just wanna be rafe's quiet girl. always hand in hand with him, glued to his side, not really ever wandering more than a few feet away and only with his express permission. when he doesn't want you to hear some part of his conversation he brings his hand to your jaw and presses a kiss to your cheek, tells you quietly "go get somethin' to drink, hm?" and you nod and smile and listen to him. you're always listening to whatever he says, doing it without a second thought because if rafe is saying it then you should really follow his instructions.
it teeters on the edge of concerning. you're not sure how many people actually think something's wrong but with the way they stare, it has to be more than a few. is it you? is it something you did, something you wore? when you ask rafe he just dismisses it—"just jealous, kid. don't pay attention, okay?" and as soon as rafe says that you have to listen, don't really have much of a choice. your body and mind would rather break than bend and disobey.
maybe it's the way the two of you are always with each other, talking to just each other. you have your friends—though it's been a while since you've talked to them, you think, and rafe has his, and you've met them and smiled politely and done all of that, but the longer you've been together, it just always ends up being you two alone. you don't mind, you could never mind it, because it makes you happy. you would choose to be alone with rafe all day every day if you could.
or at least you think you would. it's kind of your reality now, so you don't have much of a choice in the matter. how could you want something different though? with the way rafe is so nice to you—and just to you, not to anyone else. that means something, you tell yourself when you find that your heart is thudding quickly from something, something like fear that could never truly be fear. even when rafe gets angry you're still the only person in the world that he's nice to. so how could you be afraid of him?
you think you should decide for yourself—come to a consensus. am i scared of rafe? should i be? but there's no answer waiting for you, so you do what comes naturally to you instead. ask rafe. and he laughs a little at first, not a real laugh like when the two of you are curled up watching some stupid movie, bones and brains so tired that everything seems funny. he laughs like he's been waiting for you to ask, like it's funny that you haven't asked already.
"don't ask stupid questions, kid." and that seems to be that. maybe it is wrong, the way you're convincing yourself that there's nothing to be afraid of. and maybe you should be scared, like when he grips your arm tight enough to leave a bruise while he's leading you out of somewhere. he was angry at someone else but somehow it always ends up taking itself out on you, on poor unmarred skin that will be purple tomorrow. he kisses it better but you feel the urge to tell him that he doesn't need to, even that you like it, that you stare at it before you shower every day and don't want it to fade to yellow and green but stay like this forever. a sign of just how much you would tolerate for your boyfriend—for rafe.
it comes out in other ways too, some are more preferable than others. rafe has a signet that he never takes off and you have a penchant for being slapped around. you think even rafe wonders how you got to be like this—if you were made this way, specially for him, or if he had twisted you into the creature you were now. but he doesn't say anything, just gives you another slap harder than the last and though there's tears running down your face, you hold back a smile.
rafe does make it all better—he kisses your bruises and runs his fingers over the red mark from the slaps and makes you cum until you're crying even harder, and you don't think you would have it any other way. whatever he's done, whatever burdens he carries around and the guilt nestled somewhere deep inside is now halved, some for him and some for you.
when he takes you out there's a visible little mark on your upper cheek from where his ring scraped your skin. his eyes keep flitting towards it when he talks to you, and you're sure others notice and whisper and gossip about it.
you hope it turns into a scar, and stays with you forever.
Evidence for my definitive theory on what is happening in GO2 (and GO1!)
Here is a roundup of evidence for my theory about what is happening in Show Omens (not Book Omens). Proceed with caution: speculation, memory loss, and mentions of that abusive asshole ahead!
Summary: Aziraphale is really Raphael, the archangel of healing and love and heir to the throne of heaven. I think he refused to fight in the Great War (or initially fought but refused to continue). Heaven didn't want to be seen felling another prince, so he was stripped of his identity. He doesn't know he's Raphael, and many other characters don't know it, either (some do!).
In addition to this initial identity obfuscation, he is also subjected to periodic memory alterations (either as an end in itself or as the ramification of a white room/deprivation/conversion-type "treatment") when he gets close to realizing his power and purpose by doing things like healing young women on death's door.
