#graphic depictions of violence

[justcallme-ange]

Another round of sketches. I’m gonna put this one under a cut cuz it’s a little more graphic than my other ones, so don’t wanna accidentally startle anyone while they’re scrolling.

More c!Dream prison stuff. I may have roughed him up a little…. It’s okay though! Techno’s there - so Dream’s not totally alone

See he’s all good now wrapped up in Techno’s cape!

#I’ll have some fluff next I promise! #cdream #ctechno #dreamwastaken #technoblade #rivals duo #rivalsduo #cw: gore #cw torture #graphic depictions of violence #my art

[aziraphales-library]

Do you have any recommendations for self sacrificing Aziraphale fics? Kind of on the line of protective Aziraphale with a little more Aziraphale whump.

We have loads of tags for fics like these!! #sacrifice, #protective aziraphale, #bamf aziraphale, #aziraphale whump, #hurt aziraphale. Here are more to add to the extensive collections. Mind the tags on these...

I'll Shed My Blood To Keep You From Harm by ShesAKillerQueen98 (M)

Crowley and Aziraphale are two young men living on the streets in 1700s England and when Crowley is caught trying to steal from a nobleman, Aziraphale takes the blame and the punishment, public flogging. Crowley is forced to watch while his best friend, his guardian angel, is beaten and humiliated. Angsty at first, fluff comes at the end.

To the World by cal_amity (M)

The split hit Aziraphale hard. It hit Crowley harder.

I've Been Loving You by acup_oftea (NR)

The laws of physics suggested that the Bentley shouldn’t have been able to drive more than seventy-or-so miles per hour in London. The laws of physics, however, did not account for the Bentley’s strong preference for protecting certain ethereal beings who had a tendency to overthink absolutely everything save for their own personal safety. Crowley made it to the bookshop in under five minutes, his mind racing and his heart hammering as he took in the fact that he was actually coming back. He couldn’t face this, couldn’t be in this place without sinking into its familiarity, without closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of the shop, without covertly staring and staring at its owner. But he was up and slamming the car door shut without stopping, trying to calm the dull panic in his head. OR It's been seven months, & Crowley has taken to drinking himself into oblivion & solitude. But when he gets a panicked call from Muriel telling him to get to the bookshop right away, he is forced to confront certain misunderstandings he may have had as the threat of danger lurks- & he'll do anything to keep his angel safe OR The author is TIRED of reading s2 fix-its where Aziraphale is the bad guy

Fragile Strength by TakeItEezy (M)

An angel of Heaven must be completely free of sin. What happens if one breaks the rules and gives in to temptation?

On Memories and Minds by the_literal_k (T)

“Tell me… Exactly how many times now have we dragged each other back from the abyss?” “Oh I've long since lost count, angel.” Crowley would protect Aziraphale until his last. They both knew that. But it made them predictable, and being predictable was dangerous. And Aziraphale couldn't have Crowley risking his life. Not even for him; not again. Especially not if it meant going to Heaven again in his stead. They've been protecting each other since Before the Beginning; it's become core to who they are. There is something to be said for shades of gray and maybe, just maybe, the Metatron didn’t think through what it meant to separate them.

Drops of Sorrow by EdosianOrchids901 (M)

Ten years after the failed Apocalypse, Crowley is captured by Heaven. Gabriel plans to use him as bait to lure Aziraphale into a fight. Can Crowley survive captivity, and will Aziraphale be able to rescue him without walking into the trap?

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #protective aziraphale #bamf aziraphale #hurt aziraphale #aziraphale whump #hurt crowley #major archive warning #graphic depictions of violence #mod d

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 3: "Make it stop"

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & the Chain

- Summary: When Wild is captured by the Yiga Clan, Master Kohga decides to get his revenge

CW for graphic depictions of violence, torture, blood and injury, vomiting, and a character briefly wishing for death

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

“Get up!”

Wild pries open his eyes just as a boot connects with his side. He jerks away with a hiss of pain. 

Of all the horrible ways to wake up…

The face of a Yiga assassin comes into view as his vision clears and he groans. 

Even better.

“I said, get up!”

Another kick that takes Wild’s breath away.

“Yeah that’s not the best way to get me off the floor,” he remarks, dragging himself into a seated position.

That earns him a sharp smack across the face. Wincing, he watches as the assassin bends down, unlocking his chains. They fall to the floor with a clatter. But Wild hardly has time to breathe a sigh of relief, or rub his wrists, or even to plan a quick escape. Almost immediately, the Yiga yanks his hands behind his back, then ties them tightly with a thick rope.

The coarse material rubs at his already raw wrists. It only adds to the cacophony of aches that have begun to arise now that he’s conscious. Wild blows out an annoyed sigh. As if he could forget how sorely he had lost his last fight.

Rough hands haul him to his feet and he stumbles. His surroundings go fuzzy and dim and for a moment he is certain he’s going to faint. But then it passes. And not a moment too soon. The Yiga shoves him forward and wrenches open the cell door.

The same one they’d thrown Barta into, Wild realizes dazedly. The thought doesn’t make him feel any more comfortable.

“Walk,” comes the sharp order, accompanied by another, hearty push. Stumbling on achingly numb legs, Wild starts forward.

He falls more than walks down the stairs. Between the Yiga’s forceful movements and the haze he has yet to pull himself out of, he can hardly keep himself upright. Even the journey across the main room is difficult.

Especially once he realizes where they’re headed.

“Master Kohga will be so pleased to see you,” his captor hisses, no doubt noticing the sudden increased tension in Wild’s shoulders.

“Didn’t I kill him?” Wild asks, with a forced chuckle. Maybe if he feigns nonchalance it will mask the thundering of his heart. He sends a furtive glance around the space, looking for anything that could possibly allow for a quick escape. But there is nothing.

…and no one. Save for the few assassins who leer at him from beneath their masks.

He swallows, hard. “I think I remember dropping his own weapon onto his head.”

That garners him a swift kick to the shins. He trips, only saved from face planting by the Yiga’s tight grip.

“You are a fool to think our master is so easily defeated. You on the other hand…”

The hallway narrows, then widens into a familiar room. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

“…you will meet your end today.”

Wild lifts his head as he walks through the doorway, heart situated painfully in his throat. Master Kohga sits before him, looking very much alive.

“You,” he snarls as soon as he lays eyes on the champion. “You cocky, undying little punk! You thought you had seen the end of the Great Master Kohga, didn’t you?”

Wild shrugs, a slight smirk on his lips. “I did drop a boulder on your head.”

The Yiga restraining him kicks his legs out from under him. He hits the ground with an “oof.”

“That-that is inconsequential!” Kohga replies, huffily. “I am more powerful than death! But for the pain you caused my beloved, loyal followers” – He rises now, stomping his foot along with every word– “You. Are. Going. To. Die!”

His captor’s grip tightens and he yanks on Wild’s hands. Wild falls back, head bumping against the assassin's hip.

“Shall I take him outside, Master Kohga?” A sadistic sort of excitement colors his voice. It makes Wild’s blood run cold.

Kohga nods. “Yes, take him. I do not wish to ruin my furniture with his blood.”

Again, Wild is hauled upward, though this time a vicious sickle finds its way into his back. It bites into his flesh and he fights not to let out a hiss of pain.

“Move,” the Yiga snaps and Wild stumbles out into the sun.

Kohga sits cross-legged over the crater Wild had been so certain he had plummeted into, hovering serenely just above it.

“Come forward, hero,” he sneers as Wild is shoved toward the gaping hole. “You will be pleased to find that I have perfected my art more than ever!”

With a snap of his fingers, a massive boulder appears above his head. Dozens of tiny spikes protrude from its smooth surface. Wild’s blood runs cold. Abandoning his more measured, methodical tugs of before, he begins yanking ferociously at his bonds.

But then, the Yiga drives his sickle into the back of his leg and all thoughts of an escape vanish. He chokes on a cry. His vision bleeds white. It’s all he can do not to pass out.

One, swift movement and the weapon is out of him, tearing through his flesh as easily as fingers through tissue paper. This time he screams.

He hardly registers it when the Yiga backs away, barely realizes that a large, stone door is sliding over the opening behind him, blocking any exit.

But Kohga’s shrill laughter pierces his ears like knives and he drags his head up to look at him.

“If I were you I would run,” he says, voice nearly brimming with excitement. “Because the time for vengeance has come!”

He begins to swing the boulder over his head. With each trip around it gains momentum, growing closer and closer to the moment when it will break free and careen straight at Wild.

Come on, get up. You’ve got to move.

Gritting his teeth, Wild forces himself to his feet. Pain shoots through his leg anew, like a thousand tiny shards of glass have entered his wound. A scream breaks through his parched lips. His lungs burn, breath coming too fast, heart beating erratically. Stars explode before his eyes.

And still the boulder spins. The motion makes him dizzy.

On trembling limbs he stumbles forward, bile rising in his throat. But each step is sheer agony and he’s slow.

…much too slow.

When the boulder flies free, he can’t evade it. It collides with his body and he goes flying. Pain erupts within him. It steals his breath, propels forth a shout of shock and agony, makes his extremities go numb. He can hear his bones cracking even over the rushing in his ears. His vision goes blindingly white, then spotty, then dangerously dark.

He hits the ground, crying out at the agony of the impact. And the boulder comes down with him, crushing his prone body.

Somewhere, Kohga is laughing. The boulder disappears, retreating back to its owner to prepare for another round. Wild knows he should get up, knows he should at least attempt to run. But all he can do is lie there, trying to breathe. Trying to stay awake.

Blood gurgles in his throat and he pitches sideways, gagging on it. Against the blurred sand, the liquid looks far darker than usual. Almost black.

Like the blood of the Shadow, he thinks dazedly.

He doesn’t get much farther than that thought. Because once more the boulder shoots forward. This time it rolls into him more than flies, shoving him against the far wall and pinning him there.

He doesn’t have the strength to scream, even as the spikes tear out chunks of his flesh and his shattered bones protest this newest assault. He yearns for oblivion that refuses to come.

“So, hero, how do you like it?”

It hits him again, smashing him against the cool stone. He gags on blood once more. It drips into his eyes, runs in rivulets down his face, pools in the gashes that run along his body. 

“Painful, isn’t it? Well, that is what you did to me!”

Wild teeters on the edge. Of death or unconsciousness, though, he isn’t sure. Death, he hopes.

(Though at the same time, he doesn’t, because that means he has lost the battle again, failed everyone again, but sweet Hylia he just wants this to stop. Please make this stop.)

And it’s clear now that there will be no other escape.

Your brothers aren’t coming for you. Even if they are, they’ll be too late.

It’s already too late.

“But the mighty Master Kogha prevails over pain and death! You, however, are weak! Weak, weak, weak!”

The boulder retracts and Wild watches it dimly. One more hit is all it will take. He is certain.

So much for coming back to life.

He can see bone, he realizes, shining gorily from his left arm. It is at a strange angle too.

Must be broken. 

It certainly isn’t the only thing. But somehow, that hardly seems important at the moment. 

His eyes slip closed. Everything hurts. The only other time he felt like this was when he collapsed on Blatchery Plain.

I’m sorry, Zelda, for putting you through this again.

I’m sorry…

“Champion!”

A shout rings out across the space, protectively furious and wonderfully familiar. There’s a scream and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. But the blow he expects doesn’t fall on him.

Instead, gentle hands lift his head, cradling it. He blinks open swollen eyes to see the blurred face of Twilight hovering just above him. Legend and Sky appear over his shoulder, seconds later.

“Twi.”

Clumsily, he tries to reach out with his less injured arm, eager to touch him, to prove that he is real. But his body refuses to follow his commands. He doesn’t have to worry, though. The rancher’s hand easily finds its way into his.

“I’ve got you, Wild,” he says, and there is pure fire in his tone. “You’re safe now.”

A head of familiar pink hair leans over him. Gentle, trembling hands nudge his chin upward. 

“Here, you’ve gotta drink this.”

Potion is poured down his throat, lukewarm and burning. But the magic of it begins its work immediately, zipping purposefully toward the worst of his wounds.

Wild swallows it with an effort. Then, he drags his eyes back up to meet Twilight’s. “Kohga?”

It is hardly a whisper, yet they hear it anyway.

“Dead.” He thinks it’s Sky who answers, though his voice doesn’t quite have its usual tone. It is a brittle thing. Dangerous. “For good this time.”

Wild tries to grin, but finds he isn’t quite up to it. “Good,” he mumbles instead. “Tired of his dumb belly.”

Twilight’s lips quirk the slightest bit. Gently, he brushes aside Wild’s bangs, wet with blood and sweat.

“Well, he’s never gonna touch you again.”

“Now, rest up,” Legend says, shakily. “We’ve got this handled. You focus on not dying.”

Any other time Wild would laugh and tease the vet about his blatant caring. But all he can focus on is the pleasantly numb feeling that has begun to spread throughout his body, and how warm Twilight’s embrace is as he scoops him carefully off of the ground. His eyes slip closed of their own accord. Before he even realizes what is happening, the darkness swallows him and he is gone.

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #make it stop #linkeduniverse #fic #blood tw #injury tw #graphic depictions of violence #vomit tw #torture tw #lu wild #lu twilight #lu sky #lu legend #yiga clan #trin writes #whump #angst #hurt/comfort #this one's a doozy #it wasn't supposed to be this intense #but it kinda got away from me lol #rip wild

[castrian-amore]

Bitter had the Heart

Dead Tired(Tim Drake x Danny Fenton), Tim Drake-centric, unfinished, the author is plotting, temporary character death, please check out ao3 for full tags list

3/46 Chapters | Chapter Length: 3584 words

Chapter 3: We are Not Translating Fanfiction

Tim didn’t understand why he had even picked this class for this particular credit. He technically didn’t need it. Then again it seemed more interesting than the other classes and Tim had been hoping for a challenge for once. The teacher was big on working as team and while, yeah Tim could do it. He preferred to work alone on his topics and thankfully there was an odd amount of people in his class so when he requested to do the group assignments he allowed it. 

Until today. 

One Daniel “Danny” Nightingale, was a late transfer into the class for unknown reason. It was also the mysterious kid in the alley. He looked a little better in person but the vote was that he was definitely sick, whether just right now or long term had yet to be determined. He leaned heavily on a cane at the moment walking with a heavy limp.

Tim could point out his handsome features though. The higher cheekbones. The stunning raven hair, his piercing blue eyes. The kid definitely wasn’t immune to the streets. The way he held himself on the verge of running. The sunken wary eyes. This kid was far too comfortable with living in fight or flight mode. If he even knew anything else it would be surprising. 

The teacher pointed to Tim giving him the spot right next to him advising sitting next to the person he would be partnered with. It wasn’t required by any means but it certainly was an option, and he did. 

“So, now that that’s out of the way, where was I? Oh yes the IPA. The International Phonetic Alphabet.” Professor Kaivan began his speech as Danny pulled out a piece of notebook paper and pencil sitting next to Tim. 

“Uh, hi, I’m Danny,”The kid held out his hand and Tim shook it. A cold chill going up his spine from how cold he was, damn. 

“Tim Drake-Wayne,”he introduced with ease, expecting the man to back away or at least move seats because of his name. The Wayne name caught most people off guard but Danny seemed unfazed by it all. In fact he didn’t even flinch or stutter or reel at who he was talking to even. 

“Nice to meet you Tim,”Danny gave him a bright smile. “Apologies for having you stuck with partnering for me after I’m already a late transfer.”

“No issue. Can I ask why you had to transfer?”Tim raised an eyebrow at the man. Their words quiet as the professor droned on. 

“I was in Latin, and I can fluently speak and read latin. The professor kept getting things wrong and I kept correcting them. They kept insisting because they’re the ‘professor’ but I kept insisting I was right, which I was. She didn’t like that so she kicked me out. She got so annoyed she refused to teach me. Thus leaving me with about to loose my credit I really needed this semester so I asked if I could late transfer into another language based class.” 

“And here you are?” 

“Here I am. Only teacher that was willing to give me a chance.” 

Tim snorts a little. Tim had only almost been kicked out of a class one, and that was one of his law classes. Tim kept correcting the professor over and over and over again, and it kept pissing off the professor so bad. Tim had a sneaking suspicion he was going to like this guy. He just hoped the guy was as intelligent as he seemed. 

Being fluent in a dead language was no easy task. None of the bats were fluent in a lot of dead languages but they all knew several spoken languages and a little of a few dead ones. Tim more than others. Books were always his specialty. He preferred to spend the house researching alone in his room or the bat cave. It was part of the reason the other claimed he had a coffee addiction. He did not by the way. He didn’t know what Dick was even talking about. 

“Professor Kaivan is pretty relaxed about that kind of stuff. He assigns minimal homework and prefers to do the group projects over everything else.” 

“Yeah his rate-my-professor score is pretty high.” 

“Sounds about right,”Tim agrees, turning back to the topic at hand for the moment. 

“Now, learning the International Phonetic Alphabet is not for the faint of heart. Having someone to listen and assist when learning this is vital. One of the many reasons everyone in this room has a partner. Learning it is vital for the rest of your success in this class. Breaking down specific sounds a language makes and making it easy for everyone to read any language in this format.” 

Professor Kaivan was an interesting man. Until four and a half years ago he had some of the worst rate your professor scores, but it was rumored that after the death of his partner he sobered up and wanted to help people. Since then, he has been a great teacher. Using his partner method to teach people, becoming a caring professor, giving students days in class to study and work on whatever work needed to be done. He wasn’t a super hard professor to have. 

His hair was graying as the man was into his late 40s going on 50s. Sideburns and his beard graying though. He dressed pretty chill too, half the time coming into class wearing a casual cardigan and a beanie. He was an accomplished guy with a full on doctorate in linguistics. Masters in Psychology and bachelors in the study of Italian. Most of his focus seemed to be on the intricacies of the Italian language but Tim was fluent in Italian and didn’t care to take any of his italian classes. Not that the man had many. 

“I know the 107 letters can be difficult and if you don’t know what to listen for they can sound similar to each other, but that’s why this whole unit is just on breaking down the IPA, and making sure all of us can read, and understand it. Okay?” 

Mummers of okays and yesses echoed through the lecture hall. Tim opened his phone, scrolling to Dick’s phone number and clicking on it. 

