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pandora15 · 1 year

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Angstpril 2023 Day 1 Prompt: Liar

tw: character having trouble breathing, open ending

Obi-Wan knew, from the moment that he agreed to take on this mission, that it would be difficult.

Faking his death, having to pretend to be someone he wasn't for the sake of his own survival, having to interact with the likes of Cad Bane and Count Dooku himself without getting his cover blown…

Well, he knew from the beginning that it would not be easy.

But none of that was as difficult as it was to return.

The transformation from Rako Hardeen back to his own body was uncomfortable — painful, leaving him shaky and somewhat feverish. The vocal emulator wreaked damage to his vocal chords, and Master Che had confirmed that there was likely some infection in his throat that she'd like to monitor over the coming days.

Which obviously meant that he was stuck in the Halls for now. It wasn't ideal, but considering the fact that he couldn't keep down most foods because of his throat and his entire body ached any time he tried to move at all, he supposed it made sense.

Obi-Wan didn't exactly like it, but even that wasn't the worst part.

Anakin wouldn't speak to him. On the ship when they were returning from Naboo, he'd maintained his distance, and once Obi-Wan had gotten his commlink back, he'd sent Anakin messages frequently, only to receive nothing.

Obi-Wan knew that the deception had upset Anakin. He understood why — more than most, he understood.

But he had hoped that Anakin would also understand why he did it.

"You lied to us," Anakin had said, when Obi-Wan had approached him on the ship. "What else have you lied to me about? Do you even care about any of us?"

Obi-Wan had no response to that — how could he, when he knew that Anakin was right? He did lie to them, after all.

And now he was here, alone, because he did what he knew to be right. Anakin wouldn't speak to him, Ahsoka wouldn't speak to him, Cody wouldn't speak to him, the Council wouldn't speak to him.

He'd succeeded on his mission, and yet —

He'd failed them all.

Letting out a sigh, Obi-Wan placed his commlink back on the table next to the bed. He winced as his throat spasmed at the rush of air, and then he coughed, bending forward slightly to gasp for air.

That seemed to trigger a chain reaction of sorts. The more he gasped for air, the more it irritated his throat, causing him to gasp even more. And the air wasn't even traveling down his throat properly, which meant that —

He couldn't breathe.

The room seemed to tilt on its axis around him as he shuddered and gasped and placed his forehead on his knees. There was a ringing noise, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears, followed by the sound of footsteps. Voices surrounded him, but he couldn't make them out, not until —

"Obi-Wan?" A hand on his shoulder, pushing him back until he was lying back again, head arching backward in a desperate reach for air. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't —

"Okay, okay, just hold on." The voice was gentle, soothing. "Your throat has swollen up too much. You're not getting enough air."

There were hands holding him down, the hiss of a hypospray, followed by the feeling of everything getting floaty and blurry, until…

His eyes snapped shut, and the memory of his lies that constantly plagued him faded away.

#angstpril2023 #no. 1 #liar #obi wan kenobi #pandora writes #does this fulfill the prompt? kinda? but it's angst and that's all that matters #anyways! i'm definitely not going to be able to do all the prompts but i'll do a few maybe?#i have some free time today but that won't be the case in the coming days #also i spent way too long trying to read about the medical stuff that comes with laryngitis + difficulty breathing complications #and i went too far down that rabbit hole so i just. decided to end this here instead asldkjfjalksdlkfja #especially since it wouldn't fill the prompt anyways #i thought about writing a followup where anakin finds out what happened to obi-wan here. maybe for a future angstpril prompt?#i shall ponder this further

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befuddled-calico-whump · 1 year

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Abandoned

For Angstpril, Day 6

cw: aftermath of torture, mentioned hand whump, death mention

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Hero was troubled.

It wasn't the fight. He'd gotten better of the five supervillain-wannabes without breaking a sweat, stripped them of the tech they were using, and watched as they were all led away in handcuffs.

He'd dusted himself off, briefed law enforcement on the scenario, then started collecting the gear the criminals had used so it could be turned in as evidence.

It wasn't until he was holding the first piece—a cuff that let its wearer manipulate electricity—that Hero's blood ran cold. It was inch-for-inch identical to something he'd seen Villain use.

He collected the rest of the gear in a hurry, giving each item a quick once-over, and each piece further confirmed his suspicion.

Villain had made the tech that outfitted the aspiring criminals of the day. Dammit. He should've realized this was bigger than an attempted robbery. Villain was always a step ahead.

And he'd been missing for months. Plenty of time to plan something big. How many other petty criminals had he outfitted in that time? Would the city see a spike in crime? Or…

A chill washed over Hero as he remembered the last time he'd seen Villain. Running away, tail between his legs after a crushing defeat at Hero's hands.

Was this revenge? Had the robbery been a distraction?

He handed the rest of the gear off quickly, trying not to let the worry show on his face as he took off.

What if Villain had attacked his base? His team? His family? Even in route, he called back to the team's headquarters in a hurry.

"Hero?" Sidekick sounded half asleep.

"Sidekick! Are you… tell me you're okay."

"M'fine. Why? What's going on?"

"Check the perimeter. I think Villain's up to something."

"What? I mean, okay."

"I have to go. I'll be there soon."

"Hero?"

He hung up before she could finish her question. First he had to check on his parents. His brother. It felt unlikely, unreal even, that Villain would be able to find them, but he couldn't risk it.

It wasn't as if Villain wouldn't stoop that low. He'd taken hostages before, and had proven time and time again that he didn't make empty threats. If he'd hurt any of them…

But he hadn't.

A thorough search of his parents' house, his brother's apartment, even the surrounding block, yielded nothing.

Nothing at home, nothing at his base.

So what was Villain planning? It was so unlike him to do anything without it being part of some grander scheme.

Maybe he'd just handed off the tech to a random gang and told them to go wild. Spread some fear. A promise of a chaos that would plague the city.

Or maybe it was all a mind game, a way to get back at Hero without ever having to touch him.

Dammit. If that was it, it was working. Even after assuring the safety of his family and friends, Hero couldn't sleep. He had to get to the bottom of this. Find Villain and imprison him for good. Prevent any further weapons dealing. Protect the city.

Hero got in contact with the police first thing the next morning. They'd managed to get an address from yesterday's delinquents, and it was as good a starting point as any.

Before taking off, Hero got one more look at the gear the group had been using. If nothing else, it would give him an idea of what he'd be up against in the weeks to come. Villain was an engineer. An innovator. His only power was his intellect, but that was enough to let him go toe-to-toe with the likes of Hero.

The police had locked everything up in a vault, but he had no trouble convincing them to grant him access. After all, this could finally lead to Villain's arrest. An end to a reign of terror.

There were five items locked away, one for each criminal. Two electrokinesis cuffs. One pair of vision-enhancing goggles. A pair of boots designed to increase speed. And a belt that equipped its user with near-invisibility.

A collection of Villain's favorites. Hero could identify all of them on sight. None of them seemed new, but why would Villain bother making petty thieves custom stuff? He'd probably just tossed them his hand-me-downs.

Or more likely, he'd given one of them his hand-me-downs. The collection seemed more designed to outfit a single person, not equip a full team.

And wasn't this the exact setup Villain had used in their last encounter? An odd coincidence, but Hero tried to shake it off. Once Villain was safely behind bars, he'd ask about it directly. Right now it was time to investigate the address. Maybe by the time he returned, the police would have more information for him.

The address didn't lead to some secret base, or shady warehouse; just a one-story house on the edge of city limits.

