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cherrsnut · 4 months

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Hostage - Chapter 1

Finnick Odair x Healer!Reader

Summary: Up until now, your life has been a solitary one. Being the sole owner of an herbal shop, and apothecary to many fishermen who have been injured. Just when your life seemed to follow the routine you were so used to, your life turns a 360 when you’re suddenly taken away for the 67th Annual Hunger Games. This turn of events forces you to accept the idea the Grim Reaper is stalking close behind you, faster than you had hoped for.

Tags: Extremely Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Typical THG Violence, Forced Prostitution, Forced Lab Rat, Injury, Mental Health Deterioration, Psychological/Physical Torture, Death, Alcohol/Drug Consumption, Medical Malpractice, Fluff (bc they deserve it).

Word Count: 3.8k

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Chapter 1

Silence echoed throughout the walls of the streets, and for once it looked like the town had been abandoned, just like everybody had agreed to up and leave it in search of a better fate than what lay ahead of them, or perhaps all the citizens just simply vanished from sight. The breeze of the sea, just as icy as the ocean, seemed to catch on with the mournful mood of the alleyways. The tense atmosphere signaled the hidden mice to not even voice a squeak out of respect.

Even at the plaza, everyone was quiet, and their usually lively ambiance ceased to exist. Just by the sight of the ocean, you noticed just how the wind didn’t spare any mercy for all the attendees of the Reaping. Making this already melancholic ambiance much harder to ignore.

You looked around and followed behind the big agglomeration of people queuing up, making another step further into Panem’s hell. You pursed your lips together and gulped down nervously, patiently awaiting your death sentence.

There were people everywhere, too many people for it to be so quiet to your liking. Although the great majority were adolescents of the oceanic village, you had previously realized the older folks stood far behind you, their suppressed anxiety over their children’s safety due to the men in white, the Peacekeepers, stance in front of them. Their threatening military pattern removed any type of confidence of any caregiver to sneak in and take their child away without facing heavy repercussions. Stationed there to install and make the proceedings of the Hunger Games go as smoothly as possible from outside the Capitol.

The sea of heads that appeared in front of you made the stage barely visible, but you came across what looked like a Peacekeeper setting up a camera, of course, the Reaping was to be live-streamed. Just on top of a platform and above the stage, you were sure the crystal lenses would take up the view of all the adolescents present.

“Everything will be alright” You turned to look beside you, surprised to find a voice breaking the quietness you were starting to getting used to and assume it would prevail for the rest of the annual event. At least before the cries of children as they break their realization of being chosen, or the burning point of a mother’s distress breaks out in a horrible scream.

You assumed it was a pair of siblings, taking notice of the facial traits to be almost identical. Very blonde locks, both wearing the same warm coffee color eyes with freckles of the same hue spotted all other cheeks. And while they represented themselves in the body of the other gender, you found the boy to look somewhere about your age, his sister was a head smaller than him, and you thought it was plausible she just came of age for the nauseating event.

“I promise” he made an oath to his sister, interlocking his finger with hers. She breathed heavily, the limit of her sanity crossing over a soon-to-be panic attack. She tried to fixate her eyes on him, fighting off a barrier to gain herself back together, a battle she looked like she was going to lose. Her brother, which you finally recalled his name to be Philip, crouched down and enveloped her in his arms. An arm protectively around her back, while the other moved around her head in an attempt to massage it to calm her down.

Even in his arms, the little girl was visibly trembling, probably both from the fear and anxiety, that were purging an acidic bile up to her taste glands. The little girl’s forehead pressed on her brother's chest, finding comfort in his protective body.

“Just breathe deeply, ‘kay?” he reassured. His hard fingers were full of little lines of scars, some of which you could recall treating at the herbal shop, and crept up to hold her face. Philip always found himself surrounded by District’s 4 aquaculture, and it was bound to happen after long shifts handling the wires of the nets to eventually cause multiple physical damages.

Philip removed himself from the little girl and looked at her features. She struggled to do so, every time she tried she’d be under attack from another uncontrollable shaking. She could only grab onto his shirt, the shaking becoming increasingly harder with each passing second. The hand that was used to the hard labor of the sea, wrapped itself on top of his sister’s hand, much bigger in comparison. The warmth of their bond calmed her down just slightly, and he went to kiss her forehead affectionately.

“I’m here” his whisper was carried by the breeze that brushed her ear, which tickled her slightly. Upon noticing your heavy stare on them, Philip looked over to you. Both of your eyes interlock with each other. You tried to give him an encouraging smile, but the heavy situation still weighed you down, and your smile came across as a sad one. One that showed pity and understanding toward his sister.

He gave you a knowing look, before his eyes went to his sister, and suffocated further in his embrace to help her to get back to the queue. “I’m here” he repeated.

The stern voice of a woman, announcing a “next” brought you back to reality. You’d forgotten just how the line always moved rather fast, especially so when you had a tendency to drown yourself in self-pity. You were always alone while queuing up to sign in, and never had people you called friends. But you were content with the short company clients or injured patients gave you, just like Edna’s until she died. But you did wonder how it would feel in this moment to be in the company of another person, would you cry together? Maybe hug each other? Or maybe just stay silent unable to utter anything that wasn’t bitter. But this year you felt differently, you wished for the little girl’s safety just like your own.

You gave your hand to the Peacekeeper just as you told her your name, and she took it with the rubber texture of the black-gloved hand of hers. The way she held it was rather rough, but you understood it as wanting to keep you completely still for the pinch in your finger and not mess it up. The end of the buzzing sound coming from the long mechanism suggested the dna withdrawal was finished, accompanied by the slight pain of the tiny nick, so small you’d never consider it an injury.

The Peacemaker guided your finger, a blood drop visible forming, and pressed it on top of the inky empty box drawn on a piece of paper. Your name was attached next to it, with your general information written in smaller letters below it. You assumed the pieces of paper that were attached just like a book, were the enlistment of the possible Tributes of your District. But then again, you didn’t care enough and let that thought drift away just as fast as it came.

Another mechanism, this one much larger and formed just like a box had been stepped and decided to stay in that flat shape. A laser came from the bottom, scanning the blood accompanied by the noisy sounds of mechanical beepings. When it was all set, the Peacemaker simply bid you farewell and called for the child behind you.

You left defeated, another step closer to the selection process. The idea of you being chosen terrified you, and you could feel the anxiety taking hold of your bones. You prayed again in self-pity. Edna always mentioned the idea of sirens existing, and while you never truly believed in it, you prayed for them to listen to you. Every time, at the Reaping, for the past four years you prayed for them.

With an exasperated sigh flying out, you walked around the plaza trying to find a place to stand by and wait for your trial. That was until a hand tapped your shoulder and a raspy voice called out your name. You turned, even more surprised to find Philip along with his sister, both holding hands.

You looked at the boy standing in front of you, expectant as to why he had called you. He gave a quick glance to the little blonde beside him before he spoke.

“Hey, umm, you mind taking Emi with you?” your eyes trailed off to the girl, finally being able to give her face a name. Emi looked at the floor, a mortifying expression coming across her face.

“It’s just-” he tried to continue his explanation.

“Sure” you smiled at the girl gripping onto dear life to her brother. You took out your hand for her, and with unsettlement pumping over her brain, she brushed her finger across yours.

“So, Emi is your name” The statement oddly sounded like a question, but you wanted to make her feel more comfortable even in this terrible situation. To communicate with her, and make her see you as someone she could trust momentarily before she would hopefully turn back with her brother.

Her crystal eyes moved up to you and murmured an mhm before walking indecisively toward you. She looked at the ground when you told her your name, but you couldn’t feel any type of annoyance by it, not when her hands were trembling exaggeratedly. So you squeezed hers lightly in an attempt to make her feel more at ease in your presence.

Philp sighed and you noticed the heavy burden that lifted off of him. He gave you a small smile, the one he hadn’t reciprocated before.

“Thank you” his eyes shone, which only suggested to you the tears he wanted to pour out in that moment. You empathized with him, he probably didn’t have much time to take in the Reaping for himself, and rather give away his attention to his sister who needed him to be strong in her stead. A thought appeared one which you respected and showed sympathy for the mental work they put in for the sake of the younger family members.

“Don’t mention it” you smiled with him. You rolled your eyes at the girl holding your hand, and with the same smile, you muttered. “Let’s go Cupcake”

“Hello Cuties” Sing sang the woman on stage. Her peculiar fashion style nationally known for the Capital’s trends flied around with her sparkling personality. With the color theme of purple pink and pale yellow, shades lighter of the sunflower petals, she wore a design that resembled a kimono. The notable way how the coat of the fabric was placed on top of the other to keep it in a steady place, and with the addition of the belt, covering the whole of the waist until just below her chest, as a means to keep the clothing stuck and not untie itself. The completely yellow obi, name of the kimono belts, was adorned with some sort of lacing at the top and bottom of purplish-dyed sheep wool, with the addition of a pink bow wrapped around the obi.

The star of the fashion design was the sleeves. With a hole showing the shoulders and a few inches down the arm, the rest was covered in the beautiful colors of the spring. With many odd shapes and colors on the fabric. Which later opened up its sleeves up to three feet long. It gave off the impression of wings when the arms were pulled up. The rest seemed to just be decorations around her figure, from a fabric choker of purple as well as the striking head ornaments of the same color scheme presented.

Her voice was too optimistic for your liking, and the singing tunes brought up were as distasteful as her color choice.

“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be in your favor” The District 4 escort celebrated baring her teeth out with that pink tint across her lips, the same tint that decorates her eye shadow.

“But before we begin, The Capitol has brought us a special film for us” she again songed, and you were already starting to be filled with the irritation of her voice.

Emi was still holding your hand. She had kept a close distance from you, practically stuck to your form from the moment we were placed here. She tugged onto your long skirt, and you looked down to find her somber eyes looking up at you. Although you agreed to stay by her side, her added melancholy was starting to affect your already distressed mood, and even though you tried to calm her down she seemed focused on her overwhelmed state.

You smiled at her, with the film starting in ahead of you.

“War. Terrible war” You rolled your eyes up while making a hand movement in a sign to poke fun at President Snow’s repeated speech. Your mock seemed to finally crack a little smile on the little girl, and you were pleased to see her relax a tiny bit.

