#verbal abuse tw

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was getting yelled at by my mum over something small (a regular occurrence) and I she said something really mean and so I tried to roundhouse kick her (I don’t know how to do that).

I woke up having nearly kicked my partner, blankets flung onto the floor.

[siconetribal]

You're My Everything

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Tag: @vbecker10

Warning: Verbal Abuse, undiagnosed mental illness, and mild mentioning of childhood trauma

Author Note:

PLEASE READ WARNING.

And here is another attempt at my portraying a supportive relationship with Jason Todd. Please let me know what you think.

“What the hell do you even know? What good are you if you don’t know anything, huh? Why are you even there?” He shouted at the top of his lungs from the balcony that overlooked the double ceiling family room. “I don’t know, I don’t know!” His voice boomed overhead, sarcasm pouring from every syllable as he mockingly repeated her simple answer. It was a surprise there was no vein protruding from his neck from how angry he looked, his eyes bulging from their sockets as he glared down at her. “What good are you? All you do is sit on your cellphone anyway! Wasting my time! They told you they didn’t get the files, that means they didn’t get the files! You’re a liar! A good for nothing! What do I even pay you for, goddammit! You can’t even do a simple task of transferring files to the cloud storage at the end of the day?”

“We were out of town for uncle’s funeral.” She reminded her father, her voice nearly quivered, but she held her ground. This was nothing new, and it was certainly not the last of his explosive outbursts. Ignore it, don’t argue back. It’s the same stupid thing and he’s not going to listen. Why waste your breath? What more am I supposed to do when all of them use me as a means to get away with everything? I’m supposed to do the files, confirm the appointments, deal with the billers, do medical records, answer the phone calls, make sure they all come in on time, make sure they all message him when they aren’t coming into the office but don’t use the phone too much so he isn’t bothered, coordinate with the adult daycare facility, work on the RPM, work on the CCM, make sure the telehealths are done, make sure the copay is collected, make sure the MAs are in the rooms with him when he’s with patients, make his tea, make sure he has his lunch, and do the scanning! I’m on the stupid phone because I’m sending messages to the NP and the other RPM staff! They complain about the scanning being done only by her but when I try to take it she says it’s fine and that she’ll do it! Am I supposed to snatch it from her?! What the hell do you even want from me? I don’t know why they didn’t get anything, I made sure to send every stupid file again the day we came back! The corners of her eyes stung as her father continues to berate her in English and Urdu.

Her mother silently sat with her, unable to assist her in any way. What could she do? He would just tell her to shut up and start the blame game of how she and her siblings were all corrupted by their mother, who intentionally poisoned their minds against him. It would only prolong this situation and she wanted nothing more to do with it. Was it a continuous toxic cycle? Yes. Was there a potential to fix it? Yes. Would it ever be fixed? No, because he failed to see his own shortcomings. Though a dedicated and loving father at heart, he was a man with many ignored childhood traumas and a very likely case of undiagnosed bipolarity. They held countless family meetings trying to change and better the dynamics, but in the end his issues would be triggered, and his poor defense mechanisms would kick in with guilting, emotional blackmailing, and self-victimization. 

This is nothing new. Just sit quietly and listen. Let him say wherever he wants to say and it’ll be over. He’ll forget about it and act like he didn’t just start world war fifty. She refrained from rolling her eyes as she took the rapid fire insults came ripping through her mentally and emotionally like cannonballs ripping through an enemy ship. She glanced at her smartwatch at the nudge of a vibration.

<Hey, is everything ok? Do I need to come over there?> The text appeared under a name: Jay Jay the Jet Bird.

Shiitake mushrooms, I forgot I was texting him! Her heart dropped to her gut. Him coming will definitely make all hell break loose! She gritted her teeth and quickly replied from the circular screen; <one sec, busy.>

<Let me know when you’re free.> The reply quickly came back. The small distraction was more than enough to help keep her quiet long enough for her father to return to his home office. As he walked away, he continued to loudly complain about her as if she were not there, but he knew his words were heard by her. She glanced at her mother who looked hurt and lost, just like she always did in these situations. What could she do? Any attempt of her trying to push back was met with greater aggression, and her mother was not the fighting type.  Not wanting to talk about it, she shook her head and pointed to the basement door.

“I’m gonna head down to my room and just stay there, the longer I’m out of sight, the faster this will blow over like usual.” 

“You can’t just stay in the basement, there are household chores to do.” Her mother frowned, ready to reprimand her for shirking her eldest daughter duties.

Are you kidding me? The last thing I wanna do is even breathe in his general direction, you want to just stay here and do dishes that aren’t even done yet? A bunch of us haven’t even eaten dinner yet, if I do them now, I’ll need to come back again. “I’ll do them later. Plus, what are your other kids for?” Gosh darnit Napa, I shouldn’t have said that!

“So, just because they don’t do it, you won’t? I’m the only one who’s supposed to do the work around here? What am I, everyone’s maid? What are you going to do when I’m dead?”

And round 500 with the maternal unit! She internally groaned. “Mom, mom, I’ll do it! Ok, I’ll do it! Just wait until all the dishes are in the sink!” She quickly cut in, looking at the balcony to make sure he had not heard them.

“Finish them before 10. We need to clean the kitchen before 10. I don’t want to go upstairs with a dirty kitchen and I don’t want to come back down eleven or twelve o’clock just to clean! I can’t go to sleep with a messy house.”

“I know, I know! Mom, I know!” She insisted. “Now, I’m going down!” She quickly went through the doorway and shut the door as she took the flight of steps down to the spacious basement and plopped onto one of the menu plush sofas with a heavy sigh. Her head was pounding and her chest was throbbing but she pushed through, pulling her phone out of her pocket. <Sorry, I’m free now.> She lay back across the love seat, her legs dangling over one of the arms when her phone and smartwatch both begin to light up and buzz continuously.  She glanced at the screen to see the handsome face of her secret boyfriend and sat up, swiping the green phone button after slipping in her earbuds.

“Hey,” she managed the simple greeting, but sounded utterly exhausted. She hated how she sounded, knowing he went through so much worse and was always risking his life. He was fond of the tone. He preferred her happy and upbeat, or going off on some tangent about something she was really into at the moment.

“Damn, you sound horrible. What happened this time?”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. He was silent and she knew it meant he was not budging. “Really, Jason, it’s nothing new. I’ve been through this sorta thing hundreds of times already, there’s no point talking about it.” She flopped back onto the sofa.

“That doesn’t make it “nothing”. Aren’t you the one who’s always on my ass about how, regardless of how many times, you’re always going to listen and be there? Let me be there for you, too. I’ll listen,” his promise made her smile.

“No rushing over and causing a scene?” He fell silent again. “Jason, you have to promise you are going to just listen.”

“Fine, fine! I’ll just listen! I’m not going to threaten, maim, or harass anyone!” 

“Nor are you allowed to tell anyone else to do it.” She added, and he clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Goddammit, fine! You win, just listening!” He begrudgingly agreed. “But that means you’re not glazing over anything! I get to know everything.” It was her turn to fall silent, debating if this was a good idea.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll tell you everything.” Her voice came out a lot softer, weaker, than he anticipated. He definitely was not a fan of this.��

What the fuck happened? He didn’t hit or something, right? He frowned as he moved further away from his friends. They had just finished a mission and were passing the time doing their own things, so he thought about texting her to let her know he would be back home soon. The delays in her responses was not out of the ordinary, it was not always easy for her to text him back when her family was around. It was the short responses that quickly became no response for a lengthy time that clues him in that she was not in a good situation. “Hey, pumpkin butt, is everything ok? You don’t,” he stopped speaking the moment she began telling him about her day.

It started out just like any other day, in fact it was one of the better ones, with praised from patients and sincere gratitude from her father for all the help she was giving him at his private practice. It confused him a bit on how things could have taken such a drastic turn, but he was not surprised since it happened so suddenly more often than not with her father. And just like always, nothing parked a raging fire of vitriol and insults. What threw him was the quiet sobs he heard from the other side. They have talked about her home life many times, and she has cried about it before, but never has she ever just broke down crying so quickly and painfully like this. He gripped his chest at the heart-wrenching sound of her tears.

“Why aren’t I good enough? Why would I lie to him? Why can’t he just believe me? I’m always trying so hard! I do everything he asks as best I can, I even gave up my own career to come back and help out! He was just going on about how grateful he was this afternoon, and now suddenly I’m even worse than Satan! What did I do? Why am I always such a failure? How much more can I do when I’m already doing so much? Am I ever going to be good enough? Maybe if I wasn’t born, he’d be happier.” 

“No,” he snapped. She instantly went silent. Crap, calm down! He took a few deep breaths, running a hand through his hair, when he felt a few pairs of eyes on him. He turned and shook his head, waving them off as he moved further away. “Baby, you aren’t a failure. You’re one of the brightest, dorkiest, and greatest people I know. And I know some pretty badass people. Actually, scratch that, you are the best person I know. Never say you shouldn’t have been born. If it weren’t for you, I’d be lost doing even dumber, more reckless shit than usual. I’d never met my book-nerd buddy and best friend. I’d be living off of microwaved pop-tarts and takeout. If we never met, I wouldn’t have known what love is. You are my everything, so please, don’t every say things like you shouldn’t have been born.”

“Really?” Her voice was a little hoarse from the sobs. She knew he would never just say things like that, but she felt so vulnerable and fragile right now that it was too good to be true.

“Of course, really. You’re the girl that’s made my bad days better. I can say without a doubt that my life has changed since I met you. You gave me a gift I never thought possible, you loved me when I couldn’t love myself. I wish I could find the words to describe your eyes that share your warmth, and how the sound of your voice gives me butterflies. How your smiles makes my heart skip a beat, I just, fuck! I wanna just hug you right now!” He grumbled, wishing he was somewhere nearby to take her back to his place.

“Thank you, Jay Jay, I love you too.” She smiled, rubbing at her sore eyes. “Gosh, I feel like such a big baby! You’re out there risking your life, and I’m here having a breakdown over words.”

“Not all of us can be superheroes.” He chuckled. “Getting beat up physically is way easier than mentally. Speaking of my line of work, we actually ended up finishing a little early and will be heading out early tomorrow.”

“Wait, really?!” She sat up at this exciting news.

“Yeah, I should be back in like two or three days. Think you can pencil me in between dealing with billers and scanning a bajillion documents?”

“Well, if it was a bajillion plus one, there would be no way. Since it’s just a bajillion, I can work something out.”

“Dork,” he snorted.

“Excuse you, I am not a whale’s penis!”

“What the fuck?!”

“You heard me! If you don’t believe me, look it up!” Hearing her laugh was music to his ears, regardless of how utterly strange the conversation was right now. 

“Yeah, yeah, hold on.” He pulled his phone away from his ear and tapped on the search bar. “You’re totally making this up thou-what the fuck?! Why do you know this!?”

