Comfort

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12022239.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Categories: M/M, Multi
Fandom: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Relationships: Bolin/Mako (Avatar), Bolin & Mako (Avatar), Amon/Bolin (Avatar),
Bolin/Equalists
Characters: Bolin (Avatar), Mako (Avatar)
Additional Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape
Recovery, Rape Aftermath, Gang Rape, Underage Rape/Non-con,
Underage Sex, Brothers, Brotherly Love, Brotherly Bonding,
Brotherhood, Brother Feels, Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and
Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort,
Hurt, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Feels, Feelings, Family Feels,
Comfort, Childhood Memories, Boys Being Boys, Growing Up,
Growing Up Together, POV Second Person
Language: English
Series: Part 3 of Mako & Bolin Growing Up
Stats: Published: 2017-09-07 Completed: 2017-09-08 Words: 1,318 Chapters:
2/2
 Comfort
by aTaCo9

Summary

Another dark & twisted work meant to be set in the Headcanon universe (or a very close
parallel universe). Mako confronts Bolin after his capture by Amon. Warnings: non-con,
rape, underage, angst, hurt/comfort, gang rape, second person POV (for extreme feels).
 Comfort

When he was six you hugged him every time he awoke from a terrible nightmare. Crying out
in the dark he would reach for you, and you were there, always right there, ready to hold him
and rub him and reassure him that even though mom and dad were gone you would never
leave him.

When he was eight you bandaged his torn knees after a hard topple during a streetmatch.
There was blood everywhere and it seemed like half the skin was missing, but you had a
supply of fresh white bandages ready for situations like this. Afterwards you kissed his legs
right above the wounds, and he looked up at you and giggled through his tears.

When he was eleven you stayed up with him all night long when he had the flu. He was
moaning and thrashing on the cot and you held him still, forcing him to drink water and
carefully sponging off his sweaty forehead with a damp rag. In his delirium he called you
mom several times, but you decided not to tell him about it afterwards, not even when he
infuriated you.

When he was thirteen you held his hand as he got stiches on his shoulder. Biting his lip and
maintaining a stoic expression, only his squeezes on your fingers indicated that he felt pain.
When it was over you told him how proud of him you were, how grown up he was now, and
he flashed you a grin a mile wide before running back to play with his friends.

When he was fifteen you rubbed his back while he cried after his first breakup. He was laying
on his stomach and had his head buried in the pillow, and you sat down next to him as he
muffled his sobs. Suddenly he was sitting up, clutching at your front, and you wrapped your
arms around him tightly. You felt your heart breaking at his sadness even as your shirt
became damper and damper.

But now Bolin is sixteen and you have no idea what to do. You have him back from his
encounter with Amon, and he still has his bending, thank the spirits. It was only after he was
safely home that you noticed the bruises on his arms and the bloodstains on his pants. When
you ask him what happened he starts to tremble and his eyes won’t meet yours. You press
him, and eventually he tells you, shaking and looking at the floor, that Amon’s guards had
forced themselves on him last night, and you can’t think of any possible way to react to this.
Sitting and staring seems appropriate, and his lips are quivering and you don’t even think to
reach for him.

You haven’t felt rage like this since the night your parents were murdered. Fire seethes inside
of you, and suddenly you cry out in pain. Your hands are smoking and are wrapped in flames,
as if you were once again a small child with no control. You shake the sparks out, glad that
your leather gloves are there to protect your palms.

He starts to cry and your reaction is instantaneous, instinctual. You cross the space between
you and embrace him tightly. You love him so much, so fucking much, and impossible
emotions are coursing through your chest: indescribable rage, a horrible pity, and the deepest
sadness that you have ever experienced. For him, for what was done to him, for what he has
lost. You hold him and you rub him and you angrily brush the tears out of your eyes before he
can see them. You have to be strong for him, there for him, ready to comfort him.

Just like you always have been.

 Comfort II
Chapter Summary

A sequel to my story "Comfort" inspired by prompts from Bolinlover123. It's just as

dark and twisted as the first chapter, so the same warnings apply.

You hate that now he jumps when you touch him. Before The Incident he couldn’t wait for
you to get home, from your chores, the gym, the power plant. You would turn the key and
half the time he was right there in the doorway, blocking your entrance with his massive arms
outstretched.

He hasn’t once reached for you since the night he was brought home.

You tell yourself it’s fine, that he’ll be okay and that he just needs time. But secretly—buried
so deep you don’t even admit it to yourself—you’re worried that he might never recover from
this.

You replay the conversations you had that night over and over and over again, the details that
you didn’t want to know but now can’t forget. How he had been saving his first time for
someone special, because it didn’t seem right to do it with a fangirl, a stranger. How it had
hurt, probably even more than he let on if his bruises and winces are anything to judge by.
How there had been so many of them and they had laughed at his tears, enjoyed it when he
cried out, and they hadn’t cared if he bled or choked or tore.

You shake your head, clearing this last thought from your mind. Best not to dwell there if you
want to sleep tonight.

Despite the dark thoughts that are now your constant companions, the world continues on
largely unaltered. You’re resentful than Korra doesn’t notice—how can she not see that he
holds himself differently now, that his shoulders curve in and his eyes are constantly trained
on the ground? Doesn’t she hear that his laughter sounds forced and his voice strained? Why
doesn’t she remark on the haunted glint that shadows his eyes every time a loud noise sounds
or someone touches him unexpectedly?

After the match with the Buzzard Wasps, Bolin drags himself to bed and almost immediately
falls into a fitful doze. Sometime in the night you awake to the sounds of him weeping, and
you literally can’t just lie there while his injured shoulder is causing him so much pain, not
after all that he has been though. You cross the room, shuffling on the floor loudly so he
knows your intentions, and when you reach his cot you purposefully tap your leg on its side.
Slowly, carefully, as if he were a rare and fragile collectable, you brush against his back,
urging him to make a space for you. He rolls over and faces the wall, lying on his good arm,
and a surge of relief courses through your stomach.
You crawl into bed next to him and gradually inch closer until your chest is pressed into his
back. You’re taller, and your legs curve against his comfortably, but you’re careful to
maintain a few inches distance between your hips and his. Rubbing his shoulder blades in
small circles and letting your body temperature rise slightly so as to warm him, memories
assault your mind, pulling you into the past. You’ve been in this position countless times with
him, after nightmares, during cold nights, and whenever he was sick or hurt. To you he will
always be so young, childlike and innocent, even if you now know that to be an illusion.
Protectiveness and affection threaten to overwhelm you, and you refuse to acknowledge the
droplet of water that you can feel hanging from your nose.

When you were younger you used to tease him about his affinity with the earth: you’re as
stubborn as a rock, stop being so rock headed, or do you have rocks in between your ears?
But lately you’ve come to realize that a rock is actually the perfect metaphor for Bolin.
Seemingly hard and immutable, in actuality even large boulders are easily manipulated,
tossed around and thrown by benders like a child skipping a pebble on a pond. When applied
with enough force, rocks shatter; and even when reformed into their approximate original
size and shape they will bear countless seams, scars from their prior fragmentation.

You can only hope that Bolin will have the strength to stay whole.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!