consider this your last warning

this is the only crop of this i liked rip but i needed to draw something for sov release

my tastes are predictable predictable predictable predictable

My little test subject: Chapter 8

Chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6, and chapter 7

Angsty Tomtord fic with slight Paultryk on the side.

WARNING! This fic contains: Foul language, torture scenes, blood, use of medical tools, drug use, suicidal tendencies, self-neglect, violence, self-harm, and a little bit of stockholm syndrome and force feeding. Viewer discretion is advised.

The door slid shut behind them as they stepped out into the hallway, stretching both ways to his left and right. The walls are bland in colour, only greys and whites with black marble floors so shiny you could practically see your reflection gleaming back at you.

Tord turned the left hall. “Follow me, and please don’t fall behind.” He commanded, walking at a steady pace with his arms folded behind his back.

Tom was quick to follow, trailing behind to look around his surroundings in curiosity. There wasn’t much to look at though. They passed by some rooms, but they didn’t seem to hold anything of interest. Tom was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the base. If this is the lower floor, how big is the entire base in total? He wondered.

He fell in step with Tord, walking to his left side where the red leader side glanced back at him. A grin stretched upon his face. “Impressed?” He asks smugly.

Tom turned back to Tord, his face contorting into a scowl. “Not really. This place is huge, sure, but there isn’t much around here.” He answered truthfully.

Tord nodded in understanding. “Maybe not down here. Like I said: this level is reserved only for you and the serum experiments.” He says. “The upper levels are where most of the activity happens.”

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cywscross  asked:

Prompt! Steter with assassin!Stiles ^_^

I couldn’t resist. Also on AO3 here.


So, secret sharing time, Stiles’ dad is not actually his dad. Or rather, he is his dad, but not his father.

His father died when Stiles was five from a knife wedged between his ribs and straight into his heart. Stiles knows that, because he watched his mother put it there.

After that, they run. Apparently, the mob isn’t very forgiving of people murdering their own, much less a woman who is supposed to be seen and not heard and take her hits silently. They run through Europe and all the way to America, then zigzag their way across the entire country, never stopping.

By the time they reach the West Coast, Stiles knows how to fire a gun, how to disappear into a crowd, how to use a knife to slit a man’s throat and a dozen other things. Before his mother became a mob bride, she was something else entirely, and she tells him no child of hers will ever be defenseless.

(By the time they reach the West Coast, Stiles has used what he has learned three times. He stopped crying after the second.)

They stop in a little place called Beacon Hills, only another in an endless row, but there is a difference. Just one.

A deputy who likes to eat in the diner where Claudia works. He speaks a few words of Russian, by way of his Polish parents, and he makes Claudia laugh. He makes Stiles laugh, too, and Stiles hasn’t laughed in a long time.

(There was a bad man and a garrote wire and a gun too big for his little hands.)

They stay.

Within a year, Claudia has a new name solidify to her cover and Stiles is adopted, name changed, birthday moved forward. (Six again. He’s okay with it.) He’s as safe as his mother can make him and for a while, he thinks it’s going to be okay now.

Claudia never does. The lessons continue, moving from evasion and defense to offence, until Stiles knows everything she does and can beat her in a spar two times out of five.

No child of hers will ever be defenseless.


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