#aftermath of noncon

[hold-him-down]

Trigger warnings: Aftermath of noncon, institutionalized slavery

Notes: Directly follows this piece, in which Leo winds up laying on the floor crying (as he does from time to time). Someone for sure sent me an ask or two about this, but I simply cannot find those asks, my apologies!

✥ ✥ ✥

Leo’s eyes burn. When the bright overhead light cuts through the darkness without warning, his first thought isn’t about his throat or the throbbing behind his temples or the fact that he still, he realizes, is curled up on the floor. His first thought is that he hopes this one is gentler.

His second thought, in response to the first, is that another piece of him is lost now, to this thing that he has no control over.

It takes too long for him to blink himself to full consciousness. In the time he’s laying there, the handler has crossed the room, has knelt beside him. 

He sees the handler’s lips moving before he realizes anyone is speaking. 

And then, maybe seconds later, he hears the, ‘easy,’s, the ‘calm down,’s, the ‘take a breath,’s and only then does he realize that he's crying. He focuses desperately on choking back his sobs, and he curls up tighter.

“Alright,” Handler Grey says eventually. His fingers grip into the back of Leo’s neck, equal doses controlling and comforting, but he makes no move to rip him off the floor. Or to turn him over.

And then, a small eternity later, when the room has eventually grown so silent that Leo is sure the handler can hear his heart pounding in his chest, Handler Grey says, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Leo watches, eyes heavy, as the handler stands, turns to the sink, fills his cup. He returns moments later and pulls– no, guides?– and he pulls Leo to his feet, oblivious to, or maybe in spite of, the sharp wince that Leo can’t conceal. He’s never experienced this particular pain before, and it worries him. He glances behind him, to the spot where he had laid, and sees the smears of red.

He closes his eyes.

“We’ll get it sorted out,” Handler Grey says, and Leo nods with a whispered, “Thank you.”

And then, just as Handler Grey pushes the cup of water into Leo’s hand, Leo hears his own voice saying the words that he promised himself he wouldn’t say. “You… you knew, right?” He keeps his eyes down, staring at the cup in his hand, at the way his fingers shake. “What they would… what would happen to me?”

There’s a silence, and Leo can’t look up. He doesn’t want to know this, but he needs to know it. He doesn’t want the handler to tell him, but he needs him to. And then, with a voice absent any guilt, absent any emotion at all, Handler Grey responds, "Yes."

Leo’s eyes meet the handler’s, and he nods, holding back whatever hurt he feels for the betrayal. He locks his jaw to keep himself from speaking again, his lips cracked and his eyes heavy and his body so completely shattered.

“Does knowing that make you feel better?” the handler eventually asks, gesturing pointedly toward the glass.

Leo’s stomach turns over. Still, he forces himself to take a sip, and he shakes his head. 

“Then don’t ask the question.” Handler Grey unlocks the cabinet and pulls out a pair of shorts, pushing them into Leo’s arms as he issues a terse, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir,” Leo whispers, the dull, emotionless voice hardly recognizable to him. He’s shaky as he steps into the clean shorts, but the handler, angry as he may be, steadies him. When he stands again, Handler Grey reaches out a hand, pulling at the collar to expose the skin beneath it.

It’s in these moments of subtle kindness that the questions claw their way to the surface. Where will he take him? Will they be gentle with him? When will this happen again?

He doesn’t ask them, though. Instead, he walks shakily, step by step, second by second, in the handler’s shadow. The walk to the shower takes three times as long as normal, but the handler maintains his grip on Leo’s shoulder, and there’s no pressure to move more quickly. Instead, Handler Grey watches every step he takes, his brow as tight as his demeanor.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Leo,” Handler Grey says once they reach the showers. He’s alone here, so it must be early. Too early for the others to be awake.

He takes his time, watching as every drop of red swirls down the drain. When he cries, his tears are silent, and there’s no thought behind them. He stands there, water scalding his skin, his legs and his shoulders shaking, his head pounding, for as long as he’s allowed. He knows that eventually the handler will stop this, but until he does, Leo takes advantage of the moment alone.

Once he’s dry and dressed, the handler walks him back to his room. They're silent, save for the occasional hissing when a step lands too hard. His sweatshirt, several sizes too big, hugs him, and he wraps his arms around his stomach, the handler’s fingers gripped tightly above his elbow.

When he gets to his assigned room, he looks first to Handler Grey for some kind of permission before he is deposited onto the bed. Leo doesn’t hesitate to curl himself up, the thin plasticky mattress groaning under his weight, rock solid but still offering more relief than he thought possible an hour ago.

Handler Grey hesitates, watching him carefully, and then pulls the blanket out from under him and– Leo thinks, for a split second, the handler is going to tuck him in. Instead, he hands the blanket to Leo. 

He is given a new cup of water and lifts himself enough to take a drink. “Can I ask another question,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the cup.

“If the answer will serve you in some way, then sure.”

Leo hesitates, filling the gap in time by taking another drink, and then asks, “Will this… be part of my… training? Every day?” He closes his eyes. Does the answer serve him?

Before he can ask Handler Grey not to tell him, the handler says, “Maybe.”

Leo nods.

And then, surprising himself, he asks, “Did I do okay?” 

The handler cocks his head to the side.

“Did he put…Did he say in the notes if I did okay?”

Handler Grey takes a breath, seeming to consider the question. Leo wishes he could stop speaking tonight. It’s rare, though, that any handler gives his questions any attention at all. 

“He said you cried.” Handler Grey’s face is devoid of emotion, almost entirely. But there’s something there, just under the surface.

Leo nods. “I’m sorry. I… I can do better.” It’s maybe not the right thing to say, but he doesn’t think it’s the most wrong thing. The corner of the handler’s mouth turns up into a kind of humorless smile, but it’s not mocking. 

“I know you can,” he replies. Something in Leo’s face must give him away, because the handler immediately says, “Leo, take a breath.”

He does. He sits up, backing into the corner, pulling the blanket over his lap with him. “What if I can’t do it?” he asks, the feeling of some kind of raw emotion tickling at his throat.

“Do what?” 

He grips the cup harder, the surface of the water sloshing as his hands shake harder. “Survive?” His voice is so small, no more than a whisper, and he isn’t sure if the handler heard him at all. There’s no response. For several seconds, they sit in silence, and Leo is aware, keenly, that he is pushing the handler further than he’s going to be able to go.

“You will,” he says. And then, he amends, “You don’t have a choice.”

Leo nods. Again. And drops back into the mattress, curling himself as tightly as he can. The handler, this time, does drape the blanket over him, almost as if tucking him in after all. It’s not a comforting gesture, but, Leo thinks, it may be a meaningful one. 

“Leo,” the handler says, as he reaches the door.

Leo waits, his heart pounding, holding back the tears that are begging to break free. “You’re off duty for the morning,” he continues. “I want you to get some sleep.”

And then, just as silently as he’d appeared, he leaves, and the room is shrouded in darkness.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake, @crystalquartzwhump, @maracujatangerine, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @distinctlywhumpthing, @thecyrulik, @highwaywhump, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup, @skyhawkwolf, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @also-finder-of-rings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @prodigal-zoe, @peachy-panic, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @urban-dark, @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @pigeonwhumps, @whump-blog, @seasaltandcopper, @angstyaches, @i-msonotcreative, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @anonintrovert, @whump-world, @squishablesunbeam, @considerablecolors @whumpcereal, @whumperfully @pirefyrelight, @whumpsday @whumplr-reader @lonesome--hunter @darkthingshappen

#aftermath of noncon #institutionalized slavery #tada she lives #ill try to do a lukey one tomorrow #we miss that guy too #i have this one in my head #about them dancing at a wedding #so

[squishablesunbeam]

Consequence of Action Pt.2

Continuation of the first piece from Collins' perspective. It's a mellow reprieve before the next chapter... which will be a rough one so heads up!

TW: Aftermath of noncon, mentions of noncon, captive whumpee, caged whumpee, mentions of war

Prev - Next

Collins took his glasses off and set them down quietly, rubbing his eyes until the world blurred around him. He looked over at the bed and sighed wearily, idly grinding his teeth.

He'd felt Quinn's eyes on him for a lot longer than he himself would have lasted being as exhausted as he was. Eventually though, his breathing became less painfully rapid and had leveled out to a somewhat normal rhythm.

He was asleep.

Mercifully.

Collins pressed a hand against his own chest, frowning at the ache that had settled in ever since he'd said yes to the Captain's offer.

He didn't want anything to do with this mess.

The mutiny was foolish. Well-intentioned, sure, but foolish nonetheless. Collins held no delusions about the nature of the man that led this crew. The Captain was cruel and cunning. He was a man that won wars and the old generals loved him for it. But they hadn't been at war for many years now and that only made men like the Captain even more unpredictable.

Rumor has it, the Captain was given a ship after being quietly asked to leave the service for reasons he could only imagine. He had served with many of the crew already on board when he was looking for a new captain, so he'd signed up without much thought. He swore his loyalty to his captain and the crew and felt like he had a home again. Most of those good people were dead now.

It disturbed him deeply that he must have been considered to be a true follower of the Captain instead of one that stood slightly apart. He'd often wondered what it was about him, why Murphy and the others didn't come to him before they pulled the trigger on this foolishness.

He would have helped.

Well, he would have at least told him that his plan wouldn't succeed. Collins was loyal to a fault. He knew that. Still, this was- he wasn't like that. He took no pleasure in this.

Just the thought alone turned his stomach, seeing Quinn today, like he was...

He huffed out a frustrated breath and stood, pacing in the small space.

He remembered Quinn, from before. The few occasions he'd had to speak with the communications officer were swift and practical. He remembered the man being intelligent and quick to think on his feet. He knew his job and the jobs of his superiors, tailoring his tasks in such a way that made their work easier, more efficient. He was an asset to the crew, until he became a threat.

