#tw: offscreen torture

[arecaceae175]

Whumptober Day 6: Screams from Across the Hall (Legend, Four, Time)

Read on AO3 or here. Trigger warnings: offscreen torture (listening to torture), a bit of panic, ambiguous ending

Part 1/3. Part 2. Part 3.

Legend jolted awake to a scream. It was agonized, and very clearly a scream of pain. Worse than that, though, it sounded familiar. 

Legend bolted upright. He whipped his head around, trying to take in all his surroundings at once. He was in a stone cell with a metal door. There was a small window of bars in the door, but it was nowhere close to being large enough to escape through. Legend didn’t even think a mouse could fit through the holes. 

In the corner of the cell, Four was sprawled on the ground, unconscious. 

The scream cut off abruptly. Legend let out a relieved breath, distinctly choosing not to think about it, and shuffled over to Four. He knelt down and briefly scanned Four for injuries. He didn’t see anything glaring, so he lightly tapped Four on the shoulder. 

“Four, can you hear me?” Legend asked in a whisper. Four groaned in response, shifting scrunching his eyes. After a moment he peeled his eyes open and looked up at Legend.

“Legend? What-”

“Shh. Don’t want them to know we're awake,” Legend said. Four’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“Who?” Four whispered. 

Legend glanced at the door. “I don’t know. Let’s keep it that way for now,” he said. 

He returned his gaze to Four, who was now staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Four, are you okay?” Legend asked. 

Four blinked. “I don’t remember how we got here,” he said. His words were slightly slurred. Legend frowned, peering closer at Four’s eyes. His pupils were uneven, and his gaze was very clearly unfocused.

“Shit,” Legend muttered, leaning back on his heels. 

“Where… are we?” Four asked. 

Legend shook his head. “No idea. Not a clue how we got here, either.”

A piercing scream shot through the air. Legend flinched, hand shooting to where his sword should be. Four curled in on himself and shoved his hands over his ears. 

The scream lasted for longer this time. Legend curled his hands into fists, tight enough to turn his knuckles white. When it finally stopped, it tapered off weakly, instead of the abrupt ending like the last one. Four slowly pulled his hands away from his ears, face twisted in pain. 

Four very, very slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. He swayed dangerously to the side, so Legend reached out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. He helped Four move back until he was leaning against the wall. 

“Is that… you don’t think…” Four couldn’t finish the sentence. Legend grit his teeth.

“It sounds like Time,” Legend whispered, heart plummeting into his stomach. 

“I’ve never heard the old man…”  Four met Legend’s eyes. “What’s going on?” 

Legend dropped his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a small voice. 

Another scream. Four threw his hands over his ears again, hunching over his knees. Legend shot to his feet, running to the door. He banged his fists on it, but it didn’t so much as budge. 

“Hey, assholes!” Legend yelled.

“Legend, what are you doing?” Four hissed. Legend could barely hear him over the screaming, over his own fists banging on the door. 

The screaming intensified, and Legend threw his shoulder against the door. He had to get out, he had to help Time, he had to do something other than sit here and listen to his friend screaming in pain. 

Legend kept going, his mind singularly focused, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whipped around, fists at the ready.

“Woah!” Four said, taking a wobbly step back. Legend blinked rapidly, waiting for his mind to catch up with his body.

“Vet, you’ve gotta stop. That door isn’t opening. You’re just going to hurt yourself,” Four said slowly, empty hands open and extended. The screaming had stopped again, Legend realized belatedly. 

He also realized Four was leaning heavily to the side, breathing hard and looking not a little bit green in the face. 

Legend shook his head, bringing up his hands to rub on his face. He took a deep breath, ignoring any wetness he felt.

“Right, you’re right,” Legend said. “Now sit down before you fall.”

Four gave Legend a weak smile, and reached out a hand. Legend quickly grabbed Four’s upper arms and helped him back to the wall. Four lowered himself down slowly and gently leaned his head back against the wall, eyes tightly shut. 

The screaming started again. This time, Legend followed Four’s lead and threw his hands over his ears. It did little to block out the sound, but what else was there to do? Legend pushed his back against the wall and scooted until he was flush against Four’s side. 

It felt like the screaming lasted an eternity. Legend lost track of time. The intervals between the screams got smaller and smaller, until they were quiet enough that Legend could barely hear. 

One cut off so abruptly that he and Four both whipped their heads up to stare at the door.

“Did they-” Four began, voice small and shaking. Legend shook his head rapidly.

“No, stop. He’s fine, we’re all going to be fine,” Legend said harshly, but his traitorous mind went exactly where Four’s did. There were only a few reasons the scream would have cut off like that, and none of them were good. Legend shut his eyes and shook his head. 

Suddenly, keys jingled in the lock of the door. Legend bolted to his feet, placing himself clearly between Four and the door. The door swung open, and two heavily armored guards stepped through. Their shining armor was splattered with blood, their gloves stained red. They smiled wickedly, locking eyes with Legend.

“Who’s next?”

To be continued :)

#whumptober2022 #no.6 #screams from across the hall #linked universe #fic #linkeduniverse #lu fic #linked universe fic #lu legend #lu four #lu time #tw: #torture (offscreen) #listening to torture #panic #ace writes

[mutfruit-salad]

Long post ahead. My full thoughts on the fallout series. TW for references to Sexual Assault, racism, antisemitism. It's not particularly in depth here- but I do reference specific acts of violence done in the show.

I've had people insinuate I'm only mad because I'm a New Vegas fan, because I think they retconned the lore. I'm not upset at the fallout show for its dubious lore additions and reworks. I think they're quite bad in places, but they're by far the least of the show's problems.

This isn't a case of a New Vegas fan mad they messed with my game in a way I didn't like.

Please refer to literally any of my posts pointing out the racism and antisemitism in the show. They brand a black man in episode 1. They named the enclave scientist after a real life holocaust survivor and then spent most of the show lobbing around his decapitated head like a volleyball.

But I'd like to consider other elements of the show. View it as a whole.

Consider the inherent misogyny of having a female main character whose entire character arc is just her getting abused for 8 episodes. How the trajectory of her character revolves around not giving up on the humanity of the man who waterboarded her and sold her to organ harvesters. A female main character who is raped in the first episode and watches her entire community get brutalized and who comes out of it completely unphased- still as plucky as ever- just worried about her dad.

Consider the horror of having a black woman be the one to drop the bombs. Consider the horror of her leading a council of elites who have infiltrated and taken over the US government. Consider the ways this group is presented and shown, the ways every fault of the US government in the series is offloaded onto a shadowy group of elites.

Consider how the capitalist critique of the show only goes so far as saying there's a secret organization of bad people who must be purged. The antisemitism and conspiratorial nonsense inherent to that premise.

Consider the rampant classism with the show's depiction of Wastelanders as either animalistic monsters or too stupid to live.

Consider the ways the show punishes nearly every act of kindness- the ways the world rewards might-makes-right authoritarians.

Consider the way the NCR collapsed offscreen because a disgruntled husband was mad his wife left him, and how after it collapsed the army immediately became raiders and the survivors became blood drinking cultists. Don't give me "it's just shady sands that collapsed" because the NCR was a developed nation. If one of their cities blew up, they would send aid. They would assist.

Consider the way the show constantly uses sex crimes as comedy and horror- the incest jokes and the "chicken fucker" bit, and the Vault 4 monster impregnation and the main character's rape in the first episode.

Consider the ableism of the treatment of ghouls, how every ghoul is now a ticking time bomb, how Lucy helps free a small dementia-riddled old ghoul woman from a medical torture facility and then is immediately punished with the woman trying to inexplicably murder her. Thaddeus openly talks about ghoul exterminationism and it's never a joke or a bit- he just says it and nobody reacts or says anything.

Consider the way the Vault 33 town councillors use real world progressive talking points about restorative justice and prison abolition and multiculturalism- meanwhile Norm advocates for the death penalty and a closed society. How Norm is shown as good and righteous and the vault dwellers range from deluded to damningly stupid- how the mere concept of restorative justice is made a farce because the NCR raiders are screaming about eating organs and murdering people 24/7.

Consider the way they removed the Boneyard, and the Followers of the Apocalypse by extension. In New Vegas we heard about the Followers operating a university in LA. It's gone now. Not destroyed by bombs- but written out of existence because the Boneyard never existed, and Shady Sands is in its place. Consider what that says about this world- that the group most dedicated to peace and rebuilding has been surgically excised from the narrative- destroyed more wholly than even the NCR- written out of existence entirely.

This is the single most reactionary fallout story that has been produced. By a fucking country mile.

Whatever lore critiques there are should be secondary. The storytelling is reactionary in ways I straight up have not seen from other Bethesda entries in the series. It is cruel to a fault, and depicts a world that is incapable of healing or growing- where the best you can do is hold onto that small spark of goodness while every bit of the society around you tries to murder it out of you. This isn't a story about rebuilding, or about postwar politics, or about society- it's about dueling warlords and might makes right attitudes and grimdark views of the nature of humanity. It's fallout in aesthetics alone- and it's perhaps the most hateful thing I've seen come out of this series outside of the actual neonazis in the fanbase.

Whatever hope there is in Moldaver's final moments looking out over the glittering ruins of LA is undercut by the knowledge of what came before. What was destroyed. And it's undercut by the Brotherhood's totalitarian control. It's not hopeful, it's the bare minimum of survival. It's all the progress of the postwar world, 200 years of humanity and history, reduced to just barely getting the lights back on.

In the intro to fallout 1, "War Never Changes" is used as thematic glue. It ties together two concepts- past wars- and present capitalism and militarism.

Ron Perlman describes the Roman Empire, the Spanish conquests of the Americas, and the Nazi regime- and then he says "war never changes" and uses it to connect those past atrocities to the modern world of the setting- to the war that ended everything. The phrase existed to link the resource wars and their ensuing fallout to all the crimes of empire prior. War never changes wasn't a hard and fast rule of human nature- it was a specific condemnation of America.

Lonesome Road even ends with the phrase refuted. War Never Changes. But men do, through the roads they walk. There is hope. That's what this series has always been about. The Master died at the end of fallout 1 and said "leave while you still have hope."

In this show, the black woman Vault Tec exec who ends the world says the phrase. It's stripped of all meaning. Just a generic throwback because it's a famous phrase in the series' history. It's not a condemnation of America, it's a celebratory thing. Vault Tec toasting to the end of the world.

What a thing to see this series become. What a thing to see celebrated.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fallout show #this has gotten more feedback then I was expecting #and i'm glad this is resonating with some folks #turned off reblogs cuz i cant actually deal with the response this has been getting at this point 👍

[theminecraftbox]

Tw// noncon

Hypothetically, if c!Quackity were to noncon c!dream in prison (which i honestly dont think he'd do), what do you think c!dreams reaction would be? What would c!sam do? Do you think he'll allow it?

/dsmp rp

I'm answering this from a hypothetical canon-compliant perspective, ie, that everything onscreen happens as in canon, but that there's offscreen sexual violence.

So I'll answer your last question first, which is something I've explored a bit in Strangling Fruit. Sam wouldn't "allow" it, in that I think he'd be categorically unable and unwilling to acknowledge any sexual violence happening in the prison (under his supervision, with his cooperation). But would he do anything to stop it?

Sam wants Dream dead and he doesn't; he wants Dream in prison above anything else; he wants to subdue Dream; he wants Dream to obey him and he's willing to sell his soul to make that happen. He's basically willing to acknowledge all of that.

What Sam is not ready or willing to acknowledge is how Dream, and his relationship with Dream, has been so deeply integrated into his identity. That kind of closeness, that emotional reliance, and yes, intimacy, isn't something Sam can think about with a clear head. It's one of the reasons that the violence Quackity commits, sexual or not, is something he's so strange about: both taking ownership of it and distancing himself from it.

Making some of that violence specifically sexual hammers on basically all of Sam's buttons at once. 1) It's morally repugnant in a way that's unrepentant: it's nakedly sadistic in a way Sam can't maintain apologetics for. 2) It's intimate, it acknowledges intimacy, and it basically forces Sam to confront the idea that his own desires to subdue Dream are also intimate. I don't mean this in a sexual sense, but in an emotional sense: Sam wants to know everything Dream knows, have Dream obey him, break Dream's will. 3) It threatens Sam's power over Dream: it's a closeness to and knowledge of Dream that Sam doesn't have, and cannot get without feeling yucky. It threatens his ownership and his responsibility and his morality.

How would Sam react? I think he'd try to ignore it. I think he'd pretend he saw and heard nothing, and he'd try to surgically remove the knowledge from his brain. I think he'd twist himself into knots. I don't think he'd confront Quackity directly and tell him to knock it off, but it's possible he'd do so indirectly. I don't think he'd bar Quackity from visiting. I think he'd write seven hundred lines of "I'm the not the bad guy."

How would Dream react? ... it's torture, isn't it. I think sexual violence and sexual humiliation are both things Dream considers as, well, on the table, so to speak--from his perspective, it sure seems possible when a guy who's called you a bitch forces you to call him sir, etc. Doesn't seem that far a leap to him when what Quackity's already doing results in blood dripping down the prime path. Not to mention the complications of Dream's closeness with Sam, and what thoughts, true or false, he might have about Sam's obsession with him. I think Dream would cope in his usual fashion, by minimizing and clinging to autonomy. More trauma on the pile.

(Not to make this about Sam and Dream but absolutely to make this about Sam and Dream, because everything that happens in the prison has to do with Sam and Dream. )

#tw noncon #c!dreamity #c!awesamdream #<- though this doesn't have to be the case #all of this is exactly as applicable to c!dream & c!sam #pandora's vault #torture. #c!dream and c!sam

[hexhomos]

hey I’m here from ur Twitter, saw some of your posts about gale/astarion mystra stuff because I haven’t played the game yet and wanted to know about TWs/if it’s handled well/etc. I don’t really mind spoilers if they’re necessary! thank you

Id say as pretty traditional DnD adaptation game there is a lot of bloody battles and i guess... disturbing implications? when it comes to things such as kidnapping/murdering/cannibalizing people and general eldritch assassin blood cult stuff that has to do with the BG series.

If your particular concern are depictions of SA/CSA the game is written in such a way that they all took place quite some time in the past, and those discussions exist mostly in the realm offhand mentions or between-the-lines presence in the dialogues of companions -- as all of the core companions in this game are in some way abused and not quite cognizant of that abuse all of the time, and the player has the option to help them.

MILD EARLY SPOILERS FOR BG3 WARNING

Gale and Astarion are the only companions where that theme of abuse/agency crosses into sexual territory; Astarion explicitly speaks about being tortured in non-sexual ways as part of being a thrall/vamp spawn (basically an eternal servant for a Real Vampire) and his romance route includes multiple discussions of those things & the atrocities he's committed under that household. The game writers do not include sexual abuse in those infodumps- that i know of- but Astarion seduced people to their doom and has a weird relationship with sex as a result. Gale is not aware that he was being groomed at all and actually believes that he's the one who did badly towards his abuser, but the other companions Will question this interpretation of events and as the story goes on if you romance/befriend Gale he is able to look back on his situation and realize the 'love' he was used to was frankly sort of rotten in comparison. idk how deep it goes if you're doing friendship only but i can attest at least in romance mode that happens.

There are other situations in game (particularly at a brothel) where allusions to their abuse are made and they seem very uncomfortable being peer pressured or propositioned to. I think for a game of this size and mainstream appeal it's handled fairly well, mostly kept offscreen, and has thematic relevance to the story as a whole and the storylines of the other companions. Multiple parts of these storylines are also incredibly optional: you have to seek out these characters to learn more about them, and some of the more telling interactions aren't *given* to the player so much as found if you pay attention, if you get what I mean. I think BG3 as a whole is very entertaining and well written but you should go in knowing a measure of gritty dark themes are a central part of this setting, and while not all of it is perfect, it's one of the Best for its genre.

as a postscript: characters in this game can literally break up with you if you cross or don't care for their boundaries.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #gale of waterdeep #astarion

[whump-cravings]

Tortured Prince - Transaction

Tortured Prince AU Masterlist - TR3 Masterlist

755 words | Original Work: Tortured Prince (AU of TR3). Set a few weeks into Baltar's captivity; the first time he goes to Venja instead of the other way around. Set four days after Be Good Content: whumpee initiates (future, currently offscreen) dub/noncon taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @nicolepascaline @i-can-even-burn-salad​ @melennui @thecyrulik

If there was one thing about Venja that Baltar understood, it was that he treated their relationship as transactional. "Good behavior" was rewarded (what Venja considered a "reward" was always suspect, but that was besides the point), and obstinate, defiant, or otherwise displeasing behavior was punished—though Baltar couldn't always predict what would set Venja off.

