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callboxkat · 3 years

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Banished (part 1)

Prompt: Banished

Author’s note: Mappy MerMay! (edit: I see the typo and I choose to keep it)

Summary: Janus has been banished from his pod for crimes that he did not commit. However, this merman’s bad luck is far from over. A mer is not meant to live on their own in the open ocean, and as one would expect, things do not go well. Enter: Florida Man.

Chapter Warnings: false accusations, past imprisonment, banishment, treating someone as an outcast, censored swearing, crying, death mentions

Word count: 2415

Banished Masterpost!

Writing Masterpost!

Ao3 Link

@badthingshappenbingo

...

“Janus, third child of Mariana and Glycon, you are hereby banished from this pod, and from all pods who condemn the nature of your crimes.”

Janus had known it was coming, but nevertheless, the merman felt the verdict stab through him like a harpoon. The water around him suddenly felt 10 degrees colder, and the walls of the chamber seemed to loom ever closer, suffocating him.

Banished.

Murmurs rippled through the small crowd. Scales shimmered as the gathered mers, most already hanging on the edges of the chamber, tried to distance themselves further from the outcast. From him.

“You will have until sunset to leave the reef. Should you be found within our territory after the sun sinks below the horizon, the penalty is death.”

Janus simply stared at the merwoman before him, holding herself tall in front of the ornate coral design upon the wall of the chamber, her face stony. Her verdict was final, and Janus knew it. It didn’t matter that he was innocent. Officially, he was a criminal. An outcast. Banished. Trying to fight her decision would only further tarnish his image, and most likely that of the family and friends he left behind.

A part of him didn’t care about that. But the part that did held his tongue.

Janus’s eyes shifted toward the back of the chamber, where he could see most of his family huddled together. His mother was crying, being held by his father. His siblings looked stunned. A part of Janus wanted to call out, to tell them to do something, even though he knew that there was nothing any of them could do to save him. He wasn’t sure they even believed him, that he had not committed these crimes. While they never told him so, their notably few visits while he was in prison spoke volumes.

His eyes slid back to the judge, and he dipped his head in bitter acceptance. His fists tightened, and the long, metal chain attacked to one of his arms clinked softly. It was there both to keep him trapped and to prevent him to use his electric abilities, as if he would ever do something so loathsome and barbaric, even if his family hadn’t been in the room.

The judge raised her hands, and the chamber began to empty. A couple of Janus’s siblings glanced back at him as they left, but mostly, the mers who had come for the show avoided looking at him now. They would not want to be associated with an outcast. He understood, even if anger gathered in his chest. Even his parents refused to look in his direction, and the glances his siblings spared him were brief.

Finally, when all who remained were Janus, the judge, and the guards, two off them swam to his sides and unlocked the chain from Janus’s wrist, one keeping a clawed hand at the back of Janus’s neck as a warning. The cuff was replaced with another, lighter, but permanent one. This one was etched with sharp symbols. Janus closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as it was locked in place, a permanent hindrance to how much of his electricity he could use without harming himself, a solemn marker of his fate, and a warning to all others of his crimes. He would never be taken into another pod, not with that on his wrist. Not unless he could somehow get somewhere far enough away that they might not know what it meant.

At last, the guards let him go. He was allowed to leave. To prepare for his departure, and to say goodbye.

Janus opened his eyes and looked up at the judge, who remained at her post, watching him. He knew that he was supposed to thank her for her mercy, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He figured that the “Go f*ck yourself” he actually wanted to say would do him and his family no favors, so he compromised and simply turned and swam from the room.

His life was over, in every way that mattered.

Outside, the bustling atmosphere of the reef seemed in sharp contrast to the somber mood within the chamber. Fish and other sea creatures weaved between glimmering mers. Cheerful gossip could be heard, as well as mers arguing over prices at colorful stalls, or calling out greetings to each other. Some kids seemed to be trying to see who could get the most pebbles to sail between the fork in a tall spire of coral.

It had been some time since Janus had been “free” this way, which only made the difference feel all the more staggering. To be suddenly thrust back into this normal part of life, even if only for the few hours they allowed him to prepare for his banishment, was… unsettling.

However, the atmosphere wasn’t quite the same as it had once been. None of the mers came close to him, Janus noted, choosing instead to take a longer path to avoid him, even as they acted as if nothing was wrong. As if it were a coincidence that they wanted to swim on the other side of the path. There had always been some nervousness that many mers tended to have around those with abilities like electricity or poison. But this was a whole level or two beyond that.

They knew. Of course they did. He was sure that everybody had been told of his “crimes”. The metal cuff on his wrist burned like a brand, but he refused to rub it, or to hide it with his other hand.

He swam away. He wasn’t even sure where he was going, but soon enough, he found himself at his destination

Of course. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere else.

It wasn’t his home that he found himself approaching, slowing his pace as it came into sight. Most of his family had said their good byes before his sentencing. Instead, he found himself at the home of his best friend: Roman.

Roman hadn’t been at Janus’s sentencing, but it seemed that the merman had somehow known he would come, and had been waiting for him. He was pacing, swimming back and forth between the two large, algae and sea star covered stones that marked the entrance to his property.

As Janus approached, Roman froze, and turned sharply towards him. His face was almost as red as the striping on his gorgeous tail, the pain in his eyes clearly visible with his long hair tied back.

“Janus,” he croaked, and pushed off of one of the rocks, swimming for Janus as fast as he could.

They crashed into each other, Roman’s arms encircling him. Janus choked on a surge of emotion and squeezed his best friend back. It was the first time they’d been this close to each other since his arrest.

“I’m sorry, Jan.”

“It’s okay,” he lied. Perhaps if he could convince Roman, Janus could believe it himself.

…

All too soon, the sky above the water began to turn pink and orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was time to leave.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Roman asked.

The two mermen floated together at the edge of the reef. Behind them, bioluminescent lanterns had begun to glow, and the sounds of life had begun to lull as most everyone went home for the night. Everyone except for them. Janus had a bag strapped to his back, with what few supplies he had allowed himself to bring. Some food, his gloves—which still fit over the cuff that would forever mark him as an outcast, thankfully—some bandages, a compass, and two carvings: one of his family made just after his youngest sibling had been born, and one of Janus and Roman, smiling for the carver.

Roman and Janus had gone back to Janus’s home to fetch the supplies. It had been nice to have Roman there, for his support. Most of his family had avoided him, even though he could tell they were heartbroken. A couple of his siblings had told him good-bye, and to take care of himself. Only his littlest sibling, who probably knew very little of the situation, had hugged Janus. She’d grown, since he’d last seen her. Janus had remained resolutely calm as he clung to her for the last time.

“Of course I’ll be okay,” Janus lied, now, looking out at the dark water.

Roman looked unsure, but Janus only turned and offered a half smile.

“So, uh… where are you going to go?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. Janus still didn’t know how to answer.

“Maybe I’ll find another pod to join,” he shrugged eventually.

Roman’s eyes went to the metal cuff on Janus’s wrist, letters etched within it to symbolize his condemnation. He knew as well as Janus did that no mer pod who knew its meaning would take him, not when it was so clear to see.

“Maybe I’ll cover it up,” Janus said, putting a hand over the cuff self-consciously. He did his best to seem casual about it. He’d been almost defiant, back in the busier part of the reef, but it felt different, with Roman.

“Maybe,” Roman agreed halfheartedly.

“You know those arm bands the guards wear? Maybe I’ll get something like that. Or I’ll get thicker gloves.”

“You are pretty good at weaving,” Roman allowed. “You could make them look nice.”

“Naturally.”

They looked out at the open water.

“You could add some beading,” Roman suggested.

“Sea glass,” Janus nodded.

Roman nodded vaguely. “Oh—Jan, I have something for you.” He took off his own pack and started to dig through it.

“I hope it’s not too heavy,” Janus said dryly. “I’ll probably have to swim pretty far. If you’re giving me one of those statues of yours, I’m going to have to say no.”

“Ah, shut up,” Roman said, smacking his arm lightly. A heartbroken look flashed briefly on his face, and he quickly went back to digging through his pack. “No, it’s… here.” He pulled something out with a small flourish. He looked at it for a second, as if hesitating, then handed it over.

It was a small, red scale, a little bigger than the pad of Janus’s thumb, attached to a cord.

Janus took it in careful hands. “One of yours?”

Roman shifted, tucking his hands behind his back. “Yeah. You know, so you don’t forget about me on all your marvelous adventures to come.”

“I’d never forget you, Roman.” Janus looked down at the scale for a few seconds, tilting it so it shimmered in the fading sunlight. He glanced up, biting his lip. “I’m sorry I don’t have any to give you.”

They glanced down at Janus’s tail. It was sleek, nearly black, with a thick yellow stripe down the center that flared out at the fin, with yellow hints at the fins on his sides and back as well. All in all, it wasn’t all that different from most mers’ tails, except that rather than scales, its surface was made up of smooth, thick skin.

“It’s okay,” Roman said. “I’ll remember you, anyway.”

Janus nodded. He put the necklace around his neck, but kept turning the scale in his hands.

Silence fell over them. Above, the sun seemed to dip further below the horizon, signaling just how little time they had left.

And then Roman began to cry.

“Sh*t,” said Janus, looking down at the ground. “Don’t do that. You’re embarrassing me.” You’re going to make me cry if you keep that up.

Roman shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m trying—I know you want to just act like it’s normal, like this is just a normal night, but—Janus, I’m never—” his voice broke, and he had to take a shuddering breath to continue—“I’m never going to see you again.”

Janus knew that. Of course he knew that. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“This f*cking sucks.”

Roman, still crying, nodded emphatically.

“Come here,” he sighed. He reached out and put his arms around Roman. They floated there for a moment, holding on to each other. Roman’s grip was so tight that it almost hurt. Janus tried to memorize the feeling of his bracelets where they rested against his back, the texture of his hair against the side of his face, the way the merman felt in his arms.

“I just… How are you—how are you just okay with this? Why aren’t you yelling and screaming? Why aren’t you angry? Go fight them on this! Appeal or something. Fight. You’re… it’s not like you to just accept this.”

“It won’t change anything.” Janus said, his chin on Roman’s shoulder.

“You could at least… try.”

“I did try, Roman. I promise you I tried.” All the yelling and swearing and fighting in the world had gotten Janus absolutely nowhere. All his attempts to prove his innocence had been stricken down. One last attempt at an appeal would simply be rejected. It was too late to try, with the sun nearly set; and doing his trial over again would made no difference, anyway. Janus’s fate had been decided the moment he was arrested.

“Damnit,” Roman mumbled. Somehow, he managed to squeeze Janus tighter.

Normally, Janus was not the most cuddly mer in the ocean. But he’d allow it, tonight. …For Roman’s sake.

“What if I let you stay here?” Roman asked. “I could hide you. My parents left me a pretty big property. It has plenty of hiding spaces.”

Janus shook his head. “They’d figure it out eventually. And then they’d just kill us both.”

“Then… then I’ll come with you.”

Janus shook his head. “Roman, what about Patty? We can’t take them with us.”

Roman turned his head briefly away. He didn’t answer, other than to drop his head down so that his forehead rested on Janus’s shoulder, defeated. He never could have abandoned his sibling, or forced them to share Janus’s fate.

The sun sank lower.

“Just tell me you’re going to be okay,” Roman sniveled. “Really. Promise me.”

“Of course I’m going to be okay,” Janus lied. “I promise.”

It was okay that Roman clearly didn’t believe him. It was just what he was supposed to say, wasn’t it?

…

The moment that Janus was far enough from the reef that Roman could no longer see him, Janus broke. He just hadn’t wanted Roman to see him cry.

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emsiesecretstuff · 4 years

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Banished - SG Skyfire (The first half bit of this was written by a friend, guest mod Starscream. Also woop-woop! Second bingo line!)

Megatron knocked at the door lightly. "Starscream? Are you all right?" Really, it was unusual for him to miss a shift without comming or at least sending a message with his trinemates.