The film carried on, and your attention span had been but all gone. The Hunger Games were a devastating reality, that had already taken hundreds of children away. You couldn’t see the point of this little speech anymore, and right before the selection process at that. And it seemed Snow was trying to ridicule the Distrct’s anxiety. It exhausted you to no end to have to listen to the same words and the same images, and it got you wondering just why it had to be the same recycled film every single year.

You thought of Emi again. The very same thought appeared every single year, just why were we taking the consequences of a revolution none of us partook in? The only person that you knew who was alive from when the Revolution was still afloat was Edna, and she still lamented that she was just a child when it ended, and luckily enough she never got chosen as Tribute. And that thought only led to helplessness because even though it wasn’t in the least bit fair, there was nothing you nor anyone who would be able to do anything about it.

“The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness” It was the voice of a pragmatic leader giving a speech, sprinkled with sentimental music that made your stomach stir uncomfortably. The crease in your eyebrow knitting as you tried to forget the nauseating feeling from inside you, represented exactly in your self turmoil, you were disgusted.

You gulped down hard as the film finally ended. You gave Emi a quick squeeze to comfort yourself. She only gave you a pointed glance before directing her attention to the colorful escort on the stage.

“Alrighty. Now the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman” she informed, as you bit back your tongue to correct her misuse of words of man and woman for children.

“For the honor of representing District 4 in the 67th Annual Hunger Games” she continued. She then started walking over the large crystal sphere. Inside laid the names of all the girls that had been forced to sign in, inside a folded piece of paper. “Ladies first” she giggled further.

Her hand moved around the pieces of paper messily scattered around the sphere before choosing one. She quickly picked it up to her eye level, a sneaky smile appearing on her face.

You let out a breath, you had done your best to try and calm your nerves. The anxiety was way past the boiling point, and you swore your legs felt drunk.

The escort walks back to the microphone, and the only thing missing for her to further mock your emotions was to make a little dance around the platform, kick up some moves, or simply jump in excitement.

She opened the piece of paper. Your heart beating fast in the back of your throat, as another wave of anxiety filled every single pore in your skin. Her long nails made it difficult for her to open it, and as time passed on, you could feel yourself growing insane. You internally cursed at the escort, every cell in your body screaming at her to just finally read it. And before you knew it she called out a name, your name.

Everything just stopped in you, and if it weren’t because you’d be a dead corpse from organ malfunction, you could’ve sworn your heart just stopped. Your eyes were locked on the colorful woman, but you weren’t looking at her. You were staring into space, you were trying to assimilate the situation you just got yourself involved. But you couldn’t, there was something in you, and that something didn’t connect the wires that you were going to die sooner than you hoped for. The idea of being picked for the annual event was always at the back of your mind, what would be your reaction? You thought that rationally, you’d be upset, maybe crying as well, or perhaps straight screaming and begging to do a re-drawl.

But you weren’t, you were simply still. The look of every girl that had known you looking at you, and it wasn’t melancholy that invaded their intense gaze, but rather they were grateful they weren’t the ones chosen. As hypocritical as it made you, you were mad at them. Your internal anger was justified in your eyes, maybe because you needed someone or something to be mad at. But no matter how irritated you were, you’d done the same in their stead the previous three years you had attended the Reaping.

With another exhale, you came to yourself. You needed to get on the stage. You walked out to the corridor, but barely made a step when Emi tugged back on your fingers. Her eyes were scanning your facial expression. And the way she spoke your name suggested to you, she was beyond her shocked stage.

You gulped another chunk of saliva and got to your knees. You smiled at her, as brightly as you could force it out. And it occurred to you to close your eyes, because you knew you couldn’t force a reassuring look without the fear lurking behind it.

The military steps of the Peacekeepers echoed within every corner of your body so quickly and in a rushed matter. You kissed her forehead, as gentle as a flying feather, to put her at ease.

“I’ll be fine, Cupcake,” you told her as confident as possible, trying not to let the fear accumulated in you spill over the beautiful young girl. And so you stood up, another quick smile flashing over your face before walking the hall that would send you straight to a living Hell. You kept muttering those words “I’ll be fine” as if you wanted to console yourself unknowingly. For now, if lying to yourself is what kept you sane enough to act normally, even suspiciously so, you’d go for it. And once the situation avalanched over your entity, you could collapse and lament for yourself on your own.

You held your head high while walking, your form an empty shell void of any emotions. The very pink hue colored on the escort’s face became clearer with each step, she smiled brightly at you. The wrinkles shown at the corner of her eyes signal of her enjoyment.

“Wonderful! We have our female Tribute for District 4!” playfully expressed the escort, looking straight at your eyes. You walked up the stairs, with Peacekeepers in tow behind you.

The escort held up a hand to you, helping you get up faster, so she could back to her selecting process, although this time it would be a boy. All in her chillingly joyful manner.

Without hesitation, she placed the mic in front of you.

“So, dear, tell me, was that your sister?” she asked you, although it seemed she was asking on behalf of the whole Capitol.

“No…” your voice was weak, the intimidating audience just looked up at you which worsened your nauseating bitter taste. The escort eyed you, waiting for any further explanation.

“She’s my… friend” Her impatience only made your voice quieter, which she must have been content that your husky and throaty tone was speaking through the loud microphone.

The sudden realization came crashing now. Seeing the look of pitied people just below you, wishing you luck before you left for the Capitol, filled the shining of water in your sclera and, you hand was lightly shaking beside your thigh.

“Everyone, please! A round of applause for our lovely Tribute!” she called your name again. Her clapping was soon stopped at the awkwardness that she was the only one celebrating this. You breathed in and out heavy air.

“And now, for the gentlemen” announced the woman standing beside you. Of course, she was trying to salvage the situation. You looked at everyone, and they were all looking back at you. You were lucky enough to connect eyes with Philip, and while you never considered him to be a friend, you were happy to see a familiar face. He was the only one to provide you with that comfort. He looked like he wanted to say something through his eyes, and you responded with a tear swimming down your cheek, and following its path further down your neck.

“Vito Rosechaser” was called. The look of another adolescent, about your age or older roamed around his fellow friends, that gave him a sad look. He opened his mouth, surprised, and as the situation sunk deep into him, he walked down the hall, again with the Peacekeepers around him like frustrating flies.

Just then you’d taken in his appearance, from afar his eyes seemed dark just like his hair. Big build and muscles that suggested he’d worked hard in his life, and you lamented that he propably didn’t deserve this.

You looked at Vito at the end of the stairs, and his eyes briefly grazed yours before he stopped to look at the public. The mic was stolen from you.

“And finally” the hyper tone echoed throughout the plaza, loud enough to quiet down the crashing waves of the beach nearby. The breeze cold as snow felt like it had punctured your veins, and that icy hurt traveled through your body.

“Our Tributes from District 4” her white teeth never failed to show at the camera.

“Come on you two, shake hands” The oddly dressed woman grabbed onto the hems of your and Vito’s shirts, encouraging you two to do the action and let it be over. She stepped back, and the both of you looked at each other before gripping both of your hands.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she sang happily. It echoed in every single rib, deep inside your abdomen. A voice you’d never forget, you were sure of that. Even long after the Games, if you’d even be able to survive, you’d be waking up with this chilling lullaby she was singing.

“And remember, may the odds be ever in your favor”

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#finnick #thg finnick #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick x you #the hunger games #thg #thg x you #thg fanfiction #thg x reader

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gudaho · 25 days

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The Apothecary Diaries has a running tradition of presenting characters in a certain light through Maomaos perspective to trick the reader. I think this could one of those moments.

This event is Maomaos recollection, and it comes up after Jinshi reminded her that being born ruined her mothers professional life (and by extension her mind and body)

As audience members we know that Maomao is deeply sensitive to the position of others. We know that her mother was unstable due to feeling abandoned and then the eventual disease. We know that Maomao feels like she was born without love. And we know that Maomao cannot distinguish her feelings (claiming she doesnt have a mother but taking care of her mother and living in debt to have her housed).

I think its entirely possible that Maomaos mother wasnt chasing her out of hatred, but out of shame and pride

#the apothecary diaries #maomao

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freelancearsonist · 1 month

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when the sun came up, you were looking at me

➔ Din Djarin x gn!Reader - 2.4k

➔ A bounty on your head and a bad ship wreck are just a few of the circumstances that have you questioning if you and Mando will ever be out of the woods.

➔ Rated PG-13 for curse words that are probably not canon in star wars, reader is generally able-bodied but otherwise is completely a blank slate, mando is probably ooc but we’re all a little delusional here, lots of blood, i don’t actually know how concussions work and we’re taking some broad liberties with injuries here.

➔ this is another submission to @beskarandblasters's Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! (if you're reading this kel ily <3) this fic is non-linear so pls bare with me - the timeline will make more sense at the end!

You keep your head down and walk quickly, ignoring the frantic heartbeat of city noise surrounding you as your legs carry you down a dim street.

This is the last place you want to be right now. Even with your cloak’s hood drawn up around your head, you feel too exposed.

The apothecary is a very little hole-in-the-wall type place; you walk past it twice before you finally locate it. The facade looks like it’s about to crumble, and the single window is caked in a thick layer of dust. It looks like it’s been abandoned for decades, rotting with the telltale signs of neglect.

The storekeeper inside looks even worse. She’s a decrepit little woman, squat and skinny, white hair brittle and tangled. Just looking at her makes you want to slowly back away and apologize; say you have the wrong building and run away as quickly as you can.

This is the only shot you have, though; the only place that won’t immediately call the authorities when you step through the door. If you get picked up, everything is fucked.

With a deep breath, you swallow your nerves and summon Din to mind. You think of his easy, authoritative tone and you try to emulate the confidence that modulator always used to convey.

You hear the crash before it happens.

It’s unlike any sound you’ve ever heard before. A high pitched whistle in combination with the deep, metallic scrape of mechanisms working overtime.

And then you feel it. It shakes the very earth you stand on, sends tremors and shockwaves up your legs all the way to the crown of your head. Even after the ground has stopped trembling, your fingertips tingle with the sensation.

