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ailendolin · 2 years

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Fluff Friday - 7 - Horrible Histories

Title: The Question [AO3]

Characters: Mike Peabody/Milton "DI" Bones, Sam, Bob

Prompt: Mike/Milton proposal fic - Prompt by the lovely @iris-in-the-rain 💙

A/N: This is a the sequel Just you wait and More than enough in which things escalated at HHTV News and the gang decide to quit and start their own news channel.

Prompts are open, so if you want me to write a story for you as well just send me an ask with the fandom, characters and your prompt. I’m writing for Ghosts, Yonderland, Horrible Histories and Bill at the moment.

Six Idiots Whump Wednesday / Fluff Friday masterlist is here.

————

The Question

“Sam? Bob? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Milton tried not to look as tense and nervous as he felt as he led his co-workers into his office. They were in the final stages of launching their own historical news channel – Ancient News – and didn’t really have the time for any distractions right now but he couldn’t wait any longer.

He had been carrying this thought, this idea, with him for months now – ever since things had come to a head at HHTV News and he’d spent the better part of a night comforting Mike after he had almost died in the Arctic trying to prove himself to their former bosses. They had still fired him, and barely a week later Milton had been demoted for acting out on the job, as they’d called it. Historical Road Traffic Accident Squad – he would have felt insulted if he hadn’t planned on quitting anyway the moment his contract allowed him to, just like Sam and Bob.

The last few months had been extremely trying for all of them but Milton only needed to look into Mike’s eyes to know that all the worrying, the exhausting, never-ending meetings and sleepless nights had been worth it. There was a lightness to Mike’s step nowadays that hadn’t been there before and his smiles came more easily now as well, as if a dark cloud had been lifted from his soul and finally allowed him room to breathe. The fact that neither of them had seen the inside of a hospital since they turned their backs on HHTV News played a part in that as well. Milton never wanted to have to sit by Mike’s bedside again, holding his cold and lifeless hand in his, and see him hooked up to various monitors – and if everything went as planned, he wouldn’t have to. Ancient News would be better than HHTV News ever was, and safer. There would be no more running away from wild bears, no trips to the polar regions without proper equipment, no running themselves ragged trying to meet a standard that was impossible to uphold. This time, they would play it safe – for all their sakes.

“This doesn’t feel ominous at all,” Bob muttered as he sat down on the sofa, pulling Milton from his thoughts.

Sam nodded in agreement. “I feel like we’re about to get bad news again. And where is Mike? Shouldn’t he be here too?”

Huffing out a nervous laugh, Milton raked a trembling hand through his hair and shook his head. “Oh no, he definitely should not.”

Sam narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s going on, Milton?”

Milton took a deep, steadying breath and sat down next to her. He had prepared a whole speech in his mind, had gone over it again and again last night when the worry and fear over his best friends’ reactions had kept him awake long after Mike had fallen asleep. But now that the moment was here he found himself stumbling over his words as if he were back in school and being forced to stand in front of the whole class and stammer his way through a poem.

“It’s about Mike – well, about Mike and me, really. And about you, in a way, but also not? I mean, it’s not like your role in this isn’t important because it is – it very much is – but it’s mostly about Mike and me and–“

“Breathe, lad,” Bob said softly and reached across Sam’s legs to give his knee a reassuring pat. “No need to be so nervous. It’s just us.”

Milton took another deep breath and forced himself to meet their eyes. “I want to ask Mike to marry me.”

He bit his lip, waiting for their reactions. Sam and Bob had been supportive of his and Mike’s relationship from the start so he knew, on some level, that he had nothing to fear here and yet the relief that washed over him when their faces lit up with pure happiness on his and Mike’s behalf was undeniably, breathtakingly real.

“Oh Mil, that’s wonderful!” Sam exclaimed, clapping her hands in a rare show of genuine excitement.

Next to her, Bob nodded fiercely in agreement. “The best kind of news anyone could wish for. Mike will be over the moon!”

“You think so?” Milton asked, unable to stop a little bit of his old self-doubt creeping in. “I know the timing’s awful with the launch of the new channel and everything going on right now. But it feels like a new beginning and I just … I want Mike to know that I’ll always be by his side, no matter what’s going to happen, you know? That he can count on me to be there every step of the way, that I won’t just up and leave him when things get difficult and–“

“Mil,” Sam said softly and reached for his hands. Her eyes were shining wetly even as she smiled at him. “Mike already knows all of that. He might have doubts about a lot of things but your love for him is not one of them.”

Milton felt his cheeks flush and managed a wobbly smile in return. “I know. It’s just – he’s been through so much, with his father and HHTV News and those … those guys he dated before me. And now everything is changing – in a good way, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not scary and I want our relationship to be something he feels completely safe and secure in and doesn’t have to second-guess.“

He looked up at them, a little helplessly. Sam gave his hands a reassuring squeeze.

“Then I think a marriage proposal is a wonderful idea,” she said softly.

“And the timing couldn’t be more perfect,” Bob added.

Milton exhaled shakily. It was no or never. “Will you – will you give me your blessings?”

Sam’s smile softened as if she’d been expecting his question this whole time. Bob, however, looked completely floored.

“Mine as well?” he asked, his voice hitching a little with emotion. “Why? I – I mean, I’m flattered but I’m not related to Mike and–“

“You’ve been more of a father to him over the years than his biological one ever was,” Sam said, letting go of one of Milton’s hands to reach for Bob’s. “To both of us.”

Bob blinked at her, stunned.

“Really?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yeah, Bob,” Sam said, giving his hand a gentle pat. “Really.”

Bob cleared his throat, a little flustered, and turned to Milton. “Well, in that case: of course you have my blessing, lad. I couldn’t imagine anyone better for our Mike to spend the rest of his life with.”

“Agreed,” Sam said. “My brother is very lucky to have you, Milton.”

“No,” Milton said quietly with a shake of his head. “I’m the lucky one.”

————

The proposal itself turned out to be less nerve-wrecking than asking Sam and Bob for their blessings. Milton had known Mike for so long now, knew him so well that there simply wasn’t any room left in his heart for insecurity or doubt when it came to them.

That didn’t mean Milton wasn’t nervous when he asked Mike to accompany him to the Stone Age a day before the official launch of their news channel under the guise of doing a test run. He’d checked the timing again and again– Sam had checked the timing again and again – to be sure they would arrive at precisely the right moment in time – the perfect moment. He had been to the Stone Age before, several times even, but Mike had never gone that far back until now. Arriving in a long-forgotten era for the first time always felt special, almost magical, and Milton was counting on the element of surprise that came with that feeling of awe when they stepped out of the portal and onto a dewy, grassy plain that lay under the most brilliant starry sky that had not been touched by light pollution yet.

It never failed to take Milton’s breath away, seeing the Milky Way in all its beautiful glory like this, and judging by Mike’s quiet, reverent, “Wow,” next to him, the sight of a million stars and galaxies twinkling over their heads had the same effect on him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Milton whispered into the cool night air. As subtly as he could, he let his hand slide into his pocket. When his fingers found the small box resting there, he took a deep breath and slowly pulled it out.

Mike, unable to tear his eyes away from the night sky, shook his head in wonder. “It is. I never knew the sky could look like this. Why did you never–“

He broke off when Milton got down to one knee in front of him and took his hand in his.

“Mil?” he whispered, looking star-struck.

Milton smiled up at him, every fibre of his being overflowing with love for this beautiful, ridiculous, wonderful man that had trusted him with the most precious thing in the world what felt like a lifetime time ago: his heart.

“Mike,” he began softly. “If it were up to me, I would give you the moon and the stars so your nights would never be dark. I would make you smile every day and carry all your burdens so you knew nothing but joy and happiness until the end of time. But we both know that life doesn’t work like that. All I can give you is a promise – that I’ll always watch for shooting stars with you, even in the middle of winter when it’s freezing and the nights are long and dark. That I’ll try my best to bring joy into our lives even on the most difficult days and that I’ll always be by your side, no matter what the future brings.”

With shaking fingers, he opened the small box in his hand and revealed a simple golden ring that had both their initials and their anniversary engraved on its inside. He took a deep breath and smiled up at Mike. “Will you marry me?”

Mike fell to his knees in front of him, smiling more widely than Milton had ever seen him before, and pulled him into a kiss so full of joy that it left him breathless.

“Yes,” he murmured against Milton’s lips in-between kisses that felt as beautiful and endless as the sky above them. “Of course I will. Of course.”

Milton laughed and pulled him into another kiss, his heart soaring with love.

————

The ring gleamed proudly on Mike’s finger when they returned from the Stone Age. Milton stood back and watched with a smile as Mike proudly showed it to Sam and Bob, slowly realising that this was the start of the rest of their lives.

He couldn’t wait to see what it would bring.

#mike peabody #di bones #sam peabody #bob hale #horrible histories #fluff friday #wwff challenge #my fic

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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I turn and reach for you

Summary: Three months after Hankel, Spencer starts getting terrible nightmares that keep him up at night. He tries desperately to keep his secret until one day when it's all too much to bear anymore. Luckily, Derek Morgan is there to hold him together as he falls apart.

Tags: nightmares, hurt/comfort, ptsd, angst with a happy ending, fluff, literal sleeping together, getting together, post-revelations TW: past non-con drug use mentioned once in passing

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

This feels the "Nightmares" square on my Bad Things Happen bingo card, and was written for this prompt by @i-write-whump. Title from a poem by Devon Strang.

After Spencer is kidnapped by Tobias Hankel, he stays with Derek. Nobody on the team wants him to be alone, and he’s always felt the most comfortable with him, so it makes sense. Besides, he’s got the space.

Spencer sometimes wonders whether the team pushed so hard for it because they genuinely believed that, logistically, Derek was the best option, or because they could also see the slow-burning romance simmering under the surface of their relationship. They’ve always had a special friendship, but Spencer can feel the growing tension: the deep and intense looks they share mid-case, the lingering touches on backs and arms, the affection leaking into each ‘pretty boy’ and every ‘Der’.

Perhaps if Hankel never came into the picture they’d already be together — it really had felt like they were on the precipice of something special — but it’s three months later and Spencer’s still sleeping in the spare room; there’s still just as much will they, won’t they lingering in the air between them.

He tries not to mind too much. After all, he’s never had so much free access to the man he’s pined after for years now, and they’re living in each other’s pockets. Almost every waking hour is spent in one another’s company: they cook together, eat together, watch films together, and neither of them are showing any sign of getting sick of it. But every time they’re cooking pasta and Derek says something ridiculous, Spencer wishes he was allowed to lean in and kiss the tip of his nose; every time they sit down to watch something together, he wishes he could burrow into his side and rest his head in the crook of his neck.

(Sometimes, Spencer wishes he could rewind to the weeks immediately after the Hankel incident when Derek would carry him around the flat to keep him off his broken feet; when he could press his face into his shoulder and inhale the scent of complete and utter safety.)

It’s almost torturous, being so close yet so far.

He isn’t quite sure why the nightmares start so late. The nights during the first couple of months are blissfully dreamless, so exhausted from the physical and emotional trauma that sleep was a tantalising escape, but once he’s back in the field, once normal life resumes, everything changes.

The first time he wakes up sweating and panting, heart pounding as he tries to convince himself that he’s no longer in Hankel’s clutches but is safe and sound in Derek’s apartment, he dismisses it as a one-off. He hasn’t had nightmares yet, so why should they start now? He doesn’t go back to sleep that night, too shaken to relax back into the comforting embrace of sleep, too afraid of deception: that he wouldn’t sleep dreamlessly but that the nightmare would be waiting for him once again.

The second time worries him. He gets up this time and gets a glass of water as quietly as possible, leaning with his back against the kitchen counter as he ponders what this could mean for him. The thing is, they’re so incredibly vivid. It really feels like he’s back at the mercy of a three-in-one torturer armed with drugs and belts and guns, genuinely unsure of whether he’ll ever see his family again. He doesn’t go back to sleep this time, either, instead pacing around the living room until Derek wakes up. He lies that he’s only been up for half an hour, and Derek believes him.

The third time solidifies for Spencer the fact that this is a problem. Three is a pattern, everybody knows that, and Spencer spends the rest of the night scouring the internet for studies conducted around delayed trauma responses and discovers the prevalence of delayed-onset PTSD. He’s tempted to contact a professor he met during his third PhD who specialised in the psychology of trauma, but he thinks better of it. Admitting these nightmares would be admitting defeat.

This is something he has to deal with alone.

(He ignores the truth that it’s more fear than anything else that keeps him from telling anyone: fear of being seen as weak, fear of nothing changing, fear of voicing his trauma out loud. It’s easier to pretend it’s about independent agency.)

It doesn’t affect him too much at first. Sure, he’s scared to go to sleep and he sweats so profusely that it soaks through his bedsheets almost every night, but he’s managing. He’s okay. He contributes just as much to their profiles and takes down unsubs without flinching. He dances around Derek like they have done for over a year, and he sits through Dr Who marathons with Penelope just fine. So what if he’s a bit tired? He’s stared down some of America’s Most Wanted and interviewed famous serial killers, he can cope with a little fatigue.

It doesn’t stay that easy for long.

Soon everybody’s asking about the bags under his eyes, his slower reaction times when they visit the gun range, his twitchiness around the team.

“Are you sleeping okay, Spencer?” Penelope asks him one day, brushing a curly lock of hair behind his ears as they sit side by side on the sofa next to a conked out Derek.

He can’t nod his head quick enough. “Yeah! Yes, uh. Yes, Penelope, I’m sleeping fine, I promise,” he says as convincingly as he can, flashing her a smile. He hates lying to her, but he can’t let anyone find out, he just can’t.

Slowly, he begins losing his grip on reality. He’s almost delusional from the sleep deprivation, and he starts seeing Hankel everywhere he goes. He’s stood behind the fridge door, in the foyer of the FBI Headquarters, in the toilets of a local police station, stood right behind the unsub they’re currently trying to talk down, goddamnit.

He’s beyond exhausted, but some nights he still refuses to sleep, too afraid of what awaits him in his dreams, too afraid of the fear he knows he’ll carry into the next day, too afraid of feeling weak again. Helpless. Completely and utterly without agency.

He sits up with his back against the headboard, the main light off but the lamp switched on, scrolling through as many scholarly articles as he can read in a night, drinking cup after cup of steaming black coffee. Most nights he makes it through till morning without sleeping a wink, but sometimes he can’t stop himself from drifting off The nightmares on those nights are the worst.

He isn’t okay and people are starting to notice. Everyone’s walking on eggshells around him right now, but he knows it won’t be long before Penelope organises an intervention that Hotch hosts and Derek directs. The worst part about it is that he feels like a trainwreck waiting to happen. He’s headed straight for complete and utter collapse, and the only possible way to stop the train in its tracks is to reach out and get help, the one thing he can’t get himself to do.

And he isn’t even really sure why.

It all comes to a head on a warm night in July. He’d fallen into bed that night deliberately, actually intending to sleep for once. The bone-deep tiredness had finally caught up to him and he didn’t even care that he was walking straight into the arms of Tobias Hankel, if it meant he got even an iota of refreshing sleep, then it would be worth it.

But he isn’t quite of the same mind when he wakes up at two in the morning like he does almost every night: soaked in sweat with his heart going a million beats per minute, with only one difference. Tonight, he’s crying.

Maybe it’s the emotional turmoil of the last few months catching up to him, or maybe it’s just the severity of this particular dream, but whatever it is, he can’t seem to stop even once he’s awake. Sobs wrack his shoulders as he cries miserably into the pillow, finally letting out the emotions he’s kept bottled up so tightly, and he’s almost wailing after a couple of minutes of anguish.

All he can think as he cries helplessly is how badly he wants Derek. He wants to be wrapped up in his strong and safe embrace, he wants to feel the movement of his soft goatee against his cheek, he wants to inhale the comforting scent of his sleep t-shirts, he wants the warmth and solace that only Derek Morgan can give him, and in that moment, emotionally distraught and so incredibly sleep-deprived, he decides to get it.

He stumbles out of his bedroom and down the hall, stopping once he reaches Derek’s door. He hesitates for only a second before he pushes it open slowly, allowing the light from the lamp they keep switched on in the hallway to gently illuminate the shadows of his bedroom.

“Spencer?” Derek asks groggily, immediately sitting up and wiping his eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”

At the acknowledgement of his tears, Spencer starts to cry harder, and as embarrassed as he feels, he can’t slow the steady stream of tears rolling down his face as he stands in the doorway like a child in their parents’ room.

“Spence,” Derek says again, gentle and sympathetic, “come here.” He lifts the duvet up and scooches over slightly as if to make room for him in his already spacious king-size bed.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, though, and he stumbles forward, collapsing into bed and wrapping himself around Derek instantly. His arms come up to circle Spencer’s waist, caressing him gently as he holds him close to his body, shushing him quietly.

“It’s okay, Spence,” he murmurs. “I’m here now, alright? We’re gonna fix whatever it is, I promise you. We’ll get through this. You’ll get through this.”

He lets himself cry and cry and cry until his tears are dried up and he’s hiccupping from the force of his sobs. He would feel terrible about the damp spot left on Derek’s t-shirt, but he simply doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he continues to lie there on Derek’s chest, listening to his softly spoken assurances and losing himself in the sensation of Derek’s fingertips caressing the skin of his waist.

After a couple of minutes of silence, interrupted only by the odd hiccup from Spencer’s tired lungs, Derek finally asks the question. “What was that all about, pretty boy?” he asks with a tenderness Spencer isn’t sure he’s ever heard before. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Been having nightmares,” Spencer whispers, keeping his eyes closed against Derek’s imploring gaze.

He feels Derek tense beneath him, his fingers briefly pausing before resuming their comforting patterns on his waist, and a heavy breath escapes his lips. “For how long?”

“Last couple of months,” he mumbles, and somehow another tear manages to escape Spencer’s screwed up eyes.

“Well,” Derek sighs, “I suppose that explains a lot. We’ve been so worried about you, Spencer. We had no idea what was going on but we could all see you withdrawing, and it wasn’t exactly a secret how exhausted you were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Derek says sadly. “I should’ve pushed harder to figure out what was going on with you. I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with this all alone.”

“I didn’t know how to tell anyone,” Spencer says, suddenly desperate to explain as he shifts slightly to look Derek in the eye. “I was so scared and I didn’t want anyone to think that I was weak or I couldn’t do my job anymore, and I just didn’t know what to do.”

“I know, Spence,” Derek says soothingly, “but you’ve told me now, haven’t you? And I’m going to do everything I can to get you some help. We’ll fix this, baby. I promise you, I’m going to make sure you’re happy and healthy again if it’s the last thing I do, okay?”

Spencer sniffs a little, wiping tiredly at his eyes as he blinks up at the sincerity on Derek’s face. For the first time in far too long he manages a smile. “Okay.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair before dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

Spencer’s smile widens and he buries his face in Derek’s chest again as his cheeks flush red. “Please.”

Months later, they’ll realise they never officially asked one another to be in an actual, exclusive relationship. Months later, they’ll know instinctively and with absolute certainty that this night was the night that changed everything for them, and exactly one year later, they’ll celebrate their first anniversary on that date.

Tonight, though, they sleep curled up next to one another in Derek’s bed, and although Spencer doesn’t fall into the same dreamless sleep he grew used to immediately after Hankel, for once he isn’t haunted by nightmares, but dreams inflected with hope for what the future holds for them, and he’ll take that over dreamlessness any day.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @ @marsjareau @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds (add yourself to my taglist)

#my writing #moreid #derek #spencer #derek morgan #criminal minds #spencer reid #moreid fic #moreid fanfic #moreid fanfiction #cm #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #derek morgan/spencer reid #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid/derek morgan #spencer reid x derek morgan #userpenemily

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bokettochild · 3 years

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Day 5: I've Got Red In My Ledger

Whumptober Day 5: Betrayal/Misunderstanding/Broken Nose

So, I ended up using all three options, and 'm honestly not sure if this counts as Warriors Whump, Four Whump or both.

I will excuse Legend's presence as being because I just wrote a Four and Legend one-shot and was still in Split Heroes mode.

Hope you read, enjoy, and don't hate me for what I've done, because I don't regret it :)

Warriors keeps staring at them.

The captain’s piercing royal blue eyes have been boring a hole into their back for ages and the ridiculous part of them worries that if they don’t keep moving that stare will bore a hole right through them. Thanks Red.