Crowley figures this out and has been trying to manage Aziraphale for some time. In heaven, he retrieves Aziraphale's true memories and gives them back to him in the Kiss.
I hate it here, too! But it compels me. On to the evidence. This theory synthesizes many details that were first noticed or thoughts that were first shared by others; I have included links where relevant/where I can find them. I have not tagged people unless they already seem into the theory, as it is pretty angsty.
Season 1
This theory explains why, in the Hard Times opener, Aziraphale has trouble remembering Crowley's name earlier on. And it explains why, later, Crowley seems to have a tracker on Aziraphale.
It explains the dynamics behind "it's all going to be rather lovely / you really believe that, don't you? <fond smile>." At this stage in their relationship, it's a pretty callous thing to say and Crowley probably should be upset. Many of us assumed that Aziraphale is being cautious of observers and Crowley understands that. But what if this is Crowley's clue that Aziraphale has had a little memory rehab since they last met? Then, shortly afterward, Crowley tests Aziraphale's memory about lunch, giving him another clue about how much Aziraphale remembers.
It explains why the dove resurrection is taken from book!Crowley and given to show!Aziraphale: he's Raphael the healer.
Why does Crowley still involve Aziraphale in the Antichrist thing? Because it is a big, bad situation and because, since hell is taking the lead, he is hoping an angel can get away with thwarting demonic wiles.
Okay. Breathe! Ready for more?
Season 2
This theory explains why Whickber Street is so colorful now. Aziraphale's latent Raphael power is spilling out. All the A&C lookalikes are his unconscious influence. The vintage fashion could be his influence or could be heavenly Secret Service keeping watch over the next in line to the throne.
It explains why Jim goes to Aziraphale -- they're basically siblings -- and why he says "you're funny, I love you."
It explains why Gabriel thought of hiding his memories in the fly in the first place. He knows what heaven has been doing to Raphael. (Jim does not, he just feels that Aziraphale is family.)
It explains the "I was wrong" dance. It's a tool of ritual humiliation that Crowley has developed to keep Aziraphale in check. Otherwise, he's likely to do his Raphael healing thing and end up back in memory rehab/conversion camp. (No hate on Crowley, he's doing the best he can in an impossible situation. I'm guessing, earlier on, he tried to tell Aziraphale what he thought heaven was doing and it didn't go well.) Edited to add: The years Aziraphale names for his dances -- 1650, 1793, and 1941 -- each featured famous executions, including one where the person miraculously survived.
It explains everything weird in Edinburgh. They're having the conversation they had in the 11th century in the book in 1827 because they've had this same conversation before (hat tip to @thatwitchlibrarian). It explains why Aziraphale, who owns a bookshop in London, is well intentioned but rather gormless about poverty. And it explains why Crowley steps in and puts on a big show, taking hell's punishment, rather than have Aziraphale try to save Elspeth as she lays dying and be subjected to treatment again.
It explains all the archangel hints. Aziraphale is the other first-order archangel and that's why the miracle with Gabriel is so powerful. (Edited to add: Hat tip to @sonkitty in the comments, who helped me realize these clues may be doubled, referencing not only Aziraphale but also Crowley. There are other signs of his power, which have been widely noted, and memory holes for him, too. However, I don't think Crowley's origin story is the major one being told this season, I think that's finale territory.)
It explains the discontinuities in the minisodes. There are, I think, three memory strands: an unaltered strand, a heaven-modified strand, and a Crowley-influenced strand. The heaven-modified strand is about hiding his power and purpose; the Crowley-influenced strand is Crowley telling Aziraphale cover stories about their relationship because post-treatment Aziraphale isn't ready to know the intimacy they've shared (the ox rib wasn't what got devoured). I now think it's more likely that different memories are being interwoven from a future perspective, i.e., by the characters in the finale. This point is influenced by multiple timeline theory but takes it in a different direction.