"I--I don't think I can make my shift today!" Starscream's voice was strange, high-pitched and shaky. "I'm sorry. I think I have a virus--"

Megatron typed in the override code and the door slid open. The berthroom was dark, but enough light flooded in from the hall outside that he could see Starscream's shocked face--and the ugly bruise that covered the entire left side of it.

Starscream flinched and tried to cover his face with his servos, but it was too late. Megatron strode forward and grabbed his wrists, staring intently into Starscream's optics. Starscream glanced away at the empty wall.

"It--it was an accident--" Starscream stammered. Megatron released his arms and spun on his heel. "Megatron, wait!"

But Megatron did not wait. Could not wait. He exited the room and strode down the hallway, fury burning in his spark. He was vaguely aware of Starscream pulling at his arm, speaking quickly and frantically, but could hardly make out the words.

"--all just a misunderstanding! Megatron! Where are you going?"

Megatron stormed right into the mess hall. All the assembled Decepticons looked up and turned to see the commotion. Jetfire was there sitting alone on one of the tables, he slowly turned up to look at Megatron.

"Get out!" Megatron growled.

"What?" Jetfire asked casually, looking almost bored.

"GET OUT OF MY FACTION!" Megatron bellowed. "I will not tolerate you abusing any of my officers!"

The voice stunned Starscream into silence. Jetfire's optics narrowed.

"This is between me and Starscream, it's none of your business." He dismissed Megatron with a wave of his hand and went back to his drink.

Megatron lunged at Jetfire, punching the shuttle in the face and knocking him on to the floor. Megatron picked him Jetfire by his wings and dragged him out of the room. The Decepticons all followed, watching as Megatron's kept his grip tight on the shuttles wings so he couldn't run away.

When they reached the main door base it slid open to reveal the snowy expanse outside. Megatron then lifted Jetfire over his head and threw him out of the base, the shuttle crashing in the snow.

"NEVER COME BACK!" Megatron shouted, raising his fusion cannon at Jetfire, "If you come anywhere near Starscream or any of my officers ever again I will personally blast off your wings."

Jetfire glared up at Megatron.

"Starscream is mine! You have no right to interfere between us!"

"I have every right when I discover you've been assaulting my best officer! I'll make sure you never go near my second in command again!"

"Starscream!" Jetfire tried to call. Megatron looked over to see Starscream was being held in-between his trinemates. Thundercracker and Skywarp whispering and comforting him, their wings flaring out when Jetfire turned his attention to them. Starscream kept his head turned away, not daring to look at Jetfire.

Jetfire turned back to Megatron and scowled. He stood up, shaking the snow off his frame.

"Very well," he said, activating his thrusters and flying off. Megatron watched, making sure the shuttle was fully out of range.

He turned back to Starscream, still shrunk between his two trinemates. Megatron stepped towards him.

"Starscream..." He whispered softly, reaching to touch the seekers cheek. Starscream looked up at him with fuzzy static filled eyes. He didn't say anything but stepped forward, leaning his head against Megatron's chest and continuing to sob. Megatron simply wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

"There, there... it's alright now."

#BTHB #Banished #SG Skyfire #SG Jetfire #Transformers #Whump #bad things happen bingo #SG Starscream #SG Megatron #SG Megastar #SG SkyStar #Shattered Glass #cw abuse mention #SG Thundercracker #SG Skywarp

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captainkirkk · 3 years

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✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

A collection of fics I’ve read (/reread) and thoroughly enjoyed in the past week-ish from all kinds of fandoms and genres.

BNHA

tell all the truth (but tell it slant) by carolinaa

From: Maybe: Yoarashi Inasa 12:41 WHY is ms joke asking me about you 12:50--Missed call from Maybe: Yoarashi Inasa 12:51--Missed call from Maybe: Yoarashi Inasa 12:52--Missed call from Maybe: Yoarashi Inasa 12:53 PICK UP YOUR PHONE. ARE WE DATING??

Or: Todoroki Shouto covers up his father's abuse with...a different kind of abuse. He's never claimed to be smart.

(BTHB square 3: misunderstanding)

ATLA

blade of silver, forge of blue by MikkiOfTheAnbu

“Blessed Spirit, we thank you for the gift of this child’s life. We are forever in your debt.” The whole village is kneeling now, even the tiniest toddlers flopped down on their stomachs doing their best approximation of a bow. “Please, won’t you give us a name to call you? We would like to properly express our gratitude.”

Oh.

Well shit.

(Where Zuko saves a little Earth Kingdom girl from drowning, the villagers think he's a Spirit, build him a shrine, and long story short, a fake story about the Blue Spirit who dances with dragons suddenly becomes very real.)

Customer Service Solidarity (sometimes means you have to kidnap the fire lord from his own party) by myrskytuuli

They had spent hours and hours drilling and preparing the servers upon the importance of everything being perfect for the new fire lord. This was fine. Jin was good at her job. She could handle one fire lord.

Expect that wasn't the fire lord. That was FUCKING LEE!

It Takes a Village by dancingstar

Zuko is dropped on the edge of the Earth Kingdom, burned, shorn, and banished. He's found again and again, and built up from ashes.

or, the earth kingdom takes a look at Zuko, asks “is anyone gonna raise that?” and doesn’t wait for an answer

Spider-Man

it's up to you, new york by JBS_Forever

“Um, what am I –?” Peter starts, but doesn’t need to go on, because it's clear now what he’s meant to be looking at. There’s a live feed of Twitter posts already pulled up, videos and pictures and text flashing by, each one with the hashtag “WeAreSpiderMan” and moving too quick for him to process.

He blinks, confused. “What – what is this?”

Beside him, Happy breathes out a laugh. “That?” he says, and there’s an amused undercurrent in his voice, knowing and fond, “That’s New York.”

- - -

Or: after Spider-Man's identity is revealed, New York City steps up to support one of their own.

Danny Phantom

do not stand at my grave and cry (i am not there, i did not die) by blueh

“I just—” he hiccups down his ghost sense but feels the cool burning sensation crawl up his throat anyways. He has just enough time to throw a hand over his mouth to cover the blue mist, and sends a desperate look at the clock. There’s still five minutes left in class. He stands up anyways. “I have to go.”

“You have to go?” Sam says. Danny hears the accusation in her voice loud and clear. “Again?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough, Danny! You keep—you keep leaving us! You’re pushing us away!”

His tongue feels like lead and he knows, even if he wants to, he can’t tell them. He cant. So instead, he doesn’t meet her eyes, takes one step back, and repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Sometimes, it feels like it’s the only word he can say these days.

Or: When Danny goes down to the lab and enters that portal at fourteen years old, he goes down alone. This changes things.

Star Wars: Clone Wars

The Past Remains by otherhawk

The war drags on leaving trauma and destruction in its wake. After a bereaved Master is accused of harming his padawan, Obi-Wan is sent to talk to her, dredging up memories of his own past.

These Things Happen by writehandman

Obi-wan Kenobi keeps promoting Cody. The promotion gets out of hand, and suddenly the balance of the universe shifts into the palm of a very competent, caffeinated man.

Care What It Cost by MissjuliaMiriam

Five years after Naboo, Obi-Wan becomes aware that things between Anakin and Qui-Gon have become... tense. The obvious solution is to mediate their difficulties if at all possible.

That is not what happens.

#i know you guys have been waiting ages for it - but here it is #dkjdk sorry about the lateness #this ones a bit longer to make up for it #my posts #fic recs #weekly fic round up #atla recs #bnha recs #marvel recs #dp recs #sw recs

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whumpwillow · 3 years

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whump tropes i like

by no means an exhaustive list as I’m sure there’s more I’m forgetting, but here’s quite a few (mostly garnered from various posts and bthb cards)

—

hiding an injury

knife to the throat

forced to beg

broken ribs

slammed into a wall

stumbling and staggering

trapped in a net

bruises

shot with an arrow

buried alive

impaled palm

grabbed by the hair

through the cold

used as bait

‘more expendable than you’

‘take me instead’

locked in a cage

hand stomp

carved mark

tied to a chair

shock collar

collared and chained

painful wound cleaning

‘leave me alone’

worked himself to exhaustion

nightmares

taking the blame (for what, idk)

self-loathing

sleep deprivation

‘dont you dare pity me’

cry into chest

fever

voice breaking

backhand slap

black eye

‘it’s all my fault’

crying themselves to sleep

prisoner exchange

touch starved

no anesthetic

defeated and trophified

caretaker kissing whumpee’s scars

caretakers gently changing the dressings/bandages of whumpee's wounds and murmuring soothing nothings as they hiss and wince in pain

Brushing their hand through the whumpee’s hair to soothe them

holding them while they cry

Sitting with whumpee while they have their wounds treated, maybe letting them grip their hand as some way of dealing with the pain

Helping whumpee get up when they fall/ helping them walk by letting the whumpee brace themselves on them

Letting the whumpee rest their head on their chest or shoulder

lost their voice from screaming

stitches

whipping

power fatigue / exhaustion

hair matted with blood

caretaker cradling whumpee in their arms

electrocution

muzzled

hiding an illness

conditioning / conditioned whumpees

locked up and left behind

damaged wings

shaking and shivering

grabbed by the chin

hidden scar

passing out from the pain

‘please don’t leave me’

forced to participate in prize fight

taunting

humiliation

captivity

beaten with a cane

panic attack

vivisection

traumatic touch aversion

betrayal

grabbed by the hair

trail of blood

hurts to breathe

‘dont let them see you cry’

on a leash

surrender

shackled / handcuffed

forced to hurt someone

dehumanization

tearful smile

black eye

blindfolded

clawing at own throat

flashbacks

trying not to cry

banished

broken / bloody nose

kick them while theyre down

dissociation

dragged by the ankle

nervous breakdown

bloodstained clothes

fever

bundled up in blankets

betrayal

losing their temper

caught in a storm

bleeding through the bandages

hypothermia

rejected apology

broken angel

magical curse

used in sacrifice / ritual

chained to a wall

survivor’s guilt

tied to a pole

outnumbered in a fight

‘get it over with’

hyperventilating

trust issues

on the run

bounty on their head

hostage video

dragging themselves along the ground

isolation

made a slave

public execution / torture

pleading

reluctant caretaker

misunderstanding

wrongfully accused / arrested

loneliness

‘should have been better’

made a lab rat

trying not to cry

undeserved reputation

branding

pleading

disowned by family / team

hallucinations

forced to kneel / bow

enemy turned caretaker

unhealthy coping mechanisms

bedside vigil

coughing up blood

fainting

memory loss / amnesia

rage against the reflection

delirium

prank gone wrong

compelled / ensorcelled

self blame

disproportionate retribution

truth potion / serum

magical exhaustion

cleaning Whumpers shoes

nervously tapping the bell on their collar

accidental confessions

sorry for the long post, its not letting me add a readmore with the bullets :>

#probably repeated a few of these #feel free to take any because none of them are mine #so many tw warnings #too many to tag them all so just ask for specific ones if you dont wanna see this post #whump #whump tropes #whump trope #whump list #trope #tropes #good tropes #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump ideas

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secretwhumplair · 3 years

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Training Grounds

1,207 words | Original work: No Warrior

Prompt | No-holds-barred beatdown - @badthingshappenbingo

Content | Beating, collar and leash/chain, multiple whumpers, weak whumpee, broken bones, bruises, strangling, starvation, captivity, name-calling, mockery, manhandling, implied: whipping

Notes | Here we gooo! Don’t expect anything chronological, I haven’t been feeling it much so whatever can get written, will get written.

P.S. Apologies to the person who requested “Banished” and was told I would get to it once I started the BTHB back up. I have nothing else to say ^^;

Yves didn’t know how long it had been since he had been outside.

Ergis yanked on the chain attached to the iron collar around Yves’ neck when he hesitated for the briefest of moments, blinking into the unfamiliar light. Yves went sprawling, the gravel cutting into his palms when he desperately tried to catch himself. His arms gave as easily as his legs, trembling already just from walking here from his cell. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He had no strength left at all.

Not that he’d had much of it to begin with.

Ergis laughed, and called to the other knights. “Look at him!”