“Cause I do? And that note, sweet dreams pop-tart! I’ll see you when you get back.”

“How the hell am I supposed to have any sweet dreams when you’ve ruined my innocence like that?! I’m not going to get a wink of sleep!”

“Oh, you’ll be fine! I’ll make it up to you when you get back, ok? Also, thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, baby doll, anytime. Good night, I’ll see you soon.” He ended the call just as he heard someone walking over, turning and walking back to the group with a slight pep in his step at the promise of holding his lady love once again.

[galaxywhump]

Collarstys

[SV-240 AU Masterlist]

[Castys Masterlist]

Happy birthday, Castys and Berkeley! What better way to celebrate than to torment them in a collab between me and @brutal-nemesis?

contents: slavery whump, collared and leashed, restraints, mildly creepy/intimate and possessive whumper, violence, choking, verbal abuse, lots and lots of guilt.

~~~

Most of the time visiting Daniel was something Berkeley looked forward to. It was a chance to unwind, forget about routine, mess with Rackham, eat some great food and just hang out with his old friend. Those visits were always a bright point in his plans, no matter how tired he was.

This time was different. 

At first it was the usual, a fond greeting, then he helped Daniel carry all the supply crates inside. He immediately had to open one of them and rummage through it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

"What got you so down?" Daniel asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Just tired." Berkeley shrugged, avoiding looking at the two other men in the room, both quiet, kneeling on the floor. He finally found what he was looking for - he took out a nice box, the kind used for gifting jewelry, and a small paper bag. He handed both to Daniel, who was smiling. Berkeley forced himself to smile back. 

"You can nap on the couch if you're tired," Daniel said, setting the bag aside for the time being and closing his fingers on the cover of the box, not opening it just yet. 

"It's fine."

Daniel did a double take at him, but dropped the subject, instead focusing on the box. With a genuine grin of someone who had just received their dream gift he opened it and took out the contents - a red leather collar with a custom lock, one that prevented the person wearing it from taking it off on their own. The room had been silent before, but somehow now it got even quieter, and Berkeley couldn't stop himself from glancing to the side.

He could immediately tell that Castys hadn't known about Daniel's idea beforehand, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that the gift wasn't meant for Wren. Castys’s eyes were wide, his lips pressed together to form a thin line, all traces of the initial smile he’d given Berkeley gone. His hands shook slightly as he wrung them in his lap, breaths slow as he stared at the collar for a few more seconds before finally speaking.

“O-oh, hun, you really shouldn’t have.” He tried to keep his voice level as he slowly leaned back, glancing over his shoulder.

Daniel rolled his eyes, but seemed to be in too good a mood to punish Castys for addressing him this way. 

"Well, even if I can't permanently brand you, you still need something that makes it clear that I own you now." He approached Castys as Berkeley and Wren watched his every move, a silent audience. He smiled and held the collar right in front of Castys's face, holding the small metal tag still between his fingers to give him a good look at the words engraved on it in a simple font.

Property of Daniel Rooney.

“Isn’t that…lovely. A-although, honestly, is it really necessary?” Castys asked as he slowly crawled backwards. “I mean, I’m here, and, like, I think we all know it, it’s just us, it’s pretty obvious that you, um, that I’m your-your,” he gulped, “precious little immortal boy. So I think I’ll pass, but thank you for your generous offer.” He gave Daniel a sheepish smile, some part of him clearly aware that this was happening no matter how he protested.

Daniel smiled to himself, then walked over to Wren and put his hand on his head, making him flinch. For a moment, nothing was certain - was he actually going to let his idea go? Was it just a prank on the two of them? Wren frowned and hunched his shoulders, as if to protect his neck if Daniel decided to put the collar on him.

"Before you joined us, it was just me and Wren, and it was even more obvious that he was mine. And yet he has his own reminder that I own him. Can't see why it should be different for you, vermin. But since I don't think you're going to just let me put this on you…"

His movements were too fast to even react to - he kicked Castys under the ribs, pushing until he fell onto his back, then stood over him, straddling his waist. Wren swallowed and averted his gaze. Berkeley jolted in place and opened his mouth to say something, anything, subconsciously taking a half-step forward, but then fell silent, knowing there was nothing he could say without making Daniel turn against him. Unlike Wren, he kept his gaze fixed on Castys, trying to convey a plea - don't make him angry, just go along with it - with just his eyes, or, hell, maybe even telepathy.

Castys gave Wren a concerned glance as he struggled uselessly against Daniel, his arms pinned to his sides by the man’s legs. He looked up at him for the briefest second before turning away and meeting Berkeley’s eyes. Something in them made Berkeley forget how old Castys actually was, and for a moment he just looked like a scared kid, which made this all that much harder to watch. 

Castys winced as Daniel pulled the leather around under the back of his neck, fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t looking at Berkeley anymore, wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring ashamedly at the corner of the ceiling, gulping as Daniel threaded the end of the collar through the buckle and started to pull it tight. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was going to beg for Daniel to stop, but it turned into a gasp as the latch of the buckle slotted into the last hole in the leather, cinching the collar snugly around his neck. Smiling, Daniel ran a hand down the side of Castys’s face as the boy beneath him shuddered, his embarrassment all too obvious even from where Berkeley was standing. Daniel’s hand moved lower, settling around Castys’s throat, his thumb stroking the collar’s tag as he took a moment to savor the view.

“I knew being collared would suit you,” he said, voice low, but still feeling loud like a cannon shot in the absolute silence. “Red was a good choice, Berkeley. Such a universal color, isn’t it?”

Satisfied with his work, he straightened and stepped to the side, but Castys didn’t move from his spot, still lying on his back, staring up with empty eyes, his usually active hands just barely twitching. Daniel didn’t mind it in the slightest; with a light step he walked over to where he had left the paper bag, and picked it up, then reached inside and pulled out the second part of Berkeley’s gift.

Berkeley looked away, lips pressed tightly together, his face red from… he didn’t even know what. Embarrassment, maybe - but he had no right to be embarrassed.

Daniel was holding a leash, made of red leather as well, matching the collar. It wasn’t particularly long and couldn’t be extended, but that didn’t matter when it wasn’t supposed to give much freedom of movement. 

          Castys was sitting bolt upright now, his gaze fixed on the leash as he slowly shook his head. His fingers reached up to the collar, feeling for the lack of a ring that he knew was there, fiddling with the lock, the buckle, scrambling to pull it away from his neck as Daniel stalked closer. “You-you can’t be fucking serious with that thing, I’m not gonna let you-”

          “I think we both know that this is going to happen regardless of whether you ‘let’ me or not,” Daniel said calmly, crouching down in front of Castys. For a moment there was silence, tension in the air so thick Berkeley forgot how to breathe, and then Daniel pounced. He grabbed Castys’s wrists in one hand, wrenching them up as he knocked the boy onto his back once more, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand while attaching the leash with the other. Once it was on, he pulled it taut, not moving from his position above Castys, who was staring back at him this time, fire in his eyes as his fists clenched above him.

“Still so feisty,” Daniel chuckled, cocking his head to the side, clearly considering something. “Not complaining, but I know you’re going to try and get your collar off as soon as I let go of you, and we just can’t let that happen, can we?” He lifted his head to look at Berkeley, and nodded. “Can you fetch me some handcuffs? There should be a pair on the shelf.”

Berkeley shuddered, but remained frozen in place, his eyes going wide. His gaze moved from Daniel’s face to Castys’s, and despair twisted his features. He couldn’t do it.

“Handcuffs, please,” Daniel repeated with emphasis, straightening once again and nudging Castys’s side with the tip of his boot, a gentle encouragement to get him to roll over onto his stomach. Unsurprisingly he didn’t get a reaction, so the nudge turned into a kick and a push that knocked the air out of Castys’s lungs, and with the help of a sharp yank of the leash Daniel managed to roll him over and immediately pinned him to the floor with a boot to his back. “Stop struggling,” he ordered as Castys squirmed beneath him, giving the leash another pull, but this time he didn’t let it go lax, instead keeping it tense, the collar digging into Castys’s throat, nearly choking him. Berkeley couldn’t breathe either, and it was clear he was in no state to grab the handcuffs and add to Castys’s already horrible situation.

“I’ll get them,” Wren choked out, scrambling to his feet. Daniel rolled his eyes, but nodded, and he ran up to the bookshelf and took the handcuffs that he was so familiar with, cold, thin, made of metal. 

“Hold this for me,” Daniel said, holding out the leash after grabbing the restraints. 

Wren swallowed, glancing at Castys, then at Berkeley, before accepting the leash with a heavy heart. He didn’t have a choice - and at least he could loosen the grip to allow Castys to breathe freely again while Daniel wrenched his arms behind his back and cuffed them.

“There. Now we're all set." Daniel took the leash back from Wren and grinned. "Come on, vermin. Let's test it out."

That was all the warning Castys got before Daniel pulled hard, and since he couldn't prop himself up on his hands, there was no way for him to relieve the increased pressure of the collar on his neck, choking him. Castys gritted his teeth between gasps, frantically trying to get his legs under him to relieve the pressure. To Berkeley’s relief, he managed to get on his knees and stand up from there, coughing as air filled his lungs again. There was still plenty of defiance in his eyes, and he almost looked like he was going to say something, but he kept quiet, either because speaking was too difficult or out of fear of being muzzled. 

Daniel smiled at him, pleased, and tugged again to force Castys to take a few steps towards him.

"Perfect," he said. "Collars and leashes aren't my MO, but it feels right to use them on a feral thing like you. I can see the appeal," he laughed, shooting a glance at Berkeley as if expecting him to join.

He didn't. He stood, still frozen in place, his fists clenched, and stared. It wasn't the first time he'd seen someone treated like this, and he'd even had to collar someone before, at the buyer's request, but this was Castys, his friend, being dragged around on a leash like a feral animal. 

He forced himself to smile and nod at Daniel, even though it required inhuman effort. He'd already been acting suspicious, unwilling to help, and he couldn't allow himself to make it even clearer to Daniel that he didn't approve of how he was treating Castys. 

Seeming to think Berkeley’s reaction was good enough, Daniel turned his attention back to Castys. “Mmm, I think I liked you down on the ground better, after all.” He started pulling the leash downwards, not letting up until Castys knelt, who rolled his eyes and looked decidedly at the wall as he did so. “Ah, ah,” Daniel said, tilting Castys’s chin up towards him, “eyes on me, vermin.” Castys looked back at him with annoyance, but it only made Daniel’s smile widen. “You’ve been rather obedient since I collared you, you know. It’s a nice change of pace.”

“Congratulations,” Castys huffed. “Want a certificate?”

His snark was promptly ignored.

“Even then, you could do better since it still seems you don’t know your place.” Daniel dropped the leash, stepping down on it before Castys could make a move to grab it and slowly dragging his foot back, forcing Castys to bow his head and lean forward. Before he got very far, though, Castys flopped over onto his side, grinning up at Daniel.

“On the ground. Got it.” He gave him a thumbs-up as best as he could from behind his back. Daniel, unamused, swiftly kicked Castys in the stomach, and Berkeley couldn’t help but flinch. 

Without a word Daniel pulled Castys up to his feet again - only to give the leash a sharp yank forward and kick Castys's leg from under him at the same time, causing him to trip and fall… almost. The leash went taut, leaving Castys suspended in midair for a moment, choking him, before Daniel smirked and loosened his grip. Unable to catch himself with his arms restrained behind his back, Castys fell flat on his face, making Daniel snicker.

"Yep. On the ground."

Hearing Daniel’s amused laugh, seeing Castys fall like that, the beginnings of tears he blinked out of his eyes, the blood dripping out of his nose…it was all too much for Berkeley to watch. He looked away, his gaze landed on Wren, and he felt his powerlessness bubbling up inside of him, turning into anger, and this was the only way he could deal with it, the only thing he could control. Following the thought that sparked in his mind, he grabbed Wren by the arm and dragged him out of the living room.

Wren stumbled after him, too surprised to resist, which might have been a good thing considering who he was dealing with. Daniel didn't seem to pay attention to them at all, too preoccupied with Castys and the mess his blood had made, so before long Berkeley led Wren out on the porch.

And then he punched him square in the face.

Wren cried out, stumbling backwards, but Berkeley pressed one hand to his mouth, pushed him until his back hit the wall, and wrapped his free hand around his throat, glaring at him.

"It should be you," he hissed, tightening his grip; Wren's eyes went wide and he tried to free himself, but with the wall behind him and Berkeley standing so close to him he had nowhere to run. "You should be collared and dragged around and kicked, not him. You-"

He got choked up a bit, and he covered it up with fury, squeezing Wren's throat, making him squirm.

"He doesn't deserve this!" he continued. "He-he shouldn't be here at all, with Daniel, and maybe if you did… I don't know, something, he never would've found out about Castys-" 

He could feel tears coming, which only made him angrier; he let go, but before Wren could catch his breath, Berkeley slapped him hard, causing him to gasp, and grabbed his hair to hold him in place.

"You better do everything you can to make Daniel focus on you instead of him. If you don't, I'll make your life hell."

Despite the shock and pain, Wren couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh of disbelief.

"You made my life hell months ago," he said, doing his best to keep his head up and his voice level even as he trembled. "And I don't deserve this either."

While Berkeley stared at him with an unreadable expression, Wren continued.

"Castys deserves better, but what did you expect?! You're a slaver, you ruin people's lives for a living, and now you're surprised because someone you actually care about got dragged into it?" He shook his head. "Cry me a fucking river, Berkeley."

He wasn't surprised when Berkeley attacked again, slammed him into the wall, kicked him in the stomach with his knee, knocking the wind out of him. What he was surprised by was seeing Berkeley's eyes well up with tears, something he never thought he'd see.

"How dare you- You're nothing- You're- You're worthless, Rackham," Berkeley choked out, and Wren couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction at having clearly struck a nerve, but it didn't last long when Berkeley continued. "Listen to me. You're an idiot, you're weak, you're completely useless, you-you're just a waste of space. You don't matter." Reciting every insecurity, every fear, everything he'd learned, while Wren stared at him, wide-eyed, suddenly on the verge of tears too. "I wasn't there, but I know how your funeral went. Wanna know? Nobody cared. There was cookie-cutter crap about you being a great ranger or whatever, but no one cared. And they definitely didn't care enough to be suspicious of your death."

"I know," Wren croaked, but it was completely different to have those grim thoughts and to hear a blunt confirmation, and of course he started crying, and Berkeley smiled at that.

"Crybaby," he said quietly, and finally let go. "We're going back inside. You can go cry in the bathroom or whatever your hobby is, and don't say a word about this to Daniel, got it?"

Wren did his best to glare as tears trickled down his face.

"He's too busy hurting Castys to care anyway," he hissed, earning himself another quick slap before being grabbed by the shoulders, forcibly turned towards the door, and pushed.

"Walk."

Fuming, Wren obeyed; once inside, he rushed to the bathroom, keeping his head bowed so that Daniel wouldn’t see his tear-streaked face, and locked the door. Berkeley took a deep breath. Blinded by guilt and anger he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing, what taking his emotions out on Wren entailed, but now the realization was catching up to him.

He had left Castys alone, at Daniel’s mercy.

After a while of being pulled around like Daniel’s new favorite toy, Castys found himself surprised when Daniel simply sat on the couch behind him after using the leash to force him to his knees. Was he finally tired of his little Yank Castys Around fest? Ah, nope, there was another jerk of the leash, this one forcing Castys’s head right up against Daniel’s knee. Daniel didn’t let the leash go slack, keeping Castys snuggled against him like a stupid pet. Fuck, whatever, he probably preferred this to being pulled around by the fucking neck. Probably.

When Daniel’s hand slid into his hair, Castys couldn’t help but flinch, feeling his face grow hot as Daniel chuckled. He fought the urge to make some comment about Daniel needing to get a pet cat. The last fucking thing he needed right now was to be muzzled on top of having to wear this stupid collar, so he’d keep his thoughts to himself for the time being. It had already been such a long day, so if Daniel was going to give him an opportunity to rest, he’d take it, even if it was…like this.

He flexed his fingers behind him, wishing he wasn’t still wearing these stupid handcuffs, but it’s not like they were the only thing preventing him from relaxing. Daniel’s hand in his hair was making his skin crawl, and it was all he could do not to shudder, which was especially hard given how close he was to the guy. It’d been a month or so since Daniel had cut his hair, but Castys still wasn’t really used to the feeling of it, especially now that Daniel was touching it, running his fingers through it, ruffling it, smoothing it down, like it was something just for him to play with, so of course he’d do what he liked with it, and that annoyed Castys enough that he had to strongly resist the urge to bite him. Not that it took much for Castys to want to bite Daniel, but still.

Castys wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than being hurt, honestly, because, yes, it didn’t hurt, but this still sucked majorly. Well, at least Berkeley and Wren weren’t here to see it anymore since they’d gone off somewhere, and that was making this a little easier. Maybe that was part of what made this collaring thing so awful this time around. He’d been collared and leashed before, and he’d dealt with it just fine, but something about this particular scenario was just…more humiliating somehow. He’d never had anyone see him this way before, let alone one of the best friends he’d ever had. Not that he didn’t like Wren, too, but their relationship was nothing like the one he and Berkeley had.

The way Berkeley had looked at him…Castys had gotten pretty good at telling how he really felt behind the mask he wore, and that aside he was doing a worse job than usual at hiding it. Honestly, seeing how much all this hurt Berkeley upset Castys more than everything Daniel was doing to him. He could take this, it wasn’t that bad, and even if it was in the moment, soon enough he’d be numb to it anyway. But Berkeley…fuck, he was so worried, and he probably blamed himself when it wasn’t really his fault. He knew how Berkeley got, how he’d spiral, his anxiety so high he could barely focus, and he wished he could hold his hands and help him calm down like he always did. Maybe he didn’t deserve to after how he’d lashed out at Berkeley when he first learned he was staying here, but…maybe he wanted to make it up to him, too, wanted to make up for doubting him. He hadn’t meant to but in the moment it’d reminded him so much of…of her, and he’d just panicked, and…

Daniel’s stupid fucking hand moved lower, lightly stroking the back of Castys’s neck, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, earning a satisfied hum from Daniel. God fuck off dude most people don’t like being touched there you’re not fucking special. Now he was stroking the collar itself, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin on either side. Castys was kind of glad he could make all the faces he wanted at that since Daniel couldn’t see, so that was something. The hand was curled around the front of his throat now, not pressing or choking, just resting, but the message was completely clear. Not that Castys gave a fuck, but oh the vermin boy in him was wanting to chomp so bad. Instead of acting upon his instinct, he slipped into a daydream about biting Daniel’s finger off, the thought alone calming his urge. This wasn’t a battle he particularly wanted to fight at the moment, not when he could hear the sounds of Berkeley and Wren coming back into the house, so he’d settle for being a good little pet vermin. 

For now.

After taking a moment to pull himself together as much as he could, Berkeley entered the living room, where he was greeted by the sight of Daniel sitting on the couch, his hand casually wrapped around Castys's throat, while Castys himself was kneeling on the floor. Berkeley felt sick, and Daniel just smiled at him.

"Look how docile he can be," he said, giving the leash a light tug, making Castys wince.

Berkeley nodded, not saying a word, and all he could think about as he hesitantly sat down on the couch as well was the fact that Daniel didn't even ask about Wren.

He was right. Daniel was entirely focused on hurting Castys now, making his life hell, and Berkeley was all too aware that he was the one to blame.

With a heavy heart he forced himself to look at Castys, locking eyes with him. Castys should be angry, he should hate him, he should glare - but instead he gave Berkeley a reassuring smile, which made him feel like he was going to break down right there and then.

Still, he managed to mirror the smile as best he could. If Castys could stay strong through this nightmare, Berkeley could too.

He owed him that much.

