#niels ottosen

[evermetnotforgotten]

In the future, post captivity.

Content warnings: negative self-talk, referenced physical self-harm and alcohol use, references to past torture and noncon, v brief mention of emesis and drugging.

His fingers don't work like they used to. They're shaky and frail, and Niels can't hold down the strings long enough to play an E chord, let alone anything substantial. When he plucks at the guitar it recoils from his chemical-hardened fingers, as if to say don't touch me,and it aches.

It used to be so easy. He'd shred his way up and down whatever sparked for hours, acoustic or electric, just riding the high of note after note after note. Now it's little more than Mester Jakob while his mind substitutes the lyrics:

Little Niels, little Niels

Who are you? Who are you?

You are just a failure, coward and a liar

Bim bam bum, bim bam bum.

Still, Niels tries, and though the positioning of his arms is strenuous after mere minutes, he stubbornly slouches back into the couch to try to gain more support. It only serves to make him cramped and twisted. Frustrated he groans, shaking his left hand out to banish the pins and needles already starting to bloom there.

"Hard to be Jimi with a broken body and a dumb brain, huh…" He mutters to the four wooden elephants on the mantelpiece in Danglish. "Should have gotten him to zap me into finally learning modes."

Niels straightens, and tries again. Flubs the first transition.

Tries again. The notes are buzzing and clumsy.

And tries again. And again. And again.

It's only when Niels hears the car pulling into the driveway that he remembers he's supposed to have put dinner on half an hour ago. He swears under his breath, sets the guitar on its stand, and reaches just past the couch for his walking frame. He just manages to put the rice in the cooker before he hears the sound of the front door unlocking.

Fareeha calls from the hallway, amongst the bustling sounds of cotton shopping bags. "Hi—Esther, here, here—are you awake? Niels?"

"I'm awake, need a hand?"

"Yes, sorry—we just have a couple more bags to bring in."

After they finish dinner and while the girls study, Niels listens to Fareeha's day. She massages his sore shoulders, talking about the coffee with her mum, the business doing well, actually, the collies they saw at the park that reminded her of the one she had growing up.

Niels listens, and listens well. It's the least he can do, when he can't participate.

-

Weeks come and go, but he finds himself drawn back to the strings again. Somehow it's worse than last time, his perpetually aching back protesting just from sitting upright.

He shouldn't have even tried today, because he's been short of breath since yesterday, and hasn't really slept for forty-eight hours. But sometimes, between night-terrors, between the stretches in which Niels feels like he just might die at any moment, he wants to feel alive. For once.

Niels pauses the world's worst rendition of Nothing Else Matters to answer the message lighting up his phone. Graham.

hey. you free?

Literally always, Niels messages back. What's up?

levs started drinking again

Niels glances at the empty bottles of Asahi lining his desk, before he taps back. Shit. Really?

yeah. something happened. and i think were in trouble

He taps back, letting autocomplete take over where his fingers fail. That's vague. Details.

While the little "..." cycles on the screen, Niels puts the phone in the knitted pocket on the walker, and shuffles down to the kitchen. Fareeha and Esther are away for the weekend, and Clara is half-watching a movie in the living room. Niels offers a cup, smiles at her absent ja, and sets out two large mugs.

It's been good, just the two of them. While he can't keep up with his daughter's constant buzz of energy like he used to be able to, he can at least watch and encourage Clara through her karate training exercises.

Niels settles on the little beige container of liquorice tea that never fails to remind him of the Aussies. Makes that, and a mint hot chocolate. When he sits down on the couch next to Clara, the new green bubble from Graham is already nestled there, filling the bottom of the screen. There's a nervous spill in the words, a hand that it had taken years for the man to feel even remotely close to showing. Even though they'd met each other at their respective worsts.

i dont know how much I can tell you. he hasnt gotten out of bed for a couple of weeks. had to get rid of the bottles we had lieing around

And then: its bad. i dont know what to do

Niels frowns in concern. Has he been going to work?

