2 - Reference to (1) that "(noun) blues" expression (like in Stone Butch Blues) with blue as in like, feeling sad/unhappy (as a reference to angst), (2) Blues as a music genre created by black people
3 - Suggested by anon, clever worldplay :)
4 - A little variation on #3 to make things clearer about being whump stuff. Although if we went with just noirvember i dont think thered be much of a problem :0 there is another noirvember event about noir films but it's called "@/noirvember-film" so I think we'd be good. I did want to add an option with whump in the name tho just so we cover all our bases
There is one line of French in this chapter and if I fucked it up I'm sorry, I haven't taken a French class since middle school :'(
===
The elevator couldn’t move fast enough.
“So?” Lilianne’s accent was heavy the way it always was when she was drunk on gin and couldn’t care less about her pronunciation. It didn’t help that his cell didn’t have the best reception. “What’s wrong with wanting to wish my baby brother a happy birthday?”
Bastien was acutely aware of Niney’s presence, practically breathing down his neck in the ancient fucking coffin of an elevator. “Je peux parler français, Lilianne.”
“No you can’t,” she cackled. Like a witch. “I cannot understand a word, not with that awful accent.”
“You’re one to talk,” Bastien replied.
“And yet you still know what I am saying.”
“What do you want?” He repeated, his grip tightening on the phone.
He could hear glasses clinking, liquid pouring, and static as Lilianne shifted her phone around for no apparent reason other than to annoy him.
“I thought you should know that I still haven’t received the twins’ gifts.”
Fucking bitch.
Bastien clenched his jaw. “Who said I sent anything?”
“Of course you did, don’t be ridiculous. Are you really going to tell me that you didn’t send your niece and nephew anything for their birthday? It’s not like it’s easy to forget, it’s on the same fucking day as yours”
If Bastien didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that she had the defied the laws of nature to align her pregnancy to that exact day just to fuck with him.
“You didn’t send me anything,” he snapped.
“Because you don’t celebrate.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t either.”
For a moment, all he could hear was the grinding of the elevator’s gears and Lilianne’s quiet breathing.
“Papa died fifteen years ago, Bastien. I’m not going to deny my children their birthday because it happens to fall on the death day of a man they never had the chance to meet.”
“He was a good man.” Bastien hated how nasally he sounded whenever he got defensive.
“You were twelve when he died, not nearly old enough to know what kind of man he was.”
The air was uncomfortably warm, or maybe it was just the blood pooling underneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was him that was shaking or the elevator.
“He was family, shouldn’t that count for anything?” He asked.
“Says the man that hasn’t come home since he was a teenager.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said, “someone needs to run the American branch.”
“Right, because running the American branch means terrorizing models for your little show.”
“It’s not like any of you ever put in much of an effort to make me feel fucking welcome.” He spat before pausing, remembering to loosen his jaw so he wouldn’t grind his teeth. “I’m pretty sure Cerise has my number blocked.” In the corner of his eye, Niney started to move until Bastien leveled a withering glare in his direction. “I don’t understand why you can’t just admit that you’re all just fucking jealous. Papa knew I had talent, he knew that I have what it takes to run the company. That’s why he gave it to Maman to hand it over to me when I was ready instead of you or Murielle or Cerise. I’m just– I’m better than you ever could be.”
Lilianne laughed again, but that time it was low and grating with a thread of darkness running through it. “Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe Papa was just a sexist pig who couldn’t imagine giving his company to one of his daughters? I wonder why he suddenly stopped insisting on wanting more children the very second you were born.”
“Don’t fucking say that!” Bastien’s voice pitched up in a way that reminded him of when he was a kid, crying to Papa because Lilianne just wouldn’t stop teasing him. He’d been told to man up, to defend himself, and it had worked up until Lilianne decided to start hitting back.
“Or what? You’ll cry?” The teasing tone never left her voice, even when she was upset. “Go ahead.”
“I didn’t choose to be his favourite, it’s not fair that you all hate me for it.” He sucked a breath in through his teeth and it stuttered when he felt a hand on his arm.
“Sir–” Niney started to say.
“Shut up,” Bastien hissed, but it was already too late.
“Is that your little, um… what do you call it? Your pet?” Lilianne asked, like she didn’t already know the answer.
“Yes.”
“I want to speak to him.”
“Absolutely not.”
The silence that fell over the elevator was suffocating.
“You know, Bastien, every time I call I hope you’ve come to your senses but I only ever end up disappointed,” She spoke slowly, like she was picking her words carefully. “Nobody hates you because you were Papa’s favourite, or because you never visit us, or because you’re an obnoxious little prick. Cerise and Maman and Murielle don’t hate you for any of that.” Her voice quieted. “I try so hard. I reach out, I try to talk to you. I can take the anger, I can take your selfish, unpleasant personality. It doesn’t bother me, I promise you that. What does bother me, and what I can’t take, is that my own brother is a fucking slave owner. You disgusting piece of shit.”
Bastien’s breath hitched, his voice catching with it. What the fuck did she know? “They’re not slaves. They’re pets.”
“Calling them a cute name doesn’t change what they are.”
“It’s not– it’s voluntary, they choose to go into the program.” He was clutching the phone so hard the case was digging into his fingers.
“So if they decided to quit, they could? You would let them leave?”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Is it?”
He took a breath and tried not to cough up the rage burning in his stomach. “I have to go.”
“Don’t–”
He stepped out of the elevator. “I have to go. Bye.” And hung up so he could take out his keys.
“Sir,” Niney said again, “maybe don’t–”
“Not now,” Bastien snapped. He fit the keys into the lock and turned, ready to collapse onto the couch with a glass of wine and ask Ziya what he’d been up to all day while he and Niney were out running errands.
“Sir– don’t–”
Streamers. They were the first thing he noticed when he opened the door. Not actual streamers, ribbons from his office that had been carefully taped to the ceiling with the rolls still attached in some awkward facsimile of party decorations.
He could see the kitchen from the entryway, see the cake on the counter and Ziya standing behind it with a tight smile plastered across his face.
“Happy birthday… sir…?” Ziya started to say, trailing off as his eyes landed just past Bastien’s shoulder.
