The Blackmuir Reign: Therrin Blackmuir and Saxon Osier- As You Always Have
CW: implied violence and kidnapping
-
Therrin Blackmuir had grown distant in Saxon’s mind these months apart— more of a Therrin-shaped figure in a crown than the boy he’d grown up beside. Now that he was in the same room with him, Therrin looked just like he always had. Except he had ashes from the fire down in the bailey in his wavy pale hair. His eyes were somber and bore dark circles, and he did not wear his customary smile,
“I wish I could tell you being King looked good on you,” Saxon said, sitting on the bench and pulling off his boot.
Therrin looked at him in open disbelief. “Are you joking, right now?”
Saxon shrugged. “It wasn’t a very good joke.”
Therrin opened his mouth to speak twice before he could decide on words. “I— I know how this looks, Saxon. But he was here. Matteo was here, with me.”
Saxon pulled off his other boot, brushing dirt from the road from his sock.
He hadn’t heard his little brother's name from Therrin’s mouth in years. It felt strange now, Therrin speaking of him alive. It felt strange to be in the Muirkeep. It felt strange to look at Therrin and know he was King. A deep ache had lived in his chest ever since he’d heard of his brother’s alleged death. It echoed every time it heard his name, like rocks thrown down a chasm.
He set his boot next to the other. He hadn’t taken them off in three days, and his legs felt light and strange now without them. The table they sat at was smooth from years of oil and elbows. The room was typical of this grim northerly castle, dark and decorated only in faded tapestry. The narrow windows let in a bleak grey dawnlight, so unlike the golden-orange sunrises of home.
“I don’t doubt you,” he said.
Therrin glanced at him, guarded. “…You don’t?”
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
“Please,” Therrin muttered, putting his head in his hands like it hurt him. “Not you, too. I feel like I’m in a dream and I can’t wake. Call me as you always have.”
Saxon stood, rounding the table to sit backwards on the bench where Therrin sat, their thighs nearly touching. He almost laid a hand on Therrin’s knee, under the table. He laid it on his own thigh instead. Something was not the same, between them. He didn’t feel the sting of betrayal so freshly or so personally as when he’d first learned of Therrin’s coup, but there was a barrier where once there had been none. They were unsure of each other.
Yet he couldn’t look at Therrin without thinking about how he had not known how to swim when he’d come south as their ward, until Saxon taught him. How they’d waded out deeper and deeper until their feet didn’t touch and Therrin grabbed at Saxons elbows, laughing nervously. He thought of the twin dips on Therrin’s lower back, the ones he’d ghosted his fingers over every time he’d inexpertly treated raised pink welts from the canings.
And now that your whipping boy has become King, his father had said in one of his rare lucid moments, You are talking of going to him? To meet him on his terms, in his own land?
Yes.
“I believe you, Therrin. Stop this.”
Therrin laughed bitterly, dragging his hands away from his face. “I’ve thought of nothing else for a week. I wanted to see your face when you saw him.”
The ache of grief thrummed inside him like a plucked string. “I still want that. We can’t sit here in inaction too long. We have to go after him.”
“Do you think Lord Burns is bold enough to take Matteo to his own keep?” Therrin asked, suddenly Kinglike and indignant. “He knows I’ll raze it to the fucking ground as soon as look at it.”
Therrin’s fierceness caught him off guard. Fierceness for Matteo.
“I don’t know. I don’t know these people.”
Therrin huffed. “Neither do I, I’m finding.”
Saxon wondered who the big, red-bearded brute of a Knight was that had given him such a dirty look earlier, but that would come later. He was in a strange land full of strangers. Everyone knew the King.
“We can’t sit idle,” Saxon said, trying to keep the entreaty out of his voice. Therrin was King, they would do whatever Therrin wanted. He had all the resources. The men. The power. “We have to find out where they took Mattie. What they want. How to get him back.”
Therrin’s eyes were far away, fixed on a dark corner of the room. He blinked, dragged them back to Saxon’s. “We need Lord Burns himself.”
“And we don’t need to raze an entire keep to get him,” Saxon said softly. “In fact it might be best to keep it low profile. Find him. Bring him here. Question him. Find my brother.”
Therrin nodded slowly. “How many men should we take? How many horses?”
Saxon couldn’t help but smile. Though his eyes stayed weary, Therrin gave him a tentative half smile back.
Then a shadow crossed Saxon’s mind, one that had haunted him on the long ride north. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if someone were listening at the solar door.
Therrin’s brow creased. “For what?”
“For taking care of him. A lesser man would have delighted in revenge.”
Therrin tilted his head, gave him a reproachful look. “Don’t say that to me,” he muttered.
“No. It’s true. I’m in your debt.”
Therrin looked at his hands, rubbing a gray smear of ash from his knuckles.
“We’re in each other’s, then,” he said with a barely-there shrug. “We always have been.”
Go and read the pinned post @the-whumpers-soiree for context!
