Day 4: Strangled | Anxiety attack | No escape | “I wish I hadn’t stayed”
AN: I never recovered from this and now neither will you 😈
It’s taken all the time we wasted to shave off my waistline
Fandom: Heated Rivalry
Ship: Hollanov (Ilya x Shane)
Tags: angst, depression, post tuna melt scene drop, Ilya angst, smoking to cope and self harm, hurt/no comfort
“You gonna cum for me Rozanov?”
“Ah! Fucking make me Hollander.”
“Spit.”
Ilya does, and then the glide between their dicks is so much nicer he’s crying out, his head falling back as Shane pumps them faster. He's so close, so so close. “Fuck,” he warns, he can never last when Shane is touching him. “Shane!”
“Ilya…”
Ilya blacks out from the raw intensity of his orgasm. When he comes back to earth, he’s chuckling, pressing kisses into Shane’s mouth, his cheek. I love you Shane. I love you so much. It's practically bursting from his lips.
He wants to tell him. He feels ready. Now seems like as good a time as any. But he can’t find Shane’s eyes. And then the other man is moving away from him.
“I’m sorry… I- I have to go.”
Shane’s words drop on him like a bucket of ice water.
“Go?” Ilya is shattering inside. His heart feels strangled, his stomach kicked. What happened? What did I do wrong? I’m sorry Shane, please, please don’t leave. Maybe I shouldn't have asked him to stay? Maybe that's what ruined it all.
“Yeah, I forgot about a team meeting.”
“You forgot team meeting?” Shane’s lie is obvious, which is all the more insulting. Did he break a rule? Did he misinterpret something? Everything?
“Yeah, I, I'm sorry.”
“Hollander...” Please don’t go.
“Thank you, for the tuna melt. But I- have to go.”
“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, just to really send it home. See, things are normal, you don't have to leave. Please don't leave me Shane. Not like this. We can go back. This doesn’t have to be serious. It can be casual. Enemies hate sex or whatever you’ve been calling it that’s clearly so much different than how I interpreted the events.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, “I can't do this.”
And then he leaves.
Shane fucking leaves and he takes Ilya’s heart with him.
Ilya doesn't follow. In fact, he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch; eyes still locked on the hallway Shane left through. Like maybe, Shane will come to his senses halfway back to his hotel and come running back. Begging forgiveness. But that never happens. Not in the three hours Ilya sits there, catatonic.
When he’s finally given up all hope of Sh- Hollander returning, he walks into his bedroom, pulls out the hollowed-out Bible that holds his emergency cigarettes and stuffs one in his mouth.
He had cut down significantly since dating- hooking up with Hollander. But it wasn’t ‘serious.’ Just like he told Svetlana. And now that it's definitive he’s not coming back, Ilya doesn’t really see the need to not smoke them now.
So he does. One after another. All the way down to the filter until he’s finished the pack.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, only that it’s evening now. The sun set a while ago. His stomach begs for food. His head, muscles, and body beg for water. Instead, he showers and brushes his teeth to get the thick layer of tar off and then passes out on his couch.
He doesn’t miss practice. Even if he woke up this morning feeling like he was hit and then repeatedly run over by a tank. If he misses practice, things will be worse for him. He may not have Shane anymore, but he still has hockey. At least for a little while.
Two weeks later
Things have been up up up for the great Shane Hollander, hands twisted on every local news station with his newest lover, Rose Landry. Ilya feels sick every time he sees them together. It's not even just the jealousy of being picked over, but the fact that they can be out in ways he and Shane could never be. He could never hold Shane’s hand like that in public. Shane could barely handle him saying his first name in private…
Fuck.
He gets off the exercise bike in such a huff he stubs his toe.
He has cigarettes and vodka for dinner again.
“Fuck!”
“Hey, are you alright?”
-
Three weeks of treating his body like shit is starting to catch up with him, and he’s not the only one who notices.
“Mm. Course,” Ilya says, not even gracing his best friend of almost two decades with a glance.
“Ilya.”
“What?”
“Пожалуйста, не лги мне.” (Please don’t lie to me.)
Ilya finally looks at her, just for a second. She’s always been too observant for her own good.
“Tired,” he eventually yields, “And,” what’s an appropriate word? Hollow, empty, numb. “distracted.”
“Because of Jane?”
“No! Because I am lazy, mediocre player fucking it all up!”
“Who the fuck said that?”
Ilya shoots her a look. There are two people in his immediate circle who are constantly telling him that. She knows that.
“It’s not true,” she insists.
Ilya shrugs.
“Maybe it is.”
“Maybe, it's not.”
