Main is @WildlifeRehabStudent| No AI Ever| I'm over 25, but all ages welcome| Feel free to send in asks! Prompts or your own character, either way!| If you'd like to ask any of my characters questions, you can also send in an ask for that!
The story on this blog mostly centers around Spruce, a bongo antelope- based firbolg. They were a druid and adventurer for a long time, and eventually settled down and built an inn. Now, they're (mostly) a quiet innkeeper, providing a home to anyone who needs one, for any length of time.
Stories I love that are not mine are queued under the #Library at Old Spruce Inn tag
If you have questions or ideas, send in an ask or message! I'll check regularly, and I love chatting. If you want to be tagged, let me know, and if you want me to provide tags or trigger warnings for anything, please do not hesitate to comment or message me.
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The second part of my June of Doom 2026 Completion attempt! This one is darker than the first, but it does have a happy ending. As before, prompt list at the end, and please let me know if I forgot to tag anything!
Contains: Prison violence, intimate violence, noncon (not explicit but repeatedly mentioned), captive whump, forced fighting, drugging mention, brief body shaming
When Wicker was offered a job as a doctor in the city, he took it readily. They told him he'd be treating prisoners, so it didn't seem unusual when his patients were brought in bound and bloody. There was always a guard in the room, and the patients refused eye contact, and he did his best to work efficiently. The hours were strange, and eventually he was on-call more than he was off, so they gave him a room.
Late one night, while he was catching up on his notes, he heard chanting. He found himself following the sound and ended up on the opposite side of the prison, descending a staircase to a basement he didn't know existed.
As soon as he opened the door, a guard he'd never seen before— the Warden, he later learned— grabbed him by the wrist, wrenched his arm behind his back, and pinned him to the wall.
The Warden was a Gnoll, he realized with horror. Hyena-like, feral, and blood-thirsty.
"Who do we have here?" The man's voice was full of glee as his claws dug into Wicker's wrist.
"I'm— I'm the doctor. I'm not a prisoner. My, my identification is in my back pocket."
"Prisoner?" The man laughed, a sound that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. "You still think this is a prison?"
The other guards laughed. "He's innocent, Warden! He didn't do anything!"
Icy fear clawed at his stomach, but he fought to keep his voice level. "You have to let me go. I'm a doctor. Please— my identification is in my back pocket."
The man's hand lingered in his pocket far too long, as if he couldn't find the wallet tucked there. He shifted his weight, then used his elbow to force Wicker against the wall so that both of his hands were free.
"Ooh, we have a card here with your name on it, probably fake. Oh and some cash, I'll keep that."
"Sir?"
"What do they say about curiosity killing the cat? You should have stayed in your office, little kitty."
The man pulled him back and turned him around, and for the first time all the injuries he'd treated made sense. He had just stumbled upon a massive underground arena. His patients, many of whom were supposed to be on bedrest, were instead being forced to fight each other.
"I… nothing I did helped any of them," he muttered softly, and the Warden clapped him on the back, handcuffed and collared him.
"Now you get it! Down you go, little kitty." And he was cast into the arena.
——
He never wanted to hurt anyone. His mother's voice rang in his ears with every blow he landed. Which, to be fair, were not many.
Most folks didn't want to hurt him, either. They all had an uneasy comraderie when the guards weren't around, all just unlucky folks trapped together in hell. But the consequences of refusing a fight were brutal, he quickly learned.
Better to put on a good show. Better to know what would be broken before the match began. At least they knew each other's limits. They had codewords hidden in their taunts, check-ins disguised as battle moves.
The fights were never fair, but they could pull a punch here and there without being too obvious.
There was nothing they could do when the guards decided to join a fight, but at least that wasn't too frequent.
Occasionally, if someone popular got too badly injured, he'd be given some healing supplies. Never a coherent kit, never all the things he needed. But he saved the supplies he got, hid them away, and did what he could to keep everyone alive.
He would sing, sometimes. His mother's songs. After too many blows to the head, the others reminded him of the words.
He treated the sprains and bruises, cuts and breaks, every wound he could. There wasn't much that could be done for starvation, but he did his best.
He began to understand why his mother had seen death as a mercy all those years ago. Often, all he had to give was a kind word and a quick end, perhaps a soft song, but it was better than the alternative.
Deep into his captivity, the Warden, the gnoll who'd first thrown him in, came for a visit.
This wasn't unusual. The man was obsessed with him— visits had gone from occasional to constant. He even brought gifts sometimes— jewelry, fine clothes, useless trinkets.
Food occasionally— those were always the worst visits.
(The Warden clearly did not have a concept of proper doses.)
"Hello little Jackrabbit," he purred, and Wicker went to him immediately, allowed the man to kiss him, to bite him, to dig in his claws, because really, what option did he have?
It was better to play along. He whimpered the way he knew the Warden liked.
He put a hand over the pulsepoint by Wicker's throat, under his collar, and hummed. "Your heart beats so fast for me, little Jackrabbit."
"Only for you," he replied, and it wasn't untrue, because this man terrified him in a way no one else did.
"Do you know how long you've been here now, Jackie?"
He shook his head. There was no sunlight, no way to tell time.
"Four years today. For four years, you have belonged only to me."
Four years. "And I will be yours forever," he replied automatically. The man's hand tightened around his neck as he leaned in to kiss him again— a sure sign he was pleased. His heart beat faster still as the Warden's fingers traced the arteries of his throat, as his teeth grazed along his tender ears.
His mother had warned him about men like this.
"I think you've earned your retirement," the man growled softly, and the words startled Wicker so badly that he jerked his head back, earning himself a new puncture to one of his ears.
"Sir?"
The Warden took the opportunity to pin him to the nearest wall roughly, one hand still on his neck. "You've earned me more than enough money down here, little Jackrabbit. It's time I start keeping another office pet."
His heart hammered in his chest and the man chuckled. "I knew you'd be excited. Aren't I the best?"
"There is no one better in all the world," he replied. The Warden switched out his collar, then scooped him up. As he carried him away, he wished desperately that he had taken an easier out when he'd had the chance.
——
Being an office pet meant being the Warden's prize. He was a trophy, a reward, a toy, depending on the situation at hand.
Most days were spent entertaining the Warden himself. He was easy enough to please. Predictable, at least. As long as he acted interested and didn't fight back, did as he was told and played his role, he was usually fed.
The Warden's bed felt like it would swallow him whole, compared to the stone floor he'd been sleeping on for the last four years.
He felt that it did, some nights .
His bruises never had a chance to fade, but he'd grown used to that.
Neither did the claw-marks around his throat, his shoulders, his hips.
He wondered if this was how his mother had felt, trapped and powerless and pretending. How Hyssop had felt, before she ran away and found herself at his door.
Hyssop. She thought he was off being a doctor. No— better not to think about her. The memories were fuzzy anyway. Much like snowflakes, he thought. He would have moments of clarity where he could see every detail, then they were all blurred back into a snowdrift, impossible to recover.
It was when there were others that things got really bad.
He wasn't the only office pet, but he was the newest, and therefore in the highest demand. He may have earned the Warden enough money underground, but that didn't mean he couldn't make him even more above ground. He was taken to taverns to be rented out, and he was popular.
He had so many scars from the arena (and the Warden) that no one minded someone adding a few more, as long as they paid the fee.
