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darkthingshappen · 1 year

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Reckoning (Merry Whump of May Day 1)

A Brother's Keeper Story Set about seven month's after Ben's initial rescue after fourteen months of captivity with Volkov.

Thanks to my always whumperful crew @whumpcereal @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself, and @oddsconvert for the flash beta job this afternoon.

Tags list at the end.

Warnings: BRIEF mentions of past torture, captivity, and noncon. Though nothing too explicit. PTSD. Ben just has a moment where he's tired of being told it's okay and unfortunately, Jake gets the full brunt of it. Ben's not wrong, but Jake... well... you'll see.

@themerrywhumpofmay (I'm so excited this is back this year!)

The kitchen was brightly lit, it was Fall again. Ben and Jake were doing the dishes. They were nearing the second anniversary of Ben’s abduction, but it felt like the first since he’d spent the previous one still with Volkov. Jake was dreading it. Everyone was dreading it. Ben was jumpy and distant, caught up in far too many dark memories.

Still, he had made so much progress, especially in the last month or so. He was smiling more, Jake had even seen him laugh once, with Zoe. Ben was slowly coming out of his shell after a brief stint in a mental hospital and months and months of intensive therapy. Ben stared blankly out the window. He never seemed to be able to get enough of looking outside.

Jake slapped him playfully on the arm with his wet washcloth as he’d done a million times throughout their childhood.

He shouldn’t have done that. The loud smacking sound of the cloth on Ben’s arm sent him to the floor, arms over his head, curled in a ball and rocking.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Ben whimpered.

Jake glanced around the kitchen in panic. He was alone with Ben. Their parents were out, his dad at work and their mom grocery shopping. They were counting on him to take care of Ben. He’d told them he could do it. He was eight years Ben’s senior for god’s sake. Think! He could do this. He could handle it. Couldn’t he?

“Shit! Benny. It’s okay. Sorry. That was stupid of me. I was just playing like we used to. I didn’t think... Shit I’m sorry. Please Benny. Please,” Jake begged, trying to recall what the therapist had said about how to bring Ben out of these horrible flashbacks.

Jake got up and ran to the living room. He grabbed the heated and weighted blanket they’d got Ben recently. They left it on most of the time for emergencies like this. Jake draped the warm blanket over Ben and held Ben’s hand, rubbing soft circles on the back of it with his thumb.

“It’s okay, Ben. Don’t worry. It’s okay,” Jake assured him for the millionth time since Ben had come home and had one of his prolific flashbacks that, at best made him freeze dead still and zone out, and at worst made him panic and react as if he were in the moment that he was seeing in his head.

“It’s not fucking okay!” Ben snapped suddenly, throwing the blanket off and getting to his feet. “Stop fucking telling me that! You don’t know a damn thing about it, do you?” He glared at his brother. “You. Weren’t. There!”

Jake recoiled, taken aback by the sudden and uncharacteristic anger and volume. Ben was always quiet now, rarely talking and when he did it was barely above a whisper. Jake attributed it to months of wearing a fucking shock collar. He stared at Ben in disbelief. He knew he deserved his brother’s anger. Whatever Ben wanted to say, he deserved it. He deserved to be reviled by the shell of a brother in front of him. He wished to God he could fix it; could make his baby brother whole.

“He didn’t take you, did he? He didn’t fucking torture you on daily basis, did he? He didn’t ra-” Ben’s voice, dripping with rage, cut off and he was left standing, heaving in breaths of air. His whole body trembled and Jake saw the dam of emotions and torment and memories that threatened to overwhelm his baby brother.

They both knew what he was about to say.

“It’s not okay,” Ben finally finished, more quietly than before.

“I-I know, Benny. I’m not meaning to make light. I know what he did to you.-”

“No. No you fucking don’t. Seeing my scars or reading that damn file that they gave mom and dad doesn’t mean you know. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. There’s so much more than what they could fit in my fucking file.” Ben made air quotes over the last word.

“I spent almost every night curled up in a cage. A fucking cage, Jake. No blanket. No pillow, no mattress. Just a hard plastic or metal bottom of a cage. And it was cold. All the time. I asked for a blanket one time. Do you know what he did to me?”

Jake’s expression reflected the horror of what Ben was telling him. It was the most Ben had directly said about what happened to him when he was with Volkov and Jake felt ashamed to want him to stop talking. He shook his head minutely.

“He tied me to a fucking cross outside. Outside in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. Outside in the fucking Russian winter. I thought I was gonna die. Over and over and over I thought I was going to die. Until it shifted from being afraid of dying to…” Ben’s voice dropped to a whisper. “To hoping for it.” He looked at Jake. “I don’t know who I am anymore because of what he did to me. Do you know what it’s like to hurt so bad, in every part of you, that you just want it to be over. Permanently. Do you?”

A tear slipped down Jake’s cheek and he shook his head, “N-no. No, Benny, I don’t. I’m… I’m sorry. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew how to take it away. God! Fuck! Benny I wish it were me. You have no idea how badly I wish it had been me. It should have been me.”

And for once, Ben didn’t disagree. He just stood there watching his brother crumble. He had always said, believed, told himself, that he wouldn’t wish what happened to him on his worst enemy. But he was so angry, and so terrified, and so overwhelmed with all that he had been through, that a furious mean little voice that he never used to have reared its ugly head and screamed inside him, ‘I wish it had been you!’

Ben clamps his lips shut before he can utter the hurtful words, but he knew it was too late, he may not have said them, but Jake heard them loud and clear all the same. Ben sighed.

“I… I need to… I need a break, Jake. I-I-I don’t blame you. I don’t.” He said the words, but he was no longer sure if he believed them. “But I can’t do this right now.”

Ben turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Jake standing in the middle of the room, holding a warm blanket that offered him no comfort.

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)

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riflewounds · 2 years

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Whumptober, day 24 | Fight, Flight, Or Freeze ("I don't want to do this anymore")

Man this prompt sounded so easy but it gave me the most trouble out of all of them. And it's kinda short as a result.

NSFW.

Cw: mentions of past noncon.

---

What time is it again?

Heavy breathing filled the room. The air was hot and musky, with a faint tinge of onions. Three days worth of sweat. There was salt on his tongue, he licked his moist lips and tasted liquor. Durant couldn't quite place the taste, but it stung and he concluded it had to be quite potent.

Fuchs laid over him. One hand so dangerously close to the gunman's crotch, far too close for comfort, but he didn't feel like pushing it aside either. Limp and tired, so drunk, but not enough by any margin.

He could still feel, he could still think. His eyelids were heavy, oh yes they were, and it was hard to pry them back open, but the darkness was lazy, it didn't want to claim him yet.

Durant's fingers dug into Fuchs' mussed-up hair, tracing circles on the younger man's scalp. The gunman... found it calming, even when he didn't know why he was doing it. Why was he stroking the man he so hated, the man who used him to sate his urges, and barely anything else?

Fuck's sake, he nearly left him to die back then. In the torture warehouse. The images were hazy, Durant didn't want to remember any of it but he couldn't forget the pain.

The agony tearing his legs apart. Fuchs, how he aggravated those broken bones, until the gunman couldn't take it anymore and that darkness took pity on the man.

It didn't keep him up at night. But he still remembered those tiny jagged knives cutting away at his flesh. The way his legs felt, numb and achy, but it went away. Thank god it went away because he needed his legs.

He was just a gun with legs, after all.

Fuchs made a sound, some tired moan, as he shifted on top of his gunman. Hand brushing away against his slumbering dick and he felt a twinge of warmth flush his face.

But other than that, he didn't feel anything.

Huh.

He'd stopped with the gentle strokes, his fingers sat in Fuchs' dark hair, motionless, as the gunman stared at the ceiling.

Maybe it... wasn't a great sign. That Fuchs seemed like he wanted to get into his pants, but his touch didn't do anything to him.

It used to, though. His hands used to do a lot of things to him. Guided your obedient little maw to his wet, throbbing meat.

Durant swallowed at the thought. No. He didn't want that.

What did he want, then? If not to please his boss? To raise him to the very highs of that primal ecstasy?

Durant only ever felt dread. When Fuchs was coming down on him. When he wasn't even given a chance to say 'no'.

Seven words mindlessly teetered from his drunken tongue, rolling from his lip like a handful of glass marbles. "I don't want to do this anymore."

He had enough of this. Of everything. He wished he could perish in the moment, he didn't want this, he didn't want to be a part of this horrible contract, he didn't want to be here.

He wanted another drink. More. And more and more.

Until his body couldn't take it anymore and his brain checked out, leaving him to wake up in a pile of trash with possibly the worst hangover he ever experienced.

But Fuchs didn't seem to pay any attention to those seven words, the most sincere words the gunman had uttered in the past two and a half years. Durant's boss only squirmed on top of him, arm lazily hooking against Durant as the younger of the two pulled himself closer, higher.

He didn't want this.

He didn't want to be here.

But maybe, maybe if he imagined this wasn't Fuchs, but someone else...

(Fuchs was as good as a blow-up doll about now.)

...maybe then he wouldn't be feeling like this.

But Durant couldn't bring himself to put in the effort. At the end of the day, when they both wake up half-naked on the same side of the bed, it'll still be Fuchs. And the gunman would still wind up with that sickening feeling at the back of his throat.

Now their faces were only inches apart, Durant could feel his boss' hot breath against his neck. How he rutted against his knee, too out of it to even notice. At least he wasn't trying to grope him anymore, even if... he didn't mean it. Durant hoped his boss didn't mean it, the guy's absolutely shitfaced for god's sake.

Durant's only solace was that his boss was face-down, chin resting against the edge of the mattress, but the rest of his head hung past the edge. If the guy vomits, at least it won't be on the gunman's clothes. The cheapshit suit he's been wearing for who knows how long.

It didn't matter. Nothing fucking mattered.

The gunman let his eyes fall shut, and the darkness still refused to claim him.

#whumptober2022 #no.24 #fight flight or freeze #i don't want to do this anymore #OC #fic #mentions of past noncon #nsfwhump #man this prompt beat my ass #so easy on the surface and it turned out to be the hardest one yet #i filled half a sketchbook with sketches for this but ultimately nothing worked #and it's such a simple prompt!#kinda frustrating ngl #but it's done #nin saved the day lol

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whumpshaped · 5 months

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if that’s okay i‘d love to get a continuation to this, where the caretaker maybe realises something is wrong? and they can have a talk with the whumpee about it? or some comfort and recovery for the whumpee?

because tumblr won’t let me link stuff on anon, here’s the link: https://www.tumblr.com/whumpshaped/734392975865626624/hello-would-you-write-a-conditionated-whumpee-in

tw perceived noncon drugging, emeto mention, past trauma, past noncon drugging, conditioned response

Breakfast was uncomfortable and awkward. Caretaker kept trying to say something, only to close their mouth again without a word.

“Are you alright?” they eventually asked, and Whumpee stiffly nodded. “I… I thought I heard you throw up yesterday.”

“That’s odd,” they said curtly.

“You… didn’t?”

“No.”

Caretaker kept poking at their scrambled eggs, biting their lower lip like they were trying to punish themself for speaking up in the first place. And yet, they couldn’t help it.

“If the food is bad…”

“It’s not.”

Whumpee took a big bite of their breakfast sandwich to prove it, and Caretaker sighed.

“Look, I– I get that it can be embarrassing… I just wanna know what’s going on. I can help you if you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

Caretaker averted their eyes, going back to pushing pieces of egg around. Whumpee couldn’t stand how troubled and heartbroken they looked.

“Did you put something in my food yesterday?” they blurted out. “At dinner? Or was it the drink?”

“Huh?” Caretaker’s eyes snapped up to meet theirs, full of confusion and concern. “So it was the food. Was the taste off? Mine tasted fine, I didn’t realise–”

“I said, did you put something in my food yesterday?” they repeated, more emphatic this time. Demanding, almost. They had a special distaste for people dancing around their questions ever since they’d met Whumper.

“No,” Caretaker said immediately, still baffled. “I’d never. Do you think I’d do that?”

“Well, I don’t know. I didn’t think so, but then you gave me that, that phrase, and then left me alone in the dark–”

“What phrase?”

“You know the phrase!”

Caretaker shook their head slightly, so utterly puzzled that for the first time, Whumpee considered the possibility that they didn’t actually know. “I can avoid it next time if you tell me,” they offered.

“It’s ‘good night’!” Well. That sounded dumber than intended. “When, when it’s said– said like that, I– Whumper kept saying that! They kept saying it whenever they knew I was about to pass out! They kept saying it after drugging me! They’d have these pills, and they’d–”

“Hey, hey, Whumpee…” Caretaker cut in, making them realise they were getting carried away. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna say it again. And I’m definitely not putting anything in your food.”

Whumpee sniffled, trying to avoid a full-blown breakdown as much as possible. “Great,” they forced out. Caretaker gave them a tentative smile.

“No other concerns?” Whumpee shook their head, quickly going back to their breakfast so they wouldn’t have to keep looking at Caretaker. “Alright, then.”

Truthfully… their sandwich was looking a lot safer and tastier now than they’d gotten that off their chest.

#asks #whump #whump drabble #perceived noncon drugging #emeto mention #past trauma #past noncon drugging #conditioned response #recovery fic #comfort

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whoviandoodler · 1 year

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one of the things that makes mdzs SUCH a great story is the fact that it's a tragedy with queer protagonists, but their queerness isn't the cause or the center of the tragedy. it's not even related, really. it's a story about love and loss and wrong and right, about what we owe each other and what we owe ourselves, about how you can find joy even amidst chaos and grief; its complexity and tragedy is what makes it so profound and touching. sure, there's 'casual' queerphobia in the story, but with everything else going on, it's not really relevant- wwx's mostly like, 'oh, i like guys? i like lwj? i love lwj? fuck, what if he doesn't love me back? am i being presumptuous to think he returns my feelings? what do I do now?' followed by 'wait, he loves me back??? we're getting married IMMEDIATELY', and that whole attitude is very refreshing because sometimes you just want to read a queer story that isn't about queer suffering but that's still incredibly miserable, and i think we as a queer community deserve it

#mdzs #lwj #wwx #lan wangji #wei wuxian #mdzs thoughts #dan talks #wangxian #obviously the story has its issues but. FFUCK i just want something to break my heart w/o having to read thru queer trauma #ik danmei in theory isnt aimed at queer audiences but compared to like. some of 'made for cisshet women' queer man content ive read in #the past mdzss iss a breath of fresh air. imo most issues lie w the sex scenes and the INSANE lack of lube but.#ill forgive it this once #their dynamic and love story is otherwise great. just dont take it ass sex ed lol ud fucking die #the sex scenes are funny tho. im always cackling and going YOURE GOING TO KILL EACH OTHER GOD SLOW DOWN #also in gen we need to uh. do better w tws bcs theres a LOT of noncon rp in there and i didnt see it mentioned anywhere in the fandom after #hours of being around it. books do tws plssss someones going to run headfirst into there and not have a good time

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 4 months

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prompt: i am BEGGING on my knees for more recom!paz, maybe the moment that she and spider met? does he recognise her? he was only a baby when she died, but he kept her picture

(tw past csa, past torture, trauma, violent thoughts)

ao3

It's the hair that grabs his attention first--most recoms don't have curly hair, or if they do they don't grow it out long enough to see. She's got it pulled back, though, not like in the--

in the--

but the sight makes his guts twist anyway. He recognizes the outline of those curls, the same ways he sees in the mirror whenever he takes his braids out. He doesn't take his braids out a whole lot.