~~~

SV-240 taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

[positivelybeastly]

Mancation: maiming; mutilation / Sinister

"Make the incision, McCoy."

There was a pregnant shine of a scalpel, the movement of an oversized hand, the twitch of fingers . . . and then . . . moments passed.

A sigh.

"I said, make the incision, McCoy."

There was a momentary wobble of a finger, a halting breath - before the scalpel moved, the gleaming stainless steel tip pressing to warm, unmoving flesh, unzipping the thin layer of - in front of the - that covered the, sternum, that . . .

Blood.

A clatter, a turn of a stomach. And then warm, pale fingers on the back of his neck, and Henry went stiff, feeling the familiar touch of his - mentor's hand on the so very human looking flesh of his neck.

"You don't want to disappoint me, do you, Henry?"

The shake of a head.

"So why do you persist in doing so, boy?"

The bob of an Adam's apple, and the garish homunculus that once was, still called itself, Nathaniel Essex, let out another sigh.

"You're fifteen years old, Henry. You're more than old enough to do this now. It isn't even a mutant you're working on yet, this is just a flatscan. They aren't people. You know that. You've seen the research we've done on them, we know that they don't feel pain the same way that we do."

Did they? Did they know that?

"There are thousands of mutants who would kill to be in the position you're in now, boy. Thousands of people with lesser intellects but greater wills to do what must be done, and they're all just sitting, waiting, for the chance that you keep squandering. How long do you think I shall wait? How many chances do you think I'll give you?"

He was quiet. The boy couldn't normally shut up when he was cloistered with his books and his research journals, but the instant it came time to do some actual damned work, he was quiet? The human spine of him was so very disgusting.

". . . I had high hopes for you. I selected you personally."