As a royal prisoner, Baltar ought to have been afforded some comforts and amenities—if he were imprisoned in any civilized sense. However, his warden clearly didn't care to conceptualize what Baltar's life looked like while he was away, judging from how Baltar had had to ask for basic necessities in the first week, which had come with a price of their own.

With two older siblings to potentially inherit the throne before him, he had been training to be a diplomat all his life. An ambassador, a negotiator. He was good at knowing what people wanted, and good at getting what he needed in exchange.

To get something more out of Venja, Baltar would have to make some kind of effort. A show of goodwill, as one might call it. An overture. A sacrifice.

The thought of it twisted like a sour pit in his stomach. But he was far from home, and days had turned into weeks, which, gods forbid, might eventually turn to months. He wouldn't survive if he kept on like this, fighting Venja as much as not.

So he would bury his pride, his dignity.

That was why, when Venja returned after four days, Baltar met him in the common area without being called. The man looked up in surprise and suspicion, scanning him over quickly, perhaps checking for weapons or nefarious intent.

Baltar held his hands loosely at his side. He hadn't much time to prepare his appearance, as Venja's schedule was unpredictable, but had done his best to artfully offset his tunic and pulled his freshly-washed, gently tousled hair over his over shoulder. The excess length of the chain was draped about him, mimicking a shawl. He put a little sway into his hips as he approached the man, stepping up as close as possible between open legs, despite the way such proximity made his skin crawl.

Venja had to tilt his head back to see Baltar's face. Baltar placed his hands on Venja's chest, feeling the strong beat of the man's heart. He banished a burgeoning thought of his hands traveling a bit upward and squeezing. It would be impossible to gain Venja's trust if he acted violently now.

"What's this, Prince?" Venja wondered with his hands settling on Baltar's hips, wary but obviously intrigued.

"I h-have a proposal," Baltar murmured, attempting to sound sultry. He mostly just felt awkward, his face hot, and voice a bit scratchy. His heart was beating much too fast for him to feel calm and collected, gut too tight. Nervously, he played with some loose threads near the collar of the man's shirt while he cleared his throat. "If y-you're willing to listen."

Eyes narrowing but lips pulling up, Venja said, "Go on."

"There are some items I'd like," he said, self-consciously tucking his hair behind an ear. "A j-journal and writing utensils. Books. Cards. Embroidery hoops, needles, and thread." He watched Venja carefully. "Th-Things to pass the time."

"Sure," Venja said, eyes glittering as he waited for Baltar to continue.

"In return, I-I'll," Baltar said, and had to swallow. "I'll s-suck y-you off." He stared down at Venja's shoulder, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Schooling his expression despite the smile tugging at his mouth, Venja said, "With how big a step this is for you, Prince, I'll let you choose two of those four things."

Baltar felt relief and frustration in almost equal measure. "A journal and something to read would be my foremost requests, then." He licked his lips, glancing up with what he hoped was a doe-eyed look. "But perhaps I could convince you to include the cards, i-if I... p-perform particularly well?"

Venja shifted, mulling over the idea. "Very well. Impress me, and I'll throw in a set of cards on top of a journal and a book."

"Thank you," the prince said. He glanced downward. "M-May I...?" He would lose his nerve if he didn't follow through immediately. Disregarding Venja's previous violent use of his face, he'd taken partners in his mouth plenty of times before. This was no different. He just had to keep telling himself that.

Venja leaned back. "By all means."

Baltar sank gracefully to his knees.

#tortured prince #royalty whump #whump writing #it's not quite nsfwhump but teetering on the edge #if you ask me anyways #I don't know if he got his cards or not

[amarriageoftrueminds]

Thinking about how great CATWS was and how Marvel dropped the ball on all the characters from that movie.

Steve? Got character assassinated beyond repair.

Natasha? Killed off, didn't even get an on-screen funeral and her only solo movie was more about introducing Yelena than her.

Bucky? Never got a prober story, was victim blamed, and will possibly die in Thunderbolts.

Nick Fury? Got character assassinated in Secret Invasion.

Maria Hill? Was killed off in SI.

Sharon Carter? Turned into a villian.

Sam Wilson? Unlike the rest they haven't completely fumbled the bag with his character but he was still screwed by FATWS in many ways, and his first solo movie doesn't look very promising either.

Also consider that their sequel to the movie where we find out Howard Stark knew about Nazis in SHIELD (the specific Nazi that tortured Bucky and killed members of the 107, and tried to kill Steve) ...was a movie where Howard is assassinated by Hydra and yet Bucky gets blamed and brutally attacked for it. Even though this is the same movie where we find out Bucky was mind-controlled.

And their sequel to the movie where we find out Peggy knew about Nazis in SHIELD is..... Uh. Nothing. They never address it. A character who died offscreen gets screen time wasted on a fulblown Royal funeral (attended by people who didn't even fucking know her!!)

They treat her like some kind of living saint, to the point where she's now a full blown Mary Sue, with yet another bloody tv show where every storyline must be about her, and her possessing Steve, and Steve is reduced to a Stepford Husband wheeled out to repeat 'Peggy. Is. Perfect' type lines. 😬 (Steve. Blink if you need rescuing.)

All Bucky's everything now belongs to Peggy.

Oh, apart from the blame of course! He gets to keep all of that! 🙂

(Oh, and as per What If, Sam is no longer part of CATWS, his own intro movie, and even Natasha's own movie is now about- guess who?? Peggy! And Peggy having Steve!)

Apparently Sharon has been turned into a villain in the comics, too. Just as they start product-synergy introducing MCU!Peggy to over-ride comics Peggy. I wonder why...

(It's so funny that TFATWS assigned MCU-Sharon MCU-Peggy's annoyance at being overlooked by men (cough the man she's relentlessly hitting on cough) and decided that this would be her villain origin story... and yet nobody has connected the dots to Peggy and her behaviour?)

Sharon and Sam's characterisation only feels like an organic continuation because, frankly, the MCU never bothered to write them being particularly nice people to begin with?

Sam being a fratbro-style dick to Bucky in TFATWS, with a side of dispensing unsound self-contradictory counselling advice, is consistent with being a dick to Bucky (and arguing against helping him) since CATWS and quitting a counselling job at the drop of a hat. (Only the 1980s movie locker-room homophobia queerbait is new.)

Sharon being a villain is consistent with being a Carter not being asked to join the 'bringing down Hydra' team in CATWS, dressing up as the same profession as Steve's dead mother to 'befriend' him while she's just spying on him (contrast: the calling-out Nat got from Steve just for not telling him something), staying in SHIELD while they were hunting down Steve and Natasha, immediately joining the CIA (aka, the people who just happen to have a superhero-proof electric chair and want to shoot Bucky on sight, who also have Everett 'ex-husband of Madame Hydra who laughs at the idea of Bucky getting a lawyer' Ross on staff), ...which is easily infiltrated by a (thinly-veiled-Hydra) villain who wants to mind-control TWS to bring down the Avengers (deja vu??), being snippy to Sam for no reason, continuing to lie about herself beyond the point of it being necessary, and also being a creep who expects a thank you kiss from Steve just for doing one basic helpful thing when asked. *phew!*

But the geniuses who inherited the job of writing her in TFATWS can't see any of that... They see no issues, so they think they've written her 'turning' bad. The writing is still shonky because it still isn't self-aware about what it's portraying. The cognitive dissonance is still dissonant.

(Same problem with Fury. They keep giving him 'bad' things to do, showing him instinctively first joining the 'bad side', eg. Pierce's SHIELD, the Kree, etc. But with the exclusion of Steve yelling at him in CATWS -- and only so that Nick gets called out, but not precious Saint Margaret, ofc -- it's never addressed. They can't do anything interesting with the moral charcoal that they've accidentally cooked up, because they aren't even aware that it's there. 🤦‍♀️)

We were mercifully spared from Joss Whedon's terrible ideas for Maria... (supposed to be a villain in A1, baffled as to what to do with a female character so obviously she should be hinted as a love interest for Steve out of fuckn nowhere in A2) ...only to end like that.

Outside of that AOU Avengers party, where she was chill and kinda gay, I feel like the best characterisation we got for her was when- was it in one of the Spidey movies?? -she was a Skrull. 😤 If only I could say the same of Steve...

#anti tfatws #catws meta #anti mcu #mcu critical #CACU: the character-assassination cinematic universe #toAyourQ #dat's me #hey nonny #imagine the captain america movie we could've got if ryan coogler directed it he's the only one who's been nice to bucky #or better yet the 3 spiderverse guys #now there's a bunch who know how to write an antifa character! #shit even quentin tarantino would've given us a better CATFA

[factorialsotherfandoms]

This is like... not really canon, but not really au either? I'd say its 'events that happened offscreen' sort of canon, but like the building Cellbit and Forever are in doesn't exist in the actual server either. But it's not heavily important. So just. Roll with it, I guess (normally for canon stuff I scour screenshots for the buildings. I cannot be bothered today, so fuck it, whatever's convenient.)

TW: gunshot wounds, horrific medical practice (if you get shot go see a doctor), blood, idk why Cellbit and Forever want to argue but they do

Cellbit looks up from his book, only to see Forever stumble in. For a moment the other man looks exhausted, and pained, clutching at his arm and hissing in a deep breath.

And then Forever's eyes latch on to Cellbit's form. Immediately he straightens up, lets go of the arm, and hides himself in a grin, "Cellbo! Hi~"

"What did you do?" Cellbit snaps his book shut, and looks at his friend. He doesn't have the energy for this - it's not really a puzzle, it's just the standard dumbassery of their group.

"Me? Nothing!" Forever is edging around the sitting room towards the kitchen.

Cellbit levels him with a glare, "why can I see blood on your sleeve, then?"

"Shit!"

Easy, easy; there's not really blood on Forever's sleeve, but he still looks down at his arm.

"Sit down," Cellbit doesn't leave him other options. "I'll get the first aid kit."

There's a few moments of standoff before Forever relents, sitting heavily on one of the armchairs. Cellbit makes sure he looks like he is staying before slipping around to the kitchen. There's more in their first aid kit than the name implies - the island is a dangerous place and help is rarely available and even less frequently without a price - but still it's kept under the sink.

He also grabs a glass of fruit juice, and some of the cookies Richas had both made and abandoned earlier. Their egg has run off to build with Pac and Mike, now, but the cookies are still warm.

Cellbit returns to the sitting room, and shoves the cookies in Forever's face.

"Richas made them," he says, before a complaint can be raised.

Forever pouts as he takes one, but he does eat.

Still he doesn't say what he did. Cellbit, equally stubborn, grabs his sleeve and rolls it up himself.

Taped to his upper arm is a wad of blood-soaked gauze, and it really is a wonder there /wasn't/ blood on Forever's sleeve.

"Forever!" he scolds, already starting to peel the dressing away. "What did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Forever attempts to defend. "It was Cucurucho who shot me! But it's fine! I patched it up, see?"

Cellbit goes dead still.

"What. Did you say."

"Err..." Forever looks suitably nervous.

Cellbit knows he himself looks like tortured prey, but he hopes it only adds to the effect. "You're supposed to tell us these things, Forever, we're your family! What if he shot you somewhere else?! Took you away? We're here for you!"

Forever turns his eyes on Cellbit, candlelight making them flicker between brown and black, "like you tell us anything either!"

Cellbit can't defend himself a whole lot against that - he slams his hand over the wound, putting pressure on it, and uses his other to find a needle and thread.

"Where's the exit wound?"

Nervous laughter is his reply.

"Fuck you, Forever, what were you going to do about it?!"

If he's anything like Cellbit - and they're more alike than most can see - the answer is ignore it until it's become such a problem

The laughter pitches more. Cellbit forces painkillers and the juice onto his friend, before giving him a roll of unused bandages to bite on, and grabs the tweezers instead.

Cellbit's hands aren't the steadiest, not these days and not with so little sleep, but he keeps them steady as he can. Forever goes blissfully - worryingly - quiet as he uses one hand to dab the blood away, and readies the tweezers with the other.

Thankfully, the bullet remained intact. Less thankfully, it clipped against Forever's bone, shifting its angle. Cellbit finds himself having to make another cut in Forever's arm - the whine that comes with it is pained, and Cellbit cannot blame him - to safely pull the bullet out.

Knife in flesh again - how strange to be doing harm to heal, and not just to feed. There's been a lot of changes, these years, and maybe some are for the better.

By the time the bullet is removed, Forever is shaking more than Cellbit's hands. Still there is work to be done - Cellbit pours most of the bottle of antiseptic over the wound, making sure to touch everywhere the bullet did. He drains it as best he can, and then returns to the needle and thread.

Layer by layer he stitches Forever's flesh back together, making sure the form holds. Forever's nails dig into his leg, even as he gasps around the bandages in his mouth and shudders in pain.

Cellbit ignores him.

He's gotten very good at ignoring other people's pain over the years.

Eventually he's done. Then - and only then - does he free Forever's mouth.

"Fuck me," are the first words from Forever's mouth.

Cellbit ignores him, unwrapping some fresh gauze and bandages with which to cover the wound, "I'll check it again in the morning - if it starts feeling too warm, let someone know."

"I know what to do with an injury, Cellbo," Forever breathes the words between hisses. "We've done this before."

"Do you?" Cellbit asks. "Because that definitely needed two hands, idiot! What, you'd have just slept with the bullet still there."

Fingers, somewhat shaky in their turn, find their way into Cellbit's hair.

Cellbit pauses, and breathes, and leans forwards. He wraps his arms around Forever's back and crushes his face into the back of the sofa.

"Don't scare me like that," Cellbit says. "Getting shot by Cucurucho is not a small thing."

"It's happened to everyone else," Forever shrugs a bit. "Was bound to happen to me."

"... I'm going to kill that fucking bear."

Forever laughs, loud and true, but his hands shake as he holds Cellbit back.

"I'm serious, Forever, I'm going to kill that bear and I'm going to feast on it's remains."

"I'm sure you will," Forever replies. "I'm sure you will."

It sounds like a platitude. Cellbit is quite serious with his intention - he has been for a while - but no matter.

Just as soon as he knows his family are safe from the repercussions, they will see.

They will all, each and every one of them, see.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp forever #qsmp cellbit #not my favourite thing I've ever written with either character #and it doesn't feel like enough torment and anguish #but frankly getting shot at this point is kinda just shit that happens #as is cucurucho being terrible #... cellbit's still going to murder that fucking bear tho

[x-amount-verbs]

Sinners Stained Red

Have a snippet of something I started writing Fuck it, this is a finished piece. A drabble based on this art by @iseutz that has been languishing as a wip on my drive while I work on HH stuff.

[silco x gn!reader] [~850 words] [no use of y/n] [rated M for implied violence, but sfw] [modern au] [mob au] [sadist!silco] [sadist!reader] [tw offscreen torture (not to named characters)] [blood]

AO3 Link

He’s so fucking extra.

You snort a derisive laugh at the sight of blood-soaked hands holding a lit cigarette as Silco looks out over the common area. Up here from his high tower where he can see his people milling about between jobs. And, more importantly, they can see him.

“Ruined another shirt,” you observe, lips hooked in a smirk. “You could really stand to wear gloves, too.”

His good eye slides over to you, subtle smile hidden as he takes another drag. “Where’s the fun in that?” The murmured words curl in the air, visible as smoke.

You want to laugh. Approaching with silent steps, your eyes scan the crowd below. His people. The family. Each upturned face is noted in your mind. Those brave or stupid enough to watch their leader’s mid-interrogation smoke break. The fear, the respect, the anxiety. Your amusement is hard to hide, but you manage, voice wry. “You’re terrifying them.”

Silco hums a confirmation. Leaning on the railing of the upper floor, his red-stained hands are visible to anyone looking up— as is his unaffected demeanor. “Good.” His eyes drift almost unseeing over the crowd, managing to look completely disinterested. The words come out a quiet drawl, lips hardly moving. “Watch the one in green.”

You dutifully find the girl in the crowd, and even from here her mix of awe and terror is clear.

Silco turns, leaning back against the rail, eyes moving to you even as you keep watching. As soon as his back is turned, the girl hurriedly makes excuses to leave.

“A rat?” you guess, watching how she interacts with others as she heads for the doors.

“Mm.” The slight incline of his chin is as close as you’ll get to a nod, when he’s trying to be unreadable from afar. “Feeling the water rise. If we’re lucky, she’ll take more with her.”

You note three potential others to look into, based on shared glances or a careful hand on the back of a shoulder as she squeezes by. Maybe not all of them agents, but all may be weak links.