He wishes he could give her that. He really does… “Have you called him?”
“Who? Alexi?”
“Jane.”
His head snaps up from his phone, a sharp, painful anxiety building in his chest. How did she know? How long has she known? What does this mean? Will this change everything? He can’t lose her too.
She only gives him one of his favorite knowing smiles and squeezes his hand reassuringly.
Tears push their way down his face. He takes his hand back to wipe them.
“…He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“How do you know?”
Ilya has to force down a hateful scoff. It will sound like he is mad at her, which he isn't. He just can’t afford a second anxiety attack this week. He’s still mentally recovering from the first. But he knows. Oh, he fucking knows. Every time he opens his phone, email, or fucking social media, he’s smacked with the reminder he will never be good enough. No one will ever want him. Everyone he loves will eventually leave him.
He grabs his necklace subconsciously. He wishes he could talk to his mom.
“Ilya-”
Today's the first day his cigarettes-and-vodka diet finally catches up with him. He's in so much pain that he’s physically unable to get out of bed. Every time he attempts to stand, he is brought to the floor by a dizzying nausea threatening to spill his guts.
“Trust me,” he huffs, “I know.”
-
He has to call in sick. He gets screamed at by his coach for a good half hour, but he knew that was going to happen anyway.
He doesn't leave his bed. All week. He misses three practices altogether. His paycheck, personal stock, and ego take a massive hit. His father and brother haven't stopped calling to bitch him out. He wants to cry, but he can't spare the fluids.
On day 9, the news must have broken containment because he’s staring at the first text he’s gotten from ‘Jane’ in weeks.
[Are you okay?]
Ilya laughs hatefully at the text. Months have passed. Not one word. Not one text, email, call, or word through the grapevine. Ilya feels insulted that he bothered to text him now.
He fires off a,
[Fine.]
Before tossing his phone onto his bed and moving to the living room to sulk some more.
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Day 1: Shot | Runaway | Gagged | “Not like you care”
Ask me how did I let this get worse?
Fandom: White Collar
Ship: Peter x Neal
Tags: Sequel that can be read as standalone, Checkmate episode related, kidnapped & tortured, Angst and Tragedy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Neal Caffrey Whump
Content Warnings: Violence, sexual assault mention
It's another 14 hours, bound and gagged in the freezing darkness until he's found. And when he is, his body has finally given in to the exhaustion. He's still tied to the chair, but now it, and he, are on its side. Not a great long-term position, but Neal’s unconscious, floating somewhere between the delicate veil of life and death, so what does he care?
He's so far under that he doesn't hear the team burst through the doors of the abandoned cellar Keller locked him in. He doesn't feel Peter’s hands on his pale, clammy skin, searching desperately for a pulse. And he definitely doesn't process Peter’s beg to anyone who will listen, “No, no, no, NEAL! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! PLEASE!”
--
Neal is unconscious for another two days. None of his wounds are deep enough to need more than a few stitches, thankfully, but the whip Keller used cracked two of Neal’s ribs. But that's just the physical toll Peter can see. There’s no telling what kind of psychological Hell Neal’s been through.
There’s… other marks too. Ones the doctor brought to Peter’s attention, that made him violently ill to think about again. A set of matching bite marks, angry and dark purple in color, on both Neal’s throat and inner thigh. Peter didn't see those in any of the live streams, so they must have happened after Keller cut the camera.
‘You practically hand-delivered him to me, Burke…’ Keller's sadistic voice echoes through his ears hauntingly, only fueled on by his guilt. ‘He was ready to do anything to atone for hurting the ‘Great Peter Burke.’
Including giving himself over in exchange.
Every muscle in Peter’s body is tight. He has to mentally remind himself to unclench his jaw so his teeth don't crack.
Looking at the broken version of his partner, Peter makes a vow right now. He will burn Keller, and every son of a bitch in his network down, even if it's the last thing he does.
--
Neal finally wakes on the fourth day in the hospital.
“Peter? Is that, you?”
“Neal! Oh my god.”
“Am I dead,” the forger blinks, eyes still swollen but able to open almost all the way now.
“No, you’re not,” Peter exhales, grateful to hear his voice. See him moving. “Touch and go there for a while. But the doctor said you should make a full physical recovery-”
“Shit!” Neal shouts suddenly, sitting up and looking anxiously at Peter’s face. “Keller. I- Elizabeth. Peter, I swear, I don’t know where he is, but I will do anything-”
“Hey, hey, whoa, hang on,” Peter soothes gently, holding up one hand, “El is safe. She’s home, Diana’s with her.”
