#Drug Injury

[contact-guy]

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON - part 5, the end of this particular adventure. (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

content warning for blood, injury, and drug use.

(This is part of the Watsons sketchbook series)

[quixoticanarchy]

Anyway if you've ever taken or ever think of taking montelukast/singulair (asthma medication usually), you should know these are the neuropsychiatric side effects FDA warns for. Obviously won't happen to everyone but I think people should be warned

And these are some of the consequences, mentioned in a recent article:

I took it for six weeks and stopped when I noticed the black box warning myself, but in that time it sent me into a terrible spiral of constant anxiety, emotional lability, worsening of ocd-type thoughts, depressive symptoms, and spikes of inexplicable fear. And the intensity cooled off when I stopped taking the montelukast, but the damage stayed. And it's extremely difficult to tell now what are lingering neuropsychiatric issues that the montelukast caused, vs resurgence of mental health issues I've had for years and years, vs just unspecified manifestations of whatever neurodivergence I have going on, etc etc. But I'm still quite angry that no one ever told me Singulair could do this kind of thing, so if it applies to you - beware

Nothing new in this but I rly do find it unconscionably irresponsible of clinicians not to tell you the side effects of the medications they prescribe you. Especially if they have a fucking FDA black box warning for neuropsychiatric effects including anxiety, depression, and suicidality

Also ime doctors have told me the side effects of meds I'm going to have to take the rest of my life or I die ("you may run into issues with bone density or - the horror - weight gain...") but for meds that weren't actually life or death at all, they didn't tell me shit. And had I known, I would not have taken them! And my mental health probably wouldn't have tanked drastically in 2023, and I wouldn't have spent almost two years trying to get back to my baseline of 2022 before this fucking medication derailed me

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve and Gareth as cousins warm up, part two! 

First part is HERE. 

Next part is HERE. 

Reminder: Someone on Twitter proposed Steve and Gareth as cousins whose family had a major falling out, and then someone else brought it up recently and long story short no idea who to credit the idea too bc you can’t search for SHIT on Twitter but it's theirs not mine.

Warnings: Steve and Robin Get (canon-S3) Drugged. 

"I'm just saying the other theater is cheaper." Eddie said around the straw jammed in his mouth. 

He carried the largest bucket of popcorn Starcourt’s movie theater offered, alongside the two boxes of candy he'd also demanded Gareth buy him. 

"Easier to sneak into, you mean." Gareth corrected, with his significantly smaller bag of popcorn. His, he planned to share with Jeff, Grant having snuck in his own food. 

Gareth himself would have snuck in the cheaper (and far larger) snacks, but Eddie had thrown a fit about going to the mall to see a new movie instead of Hawkin’s far older theater. 

Of course, the older theater also had several disadvantages, key of which was terrible seating, and so, Gareth had bribed him with whatever treats he wanted. 

His wallet took a hit but fuck it, at least they got to actually see the screen. 

Not that they even made it into the fucking theater, because someone chose that moment to crash into Eddie. 

Popcorn kernels and soda flew everywhere, with Eddie only avoiding it landing on him and Gareth both by years of dealing with this exact bullshit in school. Of course, the mall wasn’t school, and neither of them had their guard up. 

"What the hell man--" Eddie spat, immediately on the defense, as they both turned to see what jackass wanted to cause problems this time. 

Except Gareth had recognized the person who bumped him. 

"Steve?" Gareth asked, causing  his cousin to totter around and face him. He was in his Scoops Ahoy uniform, which remained to be absolutely ridiculous, but that hadn't been what had drawn Gareth's attention. 

No, that would be the absolute wrecked face staring at him with a doped up grin. 

All thoughts of the movie immediately faded away. 

"What happened to your face!?" Gareth demanded, immediately stepping up into his cousin's space, eyes darting over the damage. 

Recent black eye, split lip, blood splatter all down one side of his neck, nevermind his clothes… 

"Robs!" Steve called over his shoulder instead of answering, body moving as if he was walking on a wildly rocking boat and not solid ground. "Come 'ere!" 

He beamed, which had the horrific effect of resplitting his lips. "Meet Gareth, my baby cousin!" 

"I am two years younger than you." Gareth argued on automatic. He didn’t look to see how Eddie took this little piece of info--he’d figure out what he’d say later, when Steve wasn’t covered in blood. 

It did not stop Robin from reaching out to pinch his cheeks. 

She too, Gareth realized, was clearly high on something, both of them giggling and weaving on their feet. 

At least Robin didn’t appear to be hurt--or at least, not hurt as badly as Steve. 

"What the hell did you two take?" Gareth demanded, looking between them as he quickly put his popcorn back off to the side. 

"We didn't take anything, dad." Steve said bossily, rolling his eyes. He spoke in a voice so unlike himself that Gareth knew his own face was doing something crazy. 

Not that he could stop it because what the hell. 

"What my patriotic friend here means is that we don't know." Robin added, smacking a hand onto Steve’s shoulder. 

(The entire sentence was slurred and sounded like she'd shoved candy in her mouth before she started talking.) 

"You don't know?!” Gareth asked, taking in the way Steve flinched when Robin touched him. Added a mental note to check his cousin's shoulder too. “How do you not know?" 

Gareth wasn't panicking, he wasn't, except he absolutely fucking was. Steve's dad was going to kill him, disown him, and throw the body out of his house--in that exact order. 

Gareth’s parents wouldn’t take him in, not unless his mom felt she could use it to one up her sister in some way which meant that Gareth was going to have to sneak Steve in and out of the house like he was some--some puppy Gareth was trying to keep and--

"Did someone give you two something?" Eddie asked, interrupting Gareth’s spiraling. 

"Give is a very strong word." Steve said with a snicker. 

Robin nodded so much she looked like a bobble head. She leaned in, nearly falling into Gareth in the process. “In fact it’s not the word I’d use at all! I’d use…” She trailed off, screwing her eyes up in thought. 

“Made us?” Steve suggested as Gareth finally gave in to his instincts and reached out to steady his cousin. “Forced us?” 

“Socked it to us!” Robin added with a weird amount of glee, and the two of them once again collapsed into giggles.

Literally, forcing Gareth to try and steady them both. 

Which meant Eddie was right--they’d been drugged. It made perfect sense-- Steve wasn’t the kind to experiment with drugs beyond weed. Had in fact, given a very long lecture about how he’d make Gareth go on runs with him if he ever found out Eddie had given him anything stronger than weed. 

There was no way he’d change now, and especially not around a jobsite. Particularly one as busy as the mall. 

"You can't tell anybody." Robin continued, eyes so wide they were more white than pupils. "But we got truth serumed!" 

As if that made any fucking sense. 

Gareth turned a half frantic, half disbelieving look to Eddie--whose own face scared him almost as badly as Steve's did. 

He was hiding it, and doing a good job of doing so, but Eddie was the one person Gareth knew better than Steve. 

Right now? Eddie Munson was furious. 

Not mad, or upset, or even as pissed as he had been the time Tommy Hagan had thrown his drug box in the river. 

He was enraged. 

"Hey." He said, and the only thing more shocking than realizing Eddie was this mad was hearing him talk in a calming, almost playful voice. "Sounds like you two sailors had a pretty rough time. Why don't we go to the bathroom and get you both cleaned up? I bet you'll feel a little better." 

It was clearly the right move, because both of them looked downright delighted. 

"He thinks we're sailors!" Steve said, cupping a hand around his mouth and leaning to talk in Robin’s ear as if he was whispering. (He wasn’t.) 

Robin’s grin grew impossibly wider, before Eddie stepped forward to help Gareth half guide half herd the two into the nearest bathroom. 

"I know you." Robin said, squinting dramatically as Eddie opened the door with his regular flair, bellowing for anyone in the place to get out. 

It was Steve's turn to nod enthusiastically. "That's Eddie, Robbie." He said.

"I'm honored King Steve knows such a humble peasant's name." Eddie bowed as Gareth finally got both Steve and Robin into the bathroom, trying to get them to sit on the floor before they fell on their asses. 

Which just made a hurt expression appear on Steve's face. "’Course I do. You have really pretty hair." 

It had the effect of making Eddie look like he’d been punched and Gareth had to quickly turn his bark of laughter into a cough. 

"I bet it's soft.” Steve continued, as he pressed his back against the tiled wall and slowly slid down to the floor. “Gare, is it soft?" 

"It's very soft." Gareth agreed, trying to wet a paper towel with shaking hands. Finally he gave up entirely, ripping the plaid sweater he had tied around his waist and shoving one of the sleeves into the sink. 

“Oh my god.” Robin said abruptly, sitting up from her own slouched spot on the floor as if she’d suddenly been stricken sober. “It’s him! He’s your type!” 

“What’s my type?” Steve turned to her, as Eddie leaned his back against the door to the bathroom, blocking anyone else from entering. 

“It’s like--like Nancy! But boy Nancy.” Robin seemed to think this made a ton of sense, and given Steve’s immediate groan maybe it did to him, but Gareth was too freaked out to even begin to process what the hell they were on about.

Probably nothing, given they’d been drugged. 

Eddie seemed to pick up on his general anxiety and poor attempts at shoving down his own freakout, because he gently called out Gareth’s name. 

“I think it’s wet enough.” He added with a raised eyebrow. His eyes drifted purposefully to the sink and with a curse, Gareth snapped shut the water off. 

His hands were still shaking. 

“Give it to me.” Eddie said gently, moving to take the shirt from Gareth’s hands. “Here, swap me Gare, and guard the door.” 

Gareth did, as Eddie knelt down to take Steve’s chin in one hand, and carefully began dapping his wounded face with the wet sleeve. 

“May I ask what battles you two sailors have been involved in?” He said, continuing to sound like playful, fun Eddie and not like he was about to murder half the town (which, Gareth could tell by body language alone, is what Eddie actually felt like) “Did you happen to catch a glimpse of the villains who did this?"

“Robin melted into Steve, rubbing her face in his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe us.” 

Eddie smiled his most charming smile, a full blown rouge grin he played up as he continued to wipe and dab at Steve’s wounds. “You’d be surprised at what I believe in, my fair lady.” 