What? It’s a valid concern!

Red, when has having someone stare a hole through you ever been a valid concern?

Wild’s guardians.

Alright, but Wars isn’t a guardian, he’s-

He helped to build them. Red murmurs softly. Plus, he’s the Captain, I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to do something crazy after spending so much time jumping across worlds and learning stuff from the people there.

Red, we all jump through portals and learn things from across time. I think we’ll be okay.

“Four?” Legend’s voice is the one that breaks through to him as the vet stops in front of him, two bowls in hand and one offered to them as the vet cocks a brow. “Y’all okay?”

They smile at the vet, despite the itch of someone’s eyes fixed on them, and take the offered food. “I’m good, just thinking is all.”

“About what?” Legend presses, sitting next to them with curious cock of his brows as he begins to eat, violet eyes staring them down, piercing, but not as pointedly so as Warriors’ gaze. Legend’s eyes are gentle for once, and the vet seems to relax slightly as he eats, seated at their side and calmer than he’s been in days.

Four wishes they could feel the same.

They don’t regret sharing their secret with the vet (even if it wasn’t on purpose) and it’s nice to have someone to feel safe with, but no matter how warmly Legend might smile at them, a secretive wink or knowing smirk being shot their way, they’re still on edge.

“Nothing much, just...thoughts, you know?”

“No.” Legend deadpans.

They chuckle nervously. “Thinking about our different worlds and how we learn so much by hopping across them, you know? Like, Wild learning the recipes from your time or Wind getting to learn to ride horseback in Twilight’s world.” Th vet nods wordlessly, sucking on his spoon as they turn their attention to the meal Wild has so lovingly prepared.

Warriors still hasn’t looked away.

He’s been doing this for days, and usually, Four wouldn’t be worried, but it hadn’t started until after Shadow had helped them trip up an enemy in battle, and though the action probably saved the captain’s life, Wars hasn’t stopped watching them and it’s beginning to remind them of that time that Ezlo and them had been cornered by a cat in Pita’s Bakery. They still have the scar from that incident, and it’s something they guard the secret behind fiercely, if only out of shame of their own weakness and foolishness in that particular situation. Ezlo had warned them not to try darting away, to stay hidden in the sacks until the cat had been gone, but they’d rushed forwards and barely survived being made mincemeat.

Ezlo had needed stitches.

They had needed a minish healer and a bath in red potion. And even if they cover the worst of the scars beneath their tunic, the ragged tip of their left ear is a reminder. It’s why they chose to wear their earring, to remember to listen when the minish or the little voice in their head -or voices now- tell them to be careful. That voice, all four of them, is screaming at them to shield themselves.

And really, they should have listened.

Legend is on his feet in a moment, sword out to catch the second blow that falls their way as their ambusher grunts out an irritated oink.

“Ambush!” Wind shouts as the others pull themselves to their feet and grab hold of their weapons. They’d left their sword beside their seat, and from their place lying on the ground they can’t reach, but Shadow, Hylia bless him, sneakily pushes it close enough that they can wrap their fingers around the hilt and jump in to join the battle with their brothers.

It’s not a large group of monsters, and it doesn’t take much work between nine heroes and a sneaky shadow to fell them all, and they’re just turning to offer Wind a high five as the kid kicks the final lizalfoes off his sword when the cold of a blade presses against their throat.

“Warriors, what the bloody heck!” Legend shouts, jumping back up from where he’d been knelt to help Sky begin relighting their ruined campfire.

“Drop your sword.” The captain’s voice grates out behind them, cold and commanding in a way that sends shivers down their spine.

What’s going on?

The captain’s gone bonkers is what! Green, what’s the plan?

There’s only silence from their leader as the other deviants wait impatiently for an answer.

Green, we need a plan, War is-

Their sword clatters to the earth as the other colors begin to swear and panic, but Green has forced their hand, literally, and the stare they send their weapon is both resigned and horrified, one eye flickering various colors as the other remains solidly green.

Across camp, Legend’s own eyes are bugging out of his head, panic clear in his gaze as the vet’s hand closes on his sword hilt.

“Stay your hand, Legend.” Warriors rumbles, firm but not cruel. “No need for weapons-”

“Says the one holding a sword to Four’s throat!”

The captain doesn’t even shift, and their mind spins as they try and decipher what it is that the other man is doing or thinking, Red and Blue still screaming inside their mind as Vio murmurs various schemes about what they can do while Green sits in stony silence.

What were you thinking!

Green! We- what if- Red is nearly sobbing. Green, please! What are you doing?

Calm down. Of Green had his own body he’d be shooting them a rueful but reassuring look, and they can all feel it. This is a mistake or misunderstanding. If we listen and don’t make it worse, it can be cleared up faster.

Brilliant, might want to fill the vet and Old Man in on your plan though, and maybe Sky too, guys about to blow up.

They shoot a wary glance towards the Chosen Hero, careful not to move their head lest they press against the blade at their throat. Sky’s eyes are wide, but he’s still as a board and already falling into his ‘king stance’ as Legend calls it, shoulders back and jaw set with a grace and power behind his gaze that makes them shiver even more than the cool steel at their neck.

Or wait, that metal isn’t all cold, there's a bit of warm sticky stuff brushing their jaw and they nearly shiver again as they realize that Wars hadn’t even cleaned the monster blood off of his blade before trapping them.

“The smithy’s been lying to us.” Warriors grates out, cold and harsh and angry as the blade presses closer to their throat. They have to inch back a bit to avoid being cut, only to find themselves stumbling against the captain’s chest. “He may be a hero chosen by the goddesses, but he’s chosen his own path.”

“What do you mean?” Time’s voice is emotionless, stance unreadable and face carefully blank and it’s unsettling in the extreme, making the other young heroes draw back with wary looks as they glance from one to another of the adults, only Legend standing firm and furious as he glares across at the captain.

“Four’s working with the shadow.” The captain spits out, blade again pressing close to their neck. “I’ve been watching him, he’s either learned it's powers or the beast is here itself, but I know what I saw, he’s got a shadow helping him.”

The vet twitches. “Duh. Have you never read the Legend of the Four Sword?”

There are a few confused sounds from the others, but Four can’t bother to figure out what the others are all saying and doing as the steel presses sharp against his throat, leaving him pressed against Warriors’ armor-clad chest with no way to escape as something warm bubbles against the blade and crimson leaks down from the line the blade presses against him.

“Let him go!” Legend shrieks, hands already on his own blade as he darts across the camp, but Warriors, only draws Four closer, voice unbearable gentle and pained as he addresses Legend. “Vet, you’re not yourself. He’s messed with your mind, can’t you see? It’s why you two have been so close all of a sudden, he’s put a dark spell n you, don’t give into it.”

“I’ll do what I bloody well want!” Legend screams in return, chest heaving as the tempered sword comes unsheathed, tip inches from Warriors’ face as Legend’s body begins to tremble. “Let him go, Captain.” The title is spat out like a curse, and Four can nearly feel Warriors’ shoulders sag as the man winces, but Legend doesn’t lower his blade even as Wars gently urges him to calm.

The others have started moving closer too, doubt on a few faces that makes their heart sink in their chest. Sky’s gaze is firm though as the Chosen Hero settles a hand on Legend’s shoulder. “Let him go, wars. If there’s a problem that needs addressing, we’ll address it like civil adults.” The words make hope flutter in their chest, but Warriors is only pressing closer, his blade digging in and making them whimper as blood dribbles into the collar of their tunic.

“Not a chance, Sky, he’ll get away, shadows are sneaky like that! They-” The captain is cut off suddenly, breath catching as the man wheezes behind them, his hand on the sword at their throat loosening its grip and giving them room enough to breathe again.

Legend takes the opening, whatever it is that caused it, to dart forwards, dropping his own sword and pulling at the captain’s sword arm hard enough that Sky can scoop them up into his strong arms and duck away, holding them close to his chest and giving them a full view of the shadowy hands that have wrapped around Warriors’ throat.

“I’d watch who you messed with if I were you, Captain.” Shadow hisses in the man’s ear before releasing him, zipping over to where they lay in Sky’s arms, startling both the Skyloftain and the vet, who’s already reaching for his weapon again as the shade stops to float over them. “Four, oh gosh Rainbow, are you okay?”

Good old Shadow.

Vi, we almost died, now’s not the time.

“All good.” They wheeze with a shaky smile, eyes darting up to Sky’s wary ones and then down to Legend’s steely indigo ones. Neither hero has made a move though, and for that Four is grateful.

A few paces away, Warriors is rubbing at his throat and staring in shock and horror at the shade that hovers over the trio of heroes who crossed him. They wince, this is not going to be easy.

“You’re bleeding.” Shadow hisses, nearly growls as his fangs glint in the glow of faded embers. “He- Oh Lolia no, this ain’t going down like this, not on my watch!”

Well Shadow’s managed to accidentally calm Legend at least, as the vet loosens slightly at the name of the Lolian Goddesses name, even if Sky still hold them tight like he thinks he’s going to have to run.

The shade looks up, away from them for a moment and salutes Sky with a knowing nod, all cockiness gone as from his demeanor as he addresses the Chosen Hero. “Thanks for sticking up for my idiot, feathers, watch him for a second while I handle this freak, yeah?” And Sky doesn’t even have time to speak or agree or even blink before Shadow has whizzed across the cam and sent one clawed fist slamming into Warriors’ face, a sickening crunch breaking the silence as Warriors stumbles, hand reaching for his face as Shadow wrings out his hand. “Thats for hurting my friend, you asshole!”

“Shadow.” Red’s wrested control as they flop against Sky’s chest. “That is not helping! You hurt Warriors!”

“He hurt you first!” The protective shade shouts back, crossing his arms and giving Wars his scary eyes before darting back to hover at Sky’s shoulder, much to the poor man’s surprise. “Racist jerk, what am I evil just because I’m a shadow? Never heard of shadow puppets as a kid? Or shadow dancing? Hey, guess what, you don’t need to think every freaking dark thing that moves is evil!”

Sky frowns, eyes straining as he stares at the being leaning on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Four’s shadow, resident dragon master, smithy wrangler and protector of one stupid hero who thinks surrendering and keeping the peace is more important than keeping their hide in one piece.” Shadow pokes their shoulder pointedly at that, making them wince as Blue grumbles something about sharp claws.

“So, you are real.” Legend cocks his head, chest still heaving and cheeks still flushed as the vet visibly tries to force himself back under control. “Huh.”

Shadow turns, hovering mid-air and giving Legend a once over. The shade offers a strained grin, forced and brittle as he tries to distract them. “Rabbit huh? Nice. Rainbow’s always liked rodents. You the younger or older brother here?”

And even though all eyes are fixed on them, Warriors glaring and the others staring in disbelief, Four find themselves bursting into laughter because, of all things, of course Legend would apparently also have a shadow form, and the fact that it’s a rabbit is only making it worse. To their surprise, Sky’s laughter joins their own, and across camp, Twilight huffs a strained chuckle as Legend glares up at the floating shade.

“I told you!” Warriors wheezes, blood spilling down his face as he pulls himself up. “It's a shadow! Four’s working with Dark Link!”

Shadow hisses. “That nutcase? Are you kidding? I’d rather die again, thank you!”

And really, now is as good a time as any for them to explain. “He’s just a normal shadow, Wars. Yeah, Ganon and Vaati brought him to life, but he’s been helping me protect Hyrule since we freed him form their control. He’s on our side, he was just nervous about showing himself around all of you guys because we heard you all talking about your own shadows.” Their eyes are flickering violet as they stare at the captain, and they know it. “He’s not a monster, and he’s only a threat if you make him one, same as any of us.”

The captain moves to protest, only to have Hyrule clear his throat from the edge of camp, all eyes swiveling to the traveler as Hyrule nods slowly. “He’s telling the truth, the Legends of the Four Sword all say that the hero befriended and helped his shadow, and the shadow reformed and sacrificed himself to save Hyrule.”

“Exactly.” Legend squeak growls. “The only threat in this camp is someone who’s more willing to draw a blade on their comrade than to approach them with their concerns.” The words make Wars flinch, maybe more than the blow Shadow had landed to his face, and though the captain makes to speak, he's cut off once again by Legend’s harsh voice. “Don’t want to hear it, Captain. I’ve got my brother to help heal up after what you did to him.”

It’s like the mirror shattering all over again, the silence in the air as two parties are separated by a line none can see as Legend and Sky settle on the opposite side of the camp from the others, Shadow hovering over the vet’s shoulder as Legend turns his back on Warriors, dabbing gently at the cut on Four's throat with a cloth damp with red potions.

The captain stiffens, standing and turning on his heel to march towards the other end of camp.

Blue eyes never leave them as their three protectors hover and fuss over them.

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

Text

shelter me from winter’s bite

Everyone’s doing a hypothermia fic so I figured I may as well contribute. It’s one of my favorite tropes.

title taken from Brian Czyzyk’s poem “Hoarfrost” (he’s my favorite young queer poet and you should check him out).

tw: hypothermia, angst with a happy ending, whump with a happy ending

---

“Do you always have to be so damnably loud?” Geralt growls, glaring at Jaskier from across the small room.

“My apologies for existing,” the bard snaps back. He’d only been rearranging his pack, looking for something reasonably clean to sleep in while his clothes were laundered by the innkeeper’s lovely wife. “I’ll try to do so more quietly from now on, good sir.”

Geralt huffs out a breath in passive-aggressive annoyance and Jaskier bristles.

“Oh well, then. C’mon witcher, I know you want to say it!”

“Say what?” Geralt asks. His voice is low and threatening. He’s ready to play the game and by god he’s going to win this time.

“It’s practically your motto at this point,” the bard hisses through his teeth, angry and bitter and tired. Geralt sees victory. Sees some peace and quiet on the horizon. “Say it!”

Geralt does as he’s told, like any good witcher would: “Fuck off, bard.”

“There it is!” Jaskier laughs joylessly, throwing up his hands. He pulls on his doublet and boots and heads for the door. “If you want me gone so badly, Geralt, then I will go. I’ll get out of your lovely white hair and leave you to mope in peace.”

“Fucking finally,” the witcher snarls, turning away. He doesn’t see the genuine hurt in Jaskier’s blue eyes as the bard quietly closes the door rather than slamming it. He doesn’t hear the quiet sob that rips its way out of Jaskier’s throat as he stands very still, shocked and suddenly exhausted all the way to his bones. He doesn’t smell the salt of his bard’s tears as he slips silently down the hallway and out into the late autumn night. He doesn’t notice the snow starting to pile up on the windowsill ahead of season.

He’s too busy being a self-flagellating moron to notice any of that.

---

Geralt is woken in the middle of the night by a commotion downstairs. He can hear several loud, panicked heartbeats and one very quiet, very slow heartbeat beneath all of those; it’s achingly familiar but the half-asleep witcher can’t quite call its source to mind. Geralt listens as the innkeeper barks out a series of sharp orders: “Meredith, you get to the kitchen and make some strong black tea! Florence, fetch a pail of warm water and two or three towels from the laundry. Josiah you lazy lout, get into the attic and fetch some blankets! The poor lad has gone blue all over!”

The witcher peers into the hallway and catches the skinny stable hand, Josiah, racing for the attic staircase. “What’s going on?”

“A farmer from the next town over was on his way over to help a friend’s sow give calf and he found-” the lad pauses to suck in a great gulp of air and launches off again “-and he found that friend of yours lying in a snowbank, muttering nonsense and shivering like a leaf. The poor fool didn’t have a cloak on him or anything, just a doublet and walking boots! He’s near-dead!”

Geralt curses and makes for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the main floor. There are voices coming from the kitchen and he follows them as if in a dream, his feet moving without aid of his conscious mind. “Jaskier? Is it the bard, Jaskier?”

“Are you the great brute what kicked him out?” the innkeeper’s wife asks, crossing her arms over her ample chest and narrowing her eyes. Geralt falters.

“No, he- he left on his own, in a huff.”

“Wonder who could have started the huff,” the woman rolls her eyes. This isn’t about his status as a witcher, Geralt knows; this eye roll was made by a woman who knows a lovers’ quarrel when she sees one. Except that this stupid little spat might have cost Jaskier his life.

“Where is he? May I see him, goodwife?”

The woman points to a table in the corner, which has been cleared of cooking implements and cushioned with a heavy bearskin. Jaskier lies atop the brown fur, his skin frighteningly pale, his lips and fingers tinted a slight blue. Geralt rushes to his side and takes one of the bard’s stiff hands in his own. He brushes a stray lock of brown hair from Jaskier’s forehead and nearly recoils in shock from the temperature of his skin. Even colder than his hands, which are already dangerously frigid. If Jaskier cannot play his lute-

Geralt doesn’t even allow himself to finish the thought. Instead he works on rubbing small, careful circles onto the back of the bard’s hands with his thumbs, warming the skin in tiny increments: “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

The bard remains unmoving, heartbeat fluttering weakly, lungs barely drawing breath; Geralt fights back an overwhelming sense of panic, trying to recall whatever training he’d received at Kaer Morhen concerning freezing humans.

“Do you mind if I take him upstairs and tend to him myself?” the witcher asks.

“Can you take care of him?” the innkeeper’s wife replies.

Geralt bows his head, shame licking like flames up and down his bent spine, and nods. “Yes, Ma’am. I have dry clothes for him in our room and I was trained extensively for emergency situations such as this, all witchers are.”

“Alright,” she narrows her eyes. “But he’d best be alive come morning.”

“I’ll happily turn myself over to the village elders to be dealt with accordingly should the bard come to any harm,” he vows. Her eyes widen minutely and he can read the surprise in her body language, but she remains relatively calm.

“Any further harm, rather. Alright, then. I’ll have my husband and the girls bring those supplies up to your room for him. We’ll be glad to go back to sleep.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Geralt bows formally. She blushes despite her irritation with him and waves him away.

“Take your bard and go, witcher, before I change my mind and spend all night caring for him myself out of motherly pity. Go.”

Geralt hefts Jaskier into his arms, heavy bearskin blanket and all, and hurries up the stairs to his room. He will not let Jaskier come to any further harm. Not by his hand. Not by his word. Never again.

---

Back in their room, Geralt quickly undresses the shivering human, peeling away what few damp layers there are with growing disappointment. Jaskier hadn’t been prepared for a walk in the snow at all! Although, to be fair, it hadn’t seemed that cold earlier in the evening and the snow had been sudden and heavy.

He wipes Jaskier down with a warm cloth and slips one of his own clean shirts over the bard’s head. He tries not to let his gaze linger on the way Jaskier’s shoulders don’t quite fill out the dark material. Or on the way his dark, wiry chest hair peeks out through the open laces at his throat. The witcher quickly shuffles him into clean smallclothes and wraps him in a thick wool blanket.

They sit curled before the fire and Geralt holds Jaskier against his chest. He hums with his voice like gravel, grating out one note after the other in some attempt to soothe the bard’s aching body. Jaskier shivers and shakes violently in the witcher’s strong embrace, his eyes clenched shut with the cramps that wrack his frame as his muscles return to their normal temperature. Geralt feels like he’s holding a porcelain doll and keeps his grip deliberately loose, tight enough to comfort but not restrain.

“G-Geralt,” he groans. “Hold me, please.”

The witcher squeezes his arms more confidently around the bard’s middle, burying his face in Jaskier’s soft hair and breathing deeply. The warmth that usually emanates from his busy human body is gone and his chamomile-honey scent is buried beneath a layer of damp cold; it feels wrong. Terribly wrong. Geralt murmurs against his temple, begging the younger man’s forgiveness: “I’m so sorry, Jaskier. Gods, I’m so sorry. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I’m a fool, you know. I’m a fool witcher who never says anything important until it’s too late. I’m so incredibly sorry, my love.”

“This is a very good dream,” the bard sighs, smiling despite the pain. His eyes open, bleary and addled. “Like I was having in the woods, but better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier seems to understand the unspoken question, even in his current sorry state.

“The real Geralt would never be so gentle with me, dear heart. You must be a dream, sent to me on my deathbed to ease my passage into the afterlife. There’s no other explanation for your sudden displays of tenderness.”

“It’s... It’s really me,” Geralt affirms. He runs his hand up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, “I’m here, Jaskier. Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?”

“I forgive you for being stupid ever other day, dear witcher. It is of no consequence to me.”