Neal swallows hard, looking at Peter’s face like maybe he isn’t sure he’s telling the truth or not.
“S-She is?”
“Yes,” Peter nods. “I promise.”
“Were you,” Neal starts, before obviously editing whatever he initially wanted to ask and following with, “um, the one who found me?
“Yeah,” Peter mutters quietly. Shaking off that horrible visual that has already taken up too much time in his nightmares. “With Mozzie’s help actually.”
Neal nods.
“Look… Peter. I don’t know where Keller is. I spent most of the time blindfolded. I won’t be useful to you.”
“What?”
“If you let him take the treasure, he won’t have any more use for me. You won’t be able to use me to get it back.”
“Neal,” Peter gasps, a little exasperated, “I don’t fucking care about Keller right now, I care about you!”
Now it's time for Neal to mirror his exasperation.
“Are you sure about that?”
And here it is. The make-or-break moment. Peter can either admit what they are, what they’ve been doing for months in stolen moments in the dark, or he can bail, like Neal obviously expects him to.
“Neal...”
“It's fine Peter, I get it,” he scoffs, voice tight and full of resent. “But I don’t need you here, watching me. They got staff for that. Besides,” he pulls his leg out, where a new monitor has already been installed while he was unconscious. “Not like you won’t be able to find me.”
“Are you kicking me out?”
“Is there any legitimate reason for you to stay?”
“I have- a few follow-up questions.”
“As my friend or as a cop?”
“Both.”
“Fine,” Neal grumps, “Such as?”
“Did he…” Peter trails off, looking sick.
“Did he what Peter!” Neal snaps. All patience eroded.
“Sexually assault you?”
Neal scoffs.
“No. But right now I kinda wish he did.”
“What!” Peter’s eyes double in size. “Why- why would you say something like that?”
“Because then you wouldn’t be looking at me like that!”
“Like what?”
“Like exactly how you’re looking at me!”
“I just, help me understand.”
“Oh Jesus Christ, Peter don’t you get it? I was with Keller. For years, before our paths even crossed!”
“Together like?”
“You know like how Peter.”
An uncomfortable moment passes as Peter puts together all the pieces. He feels sick.
“...”
“...I needed him to let go of Elizabeth.”
“So you offered yourself up in exchange!”
Neal shrugs.
“Worked, didn't it?”
“Look what it cost Neal!”
“Yeah, so?”
“What?!”
“I should be asking you that! I mean, why do you even care, Peter? Your right hook sure sent a clear message! I mean I ‘stole’ the treasure right? I'm the reason El got taken! Only right I bear the consequences of that!
“I thought you didn't steal it.”
“Of course I didn't fucking steal it Peter! Mozz did! So we could leave, as soon as you figured out why it will never work between us!”
“Don’t, don’t do this.”
“I’m right, Peter. And you know it.”
“Neal.”
“I need you to leave.”
“Don’t, please don’t kick me out.”
“Go home Peter. To your wife.”
--
Against all better judgment and the knots in his stomach, Peter leaves. Reassured by the hospital staff if there are any changes to Neal's discharge date, they will let him know.
At 3:42 AM the next morning, Peter gets the phone call.
Neal cut his tracker and ran away.
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Day 6: Improvised blade | Blame | Sabotage | “Who told you that?”
It's not good enough for me, since I've been with you
Fandom: Queer as folk
Ship: Britan Break up, Michael & Brian Break up
Tags: Post 'Brian/Mikey Show' fight, S5, Brian Kinney whump, angst, self harm, cutting, blood, depression, relapse, hurt no comfort
Brian stares at the door Justin just walked out of for almost an hour.
He left. Even after he promised he wouldn't.
Brian wants to walk out after him. But he knows, he won't be able to give Justin what he wants. Not really. Because if he does, he will become something he's not. And then Justin will only leave him again.
"FUCK!"
-
As he stumbles out of the stepford fags new home, he has the realization he may not be handling his breakup with Justin as well as he thought. Especially if he's fucked up enough to scream hateful remarks at his supposed best friend and his husband, knowing full well his ex is right upstairs. But he's hurting. And when he hurts, he handles it the only way he knows how. Viciously.
Usually, a raised voice is all it takes to get Mikey back under his thumb. But since his sexual suicide with the professor, he's replaced his dick with a spine.
“He didn't leave because I infected him! He left because of you! Who wouldn’t!”
It's the harshest thing Mikey’s ever said to him. But tragically, it isn’t untrue. Brian is to blame for Justin leaving. Of course he is.
