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Case File: send me a ✈ and I will give your character a memory from mines past.

A Taste of the White Widow

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There he was: fourteen years old and strung-out on god knows what in a someone’s loft just outside of London proper.

He’d taken the train there and gotten off of a stop under a bridge. The others led him through the poorly maintained tunnel, then out to the surface streets where every house was uniform and tightly packed, six or so sharing walls between them with long, narrow gardens stretched out back. The grass grew unusually high there, but then, that may have also been whatever they were sampling that day. It was dead in the cold February frost either way.  

It was difficult to remember how long he’d been there, when he was going to leave, or really, what mattered. The weather was cold and dark out there; the ice covered the walks, and wild cats knocked over rubbish bins and fought with the foxes in the hedge. It didn’t matter. They were warm enough inside.

The heater hummed with the sound of crickets that didn’t exist, and burned what the group assumed were the corpses of spiders that had crawled in, but James Hakuba — he was a smart one — thought that maybe it was dust and debris from the room… stray hair, dead skin cells, that sort of thing. 

They liked James. They liked that he was pliable. They liked that he was willing to try just about anything they threw at him, and that made him willing to do almost anything after that. It didn’t hurt that he was cute. The group agreed that he was on the young side, but quite attractive. In fact, some of them really, really liked that his voice was still cracking. It made it all the more interesting when he begged, they said. 

Sarah brought him to the flat. She’d slept with him before, she told the others, out under the bleachers about a year ago. She’d given him his first cigarette. His first taste of what being with a woman was like. How much different it was than that dirty old priest.

“So why didn’t he join us then?”
She laughed. “He wanted to find love.”
“Did he find it?”
“Yeah. Can’t you see his broken heart?”

There were seven of them all together in Sarah’s little pack, including Sarah herself. Three boys, three girls. James made eight. They sympathized with the story of the breakup. Offered to let him into their nest with welcome arms. Promised to chase all of those nightmares away. And they did… for a little while. 

The boy was young, impressionable, depressed, and rich. Really rich, and so willing. For nearly a month, they persuaded him to play. He fronted pound after pound for food, drink, toys, and so-called ‘natural remedies,’ while they served him so many, many experiences in return. It didn’t take long before he really didn’t know what he was on, or how long he’d been there… hours were lost, clothes missing, bloodied handprints appearing on the wall… 

For a solid week somewhere in the thick of it, he didn’t go home or to school.  They began their mornings with whatever they had, mostly bread, crisps, and coffee… then brought out the sampling for whatever it was. Cocaine was the easiest for them to get, and they’d all do hit after hit, throwing in another few things here and there. The veterans took turns getting it and various other chemical delights to sell while the others played in that blanket pit upstairs. 

Hakuba liked the way they took his tie off with their teeth. How they pulled his clothing off, one button at a time. He loved that they whispered his name in his ear, nice and slow like they were about to climax, themselves. “Ha-ha-Hakuba,” the cried, and it never failed to get him completely riled. They wanted their fresh meat to be treated well so he’d stay. He’d be more compliant if they kept his aggression at bay, used his heartbreak against him.

“We’re so sorry,” the girls crooned as they took turns feeling him up, long nails dragging over his thighs, kissing at his stomach, then lower and lower still. As drunk and high as he was, he had no complaints for anything they did. And they did a lot. The men, too, teasing and touching and replaying so many memories as if they were wild fantasies. A new submissive plaything was something they’d been looking for a long time. It was ideal, to say the least. Get him off first so that he couldn’t compete, then take turns with him. ‘Love’ in all directions. “Let’s just take care of you, first.” 

His wallet was their bank account, and they hit it hard. Lost in the haze, he didn’t care. It didn’t hurt nearly as much. Even when he had moments of clarity, enough to cry out John’s name in the dark, they soothed him. So many hands brushing over him, milking him, lips kissing and caressing him. Pouring more drink, getting him to go back to sleep. 