She steps into the clearing, gun hanging loosely at her side (shouldn't she be in the sky? is he wrong? let him be wrong). The grass crinkles under her boots the way Quaritch's used to and Spider flinches, pressing his back against the tree.

He tries to tell himself, firmly, that history isn't repeating--he's got a gun now, he's fought in battles, he's faced torture and worse, he's dangerous. He tries to tell himself that, but his hands still hang limp at his sides and he can't breathe right.

Another step, eyes flicking over him--once, a threat assessment, second, a look of confusion. Third, and she stops dead, eyes going wide.

You got your mama's eyes, Quaritch used to pant over and over again as he fucked Spider senseless. That's how I knew you. And...and he's not quite right, not anymore. The pupils are different, the irises, dark brown switched out for searing yellow.

But the shape is the same. And every time he's glimpsed himself shocked, stunned, thrown off his axes and spinning in the dark--he sees it again, in her.

She stumbles forward, like she's about to collapse, a lock of hair swaying from her ponytail, and Eywa, she looks even more like that stupid photo now. Propping herself on a tree, jaw working, more stunned than Quaritch had been, maybe.

"Miles?" she gasps.

And--and. Miles knows what she is, he knows (even if he took her name, even if he got her picture, and learned Spanish along with English to speak her first language, even if he spent his whole fucking childhood telling himself that she hadn't been at Kelutral, that it wasn't anyone's fault she got caught in the Soul Tree crossfire but that doesn't mean she would have done anything, fantasizing about her turning her guns on the enemy and going down a hero like Trudy Chacon had just to trick himself into thinking his family tree wasn't completely fucking rotten).

But he can't go for his gun. Not even now, with her off balance like this. And he can't snarl nobody calls me that, like he had with Quaritch in the woods, when it was so easy to reject his father, before Quaritch sunk his hands so deep into Spider's brain and body it might never come out.

She could do that, Spider knows. She could do worse, if he let her, if he stands in this burning fucking house and refuses to listen to his instincts, refuses to run or fight.

He knows this, and his hands still twitch at his sides, desperate to reach up. Like he's a little kid who's broken his arm again, screaming for his mommy the way the Sully kids always did when they were hurt or scared, even though he's over that, he is, he--

"Mom," he chokes out, like a good son. Like a good boy, his daddy's good boy, his mama's.

"Oh--" Paz Socorro crashes to her knees in the dirt, throws her arms around him before he has a chance to react. "Oh, dios mio." Pulling him close, muscled arms digging into his back, she smells like Quaritch had in the woods, blood and polish, sweat and dirt, gunmetal and smoke--but instead of Quaritch's sharp cologne there's a softer smell of conditioner, shampoo.

"Baby." She pulls him back to look him over and tears well in her eyes--because of the scar or the tewng, he can't be sure. "Oh, baby. My baby.” Pulling close again as she sobs in his ear, her tears dampening his hair and washing down his back like rain.

"It's okay," Spider says, arms wrapped around her sides instead of going for a knife or a gun like he should. "It's okay, Mom." It's a lie, and it's the only truth left in his fucked-up world. "I'm here."

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whumpacabra · 2 months

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New Tricks

Angst, crying, exhaustion, fever, touch starvation, scars, local anesthetic, stitches, painful wound treatment, pain medication, needle mention, fear of electrocution, anticipated violence, referenced character death, past torture, implied past noncon

[Directly follows Bad Dog]

The Wolf waited. He drank every second of gentle touch he could get and he waited for the price to be exacted on his already rent flesh.

It never came.

He cried himself to exhaustion, nauseous with the knowledge he was too tired, that it would kill him to take any more punishment. (He didn’t want to die.) But the hands that pulled his tear stained face from the agent’s tear soaked shirt were gentle, holding his jaw like it was a fragile thing. And the eyes looking down at him - alien with their pity - had no sharp edges trying to cut into his own pain glazed eyes.

“I - I have a medkit. Would you - do you need help, stitching up your back?”

The Wolf stared up at him, too tired to process the words beyond ‘help.’ He didn’t get help - he got treatment. He recovered enough to be broken again. But there was a finality to the way this man said that word, like it meant something more than a temporary state of being.

“Okay. I’m - I’m just going to get my medkit, alright? Alright.” Jackson was talking more to himself, and the Wolf was fine with that. The words were starting to blur together, the sound of a particular voice that didn’t come with hurt or insults or harsh hands. Jackson’s gentle hands propped the Wolf against the edge of the tub, an arm draped over the side and his head resting against the cool false porcelain plastic. He was so fucking cold. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and sleep.

(He wanted to crack open Jackson’s rib cage and slot himself between his lungs.)

He was shivering intermittently when Jackson returned (had he been gone long?) but the Wolf was just happy to have that warm presence hovering near him again. The agent sat beside him, the space between the sink and tub a cramped and uncomfortable place to fit two grown men, but the Wolf didn’t mind.

(How odd, that just hours before he would dread having another warm blooded body close to his, and now - now, with this one, he wanted to cling to that warmth like a leech.)

The click and snap of a syringe being prepped had the Wolf open his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Jackson, who offered a nervous smile.

“It’s a local anesthetic - is that alright?” The Wolf blinked at him, and then looked away. He didn’t know how to answer questions about his comfort, his wants. (He just wanted to sleep.) The kiss of the needle was expected, but the bloom of cool numbness it bestowed where it pricked his back was a welcome surprise.

“I’m - I need to clean these. Even with the anesthetic it might hurt.” The Wolf could feel those alien eyes watching the back of his head, so he nodded. “Sorry.” Jackson had nothing to apologize for.

The sting of antiseptic was absent, but the pressure and prickle of exposed flesh being prodded and debris teased away was a familiar sensation. His handler had cut into him on the first night, reckless with rage. The Wolf tried not to dwell on the memory, but a tremor shivered up his spine as Jackson worked, gentle hands pausing.

“Are you alright?” Another nod. Another soft ‘sorry’ that felt unwarranted. It was the Wolf’s fault for being weak. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Jackson’s stitches, oddly difficult to anticipate with his pain numbed flesh.

Three days of those deep cuts left exposed, open to the air and sweat and worse. They would scar, badly, like the cuts that ran from his right hip to his spine, skin ridged and thick with scar tissue. His handler wanted them to scar badly. He wanted the Wolf to remember - to remember that he -

A sob caught in his throat, the shock collar still heavy around his neck. It wasn’t set to voice activation - he didn’t think it was - but it had shocked him earlier. Had his handler done that? Had his handler survived and was watching and would kill Jackson or have him kill Jackson and - ?

“Easy love, I’m almost done. You’re doing so well.” A voice so soft and so different from the barking orders and snarled insults he was acclimated to. The Wolf blinked away fresh tears, struggling to find his voice, a hoarse whisper rising from his ragged throat.

“Is he dead?” Three little words; a question he couldn’t stand to know the answer to. A question he needed to know the answer to if he ever wanted to sleep again. Jackson’s hands, cold - so cold against the Wolf’s burning, numbed skin - stilled, a steady palm pressed to a small expanse of uncut flesh. But not too hard, mindful of his bruises.

“Yes. Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.” The Wolf could hear a question in those words, but he was too relieved to consider it. Jackson - anyone - could kill him, let him die badly, alone, and bloody, and he would die happy. He outlived his handler. A victory he didn’t know he needed.

Jackson resumed his steady handed stitches, and the Wolf let his head drop, thoughts running watery and disconnected. The hum of the light above. The creak of the window pane holding back the wind. The footsteps in the room above - light, belonging to a child, a bed creaking and muffled voices soft with sleepy affection.

“You’re warm.” He sure as hell didn’t feel warm. The Wolf looked over his shoulder at Jackson, instinctively flinching as a hand came toward his face, but he relaxed into the icy touch pressed to his forehead. He almost missed it when it left. “Here, are you allergic to Advil?”

The Wolf looked down at the red pill and the almost comically small paper cup with a swallow’s worth of water. His stomach ached, hunger and nausea fighting for recognition even as he downed the medication and splash of liquid. He had taken harsher drugs with less in his stomach. (Not that what was roiling in his gut was pleasant or nutritious.)

With a shudder he rested against the tub once again, Jackson’s hands and sterilizing wipes traveling away from the oldest, deepest cuts. The antiseptic stung, a familiar pain that burned like acid over his wounds. But Jackson didn’t linger, didn’t press the antiseptic deeper into his flesh. He stitched the deepest wounds, bandaged the rest, and worried over surface level burns as though the Wolf could still feel them after the years of his handler’s habit leaving its mark.

By the time Jackson was putting away his medkit, the first grey glow of dawn was seeping through the rain dappled window. The Wolf hadn’t moved in hours, sitting still and as comfortable as he could be while Jackson worked. He was so tired. And when he limped out of the bathroom after Jackson, there was a wonderful nest of blankets and pillows waiting on the soft carpeted floor.

“You take the bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor - besides, your back could…” Jackson trailed off as the Wolf wandered to the crude bed on the floor, dropping harshly to his knees and collapsing into the softness.

In his daze of exhaustion, he barely registered the anxious horror of knowing Jackson wanted him on the bed. That was a problem for a well rested Wolf. That was something he could handle tomorrow, that he could survive tomorrow, that he could stomach tomorrow.

Right now, there was a soft surface below him, a heater humming to his right, and a painlessness to his injuries that should have frightened him.

But he was too tired, so he slept.

[Directly before In for a Penny]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode

#whump #angst #crying #exhaustion #fever #touch starvation #local anesthetic #stitches #painful wound treatment #pain medication #needle mention #shock collar #past torture #implied past noncon #anticipated violence #referenced character death #freelancers #shhhh he eepy <- my sleep schedule is so fucked. why do town council meetings run until 1 AM.#(it is kinda my/our fault for pestering them abt [redacted] buttttt whateves.)

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sparrowsage · 5 months

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The Warehouse: Digging Up Old Memories

Buckle up, because this piece is something. I really enjoyed writing this piece, even if it is a giant emotional show lol. A huge shoutout and thanks to @flowersarefreetherapy for giving me the general idea for this piece! I hope I did it justice! And thank you to @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, and @whumpcereal for cheering me on as always!

HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE!!!

TW: Minor whump (Jayden is 14), head injury, threatened noncon drugging, implied noncon (off screen), threatened noncon, mentions of past noncon and torture, implied future noncon, character death (off screen), suicidal thoughts, adult character referred to as 'boy', adult language, heavy grieving ((If I missed anything, please tell me and I'll add it!))

“No, I’m sick of doing this shit!” Jayden yelled, stepping back from Logan as the Keeper moved in closer, towering over the teen. “You never stay true to your word! I can’t let you stand by and hurt Sparrow after I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do!”

Sparrow stared at the two of them, wide-eyed as fear grabbed hold of him. Sure, Sparrow’s challenged the Keeper’s here plenty of times, but that was because whatever ended up happening would happen to him. Jayden fighting back like this? All for his sake? It was thoughtful, but he couldn’t handle the wrath of the Keepers.

Logan backed Jayden up against the wall, his hand shooting forward to the kid’s neck, taking hold of his throat in a tight grip just shy of suffocating him.

“I’d be real careful about your choice here, boy. That piece of shit over there doesn’t deserve a hero, let alone a scrawny one such as yourself. Everyone always comes to the realization that they can’t escape this fate, one way or another. It’s easier for the both of you if you just follow my orders. So what’ll it be, pretty boy? Are you going to show me and the bastard here how much of a good listener you are and suck me off or are you going to continue your little defiant act thinking you can best me?”

Jayden’s hands were around the Keeper’s wrist, doing his best to try and scratch Logan in an attempt to get the hand off his neck, but it wasn’t working. He was too weak. At the question, Jayden stared right back at Logan, his expression sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“Jayden, please-,” Sparrow tried, on the verge of getting up from his spot against the wall by the door. Logan had told him to stay put and that if he moved, he’d force Sparrow to watch the worst Showing he’d ever put Jayden through.

“Shut up, runt,” Logan growled, his head turning slightly in Sparrow’s direction. “He has to make this decision on his own.”

There was silence for a couple seconds and Sparrow could feel the anger rolling off the both of them in waves.

“You and this whole place can go rot in hell. I’m not following another one of your stupid orders just because you think you deserve respect,” Jayden finally spat, bracing himself against the wall before kicking his foot out, his heel landing a direct hit to Logan’s crotch.

The Keeper could hardly brace himself before Jayden’s foot connected with his crotch, Logan doubling over for a moment, his hand never leaving Jayden’s throat, before a loud, angry scream erupted out of his mouth.

In a fluid motion, Logan used all the strength he could muster and lifted Jayden by his neck and threw him to the left over by his desk. Sparrow watched on in horror as he saw the fear and terror flash across Jayden’s eyes as he went flying before the back of the teen’s head connected with the sharp corner of Logan’s desk. He crumpled to the floor as Logan doubled over again, letting out small groans of pain.

“Jayden!” Sparrow shouted, his body jerking momentarily as he went to get up, but remembered Logan’s threat from earlier, causing him to stay in place.

He wasn’t getting up and there was blood leaking out onto the floor. Sparrow couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

“Jayden, get up!” he cried out, Sparrow’s whole body frozen in fear.

“Shut the fuck up!” Logan yelled, his head turning sharply to look at Sparrow.

“No, please, he’s not getting up!” Sparrow pleaded, his fists white with how tight they were balled up. “Please, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just take him to the medical ward, please!”

Logan chuckled slightly as he was finally able to stand up straight again. “Oh, you think a bit of pleading will convince me to get him treated? As if. The little shit deserved it, thinking he could fight back like that. Besides, you stupid mutts always seem to recover. He’ll be fine come tomorrow.”

Instead of continuing on with what he had planned, Logan gave one last look to Jayden and Sparrow before deciding to leave his office. There’d be time to do things with them later.

Sparrow let out a snarl as Logan passed him to leave, waiting for the door to shut before he rushed over to Jayden, his hands hovering over his body, afraid that a single touch would make his friend crumble into dust.

#####

“No, you have to let me stay with him!” Sparrow shouted, desperately trying to fight his way out of Josh’s grip on him. “Let me go!”

“You’re scheduled for a Showing and there’s no way you’re missing it,” Josh growled, his grip seeming to get tighter the more Sparrow fought. “He’ll be fine and you’ll get to go back to the main room and see him once the Showing is over.”

