#aftermath of noncon

[hold-him-down]

here is a snippet from hold him down part 2, which i recall was supposed to be finished and posted like three months ago:

✥ ✥ ✥

“The results of the STI test came back clear, but the injuries the doctor noted when he examined you are consistent with abuse.” 

She flips through his file, and Leo whispers a soft, “I’m sorry,” before she continues.

“Coupled with the bruising on your wrists and neck, I’d be remiss not to file a preliminary complaint to the board to review your case.”

She might be new here, then.

“We’re not filing anything,” Handler Grey says, and Leo nods. If they file a complaint, Parker will be called, and he almost definitely will not give Leo another chance.

“He didn’t hurt me,” Leo says, his voice soft even to his own ears. “Sometimes things got a little bit rough, but it was– I wanted… I want it. I want it to be that way.” The words fade into nothing, and he doesn’t know if he has anyone convinced, least of all himself. Handler Grey chokes out a breath that could be a laugh or a scoff, and the social worker is once more studying Leo’s face.

“Noted,” she says, and writes something down.

[gottawhump]

Caring

115

CW/TW: aftermath of abuse and noncon, basic home medical care, pet whump, BBU/WRU.

“It’s my fault,” she says, cleaning his wounds with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “I argued with him.”

He hisses through his teeth at the sting. “He’s the owner. He does what he wants.”

With his fingertips, he touches the darkening bruise on her face. She presses her face into his cupped fingers, for a long moment. Then she resumes tending his injuries, applying bandages and salve.

“Can you stand? I need to wash the sheets.”

Don’t bleed on the sheets. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His head spins; his vision darkens. “I need-a little help.”

He leans on her, and she gets him to a chair. She strips the bed efficiently, then remakes it with an identical set of white sheets. She fluffs the pillows and pulls a coverlet over it all, before helping him back to the bed. She tucks a soft fleece blanket over him.

“Sleep and heal. I’ll bring you some soup later.”

“Can you just-just stay for a while? Until I fall asleep.”

She lays down next to him, molding her body to his without thinking, only the thin blanket between them. A shudder runs through his body. She strokes his hair, soothing the fear away.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for caring.”

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump

[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.

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[serickswrites]

Pretty Young Things

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, implied noncon, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee

"Whumpee! Whumpee! WHUMPEE!" Caretaker shouted through the bathroom door. Whumpee had locked themself in the bathroom hours ago and Caretaker had begun to fear the worst.

Whumpee had been a shell of who they were before Whumper took them. A hollow being wandering the house, eyes wide with fear, silent and listless. Caretaker had watched Whumpee for days, reasoning that it would take Whumpee a little time to adjust to being free once more.

But now as they pounded on the bathroom door, they feared they had been wrong. "Whumpee! Please! You have so much to live for! You are going to be ok! I love you! Please!"

The door swung open and Caretaker froze, words dying in their throat. Whumpee stared at Caretaker. "'m fine," they whispered as they brushed past Caretaker.

Caretaker closed their mouth. Whumpee's beautiful, soft, shiny hair had been hacked away. Some chunks had been ripped away while others were buzzed so close to Whumpee's skull that Caretaker could see Whumpee's pale scalp. Caretaker realized Whumpee had haphazardly taken a pair of scissors to their own hair. "Whumpee, do you--"

"Whumper used to stroke my hair for hours." Whumpee's voice was hollow and empty. "They.....they would call me a 'pretty young thing' as they.....as they touched me. They always had one hand in my hair and one hand....well....yeah." Whumpee ran a hand along their scalp. "I....I...I can't....not anymore."

"I understand," Caretaker said, not wanting to pressure Whumpee into having to talk about things they weren't ready to talk about. "Would you like me to clean it up? I think I've got some clippers in my bathroom."

Whumpee nodded, their eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. "That...that would be great, thanks."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

[anoushka-m-alice]

Helplessness

He is forced to watch as she is beaten and fucked, manhandled into submission. He struggles against his restraints, but can't break free to help her. And even if he could, there's three of them against one of him.

He feels so helpless as his friend is hurt before his eyes, her mind and body both fracturing in front of him, her screams of defiance turning to desparate pleading turning to sobs of despair.

