While I fail to focus after my night shift have a peek at another of my brain worms
Untitled, I am still waiting for that moment of divine inspiration.
Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason)
Fandom: DP x DC
The only sounds in the Batcave were the bats chittering amongst themselves high above. Bruce rubbed his chin absently as he took in the information displayed on the large screens with narrowed eyes. Something wasn’t adding up. Somebody was lying.
No matter how many times he looked over the information, that was his conclusion. It nagged at him that he didn’t know what, if any, information he could use. He hated being so in the dark.
A silent notification in the corner of his screen alerted him to a call from the Watchtower. He took it and Superman’s face appeared in a smaller rectangle on the center of the screen. Bruce kept outwardly placid but from behind the cowl nobody would see the way his gaze instantly zeroed in on the massive black eye Superman had acquired, and the general strain around his unhurt eye and mouth. He was worn out.
“Phantom has been apprehended,” Superman said with a long sigh. It had clearly not been an easy fight.
“I’ll be there,” Batman said and ended the call. Maybe they’d finally get some real answers.
He stood and walked towards the zeta tube. Another call came in, this time on the comm in his cowl.
“Hood,” he greeted.
“Hey, old man. I’m at the location. You were right it’s absolutely crawling with the white suits and their weaponry is not like anything I’ve seen before.”
Bruce felt like a hand squeezed his heart. Hood out of anyone knew his weapons, if he didn’t know them they weren’t on the market. He absolutely hated asking any of his kids to walk into an unknown situation. Unfortunately he didn’t have any other options.
“Be careful, Hood.”
“Aww, is that worry I detect?”
“Just don’t take unnecessary risks,” Bruce cautioned.
“You wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t think it was necessary, old man. Don’t worry, I’ll get you your intel.”
Bruce grunted. Jason was right. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think it was important. Didn’t mean he had to like it, nor the fact that Red Hood’s criminal reputation made him perfect for breaking into a government building; even if Hood was seen the Justice League kept plausible deniability.
Everyone knew Red Hood was a wild card.
“Check in regularly with Oracle.”
He could practically feel the way Jason rolled his eyes at him.
“Not my first rodeo, B.”
With that the connection cut off. Bruce couldn’t help the bad feeling he had about everything.
He really hated this stage of an investigation.
Two months ago the US government contacted the Justice League about a problem. Several bases of a government agency named the GIW had been hit by a malicious creature they called Phantom. The attacks had been gaining in severity and frequency and their measures had so far failed to stop it.
Since then, a member of the Justice League had arrived too late to five such attacks. They’d stood no chance against Phantom, who’d then disappeared, living up to the name.
To their eyes Phantom was outwardly a humanoid, possibly a meta or alien. The GIW called him a ghost from a different dimension.
They had been at a loss of how exactly to contain such a powerful foe, who not only could go toe to toe with their heavy hitters like Superman, but also disappear by means unknown. This time they’d been prepared. They’d had various team configurations ready to go depending on who was available.
Something that seemed to have paid off, but Bruce did not like that Clark was injured. Because if Clark was injured…
A zeta tube ride later and he met Superman on the Watchtower. Something that hadn’t been apparent on the call was the sling Superman’s left arm was in. Another visible injury added to the swollen eye.
“Is everyone alright?” He had to ask.
“Nobody’s permanently hurt.” Clark hurried to assure as they started walking towards the interrogation room, but there was a but. Bruce kept his stare steady until Clark tiredly elaborated:
“But nobody got out the fight unscathed. John won’t be walking for a while. J’onn is suffering from psychic backlash. Diana has some broken ribs and scrapes and you can see my own wounds. Everyone is tired, it was a long fight.”
Batman’s lips thinned. At least there had been no casualties.
Almost as if reading his mind. Superman added quietly.
“We got there while the base was still standing. Phantom made eye contact with me for a moment, before he unleashed this… sonic attack…” His face turned pained, as he looked for words that came halting. “It was a scream, I can’t describe it, it felt- it felt like I was dying. None of us could get close.”
Superman looked away.
“When it was over the base was gone, eradicated, like the others. There was just a large crater. Who knows how many people were still in there.”
Bruce set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was never easy to deal with casualties.
“The one good thing about it was that the scream seemed to drain quite a bit of energy from him.” Clark barked a laugh, short and hysterical. Bruce knew Clark would have rather faced Phantom at full power if it meant more people had lived.
“And still it was all we could do to subdue him. We barely won.”
They barely won. Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter, and they barely won. The knowledge sat like a heavy ball in Bruce’s chest.
Now, maybe they could get intel that wasn’t most reluctantly handed over by a government agency, that didn’t even want to reveal what their alphabet soup name was an abbreviation of.
“We had to turn off the ‘Ghost Shield’ to get Phantom inside the base, so we at least know it works, even if for some reason it doesn’t protect the GIW bases,” Superman remarked.
Bruce hnn’ed to show he’d heard. It was one more discrepancy among many.
Batman entered the observation room with Superman at his back. Wonder Woman was there and he quickly took in her unusually disheveled appearance, she looked tired and uncomfortable, shaken (but whole, safe). He nodded in greeting and she gave him a tight smile in return. He turned to the observation window and felt his breath stick in his throat.
Phantom was-
The glitchy footage they’d managed to get on earlier encounters couldn’t have prepared him. Bruce felt his jaw clench. Phantom looked young. There was still a hint of baby fat stubbornly clinging to his cheeks. He was short and wiry like Tim but maybe a bit younger than Jason, technically an adult, but to Bruce he still looked painfully young. The overall glowing and the slowly seeping green wound at his hairline didn’t take away just how human he looked.
