#referenced noncon tw

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

I Can't

I wrote this while listening to What Was I Made For? from Barbie, and I think it's very fitting. If you saw the original title for this no you didnt.

CWs: bbu, ocd, referenced noncon, blood, suicidal ideation, grief, jesse makes a choice, immediate follow up to this

Masterlist

———————————–

Mrs. Perez looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her hands flew over her mouth before she quickly looked every which way, eyes wide.

Heat flooded Jesse’s cheeks. He swallowed, pushing himself into a crouching position. It was the best he could do. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Perez,” he said hoarsely. His throat ached. “I’m so sorry. I’m -- I’m going home now. I’m sorry to bother you.”

He didn’t even take one step before Mrs. Perez was out the door, arms around him and practically holding him up.

“What happened to you?” she asked, horrified.

He shook his head, trying to pull out of her grasp. This was a huge mistake. “Nothing. Her grip on his arm tightened and he froze instinctively, lowering his head.

“Jesse,” she said urgently. “Look at me. What happened to you?”

Tears blurred Jesse’s eyes as he looked at Mrs. Perez. He felt his face crumple slowly, chin dimpling and eyebrows furrowing. A huge sob escaped him at the same time his knees gave out. He felt Mrs. Perez struggle to shift under him and take on more of his weight. An apology was at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t speak around his cries of heartache and pain.

Once inside, Mrs. Perez set him softly on the couch. He winced, gritting his teeth as he adjusted himself.

Mrs. Perez left and then appeared back in his line of vision with a glass of water, which he drank hungrily, gasping for air. She sat next to him, taking the glass when he tried to stretch and set it on the coffee table just out of reach.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, exhaustion taking over.

Mrs. Perez said nothing, just looking at him up and down. She sighed. “Okay Jesse. Do you want to talk first, or get cleaned up first?”

“Cleaned up?”

“Well, honey, you’re clearly in a lot of pain. I can see some injuries, but I can’t see them all. Can I run you a bath and fix some of them?”

His eyes welled with new tears, and Jesse tried his best to wipe them away. He twisted his collar around four times before answering. “Yes please.”

Luckily Mrs. Perez had a guest bathroom on the first floor, not far from where they were sitting. She helped Jesse up from the beige couch, and he paled when he saw the blood stains he left behind.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Perez,” he rushed. “I -- I’ll clean it for you. I can clean it, I’m so --”

“Hush,” she ordered, helping him take the steps to the bathroom. He stopped his protests, only because he had to grit his teeth to keep quiet.

The bath was already full, the water steaming. Jesse kept his eyes on the ground. He slept through the morning, so now he had to avoid mirrors the rest of the day to ensure the girls’ safety.

“Can you undress yourself?”

———————————–

“Can you even undress yourself?” Mrs. Bakeman laughed. Jesse tripped over his pants, hands shaking. 

He preferred when she did it. When she ordered him to, it felt like he was being marched to his own death. An unseen force forcing him to his own demise, laughing at the humiliation of making him strap himself to the electric chair.

He hesitated for a moment, hands hovering over the waistband of his boxers.

“Stop stalling,” she demanded, suddenly angry, “and get over here. Now.”

Jesse closed his eyes and pushed them to his feet, closing his eyes as he felt her gaze wash hungrily over him. The shame never went away, no matter how many times he’d done it.

“Yes, Heather,” he breathed.

———————————–

“Please,” he begged, eyes shut tight.

“Jesse,” Mrs. Bakeman said. “You’re right here with me. In my bathroom.”

He hated when she took him in the shower. The shower was his only safe space afterwards, and if she was there... it was ruined. He had no safety afterwards. Nothing helped.

“Okay,” he whispered, stealing himself for what was bound to happen.

“No. Jesse, open your eyes.”

He would cry if he opened his eyes. She got so mad when he cried. Couldn’t she wait until they were in the shower and couldn’t tell the difference? He repressed a sob.

Be good. Be good. Be good. Be good.

Jesse opened his eyes. To his horror, tears fell immediately, blurring the brown walls and beige tile.

But the bathroom wasn’t brown, it was white. Gray walls and white tile. He took comfort in the gray, staring at it when he was being hurt and used and reminding himself again and again that there’s color, look at the color, it’s not just white, you’re not there. Just be good be good be good be good --

Mrs. Perez smiled in front of him. “It’s me Jesse. You’re in my house. Can you hear me?”

Jesse felt himself nod.

“I’m sorry I said something that put you off. Do you want to wait on the bath?”

He shook his head. The blood was drying and sticky, reminding him with every movement what had happened. He wanted it gone. He wanted it all gone. He cleared his throat, pushing aside his overwhelming anxiety. “Help me please.”

He looked at the walls, at the patterned shower curtain, at the aged brown hands gently easing him out of his sweatshirt. Anything to remind himself who he was with.

Jesse’s face reddened with shame when she pulled down his pants. He knew he was covered in bruises. Blood. Everything the guests left on him. His repulsiveness and lack of worth was on full display. 

“Into the bath.”

It was near agonizing, lowering himself down that far and then sitting on the hard porcelain. He waited for the heat to relax his tense and sore muscles, sighing in relief when Mrs. Perez began to pour water over his chest and back.

Jesse craved this. This tenderness. The mercy, the compassion. Everything inside him ached and yearned for this very thing, and he had no living memory of ever receiving it. His heart twisted in grief.

———————————–

“Okay, messy boy. Tilt your head up and close your eyes.” He did, but a protective hand still worked as a barrier on his hairline, ensuring no stinging soap got in his eyes.

“Mom, look! I’m an old man!” he announced, holding his wrinkled fingers in the air.

“You’re the cutest old man I ever did see!” she laughed. “Okay, one more time.”

“Mo-om! I don’t want you to wash it again!”

“You should’ve thought about that before you swam in the mud. Come on, close your eyes.”

———————————–

Jesse gasped and opened his eyes at the sharp pain in his head. Tears streamed down his face. He blinked, wiping away his tears. His fingertips were wrinkled.

“Are you alright?” Mrs. Perez asked. He nodded wordlessly. “Come on.”

After his visible wounds were taken care of she helped him dress in a too-large pair of pajama pants and hoodie that she explained belonged to her late husband. It was strange. No one had ever helped him put clothes on before.

Jesse sat on a couch in the den this time, insisting she put down a towel first.

She sat across from him, hands in her lap, unspeaking.

Jesse twisted around his collar four times. He sang Abi’s favorite song in his head. Did he turn off the oven? No the oven wasn’t on today. Did he knock into it when he was in the kitchen? Is the entire house burned to the ground? He took a deep breath.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asked anxiously.

Mrs. Perez shook her head. She pursed her lips. Jesse took another deep breath.

“I’m not letting you back in that house,” she stated.

Jesse’s chest flooded with heat. Cold, icy hot heat. It burned. “What?”

Mrs. Perez leaned forward. “Jesse. I know what happened. I -- I’m sorry to say that I know it’s been happening. And I’m ending it. You’re not going back.”

Jesse shook his head as she spoke, panic starting to claw at his insides. “No. No, I have to go back.”

She knitted her brows, her gaze holding so much sympathy and pity it almost hurt to see it. “You don’t.”

“Yes, I have to!” he begged

“Then why did you come here, honey? If you wanted to go back?”

He put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to,” he wept. “I don’t want to go back at all. But I have to.” He heard Mrs. Perez stand, her sure footsteps thumping dully on the rug. Her weight settled next to him, an arm wrapping around his shoulders.

“You remember what I told you before.” It wasn’t a question. “The children will be okay.” She ignored his trembling shoulders and shaking head. “You can’t keep living like this. You can’t go back there to be tortured and I won’t let you. You don’t owe those people anything.”

Jesse wiped his face, looking at Mrs. Perez with red and stinging eyes. He was so tired. “No,” he relented. “But they’re all I have. All I have in the whole world. I -- I was made for them. I told you that I’m all they have, but that’s not true anymore. But they will always be all I have. All I will ever have. They -- they’re my girls. I love them more than anything, Mrs. Perez, and that’s not just -- just because I’m their boxboy. It’s because they’re the only thing that’s been keeping me going ever since I arrived in that forsaken house.” Jesse sobbed, taking the hand that was offered to him and clinging to it like a life line. “I can’t leave my entire world behind,” he whispered. “I can’t leave them.”

Mrs. Perez held to him tightly. “Jesse… I understand. Now please try to understand me. You came here because you know that I can help you get out. You want help. You need help. I cannot send you back into that house to be abused. I cannot send you back to be tortured. Because this,” she indicated to his suffering body, healing scars and bruises, “this is torture. What they did to you is torture. And it’s my greatest heartbreak that I couldn’t end it when I knew it was happening. But you came to me. And I’m ending it now.” 

She slowly raised a hand and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Jesse didn’t know why either of them bothered.

“I understand what you’re saying about the children. I really do. But please. They are not all you have. Especially not if you trust me enough to do this. I know you don’t want to continue the life you’re living. If you let me help you, you will lead a new life. One worth living. One free of pain. One that you make yourself. One where you have more.”

He swallowed, gasping for air. It hurt to cry. Everything throbbed, inside and out. Jesse’s misery was suffocating. His suffering never ending. It would never get better for him. The only people that made his life worth living were so fleeting in their presence. Every other moment alive only made him want to die.

“I don’t know how,” he choked out mournfully.

“You won’t be alone.”

“I’ll miss them.”

Mrs. Perez rubbed his shoulder where she knew it wouldn’t hurt. “They’ll miss you. And you will both carry on, knowing the other is safe. It’s worth it, Jesse.”

He was being crushed. He wanted to be crushed. Living was too difficult. Being him was too difficult. And the thought of going back inside that house was the worst part of it all.

Jesse nodded. “Okay.”

———————————–

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down @winedark-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 12 - Royal AU

This snippet of the Royal AU is based on (and contains sentences of) the actual rp. So while the other two pieces I’ve written for this AU (can be found on the masterlist if you missed them!) were pre-Bruno, this one takes place just after his arrival at the castle.

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze (it’s not technically Brumaria yet but is leading there so I wasn’t sure if I should tag you for this one?)

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

No. 12: “I haven't slept in days but who's counting?” | Insomnia

Contains: nightmare, fire, referenced stabbing, referenced noncon, referenced corporal punishment, talk of war, talk of murder

.

.

Flames leap high from the roofs of homes, smoke billowing up to blot out the stars.

The red and yellow flag of Ethorcon, proudly planted in the village center, ripples from the intense heat.

Firelight glints off the armor of the soldiers. They’re dragging people away from the flames and back into the street from where they’re trying to flee, running the men through with their swords and throwing the women to the ground, laughing…

Kamaria jolts awake, panting, seconds from screaming. She throws off the covers and shoves herself upright, burying her face in her hands. She’s soaked with sweat. 