Bastien turned back, catching Niney waving his hand back and forth across his neck so quickly that it looked like he was trying to behead himself.
“What the fuck is this?” He asked. He had to knock a fistful of ribbons aside as he walked down the hall to the kitchen island. He didn’t bother taking off his shoes.
“We’re sorry, sir.” Was that fear in Niney’s voice? “We’ll clean it up. We’re sorry.”
How dare he sound scared. Bastien had barely laid a hand on him for two months. He had gotten better, he was still getting better. No thanks to Niney. No thanks to all the fucking deep breaths, sir and the calm down, sir and the whining and the pathetic whimpering. Bastien did that on his own. He got better because he wanted to and he was better. He’d done it for Paris, for Maman, for Ziya. He did it and there was no reason for Niney to be afraid of him anymore. Niney should have been fucking grateful for his progress, not scared.
If only Lilianne knew how far he’d come.
“What? Why?” Ziya took a step towards Niney, lowering his voice, talking like Bastien couldn’t hear him. “This took me, like, an hour to put up. I’m not taking it down.”
“Ziya–” Niney hissed.
“No, I’m serious. I’m not taking this down.”
The cake was thin but tall, probably at least three layers. It had white frosting with a blue trim, and matching letters spelling out ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. Prichard!’, adorned with swirls and flowers and all sorts of intricate little details.
Bastien hadn’t given Ziya permission to use his ingredients, the ones that he had bought with his hard-earned money, to bake a fucking birthday cake. He didn’t even know how Ziya had found out about it in the first place. If he were as terrible as Lilianne seemed to think, he wondered why it was only Niney who looked nervous, why Ziya’s face was flushed with anger instead of paled in terror. Lilianne had no clue what she was talking about.
The day before, when he had asked Ziya why icing sugar was on the shopping list, Ziya had replied ‘you’ll see,’ with a coy smile and a wink. It must have taken him all day to put together the decorations, the cake. The kitchen was still warm from how long the oven must have been running.
Too bad it took all of three seconds for Bastien to slam it into the floor.
“Fucking Christ!” Ziya squeaked, “what the fuck is your problem?!”
“Ziya!” Niney’s voice was raised, seemingly more out of surprise than anger.
“No! Fuck this!” Ziya shouted. His volume was a bit surprising, but Bastien had been anticipating a tantrum for days. It always happened close to a show, one of the models would have a bit of a breakdown over the pressure or the cut calories or something. Bastien was used to dealing with those. Or, at least, he was used to watching Mimette deal with them and it didn’t look that hard.
However, when Ziya approached, Bastien still found himself taking an involuntary step back, suddenly reminded that Ziya was nearly four inches taller than him.
“I did something NICE for you! Why the FUCK do you think it’s okay to– to throw a tantrum and shit ALL OVER IT?!” Ziya’s finger jabbed into Bastien’s chest once, twice, three times. It hurt. “I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve been soooo fucking good at following all of your bullshit fucking orders all for your shitty fucking runway.” Ziya was heaving. Bastien’s heart pounded. “I can’t remember anything beyond the last five years of my life but even I know that your designs are shit, your ideas are shit, you’re shit. And any time anyone questions you, you throw a tantrum and somehow it always leads to you getting your way you fucking childish bitch–”
The crack of his hand against Ziya’s face was much less satisfying than he thought it would be.
There was no resistance. Ziya crumpled almost immediately, his knees hitting the tile floor much harder than the back of Bastien’s hand had hit his cheek. Bastien wanted to roll his eyes, tell Ziya to stop being so dramatic, but there was something eerie about the way that Ziya just knelt there in the remains of the cake. His hair fell in front of his eyes and the mark where Bastien’s rings had bit into his skin was partially covered by a smear of icing.
Bastien wasn’t sure why anyone would choose that. Why they would walk right into the WRU and demand such an awful, demeaning life. He wasn’t even the worst out there. Ziya’s last owner was worse than him, he knew that much. Whatever Ziya’s life was before must’ve been hell for him to prefer to be the plaything of people like Bastien and Randall Gray.
It must have been hell, Bastien reasoned. It didn’t matter what he did, he was still a better alternative than whatever existed beyond Ziya’s wall of medically-induced amnesia.
The thought gave him solace as he pulled his foot back for a kick.
“Sir!” Niney was in front of him. He didn’t know that Niney could move that fast. “It was my idea, please don’t hurt him!”
“Why do you care?” Bastien asked. He put his hand on Niney’s shoulder and tried to shove him aside.
Niney didn’t budge. “I want to go to Paris, sir. Please. If you hurt him too bad then the show will be cancelled and then we can’t go and Miss Mimette can’t go and nobody else can go. I want to see the Eiffel tower. Please.”
It was pathetic, the way Niney’s dead eyes sparkled. The pale blue usually reminded Bastien of cataracts on a corpse but, in that moment, they were shining pools of aquamarine, all wide and full of hope.
“You’re not going to Paris.” Bastien almost felt bad saying it. He thought it was obvious, why the fuck would he waste a thousand dollars on a round trip ticket for someone who didn’t need to be there?
To his credit, Niney didn’t seem all that surprised. His arms went slack and the light began to fade, dragging back those familiar dead eyes.
“Did you hear me?” Bastien wasn’t patient enough to wait for him to snap out of it. “You’re not going. I’m not fucking taking you there.”
Niney nodded, a slow movement led mostly by his chin. He sounded so, so defeated when he said, “I’m sorry, sir. I– I just thought…” He bit his lip.
“That I wanted you there?” Bastien forced a laugh. Nothing was funny but he liked the way it made Niney shrink into himself. He liked knowing the weight his words could have. “When have I ever given you that idea? I spoke to the judge a few weeks ago and she agreed that it would be irresponsible for me to bring a pet into a country that doesn’t have any protections to ensure you stay under my control.”
“But…” Niney’s eyes slid down and to the right. Bastien didn’t need to follow them to know he was staring at Ziya.
“Ziya’s coming with me because I need him. I don’t need you.” He spoke to Niney like he was speaking to a child, loud and exaggerated. He wanted to make sure Niney didn’t develop any more infantile delusions. “Do you think you could get up on that runway? Do you?”
