peachy-panic - Tumblr blog

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re-draw of this for our little french daffodil <3

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Renee rescuing Jean from Evermore

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THE SUNSHINE COURT SPOILERS/ANDREW MINYARD THOUGHTS UNDER THE CUT

I just finished TSC and I am FOAMING AT THE MOUTH with all of my thoughts and feelings. Nora you are a queen for this and i cannot wait for book 2.

One specific thought i HAVE to get out of my system: When Neil rolled up to LA to cause some absolute havoc (love you babygirl), I was immediately surprised to see he was alone. I was shocked that Andrew would let him go alone, especially if he knew he was going to dabble in mafia/FBI shit.

But then, as I was explaining this out loud to someone, I realized... Maybe Neil wouldn't want to bring Andrew to California, the home of all his deepest childhood traumas, and he insisted he stay back with Kevin as a means of protecting him.

I can absolutely picture an argument where Andrew tried to insist and Neil wouldn't back down, refusing to subject him to that on his behalf.

Anyway brb gotta go read this book 8 more times

(PS can a bitch pls get one (1) andrew/jean bonding moment, i just want them to be friends real bad pls)

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🧽 Receiving a sponge bath - Derek

tw: post-prison whump, spongebath, light med whump

notes: read chapter one of derek's back first for context, if context is important to ya :)

from this ask game

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Derek Lewis, or what's left of him, anyway, sits on the center of the exam table. His legs dangle over the side, his hands limp in his lap. Looking at him, one might think he was completely absent of thought, absent of the ability to process any of the events of the last few hours. Something in the way he hunches his body, though, just a little bit, or in the way his black eyes, every so often, wander from the floor to the mahogany desk in the corner, to the large canvas paintings, to the American flag hung by the door, and then back to the floor, give Agent Brody Grant hope that, at least on some level, he’s aware that his circumstances have shifted.

He’s been stripped of his clothing, or, if not clothing, of the torn, ratted fabric that was constituting as clothing, which has been placed in a bin to be tested for parasites. So far, he hasn’t spoken.

When they arrived to the makeshift medical unit, pieced together on one hour’s notice in the middle of the night in the Consulate, he didn't speak. He also didn’t speak when he was led down the empty, dark hallway, or when his clothes were removed, or when every inch of his battered skin was photographed.

Now, with a nurse at his side, running a wet cloth over his body again and again, seven, eight, sometimes ten times before satisfied with each patch of skin, he still doesn’t speak.

“Mr. Lewis?” the physician asks, approaching Derek cautiously. Derek’s head lifts in acknowledgement, but his eyes do not.

“You need to drink,” she urges. She lifts his free hand and places a mug of water inside of it, then guides him to take a sip. He does not fight it, but immediately coughs the water back up. The doctor's lips are tight, but she sets the mug to the side.

The boy that Agent Grant collected from within the prison gates was unrecognizable from the pictures in his file. The ghost of the smiling, vibrant boy he had not expected, but hoped for, was deposited at his feet without a moment of hesitation. The guard inclined his head sharply toward the gate, handed the agent a well-loved backpack, and turned on his heels back toward the prison. They hightailed it down the gravel road and into the night, with a singular objective of getting Derek Lewis onto U.S. territory while they worked to understand the implications of everything that had gone down.

The nurse lifts his hand now, turning it over, and works to wipe away months of caked-on filth. 

“When did you last access a shower?” he asks, his thumb brushing over Derek’s wrist, presumably to get a handle on what is bruising and what isn’t. 

“I don’t know,” Derek whispers. Agent Grant writes it down. It’s not of particular interest, but he’s been tasked with writing down everything, and so far that has been nothing, so he takes what he can get.

“That’s okay,” the nurse tells him, dipping the washcloth in the clean water, wringing it out, and wiping away what can be wiped away. “What about food?” he asks next. No one is under any illusion that Derek wants to talk, but getting him comfortable answering questions may be in his best interest. “When was the last time you ate?” 

This time, Derek does not look up. “I don’t know,” he whispers again.

“Are you hungry?” the nurse asks, as the doctor tilts Derek’s head down. Gloved fingers press into dark, matted waves, and Derek’s body curls in on itself, just for a second, before he realizes what’s happened and forcibly adjusts his posture.

“It’s okay,” the nurse whispers, moving to his other hand.

Derek nods, and they finish cleaning him up in silence. His hair is shaved, because it’s the only reasonable way to deal with both the matting and the lice. He’s photographed again, now clean, which he flinches his way through but does not protest. This time, the focus is solely on the injuries. On the scars that run the length of his back, on his wrists and ankles, on his neck. There won't be an investigation, nor will there be restitution, but it may help someone in the future to have these, so they take them. Derek is silent through it, but his suffering, well hidden just an hour ago, is clearer now.