The ellipses cycle for a long while, long enough for Clara to take notice that Niels has joined her. He gestures to the characters on the screen. "What's this one?"

"Moana, dad. You've seen it…"

Niels hums. "No, I would have remembered it…"

A ping.

he punched his manager and got fired so no

Niels can almost hear Fareeha's shocked oh nej, Lev,as if she'd been right there reading over his shoulder. Can almost see Graham's jaw, clenched as it would have been as he'd typed out the words.

Well that's one way to resign.

no kidding

im worried hes going to hurt himself

i think he already has

The stress must show on Niels' face, because Clara turns the volume down and huddles a little closer to him with a soft 'okay?'

He nods, and though he raises the phone out of her reading view, he puts his other arm over her shoulder. Holds her close.

We are here. How can we help?

-

Niels stares at the opposite wall, guitar laying flat on his lap, fingers curled loosely around the neck. It's late, but he hasn't moved to turn on the light. Can't be bothered to get the walker, or call for someone to help him. His phone sits discarded beside him, still shining its message into the dimming evening sun.

He runs the pad of his thumb over the bottom strings. E, A, D, and a soft scratching noise left in the wake of each touch.

Niels flinches when the metallic sound of it slams a memory forward—the collar, primed and whining and ready to send pain through every inch of him, the twisting feeling that he'd done something wrong, wrong, wrong—he curls his hand over the neck quickly to silence it. Feels the tightness in his chest, his throat. Curls forward with a shaky sigh.

He knows that none of them had long, really. The things they'd been through, the things they had done, could only shave years off the lifespan. And though it was always a toss-up whether they exploded or imploded, they were never going to get back the full allotment of time on this earth they had been promised. In among the myriad other things that will never be as they were, that fact is just another drop in a vast and endless sea. As is this.

Half spitefully, half uncaringly, Niels lets the guitar fall. It hits the floor with an reverberating twang, and a thud.

The bedroom door opens, and as the harsh hallway light floods inward, Niels turns his head away. The bed dips beside him as Fareeha climbs closer, creaks slightly as she leans forward to pull the guitar up, drag it safely back onto the bed.

Then, a kiss is pressed to the back of his shoulder, over the shirt. Another, and another. Slow movements, to give time to pull away.

"Dessert?" Fareeha asks. "Fruit and yoghurt."

Letting out a breath, Niels turns his hand upward for his wife to take in her own. The sight of her ring, plain gold on slender fingers, is enough to cut through the thousand voices in his mind. To bring him here, to the present, though half-steeped in the past as it always is. As it always will be.

"I should have stayed," Niels murmurs, shaking his head. "When Laura got us the gig. I should have stayed, Fifi. And then. None of this…"

He feels Fareeha tune in, hold him a little tighter. The familiar scent of her peach shampoo envelops him with the squeeze of her hand.

"I wanted you to stay," she says, voice cracking. "But I wanted you to go, too, so you could live your dream."

"Some dream it was," Niels laughs bitterly.

"You should have seen your face when she called you." Fareeha moves forward, her eyes huge and soft in the darkness. "You were so excited. I love seeing you like that."

It's been four years since he went to Australia, chasing a dream. But the dreamer is a completely different person, to the one he is today.

"I helped him kidnap them."

He watches Fareeha's eyes flicker as she catches up with the sudden information. Struggles with the nausea threatening to overtake, disgust at himself he'd thought was dormant since they'd gotten free, rearing its head and roaring once more. Pushes through.

"Sold them down the river for a piece of steak and a bed to sleep on. I… gave Graham the drugs to keep him sedated. After I helped put them both in his car. I tied Graham to the pole in that fucking death building. I made up the room that Lev was… that he was… because I thought I could still have the chance to see you again. He said that once he had what he wanted, he would think about letting me go."

The confession numbs him, but it's so laughably past too late for it to matter. The phone on the bed pulses once for attention, message still unopened despite having already been read in preview. Fareeha is a statue, long dark hair framing her face in gentle waves.

Niels closes his eyes as she takes his face in her hands. He wants to, needs to utter the last of it, but the love in her stare is intense and unbearable.

