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angellesword · 4 months ago

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BAGGAGE | JJK (14)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, slow burn—really slow burn, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, cursing, blood, stabbing, loan sharks, OC cusses excessively so watch out, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced gang rape/non-con, non-graphic rape/non-con, non-consensual drug use, sexual violence, physical violence, vomiting, food poisoning.

Pairing: dad! Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 8k

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⚠️‼️WARNING!!! TRIGGERING SCENES AHEAD. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS ABOVE!!! ⚠️‼️

*****

Jungkook woke up feeling wet kisses splaying on his face. He begrudgingly opened his eyes, neck stiff because of his unforgivable sleeping position across your bedroom door.

"Mornin' Kookie~,"

"Hmm?" Jungkook blinked. His brain had yet to catch up on what was happening, but his blurry eyes could already make out the tiny figure of his son.

He saw Soobin waving his little hand and smiling down at him.

"Soobin?" Jungkook blinked. Soobin beamed at him in response, prompting Jungkook's sleepiness to be washed away. He unconsciously wrapped his arms around Soobin's body to pull him closer.

"Kookie, hello!"

Jungkook winced when his son embraced his neck and tried to climb over his shoulders. It's true that children had the energy of Olympians. Jungkook wasn't able to protest when Soobin decisively climbed his shoulder, using it as a foundation to reach for the doorknob.

Soobin didn't hesitate. With a twist, the door flew open.

Shit.

Jungkook was caught off guard. He was leaning on the closed door, so he and Soobin fell sideways when it opened. Thankfully, he immediately caught his son and protected his head from colliding on the tiled floor.

Jungkook breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. Hell would break loose if you saw even a small bruise on Soobin's skin.

"What's wrong with you two?" Your voice sent shivers down Jungkook's spine. Speak of the person, and they shall appear. His decelerating heartbeat spiked up again at the sound of your pissed-off voice.

Jungkook was forced to flick his gaze on you. He was surprised to see you on the ground.

You appeared to just have been woken up, too. You scratched the back of your head and yawned.

"Did you sleep on the floor near the door?" Jungkook couldn't help but ask. He sat up and helped Soobin get on his feet, wanting to check if his son got injured. But before Jungkook could do so, Soobin was already jumping into your arms.

"Ma!" Soobin pulled at your neck, visibly making you cringe. It solidified Jungkook's conjecture that you also dozed off on the floor.

However, you vehemently denied it.

"Soobin, no hugging for now. Your Mama got a stiff neck from sleeping against the door."

"I did not sleep here!" You growled at Jungkook as you fought a yawn. This was in contrast to how softly you whispered to Soobin to lay low with the hugs.

Jungkook dramatically gasped, acting all scandalized. "It's not good to lie in front of your kid, you know~."

For some reason, Jungkook was in a good mood. You, sleeping on the floor and against the door, hinted that you weren’t as unaffected by what had happened a few hours before. You probably listened to Jungkook's speech with your ears against the door.

Perhaps you went as far as almost opening the door for Jungkook—this was dangerous wishful thinking, though. Jungkook had to force himself to shake the thought away. There was another way to see if you intended to allow him to stay.

Call him selfish, but Jungkook wanted to test that theory. He licked his lower lips, eyes ogling at you, who was unconsciously mumbling that your neck only hurt because you cracked it the wrong way.

"I know how to relieve stiffed necks." Jungkook started before trailing off. He couldn't stop himself from staring at your neck.

Jungkook forced himself to clear his throat.

"Do you want me to massage your neck?"

The thought of physical contact would make you recoil if you were disgusted by an ex-convict. Jungkook's hands were clammy. It was his idea to test the waters with you, but it didn't mean he wasn't nervous. He had only developed the habit of smiling, joking, and thinking about sexual stuff when things were making him anxious. It was his coping mechanism.

A few seconds had passed now. Jungkook was half expecting you to reject him, already content with the thought of feeling your neck pulse.

At least you were alive, Jungkook thought. You were alive and near him. This should beenough. You also hadn't explicitly told him to go, so he could—

"Alright."

Jungkook's train of thought paused at that. He didn't know if he ever whipped his head so fast it felt like it almost snapped.

He didn't care. Jungkook had to look at you and confirm if he heard you right:

He did.

"You can massage my neck later." You carried your son and stood up. You unconsciously purred when Soobin kissed your cheeks and requested omurice for breakfast.

You looked pointedly at Jungkook. "You heard your kid. He wants to eat. Chop, chop, Kook."

You didn't wait for a response and just went straight out of the bedroom and to the kitchen.

Jungkook breathed out, suddenly feeling hollow. But in a good way. The anxiousness filling his heart was emptied.

He smiled to himself. Omurice sounded good for breakfast.

***

The neck massage was scheduled another time even though your neck was stiff now. Blame it on your phone, which had been ringing nonstop.

"It's the team." You rolled your eyes, though one could see that you weren’t annoyed. It was more of a fond gesture.

It was lunchtime now. Your breakfast went well. You and Jungkook dropped Soobin off at the daycare. The kid's schedule was packed since it was the school's foundation day. Jungkook didn't want to leave Soobin alone, but the teacher advised that kids Soobin's age should learn how to adjust and be more independent.

You had no choice but to drag Jungkook away from the school premises. You had other things to do, anyway. Your beeping phone was one of your agenda.

"The team's calling to know if you've accepted our job offer."

Jungkook stopped licking his ice cream in a cone, head twisting to look at you to see any sign of mirth.

You were dead serious. You furrowed your brows at Jungkook. "What."

"Nothing," Jungkook bit his ice cream until his teeth ached. "I just thought you've retracted the offer."

"Why would I do that." You frowned and offered Jungkook a tissue. What a disgusting asshole. His hands were covered with melted ice cream.

Jungkook took the tissue to cover the sight of his trembling lips. He wanted to throw the ice cream as he couldn't bear the cold. However, he didn't have the heart to waste food. He was constantly reminded of what he had to endure as kids threw ice cream at him while wearing the clown costume.

Those days felt like a lifetime ago, yet Jungkook was still here. It didn't change the fact that he felt like shit.

"You read the paper I handed you," it wasn't a question. Jungkook knew you knew of his past now. There was no way you would stay still after knowing that the person who babysat your son used to be in prison.

Frankly, even until now, Jungkook was waiting for you to drop the news to him—that he would have to leave sooner or later. You showed mercy earlier, but who's to say you wouldn't change your mind?

"I didn't." You surprised Jungkook by this admission. You squared your shoulders and snatched the ice cream cone from your best friend. You threw it in the trash can. Jungkook was about to protest, but you shushed him.

"You look stupid trying to finish that ice cream. You should have thrown it away if you didn't want it." It was Soobin's dessert in the first place. The kid handed it to Jungkook earlier before you left. Soobin thought his father wouldn't miss him so much if he had ice cream with him. "And wipe your goddamn mouth and shut it, will you? Don't look too surprised that I didn't read the paper. I told you I was shocked and needed time, but you didn't exactly give me time to process shit with your cheesy line last night."

"I'm sorry." Jungkook's cheeks heat up. He dodged your gaze, but it didn't take long for him to look at you again. You were scoffing at him.

"Now you're actin' all shy? I'm telling you now, bastard. If what you said last night was shit, I swear I will fucking—"

"It's true." Jungkook cut you off. "I mean it."

It was only then that Jungkook noticed your frozen body. Your shoulders sagged in relief upon hearing Jungkook's confirmation.

"Good." You held your head high, "Because I'd rather hear the truth from you than that paper. Do you still want to have dinner with me?"

"Lunch." Jungkook looked at the wristwatch you had gifted him. You had time before Soobin got off school. "Let's have lunch. In our usual place."

Jungkook realized he didn't want to bare his heart out in a fancy restaurant where people acted all stiff and fancy. He wanted to be in a safe and familiar environment where he knew there would be no judgment on whatever he did. No one would eavesdrop as everyone was busy in their own world.

It's the ADA. Jungkook hadn't been here in years. Many things had changed, but sadly, the one thing Jungkook hated the most remained.

Natsume--the fortuneteller who sang his prediction, was still in business. Jungkook met Natsume's teasing gaze. He started playing his guitar, ready to piss off the brunet. Luckily, you had come prepared. You immediately pulled Jungkook inside the ADA restaurant.

"I warned you earlier that Natsume still sings. You said you don't mind." You gave Jungkook a warning look. "Don't fight him. We didn't go here for that. You have a responsibility to me."

Jungkook clicked his tongue and wriggled out of your iron grip. He sighed, "Fine."

You chose a table far from the window. You couldn't have Jungkook distracted because of Natsume. Thankfully, Jungkook didn't talk about the fortuneteller anymore. He looked deep in thought. Jungkook wasn't sure where to start. The paper he gave you last night was the summary of his criminal case. Jungkook envisioned you reading that paper and bombarding him with questions.

The thing was, you were feeling generous to him. You didn't immediately go straight to questioning, opting to order food first. You didn't have to ask Jungkook. You knew he liked crab spring rolls. They were perfect with a bottle of soju.

You almost ordered the alcohol but stopped when you remembered Jungkook didn't drink anymore.

"Let's not drink. Soobin is fussy when he smells alcohol." You thanked the server after he placed your order. What you said to Jungkook was an excuse and the truth. Your son would scrunch up his nose whenever he got a whiff of your favorite wine. Jungkook knew of your intention. He smiled nonetheless.

"You're a good mom," Jungkook said sincerely, and with a quick snap, he broke the chopsticks apart to start eating the complimentary edamame. It felt nostalgic to eat this, giving Jungkook the illusion that you two were high school students whose only worry was how to earn money.

Your lives were way more complicated than that now. You could never go back. You had Soobin and other things to consider when making decisions.

You weren’t sure whether to nod or shake your head. You settled with a subtle cough.

"I try to be. It wasn't easy at first..." You trailed off and shook your head. "Anyway, there were lots of challenges. You're doing better than me. Soobin warmed up to you fast."

Soobin liked Jang Min and Lee Sung, though it took him some time to get used to meeting up with them. But with Jungkook, things were different. You wondered if it had something to do with their biological relationship.

Jungkook couldn't use that fully as an excuse. He thanked the server for bringing in their food before answering you. "I told you before, didn't I? I've experienced handling kids."

You briefly remembered that as you felt your neck turning crimson. Jungkook had a phase where he was obsessed with getting you pregnant. You never really got the chance to know where Jungkook's fetish started. It was his cue to tell you how things started.

With a warm meal before you two, Jungkook told you how he messed up his life.

Nine Years Ago, 2014:

The thought of dropping out of university had been on Jungkook's mind for a long time, though he never gave it much thought.

That was until Jimin asked Jungkook to accompany him in social work. Jungkook didn't get it at first. Jimin was his promising senior who talked money as Francis, his business-minded boyfriend, greatly influenced him.

Jimin recently graduated college, but he was still in touch with Jungkook. As his hubae, Jungkook looked up to his Jimin-hyung. The latter usually talked about improving life, and that was all Jungkook wanted.

He longed to give you a life where you wouldn't have to struggle. You could pursue whatever studies you wanted without having to think about money.

Money talked, so Jungkook didn't understand why Jimin wasted his time entertaining illegal immigrants. It was on the outskirts of Incheon. These foreigners lived underground with their families. Jimin and some other kindhearted people visited them to feed them and offer them some minor work to get them through one day's meal.

Jungkook frowned at this. Jimin was just starting a small business. He often asked for help from the immigrants to run his business. Jungkook thought Jimin was better off with other people who were far more competent than these illegal settlers.

Jungkook didn't even want to be here. Jimin urged him, saying that if Jungkook really wanted to be business partners with him, he had to first see the kind of work Jimin was doing.

Jungkook didn't think interacting with these immigrants would convince him, but his perspective changed when a kid clung to his leg.

The kid was very small and obviously malnourished. He didn't seem to understand the danger his body was in. A carefree smile decorated his lips.

"Hyung, thank you." The kid's teeth were black and yellow. In normal circumstances, Jungkook would subtly kick the child or say something to make him go away.