There was - a vague memory. Henry wasn't sure if it was blanketed out by some kind of mental alteration, by what he knew to be a young mind's inability to form long term memories the same way a fully formed one did, or if it was just . . . fear.

A fear of half-remembered warmth that had turned so very cold so very quickly. He remembered . . . sitting on the floor, it had been a wood floor, next to a fireplace, he couldn't have been more than - four, maybe five. Very young. Very very young. He could remember hushed, frightened voices, a man and a woman, talking about getting out of America, about leaving the farm behind and just going.

He could remember not liking that idea. Of wanting to stay on the farm, with its strings of golden corn and rich, brown earth, with its never-ending horizon and all the things he could swing from - it was a playground to him.

Everything gleamed, sparkled, it had such lustre, it begged to be looked at, turned over, investigated, prodded, poked. He'd had a field day when he discovered worms liked mud, he'd just sat there watching them for hours until his . . . someone, had found him, told him off, cleaned him up. Held his jaw and smiled, telling him that she wasn't upset, that she just wanted to make sure he was all right, that he could tell her all about what the worms had done over dinner.

Dinner had been burbling away when the knock at the door had come. The low tones and the panicked, assertive whisper-shouts of two people who knew their time was running out had ceased, replaced with silence. Just the burbling of a pot.

The swing of a door. A shadow in the doorway. A voice.

His voice.

Every time he tried to remember past that point, it got hazy. Complicated. Like a knot of hair that had been left to scraggle around itself for months, tangled so tight it was impossible to unwind, fit only to be cut out and regrown healthy. Untangled. Uncomplicated.

"I have raised you, taken a special interest in your education, in your growth, in your being. You would be lesser without me, you know that, don't you?"

In his mind, Henry pulled at that tangle, and it bled. He could remember - smoke, coagulating in his lungs, choking him. He could remember a sweet smell even through the salt of tears, blood soaked wood, and then pale. White. Pale white with a little red diamond.

"You insult me with your silence, Henry, but that's fine. It's the burden of a father to be disappointed by his son. You have one week. If I return to this lab and you do not have results for me, you'll be released from your service and you can make do out there."

There was an instinctive chill at the mention of out there. A tensing, a revulsion, a creeping horror at the knowledge that the world was not as it should be and there was nothing anyone could do to make it the way it should be.

Footsteps. The door. And then, as if like magic, the air returned to the room.

Henry breathed and pulled back, his hands shaking as he looked down at the tiny incision he'd made, barely a cut, really, but even just that speck of blood had made him want to retch. An invisible hand reached over the back of his and squeezed, directed him to grab a surgical cloth and clean, apply pressure, stop the bleeding.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He pulled away the instant he could, moved to the sink, refused to look in the mirror for as long as he could. Why hadn't he been able to do it? He'd been taught the correct method, he had studied all the surgical manuals, it should have been easy, he had hands that could, that could disassemble and reassemble a pulse particle rifle in twenty seconds, that could detect the vibrations from the music three floors down if he pressed his palm to the walls, his hands never shook, but the instant he'd . . .

He looked up, in the mirror, and winced. He was pale. Sweaty, weak, white as a sheet, god, he was disgusting. Why was this the hand that his X-gene had dealt him? Why did he have to look so basely human? Why did he have to look so degenerate, so much lesser? Why couldn't he have been one of the lucky ones?

His mutant gift was concentrated in hands that couldn't do the work he had been given. What cruel irony was this?

*

"Have you read the Lord Apocalypse's latest treatise, McCoy?"

Henry's eyes flicked up from the food he'd been pushing around on his plate with a blunted knife, regarding Kavita with a cool, cautious eye. She was a human, but - she was all right, by most standards. Allowed to work with the other mutant scientists by virtue of her intelligence and her willingness to work in the ways that Henry found so hard, she was probably a front runner for his replacement if he continued to falter.

For a moment, he considered plunging the knife into her throat, just on the off chance that happened.

"What? No. No, I have not, I've been - busy."

Busy being not busy. Busy staring at the drugged subject on his lab table, trying to work up the nerve to carve them open and nourish himself with the information that was hidden inside. Busy trying to be someone he wasn't.

"Too busy to read the Lord's latest treatise . . ? That doesn't sound like you."

He scowled.

"If you wish to continue to be enigmatic, Rao, you can leave. I'm in no mood to entertain you today."

Kavita rolled her eyes, knowing better than almost anyone that Henry was just in one of his moods, and though she elected to leave, as he'd suggested, she did, nonetheless, slide over a pamphlet - a slim one, by Apocalypse's standards, but that usually boded well. That usually meant less philosophy, more science.

'The Awakening of Mutancy - Secondary Mutation.'

"I think you'll find it an interesting read. It's still just theory, for the most part, but Apocalypse truly believes that there's potential in it."

*

Henry devoured it. From the first word to the last, it was seared into his brain, because in amongst the quasi-religious, gallingly obvious propaganda about the purity of the mutant form, there was science here - there was theory, there was data, there was hypothesis, there was . . . promise. Unfulfilled, as of yet, but it was there.

X-gene manifestation at puberty as a result of a cocktail of hormones, adrenaline, acetylcholine, forming a brand new hormone that had yet to be isolated, but that was theorised to be the root cause of mutant gifts. A hormone. Fascinating. Chemical instructions, chemical blueprints for a new form that catalysed the unique genetic markers, pulled something new out of the code, a form of alchemy, really.

Fascinating.

Fascinating.

*

"Rao, I assure you, Essex knows the specifics of this project, and it's to him, and him alone, that I'm responsible. Now, if you'll excuse me, this cell diagram has to be programmed immediately. And to do that, I'll need absolute concentration. Which means, I'm afraid, you'll have to leave."

There was a moment of pregnant silence as Kavita took Henry McCoy in, took in the frantic, manic little man as he all but raced from table to table, from station to station, before she spoke.

"Henry, this is . . . you only have three more days before Essex returns, and you haven't even begun to do the work that he's asked you to do. Are you sure you should be wasting time on this?"

"It's not a waste of time. You don't understand."

The short, clipped tone made Kavita feel as though she were staring at Henry through a funhouse mirror - he was still unmistakably himself, still that same too intense fifteen year old with a mop of brown hair, but there was a look in his eyes that was . . . impulsive. Propulsive. Determined. Worrying.

"I almost wish I hadn't given you that pamphlet now, it's clear that I set you down a path for fai - "

In an instant, he was upon her, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her against the nearest wall. Her head bounced and she groaned in pain, but even though she could see a flicker of remorse in those searing blue eyes, it didn't stop him for even a second.

"I. Will not. Fail. I can't fail. It's impossible. I'm too smart to fail. I just need time, to focus, and I don't need wittering little humans with their fragile little four chambered hearts and their shrunken brains to talk to me as if they know me."

Kavita swallowed.

"Henry, your heart is - "

"Six chambered. Just because I look like you, just because I look like a genetic mistake, doesn't mean I am. What matters, is what is in here - " He tapped fervently at his temple and his heart. " - and that is mutant." He released her, stepping back, breathing deeply, and she rubbed at the back of her head.

". . . You've done me a service, Kavita. That pamphlet was the key. But you are, in the end, only human. Don't forget that. No-one will ever let you."

He turned, and she watched him stalk over to the cell diagram once more.

"I hope - I hope that this brings you what you want, Henry. I hope, more than anything, that what you want, is what will make you happy."

*

Perhaps you should have listened to her, Henry. Instead of focusing on the genetic extractor you were developing, perhaps it might have saved you.

"There - it's done. I've finally diluted the precipitate. This . . . this is the hormonal extract, the chemical cause of mutation. With this solution, we'll be able to extend the natural chromosonal imbalances - in effect, to turn any man into a mutant."

You swallowed, Henry. You could feel, on some level, that this was a moment that would define you. What might other Henry McCoys have done? Put the extract down, throw it in the trash? Accept failure? Accept defeat? Accept the human face that stares at you from the mirror?

Not you, though.

The fear. The sheer, unbridled terror that's sat in your gut since that day so many years ago. The low, dull throb of anxiety that pulses like a second heart inside of you. The crippling, choking shadow of a hand around your throat, and something wet coagulating on your face.

The fear is what makes the decision. Not you. But then, what is a man but the sum of his fears? What is a man but the totality of the roads not taken? What is a man, if not what he'll do to avoid failure?

"Don't know what will happen if you mutate a mutant . . . but I've got to take the chance. I've got to."

That wasn't precisely the truth, was it, Henry McCoy? You didn't have to. But the fear that's driven you since you were five years old and newly adopted by a thing not of this earth told you differently, and you took the hormonal extract, and . . .

You changed.

Blinding, searing pain - for a moment, you thought you might have swallowed acid. You bent over, clutched at your stomach, and for that long moment, you thought, this is what it means to die. But that was when you understood.

It's all right to die. Resurrection, reformation, rebirth, re-emergence, resurgence, is what separates the man from the mutant, after all.

And resurrected you were. Your skin burst, the flesh separating from the muscle as the soft cells of a human burned away, to be replaced. Your nails surged forward, blood bubbling up around the cuticle as the digits swelled and everything about you grew. You screamed as that hole inside of you was suddenly filled to overflowing, as newfound strength thrummed through you, new life, new power, new you.

It's all right to die, isn't it, Henry? Nothing of value inside of you was lost. Not truly. Some other Henry McCoy might see this as a curse, but you . . . ahhh.

You were blessed.

*

"Well now, Henry, young Doctor Rao here tells me that you've been quite the busy bee - I do so hope that you've applied yourself to - "

Essex stopped.

The broad back that worked and flowed and tensed and relaxed before him was covered in a thick layer of harsh black fur. Heavy strands of hair were braided, hung low with beads. There was a glimpse of a hand, twisted into cruel, shimmering claws and grabbing, eager fingers, and Kavita brought her palm up to her mouth. She spoke through her fingers, taking it all in.

"What is all this?"

The voice that answered was deep, sonorous. There was a rumble to it that wasn't quite human. An edge to it that wasn't quite all there, or, maybe it was. It sounded so very sure.

"It's science."

Essex's voice was dubious.

"Science. How delightfully vague, Henry. What have you been doing? I hope for your sake it's been what I told you to do."

Henry - or, whatever it was that had assumed Henry's shape - turned around, and Kavita wanted to scream. Essex, even, started.

A mouth twisted with glee at their reactions.

"Why, Kavita, Nathaniel, you look as though you've seen a ghost. But then, perhaps that's accurate."

He stepped aside, revealing the body flayed open, pinioned with steel rods, the flesh taut like canvas, organs conspicuous by their absence. There had been no mercy, no invisible hands, no memory here. Just efficiency. Just good, honest science.

"After all, a ghost is nothing more than a memory, a memory of who we once were, before we become what we must."

The thing laughed, and Sinister laughed with it - delighted. Proud.

"And what am I to call my young protege, now that he's become what he was always meant to be?"

