#referenced or implied noncon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

evermetnotforgotten · 2 years

Text

Content warnings: referenced/implied noncon, noncon kiss, nudity, infected wound, religious cult talk, death thoughts.

Christopher belongs to @whumpiary

“He’d brainwashed them all to adore him. Sick son of a bitch, really. Had a whole mantra—be silent, behave. Imagine being that much of a pervert.”

The sheer audacity of this entire conversation is a blow to the side of the head. Lev stretches his neck, slides his bare foot along the line of grout. Feels it rough up against his big toe. Decides to chase the cheap thrill. “Sounds like it may as well have been a movie about yourself.”

Though usually so quick, so eloquent, in moments like this Martin stalls. The reality laid down in front of him is so incongruent with his own that it passes right through, frictionless. He laughs, waves a hand—a quip, how funny. How clever, baby.

“Wasn’t a joke.” Lev slides his foot back. Rests it parallel to the side of the bathtub on which he’s seated. If he keeps his gaze soft, somewhere between his own body and Martin’s, the little voice in his head going make him mad enough to kill you is the low-level hum it always is—if he focuses for too long it’s more or less cacophony.

Flirting by way of a pin held near to the man’s bubble-thin self-image is one of the few moments he feels even remotely close to alive, anymore. At the very least, the ghost of someone who used to be.

“Do you have something you want to say?”

It’s a ‘careful, love’ if ever there was one, deimatic. The stick that tongue back in or lose it, but for people who think they’re scary as shit. Which means it’s Lev’s turn to laugh—and he does, a little coldly, but who on this earth would dare blame him? He shrugs. “Nah.”

Martin sucks his teeth, wiping a few water droplets from where they’re clinging to the faucet with his fingers, flicking them into the sink. “Hey, I don’t go around calling myself ‘The Son of God’,” he says, flashing teeth in a boyish grin. “And what was it you said… I’m not a God… just a sadist? Like to think I took that advice to heart.”

It feels so, so long ago. Lev has been exhumed on so many separate occasions since then.

Martin leans in to steal a kiss, blip in his boy’s attitude seemingly forgiven. Lev sits and takes it, any fear he’d felt at being bare and vulnerable in front of his captor long since severed, as useless to him as an infected limb.

“Besides, I’ve only got one person—that guy had hundreds of good little followers in that compound. Ooh, you know who does give me a few of those vibes though?”

Delayed shock curls in him at the mans initial statement. “What?”

“That fellow with the estate. Remember him? Always got kind of cultish vibes from that lot… maybe he makes them pray on their knees before he bends them over his.” Martin tilts his head, looking somewhere towards the ceiling. “Not theistic, but… damn if that isn’t a little hot though. I’d let that man spank the sin right out of me. Whoof.”

Lev remembers the man he’s referring to. Smooth voice, soft smile, white whiskers. Feeding him red wine while collared to the arm of the chair. How long had he spent in that room, moans and screams ripped alternately from his throat until he couldn’t tell one from the other?

“Nh—” he starts before it’s smothered by another kiss. Martin’s tongue presses into his mouth, insistent, and the familiar weight of his captor’s desire is steadily filling the en suite. Rolling smoke. Lev feels the spike in arousal of his own body responding without his say so, like the flick of a switch, of a wrist.

Be silent. Behave.

But the worry is too loud, too gnawing to ignore. Lev manages to push against Martin’s chest, to gain distance—he tears himself away, searching. “No—what do you mean ‘one’?”

“Huh?”

“Said you’ve only got one. One person.”

“You. Who else?”

Martin’s tone is affectionate, but Lev knows by now when he’s being baited. The feeling of being played with but only underneath so many layers of compounding subtext irritates him, and he frowns—he’s already doing everything the man wants. Every single little thing. The least Martin could do is not force him to play pretend in private.

He wets his lips, but his tongue is too dry to make a difference. “You know what I mean.”

There’s something hanging in the air while Martin sighs. Curdling goodwill. He shakes his head, warm hands still resting on Lev’s bare, cooling legs. “God forbid I go a single day without being reminded. A single fucking day, all I ask…”

“Your word,” Lev implores. Doesn’t offer his hand or reach for Martin’s, doesn’t need to—they both know where the scars were placed. Though he checks his every single morning, just in case, just to make sure it’s still there. “I’m just…”

“Yeah yeah yeah.”

“Three of us. Niels…” the other name he dares not say, barely dares to think.

“I know, Lev. Fuck me.” Martin half-rolls his eyes with an exasperated laugh. Like he’s being nagged for the umpteenth time to remember to take out the garbage. To put the dishes away.

Lev wonders if it genuinely hurts Martin, psychologically, to be reminded of the only reason his boy ever goes along with any of his shit. Seems like it might, the way his brow furrows, the ever so slightly tighter smiles, the deepening of the dimple in his left cheek. Same way he gets when talking about a deal devolving into something needlessly political, annoyance a flavour in every word.

Some days, Lev doesn’t know why he can’t just make himself give in. It’d be easier, in many ways, not to have that tension, not to claw to hold on to the remaining glimmers of himself. Not to walk this razor thin line of the man’s sick joys and his cloying self-importance. Not to have to placate, because he’d never say or do anything remotely close to out of line.

Like the people in that film. Be silent. Behave. Even if they were dying just like him, he bets. A different version of the same hell.

He just can’t let the man forget to let the others go. Needs to guard that premise doggedly.

Shaking his head again, Martin relents. Some of the tension dissipates. “No, that one was on me. That’s a sore area for you, I know, and I tread there anyway. Let’s rewind. Alright? Here, turn—should be good now.”

Now that his skin has air dried, Martin swipes Lev’s back meticulously with whatever it is, the topical antibiotic, carefully tracing the scarring sites. Lev had almost forgotten his pounding headache, his shivers and sweats in the excitement of the last few minutes. Still hasn’t come to terms with his body being altered without his consent—without an ounce of his fucking consent, even the pretend kind—yet again.

It’s too much for one man. Maybe in a cast of thousands the attention is split a few more ways.

At least it’s hard for Lev to do any wrong, in Martin’s eyes—though he knows more remorse will be drawn from him somehow. Likely tonight, at the end of a knife. Better to start the process now.

Lev reaches behind his back, and gets a hand in his own without much delay. It’s not rough enough, not large or warm enough to be comforting, but he’s an expert. He holds his partner’s hand, and fools himself once again into thinking things are going to be easier, one day soon.

#lgm writing #referenced or implied noncon #noncon tw #nudity tw #religious cult mentions tw #infected wound tw #lev johnson #martin viklund reid #this was going to be sexy and then it wasn't - which feels like a first for me

52 notes · View notes

friendlylocalwhumper · 2 years

Text

The apartment is beautifully clean. Every mug in the cabinet is lined up with the handle angled to the left. Every stainless steel surface is kept polished, the countertops have nothing but a bowl of decorative fruit painted in cheery colors, the coffee table has been sanded and freshened up to erase old rings of coffee stains. Quinn lounges on the couch, comfortable but refusing to pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch to cover their chilly arms because it’s sitting so perfectly where they laid it.

Knuckles rap quietly against the front door. All wandering thoughts about how elephants are cute when they use their trunks to drink water are erased in an instant. Wary brown eyes flit to the door. They are shirtless, freckles and scars on display to the empty, cold room. The patio door is in their bedroom, and the nearest window will creak if they try to push it open quickly. There is a gun under the coffee table, and one in the cabinet above the sink, and a knife in the entryway drawer, but none of those will really do much good if Quinn doesn’t have enough time to strategize. They don’t even know who’s there.

Pajama pants brushing against the sofa cushion as they swing their legs to stand up, the spy shakes their head to get their curls out of their face. They showered this morning and took care to curl their hair like they were undressing a wound, cleaning it, and redressing it. Now they’re wondering if that was a mistake. It was certainly stupid to have changed into pajamas this early in the night, to have not even bothered to grab a shirt. What if this is someone who expects them to be playing the role they used in some random mission months or years ago? What if it’s someone here to kill them? Do they really want to die wearing plaid?

The soft knock comes again. It’s oddly respectful, like the sound of someone unnecessarily asking for permission before entering a mausoleum.

The handle is cool under their swollen hand. It always seems to be too warm and tender, the other not so swollen but far more stiff, and it just gives the most awful cracks and clicks when forced to move. Quinn doesn’t spare the attention to frown down at their ugly crooked fingers as they turn the doorknob and crack the door open.

Exhausted dark eyes. Aquiline nose, bushy eyebrows, collarbones standing out under the neckline of a white T-shirt.

He watches them calculating whether there’s any point in closing and locking the door. Oscar doesn’t speak yet. Quinn yanks their fingers back from where they’d curled around the edge of the door to peek; their hands go behind their back, and they keep the door in its position with the side of their foot pressed up against it instead.

“I need to come inside,” He says in his low, urgent but patient tone. He’s staring right into their soul. A sickly sweat beads at the back of their neck and sticks to their hair.

But the door swings open, and Quinn stands aside only to close it again once he’s in. They lean back against the door with their hands safely between their spine and the wood.

Oscar leans heavily on the kitchen counter as soon as he reaches it. He’s tracking blood across the floor, and more drips down his neck, flowing maybe from somewhere under his hair. He is wearing his uniform pants, but not the shirt that would make any fed stick out like a sore thumb. He looks like he was tossed out of a moving car and didn’t find a safe place to crash for days after that.

He turns to them, and they consider that he might expect them to rant at him, or stare at him impassively while they wait for an apology, or try to kill him. Something rational for the very clever, very dangerous Quinn Mae to do. All they can manage is to watch him, respectfully avoiding eye contact when he almost establishes it, too scared to bolt or to stand their ground.

“…Your place is different.”

They don’t look around. As clean as it seemed to them before the knock came, they recognize now how unacceptably filthy it is. The dust on the windowsill. The papers scattered across the desk - is there anything sensitive there? - no, it doesn’t matter, he knows everything. The throw blanket isn’t really at the perfect angle. They’ve let themself fall apart, they’re obviously not recovering very well. They haven’t even been doing missions, and Oscar will know that, of course, because he is an expert in Quinn Mae.

“Haven’t… haven’t kept up, I missed trash day and - no healers around to help when, when I can’t… you know.”

His eyes are on them again. Quinn endures the inferno of his judgment and breathes through the feeling that they’re going to faint. They’re fed, hydrated, rested, healthy. They don’t faint anymore.

“What?”

Glancing up, they finally meet his gaze only to find that it holds confusion and hesitance, not judgment. Although he is a remarkable actor when he wants to be.

“Um. My place.”

He blinks. “You think it’s bad? Messy?”

It must be a trick question. Their breaths come a little quicker. His eyes go to their chest, and they know that he can see their fear plain as day. “…Yes. Yes, it’s… clearly.”

They are consumed by his calculating eyes, and they do not quail under the gaze that they grew used to while working under him.

Oscar thinks about the time he watched Major nearly beat Quinn to death, and their pleas for Oscar to just leave, their swearing that it was their fault and they had it handled. He thinks about how many months it took to earn their trust, to manipulate them into feeling safe with him, and then how they thanked him for pushing until they told him their most painful secrets. He thinks about the last month and a half that he saw them at work, when they were taken from him because he wasn’t getting results from them anymore, and they were given to Davian. How Quinn rapidly deteriorated into a humiliated, doe-eyed bedwarmer, a source of entertainment.

The time when Davian dumped them on the floor of Oscar’s office and told them they were allowed to do one piece of paperwork for their old boss. How Quinn took the paper offered to them by Oscar with shaking hands, and focused so hard to getting every detail right because they were desperate for a chance to get to work again, to think critically, to be useful for their mind.

Once again, he scans the room and sees no big project. No pieces of taken-apart locks on the coffee table, no corkboard with plans and pictures and blueprints, no books lying open. It’s like someone dipped their hand into Quinn’s mind and scrambled it all up, hollowed it out, until they were nothing but tensely waiting for the next threat to loom over them.

Oscar is the one who did that. And Oscar is the threat now looming over them.

He’s never had a chance to… never wanted to feel it up until now. But the weathered and weary fed looks back at Quinn and sees what a deeply important, powerful person they were striving to be, and how far down he struck them. What he took from them. Their hands are at their sides now, unconsciously no longer being protected. They look small and uncertain, but still dependent upon the rules he established when he was breaking them. Oscar was in charge, he was aware of everything, and all they had to do was try their best to do excellent work for him. The air of the room is almost charged with expectation. They want him to tell them what he’s here for. Tell them what to do. What the latest threat is, what he’ll do to them if they don’t comply.

“Would you give me your hands if I told you to?” He asks, not sure whether he’ll be angry or relieved if they say no.

A second of hesitation is all that they’ve built up in their recovery. One second of clear apprehension before they hold out their hands to him, even stepping forward so they’re in easy reach.

Oscar runs his hand over his face, scratching at his scruffy chin. When it becomes clear with the increasingly awkward silence that he’s not going to break their fingers on a whim this time, a blush burns across their cheeks. Quinn pulls back and leans against the door again, arms somewhat folded, hands near their core.

“It looks like you were kicked out,” They croak. “Or you escaped.”

“Escaped?” He counters, feigning confusion. It’s more out of pride than anything, but they see the deceit alone.

“You were trapped too. I was slow to figure that out.” He hears in their tone that they loathe themself for being slow, and it’s absolutely not true, but it’s the painful truth to them. “Looks like you just barely got out, tried to survive by hiding out with warlocks, got kicked around. Now you’ve come to me because, ironically, you need my help.”