“No, he needs me to stay with him since you fuckers won’t take him to the medical ward! Let go of me!”

Josh stopped trying to drag Sparrow forward and out of Logan’s office, instead pulling him in close with an iron tight grip on both his wrists. Their faces were mere inches apart and Sparrow could feel the warmth of his breath. “I won’t hesitate to inject you full of muscle relaxers, boy. You know as much as I do that you’ll do anything to fight back during these things, so do you really want to give up being able to move all because you want to sit by your little friend?”

Sparrow’s body froze at the threat, his eyes going wide for a moment. Josh was right, he couldn’t go through a Showing drugged up like that. He’d have no control (not that he did during Showings) over anything. He couldn’t get injected with that stuff.

Josh smirked as Sparrow stayed still, finally continuing towards the door to the office. “That’s what I thought. Once it’s over, you’ll be able to spend as much time with the little runt as you want.”

#####

Sparrow wasn’t proud of the Showing he just went through. It had to have been the most compliant he’s ever been during one, but he didn’t want it to be dragged out. His only thought and priority was getting back to Jayden to make sure he was okay.

Josh had been surprised with how compliant he had been, as was the audience that showed up to watch. It was utterly embarrassing, but he didn’t care enough to not do it. He would have been the most compliant pet in the entire facility if it had meant getting out of that Showroom faster.

Once the Showing was done, Josh walked him back to the main hallway before leaving him there to do his own thing. The moment Josh left him, Sparrow started running to the main rooms, his heart rate picking up as he tried to get to the room as fast as he could.

Sparrow was almost certain Logan would have moved him out of his office during the Showing, so the most logical place to put him would be one of the main rooms. That, or Jayden had woken up and Logan kicked him out of his office and he made his way to their spot in one of the main rooms. If Sparrow didn’t see him in there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

When Sparrow finally made it to the doorway that led into the main room he and Jayden usually ended up in, he scanned the entire room, trying desperately to locate his friend. His anxiety was starting to climb with each face he saw, none of them being the young teen before his eyes landed on a figure in the corner where Jayden and him sat most of the time.

He was there, sitting in his normal spot, looking completely fine. Jayden was waiting for him.

Sparrow did his best to make it over to the back corner of the room, nearly tripping over several pets as they tried to sleep or just pass time, not even bothering to let out any kind of apology before making it over to his friend.

“Jayden!” he called out, falling to his knees in front of his friend before embracing the teen in a tight hug.

“You’re okay! You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said, his voice going quiet as he spoke, letting things sink in. His friend was okay, he was alive and that was all Sparrow cared about.

“Of course I’m okay. Do you really think a bump on the head would keep me down?” Jayden joked, hugging Sparrow back.

Sparrow pulled back slightly, his hands still on Jayden’s shoulders, afraid that if he let go, Jayden would disappear. “It’s just - you collapsed once your head hit the desk, a-and Logan refused to bring you to the medical ward, and then I was dragged off for a Showin-”

“Sparrow,” Jayden interrupted, his voice a bit firm, “I’m alright, I promise. I can’t die that easily. Besides, we promised each other we’d find a way to escape this place some day. I can’t go back on my word, now can I?”

Sparrow wiped at his eyes, tears starting to form. “I’m just happy you’re okay. And you’re right, we are going to escape this place one day. Just please don’t go pissing off any more Keeper’s. Leave that to me, I can handle it.”

Just then, the entire main room started to fade out, a black abyss surrounding the two of them. Sparrow didn’t even notice, his entire focus was on his friend.

Jayden looked at Sparrow with a soft smile, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“I know you can. That fighting spirit is what’s giving me hope that you’ll be able to make it out of here alive. If you hold onto that, you’ll be able to escape. Just keep fighting. For the both of us.”

Sparrow faltered a bit at that. “W-wait, what do you mean by that? We’re going to get out of here together.”

Jayden didn’t answer, continuing to give Sparrow that soft, warm smile that he cherished so much as he slowly faded away. Before Jayden was completely gone, Sparrow reached forward, trying to grab hold of him before he fully disappeared, leaving Sparrow alone in the dark abyss.

#####

Sparrow woke with a jump, jolting up from his spot on the floor of Damon’s office. Looking around the dark and empty room, Sparrow couldn’t see Jayden and was a bit confused, but mostly worried.

Where was he? Jayden had just been in front of him a second ago. He wanted that back, he needed it back.

The more he woke up though, the more things finally started to settle in.

Four days ago, he had been brought back to the Warehouse from his two week stay at Volkov’s island, having gone through his ‘welcome home’ Showing yesterday. Two months ago, Damon had been put in charge of training him, starting up a brand new hell for him to navigate on his own. Five years ago, the Keeper’s gave up trying to train him because he was deemed a lost cause and couldn’t be trained, instead just using him as a free-for-all and overall enjoying causing him pain, discomfort and humiliation. Seven years ago was when he had watched Logan give his one and only friend a death blow and then later finding out that Jayden had died all alone while he was in a Showing Josh forced him to go through, unable to be with him in his final moments to make him feel safe and loved.

As reality came crashing back, Sparrow couldn’t help the gut wrenching sob that erupted out of his throat, the pet clutching his hands close to his chest as he curled into himself.

Ever since it happened, Sparrow had done all he could to repress that memory to the point that he couldn’t remember it at all. All he chose to remember was that Jayden died. Everything else, how it happened, the look of fear and terror right before his head connected with the desk, how much he tried to fight back as Josh dragged him off to the Showing, Logan’s fucking taunting once he finally told Sparrow what they did with Jayden after he died, he wanted to forget and never remember.

He had no idea why the memory resurfaced. It had been so long ago, yet now he could remember every detail clearly, as if he were reliving it in full. It was the worst pain he has ever felt and would probably ever feel. And what made it worse was that his head went and twisted the events, giving him the false hope that Jayden was alive and fine. But Sparrow could never see him again.

After a couple more minutes, Sparrow wiped the tears from his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. It had to have been close to morning, if he had to guess, and Damon would be here soon to put him through another day of hell. If the Keeper walked in and saw him crying or saw the evidence that he had been crying, Sparrow would never hear the end of it.

Before he could put a cap on his emotions, he felt another sob bubble up from his chest and before he could stop himself, he reared his fist back, sending it straight towards the wall beside him. The wall stayed intact but Sparrow let out a loud shout before biting his tongue, cradling his hand.

Why couldn’t one of these guys have killed him too? Why couldn’t he have had the peace that his friend had? All he wanted was to be with Jayden again, because he was the only one that made this place bearable. His smile and laugh lifted his spirits no matter how he felt and his presence made Sparrow feel safe, even though there wasn’t a single thing either of them could do when the Keepers came for them. If he didn’t have that, if he didn’t have him here, there wasn’t much of a point to keep fighting.

The pain that now pulsed from his bleeding and possibly broken hand acted as an anchor to the real world for him and Sparrow was able to stop the tears from falling, taking in a couple deep breaths before he felt like himself again. Damon would probably point out his hand when he came in later, but right now, Sparrow didn’t care. If Damon was overly concerned about it, he’d get it looked at because unlike Logan, Damon wasn’t going to sit by and have a wound that looked serious enough unchecked. Sparrow had no doubt that the Keeper wouldn't let him die before he himself molded Sparrow into the perfect pet.

Taglist: @mannerofwhump, @honey-is-mesi, @painful-pooch, @whumperfully, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @flowersarefreetherapy, @goronska, @blueyellow8green, @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whumpcereal (if you want to be added, let me know!)

#The Warehouse #Sparrow Cresky #Jayden Cresky #Minor whump #head injury #threatened noncon drugging #implied noncon (off screen)#threatened noncon #mentions of past noncon and torture #implied future noncon #character death (off screen)#suicidal thoughts #adult character referred to as 'boy'#adult language #heavy grieving

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longlivesteddie · 1 year

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tw: self rape aka Steve wasn't able to say no before and now he doesn't understand it's an option, past non con, Eddie Munson is a good boyfriend

I'm imagining Steve and Eddie making out and it gets heated and Eddie definitely wants to go further. But then he sees painted look on Steve's face and he asks what's wrong. And Steve tells him that he's having a migraine. So Eddie immediately stops their make out session. And goes to turn off the lights and bring whatever Steve usually needs during a migraine. Steve tells Eddie that it's fine, that they can continue. And Eddie has to explain that he doesn't want to have sex if Steve's hurting or not feeling it. And he asks him if he knows that he can always say no? Eddie expects Steve to nod or say yes. But Steve just averts his eyes and it breaks Eddie's heart and his fist itches to punch the cunt that did this to Steve.

#tw: mention of past noncon #steddie #putting my discord thoughts on tumblr #mine

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squishablesunbeam · 10 months

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Consequence of Action Pt. 13

Finally official chapter! Thanks for playing! I adore you all! Also, the first and last bits are from Prim's perspective. I know that's different but I couldn't help myself!

TW: recovering whumpee, panic attack, flashback, vomiting, mentions of past noncon, executions, death of minor characters

Prim couldn't tear her eyes away from the monstrosity.

She'd been helping her crew clear out the dead when Lopez found another body deep in the lower deck. It wasn't the man with his empty eyes frozen open capturing his last moments of terror or his crushed throat that held her attention.

It was the cage.

She'd heard some of what the prisoners had been saying about what had happened on this ship. The vile obscenities they spewed about Quinn in particular certainly painted a horrific picture that she wished were exaggerations but, deep down, she knew were not. She'd heard enough to make her blood boil before she had them gagged or else she'd skin them alive herself for what they'd done to that man.

They'd also mentioned a cage. This was undoubtedly it. With its rough edges welded together with clear intent to inflict agony upon its occupant. There was dried blood on the teeth of the grating that covered the bottom as well as a fair amount soaked into the floor beneath.

Her eyes trailed back to the body Lopez and Freely were currently preparing to transport to the incinerator.

Quinn had been flogged, recently. He was barely able to stand on his own two feet when she'd come upon him and Collins in the hallway. There was no way he would have had the strength to crush a man's throat in his state.

That meant-

They'd put Collins in that cage. God, how did he even fit.

Her mind morbidly attempted to imagine herself stuffed into that small space and a nauseating wave of claustrophobia washed over her. She immediately shook the thought from her mind.

Collins had been her team leader for just over a decade. They'd seen each other through the worst that human beings could do to one another and they always came out the other end just a little worse for wear. She was even part of the team that had gone in to rescue him after he was held captive by the enemy for three months. Prim had thought she'd seen him at his absolute worst many times over.

So why did seeing him with that collar around his neck fuck with her head so much?

They'd collared him, and put him in a cage. She was pretty sure they'd even-

Prim allowed anger to seethe throughout her body, for only a moment. Righteous or not, anger dangerously clouded her judgment. She knew that well enough. If she had her druthers right in this moment, she'd flog each one of those men in her custody to within an inch of their lives and force them to beg Quinn and Collins for their pitiful lives before tossing them into the incinerator along with the rest of them. They deserved nothing less, and maybe so much more.

The choice wasn't hers to make.

“Ma'am.”

Prim very deliberately let the anger slip through her fingers.

She turned to Freely. “I want this deconstructed immediately. Tear it down to its bolts. I don't want a single piece of this cage left on my ship. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Freely acknowledged assuredly.

She let out a breath and nodded. He'll take care of it.

She turned on her heels and headed back up to the main deck, swallowing the urge to speed up her pace just to get away from all the horrid memories that undoubtedly haunted the corners of that godawful room.

She headed for her new office, dispensing orders as she went. This ship had just begun to fall into disrepair while being under poor leadership and a skeleton crew it seemed. There was a lot to be done.

A few hours later, Prim called for Collins and Quinn to join her. She needed to discuss what to do with the prisoners, their possessions, etc. They also needed to track down any of Quinn's possessions as well, if they hadn't already been destroyed. This all could technically wait, but if she was being honest, she wanted the prisoners dealt with and off the ship as soon as possible.

She fussed at the desk while she waited, stacking piles of papers and log books that must have been the ship's former captain's, practically useless now. Most, if not all, would be burned.

The office was large but impersonal. She'd already taken the time to shift around the placement of furniture to make it more open and inviting. She dimmed the glaring overhead light and made a note to grab some of those warm light bulbs on their next stop at a safe planet. She would have to bring over some of her more personal items from the other ship as well.

A knock pulled her out of her thoughts and she turned, hitting the button that slid open the door.

"Commander," Collins greeted her with a warm smile, Quinn by his side.

She grinned wide, clasping arms with Collins and then Quinn.

"Prim is fine. You know that well enough."

Collins already looked so much better. Much more himself. She couldn't stop herself from casting her eyes briefly to his neck, assuring herself that the collar had actually been cut away and he was free from its weight.

She stepped back to allow them into the room, noting the soft hold Collins had around Quinn's hip.

It looked so incredibly natural for a man who rarely ever displayed even a hint of affection in the many years she'd known him.

A smile quirked up her lips.

She didn't know exactly what was going on between these too but it was clearly something, and it was only growing stronger. As far as Prim was aware, Collins had never had a significant person in his life, at least he'd never spoken of it if he had.

Seeing him so casually tender with Quinn was, well, it was adorable.

Prim gestured them into the office.

“Please, have a seat.”

She stopped short, her eyes flicking to Collins as the blood drained out of Quinn's face.

Oh, shit.

–

He'd already had a brief moment of panic in the hallway once he realized where they were headed but he'd convinced Collins that he was fine. Of course Prim would have taken the Captain's office. She was the highest ranking member of the crew after all. It made perfect sense.

Except right now, nothing made sense.

He was certain he'd be okay, stepping confidently into the room after watching the familiar exchange between Collins and Prim.

But then, Quinn laid eyes on that looming brown desk and his world just slipped right out from under him.

He saw himself, clear as day, curled up on his knees under that damn desk. Naked, his hands bound to his thighs like they always were the first however many times he'd been forced to open his mouth and obey.

It was as if he was watching from a far away corner of the ceiling but also not. He could feel it all. The way the hard floor bit into his knees and the coarse rope constricting his thighs and tearing at his skin.

He shook his head to try and clear the image but it wouldn't jar loose. The taste of the Captain's fingers filled his mouth and he gagged, choking on nothing as the taste turned to something so much worse.

His head felt thick and his world narrowed.

He felt like he might be falling but he couldn't bring himself to care. The room buzzed loudly in his ears and washed itself over him. He could feel all of its edges pressing against his body, forcing him to fit into the tight space under the desk.

Something pressed against his back and there was pain there, but also, it was good. The pain felt good, in a way. It sparked sharply through his mind and cleared some of the fog away. He dropped his head and tried to remember how to breath, clinging to that pain like a lifeline.

His entire body was suddenly shook, just once, and his eyes managed to lock into place, the spinning world around him suddenly centering on one point of focus.

“Collins?”