But something in this child's smile softened Jungkook's heart for some reason.

"You and the other hyung there help my mom earn money!" The kid pointed at Jimin, who was busy talking to a woman. Jungkook figured that the woman was probably this kid's mother.

"We haven't eaten in days. I thought we'd have to get beaten up first."

"What?" Jungkook was taken aback. He was sometimes mean, but he didn't go around hurting people. What did this kid mean when he mentioned getting beaten up...?

The kid showed his bruised arms; he didn't have to explain for Jungkook to understand what was happening:

The kids and the people living underground were exploited.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. The memory of younger you working in a bar lit up in his head, making him clench his hands into fists.

The indignation that abruptly clogged his veins was too much to bear, acting like a big block stopping his heart from beating.

His vision doubled. It was too much. These kids had gone through so much at a young age.

Just like you.

"I'm sorry." Jungkook dropped to his knees to look at the kid in the eyes. It was not fair. This kid was still smiling despite life being cruel to him. He didn't understand why the innocent had to suffer when far worse people were walking this planet.

"Why?" The kid caressed Jungkook's hand on his cheek. "You saved us! We want to thank you!"

After the kid said this, the other children went up to hug Jungkook. They kept calling him hyung to offer their thank you. Jungkook couldn't accept their gratitude, knowing that this was Jimin's work.

Their pleasant smile should be directed to Jimin and not him. However, when Jungkook looked at his friend, Jimin stood there, offering him a small smile and encouraging him to appreciate this moment.

Jungkook's heart throbbed painfully in his chest, and when he cast his gaze back at the kids, the pain he felt subsided, and it was quickly replaced with pride.

Jungkook smiled with only one thought in mind: I will make these kids proud.

Present, 2023:

You always knew Jungkook was closed off. He was not the type of person who would share personal experiences like this. When Jungkook told you before that he would drop out of college, you thought he was making a mistake—that he was blinded by money and pride. You never knew Jungkook's catalyst to venturing with Jimin was those kids.

The children made Jungkook want to do better, but it was also them who became his downfall.

Six Years Ago, 2017:

Things had already escalated, so Jungkook was forced to retreat to a corner, his back pressed on a cold wall with no way of stepping back.

He fucked up.

He fucked up so badly with business the same way he fucked up with you when he slept with your Jisoo-unnie.

There was no room for regret after that night. Not when he didn't have time to process things. Jungkook had to rush Jisoo to the hospital when they woke up naked on the couch.

Jisoo couldn't breathe. She was vomiting blood. The doctors said it was anxiety and her sickness acting up. Jisoo was advised not to do strenuous activity. Their tacit agreement to relieve their agony was more harmful than helpful.

Jisoo was in a daze. Looking at her made Jungkook's stomach cramp. The silence was suffocating him, too. Jungkook knew how to butter her up regarding business, but outside you, their pain, and Bighit, Jungkook and Jisoo didn't have much in common.

They were strangers who loved the same person and shared similar problems. What happened last night changed it for the worse.

Jungkook couldn't handle it anymore. He spoke.

"I'm gonna tell her."

The braid of promise from last night was combed just like that. Jisoo slowly turned her head to Jungkook, her eyes dead, and her lips were parted slightly.

Jisoo didn't say anything. She simply cupped her stomach before gently lying in bed. She turned her back to Jungkook, sick of his face already. She got what she wanted.

Jungkook sighed. He stayed in Jisoo-unnie's room for hours until he got the signal from the nurse that Jisoo could go home.

Jisoo didn't want to go home. There was no going back now. Not for Jungkook, though. He had problems he had to face, so he went home.

His home no longer felt safe after what he and Jisoo did. Jungkook couldn't bring himself to sleep, the panic and grief catching up to him every time he closed his eyes.

He avoided you like the plague, thinking that things were better off when he was alone. After all, you wouldn't understand what he was going through.

You hadn't met those immigrant kids. You didn't know what Jungkook and Jimin were fighting for. Most importantly, you didn't know what it felt like to be on top and to suddenly fall from grace.

Jungkook could almost taste it: the venom in your voice when he told you his business with Jimin had failed. He could imagine the ‘I told you so’ look painting your eyes. He could also imagine you telling him he should have just stuck to university.

Jungkook didn't really want to see you. He didn't want to see and hear about yourdisappointment in him.

But Jungkook ended up hearing it—only that with a different reason. Jungkook wasn't expecting you to show up at Bighit’s board meeting. He underestimated your capability to get what you wanted. It never occurred to him that you would buy Ango's share just so you could legally attend the meeting.

It was ridiculous. At that moment, Jungkook thought you had come to rub salt in his wound. Why else would you show up there? There was no reason for you to buy a losing share. Jungkook knew you. You would never bet your money on something risky. You didn't even want to invest in the Bighit in the first place. You only did so to appease Jungkook after your previous fight from before.

When you showed up at the meeting, Jungkook made himself think that you had bad intentions, so he hurt you first. He told you he slept with your Jisoo-unnie just because he didn't want to hear you talk shit about Bighit’s downfall.

He thought his belief was warranted because when things truly started going down, you were nowhere to be found.

It was all good at first. Jungkook thought it was better this way. Because more than anything, and despite Jungkook being fucked in the head for betraying you, Jungkook wanted you safe and worry-free. This was why he and Jisoo sought solace in each other's body. They didn't want to involve you in a mess.

In their own fucked up way, Jungkook and Jisoo loved you.

Jungkook never heard from you again after confessing his betrayal. He tried to reach you, but the case of Bighit was beyond saving. Jungkook, along with Jimin, was facing the consequences:

"When will Mushitaro arrive, Jimin-hyung?" Jungkook's skin felt itchy. The unforgiving cold wall rubbed his body, only proving to him that their current predicament was truly pitiful. He and Jimin were both grown men forced to be cramped into a small jail cell. It smelt rotten here.

Jimin couldn't do anything to appease his friend, though. He scratched his skin and was also getting agitated by the overall atmosphere of the place. "I'm not sure, Jungkook-ssi."

Three hours had passed since the police officers arrested Jimin and Jungkook. They were two different people, but Jimin said they would be having a joint lawyer. Mushitaro, their chosen representative, had yet to arrive after Jimin contacted him earlier. The law enforcers refused to let them call again.

Jungkook was antsy and feeling aggrieved. Though Mushitaro was representing him too, he still had the right to call someone—you. It was unfortunate that the officers were treating him like shit. Jungkook couldn't complain. This wasn't like the last time the police invited them over. They had an arrest warrant now, leaving him and Jimin no choice but to have their hands cuffed. It had been a few days since their last board meeting. Their other board members flew out of the country, but it didn't matter. Almost all of Bighit’s operations were handled by Jungkook and Jimin. They couldn't escape liability even if they wanted to.

This was made clear a few hours later when Mushitaro finally arrived. The lawyer knew what he was doing. Jungkook and Jimin were transferred into a much bigger room, and they were given a cup of cold water to cool down.

Jungkook normally kept his cool. He was a manipulator at best. Surely, he had thought of a way to get out of this mess. Unfortunately, the laws were difficult to circumvent as Bighit’s operation extended to illegal immigrants.

"Piercing the what?" You interrupted Jungkook's storytelling when you didn't understand the legal terms. Jungkook was at the part where he was repeating what Mushitaro had told him years ago.

Jungkook took a bite of his crab spring rolls as he responded to you, "Piercing the corporate veil."

You struggled to listen to him. Jungkook explained that companies usually had limited liability, meaning that their obligations couldn't be passed down to their board directors and stockholders. In short, if the assets of the company reached zero in value but still had some liabilities, the creditors couldn't run after stockholders like him and Jisoo.

However, with the piercing of the corporate veil, the general rule would not apply. Jungkook and Jimin were going to prison.

"The probability of Jimin-hyung and I being convicted at that time was high. That's how piercing the corporate veil works. We are both board members who oversee the operations of Bighit. We can't argue that we don't know what's happening in our company when our signatures are mostly needed in our transactions."

Jimin's boyfriend, Francis Fitzgerald, was also a board member of Bighit. Francis was a certified public accountant, so naturally, he dealt with the company's financial statements. Unbeknownst to Jungkook and the others, Francis used the company's money for his own gain and concealed the fact that the Bighit was incurring debt.

"But why are you affected by it? Isn't it solely that son of a bitch Francis' fault?" You questioned. Jungkook's chest heaved as he repeated to you what Mushitaro had said. This whole thing was still painful to talk about, but:

Generally, Jungkook and Jimin were not liable since corporations like Bighit, weren't similar to partnerships where the board members had a fiduciary relationship. Jungkook might not be the one who orchestrated the fraud, but he concealed it after finding out the truth.

You scoffed at this. But in Jungkook's defense, he and Jimin only concealed the fraud because they were trying to protect their employees.

Bighit was a business process outsourcing organization. The people they hired to take calls and be in the customer service department were the same illegal immigrants underground. Jungkook and Jimin wanted to give these people a chance at living, so they helped fake their documents and hire them.

They were good at their jobs. Jungkook never hesitated to give them a profit share and higher benefits, especially for their retirement fund. Fitzgerald embezzled the money that was supposed to be for the employees. Even their legal reserves that weren't allowed to be used or to be distributed were gone.

Jimin signed documents and trusted the auditors Fitzgerald hired. Meanwhile, Jungkook blindly followed where Jimin was going. He was getting billions of money in the beginning, so he didn't mind. What more could he ask for, knowing that their employees and their families were basically worshipping Jungkook?

When things started going downhill, Jungkook was caught off guard. He was imprisoned with Jimin, and all his assets had been frozen. Mushitaro did his best to defend them, but this was a case that enraged the public. He also couldn't milk enough money from his clients so in the end, he did the bare minimum just to have the case closed.

It was difficult. Mushitaro was being harassed by Bighit’s employees too. Most of them were deported, while the other went into hiding. They threatened the lawyer to pass their messages to his clients, saying that they wished Jungkook and Jimin to both rot in hell and that they made their lives worse. They were doing okay underground, but now they couldn't even spend time with their deported family members, and they were hiding much stricter under the police's noses.

The employees said they wanted their backpay and promised retirement funds. Once, Jungkook was visited by someone in prison. The police officer said his visitor went by your name, so Jungkook cleaned himself up for the first time in days and immediately went to see you.

But you were nowhere to be seen. Jungkook came face to face with a Bighit employee instead. No one knew how the immigrant managed to bring a knife with him, but he did. He was raging when he slashed Jungkook's eyes with a knife.

The officers were quick to seize the immigrant while some of the guards went to attend to Jungkook. He was obviously shocked. He covered his eye, feeling the blood trickling down his hand. He heard loudly how the immigrant cursed and told him to die.

That was the beginning of Jungkook covering his eye with a bandage and the hell he'd face in prison.

"Wait." You grabbed your best friend's hand to get him to stop talking. It was all in the past now, yet you couldn't seem to take it. You also had too many questions.

"Y-You went to jail after I flew to France? Where..." You stuttered a breath and trailed off, feeling your heart clench tightly in your chest. Your ramen had gone cold now. You didn't have the stomach to eat it. All you could think about while looking at your spicy red broth was the blood cascading down Jungkook's eye from before.

Regret poked at the pit of your stomach. You wanted to vomit, but you couldn't. This wasn't about you. It was about Jungkook. You bit your lip and forced yourself to ask, "Where was Jisoo-unnie...? She....she didn't help you?"

Didn't she tell you I was gone? Despite leaving and not wanting to deal with bullshit, you made sure to leave traces so that Jungkook and Jisoo would know where you went off to. Sue you for being a hypocrite, but you were desperate then. You wanted your best friend and sister to see you thriving in spite of their absences in your life. You were pretty sure Jisoo managed to find your address in France because of the clues you left.

You hated your sister, but at the same time, you craved her validation and longed to see the pain in her eyes as you hurt her back.

Why didn't Jisoo tell the convicted Jungkook about your whereabouts?

