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writingphoenix · 7 months

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Fighting the Blue

This is a continuation of this, which I kind of consider to be prologue of sorts. Jessie is the main character of this story. The next few chapters will have a "current day" portion with prison whump and flashbacks which will contain more of the actual story. Content warnings are in the tags.

I'll make a masterlist for this when I get a bit more written.

The First Meeting

Jessie knew she was in trouble as soon as her dad came through the door. To be fair, she didn’t think she’d be able to escape when she was attacked in her room and she probably wouldn’t have managed to fight off both her attackers but it was game over when he came in. Transport was her best chance to escape if she was subdued. Making the deal to submit during transport guaranteed her capture. At least she could secure her dad’s safety.

She sat alone in the cold dark cell. It was tiny, she could barely lie down and definitely couldn’t stand. She had been in there for hours, trying to keep warm. It was long past the time she would have eaten breakfast and probably lunch. Her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth and her head ached for even a sip of water. From what she knew of the Blue, this would be the best part of her captivity, before they started interrogation. She let her mind wander back to when this had all started a few months ago.

She had driven herself to a park an hour away from home, enjoying her new-found freedom as a fully-fledged adult. In actuality, nothing about her freedoms had changed, but being eighteen finally felt good. She was exploring off the trail. That wasn’t unusual, there were plenty of lakes in the area that weren’t accessible by trail.

Then she stumbled on a weapons cache under an overhang. Her heart sunk and she ran. If someone had seen her, she was dead. Drug dealers, weapons traders, anyone hiding that would want her dead. A woman appeared in front of her out of thin air, gun at the ready. Jessie froze, almost falling at her sudden stop.

“Stay behind me, be ready to lie flat on the ground or run if I say.” Jessie complied, too scared to say anything. She followed the woman for a good half mile. They weren’t heading towards the weapons cache or where Jessie was parked.

“Down!” the woman hissed and Jessie dropped as a shot rang out. She heard it hit a tree just behind her. The woman fired back a few times. There was a shout, then silence. The woman left. Jessie waited, lying on the ground for another minute or two before the woman returned.

“It is safe. Let us continue.”

Jessie scrambled to her feet. She was too afraid to ask if the person who had shot at them was dead. She kept her eyes down as they walked further into the forest, afraid of what she might see if she looked around.

There was a grinding noise. Startled, she looked up to see the cliff wall in front of them opening. The woman went inside and Jessie followed. The woman typed something into a panel on the inside. The wall closed behind them. As soon as they were plunged into darkness, lights flickered on, illuminating a tunnel.

“We are safe here,” the woman said. “I am Morgan. I apologize for the haste and mystery but you were not safe.”

“What–what’s going on?” Jessie asked. The woman sighed.

“I am a Guardian. It is my job to protect the world from the Blue. They have been particularly active in this area for the past several weeks so I was monitoring them, trying to figure out what is going on. I watched you find their weapons and run, which was smart. You appeared unarmed, so I stepped in to help.”

Jessie could only stare at her. Guardian, Blue, weapons, this lady appearing out of nowhere. Morgan’s explanation only made things more confusing.

“Do you know who the Guardians are?” Morgan asked. Jessie shook her head no.

“You really stumbled into this, didn’t you?” she said, beginning to walk down the tunnel.

“I was just out on a hike,” Jessie said, following Morgan. Her voice sounded so shaky.

“Well, a little late now. What you need to know is this: I am a part of a group of people who have special abilities. As a Guardian, I have sworn to protect the Earth from any who mean to harm it. Right now, that is the Blue. We don’t need to go into any more detail than that.”

The tunnel was long but eventually there were doors on the side. Morgan stopped at one and held up her hand to a scanner. The door slid open and Morgan led her in. It was like a small apartment. There was a small kitchen and Jessie could see a bedroom in the back.

“I need to deal with those weapons and some other items of business. Stay here and I will return shortly,” she said. Before Jessie could say anything, Morgan walked out and the door slid shut. Jessie realized with a sinking feeling that she was locked in.

Only a few hours later, Morgan returned. She looked rougher than she had before she left. Notably, Kiera noticed that her shirt and the knee of her pants were ripped and she had bandages.

“You should be safe now. I can escort you back to your car before dark,” Morgan said. “Unfortunately, I suspect that this will not be our only time meeting but rest assured that I will do everything I can to keep you safe. However, you must keep what happened today a secret.”

Morgan gently grabbed her hand.

“I am going to transport you to your car. Which parking lot are you at?” she asked.

“The Fern Lake trailhead parking,” Jessie said.

“Perfect. Close your eyes and I will tell you when to open them,” Morgan said. Jessie did as she asked. She felt the cool air of the tunnel suddenly shift to the warm air outside.

“We are here, open your eyes,” Morgan said. They were at the nearly empty parking lot.

“What the…” Jessie said, shocked.

“Perhaps one day I will teach you. It is a simple transport. Goodbye, Jessie,” Morgan said. Then before Jessie’s eyes, she disappeared.

#writeblr #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump scenario #prison whump #captive whumpee #female whumpee #lady whump #whump series #whump story #fightingtheblue

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verkja · 3 years

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Prologue 2

Previous | Masterlist | Next

This is the second of three parts. The prologue is unimportant to the plot of the main story and can be read before, during, or after it (or not at all if you don’t enjoy graphic torture scenes). There aren’t any spoilers for major plot points; it’s just gratuitous whump.

CWs: Blood, sickness, vomiting, violence, begging, torture, graphic injury, hand injury, eye injury, hair pulling, asphyxiation, captivity, whumper POV, brief creepy/intimate whump, implied character death. This part is much nastier than the first part. While it has no sexual content, I would not call it SFW. Please let me know if I missed anything important! Chapter summaries here.

Words: Around 2.5K

He punched the sorcerer in the stomach and watched with grim satisfaction as the shackled man gagged and curled in on himself, blood and vomit spurting from his mouth. Damian yanked his head back by the hair to expose his face, now terrified and streaked with tears. The knight spat on him as he tried in vain to form a sentence between hiccoughing sobs.

‘This is what your evil deeds have earned you,’ said the knight, his tone firm with conviction. The sorcerer nodded shakily and kept nodding as he stammered a reply.

‘I kn-know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I beg of you-’

‘Be quiet.’ The sorcerer yelped as Damian cuffed him across the face, stringy hair falling over his eyes and sticking to the fluids coating his skin. He did go silent then, save for his ragged breathing and the clinking of his chains as he shook helplessly.

Damian considered. So far, his efforts hadn’t met with much resistance, but he thought that was more likely because the sorcerer’s illness had rendered him incapable of it than because he was already broken or breaking. That would doubtless take harsher methods.

When he’d begun his work, the sorcerer had initially tried to stay silent. That hadn’t lasted long. Within a few hours, he had started cursing at Damian. By the end of the day he’d fallen silent again, and halfway through the next day he’d started begging for mercy.

That wasn’t enough. He’d know his task was done when his prisoner either begged for death or stopped responding entirely.

Damian unlocked the shackles. The sorcerer fell to the ground at his feet, crying. One hand reached out to grasp at the hem of Damian’s trousers in supplication, but the knight kicked it away and rolled the wretched man onto his back with the toe of one boot. He stepped on the sorcerer’s throat, applying more pressure as he started to panic, thrashing weakly and struggling to breathe.

As the sorcerer’s movements slowed and his eyes began to roll back in his head, Damian let up and grabbed him by the hair again, dragging him across the rough stone to the low wooden platform across the room. It held an assortment of twisted arcane instruments. Ignoring the incoherent pleas his prisoner gasped out, he picked up a blackened iron knife and drove it down through the sorcerer’s bony ankle, splitting the tendons and pinning the leg to the wood.

The man screamed, his voice breaking. He tried to grab at his ankle, but Damian wrested his knobby hands away and pinned each in place with a sharp implement. When he arched up from the platform, Damian thrust a short sword through his abdomen, impaling him along with the wooden planks below. At this the sorcerer finally stilled, pale eyes wide and glassy with what seemed to be shock.

‘I don’t take any joy from doing this, you know,’ Damian said to his unresponsive prisoner. It was true. All he really felt was a sense of satisfaction in doing his job well.

*****

Though this wasn’t the first time Damian had found cause to deal out pain in retribution for wickedness, it was the first time he’d had tools so well-suited to the purpose on hand. The rack and some of the other torture devices in the dungeon had rotted away, but most of the smaller ones had survived, safe in a mouldering but sturdy chest.

He’d taken an inventory before beginning his work in earnest. Some of the things he’d brought with him could be useful in torturing his prisoner; the jar of rune-blessed salve, in particular, might prove indispensable if the sorcerer decided to die inconveniently, before Damian was done with him. It was a very high-quality salve, and he hated to waste it on such an unworthy subject, but sacrifices were sometimes necessary to fulfil his duty.

From the laboratory a few floors up he’d retrieved disinfectant and wood for the brazier, along with knives and pins to add to the collection already present on the wooden platform. In the chest, he’d discovered a knee-splitter, a choke-pear, and some sort of spiked pincers. He tried all of them with varying degrees of success. The screw of the choke-pear had rusted somewhat and didn’t move smoothly, so he spent little time with it, but the others were fully operational.

He especially liked the knee-splitter. While tearing off bits of flesh with the pincers was effective, the cracking sounds which he’d forced out of the sorcerer’s knee with the two little blocks and screws were extraordinarily satisfying. His prisoner had actually managed to scream himself hoarse, and hadn’t been able to speak above a whisper for the next three days.

Perhaps, Damian reflected, his task was nearing its end. He’d arrived at the tower two weeks ago, and he was starting to run out of ideas for things to do to the sorcerer. It didn’t help that by the time he’d sufficiently recovered from his sickness to conceivably fight back, the man had been tortured enough that he no longer had the will to try.

Currently he was huddled in the corner of the dungeon room, a miserable pile of tattered, blood-soaked robes and patchy hair. Damian had shackled his hands together so he couldn’t cast spells, but left them in front of his body, which was more kindness than the sorcerer deserved.

In fact, he had been altogether too kind lately. His lack of inspiration was beginning to show, and that would not do. If he meant to complete his task, he had to make sure he’d repaid the sorcerer’s evil in full, or at least come as close to doing so as he could.

‘Wake up, scum,’ he called. The mound in the corner twitched convulsively, and one pale, frightened eye stared at him between strands of filthy hair.

‘Come here.’ He pointed at the floor immediately in front of him. ‘Now.’

At his command, the sorcerer crawled painfully across the room to him, flinching whenever his shattered knee touched the ground. He knelt at Damian’s feet until the knight forced his head to the ground with a boot. He stayed bent over like that, obviously terrified of doing anything his torturer might dislike.

‘It seems you’ve learned where you belong. Maybe it’s finally time to end your worthless existence.’

‘No, please,’ the sorcerer whimpered. ‘Please spare me, master, I’ll be good-’

‘I’m not your master, you filthy worm,’ spat the knight, disgusted. ‘Why would I ever want something like you?’

‘I’m sorry! I didn’t - please, have mercy, I’ll do anything you say… I know you don’t want me, I’m sorry…’

He went off into a mess of disjointed begging and apologies. Damian shook his head, frowning at the snivelling wreck of a man prostrate before him.