It was almost affectionate, the way Sinister's tongue curled around the words, and Kavita could see the creature revel in them. He didn't have to think twice.

"Beast. Call me Beast."

[ask-the-becile-boys]

Fic: Dee (crosspost)

Word Count: 3980

CW: Self Harm, Emotional/Verbal/Psychological Abuse

Summary: Thadeus attempts to revive Delilah and fails. Hare adopts the abandoned creation– a reclusive, angry mannequin– as his sister, Dee. (Originally intended to bring people up to speed with Dee’s character, now serves to provide some more detail and context to her backstory.)

-H-

A few months after Jack’s accident, Pops began working on something in the attic. He carried the scant supplies up the stairs himself, as opposed to having The Skull do the labor. Hare could hear Pops talking as he worked, the words muffled through the floorboards; one time he even heard Pops singing, and it sent a too-human chill down his metal spine. Nothing that made Pops that happy could spell good news.

-D-

There was light, and there was shadow. A shadow, thrown over her, a body outlined by a white circle glowing behind them, too bright, too bright. Everything felt wrong. This wasn’t her body. This wasn’t a body.

“Delilah?” the shadow asked, voice deep, curious, plaintive, demanding.

She might’ve been Delilah. A Delilah, at least, or something like that. She was unsure how she was moving when there was no feeling of flesh in her arms, no air in her chest.

The shadow stepped forward and she saw it was a haggard man with ugly metal gauntlets. “Do you recognize me?” he asked.

“Where am I?” she asked, ignoring his question. “What’s happened to  me?”

She held out her hands to look at them. Cloth, stitches between the joints, shaking. The man enfolded her hands in his own, trapping her in place.

“You’re alive, again,” he said. “It’s been--”

“I was dead?” she asked. “Dead? No. No!”

“Calm, dearest Delilah,” the man said. “It is all going to be alright.”

She knew a lie when she heard it, and she bowed her head over their hands and sobbed, fear afresh for her lack of tears.

-H-

Hare stood at the foot of the attic stairs and listened to the woman crying. Horror kept his limbs frozen while his thoughts raced. When had she gotten here? How had Pops slipped her past all of them? He barely stirred when The Skull’s heavy footsteps sounded next to him.

“What are you doing?” The Skull said, his words more warning than question.

Hare didn’t respond. There was no way The Skull couldn’t hear her. The first step creaked dangerously under Hare’s foot as he began to climb.

The Skull seized Hare’s arm just above a long tear in the sleeve made by The Jack’s teeth. “Don’t,” he said, voice low. “We should learn more first.”

“Learn more about what?” Hare asked, good eye staring wide at The Skull. “He’s got a girl up there. We’ve gotta get her out!”

“And then what? He dismantles you for interfering?” The Skull’s grip tightened. “No. Leave it alone, for now--”

Hare swung, they scuffled, and Hare hit the ground, making it shake. He scrambled up and went careening down the hallway, seething, plotting, dripping oil.

-D-

It was the third night. Heavy footsteps, unlike the first man’s, were coming up the stairs. She tried to stay still as the door opened, keeping her back to this newcomer, but her fingers continued to pick at her not-flesh through her sleeves. She’d been given a white dress to wear, long and old, dust in the seams, and a wig to cover her head, hide her glass eyes.

“Psst!” the newcomer hissed in a raspy voice at her back. “Hey, lady! I’m going to get you out of here!”

She did not turn, afraid to show them what sort of thing she was. But an ungiving hand, clad in a red glove, took hold of her elbow, and she looked at them and screamed. Shark-like teeth tore their way up left side of their metal mask, up to a glowing green cat’s eye, and there was no eye where the right one should be, just an oily void, and there was no face under that mask, was there?

“Get away from me,” she keened, her voice rising to a dizzying screech. “Get away!”

The metal monster stumbled back, shooting a look at the stairs. It may have been speaking, but she could hear nothing over her own terror, the howl tearing out of her body. A real body would run out of air, force her to breath, but she had no real body, she was as much a monster as the metal thing that now ran from her.

The first man, Thadeus, appeared a few minutes later. There was a splatter of dark oil on his gauntlets.

“That was Hare, my dear, only Hare,” he said. “A creation of mine that can’t help but cause trouble. Do not fret, Delilah. I’ve made it very clear he is not to bother you again.”

-H-

Like hell was Hare going to give up that easily. So the woman wasn’t a woman, per se; that didn’t make her crying any less real. If she was the product of Pops’ hands, for whatever twisted reason-- well, so was he. That made her his sister, as far as he was concerned.

The Jack wasn’t getting any better, but he was stabilizing into a new normal. Hare still had to spend a lot of time watching out for him, making sure his confusion didn’t lead to destruction. But whenever he saw Pops headed for the attic, Hare would set everything aside to crouch at the steps below, straining to listen. Most of the time he couldn’t hear more than their tones of voice-- Pops, uncharacteristically beguiling, and Hare’s sister, distressed, and growing quieter each day.

-D-

Thadeus would come by every day for a few hours and talk to her, bringing old photo albums and palm-sized paintings for her to look at as he tried to jog her memory. Sometimes he would read off from dense research papers, studies on chemical interactions that she found completely abstruse. There were boxes of women’s clothing--none of her (her?) old belongings, he explained with obvious regret, but things of her style, garments that might make her feel more like her old self.

Nothing helped. She could remember nothing of this Cavalcadium, or of a younger Thadeus, or of science. There was only a vagueness of feeling where her memories should be, dream visions: wet, swampy fields; ticks and chiggers; brushing a child’s hair; tin-sided houses; the sunset sparkling in lines on water.

The manor below was scarcely quiet; a madman lived down there, who would laugh broken screams, and another two whose arguments sometimes carried on right below her, bellowing insults in rough voices. All three were ‘creations’ of Thadeus’s work, including the so-called Hare. But Thadeus acknowledged them rarely, with open disdain.

“Only one is useful,” Thadeus said. “I keep the other two so as to keep him placated. Perhaps one day, when you are better,” he said, like it was a forgone conclusion. “Your presence will be enough emotional support for The Skull. You were always kind.”

She didn’t feel kind. It took all of her strength not to scream at Thadeus for fear of what he’d do in return. Would he destroy her? Find some way to make this mannequin’s body feel pain? Dangerous men could not be trusted.

The last of Thadeus’s visits wasn’t special. It was quiet. He was speaking about something, and she was barely listening, letting him hold her hand. A passing remark snagged on the trace of a memory.

“She has a young child, now,” Thadeus was saying. “At a particularly troublesome age.”

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. “All the ages are troublesome. My daughter would cry--”

Thadeus’s grip became vice-like for a moment, then slowly pulled away. “… Your daughter?”

Had she a daughter? Yes. She nodded.

“Delilah Morreo had no children,” Thadeus said. He left, then, and she never saw him again, not in the flesh. In the dark of night, when she wasn’t in the half-awareness she now called sleep, his silhouette lingered in the shadows. In the day she would stare at the stairs door and wait, and wait, and wait for him to open it.

How dare he.

How dare he.

-H-

Pops forbade any more talk of the lady in the attic. “A waste of resources,” he had muttered bitterly, making Hare’s oil prickle like battery acid, nearly launching himself at his creator in a fury if not for The Skull hovering nearby. Instead he stalked through the manor, ignoring The Jack when he called to him, and stormed up the steps. But with every stair ledge his self-consciousness grew, until he came to the door and stood silently before it, anxiety gnawing.

Pops didn’t even give her a name. Of course he hadn’t-- he hadn’t given The Skull his, either, and he hadn’t thought he was some reincarnation.

But Hare had one. And it was time he properly introduced himself.

-D-

When the door finally opened again, it wasn’t Thadeus, but the metal monster she’d seen on her third night. Reflexively, she froze, then threw a mug Thadeus had left behind at his head.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Leave me alone!”

The monster ducked back out and the mug shattered against the wall next to the door. Damn him, damn him! She wanted nothing to do with monsters, even if she herself was monstrous. She wanted nothing to do with danger, so there would be no more silence around dangerous men, no more waiting for the disasters that followed mistakes. If this attic was her only safety, she would defend it.

She would hold her ground, even if she didn’t deserve it.

She groaned, looking down at her inhumanity. It was a constant reminder that she was wrong, that her existence was abhorrent to nature. Her hands felt no sensation, but her soul ached. Damn Thadeus. Damn his ugly creations. Damn herself.

She finally picked a small tear in the cloth of herself, in the torso, and the material tore in a satisfying, grating rip.

-H-

Hare stared, standing halfway through the attic door. He’d given her some time to cool down, and now bunches of stuffing were scattered on the rug, and his sister was laid out with her side torn open.

“Oh, hell,” Hare whispered. “Oh, hell, what did you do?”

He went to her and gently shook her shoulder. Nothing. Was she dead? There was nothing in the stuffing that indicated a power source, no tell-tale glow from within the open cavity.  Hare began to tear apart the room and found a sewing kit in one of the boxes.

He hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t touch her while she wasn’t responsive-- but she might continue ripping herself apart if he waited, and this, this amount of tearing, surely if he could pick a lock he could use a little needle?

Easier said than done, but he tried his damnedest. It was an ugly job at the end, but it held the stuffing in and it didn’t unravel when he tugged at it. And just in time; Hare looked up from the stitches to meet his sister’s furious eyes, and she slapped him. Her hand bounced off his face harmlessly, and they scowled at each other for a silent moment.

“I told you to leave me alone,” she said imperiously.

“I was never very good with directions,” Hare replied dryly. He leaned back from where he was kneeling, giving her a little space, but otherwise held his ground. “So. You’re not Delilah, but I gotta call you something.”

“I have a name,” she spat.

“Yeah? What?”

“It wasn’t,” she said, faltering. “It wasn’t not ‘Delilah,’ it was… something with a ‘D,’” she muttered, looking away.

Hare thought for a moment. “With a ‘D,’ eh? How’s just ‘Dee’ sound? You like that?”

She shrugged. “Fine. It’ll do.”

When Hare left, he closed the attic door behind him and paused, looking at it. He took off his glove and laid two bare claws against the wood, and he gouged it with straight lines, down, down-right, down-left. ‘D’.

“It’ll do,” he said quietly.

-D-

There was scarce to do in the attic, and Dee’s conversations with Hare often ended in awkward silence for lack of things to discuss, and the discomfort made her irritable. Hare soon learned to leave early, and that left hours upon hours in the day alone.

She tossed the things Thadeus had brought her out the bigger of the two windows; she spied a tall figure, one she often saw tending the grounds, retrieving the items from the bushes. She looked through the boxes and found a few things: embroidery kits that held no interest; empty journals that she sketched birds and bugs in; old novels, dense in the style of those decades.

Mostly, she slept. She could sleep for days, aware enough to notice the shifting of the sun and moon or Hare sticking his head in to check on her, yet detached enough that the time passed quickly, her foggy memories creating landscapes that she could walk (walk!) through.

