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At The Hook (Line, Sinker)
At the Hook (Line, Sinker)
Augusnippets day 10: execution | fake execution | begging for mercy
Word count: 499
Trigger warnings: description of death, implied/referenced panic attack
——————(0)——————
Mag knows his face goes pale when he sees the man waiting for them, the thick, wicked hook in the ceiling. The assistant holding rope in a telling noose.
They absolutely don’t care if this man’s reputation is being used to frighten them into obedience. Either that’s the case, or talking will buy Cassander time to scrounge up a miracle to let them escape, or they’re both fucking dead.
“Please,” he whispers; louder: “Please, no, I don’t, I don’t—! Not like this, fuck, not like this!”
“Not like this?” the man—Marcus? Marius? Martin?—says, an easy smile spreading across his face. “That can be arranged. There are plenty of ways to—”
“What do you want?” Mag interrupts, because they really don’t want to know all the horrible ways maybe-Marcus has found to kill people. He already knows this man would see him hung slowly, death by strangulation instead of a broken neck. “What do you want?! I’ll do anything!”
They want to yank the words back as soon as they leave—it’s too much to give. But maybe-Marius wouldn’t accept anything less, anyways.
“Are you sure?” maybe-Martin says, nearly pouting. “I’ve been wanting to see what a destroying angel will do to someone. It eases up while it’s liquefying your liver—what does the anticipation do to you, feeling better but knowing you’ll die?”
“No! Fuck no! Please, I said I’ll do anything, please!”
“Oh, calm down. I can think of some ways to use a thief as famous as you, if you’re willing to do anything.”
Mag’s heart leaps in relief; his first guess was right. “Yes! Yes, I’ll do whatever—!”
“What about him, though?”
And back down their heart went into dread.
“He’s my partner,” Mag says, not looking at where Cassander was forced to kneel beside him. “He’ll do whatever you want, too.”
Play along, they think, please play along, don’t act out and ruin this, it might be our only chance.
“Of course, yes,” Marcus(?) says. His smile widens, goes sadistic and ugly. “But I want to hear him beg for it.”
Fuck, we’re dead.
Because the keyword with Cassander is proud. He’d fought every step of the way here, to the point that he was more heavily restrained than Mag now. He never apologized or said he was wrong. He’d spit defiance to someone holding a knife to his throat.
A tense pause. Then:
“Please,” Cassander grit out.
Marius(?) raises a brow. “Go on,” he prompts.
“Please,” Cassander says again. Then, picking up speed: “Please, please, please, please, áni, áni, áni—”
He cuts off. The only sound is his frantic breathing.
Mag tries his best to keep from gaping, because what the fuck, while picking over the last word. What was that, another language? Ahni? Ahani?
… No. He’s saying áni. Because that’s Áléen.
“Please what?” fucking Martin(?) is saying.
The answering jumble of syllables is foreign to Mag, but apparently it convinces the motherfucker.
“Well, then,” he says. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”
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I think one thing people forgot about terfs is how RACIST they are towards women of color (god forbid be a trans woman of color) and how those people uphold white supremacist views of gender.




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hey
hey friend
dont kill yourself tonight ok
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Voltaic Refeeding
Augusnippets day 3: thunderstorm | blizzard | heat wave
Word count: 499
Trigger warnings: mentions of eating, electric shock, burns, blood, fear of death
——————(0)——————
Camlanns were born attuned to the elements. Magic wove them into being just as much as DNA, and they needed magic just as much as they needed food or air. This was easy, for some—if you were attuned to earth, wind, plants, water, physics, all you needed was to touch it to feed on the ambient magic, and you were set.
For Ruika, attuned to electricity, that was harder. Tal had told him that there were people thinking about using electricity to power lights and heat in a house, but for now, fire magic was used to bring fire, light magic to produce light. Outside of combat and nastier warding styles, no one had really incorporated electricity into their life, and Ruika did not want to get in the practice of getting beaten up by wards or people just to try and keep himself healthy.
So, when summer rolled around, the air turning souplike and clouds becoming dark with the promise of rain, Tal whipped out all his governmental real-time storm maps, Piri rented a mobile, and the three of them went storm-chasing.
Lightning was an excellent source of electricity for Ruika. Electricity naturally bent towards him, knowing he was a home for it, which was great when he was fighting lightning mages and even better when he wanted to get struck multiple times in one storm. The rest of the time, Piri and Tal set up warded spheres to catch lightning, to feed him for the rest of the year when storms were rarer. It really was the best way to keep his magic stores from withering and him dying of starvation!
It also, Ruika reflected, hand raised to the roiling sky and shaking, just could be really very dangerous.
His ears had ceased to hear anything but a high-pitched, screaming whine. He was somewhere between feeling nothing but tingling numbness and like he was about to explode, the telltale sign that he’d eaten a little too well, and like a starving person gorging themself, that was going to have some immediate, horrible consequences. Distantly, he knew he was burned all over to the point of burst, bleeding blisters, even if he couldn’t feel the blood trickling over his skin.
Somehow his arrhythmic, rabbit-quick heart found it in itself to leap in fear when his smearing vision managed to catch a flicker of light in the billowing darkness above. The three strikes in quick succession before had destroyed his ability to withstand any more voltage. If he got struck again—
The world went white.
He registered his vision jarring—had his knees given out? He couldn’t care, around the agonizing numbness, around the sight of a copper, spiky rod above him, now sizzling with the heat of catching lightning before he could. He saw a blur of red—candy-red, Piri-red. Oh, she’d put the lightning rod there.
And then any coherent thought was lost to the blinding torture of a brick-red, Tal-red blur picking him up and sweeping him away.