"Jisoo-noona and I never talked to each other again after...." Jungkook didn't complete his statement, yet you understood it. After we betrayed you. Their last proper conversation was when Jungkook told you that he slept with Jisoo.

They didn't exactly talk at the hospital when Jungkook brought Jisoo there. However, Jisoo showed up at Jungkook's door a few days after you left. She brought a bottle of wine and soju.

Jungkook resolutely refused the offer, almost slamming the door in the older woman's face.

"I can't, Jisoo-noona," he held the doorknob tightly. "I'm not going to drink anymore." Not after what happened. Not after we fucked up. Not in this lifetime.

Jisoo understood what he meant, though she still deflated. Her pain was too much. Her body felt like deteriorating. Her chest was hollow. She begged, "We're not going to do something stupid, Jungkook. I'm just lonely. My little girl isn't answering any of my phone calls."

She had the audacity to get sad after what she had done, but Jisoo was just human, after all. She couldn't take the separation from her sister. She missed you despite everything. Talking to Jungkook gave Jisoo the illusion that you were still within reach.

Jungkook couldn't deny it, either. He missed his best friend, too, but he knew he messed up. He had a lot on his plate right now and couldn't be bothered to carry more burden and guilt by hanging out with Jisoo.

Besides, Jungkook knew his free days were numbered. He couldn't keep involving your sister in this mess, so days after his arrest and that immigrant slashing his eye, Jungkook wrote to Jisoo. He told her not to visit or associate with him as many of Bighit’s employees were indignant with him and would lash out at anyone close to him. Jungkook also told her to extend the same explanation to you.

Jungkook wrote to you every day, yet he didn't get any response. He assumed you really didn't want anything to do with him anymore. It was both a relief and a shame.

Despite everything, Jungkook continued writing to you. It wasn't to get you to visit him or anything. His days in prison became slightly bearable every time he let out his emotions through his letters.

The messages were mostly nonsensical—at least, this was how it started. Jungkook would reminisce about your moments together, tell you about his life in prison--how he was coping with his Jimin-hyung there, and how much he missed you.

Jungkook thought it wasn't that bad until he started receiving letters from people underground. The immigrants were still feeling resentful toward him and Jimin. They detailed how worst their lives had become after being deported. Those who were hiding in South Korea managed to hide their identity, but the blame and pressure were palpable in their letters.

Even the kid who clung to Jungkook’s legs before sent him an alarming message:

My mother hanged herself. I alone now. Blame you giving false hope. You break me. The letter was written childishly. The kid forced himself to write in Korean despite knowing too little about the language. Jungkook took the letter to heart. He couldn’t sleep nor eat. And it wasn’t like there was something to fill his stomach with.

New prisoners were treated like garbage. Jungkook spent his days two cells away from Jimin. He got away from the immigrants wanting to hurt him, but the people in prison were much worse.

“You stink,” Jungkook’s cellmate spat on his face. He hadn’t eaten in two days, his mouth smelling like rotten fish and acid. Jungkook managed to get a small cup of miso soup by massaging the kitchen head’s feet for two hours. Unfortunately, Jimin didn’t know how to navigate a life in prison. He was too righteous, igniting the anger of most prisoners. He wasn’t given any ration, so Jungkook set aside his hunger and gave Jimin-hyung the soup.

“Pardon me, boss.” Jungkook didn’t wipe the spit on his cheek and just bowed his head obediently. “I’ll stay in the corner, but you can call me any time you need something. I will do anything for you.”

It was the lowest of the low, but Jungkook had to swallow his pride. This person he called boss had a lot of food stash. He was quite popular in this place. Many prisoners tried to curry favor with him. Thankfully, it wasn’t hard to please him. People like him got an ego boost whenever they thought they were being worshipped. True enough, he clicked his tongue and threw a KitKat bar to Jungkook.

“Eat that for now. Come sit with me at the table during lunchtime. Ya gotta eat, your breath will kill me.”

“Thank you, boss.” Jungkook ate half of the chocolate and saved the other half for Jimin. The boss shook his head disapprovingly. He thought Jungkook was stupid. He used the little money he had to buy papers so he could write a letter for someone outside the prison, and yet. The boss shook his head one more time, and yet he never received a response.

“I didn’t receive any of your letters.” You interrupted the storytelling again. “Where did you send them? How…” How stupid are you to think I could ever bear to see you suffer? Do you really think it would take me more than two letters to respond to you? But you didn’t say any of this. It would break Jungkook’s heart more. You changed your question, “What did you write to me?”

Jungkook didn’t have any appetite anymore, either. But reminiscing his life in prison made him want to stuff all the food before him in his mouth.

“I was told you got my letters.”

Life in prison started to get better when Jungkook started buttering up Fukuchi—the boss, though he had to face some initiation at first.

Jungkook couldn’t refute anything. He was tired of deep diving in the sea of the prison’s garbage truck just to get him and Jimin something to eat. Jimin joined his food-searching quest, but he wasn’t much of a help.

“You’re making this harder for me, Jiminnie-hyung ~ Can you just sit there and watch out for the prison guard, hmm~?” Jungkook maintained his sweet tone in spite of his exhaustion. He had to remind himself that Jimin-hyung was hurt; hence, he couldn’t move fast. His cellmates had beaten him up again. They said they didn’t like the way Jimin looked when they admitted to using his toothbrush to clean the floor. His cellmate's exact words were, “You should be thankful we’re cleaning our space with your damn toothbrush. Aren’t you acting all pure and shit? Your saliva is our holy water. Save us, Saint Jiminnie.”

The precious nickname Jungkook made up for Jimin was now tainted. They laughed and kicked Jimin when the latter told the officer what his cellmates did to his toothbrush.

Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to tell Jimin to just let it go. But at the same time, he felt like Jimin-hyung should have known better than to fight those idiotic cellmates of his. He was both frustrated and empathetic toward his friend. All he could do for Jimin was search for some food on his behalf.

Thankfully, Jimin listened and watched out for guards as Jungkook swam in the sea of garbage. He found a half-eaten pudding and handed it to Jimin.

“It’s expired,” Jimin said. They weren’t in the position to be picky, so Jungkook only beamed at him.

“I haven’t met anyone who died because of expired food. Come on, Jiminnie-hyung.~ That would do.” Jimin was on the verge of passing out. His face was pale, and his lips were chapped. He needed to eat something. With a few more coaxing from Jungkook, Jimin finally swallowed the expired pudding.

He felt a little better for a while, but Jungkook had terrible luck—his words were jinxed a few hours later. Someone from Jimin’s cell banged the gate, calling the officer’s attention to report Jimin’s state.

“Heyo! Anybody there? The blond lad right here is dyin'. We don’t want his rotten corpse in here. Help!”

Jungkook jolted awake at that. He desperately stuck his head on his cell gate, hoping to see Jimin-hyung. His action was for nought, so he helped bang the gate to get the officers’ attention, too. Fortunately, the guards appeared and were able to bring Jimin to the hospital. Jungkook would never forget the image of his friend curled into a ball while clenching his stomach. He was vomiting as he got food poisoning from eating the expired pudding.

It was a blessing in disguise, though. Jimin was able to eat slightly better food at the hospital. Jungkook swore he would never let his friend suffer again. His choice led to some drastic consequences, but he couldn’t care less:

He sought Fukuchi’s protection for his and Jimin’s sake. The initiation was hell. To Jungkook’s horror, even the correctional officers licked Fukuchi’s bottom. Everyone turned into a slave when money and power were involved. They did not bat an eyelash when Jungkook ran around the prison hallway. A group of prisoners chased after him while the others stayed locked up in their cells, watching menacingly through the crack of the gated cell how moronically Jungkook ran.

Jungkook was in the shower room. He slipped and fell because of the wet tiles marred by mold. The prisoners caught up to him. They dragged Jungkook’s already fragile body to the ground.

"Don't make trouble." Someone pressed Jungkook’s face to the floor until he couldn't breathe properly, and then he felt that person grabbing his hand, his fingertips caressing Jungkook's wrist. "It'll hurt more if you resist."

The brunet felt the syringe sinking deep into his skin. It hurt at first— but soon, it only tickled. His heart started beating so loudly that he thought it would burst inside his ribcage. His vision was doubling, too, but the euphoria pumping through his veins made him lose his inhibitions. Every emotion was amplified. Jungkook giggled when someone took off his pants, spreading his legs wide until he felt a police baton sinking deep into his hole.

Jungkook screeched. There was blood everywhere, yet the prisoners did not stop. He lost count of how many times the syringe corrupted his bloodstream. Every hole of his body (his ears, nose, mouth, and even eyes) was coated with the sticky liquid coming from those men.

His body was painted with nasty teeth marks. The shades of blue, purple, and green were such a sore in the eyes that Jungkook had to cover his body with bandages even after months of the attack. It fucked him so badly, but he could only swallow his grievances for his and Jimin’s sake.

At least now, they were not treated like trash. They had full meals now, and Fukuchi grew more satisfied with Jungkook’s mind. One day, Fukuchi introduced him to someone outside the prison.

“Lee Sung.” The outsider offered his hand for a shake. Jungkook was forced to accept the greeting. Lee Sung was a sadist at heart, though. A blade was hidden in his palm. It slashed Jungkook’s skin when they shook hands.

“You look alive. Aren’t you using the dead apple?” Lee Sung let go of the brunet’s hand, acting as if he hadn’t just caused Jungkook’s hand to trickle down with blood.

Jungkook was unfazed. He gently wiped his bloodied hand in his pants. He lied through his teeth, “Well, someone has to be sober for this, don’t you think, Lee Sung-ssi~? We can’t all be Snow White.”

‘Dead Apple’ was the drug injected into Jungkook on the day of his initiation. The effect of the drug was unapparelled, bringing the user into a different universe because of the ‘high’ feeling. It was called Dead Apple because the users would often lose consciousness or act like hypnotized zombies who would do your bidding as long as you hit something inside of them. For example, Jungkook saw Jimin through rose-colored glasses, so one of the prisoners who injected him with Dead Apple pretended to be Jimin and Jungkook, under the effect of the drug, fell into this pretense and didn’t question whatever those men did to him. It was only after some hours after the assault did he come back to his senses.

Coming to his senses didn’t necessarily mean he would forget the assault. He remembered it all too well, and nothing—not even the unadulterated euphoria would convince Jungkook to try it again. He associated that drug with his loss of freedom and more hatred for his already wretched body. One could call him a hypocrite because despite knowing the deadly effect of Dead Apple, it did not stop him from letting other people have access to it.

Life, especially in prison, was not like a fairytale. The initiation he had to be part of Decay of Angels—Fukuchi’s group, wasn’t enough to prove he was worthy. Jungkook had to strategize to keep Fukuchi’s business prospering. He was in charge of thinking of ways to supply the other inmates with drugs while making sure the higher-ups would not suspect a thing. Some officers were part of this scheme, but not all of them could turn a blind eye. Truthfully, Jungkook had been devising plans to get the officers already in this plan to keep supporting them.

Fukuchi soon realized how essential Jungkook was to this whole ordeal, so from being a chess piece, Jungkook was promoted to king. He had the privilege now to meet members of Decay of Angels who were not in prison.

Lee Sung was present at this meeting. He was tasked to get a feel of the king in prison. One look and Lee Sung already knew Jungkook was dangerous. Lee Sung had to find a way to break him.

“And how does staying sober benefit the Decay of Angel, Jungkook-ah?”

Jungkook tilted his head as he raised his hand to show his five fingers, “Five percent.”

Lee Sung was quick to snort at the number. Fukuchi came to the rescue, “Lee Sung, I know it sounds insignificant, but do note that Jungkook-ssi right here has been in this game for only a few days.” He also explained that the officer who had been eyeing the Decay of Angels had been transferred to another jurisdiction, all thanks to Jungkook’s effort.

Now, the drug dealing in Incheon was much more free.

