still had quiet a bit of growing to do.

Emile gripped onto his robes, his hands shook and tears pricked his eyes. He was pathetic. The sight of him was enough to remind Zenyatta why he'd never get along with humans. They made him sick.

"I-I didn't.. R-Ramattra, I'm sorry-"

Zenyatta grabbed the front of Master Mondatta's robes, using them to hoist the little human off the ground. The robes were white and gold, they shimmered in the sun, and were woven thick to protect the Master Mondatta's exposed wiring from the harsh weather. This human had no right to wear them. He had no right to be here.

"Z-Zenyatta.." Ramattra's voice came out shaky from back on the stairs, "I-I am okay," he lied, "it's alright..."

Zenyatta kept his sensors locked on the human for another moment, then with a noise akin to a huff, released his grasp on him. The small human with the ground with a thud as Zenyatta turned and made his way back up the stairs. He helped his shaking brother to his feet, and marched off silently.

The following day, and the day thereafter the human avoided Zenyatta, and for a moment he'd believed he'd finally scared the little man off for good.

"Zen. Human's here."

But only for a moment.

Zenyatta glanced over his shoulder to see the human, wrapped today in nearly 6 layers of robes and 5 scarves. Zenyatta was unaware Master Mondatta had that many clothes.

Ramattra, whomst Zenyatta had been sparing against, made a move to get between Zenyatta and the human once again. Zenyatta stopped him and turned to face the human.

"What do you want, human?" He spoke low, already annoyed from being once again tossed around easily by his siblings while training.

The human's usual habit of grabbing onto the hem of his robes nearest his chest while speaking seemed to be foiled today, as the many layers of cloth kept him from bending his arms. "I was... hoping I could watch you all spar..."

"Oh?" Zenyatta tilted his head, crossing his arms, "So you are the kind of human who gets a kick out of watching Omnics fight one another?"

"H-huh? N-No I-"

"I believe the town at the base of the mountain has an underground Robot fighting ring. Perhaps you could get some scraps of our fallen siblings from the butcher on your way and build your own, sense you're such an amazing mechanic."

"Brother..." Ramattra's voice made it clear he thought Zenyatta was being just a touch harsher than necessary. Zenyatta shrugged his brother's hand off his shoulder and took at step to the human, tears once again welling in his big pathetic red eyes.

Zenyatta leaned slightly to be level with the human, and spoke as low as he could get his voice modulator to go, "For the last time, you are not welcome here. If you truly wanted to help my siblings, you would do us all a favor, and Die."

The Omnic stood up straight once more, and gave a just hard enough kick to the human's chest to knock him off balance, toppling him over without damaging any of his pathetic human parts. He then spun around and once again left the training ground earlier than he would have liked with Ramattra in toe.

"Brother Zenyatta. Do you know why I asked you to come meditate with me this afternoon?" Master Mondatta's voice flowed as he stepped into his room, Zenyatta already seated in the center, rolling a meditation orb around himself for entertainment.

"No, Master Mondatta, I am afraid I lost my ability to read minds when I gained sentience, you see." Zenyatta hummed as he turned to face Mondatta, and instantly lost all the joy he'd gotten from sassing Mondatta.

Beside the elder monk was, once again, the human. Wrapped now in nearly 10 layers of robes and too many scarves to count. This was getting ridiculous, they were INSIDE master Mondatta's home, it was nearly 3pm on the sunniest summer day in the Shambali. There may be snow on the ground but it was WARM out there. The human can't even put his arms down!

Mondatta's hand placed gently on the human's shoulder, "I believe you and Brother Emile have gotten off on the wrong foot, and you, Brother Zenyatta, are allowing that first meeting to cloud your judgment of Emile."

Zenyatta continued to roll his mediation orb around himself, "I do not know what you are talking about, Master Mondatta. The human and I have been getting along just fine. We simply do not have many chances to speak."

"Then consider this your chance." Mondatta lead the human to sit on a meditation mat in from of Zenyatta, patting the little man's shoulder's, "Talk it out. I will be in the hallway."

With that, Mondatta turned heel and left the room, closing the door beind him.

Zenyatta couldn't seen the human's face through the many many scarves but he was sure he was just as uncomfortable with this prospect as he was.

The two sat in silence for a while, the only sound being Zenyatta's orb rolling on the stone floor. Minutes passed in what felt like hours, and before long Zenyatta was pulling himself up from the floor and walking to tword the door.

The monk stopped when something snagged the bottom of his pant leg. He glanced down to see the human, covered so heavily in cloth they could truly be anything under there, but he was still human all the same.

"Z-Zenyatta, I..." He trailed off. Zenyatta considered giving him a moment, hearing him out like Master Mondatta asked, perhaps finally making peace with the young human... He then released how pointless that would be.

The monk yanked his leg free and spat out his words, "Don't touch me." before turning to continue to the door, only to be blinded suddenly by a thick robe.

Zenyatta pulled Mondatta's robe from his head, then turned to see the human standing, one robe and many scarves less, his face finally visible and scrunched up in anger, red from both the emotion and the head of his many many layers.

Zenyatta's head tilted, "Now you are disrespecting Master Mondatta's robes?"

"I'm trying... to talk to you.." The human's voice shook, "Like Master Mondatta asked me to..."

"Do you do everything Brother Mondatta asks of you?" Zenyatta folded the robe neatly over his arm, "If he told you to die, would you?"

"He would never do that..."

"Right. Because he's soft."

"Because he's NICE. Unlike you."

"We were all "nice" once. Perhaps he just hasn't met the right human yet."

The human paused, Zenyatta hoped perhaps this pointless back and forth was over. He watched the human grab at the hem of his robe once more.

"This isn't fair.. I wasn't the one who-"

Zenyatta once again grabbed the human by the front of Mondatta's robe, yanking him closer, "You know NOTHING of what they did to me- Us, human." Zenyatta managed to just barley correct himself, "So do not talk like you do."

The human's eye pricked with tears. Zenyatta wanted to hit him. To punch and punch and punch, to let out everything on this tiny, pathetic little human who dared enter their home away from their kind, to disturb his peace, his safety. That would solve nothing. He knew that...

But still...

Emile collapsed to the floor, his cheek bright red. Something had cracked on impact. Blood pooled from his mouth onto Mondatta's beautiful white robes.

Zenyatta gripped his wrist to stop the shaking. He could still feel it. The human's small fingers on his exposed wire.

The human coughed loudly, suddenly the door to Mondatta's room swung open, the monk quickly coming in with questions of what happened. Zenyatta turned heel and ran, brushing past his brother, ignoring his calls to return at once.

He wasn't sure where he was going

He wasn't sure he'd return either..

[transingthoseformers]

Segueeee but! Information on tfp au Starscream as I don't talk a lot about them!

As a general rule I use he/she/they pronouns for Star, as it's a fairly common headcanon that Starscream is some shape or form of gender variant lol. I personally see him as just... not-ing with human gender. No specific labeling, just proud and loud jet.

Tfp au Starscream's colors are closer to a blend of normal tfp, tfa, and g1. And the colors are more like a muted down blue, whitish-silver, and light red / pink. Because hey why not it's my au and all

Tfp au Starscream was royalty before the war, but has oopsy baby energy and is the youngest of a big family. The conservative of such meaning she's had to be loud and flashy to get attention.

Starscream is crazy fantastic at the politics game, and he was absolutely willing to run smear campaigns against his siblings. And assassinate them if she was in a silly goofy mood.

Said tenacity and bloodthirsty tendencies got him noticed by the 'cons (ik ik i should check the tfwiki page on aligned Starscream for more info on that but let's be real canon went out the fragging window a long time ago)

I am ~unsure~ if all of Screamer's siblings should be all offlined, or if a few should be kicking around obscure and faded in the backround because sTARSCREAM FUCKING WON AND THEY CAN TAKE THEIR BULLYING AND STICK IT UP THEI—

Starscream is fucking delightful at managing people and resources, and iicr this is an underutilized fact of canon. Soundwave and him work together well.

Sdjfjjf okay so in the tfp au Starscream most definitely tried a few assassination attempts on Megatron in order to rise higher up, all that all hail Lord Starscream stuff, but these attempts were just... that bad that Soundwave and Megs deemed her not a major threat to the Cause and after a while Screamer calmed down it's all gucci they've dealt with it

Starscream, like Soundwave, extra doesn't like Optimus since the Orion arc began and they don't calm down on this angle for quite a while until necessity for working with him hits.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3

Chapter 22: July 2016

Tim had to fight down the urge to panic when he rolled over in the morning and realized he was alone in the bed. The bed was cold, the pillow undisturbed, but that didn’t mean anything, he told himself firmly. After all, Jon’s clothes were still where he’d left them the night before, wadded into a forlorn little ball, so he couldn’t have gone far. Probably he’d just gone to the bathroom.