And back at the facility, being in the highest demand made him the highest reward. He would be gifted to guards for anywhere from half an hour to a week at a time, though half a day was the most common. Some wanted a punching bag, some wanted a bedmate. Most wanted both— the guards were chosen for their sadism, after all.
Then there were the office parties, when all the guards had free access to any and all of the pets. For holidays, for birthdays, for "team building". An office party could begin for any reason, at any time, with no warning. Sometimes, some or all of the pets would be drugged. It was impossible to predict, but unexpected food was always suspect.
Somewhere around this time, he became aware that a stranger had taken interest in him. He didn't understand how he was anything worth obsessing over, especially as battered and scarred as he was, but clearly that didn't stop anyone.
He'd be returned to his room and find tools, trinkets, notes he couldn't read. Food and water that wasn't drugged. At first, he assumed it was a guard, but as time wore on, that suspicion died out. Another pet, perhaps, but that also seemed beyond unlikely.
One night, he'd finally had enough. There'd been an office party going for days. He and the other pets had been worn ragged, to the point of collapse. Someone left a door unlocked. He noticed.
He shoved a few of the other pets through first, made sure they got away and disappeared into the night.
Then, it was his turn to run.
He got halfway to the fence before he was tackled to the ground.
Two, no, three sets of hands grabbed at him and drug him back inside, then dropped him to the floor.
A pair of familiar boots stepped into view.
The Warden.
"Where do you think you're going, my little Jackrabbit?"
He didn't respond. Could barely hear, past the pounding in his chest.
"What's the matter little kitty, cat got your tongue? Get him up."
The guards stood him up then let go and stepped back. The Warden sauntered towards him, unhurried.
He grabbed his collar with one hand and landed a crushing blow across his jaw with the other.
Wicker crumbled, and the Warden let him fall.
"Break his leg. Teach him a lesson. We'll see how well he can run then." Before he walked away, the Warden knelt down to Wicker's level. He ran a thumb tenderly across his bleeding lip, then smeared the blood across Wicker's face.
"Don't worry, my little Jackrabbit. I'm not done with you yet." His voice was nauseatingly tender.
But Wicker was already somewhere deep within his own mind.
He retreated silently as the guards stomped him into a bloody mess. He barely reacted as the guards snapped his leg. He didn't notice when they dumped him in the Warden's bed, or when they clipped his collar to the headboard and cuffed his broken leg roughly to the bedframe.
He didn't react as the Warden beat him into the bed, laid limp as he had his way. The Warden grew frustrated by his lack of reaction, his distant gaze, and eventually just left him.
The door slammed shut.
An hour passed, and he slipped the tiny lockpick set he'd found hidden in his room from the slit he'd cut in his collar. Listened closely, but there were no voices outside.
He'd have to run on a broken leg.
The fracture was already horrifically misaligned.
The shouldn't have made him fight through pain for so long. They'd conditioned him for this.
He found a stick he could use as a crutch.
His head swam with every step, but it was his only chance.
Two more locks, and he was outside.
He kept to the shadows and crawled through dying grass towards freedom.
He made it to the woods.
He made it to the woods.
He could take stock of his injuries later.
For now, he ran.
——
He ran until he found strangers at a campfire. He collapsed there. Crumbled into broken, shuddering sobs as they actually set and bandaged his leg and treated his wounds.
The smell of the medicines they used reminded him of his mother.
They spoke like they knew him. The taller one seemed emotional as they said something like "I thought you were dead," but as hard as Wicker tried, he couldn't place either of them to any personal memories.
He passed out and woke to find himself carefully tucked into a nest of blankets and wearing clothes that definitely weren't his own.
He'd run in tattered rags, these clothes were clean and whole.
His collar was gone.
He realized suddenly that other than moving him and changing him, no one had touched him. They hadn't taken advantage of his helplessness. They hadn't hurt him.
They'd clothed him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn real clothes.
He could only bear these strangers' kindness for a week before he ran again, too afraid of being tricked, of being trapped.
A month later, they found him again, took him back to their camp again. He ran again, the next day, if only because he could.
Then it was every few weeks, until one day he nearly froze to death, and they found him.
It had been far below zero, he'd been a fool for being outside in weather like that. But what other choice did he have? He had no home, nowhere to go back to— he could barely even think straight. Couldn't, by the time the hypothermia set in.
He'd come to briefly as the taller one carried him, panicked and flailed and tried to scramble away, but he was far too weak to resist.
Couldn't even keep himself from being kidnapped again.
Pathetic.
He'd woken again tucked into a nest of blankets, the shorter, more human one sitting next to him.
"Where am I?" He mumbled, glancing around and trying to get his bearings. Not in the darkness of the arena, though it was dark.
It smelled like the forest, like a campfire, like outside. Not the blood and rot of the arena.
"Easy, easy." Her hand settled on his chest and he panicked for a moment before he realized that she wasn't touching his throat.
She wasn't the Warden. He wasn't there anymore.
There was no collar.
"You're in our tent, Wicker, you're okay."
Wicker. Not Jack.
He took a shaky breath and nodded, leaned desperately into the touch despite himself.
"My own fault," he mumbled. "I'm not worth your time, just…" He swallowed hard, he didn't want to be alone anymore but he couldn't keep dragging them down.
"Just leave me. Leave me to die. I can't repay your kindness, your mercy. I— I never should have gotten you involved. I'm so sorry."
The taller one walked into the tent and he barely managed to bite back a whimper. They could kill him so easily, destroy him a million ways, but they'd always been so gentle. He'd seen them at markets and taverns, he knew what those hands were capable of.
But those hands were so, so gentle as they took his. So warm.
He just wanted to be held.
"We're worried about you," the taller one told him as they sat down next to his nest. They looked so tired, and he felt a pang of guilt as he realized it was because of him. "What's next, we find you half-drowned in a flood, delirious from heat-stroke?"
"You've been. Stalking me?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, that was. Not the right word."
"We've been looking for you," they replied gently. "Not stalking. We weren't— we wouldn't hurt you, Wicker."
They were still holding his hands.
"It's no use. The Warden, he's… he's still after me. He'll never stop."
"He'd have to take me instead," the taller one growled. "You'll be safer with us than on your own. We can keep you safe. I won't ask you to trust me, but… I promise, you can trust us."
He didn't leave again, after that.
Because Spruce and Katy, they were warm and they didn't hurt each other and they didn't hurt him. And for the first time in so, so long… he could finally, finally rest.
——
A few years later, he was on a foraging trip when he felt a familiar hand around his neck, familiar claws press into his throat.
"My little Jackrabbit," the Warden growled, his teeth grazing Wicker's ear. "I'm sure you're glad to see me."
He didn't try to run. Didn't move.
"Am I?"
"Your company has been a vampire and Preston. I can't imagine they treat you better than I did. And just look at you. You've gotten fat and stupid, didn't even notice my approach."
Wicker hummed softly. The ground shifted ever so slightly under his feet and he smiled. The Warden didn't notice.
The man's grip tightened. Wicker's heart did not race. A tree nearby creaked.
"What happened to your quick heart, Jackrabbit? Have you really forgotten me so soon?"
"My heart does not beat for you," he hissed softly.
The Warden slapped him across the face and he chuckled darkly.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"And why is that? I know you've missed me, admit it! Preston is crueler than I could ever be! And a vampire? Really, Jackie! Let me take you home."