A hand touched lightly against his own and he looked down at himself, realizing he had pressed his wrists to his thighs. He could feel the ropes keeping him in place but he couldn't see them. He gasped his mouth open and tried to pry them up off his legs. It felt as if he was attempting to merge two worlds that simply weren't meant to coexist. He finally succeeded in detaching his hands from his legs and held them up in front of his face.

They were shaking.

He was shaking.

He still couldn't breathe.

Warm fingers brushed against his face and the here and now flooded his senses, coming back to him far too fast. His body prickled with sweat, his mouth filled with saliva.

“Oh my god,” he pressed a hand against Collins' shoulder and lurched to the side, vomiting onto the floor beside them.

“Oh my god,” he said again, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth before pulling it back and looking at his wrists, fully expecting to see marks from the ropes indented into this skin.

His thighs weren't bare. He was wearing pants and a button up shirt he found in Collins' closet.

Quinn dimly heard himself muttering Collins' name under his breath.

“You're alright. I'm here. Just breathe.”

His eyes numbly tracked Collins' movement as he wrapped his fingers around Quinn's wrist and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the thin skin.

There still weren't any ropes there, holding him in place. He kept his eyes on Collins' hands, each painless pass of his thumb a reminder that he was safe. Collins was here. The Captain was dead.

Quinn gasped out a harsh breath as the image of him shooting the Captain in the head flashed before his eyes.

He looked up, his eyes wide and wet with stinging tears as he searched Collins' face, too many memories battling for his attention at once.

“He hurt you, Collins, he-” Quinn said, his voice strained and panicked.

“Hey,” Collins drew their foreheads together, holding onto the back of Quinn's head. “I'm okay, Quinn. You saved me, remember? You killed him, Quinn. He can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt either of us anymore. We're okay.”

Quinn drew in a shaky breath, and then another. Collins' hands were like an anchor, holding him to this reality, his shoulders firm and solid and real under his own hands. He breathed, his breath mixing with Collins' as the world slowed down to a manageable rhythm.

He became aware of another presence in the room and his eyes slid to Prim, sitting on the floor with them, just a few steps behind Collins with her arms draped over her knees.

“Holy shit,” Quinn said, pulling back slightly and breathing out a shocked breath, “That's never happened before. Not like that. I could see it. I could feel it.”

He held tight to Collins as Prim sat forward, crossing her legs underneath her, “Ironically, it's because you are actually safe now that this is happening. You're mind is trying to process everything. Collins can teach you some tricks to help you stay grounded, or I can. We've both been through it.”

Collins nodded sympathetically, scratching his fingers over Quinn's leg in a predictable, soothing rhythm.

It was helping.

“Grounded, yeah,” Quinn leaned his head back on the wall behind him, only now realizing that was where the pain was coming from. His sore back was pressed right up against it.

“God, I'm so sorry,” he groaned out, looking down at the mess he'd made next to him and trying to fight back embarrassment from swallowing him whole.

Prim waved her hand absently. “It'll clean just fine. Go rest. We'll talk later, okay?”

He nodded and leaned heavily against Collins as they moved to stand, Prim immediately moving to join them. They were both standing right in front of Quinn, blocking his eye line to the desk. He couldn't quell the need to look, just once more, to assure himself that the other him wasn't still trapped there, under the desk.

Collins moved to help him to the door and he stole a glance over his shoulder, breathing out a breath of relief only once he was assured the phantom was gone.

He didn't know why he felt the need to ask but he stopped himself before heading out the door, “What did you want to talk to us about anyway?”

She started to wave her hand in dismissal but paused, drawing her eyebrows down, seeming to study him carefully. He felt Collins' solid presence at his side.

“I was going to ask if you wanted me to have the prisoners executed. I thought the airlock might be appropriate but I didn't want to make that decision without you both.”

Whatever fear that had just sunk its teeth into him morphed into anger at the mention of the prisoners.

Jackson, Hawkins and Gibson.

It wasn't enough that the Captain was dead. Quinn's every waking memory was corrupted with the thoughts of these men. He could barely eat without the image of Jackson forcing his dick into his mouth through the cage before he gave him any food. Hawkins tore at his flesh and left behind too many scars for him to ever forget. And Gibson- Quinn shuddered, the pain of his care still a bright and sharp memory.

Quinn didn't want to think twice about it. He just wanted them gone.

“Do it,” he said, swallowing down the knowledge that with those two words, he just sentenced three men to their deaths.

“Would you like to be there?” Prim asked.

Quinn looked to Collins who shrugged, squeezing Quinn's hand once. “As long as they're dead, I'm okay with it,” Collins said plainly.

“I think I'm okay too,” Quinn said, looking back to Prim, “Will you do me a favor though?”

“Name it,” she said with a sincerity that put a weak smile on his face.

“Just, maybe, don't tell them what's going to happen. Don't say anything to them at all. Just take them to the airlock and open the door.”

The silence was always the worst part. Being led through the ship, never knowing his own fate before being shoved through an open door.

Quinn thought it fitting.

Prim apparently did too, if the look on her face told him anything.

“I'll make certain of it.”

“Let us know when it's done,” Collins added, him and Prim both sharing an understanding between them as she nodded her assent.

Quinn felt the warmth of Collins' hand at his hip and he let himself lean against him. He focused on carefully matching his breath to Collins' as they wove their way through the hall and back to the quiet and safety of their room.

–

Prim had done exactly as Quinn asked. She informed her crew to bind the men and take them to the airlock without a single word spoken.

It was admittedly gratifying to behold. She watched as Gibson lost it first. He screamed and thrashed against Freely as they were led down the halls, demanding to know what was going on and proclaiming his innocence.

Hawkins was next.

He fed off of Gibson's fear and spewed vile threats at herself and her crew. Mostly though, he cursed Quinn's name and screamed at the top of his lungs the horrific things he was going to do to him.

Except he was never going to have that chance. He was going to die. He was going to be tossed away like trash, without a second thought.

Jackson held out until they were all kneeling in the airlock and the door was being sealed shut between them. He launched himself up at the last minute and sprinted toward the door, hurling himself again and again at the thick glass that kept them safe from the vacuum of space.

Prim stood silently with her crew, all of them expressionless as the prisoners made their pleas and useless threats.

With a signal to Freely, he slammed up the lever and the screams of the three men died with them as they were sucked out into nothingness.

It was the most feared end for those who made their lives out in this vast emptiness. As much as they all craved it, loved it even, the enduring, ever expanding endlessness of space was utterly terrifying. Like the vast oceans back on Earth, space was to be respected and feared in equal measure.

These men respected nothing.

The silence that followed the closing of the outer door had a finality to it that she found both deafening and soothing in the same moment.

It was done.

Freely and Lopez headed back to their respective stations without a second glace and Prim headed to inform Collins and Quinn, hoping that they sleep just a little bit easier now.

“Come in,” Collins called from inside the room. Prim was surprised he didn't meet her at the door as was decorum. Not that she expected it or enforced that kind of nonsense on her crew, it was just Collins' way. Too many years spent in the service and not enough spent living his own life.

She realized why the moment she slid the door open.

Collins was propped up on a few pillows with a book in his hand and Quinn soundlessly asleep with his head on Collins' stomach.

The sight made Prim smile.

“He's good for you,” she whispered, easing quietly into the room.

Quinn flinched a little in his sleep and Collins moved to card his fingers through his hair for probably the hundredth time.

“Too good,” Collins whispered back, taking off his glasses and setting them on top of the open book by his hip.

He looked tired himself, and worried.

“Is he okay?”

“No. He's not," Collins said. He wasn't harsh about his words. He sounded sad.

“Are you okay?”

Collins sighed and finally look up at Prim, “No.”

She pursed her lips and nodded, “If it makes you feel any better, they died terrified.”

Collins frowned deeply as he looked down at the man in his lap, his head rising and falling gently with every one of Collins' breaths.

“I would have had them skinned alive,” Collins said, not looking up from where his fingers were curled into Quinn's hair.

Prim huffed out a laugh, “I had a similar thought. But at least it's done. Maybe there's some peace to be had from that?”

“I hope so,” he said, “He deserves it.”

“So do you, Collins,” Prim said, knowing full well that he didn't believe a word of that. “And for what it's worth,” she gestured between the two men, “whatever you've got going here, it's cute as fuck. You deserve that too.”

Collins actually laughed, a wide grin splitting his handsome face as a blush seeped into his cheeks.

He'd be okay, she thought. They both would be okay, she'd make sure of it. She'd fold them into her little family and give them a change to find their footing again.

She headed back towards the door, “You need anything at all, you let us know, you hear me? And when you're ready for a distraction, I've got plenty of work for you to do.”

“Will do, Commander,” Collins said, the smile on his face coming just a little easier, “And Prim, thank you. For everything.”

“Of course, sir.”

She left them to rest and turned to head back up to the bridge, her mind already on the myriad of tasks on her plate and plotting their next course through the skies.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn, @whumplr-reader, @hold-him-down, @monochrome-episode, @dogface3000, @skyhawkwolf, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @maddam-redder, @susiequaz12, @pigeonwhumps, @starlit-darkness

#recovering whumpee #rescued whumpee #mentions of past noncon #panic attack tw #flashback tw #emeto #execution #death of minor characters

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flowersarefreetherapy · 3 months

Text

My Love Is Mine All Mine

CW: hospital setting, character death, mourning, unhealthy relationships, pet whump, brief violence, implied past violence, implied past noncon, brief mention of disordered eating, begging, sexually degrading language, self harm (not graphic or a lot, but it in here), self-blame

The heart monitor beeps out a steady rhythm, one Cameron finds himself counting in a desperate attempt to hold on to hope. His tailbone goes numb and he shifts on the cold plastic chair, trying to move as little as possible.

Angelina and Andrew don’t pay attention to him. She sits at her father’s bedside, Andrew’s hand on her thigh, scrolling through Instagram. Emmaleigh slumps on the chair next to Cameron, eyes glued to her iPad screen. Lucas, Angelina’s brother, just left, saying something about talking to a lawyer and coming back at a later time. Cameron doesn’t want to pay attention. He wants to be at Patrick’s side, curled up close like he is supposed to be. Not trapped in a corner of the room with a literal child.

“Mom!” Emmaleigh whines. “I’m hungry!”

Angelina’s gaze remains locked on her phone. “Andrew, would you take her to get some food? I don’t want to leave Father.”

Andrew nods. “Come on, Emma. Let’s go get something from the cafe.”

“No! I want McDonald’s!”

Cameron rolls his eyes. Of course she wants McDonald’s. Maybe they could bring some back and he could try the fries? They look so good on the television and he’s wanted to try them for years. Patrick never let him. That much grease and fast food ruins his figure. Cameron knows this.

But you won’t have to worry about what you eat much longer, will you?

No. Patrick is going to be okay. This is just a small cold. It’s nothing awful. He’s strong and has good lungs and whatever the doctors say, they’re wrong. They don’t know his master like he does.

Andrew gives in, as he always does. Soon it is just Cameron and Angelina in the room with Patrick. She still isn’t paying him any attention. Nor is she looking at Patrick. Cameron swallows back a scream. This is her father in the hospital and she doesn’t care! He cares! He could take better care of Patrick than anyone here!

The chair creaks as Cameron stands and walks over to the hospital bed. He moves softly, relying on all his training to stay as quiet as possible. Angelina doesn’t look up. Cameron perches on the edge of the bed and takes Patrick’s hand. It feels so much weaker than he remembers. Thin, papery skin and fragile bones when he remembers a strong, unwavering grip pushing the knife through his skin.

Cameron swallows back a sob and curls up next to his master. There’s barely any room on the bed, but he folds his knees close to his chest, resting his head on Patrick’s chest. He can hear every breath rattle in his lungs. It’s alright, there’s medicine and monitors and this will be okay. His master is strong. He can survive this.

Angelina scoffs, but doesn’t move him from the bed. Cameron is grateful for the small blessing. The sterile air of a hospital burns his nose, bringing back other memories. He squeezes his eyes shut against the white light, grabbing his master’s hand.

You aren’t there. You aren’t there. You have a master. Someone chose you, remember? You weren’t abandoned.

The beeping and shallow breathing pulls him into a half-wake trance. Cameron’s eyelids grow heavy. For a moment, he’s back in their bed, the thick comforter keeping him down as his master shifts next to him. He’ll be awake soon. Will it be the knife? Or the ropes? Or maybe just round after round that will leave him bleeding in the shower? A shudder of pleasure slips down Cameron’s spine at the thought.

Fingers dig into his shoulder. Yanking him from the bed. Cameron cries out as his head hits the wall, a blow hard enough to blur his vision. He blinks hard. White coats and shouting, so much shouting. Drawn out beeps. Light glints off a needle and Cameron flinches. He folds himself in a corner, hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

“Please, please, please, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll be good, I’ll be better, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Where is his master? Where is he? Why hasn’t he come for him? Cameron blinks back tears. It’ll be okay. Patrick will get him. He’ll pick him up and kiss him, tasting like whiskey and cigars, and he’ll be safe. Cameron knows he’s safe. He hasn’t been sent back there. He’s been too good for his master to have that happen.

Silence. Emmaleigh crying. Angelina stands stiffly, expressionless. Cameron uncurls, ignoring the annoyed looks from the doctors. They’ve hated him from the moment he was brought here. It doesn’t matter to him anyway.

“. . . what happened?” he whispers.

Emmaleigh cries harder. The iPad lays forgotten on that stupid chair. Cameron crawls to the edge of the hospital bed. It’s too quiet.

Don’t look. Don’t ask. You know. Just sit in the corner and hope they forget about you. Don’t make this worse than it already is.

His master’s face is lax and pale, a shade Cameron has only seen once before. A Guard trainee who was supposed to show him his place, only to die overnight from what the handlers called internal bleeding. He’s seen death before. He knows what it looks like. But it doesn’t happen to those he loves. It isn’t supposed to happen to his master.

“Sir?” Cameron whispers, grabbing his master’s hand. It’s cold. Bile burns the back of his throat. “Sir, please, say something. I-please don’t leave me!”

“Get away from my father, whore!” Angelina’s nails scrap across his scalp as she pulls him away. Cameron yelps, scrambling to ease the sudden pain. “Don’t you dare pretend you cared about him! All you cared about was who would fuck you!”

“Please!” Cameron sobs. Tears burn down his cheeks. Patrick said he was a pretty crier, that he looked best when he cried. “Please, please, I love him! Please, let me say goodbye!”

Angelina shakes his head. His head hits the stupid plastic chair. White explodes across his vision and Cameron swallows back a sob. Angelina’s voice rises, but he can’t hear a single word she says. His knees hurt, his vision blurs from tears and pain, and he can’t draw in a full breath. Cameron stares at the hospital bed, blinking hard. Maybe he can see his master again. One more time.