They told him he could help her. Afterwards. Only afterwards, when she'd be a shell of the vibrant person he knew.

If only he could get to her sooner…

[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-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

[3-2-whump]

New Look

<prev next>

Say goodbye to that beautiful hair, guys!

Thanks once again goes to my beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for checking me for accuracy as well as the usual grammatical functions.

TW/CW: allusions and references to previous whump, aftermath of whump, body image issues, and noncon body mod (tattoos, piercings), but for the most part, a light chapter. Let me know if there's anything I may have missed, too, if you think!

The first thing Khaled registered as he woke up the next morning was that he wasn’t in his sparsely decorated bedroom at Tom’s apartment, nor was he in the dormitories they had at Joyous Springs. So, last night was real, and not a dream.

The second thing he noticed was a loud thud as something landed on the coffee table. Vikash straightened up from a large, heavy-looking cardboard box he’d brought from the attic. Khaled kicked the blankets off his legs and sat up from the couch he’d slept on, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he curiously stared at the box labeled ‘VIK’S EMO PHASE –DONATE.’

“It just occurred to me this morning that you don’t have anything else to wear besides the clothes you came in, and you’ve been wearing those for the last three days. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that,” Vik explained. He waved a hand at the box as he walked to the adjoining kitchen for a cup of coffee and some eggs. “Take whatever you want, it was all going to be given away anyway. I’ll see if one of us can take you to a mall later this week for some newer clothes.”

Khaled opened the box and gently lifted its contents out to examine them. Most of the t-shirts were black, save for their eye-catching graphics, and most of them did not make any sense.

“Bring Me the Horizon? I’m Dead Inside? Rawr?” he read aloud, craning his head to look back at Vik questioningly.

The doctor drank sheepishly out of his mug. “I was going through a phase,” was the only explanation he gave.

Khaled shrugged, then settled on a few combinations of Vik’s ‘emo’ clothes to last him at least a week. At the bottom of the box, he found faded silicone wristbands, which he slipped over his tattooed wrists. Even if they didn’t perfectly conceal the black bands, they certainly distracted from them with their bright pops of color on an otherwise very black outfit.

With his new clothes gathered in hand, Khaled made his way up the stairs to the one bathroom all three–now four–men shared. The door was locked when he arrived, so he waited awkwardly in the hallway until the clicking of the lock signaled whichever roommate was in there had finished.

 “Alright, it’s all yours!” Cade said, with a towel around his waist as he exited the steamy bathroom. Twin scars underneath his chest stood raised and dark pink against his milky freckled skin. Khaled briefly wondered what injury could’ve caused those scars, but dismissed the question. He quickly slipped inside the bathroom and closed the door, careful not to let all the steam and warmth escape. He dumped the clothes in his arms out onto the floor and changed quickly, kicking the clothes he wore overnight into a pile by the door when he couldn’t find a hamper anywhere.

Khaled then looked up into the large toothpaste-speckled bathroom mirror that spanned the entire two-sink countertop. His reflection glared back at him under artificial light. He hadn’t gotten a good look at himself since he’d left for the morgue, and even back home at his (late) master’s apartment, he rarely looked at his reflection any longer than necessary. Whenever he’d look in the mirror, Khaled would see a slim and pretty stranger staring back at him, someone who wasn’t quite a man but could not be called a boy anymore, someone with very little body hair and very little body fat and that stupid little floof of hair sticking up from the top of his head. Short enough to not get in your eyes, but just long enough to grab a hold onto, his master once said.

He never liked looking at himself in the mirror, but now he leaned over the counter to physically see how much he had changed in only a handful of days. He was thin, practically drowning in Vikash’s old graphic t-shirt ensemble and skinny jeans. Dark shadows under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, his light beige skin looked borderline sickly in the overhead bathroom light, and he counted a handful of new silver strands in his neglected, mussed-up hair. The slight protrusion of facial hair shaded his lower face in a five o’clock shadow, and it prickled his fingertips and palms as he touched his hands against his cheek and jawline.