No warnings apply (yet <3)
Autumn cold bit at his cheeks, frozen hands tucked under his armpits. Levi shifted on his feet, waiting in the alley just beyond the reach of thumping music and flashing lights. The heaving roar of the club strained from behind the door, and between him and hot, pumping bodies was an immovable bouncer.
Ugh, the line was barely ten people. It shouldn’t be taking this long.
It had seemed pretty exclusive, from what Jason had told him. To be fair, Jason wasn’t exactly a reliable source of information. Just gave him the address and a guarantee he’d be let in. For Levi, who had just spent some of the best years of his life hiding from a literal plague…
Well, he didn’t need much convincing.
But finally at the front of the line, Levi flashed an ID at the bouncer, hands shaking from cold and adrenaline. His ID said twenty-two and he could totally pass for it – when he wasn’t wearing a sheer top and eyeliner.
The bouncer barely glanced at his ID before handing it back.
“Wrist.”
Levi held out a wrist, cool olive skin glowing green against the neon welcome sign above the door.
The bouncer snapped on a glowing blue wristband from a large box. Behind it, a much emptier basket held red wristbands.
Levi inspected the new accessory. “What’s this for?”
The bouncer gave him a bored stare. All Levi could see reflected in the man’s dark shades was his own gelled-back hair and bright, feverish eyes.
The invite said sober entry only. Just looking at the girls who went in front of him he could see that was a fucking lie.
“Just club policy.”
He went to push past the bouncer – it really was fucking cold – but an iron grip on his wrist stopped him.
“I’ll also need your phone.”
“Uhh,” Levi tried to stall. “Like, really?”
“Really,” the bouncer said flatly.
“What if I need to call someone?” Which, you know, could be better done over text.
“Then come back outside and get it.”
He leaned in with a flirtatious grin. “Why all the secrecy? Is this the kind of club where you don’t want pictures?”
A flash of white teeth hid the undercurrent of tension straining his voice. Jason told him this place was a bit weird. Levi was thinking more twinks in collars kind of weird, not taking-your-phone-until-you-leave kind of weird.
He much preferred the former.
The security guard’s expression didn’t change. “Something like that.” he agreed.
Levi flashed another smile. “Well, alrighty then. He fished his phone out of his back pocket and reluctantly handed it over. He was not gonna let weird club rules ruin his night.
The bouncer slipped the phone into one of his many pockets.
“Right this way.”
Finally, finally, the door opened, and the heat, the light, the thumping bass all washed over him. The bouncer nudged him forward, and when he looked back a moment later, the door was closed behind him.
Levi found himself pushed into a writhing crowd, a sea of limbs and half-naked sweating bodies. Glowing blue wristbands bobbed with the music, but there were a fair few red wristbands too. Some, in among the crowd, others, standing back, watching.
He let himself be pulled further in. he danced with a girl, with a boy, kissed them both and slunk away before either could try to give him their number. Danced with a third, until they were pulled away by someone in a red wristband, giddy and winking back at him like he was missing the joke.
He lost time to the thump thump of the beat, swaying until he was stumbling out of the mosh and leaning against a sticky bar.
Levi rested his elbows on the counter to catch his breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. He grabbed a glass of water from the stack while the bartender was busy with someone else.
The water was barely cool but still soothing. As he sipped, he made eye contact with a guy across the bar. A few years older than him. Business shirt rolled to his elbows, five-o’clock shadow more of a one-am shadow. Glowing red wristband on his left wrist. Levi might have thought he’d come straight from work if his trousers weren’t too tight to be considered work-appropriate.
Still, the stubble traced a sharp jawline, and the man’s warm, dark eyes were locked with his.
Levi pushed off the counter as the guy came around. His eyes slid up and down, from too-nice work shoes on the tacky floor to his chest, top couple buttons popped open. He wouldn’t mind unpopping a few more.
He moves closer to the guy, who’s got one arm propped up on the counter and the other in his pocket. Comfortable.
“This doesn’t seem like your kinda scene,” he shouts over the music still blaring.
The guy smiled, like it was some private joke. “What makes you think that? Maybe this is exactly my kind of scene.”
Levi laughed. “I think I could be convinced.”
The guy grins back, and again they lock eyes. “Let me buy you a drink.”
It’s not a question and Levi doesn’t take it as such. “I’ll have whatever’s strongest.”
Five minutes and half a drink later, Levi’s giggling. He toys with the man’s red bracelet and holds the man’s hand in both of his own.
“How come you get a red one?” he pouts.
The guy laughs, a little mocking. He cups Levi’s jaw with one broad hand, and wow, the world was looking a little hazy. The flashing colours must be getting to him.
“Don’t you like yours? It suits you.”
“Thanks.” He leans into the other guy until their lips are inches apart. “I still like yours better.”
Warmth creeps up his neck, and it must be the guy’s smile that does it because alcohol doesn’t work that fast.
