#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

[peachy-panic]

Put Them On

Fifty-Eight Days

Followup drabble to this little drabble. The end of Elijah's first time upstairs.

WARNINGS: aftermath of noncon, captivity, blood

The end of his first night found Elijah in a king-sized bed, curled on his side, trying to avoid the heat of the body beside him. The man, who he had learned was called “Voss,” had been talking to him for a while, but Elijah was far too out of it to make sense of the words. It wasn’t until he raised his voice, calling to his men outside the door, that Elijah flinched back to awareness. 

Two men entered, and Elijah rolled his face toward the mattress, not wanting to see their faces again. Not wanting to be seen. 

“Take him,” Voss ordered. 

Instantly, there were hands on him again, pulling him out of the bed by his arms. 

“Should I clean him up?” the smaller of the two asked in English—something that seemed to be a rarity among the guards. 

Voss sat up against the headboard, raking over Elijah’s exposed form with his eyes. “No,” he said. “Let his little friend see just what he missed out on.”

There was a keening sound that took Elijah a moment to realize came from him. Voss smiled and leaned forward to push a clump of damp hair from Elijah’s forehead. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll see me again soon.” 

And with a final nod of dismissal, Elijah was dragged from the room. 

He allowed himself to be handled how they saw fit, too exhausted and hurt to even think about resisting. It took the support of both sets of hands to keep him upright as he was led down the hallway and through the carpeted room where the evening began. He closed his eyes against the flecks of red among the white fibers and wondered, distantly, if there would be a new rug in its place the next time he was brought upstairs. 

The next time. 

He stumbled when the man on his left jerked to a stop, momentarily pulling Elijah in two. 

“Put them on,” he ordered. 

Elijah blinked, disoriented, and saw that the guard was pointing at the discarded pair of Elijah’s underwear on the floor. The other guard, the taller one, retorted with something Elijah couldn’t understand. They argued back and forth for only a few seconds before Elijah was dropped gracelessly to the ground. He curled his arms up to protect himself, anticipating a blow that never came. Instead, the hard toe of a boot nudged his leg. 

“Put them on,” the man repeated. 

Elijah scrambled to comply, which was a slow, humiliating process. The guards didn’t offer assistance, but they also didn’t harass him further. Finally, when he had the briefs pulled up to his hips, he was hoisted to his feet once more and ushered toward the basement. 

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #22: How to Ease a Rattlesnake

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word Count: 2.7k

CW: Aftermath of noncon, noncon mentions, blood mention, abusive relationships, breakdown, panic attack, complicated character dynamics, POC whump, lady whump, idk there wasn't much violence in this one very lore heavy.

You’re fucking afraid of him and you can’t really kill someone you’re still afraid of. 

The words stood out in her brain. How was Jesse, of all people, aware of her fear? Was it in her eyes? Her father always said that eyes were the perfect windows into the soul. They betrayed everything, even on the most neutral of faces. 

Henrietta could not see Miguel's eyes. They were too swollen and purple to even see a glimpse of white as he clung to Solomon's nightshirt in his sleep. Seeing him like this. It was the worst he’d ever been. Not even Jesse had been this rough with the kid. At least the kid could see and walk after he was done with him. 

But no. She knew Xavier. The way he liked it when it hurt a little bit. It always hurt, he was too big and too rough for it not too. Rougher still when the crying started. It turned him on more, made him more violent. God. She hoped that he’d never do it to someone else. Or at least, not in a way she could see the aftermath like this. Henrietta had hoped that she would never have to think about it again, she could leave and never come back.  

I repent nothing, she said to herself. The phrase tattooed in her mind, somewhere in between the idea of freedom and a quiet life.  

It was true she supposed, the fact that she was still afraid. That his darkness was only getting worse and he would kill her and throw away the dead body like she was nothing. That one day, she would come to a moment where she would have to choose between him and herself, and she would choose herself. That’s what Henreitta did. She chose herself. She wasn’t good like Solomon or Miguel. Henrietta had killed people to get out of this place once. She would gladly do it again and again. However many times, however many people, she would kill them all to get her chance at a quiet life. 

She looked over at Jesse who was still sitting there, back against the stall door. He had green eyes like his uncle, like his mother. The signature Reede eyes. Those eyes looked less like Xaviers at the moment and more like his mothers. Resigned, tired, maybe even a little sad. 

“So,” she whispered to not wake Solomon, who was curled around Miguel protectively, “what do you think of the plan?” 

Jesse glanced up at her, squinting for a moment before leaning his head back on the stall door.

“I dunno actually. Feels stupid. Risky. Especially if we’re leavin’ before Migs is all the way good.” 

“Better,” she corrected. 

“Hm?” Jesse asked, squinting again. 

“All the way better. Not all the way good.” 

Jesse scoffed and took a deep breath, leveling his head. He looked her in the eye with a tired smile and said, “Fuck you bitch. Don’ go correctin’ someone who doesn’t even know how to read.” 

Henrietta stopped, tilting her head curiously. Xavier never taught him? Never thought too? If Jesse was to take over the ranch, he’d need a skill like that wouldn’t he? She made no further comment other than a huff of breath. 

“Doc says he’s hurt real bad. It’ll take at least two weeks to get him functioning enough to even try your dumbass plan,” Jesse continued for some god forsaken reason. She pictured him without a mouth, or a tongue. “Didn’ know you were so popular with townfolk, always seemed stuck up to me.” 

“Shut your mouth or fucking leave Jesse,” she snapped. Henrietta bit her lip and growled slightly in frustration. “The townspeople in Red Rock were good ones. Helped me when I needed it. I returned the favor a few times. It's that simple Jess, you do good and good comes back to you.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Whatever Jess, it’s your grave people will be pissing on when you die.” 