I should shave soon, I wasn’t allowed a razor at Joyous Springs, and Master doesn’t like when I get too–oh, wait… The reminder that his master wasn’t there anymore to dictate his hygienic practices hit Khaled like a dull throbbing pain. Less of a crushing pain, and more of a bruising sensation as he realized that Thomas J Costa was no longer in control of him. No one to tell him to shave everything, clean himself out, follow his skincare routine to the letter, no one to even remind him to brush his teeth.

That means…I’m…in control now… The revelation quickly dispelled the painful feelings that remained, making Khaled both giddy and nervous as he now viewed his body like a canvas, or an old painting that he wanted to redo, to be more precise. He turned his head side to side as he made mental notes of what he wanted to change, and how immediately he could change it, and just how much of his physical appearance was now in his control.

The scars and tattoos etched onto his body were outside of his control, unfortunately, and there were far too many of them in far too conspicuous places. Khaled traced his fingers across the black band at his throat. At least his scars could be covered by clothing (as was the intent), and most of his tattoos could be concealed too, except for this one. He remembered how Thomas and a grunt named Johnny had to hold him down as the nervous tattoo artist quickly inked the line around his neck. Still, the pain was nothing compared to the wrist and ankle bands, tattooed over skin and bone. Those were agony, Khaled remembered. And for what? To mark me even more permanently as his? So I could never hide that I was his slave? He shook his head, and moved on to parts of his appearance more in his control.

For starters, I’d like to be bigger, he told himself. Muscular, broad, like Vik. Khaled didn’t have to take off the graphic tee and the long-sleeved shirt underneath to see his small, shaved torso, where his ribs lay barely visible underneath a crepe-thin layer of sallow skin. The borrowed pair of jeans was held up on his narrow hips by a studded leather belt on its tightest notch. Yep, he concluded, I definitely want to be bigger. Maybe Vik would take him to the gym in the mornings, if he woke up on time.

Knowing that gaining muscle mass would be a gradual change, Khaled focused on the smaller details that he could change immediately, such as his piercings, the diamonds and white gold tokens of his master’s affection. When he’d been checked in to Joyous Springs, they took his piercings at intake, storing them in a little plastic bag with the rest of his worldly possessions until he was discharged. Khaled had put the earrings back in out of habit, but now he slowly took out each diamond stud and laid them on the counter, feeling incrementally lighter with each one. The septum ring never went back in (the piercing healed over and closed overnight), but it wasn’t much of a loss, considering Khaled didn’t like it anyway. His unadorned face smiled in the bathroom mirror as he slowly recognized who the stranger in the mirror was supposed to be.

There’s just one more thing. Khaled’s eyes wandered to the electric razor Vikash had left on the counter after shaving this morning. The temptation was too great. There was nothing else on his mind but to control his physical form and get it as close to how he viewed himself on the inside as quickly as possible. Khaled picked up the razor and plugged it in.

-

The pervasive buzzing sounds coming from the bathroom had been going on for several minutes now. Vikash pounded on the door insistently as he waited outside, wondering what was taking Khaled so long and what exactly he was shaving. The guy didn’t have much body or facial hair, so what was there to shave? The buzzing stopped, and, after a few more moments of silence, the door finally opened. A bald little stranger with Khaled’s tattoos and Khaled’s old clothes gathered in his arms slipped through the doorway. Vik couldn’t help but do a double take. "Did you just shave your head?" he asked.

Khaled stopped on the way to the staircase, tilting his head toward Vik as he answered. Facing him now, Vik also realized Khaled had taken out all his piercings too. "Yes. Was I supposed to run it by you first?"

"What, no!” Vik reflexively denied. “Of course you don't need my permission to shave your hair!"

Khaled frowned. "You look unhappy about it though..."

"I don't know, it's just..." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as he realized there was no polite way to tell Khaled that he thought it looked bad.

“You hate it,” Khaled guessed correctly. “You hate it, but...” Khaled sighed dejectedly. “I can’t really undo it,” he murmured as something akin to regret darkened his expression.

Vik lowered his hand from his neck and forced his posture to visibly relax. “Why did you shave it, anyway?” he asked. Khaled murmured something into the carpet at his feet. “One more time please?”