Bruce looked at Phantom and saw a kid. Worse, supposedly a dead kid, a ghost, if the most basic of their intel was to be believed, which even that he wasn’t entirely sure of.
A weight was heavy on his shoulders. He had to remind himself that he had found evidence of Phantom throughout history and if a ghost was truly what he was, he was most likely a very old, very powerful spirit, for whom age didn’t matter. It would be a mistake to trust the youthful appearance.
He was chained to the chair both by wide cuffs at his wrists and ankles so he could only move very little. The cuffs were the best they had when it came to meta power suppression cuffs with some added ghost specific sigils courtesy of Zatanna’s research. She would have liked Constantine to look them over too as that sort of thing was more his area of expertise, but he’d been off on one of his extra-dimensional missions since long before this started and they hadn’t been able to contact him.
The cuffs kept Phantom here in any case and he didn’t look happy about it. His lips were a flat line and the thick black brows were drawn together over narrowed green eyes. His head was held high (stubbornness? Pride?), chin tilted in a way that showed off a bright green-purple line around his throat, which had it been red and on a human would have looked like rope burn-
Bruce looked to Diana and he suddenly understood part of her discomfort.
“He was about to use another sonic attack, I didn’t see any other way.” Her words were quiet, regretful, but she faced his gaze head on. Bruce nodded. She never would have used the lasso like that under normal circumstances. It was incredibly worrying how much it had taken to subdue him.
For a moment the three of them just stood there in silence, watching Phantom watch the door.
It was finally time for answers.
Bruce didn’t make any outward sign that he was about to move, but of course Clark caught on even before he’d moved, stepping aside letting Bruce take point. They went into the interrogation room, Diana staying back to observe and be ready with security measures, they didn’t know for sure would even work.
They entered the room and immediately sharp green eyes locked onto him. There was a quick glance towards Superman, but the eyes quickly focused back on Batman. There was a calculating sort of intelligence behind those eyes.
That was one question immediately answered, but it was one he could have inferred. It was very hard to believe the claim that this “ghost” was non-sentient, when he specifically targeted the bases of a specific government agency and nothing else. Though of course they could have had something that attracted the ghost, but nobody could look at Phantom and think non sentient.
Now the question was, why?
Bruce sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the table from Phantom. Clark had a moment’s pause before he joined them. Bruce pulled out a tablet from underneath his cape and laid it carefully out on the table, turning it on. At this point most people in the room with the Batman would have started getting nervous, but evidently not Phantom. He was still just passively defiant, not to mention he hadn’t yet said a word.
“Phantom, is that your preferred manner of address?” Bruce decided to start out neutral.
There was a glitter of amusement in green eyes and the barest uptick of his lips, but he remained silent. Bruce could do silence.
The silence stretched between them until Clark broke it.
“Why do you destroy those bases?”
Phantom glanced to Clark and his earnest question, then back to Bruce, barely raising an eyebrow, like as if to say “really, this the best you can do?” Bruce resisted the urge to sigh. Clark was usually a better foil for him at interrogations, but then most people didn’t choose total silence.
Bruce decided to be frank with him.
“We are trying to understand your motivation. That’s all.” He studied Phantom’s face which had settled into a stony glare. “But first I’d just like to know if it’s alright to call you Phantom and what your pronouns are? We have been using he/him based on your appearance but you might have another preference?”
The glare softened a bit and for a moment Bruce actually thought he’d lured a response out of him, but Phantom just looked away. Incidentally drawing attention to the line at his throat. A sudden thought occurred to him.
“Are you so hurt, that you’re unable to speak?”
Phantom slowly looked back at him. He seemed to actually be contemplating giving some sort of answer.
That’s when his comm clicked on barely audible.
“The GIW has been in contact,” Diana informed him quietly over the comms. Phantom stiffened across from him, his gaze narrowing like a cat - so they could add enhanced hearing to his powers. “They are requesting we hand over Phantom.”
Bruce looked straight at Phantom as he spoke, “They have no jurisdiction in space. I presume you declined?”
“Of course.”
Phantom’s face turned unreadable for a moment. His gaze went from him, to Superman and the opaque glass that hid the observation room. Finally he huffed.
“Phantom, he/him is fine.” His voice had an echoey quality to it.
It seemed they were finally going somewhere.
-
They were not going somewhere.
Even hours later Phantom kept up his silence. They’d held several breaks. Phantom had been offered food and water but had declined nonverbally.
They were going in circles, trying the same questions again and again. Prolonged silence didn’t help any either.
If only J’onn was an option, but he was already suffering from psychic backlash from trying to go into Phantom’s mind during the fight.
So far the only things Bruce could add to the certain facts were that Phantom was sentient, intelligent and didn’t like the GIW to the point that he would commit mass murder to take them down.
And Bruce would just really like to know why? Because with the kinds of powers he’d shown off he could have easily killed the members of the Justice League sent to apprehend him. He seemed to have no qualms about killing, yet he’d stayed his hands?
Bruce had hoped that meant Phantom considered them at least somewhat neutral in this conflict. But apparently not neutral enough to talk to.
Clark had tried and Diana had tried. Nothing helped.
Bruce was considering his options, when the door opened.
“B, I need to speak with you.” That was Tim, he looked pale. Something had happened. Bruce got up, Clark following. Bruce decidedly ignored the sudden curiosity from Phantom. They closed the door and walked down the hall. When Bruce felt they were far enough from Phantom he stopped.
“Red Robin, report.”
“We’ve lost contact with Hood.”
Bruce’s heart dropped cold into his stomach. No. It couldn’t be.
“When?”
“Two hours ago is when he last checked in. He’s since missed several check-ins.” Tim’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Could be he’s just not in a position to respond, or they have scramblers in the base.”