Back to sleep, where the dreams came and went like the hours in an endless haze of colors and light. Shadows lurked there. They lurked everywhere. He saw faces in the windows, in the walls, the cracks in the floor. He heard screaming under the floorboards and in the creaking of the ceiling fan. “Absinthe?” they offered, and there he stood on the edge of a vast desert, cloudy sky stirring the contents of his stomach until they forced their way out. 

The laughing was always good-natured. “Another toke will do you well, mate,” someone — he couldn’t tell who — whispered into his ear. It took the edge off, but the things they gave him usually did. The non-stop sexual exhaustion kept him pressed into the sheets without complaint. 

No, that wasn’t quite right. He had complained. The toys hurt. He hurt. His body ached all over and he couldn’t keep anything down. More wine was the answer. Or Jaeger. Rum and cocaine. Morphine. Heroine. Meth. They pushed him down, sucked him off, drugged him, kissed him with hard liquor, and laid him down to enjoy while the others went on to each other.

It was the White Widow that he remembered so clearly. Its particular strain reminded him of those days… .just barely far enough to feel safe, but keeps you under the bridge from it. You could run, but why risk? The tension builds. Panic. Anxiety. Sometimes screaming. 

He felt fire, he saw those faces in the dark, heard their voices, even though there was no one there but his supposed lovers, all unconscious from their binges. He cried and no one comforted him. They were dead. 

Dead until the afternoon when they finally roused themselves, laughing and discussing their dreams and their wonderful feelings and making plans for more, with James huddled in the corner. They’d been dead all night, all morning, and he’d watched their skeletons moving in the red dawn of winter. He’d seen, in his hazy vision, the bone fingers of the trees stretch into the room and choke the life from them. He’d felt that priest touch him, take him, push him down onto the steps in front of that fireplace, hot iron poker ready to lash and tear the flesh right from his bones. 

They tried to comfort him but he was numb by the time they were living again. Running fingers through their puppy’s hair, as they called him, shaking his naked shoulder, all that they could get was a small groan.

"He hasn’t been eating”
“Why wouldn’t he be eating?”
“Give him a cigarette.”
“How’s that going to help?”
“His trousers are stained…" 
"Shit. With what?”
“Everythin’…" 
"Bloody hell, did you really have to insist on that? I told you it was too big.”
“He’s gotta learn some time…" 
"Cigarette. Water. Go on then.”
“I don’t think he’s aware.”
“Shit, did we fry the bloke?”
“James… oi James… listen to us. You’re okay.”
“This is getting boring just leave him be, let’s get out the good stuff.. that merlot was amazing." 

The rest of the crew continued on while Sarah put her arm around James Hakuba, nuzzling into his shoulder and told him that he didn’t belong, did he? He wanted to be someone. “Here’s your share, baby… you were a wonderful investor.” She pushed a stack of rolled bills into his palms, which he couldn’t even take hold of. “Come on… I’ll get you home.”

Home.. sounded safe, but home ended p being the emergency room. Sarah left him there, bundled in nothing but a blanket with a wad of several thousand notes, smelling like incense, liquor, blood, and sex. She almost forgot to give his wallet back, too, but once he was safely admitted, she left.

Detox. Stomach pumped. Charcoal. Saline solution. His identity eventually made known. Marion and Baaya came straight away, holding their poor baby’s hand. What happened? 

He had no answers. Everything was muddled. They rook him home and there he writhed for three agonizing days in the dark through feverish withdrawals until he emerged, resolved. 

The things he’d seen were those he never wanted to experience again. The only solution, therefore, was to end it all. 

by

At Any Cost || themoonlightthief

((Debated, then decided to put it all behind a cut, ha ha ha~))

themoonlightthief:

Ragged, shallow breaths were the only thing filling the silence stretching thickly through the dark, cold room – apart from the faint buzzing deep within one of the corners, but Kaito tried not to think about that, pushing the sound to the back of his mind to the very best of his abilities. If he continued listening, if he focused on that—

He choked on a cry, body stiffening and eyes clenching shut. His fingers, smeared with his own blood, dug into his scalp as he pressed himself further against the wall, another whimper and strangled sob leaving his raw throat at the burning electricity flaring through his nerves as he further agitated his wounds.