Timmy Boi: Guess who just walked into my Linguistics class as a late transfer?

Dickie Bird: Who? 

Timmie Boi: Alley kid

Dickie Bird: No fucking way. Is he that rude in person?

Timmie Boi: No not yet at least. We’re partnered up for the semester though, so plenty of time for me to find out heh. Dude’s got a cane. 

Dickie Bird: So not our so-called mystery vigilante Jason wants us to meet?

Timmie Boi:  Unlikely, He also looks sick as a mother fucker Dick. Like it’s bad. 

Dickie Bird: Damn, so still no leads until Friday? 

Timmie Boi: Unfortunately not. Cams still distorted as fuck with those symbols?

Dickie Bird: Just like all the others. Only copies we have are hand drawn references. No one can get a clear pic. 

Timmie Boi: Anyluck on the Distortion dude? Anything on him?

Dickie Bird: Uhh, he showed up 3 years ago? Works for Jason mostly. Started as a runner, then became body guard and personal protection for a lot of the shipments going in and out of Jason’s domain. That was only after bribing over 15 inmates too. 

Timmie Boi: How the fuck did Jason keep someone, a meta namely, from us for so long? 

Dickie Bird: Who knows. One guy said something about protecting a child. The child is Jason’s guard dog. Brutal when he needs to be. Maybe he’s scarier than he looks? People kept quiet over fear? 

Timmie Boi: You’re the people person, but even then if people are scared we would have heard something else. I just think we have something else in the picture here that we’re missing it all. 

Dickie Bird: Well, any cameras he passed by that night went to static. I had Barb check it out for us. 

Timmie Boi: So his gift can mess with cameras? Only mildly concerning. 

Dickie Boi: Wait, why are we having this conversation right now Tim? You’re in class?!?!?! I’m leaving you alone. Pay attention, and don’t fall asleep, and DRINK WATER FOR ONE IN YOUR CAFFEINE ADDICTED LIFE. 

Timmie Boi: YOU CAN’T STOP ME DICK. I’M GETTING COFFEE RIGHT AFTER THIS. 

Speaking of coffee, he could probably get mystery-dude’s phone number for their homework and stuff. Maybe he could even get coffee with him and help him with his classes. And maybe find out more about that night in the alley. 

“What are you doing after class?”Tim spoke up to look over at the man. Danny wasn’t even paying attention to the lecture. He was… drawing? Way better than anything Tim could draw that was for sure. Maybe he would get along with Damian? Tim liked the easier stuff, taking pictures. He could draw but he didn’t like it nearly as much as being able to get behind a camera and take some beautiful photos. Man, he should get back into that again. Dick was always pressing him to get back into a hobby outside of crime solving. He liked to stick with what he was good at though. 

“Oh? Uh nothing really, just contemplating existence. Why what’s up?”Danny gave a soft shy smile. Oh no. His smile was cute. Also wait, contemplating existence?

“Well, I figured if we’re gonna be stuck together all semester we could get coffee and talk about the project and get to know each other a little better.” Tim could watch a wave of anxiety slip over the man. 

“Well, I don’t know maybe,”a small shrug then a quiet moment of contemplation. “Actually, sure that’d be nice!”  

“Great!”

“Wait, we already have a project?”Danny’s eyes widened looking from his doodle of something? Tim couldn’t make it out but it was pretty? Looked like a pool of swirling water sketched in a gray scale. Who knows. This guy must have been so distracted he didn’t hear the teacher’s words about their project. Rewriting a speech in a non-english language into the phonetic alphabet. 

Tim couldn't help but laugh a little at him. 

This caught a small look from the teacher and Tim stifled his laughter a little even as Danny began to fight his own laughter as the two looked at each other. That was so dumb. Why was he even laughing at that?

“I’ll explain after class.” 

“Sounds good to me, I’m just sitting here… doodlin’.” 

“I see that..” Tim gave him a smile as Danny chuckled himself turning back to his drawing. The man stretching his arms upwards turned to actually pay attention to the teacher. A small frown coming across his face noticing the thin spindly scars edging up the side of his neck across the back of his neck. What the fuck was that? He shook his head. 

Tim stayed mostly alert the rest of the hour long class. Kaivan had started going through the various letters of the IPA and their origins and why they were chosen. It was interesting to say the least. He had learned a lot and the class was definitely different than what he was used too. Danny on the other hand. 

Fuck Tim hoped the dopey smiles and spaced out stared was how he payed attention or their partnership was going to be a lot more strenuous than he originally thought. He swore he saw him falling asleep a couple times there before jerking himself awake. Not that Tim could blame him. He averaged only about 3 hours a night if he was lucky. Then again, Tim didn’t exactly play the whole “catch up on sleep” game. 

It did take a gentle nudge from Tim to get the man away and on their way to the coffee shop. He was slow as he walked with the cane but Tim didn’t say anything about it. Everyone had their little quirks and issues. Lord knows Tim had his. 

The cold autumn air in Gotham was settling around them. 

“What’s your major?” It was Danny who spoke up with a quiet smile. 

“Oh, business. I plan to take over my father’s company,”Tim replied. 

“Wow, impressive.” Danny looked up at the sky with a small chuckle as Tim raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Thanks, what’s yours?”

“Engineering, I was going to do Astronomy but we’ll the Gotham Skies aren’t exactly the clearest.” Danny chuckled softly as Tim gave a nod. 

“The smog helps no one. Glad you found a major you like though.” There was a silence settling between them but it didn’t lessen the mood in fact it almost felt welcomed in a quiet way. 

“Same to you!” Danny looked up at the crows stopping the duo in their tracks. There were almost 10 crows just watching them. Tim, had never seen that. All them staring at Danny. “Boo.” The man whispered and with a small chuckled, all 10 flew off the branches and into the air leaving Tim to watch and then follow. Missing how the birds simply landed up ahead. 

Tim was sort of lost in thought about the revelations they could possibly have about the whole Distortion situation. 

“Heyo, Timmy,”Danny’s voice dragged him from his thoughts and his slow pace holding the door open. “Don’t hurry up and you’ll be soaked.” He hadn’t even noticed a slow drizzle starting to fall from the sky. He held his hand out before running to meet the man. 

Tim joined the man into the warm coffee shop. The scent of pumpkin spice filling their noses as they moved to get in line. 

“Didn’t get too wet did you?”Danny asked concern surprising Tim. 

“Ah, no, don’t worry about me though.  I might be more concerned for when we leave here though.” 

“I’m not too worried.” The man gave a nonchalant shrug. “Can’t kill me worse than I already have been.” Was that a death joke? 

“Oh?”Tim gave a smirk. He wasn’t normally one for puns, those were Dick’s thing but also… Dick wasn’t here. “Did it have you rolling in your grave?” Dick could never find out about this but then Danny’s shit eating grin only widened across his face. 

“Oh, for sure it was to die for after all.” 

“I can’t I’m sorry,”Tim laughed with a smile. “What’re you getting? I’ll pay since I invited you out.” 

“Oh, I might scare you with my order.” 

“I promise you won’t. Mine is insane myself.” 

“One of those extra large pumpkin spice lattes with 10 shots of espresso.” 

“Extra large americano with 8 shots of espresso,”Tim quipped. “I see you’re a man just as insane as I am.” 

“Oh, for sure. I’ve never met someone with an order just as bad as mine,”he admitted as he stared up at the menu. “How are the sandwiches here? Are they pretty dead-licious?”

“Oh god..” 

“Or I don’t know, pretty frightful?” 

“Please Danny.” 

“I bet they’re boo-mbastic.” 

“Who ever uses that word anymore.” 

Okay Halloween was coming up admittedly. Yes there were halloween and fall decorations coming but, but god dammit Danny. It was like having another Dick around. 

“You decided to fuel this.” 

“I did not decide to fuel anything!”Tim complained just as they got to the counter ordering their coffees. It was a barista Tim was familiar with. A kind girl named Sarah who seemed to be all too familiar with the two of them. 

“Oh! Can I also get the mac and cheese please!”Danny offered another charming smile putting some money in the tip jar. “I can pay you back Tim.” 

“No worries.” Tim gave a shrug. 

“Alrighty and here you are Tim.” Sarah handed him his card back with the receipt as he himself put some money in the jar. 

“Damn, she knows your name?”

“I know you too Danny, Mr. 10 shots of espresso at midnight last week. You also fucking work here.” 

“Love you guysssss, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Danny practically purred out with an innocent smile. 

“You two together, scare me,”the barista motioned between the two of them. “But honestly, we were waiting for you two to meet.” 

“I’m innocent,”Tim vouched.”Also wait, what?” 

“I watched you order an extra large cup with only espresso shots in it for Finals last semester.” Sarrah refused to answer the apparent group that had been waiting for Tim and Danny to meet each other. 

“I was busy!” 

“You weren’t sleeping!” 

“Anyways I’m going to go over there,”Danny pointed to an empty table by the window. 

“Yeah, Tim. How about you go over there. With your little Date,”She emphasized the word as Danny was already over sitting down unpacking his backpack onto the table. 

“He’s not my date! We literally just met!” 

“Yet. Next in line please!” 

“Sarah-- no-- I swear to--”Tim could have sworn he saw an exchanging of cash behind the counters. Were they betting on something. What the fuck were they betting on?!? He hissed and moved to join Danny in the opposite seat. 

“So did you even catch what the group project is? How much have you studied of the Linguistics 101 class anyways?” Tim pulled out his laptop setting it in front of him. He logged in giving a small smile of the silly chaotic and group picture they had gotten last year at Christmas. Bruce stood on the far right and Jason on the far left Dick’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. Damian was trying to stab Tim again who was moving to dodge it. Steph chaotically cheering the gremlin on. Cass quietly wondering if she should intervene in the middle. Duke full on panicked at what was going on as it was his first Christmas with the family. Barb covering her mouth in laughter in front of Bruce. He wanted to make sure she was included. It was his favorite photo of him and his siblings. 

Fuck. Danny had been talking to him. 

“Earth to Timmy.” A wave of a hand in front of his face. 

“Please just Tim,”he laughs. “Sorry, yes?”

“I was asking about the IPA. Are you familiar with it? I have no idea on anything about it.” 

“I know like half of it? I’ll have to learn the other half,”he admits. “But yes, the project.” 

“Fuck, yeah okay what’s this project?” 

“It involves reading.” 

“No! WHY!” 

“In another language.. That neither of us speak.” 

“Oh god.” 

“Yeah, so we’re supposed to write down a 1,000 minimum word speech, or chapter from a book or whatever and put it into the International Phonetic Alphabet.” 

“I don’t know about you but I speak a lot, like A lot of languages.” 

“Yeah.. I feel the same way.” 

“What do you speak?” Danny playfully pushed Tim’s computer screen down from booting up the program the professor had given them to use to type out the phonetic alphabet. It was still apparently a nightmare program, but he had decided to type it so he wouldn't be deciphering shitty handwriting. 

“Mandarin, Chinese, Italian, German, French, russian, Japanese, tagalog, spanish, I think that’s all of them?” 

“You speak Tagalog too!” Danny’s words switched with ease to the language. 

“No fuckin’ way,” Tim had to laugh at that one. “What else do you speak?” 

“Same things are you but, Esperanto, Swahili, Cantonese, javanese, Sardo(technically a dialect but you know same difference),  Ukrainian, I think that’s all?” 

“I thought I was the Polyglot. Oh! I also speak ASL and BSL.” 

“I know bits and pieces of ASL, definitely no BSL though,”he laughs softly. “But wait what other languages does that leave?”

“Well, a lot but I mean. We could always pick an easy one we both know.” 

“Italian?” 

“Yeah, please. I do not want translate someone in a non-latin based alphabet. It registers funny in my brain.” 

“I gotta ask though Danny… Esperanto?” 

“Okay, leave me alone! I had a friend who spoke it and taught me it so we could shit about others.”  

“That’s fuckin’ hilarious though,”he smirked. “But what should we translate?” 

Danny looked like he was about to burst out laughing. “What if we just fucking translated the Divine Comedy.” 

“Danny Nightingale, are you telling me we should rewrite one of the most famous works of Italian writing, ever. That is also notoriously translated, a lot? And is--- you know.”

“Ma Divine Commedia,”Danny laughed. Tim could not with him right now. “E la fanfiction Tim.” 

“YEAH I KNOW, that’s why I can’t believe you’re suggesting it.” 

“COMMEDIA.” Danny proclaimed with a snort. Fuck that was cute. Thank god his name was called to grab their stuff. He could ignore the small twinge in his chest as he brought them their coffee and the food for Danny. 

“Let’s get this over with I guess.” 

“YES!” Danny threw his first into the air in excitement. “This is the start a beautiful friendship Tim, I promise.” 

“Are we about to be nightmares to our poor professor?” 

“What? Nooooo.” 

“Oh yes we fucking are,”Tim rolled his eyes and smiled as he sipped his drink pulling up the original document. They were so fucked, but at least it would be funny. If Danny was his new partner for his class maybe Friday would come sooner than he thought. 

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

#danny phantom #danny phantom au #dcxdp #danny fenton #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #batfam #danny phantom is a little shit #tim drake #dc x dp fic #tim drake x danny fenton #graphic depictions of violence #archive of our own #ao3 link #ao3 fanfic #red robin #temporary death #tim drake robin #timothy drake #jason todd #red hood #nightwing

[that-sea-sponge]

Prophesied

SUMMARY

Dick Grayson is alive. Probably. Technically. He’s five years out of sync with the rest of his estranged family and there is this little boy he really doesn’t want to have to kill. Everything else is a bit of a mystery, including what the hell he’s supposed to do now. Alfred Pennyworth hires him to solve this mystery.

#dick grayson #nightwing #batfamily #dick grayon / jason todd #jason todd #nightwing fanfic #bruce wayne #batman #damian wayne #blood and violence #graphic depictions of violence #jaydick #dickjay #knighthood

[shichidikai]

good in red »

It began with him running.  Swimming through the static noise of the downpour, trying to run from – or was it to? – someone, lungs aching, needing to stop. His head would throb and he would raise his hand to the strange itch on his brow, only to draw it away covered in blood, though he couldn't remember why. A vice grip on his shirt and he was clawing, kicking, wresting free, stumbling backwards. She was yelling, telling him to get back, to get behind her, for someone to help– A flash of silver through the sheets of rain and someone's cry of pain– His vision blurred and the world tilted– A gunshot–

Sanji's used to trading one prison for another, but he didn't expect to find hope in any of them.

-- relationship: roronoa zoro/sanji rating: explicit word count: 40,320 chapters: 5/5 tags/warnings: yakuza au, graphic descriptions of violence, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced domestic violence, drugs, childhood friends, blorbofying organized crime gangs (they're just fun little guys i promise), i just really hate judge and i hope everyone can tell spoilers through wci, wano if you squint

#one piece fanfiction #op fanfic #zosan #sanzo #roronoa zoro #sanji #black leg sanji #f:red #r:e #p:zosan #au #yakuza au #graphic depictions of violence #*ff #zoro x sanji #sanji x zoro #zosanzo

[hopepetal]

Part nine pog :D I have no strong feelings about this one but hey at least it's done hallelujah

We have some content warnings for this one! Graphic depictions of violence, murder, blood, kinda cannibalism ig?

Masterlist

@applestruda @stiffyck

Magic is a fickle thing.

When people are born, they all have life energy. This is what keeps them, well, alive. It is the beat of their heart, pumping blood through their veins. It is the inhale and exhale of air, the hum of the earth and the music of the stars. It is the feeling of peace one has when finally laying down in their soft bed after a long day. It is the joy in laughter, the tenderness in love, and the healing after heartbreak.

To say someone is born with magic would be, while widely socially acceptable, is factually incorrect. To be born with magic is to be born with a surplus of life energy that manifests itself in what everyone calls “magic”. Hence, magic is not something anyone is born with, but rather a side effect of life itself. Magic is energy, and a very demanding energy at that one. It must be used, for otherwise it will build and build until it breaks through whatever tried to hold it in.

For Scar, his magic was like water. The less he used it, the more he held it in and tried to control it, the hotter it got. Every time he suppressed the growing urge to transform, the pressure built. Soon, it was as though his magic was simmering under his skin, just about ready to boil over if he wasn’t careful. It was harder than he would’ve ever thought. Borrowed magic, contractual magic, or otherwise non-naturally received types of magic were much more heavily reliant on emotions than magic one got naturally, and the past few days had been… emotionally charged, to say the least.

Scar knew that Grian had noticed his condition. At this point, he couldn’t do anything about the white streak in his hair or the soft glow to his eyes. His fingers had begun to become pointed into claws that pierced through the palms of his hands whenever he clenched his fists, drawing blood. The avian was glancing over at him in concern, every so often leaning slightly closer and brushing his shoulder against Scar.

“I know,” Scar had whispered when Grian’s eyes flicked up to his white hair. He had shrugged, trying to keep a handle on the worry that was beginning to rise in his chest. He had never gone this long without using his magic before, ever since he got it he had always done his best to go along with his instincts and general “magic urges”. Cub had told him it would be bad if he fought his magic.

But going along with his instincts and letting his magic get the best of him was the whole reason he was in this mess. He hurt his friends. This was just the price he had to pay for his mistake.

Grian and Scar were walking along in silence for the most part now, with Opal and Fern both in front of them, talking too softly to be understood by the two walking behind them. Every so often Opal or Fern would look back to check on their captives, but for the most part Grian and Scar were left unsupervised. 

Which gave Grian the time he needed to cut through the ropes tying his hands together behind his back. Brushing his shoulder against Scar to get the other man’s attention, he grinned and held up the cut ropes with one hand and used the other to press a finger against his lips in a silent shushing motion. He shuffled over to be right against Scar, starting to work on the other man’s bonds. 

Opal and Fern seemed to be in the middle of a heated discussion, meaning they weren’t paying any attention to the two knights walking behind them. Scar felt the ropes around his wrists loosening, then finally dropping. He fought the urge to shake his arms out to get the blood flowing again, settling with rubbing his hands together and interlacing his fingers behind his back. His eyes met Grian’s and he tried to silently ask what the plan was. Met with nothing but a shrug, Scar had to hold back a groan. 

Oh boy. They were both going to die. 