In the distance, the bell chimes once from its tower. Even after keeping herself awake until far after the rest of the castle had settled down for the night, she still didn’t even manage to sleep an hour. 

It’s nothing new. She hasn’t slept much more than that any night for the past week. Ever since the king decided that she needed a bodyguard - he claims for her own safety, but she knows very well it’s more to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble than anything. He’s her babysitter. And he follows her every step, watches her every move, lurks outside of her door at every moment. No matter where she goes, she has to see him, dressed in his shining Ethorconite armor.

It’s no wonder that that armor has followed her into her dreams. Nightmares have been a periodic occurrence for her since her village was destroyed when she was twelve, but since his appearance in her life they’ve become nightly. Multiple times a night, if she lets herself try to go back to sleep. 

So she won’t. She’ll stay up, finding mundane ways to keep herself occupied, like she has most every other night. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she finds her slippers to protect her feet from the cold stone floor and stands, crossing to the window. She stares out into the night, the city far down below her.

She’s trying not to stare at the bedroom door. Trying hard not to think about the man standing on the other side, wondering when he’s going to show his true colors. He’s an Ethorconite soldier, after all, a war hero, and she’s Navarian. She’s one of the very people he fought to destroy. He has to hate her, has really made no pretense this week not to, despite his outer layer of respect, and that means he could turn on her at any time. Drag her off like his men had that night, perhaps, find some hidden corner to have his way with her. 

And no one would care, most likely. They don’t care about anything else that happens to her, so why would they care about that? He probably deserves it, in their eyes. A reward for the hero after he fought so hard to ‘protect’ this kingdom by murdering her family and countrymen. 

She’s not sure how much longer she can take it. The constant anxiety and the lack of sleep are causing her to slip up in her daily duties, as well - messing up her lessons with Roderick, letting words slip out when she should remain silent, losing focus during conversations. And all of that means more and more punishments, which means more pain, more reason to not sleep, more to hide from her babysitter. She refuses to let him know that she’s weak and in pain. He doesn’t need more motivation to prey on her. He certainly got the talk from Roderick that the rest of the staff did, anyway, about the rewards they can get for reporting her slip ups to him. 

No, she’s not going to be able to handle all of this for long. It’s time to start making plans for escape…again. It hasn’t been that long since she tried last, and she’d paid for that failed attempt just like all the others, but one of these times she’s sure to succeed. She learns something new each time she tries. 

She’s not sleeping, anyway. And anything is better than just sitting here, waiting for him to attack.

[zazu75]

Rating: M

Summary:

Auguste is bored and resentful of Francesca's party. Gilderoy has too much free time after work and sneaks into a boring party. Auguste is charmed. Gilderoy is attracted.

Notes:

Ok so this fic is... 35 pages long lmao. Anyways so, trigger warning: It's not outright stated, but there was a sexual assault that happened in the past. Female on male. And then used to blackmail someone. It's traumatic enough that a character fully avoids alcohol because of it. And when they try to think about it, they kinda have some sort of panic/anxiety attack. There are tears and fear involved. Another Trigger is that Auguste and Francesca argue A LOT. It's not friendly arguing either. They're toxic. So please, if you can't read these things, tab out. Also this fic is rated M for all of that and for (fade to black) Smut. And Drama. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!!!

[deadsetobsessions]

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)

[queermentaldisaster]

Rumor has it that the Riley family is cursed. First, their youngest son, kidnapped under mysterious circumstances. The nephew? Hit by a motorcycle that just happened to roll off the road. The oldest and his wife? Crashed into a tree that was in the middle of the asphalt. The father? Murdered in his hospital bed. The mother? Overdosed on pills she'd never had.

Task Force 141 knows the rumors. Who in the UK doesn't? One day, 141 is sent out to help a team in Las Almas called Los Vaqueros. Apparently, the Las Almas cartel is having a territory dispute with the neighboring city's cartel, the Zaragoza cartel. While Los Vaqueros is handling the Las Almas cartel with Gaz and Roach's help, Price and Soap go to handle the Zaragoza cartel. They go undercover, and discover someone with brown eyes and blond lashes, wearing a balaclava, being passed around like many of the blunts in that room.

Soap manages to get his hands on this person, who's clearly out of it. After some finagling, he manages to get them outside, wrapping them in his coat to provide them with some decency.

When they wake up, they're in a bed in the Los Vaqueros base. Soap asks them for their name and pronouns, and he introduces himself as Ghost.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

now i’m craving streetkid chris waaaaa

if you have some time and energy, could you be persuaded to perhaps write some streetkid chris with jake and the safehouse? i’ve never stopped needing comfort for him

CW: Heavily internalized ableism, referenced past dubcon and noncon, some internal dehumanization, referenced drug use

(Street kid Chris au pieces here and here)

-

He sobers up, more or less, on the bus ride out of the center of the city, his forehead resting against the cool glass window. It's all a blur that moves through and around him, steel and concrete shifting to grass and trees and little houses placed next to each other like a child's toys.

Baldur hides a smile, imagining a giant toddler hand lining the houses up one by one by one by one, picking doll families to live in the little doll houses. Giant baby god giving this family a dog and this family a goldfish and that one a pretty boy like Baldur to do everything they say-

A laugh catches in his throat, dies there with the chill of sudden grief. What is his Sir doing? Is he at home with some new pet, playing games? Was Baldur replaced that quickly?

Of course he was. He was never special, never really very good even. Pretty, until he got too old. Stupid statue-boy trying and trying to hold still and never winning any of Sir's games. Sir would've ordered someone else right away.

He's probably forgotten about Baldur by now.

His throat tightens even more, heat stinging his eyes, but Baldur fights it back. The only thing worse than his wrong words and his wrong hands is when he cries, of course. Sir always says-

But Sir doesn't want him any longer, isn't there to tell him never to cry and then play games and hurt him until he does it anyway.

"Hey." Kauri, sitting next to him, must catch something in the shift of movement in his throat when he swallows or the stare of his glassy green eyes. "What's up, buttercup? You need some water? I know coming down always makes me so thirsty I could scream."

Baldur shakes his head, curling up as best he can, pulling his knees to his chin with his heels pressed against the edge of the seat, pushing the dirty soles of his shoes against the cushioned fabric. "No thank you," He whispers. "I... I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard that before - or I guess I should say that I've said that before. And you know what, Chris? Never once was I actually fine. So. Here." Kauri holds a bottle of water out, shaking it a little as if trying to lure a stray cat with a can of tuna. "Come on, have a drink. It'll help hold off the headache, I swear."

Baldur's fingers are shaking when he takes the bottle, and it takes three tries to get the cap open, but the water is cool and clean on his tongue and down his throat, and before he realizes it the bottle is half empty, his chest feels cold on the inside as the water trickles through him, and he's gasping for breath.

Kauri's smile is soft, gentle, only a little sad. "There we go. Keep working on it, okay? Hydration is the best defense against hangovers, not that I ever take my own advice. But it is still excellent advice."

By the bus reaches a stop that Kauri declares is theirs, he's had all the water and it's an empty bottle he stashes in his backpack. He can refill it at the first sink he sees, have something he doesn't have to beg for or fuck for to drink later on.

Baldur steps off the bus and into a neighborhood right out of TV.

Houses line the street on either side, and Baldur stares at old trees that rise over his head, dappling the ground with shade that blocks some of the heat of the sun. The air smells like grass, and there's a drone from somewhere nearby that he realizes must be a lawn mower, a sound he's only heard from Sir's windows while watching the landscapers work far, far below.

There's a fence around the yard next to them - a white fence, even, with chips of peeling paint. Baldur moves to it, reaching out and letting his fingertips brush the rough wood, one nail scratching at a bit of paint coming free. He doesn't hear himself humming, low and tuneless, repeating over and over, until Kauri pops back into view in the corner of his eye.

"You never seen a fence before?" Kauri teases, but then Baldur flinches back and away and watches Kauri's smile falter, briefly, before it determinedly returns. "Sorry. I scared you, huh?"

"I'm fine," Baldur says too fast, realizing too late that he isn't answering the question Kauri asked - either of them. The blush heats his cheeks and he turns away, jamming his hands in his pockets as hard as he can, hunching his shoulders. "Fine. I'm... I'm fine."

The word sounds good in his mouth. Soothes his mind. He opens his mouth to say it again, fine fine fine - but Baldur catches himself this time. He can't repeat words he hears, that's wrong. Can't stammer, that's wrong. Can't move, or sway, or use his hands - wrong.

All wrong.

"Right. Well, come on. The house is this way." Kauri walks a little ways away, then looks back over his shoulder. Baldur hurries to catch up, keeping himself hunched. The weight of his backpack is familiar and comforting, all his things in there. The usual headache when the pills wear off teases around the edge of his mind, but it doesn't take hold. Maybe Kauri was right about the water.

Kauri talks, chatting brightly. His hands move constantly, in gestures and emphasis, and Baldur keeps staring at it. Sir would have slapped his hands if he moved them so much, but Kauri doesn't even notice he does it.

The house has people there like them, Kauri explains, although not like them like them, just - other pets. Domestics, mostly. The woman who runs the house, like the shelters Baldur has stayed at but they won't make him pray.

"Trust me," Kauri reassures, "I wouldn't stay there if they did. I've traded a bed and some food for having to go to their church and let them tell me what a bad boy I am enough for one lifetime, thank you. Sinners have more fun, anyway." He winks, and Baldur blinks back at him. "The last time I stayed at one, the pastor hit on me. The very, very married pastor. Which goes to show you - when you are as good in bed as I am, even God doesn't measure up."

Baldur swallows. He should say something - something witty. Kauri seems to have things to say about everything, all of the time, but Baldur's mind is still slow from the pills, even though he's sobering up. He can't think of anything except to say, "Really?"

"Really." Kauri's smile is bright, flash of sun off the hood of a car blinding but with something about it that seems cracked, too. "Once we get there, I'll make introductions. But I promise, everybody is nice."

"... Nice," Baldur murmurs. Nobody is, not really, in his experience. Everybody takes something in return for every bit of nice they offer. Everybody sees his barcode and knows they can do whatever they want to him, and then they do. And if he's lucky it's only to make him eat food that makes him feel sick, or talk to him about how he's walking a dark path, as if there has ever been a lighter one. Or sometimes they tell him to go lay down on the bed-

"We're here!" Kauri's voice cuts into Baldur's thoughts, and he looks up.

In front of him there's a two-story house with white siding, flat-faced with windows that look down on him like eyes. There's a porch with chairs on it, and sitting in one of them is a tall, thin man with a mess of dark hair and sharp, dark almost-feline eyes. He's fiddling with something in his hands, but when he sees them he shoves whatever it was into his pocket and quickly stands.