This theory explains their dialogue that seems to be retreading old ground. Crowley knows how they first fell in love; Aziraphale doesn't. Crowley asks Aziraphale about his bad French, only to reveal 30 seconds later that Aziraphale has been wittering on in bad French for decades.
It explains why, at times, the Arrangement doesn't seem to exist ("that's not how miracles work").
It explains Crowley's ambivalent attitude toward Jim. Puttering around the bookshop, explaining things to an amnesiac archangel, is familiar territory. But then the "Gabriel! Danger!" warning light returns to the forefront of his mind.
It explains Aziraphale's (benevolently) dictatorial impulses. He's never been given a chance to get his arms around his power and learn how to use it judiciously. Heaven and, with better intentions, Crowley are keeping him in a state of arrested development, believing himself "soft" and an "idiot." In Aziraphale's (further) defense, while trying to control people is bad, it's pretty telling of his nature that, as his power grows, he uses it to matchmake (another one of Raphael's qualities, per Wikipedia) and not smite people or start wars.
Furthermore, Aziraphale's more human aspect is starving for the love Crowley is partially withholding from him, the true reason for which Aziraphale doesn't know.
It explains why Saraquel helps Crowley: they are the one tasked with fixing Aziraphale to heaven's liking. And they're starting to feel this is wrong ("don't tell me you did it" means just that), so they help Crowley retrieve Aziraphale's memories. (And maybe they send Muriel because maybe that's sorta their kid!? 🤯 This is likely more symbolic than anything, please note, but it would align with Crowley's proud dad arm punch, the "get the kid off to summer camp for us time" vibe, Muriel's love of books, and their "inheritance" of the bookshop.)
It explains why the Metatron needs Aziraphale. The King is dead, long live the King! There is always a Supreme Archangel.
It explains Aziraphale's expressions in the lift. He is re-integrating his true memories. And the smile at the end? Now he knows he's the Archangel Fucking Raphael. (There was a post comparing his lift smile to Gabriel's smile in s1, but I can't find it.)
I know! This is very epic and also the whumpiest whump. And it's all Gaiman, no Pratchett. I'm still processing my complicated feelings about it.
This is now part of a series:
My definitive theory on Show Omens
Evidence for my definitive theory on Show Omens
My definitive theory on Show Omens: Crowley edition
My definitive theory on Show Omens: Muriel edition
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The first two chapters of Paradise Circus are out on ao3!
Rating: Mature
Content Warning for: Suicidal Thoughts/ Ideation, Graphic descriptions of Violence, Sexual Content (Vague but descriptive), Mental Illness
When a mysterious set of murders begin plaguing the peaceful town of Mulhoven, three friends are forced to remember things they’ve long since forgotten. Will they confront the things they’ve been avoiding, the things they’ve tried so hard to forget, or will they continue spinning within its grip? Is there any good reason to escape from a place that has already been deemed a paradise, or is it better to roll over and stay put? Is escape even an option? Was it ever an option to begin with?
The rest of this profile is going to be under a cut as there is an alllusion to prolonged abuse since childhood with as vague a description as I could manage. There is also a reference to the character purposefully triggering himself to deal with a new also unsafe environment.
Warnings: abuse towards a child, forced restraint, forcing loss of identity, severe dissassociation, scarring.
Please proceed with caution and skip if necessary.
NAYKT Character Facts
Brandon was taken in at a very young age by an elitest society of self-important families with delusions of power and importance. They trained him to be loyal to their cause and after the Maxwells took control, started using him for their experiments with Black Market (synthetic) magic.
Whenever he would fight back or disobey, they would restrain him and place an unusual bronze mask on his face. While wearing it they would only address him as 'soldier'. The intention was to strip him of his indentity and individuality beyond serving the society until he learned to stop fighting back.
For years, the experimentation resulted in nothing but pain and scars across his entire body. Eventually, soon after Brandon turned 12, the highly dangerous, toxic, volatile synthetic magic began to fuse with his body, granting him several varied and fractured abilities that he was trained to use to serve the Black Tea Society.