Lee Sung finally looked pleased because of this. He jutted his chin out, “Very well, then, Jungkook-ah.~ Just tell me what prize you want, I can give it to you.~”

Jungkook jumped into the offer at once. He wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it to Lee Sung. The latter laughed, thinking that Jungkook wanted someone killed. That could easily be arranged, but the brunet was enigmatic. Lee Sung never would have thought that someone could be this stupidly sweet.

“Consider it done,” Lee Sung stood up and saluted. Sometime later, Jungkook received a letter from Gogol. It contained printed photos of a kid smiling while holding hands with his adopted parents.

Choi Yeonjun. Did you like his new name, Jungkook-ah? The bottom of the letter said.

Jungkook breathed a sigh of relief. The kid who clung to his leg was okay now. Jungkook couldn’t stop with just this, though. Every time he did something for the benefit of the Decay of Angels, he would ask Lee Sung to grant him the favor of helping the previous employees of Bighit. Unfortunately, his efforts were not enough. He slowly incurred a lot of debt to Lee Sung. The latter said it wasn’t his money. It was his boss who lent Jungkook the money.

The death threats toward him and Jimin lessened, too. Of course, this didn’t go unnoticed by Jimin. He confronted Jungkook about it, knowing well that his friend was behind this. Jungkook had always been one step ahead of everything. Sadly, he was not one to make rational choices.

It was easy for Jimin to figure it all out. Jungkook would sometimes joke that Jimin could see the future, therefore giving him the ability of flawless. “Your conjecture has always been flawless, Jiminnie-hyung~!” Jungkook used to tell him.

It wasn’t any different now. Jungkook was being treated like a God in prison these days. He had the privilege to sit beside Fukuchi, and Jimin was not blind not to see the rampant spread of Dead Apple. In fact, one of his cellmates offered him to try the drug. Jimin firmly refused. He easily connected the dots, and when his conjecture had truly become ‘flawless,’ he then confronted Jungkook.

“This is dangerous, Jungkook. You have to stop.” Jimin was not one to resort to violence, but he couldn’t help but grab the younger man’s shirt and slam him against the wall. “You are dealing with illegal drugs, for Pete’s sake. Aren’t you afraid? You only have a few months in your sentence. Don’t make a decision that would harm you.”

I’m doing this for you. Jungkook wanted to shake Jimin. I’m doing this for the people who used to believe in us. I can’t abandon them. You said they’re important to you. I just want to make you happy, Jimin-hyung.

However, vulnerability and truth didn’t sit well with Jungkook. He wriggled out of Jimin’s grasp. “Just trust me, Jiminnie-hyung.”

Jungkook was in too deep. He needed to pay his debts to Lee Sung’s boss, save some money for himself, and start all over again. Their sentence was only reduced because the Decay of Angels paid some of his dues. They were billions of yen as their case impacted the Korean economy.

Jungkook wanted to reclaim his life and maybe…maybe see you again.

You still hadn’t responded to any of Jungkook’s letters, but he didn’t plan on giving up. He tripled the letter he sent, hoping that you would find it annoying and finally reply to him. He would take anything from you, even if it was just pure hatred.

Everything would be okay in no time. He would be out in prison with Jimin soon, so he smiled at his friend, thinking that Jimin understood him.

Except that he didn’t.

Jungkook had no one else to blame—

Only himself.

He should have known Jimin wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. He wouldn’t blindly trust Jungkook when the well-being of other people was involved. It didn’t matter if they were prisoners. Jimin wouldn’t want these people to harm themselves more.

Jimin was righteous. He couldn’t just watch Jungkook destroy himself and the others, so he did what he thought was right: he told a police officer about the drug scheme in prison.

What a joke.

Did he really think he could make a difference? The police officer nodded along with Jimin, even escorting him to where he could report such a crime.

Jimin sighed in relief. He thought he could sleep well that night, but he couldn’t.

Jimin wasn’t escorted to report the crime. He was stuck in the giant walk-in freezer in the prison’s kitchen.

At five twenty-four in the morning, Park Jimin was found dead.

********

A/N: Hello. It's been almost a month since I last updated. I hope you still remember this fic ~~

I know this chapter is upsetting. :(( I'm sorry, there might...? be more to come.

Also, a little update: life is being a total bitch to me. I have a hard time adjusting at work, and would sometimes use the little free time I have to just cry. It was a public holiday in my country last Friday and this coming Monday, but being in accounting means having no break. I still need to work :// My health is being compromised lately as I am working the night shift. It's super stressful because almost everyone around me keeps saying that I am losing too much weight. I KNOW it already :((( anyway, I'm rambling. Please tell me your thoughts about this chapter.

If you feel like dropping this fic, please do so! But please be kind in the comment or don't tell me at all.

Thank you ~~ See you next time! (Hopefully soon, but damn it's quarter close next month, so I will probably be busy waahhh)

Got more suggestions about the tag/warnings? Feel free to tell me. The goal here is to be more mindful.

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #ficswithluv #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x oc #Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con #tw drugs

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queermentaldisaster · 7 months ago

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

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

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

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

#tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #cw: sui mention #tw: mentions of death #tw: mentioned overdose #tw: implied/referenced drugging #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty mw2 #ghoap au #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #elo rambles

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months ago

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Call Mom

CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic

Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)

Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?

Fingers snap right in front of his face.

Johnny!

Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.

Just darkness.

Wait, if the electricity's out...

He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.

"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"

Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?

He's the only person in this room.

Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.

The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.

Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.

His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.

I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?

Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.

"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."

Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?

Jameson turns his head, and there he is.

Hank.

His breath catches in his throat.

Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.

The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...

"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"

Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?

"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.

He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"

He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.

He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.

Just once more.

Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.

The brother who erased him.

"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"

Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.

It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.

"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.

They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.

They lied about that, too.

Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."

Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.

He smells like earth and ice.

"I'm not him," He whispers.

Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.

They never stop breaking through.

He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.

Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.

Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"

Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?

The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"

Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.

Until he didn't.

Until nobody did.

Until the cops found what was left.

Until-

Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.

He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.

The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.

He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.

Forces down the dream.

Wills himself to forget he ever had it.

"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."

Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.

He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.

He won't.

"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."

It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.

He won't remember his brother.

He won't.

"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"

Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.

Call Mom.

His breath hitches.

"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."

All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.

The blood is his own.

Call Mom.

#whump #ghost story #haunted #chronic pain whump #jameson bb #I just love a good ghost story now and again #referenced murder #escaped whumpee #recovering whumpee #referenced drug use #bbu #wru #box boy universe #whump writing #box boy #ptsd whump #nightmares tw #nightmare whump #flashbacks whump

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lili-loves-whump · 10 months ago

Text

lili-loves-whump presents, a 'whump! the musical' snippet

Jesus Christ Superstar

first previous next

"You did what?"

Caretaker takes a deep breath in and runs a hand through their hair.

Whumpee tosses a shoe onto the floor. It lands on the ground upside down.

"Jesus Christ," they whisper, ripping the other shoe off their feet. Caretaker looks lost, but Whumpee says nothing. "I'm not even through the door yet," they snarl, finally letting the awkward silence end.

Caretaker sighs and sinks into the dining room chair closest to them, dragging a shaking hand across their face.

"I'm sorry," they say, staring down at the table. Whumpee chuckles humourlessly.

"So am I," they bite out.

Caretaker flinches.

Outside, a car rushes by. Whumpee glances out they window. The sun is finally setting, and it is getting colder. After their debacle with the punks in the street, they didn't dare to go out again. Still, the though crosses their mind.

A steady gust of wind sweeps through the room, and Whumpee slams the front door closed.

They make for their room, and suddenly Caretaker is touching them.

"Let me go."

"Whumpee," they plead, eyes red and watery, "please. I'm sorry. It was wrong."

Whumpee tugs their wrist back with a ferocity they thought they'd lost. They rub the skin with the other hand and glare at Caretaker.

They shrink under their gaze, and Whumpee climbs a stair. Caretaker doesn't follow. They wring their hands tightly, watching as Whumpee continues up the stairs.

"Whumpee!"

Whumpee closes the door in response. They can hear Caretaker pleading their name, and knocking on their door, but they shove their earbuds in and hum along to the song that plays through their phone.

Their voice is muffled, and that is exactly what Whumpee wants.

Another gust of wind, and Whumpee looks outside as their curtains flap through the open window.

The punks that took their jacket, or Caretaker?

Caretaker, who drugged them against their will. Caretaker, who tried to tie them down and keep them against their will.

Caretaker, who apologised.

Whumpee shakes their head and throws the closest sweater over their head.

When Caretaker eventually leaves, Whumpee already has one leg dangling out the window.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

#lili loves whump #jesus christ superstar #betrayal #whump #whump the musical #drabble #creative writing #trope #oneshots #whumpee #caretaker #tw: referenced drugging #bad caretaker #Spotify

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whumpitisthen · 1 year ago

Text

Thoughts of Resentment

Previous I Masterlist I Next

Auden came to in an unusual position, with a distinct feeling of wrongness in his chest and a pounding headache disorienting him further. His toes are dragging against the floor of a long corridor, ankles hitting the edge of stairs as he is hoisted higher, attacked by sudden light forceful enough to penetrate his eyelids. His wings hang off his back like they have been glued on to him, barely feeling like a part of his body.

Muffled sounds and voices slowly clear as his mind untangles itself from the sleep it was forced into, turning from a storm of whispers to idle chatter and the ambience of halls. He realises he must have passed out again, from who knows what or when, finding the nauseating feeling of coming back awake to be more annoying every time it happens.

It's almost like a second awakening and a breath of fresh air as he finally leaves the catacombs of the building, feeling hotter air and the smell of a stranger’s home entering his nose. Voices and echoes of different rooms and areas pass by them — the loud ticking of a grandfather clock, the sound of fire crackling from a fireplace or a stove, the swishing of cloth curtains flowing with the current coming in from a window; and several voices echoing down from the other end of the hallway.

Two imps hold him between them, their hooves clicking across the floor with purpose. One of them seems to be teaching the other the outline of the place, explaining which turns take them where, what doors to remember, which vases and statues to memorise to make transferring this mansion simpler. He can't help noticing the strength of these ones — imps in his head have always looked like tinier, weaker demons, who live by taking advantage of people at their weakest and stealing from them. Immoral scavengers, simple parasites. The lowest layer of the hierarchy.

These ones aren't like that. They are both taller than him, and though that in itself isn't rare, for low ranking demonkind like imps, it's quite outstanding. They come in all shapes and sizes, as most others, yet he still furrows his brows in surprise. Their horns are larger, their hooves are heavier and their expressions are fiercer. Not only that — they are even well-dressed; in suits with ruffled collars and tasteful jewellery reserved for servants like butlers and the like. An elegant design, with emerald green highlights and even some floral lace at the edges telling of how special these outfits must be; not to mention expensive.

Near every time he has set eyes on anyone here, they have left him stunned. He was never told much about Hell and its inhabitants, only ever mentioning a few details here and there about all the evil they do and how disgusting and pathetic they all are; all the reasons for why they are damned and unforgivable. What he does know about all the ranks and species and races of demons is, as he has come to realise, lacking. However impure, they are incredibly diverse and confusing, and he can't help wondering just how thin his sight of them has been all this while. Like that healer — he never even knew there were healers here.

Wait a second. The healer. The lab. He just woke up. He was just helped, and now he's being moved again. What's happening?

Suddenly, he thrashes, surprising the two holding him. As always, his first response to danger is running away and, by sheer luck, he manages to escape their hold, landing on his hands and knees in front of them.

"Wh- Get it!" — the more knowledgeable one of the two yells to the other when he looks to her for directions, — "don't let it get away!"

He scuttles backwards and breaks into a sprint, ignoring all the aches and the fire in his lungs as he begins running down the hallway. No logical thought passes through him, only a primal need to get away from the evil, the unknown, the horned devils holding him in their filthy claws. His naked feet bang along the wooden floors, closely followed by the hooves of two powerful imps chasing after him. His eyes barely register his surroundings as they flit about the walls, only searching for the furthest point away from his pursuers. Down a hallway, turn left, all the way down another, a staircase up, a blackstone bridge over what looks to be an entire river of magma — reaching the end of the road at a locked steel gate. His hands bang off the hot metal surface like they’re made of rubber, leaving him to spin back around and face the demons just catching up with him. His face burns from the hot air, seemingly steaming from all the sweat evaporating from him. The orange glow of the embers floating past him shines in his tear-filled eyes like stars.