He doesn’t look impressed. He is, but any reaction that he gives will be read as an act. So he waits to hear what else they have to say.

“It looks like that’s what happened. It makes sense that that would be how it went. But I’m not going to believe it.”

There it is. He knew they’d be wary. Of course they would, he betrayed them. He’s a well-trained liar.

Their heel bumps against the wall as they back up just a fraction more. They look like they want to escape, but they’re the one holding the door shut. They’re the one trapping him in here right now. He wonders if they want him here, if they need it somehow.

“It’s not very original to come back playing the victim,” They add. “Why would I believe you? Why would I help you? After everything?”

They might have meant it as an accusation. It doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like they’re questioning themself more than him. Oscar wishes that he could hold them and let them cry it out, or let them reel from whatever numbness they might have been using as a shield since they got out.

“I just need to be here.” He doesn’t advance, but Quinn’s breaths get shallower like he’s closing in on them. “It’s a last resort. I’m not asking you to do anything, go anywhere. Just let me rest here.”

The apartment smells like them. He wants to collapse onto their bed and breathe into their pillows and pretend none of this ever happened, that he never did anything past befriending them and sleeping in their bed.

It does seem to strike them as odd that he’s not making them leave, or ushering more feds in here to haul them back to the facility. “I’m not… I’m not going to fall for it again. Fall for you again. You’re really here to try the long game again? Do they really think so little of me, that I’m that stupid?”

He feels like he’s sinking toward the floor. Oscar sighs. “You can use your magic to see if I’m being honest. I don’t care. Where can I crash?”

Their stiff, pink-tinted sore hands curl slightly around their sides in a self-soothing hug. “…I won’t get on the bed.”

That twists unexpected guilt in his gut. The exiled fed nods slowly. “Do you want me to take it?”

Quinn has no idea what to do with any of this. They shake their head, opening their mouth then seeming to think better of whatever came to mind. “Um. Yes. Sure. Are you hurt? I mean… you won’t die in there, will you?”

He must look even worse than he feels. Oscar shrugs. “If it hasn’t happened yet, it won’t tonight.”

#whump #drabble #mine #angst #quinn #oscar #past trauma #abuse tw #just seems like a relevant parallel theme #referenced or implied noncon #rape tw #institutionalized dehumanization #this one is long and slow but i like the angst #it was fun to write!#didn't turn out as rough and intense as i intended #but i think it's fittingly subtle for these two #there is a lot of tension in the air

33 notes · View notes

deadsetobsessions · 3 months

Text

Spider in Gotham AU- Pt.2

[Pt.1]

Peter’s no stranger to memories that comes as nightmares. There’s something different to them, the taste of terror that’s tinged with a feeling of “that’s happened.”

Flashes of Aunt May, dying as he stood next to her while choosing the city over her? Old hat. Inky darkness surrounding MJ falling as Peter reached for her, over and over again? Been there, seen that, didn’t even get a sick scar out of it. Racing against the clock to defeat some bad guy or an unknown threat? That’s his Thursday.

But this?

This isn’t his. It’s real, Peter could tell that much. Sure, it’s wrapped up in silk hisses and heart crushing terror, but Peter could always tell whether a nightmare was a nightmare or whether it was a memory.

This was a memory. Not his. His. It’s complicated.

“Your father, papito, he-,”

Then, it’d be the ruffle of his hair, brown eyes. It reminded him of his mom. But the crease of these eyes were different. Hardened, mean. Even towards him.

“Well, he said no, but I knew what he really wanted.”

The base of Peter’s neck always crawled when he remembered that line. His spider-sense warned him that whatever he’s remembering, he would not like.

“Ey, Peter.”

“Huh?” Peter blinked, looking up from where his arms were elbow deep in wires.

“Don’cha need gloves with that?” Frank asked, munching on some jerky. They were sitting in the living room, repairing a TV and a washer Frank had somehow managed to lug back to the apartment. It’s a toss up between Frank’s network of orphans (Peter included), street rats (these things are not mutually inclusive), or his own slightly higher than average strength. Not that they needed to thrift broken things, considering Peter’s funneling money from offshore bank accounts belonging to this America’s 1%. They just made it so easy! He and Ned had been hacking into government bases in middle school back on his world. This world? Not even a challenge. Regardless, this was kind of like… Frank’s version of those fancy sensory boxes for Peter.

“Oh, no. It’s not plugged in, see?”

“How’re ya gunna know it works then?”

“Plug it in after I’m done. Turn it off and on, you know?”

Frank stared at him, then rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

“If you burn down that portion of the house, at least we’ll be warm for a bit.”

“Thanks. Your confidence in me is astounding.”

“You talk like an old man.”

“I do not! Excuse you! If I’m old, you’re the expired knock off cup ramen in the back of a convenience store!”

“Yo, shrimpy, that’s rude, ya hear?” Frank snickered, impressed at the quip. The Alley kid turned brother stood up to plop next to Peter.

“So… you gonna go…?” Frank made a whooshing sound and held his hand in a web shooter position.

“Tonight? Prolly. Anything I should look out for?”

“You’re gunna get yourself killed, but yeah, heard the gang’s back up north.”

Peter flashed a smile, dimples coming out. “I’ll try not to. Thanks, Frank.”

“Anytime, Spidey.”

Frank, though little (to Peter), was a good friend. Then again, considering Peter saved his ass both in mask and out of it, it’s to be expected. One would think that after eight years of hiding his identity, Peter would be better at it. Then, he got punted into a different world and got made by a child.

To be fair, the circumstances all but screamed Parker Luck, so Peter’s not counting this instance.

See, the first few days of this sudden cohabitation, Peter had asked Frank to find them furniture. Both because he was getting real sick of eating on the floor and because Peter needed to fix his suit to match his much younger body. Then, once he readjusted the shrinking nanotech and the spider legs to fit him in a way that wouldn’t break him, Peter had promptly swung out of the building and went patrolling. He stuck with the wandering Frank, taking out muggers and robbers and everything in between and past that around the area where Frank is.

Looking back, Peter realized how lucky he was when he decided to go on the “helping joyride” at the beginning of the evening. His spider-sense activated way later in the night, the moment where he began seeing and sensing the cameras that kept pointing towards him. He ducked and dodged out of the way, and eventually, the feeling left. Somebody was watching. And he doesn’t know where they stood on the moral side of things.

Anyways, it happened after three weeks and a half of going out and just… settling into life in Gotham. He had already been struggling to find a way home, scouring the libraries around Gotham on any subject that would aid in his multiversal travel. Peter would like to know which emo kid named this city.

Eventually, Parker Luck decided to strike once more.

“Get back, freak!” The lady brandished a wicked knife.

Talk about deja vu.

“Oh no! Knives! My greatest weakness!” Spider-Man yelled, sticking to the shadowed windows as he let his voice echo in the alley. Gotham had a lot of nice hiding places. Spider-man dropped down on her head like a bat out of hell and webbed the knife out of her hands. He webbed the mugger up onto the alleyway above normal reach, and told the man to call the police.

Frank screamed, just as Spider-man wrapped it up, loud enough to reach his enhanced hearing.

“Wait-!” The man tried to stop him, but Peter, small, trained, and having readjusted his reach, slipped away.

“What’s your name?!” The guy he saved yelled at his back.

Spider-man, distracted, yelled back, “SPIDEY!”

He shot webs upwards and used them to slingshot his way towards where Frank was. And… car! Peter used his webs to swing up, up, and let himself fall to gain momentum. At the last moment, Peter shot a web to the top of the car and pulled himself to it.

Shit, shit, shit. He’s stupidly attached to the kid, and he was stupid enough to let Frank go out into Gotham looking both well-fed and well clothed.

The world slowed as he locked eyes with a terrified Frank, who was getting dragged into a car.

The world narrowed to speed and Spider-Man landed on top of the car roof, sweeping his leg out and thankfully remembering his much shorter reach. His foot collided with the kidnapper’s face with the equivalent force of a grown up, slightly annoyed Peter Parker who’s letting his strength go a bit unchecked. Basically, they went flying, blood spewing out of the undoubtedly broken nose Spider-Man had just given them.

Standing on business, the shorter webster promptly flipped down wards as he all but glued the would-be kidnapper to the curb.

“You alright?”

“You’re- You’re that new mask.” Frank whispered, scuttling away from the car where he’d been dropped.

“Yeah, man. You okay?” His voice modulator came in clutch.

“Fuck. Fuck, I gotta-” Frank stumbled. The kid looked like he was one bad break away from snapping. Peter hated it when kids got that terrified look on their faces, it reminded him of himself, helpless as Ben bled out because they should never have to fear something that much.

Something’s wrong, though. As much as Peter wished otherwise, Frank was a Gotham bred and true alley kid, through and through. These kids don’t spook easily. Peter already stopped a couple of kidnappings and at least two of the kids had yelled at him to stay out of the way before unloading a rain of nut kicks on their kidnappers that left Peter wincing for days in sympathy. Frank being this spooked? Something’s going on.

“Woah, easy there, I’m not gonna hurt you,”

Frank shot him a half hysterical, half condescending look. Yeah, that’s more like it.

“Ob-obviously. I have to go before more of them comes,” Frank muttered.

“More of them? You know what they want?”

Frank stared at him, looking up and down at his blue, red, and gold ensemble.

“I can help,” Peter promised.

“What’re your thoughts on metas?”

Suspicious.

“Uh, they’re fine? Depends on the person, why?”

Frank sighed. The skinny teenager, barely 14, tugged at his hair. “They’re traffickers. Meta kids, mostly, so the Bats don’t do nothing. I- uh, I got caught.” He held up a thin wrist, showing Peter his new accessorie, a think metal bracelet that was beeping red.

Peter cursed in his head. Fuck, of course he’d stumble into a-

“Caught? You’re a meta?”

Frank nodded. “Strength. This is an inhibitor, illegal kind, you know?”

Well, that explained how he got all of those furniture without struggle.

“Right. Hey, don’t stress, kid, I’m a meta too.”

Frank blinked.

“What?”

Peter walked up the side of the car and did jazz hands.

“You’re a meta?! But- but you’re a mask operating in Gotham!”

“Yeah…? Is that weird?”

Before Frank could reply, Peter’s sense screamed and Spider-Man shoved Frank away from the spray of bullets.

“Move, Frank!”

Peter flipped away, vaguely aware of Frank’s gaping realization. He took down the shooters in quick succession, stopping the speeding car with his bare hands and some webs.

“Shooters, no shooting!” He yelled, liberally applying force he tended to keep under wraps. Frank was like a brother to him, and there is no universe where Peter Parker would hold back when his family was in danger.

When he got back to Frank, who had oddly stayed instead of running, Peter found out why the kid stayed.

“Peter?!” Frank hissed lowly, looking more pissed off than terrified. “Are you fucking insane?! Why are you running ‘round as a mask?!”

“Shhh!” Shit, he got made. “Come on, get back to the apartment and we can talk there. I’ll get rid of this-”

Peter casually snapped the bracelet in half, tearing the tracker out, and tucked it away to study later.

“Fuckin’- shit, fine, but you’re explaining everything, motherfucker!”

They split, Peter guessing correctly that he was in another lecture of a lifetime.

——

“Your vigilante name is Spiderman?”

“Hey, I can hear you say it without the hyphen! There’s a hyphen in there!”

“You’re not a man! You’re a twerp!”

“I’ll show you twerp, you-”

Five minutes of tussling later, in which Peter did not try to bite Frank’s arm off, thank you very much, Frank leaned back on the couch.

“Besides. People in the streets are calling you Spidey, anyways.”

“Spidey?”

“Some dude you saved from a mugging said you told him.”

Peter slammed his head on the floor where he was laying face down.

“Ughhhh.”

——

“He could have been great. I saw his potential.”

Anger. But he shouldn’t be afraid. The woman loved him.

“Hey, Peter. You’re up here again.”

“Hi.” Peter stayed curled up. His mind had refused him sleep for the last three nights, causing dark circles to appear underneath his eyes. The memories of what he assumed to be this world’s Peter was merging with his. What he’d seen so far did not fill him with confidence of a happy childhood. Flashes of wielding weapons, the sterile smell of a metal dissection table, and hundreds and hundreds of spiders crawling over him, getting startled into biting down. Plus, the stress of tracking down the meta trafficking circles in Gotham was no joke. He doesn’t know Gotham nearly as well as he knew New York, and he had to be extra careful running around and trying to catch every bit of the circle before making any moves. Frank was helping with his network of homeless Meta kids, but the traffickers were everywhere except for Crime Alley.

He should be dead. They sold his body to an organ harvester who dumped his venom filled corpse on the side of Gotham. At least he didn’t have to worry about killing his alternate version.

“Everything all right?” Red Robin clambered down to sit next to him, cowl hiding the concerned scrunch of his brow. He’s never seen Peter like this.

Peter grumbled, staring down at another alleyway. He knows his alternate died. His shit excuse for another sold his body to an organ harvester, when he seized on the operating table, who dumped his venom filled corpse on the side of Gotham. At least he didn’t have to worry about killing his alternate version. He does, however, have to worry about missing vital organs.

“I… remembered something.” Peter remembered a lot of things. And pretty much none of them were good. This Peter suffered a lot in his short life.

Red Robin nodded. The issue of Peter’s spotty memories had come up in their discussions over the past month.

“Ah. Something unpleasant?”

Peter thought back to the voice who, despite all of the other, highly traumatic memories, haunted his brain like nothing else.

“He didn’t live up to it. He refused to kill. So I made the decision for him.”

“Yeah. Not for me, but unpleasant that I know about it.”