Baldur hesitates - but Kauri moves right up the overgrown path, flat stones half-covered by grass and weeds. "Hey, Ant! I brought someone."

"I see this," The man says, in a smooth, accented voice. He sounds like velvet. Baldur looks at him, trying to think. Just a blowjob, probably. Easy. Baldur has traded those for lots of things. He barely has to do anything, once they grab his head. "Kauri-"

"Oh, wipe that worry off your face, Antoni, he's one of us." Kauri waves a hand back at Baldur, then grabs at his arm to pull him forward. "I brought him to meet Nat and Jake. Chris, this is Antoni. Antoni, this is Chris."

Antoni looks at him, then turns and silently heads back into the house.

Baldur swallows, shifting to half-hide himself behind Kauri. "... he doesn't... like me."

"Nah, Antoni's just kind of a mood killer professionally. He's a softie once you get to know him, I promise." Kauri half-drags him up the steps and through the front door, into an entryway that has a pile of coats abandoned on a coat rack, shoes on a mat. The house smells like something cooking, and Baldur's mouth waters, his stomach twisting as it remembers how to feel hungry and not just emptied-out and light. "Jake! Hey, Jake!"

"Jake's out," A woman's voice says. Baldur stares as an older woman pops her head in. She has brown hair with bits of gray in it in a braid that lays over one shoulder, a flannel shirt over a t-shirt and ancient jeans, and a soft smile ringed in laugh lines that crinkles at the corners and near her eyes.

She's beautiful.

"Who's this?" The woman looks from him to Kauri, with curiosity - not trepidation, not worry, and not anger. "You brought someone by?"

"Yeah. This is, uh, this is Chris. He's one of us. Chris, this is Nat. She feeds me sometimes."

"Love that description." Nat's voice is wry with good humor, and she steps forward, holding out her hand. "I have hobbies, too, you know. Hello, Chris. I'm Nat, and this is my house. I help runaways from WRU start over."

He stares at her outstretched hand, then back at her, before hesitantly shaking. His grip is limp compared to hers, but she doesn't say anything about it. "I-... I thought... you were... a man."

"No, that's Jake," Kauri corrects him. "He insists on having a life outside of waiting for my beautiful ass to show back up, so we'll see him later."

"... Okay." Baldur studies the woman - Nat - thoughtfully. Then he offers, "I can... do women, too."

Nat's expression changes - so subtly he can't tell what the change is. But he sees it. Baldur knows how to tell when the mood of a room goes sour, to try to protect himself. "Romantic," She murmurs. "I see. Kauri-"

"Don't say he can't come here," Kauri interrupts, bristling, and Baldur stares at him in open terror as his heart drops to his knees. He's angry at one of them. Baldur didn't know you could do that. "He's got as much a right as anybody else does, and you let me come here, and he could use the help, Nat, so don't you dare-"

"Kauri. Hey." Nat puts her hands up, as if surrendering in a fight. "That's not what I was gonna say. I was going to say, Kauri, how about you set him a place at the table for dinner. Okay?"

Kauri's jaw is set, and it takes him a moment to stop looking ready to keep up the argument that isn't even happening. "I-... yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll do that. Just-... Nat, you know that a lot of places won't-"

"I know. It's okay, honey. It really is okay. Just go get him set up. And you." Nat smiles at Baldur, and he tries to see the mean she's hiding, but it isn't there. Too buried underneath a kind face, maybe. Baldur can't imagine there just isn't any cruelty there at all. "We take all kinds here, and you're welcome. No one touches you here, and I'd prefer if you kept your hands to yourself at first."

Those words don't mean anything. The shelters say that a lot, too, but Baldur still wakes up to a hand over his mouth and a voice whispering to him to be quiet sometimes when he sleeps in one. He'll find out the real cost of staying here at some point.

But he'll find out with food in his stomach, and that's worth something.

"Yes, ma'am," He murmurs, looking up and around at the high ceiling in the entryway, carpet-covered stairs that curve up and disappear around an angle. Bookshelves, and off to one side the corner of a living room with a TV playing.

"Just Nat is fine. Kauri?"

"Got it." Kauri gives a mocking, if still friendly, salute. It makes Baldur smile - but he hides it behind his serious face when he sees Nat look at him. "I'll get him settled in. Maybe we'll stay over tonight? If that seems like a good idea, if not-"

"It sounds great."

Baldur watches her go, heading up the stairs - that creak as she walks, giving away the house's age. Wondering what she'll want him to do later on, to pay for the food, to earn the bed he'll sleep in.

He has more pills in his pocket. He can take some, and drift through whatever staying here costs, let his body and training do all the work. He's done it before, over and over again.

He'll always have to do it again, sooner or later.

When Kauri takes his hand again, he lets himself be led.

He doesn't notice the dark-haired man, Antoni, watching him from a doorway as Baldur digs out two small pills and swallows them dry while following Kauri into the kitchen.

[serickswrites]

idk if you write nsfwhump but if you do could you make something with whumpee and caretaker with comfort and fluff? like whumpee is crying because they're being intimate with someone and, for the first time, it doesn't hurt

Hello, Anon. I absolutely write nsfwhump (sometimes it's more vague than explicit), and I can definitely write you a comfort/fluffy piece :D

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced restraints, referenced/implied noncon, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee, flashbacks, ptsd

Whumpee led Caretaker back to their bedroom. They were sure that they wanted Caretaker more than anything. And they were sure that Caretaker wanted them. But Caretaker had let Whumpee take the lead after everything.

The first time Whumpee tried to be intimate with Caretaker after they had gotten home, they had frozen and sobbed. They could feel the ropes Whumper used to bind them to the head board on their wrists, though the rope burns had long faded. They could feel Whumper's lips on their neck as Caretaker went to kiss them.

Caretaker had stopped instantly and held Whumpee as they sobbed. Whumpee sobbed because of the memories. They sobbed because of the flashbacks. But they mostly sobbed because they felt Whumper had completely ruined them. They loved Caretaker and now every time they went to show their love, they only thought of Whumper and what Whumper had done to them.

But tonight was different. After months of therapy, months of recovery, Whumpee felt tonight was the night. As they kissed Caretaker, they only thought of Caretaker. As Caretaker caressed their body, they only felt Caretaker's touch. And as they touched Caretaker's body and Caretaker touched them, Whumpee began to cry.

"Love, I'll stop. What's wrong?" Caretaker said as they started to pull away.

"No....don't. I'm just....I'm just so happy." Whumpee smiled through the tears streaming down their face. "I'm so happy because I feel only you. Think of only you. It's only you, Caretaker. I love you so much."

Caretaker smiled and kissed down Whumpee's neck. "And I love you. And only you."

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

[cilil]

🦄 - Characters' physical appearance.

and

🕊️ - Platonic relationships (friends, enemies, etc).

for Mairon and

🐅 - Characterization: character habits, personality, etc.

for Ar-Pharazôn

🖤🖤🖤

🦄 - Mairon

My Mairon is very femme, but due to being a smith he is a lot stronger physically than people give him credit for. His strength is just hidden by fancy robes, which oftentimes is a deliberate strategy to make himself appear more soft, frail and helpless. Many are shocked to discover that 1) there are indeed strong muscles underneath those silks and 2) he is fully capable of lifting Melkor in full armor.

🕊️ - Mairon

Aside from verses in which I explore the Mairon x Arien x Eönwë OT3, my Mairon has pretty much always disliked Eönwë. Post War of Wrath this evolves into vicious hatred (for obvious reasons). Eönwë is to this day completely oblivious to it and, when made aware of it, doesn't understand why things are that ugly on Mairon's part.

The truth is that Mairon was always annoyed by his hero persona and jealous of him being Manwë's special little guy because he didn't get to be Aulë's special little guy.

🐅- Ar-Pharazôn

Gonna have to put this under a cut. TW for references to homophobia and non-con.

Everything about AP screams insecurities as is, and one of which is that he's always been attracted to men, even before finding himself in possession of an ungodly beautiful Maiarin prisoner.

Idk how I wanna hc the human societies and kingdoms in Middle-earth in terms of regarding gender and sexuality, but regardless of how Númenor thinks, AP always felt the need to prove that he's The Man and this is also part of the reason why he acts up as king and was so ruthless with Tar-Míriel. With her, it was definitely always about power and control, not even desire (or let alone love); and it's similar with Mairon. He would always act like he's above being charmed by him and publicly humiliate him, making a show out of pushing him around and calling him nasty things, but in private it would soon become obvious just how... interested he is.

And yes, he probably was dumb, greedy and arrogant enough to believe that he could beat Manwë in a fight (obligatory reminder that the bird man can oneshot the entire Balrog crew without much effort...)

[whumpcereal]

the kennel, recovery arc

masterlist here. occurs several months into will's recovery. this one comes with a special surprise.

content warnings for: referenced noncon, scarring, human trafficking, bbu/bbu-adjacent elements, traumatized whumpee, therapy, adult language

recovery piece, hope house

See, the thing about therapy is, when you show up, they expect you to talk. Or maybe they don’t. Every therapist Will has seen since his release from the hospital insists that the time is his, and if that’s really true, then they should be fine if Will wants to spend it staring into silent space. He’s pretty sure that silence isn’t what they’d prefer, but they all smile that weird, tight-lipped, clinical smile and try to nod reassuringly before he goes out. He isn’t reassured, and he usually doesn’t go back to the same person twice. It isn’t fair to torture the same person over and over. Will knows that for certain. 

He does go back, though. It’s important to Dad, and to Tommy and Annie. All three of them have their own counselors or psychiatrists. It’s like a fucking mental health love fest. 

His dad says talking to someone will help Will feel better. Will does feel better. Better is relative. No one flays him open with a bullwhip anymore. That’s better. No one forces him to–well, there are a lot of things no one forces him to do anymore. That’s better too, and it isn’t because he talked to some quack in an expensive office. He tries to tell his dad that–not in so many words, of course, because he doesn’t have many, and those words are the wrong ones–but it doesn’t really land. 

You know what I mean, bud, Dad will say. Happy. I want you to be happy. Will always swallows his response: I’m not sure I can be. 

Tommy says it’s helpful, that talking to a (supposedly) neutral third party means that Will can talk about the things he doesn’t want to talk about with anyone else. Will knows what Tommy means, and he doesn’t want to talk about that with anyone. Let Tommy pour his guts out; it was probably harder for him anyway. Tommy was the one that did the hurting, after all. Will just had to take it. That makes him a victim, doesn’t it? People always feel worse for the victim, and they shouldn’t feel worse for him than they do for Tommy. Tommy didn’t want to do it, and Will knows that, and he’s fine now, and everything with Tommy is fine. What would be the point of rehashing that? 