-
As soon as he gets home, he has a bump, two joints, and a nauseating amount of cigarettes. By the time he makes it to the bathroom to puke, he’s nearly falling over. He barely catches himself on the sink, panting as the room spins.
When he finally meets himself in the mirror, the decision is made. His fist flies into the bathroom vanity.
Shards rain into the sink, onto the counter, the floor, and across his feet. There's probably about a hundred microscopic fracktles in his knuckles, and it still hurts less than the last 48 hours. He digs numbly through the pile of shards before pulling out a thin piece. He rotates it around in his hand a few times, considering.
Brian hasn't hurt himself externally since he was 11. His supreme vanity forced that particular urge inside after he hit puberty and started turning heads. First with smoking, then with drinking, and a number of recreational substances. But now, after Brandon's rejection marked the beginning of the end of his reign as King, and- Justin. What and who the fuck was he keeping a perfect body around for?
When he can’t convince himself of a reason why not, he pulls off his pants, lines up the jagged end of the improvised blade with his hip, and drags it across the thin skin. Blood beads to the surface and spills down his thigh; a few drops land on the floor. He can't stop looking at the blood. He feels almost hypnotized by it. Enough he’s pulling the blade across again, adding a second line underneath.
The heavy tension he's been holding in his chest rolls down and away with the blood. It's the best he’s felt in too long. So he adds four more.
-
No one’s heard from Brian in over a week. But with the obsession of Proposition 14, Drew Boyd being outed, and everyone in their group either taking Justin or Michael's side, for the first time in his entire life, it's almost too easy for him to fade into the background. The only person who knows he’s really just hiding out at home is Cynthia. But she’s worked with him long enough to cover his ass for a week, and Theodore can handle Babylon now that it's restored to its former glory.
-
Two weeks later: Liberty Gym
“Brian.”
“You lost?” Brian’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. Evidently, Michael has decided to finally break his self-imposed silence. He ignores his former best friend and pushes through another set.
Michael just crosses his arms over his chest, unamused. Brian rolls his eyes. “This is where the faggots work out, the imitation heterosexual section-”
“Are you hurting yourself again?”
Brian only blinks. Poker face perfected after 29(33) years.
“Who told you that? Rosencrantz or Guildenstern?” One of them must have seen the marks while he was changing. Or in the backroom. That's the only explanation. Everyone is still avoiding him like the plague.
“Why, is it true?”
“Does it matter? Besides, I thought I wasn't a part of your daily concern.”
“You are if you're doing this shit again.”
“Oh, I see,” Brian laughs, hateful and horrifyingly vulnerable, “so your love is conditional too?”
Michael’s mouth drops open. Brian waits for him to rebut it. He doesn’t.
Brian rolls his eyes. He knew he should have just stayed at home to work out. “Fuck off, Michael. The Brian and Mikey show is over. Remember?”
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Day 26: Serrated knife | Hallucinations | House fire | “Do you think I deserve this?”
I miss you heavy, I wish you’d let me, please don’t forget me, you had everything I lack
Chapter 2: All my outfits are stained in red, take your pain hurt myself instead
Tags: Post S2 finale, a loustat reunion-but at what cost, lestat whump
Preview:
Lestat floats to his auxiliary home in Algiers with barely enough energy to make it over the threshold. It doesn’t matter, he isn’t planning on leaving his coffin until next Thursday. Plenty of time to lament and rot until he saw the human next.
“Hello Lestat.”
The blonde vampire straightens up frightenedly. He must truly be out of it if he didn't hear, smell, or feel Louis’ presence in his home, let alone the state.
In many ways, he’s frustrated by it. Of course Louis would only come back now, when he’s at his lowest, ugliest, and most vulnerable. In all honesty, he really can’t handle their shit on top of tonight’s events.
Day 11: Lashes | Running on fumes | Infected wound | “This is for your own good”
Tell that mick he just made my list of things to do today
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Ship: conphy, connor x murphy
Warnings: Past child abuse, self harm
Tags: mentions of past child abuse, scars, kissing on a dare, burns, incest, religious guilt, connor and murphy are in love with each other and don't know what to do about it
It started as a dare.
A stupid, drunk dare from Rocco after they had one, two, three too many at McGintys.
It's into the wee hours of the morning, its really just the three of them; himself, Murph, and Rocco, the Doc, and a few regulars that have long since passed out in their booths. Connor’s really dragged this out, but he couldn’t risk doing this dare with an audience. Not if they both wanted to live to see tomorrow. Connor and Roc, that is.
“Tick tock Connor,” Rocco reminds, grinning like the smug asshole he is. And yeah, Connor could forfeit the dare; But then he’d be out $300 and he had already planned on spending that money on art supplies, beer, and maybe something warm for Murph for their birthday next week.