The Warden didn't notice the plant life shifting around him, the earth rumbling underfoot.
"Preston may be brutal to folks like you, but Spruce—" a vine snaked from the underbrush and began to wrap around the Warden's leg— "has never set a hand against me."
The vine snapped back up into a tree, and the Warden screamed as he was yanked with it into the air. A hawk swooped down from a tree and morphed into Spruce, who grinned at the Warden.
Being a druid was a useful skill.
They pressed a kiss to the top of Wicker's head, then swung their axe, and the Warden was no more.
Hello all! This is my attempt to complete June of Doom 2026 in one story! Got a little long (around 5000 words) so I split it into two posts.
Prompt list will be at the end of each post.
Please please let me know if I forgot to tag anything!
Contains: Patriarchal control, abusive spouse/domestic violence, infanticide, mariticide, drowning, suicide (and this is the tamer of the two)
Wicker remembered little from his life before he stumbled upon Spruce and Katy and was given a new name. This was a blessing. He remembered being soft and warm as a kitten, curled up in his mother's arms. If he tried, he could recall fragments of a childhood, short though it was.
He remembered all of his mother's herbalism, though he did not remember learning any of it. The knowledge felt innate, as ingrained and sure as knowing that the suns are warm.
(There was a time he had forgotten even the warmth of the suns.)
The first thing he had forgotten, or really never known, was his father. His name was Peak, short for 'Snow on a Mountain's Peak' . He was handsome, to be sure— his white coat always pristine, his fluffy tail always well-groomed. He stood out among the other Tabaxi, and between his looks and his wealth, he was very accustomed to getting his way.
His mother on the other hand, Poppy, was a gentle woman, soft-spoken and quite accustomed to not getting her way. She was beautiful, but her gray tabby coat was seen as common, and looking after herself was never a priority. When Peak decided she was his, she never thought to protest. When he told her no one else would ever want her, she accepted it as truth.
When he treated her the same way her father had, she turned to her mother's herbalism, and practiced it in secret.
She never considered the idea of leaving. This treatment was expected, and at least she wasn't starving. This was the norm in their community, narrow-minded and isolated as it was.
Any herbalist knew their poisons, but it hadn't come to that yet. She could still manage.
That changed, though, shortly after she had her kits.
She had triplets— a small litter, but not unusual for a first time mother. Wicker was white and gray, a blend of his parents' colors. The other two were gray tabbies like their mother. Peak didn't bond with them like Poppy did, but she held out hope. He was detached, disinterested. Not violent— at least, not towards the kits.
She thought things were beginning to look up the day he suggested a walk by the seaside, and she went happily, all three kits bundled up in her arms.
"Why don't you let me hold them, babe?"
She hesitated for a moment. "You never wanted to," she replied softly. Some sort of warning was sounding in the back of her mind, but she couldn't identify it.
He held out his hands. "Come on, how am I supposed to be a good dad if you won't even let me hold them? Let me see my girls, come on. They look just like you."
So she did, because she had been taught to obey.
He took them, bounced them gently, cradled them. Cooed over them, and she began to calm.
"You look just like your momma, don't ya? You just look like your momma."
The shift was subtle, but she glanced back at him in time to see his claws clench the blankets in his hands. One of her kittens mewled and she realized for the first time how truly helpless me, m,she felt.
"Honey? Peak, what's wrong?"
"Who is their father?" His voice was slow, deliberate, and dangerous.
She reached for her kittens but he held them far above her head. They were crying in earnest now, which angered him further.
"You know you're their father. There's never been anyone else! You said it yourself, no one else could ever love me!"
"Bullshit, don't you lie to me! Who's kits am I holding!?"
She reached for them again and he kicked her away. She landed hard on her side, barely avoiding falling on the baby still in her arms. Peak slammed his foot onto her chest, pinning her to the ground as she choked out a sob.
"You're only making it worse by denying it. Just tell me!"
She shook her head desperately. "Please, Peak, just calm down!"
"You're pathetic," he snarled. "A mistake. Not even clever enough to get rid of the evidence. Not strong enough to do what needs to be done." He hurled both kittens into the sea and she screamed.
"Oh, shut up," he hissed, grinding his heel into her chest until she could hardly breathe. "You're next, don't worry."
Poppy had always been gentle and quiet. She had never even thought to fight back for her own sake. But when Peak reached for Wicker, she sank her claws deep into his thigh.
"Don't you dare," she spat. "You don't get to fucking touch him." Peak staggered back, shocked, giving her time to regain her footing and shove him into the choppy waters below.
She held Wicker close so he wouldn't see. Watching the waves swallow her husband was just another secret to be kept.
She bundled up little Wicker and set him carefully in the sand, then threw herself into the water, intent on finding her babies. She wouldn't, couldn't, let the sea keep them. And eventually, she did. She dried them gently and buried them under a tree where the soil did not soak.
Carrying them home would raise too many questions.
She and Wicker returned home alone. She told everyone there had been an accident. Peak had died trying to save their children from a riptide. Everyone left her alone, grieving widow that she was. So she turned nearly all of her attention to Wicker, intent on making sure he was a kinder man than she'd ever encountered. Wicker, and her herbalism, as she did everything in her power to prevent anyone else from ending up like her.
——
They lived peacefully together for about fourteen years before Poppy began to cough. Wicker knew something was wrong when she began to seek out other herbalists. The pair began to travel, and Poppy grew weaker as her cough grew stronger. Treatments would succeed for a week or two, then the cough would come back worse. Wicker stayed at her side, absorbing every bit of knowledge he could from anyone who would teach him.
All of the herbalists they saw were women, most of them suspicious of a young man interested in the art. They did not want the men knowing their secrets. But Wicker took after his mother. He was patient and soft-spoken and quite accustomed to having to prove himself. He just stayed nearby, quietly helping, tending to his mother, and proving he was worth their trust.
When she began to cough up blood, she gave up trying to find a treatment and the pair returned home. Wicker constantly urged her to keep looking for help, but she adamantly refused.
"I just want to spend the time I have left here with you," she would tell him. They spend hours in the garden together. She taught him everything she knew. Neither of them could write the common language, but they came up with their own language of symbols and drawing to record everything. He kept notes in fragments, a puzzle no one else could uncode.
She never told him she knew why she was sick. She never told him about the late nights spent mixing powders for women who were afraid.
If a winter storm or brutal heatwave happened to take out an unusual number of men, if there were suddenly more widows in the community, well. There's no accounting for climate, you know.
"You should be out playing, making friends. Not stuck in here with me."
But he shook his head. "I won't leave you, mom. I'll take care of you."
She developed a fever, and he sang to her softly as he cared for her. She became bedbound, too weak to stand, and he refused to leave her side. When everything became too loud, too bright, too much, he kept the room dark and sat quietly, holding her hand.
He was heartbroken but unsurprised the day he came home from a gathering trip to find that she had taken her own life. At least that, if nothing else, had been on her own terms.
He regretted that she died alone. But that had been her choice. She had sent him away. He had to accept that.
——
He spent the next year working alone— abandoning his mother's clients was unthinkable, and he'd been doing her deliveries for a while anyway. His evenings were spent in taverns, listening and pretending to drink. The dark hours were spent traveling his mother's delivery routes and adding stops of his own, dropping off tinctures and bundles of herbs wherever he'd noticed they were needed.