What perplexes him most is that the imps aren’t running to him anymore.

The pair walk up to him easily, barely showing any care on their expressions. Once they come too close for comfort however, reaching the other end of the bridge, he starts breathing erratically, flexing his tormented wings in reflex. While his eyes search for any way out, his ears pick up the voice of one of the imps; — “didn’t know angels could be this dumb. How’d you know it’d come this way?”

The other snorts, — “honestly? I just assumed. Every corridor leads this way eventually; I doubted he would try climbing down any spiral staircases instead of running in a straight line.”

They knew he would end up here. They barely pursued him, knowing he would get himself cornered. His knees buckle, sending him to the ground. His gut is knotting itself around his stomach. He can’t believe he just proved his foolishness so outright. To imps, no less.

“Careful with the princess; she’s slippery,” — she warns her servant buddy, readying those claws to grip him again and bring him who knows where. The other nods at her murmur, jumping into an attack position, ready to pounce. Never in his life had he imagined he would be scared of two measly imps. He considers leaping off the bridge, as much out of shame as desperation.

A split second is all it takes, and they are on top of him, wrangling all his limbs in the right position to capture him. He fights with all his might, kicking and screaming at them, cursing them like never before. He only manages to kick out twice successfully, reaching for the demons’ limbs, but neither of them buckles at all. His tears slide onto the stone under him, burning and steaming as his chin does, shoved into the scalding hot ground. He cries out in pain now, fear no longer overriding physical sensations, and he is almost baffled when his head is wrenched up not a second later. A curse leaves the one holding him.

“What did I say? Careful with it!” — she yells at the other, — “give it here. This one’s precious, and I’m not losing my damn head because of your idiocy. Open the door.”

He feels some of the weight leaving his wings and legs, and hears a ‘sorry’ as the other turns to hurry towards the gate. Of course; they can’t hurt him. He doesn’t belong to them, they are only here to transfer him safely. He thanks his God, as he always does, that he won’t be abused any more. Not by these two, at the very least. And as always, the one he thanks is not truly who helped him, yet he would rather go through the worst torture Hell has to offer than to show gratitude to any of these horned beasts. They are lucky they are even allowed to see him, much less touch and hurt him without punishment.

‘And who exactly allowed them to do just that?’

He shakes his head free of that cursed thought. He did this to himself, no one else. He deserves this. To even think like that shows he is exactly where he belongs.

‘Everything you have gone through was allowed. Is allowed, and will be allowed. What kindness that is. To be allowed to be hurt.”

He grunts, a soft migraine building behind his eyes suddenly — and just like that, it disappears. He cannot allow himself to think like this. He will not succumb to this hellscape. His mind is already suffering; how could it not? He has been here far longer than he ever would have liked to. His discomfort is picked up on by the one holding him, and he is pulled right back on his feet, clutched close in a grip resembling a hug from behind so he cannot move his wings. His vision swims again, and then clears.

Those large steel doors are pushed open with the help of more servants. He suddenly finds himself surrounded by a dozen more imps, some larger demons he doesn’t recognise. There is no escape from here anymore. This is where he will be executed, surely. No amount of struggling will let him through the wall of guards and the literal wall of metal once he is brought in there. He weeps quietly, all power leaving his body as he is grabbed by more hands, more claws, more demons. It almost seems like they morph into one large horror, consuming him whole. Pulling him into its stomach to become one with it, or to be made to scream forevermore.

Through the cacophony of demons and his own thoughts, a single voice cuts through. A bold one; loud, assertive, in charge. The voice of Miss Thu’lin herself.

"Oh, hurry up already. I just have to take a look at it." — Her voice booms over everyone else, a deep, almost guttural melody. A joyous tone riddled with impatience, she towers over them all with her arms out to the side in a wide gesture. — "Come, bring it here!"

He is brought in, and his breath disappears from his lungs.

A massive circular room filled to the brim with a collection of unholiness. The walls are hidden behind a layer of paintings, depicting all manner of gore, damnation, cruelty, perversion. Statues of angels, ones so similar to him, gutted, hanged, skinned, violated. Pieces of angel's holy bodies on display behind glass, cleaned of blood, but just as horrifying. Half a pair of wings, a heart that still beats a slow rhythm, bottles filled with all manner of organs and fluids, feathers, hair, teeth, nails. Books with holy and unholy symbols, surely about demonic rituals involving unfortunate Fallen. Flora and fauna of his home, his Heaven, behind glass domes that must be carefully cared for to be alive still. Instruments, art, clothing, pieces of furniture, magical artifacts… A room of holy suffering and devotion — how fitting for him to be brought here. It's almost too perfect. Then again, is that not the reason he must have ended up right here? A mad collector of anything holy, a twisted and evil individual of Hell with the power to gather all these items unavailable to most creatures here in a show of wealth and power.

And in the middle of it all, she stands, her green dragon eyes glimmering in excitement, her wings folded behind her, her scaled skin shimmering crimson like blood. She walks forward, a laugh bubbling out of her at the sight of him, clasping her clawed hands together in joy. Every step she takes can be felt through the floor. Her awfully sharp teeth are on full display as she opens her mouth to smile down on him.

"Oh, what a dear! You came a long way to meet me, didn't you honey?" — she coos at him, leaning over him. He had never met anyone as tall as her; he feels like a little mouse. — "Yes, you are just perfect, aren't you? The only thing missing from my museum. A lovely little centrepiece, oh, you will look just lovely immortalised here."

She touches him in the same way every other demon seems to enjoy so much — without asking, without care, invading his skin with their gross, filthy hands. He barely thinks to flinch away, he is so… what would be the best word to use here? Mesmerised? Baffled? Stunned? Scared past the fear of death?

Well, he can't quite figure it out before he is moved again, pulled towards the middle of the room following closely behind Miss Thu'lin. Most other servants leave to return to their jobs, only a few staying behind to keep him behaved. His feet drag on the floor, his soul is shivering in a way it has never before, and yet in a way that is so familiar by now. There has not been more than a moment's peace reserved for him since he fell, tormented ever since. Or has there?

Right. The healer. It's here too.

Standing next to some sort of fountain spewing a dark liquid out of itself, it watches him be manhandled onto the floor with the same fascinated observation as it did the first time they met. Seeing it outside of the lab almost seems surreal, like it doesn't truly belong here. Perhaps it's the sweltering heat or the awful environment, but he swears he sees it open a mouth he thought didn't exist to sigh. He isn't sure if he imagined it, or the huge pearly-white teeth poking out, yet he can't bring himself to dwell on it, his eyes stuck to two smaller imps bringing ropes and tools and equipment into the room diligently.

Though he knows already what awaits him, seeing his execution prepared in front of him like this steals the soul out of his body. Those hooks hanging from the ends of the ropes don't escape him, nor do the tools similar to what he saw the Doctor use downstairs. Unknown liquids and sharp edges, knowing glances from the two demons conversing — about him certainly, though he cannot hear past the buzz of simultaneous anxiety and numbness clouding his mind. They both look to him now, cruelty in their dark eyes.

"You sure took your time with this one," — Miss Thu'lin says, seemingly always impatient, to the Doctor — "you must excuse my curiosity, Doctor, but how come he is still so damaged?"

The Doctor twists its head at her in a disapproving manner. No noise escapes it, yet the lady of the house somehow knows exactly what it means.

"Of course I don't doubt your skills, but I can't help but wonder… If it still looks like this past your attentive care, what condition was it in to begin with?" — She squints her eyes at it, a puff of smoke sliding through her teeth. — "Naturally, it would be distasteful for me to assume your medical professionalism has dulled. So I am simply curious."

She is suspicious of it, but he doesn't know why. It works for her, clearly, and all it did was help him. As far as he can remember, at least. He did wake up already out of the clinic, on his way here. His stomach churns with the unease following his realisation that he barely remembers what happened, and has no recollection of it all past that bitter liquid he drank. The wrongness in his chest flares in a pulsing signal.

It does not hesitate to walk over to him and grab him itself, sending away the other servants holding him with a flick of its hands. It looks him in the eyes, willing him to stay in place, but it doesn't need to. He doesn't think he could get off his knees if he tried, and if anything, that look alone has turned his bones into mush.

It circles him then, lifting his arms, setting a claw in the middle of his chest and pulling it down lightly. Grabs his chin and moves it around. Faces him and moves its own eyes to look up-down-left-right, then back to him, telling him to do the same. He starts doing it, but is stopped and turned towards Miss Thu'lin instead, and he understands then that he is being shown off to her, explaining to her what was done to him by the Doctor. He wishes he had the motivation to resist, but he simply tries to keep still with a fierce warmth enveloping his cheeks as she observes his eyes from up close.

It moves to his wings again, and the exact same way he did down in the lab, he instantly flinches away. He does not get far, because its claws have found their way around his throat in a millisecond, pinning him to the floor from behind. He barely has time to gasp, so shocked from the lightning fast reflexes and sudden aggression of this demon, who has mostly been gentle and helpful to him, now on top of him in an instant, patience seemingly having left it completely. It cannot be that it thought he would make a run for it and escape. It is smarter than that. It did it to show him this can be done this way too, with force and discomfort and threats. It did it to will him into submission, without words, without a single question asked, without mercy. Wings on full display, it reaches for them again, and besides a muted, brief jerk, he forces himself still. It is still looking him in the eyes from on top of him, squishing his cheek into the ground.

Now it moves those agonising things around like he's a toy, bending them this way and that, stretching them out, ruffling his blackened feathers. He has never felt so violated, the shame he feels strong enough to distract him from the fact that it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as even the slightest touch did before.

With a last run of its fingers through his hair — much slower than needed or comfortable, — he watches them stare at each other a while; the Doctor and the lady of the house. Miss Thu'lin then nods, and backs off of the both of them. He could not be more relieved when the grip leaves his neck finally, and the weight is lifted off him once more. He doesn't dare move except for the ever present quivering of his flesh.

"I see," — Miss Thu'lin concludes, the smile returning to her face as she turns her attention back to him, — "you've gone through a lot, sweetheart. Our Doctor took good care of you. They have soothed your pain, haven't they? A mercy, unnecessary in my opinion."

The way she talks to him sounds nice, but it isn't quite right. It feels like she isn't being kind, moreso using a tone one would use with a child or a pet. She sees him as nothing but a lost fawn in the den of lions, leading him away into the clutches of predators. He cannot hold his tears back any longer, and weeps in front of her. He never was much of a crier, though only now does he know he never truly had much to cry about to begin with. He misses his home and he misses his human. He wishes for his life to come to an end, and yet, even now, he is too scared of what is about to happen to him to ask for these two to just get on with it. He sobs brokenly at that thought.

She hushes him, but doesn't calm him. — "No need for that, angel. I have waited so, so long for you to be sent here. Do you see this? All of this?" — She gestures around the room, her rotten museum of agony. — "It was missing only one piece. Only one, for decades. You are that last piece. And you are finally here. You should feel joy to be part of my glorious collection. Immortalised in beautiful suffering, at the centre of it all…"

She talks to him like any of that is supposed to make him feel better. Like it is a good thing she has a cursed spectacle filled with angel gore. And all that, for what? To say she did it. For others to look at and know that she has gathered this all up in one place and put it on display, to let them all know she is powerful and wealthy and not one to mess with, spitting on even Heaven and everything holy in the process.

"I wish you never got to finish this abomination," — he whispers defiantly, brokenly.

Got to. She has already finished it. She got him here, and he has nowhere else to go. He really was the last piece. He is already part of it. He can't help but wonder; was this really his destiny? Did his God truly make him for this end?

'One would think your God holds no cruelty in its heart. What a joke.'

