#psycho sin

[gungogung]

Cacasonica /Psycho Sin split

[throwaway-sinfulwriter]

The Same - Chapter One - Malcolm

Malcolm Whitley has one, dirty, dark secret. A secret he has yet to tell anyone in his life. One that his multitude of therapists, psychiatrists, and doctors had yet to hear.

No one had ever known his secret. That is, no one besides his own reflection in the mirror after violent night terrors and days of exhaustion.

He was in love with his father.

His psychotic, serial killer, locked up but somehow still loving, biological father.

It was sick. So, so very sick. Much like Malcolm himself. He had never been called sick directly, but after years of his mother's pitying glances and shoving pills down his throat (not literally.. anymore. she had stopped once he turned 19.) He had figured out that something was seriously wrong with him.

Now, thinking of it, perhaps in love wasn't the right word, the healthiest word, but he knew that it was the correct way to describe the way his soul seemed burst open with feelings when he thought of .. Dr. Whitley.

It was hard to address him as his father in his mind sometimes, even though that was exactly what he was. it was a barrier that he could not cross when his thoughts became depraved. Like now.

He supposed it all stemmed from their incredibly unhealthy relationship, after Malcolm had called the police and turned his monster of a father in to the law's hands.

As a child, he didn't truly grasp what was happening, or why his mother was refusing to let him visit his father.

After many tantrums and countless doctors, he was allowed to see the man again. Even though it downright disgusted his mother.

He had been locked up for nearly 3 years before Michael saw him again. Malcolm had expected him to be furious, to yell and bash his hands against the bars, maybe.

Be resentful towards his son for stopping his spree.

Let out the anger Malcolm felt for himself.

But he wasn't. All he got from his father was a smile that lit up his eyes and a soft "Malcolm.. my dear boy.."

Sometimes he wished his father would be outwardly angry at him. Maybe it would take away the anger he felt at himself. Perhaps it would lighten the load of self loathing he felt at the decision he made all those years ago.

Maybe his father's anger would feel better than his father's disappointment.

Malcolm shivered in a cold sweat, sitting at the end of his too-big bed. Turning his head, he looks at his bedside clock. 3:45 AM. He had taken the restraints off his wrists after roughly 4 hours of pitifully trying to fall asleep.

It was cruel, his body refusing to obey and sleep. It would be 3 or 4 more days until it finally gave up and he would pass out. Then the night terrors would start, and the cycle would repeat. The tremors in his hands were constant.

It was even more cruel for his tired mind to think about things he would rather not, things that he had not allowed himself to think for a decade.

He knew it was because of the copycat case, because he had seen him again. His mind latched onto it, sucked onto it greedily until it was all he could think about.

Until logic had left him completely.

His love for his father had always existed, though at some point in his life it had twisted into something darker, something different than familial love.

It was unhinged, in an inherently unhealthy, sexual, borderline romantic way.

Malcolm laughs bitterly out loud, cold tears already dripping down his face as his mind fights itself. Like romance had anything to do with what he felt.

Though there were times when he thought of laying with Dr. Whitly and running his fingers along his skin, naming each of his bones and telling him how much he loved him, what he would give up to be with him.

Seeing him again, it brought back all of the (mostly) latent feelings he had experienced in his youth, tenfold.

He was more strung out than ever.

His eyes close as more tears of ice fall, his father's face flashing behind his eyelids.

The man looked so different from when he was first incarcerated, even from when he last saw him ten years ago, to now.

Still, he spoke the same. Regarded his son the same. Treated him no differently than the loving father from his memories. It made him seethe.

In the 7 years Malcolm had regularly visited his father, the more unhinged and broken he slowly became.

He obsessed over him, thinking no other thoughts and preparing for their next visit even when they were months apart.

It got to such a point he researched his murders in his spare time, agonizing over every little detail and the precision his father put into his work.

He had been planning on confessing, pressing his face to the bars and whispering his dirtiest secret to his father, straining his neck to kiss his cheek and then his lips and..

However, his plan was put to an end before he had even truly thought of setting it into motion.

His mother found some of the print-outs he had made regarding the cases, and he had been admitted into a psych ward for 6 months because of it.

Malcolm came out of the ward changed, mind different from treatment.

He began working in the justice career, trying to get a job with the FBI. Deliberately trying to go against his father.

He felt like a rebellious teenager, though he was past that stage of his life at the time. Even though he wasn't speaking to him, he was goading him. Hoping, wanting a reaction.

His father's reaction to him wanting to join the FBI is something he will never be able to erase from his mind.

"I should have been more supportive when you wanted to work with the FBI.."

Malcolm laughs, though it doesn't sound joyful at all. It is hysterical. Right. Supportive. His father was many things, but supportive was not one of them.