Collins stopped pacing, looking down at the curled up form beneath the blanket, only a tuft of brown hair peeking out from underneath.

He clenched his hands into fists thinking about what he would see if he pulled that blanket back, the many bruises and abrasions that littered the man's body. He couldn't unsee them. The shape of large hands on his hips and arms, of fingers around his neck, deep abrasions on his wrists and ankles from however the others choose to restrain him while they took their own pleasure. He'd heard the stories.

He couldn't stop this. It wasn't his place.

Collins turned away from him, dragging his fingers up into his hair.

Quinn made his choice. He knew the risks. The consequences.

Well, maybe not this. He probably thought he would be sent out the airlock with the rest of them. This fate was- excessive, to say the least. The Captain had already taken this beyond anything anyone would call justice, and he wasn't done yet, not even close.

He'll break him. The Captain will break Quinn into pliant little pieces. He'll use him until there was nothing left for him to be entertained by. And only then, will Quinn find any peace.

He turned back to the bed, chewing absently on his lip.

Peace.

He could do that. He couldn't save Quinn, but he could give him some measure of peace at least. A warm bed, like tonight. A proper meal and a shower when he could. Clean clothes even.

He turned to root through his small closet. Nothing would fit him, not even close. Quinn was already on the slight side before weeks of meager meals, all lean muscle and just a hint of softness to his middle.

Collins shook his head hard, shaking the thoughts out of his mind.

He refused to allow himself to think of Quinn that way, not anymore. Not now.

He'll admit to seeing him in the workout room a time or two. He was often on the treadmill when Collins arrived and was still running without losing a single step by the time Collins finished his routine. He remembers watching him from the corner of his eye sometimes, with those small earbuds nestled in his ears, listening to music and occasionally mouthing the words. He seemed to genuinely love to run.

That tiny spark flickered in his chest for a quick moment as he looked over at Quinn before he very intentionally smothered it out until it was nothing but dying embers.

His heart broke for what this man had been reduced to.

A slave. Nothing but a toy to be played with and stuffed back into a cage.

Collins drew in a deep breath and pulled out a pair of sweatpants with a draw string. Maybe these would work?

He gently laid them at the foot of the bed, along with a too large t-shirt.

He groaned as he moved to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He was exhausted after his 12 hours shift, and then all this, but he didn't want Quinn to wake up in the night to find a strange man sleeping in the bed next to him. Collins knew he'd had much worse over the many weeks he'd been held captive by his fellow crew members.

Still.

He didn't want to frighten him.

He leaned his head back against the mattress and closed his eyes, resolving to help Quinn where he was able. It was the very least he could do.

–

He woke with a start, his head coming up off the mattress far too fast and his vision struggled to keep up with the abrupt change. Collins blinked a few times, remembering why he was still propped against the mattress, sitting on the floor.

He glanced up to the bed.

Still there. Obviously.

It looked as if Quinn hadn't moved an inch in the few hours they must have slept.

Still. Something had woken him.

Collins stifled a groan as his knees popped, standing up stiffly.

He stood quietly over the curled up form on the bed, watching Quinn's breathing carefully. In and out. Slow and steady.

His eyebrows drew down, a frown creasing his face.

Collins leaned forward and gently pulled the blanket down, revealing a flash of two wide open eyes before Quinn dropped his gaze. His breathing starting to speed up exponentially now that he knew Collins knew he was awake.

“Morning.”

Collins let the blanket drop back to where it was, covering all of Quinn's face again. He'd allow the man to choose whether or not he wanted to be awake yet.

He went about brewing some coffee on the small counter by the sink, pulling down two mugs. He paused, his hands hovering over the mugs. Sugar? He took his coffee black but maybe Quinn liked sugar in his, or cream.

He didn't have cream.

He turned back to the bed. Three fingers had pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal two tired brown eyes, watching him silently.

“You're fine,” Collins grunted out. Damn it. He tried to soften his tone.

“What I mean to say is there's no rush. My shift isn't for another hour. Um,” why did he feel like he was trying to speak around rocks, “Do you take cream? In your coffee I mean?”

He watched two eyebrows found each other in between his eyes before smoothing out again.

Collins pointed to the clothes on the foot of the bed.

“Feel free to put those on and, yeah, I'll be right back.”

Collins rushed out of the room and closed the door, huffing out a long breath before heading to the mess hall.

–

10 minutes later and Collins had frozen with his fist paused an inch from the door. The door to his own quarters. Should he knock?

He made a sound deep in his throat that sounded like a growl. This was ridiculous.

He knocked lightly but didn't wait for an answer, opening the door and coming inside, his eyes immediately falling on Quinn.

Quinn was sitting back against the headboards with his knees up and his arms curled tight around himself. He was practically swimming the too big clothing but he looked more like himself at least. With the exception of the collar sitting at the base of his throat.

Collins lifted the tray he had in his hands.

“Eat whatever you like,” he placed the tray on the bed within reach and pointed to the coffee maker that was sputtering away, “Cream or sugar in your coffee?”

Quinn blinked silently but then nodded once.

Collins turned to get the coffee and smiled, making a mental note to keep cream in the small refrigerator under the counter, his shoulders starting to relax.

He sat at the table, Quinn still perched on the bed, and watched him take small, careful bites out of a bagel. He had to bury a smile every time Quinn took a sip of coffee, his eyes fluttering closed at the taste.

They sat in somewhat companionable silence. Collins honestly didn't know what to say and Quinn hadn't breathed a word.

He actually startled when suddenly, “Thank you,” Quinn breathed out on a whisper between bites.

Collins tilted his head down in a brief nod, “You're welcome, Quinn.”

Quinn's eyes flicked up sharply, meeting his own, before dropping back down again.

They walked back to below deck together, down the dark hall and through the heavy door. The room was dark save for the low blue light that ran along the floor of every wall on the ship. Collins hadn't been down here since the mutiny. He didn't know what to expect.

Quinn walked straight to the small cage, bolted to the floor in the center of the room. He never looked up or tried to shy away as he removed the shirt, and then the pants to Collins' surprise. He folded them neatly and turned towards Collins who had frozen in place.

“They wont let me keep these,” he said, placing the clothes in his hands, his eyes boldly meeting Collins' now, as if there was a measure of confidence necessary to strip naked in front of a man who, not 8 hours ago, saw him spread wide for all to see, “I don't know why you... just, thank you.”

With that, he turned and crawled gingerly into the cage. Collins clenched his jaw shut tight as he watched Quinn maneuver his body very carefully. He realized that the floor to the cage was made out of the grates they lay over the ramps in the winter. The ones with the teeth that grip the bottoms of your boots to keep you from slipping.

This was a torture in its own right; and explained the marks dug into his hips and shoulders that never seemed to quite fade.

He watched Quinn thread his fingers through the bars and close the door himself.

“You'll have to lock it.”

“Right,” Collins shook himself and knelt down, swallowing back the revulsion that was twisting up his throat as he secured the lock in place.

He stood and turned, walking out the door and immediately regretted not saying more. Not doing more.

He was a coward.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn

#a little exposition from Collins side of things #whump #captive whump #captivity #reference to noncon #aftermath of noncon #caged whumpee #caged #torture #whumpee and caretaker #mentions of war

[whump-cravings]

Tarnished 6.3

Masterlist

~1.3k words | Original Work: Tarnished Content: omegaverse, noncon aftermath, tiny bit of fluff, power dynamics

At some point, Letin had fallen asleep, because he woke up as someone settled against him. Besan. His head rested against Letin's back and he loosely held onto Letin's shirt.

"You s-smell like her," the prince murmured.

Of course he would after sharing a cycle with her, no matter that he had washed. "Do you want I should leave?"

The hands tightened, which Letin took as a 'no.'

"I'm sorry," Besan said.

Letin puzzled over that, turning his head. Besan's grip tightened. Remembering his promise, the consort fell still. "Why?"

Besan's head curled in further. "I like your h-hair too."

That... he didn't know how to respond. Letin knew he was beautiful and his exotic features made him particularly striking, and Besan No one had ever apologized for enjoying his appearance, for looking at him like he was... ornamentation.

In that moment, it felt worth it to have endured all these years of people admiring and touching him, just for Besan to see it.

"Don't..." Letin started, voice soft. Clearing his throat, he said again, "Don't be." Heat touched his cheeks. Was he actually blushing? When was the last time he'd done that? "How a—" No, stupid question. "I... Could I... help you with food? A bath? Do your injuries need re-bandaging?"

Besan shifted. "...P-Probably..."

"...May I?"

A few moments passed before Besan nodded against Letin's back, fabric slipping from his hold. Letin pushed himself up, leaving the bed to go first to the door to retrieve the key for Besan's cuff and send for Rillis to return. Placing a hand an inch away from his eyes, he approached the prince once more.

"What are you doing?" Besan wondered.

Letin shut his eyes as he took a knee next to the bed, tracing his fingers along fabric to find his target. "I swore I would not look, your highness."

A hand cupped his cheek, halting all progress. "J-just Besan," the prince reminded in a murmur. "Please."

Letin felt himself color lightly again. "Besan," he said softly, thoughtlessly tipping his head into the hand. Warmth radiated through him from the touch.

"..open y-your eyes," Besan said.

Letin did so slowly. Besan was as unkempt as the smell suggested, his hair bedraggled, a scruffy beard on his chin, and dark circles beneath his eyes.

"There you are," Letin murmured, returning the gesture of cupping a cheek. "Not so monstrous, after all."

A pained mirth cracked Besan's expression, giving sorrow an escape. His breath caught as tears welled up, and he turned his face away, covering it with his arm. Letin's immediate instinct was to drape himself on the fellow omega, but held himself back; he, too, could never forget the panic from having a body on his own.