“It almost was,” Geralt frowns. “I nearly- I almost-”

Jaskier’s arm raises weakly and his too-chilly hand presses to Geralt’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have stormed off like an idiot. I shouldn’t have kept picking the fight. We both fucked up, alright? What matters is our second chance. We got to have one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Am I wearing your shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Yours were all being laundered and this one was clean and it had been in my pack near the fire so it was already warm and-”

“Did you take care of me all night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sighs after his hum and glances away for a moment. “What did you mean about... about the dream in the woods?”

“Oh. Well, when I was very cold and things were hazy and slow, I dreamed that you were there with me. Everything got very fuzzy and warm for a little bit, and when it was warm you were holding me like this and giving me little kisses. It was... nice. Even though I knew I was dying because you were being so soft, so considerate; saying things to me you’d never say out loud in real life.”

“I love you, Jaskier. I will try my best not to lose my temper needlessly,” the witcher swears. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Can we still cuddle like this?” Jaskier asks, leaning his weigth against Geralt’s firm chest. “It’s so nice to be held.”

“Of course. Anything you want. I’m not going to waste my second chance by treating you poorly. Not for another second, my beloved bard.”

“B-beloved?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, well then I’m definitely still dreaming.”

Geralt lifts Jaskier into his arms and carries him over to the bed, which is piled high with their extra blankets. He tucks Jaskier into the nest against the wall and lays along the outside of the mattress. He presses his lips to the bard’s, reveling in Jaskier’s returning warmth, and smiles. “I’ll prove it’s not a dream. Every day.”

“Sounds nice,” Jaskier yawns, snuggling into the witcher’s arms and settling down to sleep.

“It will be.”

#geraskier #hypothermia #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #geraskier fic #geraskier fluff #whump with a happy ending #fluff with a happy ending #geralt #jaskier #jaskier whump #jaskier gets hypothermia #caring geralt #soft geralt #winter fics #geraskier winter fics

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

Note

Hello there!! Do you have a list of long fics with a jealous/possessive/obsessive sherlock? Thank you mwahhh

Hey Nonny!!

I DO!! I actually started a new list for Possessive Sherlock awhile back waiting for someone to ask for it after I posted my other two lists, LOL.

I put my fics in word-count order, so just scroll down until you see a word count you like and go from there LOL :D

Hope you enjoy!

POSSESSIVE / OBSESSIVE SHERLOCK Pt 3

See also:

Jealous & Possessive Sherlock

Possessive Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous Sherlock Because John Dates a Man

Jealous John Pt. 2 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous John Pt 3 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 3

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 4

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 5

Possessive by Fang323 (T, 850 w., 1 Ch. || John Whump, Hospitalization, Possessive / Protective Sherlock, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort) – His John did not belong. Not here. Not in this blasted hospital. It simply was not logical.

Concussions And Good Old Fashioned Awkwardness by Belldere (K+, 894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Hospitals, Mild John Whump, Misunderstandings, Platonic Relationship, Concussions, Not-Gay John, Possessive Sherlock) – When John lands himself in hospital... again, all he wants is to just get out of there as soon as possible, too bad his doctor has other ideas about where John may be getting his injuries. Good thing concussions make everything strangely funnier.

Burn Burn by Jenn1984 (K+, 925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Angst, Worried / Panicked / Possessive Sherlock) – A week after the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.

His by I'm Nova (T, 1,042 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Possessive Sherlock) – Sherlock doesn't share what he's fond of.

Mine (He Says While Still Being Smol) by beejohnlocked (E, 1,319 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Amused John, Needy Sherlock, Blowjobs) – A suspect flirts with John. Sherlock gets a bit jealous. Okay, a LOT jealous.

The Case of the Missing Blogger by nicknack22 (K, 2,147 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Humour, Friendship, Worried / Anxious Sherlock) – Alternately titled, The Case of the Oblivious Consulting Detective. In which Sherlock comes out of his mind palace to discover John missing. 221B does not fair well as a result.

Hell or High water by bluefire301175 (E, 2,250 w., 1 Ch. || PWP, Frottage, Alley Sex, First Person POV John, Case-ish Fic, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing) – John wants. Sherlock wants. Plain and simple.

Display by 221b_hound (E, 2,377 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, Tattoos, Public Hand Jobs, Exhibitionism, Possessive Sex, Possessive Sherlock, Possessive John) – A new client has been flirting with Sherlock and, finding no joy there, with John. John seems annoyed to be second-best, Sherlock thinks, so Sherlock decides to give the departing woman (and maybe also John) a demonstration of who, exactly, John belongs to. But there's more than one level of sexual jealousy and more than one display of possession going on here, outlined in the window of 221b Baker Street. Part 2 of Lock and Key

Surety by hudders (G, 2,477 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous Sherlock, Drunk John, Drunk Lestrade, Drinking, Alcohol) – Sherlock is pissed because it seems that four pints of larger, two shots of tequila and a glass of wine has resulted in Lestrade becoming a little bit too friendly with everyone. And by everyone, Sherlock really means John.

Pillow Talk by 221b_hound (E, 2,925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, Est. Rel., Preening Sherlock, Limpet Sherlock, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Sex on Furniture, Scent Kink, Masturbation, Fluff, Soft Sherlock) – John gets home late from work and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John walks through the flat, distracted by memories of all the excellent sex they've been having, and finally finds Sherlock asleep in the upstairs room - apparently having fallen asleep mid-wank while inhaling the scent of John's pillow. Well, you should always finish what you start, John thinks... Part 3 of Lock and Key

Reversed by whitchry9 (K+, 3,072 w., 6 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Medical Anomalies, John Gets Shot) – The man pointed his gun at John's chest, right at his heart, and shot.' Wherein John is shot, and Sherlock is the one panicking.

Overture by Kate_Lear (M, 4,435 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss / Time, Friends to Lovers, Angry John, Introspection, Dev. Rel., Embarrassed / Insecure Sherlock, Morning After, Bed Sharing, Cuddles / Limpet Sherlock) – A short snippet on how John and Sherlock might have got together.

All That I Have by the_arc5 (M, 3,721 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG Canon Divergence, Pining Sherlock, John Whump, Anxious / Worried Sherlock, Light Angst) – In the aftermath of the Great Game, Sherlock finds himself with a new weakness. John is both the cause and the cure.

Paranoia by Ewebie (M, 3,789 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Drinking Games, Scotland Yard Gang, Jealous / Possessive Sherlock, Inappropriate Questions, Embarrassed John, Matchmakers) – John and Sherlock join the gang of Scotland Yard for a night of drinking, and it gets a bit personal and revealing.

The Oolong Disaster by unicornpoe (T, 4,151 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Beard, Fluff, Humour, Frustrated Sherlock, John Takes Care of Sherlock, Case Fic-ish, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Possessive Sherlock) – John has a beard. Sherlock has a panic attack.

Obsession, Appassionato by shinychimera, Yeomanrand (E, 4,249 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive Sherlock, First Time, Jealous Sherlock, Music / Sherlock’s Violin, Present Tense, Frottage) – John is late, and he hasn’t called, and Sherlock works himself into a state. Part 1 of Love and Ysaye

Date Night by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 4,451 w., 1 Ch. || Anxious / Worried Sherlock, Caring John, Schmoopy Fluff, Fidget Cube, Baking / Cooking, Date Night, Established Relationship, POV Sherlock Holmes, Understanding John, Grumpy Sherlock, John’s Bum, Kisses, Hugs, Domestic Fluff, Touching, Hair Petting, Light Humour) – It's John and Sherlock's first Date Night as an official couple and Sherlock needs it to be PERFECT. Mrs Hudson helps. Part 7 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Butterfly, Pinned Under Glass by billiethepoet (E, 4,648 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive Sherlock, Jealousy, Barebacking, BAMF!John) – It started as a desire to keep John safe and whole, and ended up as just desire.

Applied Linguistics by what_alchemy (M, 4,837 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive / Anxious Sherlock, Introspection, Bed Sharing, Past John Whump, Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Word Play) – “He wants to shake John by the shoulders, wants to open his mouth and swallow John whole. Wants to marry him.” Sherlock searches for the right words.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Fa Subito by kim47 (E, 6,659 w., 1 Ch. || Suit Porn, Cockblocker Mycroft, Obsessed Sherlock, PWP) – John wears a suit. Sherlock finds it extremely distracting.

Victim, Bait, Hero, Friend by KimberlyTheOwl (T, 7,887 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG Epilogue, Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Past Kidnapping / Torture / Implied Rape, Panic Attacks, Worried / Possessive Sherlock, Lestrade is a Good Friend) – Some insights into why John was perfectly willing to throw everything away for a chance to kill Moriarty at the pool. Trauma, ugliness, and finally healing. Some nice supporting work by Lestrade as well.

A Friend Indeed by Sanru (K+, 8,190 w., 1 Ch. || Missing John, Friendship, Drama, Introspection, Possessive Sherlock, Worried Sherlock) – Something has gone terribly wrong with a supposedly simple case. John Watson is missing. While the search for him is proving to be fruitless, it has made Sherlock realize that having an emotional attachment to someone may have its disadvantages but he liked being able to call John his friend. Now if only he could find out what happened to him...

My Life for His by QuinnAnderson (E, 8,816 w., 1 Ch. || Guardian/Protector, Greek Mythology || Growing Up, Sex, Religious Themes, Suicide, Minor Character Death) – It began when Sherlock was eight, and he attempted to climb all the way up to the highest branch in the old willow tree in his back garden. He'd thought he was still small enough that it could support him, but the second he'd grabbed hold of it to pull himself up, the branch snapped, and down he went, plummeting a solid twenty metres. The odd thing was, he never actually hit the ground.

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

A Is For Aftermath by ElvendorkInfinity (T, 10,567 w., 1 Ch. || Injury / Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Pre-Slash/Bromance/Platonics, Hallucinations, Introspection, Insecure / Worried John, Big Brother Mycroft, Alternating POV, Anxious Sherlock, Self-Deprecating, Mildly Possessive Sherlock, 3G Moment) – John is still hallucinating, Sherlock cannot sleep, and Lestrade has a new case for them. But will life at 221B ever be able to return to normal? Epilogue to M is for Moriarty.

London Gods by a_different_equation (E, 11,092 w., 5 Ch. || American Gods Fusion || Magical Realism, Sex Magic, True Love, PTSD John, First Kiss/Time, Marathon Sex, Sensuality, Genie Sherlock, Human John, Internalized Homophobia, Star-Crossed Lovers, Soul Mates) – Sherlock Holmes is a jinn who does not grant wishes. However, when Dr. John H. Watson, recently returned from the war in Afghanistan, gets into his cab by "accident", it might not even need magic to grant both men their deepest wish: love.

Pattern Behaviour by SilentAuror (E, 14,835 w., 1 Ch. || POV First Person Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Introspection, Stroppy Sherlock, Light Humour, Friendship, John Takes Care of Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Wall Kisses, Fluffy Angst, Happy Ending) – Sherlock doesn't even know why he resents John's dates so much. Until the day he does know. Slight angst, unrequited feelings (but don't let that scare you off!)

A Hooligans’ Game Played By Gentlemen by scullyseviltwin (E, 15,213 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Rugby as Foreplay, Porn with Lots of Plot, John POV, Ogling, Body Appreciation, Cranky Sherlock, Slow Burn, Bed Sharing, Cuddling, Touching, Heavy Petting, Blow Job, Botttomlock) – In which John wants to get back in shape, does so, joins a rugby league and has sex with Sherlock Holmes. In that order.

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

A Silver Sixpence by _doodle (NC-17, 16,400 w., 2 Ch. || LJ Fic || For a Case / Case Fic, Fake Relationship, Humour, Romance, Marriage Proposal, Awkward Idiots, Cuddling, Touching, Kissing, Love Confessions, Bed Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fake Until It’s Not, Schmoop and Fluff, Bottomlock) – “John, we need to get married. It’s for a case, not any romantic notions on my part pertaining to our partnership,” Sherlock said, with brutal honesty, and without even looking up.

I Think I've Come A Long Long Way To Sit Before You Here Today by ArwenKenobi (T, 18,251 w., 3 Ch. || Grief/Mourning, Passage of Time, Major Character Death, Alternating POV, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Coma, Revenge Murders, Hallucinations, Love Confessions, Brutal Accident, Mystrade, Ghost John) – One year after John is killed Sherlock starts to wonder whether John has actually gone anywhere.

Division by MrsNoggin (E, 19,542 w., 11 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Barista Sherlock, Clingy Sherlock, POV John, John’s Limp, Bed Sharing, Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Sensuality, Touching, Virgin Sherlock, Insecure John) – John likes mysteries. And every morning he dips into the local independent coffee bar with his newspaper and ponders another... one Sherlock Holmes.

5 Times John Got the Girl (and lost her) and 1 Time John Got the Guy (and kept him) by LiviKate (M, 21,695 w., 6 Ch. || 5 and Ones, Kissing, Oblivious / Awkward Sherlock, BAMF / Sexy / Stud John, Embarrassed John, John’s Scar, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock) – John has always had good luck with the ladies. He's charming, friendly and funny, not to mention great in bed. However, his usual skill with the opposite sex is constantly being thwarted by Sherlock and his outbursts. How will John ever get a leg over when Sherlock is always cockblocking him?

How To Unfold a Heart by elwinglyre (E, 25,477 w., 7 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It, BAMF John, Mentioned Eurus, POV First Person Sherlock, Case Fic, Fluff, Slow Burn, Topping from the Bottom, 3 Yr Old Rosie, Introspection, Sexual Fantasies, John Worship, Ogling, Hand Holding, Kidnapping, Domesticity, Sherlock Whump, First Kiss/Time, Doctor John, Caring John, Soft Sherlock, Sensuality, Touching, Crying, Love Confessions, Anxious Sherlock, Rimming, Toplock, Fingering, Bossy Bottom John) – To Sherlock’s dismay, John’s return to Baker Street with Rosie is only temporary. Sherlock’s daily visits to Regent Park with John and Rosie illuminate his lost childhood memories and missed opportunities. But with each trip to the park, Sherlock also feels a growing sense of hope. That is until the past horrors return unexpectedly in a cryptic note folded in the shape of a heart. To decipher the message, Sherlock must uncover the nature of the hearts around him, including his own.

An Acquired Taste by kinklock (E, 31,059 w., 4 Ch. || Vampires AU || Vampire Sherlock, Misunderstandings, Bat!Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Humour, Magical Realism, Fluff and Angst, Blood Drinking, Holmes Family, Slow Burn) – At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased. At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.

Lucifer's Gardens by ampersand_ch (E, 32,679 w., 12 Ch. || GERMAN VERSION || Romance, Friendship, Friends to Lovers, Murder, Poison / Drugging, Mystery, John Undercover, Academic Club, Therapy, Rituals, Jungian Archetypes, Doctors & Physicians, Grief/Mourning, Esotericism, Hospitals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, John Falls In Love With Another Man, Jealous Sherlock, Crying, Doctor John, Hand Holding, First Kiss/Time, Mysticism, Hugging, Touching) – John goes undercover for an investigation as a favour to Lestrade in a village in Suffolk. The events surrounding the case awaken deep-seated fears in Sherlock. While John begins to come to a realisation of what he needs in Lucifer's Gardens, Sherlock tries to find a way to reach John – in more ways than one.

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (E, 32,897 w., 1 Ch. || Past Drug Use, Blowjobs, Toplock, Mentions of Switching, Rough Sex, Background Cases, Sherlock’s Past, Sherlock’s Sexual History, Experienced Sherlock, Past One Night Stands, Fingering, Cuddling, Possessive Sherlock, Paris Holiday, Bed Sharing, Naked Lie-Ins, Bathing Together, Confessions, Worried Sherlock, Laying in Bed All Day, Meddling Mycroft, Naked Lazy Day) – Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John's head.

Turn Left at the Park by Glenmore (NR (E), 37,409 w., 28 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting / ASiP Divergence, Case Fic, Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Loneliness, No Mary, Possessive Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Nightmares/PTSD, Sherlock Saves John, Sherlock Whump-ish, Doctor John) – So what would have happened if John hadn't walked through the park and met Stamford? What if, instead, he walked around the park and just went home?

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

A Goose Quill Dipped in Venom by Polyphony (M, 52,748 w., 16 Ch. || Celebrity John AU || Alternate First Meeting, TV Host John, Supermodel Mary, Character Death, Mystery, Romance, Case Fic, First Kiss/Time, Meddling Mycroft, Drug Abuse, Doctor John, PDA, Deductions, POV Sherlock, Toplock, Sexual Tension, Angry/Rough Sex, Hopeful Ending, Asperger’s Sherlock) – Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is called in to a very ordinary although brutal murder. Something is badly out of tune with the whole scenario and Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with the crime - and also with the victim.

Never Change a Running System by Lorelei_Lee (E, 54,246 w., 18 Ch. || Pre-TRF, Romance, Humour, Drama, Sex Toys, Anal, Rimming, Masturbation, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Public Sex, First Kiss / Time, Virgin Sherlock / Loss of Virginity, Accidental Voyeurism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Experiments, Naive Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Straight With an Exception John, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock discovers his sexuality – with far-reaching consequences for John.

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock, BAMF John) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

The Burning by SrebrnaFH (M, 60,658 w., 24 Ch. || Reverse Reichenbach, Suicide, Depression, Hurt Sherlock / John, Separation, BAMF John, Good Big Brother Mycroft, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Fake Character Death, Rescue Mission, Reconciliation / Reunion, Hospitalization, Marriage Proposal, Illnesses, Physical Therapy, Happily Ever After) – Something went very, very wrong. John had seemed, if not happy, then reasonably content with his life. Sherlock had never predicted something like THIS might have happened. Not in his worst nightmares. He was the lousiest friend ever, apparently. At least Mycroft found him something to occupy his mind with, so that he didn't have to go back to 221B and stare at the walls and the chair, where John Watson would never sit again.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he's consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm) (M, 72,684 w., 18 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sick Fic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

The Cost of a Wish by slashscribe (E, 102,493 w., 12 Ch. || xxxHolic Fusion || Spirits / Ghosts and Magic, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Soul Mates / Fated Lovers, Adventure, Immortal Sherlock, Powerful John, POV John, Frottage, Wish Granting, Angst with Happy Ending, Nightmares) – John has been plagued by a secret his entire life that has made him feel hopeless until he meets a mysterious, seemingly omniscient man named Sherlock Holmes who owns a wish-granting shop. Their meeting sets off a series of inevitable events that will change the course of both of their lives forever.

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate Future AU || Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky Sherlock, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Oral Sex, Case Fic, Emotional Love Making, Bath Time Fun) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

Gimme Shelter by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (E, 159,368 w., 21 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || 70′s Surfer AU || Period Typical Homophobia, Hawaii, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Professional Surfers, Gay John / Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, John was a Sailor, Misunderstandings) – All John Watson wants is the feeling of a freshly waxed surfboard under his feet and the hot California sun baking down onto his back. To finally go pro in the newly formed world of professional surfing and leave the dark memories of his past behind him as he rips across the face of a towering blue barrel. To lounge beside the beach bonfire every evening with an ice cold beer tucked into the cool sand beside him and listen to Pink Floyd and the Doors while the saltwater dries in his sun bleached hair. That's all he wants, that is, until the hot young phenom taking Oahu and the Hawaiian shores by storm steps up next to him in the sand in the second round of the 1976 International Surf Competition. (PUBLISHED AS ‘The Sea Ain’t Mine Alone’)

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #obsessive sherlock #jealous sherlock #possessive sherlock #long post

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brutal-nemesis · 3 years

Text

E&T: Red, White, and Blue

Now this. This is the fun stuff (❁´◡`❁) and yes I hate myself for the chapter title

←Previous - Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: noncon body modification, noncon surgery, eye whump, dissociation, accidental self harm, this is pretty intense so just stay safe y’all

Two days. Two days of rest, of getting used to the new, sharp teeth in his mouth and the way they repeatedly pricked his lower lip when he talked, of recovering from the intense pain he’d been through. Two days of answering Neteri’s questions about how the fangs were affecting him, of her hands on his face more than usual, pulling his lips back to examine his teeth and gums over and over again. Two days, and at the end of the second one, when he wasn’t brought dinner, Erebus felt cold fear settle in his stomach alongside the hunger.