Steve tried to talk, but ended up hissing as he ran into Eddie’s fingers. 

“Russians.” He managed to get out, when Eddie quickly took the sleeve away so he could talk. “We got kidnapped by fucking Russians. Also we kinda saw some shit and they’re after us. Possibly you now if they saw you with us.” 

There was the briefest of pause as Steve and Robin stared at Eddie, as Eddie stared back. 

Then Steve and Robin as one started howling with laughter, so hard that Robin’s head ended up in Steve’s lap with Steve’s own head resting on hers. 

Eddie turned to give Gareth a pinched look. “Russians.” He said, still calm despite it all. “Right.” 

Which had to be the fucking drugs speaking. 

Gareth just took a deep breath as Eddie managed to gently prod Steve back into putting his chin in his hand, shaking his head ever so slightly. 

He didn’t know who he was going to actually have to murder, but at least Eddie looked to be on board with acting as his backup. 

[martyr-inthedark]

Bedroom

Let's just say Whumpee isn't kept in a dingy, dark, poorly-kept basement (or cell, or cage...).

Instead, Whumpee is kept in a beautiful bedroom. Maybe with the softest mattress, the fluffiest pillows, blankets made from quality furs and silks. The room is cleaned every day by Whumper's servants who bring Whumpee dinner and snacks are brought hot from the kitchens. But, freedom is limited, and true safety is nonexistent.

Guards are stood on a 24-hr schedule just outside the heavy spruce doors. Should Whumpee choose to stroll through the property, guards must accompany them. Servants were not discouraged from physically or otherwise abusing Whumpee, and were directed to report Whumpee's every move, every mistake, to Whumper. Whumpee wore a beautifully adorned collar, gold with radiant gems and small spikes on the inside it that bore a constant reminder of their situation. Whumper found it in his pleasure to pull on the collar and drag Whumpee back to that cursed bedroom should Whumpee make one wrong move in public. The next time Whumpee is allowed out, they are covered in bruises and freshly carved scabs.

The bedroom where the fire pokes are heated. Where iron shackles attached to the bedposts. Where clothes could be stripped. Where they could be drugged and left abandoned for days at a time. Where Whumpee could be forcibly held under their bathwater for two seconds too long. Where Whumpee had no choice but to relive the horrors of their day through nightmares. Where Whumper could sneak into their bed at night and take advantage of a sleeping Whumpee.

Where even the bed, with its velvet purple canopy and white furs, isn't safe.

[caycanteven]

Don Balsam ref I? I think?

Cant believe the mafia version got a “ref” before his actual one LOL.

Balsam has a powerful hand in the medical field in his part of the city and some parts outside it depending on alliances. If an unfamiliar subordinate ends up in one of "his" facilities, it's not uncommon to hear from a another boss or even a Don looking for "cures" for their family who got in a pretty bad tussle. Don Bal doesn't really show himself in public unless it's to visit his favorite diner—or his favorite waitress, and meet for business. People who know his practices well nicknamed him "The Doctor.”

[oodlesodoodles]

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 15: Starvation

cw: drugging, substance dependency, starvation, emeto, sorta dehumanization, dissociation, nonsexual nudity, vague deathwish

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 537

=~=~=

He can no longer sit up on his own.

Too weak. In the sparse moments where he's coherent enough to think, the spy knows they're tapering off his rations. Hunger crawls up from his stomach like a swarm of ants, leeching what little strength remains.

He It is always trapped in a haze, but the haze is no longer big enough. It aches all day, unable to even sleep until someone brings another water bottle. Pain consumes its leg, hunger shivers in its bones. When guards pass by, it begs them for water, not food, wanting only to numb it all.

Sometimes they comply, but it's rarely enough. Are they taking away its relief too? Or has it built a tolerance to the drug?

(the thought terrifies the spy when he can comprehend it; the thought of never returning to himself)

It can hardly move. It doesn't want to move. When the stubborn thing inside tries to lift its head, there is only dizziness, more pain, a fleeting fear that this may be the end.

The creature wants none of that. No thoughts, no senses, only the drug that allows it to sleep.

They bring it water and it drinks and nothing happens. No fog, no sudden emptiness. It whimpers into the concrete for hours or days.

The bring it water and it drinks.

(no food)

It can't stop shivering, nausea twisting its empty stomach.

(why can't you do something why can't you move why couldn't you have held fast)

They don't bring it water.

Two guards, it can see them through hazy vision. Its eyes hurt, its head aches.

(this is different)

They grab its arms, dragging it out of the cell, bad leg howling, utter agony, creature howling with it, voice weak

(pathetic, could've ran, could've done something)

the movement and pain and nausea and dizziness are all too much after it's been allowed to feel nothing for so long and it heaves up nothing, bile on its tongue, tears in its eyes. They drag it somewhere and it hurts it hurts it hurts.

(could've turned it down)

would've died

(would've been better)

They have to hold it up, hands around and under its arms. Someone else is talking at it, but it doesn't matter. It hurts and it's cold, colder than the cell was.

(when did they take his clothes?)

It tries to vomit again, left with a sour string of spit clinging to its chin. Over, it just wants it to be over, just wants it to—

Its head jerks up so quickly it sees spots when it hears the snap of a bottle opening. The new person is holding it out

(smirking)

It tries to reach for the bottle, can't shake itself free of the hands, trapped. It can't make sense of the stream of words pouring from its mouth, but it can't stop them either.

pleasepleasepleaesithurtspleaseithurts

(you were supposed to be better than this you were supposed to endure–)

The man laughs.

“Damn. Guess you really can do a number on a guy without lifting a finger.” He screws the cap back on, ignoring the creature's despairing whine.

“Put him back for now. I think he's almost ready for some questions.”

[adrift-in-thyme]

@kikker-oma your Twilight art for Whumptober has been living rent-free in my head since you posted it and I FINALLY wrote something for it. I hope you enjoy <33

Fic beneath the cut (you can also find it on ao3!)

TW for blood and injury, needles/stitches, drugging, and kidnapping

No one asks if he needs help.

Not that Twilight expects anything more. This town is a rough one. That much is painfully clear to him. And not just in the worn woods of the buildings splotched with aged crimson, or in the hardened faces of the people that leer as he stumbles down the worn street. No, from the moment he was dragged here he knew it was a haven for evil.

Cruel hands pushing at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his wounds. Ropes around his wrists, his neck.

The pain isn’t enough to make him move faster.

They yank at his bindings. Choking, he trips over his own stumbling feet. Laughter collides with his pounding skull.

“What’s wrong, wolf boy? Lost your balance?”

Another tug on the makeshift collar. His vision goes white.

Twilight drags in a haggard breath. The taste of blood is still pungent on his tongue. Whether it is his own or that of the people who had sought to pawn him off, he no longer knows. Regardless, it makes him want to gag.

That is not the only place it has taken up residence either. Thick rivers of crimson slither down his right arm, curving gracefully along the deep, jagged gash there. Downward they plunge in large droplets that splatter onto the dusty cobblestones.

A woman passes him just a bit too close, and her gaze locks onto his wound. Twilight knows the look that comes into her eyes. Hunger. Unbridled, animalistic hunger.

He has been a wolf for long enough now to know the laws of nature. Injury means weakness. And weakness spells death.

Clutching his arm, he veers left, toward the inn that rises, a single crooked tooth among the many that form a disjointed line in this gaping maw. Nowhere is safe here. Nowhere is friendly. But his brothers are eons away for all he knows. And there are no heroes in this Hyrule.

Perhaps that’s why the Shadow had hurled him into it.

…or perhaps he had known what Twilight has learned time and time again.

No place is safe for someone like him.

One mistake, one quick, accidental portrayal of the power he holds…and the next thing he knows a dagger is slicing his arm, a needle piercing his neck, ropes encircling him like the arms of a redead, constricting until he is suffocating, until his sword clatters to the ground, his vision turning to little more than kaleidoscope explosions of light.

“Oh, the money we’ll get for this one. A wolf that can become a man? People would pay anything to see somethin’ such as that.”

Bile rises in his throat. Twilight chokes it back down. He needs a place to lay low and he needs it now.

The woman is not the only one to have taken note of his condition. He can feel others ghosting the space around him and behind, breathing down his neck, reaching toward him with skeletal hands, purring that he, “come, little one. We feel your magic. Come, and let us devour it.”

He can’t breathe though the collar is gone. His hands tremble as he grips the rail, fighting not to fall as he climbs the handful of stairs leading to the decrepit structure. His knees are weak. Pain pounds through his veins, mixing with the surging fear until they are entwined in an endless waltz of mind-numbing agony. It is all he can do to walk through the double doors and into the lobby; all he can do to stagger up to the front desk.

“I need a room,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Blood runs down the side of his mouth and he lacks the will to wipe it away. “How much?”

The innkeeper regards him, pointed disinterest in his bloodshot eyes. He looks Twilight up and down, taking in his disheveled clothing, the pelt lying defeatedly across his shoulders, the gash raining ruby-red droplets of life upon the battered floorboards. Then, he folds his bony fingers and sets them calmly before him.

“50 rupees for one night.”

Twilight plunges a hand into his pouch and draws it out trembling and blood-soaked. The rupees clatter on the table, shining like precious gemstones. Just as quickly as they are set free, their glow is snuffed out by the innkeeper’s clawed hand. With agonizing slowness, he places them in a locked box beneath the desk. Then, he slides a large key towards Twilight.

“Room eight,” he growls. “Supposin’ you make it long enough to get there.”

There is laughter in his voice, rumbling thunder of an oncoming storm. Twilight turns away.

He limps up the stairs and stumbles down the hall, leaving gore-adorned handprints on the walls and railing as he goes. They glare in his peripheral vision, splotched and jagged and fierce. He squints and they blur. The colors meld before his eyes. Swirling and sparkling, they close in, envelope him, heavy with the scent of death.

Again, his stomach revolts. Again, he bites his tongue before anything can escape.

The door comes into view, the number 8 carved in two looping circles upon its ashen surface. He collapses against it, catching himself on the frame, and with shaking hands levels the key toward the lock.

