And-we-shake-the-iron-hand - And We Shake The Iron Hand

If my ocs were real and I walked into a room with all of them I'd immediately get jumped

We’ve all seen the ‘after being tortured whumpee has an absurdly high pain tolerance and caretaker has to ask them why they haven’t moved their hand away from the burning stove etc etc’ and while I do love that trope I raise you:

Whumpee who after being tortured becomes hypersensitive to pain, to the point where stubbing their toe or burning their mouth on hot food or the pressure of their bandages against their wounds is enough to send them spiraling into flashbacks and convince them that caretaker is just another whumper with more creative methods

Hello! Would you be willing to write about someone who finds out that their roommate and childhood best friend is actually some kind of supernatural creature? Preferably m/m but its okay if you’d like to change the genders.

Have a nice day!!!

"You're...uh...wow."

Maybe Holden should be horrified, but all he could really do was stare, dumbly entranced. The staring wasn't that different to normal, if he was going to be really horribly honest with himself.

But Atlas also wasn't normally crouched near stark-bollocks naked in the middle of their dorm room. He didn’t normally have dark, gorgeous wings unfurling from his back. He didn’t normally stare at Holden with eyes that had gone from blue to literally black too. Hungry. Heated.

Holden hastily shut the door behind him before someone else on the floor saw.

"Are you, uh, okay, man?"

His best friend was, very clearly, not okay. His gaze tracked every small movement that Holden made.

"You," Atlas growled through his teeth. "Are not supposed to be here."

"Right. Yeah. Uh. My class was—" Holden lost his trail of thought as he continued to stare. "God,” he said, a little dizzy, “you look incredible."

Five-year old Atlas had been funny and brave. Nineteen-year old Atlas also had the absolute gall to be stunning on top of that. It was, frankly, terrible on a night out. On his own, Holden did okay. When he was standing next to Atlas though, more and more as the years passed by, he may as well have been a potato. He couldn't even hold it against anyone. He did enough trying not to stare himself.

But...he definitely hadn't noticed the wings before. He would have noticed wings, right? Even with that smile and those cheekbones to distract.

He realised, dazedly, that he'd drifted closer. One step, two step, three, until he was standing right over Atlas. Close enough to touch.

"Get out." Atlas sounded strained. "Now." His fingers – his claws – dug into the threadbare carpet.

Holden wanted to run his fingers through Atlas's blond hair. He wanted to kiss his parted lips, the line of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his throat. He wanted to touch every inch of Atlas that he could. He wanted Atlas's hands on him, sure and just as smitten as Holden had been for years, and he'd do anything, offer anything if—

"Holden."

The sharp snap of his name cleared Holden's mind a little. He shook his head and backed up. "Sorry. I—"

What the hell was he doing? Heat rose to his cheeks, mortified.

There were a lot of reactions one could have to seeing their best friend suddenly sprout wings, but Holden was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to just drool over his roommate like some kind of neanderthal. He'd done such a good job of not letting his stupid feelings impact their stupid friendship until stupid now too.

It wasn't like he'd never caught a glimpse of Atlas without his clothes before. It had never made him like – he would never have – but would it be so bad if he just—?

No. Something was definitely wrong.

Holden whirled around, heading back for the door. He'd opened it only a crack when Atlas's hand slammed down on it, shutting it again. The lock clicked as Atlas bracketed him with an arm on either side. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close enough that he could feel the heat of Atlas against his back.

He hadn't even heard Atlas move. His breath hitched.

Atlas groaned. He let his head thunk against the door, above Holden's left shoulder, as he drew in ragged gasps.

Holden heard him swearing and muttering under his breaths. He caught a few words that’s sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody scheming bastard vampires’ and a much more familiar ‘shitshitshit’.

Up close, Atlas’s new cologne was…was it cologne? Holden’s head felt cloudy again. He dug his nails into his palms, desperately shoving down the truly ridiculous urge to turn around and kiss Atlas immediately.

“What the hell is happening?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You have wings. You have – I feel –”

“You’re supposed to be in class for the next three hours!”

“My class was cancelled,” Holden said. “Some last minute—”

Atlas caught hold of his hips, spinning him as if it was absolutely nothing, pressing him back against the door.

The bit of Holden’s brain that wasn’t too busy with oh, yes please reminded him that Atlas was not that bloody strong. He should not be able to do that. He always skipped the gym when Holden went, despite looking like that.

“What are you?” The obvious question finally penetrated the fog.

Atlas’s attention lingered on his lips, seeming…distracted.