“Yeah, I get that. You wanna talk about it?” Peter hid a small smile. Even though Red Robin kept his tone light, the concern still bled through. Warm. It made Peter feel warm. Even if it appeared that the Bats don’t really care about the trafficked meta kids… maybe Red Robin would come save normal kid Peter if he got kidnapped. A backup plan to consider. For now…

“Sure,” he said. Red Robin waited patiently.

“I think, I remember someone. Maybe, maybe my…” Peter grimaced. “My mom? She… told me something. And uh, I think I’maproductofrape.”

“Oh,” Red Robin said, so awkwardly that Peter had to crack a small smile despite the gravity of the topic. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too. Not myself, but for…” Peter waved a hand. “You know.”

“Yeah.”

“She wasn’t a good person,” Peter whispered and hated how he missed the browns of her eyes- her middle name was Marie, and god, Peter wished he hadn’t known that because he gets why her eyes reminded him so much of his own mother- and she besmirched everything Mary Parker stood for.

“You have our combined potential, Peter. Make sure not to be like him too much and live up to it, papito.”

“It’s okay, to love her even if she hurt other people,” Red Robin said, gently ruffling his greasy hair. Peter’s spidey-sense tingled and he ducked away. Red Robin withdrew his hand. “Because you can’t really help that. Trust me, I’ve tried. You just have to make sure they don’t get the chance to do what they did again.”

Cold, cold voices and his voice gave out from screaming. “You really are your father’s son. Never being able to do what’s necessary.”

And Peter wondered what happened to Red Robin and who hurt him. Peter would just like to talk. Red Robin reminded him of himself, way back when being Spider-Man meant finding out Harry became Green Goblin. Pained. Tired.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. But that’s not really a problem, considering the last thing the organ harvester said before dumping him in an alley. “She’s dead in a ditch in Siberia or something. I’m not really worried she’ll do it again.”

“Uh.”

“It’s cool,”

“Right. Have you… remembered your dad?”

“Yeah. He’s in Gotham,” Peter unfurled a little.

“You want help tracking him down? I’m good at that kind of thing.”

Peter glanced at Red Robin. “I think you just admitted to being a stalker.”

“Vigilante,” Red Robin shrugged, like it explained everything. And yeah, it kind of did. Peter snorted.

“Nah, it’s okay. I don’t want to meet him anyways.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t know about me,” Peter ticked off his fingers. “I’m a literal walking, talking, breathing reminder of his trauma. And I don’t need a dad.”

Red Robin looked at him silently. Peter doesn’t think about it.

He never wanted to see his parents suffer. An alternate version of his dad, hurt so irrevocably by an alternate version of his mom?

Peter hated that this Catalina dirtied his mother’s name, and went against the most fundamental parts of what the spider symbol was meant for. And considering he’s been doing this longer than her, he had first dibs on defining it. He’ll look after his dad, as long as he’s stuck in Gotham. It’s only right.

“His name? Oh, my son, it’s Richard Grayson.”

——

Peter, who Trusts his instincts: no head rubs?? awwwww

Tim, who’s been trying to get a dna sample for the last month: how does he keep evading me?? He must be a genius or a spy or- *spirals down the conspiracy board*

——

Tim: I’ve connected the dots!

Peter: you’ve connected jack shit

——

Listen, the moment I learned Catalina Flores’ middle name, the pieces clicked, okay? Like legos. It’s like, former FBI agent in this one and former CIA agent in Peter’s home universe? Wow. Middle name Marie? Mary Parker? Incredible. Spider themes run in the blood apparently?? They both have brown eyes!! Trying to do good with no qualms about murder!! (I’m assuming since Mary Parker was SHIELD and I don’t think SHIELD cared much for the sanctity of human life if it threatened the country or something)

#tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #Peter Parker #I think you know who his mom is #nightwing #batman #red robin #Frank the Crime Alley kid #Tim Drake #Tw: mentions of torture #Tw: human experimentation #bruce wayne #dick Grayson #gotham #Tw: mentions of human trafficking #Catalina Marie Flores #tarantula #Spider in Gotham AU

436 notes · View notes

aftgficrec · 5 months

Note

Fics where Neil gets in a fight and actually wins!! I know it’s more commonly said that he can start fights and not finish them but let’s be for real, the boy was raised by two mafias and is scary as hell (I think i’ve seen someone ask this a while ago but i’m not sure if there’s an updated list) Mainly wondering for like post-canon fics, but au’s are cool too!

There’s quite a bit to discover on this topic, be that AU or in the context of canon. Of course, Neil rarely comes out of these troubles unscathed, but he wouldn’t be Neil if there wasn’t also a little martyrdom involved. You might find more on this under our bamf!Neil, butcher!Neil and occasionally raven!Neil tags. Have a browse, and see if there’s anything you like. - S

Some previous recommendations:

BAMF!Neil here

BAMF!Neil 2 here

BAMF!Neil 3 here

BAMf!Andreil w/happy ending here

badass Neil here

Neil fights and wins here

A dark Neil here

Neil says it's fine i've had worse here

Neil protects Katelyn/the foxes/Andrew here

Foxes find out Neil's not soft here (see list of recs at top of post)

Neil hurts/kills in front of foxes here

new BAMF! or Raven!Neil here

dark!Neil & Andrew here

bad boy Neil here

Neil Josten: Moriyama spy here

Neil kills Nathan here

Killing Eve AU here

‘Skin Comes Apart (Angel in Lothian)’ here

‘Bound for Error’ here

‘turn out the lights’ here (completed)

‘From Dungeons’ here

‘Whiskey Sour’ here

‘Negotiations’ and ‘The Butcher's Hello’ here (updated)

‘Shake my Tomb’ and ‘Appendages’ here

‘The Butcher’s Son’ here

‘it takes two (but you and i are one)’ here

‘monster (under my bed)’ here

post-canon (more or less):

Out for Blood by Aquared46 [Rated M, 27975 words, complete, 2023, locked]

"Neil’s first thought upon opening his eyes was that he was lucky to be in the trunk of a car instead of the back of a van. His second thought was that even if he survived this, Andrew might finally give into the temptation to kill him." AKA Neil is abducted and everyone has a bad time.

tw: kidnapping, tw: torture, tw: nightmares

born for this by dovegraye [Rated G, 1278 words, complete, 2023]

There are some parts of Nathaniel Abram Wesninski that Neil Abram Josten can’t ignore and refuses to play at trying anymore. This is one of them.

tw: violence

My Lover Writes Me Letters by AceSirenSinger [Rated M, 23018 words, complete, 2023]

He feels it again – the fury, of Neil’s taunting precision, of his expertise honed specifically for Andrew. It makes Andrew furious. Andrew has not felt anything since he woke up with his head on fire, in a room with a man made of compressed violence. *** Andrew loses his memory of the last five years, and forgets Neil. Neil martyrs himself because of course he does.

**tw: threatened rape/noncon between major characters**, tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: blood/gore, tw: referenced animal cruelty and death, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: murder, tw: implied disordered eating

five times neil beat the babygirl allegations, plus the one time he didn't by r3mus [Rated T, 7488 words, complete, 2023]

neil will NEVER beat the babygirl allegations in MY heart but, alas, he would probably punch me if i called him babygirl to his face.

tw: violence

Damnation by X0X0HauntedX0X0 [Rated M, 15572 words, incomplete, last updated Jan. 2022]

Unkind and ever familiar, that anger Lola had triggered earlier returned with sharp teeth and without mercy. He would rip his time from their hands by force, like he’d been doing every day since he was born. Lola was clever as the devil, but Neil had been raised through the loopholes. She couldn’t hurt his Foxes if she was dead. Or Neil is much more dangerous than anyone gives him credit for.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: torture, tw: blood/gore, tw: alcohol, tw: drugs

NB: fic art of post-torture Neil by @kazzyboy here

Maybe a Mobster by definitely_not_loki [Rated M, 1558 words, complete, 2022]

Neil Josten had transferred at the beginning of this season, and sure he'd been a nightmare for the team, but not in the "I was raised by a serial killer" kind of way. He was hard on the team—way harder than anyone had been before—and he wasn't even the captain. He was just some rookie striker from South Carolina. Most of the time she forgot he was anything but a rookie striker, but then someone would ask about his scars or call him a different name. Those were the few moments she remembered he wasn't just an asshole. He was an asshole with a past. So when The Event happened, she was terrified, horrified beyond all reason, but she was not surprised. Or, Neil is a badass motherfucker.

tw: violence, tw: blood

Neil has some bad habits. by evelynreads23 [Not Rated, 1068 words, complete, 2022]

Neil learnt things when he was young, how to wield a knife, how to hide a body. He was doing good and not thinking about it until someone was telling him he was a fan of the butcher. He was in a haze afterwards and freaked when Jack was being an asshole. This is Neil going to his roots but staying Neil, protecting Andrew and the foxes and not having fun when his past is brought up. Read at your own risk! :)

tw: violence, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: homophobia, tw: panic attacks

Dart Boards and Knife Fights by clumsylittlewriter [Rated T, 2983 words, complete, 2022]

"As if in sync, both of them dropped down into fighting stances and tensed their muscles. 'I apologize in advance if I end up killing you,' Nathaniel said, his voice dangerously quiet. Natalie threw her head back and released a sharp peal of laughter, more malicious than anything Andrew had ever heard from her. 'Don’t get cocky, Butcher-boy,' she taunted, her eyes glittering with vicious glee. The Butcher’s smile reappeared on his partner’s face." (a game of darts reminds Andrew that Neil was raised by someone fascinated with knives)

All the masks I've left behind by SagaEllen [Rated T, 1879 words, complete, 2021]

Neil does not cry. Aaron asks for help. And everything is such a mess.

tw: knives, tw: violence

all for his foxes by Olympyas [Not Rated, 2469 words, complete, 2021]

If he wanted to defend his family Neil wouldn't be enough, but someone else would, just this time, just for them. This is how Nathaniel opened the door and managed to stop the knife threw at him. And that was familiar, It even became a reflex by now. They taught him. Lola taught him in a way he wouldn't be able to forget. Lola and Romero come for Neil directly at Palmetto and Neil defends his family.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: blood, tw: knives

AU:

Dead Ringer by HalloweenReaper [Rated E, 18892 words, incomplete, last updated Nov. 2023]

“Potential.” Riko slammed Neil against the wall again and whirled on Kevin. Kevin stared back at him, white-faced and tense. “You said that goalkeeper had potential and then wrote him off as useless when I offered him to you....” - The Foxhole Court, Ch. 13. Nathaniel was given to Ichirou as his private hitman after his skills as a marksman were revealed when the Moriyama tracked him and his mother down after they ran away. Riko decided to surprise Kevin with matching “pets” after he found out the goalkeeper Kevin was interested in had a twin. When Nathaniel is ordered to join the Ravens for a year to cover for a series of hits, his smart mouth meets Andrew’s prickly attitude and things get interesting.

tw: abuse, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: animal abuse, tw: panic attacks

Different Roads by frankelled [Rated T, 33944 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

Nathaniel became Ichirou's 2nd when he was 10 years old. To protect Nathaniel from becoming a target no one can know, which leaves him in the Nest. When Kevin's hand breaks Nathaniel is in charge of protecting him from Riko, but now in Palmetto

tw: violence, tw: injuries, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: panic attacks

Andrew's Regret by pandaseek [Not Rated, 13860 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

“The first three were all former foster parents of Andrew.” Piggins continued, unable to take a hint from the frosty office he’d admitted these things too. “No.” Aaron panicked, staring at Andrew in disbelief. “Andrew has never been…!” Wymack shifted his weight on the filing cabinet, reaching down to grab his trash can and passing it across Andrew in time for Aaron to grab it and spew a cascade of vile liquid into it, while Andrew pushed his chair onto its back legs and avoided all eye contact with those in the cramped office. Andrew knew who did this. The only person who had ever willingly gone to bat for him. A person he had mistakenly believed to be dead long ago; this was proof to the contrary. Except… Except that there was one name missing. - A prompt from Justthislazy, based on my original Lifeline, that I just had to pick up and run with. Thank you for the amazing idea!

tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: implied/referenced csa

Promise, I Can Give You a Reason by maydaykevin [Rated T, 1689 words, complete, 2023]

Something else happens in the fated Millport locker room.

tw: violence

I'm An Accountant by boomba77 [Not Rated, 24101 words, incomplete, last updated Oct. 2023]

Abram Hatford is an accountant. A legitimate accountant. He may work for an infamous crime family, but his hands have been clean for years (of blood, at least). He is a translator and an accountant. He flies under the radar, his existence hidden from the public by his family, and he prefers it that way. For him, the words ‘safe’ and ‘unknown’ are synonymous. So, when one of the Hatford empire’s more lucrative businesses begins stirring up the wrong kind of attention and losing money as a result, the Hatfords require discretion and brains. Their elusive Abram is the only person for the job. Andrew Minyard is a part-time server at a random diner and a part-time bartender at The Den, where he spends most of his time drinking what he’s supposed to be serving. It isn’t until strange things start happening around the club that Andrew decides to pay a bit more attention to the shady shit going on at his work. And then, when a stranger shows up looking for work with a perfect resume and a symmetrical face, Andrew finds his suspicion, and his interest, double. All of the death and destruction is bad, sure, but at least it’s interesting. OR Waiting for death is not living.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: dissociation, tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks, tw: scars

Rheostat by NeilfuckingJosten [Rated M, 14315 words, incomplete, last updated Aug 2023]

Nathaniel Wesninski, alias Neil Josten is finally out of the Nest and into the world of professional exy. Deadly, smart and worse than his father, Nathaniel will bring a storm into Andrew's quiet world. AKA, they meet in the pro's.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced abuse

I Was Ruined From The Start by BrokenPineTree [Rated M, 39021 words, incomplete, last updated April 2023]

Neil’s grin is audible as he replies. "Riko’s antics getting outed to the public would make him a liability. And I do remember telling you that threats need to be dealt with accordingly." Kevin's stomach lurches into his throat with the conclusions he jumps to. "So, you’re gonna go back to the Nest?" He asks quietly. Slowly. Unsure how to feel about Neil putting himself in that situation again. He can't do that, right? He has other things to worry about now. Neil hums disapprovingly. "Try again," He offers. Kevin does. "You're... coming to Palmetto?" The au where Kevin doesn't have full confidence in Andrew's ability to stand between him and his lurking demons after only spending a few months at Palmetto. But with the dangerous card itching to emerge from under his sleeve, does he really need to?