He doesn’t know why he's being so weird about it. It's just a dare. One the trio likely won't even remember come the morning.
He just has to do it. Get it over with. Here we go.
He stalls for another half hour.
Doc announces a half after 3, he wants to go to bed, ‘so this will have to be the last round boys.’
Rocco sends him a wink. It's put up or shut up time.
“So I'm thinking of buying a new couch with that 300,” Roc teases with a shit-eating grin.
Connor grits his teeth and scowls at their newest American friend. He wonders if smugness is a continental trait or just Roc.
“Alright,” he growls, slamming down one more shot. Here goes nothing.
He waits until Doc leaves for the backroom, does another scan of the bar just to make absolutely sure no one else will see, and then, “Hey Murph?”
“Yeah,” his twin smiles, drunk and a little sleepy but always one to answer Connor when he calls.
A fact he exploits maybe a little too often if Roc is picking up on it.
Instead of saying anything further, Connor just leans in closer.
Murphy moves automatically, pulling towards him like a magnet. Of course he does. He has no reason to suspect anything foul at play. A brief hint of a bad feeling settles in Connor’s gut, and then he’s wrapping his hand around the back of Murphy’s head, pulling their lips together in a clumsy kiss.
Connor expects Murphy to freak out. He expects Murphy to shove him off, shout, push, pull, claw, and pin him down until he can punch his teeth in. He even expects Murphy to double down, deepen the kiss, and climb into his lap or something to make Connor so uncomfortable that he ends up the butt of the prank.
But Murphy doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he melts the moment their lips touch. Gasping so fucking quietly in desperation Connor hopes its only heard by them. And then he yanks Connor forward, kissing him deeper, holding him so tenderly like this, him, them, is all he’s ever wanted.
Connor's heart bursts out into a panicked sprint, but before he can really enjoy, overthink, or even beg for more of the kiss, he’s being shoved back into his barstool.
Connor opens his mouth to question it, but Doc is walking back into the bar that next minute, answering it for him.
Rocco is hemming and hawing like the fuckin’ asshole he is and all Connor wants is to pay their tab and get the hell out of here.
“No, no Con, after that, I got it,” Roc says between laughs and now that Connor doesn’t need to be here, he’s out, eyes scanning the rest of the bar for his brother who is suspiciously already absent.
-
Connor finds his brother back at the apartment.
“Hey, Murph, I’m sorry, that was just a-”
But he doesn’t finish what he was saying, because the second the door closes behind Murphy is on him, biting into his lower lip and pushing his tongue deep into his mouth.
Connor's caught off guard and still more than a little drunk, and when he drinks, he gets horny. Enough to not push off Murphy's warm hands that are snaking their way into his jeans.
He groans and lets his brother touch, his lust and alcohol fogged brain unable to think of a reason for this to stop. But something else can.
The second Murphy’s hands get near his ass, his scars, the shrill, hateful voice of their ma begins screaming in his ears. Her vicious sneer of ‘this is for yer own good,’ as he wailed; crimson rings of the stove searing their permanent penance into his flesh. ‘I want ye to remember this,’ she threatened, ‘This is what waits for ye if ye do that again!’
Even decades later, those scars still burn. From the night she found them naked and wrapped up together in Connor’s bed and came to the wrong conclusion.
But then again, he’s still kissing Murphy, his twin, so maybe she had been onto something all along.
“Hey, hey, stop.”
“What?” Murphy chuckles, looking over Connor’s face curiously. “How come?”
“Murph, we can’t.”
Murphy's previous smile fades, rejection plain as the moles on his face and neck.
“Huh?”
“We can't do this.”
“But- You kissed me first!”
“As a dare! From Roc!”
“What?” And now his brother looks affronted, embarrassed, betrayed. “Why! Were you two talking shit about me? Making fun!”
“No! A’ course not Murph!”
“Then what the fuck Connor!”
“Look,” he pants desperately trying to get a hold of the situation and failing dismally. “We’re drunk, let's just go to bed, and we can talk about it in the morning.”
“Sure we fuckin’ will.”
“I mean it, Murph.”
“No, ye fuckin’ don’t.”
-
And maybe Murph was right. Because sober him could not cash the check drunk him wrote. He just wants to forget the whole night, but Murphy was on him the moment the sun rose.
“We gotta talk.”
“No we don’t.”
“Connor…”
“Murphy.”
Murphy looks like he wants to say something, but then he’s discarding it, leaning forward to connect their lips instead.