Tomorrow, he was going to lose another part of his humanity. Something he thought he’d be used to by now, but he still found himself barely able to sleep. Morning came all too quickly, and he tried to stop himself from shaking as the familiar leather straps were tightened around his body as he laid on the table once again. Neteri smiled down at him the same way she always did, affectionately running her hand through his hair a few times before buckling the strap around his head. He wished her touch didn’t make him feel a little better.

“Hey, Erebus. Since the last procedure went so well and was pretty easy I figured we should jump right into the next one. I promise you’ll get more of a break between this one and the next, though, since today’ll be a little more complicated. That sound good?”

“No.” She just smiled and shook her head before shoving the rag in his mouth, preventing him from protesting further. He focused on the little rat on the ceiling and tried to take deep breaths as she grabbed whatever awful tool she was going to use on him today. When Neteri turned back to him, she was holding some sort of strange metal object that he couldn’t guess the use of. She started to move it towards his face, causing him to screw his eyes shut. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to see what it was going to do to him.

Unfortunately, this was something he would have no choice but to watch.

Her fingers pried his right eye open, allowing her to slide the device under his eyelid on either side, keeping it pulled wide open. Wait wait why was she forcing him to keep his eye open? His head wasn’t propped up, so it’s not like he could see-unless she wanted to replace-

No.

No she can’t do that.

No no no not my eyes please please don’t take them you can’t they’re the only part left of me that I’m not disgusted by Neteri please please please I’ll do anything anything please just stop GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME STOP STOP MOVING IT TOWARDS MY EYE NO NO NO DON’T GRAB IT DON’T GRAB IT IT’S SO COLD I CAN FEEL IT SCRAPING MY SKULL PLEASE DON’T TAKE MY EYE NO NO it’s empty empty and cold it’s empTY YOU CAN’T CUT IT OFF WHERE DID IT GO I CAN’T SEE ICAN’TSEEIT’SSOBLACKICAN’TSEEIT’SEMPTYANDSOMUCHBLOODICAN’TSEEITHURTSANDICAN’TSEE-

Don’t

That’s not mine don’t don’t don’t attach it IT BURNS FIRE FIRE RIGHT INSIDE MY HEAD it isn’t empty anymore but it’s still cold so cold and bright it’s too bright I still can’t see the light hurts hurts let me close it please yes good it’s dark at least even though it shouldn’t be there-

“Erebus.” The sound of Neteri calling his name pulled him out of the hell in his own head. He cautiously opened his left eye, the only one left that was his, and looked up at her. She was leaning over him, looking at him expectantly. “Open your eye, come on.” He cracked it open, but the lights were so bright that it felt like he was looking into the sun, and he screwed it shut once more. She frowned and pulled the rag out of his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“It-it’s so bright it hurts why-” the rest of his reply was cut off as she shoved the rag back in.

“I guess I should’ve expected that,” she muttered, “So that means even the younger ones are still adjusted for deep water, and I’ll have to…” she placed two fingertips on his right eyelid, awakening her magic once more. This time, however, the fire wasn’t piercing into his skull, but burning within the eye itself, making it bubble and spark, driving it to a boil and of course he was screaming because this was wrong wrong wrong he shouldn’t have ever had to feel pain like this no one should please please make it stop-

Erebus jolted awake, suddenly finding himself back in bed in his cell, sitting up and breathing heavily. What...he had been in the lab, on the table, hadn’t he? And Neteri, she had taken...his hands flew to his face, feeling for dried blood or an empty eye socket or something, but he felt nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe...maybe that had all been a dream? A horribly vivid, painful dream...no, not in this place. What had happened seemed far too much like reality. Neteri could have cleaned the blood off of his face while he was unconscious, if that’s what had happened, and there was no guarantee that the...the replacement eye would feel any different. His vision out of it seemed a little fuzzy, but still normal enough compared to his left eye that he couldn’t be sure.

So, there was only one way to check. As if in a daze, he stumbled into the bathroom, right hand clamped over the eye, the one that might not be his anymore. He stopped in front of the mirror, his left eye still as blue as ever. He stared at it for a moment, praying that his other eye would look the same, that it had all been just a bad dream.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered his hand.

The eye was absolutely hideous, completely blank and white and pupil-less and it was inside of his head, horrific ugliness where there had once been beauty. He stared at it in disbelief for a moment, unable to accept the reality of what he was seeing, of what he had just been through. Before he knew it, his fist was flying towards the mirror, aiming to shatter it, to break the image of what he was turning into. The punch connected, but the mirror wasn’t broken. He pummeled it again and again, but no matter how much or how hard he hit it, the mirror didn’t so much as crack. It was completely smooth, the blood from his knuckles dripping down it in various spots the only evidence of his futile attacks.

But that’s how it was, wasn’t it? No matter what he wanted, no matter what he tried, he didn’t have the power to change anything about himself. Was that even him, though? Whatever he saw in the mirror here didn’t look like him, it never really had. That was it, this wasn’t him at all, it was just...a monster. A monster with the same name as him...no, no, his name was all he had left of himself, those six letters were his, there was no way he was giving that to the monster, too. It was just a nameless body, just disfigured flesh that he was stuck inside of.

He snapped his gaze downward, away from the thing in the mirror. His knuckles were all busted up, dripping blood into the sink. He turned the water on, gently washing it away, wincing as the water stung the open wounds. The task was something to focus on, something that wasn’t...a glance upward reminded him that there was more blood to clean than what was on his hands. That was all he saw, the red of his blood, until it wasn’t there anymore, not on the mirror or his hands or the sink.

Then he was just left with the white. The white where there had always been blue. And it shouldn’t be a big deal, he couldn’t even tell without looking at himself, it was such a small part of him, he shouldn’t care so much, but-

But in that moment, he couldn’t bear it.

Extra - Next→

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump @mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump @unicornscotty @thebewilderer @kixngiggles @itallstartedwithharry @inky-whump

#i wrote something #erebus & terror #erebus #neteri #lab whump #noncon body modification #noncon surgery #eye whump #dissociation cw #surgery whump #unintentional self harm #things will be generally be explained more in the next chapter #i legit gave him blue eyes because i knew they weren't here to stay <3 #okay pretty much everything i gave to him was given JUST so i could take it away #because i fucking suck #the eye is from a sloth demon and if y'all remember those guys are the deep sea ones #so the eye was initially adjusted for really dark conditions and was super light sensitive #also YES we have finally gotten to the angsty mirror punching scene and the whole monster thing #the mirror is enchanted not to break cuz then he could use it as a weapon so that's why it didn't crack #he thinks the six letters of his first name is all he has cuz he doesnt feel entitled to the rest of his name anymore #so he will keep them very much to himself because they're all he has now #which makes [REDACTED] so funny to me ugh why is it like so damn far into the future #okay look we all knew he was getting weird eyes because if you know me you know i have a thing for weird eyes #before anyone is like ''the way he just washes the blood off is not realistic i thought he was upset''#guess what i am like that okay. we have immediate wound care even when under great emotional duress #no i will not elaborate #tune in next time for: a really heated conversation!

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actress4him · 3 years

Note

ahhh I'm so excited for the whump bingo series! can you do pidge in either 'caught in a snare' or in 'clawing at own throat'? ^^

This one...fought with me. I knew right away what kind of trap I wanted to use once I saw it online, but I had a hard time figuring out what scenario exactly to use that made sense and wouldn’t be too long or too short. But here it is, I finished it, and I hope it’s to your liking, Anon!

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Caught in a Snare

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: near drowning, death mention

“I hate the outdoors.”

“Yeah,” Lance replies drily. “You mentioned that. A few times.”

Growling, Pidge kicks at a piece of rotting wood in her path. “It’s getting more and more true by the minute.”

The trek continues in silence for a minute, though she hardly notices the lack of conversation for all the rustling and tweeting and whatever other disgusting natural noises are going on around them and all of the furious thoughts pouring through her head. That is, until Lance decides to speak up again and say,

“You know you’re supposed to be like, the Guardian of Nature, right?”

“Shut up, Lance, I literally never asked for that title!” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at him briefly before returning her gaze to the path. Her luck, she’d end up tripping over something. “I mean don’t get me wrong, I love Green, but I’m much more into the curiosity and technology part, not the nature part.”

Silence again. “For what it’s worth,” he offers after a minute, “I’m not enjoying the situation, either.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d be concerned if you were.” After all, when the two of them had agreed to come here to look for some rare fruit Allura and Coran wanted to trade with another potential Coalition planet, having all of their electronic devices - including Green - fail them so that they had to hike through the freakin’ jungle was not exactly part of the plan.

Her head and ribs still hurt from the rough landing. Nothing broken, thankfully, but she’s pretty sure she’s got some nice looking bruises. So, sue her if she’s a little grumpy. She feels she has the right.

And what jungle is cold, anyway? Not cold enough that she needs to keep her helmet sealed, but much colder than a jungle should be.

Space is so weird.

“Hey, I think I hear water over there.” Lance points somewhere to their right, through the endless trees. “If it’s a river or a creek we should try following it.”

Sighing, Pidge nods. It’s a good idea, and she’s not sure she would have thought of it. Wilderness survival isn’t really her forte. “Yeah, okay. Maybe luck will be on our side for once today and we can get a drink, too. I’ve still got that tester thing Coran gave me to see if it’s safe.”

“A drink sounds amazing right about now.”

There is a river, a rather large one at that, and it doesn’t take them long to find it. The vibrant turquoise color is a little off-putting, as is the steep embankment, but Pidge is determined to test it anyway and try to get them that drink they’re both craving.

“Over here, I see a path down.” She heads out in front of Lance, picking her way through the underbrush to a spot where it’s slightly less overgrown. Likely either animals or locals have been using the spot to get their own drinks from the river.

“Don’t fall!” Lance calls good-naturedly from a few yards behind.

Pidge is just about to throw a snarky response over her shoulder when something latches onto her ankle and her feet are suddenly yanked out from underneath her. Her already sore body slams backwards onto the ground. Vaguely she can hear Lance cackling at her, but she doesn’t have time to focus on it.

There’s some kind of twine wrapped around her ankle, and there’s a boulder tumbling down the embankment next to her toward the water, and somehow the two are connected and she’s being dragged swiftly down the hill with them.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. She throws her hands out, grasping at plants and roots and anything else she can find, but all she ends up with is a fistful of purple leaves and a ripped glove.

Right before she reaches the water Lance’s laughter turns into yelling. Then the boulder hits the surface with a loud splash, and she follows right behind it. It’s like being plunged into an ice bath. Automatically her mouth opens to gasp from the cold, but she stops herself just short of actually inhaling.

The river is deeper than it looked from above. The rock is still sinking, and it’s still pulling her with it. Down, down, where the water becomes less turquoise and more murky grey. Pidge fights against it, tries to swim upward, back to the surface, but the rock is far heavier than she is. Even when she kicks on her jet pack, it just sputters and barely halts the downward progress. There’s no way she’s going to be able to tug the rock back up with her.

Looking down, she can just barely see the twine where it wraps around her ankle and disappears into the darkness. If she can’t swim back up with that attached, then obviously she’s going to have to get rid of it.

Her lungs are already starting to ache.

Releasing a few bubbles, she bends over and pulls at the twine, but it’s so tight it would be cutting into her ankle if not for her armor. She can’t get even a fingernail underneath it.

A muted splash echoes through the water, and she lets a little bit more air out when she looks up to see Lance diving swiftly toward her. His eyes are wide behind his sealed faceplate. Pidge gives a pointed tug on the twine, and he nods, swimming with practiced ease down to her feet. Grabbing it with both hands, he attempts to break it, then moves up to her foot and finds out the same thing she did, it’s too tight to slip off.

There’s not much air left in her lungs, and most of what’s there slips past her lips without her permission. Her chest is beginning to burn.

Lance is making weird motions at her with his hands, but she’s having a hard time focusing on them past the black dots dancing in front of her eyes. Those are...probably not a good sign.

Finally he swims back up next to her, patting her hip as he leans in close to her ear. “Bayard!” she barely makes out.

Oh. Yeah. She’s gonna blame the lack of oxygen for not thinking of that herself.

She can barely see anymore, but she summons her bayard to her hand and attempts to lean down toward her foot. At this point she’s gonna be lucky if she doesn’t slice her leg off accidentally. But then Lance’s hands are wrapping around hers, and he’s guiding her downwards. Just before the black spots completely take over and her body goes limp, she feels the tension on her ankle release.

The next thing she’s aware of is lying on her side in a patch of dirt, coughing violently and spitting out gross river water while something slaps her on the back. She only realizes that the something is probably Lance’s hand when he leans over into her face.

“Oh, thank goodness! I thought I was gonna have to do rescue breaths and put my lips on your lips and I just -”

“Lance, please.” She coughs again, and wonders briefly if maybe she swallowed some seaweed or a fish or something because it feels like there’s one stuck in her chest somewhere. “I’m trying...not to throw up right now. I don’t...don’t need that visual.”

“Yeah. Same.” He falls back onto his butt, staring at her with traces of fear still on his face. “I would have done it, though, to, you know...save you. That, uh...really scared me. I barely got it cut before you passed out and the bayard went back to neutral and then you were like, dead...well, not actually dead, obviously, but you looked dead and then you weren’t breathing and I -”

“Lance.” Another cough, and a shiver racks her body. “Thank you.”

He screeches to a halt, then relaxes into a smile. “You’re welcome. Sorry I, uh...kinda laughed at you. I thought you had fallen down right after I said ‘don’t fall down’, and...yeah.”

The shivers are getting worse now. “Technically I...did. Just...not my fault.”

Lance’s smile morphs into a frown. “We’ve gotta get you dried off and warmed up somehow.”

Finally gathering her energy, Pidge pushes herself up to sit, wrapping her arms around her body as if it’ll somehow help dispel the ice that has taken over. “N-not sure how that’s...gonna happen...in the middle of the...quizn-nacking jungle.”

Glancing back over his shoulder as if a solution will magically appear - and well, they are in space, stranger things have happened - Lance sighs and moves to stand up. “Maybe we should keep moving. That might help you warm up, and eventually we have to run into some civilization, right? Coran said there were sentient aliens on this planet.”

“Yeah, and s-somebody had to have set up th-that trap.” Moving is the last thing she wants to do right now. Her headache from before has multiplied exponentially in strength, and her ribs did not appreciate all the coughing she just did. She wants to curl back up on the ground and not move again for a century or two. But she allows Lance to throw her arm over his shoulder and pull her up to her feet, even if she groans dramatically in the process.

“Well, I think we should just keep following this river - not quite so closely this time - and see wh-”

This time he cuts off without an interruption from Pidge, and she looks up to see what he’s staring at. It’s aliens. A whole pack of them, bipedal and four-armed in multiple shades of green fur that almost blends in with the trees, and they’re armed with spears and axes.

They’re probably the ones that set the snare, and now they’ve come to see what they caught. Which, unfortunately, is them.

“Uh, hi guys,” Lance squeaks. “We’re, um. We’re the Paladins of Voltron. Any chance you’ve heard of us?”

This sets off an immediate wave of whispers through the group. The alien in front straightens from their defensive position and steps forward. “Voltron? The rumors are true, then? Voltron lives?”

Pidge can feel the tension leave Lance’s body. “Yes! Yes, Voltron has returned! We came here in one of the Voltron Lions to look for supplies, but something on your planet has interfered with our devices. We need help to contact our team and to find what we’re looking for.” He glances over at Pidge, whose teeth are clenched tightly to keep them from clacking together. “And she needs to get warm before she gets sick.”

The lead alien turns to have a whispered consultation with the others before nodding at Lance. “Very well. Follow us, and we will assist you.”

Another removes their heavy-looking cape and approaches carefully, draping it around Pidge’s shoulders. Immediately she melts into the warmth. “There will be a fire waiting for us in the village.”

“S-sounds great,” she manages.

Lance smiles, pulling her in a bit tighter. “Thank you.”

——————————

Instructions for requesting a square here!

#badthingshappenbingo #caught in a snare #prompt fill #voltron: legendary defender #voltron whump #pidge whump #voltron pidge #voltron lance #drowning tw #death mention tw #pidge gunderson #katie holt #vld pidge #vld #voltron fanfiction #voltron fic #vld fanfic

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spookyboywhump · 4 years

Text

Oooh boy, this got LONG (3,036 words), and the whumpiest part ain’t even till towards the end, my bad

It’s Valentine’s day in the Bad Timeline and nobody is really vibing

CW: Pet whump, creepy whumper, intimate whump, very brief nsfw mention, brief emeto mention, hand whump, beating, strangulation, nonsexual noncon touch

***

He had a bad feeling about this, staring down at the boxes in front of him. Nicholas had presented them to him that morning before locking him and Cain in the bedroom, after warning him it would be in his best interest to accept the gifts and be looking presentable in the next few hours. Hours had passed though and he still hadn’t done much but stare at the white boxes, decorated with blue silk ribbons.

“You should be thankful,” Cain said, and Wren almost hit him, “The last gift he gave me was my fucking collar.” He said bitterly.

“I don’t think any of this is going to be better than a collar.” He muttered.

“He’s going to be back any minute now, you might as well get it over with.” He hated to admit it but he knew he was right, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with more than Nicholas’ attitude. Finally, he started opening the gifts, discarding the ribbons to the side, which Cain didn’t hesitate to pick up and start fidgeting with. Wren could tell he was bitter that Nicholas hadn’t left him anything, and he would’ve felt bad for him if not for the fact that he already knew he didn’t want a single one of these gifts.

Inside the boxes he found a new outfit to add to the growing wardrobe Nicholas had for him. More pretty clothing that he only hated because it came from Nicholas, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the new earrings, or the headband with a bow hanging off it, however, he did like the idea of kicking Nicholas with the new shoes he’d been given. Nicholas had gotten rid of his beloved red converse a long time ago, and barefoot kicks simply weren’t cutting it.

“He’s disgusting…” He muttered more to himself.

“It could be worse.” Cain said. “You’ve seen the kind of things other owners will make their pets wear. I think we’re lucky he’s not that bad.”

“Would you stop making excuses for him?” He snapped at him. “I know you have some sick crush on him but I don’t, and I don’t give a damn how good he is compared to other owners.” He said, not looking up at Cain as he looked over the envelope Nicholas had left him, addressed to Love. He opened it, and cringed at what looked like a typical flowery Valentine’s Day card. He didn’t even bother reading it, opening the card to see if there was anything worthwhile inside. A part of him thought it would be really funny to find money, but instead he found something else, he found photos. His breath caught in his throat, he dropped the card and frantically shuffled through the photos, Cara, Lila, Alec, Zander, even Alondra. They were all clearly taken without the subject’s knowledge, they were all recent, and Wren swore he was going to be sick. Cain had picked up the card when he’d dropped it, but now he was holding it out to him.

“You might want to read this…” He said softly, and Wren snatched it from him. Nicholas hadn’t written anything exceptionally creepy, not in the way Wren expected anyway. Instead he’d just left a simple, direct message.

”Behave and you can keep the photos- and keep the people in them safe.”

Out of anger, he dropped the photos and tore the card in half, tearing it up into small pieces before getting to his feet, angrily pacing the room. He was more scared than anything really, his heart pounding away in his chest.

“That fucking creep.” He muttered angrily. “I’m so-so fucking sick of him! What the fuck is he gonna do, he- he can’t- he can’t hurt them-!”

“If he got you, then he can get them.” Cain said, looking through the photos. “Fuck- Zander looks like a wreck.” He muttered, and Wren stormed over, snatching the photos from him. He held them close to his chest for a moment, anxiously looking around the room before going over to the bookshelf, grabbing a random book off it and sticking the photos between the pages, memorizing the title before putting it back where he’d gotten it. He’d never seen Nicholas touch any of those books, and he knew that his safest bet to keep the photos would be to keep them out of sight. Even if Nicholas wanted to take them he likely wouldn’t be able to find them, and while he couldn’t do much to keep the actual people safe, it did make him feel a little better.

He knew he was running out of time so he finally changed into the clothes Nicholas had left for him, swearing and muttering the entire time. He felt ridiculous when he looked at himself in the mirror, though he was glad it wasn’t one of the more revealing looks, he still didn’t like the big bow hanging off the shirt, he thought the headband was a bit too much, and he got so frustrated trying to get the earrings he was wearing out to switch them that Cain had to get up and help him. He hated letting him near him, he was still getting used to the shift in their dynamic, really he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it at all.