It was likely, in fact very likely that was the case with how secretive the GIW were being, but two hours were a long time to miss check-ins. Clark’s hand landed on his shoulder which he only now realized how tense was, but no, now was not the time to relax or calm down. He shrugged Clark’s hand off and stalked back down the hall.
The GIW were mum about any details. There was only one person who could tell them what Jason was facing in that building.
He burst into the interrogation room and slammed his hands on the table. That got Phantom’s attention his eyes widening before narrowing and his lips splitting in a snarl that showed off fangs, but Bruce sneered right back.
“We lost contact with an agent sent to infiltrate a GIW-base, you will tell me what you know about them, or so help me I will make you wish you stayed in that dimension you came from.”
“Batman, please, maybe you should step out-“ Clark began good hand hovering shy of Bruce, but he was interrupted by the bark of laughter coming from Phantom.
And then he laughed and laughed and laughed.
Bruce punched him. Clark pulled him back.
Phantom slowly turned his head back to look at them, working his jaw.
“There we have it after all. Your true colors: attacking a chained up captive.” He wiggled his fingers drawing attention to the wide thick cuffs dwarfing his wrists. His eyes held only cold judgment. “But don’t worry, Batman, your agent has nothing to fear from the GIW unless they are dead.”
Bruce couldn’t help the flinch and he felt Clark do the same. Something in the very air stilled then, making it hard to breathe.
“You,” Phantom began standing up, right out of the restraints as if they weren’t there, “are going to explain to me what that reaction means…“ He carefully put his hands down on the table and leaned forward in a way that made it very apparent he was holding himself back. He glared holes into Bruce’s skull with blazing green eyes. “Unless you want your agent back in pieces.”
-
Psssst. this is actually the beginning of the fic where this is from (CW: relatively graphic aftermath of vivisection)
So basically Phantom is public enemy number one, or at least top of the US government and GIW's shit list XD
Huh, "Wanted: Dead or Alive", might actually be a pretty fun title, what do you guys think?
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The Pit
2/2
Ghost/Soap/female reader
4.7k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI, dubious consent. Smut - M/M/F. Forced breeding and kink (but we're soft). Medical inaccuracies. The Pit by Silversun Pickups. Misery inspired. Horror-ish. Whump. Caretaking. Imprisonment/kidnapping. Forced comfort. Addiction. Feelings of fear, panic, anxiety, hopelessness. Simon calls the shots.
It’s snowing.
The forest floor is covered in thick, white cotton, heavier than cement. It sticks to your clothes, your knees, soaking you to the bone. You slog through the snow; the forest grows longer. Taller. Trunks of trees enclosing you in a cold grave, a cage.
You have to try. You have to.
The moon illuminates your path, a swath of silver light refracting through weeping frozen branches, their backs bowed with the heft of the snow, cracking and shivering under their burdens.
They’ll snap eventually. They’ll break.
Just like you.
Wolves howl in the distance. It makes no difference; how close they are. You can’t take much more, newly healed leg already spent, lungs heaving for what little air there is in this elevation.
They circle. Blood-soaked maws snap at you, herd you closer and closer to the start, to where it all began, to where it continues to begin, again and again.
The house.
Your knees find ground.
You’d rather die now. Freeze in the snow. Or…
A jaw snaps. You hold out your hands. For freedom. For peace.
The last thing you see is the flash of pearlescent canine, ripping into your flesh.
“Shhh, jus’ a nightmare.” Simon’s thumb works across your brow, concern shining on his face in the dim lighting. You shiver, even in a room like a sauna.
“Did- did I wake you?” He shakes his head. Of course, you didn’t. He’s always awake. He’s always watching.
“Close your eyes.” He tucks you close, blazing heat from his massive, pillowy chest bleeding into your back, your ribcage expanding slowly. It’s rhythm, sick, twisted rhythm, syncing you together, your breathing evening out, steadying in his hold. He reaches for Johnny, who’s curled on his side, and strokes through some long, loved pieces of mohawk. Lips muss your hair. “Sleep, little dove.”
The floorboards in the hallway creak.
They talk to you, whisper about comings and goings, each spot singing a specific frequency just so, hitting the right pitch at the right time, a chorus of shifting weight echoed by hackneyed groaning.
The creaking is didactic in nature. It exists to teach you something, to plainly expose the things you should have been paying attention to all along: footsteps in the morning, in the evening, shuffles versus steps. Schedules, routines, things you didn’t pay close enough attention to, things you didn’t care enough to notice, all laid out very carefully in front of you. The weeping wood of the floor practically begged you to notice, but you were too distracted by the never-ending reminders of your agony, and the cups of tea that made you woozy. You were too busy craning your neck to catch a glimpse of the outside world beyond the window, too preoccupied with trying to stand on your own without vomiting all over the floor (again) to catch what the hallway was trying to say.
If you had listened, you would have stood a chance.
“Alright, here we go.” Johnny murmurs, an arm under your knees, another around your back. When he rises, cradling you into his chest like a child, you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood, desperate to tamp down the whimper that breaks free. “I know, I know. Almost there.” He soothes, lowering you to the couch where the pillows are all placed in very specific positions. One of the goes under your calf, another your knee, and they line the sides of your ribs for your arm to rest elevated, comfortably. He cups your cheek, warm thumb gently moving across your skin, sweet, molasses thick affection, like the cough syrup you used to swallow when you were young. “Do ye want some tea?” Yes. God yes, a thousand times yes. Yes, you want the tea. Yes, you want to fall into the bleak darkness of drugged sleep, the vat of unconscious swallowing you whole every time. You want the buzz of numbness, the shadow of an orphic, endless pit. You want to slink away from everything, from them, from whatever this is, from what’s happened to you.