Swinging his legs out of the bed, Tim crossed over to where he’d left his own clothes, folded on the dresser. Strange that Jon, who was usually meticulous and exacting about everything, hadn’t even bothered piling his clothes neatly, although the slightly stretched-out jumper Martin had draped around his shoulders was laid out almost reverently. As Tim pulled on his trousers, though, he stopped, noticing the stains and smears on the khaki bundle on the floor.

Of course. Jon had been hurt, pretty badly—likely Martin had too. He’d bled onto his clothes, and they were smeared with…whatever Prentiss and the worms had left behind on things. Corruption, Tim thought. His stomach flipped at the thought.

Yeah, they were going to have to burn those, he could see that a mile away.

The press of his bladder was getting too great to ignore, so Tim just grabbed his shirt and headed into the hallway, trying to remember which door Melanie had said was the bathroom. He found it quickly enough—the door was slightly ajar—and slipped in to take care of business. Once done, and as presentable as he was going to get, he went in search of anybody.

The house was built in a square pattern that looped back in on itself, and after passing a couple of doors that were still firmly shut, he found himself stepping through an open archway and into a bright, cheerful kitchen. It was far larger and more open than he would have expected, well-appointed and well-lit, a few plants in pots on the windowsill and a round, well-scrubbed table off to one side. Melanie stood at the sink, rinsing something off.

Tim cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her. “Uh, morning. Have you seen—”

Melanie shushed him and jerked her head towards a door behind her. “In there. Keep your voice down.”

Slightly bewildered, Tim went over to the other door and eased it open, revealing the living room they’d sat in the night before. Martin was still in the loveseat, his feet propped up on the coffee table, sound asleep in nothing but a vest and a pair of loose cotton shorts. The bigger shock to Tim was that Jon was there as well, also sound asleep but cuddled up against Martin’s side, Martin’s arm draped around Jon’s shoulders and pulling him snug. His face pressed against Martin’s chest had warped his glasses slightly askew.

Tim withdrew into the kitchen and pulled the door most of the way closed. “Should we go in there and, I don’t know, at least take their glasses off?” He at least understood why she’d said to keep his voice down. They both had to be exhausted.

Melanie shook her head. “Well, you know Sims better than I do, I don’t know him well enough to know if he’d be okay with someone messing about with his face when he’s asleep. But there are too many people in the house for Martin to sleep with his glasses off.”

Tim closed the door the rest of the way and drifted uncertainly towards Melanie. “What do you mean? Uh, can I do anything to help?”

“You can stir the filling. Even if Andy didn’t take the food processor with him when he left, it’s still cheating.” Melanie set a bowl on the counter and headed for the fridge. “Martin’s thing with being able to see Marks is stronger when he’s not wearing his glasses. And he’s tired and hurt. The glasses give him at least a little bit of control over it.”

“He needs that,” Tim agreed softly. There’d been precious little in his life Martin had been able to control in the last few months.

He washed his hands while Melanie dumped ingredients into the bowl. As she handed him a fork, she asked, “Your last name’s Stoker, you said?”

“Yeah?”

“Any relation to Danny Stoker? The model? You look kind of like him.”

Tim froze, just for a second. Striving to keep his voice even, he said, “Yeah, he was my brother.”

Melanie stiffened, obviously having caught the verb tense. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Tim mumbled what he hoped was acceptance of her apology, and they lapsed into silence. He didn’t know exactly what they were making, but it didn’t take a genius to guess what he was supposed to do with the sugar and cheese in the bowl in front of him while Melanie worked with something else. After a few minutes, without looking up at him, she said, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

For a horrible minute, Tim thought she knew something about Danny, about how he died—and really, if anyone would know, it would be Martin and his siblings. “What?”

“Yesterday. The whole thing with Jane Prentiss. Anything that’s happened to Martin. It isn’t your fault.” Melanie scowled at him, but it wasn’t unfriendly. “You couldn’t have known.”

Tim tried to laugh. “Reading minds, Ms. King?”

“I know big brothers,” Melanie pointed out. “I’ve got two of them. And it’s not like I never feel responsible when something happens to them, and I’m the baby.”

“Martin’s older than you, then?”

“Technically. We’re nine weeks apart. Practically twins, really. But of the three of us, he’s the caretaker.” Melanie whisked furiously. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re changing the subject. He does that, too.”

Tim managed a smile. “Touché. Seriously, though…I should have checked on him. Wouldn’t you have? If he’d—if she’d texted you to tell you he was staying home sick?”

“If she’d texted me, I’d have gone straight to the Institute and laid everything out for you lot first, so we could have formulated a plan.”

“A plan? To take care of Martin?”

“To save him.” Melanie sighed at Tim’s bewildered expression. “Look, I’ve known Martin for twenty years. In that entire time, he’s been sick enough that he’s actually taken time off to heal once, and it was less that we convinced him to take care of himself and more that he fainted and spent the next three days with a fever so high he was delirious. He’s the kind of guy who says ‘I’ve just got a bit of a headache’ when he’s dealing with a migraine so severe he can’t see more than an inch in front of his face, or that he’s ‘a touch tired’ when he’s running on three hours of sleep in four days. For him to actually call off work, he’d have to be actively dying, and even then I wouldn’t put it past him to drag himself in if he thought it wasn’t contagious and he’d make it through the day so you wouldn’t have to be inconvenienced by his corpse in the middle of the office.”

Tim’s stomach lurched. “If I’d known that, I’d have been over there that first day.”

Melanie raised an eyebrow at him. He knew that expression—had got it from Danny more than a few times. “And you’d have walked straight into Jane Prentiss completely unprepared.”

“And Martin wouldn’t have been trapped for two weeks.”

“Yeah, all right, maybe. But do you have any idea what it would have done to him if you’d been hurt or killed checking on him? He’d never forgive himself. Hell, it took Gerry almost four years to convince him it wasn’t his fault he’d gone to jail, and he didn’t even have anything to do with what happened to Mary.”

“He worries too much,” Tim muttered, as if that wasn’t the biggest case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Melanie actually cracked a smile. “We’ve been saying that for years.”

She went over to the fridge and bent down to do something—Tim couldn’t see what—but she spoke without raising her head. “If you’re going out to smoke, go the long way around. Martin’s still asleep.”

Tim turned, surprised, to see Gerard standing—lurking really—in the doorway behind him. “I wasn’t going out to smoke.”

Melanie snorted as she extracted herself. “Is that because you’re finally actually going to quit this time, or because you don’t have a pack handy?”

“Martin’s still asleep, you said?” Gerard rolled his eyes at Tim, but he’d seen the flash of guilt in them before he crossed the room to the opposite door.

“I don’t think he’s had much lately,” Tim volunteered. “I mean, sleeping in the Archives isn’t exactly restful.”

Gerard eased the door to the living room opened and peered into it, then closed it carefully and turned back around, eyebrows raised as he looked at Melanie. Tim thought he was going to comment on Jon and Martin cuddling, but what he said was, “Hell of a peace offering.”

“Make yourself useful, or get the fuck out of my kitchen,” Melanie grumbled.

Tim shifted slightly to make room for Gerard as he came over and reached into the cabinet above his head and got a smile for it. It was a bit off-kilter and tired, but surprisingly attractive. Tim found himself automatically returning it. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, actually.” Gerard sounded surprised. “Didn’t think I would, but I did. You?”

“I did, thanks.” Tim glanced at the jar Gerard pulled out of the cupboard. “Cherry preserves?”

Gerard nodded, running his thumb over the seal. “When did you buy this, Neens?”

“Just after your birthday,” Melanie answered.

She wasn’t looking at Gerard, but Tim saw the look of panic flash across his face. Dropping his voice low enough that Melanie—hopefully—couldn’t hear him, he said, “Three months ago. It’s the end of July.”

“Thanks,” Gerard muttered. He set the jar on the counter and peered into Tim’s bowl. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

“I’ve made plenty of cannoli in my time.” Tim shrugged. “Mum’s parents came over from Italy during the war.”

“What part?”

“Not sure. They never really talked about it.”

Gerard hummed and unhooked a thin, shallow pan from the rack. “You could probably look it up.”

Tim checked the consistency of his mixture and set to with the fork again. “I never saw the point, really. Nonno always said there was nothing for them back there, so I reckon anything they did leave behind, they wanted left there.” He’d always suspected his grandfather was a deserter, actually, or at least that he’d fled to avoid being conscripted.

Gerard nodded solemnly. “Sometimes the past should stay in the past.”

Melanie took the pan from Gerard. To Tim, she asked, “Do you eat bacon? I won’t ask you to cook it if you don’t, but Gerry would burn a salad.”

“I only did that once,” Gerard protested.

Tim tried not to laugh too loudly. “I can do bacon. You’d think we’d be vegetarians at this point, but…”

“Gotta take pleasure where you can, mate,” Gerard said, clapping him on the shoulder. His hand was like ice.