He’d just barely finished getting ready when Nicholas returned, the sound of the door unlocking startling both of them. Cain backed off of him, and for now, Wren tried to play nice with his new owner. He didn’t flash him a big fake smile and greet him with love and adoration in his voice, but he did tone down the glare he gave him, keeping his hands behind his back for now so Nicholas wouldn’t see his hands clenched into fists. The man smiled as he looked him over, he seemed pleased with his work and that was enough to make Wren angry all over again, though he kept his face blank.

“You look beautiful, Love.” He said as he approached him, and Wren held still as he stood in front of him, reaching up to tilt his chin up.

“Thank you.” He said through gritted teeth, and Nicholas seemed more amused than anything.

“You’ll behave for me, right?” He asked, and Wren nodded as he subtly pulled away from him.

“Of course, sir.” He said, having to force himself back into the behavior he’d exhibited with Cain. Nicholas slipped his arm around his shoulders, and spared a glance at Cain.

“We’ll be back later, darling.” He told him, and Wren could see the way his face fell. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly bad for him. He knew if they could trade places he’d gladly return him to Nicholas’ attention. For now he was stuck with him, led away to simply be a pretty accessory to the man for the time being.

***

He knew he shouldn’t have been angry at him, he didn’t have a say in it, he didn’t want to be here, but Cain couldn’t help it. He sat on Nicholas’ bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, struggling to blink back tears.

Things weren’t good before. He was still a pet, Nicholas treated him like a toy at the best of times and like a horrible, misbehaving mutt at the worst of times. But the longer that Wren was here, the more he was beginning to feel that maybe, being a toy wasn’t so bad. It hadn’t even been that long but he missed Nicholas’ affection, he missed being held by him and he missed the feeling of his hand carding through his hair. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it to hurt Cain on purpose, but it was obvious which pet he liked more. Wren was at his side more often, Wren was treated like a delicate, fragile thing when he behaved, and when he was good Nicholas would let him sleep next to him- more like he forced him to, really- while Cain was confined to a cage. At this point, he only gave Cain attention when he wanted to hurt him or when he wanted to fuck him, though the two often overlapped.

He reached up and angrily wiped at his eyes. He never once thought he’d be this hurt and jealous over Wren of all people. He’d been jealous of Zander before, incredibly so, and really he knew that Nicholas was unnaturally, creepily interested in the boy since the beginning. He didn’t think it would turn into this though, and he should’ve felt bad for Wren, he should’ve wanted him safe but he hardly cared about the circumstances, he just wanted him gone.

He hated to admit it, but he wanted his master back.

***

He had been walking on eggshells the entire time he’d been with Nicholas. It was easy through his meeting, if not a little embarrassing to kneel at his side like an obedient dog. He’d tried to keep some distance between them but Nicholas had grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to rest his head against his leg and let him play with his hair, the most attention he gave him while he talked with the other man. He couldn’t stand to be so pliant with him, typically he’d have acted out the first chance he got, but Nicholas hadn’t really given him much reason to. Aside from tugging on his hair, he’d been almost nice to him. Wren couldn’t stand it.

He managed to last through the rest of the day, for once keeping his mouth shut, wearily watching Nicholas’ every move, waiting for him to snap, waiting for him to just do something. His fear and anxiety finally got the best of him that evening, not only had Nicholas been generous enough to feed him, he was letting him sit at the table, something he’d never done before in Wren’s short time here.

“What’s the point of all this?” He finally asked, failing to hide the irritation in his voice.

“What do you mean, Love?” Nicholas asked him, as though this was all completely normal.

“All… all of this.” He said, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “The- The gifts, the keeping me at your side all day, and now this.” He said, gesturing to the table now. “What’s the catch, huh? What are you fucking doing?”

“I’m just treating my love the way I should.” He said with a laugh. “I must say, I didn’t expect you to behave the entire time. I like it though, obedience suits you.” He said, and Wren glared at him. His questioning was interrupted when dinner was finally served to them, and it had been so long since he’d eaten that he couldn’t help but eagerly go to dig in. He paused though, the fork halfway to his mouth before he looked at Nicholas, who didn’t seem to find anything wrong.

“You try it first.” He said, holding the fork out to him.

“Why?” Nicholas asked, one eyebrow raised.

“So I know you aren’t trying to fuck with me. How am I supposed to know whether or not you had them slip something into my food specifically?” He said seriously.

“You’re far too paranoid, but fine.” Nicholas said, allowing Wren to feed him the bite of food, and it took all his self control to not shove the fork down his throat. It did ease his fears though, now that he knew it was safe he finally started eating. At one point Nicholas had to warn him to slow down, he was eating as though it would be taken from him at any moment, he couldn’t help it though. He’d just barely been getting accustomed to eating whenever and however much he liked when Nicholas had taken him, leaving him starving more often than not.

He sat back in his chair when he was done, though he couldn’t bring himself to relax. He knew something was coming, he could feel it, he just didn’t know what. Typically he tried to ignore Nicholas, but he found himself talking to him before he could remind himself to shut up.

“You really don’t have something fucked up planned?” He asked.

“I do not.” Nicholas said, that amused look on his face again. Wren wanted to hit him.

“You want something.” He said bluntly. “The gifts, the card, the fucking photos. You want something and I’m not going to fucking give it to you.” He said, sitting up straight again. It made his skin crawl to think about the things he knew Nicholas wanted from him, but even then if he wanted that so bad he could’ve drugged him, and he didn’t.

“All I want from you is your obedience.” Nicholas told him. “You were perfect for me today, that’s all that I want from you. You just need to be my sweet, well behaved Love.” He said. “My quiet, lovely pet.” Wren was quickly getting sick of this, that rage and defiance he’d buried all day finally bubbling up. He abruptly got to his feet, his hands slamming down on the table.

“I’m not your fucking pet!” He snapped. “I’m not your pet, I’m not your “Love”, I’m sure as hell not your fucking doll! You can’t fucking keep me like this!”

“Can’t I?” Nicholas smiled at him. “Nobody is looking for you. It was all too easy for their miserable, alcoholic friend to simply disappear, likely an accident. Nobody is going to stop me, and nobody is going to rescue you.” He said, speaking calmly, which only further angered Wren.

“I don’t need somebody to rescue me, I’ll get out of this place myself if I fucking have to. You don’t, and you never will own me.” He snarled.

“Are you done?” Nicholas asked him. “You know, I really don’t like lying, Love.” He said, and Wren noticed him grab the steak-knife too late, before he could move Nicholas plunged the blade into his hand, pinning his hand to the table. Wren clapped his other hand over his mouth to muffle his scream, the pain so severe he nearly collapsed, his legs feeling weak all of a sudden. Nicholas stood up now, roughly grabbing Wren by the wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. He leaned in close to him, that cruel smile on his face now. “And saying I don’t own you is a terrible lie.” He let go of his wrist, and Wren sobbed as he wrenched the knife out of his hand. He instinctively pulled his hand close to his chest, struggling to hold back his cries, but Nicholas was quick to drag him away from the table, throwing him to the floor, angry enough to carry out his punishment there in the dining room.

All Wren could do was try to cover his head as Nicholas kicked him over and over again, a particularly well placed blow to the stomach almost causing him to vomit. He tried to get up before it could get worse, but Nicholas hit him hard enough to knock him back down, hard enough he swore he blacked out for a moment. He didn’t get a chance to defend himself, Nicholas got down on the floor with him, straddling his waist and landing another hit on his face, causing his nose to bleed.

“Is this what you wanted me to do to you?” He snarled, his hands wrapping around Wren’s throat, the boy desperately grabbing and clawing at his wrists in an attempt to make him let go. “Do you want me to treat you like a disobedient little bitch? You were doing so well all day long, what do you gain by ruining that?” His grip around his throat got tighter and tighter, cutting off his cries for help, effectively silencing him, only the slightest wheeze escaping his mouth. His vision was going dark, finally his arms fell limply at his sides, and that was when Nicholas let go of him, not moving from his spot on top of him though. Wren gasped for air, taking deep, heaving breaths, only stopping when a cough would wrack his body.

“You stupid, ungrateful bitch.” Nicholas muttered, looking down on him disdainfully. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you all day and you still reject it. And look- you got blood all over your new clothes, you really are good for nothing, aren’t you?” He said, finally getting off him. Wren didn’t move though, he laid there trying to catch his breath, holding his still bleeding hand close to his chest.

He’d been worried, waiting for something to happen all day, he’d been so sure that Nicholas planned to harm in, and in the end it was all his own, stupid fault he got hurt.

***

He stared his reflection down, shuddering as Nicholas trailed a hand down his bare back. His torso was painted with bruises, dark, ugly splotches against his skin, the punishment he earned for daring to lie to his master. On some level he considered himself lucky, he hadn’t been allowed back in the bedroom the night before and when he saw Cain he looked rough, but that didn’t change the fact that he was in so much pain, sore and aching after the beating. There were even bruises around his throat where Nicholas had strangled him, his pretty blue collar doing nothing to hide them.

“It’s a shame you made me do this to you, Love.” Nicholas said, his voice excessively gentle compared to the way he dug his fingers into a bruise on his ribs, causing Wren to wince in pain, screwing his eyes shut.

“I didn’t make you do anything…” He muttered, glancing down at his bandaged hand. He couldn’t believe that simply snapping at him got him all this, he hadn’t even bit him or tried to hit him like he had in the past. He had a feeling that Nicholas was getting tired of him, his defiance was losing its charm and though he didn’t want to admit it, Wren was terrified of what would happen when Nicholas was finally and completely over him.

#valentine's day #whump #my writing #my oc's #wren #cain #nicholas #pet whump #dehumanization #strangulation #hand whump #beating #bad timeline

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sideblogformindtrash · 4 years

Text

CW: Deshumanization; Mentions of past abuse/burns; sort-of self harm; conditioning; its mostly just comfort tho;

There is a shape in the horizon, towering over the trees and the city, spreading an omen of fire. He doesn’t know how to define it, the angles are weird and twisted like nothing that should exist on this world. Every color outside is slightly misplaced too, it seems. That he doesn’t know the meaning off.

Death. The darkness echoes… It has been unusually quiet, today.

Faint scribbling noises behind him… But those are part of reality. It’s Haru sitting somewhere on the room. He is always following him around when Orfeu is home. Always so close… yet miles away. But he doesn’t want to look Haru right now, because as soon as he break eye contact, the figure on the horizon will be gone and the world will go back to normal, burying those secrets forever.

Absent-mindedly, he lit up a cigarette, letting the smoke dwindle around him, assuming fantasy colors, mixing with the unruly shapes of the eldritch monster in the distance.

Then, at the corner of his eye, he notices small hands, forming a cup. The scribbling has stopped. He wants… he wants to keep following the Omen… but in the end, Haru is more important to him than any celestial meaning that creature could hold.

He turns to face the boy. He has his face down, whimpering, hidden behind a wall of hair. Hands are shaking a bit as he struggles to keep them still. He left the notebook behind, by the foot of the bed, never a good sign.

“What is wrong dear?”

He touches Haru’s hand. He shivers a bit… then slowly looks up. Orfeu falls on one knee, pulling his hands closer, as he notices the small, round scars.

Oh. So that was it. He counted down from ten on his mind, to calm down. He would end up killing Farlan one of these days.

“Did that pig Gerald calls a son did those?”

Haru just whimpered again. Did he even know those people’s names? Probably not. He only ever mentioned them as ‘Grand Master’, ‘Young Master’ or some other bullshit title.

“…I won’t hurt you darling. This is just… Cruel”

Haru pushes his hands closer, still forming a cup, offering them to be burned, so desperate to please. …How could he help him now? He sighed, still a bit lost on his thoughts, thinking just how he can show Haru that… well that this is wrong. He wished he was better at this.

Orfeu pulls his sleeve up… And puts the cigar out on his own arm. Haru’s eyes widened. He pulled his hands back, to cover his mouth.

Haru scrambles away, looking for the notebook he left behind. He knees, forehead so close to the page it almost touches it, he barely seems to notice what he is even writing. He furiously scribbles it over and over.

Orfeu peaks closer to see what it is although he has a good idea of what it might be.

‘Sorry sorry so sorry master pet is useless pet *unreadable* is bad Master is hurt because of pet *scribbled out* didn’t to its job your slave is bad is so sorry sorry so-

He waits. He thinks maybe he should stop the boy, since he is so scared but… Haven’t him been silenced enough already?

Haru scribbled that page away too, tore it out, threw it away under the bed. He stares blankly at the next one for a moment… Returned to his scribbling. Orfeu waits, patiently.

And in the end, he put up a page that was almost completely full of erasures. Nothing readable… Except for:

‘Why’

Orfeu smiles. Good. Questioning is good.

“Well… To see how it felt. I won’t do to you something I wouldn’t like having done to me.” Orfeu scratches his arm, slowly nailing at the wound mark “… I didn’t like this. Just so we are clear here... Being hurt is not very fun. So I will never do this to you.”

Haru stared at him… Such big, pleading eyes… Searching for meaning. Scribbles.

‘Master is different, Master is *erasure* a person. I’m It is just a pet slave, pet can be hurt. Master can’t.’

And yet, they were the same. If they were any different… It would mean that Orfeu is a Monster, not that Haru was anything but human.

Freak. Demon.

He smiles at Haru, the poor thing so, so scared… He pets his head. Just the top of the head, that was fine, he quite liked that, it was the rest of the hair that made him scared. He seemed to relax a bit, leaning into his hand.

“There is nothing different about my pain and yours, okay? The people that told you there is would change their minds very quickly if they were in your place” he slowly tapped his arm over the little tiny burn “…They don’t know how it feels. They don’t get to tell you if it’s acceptable or not”

Scribbling.

‘Punishment is good for pets so they learn to be good. Makes good behaved slaves. This pet wants to be good for Master. Masters can’t be hurt, punishment is for pets.’

He puts the notebook down on his knees. His hands are shaking… So Orfeu gets them between his own, a sad smile. He shivers a little, but does not pull always.

“…It could have been me, on your place. Or your other masters. Even your trainers. And they would learn to be ‘good’ if they suffered the same conditioning you did. It’s designed to work that way, on anyone. It’s not fair just because it’s on you.”

It could have been me. He looks back into those poor little blue eyes, so scared confused and lost. Orfeu wonders if he could have ended up like that too, if he had made a few different choices. He had been dangerously close to it.

They told him, too, that they could make him good.

But he never knew what being good even meant.

And the darkness told him that it would mean his doom.

Haru whimpers, squeezing his hand tight, trying to wrap meaning around those words, so lost. Maybe he had pushed things too far. Haru would be happy if he had just caressed his head and told him he didn’t want Haru to do that task, but he was good for offering.

But Orfeu didn’t want Haru to be happy that he was a good pet and had suuuuuch a kind master. He wanted Haru to be angry. He wanted Haru to look back at what happened… And know it was unfair. That he didn’t have to be a good pet… Hell not even a pet at all. Not anymore.

…But… Maybe Haru never would. Maybe all he would ever need was to feel safe. And Orfeu wanted to give that to him too, as much as he could. Those eyes were sad and scared, and seeing him so small and lost broke his heart. He smiled, trying to comfort him.

“This was too much for you right now, wasn’t it? It’s okay… I’m sorry” he cleans a tear falling through the boy’s freckled cheeks. There were days where it was easier to get though him. There were days where it was a challenge… There were days where it was best to not try at all. “You are good. You truly are. Not just for the reasons you think you are… But on things that really matter. I admire your strength. I don’t think you can see it yet, but you will someday. I’m glad you are here with me.”

He gets up, and offers to help Haru stand up too, seeing as he still shivers so much.

“Come, are you hungry? We should make some coffee for us. ”

Haru perked up at this. Snack times where usually fun. They could make a cake too, and maybe that would make Haru feel better.

He just glanced back at the window before leaving. The world had returned to normal. The Omen left before he could figure what it meant.

tagging: @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @whump-me-all-night-long

#oc whump #orfeu and haru #whump writing #im so tired #like Im always but its getting so much worse #not sure if meds or hormones or wathever #but it always just feels so dizzy like the whole world is a dream #all of this to say this mgiht be messier than usuaul #haru be like: me sad :C #Orfeu: oh dat sucs lets overthrown the goverment nvm the eldritch horror :)

90 notes · View notes

otter-love-asl · 3 years

Text

Otter-Love-ASL Masterlist

A master list for all my works, including fan fictions, cover arts, and timelines I have put together. Hopefully it’s organized enough for y’all to find your way around. I have it organized by fandom and it branches from there. Right now I’m only in the One Chicago fandom (mainly PD), but I want to make it easy on myself if I ever start doing things for other fandoms so I don’t have to completely restructure this.

* Note: hyperlinks for timelines and cover arts will go directly to the Tumblr post with that info/work. Fan fictions will be a little different as I don’t post my actual stories here. Hyperlinks for One-Shots will take you to a Tumblr post that will give info on they story then a choice for a hyperlink for either FanFiction.Net or AO3. Hyperlinks for each Multi-Chapter story will bring you to their own “Master” post and then another hyperlink to the post for the individual chapter and a final hyper link to either FanFiction.Net or AO3, giving you a choice to where you want to read it.

* Note 2: the master for “Silence is a Strange Sound” will also have a hyperlink to a Twitter thread for visuals to help with the story.

* Note 3: the timelines for the individual characters are what I want / have planned to do. If there is a character not listed that you want, let me know.

One Chicago

Fics

Chicago PD

Multi-Chapter Stories

It’s Just the Flu | Complete

Man’s Best Friend | In Progress

Rock Bottom | Under Construction

A to Z Jay Halstead Whump | Complete

Silence is a Strange Sound | In Progress

Upstead Appreciation Week 2021

Day 1: "Is that my shirt?" / "You mean our shirt?" | Yours, Mine, & Ours | Complete

Day 2: "It's you, it always has been." | Eyes Only for You | Complete

Day 3: "You're everything I could have wanted and more." | The Perfect Sentient | Complete

Day 4: "Kiss me." | Φίλα με | Complete

Day 5: "Home stopped being a place when you entered my life." | What is a Home? | Complete

Day 6: "You should probably go home." / "But I'm already home." | Home is Where the Heart is | Complete

Day 7: "You're an idiot." / "But you love me." | TITLE | In Progress

One Chicago Appreciation Week 2021

Day 4: "You promised!"/ "I guess we both broke our promises." | TITLE | DNS

Day 5: "I don't... I don't feel good." | TITLE | Complete

Awareness One-Shots

Unusual Notification | Deaf Awareness Month | September

The Innocent Victim | Childhood Cancer Awareness Month | September

Untold Past | National POW/MIA Recognition Day | Third Friday in September

22 A Day | Suicide Awareness Month | September

A Different World | Hispanic Heritage Month | September 15 to October 15

Breaking the Cycle | Domestic Violence Awareness Month | October

Little Angels Gone Too Soon | Infant Loss & Pregnancy/Miscarriage Awareness Month; World Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day | October; October 15

One-Shot Sunday

Flu Shot

Babysitting & Zoos & Accusations, Oh My!

Secret Fear

Busy Work

Chicago Fire

A Family

Trapped

Jack-O-Lanterns

Was It At First Sight?

Alleyways & Pizza

Just You

Revelations

Thanksgiving Escape

We Balance Each Other

An Old Tradition

Holiday Timber

Gingerbread Fun

Unexpected Christmas

Eight Nights

New Year, New Start

Luck of the Irish

An Unlikely Hand

Moving Forward

Love You All the Same

A Tradition Once More

Chicago Fire

Awareness One-Shots

Dreams Do Come True | Childhood Cancer Awareness Month | September

Stellaride Appreciation Week 2021

Day 1: "You'll be okay. I promise." | TITLE | In Progress

Day 2: "You're safe." | TITLE | DNS

Day 3: "Does it hurt when I do this?" | TITLE | In Progress

Day 4: "Try and get some sleep." | TITLE| In Progress

Day 5: "Another nightmare?" | TITLE | DNS

Day 6: "You fainted." | TITLE | DNS

Day 7: "I'm not going anywhere." | TITLE | DNS

One Chicago Appreciation Week 2021

Day 1: "I can't think straight with you!" | TITLE | DNS

Day 2: "If we don't get out of here-" / "We will!" | TITLE | DNS

Day 3: "I think you're bleeding..." | TITLE | DNS

Day 7: "Take a deep breath-" / "It hurts." / "I know, but you have to." | TITLE | DNS

Chicago Med

One-Shot Sunday

Fairytale Ending

Crossovers

PD & Med

One Chicago Appreciation Week 2021

Day 6: "Don't go. Please. I can't lose you." | TITLE | DNS

Story Covers/ Cover Art

Chicago PD

It’s Just the Flu

Man’s Best Friend

Rock Bottom

A to Z Jay Halstead Whump

Silence is a Strange Sound

Unusual Notification

Flu Shot

The Innocent Victim

Babysitting & Zoos & Accusations, Oh My!