It felt a little odd to knock on the door, knowing who this place was affiliated with, but Hero was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. What if it was just one of the robber's mothers? A grandparent? He wasn't about to bash in the door and give some poor old lady a heart attack.

After a few tries with no answer, he forced the door open. A standard deadbolt was no match for superhuman strength, and if the homeowner did end up being an innocent bystander, a lock would cost him less than the whole door.

Inside… there was no one. All the lights in the house were off. The front room held nothing but a beat-up easy chair, and the rooms beyond didn't offer much more. No spare tech, no mysterious notes, not even an unlabeled phone number or address. Before Hero could call it quits, a shed in the backyard caught his eye.

Not much, but it was worth a look.

He tore away the padlock that held the shed closed, taking a chunk of wood with it. The door swung open, sunlight spilling in to illuminate the area. There was a tool chest against one wall, with a workbench directly across from it. A wooden chair sat beside it, speckled with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood.

Hero stepped inside cautiously, wanting a better look at the part of the shed where the sunlight didn't quite reach. A small scraping sound stopped him short, and he held his breath and listened.

Whatever the noise was, it was coming from the back corner. A box. No, a large dog crate.

Did the bastards from the robbery keep their dog locked up in here? Stale air and darkness, no protection from the elements… He muttered a curse under his breath, and the thing in the crate let out a quiet whimper that sounded almost human.

No way…

Hero reached the front of the crate, letting his eyes adjust as he peered through the metal bars, taking in a silhouette that was definitely not a dog.

He knelt, a little too quickly, and the figure inside flinched back, as far as the cramped space would allow. The scraping noise followed them, a sound Hero now recognized as chains.

"Dammit… don't panic. I'm going to let you out," Hero said in a low voice, crushing the locking mechanism with one hand and pulling away the front of the cage. What the hell had the bank robbers done? He knew they were reckless. Stupid and selfish enough to put people in harm's way in order to get what they wanted. He never would've guessed they'd be keeping a person in a dog cage? And who…

He clenched his jaw. No. He already knew the answer to that.

"I won't hurt you," he said. "Just come out, and I'll get you out of here, okay?"

He couldn't bring himself to think about it. Not right now.

The figure in the cage began to crawl forward on bruised, bony limbs. A short length of chain linked their ankles together, and a longer one hung from their neck, like some kind of leash. A muzzle glinted from somewhere beneath their dark, matted hair. Hero took a step back, giving them room.

He could leave now. Call the police. Call an ambulance. Leave and never confirm what he already knew to be true.

"Come into the light," he said instead. "Let me get a look at you."

The captive seemed to be in pain as they crawled to the other end of the shed, stopping just short of the door and staying there, head bowed.

Daylight reflected off of their chains and lit up the bruises scattered across their naked torso. A few sloppily-stitched gashes cut across their legs, and welts ran across their shoulders, but the worst of it was their hands.

Bloodied bandages wrapped around mangled fingers, most of which looked like they'd been broken or dislocated.

Hero knelt next to them. He could still go. He could still get away with pretending this was someone else, some innocent victim—

"Look at me," he said, trying to soften his voice.

He wasn't surprised when it was Villain's eyes that met his own, half-shrouded by dark strands of hair.

Villain, who'd once held a daycare hostage to get the City Council's attention. Villain, who'd murdered the mayor's wife to get her to take his threats seriously. Villain, who now looked up at him with tired, fearful eyes.

Whose body was a testament to the cruelty he'd lived through.

Who was chained and muzzled and broken.

Dammit, why couldn't it ever be easy?

"I'm going to take the muzzle off okay?"

Villain nodded, eyes downcast as Hero tore through the leather straps like they were pieces of paper.

Villain reached up, rubbing his jaw awkwardly with the back of his hand.

"Please…" came his voice, rusted with disuse. "Please, Hero, just arrest me. Please. I'm done. I c-can't—"

"You're okay. I won't… I won't hurt you," Hero said, the words coming out stilted and wooden. How was he supposed to comfort someone like Villain? He'd made his fair share of assurances. Accident survivors, rescued hostages, Villain's own victims. But they were always innocent, undeserving of whatever misfortune had befallen them. Villain on the other hand…

He took in his nemesis. Gaunt frame, hunched shoulders, unable to stand, barely able to crawl—

Did he deserve this much?

"Let me see your hands," Hero said quickly. He was no healer, but damage assessment was better than contemplating whether or not the man before him deserved his pity.

Villain shifted, holding both hands out, wrists bared. Like he was expecting to be cuffed, Hero realized.

"I'm not arresting you. I just want to see them," he clarified, reaching out to unwind the bandages, one-by-one. Both hands were spotted with deep puncture wounds, some of which looked infected. The marks were strange, and Hero was unable to guess at the cause until he removed the last bandage, revealing a small screw still embedded in Villain's palm.

"Dammit—!" he almost dropped Villain's hand.

The hand of an engineer. Someone who tinkers and builds, someone who uses their hands to create— The notion sickened him more than anything else he'd seen today.

"Why?" was all he could say.

Villain didn't answer.

He couldn't sit here and dwell on this. Villain needed a healer, or at least a hospital. And then— and then, he'd need to be arrested. He'd pay for his crimes, but not like this.

But what if it happened again? Villain had plenty of enemies. Rivals and ex-henchmen who were in prison now, ready to take revenge. Guards and cops who'd been personally wronged who would look the other way. He'd have to take preventative measures against that.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let's go then." Hero knelt, taking Villain into his arms and cradling him to his chest as he took off. The beaten man curled in on himself as they flew.

"Please…" he said, barely above a whisper.

"No one will hurt you," Hero replied. "Villain, you're under arrest." After a moment, he added,

"And under my protection."

#angstpril2023 #fic #day 6 #abandoned #whump writing #heroes and villains #reluctant caretaker #villain whump #villain whumpee #whump aftermath #hand whump #lot of leadup lol

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whumpflash · 1 year

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Penumbra: Unchained

for Angstpril, Day 5: (alt) Serious Injury

cw: torture, hand whump, general brutality, broken bones

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

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Two priests, each trained in truth and the magic of the mind, were but a few days' journey away, and Cerus remained as stubborn as ever.

The fallen king had been a prisoner for weeks now, denied all but that which kept him alive and under constant abuse at the hands of the guards. Beaten and tortured, then healed only to have the cycle start anew. And despite it all, he refused to yield even an inch.

Every time Nisha removed the bit, they were met with curses and threats and insults. It didn't matter if they were asking questions or offering sustenance. Cerus would not bow.

Though they knew the soon-to-arrive priests would take care of the kingdom's worries of blood magic, Nisha still felt as if they'd failed at their task. Granted, they knew it wasn't wholly their fault. Breaking a man took time, especially someone so steeped in pride and immorality as Cerus, but despite that, they wished they could've given the holy mages someone more…pliable to work with.

Perhaps they still could.

The Shadow King was lying on his back when Nisha entered the cell, chained limbs still spread wide to further restrict movement. His torso and thighs were littered with scourge marks from the previous night's session, half-healed by a mage to keep him from sinking too far into delirium. Weeks of meager food and near-immobilization had left his body visibly weakened, and one would be hard pressed to find even an inch of unbruised skin.

"Our time together is drawing to a close, you know," Nisha said, kneeling to remove the bit in Cerus's mouth. "In a matter of days, your fate will be decided. How does that make you feel?"

"I'll strike your men down the moment I step out of this cell. And I'll save you for last so you can watch them d—nghhh!"