He’s pulled even closer, the hand with the red wristband settled around his waist.
“I can show you what it’s for, if you like.
A voice in his ear, hot and murmuring.
Levi nods, soft and eager.
“You can’t tell anyone. House secret.”
“Of course,” Levi breathes, entirely too sincere. He pictures VIP rooms hosting the real party, with more free drinks and red wristbands he knows he wants to snag next time he’s here.
So the man leads him away from the pulsing music, and Levi follows, swaying on bambi legs that shouldn’t be buckling after just one drink.
Go and read the pinned post @the-whumpers-soiree for context!
No warnings apply (yet <3)
Autumn cold bit at his cheeks, frozen hands tucked under his armpits. Levi shifted on his feet, waiting in the alley just beyond the reach of thumping music and flashing lights. The heaving roar of the club strained from behind the door, and between him and hot, pumping bodies was an immovable bouncer.
Ugh, the line was barely ten people. It shouldn’t be taking this long.
It had seemed pretty exclusive, from what Jason had told him. To be fair, Jason wasn’t exactly a reliable source of information. Just gave him the address and a guarantee he’d be let in. For Levi, who had just spent some of the best years of his life hiding from a literal plague…
Well, he didn’t need much convincing.
But finally at the front of the line, Levi flashed an ID at the bouncer, hands shaking from cold and adrenaline. His ID said twenty-two and he could totally pass for it – when he wasn’t wearing a sheer top and eyeliner.
The bouncer barely glanced at his ID before handing it back.
“Wrist.”
Levi held out a wrist, cool olive skin glowing green against the neon welcome sign above the door.
The bouncer snapped on a glowing blue wristband from a large box. Behind it, a much emptier basket held red wristbands.
Levi inspected the new accessory. “What’s this for?”
The bouncer gave him a bored stare. All Levi could see reflected in the man’s dark shades was his own gelled-back hair and bright, feverish eyes.
The invite said sober entry only. Just looking at the girls who went in front of him he could see that was a fucking lie.
“Just club policy.”
He went to push past the bouncer – it really was fucking cold – but an iron grip on his wrist stopped him.
“I’ll also need your phone.”
“Uhh,” Levi tried to stall. “Like, really?”
“Really,” the bouncer said flatly.
“What if I need to call someone?” Which, you know, could be better done over text.
“Then come back outside and get it.”
He leaned in with a flirtatious grin. “Why all the secrecy? Is this the kind of club where you don’t want pictures?”
A flash of white teeth hid the undercurrent of tension straining his voice. Jason told him this place was a bit weird. Levi was thinking more twinks in collars kind of weird, not taking-your-phone-until-you-leave kind of weird.
He much preferred the former.
The security guard’s expression didn’t change. “Something like that.” he agreed.
Levi flashed another smile. “Well, alrighty then. He fished his phone out of his back pocket and reluctantly handed it over. He was not gonna let weird club rules ruin his night.
The bouncer slipped the phone into one of his many pockets.
“Right this way.”
Finally, finally, the door opened, and the heat, the light, the thumping bass all washed over him. The bouncer nudged him forward, and when he looked back a moment later, the door was closed behind him.
Levi found himself pushed into a writhing crowd, a sea of limbs and half-naked sweating bodies. Glowing blue wristbands bobbed with the music, but there were a fair few red wristbands too. Some, in among the crowd, others, standing back, watching.
He let himself be pulled further in. he danced with a girl, with a boy, kissed them both and slunk away before either could try to give him their number. Danced with a third, until they were pulled away by someone in a red wristband, giddy and winking back at him like he was missing the joke.
He lost time to the thump thump of the beat, swaying until he was stumbling out of the mosh and leaning against a sticky bar.
Levi rested his elbows on the counter to catch his breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. He grabbed a glass of water from the stack while the bartender was busy with someone else.
The water was barely cool but still soothing. As he sipped, he made eye contact with a guy across the bar. A few years older than him. Business shirt rolled to his elbows, five-o’clock shadow more of a one-am shadow. Glowing red wristband on his left wrist. Levi might have thought he’d come straight from work if his trousers weren’t too tight to be considered work-appropriate.
Still, the stubble traced a sharp jawline, and the man’s warm, dark eyes were locked with his.
Levi pushed off the counter as the guy came around. His eyes slid up and down, from too-nice work shoes on the tacky floor to his chest, top couple buttons popped open. He wouldn’t mind unpopping a few more.
He moves closer to the guy, who’s got one arm propped up on the counter and the other in his pocket. Comfortable.
“This doesn’t seem like your kinda scene,” he shouts over the music still blaring.
The guy smiled, like it was some private joke. “What makes you think that? Maybe this is exactly my kind of scene.”
Levi laughed. “I think I could be convinced.”
The guy grins back, and again they lock eyes. “Let me buy you a drink.”