Several years later, The Black Tea Society HQ building burned to the ground. Every living member of the Society was in the building as it burned except for Brandon, whose only memory of that night is standing in the garden, the bronze mask in his hand at his side as he watched it all burn. He is almost certain that he set the fire.
Esmé soon found him with a tempting offer. Stability, somewhere to live, an income, and protection from anyone who might come looking for him. All she asked was a few small favours in return which didn't stay small favours for long.
While definitely happier and brighter than he ever was with the Society, Brandon isn't ignorant that he jumped out of one frying pan and into another. While he does his best to handle the everyday, he is prone to frequent dissasociation, and can easily lose hours at a time.
Writer's fave fact
The mask is still in his possession, locked away where no one else can use it against him. Whenever Esmé brings him a new job, Brandon pulls it from hiding and reawakens the Soldier. He hates it but he'll do whatever it takes to keep himself safe.
Waking up beaten, bruised, and bloody is horrific but he never remembers what happened and that's better than the alternative.
Masterlist here. Follows up with Joe and Ivan after the swap has been made; Joe is still sporting the little insurance policy Ivan gave him here.
NOTE: Again, not canon. But people liked it, and I like whumping poor Joe (although I feel very bad about what happens to him here). Will continue from Joe's perspective if there's interest.
Ivan smiles down at Joe. He’s wanted this for a long time–Joe Prescott, his for the taking. Joe, it seems, is less sure that this is what he wants. He kneels at Ivan’s feet, his handsome face already a wreck. Sweat, snot, tears. It isn’t particularly dignified, but then, Ivan supposes, Joe’s dignity is secondary now. What’s most important is that Joe understands what his life will be like from here on out. Once Ivan can help him understand that, they can move forward. Together.
But perhaps it was a miscalculation to let Joe see Seligman haul Jack away. Ivan thought it might help, that it would make it clear to Joe that Ivan had honored their bargain and that Jack was going home. They’d drugged Jack just before Joe was scheduled to return–Ivan wasn’t going to give them the opportunity to play another love scene–but Joe didn’t seem to take well to the sight of Jack’s limp body, even after Ivan assured him that Jack would make it home safely.
Joe, of course, didn’t see the way little Jack valiantly fought against the sedative so he could have one more glimpse of Joe. And Jack won’t know how Joe broke to his knees like some fairy tale prince mourning the loss of his cursed love. Ivan won’t give either of them the satisfaction. He held up his end of the bargain.
It’s more than Joe’s little whore deserves, quite frankly. But Ivan Peters is a man of his word.
Seligman’s car rumbles to life in the driveway, and Joe crumples forward, pressing his forehead against Ivan’s hardwood floor. The sudden movement shifts the plug in his bottom, and he lets go a rough sob.
“Stop that, Joe,” Ivan snaps. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
Joe doesn’t raise his head. His fingers scrabble desperately against the woodwork, like he’s searching for something to keep him from falling further than he already has.
“You didn’t even let me say goodbye.”
Ivan sighs. “Let me ask you, Joe: what is it that makes Jack so special? Because I’ve sampled what he has to offer, and I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
It isn’t strictly true. There were benefits to using a toy that had already been trained. It wasn’t that hard to help him remember his place. Jack understood what he was there for.
Joe does not. But he’ll learn. Ivan will make sure of it.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Joe spits, begrudgingly raising his head. He winces at the adjustment.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.” Ivan catches Joe’s chin in a vice-tight grip. “He was alright, I suppose. But nothing like you. You’re special. You’ve always been, haven’t you?” He leans down and covers Joe’s lips with his own, sliding his tongue over Joe’s tight pout. He leans close to Joe’s ear. “I gave him up so I could have you. You’re the real prize.”
He keeps a hold of Joe’s chin and dips his tongue into the pink shell of Joe’s ear. He feels Joe’s head try to shake in his grip, but Joe can’t break away.
“Please, don’t.” Joe’s eyes squeeze shut.
Ivan pulls Joe to his feet, and the other man groans as the plug burrows deeper, fighting against his body’s natural inclination.