“Speaking of rats…” You raise a brow at Silco, then nod to his sticky forearms. “That legit, or did you just want to force people to open doors for you?”

One scarlet hand is offered for your inspection even as he takes another drag, his audience downstairs forgotten in favor of your conversation. “I don’t need an excuse for my men to open doors for me.”

His white sleeves are far from spotless, but they’re cleaner to grasp onto than his skin. Holding the fabric at his elbow, you delicately pinch his wrist between two fingers, like it’s something particularly undesirable. Far from the truth, if you’re honest; something about blood on his hands makes him even more appealing.

Spotting the useless sleeve garters, you glance up at him with a smirk from under lowered lashes. “All this classy finery, and you don’t even use them properly?”

Bloody fingers bring the cigarette to his lips, but his eyes stay on you, entertained. “I’ll have you know I always wear my clothes properly. And well.”

A short hum in your throat agrees, swaying toward him and lifting your chin. He does have impeccable style. It adds to his gravitas in every meeting, and his air of professionalism in every front.

Silco pulls back in a minuscule movement, gaze cutting sideways as he shifts just so to draw your attention to the crowd below.

Right. You give up on your subtle request, rocking back again. “Well, then you obviously need someone to ‘properly’ roll your sleeves, if you’re wearing them loose like some sort of harlot.” The jeer is sweet under your breath, too low for anyone to hear and too murmured for your lips to be easily read.

Another drag, gaze bright and sharp. “My forearms so tempting to you?”

Your fingers slide along the railing as you watch him, but you resist any sort of public display. Still. “Very much so, yes.” You grin.

His sharp breath is a laugh, through pressed lips, smoke a brief jet. He simply watches you, calculating. Then he looks back down at his people. The smart ones are minding their own business. The stupid ones look away. Only the most idiotic dare to stare back.

“How’s work?” you ask casually, sweetly.

Thin lips and sharp eyes convey that biting wit without him having to say a word. He still does. “You know, they say torture doesn’t get results, but I’d argue it’s much more entertaining than appeasement.”

“How far did you get with the interrogation?”

“Oh we got the basics of what was necessary yesterday. This is just a bit of anger management. My therapist says it’s important to find ways to vent my frustration.” His drawling tone is so dry you feel it sucking at your skin.

“Still at it?”

Silco’s eyes rake the crowd again, then he pushes off of the rail, heading for the door he’d come out of. “Was about to break out the brand, if you’d care to join?”

You grin. “How could I ever refuse?”

—

AO3 Link

[If you liked this, feel free to boost it! Or give it some love on ao3. I also monch cronch the comments left for me and grind them into meal for new stories, so maybe leave comments? Tags? If you have more mob au prompts or art, feel free to share them on here or in my inbox.

If you want a less bloody but still sadistic Silco, A Helping Hand features a more… let’s say disciplinarian form of sadism 👀

If you’re new, you can find more if my work here, if you’re interested. ❤️ -verbs]

Join the tag list for new works by commenting on this linked post. @dad-dumpster @foppishish @leave-me-alone-doctor @mazikomo

#silco #silco arcane #silco x reader #silco x gn!reader #silco x gender neutral reader #modern au #x-amount-writes #wip:sinners stained red #mob au #sinners stained red

[kustas]

Hello and good afternoon, can i trouble you for a TW list that tekkonkinkreet may have? Thank you

It is no trouble! If you need any specific information (as I know people might react very differently to seemingly innocuous things) do let me know. I won't judge :)

I want to start by saying: the things I will list are not here because of the author's unsavory views seeping into the work. This is a mature story with characters who are not good people and what they do is not glorified or excused. Ableism especially is in-universe, the writing itself is very kind. Also, this is spoiler free!

Violence

Most of the plot revolves around the two boys being targets of a manhunt. They suffer a lot of on-screen injuries for it. This is harder to watch in the movie as you have the (very natural/realistic) voice acting on top of the violence they face, so uh, kids screaming in pain and all that

Features a lot of bloodshed in general, true for both the film and the manga. Most fight scenes "only" show people getting struck down by blows to the head with some blood, a few others are a bit more hardcore. The harder to watch include someone getting their ear bit off, and two people getting killed by being stabbed with a spear, these deaths being pretty graphic even if there is no gore.

A character dies from being set on fire.

Gun violence: three separate occurrences of characters getting shot to death. Two are offscreen, but you see the bodies afterwards.

Mutilation: one character gets their ears cut off as torture. You don't see it happening fully but you see the aftermath.

Ableism

One of the main characters is heavily neurodivergent. (in the manga only) it's implied he gets beaten by a stranger. (both manga and film) There is a scene where he gets restricted during a meltdown which is more upsetting in the movie, as it's "longer" and has voice acting

Two disabled characters have scenes where strangers look down on them with rude remarks

Unreality (and other)

Most of the story purposefully obscures the limit between dream, imagination and reality.

The last act of the film is straight up edited to be a confusing "fever dream" with abstract pulsating visuals. In the manga, this sequence is less confusing but equally surreal.

(movie only) there is a POV scene of a character drowning.

Several instances of characters being manipulated using graphic death threats to their family members.

And I think that's it. Hope this helps :)

#ask #tekkonkinkreet

[prettybirdy979]

Whumptober Day 12: I Think I’ve Broken Something

Writing for the @whumptober2020 list here. More fics here.

Warning - Implied non-descript torture and off screen murder.

‘Oh no, angel.’

Aziraphale blinks his eyes. No, not real, not real. Please don’t be real, please don’t be real. He has to be alone, he must be alone, please.

‘Angel, shhh,’ Crowley says and Aziraphale feels pricks of pain at the corner of his eyes as he tries to weep. He ran out of tears ages ago but he has to cry at the thought of his Crowley here with these humans. 

At the thought they’ve summoned him too but this time the Holy Water will work instead of engaging them when nothing happens. No, he can’t think that, Crowley will be fine and they’ll they’ll they’ll...

Aziraphale can’t. He can’t. Not Crowley, not Crowley, not Crowley-

‘I’m going to get you out.’ Aziraphale finally looks up to see Crowley standing above him, blood dripping down from... from well everywhere. It’s red but, which means it isn’t Crowley’s.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale breathes, and behind him his wings twitch. The mere movement causes him to scream in pain.

‘No, don’t,’ Crowley cries as he uses the blood on him to break the line of the circle. 

Aziraphale’s wings fall, the support of the circle no longer there, and he swallows back another scream. Then Crowley is on the ground in front of him, pulling Aziraphale to his chest and hugging him close.

‘I have you angel, I have you.’

With a whimper, Aziraphale buries his head in Crowley’s shoulder. ‘I think I’ve broken something,’ he whispers, like his managled wings are a secret he has to keep.

‘I’ll fix them,’ Crowley vows and holds him close. ‘I’ll fix everything.’

And Aziraphale, for the first time in a long while, feels warm.

Feels safe.

#whumptober2020 #no.12 #broken bones #good omens #torture #murder #offscreen but implied #blood tw #ineffable husbands #My Scribbles #My Story

[artificialqueens]

Wild Flower, Chapter Eleven, (Shalaska) 11/11 - Freyja

A/N: Guys. We’re at the end. I literally still can’t comprehend it - my brain is still planning on beginning the next chapter tomorrow like it has been for the last two months (please don’t ask me how I wrote this in only two months - quarantine is a special time).

It’s really bittersweet - I’ve finished a multichap! It’s as long as a novel! But, I’m going to miss writing this story and this world so, so much. It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever written, and I’m sad it’s over. I’m going to miss everything about it, but I’m really damn proud of it, too. My baby’s going to college, you guys :’)

I want to thank Frey for betaing this entire fic - I love her so much and she’s the best. It’s just facts, people. Here’s hoping she doesn’t drop me like a hot potato before I can get anything else out (because this isn’t the end of me - just the end of my niche cowboy fic that I’m grateful even one person read).

I want to thank everyone for their comments and asks and messages - I love every single one of them, and they really did get my ass into gear. If any of y'all want to shoot me ( @narcoleptic-drag-queen ) asks about this fic (headcanons or questions or anything) or really anything else, I welcome it all. If y'all want an epilogue or any sort of spin off stories, let me know about that as well. I’m sentimental, and I’ll take any excuse not to leave this fic alone just yet.

And now, to top it all off: the playlist, previous chapters (in order), AO3, and the playlist @barbiehytes made (which is better than mine). Thank you for reading, everyone - I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. <3<3<3

Summary: Solomon has Sharon, and the girls go to get her. Alaska will do anything to get her back. Anything.

🌸

“Most of those he did kill deserved what they got.” — A Lincoln County, New Mexico resident talking of Billy the Kid

🌸

For a moment, all Alaska can hear is the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, the world tilting dizzyingly as soon as Phi Phi’s words hit her.

Solomon has her.

Her stomach churns, nausea rising to the back of her throat. Solomon has Sharon. The man who’d killed Chad Michaels in cold blood, seemingly just for fun, has Sharon. The same man who now has reason to hate Sharon, can now do whatever he wants with her. Lawrence Solomon, the man who’s name sends a shiver down Alaska’s spine, has the woman she loves, and he very likely wants to kill her.

All she can do is stare at Phi Phi, unable to form any of the questions she has, shock making her mind numb and her body detached. She hears Willam call for the other women, but it feels like a memory already, like it’s happening far away.

She watches as Roxxxy arrives, a large shotgun in hand, to take her place next to Jinkx’s pale figure. She watches Morgan run towards Willam like a bullet had never been in her thigh, exchanging quiet words with the blonde that Alaska couldn’t hope to hear even if her ears weren’t ringing deafeningly.

She watches Morgan nod at Willam before marching up to Cerrone, reaching Phi Phi’s side with a sneer. She grabs Phi Phi’s shirt and pulls her down violently, and she collapses on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Phi Phi’s sharp cry of pain succeeds in jerking Alaska back into her body, adrenaline flooding through her instead.

“Someone get her to the post,” Willam orders, her voice betraying nothing. Her face, however, is completely drained of color. “We can’t have her running on us.”

Phi Phi doesn’t cry out again when Morgan jerks her arms behind her back, but she grimaces, glaring at Willam with bloodshot eyes. “I didn’t do this,” she snarls, and Morgan shakes her a little, making her sentence end with a whimper of pain.

“I don’t care,” Willam says coldly. “It doesn’t even matter that I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck you,” Phi Phi says. “I came to warn you, I–”

“Exactly,” Willam says. “And that’s suspicious as fuck.”

Phi Phi opens her mouth again, but Morgan cuts her off with another shake. “She’s not interested,” she sneers. “Didn’t you hear?”

Phi Phi doesn’t respond, gritting her teeth, and Willam takes the opportunity to pat her down for weapons. Surprisingly, she comes up with nothing. Alaska is just as confused as Willam looks - surely, Phi Phi would have at least a knife.

Maybe, Alaska thinks darkly, she’s trying to trick us.

“What the fuck?” Willam asks, and Phi Phi glares.

“You took all of my weapons, remember?” she snaps.

“No,” Willam says simply. “But I don’t mind skipping to step two.”

“If you tie me to that post,” Phi Phi says, growing panicked as Morgan tries to march her forwards. She digs her heels into the dirt, stopping Morgan and displaying more strength than Alaska had expected. Her voice, however, is strained as she finishes her sentence. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“Sure,” Willam says dryly, but Alaska feels a thrill of panic run through her at the threat. Even if they manage to crack Phi Phi, it will take too long. She needs to know now.

She steps forward to stop them, to tell Morgan to just shake it out of Phi Phi here and now, but Jinkx beats her to it, raising her voice for the first time since Phi Phi’s grand entrance.

“Stop,” she says, and her voice is wobbly. “I don’t want to make things more difficult than they already are. Not when Sharon’s in danger.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and Alaska’s stomach dips as well, worry rising in her throat.

“How are we supposed to know she’s telling the truth?” Willam asks, flicking her gun lazily at Phi Phi, making her flinch. “I don’t trust her. Wild animals need to be restrained.”

Another flash of panic runs through Alaska like a shock. “Restraining her isn’t going to do anything but make getting Sharon harder,” she says, but Willam’s sharp look silences her from saying any more.

“I think I know what I’m doing,” Willam says, glancing at Phi Phi with something like disgust. “She deserves to be tied up for this.”

“Alaska’s right,” Jinkx says, and Willam’s eyes roll up towards the sky. “I don’t trust her either, but I think we’re going to get the truth a little faster if she’s in the mood to cooperate.”

“Or we’ll get whatever lie she’s got cooked up,” Roxxxy sneers from beside her, and Alaska resists the urge to snap at her to shut up. Phi Phi snarls.

“I’m not lying!” she says, voice loud. “I’m done lying for that bastard!”

“Now that’s interesting,” Willam says, peering curiously down at Phi Phi’s scowling face. “I thought you said you would die for him.”

“That’s when I thought he would die for me,” Phi Phi says, and her voice cracks. “I’m not trying to trick you. Just - please, don’t tie me up.”

“Sharon does always say you’re bad at lyin’,” Willam says, frowning a little. “She says she likes it when he brings you along, because all you do is give him away.”

Phi Phi laughs bitterly. “Makes sense,” she says. “I guess it’s easier to trick me and get shit done that way.” Alaska pauses at that, once again taken aback, the frustration that comes with confusion clenching in her chest. What the hell is Phi Phi talking about?

There’s a beat of silence, and Roxxxy creeps forwards a little, her gun still trained on Phi Phi’s face.

“How do we know she’s not just stalling?” she asks. “How do we know this isn’t all one big ploy to lead Solomon up here to get the rest of us? How do we know Sharon’s not already dead?”

Alaska feels the world tilt again, her stomach plunging with sudden fear. No.

“Because Sharon wouldn’t let that happen,” Jinkx says harshly. “That’s - that’s impossible.”

“Roxxxy,” Willam says, her eyes on Jinkx. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, and Alaska follows her gaze to find Jinkx on the brink of tears, her cheeks flushed an angry red. She feels her own pressing against the back of her throat. “Make yourself useful and go get Kameron.”

Roxxxy frowns. “I’m not saying–”

“Just do it,” Morgan cuts in, and Roxxxy turns without further question, making her way up to the tent nearest Sharon’s. Alaska watches her go, nausea still high in her throat and her heart pounding so hard she can feel it in her fingertips. Even with Roxxxy gone, her words are still a shard in the center of Alaska’s chest, something she doesn’t think will go away until Sharon is back and unharmed.

She tries to ignore the doubt creeping into her mind, choosing her anger instead of her distress. Sharon will be alright - if she isn’t, Alaska will do anything to make sure no one else is, either.

“Spill.”

Willam’s piercing voice tugs her out of her thoughts, and she turns her gaze back to the situation at hand, surprised to see anger making itself known in Willam’s expression as she continues, “And if I even get a feeling that you’re lying, Morgan will twist your arm until you start crying for your mother.”

“Luckily for me,” Phi Phi mutters, glaring up at Willam, “I don’t plan on lying.”

“Congratulations,” Willam says, voice flat. “Maybe you’ll get to keep your arm.”

Alaska thinks Phi Phi is lucky that she isn’t the one holding her, panic and anger making her desperate to hit something - desperate to hit Phi Phi, who isn’t as repentant as Alaska thinks she should be. She should be groveling. She should be begging.

“What were you doing with Sharon?” Jinkx asks after a moment, her voice still shaky, but her expression determined. “Let’s start with that.”

There’s a pause as Phi Phi clearly gets her thoughts in order, frowning as her eyes drift towards the ground. She takes long enough that Roxxxy has time to return with a grave Kameron, and the sight of them has impatience snapping in Alaska’s chest.

“Well?” Alaska snaps, and Phi Phi glares at her.

“Be patient,” she snarls, but her expression softens after a beat, her scowl turning into a slight frown. “It isn’t – It wasn’t my idea,” she starts, “so don’t blame me.”

“I think we’ll decide who to blame when you finish the story,” Willam says, like she’s putting off choosing what she wants Alyssa to cook for dinner. “Which better be the next thing out of your mouth. Otherwise, we’re tying you to the post whether you like it or not.”

Phi Phi scowls, but she takes a deep breath, pressing her lips together. “Sharon decided she wanted to accept Solomon’s peace treaty,” she says, and disbelieving shock once again has Alaska’s organs turning to liquid. Roxxxy clearly feels the same, because she cuts in before Phi Phi can continue.

“She’s lying,” she says, but Willam puts a hand up before Morgan can jostle Phi Phi again. Alaska doesn’t miss the way Willam’s eyes glance towards her, and her heart stutters at the implication.