It takes several tries to get it open. But once he’s managed it, he practically falls into the room. The door slides closed of its own accord and he allows himself to slump against it.

There is a bed in the far corner, a sad little object he supposes is meant to be a nightstand beside it. He lacks the strength to reach either one of them. Twilight can hardly keep his eyes open as it is, can hardly resist the intoxicating pull of unconsciousness. The rush in his ears blankets his senses. Darkness spreads its jaws beneath him. To the beat of his heart, it chants its promises, promises of freedom from the burning pain, from the terror of being hunted.

He is sinking beneath a surface thicker, deeper, heavier than Lake Hylia. Viciously, he kicks toward the light.

One more mistake will land him in the musty basement he had hardly managed to escape, bound and gagged, drifting in a daze of remnant drugs, waiting for the moment when he will be hauled up into the blinding sun and handed off to whoever has scrounged up enough money to purchase him.

He won’t go back. He won’t.

Dragging in a sharp breath, he reaches into his pouch, rifling past bottles long drained and items that do him little good in this situation. The objects he is searching for are far duller than his spinner or his gale boomerang. But they are all he has.

He pulls them out, gazes at them. A sewing needle still threaded from the last time he had needed to darn his clothes, and some fabric thread, dark and thick. Sturdy.

The needle glints in the hazy streaks of sunlight that shine through the filthy window panes. The tremble of his hands causes the reflections to enlarge and shrink, darkness and light dancing across the slender, metallic surface. Never before has it looked quite so threatening.

Twilight clutches it in one hand and with the other, fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket. The sight of it conjures memories of a small hand brushing tears from his cheek, of a soft cloth being wound gently about his burns, hesitant vulnerability in the crimson eye that gazes into his.

“Hey, don’t cry, alright? Your family doesn’t hate you. They’re afraid.”

“Of me, Midna. They think I’m a monster.”

“You? A monster? Nah. A monstrous softy maybe. And a monstrous idiot. But never an actual monster. Believe me…I know monsters better than most.”

His next breath is more akin to a sob. Twilight wads up the cloth, shoves it in his mouth, and bites down hard. He allows himself a moment to get the needle into a somewhat secure grip. Then, he angles it towards the place where his skin begins to split.

Pushing it through hurts far worse than he ever imagined it would. The needle burrows through his flesh with agonizing slowness, emerging from one side of the divide only for him to plunge it into the other in the next second. And the thread follows dutifully, snaking lazily along and dragging his skin with it. Like a worn workhorse pulling a cart home after a long day, it treads its set path. He hardly has the strength to keep it from veering completely off.

Tears rush hot and eager into his eyes. They spill over, coursing in salty rivulets down his cheeks. His body screams with agony. His head pounds, blood roaring in his ears, stomach roiling. Crimson liquid streams from his wound, coating his fingers, turning the needle slick, darkening the thread into the deepest obsidian.

One stitch is finished, then two, three, four…a series of inelegant dashes waltzing along on rivers of gore.

He loses count of them at some point. His world narrows and simplifies until it is nothing more than this moment, this seemingly endless struggle to keep himself afloat in an ocean of agony, to keep from screaming or swooning, his fingers from slipping from their death grip on the needle.

More than once, the dismal fog that clouds his vision grows so overwhelming he nearly plummets into it. More than once, a strangled whine tears up his aching throat. More than once, he pierces uninjured skin on accident, bringing fresh bubbles of blood to the surface.

But never does the cloth slip from between his tightly clenched teeth. The jolt of pain in his jaw is hardly noticeable amongst the bone-deep agony that grips his arm.

It is only when at last, the final stitch is in place and he has blinked the traitorous gleam of stars from his vision, that he lets it fall. It flops onto the floor, a sodden mess of tears and blood, sweat and saliva. Twilight stares at it for a moment, then at the line of clumsy stitching weeping red.

He leans sideways and retches.

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

By the time Twilight stumbles out onto the road, he is shivering.

He wraps one arm protectively around himself. The other hangs at his side, leaden with pain.

The shadowed alleyways leer, caverns of ravenous black. The surrounding buildings reach out with their claws to drag him into their terrible embrace. Passerby stare at him with those same hungry eyes as before, whispering, murmuring.

He is glad the unrelenting ring in his ears blocks out their words.

The innkeeper had laughed at him again when he had returned the blood-stained key.

“Still alive, are you? Well, you won’t be for much longer. Not in your state.”

Twilight hadn’t been certain whether he was referring to his declining health or the willingness of the townspeople to take advantage of it. Regardless, that statement is more than enough to have bouncing about in his pounding skull.

More than enough to keep him moving forward.

Out. He needs to get out of this town. Then, he can stop. Then, he can allow his aching legs to give way beneath him, his half-lidded eyes to slip shut. Then, he can finally sleep.

Until that moment, this is the reality he must battle through — pain and feverish confusion and a haze of oddly distant fear.

He bites out a thin exhale from between chattering teeth. The ground bucks and heaves in waves beneath his failing feet. The genial afternoon sky whirls in patterns he cannot comprehend.

Should’ve cleaned that wound, he thinks, blurrily.

But there hadn’t been anything to clean it with. No potions or blessed objects to drive away the infection, or flames to disinfect and cauterize, or water to wash away the blood and grime…

Water.

Twilight swallows, forcing the walls of his throat apart.

He needs water. He’s so thirsty.

Two more shuffling half-steps and his body decides it has had enough. Twilight goes down in a heap of bloodied limbs, fingers scraping along a nearby wall as he attempts to catch himself.

Get up! He orders himself as he has so many times before in dungeons and forests and caves miles deep, caverns miles long. Come on, Link, you can’t give up now. Not when you’ve made it so far.

“Oh, what have we here?”

He raises his head, stares into the drifting faces of several sizable men. He cannot make out their expressions, blurred as they are. But he can see their eyes. He can see the metal that glints in their hands.

And though he doesn’t recognize them, he knows them. They have the same look about them as his captors had. They too had gazed at him as though he was meat to slice up and sell at the market.

“Looks like we’ve got a wounded one. Tried to mend that all on your own did ya?”

Twilight’s lips lift in a snarl, showcasing jagged, pointy canines.

“Leave me alone,” he croaks. His voice cracks over the last word, hitched into something dangerously close to a sob.

Desperation rises hot and fast within him. He tries to shove himself to his feet.

They grab his arms before he can.

“Not so fast.”

The largest of them — a burly man he guesses is their leader — grasps his chin, roughly angling his head up so Twilight has no choice but to look him in the eye.

“You’re not going anywhere. I smell magic on you, boy.”

A growl rumbles in his throat. Twilight yanks his face away, struggling weakly in their unforgiving grips.

“What do ya say?” The leader turns from him to grin at his companions. “How many rupees is he worth?”

“Get him to show us what all that magic can do and we’ll get at least a thousand.”

Greedy chuckles go up from the huddle. Twilight sucks in a failed attempt at an inhale. Yet another series of shivers race through him, and he crumples in their wake. It is all too much — the pain, the fear, the laughter echoing around him. It surrounds him, encompassing him in an unending nightmare.

He needs to fight. He needs to run. He can’t find the strength to do either one.

After everything, everything, he is here once more. His attempts at a struggle are nothing to these men. They will bind him, they will drag him away. And he will be helpless to do anything more than hang limply in their iron grasp.

“Alright then, boy, show us what you can do.” The leader grins. It is a sharp, bitter thing. “Give us a proper performance and we won’t hurt you. But withhold that power and, well…you won’t live to regret it.”

A knife caresses the curve of his neck. Twilight raises his head, narrows his eyes. Terror turns feverish heat to an icy chill that settles deep in his bones and races through him in violent shudders.

“No.”

The word is bitten out between shaky inhales. But he pours what little might he has left into it.

If he is going to go down, he will do so with pride. Pride that at the very least, he tried.

“No?” The knife digs deeper, seeking its prey. “That’s not the kind of thing you spit in the face of the man holding a weapon to your throat.”

He leans in. Twilight holds his gaze, even as black splotches encroach on his line of sight, ebbing and flowing like a river lapping gently at the bank.

“I’ll only ask this one more time. Show us your power.”

“You may not like it if he does,” pipes up a voice from somewhere behind the group.

Twilight’s eyes go wide.

Warriors? His scrambled brain cries.

But it can’t be, it can’t…

An arrow flies out of nowhere and pierces the leader’s hand with a nauseating thunk. The knife clatters to the ground.

“My friend happens to be a skilled marksman,” comes Warriors’ voice again. It echoes over the sound of agonized screams. “But he has other talents too…and little mercy. Get back. Let him go. Or you’ll regret it.”

“No!”

The grip on his shoulders tightens. Another dagger is pressed to his throat. Twilight hardly has the energy to fear it this time.

But there is no reason to. Another second and the clawing grasp disappears entirely. The chilled metal falls, useless beside its mate.

There is no scream. Only the dull, slick sound of a blade forcing through skin, then retreating as fast as it came. At the same time, another arrow soars past. It is every bit as precise as before. And this time, it strikes the leader through the heart.

Two bodies fall with a thud that echoes through Twilight’s ears. He slouches sideways, sinking enveloped in the melody of anguish.

Warriors catapults into view, a whirl of emeralds and fierce royal blues. One swift movement and Twilight collapses onto his shoulder rather than the blood-slicked ground.

“W-wars,” he starts to say, but the captain is already pulling him to his feet with a grunt of effort.

“Can you walk?” He asks and the tone of his voice is one Twilight has only heard him use when he is leading.

Arduously, he nods.

The others fall one by one as Warriors half-ushers, half-drags him forward. Where they are going, he hasn’t a clue and he lacks the will to ask. He merely follows, stumbling on fumbling feet and hanging onto the miraculous dream he has wandered into.

At some point, they emerge from the confines of the shoddy town into a blessedly wooded area. Twilight sinks down as soon as they come to a stop. Warriors helps him lean back against one of the large trees.

Only then does the captain truly take him in. His gaze before had been calculating and distant, thoughts and cares locked behind an impenetrable barrier. But now that wall lowers just enough for Twilight to see the darkness shine through it.