"I heard the guy rape him… that very first night. I made the bed in that room… and I still ate the steak."

It's a weightless thing, the quiet horror left behind in the wake of his words. Like so many universal truths knocked loose, scattered. If he keeps his eyes shut, Niels hopes he will never have to see the way he's let her down. Let them all down.

"You had so much done to you. All of you. But Niels… he was a monster. And you are only a man."

Niels doesn't know what to do, how to react, save from give his phone to Fareeha for her to read. She tilts her head, hair rushing forward to brush his arm as she reads Graham's text.

Four words, but there's a hopelessness in them that Niels feels down every grate and crack of his bones.

they are pressing charges

"Oh nej," Fareeha breathes. "Oh… oh, nej."

The next day, Niels puts the Yamaha in its case. Slides the case under the bed.

#lgm writing #angst #niels ottosen #fareeha scarlett #clara & esther #noncon tw #referenced or implied noncon #references to past torture #emesis tw #self harm tw #death thoughts tw #alcohol tw #drugging tw

[castielamigos-whump-side-blog]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Original Work Rating: Explicit Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Characters: Lev Johnson, Martin Viklund-Reid, Niels Ottosen Additional Tags: Rape, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Cock Warming, Dirty Talk, Forced Orgasm, Come Swallowing, Face-Fucking, Oral Fixation, Forced to Watch, Shameless Self Indulgence On Behalf Of The Author, Vomiting Summary:

Martin Viklund-Reid enjoys a quiet night.

#whump #untilthepainstarts #evermetnotforgotten #lev #martin #niels #captivity #non-con tw #reblog for reread #!!!

[evermetnotforgotten]

content warnings: stabbing.

The man glared at Martin as he entered the room. Slow and deliberate movements, tracked by vigilant eyes.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Go stick your dick in a landmine, you fucking freak,” came the acerbic reply.

Martin hummed. “Bit of a spitfire, aren’t you?” he said, amusement ringing in his voice. He was much less amused when, stepping closer to the man, a literal glob of spit came far too close to landing on him.

He stepped forward quickly, closing the rest of the distance between himself and Niels, who was currently cuffed and hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Grabbing him firmly by the jaw, so he couldn’t open his mouth and take another shot. He pushed the head back, examining dyed hair and the blond roots underneath, the blue bruises. The narrowed eyes, glittering with rage, hate, indignation.

Not fear. Not yet.

“Spit on my new shoes and I’ll cut your tongue out, Niels Bohr.”

Niels’ speech was impeded by the grip, but he seemed to press right on despite that obstacle. Furious. “So, what are you going to do, huh? You going to put a fucking dog collar on me? Like you had that kid in? Huh?”

Martin laughed. Then threw his head back, and laughed harder. “Nej, nej, nej,” he replied. Making sure to use the Danish pronunciation, rather than his usual Swedish—always willing to accommodate a guest. “You think you’re worthy of that? Come on. That collar was a gift, one that had been earned.”

Rolling his eyes, Niels scoffed. “Yeah I’ll bet it was. He just looked really fucking pleased about his gift, that whole time. Not as if he was scared nearly to death of what would happen, if he didn’t do exactly whatever you said.” He twisted in the restraints, relatively muscular arms pulling down on the cuffs, as if to lurch in Martin’s direction and strangle him. Martin smiled, thinking on how he so often had that effect on people.

“Hm. You backed down pretty quickly for how big you’re talking now.”

Niels was unfazed. “I’m not gonna play your fucking games, you piece of shit.”

Such a stark change of pace. Like a cleanse of the palate. He could work with this.

“I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy hurting you as much as I did him. Oh well,” Martin said pleasantly, patting the man roughly on the cheek, enjoying the way he shifted uselessly to try and avoid it. “Maybe you’ll surprise me.” He walked over to the shelving on the far wall of the room, watching out of the corner of his eye the way Niels tried to turn to follow him.