So focused on the fact that they didn’t have a plan, Scar didn’t notice that Fern and Opal had stopped walking. He slammed right into Fern, which caused him to yelp and stumble back. The two turned around as Grian cursed and drew the small dagger he had been hiding, flaring his wings out in an instinctual defense mechanism to make himself look larger than he actually was. In doing so, he pushed Scar behind him and obscured the other knight from their captors. 

There was no time for talking then. Fern and Opal instantly drew their weapons and attacked, and Grian was barely able to keep up. It was over too quickly for Scar to do anything- one moment Grian was standing and shouting insults at their captors, and the next he was pinned to the ground on his stomach and Fern’s sword was at Scar’s throat. 

Scar put his hands up, smiling nervously. “Hey, hey now, there’s no need for that!” His eyes flicked over to Grian, who was struggling against Opal as she put a knee on his back between his wings. “Hey, be careful!” 

Fern pressed their sword against Scar’s throat, just hard enough to draw blood. “Shut up,” she snapped, before glancing back to Opal. “You got more rope?”

“Yeah,” Opal grunted, still trying to keep Grian down, “but not enough for these stupid-” She squawked when one of Grian’s wings, which she had been so desperately trying to pin down, smacked her in the face- “these stupid wings! Void, will you stop?!” 

“Let us go!” Grian shouted, trying to kick at Opal, his wings still beating the ground as he attempted to get her off of him. “You’ll regret this, just you wait!”

Opal let out a frustrated growl, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, glancing over at Fern. Her eyes were dark, and Scar felt anxiety rise in his chest as she spoke. “You have a health pot in your bag, right?” 

Fern frowned, keeping her sword at Scar’s neck as she nodded. “Yeah, I have a few. Always do. Why-”

Opal interrupted Fern as she stomped down on one of Grian’s wings, earning a shriek from the avian as the limb was pinned down. “I’m cutting off these stupid wings.” With that, she raised her sword to do the deed.

Over the course of four or five days- really, who was counting anymore- Scar had been suppressing his vex magic. It showed in his too-sharp nails, his eyes that had turned an icy blue, and his fading hair color. It showed in the slight tremors in his hands, the bags under his eyes, the pain that just kept building and building in his chest as he tried to hide an essential part of himself.

Magic does not fade. Once in existence, it will continue to circulate until it is used. When a person uses external magic without a spell focus or an idea of what they’re doing, they are simply putting their magic back out into the world, allowing it to become ambient magic. When a spell is chanted, or used with intent, the magic forms into something real. Of course, this is only for those who use external magic- for Scar, a user of internal magic like transformation, things are a bit different.

For internal magic, the basics are the same. It does not fade. But unlike with external magic, internal magic does not have anywhere to go. It cannot become ambient magic and rejoin a cycle through the world like external magic. It can only build up until eventually, it forces itself to be used.

Scar’s vex magic, being internal, was influenced by emotion. Not so much where he would get scared and his hair would turn white, but when he felt a strong enough emotion, he would change much more easily than normal. For example, a strong feeling of rage would leave him with glowing eyes and white hair for a while, until he could get himself calm at least. And that was just on a normal day.

Scar’s vex magic had been building up for the past few days. It was simmering under his skin, a raging tide ready to break free at any moment. 

And break free it did. 

Scar’s eyes burned blue as the color instantly fled from his hair, his skin changing to be the grey-blue of the vex. His nails sharpened into talons and a growl ripped from his throat as he grabbed the blade of the sword and yanked it away from Fern, not caring that his hand cut and bled. Fern let out a panicked shout as they stumbled back, giving Opal pause. She looked over just in time to see Scar lunge forward and tear through Fern’s chainmail chestplate, talons ripping through both armor and flesh.

Fern let out a choked wail as they fell back, blood pouring from the wound as she frantically tried to put pressure on her injury to stop the bleeding. Opal pulled her sword away from Grian and swung it at Scar, but it was too late. The vex was already right in front of her, and with a cruel snarl, he bit down on her throat before tearing away a huge chunk of her flesh. Choking on her own blood, Opal fell.

Scar let out a roar of anger, the sound haunting as it echoed throughout the forest. In the distance, a wolf howled in response. The sound of a goat horn cut through the screams of death and panic, and Scar whipped around to see Fern blowing into the horn. His anger surged, and as fast as lightning he was at Fern’s side, yanking her up by the collar of her shirt. “You,” he growled, his voice echoing with magic, “what have you done?” 

Fern spat in his face, and in return Scar tore out her throat. Throwing her body to the ground, Scar looked around, his brain screaming at him to find them all kill them they hurt you they hurt your friends- 

But so did you. 

A haunting wail rose from his throat as he sank to the forest floor, knees hitting the dirt with a painful thump as his magic continued to rage and swirl around him. The veritable hurricane of magic formed misty blue ribbons of smoke around him, miniature bolts of lightning at his fingertips as sparks of raw, burning magic flew from his glowing eyes. Blood dripped from his chin and talons as he screamed in agony, failure echoing in his voice. Hugging himself tightly, his talons dug into his skin, drawing small beads of blood that dribbled down contrasting blue skin in bright scarlet red.

The howl of a wolf sounded again, this time much closer. Scar could hear there was someone shouting- his name he thinks, but he can’t hear much over the magic roaring around him, whipping his magic-bleached hair in his face. His eyes were now glowing completely, shining like miniature suns as the magic just kept pouring out of him. The dam had burst, and it was impossible for him to stop it.

There were more people now, Scar could see a faint blur of red and white through the haze of magic. He let out an echoing cry, reaching out with bloodied hands toward whoever was there, his anger and fear giving way to a crushing loneliness and grief. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He had never meant to hurt anyone, really! He just messed up- he always did, why was anyone surprised- and… and he just…

“Scar! Scar, can you hear me? It’s okay, please. We’re here for you.” Grian. That was Grian, that was his friend… “Come on, please, it’s okay. We’re all here for you, and we’re not leaving you ever. No matter what. Promise.”

The magic died out as soon as it began, and Scar felt himself hit the ground. Darkness descended, and with one last sob, he let go of consciousness.

Impulse and Mumbo followed behind Pearl as she led them through the forest. They had left their horses back further in a secure location with plenty of food and water. They would be a lot more stealthy on foot, Pearl had explained, and the other two agreed. 

Impulse had frowned when Pearl said she’d be bringing Tilly. “I don’t see how the dog is crucial to the stealth mission, but…”

“Excuse you!” Pearl had exclaimed in mock offense, “Tilly is very important! Yes you are girl, oh yes you are!” And with that, they had set off, with the dog that Pearl kept insisting was a wild wolf.

They had been close to their destination when they heard screaming, and the sound of a goat horn. Tilly howled, and Pearl stiffened up, looking back at Mumbo and Impulse. “Something’s wrong.”

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” Mumbo muttered, and the three had taken off in the direction of the commotion. 

When they had gotten there, it took all Mumbo had to not freeze up in horror. Scar was in his vex form on his knees, magic as sharp as a blade swirling around him. He was covered in blood that Mumbo could only hope was not his own- something he confirmed upon seeing the two bodies next to Scar. 

Glancing over, he noticed Grian on the ground, struggling to push himself up. He rushed over and helped the avian to his feet, checking him over to make sure he had no grievous wounds. “Grian! What happened- are you alright?!”

Grian winced, nodding. “Scar, he’s- I need to help him!” He sounded desperate, and Mumbo had to hold him back to keep him from running straight to the vex.

“It’s dangerous!” Mumbo warned him, “do you see that magic? You’ll be ripped to shreds!”

Grian pushed Mumbo away. “We’re knights! It’s an occupational hazard!” He took a few steps forward, before kneeling down and calling out to Scar. 

As he spoke, Tilly began to growl. Pearl glared at the treeline, drawing her sword. “Others are coming. Most likely summoned from that goat horn.” She looked back at Mumbo and Impulse. “I need you two to get Grian and Scar out of here, alright? I can handle this.”

Impulse shook his head, stepping forward. “Absolutely not. We’re knights. We stick together.”

Pearl raised an eyebrow. “Are you doubting my capabilities? Go. Grian and Scar need you more than I do.”

Mumbo turned to look back at Grian and Scar as the magic storm died down, the color seeping back into Scar’s hair as he collapsed. Grian caught the other knight and held him close, though he looked close to passing out himself. Mumbo brushed his hand against Impulse’s arm, jerking his head toward the two other knights. “Pearl’s right. We should go.”

Reluctantly, Impulse nodded and sheathed his sword. “Right, then. We’ll meet you back at the horses?”

The sound of footsteps and faint shouting grew louder as Pearl nodded. Impulse scooped Scar up, and Mumbo helped Grian to his feet. “I’ll see you all soon.” She turned away, pulling up her hood and facing the sound of the approaching enemies. Tilly padded up to stand beside her, growling softly. 

Impulse looked over at Mumbo and smiled wearily. “Let’s get out of here.”

By the time they were back at the horses, Pearl was already there- covered in blood and smiling brightly, but there nonetheless. Grian had passed out halfway through the trip and was now being carried by Mumbo, though there were moments of semi-consciousness that made the mustachioed man chuckle. 

Carefully, the unconscious knights were settled on the horses, with Impulse sitting behind Scar and Mumbo sitting behind Grian to keep them steady. Pearl spread her wings, saying she’d watch from above and keep an eye out for them all. 

Slowly but surely, they began the long journey home.

#my writing #boatem knights au #vex scar #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #grian #mumbo jumbo #pearlescentmoon #pearl #impulse #opal the placeholder bastard #fern the placeholder bastard #death cw #gore cw #graphic depictions of violence #blood #slight cannibalism #angst #hurt/comfort #hermitcraft fanfic #tilly the dog

[ancuninfiles]

#astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #astarion x original female character #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #astarion x female tav #graphic depictions of violence

[wireman-au]

> Fight.

The decision is less hard than you thought it would be. It's Skizz. You've known each other since you were in diapers. He came here for your sake. You can't just climb out a window and leave him behind; you aren't so much a coward as to do that. You may not know what you've gotten yourself into, but you won't leave another man behind.

You clutch the coat hanger tightly. Just because you don't want to leave another man behind doesn't mean you know exactly how you're going to do it.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Fight. You have no idea how to do that. Fight. You don't know how to do that but. Fight. Fight. Fight.

(Hide behind the door. Get their eyes. Sweep their legs out; they won't expect it. Go for the eyes. Hide behind the door. Fight. Fight. Fight. Rescue Skizz. Help him. You have to help him. You'll have an advantage if you attack first. Hide behind the door. Do you have a heavy book? Fight. Fight.)

You're so dizzy. Your head hurts so much. There are so many conflicting instructions--

--and then suddenly, it's perfectly clear.

You're in-shape; Skizz makes you work out with him. Your body isn't honed for what you're about to do. Fine. Being in-shape will have to be good enough. For the sorts of people they probably sent to finish cleaning up, it probably is.

"I know that cat has to be in here somewhere," one of the agents says.

You hide behind the door. You twist open the metal coathanger, the sharp ends in either hand. You are perfectly still. Your breathing is level. You're quiet until he's in front of the closet door.

"Here, kitty. Come out with your hands where I can see them."

"Okay," you say, and you slam open the door. The agent yells, stunned by the door. Before he gets a chance to recover, you twist around and jam the coathanger into his eyes. This time, he doesn't yell; he screams. There's a loud bang from downstairs as the other agent swears colorfully and starts running up them at the noise.

You keep moving. You reach the top of the stairs at the same time the agent does. Good. This makes it easy to push him. He's not expecting it; sloppy. He falls backwards with a sickening crack. You weave around his falling body as you run down the stairs. You don't want the other agent to get oriented enough to catch up.

You--try to hesitate and look back--you should call 911--you can't make your head turn around--no, Impulse, don't look back now, you don't want to see any of that. Keep running. Okay? Just keep running.

Skizz is in the kitchen. He's on the ground; he has a bleeding head wound, but it's probably not worse than a concussion. He looks woozy.

"Impulse?" he asks.

"Run," you say. "We have to leave."

"Why were they--"

"Run, dude, just--run," you say. Skizz takes a moment before nodding and following you. Bless him; loyal to Impulse to a fault. He only hesitates for a moment at the man at the bottom of the stairs you don't let yourself turn around to look at.

You both burst out the front door. There is a large black SUV in front of the house, as well as your Honda Civic. If you were worried about either of them getting up fast enough to chase you, you'd try to steal the SUV, but this is probably enough potential crime for you for now. If only you'd been wearing gloves; that would have been smarter.

You get in your sedan. You start the car. You start driving.

About midway to getting to Skizz's house, you pull over to the side of the road. You get out of the car.

"Impulse?" Skizz asks.

And suddenly, the dizziness is back. You fall like your strings have been cut. You push yourself up off the ground enough to throw up in the grass next to the sidewalk, but you're dizzy and you don't understand what's happening and your head hurts and you haven't slept and you don't know how you did that.

You lay, panting, on the pavement. Skizz swears and gets out of the car after you.

"Are you--dude, are you alive? Impulse, what--"

"What the fuck," you say. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck."

#wireman au #FILE #SUBJECT: impulse #unreality #eye gore #graphic depictions of violence #vomiting #ask to tag #impulsesv #???

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

im curious, how did perkeo become immortal? you say theyre the dont age dont die type but theyve still aged to the point of an average adult. so was there a point where they became immortal? were they born immortal but still aged to the point where they seemed like the average human then stopped?

this is a bit more morbid but im curious about this too

how severe can injuries get if they cant die? how does their body handle situations where the average person would bleed out? would they heal faster? would they just have infinite blood? what if they got into a coma? would they ever wake up? or is it just not possible? how would they heal from injuries that would make it impossible for the average person to come back?

if youre not willing to answer the second stuff thats fine, im just really curious

They do not remember

The earliest memory they have is on the kingdom, and they were already a grown person by then

They remember kneeling, the agreement made with the king

They remember tests, and them stopping with lack of results

They remember doing their job afterwards, and the years that went on as they remained the same

They remember making people smile and laugh and how they cherished that feeling more than anything

That does not mean they never had a family, though

Morbid details under cut

Very. They had to crawl their way out of things no human could even dream of surviving, things no one should have survived — or even lived enough through it as it happened

They can still get dizzy, they can still faint, things can go to black, but eventually their brain will pull them back awake again. Die, but come back

The wound would close, but they can bleed out. They can feel the dizziness, the cold, the pain. If severe enough, they could pass out — either until the wound closes or until their brain decides it gotta keep fighting still. That said, they very likely could deal with a stab wound without passing out if outside factors are not included (if anything, they would just be annoyed)

Sewing a wound would likely make it close faster than leaving it alone

Their heart would always start beating again even after stopping, so I guess you could say they have infinite blood?

They would wake up from a coma I'm pretty sure (how long it would take would depend on the cause), unless it was like, medically induced (which would mean constant upkeep to keep em like that) because yk. Strong drugs

They do heal from injuries that would be impossible for a normal person to survive. Their body puts itself back together – and when it can't, it just makes a new part to compensate

So, for example: let's say they get decapitated. They could put the head back on the neck, and the body would work to glue the two together again

Now, let's say they lost a leg and for some reason could not try to put the leg back in place: then the body would make a new leg. It would take a lot longer, and be infinitely more painful, but it would be back in place one way or another

(Now for what happens to the lost limb — idk it probably rots as the body regens. They are already immortal, might as well throw some nonsense in the mix)

How can they grab their own head and put it back? Idk that's too much to keep track of. Maybe magic who knows

Also! Burned skin will heal and fade, take that was you will

Essentially I would say it's just kind of nightmarish but they do heal pretty fast (how fast? Idk, but pretty fast), and that they would also be pretty used to some level of pain rn

#dont worry im more than willing to talk about this kind of things #surprisingly i thought a lot about it because i wanted it to be more biologically-based than just magically and painlessly fixing yourself #though theres still some holes where and there that i could not fill #whatever angst i could throw into this story i did #this au is deep wounds disguised as hope and never ending search for a better ending #they had to crawl their way through hell. but they will have their happy ending #its the least they could have after creating them for so many people #dca au #immortal au #immortal au ask #cw mortality #cw: gore #tw gore #cw loss of limbs #cw amputation #graphic depictions of violence #cw graphic depictions of violence #cw character death #cw medical trauma #(?) #idk putting it just in case #cw decapitation #cw blood #blood #im not good with cw so if theres anything else i should put please let me know and im so sorry in advance #cw coma #?

[acourtofladydeath]

TTBW Chapter 2

Cassian's healing journey beings, and Emerie tells her story.

New tags include discussions of cycle/period discrimination.

Start reading under the cut or on AO3!

Tensions were high outside Cassian and Nesta’s room at the House of Wind. Emerie, Azriel, and Rhysand had been sitting in the hall over a day as Madja and a team of her best healers worked on their friend’s mangled wings. Nesta refused to leave his side. Madja allowed her to stay in the room only as long as Nesta agreed to follow all instructions and stay out of the way, which she had. There was no time to fill anyone in on his status. While the camp lords had not intended to kill Cassian, the combination of the paralytic, faebane, and the shock to his system from trauma and blood loss had caused his body to shut down quickly. 

Rhysand had never seen Madja call for so many extra healers. Typically she brought along an apprentice or two to train. On particularly bad occasions, like after the King of Hybern had shredded Cassian’s wings and Azriel had been stabbed by Jurian, he and Morrigan had lent a hand. Madja called for six additional highly trained hands, and specifically refused the help of any apprentices or the Inner Circle. Such a thing was unheard of. 

As they waited, Emerie leaned against the wall, arms folded and one leg kicked back. Rhysand had slid down the wall several hours ago. Now his legs were bent up to his chest, elbows rested on his knees, and his head hung heavy in his hands. Azriel stood rigid by the window, unable to break his stare from Cassian’s door. Emerie watched him flex his hands and knew what ran through his mind. She knew what he must be reliving after what Cassian had endured because she was reliving it too. Their scars ran deep.

Loss, damage, physical, mental, and emotional pain that no amount of training could prepare anyone to live through. This was trauma in its purest form, and Cassian was not the only one injured. Emerie shut her eyes tight as she tried to push away the memories that had threatened to consume her from the moment Nesta had recognized the agony in Cassian’s wings through their bond the night before. The images and phantom pains that Emerie still fought back daily had only gotten stronger after what she’d witnessed in that tent.   