“What did they do to you?” It is a mere hiss, not even directed at him. But Twilight feels an empty reply rising in his throat anyway.

All that comes out is a thick cough.

Aether eyes find his. A handkerchief slips into his grasp.

“Don’t speak, save your energy.” Practiced fingers ghost his most severe wound. “You stitched this up yourself?”

Twilight doesn’t need to even attempt to reply. The captain answers the question himself with a nod of his head.

“Yeah, I’m going to have to remove those stitches, clean it, then stitch it up again.”

He speaks fast, words tumbling in an unending stream Twilight is hopeless to follow. He watches dumbly as Warriors digs into his pouch, sets a pristine cloth on the ground, and lines several objects up upon it.

“Here.” He presses a bottle into Twilight’s hands. Liquid the color of maple syrup glitters inside. “Take a few drinks. I won’t pretend this won’t hurt. You’re going to need something to dull the pain.”

Twilight watches him press a small dagger against the molten tip of a fire rod, and suddenly, a streak of gut-rending dread pierces through the fog. Dutifully, he lifts the bottle to his lips, chokes back a few scalding swallows, and tries to breathe as it melts its way into his veins.

“How’d-how’d you find me?” He grits out. Fuzzy thoughts become almost unintelligible beneath the touch of alcohol. But this, at least, he must know.

Somewhere behind him, frantic footsteps crunch on fallen leaves. Warriors glances up from his work, hand flying to his sword for a split second before he lowers it with a grim smile.

“It wasn’t me,” he says. “Turns out your cub is good at tracking. I’m lucky we ended up together when we were separated from the others.”

Wild comes racing into view like a shooting star, hair flying out behind him, bow held tightly in one hand. He slings it over his shoulder as he skids to a halt.

“Twi! Are you okay — oh Hylia, what did they do to you?” The words pour out of him in a waterfall of emotion.

There is blood on his cheek, Twilight realizes dimly. He is too far gone to know whether it is his own or not.

“You ‘lright, cub?” He slurs, reaching to try to wipe it away.

Wild catches his flailing hand and lowers it, with trembling care.

“You idiot.” There is no heat in his tone, only fear. Exasperated, terrible fear. “You need to be worrying about yourself! You look like a hynox sat on you!”

An insane giggle erupts from the rancher, born of pain and anguish and giddy relief. He lists sideways, and Wild wraps his arms around him, drawing his head to his chest.

“Champion.” Warriors has a dagger in his hand now. A needle and thread rest on the cloth beside him. “Hold him tight. I’ve got to mend this wound.”

Fingers press against his screaming skin, gentle yet firm. Metal gleams in the setting sun. Wild’s heart beats fast in his ear. Fingers card through his matted hair.

The captain meets his eyes.

“And rancher, take a deep breath. We’re going to take care of you now.”

Wild’s hand envelopes his, heedless of the blood that turns Twilight’s fingers sticky. He grasps it like his life depends upon it. And as Warriors begins his terrible work, he closes his eyes.

[theseance444]

TW: dark RP, drugs, addiction, violence, etc.

For @riverjphoeniix

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Maybe longer. Maybe forever. But a drug den was better than sleeping on the street, he'd reasoned, and came with more perks. Of course, since everyone left the Academy, he'd never had a stable living situation. Not that he'd heard from his siblings in years, anyway. No, fuck them, fuck the ghosts, and fuck his superpowers. He didn't need any of it.

Laying on a dirty, bare mattress, in the back of an abandoned warehouse, Klaus had stepped off the deep end. In the dimly lit room, he couldn't help but watch how the flickering lights cast shadows on the walls. He must be in between hits, he realized, as he was now vaguely conscious. Emphasis on "vaguely", as he quickly found when he tried to sit up; his body felt like it was full of rocks. Heavy, uncomfortable, braindead. But still numb enough to stave off the spirits.

Except, of course, the judgemental, sad eyes of his dead brother. Klaus could almost see him, like a mirage watching him from across the room. Making sure his chest was still moving, his heart still beating. He would've appreciated it, too, if he didn't know he was going to get chewed out as soon as he came down. But that certainly wasn't about to happen.

Unless--where the fuck was his dope pipe? Klaus slowly turned his head to look around, barely able to focus his vision. The cracked glass he'd passed out holding was now gone. God dammit, these junkies! Not that Klaus would've done differently, but still.

"Guys, c'mon, that's not cool..."

Using all of his willpower, the former seance pushed himself to his feet. Immediately he swayed, head swimming as he leaned against the wall for support. Somewhere distance, he could hear Ben trying to get his attention, but ignored it in favor of looking for a pipe to steal back. Lurching through the rooms unsteadily, Klaus didn't realize he was close to the front door until he heard a rapid, heavy handed knock. In the back of his mind, Ben was yelling for him.

"Uh...hello?"

Then one word made it through the haze. Police. Frozen in place, Klaus could do nothing but watch as the door was kicked down in front of him.

[loonybun]

hey whump writers turns out even when you’re on heavy painkillers and have a high pain tolerance it still stings like a bitch when you’re getting wounds cleaned/irrigated.

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Meeting Jasper

Jasper Masterlist

Y/N drove down the highway, forest on either side of her for miles. It was pitch black out, with out even a sliver of moonlight to illuminate anything. She had her high beams on, but it didn’t help much. Suddenly, a deer jumped out into the road. Y/N swerved, slamming on the breaks. The deer leapt away to safety. Y/N breathed a sigh of relief, about to put her foot back on the gas when another, much larger car slammed into her from the other lane. The sound of metal-on-metal assaulted Y/N’s ears. Her car skidded, right into a tree. Y/N’s head hit the steering wheel, and she was out. The offending driver raced off, engine revving as it surpassed the speed limit.

…

Jasper made his way through the woods, looking for his dinner when he heard it. A terrible, loud scraping metallic sound. His red eyes widened, his head turning to the source of the noise. He scuttled over, seeing a car wrapped around a tree on the other side of the road. Looking both ways, Jasper quickly crept across the road. He examined the interior, seeing a girl in the driver’s seat, nearly unconscious. Jasper bit his lip, he knew his kind and humans didn’t mix well, mostly because of the latter’s fear of the former, but he couldn’t just leave her. She had a nasty cut on her head, possibly from the broken glass everywhere.

…

Y/N stirred to the feeling of being rocked gently, and the sound of footsteps moving quickly. She blinked her eyes open and looked up, trying to make something out aside from the splitting pain in her head. Upon perceiving this pain, she groaned quietly.

“Shh,” a voice soothed, “you’re alright. I know it hurts, but I’m going to help you.”

The paramedics must have found her, that would explain why there were so many footsteps- it must be a whole team. Her eyes drifted shut of their own accord.

…

When Y/N woke properly, she felt a gentle pressure on her head, and surprisingly, very little pain. She had been laid down on a soft surface, and she heard someone rummaging through something. She opened her eyes and sat up, though the action sent a wave of dizziness through her.

“Huh?” she mumbled.

Instead of an ambulance or a hospital room, she seemed to be in some kind of cave. On every wall of the cave, there were giant spider webs. Lanterns hung from some of the webs, illuminating the space with a dim glow. She looked down and noticed that she was laying in some kind of web hammock.

“HUH!?” she repeated, much more panicked this time.

“Oh, thank goodness,” a voice echoed.

Y/N whipped her head around (ouch) and saw something from her nightmares. The upper half of a human… with the lower half of a giant spider. Y/N couldn’t help what happened next… she screamed. A loud, ear-splitting shriek while she attempted to clamber out of the hammock. Unfortunately, she only managed to tangle herself up in it.

The creature held its clawed hands up in a placating gesture. It stepped over the first aid kit it had been rummaging through, and approached Y/N slowly.

“My name is Jasper,” the creature said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Y/N’s breaths came in short gasps. There were many things in this world she was prepared to deal with, but spiders- especially human-spider hybrids- were not one of them. She tried to wrangle herself out of the hammock, but her leg was quite caught up.

“Please stop, you’ll rumple your bandages and pull your stitches,” Jasper said gently.

Bandages? Y/N put a hand to her head. Those weren’t bandages- those felt like thick, stringy webs! There was more webbing on her arms and legs. She was going to be spider-dinner! Y/N continued to struggle, as Jasper inched closer and closer. Eventually, he closed the distance between them and gripped her by the shoulders. Y/N froze in fear.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t have you hurting yourself,” Jasper sighed, “hold still.”

Jasper tilted Y/N’s neck and bit right into it, depositing his venom into her system. Y/N’s breath hitched; she immediately lost feeling in her entire body. Her breaths still came in short and fast, but she couldn’t scream anymore- she couldn’t move anymore!

“There, now let me have a look at you.”

Jasper examined Y/N’s web wrappings and tutted. Red seeped through the one wrapped around her head.

“I’ll have to redo the stitches,” he sighed.

Jasper untangled the hammock and laid Y/N back inside it. He went to the first aid kit and grabbed a needle and thread, returning to her. He pulled off the webbing on Y/N’s forehead and hissed in sympathy.

“Looks pretty bad,” he said, “I do wish you hadn’t panicked.”

Jasper made short work of the cut, stitching it back up neatly, trying to be as gentle as possible. Y/N whimpered as the needle slid in and out of her skin.

“Shh, all done,” Jasper said, casting his tools aside.

Jasper considered Y/N for a moment.

“I can’t have you running off as soon as the venom wears off,” he thought aloud, “I don’t want to scare you… but…”

Jasper spewed webbing from his mouth and began to wrap Y/N snugly in webbing. By the time he was finished, only her head and neck were exposed. Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, and she whimpered quietly. Jasper gently laid her back down in the hammock.

“Try to rest,” he said, “I’ve given you painkillers already, but I’ll have more for you in a few hours.”

…

Jasper scurried off to the front of his cave. He paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn’t just let the poor thing go, she was injured, probably concussed, and he didn’t need her running off to the other humans to tell them all where he lived. He glanced back inside his cave. Well, she was pretty cute… maybe he could keep her?