Of course this was not his destiny. It was of his own fault he became the last piece of a twisted puzzle. Resentment towards his fate should only reinforce this fact. What an awful example of an angel he was, mind bubbling with ungrateful, terrible thoughts like this.

The first noise he ever hears the Doctor make is a chuckle. It chuckled at what he had said, hiding its nonexistent mouth behind its claws. Miss Thu'lin did not look nearly as amused. The opposite, in fact.

"How dare you talk to me this way? Calling my masterpiece an abomination!" — She towers over him, fuming, almost literally. She stalks closer, and he is truly afraid now. — "I will not be insulted by a filthy, wretched, broken little rat. You are going to pay for this, and then you will be hung from the ceiling by your wings stretched with silver hooks. I will make you pay, you little bastard!"

Her hand is sent flying through the air, aiming for his face to backhand him hard enough to twist his head off his shoulders. He turns away, eyes squeezed shut, and waits. Maybe he won't have to feel the pain of anything anymore, if he is hit hard enough. The slap is heard, but doesn't land.

"You-!"

He opens his eyes timidly, seeing two hands floating in front of him. Miss Thu'lin's, just a few inches away from hitting him. And the Doctor's, catching her by the wrist effortlessly. They watch each other, an intense staring contest between powerful demons. The two hands tremble, but he can't tell which one of them is shaking. To his surprise, Miss Thu'lin yields first.

"Fine. Unhand me."

She is let go. The Doctor backs off. Auden is frozen still.

The draconic sneers at the Doctor standing in front of him like a fickle shield, reaching for a stray lock of hair that escaped from her golden headpiece when she lashed out and turning her back to the two of them, shaking herself out of such an unseemly show of emotion. The Doctor looks at Auden, but its expression somehow does not manage to comfort him.

"Let's begin then. Before another stupid word could make it out of your mouth.” — Miss Thu’lin murmurs, unclear about which one of them she was speaking to, — “I have waited long enough for this moment."

Masterlist | Ko-fi

#whump #whump writing #my writing #oc auden #referenced noncon drugging #abuse #religious imagery #angel whump #demon whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #burning #gore #tw religious themes #carewhumper #direct continuation of audens no good very bad vacation to hell :)

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goblin-iz-whack · 3 months ago

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What do you think the frog brothers childhood was like?

Oh not good at all-

Their mother (Willow) has no maternal instincts and did not want children. She went on the pill right after Alan was born (never told her husband this) because tracking her cycle didn't prove to be a good form of birth control for her.

Their father (Cedar) has never been sober for more than a few hours. He has ptsd from the Vietnam War and uses drugs to cope. He can't remember his sons' names most days.

Once Edgar turned 5, suddenly he was the one taking care of himself and Alan full-time.

Food was scarce often, weed fumes were all throughout the house, it was a horrible place for two young kids.

I headcanon that they all live in a small apartment above the comic shop. It's tiny, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and an Itty bitty living room. The boys share a room, though there's only one bed which they share.

They're pretty small because of all the neglect and drug usage, it stunted their growth. Edgar has a deviated septum and Alan has asthma, niether of which were diagnosed until they were older. Whether or not these were caused by their mom using when she was pregnant is unknown.

Edgar cuts Alan's hair. He keeps his own hair long because he doesn't trust Alan with scissors-

Social workers are an issue. They snooped around a lot when they were younger. Thankfully, they were never separated like they feared.

Edgar looks a lot like Willow, a fact that he hates.

I headcanon that Edgar is transmasc. Their parents are unintentionally supportive because they genuinely can't remember that he was born as their daughter. They'd be awful to him if they could remember. I also ship Alan with Sam, so I bet they were pretty upset about their son liking boys.

Alan kept in touch with their parents, Edgar didn't. Their dad died before their mom, Ed was not sympathetic to her crying and was pretty mad that Cedar got "the easy way out" and died in his sleep. He didn't cry when Willow died some years later. Alan took all of this very hard, he felt some sort of obligation towards their parents.

#the lost boys #alan frog #edgar frog #frog brothers #tw child neglect #tw drug use #tw referenced homophobia #tw referenced transphobia

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batbirdies · 2 years ago

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I did it!!!! It’s 2:15am on a Wednesday but I did it!!!

#Batbirdies writes #fanfiction #batfam #Batman #Jason Todd #Stephanie brown #hurt/comfort #tw: referenced drug use #childhood trauma reers it’s same old ugly head #please check the tags before reading

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serickswrites · 1 month ago

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All Quiet IV

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced restraints, referenced drugging, unconsciousness, hospital, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, guilt

Caretaker sat in the quiet hospital room, unwilling to move from their seat. Whumpee slept peacefully beneath the blanket, their soft breaths reassuring Caretaker that they were still alive.

Because Caretaker thought Whumpee had died. Between nearly suffocating Whumpee and Whumper's violent outburst, Caretaker had been sure that their rescuers would announce that Whumpee had died and there was nothing they could do.

But they didn't.

The cacophony of sounds as their rescuers rushed in and to their aid confused Caretaker. They couldn't understand. Why help them? They didn't deserve help. But as more rescuers rushed in and crowded around Whumpee, Caretaker realized Whumpee was still alive.

That had been the most relieving news they had heard.

And so Caretaker sat with Whumpee. They had refused to leave Whumpee's side once the doctors said that they would be fine. They didn't care about themself anyway. They only cared about Whumpee.

They had nearly killed Whumpee.

It had been all their fault. Between failing to rescue Whumpee, nearly suffocating Whumpee, and being able to stop Whumper from torturing, Caretaker nearly killed Whumpee. They would the spend the rest of their life begging Whumpee's forgiveness. Though they didn't deserve it.

Whumpee's fingers twitched in Caretaker's, their brow furrowing in pain. "It's ok, I'm here. I've got you. I'll get the nurse, you're going to be ok, Whumpee."

And just as quickly as the frown appeared on Whumpee's brow, it faded. Whumpee was ok. Whumpee was going to be ok. That was all that mattered.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@ha-ha-one @luvmikoo @painsthegame @lthrboy @bisexuawolfsalt

@kn0ckme0ut @curly-whumpee @angelwhump @skullmuffet @whumpitywhumpwhump

@me-likey-the-whump @whumpberry-cookie @eyehartart @whumpy-whumperton @gh0sthands

@dedicated-whump-blog @orangeduckweed @pepeniascat

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw referenced restraints #tw referenced drugging #tw unconsciousness #tw hospital #hurt/aftermath #hurt/recovery #tw guilt #queue

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naviculariis · 4 months ago

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One Piece being the verse in which I explore the interwoven dynamics in the Fujihara was not what I expected but seeing the power imbalance and struggle between Kiyomi and Mizuki and Suma is so interesting.

Because Kiyomi and Kiyoko are the eldest of all of the children. Kiyomi will always be the "head" of the family, the one who takes on the public role, the one who is more outspoken and her rule is God.

[ Naruto: Temporary head of the Fujihara, helped to solidify the Fujihara as a distinct member of Kirigakure's upper class, is killed in a fight against Afonya shortly before the end of the Second War

DC: Public head of the Fujihara Family, handles the public business & Gala events, handles the press, was behind the deaths of her parents.

Bleach: Joined the Academy after being placed into a Geisha House & had her reiatsu awakened, joined the Third Division shortly after, remained in the Third after Rose was "killed", after Gin, and then even after the TYBW.

One Piece: Current Captain of the Hebi no Kojaku Pirates with a several hundred million berry bounty, lost her arm to Malekai during Marineford, is notoriously known to be a dangerous swordswoman with a cursed blade, currently about to fight for her life. ]

Kiyoko handles everything in the shadows. She's the one actually in charge, here.

[ Naruto: Becomes the Head of the family after Kiyomi is killed by Afonya.

DC: Runs the family finances & handles all of the work in the shadows to continue their Weapon peddling

Bleach: Does not become a member of the Seireitei; she becomes the Head of the family.

One Piece: Left the life of Piracy at 23 to take over the Throne of Janoshima from Ayame. Is now the current sitting Empress of Janoshima. ]

Mizuki is, and always has been, the Wildcard. She's always been the Black Sheep. Regardless of the verse, her canon event is traumatizing and changes her onto a different path than her sisters.

[ Naruto: Abandons Kiri, becomes a member of the original ROOT Anbu for Konoha as a spy, is killed during the Second War.

DC: Goes off the rails as a teenager, goes down the Wrong Path, eventually rehabilitates but is used as muscle and the one that's sent out to Collect Dues & kill.

One Piece: Slaughtered her parents when she was 18 after they branded their children, went off the rails & left the family, took on the moniker of Deadman's Daughter, gained a devil fruit, joined Buggy's crew as a clown contortionist & an assassin for him, tried to kill Kiyomi during Marineford, failed, tried to kill Suma during the timeskip, failed, WANTS REVENGE. ]

Suma is the smartest. She's the youngest sibling. She's the one who was raised by her aunt for seven years. She was brought up in the propaganda that Daiyu and Daisuke created; this twisted, tilted world view that her siblings were all brought up in. Suma is the Outlier. It's why she will always end up on top, in the end.

[ Naruto: Ends up in the Mizukage's Council as the right hand, survives the longest out of her siblings.

DC: Goes to college to become a lawyer, shadows the legendary Gilda Dent ( Harvey Dent's wife ), becomes a damn good lawyer that continuously keeps her family out of trouble.

Bleach: Joins the Fifth Division as the third seat after Shinji returns, survives the TYBW with little injuries, remains as the third seat for the Fifth.

One Piece: Was raised by Ayame until she was seven as a Princess, was taught weaving by Ayame and court politics before being taken back by Daiyu & Daisuke to live for the next six years in fear, remains after Junpei and Mizuki leave to be a member of the Hebi no Kojaku Pirates for the next five years before Kiyomi attempts to kill her, she then jumps ship & swims to shore, survives on her own by jumping from civilian crew to civilian crew until she winds up at Drum Island with a crew that attempts to kill her, she kills them, steals their ship, manages to get to Alabasta. She ends up failing at pickpocketing Sanji thanks to Zoro noticing, gets dragged along and ends up fighting in a WAR TO SAVE ALABASTA?, joins the Straw Hats afterwards, has Fun, gets McBapped in Sabaody trying to protect Zoro, spends the next 2.5-ish years on Gravedigger Island with her new dad & sister, gets almost killed by Mizuki, rejoins the Straw Hats with a new moniker & bounty?? And has no idea that she's about to be a part of a very big, very not good plot in Janoshima???? ]

And Junpei-

The only boy. The Son. The one that Daisuke tried to mold into another version of himself and ended up creating such a broken image of, instead. Junpei will always. Leave. He will never stay. He will always devote himself elsewhere.

[ Naruto: abandons Kirigakure.

DC: Police Officer, refusing to be a member of the Fujihara Crime Family

Bleach: Went to the Academy at a young age, has been a member of the 6th since the day he graduated, has never gone home.

One Piece: Abandoned Suma instead of taking her & rescuing her when he was 20, joined the Marines, is now a Captain ( bordering on Commodore by the end of the Timeskip ), did not interfere in the execution of his aunt. ]

#𝕻𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖉: [ o o c ]#tw: referenced drug addiction #[ its v subtle & not in detail. ]#𝕻𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖁𝖎𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘: [ Fujihara Family ]#𝕸𝖆𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕻𝖔𝖗𝖙: [ portrayal notes ]

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proudfreakmetarusonikku · 1 year ago

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Whumptober Day 1: Drugging / Truth Serum.

Canon divergence. After capturing Tommy and killing Tubbo when they tried to kill him in the prison, Dream forces Tommy to take some special potions to learn the truth behind the attempt. Warnings for referenced torture and mutilation, eye injury, restraints, drugging, manipulation, self-hatred, victim blaming, and dehumanisation.

ao3 if you prefer

— Tommy winced in pain as Punz kicked him in the stomach again, too tired to even scream anymore. The chains holding him in place kept him from crumpling to the ground, leaving him awkwardly kneeling while his arms strained. They’d already been long forced out of their socket from when Dream had beat him to death, so at least it didn’t hurt any more than usual, but it was exhausting.