By then, he was nearly grown. As his mother's stockpile ran out, he began to grow restless. A bone-deep loneliness set in, and there was no one for him here. Still, leaving felt unthinkable— like a betrayal. So he restocked and continued to work.
Until there was a knock on his door, late one night. He'd just come back in from deliveries, soaked to the bone and shivering. The knock was barely audible over the rain beating against the windowpanes, but the rhythm stood out, so he cracked the door cautiously to see who it was.
No one visited him. He didn't have friends, not really.
A young tabaxi woman looked at him with wide eyes, then threw herself at his feet, soaked and sobbing, half-stripped and pleading for mercy. He helped her in, then closed and locked the door behind her in case she was being followed.
He realized that was a mistake when her eyes flicked to the door, but unlocking it now felt foolish.
"Hey, hey, shh, you're alright." He knelt next to her and rubbed a paw along her back the way he'd seen his mother do, but she flinched away from his touch and only cried harder. At a loss, he stepped out of the room to get a few towels and give her a moment to collect herself. When he returned, she was at least sitting upright.
Her nose and lip were bleeding, one eye bruised and swollen shut. He felt it was likely she was bruised all over, under her fur. She was trembling, and Wicker gave her a towel before sitting down a few paces away.
"Why is there a man in a herbalist's home?" Her voice was shaky, but her gaze was sharp. "The— the mark by the door, how did you learn it?"
"This was my mother's. She wanted me to maintain it. Why are you in my home?"
"My husband— he—," she took a shaky, steadying breath. "I can't go back. He'll kill me."
"Okay. How about some tea?"
"Tea?"
"Yes? Maybe chamomile?"
She bit back a sob, then nodded and started to stand on shaky legs. She stumbled once and had to catch herself on the wall. "Which direction is your kitchen? I beg your patience."
"No, I— I'll make the tea. I was asking if you would also like a cup. Please, sit back down. Rest. I'll bring you some dry clothes."
She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. He pointed out the bathroom so that she could shower and change in private. Gave her some of his mother's clothes, which she eyed warily but accepted. Stoked the fire to warm them both.
After four mugs of tea, her trembling finally stopped. He learned quickly that she did not want to be touched. At first, she would go stiff and still. As they got to know each other, she became more comfortable reacting.
He was used to touch, working alongside his mother for so long, but he adjusted quickly, for her.
Her name was Hyssop, he eventually learned. They spent the next couple years working alongside each other. She eventually grew to trust that he wouldn't hurt her, and he showed her as much as he could of his mother's trade.
"Herbalism is women's work," she said one day, for the hundredth time, as they were sorting dried herbs together.
He groaned. "I'm not giving up my mother's skills just because I'm a man. That's ridiculous. What would I even do?"
"Become a doctor. Then you can come back and fix all this shit."
"A doctor?" He scoffed. "I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm an herbalist."
"You could help more people. They'd trust you more. You could get away from all the bigoted bullshit here."
He turned his attention to the herb-grinding at hand while he mulled it over. The community was so deeply insular and religious, he couldn't change that. He had no authority, no money, no power.
A city would be different.
"I can't just… leave everyone," he finally replied.
"Are you saying I'm not capable? Herbalism is women's work, I know what I'm doing now."
His mom would have liked her. He wished they could have met.
The faun was terrified, limp on the ground as the orc stood over him, boot on his back.
"Stay down," the orc snarled, and he nodded frantically. His knife was long abandoned— he hadn't even managed to land a scratch on him before the hulking beast had flipped him to the ground, face-down in the dirt, and kicked the weapon far from his hands.
Which meant the orc owned him now. His one chance at freedom— gone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please—" his whimpers cut off with a cry as someone else kicked him in the ribs. He knew that boot, it was his master. His old master now, he supposed. The sharp tip of her boot dug between his ribs and a shuddering cry escaped him. A snap of her fingers and he fell silent, trembling.
It was nauseating, how much control she had over him.
"And who, exactly, are you?" The orc snarled. The faun felt the weight on his back shift as the man above him moved. He braced for the crushing weight he expected, but it didn't come. If anything, the pressure lessened, slightly. He tried to take a deep breath while he still could.
"Oh, I'm just here to apologize for my pet's behavior."
She told me to, he wanted to cry, but he kept silent. He knew better than to talk back.
"Who gives their pet a knife?" The orc sounded almost amused.
"He stole it, little thief. I was planning on loaning him to one of the whip-weavers for a while, teach him some manners. But honestly, I'm bored of him."
She clearly expected a response, but the orc stayed silent. The silence dragged out for a few very uncomfortable moments.
"…So if you want to take him, as recompense, he's all yours. Keep him, eat him, sell him to the weavers—" she dug her boot further into his ribs and he cried out, "— I couldn't care less."
He knew she meant it. No question about it. She'd grown bored of him and no longer cared what happened to him. And now she was giving him away to an orc that she'd told him to attack. He allowed his mind to drift back to the forests of his home— the soft ferns, the smell of moss, the sounds of rustling leaves. He'd hoped that one day he'd see it again, but that tiny sliver of hope was ground into the dust beneath him.
Then the boot in his ribs was gone. He didn't dare look up as she walked away. Just listened as her footsteps disappeared into the crowd. And he was being lifted from the dirt. The orc was picking him up. Dusted him off— he could crush the faun so easily if he wanted. He hadn't yet. Toying with him, then, but why?
He shuddered at the feeling of a leash clipping onto his collar. The hand lingered at his neck. He took a deep breath— his collar loosened.
He didn't know it could do that.
"Stay close. Don't make me carry you."
He nodded quickly and followed at heel. As it turned out, he wasn't nearly as clumsy without someone yanking on his neck the whole time. It was almost possible to imagine that they were simply going for a walk.
A walk into the woods.
The feeling of moss under his hooves, of ferns brushing against his legs— he wanted to drop to his knees, to soak it all in. But he kept his gaze trained on his new master. It was a test, to see if he would try to run. He wouldn't— couldn't— leashed as he was.
They walked deep into the forest together. Here, in his natural habitat, he almost began to relax. His ears, long weighed down with heavy rings, began to twitch in response to sounds.
Then they stopped at a camp-site that was clearly well used. The orc sat on a log, so the faun knelt next to him in the soft dirt.
The orc broke the silence, of course. "Name's Atlas. What's yours?"
"Teddy, sir."
"Teddy," he repeated, without a hint of mockery in his voice. "Why'd you try to stab me, Teddy?"
"I was instructed to, sir." He braced for a reaction, a punishment, but one didn't come. Instead, the orc, Atlas, sighed.
"Figured."
"…Sir?"
"Folks there like to try to upset me— everybody's always looking for a show."
Teddy didn't understand, so he stayed quiet and watched as Atlas started a fire.
"I'm gonna unclip this tether. Trying to escape in these woods would be foolish— they're crawling with hunters. We'll camp here tonight and head home tomorrow."
"Home, sir?"
"Unless your home's nearby? But I'm guessing it isn't, and even if it was, I know you wouldn't lead a stranger in, and you wouldn't be safe without an escort."
He shook his head. He wouldn't reveal his clan's location— he figured he was dead anyway.