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Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

[s1x-foot-deep]

YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HAVE IT ALL BUT NOW YOU'VE HAD YOUR FIRST SNOOT FULL AND IT WILL BURY YOU ALL

[aftgficrec]

Can you please suggest fics where neil and bee have more interactions. Or even ones about andrew and bee talking about neil or anything else

Btw I really really appreciate everything yall do! God bless you.

Here is what we found for you. -A

Neil/andreil talk to Bee:

Neil goes to therapy here

‘we softly stir the violence’ and ‘Healing’ series parts 1 & 3 here

‘“I wish I'd never…”’ here

‘Andrew Minyards Crystal’ here

‘pain our brain has made’ here (updated)

‘not to blame for falling’ series and ‘sidelines’ here

‘on the tip of my tongue (say something)’ series here (completed)

‘Andrew and Neil's guide to getting better’ series here

‘True Love Waits’ series here

‘Cyberstalking’ here

‘Promises’ here

‘A Taste of Your Own Medicine’ here

‘The Massive Continuity of Ducks’ and ‘Ghost of You’ here

‘A collection of Andreil one-shots’ ch 3 here

‘I Don't Know’ here

‘The Destination Was Always Forever’ (updated), ‘Minyard-Josten Rivalry’ (updated), ‘sunrise, abram’ series, ‘and in a flash, it's gone.’ series part 2, and ‘Stay Where I Can Reach’ here

Andrew talks to Bee about Neil:

previous ask here

‘Unspoken’ here

‘AFTG Drabbles’ parts 1 & 8 here

‘Paper Cut Hearts’ here

‘the shuffling of cards’ here

‘words can't warm the windows of my soul’ here

‘The Hand That Needs Me’ here

‘Mother Mannequin’ here

‘Anything’ here

‘the icarus to your certainty’ here

‘No straighter path than to struggle’ here

‘Can we can pretend like we're (not) in love?’ here

Neil Josten is Not Fine by Anonymous [Rated T, 3362 Words, Complete, AFTG Then & Never 2024]

After weeks of nightmares and an embarrassing discovery, Neil finally decides to pay Betsy a visit.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: nightmares, tw: bedwetting

i'll take anything you have (if you could throw me a line) by ifitmeanslosingyou [Rated M, 923 Words, Complete, 2024]

the sunrise can be pretty, neil thinks, but instead of the pinks and oranges washing him with ease, neil can’t help the panic at the thought that he’s been up here for longer than he planned to he wonders if anyone has even realized he left the dorms in the first place, wonders if andrew even looked when neil left the bedroom, wonders if he gave up, wonders if he finally came to his senses and realized neil was more trouble than he’s worth wonders if the roof of the court is high enough that the fall would kill him day 31: asking for help | therapy | “i’m alive, i’m just not well”

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

help, I've lost myself again (but I remember you) by abitsillygoofy [Not Rated, 5320 Words, Complete, 2024]

“Neil we have to talk about it,” Betsy said “I don’t think so” Neil replied “Nope, not happening” He popped the p at the end trying to make the woman mad at him. “You just tried to kill yourself, so I think we have to have this talk” Betsy didn’t seem bothered by his act and kept her nice, neutral facial expression, but unlike on his session looked worried too. or Neil wakes up in the hospital after his suicide attempt and has to face what he did.

tw: suicide attempt, tw: self harm, tw: blood

keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?) by phan_taloon [Rated M, 15415 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

Previously recced here

AU where Neil never met the Foxes, with a little less mafia and a little more pain for Neil when he ends up captured by Nathan for months, and has to deal with the consequences by himself. He ends up in treatment for chronic pain with opioids, and let's just say opioid use is tricky when you're alone and in pain; one thing can lead to another more easily than it seems.

tw: drug addiction, tw: drug overdose, tw: withdrawal, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: vomit

an acquired taste the asbestos is lovely by cyanica [Rated M, 6617 Words, Complete, 2024, Locked]

“What did you take?” Andrew demands. Neil wonders if Andrew will taste all that is wrong with Neil when he kisses him. He wonders if Andrew will recognize it. Andrew knows what it is to hurt himself, and this must be familiar. It’s deja vu, Neil thinks, if only a little bit worse, a little more terrible. Neil shakes his head, groaning into the toilet, “I don’t want to tell you.” Andrew pulls out his phone, and Neil can already hear it dialling when he says, “You can tell the paramedics.” Or; “Cigarettes,” Neil says. “I ate your cigarettes.”

tw: self harm, tw: overdose, tw: pica, tw: eating disorders, tw: vomit, tw: blood, tw: mental breakdown, tw: implied/referenced abuse

If it means protecting you (I’ll pay my dues) by Intangibel (duskbutterfly) [Rated T, 125462 Words, Incomplete, Updated April 2023]

Previously recced here

What if the threat of Aaron being charged with murder was more significant and Neil found out that he could prevent Andrew from having to be at the trial if he were to testify. What would he be willing to sacrifice to achieve that? What if instead of refusing to testify for Aaron, Neil decides to make a deal with the FBI to become their witness against his father if they’ll backstop his current identity. He thinks it means signing his death warrant and losing the Foxes. Betsy, Aaron and the Foxes are determined to convince him it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, his father’s people are coming for him and that’s not even starting on what Andrew will have to say about Neil choosing to martyr himself.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: child abuse, tw: torture, tw: blood, tw: scars, tw: vomit, tw: implied/referenced drug addiction, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: homophobia, tw: conversion camp reference, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

The Sun Still Rises by mordax [Rated E, 474451 Words, Incomplete, Updated Oct 2024]

Previously recced here

Somewhere on the road, Mary Hatford gets pregnant with her second child. When she passes, she leaves behind not only Neil, but his toddler brother. Survival is difficult without also raising a kid. Worn out and desperate, Neil still somehow ends up at Palmetto, only this time, he brings his four-year-old brother with him.

tw: violence, tw: anxiety, tw: panic attacks,  tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: drug use, tw: involuntary sedation, tw: reenactment therapy with noncon

NB: find fanart for this fic by @/elidanus on twitter here

Ain’t it fun by jemejem [Rated T (we say M) 30672 Words, Complete, 2018]

Neil can't sleep. Andrew can't feel. High school is going well for the both of them.

tw: homophobia, tw: mental breakdown, tw: anxiety, tw: depression, tw: suicidal thoughts, tw: suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: scars, tw: ptsd, tw: psychological trauma, tw: flashbacks

I been here all along (so why can't you see?) by alexcherry [Rated G, 8691 Words, Complete, 2021]

Andrew leans on the counter beside Neil's thigh. "Where do you want to go, Josten? What favor do you need from me?" Neil looked at Andrew and steeled himself. "I want you to come with me to the next therapy session with Betsy posing as my boyfriend." "Like one," Andrew thought for a moment. "Couple therapy?" Neil perked up. "Yes! Exactly, and then we see how long it takes her to find out we're not connected at all."

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced murder

If You Need Shelter by AfraidOfBananas [Rated M, 2642 Words, Complete, 2021]

“The boy is staring at Neil with a startled expression like he’s just seen a ghost. Well, maybe he has. Neil hasn’t felt alive for a very long time.” Or.....Neil meets Andrew while he’s on the run

Family by BlueJay26 [Not Rated, 9420 Words, Complete, 2021, Locked]

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Three adults who certainly proved this was true, and their (sort of) children who realised a family isn't always linked by blood. Also known as, how Abby, Bee and Wymack earned their family's love and trust.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: internalized homophobia

Art

Abby and Betsy art by @rainbowd00dles 

Betsy 💕💕 art by @neroholik

Mom and Dad and Mom art by @llstarcasterll

Betsy and Abby 💖 art by @jeannemaybedarc

Betsy Dobson cosplay by @/toobeetofunction on instagram

@drbetsydobson instagram account/moodboard

[rocoutlaststuff]

So I’ve got a request a Franco Barbi x reader where they were his lover from before he was captured but now they’ve ended up in the trials as a reagent (assuming they can even remember each other) maybe some angst/hurt/comfort as a imagine or one shot whatever would be better for you!! ♥️♥️♥️

One request coming up! I got carried away with this, and you've officially turned me into a bit of a Franco fan which I did not expect. That's what listening to dialogue for an hour straight will do to a person, I guess. Regardless, I hope this is what you were looking for!

Presently in the Past (Franco x Reader) [Requested]

🐑 ♡ I lost the footage to make a Franco gif, anyone wanna play to get it back ♡ 🐑

You can't remember anything about your past, but your past remembers you.

Explicit, Graphic Violence, F/M, M/M, Other/M, Tag(s): Trauma, Human Experiments, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Drug Use, Needles, Memory Loss, Angst, Hurt/Some Comfort, Blood, Violence, Death, Explicit Language, Obsessive Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Pet Names, Cuddling, Flashbacks, Oneshot, Ambiguous Gender Reader, POV Second Person

Find it on ao3 ♡ WC: 6,432

Disclaimer: Easterman's introduction to the trial, and the first paragraph of the story were written by Red Barrels. I recommend reading Barbi's comic first if you haven't already!

Thank you to an anonymous user for requesting this! This is very much my first time writing Franco - hope he's written well ♡

CIA ASSET AT A BAR SOUTH OF MIAMI CONFIRMED FRANCO BARBI'S INVOLVEMENT IN AGENCY ACTIVITY IN CUBA. FRANCO DEEPLY ENTWINED WITH EXPAT/COUNTER-REVOLUTONARY CUBAN COMMUNITY IN FLORIDA.

STATEMENT FROM LAST KNOWN FROM CUBAN-COUNTER REVOLUTIONARY ASSOCIATE CONFLICTS WITH CIA ASSET. FRANCO IS HINTED AT LEADING DOUBLE LIFE BETWEEN ROMANTIC INTEREST AND CAREER.

ATTEMPTING TO CONFIRM.

“Maybe he didn't expect someone to like him,” Clyde muttered. 

His attention hadn't left the shot of Wolf’s Milk that had been made for him. The mere thought of sickly sweet taste forced his insides to turn. Like the wild goose hunt he was on, he wasn’t about the forget it any time soon. And just when he thought he had some semblance of understanding, it had come out that Franco was attempting to hide his involvement with a potential lover. 