Through a half-lidded eye, Tommy couldn’t help but focus on the blood staining Punz’s hoodie a deep red, the chunks of horn and fur still stuck to it. All that was left of Tubbo. He was far too dazed to process that thought- that Tubbo was truly gone, that he’d never see him again. It just felt like a bad dream, like he’d wake up in the bunker tomorrow and message him, and he’d send back a picture of Micheal trying to eat snow or something.

That’s what would have happened, had Tommy not screwed it up.

“Prime, Punz, you’ll kill him; calm down. We need him alive for questioning, dumbass.” Dream’s voice felt like nails on a chalkboard, and Tommy would have flinched if he had the energy. “Besides, I thought we agreed Tommy was mine. Go experiment on the other one, if you can’t keep your anger in line.”

“He killed you!” Punz’s protests sounded more like a child whining than someone actually concerned and angry. If he were more cognisant, Tommy might have been disturbed by how plainly that showed the differences in how the two of them viewed death from everyone else- like a toy cruelly ripped from their hands, not an agonising and permanent inevitability. Instead, all he could think was that he just wanted everyone to be quiet.

“Punz.”

Punz let out an exaggerated sigh before turning away, deliberately smacking Tommy in the face with a swish of his heavy tail as he walked off. The impact against his eye socket sent so much pain through his face that he couldn’t help but gag, even as exhausted as he was. The feeling of the axe tearing out his eye was impossibly agonising, but it hurt worse to have anything so much as brush the empty wound left.

He whined in pain as a gentle hand pulled him up by his chin, forcing him to look up. Everything blurred in Tommy’s mind, leaving only a blur of green and white broken up by the same red as Punz was. “Shh, shh. They’re gone now. It’s just you and me, Tommy. Just Dream and Tommy, like old times.”

The words didn’t really process through Tommy’s head, but he still let out an involuntary shudder. Dream laughed, the sound like another blow to the head.

“You thirsty? I got a drink if you need one.” The clink of a glass bottle taunted Tommy, and he was suddenly aware of how painfully dry his throat was. He nodded his head desperately and, finding himself unable to speak, mouthed the word please weakly.

The smell of magic, sickly sweet yet with the faintest hint of burning flesh, invaded the air as the cap popped out of the bottle, and of course it was a potion. Even in his dazed state, Tommy wasn’t even surprised, just resigned. What did surprise him, as the bottle was gently brought to his lips and he weakly took tiny sips, the insides of his mouth too torn up by his braces for much more, was that he didn’t recognise the taste.

It depended on how a potion was brewed, of course, but even with someone like Wil, who sweetened the shit outta everything, you could detect it behind the flavouring. Healing potions, for example, tasted remarkably like strawberries- Tommy wasn’t sure why, you didn’t use strawberries to make them, but they did- while invisibility potions tasted like cinnamon, and the T Tommy took tasted terribly bitter.

This potion, plain with no efforts to hide its effects, tasted metallic, like the blood on your tongue after a deserved beating, yet it also had a faint spiciness to it. Tommy wasn’t a picky eater- he’d survived mostly on raw meat and dubiously safe berries before Wilbur had taken him in- but the taste was still intense, if not entirely unpleasant. Still, he was so thirsty he could think of nothing but gulping it down as quickly as possible.

Dream ruffled Tommy’s hair as he drank, in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. “See, look. I’m not so bad, am I? Sorry about Punz, he just gets… protective, y’know?” He laughed softly, the sound slightly less piercing. “Now, this, I worked hard on. It’ll dull the pain of, y’know, all that, and… well, I’ll let it be a surprise, actually! That’s fun.” Finally, he moved the bottle from Tommy’s mouth, far before his thirst could be adequately quenched. “Don’t you love surprises, Tommy?”

“No,” Tommy whispered, the words forcing themselves through his throat. They came out dry and scratchy, hurting even at the quietest of tones.

“Oh, it works!” There was a childish glee in Dream’s tone, and Tommy felt a pit settle in his stomach at what that meant. Dream getting excited seemed to always involve horrible things happening. “Okay, so what this does is that it makes it so you can’t lie, and you can’t stay quiet to hide the truth either. I hate that I can’t trust you, Tommy, but trust has to be earned, okay?”

Tommy gave a blank stare, and Dream wheezed in laughter. “Yeah, yeah, probably too much for you right now. Let’s keep it simple, ‘kay? Can you tell me why the fuck you came into my house and tried to murder me?”

Tommy flinched at the slight hiss in Dream’s tone, preparing for a blow that didn’t come, as the explanation forced its way out. “I- I didn’t want to kill you, it’s just- you- you were gonna torture me forever, ‘cause you hate me, you told me yourself. So I had to- to do something first.”

“Oh, Tommy.” Dream sounded weirdly sad, and Tommy couldn’t comprehend why. “I promise, I don’t hate you. I mean, I stayed when Wilbur didn’t, right? I could be your new big brother! Do you like that idea, Tommy?”

“I don’t wanna be alone,” Tommy said pitifully, and he hated himself for it. No, he didn’t want to spend a single fucking second more in Dream’s presence! Dream had to be lying about the whole truth thing, because the idea that- that he could ever answer anything but fuck no was a lie. “I’d- I’d do that, if it meant I wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

“See, look? You could have just told me that when Wilbur left, and then Tubbo wouldn’t have had to have died. Do you think that’s your fault, Tommy?”

“I’m not the one who cut his fuckin’ head off.”

“But do you think he’d have died if you didn’t barge in here because you thought I hated you?” There was no venom in the tone, just a sickly sweet kindness, yet it brought tears to Tommy’s eyes. He knew that tone. It was worse than any vicious insult tearing him down could be.

He took a hiccuping breath, unable to stop himself from shaking his head. He made a strangled sound as he bit his tongue, muffling the no his mouth was already forming. He- it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. This was a trick. Yeah. It had to be.

“Aww, don’t sulk, Tommy. I’ll let you have play dates if you’re good. I mean, I’ll certainly need a new subject to figure out immortality with, and that’s a fitting punishment for him, don’t you think?” Dream laughed, a mix of cruelty and childish innocence mixing into a static mess that hurt Tommy’s head. A drink had helped him be a bit less dazed, but he still felt like he was pushing through a wall made of jelly just to think.

“I- no. No, Tubbo- I dragged him into this. I deserve the punishment.” I deserve it. Tommy remembered that thought rushing through his head in Exile. Maybe… maybe it was true. It seemed easier, at least, to believe it. “I’ll take it. Just- just leave Tubbo-“

“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was a low growl, and it stopped Tommy in his tracks, air suddenly feeling so heavy he had to hyperventilate to get a single breath. “You both deserve punishment, I think. And that’s the worst punishment I can think of for you. Making you watch as Tubbo suffers the consequences of your actions. Maybe you’ll know better than to fight the truth.”

Was that what he was doing? Fighting the truth? Tommy’s head hurt at the thought. He thought- he thought he hated Dream, he thought Dream hated him. It was fucking confusing. Had he just been lying to himself all along? Was this… was this his fault?

He let out a small sob. “Please. ‘m sorry, Dream.” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for anymore. Something fuzzy like television static had raced its way through his body, replacing agony with pins and needles in both his injuries and his head. “I’ll be good, promise.”

A gentle hand ran through his curls, and Tommy tried to focus on the soft touch and not the fear bubbling in his mind, the tingling in his fingers, the claws getting caught in his hair and tugging out strands. “I know, I know. Like in Exile, right? Did you miss that, Tommy? Did you miss me?”

“Mhm.” He nodded faintly, his eye half-shut as sleep felt more and more tempting. “I- I don’t- I don’t miss when you’d hit me, or make me cry and shit, but it made fuckin’ sense, y’know? It made sense, and- and I knew what I was meant to do. I knew what I was.”

“And what was that, do you think?” Dream sounded more curious than demanding.

“A- a puppet. A pet. A plaything.” Tommy felt sick saying it. Even exhausted, it sounded wrong, it sounded awful. Oh, he knew Dream saw him like that; he wasn’t stupid. But he- he wasn’t fucking okay with that. “And you- you were my owner. And it fuckin’ sucked. But it- it was so much easier than everything being all change-y. Even when it’s the good change.”

Dream hummed, sounding somewhat pleased with that answer. “That’s interesting. I’ve always wanted to know how you really saw me, y’know? I’m definitely gonna use that potion more. This is going to make fixing you so much easier.”

Tommy furrowed his brows. “Wha-“

“Ssh, shh. It’s okay now. You don’t need to try and speak any longer.” Dream reached up, releasing his wrist from the manacle with a loud snapping sound that made Tommy’s head feel like it was being hit by a sledgehammer, swiftly doing so on the other side. Without being held up, Tommy collapsed fully onto the floor, his face getting stained in his own blood. He tried to lift himself up fruitlessly but couldn’t even move his arms. “You’ve got a long eternity when you wake up, after all.”

The last thing Tommy heard before the static in his head finally lulled him into a dreamless sleep was laughter, both comfortingly familiar and chillingly a promise of worse to come.

#my writing #ailesswhumptober #dream smp #c!primeboys #referenced torture tw #Referenced mutilation tw #Eye injury tw #restraints tw #drugging tw #manipulation tw #self hatred tw #victim blaming tw #dehumanization tw

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months ago

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now i’m craving streetkid chris waaaaa

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

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

(Street kid Chris au pieces here and here)

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

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

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

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

He's probably forgotten about Baldur by now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just Nat is fine. Kauri?"

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

"It sounds great."

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

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

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

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

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

#streetkid au chris #streetkid chris au #I can't remember which I used #whump #whump oc #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box boy whump #escaped whumpee #drug references #referenced dubcon #referenced noncon #conditioned behavior #drug use tw

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home-for-wayward-fawns · 5 months ago

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༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 9: 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈, 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈

What should've been a simple game of role-play goes terribly wrong when Carla is thrust into a flash back of the past.

TW: Hi everyone, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! I want to give a HEAVY trigger warning for this chapter. It contains heavy references to mental health problems, substance abuse, and references to a character overdosing.

Carla sat on her armchair in the lounge, sewing circle in her lap as she continued her floral design. Alastor stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder as he peered down at it. Carla had a soft smile plastered on her face as Charlie explained her latest little game to the residents who sat on the floor in a circle.

It reminded her of little Poppy dragging all her big brothers down to the living room for a tea party. Of course, they’d always indulged her, indulged the little miracle that blessed their lives.

Charlie started, clapping as she sang her little introduction, and the snake followed suit. Carla hummed to herself contentedly as Alastor tapped his fingers on her skin in a smooth rhythm.

“This is stupid,” Angel interrupted, rolling two of his eyes.

Carla looked down at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his hand. She’d seen that before, and it left a sour taste in her mouth. It was the struggle before the storm, the moment just before the walls came crashing down. Angel was after a fix, and this game wasn’t helping. Carla noticed Charlie’s eye twitch, and let out a cough for attention. She felt Alastor’s rhythmic tapping cease and didn’t need to look back to know he was doing that curious head tilt in her direction.

“You don’t have to play along, sweetheart,” She said gently, hoping her soft voice would coax him away from whatever demons plagued his mind.

It never did. It never worked. It never worked with Junior either.

“This–is–not–stupid!” Charlie interrupted, still clapping and Carla had to bite back a sigh. It wasn’t her fault; the poor naive thing just couldn’t see that this was not what Angel needed right now. “It’s just a game! Sir Pentious did it well, so now please try to do the same!”

“Charlie, that isn’t very kind. Angel, if you don’t like this game, what do you want to play?” Carla asked, keeping her tone soft and light.

She felt a sharp claw scratch along her collar as Angel got a sly smirk on his face. Husk groaned, apparently aware of something Carla was not.

“A productive game,” Vaggie interjected, her voice laced with suspicion.

Why was everyone so harsh on the boy? Husk got to drink himself into oblivion; Pentious got to build his dangerous contraptions; why was Angel looked upon so harshly?