In the sober light of day, Connor can’t allow it.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Ye know why.”
“Ye had no problem kissing me last night!”
“I told ye, Roc dared-
“Why did he dare ye, Conn?”
“Huh?”
“He could have picked anything. Why did he pick that?”
Now Connor’s the one who feels embarrassed. Defensive.
“I don’t fuckin’ know Murph! Ask him!”
“I think ye do.”
“Fuck off dickhead.”
“Connor,” his twin frowns. “Talk to me. Please.”
He wants to. Fuck, does he want to. But he can’t. Not about this.
“I- I can’t.”
“Since when huh? Did I do something?”
“Murph, no. It’s never been you.” It’s always been me. I’m the fucked up twin.
“Then what is it?”
Connor hates this. He hates keeping things from Murphy. He’s never kept a thing from him. But this, was a hell of a secret.
Murphy takes his silence as further rejection. He pulls away from Connor altogether, long arms wrapping around himself in a self-conscious anxiety. “Why- Why don’t ye want me anymore? What did I do?”
And fuck. Murphy might as well be cutting out his heart with a butter knife with that look. His face is so sad. Connor wants to move oceans to bring his sunshiney Murphy back.
“Nothin’ Murph, please, ye have to believe me. I just can’t.”
“Yes ye can. And I know ye want to.”
He’s painfully right about that.
“Aye, I do Murph,” he admits, “more than anything. Look.” He pulls his hand out of his sweatshirt which hasn’t stopped trembling since Roc made that stupid dare. “I want to touch ye so bad.”
“Then do it,” Murphy pushes, removing all space between them until he’s practically in Connor’s lap. “Touch me.”
“Murph...”
“Please,” his twin begs; breathy, needy, and beautiful. “I want it. Ye want it.”
“Murphy,” he croaks, gripping his twins sharp hipbone hard. He’s so close to breaking. He won’t last much longer. “Please.”
“I will if ye tell me why.”
Connor opens his mouth to answer but the words die in his throat.
Murphy takes the opportuinty to dip his tongue back into Connor’s mouth. He tastes like heaven. Connor’s eyes shut in defeat. He can’t think anymore, his lips are moving of their own volition. Murphy’s hand pushes up his shirt, which is stuck to his clammy skin with cold sweat. The garment is dropped on the floor, quickly forgotten. Murphy's lips kiss across his bare shoulder. The truth is bursting at the seams.
“Fuck.” Connor’s panting like he ran a marathon. The screaming in his head has only gotten louder since their skin first made contact. He’s only a man. A weak one at that. He can only take so much. Lord, forgive me. “Fuuck.”
“I want to fuck you,” Murphy groans, biting his lower lip. “So bad.”
“Aye,” Connor moans. He can’t deny it any more. But he can’t let Murphy see. Not without, explaining. “I- I gotta show ye something,” Connor finally admits, his defensive walls a pile of rubble. “But ye have to promise not to freak out.”
-
Murphy doesn't say anything for the first time all morning. He hates it more than Ma’s screaming.
“Who did that to you?”
“Murph-” he starts, pulling his pants back up. “I-”
“WHO DID THAT TO YOU!”
Murphy’s demand is bloodthirsty. Normally, Connor would be flattered by his white knighting. But the answer is complicated. His back is still to Murph. He can’t face his brother when he admits,
“...Ma.”
“What?” Murphy squeaks. Probably sure he misheard Connor. He didn't.
Connor nods sadly.
“When?”
Connor scratches the side of his face, finally turning around.
“Remember fuigheall dinner?”
Murphy frowns and grabs his stomach at the visceral memory.
“Ugh, with the spoiled lamb we thought we could cook the bacteria out of?”
“Aye,” Connor chuckles. It truly was rancid. But they were 9. They were lucky they didn't set the house on fire with that catastrophe of a dish. “Ye uh, remember afterwards?”
“I remember throwing up all night,” his twin recounts, “I remember giving up on clothes because every time I changed, I heaved again. I remember being fuckin’ exhausted.”
“Aye, we both were,” Connor nods. He leaves out the part about how he had been so terrified he had poisoned his brother, he spent every next moment praying to God this wasn’t his penance for his unholy desires. Forced to watch his other half die in slow motion.
“Connor?”
Connor blinked. Evidently, he had trailed off and not noticed. “Um, I, I uh eventually told ye not to bother gettin’ dressed again. Ye couldn’t stop puking, Ma was already gonna be pissed ye got sick on so much laundry. I helped ye into my bed. That’s, where she found us.”