“Because shaving it made me happy!” Khaled said a bit louder. His fingers picked at the silicone wristbands nervously as he hugged the wad of clothes closer to his chest. “I-I hated my hair, he’d always touch it, pull me around by it, a-and I just wanted it gone!”

Vik’s heart sank. Yeah, I’d probably want my hair gone too, if that were me, he conceded. Despite the sobering revelation, he did his best to put on a supportive smile. “I don’t hate it,” he answered calmly. If he’s happy with it, then I’ll be happy with it, it doesn't matter if I think it looks bad, it's just hair, it'll grow back. His mind cycled through those thoughts as he forced his tongue to say “It’s not even that bad of a look, it’s…just gonna take some getting used to, I guess.”

Khaled returned the smile. “In fact, why don’t I clean it up for you and go over the patchy bits you missed?” Vik offered. He stopped Khaled before the young man could go back into the bathroom. “Set your old clothes in the wash first, then come up and see me, okay?” Vik lightly pushed Khaled back towards the staircase. “And when we’re done, consider taking a shower!” he yelled after him.

Le Tag List (also if you want on or off, nbd, just let me know 👍🏼) (also if I missed anybody I'm sorry, still getting into the habit of making these again :P): @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling @borp0

[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) 

[serickswrites]

would you do a romantic caretaker x whumpee where whumpee has just been rescued from whumper and is traumatised from their experience? hurt/comfort kind of thing, implications of non-con maybe?

Hello, Anon! I can absolutely write this for you. Please enjoy.

Warnings: referenced captivity, implied noncon, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery, caretaker and whumpee

"Whumpee, darling," Caretaker called softly, "I've drawn a nice bath for you. It's got all the things you like in it including the lavendar epsom salt and bubbles."

Whumpee jumped when Caretaker had called their name. This was the first time Caretaker had done this since Whumpee had returned from Whumper. Whumpee wanted to be grateful to their partner for being so thoughtful. Wanted to express their gratitude. But the words were stuck in their throat.

Whumper loved drawing them a bath. Loved bathing them. Loved doing all sorts of unspeakable things to them in the tub. Whumpee didn't think they could stomach going into the bathroom.

"Darling?" Caretaker poked their head in the bedroom door. "Darling what's wrong?"

At Caretaker's words, Whumpee began to sob heavily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should be grateful," they gasped out between sobs.

"It's ok, darling," Caretaker said as they sat on the bed next to Whumpee. "You don't have to go in there. It's ok."

"It's not," Whumpee sobbed.

Caretaker was quiet for a moment. "Is it ok if I touch you? I'd really like to hug you, but only if that's ok with you."

Whumpee didn't reply as they leaned onto Caretaker. They couldn't speak they were crying so hard. And as Caretaker wrapped their arms around Whumpee, Whumpee sobbed harder.

"It's ok, darling. I have you. It's ok. I've got you. I'm here, darling. I'm here."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[abhainnwhump]

A Whumpee used as a canvas for a tattoo artist Whumper can't stand their body when they are rescued. They snap at anyone who asks about them out of embarrassment, too scared to get them removed, how are they supposed to describe where they came from? Not to mention it would be expensive and painful. Some of the tattoos are unfinished and/or janky since they were practices and that makes Whumpee feel worse. They hide their body constantly and sometimes try to draw over the designs.

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #21: A Reason to Escape

Previous | Masterlist | Next

word count: 2.4k

special shoutout to @whump-card who helped me beta this!

CW: Aftermath of noncon, blood, Jesse's really weird tunnel vision thoughts and general.. being gross.

He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay. There’s something wrong with him. There is blood that drips down his legs, covering the inside of his thighs. There’s blood that drips down his chest and shoulder from teeth marks. His eyes are swollen shut, skin black and red all over. His breathing is shallow and his hips are bruised. If he didn’t know any better, Jesse would think he was dead. He was breathing, at the very least. 

Jesse knelt down next to where Miguel was on the floor. Curled in a ball, face screwed in in a pained expression. Breathing ragged and wheezy. Every breath made a rattling, whistling sound that he figured was his broken nose or some broken ribs. He wasn’t sure which. Either way it didn’t look good. He wondered who had done this to him. Jesse was sure that it wasn’t himself. It wouldn’t ever be Solomon. He was also sure that none of the ranch hands would dare come up to the hayloft to do so. If they had him alone somewhere, without Jesse or Xavier there maybe. 