He goes through their conversation once more, picturing his father in his sweater (covering his cuffs) and how happy he was to see him. How he called him his boy, immediately became concerned over his exhaustion..

The hair on top of his head was curly now, mostly gray but streaks of brown running throughout it. It gave him a strange salt and pepper look, and when Malcom pictured his profile his heart beat in his ribcage erratically.

He was still so handsome. Devishly so. It made Malcom so angry. How dare he look so- so god damn pristine when he was here, out, suffering because of him?

How dare he look so perfect and attractive Malcolm wanted to taste his lips and cut him open and study every inch of him from the inside out?

Malcolm sobs, covering his face as his shoulders shake. He tries to compose himself, wiping his face and staring at his reflection at the mirror affixed to his dresser.

His watery blue eyes staring back at him, identical to his father's.

I will always love you. Because we're the same.

Out of everything his father was, a serial killer, a psychopath, a manipulative abuser, a liar.. He was never, ever wrong when it came to Malcom.

He was always right. They were the same.

And being in contact with his father again made it so much harder to hide that fact.

[throwaway-sinfulwriter]

The Same (Ao3 link)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769662?view_full_work=true

Don't think I really need to say this, but I don't condone actual incest. This is a fictional story, with fictional characters.

[throwaway-sinfulwriter]

The Same - Chapter Two - Martin

There was not a single person on the Earth that Martin Whitley loved more than his son.

The boy was a demon to his devil, a knight to his king.

Martin cherished him above all others, and had been carefully grooming him in his own footsteps from a young age.

Malcolm was born after 2 years of marriage, a quite unhappy 2 years of marriage. In Martin's opinion.

Martin hadn't particularly wanted to marry Jessica, but she was a respected philanthropist in the city and his pool of clientele and colleagues alike widened when they married. And she was loaded.

It was beneficial at best, toxic at worst. Jessica loved to drink in her free time, and often lost her inhibitions.

It wasn't attractive to Martin at all. It made his lip curl up, anger boil in his stomach.

However, being married to Jessica was a good way to let his aggression out. In fights, in (frankly unsatisfying) sex, and arguing over work, space, and anything they could underneath the sun.

Finding out Jessica was pregnant 2 years in was both a blessing and a curse.

At this point in his life, Martin had only killed a handful of times, but they were much more satisfying and thrilling than anything else he had done in his life.

Immediately, looking at the ultrasound machine as the doctor droned on and on about vitamins, check-ups, and a due-date, he worried. Not for the child, or Jessica. But for himself.

How was he going to have the time to murder with a child?

Turns out, it was much easier than expected.

Halfway through the pregnancy, after they had learned the gender of the child, it dawned on him that his son could be just like him.

It made him grin like a madman, someone to carry on his legacy.

Martin picked up more surgeries, working efficiently and saving money even though they were filthy rich. He wanted his son to have the best welcome to the world, with his father by his side.

When Martin was home, he would stay by Jessica's side. Not for the woman, no, she was quite dull, actually. Complaining constantly. Of course, he never expressed this. He had perfect control of his emotions.

No, he stayed for the roundness of her belly, his son beginning to kick.

Singing a lullaby to her belly as she slept, stroking the curve obsessively, practically shaking out of his skin when a foot kicked at the surface, brushing his fingers.

The birth was long and messy, but it was all worth it when his boy was held up by the doctor. Coated in red and screaming his existence into the world.

He was beautiful.

Martin felt genuine tears well in his eyes for what felt like the first time as he cut the cord, separating this angel from the wretched woman who so tortured him during her pregnancy.

After Malcolm was swaddled, Jessica insisted on holding him. Martin's hands twitched incessantly. He itched to hold his son.

While Jessica held his child, Martin surveyed the hospital staff, silently deducing how each and every one of their deaths would occur. From quick and clean, to long and messy.

It calms him in the trying time.

His deducing is interrupted by a clearing of the throat. His gaze snaps to Malcolm, eyes slowly trailing up to Jessica. Secondarily.

"Do you want to hold him?" She asks, sitting up more with an exhausted smile.

"Oh, yes, please. You rest now, love. I'll keep him safe." It felt like his smile would split his face as he carefully held his son, cradling him to his chest.

Those first few weeks are the times Martin looks back fondly, when he took a hiatus from killing to solely care for Malcolm.

Jessica developed postpartum depression after leaving the hospital. It was quite inconvinent for Martin, and Malcolm by proxy.

"Please, love." It wasn't often that Martin truly begged. This wasn't acting, like it usually was with Jessica. "Please feed him."

Malcolm was squirming in his eyes, face red and angry as he bawled his lungs out. He was hungry.