Nisha dug a finger into one of the gashes over his ribcage, turning his threat into a strangled scream.

"And why haven't you struck down any of my men yet, hm? Biding your time?"

"If I weren't in chains you wouldn't dare be so bold," Cerus snapped.

Suddenly, Nisha had an idea. "Then perhaps I'll remove them and prove you wrong," they said.

"You are a fool."

"Perhaps." They stood, moving to the gauntlets that rendered Cerus's hands immobile, and began to unlatch them. The Shadow King flexed weak fingers as Nisha removed each metal glove, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You're mad," he said at last. "What are you hoping to achieve?"

"I only wish to see if you're capable of following through with your promises."

"Unchain me and see."

"Not yet."

Nisha made a point to take off the blindfold before moving to the wall of implements and selecting a heavy cudgel. They decided to leave the bit out. They wanted to see if Cerus was capable of begging after all.

The fallen king's face went ashen when he saw the weapon in Nisha's hands, and they relished the barely-concealed fear in his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Cerus said. It sounded more like a threat than a question, but Nisha didn't care, encroaching slowly, silently on their target.

"What are you doing?" Cerus demanded again, louder, more desperate.

"If I'm going to remove your chains, I need to ensure you can't run away," Nisha said plainly, stopping at Cerus's feet, raising the cudgel over a pale, bruised shin, and bringing it down just above the ankle.

The crunch wasn't unlike a sound they'd heard in battle, the scream that followed much the same. The only difference was how both sounds cut through the quiet in the cell, undiluted.

Once Cerus's screams died out, Nisha moved to the other leg, waiting for the look of horror to cross the chained man's face, the realization that it was going to happen again, before bringing the cudgel down a second time.

The resulting scream was just as rewarding as the first had been, something gutteral, animalistic. More than Nisha had been able to drag out of him so far. As before, they waited for the screams to soften before moving on. This time, to Cerus's exposed right hand.

Enclosed as his hands had been, they were unmarred, looking out of place compared to the rest of his body. Nisha would remedy that.

Cerus's eyes were wild with pain and fear, body shaking and straining against the chains, as if he were capable of doing anything to save himself. Nisha tapped the hand gently, as if marking their target, then raised the cudgel high in the air—

"D-don't— stop, stop, or you'll regret this night—" Cerus gasped out. Still making threats. What a pity.

Nisha brought their weapon crashing down onto the hand, and then, when the first strike didn't quite satisfy, hit it again, drawing another inhuman shriek from Cerus. And as Nisha moved to stand next to their final target—

"No, please, please stop, please!" The words came out as sobs, barely intelligible, but they left Nisha grinning broadly. A victory at last.

They raised the cudgel—

"Please! Please!"

—and brought it down, twice in quick succession.

They drank in Cerus's ragged whimpers as they hung the cudgel back in its place, then moved to unlock the manacles that bound him.

His chest heaved as they moved from shackle to shackle, unclasping each in turn.

"What— why?" He barely got the words out.

"You're unchained," Nisha said. "Strike me down."

Cerus didn't respond, shaking arms folding in to cradle shattered hands to his chest, legs curling as he rolled onto his side with a great effort, eyes glazed over with pain.

"Strike me down," Nisha repeated, not taking his silence as an answer. They delivered a hard kick to Cerus's torso, then another. A scream tore itself from the man's throat as their foot connected with his wrist.

"Will you?" They continued their assault, heedless of Cerus's choked cries. "Will you?"

When at last they stopped, they were panting heavily, sweat trickling down the back of their neck. Nisha swallowed.

"I thought not." They ran a hand through their hair, tucking wayward strands back. "Count yourself lucky that the priests are expecting answers, or I would've cut out your tongue too."

They left without reattaching his chains; a small mercy.

He'd be back in them soon enough.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

#angstpril2023 #day 5 #alt 5 #serious injury #fic #whump writing #penumbra: shadow king #hand whump #broken bones #tw torture #villain whump #royal whumpee #royalty whump #begging

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aeoris4lovers · 1 year

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Angstpril 2023 Day One: Liar

There were very few things in life that Eadwulf insisted upon without any chance of compromise. Choosing battles was a matter of survival under the tutelage of Master Ikithon; incurring punishment was easy enough to do even without the added risk that stubbornness presented. To resist bending only made it inevitable that one would eventually have to break, and as far as Eadwulf was concerned, the world offered little of great enough importance to justify tempting that fate.

It was not an oath made lightly, then, when he promised that he would return every day that he was able to one particular cell in the depths of Vergesson Sanatorium.

Astrid refused to speak to him for weeks after the incident, after what he did that night to save her from a fate far worse than a scar. So, with no one there to swear it to, he made his promise to the gods themselves.

He knelt on the floor of his bedroom, hands clasped together in his lap. Outside the small window above his bed, the cool light of the nearly-full moon fanned out across the skies, setting the shadowed room aglow with the night’s ghostly haze. His gaze settled on the nearest mountain peaks; ancient and immense and unmoving, he thought they must be the closest things to gods he would ever lay his eyes on. When thoughts of his past, of his people, of his own actions that night threatened to creep to the front of his mind, he pressed them back into the darkness of memory. They were gone now; there was nothing more to be done for them. Instead, he turned his thoughts again to Bren, to bright red hair and wild eyes and roaring flames and the crack of rock against bone.

“If I condemned him to this fate,” he whispered, so quiet it was more thought than speech, “let me be the one to see him through it.”

Only a moment later, the soft moonlight was eclipsed by the silhouettes of two ravens coming to rest on the windowsill, and he knew somewhere deep within him that his oath had been sealed.

The next morning, he rose earlier than usual and ate his breakfast as quickly as he could manage to hold it down. The sun still hadn’t even begun to show itself in the young day’s sky when he slipped past the guards at the sanatorium, giving each of them a look which told them not to stand in his way if they valued their lives. They had no way of knowing that, in truth, he wasn’t sure if he would have the courage to make good on that threat; they only saw the determination in his eyes and stepped aside.

As he pushed through hall after hall, he wasted no time looking at anything other than the faces in each cell, searching for blue eyes and red hair. Any strange looks that may have been aimed his way were lost in the blur of stone and bars and wrong faces.

When he finally turned a corner and saw a short-cropped burst of orange in the nearest cell, he was just in time to stop the guard who was preparing to enter with whatever sad excuse for a breakfast they had prepared for the day. He caught the guard by the arm, stooping down to look her in the eye, and pressed a few coins into her hand.

All he said was, “Let me.”

She stared at him for a long few seconds, head tilted to one side, before shrugging.

“If you insist.”

Handing him the tray of oatmeal and water, she unlocked the door of Bren’s cell and started off toward the next one down, leaving Eadwulf there alone. He slipped through the door, closed it behind him, and crouched down next to Bren, truly taking in his current state for the first time.

Perhaps the most noticeable thing should have been how beat up he was – the dark bruises, the blood that no one had bothered to wash from his skin. But instead, all Eadwulf could see was how empty he looked. There was always such a fire behind his eyes, a kind of passion and life there, like his mind was working so feverishly to puzzle the world together that you could watch it happening from the outside, and now? That fire had been all but doused. His eyes were glazed over, wandering helplessly around the space, looking through it all and not truly seeing any of it. There was a slight strain on his face, a clench to his brow that Eadwulf knew his resting face didn’t possess, which betrayed some process of thought, no doubt an unpleasant one. It was distant, though, and passive, as though the thoughts had taken on a life of their own within his mind and he, in this clouded state, was helpless to resist or engage them at all. When his gaze finally fell on Eadwulf, there was a soft spark of recognition that sent Eadwulf’s heart into his throat.