Oh. Xavier. Jesse shivered, examining Miguel more closely. Blood was dark and sticky on his thighs, but when he looked closer, gently pressing a hand on Miguel’s hip. He realized there was another substance there too. White and slick. It was all over his stomach too. His own probably. 

Xavier finally fucked him then. Fucked him hard and beat him half to death. There was anger in his chest, blossoming into his fingers. Miguel was filthy and bloody and it wasn’t because of him. It was because of Xavier. Xavier laid a mark. Had taken something that was his. Miguel was supposed to be his. Now that Xavier had a taste, he’d want more. That was always the way it was with Xavier. 

His feeling stopped as he heard Miguel whimper when he moved away from Jesse’s hand on his hip. Jesse had thought about fucking him one more time before he picked him up. Finding him bleeding on the hayloft floor like that. It made him feel a warmth in his core. He shoved the thought away when Miguel quietly sobbed. Eyes so swollen tears wouldn't come through. Instead, he picked him up as gently as he could. Covered him with the small blanket Xavier kept up here for him, and slowly left the barn.

Miguel was so light in his arms. Had they really been feeding him so little? Or was he hiding the food somewhere because he wasn’t hungry? Jesse wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure if he actually cared or if Miguel looking so small was just deeply unattractive to him. Jesse needed to stop thinking like that, he would end up dropping him if he did. 

Instead of taking him inside the house, where his uncle would undoubtedly be, he took him into the small stables meant for the ranchhands. Jesse found an empty one and gently laid Miguel in the soft hay there. “I’ll be back okay?” 

There was no response. Jesse hummed as he walked away, forgetting about the fact that Miguel could not hear him. 

Solomon, Solomon, he needed to get to Solomon. Solomon would help him. He also wouldn’t tell Xavier. That was the main point now, who could help without alerting Xavier? 

He snuck into the house, stepping along the walls so the boards wouldn’t creak. Making his way up to Solomon's room, he opened the door. “Solomon,” the man did not stir, “Solomon.” 

“Mmm?” Solomon groaned and sat up in bed, braids messy, in his sleepwear. “Jesse? What are you-” “Shhh,” Jesse said quickly. “Miguel needs you. He’s in the ranch hand’s stable.. It wasn’t-” 

“Was it you?” Solomon growled, feet slipping into some shoes. 

“I was about to say no. It was not me. It was..” he glanced backward for a moment to make sure Xavier wasn’t around. “It was Xavier. It’s bad. I think you better be quick.” 

Solomon was already near him, stepping close. His face was passive but there was a steaming anger in his eyes. Jesse stepped out of his way and Solomon walked down the stairs. He followed behind, more out of curiosity for the reaction than anything else. Maybe he also wanted to know if Miguel would survive it. There was a lot of blood. Something curled heavy in his chest, a lead rope in the bottom of his sternum. 

The man collapsed next to Miguel, horrified noise leaving him when they arrived. Immediately he reached to feel Miguel’s pulse. Solomon’s body was tense, face going back to its normal neutral as soon as he found the pulse. 

“You didn’t do this?” 

“Nah. It was Xavier.” “Xavier?” 

Something in Jesse twisted at the heartbroken tone of Solomon. The man knew this was bound to happen, why would he be so sad. Was he sad because it was Xavier? Or because Miguel was so hurt? Jesse didn’t know what to think, but it created a sinking pit in his stomach. Sadness? Anger? He shoved it down, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on. 

“Is he, you know, alright?” 

“I need Henrietta down here.” 

A frown lined his features, making Solomon look even older than he was. Last Jesse checked, Solomon was teetering on the edge of 62 or so. Sometimes he looked it, sometimes he didn’t. When he smiled he lost about 10 years from his face, when he frowned he gained 10 more. Often, Jesse wondered if he was always like that, or if Xavier just did that much of a number on him. 

“Yeah, I’ll get her. I think Xavier is out… should be anyway.” 