But a question still remained. "You're not gonna… you know…"
Atlas shook his head. "No, kid. Not gonna eat you." Then he unclipped the leash and turned his full attention to the fire he was building.
It was one thing to know that orcs were fire resistant. It was another to watch one stick his hands into the flames to adjust the coals. Teddy decided to watch as he worked, taking the opportunity to observe his new master.
His face seemed so much softer, here in the fading light. The firelight reflected strangely off the green of his skin and the gold of his earrings— he had so many earrings, but they didn't seem to weigh him down like Teddy's did. His dark hair was cut into a shaggy mohawk, though it seemed to be growing out a bit. The orc shed his chains, his jacket, his armor, until he was down to an undershirt and long pants.
It was disarming.
And then he was holding out a bowl of… stew? "Sir?"
"Eat. Rest. We have a long journey tomorrow."
Perhaps he was a fool. He knew he was— trusting someone he'd attacked just a few hours ago. Atlas could be taking him anywhere, perhaps he just didn't like his meat bruised, or he was just extending his freshness, or fattening him up.
But the stew was warm and his stomach empty, so he took it gratefully. And when the orc offered him a bedroll, he took that as well and curled up to sleep.
Katy heard the whole conversation from the dining room. One of the kids, Jemma, had noticed her teeth, and the conversation had devolved from there.
Julie, the kids' mom, was defensive. Katy supposed she had every right to be. Andy was more open minded.
Katy didn't really mind their suspicion. She was safe here. She reminded herself of this and willed her hands to relax as Spuce patiently ushered the group back out to meet her.
"Katy here's been my best friend for near-about two hundred years," Spruce introduced.
Julie was clearly struggling with the time scale that the others were used to. "Two… hundred years?"
Katy nodded her agreement. "I'm a bit older myself, but yes. I am a doctor, and the co- steward of the Inn."
Andy raised his eyebrows. "Huh, I didn't know vampires were allowed to train as doctors."
"I was a doctor first," she replied.
Julie chewed at her lip, clearly appraising the vampire. Katy couldn't blame her, she had a family to protect. She was used to being judged by what she was instead of who she was, but she didn't have to like it.
"What about the mind control?"
Julie's question caught her off guard. "Pardon?"
"How do we know you aren't mind controlling everyone?"
Caleb, the middle child, groaned. "Mom, that's rude."
"It's a simple question."
Katy ran her hand along the back of her neck. "Mind control isn't specifically a vampire thing. It's a magic thing. Any wizard can do it, if they choose to."
Andy tilted his head. "What about enthrallment?"
Spruce snorted, and Katy dutifully ignored them. "Thralls are people who have been bitten by a vampire and developed a sense of euphoria. They are uncoordinated and incoherent. No one here is enthralled, I assure you."
Julie's shoulders sagged slightly and Rosie yawned, so Spruce stepped in. "How about we get y'all set up in some rooms for the night? I think we all need some rest."
Andy agreed, and so did Emma, so it was decided.
—
Felix and Aspen had already started preparing two rooms for their guests. Conjoined, as Spruce had promised.
A centaur room was easy enough. Emma and Earnest were both very large, and both had aging joints, so Aspen made sure the room was mostly open space. Simple. When she had finished, she joined Felix to help with the room for five humans.
"Just one room for all of them?"
Felix nodded. "The kids are young, the mother is suspicious. They'll want to keep each other close."
"And the centaurs?"
Felix glanced up at her. She was clearly nervous— shifting from foot to foot as she stood. She didn't like humans, and she struggled around other centaurs. The two combined, with no warning, had thrown her for a loop.
"The kids seem to see them as something akin to grandparents. They raised Andy, I think. The humans, they're trying to do the right thing here."
She nodded and took a deep breath, then busied herself with fluffing pillows and spreading blankets. By the time their guests had arrived, she had slipped out the door.
Felix watched, amused, as the kids bounced on the beds. Julie tried to stop them, but Spruce assured her it was fine. "If they manage to break anything in here by being kids, I'd be impressed."
They wore themselves out quickly, and Felix stepped into the next room, where Katy was showing Emma and Earnest around the room and helping them figure out the best way to get on and off the beds.
"I didn't even know they made beds for centaurs," Emma said softly.
"They don't," Felix replied. "Spruce does. They're working on making it more common, though."
Emma nodded and ran her hand along the bedspread. She looked far older, far more tired, when Andy wasn't in the room.
Earnest tapped her shoulder, then one of his hooves, then motioned to the bedspread and Emma nodded. "He's worried that our hooves might damage the fabric. It's such fine stitch-work, and we'd hate to ruin it."
Katy shook her head. "Spruce will look at your hooves tomorrow, unless you'd rather they do it tonight? But you don't need to worry about the fabric. If you do manage to damage it, it can be repaired."
Felix watched as Emma's hand ghosted along the seams of the blanket. He imagined she may have been a fine seamstress once, but now her fingers were crooked and swollen and he imagined that it would be painful to even hold a needle.
Katy clearly noticed the same. "Do either of you take any medications regularly?"
Earnest's hands tucked behind him as he shook his head and averted his eyes. Emma reacted similarly and it took Felix a moment to figure out what had happened.
"She means like, pain relievers for your joints. Medicine to help you feel better. You aren't in trouble."
Katy looked at him in confusion and he waved her off. He could explain later.
"Oh," Emma replied faintly. "We're alright." Earnest swatted her arm gently and looked at her hands pointedly, but she still shook her head.
"Well, I can do a more thorough exam later. But in case you do need anything, I'll be right back." She scurried off to the lab, leaving Felix and the two centaurs alone.
Once they were alone, Emma looked him over. "You seem to be more than simply a chef, young man."
He shrugged, but his cheeks warmed under the praise. "I've been here a while. Years." He checked the fridge, then sat in a chair across from them.
"Do you… plan to stay here forever?" He could tell she was choosing her words carefully, trying to gather information without getting in trouble.
He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I like it here," he answered honestly. "There's nowhere I'd rather be. Spruce found me and took me in from Elvish service. This is my home."
Earnest looked him over curiously, then shrugged to Emma, who considered for a moment before her next question.
"They said something about other centaurs?"
Felix nodded. "Aspen, my best friend— she's a little shy around new centaurs, but you'll meet her some time soon. And Rebecca, she's newer, you'll probably meet her tomorrow."
Then Katy returned, and Emma fell silent once again. At least she seemed slightly less tense.
"Neither of you have to take any of these," she started, setting down the box she was carrying. "I just wanted them to be available if you want them."
She went over the potions she had brought. Some for muscle pain or joint pain, some for headaches, some to keep nightmares at bay. She'd brought salves for sore muscles, ointments for small wounds, anything she could think they would need.
Then Felix stood and spoke. "We'll leave you two to get some rest now. Hollar if you need anything, Katy's up all night."
Spruce, Katy, and Felix all met up back in the kitchen.
"Aspen did say she wanted more centaurs around," Spruce started, and Felix shrugged, finishing up the dishes as they spoke.
"Felix, what about my medication question made them so anxious?"
He dried his hands with a towel before turning to face Katy. "Aspen could answer better than I can. But centaurs… aren't ever really given meds to help them. Just to control them."
"Andy doesn't seem like the type," Katy replied, shaking her head sadly.