You grab a blaster and you run.

You know before you even find it that it’s Din’s ship. There’s a churning, nauseous wrench in your gut and you just know.

There’s so many thoughts swirling through your mind that it doesn’t feel like you’re thinking at all. Your body simply moves on autopilot, like you’re watching a holovid. You traipse bravely into debris and ruin, locating the crumpled remains of the cockpit.

All that beskar is a damned curse, because he blends right in amongst the crumpled and twisted metal of what used to be a functional ship. Stolen, sure, but functional all the same–and the only one either of you had.

But you push aside your anger, because he isn’t responding. You’re calling his name and shaking his chest and he’s just laying there. Not joking about you smudging his armor, not breathing a little heavier at the sound of his name on your tongue like he always does. He just lays there, limp and unresponsive, and you’ve never been more terrified in your life.

There’s smoke and everything feels hot, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, adrenaline surges through your veins and you start dragging him. More than two hundred pounds of bulky man and armor but it doesn’t matter because if he dies like this you’ll never fucking forgive him, never fucking forgive yourself.

You drag him out of the wreckage and dump him unceremoniously on the grass, and then you get really scared. He hasn’t made a single noise, hasn’t even tried to help you with his weight.

You thump a little harder than you should on his chest, desperation outweighing any logical train of thought. “Din, wake the fuck up!”

It’s the slightest of movements–just a barely discernible turn of his helmeted head–but it’s enough.

“Where are you hurt?” You beg, plead, cry. “You have to tell me where you’re hurt, I can help, but you have to tell me.”

His neck is just the littlest bit exposed, but it’s enough. You see scarlet red rivers tracing paths down corded muscle, and it makes your gut clench so hard you almost get sick right then and there.

“You have to take it off,” you whisper–your hand comes to rest at the side of his helmet, the only thing between living and dying at this point. “You have to take it off, Din, I can’t do it for you.”

His fingers twitch indecisively at his sides, and you realize with a gut-wrenching pang of fear that he might not be strong enough to do it himself.

Or, even worse: that he might rather die than show you his face.

As soon as you’re back out the door, your body tremors with a sudden wave of previously repressed anxiety. You want to break out in tears, but you can’t yet. If there’s ever a time you have to be strong, it’s now.

You tuck the bag of supplies underneath your cloak and draw the fabric tightly around your torso as you walk back down the street the way you came.

You don’t think the storekeeper alerted anyone who shouldn’t know about your presence here, but you walk as quickly as you can anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

The ship is old and barely functional, but it’s the best you could scrape up on short notice. It works well enough for these little in-system supply runs, even if it does shake a little more than is comfortable when you take off and land.

After what happened to Din, you swore you would never fly again. That promise went pretty short-lived.

“You’re late. Again.”

You’re used to the deep, gravelly tone of his modulated voice by now, but that doesn’t stop the shiver that works its way down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as meek as you can sound. You set a bundle of herbs and vegetables down on the counter, hoping the offering will appease him at least a little bit. “I found a garden and–”

“And you shouldn’t be going that far alone.” His voice is firm, there’s no room for negotiation.

“Din, I–”

“Don’t. Argue.” And there’s just something about that authoritative tone that makes your traitorous heart seize in a way it shouldn’t. “You are in danger. I brought you here to protect you but I can’t if you keep running away.”

“I wasn’t ‘running away’, I just wanted to be helpful.”

But he’s not budging–not on this one. “You can’t be helpful if you’re captured or killed.”

He stands towering next to you, so solid and imposing. He sets his hands on his hips and you hate the disapproval radiating from him. More specifically, you hate that you’ve disappointed him.

Your voice sounds small, meek–you hate it. “I didn’t do it, Din.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a galactic fugitive with a bounty on your head.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle defensively anyway.

“You said we were safe here. You said we could lay low here until my name is cleared and no one would find me.”

“If you follow my orders,” he adds firmly. “You’re reckless and it’s going to get you killed.”

“I’m restless!” You correct, throwing your hands up in the air. “I hate being fucking… cooped up! I want to go out, and I want to do things, and I want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me!”

There’s a heavy moment of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. You know as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you’ve said too much, but you don’t know how to backtrack now.

“I can take care of both of us.” His voice is so much softer and gentler, you almost think you’ve misheard him. Surely you have, because it’s only been a few weeks since he rescued you from certain death–since he decided the price of the bounty on your head wasn’t more valuable than your innocence–and he’s been a stoic enigma the whole time. Always quiet, always imposing. You’ve never been able to get a good read of what’s going on behind that visor, so you’ve always assumed there wasn’t much.

Maybe you were wrong. You so desperately want to be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, stepping a little closer. Approaching him like a wounded animal, terrified of scaring him off. “I’ll be more careful.”

And you hear it–the hitch in his breath through the modulator at your proximity. You’re closer than you’ve ever been before by choice, and he knows it.

“Good.”

He turns on his heel and retreats into the back room of the little cottage you’ve commandeered and fixed into somewhere livable, and you can do nothing but slump in defeat.

He barely gets the helmet over his ears before he passes out, but it’s enough. Your hands catch the heavy beskar before it can slide back down over his face and you pull it the rest of the way off to toss it safely out of the way.

You’ve seen little peeks of his skin before–mostly his hands when he tugs off those heavy leather gloves–and you know right away he’s too pale. His face is completely drained for color, and again you feel that uncomfortably sharp twist in your gut. But you tell it to fuck off and your hands spring into action, desperately trying to find what’s wrong.

There’s a small yet jagged piece of metal sticking out of his neck, right under where the helmet's protection ends but above where the neck of his shirt would normally sit. Just the smallest strip of exposed skin, but it’s enough. Luck wasn’t on his side today.

You have to pull it out to get a better idea of just how deep it is, but your fingers are so slick with his blood that you can’t get a good grip on it. That’s when the frustration kicks in and your eyes well with tears; your blurry vision only makes you more frustrated, until you’re helpless and sobbing into his stomach.

But you feel it–the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He’s fighting, but he needs your help. You need to get it together because you’re the only chance he has.

You take a deep, unsteady breath and wipe the blood from your hands–and then you reach for that jagged piece of metal again.

You have to sit in the cockpit of your rusty, scavenged ship for a moment to catch your breath after you land safely and in one piece. You’re not even scared of crashing, you’re scared of dying and leaving Din alone. Din, who believed you when you said you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with. Din, who took you to the safety of this mostly uninhabited planet and assured you that no one would find you. Din, who swore that he would protect you.

Din, who has yet to wake up since he fainted lifelessly in your arms.

The metal wasn’t imbedded that deep, thank the Maker. He lost a fair amount of blood over it, but not so much that he couldn’t recover, and it didn’t knick anything too important that you couldn’t stitch back up even with your unskilled hands.

It’s the concussion that worries you. You’re certain it’s not the first he’s had, but it’s definitely got to be the most severe. His skull must’ve bounced around in that damned helmet like a stray pinball. You’re able to take a small amount of comfort from the way his pupils retract when you lift his eyelids, at least, but that comfort wanes with each passing day that he doesn’t wake up.

This is your third time returning from that shady little apothecary on the next planet over, but it’s the first time his eyes have been open when you come through the door.

And for one horrible, gut-turning moment, you think he’s dead. He stares so blankly at the ceiling that you want to fall to the floor and die yourself.

But he hears you approaching, and his eyes flicker over to you. Those deep, chocolatey brown eyes that you’ve come to crave meet yours for the very first time and you start to sob with relief.

You push his back firmly against the mattress when he tries to get up, and you shake your head when his lips part around unspoken words. You just need to cry right now, so he lets you.

Everything comes up all at once–days of panic and fear, days of never knowing if you would ever hear the sound of his voice again, days of tears that you haven’t cried because you haven’t allowed yourself to. It all comes to a boiling point and spills over the edge of the pot, and poor Din just lays there and lets you cry into his chest because there’s nothing else he can do.

It takes longer than you wish it did for you to regain some composure, and when you finally pull away you’re feeling a little more than self-conscious about the very apparent display of emotion.

He must sense it, and even though his face is unreadable, he catches your hand before you can retreat too far.

“H-helmet?” He croaks, throat dry with misuse.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’ll go get it. I… I didn’t see your face, as far as this is concerned. You’re safe with me.”

But he doesn’t let go of your hand when you step to retrieve the helmet–if anything, he squeezes it tighter.

“S’okay,” he whispers hoarsely. “K-kinda… feels ni-ice.”

And it makes your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. That not only is he letting you see his handsome face, but he might even be enjoying it.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” you murmur as you start to remove the bandage from his neck. It’s healed down to a thin line now–the bacta’s run its course, and it’s faded to a simple scar. It could be years old if you didn’t know better. “I… I was so scared.”

“M’sorry.”

And you laugh, because it’s so ridiculous that he feels the need to apologize. It’s so ridiculous that he could think you’re upset at him for getting hurt when all you feel is pure, unadulterated relief.

He takes a deep breath and catches your hand again. “Saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” you murmur–before you can think about it, you ghost your lips in a feather-light kiss over his knuckles.

His eyes flutter shut from that minimal amount of contact, but it’s enough. He’s okay, you’re okay, and it’s enough.

➔ beta: @shakespeareanwannabe; dividers: @saradika-graphics

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#the mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #mando fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #star wars #star wars fanfiction #cece writes

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themotherofblood · 5 months

Note

Omg I love your Bloody Baby series! Could I request like an update where maybe reader is in danger and gets hurt and ends in fluff? If anything I would just love more updates 😭😍🥰

you asked and I deliver :)

warnings: blood!! (duh) major injuries, not very realistic but in fanfic so don’t give me a hard time. just lots of gory blood stuff okay :)

synopsis: Nyra and Daemon go out hunting for The Seven, Nyra gets poisoned and ends up hurting baby (badly!) Daemon saves the day,

masterlist | bloody baby series | vampire au

A/N: I’m in hurt/comfort mood.

There was nothing, they had been at it for a week— shady fuckers never stayed out long enough to leave a scent.

Daemon had to raise a toast to their religious determination for sure, spending over a millennia hunting them— their kind. Wasn’t an easy task to keep up with a growing population, they had another reason for their relentless search this time. A secret that was hidden so well even they couldn’t find it, a possibility of cure from the last Great Weirwood tree.