“Let her finish,” Willam says, looking back at Phi Phi, and Phi Phi waits another moment before continuing.

“I told her that she was lucky, because today is the day that Solomon wanted to meet with her,” she says, and her voice is still, strangely, bitter. “Sharon took me with her in the spirit of the treaty, to give me back. But Solomon didn’t seem very interested in me - just in talking. Stalling.”

“It was a trap,” Willam says, realization dawning in her eyes. “There was no peace treaty.” Alaska’s stomach jolts, her breath catching on an inhale. If Sharon had been right before, but had listened to Alaska’s naivety anyway–

She’s an idiot, Alaska thinks, her heart hurting. But so am I.

“No,” Phi Phi says darkly. “There wasn’t. Solomon’s a good actor - he even had me fooled. He got Sharon to shake his hand. He didn’t let go, and Sharon was trying to reach for her gun when suddenly, men were swarming us. They got Sharon pretty fast, and when I tried to help her - well. They didn’t hesitate to shoot at me.” She pauses, hurt flickering across her face before anger settles back onto her features, the emotion clearly easier to handle. Alaska feels her own rise in response. “They shot my horse, and while I was grabbing Sharon’s, another bullet went through my arm. I ran before they could do any more damage. I don’t know what their plan is with Sharon - all I know is that Solomon likes to play with his victims. And Sharon’s certainly one he won’t want to waste.”

There’s a deafening silence as she finishes, and Alaska stares in numb shock before anger starts to pool within her, Phi Phi’s story slowly unfolding within her mind.

Sharon is in danger, very likely already hurt, and it’s Phi Phi’s fault. It makes Alaska clench her fists, the feeling of her nails cutting into her palms only making her angrier.

“So,” she says slowly, her anger forming a typhoon in her chest. “It’s your fault.”

“Alaska–” Jinkx starts, her voice gentle, but Phi Phi beats her to the punch.

“I wasn’t the only one pushing for the peace treaty,” she snaps. “And I’m definitely not the one that convinced Sharon.”

Alaska feels the accusation like a punch to the gut, hurt and regret sharp in her stomach. “How did you–”

“Sharon likes to talk,” Phi Phi sneers. “I don’t think that’s news to anyone here.”

Alaska itches to hurt her, but she stays back, shaking with anger. “You abandoned her,” she says, her voice growing louder. “You left her there to be taken and you stole her only–”

“They were shooting at me!” Phi Phi shouts over her, leaning forwards like she wants to get closer. “My own camp - my own– argh!” She’s cut off with another cry of pain, having pulled a little too hard against Morgan.

“Get her to Katya,” Willam tells Morgan, but Alaska isn’t finished.

As Morgan begins to march Phi Phi towards the med-tent, Alaska steps forward, opening her mouth to snap back, but before she can form any words, a hand closes around her wrist, stopping her from going very far. She flinches, and she whips her head around to find Jinkx looking at her with a worried expression.

“Alaska,” she says, “it wasn’t her fault.”

Anger flashes through Alaska like lightning, and she jerks her hand away, betrayal mixing in with the hurt. “Are you kidding? She–”

“Alaska,” Jinkx repeats, her voice soft, too soft, and Alaska stares at her, her chest heaving with anger, worry, hurt, regret, shock, guilt–

She bursts into tears.

Jinkx immediately pulls her into a hug, and Alaska can only resist for a brief moment before she gives in, melting into Jinkx and sobbing into her shoulder. She might not get to fix her mistake - she might be to blame for Sharon’s. Right when she had been about to start a new life, to confess her love and her devotion, it had all been ripped away from her. It’s unfair, and it feels good to cry, to let all of her anger and fear out onto Jinkx, who holds her so tightly that she actually feels something like safety.

“Sharon–” she chokes out, and Jinkx shushes her.

“She’s going to be fine,” she says, but Alaska hears the way her voice wobbles. “She’s always fine. We’ll come up with a plan.”

Alaska nods, desperately clinging to her words with a hope that she can only pray isn’t foolish. She sucks in a shaky breath, slowing her sobs. They’ll get Sharon out of this. They have to. Sharon just has to be strong enough to wait for them, and Alaska has no doubts about that.

She pulls away, still sniffling, and she takes Jinkx’s hands in hers, squeezing them as hard as she can. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Jinkx smiles, her own face streaked with tear tracks.

“It’ll be fine,” she tells her again, and resolve steels in Alaska’s gut at the words.

“We’ll get her out,” she says, and she believes it.

She has to.

🌸

“We’ll be no good to her dead,” Willam is saying, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands. Alaska wraps Jinkx’s shawl around herself a little tighter, shivering despite the fire roaring in front of her, her face uncomfortably warm compared to the rest of her body. “So, sorry, Katya, but storming the place isn’t going to be very successful.”

They’ve been making plans for four hours now, each woman throwing out an idea only to be shot down by Willam or Morgan, both more suited for strategy and logic than any of the other women. The sun set around an hour ago, and impatience is threatening to burst out of Alaska in unfriendly ways.

“Why not?” Katya asks, throwing her hands up. “Brute force is a surefire way to get in there!”

“Did you miss the part where Phi Phi said Solomon is camped out in an old mansion?” Willam asks. “We can’t storm a house like that - it’s too defended.”

“When did we decide to trust Phi Phi, again?” Detox asks, eyeing Phi Phi warily. Phi Phi glares back from her place next to Morgan, her hands and feet both bound with rope. She’d been given two options: the post, or to have her hands and feet restrained. She’d chosen the latter, but she’d still been pissed about it. Alaska can’t find it within herself to have any sympathy for her.

“Stop acting like we haven’t answered that question already, Detox,” Jinkx says, clearly annoyed. “She’s the only person who’s actually seen Solomon’s hideaway.”

“She’s the only person who’s ever been aligned with him!” Roxxxy argues, and Jinkx’s lips flatten.

“For once, can you two not be difficult?”

Roxxxy gives her a dark look. “For once, can you not be–”

“Ladies!” Alyssa interrupts from between them, stretching her hands out to either side of her. “This isn’t a time for arguing, bickering, or hollering! This is why we’ve been sitting here for four hours freezing our asses off!”

“And our tits,” Willam adds. “Can we get back to shooting down everyone’s idiotic plans?”

Katya shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “I never said I was a battle strategist,” she says, and Willam snorts.

“I don’t think we ever thought you were,” she says, and Alaska loses grip on her patience, growing tired of the meandering everyone seems to be doing.

“Are we trying to make a plan?” she asks, her voice sharp. “Or are we just waiting until there’s no reason to make a plan, anymore?”

“We’re making a plan,” Morgan says. “But it’s not like we’re going to ride out as soon as we have one. We need to wait until daylight, so we can scout the camp. It isn’t far.”

“According to Phi Phi,” Roxxxy mutters, but Alaska seems to be the only one that hears it, the others instead training their eyes on Willam, who’s clearing her throat.

“I still think the best plan is to just sneak in, and sneak out,” she says. “We have rifles around the camp, and two of us sneak into the shed to get Sharon out.”

“No doubt there’s a guard,” Morgan says, and Willam nods.

“I can take him out without too much trouble,” she says, “I’m good with a knife.”

“I am too,” Kameron pipes up, her Tennessee drawl practically dripping off of her words. She hadn’t spoken much during the discussion, but when she had, it was only good points. Alaska finds herself trusting her judgement more than some of the other women, despite her unfamiliarity. “Just in case there’s more than one.”

“Good,” Willam says, and Detox makes a displeased sound.

“Revenge can’t be the goal, Detox,” Jinkx says, and it sounds like she’s treading lightly, trying to avoid another fight. “This is the safest way we can get Sharon out. Alive.”

“Solomon needs to pay,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska would be amused by her and Detox’s back and forth routine if a dark part of her wasn’t agreeing with their need for violence. “To let him get away with this unscathed is cowardice.”

“You’re acting like we can’t just return to him with bigger guns,” Katya says.

“If he manages to move camp, we won’t,” Morgan says. “But even if it is one or the other, Sharon’s safety comes first.”

“There has to be a way of getting both, though,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska rolls her lips between her teeth.

“Let’s take a vote,” she says, her heart thrumming beneath her skin, shaky with nerves. The feeling hasn’t ceased since Phi Phi had rounded the corner on Cerrone. “Since clearly, we’re incapable of making any progress by talking it out.”

“Good idea,” Willam says, and she raises her hand, hindered only slightly by her corset. “All in favor of keeping Sharon safe, say ‘aye’.”

“Do you want to be fair, or do you want to be a bitch?” Roxxxy snaps, unamused. Willam shrugs.

“Fine. All in favor of not making things worse, say ‘aye’.”

Katya lets out a wheeze, and Alaska has to hold back her own snort, reluctantly amused. Roxxxy looks murderous.

“Why can’t you just–”

“It’s fine,” Detox says, although she looks annoyed as well. She puts a hand over Roxxxy’s in an attempt to calm her down. “It’s just Willam. It would be pointless to argue.”

“It is me,” Willam says. “And it’s pointless to argue because I’m right. Now, raise your hands up where I can see them.”

Alaska raises her hand without hesitation, although anger does churn in her gut at the thought of Solomon getting away with what he’s done. Sharon comes first - and she’s certain that Sharon would like her own piece of revenge, as well.

Alaska resolves to find Solomon again, if he does escape. With the law off of the table, she’s comfortable serving her own justice. She’s comfortable enacting her own vengeance.

It feels good.

She counts the hands raised, and is surprised to count Detox and Roxxxy’s among them. Willam seems to realize this just a few moments after Alaska, because she puts her hand down with a certain degree of smugness, a small smirk at the corner of her mouth.

“What made y’all change your minds?” she asks, and Roxxxy takes a deep breath.

“We want revenge,” she says. “But not more than we want Sharon safe. It wasn’t a hard decision.”

“Thank you,” Jinkx says, and although Roxxxy avoids looking at her, Detox mirrors her smile easily.

“We’re not always difficult,” she says, and Jinkx’s smile grows.

“Only twenty three hours out of the day,” she says.

“Only when Sharon’s the thing we’re arguing about,” Detox corrects, and the reminder casts a silence over them all, Willam’s plan cementing itself in their minds.

“So,” Katya says, after a few moments, “who will be going tomorrow, and how many bandages should I be prepared to use?”

“Hopefully no bandages,” Willam says, and then she casts a thoughtful glance around the circle of logs, her face almost ghoulish in the firelight. “It’ll be me, Roxxxy, Kameron, Morgan, and Alyssa. Detox still can’t move well, and we need some people at camp just in case it really is a trap.”

“I’m going,” Alaska snaps, panic once again making her stomach dip sickeningly.

“Alaska–”

“I’m going,” she repeats, meeting Willam’s gaze with as much determination as she feels. She’s going. There’s no other way. She’ll sneak out of camp to follow them, if she has to. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to sit here worrying about what’s happening. I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t shoot,” Willam says. “You haven’t proven any loyalty, you–”

Anger abruptly bursts in Alaska’s chest, the accusation a spear shooting through her body. “I love Sharon more than you could ever know,” she says, and she means it. God, does she mean it. “Don’t talk to me about loyalty - I have given up everything for her. I’m not about to lose one of the things that I got in return.”

There’s a beat of silence as Willam looks at her, her eyes thoughtful. “Alright,” she finally says, and Alaska thinks that her expression might be a little softer. “But you still can’t shoot.”

“She’s sneaky, though,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska stares at her, surprise briefly knocking her anger out of its place. Roxxxy meets her gaze with something like amusement, like she knows her generosity is unexpected. “She got past Detox and I the first night she was here, and I woke up today when Detox shifted just a little too violently. She can help get Sharon out of whatever hole they have her tied up in.”

Alaska finds herself puffing up a little, pride swelling in her chest and hope threading through it as she looks at Willam expectantly. Willam holds her stare for a long moment, impassive, before she suddenly sighs, relaxing a little with exasperation.

“Fine,” she says, and Alaska lets out the breath that she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she breathes, and Jinkx takes her hand, squeezing it. Willam rolls her eyes.

“If this is some stupid attempt to get back at me–”

“It’s not,” Roxxxy interrupts. “I think she’s a good addition. And I think she needs to be there - God knows I know what it’s like to worry over someone you love.”

“She’s right,” Alaska says, and she believes it. “I know what I’m doing. And we’re going to get Sharon out.”

🌸

Alaska can’t sleep.

It’s her second night without Sharon, and the empty space beside her feels like ice, like Sharon’s warmth had been the only thing standing between her and the cold darkness. She curls up on Sharon’s bedroll to help fill the emptiness she can’t stop feeling in her chest, burying her face into her pillow to breath in the other woman’s scent, but she still feels her absence like a bullet wedged between her ribs.

She can’t stop thinking about where Sharon is instead, her heart pounding so hard that she feels like she might vomit. Her stomach churns as she thinks about Sharon tied up somewhere, about Sharon getting hurt, about Sharon getting tortured, about Sharon getting killed–

She squeezes her eyes shut, a few tears spilling over her cheeks and onto Sharon’s pillow. There’s no point in thinking about it - they’re leaving as soon as they can, and they can’t help whatever happens before that. Even still, nightmarish images continue to flash behind her eyelids, and she gives into the little sob that crawls up her throat.

Jinkx had invited her to sleep with her and Alyssa, but Alaska had refused, the thought of Sharon’s tent standing empty making her heart ache. It was an irrational feeling, but it had felt dangerously symbolic, so she had told Jinkx that she’d rather be alone.

She regrets it, now.

Sharon’s tent feels dark and unfamiliar without the fury that had clouded her thoughts the night previous, and it makes her jumpy as well as distressed, every snap of a branch or sigh of the wind making her tense up. Jinkx had lent her a revolver once again, telling her that Alyssa’s sharp aim would be enough to cover her if something happened, but it still feels strange in Alaska’s hands, the trigger too close and the handle too thick.

She still doesn’t trust Phi Phi. Her hurt does seem real, and both Willam and Sharon have cited her as a bad actress, but Alaska can’t bring herself to forgive Phi Phi’s part in how Sharon was taken. She may have been innocent, but she’s the one who knows Solomon best - she should have seen through his lie. She should have known that peace was never on his agenda.

That said, Sharon should have as well.

Alaska would be lying if she said a tiny part of her wasn’t also upset with Sharon’s role in this disaster. She had been so resistant to it when Alaska had asked, when they had been on good terms (and the thought that they still aren’t makes Alaska’s stomach twist) – what had made her decide to go against her own judgement? To forget about his previous betrayal and give him a second chance? It seems so stupid, and Alaska wants to take her by the shoulders, ask her what had made her act so foolish so suddenl–

It hits her like a ton of bricks.

Sharon was trying to apologize.

Alaska can recall their fight almost to the word, but this time, it’s not Sharon’s words that work their way under her skin - instead, it’s her own.

You expect me to make these changes for you, Sharon, but you aren’t even willing to budge for me!

Sharon must have been making an attempt, some stupid, grand gesture to entice Alaska back into camp. She’d just picked the wrong thing to bend on.

Warmth flutters up in Alaska’s chest, love and pleasure briefly settling the torrent of emotions still running through her, but guilt snuffs it quickly. She’s just as culpable as Sharon and Phi Phi - perhaps even more so. If she hadn’t been so selfish - if she had just taken a moment to think about how Sharon has changed for her - if she had thought about her words before she spit them out–

She inhales when she realizes that she’s holding her breath, breathing in more of Sharon’s scent as she does. She comforts herself with the thought that Sharon was trying to make amends - clearly, Alaska hadn’t broken their relationship beyond repair.

Sharon hadn’t told anyone where she was going - she was likely expecting to be back before Alaska left. Or, she hadn’t expected Alaska to leave at all.

Guilt once again drops into her stomach like an anchor, but she wipes it away the best that she can, already nauseous with fear and anger. Sharon had told her to leave. Sharon should have been smart enough to talk to her, rather than leaving without telling anyone why.

God, she misses her.

Alaska wraps her blankets around herself more tightly, curling further into herself. She needs to sleep, she needs to be sharp for tomorrow, but she doesn’t think her heart rate is going to slow anytime soon. She can’t sleep when she knows Sharon probably isn’t either - when she knows that Sharon probably can’t.

We’ll save her, she tells herself, clenching her fists into the blankets. We can do it.

She trusts Willam - she trusts that she knows what she’s doing. Willam knows how to play the game, how to navigate this world even better than Jinkx, and she cares about Sharon. The thought soothes some of Alaska’s anxiety.