‘It seems you’ve not understood after all,’ he said. ‘So justice hasn’t been done. You’ll live a little longer, though I intend to make sure you regret it.’

‘Thank you,’ his prisoner sobbed, kissing Damian’s boot. ‘Thank you, thank you sir, I swear I’ll serve you however you wish.’

‘I have no use for your service,’ the knight said. ‘Your days of taking action against the world are over. You’re an object now - do you see? Things will be done to you, not by your hand.’

‘Yes sir.’ The sorcerer’s voice was a kind of breathy rasp. It hadn’t fully recovered from the ordeal with the knee-splitter.

Damian considered. Perhaps he would prepare for one long, final session of torture. After that, if the prisoner was sufficiently broken, he would hang him outside the window of the tower. It would be a mercifully quick death, though potentially less so than it might be for others - he had fed the sorcerer only a few times throughout his captivity, so he weighed very little and would probably take some time to die if the initial drop didn’t kill him. Damian would ensure it did not.

For now, though, he took a chain from the line of hooks along one wall and tossed part of it towards the sorcerer. His throw missed; instead of looping around the man’s head, it struck him across the face. He gave a strangled cry of pain.

Damian shook his head and walked over, manually wrapping the chain around his prisoner’s neck and tightening it, causing him to choke. The knight pulled the chain up, tilting his head back. There was a cut across the bridge of his long nose where the chain had hit, and his right eye was squinted shut; blood ran from his nose and out from beneath his eyelid.

His expression wasn’t right, though. He still looked frightened, but instead of the panicky submission the knight had been cultivating, there was a desperate kind of anger breaking through the fear. Damian slackened the chain just enough to let him breathe.

‘Do you have something to say?’

‘You - damn you, I can’t see thr- you hit my eye, you bastard,’ he coughed. His breath whistled through his nose. ‘You’re a disgrace, a… a pathetic excuse for a knight; you’ve got less honour than a common thief.’

‘You know nothing about what it means to be a knight, filth.’

‘I don’t have to be a good person to know you aren’t one,’ the sorcerer hissed. He looked terrified and elated in equal measure, clearly aware that he’d pay for his little outburst, but seemingly under the illusion that it had been worthwhile.

The knight nodded slowly. He’d thought he was making progress, but clearly he’d miscalculated. As he’d suspected, he had been much too kind so far.

*****

Damian contemplated the jar of salve. It was still mostly full, but he had the feeling he’d need to replace it before heading on his next quest. It would be costly, but no price was too high to pay when justice was at stake.

It had already proven necessary more than once. Most recently, he’d used it to keep his prisoner from bleeding out after being transferred to a new location. Damian had grown weary of the sorcerer’s attempts to flinch away from him while shackled in place, and decided to restrain him in a way that would discourage such things.

First, the knight had used his short sword to run his prisoner through, taking care to avoid any vital organs. He’d then lifted the man up - not difficult, as after a month of near-starvation he couldn’t weigh more than seven stone - and pushed him onto one of the large storage hooks on the wall, adding a chain around his neck for good measure.

Because the sword’s blade was straight and the hook was curved, and also wider than the blade, this had caused additional damage and more bleeding than he’d expected. The salve had been useful then. It had sealed the torn edges of the wound while leaving the sorcerer securely impaled on the hook, and had worked just as well on his hands, currently pinned to the wall behind him with a dagger.

Damian finished eating his lunch and then rose, stretched, and picked up a small knife before walking across the room to his prisoner. He pulled the sorcerer’s head up by the hair, some of which came out in his grasp.

The man’s face was crusted with dried blood; two relatively cleaner tracks ran down it from the corners of his eyes. The right eye was partly obscured by a translucent, silvery cloud, in line with the yellowed bruise across his prominent nose. It made him look even more hideous than he had before. Damian neither knew nor cared whether the eye still functioned.

Currently, the sorcerer was staring at him without seeming to see him. Damian hit him a few times with the flat of the knife he’d brought, until he drew in a ragged breath and his gaze sharpened.

‘You’ve rested long enough,’ the knight said coldly. ‘Tell me - what was I teaching you earlier?’

His prisoner tried to speak, but all that came out was a quiet, hoarse little sob. A couple of tears ran down his face.

‘If you’ve forgotten already, maybe I ought to carve the answer into you.’ Damian tugged down the neckline of the man’s tattered robe and dragged the tip of the knife along his collarbone.

‘I des- I deserve this,’ the sorcerer whispered. Another tear dripped from his cheek onto the floor.

‘What do you deserve?’

‘Anything… anything you do to me. Everything you’ve done.’

‘Wrong,’ said Damian softly. Releasing his prisoner’s hair, he wrapped a hand around his skinny throat. ‘Anything I do to you is better than you deserve.’

He tightened his grip. Lazily pulling the knife down the sorcerer’s chest, feeling it bump over each rib, he watched with detached interest as the other man tried in vain to draw breath. It was fascinating to keep someone balanced on the edge between life and death - it made him feel keenly alive himself. He leaned in very close.

‘Do you want to die?’ he asked, barely above a whisper.

The sorcerer’s eyes were fixed on him, wide and red-rimmed, as if he was the only thing in the world that mattered. At the moment, he supposed, he was, at least where his prisoner was concerned. He loosened his grip just slightly.

‘...no…’ the sorcerer managed to answer. His voice was weak and scratchy, and very quiet.

‘That’s a shame.’ Damian tightened his grip again and watched as blue began to tinge his prisoner’s lips. Entranced, he didn’t let go until a few seconds later than he’d intended, and found he’d choked the sorcerer unconscious.

That was irritating, but there was no real harm done; he’d just have to wait a little longer to resume the torture. He decided to take another look around the tower to pass the time. Shortly after he’d first imprisoned the sorcerer, he had gone through the rooms again to ensure there was no trace of the missing village girl and to gather a few tools, but he hadn’t paid much attention to anything unrelated to those goals.

The first floor up from the dungeon held the so-called experimental portal. Damian paused in the doorway. He had only the sorcerer’s word that the portal was incomplete, and to scum like that, lying came as easily as breathing - more easily, perhaps, given Damian’s recent efforts.

Was it possible the missing girl lay imprisoned somewhere beyond the portal? Cursing his thoughtlessness, the knight strode towards the lazy swirl of lights. A strange, heavy feeling emanated from it, but he ignored this. It had been over a month since he’d come to the tower; if the girl had been trapped this entire time, she must be suffering greatly.

The sensation of heaviness intensified as he reached the lights. They floated at about chest-height above the floor; he’d have to climb through. Damian stretched out a hand -

There was a split second of pain so white-hot his mind couldn’t process it, and then there was nothing at all.

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justplainwhump · 4 years

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can i request blindfolded for alicia? ;)

Ohhhhhhh what a beautiful unexpected ask ;) Yes, you can! Glad to!

This is set in Alicia’s recapture timeline, which I’ll be extending in the coming weeks, a bit later in the timeline, and this part in particular has been developed with lovely @whumping-newbie

[Setting/Characters] [Pt 1, Bounty on Their Head (prologue, Terry POV, not much whump)]

Cw: Pain, Blindfold, referenced past trauma and a creepy whumper. Mostly build-up though.

Characters: Alicia (POV), Charlie

I can't tell how much time has passed. When they came for me in the morning, I didn't fight. They kicked me anyway, before they bound me. I would have chuckled if I had the strength. I'm a murderer, cold and merciless, but I've never kicked someone while they were down. I've never tortured anyone, not even slapped a bound prisoner.

What these people are doing, these self-righteous defenders of Council and nation, is nothing but living a lie.

My body bears witness to that.

And in some way, that keeps me sane, standing here, alone, shackled to a wall, cut off the world with blindfold and headphones. The only sensation I can feel is pain. So many layers. So many different kinds. The deep, grating pain of my shattered hip, punched and hit ruthlessly, over and over. The strain and exhaustion of the muscles in my thighs. The burn of the abrasions where my skin is torn from being pushed and dragged over the concrete prison floors. The throbbing in my ribs where their kicks have landed. The pulsating heat in my lip where Reynolds has bitten me, to bid me goodbye this morning.

I cataloged the pain, trying to focus on one at a time, trying to stay alive, not to think about where I am or what I am waiting for. There could be hundreds watching me, or I could be alone.

I tend to think it's the latter, as there's no draft of air to be felt around me. And because if anyone were there, they'd touch me. They obviously like that.

A strangled laugh escapes my lips, but I don't hear it. Not even my own sound travels through to me.

Has it been hours, minutes, I can't tell.

There's a hand, grabbing my throat. Breath brushing my skin. A second hand, running down my body.

I shiver. I can't fight it. I want to, want to play dead. Be unimpressed. Unafraid.

Instead, I tense. Buckle against the touch, choke as I fight for air.

The other person's breath drums against my skin, as he loosens his grip. Talking? Laughing? I smell coffee in his breath, and underneath it, something else. Something terribly familiar.

Cologne. His Cologne.

I thrash against my bonds. No. It can't be. It can't be him. He can't be here. He's a memory, buried in my past. A nightmare, nothing else. This isn't real.

The headphones are lifted from my ears, and the noises of the world return. The hum of an AC. The creaking of floor boards. My own ragged breathing.

And his voice, a voice I will never forget, smug and soft, a voice that promises nothing but humiliation and despair. "Still such a fine looking little thing", he whispers, as his hand playfully traces the scars on my arm, the scars he left me with. "Just as pathetic and afraid as I remember you."

I feel tears welling up under my blindfold, almost relieved he's not looking into my eyes.

"No", I murmur. "Please, no.”

#whump #lady whump #alicia #charlie #blindfolded #recapture scenario

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whumblr · 6 months

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Yknow what, I'm gonna pull a 'fuck it, let's do this'.

Been teasing myself with prison whump for years now and I've been wanting to start the series ever since after hiwthi ended but never got to it. Perfectionism holding me back. Now, we'll just see where it ends.

So, new series. Will put the prologue up this Sunday :) Excite.

#I don't think I can make a weekly series like hiwthi #maybe biweekly cause I also wanna work on other drabbles #I wanted to work several chapters in advance but... I'm just gonna start or I never will #I only have the prologue finished... doubt.png

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hold-him-down · 3 years

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Derek’s Back: Part 1/ Prologue

TW: Emeto References, References to past abuse, light light med whump. 4k+ words

Notes: this is a side/pet project, the fighter is the main story for always. Adapted from a fanfic I had started a couple years ago. basic gist since I’m not out here making a real summary yet: derek/jack were in turkey doing fucking something, derek was arrested. this takes up seven years later, upon his release. current plan is to write chronologically, with every other chapter being in the past (will be gratuitous prison whump). one thing i know nothing about (in addition to us politics) is international affairs, so keep that in mind and plan to learn nothing but be along for the vibes. the overall story will most assuredly have all the dark content you may have come to expect, but this chapter contains almost none of it.

Derek’s Back - Prologue

“He’s in there.”

The door felt big and bad and almost ominous in a way that Jack hadn’t expected it to feel. He’d waited for this moment for so long. Somewhere along the line, he had lost count of the days, but he had thought of little else.

Mr. and Mrs. Lewis stood behind him; he could feel their gazes cutting into his back. Cold and disapproving. Reluctant to allow this, but allowing it anyway. For him. For Derek.

Jack took a deep breath.

One. And another. Two.