He wasn’t going to bother introducing the Dane to each knife individually, as he had done with his boy. The fucker wouldn’t appreciate them like Lev had. No—this would be more like a quick fix, than a slow burn. He didn’t have all that much time to kill, anyway… just needed a bit to wet his hands. Just to help him calm down. He settled on a favourite of his, before walking back to the centre of the room.

Niels screamed as the blade entered him, arching his back, and then again, more strangled and desperate as Martin pressed up and twisted. Kicking his legs backward, Niels connected with a shin behind him, but to little effect. The blood that rushed from the wound when he withdrew the knife was enough to keep him sated, for now. Martin wiped the steel against the man’s trousers, making sure to make a little cut there, too. Admiring the way the slice bloomed, quickly staining dark across the material there.

As soon as he had breath, the man launched into a round of colourful curses—an eclectic mixture of English, Danish, even a little German, in whatever combination of vulgarities and damnations the man could dream up. Hurling them like grenades.

“That was a good little scream. We may make a collared man out of you yet.”

“Get fucked,” the man panted, between pained grunts. “I will bite your fingers bloody every time you try.”

“No problem, Niels.” Patience being a virtue, and one he had in spades. He pat him on the cheek again, though Niels jerked his head away with even more of a snarl than before.

“We have all the time in the world.”

#reupload in no particular order #1/3 #whump #lgm writing #blood tw #stabbing tw #captivity #restrained #defiant whumpee #niels ottosen #martin viklund reid

[evermetnotforgotten]

This is for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Humiliation.

content warnings: humiliation, food control and starvation, implied noncon, drugging mentions, shock collar, guilt and victim self-blame.

The mashed potatoes smelled heavenly, like butter and salt and everything that the odorless, flavorless sludge that he was usually given wasn’t. The gravy looked decent, good texture. When the fork came down through the lamb shank it melted from the bone.

He hadn’t had a meal that wasn’t slop since the night the fucker had kidnapped—since Niels and the fucker had kidnapped the two of them, because he had helped, like a traitor—and he’d been allowed a few pieces of steak as a reward. He’d thought that had been the end of it, that he would never see a non-drugged, non-slop meal past that night. He’d also thought that Martin would have killed him by now, now that he had ‘his boy’ back.

And yet here the man stood, holding a plate of food that was supposedly for him, and Martin and Lev had eaten the same thing so theoretically it was clean—god it smelled so good—and what had he been thinking about again? Niels couldn’t remember, distracted by the the little tendrils of steam as they curled off the surface of the potatoes. He clenched and unclenched his hands where they were bound in front of him, filled with anticipation.

The small office kitchenette had been turned into a functioning kitchen, and Niels couldn’t help but feel resentment that people would be cooking here, eating here, people who likely were not him. But he also couldn’t figure out what the point of all of this was. Why bring all this furniture, go to all this effort to fix this place up? Why not be a normal person and live in a house, for instance? But he knew that there would be no hope for him if he started to try to figure out the man who kept people now.

Because Niels was still Niels, on the inside. He had more headaches than he used to, and his skin was always dry and flaky, and he was cold all of the time. But he’d still bite the fucker if he could.

The fucker in question was looking down at him with his infuriating little smile. He was leaning against the countertop in his sweater and slacks, mixing the potatoes with the gravy as he spoke. “Do you know what refeeding syndrome is?”

Niels nodded. He didn’t. But if he gave the man a reason to talk, he’d talk forever.

“Good. That’s why we’re taking this nice and slow.” Martin looked up for a moment. “You can start your tea, baby,” he called across the room. There was such adoration in the man’s voice that Niels wanted to punch himself in the face.

He looked over his shoulder to watch as Lev, sitting on the floor by the armchair, slowly picked up the black mug. He had a dark green jumper and a bruise across the left cheek. He raised the cup to his lips, and took a sip. Niels felt a chill settle into the base of his spine.

Even when the kid had been crying openly in his arms, telling him about how afraid he was that his partner was going to die, Lev had never raised his voice above a murmur. Not even on the first night they were here, and Martin had quietly stolen him away into the makeshift bedroom, and Niels knew what had happened then. He’d spent that night lying on the pallet, biting his knuckles to try to ease the guilt. It hadn’t worked. Still, there had been no noises from the room.