Niney shook his head.
“Good. Because you can’t. You’re short and fat and your eyes are way too far apart to ever be photographed from a front angle. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have bad skin and your torso is too long and you have big ears and a weak jaw. You’re ugly.”
“I know, sir.”
Bastien paused, searching Niney’s expression for any sign of hurt or discomfort. There was nothing and it just made him angrier. Lilianne was so fucking wrong, he didn’t own people. A person would have some kind of reaction, they would yell or cry or at least look somewhat fucking upset. He thought back to the night in the car, he wondered if he would ever be able to get that kind of reaction again.
“Say it back, then.”
“I’m ugly, sir.”
Bastien raised his chin. “All of it.”
“I’m… I’m short. And fat. My eyes are too far apart and…” Niney paused, not with any emotion but more like he was struggling to remember Bastien’s words. “I get acne and I have big ears and a weak jaw. Uh… my hair is thin. Also I have a long torso, sir.”
None of it felt the way he wanted it to feel. It was just vacant cruelty for the sake of cruelty. Empty calories, like the ruined cake on the floor.
He used his foot to nudge open the door of the wine cupboard, grabbing a bottle and a glass on his way out of the kitchen.
“I’m going to my room,” he said, as if there was anywhere else he could go, “have this shit cleaned up by tomorrow.”
===
A/N:
"Je peux parler français" means "I can speak French"
This chapter definitely leads into a pretty big turning point in the overall plot, I may end up posting the next one later tonight because it's a direct follow-up to this one and I'm pretty much done editing it. We'll see :l
We've had some nice recovery Eldwin things, so let's talk about some of his triggers.
-Sudden movements
-Sudden loud noises
-Clinking metal (could be as innocent as cutlery clinking together)
-Anything medical related. Antiseptic smells, long white coats, anything
-Being told to relax
-Being told "you were made for this" ot sometimes "You're a natural at this"
-Strong rose or vanilla scent
-Several scents tbh I haven't decided what cologne Vivruh and Pierce wear but those too. Maybe Clyde's as well.
-Being touched (right now, at all; later in recovery, unexpectedly or against his permission)
-Fire (to varying degrees)
-Being complimented on his appearance (clothes are usually okay unless he's already iffy with them; directly calling him pretty is not good unless he trusts them)
-Cameras
-Whenever he makes a mistake, such as dropping something
-Or when he forgets what he's saying halfway through a conversation. Even when it's not his own issues and just a Thing That People Do Sometimes, it upsets and frustrates him and he expects others to be mad at him too
-Small, cramped spaces
-Crowds and parties
-Raised voices
There's probably more I'll add when I think of them
Dany misses her friends. Ridley prepares for a romantic anniversary breakfast.
Ridley and B belong to @hackles-up , and if you look closely enough you'll find alternate versions of more characters I adore.
Content/warnings: intimate whumper, cheery whumper, degradation, humiliation, dubcon kiss, implied noncon. A teeny bit of a medical situation.
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I get a break. An actual break, bedrest, for an entire week. I know I need it, simply to survive. Still, I'm terrified.
The last 'break' Ridley gave me, as I didn't see then, but understand clearly now, too late, wasn't out of mercy - it had simply been meant to make me look healthier, to make the sight of me being brutally broken down in front of a camera more haunting. More effective, as Leo would call it.
Break leads to broken.
The fucking irony in that one word.
When the dread becomes too bad, I focus on the pain; and vice versa, in a cruel spiral.
A nurse comes by twice a day to change my bandages and adjust the painkillers. I don't even try talking to them. There's nothing I could say with my voice that my wounds don't already scream out, and they remain completely unfazed.
On the second day, Ridley dropped into the room with the stupid dildo, watching as I used my good hand to work it deep into my throat. My so-called progess satisfied him enough to 'reward' me with a remote control for the TV and an awkward repositioning towards the screen.
Since then, I've kept it running day and night.
I've never cared much about television, much less local tv, but it feels like a lifeline now. Like the connection to a reality that still exists out there. I'm watching the local station, and they still talk about my disappearance.
I'm far from being a celebrity, but I did get a little fame for my successes at tennis, and some more fame as a rich, promiscuous party girl. Most of the latter stems from the short yet insanely intense affair with the Montgomery heir. Peyton had been about to leave his partner, considered proposing to me - and then leaked a sex tape, after I turned him down. Enough to become an uncomfortable sort of famous - but also enough to still stay newsworthy after having been missing for something shy of a month.
My friend Olivia is on the screen, talking to the camera, Lou in the background, enraged, talking about how my friends had to take matters in their own hands, how they found out Frankie's whereabouts in a luxurious beach resort, but no trace of me. How they're convinced he's sold me out.
Then a cut, Frankie and his lawyer in front of a court building, cornered by journalists.
I press a hand to my mouth. They did it. My friends didn't give up, they knew something was wrong, they followed up on this, and now, against all odds, someone is going to -
My relieved sob breaks off, when Frankie starts speaking. "I did my job, of course my charge is safe! I can't disclose her whereabouts though, not to anyone. If the police want to arrest me for keeping her safe, based on no evidence at all, so be it. She's not simply my charge, she's also my friend. And Dany's- I mean, Ms Hammond's enemies are known to be brutal. I won't have this happen to her."
Frankie's face stays straight. Mine doesn't. I break out in a hysteric laugh that I can't stop for minutes, that shakes my body so bad that I feel at least one of the healing wounds on my back tear open.
"Fuck you," I whisper. "Fuck you, Frankie."
The news cut over to the weather, and I do the one thing I found that soothes me. Ridley's huge TV lets me access the station's media library, including recordings of the biggest concerts of the local symphony orchestra. Lou plays second chair Cello there. Their music is beautiful. And whenever the camera films my best friend's face, I press pause and imagine I'm there with them.
They're real. Olivia, Lou, all of them. Our friendship is real. Their fight for me is real.
I'm real.
I close my eyes.
I'll make it back. For them. And for myself.
*
"Peekaboo!" Before I can even switch channels, the door is pushed wide open. "Goood morning, Babygiiiirl." Ridley singsongs. "Keep watching news about yourself? Bit narcissistic, isn't it? I feel like TV privileges aren't doing you well."