Annie says that talking to someone will bring him back to himself. Will isn’t sure that would be a good thing. If he doesn’t talk about it, if he doesn’t have to face what happened, then maybe he can pretend it didn’t. 

He can’t, of course. He wakes up every day with his nerves still burning, and he knows that it did happen. He knows that he’ll never escape it too. He’s pretty sure Annie feels guilty about that, even though she shouldn’t. She never hurt him. Will doesn’t think she would. But maybe she isn’t interested in being saddled with someone so broken. She shouldn’t be. She probably wants a version of Will that is whole. Will isn’t sure that’s ever existed. 

Will isn’t sure of much, really. That’s why he lets them railroad him into seeing person after person, even though he knows it’s a waste of time. Eventually, they’ll know too. They’ll realize he’s a waste of time, and this pressure, this weird suffocating love will fall away. It’ll be a relief. He can’t carry the weight of their love or their expectations on his broken shoulders. He knows they think a fancy doctor will talk him out of feeling that way, but Will doesn’t want to be talked out of it. He just wants to be left alone. That’s what he deserves. 

No such luck, though. This week, the session isn’t at a fancy office. It’s not even in town, which makes Will wonder if he’s exhausted all the local options. They’ve been driving for almost three hours when Dad pushes the truck into park. Will barely paid attention to their route. 

“Where are we?” Will asks. His voice isn’t quite a whisper, but he wouldn’t call it full volume either. It exists. So does he. Whatever. 

Dad shrugs, but his knuckles are white around the steering wheel. “Queens.” 

Will looks up from his lap for the first time since they left home. Sure enough, they’re on a dingy side street that looks like it could be a location for a Scorcese movie. Old cinder block apartments and uneven sidewalks. 

Seriously? Will thinks it, but he doesn’t say it. There are still a lot of things he doesn’t say. Like how ridiculous he was for thinking Tommy would disappear on him when the city is technically so close. And how he must be a lost cause if whatever this is is his best option.  

“Why?” 

“Why here?” Dad asks. 

Will nods, flexing his fingers out of their habitual curled position. He winces and hopes that his father doesn’t notice. 

“Well,” Dad sighs, “this place is supposed to be great.”

“So were the others.”

Dad shakes his head. “This one is different. They specialize in–well, I mean, they’re supposed to be great for people like–that have–people that have been in situations like yours.”

Will’s laugh is breathless.

“No, really. Bud, you’re not alone. This place serves people who’ve been rescued–” Will finches, and his dad reaches for his hand, “--people who’ve been saved from WRU. You know, the–” 

“The pet agency,” Will finishes softly. 

“Yeah.” 

“I wasn’t a pet,” Will says. He wasn’t good enough to be one, and Doc made sure he knew it. That’s why he ended up with Pat. Pat didn’t want a pet. Pat wanted something to break, to pick apart piece by piece, and after what Doc had done to him, Will was made to order.

“You weren’t,” Dad agrees immediately. He squeezes Will’s hand. “You aren’t.”

“Then I don’t need this,” Will whispers. 

“Bud–”

Will pulls his hand away. “Please let’s go home.” 

“I think we should give it a try.”

Because it will make Will feel better. Because talking to a neutral third party will help him get it all out. Because it will bring him back to himself. Except it won’t do any of that. All it’s going to do is remind him of everything he wishes he could forget. Will cradles his head in his hands, crunching his elbows down on top of his jeans. He wore jeans. He usually does, so that the shrinks don’t know what a slob he is. 

“Dad–” 

“Bud. Will. I know it’s hard. I know you hate this. It’s not–it isn’t exactly my favorite thing either. But you need help. And Dr. Whitney thinks that this could be a really good fit. The staff here, they–” 

“Whatever,” Will mumbles. The staff here will be just like the staff everywhere else. Patronizing at first, bewildered once they realize what he’s been through. They’ll tell him his feelings are valid, and they’ll offer him juice or cookies or a box of fucking tissues. Maybe they’ll even scatch him behind the ear since they’re so good with pets. 

“You’ll try it?” 

And God, the hope in his dad’s voice. Will nods without lifting his head, grinding his face into his hands. He will try it, even if it won’t fucking work. Because he’s a good boy, even still. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and Will knows that Dad is waiting for him to say something else. But he can’t make himself say anything. They’re going to expect him to talk in there, and he can’t use up his words before. He doesn’t have that many words to spare. 

The cold air bites his cheeks when he steps out of the car. It’s a wet, chance-of-snow sort of cold, and Will shivers inside his hoodie. Dad offers his hand, like Will is some toddler in a grocery store parking lot, but Will takes it. He’s certainly not going to get himself in the door. 

The apartment building is one of the less sinister on the block. It’s a sandy red brick, with a little boxwood-lined courtyard in the front. There’s a fountain, but since it’s December, it isn’t running. There’s a sign affixed to the brick near the double-doors: Hope House, Founded 19XX. Discretion, Care, and Healing. 

Gee, what a clever name. Will wants to vomit. Discretion, sure. Because everything about this is shameful, and there’s no way to make it not. 

Dad hits the intercom, and a warm female voice answers. 

“Hope House. How may I help you?” 

“Uh, we have an appointment. William Cartwright, at 11:00?” 

“Oh, of course. I’ll buzz you in, and then you just head to reception.” 

The buzzer isn’t a buzzer at all, but a soft chime. Probably so it won’t spook the pets, Will thinks. 

“Will?” 

Dad holds the door open, and they go in. Once their feet cross the threshold, Will’s pretty sure that there’s no going back, and he pulls his hand away. Dad sighs, but he doesn’t admonish Will. That’s the benefit of being completely fucking broken: you can get away with almost anything. Except, apparently, keeping your business to yourself.

Will doesn’t look up from his feet, just follows his father’s heels across the ancient checkerboard floor. He stops when Dad stops, and he waits. He knows he doesn’t have to do any of the talking just yet.

“Mr. Cartwright?”

“I’m Brian Cartwright,” Dad says good-naturedly. He gestures to Will. “This is my son Will.”

Will doesn’t look, but he hears the drippy smile in the woman’s voice. “Welcome. I see you’re on the schedule for an initial consultation?”

“Yes.”

“For outpatient or residential therapy?”

Will’s head rises at that—of course, of course Dad would want to unload him; why wouldn’t he?—and Dad almost chokes.

“Outpatient,” he wheezes. 

“Of course. That’s no problem at all. Just wanted to be sure.” The woman is smiling, and she turns her stupid, cheery face toward Will. “We’re happy you’re here, Will.”

Will shrugs and looks back at his feet. It doesn’t track. Why would anyone be happy that someone needs to be in a place like this? Not that he needs it. He doesn’t. He’s accepted what he is, and this attempt to make it better will be just as pointless as all the others. 

His father rests a strong hand on his shoulder. “Is there any paperwork we need or—“

The woman’s smile stays in place, but it falters a little. “We’ll wait on that until Will’s met with his counselor.”

“Why’s that?” 

“We have a lot of clients with, ah, unique circumstances here, and we want to make sure that we do whatever we can to keep them safe,” she says vaguely. 

Will doesn’t know what she means, and he’s pretty sure his father doesn’t either. But Dad nods anyway.

“Of course. Where should we–” 

The woman’s eyes dart to her computer screen. “Looks like we have him in the green consult room. That’ll be three doors down to your right.”

“Thank you,” Dad says. He squeezes Will’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” Will whispers. 

“Of course!” the woman chirps. “Mr. Cartwright, there’s a visitor’s lounge for your convenience just across the hall. Coffee, tea, whatever you need.” 

“Will, can you–”

Will nods. Three doors down to his right. He can handle that. He’d rather not, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s super concerned about what he’d rather do. 

Dad claps his other shoulder and gently spins Will around to look at him. “Alright, bud. I’ll be waiting, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Will forces himself to say. He may as well get warmed up. 

“Good luck.” 

Will walks alone, silently counting the doors until he finds the right one. He feels his dad’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t look behind him. His fingers are sweaty where they meet the door handle. He opens the door anyway, his skin smooching against the shabby brass. 

There’s a man waiting for him. He’s young, or youngish. Younger than any of the other people Will’s been forced to talk to anyway. He looks nice, Will guesses. He doesn’t quite smile, but his face is soft and open. His blue eyes watch Will intently, but somehow, his gaze doesn’t have the same weight as Will’s father’s.  

“You must be Will,” he says softly. He doesn’t move, but he nods at the open doorway. “Please, come in.” 

Will’s feet move almost automatically into the room. He hovers against the doorframe, and the man nods again. 

“You can close the door if you’d like, but you don’t have to.” 

Will closes the door. He always does. It reminds him a little of his cage. He always felt safer inside his cage. He misses it sometimes, but he doesn’t suppose anyone would understand. 

“Okay, then,” says the man. “Would you like to sit down?” 

The man gestures at the overstuffed green armchair across from him, and even though Will doesn’t know what he’d like, he sits down anyway. The chair is soft and comfortable. Will sinks back into the cushions, and they fold around his body like oversized wings. 

“Hi,” says the man. 

“Hi,” Will answers. 

“I’m Jack.” 

Will glances up from his lap. They never introduce themselves this way.  

“You’re not a doctor?” Will asks. He doesn’t mean to, but the words slide out of their own accord. He presses his lips together to keep any more from escaping without his permission. 

Jack laughs. “No. Not yet. I’m working on it. And even if I were, I’d probably still ask you to call me Jack. Dr. Prescott-Kenyon is kind of a mouthful. But I can assure you, I’m a fully licensed counselor.”

Sure. Because pets don’t deserve real doctors. Will’s face scrunches up. “Good for you.” 

Shit, he shouldn’t have said that either. But Jack doesn’t seem fazed.

“I guess it is,” he says good-naturedly. “Hopefully, it’s good for both of us.” 

“Sure.” 

They sit in silence for a long moment, and Will shifts deeper into the cushions. He’s ready for another silent round of Beat the Clock. 

But Not-Doctor Jack doesn’t flinch away from the awkwardness. Eventually, he shifts forward to the edge of his own chair, swiping a file folder from the low table between them. Will can see a printed label with his own name and birthdate on the tab. It must be his records. Pages and pages of Will’s most humiliating moments. Probably photos from the police report as well. Screen captures from Doc’s live streams. Will’s fucking lucky that there’s no room for videos in a paper file. 

Will knows there are pages and pages of failed attempts at recovery in there too. Notes from other shrinks that call him willful or stunted or traumatized. And maybe he is all those things. But those people didn’t know him. Maybe they all had fancy diplomas, but that didn’t mean they could understand what Will’s been through. Not-Doctor Jack won’t either.