She trusts the women at camp. It’s not a sudden realization, but one that’s been coming for a long time, creeping in like fog down the mountain tops. It’s comforting to be able to finally trust, to finally feel like she belongs amongst these women that she had once found so frightening and alien.

She trusts them to get Sharon back. She trusts them to protect her while they do it. She trusts them.

She finally drifts off, clinging to her realization with a desperation she doesn’t think she’s ever felt before, the idea comforting enough that she can allow herself to let go of how her stomach twists at every thought.

They will save Sharon, and Alaska will see her again.

She has to.

🌸

Solomon’s camp can hardly be called a camp - it’s a house, nestled in the foothills of the mountains and abandoned (no doubt) due to a poor foundation, with a barn and a tool shed not far from it. Men mill around the place like ants, and Alaska has to squint to see them with any clarity, their vantage point just far enough that binoculars are required.

She’s exhausted - she’d been woken by nightmares throughout the night, and it had felt like she’d gotten only five minutes of sleep before Willam had nudged her awake, the toe of her boot sharp against Alaska’s side. She’d worried over the headache that had been pressing against the backs of her eyes as they’d all reviewed the plan, but now, as she looks down at the shed that Sharon is being kept in, she feels more awake than she’d been since Honard, adrenaline making her headache vanish and her body wired with energy.

“There isn’t a guard by the shed,” Willam says, her binoculars pressed up against her eyes. “Was Phi Phi a hundred percent on the shed being where hostages get tied up?”

“She was,” Morgan says. “Someone’s probably inside with her.”

Alaska feels nausea leap into her throat at the implication, turning from Morgan’s face to look back down at the shed, hatred boiling in her gut. She wants to run to it, sprint to Sharon and get her out as fast as she can, but she forces herself to relax. They were scouting first for a reason - running down only to be apprehended by a man hiding in the bushes wouldn’t be much use to Sharon.

Willam heaves a sigh. “Shit,” she mutters, and she’s silent for a moment before she speaks again. “Well, that’ll make him easier to kill.”

Alaska glances at the wicked knife at Willam’s hip, and she thinks about it in someone’s back. It doesn’t make her stomach dip with dread, and the satisfaction of knowing that it will be going into someone possibly hurting Sharon doesn’t scare her. Instead, it makes her more anxious to put the plan into motion, to speed things along faster. She’s willing to kill if it means that Sharon won’t be. Anything to make sure Sharon isn’t hurt any more.

“Looks like Kameron, Roxxxy, and Alyssa are in position,” Morgan says, and Willam nods.

“Good,” she says. “Let Alaska borrow your binoculars, so that I can tell her exactly where we’ll be going.”

Morgan passes her binoculars over wordlessly, shifting into a shooting position as Alaska takes them, her rifle pressed right up against her cheek. Alaska takes a deep breath at the sight of her before raising the binoculars to her face, turning back to the shed. They’re doing this. Nerves shoot through her at the thought, but she steels herself against them, nothing but Sharon echoing through her mind.

She’s ready.

“Alright,” Willam starts, as soon as Alaska finishes adjusting the binoculars. “We’re going to keep at least a hundred foot difference until the shed is between us and that ugly house. We’ll creep up the side facing us right now. I’ll go in first, while you stand guard. I’ll kill whoever’s in there, and I’ll grab Sharon - be prepared to help carry her back up here, the same way we came. I don’t know what kind of - what kind of condition she’ll be in.” Her voice dips a little as she stutters over the words, and fear runs through Alaska in response, crawling under her skin like ants.

“Alright,” Alaska says, trying her best to keep her voice from warbling. She succeeds, mostly. “Got it.”

“You can’t fuck it up,” Willam warns, her eyes serious when she turns to look at Alaska. “We can’t afford that right now.”

“I won’t,” Alaska says, and she means it. She’s never been good with following instructions, but she thinks that for Sharon, she’d do anything. “You can trust me.”

“I have to, at this point,” Willam says, but Alaska sees her relax somewhat. She takes a breath, taking one last look over the shed before she sets the binoculars down. “Are you ready?”

Alaska copies her, sucking in a deep breath. She draws up her anger, her worry, her love. “Yes,” she says, and she lets some of her emotion shine through. Willam nods at her.

“Morgan?” she says, and Morgan grunts. “Flash the mirror. We’re going.”

Morgan looks back at Willam, her eyebrows raised. “Good fucking luck,” she says, and Willam starts crawling back down the little hill they’d been on.

“Good fucking luck,” Willam repeats grimly, and it sounds rehearsed, like it’s an old joke that’s suddenly gone sour. She stands as soon as the top of their small ledge is at eye level, dusting off the pants that she’d changed into for this. Alaska is grateful for her own as she follows Willam’s lead, going a little further down to accommodate for her height.

Willam waits for Morgan to take a small mirror out of her pocket, using it to flash the bright sunlight at the other side of the camp, signalling to Alyssa and Kameron that the plan is being set in motion. Then, she turns to Alaska.

“Draw your gun,” she says. “They’ll be on their guard now that they have Sharon, but don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary. Follow my lead.”

Alaska obeys, pulling the worn gun that she’d found at the bottom of one of Sharon’s drawers from the holster at her hip, the grip comfortable in her hands. For the first time, wielding a gun feels natural, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she’s held one enough times, or if it’s because this one belongs to Sharon.

They creep along the path that Willam had planned out earlier, low to the ground and on the lookout for any eyes turned their way. Alaska’s heart stutters a couple of times when a member of the camp turns towards them, but there are enough trees that their eyes skip over them each time.

It’s hard not to sprint towards the shed, her instincts screaming at her that running is the safest route, that the less time they can be seen in, the better, but she forces herself to match Willam’s slow crawl, the logic of moving too slow to be noticeable winning. It seems to be working, judging by the lack of trouble they’ve run into so far.

As they near the shed, however, a voice far too close makes them freeze, Willam glancing panickedly over at Alaska, who can only stare back with wide-eyed fear.

Fuck.

“–yeah, he’s in with Needles.”

“Vanhern?”

“Yeah. For his brother.”

Willam waves her arm desperately at Alaska, silently urging her to come closer. Alaska does, as quickly as she can assume is safe, and Willam grabs her wrist, yanking her down so that they’re both crouching behind a particularly thick bunch of bushes.

Almost a second later, they hear the sound of spurred boots approaching, the voices growing louder. Alaska imagines that they’d only gone unnoticed because the two men were too wrapped up in each other to even think to look out for anything.

“Good,” the man with the higher voice sneers. “He’s wanted revenge for a while now. That bitch deserves whatever he’s doing to her.”

Alaska freezes, still with overwhelming anger. Her heart starts pounding so hard it hurts, and she tightens her grip on her gun, squeezing so hard her knuckles turn white. What the hell are they doing to Sharon?

“You gonna go for a turn?” the deeper baritone asks. “I was thinkin’ about it.”

“Me too,” the other man says. Alaska can hear the grin in his voice, and it makes her stomach churn. “It’d be the most fun I’ve had in years. I heard she’s real pretty.”

Alaska sees red.

She goes to stand, ready to fire at them point blank, but Willam’s hand over her own has her jerking to a stop. She glares at the other woman only to be met with a warning stare, but it’s the way Willam’s chest seems to be heaving with a similar rage that has Alaska backing down.

Sharon’s safety is priority - she can’t fuck it up before they’ve even seen her.

“A real pretty bitch,” the baritone laughs. “Perfect. I think I might just have to ask Dutch for some time with her, too.”

“You think Dutch’ll get in trouble for how often he’s leaving his post?”

“Sounds like Dutch’s problem.”

Vomit rises to the back of Alaska’s throat as they laugh, her anger only making her stomach twist harder. She can’t even feel the relief she should as she hears them start to walk away, her fury making her hands shake uncontrollably as she stares resolutely at the leaves on the bush she and Willam are crouched behind.

Willam grabs her wrists, steadying them with an unyielding grip. Alaska looks up at her to find an intense expression looking back at her, Willam’s impenetrable facade finally cracking to reveal more anger than she’d expected.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Willam whispers harshly, shaking Alaska’s wrists a little for emphasis. “We’re getting Sharon out, and we need you on your best game. Put your anger in a box for now. Focus.”

“What is that, your morning routine?” Alaska sneers, but regret instantly plunges in her stomach as Willam’s face flickers with hurt. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I know you’re trying to help.”

“I’m trying to help Sharon,” Willam says, her voice hard. “Don’t forget that. You ready?”

Alaska sucks in a deep breath, nodding. Willam nods back, and she immediately starts towards the shed again, after a quick, cautionary look around them for any other surprise visitors. Alaska follows without hesitation, her eyes trained on the shed, Sharon her only goal.

They don’t have much farther to go, and soon they’re pressed up against the splintered wood of the shed, the sound of a man talking bleeding through the panels. Willam looks back at Alaska from her place in front, raising a finger to her lips. She fingers the knife at her belt, and Alaska follows her as she slides along the wall, close to the edge.

The shed, luckily, marks the outskirts of Solomon’s camp, with the mansion, the firepit, and the men around it on the other side of the shed, the barn acting as the marker for the opposite end. Alaska spots the two men that had passed them earlier walking just ahead, circling the perimeter, and she knows Willam has spotted them as well.

They wait an eternity for the men to disappear behind the mansion, Alaska growing sweaty from the baking sunlight and the man’s voice inside droning on and on. She tries not to think about how there’s no one responding to him.

The moment the two perimeter guards are out of sight, they curve around the edge of the shed, Willam taking one side of the crooked door, and Alaska the other, both still pressed flat against the wall.

Willam begins counting with her fingers, mouthing the numbers along with them.

One, two, th–

The man suddenly begins shouting, making both Alaska and Willam jump. Alaska’s heart stops beating for a moment, frozen with fear as the man’s words echo out of the shed with disturbing clarity.

“Don’t got a response for that either, bitch?” he shouts, and Alaska shivers at the raw anger his voice holds. “How about now?”

There’s a horrifying moment of silence, before a sob of pain bursts out, the voice clearly Sharon’s.

Alaska’s blood turns to ice.

She’s moving before she can think twice about it, wrenching her wrist away from Willam’s desperate attempt to stop her with surprising ease. All she can hear is the blood rushing through her ears, and she kicks the door open, the adrenaline rushing through her making it feel like no more than tissue paper.

Both occupants of the room jump as the door bangs against the wall, and Alaska takes in the scene before her quickly, the room strangely warm. Her eyes hone in on Sharon immediately -  pale, gasping for breath, and her head bent, dark hair like a curtain in front of her face - and the man crouching in front of her, the back of his shirt drenched with sweat.

He holds a red hot poker in his right hand. Alaska sees the matching burn mark on Sharon’s shoulder, the edges of her shirt blackened from being burned through. Her heart stops at the sight, tears blurring her vision as an uncontrollable anger washes over her.

“Sharon,” she chokes out, and Sharon lifts her head, her eyes widening.

“Alaska?” she breathes out, chest still heaving. Tear tracks stain down her cheeks, flushed from the heat. Alaska can see her shaking from where she stands, and anger makes her want to sob. “What are you–”

“What the hell?” the man interrupts, standing abruptly. Alaska meets his gaze with a protective fire in her veins, and she raises her revolver, both hands gripping the handle like a lifeline. The man’s eyes grow huge.

Clarity is a sharp accompanist to her fury: she understands, now. She understands what it’s like to choose between protecting those you love and society’s moral code. The decision is easier than she’d expected.

“Alaska,” Willam says from behind her, her voice sharp. “Don’t–”

Alaska pulls the trigger.

The recoil rattles her a little, the gunshot ringing in her ears, and she watches as the man collapses, clutching his stomach and screaming bloody murder.

“Goddamnit, Alaska!” Willam snarls, pushing past her into the shed and slamming the door shut behind her. Shouts can just barely be heard over the man’s screeching. “Great fucking work!”

Alaska stumbles with the force of Willam’s shove, unable to do much but stare at the man writhing on the floor, thick blood coating his fingers as he holds his torso. She’d done that. Nausea rises in her throat at the sight of his face, twisted with agony. She’d done that.

She feels satisfaction spreading from the core of her out to her fingertips. She’d done that.

Her attention immediately snaps to Sharon, Sharon, who’s staring at her like she’s just grown a second head, her eyebrows raised and her jaw slack.

Relief rushes through Alaska so fast that her knees nearly buckle beneath her, and she stumbles towards Sharon, falling to her knees before the other woman. She cups Sharon’s face with both hands, taking her in - her blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, the arch of her eyebrows. “Sharon,” she breathes, the word nearly a sob, “thank god.”

She hears Willam shoot, but she barely registers the gunshot, the man’s sudden silence more comforting than disturbing. Sharon gives her a wobbly smile, the gap between her teeth just barely visible.

“I’m never tying anyone up again,” she says, her laugh sounding more like a sob. “This sucks.”

“I love you,” Alaska says, her voice breaking. “Sharon.”

She lunges forwards, pressing her lips against Sharon’s desperately, love and affection and worry and relief all swirling in her chest as Sharon kisses back. It’s salty from tears and sweat, but Alaska can’t bring herself to mind, enjoying the feeling of Sharon’s warmth beneath her, the other woman solid and finally in her arms.

It feels like a weight being lifted off of her chest, and she suddenly wants to say it again. And again, and again, and again. She pulls away, brushing Sharon’s soaked curls away from her face. “I love you,” she says, her voice wobbly. “I love you, Sharon Needles. Thank god.”

“I love you too,” Sharon tells her, her voice raspier than usual. Her eyes are bright with emotion. “Alaska, I–”

“Later,” Alaska interrupts, rubbing a thumb over Sharon’s cheek. She’s alive. “We need to move fast.”

“I assume shooting Hamilton wasn’t a part of the plan?” Sharon asks as Alaska slides her hands down to mess with the ropes binding her ankles to the legs of the chair, her fingers frustratingly shaky with adrenaline.

“Killing him was,” Alaska says, guilt beginning to trickle into her gut. She can hear shots firing outside of the shed, and Willam shooting back, shouting insults and taunts through the large hole that had been in the side of the door. There had been two rules to the plan: be quiet, and don’t be seen. Alaska had managed to fuck both up royally.

The rope holding Sharon’s left foot loosens, falling to the ground. Alaska immediately starts on the left one, ignoring the way her fingers throb with rope splinters.

“Well,” Sharon says, her voice light. Alaska realizes, with a pang, that she’s trying to comfort Alaska. She thinks, vehemently, that it should be the other way around. “I’ve never been good at the sneak attacks Willam’s so fond of, so I can’t blame you.”

“I never would have guessed,” Alaska shoots back, and Sharon lets out a faint laugh.

“Doesn’t sound very like me, does it?”

Alaska’s fingers slip on the knot for what feels like the third time, and she curses, panic bubbling up in her chest. If she doesn’t get this done quickly enough–

A knife suddenly clatters down beside her, and she flinches, whirling around only to see that Willam had been the culprit.

“It’s a knife,” Willam says, her voice calm as she quickly reloads her rifle. “Use it.” A bullet cracks through the wood a few feet to the left of her, and Alaska startles violently. Willam doesn’t seem phased, turning to poke her rifle through the hole and shouting something unintelligible out at their assailants.

Alaska grabs the knife, her eyebrow twitching a little at how heavy is it, warm from where it’d been against Willam’s hip. She carefully slides it between Sharon’s leg and the rope, sawing with as much force as she can muster. It snaps within seconds, the rope splitting into three sections as it hits the floor.

She lets out a breath. “Thank fuck,” she breathes, and she stands, rounding Sharon to work on the rope binding her hands together. She’s taken aback by what she finds, rage making more tears spring to her eyes.

The rope is double layered around Sharon’s wrists, and Alaska can see the rope burns peeking out beneath it, painful looking blisters rubbed raw from a day’s worth of struggle. “Jesus,” she says, anger and concern making her voice harsh, and she begins cutting at the rope, sawing with a new fury.

The rope falls to pieces, and Sharon gasps with the sudden relief, bringing her hands around to cradle them against her ribcage, flexing her hands as she does so. Alaska sucks in her own breath, moving to kneel in front of Sharon again.

“You definitely have a fever,” she says, glancing at the blotchy red spots high on Sharon’s cheekbones. “Rope burns, and a fucking burn on your shoulder. Anything else?”

“I’m fine,” Sharon says, but she’s shaking, and she hasn’t made any attempt to stand up. She’s still babying her wrists, and Alaska takes one of her hands, squeezing it as panicked concern races through her like lightning.

“You’re not,” she snaps. “We don’t have time for you to lie to us. What else did these bastards do to you?”