He swallowed, palms slick as his fingers wrapped around the doorknob. His heart pounded inside of him and his ears rang. He didn’t know what he would find; who he would find. He wasn’t entirely sure what he even hoped to find.

✥ ✥ ✥

He had gotten the call at 3:17 AM. Mrs. Lewis had been frantic on the other end. Seeing her name light up his screen was enough to immediately pull him from a tumultuous sleep, and hearing her voice set off every internal alarm left in him. She wouldn’t call him unless something had happened. Something big.

We just got a call from the Embassy-

Jack was already fumbling over his shoes as she spoke, cursing under his breath as he went, not really registering or processing what was being said, but on autopilot.

-on our way to the airport.

His hands shook as he threw items into his bag; he didn’t stop to look at what clothing was being chosen, only that he’d have clothing to wear.

-he’s being released.

She was crying. She was distraught. He could hear banging around in the background as he sucked in a deep breath, his vision beginning to spot.

-did you hear me? Jack, he’s being released.

He could feel the emotion in her words and suddenly all he could do was gasp for air; he made a conscious effort to force himself to slow down. His hands circled his torso as he collapsed onto his bed. He was going to be sick.

He didn’t know what had changed. He didn’t know… he didn’t know how this happened or what it meant. He tried to ask for more details, for anything, but it was difficult to form words as earth-shattering panic really started to settle upon him.

Mrs. Lewis had ended the call with a promise to update him as soon as she landed. There was an unspoken you shouldn’t come lingering in the air, but it didn’t mean anything. Of course he was coming.

He got on the phone with a travel agent as soon as he was off the phone with Mrs. Lewis. He was in a car on the way to the airport before he had even had a flight secured. From there, he didn’t stop again to think, or to speak to anyone, or to breathe. If he stopped, he’d fall apart. He knew that. His brain was singularly wired to do the thing that needed to be done. To get to the airport.

To get to Adana. Over and over.

To get to Derek.

✥ ✥ ✥

Six fucking hours. He had to wait six hours at the airport before his flight. It was the fastest way to get there, but it wasn’t fast enough. Nothing was enough. He texted Mrs. Lewis and told her he was coming; that he would be just behind them. He told her to get him out, and that he would be there. As fast as he could.

She didn’t respond.

The Lewises, he believed, held him at least partially responsible for what had happened. He didn’t blame them. He held himself nearly fully responsible. Ultimately it didn’t matter who had been responsible, because it was Derek who was paying for it. He pushed those thoughts away, because if he allowed himself to go down this path, at that moment, he didn’t know how he would drag himself off of the floor and onto the plane.

Jack sat at an airport coffee shop, his hands shaking, his small bag next to him, wiping the sweat and tears from his face every few seconds. He would not allow himself to believe this was real. That any of this was real. He would not allow himself the hope that maybe… maybe this was actually happening.

He had had this dream before. Too many times.

This time, though, it felt so goddamn real.

Wake up, he commanded himself. Wake the fuck up, Jack.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t wake up because he was already awake, the rational part of him said. Paradoxically, he also couldn’t allow himself to believe that was true. Where there was hope, there was crushing disappointment.

His hands didn’t stop shaking once during that six hour wait. The waiter checked on him frequently at first, and then eventually he came less, and then he stopped coming.

And still, Jack couldn’t wake himself up.

✥ ✥ ✥

The plane ride to Adana wasn’t any less stressful. He had texted Mrs. Lewis only three times before he boarded, and Mr. Lewis just once. They had both almost definitely been on a plane, he told himself, and he was not their priority.

He didn’t eat on the first six-hour flight, on the three-hour layover, or on the second four-hour flight. He barely slept. He tapped his foot and he watched the clouds and he did anything he could do to keep his mind blank, but it crept in.

By the time he finally arrived in Turkey, he was so wound up that he wasn't even sure what he needed. Some combination of food, sleep, and anti-anxiety medication, he was sure, but he couldn't figure out the priority. Mid-sprint toward Customs, he found himself doubled over a trash can, and the images that he’d focused so hard on suppressing pummeled him.

✥ ✥ ✥

“He’s in there,” Mrs. Lewis said, inclining her head toward the closed door. Her eyes were red, almost definitely from crying. Mr. Lewis’s ever stoic and detached demeanor was cracking right in front of Jack, as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Whatever general contempt the older man held for Jack was overshadowed by the concern on his face.

Neither of them had been surprised when he texted them from the airport with an update that he had landed and a plea for the hotel details. He had, over the past several years, become an unwelcome yet relentless presence in their lives. They had long since realized he wasn’t backing down and a sort of passive acceptance had come shortly after. Jack became, he thought, a pest who fervidly refused to detach himself from them. They didn’t know the whole truth behind his relationship with their son, but Jack was certain they at least suspected it. Ultimately, their perspective on Derek’s sexuality and subsequent relationship was different now than it would have been under other circumstances. It was a fight for another day, and one that he thought everyone would be grateful to even have the opportunity to have.

Mr. Lewis nodded, more a sort of resigned permission than welcome invitation, then turned away, moving to face the window. As the moment came closer, and the distractions that he’d been so hell-bent on embracing faded away, leaving nothing but a wooden barrier between them... Jack felt an unmasked surge of panic creeping into him.

Jack stared at the large door. It wasn’t actually large, was it? No, uh, no, it was a very normal door. Jack just felt… so small, right then. Derek… His Derek was behind that door– that door was now the only fucking thing separating them.

His heart hurt, both metaphorically and in a deep, physical way. He felt blackness threatening his vision; he felt the familiar tells of a full-blown meltdown, the pang in his chest as he fought for each breath. Derek was right there, on the other side of that door.

Jack spared a quick glance around the room, hoping for someone to bail him out. The Embassy official, whose name Jack had not even remotely attended to, sat in a small hotel chair in the corner, his forearms resting on his knees, typing furiously on his phone. Mrs. Lewis watched him cautiously, her fingers wound together tightly. Please, she mouthed to Jack, a stray tear rolling down her cheek as her husband came back to her side.

Grow the fuck up, Jack, he told himself, bringing his focus back to the door. His hand was slick as he pressed it gingerly against the knob.

They had tried to give him some warnings, some pieces of information, some words of encouragement, even. Jack had nodded and nodded and brushed them off and now, as he thought back, he couldn’t remember any of it. Not a single goddamn word of what he’d been told.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a large framed picture and, suddenly self-conscious, smoothed out his hair quickly, hoping Derek wouldn’t notice or care and of course Derek wouldn’t notice or care, but still, he was ashamed of himself for not… for not doing better. And when most of the flyaway curls were… calmer, the world seemed to come to a standstill.

He would open that door on three, okay?

Jack took a deep breath.

One. And another. Two.

He must have blacked out, because he didn’t remember getting to three.

✥ ✥ ✥

Jack had waited for this moment for over seven years.

He had spent the first year, in almost its entirety, in Turkey. It was a period of darkness that he had nearly fully blocked out. He remembered the emotions vividly, but the specifics were hazy. He spoke to everyone he could. Knocked on every lawyer’s door in every nearby city. He spoke to Derek’s parents, Church officials, humanitarian aid workers, and anyone else who would listen, pleading for help. He wrote letters to senators and lawmakers until his fingers hurt. He visited the Embassy often, sometimes calm, sometimes hysterical. He became a damn presence in Adana, Turkey. He would, when he could bring himself to do it, visit the churches and pray. And when the money ran out, he would steal food and sleep anywhere he could find to sleep and try to work out whether it was possible to wake up from the nightmare that had become his life.

Eventually, he had been forced to leave, to get back to the U.S. under the threat of immediate detainment. A slew of government officials, Embassy members, and attorneys from both Turkey and the United States had made damn sure that he knew there was nothing more he could do here, and him being arrested and/or deported would only complicate things further. Only when it was made crystal clear to him that it was in Derek’s best interest that he leave, did he board the eight-plus hour flight. His parents had collected him at the airport.

He had four major panic attacks on the cab ride home, and eventually, he had laid his head in his mother’s lap and wept. He was back in America, and Derek was still in Turkey. And there wasn’t anything that he, or anyone else, could do.

The second year he had enrolled at the University of Maine to stay as close to Derek’s family as he could. He had cooperated with every official that spoke to him. He had called daily. The prison, the Embassy, and Derek’s family. He majored in international law and he did the absolute bare minimum to pass his classes and not get kicked out. He had attended therapy and went to work and did what he had to do to get by.

By year four, the calls had tapered off. An air of hopelessness had settled down on him. He began throwing himself into his classes in a sort of Hail Mary pass to do something that could help; he no longer attended therapy, and he barely spoke to his parents or anyone else. He shut everyone out. After he graduated, he took the first job he could as a paralegal which was in fucking Florida of all places and in an act of real and true desperation, he took to praying. He prayed that Derek was being treated fairly, and that somehow, some way, something would change.

And time kept passing, and Jack did what he could do to take his mind off of things. He had become the pinnacle of a failure in the eyes of everyone who had once believed in him. He was smart and he studied hard, landing a scholarship St. Thomas where he began a law degree, and he was stupid and he fucked strangers and drank copious amounts of whatever he could get his hands on and he acted generally as one would expect someone who had really lost all hope to act. He forgot to eat most days, slept through the night a small handful of times a year, and put every penny he had into a meager savings account, should the opportunity present itself for him to get a new visa. He spent every evening pouring over legal books and ripping his hair out.

And where initially, moments of hope were fleeting, eventually, moments of hope were gone, and the hole inside of his chest grew and grew and grew, and the nightmares took hold of him and he felt himself slipping away.

Until he got that call.

✥ ✥ ✥

Jack fell backward against the door as it closed, his fingers fumbling on the lock. Derek didn’t move, but Jack was sure his heart had skipped at least several beats just at the sight of him. At being here, in his presence, in person, for the first time in seven years. Derek’s back was to Jack, an oversized black sweatshirt covering almost all of his skin. His hair was shaggy, his neck barely visible by the soft curls that covered it. He had to have showered by now, right? They would have let him shower, right? And fed him? He had- he had eaten, right?

Derek stared blankly out the window that overlooked the city. Jack couldn’t even, at that point, confirm that it was him. But he knew by the erratic thumping and overwhelming tightness in his chest that it was.

“Derek?” he finally said, his voice nearly inaudible. He wasn’t even… could Derek have even heard him? He didn’t react, if he had.

“It’s-” He cleared his throat, going a little louder. “It’s me. It’s Jack.” He paused for a moment. “Bailey.”

He’s disoriented, he thought someone had told him. Mrs. Lewis. He’s… he’s not himself. There were tears in her eyes.

After what felt like an eternity in silence passed, Jack took another sobering breath. “Buddy,” he said, walking slowly around the large bed. Derek’s shoulders tightened, the first real sign that he was even aware that Jack had entered.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Derek whispered, the first words… fuck. It didn’t matter what the words were. His voice was gravelly and soft, not sad or happy or scared just… flat. Jack paused in his tracks, and Derek slowly turned to face him.

Jack wasn’t sure what he had expected; for all the time he had spent dreaming of this moment, he didn’t know what he expected. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a nightmare still.