“Go get her then Jesse,” Solomon said tersely. 

Jesse hummed, standing up straight and walking off to go find Henrietta. He stepped inside the creaky house, frowning. Xavier sat on the couch, passed out, flask open. He smelled like a brothel. Head tipped back on the couch, mouth open enough to catch flies. Jesse snuck past him. Walking up the stairs and gently opening the door to Xavier's room. 

“Hen?” 

The woman was at the vanity, staring at herself like she was trying to find something she lost. Maybe she had lost something. Being around Xavier usually meant there was a trade off. Something to lose. Even if it was just a part of yourself you didn’t know was there. 

“Jesse?? What the hell are you doin-” 

“Shut up. Solomon’s down in the shed with Migs..” 

“Why? Are they celebrating his birthday down there?” 

Jesse laughed. Celebrate? Birthday? Was it his birthday? God. Xavier did that on his birthday? His stomach churned at the thought. Even he wasn’t that fucked up. 

“I forgot about his birthday,” he mumbled before shaking his head, “nah something bad happened. Again. Solomon asked for you.” 

Henrietta stood up from the vanity, grabbing the lantern and shoving past Jesse. Everyone suspected Jesse when it came to Miguel. Perhaps that was fair. Miguel was his favorite little punching bag after all. Favorite fuck toy. Best dog he’d ever had. But this? This was too far even for him. He’d never do something like that on a birthday, birthdays are sacred. Meant to be good things. 

Jesse always got a silver dollar on his birthday. Lately though, he had stopped using it on himself. There were two redheaded children who lived in the brothel womens houses he’d been buying gifts for. One of them was already eight years old, the other five. They both had his hair. But they didn’t have the signature Reede eyes. They both had their mothers eyes. He dropped gifts off for them and left before they could see or stop him. 

He was self aware. He knew that there was something wrong with him. Jesse's way of thinking was different from other peoples. Feeling things came to him differently. There was no inbetween for him. Sad, angry and happy. There was no inbetween, there was just that emotion and nothing else. He didn’t understand how people could feel happy and sad at the same time. Or angry and sad. Jesse only knew how to feel things one at a time. 

They made their way down the stairs and Henrietta stopped at the sight of Xavier. Jesse watched her carefully, squinting at the scene in front of him. He couldn’t tell what her expression was. She didn’t even whisper when she spoke. 

“I could kill him. I could do it. Right now. It would be easy.” 

“It would be easy,” Henrietta turned toward him. Her face as always was blurry, but he squinted. It cleared slightly and her expression was something between terrified and angry. She always leaned more toward terrified. He sighed. “But you won’t.” 

“Why not? Do you think I wouldn’t?” 

Jesse grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the door. “Solomon wants you Hen.” 

She pulled out of his grip, growling at him. Eyes alight with rage. There was still more fear in them than anything else. Jesse stared down at her, calming himself with a deep breath. 

“I could kill him right now and everything would be better.” 

“But you won’t” Jesse snapped, no longer caring for the loudness of his words. Xavier was passed out anyway. Too drunk to function. He longed for that crisp blackness that came with getting too drunk. 

“How do you know Jesse? Fuck you! I could do it! I could!” 

Jesse growled, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall. Leaning in real close until her face became clear. Fear shining in her eyes. He didn’t squeeze or hold too tight. He just held her there. 

“You can’t do it because you’re still too afraid. You’re not angry enough Henrietta.” Her eyes went wide and the hands on his wrist loosened their grip. “You’re fucking afraid of him and you can’t really kill someone you’re still afraid of.” 

“Is that why you haven’t yet?” 

His chest tightened. “No.” 

“Right.”  

Jesse let her go, stepping back away. “Are you gonna come with me to Solomon or not Hen. You’re gonna wake up him with all your fucking whining.”  

Henrietta looked away, rubbing at her throat as she walked in front of him and out of the house. He followed her. The next steps felt numb. Hollowing him out as they walked to the shed and Henrietta let out a horrified cry as she dropped herself next to Solomon and Miguel. 