Instead, from the foot of the bed, Letin crawled up next to Besan, hands and forehead flat on his back. Soon, Besan turned into Letin, who wrapped him in a careful embrace.

It was all the comfort Letin had to offer; everything else would be a lie, like how Papa had once said things would turn out 'okay.' Letin had never stopped being a tool to sate others' desires; he hadn't even been able to live at home. Such trite nonsense would be an insult.

A polite and familiar knock came before Besan's tears had dried up.

"Wait," Letin called, raising himself on an arm. To Besan, he softly said, "That will be Rillis now. Can I help you to the bath?"

Besan nodded miserably, and Letin unlocked the cuff before coaxing him from the bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Besan moved stiffly and with a limp, but was nowhere near as weak as he had been last time they had made this journey. Letin set him on a stool before exiting the bathroom.

"Rillis, enter," he called.

"The door is locked, Master," came the muffled reply.

Strange. He didn't remember locking it, nor had he heard her try the handle, but Rillis should have a key anyways. Brow furrowed, he strode over and checked the mechanism.

She had lied. The realization put him on guard. He latched and unlatched the lock to play along. "My apologies," he commented as he opened the door with an easy smile, immediately catching Lokas' presence behind the servant.

"Thank you," Rillis said as she slipped past Letin with a worried glance.

"My princess," Letin greeted with a polite bow, wetting his lips. "I did not expect to find you here."

"I heard that Besan has been struggling," she said. "And I had a break from my work, so I came to comfort him."

Hearing her so freely use Besan's name without title was... unsettling to Letin, he found, as he thought of Besan cupping his cheek. Far be it from him to judge a royal, but to have such a privilege assumed, rather than given, was upsetting after the raw emotions Letin and Besan had shared here.

Perhaps this frustration embolden Letin, but he could not allow Lokas to trespass again into this place. Besan had to have somewhere safe from her reach, if there was hope of him recovering in any meaningful way. It's the least—the only thing I can do.

Letin set himself in the doorway, feeling his heart pick up speed. "You may not enter."

Lokas' eyes narrowed on him. "What?"

Heat colored his cheeks as he raised his chin. Inside his sleeves, his hands trembled. He believed what he'd said, that if forced to choose, Lokas would pick Besan over Letin, but he also trusted Lokas' greed. She wanted them both. No, the gamble he was taking was how severe punishment for opposing her might be.

"My lady," Letin said, "as first consort of your harem, I forbid you entry." He lowered his voice and his eyes—the only deference he dared show, lest she doubt his conviction. "I beseech you, Alpha."

Lokas reached out and Letin tensed, but she only set her hand on his throat. He met her gaze, deliberately waiting a beat before baring his neck, her mark still red from their recent coupling.

She gave a voiceless snort, then let her hand fall. "In light of your position, I will honor this request, though I am eager to meet with my husband."

Letin said nothing, but glanced pointedly to her unmarred neck, earning a flash of annoyance.

"Husband-to-be," she corrected, mouth turned down.

Finally, Letin bowed. "Thank you, my lady alpha."

"Please give this token of my favor to Besan," she said, removing her shawl.

"As you wish," he said as he took it, though he was well aware how such a gift would be received. "As I will be attending my fellow omega, please excuse me from duties for a few days."

"Of course," she said, frown deepening.

Letin raised his hand to her face and she reciprocated, the two of them brushing their scent on each other in farewell. Lokas then retreated and Letin was able to close the door. He set a hand against the wood, leaning into it as he let out a long breath, listening to Lokas' vanishing footsteps. That went... very well.

He turned with a sigh, shawl in hand. "Make sure this gets to the laundry? Discreetly."

"Certainly, Master," Rillis said, sitting back on her heels to talk with him, "but it may be wiser to air it out, then place it in the wardrobe. Princess Lokas already seems less than pleased with you."

He considered it, then draped the shawl on the window. "Wise, as always."

She winked. "It's what I'm here for. I'll be out of here before you're back from the bath with his highness."

"Thank you."

taglist: @whump-worls​ @emcscared-whumps @nicolepascaline​ @sadcatjae​ @despairdragon​ @flat-san @nabanna

#nsfwhump #omegaverse #whump writing #aftermath of noncon #prince besan #tarnished #mars writes #royal whump

[darkthingshappen]

Merry Whump of May, Day 10

@themerrywhumpofmay

Day Ten - “Hit the hay.”

Key

Forgetting

Warehouse     

Okay, seriously y'all. This prompt wrote it self. I have collaborated with the amazing @sparrowsage (Part of my always supportive Whumperful Crew) for another crossover with his enthralling The Warehouse series and my Brother's Keeper series. As we saw during Whumptober, Ben and Jake did a stint at the warehouse and met Sparrow where they spent a most unfortunate evening together. If you'd like to read that, you can find it here. Also, if you're interested in The Warehouse, here's a link to his masterlist. This takes place after Ben and Jake's second captivity and is part of a recovery arc.

As always, I'd like to thank the rest of my whumperful crew: @quietly-by-myself @whumpcereal and @oddsconvert for the wonderful beta job she gave this tonight.

Warnings: aftermath of torture, aftermath of noncon, aftermath of captivity.

Even after spending a few weeks in here, Sparrow couldn’t help but still find this place foreign to him. There were small bits and pieces he still remembered, barely remembered, from when he was here months and months beforehand, like how the staff members in the light blue scrubs weren’t the doctors, more like assistants. He couldn’t remember the proper word for them. He had been here at the hospital for a few weeks now, and somehow his stay was going better than it did the first time. That didn’t mean that there weren’t challenges. The only thing that made it easier on him this time was that he was around a few people he knew he could trust. 

Alex, his doctor (at least that’s what Sparrow believed the word was), had told him that he was finally allowed to walk around the floor after the few weeks of healing that prevented him from doing much of anything. He hadn’t been allowed out of bed much, only to shower and use the washroom. Any other time, he had to have someone with him, pushing him around in a wheelchair. While he did miss the company of his friends, now that he was free once more, the growing need to have some space became more apparent to him. 

The hallways were dimmed, since it was a fair bit into the evening, but despite this, Sparrow wasn’t scared. He was just exploring, looking into rooms that had open doors or uncovered windows, observing the environment he was in. So long as he didn’t go into any of the rooms, no one would say anything or approach him. It felt strange to him, being able to do things of his own free will again. He had almost forgotten what it felt like, almost leaned too far into what was being done and asked of him to the point where he lost any kind of will. But he was safe now, for good. The Warehouse had been shut down since the raid. Damon was arrested, whatever that meant, but all he knew was that Damon couldn’t get to him anymore. 

Sparrow played with his fingers while he walked, glancing into a dimly lit room with only the patient in it as he had done with all the other rooms he had passed.But as he carried on, he nearly tripped over his own feet as he scrambled backwards to get a better look at the person laying in the hospital bed.

He couldn’t help but let his eyes widen as it finally registered; the patient in the bed was Jake Adkins. There were different wires attached to his body that connected to different machines and a tube down his throat. It took a lot of willpower for Sparrow not to move from the doorway to try and get the tube out, convinced it was placed there to hurt him. But it wasn’t there to hurt him; Sparrow had to remind himself that this place wasn’t like the Warehouse. If it was there, it was being used to help Jake. 

So instead, he just stood in the doorway, watching Jake sleep. The steady beeping from the monitors in his room slowly faded as Sparrow’s thoughts swarmed around in his head. 

How was Jake here? At this hospital? Volkov never took his captives to hospitals and they were nowhere near the island. 

Then it dawned on him; if Jake was here, where the hell was Ben? He couldn’t stop the panic beginning to well up inside him that Ben wasn’t safe, or that Volkov and Dmitri were here for some twisted reason, that he himself wasn’t safe. 

Unconsciously, Sparrow leaned against the doorframe to keep himself upright, his breathing already starting to increase before he heard footsteps coming from his left. Sparrow’s head snapped to the side to see who it was, fearing it was one of his old captors. His entire body was tense, but he froze when he saw who it really was. It was Ben. 

His hands were bandaged from the nails that Volkov had put through them, but he looked like he was healing. There was more color in his face than there had been over those few days when he and his brother were at the facility. He still bore the myriad of bruises, scrapes and cuts from their fresh rescue, but at least he was alive. 

“Hey, who are… Sparrow?” It took a moment for the younger brother to register who was in front of him and it left him standing in place, frozen, just as Sparrow was. After a moment, Ben was able to break out of his surprised stare, not expecting to see him. Ever again.

“I.. I didn’t… how are you here?  How did you find us?”  Ben stopped, not wanting to pester Sparrow with the thousands of questions forming in his head. 

Ben frowned when he looked in at his brother’s too still form laying in the bed. Even though they had both made it out, had gotten rescued, he still felt guilty at the fact that he was awake and walking while Jake was unconscious and unable to even stand. 

He looked back up tentatively at Sparrow.  “I… I need to sit down, I’m… I’m not very strong at the moment and I get winded kinda easily.  Wanna join me?”  Ben motioned to the chairs that were around Jake’s bed.  

The question managed to snap Sparrow out of his frozen state, nodding his head after a moment. He didn’t know what to say; there were so many things he wanted to tell him but if he tried to grab hold of something in his head to start with, it vanished. He followed Ben into Jake's room, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs before continuing to fiddle with his fingers in his lap. His eyes kept wandering to Jake and how he had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t supposed to touch the machines, and that the tube in Jake’s throat wasn’t hurting him. 

They sat in silence for a long while, just the beeping of the monitors between them.  Ben’s eyes rarely left his brother, as if he were counting his breaths.  

“He’s dead,” Ben quietly broke the silence.  They both knew who he was talking about. 