Then Angelin’s fingers are no longer in his hair. Andrew holds her and Emmaleigh tightly, all three of them crying. Cameron huddles against the wall. He can’t breathe. His chest throbs with pain and no amount of crying lessens it. He curls up again and screams into his knees. Quiet. Patrick prefers–no, preferred. He’s gone now, remember, idiot?--to hear him scream. Loud and painful and Cameron rakes his nails across his skin in an effort to feel the shattering of his heart be mirrored across his skin.

The family slowly collects personal belongings. There’s not a lot. Patrick was sick suddenly. Cameron flinches. This is his fault. If he hadn’t insisted on going ice skating, then Patrick wouldn’t have gotten sick, and this wouldn’t have happened. His fault. His master died because he was a selfish, horrible Pet.

My master’s desires are my own. My master’s desires are my own. My master’s desires are my own. I am not my own. I belong to my master, I belong to my master, I belong to my master.

. . . who do I belong to?

“Get up, slut.”

Andrew grips his arm and hauls him to his feet. Cameron stumbles beside him, suddenly feeling far too cold in his crop top and tights. The nurses and other patients stare at him. For the first time in years, heat creeps up his cheeks and down his neck. He ducks his head and focuses only on the too-white tile under his feet.

It’s odd. Walking outside, hearing traffic, feeling the winter wind against his face, sunlight sparkling off the light dusting of snow that fell overnight–and knowing his master is dead.

Dead.

Cameron chokes on a sob. His master is dead. Gone. Truly gone.

“Shut up,” Andrew snaps. “I don’t know why you’re so weepy. You are nothing but a sidepiece and a bedwarmer. You never cared about him.”

I did! I loved him and he loved me and we were going to have forever! He was never, ever going to leave me!

The words stick in his throat and all Cameron can do is cry. He doesn’t stop, not even when he’s shoved into the backseat of Angelina’s car and told to stay quiet. Emmaleigh’s sobs cover the sound of his own.

We were supposed to have forever.

#cameron #patrick #hospital setting #character death #mourning #unhealthy relationship #pet whump #knife wounds #implied past violence #implied past noncon #begging #sexually degrading language #self-blame #food mention #grief

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whumpshaped · 7 months

Note

First of all, I am equal parts amazed and terrified of your severe brainrot rn. Surely you don't sleep at night, eat or drink, just rotate those two like döner kebab and write? I binge-read it all yesterday (some pieces I read twice or thrice 😌) and I am overjoyed that the chapters keep coming but please don't write yourself into exhaustion 🥺

Second of all, Shadows for the vampire bingo! I imagine Helle likes dining out from time to time... Finds some other poor soul and is disappointed when they aren't as entertaining as Beck; or maybe they take beck somewhere, some park full of shadows - as enrichment 😊

i mean ur not wrong.. i do nothin but write recently.. but dont worry i'll be forced not to write for a good while starting saturday bc im going home :/ but until then its kebab time. heres how helle went about feeding while beck was out w the flu <3 not their best night

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, mind control, noncon biting of a married couple i feel like thats a special offence, noncon drugging, past trauma, death mention

Helle left the apartment feeling sick to their stomach. It was a dumb thing to still be so hung up about, it was merely the worst and last few days of their mortal life that gave way to a century torment right afterwards. Nothing monumental.

"This is ridiculous," they muttered to themself, quickly pressing the button that opened the front door of the building. The fresh air against their skin was definitely a welcome sensation — it made them temporarily forget about how suffocating their coffin had been.

They immediately spotted a couple on the bench by the playground, being all cute with each other. They thought about ruining yet another date night, but... no, they needed to get away for a bit. Just for half an hour or so. Take a walk, maybe, be around some other people so they could forget about the sight of their human lying on the bed with his face flushed.

'It's just the flu,' he'd said. Right. Because influenza was absolutely incapable of killing anyone, right? Because they weren't supposed to be thinking about the stupid outbreak, because it was three hundred years ago, because medicine had advanced since then, because it was just one human– Fucking hell, they had been that one human before. And if Beck was dying, they wouldn't even have the guts to turn him. Not like this.

They stopped and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It was fine. Everything was fine. Beck wasn't dying, they weren't dying anymore, and Lady Marie was dead. What they needed to do was find an unfortunate, stupid human, have dinner, and go back to check on their unfortunate, stupid human.

They stuck to the shadows around buildings, places that the streetlights didn't quite illuminate. They looked around the area for any fresh meat, eventually bumping into yet another couple. What was it with them? Well, whatever. They would do.

It took all of two seconds for the women to notice them once they amped up the charm a bit, and suddenly they were walking towards the danger zone, compelled to be around such an alluring stranger. Helle didn't wait for either of them to strike up a conversation.

"Stay right there for me," they said softly, enthralling one of the women while they grabbed her... girlfriend? Wife? They glanced down and caught a glimpse of the matching rings they were wearing. Yes, definitely her wife.

They grabbed the woman and bit down, steadying her with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. She tasted fine, they supposed, but everything felt like a downgrade after Beck. They used enough venom to keep her discomfort to a minimum, but hopefully not enough that she would come knocking on their door a couple days later for round two. It was hard to tell whether the charm was even broken, or she still thought she was getting randomly bitten by someone she'd met five seconds ago and didn't even get to greet.

They pulled away and lifted the enthrallment, just in time for the first woman to see her wife slump against them like a giggly little ragdoll. "You should probably bring her home," they suggested helpfully. "I am no doctor."

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight

#at my beck and call #whump #whump writing #helle #vampire whumper #mind control #noncon drugging #past trauma #death mention

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distinctlywhumpthing · 9 months

Text

In League — Nightmare

Masterlist

Summary: August still feels out of place in the house after trying to escape run away but a nightmare has him seeking Wyatt's comfort...

(This was in the Google Drive Black Hole until @peachy-panic's This Could Be The Moment and @hold-him-down's Not Ideal inspired me to polish it in the spirit of Bad Nights. If you haven't read these pieces (& entire series) yet, you should plan on getting zero work done this week because you now have more important things to do.)

CW: Late-19th century, indentured servitude/classism, explicit language, past-noncon implied, power dynamics, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August didn’t like sleeping alone.

He missed being allowed to sleep in the chair, knowing all night that Wyatt was near, working at the desk or asleep in the bed. He would’ve kept to the chair forever if it had meant he didn’t have to be alone at night, in the dark where Keats could still find him.

The nightmare hadn’t been anything novel. He was always struggling to regain some ground, all the while only digging himself deeper. Sometimes Fionn was there, hurting. Keats would lay a trap and August would walk right into it. Without fail. Hopeless, thoughtless, thankless. He was too slow, too dim-witted not to fall for the tricks every time, even in his own dreams.

He’d awoken to his heart beating like a drum between his ribs. Chest both gnawingly hollow and achingly tight. The room was pitch-dark, with no moon or stars shining through the window. Even the fire had died in the hearth like the night was snuffing out all light. He’d played the unwitting accomplice, banishing any chance of warmth by casting all the blankets and even the pillows to the floor in sleep. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly, shivering.

There were still many things he didn’t understand or trust about his place here and the older boy who had given it to him. But Wyatt had a way of making Keats feel like a small, distant memory and that was exactly what August needed right now.

When he’d asked to stay—or rather, accepted Wyatt’s invitation to stay by way of needlessly asking his permission, Wyatt had insisted August take his bed. A laughable stipulation, considering how much worse he’d had than an armchair by a warm fire, but Wyatt had insisted. So, August had Wyatt’s room and bed to himself at night while Wyatt slept in the spare bed in Theo’s room down the end of the hall.

August paused at Theo’s door, leaning around the frame, the corner of the wood pressing into his collarbone. Wyatt was alone, sleeping with his back to the open door. Theo’s was probably among the voices that occasionally rose from downstairs, a sliver of bright electric light seeping from under the parlour door and trying to climb to light the stairs. It was just enough brightness that August had been able to avoid the creakier of the floorboards in the old house. After hovering in the doorway uneasily for five full minutes to confirm Theo wasn’t coming upstairs, he tiptoed in, chilly air nipping at the strip of bare skin between his stockings and underbreeches. The rest of the house was always freezing in comparison to Wyatt’s room. August had eventually learned that none of the others ever bothered with fires, a realisation that had made heat spread through his chest like the very warmth Wyatt kept him in.

It was hard to distinguish Wyatt himself from the bedcovers, fabric from skin, where one stopped and the other began, in the darkness. The bed itself and the man on it a single unbroken silhouette, carved from shadow marble. His even breath the only sign he wasn’t stone. August felt even more obtrusive standing over him. He crouched instead, not sure if he should sit on the edge of the bed without being invited and reluctant to kneel on the cold floor.

He hesitated countless times, hand hovering in the open space between them, heart sprinting in his chest. What if he was given more than a hand to hold, the warm embrace he sought? Even in the face of the vows Wyatt made during the day, August had never met a promise that didn’t have a trap door. And coming to Wyatt’s bed like this in the middle of the night was as good a reason to use it as any. His nerves rose steadily until it was like his heart beat between his ears and it was all he could hear or feel, swaying in the darkness to the tide of his own pulse.

A clatter from downstairs almost had him bolting back to his borrowed bed, ill dreams or not, lest someone else catch him out of it. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he’d rather it be Wyatt than anyone else, when the tables finally turned.

Now or never.

He reached out, brushing his fingertips over Wyatt’s bare shoulder. As faint as the hope he clung to that this would be no different than any other time Wyatt had comforted him. “Wyatt?”

Wyatt grumbled, turning onto his side to face August but not opening his eyes. He let his arm fall open, extended out toward August.

His heart hammered on in his chest as he held his breath waiting for more of an indication from Wyatt. More of an invitation or a dismissal.

Was that space meant for August? Or was Wyatt only reaching out his hand?

They’d never lain side by side before but Wyatt was always looping an arm around his shoulders during the day, swift to pull him into an embrace in those embarrassing moments when he lost his composure.

Or was Wyatt simply fast asleep?

August twisted his fingers in the fabric of the nightshirt Wyatt had given him, knees starting to ache from crouching. He’d disturbed Wyatt enough thusfar. He ought to leave him in peace. But the thought of leaving had him swallowing a lump in his throat and blinking away tears, as though Wyatt were truly sending him away, rejecting him. An unwarranted, invented ache.

It was for the best that he hadn’t roused Wyatt fully. He should feel lucky that he hadn’t gotten more than he bargained for. That Wyatt wasn’t the sort to thrash him simply for the disturbance. At least, he hadn’t shown himself to be that sort yet. August uncurled his fingers, pulse throbbing in his fingertips from how tightly he’d bound them in the fabric in his fists. He swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand and rose.

Wyatt sighed, fingers at the end of his open arm curling away from August, beckoning him closer.

August’s heart faltered in his chest and against all reason, his tears fell with renewed urgency. He sniffled and fruitlessly wiped at them again before ever so gently, lying down at Wyatt’s side.

He settled on top of the bedcovers since Wyatt hadn’t lifted them. It wouldn’t matter anyway once he was closer to Wyatt, in his arms. His heart still felt like it was beating too heavily in his chest. As though he were stealing something he didn’t deserve, hadn’t earned. He took a deep breath, forcing the air in past his galloping heart and chased away the memories of his nightmares and of Keats. Wyatt was nothing like him, had only ever welcomed him with open arms.

August inched closer, resting his forehead against the older boy’s shoulder, hands tucked up between them. Wyatt’s breath tickled through his hair, in and out. If August flattened his hand, he could feel Wyatt’s steady heartbeat, its comforting metronome. He—

Wyatt drew in a sharp breath and shoved August back. He crashed to the floor, yelping as his head cracked against the corner of the solid bedside table.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, scrambling off his back as Wyatt’s shadow sat up in the bed, looming over him.

Wyatt didn’t move, didn’t dignify his feeble apology with a response. But he had to be furious for how hard and fast he was breathing, for how rigid his shadow was, as though he truly was stone.

August’s heart carried on beating erratically in his chest. It didn’t feel right. It felt like it would swallow him, end him from the inside out, compounding his fear with each consuming beat. “I’m sorry,” he repeated lamely, voice shaking. He didn’t know what else to say. When Wyatt still didn’t acknowledge him, he inched forward, reaching out—

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Wyatt stood and August cowered back with a whine, hands coming up to protect his head. He couldn’t do anything right, perpetually reduced to crawling back like a puppy who’d been kicked but was too stupid to learn its place.

It was all he was, broken, desperate. Exactly as Keats had made him. “Please, sir. I beg your pardon.” He hadn’t called Wyatt that in weeks, had been able to rise just a little bit in his esteem, and even his own. Until now. He started crying in earnest, the tension from his uncontrolled heart and the open fall of failure overtaking him. “I’m sorry, sir. Please—”

Wyatt skirted away from him, bringing his hands up to his head in his rage. As far as possible from the pathetic mess of a boy who’d overstepped his welcome. He would have run if Wyatt hadn't been blocking his way to the door. Sobs halted his apologies so he pulled his knees up to his chest and waited, never taking his eyes off Wyatt.

But crying would not constitute an apology, hiding from punishment even worse, and he needed to fix this. If he wasn’t dead in a day on the streets, Keats would find him. To remain in this house, even chained in the basement, was preferable. He would offer anything, surrender any part of himself, to stay with Wyatt. Make himself smaller, bend, break to counterbalance this fault, to regain what standing he’d had. He had brought this on himself and he would face the consequences. Prove––

A light in the doorway silenced his undeserved tears and he held his breath.

“Wyatt?” It was Theo. And no one behind him, which was a small mercy, though it didn’t promise anything about what was coming for August. Theo lifted the candle, scanning the room until his gaze fell on August.

A whimper escaped his lips and before he could sort himself to make some attempt at apology, Theo was moving. He couldn’t help himself, he covered his head again.

Only Theo paid him no mind, just went to the chair at the foot of the bed and gathered Wyatt’s clothes in his free arm. He thrust them at Wyatt with enough force that August heard the impact, pushing them at the unmoving statue that used to be Wyatt until he was forced to take a step back and finally brought his arms up to cradle the clothes.

“Go on,” Theo said, keeping his voice low.

Wyatt didn’t move. August couldn’t see his face from this angle but after a moment it became clear that something was transpiring. Something excluding August.

“Get some air. Don’t worry, I’ve got him.”

His stomach dropped. He didn’t want Wyatt to leave when things were like this, when he hadn’t told him that he hadn’t meant to be so much trouble and that he would face the consequences well. But he couldn’t find his voice.

With one more moment’s hesitation but not a second glance in his direction, Wyatt left and August was alone with Theo.

First thing he did was set the candle on one of the posts of his bed. A precarious placement that had once lost August the privilege of candles for an entire month –of bruised shins and stubbed toes– at Elmwood. But Theo didn’t have to worry about things like that. None of the other boys here did. At least, August didn’t think so; even if they didn’t have much, they were all equal. Theo bent down a few paces away, resting his forearms on his knees.

“August, you all right down here?”

He wasn’t sure what to say, or if he could say much of anything without just crying some more. He swallowed, to see if his throat was clear enough for words. It wasn’t.