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: panic attacks

True Crime by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 1789 words, complete, 2022]

All Andrew needed was the WiFi password.

tumblr posts:

Neil Does Not Like when people mess with his people. by @hmmm-shesucks [tumblr, 2023]

Whenever any of the foxes are slightly inconvenienced by someone enough to complain about them, Neil always asks, “Do you want me to take care of it?”

tw: implied/referenced violence

Neil gets in a fight by @hmmm-shesucks [tumblr, 2023]

Neil gets in a fight on the court and it’s one of those where gloves are dropped and helmets are thrown and the punches are quick and hard.

tw: blood, tw: violence

Neil is dangerous and Aaron knows it hc by @thefoxholestuff [tumblr, 2021]

I love the idea of Neil being the really dangerous one rather than Andrew and the Foxes all being Shook and Andrew being a gay disaster over it

Part 2 - an expansion

here’s an expansion of my Neil-is-dangerous-and-Aaron-knows-it post,

one night the foxes are at edens and some guy starts to harass Andrew hc by @zipperuser103 [tumblr, 2021]

I know that Neil “starts fights that he can’t finish”, but I refuse to believe that he has no fighting skills at all.

tw: violence

Art

bamf!Neil by @emry-stars-art

(Feat. BAMF? Assassin? Secret Agent? Neil) by @baylecn

Good boy, junior by @jayjuls

Killer In The Mirror by @allfortheslay25

Killing Eve AU by @rainbowd00dles

Wesninski looks good on you by @ouijacine

111 notes · View notes

nerdpoe · 6 months

Text

Rosewood and Hyacinth (Coffee, Honey, and Sometimes Hazelnuts Series)

Omegaverse Lore and Rules Post, Ao3

Kon hunts down Rob to let him know that he's alive, and finds him in Paris. In Heat. Which is odd, because he could have sworn the guy was an Alpha. Meanwhile, Jason hunts down Tim's trail to make sure that he's, against Ra's insinuations, okay.

Kon gently opened the window and let himself inside, only realizing what he was smelling once he’d closed it behind him.

Uhh. Oh.

Oh shit.

The air was laced with a delicious coffee and honey and roasted hazelnuts, and the lazy scent of an Omegan Heat only enhanced it.

That was an Omega in Heat.

Which meant this was definitely not Rob’s room, fuck.

“I am so sorry,” Kon said, refusing to turn around and fumbling with the window, “I am so so so sorry I have the wrong room I’m so sorr-“

“Kon, you have the right room,” Tim’s tired voice said from behind him, and he could almost feel the eyebrow raise.

Kon still refused to turn around.

“Then I’m sorry for intruding on you and your friend shit-“ The window slammed shut again as Kon fucked up his grip on it, trying to hard not to break it; this was so embarrassing whoever Tim was with would think Superboy was lame-

“There’s no one else here but you, Superdork,” Tim yawned; Kon felt an over-heated body drape itself against his back, and a warm nose rubbed itself on his neck, “Also, you’re alive. When did that happen? Stay here.”

The smell of coffee and honey and roasted hazelnuts was everywhere, and Kon finally realized what had to have happened.

“Oh. Oh! Dude! You transitioned?” Kon asked, turning around so that Tim was in front of him. Tim, undeterred, kept his grip and was still hugging him.

“Yeah, long story but I’m happier now. Please stay?”

Okay. Okay Kon, be cool. Be chill.

“I mean like yeah, totally. Definitely. Are we just chilling or is this for more uh…fun times?” Kon waggled his eyebrows. Kon stopped waggling his eyebrows. Kon regretted the last three seconds where he’d thought that was a good idea.

“Hmm. It’s my first heat, and this is mostly to make sure the Transition happened properly, so I’m not on birth control. No sex right now, please. I just wanna nap in the sun.”

Damn. Damn, Tim really handled Heats better than he ever had Ruts. If this was a Rut Kon would’ve already been tossed out the room as Tim buried himself in work until he fainted. Again.

“Okay. Okay, yeah! We can do that! Wait, when did you last eat? You need to eat.”

Yet again, Tim’s answer Shook Kon.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m kinda hungry. Can you handle Room Service for me?” His best friend said even as he led Kon to the bed.

Tim was agreeing to eat. Never would have seen that during a Rut. He really was…healthier? Happier? As an Omega. And as a result, Kon felt happy for him. He wasn’t struggling, just finally relaxing in his own skin.

So Kon may have gone a bit overboard.

He didn’t know what a happy Tim during Heat wanted to eat, so he ordered essentially everything from the menu.

He was pretty sure that the Room Service were assassins, but Tim just flapped a hand at him when he brought it up, saying something about “Ra’s is just making sure I’m fit enough to do that favor later” or whatever.

Which. Concerning.

But Kon could address that later, when he didn’t have a Purring, sleeping Tim draped across his chest and keeping him prisoner in a fancy Paris hotel room.

~~~~~~

Heats, Tim decided, were far superior to Ruts.

Logically he knew that they were pretty much the same thing, but emotionally Heats were far superior.

He didn’t feel like crawling out of his skin, he didn’t want to force himself to stay awake to avoid the Rut itself, he didn’t feel sick and nauseous thinking about his own body.

He just felt. Well. He felt content.

Even Kon coming back from the dead couldn’t shake him from his relaxed state.

Honestly before Kon had come in through the window he’d just been sitting on the floor and breathing, enjoying the fact that his own scent didn’t make him want to barf. Then Kon had come in, and the scent of rosewood and hyacinth mixed together with what was already in the air, and Tim had been draping himself across the Super’s back without much thought at all.

The heat that flooded his veins wasn’t an uncomfortable scalding, it was a gentle warmth that kept lulling him to some of the best naps he’d ever had. Sure, he was aware that he could definitely go for some sex if the opportunity provided itself, but there wasn’t an extreme urge to do anything.

Mostly, as he told Kon; he just wanted to nap on his Beta in a sun beam.

After being fed some food that was definitely too fancy to be from the particular Hotel they were staying in, catching up with a concerned Kon while doing it, he fell asleep to the very alive pulse of his best friend.

~~~~~~

Jason walked into the Istiklal Crisis Center, dressed in his civvies and trying to make his demeanor as nonthreatening as possible.

Even though the air fresheners and air purifiers tried to hide and filter it, they could never get rid of the scent of distressed Omega in the air.

There were Alphas and Betas in the waiting room, with only a few Omegas scattered throughout.

The Omegas who required the Crisis Center’s services were ushered into the back rooms, after all.

Jason avoided eye contact and made his way to the reception desk.

“Hello, I’m here inquiring about a patient you had? He’s my little brother, I want to know if he’s alright.” Jason said in Turkish, as quietly as he could.

Turkish Crisis Centers operated on a whole other level of secrecy; they were used to Data Breaches, so they only used their computer systems to log patient names and if they’d left of their own volition or been transported to a hospital. Everything else? Paper. So if Jason wanted to know what Tim’s actual status was, he’d have to ask.

The most he could tell was that Tim had checked in using his Alvin Draper alias and left of his own volition. He already had the false Birth Certificates that labeled them as brothers ready to go.

The Omega man on the other side frowned and eyed him, the distrust clear.

“Please. His name is Alvin Draper, and we-I-don’t know where he is right now or what happened to him.” Jason tugged the birth certificates out of his bag and slid them across the counter, even as the security guards’ hands shifted to rest on their weapons.

The Receptionist reached over and slid the certificates towards him, frowning when he saw the language they were in.

“One moment; I have to get Saadet,” he muttered as he left and vanished into the back rooms.

Jason only had to wait for four minutes before a frazzled looking Beta woman hurried through the door and leaned over the counter to go over the Birth Certificates. She frowned.

Tugged her Hijaab into place from where it was threatening to fall out.

Looked up at Jason.

Down at the Certificate.

Stood up, took the Birth Certificates in hand, and motioned him through the doors.

Jason, a little shocked, went through them.

Weren’t they supposed to check his ID? Do like, thirteen kinds of validation? Even if he was a fellow Omega, that didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of human trafficking.

Saadet met him just inside the doors and led him through a series of hallways that were meant to confuse any who weren’t used to them. Jason…was impressed. And also a bit horrified.

To have that level of security, there must have been a few incidences in this places history that warranted it.

Finally, she held open a door to a small, cluttered office.

Jason had only just managed to step inside when she locked the door behind them.

He turned, eyebrow raised, as she stared at him with the most unimpressed expression he’d ever seen.

“These documents are as fake as his,” she told him in perfect English, throwing the Birth Certificates at his feet, “And you match the description he gave. More than enough proof that you two actually do know each other.”

Jason snorted.

“Flimsy reasoning like that? And here I thought Turkish Centers were the best of the best,” he drawled, trying to look casual and cool to recover from being called out like that.

Saadet’s stare turned straight-up evil, and he could tell she was starting to fight a smile.

“He also gave me a picture of you.”

Jason stiffened.

“What picture-“

“-None of your concern. But that is…definitely you.” She snickered.

Snickered.

At him!

What had Tim given her?

“Moving on, per ‘Alvin’s’ instructions I am to answer any questions you may have. Ask.”

Jason shoved the questions about whatever incriminating photo the little shit had given the nice lady to the back of his mind and focused.

Tim being a smartass was a good sign.

Now to ask the difficult questions. The ones Jason never, ever wanted to ask regarding any of his brothers.

“Was he raped?”

“No.”

The answer came just as quick as the question, and Jason didn’t even realize he’d sunk to the floor until he was already there. Saadet kept her distance.

Jason gave himself a moment.

“Was he tortured?”

“No.”

“Did he display signs of mental abuse?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t he call us?”

“He just said ‘too many eyes, not enough chances’-I assume you know what that means.”

He did.

“How bad was he?”

Saadet did pause at that, looking thoughtful.

Jason waited. Tim hadn’t been raped or abused, which was very good. He…genuinely could not put into words how relieved he was at that.

But he’d been Transitioned, probably against his will.

That’d fuck anyone up.

“He seemed very well, actually.”

What.

“What?”

“Yes, to hear him tell it; he hadn’t realized he actually wanted to transition until he had done so. Something about requesting it while not right in the head, and a missing spleen.”

Jason stared at her.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“We went ahead and made sure he had the proper medication following the loss of an organ so vital to the immune system.”

“I thought you said there were no signs of torture!”

“There weren’t. I assume fights are not all that unusual for you spy types; but I stand by what I said.”

Jason stood up, towering over her.

Saadet crossed her arms and glared at him.

Jason…felt his shoulders drop.

“I…I need to call someone.”

Saadet nodded, making her way to the door.

“Knock when you are done, one of the guards will let you out.”

~~~~~~

Dick was wearing a hole in the carpet.

Damian had long since stopped trying to calm him down. The Beta Pup was sitting on the couch, staying within Dick’s line of sight, sketching.

Dick knew that Damian was shaken as well, though.

There was no other reason he would willingly draw his self-proclaimed rival and not make it look silly.

When the phone finally rang, it hadn’t even finished the first one before he had it at his ear.

“Where is he?” Dick snapped, barely keeping a Command from breaking free.

Jason sighed on the other side, sounding more exasperated than angry.

“He’s not here, I went to the Crisis Center he went to. He wasn’t raped, he wasn’t tortured, and he actually wanted to Transition. Saadet says he wasn’t brainwashed, but I’d hold off on agreeing with her until I see it for myself.”

Dick sat down on the floor, hard.

He wasn’t even aware that he was crying until the tears started dripping on his pants.

Then it all came out in great, heaving sobs.

“He’s really okay?” Dick gasped in a small voice, “He really wasn’t hurt?”

“Yeah, Big Bird. He’s fine, apparently. Well-aside from a missing spleen, but that’s a separate issue.”

Dick didn’t even grasp the ‘missing spleen’ bit; he was too busy feeling relief that one of his brothers would never have to know how it felt to be violated like…like That.

Arms wrapped around him from the side, awkward and unsure.

Dick switched the phone to his other hand and dragged a protesting Damian into his lap.

“So what’re you gonna do now?” Dick asked once he’d calmed down a little, sniffling.

“Now I’m gonna hunt the little shit down; whatever Ra’s has planned for him, he wants Tim to have backup. Why else call you?”

Dick hummed, burying his face in Damian’s hair despite the Pup’s even louder protestations.

“Richard! You are rubbing mucus into my hair! Unhand me!”

Dick ignored the Coercion and clung to Damian tighter.

“Be careful, okay?”

“Always am.”

~~~~~~

Kon woke up three days after he’d meant to just say hi to Rob, slightly overheated and with a drooling, Purring Omega using him as an extra pillow.

One thing that was massively different from Ruts was that Tim was…well. He was clingy.