Eadwulf returned every morning after that, and again every night, so long as he wasn’t off on a mission or locked away for the sake of some punishment. Each morning, he fed Bren whatever breakfast the guards had prepared, careful to make it a far more gentle process than the other meals likely involved. As Bren’s hair grew longer with time, Eadwulf took to brushing it, and trimming it when the ends began to fray. A few times, he considered cutting it short again; surely, it would be more comfortable for Bren to have less of it. But there was no ignoring how his eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of it being brushed, or how he hummed in a way that almost seemed to approach contentment — better to keep it long, Eadwulf always ultimately decided.

At night, Eadwulf would clean him — easy enough to do with a simple spell, but most nights Eadwulf wiped his face and hands the mundane way first, probably more for his own sake than for Bren’s — and tended to whatever wounds may have been sustained since the last visit. Then, he would take out whatever books he had been able to find that day, sit by Bren’s side, and read. Bren’s favorite of the books, judging by the way his eyes brightened ever so slightly at the sight of its cover, was an old children's story about a young boy and a cat prince, so they always started and finished with that one. In between, they cycled through as many of the other books as Eadwulf thought they safely had time for, and by the time he closed the fairytale for the final time, Bren was almost always slumped against his side, asleep.

Eventually, once the rifts between them had been repaired, Astrid joined him for some of his visits, though she was quickly given more responsibilities than him and often found it more difficult to get away. On those days, Astrid would braid Bren’s hair once he had brushed it in the mornings, and alternated reading with him at night.

And after every nighttime visit, he would sit in his bed and write a few lines in a journal: how the day’s visits had gone, what had gone on in the outside world that day or over the past few days, what he and Astrid were doing in their own lives. Someday, he told himself, Bren would have his mind back. Someday, he would hand over the journal, a meticulous record of the days Bren was locked away. Someday, Bren would be able to read it, and it would be as if he hadn’t missed a thing at all.

In all that time spent in Bren’s cell, Eadwulf never feared being discovered by Master Ikithon — not out of carelessness or apathy toward the consequences he would inevitably incur, but because he knew it was foolish to assume he hadn’t already been discovered at the very start. The archmage’s gaze took immense care to avoid, and nowhere was it more omnipresent than in the halls of the sanatorium. The chances that he had gone unnoticed were laughably slim — it was better to assume Master Ikithon was well aware, that a confrontation would come soon enough.

And come it did.

One morning, nearly two years into his visits, Eadwulf arrived at Bren’s cell to see his teacher standing there, calmly watching him approach. Inside the cell, he could see Bren’s eyes wide and his face held more tensely than usual. He was shifting slightly where he sat, as though his own body were the walls of a prison preventing him from running away.

All at once, Eadwulf was overcome with the urge to run forward, to lunge at Ikithon, to scream, because how dare he come here and strike that kind of fear into someone so helpless, hasn’t Bren been through enough? But he pushed the urge down and kept calm as he walked in spite of it. It was him that the archmage was angry with, it was him who would face the consequences of his actions; Bren had no reason to be afraid.

As it turned out, neither did he. Master Ikithon wasn’t angry, not at Eadwulf nor Bren; he never said or even suggested that Eadwulf would be punished, and the calm smile never fell from his face. He seemed entirely unfazed — pleased, even — by Eadwulf’s actions.

“You are welcome to visit our dear Bren whenever you wish, Eadwulf,” he said in a tone that could almost be mistaken for good-natured, “as is Miss Becke. In fact, I think it’s wonderful that you three have grown to care so much for each other, even after all this time. By all means, do continue to come visit him if it pleases you.” Moving closer, he added in a lower tone, “I would only urge you to remember that it is for you, yes? As much as it pains me to say this, Bren is — how shall I put this? — absent, by all accounts. You are a smart boy, I have no doubt you’ve noticed. Each time you leave this place, it is to him as if you were never here at all; he won’t remember. The sharp young man we knew is, I’m afraid, no longer with us.”

And every night since then, as silence fell over the sanatorium’s halls, Eadwulf would look down at Bren, tucked against his side the same way they had once grown used to laying in their beds, and ask himself: how could that possibly be true?

How, when he still squirmed at the mere sight of his old teacher standing nearby, when his eyes still sparked at the sight of his favorite fairytale’s cover, when he still remembered how to fall asleep next to Eadwulf like it was as simple as breathing, could Bren be gone? How could it be possible that such a sharp mind, so full of passion and of life, simply slipped away? Even if he remembered none of it, even if each day felt to him like the first time, Bren seemed in his own way to welcome their company far more than any other’s, to relax in some small way at their presence; did that not count for something?

It would take him many more years to truly make sense of it, to fully understand the weight of what it meant, but the simple fact remained: that Bren was gone was the first of Trent Ikithon’s lies that Eadwulf ever saw through.

#yes this is a day late. no i don't know if its good or not. yes im posting it anyway because these are my babies #im deep in an Eadwulf My Beloved Who The Fuck Are You kick rn so most of my entries will probably be centered around Him™️#i want to peel him open like an onion and see what's going on inside. yknow #*slaps eadwulf* this baby can hold so much love shown through acts of service inside of it #angstpril2023 #criticalrole #fanfiction #day1 #liar #cr fic #critical role fic #eadwulf grieve #bren aldric ermendrud #caleb widogast #trent ikithon #<- literally my number one parasocial enemy tbh. and hes not even real #i would tag astrid but she's only very briefly mentioned so it feels wrong #this will eventually be on ao3 but for now i'm just slapping it here and getting the FUCK to bed

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awaytobeunshaken · 1 year

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Angstpril 2023 - Day 16: 'You have to let me go'

Essek lifts his hand to conjure the door, but hesitates.

“You’re afraid.” Caleb’s voice is clear behind him, yet somehow it suddenly feels distant at the same time. “Of what?”

“Afraid it won’t work. Afraid that it will.”

A hand comes to rest on Essek’s shoulder. “We agreed to work on this together. We’ve been perfecting it for decades. It will work.”

“You have said that before. And again I wonder if this is truly for the best, or if it will only make it harder, in the end.” He turns and places a hand on Caleb’s cheek and just looks at him. Caleb’s hair has gone almost all silver, and though the lines on his face are well hidden under the scruff, Essek can still feel them beneath his thumb. And he loves Caleb like this, and finds him so beautiful, as he always has, but after so many years of believing that one should simply acknowledge and accept death when it comes, he finds himself thinking, not for the first time, —except for him—.

Caleb puts his own hands to Essek’s face, and kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, and Essek drinks the kisses down like fresh spring water and the ache that has gripped his heart lessens just a bit. “I remember when you used to call me ‘young man’, do you think me so old already?”

“Never.” And he returns the kisses, one, two, three, and lays his head on Caleb’s shoulder. “But time is one of my specialties, and I am intimately aware of the inevitability of its passage.”

“Then let us not pass it in grief for what is yet to come. I only wish to leave this for you, when the time comes. And even if you decide you would rather not enter without me, I hope you will still remember the years we spent building it fondly.”

“All my memories of you are fond. I can’t imagine that will ever change.”

“Then I expect to give you many more years of them.”

And with one more kiss, and a stroke of his hand along Caleb’s jaw, Essek steps away, raises his hand again, and brings up the door to the demiplane and steps in. The entry of Widogast’s Nascent Nein-sided tower lays before him, with a few additions of his own, but there was little he could do to improve on Caleb’s aesthetic choices.