“I know you’re frightened,” Theo said gently.

That only made the lump in August’s throat worse, sobs closer to escaping his lips.

Theo watched him carefully, as was his wont. August fought shy of meeting his gaze. It made him nervous, how heedful Theo always was. What might he observe and, worse, what might he tell Wyatt?

“You’re not in any trouble.” August couldn’t help but look straight into his eyes now. Watchful as they were, he didn’t find them deceitful. “I promise, everything will right.”

He hoped Wyatt would agree.

“Why don’t you let me help you up? We’ll sort you out, too.” He held out one of his hands. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”

When August reached out, his palm shone crimson in the candlelight.

To be continued...

@whumpy-writings , @writer-reader-24 , @deluxewhump , @no-whump-on-main , @maracujatangerine , @painsandconfusion , @wolfeyedwitch , @briars7 , @gala1981 , @redwingedwhump , @whumpflash , @poeticagony , @annablogsposts , @fleur-alise , @melancholy-in-the-morning , @crystalquartzwhump , @magziemakeswhatever , @neverthelass

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 4 months

Note

Another fic prompt that follows on from the previous but Solek embraces Teylan after they free him/he escapes back to them, he’s dressed more rda than ever and he’s covered in bruises. Teylan is conflicted.

(tw past noncon, past csa, trauma, age difference)

ao3

The other Sarentu keep close watch over Teylan in the days after he returns to them, ash in his hair and smoke trailing in his wake. They carry food in and out of his room, hover outside his door when he gets visits from the Anufi or one of the other Resistance medics, help him to the showers and refuse to let anyone else in until he's done.

So'lek watches them whisper together, lips close to each other's ears, or sign, a strange blend of human gestures adapted to fit four fingers and tail-and-ear movements that don't match any Na'vi sign language So'lek knows. Even Alma doesn't understand it, not that she would translate for him if she could.

Not that So'lek would want to translate, of course, to intrude. But...but he hasn't seen Teylan since they brought him back, and he is--concerned.

Four days after Teylan gets back (not that he's counting) So'lek finds the courage time to finally approach Teylan's door. Ri'nela slips out just as he draws near, shoulders tightening.

"You'll have to come back later," she says. "He's resting, he--"

"Ri?" Teylan calls from within. "Who's there?"

Ri'nela opens her mouth, but So'lek is quicker. "It's So'lek," he calls, and instantly starts to doubt himself. "I can come back later--"

"No, no, it's fine!" He can hear rustling movements, blankets being tugged. "Ri, let him in." A beat. "Ri..."

"Fine." Ri'nela moves away with a huff, watching So'lek enter carefully. "Yell if you need us, okay?" she tosses into the room, and then she's gone, tail twitching in her wake.

"Sorry about that," Teylan says, as So'lek closes the door behind him. 'They've all been a bit...overprotective." He snorts a jagged laugh. "Or maybe I should say paranoid."

He's sitting up in the bed, sheets pulled high, but not so high that So'lek can't see he's still wearing RDA clothes, albeit freshly washed. His cap is off, for once, resting on a desk next to him, and his hair is damp, like he's just gotten out of the shower.

There are bruises on his arms, along his throat. There are bandages where he had to cut out his own tracking chips after he blew up that base.

"I see you," So'lek says, gesturing tentatively.

Teylan opens his mouth, closes it, looks away. "Hi."

Not sure what else to do, So'lek crosses the room and carefully settles onto a heap of pillows at Teylan's side. He can see something on the bed besides Teylan, one of those human iterations of songcords that Priya calls a book. If he looks at it carefully he can decipher the Sky People writing on the cover, the words Growing Back Feathers: Aftermaths of Sexual Abuse for Survivors and Loved Ones.

"Sorry." Teylan blushes as he grabs the book and shoves it under the pillow. "Nor gave it to me, I don't...it was going around, I had some free time. It's stupid."

"It doesn't--I didn't mean to pry." So'lek fumbles for his pockets, trying not to accidentally pull out a stray dog tag or a grenade, trying not to think of the word sexual. "I wanted to give you this."

It might as well be a grenade for the way Teylan stiffens as So'lek pulls out the songcord. He presses back against the headboard, jaw tight, eyes darting anxiously over each of the tiny beads. "You found it?"

"After the battle." So'lek waits a long, awkward moment for Teylan to take the songcord before awkwardly setting it on the desk, next to the cap. "After you were taken." He clears his throat. "I am...sorry. That I didn't get to you in time."

"It's fine," Teylan says, in a way that sounds very not fine. He looks away, scratching his neck, and it's even harder than before to ignore the RDA logo stamped across his chest like a brand.

So'lek feels his tail wrap around his own leg, a child's anxiety, and does his best to ignore it as he speaks. "I can get you some new clothes--"

"No," Teylan says flatly. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them to stare at nothing. "Sorry, but I don't...the bruises go everywhere. I don't want people to see that."

"There's no shame in bearing a warrior's wounds," So'lek points out.

"Warrior, huh." Teylan snorts, more bitter than So'lek's ever heard him.

"Yes, warrior," So'lek shoots back. "But if you wish, I can find you something else." Far be it from him to judge a Na'vi for wearing Dreamwalker garb, and there's probably something of Alma's (it's not like she's using it anymore) that will serve until Teylan heals.

But Teylan shakes his head, ears limp. "That's what the others said, but I can't--" He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, jaw tight. "I made them wash this instead, when I got back. It's not safe to wear anything else, not right now. He'd be...he'dmad. If he finds me, and I'm not wearing what he gave me."

Inhale. Exhale. So'lek chokes down the sudden, sharp urge to weep. "Teylan--"

"I know," Teylan growls, hunching over himself with a groan. "I fucking know, okay? Everyone says it, they all said he's never gonna touch me again, but they said it before and I don't--I can't--" He shakes his head, ears flapping like he's trying to ward off bugs. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm crazy, like I'm stupid." Teylan's hands tap frantically at the bed, tail lashing. "I'm not crazy--I'm not, I'm not, I'm, I'm, I'm..."

"I believe you," So'lek says firmly. "I don't think you're crazy, Teylan, but he will not touch you again, I swear it. And one day, you'll be able to believe me."

"You're..." Teylan lets out a long, slow breath, then another. So'lek breathes with him automatically, watching Teylan's chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

"You're probably right," Teylan admits, slowly uncurling. "But I can't--I can't. Not yet. Do you get that?"

"I think so," So'lek replies, honestly. He shifts slightly in place, then makes the offer before he can change his mind: "May I...hug you?"

Silence, so long that So'lek starts to think he's made a serious mistake. Then Teylan turns to look at him, frowning. "You mean it?"

"Of course." Teylan is well aware how sparing So'lek is with embraces, he has to know So'lek wouldn't say such a thing flippantly.

"O-okay, then." Teylan leans down slightly and So'lek reaches up, carefully wrapping his arms around Teylan's shoulders. It's an awkward hug, especially since he can't climb onto the bed with Teylan--something tells him that wouldn't be appreciated, not right now.

(Teylan smells odd, a blend of foreign and familiar, his heart thumping gently as it presses against So'lek's chest. His palm brushes down So'lek's back, stirring warmth in his belly, and he firmly pushes those sensations away).

"You gotta let me go," Teylan murmurs suddenly, and So'lek obeys immediately.

"What's wrong?" he asks, worried he's made a mistake.

"It's nothing! I just, I need to make sure you would--it's fine." Teylan fumbles along the desk, grabbing, seemingly by accident, the songcord. He pulls it to his chest, over the RDA logo. "It's okay."

So'lek settles back, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to settle himself. "John Mercer," he announces decisively, "is a dead man walking. You and I will make sure of that."

Teylan rolls his eyes. "You always say the nicest things." But he's smiling as he says it, fingers brushing back and forth over the songcord like he's polishing a treasure.

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whumpacabra · 29 days

Text

Façade

Pain medication use, past trauma, headache, overwhelmed, vague recreational drug mention, prison and legal charges mention, briefly implied past noncon

[Follows Halfway]

Routine took hold and East couldn’t be more thrilled. He had daily tasks to complete - cleaning his own room, setting plates for meals, dusting the common area. And Nathan was generous enough to explain how each task could be successfully completed.

He knew the others were watching him. Talking about him. His implants still stung where they hummed behind his ears. Part of him felt relieved for it; like the cameras in the bunker it was part of the act, a piece of the show. So long as he was observed, he was safely East - the enigmatic, antisocial, but diligent new addition to the Holloway House.

It was the times alone that were difficult to bear, as much as he breathed a sigh of relief hearing Jacob, Ice, Mac, and Tav leave for their day jobs while Alister attended some ‘skill building’ seminar Nathan drove them to. The house was locked, but he wasn’t considered a flight risk. He was safely alone and could finally breakdown and cry out all this stress -

“Oi, East - you in there? Telly’s fizzled out and I’m bored outta my mind.”

East couldn’t help the glower on his face as he cracked open his bedroom door. “Not my fucking problem.”

“Chill man, I’m just asking if you want to play cards. Nothing serious just some fun.”

Fun?

Tierney must have seen the flicker of confused hesitance in his eyes. The kid pouted, batting his eyes.

“Please? I’m gonna go nuts just sitting down there by myself.“

East glanced behind himself, pill bottle on his desk. He hadn’t taken any of the pain medication he had been prescribed - ‘as needed’ didn’t mean much to him. But if this kid was going to be a pain, what harm could one dose do?

“One game. Then you shut up, leave me alone, and let me take a nap.”

“Yes!” The former inmate was showing his age as he restrained a fist pump in the air, racing ahead of East’s limping gait to the top of the stairs. “Let’s do something simple - you know how to play War? Maybe Rummy…or Garbage - ah but that’s only 10 rounds it ends so fast…“

“Dealer’s choice.” East wasn’t going to admit he didn’t know how to play the games Tierney was talking about. Or any card games for that matter. (Did he? He remembered cards - the suits, the face cards - but not their utility.)

“Oh then we’re definitely playing War - we probably won’t finish before the others get back.” Tierney sat at the kitchen table, shuffling a deck and dealing two piles. East didn’t sit down until he saw where Tierney was putting his cards. But he settled into the chair, mirroring Tierney as they began to play.

The first few rounds were informative, each flipping over one card at a time, the higher value card ‘winning’ and letting the player add both to the bottom of their deck. East could see how this game could last all day, but at least it didn’t involved any of the loud table slapping and shouting he had heard during other card games.

“So, what’s your deal man?”

“Hm?” East turned over an 8 of spades. Tierney took it with his queen of clubs.

“Nate told us the basic y’know - new guy, skittish, not a fan of crowds, but - y’know - I’m curious. You’re an immigrant right?”

East felt a frown crease his face, even as his 7 of hearts took Tierney’s 2 of diamonds.

(“Pity about the accent. I guess there’s always room for improvement.”)

“What of it?”

Tierney opened his mouth and almost spoke, a pinch of annoyance fading from his face.

“Never mind. You’re a prickly motherfucker you know that?”

“Yessir.”

“Sir? I could get used to the sound of that - ”

“Don’t.” Despite the seriousness in East’s voice Tierney chuckled, either ignoring or - blessedly - missing the thread of desperation in his voice. East took Tierney’s king of spades with an ace of diamonds.

“I’m just jokin’ - but you do call Nate ‘sir’ all the time. It’s a bit…uh, unique.”

“Hm. A polite way of putting it.”

“You know it’s weird and you do it anyways?”

“Force of habit.”

“Oh.” Tierney hesitantly took East’s king of hearts with his ace of spades. “You serve?”

Probably.

“Yessir.”

“How’d a solider end up on assault and burglary charges?”

“Tough luck.” East lost a queen of hearts to Tierney’s king of clubs. “How’d a kid fresh outta school end up with felony drug trafficking charges?”

“Ah, you must not have heard.” Tierney smirked, taking a 3 of clubs with a 4 of hearts. “I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t seem it.”

“Nah, I was just a dumbass kid. Acting out for mum and da’s attention, y’know?” East shrugged. He didn’t. But Tierney carried on. “Got a bit of a reputation to live up to in my house.”

“Really?”

“You don’t know, do ya?” The Irishman laughed. They had both turned over a pair of aces. He began to layer three cards below, and East mirrored him exactly. He was more focused on the cards than the conversation. “How the hell do you spend five years in Blackwater and not know what the O’Hares have been up to?”

Panic flared in East’s chest, burning up his throat. But the pain medication in his blood made his thoughts syrupy - easy to put on a charade of calm, easy to let something slip.

“Kept my head down and mouth shut.” East didn’t like how hyper aware of his own tongue he suddenly was. (“Head back, mouth open. And for fuck’s sake relax, bitch.”) He needed the echo in his skull to shut up, to talk over it until it did. “What? Your father a mob boss or something?”

“Or something…” Tierney pouted when he turned over a 7 of clubs, losing to East’s king of hearts. “Damn, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

East swallowed a memory of iron and smoke on his tongue.

“Guess so.“ He stood, mind on getting a glass of water to wash away the phantom taste but his body sluggish, stumbling from the table.

“Hey, you good man?” There was the sound of a chair moving across the linoleum, a presence hovering closer, closer -

East caught Tierney’s hand before it reached his shoulder. He was mindful not to snatch the man’s fragile wrist with too much force, gently brushing it aside after a breath to steady himself.

“You talk too much.” He breathed through his mouth, if only to remind himself he could. East’s words were slow and clumsy on his tongue. “Headache. Mind if I close my eyes a few minutes? We can finish the game after, just - just need a minute.” There was a beat before Tierney hesitantly responded.

“Alright.” There was twinge of worry across the younger man’s freckled face. “Take the couch - no use heading back upstairs if ya want to finish the game.”

East nodded, pushing through the thickening fog around his thoughts. Couch. Lie down. Close his eyes. Just long enough to think clearly. Just long enough to feel rested and able to continue this charade of normalcy, this act -

But sleep was warm and dark and deep, and blessedly, dreamless.

[Before Nap]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode @sacredwrath

#whump #recovery #pain medication #past trauma #headache #overwhelmed #recreational drug mention #prison mention #legal charges mention #implied past noncon #freelancers #this chapter is Messy but I’ve given myself a 3x rewrite limit. this ain’t a published novel if I’m editing more than writing out it goes

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sparrowsage · 5 months

Note

Sparrow being offered to be drugged for a showing, which Damon promises will be the worst yet.

He can either be awake and feel it all, all the pain and humiliation, but still have the opportunity to fight. Or he could be blissfully unaware and 'sleep' through it. Wake up hours later, none the wiser and just a little sore.

Thank you so much for this! I was all giddy at the idea, it's so fucking beautiful! And I have to give an amazing thanks to @darkthingshappen for the use of her Whumper Volkov, who is mentioned in this piece! Her and I have some things planned with Volkov and Sparrow that was mentioned in this drabble that we're excited to share with you once it's done!