Murphy's brows scrunch in confusion before his eyes widen in sudden understanding. His mouth opens in horror, and tears line his eyes.
“No.”
Connor can’t look at him. His eyes fall on the floor.
“Yeah…”
The next moment, the air is being forced from his lungs as Murphy’s body collides with his. He's hugging Connor tighter than he ever has. Several bones crack and he’s fully out of oxygen, but it’s the most put-together he’s felt in years. He wraps his arms around his twins back, tears of his own staining his face.
They stay like that for a few moments. Connor appreciates that Murphy doesn’t barrage him with follow up questions.
“We didn't do nothin’ wrong, ya know.”
Connor can’t help but scoff. Yeah, maybe back then. But every dirty thought and fantasy Connor’s had about his brother since is on him.
“It’s okay Murph,” he concedes hollowly. I deserved it.
“No. Ye didn't deserve it Conn. Not for one second.”
Connor wishes he could believe that. But he knows where he’s going after he dies. He made peace with that a long time ago. But one thing he will not do, under any circumstances, is drag his brother into Hell with him.
-
The pair take a little space from eachother after Connor’s traumatic confession.
Connor was feeling extremely vulnerable after and Murphy was still processing the realization about who their mother was, and what she was capable of.
Connor’s about to give up on the day and crawl back into bed when he smells it. A very distinct combination of burning hair and skin he could never forget, even at his most blacked out. A forced-quiet sound of distress follows and Connor is up and moving, rushing through the apartment until he reaches the kitchen.
“NO! MURPH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YE DOING?!”
Connor rushes to tackle/lift his brother’s naked ass off the lit stove. Tragically, he loses his footing in his hurry and falls back-first onto the ground.
Murphy is crying on top of him, face twisted up in obvious discomfort from the burns. “Murph!” Connor gasps, not realizing he was crying too, “Why would ye fuckin’ do that!!”
Murphy sniffs quietly, burying his face further into Connor’s neck. Clearly still in agony but not sorry about it as long as he can recover exactly where he is. “Hey, hey,” Connor eases up, “I ain’t mad at ya, just, what we’re ye doing?”
His hands curl into Connor’s shirt, seeking comfort in his arms after his self-inflicted injury.
“You’re no more guilty of the sin than I am.”
“Murphy, no.” Connor feels sick. After everything, he’s cursed him anyway. “No. Fucking shite.”
Murphy only hugs him closer.
“Conn, it’s really okay.”
Okay? How could it possibly be okay? He’s cursed him, and now he’s hurt! All because of Connor.
“I-”
“Now we match again,” Murphy hums, almost peacefully.
“Aye,” Connor nods, swallowing his growing guilt down. He holds Murphy closer anyway.
“I love ye Connor. I always have. Wherever you go, I’m going too.”
All my AITCM & whumptober fics * AITCM Event * Sinful Sunday
Fandom: Supernatural
Ship: Wincest
Tags: Previous sex worker!Dean, Wincest, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, additional angst to an already tragic set of consequences for the Winchester brothers, sequel fic but can be read as a one-shot, the Winchesters are homoerotically codependent on one another
Preview:
For the record, Dean hated, hated that it had come to this.
To driving over 600 miles across the country to pay a visit to the one person he knew better than to bother with this shit. But John had been on a trip for over a month now, and Dean hadn't heard a peep. Not one phone call, text, postcard, letter, or email. Not even a word of mouth message through Bobby. Jack shit. And that scared the hell out of Dean. Because that much quiet usually meant casualties, and a lot of them.
Despite everything John had put him through, and it had been more than any kid deserved, Dean still felt obligated to check up on him. Even if he was a complete and utter bastard, he was all the family Dean had left. Minus Sammy.
It took hours, days actually, to work up the courage to call Sam. But this was an emergency. Sam had to know he wouldn't contact him unless it was an emergency. Right?
When the line rang and rang and rang until it disconnected, that was all the convincing Dean needed before yanking the wheel left and U-turning the car west to start the long, long drive to California.
this one took on a mind of its own! i hope you like it!
“NOWHERE LEFT TO RUN BABY BOY!"
“Is that a threat?”
“Can be, if you need it to be.”
Eddie rolls his eyes irritably.
“What are you doing here Billy?”
“Looking for you.”
“Well, you found me, what do you want?”
“A blow job.”
“Dude, for real? Fuck you!”
“Alright,” Billy yeilds, hoping out of his car and closing the door. “Steve sent me.”
“Harrington?”
“You know any other Steve’s?”
“What’s he want?”
“He’s worried about you.”
“Why?”
“You haven't been at school all week Eds.”
Oh. That.