Will’s hands start to fidget on his lap, and he focuses on the jagged white lines of scar tissue Pat left on the backs of his hands. Will remembers that particular session. The scars look careless, but they weren’t. It was one of the only times Will actually saw his own hands while he was in captivity. Pat had yanked off Will’s mitts and strapped him down, threatening to sever every tendon in Will’s hands if he so much as breathed. It was part of a wider threat to dissemble Will’s entire body, to turn him into something slack and helpless. A worm instead of a mutt.  Pat never did it, but the threat was always there; Will has the scars to prove it. Sometimes, Will feels like Pat’s knife is still rasping against his skin–

“I’m sorry,” Jack says suddenly.  

Will starts, stuffing his scarred hands beneath his thighs. He doesn’t understand. The guy hasn’t done anything to him. Why is he apologizing?

Not-Doctor Jack must not be completely incompetent, because he answers Will’s silent question without hesitation. 

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he clarifies. 

How fucking original. Will shrugs. “It’s over.” 

“It’s okay if it doesn’t feel like it is.” 

Will doesn’t look up, but he wants to. It isn’t as though none of the others had said the same thing–trauma takes time to work through, his feelings are valid, blah blah blah–but no one’s ever sounded quite so certain that it is okay if Will’s still broken. Maybe Not-Doctor Jack isn’t trying to superglue the cracks in Will’s facade. That doesn’t mean Will trusts him, but he guesses it isn’t the worst start. 

“I know you’re probably used to getting the third degree right off,” Jack says, “but I want to know what questions you have. For me.” 

Will blinks. That’s–that’s not how this normally goes. He swallows, and for a moment, he thinks he feels the scratchy band of his collar against his throat. 

“What is this place?” he asks. 

“Hope House?” Jack looks around the room like he’s considering it for the first time. “Well, it’s a kind of halfway house.” Will notes silently that Not-Doctor Jack doesn’t say for people like you. “A lot of the people we serve live here, and that’s because they don’t have anywhere else to go–or, in some cases, they’re just not ready to go anywhere else. Did your dad–” 

“It’s for pets,” Will finishes. 

“People who were treated as pets,” Jack corrects gently. “None of them are pets.” 

“But they think they are.” 

“Sometimes, yeah.” 

“I’m not a pet,” Will whispers. 

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking; that he would have preferred to be one, that it would have been easier on him than what actually happened. He could have found the good home Doc always promised and been okay. Not great, not happy, but okay. Someone would have taken care of him, and he wouldn’t have had to reckon with everything that he’d lost. 

“You’re not,” Jack agrees. “Most of the others were–were contracted to WRU.” 

There’s a slight catch in Not-Doctor Jack’s voice, and Will peeks up again. The older man’s long fingers do their own fidgety dance at the roll of his black turtleneck sweater. 

“Some still are. So, a lot of the work we do here is about rehumanizing people who’ve been told that they are less than a person. Relearning basic skills. Working on decision making and autonomy and confidence. That kind of stuff.”

Will doesn’t think about the breakdown he had at the Thanksgiving table. He doesn’t think about the hours he’s spent in bed because he doesn’t know what to do when he’s out of it. He doesn’t think about the fact that there are days when his father dresses him and helps him bathe, that Annie feeds him, that Tommy reads to him. He doesn’t think about any of that. 

Except that he does, and he’s pretty sure Not-Doctor Jack knows it. But he doesn’t ask if that’s why Will’s here, because it’s Will who’s asking the questions. 

Sneaky bastard. 

Then again, Will supposes it isn’t all that hard to trick a stupid mutt. He eyes the chunky folder in the older man’s hands. He must know what Will is. 

“You’ve read my file?” Will asks. 

Jack nods. “I have.” 

“So, you know what happened to me?” 

“I do,” Jack says softly. 

“And you still think you can help me?” 

Jack slides the file back onto the table and leans over his knees. He ducks his head to seek out Will’s eyes, and, begrudgingly, Will lifts his head. 

“I do,” Jack says again. “I’d like to say I know I can help you, but I know that sounds like bullshit.” 

“Why?” 

“Why does it sound like bullshit?” 

Will shakes his head. “Why do you think you can help me?” 

Jack laughs under his breath, his eyes flitting self-consciously away. He tugs again at his turtleneck. “Man, buy a guy dinner first.” 

“What?”

“I think I can help you because I understand.” 

Will can’t help the bitter laugh that rockets up his throat. Now, that sounds like bullshit.  

“I know,” Jack says. “How would I know, right?”

Will raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t take the bait. Fuck this guy if he thinks he’s getting anything else from Will until he explains himself. 

“Hope House is pretty unique,” Jack says. “Not just because of the population we serve, but–well, most of the staff is a bit different too. Myself included.” 

Sure. They’re probably extra self-righteous and smug. They probably pat themselves on the back at least seventy times a day. Look at them, doing the work no one else wants to do–or worse still, undoing the work, the training other people have put in. Will stares down at the floor. 

“Some of the counselors here wouldn’t be able to get jobs anywhere else,” Jack goes on, “because they don’t technically have an identity.” 

There’s a queer jolt in Will’s stomach, and he can’t help but look up again. “They’re–” Will tries, but he can’t finish his thought. There’s no fucking way. 

“We,” Jack says evenly. “We were.” 

“You?” 

Jack’s long fingers scrabble at his turtleneck, and he drags the chunky black fabric down and away from his throat. Just beneath his fingertips is a band of damaged skin, wrinkled and shiny with scars. 

Will touches his fingertips to the twin scars on his own throat, leftover from the thick prongs of Doc’s collar. His eyes prickle with tears. “I don’t get it.” 

But he does get it. His body begins to rock back and forth, seesawing against the overstuffed cushions. 

Jack lets his turtleneck go, and the fabric slowly rises back into place. “When I was your age.”  It’s all the explanation Jack offers. Then Will remembers, he’s the one asking the questions. 

“You signed up?” 

Will knows the WRU people sign contracts, that there is the illusion of choice. He didn’t have that. He didn’t choose to be rescued. He wasn’t rescued at all. 

“No,” Jack says. “I didn’t sign up. Most people don’t. Or if they do, it’s because they don’t feel like they have any other choice.”

“Then–” 

“I was taken too.” 

Too. Because Will was taken. Not rescued. Taken. And the man sitting across from him knows it. 

“How long?” Will manages. 

“The better part of a year.” 

Will nods. Just like him. 

He looks at Not-Doctor Jack, and Jack looks back at Will with an expression that, for once, doesn’t seem to patronize. Jack doesn’t look uncomfortable, doesn’t look at Will like he’s something to be pitied. His face is wide open, his blue eyes nothing more than kind.

“Doc–Doc thought–he thought WRU charged too much,” Will says haltingly. “That’s why he went into rescues.” 

“That’s not a question,” Jack says, his voice gentle. 

“No,” Will admits. It’s not an answer either. But it’s something. And it’s further than he’s ever gotten before. 

“Did they hurt you?” Will asks.

Jack nods, and his handsome face pales just a little. “Yeah, they did.” 

“I’m sorry,” Will says. And he really is. 

“Thank you.” 

Will has more questions, but he doesn’t know how to ask. Are you better now? How long did it take? Do you think I’ll get better too? It’s the first time the thought has even crossed his mind.

Jack braces his hands against his knees, and for the first time, Will notices the flash of a wedding band on the other man’s finger. Something about it makes Will’s chest feel tight. Maybe, just maybe–

“Will, I want to be clear with you: if you decide we should work together, you don’t ever have to talk about anything you don’t want to. That’s not what this is about. But if there are things that you’ve wanted to talk about but haven’t felt like you could? I might understand. And even if I don’t, I can promise you that I won’t judge you. I couldn’t.” 

Will’s body slows, and he relaxes back into the chair cushions. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Jack echoes. He smiles. “What do you think? Should we give it a try?” 

Will isn’t sure if he should agree to anything, but just now, he thinks he might want to. He wants to let Not-Doctor Jack not-doctor him. Maybe Will isn’t ready to tell anyone the things that gnaw at his heart when he lies in bed, but he might be ready to at least consider it. He draws his hands out from beneath his legs and looks down at his scars. He didn’t deserve them, but they are a part of him now. He just has to learn how to accept them.

“Okay,” he says again.   

NOTE: Jack Prescott-Kenyon is my whumpee from behavior modifcation (masterlist here).

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Try

Wow a new Jesse! I've finally been thinking about him more. Not a ton happens in this piece but hey content!

CWs: bbu, grief, OCD, anxiety, references to noncon

Masterlist

———————————–

Jesse couldn’t take it anymore. He had been at the safehouse three weeks -- almost four -- and he had hardly slept more than four hours a night the entire time.

His whole chest just ached. He felt so -- he had no idea what he felt, but it was bad. It was as if all his insides had gone rotten. He was decomposing from the inside out, and it started with his heart. The heavy hole in his chest couldn’t be explained any other way. 

He could hardly function at all. He couldn’t pay attention when people talked to him or during group. They all thought he was simply still ‘adjusting’, but Jesse was never going to be adjusted. He couldn’t, it wasn’t in his DNA. He was always going to hurt, always going to be scared and sick and unsatisfied.

He just needed to know. If he knew they were okay, he would breathe easier, he knew it. An integral part of him was ripped away -- as important as his heart or lungs, and he needed to know his girls were safe and okay and alive --

Of course they’re alive. Why wouldn’t they be? They had to be because if they weren’t and it was all Jesse’s fault then he wouldn’t be able to live with himself and -- well. He just couldn’t do it.

Jesse kept being told he was so lucky for getting out, so brave for taking that step. What step? Abandoning his family? It wasn’t brave it was pure hostile cowardice. Contessa said it mostly. She won’t stop saying she’s proud he left -- especially because he’s a Platonic. But he wasn’t brave and he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stay in that house.

If being free was constantly feeling this awful, he didn’t want it.

Even if Mr. Bakeman took him back to WRU… At least they would get rid the memories and free him of this torment.

So Jesse was leaving. He had to, he couldn’t stay anymore. He couldn’t bear the pain. He didn’t let himself think through how’d get there. He was far away -- hours of driving. He had no idea how he’d make it on foot, but surely he’d hitch rides from people. He could…. He could pay them somehow. It made him shudder to think how, but if it was necessary he’d do it.

He saved all the food brought to his room for a couple days prior. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He hadn’t really left his room in a week or so, he hardly left before that either. No one would miss him.

Well. Maybe August, the other platonic. He tried to talk to Jesse whenever he had the energy to leave his room. Jesse could tell he wanted a friend. That made him feel a little guilty. Not enough to change his mind, though.

The stairs creaked as he hurried down, but Jesse tried not to care. He’d be gone so fast no one would have time to come looking. He thought anyway.