Sharon presses her lips together, her lower lip wobbling. Alaska feels like sobbing at the sight of her. “Two burns on the palms of my hands,” she says hurriedly, and Alaska turns the hand she’s holding over, her stomach twisting at the sight of a large welt in the center of Sharon’s palm, bright red and cracked with recent stress, bloodying her hands. “That’s the most of it. I’m pretty sure my ribs are bruised.”

Alaska takes a shuddering breath, pressing her lips to the heel of Sharon’s hand, just below the burn. “I’m glad I shot him,” she says, anger like she’s never felt before rushing through her. “I’m glad he suffered.”

She looks up at Sharon’s face, her chest heaving, and Sharon looks back at her with something like pride, although her eyes are sad.

“Alaska–”

“Guys,” Willam says suddenly, and Sharon’s eyes immediately snap to behind Alaska. Alaska turns, something about the timber of Willam’s voice setting her on edge. Willam stares back at them, her face pale. “Solomon’s just stepped out. He’s calling off his men - he’s asking for a ceasefire.”

Sharon’s face slowly hardens, the vulnerability that had been so visible now hidden behind the mask of a woman who’s murdered more men than Alaska can count. Alaska doesn’t think she’s ever been so relieved to see it.

“Do it,” she says, determination coloring her voice. “Let’s see what he wants.”

Alaska frowns at her, a bad feeling making her heart twist. “Sharon,” she says. “Don’t. Whatever you’re doing–”

“If he wants what I think he wants,” Sharon says, her eyes sparking with anger and resolution. “Then I’ll let him have it. I want it, too.”

“What?” Alaska snaps. “What could he possibly want?”

“Revenge. Fair and square.”

The world outside falls silent, and Willam slowly pulls the door open, sliding her mirror back into her shirt pocket. From the doorway, they have a good view of the mansion, from which a man in denim jeans and a dusty jacket is strolling, his hat tilted proudly back from his face.

Lawrence Solomon.

He’s older - in his sixties, if Alaska had to guess. Clean shaven, with black hair that’s mostly gone gray. His eyes are deep set, and the blue of them is empty like a coffin waiting to be occupied.

Alaska doesn’t think she’s ever felt hatred like this before.

She watches, nausea churning in her gut, as he walks towards the shed, his hands free of any weaponry. A gun glitters at his thigh, however, catching the sunlight, and Alaska readjusts her grip on her own revolver at the sight of it.

“Stop there,” Willam says as Solomon nears them, and he stops without question, around thirty feet away. “What do you want?”

“Needles,” he says, and his voice is deep, gravelly. It makes the hairs on Alaska’s arms stand on end, and she glances at Sharon, protectiveness surging through her. Sharon looks disgusted, an intense fury lying just behind her eyes.

“I want to do this the old fashioned way. Me and Needles, twenty paces apart, one shot each. This is between us.”

“You’re just upset that we have the upper hand,” Willam calls back. “Of course she’s not–”

“I’ll do it,” Sharon says, and Alaska’s breath gets caught in her throat.

“No,” she says, as Willam turns to stare at them. “You won’t.”

“I will,” Sharon says, but as she makes to stand up, she nearly falls, her legs unsteady beneath her. Alaska grabs her wrist as she rights herself, breathing hard. If Sharon goes out there like this–

“You can barely stand,” she says, her voice thick with frustration and tears. “You can’t even use your hands. You’re not going out there.”

“I’ll manage,” Sharon grits out.

“Sharon–”

“Just try and stop me,” Sharon snaps, and Alaska lets out a desperate breath, squeezing Sharon’s wrist to try and make her understand what a bad idea this is.

“I’m waiting!” Solomon singsongs from outside, and Alaska sucks in another breath at the sound of his voice.

“You’ll die,” she whispers in an attempt to keep her tears at bay. It isn’t working. “Sharon, you can’t die, not when I just got you back. Please.”

Sharon’s face softens, and she pulls Alaska into a soft kiss, the hand Alaska isn’t holding coming to rest against her jaw. Alaska kisses her back pleadingly, her gut twisting as Sharon pulls away with a grim expression.

“I need to do this,” she says, and it’s with such finality that Alaska can’t bring herself to stop her from pulling her wrist away, her heart in her throat. “I’m the fastest draw in Colorado,” Sharon tells her as she slowly walks towards the door, smirking confidently. “I’ll win. Don’t worry.”

She grabs her holster from where it was hanging by the door, slinging it across her hips. Alaska feels another tug at her stomach. No.

“Sharon–”

“I love you,” Sharon says. And then, before Alaska can say it back, she steps out of the shed and towards Solomon, who greets her with a grin.

Alaska hates him.

She walks up to stand next to Willam in the doorway, watching nervously as Sharon and Solomon exchange quiet words, Sharon’s face hidden with her back turned to them, but Solomon’s face betraying narrow eyed anger.

“You know how this works?” Willam asks, her eyes never leaving the two leaders. Alaska nods, watching as they stand, back to back, their profiles serious and their guns safe in their holsters.

“Yeah,” she whispers. She thinks she might vomit.

She’d read about duels often as a child, the tradition clogging her history lessons and her favorite novels despite its illegality. The opponents stand, backs touching. They each take ten steps forward, on the count of three. They turn around. They fire.

To win requires a delicate balance of talent and luck, and Alaska can’t stop thinking about Sharon’s condition, about the burns scorched into her palms or the fever burning on her cheeks.

She’s seen how quick Sharon’s draw is, experienced how terrifying it can be. She just doesn’t know if she’ll live up to it after being knocked down so hard.

They begin taking their steps, and Alaska unconsciously tightens her grip on her gun, her finger coming to rest on the trigger. A horrible dread prickles down her spine, and she keeps her eyes on Solomon, despite how his proper posture and his neat steps say otherwise.

One.

Sharon’s chin is up, her expression resolute.

Two.

The buttons on Solomon’s jacket catch the sunlight like flashes of lit gunpowder.

Three.

Sharon’s hair blows in the summer wind, startlingly soft against what she’s about to do.

Four.

Solomon’s hand moves to hover at his hip.

Five.

Solomon stops, glancing behind him towards Sharon. Alaska’s heart leaps into her mouth.

Six.

Solomon turns, pulling his gun out of his holster with wicked speed.

Seven.

A gunshot echoes off of the mountains, deafeningly loud. It leaves Alaska’s ears ringing.

Eight.

Everyone freezes.

Alaska stares at Solomon as he falls to the ground, silent, a bullet hole through his temple. She feels nothing, watching a thin plume of smoke rise from her gun. She feels everything, watching Sharon turn, her own gun already in her hands, and stare at Solomon’s body with expressionless shock.

Willam looks at her, a new appreciation in her eyes. “Good fucking job, bitch,” she says, and Alaska lets out a relieved laugh before vomit suddenly crawls up her throat, and she stumbles out of the shed to puke into the grass, her gun falling uselessly out of her shaking hands.

Everything erupts into chaos.

There aren’t many men left, but the ones that are start shooting immediately, and the sound of gunshots fill the clearing once again. Alaska can hardly bring herself to care, shock still numbing her, distancing her, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still shaking violently.

She’s just killed a man.

She doesn’t regret it.

She takes in a shaky breath. She doesn’t regret it. It was his life or Sharon’s. He’d broken the rules to kill the woman she loved. He deserved it.

She looks up when everything falls quiet again, looking around at the dead men littering the ground. She can’t see Sharon, and she’s just beginning to panic when a hand suddenly touches her wrist.

She startles, whirling around to find Sharon beside her, her brow furrowed with concern and her eyes filled with pride. She lets out the breath she’d been holding, and it comes out more like a sob.

“Wanna explain to me what just happened, back there?” Sharon asks gently, and Alaska wants nothing more than to just hold onto her and never let go.

Alaska falls into her, shaking, and Sharon’s arms come up to hold her tightly. Alaska buries her face into the crook of her neck, relief coming over her in waves.

Sharon is safe. Solomon is gone.

Sharon is safe.

“I love you,” she whispers into Sharon’s skin.

“I love you too.”

🌸

The road back to camp is a rough one, but easy enough, all things considered.

The afternoon sun beats down on them as they pick their way back, moving slowly to accommodate for Sharon’s ribs, unwilling to make anything worse despite Sharon’s insistence that she can take more than the slow gait they’ve settled into.

Sharon rides with Alaska, unable to grip Cerrone’s reins on her own due to the burns in the center of her palms, her back pressed to Alaska’s front, her head resting against Alaska’s shoulder. She’d made a lewd comment or two about ‘riding with Alaska’, smirking and being generally obnoxious, but her eyes had fluttered closed after around a half hour of riding, exhaustion and fever ultimately taking over. Alaska kisses the top of her head, affection swelling in her chest and relief still coursing through her veins.

Sharon is safe.

The thought keeps echoing through Alaska’s head, and she wraps the arm she has around Sharon tighter, relishing in the feeling of her weight pressed against her. Emotion is a ball in her throat still, relief and love palpable on her tongue, but she also feels pride in her fingertips, in the corners of her mouth.

She’d saved Sharon.

She’d killed Solomon with one shot, adrenaline and the strength of her urgency making the world slow down, allowing her to line up her shot without hesitation and pull the trigger. She’d shot before he could, shot faster without thinking than he had with forethought - she’d won.

She’s proven her worth. She belongs amongst these women, these hardened criminals with kind eyes and even kinder hearts. She belongs to Sharon, who’d put a bullet in more than one man to protect Alaska, who’d sworn to always shoot for Alaska.

I’ll protect you, Alaska - I keep my word, and even if you shoot like a goddamn gunslinger, I’ll shoot before you have to.

Sharon had never broken her promise. Love is warm in Alaska’s belly as she glances down at her, her own promise curling itself around her heart.

She will always protect Sharon, no matter how high the cost.

Always.

🌸

That night, Alaska sleeps as close to Sharon as she physically can.

She wraps her arms around her lover’s waist, careful of her bruised ribs, and she buries her face into her dark hair, breathing her in. Emotion balls up in her throat, and she squeezes her eyes shut, tears making her eyelashes damp.

Sharon shifts against her, touching the back of her forearm with her hand.

“Lasky?”

Their arrival at camp had been joyous, Jinkx, Katya, and Detox all running towards them as their horses rounded the corner, abandoning Phi Phi and their game of poker by the fire pit. It had taken them three hours to get to Solomon’s camp, and with the way they’d picked their way back, careful of their injured cargo, it had taken twice as long to return. Evening light had tinged everything with an orange glow as they’d slid off of their horses, shaky with relief, and the fire had been lit, the smell of stew wafting towards them tantalizingly.

It had felt like coming home.

Detox’s screeching laugh had been familiar, and Katya’s odd beratements as she and Alaska had helped Sharon down from Cerrone had been comforting, her lighthearted notes about ointments and bandages soothing Alaska’s worry almost completely. Jinkx’s smile was bright, relieved tears in her eyes as she tugged Sharon into a long embrace, and Alaska had watched them with affection, warmth spreading from her chest down to the tips of her fingers.

Sharon had bragged about Alaska, pulling her in for another deep kiss for the entire camp to witness, and Alaska had blushed into it, her fingers coming up to thread through Sharon’s hair. Katya had whistled, Willam had called them ‘disgusting’, and Alyssa had given them a sly look as they’d broken apart, like she knew exactly how badly they’d wanted to take things further. Sharon had given her the middle finger, grinning like a loon, her own cheeks flushed with fever and exhilaration.

It had felt like coming home.

“Alaska?” Sharon repeats, her voice louder with concern. She turns over in Alaska’s arms so that they’re face to face, their noses just inches apart. Her brow is furrowed. “Are you alright? I thought I heard a sniffle.”

Alaska feels love well up within her, and she laughs, her voice wet with emotion. “I just–” she cuts herself off, her voice wobbling dangerously. The stress of the past two days is suddenly catching up to her, her relief abruptly overwhelming. “Thank god you’re okay.”

Sharon gives her a sad smile, raising a hand to brush some of Alaska’s hair out of her face. Her bandages are a bluish white in the filtered moonlight, thick around her palm and wrist. Alaska’s heart aches at the sight. “Still on about that, are we?”

“Yeah,” Alaska says, the joke feeling something like salt in a wound. “We are. Sharon, you were kidnapped. Solomon was doing god knows what to you, and no one knew for half of that time. All we had was fucking Phi Phi to go off of, and all I could think was that the last thing I said to you was that I didn’t love you, and it was killing me, Sharon.” Tears are flowing freely, now, and Alaska’s voice cracks as she continues, cupping Sharon’s face desperately, searching her expression in the darkness of the tent. “I could have lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Sharon says softly, wrapping her hand around Alaska’s wrist, holding her hand in place. “I’m right here. I’m sorry.”

They lapse into silence, Alaska trying her best to calm herself down and Sharon stroking her wrist with her thumb, lowering their hands so that they’re resting between them. Alaska can hear the crickets chirping outside, the wind softly whistling around the canvas of the tent.

Sharon takes a deep breath after a moment, breaking the quiet that had surrounded them like a bubble. “That fight was all I could think about,” she whispers, looking into Alaska’s eyes with something like regret. “I thought for sure that you had left, that you would be too far for me to chase after you by the time I managed to get away. I’m just so goddamn stupid - I felt like such an idiot. I kept going through all of the things I said, all of the things you said, and I–” her voice breaks, and Alaska’s heart breaks along with it. “I’m sorry.”

“I did leave,” Alaska tells her, and the hurt that flashes across Sharon’s face makes her heart twist painfully. “I was so angry. I thought you’d broken your promise, I felt like– I was betrayed. I thought I didn’t belong here - that I couldn’t. But then I realized just how badly I was wrong - thank god for that.”

Sharon is shaking her head as she finishes, looking at Alaska beseechingly. “Lasky, I didn’t break my promise. I was just so angry–”

“I know,” Alaska interrupts, and she laughs a little at Sharon’s surprised expression. “I promised Willam not to fuck things up, today. You see how that went.”

Sharon gives her a warm smile that slowly spreads across her face. “That’s my girl,” she says, approving, and Alaska flushes with pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have - I didn’t know what I was talking about, that night. I was stupid, and scared. Scared of how much I’d changed, scared of how much I loved you–”

Sharon cuts her off with a kiss.

Alaska melts into it, love and affection threatening to burst from her chest. She slips her hands into Sharon’s hair, her thumbs resting on the corners of her jawline, delightfully warm. She sighs as Sharon deepens the kiss, heat pooling in her belly.

She breaks the kiss as Sharon attempts to slide on top of her, gently pushing her back down. She smirks at Sharon’s wide eyes, excitement flickering in her chest. God, she loves this woman.

“Not tonight,” she says, raising herself up to straddle Sharon’s hips, cupping the sides of her face. She leans down so that their lips are just centimeters apart, unable to keep from smiling at the new heat in Sharon’s gaze, at the smirk that’s beginning to curl at the corner of her mouth.

“No?” she asks, and Alaska gives her a smirk of her own, shaking her head.

“No. Tonight,” she says, “I’ve got you.”

She pulls Sharon in for another kiss, meaning the words with every fiber of her being. She belongs to Sharon, and Sharon belongs to her. They have each other.

Always.

#rpdr fanfiction #alaska thunderfuck #sharon needles #jinkx monsoon #willam belli #phi phi o'hara #morgan mcmichaels #roxxxy andrews #detox icunt #shalaska #western au #lesbian au #wild flower #freyja #tw violence #tw mild offscreen torture #tw guns #tw murder

[pandora15]

Whumpmas Day 15 Prompt: Torture

As soon as Obi-Wan ran into the cell and saw Anakin hanging limply from his bonds, he felt as though he couldn’t breathe.

“Anakin,” he breathed.

This was the boy who wriggled his way into his life after Qui-Gon’s death.  The boy who kept him from drowning in his grief and responsibilities.

Anakin kept him on his toes for all these years, even after the war started, after Anakin was Knighted.  Even after Anakin got a padawan of his own.

Said padawan was waiting by the ship.  Obi-Wan was really glad he told Ahsoka to stay there.  He didn’t know what seeing Anakin like this would do to her.

Anakin’s face was nearly white, and his breaths were coming in short, pained gasps.  His tunic was soaked with blood, some of it fresh, some of it dried.  Obi-Wan could smell the blood and the infection.

He could feel Anakin’s pain screaming out into the Force.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath before he ignited his lightsaber and quickly cut Anakin’s bonds away.

Anakin let out a hitched breath before he dropped to the ground.  Obi-Wan barely managed to catch him, knees almost buckling from Anakin’s weight.

Anakin mumbled incoherently, then coughed.

There was blood on his lips.  The Force suddenly felt cold around Anakin.

He needed a healer, now.