The door opened a few minutes later as Melanie was swatting at Gerard’s hands with a spatula to keep them away from the first of the incredibly thin pancakes she’d turned out. Martin slipped into the room and froze briefly when he saw Tim, then relaxed and forced a smile. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

“Like a rock. How are you feeling?” Tim reached out to touch his shoulder, then stopped, not sure if he could or even if he should.

“Okay, I guess.” Martin rubbed his forehead and accepted a hug from Melanie, which made Tim feel a bit worse. “I don’t suppose you grabbed any of my trousers when you were digging through the stuff Mrs. Mattson tossed out, did you?”

“No, just your papers and jumpers.” Melanie looked a little embarrassed. “It’s…I mean, if you don’t—”

“I can run back to the Archives,” Tim volunteered, a bit hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, or if he’d be able to, but…“Your stuff should still be there.”

“If it’s not covered in ichor. Or residue.” Martin sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll…deal.”

Melanie cleared her throat. “Um. I do still have everything Steph made in my closet. You know, as an alternative to the Trousers of Trauma.”

Gerard turned away for a moment. Martin looked like he was about to protest, then snorted. “You know what, can’t hurt at this point. I’ll be right back.” He slipped into the hallway without another word.

Tim flipped the bacon carefully. “Who’s Steph?”

“Pete’s ex-girlfriend—that’s Peter Warhol, the sound guy for Ghost Hunt UK,” Melanie added. “She’s a fashion designer and she was planning to audition for some big thing a few years back, but she’d never designed for plus-sized models and she thought it’d give her an edge. Martin was the only person any of us knew who could be considered ‘plus-size’, so we talked him into being her model.”

Having only ever seen Martin in collared shirts and worn khakis obviously purchased off the rack at a charity shop, Tim was momentarily distracted by the thought of him in a bespoke suit. Before he could make a complete ass of himself, or burn the bacon, the door opened again and Jon came in. Tim took one look at his face and said, “He’s getting dressed. Morning, boss.”

From the way Jon relaxed, Tim knew he’d been right about what was worrying him. “Good morning, Tim. I—thank you. I, uh, I should…probably get dressed as well.”

“In what? Unless you packed a spare change of clothes yesterday, what you were wearing when you turned up was pretty near ruined,” Melanie pointed out. She sounded annoyed, although Tim wasn’t sure about what. “You’re fine in what you’re wearing. Martin was just in his underthings.”

At that, Gerard turned around and gave Melanie a comically shocked look, which she ignored in a way that was painfully familiar. “Breakfast will be ready in a few. Hope you like cherries. Actually, I don’t care if you like cherries or not, that’s how things work.”

“When one is a guest in someone else’s house, one eats what is put in front of one,” Jon said automatically, like he was reciting a lesson, then seemed to catch himself. “I like cherries just fine. Um, is there, ah, anything I can do to…help?”

“You can set the table. Dishes are up there.” Melanie jerked her head at a cupboard. “And yes, I do actually mean those dishes.”

Jon gave Tim a slightly bewildered glance, but crossed over to the cupboard without another word.

Tim was starting to realize this was a ritual of some kind. Melanie and Gerard’s movements had a practiced familiarity to them that indicated they’d done this dance a thousand times, and Melanie’s insistence on things being done exactly right spoke less to a need for perfection and more to superstition. Whether Jon realized it or not was debatable, but he didn’t argue about laying out the plates, which looked far too fancy for a family breakfast to Tim. Jon, however, handled them as though they were perfectly ordinary, and he at least seemed to know not to ask questions. Or maybe he was too tired.

Sasha came through the kitchen door just as Melanie put the finishing touches on the pancakes, then glanced over her shoulder and held the door. “Morning—oh, that’s really nice. Is that a Stephanie Marchbank?”

Tim looked—and did a double-take as Martin paused in the doorway. He was wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been washed numerous times—and also probably hadn’t been his to begin with, since it was stretched tightly over his torso—tucked into the waistband of a tea-length, flared, pleated skirt in a buttery yellow. It flowed around Martin as he shifted, rippling in the light. It, unlike the shirt, had clearly been made especially for him; it actually flattered the shape of his lower body. He ran a hand down the front of it. “Yes, actually. How did you…?”

“I’ve got one of her suits; I recognize that waistline. It’s kind of her signature at this point.” Sasha nodded. “Looks good on you. That’s not off the rack, though, is it?”

“Uh…no. She was dating one of the Ghost Hunt UK people while she was putting together her portfolio for Finish Line Catwalk, and…I dunno, she thought being able to show she could design for a broader range of sizes might make the difference or something.” Martin shrugged as if it was no big deal, but those parts of his face not covered in bandages were starting to turn pink.

“Sasha’s right, it looks good on you,” Tim told him, and got the satisfaction of seeing that pink get more intense. He turned towards Jon, intending to rope him into the discussion, but the words died on his lips. Jon was staring at Martin with eyes so wide they seemed to fill his glasses, looking utterly dumbstruck. It did look good on Martin—Tim hadn’t been lying about that—but the look on Jon’s face could not more clearly have telegraphed the words oh no he’s hot if they’d been tattooed across his forehead in flashing neon.

Tim couldn’t help it—he grinned. “See? Jon agrees.”

Martin’s blush deepened further; Jon sputtered and quickly tore his gaze away. Gerard drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms over his chest, opening his mouth, but Melanie smacked his shoulder hard as she passed him. “Everyone sit down and eat.”

The pancakes looked and smelled amazing. Tim wasn’t a big fan of cherry preserves, but he didn’t argue when Melanie spooned them over the pancakes on his plate, and it turned out to be pretty good. The bacon had come out well, and there was plenty to go around. Tim was surprised to find he was actually hungry.

“We did miss dinner last night,” Sasha reminded him when he mentioned it. “Everything kicked off right after lunch, and I for one wasn’t thinking about food by the time it was all said and done.”

“No, nor was I,” Jon murmured. “There were…a lot of things I wasn’t thinking about.”

“We can talk about last night more after we’ve eaten,” Martin said, softly but firmly. “Don’t invite it to sit at table with us.”

Gerard broke off a piece of bacon. “Neens, how’s the show going? Look into anything interesting lately?”

Melanie paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and Tim noticed Martin’s hand tighten slightly on his mug. Her shoulders tensed. “We’re…on hiatus right now,” she began, then seemed to deflate. “Indefinitely. I, um, I don’t think it’s going to start up again.”

Gerard stiffened. “Why not? Is it Pete? I always thought that little shit was no good—”

“No. Well, he’s part of it, but it’s not just him. It just…we fell apart. Toni moved to Bristol in March, and never told me. I had to hear it from Pete, who said in the same call he was thinking about leaving, too. Then Andy said he wanted to take ‘a bit of a holiday’ from the show.” Melanie nudged a cherry around her plate for a moment before spearing it. “I thought we might keep it going with a new crew when he came back from his trip, but one morning I woke up and all his stuff was gone. And some of mine, too, I might add, but whatever. Not like I used the curlers that often anyway.”

“So you’re unemployed?”

“For the moment, yeah.”

Gerard hesitated. “Well. Um. Dumb question, but…”

“It’s all in storage, and the premises are currently being used as a secondhand clothing shop, but the lease is up at the end of the month and they’ve already said they don’t want to renew.” Melanie raised an eyebrow at Gerard’s slightly astonished look. “Don’t think I hadn’t already thought about that.”

“In that case, you’re hired. I was trying to work up the nerve to ask both of you to help me reopen it after I got back, anyway,” Gerard admitted. He shot a look at Martin and added, “Don’t worry, I won’t now. I know you can’t.”

Martin smiled feebly. “I’ll still help, you know.”

Melanie snorted. “I didn’t imagine we’d be able to stop you.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but he exchanged a glance with Sasha. Neither one of them would blame Martin for quitting after what they’d all gone through. It was just a question of whether he would, or whether he’d stay out of some misguided attempt to protect them. Or Jon.

Since asking about it would probably violate the don’t invite it to sit at table rule, Tim applied himself to his pancakes and tried not to think about how much lonelier the Archives would be without Martin in them.

[theroundbartable]

It is such a wild feeling when you're in class and make a claim, that to you has always just been a fact, that then makes everyone start to talk against you. But you still win the argument 30:1.

I had this discussion with my German teacher about the difference of "hauen" (punching) and "schlagen". There is a small, semantic difference between those two words that I picked on at the age of 12 years old while my teacher, a man who studied this field, did not. "Hauen" is less Impactful. It's when you would hit someone lightly without intention of seriously harming them. You can use it in the sense of "verhauen" (actually hurting someone) but its more of a phrasing that children would use. Or someone who was the victim of such bullying and wants to lessen the impact of what really happened to them. You would say "verprügeln", if it's really bad.

"schlagen" is much harsher than that. You cannot "verschlagen" someone because that word does not exist. But you can "erschlagen" someone, which is killing them. The sound to the word is much sharper too and I always treated the words separately. There is a semantic and phonological difference that I just ... Knew, i guess.