He refused to let Kon out of his sight for any longer than he absolutely had to, always had to be touching him, and spent most of the time sleeping or eating.

All in all, it looked like a fantastic vacation for Tim.

But that roasted hazelnut scent was fading, and Tim was starting to spend more and more stretches of time awake.

They talked, during those.

Tim talked in hushed, shamed tones that he’d tried to clone Kon. Not to make a replacement, but to have something of Kon left.

Kon quietly admitted that he might have done the same, if the situation had been reversed.

Kon told Tim how it felt like the world had moved on without him.

Tim told Kon that he’d never moved on, and felt like he probably never would have.

It was…there were definitely emotions going around, and Kon hadn’t been expecting the Tim-therapy session. Not that he wasn’t grateful for it; Rob tended to avoid emotions like the plague in some awful attempt to follow the Big Bad Bat himself.

Aside from the banger talk about feelings, his life for three days involved nothing but being Tim’s teddy bear basically.

Which, if he had to rate it, was an 8/10 job; he’d gladly do it all the time if Tim was normally this touchy.

Tim’s Heat faded out, though, and Kon found himself missing it already.

Hmm. Only one thing to do then.

“Hey-can I be your Heat buddy for the next one?”

Tim snorted, burrowing his head further into Kon’s chest.

“Sure, bro; can’t guarantee I’ll want ‘fun times’ though,” the Omega lifted his head and waggled his eyebrows in an exact copy from one of Kon’s newest most embarrassing moments.

Kon felt himself flush, cursed Clark’s genes, and gently shoved Rob’s head back onto his chest.

The Omega responded by going boneless and Purring even louder, effectively trapping the Super in place.

“…Stupid. I actually like seeing you comfortable for once, if you don’t wanna fuck that’s fine.” Kon mumbled, feeling himself grow even warmer as the flush spread.

The Purring hiccuped, stopping briefly, before Tim’s arms tightened around him and it started up again.

“I’m happy you found yourself, man,” Kon said quietly, staring at the ceiling.

“…Samesies.”

“…Dude. Did you just ‘samesies’ me-“

“-Shut up!”

60 notes · View notes

whumpacabra · 4 months

Text

18. Again

Disorientation, blood loss, field medicine, medical treatment, needle use [IV], fear for others safety, anticipated violence, nonconsensual drugging, brief suicidal ideation, referenced stitches, referenced gunshot wound, implied head injury, implied past noncon

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

The Wolf wasn’t sure how he got on his back, or where his shirt went, but he didn’t like it. The air kissing his skin was cold - not the ice he was familiar with but enough to make his skin prick to gooseflesh. People were speaking, the voices garbled.

The familiar sting of an IV bit the inside of his elbow, heavy exhaustion reminding him of his injuries more than their pain. The right side of his face and head were bound in dry, fresh gauze, skin taught with stitches. His right arm burned, every twitch igniting the spot where the bullet had torn through his flesh.

The Wolf could smell antiseptic and the rubbery scent of examination gloves. The hard cold surface below him was probably a table in the medical wing. He wasn’t sure if he was crying, but he certainly wanted to.

Had they gotten caught? They probably got caught. Then where was Harrison? He hoped Harrison wasn’t here.

The gloved hands were quick, not lingering as they smeared antiseptic over scrapes or applied butterfly stitches to deeper cuts. How long would he be given to heal? Or would they put him in the Box to fester and rot? That wouldn’t make sense - they were tending to his wounds. They needed him alive.

He had a good guess for what.

(“A bitch like you’s only good for two things: fighting and fucking. And you’ve got no fighting days left.”)

The sound that gargled in his throat wasn’t enough to stop the hands from turning him over, the rough texture under his stomach cold. They started working at the burns on his shoulders, and the Wolf felt fire simmer in his gut.

He’d kill whoever touched him again. He’d rip them apart. No more. Not again. Never again.

His hearing implants whined, the distant tap tap tap of military standard boots rang in his skull. No. His handler wasn’t here. The Wolf killed him. Hadn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t - maybe his handler and the overseers were here at medical. Maybe they were waiting for the okay from the staff before they tore him apart again.

Would he be given time to rest and heal? He needed a day - at least a few hours of sleep - he knew in his gut he would simply die of exhaustion if they had him again. The words around him were clearing, still a slurry of unfamiliar voices in his blood starved brain.

Unfamiliar, save for one.

Harrison.

Oh god Harrison was here in medical and his handler was nearby and Harrison was going to die badly and the Wolf would have to watch and he was helpless to stop it -

Except he wasn’t helpless. Save for the IV wrapped around his arm, his hands and feet were free. Unbound. His handler always prided his Wolf on how well behaved he was for the staff. Didn’t even need a muzzle like other, poorly trained dogs.

The Wolf could take advantage of that.

He couldn’t help but flinch as a gloved hand prodded at the cut that wrapped from his spine to his hip, his poorly placed butterfly stitches pried away with intense focus. Now or never.

His elbow struck true, catching the staff member’s jaw as the Wolf reared up on his knees. The IV line in his arm ripped free, blood spattering across the blue tarp.

Tarp? It didn’t matter, the momentum was too strong and the fear in his blood at the sound of those rapidly approaching boots was too great. The Wolf turned, following through after his elbow with a hand around the medic’s throat. He couldn’t use his right hand; that arm was already bleeding and burning from the torn IV and strained stitches. His momentum carried the medic to his back, the Wolf’s knee pressing down on his stomach.

“Wolf, no!”

Harrison. Harrison’s voice.

The Wolf’s blurry vision swam as he looked up from the masked medic below him. Harrison’s worried face drifted in and out of focus, lips moving but sound buffered by the whine of his hearing implants.

He yelped as strong hands pried into his bruised shoulder, wrenching him off of the medic. His back hit the ground, a pair of military standard boots in his face. His handler. Oh god. He was dead. He hoped he was going to die. He hoped those boots would slam down on his windpipe and let him suffocate before those hands touched anything else -

“Wolf, hey, Wolfie, easy - they’re - they’re trying to help.” Harrison’s face drifted back into view, and the Wolf was dimly aware his face was cradled in those bony hands. He whimpered, pressing the uninjured left side of his face deeper into Harrison’s hold. His hands were warm. “Yeah - yeah there you go, it’s just me. You’re alright. We’re alright.”

His breathing was calming, but his vision was still swimming and sparked with stars. This wasn’t the sterile white medical lab. This was a dusty garage that smelled like motor oil and blood. The medic behind the mask was being helped up by a woman in a sweater - definitely against regulation for its vibrant pink and superfluous tassels.

He lifted his eyes beyond Harrison, looking up at the man above the military boots. He was young, half panicked eyes looking between the medic and Harrison. The Wolf wished he could hear what he was saying, lips moving faster than his sluggish brain could hope to read.

He was dimly aware of a keening whine in his throat as Harrison helped the medic move him back into the tarp, on his stomach where he couldn’t see -

The world went dark faster than he could contemplate that fear.

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

(An AU of my Freelancers series)

24 notes · View notes

serickswrites · 6 months

Note

If I just may present my favorite whump dichotomy to you:

Inexperienced Caretaker wanting to comfort Whumpee so badly, but is afraid to initiate any type of physical contact with the recently rescued Whumpee because they're scared of triggering their trauma

Whumpee who takes Caretaker's reluctance as disgust, as in, they think that Caretaker is too disgusted to touch them after finding out what Whumper did to them

(anyway get well soon!)

Hello, Anon! This is such an interesting idea! Who doesn't love a good misunderstanding? Please enjoy my simple attempt at this!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, implied non con, hurt/aftermath

Caretaker tentatively knocked on Whumpee's door. They didn't want to startle Whumpee. Didn't want to scare Whumpee. Didn't want to make Whumpee uncomfortable in anyway. "Can I come in?"

"Yes," Whumpee's voice came weakly through the door.

Caretaker opened the door and walked over to Whumpee's bed. They started to reach their hand out to touch Whumpee, but thought the better of it. Whumpee wouldn't want to be touched after everything. Whumpee needed time. They needed to heal. And Caretaker was doing a shit job taking care of them. "Can I bring you anything? Coffee? Tea? A snack?"

Whumpee stared out the window, ignoring Caretaker's attempts to make eye contact. "No. Thank you."

"Oh, well if you're sure. Just give me a shout if you need me." Caretaker quickly backed out of the room. Rest. Whumpee needed rest. And time. Lots of time. Caretaker kept interrupting their rest. Whumpee just needed rest. And Caretaker needed to let them do that.

***

Whumpee felt disgusting. They were disgusting. How could anyone want to touch them, to help them, after Whumper touched them like that? Even Caretaker was disgusted by them. Caretaker could barely stand to be in the same room as them, let alone touch them. How could anyone want to be around them after they let Whumper do all those things to them?

It was hopeless. Whumpee knew there was no changing how others felt about them. No erasing what Whumper did.

But they were so terribly alone in their feelings and in their pain. But who could ever want to help them? Who could ever stoop so low as to associate with them now that they were so tainted? They deserved to be alone, because they were so disgusting.

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw implied noncon #hurt/aftermath #requests #queue

48 notes · View notes

whumpiary · 8 months

Text

technically a follow on from this piece. could probably stand alone. this piece has been 80% done in my google docs for three years so if you see any big holes in it uhhh. no you didn't.

if you've ever wanted some vague exposition on cass' powers or choices, then this is for you

content warning: mentions of death, victim blaming, aftermath of violence/assault, referenced dubcon/noncon, brief mind control

The common room at Bergen Estate gets quiet at night. Most of the charges prefer their own rooms as it gets dark. Hiding from the bogeyman.

But Harley liked the large, dark emptiness of the common room.

The curved chairs, the pillars, the rows of books and video games lined up along the shelves. The big oak tables. Bean bags in the corner. Rugs here and there. The whole place had the energy of some sort of bizarre combination between a kid’s playroom and a university library. But Harley wanted a space to think, and this was the easiest one.

Their intuition had been right and wrong in equal amounts tonight. They’d known they would be called to Christopher’s lounge tonight. And they were. And they knew that they would be fine after. And they are. But… if they were so fine why do they feel so God fucking awful?

“Harley can go, right? It’s not like we need them.”

Every time they try to push the memory from their head, it bobs to the surface again like an apple in water.

“I have to say, Harley… I really am so disappointed in you.”

They stare out the large bay window, at the leafless trees silhouetted in the mix of light from the garden and from the moon. The whole thing looks ghostly. Gothic. The dark through the glass makes the whole window reflective; a giant mirror just waiting to show them their face. But it’s dark in here too. It’s a dark room reflected on a dark night. That’s why it’s so obvious when there’s a shuffling flash of light behind them, making their heart skip.

The door opens, someone steps through, and then it closes. Dark again. Harley stiffens, freezes, trying to catch another glimpse of who it is in the reflection of the window but it's back to shadows on shadows on shadows.

They listen as the person shuffles to one of the cushioned seats. Shuffles. Like it hurts to move. They sit so carefully that Harley can barely hear them. Then there's quiet. Stillness. An exhale.

Harley doesn’t move. They know stillness. They know silence. Have known it for longer than they’ve been here.

But then there’s another exhale.

And another.

Any hitch of breath that might be happening in between is more or less silent. Which means, usually… crying.

Harley feels themself cringe. The Bergen Boys don't cry. Those are the rules. Not Christopher's rules but the deeper, unspoken ones between the lot of them. You don’t complain, you don’t ask for help, you don’t cry. Or if you did, it got beaten out of you quicksmart. Everything else was a free for all as far as Harley has ever been able to tell.

So the shadow person has come to the common room in the middle of the night. Assuming, like Harley had, that it would be empty. That it would be safe.

Guilt washes over them all at once, guttural and nauseating and they realise all of a sudden that intentionally or not just by sitting here, listening, they're imposing. Intruding. Doing the wrong thing. And then the fear beneath that, on top of that, around that, that if they wait too long and the shadow person notices them, they may well end up on the wrong side of thrown fists. Again.

Harley shifts on the couch where they sit, exaggerating the whisper scrape of fabric on fabric, and leans back on the left side where they know the leg creaks.

The shadow person's breathing stops immediately and Harley hears them stand.

"Who's there?"

Harley freezes again, regretting making their presence known. Cassius.

"I can see you. On the couch. Get over here." His voice is sharp and violent. Deeper than usual. There's a childish part of Harley, not as far beneath the surface as they’d like, that wishes desperately they’d just stay silent and hidden. Safe.

But, like they were told, they uncurl their legs. Stand. Turn. Start to walk.

Harley can see the moment that the light from the window must catch their face. Cassius' face softens, eyes fluttering closed and body sagging with what was maybe relief.

“Harls,” he says, running a hand over his face as he sits back down. Harley doesn’t miss the wince. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” The apology flies out of them like a verbal flinch. “I’ll leave.”

“No, ple-” Cassius stops himself, eyes shuttering closed. Harley watches him take a deep breath, brow furrowing briefly. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. “You can stay. If you want. I don't mind.”

Harley hesitates for a moment, glancing around half-uselessly, before choosing a seat across from the other charge and folding into it.

“What are you doing up so late?” Cassius asks, as though they’ve bumped into each other at a truck stop. At a bar. Fancy seeing you here.

Harley shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I kept…” thinking about what you were doing. They bite down on their tongue to keep themselves from saying more. It’s stupid.

They trail off as Cassius looks up at them and the dull light from the window catches the shape of his brow. At the blood smeared along his temple. The bruising already flaring up along his cheek. “Did… did Beauche do that to you?”