Untold Past

Secret Fear

Busy Work

22 A Day

Chicago Fire

A Family

A Different World

Trapped

Jack-O-Lanterns

Breaking the Cycle

Little Angels Gone Too Soon

Was It At First Sight?

Alleyways & Pizza

Just You

Revelations

Thanksgiving Escape

We Balance Each Other

An Old Tradition

Holiday Timber

Gingerbread Fun

Unexpected Christmas

Eight Nights

New Year, New Start

Luck of the Irish

An Unlikely Hand

Moving Forward

Love You All the Same

A Tradition Once More

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 1: Yours, Mine, & Ours

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 2:

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 3:

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 4:

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 5:

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 6:

Upstead Appreciation Week Day 7:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 4:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 5:

Chicago Fire

Dreams Do Come True

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 1:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 2:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 3:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 4:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 5:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 6:

Stellaride Appreciation Week Day 7:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 1:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 2:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 3:

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 7:

Chicago Med

Fairytale Ending

Crossovers

PD & Med

One Chicago Appreciation Week Day 6:

Timelines & Character Info Charts

Overall

Master Timeline

Questions & Inconsistencies

Character Info Chart (Fire)

Character Info Chart (PD)

Character Info Chart (Med)

Character Info Chart (Justice)

Locations

Gangs

Seasons

Individual Characters (Timelines)

Chicago Fire

Matthew “Matt” Casey

Kelly Severide

Gabriela “Gabby” Dawson

Wallace Boden

Leslie Shay

Brian “Otis” Zvonecek

Christopher Herrmann

Randall “Randy”/“Mouch” McHolland

Joe Cruz

Peter Mills

Jeff Clark

Sylvie Brett

Jessica “Chili” Chilton

Jimmy Borreli

Stella Kidd

Emily Foster

Darren Ritter

Blake Gallo

Violet M

Gianna Mackey

Chicago PD

Hank Voight

Alvin “Al” Olinsky

Antonio Dawson

Jay Halstead

Erin Lindsay

Adam Ruzek

Kim Burgess

Kevin Atwater

Trudy Platt

Nadia DeCotis

Greg “Mouse” Gerwitz

Sean Roman

Hailey Upton

Vanessa Rojas

Chicago Med

William “Will” Halstead

Natalie Manning

Connor Rhodes

Ethan Choi

Daniel Charles

Sharon Goodwin

Maggie Lockwood

April Sexton

Noah Sexton

Sarah Reese

Robin Charles

Ava Bekker

Crockett Marcel

9-1-1 Verse

Fics

9-1-1: Lone Star

One-Shots

A House Divided | Complete

9-1-1 Bingo 2022 (Order Subject to Change)

Facing Their Phobia

Marjan Marwani

“Have you ever loved someone who didn't love you back?”

Memory Loss

“I don't want to survive, I want to live.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I have terrible judgment.”

Angry Mob

Carlos Reyes

Lightning Strike

Internal Bleeding

Multi Car Crash

Judd Ryder

Heatwave

Paul Strickland

Landslide

Hiding An Injury

“Because I want you, all of you, forever.”

Tommy Vega

Addiction/Withdrawal

TK Strand

Earthquake

Mass Casualty

Worked Themselves To Exhaustion

“I know I called you bro, but lowkey I want to marry you.”

TK Strand Week 2022 (August 15 to August 21)

Day 1: TK Begins | TITLE | In Progress

Day 2: Missing Scene: Tarlos telling their parents about the engagement | TITLE | DNS

Day 3: TK/Jonah Fluff | TITLE | DNS

Day 4: Groomzilla | TITLE | DNS

Day 5: Tarlos Firsts | TITLE | DNS

Day 6: TK choosing a best (wo)man | TITLE | DNS

Day 7: Free Choice | TITLE | DNS

Tarlos Week 2022 (September 26 to October 2)

Day 1: “Please tell me it’s not a lizard” and/or a story about adopting a pet | TITLE | DNS

Day 2: “Do you need that much luggage?” and/or going on a trip together | TITLE | DNS

Day 3: “I’m going to be late for work” + Kissing/making out | TITLE | DNS

Day 4: “Don’t do this” and/or a story between Season 2 and Season 3 | TITLE | DNS

Day 5: “Don’t jinx this!” and/or Wedding Day or Wedding Preparation | TITLE | DNS

Day 6: “I’m too young to be a widower” + an emergency | TITLE | DNS

Day 7: Free Choice | TITLE | DNS

Story Covers/ Cover Art

9-1-1: Lone Star

A House Divided

MISC

Ask Games

Episode Reactions

Book Reviews/Reactions

Book Characters Drawn

#Master List #Masterlist #One Chicago Fanfiction #911 Lone Star Fanfiction #Yue Writes🌔

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sparrow-flies-south · 4 years

Text

Soft Rains

Fandom: Sanders Sides Pairing: Thomas & Janus Warnings: Violence, aftermath of violence, aftermath of torture, blood and injuries Word Count: Summary: Thomas doesn’t seem to believe him, though, because he sighs. “Do you really think I’d be okay with this?” Janus shrugs. “You seem to think everything I do is bad.” “That doesn’t mean I want you hurt. I want you to be okay.”

Pre POF: In order to escape from another dark side, Janus hides in the one place they can't follow - Thomas's apartment.He doesn't expect Thomas to actually care about what happened to him.

Notes: I'm going to be honest, this is pretty much just an excuse to write Janus whump. All the violence happens right before the story begins, but it's talked about throughout the fic. Title comes from the poem "There Shall Come Soft Rains" by Sara Teasdale. It has absolutely nothing to do with this fic, I just think it's neat.

Also on AO3!

Janus presses himself against the wall of the coat closet as if he’ll be able to disappear into it. He can hear footsteps in the corridor, the sound of doors being thrown open as Wrath looks for him. He closes his one good eye and tries to focus on his breathing, but his ribs burn with every inhale. Everything hurts. He thinks his ribs might be broken, and the human side of his face is so swollen from the beating that he can’t see out of that eye. The snake side stings in the places where his scales were cut away. He presses a hand to his right shoulder, trying to stem the sluggish bleeding.

“Here, snakey snakey,” Wrath sing-songs and Janus curls further into himself. “Come out now and I won’t break your legs.”

He should do what Wrath says. There’s nowhere for him to hide, no chance of escape. But Remus will be back from the imagination soon. All he has to do is open the closet door, maybe Wrath will go easy on him. He just needs to hold out a little longer-

But he won’t. He’s not brave, or noble, or self-sacrificing, not like the light sides. If he goes back then Wrath will just keep hurting him and he will break and let the others out, let Thomas see all the parts of him that he’d tried to hide. And then it won’t matter what Wrath decides to do with him, not when they have a foothold on Thomas’s mind.

The footsteps move down the corridor. How long until Wrath throws the cupboard door open? He could try to run, try to get to the imagination. He might even make it. But even if he does, the imagination is large, and filled with deadly beast and pitfalls.

There’s the light side, but that would just prolong the inevitable. Virgil would probably be glad for the opportunity to throw Janus back to the wolves.

There’s only one other place he could go to, and that’s Thomas’s apartment in the real world, which-

Which might work.

Wrath won’t be able to follow him there, not while Thomas doesn’t know about him. Of course, Thomas wouldn’t want Deceit around either, but the light sides go there all the time. Thomas would let one of them stay.

There’s no way for him to hide his injuries, so he picks the side most likely to get hurt and shifts.

A wave of pain crashes through him as his body changes. He cries out before he can stop himself. He freezes, panting from the pain, as the footsteps grow closer. He has to go now.

He tries to sink out but his body fails him and he collapses, shaking.

“Knock, knock,” Wrath calls.

Janus grits his teeth and gathers all the strength he has left. He pushes away the pain, pushes away the fear. The only thing that matters now is appearing in the real world.

He collapses again, and he sobs because it doesn’t matter now, nothing matters. His fingers bunch up in the carpet.

Wait- carpet?

He forces his head up, and blinks away the stars in his vision. He lets out a sob of relief once his vision clears because he’s not in the cupboard anymore, not in the dark side. He’s on the floor of Thomas’s house, in front of the TV where Roman usually stands.

“Roman!”

Janus blinks. Thomas is hovering a few feet away, looking uncertain. Behind him, he can see his discarded laptop on the sofa.

“Ah, Thomas,” Janus says, trying to Roman’s voice. Stopping it from cracking is beyond him now. “I may be in need of assistance.”

“I think we’re way past may,” Thomas says. “What happened?”

He should have seen the question coming, should have prepared an answer, but there was no time and it’s too late now. He’ll just have to wing it.

“That Dragon Witch,” he says. “I, uh, got into a fight with her.” He gives Thomas a rueful smirk. “It did not go in my favour.”

Thomas takes another step forward, and then stops, eyes narrowing. Janus’s heart stutters.

“You and the Dragon Witch have a truce,” Thomas says.

Crap.

“Well, clearly she broke it,” Deceit says.

Please believe it. Please don’t ask any more questions.

“And that’s Roman’s old costume.”

Janus blinks and looks down at himself. Sure enough, he must not have been careful enough when he put on the disguise. “It’s laundry day?”

Thomas shakes his head and sits down on the couch. “What do you want, Deceit?”

He drops the disguise, and his muscles shake from the relief of it. He stays down, stares at Thomas’s carpet. He doesn’t want to see Thomas’s reaction to his current state.

“You can get up now,” Thomas adds, and Deceit flinches at the coldness in his tone.

He pushes himself up with his arms. Maybe if he goes along with it, Thomas will listen to him, and he’ll be allowed to stay. But as soon as he puts any weight on his legs, he collapses back to the floor.

“Deceit?” Thomas sounds strange now.

Janus doesn’t answer, just glares at the floor. His whole body is shaking, and he doesn’t understand why he can’t just do this. There’s nothing wrong with his legs.

“You- you’re actually hurt.”

Janus looks up, frowning, because of course he is, why does Thomas sound so surprised, but before he can say anything Thomas is right there, one hand gently touching his good shoulder.

Janus flinches back, tries to raise his arms to protect himself.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Thomas leans back, raising his hands so that Janus can see them. “What happened to you?”

“You- you don’t want to know,” Janus answers.

“I’m pretty sure I do, actually.” Thomas shakes his head. “Do you think you cans stand if I help you?”

He eyes Thomas warily (what is he thinking, why does he want him to stand?) before he nods. Thomas carefully loops one arm under around him.

He doesn’t stand so much as let Thomas pull him up. Once he’s on his feet, Thomas tries to let go and he staggers, grabs Thomas’s arm to steady himself before he can think better of it. The arm returns around his back, another touching his side, supporting him.

“Okay,” Thomas soothes. “You’re doing really good. We just need to make it to the couch. Come on.”

With Thomas’s help, he’s able to stagger the few feet over to the couch. Thomas lowers him onto it gently.

“Stay here,” he says, as if Janus would be able to stand even if he wants to. “I’ll be right back.”

And then he’s gone.

Janus misses him immediately. With Thomas around, Janus had felt safe, irrational as that feeling might be. But now he’s gone and there’s no one to stop Wrath. Nothing to stop him dragging Janus back to the dark side, and he won’t be able to escape a second time, they’ll break his legs so he can’t run and then cut off his scales one by one, just like they’d threatened.

Someone enters the room, and Janus shrinks back, curls in on himself like if he’s small enough and still enough no one can see him.

The person comes closer. He chokes out a sob, and now they know that he’s scared, that he’s weak.

“Deceit?” they ask.

He can’t look at them, can’t see if they’re amused or disgusted by his weakness. Can’t bear any clues that looking might give him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he knows useless. “I- I won’t try to run again, I promise. Please.”

It’s a lie. And even if it wasn’t, they wouldn’t believe him. They’ll just keep hurting him and they won’t stop. They’re never going to stop.

“Deceit,” the voice sounds strangled and Janus goes still, waiting for the blows to start. “That’s- I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

Janus shakes his head. They’re lying, they have to be, but he can’t sense the lie, can’t smell it on the air. Something must be wrong with him, with his senses, and now he’s lost one of the few defences he had less.

“Deceit, look at me.”

He doesn’t want to, but it’s an order, and not obeying will just make things worse. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifts his head from his arms.

Brown eyes, looking back at him. Brown hair, messy from running his hands through it. A Steven Universe t-shirt, because it’s comfortable and he doesn’t plan on going out today.

“Thomas,” Janus gasps.

Thomas smiles, though his eyes are watery. “Hey. You’re safe, okay? Whatever happened- it’s not going to happen to you again.”

Janus shakes his head. “Making promises you don’t intend to keep?” he tsks. “Patton would be so disappointed.”

“I mean it,” Thomas says firmly. “They’re not going to touch you.”

It’s the truth, but that doesn’t make any sense.

“Why?” Janus breaks out. “Why would you?”

Thomas hates him, thinks he needs to be locked away. Why be so upset when someone has finally done what Thomas has always wanted.

“What do you mean why?” Thomas asks. “Look at you!”

Janus shrinks in on himself. “I’m aware of what I look like,” he hisses.

Thomas just shakes his head. “Who did this?”

Janus looks away and doesn’t answer.

“Deceit, please,” Thomas begs. “I- I want to help.”

Janus says nothing. Let Thomas get mad and yell or hit him or refuse to help until Janus answers. He’s doing this for Thomas, to keep hidden what needs to be shut away so it can’t ruin Thomas’ life. He just needs to keep Thomas safe, keep him protected. As long as he can do that, nothing else matters.

“Okay,” Thomas says, sounding tired. “If- if you’re not ready to tell me yet, that’s okay.”

Janus looks up suspiciously. The lie tastes over-sweet on the air – Thomas isn’t okay with him not saying anything. But he doesn’t look mad- instead he just presses something cold into Janus’ good hand. He looks down at it- an ice pack. He glances back at Thomas, confused, but Thomas is fiddling with something he has with him – a first aid kit. Janus hadn’t even noticed it was there.

Warily, Janus lifts the icepack to his eye. The cold soothes his bruises, quietens the fiery pain.

“I want to look at your injuries,” Thomas says. “Is that okay?”

Janus nods warily.

Thomas pulls out Band-Aids, a roll of gauze and a brown bottle. He hesitates. “I’m going to have to touch you.”

Of course he does. Still, Janus shudders at the thought of someone getting close, of touching where he’s already injured, and what if this is all a trick, what if Thomas wants Janus to let his guard down so he can hurt him even worse?

“Deceit?” Thomas prompts quietly.

“What- what will you do?” Janus asks.

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Thomas runs a hand through his hair. “This wasn’t exactly in that first aid course I took. I guess- those cuts on your face need cleaning. Uh, are you hurt anywhere else?”

Janus swallows, digs his nails into the palm of his hands and uses the sensation to keep himself here, to stop himself from slipping back to that room. “Shoulder’s bleeding. Broke my ribs, I think.”

Thomas nods, grimacing. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. I’ll need to clean and bandage your shoulder, then.” He holds up the bottle. “The antiseptic is going to hurt.”

“I’ve almost certainly had worse,” Janus says drily, and Thomas looks as if he’s just been slapped. Okay, so maybe his humour isn’t appreciated in this situation. “Just do it.”

Thomas nods. “I’m going to start with your scales.”

He waits, and when Janus doesn’t say anything he moves forward. Janus forces himself not to flinch back when Thomas’s hands move towards his face. It’s fine. Thomas won’t hurt him, even if he doesn’t like him much.

Thomas is right about the antiseptic, but it’s still better than when Wrath had slid the knife under each sale and twisted until they come loose.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Thomas says as he dabs at the cuts, a soothing mantra that Janus almost believes.

It doesn’t take long to clean them, Wrath had only cut off a couple- he’d gone slow, whispered threats in his ear between each one, giving Janus a chance to give in but all he’d done was shake his head and cry. Wrath had gone to get something else, something that word hurt even worse, and Janus had been able to crawl out of the room, had managed to push himself to his feet and stagger into the closet, even as Wrath had yelled because he’d noticed Janus was gone.

“Will they grow back?” Thomas asks, pulling Janus back to the present.

He touches the spots, even if it makes his shoulder scream in protest. Thomas had covered the wounds with Band-Aids while Janus had been lost in the past.

He nods in answer to the question. It’s a lie, Janus has no idea what will happen, but Thomas looks distressed enough. Let him believe that everything will turn out alright, like they do in Roman’s stories.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “That’s your face done. I should look at your shoulder now.”

Janus waits, but Thomas makes no move forward.

“You, uh, you need to—.” he gestures at his own chest.

Janus blinks, confused, until he figures out that Thomas is asking him to take off his shirt. His good hand is still holding the icepack so he summons two more to fumble with the clasps of his coat. It takes far too long – his hands won’t stop shaking – but he’s finally able to let it drop off his shoulders.

He reaches for his shirt next, and then hesitates. What will happen if he refuses? Will Thomas let the matter drop? Will he keep pressing? Or will he not care what Janus wants, will he hold him down and force his clothes off him with Janus too weak to stop him?

Thomas touches his right hand, curled uselessly in his lap. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly. “There’s no rush. You can take your time.”

Just like that, Janus can breathe again. He has to let his extra arms disappear to take the shirt off, leaving him one handed. Getting his left arm out if easy enough, but the fabric sticks to the blood coating his right shoulder, and he winces in pain as he peels it away. Thomas hovers nearby, arms just above Janus’ shoulder, but Janus doesn’t give him the opportunity to step in. He lets the shirt drop to the floor. It’s probably ruined now, anyway.

Thomas sucks in a choked, startled breath when Janus straightens. Whether it’s at the scales that run down his abdomen, or the mottled bruises that cover his ribs, Janus can’t tell.

“Fuck,” Thomas says wetly. “Deceit, what-?” he cuts himself off. “Okay. Okay. Uh, I’m going to clean and bandage your shoulder now. I don’t think I’m meant to do anything for your ribs except- fuck, pain killers. I can’t believe I didn’t offer them earlier.” He digs around the first aid kit. “Uh, I only have Tylenol. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Janus says.

Thomas hands him a couple of pills and fetches a glass of water. Janus takes them without a word.

“Okay, shoulder now.”

He holds up the antiseptic and bandages, and Janus nods, once. He closes his eyes as Thomas wipes at the wound. The knife didn’t go all the way through, thank God, but it’s still deep. The sting of the antiseptic brings tears to his eyes.

“You don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” Thomas says carefully, setting of every one of Janus’ alarm bells. “But I’d really like to know what happened.”

Janus doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “Would you?”

“Of course! Deceit, I want to help.”

For a moment, Janus believes him, almost enough to say don’t call me Deceit. Call me Janus, my name is Janus, because he’s already bleeding, already stripped bare, so what’s one more defence?

But then the part of him that is self-preservation wakes up, and he sneers instead. “And if it was one of your precious Light sides? What then?”

He watches as Thomas reel back, looking horrified. “I don’t, I- Was it them?”

Janus hesitates, and then takes pity on Thomas. “No, it wasn’t. But my point still stands: you shouldn’t make promises so easily.”

“In this case, I think I should,” Thomas says. “You were tortured.”

Janus flinches. That’s not- it wasn’t- it wasn’t torture. It was just pain.

(Denial’s always been what he’s best at)

“And you know all the facts? What if I deserved it? I could be tricking you this entire time.”

“The facts are that you were tortured,” Thomas repeats, eyes wide. He’s crying, something he’s been doing off and on the whole time. “You- you know this was wrong, right? Whatever happened, doing this to you was wrong.”

He knows. It had been just one more reason to refuse Wrath, because if that was how he got what he wanted, Janus had no desire to let him influence Thomas.

Thomas doesn’t seem to believe him, though, because he sighs. “Do you really think I’d be okay with this?”

Janus shrugs. “You seem to think everything I do is bad.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you hurt. I want you to be okay.”

Anger flares up inside him. “Well maybe then you shouldn’t have ignored me!”