Stupid stupid stupid

If only he’d said ‘no’, if only he’d listened to that faint voice in the back of his head, if only he hadn’t been so stupid and naive—

Another shiver wracked through his bloodied frame and he knew he was cold and he knew it was bad and he knew he needed help – help please someone I can’t do this I can’t I can’t I can’t someone help me please – but the voices chanting in his mind, over and over

‘Pathetic’

‘Worthless’

‘Stupid’

‘Whore’

was drowning everything else out, numbing his senses of everything but the hollow feeling spreading through his entire being.

Worthless stupid tainted unworthy pathetic idiot naive fool child what’s the point stay why don’t you stay close your eyes it’s fine it doesn’t matter no one cares they shouldn’t why would they just stay it’s better if you just—

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Kaito could hear another buzzing join the first- it was faint, so, so faint and far away – and it sounded once, twice, three, four times, before dying away completely. He knew what it was. He’d heard it a thousand times before and it was enough to make a glimmer of something akin to hope – but it was so incredibly faint, barely visible and there at all unless one knew where and how to look – flicker in his chest along with a cold sense of panic, horror and dread and Kaito slowly opened his eyes, gaze hazily flickering in the direction of where the sound had come.

help me

Never before had Hakuba broken so many traffic laws in one stretch, but he didn’t care. Every time his calls went to voicemail, he added another 3.5 miles per hour to his speed, and it was only his experience and the adrenaline rush that kept him crashing into other cars instead of swerving around them. 

Once on scene, he parked his car – very illegally – as close as he possibly could to the store in question, slapped the ‘official police business’ declaration in the window, and leapt to retrieve his medical field bag. It was then a jog to Conan, who waited at the very edge of the glass store front, staring down any onlookers with extreme prejudice.

It was his presence – the young, innocent child with the death glare – that kept the public mostly at bay. Could they look in on the horrors with a kid there? Especially one intent on snapping if anyone got too close. Not that it didn’t stop them from trying, wanting to lead him away… but, fortunately, Hakuba got there first. 

“He’s with me. Official police business. Please be on your way.” Hakuba’s badge was only a consultant’s, but the seal was legitimate, and worked well enough on the lay person. Heavy duffel over one arm and black police windbreaker on his person, the detective asserted his quasi-authority to take control of the scene. 

Despite his previous statement, Hakuba changed his mind as soon as they found the entry point, glancing into the dark. He heard the rasping breaths, the quiet electric hum, and glanced down at the boy at his side. “Go home, Conan-kun.”

“Like hell." 

Hakuba blinked, brows furrowing at the response. ”…You’ve done your part; I’ll take over.“

"Oi, stop wasting time. Let’s move.”

Conan pushed past Hakuba without another word, leaving the blond to chase after. With a flick of his wrist, he had the flashlight activated on his watch, scanning the area for something, anything – persons, traps, instruments of torture, splashes of blood… 

The tension had them both on edge, and as they ventured further, Hakuba shifted his firearm from left to right hand, ready. He kept watch above, eyes adjusting to the dark while his little companion scoured the floor, both listening, waiting.

by

✈

send me a ✈ and I will give your character a memory from mines past.

Dreams of Paris
[to be read after The Belt]

Sometimes scenes had a way of fading in Hakuba’s mind. Crime scenes in particular. They blurred, merged together with others of similar styles, methods, culprits. When he thought of the specifics, it was usually a simple matter to pick them apart and, once compared with his notes, became once again crystal clear in memory.

Everything from the lingering scent of whatever coffee creamer Megure-keibu had used that evening to the precise temperature of the cooling pavement beneath their feet came rushing back. Weather conditions, the particular knot he’d used for his tie, the number of steps from the squad car to the white chalk outline.

It was easier to let them stay buried, filed away until he needed them. Easier, safer, and, often enough at times, critical. But some memories didn’t fade that way. Ones he couldn’t compartmentalize because there were so few instances in which he could shuffle the cards to disguise the impact. Things like dreams of Paris with a former lover, and how it all fell apart. 