Cassius huffs out a half laugh, running his tongue between his teeth and the obviously bruised tissue of his cheek. He drags his hand up, knuckle brushing softly against his brow. “Yep. What a gentleman, huh?”

“But Christopher said he wouldn’t be violent.”

Cassius scoffs, “Yeah and Christopher’s such a shining beacon of truth, huh?”

Cassius sits back in his chair, eyes hard, and Harley holds their breath. With the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face, the shading of the bruises and the swelling there, Cassius looks half monster.

Then his expression softens, his body relaxes. “Nah, it was my fault." He lets out a sigh, hand running back through his hair. "The guy wanted me to cry.”

“And did you?” Cassius’ glare is immediate. Has Harley slamming their jaw shut so quickly their teeth click together. “Sorry.”

Cassius shrugs a shoulder in acceptance of the apology and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes and all at once it’s like some mask comes down. He looks exhausted and hurt and… young, actually. Harley always forgets that. He’s younger than them. About a three year gap between them.

“Why are you up?” Harley says, after the silence gets unbearably fragile. “Here, I mean. I thought you’d be…” They struggle for a tactful way to put it. “In the other wing.”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to stay, thank fuck. And Christopher doesn’t like me coming in af-... Um. He doesn’t like me coming in too late,” Cassius says, picking non-existent dirt out from under his finger nails. He clears his throat a little as his face flinches in and out of a frown. “Plus, the sooner I see him, the sooner I have to… you know…”

He gestures loosely at his face and Harley frowns. The sooner he’d have to do what? Get rid of the bruises? Get rid of the pain that keeps making him flinch and close his eyes? None of them talked about it but they’d all seen it. Bruises fading on Cassius just to bloom on his brother in minutes. Always after a visit to Christopher. Always without a word spoken.

Harley can’t help their own contempt, “Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Cassius looks at them with an expression Harley can’t place, dark eyes flicking between both of Harley’s, as though searching for something. He looks angry. Murderous. Violent. Then he snorts and it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure.”

He drops his head, hands fidgeting between his knees. With the angle and the shadows, Harley can only just make out the shape of his nose, his eyes half hidden behind his hair. It sticks out at awkward angles around his head like a terrible crown. Frizzy waves in some parts, kinked curls in others.

It'll suit him more when he leaves and he grows it longer.

The thought comes unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. Like the predictions always do. Just a slice of truth falling into the head with the right prompt. An understanding that that's just… how things will be.

It's not the first time Harley's thought something like it. That Cassius will do much better once he leaves. The notion of it is almost horrifying. Cassius has been here longer than they have. It’s hard to imagine Bergen Estate without its golden boy.

Harley chews on their cheek and “If I ask you something, will you answer truthfully?”

Cassius shrugs. Smirks. “Probably not.”

Harley rolls their eyes and looks away, annoyance settling in their gut. They don’t even know why they bother with Cassius. He’s always the exact same. They're about to stand up to leave when Cassius clears his throat and-

“I’ll trade you for it,” he says softly, dark eyes shining with something unnameable in the dim light. “You ask me something, I ask you something. No lies.”

“Promise?”

Cassius just shrugs. Which is probably as good a promise as Harley’s going to get, really. They sigh and trace the patterning of the rug with their eyes before pursing their lips together and looking back up at Cassius with a focussed sincerity.

They swallow. Inhale. Hands grip the arms of the chair. "You hate it here.”

Cass’ eyes skitter to the side and back. "That's… not a question."

"Why don't you leave?"

“Same as you, dumbass. Legally binding contract.”

“No, I mean-” Harley bites down on their cheek and tries to figure out the right words to say what they mean. “You can make him do whatever you want, right? You can make anyone do what you want. So why don’t you just… make him get rid of you."

Cassius exhales in a way that could almost be a laugh. But probably isn’t. “It’s… complicated.”

“Because of Henri?”

He shrugs, looking bored as he meets their gaze. “Sure.”

“No lies.”

Cassius sighs, leaning back slouched in the chair. He shrugs. “Just because I can make someone want to do something, it doesn’t mean they’ll do it.”

“Like… he’d resist you?”

“No.” Cassius pulls a face. “I mean yes, maybe. But no… It’s like…” He makes a sound hallway between a sigh and a groan. He rolls his neck, eyes roaming around the room like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans his chin on his hand, fingers skirting over his lips before looking back to Harley. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

Harley stands instantly. They turn on their foot and move to the door and for the first time in their life everything is certain. Everything is clear. Everything makes so much sense and all they have to do is… Is to…

“Um…”

Cass half smiles. There's something vicious and cruel behind his eyes. “Dᴏ ɪᴛ, Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ. Sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

They step forward, compulsively, and for some bizarre reason they start raising their arms in front of them, as though their body can’t figure out a way to solve the issue even though they want to and as soon as that thought hits them the frantic desire starts to dissipate, filling instead with deep dread and panic.

They turn their head towards him, eyes wide. Frozen. "I…"

Cassius’ gaze is dark and heavy. Hungry and calculating. His jaw sets. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, ɢᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ Cʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ.”

The feeling that floods them is white hot and immediate. Desire and rage running through them like lava. They’re not sure they’ve ever moved so fast, wheeling on a foot, making it to the door, but no sooner are they reaching for the handle then-

“Nah, ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. Cᴏᴍᴇ sɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.”

All at once the desire dissipates, and the panic sets in like shame. Like failure. They come back over. They sit back down. Then their thoughts catch up and they look at Cassius with fury. How dare he do that? How dare he go into their head and make them feel that?

Cassius just smiles. Shrugs. “Sorry. Figured I’d show not tell.”

‘’I could’ve killed him.”

Cassius shrugs, unshaded and unconvinced. “Nah. You would’ve got halfway down the hall and changed your mind.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“Then you would’ve gotten to his room and realised you didn’t know how. You wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I might’ve,” they protest, still indignant.

Cass shrugs, smile lazy and tired, “But you didn’t.”

They try, for a few moments, to hold on to the anger. The indignation. It’s so, so easy to hate him when he’s far away. When they can’t see him or only see him at a distance. It’s much much harder three feet away from him, where the moonlight show the bags under his eyes as dark as the bruise blossoming above his temple.

“He takes you away from here sometimes,” they say eventually. “You could… when you were away from here. You could leave. Make him let you leave. That’s not that hard.”

Cassius just looks at them, chin resting on his hand, fingers covering his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at them expectantly, foot bouncing like a motor. He’s probably trying to look annoyed. Sarcastic. But he just looks like a sad little boy.

Understanding clicks in.

“But Henri…” Harley voices for him.

Cassius shrugs a shoulder. A tear manages to make it all the way to his cheekbone before he swipes it away with the side of his fist. The Bergen Boys don’t cry. “Told you. Complicated.”

This isn’t how things are meant to be. Cassius is meant to stay in the other wing, up on his damn pedestal and away in Christopher’s bedroom. He’s not meant to cry in the common room. He’s meant to be the golden boy in his golden room. It’s meant to be easy to hate him. He’s meant to be arrogant and selfish and mean and rude and-

“Your French isn’t better than mine,” they say suddenly. They can’t quite say where the compulsion to say it comes from.

Cassius blinks, “What?”

“In the office before, you said your French was better than mine. It’s not.”

He looks at them for a moment, frowning and annoyed and then suddenly he’s laughing, eyebrows shooting up in exhausted amusement, “You’re weird as fuck, you know that?”

“What? No I’m not,” Harley spits, suddenly self-conscious and antsy.

“Yes you are,” Cassius says. “I did you a fucking favour and a half tonight-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“And you know what, you’re welcome by the way.”

“I never asked you to-”

“Oh, save it. Yes you fucking did. You know what I can do. You know what I can feel. You were basically fucking screaming at me.”

And that, they do remember. Closing their eyes. Drowning Christopher’s voice out in their head. The huge loud static of I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this.

The air stills. The atmosphere between them settles like dust in the shadows and darkens again. Guilt creeps over Harley's shoulders and rests with heavy claws. They shouldn’t have said anything.

“My French is more usable than yours,” Cass mutters.

They’re truly unsure if he’s being genuine or just trying to break the ice that’s frosted over. They try for the latter, “Your grammar sucks.”

“Yeah, well we didn’t get much further than ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’, so I don’t think I did fine,” he gives them a dead-eyed smile that they assume is meant to cast the comment in humour. They don’t really find it very funny.

After a few awkward beats, Cassius gives up the ghost. He clears his throat, “Alright. My turn,”

Harley readjusts in their seat, straightening their spine, tucking their hair behind their ears to listen for the question. They wait one moment. And then two. The whole time the golden boy seems to scrutinise them, looking into their eyes as he sizes them up, makes some sort of assessment.

Cassius’ voice is low and jarringly sad as he finally lands on a question, “Why do you hate me so much?”

If it was possible for Harley to feel every cell in their body crystallise… that was what this feeling was. “I don’t hate you.”

Cassius smiles. Tilts his head. The blood along his temple catches in the light. “No lies.”

Harley frowns and looks away, turning their head to look out the window across the other side of the room. They wonder if he remembers the day they met as well as they do. It was in this room. Just a few feet from where they were sitting now. He’d been sitting on the arm of the couch making some smart mouth comment to someone and they’d thought he looked friendly. And then his eyes had met theirs and prediction hit like an epiphany:

You’re going to kill me one day.

Unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. A slice of truth falling into their head.

You’re going to kill me one day to save yourself.

They knit their fingers together in their lap, pressing knuckle to knuckle. They press their lips into a thin line. Something with wings — a bird or a bat, they can’t tell — takes flight from one of the trees outside the window. Darkness reflects darkness back.

After it becomes clear they’re not going to answer, Cassius prompts again, “Was it something I did?”

They shrug one shoulder. Like he does. Look down at their hands. The shadows across the room dance and shimmer.

“Is it because of…” out of the corner of their eye, Harley sees him wave a hand at himself. “You know. What I do.” A pause. They see his Adam’s apple bob. “The way I do it.”

Harley frowns, ducks their head lower so they don’t have to look at him, even in periphery. They manage to shake their head this time.

“Is it…” Cassius stops and starts. Stalls. Clears his throat. “Is it something I’m going to do?”

Harley finds themself looking up, despite themself.

They meet his eyes. Time stops for a second.

Cass looks so full of grief for a moment that Harley’s certain the rest of the world must’ve been robbed of it. All shoved into one person to hold for a second. His voice sounds wrecked, “I’m sorry.”

They almost believe him, too. And they hate him all the more for it.

Did he have to be so perfect at this, too? Did he have to be forgivable for this, too? Can’t they just hate him? Can’t they just hate his guts and let him get whadt he’s owed for the things that he’s done, does, is going to do? They want to ask him. They want to tell him. All of it. They want to see his face as he tries to figure out how to respond. They want to know how he feels when he finds out he’s gonna be a murderer.

“It’s okay,” is what tumbles out of their mouth instead.

“Yeah,” Cass laughs and another tear makes it out of him. They hate him for it. He swipes at it with the side of a closed fist. “No it isn’t.”

They hate him as he stands up.

They hate him as he cuts the conversation short.

They hate him as he passes and gives the back of their chair a pat.

“See you around, Harls.”

They watch the window for the flash of light as the door opens, a yellow glow spilling into the room for a moment like blood from a cut. And then the door shuts with a click. And the room is back to its inky darkness. And the golden boy is gone. And Harley isn’t.

And their hatred is an unspooled ball of yarn in the middle of the floor.

#harley #cassius #bergen estate #implied or referenced noncon #victim blaming cw #death mention cw #violent cw #wip to wob #this is your reminder that you can go back and finish an old piece and post it #for free #may your abandoned wips be more of a prodigal son to you #im mixing metaphors like cake batter babeyyy #we are the daughters of the wips you forgot to burn

37 notes · View notes

thethistlegirlwrites · 2 months

Text

Loyalties

Sierra stops outside the derelict building, looking up at its crumbling facade.

She’s burned a lot of bridges, called in a lot of favors, and in the end, gotten an incredible stroke of luck, to get here.

She doesn’t have time to wait for the backup she’s called.

She guns the engine and the car jolts up the single step, then crashes through the front door in a shower of shattering glass, crumbling brick, and splintering wood. She keeps it moving until the doors clear the debris, then jumps out, flinging a garlic gas grenade in either direction and clearing the room in wide sweeps before heading toward the stairs.

Okay, so she’s being a little dramatic. But the element of surprise, and the fact that she wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a trap, is worth it. If she’d just walked in the doors, she’d have been worried about being ambushed.

Sometimes the only way to avoid that scenario is to cause it yourself.

Now she’s the one who comes off as desperate and determined. Which is absolutely true. She’s not sure that will have any effect on the vampire she’s coming for, but at the very least, it might make the playing field seem a little more level.

The second floor is empty, very clearly so. Sierra spends minimal time clearing it, before heading for the staircase and climbing to the third floor. The glass cuts and aches from her less than textbook entry are starting to make themselves known as the adrenaline tapers off. She wishes it would last a little longer. She’s still got a vampire to fight.

She kicks open the rusty lock on the third floor door and comes face to face with her nightmare.

Shay is standing near the middle of the room, stiff and statue-like, and there’s the faintest outline of someone else behind him, using his body as a barrier.

Sierra lowers the gun slightly.

“I’m Sierra Stoker with the Chimera Agency. It’s over. Let him go. There’s a whole team of hunters on their way.”

“He told me about you.” The voice echoes, and not just off the scraps of manufacturing machinery left in this dump. Shay’s voice is coming out in time with the vampire woman’s. It’s not even close to the first time Sierra’s seen a sire take over their victim, but it’s a whole new kind of awful when the fledgling is someone she’s known for years. When it’s painfully obvious how not-himself he is right now.