He had done a good job too, despite him running his mouth in supposed privacy.

Finding said lover was useful if they could, yet Clyde was close enough to Franco that he preferred the time and resources went towards his target. 

“You can say that again. Looking like that I'd give up, but that man… He's got tenacity. If you want to call it that, anyway.” The agent put down the freshly cleaned glass with a sigh, and he waved off a patron. 

“I can chase up that lead for our mystery friend if you need, but the shop’s closing soon, so it's best that you're leaving. Good luck finding your guy. Nasty piece of work that one.” 

Atropine. Benzedrine. Chloropromazine. LSD. Nitric acid. Glass. Knives. Needles. Drills. 

So many things had dowsed, punctured, and been absorbed by your skin.

If you could take stock of how much abuse your body had suffered, you would have died many times over. Yet the cocktail of drugs that flowed through your veins mixed with the very same abuse to create a near perfect blank slate. 

You knew who you were. You were one in the same with the person in the mirror. You shared your history with that reflection and no one else. 

Yet sometimes when you looked at yourself, you felt like someone else. It was only ever a brief flicker of emotion - a feeling that you replicated in the decor of your space - but you held onto it when you felt it. 

Hell, you encouraged it when you could. 

Waiting to go into a trial was not one of those times. 

Your focus remained on the reagent who sat in the lobby with you. Whereas you sat on one of open tables, he sat on the floor by the stairwell. His hands flit about his body which rocked back and forth from the repetitive tapping of his feet on the ground. The cries of other unfortunate souls beyond your rooms sent him further beneath the stairwell to the point that he was nothing but a shadowy figure. 

You suspected he was new.

It was a horrible fate for someone new to be stuck with you too. While the others took their sweet time waking up, you had checked every room. There were four of you in total still within your lobby. The other twelve had left to go to their own trials. So you were left to decide whether you asked the newcomer if he wanted to follow you into the depths of Hell. 

Doing trials alone was not the answer. It was rarely the answer in the facility, and the people you saw alone were alone for a reason. They scared you more than some of the freaks they released into the trials.

Your trio was one man short.

Yet you were experienced, and experience meant more pain.

“Hey,” you called out. 

A muffled yelp. 

“Hey, it's okay,” you soothed as you rose from your table. Each movement was slow, and you held up your hands. Before you even reached the stairs, you crouched to make yourself smaller to him, skirting your hand along the floor to steady yourself. 

“Who are you?” the stranger barked at you. His voice was fractured. It never settled on a pitch, nor could one emotion truly determine the tone.

Even in the darkness, enough light reached him to caress the edges of the tears that fell down his face. 

You told him your name then asked for his while you sat beside the stairwell. With your hands crossed over your knees, you hugged them tight and waited for him to respond. He eyed you from his hiding spot perfectly still as opposed to how he had been a few short seconds ago.

“I don’t remember-” he choked. “I don’t remember my name.” 

There was not much you could do except watch him repeat that statement over and over again in floods of tears. When he started to hyperventilate, you guided him with his breathing to the beat of your fellow reagents coming down the stairs. When they saw the scene, they agreed to take him with you. 

Sure, it took a lot of convincing to have him step into the shuttle with you, but he did.

And you gave him a nickname: Franco.

He seemed happy with it, and you were grateful to get the name out of your head. The others knew that was what you called the soft toy you kept on your bed, but you didn’t care. It was one of those silly things you fixated on - one that was better than some of the things other reagents found comfort in. 

Like cattle, you were herded into the chairs without any other thoughts about what you should have been doing. It was a routine. One that you explained to Franco. You warned him about the clamps on the chair. Then you warned him about the TV and the gas. 

How could you tell someone to brace for the torment you were about to endure though?

"You are the surgeon's knife, and where you meet flesh, blood and pain must follow. We are the surgeon's medicine, who regulate pain and death. Poison the supply of those who would ease pain, and we will let you out."

There were no words shared between the group, only the terrified whimpers of Franco beside you. He cried out at the images that manifested in the fog. The suffering was unique to the reagent, and you stared forwards in disgust with bile in your throat. It was impossible to drown out the sheer panic beside you. 

Instead, it became part of your nightmare. 

A woman staggered towards you. Her body was outlined in the needles that clothed her skin. They touched every part of her, bouncing to the irregular rhythm of her steps. She tripped, tumbled, and fell into your lap - your eyes shut in an instant to block out the sensation you knew wasn’t there. You told yourself that the weight that hit you wasn’t real. 

It wasn’t real. 

It wasn’t real.

She wasn’t really there.

Franco’s cries were a white noise that tore through your skull like the nails that dug at your tattered slacks. It was too much. Unable to help your morbid curiosity, you allowed your eyelids to flutter open. 

The pulse that pounded within your chest threatened to cease. Tension gripped at your body, and a man held your legs with a similar zeal. Chipped nails belonging to the pasty skin sunk into you. Bloodshot eyes met yours, yet they didn’t seem to hold any hatred. They watched you with a warmth you hadn’t seen since you entered the facility and a smile to match.

You felt like you were looking in the mirror again. Familiarity swelled within your chest, and frustration compelled you to tears the second your wrists crashed against the metal restraints. 

He was gone in a blink. 

The shuttle stuttered and ground against the rails, coming to stop. You mustered up a brief smile for one of your fellow reagents at the concerned look she shot you. She still asked you if you were okay though while the other checked in with Franco. 

“I'm fine.” 

You were. If you didn't know why you were so upset by your vision then there was no reason why you couldn’t be fine. If anything you were good. Maybe even great. 

Despite the way your guts churned, and a dull ache beat against your head, you were exhilarated. 

You recognised that man. You didn't know who he was, but you recognised him, and he was a part of whoever you were before. 

He was your answer.

The first thing you noticed was the water. Amid the boxes and televisions, you were lost to the sound of water lapping against something. It seemed you weren’t the only one who noticed it too. 

“What is that?” your friend asked. There was no telling if he was talking to himself or not as he passed by you. Franco lingered by your side while your group headed to a nearby set of railings.

“I knew it!” your friend exclaimed. “It’s water. They got water in here.” He proceeded to laugh at the sight before him when he turned to see a pier extending beyond you. 

“Fuck - this is…” you watched as he looked around the walls plastered in the image of a distant city, and you noted the way his expression strained under the weight of his thoughts. “It’s too real.”

Nothing else was said. He continued onwards past the viscera not a few steps ahead of him. You allowed yourself the chance to peak over the railings, and the water seemed hypnotising in the way it calmed to near stillness. Something must have fallen in seconds prior to your arrival for it to have made a sound. 

You decided you weren’t going to stick around to find out what that something was.

Franco twitched when your body collided with his. He’d frozen. Fight or flight’s third sibling had no place in the trials, however, and you felt your heart sink at the sight of his vacant stare. You weren’t sure if he had clocked out for good already when he probably hadn’t seen a dead body up close yet.

A once over of his attire led you to almost regret bringing him along as you leant down to remove your shoes. The action caused Franco to return from the depths of his mind, and he watched you with intense focus. 

“Put these on,” you told him. 

With two shoes placed before him, he did so with ample tenderness. Maybe he'd suffered from splinters already. It was a thought that repulsed you given you now had no protection against that fate. 

“Thanks.” 

You nodded at him and took his hand to guide him along. 

“Ignore what you see. Focus on what we're doing,” you said. 

Enforcing this yourself, you closed yourself off to the world around you. It didn't matter that the wood bit at your soles, nor did it matter that blood that wasn't your own caressed every pinprick sized wound you endured down there. There was no face you made when you felt something compress under your weight and burst with a squelch. 

You continued - plain and simple.

There was little in the way of danger along the pier. Just a couple of stragglers that muttered to themselves. Nobody disturbed them. When you drew near the gate, things changed, and your steel willed determination waned at the sound of nearby pleading. 

“Salvatore Cargo,” you parroted from a sign in a bid to soothe yourself subconsciously. 

The pleading only grew louder as the gate was lifted. One by one, you slipped underneath to find the source of the cries. Two men hung above you like the countless decaying fish strung out to dry long ago. Except they were very much alive and terrified. 

Their fear was your own as you knew the sound likely drew attention, and sure enough a shoulder connected with you. 

So it began. 

Your friend collided with you to prevent an ex-pop from gutting you on long talons. You were forced back into a crate, and you acted on impulse. Around you, your friends scrambled to fend off the attacker. Franco froze once more. 

Taking his hand, you snatched a bottle from a shelf and launched it at the ex-pop to distract them. It gave your friends enough time to run, something that was feral and frenzied when lives were on the line. 

Your heart pumped. Unable to keep up with your pace, Franco staggered behind you. Directions and quick observations sounded out from your friends like gunfire. 

Without them, you would have missed the safe zone. 

You threw Franco into a slot and pushed your way into another. As the click resounded, you nearly fell out the other side. Franco knelt on all fours beside you, and you wrapped your hands around him to pull him up. There wasn't anything going through your head as you dragged him to his feet towards the nearest desk.

All you wanted was for him to be okay. You pulled him down into the cramped space beneath the desk on instinct. He was hyperventilating again. The sounds of movement around you let you know that the others were on their way upstairs. 

Meanwhile, you held Franco close to your side. 

Each shudder of his body shook your own. ‘Calm’ wasn’t exactly the state you could describe him falling into, but he fell silent soon enough. It was just in time for you to catch the latest disturbances upstairs. 

A voice different to your friends sounded over the now frantic cries of the hung men. The first gunshot made Franco smack his head against the table in fright. The second was cause for concern as you realised that you had in fact heard a gun. 

The screams were silenced, and the voice was too muffled for you to make out what was being said. 

It belonged to a man. That much you knew.

You peered over the table to survey the scene. The safe zone was still in tact. The lockers beside you didn’t seem disturbed, and the partition was still up. A third and fourth gunshot rung out, however. 

Whatever was happening wasn’t finished. 

The shill scrape of metal on metal filled you with dread - the partition nothing but a memory in the span of a second. You were being told to continue.