A hard kick landed in Yves’ side, darkly bruised already, and his breath caught in his throat with the exploding agony. Before he could even breathe again, he felt the chain tighten, and desperately tried to scramble back onto his feet. It would have been easier if every movement didn’t hurt so much, if his every limb wasn’t trembling with exhaustion.

It was a vain struggle, and he felt his windpipe close as the metal dug into his neck. He couldn’t so much as gasp for air while the gravel tore into his legs and arms as he was dragged along helplessly. Dark spots swam into his vision. He could hear laughter, but it sounded distant.

He couldn’t make out where they were going, but eventually the pull on the collar relented, and he collapsed onto the ground - dust now - trying to catch his breath, trying to figure out what was going on, what they wanted this time, please-

Something hard hit him in the back.

“Get up.”

When he didn’t respond immediately, he was kicked again. He thought he felt his battered ribs shift inside of him.

“Get up, runt.”

Trembling with pain and fear and weakness, Yves forced his elbows underneath him.

Not fast enough. Another kick, this time to his buttocks, collapsed him into the floor again like a house of cards. He whimpered, but he knew no one heard over their laughter - and even if they did, they wouldn’t care.

One of them grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up like a naughty puppy until he stood on shaky legs, gasping for air once more. The object that had hit him when he was on the ground clattered down beside him.

It was a practice sword, little more than a short staff of hard wood.

“Go on, pick it up.”

Ergis was still next to him, smirking maliciously. Yves’ eyes darted away from him. They were out on the training grounds. Eight of the other knights were surrounding them - none of them less than a head taller than Yves - each holding their own practice sword, their trained and well-nourished muscles half-hidden under leather armour.

He could see where this was going, nausea rising in his throat. “Please,” he whispered, knowing it was hopeless.

Ergis grabbed him by the nape of the neck, hard. “Hmm? Wasn’t this what you wanted? Train with us?” He grinned down at Yves, showing his teeth. It was true - it had been true - he had always wanted to be one of them. He had always been told he was too small, too weak, even before. And now-

“There, we’re going to do you the favour.” Ergis effortlessly kicked the practice sword up into his hands, then thrust it at Yves. “Take it in your hands or take it to the face, runt.”

Yves clasped the thing with trembling hands. The weight dragged at his starved arms. He couldn’t hope to mimic the knights’ confident stances - and even if he could, he wouldn’t have dared, they would only beat it out of him, again.

Ergis went over to the knight who was holding his practice sword, grabbed it lightly and twirled it. Even just watching, Yves felt the echo of the blow on his body. He couldn’t hold back a sob as they all stood there for a moment, leering at them like wolves at an injured fawn.

Then Ergis strode at him, barking, “Defend yourself!”

He barely managed to raise his weapon before Ergis swung at him. The blow came with such force that it drove both practice swords into Yves’ chest, biting hard into the tattered skin under his thin shirt. He stumbled back with a wail of pain, only to feel himself hit with as much force from behind, across the whipmarks crisscrossing his back. He was thrown forward like a ragdoll and fell hard on his knees. “Plea-”

Ergis didn’t wait for him to finish before he struck him in the side, sending him tumbling to the ground again, old pains flaring into new ones. “Come on now, runt! Who knows, if you impress us, maybe we’ll let you join us after all!”

Rauscous laughter erupted from the group while Yves tried to pull himself into a ball, protect himself as best as he could, not that it would help, they could manhandle him into whatever position they wanted and the tears streamed down his face.

More blows to his back, several in quick succession this time, driving whatever thought he might have had out except please-

“I said, get up,” Ergis growled.

He couldn’t disobey. It would get worse. He didn’t know how it could possibly get worse, but it would. He forced himself up onto all fours, whispering “please” with every pant.

“You know, it almost looks like you don’t want this after all.”

Another sharp blow hit his tormented ribcage, his scream dying as the air was driven out of him again.

He barely managed to stay up on all fours before two more blows hit him, from different directions, and he instinctively crouched down, drew himself together. “Please-”

“You should get up.” That was Artiès’ voice, more refined than Ergis’, cruel not like a mace but like deadly venom.

But Yves had to obey. It was the only thing he could do. He tried to regain his balance, brought a leg under himself with effort.

A sharp, precise thrust hit the back of his knee, digging deep and forcing him back down with a scream. Before he could process the clawing pain, more blows rained down on his back, into his sides until he couldn’t draw a single breath. He desperately wrapped his arms around his head, only for both of them to be hit simultaneously, his left arm cracking with a searing jolt.

“Get up, runt! C’mon!”

He didn’t know how long it lasted. It could have been hours. It could have been days. It felt like an eternity.

But finally, when their prey could hardly move any longer. they’d had enough.

He could do nothing but remain lying on the ground, covered in dirt and blood and agony. “Please,” he whispered, still. “Please.” Over and over to the throbbing rhythm of his blood pressing into, through, out of his injuries. He couldn’t even tell anymore whether there was anyone there to hear him.

Until someone grabbed him by the chin to drag him up. Every inch of him protested in pain. “No, please, no-”

“You still want to train with us, runt?” Ergis asked, every word dripping with smug glee.

#whump #whump writing #bthb #no holds barred beatdown #beating #multiple whumpers #weak whumpee #strangling #starvation #broken bones #collar #captivity #my writing #no warrior #yves #the knights

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Note

66 Kayo

Worst Case Scenario

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Kayo, Grandma, Tracy Brothers

Watch me run around trying to find which list this references ‘cause it’s been three months, whoops. On the plus side, barring BTHB stuff (which I’ll get back around to one day, I promise), that’s anything 2020 cleared from my inbox now :D

Okay, I think I found it (or this is just my favourite of the options I found...) so...

#66 “Calm down, calm down, you were just dreaming.”

More Kayo territory, because I definitely don’t write her much, oops. Well, here goes. Let’s see what my muse thinks of this.

100 Whump Dialogue Prompts

Her hands were shaking. Trembling. Out of her control in a way that was so, so wrong, because Tanusha Kyrano had to be in control, all the time. In control of her anger, so easily ignited that a stray ember could flare it up, in control of her fear.

And it was fear that had her hands shaking. Trembling like they hadn’t done since he’d betrayed her, the kind uncle transforming in the blink of an eye to a monster. A cruel, cruel monster who tore apart the loving family that took her in and poured so much salt on the wounds she was sure they’d never heal - would be raw forever more.

Mr Tracy had kept her secret. Mrs Tracy - Grandma, she insisted - was still keeping it, but secrets had a way of getting out. Kayo knew that, because finding other people’s secrets was half of her job. She had to know what she was protecting her family from, after all. There was a ticking time bomb, sands trickling through the hourglass, flames licking along the fuse.

One day, her brothers would find out that she was the niece of a monster. They’d hate her, shun her, banish her and all she’d have left was the same monster.

Except there was no one day any more. Scott’s temper was as hair-trigger as hers, and she didn’t know how it had slipped out, exactly, but those blue eyes were a white-hot inferno, simultaneously too hot to bear and too cold. She’d been his sister, blessed enough to have those blues gaze upon her with the same love he bestowed upon his brothers, but that love was gone.

“How could you?” he shouted, loud enough to make her ears ring. He’d always had a powerful voice, but this... she’d never heard it like this before. “We trusted you and this whole time you’ve been sabotaging us! You were our head of security! How much does your uncle know about us? What have you been telling him every time you’ve left our earshot?”

No, she wanted to interrupt, to cry, but Scott was a steamroller and there was nothing she could do against the full force of the man she’d been so proud to call her big brother. He wouldn’t let her call him that any more.

Behind him, the rest of them regarded her. But not with the icy inferno of Scott’s gaze. Gordon was nearest, amber eyes aflame with a roar that told her Scott only needed to give the word and the military man he kept shut behind the light-heartedness would tear her apart. She didn’t know if she’d stop him if he did.

The other pair of brown eyes, warm like honey, were tainted and dripping with sadness. Betrayal manifested itself as disappointment in the bear of the family, the how could you do this to us a physical weight crushing her even though Virgil didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood steadfastly behind his eldest brother like he always did. It almost hurt worse than the accusations Scott was lashing out with no break.

John wasn’t even looking at her; razor sharp turquoise was assessing the woman he saw, dismantling her piece by piece as he so obviously tried to work out what he’d missed, why he hadn’t seen the Hood in everything she was. How she’d managed to hide it, even from the all-seeing Eye in the Sky. She was nothing but a puzzle to him now, one that had eluded him for so long it was now a personal affront. He wouldn’t stop until he’d torn her to shreds.

Worst of all were the baby blues, wide in disbelief and horror. “Why, Kayo?” The words slipped from Alan’s lips in a breathless plea to understand - why she was related to his family’s greatest enemy, why she’d betrayed them all like that, why, why, why, why, why - and even though Scott’s tirade should have drowned them out, she heard them clear as day.

Tears sprang from her eyes, her shaking, useless, hands unable to move to wipe them away, and her vision blurred.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, tongue tripping over itself and a sob interrupting her words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-”

A hand landed on her shoulder and she flinched hard. It was firm and unrelenting, and instinct had her lashing out even though she knew she deserved it, whatever it was.

“Kayo!” The voice was raspy and female and familiar. “Kayo, calm down.”

She blinked, tear-blurred vision obscuring the still ranting Scott and the betrayed wall of Tracys. His words were fading out, fuzzing into background noise as the other voice cut through.

“Calm down.”

It was with a hoarse gasp that her eyes flew open, still tear-blurred, but the blue of Scott wasn’t there any more. There was purple instead, with silver and beautiful blue eyes that still looked at her with so much love.

“They hate me,” she sobbed, curling up into a ball to protect herself against the world. “They found out, and they hate me, Grandma.”

“You were just dreaming,” the older woman promised her. Slightly wrinkled but firm hands grasped her still-trembling ones and enveloped them with warmth and love. “It was just a dream, dear.”

Then Grandma was there on her bed, somehow pulling her close under her arm despite Kayo outgrowing her years ago, and running her fingers through unbound black hair.

Kayo burrowed into the support, the one living Tracy that knew and didn’t hate her.

“But they will find out,” she whispered, tears slowing but not stopping as reality sank in and it registered that it hadn’t happened. Not yet. “And they’ll hate me when they do.”

Grandma sighed. “Have a little faith in your brothers, Kayo,” she murmured, her hand not stopping its gentle strokes through her hair. “They won’t hate you. It’s not your blood who makes you who you are, it’s your choices. And you chose them. You keep choosing them every day, despite your fears, because deep down you know they won’t hate you for it.”

“But-”

“No buts, dearie. Trust your brothers, and trust yourself. It’ll turn out alright when the day comes. I promise.”

Kayo wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe her so badly. But her hands were still trembling, her tears were still falling, and she still felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Because trust was the problem, wasn’t it? They trusted her with their lives - constantly trusted her to keep them safe - but they didn’t know who her uncle was, didn’t know that the threat was a lot closer to home than they could ever imagine.

And Kayo knew she should tell them, tear the band-aid off and let everything come clean like Grandma kept hinting she should do, but every time the thought crossed her mind, the same fear of rejection paralysed her.

One day. One day, the truth would come to light. She just hoped it was because she’d finally found the courage to confess.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #kayo kyrano #grandma tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #thunderangst #drabbles #moonlight-huntress #worst case scenario

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prodbionic · 3 years

Text

A Turbulent Horizon

Summary: A long day of tedious investigations and alibi checks ends with a high note. Very high. 15000 feet up in the sky to be exact. Then it goes south, real fast.

Written for the "Falling from a great height" prompt on my @badthingshappenbingo card

Fandom: Prodigal Son (TV Show)

Characters featured in the prompt fill: Malcolm Bright, JT Tarmel.

Chapters: 4 Word Count: 17k

Status: Complete

Read on AO3

Read the prompt fill scene under the cut

Other bthb card fills: x

Keeping his eyes closed, Malcolm hopes to filter out the dizzying sight of the open plane door, but the pressure behind his eardrums makes his efforts in vain, the vertigo persists. Feeling as if his brain is swimming inside his skull, every sound registers as if coming from beyond a barrier, making for a weird feeling of otherness. Like he's watching and hearing through someone else's eyes and ears.