That one got a surprised laugh out of Jesse who had now taken to looking at the ceiling. Xavier was gonna be pissed they were talking like this. That Jesse had taken Miguel to them. They would have to return Miguel to the hayloft soon. The early blue rays of the morning were starting to slip through the cracks of their makeshift oasis. Gently, she shook Solomon’s shoulder, who woke with bleary eyes. Adjusting Miguel in his arms, he sat himself up. Miguel’s head was now laid in his lap and he ran a gentle hand through his hair. Trying to ease the kids soul. 

Hair was sacred. Held many things. Suffering, happiness, grief. It was all memory. It was all important. Her mother used to do her hair every morning before she practiced the violin. Gently pulling and stretching it. Those mornings had the best conversations, the best music and the best memories. To Solomon it was a connection to the soul. She understood that, she felt it in those mornings before church as her mother ran a comb through with warmed water. Having hair touched in a certain way, it soothed an ache that nothing else matched. It was about community, about those memories held in the hands of someone trusted. 

“Solomon we have to take him back,” she whispered softly. 

“I know.. Just a little longer. Let him have the warmth a little longer,” he pleaded. Henrietta let him have a few more minutes before she gave Solomon a look. Solomon nodded and gently tried to rouse Miguel. The boy couldn’t open his eyes but he moaned in pain. It was grating to Henrietta's ears. Hearing him be in so much pain, it made her heart shatter into a million pieces. 

“I know she’awee. I know.. I know,” Solomon said softly on deaf ears. “Jesse, you gotta take him now. He’s gonna start making too much noise soon.” 

Jesse nodded, standing up and going over to Solomon and with a gentleness that Henrietta didn’t know he possessed, took him from Sol’s arms. He left the stable quietly and quickly. There was a beat of silence. 

Then Solomon started to cry. 

Tears fell onto his legs, his hands went up to wipe them and more kept coming. His breathing hitched, and he bit his lip to quiet himself. His fists pressed into his eyes as if that would physically stop them from flowing. Henrietta sat in front of him and held out her arms. Solomon took care of everyone.. Who took care of Solomon? 

Henrietta had always been a selfish creature, but right then, she grabbed Solomon's wrist and pulled him toward her. Solomon let himself be led and then he buried his face into her shoulder. 

“Go ahead and cry Solomon. You don’t have to hide yourself right now,” Henrietta said gently. 

Solomon stopped crying and took a deep breath. Then he began to wail, full body shudders and half screams. Burying teeth into her shoulder as he screamed into her shoulder. Arms curled up between his chest and hers as she moved herself closer. He leaned fully into her as she sat next to him, feeling her nightgown and shoulder be soaked with tears and spit. Slowly, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Everything will be okay Solomon. Everything will be okay. We’re gonna leave this place. We are. We got everything planned. We have the food stash, the horses and we’ll send the signal soon. Just gotta wait for Migs to heal a little. Get his strength up. Melanie, Isabella and Jacob and all his men, they’re gonna help us get out of here. You’ll see Solomon.” 

The wails had died down and he was now just quietly sobbing into the crook of her neck. This would be too intimate if it was anyone else. But Solomon was good, he wasn’t like that. Solomon was a good man, a real one. Henrietta thought men like him didn’t exist anymore. Henrietta had seen the way good people interact with each other in Red Rock. The community there didn't rely on fear or hatred. They all helped one another. The garden was communal, everyone shared the sugar and they had welcomed Henrietta with open arms. Melanie, Jacob, Isabella, Ricardo, Gregory. All names that carved their way into her heart in the short three years that she lived there. She should have kept moving. Henrietta knew better and yet she stayed. The one thing she couldn’t do for Solomon and Miguel, she could do for the strangers at Red Rock. 

Leaving Miguel behind was something she didn’t really regret, she had to admit. He would have slowed her down. Shooting Terrance like that though, yeah, she regretted that. There was no guilt though. She regretted the action but it didn’t eat her alive like guilt did. 

I repent nothing.  

Henrietta needed to stop thinking about the past. She was in the here and now. Here and now is all that mattered. Solomon was here with her, her rock. Miguel was alive, he was not yet a shell of a human being. These thoughts eased the churning in her soul slightly. 

Finally, Solomon had stopped crying, opting to just sit there with his face in the crook of her neck. He breathed in deep then exhaled. Deep breath, exhale. Again and again. Henrietta let him. She would wait for him to collect himself, however long it took. 

“I am so tired,” he eventually said, removing his face from her neck. His hands rubbed at his eyes, palms digging into them. 

“I know Sol. I know,” she said softly, wiping away the wet from her neck with her hand. 

“Sorry.. I just..” Solomon started and Henrietta let out a quiet chuckle. 

“Don’t be. I was wondering when you’d break down. You’ve been holding in so much ever since I met you. You needed that. I don’t mind. You’ve done the same for me plenty of times. It’s the least I can do.” 

Solomon hummed, smoothing down his hair. It had all but fallen out of the two braids he always wore. He let out a long, tired sigh. 

“Two weeks. We have two weeks to prepare for everything.” 

“Yeah.” 

Solomon frowned. Shifting slightly from his spot he winced. He was getting old, Henrietta realized vaguely. The beating hadn’t helped either. Ever since Xavier had beaten him within an inch of his life, his movements were more stiff. Every movement seemed to cause him some sort of pain. He was weak. They were all losing strength. 

The thought that two weeks might be too long flashed across her mind. So far, her and Jesse were the healthiest of the bunch. What a sorry group they were. 

A woman, an old man, a rapist, and a deaf and dumb boy. 

They were so fucked. 

**** 

Henrietta made dinner that night like nothing happened. Like she didn’t know about Miguel’s condition. As if she didn’t half carry Solomon back to his room so he could lay down. As if Jesse and her hadn’t nodded to each other when he came back into the house to eat breakfast. 

Xavier woke up around mid-noon and he went up to their bedroom and continued to sleep until he smelt dinner and made his way downstairs. He looked haggard. Hair unruly, shirt half unbuttoned. He was still covered in Miguel’s blood. It seemed he had enough sense to clean his hands, but it was all over his clothes. 