Is this what it felt like when Tio had to face Emma? There’s always been a horror in Uncle John’s voice when he tells that story that goes beyond the shock of seeing his former colleague and teammate turned, and nearly having his throat ripped out before she wrestled control of herself back from Arion.

“I thought you might come for him yourself. He’s a fun little plaything, isn’t he?” The vamp continues. “Unfortunately for you, I found him first.”

Sierra can’t let it get to her. There’s too much on the line. “Let him go now, and maybe I’ll consider letting you live long enough for a trial.”

“You want me dead, but I don’t think you’ll kill him to get it.”

She wouldn’t have to kill him. Sierra’s done this before, but with a human hostage, at Amarillo. To get to the vampire who had her teammate, she’d clipped his leg, dropping him like a stone and giving her a clear line of fire.

She could try it now, but this vamp is expecting it. The only way Sierra gets a chance at taking her down is to lower her defenses. Force her hand, then take advantage of whatever mistake she makes.

“What kind of life is he going to have with you?” She asks. Still playing the game, but hopefully, lowering the vamp’s estimation of her cunning.

“He’s mine now, little hunter. My fledgling, mine to play with until I tire of him.” The vampire’s head appears for a fraction of a second as she trails a line of kisses down Shay’s neck, and Sierra shudders.

He’s been missing for three days. What has she already done to him?

He’s not wearing the same clothes he’d left in. Sierra knows that's a ridiculous detail to latch onto, but she also remembers that he was going to work the door at the Luna.

It might have been a simple case of wanting to remove the claim of another coven. But Sierra knows, bone deep, that’s not all it was.

“You can’t control him like this all the time. The longer you use your sire’s influence, the more capable he’ll be of finding a way to fight it. He’s learned from a vampire who did. She locked out a member of the first circle. He can push you out. He’ll keep fighting you until he finds a way to get you out of his head.”

“Oh, after today, I won’t need to fight him.” The vampire laughs. “I’m going to make him kill you. I’m going to make him watch you die. And then he’s going to drink your blood. He will crave the oblivion of my control after that. The humans will never stop hunting him for killing you. His only safety will be with me.”

Sierra’s sparred with Shay so many times every movement of his is muscle memory. But somehow, it’s still a shock when in one fluid motion he’s snatched a jagged chunk of metal from the side of a half-dismantled machine, covered the distance of the room, and driven it into her side.

Because it’s not his movements. It’s his sire’s.

It’s also the opportunity she needs.

She has one shot at this.

She ignores every instinct screaming at her to pull back, and throws herself forward, metal digging into her side, arm swinging over Shay’s shoulder for a clear shot at the laughing vamp behind him.

In the split second it takes for the bullet to reach her, the woman’s face shifts from glee to shock.

Good. I want you to know you failed.

(This is actually a companion story in Sierra's POV to a Whumptober series I wrote last fall! You can read that series on my WorldAnvil here, and today's fic here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies @writeouswriter

#febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday4 #obedience #tw: implied/referenced noncon #vampire whump #mind control #lady whump #sierra aguirre-stoker #shane barrett

9 notes · View notes

peachy-panic · 2 years

Text

Whumptober Day 2: Confrontation

Just a little thing. I didn’t want to flunk out of Whumptober completely this year. Don’t worry, a real chronological chapter is still coming (aka Jaime’s first night with Sebastian). This takes place a few weeks into the contract. Directly references the events and characters of this chapter of Sebastian’s backstory.

warnings: implied past noncon, bbu/bbu-adjacent, alcohol/alcoholism

Sebastian isn’t one for making dramatic statements––okay, that might not be precisely true––but really, he can’t help but feel like the universe is conspiring against him. As if bringing Jaime on his first grocery outing isn’t stressful enough for everyone involved, god or whatever deity is looking down at him laughing, has decided to place a familiar face directly in his line of sight the second they walk through the door.

His legs falter. Jaime, who has been trailing dutifully close behind him, collides with his back before he can yank himself back. “I’m sorry,” he hears, quick and quiet behind him, but the sound of his voice barely registers as Sebastian locks eyes with the man at the cart corral.

He hasn’t seen Ethan Blackwell since his freshman year of college, and he is every bit as beautiful as his mind stubbornly remembers him. The sight of his black curls wrangled into a loose bun at the crown of his head, the plain white tee and casual joggers, momentarily transports Sebastian back to lazy Sunday mornings spent in a dorm bed, the taste of poppy seed bagels from the student center and the smell of coffee from the Keurig he wasn’t allowed to have.

When he snaps back to the present, it’s because–– because shit, fuck, fuck, Ethan is walking toward him. Based on the sharp intake of breath at his side, he isn’t the only one who noticed.

“It’s okay,” Sebastian hears himself say, too quietly for Ethan to hear as he approaches. “He’s not going to hurt you. I… I know him.” I used to, anyway.

“Sebastian Tate?” The sound of Ethan’s voice reverberates through his entire body. “Oh my god. What are… I mean, hi. Hello. Wow.”

“Wow,” Sebastian echoes, relieved and shocked in equal measure at how steady his voice sounds. “Ethan.”

“What are you doing here? Besides, you know, shopping.” God, even his laugh sounds exactly the same. “Do you live in Pittsburgh now?”

A part of him, the part that is braced for outrage or revulsion from his ex-boyfriend, struggles to wrap his head around Ethan’s light demeanor. He can almost believe, looking into his eyes, that he actually cares about hearing the answer.

“I do,” Sebastian says. “What about… Oh.” His memory catches up with him before he can finish the inquiry. “Your parents,” he says. “They’re from around here, right?”

“Right outside of here, yeah. I’m visiting for the weekend. What wild timing.”

Wild fucking timing indeed.

Ethan’s eyes shift over Sebastian’s shoulder. He stiffens and feels Jaime do the same. Selfishly, he is grateful that he had thought to give Jaime a scarf before they left the house, concealing the tell-tale band of metal wrapped around his throat. Sebastian forces himself to speak before Ethan can ask––or worse, assume.

“Ethan, this is my friend. J,” he says. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the slight decrease in tension at his back when he skirts past using Jaime’s real name.

“Nice to meet you.” Ethan offers out a hand to Jaime, who hesitates for only a moment before returning the gesture. Sebastian feels the surreal impact of his worlds colliding like a physical explosion.

It’s quickly concealed, and barely visible to begin with, but there is an unspoken suspicion in the way he eyes Jaime. A burst of inappropriate hysteria bubbles up inside his chest as he imagines explaining himself: “Oh no, don’t worry, Ethan. This is not my twenty-year-old boyfriend, he’s just my borrowed property for the next six months, pending approval for extension. It’s fine.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jaime echoes. And if Sebastian didn’t already have ample motivation to remove himself from this interaction as fast as possible, the strained anxiety in Jaime’s voice would more than suffice.

They exchange the usual pleasantries of an incidental run-in: How are you? (Not great). How’s your family? (They still don’t speak to me, thanks). What are you doing for work? (I’m a doctor, please don’t press for specifics on that). And as much as Sebastian is perfectly prepared to lie through a happy little shield of contentment, he finds that, beyond his own nerves, he is actually interested in hearing Ethan’s answers. Ethan had never been anything but good to Sebastian; one of the first good things he had ever had to himself. He hopes he is being honest when he tells Sebastian that things are going well for him.

The whole thing almost goes as smoothly as a run-in with your ex-boyfriend possibly can, until the conversation takes an accidental left turn toward the point that their paths diverged, and the backend of Ethan’s sentence catches him off guard.

“...just kind of lost touch. After everything that happened with Matthew, I–”

“What?” Sebastian stops him, feeling cold down to his fingertips all of a sudden.

Ethan cocks his head, his brow dipping in the middle. “What?” he repeats.

Sebastian struggles to gain control of his tongue, then finally manages to stutter out, “You said, everything with… with Matthew.”

Ethan rolls his shoulders back, looking uncomfortable. He shoots a quick glance at Jaime and back to Sebastian. “Look, we don’t have to lay everything out right here, alright? I shouldn't have said anything. Really, it’s… It’s water under the bridge, Seb.”

“With Matthew,” Sebastian repeats, feeling like a skipping record. “I never– I told you I didn’t know his name.”

“Yeah, well, you never were very forthcoming with the details, were you?” He seems to clock his own tone and, with some effort, pull back. “I had to find out from one of my teammates after we broke up. He saw you leaving the party that night with Mathew Scott. Said you were hanging all over him.”

Matthew. Scott.

The name means nothing to him; no sudden flood of memories comes rushing back at the sound of it, no long repressed realizations suddenly illuminated. And somehow that makes it worse. Sebastian never lied about that part–– about not knowing his name. Or at least being too drunk to remember it.

Still, the parts of that night he does remember, the details that have never quite stopped burning a quiet fire in the back of his mind, come roaring to life. Sebastian sees himself colliding with the tiled floor of his dormitory lobby. He sees his hand rip a bedsheet off the corner of a mattress. He sees himself on the carpet the next morning, throwing up into a plastic bin from the dollar store in nothing but his t-shirt. He sees his reflection in the washing machine as it spins and spins and spins, and his reflection in the front glass door of the clinic.

But he can’t be there right now. He can’t be that boy in his memory, the one who slowly stopped existing out loud after that night.

“I see,” he hears himself respond, back in the chilly entrance of the grocery store. Sebastian needs to be gone. He needs to be home right the fuck now. “Well, um. It was really nice running into you, Ethan. I’m glad you’re well. I need to… I have somewhere to be.”

“Sebastian, wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No.” He forces a smile that he can only imagine comes off as borderline maniacal. “Really, it’s okay. It was good to see you.”

He just barely keeps himself from touching Jaime, pulling back at the last minute before cupping a hand on his shoulder, but Jaime follows after him anyway.

Blessedly, Jaime says nothing about the lack of groceries once they load into the car. Neither of them says anything at all. This, Sebastian thinks, is what delivery is for anyway.

Jaime stands at the edge of the living room, wringing his hands.

Sebastian hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch, his head buried in his hands, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what happened during that conversation with the man in the grocery store that made Sebastian retreat into himself, but he hasn’t been able to reach him since.

He had fumbled his way through ordering pizza as soon as they got home, then gave an abbreviated version of his usual encouragement for Jaime to do whatever he’d like around the house. But his mind had clearly been elsewhere.

At first, Jaime’s instincts screamed at him to make himself scarce. He tried that for a while, holing himself up in his bedroom (not locking the door, never locking the door) so that he wouldn’t be in the way. But when he crossed the hall to use the bathroom, he got a glimpse of Sebastian in his current position and couldn’t swallow the fear that he was handling this all wrong.

Jaime needs to do something. He needs to make this better.

He goes to the kitchen. The bottle of vodka stares back at him from the top of the fridge. Jaime isn’t oblivious; he knows he didn’t do a great job of concealing his nerves around Sebastian when he drank in the first few nights of the contract, and he suspects the decrease in alcohol consumption in the past couple of weeks has everything to do with his reaction. Which is hardly fair, because Sebastian isn’t Mr. Torley, and Sebastian has never tried to hurt him when he drinks, and this is Sebastian’s house. If this is what helps him feel calm, Jaime’s feelings should not factor into his decision to stop.

The bottle cap twists under his fingers before he can let himself second guess. He retrieves a small glass from the cabinet and fills it halfway, exactly the way he watched Sebastian do on his first night. He forces himself to take a breath, and then another, before he turns and crosses back into the living room.

He hesitates when he reaches the rug, toes curling and uncurling subconsciously in the plush fibers. “Sebastian?” he says quietly.

His head snaps up as if Jaime had shouted. “Oh. Hey,” he says, eyes bloodshot and shifting around the room as if he is coming out of a dream. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Are you… Is everything okay?”

Jaime nods, unnerved by this version of Sebastian he has never seen before. He switches the glass to his other hand, then steps forward and holds it out.

“Oh,” Sebastian says again. He stares at the cup for a long time, then back up at Jaime. “This is for me?” he asks, sounding even more uncertain than before.

Jaime nods again.

Slowly, Sebastian reaches forward, but as their hands overlap on the glass, he catches his eyes. “Jaime,” he says softly. “You know… I know we talked about it, but you know you don’t have to bring me things like this, right? You don’t have to…”

“Serve you,” Jaime finishes for him, echoing the sentiment Sebastian had repeated over and over. “I know.” And he does know. He does. “You seemed upset. I wanted to help.”

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth twitches, and his eyes soften. He takes the glass fully from Jaime and settles between his hands.

“Thank you, Jaime. That’s...” He stops, clears his throat. “That’s very thoughtful. I’m okay, though, I promise. I’ll be okay.”

He does his best to return Sebastian’s smile, but it falls short. Jaime is intimately familiar with the sort of false promise Sebastian is offering him now. He’s told it to himself enough times to see through it.