“We could do some roleplay ,” Angel suggested, his eyebrows moving suggestively, specifically in Husk’s direction.

Husk rolled his eyes, but Charlie quickly jumped to her feet in excitement, oblivious to the obvious tension in the room. She pulled Vaggie up by her arm, with a surprising amount of strength for such a lanky young girl.

“Roleplay!” Charlie exclaimed, her entire body already shaking with anticipation, “I’ll go write the scripts!”

The tall blonde quickly dragged her girlfriend out of the room, and Carla chuckled at her enthusiasm.

“This oughta be fun,” Angel snickered, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to subside slightly.

“Thank you, Angel,” Carla said to him earnestly, “It means a lot to her that you’re trying,”

“Huh? Err, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, looking down at his phone, but the beginning of a blush had spread across his face.

Small steps, gentle steps; you didn’t change problems like this overnight. She couldn’t save Junior, didn’t see him slipping through the cracks of the family unit. She couldn’t save him in time, couldn’t make him feel seen before it was too late, but she could save Angel. He was a part of this little family they were building, and she’d keep him safe. She’d make sure he felt safe.

“Pet,” She heard Alastor purr in her ears and she turned her head to look at him. His smile was broad across his face as he spoke— he was beautiful. “I’m afraid I must take my leave to make arrangements for this evening. I’ve instructed Niffty to take care of dinner for the evening so you can focus on dolling yourself up for me tonight,”

Carla bit down on her lip in concern, that was a big task for one so small. “That’s a big meal for such a little one, are you sure we need to go out for dinner? I don’t mind cooking before we leave.”

“I assure you I have never given her a task she cannot excel in. She enjoys cooking just as much as you do. You trust me don’t you, doe?”

She pressed a gentle kiss against his knuckles, and he raised an eyebrow but made no move to take his hand away from her. She felt a shift in the air, the usual soft thrum of static that surrounded them seemed to thicken for a moment before he tilted her head up to steal a soft kiss. She gasped in shock, and he took the opportunity to deepen it.

“You’re bad.” She whispered against his lips and he chuckled.

“You’re mine.” He whispered back, before pulling away.

She watched him as he took his leave, not able to hide the wistful expression on her face. She returned to her sewing circle, and she’d almost feel at peace if she wasn’t blatantly aware of Pentious’ eyes on her.

“Do you trust him?” He hissed, rolling his tongue on the s sound.

“We know our roles, and we play them well.” She replied, her tone clipped.

She had promised Charlie she would try, she would play along. That didn’t mean she owed him any more information than she was willing to give. It was hardly any of his business how she felt about Alastor. Or Kek.

“Forgive my intrusion, I was under the impression you were wed to another,”

Her head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes, her smile still firmly glued in place. The snake eyed her nervously, aware that he had just prodded at a particularly sore nerve. It was laughable, wed to another. Last time Carla checked, death do us part was very much still in her vows. She had waited her whole life to move on, how much time did she owe Clarence? How many tears, how much misery? How many dead kids?

“How interesting; I’m sure Alastor would be very interested in finding out you keep tabs on me.” She said evenly, keeping her smile gentle while she pleaded with her heart to calm itself down.

“Don’t Smiles got a problem with your and Vox’s whole,” Angel said, waving his hand in the air, “situationship,”

“Me and Vox do not have a situationship to discuss. I was never married to Vox ,” She hissed out his name like a curse, a disease.

“Damn, toots, you really hate him,”

She narrowed her eyes in Pentious’ direction, the rage bubbling beneath her skin, threatening to spill over. She was so much more than Clarence’s wife and the mother of his children. She had made a life for herself. She had built entire charities designed to help the needy, the desperate. She had created foundations to help men with mental health problems, and help the young with addictions they weren’t able to deal with on their own. The Gill name was so much more than the legacy he’d left them with. She had built something for her family, her children. He might’ve been the worst of her, but he was by no means all of her.

“I advise you to keep your comments on my love life to yourself in the future,” She said with a tight smile before standing up to dust off her skirt.

She had just about made it to the door, hand on the knob when she felt words that stabbed into her back like thousands of knives.

“I mean no offence, Mrs. Gill ; I just did not think you were that kind of woman,”

She stopped in her tracks, her grip impossibly tight on the handle. They didn’t know her, none of them did. They didn’t know what she’d gone through, what Vox had done to her, to their family, to their children.

She was not just the woman he left behind; she was the woman who survived him.

“You have no idea the kind of woman I am.” She bit back before gently closing the door behind her.

She pressed her back to the door, willing the black hole that had formed in her chest to cease and she began to count to seven, one for each of her beloved kids.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best.

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon.

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She was fine. She was safe. She had done it. She had raised them alone, and she had done a damned good job. She had never needed a man; she had never needed him . It wasn’t her fault what happened. It wasn’t her fault. She had spent an entire life alone, and she would not be told by anyone she didn’t deserve to be happy. Alastor was perfect and she wouldn’t be told otherwise. She lifted her necklace, pressing a gentle kiss to the charm.

Clarence had chosen for death to do them part; she didn’t owe him a damned thing.

She was going to bake a fucking pie.

Carla spent hours in the kitchen baking more than she’d ever know what to do with. Pies were simple, a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. You couldn’t get pie wrong, not when you’d made it so many times. She focused on the latticework, a separate intricate design for each one. They didn’t come out perfect—nothing did in Hell—but they sure were pretty.

“Everyone is in the lounge doing this ‘roleplay’ bullshit,” Husk told her with a grumble.

Carla pulled her final pie out of the oven, a pretty little spider design on the top. She hoped Angel would like it, that it would at least appease a very different hunger deep within the boy.

“...You alright, love?” Husk asked, eyeing all the pies that covered the kitchen counters. She might have to ask Alastor if there was somewhere to donate them all. It wouldn’t do good to waste the ones that wouldn’t get eaten.

“Just a spot of baking,” She said dismissively, untying her apron to hang it on the back of the door.

Once upon a time, Clarence would’ve finished that sentence. ‘Does wonders for the soul, don’t you know?’

She followed Husk to the lounge, content to leave her pies to cool before she dusted them with sugar later. She sat down to join Charlie and Vaggie on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. She looked up at the scene before her, chewing nervously on her lip. She had a sudden urge to call for Alastor through the necklace.

This didn’t look good.

Angel stood in a dark trench coat reading from a terrible script. It was evident that their dear spider was playing the villain to Pentious’ childlike disguise. She felt her stomach drop as the words left the poor boy’s mouth. She clenched her fists in her lap, digging her nails into her palms as she tried to stay present. This was all wrong. This had never been how it went down. It was never a scary man in a dark alleyway; it was always so much closer to home. She could feel herself fading away, disappearing into nightmares that she’d never be free from. That was the true curse of motherhood; you never escaped the guilt of your mistakes.

She stood crouched by a large bed, damp cloth in her hand as she wiped her son’s sweaty brow. He panted heavily, his entire body shaking, and she cooed at him gently. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault ; he just needed some help.

“I’m so sorry Mama, so sorry,” he panted, as she gently dabbed the cloth across his face.

It was hard for Junior, so hard. Clarence had given him everything he had. He got the name, the face, the problems . Carla couldn’t quiet the voices in his head, couldn’t save him from the guilt that plagued his heart. It wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen into the wrong crowd; it wasn’t his fault he just wanted the voices to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby boy. Just a little longer. We just need to get it out of your system, and then Harry’s going to take you to a doctor with Grandpa. Won’t that be good?” She said softly, holding back tears.

“I’m so cold, Mama; I’m freezing to death,”

“I know baby; I know. Mama’s here; I’ll be here all night.” She promised.

She knew Harry was outside the door, pacing angrily. He’d promised to let her do this bit; he meant well, but he was so rough, so angry. It wasn’t his fault either; he was just scared. They’d already lost Peter; already lost Mathew. Their numbers seemed to dwindle every year, and she knew he blamed himself. She couldn’t blame him; she blamed herself instead.

“What about when the voices come back, Mama? I can’t do to my kids what Dad did to us,” He sobbed, and she felt a pang of pain in her chest.

A dark thought crossed her mind, one she quickly flicked away to focus on her son.

I hate you, Clarence. I fucking hate you.

“Mama will be there then too. You just come home to Mama, and I’ll fix you right up. Nothing fairy kisses can’t fix, little champion,” she said quietly.

“I’m so sorry Mama,”

She was breathing heavily as she was unceremoniously dropped back into reality. Her hands were bleeding from where her nails had dug too deep into porcelain skin. That wasn’t the last time Carla had to do that with her Junior, not the last time Harry dragged him to her by the scruff of his neck. Harry was always red in the face; rage always swimming in his perfect blue eyes as he dropped Junior at her feet. Venom laced his voice as he spat at Junior that he didn’t deserve to be his brother, didn’t deserve to be her son, but Carla always calmed him down, sending Harry out to get her things she didn’t need just so he’d feel useful. She knew why he was really angry; he couldn’t fix Junior and he couldn’t stand it.

Junior spent his whole life like that, even when he was married, even when he became a father. Always Harry, always Harry dragging him back to her by the scruff of his neck. He fought so hard, her little soldier, fighting against his need for needles, powders and pills. It was never as simple as just saying no . Carla could feel tears begin to fall down her cheeks, staining her face. He was the same age as Clarence when Harry found him, cold and empty with the final needle in his arm. Her baby boy dragged home one last time, but she couldn’t help him down this time, and Harry held her when she cried. He held her tight and didn’t let go, and she wanted to scream at Charlie .

She wanted to grab her and shake her because she had no idea . She didn’t know what it was like to hold her grandchildren while they sobbed, to hold her daughter-in-law’s hand because she understood. She understood the pain, the tears; the rage . She wanted her son back; she wanted each and every one of them back. She wanted to laugh, to scream in Vox’s face because he wanted to give her the world, but he couldn’t give her back what he’d already stolen.

She looked up to see Charlie hugging Pentious, praising him , while Angel stalked away up the stairs looking dejected. She willed herself to be still, to be calm, to be present.

“You alright?” She heard Husk call out to her, but he sounded a hundred miles away.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Four for Junior. Four for Junior. Four for Junior.

“I do not know who you think you are young lady ,” Carla hissed, unable to hide her anger, “but that was vile ,”

“But…” Charlie tried to say, but Carla interrupted her.

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You have no idea what it’s like to love an addict, and it shows. Have you ever stayed up multiple days to hold them when they come down, to remind them you’re still here; you’re real? Have you ever held your child as they burn but they swear they’re freezing, and they’re so sorry, and you forgive them, you always forgive them knowing they’re going to do it again, and again, and again? It was never as simple as just saying ‘no’. It isn’t some shady guy in an alley. It’s your best friend, your cousin, someone you trust,” Carla ranted, panting, “My Junior was not a bad boy, and he was not unloved. I gave him enough hugs; I drowned that boy in love.”

Her entire body was shaking with rage. Junior was good. Junior was her good boy, he’d just had a hard life. Angel was good too. He just needed help .

“Carla, I didn’t mean…” Charlie began, tears in her eyes, but Vaggie cut her off.

“Leave her alone; you’re upsetting her!”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought to suggest a warning for such content then, sweetheart ,” Carla hissed at Vaggie before turning to Charlie, “It doesn’t matter what you meant . It matters what you did. Angel is not bad because he needs help . You never should have considered having him play ‘the crackhead’.”

She took a deep breath, counting to seven as a cold, suffocating silence washed over them.

One for Harry, her perfect son.

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home.

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys.

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best.

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon.

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She’d go talk to Angel; she’d keep him here; he wouldn’t go out, and he didn’t need to go looking for that stuff. He had everything he needed right here.

“Now, I am going to take a pie up to your big brother’s room and see if I can get him to eat something. I advise you to write a very heartfelt apology,” Carla said, a smile back on her face before she left for the kitchen.

She was barely out of earshot as Charlie whispered to Vaggie.

“Did she just call Angel my big brother?”

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