The story of the first time Lev was kidnapped. Read on AO3.
In Mercy’s Wake
Set six weeks after the events of Felt, Not Seen. Read on AO3 (unfinished).
Cut Open, Pulled Loose - Resurface - Vicious Little Things
Cut Open, Pulled Loose: The story of the second time Lev—and Graham, and Niels—were kidnapped. Resurface: The aftermath of that year-and-a-bit captivity. Vicious Little Things: Various character backstories. Read on Google Docs.
Collaborations
Dark Timeline: A collaboration with Nell @whumpiary. An AU where Cassius is the sole inheritor of Bergen Estate, and Lev follows in Martin’s footsteps. Read on Nell’s masterlist.
F*cked Up Support Group: A collaboration with Ash @ashintheairlikesnow. Lev and Danny forge a friendship through an online support group. Read on Ash’s masterlist.
Recovery House & Leon’s Revenge: A collaboration with Avie @card-games-and-pain. Lee, Lev, Marco and Graham live together in Australia. Read on Avie’s masterlist.
People who are like “erm why would I take a 6 hour train when I can fly there in 45 minutes” are forgetting the mental toll of Being In An Airport which shortens your lifespan by 2 months each time
can't sub because I can never show weakness. can't dom because I would never take freedom from another soul. my unbreakable warriors code means I will never fuck. maybe I could suck on it as long as I get to hold my mithril dagger for safety
TRANSGENDER ELF WOMAN, SUDDENLY LESS HORNY THAN ANYONE HAS EVER BEEN: ok
content warnings: torture, non-consensual body modification (scarification), branding mention.
Martin Viklund-Reid is, in all things, a craftsman. An opinionated one to boot. The artist’s eye is lauded as paramount but it kneels to two things, in his practice—first, a steady hand. Things such as these were an act of translation, figment into form, and as such a clear voice was crucial. A smooth, gently curling line? His forgeries of jealousy.
The second is simple patience.
“Good, love,” Martin murmurs. “Easy.” Pausing to take note of the quiet yet rapid breaths, he presses one hand to the middle of his boy’s back.
He thought he had prepared him enough, introducing each step bit by bit—the workroom, the restraints, the long and close physical contact, gradually increasing the time spent in tolerance of each. Had hoped a sedative wasn’t necessary, because it would just make things harder to monitor. There were certain positionings here that were necessary to minimise cramping for Lev, or waking up with a sore back tomorrow himself. More abstract, here he wanted the annealing that only pain, shared and savoured pain, could bring.
But the setup, he had to admit, was intimidating. And Lev had started breaking down as soon as he’d entered the room.
Martin kisses along both shoulder blades, apologising for each transgression—the tight leather cuffs around each wrist, the straps looping all the way up to his elbows and cinched together to restrict movement that much extra. The short fastening that connects the cuffs up to the collar, and the hitching post in front.
“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay.”
Lev was trying so hard not to hyperventilate, though honey-sweet in the little tremors of it. Fear was just as much a part of him now as it was the day they met, and even while Martin could see the beginning signs of a deep depression, the visceral emotion that had caught and held his attention was there still, ever-present. Ever-loved.
Like always, Martin would guide him through gentle. Take him slow.
Attention coalescing back into a single point, Martin takes his steady hand and drags the scalpel in a short curve, blade parting the way, like the prow of a ship. Waits for a moment. Then again, this time forming the little v of the leaftip. The slightly jagged surges after.
“You’re doing so fucking well, baby,” he croons, dabbing the line of blood underneath the cut with a fresh cloth. “So well. Hey, flex your fingers for me, yeah? Unclench your jaw a little. No cracked teeth.”
This next one would be long and winding, the core of a stem. He flicks it quick for a smoother line, cupping the outer circle of the brand, itself only slightly larger than a fifty-cent piece. Pauses after the stroke to sit with his boy through a stricken cry, a feeble yank. A quiet fuck. Then silence. Martin eyes where Lev’s fingers have dug themselves little trenches into the sides of his own throat.
“Not many of those left, I promise.”
“Just get it over with,” Lev hisses.
Martin hums.
“Please.”
“Good boy.”
There’s a thrill there, as always, in drawing out his natural politeness, even under the knife. Martin thinks of a whispered conversation he’d caught between his boy and Niels, a few days ago. After an especially well-earned reward.
I don’t…. hate him. And then the weary admission, I think I’m losing my fucking mind.
He knows that Lev’s energy reserves are limited. He’s using that to his advantage, more often than not.
It takes about another hour before his work is finished. Martin casts an appraising eye over the two leafy stems gently curling around his initial mark, dragging low into a drop point underneath. A decoration meant to emphasise, like gilding. No line out of place, on freckle-dappled skin.
“I love you,” Martin breathes. “Very, very much.”
And though it takes some time, Lev’s response comes, like it always does. Still trembling from the shocks to his system. Small, delicate, beautiful.
This is inspired by that post that talks about how whip scars are cool because they’re so intentional, I love scars that are obviously left with intent, scars that could only come about from the effort of someone, whether that be the person themself or an abuser, cigarette burns, knife cuts, brands, the types of marks that clearly say that someone decided to hurt them and meant it
taking the threshold of adulthood as 18, you are likely to spend at least 52 years as a fully grown adult
at the age of 30 you have lived less than one quarter of your adult life (12/52 years)
'middle age' is typically considered to be between 45-65
it is extremely common to switch careers, start new relationships, emigrate, go to college for the first or second time, or make other life-changing decisions in middle age
it's wild that I even have to spell it out, but older adults (60+) still have social lives and hobbies and interests.
you can still date when you get old. you can still fuck. you can still learn new skills, be fashionable, be competitive. you can still gossip, you can still travel, you can still read. you can still transition. you can still come out.
young doesn't mean peaked. you're inexperienced in your 20s! you're still learning and practicing! you're developing social skills and muscle memory that will last decades!
there are a million things to do in the world, and they don't vanish overnight because an imaginary number gets too big
it is an incredibly joyous thing to look around at your friends as you're heading into your 40s and everyone is so much more themselves than they were when you were all scared and fragile 20-somethings. we're different genders now, we've gotten out of bad relationships and into good ones, we worked shit jobs and got better ones, we all cook a lot better and we eat better too, we casually pull off the kind of art we could only dream of as kids, we've figured out who we are and we do it on purpose now. the self-harm scars have all faded away and we complain about our bad backs and picky digestions instead.
my cat just came up and meowed very loudly and insistently and even nipped at my leg and when i was like "FINE" and got up to follow her she led me to the next room where a patch of sun was coming in. she wanted me to sit in the sun with her.