“Yeah, I-“
“Johnny.” Simon says his name softly from the kitchen. “Let’s wait a bit on the tea.” His brow furrows, light venetian blue eyes tracking across your face. They catch the light just so, sparkling downward, sea foam, sea glass and ocean spray, all mixed together into kaleidoscopes spiraling outward from his pupils, and when he frowns, you swear they darken.
“She’s in pain.” He protests, straightening to full height. There’s something happening above your head, something he concedes to with a sigh, shoulders relaxing, a regretful glance cast your way. “I’ll get ye some naproxen, dove.” He promises with a kiss, and then you’re alone in the living room, unable to move, snuggled against the worn leather couch.
Your leg is in a cast. Paper and glue, you think, makeshift at best, and they both remind you of it all the time, how it’s not medical grade, how you can’t attempt to walk on it, how the bone is incredibly fragile, and will be, for a while. It’s in worse shape than your arm, which at least has a black brace on it, covered from elbow to wrist, immobilized with a dull ache, a pain consistently throbbing, but doesn’t make you cry. Not the way your leg does. Your leg screams with agony, still, pins and needles and buzz saws in your bones, a haunting torment keeping you awake at night, making you second guess your desire to live.
The tea helps though. The tea makes everything less, makes the pain round, instead of sharp, makes the fear feel farther away, instead of right on the tip of your tongue, like a monster on your doorstep.
Simon says your name, broad shoulders stationed in front of the fireplace, glass of water in one hand, two pills in another.
“Do you want to sit up?” You blink at him, and he kneels before you can answer, perching right next to your shoulders. “Open.” You give the pills a dubious glare, unsure, lips zipped tight. It could be the naproxen, but it could be something else.
After all, the tea is not just tea.
He sighs in the same exasperated sentiment, and then his thumb and forefinger are grasping your cheeks, cold shiver erupting down your spine at the contact, and he pushes your mouth ajar. “Don’t be like this, sweet girl. Thought you were going to be good today?” He’s referencing something you remember vaguely, a discussion from last night in the dark, a promise you made when the world was coated in sap and too far warm, sticky like the sweat clinging to your neck-
“Ye dinnae need to cry, little dove. Don’ we take such good care of ye?” Johnny cooed, eager. “Ye just need tae be good for us, and we’ll do everything else.” He was holding you tight, too tight against his skin, heat radiating from him like the sun.
“I don’t understand.” You moaned, unable to move or twist away, trapped in the cage of his arms, Simon sitting prim on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip.
“You will, in time. By spring, we hope.” Simon told you, dark sympathy in his eyes, words stretching into a mixed-up sentence jumping around in your mind. By… spring? What does that mean? Johnny’s hands roamed over your skin beneath the blankets, stroking across your breast to delicately pinch at your nipple, before dipping further south, slipping into your folds without warning.
“Ah!” You gasped, tense, frozen beneath his touch.
“Shhh.” Simon pats your hip. “Let Johnny put you to sleep, dove. You’ll feel better after a rest.” Johnny’s fingers stuffed in your pussy, thumb dancing across your clit, would lull you into tea addled sleep, and warring emotions swirled in your head. Your desire for this, your acceptance of this, is sick.
You’re sick.
You think of the snow. The reflection on the floor in this room, crystallized shimmer on the ceiling. The sun has been out, and you’re dying, wilting, from not feeling it on your face.
“Tomorrow.” You croak, and Johnny pauses. “Tomorrow can I… can I go outside?”
“Will you be good?” Simon’s thumb rubs at a spot on the corner of your mouth, and you nod.
“Yes… I- fuck.” Johnny’s breath hitches, and your walls clench up tight, squeezing. Small explosions of light dance across your eyes, pain mixed with pleasure, peaks and valleys rolling through your muscles. “Fuck.” A big, scorching hand spreads across your lower belly, just beneath your navel, and pushes.
You come immediately. It’s overwhelming to keep yourself relaxed, to prevent the spike of pain from your injuries, but an orgasm dulls everything else, and you cry with its intensity.
You’re sick.
You don’t miss the way Simon’s hand lingers, how his eyes don’t leave that spot, how Johnny’s hand covers his, and they hold there, lost in their own world for a second.
“If you’re good, sweet girl. We’ll take you outside.” He whispers, arranging limbs and waists and feet to his liking.
You fall asleep dreaming of a blizzard.
The pills go down so easily.
And you suppose they help. For a while, anyway.
Enough time for Johnny to get you set up on the porch, zipped up in their clothes and propped up on a loveseat rocker.
You wonder if they sit out here in the spring. In the summer. Do they drink their tea and eat their biscuits and watch over their domain like kings? It’s so American, so southern, to envision, and you almost laugh at the idea of either of them swapping their black bitterness for something iced and sweet enough to rot the teeth right out of their head.
“Dove? Can ye look towards me?” Johnny sits half on his knee across from you, on another outdoor, plastic chair. He’s got his sketchbook and pencil in hand, excitement brimming from eyes to lips, like a child. Full of wistful bright light, the sun itself.
Simon’s sun, it would seem.
You’ve noticed it, how Simon is the earth, but Johnny is the sun. The whole world, revolving around one ball of light, one eager, wild Scot, a star, the only, in Simon’s sky.
He draws you with efficiency. Moving and directing you just so, not daring to jostle you or cause you discomfort, but still ensuring he gets the best light. The barely-there dew drops of dawn. The glisten of a million frozen crystals at your back.
He handles you like glass. He stares at you like you’re a doll, a fragile one, like you had when you were a girl.
In the quiet moments, which are many, you catch them staring at you. If they’ve brought you down to the living room, they lurk in the kitchen, murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch. If you’re in the bedroom, they curl around you like wolf pups, pawing and petting until you’re asleep.