I grimace, hide my gross relief at the company of another human being. My voice is hoarse, but at least it still works, when I prop myself up on the cushion with my good arm and look at him over my shoulder. "Oh really? I... I feel like torture sessions are ... aren't exactly doing me well either."
Ridley giggles, delighted. "Aw. There's that flirty banter." His hand slaps on my butt, just on top one of the welts, and I wince at the sharp pain. "That, plus your really well shaped ass, is why I really begged Leo to keep you functional for me. You're fun." He claps his hands. "Now, screentime is over. Dany's, uh, Ms Hammond's enemies are brutal. What a loser, your ex. But right about this. Your sexy, brutal enemy is coming over for breakfast, and I want to show you off."
Break. Break fast. Broken. I shiver and wrap the light blanket around myself with the hand of my broken arm. I am better. But by far not well enough for Leo. I'll never be, I think bitterly.
"I... I can't walk." Protest won't stop him. Nothing will. But maybe it'll delay the inevitable. And my words are true. The nurse has helped me limp to the bathroom on my own legs earlier, but that's about the longest distance I can manage.
With clenched teeth, I remember that she's also washed my hair, cleaned me up more thoroughly. They were getting me ready for this. Whatever it is. Fuck.
"B will help you." His eyes glint with something dark and foreboding. "Big boy missed cuddling with his favorite toy."
On cue, B enters. His face is cool, but grows softer when he sees me. "Miss Dany. I will assist you." He steps in towards me, freezes when he looks at the tube going into my arm. "The... a... a Drip?"
"It's good for her." Ridley casually waves his hand. He's doing it on purpose. The stuff they gave Daniel in the videos, the stuff he fought, it was administered via a drip.
"Painkillers," I breathe. "It's painkillers, B, nothing else." I hope it's true. I hope this isn't the next stage of Ridley's cruel game.
B's hands are shaking as he unfastens the drip from my arm and removes the triangular cushion from under my chest.
He doesn't scoop me up like he so often did. It would tear my back open again. Instead, he lifts me to a stand, carefully avoiding the brace around my shoulder, and lets me support myself against him as I take wobbly steps towards the door. Ridley doesn't step out of the way. Instead, when we reach him after what feels like an eternity, he wraps his hand into my hair to pull me into a kiss. The tug on my hair is a cruel threat, contrasting his gentle lips. I would have understood anyway. My lips part, let him in, kiss him back.
It's a soft kiss, almost tentative, almost caring. "Tell me you missed me, babygirl," he breathes, the painful pull growing stronger. "Tell me you missed this. You missed taking cock."
Survive. Heal. Play along.
I lift my hand to his cheek, guide his eyes to meet mine, as I do the only thing that will keep me alive. Smile. Obey. "I missed you, Daddy. I missed being close to you. I missed... I missed your cock."
His lips twitch into a smirk, as he pulls back. "Perfect, baby," he coos. "You'll love what's coming next."
*
The actual first thing coming next is the slow, excruciating walk down the hallway towards the main room. Ridley hasn't had the patience to wait. Of course not. So it's me and B, and the soothing rhythm of his breath that vibrates against my own chest. "Shhh," he mumbles, whenever I gasp in pain, because yet another step made my chest sting like being stabbed. Or, "It's alright, I've got you."
"Nothing... is alright." Talking hurts, too. Fuck. "You... you don't need... to lie to me."
He lets his head hang down for a moment, before he nods. "Sorry, Miss Dany."
I swallow back my automatic response, that would've been the very same lie. It's alright.
We both know it's not.
*
By the large window of the main room, Ridley - or, probably his cook - has set up a small bistro table with an opulent breakfast. There's an etagere with all sorts of smoked fish, with caviar, fresh fruit, assorted cheeses. My stomach growls at the sight. I don't even know when I've eaten solid food the last time. The medical staff have fed me with some bland protein shake. Enough to keep my body working. Not enough to resemble actual food.
"Get her there." Ridley snaps his fingers at the table, his other hand balancing a champagne bottle, and for a beautiful second I imagine I get a chance to eat, remember brunch parties at our place, filled with laughter and joy and freedom.
Of course I won't get it here.
The table is set for two. And next to a chair, a flat cushion is laid out on the floor. I flinch, slowly turn to face Ridley.
"I can't-"
"Tsk. Doctor says you might not be able to properly sit on that pretty, whipped ass of yours just yet. But you can kneel, Princess, and you will. B. Force her."
B doesn't hesitate. His hand is heavy on my shoulder - the broken one, he uses my injury as a fucking leverage - and I cry out as I drop to my knees to escape the pain.
"Good boy." Ridley smiles fondly, as the elevator chimes. "And just in time."
[video id: A person taking Link from Legend of Zelda's hurt sound, tone pitching it, programing it into his piano, and then playing a song from ocarina of time in link screams. end id]
it's so funny because the last couple days i've been like "i bet fletcher would try to befriend crows. there's not really room to explore this in the story but it seems like something they would do. buck doesn't even know about fletcher's crow friends."
anyway been writing omegaverse this week for the first time in uhh *checks notes* 11 years and have to say something i find interesting about it is that it's this like. frankly very normal fetish thing that's just breached containtment to a bizarre degree?
on 2 separate occasions i've had conversations with people where they've mentioned something they don't Get about omegaverse and I've been like 'well it's like that bcos it's a fetish thing' and they've been like 'it's a what??'
it gets treated as this like stock fandom AU and i'll see people like 'i don't understand why anyone wants to read this' and i'm like yes that's bcos it's pretty intense* fetish content & you don't have the right assortment of fetishes for it? there's a bunch of other similar Stock Settings that just haven't breached containment.
*intense as in like, Density of fetish content involved rather than intensity of fetish if that makes sense?
im alright with fetish ideas 'breaching containment' because then its less stigmatized but like its still fetish content and its a little perplexing how people could read omegaverse stuff and not realize its fetish content?