“Oh, Joe. Joey.” Ivan kisses him again and brushes his dark curls away from his forehead. “You’ll have to get used to this, won’t you? We’ve got all the time in the world, and I intend to use it.”
Joe’s eyes pop open. Ivan’s never seen them this close before. They are gorgeous. A soft green with flecks of brown. And those eyes are his now. Only his.
“But I–I thought–”
Joe can’t finish his sentence. Ivan tucks a gentle hand around the back of his neck; he feels Joe’s skin pimple with gooseflesh beneath his palm.
“What did you think, sweetheart?” Ivan asks.
“I thought you were going to-to-to sell me.”
“My agreement stipulates that I have first rights to my acquisition. I might have sold darling Jack–but I would never sell you, baby. I’ve waited too long for you to even think of getting rid of you.” He tucks Joe’s earlobe between his lips, tugging with his teeth, and whispers through them, “You’re mine.”
Ivan feels it the moment Joe’s knees go weak, and he braces Joe before he can fall.
Joe’s eyes are blown wide, more pupil than iris. “I don’t–”
“You’re it, Joe,” Ivan murmurs, almost shy now. “I’ve wanted you since med school. But you wouldn’t even look at me.”
Or when Joe did look at him, it was with some mix of pity and contempt. There’s neither in those beautiful green eyes now. Joe’s face twists for a moment. Confusion. And fear.
Fear is an excellent place to start.
“Ivan–”
Joe tries to pull back, but Ivan shoves him up against the foyer wall, tucking his hand tight around Joe’s throat. Joe sputters and chokes, and his head knocks hard on the wall behind him.
“Sir!” Ivan hisses. Then, he relaxes his grip just a little and drags his tongue across the underside of Joe’s jaw. “I want you to call me ‘Sir.’” Joe is shaking now, but Ivan doesn’t care. He tightens his hold again. “Say it, baby.”
Joe’s cheeks are flushed, his voice choked. “Sir. Sir!”
Ivan releases him, and Joe slides again to the floor, whimpering when his ass makes contact. He presses his arms back against the wall, like a cornered animal. Ivan only smiles and leans down to smooth Joe’s hair.
“See, I knew you’d be good at this. That you’d be good for me.”
Joe looks like he might be sick. He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with fresh tears. “I won’t–”
“You will. For Jackie, huh?” Ivan toes between Joe’s legs, nudging at his ass.
Joe’s throat cords in pain. “Don’t–don’t talk about him.”
Ivan digs the toe of his shoe in deeper, and Joe actually screams, the sound ripping the house’s quiet in two.
“Oh, baby,” Ivan coos. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’ve already shown me that you don’t know how to take care of yourself. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Please,” Joe rasps. He can’t shift away from Ivan’s foot; there’s nowhere he can go. Every twitch and wriggle must hurt him tremendously. He deserves that. It will help him learn. He’s crying in earnest now, and it’s beautiful. “I don’t want this. I–”
“You don’t know what you want,” Ivan says gently. He slips his foot backward and squats down in front of Joe. “You’ve never known, have you?”
“I–”
Joe winces as Ivan runs gentle fingertips across his cheek.
“I’m going to show you, Joey. All the things you’ve been missing. How good it can be.” Ivan kisses Joe then, slipping his tongue between Joe’s lips and pressing into him. Joe groans beneath him, and Ivan smiles against his lips. He sets a whisper soft kiss at the corner of Joe’s mouth and pulls back. “Let me help you up, Joey. We’ll take this to the bedroom.”
Joe freezes. “What?”
Ivan tucks his hands beneath Joe’s elbows and hauls him to his feet. He hears the panicked shift of Joe’s breath, can see his sinew tighten and tense beneath the fabric of his tee-shirt.
He won’t be wearing it much longer.
“I’m not going to treat you like I did your sweet Jackie,” Ivan purrs. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to do that.”
He presses flush against Joe so that he can feel his erection. Joe hisses like he’s been burned. He shakes his head, eyes on the basement stairs.