One day she came back to herself to find Hare thumbing through one of the novels she’d left out.

“You like these?” Hare asked, glancing up from the dust-yellow pages.

“They’re too hard to read,” Dee grumbled.

“Yeah?” Hare said.

He brought her some new books after that, pulp fiction he’d grabbed by the handful, and colored pencils for her journals, and boxes of puzzles, and crosswords and comics. He lugged up a radio one day and a record player another, and fed wires down through the floor for power.

She tried to summon thankfulness. But there was so much rage curdled in her chest that her words came out viperous, that she’d smash the records or tear the pages from the books. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to exist. She was lonely. She had hatred in her and Hare was her only witness.

Sometimes, on the bad days, her fingers would still make their way to her seams. Hare would huff and grumble, but he didn’t lecture. And with the passing of years, his stitching improved, the threads holding tighter despite the fraying of her cloth edges.

-H-

Pops died.

Hare went up to the attic after the burial, dirt and grass still sticking to his gloves. Dee was laying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers played thoughtfully over her lips.

“I felt him die,” she said, speaking before Hare could even try to explain.

“That’s... great, Dee.”

“I’m glad.”

Hare didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to scream and cry and laugh and pick Dee up and carry her outside so she could see everything she’d been missing.

But he couldn’t touch her; he was filthy. So he left her to lay in the sun, and he grieved alone.

-D-

Dee was curious; how had she felt Thadeus die? In her dreams she often walked around the attic, and sometimes when she looked down at herself she was a human, a barefooted woman in overalls. She’d even had dreams where Hare was human, a scarred, olive-skinned man.

She wondered…

It took effort, like steering a ship liable to capsize. But Dee had long mastered falling asleep at her own volition, and she had nothing if not time to practice. She focused on her dream self, tried to stay in the attic and ignore the lure of the memory-landscapes. She could feel the wood under her feet in a muddled sort of way as she walked from one end of the room to the other, but did not feel the warmth of the sun. Perhaps there was not enough substance to sunlight to feel in this state.

But she never, never went through the door to the stairs, not even as a walking ghost. What if she didn’t make it back? What if the vile tether keeping her and her body together snapped when she got too far away? What if the manor below was even more nightmarish than she imagined?

-H-

They had a new engineer, a reedy scrapper son-of-a-bitch named Riker Szarka. Hare hemmed and hawed over the decision to bring him up to see Dee. He settled on the decision when he noticed Dee’s arm bending a little funny at the elbow.

“I think her frame is bent,” Hare said to Szarka as he led him to the attic. “Should be an easy fix, but I don’t know nothing about fixing metal and joints.”

Hare glanced inside, waiting a few moments to see that Dee was asleep on the couch before steeping in. Szarka followed, then froze.

“That’s not a robot,” Szarka said, seemingly more disturbed than confused.

“Close enough, right?” Hare said. He grabbed the seam ripper from the sewing kit and gently took Dee’s arm.

Szarka hesitated before stepping closer. He leaned down-- and Dee’s arm tore out of Hare’s grip, her hands clawing at Szarka’s face and neck.

“Don’t touch me!” Dee screeched. Szarka fell backward on his ass, luckily out of strangling range, his cigarette falling to the rug. “Get out, get out!”

Szarka obliged her, scrambling to his feet and bolting from the room, leaving the door open behind him.

“How dare you,” Dee sobbed, seething at Hare. “You brought that man here to--”

“Your arm, Dee--”

“--Damn the arm--”

“--I just wanted--”

“--I don’t care what you want--”

“--Stuck up here, and I can’t fix it--”

“--I hate you, I hate you all--”

“--It’s like you want to fall to pieces--”

“--Let me, then, I don’t care if I--”

“WELL I DO!”

Hare and Dee glared at each other.

“I give a shit, Dee,” Hare said, brow low, a drop of oil gathering at the rim of his broken eye. “I want you to be okay.”

“Why?” Dee asked, voice flat. “Why would a monster like you care about a monster like me?”

“Damn needing a reason,” Hare said. “I chose to. Every day, I choose to. Because the day I stop caring about you, and Jacky, and Skull, that’s the day I can’t keep going no more. It’s an ugly world out there, sister. Caring’s all we got. And you got me in your corner even if you wish you didn’t. So suck it up.”

Dee paused. Her lip twitched a few times, then she began to smile nastily. “Your friend looked like he pissed himself. Not very brave, is he?”

“You should’a seen him when he met Jacky,” Hare said. “But he ain’t run away yet.”

“Not very smart, then, either.”

“You can be real mean, you know that?” Hare shook his head. “You gonna let me look at your arm or not?”

Dee thought. “Fine,” she said. “But I will take out the seams.”

Hare narrowed his eye. He held up the seam ripper. “Do it the right way.”

A moment passed, then Dee held out her open palm.

-D-

Another day. Another sunrise, another herd of clouds crossing the sky.

“You reading The Lord of the Rings again?” Hare asked.

“Yes,” Dee said, not looking up.

Another day. Eventually there would be no more. But for now there was pattern and routine and her favorite books and dreams.

“Beautiful day out. You wanna come down and we’ll have a picnic?”

“Go to hell.”

“Love you too, Dee.”

-Bonus-

Dee was settled on the couch that day, with her stand crooked out in front of her. Hare’s eye dropped to the old, white dress in her lap—the same one she’d been wearing when he’d first seen her. Surprisingly, it seemed to still be in one piece. He approached her slowly, wary of her quiet mood.

“What’cha doing, Dee? You, uh… wanna put that on?”

“… No.” Dee lifted her head and frowned at him, continuing the play with fabric in her hands. “I just… I thought I felt cold, for a moment. And the dresses he gave me are the only clothes I have.”

Hare stared at her blankly. Clothes. He had never thought to bring her up any clothes. “You, uh… never said you wanted any.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, pushing the dress off her lap and onto the ground. “I can’t feel if I’m wearing them or not. And a monster has nothing to hide.”

But Hare watched her frown and stare into the distance. “You know what,” he said. “I got an idea. I’ll be back.”

He rapidly descended the steps and began sleuthing through the manor, looking for The Skull. He found him reading the newspaper in a sitting room. “Hey, Skully.”

The Skull ignored him.

“Oi, bones-for-brains, I’m talking to you.”

“What is it.” The Skull didn’t look up from his newspaper, but his grip on it tightened in annoyance.

“I need a sweater. You got one?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Hare sputtered. “Are you freaking kidding me? Two hundred for a lousy sweater?”

“That’s what my time is worth. You want something cheap, go to Wal-Mart.”

“You crank these things out every time you sit down like it was nothing. You ain’t got one just lying around?”

“No, not that’ll fit you or will breath proper for your furnace. And it’ll need to be black to hide the soot stains.”

“It ain’t for me, numbskull!” Hare shifted uncomfortably, glancing away. “It’s for Dee. She’s cold.”

Slowly, The Skull lowered the newspaper and shifted a calculating gaze onto Hare. “… Cold, huh?”

“That’s what she said.”

The moment stretched, the silence scratching at the inside of Hare’s head. Just as he was about to hiss another sharp remark, The Skull finally spoke up. “That upstairs closet by my room’s got a box of them in it. Ain’t nobody else in this house gonna wear ‘em. She can have those.”

Hare, shocked, started to speak a few times, but choked them down, unsure of what to say. Finally he decided on a simple OK gesture, and, turning from the room, left.

As The Skull returned to his newspaper, Hare’s head popped back around the door frame.

“You lied right to my face ‘bout there not being any lying ‘round.”

“Yup.”

“Jackass.”

Hare found the box easily enough. Huffing smoke, he maneuvered the overflowing box up the stairs to the attic and dropped it at Dee’s wheels. “Here, take a look at these!” He said with a grin. “Hand-stitched by our good ole buddy Skull. He, uh. Sends his regards.”

“Does he?” Dee mumbled, leaning over and sinking her hands into the pile. “That’s polite, for a monster.” Hare let the comment slide, watching as she cautiously sorted. Eventually, she pulled one loose—gray with a dark picture patterned on the front. She looked at it for a moment before pulling it over her head.

“So,” Hare said as Dee smoothed out the wrinkles and readjusted her wig. “What do you think? Feel any better?”

“… I don’t feel anything,” she said. Hare started to deflate, but then she pulled the front of the sweater taut and looked down at the picture. “What is this?”

Hare squinted at the three figures on the sweater, then laughed. “Those are elephants. In the circus, they line up and hold onto each other’s tails with their trunks. So you got mama,” he pointed to the largest elephant, then down the line. “Sister, and baby. It’s cute, ain’t it?”

“They look like that thing in the backyard,” Dee said, looking toward the larger of the circular windows. “But rounder.”

“… Yeah, that one’s metal.” Hare’s voice took on a strange, unusually soft quality. “A metal elephant, same as I’m a metal person.”

“… I see.” Dee paused for a minute, then wrapped her arms around herself. “I think I like this one.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll have to tell Skull he’s done the impossible.”

But he didn’t need to. At the foot of the stairs to the attic, The Skull was already listening. He glanced up the stairs thoughtfully, then nodded. That was good enough. And he walked away, leaving the soft sounds of Hare and Dee’s conversation behind.

[this-violence-of-mine]

Bloody Pulp

Anyways, here's something I wrote in like an hour because I wanted Cyrus to suffer a bit. TW for harsh language, verbal abuse, and violence. Hope y'all enjoy his suffering as much as I do!

~

Pain immediately exploded through the side of Cyrus’s face as Barrett’s fist connected to his cheek. He brought his hand up to shield it, but another punch followed just a few seconds after the first. He stumbled back into the coffee table and fell onto it, the glass shattering beneath him.

“How many times have I told you to cut the fucking attitude!” he yelled into his face as he straddled him. “How many times have you disrespected me and my family!”

His heart raced. Blood dripped down from his nose and he could taste copper in his mouth. “Ho-how is calling out your bullshit disrespect?” 

He wrapped his hands around his throat. “I am the man of his house! I own this farm! Everything I say goes even if you don’t like it!” 

Pressure was applied against his windpipe. He grabbed his wrists and tried to pull them away but no matter the force he used Barrett just seemed to be stronger. “Ge-get off me!” he wheezed.

“You have been a thorn in my side ever since Viviana brought you here!” He pressed his thumbs into his throat. “You’ve done nothing to return the favor! I let you stay here for free and you do jack shit!”

Air filled his head. The world around him spun. Everything around him blurred slightly. He pushed his hand against his face in an attempt to get him off.

“You are a burden and you will always be a burden!” He removed his hands but gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him up. 

He gasped and filled his lungs with as much air as he could handle. 

“I don’t know what the fuck she or anyone else sees in you!” He slammed him against the wood.

Dots popped up in his vision as the back of his head collided with the hard surface. 