SO i think i've observed 2 separate but related things going on:
firstly the aforementioned demographic of people who have somehow genuinely failed to clock that it's a kink thing
but also a second demographic of people who seem to have taken its like. prominence in fandom spaces as a sign that they're somehow 'expected' to like it? i've not really seen this attitude with any other kink.
ppl will talk about it the way they might talk about say high school/college AUs or coffee shop AUs which are very common and i guess are sometimes presented as things that everyone finds fluffy & relatable? when in reality it's more like idk. piss kink. it'd be pretty weird to read a piss kink fic and go 'ewww why does the author expect me to find piss sexy??' well they don't. they expect people who already think piss is sexy to read the fic.
In the name of historical accuracy here is the actual origin point on omegaverse:
Obviously there was a process of development leading up to it but this kink meme prompt led to whats generally accepted as the OG. Ultimately the brain child of this anonymous poster. Have they ever identified themselves??
An important thing to remember here is that while I appreciate why some people find world building heavy omegaverse puzzling or irritating, the fact that someone is writing primarily or exclusively SFW social commentary w world building omegaverse does NOT mean it's not a kink thing for them. Maybe world building is their kink. You don't know.
this post is going around again so have an additional Thought:
the omegaverse belongs to an genre i have mentally dubbed 'speculative kink'. there are various other types of speculative kink; a well known example in fanfiction spaces is the dom/sub AU, a kind of precursor to omegaverse where the premise is 'what if everyone was biologically a dom or a sub'.
however: there various other shared speculative kink settings out there. unfortunately I cannot get into this too much without discussing some uhhh Devils Sacraments I have attended so you will have to trust me. but I'm aware of several other demographics out there doing speculative kink worldbuilding.
a major difference between omegaverse and the other speculative kink settings I'm aware of is that omegaverse takes itself much more seriously. omegaverse works are often aiming to be understood as serious commentary on gender roles with legitimate worldbuilding. in contrast other speculative kink is typically very open about the fact that the worldbuilding is complete nonsense that exists in service of getting to the kink as soon as possible.
this is something that I think really adds to the Confusion around it! to be clear I do not think it's a bad thing and the fact is, yes you can use kink to explore social themes. but there is sometimes an apparent contradiction between the implied aims of an omegaverse work (to comment on gender roles) and the basics of the setting (Turbo Gender Roles).
omegaverse is truly interesting! the modern concept(s) of it derive from obviously the spn rpf kinkmeme prompt, the biological-bdsm AU (helenish's take clothes off as directed) from stargate atlantis, the societal-bdsm AU (xanthe's the doctor and general shepperd)(I think that's the title) from stargate atlantis, and! for those omegaverse fics featuring fated mates, psychic bonding by bite, and/or 'omega/mate hunts', those are clearly descended from sentinel fics featuring sentinel/guide fated pairings and guide hunts! and (notably Dolimir's Moonhunt is I think probably the original source for the hunts; Arnie's fics are I think the source of many of the non-con bond-by-bite elements)
sources:
helenish - Take Clothes Off As Directed
"You can't make a sub the military commander of Atlantis," Ford said.
Xanthe - General and Dr Sheppard - Stargate Atlantis
An accident with Ancient technology sucks a John and Rodney from an alternate universe onto Atlantis – and they have very different ideas about sex, marriage and relationships.
(Words: 119,557) | Part 1 of BDSM Universe
Dolimir - Moonhunt
Cascade was well known for being a dangerous city, but sociologists had speculated that the constant danger the guardians found themselves in was leading to the evolution of a new type of sentinel -- more powerful, who demanded a more powerful guide.
arnie - The Wrong Guide (wayback machine)
Gerry Westward can't be bothered to attend a Clan gathering, so he persuades a friend of his, Blair Sandburg, to go instead. Set two years after Right Guide.
also! Take Clothes Off as Directed was specifically a deconstruction of gender discrimination. It was doing it very seriously and deliberately. back in 2006.
I do so love a Whumpee whose attitude takes a turn:
Whumpee is on the ground, grimly taking a beating from several attackers. The sass has been kicked out of them already, so now they’re trying to outlast their attackers, putting up their arms over their head, tucking down their chin and drawing their knees up to their midsection. Just… enduring.
This can’t go on forever, right? The attackers have to tire out some time... Which should be soon.
Broken bones and bruises will heal, eventually. As long as they don’t cause too much internal bleeding or brain damage…
Then they hear the *snikt* of a knife being drawn.
All of a sudden Whumpee is scrambling back, the heels of their boots skidding on tile, saying “no no no, wait, no—“
++++++++++++
(Just lie down, kid. Things aren't going to get any better.)
It was physically painful, not just the torture they had to endure, but the tears. Whumpee would cry so much they'd make themself sick. They were hurting, they were snot-filled, they were absolutely, unbelievably, exhausted.
“Will you ever run out of tears, Whumpee?” Whumper asked. Their voice was soft, but they clearly spoke with mocking intent. Whumpee continued sobbing. “Honestly, it must be quite tiresome. Wouldn't you like to stop?”
“I—! I-I wo-would like- you- you to stop—”
“Shh, shh, shh,” Whumper hushed, pressing a finger to their quivering lips, cheeks red as tears fell down them. “There will be no talk of nonsense, Whumpee.”
"I'm running out of patience here. Tell me where you were the evening of May 9th."
"How the fuck am I supposed to know? That was five months ago."
The sound of a hand slapping the table rang throughout the room.
"Goddammit, what did I just say?"
"Alright, relax."
Miller was sprawled out in a chair beside the table, the very picture of ease. Grant paced back and forth on the other side, steam practically coming out of his ears, while their suspect sat in a chair by Miller.
"It makes sense, Grant. It was a while ago. And," he turned his attention to the suspect, "it sounds like you were going through a lot at that time."
"Yeah." The suspect, a rather slimy guy by the name of Lester, relaxed a fraction. "Yeah, you know, I really was."
Grant scoffed in exasperation, but Miller nodded, his face entirely sympathetic. "You've got all these women telling stories about you, then the construction job at Lakewood dries up, you've got no income….anyone would be stressed."
Lester nodded, looking imploringly at Miller. "Exactly. I was backed into a corner!"
Miller nodded seriously. "You needed an outlet. That's being human, Lester."
"I…I did." Lester glanced nervously at Grant, who let out a frustrated huff.
"You want to sit here and listen to this bullshit — fine. I'm done."