A tree that should have burnt when the Night King was taken down, but its own powers saved it. The blasted thing was out there, somewhere far north, even modern technology had not ventured that far out and neither could they.

“There is nothing, two weeks and nothing!” Rhaenyra sighs into the phone.

There was news of a deal being struck at a very special kind of apothecary, and if the Seven pokes their heads out now, when they are more exposed then ever. It would have been for a damn good reason.

“We should head home, lingering will do us no good.” Daemon hummed, circling the hotel room where his enemies laid in.

Rhaenyra hums on the other end, a faint sound a zipper rumbles on the other end before she speak again.

“Be careful my love.”

“Always.”

Rhaenyra let go of her phone, picking up her bags to carry them to her car. She missed home, it wasn’t like she could sleep— ever. But she missed the feeling of laying in a soft plush bed with her husband on one end and you in the other. She missed the touch of pure human warmth against her skin, the sound of a beating heart under her.

Her senses however caught a whiff of something else, the deceived tug of something being missing, something looming around the corner bothered her. She froze by the door of the abandoned building, her ears hearing everything from miles away, cars, motorbikes, children crying and a dog howling. Nothing went unheard, just like the distant sound of a thudding heart. Very prominent by the second.

Out of the blue, a hooded man comes at her, too powerful for human but not quite quick enough as she dodges his blow, grunting as she whacks her bag against the side of this man. From behind her, the sounds of gunfire echo, pointed wooden bullets lodge themselves into her back.

Motherfuc—

Painful, effective but not enough to take down a vampire of her calibre. She reaches down to duck more shots, tearing the heel of her shoes and launching it at the person with the gun. The pointed heel launching itself straight in their neck, blood guzzling out of their mouth as the person fell to the floor twitching, succumbing to death.

The second man still taking his shots at her, pushing her hard against the cement walls of the building.

Rhaenyra’s hand curled around his neck, hoping to tear his head off his shoulders.

The man bares his fangs out wide, snarling before digging into Rhaenyra’s throat, pulling a chuck out in the process.

She screams, kicking the man’s knee so hard it breaks— he falls to the floor grunting. A bloody smile to his face as he accepts that he has no way out.

Rhaenyra huffs before plunging her hand deep into his chest, pulling the his frosted red heart out of its cavity, letting his body grey into nothing.

Pain radiated through Rhaenyra’s body as she reached behind to pull the six wooden bullets out of her back, the wounds small enough to stop bleeding immediately but her throat, it was throbbing in pain.

She had to feed, she had to go home. The wound was healing but she hadn’t feed enough for it to heal entirely of its own. She stumbled out of the building, using a piece of her torn dress to stop the bleeding as she some how managed to speed home. The sheer will of not wanting to kill an innocent took her home, to the vast fridge of blood bags waiting for her.

The car seat she sat on was soaked in blood as she grunted out of her BenZ, she looked up to her castle and suddenly her perspective shifted. She turned behind for a moment, her car no longer there but an ornate carriage. She shook her head hard, this time she saw her car.

With relief she stumbled into the castle, making beeline for the kitchens as quietly as she could, she didn’t want to wake you. She didn’t want you to see her like this— you couldn’t cope from the blood and she knew it.

When she opened the doors to the kitchen, instead of very modern stainless steel appliances she was treated to stone walls, massive pots placed on wooden stoves, the aprons of maids hung by the door. She shook her head once more.

Kitchen— her kitchen

She proceeded to rip open the door into her walk in bridge of all the blood she could want, she reached for the first bag closest to her and took a big swig— her pain dissipating for a moment as she rested her hot head against the ice cold fridge shelf. She took two more swigs before reaching for two more bags and exiting the fridge.

She was once again greeted to a medieval stone kitchen. This time she was terrified

What was happening to her

The open wound on her neck began to rip into her, she screamed in agony as she fell to her knees.

The blood pooling around her in the kitchen, she peeled her eyes open, trying to compose herself enough to call for Daemon.

She was still created by an old kitchen and woman she wished she had killed with her own bare hands.

Few feet from her stood Alicent, a bloody smirk on her face and a stake in her hand.

You woke up to the sound of crockeries rattling, other than a few security detail outside. No one should be home.

You tried to rub the sleep away from your eyes as a certain excitement filled your chest.

They were home

You happily pulled yourself out of bed, wrapping your fuzzy teal robe around you and taking your water cup along with you as you padded down the cold tiled hallway and down the main stairs.

You heard more thrashes, wondering if it was Rhaenyra and Daemon yet again very passionately professing their love for one another. It seemed a hobby of theirs to completely destroy a room as they fucked away their fill.

What you were met with instead was bloody footsteps, dragging from the main doors headed towards the kitchen. This time you were cautious, reaching for the closest silent alarm in the main foyer and picking up an old heavy candle stand. You know you shouldn’t, you should go upstairs and lock yourself in there until help comes, but then you see more blood—puddles of it leading into the kitchen.

You see a hand poking right out from the kitchen doors, as you turn the corner you see your detail, men dressed in black clothes— dead men dressed in black blood soaked clothes.

One body, two body.

When you move into the kitchen, you hear rustling behind the massive kitchen island. You hold the candle stand with both hands in front of you, ready to swing it at whoever was behind it. As you turn another corner, you find silver hair soaked in blood and a distinct red colour of a dress.

“R-Rhaenyra?” You stuttered, fear losing itself so deep in your bones but also concern as she turns to you.

Then you see it, the hefty chuck on her neck oozing blood as she sucked the blood out of one of the dead men meant to be protecting you.

Her eyes are dark, face stained red with chucks of flesh hanging from her lips.

“Wh—“

“Run.”

“L-Let me help you.” You whimpered.

“D-darling I need you to run.” She cries.

“But”

“I said go away!” She screams at you, eyes red and wild.

Tears pour from your eyes as you hesitate, you begin to walk backwards, everything in you wanting to fix Rhaenyra— to be with her until Daemon returns but as you keep walking back. You foot slips in the puddle of blood and you fall backwards, hitting your head at the edge of the island in the process before splashing into the thick red liquid.

Rhaenyra turns to you once more, she was there one moment and she shook her head again.

This time she charges at you, landing on top of you as you push her face away screaming.

“Rhaenyra please!” You cry out, hoping that she is in there somewhere.

You however were no match to her strength, she easily caught onto your wrist— a little pressure from her end and then throbbing pain shot through your arm.

In the moment of adrenaline, you reached next to you, giving Rhaenyra the perfect aim for your jugular. She bites in as more pain shoots up your spine.

This time you catch onto the jagged candle stand and stab her right through the back, Rhaenyra retreats, sitting over you but you don’t hesitate and plunge your weapon straight to her heart.

Rhaenyra freezes, the veins in her body go blue as she crumbles next you, her body grey and eyes life less.

You had no time to witness what you had done, some how without slipping in the pool of blood again you race out of the kitchen and up the stairs into your room and then your closet. Using your entire body to push a white dresser in front of the door before cowering behind the rack of coats.

The aderaline still coursing through your body, you look at your bent wrists, you cry out— the blood covering you and Rhaenyra.

She wasn’t there but—

You killed her

Daemon had already been driving home, after collecting some more information from his insiders he too shared the same need to lay in the arms of the two women he loved. The streets were dead enough from him to feel the might of his car’s engine as he blasted music.

What caught him off guard however was the security alarm notification that popped up on his watch, if he wasn’t already flooring the gas he sure was now. Racing to get home, Rhaenyra should have been home by now— that gave his heart some comfort but he sped nonetheless.

What he was greeted with was gruesome, cruel. His eyes were seeing things but he couldn’t process them.

Blood to the kitchen and blood up the stairs.

“Rhaenyra!”

“Y/N!”

He screamed, within a second he was in the kitchen. The room stunk of death, the bodies of his hired detail laid scattered across the floor, and in the pile a head of lovely silver hair stained red.

“Rhaenyra…” he sighed, fingers grazing at the iron candle post in her chest.

He placed her body back down, this listening hard for a faint heartbeat that was very much present. He rushed up to your room to find it empty and thuds of your heart echoing from your closet. He pushed against the barred door, huffing unwanting to scare you any further.

“No…no please.”

He heard your weakened cries as he pushed down the door to find you sitting against your long coats, a shawl pressed up against a heavily bleeding wound and your left wrist bent backwards.

Your lips were nearly blue as weakly cried and stuttered.

“I- I killed her.” You repeated over and over again, refusing to be held by Daemon.

Daemon bit into his wrist, letting blood ooze to the surface before pressing them to you lip, almost forcing the liquid into your mouth as you repeated the same phrase in shock.

You sat against him, letting the vampire blood do its work, Daemon could hear your bones realigning as he soothed you with his hands running down your back and nestling your hair. Once healed he effortlessly lifted your limp body and carried you to the bathroom, he placed you on the sink counter. Letting your body rest against the pink walls as he filled your claw tub with warm water.

If you were conscious enough to see it, it tore him from the inside to see you covered in the blood, the faint marks of your still healing wounds and the lifeless pain behind your eyes. His wife laid temporarily dead in the kitchen that he very lovingly made her breakfast this morning in.

He undid the cuffs of his dress shirt, pulling them up his forearms before gently taking off your night shift, he saw more bruising slowly fading away as he deposited you into the warm water.

The sensation seemed to have shot life back into you as you gasped, you looked up at him wide eyed, with so much pain and concern.

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes pooled “I hurt her, I- kill-“

“She’s fine, she will be fine.” He cooed, pulling the hand shower to wash the blood away from your hair.

His fingertips feeling the head wound shut itself as he washed away the remaining blood. It took nearly an hour to wash away all the blood from your body.

You switched from states of sobbing uncontrollably where he would have to stop and calm you and just staring mindlessly at the red water you sat in.

“Sshh, you are safe.”

“You did good, so good.”

“I know it hurts,” he kissed your temple as the last of the wounds healed themselves.

He had plucked you away from the bath, once again dressed and tucked under the heavy sheet of their shared bedroom instead of yours.

