Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4425842.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Gangsta._(Manga)
  Character:
      Worick_Arcangelo, Wallace_|_Worick_Arcangelo, Georgiana_(Big_Mama)
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Rape/Non-con, Non-Graphic_Rape/Non-Con, Implied/Referenced_Rape/
      Non-con, Gang_Rape, Rape_Aftermath, Implied/Referenced_Underage
      Prostitution, Bruising, Bleeding, Prequel, Gap_Filler, Pre-Canon
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-26 Words: 2391
****** Turnabout's Fair Play ******
by RubyFiamma
Summary
     Wallace learns what he needs to do in order to stay on top while he's
     still fresh on the streets of Ergastulum.
     {Or in which the fic picks up after the fact, and Wallace is left to
     deal with the aftermath and happens to get an interesting proposition
     from woman in the shadows}
     Please see additional warnings in the notes.
Notes
     The following story involves the rape of a minor and the aftermath
     and the gap filler as to how he later became a prostitute. It is in
     no way meant to romanticize the trauma or the profession, nor is it
     meant to sexualize the minor. The acts are heavily implied but are
     non descriptive. Please continue at your own risk.
                             Turnabout's Fair Play
===============================================================================
                                        
It starts with him splayed out and down on his knees, covered in the grime and
filth of Ergastulum still clinging to his bruised and broken skin. He should
have known better than to leave the sanctity of home by himself, but it’s
getting harder and harder to look Nicolas in the face when all he sees is the
shadow of his family’s blood splattered across it.
He thought he knew what waiting for death felt like, each time his father used
him as an outlet for the incurable rage deeply seeded within that only seemed
to rear it’s ugly head whenever Wallace would be around. Each searing burn from
the lit end of a cigarette he received, every clout that blurred his vision or
every boot that fractured a rib, for every strand of hair that was ripped from
his head has never made him feel as dead as he does right now in this moment.
There’s a ringing in his ears from one of the men that clocked him in the side
of his head with the butt of his gun, but off in the distance Wallace can hear
the clean chink of metal latching, muffled hollers of victory and scraping
laughter that grates on every one of the boy’s nerves. He can’t feel his body
anymore, just the oppressive muggy heat that sticks to his skin and the beads
of sweat and volatile slime that roll down the bare length of his spine. His
hands that are braced out in front of him on the damp and dirty cobblestone
were scraped and raw from an earlier struggle, but Wallace no longer feels the
throb of pain pulsing through them. The skin at his knees is chafed and
bleeding, and there may be blood mixing with the salt across his sweat-slicked
forehead from another wound he sustained that threatens to trickle past his
eyebrow and burn in the well of his good eye.
The muscles in his thighs are taut and trembling, thrumming erratically like a
tension-tight wire. He can feel his entire body shaking with the paper-thin
will to remain upright, to keep some shred of dignity but he knows he’s not
going to last much longer.
Echoes of cheap soles scuffing off the flagstone resonate between the broken
brick walls that line the alley as the group of men that raped him leave with
their high fives and their sick pride. It’s only then that Wallace and his
façade collapse, where he gives in to the tremors that plague his overused body
and he lies the puddle of his own filth for what seem like hours because he
lacks the strength, or even the will to lift a finger. There are no tears, not
yet. He won’t let this group of men think they broke him. He’s Wallace
Arcangelo, son of Domenico Arcangelo  – nobodycan break him, not even his own
father.
He’s tired and worn out and feels like a disgusting whore, and for a minute
Wallace huffs a laugh that sounds more like a choking sob to his ears. His eyes
slide shut with exhaustion, his mouth is as dry as cotton and his tongue sticks
to the roof of his mouth like glue. It’s ironic, he thinks, that he’d end up
like the mother he’s never known. If it weren’t for the maids that whispered
slander around every corner of his household, he’d never know anything about
the woman. But now he knows that this must have been how her life was until the
end. It’s only fitting now that the bastard son of a whore should meet the same
fate.
It’s likely only been minutes since the men have left the alley but it feels
like he’s been lying there for aeons when he hears the approaching clack of
stilettos on stone. He’s too wasted to move so the only defense Wallace has
left is laughter, and it starts off dry and sour, scorching it’s way up his
achingly raw throat until he feels like he’s lost his own mind and the laughter
that spills out of his mouth and bounces off the walls sounds like the maniacal
laughter of a madman.
“I suppose you can say you can’t change your situation, but finding humour in
it may change your outlook on it.”
It’s the voice of a woman with a silver tongue, her tone isn’t cold but it
sends a shiver down Wallace’s spine. It brings his laughter to a skidding halt
but he isn’t afraid, there isn’t much more that anyone could do to him now
except end his misery and he welcomes that.
“Come now, get up. Dust off those knees and pull your pants up from down around
your ankles,” the voice instructs. “You are in the presence of a lady and
you’ve still got some pride left in you, I can tell. Don’t sully it with your
bare bottom up in the air for all of Ergastulum to see.”
She’s right, Wallace supposes, at least about him being in a woman’s company.
However, she is wrong about his pride. He’s got nothing left but a tattered
shirt and soiled slacks and a filthy eye patch hanging off his ear by a single
strap.
“What do you want?” he croaks, the words coming out in fragmented language that
reminds him of Nicolas when he speaks.
“The question isn’t what Iwant, but it is what can I do for you,child.”
The woman’s words strike off in his veins like the ignition of a match, setting
fire to his blood. He snaps his head off the ground, his hair clinging to his
cheeks in clumps, and twists his body around enough to look the woman in the
face. He can’t features, only a curvaceous silhouette that blots out the
setting sun and the glowing ember of a cigarette that dances through the
darkness like it belongs to a ghost.
“Who said I wanted your help?” Wallace snaps and his swollen throat closes
around abused chords before he can gain the edge of acid he wants present in
his tone.
“You don’t have to want it,” she answers, the cinder sparking fiery-orange as
she takes a drag of her cigarette. “But you do need it.”
There’s a growl that burns in Wallace’s chest and there’s itching heat crawling
all under his skin. “I don’t need anything from you, you old hag. Just get
outta here!”
The woman remains silent for a moment, and by now Wallace has become a little
more self-aware as the flush of embarrassment rises from his chest to his
hairline. She’s doing nothing now but playing with him, and he’s smart enough
not to fall for her trap, whatever her angle may currently be.
Wallace drags himself into a sitting position, reaches out a bloody and scuffed
up hand to tug his pants up to his knees. “I can take care of myself.”
She’s moving closer now, each step is slow and elegant, like satin billowing in
a breeze and Wallace narrows his obscured vision by squinting his eye. The
woman is voluptuous, but still very much beautiful in a low cut, crushed velvet
dress the colour of ruby, with her hair pulled back into a neat bun and a
feather boa curled around her shoulders like a death-delivering snake. He can
see now, her cigarette is fitted in a regal holder with gold and ebony hues and
when she brings it up to her lips to take a drag, her face is illuminated in
soft amber and Wallace’s eyes are drawn to the small beauty mark at the corner
of her mouth. She’s standing not quite two feet in front of him now with a look
that’s soft but stone as she reaches into her large bosom and pulls something
out. She ghosts the item across one of her breasts in a seductive caress before
holding it out for Wallace to see.
“Well,” she begins with the smallest grin of amusement tugging at her candied
cherry lips. “If you’re going to be offering your services to the pigs of
Ergastulum, at least make a dollar or two from it, boy. No one gets far in life
by giving away commodity for free.”
With a flick of her wrist she tosses the item in his direction and it hits him
square in the chest and falls into his lap. While he’s busy looking for it, he
hears the woman’s heels shift as she makes her way back toward the entrance of
the alley. Wallace doesn’t pay her any mind until he finds the rectangle in a
shallow puddle in between his half-bare legs. When he brings it up to the light
and squints, he sees the washed-out green of money and when he unfolds the bill
he finds it’s a hundred dollar note.
“Hey!” he screams after her. Fury-fueled adrenaline pumping through his veins
is what gets him to his feet, holds him steady even when he starts to sway.
“Hey, what the fuck is this?” He’s thrusting the bill in her direction while
his other hand works frantically on pulling his pants up over his hips.
The woman looks over her shoulder and purses her lips. “Think of it as… an
incentive,” she purrs as she turns to disappear into the dusk that’s fallen
over the streets of Ergastulum.
“I’m not a whore!” Wallace shouts, and it echoes like gunshots through the
corridor.
“No,” the woman replies, “but you could be.” She’s still holding firm except
Wallace can detect the silky mirth in her voice and for a minute all he can
envision is shutting her up by wrapping his hands around the folds of skin at
her neck.
“Screw you! Just who the hell do you think you are?” Wallace catches up to her,
but she’s not really trying to give chase. He grabs her by the arm and tugs so
that he can finally get a clear look at the woman who’s been mocking him for
the last ten minutes and he can read the intrigue scribbled all over her
heavily made up face.
“Listen here, boy. You’re new to these parts so I’m going to give you a pass,
simply because you don’tknow who I am, but let me educate you. I am Georgiana,
an important and executive asset for the Corsica family. You may call me Big
Mama. There’s a lot you need to learn about this city and there aren’t too many
people that will take kindly to a little brat with a foul mouth like yours. Do
you understand the predicament you’re in, child?”
Wallace freezes, and it isn’t because he’s scared but the air around them
changes, almost like he’s in the presence of royalty and that the woman before
him deserves more than just his utmost attention but also his respect and
devotion, and he can’t help but feel suddenly insignificant and utterly in over
his head.
Georgiana slides a satin-clad hand across his marred cheek, tucks a lock of his
dirty hair behind his ear. “You’re a handsome one,” she says with a smile that
Wallace can’t read as anything but genuine. “You’ll make a lot of enemies out
here if you’re not careful. How about you work for me and make a lot of money
instead?”
Wallace opens his mouth to protest, yet the money is still clenched in his
fist. “But I –”
“I know,” Georgiana interjects. “But wouldn’t you rather be the one in
control?”
He swallows, the absurd idea is making more sense in his head then it should
but he can’t seem to wrap sound around an answer.
“What’s your name?” she asks, tapping the extinguished cigarette from her
holder.
His tongue slips before he thinks of a smarter response. “W-Wallace.”
The woman’s mouth puckers like his name’s left a bad taste on her tongue. “Oh.
Well, that won’t do. A name like that will only get you trouble. Out here,
you’ll be known as… Worick.”
Wallace doesn’t object, he doesn’t think at all. It isn’t like he hasn’t been
searching for an alias since his family was murdered and he was supposedly
taken captive. It dawns on him that the woman may actually know who he is, and
maybe she’s aware that he’s from a wealthy family and she may quite possibly
trying to extort money from him.
“And why should I trust you?” he asks wearily, though he had intended to sound
more sharp and alert and in control, except exhaustion is crashing into him in
waves and he’s barely able to keep standing, let alone barter with a woman
obviously more experienced than he is.  
Georgiana ruffles his hair. “You’re just a boy, Wallace. But you’ve had to grow
up a lot, haven’t you? Let Big Mama take care of you for a little while. When
you’re ready, come find me. I’ll be working out of a club called Pussy.” She
retreats out into the street and before Wallace has a chance to decline, the
woman has sashayed her way down another winding alley.
It’s getting darker and he’s a long way from home and suddenly there’s nothing
more welcoming than seeing that dumb smile on Nicolas’s face when he returns.
There’s something in all this that’s worth it, and maybe it’s Nic or maybe it’s
his Hail Mary but the longer Wallace thinks about the woman’s offer, the more
he understands.
He’s got to make a life for himself now, and it’s not just him but it’s Nicolas
too. Ergastulum is going to be his home, and he refuses to be a bottom feeder
that lays in a dank alley with his ass exposed for all to take. No. He’ll find
out who this Corsica family is, he’ll make the money to support him and Nic and
they’ll make a name for themselves here. On theirterms and no one else’s. He
won’t allow anyone else to take advantage of him or Nicolas again.
With the hundred dollar bill now a damp wad still crushed against his palm,
Wallace makes his way toward home, and not the dilapidated building he resides
in but the who that makes it home, he can’t help but think Worick Arcangelo has
a pretty nice ring to it.
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