“You knew where I was.”
“Yeah, but I dont know why.”
“I-”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Come onnn, since when do you keep shit from me? Secrets and blow jobs is our whole thing!”
Eddie cant help it, he laughs. It's finally enough to bring him out of his self imposed funk.
“Chrissy’s pregnant.”
“What?!”
“Yeah… ‘ts mine. Well, was, mine. She uh,” he trails off. He can’t say it. “We’re too young to be parents.”
“Holy shit man,” Billy sighs, taking a spot next to his newest friend and handing over a cigarette.
“Thanks,” Eddie hums, taking one and smoking it all the way down before speaking again. “You want kids?”
“Fuck no,” Billy answers too quickly, before realizing how shitty that probably sounded given the current context. “Don’t think I'd be able to get it up to make one.”
“True,” Eddie snorts, pulling a joint out of his pocket before handing it over to Billy.
“Whoa, you’ve been holding out on me!”
“Wasn’t sure if I’d be smoking in celebration or,”
“Maybe it doesnt have to be either of those. Maybe it can just be getting high, with your favorite faggot.”
Eddie laughs again, shouldering Billy lightly.
“Thanks man.”
“For what?”
“You know for what.”
Billy winks before lighting the joint, taking a hit and holding it in his lungs.
“Come here.”
Eddie moves easily, connecting their lips and opening his mouth for the hit. Billy shotguns the smoke, his other hand wrapping around Eddie’s hip and squeezing hard, grounding him to the moment. Eddie almost starts crying; he didn't realize how much he needed that.
He exhales the smoke between them, letting the rest of the week go with it. At least as much as he can. He bumps their foreheads together, forever grateful for their alliance.
“Love you.”
“I know Eds, you too.”
I LOVE chrissy cunningham and I will FIGHT anyone who besmirches her name!
Day 10: Swaying | Body modification | Abusive Partner | “I don’t think you realize how little I care”
I thought this was forever love
Fandom: White Collar
Ships: Neal/Keller, Neal/Kate
Warnings: Branding, domestic abuse
Tags: Domestic Violence/Emotional Manipulation, Body Modification, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Neal Caffrey Needs a Hug
“So?” Kate blinks, unimpressed.
“So?” Neal scoffs, looking down at the tattoo of Kate’s name he just got tattooed over his heart. “I got it for you!”
“A shitty little tattoo that couldn't have cost more than $100? Is that all I’m worth to you!?”
“No, of course not!”
“You know what, I’m staying with Jane for the night. Don’t call.”
“Kate! Come on, please! Can we at least talk about this! I-I love you!"
“I don't think you realize how little I care, Neal! Goodbye.”
-
Neal stares at the door Kate just walked out of. His heart bleeding worse than the new tattoo.
He doesn’t remember how he got to Keller's place; he got so drunk he must have arrived on muscle memory alone. When he arrives, he’s swaying uneasily in the doorway.
“What do you want, Neal?”
Keller is less than thrilled to see him. No surprise there. Seems to be the theme of the night.
“She,” Neal sniffles sadly, resting his head on the doorframe. “She didn't like it.”
“I told you she wouldn’t,” Keller drawls boredly.
“I know,” Neal sniffs. “Still, I-”
“Get inside.”
-
As soon as the door closes, Keller is on him, kissing him roughly; probing tongue dominating his mouth and blunt teeth biting hard into his lips if Neal tried to do anything but submit.
Neal doesnt mind. His head is a mess of static. He needs something tactile to pull him back down into his body.
“Make me forget.”
“You belong to someone else,” Keller tisks, pushing his finger into Neal's fresh tattoo. “Remember?"
“Please,” Neal winces, falling to his knees and dropping his chin to his chest. “Make me forget.”
“You'll let me mark you?”
Neal's eyes remain on the floor but he nods.
Keller smirks cynically. “I know just the spot.”
-
Neal waits on his knees, shirtless and anxious. Kate doesnt want him anymore. Despite her promising him forever. She isn’t coming back. He needs to forget her. Keller will help with that. He said he would.
“Look at me, Neal.”
He does. In Keller’s hand is his brand: a long steel rod with a script, letter K at the end. One he had custom-made for exactly this occasion. A promise of lifetime dedication. Partnership. Everything he wanted with Kate but she didn't want with him.
Red-hot metal pushes into the skin Neal just got tattooed. Searing pain claims ownership over his heart. An accurate metaphor for his longstanding relationship with Matthew Keller.
“You’re mine now, Neal.”
Neal lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.
“Yes,” Neal gasps, relief washing off his shoulders. “Thank you.”
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