Even tucked in, your eyes pooled once more. He didn’t want to do it but he was yet to pick up the pieces of his wife just yet.

His cold palm rested against your cheek as he wiped away the falling tears.

“You have to sleep.” His eyes dilated.

You whimpered and nodded, your eyes soon after fluttering to slumber. He sat there for a moment, listening to your heartbeat and watching as the frown from your face melted away.

This was close, too close. Rhaenyra was indestructible, you however were a dandelion in the breeze.

She was holding back, she was in there. If she wasn’t, you’d be dead and that’s the kind of weight that would destroy Nyra for the rest of her miserable eternity.

Daemon pulled away, locking the doors to his bedroom from the outside before heading down for Rhaenyra.

All he could think of as he pulled the candle stand from her chest and carried her to the Iron Cells was how close he was to loosing everything.

To loosing you.

Andddd that’s a wrap, I missed writing for this series so much but I crunched it down in one go.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated

Let me know if you would like to be on the tag list.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader x rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #bloody baby series #daemon headcanon #daemon smut #daemon things #daemon prince #vampire!rhaenyra #daemyra vampire au #vampire!daemon #vampire au

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sophswritingthings · 6 months

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Thought of a alternative ending for part 6 and what if reader just goes fucking ballistic whenher dad pulls a quick and tells her about her dead siblings.

Like instead of crying she starts stabbing the shit out of her dad and her usually really neat kimono (I imagine it to be yellow with pink petals on it but like that's just my imagination 😸🫶) is now drenched in blood.

And Mizu comes back and just sees her wife on some dead man's body while NOW letting out the tears and saying it wasn't her fault (Ooo, deranged apothecary wife unlocked) and she looks back and she just looks like Carrie with the amount of blood on her.

Mizu would either be really impressed or terrified or maybe both ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

pairing: mizu x fem!apothecary!reader

warning(s): heavy blood, some depictions of gore, swearing

a/n: mizu would think that’s hot I’m ngl to you

word count: 439 words / 2,397 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“your siblings are gone, and it is all your goddamn fault. and now.. married to a demon?” he scoffed. you stopped. you were holding his collar, a kunai pointed at his throat. “they died. they're all fucking dead, because of you. after you ran away; they had no one to protect them.. their big sister abandoned them, and they died in your wake.”

you gazed down at him.

your eyes looked crazy. you looked insane. you felt insane.

you wouldn’t crumble. no, you were strong. you would hold you ground against this man; the man you had been scared of all your life. you were to be the one to destroy him.

you raised the kunai above his chest, violently thrusting it through his heart. he writhed and twitched, blood bubbling from his mouth.

you didn’t stop.

you… didn’t stop.

you continued to stab and stab, blood splattering across your normally clean kimono. the pink petals of the flowers, the white depictions of the cranes…

drenched in your own fathers blood.

once you knew he was dead, you glanced around.

his blood was splattered around the room—his arms and chest torn to shreds.

that’s when the realization hit you; you were a murderer. you killed your own father. it was self defense, wasn’t it? wasn’t it?

the tears began to flow, the tears washing drips of blood from your face. you felt forward, your hand still tight on the kunai, which still punctured your fathers chest.

the door fell open.

you looked up, covered in blood and looked scared. you weren’t scared of her, of your father, anymore.

you were honestly—scared of yourself.

“my love..” mizu murmured.

“It wasn’t my fault,” your voice was raspy and shaky. you shook your head, “I-it wasn’t my fault, I-it wasn’t my fault—“

“what? what wasn’t your fault?” she leant down to you, resting on one knee. she had removed her hat, which she tucked under her arm—as well as her glasses. so you could see her; just purely her.

you shook your head, “m-my siblings. I-it wasn’t my fault, was it, mizu?” you looked at her with a pleading look in your eyes.

it clicked for her. she glanced down at the dead man, honestly impressed you were able to kill a man five times your size.

“no,” she murmured, offering you her hand. “It wasn’t your fault, it never was your fault. It was his.. and he’s dead.”

you take her hand. she pulls you to your feet, seeing just how bloody you were. she hoped it was his, and none of it was yours.

“let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: in a different universe this is 100% what happened. mizu thinks your hot while your literally killing a man

#mizu x you #mizu x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #blue eyed samurai #fic #fanfic #new fic #alternate universe #fic request #request #ask #asked and answered

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esotheria-sims · 26 days

Text

As was often the case with problems that went ignored, they tended to grow bigger the more time passed.

With a knot of dread in her chest, Annika realized one day that her belly had gotten too big to hide. Soon, her father and brother would start asking questions about her state; and when the truth came out, they'd go looking for the culprit. And not just to chat, either.

It was all her fault. She was the one who insisted on being intimate with Phillip without thinking of the consequences, even though Marcus had warned her. And now that her pregnancy had advanced this much, she was running out of options. It was either being a disgraced, single teenage mom... or being a married-off, trapped-in-a-castle teenage mom. She wasn't sure which of the two was worse.

So once she'd dried her tears and regained some composure, Annika began gathering her things, having chosen an unlikely third option. She packed clothes, provisions, and Spellweaver for protection, and headed out. She would handle everything on her own, she'd firmly decided.

But to do so, she needed to disappear for a while.

#sims 2 #ts2 #sims #gameplay #bacc #wyverns bay #wb gameplay #blackbird #blackbird week 4 #annika blackbird #Abandoned apothecary #mine

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panthera-tigris-venenata · 3 months

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Isle landmarks

Port - divided in between three crews, heavily regarded as a very unpleasant area by, well. Almost everyone else. (Important to note: this goes for every single area of the Isle.) Lives at night a lot.

Jolly Roger of Captain James Hook

Scattered Hope of Captain Harriet Hook. Comparatively safer to be around, you might find some goods "accidentally left out" if the Captain's feeling it.

Lost Revenge of Captain Uma Triskelion. Safest of the pirate ships unless you are allied to Mal or insult Uma. (...You know what, I take that back.) Also, it's a cult.

Chipp Shoppe. Firmly under the rule of Lost Revenge.

Hook's inlet. That's a fancy name for a building that port adults go to pass out in by the morning at that brings substantial money to Captain Hook. (His kids are not allowed to work there. They kept stealing from the counter more than they sold.)

Serpents prep, aka the school Captain Hook was forced to fund after dr F refused to deal with two if his children at once. They've got sea ponies and surprisingly good curriculum.

The centre. Counts as, well, semi-neutral territory?

Tremaine salon. The only actual neutral territory on the Isle. You see, if you fight by the Tremaines, you won't get your hair done. (this works because the Villains and their kids are vain as fuck and value their style over their lives. Literally.) Also, Tremaines treat most of their customers as particularly annoying cats.

Mad Maddy's Apothecary. This could count as neutral territory but Mim's are playing favourites. One rule: Do NOT make out in the Apothecary.

Rose Garden of the Queen of Hearts. Yeah no. Do not go near if you like your life.

Dragon Hall, AKA the school Dr Facilier funded for very innocent and inconspicuous reasons that have nothing to do with the other Villains owing him for babysitting their brats and molding the young minds to his picture, how dare you even suggest that.

The Arcade. Funded by Dr F too and operated mostly by his daughters. Also no ulterior motives on this one. (If little kids don't come to school, they're at Arcade. It's always good to know where the kids you're paid to keep alive are.)

Storm Hall. A mostly abandoned building slightly off-the-centre that Isle kids use for official gang meetings.

Frollo's church. Later, it's ruins. The building has suffered from entirely natural structural instability ever since the first Isle kids learned what matches are. While Frollo's alive, it's unsafe to be around if you're a girl, person of colour, or of magical heritage.

Yes, there is a problem of Frollo's being entirely too close to Dragon Hall. Dr F had it under control! Really!

The Market. Yeah. Market. With very reasonable prices that are not theft at all.

Maleficent's Bargain Castle overlooks the market and her goblins provide security for shopkeepers who are willing to pay a steep price. No one's sure why Maleficent tolerates the market so close, she hates people.

Jafar's Junk Shop. If you lost something, there's like seventy percent chance it'll end up there. I've got nothing else to add.

Gaston's Duels Without Rules, slightly off the main market. And yes. It is without rules. Do not ask about the blood under the dumpsters please.

Hell Hall. Few streets down but still close enough, you'll know by the screaming. Close enough for Cruella and her minions to get the finest fabrics whenever she wishes.

Witches Academy. Yes, it is entirely too close to the market for how flammable the stands are. However, the Mims are doing what they do best and being bitches on main.

Landmarks

The End Of The World. Steep cliff on the off-side of Auradon, favourite hang-out spot for Isle kids. Who says they hadn't spent hours there looking into the waves and contemplating life, they're lying.

The Skull Rock. On the Isle for Reasons. Y'know, a generation of kids robbed off their childhood? Magic banned off? (The Isle of the Lost is Neverland and it's your problem now.)

The Jungle. No. Do NOT. You do realise that's where all the tigers and snakes and lions and wolves dwell. Also called the Zoo by kids who like dark humour and/or have a deathwish.

The Caves. There's an entrance to Hades' cave somewhere. Do not try to find it (unless you are Celia Facilier), he's on vacation and doesn't wish to be disturbed.

Other

Castle Across the Way. Is not close to the centre or the market to be counted as such. That's because the Evil Queen refused to interact with the commoners and looked substantially scarrier than Lady Tremaine while communicating that.

The Hun camp. Do NOT attempt to find it.

#disney descendants

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littlejuicebox · 3 months

Text

Midnight Chimes 4 / Ringleader

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader Warlock.

Word Count: 2,415

Summary/Setting: You and Astarion have met before, though you think it meant more to you than it did to him. You are an apothecary shop owner that has recently gained some mysterious Warlock powers; Astarion is, in your eyes, a rake that you wouldn’t trust as far as you can throw him. You two run into one another again after the nautiloid crash.

Preview:

It hadn’t really been you that found the three new party members, after all. It had been your patron. The blasted thing seemed to alternate between completely ignoring you and positively strong arming you into submission. And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby. But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job? Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Warnings: eventual smut and gore 18+ / in game spoilers / angst, trauma, fluff

A/N: Finally feeling (almost) 100% back to my normal, healthy self! Thank you for the good vibes and well wishes! <3

The warlock, the wizard, and the rogue.