Derek’s eyes were what first struck him. It was hard to describe them in a way that wasn’t a cliche, but that was the most on the nose. Devoid of life. And beneath them, dark bags and hollow cheeks. It was Derek. But it wasn’t, at the same time. It was a new, sallow version of Derek. It was a lot to take in, but, Jack reminded himself what he was experiencing was absolutely nothing compared to what Derek had experienced. Compared to what Derek was actively experiencing.

Derek blinked slowly, his expression unchanged, and turned his attention back to the window without much more of a reaction. Jack swallowed back any big heavy feelings. He should have tried harder to hear what they had told him. Derek’s hands sat lifelessly on his lap, his fingers pale and motionless. Gaunt.

“Can I-” Jack said eventually, eyeing the spot on the bed next to him. “Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.

Derek shook his head and moved to the side just a bit, but did not shift his focus from the view.

Jack swallowed, sucking in a deep breath. God, he should have listened to them. This wasn’t- it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Right? But what was it supposed to be like? He didn’t have the first clue.

“It’s beautiful from up here, isn’t it?” It was a line to cut the silence, and he hated himself for it. He had a lot to say, and a lot to ask, and small talk wasn’t in the plan. Derek hated small talk. But, the more rational part of Jack’s brain said, it was unclear where Derek was at. Proceed with caution.

Jack stood, moving closer to the window, and pointed north. “Istanbul is that way a few hundred miles,” he said. He smiled, not fully allowing himself to wonder if Derek was even hearing him, but eager to fill the silence.

He swallowed again. Shut the fuck up, Jack. He doesn’t want you here. Leave him alone. That was his less rational side. He spared a glance behind him. Derek’s eyes met his, and damn near confirmed Jack's suspicion. He was shut down. He wasn't interested in talking. The walls he had built were made of titanium, and he wasn't about to let Jack in.

“I’m, uhh… I live back in the U.S. now,” Jack continued, sitting back down. Obviously. Do better, Jack. Derek's demeanor seemed to slightly shift, but became no more interested or welcoming. In fact, it seemed like quite the opposite, his mouth forming a hard line, the tension in his shoulders seeming to build. Jack looked at his own hands as his fingers tangled together. “I stayed… a long as they’d let me. I don’t know if you got my letters, but…” He gestured to Derek, who gave an empty smile in response.

Jack waited a moment, then inhaled. “Do you want me to leave?”

Derek returned his attention to the view. Jack held his breath. If Derek said yes, Jack would be devastated beyond all belief, honor Derek’s wishes, and spend the next sixty years wondering if he was lying. This isn’t really about you, that rational voice chimed in.

When it didn’t seem like Derek was going to provide an answer, Jack glanced back at the door. He shouldn’t have locked it. He should have kept it open, in fact, so that there was even a possibility that someone would save him.

"I'm sorry," he heard, and his focus immediately shifted back to Derek. His expression was still guarded, but there was something brewing behind his eyes. "I just... I think I just need some... time."

And something broke inside of Jack, for the boy who he had left here. For the years of... whatever had happened to him, that Jack couldn't even begin to fathom. For the man sitting before him, who looked so goddamn hungry, so tired, and who still wasted whatever energy he had apologizing to him. Maybe he shouldn't have come.

“Of course,” Jack eventually said, swallowing back the threat of tears and standing. Derek watched him warily but did not argue with that, which Jack thought was enough of a sign. This would take time and he knew that. Rationally, he could handle this, and if he had allowed himself to think through any of it, he probably could have anticipated something like this.

Irrationally, his heart had been ripped out of his chest and thrown twenty stories down into the bustling streets of Turkey, but he figured he could go for a walk later and pick it-

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said, when it became obvious that Derek wasn’t going to say anything. You shouldn’t have come here. That’s what he was going to get. He unlocked the door.

It was Mr. Lewis, accompanied by the Embassy official and another man. Derek eyed them hesitantly, but made no move; he didn’t even seem particularly anxious. It was uncanny.

“Derek,” the Embassy official (God, Jack really needed to get his fucking name) said, “this is Doctor Demir. He’s going to look you over, get a general idea of where you stand health-wise. I know this is a lot for you right now, but getting you out of the country is our top priority.”

The man paused, allowing questions, comments, whatever. No one spoke. Mrs. Lewis came up behind Mr. Lewis, who stood near the other men. “U.S. Customs is requesting a full physical evaluation to screen for disease, as well as a brief quarantine. We need to get that process started immediately. Our goal is to keep you out of the public eye as much as possible for the next few days. Once you’re back on U.S. soil it’ll be easier, but in the meantime, you need to lay low. In three days we can get you on a plane and get you home, okay?”

Derek nodded.

“Great. Doctor Demir will do a preliminary exam, decide if we absolutely need to get you to the hospital, and if not, we can work on meeting the requirements in private and get you more in depth medical attention once you’re home. In the meantime, we have Embassy officials working on getting you an updated passport and ID, okay?”

Derek nodded again. Jack spared a cursory glance at his parents, who only watched their son with deep-seated concern. The doctor asked them to leave as he pulled gloves and three syringes from his bag. Derek eyed them, but didn’t do the things that Jack would have expected. He didn’t balk, or flinch, or cry, or react. The only tell of any budding anxiety was him gently rubbing his wrist. The movement revealed the bruising beneath his sweatshirt.

Jack forced his eyes back to Derek’s face. Once more, Derek offered the perfunctory, emotionless, and extremely distressing smile.

✥ ✥ ✥

It was midnight by the time Jack got to his own room. Derek’s family, to their credit, had offered him their couch. He opted for an adjacent single to give them (and more specifically, Derek) the space that he suspected he was desperate for.

He had taken them up on their offer of dinner while the doctor was with Derek, and the three ate silently, each stealing the occasional glance at the closed door.

Jack was, by the time he made it to his room, grateful for some time to decompress. He made it as far as the sofa before falling to the floor, wrapping himself up, and letting his emotions have their time in the spotlight.

He cried over his part in what had happened. He cried over the very obvious mistreatment and subsequent degeneration of his best friend (and love of his life, which he was actively not allowing himself to think about). He cried over what it all meant, for Derek specifically. He cried for the years that Derek lost and for the future that was sure to be damn near impossible on him.

He laid in a puddle on the floor, in and out of a full-blown panic attack, just… falling apart, was the best way to describe what happened to him that night. He focused actively on not thinking about Derek in those moments, about the doctor touching him, about what he’d gone through.

And still, those thoughts crept in.

A soft rapping on his door startled him and he stood, immediately wiping his face.

It had to be Mr. or Mrs. Lewis with an update. Perhaps Derek had fallen asleep, and they just wanted to let him know. Maybe there was an update on his condition that would expedite their departure or change the plans. As much as they hated him, he was grateful that they were taking pity on him, even if he was certain that the pity would be short-lived. So he put on his brave face and peeled himself off of the floor.

He couldn’t hide that he’d been crying, but he figured they would understand, and so he opened the door without getting himself fully under control.

“Derek,” he said, the word whooshing out of him.

Derek stood barefoot, his toes curled on the marble floor, his body supported by an iron grip on the frame of the door. He had changed clothes, the t-shirt revealing more pale, bruised skin than the sweatshirt had, and his hair had been buzzed short.

“I-” Derek’s focus shifted to the floor, his head shaking. “Sorry, I probably… shouldn’t have come.” He lifted his eyes slowly, so dark they were almost black, searching Jack’s. His mouth opened and closed and opened again and the words wouldn’t form themselves and Jack watched the moment of regret pass Derek’s face, and he could feel himself losing him.

He took a step backward, gesturing Derek inside. "I made coffee," Jack said, which was a lie, and he would be caught in that lie immediately. He held his breath as he waited for Derek's response, as Derek tentatively looked into his hotel room, and eventually, as he slowly stepped inside. "Wait, that was a lie," Jack blurted, closing the door. "I... I can make you coffee, but I didn't." Derek stared at him, but didn't show what he was thinking. And Jack, being a fucking train-wreck, kept on talking. "I have coffee, I... I'm going to go make you coffee, okay? Do you- uhh, black still, yeah?"

He turned and walked quickly to the kitchenette, but he didn't make it far.

"Jack?" he heard from behind him, soft and weak. He turned instantly, his full attention on back on Derek.

Derek didn't speak at first, and for the first time, Jack could read emotion on Derek's face. Sadness. Just... hopelessness. He'd seen that look before, in smaller doses. He misinterpreted it. "I swear, I can... I'll make you coffee, and we can talk, okay? It'll... just give me two minutes, okay?"

Derek swallowed, nodding. "Yeah," he said. Jack stared at him for several beats too long, trying to get a better read on his expression. Just as he decided to go with the coffee thing, to let the distraction happen and give Derek a moment to think about how he wanted this evening to go, Derek spoke again. Softer, this time. Nearly inaudibly, but unmistakable. "Will you just... just... hold me? Just for a minute?" His voice cracked at the end.

The world, and every single thing in it, ceased to exist. Jack closed the distance between them in record time. He was consciously careful with Derek's body, but he wrapped his arms around Derek's shoulders tighter than he ever had before. Derek didn't reciprocate, but didn't fight it either; his arms were limp at his sides, and the only movement that came from him was his steady, shallow breathing. He allowed himself to be wrapped up in Jack’s arms, and he allowed Jack to run his fingers across his scalp, and he allowed Jack to brush his lips gently against his forehead.

Jack tried to keep his thoughts at bay as he held onto his boy, but couldn't stop them from running wild. Images of the last seven years danced across his memory, mixed up with new images that his imagination concocted. Derek wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay, and he probably wouldn't be okay, at least not for a long time. And it was the not knowing that really threw him into a frenzy, with every question stirring up the need to hold Derek tighter. Derek, who wouldn't speak, or cry, or look at him. But who had come here, to his room, which had to mean something.

They stood like that, each lost in their own thoughts, for what was probably minutes but could have been hours. Jack took in every piece of Derek he could. The curve of his ribs, the smell of his hair. The way his muscles tightened when he touched the small of his back. The way his breathing came in even, shallow waves.

And eventually, when he felt a tear land on his shoulder, he held Derek just a little bit tighter.

"You're okay," he whispered, his lips still pressed against Derek's forehead. "Welcome back."

Derek nodded against his shoulder, his eyes closed, and he took a deep, shaking breath.

It wasn’t true. But as Jack held onto him in the middle of the hotel room, for the first time, he thought maybe it could be. One day.

TAG LIST: NONE (humbling) :) and no promises for when an update will possiblly come. in the event that ya want notified, though, lmk to be added!

#derek's back #like returned #and perhaps also a double entendre #due to his back probably being majorly fucked if we know me #no major tws just an intro to the story #whump writing #i'm gonna start the lab whump and vamp whump stories too #stg i am #im gonna be a ~multi ~story kinda girl #but probs neglect all but leo

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greyliliy · 4 years

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I think what upsets people about Debauchery is that no matter how you shake it, the world you created is too unfair- I was going to say realistical but historically in real life people who have proven themselves (like Katsuki already being a successful hero) have been enabled rather than persecuted (although persecution probably happened as well). Worse though even if you say "Deku is not abusive", Deku's behaviour /is/ abusive within a abusive system and readers recognise that no matter what.

The world is unfair! I spent more time than I want to admit coming up with World Building that guaranteed once Katsuki was discovered as an Omega he’d be trapped with Deku and never get his license back. It is not meant to mirror a real world setting, though it’s inevitable that real world feelings and experiences grant inspiration (Because...it’s the world we live in and that’s what we’ve got).