Hours later the door to Cassian’s room opened and Madja, exhausted and flecked in more blood than anyone was comfortable acknowledging, entered the hallway. Rhysand was instantly on his feet. Azriel remained still, but Emerie took a step off the wall, arms still crossed and wings held in tightly to stave off the pains. Rhysand quickly approached the healer, expectation written across the wrought lines of his face.

Madja stared down at the floor. This healer, a female whose skills went beyond all others, one of the only people in all of Prythian who could order the High Lord around, could not meet his eyes. Rhysand’s eyes bore down on her. Emerie tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, tried to remember that he was in pain, but she did not like the way he looked upon his master healer. 

With a deep breath, Madja raised her head and squared her shoulders to address Rhysand. Her face was schooled in a practiced calm as she began to speak with a steady voice. “We have stopped the blood loss, and managed to prevent amputation. His organs were shutting down and we almost lost him, but I am now sure that physically he will survive this.” 

“His wings,” Rhysand cut in, voice hoarse from lack of use and water. As he continued to speak his tone was harsh as he asked the question Emerie already knew the answer to. “Will he fly again?”

“No,” Madja said, voice firm and sure though it sounded like she did not want to be. “His wings were too damaged and there was noth-”

“You have to do something. He can’t not fly,” Rhysand said, voice rushed and angry as he took one step toward the healer. “He has to fly, Madja. You have to do something. His wings have been bad before, and you’ve always fixed him.” 

Emerie watched as some small part of the healer permanently broke, and she stepped forward to try and prevent the crack from growing further. “Thank you, Madja, for saving his life. We are so thankful. Is there anything that you need us to do?” 

Madja looked gratefully at Emerie for a brief moment before she responded. “No, thank you dear. Nesta has all the instructions and we will visit again soon. He needs rest before we work again.” 

Emerie smiled warmly at the female as she kindly nodded her response. Madja ushered the healers, all in various states of dishevelment, out of Nesta and Cassian’s room before they left the House of Wind together as one with Morrigan as their guide. Em watched them leave as she used her body to create a barrier between the healers and the High Lord. Azriel still had not moved from where he stood, eyes locked on the door that was once again shut. When they had gone and she was certain they were out of ear shot, Emerie turned angrily upon the males behind her. 

“Are you proud of yourself,” Emerie spat at the High Lord, who was still fuming mad about the now undeniable fact that his friend would no longer be able to fly. 

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Rhysand retorted as anger rolled off of him in dark waves. 

Emerie cocked an eyebrow at the High Lord, her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? Nothing wrong? You do know that your words have an effect on people, correct? You had no right to guilt her like that.” 

“I did no such thing. I simply asked-”

“No,” Emerie said back. She wanted to shout, but she knew that Cassian and Nesta did not need to hear this right now. To try and preserve their peace, Emerie worked to keep her voice low, yet strong. “By bringing up the past times she was successful, you just confirmed to Madja that you believe this was likely her biggest failure to date. And it’s not. There’s no way to recover from the wounds he received. He’s lucky to be alive right now.” 

Continue reading on AO3.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #cassian #nesta archeron #emerie #TTBW #LD writes #helpmehurtyou #graphic depictions of violence #whump #physical assault #mental trauma #disability #sexism #ptsd #wing clipping #canon typical violence #eventual healing #angst and hurt/comfort #post-canon #post ACOSF #acosf

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! First off, your blog is amazing, and you're really helping all of us extraordinarily! 😭 anyways, do you have any angsty fics where Gabriel tortures Crowely and/or Heaven tortures Crowley and Aziraphale has to help him? (other than the obvious fic choices, Reposession and That Hopeful Feeling) thank you!

2/2: Oh and also, sorry I didn't mention this in my last ask, so just feel free to combine them. I rather prefer longer fics - 90,000 words at least (or else I get sad that I don't have enough Fic to cry over 😭😂) anyways, just any angsty and/or hurt comfort fics you can give me about Crowly, Gabriel, and Aziraphale would be so amazing!

Hi. We have #torture and #kidnapping tags you can check. But really, with requirements as specific as this, your best bet is sorting and filtering on AO3. Here is a search for angsty hurt/comfort fics which feature Gabriel, sorted by word count. I did the same thing, but with the torture tag, and here are some of the fics I found. Obviously, mind the tags and warnings on all of these!...

Tossed and Torn by Fire_Traveller (M)

Disclaimer: major character injury (he'll be fine, though, I promise) Disclaimer Number 2: This is part of my Per Aspera verse and will likely only make sense if you've read the other stories... When Crowley is forcefully summoned right from the sofa of the South Downs cottage, this does not only put the demon in a very dangerous place, out of which Aziraphale will need to save him somehow, but it also causes both him and Aziraphale to develop serious doubts concerning their seeming safety from Heaven and Hell. While they do have friends on their side (from both Above and Below), it seems that, despite all the promises, they are still not without very determined enemies...

Totality by rowenablade (E)

Crowley and Gabriel have a history together. Gabriel is the only one who knows about it.

A Memory of Eden by ImprobableDreams900 (M)

When Crowley gets captured by angels and dragged up to Heaven, Aziraphale knows he has to rescue him—no matter the consequences.

Another Time, Another Place by indigo (E)

What if? Two words - so powerful. A slight divergence from canon sees a very different life for Aziraphale five years after the world didn’t end. Ostracised from Heaven, he now lives in a world with bookshops and Afternoon Tea, but without Crowley; a world in which he believes Crowley gave his life to save him. However, it’s not quite that simple, and maybe they can somehow get a happy ending after all??? (They can, and they do. But let’s not tell Aziraphale that just yet. It’ll spoil the fun!)

Dark Our Woes by EdosianOrchids901 (E)

Aziraphale and Crowley's pleasant life together is thrown into disarray by captivity and torture. Heaven doesn't know how to kill either of them, but the angels have found plenty of ideas for punishment from the Earth Observation Files. After all, humans come up with the most inventive ways to make other humans suffer. Unsure what their captors really want, Aziraphale and Crowley struggle to resist Heaven’s manipulation, to find a way to escape, and to help each other survive.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #torture #kidnapping #major archive warning #graphic depictions of violence #non con #angst #hurt/comfort #mind the tags #adult omens #mod d #long fic

[wardenparker]

Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 7

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.    

Rating: Explicit for violence Word Count: 11.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Canon typical violence. WARNINGS CONTAIN SPOILERS! Kidnapping, torture, burning victim with cigarettes, broken bones, a whole lot of gun pointing and talk about murder, medicine by injection. Summary: When the divide between you and Jack becomes big enough that a well-intended question causes an explosion of anger, you decide to get out of dodge for a while. Unfortunately, this decision has consequences that neither of you could ever have anticipated. Notes: I cried writing it, I cried editing it, I cried putting this post together. Consider yourselves warned.

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

It's been a month and Jack Daniel's is a miserable fucking bastard. You've been told about the marks being detrimental to his job and refuse to get rid of the tattoo or the scars. Claiming that it wasn't your problem, and he considers that to be true, even if it pisses him off because he can't escape you. Stuck here at Statesman and being a firsthand witness to you dating. He swears he's seen half a dozen different men picking you up from your cabin and every goddamn time his stomach churns with jealousy until there's nothing left to do except get blindingly drunk.

There have been good days and bad ones, of course. You and Jack don’t ignore each other but you don’t ever do anything more intimate than having an occasional drink or taking a break from your day to have lunch together if he stops by the restaurant. Your staff has been hired and menu set, interior painted and linens picked out. Now that opening is just a few weeks away, it’s about finalizing and finesse, and your staff has been amazing.

The dating has been…touch and go. You had gone out with Ginger’s brother Lewis on almost every night of his visit, enjoying each other’s company much more than you had expected. Apparently he was just getting out of a relationship and had accepted Diana’s attempt to fix the two of you up gratefully. Without any kind of stress as to whether or not the relationship would be perfect – or even lasting – you and Lewis were able to have fun and relax on the nights you went out together.

With Jack not wanting to have anything romantic to do with anyone else especially and including you, you had no reason to say no to most of the invitations you got after that. A concert or a dinner or a movie or a special event - they were all nice things and the men were equally nice about half the time. Sometimes they stayed over and sometimes they didn’t, but none of them ever saw you more than twice. The guilt and the regret would creep in, reminding you that you have a soulmate and that he’s a good man, even if the two of you are at odds. The fact of the matter is, even with the casual and extremely platonic time that you spend with Jack, you do find yourself falling for him a little more every day. Whether that’s because you’re bound to him or because you just do love him, you really can’t be sure. And it wouldn’t do you any good to say anything anyway. So you do what Statesman employees do best and drink away the guilt.

******

Jack sighs, rolling his shoulders back before he opens the door to his house and steps outside to face the day. This time of year seems to weigh heavily on him and it doesn't help that he had watched you disappear into your cabin with some man last night while he sat on his porch. Not seeing either one of you emerge when he had finally gone to bed well after midnight.

Catching sight of Jack as you leave your house in the morning isn’t uncommon, but today when you do, guilt pools deep in your gut. Waking up with someone other than your soulmate is a special kind of self-torture, and the green-eyed, blonde-haired man curled around you this morning definitely was not Jack. This morning when you glance toward his house, you accidentally catch his eye and end up awkwardly waving as you leave your house alone. The blonde had been politely kicked out before breakfast.

Jack sends back that half-hearted wave and tries to keep the scowl off his face for your sake. Knowing that you will think that it's directed towards you instead of towards the man who had snuck out of your house this morning with a jaunt in his step that Jack certainly recognized.

A thought has been gnawing on you for a while now, and you hustle to catch up to Jack on the sidewalk that leads away from Statesman housing and heads toward the main area of the company’s campus. Trying to maintain a friendship with Jack has been agonizing for you, as you realize the actual depths of your feelings for him, but you’re also trying to respect his wishes. If he doesn’t want to be anything but a platonic pair, you aren’t going to forcibly change his mind. Either he wants to be with you or he doesn’t. End of story.

He hears your quick footsteps behind him, the effort for you to catch up to him and Jack sighs to himself. Not in any kind of mood to play nice, not when he's going to see that 'freshly fucked' glow that you seem to get when you bring someone home. Acid churns in his gut and he wonders if he's developing heartburn for how often he's eating antacids to keep it moderately tolerable.

He slows down only slightly, but you catch up to him by just the last few steps that land much harder like a schoolgirl trying to casually match the stride of her upperclassman crush. It’s a fairly apt comparison for how you feel about him sometimes, but that’s not a thought you want to have to nurse today. “In a hurry today?” You ask, knowing he isn’t late for his usual day. His 9-5 is the same as yours.

"Just wanting to get my heart pumping." Jack doesn't look over at you. "Not getting much exercise being stuck behind a desk." He tells you. "Champ still won't clear me for field work."

That’s your fault. You know it is. You’ve had full conversations about it. But as long as Jack insists on acting like you mean nothing to him, you’re going to maintain the same behavior. If he doesn’t want a soulmate, then he doesn’t get any of the benefits of you being that person. Including, but not limited to, an understanding heart.

“I had something I wanted to ask you,” you admit, shoving your hands in your pockets as you walk. Something that is very much above and beyond the call of a normal friend, but you’re telling yourself that that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not the only person you’ll be asking about this, so it’s fine.

"What do you need to know?" Jack rolls his eyes, noticing that you are avoiding him mentioning the fucking tattoo, but he didn't expect you to.

“I know it’s not really your thing…” He looks annoyed, and you wonder if he didn’t get enough sleep last night or if he skipped breakfast. The fleeting thought that he might be jealous of your date is flicked away with the reminder that he doesn’t want to be connected to you. He’s probably glad you’re finally leaving him alone. “But I’m asking my friends, which you did say you wanted to be,” the reminder comes with an awkward smile that you drop when he doesn’t respond. “Gabriella’s birthday is coming up, so it jogged my memory. I’m just asking my friends what they want their birthday cakes to be this year so I can plan ahead.”

"I don't celebrate my birthday." Jack manages to say the words without anger or devastation in the inflection in his voice. "Don't worry about it, sugar."

“I know you had said that, but I thought…sometimes it’s worth revisiting an old tradition. Who doesn’t like cake and presents, ya know?” Walking beside him, you feel like you ought to be clutching your textbooks and twirling your hair or something equally ridiculous. But all you want is to show him that you’re not the enemy.

Jaw clenched, Jack stops short and whirls towards you, obviously startling you from the way that you jump but he doesn't give a damn. You just push and you push and you push, not giving a damn what someone else might want. "I don't fucking celebrate the day my goddamn wife and baby boy died." He growls furiously. "Forget the goddamn day exists."

You feel knocked over even though all you've done is freeze on the sidewalk, wide eyes staring at him in shock while you're not sure if your jaw is trembling in shock or dropped fully open. "I—" The way your chest clenches, it feels like you might dissolve inwardly. "I didn't know. I'm so...I'm so sorry..."

"You didn't know because you didn't give a fuck." Jack sneers. "All you care about is yourself, what you want. What you think is best, damned what anyone else might think."

"Where do you get that from?" From bottomless sympathy, you bounce back to shock in a very different way. "I was trying to do something nice for you!"

"I told you I don't celebrate and you couldn't let it go." He shouts. "You won't get rid of the fuckin' tattoo so I can do my goddamn job. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't hafta worry about a fuckin' soulmate because I would be dead like I deserve to be!"

"This is the first and only time I've asked since the day we met." This time you know for certain that your lip is trembling, and that it's from oncoming tears. Being screamed at is never something you've been able to take, and this is...it's Jack. Someone you want to make happy so desperately that you're doing things you actively hate in order to do it. "You didn't want a soulmate. You wanted to be friends. So that's all I've done."

“I do want a soulmate. I want my soulmate.” Jack fumes, eyes flashing angrily. “I want the woman who fucking died on my birthday because she was going to get the fuckin’ candles she had forgot to buy for my cake. For me. She died because of me! That’s the soulmate I want!” His own agony makes him blind to the fact that he is crying, tears rolling down his face and his heart about to fucking bust apart, but not because of Abigail, it’s from hearing you say that all you’re trying to do is be friends.

With both of you crying it's almost an exercise in futility to make sense of anything, or to try to hold a reasonable conversation, and you can feel yourself shutting down faster than lightning. The words are there, ringing in your ears, never ever to leave again. I want my soulmate. Not you. Never you. He wants his wife back and you're just standing in the way and insulting her memory purely by existing. "Right." You barely croak out the one syllable, nodding vaguely and already backing away from him while you try not to shake where you stand. "Th—that's...you..." Whatever sentence you were trying to form isn't happening, to the point where all you can think about clearly is how badly you don't want him to be upset with you anymore. And the only way to do that is to walk away. "I'm sorry." Are the only coherent words you manage to murmur, fleeing in the opposite direction as soon as you get them out.

Jack stands there for a few minutes, only moving to wipe away the tears when his breathing is relaxed. Dread curling in his stomach as he replays the cruel things he had said to you in his anger and sorrow. “Shit.” He hisses quietly, wondering if you would talk to him now, but he doubts it.

You have to get yourself under control before you make it to the restaurant, you know that. But the tears rolling down your cheeks are thick and angry and making it hard for you to think, and when you pull out your phone to send a text you can barely read the screen. Hopefully, even if it doesn't make sense, your brother will understand enough to call you later. It's Friday and you need to be anywhere but here this weekend. Hopefully his guest room is free.

******

Jack pauses outside the restaurant, knowing that he needs to talk to you again, but he can’t make himself go inside. He’s fucked this all up. He’s hurt you and his heart aches from that. Instead, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials a number that oftentimes he avoids like the plague. “Hey doc.” He greets the Statesman therapist when the call is picked up. “Do you have some free time? I need to talk.”

A two-hour flight to New York is nothing, but by the time you land it’s late and the sight of your brother standing at the gate waiting for you nearly brings you to relieved tears.

******

It’s not unusual that he doesn’t see you at night. His therapy session opening his eyes and making him see that he’s been very wrong, very cruel to you. Sighing, Jack pushes off the swing with his foot, the tall glass of Statesman in his hand as he watches your dark cabin. He knows you’re in there, the pinging on his phone showing that you are.

There’s no sign of you all the next day, or even the one after that. No movements from your house, no lights turning on or off, no television flickering or even anyone else’s car in the driveway. It’s like you’ve shut yourself inside and locked out the rest of the world.

Jack tries to go about his weekend, but his eyes still wander over to your place. Hoping to see you, not having enough courage to go over and knock. He knows you won’t answer the door and it’s not like he’s given you any reason to. So he waits for an opportunity to bump into you.

But when Monday morning comes, you aren’t there. The bracelet he gave you - the one that was presented as an apology for an argument but actually contained a tracker so he can keep an eye on you - hasn’t moved. According to that tracker you’re still in your house, but it’s 8:40 on Monday morning and you are never late. You should be closing your front door behind you right now to walk to work, but there isn’t any trace of you in sight.

“Fuck this.” Jack slaps his thigh and stalks across the small courtyard to march up your step and - it’s probably a little more forceful than necessary - he starts beating on your door. “Come on, sugar! Open the door!”

There’s no answer. No movement from within at all. A peak through the garage door shows your car sitting there as usual so it’s not like you’ve decided to break your walking tradition and drive to work.

“Damnit.” Jack shakes his head and presses the button on his watch. “Ginger, unlock cabin 6.” He orders, worry starting to curl in his gut though your marks are still on his skin.

“Roger.” Ginger’s voice comes through his com loud and clear and the locks on your front door click open obediently to allow him entry.

His search is quick, getting more and more hurried as he rushes through the space until he’s convinced you’re not here. “Shit.” Jack hisses, sweeping his hat off his head in a panic. “Shit!”

“Agent Whiskey. Report.” Ginger had left the com open when she unlocked your house, knowing Jack would never want her to do something like that for anything less than an emergency.

“Where the fuck is she, Ginger?” There’s an undercurrent of panic in his voice and the bracelet firmly in his fist. “‘Cause she ain’t here.”

"Come into the office," she urges him, knowing that tone in his voice after years of working together. "I'll see if I can track her down in the couple of minutes it takes you to get here."