My teacher disagreed. We argued about this for several weeks. In the end, he had to make a class wide announcement that he thought about it and confirmed that I was right.

I didn't like the discussion. I didn't like winning the discussion either. I felt like shit about it and I hated how everyone made fun of me for my very logical argument.

The reason for that is that the whole thing started, because I hit someone with a book. I had been sick the week before and when I got back, I was told I had to hold a presentation that week... It was 10 minutes before that very lesson and I - someone who was so stressed by school work that to memorize poetry lines, I would physically harm myself by pulling at my own hair until I cried at every mistake- panicked. I hit her... And I regretted it the moment it was happening and I knew I had slowed down the book to avert harming her, but I couldn't fully stop it. I lost control and there was nothing I could do. (i later learned what the fear actually was. But I didn't know at the time, because I already had repressed some memories that made it all as bad as it was.) Needless to say, I ran away, frozen and unsure what I even did.

Someone told our German teacher. And he made it an immediate public affair.

He asked me what happened, why I did it and, because I didn't actually have to hold that presentation... Ever... Basically called it ridiculous. It wasn't even mentioned by our biology teacher. That's when he said I had "geschlagen" her.

I wanted to argue that it was not my Intention to hurt her. That I managed to stop myself from it going that bad. That's what started the discussion and I have been mad about it since.

A) he put the entire thing on public display. In front of all my classmates, asking me to explain myself, when really this publicity forced me to justify myself. Or try and deflect, which had not been my Intention. I just wanted to make clear what I really did. I couldn't explain why, because I didn't understand my own fear.

B) he got distracted by word choices he didn't get. And the topic was dropped and never picked up again, as he claimed "hauen" and "schlagen" were synonyms.

What was I supposed to learn from that? All your mistakes are a public affair? Mistakes get you humiliated? You cannot trust your teacher, because they don't care who know your problems and have no regard for privacy or whatever you may feel? Also your real issues don't matter, because the wording is more important?

If I was supposed to apologize to her, which I was already planning, as I was reflecting and dealing with my guilt, why the fuck did he get distracted by it? Why would he change the entire subject to that useless discussion?

If he wanted a bunch of friends to make up, why make it a public thing, where both parties are put on full display? Why make it in a setting, where one is forced to apologize and the other forced to accept it? She deserved to make that choice. She deserved to ignore me for a week before she were ready to trust me again. That choice was taken from her. My apology, which was supposed to be honest and a little painful, was taken from me.

I don't think he cared. I think he wanted to demonstrate his power over us. And he failed spectacularly.

Not only did he get distracted by phrasing. He was wrong about it. And lost against a 12 year old who then, one year later, when we were discussing onomatopoesie ("Lautmalerei"), brought it up again in spite. He spent three weeks thinking about it. He spent three weeks with it and forgot that he did it to humiliate me. And he lost. And it's a bit satisfying, but it's also so frustrating, because he fucked up my perception of teachers in the process.

Mistakes, to me, had been a potential thing that could already get you physically harmed. (My parents didn't ever physically harm me. But it had been threatened here and again and some of my siblings were not as lucky as I and I heard them cry and sometimes scream through the thick walls. And as I said, I harmed myself, because I thought I was stupid and stupidity deserved punishment) I now learned that if anyone finds out about your Problems, your choices would be taken from you. You would not be listened to. You would be placed into public display where everyone would, for years to come, make fun of you. You would force anyone involved with you in the same position and hurt them in the process.

That is, dear teacher, if you ever get to read this, what you put me through. I know I sound bitter about it and I am. It's been 12 years and I still look back on it sometimes. I still remember where I sat at that time, in the first row right in front of your table, where I thankfully didn't have to see my classmate's reaction. I remember that my friend sat two desks over to my right and only had to turn my head to see her. I didn't. Hoping that if I didn't look, she wouldn't say anything. And despairing because all eyes were on me, as I tried to explain things that took me 10 years to figure out.

If you are a teacher, pull your students aside. Talk with them outside. Pretend you have a Task for them, whatever. But give them room to explain themselves. And if they can't, help them to work it out or give them room to do it on their own. Don't argue their word choices. Listen to what they mean. They will be distressed and confused. Don't make it about articulation. Pull both parties aside separately and then together and work it out at their own pace. Don't force frienships to mend. You're not mending anything. You're sticking glue on an infected wound. And these children are human who have every right to be upset when they've been hurt.

Be someone that child can trust.

[kiribaku]

lrb is also partly the reason why I think whiteness in the balkans is very interesting and a topic to look into. absolutely ppl in europe who share their culture with western asia and the like are still in fact white (if they are white) but it's still very interesting how it affects our ways of thinking. unfortunately the west has poisoned the minds of slavs and everyone is mega racist now even tho it wasn't like that just a 100 years ago :(

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober day 8: Everything Hurts and Im Dying

Fandom: Merlin

Prompts;

Stomach pain

Head Trauma

Back from the dead

Havent touched Merlin for awhile, since I was mad at the ending, but lets do this. So lets go with the timeline of "Arthur knew of Merlins magic a bit sooner than his damn death." And the one where the knights kinda knew too, it took awhile, but they also knew before Arthur.

Merlin stares out the window of the coffee shop, watching the park across the street bustle with activity. Even after all this time, he still cant help but think about how different things were before. How sports have gone from duels and jousting, to games where you pass things back and forth.

He can imagine his friends, staring with him, he think a few would probably like or even prefer these games, but also the faces of scrutiny from others. How there would be bets and goading until they all ended up at the park to try it out...

He wonders how their lives would have differed, if they'd been raised in this time instead. Would Morgana have found a way to thrive? Would Uther have been so... him? Would everyone have found a way to be happier and safe and alive?? Would he have had to watch a whole world change and disappear? Watch his friends leave him?

He shakes the thoughts from his head, it was no use dwelling now. He just needed to come to terms with the fact that... he would be alone forever, in a world that no longer seemed to need a King. Which was fine! Why would he want to watch the ones he loves die again?? Hes been alone this long, he could deal with it.

He sighs to himself, before taking his leave, it was best to head home when his brain got like this. To read and let his magic surround him in the safety of his property, until his mind quieted enough for him to continue on. Merlin stuffs his hands into the pockets of his light jacket and keeps his head down as he makes his way through the crowds. He makes a turn where the crowds thin, and finds his head being aquanted with a plank of wood.

He supposes thats another way to clear his mind.

...

Merlin supposes that he probably jinxed himself.

The world was always listening, and he figures it probably finds him ungrateful or something, which he probably is. So now it was going to give him something to complain about, like a mother tweaking the ear of a spoiled acting child. He didnt think he was necessarily spoiled, but he could see how this could maybe get him out of the rutt he was stuck in.

After all it'd been awhile since he was kidnapped.

Given, this one would be a little harder than the others to escape. What with the glyphs carved into the manicle around his ankle, and the blaring headache that was making any sort of concentration difficult. And, Whoever captured him this time, knew what they were doing, he felt like Kilgharrah in the cave beneath the castle.

"Are you awake demon?"

Ah, so one of those cooks.

"Holding your tongue will not gain you anything. Grant me what I want and maybe there will be mercy in your future."

Why is this his life? This guy was a headache on top of a headache. He doesnt deign the guy with a response, hes perfectly fine trying to get his head to stop spinning, and then find a way out of her.

"Fine, we shall see who can outlast who."

He's left alone, in a mostly dark, dank basement of sorts. In a cage and magic bound, with a head doing its best impression or a basket ball dribble, and an eery silence he wishes would leave him alone.

...

For someone who cant die, Merlin can get hungry. Of course, he doesn't have to eat all the time, but it helps with energy and keeps him from being utterly miserable, and helps with healing and stuff. He doesnt like the feeling of being hungry of course, the pain that comes from a stomach trying to eat itself is less than pleasant.

But it does let him know that he's been here long enough to be this hungry. A week, maybe a week and a half, two at most.

Its annoying really, more than anything, unable to use his magic more than a few sparks, unable to move more than the chain and cage allow, and the hunger pains that wrack through his stomach often enough leave him curled up. He'd much rather be moping at home, or finding something to fill his time, or even plotting his next life. Not sitting here, a prisoner to a meer imbecile.

He comes down every so often, Merlin estimates it could be every other day, but his head has yet to clear enough to really measure any time beyond how painful anything is. Which is why the sound of footsteps on the stairs doesnt startle him, even if he's sure he just saw the man. He stays curled in his corner of the cage, arm wrapped around his stomach as another wave of pain wracks his weakened frame.

The footsteps stop at the front of his cage, slide abit to indicate a crouch, this is new but Merlin does not move, he will not give the man that satisfaction.

"I know its been awhile, but a smile would be nice."

His head snaps up faster than it should, a sharp pain and wave of dissiness hitting him, hes glad for an empty stomach then, lest he lose what he had.

"Easy there."