Obi-Wan managed to send a desperate message to the medics before he shifted Anakin carefully into his arms and stumbled out of the cell.

Anakin was heavy, but Obi-Wan pressed onwards, undeterred.

Anakin’s blood was staining his tunics.  Anakin’s breaths were even more pained with each movement, and Obi-Wan whispered apologies every time Anakin moaned in his unconsciousness.

He didn’t know exactly how long he carried Anakin, trying to get back to the ship where his men and Ahsoka were waiting.

Obi-Wan focused on placing one foot in front of the other, determined to get Anakin to safety.  The Force shivered and cried, pressing desperately onto his shields, but he pushed the feeling away.  There was no time for this.

By the time he reached his men, Anakin was still, cold, and heavy in his arms.

Obi-Wan lowered him carefully to the ground.

Anakin didn’t move, not even to breathe.

“Let me through!”

Ahsoka.

She stumbled past Rex and Cody, eyes wide with tears.

“Master!” she shouted, dropping to her knees next to Anakin, placing her hands on his shoulders.

Anakin didn’t move.

Obi-Wan stared at him, waiting for Anakin to move, to open his eyes, to say something.

Ahsoka let out a sob.

The medics stood next to Rex and Cody, heads bowed.

“Why...” Obi-Wan cleared his throat, not realizing when it got so dry.  “Why aren’t you helping him?” he asked them.

Ahsoka’s head snapped up, as though she only just realized that Obi-Wan was standing there.

There was pain in her eyes.  Pain that he recognized, that he saw in his own eyes after Qui-Gon...

Obi-Wan shook his head.

“Master Kenobi...” Ahsoka whispered.  Her face was wet, tears spilling easily from her eyes.

Oh.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath.

The Force was screaming, shattered from loss.

There was a burning pain in his mind, similar to what he felt right after Qui-Gon’s death.  He remembered the Healers telling him it was because of his Force bond with Qui-Gon shattering with Qui-Gon’s death.

Obi-Wan’s body went cold.

Anakin wasn’t moving.

Obi-Wan took two stumbling steps forward and fell on his knees next to Anakin, next to Ahsoka.  He placed his hands over Anakin’s chest, waiting to feel the heart beat.

It didn’t.

“Anakin?” he whispered.  “Anakin, wake up.”

Anakin didn’t.

Ahsoka let out another sob, covering her face with both hands.

“Ahsoka needs you, Anakin,” Obi-Wan continued.  “And I do, too.  And Padmé.  And your men.  We all need you.”

“Stop it.”

Ahsoka was looking at him now, eyes wide.

“He’s dead, Master.  Don’t do this to yourself,” she continued.

“No, he’s just--” Obi-Wan felt some sort of strange emotion rising in his chest.  He pushed it down and away, almost violently.  “Sleeping.  Unconscious.”

“Sir, she’s right,” Cody said softly.  “I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  The movement hurt.  He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was drowning.

Anakin wasn’t moving.  He wasn’t breathing.  The Force felt broken, shattered, in his mind.

“I...oh,” Obi-Wan breathed.  “Oh, Force.”  His voice cracked.

He felt hands wrapping around his shoulders, felt Ahsoka press her head onto his shoulder as she sobbed again.

Anakin was dead.  Obi-Wan failed him.  Obi-Wan failed Qui-Gon, unable to fulfill his dying wish.

And now the Force was shattered, because of him.

Because he was too slow.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered.  “Force, I’m so sorry.”

(Pandora’s Whumpmas Masterlist)

#whumpmas #whump #pandora writes #tw character death #tw major character death #uh. does this actually fill the prompt? #the torture is offscreen so...? idk. #anyways. #this is. sad. #i'm sorry #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #cody

[thewollfgang]

Prompt 23 and 30 with a dose of Lucifer whump!

you got it! ;D

23. “We’ll get through this, I promise” + 30. “I think I forgot how to breathe”

When they finally find Lucifer, Chloe fears they are too late. He’s strung up by his wrists inside a gilded cage, blood dribbling down his arms. The Sinnerman is slumped nearby, dead. Dan had put three bullets neatly in his chest. 

Chloe hardly has time to be grateful to Dan for finally putting the bastard down, rushing to Lucifer. The lock refuses to budge on the cage door and Chloe snarls with frustration. Dan calls for bolt cutters while Chloe presses herself as far against the bars as she can.

“Lucifer,” she calls. “Lucifer, can you hear me? We’re here.”

He shifts and draws himself more upright, a fresh ooze of blood sliding down his skin as the wounds split open. “Chloe?” he asks, voice ragged.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here,” she tells him, almost frantic. “We’re going to get you out of there, just hold on for me, all right?” And then Dan is there with the cutters and the lock splits in two. She’s throws the door open, the EMTs just behind her, and runs to Lucifer. Chloe falls to her knees and reaches for him. 

“Chloe,” he repeats, knowing her touch, and she cradles his beaten face between her hands. He makes a terrible, animal noise as the paramedics free his wrists from their positions and immediately begin wrapping gauze around them, trying to staunch the bleeding. 

She shouldn’t be here, she should be getting as far away as she can so he can heal. She might be risking him bleeding out just by her very presence. But she won’t leave him. She can’t.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “We’ll get through this, I promise.”

He laughs, more air than noise, but he nuzzles into her palm. His lip is split, the skin flaky and dry from dehydration.

It’s inappropriate, for so many different reason - the timing, she’s at work, he’s hurt - but she can’t help herself. She’s been putting this off for so long. 

She ducks her head down and kisses him. She keeps it short and gentle, a chaste brush of lips, but he follows her as she pulls away, a low sound of want in his throat. Still, he can’t pursue her how he would like, held back by pain and the EMTs still trying to piece him together.

He looks up at her, dazed, reverent. Like she’s something deserving of awe. Chloe cards her hands through his hair, tacky with old sweat and dirt. “You okay?” she asks, though it’s a stupid question in retrospect.

“I think I forgot how to breathe,” he replies, startling a laugh from her. 

“Can you stand?” she asks when the paramedic gives her the okay.

“I can try.”

She braces him at his elbows and he groans as he forces himself to his feet. She sees evidence of the Sinnerman’s torture littering his body and even the paramedics look grim. 

“Let’s get you out of here.” Chloe’s voice wobbles even as she tries for levity. 

“Yes, the accommodations are somewhat lacking,” he jokes, but his eyes are clouded with pain and he can only manage small, shuffling steps even with most of his weight leaning on her. “I am going to leave a scathing review. Two stars.”

Dan approaches and slides under Lucifer’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you outside,” he says, and between the two of them, they help Lucifer out and into the daylight.

#prompt fic #lucifer whump #torture tw #(offscreen) #poor lucifer #wintersummer--3232 #my fic

[dr3amofagame]

i love all your super angsty stuff, but sometimes i want to see dream go apesht and be powerful and confident and frightening again, y'know? maybe a little unhinged still but making everyone realize that THEY made this monster by putting him in the vault O_O

OH YEAH ,, unhinged c!dream my beloved (/lh) 

c!dream when he’s a hot mess, ever so slightly (or not slightly) off the rails is SO much fun to write and read ,, he’s so messed up to himself and others and makes me go like >:D the entire time 

im not sure if this is what you wanted, exactly, but boy was it fun to write. c!sam,, is not having a good day lmao 

tw: blood, violence, implied torture, offscreen murder, death threats, mental instability, emotional distress, dark content, prison arc/pandora’s vault, c!sam critical (not really? But I digress)

Ranboo is in the wrong place in the wrong time.

He thinks, halfheartedly, that that could be the name of his autobiography. What To Do If The Universe Hates You, an Advice Book By Ranboo T. Beloved doesn’t sound too shabby, all things considered - it’s applicable, at the very least. It’d been true with George’s house, true for the Butcher Army, true when he’d been the one that Techno found in search for his armor back, true now, with sirens blaring from the prison that he’s coincidentally probably the closest to out of everyone on the server. Part of him wants to just ditch the place for Snowchester, as he was originally planning to do; unfortunately, caring about pretty much everyone means caring about what’s going on with their greatest enemy, especially now that Wilbur’s been revived.

Ranboo hurries towards the prison, dunking water by his feet to activate his trident. It only takes him a few Riptides (what can he say - he did say he was close to the prison) for the beach in front of the giant, dark-walled structure to come into sight, two figures stood in front of the smaller box containing the Nether Portal. One of them, standing tall and wearing glinting purple netherite, is clearly, unmistakably Sam, which means he other stranger- well, not stranger, exactly, must be Dream.

Ranboo skids to a stop on the hillside, not wanting to jump into the fray until he knows exactly what’s happening; Techno’s voice rings in his head (the element of surprise is one of your greatest weapons in battle) then Phil’s (what he means is don’t be an idiot, mate) and he settles, silent, to observe with an enderpearl readied in his hand.

It’s no wonder he didn’t recognize Dream, at first - he looks nothing like the man that Ranboo remembers, almost doesn’t look like a person at all. His hair is long and tangled, hanging in clumps around his face. Even from the distance, he looks like a wreck, all sharp edges and skinny, shaking limbs, a heavy netherite axe hefted in one hand. Ranboo shudders at the sight of the blood already on the blade, at the various injuries painting the orange of his prison uniform more red than orange, and looks to make sure his sword is close at hand.

“Prisoner,” Sam’s voice is gravelly, tight with stress. He sounds the same way he did that one time he confronted Ranboo about the prison books he didn’t remember signing, the pages filled with strange runes that he somehow could understand- “Stand down.”

“Sam-” Dream laughs, high-pitched and grating, and Ranboo’s tail lashes anxiously. Dream’s hand raises to his face, his shoulders shaking as the other hand tightens over the handle of his axe, “Awesam. Sammy- I told you, didn’t I? I fucking told you what would happen.”

“Dream-”

“Unless you want to end up like Quackity, I suggest you stop talking, Warden.”

It’s quite a sight to see someone in fully armored netherite cower from someone completely unarmored, looking more dead than alive, but well - it is Dream, and Ranboo finds himself cringing back at the words even though he’s not even in the area. He steals a look at his communicator; the rest of the server has noticed the sirens, it seems, but nobody seems to understand what exactly is going on, much less be ready for a potential fight, and a nervous shiver runs down his spine.

“Sammy,” Dream stalks forward, his axe braced in front of him, “Look at you. You’re so goddamn pathetic-” He spits the words like venom, back hunched, center of gravity pulled close to the ground - he looks more mob than human, watches Sam with the same wild-eyed desperation that Ranboo’s seen in a starving wolf chasing down prey, “Such a fucking coward that you couldn’t do shit yourself. Well- good for Quackity, isn’t it? It sure ended up well for him.”

Ranboo shivers, looking at the blood staining the netherite blade with ice rising in his chest. No- he didn’t-

“You know how good it felt to plunge this axe into his neck?” Dream laughs, the sound raspy and unsettling, making Ranboo shrink back in his hiding spot, “You know how many times he threatened to do the same to me? You know how many times he’s used this exact fucking axe to cave my ribs in?” He hurls the blade down and Ranboo reaches out with a wordless shout, watching as the axe strikes the earth in a spray of sand, “HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES, SAM?”

“Dream-”

“Don’t- You don’t get to call me that,” Dream pulls the axe back, looks up with another round of breathless laughter. “You- don’t you fucking dare.”

Sam draws back- Ranboo can’t place the expression that flashes over his face, something a little like fear, something a little like guilt. He doesn’t seem to try and say anything, a sword appearing in his hand.

“So you want to try this too,” Dream’s voice pitches low, becoming something hysterical, almost amused, “Sure! We’ll play. Try to last a little longer than Quackity, will you?”

He flashes forward, much much faster than he should with the amount of injuries that claw over his arms and legs, brings the axe down in a heavy clang that is only barely met by Sam’s sword. Ranboo looks left and right, tries to find others coming to the Warden’s aid, finds none. Dream’s pace is ruthless, bringing down the axe again and again, hardly reacting when Sam catches him by the arm on his blade. Sam hisses in alarm as the axe handle is swung into the inside of his arm, loses his grip on the sword as the back end of the axe catches it at the base. Dream heaves in shuddering breaths, axe clanging against Sam’s armor and sending the creeper hybrid toppling to the ground with a sharp exhale of breath, presses the bloody blade beneath his chin.

“You know-” He smiles, pressing the axe forward further, making Sam lift his head as he falls back against the sand, “You were kind of useful, you know? You and Quackity, I mean.” Dream hisses angrily, words pitching lower, “Do you know what’s the easiest way to make someone hurt? Do you know where to hit someone for it to cause the most pain? Do you know how it feels to break every bone in your fucking body? Quackity said he’d make every fucking day of my life a living hell.” He raises his axe, foot ground down on Sam’s arm, “How about I return the favor?”

Ranboo throws his enderpearl.

He raises his sword, braces against the vibrations running up his arms as the axe crashes down on it with a grimace as he readies himself to fight. Dream draws back for a second- “‘Boo?’

“Ranboo, run,” Sam shouts behind him, pulling his arm to his chest as he moves to stand, “Get out of here-”

“No, no, I think he can stay,” Dream’s eyes flash, harden. “Figures that he’d play the traitor once again, doesn’t it Ranboo?”

“I was never your ally-”

“You and the rest of this damned server, ‘Boo,” He laughs dangerously, draws back as Sam gets to his feet. Ranboo watches as he kicks up Sam’s sword, catching it in his left hand. “Oh well. As much as I would’ve liked to take another life-”

A flash of blue-green, and there’s someone else standing there, a crossbow loosely held in one hand, smiling lazily through his hair.

“-it looks like my ride out is here.”

“You’ve made quite  the mess,” Wilbur drawls, rolling his eyes at the man beside him, “I have to say- I’m a little impressed.”

“Wil,” Dream breathes, shoulders visibly falling, looking at the other man with a sort of soft-edged reverence that makes Ranboo shift uncomfortably at the sight. It feels off, wrong, to see him go from a raging, frothing thing to someone docile, expression filled with a mockery of adoration.

“We’ll be off then, gentlemen,” Wilbur salutes with one hand, lips quirking up. “No hard feelings, Ranboo, Sam,” he nods at each of them with their names and tosses an enderpearl into the horizon, Dream doing so at the same time, “We’ll see you around.”

Ranboo watches, lungs heaving, as they disappear.

“...you know, Sam, I think we might be in a little bit of trouble.”

#tw blood #tw violence #tw torture #tw death threats #tw mental instability #tw murder #tw emotional distress #tw dark content #tw threats #long post #prison arc #pandora's vault #warden sam critical #c!sam critical #my writing :D #my asks !!

[butwhatifidothis]

Please...stop reading the damn fic. We get it. It's bad. I was fine with dunking on it at first but the dunking has just kept GOING AND GOING. At this point everytime i see something Regarding Captainwhatever's fic my eyes glaze over since the biggest problen with the fic is "X character is out of character" on repeat.

I'd argue that that's... not really the biggest problem with the fic though.