Caleb steps in to stand beside him, takes Essek’s hand and speaks the word ‘up’, and they rise together, hovering in the center of the tower. “It worked. You were able to get in here all on your own, and you can come here whenever you choose, as long as you have the magic available.”

Essek takes the lead now, guiding Caleb to the salon where they have spent hours, days, researching and discussing theory and engaging in certain other pursuits. And they settle onto the couch and make short work of those pursuits.

ao3

#angstpril2023 #critical role #fanfic #day 16 #you have to let me go #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #shadowgast #lifespan angst #cr2 #cr fic #my fic

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hellowkatey · 1 year

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technically

for Angstpril Day 1: Liar Obi-Wan is asked to take on another facial transformation mission that may ruin his already-strained relationship with Anakin.

For the hundredth time, Obi-Wan wondered if he was doing the right thing.

By this point, Obi-Wan knew this thought was becoming performative. A dilemma posed for his own sanity. This was because he had precedent for this particular type of betrayal.

His relationship with Anakin never fully recovered from the last time he died.

This is different, he repeated to himself when he laid back on the medical table. There will be no theatrical falls or fake funerals. Anakin probably… hopefully… never find out this ever happened.

The large needles that pressed into his head stung far worse than the last time. Obi-Wan’s eyes screwed shut as the facial transformation program initiated.

You’re still lying to him, though.

As far as his former padawan knew, Obi-Wan was deployed in the Outer Rim. He even sent a message that his comms would be limited due to interference from the planet’s atmosphere. That technically was the case with his flagship and the men aboard.

Technically.

There were lots of technicalities these days. Obi-Wan was getting rather tired of them.

Droid casualties were technically not loss of lives.

Jedi were technically trained for battle situations.

Obi-Wan was technically not breaking his promise to Anakin that he wouldn’t lie to him again.

Yet, here he is. One room over from where he was born again as Rako Hardeen the last time he was asked to perform a mission that was technically for the good of the galaxy. Obi-Wan had to be the one to undergo the procedure because he was technically the only one who could play the part accurately.

The machines finally stopped whirring and the pressure subsided. Obi-Wan remained lying back with his eyes shut until the throbbing of his head started to reduce.

What-ifs were already flooding his head. What if…

…the chancellor figures it out?

…the 501st is deployed with the 212th?

…I truly am killed on this mission?

…Anakin finds out?

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, finally inching his eyes open to adjust to the fluorescent overhead lamps. A medical droid hummed with satisfaction and then handed him a mirror.

“Facial transformation is complete. I will be right back with the voice modulator, Master Kenobi,” the droid said and buzzed away.

Obi-Wan held the mirror's reflective side down for a long moment. His stomach turned just thinking about the face he would see staring back at him. Every ounce of the Jedi wanted to call the council and tell him he couldn’t do this. As much as he tried to convince himself the reward was greater than the risk, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure anything was worth the pain it would bring to Anakin and the irreparable damage it would do to their already-strained bond.

I’ve allowed this to go too far. Even if Obi-Wan wanted to stop things, he knew too many pieces were in motion. Now, it truly was more dangerous for him to bail than to go through with the mission.

Chancellor Palpatine had been raising too many red flags with the Jedi Council. They needed more intel on his movements, but there were very few close enough to the ruler that would be willing to report on his private matters. The council suggested asking Anakin, but Obi-Wan quickly shut down their request. Anakin was fiercely loyal to those he cared about— the Chancellor was one of those lucky people.

Obi-Wan slowly turned the mirror around. The clean-shaven face that gradually came into view was horrifically familiar in a way that felt like a saber to the gut. Obi-Wan’s fingers quivered as they traced down the vertical scar that nearly took his right eye.

Forgive me, padawan.

Anakin himself would never betray the Chancellor.

But… perhaps the Chancellor would reveal his true character to one he believed was Anakin.

#angstpril2023 #star wars #tcw #fic #liar #day1 #post-deception arc #trying to get back into writing by doing some flash fiction for angstpril #rako hardeen #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #chancellor palpatine

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ladywynne · 1 year

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Freedom

Sansa Stark x Sandor Clegane

Freedom from Ramsay and freedom to choose who she wants.

Notes: Set after Theon and Sansa escape Winterfell. Sandor finds them on their way to the Wall. Sansa is a woman, not a little bird. She is savvy and traumatized at the same time. I haven't written Sansan in a hot minute so I hope you enjoy.

For Angstpril Day 19, Breaking Down.

CW: This is SFW. Mentions of past abuse. Implied dog death.

ASOIAF Masterlist

**************************************************************************

Sandor

Sandor was with Brother Ray’s community when he heard about Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay Bolton. The small family that had joined them at the fire that evening had no idea of the effect of their words. Before the sun had set Sandor was on his way North. He knew, despite their years apart, that Sansa would never agree to marry into the family that had betrayed her own with the Red Wedding; and if she didn’t agree then she was forced. Never again. A changed man he may be, but that only made his sins stand out all the more in his mind. Being complicit in her abuse was one of his worst, and he had never been able to erase Sansa from his mind.

In the end, Sansa escaped Ramsay on her own, with the unlikely help of Theon Greyjoy. When Sandor finally found them, they were nearly frozen and surrounded by growling hounds and brutal men. Sansa was backed against a rocky outcrop with Theon before her, wielding a torch. There was terror in Sansa’s face, and it was enough to make him see red, but there was determination too. As he watched she reached down to grip a large stone in each hand. He thought she wouldn’t be taken without one hell of a fight. So, the little bird had grown talons. Good.

He jumped from his mount and slew two of the bastards with his axe before they even knew he was there. Theon took up a dead man’s sword and helped, swinging clumsily but with grim intent at dogs and men. In a matter of moments it was over. Blood soaked the snow, and the remaining hounds had fled.

Sansa looked up at him, dropping her rocks as her eyes widened in recognition. He stepped toward her, wanting to reassure her, but before he could speak Theon stepped in front of Sansa. This close the size difference between the two men was almost painfully obvious. Nevertheless, Theon stood his ground, “I know you. Cersei’s Hound. Back away from Lady Sansa.”

Sandor would have laughed under different circumstances. The boy looked half-starved, yet when Sandor stayed his ground Theon raised his sword. Sandor took one step backwards, “I don’t work for the Lannisters anymore. The Lady has nothing to fear from me.”

Sansa gave him an appraising stare. She was thin and pale, but she looked him right in the eye. Then she stepped up to Theon’s side, touching his shoulder, “It’s all right Theon. He won’t hurt me.”

She took another step forward, standing tall, “Thank you for the rescue. Seems I’ve said those words before.”

“Aye.” No time for the past now. “We need to move. It’s not safe to linger here. This meat will draw back the dogs, and men as well.”

Sansa nods, accepting him without further questions. They mount on the Bolton men’s horses and Sandor looks at her. “Where are we going?”

“The Wall.”

Sandor simply pulls his horse’s head around, clicks his tongue at the animal, and they move out.

They ride hard for the rest of the day. Theon leads, as he grew up in the north, and Sandor takes the rear. Finally, late in the night, they make camp so the horses can rest. Theon glares at him when he moves toward Sansa with the intention of helping her off her horse, but strangely he doesn’t touch her either, allowing Sansa to slide off the mount herself, and only steadying her when her legs threaten to give as she lands. They aren’t near a road and after finding a place surrounded by boulders, they decide they can risk a fire. No one can see the smoke at night and none of them relish freezing to death. They drink snow and Sandor passes around jerky for them to chew on.