You don’t understand.
They won’t even talk about it with you now. How you came to be here, how they’re insistent you’ll have to stay until spring, when the pass opens.
Their words are a sickness, infecting you, spreading through your system until they’ve touched every piece, inside and out.
It’s madness. The kind of madness that pushed you to the brink already, made you feel like you’re losing touch with reality, with yourself. The kind of insanity that nearly got you killed.
You test the weight. Just barely, just enough that it screams under the pressure.
If you could make it to the door.
If you could make it down the hall.
If you could get out.
You grit your teeth.
The house has been silent for hours. No creaking floorboards. No heavy footsteps. You close your eyes, hold your breath, listening one last time.
They must not be here.
They go out, every once and a while. Bring things back. You’re not sure where, or how.
You shuffle a step, dragging your foot. It’s more a hop, but you use the bed to offset the inevitable thump of your body weight, managing to make it to the end, fingers deathly tight on the wrought iron.
You can do it. You can.
It’s only three, four hops at most to the door. On one leg, in a weakened state, it’s harder than you thought, but when your fingers lay on the door handle, the release of relief in your chest is overwhelming.
Yes! Yes. You can do it. Just-
The knob does not turn. You pull, applying more force, trying to jiggle it, see if maybe it’s stubborn or just old. This cabin is certainly old. Even though it’s been hollowed out anew inside, the bones are ones of a hunting cabin. A long-forgotten place, now housing horrors anew.
You twist and tug again. Every time it doesn’t budge, you try a little harder, each metallic scrap and jangle louder than fireworks.
You tug and you fiddle. You close your eyes and push down the rising panic.
The truth comes rushing over you all at once.
It’s locked. It’s always locked. That’s why Simon ensures it’s shut completely, each time they come and go.
They never intended to take you home. They never are going to give you your phone, or theirs, they’re never going to get you back over the pass.
You’re locked in here. With them.
The tugging becomes something else, something wired and frenetic, until you’re jerking the door handle with all your might, shaking the frame, screaming. The motion destabilizes you, and your lack of strength does you no favors.
Before you can self-correct, you stumble. You fall, instinct forcing your bad leg down, and when you try to catch yourself, you howl so loud you think the mountain shakes.
Your head smacks the frame of the bed on your way down, and then… as always now, everything is dark.
The first time you open your eyes after, Simon is seated in the chair. The same one he was in when they brought you here, severe and terrifying. The room is spinning, and you’re just as nauseous as the first day you laid eyes on him.
“I- I’m sorry.” You croak, but he only shakes his head, rising from his seat without even giving you a second look.
For a fleeting moment, the indifference stings.
“You’ll wear that,” he motions to your foot from the end of the bed, the good one, and you peek down to see a metal shackle clamped around your ankle. “until you can be trusted again.”
Johnny crawls into bed with you at night. He cries, hot tears on his cheeks, and coos over the leg with the break in it, and then over the shackle.
“I told him, ye dinnae mean to be bad.” His fingers shake as he traces your cheek. “Ye just cannae help it. It’s not yer fault, I know dove. Ye dinnae know any better. We have to teach you.”
“Johnny-“ Please. Let me go. Help me.
They all die in your throat when he presses his wet face to your neck like a dog, rutting his hard cock into your hip.“Ye’ll be right as rain by spring, I told him. Gon’ be such a good mum for the bairn, I know ye will.”
The world fades away. The silence suffocates, and you pray to die.
You cry the rest of the night, even when he shucks your pants down and licks your pussy until you’re coming on his tongue. You cry until he falls asleep, and Simon returns, settling in his seat, watching you both.
“How do ye feel about chicken soup tonight?” Johnny draws you back to him, sweet boy smile on his face, and your stomach clenches involuntarily.
Stupid handsome Scot.
You’re sick.
“That’s fine.”
“But do ye like it?” He’s so eager, back straightening with interest, really trying to learn, trying to figure out what you like and dislike, what will earn him your good graces, and what won’t.
You shrug. “Sure, it’s… it’s good.” A thought occurs to you. “Where do you get the chicken?”
“We’ve got ‘em in the barn. Can’t roam in the winter but we keep ‘em warm in there. Along with some ducks. A goat.”
“Farm animals?”
“Aye. How else we supposed to make sure you’re healthy?” He waggles his eyebrows. You try not to grimace. “Si slaughters ‘em fresh. Everything tastes better that way.” A soft light shines in his eyes, a wolf’s instinct, and the shudder trembling down your spine makes your hands shake. “Ye cold?” He clocks it immediately, as he he does with every other single thing.
When he gathers you into his arms to bring you inside, tucking you back into the couch, you don’t even argue. You just sit there. Like a doll. Theirs.
Night is the easiest. It’s simple, to give in to your body, let them take over, take control of the parts that have long betrayed you. You close your eyes as they touch you, kiss you, make you come.
You even enjoy it.
That’s the worst part. You like it, when there are hands and fingers and tongues all over your body, like you’re being worshipped, like you’re some sort of god.
You like it, when Johnny gets overexcited and Simon settles him, guides him with a hand on his cock to your entrance, whispering slow in his ear, encouraging him to take his time. You like it, when Johnny’s pulse flutters under his jaw, when Simon holds you steady, when they get lost in each other, in you- you can almost pretend it’s not real, it's some fantasy, from a book, something dark and delicious-
Not your reality.