He had hardly pulled the thrifted coat he was given over his shoulders when he heard the footsteps behind him.

Jesse whipped his head around, heart in his throat. Would Cooper stop him? Would he  drag him upstairs and lock him away, yelling about how ungrateful he was? Would he finally hurt him? Jesse should run, he needed to go now before hands wrapped around him, dragging him away from freedom--

“Jesse?”

It’s not Cooper. It’s Gwen. Jesse hadn’t really talked to her since that first day, when she had a migraine. She was better after a couple days, Jesse could hear her melodic voice and laughter through the door to his room. Even though his palpable misery, Jesse could see how the orange nightlight lit up her skin, casting shadows on the gentle curve of her jaw, her round nose. She wore a baggy t shirt and sweatpants, hair tucked up in a bonnet.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Jesse faltered at the sadness in her voice. How could she be sad for him? She didn’t even know him.

“I--” he cleared his throat, eyes darting to the stairs. Did others hear him come down? “I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“I need to go back. I need to -- I just have to go back.”

“To your owners?”

“Yes.” He took a step back, one hand on the doorknob. Leave. Run. Go before you can be stopped. You have to see them.

“Wait!” Gwen took a couple steps closer, but not too close. Jesse got the distinct impression of trying to get a stray cat to come to you without wanting to scare them off. That’s how he felt, prickly and terrified. “Don’t go.”

Jesse raised his free hand, turning his collar around. One, two, three, four. He was the only one still wearing a collar. He couldn’t make himself take it off and lose that last connection to Abi, Eva, and Harper. His girls. “You don’t get it.”

“I know. It’s different for platonics. But August gets it. And Cooper can help--”

Jesse was shaking his head before she was even done talking. “No, no August doesn’t get it.” His voice was suddenly thick with tears, and he did his best to swallow them down. “No one gets it. I have to -- I have to do this.”

It’s not a Platonic thing. Even he knows it wasn’t supposed to go this far. It’s Jesse. It’s just a Jesse thing. He’s broken, something’s wrong with him. And he has to do this.

“Even though they hurt you?” His eyes snap up to hers. “Isn’t that why you left? They hurt you too badly? That’s why I left.”

He mind flashed to that night, the one he didn’t let himself think of, the one that made him leave. He’d see his girls if he went back, yes, but… but what if Mr. Bakeman didn’t decide to kill him or send him back? What if… what if he kept him and forced him to endure what he did that night? Rented him out, strung him up naked and terrified, allowed others to destroy him again and again for the rest of his life? The pain from that night was finally gone, and the thought of being used like that for as long as Mr. Bakeman wanted made the tears he was holding at bay fall.

Jesse swallowed, trying to soothe the tightness in his throat. The brass doorknob was warm in his hand.

“Will you stop me?” he whispered. He couldn’t tell if it sounded like a question or a plea. “Are you going to get Cooper?”

Gwen shook her head. “Even if I did he wouldn’t stop you. I won’t either. You can do as you please. I don’t want you to leave but I won’t stop you.”

Jesse should’ve opened the door and run then. Guilt ran hot and heavy as tar down his back, coating him in a thick layer of it. He felt ill. “Why don’t you want me to leave?” he found himself asking.

Gwen shrugged, suddenly shy. One of her hands went to instinctively push hair behind her ears, instead just pulling down the edge of her bonnet. “I want to know you, Jesse. And I -- I think you can get better. I know you can. If you give yourself a chance.”

Jesse sniffed. He twisted his collar round again, thinking of his positions like a good little pet. Good little pets don’t live in safehouses and run away from home. His hand was starting to slip off the doorknob. “I just miss them,” he confessed miserably. “I need to know they’re okay.”

Gwen nodded. “The children?”

Fresh tears fell. “Yes.”

“What will happen to you though? I don’t want you hurt. You just got here.”

Jesse’s eyebrows raised in -- he didn’t know what emotion. Everything inside him was so tangled up there was no telling which way was which. He couldn’t think through anything, just feeling the overwhelming despair and misery and confusion and confliction -- what could he possibly do?

Gwen stepped closer. “Try. Or just try to try. Talk in group. Go to therapy. Give it -- give it a month at least. Four more weeks and see how you feel. Please, Jesse?”

“What do I do?” he said aloud, voice weak and desperate.

Jesse had spent a good portion of his time in this house crying and panicky, eyes red and throat raw. He started to fall apart again, right in front of Gwen. His hand slipped off the doorknob, hanging uselessly beside himself as he struggled to get ahold of his breathing.

But Abi and Eva and Harper and Mr. Bakeman and WRU and Abi and Eva and Harper and the house and safety and pain and suffering and Abi and Eva and Harper and rape and pain and death and Abi and Eva and Harper--

How can I ever be happy again?

His face screwed up, eyes on the floor. He slumped his shoulders, backpack falling with a muted thump. Gwen closed the distance between them and helped Jesse out of his coat, hanging it back up. She led him upstairs, back to his lonely room where he fell into the bed unceremoniously. Gwen was the only thing holding him up on the way there.

Gwen left, closing the door behind her. Before it clicked, Jesse heard her speak. “Just try Jesse. I hope you’re still here in the morning.”

———————————–

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down @winedark-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @cyborg0109

[thethistlegirlwrites]

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

[deadsetobsessions]

Once more the hallucinations hit, and once more I am here writing it out.

My brain is fucking terrifying and I want out, so bad. This came to me in the form of a nightmare.

Also, please don’t take the timeline into consideration, because I have no idea what’s going on. Again, nightmares and dreams tend to not have the best coherency when it comes to plot and timelines. The reincarnation doesn’t have a name, I was too busy feeling terrified. Shit in parentheses was how I experienced the nightmare. Everything else is just me adding sprinkle sprinkle.

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

Two names that she had been aware of, in the peripherals of her hyper fixation. Two characters meant to enhance the story of the Dark Knight. Side characters, on a good day. Perhaps, a main antagonist on a better day.

On a bad day?

Main characters. Real, living people. Real, living, breathing assassins.

Unfortunately, they’re her new family. One she remembered coming into, bathed in a pool of blood and screams.

She was not a baby.

She is now, a baby. The first of Talia al Ghul’s children. The eldest, once Damian al Ghul was born.

Swaddled in emerald green and gold silks, she was presented to a man with silver streaked hair and a receding hairline. He too, was robed in green and golds.

“A daughter, Talia?” He rumbled, the smooth Arabic flowing out of his mouth failing to hide the acrid disappointment. The child, past the haze of confusion of suddenly being deported from her own adult body into one of a helpless child, felt a stirring of irritation. It’s good she learned the language, because now she knew exactly how Ra’s felt about her. The child grumbled a displeased sound. Not that she would have ignored the fact that her grandfather was Ra’s al Ghul. (He smelled like moth eaten fabric and blood- but I think that was because my cat accidentally scratched me.)

“My apologies, father.”

“Do not tell the young detective of this. Had it been a son, perhaps things would have been different. No, a daughter would only hinder him.”

Talia bowed, hands tightening on her daughter. “May I raise her, father?”

“A resource is still a resource. Go ahead, Talia.”

“Yes, father.” Talia took the dismissal and bowed before leaving.

On her way back to the room with the reincarnation’s crib, Talia al Ghul stroked her daughter’s head.

“I wish you were born a boy, my daughter. I am sorry my beloved will never know of you.”

The reincarnation looked at her new mother. She’s young, the woman-child realized. A teenager.

“You’ll have to be useful, my daughter. Your grandfather is not so kind as to keep the useless. I… do not wish for your death,” her mother muttered.

Great. She got new life and it’s already in danger.

——

She learned to swing a knife. Swords. She learned and devoured the teachings. She learned to be useful.

But then they asked her to take the life of a man who did her no wrong.

Her baby blues clashed with her grandfather’s Lazarus green.

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

“He failed, granddaughter.” Ra’s smiled down at her, patronizing. Cruel. “Perhaps you possess your father’s heart, and you are foolishly sentimental, as women and children tend to be. But in the end, you are an al Ghul and you will obey. Plunge in your blade and I will reward you.”

The reincarnation looked at the man kneeling in front of her, resignation and a hint of pity in what little she could see of his face.

She’s already died before. What did she have to be afraid of?

“No.”

They tried to beat the weakness out of her. It didn’t work.

——

The reincarnation stared at the mirror, left alone in an opulent cage of gold and emeralds and precious stones that meant little to her now.

Her hands traced her back, small fingers finding purchase in soft skin. Her mouth opened fruitlessly, noise refusing to escape. She still felt the burning magic, the brand her own blood had carved into her skin and soul because she refused to kill. The chains her grandfather had shackled around her with magic and cruel amusement.

She had killed him, in the end. Obey, or be punished. Her body had moved without her permission, the reincarnation a prisoner in a body that refused to do as she commanded. The knife swung, a life taken, her hands dipped in red.

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

The Magic had flared a searing heat at her neck, forcing her to kneel on broken legs. Ra’s loomed above, authority in his voice. She was bound to obey, regardless.

“You will never speak another word of affection, you will never speak another word to anyone unless I allow it. Perhaps this will teach you of your folly, and your place in this world.”

The loss of her freedom and the fear that came with it was a bitter and devastating lesson.

——

Ra’s al Ghul was so much worse than what little she knew of him.

She was right to be afraid for herself.

Her mother had worried, when she’d withdrawn and refused to speak to her. Even if she could, the reincarnation would not have wanted to. The reincarnation had felt furious, back then, when she thought of Talia. Her mother who refused to protect her. Her mother, who claimed she loved her but refused to see the chains Ra’s wrapped around her neck. She who plied the reincarnation with a supportive hand but forced her into the fighting pits.

But, as the reincarnation stumbled out on bruised and used legs from Ra’s al Ghul’s meeting chambers where he had allowed his business partners to partake in her, she realized that Ra’s was a monster in a human’s body and her mother was a victim of his making.

The lesson Ra’s taught her that day was that if she was not useful, if she did not kill, he would take what was left of her and make use of her.

Hate flared in her heart, and the beginning of Ra’s downfall began the day he let her go from the chambers alive. Injured, but alive. Injured and violated, but alive and furious.

——

She carved her hate and rage and helplessness and fear in the bodies of the people he bid her to kill. Her silenced screams were expressed in the way she splattered blood, the way she covered herself in it. A killing machine first, a stress reliever second, and a child… wasn’t on the list of things she was allowed to be.

His enemies were felled, one after another. He gave her his approval, something she detested.

But still, she continued, bodies racking upwards, tens turning to hundreds, hundreds edging into thousands.

The red in her ledger became ichor and guilt. Her language became violence and obedience.