He wrenched the door open and let it slam behind him hard enough that the camera in the corner of the ceiling rattled. A little theatrical, maybe, but Grant always knew how to make an exit. Miller looked a moment at the door before turning backing to Lester, who was jiggling his leg nervously.
"Lester. I didn't want to say this while he was in here, but I think you do remember that night. The storm. Everything."
Lester didn't say anything for a long moment, and Miller wondered if he'd pushed it too far, too soon. But then he spoke.
"….yeah. I do."
Miller's face stayed perfectly neutral, but his heart rate picked up. Here it was. They were on the precipice.
"Tell me what happened."
"I can't, man!"
Lester's restlessness got worse, and Miller decided he needed to bring the temperature down a fraction.
"Lester. Man. Look at me."
He did, reluctantly: Lester's hazel eyes met Miller's dark brown, and Miller felt like he could see another universe swimming inside them. Guilt. Insecurity. Paranoia. Fear. And it was time for him to lay it all down.
"It's just you and me here, now. You can tell me. I know you're not a bad guy. You didn't want to hurt anyone. I can help you, here, but it's time to let it out."
Lester's expression cracked, and Miller knew he had him.
"Okay. I….God. That night, I….I was using, alright? Like you said, it was a bad time. Right?"
Miller nodded steadily.
"And I went out driving. Stupid. This was after the storm, at least."
After? Calculations immediately began to swirl in Miller's head, but he stayed silent, letting it stretch until Lester spoke again.
"It was dark as shit, I'm driving along, I see this girl….I don't even know what I was thinking. But she had a mouth on her, I'm telling you. Rude for no reason! None! And.…" He broke into tears. Miller felt an unease growing in his gut. "I just…I swerved a little. I didn't hit her! I wasn't trying to! I just wanted to scare her! I felt my tire go over her foot, though, and she screamed so loud, I just took off.
"I don't know if she ever reported it." Lester was babbling on, but Miller had leaned back in his chair, his brain now on a completely different channel. "She was this blonde chick. I just — I already had all these other girls on my back! I couldn't stick around and let another one on my record!"
"Blonde?"
Lester looked perturbed that that was all Miller got from his diatribe. "Yeah. Wavy blonde. Kind of girl who knows she's real pretty. And knows you know. You know?"
"Did she look at all like this?" Miller pointed to Vienna DeNova's glossy picture on the table.
"What — no!" Lester looked at the picture of the dark-haired girl in annoyance. "I told you, man, I had nothing to do with that! I don't know shit about that girl!"
"I believe you." On a dime, Miller's voice had lost all its fraternal softness and edged into something bitter. "Stay here, Les."
He left the bewildered man at the table and walked through the door, closing it carefully behind him. Grant was waiting on the other side with some other agents, watching the interaction through a monitor. They looked up at the flesh and blood Miller as he approached.
"You don't make a bad good cop."
"It's not him," Miller said sourly. "That story's too specific. I don't think he has it in him to be that good of a liar, anyway."
"I agree. And we got his phone records out here, his GPS matches the story he gave you." Grant had abandoned the heavy vest he wore for the bad cop role and was sitting at the table with his sleeves rolled up. "We can get him on assault with this, though. With a deadly weapon. You did good work."
Miller grunted, arms crossed across his chest. "And nothing for the DeNova case."
Somewhere within the light purple folders spread across the table was a list of persons of interest, mostly sourced from the list of contractual Lakewood employees they'd only gotten access to a few weeks ago. Since then, the team had been working at a breakneck pace, funneling every resource, every moment into the new set of leads.
It had been hours and hours of overtime and it was undeniably exhausting — but to Miller, it just felt good, like a workout that was making his muscles stronger every day. To have momentum, something to actually work on, was exhilarating.
But…..the list of potentials was getting smaller and smaller. They'd been coordinating with other FBI field offices to track down the people they needed to talk to, many of whom had gone on to find more work in different areas. The majority of them weren't even in the Lakewood area when Vienna went missing. Most of the ones who were had a solid alibi. And the rest, like dear Lester here, just didn't seem to be their guy. At some point crossing the names off the list began to feel less like momentum and more like their pool shrinking all over again.
In fact….
"We just have one left."
It was Officer Donovan who said what they were all thinking. He'd been more or less designated as the representative for Lakewood PD on investigative matters that didn't involve them directly; Miller had a feeling that Detective Carver had correctly assumed the young officer was the one who had the least amount of friction with the team.
"That's not technically true," Agent Herring protested. "We still have several we haven't completely ruled out."
"Well….you know what I mean," Donovan said somewhat dourly.
And Miller did. While it was certainly technically true that they had several people they hadn't eliminated altogether, the general feeling was that none of them truly fit the bill. The team was still keeping tabs on them, as a matter of course, but not a one of them came close to the profile the team had built — a man in his thirties who was relatively socially isolated, calculated, cool under pressure, with access to private property to do whatever ungodly thing he planned to do with Vienna.
Miller tried not to think too far ahead to that part. They'd get there when they got there, and manage whatever it was.
"Maybe. But I have a good feeling about this one." Miller pulled the photo of their remaining person of interest out of one of the folders. The face that looked back up at him was as familiar as the back of his hand now: dark eyes staring out from a face harshly shaped as if carved from stone, capped by a neat, short head of hair.
The man, still nameless to them aside from a clearly fake alias, was the last of the three initial suspects they identified from Lakewood's contractual employee list. He was proving to be a hard man to find. He'd used an alias to apply for the job and then, as soon as misconduct allegations were made, seemed to disappear into the wind. A man with an axe to grind against the university, someone who had a documented history of problems with women, secretative to the point of going off the grid….it all seemed to fit.
So they were tightening the net.
Herring had put his face out to all the news networks she could get in touch with, using the singular work photo they had of him. Along with a push from the DeNovas, the picture was soon all over, not just Lakewood but throughout the state and beyond. Someone was going to recognize him. They had to.
He was all they had left.
"We'll find him," Grant said confidently. "For now…." He crossed Lester's name off on the list in one stroke of his pen. "We keep going."