"He doesn't need to be," Spruce replied. "His father may have been. And even if he wasn't, wherever he got them was."
Felix nodded. "And if Andy was given a medication and told they needed it, he may have thought he was doing the right thing." He put away the last dish, then closed the cabinet. "I'm gonna go check on Aspen and get some rest. See y'all in the morning."
Katy and Spruce said their good nights, and Felix headed towards Aspen's room.
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My anxiety took over for a while and I avoided looking at my bank account like the little "this is fine" dog.
Turns out, I was overpaying on a bunch of stuff for the last few months and uh. Now I'm about $400 short for this month.
I'm doubling down on trying to find a better paying job so this doesn't happen again, but that doesn't change my current situation. I don't have much to offer, other than pictures of bugs and cool animal facts. But if anyone has a few dollars they wanna toss my way, my venmo is @Mads-98.
I appreciate anyone who even reads this. Y'all are the best, for real.
when a villain gets redeemed and not only refuses to acknowledge that anything bad happened to them but constantly repeats that even it it did they'd deserve it because they're Terrible and Evil and Bad. and they make sad pathetic angry eyes at everyone.
Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.
Reblog if you're okay with people coming into your DMs with the "you seem really odd and your blog intrigues me, do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters"
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Big scary living weapon whumpee following around their little old lady caretaker ready to defend her with his life on her trips to the grocery store after she saw him sitting in the rain and brought him in for tea.
He’s at least two feet taller than her and built like a tank, meant to fight and destroy and kill but she just politely asks if he’ll carry the big bag of cat food to the car as she’s “not as young as she once was”. He carries the cat food and doesn’t feel sick to his stomach following orders any more.
She retired years ago but still keeps up her errands, writing letters and playing cards with her other lady friends, all of whom coo and fawn over him (after their initial concern) and he becomes the recipient of many a homemade craft. His closet overflows with grandma sweaters and his bed is layered with quilts, and it’s the first time he’s been surrounded by such softness and warmth. And they never have to worry about having some big strong man to help get their Christmas decorations out of the attic.
He calls her Miss and ma’am, as if he was afraid of her name, while she calls him honey like it was his name. He likes it better. There were no bad memories tied to “honey”, only those of tea and cookies in her mismatched kitchen chairs and walks down to the park when the weather was nice.
They look an odd pair everywhere they go, but she simply tells anyone that asks that he’s her son, and slowly it starts to feel like it. She mentions that she’d always wanted a son (or daughter, she wasn’t fussed really), and doesn’t the universe have such a funny way of making things happen? He swallows hard and doesn’t mention that he’s always wanted a mother too.
Character A asks grunting slightly as they scaled up another jagged boulder. This better be worth it. They've been scaling these icy rocks and avoiding freezing their toes off for the better part of two months now.
Leader, Character A and Character B had been hiking through this God-forsaken frozen hell scape for so long that Character A forgot what colours other than blue, black and white looked like.
Character A swore if they died of hyperthermia they were going to haunt Leader so hard. Character B was trembling but following along behind them.
“We’re close. We’ll get there soon.”
Leader had always wanted to find the Weapon.
The Weapon was supposedly this powerful object made - crafted from the blood of the innocent, forged in the hottest pits of hell - by the warriors of old who once protected the Kingdom. A weapon that wrought destruction and despair to the enemies and struck fear in to their very bones. A weapon that burned down the rivaling Kingdoms in the matter of minutes and left nothing but ashes and smoke behind.
Then the peace came, so they did not need Weapon anymore. The warriors embarked on their last sacrifice for the Kingdom by setting out to a desolate and deserted place far, far away from civilization so Weapon did not fall in to the wrong hands.
… Apparently.
At least that’s how the story goes. For Character A it was just another wives tale people told to make the First Warriors sound more heroic than they were. To make the little ones gasp in awe at how great the Kingdom was and how powerful.
But for some reason, Leader believed it. And they wanted to *find* Weapon. Deep down Character A knew it was because they were getting desperate. The kingdom was only peaceful for so long. Whispers of an uprising were brewing, a big one. And Neighboring Kingdom was said to be the ones funding the rebels. As the best warriors in the Kingdom, it was up to them to protect their land and Leader was determined to nip this rebellion in the bud.
Character A, Character B and Leader had been through everything together, since they were children. So even in this frozen abyss that made Character A’s fingers feel like they were being cut off, they refused to let Leader face the frostbite alone. This was no different to them than that one time - when they were just old enough to learn that not all fairytales were real - Character B fell in to that pit and Leader and Character A spent the entire day getting them out. To all of them, they were just sticking together. Just like they always did and always will do.
Character B slipped on some black ice and stumbled, snapping Character A back to reality. They caught Character B before they could fall. “Leader, maybe we should take a break. We’ve been walking for a good chunk of time and the wind is picking up.” Character A called out to Leader over the wooshing of the wind.
The leader looked back at the duo and considered, they did not debate for a long time. “Alright. We need to rest and be at our best shape for when we find Weapon. Who knows what kind of traps that place has.”
They found a cave - well more like a small shelter that was made by the rock over time. But it was enough to shield them from the worst of the wind and enough to let them rest for a while.
“What do you think the weapon is? Like…. Do you think we can even carry it? What if it’s huge?” Character B thought out loud as they kindled a small fire. “Beats me, but if it's too big to carry there has to be a way the warriors brought it here right?” Character A said as they pulled out their rations, it was slowly dwindling. They have to get somewhere where they could at least drill a hole to catch some fish to stock up soon.
“What about you Leader? What do you think?” Character B asked curiously.
“It’s a fire weapon. That’s what all the scrolls say, but I don’t know what it is *exactly*…. It could be anything.” Leader says.
The wind picked up. It seemed they’re going to have to wait a bit more than Leader intended or at least until it quiets down.
“Hey…. What’s that?” Character B pointed at the edge of a rock, whatever it was it had a dull sheen that stood out from the white snow. Leader squinted. “It’s too smooth to be a rock” They say as they walk over to the object.
“Well whatever it is it doesn’t help us find the Weapon. Hey Leader where exactly is the weapon by the way? Like how do we even know we’re in the right place… I doubt there’s gonna be an arrow sign saying ‘destructive killing machine, this way’ right?” Character A muttered.
Leader didn’t seem to hear them and Character A looked at Character B with a raised eyebrow and they shrugged. “Leader…?” Character A’s voice tight.
Leader didn’t answer and turned around their expression serious.
Character A and Character B instantly knew that face. “You can’t seriously say the weapon’s here…” Character B whispered. “It’s close…” Leader holds up – or at least what used to be - a sword. “It has the Kingdom’s old emblem.” Leader looks around the space. It looks cramped, the rocks forming cluttered, jagged walls.
“B, give me some light.”
Character B lights up a torch and goes to Leader handing it to them. As leader crouches down to inspect where the sword was A joins them. “This is a terrible place to keep a weapon of mass destruction” A deadpans. They cross their arms over their chest and looks down at Leader as they brush the frost off the rock wall, tapping it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Character B exchanged a look with Character A silently asking what the hell Leader was doing, Character A shrugs and looks around.
Tap. Tap.
*Tick*
All three of them snap their heads and turn their attention towards where Leader had just tapped on the rock wall. It was hollow.
“Get the sledgehammer.”