He’s given an IV, because every time he drinks, he vomits. He’s given pain medication, he’s given anxiety medication, and finally, to everyone’s relief, he is given clothing. 

He dresses quietly, but he trembles he does, and when he’s led to a cot in the adjacent room, he whispers a hoarse, “Thank you,” before collapsing into it. He’s asleep before he can be offered a blanket, so one is draped over him, and the doctor explains to Agent Grant that between the shock, the medication, and the clear sleep deprivation, it’s neither surprising nor alarming that he sleeps now.

By the time Derek Lewis’s family is called, it’s mid-morning. The Ambassador has arrived, and there’s an air of both celebration and frenzy within the Consulate. This has been something of a win for many of them, and a long-overdue one at that.

And, while it feels like a major piece of Agent Grant's time with the embassy is coming to a close, he can’t help but wonder what the next chapter looks like for Derek. There's no doubt in his mind that Jack will be on the first plane to Turkey, visa be damned, and the thought of their reunion, however tense, however painful it may be, gives him some hope that maybe, against all odds, Derek will find peace.

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THE SUNSHINE COURT IS OUT. RIGHT NOW. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

What the fuck I’m losing my shit

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Place a few characters in a karaoke bar. Describe the scene and what songs they choose to sing.

For Elijah and Grayson

First of all, both Elijah and Grayson would be VIOLENTLY outside of their comfort zone in a karaoke bar, especially if they're the ones on stage.

But given some liquid courage, here is what I think they would sing:

Elijah would surprise everyone by getting up onstage in his all-black attire, black nail polish, little smudges of eyeliner... and then pull out some classic gay shit like Tiny Dancer.

Grayson would also pull a wild card by whipping out some old country music—think Tim McGraw core—and start slurring his words into a southern twang that he absolutely does not have.

Elijah would find it endearing on a level that would require him to down two more shots to keep the feeling at bay.

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WOW I hope you’re enjoying them!!! That series has taken over my brain for two years straight. If you go fast, you might catch up in time for the new book coming out this weekend. :)

All I can think abt is jean trying to cope with the media after shit is said about the Ravens and their treatment.

Someone get this kid to Betsy Dobson. NEOW.

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jean moreau came back to himself in pieces

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I can't believe that on saturday Jean Moreau will be coming back to himself in pieces, dragging himself together like he had a thousand mornings before

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*thinks of a whump scenario at work* *thinks of a whump scenario in bed* *thinks of a whump scenario in class* *thinks of a whump scenario in the shower* *thinks of a whump scenario while driving* *thinks of a whump scenario at the grocery* *thinks of a whu

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This is very unfinished but I needed everyone to see the vision I had

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Thank you so much :,)

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

Overlaps with the ending of this piece in Do No Harm. The ending that @hold-him-down wanted. :)

Part of this ask prompt thingy!

His pain sensors awaken before the rest of him. For a moment, that’s all there is; no solidity beneath him, no grounding sensations of hot or cold or soft to keep him tethered. There is only searing agony floating him toward consciousness or toward dark oblivion, he’s not sure which. It starts in his hand, pounding in rhythm like a hammer against flesh, and it plucks to life a memory that pulls him closer to awareness.

The table. The blinding light. The blade.

Flames of agony shoot up his arm and into his shoulder, webbing out into the rest of him like pinpricks of lifeblood, waking him one painful inch at a time. New sensations begin to come into focus. The air settles over him like a cold draft sweeping through the room, cut by the blanket of warmth over his lower half. There is a distinct feeling of restraint, one that sparks a new panic in his racing heart. Jaime tries to move his arms and they catch on the soft circles that hug his wrists, binding him in place.

There are voices somewhere near, just overhead or maybe across the room, he’s not entirely certain. They are low and muffled, high and low blending over each other, and Jaime only catches fleeting bits of sound instead of whole words. He can’t open his eyes to see who they are or what they might want with him, but there is some vague familiarity his mind doesn’t quite latch onto.

When he tugs against his restraints again, he makes the mistake of applying pressure too close to the source of his pain. His throbbing hand cries out, and Jaime tries to as well, though the sound gets caught somewhere in his throat. Please please please it hurts so bad. Please, make it stop. More flashes of the surgery appear behind his eyelids, lighting up his consciousness with memories of blood and bone and vomit, of endless, merciless suffering. A tear slips free from each of his closed eyelids, trailing a stream of wet heat down his temples until the air chills them to an unpleasant cool.