As his vision clears, he sees the owner of the voice, he wonders if its his mind playing tricks, but hes just different enough to make him think otherwise. Hair a little longer, face younger, but his eyes exactly the way he remembered,

"Lancelot?"

"There you are buddy. Looking a little rough there Merlin, think you can hang on a little longer?" Lancelot holds out a sandwich of all things, and as Merlin tentatively reaches forward and is able to take the food, hes finally convinced, he takes his friends hand and is sure he'd cry if he was able.

"You're really here?" He asks to be sure, and Lancelot gives a sad smile.

"I am, and Im pretty sure the others are too. Kinda funky being brought back as myself and not a puppet, but its good to see you Merlin."

"But, Albion doesnt really exist anymore, theres no kingdom for you all to save." Merlin doesnt understand, Albions need was supposed to bring Arthur back, and yet Albion is no more, how is Lancelot here?

"You're still here arent you? You really think we'd stay away from you?" His grin is as handsome and cocky as it always was, "Im afraid I have to go Merlin, but we'll get you out, just hang on a little longer."

"Tables have turned huh?" Merlin tries for a grin, but doubt sinks in, "this isn't a trick right? Its... a little hard to believe."

Lancelot squeezes his hand,

"Have faith my friend, we're with you always."

And its only the fact he walks out, with another reassuring smile, and he can hear the door open and close, that keeps that hope alive. That the sandwich doesnt turn to dust in his hands or mouth is another relief, even if it sits rather heavy in his stomach as its energy is eaten through quickly. Nausea waves through him, and he forces the food to stay down, before hes left feeling empty once more, if not less shaky.

He doesnt fully understand how he could have been what brought them back from the dead, but if it was true... well maybe the world was finally answering his grief.

...

Coming back to life was weird.

Reincarnation was different than necromancy, and this felt different than reincarnation, if that made any since. Sure they all looked the same, if missing some scars and stress marks, but they hadn't remembered who they were until a week ago. At precisely the same time, that they could tell anyway, they collapsed and were practically dead. Coming back with memories of old, and of the lives they had in this century, but also with a new feeling in their guts.

Now Lancelot knew the feeling of Merlins magic much more than the others did- or rather could recognize it since their varied knowledge of said magic- and this feeling reminded him of it. And it was this feeling that had them all ending up in the same place, the place where Merlin was being held.

Lancelot had been the first to arrive, he had been close, mearly a bus ride away. But Percival hadnt been far behind him, that was his first clue that the others had to have come back as well. He couldnt bare to have Merlin so close and not give him some hope, so with Percy on watch, Lancelot had visited the warlock. The sight had nearly killed him again, and he vowed to run the man through for hurting his friend.

But this was a new world, and so he and Percy decided it best to wait for the others, at least for a short while, to devise a plan that wouldnt have them tried as murderers. And until then, joining the cult was easy, holding back on knocking heads harder but managable, for Merlin they'd behave, unless of course they caused further harm, but they would not fail him.

Not again.

...

Arthur was pissed to say the least. Coming back only to find Merlin in trouble and a world that was so different from the one he'd given his life for, was unsettling to say the least. But mostly, the fact someone was picking on his idiot, he would not let that stand.

It helps that his sister in this life is a lawyer and has rubbed off on him enough to know exactly what to do. And with his men with him, well, no one would stand between them and their much needed reunion.

...

He wakes, after an unwitting sleep- thinking it was nothing but a dream. His stomach still wishes him dead, and his head- though a bit clearer- still smarts with a wicked headache.

He releases another few whisps from his hand, simply to remind himself of what his magic is, even at the cost of a burning ankle. He will have this shackle destroyed somehow, whenever he does make it out of here- and he will, this man will make a mistake soon enough.

Said man makes another visit, though this time he seems fit to follow through on previous threats. A taser of all things is unexpected, and painful, but also not as bad as quite a few things from past lives. Still, he convulses, crumples into a heap on his side, but glares at his captor.

"The only thing you'll receive from me, is a curse. Clotpole." He manages, past a dry thoat and aching lungs.

"So he speaks. Perhaps a while longer and you'll be more... aggreable."

The man walks away once more and Merlin lays his head on the cool floor of his cage. He'd been through worse, but at least then he'd had a purpose, something to look forward to. He was so tired.

...

Elyon didnt know what this guy wanted, but if he really thought this would get him anywhere, he was dumber than he thought. The only thing he was doing was unknowingly giving them more reason to leave him for dead.

And boy did they feel no remorse in it.

This guy had a long list of crimes, sins, and dirty deeds. And this cult and its members were much of the same. They'd be doing the world a service to say the least, and Elyon knew they all looked forward to walking away with Merlin in hand.

They didnt come back for nothing after all.

The plan had come quickly, Arthur was ruthlessly efficient as he laid it out for them, and it wouldnt be hard to accomplish. The cult had gatherings- summoning attempts and the like- nearly weekly, and it was the perfect time to act.

While Arthur, Lancelot, and Gwaine would get Merlin, the rest of them would ensure this summoning ended in fire. An easy accident to have, or an offering/summoning gone wrong, all likely and believable conclusions. They'd make sure of it.

...

Gwaine percures the keys, a slip of hands for both the cage lock and ankle shakel was easy enough, the leader really was an idiot. Slipping off as the others gather is easy enough too, and while they want a piece of destroying this man, Merlin came first.

As they make their way down the stairs, Gwaine is not fully prepared for the sight. Lancelot had of course warned them, that Merlin was in bad shape, that he'd been through a lot, though none of them quite knew what. They were mostly relieved he seemed to remember them, and their life before, and even seemed to have magic... and the more Gwaine thought on it the more things didnt add up, or well, painted an ugly picture. But that wasnt important right now, they could make up for lost time later, for now they needed to get him out of here.

Three weeks down here was too long for their friend, and they swore it would never happen again.

Merlin stays curled on his side, hair falling over his closed eyes, though its obvious hes not asleep, tense as he is. Lancelot crouches low as Gwaine starts on the three locks on the cage.

"Merlin, we're here. Im sorry it took so long, but we're getting you out of here."

The man doesnt answer, though a tremble starts in his limbs that worries them all. Arthur steps forward then, keeping an ear on the door,

"Come now Merlin, I surely dont pay you to lay around all day."

That has him moving a bit, head turning just slightly for an eye to peak through the hair, squinting at the three of them with scrutiny. Gwaine get the door open and enters slowly, hands out in hopes he doesnt spook his friend.

"Gonna get that nasty shakle off yeah?" He asks, trying for soothing.

"Wasnt a dream?" He asks, voice a little slurred and hoarse from either disuse or dryness or both.

"We're here Merlin. And we're getting you out."

...

They watch the estate burn for bit, far enough from the city to bask for a moment, before they take Merlin far away. Hes skinny and tired, eyes telling them they missed a lot, but hes alive.

And maybe, maybe he didnt come back from the dead like they did. But as they assure him of their pressence, a little bit of life blooms in those georgous eyes of his. And things start to feel whole.

[andywinter16]

Hi lovely! If you’re still taking requests for the Fluff Bingo (I know I’m massively late and it doesn’t matter if you’re not!), can I get Love Letter with Nyx please??

Hiiii! @olliepig :) Of course, let me find my inner inspiration... Okie dokie! (Also you´re not late!)  Prepare your handkerchief! And I should apologize it´s fluff with angst. (I had urge to handwrite the letter which I did, but then you wouldn't be able to read it, yeah my handwriting is that bad :( )

You had a long and hard day at HQ. Drautos was training you all drills for four fucking hours! You were so exhausted when you went to your locker room, that you almost missed  the letter attached to your closet. For Y/N, was  simply written there. Little wary, you opened the letter, wondering if it´s some kind of prank. The letter itself looked quite plain. Did you smell a cologne on the letter or was your exhausted mind playing tricks on you? You were curious, who would give you that letter, since everyone from Kingsglaive had each other phone numbers. Yet deep down you apreciated such lovely gesture. In this busy and chaotic time someone took the time to write you. So you dive head in into the letter.

Dear Y/N,

 This may be a bit strange for you. Well, I had feeling this is the best way how to tell you and not to make a fool of myself. This will sound a bit cheessy but ... The first time I had laid my eyes on you I was taken aback, you bewitched me. You, newbie, with eyes full of wonder and resolve to change the world for better. You were kind and not afraid to bite back. This job hardened all of us, broke us down but not you... Y/N you're caring nature toward all of us, made us feel human again. You gave us hope that nothing was lost, you give me hope for better future. Despite all my bariers that i set, all my efforts to back off, I fell for you, hard. 

I have fully got it when you saved my life from that ugly behemoth and in turn got injured. Fuck, I was so mad that you would throw your precious life for me Y/N. I went  after you to the hospital. I was determined to sit there at your bed till you would wake up and scold you for that recklessnes. Soon enough Crowe and Libertus kicked my ass out there, because I was supposedly neglecting my own health. (Can you believe that?) 