It’s not a question and Levi doesn’t take it as such. “I’ll have whatever’s strongest.”
Five minutes and half a drink later, Levi’s giggling. He toys with the man’s red bracelet and holds the man’s hand in both of his own.
“How come you get a red one?” he pouts.
The guy laughs, a little mocking. He cups Levi’s jaw with one broad hand, and wow, the world was looking a little hazy. The flashing colours must be getting to him.
“Don’t you like yours? It suits you.”
“Thanks.” He leans into the other guy until their lips are inches apart. “I still like yours better.”
Warmth creeps up his neck, and it must be the guy’s smile that does it because alcohol doesn’t work that fast.
He’s pulled even closer, the hand with the red wristband settled around his waist.
“I can show you what it’s for, if you like.
A voice in his ear, hot and murmuring.
Levi nods, soft and eager.
“You can’t tell anyone. House secret.”
“Of course,” Levi breathes, entirely too sincere. He pictures VIP rooms hosting the real party, with more free drinks and red wristbands he knows he wants to snag next time he’s here.
So the man leads him away from the pulsing music, and Levi follows, swaying on bambi legs that shouldn’t be buckling after just one drink.
Go and read the pinned post @the-whumpers-soiree for context!
No warnings apply (yet <3)
Autumn cold bit at his cheeks, frozen hands tucked under his armpits. Levi shifted on his feet, waiting in the alley just beyond the reach of thumping music and flashing lights. The heaving roar of the club strained from behind the door, and between him and hot, pumping bodies was an immovable bouncer.
Ugh, the line was barely ten people. It shouldn’t be taking this long.
It had seemed pretty exclusive, from what Jason had told him. To be fair, Jason wasn’t exactly a reliable source of information. Just gave him the address and a guarantee he’d be let in. For Levi, who had just spent some of the best years of his life hiding from a literal plague…
Well, he didn’t need much convincing.
But finally at the front of the line, Levi flashed an ID at the bouncer, hands shaking from cold and adrenaline. His ID said twenty-two and he could totally pass for it – when he wasn’t wearing a sheer top and eyeliner.
The bouncer barely glanced at his ID before handing it back.
“Wrist.”
Levi held out a wrist, cool olive skin glowing green against the neon welcome sign above the door.
The bouncer snapped on a glowing blue wristband from a large box. Behind it, a much emptier basket held red wristbands.
Levi inspected the new accessory. “What’s this for?”
The bouncer gave him a bored stare. All Levi could see reflected in the man’s dark shades was his own gelled-back hair and bright, feverish eyes.
The invite said sober entry only. Just looking at the girls who went in front of him he could see that was a fucking lie.
“Just club policy.”
He went to push past the bouncer – it really was fucking cold – but an iron grip on his wrist stopped him.
“I’ll also need your phone.”
“Uhh,” Levi tried to stall. “Like, really?”
“Really,” the bouncer said flatly.
“What if I need to call someone?” Which, you know, could be better done over text.
“Then come back outside and get it.”
He leaned in with a flirtatious grin. “Why all the secrecy? Is this the kind of club where you don’t want pictures?”
A flash of white teeth hid the undercurrent of tension straining his voice. Jason told him this place was a bit weird. Levi was thinking more twinks in collars kind of weird, not taking-your-phone-until-you-leave kind of weird.
He much preferred the former.
The security guard’s expression didn’t change. “Something like that.” he agreed.
Levi flashed another smile. “Well, alrighty then. He fished his phone out of his back pocket and reluctantly handed it over. He was not gonna let weird club rules ruin his night.
The bouncer slipped the phone into one of his many pockets.
“Right this way.”
Finally, finally, the door opened, and the heat, the light, the thumping bass all washed over him. The bouncer nudged him forward, and when he looked back a moment later, the door was closed behind him.
Levi found himself pushed into a writhing crowd, a sea of limbs and half-naked sweating bodies. Glowing blue wristbands bobbed with the music, but there were a fair few red wristbands too. Some, in among the crowd, others, standing back, watching.
He let himself be pulled further in. he danced with a girl, with a boy, kissed them both and slunk away before either could try to give him their number. Danced with a third, until they were pulled away by someone in a red wristband, giddy and winking back at him like he was missing the joke.
He lost time to the thump thump of the beat, swaying until he was stumbling out of the mosh and leaning against a sticky bar.
Levi rested his elbows on the counter to catch his breath, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. He grabbed a glass of water from the stack while the bartender was busy with someone else.
The water was barely cool but still soothing. As he sipped, he made eye contact with a guy across the bar. A few years older than him. Business shirt rolled to his elbows, five-o’clock shadow more of a one-am shadow. Glowing red wristband on his left wrist. Levi might have thought he’d come straight from work if his trousers weren’t too tight to be considered work-appropriate.
Still, the stubble traced a sharp jawline, and the man’s warm, dark eyes were locked with his.