“Wh-What happened?” Henrietta asked dumbly. The sizzle of the potatoes on the pan made her turn around to move them around before turning back to Xavier. 

“Mm,” he grumbled, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Do you really wanna know Etta?” 

“I think I would like to, yes.” 

Xavier gave her a lazy grin, laughing slightly. He groaned slightly and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, fingers rubbing into his temples. 

“Had too much to drink again, Xavi?” she growled out as she moved from the potatoes for a moment to start brewing some coffee.  

He glanced at her, expression lighting up slightly. He was amused at her, perhaps he had taken all of his violence and used it up on Miguel. She found herself feeling relief at the thought. If he took it all out on Miguel then he would have no energy or ideas to take out on her. 

Ah that’s always where it fell wasn’t it? Henrietta feeling relief over something that she was not supposed to feel relief for. It was always that selfish thought of at least it’s not me. It could be worse. She could be the one fucked within an inch of her life, bleeding from every orfice and eyes swollen shut. But she wasn’t, she was here, cooking a monster lunch and waiting for him to strike. 

Xavier was a rattlesnake, watching, waiting to strike. People always stay still when they’re near a rattlesnake. Their rattle is louder than anything else when a person is near it. It's a warning that a person is in danger. God gave snakes rattles so He could laugh at people who ignored the sound. The way to escape a rattler was simple. Slow movements. 

“I’m makin’ potatoes and cabbage,” she said slowly, blowing out the fire on the stove. She turned to face him again, leaning back on the counter, letting the potatoes cool. “It’ll be ready soon.” 

Slow movements. 

“Etta, whose blood is this on my shirt?” he asked, grin making her stomach twist into a knot. The snake shook its rattler. Deafeningly loud. 

“I think only you know that Xavi,” she said carefully.  

“Take a guess Etta.” 

Henrietta frowned, standing up straighter. She chewed on her lip and looked at him more closely. Scrutinizing him. His pants were covered in it, his hands, and the collar of his shirt. She did not want to answer this question. She could see the snake coiling up to strike, rattling sound only growing louder. 

“M-Miguel..” she said quietly. 

“Louder Etta.” 

“Miguel. It’s.. It’s Miguel's blood.” 

Xavier leaned back in his chair, lazy grin changing into something sharp. He sighed heavily and interlaced his hands behind his head. The silence only made the rattler sound grow louder. 

“I think you deserve a prize,” he said, tilting his head at her. “Give me a kiss sweetheart.” 

Slow movements. 

Forcing herself to take a few steps toward him, she tried to stop thinking about the blood. The blood and the way he cried when he woke up. The way that Xavier’s aura threatened to choke her. She stepped forward, leaned down and planted a soft kiss on his lips. Something tender, like she loved him.  

You can’t do it because you’re still too afraid. You’re not angry enough Henrietta.

Xavier reached behind her, possessive hand on her neck and deepened the kiss. Tongue in her mouth, sliding along her teeth, pressing on her tongue. Not angry enough, not angry enough. She couldn’t breathe. Slow movement. Pressure building up, in her chest, in her head. The sound was deafening, it was deafening. His hand was hot on her neck. Not angry enough, not angry enough. 

“You should have heard him scream,” whispered into her ear, “it was beautiful. A true symphony. You should play your violin to it Etta. Make a duet out of it.” 

Flashes across the forefront of her mind, one by one. Playing violin in a shitty bar, locking eyes with him, dancing, their first date, kissing him on the pier, marrying him, their first night together. All the flashes of memory pressed into her mouth along with his tongue and it choked her. 

You’re still afraid. You can’t kill someone you’re still afraid of.

Xavier finally let her go and she stumbled back, wiping the spit from her face. She stared at him and he laughed. The sound grating to her ears. Out of tune. A wrong chord. He was wrong. He no longer was a part of her symphony. He had no place there.

She refused to let him poison her song with his venom any longer. Henrietta stared at him.

Jesse was wrong. 

She didn’t need the anger. It wasn’t anger that was missing. She forgot who she was. She forgot that anger was not her weapon. Her weapon was apathy. Fuck slow movements. A gun can kill a rattlesnake just fine. Henrietta looked at Xavier and felt nothing at all. 

She could use that.

______

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[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."

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[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

[3-2-whump]

Those last two shot right through the heart 🥺😭

Love the last prompt! consider:

Living weapon whumpee who was raped by their handler expecting something similar from a new handler (who is caretaker.)

Okay, interesting :)

Living Weapon rescued after rape

Content: past rape, victim offers sexe for serices, shame, ptsd

"I can't--Please don't ask me to do that, I just, I just need some time to process--" Victim swallows. Rescuer--"Uhhh... yeah but if I don't clean that wound, you're gonna get an infection, you're shirt's stuck in it..." "Oh--oh that--oh, I'm sorry, I thought..." *Victim reddening*

"Can I have another sweatshirt?" "I'll get you a change of clothes pretty soon," "--no, I just wanted to cover up more."

Rescuer hugging victim tightly. Victim closing their eyes as Rescuer rubs their back. "You're beautiful. I know you never wanted to hurt anyone." "That's... that's not what I mean. It was... it was more than just a weapon. It was... multipurpose."

Victim waking up with nightmare, breathing hard and fast, rescuer hurries in and strokes whumpee's arm. Whumpee deliriously shouts "get the fuck off me! You promised! They told me I was safe now!"

"Please, I can help, just don't send me back. You won't regret it. I can sharpshoot, I can suck, I can bend over, whatever you want just--" "Holy fuck whumpee, slow down."

"Why don't you get I'm not going to hurt you?" "Because you touch me every time you're saying it!"

Rescuer thinking victim isn't grateful and feeling like their efforts are wasted, only to find victim crying alone saying they can't take not knowing anymore, what rescuer is going to ask for in return.