He responds to his partner through the haze anyway.

"You go, JT. I uhh… I'll figure s-something out."

The profiler hears the huff of exasperation.

"Dude! I will not leave you behind."

Malcolm opens his eyes to find a look of dismay at his offer reflected in JT's eyes. And dare he say, an unwavering conviction in his ability to save both of them.

In all honesty, Malcolm won't 'figure something out', he knows he won't. JT seems to know it as well.

He just wants JT to save himself if he can and leave Malcolm to his fate. It's all the profiler's fault.

"I rigged something up."

At Malcolm's squint at the straps JT's pointing at, he continues, "don't worry, it'll work!"

He's got his breath under better control, now that the initial shock abated, of how he managed to be the cause of someone's death. Not one, but two people... at once. Never mind that Dave is, (was, the ever-present voice in his head corrects him) most certainly a serial killer. But Kyle… he should've at least been able to save Kyle.

Now that the certainty of Malcolm's impending doom is settled in his rattling bones, he clenches his trembling jaw and swallows, and tries to banish the image of Kyle's devastated face from his mind as he responds to his current companion.

"JT, I'm not doubting you. I'm doubting the physics of nature. And myself. This must be a one-person parachute, it won't take both our weights. You need to save yourself, think about Tally and your baby."

How he managed to stitch all of these words together is beyond him, but he trudges along with a shake of his head and confesses through gritted teeth and a throat threatening to lock up at any second.

"My muscles are... locked up. I'm terrified. I know I won't be able to make myself jump into...", he swallows in a vain attempt to wet his parched mouth, "... the fucking clouds."

Saying the words out loud is enough to paint a vivid picture in his brain of his body falling weightless, endlessly through a hungry void that swallows him and spits his shattered bones inside skin splattered on the ground, like a watermelon that took a long hard plummet onto the asphalt.

It's enough to send him through a spiral once again, his breathing uneven, his open eyes unseeing.

His friend drags him out of his head when he suddenly stands from his crouched position in front of Malcolm and moves close.

Too close.

He bends and extends his hands towards Malcolm's seat belt, forcibly removes Malcolm's white-knuckled grip, and unclips the buckle while Malcolm eyes him with more than a little trepidation.

"JT what a-are you doing?"

He doesn't get an answer. Instead, he gets gently shoved forward. Malcolm winces at a twinge he feels in his side but gets distracted when JT settles behind him and proceeds to strap him against his torso.

"JT stop."

Around his chest just under his armpits, the first rope loops, and a knot tightens.

"Let me go, JT"

Around each shoulder is next. JT just manhandles his body, raises his stiff uncooperative legs one by one to loop the rope around his thighs, tightens a knot.

All the while ignoring Malcolm's pleas.

Malcolm feels he's descending headfirst into a deep pit of hysteria.

When the next loop goes around his stomach, Malcolm gasps as sharp pain flares low in his side, above his left hip. Instantly JT removes his hands and puts them up and away.

They both see it at the same time. Blood coating the detective's fingers.

"Why didn't you say something, Bright?!"

JT's concern was hidden behind a wall of stoic steady voice and a clenched jaw.

Malcolm was baffled himself.

"I… hadn't noticed."

Dave must've gotten him with that small blade during their scuffle. Now that he's aware of it, he can't help but recognize the flare of pain and the wet spreading warmth.

"We'll take care of it when we land." The calm, almost detached voice of his partner responds while he resumes making another loop, raising it higher than the bloody gash to rest under his pecs.

"I don't wanna do this, JT". Malcolm's voice is barely a whisper, almost swallowed by the shrieking wind swirling inside through the open door and the roar of the engine. "Don't make me do this."

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'll do the doing. You just hang in there. Up with me." JT stands up slowly, supporting Malcolm by practically hugging him from his position behind him.

"I don't want you… to die… because of me."

Malcolm says haltingly while trying to get his legs steady under him to make JT's job easier. It takes a few seconds before he manages it, mainly because he has a wall of a man behind to lean on, who doesn't respond to Malcolm's statement.

JT then puts his hand flat on Malcolm's chest in a soothing gesture that fails spectacularly against his heart trying to beat a way out through his sternum.

"C'mon"

JT urges him to take a step, and another. The door is only two tiny steps away and Malcolm's breathing is so out of control he's taking in short bursts of air that don’t push enough oxygen into his lungs. And it's so cold. So cold he's freezing, his extremities are numb and his panting breaths are making puffs of white clouds that are ripped away as soon as they form, courtesy of the wind blowing through the door.

The door through which he's looking into a part of the sky no one should be looking at, not without a barrier. He's practically hugging the clouds. In a few seconds, he'll be falling through them.

His legs falter. If it weren't for JT's grip on him and how they're tethered together chest to back, he would've slumped to the ground from how weak his legs feel, how his muscles tremble from head to toe. This questionable tether is doing a good job now, but out there… down there… Malcolm has the fleeting vivid image of him ripping away from JT.

"I'm sorry, Bright. I'll apologize for the next year if necessary but I won't forgive myself if I leave you here. Take a deep breath."

As soon as Malcolm complies with the order as best he could, he’s pushed the remaining distance.

Suddenly there's no ground beneath his feet.

Time slows down.

So much so that for the first few milliseconds he thinks he's dreaming.

He's falling weightless in a nightmare and jerks in fear, expecting to wake up in bed, putting an end to the horrible feeling of plummeting.

Except, the first few milliseconds pass, and he's still falling… and falling.

Time starts to catch up to him. Or he starts to catch up to real-time

The breath he sucked before falling seizes in his chest and he stops breathing completely, so overcome by fear and the sensations flooding his systems.

Wind slapping at his face, blowing at his arms which feel like they could've been ripped away if it weren't for being flimsily attached at his shoulders.

His insides are plummeting, ahead of him. Or being sucked away from him, it feels, and he just can't catch up.

And he still can't breathe.

Seconds pass, or minutes, or hours. He just doesn't know.

Thoughts are frozen in his brain.

Breath is arrested in his lungs.

Blood is suspended in his veins.

It is so. damn. cold.

And his heart is in overdrive in his chest.

Strong arms enfold his chest from behind, and he's suddenly yanked sideways in a swirling, dizzying motion that stops as soon as it starts but it leaves him reeling.

He doesn't know exactly what happened except he's now falling on his back resting on JT's front.

And it is worlds different.

It's so different he could cry with how grateful he feels.

He's still falling, but the assault on his body lessens significantly.

Bellowing voice enveloped with a warm breath shouts near his ear, "Breathe, Malcolm!"

The command accompanied by a tug on his unmoving chest for emphasis breaks the spell.

The invisible band loosens its hold on his lungs. He sucks in a breath, one of a drowning man breaking the surface. Followed by another… and another… and another. Until he forgets for a second that he's falling through the sky, all that he thinks of is the air finally filling his lungs, feeding his body with the oxygen it's sorely lacking.

"Good! Keep breathing!" JT yells again and continues,

"I'll count before I flip us back to deploy the chute. Then I will have to remove my arms. Don't panic. I got you, Bright! Okay?"

Malcolm gives a jerky nod. He doesn't think he can speak right now.

JT seems confident. He appears to be experienced with jumping.

It must've been a skill he got from the army. How many times could he have jumped from planes to be this level-headed with a freaking out mess of a person in his arms? Could this experience be triggering for the veteran? Dredging up old unwanted memories? Or had he already made peace with them?

Malcolm feels a tiny bit bad about following this line of thought and using his profiling brain to fill in blanks about his friend, to assume knowledge about him that he did not willingly share.

But he needs to get out of his own head, and this helps.

Until the countdown starts in his ear, just as JT promised.

Malcolm braces himself as best he can. Mentally. There's nothing he could do to brace himself physically. Except involuntarily clench his muscles which are already rigid.

JT does the yanking move again and it goes smoother this time. Smoother doesn't mean anything in the face of the slapping wind punching the breath out of him again, but he tries to breathe anyway.

Because people do this all the time... for fun. It's statistically more likely to die from a bolt of lightning than from skydiving. He ought to be able to have better control of himself.

But… they're lacking the proper equipment to be included in this statistic. Fuck, he's spiralling again. Stop thinking, Bright.

He succeeds in pulling tiny regular breaths and counts it a win. Malcolm feels that passing out from the sheer disorientation and the pressure behind his ears would be bliss if it happened.

Now comes the next step of the plan. The loss of JT's arms feels like a gut punch and he struggles to stem the trickling panic before it floods him.

He doesn't get much time to dwell on it, because merely seconds after JT removes his arms from around Malcolm's chest, the parachute opens.

Suddenly and violently he's pulled up and sideways. It's a whiplash. His lungs arrest and his throat closes.

Every rope around him becomes so taught to the point of being suffocating, and it hurts. But his shoulders! His right shoulder explodes with pain so excruciating he screams.

And they're still being pulled up, and up. They're being flung this way and that way until he stops making sense of direction.

There's only the agonizing pain in his shoulder that has depleted his oxygen with the scream. And there's a vortex in his skull that's trying to take away his consciousness, from all the tumbling like they're inside the world's largest dryer machine.

He has no idea what's happening. Except that it shouldn't be like this if it's working.

It shouldn't be like this if they're going to make it.

There's no reason the both of them should die.

Malcolm doesn't want to be the reason JT dies.

If he could cut his bindings he would. But he can't even feel his fingers anymore.

And he still can't breathe.

Distantly, he hears JT shouting angrily.

"Damn it! Shit shit shit!"

And they're now free-falling again instead of being pulled sideways. His stomach plummets and his insides tingle vigorously.

JT yells at him,

"Brace yourself!"

It's a jolt to his senses.

He hears a loud flapping sound and concludes with the last dredges of his coherent thoughts that JT must've gotten rid of the main parachute.

Malcolm extends his left arm trying to support his right arm somehow, to spare his screaming shoulder from another assault.

He doesn't get much purchase before the backup parachute opens.

Once again they're violently catapulted upwards.

Once again Malcolm can't hold back his scream.

His right shoulder feels like it's being split open, his arm severed from it.

The pain blinds him to anything else. His world is a black sea of agony, he’s drowning in it.

Finally, the black consumes him.

***********

JT is in a tug of war over the toggles against the wind. Trying to stabilize a chute with extra weight against the forces of nature this high up, is making him tap into reserves of expertise that have been collecting dust for so long.

Malcolm is limp against him, seemingly passed out. Must be a blessing for the guy and JT's glad. His shoulder got hurt pretty bad when JT deployed the main. The drag force must've pulled on a knot in the rope that wrenched his arm and dislocated his shoulder aggressively.

Unfortunately, the wind knocked them off and flung them over until the chute ropes twisted around to the point of being unsalvageable, so JT had to let it go to deploy the reserve. That was the KO for Bright.

His shoulder must be mangled now and he's going to be in so much pain when he wakes up.

But he's alive. JT can live with that.

What he couldn't live with, is leaving him for dead.

And Malcolm thought that bringing up his wife and kid would, what? Make JT scurry away? Tally and his kid are a big reason why he wouldn't leave Bright behind. How would he look his family in the eyes, knowing he'd just left his teammate for dead without even trying?

That's not the code he lived his life by, and he wasn't gonna start today.

It's absurd that Malcolm the profiler extraordinaire thought for a second that JT would agree to that ridiculous offer in the first place.

Especially not when all of this is JT's fault. He really shouldn't have agreed to take that flight. He may have gotten used to going along with the harebrained plans of their resident profiler because more often than not, said profiler was right and his plans got them quicker results that ultimately saved more people.

He'll have to find a way to desensitize himself against this acquired habit and fall back more on his own instincts and training.

First, he has to get them back alive. Preferably in one piece each.

He surveys the terrain below with the fading light on the horizon after the sunset. This high up he can still see plenty, so it's his only chance to choose the safest place to land them. Once they get to the ground there'll be next to no light.