Levi pushed off the counter as the guy came around. His eyes slid up and down, from too-nice work shoes on the tacky floor to his chest, top couple buttons popped open. He wouldn’t mind unpopping a few more.
He moves closer to the guy, who’s got one arm propped up on the counter and the other in his pocket. Comfortable.
“This doesn’t seem like your kinda scene,” he shouts over the music still blaring.
The guy smiled, like it was some private joke. “What makes you think that? Maybe this is exactly my kind of scene.”
Levi laughed. “I think I could be convinced.”
The guy grins back, and again they lock eyes. “Let me buy you a drink.”
It’s not a question and Levi doesn’t take it as such. “I’ll have whatever’s strongest.”
Five minutes and half a drink later, Levi’s giggling. He toys with the man’s red bracelet and holds the man’s hand in both of his own.
“How come you get a red one?” he pouts.
The guy laughs, a little mocking. He cups Levi’s jaw with one broad hand, and wow, the world was looking a little hazy. The flashing colours must be getting to him.
“Don’t you like yours? It suits you.”
“Thanks.” He leans into the other guy until their lips are inches apart. “I still like yours better.”
Warmth creeps up his neck, and it must be the guy’s smile that does it because alcohol doesn’t work that fast.
He’s pulled even closer, the hand with the red wristband settled around his waist.
“I can show you what it’s for, if you like.
A voice in his ear, hot and murmuring.
Levi nods, soft and eager.
“You can’t tell anyone. House secret.”
“Of course,” Levi breathes, entirely too sincere. He pictures VIP rooms hosting the real party, with more free drinks and red wristbands he knows he wants to snag next time he’s here.
So the man leads him away from the pulsing music, and Levi follows, swaying on bambi legs that shouldn’t be buckling after just one drink.
Genuinely don’t mean this as any sort of callout post but it’s interesting to me how there’s been a trend in newer (?) whump blogs putting really long disclaimers in their bios and pinned posts, saying that they don’t condone violence, that they aren’t responsible for other people’s actions, that they know it’s bad and it’s just fiction.
It’s honestly making me wonder how much purity culture has seeped into the fabric of even the Whump community, that people feel the need to explicitly state what I would have accepted as an easily presumed given. When did we get to a point where we have to preface any conversation by stating that we don’t condone irl violence, lest someone accuse us of immorality?
the best example for whump being exposed to purity culture is the lady whump dilemma, and it's upsetting that people are afraid to address it or just don't see it happening.
I've seen people imply/outright state that because "women get abused more" means that lady whump is shady and "immoral" to write.
like, not only does that completely invalidate men going through abuse but it's also a complete and utter bullshit reason to discourage freedom of creativity.
it's like we're taking steps BACK in equality via censorship and it's absolutely ridiculous.
like the fact people genuinely go after writers for not putting a warning about pronouns and for not promoting the "male only" whump stereotype is kinda weird.
It also grosses me out that people genuinely think that women only belong in a caretaker/supportive role instead of the main character.
Like I'm sorry my character that goes through a rough experience just so happens to be female or uses she/her pronouns. Go touch grass.
Another thing that irks me is the promotion of people saying that they like male whump because they're attracted to men, but when it's the other way around somehow it's disgusting.
It's kind of homophobic to go after a saphic writer and preach that them writing lady whump isn't ok while also accepting someone writing male whump because they're attracted to men.
To quote an unnamed anon, "They clearly have a 'normalize misogyny and everyone should get off to the pain of women' agenda."
As if that isn't the case with male whumpees.
People here celebrate men being beaten up, bloodied and bruised. Yet somehow, when the tables are turned, everyone clutches their pearls as if a sin against nature has been committed-- claiming that men deserve to be objectified.
Not only is that a horrifically toxic response but it also puts lady whump writers in an extremely difficult spot when defending their work.
Honestly, the entire concept of lady whump being a separate community is disturbing in and of itself.
This community is definitely not as welcoming towards people with female characters, no matter what anyone here says about how "kind" and "friendly" this part of tumblr is. People are afraid to introduce their female characters at risk of harassment.
That's not okay.
The quality of whump should not be determined by the character's gender.
The fact that this is even a debate or source of drama is honestly sad.
I'm not talking about people having squicks/triggers around child abuse. I also recognize that some websites - including Tumblr - can be overzealous in enforcing rules around content involving minors, including overall good rules. It does grate on me, though, that in a community where things like slavery, sexual abuse, and mutilation are very common themes, writing about childhood trauma is talked about it ways that make it seem uniquely creepy and wrong.
Most of my characters - whumpees, caretakers, and whumpers alike - have childhood trauma because it informs their actions and motivations going forward. Just as importantly, my characters have childhood trauma because I do. Whump is how I've processed that since long before I even understood what trauma was.
I'm not getting off on child abuse or whatever by writing about it, any more than I'm promoting eating disorders by writing about food trauma. Writing about something isn't automatically glorifying, excusing, or fetishizing it. In revisiting traumatic experiences through whump, I'm in fact trying to do the opposite of those things.