“I don’t–”
“I kept your little whore in the basement. Locked him in a crate like a dog. Because that’s what he is. Even with all that you’ve done to keep him safe, that’s all he’ll ever be.” Joe practically growls, but Ivan shoves him back against the wall, jarring the plug and eliciting a broken whimper. He slides his hand to the small of Joe’s back, pressing him forward again. “But you? You’re too good for that. I want you to be mine.”
He nuzzles against Joe’s throat and then takes the thin skin between his front teeth, sucking down on his pulse point. Joe’s head tips back, and Ivan tastes salt.
“It’s okay, baby. Just come on now,” Ivan murmurs. He threads his fingers through Joe’s and leads him out of the foyer and up the stairs. Joe doesn’t fight him. How can he?
When they reach the bedroom, Ivan doesn’t waste any time. He closes the door behind him and shoves Joe onto the bed. He cries out, but it doesn’t matter. It won’t be the last time Joe screams. Not today. Not for a very long time.
Joe rolls onto his stomach, trying to relieve the pressure inside. He tents his knees against the comforter, and Ivan takes the opportunity to reach beneath him and open his fly. He starts to slide Joe’s pants away from his hips, taking his boxer-briefs with them. He lets them tangle around Joe’s ankles, effectively hobbling him.
“No, no, please–” Joe begs. His body twists against the bed, and there is a twitch low in Ivan’s belly.
This is what he wants. What he’s always wanted.
Ivan digs his nails into Joe’s bare ass, watching as the white flesh stripes red beneath his touch. Streaks of red–some bright and still damp to the touch, and others, cracked and rusting–litter the skin of Joe’s thighs. The silver tip of the plug swells from between his cheeks. Ivan crooks his finger in its loop and tugs; Joe wails.
“Oh, Joey. You poor thing. I’ll have to remove our insurance policy, won’t I?”
He reaches into his pocket for the key, and Joe’s hands scrabble uselessly at the sheets.
“Please don’t do this.”
“Oh, baby.” Ivan leans down to press a firm kiss to Joe’s tailbone. He runs the key over Joe’s skin and down toward his crack. “Don’t be scared. I’m sure you don’t want me to leave that in there.”
“No, but I–please. Please.”
Joe grinds his forehead against the bed, and Ivan unlocks the plug. He turns the crank, and he can feel the petals begin to retract. Joe’s muscles relax the slightest bit.
“See, isn’t that better?” Ivan purrs. He works the plug out, slowly, and Joe whimpers. “It was just there to get you ready, Joey.” He teases a fingertip into Joe’s abused passage, and Joe lets out a gulping sob.
“Please! I can’t–I–”
Ivan turns Joe roughly onto his back; Joe’s face is a mess, his eyes wide with fear. Ivan smiles down at him, relishing the way Joe squirms when he realizes he’s on display.
“Oh, I see. But isn’t this what you agreed to? To keep little Jackie safe?”
Joe swallows, hard. “Yes.” He closes his eyes, and tears press out from beneath his long lashes.
“And you understand that if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll have to have someone retrieve him, don’t you?”
Ivan pulls at Joe’s tee-shirt, sliding the fabric up and over his head until Joe’s wrists are caught above his head, tangled in the soft cotton. He runs a casual finger between Joe’s pectorals, letting it trail downward until it snags in the dark hair beneath Joe’s navel. Joe flinches.
“Perhaps that’s what you want,” Ivan suggests. “For me to bring Jackie back, and he’ll be our little pet. You’d get to use him that way–I know he didn’t let you do that before.”
Joe’s eyes are wide as saucers. “We had a deal.”
“One that you don’t seem intent on upholding,” Ivan sneers.
“I–I would never do that to him.”
Ivan laughs. He settles himself on the bed, bracketing his knees along Joe’s hips. He leans himself over until he can pin Joe’s cotton-wrapped wrists in one hand. He feels the shift of the leather cuffs just beneath.
“That’s the difference between you and me, Joe. I know how to hold on to what I love.”
“You don’t–you don’t love me,” Joe protests weakly. He turns his head away from Ivan’s gaze.