Tonight, Simon holds you in his lap on the edge of the bed, broken leg lying flat, his elbow crooked under your good knee and wrenched upwards, nearly pressing against your chest. The angle is intense, and Johnny grunts, muscles flexing with every thrust,
“Ah- fuck.” You moan and twitch, locked inside a cage, a confinement, the arms of your captors… your saviors. Simon swirls the pad of a finger over your clit, mouth open on your cheek, teeth nipping over your skin. You clench, Johnny cursing, some bitten off dialect you’re not familiar with, Simon’s voice dripping with smirk.
“Good girl, squeeze our boy, jus’ like that.” He does it on purpose, the talking. Knows how it makes you gush, long ago figured out the way to make your pussy clamp down around whatever he’s got worked inside you, his cock, Johnny’s, fingers, tongues.
Together, you’re an orchestra. Johnny is the strings, the violin, the viola, a cello. He plucks so perfectly, a harmonious blend of beauty spills from his bow, rising in the air until the audience is on their feet. His music trembles. It quivers and cries, like the wail of grief.
Your grief.
You’re the piano. An entire world, nestled in one instrument, but you play off tune, broken and sharp, pitch all a mess- you don’t even belong here.
Simon is the maestro. He directs each note, each melodious ring exactly as he wants it, working the music up to a brilliant crescendo, and it comes crashing like the force of a wave breaking onto sand. He conducts you, Johnny, the day, and night. He orchestrates the flow, lyrical give and take evolving in the house, your captor status slipping farther and farther away each night you take them into your body.
He knows you like it. Knows he’s in the lead, knows they’re winning-
And he doesn’t let up.
“Harder.” He coaches, and Johnny obliges, mouth open in bliss, eyes nearly rolled backwards. His fingers clamp down on your hip, too close, and you hiss in fear, the preparation of pain.
Simon snarls, yanking it away, holding to him tight before discarding it in exchange for the back of his neck.
“Sorry,” Johnny pants. “Sorry, dove.” You want to tell him to fuck off, to tell him you hate them, you hate them both, but you're only able to give them a high pitched moan of pleasure. “I’m gon’ come.” He grunts, and Simon yanks him forward, lips smashing together, tongue snaking messily between teeth.
For too long, the three of you hold fast. Johnny’s reckless, furious thrusts shove you backwards, over and over again. “Pull out.” Simon commands, flat palm on his chest. “Do not, Johnny.” He pushes him away from you like a dog, shoving him backwards with a firm forearm, a piece of rebar turned flesh.
He comes all over your belly, splashing thick white splatter across the mound of your cunt, up past your navel, choking on gasps of breath as Simon heaps praise onto the two of you.
Later, after they’ve bathed you, given you another orgasm, and all are almost tucked in, you whisper in the flickering fire light.
“Can I… can I have some tea?” Simon starts. It’s small, barely visible, but you feel it, in your bones. The echo of him in the room.
He holds your head between two palms, and you wonder if he’ll crush your skull. Decide it was all too much trouble. You’re too sick, feeble in your mind, too weak to survive.
“To sleep?” He asks softly, eyes darting over your shoulder for a split second, heavy with worry.
“Please?” There’s something in his eyes you don’t understand, a whirling mist of hell and desperation, and then it clears, and he motions a go ahead to Johnny.
“Alright, dove.”
The tea settles you into silence. With it, you can exist. You can survive.
It numbs you from the inside out, and as time passes, you feel no pain. You’re tangled in a dark web, a viscous manner of thing weighing you down from all angles. You feel nothing, and days turn to weeks, weeks to a month. Soon, the world is thawing. Snow melt turns to river and mud, greenery fighting for its chance to sprout and survive. Your leg is healing.
Spring comes.
The day you roast a chicken is the day your life ends, for good.
It’s domestic, the act. An olive branch to Simon, who’s angry with you, again. Who’s frustrated, took himself outside to chop wood.
Johnny mopes inside the house.
“I hate it when the two of ye fight.”
“Well, if he wasn’t such a stubborn asshole.” You hold the wooden spoon like a wand before returning it to the cast iron, swirling it around in the mess of butter and onion. “Then there wouldn’t be an issue.” You swallow the sting of his earlier refusal. The quick rejection of your request.
All you wanted was to go on a walk. It’s a beautiful day.
Why must the leash be so tight?
“He’ll be happy ye’re cookin’ again.” Johnny grins wide, pretty face beaming over the counter, and you sigh.
Maybe.
You’re watching out the window when Johnny approaches him in the yard. You can’t make out anything their saying, but the body language paints enough of a picture.
Johnny is rigid, angry.
Simon is calm, placating.
Words are exchanged, brows shifting with sympathy, sweetness.
Johnny erupts with glee. He shines like the sun, and Simon smiles, a real, true smile.
They’re beautiful.
And you’re sick.
The three of you tangle together in the dark. It’s a sailor’s knot, thrice over, difficult to understand which piece is which, where one begins and the other ends.
Simon’s anger is long melted. A glacier, gone leaving only a gash in the rock behind.
It’s this gash, this quiet undercurrent, keeping you focused on the wrong thing, pliable in bed until you realize Johnny is murmuring something in your ear, two arms banded around your waist from where you lay on your back, atop his chest.
“We cannae wait,” His hand strokes over your belly with reverence. The words cut through the thick, heady haze, and you try to twist to look at him. “watch ye get big with our bairn, goin’ be such a good mum.”
“Wh-what?” you choke, tensing. They try to settle you, sweet words and mouths everywhere, but you cannot get away from the fear.
From them.
“You- ahh.” You’re on fire, a finger rubbing your clit, Simon’s width between your thighs. He spears you open on his cock, unrelenting, making you keen and cry, face wet with tears.
“Waited long enough,” He grunts. “Been wastin’ it for months.” He steals your whimpers, swallows them, takes them inside like you take him, like you’ll take him-
“- until you swell. Until you’re heavy, dove, round with us.”