TW: Very vague implications of future noncon, mentions of past abuse/torture, drug mentions, implied future drugging, the term "boy" used for an adult male (if I missed any, let me know!)

Fighting the Decision (A Warehouse Drabble)

“Get the fuck away from me,” Sparrow growled, doing his best to back up from Damon as he approached him.

He had only been back at the Warehouse for a few days after his two week stay at the island, and while he was regrettably glad to be back in a familiar place, all Sparrow wanted was more than a few days rest before things returned to normal. Some peace before the oncoming storm he was sure to endure.

Damon clicked his tongue a couple times, looking down at the pet on the floor of his office, crossing his arms over his chest. “The whole point of that trip was to see what you’ve learned so far, but all it seems to have done is bring you back to where you started.”

“It was a sick and twisted joke and you know it,” Sparrow snarled back. “Why even send me there if I were to end up back here?”

Damon quirked an eyebrow, seeming to be slightly amused by the words despite it being back talk. “I was curious to see how you’d do under a different hand, and while you’ve resorted back to how I first got you two months ago, there have been noticeable changes in how you behave. You seem more…how should I put it? Afraid.”

Sparrow clenched his fists behind his back, his wrists straining against the metal cuffs that kept them locked behind him. “I’m not afraid of you,” Sparrow said, though his tone was more quiet than before.

“Oh, I think you are,” Damon said in return, crouching down so he was more level with the pet. “I have a proposition for you then.”

Sparrow did his best to scoot back even more when Damon crouched down, trying to hold himself to appear bigger, but all he really wanted to do was hide in the shadows of the office and disappear.

“What the fuck is a proposition?” Sparrow asked harshly, earning an amused chuckle from the Keeper.

“You’re so naive it’s funny, Songbird. An idea, I have an idea. I have quite the audience waiting for your next Showing since you’ve been absent for two weeks, so I have one scheduled for you in an hour. Since you’ve been fighting me at every turn ever since you returned, I thought I’d give you an option on how this Showing would go.”

“I don’t want to do a fucking Showing, cancel it.”

Damon shook his head softly, looking over the pet’s body. “You know that’s not an option. The choices are you go through this welcome home Showing lucid. Wide awake, able to feel and endure everything like you normally do. Or,” Damon paused, letting the first option sink in before he continued, “You can go through it drugged, to the point where you don’t remember a thing.”

This has to be a trick, Sparrow thought. Damon has never had him drugged for a Showing, preferring him to be awake and lucid to elicit more of a reaction.

“Why give me the stupid options when you’ll just end up choosing the first one?” Sparrow asked, his body rigid and tense at the thought of the whole thing.

“Because I’m genuinely asking. I know Volkov does things differently than I do, so I’m giving you an out to ease you back into the system. If you go with the first option, you can still fight against everything I do. Granted, it’ll do nothing in the end, but you’ll still be able to try. If you go with the second option, you get a break from it all, but it’ll leave you entirely at my mercy. This may be the only time I grant you this out, Songbird, so choose wisely.”

“Either way, I end up in a world of fucking pain and end up humiliated,” the pet mumbled, but his gaze shifted to the floor as he thought it over.

A break. When has he ever gotten a break from all of this? To have a choice in not remembering any of the things done to him? The Keeper hardly ever went back on his word, so the fact that Sparrow would never be given this chance again weighed down on him heavily.

But drugged to the point of not remembering anything that’s going on? Damon would probably give him something so he’d still be somewhat awake. The fucker loved hearing him moan and scream. He wouldn’t be able to do anything against what the Keeper had planned. It seemed like a lose-lose situation. Stay awake and endure it all and remember it but still stick to fighting back or not remember a thing and be as compliant as they come and embarrass himself due to the lack of thought.

As Sparrow thought over the options, Damon merely cocked his head to the side slightly, content to watch his Songbird think. It almost seemed like he could see the gears in Sparrow’s head turn, trying to figure out the best option. Regardless of his choice, the boy would go through the Showing and it would be a sight to behold.

After several minutes, Sparrow let out a sigh, his gaze not moving up from the floor, his head hanging in defeat. “The second one,” he mumbled, his body slowly going lax in his seated position on the floor. “Just get it over with.”

Damon’s eyes widened at the choice, the Keeper pushing himself up to his feet as he smiled down at the other. “Second option it is.”

Sparrow clenched his jaw as he heard Damon leave the office, flinching as he heard the door shut.

It felt like he was giving up on everything he had fought for up to this point, but all he truly wanted was a break. A true break from everything he was going through. Once it was all over, he’d be back to his normal, fighting self and things would resume as normal.

Sparrow couldn’t help a tiny part of himself hoping that Damon would keep him in that state forever so he’d never have to remember any of this again. But that was wishful thinking. The Keeper would never be that merciful. Might as well take the small mercy while he could.

#answered ask #answered prompt #The Warehouse #Damon Graves #Sparrow Cresky #Very vague implications of future noncon #mentions of past abuse/torture #drug mentions #implied future drugging #the term “boy” used for an adult male #drabble #Warehouse drabble

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whumpcereal · 2 years

Text

behavior modification, future snippet #4

masterlist here; jack and joe's first time together post-captivity

content warnings for 100% consensual but graphic spice (oral included), mentions of past non-con, mentions of previous trauma, conditioned whumpee, bbu-adjacent, ham-fisted metaphors, adult language

To call this a drabble is to call War & Peace a light summer beach read (not that this is anything like War & Peace). It's long, so give yourself time to enjoy. Thanks to my cheerleaders, @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, and @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump. Set about a year after Jack returns home.

And... it's my birthday, so if you want to heap feedback upon me, I wouldn't be sad about it.

first time after: lightning glass

Jack stands at the water’s edge. The cottage is at the tip of the island, so the sun rises and sets against the water. Just now, it’s sinking into the west. He knows he’s been out here too long–and he’s definitely left Joe unattended in the kitchen far too long–but he can’t make himself go in.

It’s the air, salty and cool, brushing through his hair. The water. The way the sand slowly disappears beneath his toes. All of it, really. Open space. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it. He’s spent so much of the last two years cooped up. His crate. The basement. Ivan’s bed. The hospital. The apartment. There’s something overwhelming about the notion that there’s nothing to confine him. The horizon stretches so far he cannot tell where it ends.

Jack is free.

Almost.

He turns and looks over his shoulder at the cottage. Its windows are amber in the fading light, and he can see Joe’s silhouette, probably doing something criminal to their foodstuff. He should go in. He wants to go in.

But there’s no one to tell him what to do just now.

It’s supposed to be better. It is better. It’s just that, sometimes, he still doesn’t know how to choose. And when he wants something, he isn’t sure he can have it. Because he isn’t supposed to want. Or, at least, he wasn’t.

There are so many things he wants now. He just isn’t sure that he deserves them.

He’s not sure he deserves Joe. Not as he is now.

Jack sighs and looks back to the water. It is calming, he guesses. In its own way.

The trip to Montauk had been Marilyn’s idea.

I think you boys need time away after–well, after everything.

It was the night after the press conference. Jack was meant to be asleep. He wasn’t. His body hadn’t come down from the day yet. He wasn’t sure it ever would. He was tucked in his bed with Carl, listening to Joe and his mother in the kitchen.

I’m not sure if he’s ready, you know? The–the interviews and the press conference? I don’t want him to–

Bear, he did so well. You both did. Jack is strong.

I know. Joe’s voice was hard, snappish. Then, softer. I know.

Jack closed his eyes then. He was strong. But he was so tired. He pressed his face into Carl’s fur.

I’m only saying that it’s been a long road to get here. You’ve both been shut up here so long–and the WRU people, I don’t think they’ll be content to leave you alone.

So you’re saying we’ve got to go?

Marilyn sighed. I’ve already phoned ahead. There’s a cottage on the Sound. I’ve booked you for two weeks. I’ll see if I can’t get the rest of this straightened out while you’re gone.

What if– Joe’s breath came out in a wet snap. Mama, what if it’s too much for him? To be alone with me like that? I don’t want to–

Joey, you’ve been alone.

You know what I mean. We–we used to do that all the time. Go to the beach. Sometimes–I–sometimes–

Jack knew Joe was crying. Again. Because of him. Jack bit his lip. He was strong. He was. Carl nuzzled his face.

Bear? Jack could practically see Marilyn crouched down in front of Joe, her green eyes just like his, but softer at their edges.

When we do the things we used to, it hurts. Because I don’t think he remembers them the way I do. Peters, he–he fucking–

Shhhh. Bear. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is making new memories, things that no one can take away from you.

Joe’s breath hitched. What if we can’t?

Jack felt his gut seize. If they couldn’t, it would be because of him. Because of his weakness. Carl felt him tense and batted at Jack’s shoulder with his paw.

Joseph Anthony, you stop it, Marilyn said. We haven’t fought this hard for you to scare yourself out of being happy now. Jack hasn’t fought this hard for you to give up on him.

I would never give up on him.

Then, don’t. And don’t give up on yourself either. I know you, Joe. I can see those wheels turning. You’re almost there–don’t be afraid to breathe.

Jack heard Joe’s feet head for his bedroom then, and he pretended to be asleep. They had already started touching again, so Jack wasn’t surprised when he felt Joe’s weight settle next to him on the mattress. Joe leaned down to press a kiss to Jack’s forehead.

I would never give up on you, baby. Stay with me.

As if Jack has any other choice.

But he does. He has choices now.

He wouldn’t choose to leave Joe.

His bare feet move a step closer to the water’s edge. The sun is almost gone, and the Sound is darker, waves sneaking up on the shore like thieves. It’s hard to tell what color they are now. Not quite blue, almost grey, sort of green. Jack wonders what it might be like to be a wave. To move freely, so close with its mates. To crash against something solid and have the upper hand.

“Jackie?”

Joe’s voice is almost lost in the wind, but Jack still turns. He can just barely make out Joe’s smile–tired, maybe, and a little worried, but still there, still real–in the gathering dark.

“Jackie, it’s suppertime.”

“Be right there,” Jack calls.

His eyes search for the sun one more time. A sliver of molten light peeks out over the Sound, and then it disappears. Clouds are starting to move in. The air feels suddenly wet, like skin after a bath.

He’s missed this. He’s missed everything.

The kitchen is warm and, well, a fucking disaster. But Joe insisted on cooking. The trouble with that is that Joe can really only make one thing–spaghetti–and that means there’s red sauce. Everywhere. Including all over Joe.

Jack closes the door behind him with a half-laugh. “Joey, what–”

“It’ll be delicious, I swear,” Joe says, rubbing a splotch of sauce from his nose.

“I know it will,” Jack replies. He wipes his sandy feet on the mat and pads over to Joe, wrapping his arms around Joe’s waist from behind. The gesture is soft, hesitant, but Joe squeezes him back.

“Was it nice out there?” Joe asks.

Jack can hear the concern in his voice; he must have been outside for longer than he thought. Jack knows that Joe worries, that he thinks Jack might disappear again. Not literally, of course, just–into himself. Like he was when he came home.

Jack doesn’t want Joe to worry, not anymore. He leans to kiss Joe’s cheek, noting that, inexplicably, there’s sauce behind his ear. He stifles a laugh. “It was nice. I think a storm is coming in, though.”

“Well, then I’m glad you came in,” says Joe. “We’ll stay cozy tonight, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Jack gives Joe one more gentle squeeze and then lets him go. It hurts him a little, to pull away. It took so long for them to touch again that Jack is almost greedy for it now. When Joe touches him, he feels safe, almost like himself. Like Joe’s touch erases Ivan’s. But Jack doesn’t want to ask for it. He isn’t supposed to ask.

Except that he is. He can. It’s just so hard to remember.

“Jackie?”

Jack starts. “What? Sorry.”

“You’re okay, baby,” Joe says softly. He turns from the stove, and his sweater is a Jackson Pollack of sauce and starchy water spots. He reaches for Jack’s hand, and Jack gives it willingly. It’s easiest when Joe initiates. Jack knows how to give someone what they want. It’s what he was made for.

It isn’t. But it is.

He must drift again, because Joe squeezes his hand. “Ready to eat?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. He smiles. “Should I just lick your sweater, or what?”

“Funny boy,” Joe grumbles. “I set the table. Just give me a minute, and I’ll serve.”

Jack goes to the table, where Joe has gone to the trouble of making place cards, even though it’s just the two of them. Jack sits at the place marked Jackie ❤ in Joe’s hackneyed chicken-scratch. Taper candles burn in the center of the table, and red wine is already decanted in stemless glasses.Jack knows Joe wants tonight to be special. It’s their first night really and truly alone together in a very long time.

There were lots of nights like this one before. There haven’t been any since.

Jack wonders if Joe is as terrified as he is.

They make it through the meal in murmured conversation. Somewhere between his first and second glass of wine, Jack’s bare foot starts to rub over Joe’s cotton sock. Joe’s sweater hangs from the back of his chair, and he’s left in only his undershirt, which he, somehow, miraculously manages to keep clean during dinner. In the candlelight, Joe looks softer, not quite so tired. There’s a lazy smile on his face, a smudge of purple on his bottom lip. Jack can’t help but stare.

“--but Mama says that she should be able to find a place soon, so–” Joe stops. His nose wrinkles. “Do I have something on my face?”

Jack can’t help himself then. He leans forward, cupping Joe’s face in both his hands, and kisses him.

Joe makes a sort of muffled noise of surprise, and Jack pulls away, cheeks red. Every muscle is suddenly tense, and it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s waiting to be punished. Joe sees it too.

“Hey.” Joe’s hand slides across the tabletop toward Jack’s arm. “Hey, Jackie.”

“I–I’m sorry,” Jack blurts, squeezing his eyes shut. It was wrong. He shouldn’t have done it. It isn’t his choice. Or it is, but—“I didn’t–I shouldn’t have–it’s for you to decide, and I–”

Joe stops short of touching him. He isn’t smiling anymore. “Baby, I–”

Jack wraps his arms around himself, but it isn’t enough. He wants Joe. He wants Joe to hold him, to tell him that everything will be okay. It’s a relief to want that again. But Joe doesn’t move, and Jack doesn’t know how to ask him to.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says again. The red sauce is acid in his stomach.

“Don’t be.” Joe’s voice is so soft that Jack almost doesn’t hear it. “I just–you know that you can touch me, don’t you?”

Jack nods. Because he does know. Except that he doesn’t believe it, no matter how badly he wants to. He’s forgotten how.

Ivan is still there. Inside his head. Even after all this time.

“Baby?” Joe presses. His fingers inch closer to Jack but still don’t make contact. “Stay with me. Please.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can think of to say.

The windows rattle with a gust of wind. Jack can hear the soft pelt of rain on the glass. The storm is moving in.

Joe shifts out of his chair, gently unwrapping Jack’s fingers from his arm and taking his hand. He presses feather-light kisses to each knuckle and sinks to his knees beside Jack. He looks up, green eyes wide in the dim light.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jackie.”