[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

[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

[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

[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

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #23: On The Horizon

Word Count: 4.7k Previous | Masterlist | Next

Cw: slight suicidal ideation, aftermath of noncon

It took four days for him to wake up fully. By that time, the swelling around his face had gone down and he was left with bruising around his eyes and nose. His lower back hurt something awful and his insides felt like they’d been scraped raw. His insides were scraped raw. There were flashes of what happened, Xavier’s hand on his leg, then in his hair, lips on his throat, something rough and made of metal inside him, his hand pressing against something in his stomach. His brain filtered it out as best it could but there was something missing inside him. 

His body felt empty. There was a big deep pit inside him that had only been growing larger and larger since he first arrived here. The aching numbness of despair ate and gnawed at his very core. He felt like an apple left to rot in the battering sun. Miguel thought, for just a moment, that Xavier had taken the last of him when he left the barn that night. 

That night, it was his birthday. He was twenty-two. Nine years spent afraid and beaten. Six spent raped and used like a toy. But he couldn’t feel anything about that. There was just the numbness, the dark hole in his chest that only got deeper. Maybe Xavier finally killed the human in him. Took the last of Miguel with him when he left the barn. Maybe he was just the dog now. Nothing else left. 

Dead dogs don’t bark. 

He kicked out his feet from under the blanket, the heat was getting to him again. The sweat dripped off him in rivulets and made the blanket stick to his skin. He finally threw it off him and onto the floor. The air was dry, not even a breeze. His body protested as he moved himself onto his back, staring up at the barn rafters. Vision was still slightly blurry, he assumed that was from his eyes being pummeled. It had cleared slowly, over the past two or so days. But he still had fuzz in the corners of his eyes. Miguel had panicked for a moment that he was blind forever. That God had become increasingly more cruel as he got older. If his sight was taken from him as well, where would he be? What was the point then? 

But he wasn’t blind and he wasn’t dead and God was still cruel. 

Maybe God thought it was a funny joke. The fact that he kept on living through awful terrible things. Was it a curse to stay alive for so long? He had thought it was because he had hope for the future, that one day he’d get out of here and live a normal life. Now he couldn’t sit up without his stomach cramping painfully and his back seizing up on him. 

Miguel was useless and a burden at the current moment. If they wanted to leave, he would only slow them down. They could go right now if they wanted. He would watch them go, Henrietta and Solomon, and he would be left behind again. Last time he didn’t really mind, nor was he all that surprised. Not when his hands were on Terrance’s  stomach, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Henrietta mounted the horse and ran out of the barn. But his focus was on his friend. Terrance’s eyes were so afraid, so wide. His hands had covered Miguel’s as they both pressed to try and keep the blood inside. 

It took five minutes for Solomon and Xavier to get there. Xavier had ripped Miguel from Terrance and threw him against one of the stall doors. There was so much screaming and angry words and Solomon working. He didn’t even have it in him to lie. Miguel thought the punishment was simple. He watched Terrance slowly die. The bullet had nicked his liver and he was being poisoned slowly by his own body. Solomon and Miguel could do nothing but keep him company. Miguel was holding his hand when he took his last breath and it was Miguel who buried him underneath the mesquite tree on the top of the hill. Three days of suffering and then a grave on top of a hill. 

Three days of wondering why. Blaming himself, blaming Henrietta, blaming God. Was there really anyone to blame? It was an accident and Henrietta did the smart thing and left. Miguel had waited for a punishment that never really came. Nothing that wasn’t the usual. He expected something bigger. Something like what happened to him four nights ago. Xavier was waiting. Waiting until he got comfortable and when he was the most weakened. He didn’t have his hands like he used to. Could barely push him away, any punches were barely hard enough to bruise. He was malnourished and dehydrated. Miguel was a stray dog laying in wait for someone to kick it a few more times. 

His body was falling apart and he could do nothing about it. Miguel grabbed at his hair, ignoring the pain as he pulled. Then he screamed, something hoarse and raw. His throat burned by the end of it. He took some deep breaths, fighting the urge to throw himself on the floor, to force himself to get up. Do something. Do anything.  

His eyes closed as he tried to calm himself down and when he opened them, he saw curly red hair standing above him. This day couldn’t get any better. He couldn’t take Jesse right now. He’d die. He’d die this time and Jesse would probably laugh. His eyes closed again and he tried to choke back the whimpers at the thought of Jesse only being here for one reason. His whole body tensed as he waited for it to happen, for Jesse’s hand between his thighs and– 

A gentle hand rested on his forehead instead. Miguel opened his eyes, trying hard to focus on Jesse. The hand on his forehead quickly retracted and wiped itself on Jesse’s pant leg. If he was saying something, Miguel couldn’t see it. His vision was still blurry, going in and out of focus. He squinted at Jesse and he could see Jesse turn to leave. 

God had some mercy after all. 

Solomon was the next person he saw. The two braids down on his shoulders as he placed a cool cloth on his forehead. Oh.. he was running a fever. Or he must have been. The world faded in and out of the edges of his vision. Everything melted into one another. Dripping onto his face and it melted into his skin. The hurt faded, his vision did too, the damp cloth removed itself from his forehead. 

Something hot hit the back of his throat and Miguel coughed. His whole body seizing in pain. He turned his face, but the spoon was put to his lips again. It was cooler this time and he was able to drink it down. His world spun, when they finished feeding him, making him lay down again. 

Miguel curled up tight. The blanket reappeared and disappeared. Everything faded in and out. He was dying. He knew he was dying. It was something like Terrance where something inside had been broken and he was slowly bleeding out. There was something wrong with this picture. If he died here, would he see Terrance again? 

He would like that. 

But for now, he would sleep, and maybe, just maybe, he would not wake up. 

____

In the dream there was a lone coyote, staring at him from across the raging river. It turned away from him and he watched it walk into the desert. It threw its head back and even though he could not hear, it howled the song of freedom. The coyote disappeared into the sun rising behind it. The sky erupted into brilliant reds and oranges that stained the silver clouds. 