I am truly sorry for being such coward, but good things doesn´t happen to me. I just lost too much Y/N, If I had lost you ... So I bootled my feelings, lying to myself that being your trusted friend is surely enough for me. Well jokes on me, it seriously wasn´t. Everytime you went out on date, I dearly wished it was me in their place. Oh, how my blood boiled when Tredd was being too “friendly and touchy” with you. UGH! My squad wouldn´t stop teasing me about it, especially Crowe with Luche and Pelna, they even made bets when I will confess to you. Assholes, all of them. 

Truth is as cocky and confident as I am, when I am in your presence I am just plain old Nyx from Galadh, not the Hero of Kingsglaive. You made me lose words Y/N, and every time I felt I could tell you, my mind backtracked that I wasn´t good enough for you. I fully understand, If ... If you doesn´t feel the same way Y/N. After all you are too precious and good to be with someone like me, a refugee without anything to offer. But trust me onto this, I will always be there for you no matter what. I´d fight a hundred more wars to know that there would be peace for you. 

You are my heart and home,

I love you Y/N

Nyx

[conkers-thecosy]

Bagginshield-tober / Day 4 / Company

Hey folks! Here's my offering for day four of the lovely @smolestboop's "Bagginshield-tober" prompt list 💛

You can also find these little snippets compiled into one fic on AO3

*Warnings for nightmares and light trauma symptoms.*

~*~*~

It took a lot to break the will of Thorin Oakenshield.

The madness of his grandfather had not broken him. The dragon and destruction of his home had not broken him. The years of wandering and starvation, and leading a grieving and desolate people had not broken him. Not even the death of his younger brother, nor the loss of his father had broken him. 

Immovable. Headstrong. Unyielding.

His mother had often called him pig-headed, though with the love and fondness that came from one who knew it would be the source of great strength for him over the years. His sister had called him muleish, though with more exasperation than their mother ever had. Strong-willed, Balin had told him, kindly, and with great sadness before he had left to head back West with Bilbo.

Bilbo.

Nothing had ever swayed Thorin from a decision he had made, no one could talk him out of a course of action that he had become set upon. He would always plant his feet and stand firm, determined and unwavering in the face of all things… save for one small Hobbit.

“No… no, please… don’t…”

Sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and hands in his hair, Thorin could only listen to the quiet cries of his dearest friend and greatest love from the room next door. It was agony to feel so useless, to be so close, and yet unable to do anything. He had promised himself he would give Bilbo the space he needed to deal with his trauma, knowing full well it had come at Thorin’s own hands in the first place. He shook with the silent desperation of wanting to make this right, of needing to offer comfort, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

It might even make things worse, he tried to reason with himself, as another small whimper sliced through his already broken heart. For Bilbo to dream so fearfully of what had passed between them on top of the ramparts, Thorin deep in his madness, twisted by the lure of the Arkenstone. It would be cruel for him to awaken to the face of his aggressor, who so haunted his nights. He would wake soon, anyway. He always woke himself, then settled fairly quickly afterwards. All Thorin had to do was wait…

“Thorin!”

At the terrified cry of his own name, he could not help himself. He was on his feet and through Bilbo’s door before he even registered what he had done, and the Hobbit was awake, his eyes wide and fearful and hurt, and Thorin knew he had made a mistake, but he had been seen now, he was here, and what was he to do…? 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said again, looking right at him with the fear melting away to be replaced by something akin to relief. His hair was a mess, sticking out wildly in all directions, his sheets rucked up, and one of his pillows had fallen to the floor beside his bed from where he had been shifting about so restlessly. Thorin saw all this, but it was eclipsed by Bilbo reaching out a small, shaking hand to him, and speaking with a tremor in his voice. “Please?”

Again, Thorin moved on impulse, unable to ignore such a plea. He walked quickly to Bilbo’s bedside and took the outstretched hand as gently as he could. Bilbo grasped him with both hands then, and pressed his knuckles to his forehead in an oddly reverent manner. 

“You’re real,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re alive, and you’re here.”

“You… you feared me dead?”

Bilbo didn’t look at him, didn’t move even a muscle save from the trembling of his small frame. “I dream of it all the time. That I was too late to warn you on Ravenhill, that I stayed to argue with Gandalf instead of immediately coming to find you. I dream that… that Fili and Kili… that they died horrifically and senselessly, and that you… you were… on the ice, bleeding to death, and I could do nothing but hold your hand and watch. It… it feels so real, Thorin. I am so afraid that I will wake and it will all be real, and you won’t be here.”

Thorin could hardly believe what he was hearing, even as the words came tumbling out of the still shaking Hobbit like a shameful confession. He knelt, very slowly so as not to startle Bilbo, clasping his other, much larger hand over the two small ones still holding onto him tightly, as if afraid he would vanish otherwise. 

He wanted to ask if Bilbo truly meant what he said, if it was not Thorin’s rage and threats at the gates that caused him to cry out in the darkness with fear, but he already knew the answer. Bilbo was not a liar, and even if he stretched the truth occasionally, there was no way even his quick tongue could have fabricated such sorrow and heartbreak in such a manner. It was so earnest and true, there could be no questioning the sincerity of his words.

All this time Thorin had stayed away, thinking his presence would only make things worse, when in fact proof of his life and continued existence was what would bring the Hobbit comfort most. He felt like a prize fool for not asking, simply asking, too stuck in his own guilt to offer what aid he could. 

“I could stay, if you would like?” he offered quietly, then shrank back a little as Bilbo looked up in surprise. “Only if you would like me to. I could fetch a chair and sit by the bed until you fall asleep?”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, still wide eyed, though his face a little darker from the blush that would be staining his cheeks. “Well, I would feel terrible making you sit up so that I might rest…”

“We both know I’m not sleeping, anyway,” Thorin brushed this concern aside with a wry smile, immediately feeling better for acknowledging their shared troubles. “If you would like my company, I would be more than willing to stay.” 

Bilbo fidgeted a little, then released Thorin’s hands slowly. For a moment the dwarf thought he was about to be told no, that he had misread the situation after all, and was perhaps over-stepping some kind of personal boundaries, until Bilbo scooted across the bed and patted the mattress beside himself in invitation. 

“I’ll not have you in a chair all night, but perhaps we might both sleep a little better for some company?”

It took a lot to break the will of Thorin Oakenshield, but in this instance, he found no will to be broken - only a relieved acceptance, as he passed the night beside the one he loved, and they both found a little peace.

[salem-speaks]

It’s so funny bc I always thought that I hated giving gifts but it turns out that I like giving gifts but only if they’re handmade, or some fifty-cent trinket I found that made me think of you, or a ziploc bag full of shells, or a smooth skipping rock that I saw by the lake. I don’t like buying people brand name clothes or airpods or watches that have to cost a certain amount of money. I like making them a pin that’s made of mod-podge and magazine clippings. I like to receive soda can tabs so I can make more pins to give away so that I can get more soda can tabs from you specifically. I like going to the swap meet and giving people that I’ve never met before gifts of a shirt or a pair of pants that we’ve worn on specific days in our lives that we remember fondly or with distaste, bartering poetry books for potatoes. Actually I do like giving gifts. The point is that it’s free, and freely given, and only worth something because it reminds you of me, and me of you.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 22 - Modern Brumaria

This is probably the future of the Soldier Boy AU, or any other universe with gang!Kamaria. Also it's much longer than my other Whumptober fills because I'd already been working on it before Whumptober. Bruno belongs to Izzy and is used with her blessing!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Masterlist

No. 22: Vehicular Accident

Contains: lady whump, broken bones, dislocation, mild gore, head injury, referenced panic attack, referenced trauma, hospital mention, kidnapping mention, delirium, whipping mention, romance

.

.

This day has completely sucked. Well, it started out normally enough, but then she’d been triggered in the grocery store of all places when she saw a bald white man who reminded her of Roderick. And trying to hold the panic inside because she was in public just made the fallout ten times worse when she finally gave in. Always does, as Bruno likes to point out. Never stops her, though, she’s too stubborn for her own good - another bit of Bruno wisdom that he needs to turn on himself.

He and Shadi have tried their best to make the rest of the afternoon not suck, they really have. But come evening, Kamaria is still feeling off. She needs air. She needs to just not think for a while, which is what she tells her husband as she slips into her leather jacket and boots and straps her knife to her hip. 

“Be careful, love.” He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, concern etched into his handsome features. “And call if you need anything.”

“I will.” She’s not sure who looks more pitiful, Bruno or Shadi, as they watch her reach for the door. She gives one a smile and one a scratch behind the ear, then heads to the garage. 

The rumble of her bike underneath her automatically eases a little of the tension in her shoulders. Driving it far too fast, zipping around curves and past cars with the landscape flying by in too much of a blur to decipher, is even better. All of her concentration has to go into handling the bike. She doesn’t have any time to think about anything else. 