“Come on, hey. We’re going to make it through, but we need to move,” you told yourself as you grabbed Franco’s arm and pulled him from his hiding spot. Your friends all but fell down the stairs in their panic to tell you what you already knew: whoever was stuck in the trial with you had a gun.

It was a point of debate as you manourved through the environment towards the next stage of the trial. Even as you hauled pounds of drugs from a cart between one another - the gun outweighed any opinions or thoughts on your given task. How did you combat a gun? Could you take it from the unknown assailant? Were the ammo stashes anywhere?

Nothing useful came of your frantic whispers to one another, and while you took time to search for resources, you decided to help Franco out. It changed the subject at least to something more productive. 

“Battery packs go in like this,” you explained, showing him how to work his ESOP. “As for this, if you ever step on a mine and there’s gas - or you’re gassed because it can happen, one puff. That’s all you need. It’ll take it all away.” 

You snatched a brick for safekeeping, but no explanation was needed for Franco. He understood its use the second it was in your hand. It seemed he learnt quick too, repeating back what you’d said to him on the way back to your rendezvous by the drug cart. 

“I’ve got this,” your friend said. He took out a thin tube you recognised all too well and placed the needle to the edge of his arm. It sunk beneath the surface. You were ready to move again.

Things were going smooth for such an advanced trial. 

That’s what you thought as the cart was heaved along at a brisk jog. You eyed the surrounding area from the boat to the fish market, and you agreed with your friend. It was getting very real. 

Too real, in fact. 

The stench of rotting fish and past reagents left you nauseous. 

“Right this way, please.” The mannequin pointed you in the direction of a weird tool, and the group immediately fell into disarray. 

“No - geez, another fucking thing we can’t deal with right now,” one of your friends hissed. The other picked up the unfamiliar device. She pressed the switch on the side, yet nothing happened.

“Symbol decoder, it says - look,” Franco managed, “aim it at the uh, at uh-” he trailed off as he waved his hand in the direction of yellow paint nearby. The first attempt didn’t work, but as you crammed around the corner, everything became clear. You had to line up the image. 

The device whirred as the roulette of potential combinations locked in far too slow for the sense of urgency you all felt. 

Eight, seven, four.

You were left with Franco as the other two rushed over to the vault and input the code. Nothing could have prepared you for what happened next though. 

“It’s mine. It’s God damn mine, and I’ll skin, salt, and fuck any ruptured scumbag who tries to take it!”

You weren't in the trial. For a second too long, you were somewhere else. In your head, on a dock, you didn't fucking know. All you knew was that the voice stirred something within you. Somewhere - you'd heard it somewhere before. Where? You couldn't remember. Maybe you hadn't even recognised it, but the strength of the familiarity was enough to shake you. 

Somewhere. Someone. 

In the blank space of your head that you could feel, you knew he was there. It made you want to claw at your scalp and peel back the flesh. If you shattered your skull then everything would spill out. Or would you end up dying in a disappointing pool of black tar instead?

What if you forgot everything? 

“-you alright?” Franco asked, and your attention snapped towards him. 

What did you do to deserve to be taken away from everything you knew? 

You didn't say anything, nodding instead. A hand wrapped around yours, and he gave you the best smile anyone could muster in your circumstances. Fake and pained. 

“Let's go,” he said. You nodded again. 

Your friends caught up, and you were given an extra decoder. The space before you led to multiple darkened passageways. 

Cattle cars displayed the symbols you needed to find like some sort of messed up children's game, and you were left with Franco. It was decided as a team. You went left. They went right. With a mental note made of the symbol you needed, you beckoned to Franco to follow. 

So began your search.

All the while, you searched your mind for memories attached to that voice.

Franco gasped from the pain his night vision goggles caused him when he pulled them over his eyes. Thankfully, it was a pain you had forgotten, but you could sympathise with him. The section beside the train was incredibly narrow with no visibility. He had no choice but to wear them if he wanted to see.

You navigated around a corner with no luck finding a star. Then you navigated around another corner to find nothing useful either. But then a light from another cattle car caught your eye. Yellow paint lit up like fireworks the second you lifted your goggles.

The star was there. Part of it anyway. Both of you moved towards the part of the puzzle you had found, and you glanced around for its missing half. It had to be in front of you if needed to line them up, but where?

The answer was on a barrel. 

“Got it-” you breathed, holding up the decoder. It sprang to life, and you jolted when Franco bumped into you. 

You were going to ask if he was okay when he told you he had heard something. Against the buzz of the device, you had failed to listen for anything else. How could you when your attention was divided between some stupid star and fragments of your past? But when you focused you could hear it too. 

Breathing. It was heavy. Strained. It had to be him. Unless it was another ex-pop there was nobody else it could be.

He wasn’t getting any quieter either, and you looked back at the decoder to see it had stopped on one number. You waved it in front of you, desperate for it to work. You were so close to being able to leave - you could get it before whoever it was making their way towards you reached you.

They could turn and leave. It was a gamble that you were willing to take. 

If you stayed you could see him.

“Go hide-” you snapped, and Franco hesitated. “Go.” 

“Who is that?” That voice. You froze when Franco finally moved, and he brought you with him onto the car much to your dismay.

“My dad send you? Think I'm fuckin' scared of you?” Franco guided you to a barrel and instructed you to get inside. 

You did, albeit you were slow. The voice lulled you into a trance, and you wanted to know who it was. His face was all you needed. Just one peek. That was it. Fingertips rounding the edge of the barrel, you peered over the top to see Franco cross the train towards a barrel on the other side. 

He ran right past the opening and fell in unison with a bang. 

The sound of the gunshot continued to ring in your ears, and you stared in horror at Franco. He was alive -  a strained groan spilled from his lips as he rolled over to grip his leg. The bottoms he wore were red already, but the blood began to seep from between his fingers. 

“Found you, fuckin’ rat-” the voice cooed. “Try fuckin’ runnin’ now, cocksucker.” 

The stranger came into view. As he stepped into the light you could see everything. It was him. 

He was the man in your vision.

Your answer.

And still nothing made sense. Even as you took him in, you couldn't place him in your memory. But you could see the situation was dire. 

“Gonna cry? What a fuckin’ coward,” the man said, and you shot up from the barrel. With a blind rig, you weren't much use, but the brick in your pocket was. 

“Franco - move!” you cried out. Both men looked at you, and you launched the brick at the stranger. 

It was a perfect shot. 

“Shit - my fuckin’ head!” 

You leapt from the barrel and almost careened over with it as Franco threw himself to his feet. He cried as he did - falling down when he tried to make the jump from the car. 

When you landed beside him, you didn't get very far. A hand snatched at your neck, and your body was pulled back against the car floor behind you. 

“Must be one of those roaches - the fuck do you think you are usin’ my name like that? You-”

He was Franco.

You let out a whimper at the sensation of your spine being pulled against the car's floor and upwards. As if it couldn't get any worse, a gun pressed to one side of your head, and a face the other. The proximity forced you into stillness at the feel of the real Franco’s breath against your ear. 

“Ain't no fuckin’ way,” he huffed beside you, and you looked at the Franco on the floor who was trying to crawl beneath the car.  

“One of a God damn kind,” your assailant said. 

The aggressiveness he held in his voice shifted into something more joyous. He carried an excitable air around him as he let go of your neck, and he jumped from the train. The mood was shattered when he landed on an injured leg, and the shriek that erupted from beneath the train must have been heard trial wide. 

“Shut your whore mouth!” 

What were you meant to do? 

As two shots fired off into the Franco beneath the train, you were faced with the Franco who had inspired the nickname. And he had killed a man. There was nothing else you could have done but run. You were a credit to your own survival as you did, but you mourned two losses. 

One of which tailed after you.

“Where do you think you’re goin’? Are we playin’ games? Kiss and chase?” 

You sped towards the drug cart at breakneck speed. It seemed Franco had a hard time keeping up with you as his breathing became more laboured. He shouted after you and began to talk to himself when he lost sight of you.

There wasn’t any time for you to explain as you crashed into your friends. 

“Did you get the drugs?” one of them asked, and everything came crashing down around you. They asked about Franco. You felt yourself slipping as the thoughts struggled to form on your tongue.

“Gone, no - he’s gone. Franco got him.”

“What do you mean Franco got Franco?” You didn’t have a response to the question as you fumbled for anything. Each word that unceremoniously left your mouth felt like chewing on dirt. Franco killed Franco. Franco was the name of the ex-pop they had seen. 

The silence that fell after you finished spoke volumes. 

You could see it in their body language. The way that they didn’t move, yet their eyes danced across you. Muscles tightened like coils ready to spring. They didn’t say anything, but you felt their judgement. 

While you tried to convince yourself it was just guilt, you knew why they would take suspicion with you.

You understood why. 

“C’mon out, orsacchiotto, I wanna make sure it’s really you,” Franco called out. His tone was playful despite the weasely undertone of something else that dripped through. Whatever it was was primal. “You got more friends you want to introduce me too? I’ve somethin’ for ‘em too.” 

A metallic bang erupted from one of the trains as if something hit a wall, and you flinched. 

“I know where the code thing is, I got one of the numbers before Franco appeared - I can lead you to-” you were cut off by a hand against your mouth. Your friend had lunged forwards and covered it with his head turned. He let it slide down, and ran a hand over his own face, refusing to step back.

Then he gestured behind you. “Go on, lead the way.” 

You did - going back in the way you came. At the same time, it seemed Franco hadn’t given up his search, and his words damned you beyond the judgement you had already suffered. 

“D’ya remember those cold, cold nights when I used to keep you warm?” You weren’t sure if you wanted to remember.

“I’d give anythin’ if you’d come cuddle up to me. Baby’s lonely.” Whatever you were to him was more than a friend.

“I know what you want - zuccherino for my zuccherino - too bad it’s locked away. I thought your mommy taught you good manners… All you gotta say is please…” Yet there was a bite of hostility in his voice. 

“Don’tcha miss me?” 

You did. Deep down inside, despite the way your body screamed at you in all the confusion and pain, you missed him. 