“Incubus,” he murmured. He’d always had a nice voice, but in that moment, that word, it was like caramel. Sweet on Holden’s senses. “God, you’re pretty. Sharing a room was a terrible idea.”

It took a second for the actual response to register, let alone the rest.

Incubus.

“What?” Holden yelped.

It was all some elaborate joke.

(Atlas didn’t do pranks.)

It was impossible.

(Those wings looked very real, no matter how impossible they were.)

How had it taken 14 years for him to notice his best friend was an incubus?

(Did that mean he didn’t really have a crush on his best friend? It was just – what he was?)

Atlas’s fingers grazed just slightly beneath Holden’s jumper, blazing hot against the skin above his hips.

Holden asked no coherent questions whatsoever. He didn’t even manage an incoherent word. Every reasonable thing he should have been considering vanished in a haze.

His best friend was an incubus? Sure! Whatever. Nothing mattered except the fact that there was really far too much distance between them. Atlas’s mouth was right there and – Holden couldn’t have said which of them initiated the kiss, but it was ravenous and he was putty against the door. Head empty. All need and greed and wanting. He finally got to tangle his fingers into Atlas’s always annoyingly perfect hair and –

The lock clicked.

Faster than Holden could fully comprehend, the door was open and Atlas had bodily shoved him into the corridor. He landed sprawling and ungraceful on his butt.

He had a second to peer up, bewildered, at the look of absolute raw desire on Atlas’s face before the door slammed shut. The lock clicked again.

The texts pinged on his phone a moment later.

Don’t come back until I say so.

Will explain later.

Sorry.

Well, crap.

Holden pressed a hand to his mouth, catching his breath and his sanity with Atlas out of view. Then he went to the uni library to research everything he could about incubi.

By the time Atlas texted him that evening, he was ready.

kudos to writers with dialogue-heavy works, I got mad respect for y'all. love using dialogue as a tool, but my default settings are non-verbal (dialogue) and non-stop yapping (description).

The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The bar has no name anymore—just a fizzing strip of neon clinging to a rusted beam above the door. Inside, the red light pulses like a hammer, and the air is thick with oil, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood on iron.

Bok sits at the edge of the bar. One foot hooks around the stool leg, anchoring him. His other boot taps lightly against the floor, in rhythm with the bass that shakes the walls.

His glass is half-empty. The liquor is acrid and sharp, coating his throat like engine fuel.

A man drops onto the stool beside him. Loud jacket, richer than the rest of the room. A slick grin follows.

“You working tonight?” the man asks, voice pitched low.

Bok doesn’t answer. Just lifts the glass to his lips, sips.

The man leans in closer. “You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

Fingers trail up Bok’s thigh, casual. Bok stiffens. The glass in his hand trembles. He shifts his weight, the stool wobbling slightly beneath him.

The man chuckles. “You shy, sweetheart?”

What was meant as a term of endearment lands like a blow.

The man reaches up, runs his fingers through Bok’s damp hair. His hand tightens—bunching it in his fist.

Bok exhales slow through his nose. His knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Come on,” the man murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell his cologne. “I know what you are.”

Bok stands suddenly, too fast. The stool scrapes loud across the floor. The man grabs him by the back of the neck this time, tries to yank him near—but Bok spins, shoving him off-balance. He stumbles into the bar, curses sharp.

A fist flies. Bok ducks. His palm hits the counter for leverage. Light hair falls into his eyes—he shoves it back with slick fingers, knuckles at the ready.

The man lunges again. Bok pivots low and slams his elbow into the dude's ribs. The sound is wet, guttural. The guy staggers, then roars and swings—

This time it connects. Bok’s jaw snaps sideways with the force. Pain explodes down his neck. Ink spatters across the bar.

People are shouting now. Moving back. Watching.

Bok wipes his mouth, black smearing across his palm. His chest heaves. He steps forward—gets in one good hit, right to the man’s throat.

Then they’re grappling—hands, fists, elbows. The man claws at him, snarling. Bok’s hair is grabbed again, yanked hard. His body slams into the bar, ribs cracking against the edge.

He tastes salt and metal. His ears ring. And still, his body moves.

He’s not trying to lose.

Bouncers shove through the crowd. One grabs the guy. Another seizes Bok, jerking him backwards. Bok tries to loosen himself, but they’re already hauling him.

"Out."

The door opens. The city screams.

And then they throw him.

He hits wet concrete with a grunt, shoulder flaring white-hot with pain. The door slams. The music vanishes like a heartbeat cut short.

He lies there for a moment. Breathing.

Rain spatters down, cold and biting. Night blooms in slow spirals around his knuckles, washed away by gutter runoff.

His chest rises, falls. Again.