Miguel looked better without all of the blood on him. But his eyes were still swollen shut, and bruises littered his body. Ugly black and blue things that were dark enough to blend with the night sky. He curled up in Solomon's lap, still only covered by the thin blanket. He shivered and cried quietly, fucked up hands curled in his lap, head resting on Solomons shoulder. 

“Get out,” Henrietta said, looking back at Jesse.  

“What the hell did I do? I’m helping!” 

“You probably did this to him you fucking little shit.”  

Jesse scoffed and shook his head, “I was waiting until tomorrow to fuck him.” 

Henrietta and Solomon shared a look, frowning at each other. Was it something he said? Jesse felt awkward standing there in silence. He slid down the wall, sitting on the floor. Knees halfway to his chest. 

“I-” he paused, frowning and trying to think of the words, “I think that Xavier, has been losing it lately you know. Gettin’ meaner. Worse. Beatin’ on everyone more than usual. I want to kill him. I ain’t angry enough either, Hen, to kill him. I just wanna leave. I know a way to the river, the Salt River. I went there once on a deal with the Earl’s family. He’s just across it. I’ll do whatever ya want you know? We can go opposite ways once we get there. We just gotta get there.”  

Solomon and Hen stayed staring at him in open mouth shock. What the fuck was that about? Hadn’t they known he’d been itching to leave since he was seventeen? He asked to leave. Wanted to join the army. Thinking about it made the X brand on his back itch. He’d been whipped within an inch of his life, and branded for his threat to the Reede legacy. Jesse never wanted to be a rancher. He wanted to build things. Always liked building his mother things when she was alive. Built her a birdhouse once. Hung it up on the tree outside and watched the red cardinal live there. Raise its children there. 

If he ever got out, he’d probably try a hand at carpentry. 

“We have a plan,” Solomon said suddenly, “We were planning to escape before.” 

“Solom-” 

“Stop Hen. We just needed a place to go. Everything else is ready Jesse. If you’re serious about this. We need to wait for Miguel to heal again. Then we can go.” 

“I think we have to go whether he’s healed all the way or not,” Jesse said. 

“We know that! But he needs to at least be able to walk when we leave idio-” 

“Henrietta,” Solomon's gentle voice cut her off. “He knows. He knows.” 

Jesse hummed slightly, glancing down at Miguel, who had since stopped shivering and now was sufficiently asleep. Snoring softly, mouth slightly open, face half pressed into Solomon's shoulder. Fuck. Xavier could have killed him. 

He could have killed him and Jesse would have been alone. Jesse knew that Henrietta and Xavier hated him. But Miguel and Solomon. They were still kind even if Miguel bit and scratched at him. Even if Solomon stared at him like he was some sort of rabid animal. Miguel was the one who still looked at him like a person. He made him feel like a person. He liked Miguel, he really did. When Miguel wasn’t terrified of him, he was sarcastic and shy. Miguel was pretty in pain, but he’d seen him laugh with Solomon once and that was even prettier.  

How could he possibly ever be good enough for that laugh? 

The answer was simple, it was plain. He never would.  

Jesse wished he could go back and stop himself from fucking Miguel in that stall. The first time. But you can’t go back. No matter how hard you try, you can’t go back. Jesse could only deal with what he had. 

He was going to escape with a roomful of people who hated him. 

“So.. tell me about this plan you have.” 

____

TAGLIST:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader @cyberwhumper @kixngiggles

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

[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)

[peachy-panic]

“There you go. Let it out.”

“You can cry if you need to,” the man named Bryan tells him after, when their bodies are pressed together beneath the duvet. A hand sits low on Jaime’s stomach, making it impossible to relax his muscles. “I know it can be a bit intense sometimes.”

It feels like a dream.

The whole thing was over in minutes, which Jaime supposes he should be grateful for, but all he can think about now is how the room is suffocatingly warm and he is covered in someone else’s sweat and Bryan lied to him.

He lied.

“Shhh, there you go.” The heat of a whisper tickles just below his ear. “There you go. Let it out.”

It takes a moment to make sense of the words, because he hasn’t yet realized he is, in fact, crying. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend he doesn’t hear the pleasure in his Keeper’s voice.

Maybe this is just a dream.

((FOR CONTEXT: this is Bryan))