Sparrow’s head spun in Ben’s direction, the words snatching his attention. His eyes lingering on Ben’s for a brief moment before he averted his gaze. It was still hard for him to make eye contact with anyone for more than a second. It probably always would be. 

Sparrow could hardly believe his ears. He’s dead, that madman is actually dead. But it had to be true. How else would they be here if he wasn’t? At least that put some of his fears to rest. Sparrow turned his head back towards Jake, taking in a silent deep breath before letting it out slowly. 

“This is where I was brought the first time,” Sparrow said, just as quietly. “This is where I met Ale- Dr. Sharpe. A-and Felix. When they raided the Warehouse, they brought me back here.” Sparrow pulled his legs up onto the chair, hugging his knees close to his chest. “It’s familiar, to say the least. A good familiar.” He looked down at his wrist, eying his hospital bracelet. He still had a bit to go before he was allowed to go back with Felix, but that was alright. He didn’t feel ready to leave here yet, especially now. 

He glanced back at Ben, looking him over again. “Why are you guys here?” Sparrow hadn’t put much thought into where the two brothers would have lived before their captivity. Granted, he hardly knew the world around him, barely even knowing the name of the town he called home, but he didn’t think out of the entire world, Ben and Jake would end up in the same hospital when the island was so far away. 

“Jake… we… we um… we needed a level one trauma center, and mom and dad wanted him close… close to home.  I… I think I was here before too.  I… I don’t remember much from when I first came home, but… But I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks before mom thought I would do better at home.  I…” Ben shrugged. “ I don’t remember much from then.  I remember my mom visiting.  I remember them being there when they flew me home, but it’s all like flashes.  I… I was… not in a good place, mentally that first time.  I’m better now though.  D-Dr. Sharpe you said… blond guy, r-really tall?  S-s-sorry.  I st-stutter when I get nervous.”

Sparrow listened intently as Ben spoke, easily seeing he was wracked with nerves, disregarding the stutter entirely. While it had been a survival tactic, even now he was overly observant and could find telltale points in how someone was feeling. When Ben mentioned Alex, Sparrow’s face lit up a bit. 

“Y-yeah. He’s the one who helped me when I got here the first time, and was waiting for me when I got here a few weeks ago.” Sparrow’s body relaxed a bit; Alex had helped him through so much and Sparrow trusted him with his life. “He’s good with me. He never overly pushed me or did anything to hurt me. He kept me safe while I was here and was the first person I met outside of that fucking place that showed me any kind of care.” 

Sparrow looked back at Ben after a moment, noticing that he still seemed on edge a bit, more so than he should be. “He won’t hurt you, or your brother. I promise.” 

“He… He’s safe?  He asked a lot of questions… my mom tried to an-answer some.  But… but I know there was stuff I didn’t want to s-say with her there.  The past few months… I mean, you know.  Dr. Sharpe is really tall… but… but he’s safe?”

Sparrow nodded, a soft smile on his face. “He’s safe.” He took a moment to take in another deep breath, recalling old memories. They were a bit faded, though a lot of his memories from when he was last here were. Entering back into that hellhole had practically erased everything he had learned, at least on a conscious level. 

“I was scared of him too, when I first met him,” Sparrow admitted. “Though, I was scared of everyone. Everything was so….new and scary, I didn’t know what was going on. I thought everyone here was going to do the same thing the Keeper’s did. But Alex-Dr. Sharpe worked with me. He took things at my pace and respected my wishes.” 

Sparrow looked back over at Jake for a moment before turning his gaze to the bed sheets as he continued, “I honestly don’t think I would have left the hospital if it wasn’t for him. He helped me so much in ways I never thought were possible, even gave me a way to listen to books since I uhm, since I can’t uh, can’t read.” It was a thing he was still embarrassed about, but that small gesture from Alex had helped him cope, it gave him something to focus on and think about that wasn’t related to anything he had gone through. 

“You can’t read?  H-how long did… were you there?”  Ben’s eyebrows knit together in concern.  Ben couldn’t imagine not being able to read.  Books and knowledge had always been such a big part of his life.  He thought of all those horrible lonely nights trapped in that cage where he could do nothing to ease the pain and horrors.  One of the only things that had kept him sane had been to try and remember the stories from the books he’d read.  His favorite characters.  He had always been terrible at art, but he remembered trying to draw them in the dust of his cage sometimes and then rubbing it out before anyone could see.  No books, no stories.  Ben wasn’t sure he could have survived.  He looked at Sparrow with new admiration.  

Sparrow’s face blushed a bit at the question out of embarrassment, but even so, he knew that Ben meant no ill intention. It took him a moment or two to answer the second question, unconsciously hugging his legs closer to his chest. “I think it was around twenty-one years? I never knew anything different from that place, and in there, why teach a pet a skill they’d never need?” He was determined to get better at it though. Sparrow hoped that he would be able to learn how to read well so he could enjoy the comfort of books without having to struggle with them. 

“Twenty-one years!  How the fuck did you survive?” Ben kept his voice quiet, but he was nonplussed.  “I barely made it fourteen months.  Geez!  I… I’m impressed.  I would have died long before that.  Just given up.  You’re one hell of a s-survivor.”  Ben swallowed and brushed his floppy hair out of his face.  “A-an-and D-D-D… your Keeper?”

Sparrow couldn’t help but chuckle at Ben’s reaction. Before he had escaped, the Warehouse had been all that he knew. There were still so many things he didn’t know about or of and even the thought of that made Sparrow anxious, but he knew that in time, he’d learn. At his own pace. 

“It’s all I ever knew. I grew up there, I thought that’s how the world worked; people getting treated like shit and having to fight to survive. All I ever wanted was to be treated like an equal, to be treated like a normal person, like how the Keeper’s treated each other. When I escaped the first time, I finally started to learn that that’s not how things are supposed to be, which only made going back that much harder.”

Ben nodded knowingly as Sparrow spoke.  Being dragged back to captivity was so much worse.  

At the mention of Damon, Sparrow couldn’t help but tense. The events of the raid were still painfully fresh in his mind and it was hard to think about them, let alone talk about it, but he had come to learn that talking about things helped. 

“The Warehouse got shut down. There was a huge raid, so many people died. He…. he tried to escape with me when they came. One of them, I think his name was Vaughn? He managed to find us before Damon could escape. I-It’s hard to remember things clearly, but Vaughn came and visited me here after things were taken care of. He told me that Damon had been arrested, whatever that means, and that he wouldn’t be able to hurt me again. That he could never find me now that he was taken care of. He’s not dead, but I’m hoping that what he said was true, that I don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.” 

At the mention of Agent Vaughn’s name, it was Ben’s turn to brighten.  “If Vaughn told you that you were s-safe and he couldn’t get to you a-again, then it’s true.  I’ve never met a man more t-true to his w–w-word.”  Ben smiled at Sparrow.  He hadn’t smiled much, but putting the connection together that Vaughn had helped rescue Sparrow helped.  It’s like a little part of this messed up world that had finally come right.  The fucking Warehouse was no more.  Like Volkov’s holding pens were no more.  

A smile began to spread across Sparrow's face as Ben reassured him about Vaughn. There were so many things he didn’t know about Ben and his brother, but he hoped that they could keep in touch. They were too important to let go after all this time. 

“I would say that I want to forget, but I don’t think I do.  And it doesn’t matter because I can’t.  I… I think I want to try and help people.  People like us.  I-I used to want to b-be a s-scien-tist, but I don’t know if that’s st-still my p-path.”  Ben was quiet and reflective as he talked.  The last few years had upended his whole life like he’d never thought it could.  But hopefully this was all finally over.  Hopefully.  

Sparrow nodded at Ben’s words, liking the idea. Sparrow had no idea what he wanted to do since the only goal he had had been achieved; to be free. It was something he didn’t think was possible, yet here he was. 

As Sparrow was about to add onto the conversation, there was a soft knock at the door. Both of their heads turned to the source of the sound, both being a bit on guard, but Sparrow relaxed as soon as he realized it was only Alex. 

“I was wondering where you had gone off to, Sparrow,” he commented lightly. Alex looked to Ben, giving him a soft smile. “I’m glad you found someone to talk to though.” 

Sparrow glanced at Ben, giving him a reassuring nod that it was okay. He knew Ben wouldn’t trust Alex one hundred percent right off the hop, he hadn’t either, but he knew he could help start the process. “You said I could finally get up and walk on my own earlier, so I did.” 

Alex chuckled softly, “I did indeed tell you that you could.” He put his hands in his coat pockets, leaning a bit on the door. “I hate to end things early for you and your friend, but it’s getting late and I think it’s best that you both hit the hay. There will be plenty of other times when you two can talk when there’s more daylight.” 

At Alex’s words, Sparrow couldn’t help but look confused. What did that even mean, ‘hit the hay’? What even is hay? Sparrow shook his head slightly to try and get rid of the confusion, but he knew Alex was right. It was getting late, he could tell by how dark it was outside through the windows. He’d have to come back tomorrow if Ben was up for it. 

Ben smirked at Sparrow’s obvious confusion over certain colloquialisms.  Despite his apparent years of captivity, no, he wanted to call it what it was, his enslavement, there was something precious and childlike in Sparrow.  Not an innocence, per se, but a… naivete to his demeanor.  Ben liked it.  He liked Sparrow.  There was something fierce and loyal in him that Ben now believed was rare in the world but worthy and needed.  This was especially true after all the cruelty and lack of humanity that Ben had endured during his time in captivity.  He reached his hand up and unconsciously touched the horrible slave tattoo that he still bore on his throat.  This time, that would be the first to go.  

Sparrow started to stand from his chair before he finally remembered something. Something that had happened so long ago but had been important to him the last time he had been able to speak to Ben. He turned and looked at Ben with  an excited expression. “Maybe at some point soon I can introduce you to the people who helped me stay fighting while we were there. I’m sure they’d be happy to meet you and your brother. And hey, maybe you could introduce me to your fiance. I’m sure she’s really glad to have you home.”