“Your patient’s waking up.”

The words in their sudden clarity reach him like a bottle washing up on shore, the blur of salt water and foam subsiding under the sunlight. He is here, in his body, in the clinic at the Facility, washed up from his own heedless tide of violence and misery and cold, black unconsciousness.

A singular, sharp pain in his good hand pulls his eyes open to the sight of a needle and gentle fingers pressing it into his vein. Jaime, knowing it is against the rules and not being able to stop himself, tries to pull away. A small hum of fear makes it out of his throat this time, though he means for it to be a plea. There is more pain behind that needle, he knows it, in the narrow tube that feeds down from a bag of clear liquid. They want to hurt him more. They want to punish him for how he behaved during his procedure.

Hadn’t that been enough? Hadn’t they gotten their fill from tearing him open and making him watch as his body was pulled apart? But of course not. They always want more from him. All of them, all the time. More more more. More pain, more obedience, more begging, more silence and it’s never enough, just like how it was never enough with Mr. Torley, with Handler Smith, with everyone here who puts their hands on him and expects him to suffer perfectly for their satisfaction.

I’m sorry, he tries to say. Please let me rest, just let me have a break.

“Shhh. It’s alright.” A warm hand closes around his wrist, just below the restraint, pressing him down into the thin mattress. It’s a gentle pressure, not hard enough to bruise the way he is often handled here, but it’s enough to still his resistance.

The needle slips into him as he watches helplessly, bound to his skin with a clear, textured tape that he can’t dream of removing with his arms restrained like this. A few more tears leak out from the corners of his eyes as he braces himself for the renewal of pain that is sure to come.

“You’re alright,” the low voice above him whispers. “It’s okay, Jaime.”

He freezes.

Jaime.

For the first time, Jaime summons the strength to roll his eyes upward, toward the figure hovering over him. The owner of the soft voice and the gentle hands and the apparent knowledge of his name. His former name. His forbidden name.

“D-” His voice immediately breaks off, and he tries to swallow, to wet his aching throat with his saliva. “Do--ctor Tate. How-”

“Don’t speak,” he whispers, sinking down until he is eye-level with him. The hand that was holding him down slips off of his arm, sliding down to his hand and under it. He is holding Jaime’s hand. “You’re going to feel better soon,” he tells him, and some desperate part of Jaime tries to believe him. “We’re going to ease the pain.”

Jaime’s eyes begin to flutter closed again, and he doesn’t fight the darkness that ebbs out to him. Sure enough, it’s only a few seconds - or maybe it’s minutes lost between consciousness and sleep - before the pain begins to subside. It’s a numbness that feels unnatural after so long of constant pain, but he happily gives himself over to that absence of feeling. He feels the tension in his body begin to unravel, thread by thread, until he is floating again. This time, on a wave of relief that carries him back out to sea.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” he hears as he drifts off. It’s the faded voice of his mother, his father, and of Dr. Tate all at once, blending together in a dissonant chord.

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can we see a snippet of a shower scene from derek's time in prison?

just one shower, any shower, pls

did not proofread, cannot be tagging folks, this was supposed to be a super quick little ask game thing but it got away from me a little bit

cw: noncon shower , noncon touch , noncon nudity , prison setting

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Derek hadn’t showered in days. When they finally came for him, it had been nine, he thought. He had tried, initially. Every day when it was his unit’s turn, when the guards banged on the cell door and shouted words that were incomprehensible to him, but understood by the others, he had followed suit. 

He had wrapped his arms around his stomach and kept his eyes on the wall and, even then, even when he made himself as small and invisible as he could, people noticed him. He learned quickly that the showers were not a place he wanted to be.

After those first couple weeks, he stopped going all together. At first, no one seemed to care. They could find other ways to torment him, and they did, so his suffering wasn’t worth the fight of dragging him through the prison and depositing him into the cement box full of rusty shower heads and blood-stained drains.

Today, though, after everyone left the cell, a guard hovered in the doorway. Derek shrunk back into the corner of the room, his corner, now, where he had carved out a place to sleep, to eat, to sometimes read or draw. It was partitioned off by the bottoms of two adjacent beds, and although that made his corner small, it gave him the illusion of safety. 

Sometimes.

The guard narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Derek’s sliver of the cell, and barked a drawn out command in Turkish. They all knew he didn’t understand, and at this point, they usually didn’t bother speaking to him at all. He looked down at his hands, waiting for whatever came next.

When two additional guards closed in on him, he didn’t look up. He watched his fingers work together, watched as his own limbs started to shake, while heavy footfalls, hushed conversation, scoffs and laughter, came nearer and nearer and eventually, as calloused hands gripped into his shoulders, hauling him up.