Thomas gapes, and Janus immediately regrets what he said.

“What do you mean?” Thomas asks.

Janus curls in on himself. He should be smarter than this, should me more controlled that to just blurt out the first thought that crosses his mind. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“What does me ignoring you have to do with- with what happened?”

Janus hesitates. If he answers, it might upset Thomas more. Might make Thomas think he’s lying, or that this whole thing is a setup to get Thomas’ attention. But if he doesn’t…

“Our strength is linked to our functions,” Janus says. “The sides that you acknowledge, that you use, are stronger. The ones that you repress are weaker.” He tilts his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Thomas. “My purview is lies and denial, the things you hide from others, and the things you hide from yourself. You’ve been a lot more honest lately.”

“So you weren’t strong enough to fight them off,” Thomas finishes, sounding horrified.

Janus nods, gritting his teeth tight together. He shouldn’t have spoken, hadn’t wanted to reveal this to Thomas.

Perhaps he can pretend that this is all part of a plan, that he’s showing his weakness for a reason. Look what you’ve done to me, wouldn’t it be so much better if you listened?

“Fuck,” Thomas says. “Deceit, I- I’m sorry.”

“It’s not… entirely your fault,” Janus says.

“Still, if I’d have known…” Thomas doesn’t finish the thought, which is good. That is one thing Janus would not be able to stand being lied to about.

Janus closes his eyes. Thomas has finished helping him, but he hasn’t told him to leave yet, and Janus intends to take full advantage of whatever guilt or pity Thomas is feeling. Perhaps he can get Thomas to let him stay. Or, if not, perhaps he can at least ask Thomas to summon Remus.

“What are you going to do?” Thomas asks.

He doesn’t know. “Remus is in the imagination. I’ll be safe once he gets back.”

“And until then?” Thomas asks.

Janus doesn’t answer.

Thomas moves, and Janus opens his eye, but all Thomas does is sit on the sofa, leaving as much space between him and Janus as he can. Janus watches him for a moment, but when Thomas doesn’t make any more movements, he closes his eye again.

Exhaustion is beginning to crash down on him. It seems his body has finally decided to stop pumping out adrenaline. Perhaps it’s responding to Thomas’ presence. Perhaps it has just stopped caring.

“The sky is green,” Thomas says out of nowhere, and Janus opens one eye to give Thomas an incredulous look.

“What-,” he begins to say.

“The sky is green, the grass is blue. Uh, my name isn’t Thomas Sanders.”

Lies. Small ones, the ones that taste like cough medicine, ones no one would believe. But then, there’s no one around to believe them.

“Are you seriously trying to-?”

“Is it working?” Thomas asks.

Janus hesitates. The fire that had consumed most of his body has lessened to smouldering pain. He reaches up and touches his face. It feels less swollen, now.

“It… is.” He hadn’t expected something as simple as that to work.

Thomas nods, and keeps going. “Okay, uh, today isn’t Wednesday, I hate Disney, uh, if you swallow an apple seed a tree will grow in your stomach.”

Janus closes his eyes. He still feels tired, still doesn’t know what he’ll do when he wakes up. But he’s safe, and his pain is fading, and the sound of Thomas’ voice is soothing.

“I don’t care about you,” Thomas says. It tastes sweet.

And, because Janus knows that he’s safe, he sleeps.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #deceit sanders #janus sanders #sympathetic deceit #whump #hurt/comfort #my fic

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Shake: Chris and Laken

(Why do so many of Chris’s pieces end up having a title of just a single word? Huh. This is just a very smol drabble I’ve been meaning to write and is basically a present for @slaintetowhump, as is most of my Laken content let’s be honest here)

Timeline: College!Chris, early in his burgeoning relationship with Laken. I’d say first semester in college.

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker

CW: Some brief references to past trauma/noncon, fucky survivor thoughts on navigating consent and relationships post-recovery, memories of conditioned thoughts around spice

“I can’t believe you’ve never tried this before,” Laken says, leaning over, so close their knees are nearly brushing his, and Chris’s eyes are caught in theirs. Dark, so dark, and ringed in black eyeliner that makes them seem even wider and darker, pools he could dip into and not ever come back from.

“I... I, I might, um, might h-have,” Chris says, his voice strained and a little rough around the edges. All the hairs on his arms and his neck have stood up, goosebumps rolling over his skin as Laken’s hand moves. “I don’t remember.”

Laken pauses, giving him that sort of thinking-look they have sometimes when he says he doesn’t remember things, or doesn’t know a movie or show or some big national thing everyone else does. Then they seem to shrug that moment off, but Chris caught the pause.

He should have pretended to know about this.

He’s just so tired sometimes of lying.

They pick up a single french fry from the plate they and Chris and are sharing, skinny as a matchstick, one of the fries not already drenched in the neon-yellow-orange cheese sauce they’d ordered. Laken smiles, top teeth just resting on their full bottom lip, and dips the fry into the chocolate milkshake with whipped cream and a cherry on top they have right in front of them.

“See? Dip, hold for one second-” Laken holds up a single finger on their other hand for emphasis, and Chris can’t help the way his own mouth stretches in a smile. “-and eat!”

They pop the french fry into their mouth, closing their eyes, and Chris loves the perfect even line of their eyeliner, the way it swoops just a little further than the corner of their eyes.

“Now you try.” Laken points back at the plate, and Chris’s eyes drop quickly down to it, his face reddened and warm at the idea that Laken caught him staring at their face. A bit of their hair has fallen into their eyes and he wants to bury his hands in the thick, curly black hair that runs over the top and back, rub his fingers into the soft, short shaved hair at the sides, wants to-

Just wants, in formless ways that go no further than the idea of what he might feel if they held him, kissed him, were near him, legs intertwined, a subtle weight against his side.

The wants are good, but under them lingers the fear of what comes after the holding. When the weight is no longer subtle but heavy, when kissing isn’t enough for them, when they want him to perform.

They wouldn’t call it that. That’s not what it’s called, out here. That he’ll lose himself again, and the next time maybe he won’t remember how to run from it first. He can’t be rescued every single time he gets in over his head, can he? He’s supposed to be able to do these things himself, now.

It was less than a year of his life, lost, they think. Nat and Jake think so, anyway.

How can less than a year of his life still hurt so much later?

“Chris?” Laken snaps their fingers in front of him and he blinks, sitting up in a sudden flinch backwards-

Pay attention, darlin’, you should always have eyes on your owner

-and catches himself just as fast, giving them a smile. “S-sorry, I, I was in my, my my-my head I guess. What, what did you say?”

-won’t repeat myself, you should have focused on me-

Laken pulls their hand back.

-what else is there for you to look at, hm?

Laken’s hand hesitates, as though they might want to reach forward instead of pulling back. He wants them to touch his face so badly and he doesn’t want to be touched at all. He wants both things.

He wants to grab at them and hold on and say please tell me I can do this and he wants to say just walk away before you find out and the sentences are so jumbled together in his brain he can’t say either at all.

The lights are making a sound, a sort of hum that he thinks Laken can’t hear but he can hear it and it drills into his ears, under the memory of Sir’s voice, slick and smooth, the sense-memory of a hand lying on the back of his neck, pressing soft leather into his spine.

Pay attention. I said-

“I said,” Laken says, softer this time, “that it’s your turn.” They hold out a fry, skinny twig potato, with only a hint of cheese sauce at one end. “Dip it in the shake, take a bite. I promise it’s amazing.”

Amazing. You really were worth every penny I paid, weren’t you?

Chris is sure he sees uncertainty in their expression, but he’s not always good at knowing what the people around him are thinking. The subtler shifts of expression that don’t contain the threat of violence he was trained to prepare for sometimes mean nothing at all to him, and between the weight of their face at the front of him and the pressure of the fluorescent lights in the diner above and behind him, that buzzing noise that no one seems to hear but him, Chris wants to run.

Get up and run, like Kauri used to run, and that feels safer than what he’s trying to do here.

The train tracks of his thoughts are scattered, unsure. He wants to get up and walk out, go somewhere dark, and remind himself that people like him weren’t ever supposed to have moments like this.

You are a pet and you’ll never be anything but-

Chris sets his jaw and tries to remember that memories can’t grab you out of the light, the buzzing is just a sound - the lights are just cheaper than any other kind - and Laken’s hand is safer than the hand in his mind.

You’ll never be anything but-

This. He can be this, instead.

He takes the fry from Laken’s fingers, lets his brush theirs just a little for the rush of electricity along his nerves, the feeling of touching lightning, and dips his fry in the shake.

Then he pops it into his mouth, and his eyes widen at the sense of cold and hot, chocolate ice cream and fried potato, salt and sweet. He picks another fry up and tries it again.

Laken laughs, sitting back and clapping their hands, ducking their head slightly. “See! You like it! Didn’t I tell you?”

“You, you, you-you you did, you told me,” Chris smiles at them around the french fry still sticking out of his mouth, prompting another peal of laughter, catching the eyes of people in the other booths in the diner. Chris would sink into himself, except he realizes after a second that the older couple looking at them is smiling, watching Laken laugh.

So he starts to smile again, too.

“Great.” Laken picks up a long-handled spoon, dipping it into the whipped cream and picking the bright-red, fire-engine-colored cherry off the table. “You want my cherry?” They start to giggle, blushing themself, and Chris just blinks, not understanding this joke, either.

There are so many jokes he doesn’t understand but he smiles along with anyway.

“I’m kidding, I’m just-... sorry, being out with you makes me kind of nervous, and I’m just covering it by being ridiculous,” Laken says, sighing, eating the bite of whipped cream and the cherry themself. “I really am sorry, Chris.”

“You, um... you, you, you-you... you’re nervous?” Chris asks, voice low. That... he can’t have heard that right.

“Uh, yeah, of course I am. You’re fucking gorgeous and you dating me... it’s a lot. You know? You make me really nervous.” Laken hesitates, swirls their spoon around in their milkshake without looking up. “Like I’m going to fuck this up for sure.”

“Me, um, me-me... me me me, me-... wait, my words, um-” Chris groans, reaching for the black bracelet he always wears on one wrist, pushing the little metal circles wound into the heavy nylon rope to focus on the press of an edge against his finger, the way they spin against his skin. “I’m... I’m nervous, too.”

“Are you?” Laken cocks their head, and there’s that hair again, falling over one eye. “Well, I guess we’re both nervous, so that cancels us out, right?”

Chris takes a breath, reaches out, and brushes the bit of hair from over their eye, watching Laken’s smile grow and change, become softer and warmer all at once, as they look up at him.

This look, he knows. The I want you look. He’s given himself, practiced and performed, with a smile that never reached his eyes.

Laken’s eyes, though, are warm. He’ll fall in.

“I, I, I think I’m too weird for, um, for you,” Chris says, finally, hesitantly.

Laken grabs his hand in theirs, twining fingers warm around his chillier ones, and kisses the back of his hand. “Not possible.”

“No, really-”

Laken shakes their head, pulling his hand to rest his knuckles against their cheek and his voice is caught in his throat, then. It’s lost somewhere in the look on Laken’s face. He can’t quite remember how words work, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to.

“No.” Laken says the word soft as can be. Chris thinks of the way it felt to pet the kitten when Ruth’s stray cat had a litter. “Really. You’re not too weird for me, Chris. I want this to be our first date, not... not the last one. Yeah?”

Chris breathes in and out. His hand is on fire with sparks from Laken’s touch.

He wants, all those things that feel safe. The holding, the kissing, the things that go no further. He has no idea how to ask.

“... right,” He says, finally. “First date, not, not, not-not last date.”

“Perfect.” Laken kisses the back of his hand and then gives it back to him, but he kind of hopes they’ll just keep his hand forever, it can be all theirs, whatever, just keep smiling like this and he’ll give them anything they want. “So. Next fry?”

They pick one up.

Chris picks a fry up, too.

They dip their fries into the milkshake in unison, and Chris can’t think of anything but how gorgeous Laken looks in the awful fluorescent light.

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

Text

a touch that never hurts

Summary: a rewrite of the Tobias Hankel aftermath, in which Spencer gets plenty of cuddles and physical affection from his father figure

Tags: aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, platonic cuddling, whump, protective hotch, dad hotch, fluff, angst TW: brief mention of the non-con drug use that occurs in the Hankel arc, as well as the physical torture Spencer underwent

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid; Platonic

Word Count: 1.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

Happy bonus fic Thursday :) I wrote this because I noticed how gentle and kind Hotch always is to the victims he rescues, and I was in the mood for some good, mushy Dad Hotch fluff. Title from Charles Dickens' Hard Times: "Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

When Spencer Reid falls into Aaron Hotchner’s arms — his feet whipped and bleeding, his veins throbbing with dilaudid, his body bruised and aching — he decides that he never wants to let go.

He’s spent countless hours at the mercy of three different personalities, only one of them even close to resembling something kind, and all he could think while he was tied up in that chair was how much he ached to be held and comforted by the man he trusts most in this world.

So when Hotch saves him — and he does; he sent that message directly to him and it was heard loud and clear — he can’t help that he breaks down, that he cries into his shoulder in front of the entire rescue party, that he falls apart in the most painful way possible, until he’s not sure he can ever be put back together again. But when Hotch speaks soothingly into his ear, caressing his hair with the gentle touch of a father, he thinks that maybe he can be. Maybe he’ll somehow make it out of this in one piece.

He’s driven promptly to the hospital, of course. He’d anticipated an ambulance, but apparently it’s harder than you’d think to get an ambulance to a crime scene at 3am with absolutely no notice in deep, rural Georgia.

Derek drives, eyeing him anxiously in the rearview mirror, and Spencer sits glued to Hotch, refusing to be separated from him for even a second. He considers vaguely that he should probably be embarrassed of that fact, but he can’t find the energy. Not when Hotch is sitting just as closely; seemingly matching his need to be comforted with his own need to protect.

“It’s gonna be okay, Spencer,” Hotch murmurs, a little too quiet for Derek to hear over the noise of the car engine. “I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s not entirely sure he believes him. Instead, he just burrows closer into Hotch and hides his face from the soft illumination of passing car lights and the sporadic street lights of rural Georgian roads.

He accepts the wheelchair Derek runs in to grab from the hospital because his feet are suddenly screaming in agony. When he’d had to stumble through the graveyard behind Tobias Hankel’s cabin, the adrenaline had prevented him from feeling the true extent of his injuries, but now, with the adrenaline seeping out of him like a river through a broken dam, he can feel every single fractured bone, bruised patch of skin, abused and broken tendon.

Panic immediately arises when he sits down in the chair, though. All of a sudden, he doesn’t have that connection he’s had to Hotch since he was rescued, and he’s almost instantly on the verge of hyperventilation until Hotch crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, Spence,” he says gently, patient and soothing in a way the team doesn’t often get to see. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. How about I hold your hand?”

Spencer nods, and Hotch smiles at him encouragingly before giving the nod for Derek to push the chair towards the Emergency entrance. Hotch’s hand clutches tightly at Spencer’s, and he squeezes his eyes closed against the panic, against the memories, against the fear of what’s to come, and focuses all his energy on the firm, unwavering connection he has to Hotch.

It makes the minutes that it takes them to cross the parking lot bearable, and he’s grateful for that much.

As soon as Hotch explains the situation to the ER doctor that greets them at the door, Spencer is rushed into an examination room.

“I’ll wait outside, Spence,” Derek promises. “I’ll be right here.”

Hotch doesn’t let go of his hand.

They examine his feet first, using a portable x-ray machine to find three broken bones overall. Spencer cries when he hears that. Knowing they’re broken doesn’t change how much they hurt or how scary the situation feels, but it is a tangible acknowledgement of the torture he’s just been put through, and he thinks that that’s probably enough to make most people cry.

“It’s alright, Spencer,” Hotch soothes him, laying his palm on his forehead and smoothing it over his hair gently, slowly. “I’m right here. The doctors are going to help you out.”

“The good news is that most of the fractures are fairly minor,” the doctor explains. “You’ll need a cast for your right foot since the damage to the metatarsal bones is much more significant, but most of the damage overall appears to be torn tendons and bruised muscles, which means plenty of rest and a simple brace or boot on the left foot should do the trick.”

She smiles encouragingly at him, but he barely reacts. He’s so tired. It feels like he’s not even in the room; the only tether to reality being the soothing hand in his hair and the occasional whispers of support.

They treat his feet before sending him off to a CT scanner to check that the rest of his injuries are minor enough to heal on their own, and rule out internal bleeding. Spencer cries the whole twenty two minutes, because this time Hotch can’t hold his hand. He’s stuck watching through the observation window, trying not to cry himself as he listens to Spencer’s sobs over the intercom.

Thankfully, he manages to stay still enough to ensure clear enough images of his body to confirm that rest and pain medication should take care of the rest of his injuries.

A specialist comes round to talk to him about withdrawal. He’s been moved to a room on the assessment ward, which is at least a little more comfortable than the bay in the Emergency Room, but it still feels foreign and frightening, and he’s had quite enough of that in the last few days, thank you very much. At least Derek’s been allowed to join them now. He feels safer with both of them as close to him as humanly possible.

“The good news,” the doctor starts — and God, Spencer wishes they would stop associating any of this with the word ‘good’ — “is that you haven’t taken enough doses to become truly dependent on the drug, which should make your withdrawal easier. I’m prescribing buprenorphine, clonidine, acetaminophen, and ondansetron, which when combined, should make your symptoms significantly more bearable. We do advise that you stay with somebody—”

“He’ll be staying with me,” Hotch interrupts firmly, both of his hands clasped warmly around Spencer’s as he eyes the doctor with an unwavering gaze.

“Well, that’s perfect, then,” the doctor says cheerily. It feels grossly misplaced. “You’ll need to prepare for the coming symptoms and ensure that he has no way to get his hands on more dilaudid.”

Spencer resents the doctor for saying that. He has no desire to inject more of that poison into his veins: it might have been a pleasant distraction when he was being whipped and beaten and forced to choose someone to die, but now that he’s back with his family, now that he’s safe, the last thing he wants is to keep reminding himself of that god-awful man in that god-awful cabin.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just closes his eyes to try and smother the turbulent emotions threatening to show on his face.

“That won’t be a problem,” Hotch confirms.

They wait for an hour in relative silence, Spencer enjoying the solace of a safe, quiet room with the people he considers protectors both holding his hands and soothing him when panic threatens to overwhelm him, before the discharge doctor comes round. She checks him over one last time, before helping him into a wheelchair, handing him his medication, and wheeling him towards the entrance.

Derek goes ahead once they reach the airstrip where everybody’s been waiting to go home and herds them onto the jet first to give Spencer some privacy going up the stairs.

“Are you okay for me to carry you?” Hotch asks as he climbs out of the car first, speaking gently as he has done since he rescued him.

Spencer nods. Of course he is. It means he’s even closer to Hotch.

Hotch carries him the short distance between the parked jeep and the jet before ascending the stairs as carefully as possible, making sure Spencer’s feet don’t so much as brush the railing. He sets him down on the sofa, but Spencer clings to his hand, looking at him desperately as he tries to get him to understand what he needs. Thankfully, he’s obvious enough that Hotch simply smiles and sits down on the sofa with him.

They get settled in a horizontal position, Spencer resting his head on Hotch’s chest as he revels in the feeling of safety that having both of his arms wrapped around him provides. A gentle hand finds its way to Spencer’s hair again, and he closes his eyes against the relaxing feeling, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

He vaguely hears some quiet laughter in the background, and he’s been with the team long enough to predict the raised eyebrows and teasing expressions on their faces.

“You’ve gone soft,” Derek accuses warmly, making sure to keep his voice down, and the others chuckle in agreement.

“Wait until Penelope hears about this,” JJ teases quietly.

Hotch laughs, and Spencer feels the pleasant vibrations against his cheek. It makes him feel even warmer inside than he did before. “You wouldn’t dare.” Spencer imagines the smile on his face and burrows closer to him.

“It’s a good thing, Hotch,” Emily chimes in, her voice bright and easy. Spencer really likes her. “It’s nice to see this side of you.”

“Well, you’d better savour the moment because it won’t happen again.”

He must feel Spencer’s panicked tensing, the way his muscles go rigid and his breath hitches, because he rushes to add, “unless Spencer needs it of course.” His hands resume their gentle caresses of his back.

“I’d do anything if Spencer needed it,” he murmurs, and the team might hear, but the words aren’t for them.