–
The rock gave out with a few good whacks from the sledgehammer, the moment it gave out the first thing that hit all of them wasn’t the imposing cavern.
It wasn’t the huge sigil of their kingdom carved on to the floor.
It wasn’t the utter stillness of the air inside.
It was the *Heat*.
It was *Warm*. In the middle of this desert of ice with the harshest storms they found *warmth*. And it did not dwindle. The heat seeped through to the smaller cave beyond.
“Looks like we found where the weapon is….” Character B says quietly their voice echoing softly in the vastness of the cavern.
“Stick close. We don’t know what kind of traps are here. Keep your eyes and ears peeled” Leader stepped forward warily in the dark sweeping the cavern with the torch. The deeper they went in to the cavern the more the warmth turned in to a pleasant heat. Akin to a warm bowl of soup on a winter night.
Character A stumbled slightly as Character B stopped dead in their tracks - Their eyes widened and eyebrows furrowed in to confusion. Leader turned and looked at them.
“B What-”
“Shh.”
Leader and B exchanges looks, Character B was the best at tracking from the three of them and it seems something has got their attention. They don’t dare move a muscle lest they break Character B’s focus.
“Stop breathing the two of you.”
Leader and Character A don’t need to be told twice, they stop breathing and watch character A like a hawk.
Eyes wandering and looking around the cavern, Character A listened barely moving after what seemed like hours they whispered, their words sending a shiver down the other two’s spines.
“Something is breathing”
“Character B, Lead us there” Leader said. “What are you crazy?!” Character A hissed in their whisper voice. “What if the weapon is like a dragon or something? Oh shit what if the weapon is a dragon?!”
“It’s not a dragon” Character B piped up. “I-it’s too quiet for that. The breathing is too shallow” They said as they slowly led the other two further in to the cave. “Whatever it is… it’s in pain”
The dagger on character A’s holster was now in Character A’s hand, their grip so tight the skin on their knuckles paled. “… great. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be defensive….” They grumbled to themselves.
They stopped near a corner. Character B signaled that it was beyond the corner. The leader took a breath and peaked around the corner. A watched as their face intently watching the emotion playing across their face.
Confusion. Their eyes narrow and A can see their throat moving as they swallow the lump forming there.
Horror.
Disgust?
As they go to call leader, Leader moves to turn in from the corner.
“Who are you?” They say their voice level and firm. “You wear our Kingdoms emblem. Are you the keeper of the Weapon?”
“Our emblem?” A mutters as they push off and turn the corner to see who Leader is talking to.
A stops the moment they see them. A gaunt figure kneels in the middle of the space, their eyes blank and empty staring straight ahead. The heat is coming from them. Character A feels like they’ve been punched in the gut.
Character A pushes past leader closer to the person their legs moving mechanically and stiff.
The person is pale, clothes singed at the edges. Closer Character A sees the chains. Heavy and scarring the persons wrists and neck.
“Leader… I think… I think they *are* the weapon”
Character A moved closer still, now they saw the person clearly.
“Can you hear me? What's your name?” A tries to keep their voice gentle but it comes out uncertain and forceful. They cringe slightly at their own voice.
They look at Leader uncertainly before reaching out. Trying to keep their voice from cracking they address the person. “Hey… Talk.”
The person’s head snaps up so fast Character A pulls back their hand as if it burned, and to a certain extent it did… the person's skin was hot. Not to a scalding extent but it was way above a feverish temperature.
To all their astonishment the person spoken, voice rough and monotone.
“Weapon of the Kingdom ready to serve.” They said. The utter emptiness in their voice sent a shiver up Leader’s spine. Character A’s feet shifted uncomfortably and Character B just stared on at the scene in growing unease and fear.
“You…. You're the weapon?” Leader asked but the person did not answer instead training their glassy eyes at Character A in a way that made their stomach churn.
The person… they stared at Character A, waiting almost… expectant.
“A-are you … the weapon?” This time Character A asked.
“Yes. You are my handler?” The person asked.
Character A's eyes widen. Handler? What is that supposed to mean? They whip their head around to leader their eyes wide and silently asking them what to do. Leader met their stare their tightened lip betraying their otherwise stoic expression. Character A could tell Leader didn't like this at all they could see it In The way their nose scrunched the way it does when Leader had to eat that horrid dried fish Character B bought along.
But Leader nods. So Character A turns back to look at those haunted eyes.
“Yes. I'm your handler.” They say voice nearly audible over how loud the ringing in their ears are.
The person kept their eyes on Character A barely blinking. Character A shifted from foot to foot and cleared their throat trying to cough up whatever was clogging their throat. “What's your name?” They said finally.
The person stared. “I don't have one, handler. But you may call me whatever you wish. My last handler called me Whumpee.”
They all shuddered at the words. How was this person so… broken that they didn't even see their name as theirs.
This was so messed up.
Character A took a deep breath.
“A-alright Whumpee… let's get you out of the chains so we can get you back to the Kingdom.”
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I wonder if, in superhero universes, the villains ever get contacted by those “Make a Wish Foundation” and similar people.
I mean, the heroes do, of course they do, kids who want to meet Spiderman or Superman or get to be carried by the Flash as he runs through Central City for just thirty seconds.
But surely there are also the kids, who - because they are kids and sometimes kids are just weird - decide that what they really, really want is to meet a supervillain. Because he’s scary or she’s awesome or that freeze ray is just really, really cool, you know?
Oh, man, that would absolutely be a thing. The heroes would be so weirded out by it. The villains with codes of ethics would totally band together to force the villains without one (should they be the one requested) to do their part for the cause.
But imagine the person who has to track down the villains and organise everything?
Like, the first time it happens, no one actually thinks it’s possible, but one of the newbies volunteers to at least try. They get lucky, the kid wants to meet one of the villains who is well known to have a personal code of ethics (eg one of the rogues), and it takes them weeks to track the villain down to this one bar they’ve been seen at a few times, plus a week of staking out said bar, but they finally find them.
So they approach the villain, very politely introduce themselves and explain the situation, finishing with an assurance that, should the villain agree, no law enforcement or heroes will be informed of the meeting.
The villain, assuming it’s a joke, laughs in their face.
At this point, the poor volunteer, who has giving up weeks of their time and no small amount of effort to track down this villain, all so a sweet little girl can meet the person who somehow inspired them, well, at this point the employee sees red.
They explode, yelling at this villain about the little girl who, for some unknown reason, absolutely loved them, had a hand-made stuffed toy of them and was inspired by their struggle to keeping fighting her own and wasn’t the villain supposed to have ethics? The entire bar is witness to this big bad villain getting scolded by some bookish nobody a foot shorter than them.
When the volunteer is done, the villain calmly knocks back their drink, grips the volunteers shoulder and drags them outside. The bar’s patrons assume that person will never be seen again, the volunteer included. But once they’re outside, the villain apologises for their assumption, asks for the kid’s details so they can drop by in the near future, not saying when for obvious reasons. They also give the very relieved volunteer a phone number to call if someone asks for them again.
A week later, the little girl’s room is covered in villain merchandise, several expensive and clearly stolen gifts and she is happily clutching a stack of signed polaroids of her and the villain.
The next time a kid asks to meet a villain, guess who gets that assignment?