“I’d like that. My parents will be around tomorrow if you want to meet them.  And they usually bring Zoe with them, if she’s not already here.  She had her own doctor appointment today, which is why she’s not here.  But she’d love to meet you.  Jake is… The doctor’s say it may be a while because his body is repairing itself and needs extensive rest.  They aren’t sure if he’ll be able to walk yet.  Either way , he’s going to need massive amounts of physical therapy, so I’ll be around.  I’ll need some myself for my hands and things, but the nerve damage is already done.”  

Ben shrugged as if to say it is what it is, but the uncertainty of what he was going to do with his life going forward unnerved him because before all this he’d been so certain.  But that was a problem for another day.  

“It was really great to see you, Sparrow.  I’m glad you got out.  No one deserves what happened in that warehouse.”

Sparrow nodded at the invitation, ignoring the anxiety of meeting new people. That night that he had comforted Ben, hearing about the people that were waiting for him and his brothers return, Sparrow knew that at some point, if he were to ever get out, he’d want to meet them, to let them know that Ben was ok. 

“It was good to see you too, Ben,” he said finally, his excited grin softening to a warm smile. “I’m glad you two got out too, and that you’ll never return to any of that. No one deserves what happened to us or anything in between.” 

With that, Sparrow gave Ben one last smile before he headed for the door, giving Alex a small, soft smile before exiting the room, Alex following shortly after. 

It was surreal, being able to see Ben and Jake again. Like Henley, Sparrow didn’t think he’d ever see these people again, but it hadn’t kept him from thinking about them every day, hoping and wishing they were ok and staying strong. It was almost like the whole ordeal, the entirety of it all, was a big lock, and he had only just managed to find the right key to unlock everything he needed to continue forward. 

Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @quietly-by-myself @there-will-always-be-bloodblood @whumping-seven-days-a-week @hiding-in-the-shadows (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this) 

Sparrow's Tags:

@mannerofwhump @honey-is-mesi @painful-pooch @whumperfully @hiding-in-the-shadows @flowersarefreetherapy @goronska

#themerrywhumpofmay #mwm2023 #mwmday10 #hit the hay #key #forgetting #warehouse #The Warehouse #benjamin adkins oc #sparrow cresky #jake adkins #ben adkins #ben and jake #recovery arc #comfort #reconnection #aftermath of torture #aftermath of noncon #aftermath of captivity #whump #captivity #kidnapping #whump writer #whump community #whump writing #collab #collaboration #whump collab #brother’s keeper

[flowersarefreetherapy]

Capture pt. 3

CW: aftermath of noncon, mentions of past noncon, noncon touching, intimate whumper, noncon kiss, general creepiness

It is all a dream. That’s all this is. A really, really bad dream. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in even breaths through his nose. James must have gotten a new air filter. The house smells clean and cold and stale. Like a hotel–no, no, no, that was a bad dream. The hamburger he had before bed was kept under the hot lights for too long. That’s all. 

This is all a bad dream. 

Cold air dances over his skin. He shudders and buries himself further under unfamiliar blankets. That’s alright. James probably took his because he complains so much about being cold even though he isn’t the one saving up to fix the air conditioning. He must have given him one of the nasty old blankets. 

This is all a bad dream.

He shifts, pain lancing through his body. Muscles he didn’t know existed throb relentlessly and there is an ache deep inside him more terrifying than anything else. But he’s fine. Nothing is wrong. They can’t afford a doctor. 

This is all a bad dream.

Or he’s hungover. Yeah, that’s what this is. He runs his tongue over his mouth, searching for remaining tastes of alcohol. He probably went home with some cute guy after a party . . . no, that wouldn’t make sense. He hasn’t told anyone about that. He wouldn’t dare James find out from rumors around school. But a hookup seems most likely. 

James won’t care. He said he’ll love you no matter what. That includes liking both–

Someone moves next to him. He freezes, inhaling dust that smells like the cold. This is not his room. This is all a bad dream. He remembers. This isn’t happening. He knows and he doesn’t. This is all fake, a nightmare still. 

“Good morning, darling,” Simon breathes in his ear. His hand runs down his chest and back up, feeling every inch of his body. “God, you’re stunning.”

He freezes as the man buries his face in the crook of his neck and inhales deeply. A shudder runs down his spine. 

This is all a bad dream. 

“No good morning for me?” Simon pouts. His lips press to his shoulder, tongue swirling over the freckles there. 

He stares blankly at the peeling wallpaper, feeling nothing. Simon’s chest presses against his back, one leg hooking over his. He whimpers and subtly tries to pull away.

“Oh, don’t worry, pretty boy, I'm not going to do anything like that. Today’s the day that you learn just what you were made for. You’ll have nothing more to do with this silly world.”

What is he talking about? “Pl-please, I just want-”

“You don’t deserve anything,” the man hisses. “You are nothing, nobody, no one would ever want you. You’re lucky we found you and decided to take pity on you.”

Lucky? The hell is wrong with this man? He expected him to feel lucky after all he had just done to him? He grips the blankets and tries to free himself. Simon chuckles and pulls him back, fingers digging into his hips. 

“Come on, pretty boy,” Simon says, throwing the covers off both of them. He flinches in the sudden cold. “It’s time to go.”

Leaving. That means other people, that means movement, too many things going on to properly contain him. That means a chance for freedom. He nods dumbly, watching curled in the blankets as Simon pulls on his clothes and runs a hand through his hair. 

He’s pretty. 

No! He shoves away the thought the moment it enters his head. This man kidnapped him, took advantage of him, and he thinks he’s pretty? He buries his face in the pillow with several curses. 

This is all a bad dream.

“We’re going to have to work on that too,” Simon mutters, grabbing the blanket and yanking it free. 

“I-I can dress myself,” he whispers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. They’re sticky and he doesn’t want to think about it, until he sees the blood and his knees go weak.

Simon is there to pick him up, kiss his cheek as he maneuvers him into his old clothes (he wants to burn them off, but knows the man won’t listen anyways), and wash away the visible traces of blood. A few bites are placed on the inside of his thighs.

“Where no one but me will see them.”

They walk out of the room and into the sweltering heat. Beads of sweat start to form near his hairline, sticking his curls to his neck. Heat waves distort the parking lot and the gray SUV they walk towards. The two other men are waiting. There’s a small logo on one of the men’s shirts he can’t make out. Letters, maybe?

“All set,” Simon says, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this pretty boy to his new home.”

This is all a bad dream. 

#Alexander is still a fool #Simon the dumpster fire #noncon mentions #aftermath of noncon #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #defiant whumpee #noncon touch #noncon kiss #bbu #pet whump #hamilton au #whump

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Whumpuary 2024 Day 14

14. (Jan 27-28) Flinching / Breakdown / Sleep Deprivation 

cw past trauma, implied noncon/torture, hurt/comfort, aftermath of whump

“You’re slower than usual,” Hero teased when they pinned Villain to the wall. “Lost your edge after that little vacation you took?” 

Villain was breathing heavily. Their hands grasped at Hero’s, which were fisted in the front of their suit, but Villain lacked their typical strength. “Wasn’t a vacation, you jerk,” they huffed. “And I’m doing my best here.” 

Hero pulled one of their hands back, and their heart jumped when Villain flinched away from them; they’d never reacted like that before. The instinctual fear was clearly visible in their eyes.  

“Whoa, hey,” Hero said softly. “I was just gonna—your mask is slipping.” 

Villain looked down, frowning. “Sorry. I just...go ahead.” 

Hero raised their hands slowly and adjusted Villain’s mask, noting the sharp intake of breath when Hero’s fingers grazed their cheek. As they put it back in place, Hero could see a dark bruise hiding under the mask. The slightest bit of purple spread up their cheekbone. 

Villain was trembling when Hero stepped back. 

“Are you okay?” Hero asked. Logically, they knew they should take advantage of Villain’s weakness and bring them in. But they just couldn’t bring themself to be that cruel. 

“When I was gone this week,” Villain whispered, “I was...Supervillain took me hostage. I’ll spare you the details but...they did some shit to me I wouldn’t even do to my enemies.” 

Hero felt their heart ache at the admission and the pained expression in Villain’s eyes when they looked back up. “I’m sorry, I—I had no idea.” 

“Not your fault,” Villain said with a shrug. They tried to force a smile as well, but it didn’t quite work. “But it messed me up pretty good. I can’t sleep. I can’t move without remembering their hands on me.” 

A sick feeling curled in Hero’s stomach as they imagined what the normally collected Villain must have been through to have them on the verge of tears at the memory. They slowly reached out, giving Villain enough time to stop them—but when they didn’t, Hero pulled them into an embrace. “It’s over,” they muttered into Villain’s hair. “You're safe now.” 

Their words seemed to open the floodgates, and suddenly Villain broke down. Hero didn’t know what to do, so they just held their nemesis as they cried. The fact that they’d been in the middle of a fight passed through Hero’s mind, but it didn’t matter now. They were a hero—their job was to help people. Even if those people regularly made their life hell. 

“I’m sorry,” Villain choked out. “This is pathetic. And I—I deserved it.” 

“No one deserves to be hurt like that,” Hero said, rubbing their back in soothing circles. 

Villain tried to steady their breathing as they looked up at Hero, eyes glistening with tears. “Thank you. Just—give me a minute, and we can get back to it.” 

“What do you say we get a rain check,” Hero asked with a small smile, “and you let me buy you a coffee instead?” 

Villain sniffled and rolled their eyes. “As long as you promise to reschedule. Because I was looking forward to kicking your ass.” 

Hero laughed. “Okay, deal.” 