Spencer hears them loud and clear, and somehow — when he thought only hours ago that he might never be put back together — he falls asleep feeling calm and safe, with a small, hopeful little smile on his face.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @cmily @notevanbuckley (add yourself to my taglist here!)

#my writing #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #cm #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #dad hotch #criminal minds gen fic #aaron hotchner & spencer reid

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hermit-whump · 4 years

Text

Watchers - Pt 1

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231755/chapters/63845446 Warnings: mentions of death, heavy descriptions of blood, broken bones, teen whump, creepy captor, kidnapping, past kidnapping, electric shock

The hermits stand together in the shopping district, covered in blood and mud. False holds onto her stomach, blood oozing out from her gut and mouth and she struggles to both stand and hold her sword. Doc lies on the ground, his prosthetic arm lays broken a meter away from him. Iskall holds their eye in their hands, redstone leaking out of the socket where the diamond should lie. Stress and Zedaph try to reach as many people as possible, to heal and to help. No one is left un injured, some sport broken arms or legs, some boast stab wounds. Some, like Etho, Scar and Cub, simply drained themselves of their magic during the fight.

Whatever made them think that they could defeat a watcher? Especially one that had a clear prize in mind.

Grian stands behind everyone, trying to pull Xisuma out from the collapsed shop, looky looky at my booky. Xisuma groans in pain, not fully awake. Grian forces himself to focus on getting the admin out, on making sure that no one will die on this day. It’s futile. It works, distracting him from the screams of the hermits as the watcher approaches. He continues to try and pull Xisuma out from under the shop, even as Mumbo screams at him to run.

Xisuma opens his eyes, his helmet cracked and visor broken. Grian watches Xisuma’s eyes widen in fear as a hand wraps around his mouth and an arm around his gut. And without a struggle, Grian is forced from hermitcraft.

---

“That was easier than I thought it would be.” The watcher taunts, the watcher mask that rested on his face resting on a box. “You didn’t even fight back.”

“Let me go, Sam.” Grian says, glaring at the watcher. “What do you want from me?”

“The watchers have missed you. I’ve missed you. You left us, Grian. You’re not going to get away with that.”

“Kidnapping me isn’t going to undo what you’ve done.” Grian spits. “It won’t bring Taurtis back.”

“I don’t want to bring him back.” Sam smiles, making Grian pause. “I want you to suffer. You didn’t just abandon me, Grian. You betrayed the watchers. That’s high treason. You’re lucky to be alive right now.”

“At least I’m not a murderer.”

“But you’ve killed before.” Sam smiles, a look in his eyes that makes Grian’s heart stop in his chest. “And you’ll kill again, if we have anything to say about it.”

“You’ll never break me.” Grian growls. “I won’t kill. I wont kill my friends.”

“We don’t want to make you kill them,” Sam’s smile only grows wider. “But by all means, tell me how you won’t break. You’re screams will only be more music to my ears.”

---

Blood runs down Grian’s back, his red jumper torn to shreds on his back. He hasn’t scream once, not even as Sam whipped him. No, Grian prides himself in not screaming. Not breaking. He’s strong. He won’t break, not for some bunny bitch who’s on a power trip. Sam just surprised the hermits - that’s all. He won’t win when they come for him. Sam will lose. He has to.

Grian doesn’t know what he’ll do if Sam doesn’t lose.

A hand yanks at his hair, forcing Grian’s head up from the ground. Grian’s eyes meet Sam’s, and the watcher spits on Grian’s face, growling under his breath.

“They aren’t coming for you. I don’t know why you’d hold out for them.” Sam mutters, pushing Grian’s head down, and Grian’s head bounces off the stone floor. “They’ve probably been waiting to get rid of you since you joined them.”

Sam leave’s Grian’s room, and Grian curls into a ball on the floor, shaking with sobs. The hermits wouldn’t leave him now. They wouldn’t let the watcher’s have any of them. They’re his friends.

Why does it feel like Sam is telling him the truth?

---

He’s thrown against the wall, waking with a scream. He’s exhausted, a foot on his chest serving as the only warning against moving. Not that he could - too tired, too much pain. Excuses for why he doesn’t struggle against Sam plague his mind, and all Grian wants to do is sleep.

Except this watcher isn’t Sam.

This one wears a mask - standard watcher issue, a symbol on the front that covers the eyes and mouth, nothing else on it - and a dark purple cloak. Grian spies a tuft of blonde hair sticking out from behind the mask, and notices with sorrow that this watcher is new - quite possibly from one of the latest intakes. A child, most likely no more than 17. Too new to be alone - another stands in the doorway - but he’s been here for long enough to be allowed into this room. With a traitor.

Maybe the watchers finally want him gone.

“What’s your name?” Grian asks the boy quietly, sympathy in his eyes. He remembers the first time he and Taurtis were forced to interrogate someone. Netty. She got him out, maybe he can help her legacy and get these two boys out.

"ℸ ̣ 𝙹ᒲᒲ|| ↸𝙹リℸ ̣ ⊣╎⍊ᒷ ⍑╎ᒲ ||𝙹⚍∷ リᔑᒲᒷ" The other says "∴ᒷ ᔑ∷ᒷリℸ ̣ ᔑꖎꖎ 𝙹∴ᒷ↸ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⊣╎⍊ᒷ ⍑╎ᒲ 𝙹⚍∷ リᔑᒲᒷᓭ."

"╎ ∴ᔑᓭリ'ℸ ̣ ⊣𝙹╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹! ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ↸𝙹 ||𝙹⚍ ℸ ̣ ᔑꖌᒷ ᒲᒷ ⎓𝙹∷, ᔑ ℸ ̣ ∷ᔑ╎ℸ ̣ 𝙹∷ ?" The other snaps back. “ℸ ̣ ⚍ʖʖ𝙹, ╎ ↸𝙹リℸ ̣ ∴ᔑリℸ ̣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⊣ᒷℸ ̣ ╎リ ℸ ̣ ∷𝙹⚍ʖꖎᒷ ᒷ╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷”

Grian winces as he listens to them, recognising the names. They’re the two boys who went missing a few months ago - Wilbur had come to Hermitcraft himself begging for the hermits to look for them. Tommy and Tubbo. They’re just boys. Guilt eats at Grian’s chest, knowing that whatever they went through was horrible, probably worse than what Grian went through if they are under the watcher’s control after only a few months.

Though the watchers do control some form of time. They could have been here for years because of the bastards.

“I just want to help you two.” Grian says, a sword appearing under his throat. “Wilbur came looking for you both. He was so worried. Let me help you.”

“Wilbur ╎ᓭ ꖎ 𝙹 𝙹 ꖌ ╎リ⊣ ⎓𝙹∷ ⚍ᓭ?” Tommy mumbles

"ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ|| ᓭᔑ╎↸ ⍑ᒷ ⎓𝙹∷⊣𝙹ℸ ̣ ⚍ᓭ. ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ∴ᒷ ⍑ᔑ↸ ↸╎ᒷ↸." Tears spring into Tubbo’s eyes, and Grian feels the sword at his throat waver.

"𝙹⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ|| ↸╎↸." Grian mumbles to himself angrily, startling the two boys. The sword is pressed against his throat once more, and Grian can see sweat drip onto the handle.

"⍑𝙹∴ ↸𝙹 ||𝙹⚍-”

" ̇/ᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ. ⍑ᔑ⍊ᒷ ||𝙹⚍ ⍑ᒷᔑ∷↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ リᔑᒲᒷ ʖᒷ⎓𝙹∷ᒷ?” Grian fumbles over his old title, hating how he is forced to out himself as the escapee, the original traitor, Xelqua.

In reality, he’s the only watcher to escape who was allowed to survive escaping. A symbol of hope for recent intakes. A symbol of failure for the ones who let him go. A dangerous symbol of rebellion for the enforcers. A powerful pawn for propaganda for the Eagles. The highest of higher ups.

He can only pray that Tommy and Tubbo aren’t going to turn into prey because of him.

---

Crack. His foot. Snap. His arm. Pop. His fingers Thud. A foot on his chest. Tears stream down his face, his voice hoarse from screaming. Something tangy is in his mouth, tasting of metal and salt. Blood.

The red liquid is bright against the grey floor, shining as the bright lights hit it. Grian watches as it turns darker. He watches, almost as though he’s separated from his body, as Sam’s foot hits against his head, knocking him unconscious.

---

“They aren’t coming for you.” Sam says, and Grian looks to the ground. He has to be strong. For Tommy and Tubbo, who stand by the door. He can’t let them know that he believes what Sam is saying. “Repeat it, Xelqua, or we start again. The hermits aren’t coming for you.”

“The hermits aren’t coming for you.” Grian snarks back, and he screams as the knife plunges back into his arm, right next to the last stab wound. “I. Repeated. It.”

“No, you disobeyed orders.” Sam brushes his hand through Grian’s hair, almost caringly. “If you really wanted this to end, you would have said ‘me’ instead of ‘you’.”

“You told me not to lie.” Grian snarls.

“Oh please, the hermit’s can’t come for you.” Sam smiles, the knife dancing across Grian’s throat. “They’re dead. Just like Wilbur. Just like Fundy and Eret and Dream and George. They’re all dead.”

“No!” Tommy yells, and Tubbo reaches out to him, just missing him before Tommy’s on top of Sam, tears falling from under his mask. “Take it back! They aren’t dead, they can’t be dead.”

“Tubbo, get the watchers.” Sam says evenly. Tubbo freezes in the doorway, tears falling from under his mask as well. Sam is most likely lying, but there’s no way to tell. “Tubbo, so help me, if you don’t get the watchers now you’ll all be punished for this.”

“I won’t.” Tubbo’s shaking, and Grian sends him a smile, one that is supportive. One to conceal the sadness. “I won’t get them. You’re lying. They aren’t dead.”

“It’s a pity that you all will be punished for this.” Sam sighs, and with a flash the knife is in Tommy’s side, a scream ripping from his throat. “Should I start with Tommy, for attacking a superior? Or you, Tubbo, for not following orders?” Tubbo shakes his head, pressing himself up against the doorframe. “So I should start with Grian then, for giving you both rebellious thoughts?”

Grian gulps, readying himself. He can’t scream. He can’t let them think that it’ll be painful. They need to be safe.

They’re both just kids.

---

Tommy is the first to disappear, the watchers coming in the night to take him. Grian and Tubbo both wake up to find a patch of blood where the sixteen year old once laid, and though both want to believe that he’ll be fine, neither hold onto the hope too strongly. Tubbo suggests that Tommy is fine, just taking the final test to become a watcher, though that doesn’t make Grian relax, two scars resting on his back where the wings once laid. That test will decide if Tommy is predator or prey, and he will not be allowed to survive if he’s prey, already showing signs of rebellion.

Grian was the only predator to be rebellious though, so the hope he hold is far weaker than Tubbo’s hope.

Tubbo disappears in the day, or at least while both of them are awake, Sam coming into the cell and dragging him away, Grian trying to get to him even with a broken leg. The hope that Tubbo is alive still rests in his chest, but its dim, a fire fighting against rain. He doesn’t want to believe that Tubbo has died, but the test is rigorous, and that would be the only reason Sam took him without a word to Grian.

So Grian waits.

He waits for three days and nights, or at least three rounds of his sleep cycle, the lights never truly turning off in the room. He’s left alone, no food or water arriving in the room. Nothing leaves, and nothing enters.

It’s almost relaxing.

The fourth day arrives, and Grian is dizzy and tired from the lack of food and water. Sam opens the door, a tray in his hands. Mushroom soup, by the smell of it. Sam sits the tray down near Grian, standing back from him. Grian blinks, looking at Sam with wide eyes.

“Well, are you going to eat?” Sam asks, his voice clipped. “We’ve gotta keep you alive, you don’t exactly have anywhere to go with the hermits being dead.”

“They aren’t dead.” Grian mumbles, taking the soup with shaking hands. “They can’t be dead.”

“Yes yes, Tommy and Tubbo said the same thing before.” Sam waves him off. “Prey, so naive. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Grian looks down, taking small sips of the soup. Shame eats at his stomach, and sorrow eats at his mind. He’s a full feast for his emotions. He was a predator, he killed prey watchers, people from his own intake even.

Sam might have been the predator to kill Taurtis, but Grian’s hand’s are just as red as his.

“So they’re dead.” Grian says, his eyes darkening.

“Of course they are. They’re no purpose for rebellious prey, except to make an example of them for the other prey.” Sam shrugs, a bored expression on his face.

“They were children.”

“You’ve killed younger, executioner.” Sam smirks. “Let yourself get weak with the mortals, have you?”

“We’re not gods, Sam.” Grian points out. “We can die.”

“Ah yes.” Sam smiles, and Grian sways slightly, confusion on his face. “It’s finally kicking in.”

“Wha-” Grian’s head is filled with cotton, “What have you done to me?”

“Nothing you won’t sleep off. Let’s get your wings back onto you. I miss ripping off your feathers.”

---

#whump #grian #tommyinnit #tubbo #samgladiator #xisuma #technically all the hermits #teen whump #captive whumpee #captivity whump #breaking #my writing

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comfy-whumpee · 4 years

Text

Ellis in the Tower

@whumptober2020 Day 20: Medieval. Don’t @ me it’s a third Ellis AU.

@lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektricwhump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

The country of the enemy. The throne of that country. The heir to that throne. The fiancé of that heir.

It is a neat, sweet solution to the imbalance of power. It is non-violent, but difficult to counter. They can bargain many things for the return of the young man who is about to marry into royalty. They won’t have to harm a hair on his pretty head. The country will sacrifice much for its heir’s beloved.

These are the promises Lord Engels whispers to his King. As the court’s master of intrigue and information gathering, his opinion is respected and his intentions trusted. He is loyal, and he is indispensible. The rumours that follow him were of little matter. Court tittle-tattle, the King knew.

And so, the prince-to-be is delivered from the safety of his home nation, across the border, and into Alistair’s care.

Of course, he has prepared living quarters for the captive noble. It won’t do to treat him roughly. It is a comfortable little house, with servants, good food, and a lovely walled garden. He is provided with books and paints and games, and his dignity is preserved.

The boy – for he is just a boy, really, young and pretty and scared – nevertheless manages to put up a fight. Deep in enemy territory, without money, status or sway, he bargains. He struggles. He tries, more than once, to escape the pleasant house arrest he had been offered. He nearly succeeds.

There is little else for it. The inconvenience is too much.

When Alistair first takes him there, wrists bound under his cloak and Alistair’s hands holding him in place on the horse, he looks up at the tower with moonlight gleaming in widening eyes. “Surely not,” he says, his accent elevating his vowels. “Lord Engels, you can’t seriously mean to—”

“Be quiet.”

“Lord Engels, honestly! This structure looks ancient, and it cannot be safe.”

“Quite safe, I assure you, Ellis.” Alistair often calls him by his given name, cutting away the title and family prestige he can’t access in this land. “The interior has been improved to a liveable standard. It won’t be the luxury you were offered at my home, but...perhaps we will find this less provocative.”

He practically has to carry the captive up. He is reluctant, feet dragging, body twisting, but Alistair is stronger. Silly pampered boy, interested only in books and stars.

They arrive into the single room of the tower with Ellis locked tightly in Alistair’s arms, both out of breath as Alistair muscles through the heavy wooden door. He tosses Ellis down onto the floorboards, and the boy lands with a winded gasp.

“You stay here, now,” Alistair says, throwing a bag down after him. All of the young lord’s belongings are in there, much good will they do him. “If you’re so desperate to escape, you can jump out the window.”

Ellis barely manages to get back to his feet before the tower door slams and locks.

The tower is in a clearing in the woods, surrounded by foliage. Some sunlight still makes it through the sole, south-facing window, and his freckles haven’t completely vanished just yet, but it isn’t enough to feel like he is getting sunshine. There’s never any breeze, either; what wind does blow, blows from the sea in the north. The rain gets in, occasionally, but that’s irrelevant really. He closes the window on rainy days and sits listening to the waves falling down around the roof, pretending they make the tide.

On nice days, he crosses his arms on the sill and rests his chin on it, letting his fine hair fly freely in the slight breezes and gazing mournfully at the horizon. He misses his home and his family, and he misses Nic. He misses grass between his toes and he misses fresh fruit from the gardens.

The food he eats here is tough and old and preserved to high heaven so that it will last between visits from Lord Engels. He eats it slowly, carefully, in case his captor forgets to return.

Lord Engels never does. On a day four weeks after the last, he appears. No matter what time of year it is, he dresses well, gives an air of composure, and brings a jar of jam that appears to be local produce. Alongside this, he brings in a month’s food, firewood and water. He stores them in the pantry for Ellis, knowing his captive is too weak to do so, and then he...lingers.

Some days he talks. He tells stories of what is happening outside of the little tower that is Ellis’s world. He tells of the war, or the ransom negotiations, or simply of the events in the capital. At other times, he tells war stories, seemingly content to listen to the sound of his own voice while Ellis sits, hands folded on his lap, on the bed, and waits for him to leave.

By the sixth visit, Ellis’s tune changes. He doesn’t want Lord Engels to leave at all. He needs the company, needs it so badly that he’ll debase himself to get it.

Lord Engels seems to know this as soon as it happens. At first he simply basks in the attention and tells his stories, but within a few months he changes his mind too, and seems dead set on learning everything Ellis can tell him about a topic. He asks strange questions about Ellis’s homeland: their diet, their rivers, their holiday traditions, even interrogating him politely about his own childhood. Ellis gives him some of the information, but claims ignorance on others, knowing certain details would be too useful in the war. If Lord Engels leaves sooner because of these silences, Ellis tells himself he doesn’t mind. He’s fine for another month of silence and himself. He’s fine without touch. The quizzing is fine, really. He doesn’t mind it, compared to the stories and the mockery.

The worst times, however, are when he plays games.

“Kneel here,” he directs, and Ellis goes down slowly, jaw set defiantly, noble and graceful as a gliding swan. “Now tell me, Ellis. What is your status?”

“My status is nothing, Lord Engels,” Ellis states very calmly, voice betraying no emotion.

“Who are you?”

“I am nobody, Lord Engels.”

“Where are you?”

“I am imprisoned, Lord Engels.”

“Who is coming for you?”

My betrothed, you pompous fool.

“Nobody, Lord Engels.”

And Engels smiles, satisfied. “That’s right. You are most well-behaved, Ellis. I should like to take you out of here.”

Ellis allows nothing to show on his expression. Any hint of desire could be used as a bargaining chip. He will allow this man no excess power over him than what he is forced to yield in his prison.

“But no, it is not possible...” Engels sighs, and then smiles. It is a premature shift, one that gives away his premeditation. “I shall bring the visitors to you,” he decides, happy as can be with his decision. “They should all be so fascinated to meet you, the consort and the captive. It has been so long since you saw anybody but me, too. It must not be good for your nerves.”

Ellis stays upright on his knees, meeting Alistair’s gaze levelly. His nerves have been oversensitive since he was a child. They won’t stop him now.

A cohort of visitors means more people will learn where he is. The more that information spreads, the more likely it gets back to one of their spies. He must endure this gathering, even if it is full of people as abhorrent as Lord Engels. The journeys will not go unnoticed by staff. Staff discuss with other staff. Word will get out, eventually, of Lord Engels’s tower. Hopefully some will tell of the red-haired princess trapped within, like the stories of old.

“That’s a good boy,” comes the praise. Ellis is too lost in thought to do anything more than smile in vague condescension at Engels’s smug face. “I’ll be sending messages to my closest friends for a meeting with you. It will be good for you to see someone other than myself.”

“Of course, Lord Engels,” he replies, polite as a frosted dowager. “You make such excellent company.”

The lord’s eyes flared white-edged for a moment. Then he lets out a breath. “Such wit, sweetheart,” he remarked, using the nickname that made Ellis’s skin crawl. “I do believe you will be grateful for me, in time.”

Only through a sickness of the head, Ellis thinks, but this time, he doesn’t say it aloud. Best not to push. This man’s ego is his greatest foe.

“I will be back,” Lord Engels says, getting up. “Enjoy the peace and quiet.”

Ellis remains where he is, neat, patient, and untouchable. For as long as he can be.

#medieval au #whump #captivity #medieval whump #tower whump #whumptober2020 #no.20 #medieval #ellis #alistair #creepy whumper #defiant whumpee #kneeling #isolation #my fic

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