Down there is a wooden area. A little ways ahead there's a stream. He has no clue where they are and whether they crossed the state line. JT decides not to think too much about it, let it be a problem for later.

The closer he gets to the ground, a trail cutting through the trees becomes clearer. It's more convenient for landing. He stirs the chute towards it.

JT pulls hard on the toggles to flare the canopy preparing to land as softly as possible, at the same time he levers Bright's legs with his own so they can touch down sitting and sliding on their bums. He will not cause Malcolm any more injuries if he can help it.

His core muscles are clenched so tight they're practically trembling from how much strain it's taking to keep his position in the air, lifting his legs up in front of him, plus the added effort of holding Malcolm's limp ones in the same manner. The muscles of his arms, chest, shoulders, and back are all exhausted from maneuvering the parachute. If it wasn't for the adrenaline pumping his muscles with extra energy he'd keel over from fatigue. It still might happen once they're on the ground, which is finally so close to meeting them.

JT's plan works perfectly. They land exactly as he intends and Malcolm begins to stir from his slumber a little while they're sliding on the soft ground. Once they stop, JT quickly unlatches all the buckles attaching him to the billowing canopy behind, then starts on the knots of rope around Malcolm whose eyes are fluttering open.

He's extra careful around his right shoulder, which looks horribly disarranged even through the many layers of Malcolm's attire.

Thankfully, the younger man is still not fully online, so while JT's at it, he removes the suit jacket as well and feels the area with his fingers to get an idea of what they're dealing with. The head is clean off the socket, but more concerningly are the muscles that are already swollen and inflamed. And they're only going to get worse without a proper muscle relaxant and icing.

Malcolm whimpers softly, his eyes glassy, roaming, and unfocused.

JT haphazardly folds the jacket one-handed and lowers Malcolm's upper body slowly so that his injured shoulder is supported by the makeshift cushion.

Unfortunately, It's a moonless night, but he tries to take a look at the cut low on Malcolm's side anyway. With how the darkness of the night is bathing everything in black, he can't see much. He can at least feel that it's not gushing blood, so that's something.

Bright's awareness starts to trickle in. With it, the pain begins to register, as evident by the frantic short gasps. JT needs to distract him.

"Hey, hey Bright! We made it man, we landed. Look around."

He looks around with just his eyes. JT assumes it would be painful to move his neck. There's not much to see anyway, except some distant twinkling stars casting shadows through the trees.

"Wow." Malcolm's shredded voice is soaked with disbelieving wonder, the hand of his uninjured arm moving in the ground, grabbing a handful of dirt. Looks like the knowledge that he's now safe on solid land is helping him settle the emotional turmoil. He clears his throat a little. "Landed where?"

(continue on ao3)

#prodigal son #malcolm bright #jt tarmel #fanfiction #badthingshappenbingo #falling from a great height #ao3 #writing #writing fanfiction #whump #whump community #whump fic #*

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collapse-and-comfort · 3 years

Text

BTHB Part 5 ~ Serum Injection

The fifth fill for my @badthingshappenbingo card! This was inspired by this prompt by @heartlesslywhumping. I’ve had that prompt in mind for a very long time and I finally got around to writing something for it!

Square Filled: Serum Injection

Fandom: Original Work

Word Count: 2,473

CW: Needles/forced drugging in a (sort of) medical setting

“No, stop! What are you doing?!” Blix shouted as the men in gray dragged him into the room. “What are you doing?!”

They gave him no answer as he strained against them. They pulled him back toward the bed in the middle of the room. He should have fought. He should have bared his fangs and punched and kicked, or even used his power. But instead, he’d tried to understand, tried to reason with them.

“I didn’t do anything!” He heard the way his voice cracked and he heard the desperate squeak of his boots on the floor.

“Doesn’t matter,” one of them grunted.

The four men hauled Blix’s lean body onto the bed with coordinated, unyielding force. He tried to shove them away, but they pinned his down arms and his legs. He arched his back and let out a frustrated breath.

“Let me go,” he tried as he flattened himself back down to regroup. His voice was edging close to begging. “Please.”

They didn’t acknowledge him. Blix imagined that, from their perspective, they may as well have been handling a wild, senseless beast. His mind screamed for his team to come and save him. Wren would have gone for Bowen by now. They were coming for him; they had to be.

His gaze leaped from face to face, but he found no sympathy on any of them. He searched for something, anything, that would help him. There was nothing. A man in a white coat, carrying a vial and a hypodermic needle, entered his line of sight. Blix went deathly still for a moment and his dark eyes went wide.

“What’s that?! What are you doing?!”

Blix’s tongue suddenly felt clumsy in his mouth.

“Shh,” the man said as he stuck the needle into the vial. “I assure you it’s perfectly harmless.”

Blix began to struggle again as the man - a doctor? -drew the violet liquid into the syringe. He snapped the cylinder, then pushed the plunger, forcing out some of the liquid. The drops glinted in the light as they rose, then plummeted. Blix shook his head from side to side as the doctor stepped closer.

“What is that?” he asked again. His heart slammed in his chest as he eyed the needle. He could hear the hysterical pitch his voice was reaching alongside his short, rabid breaths, but he was far beyond caring how it sounded.

“You don’t have to do this!” he yelled as he bucked. “No! Please don’t! Nonono.”

“Be still,” the doctor said. He put a firm, gloved hand on Blix’s jawline and turned his head to expose his neck. “You’ll just feel some discomfort.”

He was right. To Blix’s humiliation, he whimpered and screwed his eyes shut as the needle pierced his vein. The doctor was expressionless as he depressed the plunger, then withdrew the needle. The serum’s cold burn made Blix’s eyes go wide and he could feel the sting of tears.

“It’s done,” the doctor said without any discernible warmth or commiseration. Blix began to struggle again, but whatever was coursing through him forced his head back down and made the room spin.

What’s done? What did you do? He thought. His head lolled to the side; he looked at the still-open door and longed to see his boss and Wren come through.

Blix’s world lurched and he moaned as his fear and panic transformed.

---

Even after Bowen accepted payment for the job his team completed, he smiled and nodded and continued a dialogue with the man who paid them. Maintaining positive trade relations had become instinct over the years, and working with this station could potentially be very lucrative. In his mind, though, The Ferox was touching down on a planet without development or inhabitants. It had been too long since he’d taken anything resembling a vacation.

The team won’t be opposed to a break, he thought.

“I have another job for you and your team if you’re interested,” his client said.

It was Bowen’s impulse to say yes, but before he could, Wren found them. Bowen stopped shy of introducing his second-in-command when he saw that Wren’s ash-blond hair was more disheveled than usual and his lip was split.

“They took Blix,” Wren said.

“Who did?” Bowen asked.

“Some assholes in gray uniforms,” Wren said as he swept his hair back. His jaws were set and his shoulders were squared.

Before Bowen could ask where Blix had been taken, their client spoke up.

“Is your friend, by chance, Ventrexi?”

“Half,” Bowen said.

“Why does that matter?” Wren asked.

“I’m relatively new to this place,” the client said. “But long story short, if a Ventrexi visits this territory, they’re required to be medicated to prevent the threat their psychic abilities present.”

“That’s bullshit! Blix wouldn’t do anything like that!”

Bowen put a hand on Wren’s shoulder.

Easy, he willed him, though Wren was absolutely right.

“Unfortunately,” their client said as he crossed his arms and cast a wary glance at Wren, “That’s not a risk The Commission is willing to take. They probably took him to The Well.”

The client shrugged and minutely rolled his eyes when he saw that Bowen and Wren were nonplussed.

“I don’t know. It’s just what they call the place they take the Ventrexi if they have to.”

Bowen and Wren made their way easily enough, and they found themselves in a quiet, well-ordered section of the station. Bowen hadn’t known what to expect, but this wasn’t it. The pale gray walls and low lights purveyed a sense of drab, clinical calm that made him eager to get back to their ship.

A man in a white coat looked up from the screen he’d been focused on.

“Can I help you?” he asked as he looked over the pair as he awaited the answer to his dispassionate inquiry.

“One of my crew was brought here,” Bowen said. His voice was direct, but not antagonistic. He hoped it would remain so. “We’ll be taking him with us.”

“The young Ventrexi-”

“His name’s Blix,” Wren bit out.

The doctor looked between the two before continuing.

“I can’t allow him to leave. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Bowen asked. He kept his voice calm despite the fact he could feel his temper flaring. In his periphery, he could see Wren take a step closer to the doctor, who either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

“I administered the medication his people are required to have,” he said. “Unfortunately, he seems to have had a reaction to it.”

“What sort of reaction?” Bowen asked as he narrowed deep his gray eyes at the doctor.

“Not to worry,” the doctor said. “He’s being monitored closely.”

“I asked you what kind of reaction,” Bowen said, letting any pretense of cordiality slip away. The doctor seemed to weigh his options before answering.

“He’s disoriented,” he began. “His heart rate is elevated. I’m afraid he grew too agitated and we were forced to restrain him.”

Wren let out a low growl and Bowen worried it wasn’t just for show. He raised a hand up, calling for stillness and reason, though he was wrestling with it himself. The doctor didn’t balk at Wren’s deep, angry vocalization.

“Duomorphs are interesting creatures,” the doctor offered with a cold half smile. Intrigue glittered in his eyes as he regarded Wren. It added unease to Bowen’s ire.

“Take us to Blix,” Bowen said. He refused to take whatever emotional bait the doctor thought he was dangling. Apparently, thankfully, so did Wren.

The doctor nodded and gave Wren another thoughtful glance before turning and guiding them behind closed doors and into an equally sombre hall, the length of which boasted three observation rooms on each side.

Bowen’s own name reached his ears, and he and Wren sped down the hall until they found Blix on the opposite side of a window.

“Bowen?!” Blix called as he tugged at the restraints around his wrists. “Help! Help me, please! I’m sorry! Please?! Wren?!”

“He can’t see you,” the doctor told them as thought it would lessen the pain of what they saw. “Two-way glass.”

Wren tried to open the door to the room, but found it locked. A bustling rescue wasn’t going to be the order of the day and Bowen could see the anger mount in Wren when he realized that.

“Get him out of here,” Wren demanded as he wrenched at the knob again. His eyes flashed like hellfire. “Now.’”

Shit, Bowen thought. He trusted Wren not to transform, trusted him to control himself -he’d come a long way from the wild thing that Bowen had taken in -but he wasn’t sure that a display of Wren’s dual nature was the right pressure to add in this situation, especially if the people in this place were so intent on controlling powers.

“Give him back to us,” Bowen said. “And we’ll be on our way.”

The doctor shook his head.

“It’s in his best interest to stay here. At least for the time being. Just until the effects of the serum have lessened.”

“How long?” Wren asked before Bowen could.

“Difficult to say,” the doctor said. His hand hovered over the row of vials. “This serum is meant to suppress the Ventrexi’s ability to manipulate minds and emotions.”

The doctor turned his attention to his frantic patient and Bowen thought he saw something - Uncertainty? Aggravation? - ghost over the doctor’s features.

“I’ve never seen this reaction before.”

Bowen eyed the line of half a dozen vials on a metal table outside the room. Each was filled with a violet liquid. The knowledge that that was what was coursing through Blix’s veins made Bowen want to sweep them off the table and watch the glass shatter. With a deft hand, Bowen palmed a vial instead.

Blix’s pleas from the other side of the window grew in intensity. It made Bowen want to pull Blix close. Anything to banish all his dread and desperation. Bowen’s heart ached as Blix’s fearful, unfocused eyes searched for help and each of his limbs pulled so harshly at the restraints that there were sure to be bruises.

Blix fell back on the mattress. He panted as he continued to twist and beg. Bowen watched the sharp rise and fall of Blix’s chest and he knew the doctor was right. A controlled environment would be best for Blix until he was able to calm down.

When Blix began to sob, Bowen’s fingernails bit into his palms.

Wren’s hand remained on the doorknob as he glared at the doctor. Bowen knew he needed to do or say something that would move this situation along.

“Wren?”

Wren straightened and met Bowen’s eyes, prepared to act on his orders, violently if necessary.