It had been two weeks since the incident with the belt. Two long, horrible weeks in which John had refused to look at him, let alone speak. After their month- 42 days, specifically -together, the fourteen year-old couldn’t understand what had happened. Yes, they’d been caught. Yes, John had taken a beating from his father. And, yes, Saguru James had been told to leave, but that didn’t mean that they had to stop seeing each other, did it?

They’d always known it was a risk. Everything they’d done had been in secret. Every moment had been a stolen one; an exercise in rebellious freedom from societal convention and religious oppression. They loved each other, and that was all that mattered. 

Love always won in the end. 

Until then. It was easy for John to avoid him, really; he was two grades ahead and moved in different circles. They didn’t share any classes, and John had rugby practice after school. Hakuba didn’t dare call for fear of alerting John’s parents, and though he wanted to, desperately wanted to, he was far too afraid to walk the seven blocks to the Wells’ flat. All that he could do was wait at his locker, attempt to catch him between classes at the drinking fountain or in the hallways.

And he did try. Every day until he couldn’t stand the pain any longer.  He needed to know. 

“Are we over?" 

John looked at the smaller hand that grasped his wrist, feigning ignorance of the desperation with a cold gaze. “What was that, twit?”

"I need to know… are we over?” 

"Get off of me.” The older boy yanked his arm away, scowling. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

It stung. But there had to be more to it. He was hiding something; he had to be. “John, please. Talk to me. It’s okay if we’re broken up, but please, I need to know!”

This had John taking stock of the others in the hallway, some looking, most ignoring. Little kids like James were usually teased by the bigger boys; it was nothing unusual at all. Even Hakuba knew that John could have thrown him into the lockers, and no one would have batted an eye.

Would he take that chance? 

“Fine,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Meet me after school by the wall; we’ll talk there.”

The wall was where they’d meet to steal a kiss before school. It was where they’d make out during lunch. And also where they’d wait for the other to be done with the day before heading to John’s flat. It was a place of personal significance, and Hakuba couldn’t help but smile in hopes that things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. 

They’d always talked things out before, after all. 

There they met. S. James Hakuba arrived first, nervously checking his watch time and time again while he waited the several long minutes for his lover. At least the wall was secluded; he watched the other students leave from his hiding place, heart fluttering. Forty-eight minutes… and he heard footsteps approaching. 

“John?”

“I’m here, James.”

The smile on his face was the same that Hakuba remembered; so easy, so pained. He crept from the wall to reach for his arms and felt instant relief when John let him, stepping after him into the shade. He stood still while Hakuba pushed onto the tips of his toes to kiss him, though he didn’t return it. Disappointed, but forcing that smile, Hakuba settled back on his heels and laughed.

“Are we okay, mate?”

John looked away. “I’m not gay, James.”

What? “John…”

“You heard me. I’m not gay. You remember why we started hanging around together, don’t you? I was curious. That was it. Now I know I’m not. So it’s over.”

It startled him to hear. It didn’t feel right. None of it clicked. The younger boy shook his head, horror creeping in. “That’s not true! We’re in love, John! Remember? It’s your parents telling you not to be who you are, but we can past that! We can run away, just like we talked about!”

“You don’t know anything about love, James. You’re fourteen.”

“Age doesn’t matter! It’s just a social construct meant to-”

“No. You are a fourteen year-old boy who has no fucking clue about life. You and I? Stupid fools. We were raped and beaten at that Academy, James. That’s the truth. That’s why we’re fucked up. There is no happy ending for us; we’ve already been ruined. Tainted. All we can do is try to do what’s right and pray that we’ll be forgiven.”

"What’s right is to be true to ourselves, John!”

“God, you’re so naive.”

"I know you had dreams! I know you! This isn’t you! You can’t let them oppress you! You can’t let them ruin you! It goes against everything that we believe in!”

John reached for the young boy’s shoulder and pushed him to the wall, gaze a mask of conflicted ire. “No. That’s what you believe, James, and I’m through with it. You’ve got to let it go. Don’t ever talk to me again. I don’t love you. I never have.”