“Find her now, Ginger.” Jack flies out of the cabin and his boots thump on the walkway as he makes for Statesman at a dead sprint.

The door to the lab slams open with a violent rattle five minutes later but Ginger barely moves in her seat. The control panel in front of her gives her domain across the myriad of screens mounted on the wall, most of which are showing traffic cam footage, sidewalk security footage, or even in-building security footage of you over the last two days. A flight itinerary is pulled up in one corner and the far-left monitor shows a string of text messages. "She went to New York City," Ginger tells Jack, her hands flying across her keyboard. "It looks like she went to see her brother after your last fight."

“How did— you know about that?” Jack huffs, slightly deflated as he catches sight of the texts that you had sent your brother and winces at the stark harshness of his words written out. “Shit. Can you track her phone? Where is she now?”

"I tracked her phone to a hotel in Times Square." That fact makes Ginger cringe, but she glances up at Jack cautiously. "She didn't get on her flight last night and she didn't change her ticket, either. When I called the kitchen with the pretense of wanting to invite her to lunch today, her sous-chef said she hadn't heard from her either."

“Fuck.” Jack shakes his head, pointing at her as he starts rushing for the door. “Get Pony Express fueled up and on the tarmac when I get there!” He orders as he dashes out of the room. In his gut he knows something is very wrong.

Jack dashes out of Ginger’s office right before she gets another ping on your information - something more than cell phone records between your family members like she’s seen this morning. This is a missing person’s report, filed by your brother with NYPD just a minute or two ago. “Shit.” Ginger mutters, furiously clicking at her control panel to notify the hangar to have the Pony Express ready so she can call Champ immediately.

Jack has never run so fast in his life. Breathlessly changing into his flight suit and bolting for the fighter jet. He knows something’s wrong. You would never let your kitchen be kept in the dark, no matter how upset you were with him. No, this is dangerous and it’s all his fault.

******

There are some things television is very informative about: interior decorating, cooking, fashion, even nature or manufacturing. But in no way, shape, or form does it prepare the unsuspecting person for what kidnapping might really be like.

The men who approached you after you left your self-indulgent solo dinner had been overbearing and pushy, asking for your number and where you were going, trying to get you to go with them willingly to their next destination - a bar you had never heard of. When you had politely refused so many times that you had to go from polite to insistent, the one standing directly in back of you had pushed the muzzle of a gun into your back while the leader ordered you to do as you were told so you wouldn’t have your spinal cord severed. In terror, you had obeyed.

The duct tape, zip ties, and blindfold were not enough, apparently. You had been gagged and starved, left tied to a chair in a room you could only describe as drafty and damp, and generally ignored excepted to be threatened periodically or violently interrogated whenever one of them got frustrated. You’re fairly certain that you now know what waterboarding actually is, but you’re grateful they haven’t done worse. The thing is — what they want? Is Jack. And there is no way you’re going to give them that. Even as angry as you can be with each other, if you didn’t realize that you loved him before now, this would have proved it. Literally willing to die for his safety, you haven’t said one coherent word to these mongrels since they shoved you into the back of an SUV in Times Square.

“Come on sweetheart…” The slow, condescending roll of the words come from your left where a man of middle-aged years is watching you, leaning back in his chair as your head swivels towards him. “All you gotta do is make a phone call. One thirty second call. You can be as damsel in distress as you’d like.”

With a gag in your mouth, you shake your head once to signal ‘no’ and raise your head again, determined not to cry this time. You have no idea how long you’ve been with these degenerates, but it feels like days - and you’ve definitely cried a lot during that time. So much that you’re starting to finally feel numb.

“Fuckin’ ridiculous,” mutters someone on your other side. The voice sounds younger. Angrier. And familiar. “She’s fuckin’ useless.”

“No, she ain’t.” There is a low, evil chuckle from the other man. “You said she’s his soulmate.” He hums, pleased with himself. “If she doesn’t want to cooperate, we’ll start shippin’ pieces of her back to him.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. You blink back the fear, cut between the fear that that kind of stunt either wouldn’t work at all because Jack hates you so much, or that it would bring him straight into danger on Champ’s orders. Whoever that man is, he can’t know what Statesman really is - or is that exactly why they came for you? If you could fucking place his voice, that would be a huge goddamn help.

“Aw, look.” One of the other men snickers nastily. “Bitch is gonna cry again.”

There’s a round of chuckling, generally enjoying your fear and upset, “I bet it’s gonna eat him alive.” The older man snorts. “Buryin’ a second soulmate. Another one he couldn’t save.” There’s another round of amusement, harsh and cold. All of them in on a secret you don’t know.

“Go get some dinner.” The first man tells another. “I’m hungry. I’ll watch her, see if she’ll give in.”

There is a general sound of chairs scraping and boots on concrete, the sound of heels clicking so similar to the now-familiar sound of cowboy boots on the sidewalk. They keep you from responding with the gag, and the blindfold keeps their faces hidden, but they always want you to hear. It keeps you afraid, and fear is what they’re banking on. That fear will make you cave. What they don’t know is that your fear has more to do with not knowing whether or not Jack will even care that you’re gone.

“Has he fallen for you yet?” The question comes with a hint of irony in his voice. The need for information that would twist the knife deeper. “Or is he runnin’ from it to keep from gettin’ hurt?”

You can’t help that that brings a fresh set of tears. It seems to be the part of your body you have the least control over. Fucking tear ducts. But this guy’s seemingly endless need to talk and talk and make you as miserable as humanly possible has made you pay more attention to his voice over however long you’ve been here. Some of the others have slightly different accents - but this one is a cowboy.

“Mhm, running.” The deeply satisfied tone settles back slightly as he sits back in his chair and watches you, “just so you know it’s not personal.” He tells you conversationally. “I just want to see the poor bastard’s face as he holds another dead soulmate.”

Without this fucking gag in your mouth, you might have said something that would give you away. That would hurt Jack somehow or prove that you actually are useless to them. They don’t know that you’ve fallen for him despite your very best efforts, and they don’t know that he despises you simply for existing. He’s not running from anything – but you’re not Abigail, so you’re an insult to her memory.

“Oh hell, I’ll tell you since you aren’t leavin’ this room.” Alive is left off the end of the sentence, but the threat is clearly there. “I was the one who arranged for good ol’ Jack Daniels to lose his first soulmate. Her and the kid she was carryin’. Cherry on top of you ask me.”

Your eyes open wide against the blindfold, head snapping in the direction of the voice as he chuckles. The evil bastard is so goddamn pleased with himself. You could scream if you had breath, but the best you can do is fight against bindings that will never break.

“Bastard never even knew it, either. Dumb son of a bitch.” He huffs. “Bought the story of it being meth heads, robbing the store. Can you believe that? But it allowed me to attend the funeral. Watch his grief firsthand.”

Why? Is all you can wonder, as your mind races to try to figure out what the hell Jack could have done to warrant such a vast conspiracy before he was ever even a spy. Diana said Jack hadn’t joined Statesman until after his wife and son had died, so why the hell would anyone want to ruin his life when he was just a normal man?

“Jack Daniels is gonna fuckin’ pay,” the chair scrapes back and the sound of boots slowly comes towards you, ominous in how measured the steps are. “Maybe I’ll stage it for him. Write a note sayin’ how you couldn’t take being his soulmate.” He chuckles and his hand caresses the side of your face. “Pretty neck of yours will look good stretched out on a rope for him to find.”

You grunt, jerking your face away from his touch and wishing you could just scream at him. The muffled noises of frustration that do make it past your lips seem only to amuse him and you twist in your chair in a vain desire to lash out.

“Oh don’t be that way…” he tuts and bends down, smirking directly in your face even though you can’t see it. “You’d even be my type if you weren’t tied to that bastard. Maybe we could have some fun before your usefulness is done.”

That’s a line too far, and you instinctively start screaming, not like you’re trying to call for help but like you would call him every horrible name in the book if you could speak. There’s no way you can move but you take a chance, even knowing it’s a long shot. Reeling back as quickly as possible, you hit your head forward and manage to connect – head butting the bastard and making him stumble and fall backward into some nearby furniture, from the sound of it. Bastard.

“Bitch!” he growls, rushing forward and raising his hand. Bringing it down against the side of your face and slapping you hard enough to nearly knock your chair over. “Fuck with me and I start chopping you into pieces now!” He bellows.

Muffled and muted, the "Fuck you!" you scream as loud as you can is just clear enough to understand. You've gone from terrified to pissed, and it feels like a light switch has turned on inside you. These fuckers aren't getting shit from you. Not even another tear.

******

Honestly, Jack doesn’t remember a time when he’s pushed the Pony Express so hard. Finally setting down on the runway, he ignores the curious and awed looks of the grounds crews of the airport and starts looking around. “Where are my wheels, Ginger?”

"Rye is in the black SUV on the edge of the runway." Ginger fires back immediately. Champ had authorized the rescue mission immediately and sent one of the senior agents from the New York office to be at Jack's disposal.

“Goddamnit this is all my fault,” Jack spots the car and starts running, not bothering to change out of his flight suit. “She should be in her kitchen!”

"I've combed the security footage from Times Square." In his ear, Ginger is clicking through countless screens with images of you from all angles - a large number of them featuring a group of seven men and a large SUV that you appear to get into willingly. "She got into a slate gray SUV with a group of seven men on West 51st between 8th and Broadway."

“Who the fuck are they?” Jack demands, ripping the door open and jumping inside the car. He spares Rye a nod as he waits for his answer. “And did you track the SUV?”

“I’m working on the car. It drops off the traffic cameras after the Williamsburg Bridge.” A few clicks can be heard in the background and Ginger hums. “I have records on four of the seven men. Domestic, drug charges, firearms, breaking and entering, the usual gamut of ‘goon’ crimes. But…” she muffles a groaning sound. “Jack. Some of these guys are from your hometown…”

“What?” Jack slams his fist on the dashboard, sick that his suspicions are right. This is all his fault. “Give me their names.”

"Hank Rollins, Ben Jeffrey, Andrew Kelly, and Sean Perring. All from Lloyd, Montana." Ginger bites her lip, sighing at her screen. "On the sidewalk footage she appears to be going with them willingly, but from your reaction I'm guessing that isn't the case."

“Rollins.” Jack growls out, pissed off to hear the name after so long, thinking that he’d escaped the fucking family feud unscathed. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time. Hoped to never hear it again.”

“They’ve had her for nineteen hours now.” Ginger swallows, not liking how high that number is. “And we haven’t had a ransom note or a phone call of any kind.”

“Shit.” Jack shakes his head. “Take me to where she was taken. Now.”

Rye doesn’t hesitate, throwing the car into gear and heading for the road at a full tilt. Getting close to Broadway at any time of day is a task, but if they have to, he can pull any number of public safety tricks to be able to block off part of the area. Being a Statesman agent in New York City means having a few tricks up his sleeve. “What can we be expecting?” He asks Jack, wondering if the other agent might have an idea now that he knows some of what is going on.

“Anything.” Jack’s teeth grind together. “This is personal. A family feud over land disputes dating back to the fuckin’ 1800s.” Jack hisses, shaking his head. “I left the goddamn valley for a reason.”

“They grabbed her over a two-hundred-year-old land dispute?” Nothing should surprise him at this point, with what he’s seen as a Statesman agent, but Rye still huffs. “What the hell do they want you to do? Time travel?” It’s the absence of a ransom demand that makes him nervous. They took an agent’s soulmate and it’s not money they’re after.

“When my daddy died, I put the land in the hands of the ranch board.” Jack tells him. “I didn’t wanna fucking ranch, not after Abigail died. Rollins wants me to sell to him, but I can’t. It has to be passed down to blood.”

"So what's the idea?" Speeding through the streets as fast as possible without causing an accident, Rye keeps his eyes on the road but frowns. "Make sure she's out of the picture so there's no blood to pass it down to?"

“Did I mention that the entire Rollins family is as crazy as a fuckin’ loon?” Jack huffs, shaking his head and even more worried about you now that he knows that bastard is behind your disappearance. “Who the hell knows? Tried to claim I’d stolen his soulmate at one point.”

“Jesus.” The other agent huffs, continuing to weave their way through the thick New York traffic. “It’s up to you how you want to approach this,” he tells Jack honestly. “She’s your soulmate.”

“She doesn’t get hurt.” His answer is immediate, almost growled out. “Not a fuckin’ hair on her head.”

“Copy that.” His tone says everything, and Rye doesn’t ask any more questions. “We’ll get her back.”

Finally, the SUV comes to a screeching stop at the spot where you were forced into a vehicle. Jack throws open the doors and bolts out, eyes scanning the ground for something – anything. It's a long shot, but there's got to be something here that would show that you were here. Some marker. Anything.

Any street in New York City has trash and debris to a certain extent, and there are traces of people having been through the area just because of how much car and foot traffic moves through Broadway every single day. Broken bottles, cigarette butts, tissues, all the normal bits of peoples' lives that go by the wayside are littered about on steps and in sidewalk cracks. Candy wrappers or coffee cups by the curb. Rye combs the area for specialized clues – a name on a cup or a wrapper from a list of the favourite snacks listed in your file, but frustratingly finds nothing.

“Come on, there’s gotta be something here!” Jack huffs, kicking a trash can and there is the tiny clink of something metal being launched against it. “Fuck, what’s this?”

Rye bends over, swiping up the item as it glints in the sun. "Looks like a bracelet." He inspects it carefully, not finding a serial number or any indication of a designer, except for a small engraving in the tip that looks like a maker's mark. "Maybe Ginger can track down the manufacturer? It's a long shot that it will help, but it's something."

“It’s hers.” Jack stares at the inscription on the inside of the bracelet. “Beautiful girl, you can do hard things.” He reads aloud. “She—she showed me this. It’s a quote her grandmother would tell her.” His mouth is dry and he takes it from Rye to put in his pocket, determined to put it back on your wrist himself. “Let’s hope she can hang on. Just hold on, sugar. I’m comin’.”

"Whiskey. Rye." Ginger's voice in their ears makes both men's heads perk up, listening for a report from their eyes and ears. "The car registration belongs to a shell corporation owned by the Rollins family. They also own a shipping company with containers in the Brooklyn Navy Yard." She clears her throat pointedly. "Right off of the Williamsburg Bridge where we lost the car."

“Get us there now.” Jack points at Rye and starts running back to the Statesman SUV like his heels are being nipped by the hounds of hell. “Ginger, I need you to get me the specs of that building.”

"Sending them now." Her voice is accompanied by the sound of keyboard clacking as Rye and Whiskey jump back into the car, peeling back out onto Broadway to head toward Williamsburg. The heavy traffic doesn't part for them easily but Rye was chosen for this assignment specifically for his abilities as a driver.

“Ginger, is there any indication on how they know that I have another soulmate?” Jack demands, tensing the closer that he gets with every mile to the shipyard. He knows he will kill them; he’ll kill every last one of them to protect you. “They don’t seem to know I’m a fuckin’ spy.”

"I'm working on it." It isn't something that has been advertised, obviously, and Jack has kept his marks from you hidden since they first appeared on his skin. There are few people who know, most of whom have priority clearance. She's gone through all the background checks on the new Statesman employees and the places you frequent, all the men you've dated, even all the way back through the staff at The Whitney months ago who might have seen your marks on your first soulmate before the accident. Not a single red flag had risen, but Ginger hesitates for just a split second as she tries to think through more connections. There was one - just one – the newest line cook for The Rabbit Hole that makes her hesitate. "Have you ever heard her mention a man named Tripp Tanner?" Ginger asks, pulling up the file on the man once more. It's too pristine. Too squeaky clean. Too pitch-perfect. Like it's been manufactured.

Jack is ashamed to say that you’ve not been doin’ a whole lot of talkin’ around him. It’s not like he’s really encouraged close conversations. Keeping things as surface level as he could to not make it more difficult. Even though every day he aches and he hates that he aches. “No.” Though he recognizes the name, he can’t place it. “She hasn’t mentioned him. Why? Is he one of the ones she’s been…uh, seein’?” His ears burn slightly, noticing the way Rye’s eyes cut from the road to look over at him but he tries to ignore it.

"No, he—" Ginger hates that it makes her stammer, feeling like your dating is partially her fault because it started with her brother. "He's on her staff. The background check is clean and his resume is spotless. But it's too clean, so it's the best lead I have. I'm running him through Statesman facial recognition now." The Statesman database is far more complex and complete than any government or criminal database. If her gut feeling is right, it might kick up a result.

“Send me a picture of the boy.” Jack grunts, having already looked at the blueprints of the building where you might be. It’s better than you being in a random shipping container. They might never find you if that’s the case.

"His employee ID photo is coming through now." More taps come from Ginger's end of the conversation before a muffled shriek of dismay. "Shit. Jack— Tanner is from Lloyd, too. He changed his name from Rollins two years ago. Stephen Stuart Rollins the third - nickname Tripp - has a rap sheet a mile long."

“Son of a bitch.” Jack hisses, his grip on the dashboard nearly about to put an indentation in it. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t been avoidin’ her, I woulda recognized the bastard.”

"We'll fix it on this end, Jack." She promises him. "Just go bring her home."

“She hates me.” Jack murmurs quietly. “I was— I wasn’t very nice to her.”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll forgive you after you save her life.” Ginger sighs, watching the dot on her on-screen map that represents her two agents speed toward the warehouse where she’s figured out you’re being held. “Stop these assholes first, apologize second. She— she thinks you hate her. That’s what she told Gabriella, anyway.”

“I don’t hate her.” Jack grumbles, feeling guilty as hell because he knows that’s what it looked like.

“I would suggest telling her that.” Even though Ginger’s voice goes soft, she’s following their movements and watching the Navy Yard security cameras. “There’s movement at the building. I don’t see her, but I’m counting…six men outside the building.”

“Good.” Jack’s voice is grim and his brows are knitted together. “Every single one of them is going in the ground, Ging. This feud ends today.”

******

There is a group of men milling about around a large brick building with the number 31 painted above the bay doors. Cars parked haphazardly nearby with doors flung open present as frustratingly casual, but the large, dark gray van from the sidewalk cam footage is nowhere in sight.