And the key again - is this is a separate universe from our own with its own rules. In a real world setting, it would absolutely be abusive to force someone to marry you, control all of their finances, and have (almost) completely autonomy over their life.

However In Universe Deku is not Abusive. All of his behaviors are normal & expected. I don’t really get into it, but (again) in universe Katsuki would probably be seen as the “abusive” one for the hell he gives Deku when it comes to fighting the house-rules, demanding his own space, & even the damage he’s caused (aka, wrecking the apartment after Deku accidentally gave him an Order).

It’s sort of where the “grey” comes in for the story. In our real world, a whole lot of stuff in Debauchery is awful, but it’s not in universe. All of these characters were entrenched in the society I created and almost all of their actions are based on it.

I can say that a lot of the times Katsuki “Didn’t fight back” is because he knew it was either better to 1) Lay low and figure stuff out and 2) realized he’d have to fight entirely by himself, and that would ultimately end up futile or put him in an even worse situation.

So even if Katsuki is a fitting and responsible character for the world you created, the world is so dislikeable people end up feel it is the antagonist and the ending feels more like 1984 with the unfair world winning in the end and the character they were rooting for losing and getting very little apology for it since Deku sees his POV as right because of the world, Deku doesn't go through a strong enough character arc and Katsuki's feels incomplete or even that he gives up.

*points above to first answer* Again, the world is supposed to be unfair & bad for Katsuki. There’s no apology for anything because no one in the story would feel that it’s necessary.

The story is written from Close Third, not an omniscient narrator - so everything on the page is an unreliable narrator to some extent (though funny enough I forgot that was the name for it until a commenter pointed it out lol).

Though I will admit, I might have been too subtle with the prologue. I started off the story with a Deku POV explaining that he was going to be mated to Katsuki no matter what anyone thought about it with the goal of setting the tone for the rest of the story, but it might not have gotten the point across as much as I wanted. XD

I know it’s a nitpick, but I always considered Katsuki just flat out “losing” over giving up. He looked through all his options and accepted what he had.

It's a good story for what it is but I don't think it's just people getting upset because they couldn't read the warning signs, it's a dreary, miserable and disheartening fic and that is fine on it's own as it's purpose, whatever Bakugou does it jumping out of the frying pan so he might as well stay in it and let the system cook him with someone he didn't want to be with, who subjugates him throughout keeping him a controlled prisoner - Katsuki accepting it as the best option doesn't change it.

It is primarily a whump fic. Katsuki being miserable and suffering is the end goal. That bit at the end where he decides to make the best of his situation was to lighten the mood for me.

The original ending of the story that I planned when I first started the story was much darker (and in that version Katsuki really did break).

Decided that was too much for even me. XD

Again an amazing but miserable story with Deku being a perpetratory and enforcer of that misery - especially that Katsuki not only ends up pregant by him but also loving him, so essentially Deku wins and gets everything he wants from the start of the story at Katsuki's expense. Even the explanations in Dolorous (so far) don't really do justice for the amount of "whumping" Katsuki's character went through or so far pays dividends to the depression and distress he experienced -it upsets people.

Yeah, Deku sure did get everything he wanted. Lol. That was part of the whole Katsuki Whump thing.

“it upsets people”

It feels cynical to say it and I mean this in the nicest way possible: But man, I hope it did. It’s an angst fic--that’s the point:

angst : a feeling of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity (“angst,” Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/angst. Accessed 9/28/2020.)

Angst is often used in fandom to characterize things which are intended to provoke the feeling of unrest and uncertainty in readers (https://fanlore.org/wiki/Angst)

If an angst story doesn’t make the reader squirm and unnerved, then I’ve sort of failed my role as an angst author.

Though I am mixed, because I do feel bad when people are more upset than they bargained for, but also feel kinda proud because those intense feelings of emotions and unsettlement are the end goal of the writing. XD

#Ask Liliy #Liliy Fanfic #There's like no nice way to say #yes I hope my angst fic unsettled you.#Lol.#Long Post

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accidentally-a-writer · 5 years

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Masterlist

Here is a masterlist of all the stories I’ve done for Tumblr because I’m really bad about posting them on a03 and some are not going to posted there at all :)

Whump Trope One-Shots:

sick + coughing up blood

prisoner exchange

ambush + gunshot wound

presumed dead + infected injury

poison + blackmail

hypothermia

taking a bullet + painful wound cleaning

tortured for information + “take me instead”

verbal abuse + suicidal ideation

brainwashing

worried caregiver + sudden fatal injury

kidnapping + locked in a trunk

amnesia

home invasion

forced sacrifice: pt 1 & pt 2

mercy killing

Heed the tags with the above ones, they’re all pretty whumpy and I just want everyone to stay safe :) Also, please do not tag as Whamilton, since when I wrote them it was exclusively a father/son relationship I was writing for.

Other One-Shots:

washington reading hamilton’s private letters

catatonic hamilton

washington’s nightmare

davies’ twisted version of fluff

war-time era duel

Collaborations / Plots with Kay:

spy + hamilton taking a bullet

friendly fire (international whump day)

december 14th (hamilton holiday calendar)

Stand Back, Watch it Burn: our collaborative Magic AU, in chronological order.

Washington taking in Alex as an apprentice

I'll Make You the Stars

Alexander’s 17th birthday (not my writing! this is Kay’s!)

Even Now I Lie Awake

Past Patiently Waiting Series: our collaborative series

Davies’ Mission: prologue to Part I

we are waiting in the wings (for you) - Part I

Nobody Needs to Know: prologue to Part II

the end for which we live - Part II

Multi-chapters: (solo)

Look at Where We Started

There it is. Here is everything I’ve published on Tumblr for the Hamilton fandom. There’s a few older one shots I published to a03 not included but you can find them all in a bundled little series right here.

If you go and read some of the stories up above please leave them some love, even the older stories I still love getting comments and likes on :)

I’ll be updating this masterlist as we publish more, and I will tell you when the masterlist has been updated. Thanks for all your support!

#hamilton #fanfiction #whump #masterlist #my writing #collab

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ao3feed-sterek · 5 years

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A.I.A

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/39V2Ejj

by GrimReaperlover11

*read Prologue*

Derek is given to Stiles as his A.I.A (Artificial Intelligence Assistant)

Stiles has no clue what to do with the man he is now in control of

Words: 2309, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Broken Hearts, Broken Psyche

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: F/F, M/M, Multi

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Danny Mahealani, Lydia Martin, Jackson Whittemore, Sheriff Stilinski, Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, Kate Argent, Gerard Argent, Original Hale Character(s), Original Characters, Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Danny Mahealani/Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore

Additional Tags: Sterek Bingo 2020, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Artificial Intelligence, Slavery, Dubious Consent, Prisoner Derek Hale, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Slave Derek Hale, Servant Derek Hale, Master Stiles Stilinski, Whump, whump derek hale, Sarcastic Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Framed Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Mind Control, Mild Mind Control, AI chips, AI programs, Violence, Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Canonical Character Death, Dead Peter Hale, Caring Stiles Stilinski, soft Derek Hale, Sad Derek Hale, Hurt Derek Hale, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, recluse Stiles Stilinski, Stiles doesnt know what to do, Stiles Starts out as a jerk, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I have no regrets, this is sin

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/39V2Ejj

#ao3feed #fanfic #sterek

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traceyaudette · 5 years

Text

Saving Us-19

Prologue (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14)(15)(16) (17) (18)

She flinched as the familiar sounds of gunfire echoed through the quiet night. Danny rolled her off the bed, onto the floor, covering her body with his. He raised up, his eyes searching over her body.

“Are you hit?” He moved away, his hands moving over her body.

“I’m fine.....what about you?” Her hands moved over his body, she didn’t find any wounds. She tried to push him off of her, but he wouldn’t budge.

“I’m good.” He leaned down kissing her. Pulling her up, he moved her to the closet. “Stay here, I’m going to check things out.”

“You know I’m a Federal Agent, I outrank you....” She smirked at him.

“You’re on sabbatical, and you’re carrying our child, please stay put.” He pleaded.

“I’ll stay here.” She rolled her eyes, as she settled into place, knowing it was best for her to stay.

“Protect yourself and our baby!” He handed her a gun, kissed her, and left her in the closet.

Steve followed the trail of blood down to the beach, he stood over the man that was laying at the water’s edge gasping for air.

“She’s a dead bitch. She should have just came with me.....” Marcus gasped.

“Who else is coming after her?” Steve asked.

“You’ll never see him coming....he’s a ghost.” Marcus smiled and let out his last breath.

Steve frowned as Junior and Tani walked up beside him. “Where have you two been. I found him hiding in the bushes.”

“We were following someone else on the other side of the house. They escaped...” Junior answered.

Danny rushed over to the group. “Is it over, is she safe now?”

Steve frowned at his friend. “Not even close.”

XXX

I decided I wasn’t going to stay cowering in the closet. I wasn’t going to be held prisoner. I quietly crept through the house, looking for Danny. I practiced my sniper breathing to control my heartbeat.

Standing at the kitchen door, I opened it slowly, looking around, making sure it was clear. Stepping out onto the porch, I took a deep breath, searching for danger.

“What the hell!” I was scooped up, and carried inside. Danny’s blue eyes were furious . “I told you to stay inside!”

“I can protect myself! I’m not going to be a prisoner!” I tried to push away from him.

His arms tightened around me, as he sat me down on the floor. His hands framed my face.

“I don’t doubt that you can protect yourself, but you have our child to think about!”

“Do you really think I’d risk our child’s safety?” I pushed away from him, walking out the door.

“(Y/F)!”

XXX

Tony watched as (Y/N) walked out of the cops house, and start walking down the street. Starting his bike, he rode past her, firing his gun, he watched her hit the ground.

He was an expert shot, he knew he had hit her, there was no way he had missed.

XXX

Danny dropped to his knees pulling (Y/N) into his arms. “(Y/N), baby...please!”

@jodiereedus22@evyiione@mac5323@fanfreak07@mac5323@fanfreak07@hauntedduckdefendor @cherieann2001@mwesterfeld1985 @clairese1980@small-town-wayward-daughter @marcus-demitri455@captivity-whump@hawaiianohana9 @–1–1–3 @drakelover78

#danny williams imagine #danny williams x reader #Danny Williams #steve mcgarrett x reader #steve mcgarrett imagine #Steve McGarett #hawaii 5-0 imagine #hawaii 5-0

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ao3-sterek · 5 years

Text

A.I.A

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/39V2Ejj

by GrimReaperlover11

*read Prologue*

Derek is given to Stiles as his A.I.A (Artificial Intelligence Assistant)

Stiles has no clue what to do with the man he is now in control of

Words: 2309, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Broken Hearts, Broken Psyche

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: F/F, M/M, Multi

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Danny Mahealani/Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/39V2Ejj

#ao3feed #sterek fics #sterek #fics

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thedalektables · 6 years

Text

Stranger in a Strange Land

Written by @cheriluvs10-blog-blog (Cheri on TS & Chri1 on FF)

Eleventh Doctor (T) 20k

Rose lands from one of her dimension jump to find the Doctor about to be executed in Trafalgar Square.