This little group started off with the makings of some ridiculous fairytale your parents would have read to you before bed.

Though, despite your parents wishes, you hadn’t really been a child interested in fairytales and make believe. Your penchant for pragmatics had developed early on, and before long mama and papa had all but given up on their dreams of a perfect princess daughter. In her place stood some sort of mad scientist… at least in their eyes.

You hadn’t actually been mad. Not then, at least. Though you were starting to worry that between the parasite and your patron, you might truly be going crazy now. No doubt the two were at war, trying to determine who would wrestle ultimate control of your mind.

Should you simply choose between the lesser of two evils, when your fate already feels sealed as it is?

Gale and Astarion had blindly followed your lead the first day, and remained silent every time you decided to stop and change course, prodded in another direction by the celestial being playing with your psyche. This abrupt switch in traveling plans led you all to Lae’zel, where you convinced the tieflings to let her go, and Shadowheart, as she desperately tried to break open the door of some abandoned ruins.

Astarion had simply picked the lock of the ruins, earning him some clout among the others for his skill set and further suspicion from you. After all, why exactly did a man like Astarion have any need for a skill like that?

Subsequently, the five of you explored the dank, dilapidated building. After downing a handful of humanoids and some reanimated corpses, the group happened upon a strange, skeletal being named Withers. He said he would see you again soon.

After a relatively restless night in camp, you all happened upon the Grove on the second day of exploration. Some druid named Halsin is missing, though it turns out he may be the answer to your little predicament, Nettie tried to poison you (stupid, really, to try to poison an apothecary with one of the most basic tricks in the book), you saved a little tiefling thief from death, and then you met Wyll… all in a couple of hours.

The Blade of Frontiers is looking for some devil he’s supposed to kill; he’s also got a tadpole in his head, and like Gale, seems in relatively good spirits for such a grim situation. Those two seem suspiciously well-adjusted.

The entire journey thus far had only been two days long and exceedingly… well, odd.

It was certainly a much different experience from your day to day of brewing potions and tending the shop. You wanted nothing more than to return to the comforts of city life. But instead, you were forced to be the unwilling ringleader of this circus, despite your protests on the matter.

You are discussing your concerns about leadership with Gale as the group takes a short rest not far from the Grove. Wyll is gathering the last of his supplies and will meet up with all of you in mere moments.

“Oh, but you’re doing a fantastic job, Demetria!” Gale exclaims, somehow unfailingly supportive of a woman he barely knew.

Oh, how you wished to trust anyone half as much.

“You have such remarkable intuition. We wouldn’t have found Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Wyll, or all this great loot without you!” He continues, before gesturing to a handful of gold and scrolls while positively beaming.

The wizard clasps a friendly hand on your back and then scans the surrounding area. He smiles at you once more, “Now I plan to make myself useful and harvest some flora! If you plan to make use of that newly procured cauldron, I best give you materials to work with.”

You smile softly and nod at the wizard before he disappears into the shrubbery. Brewing potions was easy; you could craft all the basic ones by memory alone. But leading a group of people through the wilds based on some sort of fabled intuition and instinct? You weren’t so sure about that.

And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby.

But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job?

Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Astarion is perched on a fallen log, basking in the midday sun’s rays. He’s the picture of relaxation, as if this entire sordid affair is a holiday away from Baldur’s Gate.

Sure, the pale elf had been helpful in battle, and he seemed to have a strange knack for opening locks, but as far as participating in camp efforts went, he certainly left a lot to be desired. You should have guessed as much. With the princely attitude and haughty confidence, it was likely he was merely another spoiled, rich elf. He reminded you of…

Nevermind.

You look to Shadowheart, hoping to pursue a conversation with the woman, but she is a few feet away, resting on her knees in prayer. Lae’zel is also preoccupied as she meticulously sharpens her already deathly blade. You’ve spent almost all day trying to intentionally avoid Astarion and keep any conversation with him to a minimum. But as everyone else seems busy doing their own thing, you’re left with no choice but to take a few minutes of reprieve near the rogue.

You sigh and nestle yourself on the ground, unwilling to take the empty spot on the log next to Astarion; sitting like an animal in the dirt seemed the better option for your pride. As you lean back to stretch your aching muscles, the warm country breeze picks up, swirling around the elf’s silver curls. You are sitting downwind from the rogue, and the gust pushes a whiff of bergamot and rosemary in your direction.

You can’t help it. The fragrance angers you. Astarion hadn’t even written to you once, even to send a simple rejection or at least compliment your sample. He’d wasted your time on your last few hours of vacation three years ago. All for what, exactly?

He hadn’t even gotten to bed you, which had surely been his goal, in the end.

You glare at him, in all his world-endingly beautiful privilege, as he simply lounges about in the sun as if nothing is wrong.

“It seems you liked my perfume sample enough to procure a rip off of it, but not enough to write.” You state coolly, watching the pale elf as he snaps his eyes open to study you. You notice him thinking, no doubt calculating some sort of smooth response.

“You can save the piss-poor excuses, Astarion.” You sigh, now reaching into your pack, trying to find the small vial of perfume oil you’d had inside your robes when that ship snatched you up. You open the vial and take a deep breath, basking in the comfort of familiarity.

It smelled like home. Like your quaint little townhome, in Waterdeep. Too bad scents can’t transport you back in time… at least not literally.

There are a few beats of silence as Astarion watches you.

“I do apologize for not recognizing you before, and for not writing…” He begins, slowly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal, “I lost your card. I have a tendency to be… forgetful. And I lose things a lot. But, I did quite like the scent, as you can tell.”

You nod, acknowledging the apology but not willing to acquiesce any further. You cannot decipher if Astarion’s words are the truth or if they are simply honeyed lines meant to subdue you. Your pinky finger presses against the perfume bottle’s rim and you rub a bit of the fragranced liquid behind your ears.

The wind shifts, blowing your thick, dark hair forward around your face, obscuring your vision. You cap the small vial and then quickly tie your hair back. When you are able to see again, Astarion is almost gawking at you, scarlet eyes blown wide in surprise.

He shifts and recovers quickly, jerking his gaze away and running a hand through his windswept curls. When he speaks, his voice has a manufactured, airy nonchalance to it, “It is quite windy out here, isn’t it?”

You don’t respond, and he turns to face you once again. His jaw tenses for a moment, and then he leans back, assessing you once more. He tries another tactic.

“That is… another lovely scent that you’re wearing.” He murmurs, and this time, the genuine, hesitant intrigue in his voice catches you off guard.

“Thank you,” You begin, and despite yourself, you are flattered by his statement. You truly love when others notice and compliment the artistry of your craft. You shrug and offer the vial to Astarion. Perhaps a small olive branch is due, if the two of you are stuck tethered together for who knows how long.

The rogue takes the bottle and inhales the fragrance, and then he emits a noise that sounds something like a soft moan or groan. It’s a deep, uninhibited sound from the back of his throat, almost as if he’s absolutely losing himself in the scent. When he focuses on you again, there’s a relaxed look in his eyes paired with a soft, unguarded smile. It reminds you of the way he looked at you in your parent’s tavern.

“Delicious…” He murmurs, his tone dropping into that salacious one he’d used on you at the tavern all those years ago, when asking if you planned to murder someone with poisons. Something about the way he said the word while staring directly into your eyes, his pupils blown from the fragrance he’d just inhaled, made your face grow hot.

You aren’t interested in a rake, and you won’t be fooled again, you remind yourself. No matter how beautiful the bastard truly is.

You extend your hand out, motioning for the vial and he obliges with a disappointed tut.

“It’s a combination of lavender, sage, and vanilla.” You explain, tucking the precious vial back into your pack.

“And what else? There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s the same thing that was in the sample you gave me.” He responds, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

You laugh in genuine surprise, “Good nose. Are you trying to steal my recipe so that when you return to Baldur’s Gate, you can have an exact duplication instead of the lesser version you have now, Astarion?”

You are partly joking, partly serious.

The elf shakes his head, brows crinkling together in absent thought, “No… merely curious, I suppose. I’ve never smelt anything quite like your concoctions. I have to admit the memory of the scent from that night has… stayed with me. I would have written to you to tell you as much, if I could have. If I hadn’t… lost your card.”

You squint your eyes. There is something genuine in Astarion’s statement, despite the strange excuse about losing the card. Sure, he may have truly lost it. But then, he could have simply returned to the Drunken Dragon and asked your cousin for your address.

The next time you visited your family on holiday, after your conversation with the rake, your cousin indicated the elf hadn’t been by since that night. When you asked about Astarion every year, feigning nonchalance, your family always indicated he hadn’t been seen.

It was almost as if he were avoiding the Drunken Dragon altogether for those three years.

You’d ultimately assumed he moved away… or perhaps died, murdered by one of his jealous lovers.

“It’s dragonsblood… just a drop.” You admit, eyeing the silver-haired elf with suspicious curiosity.

A sudden bark of laughter escapes Astarion’s lips. And then his head tips back and he positively cackles in a mixture of amusement and delight. He seems to find this information exceptionally hilarious. Your brows stitch together in confusion as you watch the rogue chortle.

Sure, it was an unusual additive. But it wasn’t exactly hilarious, was it?

“Dragonsblood!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together in front of him as his eyes crinkle with mirth, “How… unique. You are quite the artist, Demetria.”

You feel the flush rise in your cheeks at the compliment while you murmur another thank you. Surely he’s flattering you, trying to ingratiate himself and hoping you’ll forgive his slight against you, isn’t he?

Astarion’s eyes flit between yours now, and he hums in thought, “You look… different. From my memory at the tavern.”

“Really? Well you didn’t actually remember me at all until the parasite helped you, so I’m not quite sure how reliable your memory of me is. You look the same as I remember.” You deadpan, instantly trying to deflect from his observation.

You know what he means… the ring hadn’t just affected your mind. It has permanently altered the color of your eyes into a strange purple, reminiscent of the cosmos itself. But you aren’t ready to share anything about your patron or the damn ring with anyone else just yet.