Although the coffee may not have truly fixed anything, it was a welcomed comfort. 

taglist: @morning-star-whump

#whumpuary2024 #whumpuaryno14 #flinching #breakdown #hero x villain #hero villain writing #hero caretaker #villain whumpee #implied torture #implied noncon #aftermath of whump #past trauma #hurt/comfort #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #snippet

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Test Track AU (T$$ AU Masterlist)

previous /// next

(As suggested by anon!)

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden , @snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday ,@suspicious-whumping-egg , @cryptidwritings , @painsandconfusion , @grizzlie70 , @bloodsweatandpotato , @ladyblogofficialreporter @whumper-soot , @poeticagony

#this and the last one happen back to back! #super fun!! #t$$ test track au #t$$ sahota #whump art #whump comic #torture #stress position #barbed wire #blood #anon #noncon drugging #(aftermath) #beating #will rh tomorrow at a normal time probably

[whumpshaped]

prev just one more..

tw vampire whumpee, starvation, lady whumpee, noncon drugging aftermath, addiction whump, guilt

Jude gulped down the blood with the intensity and desperation of a starving man, letting out the occasional little whimper at just how good it tasted. Pia let him, encouraged him, told him it felt good, and he just couldn't find it in himself to stop any sooner than it was absolutely necessary.

He snapped out of it only when the praise stopped, the poor woman slumping against his body like she had no more strength to stay on her feet. Jude gently shook her by the shoulders, alarmed beyond measure.

"Pia?" He got a weak grunt in response, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that she was at least still conscious. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll– I'll help you get better, okay? I'm so sorry."

With his strength mostly regained, it wasn't too difficult to scoop her up and gently lay her on the bed. She was still in the midst of her venom-induced euphoria, softly groaning and almost... moaning with each exhale. Jude wished he could've just covered his ears — or better yet, left the cabin entirely.

What had he done? How could he...? Why...? Why couldn't he just be a good vampire? That was all he wanted, to minimise the harm. And now here he was, having almost committed another murder.

She had just been so insistent–

He shook his head, banishing the thought entirely. Pia was a hunter. She hadn't been insistent in earnest, she had been under a spell, a drug that had made her abandon all common sense. And he had taken advantage of it.

Jude took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. At least with a clear head, he would be able to help her recover to the best of his abilities. And once the venom left her system, he could offer himself up to be staked, just as she'd likely wanted to do in the first place. He would right this, if it was the last thing he did.

-

Tending to an injured human wasn't as difficult as he thought it'd be. Pia was awake and mostly functional within less than a day, and understandably, she was more than confused.

"Where am I...?" She turned her head to look at him, and Jude couldn't help using a bit of charm to make her less afraid. It was only temporary. Just until he could explain the situation. "Who are you?"

"It's... It's a– quite a scary story, but, but please... Please don't be alarmed, okay? I won't harm you in any way–"

"Where am I?" she repeated, more urgently.

"In my home, just outside of town. My name's Jude, and... uh... I, I only kept you here so I could tend to your wounds–"

Pia touched the bandages on her neck, frowning a little. "Fuck. Fuck. The vampire got me, didn't it?"

Jude crawled a bit backwards, still on his knees. "That's... that's another thing," he whispered. "It's– the, the vampire... I... I didn't mean to hurt you, I just– I'm so sorry–"

His incomprehensible, nervous blabbering was enough to break the charm on its own. Pia's eyes widened in recognition, and her hand immediately flew to her belt with the stake still in it. She didn't draw it, though. She seemed a little taken aback to find it in its place. "Okay, what's going on?"

There was a small pause before Jude slowly put his arms up in a show of surrender. He thought he was ready to ask her to finish what she'd come here for, but the words wouldn't come. He hoped his gesture of docility would be enough.

"No, I want answers. Right now." She sat up in bed, still looking a bit unsteady. "Why the fuck do I still have my stake? Why am I in your bed? Why am I alive? You must've realised I was a hunter."

"I have," he said quietly.

"So? What's going on?"

Jude swallowed and tried once again to say the right words. He had to be staked, and if anyone had the right to do it, it was Pia. "I... I'm a monster. I attacked you, I... I did an unthinkable, horrible thing to you, even though you were only trying to do the right thing. I'm so sorry, Pia. But I... I'm r-ready now. I won't struggle."

"Wait, hold on–" She squinted at him, searching his face for something unknown to him. "You're... What's your name again?"

"Jude. Jude Flanagan," he supplied immediately.

That seemed to be the wrong answer, because she groaned in frustration and flopped back onto the bed. "You're not the vampire I'm after. Fucking– goddammit!"

"D-does it matter? We're... we're all just pests, aren't we?"

Pia looked at him, taking in the pitiful sight he must've been, and scoffed. "Well-behaved ones, apparently. You do realise you saved me, right? I'm not gonna stake a vamp who..." She gestured vaguely in his direction. "I mean, look at you."

Jude shifted on his knees, reluctantly lowering his hands. Well-behaved? Coming from a human– a hunter, that was... surprising. He hadn't gotten a kind word in months, and to think he'd get them from her first...

"I'm a danger to your kind," he mumbled.

"And I'm a danger to yours. Yet here I am. Jude, listen..." She sighed. "You spared my life, okay? I'm not taking yours. I just can't. That'd be so fucked up."

The relief that coursed through him at the words felt sinful in itself, and Jude couldn't help getting emotional. "If– if you're sure," he sniffled. "If you're really sure."

Pia laughed softly. "You're... by far the most self-hating, depressed vampire I've ever seen. I didn't even know that was a thing." She even offered him a smile, a sort of mixture of pitying and compassionate. "I don't think I'll regret it. Truly."

-

Going back to feeding on roadkill was a bigger adjustment than Jude had expected. He couldn't stop thinking about the hunter, that delectable blood flowing into his mouth in abundance, so much more and so much tastier than any hedgehog or rabbit.

He tried to distract himself endlessly, with books, with prayer, with a number of different little hobbies he'd picked up, but it was torture nonetheless. It was hard to even focus on anything when his brain was so insistent on showing him vivid images of Pia and the way she offered her neck to him.

Jude almost jumped out of his skin at the knock at the door. Nobody ever knocked on his door. The shack was supposed to be abandoned; but even if the locals had finally realised that a vampire was living there, why would they ever decide to visit?

He cautiously made his way over there, opening the door just a crack to see who it could be.

"Hey," Pia said with a tired smile. "I won't even try to sugarcoat it... I think the venom got me hooked."

#whump #whump drabble #vampire whumpee #starvation #lady whumpee #noncon drugging aftermath #addiction whump #guilt #jude

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Chosen, Chapter Four

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |

CW: Aftermath of noncon/dubcon, nonsexual nudity (or... post-sexual nudity?), mentioned bruises, creepy whumper, intimate whumper

-

Present day

“You don’t believe in Dromada.” Grigori keeps his gaze firmly off to one side, refusing to grant the bastard the privilege of eye contact. Instead, he stares through the barred window at the beautiful day outside. 

Bohli only laughs, straddling Grigori’s hips as he reaches over him to untie his hands from the intricately carved headboard, one by one, before pulling them down to tie them together. Why Bohli bothers, Grigori will never know - it’s not like he can go anywhere, like he could escape this. Put that damn pendant back on and Grigori will look like he’s in love if he’s told to. He’ll feel like he’s in love, and be utterly unable to understand he isn’t.

“No,” Bohli says, voice low and heavy, and Grigori’s mind may shudder at the idea that Bohli will want him again so soon, but his body responds differently. “Or rather… yes, but not the way you think.”

He pulls away, leaving Grigori to shiver in the sudden chill when Bohli’s too-warm body is gone. He sits up, watching Bohli dress in his black leathers while Grigori can only sit there naked, picking at the knots on his wrist without success. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Well, I believe in Dromada, but I don’t believe in any such thing as your silly human goddess,” Bohli responds easily. His leather slide on like a second skin, and as soon as he has them, Grigori can hardly remember what he looks like without clothing - only a sense of skin absolutely covered with runic tattoos in the elven tongue that he refuses to explain or elaborate on. “Those are two different things, Grigori.”

Bohli is a little flushed from his exertions, his hair a wild mess atop his head, but he doesn’t even bother to try and comb it down. He has a feral look to him, with his narrow chin and hard jaw and sharp teeth, that isn’t attractive, not in the slightest, no matter what Grigori’s immensely traitorous body thinks.

“No, they’re not,” Grigori says. Before he can finally work one knot open and free himself, Bohli is back in front of him, pulling him to his feet on shaky legs. His hips hurt, his lower back aching in a soft way that might have been sweet, if any of this was what he wanted. 

Isn’t it, though, by now? He could be fighting harder than this.

But he doesn’t.

As days pass, he fails to see the point in trying. At least his mind is wiped clean, for a few perfect minutes, each time Bohli overcomes his resistance. At least he has peace, briefly, before all his self-loathing rises again. 

“Hm?” Bohli blinks, pulling Grigori’s knuckles to his lips, giving each one a gentle kiss that has Grigori’s fingers twitching in an urge to throw a punch that he knows damn well won’t land, just to say he did it. Just to keep fighting. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Dromada is the human goddess of forgiveness,” Grigori says, slowly, frowning and jerking his hands back from Bohli’s grip. The half-elf… man… whatever he is, laughs and ties a new rope to the short bit of slack between Grigori’s wrists, backing up while jerking on the makeshift leash to force Grigori to stumble forward, naked and sweaty and marked from Bohli’s attentions, with lips still red and thighs still shaking. “Wait, what-... what are you doing-”

“Taking you for a walk,” Bohli says cheerfully, continuing backwards to the door, yanking Grigori into the hallway even as he starts trying to drag his feet.

As lean as he looks, though, Bohli has inhuman strength, and no amount of struggle keeps Grigori within the relative safety of his room.