“I do.” Ivan grinds his hips down against Joe’s exposed body. “I always have.”
“If–” Joe begins, but he’s cut off by his own breath, gulping like he’s desperate for air. “If-if-if you loved me, you wouldn’t want to hurt me.”
“The way that you didn’t want little Jackie to hurt?” Ivan taunts him. Joe’s eyes squeeze shut again. “You babied him. And look where it got him.”
Look where it got you, Ivan thinks. But he doesn’t say it. He wants Joe to accept his place here, to understand that he’s fortunate to have made such a deal.
“I protected him,” Joe says softly.
“Did you?”
“I–I tried.”
“And you failed, didn’t you? Until I gave you an out.”
Joe’s face looks just the way it did after their little rendezvous in the basement–ashamed, broken. “No! No–I–”
“I know you’re not used to failing, Joe.” Ivan tilts Joe’s chin back to look at him. “But it’s alright now. It’s better this way, isn’t it? Jack is free, and you’re where you belong.”
“He is,” Joe murmurs, and Ivan knows he’s talking to himself. “He is. He’s free.”
“And you’re mine,” Ivan says huskily. “Now, just relax, Joey. It will make what comes next a bit easier.”
Joe tries to wriggle free, but Ivan only presses harder on his pinned wrists. “Please–”
“You’ve already tasted me, Joey. I want a taste of you. Of what little Jackie had. Of what’s mine from now on.”
He dismounts, rolling Joe onto his stomach again. This time, he slides Joe’s trembling body so that it fits lengthwise on the bed, yanking his wrists toward the headboard.
“Please!” Joe cries again. “Not yet. I can’t–I can’t–”
“Oh, baby. Remember. It doesn’t matter what you want. I know what’s best for you now.”
Joe thrashes against him, and Ivan straddles his back, settling himself right over Joe’s ribs; Joe’s legs flail uselessly beneath him. He tugs Joe’s tee-shirt free and then wraps the fabric tight around Joe’s head, shoving a wad of the fabric into his mouth. Joe shrieks, but the sound is strangled, blessedly muffled. Ivan forces Joe’s face down to the comforter, a strong hand on the back of his head.
“I want you to focus on what you can feel, baby. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’m doing this for you. To welcome you home.”
Joe moans beneath the cotton as Ivan forces his arms up above his head. He secures each wrist to the headboard, spread wide so that the naked muscles in Joe’s back are pulled gorgeously taut. Ivan lets his hands slide down Joe’s body. It’s all his now.
“These will hold you right where I want you,” Ivan explains. He turns to fix Joe’s ankles to the footboard, leaving a little bit more slack. He gently manipulates Joe’s legs, bending them at the knees and guiding them forward until Joe’s ass is in the air. The restraints pull tight behind him. “Where I can make you feel good.”
Joe is shaking, prostrate on the mattress. He tugs at his wrists, still shrieking out garbled protests. It doesn’t matter. Ivan has him right where he wants him. He rolls away, discarding his own clothes.
Joe stills when he feels Ivan’s naked body against his own. Ivan’s chest covers his back. Ivan’s hands bite into his hips. Ivan’s cock presses at his entrance. He’s already been prepared, after all.
“There, sweetheart. God, don’t you look beautiful this way? Just how I thought you would.”
When Ivan lets himself move, Joe’s anguished scream fills the bedroom. Ivan doesn’t mind. He ruts hard into Joe’s injured body, enjoying every cry. Joe will learn his place. They have all the time in the world.
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Oh Steg it's so bad tho. Medical discussion ahoy with details of blood, injury, and a detailed description of the brutality of field surgery, so it's all going under the cut.
So I had a little freak-out the week before my first scheduled amputation (which did very well, that kitty is so much happier now!) and I tend to channel my medical anxieties through newly-minted MD, HSH Hyrule. Add to that your run-of-the-mill anxiety surrounding the pandemic and, well, one thing led to another. It's a little first-drafty, but it was very cathartic at the time.