“Worthless! You’re fucking worthless!” he screamed, bringing him back up and slamming him down once more. “Everything I’ve done for you and still it isn’t good enough!” 

He blinked, his vision doubled. 

“You’re a disgrace!” He slammed him down again. “Nothing you do will make up for the fact you’re you! Cyrus Richards is a no good, worthless, drug addicted piece of shit!” 

He was pulled up and thrown to the ground. He gasped as he hit the wood and rolled onto his side to recover.

A kick landed in his stomach. “St-sop.” He held his hand out to shield himself.

Barrett grabbed his hand and wrenched his fingers back, the bones snapping.

A loud cry came from his throat and he pulled his arm back and cradled his hand.

Another kick landed against his chest, forcing all the air from his lungs. He inhaled sharply. Tears streamed down his face and mingled with the blood.

“You smoke and drink all fucking day while we work our asses off!” He dragged him back up and pushed him against the wall. “What’s your excuse!”

“I-I’ve done more for you than anyone else here you no good piece of-,” he was cut off by another punch to the face.

“That doesn’t make up for your laziness and shitty attitude!” He threw him back down to the ground and punched him over and over again. “Useless! You’re fucking useless!”

“Barrett,” Aimo said from behind him. “This will solve nothing. Leave him alone.”

He looked down at him and frowned. His brows furrowed. He stood up. “Leave him there to figure himself out.” He pushed past Aimo and left to the kitchen.

He looked at him. His face betrayed no emotion. “Are you okay?”

He forced himself to sit up and braced his weight against his good arm. “Do-do I look okay?” He glared at him. “Fuck you.” 

“Do you want me to get Asher or Ivan?”

He shook his head. “No, no. I’ll take care of myself, man.” He stood up, his legs shaky. “Thanks for getting him off me. Wish you did it sooner.”

“You’re very hurt.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” He sighed. “Just-just fuck off and leave me alone.”

He nodded and left towards the kitchen.

With a sigh, he limped from the living room to the front porch. He steadied himself against the beam holding the porch’s roof and dragged himself down the stairs. All the way back to the unused barn he trekked. Pain screamed in his body and demanded attention.

At the barn he climbed into the loft and dragged himself over to where he slept. He fell onto the little cot he had set up for himself and draped his bad hand on his chest.

“I’m fucking pathetic,” he muttered, “what the fuck am I even doing here.”

For a few minutes he stared at the ceiling.

He sat up and searched through the small duffel bag he had stored all his belongings in. He grabbed a roll of duct tape and tore off a strip. 

“Fuck,” he inhaled deeply, “alright, shit.” He grabbed his pointer finger and pulled it out, stifling a scream. Tears streamed down his face as he went onto the second one. He breathed hard. “Two more. Come on you pussy.” He pulled them both out at the same time.

He panted, beads of sweat dripping down his face.

With the strip of tape, he wrapped his fingers together.

“Fu-fuck.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I deserve this.”

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumptober Day 15: Suppressed Suffering + "I'm fine."

Warning for Physical combat, physical abuse, verbal abuse, overworking, exhaustion, meltdown, chronic pain

[arctichotch]

almost hilarious how amber calling johnny a baby or a fat, old man makes her the devil incarnate

but johnny saying he wants to burn her and rape her corpse or calling her a cum guzzler or a whore he donated his jizz to or saying he hopes the gift of breath is taken from her or hopes she’s dead in the back of a honda civic, called her fat ass instead of denying he injured her etc etc is all “dark humour” or “venting”

could you people have more obvious double standards?

[one-time-i-dreamt]

There was a Gordon Ramsay video game for the Nintendo Wii. It was like a deranged Cooking Mama. I remember using the Wiimote to stir pasta and him calling me a bastard and throwing stuff at me. I've never even owned a Wii.

[desertmile]

Sometimes it is hard to fit in...

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Jackdawfoot's Father

Ok my brain is growing thinking about the tragedy that could be Jackdawfoot's parents.

One of them was abandoned in the woods by their kittypet mother. Whatever the reason, they don't know it (or that she was a kittypet). The only thing that they do know is that they were left to die in a storm that washed away all scent of where they came from, and they have no idea why.

The other was never meant to grow up in the Clan, only stayed because their mother died in childbirth. She had planned to stay long enough to give birth and have them walk, then move on. Now they have to stay. It's the only life they know, but they were never meant to know it. That has to create some internal conflict, doesn't it?

(Using non-gendering descriptions because I don't yet know who was who)

Not every serial killer has an abusive parent, but great number do, and Jackdawfoot was written like a classic serial killer, so why not sprinkle in some classic serial killer backstory?

His mother, we know, was good. He did name one of his daughters after her, so she has to be. But his father, Nightspot? We have no shred of info on him.

Maybe Nightspot wanted to be perfect. He felt like he was constantly being judged for his outsider roots and unusual face, height, and fur. Then Jackdaw came out, the biggest of the kits, and the features that Nightspot was insecure about plain as day on his son, as if mocking him. Too, the son had a weird shut eye, and without knowing it, he piled all those insecurities onto his unusual son (also probably because Jackdaw was the only son, making Nightspot see himself and wanting "himself" to be perfect, like Jackdaw was a doll to shape to his liking).

Some things he would do (possible trigger warning, as some quotes may be familiar to verbal abuse victims):

--Shame Jackdaw. "Loyal warriors would never say that."

--Invalidate Jackdaw's feelings / tell him how he should feel. "Be grateful you were given food at all with the way you missed everything today. You should thank the whole Clan for bothering with you."

--Favour the other kits, and make it especially noticeable when Jackdaw was falling behind to "encourage" him. "Why can't you be more like your sister?" OR say "I'm so proud of you!" to them then ignore Jackdaw.

--Humiliate Jackdaw. He does this both as a way of punishing Jackdaw and to show everyone (who he's so worried of judging him) that he does not agree with what Jackdaw did, and that he's not part of that. (Loudly): "Why don't you announce to everyone what you did? Go on, own up to it like a warrior."

--Make Jackdaw "earn" his love.

Nightspot wasn't like this 24/7. He gave Jackdaw rare moments of being a proud, loving father (when he earned his love). And those rare moments were addicting. Jackdaw craved them, craved his father being proud, craved his father acting like he actually loved him. But it was never enough.

Jackdawfoot felt powerless. Nothing he did was ever right, no matter how hard he tried or how long he worked. He didn't realize he was thirsting for power until he found it while fighting a kittypet while on a patrol.

[galaxywhump]

For the Berkeley AU: Berkeley teasing Wren with the idea that Wren killed the only person who ever loved him/will ever love him/was capable of loving him

[SV-240 AU Masterlist]