No, his feet stumble onto the thick, heavy rug that runs the length of the hallway, and his face flushes a deep dark red as he sees two of the bandit gang turn to look before they burst into laughter and murmur to each other.

Bohli keeps him moving, away and not towards the two who still direct their laughter at Grigori’s back. 

Grigori’s heart pounds in his chest, he’s dizzy from rage and humiliation as they pass bandits in ones and twos, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of this ramshackle home for evil out into the sunshine. Every single bandit laughs at him - he knows all their darkest sins, they come to confession regularly whenever Bohli commands it, and they don’t lie. They want him to know the depravations they pursue, they want him to see the wicked natures of their hearts. 

He knows the worst things they have ever done, and yet here, they laugh at him - and he can do nothing. As far as they're all concerned, he is just Bohli's bedtoy and prisoner, here to amuse, here to be ground under their feet, here to give Bohli his basest desires to play with, a holy man to turn into profane perversion.

Not that he feels holy any longer.

Please, he prays, but Dromada doesn’t listen. Maybe She can’t hear him in the Kaila, maybe the woods are beyond Her ability to reach. Maybe that’s why mankind stays away from the darkness here, the trees older than time, the first forest to have ever existed. The place where the elves once came from, before they were chased back into it, before they were destroyed.

Or were they?

Please save me. I will be your priest again, and I will not waver this time. Please, please, goddess, please. 

She gives him nothing.

The sun, at least, is warm on his hair and skin, and the grass is soothing and soft under his bare feet. Bohli tips his head back and Grigori watches his eyes close as he seems to preen and flower under the heat and light coming from the bright blue sky. Grigori looks wrecked, like a whore after serving in the war-tents for the soldiers.

You are a whore, now. You know that, right?

He forces his own thoughts away. Grigori knows he looks destroyed, torn apart, scratched to bleeding, bitten to bruising, slapped to redness on his arse and face according to Bohli’s depraved lusts. But Bohli… looks pristine. There’s no red marks on him, no bruise. Nothing to show what he's done.

Only his lovely, sharp face and his bright, shining smile.

As if Grigori had simply fucked himself into this appearance, and Bohli had stood by above it all.

“I hate you,” Grigori says aloud, hardly realizing he’s done so until Bohli opens his eyes and turns to look at him, looking faintly surprised. 

“What?” Grigori’s heart quakes, just a little, at the way Bohli’s smile drops off like it was chalk washed away by rain, and something in those dark eyes turns coldly elven, all his humanity simply gone like it’s only a mask he wears and he can take off at will.

“You… you heard me,” Grigori says, and somehow his voice stays steady. There are more bandits out here - the ones patrolling the edges of the clearing, guarding against wildlife that might try to make its way in. A few simply sitting out on the grass enjoying pints of beer they make themselves here from stolen grain. He knows they’re looking while pretending not to look, seeing the marks on his body, knowing their leader put them there. “I hate you. You have-... you have ruined me.”

For a moment, those black eyes on his feel like voids he might fall into and drown.

Then Bohli throws his head back and laughs so loud that a flock of birds is startled out of the trees nearby and takes flight with raucous caws and the beat of wings.

He keeps laughing, the bastard, his knees folding and then giving out until he falls onto the ground, jerking the rope until Grigori is pulled down, too, to land on his hands and knees on the grass. Someone calls out something filthy about what they could do with him out here like this, and his face burns. Tears are hot beyond his eyelids and he works as hard as he can to ignore them.

Bohli is still laughing, airy and breathless, as he drops onto his back, turning his head to look at Grigori with appraising, glimmering eyes. “Gods below, you thought I would care. See, Brother Grigori-”

“How dare you call me that!”

“-this is why I like you so much! You are a fucking treat. I’m so glad we let you live. I’m so, so glad I found you. You’re a beauty, and you’re mine. Now that’s a gift from the gods, don’t you think? My very own dirty little priest.”

“I-I’m no longer-”

“Oh, you still are one. Just because I have taken all your sacred parts and sanded them down to mud doesn’t mean you aren’t still a priest of Dromada, my pretty little man. You are a pure man turned to slut at my command, and that's all I need you to be, really. Come here.”

Grigori sets his jaw, knowing it won’t matter. But he can’t force himself to move, and he has to make Bohli work for this, even if he isn’t sure why he bothers. “No.”

“I said, come here, little priestling.” Bohli's smile shifts again, fades a little.

“And I said no.”

They stare at each other, for one long breath of silence broken only by the wind in the trees and the fading calls of the fleeing birds. Then Bohli’s smile widens so much that he seems like the stories of sea monsters and sharks, a mouth full of rows of endless teeth, black eyes that take in light but don’t reflect it. “Oh, Brother Grigori,” Bohli breathes, lighting up with new desire. “If you want me to take you again so badly, you should just say so.”

“What?” Grigori’s eyes widen in shock and new horror. He still hurts, he still throbs. “No!” He throws himself backwards, and Bohli isn’t expecting it - the rope slips through those long fingers fast enough to make the half-elf wince before Grigori is on his feet and fleeing, still naked, towards the woods.

Others in the bandit group stand, but Bohli holds up a hand. “Let him go,” He says, voice bright, getting softer as Grigori runs. “I’ll give him a ten-minute head start, let's see how he begs for me to take him back once I catch him.”

Grigori hears more laughter, but he ignores it, making the edge of the clearing in only a few seconds. He’s always been a good runner, fast and strong. He used to race some of the others in circles around the temple, see who could do the most laps in the shortest amount of time. His breath burns his lungs as he things, unwillingly, about his brother priests, the family murdered by the same bandits who keep him here as a sort of toy for their amusement, who shred him body and soul, day by day, to… what? Prove some point about their hatred of the goddess?

To prove some mysterious point to the King, a man Grigori has never met, who no one has ever seen in person outside the palace and the battlefield?

He runs, half-blinded by tears that come unbidden, that he can't quite seem to force away. He runs as if fleeing the flames that had burned down the only life he ever knew and left him to dissolution, to being preyed upon by a creature of such absolute devotion to degradation.

The trees at first seem natural and normal, but as Grigori runs straight into the woods, the Kaila begins to crowd around him. The sunlight grows dimmer, blocked by the grand canopies of the trees that loom over his head. After a couple of miles, maybe three, the canopy is so thick that it seems as dark as night around him. Things crash away from him through the woods, wildlife startled by him into fleeing. 

His feet hurt, sharp pains as he keeps stepping on things he can’t see through the underbrush. He's panting like a child - or like a man who hasn't been allowed to run in a year.

By now, he knows, Bohli is after him, tracking his trail through the trees. Grigori comes to a stop, looking around himself and realizing he has no idea how far he will need to go to find one of the safe paths through the Kaila.

Or if there even is one in this direction.

He takes a breath through lungs that burn, realizing he can’t even give up and turn around and go back. He has no idea which direction he’s come from, and no idea which direction to go. His rebellion may be simply to die, lost in the dark forest that is damnation to man, doomed to wander as just another trapped spirit caught here between the trees, subjected to the whims of the lingering traces of the elven gods and their terrible cruel amusements.

But at least he will have wiped that smile off Bohli’s face, taking from him his toy and breaking it where he cannot follow, the bastard.

Grigori squares his shoulders, looks around, and walks in a direction at random, heading for the sound of some kind of stream he can hear, picking his way more carefully now that the panic has subsided. Do elves track by scent? Bohli might, if they do… he doesn’t know. But it can’t hurt to stop for a drink of water before he moves on anyway.

Show me the way, he prays. He pleads, he throws every last remaining shred of belief he has in Her mercy into his mental voice. Please, my goddess, I have worshiped you since I was an infant. Save me. Please, please save me.

She doesn’t answer.

She hasn’t answered him since the day his brothers all died and he was spared by a trick of fate.

Still, he keeps moving.

His last act as Dromada’s Chosen, he supposes, will be simply to take from a wicked man something he wanted for his own. It’s not much.

It’ll have to do.

If he’s very, very lucky, he’ll get Bohli so lost he dies in here, too.

-

Tag list:

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

#whump #the heretic's confession #fantasy world #fantasy writing #fantasy whump #captivity #nonsexual nudity #aftermath of noncon #creepy whumper #cheerful whumper #defiant whumpee #runaway whumpee #religious whump #I mean fantasy religion but #priest whump #more foreshadowing hints if anyone cares to guess #humilitation tw #escaped whumpee

[darkthingshappen]

Aaawwweee! I want to give Ben all of them! 🥺❤️

Ok gotta make a choice🤔

Let‘s give him: 🥰+🍳

Post Nightmare Cuddles and Breakfast in Bed

Ben awoke with a start.  He was gasping for air and covered in a cold sweat.  He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest.  He pressed his head to his knees and tried to calm his breathing.  

“Benny?  You okay?" Zoe said, rolling over next to him in bed.  

She rested her hand on his bare shoulder and he flinched.  She pulled her hand away and sat up to be next to him.  She gently rubbed his back, her fingers absently tracing the lines of scar tissue that criss crossed his body.  

She didn’t say anything.  She simply waited with him.  Waited for him to come back to her.  

“It was just a dream,” He finally whispered.  “I’m okay.  I’m… I’m okay.”

Ben was still panting.  It felt so real.  He could feel the cuffs on him, the collar, the hands…  Ben scrabbled his fingers down his face.  

“I just need a minute.  I’ll… I’ll be back.  Go back to bed.”

Ben tossed the covers back and got up and walked to the window.  He threw the curtains back and stared out at the moonlit night.  The air in the room chilled his damp skin.  He flexed his fingers, his palms giving a slight throb at the stretch around the scar tissue.  

Being able to see the wide open sky always helped when he felt like this.  

A moment later Zoe’s familiar hands were on his shoulder, her soft, warm body pressed up against his back.  