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

She was a genius, after all. And now, she could not disobey. A blade that Ra’s believed will never point towards him. She kneeled. She obeyed.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Her words were only allowed to come out- without searing, terrible pain- when she was thanking him. She tried not to do it as often as he wanted. He thought he broke her when he read the obedience she carved into her body language.

But she never bowed. Never. Not to him. Never.

——

“My weapon could learn much from your granddaughter,” David Cain sat across from Ra’s, wine in their stupid goblets. How she detested the green and blacks he’s seen fit to dress her with. She’s dressed provocatively, not of her own choice. She doesn’t have much of those- doesn’t have much in ways of choices- these days.

She was twelve, and Ra’s al Ghul deserved to die.

“Her combat is a higher form of what my daughter has achieved. How did you do it?”

When Ra’s began to reply, she slipped away.

She found the girl. She found… the cage- the black box- the child was placed in. The child flinched from her when she opened the metal box, fear only easing as the reincarnation kept her body language neutral and kind. (It was pitch black, and about the size of like, a closet. No light. Only from whatever door the box had.) (Cass’ hands hurt from banging on the walls to be let out)

David Cain’s daughter, her mind whispered, the memories of another life once more making itself known.

“Cassandra.” She whispered, regretting it immediately when pain wracked her body. She fell to her knees as the punishment for disobeying an order slammed into her.

The girl looked at her in concern, but did not move closer. The reincarnation stared at this girl and saw a reflection of herself.

David Cain would be here for a month. She will free Cassandra in those days.

——

The weapon stared at the girl in front of her, kneeling in pain.

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

The weapon felt warm. The girl was quiet. No sounds. Good. The weapon knew the girl understood. The weapon thinks that the girl is a weapon too.

-

The girl comes back, again. This time, she makes a sound. It hurt her, but she did it again. The weapon understands when the girl points at herself and repeats the sound. The sound means the girl. The girl expects something from the weapon.

The weapon makes the sound, flinching to see if the owner will come to punish it. The girl purposefully sits, relaxed but vigilant… and protective. Of the weapon?

The weapon relaxed. It repeated the sound, pointing at the girl.

The girl smiles, in pain. But approval. The weapon feels- the weapon is warm, like under the blanket. Approval.

The girl teaches her to make sounds but the weapon communicates without it. It does not like the sounds, does not need them, but the girl seems to think it’s important.

The weapon likes the girl, so the weapon learns. They still understand through no sounds, through reading each other.

-

The girl comes back, silently. Secretly. The weapon does not notify the owner. The weapon feels- does not want to.

The girl- the girl with the sound- she says a different sound. Her body tells the weapon that it’s important, this sound.

And when the girl points at herself and says her own sound, then points at the weapon and says that new sound again, the weapon begins to understand.

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

“Cass,” the girl said, and Cassandra understood.

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

The owner wanted- wanted Cassandra to end a life. Cassandra watched the owner kill and gesture to the dead thing.

Cassandra did not want to.

When Cassandra is placed back into the pitch black box, she waited for the girl.

The girl came.

“Don’t want.” Cassandra clung to her, reading the welcome and the sadness in the girl’s body. Cassandra tucked her face into the girl’s shoulder. She is cold. The girl is warm.

The girl hugged her back. The girl understood. Sadness hardened into lines of determination. Cassandra felt… light. Felt hope.

-

Cassandra slipped away from the place, water in her pack for the dessert and money to run from the country. The girl stayed behind, seeing her off. The girl tells her to never come back.

Cassandra did not want to leave the girl behind, but the girl could not go.

“Be free, Cass.” The girl had whispered through the pain. “For the both of us.”

——

Her grandfather knew. He allowed David Cain to break her, not kill because she was of use to him still, as a lesson. She found that she hated his lessons. But, she hated his attention more.

And still, she could not regret. How could she, when Cass trusted her with what fragile hope she had?

So, she lets him beat her, and provokes him with smirks and fearless eyes because the longer he’s focused on her, the more time Cass has to run.

Then, he gets too angry, and insults Ra’s, whose eyes grew cold. Her grandfather gestured and while she usually hated the command that followed that gesture, she could not feel that hatred now.

She got back up, legs broken and arms twisted once more, and attacked David Cain.

Ra’s would not follow Cass. Not when she was not his business to deal with, and not when David Carin’s fury amused him so.

David Cain would not follow Cass. Not while she still drew breath. The reincarnation stood, and threw herself at one of the best assassins of the century.

She tore his throat out with nothing but her teeth. She felt, for once, not like a monster. Not even when Ra’s nodded in approval and ordered for David Cain’s broken body to be cleaned up.

——

She’s been granted a mission in New Jersey, once her months of discipline- of torture- ended. She does not get ordered to find Cassandra. She’s fourteen now, and as silent as ever. Her mother had adjusted to her silence by then- long ago, actually, taking it as a quirk her daughter had developed. She hadn’t been a terribly vocal child, after all. Talia praised her for being useful even as a woman- the self degradation something the reincarnation had no doubt Ra’s had insidiously trained into Talia- and for being loyal to Ra’s.

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

Never mind. She couldn’t afford to hate anyone else.

She killed her targets early, determination and wistfulness urging her movements into sharp . Then, she made her way to Gotham and slipped into the city of darkness- where her father was.

She watched as he hid in the shadows almost as easily as she did. She watched as he flew and glided with the younger Robin. (He was younger than her by a year. She checked.) He was free. They were free.

She wished…

As she turned away, she saw a child tumbling from the edge of a roof. It was an instinct she’d thought Ra’s had managed to bury after the months he’d spent making sure she killed only children.

She hated him.

She caught him, swooping in and tucking him against her side as she plucked him from the air and plopped him back onto the crumbling roof of Gotham’s slums.

“Oh, thank you! So much- are you a vigilante?” The boy asked, looking at her masked face. It’s a good thing she wasn’t exactly dressed like a regular League operative.

She shook her head. Her eyes fell onto his camera, faint memories rising once more. She had an inkling-

“I’m- uh- Tim!” The boy introduced himself nervously, edging away from her silence. “Thank you for saving me…?”

She nodded. She pointed to the camera, tilting her head.

“Oh- you… want to see it?” He clutched his camera closer. Oh, he did have some sense of self preservation. She wondered why a seven year old was allowed to roam these streets… but she did worse at seven.

She held her hand up and back up. The boy hesitated, and then showed her the camera. “Uh- I took pictures of Robin and Batman!”

They sat on that roof for hours, and she let Tim Drake tell her stories about her father and his son. Ward. Son.

She could tell that Tim didn’t have anyone to listen to him.

She didn’t have long until she had to go back or risk severe punishment, but… she could make time for Tim, to listen to him.

She wondered if Cass managed to escape completely. She wondered if her sister all but in name and blood learned how to smile.

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

She listened to him! And gave him hugs the one time he was brave enough to ask! And she seemed to like Batman and Robin as much as he did! No one who didn’t like them would listen to his endless rambling otherwise, right? (Tim was super skinny, like ribs poking out skinny. He looked like a sickly Victorian child and he was kind of cold)

“And then, Robin went like this,” he pantomimed the awesome punch Dick Grayson did on a Joker goon. “And the guys got knocked out just like that!”

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

“Sorry, am I talking too much?” Tim asked anxiously. He didn’t want to make his friend hate him!

She shook her head, and gestured for him to continue.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

His new friend was so cool! She even taught him how to throw a punch and to fight!

——

When she had to leave, she prepared Tim for it.

“Do you have to go?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Her other hand held a duffle bag with an assortment of weapons she carefully kept from him. (One of the blades still had guts on it, which, ew.)

“Try not to fall off anymore roofs, little photographer.” She said, smiling at his shocked look before leaping away.

“Wait, you can talk?!” He shouted at her back. She smiled a little wider.

——

“A son, this time.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed in his disgustingly flashy throne room. It rings of approval.

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

“Well done, Talia. I finally have a worthy heir.”

Damian al Ghul cooed.

The reincarnation was scared. But… she could not allow her younger brother to be trapped like she was. She’s fifteen now, a decade of slavery having worn her down and nearly broken her. But with her brother… no, she could not allow it.

She met her mother’s eyes and knew then that they agreed. Protect Damian, at all costs.

She ignored the sting of envy. So what her mother could not find it in herself to protect her daughter? So long as she protected Damian, it didn’t matter.

Maybe she didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t worth anything. Maybe- maybe- maybe.

She also ignored the seed of disgust she had for mother’s actions in conceiving Damian. She couldn’t do anything about it. Talia was also a victim.

A louder voice in her asked if she could really excuse that, when Talia had a choice and she chose to hurt and violate Bruce Wayne like that. She wondered if she could truly ever forgive Talia. She wondered if Bruce Wayne got therapy.

——

She stared at the tome in front of her, eyes blank. (Actually, she had no eyes. Like? Empty sockets, but then later she had eyes???)

The brand- the shackles- the chains could only be broken if Ra’s died. She wasn’t opposed to that. But if he died, so did she. She couldn’t even kill herself to get out, because the chains would be there even if she died. If she was revived- a high chance, thanks to the fucking pits- then the chains would still be there.

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

“This is your ukht.” Her mother pointed at her. Damian stared up at her, and she melted. Her brother was too damn cute.

“Ukhti?”

She nodded as her mother smiled in joy. “Yes, habibi.”

She was better at hiding the pain, now. She was better at enduring it, too, that fucking burning feeling. She spoke more, but only to Damian.

It would not do for her brother to grow up not knowing how to receive verbal expressions of affection. Not like she did, in this life.

Still, it hurt to speak. But then, she had an idea, based on Cassandra.

She could not speak, but speaking wasn’t the only way of communication. She’ll teach Damian sign language- standard, as commanded- but also her own version. Yes, she could do it. It wouldn’t be hard.

She was a genius, after all, and creating languages wasn’t as hard as people seem to think.

——

Damian copied her, small fingers patting his hand four times.

She did it back to him. “I love you.” She tells him, with sounds and with motions.

He does it back, excitedly, because he had a secret with ukhti!

——

Sometimes, she dared not to touch Damian. She wants to ruffle his hair and give him hugs but the ichor on her hands reminds her to not get to greedy. She did not deserve it.

Not when her hands were stained with the lives of so many people.

——

Another mission.

She was twenty now, and not much closer to escaping her bonds. Though, once she hit her majority, Ra’s lost interest in her in that way. A blessing, even if she had to seduce his “business partners” into giving him better deals more often now.

She stops by Bludhaven. The Robin she watched so many years ago- six, by her count- had grown new wings and moved. She wanted to see if he could fly still.

He could. He flew as free- no, freer than his days as Robin.

She dipped away to complete her mission (nuclear weapon trading, really?) and swings back to see a spider trying to break the former Robin’s wings.