After a moment Theon stands. “I’ll take first watch,” He looks to Sansa. “Call if you need me. I won’t be far.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Theon nods and moves outside the ring of boulders.

Only the crackling fire breaks the silence for long minutes. Sansa stares into it, and doesn’t look up when she asks, “Why are you here?”

Sandor sees no reason to deny it, “I came for you. Knew you would never wed a Bolton willingly.”

If Sansa is surprised by this she doesn’t show it. “Why?” she asks again.

How can he explain it? That he has never stopped thinking about her. That he hates himself for what happened to her. It sounds foolish at best. He settles on a simple truth. “I want to help you. I should have done more for you, before.”

Sansa glances at him, and the corner of her mouth turns up, “So, you thought of me?”

Thought of her! Gods, if only she knew the countless hours he spent thinking of her. He thought of her as he lay alone at night, looking up at the stars. He thought of her as he decimated trees with his axe. She was his last thought when he was dying under that cursed oak. Arya… No. He would tell her what he knew of her sister soon, but not now. They have their own business to deal with first.

He takes so long in answering that she continues, “I’ve thought of you. Your voice, your advice has been with me. Thank you for that.”

He scoffs, “Don’t thank me, woman. I was a coward drowning in wine when you knew me last.”

She stiffens at his response and turns to face him. “Fine. You don’t want thanks. What do you want?”

Sandor meets her eyes, his voice deep and even, “I want to see you safe and well.”

“Safe and well?” Now it was her turn to scoff, “I’d say you’re far too late for that, ser.”

He doesn’t correct the title, taking it for the slight it was intended to be, and he turns back toward the fire ashamed. In truth he would see her more than safe. If the gods were good she would have been happy. She would have remained innocent; her pure, rare goodness untarnished by abuse and captivity.

Sandor is distracted by his guilt, but his head whips up at a tiny sound from Sansa. He is shocked to see her stony façade has cracked. Her hands are trembling where they lay in her lap, and as he watches tears pool in her eyes. Before he can stop himself, he moves to sit beside her.

“Who hurt you? I’ll kill them,” he growls.

*****

Sansa

She doesn’t answer. It all comes back to her. Littlefinger’s unwelcome touches; the fear, humiliation, and pain Ramsay brought. It is too much and Sandor is too near, the warm bulk of him recalling a security she hadn’t felt since her father passed. It was the safe and solid presence of a male who wouldn’t hurt her. She knows Sandor would never hurt her. He had the opportunity during the Blackwater and even drunk and frightened he didn’t do it. He offered to take her away. And Sansa feels herself giving in at last. She is so tired, and she has been strong for so long. Unable to mourn for so long. As the first hot tears run down her cheeks Sansa leans into him and presses her face against the leather of his shoulder. She feels him stiffen at first, but soon he draws his cloak around her shoulders and pulls her close as she cries.

After a time, Sansa wipes her eyes and lifts her head, but stays close under the cloak. “When we reach the Wall, Sandor, I would like you to stay.”

He tightens his arm just a fraction, “I am yours, my lady. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Sansa nods before resting her head against him once more, “Good.”

*****

Theon

When Theon hears a sob he stands abruptly, ready to die if he must, but the scene is not what he expects. The Hound, a man of fearsome reputation, is cradling Sansa gently in his arms. Sansa is actually allowing herself to be touched by a virtual stranger. He doesn’t understand. But if he has learned anything it is that he is a fool, so he merely turns back toward the darkness and takes up his watch again.

#angstpril2023 #Game of Thrones #fanfiction #Day 19 #Breaking Down #Sansan #Sansa Stark #Sandor Clegane

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thechaoticfanartist · 1 year

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"I have failed you, Anakin! I have failed you!" "I am not your failure, Obi-Wan."

Angstpril Day 23: Failure

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added or removed) : @padme--amygdala @soclonely @mrfandomwars @jgvfhl @starlonkedd @milfspectre1 @togrutanduin @jedi-valjean @one-real-imonkey @traygaming @roseofalderaan @keoxus @tranakin-thighhighwalker @veiled-in-stars @sentineljedi @spicysucculentz @amelia-song-pond @kohtoyah @saturnsokas @thejediprincessqueenofnaboo @veradragonjedi

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chaos-company · 1 year

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Get excited! Prompts drop tonight at midnight Central Standard time!

Alt: Angstpril 2023 banner. Dates of the event run from April 1, 2023 to April 30, 2023.

#angstpril2023

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solar-siren · 1 year

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Angstpril Day Seventeen: Running Away

Rinzler pursues.

His target is a blur of white, too dumb or desperate to mask their suit to something darker. They’re clever in other ways, though.

They weave through alleys, scramble up stairs and across rooftops before working their way back down to the streets. Rinzler could easily overtake them on a lightcycle or in a jet—which is why they utilize the maze-like structure of the city as their main method of defense.

It works, but only just.

There are moments when the program is close enough that Rinzler can hear him breathing. Once, twice, he raises his disc to strike, but it never falls. The program is too quick. If Rinzler wants him to run faster, it’s only so he can keep chasing.

He nearly gets his wish.

In a move Rinzler should expect, but doesn’t, they reach the limits of Argon city. The program in white leaps from the edge of a roof, rezzing his light cycle as he falls. Rinzler’s own core kicks up as he takes in the massive expanse of the Outlands before him— freedom —but before he can reach for his own baton his legs lock beneath him.

[That’s far enough.]

Clu’s voice overrides every other thought. Still, something in Tron Rinzler’s mind resists, tries again to reach for the baton. His hands do not obey. Desperation, anger, and something he can’t decipher flicker through him as he watches the program retreat. All he knows for certain is that if he obeys now, he will never have another chance to get away destroy the renegade.

[Return to base. Now.]

Rinzler purrs, stalls for one final moment as the program in white disappears into speck against the Grid.

At least one of them got away.

#angstpril2023 #tron #tron uprising #tron legacy #fanfiction #day17 #running away #beck #rinzler #clu #ren writes

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nyamadermont · 1 year

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Liar (Angstpril 2023 #1)

“Chief?!”

Mako flung the door fully open, then turned to Song. “Go get the healers! Chief is down!”

Song charged away, crashing through the crowd in the bullpen.

Mako darted around Beifong’s desk and was relieved to see her breathing, even before he was close enough to check manually. Papers were spread everywhere. Her teacup had spilled off the back of her desk before falling to the floor and shattering. He counted his lucky stars that the chair had held her up instead of sliding away from her when she collapsed.

He swept up as much of the remaining paperwork as he could, stuffing it into a file cabinet behind her desk. Next was the busted teacup. He tried lifting her shoulder to get the file that was open beneath her shoulders, but he couldn’t both lift her and grab the file. He gritted his teeth and pushed her jaw shut. Grimacing, he used his sleeve to wipe up the little bit of drool that had escaped.

That was just enough touching to wake her up.

She gasped and jerked upright, nearly knocking him over. He backpedaled.

“You called the healers, didn’t you?” she growled.

He opened his mouth, but just then, Kya came pounding into the room.

Lin glared at him and mouthed Liar at him.

“Lin, what happened?”

Lin turned to the ‘intruder.’ She rocked back on her heels, her arms crossed defensively. “Nothing,” she said in the flattest tone she could.

Kya’s worried frown darkened dangerously. “Liar. I can still see the drips from the edge of your desk. You collapsed again, didn’t you?”