contents: recapture, muzzle, insults, verbal abuse, referenced creepy/intimate whumper and forced relationship, victim blaming, self-loathing, death threats.

~~~

As if the restraints and the collar weren’t enough, it turns out that the duffel bag contains a muzzle as well. It doesn’t have a bit, but that doesn’t make it any more bearable, especially when Berkeley pulls the straps just a little too tight to ensure it never gets less uncomfortable.

Then, he takes advantage of Wren’s silence and talks, and talks, and talks, his words seeping like poison into Wren’s mind.

“Was Daniel really that bad, Rackham?” He’s busy cleaning the hideout, making it more homely, changing the sheets on just one of the bunks, confirming that Wren will be sleeping on the floor. “I mean, sure, he was kind of a weirdo, but who wouldn’t be after living on that planet for more than a decade.”

A weirdo. Wren frowns. Euphemism of the century.

“Speaking from experience, as far as sadistic buyers go, he wasn’t that bad," Berkeley continues, smoothing out the blanket on the bunk before sitting down with a satisfied sigh. “Especially when he decided to make you his sweetheart.” He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “And he was head over heels for you, happy like a highschooler with a crush. He had a weird way of showing it, but he must have really loved you. I’m sure he'd told you that a bajillion times.”

“I love you, Wren.”

“I love you too.”

The memories make Wren shudder, but he tries not to react otherwise and tune out Berkeley’s voice like he’d learned to tune out Daniel’s, to no avail. Daniel’s words were predictable. Berkeley’s are new, dangerous, and can at any point let him know what to expect before he’s killed.

“If you had given in, I think he would’ve stopped hurting you after a while. Then you’d be two happy lovebirds, or something.” He pauses for effect, then snorts. “Get it? Lovebirds? Because of your name? Fuck, my jokes suck now. And I blame you.”

This time it’s Wren’s turn to roll his eyes when Berkeley points his finger at him.

Still, unpleasant thoughts assault him, hit him like a powerful wave. If he had given in, he wouldn’t be here right now, waiting to be murdered, and before that - tortured. Daniel wanted to kill him too, but if it wasn’t for his escape, he would’ve had several more decades before his life was cut short.

And there were nice times, or as nice as they could be. Cooking together, working in the garden, lying down on the ground to look up at the sky visible among tree branches, swimming in the impossibly beautiful lake, playing board games - all, at least, until Daniel would take his hand, kiss him, whisper words of affection.

But there were other times. Times filled with pain and tears and useless begging, which he could never accept as part of his life.

“You know, Rackham, I’m just wondering… What if that was the best you deserved, and you blew it?”

Wren nearly jumps in place, shocked by the blunt question, his most disturbing thoughts verbalized as if Berkeley could read his mind. He shakes his head, but Berkeley isn’t even looking at him, lying on the bunk, staring up at the low ceiling of the hideout.

“You were a lonely mess before we caught you. That was the reason why I even agreed to sell you in the first place despite whose son you are. I wanted to refuse, but after watching you for a while I realized that no one would’ve missed you, that you could’ve just… disappeared and no one would have cared enough to question your death.”

The longer he talks, the worse Wren feels, curling up to hide the fact that he’s shaking like a leaf. He knows. He knows that he was depressed and lonely and pathetic, he knows he’d made himself an easy target, he knows, he knows, he knows, but he didn’t deserve to be kidnapped and sold, tortured and forced into a relationship he didn’t want, he deserved better, didn’t he?

“And Daniel didn’t mind all that. He liked your personality. If he hadn’t, he would’ve made sure there was nothing left of it.” Berkeley looks at him with a thoughtful frown. “He put up with you. Maybe he was the only one who could.”

Wren shakes his head again, doing his best to glare, but his mind betrays him, descending into self-loathing, agreeing with Berkeley’s words.

“No?” Berkeley scoffs. “You sure? Who else, then? Who else would even want to be around you? Who else could love you? I know you can’t talk, but it’s okay. We both know the answer.”

Nobody.

“Nobody,” Berkeley echoes his thoughts. “If we hadn’t caught you, you would’ve started drinking even more, making out with randos to get the illusion of someone liking you. If I hadn’t caught you, you would’ve realized you’d be alone for the rest of your life. You being a freakin’ hero now doesn’t change that.”

The muzzle makes it hard to breathe. Tears threaten to gather in his eyes, and his heart to crush his ribs.

“I hate your guts, but maybe you should be glad. It means I’ve spent enough time around you to feel some kind of way about you at all. To others you might as well be invisible.”

Stop it. Stop it, it’s not true. It's not.

“There was only one person capable of loving you, and he’s dead now.” Berkeley shakes his head, as if deeply disappointed.

He didn’t love me. It wasn’t love. I deserved better. I still do.

“Yes, Rackham, that’s good.” Berkeley smiles when tears overflow and trickle down Wren’s face, and his chest stutters with a choked sob. “Cry if you need to, but it won’t change a thing. You ruined everything.”

In his current state Wren can’t bring himself to disagree.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

[drifting-rocket]

[It's a video]

[There is a section that details the death of a pokemon, not in depth, but it's still mentioned. The section is marked by two barriers of red bolded dashes as well as the text "A memory" and "Back to the Present" so you can skip over it if you wish.]

[Watch it?]

Above a rocky outcropping on MT Moon under a starry sky, Clefairy, Cleffa, and even a clefable or two spin and twirl in their synchronized dance.

Below them, Elliot sits- still in a shape of his past, his knees pulled close to his chest. Not far away, an absolutely massive Gengar twirls and twists with its eyes closed, mimcking the clefairy above. It lacks the wings they have- though similar spikes protrude from its back.

The gengar opens an eye, pausing its dance to look at Elliot. Its voice echoes in Elliot's mind.

"Elliot, you should dance to- You love dancing with us, right?"

'Elliot' says nothing. The gengar lowers its arms, staring at Elliot.

"Elliot."

"What's the point of this." His voice is calm, and tired. He hasn't slept well for the past few nights.

"Huh? We're having fun. Like we always have." The gengar smiles brightly.

"...You. Are having fun."

The Gengar's smile fades. "Well you would have fun too if you would just play along. But you're being difficult. Now come on- get up and dance with me, Elliot!" The gengar moves towards the boy, Elliot begins to back up, pushing himself to a standing position and bracing against the rocks. This doesn't stop the gengar from grabbing him and pulling him closer to the dancing clefairy, twirling and dancing.

Elliot struggles against the pokemon's hold, "Would you just- augh. Let go of me-" He pushes and pushes, trying to get out of gengar's grasp. "I'm- Let go of me I don't want to dance I- Let go of me!"

Elliot's shout as he finally breaks free of the pokemon's hold and stumbles backwards, startles the clefairy above, they look down, curious as to what's going on. Gengar frowns.

"Elliot you're not playing very nice."

"Because I'm not supposed to be playing at all! I'm not a kid." Elliot's hands ball to fists.

"But-"

"You forced me into this body because you're grasping at the past I would rather forget, at a life we wanted but couldn't have."

"Elliot-"

"That is NOT my name." He shouts, there's some little gasps from the clefairies above. They murmur worriedly. "But you don't want to accept that because you're too afraid to face the truth, Cleffa!"

poof!

It's at this point that the Gengar's spell breaks on Drifter, returning him to the proper age. He stands in front of the pokemon, red in the face, hot tears beginning to flow down his cheeks. Gengar brings its hands to its face, looking shocked.

"I- I just wanted you to be happy-"

"This is not making me happy."

----------------------

A memory.

It's a cold spring evening at the base of Mt Moon. A young boy stares at his first friend, lying motionless on the ground.

A gruff voice speaks with a slur to it, the air smells of blood and alcohol, "That takes care of that. Those damn pink things are too girly for a kid like you. You should have gotten a normal pokemon like a- what're they. sandshrews or smthin? Something manly. Now come on you little freak. It's past your bedtime." The source of the gruff voice grabs the boy by the shoulder, and begins to drag him.

What the boy doesn't see, is the spirit following him.

"hey... hey Elliot where are you going? Let's play more, elliot. Elliot? I'm right here can't you see me?"

The spirit stops at the edge of the town, watching its friend go. Waiting for the boy to come back.

The boy doesn't return.

Back to the present.

----------------------

"Y-you.. you left me-"

"I had to."

"I know who you are. And.. you knew who I was as soon as you began haunting me. But you didn't want to accept it." Drifter coughs, straightening his posture and wiping away the tears. "...And I was lying, because I didn't want to remember either."

"...elliot." The gengar's voice becomes more serious than it had been, as it falls backwards to a seated position.

"...That's not my-"

"I know." The gengar closes its eyes. The clefairy have floated down now, surrounding the two, cooing and chirping.

"...you grew up a lot different to how I thought you'd be."

"...I thought things would be different too." Drifter sighs, sniffling, then laughing a small bit as one of the clefairy around them tries to wipe a tear away.

"...Can we still be friends?" The gengar opens its eyes, looking at Drifter.

Drifter is silent for a moment. "...Things are very different now than they used to be, Cleffa."

"...I don't care that you're.. mean now. I just... want to be your partner. I. Want to be your friend."

He sighs. "Some things are better left in the past."

"...I don't want to."

There's silence. Drifter breaks first, holding out his hands.

"...Let's dance again. Okay?"

The gengar seems to light up at the offer, and pushes itself to its feet. It takes Drifter's hands, grinning.

The two begin to slowly spin around each other, and the clefairy return to the sky to resume their dance, they sparkle.

Like stars in the sky above Mt Moon.

[helldustedstories]

Stolas is very used to having to put on some sort of mask with pretty much everyone.

With his father, he learned to become the dutiful son who was obedient and never showed his emotions beyond what was "respectable" for the situation. He knew he meant little to Paimon beyond the fact that he was to carry on the Ars Goetia name (his birthday certainly wasn't the only time his father forgot his name), and he played that part to perfection. Stolas married Stella, despite having absolutely zero interest in any sort of relationship with her, he didn't complain about …. basically anything.

Because if he ever did, he would be belittled and put down. He was excited about getting his grimoire and learning what his job was going to be, only for that to be immediately followed up with "Also, you're going to marry this person you don't know and the picture I'm showing you is of her actively hurting her pets." And when Stolas understandably reacted to that, he was told "that's an ugly noise" and to "cease this bitch crying."

It certainly wasn't the first time his father told him something like that, and it wouldn't be the last.

He's so drawn to Blitzo at the circus because the performer was clearly excited about what he was doing, and he didn't let his failure to make a balloon horse right away get him down. Instead, he kept trying and when he made a horse without legs, he made a joke about it instead. And when Stolas laughed, he responded to him and appreciated the fact he'd gotten a response, which was also a first for Stolas.

He was already starry-eyed about Blitzo before the latter came to the house because of that tiny interaction, and then suddenly, Blitzo was there, in his house. He had liked that Stolas had laughed at his joke; maybe he could share some things of his own, share any of himself without being scolded for it! Sure, Blitzo wasn't that interested in his books, but he showed Stolas something he'd never had before: how to play games. Stolas was able to have fun and be himself without fear for the first time.

He truly considered Blitzo to be his friend, and if he'd had any way of keeping in touch, he would have.

But that was the last time he was really allowed to behave in any way childishly. Because after that point, he had to become the dutiful son again, focus on his studies. No more carefree days of playing with other children.

And when he came of age, he married Stella. He certainly wasn't interested in their marriage, but he tried very hard to be, hoping that if he put in the effort, it would change how he felt.

But once they had Octavia (when he was only nineteen), it quickly became clear that his marriage to Stella was going to continue to be one of convenience and nothing more. Stolas still tried to be a good husband, so that he could also be a better father than his had been, but even then, he couldn't really let his himself just be.

Stella continued to put him down, insulting him in pretty much any way she could think of, and he couldn't show how much it got to him. Because if he did, then that would only give her something else to throw back at him.

He tried to shield Via from the worst of it, but every year that went by, it got harder and harder to do.

Other than his daughter, he was incredibly lonely, sequestered for much of his life, and controlled in some aspect for so much of it.

It's part of the reason why, when his first friend returned, and showed interest in him, Stolas was so intrigued. He'd never felt wanted before that point, never had anyone express any sort of desire for him, and for it to be this person he'd been himself with, even if it had been twenty five years previous, is so foreign to him.

And so when Blitzø is flirting and forward, even then, because he has no idea how to act in this situation because he's never been in this sort of situation before, he tries to match Blitzø's energy because that's what he wants, right? And Stolas is used to putting other people's wants before his own.

But as he spends more time with Blitzø, especially when they're not just sleeping together, he starts to show more of himself, starts to actually let someone see who he really is. And that's how he has the courage to stand up to Stella, to finally initiate a divorce. Because if someone like Blitzø, this bold, courageous, funny, amazing person can see him for who he is and doesn't immediately push him away or hate him, then maybe he can do something for himself for once. Maybe he can make his own life better.

Because now he knows there is a better. He had been trying to stick it out and stay in the marriage, to try to provide Octavia some form of stability, but that hasn't been working, and is, in fact, actively harming his daughter. Which is even more important than his own well-being. He's going to do better so that he can also be better for Octavia, if it's not too late. The status quo hasn't been working, and Stolas is finally figuring out a way to take off his masks, even the ones he wears for himself.

[ask-the-becile-boys]

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Word Count: 3980

CW: Self Harm, Emotional/Verbal/Psychological Abuse

Summary: Thadeus attempts to revive Delilah and fails. Hare adopts the abandoned creation-- a reclusive, angry mannequin-- as his sister, Dee. (Originally intended to bring people up to speed with Dee's character, now serves to provide some more detail and context to her backstory.)

[sharry-arry-odd]

The man behind the counter didn't seem to be afraid of the children. But he was afraid of Arthur. "How dare you?" Arthur said quietly, and Linus thought of a tiger hunting. "How dare you speak to them that way? They're children." "I don't care," the man said, taking a step back. "They're abominations. I know what their kind is capable of–" Arthur took a step forward. "You should be more worried about what I'm capable of." The room felt warmer than it'd been just moments before. Much warmer. "Arthur, no," Zoe said. "Not here. Not in front of the children. You need to think this through." Arthur ignored her. "All they wanted was ice cream. That's it. We would've paid and they would have been happy, and then we would have left. How dare you, sir!" Linus stepped forward in front of Arthur. He turned away from the man behind the counter to look up. He took Arthur's face in his hands. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. "This isn't the right way to go about this." Arthur tried to jerk his face away, but Linus held on. "He can't–" "He can," Linus said quietly. "And it's not fair. At all. But you need to remember your position. You need to remember who looks up to you. Who you care for. And what they'll think. Because what you do here, now, will stay with them forever." Arthur's eyes flashed again before he slumped. He tried for a smile, and mostly made it. "You're right, of course. It's not–" The bell above the door tinkled again. "What's going on here?" Linus dropped his hands and stepped back. "Helen!" the man behind the counter cried. "These–these things won't leave!" "Well. They don't appear to have gotten their ice cream yet, Norman, so I should expect not."

The House in the Cerulean Sea, by TJ Klune