Until you’re forever theirs.
It’s a snarled promise. A prayer. Your eyes find the ceiling, fire flickering in shadow across old texture, and you breathe.
He shoves your knees towards your chest, Johnny still lock tight around your ribs, tongue in the shell of your ear.
“Need to be still, cannae lose a single drop." His palm is searing beneath your navel, and he's practically singing, vibrating. “We love ye so much.”
They’re conducting Beethoven. Ode to Joy.
You’re playing Bach. Come, Sweet Death.
Simon comes in you for the first time, and you come too, clenching down around his cock as he praises you, holding onto him like you can’t let go. Like your body knows. Like you’re craving it.
“Good girl.” He croons, spooning whatever slips free back inside, shoving it deep, wet lips on your own. “Gotta keep me in, dove… jus’ like that, there you go.” You throb, squeezing again, pulsing for him. For the words.
You’re sick.
When they switch positions, and Johnny smiles at you over your knees, his canines shine nearly red in the fire light. Two predators, one prey.
Your heart cannot help but flutter.
Sick.
Eight months prior:
The bar is packed. Summer music festival, the banners say. The park is thriving, alive with melody, musical acts rotating on and off the stage, children running amuck with candies and balloons, families relaxing in lawn chairs.
An Americana tradition.
They sat there themselves, for a while. Watching. Burning desire growing hot under his collar every time he saw a mum and her bairn, a small, precious thing cradled close to a chest, an overexcited five-year-old having a catch with his Da.
Eventually, they retreated to the darkness, hiding away in the one bar in town, it’s small windows and dim light practically a calling card.
And what they found inside, well...
“Hey, what can I get you?” You’re perfect. Sweet and soft, like a dove. Kind faced; kind spoken. You make Johnny’s cock twitch just looking at you, and he pictures you on your back, legs spread wide, exposed for them to feast on. To fill. He can’t wait to taste you, hold you, kiss you, have all his firsts with you.
Will you fight them? Will you squirm? No, you'll be good. You'll be so good for them, their perfect, sweet girl. He knows it.
How did they get so lucky?
Simon tucks his ballcap lower.
“Sorry, there are a million people in here!” You half shout over the raucous noise. “You’ll have to speak up!”
“Just two beers.” His yank accent needs work, but it does fine when there’s one hundred other faces next to his. A sea of forgettable memories.
Just as intended.
Your fingers brush his when you deposit two drafts on the bar top, shooting off a total, and for a lingering second, he stares at you.
Simon caresses the back of his neck, thumb circling a loving touch into his skin.
A warning. A reminder.
Can’t make ourselves stand out. Cannot be remembered.
Johnny peeks at the name tag pinned above your breast, and files it away. Files everything away as they finish their pints, how you scrutinize the crowd, how you’re constantly working, looking for things to do, cleaning. Taking care of everything. The people at the bar, your coworkers.
His heart overflows with love. With warmth, and when they take their leave, he can’t help but look back one more, catching a glimpse of your profile, singing a silent goodbye.
See you soon, dove.
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Well, what a good month for reading August has been! A few days off can make such a difference!
As always I'll try and tag the writers whose Tumblr username I know, so they know they are loved!
If your fiction is on this recommendation list and you'd rather I take it off the list, or if you know a writer who's on this list would rather not be, please let me know and I'll remove their fiction immediately.
I have really enjoyed these fictions, including not one but two Christmas stories. In August. Because, why not? i hope you'll love them too!
August's Awesome Fictions
WIPs:
Wavelengths & Frequencies by imposterssyndrome @maaikeatthefullmoon and shades_of_eccles_cakes @shadesofecclescakes (rated E, chapters 5/?)
I'm absolutely loving this enemies-to-lovers human AU where Crowley and Aziraphale are radio DJs. They loathe each other. They also can't stop thinking about each other! Of course they end up working for the same media corporation. The humour in this story is sharp and clever, and the characterisation is excellent! It's updated every Monday and honestly the only problem I have with this story is that I receive the notification email on a Monday morning and need to wait until at least the end of the working day to dive in!
You're The Bad Guys by Nebz_AlphaCentauri @alphacentaurinebula(rated E, chapters 8/?)
Human AU set in the Cold War. Aziraphale is an MI6 agent, Crowley is a KGB agent. They're assigned to the same mission in Berlin by their respective head offices. This story is full of suspense! I love the characterisation of our heroes and each chapter leaves me wanting for more! Updated every Friday.
My own WIP And I Did (rated E, chapters 6/13)
A post season 2 fiction where Aziraphale is Supreme Archangel and Crowley is Grand Duke Of Hell.
In my not-a-summary I say that this is a story about faith, about love, and about choices. Which is true. But I have come to think of it also as my apology dance to Crowley. My headcanon about Aziraphale has always been clear and my first fiction was me sharing that headcanon basically. I wasn't as sure about what Crowley would do after the final 15 as I was about what Aziraphale’s motives were. I didn't see Crowley drinking himself oblivious or taking a road of self destruction. But I didn't know what he would do. So I skipped that part and started that fiction from after the failed second coming, but still I didn't think I did Crowley justice. Then it hit me, and that was when I started writing And I Did. I knew what Crowley would do. Crowley would do what Crowley does. And what does Crowley do best? This is a story about faith, about love, and about choices. I try to update every weekend, but I might not be as reliable as I’d like!
Complete stories:
The Truth About Plants & Queen by ShortInsomniac98 (rated E, 11353 words)
Human AU where Crowley hosts a night radio program and Aziraphale calls in. I love how their relationship develops in this story and I loved to see a friendly side of Gabriel! (And I mean Gabriel!)