The dream shifted to the side, sliding out of his vision. 

He stood face to face with a child. The child had brown curls and light brown eyes that were filled with fire. He tilted his head at the child. 

“Who are you?” he signed. 

The child signed back. “I’m you.” 

His memories returned in a whirlwind. Running around him in circles. His father offered Miguel as a way of payment for stolen horses. Because he was worth that much at least. A few horses. Xavier had tied his hands together in front of him, dragging him behind a horse. 

The next memory was of his mother, rubbing his earlobes when he was younger. 

Then he was holding the gun and aiming it at Xavier’s face, feeling the anger well up inside of him. His finger on the trigger and the noticeable lack of kickback as he pulled it. Xavier’s eyes filled with anger. 

Pain flaring in his back with every crack of the whip. 

Solomon lowering the blindfold and releasing the gag. His teeth sinking into Solomon's hand. Grinding his teeth against bone and Solomon’s refusal to pull away until Miguel let go of his hand. 

Teaching Terrance sign language. 

Jesse hovering over him in the barn stall. Breath hot on his neck and stickiness between his legs. 

Terrance beating the absolute shit out of Jesse. 

Henrietta playing her violin, letting him touch the wood as she played. Feeling the vibrations. 

Solomon brushing his hair. 

Terrance’s blood on his hands. 

His hands being crushed under a boot. Nailed to the wall. 

Dirt and oranges. 

Everything surrounded him and it was too much. Too much to remember, so much he wanted to forget. He fell to his knees, hands pulling at his hair and he felt himself scream. Down low from inside his chest. 

The boy gently took Miguel’s face into his hands, eyes determined and full of fire. 

“You are still strong, if you could just remember,” he signed slowly 

“I don’t want to remember, please. Too much has happened.”  

The child gently wiped his tears. “You don’t have to remember it all. Bad things have happened. Bad things will happen. But there is good there too. There will be good again. You can’t give up yet.” 

“I’m tired.” 

“I know you are. I know we are. But giving up is not an option. There is light in your future. This darkness will not last forever. You have people in your heart who you cannot let down.” Solomon, Henrietta, Terrance, his sisters, his brother.  “Yes, them. All of them. Everyone who has helped you survive, you owe it to them to try. Just one more time.” 

Miguel closed his eyes. Remembering every good thing he could about each of them. From Solomon reading to him, to his little brother's smile. 

Just one more time. 

____ Miguel woke up with a gasp. His heart and head were pounding. Mouth filled with cotton. A hand gently laid itself on his chest, keeping him from getting up too fast. He choked on his breath, turning to his side. Rubbing at his eyes, which didn’t hurt as bad as before, he noticed, and opened them. His vision was clear.  

Turning himself on his back again, he noticed it was Henrietta who stood over him. Eyebrows furrowed in concern. She laid the back of her hand on his forehead, it felt cool to the touch. 

“Your fever finally broke,” she signed to him, gently smoothing his hair from his face. She stood up from the side of his cot. He watched her grab a canteen of water. She came back to him and pressed the opening to his lips. Miguel unsteadily grabbed it with his hands as Henrietta tipped it. Cool water filled his mouth and he drank greedily. She pulled it away and he whined lowly.  “Slow down, you’re gonna choke,” she warned him, before she tipped it against his lips again. He forced himself to drink slower, savoring the coolness and fresh taste of the water. 

When he was done, she pulled away. Staring at him with an expression that was something of a mix of worry and relief. 

“How are you feeling? You’ve been out for three days,” she signed, looking him over. 

Miguel thought about it for a moment, his face felt less swollen, his back was less painful as he forced himself to sit up, and the rawness of his insides had depleted some as well. 

“Better than yesterday,” he signed back. “I’ve been sick for? A week?” Miguel asked, frowning. He put his hands in his lap and he stared down at them for a second. They didn’t hurt in the dream. They were normal in the dream. Lifting his gaze back to Henrietta he saw her nod. He took a deep breath before looking around at the barn room. There was a bucket filled with water with a rag over it on the floor. The light shining through the window at the top of the wall was a golden yellow.  

“You were healing the first few days and Solomon said you probably had an infection from whatever Xavier used to..” Henrietta’s hands stopped moving and she shifted in the chair. The chair was new. That wasn’t there before. “I’m so sorry he did that to you. I never thought- he always looked at you, like that but I never thought he’d actually…”  

Miguel reached forward and grabbed Henrietta’s hands in his. He shook his head. It wasn’t her fault. Xavier was always going to do it. There was nothing she could have done. The man always took what he wanted. Miguel was surprised he had waited so long. Henrietta nodded at him, pulling her hands away. She stood up from the chair and licked her lips nervously. 

“I’ll go tell Solomon you’re awake.” 

Yes. Solomon. God he had missed him. Really missed him. Not even for any particular reason. His presence being so far away, knowing he couldn’t even look at him without fear for punishment, was something that ate at him. He supposed that Xavier had to let Solomon see him since he’d been beaten and raped within an inch of his life. Apparently, he had almost died from infection. Maybe he was still dying. Miguel didn’t exactly feel great but he felt awake, aware. More than he had been in a long time. Almost like being blinded had cleared his vision. 

There were still the dull aches from his body, but they were easier to ignore now. He tossed his legs over the cot with a low grunt. It took effort, he was still sore. His lower back protesting against any movement at all. The wood beneath his feet felt warm. Miguel lifted his face to the rafters of the barn and took in a deep breath. It smelled of manure, hay, and dust. This place was never going to smell like home. It never had. But he almost believed it was, he thought that if he had tried to make this home, it would be better. He was wrong. Something moved at the corner of his vision and he turned to see Jesse again. He looked like a wreck. His hair was tousled up like he’d been running his hands through it. There was dirt all over his clothes. It normally wouldn���t be such a sight if Jesse wasn’t staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost. 