In the real (offline) world, many authors write books with violence against women, children, all kinds of people. It's not all well written, but very few people are denying its right to exist. The idea that we should be holding random whump writers to a higher standard than like, published authors is frankly ridiculous. I can't imagine reading James Patterson's books and thinking he obviously condones murder and violence against women.
is interrogated part 2 going to be posted? i loved the first one!
This one is a new character! but uhh
so. I posted interrogated part 1 in 2019. but. can't guarantee I will post the part 2 but will def go back and look at the notes I made for it! I'll post an update in the next few weeks if I can find time <3
babes I am writing a new thing and I PROMISE I will post it in the next couple days <3
fair warning tho it's a little darker than my older stuff in some ways, I will be writing about more adult topics inc sexual assault at least sometimes from now on! I will always tag it at the start tho so if it's a miss you can keep scrolling <3
I’ve been looking for this whump series for so long, maybe someone can help me.
It was about a homeless singer that was lured to a rich guys house and kidnapped. At one point he also held a pianist captive, but eventually killed him. The eventual caretaker was a non-binary journalist and I think they had curly red hair. I’m pretty sure the story was titled songbird, canary, or something like that. Thanks!!
definitely not something I’ve read but perhaps someone in the tumblr void will know this story!!
Therrin & Saxon flashback: Castle Osier, Three Years Ago
Summary: Saxon Osier is allowed to whip Therrin himself. He takes him to his room after, as always. But something about this time feels different.
CW: fantasy/medieval whump, whippings, past whump of a minor, political hostage, power dynamics are all over the road, hurt/comfort, NSFW, sexual touching, consensual sexual relationship
Summary: Therrin comforts a very unsure Matteo, while Matteo begs to be useful
CW: fantasy/medieval whump, noncon/sexual elements, misunderstandings, aftermath of torture, low self worth, beatings, starvation, scars, begging and bargaining, slavery and sexual slavery, hurt/comfort, whumpee offering themself to caretaker, death/execution, presumed dead.
Therrin was kept late by the matter of the gallows. It turned out timing a large scale public execution was akin to planning a three day festival.
He retired to his rooms well after dark. In the north the dusk came earlier, even when the days were at their longest in the solstice. The lone moon looked strange to him now, after so many years in the southerlands, where a second arced the horizon like a white fish jumping out of water.
Matteo was curled up in front of a dying fire. With his guard down in sleep, it was easier to see the damage Henry had done to him.
AHHHH I LOVE THIS! Therrin being so good but we can also see the power starting to eat away at him even now! I wonder how long his patient kindness with Matteo will last, or will power go to his head?
And Matteo, still so fearful of Therrin because he KNOWS how awful he was to him, and now his sense of self-worth and self-preservation is so warped he would do anything for Therrin, who he very clearly views similarly to Henry. I'd love to be added to your tag list!
📋 Hello I am putting a formal request in for more Chris Saves Himself AU ft Mama Nakamura taking him I’m home only to realize the full situation
Continuing the Chris Saves Himself AU: One | Two |
CW: Grief, memory loss, recovering whumpee, some very brief and very vague references to noncon, minor whumpee (OC is 17), angsty fluff, reunion
It takes six days for the cops to let Akio's mom bring Tristan back to their house.
He's ready to be discharged from the hospital by day two, but there's nowhere for him to go. WRU is still saying there's no record of his existence, even with the barcode on his wrist. Tristan's only known living relative, Joanne Botham, is claiming he ran away from home and she had no idea what happened to him, that what she had told the Nakamura family was out of frustration and anger at Tristan for disappearing. The governor is out on bail facing charges for keeping Tristan in the mansion in the first place.
There are a lot of charges.
Akio feels by turns numb and enraged when he hears a news anchor read them out loud, bloodless words that don't seem to reflect at all how serious their meanings are.
The first few, he can process - false imprisonment, bodily assault - but then they keep going, and they get worse in ways Akio can barely even begin to imagine.
What Tristan has lived through... Akio's brain refuses to let it coalesce fully, but he has nightmares, dreams about Tristan screaming for him and being on the other side of a door Aki can't open.
He dreams about hands on Tristan's body and the way he might have screamed for help. Akio wakes up crying, retching, running to the bathroom to throw up whatever he's eaten that day as if he can rid himself of the poison of knowing.
His mom calls a therapist.
His father tells him to stop watching the news.
Akio just waits until they're in bed and searches for everything he can find on twitter, on reddit, on every-fucking-place anyone is talking about this. And it's everywhere.
He stops telling his parents about his nightmares after the second night.
Oliver Branch says WRU sold him a product they knew was outside the bounds of the law and lied to him about it. WRU says they don't know what he could possibly mean by that and they have no paperwork or documentation that Tris was ever in the system at all, and if he was, then there must have been a mistake about his age. They swear they'll do a total review of every single Box Boy, Babe, or Buddy to ensure absolute compliance.