The guards turned their commands toward him, over and over, louder and louder, and with each word, Derek retreated further inside of himself until his eyes closed, his mind singularly focused on surviving this– whatever this would become. The crack of knuckles across his cheekbone brought him back momentarily, long enough to get his footing and then lose it, long enough to see men, rows and rows of men inside of their cages, watching as his body was dragged through the long corridor. 

He didn’t fight as his clothes were ripped off of him, or as he was shoved under one of the showers. He felt the burn of tears behind closed eyelids, and he crumpled to the floor, but he didn’t fight.

One of the guards, one who had taken a particular interest in him, spoke quickly to another; their fingers dug into his wrists as they lifted him, and still, he didn’t fight. When they turned the water on, the frigid stream instantly laying its own assault on him, he cowed, and something close to a whimper escaped him.

All three guards laughed, and the two released their hold on his wrists, shoving him once more into the wall.

“You stink,” one of them said, pushing a bar of soap into his hands. Derek shook as he accepted the silent cue, and as quickly as he could, ran the bar over himself. He was painfully aware of their eyes tracking every movement, but the freezing water, the days of too little food and too little sleep, the beatings and the laughter and the tears and cold, made it hard for him to care. He finished quickly, too quickly, and the guard closed the distance between them, took the soap from his hand, and vigorously scrubbed every inch of Derek’s trembling form.

Derek wasn’t sure when he had started crying, but the heat of the tears that slid down his cheeks drew his attention to the fact, and he closed his eyes, and he slid to the floor as the water was finally turned off.

He was left like that, that day, on the cement floor, shivering, with no towel, and no clothes, and not a single soul in that prison who had any intention of helping him. 

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All I can think abt is jean trying to cope with the media after shit is said about the Ravens and their treatment.

Someone get this kid to Betsy Dobson. NEOW.

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The Rise & Fall of Jaime Quinn: Act 5

The final act! Major thanks to those of you who have stuck with/enjoyed/said kind things about this little mini-series that meant so much to me. You keep me going. 

We have now reached the dumpster fire portion of our journey. Enjoy.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, use of electric shock, food/water deprivation, withdrawal, gaslighting/manipulation, vomit mention, beating, kidnapping/human trafficking, drug/alcohol mention, addiction mention, talk of the foster system. All around rock bottom. 

[see accompanying artwork here!]

ACT 1 | ACT 2 | ACT 3 | ACT 4

ACT 5

THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION IS INTENDED FOR INTERNAL WRU PURPOSES ONLY. EXECUTIVE CLEARANCE IS REQUIRED TO VIEW THIS TRANSCRIPT. IF YOU HAVE ACCESSED THIS FILE IN ERROR, PLEASE INFORM YOUR SUPERVISOR IMMEDIATELY. IP TRACING WILL BE AUTOMATICALLY COMPLETED UPON OPENING.

VIDEO SURVEILLANCE - CELL 34A

SUBJECT: J.R.QUINN - 110750

DOB: 12/13/XX

ACQUISITION: VOLUNTARY; REHABILITATION

INTAKE: 02/17/XX

PRIMARY HANDLER: ROWAN SMITH

DAY 4 - 02/21/XX, 07:31 AM

SMITH: Morning, sunshine. You ready to play nice?

Keep reading

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A prompt: Myles has Elijah strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

This is a good excuse to insert a piece of canon I've been meaning to write.

WARNINGS: Captivity whump, scars, branding, knives, referenced noncon, self harm

When the shower shut off, the first thing Elijah reached for—the first thing he always reached for—was the tube of scar gel on the bathroom counter. 

He stuck his hand out from behind the curtain, groping blindly in the dark. No matter how much time passed, he still couldn’t bring himself to take a shower with the lights on, leaving him dependent on the sliver of sunlight that came through the small frosted window above the toilet. It was enough to get by, and just enough to leave his body a shadowed blur in his vision.

When his fingers found the familiar plastic, he grabbed it and flipped the cap with his thumb. He dispensed a dime-sized circle onto his palm, careful not to use too much at once. This shit was expensive, and definitely more than he and his mom should be spending with limited funds, but she knew how important it was to Elijah, so she never mentioned it. But every few weeks, a new tube would appear on the bathroom counter like clockwork. 

She just didn’t know the real reason why he needed it so badly. Not entirely.