“So what are we doin’ here, Whiskey?” Rye demands, slowing the vehicle down so it doesn’t look like they are barreling into the place. “Are we run in guns blazing or using some stealth?”

Every instinct inside him is screaming to run in guns blazing, but he can’t risk another man inside hurting you. “Shit.” He hisses. “Turn down the service road and park the fucking car.” He grunts. “We’re sneakin’ up on the bastards.”

The service road runs behind the old abattoir buildings and Rye tucks the car out of sight so he and Whiskey can arm themselves out of the trunk before coming up on the group of abductors. “Three doors on the blueprint.” Rye murmurs, tucking a Bowie knife into the sheath on his belt. “Those buildings are big, we gotta be methodical.”

Jack finally shucks the flight suit, changing into his standard jeans and a button up with a sports coat. His double six shooters tucked into their holsters and his electric whip and lasso tucked into his belt. “They are going to keep her somewhere small, like an office. Probably have her tied to a chair, the bastards.”

“I’m followin’ your lead.” Tucking a few throwing knives into the hidden pockets of his jacket for good measure, Rye nods for Jack to step out first. This is his operation and Rye will do what he needs to keep him covered.

He moves silently, deciding that he will pull his weapons later to get as close as possible without seeming suspicious. Crouching low enough that his knees protest, Jack skirts the edge of the loading docks and edges towards the northeast door. The one farthest away from the group out front.

There is no guard at the northeast door. The bastards obviously are either overconfident or underprepared, and Rye picks the padlock in record time to let Jack get inside with minimal noise. No alarm sounds, no person is alerted. It looks to be a storage room, and the two men pass through it easily to find a claustrophobic hallway waiting for them beyond the interior door.

There’s a muffled sound, Jack tensing and hisses under his breath when he recognizes the sound of screaming through a gag. “Fuck.” He murmurs, imagining all sorts of horrible things. “That way.”

The room where the noises are coming from is non-descript now, empty except for some card tables and chairs, and the remains of a meal spread out with some discarded firearms and a bag of who-knows-what open on the ground. Two large men are hunched in the center of the room. Deep, rumbling laughter rolls from them and cigarette smoke is pungent in the air as the muffled shrieks get slightly more panicked. Still blindfolded and gagged, the front legs of the chair that you've been zip-tied to almost constantly your arrival in this place have been broken, leaving you kneeling on the cement floor between the two of them. One who has decided to turn your shoulder into his ashtray, and the other who is deciding which fingernail to pull off with the pliers in his hand. Presumably to send to Jack.

“Shit, shit.” Jack hisses under his breath, the urge to rush in there nearly overwhelming but he doesn’t want to give them a chance to anticipate. Stealth is needed and he slowly starts to pull his pistols out but decides against it. He wants this to be more personal, so he reaches for the whip and lasso.

“I know, I know.” Rollins drawls, holding onto your left hand to inspect your fingernails. “Jack likes his girls done up, so not being able to have all your nails painted is gonna disappoint him.” He tuts, finally deciding that your pointer finger mail is long enough to get a good grip on with the pliers. You’re screaming and crying again after a few hours of putting on a brave face and he’s enjoying it. “If ya like I could just cut off the whole finger? That might be more fun for everybody.”

“More fun if you get the fuck away from her and face me like a man, Rollins.” Jack bursts through the door and squares up, his eyes not even looking at you as he focuses on the man responsible. “Always knew you were a chickenshit, but this is low even for you.”

Jack? You would know his voice anywhere, even as often as you’re at odds you’ve still memorized the tone and tenor. He came. He actually came. As fast as your heart was beating before, the pace doubles now and the tears soaking your blindfold are relief. He came for you. It might not say ‘love’, but it doesn’t say ‘hate’.

The deep, rolling, evil laugh that bubbles out of the man beside you is so pleased that it makes you physically ill just to hear. Rollins, as Jack calls him, drops your hand but stomps on the back leg of the chair you’re tied to for good measure - breaking it and sending you crashing to the ground with another scream. There is no way you can see what’s going to happen with the blindfold, but at least the two men have lost interest in torturing you for the moment.

“Daniels.” The game is up and if Rollins is surprised that Jack has found out that it’s him, he doesn’t show it. Too deep into his madness and he sneers at the man in front of him. “You came with a whip?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Always knew you were a fucking idiot.”

The man who had been standing in the other side of you drops his cigarette beside you - probably hoping to burn your clothes in the process - and squares his shoulders like he’s planning to make a run at Jack but isn’t sure he’ll win.

“I’m begging you too.” Jack growls out, wanting nothing more than to have them strike first. Give him a reason to cut them into pieces with his tech. Rye moves past the door behind him, intent on taking out the others while he saves you. “Do it.”

“Begging.” Rollins laughs again, taking a step forward. “Tripp, don’t fuckin’ move. Keep a gun on the bitch until I say otherwise.” The sound of the safety of a gun clicking is now intimately familiar to you and you squirm on the ground, trying to push your chair away from it even a little, but a pressure on your ribcage stops you. It’s unmistakably a foot. And you’ve only heard the name Tripp once in your entire life - meaning the jackass you hired to your kitchen to bolster numbers now has his goddamn boot in your side. You knew you recognized that fucking voice.

“It’ll be the last fucking thing you do, Tripp.” Jack hisses, keeping his eyes on the older, more unhinged brother. “Finally gone off the deep end, huh? What’s this all about?” He doesn’t know why the Rollins boys are after you to get to him. Doesn’t understand it. He’s not run the ranch since he was in high school.

"You're a hard man to get through to, Daniels." Hank tells him, smug smirk still painted across his crooked face. "Last time I had to talk real loud to make you listen. Figured I'd have to do it again."

His head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly as he tries to figure out what he means by that. “Well, I’m here now. Whadya gotta say?”

"Y'all got something I want." And even after fifteen years, he hasn't figured out a way other than this to get it. Something that isn't criminal. "Now, the last time I made myself heard, you went off and skipped town with your tail between your legs like a spurned schoolgirl on prom night." Hank Rollins takes out his own gun, the pistol pointed directly at your head when he stretches out his arm. "But I'm sick and tired of a whole world that thinks the sun shines outta Jack Daniels' ass crack."

Jack’s entire world narrows and focuses on his words, taking them and twisting them in his mind. “The last time…” He growls. “My wife died in a fuckin’ robbery.” He hisses, fingers twitching on the whip and hovering over the button that would turn it deadly.

The way Hank Rollins laughs - the wicked, pleased, loathsome way he chortles at Jack's pain - almost makes you physically sick. "I love that you bought that," he gloats, taking another step toward the senior Statesman agent, ignoring his backup altogether if he's even taken a long enough look to see Rye in the room. "Hook. Line. And sinker. Goddamn beautiful."

“What did you do, you bastard?” His knuckles are practically white and he curls his lips back in disgust. “A pregnant woman? Why? What evil did I do to you?”

"You took what was mine." His free hand moves to his sleeve even as Jack watches him more carefully than a hawk. When Rollins rolls up his shirt sleeve, there is a scar there that is burned into Jack's memory as clear as day - Abigail was bitten by the neighbor's dog as a little girl and wore the scar for her entire life. "You brainwashed her against me. And you paraded my soulmate around town like your fucking prize, Daniels. That boy should've been mine, too."

“I wore her marks.” Jack hisses. “Every goddamn one of them and you know it! They would be gone if she was your soulmate.” He always thought Hank was insane, and this just proves it. The marks would have disappeared. They wouldn’t be there, just like they disappeared from Jack when she died. “But you mean to tell me that you murdered her because I had her and you wanted her?”

"I saved her!" Rollins snaps back, waving his gun in your direction as the rage builds in him. "The wife of some city-slicker pretty boy without the sense to keep a single fuckin' eye on the most important woman in the world. She would have been miserable bearing your heathen children and picking up the pieces of everything you ever broke."

Jack scoffs, knowing it won’t make any use to point out that he grew up in the same small damn valley Hank did. That they both worked and lived on ranches. The Daniels spread was more lucrative thanks to his Grandaddy being a smart man and the Rollins have always been a little unhinged. Hank and his younger brother being the worst of them all. “Point the gun at me, not her.” As devastating as it is to hear him talk about Abigail that way, you are the one in danger right now. His heart bursting with the need to see you safe.

"Now, c'mon." Rollins drawls, throwing his brother a smirk from a few feet away. "Don't start pretendin' you like her now. She already knows why you can't look her in the eye. Lyin' piece of shit."

Jack wishes he could see your eyes, but they are covered. All he can hear is the panicked breathing and sobs from your poor body. “Your issue is with me. She ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

"Cryin' over a man who can't ever love her." Tutting as he shakes his head, Rollins moves his gun temporarily from pointing at your head to Jack, but goes back again. He's having too much fun watching the man he despises twist. "You been treatin' this one even worse than my Abigail."

It’s in his chest to scream out that Abigail was his, but she’s dead and you’re here, alive and depending on him. His heart clenches and he rocks his jaw. “If you know how I’ve been treatin’ her, why take her? Why not let her go? I’m here now. You’ve got my attention.”

“You want me to let her go?” Hank Rollins scoffs to his brother and seems to weigh his options. As far as he’s concerned there’s no reason this can’t be as much fun as he likes. “I could see my way to lettin’ that happen,” he concedes with another contemptuous chuckle. “You got two options, Daniels. One is I shoot her in the head right now and you walk free knowin’ you’re the reason two innocent women are dead. But two? Two is you take her place. Right here and now. I’ll let her walk right out on outta here. Yer friend there can even get her home safe. Either way, yer signing over that ranch land and the whole business operatin’ on it over to me first.”

“Done.” The word is out of his mouth so fast he’s not even sure if he actually said them out loud. Maybe he just thought it. But then Rollins’ face cracks into a wide grin and he looks like he’s struck gold. “Let her go, and I’ll take her place.”

It may not be discernable words, but the hoarse screams coming from you now are crystal clear - pleading with him not to take your place. As much as this is the very last circumstance you would ever want to be in, as much as you cannot fathom how this absolute basket case Rollins thinks his 'plan' could ever succeed, Jack is worth far more to the world at large – and to you. So if either one of you is walking out of here, it should be him. Thrashing as much as your binding will allow, trying to toss off the foot of the man standing on you or else wiggle away from the pressure, probably a move that will end in broken bones, but you couldn't care less. Just as long as Jack stays far away from this chair.

“Let her go.” That’s all that matters to Jack right now. Getting you far away, keeping you safe. “Now.” Hank huffs and rolls his eyes, pointing the weapon at your head once more for the sheer pleasure of watching Jack’s face drain of all life. “Fine.” He grumbles, motioning to Tripp. “Get her up and hand her over to whatever city boy he has with him.” He doesn’t get to watch you die, which is disappointing, but he gets Jack Daniels and the land his family stole. It might even be better this way.

Tripp grumbles, on the verge of protesting, but he does as he's told...mostly. All he really does is kick you - still attached to the chair - over to the man a few feet away. Rye immediately drops to his knees, murmuring to you quietly who he is and that he's going to untie you, Bowie knife out of its sheath and slicing away at the ties and tape that bind you to the chair that has been your prison for the last God only knows how many hours. As soon as your ankles are free you kick your legs, trusting that this other Statesman agent is here to help but wanting desperately to get to Jack to stop him from giving your literal kidnapper what he wants. As soon as your wrists are free you shove the blindfold off your eyes and drag the gag out of your mouth, shrinking away from the light in the same breath that you scream for Jack not to give in with everything you have left in you. Which, after countless hours screaming, crying, and very nearly choking on a ball of knotted cloth, is hoarse at best.

Finally looking over at you, Jack is furious by how swollen your eyes are, how raw your voice is. He doesn’t say anything about it though. Knowing it would give Hank a thrill to know how much he pissed Jack off. “Get out of here, sugar.” There’s a lot that Jack wants to say, but there’s no time. He needs you away from this room. “You’ve got a restaurant to open, remember? Go with Rye.”

Like the nail in the top of the coffin, you reel back at being ordered away. Not a moment of gentleness or sensitivity after being fucking kidnapped by the man who is still as obsessed with his wife as Jack is. After being convinced he wouldn't come for you only to feel such soaring hope at hearing his voice, the desolation of realizing that he only came because you're a complication and that he never felt any kind of tenderness or care for you at all. It's almost reassuring, in a way. To know that you at least had the right level of expectation in the beginning is something, at least.

It isn't hard to bundle you up into his arms when you deflate, but Rye doesn't say anything about it. Only tucks you against him and helps you shuffle toward the door on weak legs. "Come on, darlin'," he murmurs, glancing back at Jack. "We'll get you fixed up right. Let Jack handle it from here."

"Sure." Even one word makes you cough, but you don't put up a fight or try to get back to him. To your fucking soulmate. After all - you have a restaurant to open. God forbid you get behind on your commitment to Statesman for any reason.

He wants to call you back, to talk to you. His heart aching with every step you take away from him, but it’s safer. He sees the glint in Hank’s eyes, he knows he’s looking for another reason to strike out. Possibly waiting until Jack talks to you to shoot you. He can’t risk that. He can’t risk you. No matter what, his soulmate – you – needs to survive.

After about four steps, Rye stops your shuffling and scoops you up, not wanting you to walk on any injuries or aggravate anything. He nods to Jack and carries you out the back door, planning on bundling you into the backseat of the SUV and then taking out the stragglers out in front of the abattoir. But you need to be safe, first.

It feels like you’ve cried every tear in your body, and this bitter disappointment is met with stony silence and efficiency of movement. It doesn’t take long to get you out of there but Rye does it carefully, promising you in low tones that everything is going to be okay from here. That you’re safe. That Jack’s going to take care of you. The last part just makes you feel hollow as you nod.

“Now you stay right here,” Rye croons, buckling you into the backseat and tapping a few times on his watch. “Ginger, I need your eyes in the car. Our girl is safe but I gotta take care of somethin’ before we clear out of here.”

“Copy.” Ginger acknowledges the request and as soon as Rye closes the doors, the entire vehicle locks and a red light above the rear-view mirror flashes on. The built-in screens in the headrests come on and you can barely see Ginger’s concerned face. “Honey, I need you to listen to me.” She urges. “It’s Astrid. The Statesman cars come equip with medical facilities for injuries. I’m going to scan you now.”

Talking hurts, with how hoarse you are, but you nod at Astrid’s face on screen and only shrink away from the bright lights - What are those? Lasers? - for a second before you remember she has never done anything to hurt you. “Everything hurts.” It’s just a whisper, but it’s there.

“I know, I’m going to make sure that you feel better, okay?” Sorrow and rage fill the Statesman tech as the images comes back to her. Multiple contusions, burns - obviously from cigarettes - two broken ribs and a fractured ankle. All of them evidence of the horrific torture you endured at the hands of those madmen. “I can have a shot administered.” She tells you through the screen, trying not to show her emotions. “Just a tiny prick and then you will feel so much better. Can I do that?” It’s important right now for you to feel like you have control. That nothing is being done to you anymore and she wants you to be comfortable.

“Sure.” You murmur, hoping it’s something like morphine or stronger so you don’t have to think or feel anything. “A-Astrid?” Right before whatever happens happens, you look up to find her eyes watching you on screen. “How…how long have I been gone? Does my family know?”

Pausing for a moment, Ginger nods. “Your brother filed a police report, this morning. After Jack went to your house when you didn’t leave for work this morning—”

“Jack came to my house?” You practically whisper it, but Ginger hears you loud and clear. “He did. You’d been missing for seventeen hours when Jack jumped into the jet to come to New York.” She confirms softly.

“Will you just…let them know I’m okay?” Whatever lie Statesman tells people, you’ll go with it. It’s just that right now you can’t wrap your head around the idea of Jack giving two shits about you enough to check on you at home - let alone rescue you. It’s too much.

“As soon as I get you feeling better, I will have the local police contact them to tell them that you are safe.” She promises, knowing that you wouldn’t want them to worry. “We’re going to bring you back to Statesman to put you in our hyperbaric healing station. Six hours in it and you will be completely healed.”

“Okay.” As long as they tell your family you’re okay, you could care less what else happens. Everything hurts, there are no more tears to cry, and it’s possible that you feel even more hopeless about Jack ever sparing you a second glance ever again. Soulmates. Fucking laughable. Whoever Abigail was, she was clearly more important and more wonderful to multiple people than you’ll ever be. “Astrid?” When you look up again she’s still watching you intentely. “Can…can you get rid of my tattoo while I’m in there?”

“Are you sure you want that?” She asks quietly, her eyes searching your face through the screen to try to get an inkling of what you are thinking. “You don’t have to make any big decisions now.”

“The scars, too. You said you could erase scars.” Let him be free. Is all you can think. Obviously nobody was exaggerating about the danger you were in, but it’s more than that. It’s how, when Jack barely spared you a single glance, it hurt more than anything the Rollins brothers ever could have dreamt up.

The silence lingers in the air, suspended between the two of you for a long moment. Ginger sighs softly. “Of course.” She murmurs, hating how broken you appear. “We will get rid of them all.”

Gunshots, unmistakable now that you’ve heard them up close and personal, ring out from multiple directions and you sink down in the back of the car you know for a fact is bulletproof - all Statesman vehicles are - out of instinct. “And Astrid?” You watch the automated needle release from the door handle of the SUV and make sure your arm is in line for the injection. “Remind me to fire Tripp.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that.” Ginger promises you softly. On another screen in her lab, she can see the feeds from both Rye and Jack, and the justice that is being delivered is swift and brutal. They messed with a Statesman’s soulmate, and Jack grunts in pleasure as he retracts the whip on the left screen, pieces of Hank and Tripp Rollins scattered around the room.

A clean up team will be deployed from the New York Statesman building to scrub the site. Body removal is a necessary evil of the job and Statesman has some of the best. By the time footsteps can be heard running back toward you in the car, Ginger’s injection is starting to take hold and you’re finally feeling drowsy. Adrenaline and fear have had you on high alert since you were taken, but having Astrid’s face and voice to reassure you is soothing.

Shouting your name, Jack rushes towards the SUV. The only thing in his mind has been to get to you. To make sure you are okay. He knows Rye will be alright and he needs to see you. He manages to get to the rear door before Ginger deactivates the locks and security, yanking on the handle. “Let me in! Let me in!” He yells frantically.