"I can't." Jessica sobbed, pulling the blanket over her, turning away from him. Turning away from her duty as a mother. To provide nourishment for their son.

"You.. you must. Jessica, don't you hear him crying?" He leans in, closer to the lump under the blankets.

"I CAN HEAR HIM JUST FINE! HE NEEDS TO SHUT UP!" She screamed suddenly, ripping the blankets off of her, her face stained with tears, wild and angry.

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE, MARTIN!" Malcolm was wailing at the top of his lungs, unhappy with his mother's screaming. Martin's heart hurt, listening to it.

Dumbfounded, he took the babe out of their room, taking him to his nursery.

"Shh, my boy, shh.." Martin patted his son's back, rocking him back and forth gently. His crying had lessened, but he was still fussing greatly.

Thankfully, the newlywed father had bought formula in advance, just in case. He briefly set Malcolm down in his crib as he prepared the formula.

Afterwards, sitting down in the rocking chair he had built in the nursery, he was quite pleased with the situation.

Holding Malcolm to his chest, he watched and rocked as the babe ate his meal. His eyes (just like his father's) were half shut in contentment, and he lay docile in his arms after he had been burped.

Martin kissed his forehead, whispering to him. "It's quite alright, my boy. You were always meant to be daddy's boy."

----------------------------

Malcolm was an ever curious child, constantly asking questions and wondering about what his father was up to.

It was both wonderful and terrible, as it was so adorable it made Martin's lips curl involuntarily. But it was also troublesome, once he got back into the "scene."

(No, not that scene. Though he had been involved with that as well. He had quite enjoyed being a dominant.)

Killing took up a good chunk of his time, that of experiments and hiring people for disposal, so there were instances where Martin had to leave Malcolm in the hands of his mother.

This never quite went well, as Jessica was quite blunt and didn't have an ounce of maternal instinct in her blood.

More often than not, Martin would return home with a lapful of angsty Malcolm in his lap, and Jessica with a glass of wine in her hand or a cigarette between her lips.

However, Malcolm was shaping out quite nicely. Time was passing fairly quickly now, and he mentally recorded every little quirk and tick his boy had, all with a gleeful expression.

The only thing other that had ever made him this happy was watching the life drain out of someone's eyes.

Everything was going well, until it wasn't. Jessica was pregnant once more, which left a sour taste in Martin's mouth. Something felt.. off.

He didn't have time to worry about it.

He was significantly less present during the pregnancy, leaving Jessica to fend on her own as he took care of their son. Nourishing him and lavishing him with attention.

Beaming when Malcolm drew him pictures and told his father how much he loved him.

Jessica went into labour at the house, and it was Martin's duty to get them to the hospital. He worried more about Malcolm than Jessica, making sure the boy wore his coat and shoes and brought everything he would possibly need at hospital.

His wariness of the pregnancy is quickly explained, as the girl comes out of her mother's womb with light blonde hair. With his own darkbrown hair, and Jessica's reddish brown, this is highly unlikely.

The child is not his, but to put up appearances, he kisses her wrinkly forehead and names her Ainsley.

Jessica loves Ainsley to pieces, which infuriates Martin to no end. He is downright furious, watching the wretch of his wife coddle and breastfeed the girl.

The only thing that brings joy to his life is blood on his hands and his dear Malcolm's smile.

Martin teaches his son how to ride a bike, holding onto the back of it until Malcolm is balanced, and letting go.

Of course, this only works in the literal sense. Martin had made a vow when Malcolm was born, he would never, ever let the boy go.

Still, he is proud when Malcolm rides by himself, and shouts happily. He looks a bit like a buffoon, but Malcolm's beaming smile makes up for everything, filling his heart with a bright feeling.

He embraces his son, lifting him off the ground and repeating "My boy, my boy.." Proudly. He doesn't miss how his son buries his face into his neck, inhaling deeply. Greedily.

It strikes him as odd, at first, as he has seen no other child do such a thing when being affectionate. However, he rolls his eyes at himself and kisses the top of Malcolm's head. Tells himself he's being silly.

Malcolm was no other child. He was his.

It's around this time that his killings become more sadistic, more planned. He begins the Quartet, mixing drugs from his work and injecting it into his prey's hearts.

It is so poetically beautiful, the fear in their eyes, the frozen stiffness of their trapped bodies.

It gives him a rush unlike any other.

Afterwards, when he's soaking in the adrenaline, panting like a man running a thousand mile race, Martin wonders how Malcolm will take his own victims.

When the time comes, of course.

-------------------------

Martin knew that Malcolm had called the police.

Of course he knew. It was only a matter of time before the boy did. After he had caught on.

Malcolm was always too good for his depraved, monstrous father. He had a kind heart, and good judgement.