—

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay

#whumptober 2022 #no. 2 #confrontation #oc #fic #Do No Harm: Jaime & Sebastian #implied/referenced noncon #alcohol tw #running into people you dont want to see in the grocery store #BBU #like bbu adjacent?#listen #nobody wants this but me and thats ok #this is for me #~write for yourself~ they say #look im trying

76 notes · View notes

aftgficrec · 2 days

Note

oh i caught you open! can we get some either andrew & kevin or neil & kevin being best friends and supporting each other? i feel like they're not explored enough and the potential is right there :)

Luckily, Kevin and Andrew’ friendship is a topic the fandom is pretty interested in. So much so that we’ve split this ask. In this post we’re concentrating entirely on Andrew and Kevin, Neil & Kevin’s friendship will be addressed in another ask. - S

Some previous recs:

Andrew & Kevin’s friendship here

Kevin & Andrew’s relationship here

Kevin as Andrew’s best friend here

Kevin’s friendship with Andreil here

‘Where The Wild Things Are’ here

‘I know that you'll come if you want’ here

‘N for nebulous’, ‘And Then There Was One’ and ‘Wear it to Eden's’ here

‘Reckless’ here

‘Trust Me’ here

‘Searchlights’ here

‘fugue in red’ here

splinters beneath our nails by mostly_maudlin [Rated T, 3719 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew hasn’t decided what to do about Kevin Day. A few days ago, he’d have said that Kevin was dead to him. If things had gone differently, that might still be true. Today, he walks up to the car and throws open the door.

Not again by LetThemCuddle [Rated G, 698 words, complete, 2023]

Andrew circled the stony striker when silence answered him. “Hello? Anybody home? The answer is yes, a lot of nobodies, just one is missing. I’ll give you three guesses.” “Pass.” “Never took you for a quitter. This is quite refreshing.” The goalie quipped, lighting a smoke. “Come on, the cars’ still running.” “I’m going to stay here.” Kevin’s quiet voice echoed through the abandoned stadium. Somber, lacking the usual spiteful energy he towed.

right on time by dayurno [Not Rated, 10915 words, complete, Aftg Mixtape Exchange 2023]

"Has your Butcher called back yet?" Oh. “No,” Kevin replies, frowning slightly. “It’s understandable. He is a busy man.” “Kevin Day making excuses,” pulling away, Andrew puts down, “at this rate, you might just write his name on the margins of your books with hearts around it.” “What? No, why would I do that?” “Why wouldn’t you?” Kevin gives him a perplexed look. “Andrew, do you think I like the Butcher of Baltimore?” Alternatively, when the Butcher of Baltimore issues an order for his subordinates to bring him his childhood idol, he forgets what his choice of career entails. Kevin would hold it against him if he didn't find the man so fascinating.

tw: (accidental) kidnapping

Rescue Me by Demiwitchwoodwalker [Rated T, 4564 words, complete, 2022]

“I can protect you, from him and yourself,” Andrew said in a tone Kevin couldn’t quite place after a long moment filled with nothing but the muffled noise of the game playing on Kevin’s laptop. “I can help you stay instead of running further or back.” Kevin stared at him then, finally letting himself actually look at him, and the same feeling from before returned, feeling like a hand clenched itself around his lungs and heart. He pushed his laptop closed, the game’s audio abruptly cutting off, and turned slightly to face Andrew, whose expression had shifted back into the grin that seemed to constantly be present in the day and whose eyes looked almost dead. Kevin’s lips parted, words rising in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t get them past his tongue. How was he supposed to do this? The memory of Andrew the night before floated through his mind again, when he was as close to sober as he could get, more vulnerable than Kevin felt he’d ever seen a person despite the fact that Kevin was the one halfway through a breakdown. "Why?" --- Aka, how Kevin and Andrew make their deal. (Potential triggers are listed in the tags, please be careful!)

tw: self harm, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced suicidal thoughts

The Tide by zoeellendraws [Rated G, 20473 words, complete, 2022]

Kevin and Andrew participate in a showcase that could make or break their ballet careers and discover a promising new talent in the process. Or Mysterious Ballet AU

tw: implied/referenced violence

I came for the safety (stayed 'cause you made me feel) by Charcoalll [Rated M, 4621 words, complete, 2021]

“Day? We’re gonna get you out of here okay? Minyard’s gonna make sure you get out of here and down to the bus” Kevin looked over Wymack’s shoulder where he could see the figure of the small blonde man. Kevin nodded, how could he do anything but nod? These people were sticking out their neck for him in a way he couldn’t remember anyone doing before. No words could ever describe his thankfulness. Or: A little glimpse into Andrew and Kevin's relationship before, during and after AftG.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced alcohol abuse

biting down by vincevangothh [Rated T, 2257 words, complete, Aftg Exchange 2017]

kevin learns that in order to understand something, you have to allow yourself to learn, and talks to andrew about neil. '“Did I or did I not tell you that you have asked as many free questions as you are permitted to today?” This time, as Andrew snaps, Kevin hears it. “Free?” he asks around a mouthful of rice, swallowing hastily before he continues. “So if I give you something, I can ask more?” It's a rhetorical question, but Andrew grants him a small nod anyway. “Neil and I have - had - a thing.” Kevin agonisingly anticipates his next words as Andrew scoops up another mouthful of food. Static silence stretches out between them until he swallows again. “Truth for truth. For everything you ask me, I ask you something.” “Deal.”'

Reasons by orphan_account [Rated T, 1895 words, complete, 2016]

“You took me with you when you recruited him,” Andrew muttered, but he knew Kevin was listening. They both knew that it was the closest Andrew could get to a thank you, so they both kept quiet. A list of the times Andrew met Kevin, interwoven with the list of times Andrew met Neil.

Kevin, Andrew and their friendship by @andrews-jort-loving-pipe-dream [tumblr, 2023]

“Why are we here?” “I'm here because it's Josten's birthday next week. You're here because you can't be alone.”

Andrew and Kevin watching a movie together after one of them wakes up from a nightmare. by @foxesbettingpool [tumblr, 2018]

He’d been up the majority of the night, wasting away on a bean bag chair with textbooks, papers, and a mountain of notes surrounding him.

tw: nightmares

Future Andrew & Kevin hc by @thepalmtoptiger [tumblr, 2018]

Andrew and Kevin stay close friends after leaving the Foxes and going pro.

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man hc by @palmettofoxden [tumblr, 2017]

Kevin asks Andrew to be his best man at his wedding and Andrew just stands up and walks out of the room without answering or even reacting.

Art

andrew & kevin brotp edit by @mint-and-memories

Andrew and Kevin meme art by @foxhole-doodles

30 notes · View notes

madmanwonder · 4 days

Note

Prompt

If they had kids

Tatsumi x esdeath

Name: Angus the Iron Bear

Gender: Male

General Appearance: Angus shares the same physical characteristics of his deceased grandfather but with his father hair eye color and hair color.

Personality: kind-hearted, caring, charismatic, idealistic and benevolent with a slight sadistic and dominating attitude.

Special Talents: Indomitable Willpower, Master Horsemanship, High Pain Tolerance

Who they like better: His Father

Who they take after more: His father with a slight bit of his mother.

Personal Headcanon: Angus never knew his mother and never cared much about it due to the less than fortunate circumstances behind of his birth.

Face Claim:

#akame ga kill #esdeath #general esdeath #tatsumi #akame ga kill tatsumi #meme post #meme prompt #shipping post #shipping prompt #tatsumi x esdeath #if they had a kid #if they had a kid meme #one sided love #one sided feelings #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

3 notes · View notes

whumpacabra · 1 month

Text

New Tricks

Angst, crying, exhaustion, fever, touch starvation, scars, local anesthetic, stitches, painful wound treatment, pain medication, needle mention, fear of electrocution, anticipated violence, referenced character death, past torture, implied past noncon

[Directly follows Bad Dog]

The Wolf waited. He drank every second of gentle touch he could get and he waited for the price to be exacted on his already rent flesh.

It never came.

He cried himself to exhaustion, nauseous with the knowledge he was too tired, that it would kill him to take any more punishment. (He didn’t want to die.) But the hands that pulled his tear stained face from the agent’s tear soaked shirt were gentle, holding his jaw like it was a fragile thing. And the eyes looking down at him - alien with their pity - had no sharp edges trying to cut into his own pain glazed eyes.

“I - I have a medkit. Would you - do you need help, stitching up your back?”

The Wolf stared up at him, too tired to process the words beyond ‘help.’ He didn’t get help - he got treatment. He recovered enough to be broken again. But there was a finality to the way this man said that word, like it meant something more than a temporary state of being.

“Okay. I’m - I’m just going to get my medkit, alright? Alright.” Jackson was talking more to himself, and the Wolf was fine with that. The words were starting to blur together, the sound of a particular voice that didn’t come with hurt or insults or harsh hands. Jackson’s gentle hands propped the Wolf against the edge of the tub, an arm draped over the side and his head resting against the cool false porcelain plastic. He was so fucking cold. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and sleep.

(He wanted to crack open Jackson’s rib cage and slot himself between his lungs.)

He was shivering intermittently when Jackson returned (had he been gone long?) but the Wolf was just happy to have that warm presence hovering near him again. The agent sat beside him, the space between the sink and tub a cramped and uncomfortable place to fit two grown men, but the Wolf didn’t mind.

(How odd, that just hours before he would dread having another warm blooded body close to his, and now - now, with this one, he wanted to cling to that warmth like a leech.)

The click and snap of a syringe being prepped had the Wolf open his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Jackson, who offered a nervous smile.

“It’s a local anesthetic - is that alright?” The Wolf blinked at him, and then looked away. He didn’t know how to answer questions about his comfort, his wants. (He just wanted to sleep.) The kiss of the needle was expected, but the bloom of cool numbness it bestowed where it pricked his back was a welcome surprise.

“I’m - I need to clean these. Even with the anesthetic it might hurt.” The Wolf could feel those alien eyes watching the back of his head, so he nodded. “Sorry.” Jackson had nothing to apologize for.

The sting of antiseptic was absent, but the pressure and prickle of exposed flesh being prodded and debris teased away was a familiar sensation. His handler had cut into him on the first night, reckless with rage. The Wolf tried not to dwell on the memory, but a tremor shivered up his spine as Jackson worked, gentle hands pausing.

“Are you alright?” Another nod. Another soft ‘sorry’ that felt unwarranted. It was the Wolf’s fault for being weak. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Jackson’s stitches, oddly difficult to anticipate with his pain numbed flesh.

Three days of those deep cuts left exposed, open to the air and sweat and worse. They would scar, badly, like the cuts that ran from his right hip to his spine, skin ridged and thick with scar tissue. His handler wanted them to scar badly. He wanted the Wolf to remember - to remember that he -

A sob caught in his throat, the shock collar still heavy around his neck. It wasn’t set to voice activation - he didn’t think it was - but it had shocked him earlier. Had his handler done that? Had his handler survived and was watching and would kill Jackson or have him kill Jackson and - ?

“Easy love, I’m almost done. You’re doing so well.” A voice so soft and so different from the barking orders and snarled insults he was acclimated to. The Wolf blinked away fresh tears, struggling to find his voice, a hoarse whisper rising from his ragged throat.

“Is he dead?” Three little words; a question he couldn’t stand to know the answer to. A question he needed to know the answer to if he ever wanted to sleep again. Jackson’s hands, cold - so cold against the Wolf’s burning, numbed skin - stilled, a steady palm pressed to a small expanse of uncut flesh. But not too hard, mindful of his bruises.

“Yes. Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.” The Wolf could hear a question in those words, but he was too relieved to consider it. Jackson - anyone - could kill him, let him die badly, alone, and bloody, and he would die happy. He outlived his handler. A victory he didn’t know he needed.

Jackson resumed his steady handed stitches, and the Wolf let his head drop, thoughts running watery and disconnected. The hum of the light above. The creak of the window pane holding back the wind. The footsteps in the room above - light, belonging to a child, a bed creaking and muffled voices soft with sleepy affection.

“You’re warm.” He sure as hell didn’t feel warm. The Wolf looked over his shoulder at Jackson, instinctively flinching as a hand came toward his face, but he relaxed into the icy touch pressed to his forehead. He almost missed it when it left. “Here, are you allergic to Advil?”

The Wolf looked down at the red pill and the almost comically small paper cup with a swallow’s worth of water. His stomach ached, hunger and nausea fighting for recognition even as he downed the medication and splash of liquid. He had taken harsher drugs with less in his stomach. (Not that what was roiling in his gut was pleasant or nutritious.)

With a shudder he rested against the tub once again, Jackson’s hands and sterilizing wipes traveling away from the oldest, deepest cuts. The antiseptic stung, a familiar pain that burned like acid over his wounds. But Jackson didn’t linger, didn’t press the antiseptic deeper into his flesh. He stitched the deepest wounds, bandaged the rest, and worried over surface level burns as though the Wolf could still feel them after the years of his handler’s habit leaving its mark.

By the time Jackson was putting away his medkit, the first grey glow of dawn was seeping through the rain dappled window. The Wolf hadn’t moved in hours, sitting still and as comfortable as he could be while Jackson worked. He was so tired. And when he limped out of the bathroom after Jackson, there was a wonderful nest of blankets and pillows waiting on the soft carpeted floor.

“You take the bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor - besides, your back could…” Jackson trailed off as the Wolf wandered to the crude bed on the floor, dropping harshly to his knees and collapsing into the softness.

In his daze of exhaustion, he barely registered the anxious horror of knowing Jackson wanted him on the bed. That was a problem for a well rested Wolf. That was something he could handle tomorrow, that he could survive tomorrow, that he could stomach tomorrow.

Right now, there was a soft surface below him, a heater humming to his right, and a painlessness to his injuries that should have frightened him.

But he was too tired, so he slept.

[Directly before In for a Penny]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #angst #crying #exhaustion #fever #touch starvation #local anesthetic #stitches #painful wound treatment #pain medication #needle mention #shock collar #past torture #implied past noncon #anticipated violence #referenced character death #freelancers #shhhh he eepy <- my sleep schedule is so fucked. why do town council meetings run until 1 AM.#(it is kinda my/our fault for pestering them abt [redacted] buttttt whateves.)

16 notes · View notes