There was no shortage of physical reminders of Elijah’s captivity etched into his body, and none of them were easy to cope with. Some of them were easier to cover, and some of them never saw the light of day. But only one instilled such a burning revulsion, one that went beyond skin deep, to the point that on several occasions, Elijah found himself on the bathroom floor next to a shattered razor, fighting the urge to filet the entire ugly fucking patch of skin from his body. Instead, he settled for thin, violent slashes across the existing scar, like he was crossing out words on a page. Just to alter it in some way. To take ownership of something that so inherently robbed it from him. 

Today, he bypassed the superficial scars altogether, ignoring the sharp lines of raised skin that had split apart under Myles Voss’s blades and belts, on his arms and shoulders and chest and stomach. Instead, he took the full amount of gel and smeared it across his inner thigh, rubbing until it covered every inch of scar tissue. 

It was overkill to close his eyes so tight, but he did it on instinct, keeping his chin tilted up so there was no chance of seeing the lines on his thigh. He wished there was a way to detach his brain from his nerve endings, so he didn’t have to feel the ridges of lettering under his fingertips like braille, reading it out over and over and over and—

The handcuffs were nothing new, but Elijah knew something was off when Myles didn’t unlock them immediately after he rolled off of him. 

Myles stood from the bed, stretching his arms over his head, and walked to the dresser on the far side of the room. Elijah stared after him blankly, slowly coming back to himself. He blinked hard a couple of times before Myles turned back to him. A golden knife gleaming in his hands. 

He was pretty sure this fucking scar cream didn’t work. He had spent countless hours online looking up his options: creams, lotions, surgeries. Most of which were too expensive to even consider, and none of which would be one hundred percent effective. No matter which route he went, even in a fantasy world where he could afford a real procedure, there would always, always be evidence of the marks Myles left on his skin.

Elijah’s wrists tugged against the restraints before he could even fully process what he was seeing. “W-what are you…?” He couldn’t even form the whole thought. This was normally the part where Myles would force him into some sick semblance of an embrace, followed by a hellish shared bath that always led to the probability of another round. He almost never brought out the knives after they had sex. 

Myles’s expression gave no leniency when he said, “We’ll keep the cuffs on for this, baby. You don’t want to fight me.”

He yanked his sweatpants up to his hips before the towel even hit the ground, like leaving the scar exposed for one more second would reveal him to the world. He could still feel it, though. There were days where the scar tissue was bad, and days where it was worse, but he could almost always feel it; if he stretched just the wrong way, if the jeans he wore were tight enough for the seam to rub just the wrong way against his inner thigh. 

Half of his wardrobe was eliminated when Elijah returned home, and not just because all of his clothes hung loose on his malnourished frame. Any pair of pants that had rips along the thighs—which, given Elijah’s fashion choices through high school, were most of them—posed the risk of showing it. 

Elijah would never be able to forget it was there. Myles had made sure of that. 

He heated the knife first, dipping the blade into the burning fireplace for a few long seconds. Elijah’s first panicked, incoherent thought was that maybe he was sterilizing it. Maybe creating a way to cauterize as he cut. In hindsight, he wondered if it had more to do with making sure the it scarred. 

The moments between seeing the blade glowing in the fire and the knife making contact with his skin were chopped into a motion blur. He recalled pieces: Myles’s weight dipping the mattress. Hands prying his legs apart. He remembered screaming, and even if he didn’t, he would have remembered the dry ache in his throat rendering him unable to talk for the entire next day, leaving Grayson to a silent cellar and a nearly catatonic companion for company. 

The heat itself, the slice of the blade through the delicate skin of his inner thigh, was a blare of white, hot pain that blew out any conscious thought. He passed out. Several times, he knew, because he recalled waking up over and over to the realization that it was still happening. 

It could have lasted seconds or hours. 

When he woke up, he was on the floor of the empty bathtub, alone. The excess blood had been washed away, a bandage fastened over the wound. Through the white of the gauze, he had already begun to bleed through; patches of red in the neat shape of two letters.

MV.

He never told anyone about the brand on his thigh, but that didn’t mean it was a secret. There were the agents and paramedics who found them, naked and terrified in the master bedroom, leaving nothing to the imagination. Then there were the people at the hospital, both doctors and police, who poked and prodded and splayed him open for photos and inspections and bandage changes and—

And of course, there was Grayson. There was very little Elijah could ever hide from him. This was only one more thing they never spoke about.

Elijah shut off his bedroom light and crawled under the blankets. When he stretched out onto his stomach, the position tugged at the scar tissue unevenly, like a thread pulled too tightly under his skin. He flipped onto his back and scrubbed both hands over his face and into his hair, pulling tightly enough on the damp curls to sting. 

“Now you won’t forget, baby,” Myles crooned, running a calloused finger over his initials. “You won’t ever forget who you belong to.”

***

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