“She’s out, Jack.” Ginger’s voice in his earpiece comes with a sigh as she deactivates the locks and lets him into the car. “She’s hurt pretty badly so I gave her a sedative. When you get back to Statesman, get her in a medical chopper and bring her to my lab asap.”

“Oh my god.” Jack rips open the door and climbs into the back seat, finding you slumped against the other door. “What— what did they do to her?” He demands, panicked because he’s never seen you like this. Angry at himself that he let this happen. Gathering you against him, he runs his hands over your body as he pulls you into his lap.

“Nothing I can’t fix,” she promises him, not wanting to give him the full rundown of your injuries when he’s still visibly upset enough to lash out. “She’ll be okay, Jack. But I don’t want her to go into shock or accidentally aggravate an injury, and she said she was in pain. That’s why I needed to medicate her.”

“Tell me what they did to her, Ginger Ale.” Jack demands again, turning towards the screen even as he is cradling you and stroking your face.

Ginger sighs, softly again, and looks down at her diagnostic pad. Avoiding Jack’s eyes while she reads this off will probably be better. “Two broken ribs, fractured ankle, superficial burns clearly from cigarettes. Bruising, contusions, and internal injuries consistent with being beaten, waterboarded, and kicked multiple times.”

“Motherfuckers.” Jack hisses, tightening his grip on you to where you whimper in your unconscious state. Immediately relaxing his hold on you and petting your face to soothe both of you. “I should have made it take more time. I should have beat him to death with my fists.” He growls. “I’m gonna burn their fucking legacy to the ground and piss on the ashes.”

“Jack.” This time Ginger’s tone is a warning. It’s not frequently that she hears this kind of rage from him – usually only in relation to his late wife. “She’ll be okay,” she repeats. “But she’s going to need support. Mentally. Emotionally.”

“It’s my fault, Ginger!” He hisses, his own emotions beyond rage finally surfacing from the compact box he had shoved them in to be the agent he needed to be in order for both of you to get out of that building alive. “She would have been at home— it’s my fault. She asked…she asked me about my birthday and I lashed out at her.” He chokes back a sob and looks down at your face. “I didn’t protect her.”

“Then you’ll apologize. And you’ll make sure it never happens again.” Jack isn’t a man who breaks down unless the stress is truly unbearable, and as his friend Ginger has seen only a bare handful of these moments. “She wants me to remove her marks when she gets here,” she tells him carefully. “Just so you know.”

Jack closes his eyes, absorbing the meaning behind it. “She wants to be rid of me.” He whispers, knowing it’s his fault when he had pushed you away and kept you at arm’s length. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry sugar. I should have been keepin’ you close. Keepin’ you safe.”

“You can talk to her when she’s awake,” Ginger murmurs, watching Rye finish with the last of the goons on the video feed from his glasses. “I’m deploying Delta Team to sweep up. You and Rye get back to the New York building and you get her in a chopper first thing. If she wakes up before you get back, you can talk then. If not?” Ginger watches Rye running back to the SUV, so much more composed than Jack for having no personal stake in this mission. “If not, then it might be tomorrow morning. After she’s done at the lab.”

He’s not happy, but he nods. Holding you and refusing to let you out of his arms as Rye comes climbing back into the SUV. “Where’s the chopper, Ginger?” Jack demands, knowing he needs to get you home and mended.

“There’s a helipad on the other side of the Navy Yard. Five minutes from where you are. I can have them meet you there.”

“Copy that, Ginger.” Rye takes the suggestion as absolute, seeing the condition you’re in, and the car comes roaring to life a second later.

“Goddamnit, sugar.” Jack huffs, his hand smoothing over your hair as he tries to look past the damage inflicted on you to see the woman who had intrigued him from the start. “You gotta hang on. You gotta get better.” He murmurs. “I gotta lotta grovelin’ to do when you’re up for it.”

______ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73    

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Jack Daniels #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #Jack Daniels x female reader #Jack Whiskey Danels #Agent Whiskey #Agent Whiskey x reader #Kingsman Golden Circle #soulmate au #canon typical violence #graphic depictions of violence

[solcorvidae]

Dear Fellow Traveller (But Tonight, I Still Dream Of You)

-3,022 words-

Warnings: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence Other Tags/Warnings: Blood and Torture, Burns, Vomiting, Delirium, Asphyxiation, Hallucinations, Post-Mountain Fic, Burn Butcher Burn And Its Consequences, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort

Time and time again, Jaskier cried out for Geralt, begging the universe to tell him he needed help, dreaming about how the witcher would tear down the door and kill the mage that did this to him, how Geralt would cradle Jaskier's limp body and look down on him with sorrow, his golden eyes stinging as Jaskier's distant gaze met his own; maybe he would finally get an apology. Maybe Jaskier would forgive him. Hell, there's nothing in this damned world that would stop Jaskier from crawling his way back to the man who he, oh so, burdened with his presence. Some nights, Jaskier wondered if it was destiny. Maybe he was born to be broken. Maybe Jaskier's life's purpose was to relentlessly forgive everyone who had ever wronged him, no matter how horrendous the deed. Most of all, perhaps, he was destined to become a travelling troubadour in all versions of himself, all lifetimes converging into this single rotten truth. Of all lives he could have led, the only oneness between them was that he would meet Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken... his White Wolf. Truth be told, if it wasn't for Geralt, Jaskier wouldn't have ever endured such pain. If it wasn't for Geralt, Jaskier would be some nobody performer playing at backwater inns, making less than his worth in crowns and peddling for coin with his esteemed education, refusing to return to the courts of Lettenhove. If it wasn't for Geralt, Jaskier wouldn't know what trust and companionship are. If it wasn't for Geralt, Jaskier wouldn't be Jaskier; he wouldn't have written Toss a Coin, he wouldn't have travelled the Path, and Jaskier wouldn't have ever met half the people he presently knew and loved. But Jaskier would always forgive him, always run back to him, and always allow him an indefinite number of chances because Geralt was the defining feature in Jaskier's life; Geralt was his constant, his consistency. For all of Jaskier's adult life, it has always been Geralt. Jaskier's eyes were glassy and distant, almost indifferent to the crunch of bone and the searing pain in his head as his neck once again whipped to the side. He could no longer make out the words the mage had been saying. His head spun, and a rush filled his ears. Blood poured from his nose, filling his sinuses with the acrid stench of his own blood. It dribbled over his open lips and down his chin, spattering onto his already filth-ridden clothes as he panted labourously. With every intake of breath, Jaskier could feel his chest and throat gurgle and bubble. Where was he?

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#Title: Dear Fellow Traveller by Seawolf #major character death #graphic depictions of violence #just... be careful loves #whump #witcher whump #jaskier whump #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #ao3 author #archive of our own #sol scribbles #Spotify

[lily-drake]

The Demon's Queen

Chapter Sixteen

First <> Previous

“You remember what you’re supposed to do,” Rajani asked stoically as she stared out the windshield.

“Yes,” Marinette responded, though she was in the trunk of the car with her hands cuffed behind her back.  The earpiece was masked to match her exact skin color so that no one would be able to see it when they brought her in.  She hated it in the humid trunk, the way she couldn’t control her body as the car rode on the bumpy gravel.  The way the shorts and tank top scratched uncomfortably at her skin.  The way the heat and darkness seemed to crush her with only its existence, sweat dripping off her like waves plastering her hair to her face and back.  

But it would only be for a little longer.  The first chance she got she’d be out of here.  She’d escape The League of Assassins grasp, or she’d die.

The car came to a sudden stop and that was Marinette’s cue to close her eyes and go limp as if she were unconscious.  The voices outside were muffled, and she had to hold back a flinch when the click of the trunk echoed around her and the blazing sun hit her directly.

Even though she could now clearly hear them, she still couldn’t understand a word they said.  They spoke in rapid Portuguese, and the only thing she knew was that they were talking about how much she’d cost them.  It made her sick.

Only a few minutes later she was hoisted onto someone’s shoulder, left to simply dangle there as the person moved her to the next location.  Left, 20 paces forward, right, 10 paces forward, left, left, 30 paces forwards, stop.

The dangle of keys echoed in the near silent room, the opposite of when she was first brought in where there were noises and voices echoed at every corner.  

The whir of something heavy sounded behind her before the loud scrape of a door screeched open menacingly.  The quiet cries of children whispered against her ears before she was dumped unceremoniously onto the cold concrete floor where she continued to lay limp.

The man now behind her scoffed, poking at her back with his foot until she was flat in her stomach.  A feeling of dread creeped through her system, but she forced down the shutter of fear, ignoring the feeling of bile climbing up her throat.  Finally the man’s footsteps retreated, and the sound of the door closing and the lock snapping back into place felt like the bells of Heaven.  She waited a few moments longer, counting down from one hundred like she’d been told.

Opening her eyes she was surprised to see just how many kids there were.  Many were in cages scattered all around the floor while some were chained to the wall.  Kids from all nationalities were scattered, all around the room in no specific order.  Some stared blankly at the wall, eyes glazed over and void.  Others kept their eyes closed, tears streaming down their cheeks.  Only a few looked over at her with eyes full of shame, pity, fear, and only a few with hope.

The need to vomit intensifies, but she swallowed it down the best she could.  She was going to save all of these kids before she left, nothing like this would ever happen to any of them again.  Taking a deep breath she whispered, “I’m in position.  I have eyes on all of the kids and am waiting for your signal.”

“Copy.”

Marinette took in the room once more.  Was this going on in Paris and she just hadn’t noticed?  How many of these children were kids that should have been under her protection?  Would she have been able to stop this with her miraculous alone?  

No.

She needed to focus, she couldn’t start spiraling now.  Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a pair of lockpicks from her secret pocket in her shirt and made quick work of her cuffs and slipped them into her hidden pocket.  Ruta had made d* sure that she would be able to get out nearly any restraint and use them as her own weapon.  

On silent feet she made her way to the front of the room where a young child who couldn’t be older than 7 sat in a small kennel with a padlock closed on the front.  The small girl stared at her with wide red-rimmed, hazel eyes.  Her dark brown hair was cut into a ruff pixie cut.  Her clothes were skimpy where she was only wearing short-shorts and a training bra.  Bruises were scattered all around her body and Marinette could see the small child’s ribs peaking out from her tanned skin.

Swallowing back her own sob, Marinette got to work unlocking the cage.  The small click echoed throughout the room and when the girl went to speak Marinette held a finger to her mouth.  The child quickly closed her mouth and nodded.  “I need you to stay in here for just a little longer, when you hear me shout I want you to follow me.  Can you do that?”  She asked the girl, praying she understood as she was speaking in English.  The girl gave another nod, the broken look in her eye being replaced with fiery defiance.  

Marinette quickly moved on to the next child repeating what she said and attempting to mime out her words when the kids didn’t understand her words.  

There were so many though, and she had only gotten a quarter of the way through when Rajani’s voice spoke through her earpiece.  “You almost done Khata?”

“There are more kids than anticipated, I may need an extra hand if available,” she asked as she removed yet another lock from a cage.  There was no noise over the comm, but she could almost feel the disdain they felt for her through it. 

“ETA 5 minutes,” Rajani finally responded.

“Why would the League of Assassins even care for the safety of kids anyways, this feels more like a Justice League scenario.”  Marinette grumbled to herself, narrowing her eyes as she failed to open a lock and had to restart.

“Our Demon’s Head had left an anonymous tip to the JLA.  They thought the prevention of Venom from reaching Star CIty’s shores was more important.”  Hossam answered bitterly, disdain dripping from his words like poison. 

“Yea right, they have hundreds of heroes, I’m sure if he really sent a tip someone would have come.”  She bit back, sighing when the lock finally snapped open.

“Believe what you want Khata, but we only speak the truth.”  Rajani whispered from behind her, causing Marinette to jump and throw a punch at her.  The woman gracefully ducked out of the way with practiced ease.  

“Good reflexes, but your spatial awareness needs to be improved.”  She reported as she looked around the room with narrowed eyes.  Marinette wanted to bite back, but she held her tongue and moved on after telling the child to stay in place until her signal.  

“All of the targets are in position,” Hosaam reported.

“All of the traps are laid,” Azrael confirmed immediately after.

“Nearly done here, only a few more kids left,” Rajani informed.  With her help they only had a fourth of the room left.  “Activate the sleeper gas and slowly mix in the Nitrogen.  We should be out of here by the time the first person falls.” 

“Roger.”

After another 20 minutes all of the cages were unlocked and all the kids cuffed to the walls were free, all anxiously waiting for the promised signal.  The air was electric with anticipation, and the fear of failing any of these kids now that they were so close weighed heavily on Marinette’s shoulders.

“Something’s wrong.”  Hosaam reported, tension thick in his voice.  

Marinette and Rajani looked at the other quickly before Rajani answered back, “Report.”

“More men are arriving, and they’re not buyers.  I think someone sensed that something was wrong and called in more security.  And I heard that the Leader of this whole operation will no longer be present.”

“Al’ama!”  Rajani cursed.  “I sealed every entrance and exit except for our escape route, so that should buy us some time.  Here’s the plan.  Azrael and Hosaam, put on your rebreathers.  I want both of you to start taking out any man or woman inside that you’re able to without causing a mass panic.  I’ll join you on the ground floor.  Khata, you are to take the children to the garage where a semi-truck will be waiting.  Load the kids into it and wait for us there.”  Rajani pulled out a dagger and shoved it into Marinette’s hands along with a spare rebreather.  Placing her own over her face before hopping onto the tops of cages and leaping into the ventilation system.

This was her chance!  But first she needed to get the kids to safety.  Placing two of her fingers in her mouth she let out a loud, high pitched whistle catching everyone’s attention.  “It’s time to follow me!”  She shouted pulling open one of the kids doors.  As soon as the words escaped her mouth the room was in chaos.  The sound of metal doors being thrown open, cages being tossed around, and the cries of children echoed through the room like a twisted orchestra.  She tried to gain the kids attention, to get them to follow her, but she was shorter than many of the kids and was almost lost in the sea of them as they moved.

“Follow me!”  She yelled as loudly as she could, running towards the entrance where Rajani had already unlocked the door.  Following the blueprints she had memorized in her mind she led them all toward the garage which was located only a few halls down from the room they were held in.  But she noticed many of the kids went down different halls and passages, determined to find their own escape.  She needed to get them back, but she needed to get the others to safety first.  

When they reached the truck the back was already open and she watched as many of the kids stared at it with hesitation and/or horror.  “I need all of you to get in.  I promise you that you will be safe!  I won’t let anything happen to you.”  The older kids scoffed at her looking back into the hall behind them and wondering if they too should have found their own way out.  The smaller kids listened to her without hesitation, loading into the large space despite their discomfort.  

“Please, I swear to you that I am only here to help you escape.”  Hesitantly, the others got in as well, going as far back as they could to hide in the shadows.  Once all of the kids that had followed her were all loaded in she looked back at the hall.  Then she looked behind her where the moon was shining just outside.  Fields of overgrown, yellowed grass littered the side road, and the call of the warm winter’s night begged her to run for it.  If she left now, she would be free, she could begin her escape.  The others were busy, they wouldn’t know until it’s too late.

She was about to take a step towards the tantalizing embrace of the outside when a child’s scream echoed through her.  She turned towards the doorway and without thinking she ran back into the corridors of the warehouse.  There were still others she needed to save first.

Turning a corner she saw a large burly man standing in front of a group of children, back to her.  “You filth of the Earth.”  He growled in rough accented English.  There was a gun strapped to his side, but he hadn’t pulled it out yet.  Marinette watched in horror as he picked up one of the girls by her hair, lifting her above the ground as she cried out in anguish.  

Marinette could only hear her blood pounding in her ears, the small girl's screams, man’s laughter and mocking jests.  She could only feel the burning in her gut, the roughness of the blade’s hilt digging into her palm, her feet platened and ready to strike.  She could only see red.  

The man began to reach for his pistol, leaving him entirely exposed for an attack, and that’s what she did.  Without another thought she jumped, bringing her knife down into the man’s spine, severing vertebrae until he collapsed, entirely paralyzed from the neck down.  

Marinette stared at the man as he screamed, phantom pain wracking his body as he began to bleed out.  Marinette stared at the limp body, red pooling at her feet and covering her hands.  Horror and sickness warred for control of her body, ripping the air out of her lungs as the metallic scent of blood reached her nose.  The man was still breathing, but for how long?  She hadn’t meant to kill him, but she needed to protect the kids.  

But part of her was relieved.  The kids were safe now.  Never again would he ever be able to harm any of these children again.  Looking up from the body she looked at the kids huddled together, eyes wide in fear, but safe.  Falling back into her old Ladybug mindset she put everything that wasn’t the kids on the back burner.  Nothing except removing them from this situation mattered.  She could fix this later.  She’d call on her lucky charm and fix all of this once she was done and sure that everyone was safe.

Scooping up the child the brute had been hurting—ignoring the red she smeared on the child’s clothes and face—she demanded that the others follow her, and they did without another word.  She quickly deposited them into the truck with the others before going back out to rescue the rest. 

The halls echoed with the screams of men and women, the banging of doors bounced off the walls as the reinforcements tried to find access into the warehouse.  Marintte’s heart reverberated through her body, making the rushing of blood sound like a river to her ears.  She needed to find the rest of the kids!

“There are loose kids running around the area, what is going on Khata,” Azrael growled through the earpiece.  Marinette was surprised she hadn’t heard any gunfire yet, but relieved knowing that even a single blast could set the whole building aflame.

“Rounding up the stragglers now.  Some ran while I was leading them to the escape vehicle.”  The only response she received was a low grunt.  

Turning a sharp corner, Marinette found another group of kids on their knees coughing.  The gas.  They were going to get themselves killed.  “Grab each other's wrists and follow me if you want to get out of here alive,” she ordered, grabbing the wrist of the kid closest to her first.  Once she made sure they were all secure she hefted the kids back onto their legs and ran back to the truck jumping over and ignoring the limp bodies of grown men in their path as she pulled them through the door and pointed toward the truck before going back out.

Marientte’s lungs were burning, but she ignored it.  She still had her mask securely in place, but there was only so much it could filter out after a certain amount of time.

Bang.