Astarion cocks his head, and he is about to say something more, but then Gale is bursting back through the brush. His eyes are wide with apprehension as he looks between you and the rogue. The concerned expression on your otherwise affable campmate causes everyone in the vicinity to quickly rise to their feet.

Gale grimaces as he addresses his new traveling companions with some level of unease, “I think you all might want to see this.”

And then he disappears back into the brush without another word. Part of you thinks you shouldn’t follow him, but you do anyway. After all, how could this possibly get stranger than it already is?

Your patron is laughing again. Poor little apothecary, you have no idea.

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tinfairies · 2 years

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please do anything involving Aegon, I have a thing for whores I would probably hate in real life.

maybe one where he's madly in love with a mysterious woman, and who just doesn't give a damn about him, who appears when he wants and leaves, she sleeps with him, but then disappears, and he craves her like he never craved another, he still hasn't married Haelena, he's grumpy the way he is, but never raising his voice with the woman, maybe she's a prostitute or something, and he wants to marry her too.

Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Sorceress!Reader

"That woman, that damned woman." Aegon thought, his bed sheets ruffled and haphazard from the night before. He never expects her to be there when he wakes, but he always has that sliver of hope. What would he expect from a supposed sorceress he had met at a brothel. She may have magic yet, as she seems to have tamed him of all people. Aegon rises and gets ready for the day, he has hopes he'll find the woman later; If only just to see her beauty, a rare thought from the Whore Prince.

Aegon slips out of the castle soon after lunch, much to his mother's displeasure. She hates when he leaves the castle unattended, for his safety and the women of King's Landing. He ignores her nagging slips past the Kingsguard. Making his way to poor streets of Flea Bottom, the inhabitants there tripping over themselves to get out of his way. He bites his tongue; He doesn't want this power, he is a human just like these people. Aegon wishes people didn't fear him for his position. Soon he stands in front of a dilapidated building, an apothecary sign hanging by a rusty nail on the door. He takes a deep breath in and opens the door, inside the smell of herbs, oils, tinctures, and blood wafted through the air. The shop was warm, lit by a large fire in the middle of the room, shelves lined with jars, bottles and books covered the walls. The room was vacant, he looked around but saw no one. Aegon began walking around the room, looking at each of the jars and books, he finally came to a table in the corner. Red and black candles created a semi circle around the table, crystals and bones littered the spaces between them. Finally his eyes came to land on an ancient looking book in the middle of it all, the page it was opened to was in a language he couldn't even begin to understand. The pages were threadbare and stained; "Hopefully with potions and not with blood" Aegon thought to himself. Beneath the books page holder was something white poking out, he had reached for it and picked up a tiny dragon skull. It looked just like Balerion's, his father's deceased dragon in the lower levels of the castle. "Could it be a baby dragon skull? Where'd she even get a dragon egg, and why kill it?" Aegon's head was racing with questions, when suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder. He jumped out of his skin almost dropping the skull, he whipped around to find the sorceress in all her beauty.

"You shouldn't be here." she said sharply as she grabbed the skull from his hand.

"You weren't there when I awoke."

"I never am." she quipped

Aegon frowned, he wished he could find some way to get her to love him.

"Why do you share my bed so often if you're hesitant to stay?" he questioned, furrowing his brows.

"The dozens of girls you've brought into your bed could ask the same of you." the sorceress pushed past him and put the dragon skull back in its place. She was right, many of the women he had bedded multiple times have always been abandoned the next morning.

"Why do you have that?" Aegon changed the subject, covering up the aching pain in his heart at her words.

"It was a gift." she didn't look at him as she turned away to walk down a row of bookcases. Aegon quickly followed.

"From who? Only Targaryen's and Valaryon's have dragons, you're a peasant why would they give a baby dragon?"

The sorceress stopped in her tracks. "I'm a peasant am I?" Aegon immediately regretted his words. "No, I didn't mean it like that, I just-" he stumbled over his words.

"Oh no I understand, I'm just a peasant woman you keep around to wet your cock. I get it." the sorceress began walking again.

"Please I really didn't mean it like that, I do enjoy your company. It's not just about sex." Aegon pleaded, he truly did enjoy their conversations before and after the bedding. The woman was fascinating to him, he could dare say he was in love with her.

The sorceress smirked, "The skull was gifted to me many moons ago when I was in Asshai. I do not know if the man was of Targaryen or Valaryon blood. I do know that I saved his wife's life in childbirth, and he gave me the most valuable thing he had." still refusing to look at Aegon she began organizing the books on the shelf.

"You've been to Asshai?" Aegon was shocked, a woman living in Flea Bottom has typically never been out of the city let alone another continent.

"I was born there." the sorceress finally turned to look at the prince. His face plastered in shock, "Then why live here, a sorceress from Asshai can live anywhere she pleases, place herself in any court she wished."

"Magic, my dear prince, is greatly feared in Westeros. It is safer to practice here in the least monitored part of the city." the sorceress went back to looking at books.

"Come live in the castle, with me. You truly won't be monitored there, not if you're my wife." Aegon's words poured from his mouth without thought.

"Are you asking for my hand?" to say the sorceress was shocked was an understatement. She knew he was falling for her, but not like this, not this fast.

" I suppose I am. We have many private rooms in the castle where you can practice, I'm sure I can convince my mother it'll be a good way to overthrow my sister." Aegon took the sorceress' hands in his. She looked into his eyes, they pleaded with her. The prince was desperate and she knew it. She enjoyed it, having a man so powerful at her bend and will.

"We shall see."

#aegon targaryen #hotd imagine #house of the dragon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #House of the dragon imagine #aegon targaryen x reader #Game of thrones #Game of thrones imagine #Game of thrones x reader #fluff #blurb

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sixteenseveredhands · 1 year

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Vardzia, a Medieval Cave City in Georgia (South Caucasus), built in 1150-1200 CE: Vardzia was designed to be used as a fortress/monastery; it was accessible only through hidden passageways, and it contained more than 6,000 caves, 15 chapels, 25 wine cellars, an apothecary, a forge, a bakery, farming terraces, and an irrigation system

The monastic caves at Vardzia cover an area of about 500 meters. They are carved into the cliffs along the Erusheti mountains, which are located in Javakheti (a southern province near the borders between Georgia, Turkey, and Armenia).

Vardzia was originally meant to serve as a fortress, particularly in the event of a Mongol Invasion. It was protected by defensive walls, and the cave system itself was largely concealed within the mountain (though much of it is now exposed); it also contained a secret escape tunnel and several dead-end tunnels that were designed to delay/confuse enemy forces. The cave city could only be accessed through a series of hidden passageways that began near the banks of the Mtkvari River (which runs through the valley below the cave complex). Water was supplied through an irrigation system that was connected to the river, providing the inhabitants with both drinking water and agricultural irrigation, as the site contained its own terraced farmland.

The cave complex also functioned as a monastery, with a large collection of manuscripts and relics ultimately being housed at the site.

In its prime, the complex at Vardzia was inhabited by tens of thousands of residents.

Unfortunately, most of the original structures at Vardzia were destroyed by an earthquake that struck the region in 1283 CE, just a century after its construction; the earthquake sheared away the outer layer of the cliffside, exposed many of the caves, and demolished almost two-thirds of the site. The surviving structures represent only a fraction of the cave complex that once existed at Vardzia, with only about 500 caves still intact.

When the earthquake tore through the site in 1283, much of the fortress and many of its defenses were also destroyed, and Vardzia lost most of its military/defensive purposes. Still, it continued to operate as a Georgian Orthodox monastery for several hundred years after that. It narrowly escaped the Mongol Invasions of the 1290s, but it was raided by the Persians during the 16th century; the invading forces burned many of the manuscripts, relics, and other items that were stored within the cave system, leaving permanent scorch marks along the walls of the inner chambers. The site was abandoned shortly thereafter.

Medieval portrait of Queen/King Tamar: this portrait is one of the Medieval frescoes that still decorate the inner chambers of Vardzia; Tamar was the first queen regnant to rule over Georgia, meaning that she possessed the same power/authority as a king and, as a result, some Medieval sources even refer to her as "King Tamar"

Vardzia is often associated with the reign of Queen Tamar the Great, who ruled over the Kingdom of Georgia from 1184 to 1213 CE, during a particularly successful period that is often known as the "Golden Age" of Georgian history. Queen Tamar was also recognized as the Georgian King, with Medieval sources often referring to her as King Tamar. She possessed the powers of a sovereign leader/queen regnant, and was the first female monarch to be given that title in Georgia.

The initial phases of construction at Vardzia began under the command of King George III, but most of the complex was later built at the behest of his daughter, Queen Tamar, who owned several dedicated rooms at Vardzia and frequently visited the cave city. Due to her relationship with the cave complex at Vardzia, Queen Tamar is sometimes also referred to as the "Mountain Queen."

Despite the damage that the site has sustained throughout its history, many of the caves, tunnels, frescoes, and other structures have survived. The site currently functions as a monastery once more, with Georgian monks living in various chambers throughout the cave system.

I visited Vardzia back in 2011, during my first trip to Georgia. It's an incredible site, though some of the tunnels are very narrow, very dark, and very steep, which can get a bit claustrophobic.

Sources & More Info:

Atlas Obscura: Vardzia Cave Monastery

CNN: Exploring Vardzia, Georgia's Mysterious Rock-Hewed Cave City

Lonely Planet: Vardzia

Globonaut: 5 Facts about Vardzia, Georgia's Hidden Cave City

Wander Lush: Vardzia Cave Monastery (complete visitor's guide)

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wistfulweaverwoman · 5 months

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The Apothecary’s Daughter- chapter four

The empty streets are haunting, like we’re the only two living people in the world. The caw of a raven sounds in the distance. Echoes from the thumping wheels fling themselves back at us sharply. The sky darkens when a threatening cloud covers the sun.

The road worsens as we move away from the merchant district of town; the surface now compacted dirt, pitted and uneven. The cart groans with every dip and rock it crosses, the jolts knocking my teeth, biting the inside of my cheek. I clutch the lip of a trunk with one hand and grip the rough wooden edge of the cart with the other, my elbow locked to keep me from pitching over the side.

Today, we two are alone in this journey, the road desolate, not even any small comfort in shared grief. While we wordlessly cross the district with only the sound of grit crunching beneath the wheels, the rest of the district is forced to dance and imbibe, raising their cups to our good fortune.