Once she’s way out of town and her mind isn’t so much of a swirling mess, she slows down and sits up straighter, raising her visor so that the wind can hit her skin. It’s nearing dark, and the roads out here are practically empty. Her thoughts slowly move back toward the grocery store, to Roderick and the feeling of being caught doing something she shouldn’t be that had overwhelmed her in that moment, but it doesn’t bring the same buzzing sensation beneath her skin as earlier. 

What would the real Roderick actually think, if he could see her living this life, going out and buying groceries whenever she needs them instead of living off of stolen goods, peaceful and happy with a husband and two dogs and a house of their own and absolutely no one to punish them for their mistakes?

He’d hate it, that’s for sure. But he’s not around anymore, so what he thinks doesn’t matter.

She’s getting closer to being ready to go back home, but before she’s made up her mind to actually turn around, a rumble of thunder sounds above the motorcycle‘s engine. Kamaria glances up at the sky. While she was lost in thought, dark clouds had rolled in, looming heavily overhead. 

Guess that’s my cue.

Checking for oncoming traffic, she U-turns and starts back toward home, picking up her speed just a bit. Fat drops of rain plop loudly onto her helmet. Within seconds, they’ve turned smaller and more and more frequent, until she’s being pelted in the face and has to use one hand to slam her visor back shut. The road is already soaked, so she keeps her pace around the speed limit. 

A few minutes into the trip, headlights are reflecting in her mirrors. They’re too bright to see what kind of car it is, but whoever’s driving is clearly impatient, coming up close behind her and hovering. Kamaria just rolls her eyes and resists the urge to slow down even more. There’s no one else anywhere around, just the two of them, the wet road, and the trees, so it’s not like they can’t pass her if they’re that desperate. 

Which they do, though not before tailing her long enough to make sure she understands their aggravation. Engine revving, the car pulls into the oncoming lane and comes flying by. She doesn’t even have time to react to slow down and let them get back into the lane. Just before they’ve fully passed her, they swerve back over, clipping the front of her bike with their back bumper. 

Her front wheel immediately dives to the side. She jerks the handlebars hard back into place, but there’s not enough traction on the slippery road. In the blink of an eye she’s spinning out, careening toward the edge of the road and the trees. 

The motorcycle tips as it reaches the grass. Her leg hits the ground first, pinned underneath the body of the bike, followed swiftly by the rest of her, head rattling inside her helmet as it slams into the pavement. That’s not the end of it, though. The bike is falling, dragging her with it, off the side of the road and down the steep embankment. It slams into a tree and she finally tumbles free from it, but by then it’s too late. She can’t stop. She’s rolling, violently, hitting trees, flipping, and rolling some more, everything a blur of brown and green and pain. Somewhere along the way she loses her helmet. 

By the time she comes to a stop, she’s lost consciousness, as well.

…

It’s unclear how much time has passed when she wakes. She’s barely even aware that she was unconscious at all, only that she opens her eyes to a dark canopy of trees overhead and rain dripping in her face. Wincing and blinking it away, she tries to turn her head to the side and is met with blinding pain shooting streaks of lightning through her vision. 

It takes a moment before she can see straight and breathe again. Moving very, very slowly this time, she cranes her neck to look back up the hill toward the road…the road that isn’t in sight at all. She fell a long way. She can’t see her bike, either, so she can only hope that it’s somewhere up top, still visible to passersby. 

Coaxing the arm that hurts the least into motion, she fumbles for her pocket. Empty. No phone, of course, that would make this far too easy. 

Okay, she needs to take stock of her body. Obviously her head is in bad shape, she probably hit it on a tree after losing her helmet. With the same hand, she reaches up and gently prods a wet, sticky patch on the back of her skull, gritting her teeth at the pain that responds. 

The arm she’s using is in a familiar bit of pain, itself, though it takes more thought than it should to pinpoint why. Dislocated shoulder. Of course, that was to be expected. Her shoulders have been dislocated so many times in her life that it takes very little to do it again. The other arm is worse, though, it feels broken. With a bit of support from the dislocated left arm, she picks up the right so that she can see it, holding her breath against the pain. 

Oh. Yep, that’s definitely broken. In a bloody, something is sticking out through her jacket sleeve kind of way. Right. She carefully sets it back down. There’s nothing she can do about it right now. 

Her left hip hurts, too, where she landed on it when the bike tipped, but she doesn’t bother trying to move it or look at it. As far as she can tell, those few things are the worst. Everything else on her hurts, but it feels like scrapes and bruises, not broken bones. 

It’s been a really long time since she was in this amount of pain. She isn’t used to it anymore. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when she’s stuck in the bottom of a gulley with no phone and no one who knows where to find her. She highly doubts that the car stuck around to call for help. She needs to pull herself out of this situation, just like the old days, which means she’s going to have to embrace the pain again. 

Slowly, though. This is one of the worst head injuries she’s ever had, and if she gets too eager she’ll just knock herself back out. 

Inch by inch, Kamaria pushes herself up onto her left hand and the unbroken part of her right arm, stopping to breathe through her teeth and let the forest swirl around her after every movement. With one last heave, she’s sitting upright, clutching the sides of her head and squeezing her eyes shut. 

Halfway there. Now she just needs to stand. 

Her right leg seems to be in fairly decent shape - minus the long, bloody scrape she can now see on her thigh that tore right through her jeans - so she puts most of her weight onto it. She’s trying to move slowly, but it’s leaving her in awkward positions and she keeps almost losing her balance. Part of her wants to give up and collapse. Somehow, though, with the support of a nearby tree, she fights through the dizziness and pain and makes it to her feet. 

It’s a really, really long way up to the road.

Her first step onto her left leg is nearly her only step. Fire shoots through her hip, she instinctively jerks in response, and her vision fills with lightning again. But she manages to fall into the tree trunk and stay upright, clinging desperately and gritting her teeth until the worst of it passes.

She has to do this. No one is coming to help her. Not because there’s no one who cares, not anymore, but Bruno won’t have any idea where to find her once he realizes that something is wrong. It’s all up to her.

With that in mind, she pushes onward, keeping her weight off a hip that’s likely broken as much as she can, and grabbing onto branches and trunks whenever they’re available to pull herself along. They aren’t available nearly as often as she needs. 

But she’s dealt with worse than this before, right? She can’t think of any specific examples at the moment, but that’s probably just the concussion messing with her. There was the stabbing incident. That didn’t involve broken bones or head injuries, but it did involve a lot of blood loss and trying to get back to base without passing out. She survived that, she can survive this, too. She has to. Back then, all the incentive she had for making it was continuing her path of revenge. Now she has a husband, a home, a real life and someone who loves her and needs her as much as she does him. She can’t let him down. 

Each step is agony. Her vision cuts in and out, her whole body throbbing. She has no idea how far she’s actually made it, only that it seems like the road should be much, much closer by now than it actually is. It doesn’t look like it’s gotten any closer at all. Maybe that’s just the rain pouring down her face messing with her perception, though. 

She takes another step, reaches for a branch hanging just in front of her. It’s farther than it looks, though. Her fingers just brush the leaves as her foot slips on the mud and wet brush beneath her, and suddenly she’s falling. 

She feels every bit of pain when her body hits the ground, but she’s unconscious before she has the chance to scream.

…

She’s been gone too long. 

Bruno tries to give her the space she needs on days like this, he really does, which is why he didn’t protest her going out on her own or start worrying too much when the rain began. Even when the rain kept pouring and there was still no sign of her, he reasoned that she must have found someplace to stop and wait it out. 

But she didn’t call. Didn’t text. And when he finally gave in and texted her, checking in just to make sure she was alright, she didn’t answer. Never even opened the text, in fact. 

Which would make sense if she had given up on waiting out the rain and happened to be riding at the time. But she still didn’t come home. 

Bruno looks over at Dante, who’s watching him pace the house with growing concern, and punches her name on his phone screen. There’s silence in the speaker for a couple of seconds, then the generic voicemail message that Kamaria never bothers to change drones to life. 

He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Her phone is off. Why would her phone be off? Even when they need alone time, they always keep themselves available, knowing their spouse will respect their needs unless it’s an emergency. It doesn’t make sense for her to have turned her phone off. 

Something is wrong. 

Without delaying any further, Bruno snatches his jacket from the closet and goes to his own motorcycle in the garage. He has no idea where Kamaria went on her ride. Just from their house there are two choices of directions to go, and from there it branches off into infinite possibilities. 

But he doesn’t care. He’s going to find her. 

…

Kamaria drifts in and out of consciousness. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she needs to get up and move, but she can’t really remember why. Everything hurts. She doesn’t want to move, she just wants to keep lying here until maybe the pain gets a little more bearable. 

So she lets herself burrow back into the darkness. When she wakes again, she’s struck with a sudden sense of urgency. She can’t just lie here. She has to get up, her father will be waiting on her to return. He doesn’t care about missions gone wrong, he just cares about obeying orders to perfection, and she’s already late. She’ll get whipped for this. Ten lashes for each hour she was missing. How many hours has it already been? She has to get up, she has to make it back. 