The Anon Before Christmas by @foolishlovers (rated E, 66732 words)
Ah. Where to begin. Every now and then, you read a fiction that just makes you feel at home. Makes you feel like you’re in safe hands. Like you’re in for a real treat. This absolute gem has very quickly become my favourite human AU. For several reasons. The characterisation of the two main characters is absolutely spot on. I could hear Crowley talking in DT’s Crowley voice and see him moving in DT’s Crowley way, and I could hear Aziraphale talking in MS’s Aziraphale voice and see him moving in MS’s Aziraphale way. The pace of the development of their relationship from enemies to lovers is just perfect. It’s told from Crowley’s POV and you can see how his perspective changes as the story progresses, but the writer is so good that Aziraphale’s change of perspective shows perfectly through Crowley’s POV too. The array of side characters is so good that it actually pains me to call them side characters. I wrote in one of my comments to the fiction that I will forever adore this story’s Bee, and I meant it, but Newt and Ana are equally fantastic (and I loved the other cameos too!). Also, and this is especially important to me, this story is as much a love story between Crowley and Aziraphale as it is a story of true friendship among all the characters. They look after each other, they have each other’s back, they support each other. I am so lucky and privileged to be able to see myself represented in that aspect of the story. Last but not least, this fiction doesn't overstay its welcome one bit. You are happy about how everyone ended up, but still could read more. It’s like you are part of the gang and want to know what your friends are up to. Everything in this story was perfect. I realise I haven’t mentioned what the plot is about, but hopefully by now you might want to find out for yourself!
Planes, Trains & The Apocalypse by walking_contradiction42 (rated teen, 32382 words)
Human AU where Crowley and Aziraphale meet on a plane on their way to Tadfield (via London) for Christmas. Crowley can't stand Aziraphale and only wants as uneventful a journey home as possible. Ha!
I understand there’s a film with a similar title, you definitely don't need to have watched the film in order to enjoy this lovely fiction.
The Bookseller And The Garden by oceantears (rated teen, 13668 words)
Fluff, fluff, fluff! Canon divergent fiction where Crowley is a demon stationed on earth, Aziraphale is an angel stationed on earth, but they have never met until present day. There's no end of the world in sight, only an angel and a demon falling in love and not knowing how to break it to the other that they're not human. I laughed all the way through.
After The End (part one of Nice And Ominous: A Reluctant Eschatology Of The Second Attempt) by beardo @e-rated-beardo (rated teen, 26086 words)
Crowley learns to cope after Aziraphale goes to heaven, with a little help.from his friends. And from the Bentley. I love the writer’s humour and the conversations between Crowley and the Bentley are hilarious.
Series:
Aziraphale’s Diaries by azzfell, @fellshish
This series is hilarious, warm and fluffy. So far there are four stories, all consisting in, yes you guessed it, Aziraphale’s diary entries. In the first story, Empirical study on the principles of snake care (rated teen, 2048 words), Aziraphale suddenly realises he hasn’t paid enough attention to Crowley snake-y needs. He decides he wants to make up for it. Hilarity ensues. Put your cup of tea down before day 6, trust me. In Experiments of an angel who has read entirely too much fanfic (rated teen, 3064 words), Aziraphale discovers fanfiction shipping him and Crowley and decides he wants to test some of the tropes on the demon. Reading Crowley’s reactions through Aziraphale’s POV lens will make you feel warm inside. Drink down at day 10. In How to be a demon: a brief history of the Arrangement (rated teen, 2663 words), Aziraphale recounts some of the temptations he’d had to do during the years, to honour the arrangement with Crowley. The last entry will make you melt. In Adventures of a mystery shopper in the bookshop (rated teen, 3090 words), Aziraphale is worried that Crowley is getting bored, so he wants to help by giving him something to do. Peeps, for this one don’t even pick your drink up. You’ll end up spitting it all over your laptop/phone/tablet.
One shots:
Keep Digging by Appleseeds (rated teen7068 words)
Human AU. Crowley and Aziraphale work in the same office and Crowley is trying to gather the courage to ask Aziraphale out, only to get cold feet at the last moment. In order to try and save his face, he needs to do what the title says. I howled with laughter. Just put down whatever you’re doing and go read this right now. It’s unbelievably hilarious.
But It’s Pretty by Supergeek21 (rated E, 2544 words)
Aziraphale and Crowley have a conversation on why the Bentley is yellow and why the walls are yellow. Things get deliciously spicy.
You've Got Kudos by curtaincall (rated M, 4128 words)
Aziraphale and Crowley both write Good Omens fanfiction on Ao3. Crowley’s stories are sweet and romantic. Aziraphale’s stories are smutty and spicy. They love each other's stories without knowing who the writer is. This fiction was a treat!
The Corset by smitten_obviously @sabine-smitten-obviously (rated G, 1248 words)
A funny and sweet account of that time in the 17th century when Aziraphale decided to wear a corset. I really loved how sweet Crowley is here, without overdoing it a bit! A little gem.
My own little one shot, Angel! Angel! They're At It Again! (rated M, 5566 words)
It's the year 2030. The world never ended. Aziraphale and Crowley are living happily and safely together as a married couple. Everything would be well, if it wasn't that lately Aziraphale has been a bit busy. A bit distracted. Now, Crowley can't have that, can he? He seeks the advice of his girlfriends, who unwittingly give him an idea on how to liven up his marriage. A fluffy and hopefully funny way to the South Downs cottage.
Poems:
To Wish To Fall by ArchangelRemiel @sassysnakedemon
A lovely and sweet poem that explores different ways of falling.
The Devil's Red Hair by lickthecowhappy
I really loved this very emotional poem! Aziraphale has a little souvenir helping him cope in heaven.
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