Discover this fix through quotes (x) comments (x) author’s notes (x) or ficart (x)

Find another fix to fit your mood (x) View our reclists (x) Or get teased (x)

Genre: #adventure #whump #angst DW Timeline: #dimension hopping #reunion fic Relationship Status: #together Hurt!Comfort Trope: #injury Whump Trope: #torture #mind invasion #noncon UST Trope: #prison RTD Era Characters: #donna noble #jack harkness Moffat Era Characters: #rory williams #river song #amy pond Side Pairing: #eleven♡river #amy♡rory Location: #london #alt!universe

More on what to expect while reading this fic under cut:

About the Writing

Year: Started posting in August 2012 | Completed in September 2012 Chapters: 16 chapters | ~1.5k per chapter | Very short chapters POV: Written in first person | Read from Rose's point of view Plot Developpement: Linear | Starts when Rose lands in London Writing Style: Focus on the action more than sensations or feelings

Major tags

#reunion fic: Rose finds Eleven while dimension jumping #together: Eleven kisses Rose | Rose and the Doctor were in a relationship before Doomsday

Character's description

Eleventh Doctor: Tortured and injured | Already in a relationship with Rose | Calls River "My love" Rose Tyler: Dimension hopping | Already in a relationship with the Doctor Donna Noble: Never knew the Doctor in this universe | Temp at the prison where Eleven is incarcerated Jack Harkness: Jack was brainwashed and is Eleven's torturer Rory Williams: Rory is beaten up badly River Song: Eleven's wife | Calls Rory and Amy, Mom and Dad Amy Pond: Rory's wife

Violence

Chapter 02: Rose uses a taser gun to stun two soldiers Chapter 04: Jack says mean things to Eleven | Jack enables a microchip in Eleven's neck that inflicts pain | Rose attacks Jack with a pike | Eleven pinch Jack's neck so he'll fall unconscious Chapter 05: Eleven forces himself into Donna's mind to make her cooperate Chapter 08: A guard punches Rose on the face Chapter 09: Rose is blindfolded and manhandle | Death threat

Chapter 01 : Prologue

General - 583 words Rose arrives in London and learns Eleven is to be executed in two hours #london: Rose lands in London #dimension hopping: Rose uses the dimension cannon to find Eleven

Chapter 02 : Chapter 1

General - 1590 words Rose finds a way to get in the building where Eleven in imprisoned #alt!universe: Rose did land in a universe controlled by a dark army #london: Rose walks around London to find where Eleven is incarcerated

Chapter 03 : Chapter 2

Teen (Description of injuries and mentions of torture) - 1515 words Rose finds Eleven all tortured up and naked in a prison cell | A brainwashed Jack comes in to torture Eleven some more #prison: Eleven and Rose try to escape a prison #whump: Mentions of Eleven being tortured #adventure: Rose have a plan to save Eleven #injury: Slashes across Eleven's back | Eleven has a swollen eye and cut lip #torture: Eleven was tortured #alt!universe: Eleven and Rose are stuck in an alt!universe #london: Eleven and Rose are in a prison in London

Chapter 04 : Chapter 3

Teen (Mention of nakedness) - 1391 words Rose and Eleven attack Jack until he is unconscious | Eleven steals Jack clothes #prison: Eleven and Rose try to escape a prison #noncon: Jack lears at Eleven's penis #adventure: Rose helps Eleven escape from his prison cell #torture: Eleven has a microchip in his neck that inflict pain and prevent him to fight back #alt!universe:Rose and Eleven are stuck in an alternate universe #london: Eleven is imprisoned in London

Chapter 05 : Chapter 4

General - 961 words Eleven ask Donna to join him #prison: Eleven and Rose try to escape a prison #mind invasion: Eleven enters Donna's mind without asking to make her follow him #alt!universe: Rose and Eleven are stuck in an alternate universe #london: Rose and Eleven are in a prison in London

Chapter 06 : Chapter 5

General - 1425 words Eleven enters Jack's mind to know where Amy, Rory, and River are held | Eleven, Rose, and Donna vo find Amy, Rory, and River #prison: Eleven and Rose try to escape a prison #adventure: Eleven, Rose, and Donna try to save Amy, Rory, and River unoticed #alt!universe: Eleven mentions Rose being from another dimension #london: Eleven and Rose try to escape a prison in London

Chapter 07 : Chapter 6

Teen (Explicit description of injuries) - 1492 words Eleven, Rose, and Donna save Rory and River #amy♡rory: Rory asks to see his wife #eleven♡river: Eleven calls River "My love" #angst: Rose is hurt when she hears Eleven call River " My love" #prison: Eleven and Rose help Rory and River escape #whump: Explicit descriptions of Rory's injuries #adventure:Rose and Eleven save Rory and River #injury: Rory has two swollen eyes | Rory has a bleeding nose #torture: Mentions of Rory being beaten #alt!universe: Rose is in an alternate universe #london: Rose and Eleven try to escape a prison in London

Chapter 08 : Chapter 7

General - 1452 words Eleven, Rose, Rory, and River get caught and back in prison to be executed #amy♡rory: Amy and Rory are together #angst: Rose wants to know about Eleven and River but doesn't ask #prison: Rose, River, Rory, and Amy are in prison #whump: Rose gets punched in the face by a guard #adventure:Rose, Eleven ,River, Rory, and Amy need to escape a prison #alt!universe: Rose is stuck in an alternate universe #london: Rose is stuck in a prison in London

Chapter 09 : Chapter 8

General - 1399 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 10 : Chapter 9

General - 1099 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 11 : Chapter 10

General - 1222 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 12 : Chapter 11

General - 1425 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 13 : Chapter 12

General - 1170 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 14 : Chapter 13

General - 1232 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 15 : Chapter 14

General - 1083 words NOT YET REVIEWED

Chapter 16 : Chapter 15

General - 1946 words NOT YET REVIEWED

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whumblr · 5 years

Text

Masterpost

Custody Series - (Completed)

Getting away doesn’t mean it’s over.

Meet Nat, a detective who got captured after a botched drug bust and is focusing on healing from their trauma. Their partner Jeffrey, or Jeff to friends, is trying to help them. Our Whumper, Eric, is in custody but still has a frightening influence on Nat.

Chapter 1

AO3

Home is where the hurt is (Completed)

After an encounter with the local crime gang some years ago, Jay is enjoying a peaceful life. Until Zayne shows up on his doorstep. At first, Jay considers himself lucky that he wasn’t recaptured, but what Zayne had in mind was much worse. Jay’s main concerns are now to hide bruises, evade questions, and worry about what’s waiting for him at home that evening.

Chapter 1

AO3

Crossed out (Ongoing)

When Lucas heard a former client of his died in prison he starts to look into what happened. Involuntarily, he gets the opportunity to witness the state of affairs in the prison first-hand, and finds out things are even worse than he could have imagined.

Prologue

Ao3 (not up yet)

Drabbles (old to new)

Please answer your phone! (Hand stabbing, forced to listen) Look at me (Continuation, stabbing) After you (Manhandling, defiant whumpee, stabbing) Accident (Intimidation, lashing out) Two choices (Intimidation, obedience) Goosebumps (Lady whump, forced to kneel, intimidation) Warning (Wrist breaking, one-sided beating) Taking advantage (Whumper, caretaker) Checking in (Infection, fever) Feverish (Continuation, infection, sickfic) Mercy (Emotional whump, mind games) Pushy caretaker (Conditioning, pleading) Drop it (Intimidation, beating) Hiding the pain (Injured, hiding injuries from Whumper) Won’t you bow to me? (Beating, caning, submission) Not you too (Caretaker, fear, prompt) Stop picking your wounds! (Threats, stabbing) Public encounters (Lady whump, post captivity) Stimuli (Punishment, whipping) Chase and comfort (Escape attempt, angst, h/c) Unspoiled (Threatening, first time whumpee) Speak with two words (language, defiant whumpee) Merry Christmas 1 - (Food deprivation, defiant whumpee) Merry Christmas 2 - (Feeding, defiant whumpee) Merry Christmas 3 - (Shock collar) Early Christmas (Continuation) Stay - (Intimidation, obedience) Threat (Caretaker, intimidation) Doctor’s visit (Medical whump, fake concern) Start with the smallest (Defiant whumpee, intimidating whumpee) Collared (Lady whump, angst) Will be fine (Forced to watch, whipping) Softly (Forced to watch, knifeplay) Close - (Forced to watch, continuation) Fooled (Defiant whumpee) Outside perspective - (Non-whumper at a whumper party) A way out - (Suicide mention to escape torture) Options - (Blackmail, gaslighting) Whiner - (Lady whump, defiant whumpee) Mine - (Possessive whumper, manhandling) Barrier - (Creepy captor, intimate whumper) Repulsion - (Continuation, intimate whumper) Overwhelmed (continuation, pt 3, intimate whumper) Hold on - (Whipping) Unfair fight Visiting hours - hospital whump, unknown poison) Visiting hours 2 Exposed (obedience, intimidation) Sacrifice - (Hurt me instead, caning) Blinded - (blindfolded, angst) Silky - (lady whump, dining with the enemy) Smooth - (lady whump, continuation) We’re gonna have so much fun - (suicide pill, implied torture) Down on your luck - (gambling for whumpee, emotional whump) Keepsake - (emotional whump, possessive whumper) Heated - (Burning, threats) Winded (Asthmatic whumpee, collar) Mixed signals - (Lady whump, breakdown) Knifeplay Stuck - (Crack whump, failed escape, cage) Locked in - (Magic whump, trapped) Trying new things - (Defiant Whumpee, threatened whipping) Stalker - (possessive whumper) Quicksand - (Environmental whump, failed escape) Mine to take - (recapture, intimate whumper) Surprise (Angst, captivity) Matchfixing - (threatened injury, forced to kneel) Gadgets - (Defiant whumpee betrayed by technology) Betrayal - (Gunplay) Infatuated - (Intimate whumper) Hidden - (Tortured for information) Just us - (Multiple whumpers, possessive whumper) Among friends (Whumper’s Soiree event, Whumper party) Anticipation (Whumper’s soiree, continuation) Attitude (Whumper’s soiree, continuation) Easy - (intimate whumper, defiant whumpee) Worthless - (Self-sacrifice) Treasure - (Continuation, Self-sacrifice) In the eye of the beholder - (Continuation, emotional whump) Exchange - (oh hey also self-sacrifice, protective whumpee) Nails - (Hand whump, failed escape) Stapler - (Painful wound cleaning, stapler stitches) Stop - (Whump the caretaker, forced to watch) Escalation - (Tortured for informtion, triggered whumpee) All good - (defiant whumpee) Rematch - (Brawler whumpee, beating) Journey - (Recapture, creepy whumper) Half strength - (Recapture, self sacrifice, because of course) First, a finger - (Continuation, broken bones) Bookish - (Lady whump, captivity) For science - (Lady whump continuation) Scary words - (Lady whump continuation) Breathe now (breath control, creepy whumper) Strong - (Intimate whumper, emotional whump) Payback - (Caretaker turned whumper, Whumper turned whumpee) Sorry - (Defiant whumpee) What’s best - (repressed memories) Bundled up - (sickfic) Desperate - (Escape) Ball and chain - (Defiant whumpee) Bloody - (Scared of blood) Sleepy - (Insomniac whumpee) Memories - (recapture) Robot whump - (Yeah that, caretaker angst) Rescue mission - Robot whump Ups and downs - (recapture)

Short Stories

Murderer (3 parts, lady whump, forced to kill) We’re gonna have to much fun (5 parts. Suicide pill, implied amputation) Backup (tortured for information, failed escape) Whumper’s Soiree (Whumper party) Bookish (AO3 - Lady whump, pretentious whumper :3) Traumatized whumpee

Prompts

Dialogue prompts

Whumptober 2020

Lists / Tropes

#whump masterpost #oof I didn't realise I'd written more than I thought #so iit's time for a master post #including tropes #my writing

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eirabach · 7 years

Text

Heathens [8/14]

Summary: After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

Thank you so much to everyone who’s commented so far, I hope you continue to enjoy! This chapter and the next are two of my favourite things I’ve written - so I hope you like them too! All my thanks and love as ever to @phiralovesloki and @katie-dub for their beta work and general amazingness, and to @seastarved for her incredible artwork!