Classical music floated through the air of Miller's office. He absentmindedly waved his pen in the air as if conducting while perusing the arrest records from a few towns over. Papers gently rustled as a late October breeze came through the cracked window. It was one of those flow moments where things seemed to align perfectly so he could actually concentrate.
But his internal clock was strong. It was early evening on a Monday, so Zander would probably be here soon, hanging out for a short time before basketball practice. His presence was almost routine now.
It started small — briefly stopping by to check in for any updates, wanting to help with something small but actionable like folding flyers or addressing envelopes. Easy. And if it helped the kid feel better, why not?
Then his visits got a little longer. He'd take books and homework, post up in some quiet corner and just work. He was a hard worker, Miller noticed, even with all this going on. Cared a lot about his studies. He actually did the readings, too, which is more than Miller could say for his own college self. The kid would sit there with a highlighter and pen at the ready, seeming to take in every word. He'd told Miller, more than once, that his office felt like the one place he could really sit down and concentrate. It got to the point where if Zander wasn't in class or practice, he was in Miller's office.
And the real kicker? Miller liked it.
He liked having someone around to remind him exactly what he was working for. He liked having someone who he could throw out words of wisdom or little lessons to — and, even better, someone he knew would actually listen. He liked having someone who knew Vienna DeNova better than anyone an easy six feet away.
And honestly? Miller couldn't help but just like Zander Wright.
He was a good kid. Talked too much trash about Miller's failing NBA team for his taste, but overall he was respectful, hard working, funny, and loyal to the bone. Good qualities. They'd take him far, Miller hoped.
If Miller had to take a phone call or talk to another investigator, Zander would pick up his book or laptop and dutifully march out to the main bullpen until they were done, seeming impervious to the stares that some of the other employees fixed him with. But he couldn't quite help himself, Miller noticed, from looking at him with a little interest and hope each time he walked back through the door. Like any conversation Miller had might just be a breakthrough.
It made him worker harder.
But they both needed a break every once in a while. Zander was getting more and more open to chatting, and Miller liked to teach him things when he could. Just a little something here and there to help him get his mind off things, feel capable. There was the palm concealment trick, then shimming a latch with a credit card. Miller taught him how to spot a lie, read body language.
And, on the increasingly common days where Miller was working through lunch, he'd still make sure he had something available if Zander needed a distraction. Mindless little tasks like alphabetizing files or stapling packets of paper. He'd set them to the side — that'll be good for the kid to do — as if it were part of his daily routine.
Miller also knew Zander's birthday was coming up, October 26. Should he know that, off the top of his head? Probably not, he conceded, especially since he originally saw it in a case file somewhere. But hey. It was what it was.
Zander hadn't mentioned it once. This didn't surprise Miller, not really; the level of self-abandonment he saw in the kid couldn't have cropped up over night. That kind of thing was honed over years. This wasn't the first birthday, he guessed, that Zander had low expectations for. And special days like this were never easy when someone was grieving.
Still, Miller couldn't help but cringe internally when Zander loped into his office a few days before his twenty-first birthday, sitting heavily in his usual chair like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Hanging in?" Miller asked. Zander grunted in response.
"I'll take that as a no."
"Was up late last night."
"Studying?" That would track. Kid worked himself to the bone.
"….no."
Something about his tone made Miller look up. Zander was picking at hangnail on his ring finger, eyes bloodshot. He met Miller's gaze and said warningly, "You can't laugh."
"Swear."
"I…was calling hospitals. To see if they had any unidentified patients or anything. You know, like, memory loss? Or that someone dropped off?"
Miller nodded. His throat constricted ever so slightly. He had made that exact phone call, multiple times, trying to keep tabs on Conor.
"There was nothing," Zander continued bitterly. "Obviously. But…I had to try something. You know?"
"I do." Miller said it so genuinely that Zander looked at him with a bit of surprise. "Let's just say I can relate. You gotta let yourself sleep at night, though, man. Or at least rest."
"I'm fine." The typical automatic answer. "Doesn't matter."
"Well, it does to me. Start acting like you matter, because you do.”
Zander covered his face with his hands and his words come out muffled. "I really can't do this today, dude."
Sometimes earnestness, Miller learned, cut Zander just a bit too deep. "Alright, I'll lay off. But I do mean it."
"I mostly just came by to tell you that," Zander said, seeming glad that the conversation was moving on. "And….have you heard anything else about that guy?"
By now, everyone had heard about their person of interest. Zander had actually been one of the first ones to lay eyes on him — Herring had gotten a bunch of college students from Vienna's circle to look at the photo they had of him and confirm if they'd seen him before or not.
Most of the kids had looked the photo over for a few seconds before either confirming or denying that they recognized the guy. Zander, on the other hand, had scrutinized it like it was the missing link to the universe. He'd looked it up close and far away, held it up the light, until finally stammering, "Yeah…yeah. Maybe. I think so. I'd have to have seen him, right? Yes."
Miller didn't have the heart to tell him, of course, that absolutely none of that would be admissible.
"Nothing new yet." Miller was prepared for the slump in Zander's shoulders, so it didn't hit him too hard. "But I really think we're getting closer every day."
"Sure." Zander sounded exhausted. "Well, I've only got a little bit of time, we've got extra practice for the game on Thursday."
Ah, Thursday. The birthday.
"Yeah? Got anything else going on?"
Zander looked at Miller suspiciously, but keeping his face neutral and inscrutable was literally part of the agent's training. He waited innocently for Zander's answer.
"Not really. Just the game. One of our first of the season, so…important."
Miller didn't respond for a moment, wondering if Zander would fill the silence in with anything else; but Zander was starting to learn that trick and just looked back at him with an edge of impatience.
"Well, I'm not worried. You're playing Freestone?"
Zander nodded.
"Yeah. Their forward's got two left feet. As long as you manage not to trip over yourself, you'll be fine."
Zander snorted, rising to go. Still, the look in his eye was real when he told Miller, "Thanks."
It wasn't too much later when Sydney Herring appeared in Miller's doorway. She was put together as ever, tight blonde ponytail in place, wearing a pressed suit with a lavender ribbon crisp on the jacket pocket. It wasn't unusual for them to confer, especially with the DeNova case; there were so many family members and students and other traumatized third parties involved that Herring really had her hands full. But….