But last night… last night there had been yelling. Crashing. Bloodcurdling screams, that went on for an hour. Two. Three.

Then silence.

Lev hadn’t spoken since then.

“Don’t mind him,” Martin said. “We’re just having a hard time figuring out the proper ratio of carrot to stick. Growing pains.”

Fareeha railed inside his head. She was standing with one hand on her hip, the other poking a paintbrush at him. Some sign she had stayed up late the night before to make, lying on the floor… All Are Welcome, or Truth Matters, with the red and white flag in the shape of a heart, paint still drying. We need to speak up for the voiceless.

But Niels didn’t have a voice. Didn’t have a spine, and didn’t have a big red heart. He only had a stomach and a nose, the latter filled with the umami of meat and salt.

“We wouldn’t have been able to do something like this months ago, would we? But now that you’re being good more often, we can start doing things like this. Have dinner all together. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Martin raised an eyebrow, the action set to make him heed the hidden threat. That this could still be taken away.

“From now on, this is how you’ll be receiving your meals. While everyone else is eating, you will wait in front of the oven your knees, just like this. And then I will feed you.” He tapped the spoon against the plate, and set it on the counter.

Great, Niels thought. Just give me the food already. His stomach gurgled loudly, as it did its level best to digest itself.

Martin picked up a piece of the meat between his fingers and held it down to Niels. He didn’t even think before he’d taken the lamb between his teeth, and it was dissolving in his mouth. He couldn’t help but look back to see whether the kid was watching, but as he did, a hand came down to grab his chin and turn his head back.

“Don’t look at him, look at me.” The hand slipped down to his neck, fingers creeping along the leather band of the collar, rubbing there gently—Niels was aware of it, but he was too focused on the next two fingers of scooped mashed potato and gravy that were just in front of his mouth, and then, gloriously, inside his mouth. Salt, butter, textures that weren’t rubbery or gloopy for once, as lips closed around the man’s fingers.

His face burned. He wanted to bite down. He wanted to scream at how easy it was not to, without a voice, without a spine, without a heart.

But even if he did have all of those things, he’d be writhing on the floor before he could think about using them. If his body even had the strength for that. And if his hands weren’t still bound in front of him.

Fuck, the food tasted so good.

How long had it been since he’d been a normal dude, with a job and the ability to walk and talk whenever he wanted? He didn’t know. Could barely think straight as another scoop of the potatoes was pushed into his mouth. He hoped the churning feeling in his stomach didn’t interfere with his ability to eat. Blocked out the voices of Fareeha—

How could you sell out like this, darling beautiful coward of a husband?

Of Lev—

I remember you… you chickened out from helping me, and now you’re doing it again.

The next dollop landed on the floor by his knees, and Niels didn’t hesitate to chase it. Not a man. Just a nose, and a stomach.

“That’s good, Niels. I think my boy could learn from you. He’s gotten… unruly.” A hint of something hard in his voice. “But that will change.”

The age-old trick—give it a treat so you can pet it and come away with all your fingers. Fingers, that were now rubbing underneath the collar. Fingers, that he couldn’t pull away from lest the precious food be taken. He didn’t have time to think about how good it felt to be graced with a gentle touch, before there was another scoop of heavenly potatoes, another sliver of meat.

Before the next one dropped onto the man’s leather shoe, and he licked it off immediately. It was still good, still warm.

“You’re going to help me tonight, aren’t you? You can even stay in the bedroom, after… tomorrow morning I’ll make pancakes for all of us.”

Niels didn’t think about the tears that slipped down his face. It didn’t matter. A spoonful—handful—of food, and nothing did.

He licked the man’s fingers clean of the gravy, and knew that he would do it again, and again.

#lgm writing #reupload in no particular order #3/3 #niels ottosen #martin viklund reid #humiliation tw #starvation tw #shock collar tw #referenced or implied noncon #drugging tw