She tries to move, and passes out in a wave of pain through her skull.

The next time that she finds herself staring up at the canopy of trees, she has no idea where she is or how she got there. She’s wet, and she hurts. Must have been Roderick again. He probably beat and waterboarded her. She can’t remember what it was she did wrong this time, but chances are it doesn’t matter, anyway. Their ideas of punishable offenses are usually things she can’t avoid no matter how hard she tries. 

Her last thought before losing consciousness again is, I want Bruno.

…

As he rides, Bruno calls the local hospital and police station, just in case. No one has seen or heard anything about a black woman with green eyes and a large scar across her face named Kamaria Stenberg. 

He goes from fretting that she may have gotten into a wreck to wondering if somehow she’s been taken again. Kane shouldn’t have any way to get to her, right? And none of his cronies should have a reason to want to take her, they were just following orders the first time. Then again, maybe one of them is holding a grudge, or enjoyed having her in their clutches a little too much. Or maybe it’s someone from her old life, animosity among gang members dies hard and there were plenty of people back then that wanted to get their hands on her. Yeah, they’ve moved states to get away from all of that, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone really wanted to track her down, they could.

He’s sick to his stomach, thinking of all the possibilities as he forges on through the pounding rain. It’s been hours. Her phone is still going straight to voicemail. The two-lane stretch of road he’s currently riding is one he knows she frequents, but he’s gone all the way down it without any more sign of her than any other street he’s been on. He turns at the end, riding around a few more blocks with his heart in his throat before heading back up that same road, back toward town.

There’s a skidmark on this side. He’d noticed it out of the corner of his eye coming past the first time, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. This time he pays more attention, though, slowing down as he reaches it. It, because there’s only one. Not two, like a car, but one single mark. Like from a motorcycle. 

Bruno pulls over quickly, punching the button for his hazard lights, and tugs off his helmet as he climbs off the bike. Running over to the mark, he follows its trajectory with his eyes first, then his feet. It’s probably nothing. He’s trying not to get his hopes up and also fighting back dread at the same time. 

But then he stands with the toes of his boots hanging off the edge of the pavement and looks down the embankment, and he sees the large rivet that something left behind as it skidded through the mud. He sees bark missing off the bottom of a large tree trunk, like something smashed into it at top speed. 

He’s moving again almost before his mind has caught on, slipping and sliding to the tree line. He wants it to be her as desperately as he wishes that it’s not. Then he sees it, just a couple of yards past the first smashed tree - a motorcycle, lying on its side. He doesn’t have to see it up close to know it’s hers. But he goes over anyway, as fast as the uneven terrain will let him, eyes darting around the area. 

She’s not there. It’s her bike, like he knew it was, and it’s scratched and dented from its fall, but there’s no Kamaria to be seen. No sign that she was ever even there.

Could she have gotten up, walked away from a crash like this? But then he would have passed her on the way somewhere, right? And he’s already confirmed she hasn’t been to the hospital. 

Or maybe his second fear was correct. Maybe a wreck was just the start of it, just the method someone used to grab her, and that’s why she’s not here now. 

Fingers buried in his hair and chest heaving, he takes a few steps back and looks around wildly. “Kamaria!” His voice echoes through the trees, down into the hollow below. “Kamaria!”

…

Someone’s calling her name. It must be her mom. She’s really, really tired, she must have stayed out too late again, playing in the creek in the woods behind their house. She didn’t mean to make her mom worry.

“Coming, Mama,” she mumbles, trying to find the energy to get up. Her head hurts really bad. She doesn’t remember why. Mama will make it better, though, she always does. She’ll probably give her some of the pink medicine that’s supposed to taste like cotton candy, and plenty of kisses. 

Kamaria is about to fall back asleep, thinking of her mom’s kisses, when another noise jolts her back awake. Leaves are crunching and branches shaking somewhere above her, like someone or something is sliding down the hill toward her. Automatically her hand moves to grope for a knife at her hip, but comes away empty. She tries the other side - nothing there, either. Maybe there’s one in her boot, but she can’t make her body bend to check. Why is she out on a mission without all of her knives? If she was stupid enough to lose them all, and even her gun, then she deserves for whoever or whatever this is to get her. 

“Kamaria? Kamaria!”

She still doesn’t know who it is until his face appears above her, fear carved into his handsome features. “Bruno,” she breathes, a smile spreading across her face. “What’re…you doing…here?”

“Looking for you.” His hands cup her cheeks, and wow, they’re so warm. He needs to keep doing that. She didn’t know how cold her face was before now. “You’re gonna be okay now. I’m gonna get you help.”

She hums a little as he pulls his phone from his pocket and punches buttons with his thumb. “Better not…let my mom see you. She says…she says ‘m not allowed t’ have…t’ have a boyfriend. ‘Til I’m thirty.”

He holds the phone up to his ear, looking down at her with a strange look on his face that she doesn’t quite get. “Wait until she hears I married you.”

He starts talking to someone on the phone and it’s a lot for her to follow, so she just stares up at the trees and enjoys the one hand that’s still on her cheek. It stopped raining at some point. It was raining earlier, right? It’s nice that it stopped now, and that Bruno’s here. 

“Kamaria? Love?” The hand is patting her cheek now. “Open your eyes for me, love. I need you to stay awake.”

She didn’t realize she’d closed them. Wrinkling her nose, she whines a little. “Tired.”

“I know you are, but you have to stay awake for now. The ambulance is on its way. Come on, open those gorgeous eyes for me.”

She complies, but gives him her best unamused expression. “My head hurts.”

He grows even more solemn. “I know. I found your helmet way up there somewhere. Can you tell me what else hurts? Your leg is scraped up pretty good.” She feels him gently lift her shirt. “Stomach is, too. I don’t see any concerning bruising on it, though I’ll bet you cracked a rib, at least.”

“Head,” she repeats, trying to think past that all-encompassing, throbbing pain to see what else there is. “Hip. Arm.” Almost as an afterthought she adds, “Shoulder.”

“No, I don’t want to move her.” He sounds like he’s talking to someone else. The person on the phone still, maybe. “Hip…” He carefully prods at both, eliciting a gasp and jerk from Kamaria when he touches the injured one. “Left hip. I’m guessing broken, based on the reaction, but could be dislocated. Left shoulder is definitely dislocated. And, uh…” Leaning over, he touches her hand, but quickly pulls back. “Right arm has an open fracture. Yeah, I’m staying on. How far out are they?” He listens for a moment, free hand coming back to rest on her cheek. “They need to hurry up. I’m worried this is more than just a concussion.”

She really wants to go to sleep. Now that Bruno is here, she feels much safer. Maybe now that he’s asked his questions he’ll let her nap.

“Stay with me, Kamaria.” His face is close to hers again. Eyes normally blue like the sky look more like storm clouds in the dim lighting.

“You’re…pretty.”

She somehow expects him to smile at that, but he just keeps looking at her with that worried expression and lightly strokes her hair. “Thank you. So are you.”

“Mean, though. Won’t let…me sleep. And…lost my knife. Can’t…stab you.” 

“We’ll find your knife. And if you try your best to stay awake until the doctor says it’s okay to sleep, then you can stab me all you want after, okay?”

“No,” she whines. She’d like to bury her face in his chest, but she can’t move. “No doctor. Hate doctors.”

“I know, love. But I’m afraid you have to go this time.”

“Will you come?” She doesn’t want to go alone. He just got here, and the doctor is scary.

“Of course I will. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Can…Shadi come?” 

“Tell you what, I’ll check and see if she can come visit you while you’re there. Alright?”

Kamaria sighs and lets her eyes drift shut again. “‘kay.”

“Eyes open. Come on.” He pauses, turns his head a little. “I hear the sirens. They’re almost here. I’m gonna have to let them work on you to help you feel better, okay? But I’ll be right here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.” Bending down, he presses a warm, gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, Kamaria.”

[deadbnnuy]

Mfs be like "when they dress like they're stuck in 2014 ♡" but they don't wanna deal w/ the trauma attached like girl I'm dressing like that bc I never had a childhood and I'm desprately clinging to what I had 😍🫶

[inhumanliquid]

im not going to tell you to kill yourself. how about i instead ask what you'd do if i did? how would you feel if you knew it was about half your fault?

Wow, guilt tripping a suicidal person! Classy.

Go chill the fuck out and come back when you're ready to talk to me like a grownup, 'kay?

And to answer your question: If I found out about it, I'd probably just dissociate. Like I did after it all happened. Like I did every other time I lost a friend. Like I did when my rabbit died because my mother's a fucking cunt, at least until my father yelled at me for "not caring" just because he's too dense to tell when someone actually cares too much. Like I do literally every single time something even slightly bad happens, because for my entire God damn life it's been that or death.