“It’s okay, Benny.  You haven’t had a nightmare in a while.  Deep breaths, my love.  It’s okay.”

Her hands moved slowly, caressing from the back of his shoulders, around his strong arms, over his chest and then flattened out over his abdomen.  She rested her head on his back and they swayed slightly in the moonlight.  

He laid his hands over hers.  She was right, it had been a while.  The demons that haunted him at night were long gone, but every now and then, they reared their ugly heads and tried to claw him back again.  

He turned in her arms.  “I love you.  You’re so good to me.”

She rested her head against the solid plain of his marred chest.  Again her fingers traced the scars on his body, the ghosts of old tattoos that were long since removed.  She’d memorized every mark and kissed the hurt away from each and every one of them.  

He rested his cheek on the top of her head and together they stood in the quiet and the dark.  

“I love you, Benny.  You’re so good to me as well.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed into her hair.  

Zoe listened to his heart rate slowly calm down.  There had been many a night she’d helped him battle his demons.  But they grew less frequent as time passed.  

Finally she looked up at him.  “Come back to bed?”

Ben exhaled and nodded.  Zoe sat and pulled him to her, pulling the blankets up to cover them both.  He pillowed his head on her breasts and she stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.  

“Rest, my beautiful darling.  I’ll keep watch for a bit.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to listen to a heartbeat.  He let the slow steady rhythm of it lull him back into a peaceful sleep.  

*!*!*!*!*

Morning arrived with the sound of birdsong and the smell of coffee.  He breathed a contented sigh as he thought over the night before.  The nightmares sucked, but at least he wasn’t alone.  

Zoe came into the room and handed him a steaming cup of coffee.  He could smell the hazelnut.  She settled in next to him and they both drank in quiet solitude.  He read morning headlines on his phone while she scrolled through social media.  It was all so mundane.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Was he whole?  No.  Part of him never would be.  Was he happy?  Completely.  There were things that he’d wished he’d never experienced, but they were all part of who he was and how he came to be in this moment right now.  

He pulled Zoe towards him and kissed her temple.  She smiled at him, placed her hand on his cheek and pulled his face toward her.  Their lips touched and Ben wondered if he’d make it out of bed today.  If he didn’t it would be okay.

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @quietly-by-myself @there-will-always-be-bloodblood @whumping-seven-days-a-week @hiding-in-the-shadows @mj-or-say10 (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this) 

#asks #answered asks #brother's keeper #brother's keeper asks #ben adkins #benjamin adkins oc #zoe doyle #recovery #nightmares #aftermath of kidnapping #aftermath of captivity #aftermath of torture #blink and you'll miss it #aftermath of noncon #comfort #cuddles #whump #whump community #whump writer #whump writing

[whumpberry-cookie]

(tw: noncon touch)

Imagine Whumpee being magically so beautiful and breathtaking that all mortals are just falling on their knees before them.

Whumper treated them as their pretty bird in a cage. Kisses, compliments, unwanted pets and affection.

After the rescue, Caretaker... without a second thought decides to never mention how captivated they feel. Because they think it's unfair that Whumpee can't have any true relations with mortals for who they actually are.

(C:) "I never told you this, but..."

(W:) "I knew you loved me, Caretaker. Because you never told me"

-------------------

(Also that's what I found after searching for pretty man in gifs)

(Ah, yes. My primary school crush)

(Of course Taehyung's here)

#Moreover what if Whumpee is treated by Caretaker equally to other patients? No special treatment or any pretty privilege at all #and yes it's because Heaven's official blessing keeps showing on my fyp #the soft puppy god guy #the man was getting whumped so hecking much?? #SPOILER WARNING #stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab...... #whump #tw noncon #whump scene #whumpee #magical whump #nonhuman whumpee #whump prompt #caretaker #writing #recovery whump #whump aftermath #comfort whump

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 13: Leannan Befriends Maeve

1154 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, noncon aftermath, vomit

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

1 Peter 2:18-20

Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh. For it is commendable if someone bears up under the pain of unjust suffering because they are conscious of God. But how is it to your credit if you receive a beating for doing wrong and endure it? But if you suffer for doing good and you endure it, this is commendable before God.

~~~

Leannan awoke to blinding pain, noontime sunlight clawing at his eyes. He sat up slightly to grab at the blankets and pull them over his head, but even just that small movement made his headache explode to another level, to say nothing of the way his abdomen spasmed and his neck twinged.

The pain between his legs, crawling up inside of him, throbbed dully and nearly beat out the headache. Leannan tried to feel proud of it. It was proof that he’d served his purpose, that he’d endured, that he’d given Brochard what he wanted – even if Leannan couldn’t remember it.

But he only felt tired, and hurt – and sick. His eyes flew open as the nausea bubbled up and saliva flooded his mouth. There was a wastebin under his vanity, but it was on the other side of the room, would he make it? He couldn’t sully the beautiful rugs he had been so generously provided, but as he struggled out from under the blankets, sticky with sweat and other things, he knew he wasn’t moving fast enough. He leaned over the side of the bed in defeat – only to find the wastebin right there. He grabbed it and spilled his guts, all acid and foul. He then laid there, head dangling, wracked by the occasional latent sputter or cough.

Had he moved the wastebin? Had Brochard? He pushed against the bed, heaving his torso up, and looked around.

From what he could remember, the room should be in a state; but it wasn’t. No clothes on the floor, no empty bottles. The only thing in disarray was the bed. Most notably, there was a pewter pitcher and covered tray on his bedside cabinet. He wincingly dragged himself over to it and lifted the lid of the tray.

There were two hard-boiled eggs, two plump rolls of bread, an empty little cup, and a mug of something still warm. Peering into the pitcher, he found it full of water. With shaking hands, Leannan eagerly poured himself a cup and knocked it back, then went to pour another before reconsidering and gulping directly from the pitcher itself. Once his mouth felt clear and clean, he investigated the mug. It smelled grassy, and when he took a sip it was bitter and familiar. White willow bark – someone was looking out for him. He took a bracing breath and chugged the whole thing in one go to get it over with. After one more swig of water, he took a breadroll and curled back up in bed, pinching off tiny pieces to eat bit by bit.

As Leannan ate, his pains lessened, and his stomach settled. His survival mode abated, and he became aware of how sticky and filthy he felt. Once he had finished the roll he crawled out of bed and stood, wobbly, in the middle of the room, and took stock of himself in the vanity mirror.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. First there were the yellowing bruises that Ransom had afflicted, pale on his cheek and lips but dark at his right waist. He craned a hand around to feel his back, and the scabbed-over claw and bite marks there. The bite would have its own deep yellow bruise, he knew that without looking. Then there were James’ marks, in fresher purple and blue; the hands around his neck, the boot prints on his stomach, his left shin, and his lower back.

Brochard hadn’t left any exterior sign. It was all inside. But the dark circles under Leannan’s eyes gave that away, too.

Leannan took a shuddering breath. He was supposed to be pretty. Didn’t they want him to be pretty? They were ruining him, and it wasn’t fair.

He caught the thought, and squashed it. This was God’s will. If he suffered, he deserved it. And if he didn’t deserve it, then enduring would bring him rewards.

It would.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Leannan opened his mouth to call for them to enter before remembering his modesty. “One moment!” He grabbed his fluttery linen robe off the end of the bed – a gift from James that no longer made him happy – and threw it on before calling, “Come in!”

Maeve stepped into the room, hovering at the doorway.

“I came to see if you were up and about, Leannan, and if you would like me to replace your bedding,” she said. She had that same pinch of suppressed concern to her face as she did when they last met.

“Yes, Maeve, that would be excellent, thank you,” Leannan replied earnestly.

“Yes, I…” she cut herself off. Leannan could tell immediately, she was sizing him up. She wanted to say something, but was unsure if they were equals or not – and if not, who was superior. If she’d be speaking out of turn.

Leannan suddenly found himself seized by an uncontrollable yearning – he needed Maeve to like him more than anything else in that moment.

“Please talk to me,” he said, sounding quite small and pathetic, “Nobody talks to me.”

Maeve swallowed. Hesitated a moment longer. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost conspiratorial.

“Why don’t you go take a shower while I change your bedding. Then I’ll try to – I’ll make some time. For you.”

“Yes, Maeve. Thank you, Maeve.” Leannan bobbed his head, happily submissive. If it meant having something akin to a friend, he would give way to her.

~~~

“Monsieur James hasn’t struck any of us servants since you arrived,” Maeve said.

She and Leannan sat together on pillows on the floor of his room, drinking peppermint tea. Leannan was clean, dressed, and fed, and his bed was remade with fresh blankets and plumped cushions.

“Oh?” was all Leannan could muster in response. He hadn’t expected that to be Maeve’s opening conversation topic, and his whole body still ached distractingly, hardly sated by the collection of lotions and balms he’d accumulated. His mood was no better either, not lifted like it usually was by the luxury of indoor plumbing.

“Yes, I suppose – I suppose he’s taking it all out on you, now.”

“Oh,” Leannan echoed.

“Yes, he has terrible rages, nearly every week or so.”

“Oh.” Leannan swallowed around a lump in his throat. That, every week?

“I can try to warn you of them, if I see them coming.”

“Yes,” Leannan found himself whispering, “Yes, Maeve, please.”

“It doesn’t seem right, though, that it should all fall on you,” she lowered her voice to match his, “At least when he came after us, it was… spread out. Now it’s all on you, and that’s not fair.”

Fair. There was that word again. Leannan stared into his tea.

“Better me than you,” he said, and meant it, “I can handle it.”

“But you’re just one person.”

“But I’m not a person,” Leannan lifted his eyes and smiled wearily at her, “I’m an Iowan.”

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #forged divinity #cw slavery #cw religion #cw noncon aftermath #cw vomit