“Go and find Wes. Tell him to meet us back at the ship. I’ll stay here until Blix is ready to be moved.”

Wren’s face fell, but his eyes burned. Bowen moved his head from side to side. The motion was nearly imperceptible, but it was enough that Wren relented. He spared Blix a worried glance before starting on his way. Bowen stepped in front of him.

“Make it quick,” Bowen told Wren as he pressed the vial into his hand. Wren’s features lightened with understanding and after a sharp little nod, he left.

Blix’s face was tearstained. He let out a feeble “Please,” as he tugged ineffectually at the restraints. “Help me.”

I can’t, Bowen thought. I’m so sorry, Blix.

Bowen questioned how long he could stand there, but he knew the answer. He would wait and watch as long as it took for his crewmember - brave, kind, empathetic Blix who would never hurt someone if he didn’t have to -to come out of this. The guilt would gnaw on Bowen for far, far longer.

The doctor entered the room and Bowen forgot to breathe as he watched Blix squirm and flinch away when the doctor tried to touch him. The straps held him tight. Blix’s pleading had become quiet; instead, he wept and writhed. And there wasn’t a damn thing Bowen could do.

When the doctor came out of the room, he suggested more time.

As long as it takes, Bowen thought as he cast the doctor a baleful glance.

Finally -Bowen didn’t know how long -Blix’s body went slack. His eyes remained open and staring, and though Bowen knew better, he would have sworn Blix was looking directly at him. When the doctor finally allowed him into the room to gather Blix, Blix’s head rolled toward him.

“Bone?” he slurred. “Knew you’d come.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” he said. He couldn’t meet Blix’s gaze as he unfastened the restraints. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The trip back to The Ferox was a slow one. Blix leaned against Bowen and apologized whenever he stumbled. Bowen just hushed him and felt his heart grow heavier each time. They drew little attention in the hangar and when they reached the ship, no one, including Wren and Wes had returned yet. Perhaps it was just as well. Blix didn’t seem to be in danger; for the time being, at least he’d be spared the prying eyes of the rest of the crew.

They made it to Blix’s room, (It was the sort of messy that would only require a few minutes of effort to clean up.) and Bowen lowered Blix down onto the bed.

“Go ahead and lay down,” Bowen said. He squeezed one of Blix’s shoulders and tried to smile.

Blix nodded and lowered himself down onto his side and pulled his legs up onto the bed. Bowen reached down and unlaced Blix’s boots before removing them and setting them down neatly by the foot of the bed.

“There,” Bowen said as he straightened. “Try to relax. Wes will be here soon.”

Bowen saw Blix’s lower lip tremble and thought perhaps his face was going to crumple and that he was going to weep. Bowen prepared himself to anchor Blix through a fresh bout of emotional turmoil, but Blix swallowed and looked up at Bowen with big, dark eyes. They were red-rimmed and weary, but they were more present than they had been moments before.

“Why did they do that to me?”

Bowen sat down helplessly on the mattress and put a heavy hand on Blix’s shoulder. He knew they had taken one look at Blix’s sharp canines and pointed ears, and seen only his Ventrexi lineage. They’d only seen vicious intentions. They hadn’t seen Blix.

Bowen should have known. He should have been aware of that situation in the area. He should have been able to warn Blix about it. He sat there, silently apologizing for something Blix would never think to blame him for.

“They were assholes,” Bowen said as his thumb rubbed back and forth across Blix’s shoulder. “You didn’t deserve that.”

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

BTHB: Touch Starved (Danny/Nate)

@badthingshappenbingo request answered! Anon requested: Would you be willing to write the ‘touch starvation’ prompt with Nate and Danny? Thanks!

I had initially thought I’d do a post-rescue piece, but this ended up going in a during-captivity direction, so if that isn’t what you wanted, Anon, I’d be happy to write another one, just send me an ask and let me know! Timeline: Late October the year Danny turns 25, so post-Happy Birthday.

Tagging the Danny people: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @special-spicy-chicken!

CW: Implied/referenced sexual assault/rape, implied/referenced/visible evidence of torture and violent abuse, discussion of harm to animals (no animals harmed in this fic). Brief suicidal ideation (just a mention)

“How long is he going to be gone?” Danny asks, stopping by a large fallen log, dropping into a crouch to look at some mushrooms that were growing out of the decaying bark, a hint of green moss. He pulls at the rough leather collar around his throat, wincing at the always raw or half-healing skin underneath that stings when exposed to the air.

There’s a little padlock on the buckle now to make sure Nate won’t take it off before Abraham gets home. He used to, and Abraham caught him, once, when he was trying to rub antibiotic cream on Danny’s throat and Abraham came home earlier than they expected.

Now it’s padlocked on.

“He s-s-said three to f-four days this time,” Nate replies, standing a few feet away with his own eyes watching a little moth that had settled itself against a tree trunk, nearly invisible with wings the exact shade of the bark, with the same appearance of rough texture.

“Good. I like when he goes for four days.” Danny just watches him for a moment, looking at the older man with his black hair a little shaggy, hanging down to his eyes, the stubble he lets grow on his face when Abraham doesn’t care if he shaves today. There’s a focus in those green eyes, as they watch the moth close its wings and then open them again, that Danny loves.

He wants that focus on him, but he can’t have that, because Nate belongs to Abraham and Danny’s not a person anymore. He’s not allowed to have things, to want things. To want people. He’s not allowed to want Nate.

He doesn’t even want Nate, does he? He just wants… someone. Anyone who isn’t Abraham Denner. Someone to care about him, to love him, to touch him.

No, it is Nate. He wants Nate to love him.

He wants Nate to care about him, because he can’t remember what it was like to be cared about in a way that didn’t involve… all of this.

I wish you would touch me, he thinks, and then banishes the thought and turns back to the moss, trying not to be all too aware of Nate’s shoulders beneath the warm, dusky blue cable-knit wool of his sweater, the way he stands in the loose-fit heavy khaki pants, the way Danny knows exactly how well they fit around his hips.

Walking traps is hard on Nate the last few weeks, the whole circuit takes a few miles when you do it all at once and having to step over the logs and tree branches and other things, following the marked trail from snare to snare, leaves him limping by the end, teeth ground together, jaw set. Danny’s not sure what happened exactly, only that Nate and Abraham had some kind of fight when Danny was last in the cellar, and Abraham came away with scratches on the side of his neck and the first bruise Danny has ever seen on him and Nate came away with a leg that got hurt, somehow, someway.

So the trail is harder for him, now, while it heals.

But Danny’s not allowed to go alone, and he’s not allowed to help Nate walk, either, because that would mean touching him. No one but Abraham touches Danny now, except when Abraham thinks it’s funny to have Nate hurt him.

When Abraham laughs at his protests, looks right in his eyes, and then Nate can’t say no, just like nobody can say no, after a while. Nate turns white as a ghost after and drinks until he passes out and he probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near Danny anyway, it’s just that they’re the only people here who aren’t Abraham, they only have each other.

But Nate stopped touching him at all, after the last time Abraham made him do it. He thinks months ago, but Danny doesn’t know time as well as he used to, he forgets. Not too long after Abraham said it was his birthday, that he’s twenty-five now.

Not long after that, one night it was really bad, and Nate hasn’t so much as brushed against him since. Hasn’t snuck out at night to watch movies with him, invite him onto the couch, touch his fingers while they work together in the garden.

Nothing.

Nothing but Abraham’s hands.

It’s been so long and Danny just wishes, just for a second, that there was someone to touch him where it didn’t end in something else, something worse. He wants touch without shame, touch that isn’t forced on him or part of a barter, touch that doesn’t end in a knife or demands or orders or that barking high-pitched laughter that worms into his head and won’t stop.

He wants someone (Nate) to put a hand to the small of his back, just rest it there, and remove it again without having to trail fingers up his neck to the carved-in scarring of who he belongs to. He wants a hand in his hair that doesn’t pull until it hurts. He wants touch without pain, without the guilt in Nate’s eyes, without crying or exhaustion or being told what to do.

He can’t have that, though, and all he wants - all he wants in the whole world, now, a world that is narrow and caged-in - is just to hold Nate’s hand, maybe, just for a goddamn second.

No. Not allowed.

Wrong thoughts.

(who do your hands belong to? is this body yours, or mine?)

Y-yours, it’s yours, it’s not mine anymore, not my body.

(good boy)

He’s not going to think about Nate’s hands, calloused from when he chops wood, too, from the work he does alongside Danny in the garden during spring and summer. The way they went from looking almost delicate and meant for opening books, taking annotations and typing lectures, to roughened and coarse outdoorsman’s hands. He won’t think about the way Nate had brushed sweaty hair back from his face when he was sick and sometimes slept beside him on the floor.

He’s not going to think about the sweetness of Nate’s eyes on his, sometimes, when Abraham isn’t looking. He’s not going to think about how that stopped, too, after the bad night where Abraham had had a new idea and made Nate carry it out.

He’s not going to think about what he wants and cannot have.

He’s not going to think about any of it because it’s not for him.

He’s not going to think about how sometimes it’s not just his stomach that’s hollow, but his skin. His scarred-up worthless skin that feels hungry, for someone, for anyone who won’t hurt him. Right down to the tips of his fingers. He’s carved out into a yawning nothing that can’t stop craving someone, something else, something more, something better.

There is nothing better.

This is the best life will ever be again.

Don’t think about his hands.

Danny squints at the half-decayed hollow log, trying to distract himself. Did he read in one of the books they make you read in school that moss mostly grows on the north side of things? He feels like he might have heard that, once upon a time, in the life that he never lived, that doesn’t exist, because there was never anything before Abraham.

The mushroom cap gives a little under the touch of his finger, and he wishes he could feel it better, that his hands weren’t rough and calloused and half-numb after so long, the only part of him that never notices the cold. He wishes it was someone’s (Nate’s) skin. The moss he can kind of feel, a sort of soft brush of texture, and he looks at the deep dark green of it, smiling faintly.

Moss only grows on the north side of trees. Wasn’t there a character in a book who got lost, and they remembered that trying to find their way home? Which would mean if he walked the other way, the way the moss didn’t grow, he would go south. South and south and south, walk out of the woods one day, cross the border, go home. Take Nate with him and then maybe one day ask if he wanted to, if he could-

Stop it.

This is home.

Don’t think about that, that belongs to Abraham now.

(you’re here until I’m done with you, little Red, and let me reassure you that you don’t want me to be done with you)

Besides, he didn’t know shit about moss. He’s not allowed to read the navigation parts of the survivalist books the body left behind in the cabin, Abraham ripped those pages out (“H-how fucking d-d-dare you, Bram, that’s a book, you c-c-can’t just r-rip apart books l-ike that! That’s like a fucking s-s-sacrilege!”) and left him only the cooking and the ways to make your own medicine. Danny only knows what he’s allowed to know, what it’s okay to know. He only knows what Abraham says he should know.

Everything else is buried in the pain, and he lets it stay there, down in the muck, like the animals in the tar pits Dad took them to see when they were kids (no he didn’t, you never did that, you’re making it up). Abraham is always telling him his memories are wrong, full of holes, fucked up beyond repair. That he shouldn’t try to use his mind or think, because thinking isn’t what he’s here for, is it?

(you’re here for me)

Yes, Abraham, for-… for you, I’m here for you.

(good boy)

Danny bites his lower lip, and thinks about the bruise on his hip, still aching and made of dark purples and blacks today, teeth marks in perfect half-circles on each side of where the bone stuck out under the skin, slightly scabbed. Abraham had drawn blood, last night, a gift to remember him by, since he was going on a supply run and leaving the two of them here.

A reminder, but it was still better than it used to be. He used to chain Danny up in the living room for supply runs, take the key with him. Nate would bring him food from the kitchen and he could reach the bathroom on the chain, so it was really okay, he didn’t mind, he didn’t.

Especially because when Abraham was gone, Nate would sleep on the couch out in the living room, or next to him on the floor, just a few inches away, and sometimes when he woke up Nate’s hand was warm on top of his.