Miguel was not dead. Not yet. Jesse needn’t worry about that. Miguel was just too stubborn to die. 

They seemed to stare at each other forever before Jesse finally ran a hand through his hair. Taking the steps to close the space between them. Then Jesse moved his fingers at him. It was so strange, so foreign,  coming from him that Miguel took a second to realize that Jesse was signing at him. Full blown, sign language. His language. How long.. how.. Miguel was on him in seconds, ignoring the pain in his lower back, in his hands. Standing took more effort than he thought it would but he did it anyway. He curled his hands as best he could into fists and struck Jesse wherever he could. Shoulders, chest, back. Everywhere. Jesse stumbled back, grabbing his wrists in one hand, kicking his leg out from under him. He fell hard, head smacking against the ground. Jesse straddled him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. ”Wanna tell me why the fuck you did that?”

Miguel grunted, the pressure on his pelvis making his eyes water. Jesse, seeming to realize this, lifted his weight and shifted to instead sit on his thighs. He let go of Miguel’s hands and slowly brought his own hands back to himself. “You signed,” Miguel stated forcefully. Growling at Jesse. 

“Yes,” Jesse signed back, shrugging slightly, “I thought you might be able to understand better if I signed.” 

“How long have you fucking known?” 

A look of realization crossed Jesse’s expression before he pressed his lips together in a firm line. “A while,” he signed, “I liked it when you struggled.” 

“Fuck you,” Miguel said, smacking Jesse’s chest once more with a closed fist before leaning his head back on the floor. “You knew this whole time and you didn’t use it because you liked to see me try so hard to understand you.” 

Jesse laughed, he could feel in the way his weight shifted on his thighs. Miguel refused to look at him. Refused to give him the satisfaction. The man leaned in real close, grabbing Miguel’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks as he made Miguel look at him. “You know, I thought the fire died in you a long time ago.”   Just one more time. One more time. 

Suddenly, Jesse’s head snapped upward, and Miguel followed his sight, craning his neck to see Solomon standing at the entrance to the hayloft. He climbed up from the ladder. Expression furious as he started to talk. Miguel couldn’t see what he was saying, but Jesse scrambled away, getting off him and holding his hands up in surrender. Miguel shakily sat up, eyes watching Jesse carefully. 

“He hit me first!- I know.- I know! He literally hit me first.”

He caught the one sided conversation but turned to see Solomon kneeling beside him. Checking him over quietly, wrapping an arm around his waist he finally spoke, “Come on, lets get you back to your cot.” 

Using the arm around his waist to support him, Solomon half lifted, half helped him stand. Walking the few steps toward the cot was more tiring than Miguel would have liked. When Solomon helped him sit down, his stomach turned awfully and his back ached. 

“Did you hit him?” Solomon asked him in sign, before quietly sitting down next to him. 

Miguel looked at Jesse, who had suddenly taken interest in the wall to the left of him. He chewed on his lip looking down at his feet when he answered. 

“He knows sign. He’s known it for years and he just.. He never.. I’m sorry.” 

Solomon stared at him for a moment, before pulling Miguel into a hug. A soft, enclosed space. He was saying something, his chest vibrated with speech. But Miguel just buried his face into Solomon's shirt, hands going under his arms and clutching at the back of his shirt. The older man wrapped a gentle hand on the back of his head. They stayed like that for a moment. Holding each other. Basking in each other's presence which they both went so long without. Solomon was everything. Every good thing that had ever happened here, it had happened when Solomon was near him. He’d never truly appreciated it before. The love. The pure, unconditional love that came from Solomon. Towards him, towards Henrietta. Solomon was the best man he’d ever met. Miguel would never live up to him. Maybe it was worth trying anyway. 

They pulled away at the same time, staring at each other. 

“I thought you were going to die there for a second. You need to rest. The infection seems to have run its course, but we can’t be too careful.” 

Solomon turned toward Jesse, and Miguel followed his eyes. Jesse was talking again, this time signing as he did so. It still filled him with anger. To see his language in Jesse’s hands. Filthy, awful hands that hurt him so badly. Who watched him struggle and attempt to understand. Sometimes, Miguel got tired of translating words into his head. Trying to read and concentrate and then trying to make sense of it. It was exhausting. 

“How are we gonna leave with him barely being able to walk?” 

“We’ll figure something out.” 

“He can’t ride a horse like that.” 

“I know.” 

“We’ve got a week.” 

“I know.” 

“Solomon-” “I know.” 

Miguel frowned, tugging on Solomon's sleeve to grasp his attention. 

“He’s coming with us? To where?” he asked, a sick feeling churning in his gut. Solomon and Jesse exchanged looks. Miguel felt his heart pick up pace, his stomach twist. Jesse was coming with them? They had a plan? Where was he? What was going on? Was this just because he was sick? Or had they been planning behind his back the whole time? “Miguel,” Solomon started. 

“No.” 

“Miguel,” Solomon said again, sighing heavily. “Listen carefully. Henrietta met some people, when you went into town. It’s people she knew when she left. They offered to help. They’re gonna help get us out of here.” 

“How?” 

“Just listen Miguel,” Solomon said, signs more forceful. So forceful that it made Miguel flinch. “I’m sorry, I just need you to understand. We have a date. They’re gonna set the stables on fire, a distraction. Jesse has guns, and-” “Since when is he involved? Why is he coming? Do you know what he’s done? Do you know how much-” “I know Miguel! But he also saved your life. He saved your life. Jesse found you after Xavier, brought you to me. If he hadn’t you would have died. You would have.” 

Miguel bit his lip, anger welling in his chest. God when was the last time he’d been this angry? How long? Years? He wasn’t even this angry when he slammed the shovel over Jesse’s head. That was instinctual, a primal need for survival. This was different, this was pure. A true feeling that he couldn’t shove down into a little box inside his chest. 