Rated: E. Warnings for violence and corporal/capital punishment specifically in this chapter! @killian-whump this one’s going out to you.

This chapter 4.4k

Other Pairings: Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six or here on AO3

Chapter Seven: Blood on the Floor

When he’d been dragged from the cell they’d thrown him into almost as soon as they’d arrived, and the guard had left David, bemused and enraged, behind, he’d assumed some sort of… personal treatment was in order. The rack, perhaps, or the whipping post. He was no stranger to either, after all.

He’d assumed the guard’s brutish manhandling of him as he practically threw his chained body down the courtyard steps had been due to frustration with the way Killian’s knees refused to buckle at the prospect, but then he’d seen the waiting crowd, heard the slam of the pillory being opened, and suddenly, he hadn’t been so sure.

“Is this is really necessary?” Killian asks as the prison guard as he’s bodily forced into the shackles of the pillory. “If I could just speak to the king, I’m sure he’d - ”

“King’s got nothing to do with this,” the guard spits as he slams the shackles down painfully hard on Killian’s bare wrist. “This is just a bit of fun, y’see.”

“Fun for who, exactly?” Killian chokes out as the collar tightens around his neck.

“Me, of course. Ain’t got a hangman’s stomach, so this is as good as I can get.”

“You’re taking this all very - very personally,” Killian gasps as the guard gives him a solid cuff around the back of his head and sets his ears ringing.

The man stands up straight and folds his arms.

“I had a lad, once. Brave he was. Stupid, perhaps. Joined the Navy didn’t he? Your lot got him on his first voyage.”

“My lot?”

“Pirates,” the man spits, “Dirty, filthy pirates. Scum of the Earth, every last one of you, and you, oh, you are going to feel it.”

“Marvel at the great pirate Captain Hook!” he bellows to the crowd. “Come see him in all his glory! Shall we thank him, one and all, for his years at sea? Shall we show him our gratitude for his treatment of our fine navy?”

The crowd snarls and jeers, seething with hatred, as someone pushes a large wicker basket before the pillory.

“You’ve made your point,” Killian grits out from between his teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your son.”

The man leans forward, his hands on his knees, and smiles.

“Too late.”

The sharp, wet smack of the first putrid vegetable sends his head reeling to the right and he grits his teeth against the sting of the laughter that follows.

“Good shot!” someone calls. “Get the stump, go on!”

A howl of agreement, and then the frame judders under the onslaught of half-black turnips and slime-coated lettuce. Killian struggles to keep his eyes open and his mouth closed as they rain down on him, acid sending his vision blurry and his head throbbing under the onslaught.

He thinks he sees, just for a moment, a young boy stood by the basket, a rotten apple in his hand as he seems to consider his shot, and over the cheers of the crows, over the thundering of his own blood, he thinks he can hear Liam calling his name.

“What you doing? Killian? Killian!”

The weight of the apple in his hand, the bruise blackened face of the man in the stocks, and Liam, Liam behind him, his hand on his shoulder, his guiding light.

“Why?” he asks, and Liam’s reply is as grim and as tight as his grip as he pulls him away.

“You can’t know another man’s story, Killian.”

Yes, brother, he thinks, his eyes closing as something harder, sharper, slashes his cheek. I can.

Killian’s only respite after the humiliation of the pillory is a barrel of icy water thrown over his head and thin prison-issue garb before he’s tossed back into the cell he shares with Dave, the promise of their looming execution on the guard’s gleeful lips.

That was three days ago, and this morning is to be the last they’ll ever see.

“Hung,” says David for the fifteenth time since dawn had risen and brought a breakfast of mackerel and eggs to the condemned men’s cell. “I’m going to be hung.”

“Hanged, actually,” says Killian with false cheer. “Thought a king might know that, but that’s royalty for you,” says Killian as he picks the bones out of his fillet. “Never appreciate their education, and all about the capital punishment until it’s their necks on the block. Perhaps if King Eric had been hugged more as a child we wouldn’t be in this position.”

“I’m a shepherd,” David says with a scowl, “About to be hung like a piece of mutton, and for what? Associating with a pirate? Perhaps if you hadn’t dragged me into this mess, I’d be at home!”

“With what, your sheep?”

“Do you have any idea,” David seethes, “what it feels like to give up? To lose everything you’ve ever loved in one fell swoop? Yes, I’d be at home with my sheep! My sheep are all I have!”

Guilt itches at the back of Killian’s neck, and he considers telling David right then, about the daughter who’d grown up to be the Saviour, the determination with which she’d set out to find her father. Her certainty that somewhere, somehow, this man’s True Love is still alive.

Waiting.

But that means telling him how Killian has failed them. How Killian watched this man’s daughter sink to the depths. How fate took her, in a way, as assuredly as it will take this man, this good-hearted shepherd King, for the sin of daring to bestow an ounce of kindness on the undeserving soul of Killian Jones.

Of admitting that Snow White will wait forever, and David is helpless to prevent it.

“Rather a desperate turn of events all around, if you ask me.” Killian says instead, shaking his head. “No. I’m sorry, your Majesty, I truly am, but I didn’t ask you to brain that bloke, did I? I wasn’t to know just being in my presence is a death sentence nowadays.”

“Your presence encourages poor choices,” says David, and shoves his plate away, “so I shouldn’t be surprised. How can you eat at a time like this?”

“Well, there’s not much else to be done about it,” Killian says with a shrug. “And it’s pretty good, you sure you don’t want any?”

“Am I sure - ” David sucks a breath between his teeth. “Do you even have a plan to get out of here?”

Killian drops his fork and any attempts at pretense, his expression darkening as he looks out of the barred window towards the shadow of the gallows.

“None whatsoever.”

“So what, you’re just going to die?”

“Maybe it’s time,” he says. “I’ve lived a long, long time, mate, and there’s more I love waiting for me there than there is remaining here.”

“Me, too,” says David, letting his head hang back against the stone wall. “I never thought I'd be scared, you know? I thought - I thought when it was time, I’d be ready. Ready to join Snow. And yet - ” He lets his head loll to the side. “Are you so sure they’re waiting for you?”

“I’m not a priest,” Killian says. “Far from it. But I’d like to think - what’s the alternative, eh? Nothing? Can’t be worse than here.”

“Can’t it?” asks David, and sighs. “I wish I knew, that’s all.”

Killian swallows hard and looks at his feet, bare apart from the chain around his ankles. He doesn't know if his next words are cruelty or comfort, but he knows he can't go to the gallows with them unsaid. Not when David’s desperation is so familiar to him.

He wishes he knew, too.

“Your daughter - Emma - ” he stops, pausing to swallow the ache that seems to follow her name. “What if I told you I know that she’s waiting for you?”

“How would you know that?” David laughs grimly, then his brow furrows. “How do you know her name?”

“Because,” Killian sighs. “I rather hope she’s waiting for me, too.”

“You know Emma?” David says, scrambling up onto his knees. “How? Why? Are you telling me she’s - ” His mouth works helplessly around the last word, his face bright red.

“Gone?” Killian winces at the word. “Aye. I loved her, but I couldn’t save her. Couldn’t save any of them.” He looks back out of the window. The clouds are gathering now, the wind picking up. It won’t be long. “Not even myself.”

“What do you mean, you loved her?” asks David, rearing back against the wall of the cell, his already pale face blanching to the colour of the stone behind him. “What happened - what did you do to her!”

“Nothing,” Killian insists, shaking his head against the implied accusation even as guilt makes his last meal sit unsteady in his stomach. “Nothing she didn’t ask me to! I was her - ” and it’s his turn to pause, the words tripping over themselves to escape and yet none of them quite right - lover, consort, captain - “friend!” His shoulders sink, the realisation stinging at the back of his eyes. “I was her best friend. And she was mine.”

“And she was alive,” David says softly, his eyes far away. “And you loved her.”

“I did. I do.” Killian shakes his head. “We were looking for you, you know. I don’t think this is quite the reunion she had in mind.”

“Looking for me?”

“Aye. You and the Lady Snow.” He smiles, a sad, wistful little thing, but genuine enough. “We were neither of us cut out to rule. Emma had the idea that the two of you may be better suited. I don’t think she was expecting - well.”

He gestures to David, but he’s too busy gaping to take any offence.

“But Snow’s - and Regina, is she - ”

“Dead, mate?” Through the window they hear the sound of a hundred or more feet skittering over the cobbles, voices raised in excitement, as the dark figure of the hangman strides past their cell door. “Aren’t we all?”

The crowd that forces its way through the prison gates and into the courtyard ebbs and flows like a sea of humanity baying for blood, small children propped on their father’s shoulders, young girls shrieking with laughter at their friends.

Emma spits bile over the parapet above their heads, and hopes it lands in their eyes.

“This is entertainment?” she hisses. Ariel wrings her hands, her long red locks covered in a heavy cloak.

“It’s been a hard winter,” she says. “The suffering - ”

“Clearly wasn’t enough,” Emma growls.

“Emma, please,” Ariel pleads, “you must remember that this is a seafaring nation - these people have lost many loved ones to pirates - and your Killian Jones is no innocent man.”

“I told you,” Emma says, her eyes flicking over the crowd, searching for something, anything, that might act as an escape route. “He’s changed.”

“And I believe that,” says Ariel. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I know.” Emma reaches out and squeezes Ariel’s hand. “I know what you’re risking for us. Thank you.”

“As I said, I’m an old romantic,” Ariel says, and then adds wryly, “and completely mad.”

She pulls a steel hook from the confines of her cloak, handing it over to Emma with a wink and a smile.

“Please don't ask what I had to do to get that.”

Emma squeezes the metal tightly, and tucks it into the waist of her breeches.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Ariel shakes her head. “Don't thank me yet.”

There’s a last push from the rear of the crowd, and then the iron gates are drawn shut behind them with an ominous creak, a hush falling over the crowd as the hangman strides out onto the gallows.

“I’ll spare you as much time as I can,” whispers Ariel, “but the rest of it’s up to you. Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t,” Emma says, watching the loop and the turn of the ropes as they’re attached. Two of them. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Easier said than done,” mutters Ariel, and she turns to scurry down a staircase to join the masses below leaving Emma alone with nothing but her roiling stomach for company.

She hasn’t got a clue what she’s doing. No plan, no resources, just a view of a gallows, and the sure and certain knowledge that she won’t survive watching him die, and someway, somehow, that’s going to have to be enough.