“No.” Nightwing whispered, staring upwards at the cloudy sky blankly. “Please, stop.”

She didn’t need to hear any more. She saw red, and dove feet first straight onto the spider’s head, knocking her out.

She picked up a near-catatonic Nightwing, and helped him to his apartment. She left Tarantula in the rain and felt zero guilt about it.

He changed mechanically, some kind of instinct keeping him from removing his domino, but it was a bit pointless considering she escorted him to his personal apartment.

She watched as Nightwing slipped into an exhausted sleep before leaving. She had a spider to squish, and traces to hide.

——

Dick wakes up, drained and exhausted. He… someone saved him.

He sees a scrawled note, handwriting impeccable enough to be a font, written with his pen. He picked it up from his table, and his eyes tiredly read the message.

“Don’t worry about Tarantula. Or your identity.”- A friend.

He remembered- the mask- the mask of the stranger that saved him vividly. He’d remember. And he’d thank them if they ever came back.

——

She was in charge of training assassins, these days. A year and a half later after Bludhaven, she was back in Nanda Parbat, and she’s devoured every magical tome she could get her hands on. They all say the same things.

Her assassins were trained well, and Ra’s praises her with more responsibilities as he followed the pit in his obsessions. Her mother began to splinter the group, not knowing that as Ra’s began his descent into madness, people looked towards her instead of Talia for leadership. They did not know that her unwavering presence by Ra’s side wasn’t voluntary but it is their true that she became his right hand out of pure skill. And flawless obedience, of course.

Then, someone new joins.

Someone with pit rage and empty eyes that goes rigid when she approaches.

Then again, most of the operatives freeze up when she walks towards them.

Her memories roar. A child.

He bowed, and her eyes followed the streak of white hair at the forefront of his skull.

She gestured at him to follow, and ignored the pitiful eyes the rest of the assassins gave to the kid- they act like her training was hard when she went easy on them (it was)- and led the kid towards the training rooms.

She knew who he was, even if her grandfather and mother didn’t think she knew.

Her… Bruce Wayne would probably appreciate his son being returned relatively sane.

But first, she had to beat the Pit out of him. Then, she could assign body guarding duties to him, in an attempt to protect him.

——

“Grandfather, I will take Damian’s punishment.”

“A whipping girl, granddaughter?” But he nodded anyways. He made Damian watch.

She kneeled and allowed the punishment. She couldn’t always protect him from Ra’s, but this she could do anytime. It’s not like she was unfamiliar with the torture. (The whip had barbs. Rusty. And they sprinkled salt.)

——

“I liked poetry….” Jason Todd tells her after a training session. “I think.”

“Sure. I’ll call you Grave, then.” Pain. But she was used to it.

He tilted his head, eyes going blank once more. She sighed. There went his memories again. (His eyes were blank and glazed. Like looking at someone you love and knowing they’re looking through you.)

——

“I would not trust her,” she says to the air, next to a Red Hood emerging from Talia al Ghul’s chambers. She could see it, the beginnings of Gotham’s new crime lord. But still, “Talia al Ghul is known for her lies.”

She pushed away from the wall. It was up to Grave if he listened. It was out of her hands now.

——

She’s twenty-five, and she’s helping Damian pack for his first meeting with Bruce Wayne.

“You must not tell him about me.” Because he’d come rushing here, and she had worked too hard to save Damian for her fool of a father to come and ruin all of that effort.

“I promise.” Her little brother said solemnly. Ukhti said it out loud, which meant it was important and she expected him to keep that promise.

The only other time he’d heard her speak was to tell him she loved him.

The reincarnation smiled and told him through their special sign language, to treat the current Robin with respect and to try his best to get the current Robin to pass down his title.

‘Robin is earned. They have different rules, over there. Try your best to learn those rules.’

Her brother was sheltered. She loved him, but he was spoilt and sheltered. Of course she was worried. Talia barely mothered him.

“I know. You do not have to remind me so often, ukhti.”

She smiled, and patted his head.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “I will miss you.”

Damian darted in for a hug. “Of course. Goodbye, sister. See you soon.”

She hoped not. It was hard enough to convince Ra’s that Damian would learn more under Bruce Wayne.

(She was locked in a small closet- like Cass- for about a week, because she brought up the idea first.)

——

She found it.

The answer to pit rage laid in an old, all but crumbling tome from Atlantis- answers “from a ghost.”

——

Bruce Wayne died. Months after Damian came to live with him. That- irritating- she sighed and worked with her mother to turn Ra’s al Ghul’s attention away from Gotham, lest he called Damian back in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The little photographer caught grandfather’s attention. She stood vigil as he played chess with Ra’s. His interest in Damian wavered. Anticipation blurred in her veins.

She saved his friends. Her assassins. She let them go, telling them to wait for the little photographer’s plan. (Y’all miss girl had fucking bloody handprints on her pants like someone tried to grab it.)

The first few people who had an inking she might not be loyal to Ra’s… and it was them.

When her other assassins attacked Red Robin, she cut them down before they could touch him, helping him with a furious League of Spiders or whatever operative. She hated spiders.

“What…?”

“You’re a lot of trouble, little photographer.” She sighed. His jaw dropped.

“It’s you!”

“Go,” she cut him off. “Blow this place up. I left a surprise for you outside.”

——

“Owens?! Z?!” Tim trembled, exhaustion and shock and wonder hitting him at once.

“Heya, boss!” Z chirped. Owens helped Tim up while Z helped Tam. Pry walked around them, looking out for further threats. “The nightmare trainer let us go. She knew you, I think.”

Tim smiles, all shark teeth and zero hero. (In the background, the song zero to hero from Hercules 2, played in reverse.) “Tell me more.”

——

Damian grunted, bracing himself for the magical creature’s attack.

“Robin!” His father barked out, panicked. Damian hoped he’d survive-

Shhhlk!

He looked up and there stood his ukht. She bounded forwards, using the odd fauna of the magical plane to bolster her movements as she sliced the creatures apart with her swords, magic humming brightly as she cut through them… and the magicians attacking them.

“What- what are you doing here?” He asked. She greeted him, three fingers curled over her shoulder.

‘My question is,’ she signed. ‘Why were you here without a magical weapon.’

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

“Batman. Cease your excessive worry. I trust her with my life,” Damian snapped. He stepped around a shocked Batman, looked him in the eyes, and unsheathed his katana. He handed it over to his ukht, who took it with amusement.

‘See?’ His eyes seemed to say. Father tensed when his sister unsheathed her own blade and handed it to him.

‘Are you here for a specific reason?’ His sister signed to him.

“Uh, you gonna introduce us, little man?”

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

“We’re looking for a magician. He set a squadron of demons loose into D.C. last night. He has a tower.” Damian added.

“Robin,” Father growled. “Who is this.” Damian shot him a look and turned back to his sister.

The reincarnation tilted her head. ‘Tower… it’ll have to be that way.’

“Could you take us there?” Damian asked. Truthfully, he could find the way himself. But he wanted more time around his ukht. She nodded and Damian straightened.

“I feel like we should be concerned that Robin’s friend just murdered a bunch of people.”

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

“Silence, incompetents. Speak another word against her, and Batman’s no killing rule will be applied creatively.” He hissed. (The fucking surroundings hissed with him y’all what the fuck)

He turned when his sister ruffled his hair (Superman muttered a super shocked “what the fuck.”) and Damian allowed it. He had missed his sister.

——

[aftgficrec]

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

[madmanwonder]

Prompt

Crossover AU x yandere AU

Fandoms: fairly oddparents x helluva boss.

Timmy wakes up... but not on his bed. He was in a king-sized luxurious bed... with certain stalker naked hugging him by the side.

That's when he knew, his grand escape was only a dream.

Timmy eyes fluttered up and looked at the ceiling with a blank look on his face, simply lying there on a king-sized luxurious bed with a naked woman hugging him by the side...

"...wait a damn minute." He looked to the side and there was Stella, or Stella Turner naked and hugging him with a cute wholesome smile on her lips as she let out a content sigh.

Timmy realized that his grand escape was a dream and he was married to this insane stalker who made Tootie look sane and reasonable by comparison.

[serickswrites]

Higher Love VI

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Epilogue

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced restraints, referenced drugging, referenced noncon, rescue, hospital, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

Whumpee wasn’t soaring anymore. They weren’t sure where they were, but they knew they weren’t high. The bed was soft, but not as soft. There were sounds that hadn’t been there before. Smells even. And Whumper was not next to them. 

Whumpee blinked open their eyes in confusion. When had they closed their eyes? Where were they? Where was Whumper?

“You’re in a hospital, Whumpee. You’re safe.” Caretaker’s warm voice came from somewhere to Whumpee’s right. 

Whumpee turned their head. It was all they could manage. “Caretaker?” Hospital. Caretaker was here. They were…free?

“Hey, Whumpee. It’s good to see you.” Caretaker gave a smile, but their face was still pinched with worry. 

“I missed you,” Whumpee whispered. Their throat was dry. How long had they been asleep?

“I missed you.” Caretaker held out a cup with a straw to Whumpee. “Drink.”

Whumpee sucked down the water. They were so thirsty. “How….how long was I asleep for?”

Caretaker frowned. “A few days. They decided it was best to put you into a medically induced coma while they detoxed you from the drugs Whumper gave you.” 

Drugs that Whumpee begged for. “I….I….I needed them.”

“What?” 

“I…I…had to have them. When….when they…touched me.” Tears stung in their eyes. 

Caretaker moved to take Whumpee’s hand, but stopped. “Honey, no one’s blaming you.”

“I am. I wanted to be high. I had to be high. Because every time Whumper touched me my body, oh God!” Whumpee sobbed as the memories flooded them. How could their body respond to Whumper’s touch? How could they react that way? How could they?

“Whumpee, honey, Whumpee, look at me,” Caretaker said in their most soothing voice. 

Whumpee wrenched open their eyes enough to look at Caretaker. “Honey, I want to hug you, is that ok?”

Whumpee nodded and Caretaker leaned over and wrapped their arms around Whumpee. Whumpee sobbed into their chest as they rubbed circles on their back. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You did what you had to do to survive. Nobody believes you wanted this. Nobody. You were doing what you had to do. It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And Whumpee let Caretaker hold them as they sobbed. Hold them as they cursed Whumper. Cursed themself. Cursed the world. Whumpee let Caretaker hold them because they felt safe in Caretaker’s arms. They felt loved. And most of all, they felt like they didn’t need to be high.

Tags: @anonintrovert@badluck990@ha-ha-one@kn0ckme0ut@outlawaries@clever-kills@you-are-so-perfect-that-i@ash-skylard@keeper-of-all-the-random-things@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees@kyoukatsuki@selenenyx0124@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees