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a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all · 1 year

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Wrong Bat

Winter Whumperland: Day 10. Abducted

Fandom: DC, Batman, Jason Todd, Red Hood, gn!reader

Summary: Someone discovers your boyfriend is part of the Batfamily so you are abducted and tortured for their identities. Too bad they didn't realize which Bat you were dating.

Word Count: 1229

TW: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Capture, Rescue, Slight Blood, Slight Beating, Shoulder Dislocation, Tied by Wrists to Ceiling, Mentions of Guns

Whack.

Your head snapped to the side as yet another blow slammed into your battered body, this time your face. You tasted blood as your lip split open, just another injury to add to your growing list. The chains that were suspending your arms above your head rattled as your momentum caused you to sway slightly with your bare toes dragging across the floor. Your shoulders were screaming out in pain but you refused to give your captures the satisfaction of crying or groaning. You just had to hold out a little longer….

The lead man, the one who introduced himself as Fisher, grinned as you lifted your head and he saw the blood running down your chin. “You had enough yet? Or do I have to mess that pretty face up even more?”

“Go to hell,” you growled.

Fisher muttered something to his men in a language you didn’t understand, but whatever it was made them all laugh. Turning back to you, he said, “Just one name and we will free you. It doesn’t have to be your bat boyfriend, any one of them will do. Tell us a single one of their true identities and I won’t have to keep hurting you.”

Glaring daggers at the man before you, you hissed, “You idiots think you’re so smart using me as bait. But just wait until he comes for me. When he’s done, you’ll be lucky if you can even wipe your asses by yourself.”

Fisher pulled a long knife from his belt and twirled it playfully. “Oh yeah? And what’s he gonna do? Bust in here and hit us with his little sticks?”

The other men started to laugh again but the sound died down as they all saw the wide, bloody smile spreading across your lips. Spitting out a large glob of red-tinted saliva, you said, “Wrong bat, asshole. My boyfriend’s the one who uses guns.”

As if on cue, the glass ceiling above you shattered, and a large figure dropped heavily to the floor. Slowly rising up to his full height amongst the dust and debris caused by his entrance, Jason looked like your own personal demon rising from the depths of hell to rescue you. In some ways, it wasn’t a completely inaccurate description.

“Hey, baby,” you said as he turned towards you. “Welcome to the party.”

Though Jason was wearing his helmet, you could feel his eyes scouring your body, cataloging each and every cut or bruise they had given you. You gave him a small nod to let him know you were okay but the rage emanating off of him was so intense it was almost a visible wave of fury. Giving you his own nod in return, he turned towards the men as he drew his guns.

You couldn’t see a lot of what was going on from your position, but you heard the screaming and gunfire. Cursing silently under your breath, you just hoped that Jason could restrain himself somewhat in his current rage-fueled rampage. The last thing either one of you needed was to deal with Bruce’s outrage over the death of one of these assholes.

After a few minutes, the sounds began to dwindle until the room was mostly silent save for the occasional low moan of pain. Then you heard the familiar sound of heavy combat boots stalking in your direction and Jason’s helmet suddenly appeared before you. Slipping it off to reveal the small red domino mask underneath, he cupped your battered face in his hand.

“Are you okay?” Jason asked as he gently ran his thumb over the bruise on your cheek.

Leaning into his touch, you murmured, “I am now. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Every time,” he said, pressing his lips to your forehead. “But let’s not make this a habit, alright?”

You chuckled. “Aww, but I love seeing you in action.”

“Then watch the bodycam footage from the Batcave.” He dropped his hand and turned to examine the bodies strewn around the room. “Which one’s got the keys?”

You nodded your head towards Fisher. “Inside jacket pocket.”

As Jason bent down and began digging through his pockets, Fisher started to raise his head with a groan. However, a quick punch to the face made him unconscious once more.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to do that,” you said as Jason returned to your side with the keys.

He didn’t respond as he unlocked your cuffs and you collapsed into his arms. Your legs felt numb after hanging for so long and Jason wrapped his arms around your waist while you regained your footing. Once you were able to take a few steps on your own, he slowly released you.

You tried rolling your shoulders but between the stiffness and pain, you quickly gave up that idea. However, Jason must have seen your expression because he reached out and ran his hand lightly over your shoulder. “Where’s it hurt?”

“Just all over. My shoulders are stiff from hanging like that for so long and I think the left one might be dislocated. Also, my ribs are pretty bruised, but I don’t think they’re broken.” You ran your fingers gently across your midsection and groaned

Jason stepped closer and brushed his lips against the edge of your ear, “How about I take you home and give you one of my deep tissue massages? I’ll even use that expensive lotion that you like.”

You closed your eyes and hummed, “Mmm, don’t threaten me with a good time, mister. You know what your massages do to me.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” He nuzzled his nose deeper into your hair. “A deep massage, followed by a long bath together, and then we’ll see where the night takes us.”

“That sounds like Heave– AH!” you cried out as Jason suddenly grabbed your arm and shoved your shoulder back into place. However, the blinding pain only lasted a few seconds before fading to a dull ache, which was a huge improvement from moments before. “Thanks.”

Jason nodded. Reaching out, he swiped his thumb across your chin and when he removed it, you saw it was covered in blood. Jason stared down at it as he growled, “You have nothing to thank me for. I’m the reason you’re here in the first place.”

Grabbing his chin between your finger and thumb, you forced his head up so he was looking at you. “Hey, this wasn’t your fault, it was mine. I got sloppy and let someone see us together while you were in the suit. Then I wasn’t paying attention and let them grab me. I should’ve been more careful. But I’ll be fine, babe. Because you saved me. Okay?” He nodded softly and you released his face. “Good. Now take me home. I seem to remember you mentioning a back rub? And afterward, maybe I’ll think of some way of repaying you for saving me.”

Jason grinned. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too, babe.” Despite the split in your lip, you pressed your mouth against his.

As he kissed you back, Jason pulled out his grappling gun with one hand and wrapped his other arm around your waist. Holding you tightly, he fired the gun and the two of you were lifted up out of the warehouse and into the night.

Taglist: @nik2blog, @dumb-fawkin-bitch, @lolzghost, @thefictionalcharacterssimp, @venomsvl, @sugarysweetsandpainfulteeth, @your-friendly-neighborhood-al, @hellfire-fan-club, @blue-aconite

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ohnoidontexist · 5 days

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#alien #ufo #cow #spaceship #space #star #stars #abducted

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runawayandhide · 9 months

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(not my picture)

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peacefullyraging · 3 months

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#free mansour #mansours mother #release mansour shouman #the iof has kidnapped mansour #mansour shouman #free gaza #free palestine #gaza #palestinians held captive #palestine #prisoners #captive #abducted #abducted by idf

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euphorictruths · 2 years

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The Collectors- Mark Bryan; 2011

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just-whump-and-suffering · 4 months

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Last Man: Zenmo no Sosakan Ep 02

#Last Man: Zenmo no Sosakan Ep 09 #asian whump #whump #abducted #jdrama whump #japanese drama #tied up #hair grabbing #used as hostage #threatened with knife #ep 02 #yo oizumi #oizumi yo

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a-reader-and-a-writer · 1 year

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Wrong Bat

Winter Whumperland: Day 10. Abducted

Fandom: DC, Batman, Jason Todd, Red Hood, gn!reader

Summary: Someone discovers your boyfriend is part of the Batfamily so you are abducted and tortured for their identities. Too bad they didn't realize which Bat you were dating.

Word Count: 1229

TW: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Capture, Rescue, Slight Blood, Slight Beating, Shoulder Dislocation, Tied by Wrists to Ceiling, Mentions of Guns

Whack.

“Go to hell,” you growled.

Fisher pulled a long knife from his belt and twirled it playfully. “Oh yeah? And what’s he gonna do? Bust in here and hit us with his little sticks?”

“Hey, baby,” you said as he turned towards you. “Welcome to the party.”

“Are you okay?” Jason asked as he gently ran his thumb over the bruise on your cheek.

Leaning into his touch, you murmured, “I am now. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Every time,” he said, pressing his lips to your forehead. “But let’s not make this a habit, alright?”

You chuckled. “Aww, but I love seeing you in action.”

“Then watch the bodycam footage from the Batcave.” He dropped his hand and turned to examine the bodies strewn around the room. “Which one’s got the keys?”

You nodded your head towards Fisher. “Inside jacket pocket.”

As Jason bent down and began digging through his pockets, Fisher started to raise his head with a groan. However, a quick punch to the face made him unconscious once more.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to do that,” you said as Jason returned to your side with the keys.

You closed your eyes and hummed, “Mmm, don’t threaten me with a good time, mister. You know what your massages do to me.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” He nuzzled his nose deeper into your hair. “A deep massage, followed by a long bath together, and then we’ll see where the night takes us.”

Jason grinned. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too, babe.” Despite the split in your lip, you pressed your mouth against his.

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @11thstreetvigilante, @merlehs,@mayhem24-7forever, @sunshineflowerchild789, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @schaarfyx, @happinessricardotapia

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k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9 · 2 years

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‘𝔒𝔟𝔢𝔶’ 𝔟𝔶 ℑ𝔰 𝔐𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔨

#Obey #Is Mirek #ovni #ufo #U.F.O.#Invasion #art #artwork #digital art #Illustration #photo montage #Abducted #abduction

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random-iz-stuff · 1 year

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Alright so I rewatched Abducted to try and powerscale Mary and Fred and now I have a theory for their entire species.

Mary and Fred’s ship is very clearly meant to contain a large amount of creatures. They say it themselves when showing off their (empty) collection.

But there really is an extremely large amount of containment tubes in their ship. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of containers, with elaborate automated sorting systems and everything. It even has a cloaking system.

So what if Mary and Fred’s species is a race of collectors? An advanced species that travels from planet to planet collecting any life they deem to be particularly noteworthy or interesting, preforming experiments like fusion on the life they collect.

Mary and Fred are just exceptions. Complete idiots that don’t understand the intricacies of what they’re doing or how to do it properly, resulting in a cloaking system that’s never used properly, containment pods that are never locked, constant escapes, the wrong creatures being abducted, useless disguises and nonsensical “experiments”.

The ship Mary and Fred use might not even technically belong to them. After all, the ship is gigantic, but there’s only two people on board. They might have stolen it or be the only members of their crew left after something happened to the actually competent rest of the crew.

Hell, in the original concept of this episode, Mary and Fred could have been actually competent at collecting and experimenting. It would explain that deleted more action-packed chase scene where Zim is knocked out and his PAK carries him on its own for a while.

#invader zim #abducted #headcanons #analysis #theory

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ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months

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The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares.

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine.

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming.

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods.

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it.

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t.

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise.

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity.

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains.

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat.

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider.

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down.

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless.

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time.

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair.

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room.

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born.

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding.

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it.

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is.

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

#whump #kidnapping #abducted #sort of #drunkenness #alcohol use tw #drunkenness tw #mind control #magical whump #fantasy whump #whump writing #cheerful whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #dubcon tw #restrained #religious whump #religion whump

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