You wanted to stop running.

With a shaky hand, you held the decoder up to the star symbol. 

Nine, three, zero.

You stared at the void between the floor and the cattle car knowing there was a fresh corpse there. Your friend went to the vault to open it up, and you waited beside the edge of the car. 

But it wasn’t silent.

Your name spilled from nearby. Close. It was close, yet you couldn’t see anything. The sound of shuffling and debris being pushed out the way forced you back into the cool steel of the cattle car. From the safety of your light, darkness opened up before you. So you let the goggles slide over your eyes. 

There, opposite you, was Franco. You were witness to him as he crawled through an opening in the wall on all fours. He was swift to his feet and quicker to train both barrels of his shotgun on you. A broad smile decorated his sunny expression, and laughter bubbled from his throat at your reaction to him.

“Bang!” he exclaimed. “Caught you.” 

There was movement inside of the car.

“And another fuckin’ rat,” he muttered. “Am I not enough? You gotta bring these dumb fuckin’ fucks into my work? My house?” 

Your heart was in your throat, and the lack of sound from the train alerted you to the fact that your friend had stopped moving. He was playing it safe. He wasn’t going to leave you was he? He was going to leave you with Franco. 

Regardless of if your friendship still existed or not, you were going to try at the very least to let him do that.

You were fine. 

“Wait,” you blurted out. “I don’t remember Franco, I don’t remember anything at all.” He stopped dead in his tracks. You glanced at the way his finger toyed with the trigger on his shotgun, and then you met his eyes.

“I don’t remember anything at all,” you repeated as everything began to unwind into sadness. “They put this fucking thing on my head, and they force me to do things I don’t want to do.” 

You gripped at your night vision goggles, the bolts embedded in your skull. Franco’s head lolled to the side with narrowed eyes, and you had his full attention.

“Who?” he asked.

“Who what?” 

“Who the fuck is making you do anythin’? Is it those scumbags that are runnin’ around?” You shook your head. “Nobody fuckin’ tells you what to do. You’re not some fuckin’ whore…” 

Franco’s expression contorted as his fist tightened in on itself. He shook his head and strode over to the car. You watched as he slammd the butt of his shotgun against the train, cursing each time. Each sound sent shockwaves through your poor nervous system, and you felt feint from the amount of adrenaline that coursed through your body.

“Fuck!” Franco repeated. “Why the fuck is nothin’ makin’ sense today? Shit’s so confusin’. Give me strength, somebody.” The gun was pointed at you in a casual gesture far too dangerous for your liking.

“Baby’s got to put on his big boy pants. I’ll be comin’ back for you, oh, don’t you think I’ll forget, but first…” 

You couldn’t stop him from leaving. He hopped onto the train, and when he left it, it wasn’t long before you heard the gun go off.

Lupara. 

That was what he called it. You remembered.

Unable to control your tears, you let them stream down your face like you fell to the floor. When there was a scream from near the drug cart, you cried out louder in unison. Knees brought up to your chest, you buried yourself into your own makeshift darkness. 

Nothing could reassure you as your head pounded from the memories that tried to break through into your conscious mind. 

It hurt. All your friends were dead. 

And the man who murdered them came back to you with a spring in his step.

Apparently, one summer before Franco had to leave for Cuba, in the light of the rising sun you’d both gone to the docks together. Nobody else was really up at the time, and only the waves disturbed you both. Nothing had been planned, it was more of a spur of the moment thing, but you enjoyed it none the less according to him. 

He explained to you in great detail how you’d made plans together to get ice cream and spend the whole day lounging there. Nobody was going to move either of you unless you decided to go yourselves. It was something you wanted to do, and he was happy to oblige since you were willing to give him everything he wanted in return. 

You would hold his hand and drag him around to show him all the things you loved, and he would tell you that he loved you. 

Love was a word that felt like choking up sawdust when he said it. Love never worked out for him. It wasn’t his thing, but he said it anyway. He recounted how you were so innocent to him. 

He never told you how he pictured the shoreline coated in red. Intrusive thoughts flashed the image of you lying before him all mangled and pretty with your face stained in blood. You never needed to know because he couldn’t do it.

No, you were different. 

There was nothing but joy on your face as he’d followed you along that beach. It was hard for him to explain, but ever since you had settled into something together, he’d chased after that feeling of being wanted like he chased you along the sand. 

You humiliated him in your own way by making him think he truly belonged.

And you’d done it again.

Still in the same spot that you had fallen to beside the car, Franco sat with you. He waved his feet back and forth, swaying his body side to side while he looked at you. You hadn’t come out of your self imposed cocoon yet, but you had a single eye on him too.

Things had been ironed out to some degree. 

Obviously he’d asked you what you remembered before he told you a few bits about your past, and while you couldn’t be certain what was true or not, you wanted to believe him. At the point you were at, you prayed that it was true. Something about him soothed the ache in your head.

He was undeniably charismatic, and you weren’t going to deny the fact that you felt drawn to him. 

Then the important question of what you were doing in his territory with the others came up again. There was little he could have done to hide the irritation in his voice as he spoke about you being around them. He wanted to know why you were helping them. If you were anybody else he would have killed you, yet you had a chance to explain.

Franco understood to some extent, despite being frustrated.

He told you that he felt great - better than he’d ever been - but things were off. Seeing you made everything that much sweeter, yet that didn’t change the fact that he too was having issues with his memory.

Déjà vu he called it. It felt like the same shit everyday with different faces.

When you’d told him you were kept by faceless men in laboratory coats and given orders, he mentioned he’d seen some people like that behind glass. It was clear the worlds you were living in were very different. To him, the docks were real. To you, it was an experiment.

Things had gone quiet after that while you pieced together the shards of your past until a hand found your arm. Fingers walked up it and poked at your cheekbone. Franco shifted himself into a kneeling position with his body turned to you, and you lifted your head at the way he searched your soul with his gaze. Without even speaking, he was searching for something in you.

“Not gonna leave, are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to leave, but I’ve never tried to stay in a trial before without doing what I’m told. What if they come to get me?” 

“Then they’re fuckin’ dead. Think they got a chance against my Lupara?” Each word was spat with pride like he could see them cold already. “Hey-”

Your pulse quickened as Franco pulled your arm from your leg. He supported it in between his hands, and he brought your knuckles to his mouth.

“You’d never leave me,” he hummed against your skin. “No - no, I knew you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t abandon your baby.” 

The contact left you flustered as your mind raced over the implications that you were very much his old partner. You didn’t even know if you’d ever separated. Most likely not, if he was going to treat you the way he was. It was strange to feel his kiss against your hand. Not unwelcome, but it was strange.

As he told you that he wanted to feel your arms around him, you crossed your legs and opened yourself up to him. Surreal was an understatement to have him crawl onto your lap without the need to be prompted, and you were delicate in the way you pulled him towards you. 

When his head rested on your shoulder, you decided to stop trying to process everything. 

“Back where I belong…” you heard Franco sigh. 

The weight of his body kept you grounded in the moment. An overwhelming sense of comfort washed over you at the contact - something you had sorely missed - and you let it happen. There was so much you wanted to ask Franco, but for the time being, you savoured the affection he showed you.

He made everything feel better.

“Well shit,” Clyde sighed as he placed down Easterman’s report. He bet Avellanos was going to have a field day with the information they had been given. It was a small world, but even he hadn’t been able to track down Fraco’s supposed partner in the height of his investigation. 

Turns out all they had to do was pick up people from the streets, pluck them from their homes, and they’d get lucky.

THE PREMATURE END OF THE TRAIL WHICH RESULTED IN THE DEATH OF THREE REAGENTS WAS BOTH DUE TO FRANCO’S OWN AGGRESSION AND THE NATURAL FLOW OF THE TRIAL. YET THERE WAS A CATALYST. 

WE FOUND HIS OLD FLAME. THE FOURTH REAGENT BEING FRANCO’S ROMANTIC PARTNER CAME AS QUITE A SURPRISE, AND I THOUGHT YOU’D BE INTERESTED IN SEEING OUR FRIEND IN THE FLESH. I HAVE RECONSIDERED THEIR POSITION AS REAGENT MOVING FORWARDS, BUT WOULD LIKE TO INVITE YOU TO DISCUSS THESE OPTIONS FACE TO FACE. 

UNTIL THEN, FRANCO AND THE REAGENT HAVE BEEN SEPARATED.

[truths33k3r4]

The Strength in Weakness Masterpost

Have you ever wondered why you were made the way you are? Why you were designed with nervous ticks, bad habits you can't break, or even.. a body you never wanted?

These are questions that plague the minds of 5 teenage mutant turtles.

" Why can't I be normal?? " " Why do I have unique physical limitations that no one else has to deal with? "

" .... WHY AM I LIKE THIS? "

Follow Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Lotus as they learn how to help each other through their quirks, trauma, and especially - their WEAKNESSES.

To God be the glory!!

How the story came to be~ 2023 TMNT Whumptober Art!

Bonus Sillies XD

~ CHAPTERS ~

~ BOOK ONE ~

A Stranger in Our Home

Always There to Catch You

Awake and CONFUSED

'Signs' of Life

Raph's Bad Student

The 'Subject' at Hand

Leo's Promise

Hidden Scars

Melodious Mirth

A Dangerous Game

A Steady Hand and a Racing Heart

Trying

A Prick and a Pull

Ghost of Her Past

A Leader's Nightmare

Facing Faults and Facts

IQ vs EQ

The Fight He Can't Win

Silent Connections

Concealed Concern

Lost Control

Make Him Make Sense

Laughter Doeth Good

Hard Words to Swallow

Grieving Cadence

Blurs and Pixels

Specter

An Un-Sound Mind

Beginning of Their Nightmares

A Chance

~ BOOK TWO COMING SOON!! ~

BREATHE

The Weight of Silence

Useless Protector

The Vibrance of Hope

The Stain of Guilt

Brotherly Intervention

Imprinted

Deceptive Answers

Dreams of the Haunted

[milolovesbmc]

Gruesome Playground Injuries except House is Doug's doctor. That's it. That's the post