For years now when a new husband is carting his bride to their new home, along with all of her worldly possessions, the roads are choked with small over-burdened wagons and pale-faced lasses. That first year all the new marriages happened in one mass ceremony, but it took weeks to sort out the housing assignments. So after, couples were bonded in groups every year between May and July. Ours is the only singular marriage in the district since the genetics program was introduced.

An ear-splitting boom of thunder rips through the air. A moment later a flicker of lightning zips across the horizon. All my hair on my arms stands on end and I peer up at the sky with contempt. I’m rewarded with a fat drop of cold water plopping on the skin between my eye and nose.

The wind promptly picks up as a second clap of thunder rolls over us, causing a whole cloud of ravens to take flight off to our right, their screams echoing around us. An involuntary shudder cleves through me and my skin prickles almost painfully.

The small wagon abruptly turns, and Peeta guides it down a street leading away from assigned housing. From any housing, as far as I know. He steers through the oldest part of the district, and I twist my head to watch the direction he’s bringing us, startled. Past blocks of abandoned warehouses to what seems like the fence bordering the district, overburdened with some kind of green creeping plant.

When we approach closer some kind of iron work becomes visible, not the regular chain link variety. He lowers the cart carefully and pulls open a gate that I didn’t even realize was there.

Peeta pushes the cart through and closes the gate as the sky unleashes a torrent of rain.

AO3

#wistfulweaverwoman #the apothecary’s daughter #lilymaid #everlark #ao3

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pearlll09 · 6 days

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Le Démoniste et Le Dragon

Merthur, rated T, about 37.5k

Merlin moves to Camelot after the death of his mother to help his Uncle Gaius in his Apothecary and to get a fresh start away from his small village where no one liked his magic. In Camelot, however, most people hate magic too. But why? What happened here that made everyone hate magic so quickly? What is Gaius keeping from him? When Merlin is forced to seek refuge in an abandoned mansion a month after his arrival due to being chased by magic hating men, he is thrust into a world that will turn his request for a ‘new start’ on its head.

And with this post, my last collab this @bbcmerlin-reversebang is finished! With writing from Salamandair (not no tumblr, rip) and art by yours truly, this beauty and the beast AU is a blast!! Please go give it a read!

#merlin #my art #bbc merlin #merthur #fanfic #fic #ao3 #fest

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darkworkcourier · 1 year

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Hi yes I've been enchanted and ensnared by @cyber-nya's Monster 141 AU, so I rolled around in that sandbox like a heathen.

---

Dr. Adler's easy to figure out. Price picks up on it the second he walks into the infirmary on his weekly blood pack acquisition mission. Rather than the usual overly-sterile, Clorox smell, he's hit with a scent wave that screams herb garden. It makes him blink hard, reeling back, covering his nose with his wrist.

Once he recovers a little, he sees stacks of cardboard boxes, all marked up in German—Zauberbücher, Kristalle, Tränke (Zerbrechlich!), among many, many others. Adler stands in the middle of her cardboard castle, holding up two little vials up to the light. She frowns, taps on one, and tilts her head when it... changes color, turning a deep mauve.

Price wavers on whether to leave her to whatever it is she's doing, or interrupt her. He decides on the latter, mostly because he's starving, and they still have another week and a half before he can get anything fresh.

"Doc?" he tries.

"I heard you come in, Captain Price," she says, not bothering to turn her head. The vial in her left hand changes color again to a fetching chartreuse. "One moment. These are very volatile."

"Like exploding kind of volatile, or...?"

"Volatile as in prone to either reverse the order of your internal organs, or potentially cure a hangover." She pauses, squints. "I can't remember which one does what."

That seems incredibly important. Price presses himself against the wall by the door, all too happy to make a break for it if it means his small intestine won't come out his nose. Not that he uses his small intestine for much these days, but he'd rather not experience that.

In the end, she seems to decide which potion does what, setting the chartreuse vial down on her desk, and tucking the other vial (deceptively clear) in a cast iron chest that looks like it was probably made in the medieval period. She locks it twice.

Once that's done, she sighs and turns to face him. "Sorry about that, Captain. What can I do for you?"

"Just swung by to pick up, uh, supplements."

Dr. Adler raises one dark brow. "The blood packs, you mean."

He didn't remember telling her about his status, but seeing her turn their formerly boring infirmary into a witchy apothecary makes him think that it wouldn't matter if he told her or not. "Yeah," he says, rather lamely.

She nods, dusting her hands off on her lab coat, before walking over to the mini-fridge. "Do you have a preference?" she asks.

"No," he replies. "Learned not to be picky."

At that, she suddenly stands up, abandoning the fridge empty-handed. Price watches her with suspicion as she approaches her fortress of boxes with the expression of a woman on a mission. Her hands hover in front of her, going over the boxes like a human metal detector, before finally landing on one of the boxes marked Tränke. She carefully moves it to her desk, rifling through its contents (which sound alarmingly fragile) before lifting a squat, rotund little glass full of wine-dark liquid. As soon as she pops the cork, the smell hits Price like a bus.

Fae blood. Fucking hell, he'd know that stuff anywhere.

Adler winds through her labyrinth of boxes toward him, and it takes a hell of a lot of self control not to rip the bottle out of her hand. Instead, she politely hands it to him before returning her hands to her coat pockets.

"Try that," she says. "It's not completely fresh, and I won't be able to refill all my stock for at least a few weeks, but it should help."

She doesn't need to tell him twice. Price drinks the bottle's contents in one go, only vaguely thinking that maybe he should have asked how much he could drink. Dr. Adler's expression doesn't change, even when the bottle's completely dry, so he assumes it's fine. And it's good. Fae blood is sweet on his tongue, a shimmery white wine to a human's dark claret. It fills him up, gets his head clear, saturates all the colors in the room, and makes his peripheral vision glow. In short, it's fucking awesome.

"Oh," he says. "That's..."

"Stop by when you need more," she cuts in with a shrug. "I have a few other varieties. Some are harder to come by than others, so I'll have to be a bit frugal with those. Give it a couple weeks and I should have better stock."

"Thanks, Doc," Price replies, a little in awe. He hands her the bottle, knowing if he keeps it any longer, he's going to break it open and lick up the remainder.

"Gern geschehen," Dr. Adler replies. She replaces the cork, then turns on heel and goes back to her boxes.

Price decides it's better to leave her be for now. But as he leaves, he gets why she came so highly recommended.

---

As easy as it is to figure out that Dr. Adler is their resident witch-on-call, it's stupid hard to identify what ever Carrion is.

When she leaves a room, the arguments get heated. Gaz swears up and down she's another kind of witch. Maybe a... flight one, if that's a thing. She's good at piloting, having, quoth he, "A weird relationship with gravity." That has to be a witch trait.

No, argues Soap. He smelled something on her, but it wasn't the same as the strange herb-earth-magic scent that follows in Dr. Adler's footsteps. No doubt she's not human, but it irks him with the same sensation of having a word on the tip of his tongue. He knows this. Shapeshifter, maybe? Some kind of weird changeling? But neither of those seem right.

"You sniffed her?" Gaz asks, incredulous.

"Not on purpose!" Soap retorts. "I just so happened to smell her when she walked by!"

"Creep," Gaz sagely confirms.

Soap responds by tackling Gaz with a decidedly dog-like growl.

For the next four weeks, the 141 puzzles over their pilot. She seems blissfully unaware of the way they stare at her, happily in her own little world. She sings to herself, preens when they compliment her after a flight, hops away in little dance steps after every mission.

Then a mission goes wrong.

They're across enemy lines, helo half-drowned in a river, a storm battering the landscape, desperation making monsters of all of them. Soap was the first to lapse, literally tearing through hostiles with otherworldly howls and snarls. Price rips open throats, pupils blown, jaw dripping with blood. Gaz pierces soft body after body with an impossibly-sharp sword, maw burning with embers as his secondary form threatens to come loose.

And Ghost— It's hard to argue with death incarnate, especially if you're on the debating team.

Everyone's so caught up in the fight, in the desperate high-stakes bloodbath, that they don't have time to check on their pilot. She got out of the crash, confirmed she was safe, and that was all.

But then Soap's pinned by gunfire, forced to crawl under rubble just to escape the onslaught. He pauses, paws burning into the mud underneath him, thinking on the best strategy to get through a wall of human hostility. During that dull roar of a lull, something catches his eye.

The first thing he thinks is that is a fucking huge bird.

The second thing isn't so much a thought as it is shock at the sight of a talon the size of a pickax piercing a man's skull like a melon. Wings furiously beat, the sound like a snarl of thunder, and a high-pitched shriek makes Soap's sensitive ears ache.

Only then does he register that it's Carrion. Their Carrie, their happy-go-lucky beam of sunlight pilot who sings made-up songs and dances like a moron when she thinks no one's watching—that Carrie is leaving gouges in their enemy like they're nothing. Her arms are massive wings, black and white tapering to red (just like the bearded vulture on her helmet, and now Soap just feels stupid), legs now scaled and ending in those deadly talons. Her head's the same, except her hair's loose from its braid and falling around her shoulders in a windblown mess, and her mouth opens to reveal two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

She's a fucking harpy.

Soap watches in awe for a moment more before realizing she's still by herself. As badass as it is, he clips around the corner of the rubble pile to attack the group from the opposite end, meeting her in the middle. Once their enemy is just a smear in the mud, he finally looks up at her, huffing once in gratitude.

"No problem," she says, smiling with her wicked teeth. Her voice is higher, crackling like lightning. It's awesome.

Their mission wraps up quick after that, a massacre split five ways, fur and feathers truly flying.

Once they're back at base, beaten and battered but otherwise whole, Carrion slinks away to the showers. The rest of the 141 leaves her be, allows her a private moment to get herself back in order.

And Gaz sums it all up with a firm, "That was badass."

Everyone hums, growls, or hisses in agreement.

#cod: mw2 #mw2 oc #monster 141 #monster 141 au #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #oc: dr leonie adler #oc: carrie carrion dunmore #THIS AU'S CONSUMING MY LIIIIIIFE

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