Mako flicked his gaze to his boss in time to see her look of betrayed shock. “Liar! You promised!”

Kya threw up her hands and swore. “This is Mako! He’s seen everything! He needs to know if you’re still suffering aftereffects from those shocks you took. I told you that. You need him to know. I swore I wouldn’t tell Tenzin. I promised to lie to my own brother for you. Mako won’t say anything.” She turned her murderous scowl on him.

“Right?”

He threw up his hands and promised.

When he pulled Saikhan aside the next day, the only thing he could see was Lin’s face.

Liar

#angstpril2023 #avatar legend of korra #fanfiction #Day1 #Liar #nyama's short fics

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befuddled-calico-whump · 1 year

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Company Property

for Angstpril, Day 1: Liar

cw: manipulation, electrocution, violence, mentions of death/dismemberment

masterlist ///// next

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

He shrunk back from the light when the door opened, by now associating any shift in the darkness with pain.

But the silhouette in the door didn't belong to a guard, and it didn't even step forward, instead setting something heavy on the ground, nudging it further into the cell with a foot.

"Morning, scum."

(Thrum, hum, drum.) Lex raised his head, taking in the thing that had been sent towards him. Two identical items, long and metallic. They looked almost robotic, almost like…

Hands? Arms?

He looked up at the man in the door, a question silent on his face. The man grinned.

"Wanna get revenge?"

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

"How many?"

"Four or five. We aren't certain."

"And you want them all dead?"

"Dead or alive makes no difference to me."

"Dead then. Location?"

"We'll give you coordinates before you depart."

(Coordinates, bore-dinates, get down on the floor-dinates.)

Alexei Wilder sat stiff-backed in the leather chair, flexing new, inorganic fingers and staring towards the man he was speaking to without quite looking at him.

Overkast had gone rogue---or so Corporate said--- and they wanted him to take care of it. Become Cinder again and burn the hero who'd destroyed him.

Today was… his gaze flicked to the corner, where a calendar was tacked to the wall. A picture of a tree frog below an all-caps 'JUNE'. (Dune, noon, moon.)

Today was June the something, then, and it had been either one month or thirteen.

Both were far too long a time to spend in the dark.

But now he was unchained. Out of the cell, out of the darkness. He'd been fitted with a shock collar, but he couldn't fault these men for being cautious. After all, he was still a weapon, wasn't he?

The office was simultaneously too bright and not bright enough. He wanted to bask in the light as much as hide from it, to drink in the sunshine, the sky out the window, even the damn wallpaper pattern. He wanted to lie on the wooden floor and run his hands along the grain, to blow out the cinnamon scented candle on the desk and drink in the smoke.

But he didn't.

He sat still and pretended he wanted to obey the man at the desk. Uriah Fox, or so his nameplate read. The big CEO, head of Titanium, one of the companies that dealt in Hero contracts. The kind that would hire Lex to do their dirty work one day and call for his arrest the next.

"I am glad you decided to take my offer, Alexei," Fox continued, and Lex wanted to bristle at the casual use of his name. Whether Fox owned the tower that had kept him prisoner or not, he clearly had the power to take his life in his hands any time he wanted. Not someone to like, and certainly not someone to trust.

"We understand that there's some bad blood between you and Overkast. I trust that will serve to motivate you. Fan the flames, so to speak."

So there was. Overkast had taken his arms, left his body broken. He'd barely survived that fight. But the Corporate-run Tower, made for imprisoning bad guys like him, had taken the rest.

Everything that had once been normal, that he'd taken for granted, now felt strange.

Yesterday he'd had his first hot shower in a year. His hair had been cut, he'd been able to shave, brush his teeth. He could move his arms, flex his fingers, grab things, touch things. And he couldn't feel any of it, but ghostly memories of how it felt to hold something remained, and he could pretend.

Lex was given new boots and clothes to work in---the weight of the cloth and leather felt odd now, but he welcomed feeling almost human again---and was sent on his way at dusk. The collar stayed on, and a handler stayed with it, assigned to keep an eye on him. Make sure he didn't try to run.

The coordinates brought him to an unassuming apartment building.

By the end of the night, he'd have it reduced to ash.

He'd been given leave to improvise. To do whatever it took to take out the rogue team. Something he was good at. He'd be rusty, sure. A year in the dark, a year without use would do that to a tool, no matter how sharp. But he would prevail. He always did.

"Almost always," he reminded himself aloud, curling his new fingers into a fist. He was still getting used to the arms, the replacements for the flesh that had been taken from him.

The building seemed largely empty, aside from a single lighted window on the third floor. Lex circled the complex once, just to be certain, then began to scale the fire escape. The ladder made a soft tinging sound beneath the metal of his fingertips, singing like a wind chime as he climbed.

Even that scant amount of exertion was enough to make the muscles in his back ache. His body wasn't used to this amount of movement anymore. It wasn't used to the freedom of being able to walk more than a few paces. It was already tired, but he ignored its plea for rest. Years of training had left him able to push himself past his limits.

On the other side of the third-story window, a stout young woman sat on a beat-up sofa, reading. A pair of glasses rested on top of her head, above a round face and large brown eyes. Vision impaired. If he acted quickly, he'd have an advantage.

She certainly wasn't Overkast, but Fox said there were other teammates who'd sided with the rogue hero. This woman could easily be one of them. He considered finding another window and sneaking in, snapping her neck before she had time to scream. It would be easy.

But something gave him pause. She was too human. And sure, he'd had no problem with that in the past, but now it halted him where he stood.

What was stopping him? The way she had her legs curled up on the couch? Her laser-focus on the book, the way a few strands of her dark hair had come loose from her ponytail?

It occured to him then, that this was the first person he'd seen in over a year who didn't want to hurt him, or use him, or hate him. She was just existing. Knowing he was about to change that almost saddened him.

He'd strike quick, then. Non-lethal. Use her as a hostage if needed.

The window was locked from the inside, but Lex had no problem forcing it open, summoning his fire and feeling a rush of energy as it connected to the left cybernetic, the metal heating to a molten orange.

The woman was on her feet in an instant, throwing the book at him with an aim that would almost be impressive, if Lex wasn't able to catch it mid air with his activated arm, setting it aflame.

"Shit— Firebrand!" the woman shouted over her shoulder, taking hasty steps back as Lex advanced on her.

"I don't need to hurt you," he said, reaching out to seize her wrist with his cool hand when she turned to run. "Tell me where to find Overkast."

"What the hell— you— you're Cinder, aren't you?" the woman stammered, then, without warning, delivered a hard kick to his shin, trying to pull away.

He barely felt it. "Where is he?"

"Overkast is dead," she said through clenched teeth. "Who sent you? Was it Uriah? He's playing you. He just wants to get rid of us without getting his hands dirty."

Dead? Not possible. Overkast was at the heart of his mission. His vengeance. Fox had even said he didn't care about anyone else. "Bring them back dead or alive."

"You're lying," he growled. A quick footfall sounded nearby; someone rushing down the stairs. He pulled the woman into him, wrapping an arm around her throat and readying for an attack.

"It's the truth, I swear," the woman protested, her voice coming out strained. "Fox lied to you to get you to play attack dog."

"He didn't—"

"Bullshit, I saw your collar."

(Holler. Dollar.) He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow the shame that threatened to rise in him. It didn't matter. He'd wear a collar if it kept him out of the cell.

The steps drew closer, and the door across from them swung open. A girl stood on the other side, firelight in her clenched fists, glinting off of the beads that had been woven into her thick, braided hair. She couldn't have been more than fifteen, but there was murder in her dark eyes.