They froze as the others began pouring into the room. Wind was the first one through the door, babbling a mile a minute about how they “didn’t see them coming” and that the walkers were “getting so much fucking faster” with each new encounter. The whites of Four's eyes were bright in the dim light, a stark contrast to the blood spattered on his cheeks, and the bag of provisions that he dropped on the floor was only half full. Warriors stopped to hold the door for the others, still trying his best to sound calm in the face of all the screaming and crying. Sky's face was ashen as he struggled to both carry Wild and hold him back from lashing out at Twilight, who was pressing a dirty rag against his right forearm.
“What happened?” Hyrule set a hand on Legend’s shoulder as he stepped past him.
The question was unnecessary. He knew even before Twilight pulled away the blood-soaked rag that Wild had been bitten. And it was a nasty bite. Hyrule could tell where teeth had punctured through, where flesh had torn as Wild had tried to jerk his arm away. [...]
“I told you, we shouldn’t have gone out so late!!”
“Guys, this isn’t the time—”
“I have to take it.” Hyrule’s voice was calm, his eyes hard and determined even though he couldn't meet anyone's gaze.
“What do you mean?” Warriors pressed him.
“I have to amputate.” Hyrule spoke with much more conviction than he felt. “It’s his only chance.”
Twilight’s eyes were wild with fear. “You said we were out of sedatives. Where the hell would we get more? He might not have time—”
“He doesn’t have time.” Hyrule turned toward his kit and started pulling out gloves and metal tools. “We just have to hold him down.”
Hyrule’s declaration caused a nervous hush to fall over the room.
“Twi, what’d he say?” Wild winced as he swallowed against his raw throat. His breathing was ragged. “Twi, I’m scared—”
“I-I can’t,” Twilight stammered as the color drained from his face.
“I’ve got him,” Warriors murmured, easing Twilight aside as he knelt on the floor above Wild’s head. Warriors untied his scarf and looped it around each of his hands to protect them, and before Wild could react he pressed the material into his mouth, wedging it between his teeth. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he ground out as Wild started thrashing and screaming anew. [...]
[Hyrule] focused on making his incisions with confidence, his scalpel cutting smoothly through the skin. He stayed well above the wound; the skin surrounding the ragged bite already looked a bit green. He knelt on Wild’s hand to keep his arm as still as he could, but eventually he needed to lift it in order to complete the incision. Legend tried to help him stabilize Wild’s arm, but the skin incision still wasn’t as neat as he would have liked. He worked hard to tune out the screaming as he rushed to undermine the skin over Wild’s elbow and expose the joint.
The Infectious Disease Center didn’t have much data on how the virus was spread between victims. Hyrule tried not to think about that as Wild’s blood sprayed onto his face. They'd run out of masks two days ago. Legend winced as he looked away, digging frantically in Hyrule’s kit until he found a hemostat, and Hyrule took it without looking up. He was quick to isolate the vessel — or at least the area he assumed it was, considering all the blood — and clamp it off before he moved on.
One by one, each muscle and tendon was sheared away. He tried to go about it methodically, preserving enough tissue to cover the end of the humerus, but the longer this dragged on the more worn out his friends were becoming, the more his head was splitting from Wild’s shrill cries. From somewhere across the room he could hear Twilight yelling something — he sounded like he was crying — but Hyrule couldn’t focus on that right now. He had to focus on isolating the median nerve. Wild's arm spasmed involuntarily as he severed it.
“This is going to hurt,” Hyrule warned through his teeth as he set Wild's upper arm against his knee. There was a split second of hesitation, his mind running a mile a minute. Was this the right thing to do? Was there something he wasn't smart enough or creative enough to consider? Did Wild realize that he wasn't trying to hurt him?
Was there really no other way?
But there was no time for doubt, not now. Not when he had this much exposure. Not when he was the only one in the room who could do this.
So Hyrule took Wild's hand, he grit his teeth, and he forced his elbow backward.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I present chapter 1 of 19 for Reign of the Samurai! This is the big Ninjago story I've been working on and it's finally here! Please read the tags and author's note before reading to fully grasp content warnings