Once - just the once - Nate had said he could sleep on the couch, too, and they’d taken the cushions off the back to make it bigger and crammed themselves onto it, Danny’s long body meaning he had his feet up on the arm of the couch with the chain running off the side, but Nate had been warm next to him underneath the blanket they’d stolen from Abraham’s bed, and he’d almost felt safe.

And Abraham never knew about those wrong thoughts, about that disobedience. He never knew.

Abraham didn’t chain him up any longer, because he knew Danny wouldn’t run away anymore. Where would he go? They were so far in the woods he couldn’t possibly know how long to walk to find another person, and he couldn’t really remember his directions any longer.

He’d tried to run away a few times, and the punishments when he was caught - and he was always caught - had made him shy away from even thinking about trying to run ever, ever again.

He didn’t need to think about anything but Abraham. What Abraham wanted, what would make Abraham happy, how to be good enough for Abraham. That was all he should think about, it hurt too much to think about anything else.

(nothing should live inside your head, little puppy, but me. what I like, how I take my drinks, what I want for dinner, whether or not I’m going to cut you up today, how to make me pleased enough that I don’t need to.)

Yes, Abraham.

(there is no life before me. just our family, Nate and I and our puppy)

Just our, um, our family.

Danny twisted his mouth into a mean little smile and stared fixedly at the moss, made himself think about before.

It might be the smallest rebellion, but he had been here for years and he had almost no rebellions left, and he had to cling to even the smallest unpunished disobedience to try and remember that he’d ever been anything other than this. It felt like defiance, like waving some kind of flag, just to let himself question whether or not moss only grows on the north side of trees.

Maybe Ryan read it in school, and told him, and that’s why he can’t remember the book. Danny’s throat catches, a drift of an image of his little brother’s face the night before he’d gone to see Nate and lost everything. They’d played video games all night long, just hanging on the couch in Danny’s apartment playing Halo and drinking, bitching about the way Halo 5’s storyline went, the way their parents had acted at Christmas around Ryan’s newest boyfriend (who they didn’t like, but not because he was a boy. At least Corrine and Patrick never gave a shit about that, because if Danny had to add being in the closet to the laundry list of bullshit he had to do because of his parents, he wasn’t sure he would even have made it to adulthood). He and Ryan had spent the night being absolutely perfectly normal people with no idea they’d never see each other again.

I wish I’d hugged him before I left the next day instead of telling him he was too sweaty coming back from the gym. I wish I’d said ‘I love you’, or something else nice, just anything, anything better than ‘I’ll be back late, wish me luck’ what the shit was that, like I was a fourteen year old with a fucking crush-

No, stop it. No life before Abraham. I’m a good dog.

Besides, who even knows if that happened? Maybe you didn’t play video games at all, maybe you had a fight and you just don’t remember it, maybe you did something to deserve this and that’s why it happened, maybe you’re making this bullshit happy memory up.

I’m a good dog, I want to be good.

Maybe you just don’t remember what you did to deserve this.

(you let this happen because you knew you were born to be mine)

Maybe Ryan knows what you did to deserve this.

Abraham always says they’re not looking anymore.

(don’t you ever fucking forget)

Maybe they know why this happened to you, and that’s why they’re not looking.

There is so little sleep, never enough to eat, sometimes Abraham puts stuff in his water or just lays a pill on his tongue and he doesn’t really know, anymore, what happened and what didn’t, beyond the days and nights Abraham wants him to hurt. He’s so good at hurting, is the thing. Abraham is always telling him it’s irresistible, finding someone like him. That you can’t just put a starving man before a buffet and tell him not to eat.

He’s good at jamming himself down deep into the tiniest places he has left, and Abraham turns the rest into Red, and Red is so good, Red wants to be good, to be try harder, to be a good boy…

Danny presses at the moss again, thoughtfully, and he almost asks Nate if he knows what direction moss grows, but then he keeps is mouth shut, because… what if it’s a stupid question? What if he’s wrong? What if it’s another memory that isn’t real, just like all the others? Danny remembers a lot of false things, now, and forgets most of the true ones.

It’s safer, that way.

(up above your head. perfect, that’s perfect, that’s my good boy, trying so hard for me. oh, don’t look at me like that, puppy. you’re the one who chose the knife)

“We’re g-going to be late coming b-back from traps if you k-k-keep staring at logs,” Nate says after a long pause. Danny jumps a little, startled out of his thoughts, and turns back to him with an apology on his tongue before he realizes Nate’s voice was teasing, not upset, that he’s smiling down at Danny with that odd look he gets sometimes, where he looks at him like Danny’s a book he’s always wanted to read but he doesn’t know how to open it.

He tries not to think about that look in his eyes too often, but sometimes it follows him everywhere he goes, makes him feel like he used to feel when he was a person, shivery and awkward and a little too big for his own skin.

He tries to stop himself, but sometimes Nate’s face, with that slight half-smile that pulls at the little scar in his lip, is all that sticks in his mind at all.

“Sorry, Nate. We’re almost to the first snare, let’s, um, let’s go ahead and get to it.” Danny jumps back to his feet, towering a little over Nate when he stands all the way up, rolls his shoulders, straightens his back. Being tall, though, means opening himself up to the breeze and he shivers a little as the autumn air cuts right through his T-shirt and pajama pants, the thin sneakers he’s allowed to wear already damp around all the edges, the wet soaking into his socks.

He’ll get sick again, and as long as he can keep doing chores it’s okay, but if he gets too sick for chores, Abraham will lock him in the cellar. Danny gnaws on a bit of chapped skin on his lower lip, rubbing his hands together. He has to not get that sick. As long as he can still do his chores, it’s okay, Abraham just laughs at him when he sees his brother and talks to him through the kitchen window, just laughs because if the dishes still get done, if dinner still gets made, it’s okay.

He won’t get hurt if he can still do his chores.

He makes elderberry syrup and fire cider, takes some of both every single day. There isn’t enough food (yes there is, there’s plenty, it’s just not for you) but Abraham doesn’t care if he drinks the medicines he makes out of the survivalist book, he doesn’t care how much he has of those. Sometimes he drinks the fire cider until the acid in the vinegar makes him sick, because at least then he doesn’t feel hollowed out and light-headed from hunger.

None of it helps the sense of emptiness under his skin, the wish for something gentle, and sweet, and soft in all the violence.

Danny can’t help the twist of sadness in his chest when he finds the rabbit in the first snare still alive, but exhausted and worn out from trying to get free, little chest heaving, just lying on its side. “I’m sorry,” He says, softly, under his breath, as he crouches next to it. Nate stands close by, hands in his pockets, watching him. “I get it, you know. I get you.”

(don’t tell me you’re apologizing to the goddamn prey, little puppy)

He always apologizes to the animals they catch, and Abraham laughs at him, laughs and says dogs hunt and only the dumbest puppy would stop to say he’s sorry before doing what comes naturally. But this doesn’t come naturally, it never has, he always worries about what the little animals think of him before they die.

Sometimes he wonders if they recognize him, if they see that he’s prey, too, that he’s in a snare like theirs, the leather around his neck just like the rope.

Danny shivers hard enough to rattle the little tag that hangs off his collar, then takes a deep breath and says, all at once to Nate like the whole sentence is a single word, “Please let me have your knife for a second.”

Nate pauses, then slips the little knife he’s allowed to carry out of his pocket, opening it up. It was one of his birthday gifts from Abraham, and it’s got a black handle with silver tooled into it in the shape of vines and a deer (it’s a fucking stag, puppy, get some goddamn culture - when I was little, I met a god with a stag’s head, you know) and even Danny could admit, when he saw it, that it was gorgeous.

Before Abraham forced Nate to cut him with it to show how sharp it was.

Nate’s a person, he’s Abraham’s true love and best friend, Nate is real and Danny isn’t - so Nate gets knives. Not that knives would do them any good, here, not with Abraham. And Nate doesn’t like the knives, anyway, because he gets cut with them, too. Once he was done cutting up Danny, after all, Abraham had cut him.

“F-figured you’d w-w-want me to slit its throat,” Nate says softly, the offer still there in his voice if not in his words, the compassion in his expression. He knows Danny hates having to kill them, to take the little lives away when all they did was be born in the wrong forest at the wrong time. Abraham always makes Danny do it, laughs at him when he hesitates, or hurts him if he refuses.

“I don’t want you to do it,” Danny says, fighting the urge to pat its sad, tired little head. It’s probably crawling in bugs, honestly, and it wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, but Danny wishes someone would pat him on the head with understanding sometimes, and not just because he’s the dog.

If only someone would touch him and it didn’t hurt. That used to happen, didn’t it?

(no life before me)

“I kn-know it’s your j-job, Red, but he’s gone, for f-f-four days, so it’s n-not like he’ll know. You kn-know I n-n-never tell him any, anything like that, about y-you.”

“I know, but I still don’t want you to do it.” Danny shakes his head. “This is mine, to do, this is my job.” He takes a deep breath, my name is Red, counts to five, exhales slowly I belong to Abraham Denner.

Then he takes the knife with a murmured thanks (be grateful for every gift you are given) and reaches out, cutting the rope and not the rabbit. He cuts the rope again a few inches further down, and then again. Again and again and again, until it can’t possibly be tied back together this way.

The rabbit doesn’t run. It just lays there with the broken shreds of the snare around it, too tired to escape, staring at him with one wide eye while its little body heaves with its breath. Danny reaches out one hand, slowly, and then pulls it back.

“R-Red, wh-what did you do that for?” Nate asks, his voice slightly faint. Not angry, not upset, just… curious. “Why did you cut th-the rope? If you c-c-cut them all… we’ll have to redo th-th-them before B-Bram gets back, you… you know that, right?”

“Don’t tell him I cut the rope,” Danny whispers, hugging himself, it’s so fucking cold already and it’s only going to get colder. “I’ll fix it later. Don’t tell him.”

Did the rabbit remember a family? Are there rabbits born in little burrows in the spring to this one rabbit, that grow up and then leave and does she (or he, he supposes) remember them? When they’re gone, are the babies remembered by someone? If they disappear, or they die, does someone know that they were ever around?

Do other rabbits look for the rabbits that disappear in the woods?

“I w-won’t, Red, you know that.”

Danny just watches the little rabbit breathe, the way it lays so still you’d think it was dead except for the occasional movements of its eyes, the quick, shallow, panicked little breaths that start, gradually to slow and to settle.

Do rabbits touch each other? They must snuggle up in burrows, right? And it doesn’t have to be anything more than that, more than being warm together, reminding each other they’re alive, still here, that they made it through one more day without the wolves getting tired of playing with them, without the jaws closing around their throat.

(how much blood do you think you can lose before you black out, puppy? let’s find out)

Wh, whatever you want, Abraham, I can do whatever you want-

(I know you can, and you will, because you’re my good boy, aren’t you?)

Pl-please, please, I don’t want to die, please, please don’t kill me, please

(you’re not going to die. not tonight, anyway. if you die, you stop being my good little pup, hm? so let’s hold still and focus on staying alive tonight, there, just like this…)

Eventually, the wolf’s jaws are going to close around his throat. Eventually, he’ll be just like the rabbit, and there’s no one here to cut him loose from the snare.

It’s just Abraham and Nate, a family all their own, with their puppy.

“H-Hey.” Nate shifts from foot to foot - his leg is probably already aching, it takes nearly a third of the marked trail to even get to the first of the snares. “R-Red, we need to get moving-”

“I-I know, I know we do, I just… I just don’t want to kill them anymore,” Danny says softly, and he doesn’t move from his crouch on the ground. “I don’t want to kill the things like me, I just want to let them go. I just want them to go home.”

“Red…”

“I know, I know how it sounds, Nate, I know. Just let me be sad, okay, just for now, while he’s gone. Let me, let me be, um, be D-… be, um, me.”

That’s not your name anymore

(this body doesn’t belong to you)

Stop trying to remember the old name, it’s not yours

“Just let me not be Red, for just a second,” Danny says heavily. “While we’re alone.”