I almost let him.

His jaw tightens. Teeth grind.

A tremor takes him, small and violent. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ink and water run down his arms.

He stays like that, hunched and shaking, for a long time.

No one stops.

The city keeps moving.

¶¶¶¶

Hal stares at the ceiling of the room where they keep him.

Fluorescent light hums, flickering at irregular intervals beneath the sparkling chandelier.

His wrists are cuffed to the chair again, tighter this time. His ribs throb under soaked bandages. Each breath pulls at the place where flesh tried to close around pain.

Ricky is already there, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a friend. A file folder sits open on the table—thick, heavy, bloated with things Hal already knows.

“You were one of ours, Hawkins,” Ricky says at last, tapping a photo with two fingers. “Senior clearance. Protocol Valparaíso access. You wrote part of the legislation that governs automaton integration.”

Hal doesn’t speak.

“You knew the regulations,” Ricky continues. “You helped draft the punishments. You were the one who suggested neural tagging in the first place.”

A long pause. Ricky walks around the table, slow.

“And then you go off-grid, shack up with one. A freelance nomadroid. Unmarked. Off-record. Illegal.”

Hal raises his eyes. They’re dry, exhausted. “He wasn’t—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, voice sharp. “He wasn’t just a droid. You’re right. That’s what makes this worse.”

He drops another photo. This one is of a disassembled model. Wiring exposed. Liquid black pooled around the table where the skull used to be.

Hal flinches. Just slightly.

Ricky leans down, smile thin. “You know what happens if this goes public, right? If your involvement leaks?”

Silence.

“Your clearance. Gone. Your name. Smeared. Pensions, benefits, citizenship? Stripped. Your friend’s address is still listed in the system. Do you think she’ll appreciate a midnight raid?”

Hal’s jaw tightens.

“So,” Ricky says, flipping the folder closed, “we're offering you a free route.”

Another folder. This one thinner. Sleeker.

“Conditional release. You'll be tagged, tracked, watched. You’ll check in every seventy-two hours. And when we find Joyeux—and we will—you will help us. Or everything comes out.”

Hal swallows. He flexes his hands in the cuffs.

Ricky’s smile grows. “So? What do you say?”

There’s no real choice. There never was.

The cuffs hiss open. The chair scrapes as Hal stands.

He doesn't look at Ricky. He just turns, and walks.

¶¶¶¶

Outside, the rain is louder.

Bok leans against the alley wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, though he hasn’t lit it. His jaw is swelling. Blood still clings to his collar.

His breath clouds in the cold air.

Behind his eyes, the fight plays again—frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The hand in his hair. The pressure on his throat. His own hesitation.

You’re too pretty to be alone.

He doesn’t feel pretty now.

The cigarette falls from his fingers.

He presses his back to the wall and slowly sinks down. The rain keeps falling. The city doesn’t stop.

His hand touches the edge of his coat, fingers finding a hidden seam inside the lining.

Bok shuts his eyes.

Tonight, he just breathes.

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love the ambiguity between resignation and loyalty w conditioned whumpees. scenario ive been fixated on is one where whumper gets hurt/incapacitated while whumpee is in chains. whumpee takes the opportunity to steal the key and unlock themselves. but all they do with that freedom is help whumper get situated and try to remedy the situation as best as they’re able. once that’s handled, they’ll put the chains back on themselves and return the key without being told to.

Kinda fucked up that we all coo and sympathize with "former gifted kids" but never talk about the students who had to stay late after school or over the summer for remedial classes/clubs, who struggled to get above a C, who were given up on or punished. Who tried so hard to understand or just couldn't. Who were grouped with the "stupid kids" (a classmate called us that in remedial math btw)

Autistic kids and adhders who can't relate to their gifted peers and are constantly alienated by them. Kids who struggled in school due to dealing with a chronic or mental illness or physical/learning/developmental disability. Those of us who have had to drop out of highschool or college. Kids who worked so hard and wanted to be seen as smart, but never were. Who watched as their peers seem to fly by them in school, while they were left behind. Who were bullied and put down by those in the gifted and honors classes. Whose confidence was absolutely destroyed by education.

I love you all and I'm so sorry the school system failed you. I'm sorry you weren't properly accommodated and given the education you deserved. I'm sorry people put you down for something that they never had to fight for.

honestly shout out to the dead dove: do not eat creators, the darkfic authors, the people who can unflinchingly stare into their darkest desires and curiosities and give them life enough to share with other people. It's absolutely so much harder than it looks to pull off

whumpee screaming into a gag. screaming for help. screaming in pain. screaming to warn their would-be-rescuer that it's a trap