"Let her go," she spat, raising a glowing hand. She was still in her pajamas. Despite the threat she presented, despite her affiliation with Overkast, she was still very much a kid.

He wasn't all that surprised at the notion of Titanium employing children as heroes. For all their posturing, they really weren't so different from the Underneath.

"Tell me where Overkast is, and I will," he replied.

"Try six feet under," the girl shot back, but didn't try to close the distance. Lex raised his burning arm, holding it near the woman's head.

"Last chance to tell me the truth."

"He's dead," the girl snapped.

"How?" Her insistence was starting to seed doubt. "Who killed him?"

"Who do you think?" the woman in his grip said. "It was Titanium. Fox. And now they're after us too."

"Got enough brains to believe us, cyborg?" the girl in the doorway snarled. "Or are you just another one of their puppets?"

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

Getting away from the pair was easy enough. He'd shoved the woman forward, sending her crashing into the girl, and even when the kid was quick enough to send a stream of flame his way, it meant nothing. Fire couldn't hurt him, didn't she understand?

He ignored the onslaught, ignored their shouts for backup, ignored the objects flung at him as he took hold of the sides of the fire escape ladder and slid all the way to the ground.

His handler was still waiting in the alley adjacent to the building, looking puzzled and alarmed as Lex stalked toward him, hand flying defensively to the remote at his hip.

"Cinder— is the mission complete? I didn't see—"

"Where is Overkast?" Lex asked, towering over the other man.

"Did—Did you not see him?" the man stammered, voice pitching higher with fear.

"He's dead, isn't he?" If there had been any doubt left, it fled as a look of panic crossed the man's face.

"No, he's— he's alive. His team must be hiding him. If you—"

Lex didn't let him finish, dealing a swift backhand across his face that sent him sprawling.

"I didn't realize Titanium was full of liars," he muttered, closing in on the man. But before he could strike again, the handler remembered the remote, quickly pushing the center button.

Electricity surged through Lex, stopping him in place, locking out every muscle, burning him in a way that fire never could.

The man held it as Lex dropped to the ground, convulsing, unable to breathe. He didn't let go until his vision had gone dark.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, the man was gone.

"Tsk tsk. I expected better from you, Alexei," a voice crackled from the collar. Uriah Fox. He wondered if he'd been watching the whole time, if the thing had a camera as well as a comm link.

"Y'... lied to me," Lex mumbled back.

"I also got you out of the Tower. Is this how you're going to repay that kindness?"

Blindness, he thought dizzily. Any strength he'd gathered for the mission had been sapped by the shock. He didn't even have the energy to pick himself up off the pavement.

"What do you say we forget this little outburst?" Fox continued. "Come back to HQ and we'll talk. Re-evaluate. I still think you can be an asset to us."

"And what if I don't? You'll kill me?"

"If you don't, I'll put you back in the Tower."

His mouth went dry. "I'll die first."

Laughter on the other end. "You think I'd let that happen? You're company property, Alexei."

Lex tried to ignore the words. Pretend they meant nothing to him, that they were just a label that would keep him out of the dark, but they made him feel nauseous. Trapped.

"One way or another, you'll be useful to me."

•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•×•

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whumpflash · 1 year

Text

Penumbra: Unspoken

for Angstpril, Day 2: Loss of Control (alt)

cw: torture, nonsexual nudity, death mentions

masterlist ///// next

§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§

"The Shadow King has fallen."

A phrase on everyone's lips, passed around like a greeting, a blessing, a well-wishing.

"The Shadow King has fallen, and we are free."

General Nisha was at the head of the makeshift procession that paraded through the city, enemy shields and helmets held high like banners.

The war for the kingdom had been waged for five years. The fields outside the city were red with blood. But they'd won, they'd won. The undead legions had met their defeat, and their dark king had been imprisoned and was awaiting trial.

There was little doubt what his fate would be.

But before he could be executed, certain matters needed to be addressed. There were whispers in the streets, rumors of secret blood rituals, fail-safes emplaced by the Dark King to ensure he'd always be able to rise to power again. And if these rumors were true, they must be destroyed.

There were holy mages in cities further from the capital, wise men who could draw truths from a person's mind, but it would be weeks before their arrival. For now, Cerus the Shadow King would face Nisha.

They held a meager feast in the reclaimed castle; the city was still suffering from being besieged. Knights and lords and commoners dined together in celebration. Once the evening had turned to drinking and song, General Nisha took their leave, making the long journey down the stairs, to the dungeons.

Cerus hadn't moved an inch from the spot he'd been left in, Nisha had seen to that personally. The ex-king was blindfolded, chained spread-eagled on the ground with an iron bit in his mouth. Knight's gauntlets had been fitted over his hands, their joints fused together to form immobile metal gloves.

One could never be too careful when dealing with a mage, especially one as powerful as the Shadow King.

Nisha said nothing at first, unlocking the cell door and circling the prisoner inside.

Cerus's breathing quickened at the sound, his long black hair plastered to his face with sweat. He wore nothing but his restraints, leaving the multitude of wounds he'd sustained during his capture plainly visible.

How should they proceed? Normally, allowing a captive mage to speak would be exceedingly dangerous, but Nisha had taken precautions. One of their mages had crafted a runed cuff that would sap Cerus's power. The real question was, how would they get the man to respond?

They knew appealing to Cerus's morality was a lost cause. The former king had no issue razing whole villages to eliminate a single rebel. He'd executed entire families, burned the crops of his own people. There was no hope of finding any humanity in him.

Pain could be a motivator, but it would take time. And they had time, but pain alone wouldn't be enough. Someone like Cerus would need to be wholly broken before he'd give them anything worthwhile. Now fear… fear would be a useful tool, but how to employ it?

Nisha supposed they were already making some headway with their silent circling. Now to heighten it…

They eyed the rack of implements that lined one of the stone walls, selecting a slim wooden rod that looked like it had been freshly cut. Someone had stocked the dungeon for the occasion, then.

They tested it, watching Cerus's chest hitch as it cut through the air with a swish. Good. Instead of bringing it down on his exposed flesh, Nisha resumed their circling, letting the anticipation rise for a long moment before hovering over one of the deeper wounds on the chained man's torso and slowly, slowly forcing the tip of the implement into it, increasing pressure until Cerus was screaming around the bit.

Then without a word, they withdrew, the tip of the rod now slick with blood as they continued circling.

How would it feel, they wondered, to be in the Dark King's place? Dethroned, rendered powerless, in the hands of enemies who were hungry for blood. A prisoner in his own dungeon. They imagined it was terrifying. They hoped it was terrifying.

Nisha stopped, found another wound, and repeated the slow, pressured prodding. None of the cuts that littered Cerus's body were too deep; a few still oozed blood, and a few looked like they'd require stitches—or at least they would were Nisha inclined to grant the man any sort of medical aid. No, if Cerus were to be healed, it would only be to allow more pain. He deserved no mercy.

Nisha allowed themselves a few more jabs, a few more screams elicited from the tyrant, before even bothering to lock the runed cuff onto his wrist. They already knew they'd be up well into the night, whether Cerus elected to respond to their questions or not.

Whatever answers they were granted, they couldn't deny that they were going to enjoy this.

#angstpril2023 #day 2 #loss of control #alt 7 #fic #whump writing #tentative title but i like it :)#cant wait to make cerus suffer more #villain whump #villain whumpee #royal whumpee #fantasy whump #tw torture #angstpril 2023 #penumbra: shadow king

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