"Hey."
It was her tone of voice that made Miller do a double take. It was the same unbearably soft kind she used with clients.
"…hey."
"I wanted to talk to you about something."
Miller felt a sense of unease in his gut. "Work-related?"
She paused in the doorway. "What makes you think it wouldn't be work-related?"
"You're doing the voice thing."
Herring hummed noncommittally and closed the door behind her. Miller sighed internally and leaned back in his chair as Herring took a seat in Zander's usual spot.
"I've been thinking about Zander Wright."
"Okay." Miller felt his defensive walls rising and intentionally tried to stay present. It wasn't like he was doing anything wrong.
"He's here quite a lot."
"Yes," he allowed, "he is."
"I'm wondering if it's too much."
Well, Herring was nothing if not forward.
"I disagree." Miller kept his own voice as steady and neutral as hers. This wasn't unexpected. He'd seen the looks that some of the other agents gave Zander when he was in the office — not disapproval, exactly, but a certain sense of wariness, like they weren't sure if his existence there was allowed. "I'd rather him be here where we know he's not getting himself into anything stupid. I've seen that downward spiral before."
More intimately than he cared for her to know right now.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's safe. But he's never going to develop coping skills on his own if he's always here. And taking care of him is not your responsibility. Working the case is. With a clear head."
Miller looked at her more sharply at that one. "Does anything suggest to you I'm not working with a clear head?"
Indignation simmered in his chest as she took time to think it over. "Not yet. But you've never gotten this personally involved with a case. Not in the years I've known you. You know it goes against our standards."
He couldn't stop himself this time, Miller rolled his eyes. "Sydney, you've known me long enough to know I don't always go by the book. This is what works for Zander. It works fine for me. It's just what he needs at this time."
"With Vienna gone."
"Exactly." But somehow he felt this was just another point for her argument.
"What if she never comes home?"
There it was. Miller fixed her with a stare, trying not to notice how the question made his chest tighten. "We don't talk like that."
"We don't talk like that with the public," Herring responded calmly. "We'd be foolish to never acknowledge at all."
Miller's jaw worked. She wasn't wrong. They both knew what the odds were.
"We need to consider it. How long can he keep coming here? What happens when he has to watch you move onto other cases?"
"I'm not giving up on Vienna. We'll cross that bridge when we get there."
For the first time, her composure seemed to crack. Herring recoiled a bit, as if he'd suggested she'd kicked a puppy. "I'm not giving up on her either, if that's what you're suggesting. It's just that there's nothing in our ethics handbook to guide us on how to handle this."
"There's no guidelines for life, Sydney, and I get through just fine." Better than fine. Better than most. "He needs a healthy outlet. That's all. And if I can be that….I don't see the issue."
"I'm not saying it's entirely unhealthy." She paused delicately before continuing. "I just don't think it's completely professional."
That got him. Miller uncrossed his legs so both feet were firmly on the floor. "We can debate ethics all day long, but you're not going to question my professionalism."
Herring had the humility to look chagrined. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply….you know I respect you. I just…I'm worried about both of you." She paused, searching his face. "This is a hard case, emotionally, for all of us."
Miller didn't say anything. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.
Well. I just wanted to…to make my concerns known."
"Noted," Miller said dryly.
Herring's lips pursed. But even she knew when to give it up. "Well. Have a good evening."
She stood and opened the door. After a brief hesitation, she softly said, "Just…think about it," without turning around. And then finally left, walk still so calm and steady it made something in Miller's jaw twitch.
Long after she left, he still sat there stewing. Where did she get off? After going in enough circles in his head, Miller decided, ultimately, that it wasn't personal — Herring was and always had been a stickler for rules and procedure. Miller had never been that way. Like he'd said to Herring, life didn't come with a handbook. It was never that cut and dry. Doing good in this work, really doing good, meant knowing when to zig and when to zag. It's not his fault she couldn't see that. It didn't mean he wasn't professional.
They just didn't see eye to eye, had completely different philosophies. If she wanted to go by the book, great, fine. But he, Miller, he trusted his gut and his heart, and they told him that having Zander around was just fine. Good, even. Just because she thought differently didn't mean it was the wrong thing to do.
Still. He thought about the entire drive home. And tossed and turned quite a bit more than usual before finally falling asleep that night.
The next couple days flowed just like the last couple had. After allowing himself one fraught night, Miller tried to put the argument with Herring out of his mind. It was simply a matter of different perspectives, he told himself. It certainly wasn't worth getting distracted from work. Very little was.
October rain was lashing against his office window, the heavy clouds making it seem darker and later than it really was. Miller had his desk lamp on for some nice ambiance, typing up an email to a neighboring state's field office when he heard brisk footsteps in the hallway. Miller looked up from over his reading glasses to see who would appear in the doorway.
It was Herring. Coming to talk, surely, about their argument the other day. He was ashamed to admit he'd been avoiding her the last couple days, not feeling quite ready to kumbaya yet. He braced himself for another uncomfortable conversation. At least he had plenty of practice.
But….
Rather than her usual poise, Herring's face was flushed and excited, a single strand of hair dangling loose from her pontytail. It made Miller stop in his tracks. Before he could ask, Herring told him what they'd spent months waiting to hear.
Whumpee running as fast as they can, following familiar roads, not daring to look back, till they had run right through Caretakers front door and into their arms, pleading god he’s right behind me, please, please, don’t let him take me again-
Caretaker holds them close, promises that they were safe here, he was never going to lay a finger on them again.
They don’t mention that whumper had been dead for years. That reality sometimes slipped away from whumpee for hours at a time, that they would disappear, but they always came back.
They don’t mention the tracker tag they’d hidden in whumpees shoe, sewn into jackets, hidden in pockets, it was just for safety, in case Whumpee did ever get really lost. Well, lost in the more literal sense.
They’d tried to explain, when it first started happening, but Whumpee never believed them, and it would only make them more distressed. So they stopped, and played along, till Whumpee came back out from those memories.
Until then, they’d lock the doors, close the curtains, and hold whumpee on the couch, reassuring them that whumper would never, ever get them again.
Because what mattered was that Whumpee felt safe, and they could do that.