The soundbites make Akio's mouth dry.
How many are there, then? If they have to keep looking to find more? How many like Tristan?
How many?
Joanne Botham, who never answers Aimi's furious calls and then changes her number after the second day, goes on TV and says she did nothing wrong and there's no proof that anything happened except maybe Tristan lying about his name and age to make WRU agree to take him in. Oliver Branch says he has the proof WRU knew, and he'll provide it in exchange for immunity.
They all point fingers at each other on national television, in press conferences and through their attorneys.
Through it all, Tristan sits in a hospital bed staring out the window at the blue sky as though it will be stolen from him all over again, waiting to be told where to go, what to do.
And it takes Aimi nearly a week to get the police to agree to allow her to take him home. She brings everything she can think of to meetings with the detectives heading up the case, shows them reams of team photos and home movies, folders and folders of everything Aimi and Mrs. Higgs had ever talked about or done together with the boys.
The hospital needs the room, needs the bed. The detectives don't want to put him into foster care when he barely seems to understand he's a person. The social services people won't take him because they're not equipped to handle a situation like this one. The adjustment houses don't want him because of something to do with what kind of Boxie he was, and Aimi doesn't elaborate and something in the set of her expression makes it clear Akio shouldn't ask.
After a week of mostly just being able to look at him through the small little square window in the hospital room's door, Aimi finally gets legal permission to take him out of there.
Akio isn't prepared for the slew of news vans that are there when he and Aimi arrive, someone having tipped off reporters that they might get a glance of the governor's secret Box Boy today. Aimi, though, simply sets her shoulders, slides a pair of dark sunglasses on, and walks through the crowd like a queen with her head held high, a small duffel bag handle in hand.
Akio hurries behind her, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, hood pulled over his head, trying to ignore ten thousand camera flashes. It's so much worse than the leadup to the Olympics would have been, if he were still performing at elite.
Or at all.
He has a strange, surreal hope that Tris won't be disappointed in him for quitting after Tris died.
Even though he's not dead.
They step into the hospital room around 10 in the morning to find Tristan not in the bed, but sitting on the couch built into the wall under the window, curled up on the crinkly plastic cushions to look out the window, humming low, soft and tuneless.
The hum makes Akio's heart ache with a sudden realization that this odd waking dream he's been living for a week isn't a dream at all. Tears flood his eyes and he has to blink them away as fast as he can. He's heard that hum in his ear as kids during sleepovers, he's heard it when Tris was nervous before performing a new routine, he's heard it while they waited anxiously for scores or studied for school.
"Hey, sweetheart," Aimi says, her voice low and soft, but even so Tris jumps and turns to look at them with wide, startled eyes. One hand goes up to his neck, and Akio swallows when he sees Tris has wrapped gauze around his neck to sit like the collar he was wearing when he fell from the governor's bedroom balcony.
Akio watched the cell phone video that made the rounds over and over and over again. The flash of red hair, shirtless, the bruises he was covered with, his hazy drugged eyes. Over and over and over again.
Watch him fall, watch him land, watch the people run to him and get him out of there when Akio has been sitting here crying his eyes to red half the time for a dead best friend who wasn't dead at all.
"H, Hello," Tristan says, but he doesn't know them. Akio can tell, the way his eyes move between them is uncertain, unsure. "Hello, ma'am. Can, can, can I, what..." He swallows, shivering, and Akio watches the fear move across his face. "What... what can I... do for you?"
His slowed-down voice makes Akio feel sick. He's only ever seen Tristan do that when he's with people who don't understand him or love him for who he is. Now it seems like it's the only way he remembers how to talk.
All Tristan's muscles from gymnastics are gone, leaving only faded shadows of his strength behind. He's skinny, so pale he nearly reflects the light from the ceiling. His freckles are faded, and his hair is shorter than Tris ever liked it.
Being so thin makes his eyes even bigger, they seem to overwhelm the rest of his face.
"Honey, we're going to take you to our house," Aimi says, keeping her voice the same low gentle cadence. "While we figure out what happens next. Aki and I will be taking care of you for a while. How's that sound? Would that be okay?"
Tristan looks between them again, and something shifts in his face. A kind of desperation moves there, and he turns more fully to face them, leaning over a little to look up at them. Hair falls over his forehead, and his hands move to rub over the texture of a loose pair of sweatpants someone gave him to wear under his hospital gown. "To... your house? Would I be... yours?"
He looks at Akio again, and there's something in his face that says he sees that as the best case scenario, that he was ready for far, far worse than simply changing owners. That he's... hoping he'll be Akio's property now.
Akio's stomach flips at the thought and he has to put a hand over his mouth and turn away, catching the sob before it can make its way up out of his throat.