Turns out, the first villain was quite touched by the experience of meeting their little fan, and word has gotten around. The second villain happily agrees when they realise it’s the same volunteer who asked the other guy. Unfortunately, one of the heroes sees the villain entering the kid’s hospital and obviously assumes the worst. They rush in, ready to drag the villain out, but the volunteer stands in their way. The hero spends five minutes getting scolded for trying to stop the villain from actually doing a good thing and almost ruining the kid’s wish. The volunteer gets a reputation among villains as someone who can not only be trusted with personal contact numbers but who will do everything they can to keep law enforcement away during their visits.
The volunteer has a phonebook written in cypher of all the villain’s phone numbers, with asterixes next to the ones to call if any other villains give them trouble.
Around the office, they gain the unofficial job title of The Villain Wrangler.
The heroes are genuinely flabbergasted by The Villain Wrangler. At first, some of the heroes try to reason with them.
Heroes: “Can’t you, just, give us their contact details? They’ll never even have to know it was you.”
The Villain Wrangler: “Yeah sure, <rollseyes> because all these evil geniuses could never possibly figure out that it’s me who happens to be the common thread in the sudden mass arrests. Look man, even if it wouldn’t get me killed, it would disappoint the kids. You wouldn’t want to disappoint the kids would you?”
Heroes: “… no~ but…”
The Villain Wrangler: “Exactly.”
Eventually, one of the anti-hero types gets frustrated, and decides to take a stand. They kidnap the Villain Wrangler and demand that they give up the contents of the little black book of Villains, or suffer the consequences. It’s For the Greater Good, the anti-hero insists as they tie the Villain Wrangler to a pillar.
The Villain Wrangler: “You complete idiot, put me back before someone figures out that I’m missing.”
Anti-hero: “…excuse me?”
The Villain Wrangler: “Ugh, do I have to spell this out for you? Do you actually want your secret base to be wiped off the map? With us in it? Sugarsticks, how long has it been? If they get suspicious, they check in, and then if I miss a check-in, they tend to come barging into wherever I am just to prove that they can, even if they figure out that they’re not being threatened by proxy. Suffice to say, Auntie Muriel really regretted throwing my phone into the pool when she strenuously objected to me answering it during family time. If they think for even one moment that I’ve given them up, they won’t hesitate to obliterate both of us from their potential misery. You do know some of the people in my book have like missiles and djinni and elemental forces at their disposal, right?”
Anti-hero: “Wait, what? I thought they trusted you?!”
The Villain Wrangler: “Trust is such a strong word!”
Villain: “Indeed.”
Anti-hero: “Wait, wha-” <slumps over, dart sticking out of neck>
The Villain Wrangler: “Thanks. I thought they were going to hurt me.”
Villain: “You did well. You kept them distracted, and gave us time to follow your signal.” <cuts Villain Wrangler free>
The Villain Wrangler: <rubbing circulation back into limbs> “Yeah well, you know me, I do whatever I have to. So I’ll see you Wednesday at four at St Martha’s? I’ve got an 8yo burns unit patient recovering from her latest batch of skin grafts who could really use a pep talk.”
Villain: “… of course. Yes… I… yes.”
The Villain Wrangler: “I just think you could really reach her, you know?”
Villain: <unconsciously runs fingers over mask> “I… yes, but, what should I say?”
The Villain Wrangler: “Whatever advice you think you could have used the most just after.”
Villain: <hoists Anti-hero over shoulder almost absently> “….yes.”
The Villain Wrangler wasn’t lying to the Anti-hero. They know that the more ruthless villains would not hesitate if they thought for one second that the Anti-hero would betray them.
But this is not the first time the Villain Wrangler has gone to extreme lengths to protect their identities.
Trust is a strong word. The Villain Wrangler earned it, and is terrified by what it could mean.
Okay but this whole concept actually makes a lot of sense, because villains are a lot more likely to be disfigured/disabled/use adaptive devices (bc ableist tropes), so of course, say, a child amputee is going to be more interested in the villain with a robot arm who almost destroyed New York than the heroes that took him down.
Also, imagine one of the kids gets better, and a few years down the line becomes a villain themself, except their crimes are things like smuggling chemo drugs across the border for families that can’t afford treatment, or stealing from corrupt businessmen to make donations to underfunded hospitals (idk this turned into a Leverage AU or something) and every time the heroes encounter her, they’re like “oh no. she’s getting away. curses. welp, nothing we can do.” Though it isn’t that she can’t take them on; bc of course once the villain from way back when found out what she was up to, he started helping/training her.
“I thought they just hired someone to dress up and pretend to be you,” she says, amazed, when he reveals himself. “I didn’t think they actually got the real you!”
Every year the Villain Wrangler gets a very expensive gift basket from the pair.
and for the kids who don’t get better the villains are there too, they show up to every funeral, they bear too small coffins on their shoulders and the heroes stand aside
they are fierce with grieving families assuring them that their child will not be forgotten, and they don’t balk at negative emotions, they don’t tell people to be strong or “celebrate their child’s life,” because these parents have every right to their grief and anger
and the lost children are never forgotten. flowers appear on graves during birthdays and anniversaries, heroes find pictures of those kids and they carefully take them down and ensure they’re delivered to the villain’s cell, and a few villains can be seen with friendship bracelets wrapped around their wrists the cops have learned not to try and take them off
And then one day, one of the evil geniuses who happens to specialise in inducing bizarre genetic mutations meets a young fan who was born with a rare genetic disorder that is slowly killing them, and realises that they can help.
Another, who created their own exosuit, talks to a young fan and suddenly understands how much the technology that they have built for themselves could revolutionise quality of life for people with muscular dystrophy, or paraplegia, or other disorders that confine people to wheelchairs with little mobility.
A third thinks of a way that their nanobots could be used to detect and remove cancer cells when their fan, who had been in remission, writes to say that the doctors have found a new metastasizing tumour.
Then shortly after, an evil genius specialising in cloning is contacted by an old colleague asking if a suitable heart couldn’t be grown for their young fan with a congenital heart condition who needs a donor.
Suddenly, a pattern of villains offering (and marketing) their insights and resources to improve medical science starts to arise. Many who had previously been operating on society’s fringes are shocked to receive public accolades, research grants and job offers from major companies because of their work.
A grassroots movement arises advocating for imprisoned villains with appropriate qualifications and/or experience to have access to resources to conduct research for the public good. The Second Chance Rehabilitation Project launches.
(It is an open secret that only people who have been vetted by the Villain Wrangler are allowed to join, because the Villain Wrangler has by now a meticulously set up method and intelligence network to run background checks and character references through ensure that none of the children wishing to meet their role models get hurt.)
Being able to say that one is involved with the Project begins to look really good in parole hearings. The Villains involved perform their own quality checks on one another, because if one of their kids got hurt, then all of their kids could potentially lose out, and the ones that are serious about the Project are not having that. (Also, the ability to collaborate with other geniuses is the most interesting thing to happen to most of them since losing to various heroes, and most consider the intellectual stimulation to be worth putting up with the ridiculous egoes and inevitable personality clashes that arise.)
Reformed Villains come out of the woodwork to advocate about better mental healthcare, and support systems. Savvy universities and private labs quietly take their advice, setting up better mental health supports and laboratory safety standards to prevent the Brain Drain caused by losing their less stable scientists to the Costumes.
The Villain Wrangler watches all of this develop with a smile.