His hands clenched into fists on his lap, or something resembling a fist. The anger only grew as Solomon continued to speak. 

“Jesse saved you. He’s only coming with us to the river. Then he’s going off on his own. He wants to leave as bad as the rest of us. Do you understand?” 

“Why are you speaking to me like I’m a child?” Miguel asked suddenly, huffing slightly. “Of course I fucking understand.” 

Solomon stared at him, mouth slightly open in surprise. He could see Solomon swallow before looking down at Miguel’s hands, then his eyes again. 

“You changed. You’re different,” Solomon stated, an expression he’d never seen before on his face. Pride? Determination? Hope? “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re a child. You’re not. I just, I am worried and I am frustrated. We think you’ll take more time to heal than the time we actually have.” 

A burden again then. Miguel was so tired of being a burden. There was a deep red mass taking a hold of his heart. So big that it was making it hard to breathe, hard to see. “I’ll be fine,” Miguel said, “I can be fine. I’ll push through. I always do.” 

Solomon stared at him, studying him for a moment. Trying to figure out what had changed. Had he changed from this? It was noticeable to them at least. Something inside Miguel had snapped that night and something new was reborn. He was growing teeth. “They’ll set the stables on fire, Jesse has guns. Henrietta will meet us outside the barn with the key to your chain.” 

Miguel thought for a moment and shook his head. “If we’re all meeting here, just shoot through it, it’ll take less time.” 

Solomon looked back at Jesse and Jesse pressed his lips together in a tight line. Thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yeah we can do that. It would be easier,” he agreed. “We can unlock the manacle on the wagon.” 

“Right,” Solomon said, rubbing his face, looking tired. “We’ll get you into the wagon, and Jesse and Henrietta’s people will cover us as we leave. The hope is.. The stables will distract Yardly and the others while we get all our things. Get you in the wagon, just buy us some time.” 

“And then?” 

“Then we run like hell.” 

There was an uneasy silence between them all before Jesse finally decided to leave, to go off and tell Henrietta the new part of the plan. When Jesse left, Miguel felt like he could breathe. Like the very air got cleaner with his absence. The mass in his heart lessened slightly and he leaned back on the cot.  

Solomon sat on the cot next to Miguel, simply staying next to him. Waiting for him to talk. Waiting for him to do something. Finally Miguel turned toward Solomon, his mouth felt dry again. 

“I missed you,” he signed to Solomon, sitting up straight. 

“I missed you too.” 

“A week?” 

“A week. Miguel, I’m sorry.” 

Miguel shook his head, sighing. “No. Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I don’t think Jesse should come with us. He could be pretending, playing a game. He could be tricking us.”

“He wants to get out of here just as bad as we do. As soon as we hit the river, we’re going different ways. We’re crossing, he’s not.” 

“I don’t think he should come,” Miguel repeated. “He’s coming. He’s one of the only people who can use a gun well. We need him.” 

“We don’t need him, he’s an asshole. He doesn’t deserve to leave.” 

“If he stays he’s dead Miguel.” 

The statement hit him like a train. The exhaustion did too. He’d gotten up too fast, his body felt awful. His hands were shaking.His back ached, and his head where it hit on the floor throbbed. He was starting to form a headache behind his eyes. Pressure building. Solomon gently put a hand on his shoulder and Miguel turned toward him again.  “You need to rest,” he signed, his hand moving to the back of Miguel’s head and he pressed their foreheads together. “Miguel I thought you weren’t going to make it through the night.” 

“I’m here Solomon,” Miguel assured. Just one more time. One more try. He had a reason to hope now. A reason to be here and present. He can’t escape to somewhere in his head this time. He had to be here. He had to. “I’m here.” 

Solomon pulled away, gently trying to make Miguel lay down on the cot. Helping his head onto the pillow and lifting his feet. He curled up on the cot. It smelt like sweat and blood. One day he would sleep in a real bed, or at least, something that didn’t smell like shit. Solomon covered him again with the blanket.

Miguel frowned the pressure behind his eyes building more and he pressed a palm to his eyebrows. The bruising was still there and the pain of pressing against the bruises, dwindled the pressure behind his eyes. Hands gently grabbed his wrists and pulled them away from his face. He was too weak to pull back. “What’s wrong?” 

“I have a headache, it’s nothing. I just need to sleep.” 

Solomon rubbed a thumb over his forehead. Nodding. He started to slowly stand up and Miguel’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Solomon's sleeve. Solomon slowly sat back down, nodding silently. The silent request was loud. Stay. 

He wouldn’t leave, not if he asked. And Miguel didn’t even have to ask. Not really. They were in this together. All or nothing. 

Just one more time. One last time. 

There was hope here. There was something new coming with the horizon. A coyote was howling in the distance. He couldn’t hear it, but he knew.

____

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!!

[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

[3-2-whump]

Falling Like Snow

<prev next>

The penultimate chapter, can you believe it? Break out the tissues for this one, folks.

Thanks again @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz, you two are the best!

Obligatory Author's Note: This is it, folks, the end of Tom's story. Sorry to those who wished for a miracle, and congratulations to those of you rooting for his demise. You know exactly what to do if you desire a different ending. Fanfiction, canon divergence -the world is your oyster, so just go for it! I encourage it, if anything! Just, you know, tag me or let me know in some way. But anyway, here we go

TW/CW: major character death, blood, gore (?) (tagging it just to cover my bases), aftermath of torture, cigarette whump (brief), emotional angst, slave whump, noncon nudity (in the first half), Stockholm Syndrome (maybe?) (like the beginnings of it), but more so, emotional angst. So much angst. Please let me know if I missed anything though! Enjoy

From: Master Forgot about a meeting I have tonight. Be home late. Wait for me.

Khaled noted the time the message was sent, and compared it to how late at night/early in the morning it now was. He wondered if his master was out drinking, or whoring, or whatever it was he got up to when he’d stay out late on short notice. Not like it was his business anyway.