She’s still got her sword, and her dagger tucked into her breeches, she’s still got her wits - such as they are right now - and she’s got Ariel’s sworn promise of distraction. At her feet are a couple of half barrels, mainly empty after a rainless few days - and the flag of the Maritime Kingdom flutters in the breeze from a flagpole that juts up beneath her.

She sees more than hears the frisson of excitement that runs through the crowd as the metal doors of the prison grind open, people standing on their tiptoes and elbowing each other for a better view of the damned men as they're dragged out onto the dais.

There's an older man with graying curls and a mutinous expression who shakes his captors' hands from his shoulders and stands surveying the crowd like a man who’s found himself in a terrible dream, his bearing almost regal despite the way his hands are tied behind his back, and then - and then - there's Killian.

If the other man looks mutinous, then Killian's expression can only be described as - well, cheerful. He nods to the crowd, throws a wink to the young girls who've pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and practically swaggers his way to his own death.

She wouldn't have expected anything else, not really. Once a showman, always a showman, but this isn't a swan song she's prepared to witness.

The barrel wobbles beneath her as she tests her weight against it, her focus split between where the older man appears to have chosen to berate Killian with his last words and the gentle sway of the flagpole.

If she misses this, she isn’t going to be witnessing anything. Ever again.

No pressure.

She waits for the moment Ariel mounts the dais, the little hand gesture the two of them had agreed upon the only hint that the queen isn’t truly there to pass final judgement on the ne’er do wells alongside her, leans forward, and jumps.

She hits the flagpole with a clatter, tangling herself helplessly in the flag as she scrambles for grip before clinging on to the wooden pole like an infant chimera to its mother’s back. The crowd at the base of the flagpole looks up in shock as the pole begins to sway alarmingly beneath her sudden weight, and she sort of grimaces down at them in a way she hopes is reassuring. A small child opens her mouth as though to scream and Emma shakes her head furiously, struggling to press a finger against her lips. Luckily, Ariel takes the opportunity to clear her throat, and their attention is drawn back to the gallows.

“Citizens of the Marine Kingdom,” she begins in her bell-like voice as Emma begins to shimmy indelicately down the pole. “It is always a sorrow for my husband and I to proceed with events such as these, but it is our duty to see that justice is done for the - ” Emma slips, only her right elbow catching in the rope stopping her from falling the fifteen feet to the ground below, and Ariel stumbles. “For the good - and the - the glory - ” Emma untangles herself enough to slide another five feet, and is judging the remaining drop when the hangman moves to cover Killian and the other man’s faces with the rough sacking hood they’re to die in. Killian’s mouth is moving, she can see it from here even though she’s no hope of hearing him, and gods help her but it looks like Emma.

“I’m coming,” she says, all air and fear leaving her in a single breath, and falls.

He remembers the queen, not like this - oddly nervous, her hands twisting in the silk of her cloak as she condemns the already dead - but younger, bolder, with a tail made of shining scales and a passion beyond his tormented understanding. He wonders for half a moment if he shouldn’t appeal directly to her, for Dave’s sake if not his own, but her eyes are fixed firmly on the crowd, her back forever turned to him, as David continues to mutter pointless threats beneath his breath.

“If there is an afterlife,” David hisses, “I will kill you in it, be sure of that.”

“That would be more frightening if it weren’t for the noose,” Killian mutters out of the side of his mouth. “It rather takes priority.”

“I can make it frightening,” David assures him. “You wait.”

“You’re assuming I’ll see you there,” Killian adds. “Rather hopeful of you, but thanks anyway.”

“That’s enough,” spits the hangman. “Her Majesty is speaking and your breaths are numbered. Save ‘em.”

“For what?” snipes David, and his head is covered by the hanged man’s hood.

Killian swallows hard, and for a moment lets his eyes close, runs through the faces he can only hope are waiting for him on the other side. His mother, Liam, Milah.

Emma.

He opens his eyes one last time as the hood descends, and for one moment he thinks he can see her, a vision floating above the crowd, her golden hair wild in the breeze, and then he sees no more.

She scrabbles to her feet as the drums begin to roll, their thunder rolling out as the crowd surge onto their tiptoes, all desperate for a glimpse of death at work. Elbowing her way through them, hand tight on her sword’s pommel, she finds herself fervently muttering aloud, her breaths cut short and quick in desperation as though she's willing him to hear her somehow even if it's the last thing he ever hears.

I love you I love you I love you I love you.

She's never told him. Never. And the drums reach a crescendo, the crowd surges forward, tears running hot down her cheeks, Ariel’s frightened face blurred and distorted.

The hangman pulls.

The trapdoor drops.

The world stops.

She doesn’t know how she gets from twelve feet away to the gallows in less than a breath, nor why the hangman is bleeding at her feet, only that the ropes are swinging and their feet are twitching and her sword is sharp, sharp sharp as she slashes the first man down. Somebody’s screaming, several somebodies, the whole world, probably, but it’s far away - only I love you on her white, cracked lips as she rips off the hood.

The man stares up at her through bloodshot, watery eyes, as she throws him aside.

“Not you,” she hisses, and maybe he balks at that - she feels like he balks at it, his rheumy gaze fixed on her - but she hasn’t time to care. Another swipe, another clatter of bone against wood, and she’s dragging him to her, her tears wet against his sackcloth skin. She rips off the hood only to realise that beneath he’s too pale, blueish lips and still lashes, a violent, livid mark at his throat where the rope has tightened.

“Don’t be dead,” she whisper-sobs, her sword abandoned as her hands rove over his too still chest. “Don’t be dead. I’ll kill you.”

“Emma?” The other man is behind her now, her sword in his hand. “Emma, is that you?”

“Don’t be dead,” is all she can manage, and he shakes his head, the movement jerky like a man rising from a dream.

“You need to go!” Ariel, still stood at the front of the gallows, her arms held out placatingly towards them as though warding off enemies of the crown, speaks through gritted teeth, her eyes wild. “The guards!”

And sure enough over the echoing screams and gasps of the crowd and her own panicked breath, Emma can hear the approach of chainmail and hooves.

“I can’t,” she says, her fingers tight in the worn fabric of Killian’s shirt, “I can’t leave him.”

“Then you’ll die with him!”

“Emma, please,” entreats the stranger, “it’s too late.”

“No.” The guards are upon them she imagines, Ariel frantically thinking of a way to keep them back a moment or two longer, but it doesn’t matter. “No,” she mumbles, “I just got him back.”

She squeezes her eyes tight against the tears that keep falling, takes a deep breath, and presses her lips to his cold ones to breathe life into his lungs - once, twice, three times.

“Don’t you dare,” she pleads, and behind her heavy footsteps mount the gallows, loud voices, large hands that reach out and grab at her clothes.

She has no idea how she does it, only that she does, her hands thrown out in front of her as she twists around and lightning streaking through the air. The crowd scream as one, the sound of a hundred frightened pairs of feet thundering through the wood beneath her as she scrunches her face up in concentration, the white light from her fingertips sending the guards wincing backwards.

“No,” she pants out. “I don’t think so.”

The swords that the guards had been holding are ripped free and arc towards her, the men’s astonished expressions the last thing she sees before she grabs hold of Killian’s sleeve with one hand and hooks her ankle around his companion’s leg, closing her eyes and willing the fire within her to get us out of here, get us out of here please!

The screaming stops, suddenly, replaced by the sound of bird call and the drip, drip, drip of rain falling softly through the canopy.

Her sword drops to the floor with a dull thud, the man who had been holding it staring around himself in bemused wonder, but she only has eyes for Killian, only cares for the slight pink plush returning to his cheeks, the flutter of his eyelids as he draws first one rasping breath and then another.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” she hisses again, “not ever, do you hear?”

He smiles, a small uptick at the corner of his mouth.

“Never, love. Never.”

“Good,” she snaps, and thumps him hard enough in the shoulder to send him roiling and wretching against the forest floor.

“Oh, shit, shit I didn’t mean - “

“It’s quite alright, love,” he gasps out once his stomach is empty. “No doubt I deserve it.”

“No doubt you do,” grumbles the other man. “Are you always this much of a drama queen?”

“It’s a habit that doesn’t only apply when at death’s door, I’m afraid. Why, does that put you off wanting to kill me?” he manages, before coughs wrack his body. Emma rests her hand on his back and scowls up at the other man.

“Who are you?” she asks sharply, rubbing firmly between Killian’s shoulder blades as he hacks into the grass. “And how the fuck did we get here? Was that me? How - ”

The man’s jaw twitches, and he shrugs in a poor showing of nonchalance.

“Damned if I know. There was smoke - and this bright light - and then,” he gestures around them, “we were here. Wherever here is.”

“Magic,” Killian says, smiling up at Emma between coughs. “That’s my girl.”

She shakes her head, but he nods, wincing at the action.

“You might not know how you did it, Swan, but you saved us all. Again.”

“The Saviour,” says the other man, the word falling out on a long breath, his eyes wide. “It’s true.”

“I don’t do autographs,” she says sharply, “but you’re welcome, I guess.”

“No, I - ”

“Swan,” says Killian, something bright and cheeky and delightfully comforting flickering to life in his gaze, “I’d like you to meet my new mate.”

“I’m not your - ”

“Dave, meet your daughter. Swan, King David of Misthaven.”

“Wait, what?” Emma's jaw drops, the blood draining from her face as she stares up at the man she rescued entirely by accident. The man with long, grey blond hair and a set to his shoulders that makes her muscles twinge in recognition. “You're the King of Misthaven?”

“No,” he says, his voice cracking, “not for a lifetime - but Emma, oh Emma, I thought you were dead.”

He scoops her up from the floor and into his arms, his hand cradling the back of her head as though she's an infant, and she stiffens instantly, the feeling both awkwardly unfamiliar and strangely right. He holds on regardless, his arms shaking slightly as he holds her tight.

“Where did you go?” he asks, the words pressed into the crown of her head. “Where have you been?”

“I rather think that's a question she's been planning to ask you, mate,” Killian says, still crumpled forward on the forest floor, and Emma forces herself to pull back from the embrace.

“Something like that,” she says. “You never found me.”

“I didn't know I could,” David says, and she can see the truth in his eyes, hear it in the gaps between his staggered breaths. “If I'd known, Emma, if I'd known - ”

She steps back, her palm held up between them, and shakes her head. It hurts, the thought of him wondering, looking, wanting her, hurts deep in a part of her soul that she'd thought she'd buried long ago, and she can't face it. Not now, lost in the wilds with this man who claims to be her father and Killian wheezing at her feet.

“Not now,” she says as his eyes widen in disappointment. “Not - not never, but not now.”

“Alright,” he says, and reaches down to pick up her sword, handing it back to her with a bow of his head. He lifts the two guardsmen’s swords that have accompanied them to wherever the hell they are, testing the weight of them and smiling slightly. “Where to?”

“Anywhere,” she says, and heaves Killian to his feet, shifting her weight as he leans heavily against her. “Literally, anywhere.”

“Together?” he asks hopefully, swinging Killians other arm over his shoulder, and she manages a smile.

“Together.”

#cs ff #cs fic #csbb #cs crew #captain swan #clare vs heathens #clare vs writers block #the chapter that made killiancygus attempt to blow her nose on a cat #my lifetime achievement

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