This is one of the most popular 3H fics on AO3, written by one of the more well-known meta posters of the 3H fandom, and this fic that's influenced so much of the fandom written by someone who has similarly influenced so much of the fandom has blatant

Misogyny (Women have to feel "ugly" even when there's nothing to indicate they do in canon | Canonically strong characters are reduced to being called delicate girls | Adult women are turned into scared little girls just for sympathy (as in, she was literally a fully grown woman but was turned into a teenager -> the priestess in Chapter 32) | Sexual assault is added to female characters who are never stated or implied to have been sexually assaulted | Young adult/Adult women are constantly called “girls” and constantly refer to themselves as “girls” while young adult/adult men are in comparison rarely called “boys” and rarely refer to themselves as “boys” | Older women are portrayed as predators | Women’s lifelong goals/wants being morphed to actually be harmful to them and that their real place should be taking care of family (see: Ingrid) or staying by their lover’s side (see: Fem!Byleth) | Fear and uncertainty are injected into female characters for no reason (see: Edelgard being scared of literally everyone she stands up against) | Young women who don’t stand with the pure lesbian are portrayed as heartless, ditzy bitches and get severely punished (see: Hilda - punishment comes at a later point in the fic I haven’t reached, tho I know it’s there from others))

Misandry (Men are made to be sexual assaulters when they're never implied to be such in canon (Thales) | Men are always made to be the butt of the joke while women are never put in the same position | Men are put in their place every time they defy a woman | Male relationships are always pushed to the side to focus on the “better,” “pure” female relationships | Mlm relationships are given weak excuses as to their exclusion (Ferdi//bert, “I don’t have time to develop this relationship offscreen like I do all of the other relationships in this fic not name EdeI//eth”) | Only men are ever portrayed as unambiguously evil with no nuance whatsoever, while women are always given some sort of reason | Men's suffering is regularly ignored in favor of a woman's suffering)

Ableism (Dimitri is portrayed as always being on the edge of violence, lashing out and breaking things over simple disagreements, saying CrAzY things with no provocation, and only ever pretending to be kind and polite to hide how actually he’s just a violent crazy person | Rhea is portrayed as an angry, obsessed madwoman who only ever pretends to be calm and patient to manipulate everyone around her | Edelgard is portrayed as a weak child pretending to be strong and who really wishes she could be a pure little girl again)

Racism (Claude is immediately suspected of being one of TWS - as in a murderer, torturer, kidnapper, and/or (in this fic) sexual assaulter, and/or working with people who are those things - with it being explicitly said that part of the reason for that was because he was an outsider, meanwhile Dimitri is never accused of such things despite him also being described like TWS are (fake persona, looks as though he's acting, pretending to be nice, trying to butter up to her (from her POV) -> these are not ”red flags” in Edelgard’s mind, only Claude’s behavior is) | Edelgard explicitly says that part of the reason she would have not trusted Shamir was due to her being Dagdan, and that she primarily likes Shamir because she 1) (supposedly) believes the same things Edelgard believes and 2) is friends with someone Edelgard likes - aka, Shamir is "one of the good ones" | the entire underlying message of Nabateans lacking humanity due to not being of the human race | (Chapter 36) Byleth defeating Thales is something that can be literally, genuinely 100% ignored, but us seeing Rhea get a "justified" death threat, Seteth "rightly" getting his face beaten, and Dedue being beheaded by Byleth for attempting to destroy Edelgard's body - all of these bad things happening to minority characters - were all apparently crucial for the reader to know | (Chapter 36) Byleth says she wants to die explicitly because she is mixed (Nabatean and human))

Bigotry against religion (Dimitri (in this fic) is religious and it makes him a zealot | Byleth following the Church makes her lose her humanity and eventually any will to live | Edelgard (in this fic) once being a follower made her grow up thinking she was ugly and unloved | Marianne being a follower makes her think that she should kill herself | Seteth and Rhea - two religious figures - are constantly portrayed as angry, irredeemable monsters | Scared, helpless girls (who were adult women in canon but turned into teenagers by the author) are forced by priests to fight in horrible battles for their religion (see also the misogyny portion))

Fetishization (Edelgard's scars are only for whump porn and not to actually affect her in any substantial way not related to being comforted about them | Byleth’s scars are literally said to “accentuate her beauty” | Edelgard and Fem!Byleth’s love is the very typical “pure lesbian love” trope, with both women being reduced to children with adult faces to make their love seem that much more innocent | Female relationships are always portrayed as pure and loving unless they involve older women such as Rhea, who are portrayed as predatory | Edelgard being given flower imagery that directly relates to her purity and beauty)

Uncritical unhealthy relationships ((Chapter 36) Byleth is only able to become more human if she stays by only Edelgard’s side and will actively degrade as a person without her, with no one being able to help her | (Chapter 36) The Black Eagles will fall apart as a “family” without Edelgard to hold them together because it’s only her that keeps the “family” intact | The Nabateans being nice to Byleth and treating her like family and making her happy is a bad thing, while the Black Eagles never being there for her and talking bad about her behind her back and never interacting with her is a good thing | Byleth always excusing Edelgard’s actions because of “love” | (Chapter 36) Byleth becoming obsessed with Edelgard and wanting absolutely nothing else in life but to be with her is rewarded and portrayed as the pinnacle of love)

^^^ All of that? Is everywhere in this fic. It’s drenched in it. This is what the 3H fandom looks to for their critical analysis. This author is the one people look to get a “better” understanding of not just Edelgard, but all of 3H. Do you know why I harp on Edelgard’s bad characterization so much? Why everyone’s characterization is given such a critical eye from me? Because all of the above is tightly woven throughout said characterizations of them. With all I’ve talked about this fic and the posts I’ve made about it, me and plenty of others have pointed out the deeper, more concerning aspects of it that go beyond the scopes of “wah he wrote Edelgard wrong :(” - there is an extremely consistent tendency of Cap’n to write all of those above things over and over. 

And, again, this is one of the most popular fics in the entire 3H fandom. It’s the most popular Edelgard centered fic (by hits - still one of the most popular by kudos). This fic is propped up as meta by Edelstans. This author is one of the cornerstones of Edelgard analysis. A guy writing a strong, fearless woman as a scared, helpless, delicate, pure, innocent, broken flower is who people turn to and who people will turn others to for a “better understanding” of how to perceive Edelgard. 

So, forgive me for raggin’ so hard on this dumpster fire of a fic for its frankly shitty as hell depiction of literally everything. Sorry that I don’t like all of the above shit I listed being prettied up and passed around as the pinnacle of progressive and profound writing. Next time when I see something this popular with this many horrible things in it get tossed around as the true, right interpretation of the media it’s based off of, I’ll ignore it like that good girl I apparently oughtta be

#ask #anon #o captain my captain #like sorry for comin' at ya kinda hard nonnie but like. this fic is genuinely trash #but I'm supposed to sit here and think that it's not only good but the CORRECT version of the game and characters #yeah no this shit is garbage

[the-lonelybarricade]

I love your writing. I saw your comment about whether there were more requests about Rhys pov, and I'd like to ask if that's alright, about a Rhys pov of his about the time after meeting Feyre, after he dropped her off at spring court, he under the mountain ( nothing explicit), the currency at source. A really cool and sad idea would be serious if he had seen her when he left their heads there without her noticing (you know with and only the fanfics we created in our heads 😊😂)

Hi darling!! Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to this prompt but I loved this idea. This is the first Rhys POV of something that happened offscreen in ACoFD. My warning is that it's not a happy one. There's mentions of his nonconsensual Fire Night with Amarantha and Rhys is in quite a dark place, so please do what you need to protect yourselves <3

Read on AO3  ⟡  Masterlist

TW: Mentions of Rhysand’s SA, non-graphic descriptions of blood & violence, dark thoughts

I’m coming back for you. Soon. Just please hang on for me, okay? I’m so proud of you.

Feyre’s parting words trailed Rhysand like a shadow as he returned Under the Mountain, half in a daze. The further he descended into the damp, dark tunnels, the more his encounter with Feyre felt like a dream, reminiscent of those flashes of a mortal woman’s life he’d been seeing in his sleep. But he could still feel her touch lingering on his skin like a sacred brand, and her voice still clanged in his ears, so it must be true.

No matter how inexplicable.

“My, you do love to keep me waiting,” cooed a cold, unwelcome voice as he entered the throne room. It cut through every strand of hope and warmth he’d been holding onto from meeting Feyre. “I assume your trip was successful?”

Rhys smiled cruelly, inclining his head towards the three males he held shackled in his tendrils of night. “Three spies, roaming the Spring Court in search of rebels to conspire with,” he sneered, turning to the picts whose lives he had forcefully reshaped. “Tell our Lady what you’ve revealed to me.”

With his claws firmly clasped around each other their pathetic little minds, he urged them to cower, to resist his command so that he could let out a dark laugh. “I said speak.”

The one who had pushed Feyre—whose thoughts had been the most vile of the three—he was the one urged forward by Rhysand’s magic. “We are Prythian fae,” he said at last, voice wavering yet still filled with enough venom to be convincing. “We’re not made to serve some Hybern bitch and her pet whore. We want our freedom.”

Rhys tutted. “Such bold name calling from traitors.”

Amarantha’s face had twisted into a furious scowl. “Hang them up, but don’t kill them. We’ll make an example of them, so all this court can see what we do to traitors.” The three males protested as they were seized by guards, hauled to the back of the throne room where they would undoubtedly be tortured for days on end.

Rhys hardly paid their struggling any attention, not as Amarantha turned that cold smile onto him. “Rhysand,” she purred. “I’ve been waiting to celebrate Fire Night with you. Go to my bedchamber, I will accompany you shortly.”

Ignoring the resounding jibes and whistles around the court, Rhys offered her a debonair smile and bowed his head accordingly. “I eagerly await your company, my Queen.”

Speaking the words so soon after meeting Feyre felt blasphemous. He suddenly had the urge to rinse out his mouth, and it’d yet to even touch Amarantha’s skin. But if Feyre was his mate, he truly couldn’t afford to slip up. Which meant that he couldn’t afford to think about her—a more tedious task than he’d expected.

Once his father had taken him to the Middle on a particularly brutal expedition he’d called “strengthening mental fortitude”, which had entailed exposing his son to creatures who preyed on the deepest parts of Rhysand’s heart. The fog called to Rhys with his mother’s voice, warm and beaconing. Puca, disguised as his little sister, cried and begged for him to follow, to help. And under the water he heard the softest, most enchanting melody singing sweetly just for him.

Of all the trials he’d encountered that day, none were so difficult to resist as the way Feyre’s voice whispered through his mind now, like a subtle, distant ringing of a bell. If he shut his eyes he could see her endlessly blue irises, so filled with love even as they glimmered with tears. And for that, for his mate in tears to be his lasting image of her, was something cruel and torturous in its own right. If he thought he’d been drawn to Feyre before, when they’d only shared dreams, now he fought against some residual primal instinct to return to her, to quell her tears and rage against anything that caused her pain or anguish.

Yet before dawn he’d know the source of that pain carnally, just as he did almost every night in this damned Hellhole of a Mountain. If he shut his eyes and imagined it was Feyre over him, would that make it better or worse? Would he ever be able to look his mate in the eye after doing so?

She knew. Rhysand knew she knew what he’d be coming back to do, had told her as much. Yet, there had been no judgment in her eyes, only sympathy, only regret that she had to let him go at all. In her memories they’d been happy, readily affectionate. Surely that meant Feyre didn’t view his role as being irredeemably revolting, even if he viewed it as such. She didn’t shy away from his touches despite knowing who had received them for five decades of his life.

Five decades in her servitude, and Feyre didn’t think him rotten for it.

It seemed impossible, since Rhys had felt as though he were rotting from the inside out the moment he sealed off Velaris and began seducing the personification of his every nightmare—

He’d been pacing the bedchamber, but paused as footsteps sounded down the hall. In seconds he’d discarded his clothing and splayed himself casually on the bed, thinking that if he didn’t pretend to enjoy every moment of it, then Amarantha would know something had changed in him today. She would see straight through to this valuable, glowing part of his soul—the first pure thing that had belonged to him in decades. To protect his mate, he’d need to continue his charade. But to repent, he wouldn’t allow himself to escape to any fantasies. He would suffer every agonizing minute of it to keep Feyre and his family—their family—safe.

In the end, what was one more name to add to the reasons why he fucked Amarantha?

The chamber door slid open, and in she strode with her disgustingly snide smile. Her eyes roamed over his naked body appreciatively, and Rhys thought he’d almost rather skin himself where they fell than face the desire that darkened that beady stare.

Blood red lips curled into a smirk and he forced himself to return in, gritting his teeth as he watched her undress, telling himself that the way he hardened was just his body’s natural reaction. It fueled so much of his shame.

“Ready to celebrate Fire Night?” she purred.

He’d rather volunteer for the spit.

Instead he made himself comfortable on her pillows, which stank of her scent, and crooked a finger in invitation. It was going to be a long night, and he prayed Feyre, and the Mother, would forgive him for what he’d be doing. Because he certainly never would.

⟡⟡⟡

Amarantha ended up having so much fun with the three picts that a few days later she sent Rhys back to the Spring Court to hunt for more rebel spies. She’d kept one pict alive, with very clear instructions on what to do with him. A “message” she called it. An odd word for “spite”, but Amarantha’s vernacular had never been particularly impressive.

Rhys debated several things when journeying to the Spring Court to fulfill his mission. The first, was how closely to follow Amarantha’s instruction, certain that his mate would be privy to its discovery. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her with something so ghastly. Then there was the when and how of his operation, logistical planning on when he could slip in and out easiest. Tamlin’s magic was weak, his wards down, so it shouldn’t be a particularly difficult task, but Rhys would prefer to avoid killing any sentries if possible.

And the last, and most important thing he considered: telling Feyre that he’d be in Spring. Right outside her window, by the smell of it.

Rhys ached, physically ached, to speak with her again, to hold her and see that she was safe and cared for though he knew she was. But he’d either be visiting her directly before or after committing a grotesque murder and he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing any shame or pity in her eyes—for the latter he didn’t deserve at all, and the former he could stomach from anyone but Feyre. To see shame in her eyes would revoke the last thing propelling him forward.

So he didn’t tell her he was coming. And when he winnowed inside her bedroom, found her sleeping peacefully, he didn’t dare wake her.

It was enough to know she was safe, even a bit more tanned, more filled out—stronger looking. Their days apart had been far kinder to her, it seemed, and he was so immensely grateful for that. Rhys thought he could hold on knowing she was well taken care of here, even if it was by Tamlin of all people. She was so determined to save them Under the Mountain, but if he could he would burn the world and himself with it to let her stay here where she was safe and unburdened.

With exceeding difficulty, he forced himself to winnow back outside. Any longer and he would have done something stupid, like try to lay beside her and feel the warm press of a body that was welcome for a change. To inhale her sweet lilac and pear scent and pretend, for just a moment, that they were sleeping in bed together in a home far away from Prythian and Amarantha’s iron fist.

But there was no time for pretending, not when there were murders that needed to be commited. So Rhys returned to where he’d left the pict, glazed-eyed and absent against a tree. He was just the shell of the male he’d once been, for Rhys had snapped his mind before Amarantha’s torture had devled into its cruelest levels. He hadn’t done it as soon as he could, because a sick part of him had taken joy in his genuine screams, knowing what the bastard would have done to Feyre if Rhys hadn’t been there. But even Rhys had his limits, and he’d taken mercy eventually.

He’d had to keep the body alive, though, so that the blood that dripped from the heron’s beak could send Amarantha’s stupid message—a message Tamlin wouldn’t understand, for he had no connection to the picts. Rhys had tried so hard not to think about his mother and sister when he’d done it, how they’d been beheaded in a similar manner, shipped down the river in a box.

Blood and water, he mused, watching the blood droplets diffuse where they splashed into the small pool below, slowly muddying the once clean and elegant heron fountain. Why were they always so intertwined? The purity of water, the sanctity of blood, combined now in front of him into something horrific, and it would perhaps not even make the list of his most vile deeds.

He couldn’t help thinking the savior of Prythian surely deserved to be mated to someone greater, someone less tarnished and corrupted. Not just by the sight before him, but from a long list of misdeeds over his five centuries of life. How much cruelty had he willfully added to the world, and now someone of unparalleled kindness had come to claim him? He felt as though someone had placed a white parchment in his ink covered hands and asked him not to stain the pages. How long would it take, for the ink to bleed through, to turn her black and twisted however hard he tried to do the opposite?

How could he ever deserve Feyre?

Rhysand stared, lost, into that bloodied water for a prolonged moment, knowing he should leave before the situation could become worse, yet unwilling.

“Cauldron save you,” he found himself whispering, uncertain if it was a wish for the pict or himself. The male was a monster who’d been willing to harm Rhysand’s mate… but Rhys was a monster, too. Perhaps neither of them deserved salvation, but he offered the prayer, perhaps selfishly. Because maybe if the mother could forgive the headless bastard before him, then she could forgive Rhysand too.

“Mother hold you.”

There was a legend he’d heard once, back when he’d fought beside humans in the war. When they’d believed in such things as gods and wishes. They said if someone tossed a coin into a fountain and wished, like one might on a star, a god might accept the offering and grant it.

Rhys had been so long separated from the stars that there had been none to wish on. But he could summon a coin from his trove, and he had only enough hope left in his heart to cast that coin into the bloodied water and prey—beg—the Mother for forgiveness.

“Pass through the gates, and smell the immortal land of milk and honey.”

Let it be true, he pleaded. Let me be capable of repentance so that I may have that future with Feyre. I do not deserve it, but let me be capable of earning your forgiveness.

“Fear no evil, feel no pain.”

Let me be worthy of being her mate. Let me prove that I can be a good male.

“Go, and enter eternity.”

I am so sorry.

Taglist: @cretaceous-therapod @arrowmusings @achernarlight @rhysandswingspan @imsecretlyaherondale-blog @loverofdemoncorns @thebonecarver @reddidh @feybaenc

#A Court of Faded Dreams #Rhys POV #feysand #feysand fic #acotar #acotar fic #sjm #sjm fic #feysand fanfic #angst #rhys x feyre #tw SA #tw noncon #tw nongraphic blood and violence