Aimi's arm moves around his shoulders instinctively, and she leans over, pressing a kiss to her son's short black hair. "It's okay," Aimi whispers. "It'll be hard at first. But it's going to be okay, Aki. Saishūtekini wa daijōbudesu. Tristan wa mada anata no shin'yūdesu."
Tristan, sitting on the little couch, blinks a few times. "Friend," he says in English, a little haltingly. "Shin' yu. Means... best friend." He scoots closer to them along the couch, and his eyes are so big and so very, very green. Just how Akio always remembered them.
Aimi's head raises and turns to look at him, her arm tightening around Aki, breath catching in her throat. "You remember that?"
"No." Tristan shakes his head. Scoots a little closer, even. "Yes. I don't know why. Are you..." He looks at Akio. "Wa-... watashitachiha... sh-shin, um, shin-shin'yūdeshita. Yes? Did I-... did I say it right?"
Tristan's Japanese was never great, he'd just picked up some here and there from all the time he spent around the Nakamuras at home and in their car. They used to lay awake at night during sleepovers practicing over and over until Tristan had a new phrase to impress Aimi with.
But hearing his voice, his living breathing real live voice, sounding out the words...
It's too much.
It's too fucking much.
"Yeah, um, y-yeah, you-..." Akio's words are suddenly gone. He chokes on his fear that this somehow is a dream he will wake up from to find Tris still cold in some unknown open grave, and he can't keep the tears back any longer.
His knees buckle under the onslaught of grief and hope and fear and love, and he drops to the cold tile hospital floor, hands pressed over his mouth until his lips are pushed painfully into his teeth, and he wails, muffled but loud enough that there's rustling as the cops guarding the door turn to look inside through the viewing window.
Aimi drops into a crouch behind him, rubbing at his back as he curls over himself. Her voice trembles with tears she doesn't shed. Akio remembers the days after they were told Tristan was dead, how she would cry in her room at night with Aki's dad when he was home from work, but somehow when he and Emi were bawling their heads off, her voice stayed calm, she kept her composure.
Right up until she was alone.
Now, though, she's barely hanging on as her son sobs on a hospital room floor before the emptied-out shell of his best friend.
Bare feet pad along the floor until Tristan drops down in front of him, reaching slowly out. Cool fingertips touch the back of Akio's hand, and he pulls them slowly down to look and see Tristan only a foot or so away from him, kneeling, watching him.
"I know you," Tristan whispers. "It hurts, but... I know... you. Don't, um, don't I?"
Akio can barely see him through the tears that have turned the world to watercolor suggestions. Nothing's in focus. But he grabs onto Tristan's hand, those familiar always-cold fingers, and holds tight.
"You know m-me," He manages. "You do, Tris. You know me. We-... we know you. We want to t-t-take you h-home."
Tristan tilts his head to the side, and it's such a familiar gesture, one he was so sure he'd never get to see again. "My... name is Baldur," He says, softly. "My Sir named me-"
"Please don't call him that. Can you... can you answer to Tristan? Please?" Akio is the one to reach out this time, touching Tristan's shoulder, hesitant. Waiting for him to pull back and away, to flinch like he's been doing when they watch him with the nurses.
Instead, Tris takes a breath and leans into the touch.
"It hurts," He says. "But, but, but, but-... but I can try."
Akio nods, and then Tristan is moving forward, and their arms are around each other and Akio is scared of himself for a second, scared of the welling of feelings he can't control. He's afraid he'll crack Tristan's ribs with how tightly he holds on.
Tristan's face buries itself against his neck, into the crook of his shoulder.
"I missed you so much," Akio whispers against the coppery hair. He's going to start crying again. He can hear his mom sniffing behind him, digging into her purse to pull out the little pack of tissues she always has in there. "I missed you so, so much, Tris."
"I think... I think I, I, I missed you, too," Tristan whispers back, and Akio isn't sure if he can even know if he means it, but he also knows that it's so good to hear the words that he doesn't even care.
Asking on this blog bc it has more followers but has anyone been getting radfem and terf content in the based on your likes section? I'm confused bc I don't even interact with any content to do with trans ppl or any sort of feminism more than very occasionally so I don't even interact with the *opposite* of terf stuff :/
Ok now I'm PRETTY sure the algorithm is pushing me Russian propaganda, stuff abt how there is no good side and russia is reacting against a genuine western imperialist security threat hmmmm *squints suspiciously*
Asking on this blog bc it has more followers but has anyone been getting radfem and terf content in the based on your likes section? I'm confused bc I don't even interact with any content to do with trans ppl or any sort of feminism more than very occasionally so I don't even interact with the *opposite* of terf stuff :/
a whumpee who was a captive for so long that when they get out, they’re hard to recognize. their morals and opinions are different. whether they’re kinder or crueler, more hesitant and agreeable or blunt and impatient, their friends and family don’t recognize them at first. they wonder if the whumpee was lost and whoever’s in their body now is a stranger.