That would change as he got older, Martin was certain of it.

Yes, he thinks as he tells Malcolm he will always love him, they are the same, cuffs clicking around his wrists.

It is only a matter of time.

And time is now all he has.

The pain of separation from Malcolm is unlike any other. It is worse than hearing his cries as a babe, even worse than when Martin's own father beat him for hours, until he could no longer move.

It is a long three years, but the feeling of seeing his boy's face is much more intense than any feelings of sorrow.

Even if he falters, even if he can't answer his son's questions. He is just so happy to see him.

The next 7 years are tough, but wonderful at the same time. Malcolm visits him diligently, like the good lad he is. He brings a notebook, writing down notes of certain conversations and topics his father brings up.

Malcolm blossoms into his teenage years before his eyes, and Martin is mesmerized.

The boy's bone structure is stunning, one perk of his mother. His skin is nearly flawless, only a few blemishes of youth dotting the area of his face. His lips fill out.

Though his eyes.. His eyes will always be Martin's favorite feature.

His eyes say so much, even when his guard is up. Every emotion, every thought. Martin can read him like a well loved book by then, is able to predict what his son will say just by the glimmer in his eye.

Which is why Martin is surprised he didn't catch on sooner. It isn't until Malcolm is writing incredibly fast one visit, his pen slips from his fingers.

And falls into Martin's cell. The boy looks horrified.

Martin bends in his chair, licking his lips and picking the pen up. Holding it out to his son. "Here you are, my dear boy."

"Th-thank you." Malcolm stutters out, still caught off guard by his own clumsiness. When he takes the pen back, their fingers brush and the boy shivers. Averting his gaze as a red flush spreads across his cheeks.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

Afterwards, he begins to push the boys boundaries every visit. A wink or two in a joking manner, smiling at him more and adding more nicknames into his speech.

Malcolm never disappoints, turning red and fumbling over his speech, his notes, his eyes not sure where to look.

Truly, his boy is so predictable.

Until the visits stop.

Initially, Martin is confused. They were making so much progress, Malcolm always seemed so bashful and content with their visits.

What changed?

Ah, the FBI. Malcolm had only mentioned it once, but Martin had gotten so heated over it that Malcolm had look genuinely scared for a moment. Perhaps that was why?

No, no, he argues with himself, that can't be it..

It's a long, gruelling decade, sulking in his cell. Thinking of his son as he ages, wondering what he's up to, how he has been.

Not directly influencing his boy puts Marttin on edge. He needs to see him.

Martin asks the guards to call him, ask why he hasn't been visiting. The only thing he gets back is a call from Jessica, saying that Malcolm doesn't want to see him anymore.

What good will that do him. He hasn't trusted the woman since the breastmilk incident.

So, he must wait. And wait. Until his beloved boy returns to him. Returns to where he belongs.

Malcolm is beautiful. That is all the Martin can think, even as his son pulls out the detective card and deliberately wounds him by calling him "Dr. Whitley."

Even as Malcolm goes on about a copycat, he cannot take his eyes off of him. Off of him and the door, exactly.

He doesn't want his precious boy to leave. He wants him to stay, stay with him forever, safe. Together.

Malcolm calls him out on it, and Martin can only express his surprise. Suddenly, the tables have turned. He cannot help but grin, agree to help him.

Even after he's left, Martin cannot stop smiling. He knows Malcolm will come back.

The boy does, of course. Just like Martin knew he would. Even just to gloat about a copycat behind bars, Malcolm is seeking his father's approval.

And his approval he has. Martin tries not to ogle so openly, but he feels starving, after not seeing the boy for so long.

It's like seeing a completely different person. But yet, Malcolm is aching familiar.

Martin stands as his son does, trying to convince him to come again.

"There's so much more I can teach you about murder.." He sounds casual, but inside he is bursting with psychotic glee. "Maybe we can solve a few.. Together."

Martin gives him son a heated look, his hands fidgeting with his cuffs. He watches Malcolm's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

Still so easy to manipulate, to mold to what he wants.

"Goodbye, Doctor Whitley." He gives his father a curt nod, his gaze lingering for too long to be anything but suggestive, and Martin's stomach twists pleasantly.

The door shuts behind him, and Martin breaks out into a smile.

"My dear boy.." He says to the empty room, still grinning.

Martin will see him soon. He is sure of it.

[buzzorhowl]

Britain. Fucked up. Mexico. Fucked up. France. Fucked up. Japan. Fucked up. Germany. Fucked up. Italy. Fucked up. Korea. Fucked up. Ruuussia. Fucked up. Red China. Fucked up. Cuba. Fucked up. 

it goes on an on. 

big ups to Thomas Mayhugh