Nate is quiet, then, for so long that Danny can’t stand it and jumps up to his feet, stalking back and away without looking at him, forcing himself past the markings along the trees, not even trying to be quiet. A bird flees his noise in a flutter of wings, and he stomps on the fallen leaves, the red and yellows rotting to browns and giving under his feet, the cold damp sinking further into his feet through these stupid fucking canvas sneakers and the socks.

That was stupid, don’t tell him you think things like that. That’s dumb. Rabbits aren’t the same as you, rabbits have a fucking chance to run away. Rabbits don’t wear collars, rabbits don’t get tied to the bed, rabbits don’t, they don’t, they don’t have to-

“Fuck!” At the sudden outburst, more birds light up and squirrels shift in the branches up in the trees, leaves falling down around him. He kicks at a bush, shoves a low-hanging branch that nearly snaps back to hit him in the face, stomps as loudly as he can.

Be good, god damn it

(puppies don’t get to be angry)

Stop it, Red, stop it!

(bad dog, Red)

I’m good, I can be good, I can stop

(very bad dog, Red, now you’ll have to be fixed again)

I can do better, I’ll try harder, I can stop

He can’t. He can’t stop it, it’s boiling up inside of him and it all comes out too quickly for him to stop it, and his heart starts to pound as he kicks again, kicks at nothing but leaves, watching them float uselessly into the air and back down, bashes his foot against a tree. He’s not allowed to be angry, but he can’t stop.

Somewhere, Abraham is driving, somewhere he’ll feel it, he’ll know Danny had wrong thoughts, and when he comes back the muzzle will come back out and Abraham will lick up the blood running down his neck and laugh in his ear.

(I know everything about you. I know everything inside of you. I know every thought, every feeling, every neuron that fires inside that pretty, useless, broken little brain)

Abraham will come back and he’ll know, and there will be more hands, there are always, always hands but they never, they’re never hands that just want to hold him, it’s always hands that hurt. He’ll put the muzzle on and the headphones in so he can’t go away, so he can’t be someone else, so Abraham can watch him cry.

(god I wish I could bottle those fucking tears, puppy, you taste so good)

He screams, wordlessly, an animal sound of fear and rage and his hate for himself, the shame that he can’t run anymore, he doesn’t even want to. Where would he go? There’s nowhere, no one is looking for him, no one will ever find him here. Abraham is right, he’s right about everything, people like Danny were made for this. Only this. Forever this, until Abraham gets tired of him.

He screams, and he screams, and he screams because when Abraham comes back he won’t be able to scream anymore. He screams himself hoarse and Nate doesn’t stop him, doesn’t even move, just watches him and Danny can feel the eyes on his back.

“What did I fucking do?” He screams into the woods, his voice ragged and broken, and the trees don’t answer, and the birds don’t answer, and the animals don’t answer. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but it must have been horrible, it must have been worth hell, because hell is what he’s living in, and he’ll be here until he dies.

When Nate grabs him by the elbow he spins around too fast and makes himself dizzy, stumbling to try and catch his balance. He wants to hate Nate Vandrum - the person, the true love, who gets to sit on the couch and sit at the table and eat all the food he wants, Nate who gets to be human - but he can’t, because what he wants more than to let the anger inside of him take over is for someone, anyone, to help him stop it; to stuff it back down where it’s safe, where Abraham can’t cut or burn or bleed it out of him again.

“R-Red,” Nate says, softly, and his grip on Danny’s arm is firm but it doesn’t hurt, and it’s been so long since anyone but Abraham touched him, really - even when Nate does it’s because Abraham tells him to, and that’s not the same, that’s just an extension of Abraham’s hands, wearing a different face. “Red, please-”

“I’m sorry I did that dumb thing with the rabbit,” Danny whispers, throat aching, eyes hot with tears but they don’t fall, he won’t let them, he keeps them glittering against his eyes, blurring the vision of the older man watching him, so he can’t see his face. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not allowed to be angry, I know I am, I know… I’m so sorry-”

“N-No, it’s okay, I, uh, I l-liked that you d-d-did that thing with the rabbit. That you let it go.” There’s a note to Nate’s voice, something he knows but doesn’t know, it’s been so long since he’s heard it.

Danny rubs the back of his hand against his eyes and blinks, looks at Nate more closely. The green eyes are warm, on his, and he swallows hard against a sudden awareness that Nate’s eyes are always warm when they look at him, aren’t they?

“You did?” He doesn’t mean his voice to come out so soft, barely above a whisper, but it does. Nate’s other hand moves, jerks a little, like he wants to do something with it but he doesn’t know what. “You’re not mad that I got angry? Puppies aren’t allowed-”

“I’m not mad. And you, you’re, you’re n-not…” Nate loosens the grip on his elbow, and he doesn’t want him to but he has no idea how to say it. Please, you haven’t touched me in weeks, please, I need touch that doesn’t hurt me. “We h-h-have plenty stored up. It’s f-f-fine. You’re right, th-they should get to go home… the rabbits.”

“I want them to go home,” Danny says, a little miserably, and sees the depth of understanding in Nate’s eyes and he clings to it, to the shred of being a person that Nate still seems to see in him. “I don’t want to see them in the snares anymore. I just want them to go home, where-… where there aren’t any people like, like us - like him - where there aren’t any… hands, that won’t stop, I just…”

I want to go home.

There is no home but here.

I want to go home.

“I kn-know,” Nate says, softly, and he takes a step closer, and then another. Danny can feel him, almost, the way he’s warm when everything else is cold now. “I know. I w-w-want them to go h-h-home, too. Y-you can go back to the cabin, if you w-want, I can walk the traps the r-r-rest of the way by myself.”

“No,” Danny says softly, and he can’t stop looking down at Nate’s hands, which he’s not supposed to think about. How they’ve changed since they got here, gone all rough and so have Danny, just in a different way “I don’t want to be by myself right now.”

“A-Are you sure? You c-c-could sit on the couch. He wouldn’t know. You kn-know I don’t tell him anything ab-about you, or what you say to me.”

“Does he ask?” Danny takes a breath, watches Nate step even closer, close enough that Danny can smell his cologne, the bottle Abraham buys him for Christmas each year. The forest around them seemed quieter now, just the usual rustle of leaves in the slightest breeze. “What I tell you, what I talk about?”

Nate pauses, watching him thoughtfully, and then he nods. “He d-does.”

“You tell him anything he wants, when he looks right at you,” Danny says, but it’s without a hint of blame. He was angry, at first, that Nate gave up and gave in so easily. He understands, now. You can’t do anything else, if Abraham looks at you long enough. You can’t do anything but what he wants, what he tells you to do.

He’s close enough now that the change in the air is real, the hint of another person’s presence, someone he isn’t afraid of. The only person left he isn’t afraid of. Nate swallows hard, in a way Danny can see shift the muscles of his throat the faint lines of pale circled scarring there from his time with Abraham before. “I d-don’t have to tell him about y-y-you.”

It’s an admission, Danny thinks, some kind of confession, but he’s not sure to what.

“What does that mean?”

“I d-don’t know. Just that it… doesn’t always w-w-work, when it’s about y-you.” Nate looks him over again, licking at his lips nervously, pressing them together in this habit he has that Danny has seen, over and over again, while they’ve been here. “It d-doesn’t always… I’m sorry.”

Danny laughs, bitterly, hands slowly going up over his face, blocking out the world around them. “I’m fucking sorry too, Nate. I’m so goddamn sorry, and maybe when I’m dead I’ll get to say I’m sorry for whatever I did to, to earn this, to make this happen to me. Maybe when he gets tired of me and I’m dead-”

“You w-won’t die here.” Nate grabs him by the arms, and Danny stumbles forward until Nate is holding onto him, arms so tight around him, and Danny’s knees nearly buckle. “N-not you, Red, n-n-not you, I won’t let you die h-here…”

He hasn’t been touched in so long like this, just held, just hugged and held onto, and he drops his head down, curving over himself until his head is on Nate’s shoulder.

Scratchy sweater fabric against his cheek, against the itching, healing muzzle scars, and Nate’s hand is in his hair, and Danny doesn’t cry but he feels the scream still bubbling in his throat, trying to make its way out.

“You n-never did a single fucking thing wrong, Danny,” Nate whispers, fiercely, and Danny’s eyes close at the name, the name he only thinks to himself sometimes just to try and remember that he used to have one, a person’s name, a people name, that he was something better than this, something more.

“You h-h-have to c-call me, call me Red, Nate,” Danny whispers. There’s a pause, and then he puts his arms up around Nate, too, slides them around his waist, and he knows this waist so well for so many terrible reasons but for just now, right now, he tries to know it for a good one.

“I don’t. I can c-c-call you whatever I want, r-right now, when he’s not here, and I w-w-want to call you Danny, so please, please l-let me, just for n-now, just for r-r-right now, please,” Nate whispers against his ear, and holds him like he’s real, like he deserves it, and Danny can’t let go of him.

“Why did you stop touching me?” He asks, and he keeps his head buried against Nate’s shoulder so he won’t see his face at the question. “It’s been weeks, I can’t live with only him touching me, why did you stop?”

“He m-m-makes me hurt you,” Nate says softly back. “I, it’s so hard to, to think that I h-h-have to hurt you all th-the time, and then I thought you m-m-must hate that someone who h-hurts you would be anywhere near, near you, I just… I just th-thought you wouldn’t want me to.”

“I do want you to,” Danny says softly, lips moving against the fabric of his sweater, feeling the warmth of it, the warmth of his body through the fabric, the strongly muscled shoulders, the rough hands that slide up into his hair but that’s all they do, they don’t pull, they don’t hurt, they’re just… there. “I want you to. I want something good, too, I can’t-… I can’t be in the snare alone, I can’t, I n-need you with me, too, Nate. Please, please, please don’t stop touching me, don’t, don’t make his hands be the only ones I remember anymore, please…”

“Sssshhhhhh. I’m right h-here with you.” Nate presses a kiss to the side of his head, just something gentle and reassuring, and Danny moves back to look at his face. Nate swallows, hard, taking the movement as rejecting the kiss, as not wanting it, and starts to pull back from him. “S-sorry, Danny, I’m sorry, I sh-shouldn’t have, I-”

Danny leans down and kisses him, all at once, a press of his cold lips to Nate’s warmer ones, the barest brush. When he pulls away Nate doesn’t go after him, doesn’t force him back down, doesn’t get angry. He’s not going to be hurt for that, or by it. That kiss was… safe.

Nate looks dazed, like maybe the book he wanted to read opened all on its own, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s going to find in there.

“Don’t stop touching me,” Danny says softly, and grabs Nate’s sweater with both hands, pulling him close, leaning down to kiss him again.

This time, Nate’s hands go up to his arms, curve around his shoulders. Danny moves in stumbling steps until his back’s against a tree, and Nate’s chest and stomach are pressed to his, the pressure of hips against his own is safe and nothing bad will happen to him here.

Nate’s mouth is gentle against his, the hands don’t move from around his shoulders. They don’t roam. They stay right where they are, and the buzzing despair and Abraham’s voice in his head goes quiet, goes silent, and all he hears is the birds and the breeze in the trees and Nate breathing, the soft sound of their mouths together.

“Danny-” Nate whispers against him. “Danny, is this r-r-really what y-you-”

“Shut up,” Danny whispers back, slides his hands up behind Nate’s head, kisses him again and again and again, and none of it hurts. “Call me Danny again.”

“D-Danny,” Nate whispers, and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Danny,” and a kiss to the scar along his cheekbone. Another whisper, another kiss to his cheek, then one to his jaw, then one to his neck just above the red skin rubbed raw by his collar, back up to his mouth. Everywhere his mouth skims Danny's skin it lights up - the way it used to feel when boys kissed him, when he kissed them, when it used to be something he wanted. It's something he wants, now. “Danny. You’re sure?”

“For now I am,” Danny says softly. “While he’s gone.”

“Okay,” Nate says, and presses one more kiss to his mouth, looking up into his eyes. “For now. Wh-wh-while he’s g-gone.”

Danny gives him a lopsided grin, slides arms up around his shoulders, and holds onto him for dear life.

This is the best life will ever be again.

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