Marinette stood stock still, listening.  The sound of footsteps echoed around the building and Marinette knew that reinforcements had finally breached the building.  They didn’t have much time left, they needed to get out of here now if they wanted to make it out alive.

Marinette traversed the halls once more on silent feet, tension lining her shoulders as she peeked over corners, throwing her dagger at any unsuspecting man or woman who stood in her way.

“I found a group of kids and led them to the point.  From the sounds of it we were only missing two more then we can head out.  We’re not leaving any of them behind,” Rajani barked and received affirmatives from the others.  Marinette nearly tripped over herself, she truly hadn’t expected these assassins to care that much over the life of a few kids.  She believed that they would fight purely for their survival or the lives of the many over the few.  But to risk their lives for all of them, it just didn’t seem like a plausible belief to come from these kinds of people.

After another turn Marinette found herself in the middle of the warehouse.  The space was littered with bodies, gun pieces and ammunition littering floor as blood painted it red.  Marinette wished she could make herself feel sick, to at least mourn, but she had seen such similar situations before in Paris that she automatically compartmentalized it in search of the akumatized object the children.  A loud cry could be heard from the floor above and Marinette rushed up the steps, throwing open the doors to a room only to see Hosaam kneeling in front of one of the kids, holding his own gas mask against their faces.

“It’ll be alright.  Follow that woman and I promise that you will be safe.  No one will be able to harm you like this ever again,” he murmured, voice smoothed in a gentle timber.  It was another shock to her system.  She watched as Hosaam picked up one of the kids–the same girl she had rescued first–in his arms while pushing the second towards her.  But she didn’t have time to think about the sound of footsteps climbing up the stairs.  

“You two have tails, I can’t hold them all off, so get ready for a fight and make sure none of them open fire.  There’s too much gas in the air,” Azrael reported.

“I’ll be waiting inside the transport for all of you.  As soon as the last two kids are loaded we run,” Rajani confirmed.

“Copy,” Marinette breathed, hosting the weak child onto her back as she peaked out the door toward the railing.  Men had flooded the stair and were blocking any exit on all sides, and if she tried to run for it with a hop of the banister there was a high chance they would shoot and kill everyone.  Looking over at Hosaam she watched as he calmly removed a small device from a hidden pocket in his jacket and rolled towards the group before shutting the door completely.  Marinette couldn’t see what happened next, but the echoing of gunfire echoed off the walls with a sickening bang. 

Marinette felt the entire building shudder and Marinette wondered if this was how she died.  “We must hurry,” Hosaam ushered.  Marinette opened her eyes–when had she closed them–to see that they were completely fine.

“W-what happened?  How are we still alive?!”  Marinette gasped, her heart hammering in her chest.

“I’m what you may know as a meta-human.  I have the ability to create protective shields around those I choose.”  And without another word, Hosaam opened the door and ran out of the room with Marinette following only a few moments later.  The room was now in chaos, bodies scorching with the scent of burning flesh.  It reminded her of her battle with Vatra.  They had the ability to create volcanoes at will and cause whoever got in their way to combust into flames if he made eye contact with them (Marinette hadn’t been able to eat meat for nearly a year after that).

Bang.

The sound reverberates around her followed by the clatter of a gun onto the floor as another man dies.  But it’s not followed by some explosion.  Instead it’s followed by burning so intense that she can’t stop the scream of agony from escaping her lips.  Reality comes crashing down around her.  

She’s not Ladybug, she’s not a magical suit that can protect her from anything and everything, she can’t fix this once it's over.  But even with the burning, she’s still moving with the adrenaline coursing through her system.

“Alqarf!”  She hears from beside her.  Hosaam, was running beside her now, staring at the wound in her side as red flowed out of the wound like a waterfall.

“Agent wounded, prepare for on field surgery,” Hosaam reported stiffly, rounding a corner.  She looked down at the child she was holding, the child that was starting to feel far too heavy with how light they actually were.  Her blood was starting to soak into their clothes as well, but they stayed silent, tucking their head against her shoulder as she ran.

Marinette nearly collapsed when she saw the semi-truck.  Her head felt fuzzy and her body heavy.  Suddenly the weight was taken out of her hands, and her body was floating in the air.  Voices echoed around her, but she couldn’t make anything out.  Something was pushing her down, keeping her in place as burning liquid was poured onto her side.

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, it’s just a bullet wound,” she heard someone say from above her, but she couldn’t tell who.  The world was still blurry.

“How much longer until we get to the rendezvous point?”

“Another 15 minutes.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have released the shield.”

“Next time you know not to make the same mistake again.”

“Thankfu- ‘ust- ‘raze.”  

Marintte had pricked herself with a needle countless times before, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of whatever was poking at and pulling her side.  She was fairly certain that she blacked out from the pain, as the next thing she knew she was waking up in air surrounded by gray metal walls.

When she tried to sit up, she couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped her lips before falling back onto the seats she was laid against.

“Ah yes, the joy of one’s first bullet wound.  I remember mine like it was yesterday.”  Marinette looked over at the far too chipper voice to see Rajani without any face coverings.  She was a rather attractive woman, with caramel skin and close cropped curled black hair.  The only thing mauring her smooth skin being a four inch scar that trails straight down from her eyelid to her cheek.

“That was a close one Khata.  You did better than any of us were expecting though, so there’s that,” she continued casually, her hazel eyes boring into Marinette’s blue.  Marinette didn’t answer, her head still reeling.

Rajani didn’t continue the conversation, instead turning away to sharpen her knives.  The scraping of metal on metal only fed her pounding headache as her mind replayed everything that had happened.

She had killed people.  And she can’t bring them back.  She can’t bring them back.  She’s a murder.  Before she could even process it, she turned her body to the side, vomit spilling from her lips.  Rajani scrunched up her nose, but didn’t comment, just continued her chore.

What had she done?

It felt like only minutes had passed, but it must have been hours as the next thing she knew they had landed back into the mountain base they had first left from.  They were back, and Marinette hadn’t escaped and she hadn’t died.

Holding onto her side, Marinette limped off the plane, surprised when only Hossam stopped as Rajani and Azael continued forward–faces concealed once more.

“Hop on my back Khata, it would not be ideal for your stitches to tear now,” he said stoically.  Mariente looked at him as if he had just grown a second head.  It made no sense to her that he was treating her with any form of respect or human decency when all the three of them had ever been to her was cruel and mocking. It must have been some sort of sick joke.

But he just waited for her, eyes looking off into the distance.  The memory of him showing the child tenderness and compassion.  “Why’d you do it?”

“Why did I do what, Khata?  You can’t expect me to read your mind.”

“Why’d you give the girl your mask?  You could have died. I figured you would value your life more than some random kids.”

Hosaam was silent for a moment, his face impassive as he stared at the snowy mountain top.

“I was trafficked as a child once before.  One day, I was able to gain the advantage and kill my abuser.  It was Maha who had found me on the streets, hiding from the man’s friends.  She offered me power, the ability to make sure no one hurt me again, and to stop those who tried to hurt others the same way.  I took it.”  Finally he turned to look at her, the only thing she was able to make out was his amber eyes.

“We are not monsters here.  We are the shadows that haunt those who create injustice, and nothing more.  Now will you trust me?”  Marinette stared at him, biting her lip as she thought.  With a short sigh–and a sharp pain from her side–she agreed, allowing him to maneuver her so that she was straddling his back, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck.

When they arrived back at the base she almost expected to see the grounds covered in other ninja training, but it was empty save for Rajani, Azrael, Maha, and the boy.  She most definitely had not been expecting him to rush over to her and Hosaam when they entered the grounds.

“Set her down, now,” he ordered, eyes dark.  Hossam didn’t hesitate, setting Marinette back on her feet before joining the others.  “What happened,” he demanded, noticing the way she kept her weight off her right side.

Marinette bit her tongue not wanting to give anything away to him.  

“Show me where you’re hurt,” he barked, eyes scanning her body almost…worriedly, but that’s ridiculous.  He probably doesn’t actually care, he just wants to make sure his prize isn’t permanently broken.

Slowly Marinette lifted her shirt to show him her stitched up side where the bullet had grazed her.  “As you can see I’m fine.”

Damian glared at the wound, cursing the person who had hurt her.  If they weren’t already dead he would make sure that they paid dearly.  His stomach was boiling with rage and regret.  He had a feeling that something like this would happen if he wasn’t there, and he was right.  He should have listened to his gut, and now she was hurt.  

From the short report he had gotten from two of Maha’s Jackels she did well.  The wound wasn’t her fault, and she had not failed.  No one could look down on her–and thus him–for not being good enough. No one could question his decision at this moment, and for now that’s all that mattered.  But the longer he stared at the wound the more weight he felt in his chest.  

He felt responsible, which was stupid.  He hadn’t been the one to shoot the gun.  He wasn’t the direct reason she was hurt.  But for whatever reason, it weighed like he had all the same.

“Report to Tomoe at once.  Do whatever she prescribes.”  And with that he turned away, retreating back into his rooms.

Marinette watched his retreating back curiously.  While his face had remained impassive the entire encounter, his eyes seemed to be at war.  It made no sense.  She was simply imagining things, after all her head still felt fuzzy from the blood loss.  Sighing, she looked around to see that she was now the only one left on the grounds besides the guards in their respective watchtowers.  

With one last look at the outside world, she headed back into the base and down to where Tomoe was waiting for her in the infirmary.

Next

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#maribat #mlb x batman #dc x mlb #marinette dupain cheng #damian al ghul #angst #damian is the demon’s head #the league of assassins #enemies to lovers #mental manipulation #manipulation #assassin training #damian is bad at feelings #damian x marinette #daminette #ocs #Battle #blood and gore #graphic depictions of violence #character death #mission

[barryallenhotpants]

Dark! Reader x Dark! Rafe Cameron x Dark! JJ Maybank

READ TAGS

In which reader gets her revenge after being SA at a bonfire party. She likes it a little too much and JJ doesn’t know what to do about it, but Rafe does. Debating on turn in it into a series.

And in your carnage, you grinned. Taking in JJ’s creased brow and slack jaw.

“What?” You purred, tilting your head. “Never seen a girl kill a man?” You felt good. You felt strong. His blood had splattered across your face and you could still feel him on your tongue. You could still taste him in your throat.

The knife plunged into his body once more, the broken and bloodied carcass shaking from the the force.

Once. Twice. Three times. You kept going, but it wasn’t enough. You would stab him for each time he took you. It would never be enough.

There was nothing left, just a cosmic void that rendered you lifeless. No, you were above life. As if you were a ghost, you floated above the scene. You felt as if you were only watching, not participating in the vengeance against your captor.

Before you could land another blow, JJ’s hand wrapped around your wrist, gently. He pulled you back, against his chest; caged in by strong thighs.

“Y/N, that’s enough. It’s over. You did it. He’s dead.” JJ sounded desperate, broken. You let out a humorless chuckle as you allowed him to hold onto you, his head buried in the crook of you neck and shoulder.

“No, it’s not enough, JJ.” You spat the words out, gazing venomously over at the unmoving body. He died too soon, too fast. You hadn’t been able to enjoy it. You didn’t get to relish in his screams. The same screams he had pulled from you every night. Every morning. Every day.

“It was too quick.” You stated, emotionless. Your head lolled against JJ’s broad shoulder as you peered at his disturbed expression. He looked sick, his cerulean orbs glossed over with black. You snorted. JJ remained silent as he held you. What could he do? What would he do?

You found yourself not caring, flashing back to the memories of bloodshed. Your pulse raced with excitement. It’s the first thing you had felt in months.

JJ’s silence was deafening. You groaned, almost feeling defeated. You were foolish to expect more. He had come to save you after all. You had expected retribution, but was met with a sinking disappointment when all he did was punch the bastard, repeatedly. He could have at least bludgeoned his face before you got your hands on him.

What he lacked in passion JJ tried to make up for in comfort. As if holding you would make it all go away.

You felt as if you wanted to crawl out of your skin. You didn’t want comfort, you wanted action.

You broke free from JJ’s hold and stood up, feeling relieved to have your feet back in solid ground.

“We need to discard the body.” You uttered, matter-of-fact. You felt detached, emotionless as you began to flit around the crime scene, taking mental notes on what you would need to do to get rid of all the evidence.

“Y/N.” JJ whispered. You crouched over the decaying carcass of your rapist, muttering a quick, “Hmm?”, in response to JJ.

JJ bristled, stalking toward you and grabbing your arm, forcing you up. Your blank gaze traveled up to his uneasy glare.

“You need to stop.” He declared. You shook your head.

“There’s no time to stop,” you started, “ we need to get rid of the evidence.” You tried to bend back down to the body to prepare it for transport, but JJ’s grip on your arm steeled. You nearly growled as you squared your stance, the hairs of your arms standing on edge. Why was he stopping you? He was supposed to help you. He said he would help you.

“You need to turn yourself in.” He stated, his stance clear. You felt betrayed.

“I need to turn myself in? What the fuck, JJ? You suddenly side with rapists?” Your harsh statement shocked him, his grip on your arm loosening. You yanked your arm out of his grasp and barred your teeth.

“You said I only needed you.” The vulnerability of your statement made you feel weak. He promised you. He said he would be there for you. He said you didn’t need anyone but him. He lied.

JJ sighed, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. He was stressed.

“We’ll say it was self defense.” He insisted, stepping forward and attempting to reach for you. You recoiled away from him, disgust etching onto your features. You opened your mouth to retaliate when a voice cut through the darkness.

“Self defense isn’t going to cut it, blondie,” the harsh voice in the dark declared. Relief flooded your body. Rafe.

His lithe form came into view as he cleared the tree line, aimed in a beeline toward you and JJ. JJ grew tense and moved to step in front of you, but once again, you stepped away.

Rafe sauntered towards you and tucked a finger underneath your chin, tilting your gaze up to him as warm breath fanned over your face.

“She did quite a number on him,” Rafe whispered, crowding your space as he leered over you. You melted into his touch, your head careening to take in more of him.

“As she should. The bastard deserved more.” He finished, blue eyes drinking you in. He looked proud. You sniffed and thanked whatever God might be out there.

Your savior had returned.

JJ bristled, inching toward you slowly and placed a gentle hand over your elbow, tugging you softly in his direction.

“Y/N, let’s go. It’s not too late.” He said, his eyes fixing on Rafe with the king of hatred that Pogues reserved only for Kooks. It ran deeper than that though and you knew it. JJ wanted to do what he felt was the right thing. You were scaring him. He thought you were a monster.

Something swelled within you as you harshly elbowed him away. JJ stumbled and looked at you with a shocked expression. You parted from Rafe and edged toward JJ’s retreating form.

“No.” You snarled, pushing at his chest.

“You go. I’ll finish what I started and Rafe will make it all go away. He’ll be everything you’re not.” You could tell your statement elicited a certain kind of pride from Rafe, hearing him chortle in JJ’s direction.

“Run off and be a good boy, yeah Maybank? You wouldn’t rat out Y/N would you? Don’t you love her?” Rafe taunted, shuffling forward to stand behind you, strong hands gripping your hips as he pulled you taut against him.

You let out a lewd moan as Rafe tucked your hair over one shoulder, his tongue flicking out to lick the slender column of your neck. Lapping up the flecks of blood that had scattered there, painting you in a shade of red that you’re sure stoked his need. You could feel his arousal against your lower back. Hard and wanting. Your own arousal pooling in your belly like a coil.

JJ blubbered and regarded you, taking Rafe’s affection with a certain calmness. His face hardened as he realized that you were too far gone.

He shook his head- a promise laid out in the action. He wouldn’t tell. Of course he wouldn’t, he loved you. At least whatever pathetic and discordant version of love he reserved for you. It was the kind that made figure eight girls hearts flutter. The kind that promised bonfires and easy nights at the chateau; it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be.

Rafe nipped at your skin as you fully relaxed against him, his arms moving to cage you in fully, wrapped over your waist in an action that shouted mine.

You spared JJ a glance over hooded eyes.

“He’s all I need, J. All I will ever need. Only him.” You admitted. It was both a confession and a promise. You’d never stray from him again, never run away from how you feel. How he made you feel; powerful, beautiful, and perfect, like you were made only for him. And he, only for you.

Tears streamed down JJ’s face as he bowed his head and walked away, fleeing for the safety of the trees.

Whatever disappointment you felt melted away, Rafe’s fingers skimmed over your jaw as he cupped his lips against yours.

The kiss was searing and bruising. Fire flushed through your veins as you tugged on the lapels of his sport coat, coaxing him further into you. Your teeth clashed together as you fought to consume one another.

He separated from you suddenly, clenching your throat in a vice like grip.

“Who do you need?” He rasped, pupils blown with lust as he stared into your soul.

“You.” You careened, moaning from the pressure against your windpipe. You were soaked, you could feel your slick on your thighs even through your thick pair of jeans.

“Who else?” He pressed, ghosting his lips over yours, his large hand still wrapped tightly around your throat.

You leaned into him as your hand overlapped his, pushing his hold around you, tighter.

“No one.” You answered breathlessly. Your whole body quivered with the truth. No one could satisfy you like him. No one knew you, like him. No one could love you, like him.

His nose nudged against your cheek affectionately.

“That’s a good girl.” He praised, turning your body toward the masterpiece you had created.

“My good girl,” he crooned. He let you grab his his hand as you led him to the lifeless and shriveled body of your assaulter.

“Let’s get started.” You chimed, excitement fluttering your senses. Rafe stopped your advance toward your project with a hand in your wrist.

“Let’s string him up, doll.” He offered, eyes searching yours eagerly.

Elated you nodded your head, dropping down to slip your hands underneath the assailant’s tattered and bruised body.

You sent Rafe an affectionate gaze as he bent to grab hold of the body’s feet.

“I want to show the world what happens to someone that tries to take what isn’t theirs.” You state, confidence swirling in your chest as Rafe shot you a wolfish grin.

“Let’s finish the beautiful work you started, sweetheart. Show them what happens when bad men try to pray on strong, godly women.”

Your chest blossomed with an overwhelming sense of love. It was almost painful what you felt for Rafe Cameron. He was your co-conspirator.

Your savior.

#dark!rafe cameron #dark! JJ Maybank #dark! reader #bloodletting #mentions of sa #tw knives #tw dark content #graphic depictions of violence #mention of noncon