With a strangled cry, James pushed from the wall, arms reaching for the other boy, but John held him back. “It’s not true, John! You know it’s not! You’re lying! You did love me! don’t let them ruin you! Don’t let them! Please!”

The older boy sighed. It was so easy to hold him in place. He was so small, so thin. “Everyone is broken one way or the other, James… I guess I’ve got to help you, now.” He paused. “Stop crying.”

"I can’t,” he said, admission through the tears. “You don’t know just what…”   but then he paused, lifting his head in silence at the sound of approaching footsteps. Furiously, Hakuba wiped his eyes. He couldn’t be seen like this. He didn’t want anyone to think that John had done anything to him. “Let go,” he muttered. 

But John didn’t let go. The grip that he had on his shoulder tightened as the others – five boys in total – filed in to join them behind the wall. Hakuba recognized them from John’s rugby team. Big boys. Strong. And all predatory. 

“So this is the little fag?”

“Looks like.”

“Why aren’t you getting the hint, little twit?”

“He doesn’t want you around.”

“God he’s so perverted.”

Hakuba shrank back against the wall, eyes wide as he looked from face to face, and finally back to John, pleading. “Let me go.”

“Yeah, he’s sick,” John said, stepping forward to press his hand to the front of his pants. It only took a gesture to unbutton the younger boy’s pants, hand slipping in to caress him. “He’s already getting hard.”

He was. A reaction to John’s touch. It wasn’t like he could help it. But why? Why in front of the others? James shuddered, shaking his head. “John, please, stop.”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? That’s why you keep following him around school.”

“Sending him love letters.”

“Showing up at his house.”

"It’s disgusting.”

There was a hitch in his breath and Hakuba bent forward, mouth open to gasp. Despite the rough handling, his body responded well, and to his horror, it didn’t take long at all for him to get close. The pressure built and so did the haze. It was different and all too familiar at once. When the priest had done this, it had always been in private. Same, too, for he and John before. But the others watched. Leered. Loomed. 

When he came, it was with a whimpering cry, face red and head hung, so embarrassed and ashamed. He struggled to catch his breath with the others laughing, and kept his eyes held tightly closed when John spread his own seed across his cheek and into his hair. 

“See? I told you he was sick.”

The only fortunate thing was that it was far too easy to remember what it had been like at White Chapel. The ground beneath his knees was concrete instead of stone, but it scraped just the same when he was forced down. They forced themselves into his mouth, and twisted handfuls of his hair whenever he’d start to gag or bite down. And he swallowed, as he’d been conditioned to, each and every time. 

The boys beat him when he threw up. Kicking his stomach, his ribs, and against his arms when they moved to cover his face. He sobbed when they dragged him out of his fetal position by a leg, hands clawing at his pants to expose him. They used a stick to sodomize him, cheering when they drew blood, and left it in as they laughed. 

He couldn’t focus on their words. It wasn’t a hot fire poker, but that hardly seemed to matter. All he could think about was the head master, the fire, and how he was going to Hell for his sins. For being so dirty. For being so sick. 

Trembling, all he could do was cry, burying his face in the sleeves of his wool sweater. They had to be finished soon, whether they got bored or they killed him. There couldn’t be that much more they could do to him. He felt the warmth on his face before he realized what it was; urine, sprayed from one of the larger boys, soon joined by others. The stinking liquid soaked into his hair, his clothing, filling his olfactory with the choking scent of ammonia. He gagged again, curling in on himself, and tried to shut it out. 

They left. Hakuba wasn’t sure when, but he found himself alone as the sun set. How long had they been at it? Where was Baaya? 

He managed to remove the stick and pull his trousers back into place, but that was all that he could do. Everything hurt, inside and out. Words wouldn’t come, only choking sobs as he lay there, waiting, humiliated. 

Baaya did come, eventually, but despite her urging, he couldn’t tell her what happened. Still, the doctor treated him and somehow in the fog, he ended up tucked into his bed, clean, medicated, and safe. 

The boys were suspended, a transfer put in, and S. J. Hakuba stayed far away from John.