Khaled yawned, shaking out the numbness in his legs from his kneeling position next to the couch. He put away the plate of food on the table that had long gone cold by now. His own stomach gurgled with the need to eat something, but he dared not touch any of the food he carefully stowed away.

With the leftovers sorted out, there was nothing to do but put the dishes in the dishwasher and start the cycle. The kitchen, as well as the rest of the apartment, was spotless, since now he had nothing else to do but keep it clean. Khaled returned to his place on the bare living room floor, grabbing a blanket off the couch as an afterthought as he wrapped it around his nude frame. He was forbidden from wearing any clothes now, as the man who owned him was just a little too eager to see his ‘beautiful body,’ as he called it, and did not want anything obstructing its form. He’d watched in abject horror as all but a few changes of clothes were burned before his eyes and the rest had been locked in a safe. It had been a cold February ever since.

“I like you more like this,” his master had told him. “You’re far more cuddly like this, love, far more tactile.”

That’s another thing; Master was saying the word ‘love’ a lot more, averaging at least one “I love you Khaled” per day for the past two weeks. More than a little overwhelming, the frequency at which he’d expressed his affections seemed just this side of insincere. The three little words Khaled had craved for so many years now sounded so flat and fake, given everything else that had happened to him. How could anyone who isolates a man from his friends, from his job, from the world itself claim to love him? How was any of what he went through love?

What was more unbearable was when he was expected to say it back.

And he would say it back, a strained ‘I love you too’ that grated against his throat like swallowing broken glass. Yet, with a defeated resignation, Khaled realized it had gotten much easier to say, with enough repetition. If he said ‘I love you too, Master’ enough times, he may actually begin to believe it. It was only a matter of time until he would say it and mean it, if his enforced isolation continued much longer. Thomas Costa and Luca Bianchi were the only other human beings he had seen for two weeks now; he had no idea how he was strong enough to deal with this for more than a year when he was a child!

He positioned himself on his side, his sore back facing the door and his head facing the wide windows of the living room overlooking the city skyline. Outside it began to snow. The white, fluffy flakes were a vision of beauty flying against the heavy gray sky. Khaled’s eyelids drooped as he watched the snow fall in the greyish-white winter night. It was cold, yes, but beautiful, like him, he guessed.  His last conscious thoughts were wondering when his master would come home to him. Regardless of whether he loved him back or not, he was cold, so cold without him.

-

It was cold, so cold, on the dirty concrete floor. Not even the blood pouring out of his lacerated wounds could keep him warm anymore. Above him, Julio circled him like a vulture, taking a long drag of his cigarette before throwing it lit-end first at Thomas’ face. The beaten man was too far gone to even flinch.

Damn, is this how Khaled felt when I cut him? he deliriously wondered. With all that Julio and the Juicio Divino boys had done to him, he doubted he’d ever get the chance to ask.

Khaled. There are so many things Thomas now wished he did differently. He should’ve been kinder, more patient, should’ve protected him from the world, from his men -even from himself. Especially from himself.

“Khaled…” he moaned.

A blood-speckled Nike connected painfully with his side. “You dare call out to him, even now?!” Julio growled icily. He kicked Thomas again.

“Julio, just kill him already, for fuck’s sakes,” a voice shouted from the corner of the warehouse. The traitor –Nico- stood off to the side, icing his bashed-in face with some snow wrapped in shirt fabric. “You’re worse than a cat that plays with the mouse it caught!” he admonished. As furious and confused and disappointed as Thomas was about the Clemenza boy betraying him like this, the primal animal part of him was grateful that he was asking for mercy on his behalf.

Although he could no longer raise his head to see past Julio’s ankles, Thomas could feel the assassin roll his eyes above him as he cursed in Spanish. The next thing he knew, Julio was crouching down to his level. He tried to mentally prepare for whatever would happen next.

Julio sunk his fingers into his short, blood-soaked hair, wrenching his head back as he held up a now-very-familiar knife to Thomas’ throat. “Any last words, puto?”

So many last words.

So many things to apologize for.

So many words left unsaid. Not just to Khaled, but to Callahan, to Trémeaux, to Robinson, Kreuger, Martinez, Kościelsky, and of course to Tony. Young Tony, dear Tony, high as fuck at a church wedding Tony. His pain in the ass little brother and his only constant in his childhood, who never lived to see twenty-two years old.

Khaled and Tony were a lot alike in some ways. Smarter than they thought they were, yet looked up to him for no explicable reason. It was a shame Thomas never consciously noticed that similarity until now.

All this time, Thomas thought he bought Khaled as a form of penitence, to make up for killing that boy who was suspected of killing his brother. And while, yes, that was partially why he bought him, maybe he also bought Khaled as a way resurrect his brother. It had been so long since he’d seen warm brown eyes look up at him, he didn’t even know he missed it until he saw Khaled’s eyes that day.

“Forgive me…” he rasped.

Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was the certainty that this was the end, making him see things, but for a second, Thomas saw a crack in that frosty glare Julio bore down onto him. For a brief second, a painful mix of shock, anger, sadness, and even sympathy flashed within Julio’s golden eyes, before the glacial cold vengeance covered them in its frosty glare once again.

“See you in hell,” Julio murmured.

A sharp pain sliced its way into his jugular and down. (Who the hell slices down?!) As the pain dulled and his vision started to go, Thomas’ ebbing consciousness latched onto a memory, one of the fondest memories he had of Khaled.

He’d had an intense nightmare within the first month of buying his new slave, and instead of deriding him or prying for more details than he was owed, the boy had heated him a cup of milk, rubbed his back, and stayed up with him until he was ready to go to sleep again, just like how he and Tony used to comfort each other after a nightmare. As the last threads of his vision faded and the boss’ surroundings sunk into darkness, he swore he could still hear younger Khaled’s words that night, murmured shyly as he still had his accent.

“Sleep well, Master.”

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[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.

[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)