Jack looks down uncertainly. He doesn’t know what to make of Joe on his knees. That’s not Joe’s place. It’s his. Ivan told him–

“Jack.” Joe’s voice is stronger now. He reaches for Jack’s other hand. “You’re here. With me. And you didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me?”

Jack nods. He does hear Joe, almost. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that Joe is right. That Jack is free. That he gets to choose. But even now, he can’t help the feeling that he’s fucked up.

Ivan would have muzzled him for using his mouth for anything other than its intended purpose; Jack can almost feel the leather on his skin. Ivan would have shoved him in his crate. And then—after Jack had time to learn his lesson—then, Ivan would have—

Joe squeezes his hands; they’re shaking. “You’re allowed to touch me. I want you to touch me. And I want you to do whatever it is that you want to do.”

“What if–”

Jack looks away, and Joe lets his hands go. “What is it, baby?”

“What if I don’t know?”

“What you want?” Joe asks.

Jack shakes his head. “If I–I don’t–I can’t–Joey, I’m not supposed to ask.”

“For what? Jackie?”

Jack hunches over himself, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m not supposed to ask for what I want. Because–because–”

Joe sits back on his ass. He looks utterly defeated. “Because you’re not supposed to want anything.”

Jack nods silently. A clap of thunder sounds miles away. The rain comes down a little harder.

“Jackie. I–I thought we’d worked past all that. You–you know that what Peters told you–it was wrong.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. And he does. He does– “But I don’t. I don’t–it’s so fucked up. I’m so fucked up.”

“No, you’re not,” Joe says immediately.

He presses up on his knees again, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wraps his arms around Jack’s middle. Joe’s touch is still light, careful. Jack wants to sink into it, but he doesn’t know how to let himself.

The clapboard shutters bang in the wind. Neither of them seems to notice.

“You’ve been through hell. You–that bastard fucked with your head. He hurt you. But you’re home now. There aren’t any–rules between us. We’re equal partners. And you can ask for what you want, same as I can,” Joe says, his voice firm. He leans back so he can look at Jack. “And we’re both allowed to say no. You’re allowed to say no, Jackie.”

“Okay,” Jack says meekly.

“Do you want me to let go?”

Jack shakes his head. “No.”

He wants Joe to hold him as long as he can.

“I don’t want to let go either,” Joe says softly. He presses his face to Jack’s body. “I love you.”

Electric blue slices across the sky.

“I love you too,” Jack says. He swallows another apology and returns Joe’s embrace, running his fingers tentatively through Joe’s dark hair. It feels strange to touch rather than be touched. He’s missed this too. “Joe, I–”

“What is it?”

“I want–” Jack’s stomach lurches at the words, “I want–would you–”

Joe seems to know what Jack cannot say. He kneels up, and his nose slides against the underside of Jack’s jaw. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Please, he thinks, but does not say.

Joe’s hands loop around Jack’s neck and guide him down for their lips to meet. It’s soft and gentle, Joe’s lips slipping against Jack’s. Jack’s lips part, and he tastes wine–he tastes Joe, and all at once, he can’t help himself.

He wants. He wants, and for a moment, he forgets. He presses hard against Joe, letting his tongue slip between Joe’s lips. Joe acquiesces. His head falls back, and he lets Jack explore, his thumbs anchored lightly on the hinge of Jack’s jaw.

“Come here,” Jack murmurs, sinking his teeth into Joe’s bottom lip. Joe groans, and the sound rocks Jack to his core. “Joey, come here.”

Joe rises from his knees. He kisses Jack again and pulls him to his feet.

“I’m here, baby,” Joe says, his voice suddenly low and husky. “What do you want?”

“You,” Jack says without hesitation.

He wraps his arms around Joe’s ribs and buries his face in the crook of his neck. Ginger, basil, sandalwood. He thinks of how he would wrap Joe’s hoodie around him at night, of how badly it hurt when Joe’s scent was replaced by his own filth. How, sometimes, he couldn’t remember where the hoodie had come from at all–just that it was important. That he needed it.

Joe presses a kiss to his temple and holds him close. “I want you. I never stopped.”

“Me either,” Jack says.

It isn’t strictly true; they both know it, but it doesn’t matter. Not just now.

They stay that way for a moment, just holding one another. Jack thinks he could hear their hearts beating if it weren’t for the rain. Light flashes against Joe’s skin, and thunder rumbles closer.

“Joe.”

It isn’t a question, because Jack still doesn’t know how to ask.

He knows that Joe wants him to take the lead. He understands it. Joe doesn’t want to hurt him, doesn’t want anything to send him back to Ivan’s basement. Joe wants him to feel safe. And Jack is supposed to make choices, supposed to take charge. And this–this is something he wants. Jack actually fucking wants something. It isn’t Ivan. It isn’t Bill. It isn’t any of the nameless, faceless men that Jack gave himself to because he didn’t believe he deserved any better. He never wanted any of it.

But he wants Joe.

He leans forward, cupping his hands on either side of the column of Joe’s neck, and he presses a kiss to the pink hollow behind Joe’s ear.

Joe’s breath shakes when he lets it go. “Jackie–”

Jack lets the tip of his tongue skate gently against Joe’s pulse point. Joe gasps, and Jack presses him closer. Joe tilts his head backward, and Jack kisses down his neck, each press of his lips so soft that he isn’t sure Joe can feel it at all.

But Joe does. “Jesus,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His grip tightens around Jack’s ribs.

They haven’t gone this far. Not since Jack came home. Jack couldn’t; Joe wouldn’t.

“Can we?” Jack whispers. “I mean, do you think–”

Joe pulls back. “Are you sure?”

He isn’t. But he doesn’t know that he’ll ever be sure. He only knows that he’s afraid to stop now. That if he doesn’t seize the moment, it may not come again. He presses his lips to Joe’s.

“Yes.”

Joe’s hands soften, and one moves to brush Jack’s cheek. Jack knows he wants to ask again, but he doesn’t. “Okay then.”

Jack kisses him again, and then, he twines their fingers together. Forks of lightning crack the night sky in two, and thunder answers, just a little bit louder than the last time. It’s coming closer.

Jack leads Joe to his bedroom. They’d stashed their things in separate rooms when they arrived; there’s a delicate balance that can’t be upset. They are together, but there is distance. To keep Jack safe. To let him heal.

There was distance. There isn’t now. And Jack won’t let himself slow down enough to consider what that means.

He pulls Joe to him with desperate arms. He wants Joe. He wants this. He does. His lips crash against Joe’s, and then his tongue pushes past Joe’s lips, through them, pressing, moving, sliding. Jack angles his head, easing himself deeper, and Joe makes a little noise at the back of his throat. Their bodies are flush against one another, Joe’s hands still firm on his ribs. Jack bucks his hips forward, and for once, the electricity he feels isn’t pulsing from a collar at his neck.

But the feeling stops him. It isn’t–he isn’t supposed to–he can’t–

He tenses, and Joe breaks off the kiss. His lips are red and wet.

“Baby?”

“I’m fine,” Jack says, chest beating.

“You’re not,” Joe says softly. He starts to pull away. “We don’t have to–”

“No!” Jack cries. He grasps Joe’s forearms, and Christ, he’s about to start crying. “No, please, I want to. I want to, I just–please, Joey, don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Joe reassures him. He eases them down until they are sitting on the bed, still holding Jack in his arms.

Ivan never held him. Neither did Bill. They used him. Teased him enough to make him think he was complicit, that he wanted what they gave. Joe wouldn’t do that. He knows it. Or at least he should.

“Jackie–”

“I–” Jack buries his face against the soft white cotton of Joe’s undershirt. “I want to. But I’m scared.”

Joe’s ribs expand beneath his cheek. “It’s okay, Jackie.”

He doesn’t say that there’s nothing to be scared of because, of course, there is.

“Sometimes, it feels like he’ll know. If I break the rules.”

“Oh, Jackie–”

“I’m not supposed to feel good. Not unless you tell me.”

Joe’s arms tighten around him. “That isn’t true. You–”

“I know! I know. But it–it feels true.” Jack grinds his face into Joe’s chest. “And I feel like I’m supposed to be punished. For being so selfish.”

“You’re not selfish,” Joe says, his voice hard. “You’re–Jesus, Jackie. I told you. There aren’t any rules. No punishments. If you want something, take it. And if you don’t, that’s okay.” A kiss drops to Jack’s hair.

“I want it, Joey,” Jack whispers. It still feels like tempting fate. “You. I want you.”

“I’m yours,” says Joe. He ducks his head, tucking Jack’s chin with his fingers. He kisses Jack, gently. “If you’ll have me. But you don’t have to–”

“I know. I know I don’t have to.”

“Okay,” Joe says softly.

“Okay.”

Jack reaches up and presses a tentative hand to Joe’s cheek. Joe turns his head and kisses Jack’s palm. The rain is white noise around them. There’s a flicker of lightning in the windows, and the thunder sounds. It’s not to them quite yet.

They shift. Jack turns and pulls Joe down onto the overstuffed mattress with him. Joe’s hands are still shy, uncertain; it doesn’t seem he knows where to put them, or even if he should. Jack isn’t sure either. But he is sure that he doesn’t want Joe to stop touching him. He needs to replace the ghosts of unwanted hands with something warm and real.

He reaches for Joe’s hand and guides it behind his own neck.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Please.”

Joe complies, lips sweet and warm against Jack’s. “Now what, baby?” he whispers.

“Again.” And he doesn’t say please.

Joe does what he’s told. He kisses Jack’s lips, his nose, and then the hinge of his jaw. His lips skip a gentle patter down Jack’s scarred throat, until they find the divot between his collarbones; Joe pulls the crewneck of Jack’s sweater out of the way with his teeth and sweeps his tongue into the hollow.

It’s Jack’s turn to groan.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, Joey.”

Please is for begging. The words echo in his mind no matter how much he wishes they did not. And maybe he is begging. He would drop to his knees for Joe without thought.

But Joe would never ask him to.

Jack’s chest rises and falls, faster than it probably should.

Joe waits. “What, baby?”

“Keep–keep going.”

Joe nods. Jack is relieved when he doesn’t ask if he’s sure. Joe trusts him. He can choose.

Joe’s hands are gentle as they slip down Jack’s body, upending the hem of his heavy sweater. Joe slides it over Jack’s head, and static electricity crackles between them. Jack’s hands are pinned above him, wrapped in the heavy wool, but somehow, he doesn’t mind. He tilts his chin, and Joe answers him with a kiss, tongue slipping against Jack’s bottom lip like a whisper. Joe tugs the sweater free and tosses it on the floor. His hand ghosts over Jack’s body, still covered by a white cotton tee-shirt. Joe stops just short of the button-fly on Jack’s jeans.

“Jackie?”

“It’s okay, you can–”

Joe shakes his head. “No. It’s just that–I feel like I should–”

Joe shifts, sitting up to slough off his undershirt. He lets it fall to the floor, where it lands on top of Jack’s sweater.

Jack’s breath stops. He’d forgotten just how beautiful Joe is. There’s another flash of lightning, and the blue light echoes for just a moment across the contours of Joe’s pale chest. Maybe a little less defined, maybe just a bit softer, but still gorgeous. Familiar. The thunder rumbles, and this time, Jack can almost feel it inside him.

“There. We’re even, right?” Joe asks.

They aren’t. Jack plucks at his own undershirt. “No.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to–”

Jack sits up and pulls his undershirt off before he can stop himself. “Now we’re even,” he says softly.

Joe’s eyes move over his body, and Jack resists the urge to hunch and cover himself. He looks away. He’s changed too. He’s thinner, of course, and laid bare this way, he knows that Joe can see his scars.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but he’s stopped by Joe’s lips, soft against the rough skin that rings his throat. Joe’s hands wrap around his bare shoulders, and the feeling is too much. Skin against skin, but not the way he remembers. There is no friction, no pain. Joe’s hands are careful. Tender.

Joe’s mouth travels from his throat down the length of his arm, his kisses peppering Jack’s wrist. His lips lay a gentle path across Jack’s belly so that he can do the same to his other wrist.

Jack doesn’t notice his own tears until one drops onto Joe’s cheek.

Joe looks up. “Jack?”

“I love you,” Jack says.

Joe thumbs away Jack’s tears, one by one. “I love you too.”

“I–I missed you.” Jack closes his eyes, and he lets Joe’s hands sweep to his face, Joe’s thumbs soft on the apples of his cheeks. “I missed this.”

“I did too,” Joe says softly. “You don’t know how much.”

Joe kisses Jack again, his need just barely disguised. The thunder cracks the sky directly overhead, and the house shakes around them.

The air in the bedroom feels suddenly charged. Joe’s fingers pluck at Jack’s fly; Jack rolls Joe’s sweats away from his hips. They are not measured; there is no distance left. Limbs knit together as fabric slides away; hips roll; lips crash.

Every touch of their skin is electric. Jack’s spine zings with unfamiliar bolts of pleasure as Joe’s mouth works its way across every inch of his bare skin. The soft swirl of a tongue around his nipple, an open-mouthed kiss beneath his ribs, a gentle nip at the crest of his hip.

Jack isn’t sure that he’s even breathing. It’s been so long. No one’s touched him this way in so long. Ivan was not gentle, and he’d made Jack believe that Joe–but no, no, Joe had never hurt him. Would never hurt him.

Joe loves him. And Jack loves Joe. Ivan can’t hurt him anymore. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe.

The tip of Joe’s nose tickles through the soft trail of hair beneath Jack’s navel. Jack’s body moves on its own, arching to meet Joe. And then, Joe shifts, guiding Jack to the edge of the bed. He sinks to his knees between Jack’s legs, laying a gentle patter of kisses along the inside of Jack’s thigh. He nuzzles into the cleft between Jack’s legs, his breath warm and wet.

Jack is heavy with his own desire, but as Joe looks up at him, he can’t help the feeling that he doesn’t deserve this. It’s not Joe’s place; it’s his. He’s the one who should be on his knees.

When he speaks, his words sound fuzzy and far away. “Joe–Joey, you don’t–”

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” Joe murmurs. He presses his lips to Jack’s tip, and Jack shudders. “Please. You deserve to feel good.”

Joe takes him down then, slow, tongue sliding gently along the underside of Jack’s cock; he pulls back again, just as slowly. His hands find an anchor point on Jack’s hips, and he starts to move, deliberately working Jack deeper and deeper. He moves carefully. He does not tease. He keeps his eyes on Jack’s in the dark.

Tears spring to Jack’s eyes as Joe’s rhythm mounts. He doesn’t know how to process his own pleasure. His broken pieces start to whisper: he’s done nothing to earn it, he’s supposed to earn it. He doesn’t deserve this man. He doesn’t deserve to feel so good.

But he does feel good. And he feels good because Joe wants him to. Because Joe loves him. And–oh, God–and–fuck–and–

It doesn’t take long; Jack can’t resist. There’s nothing to fight.

Joe’s fingers sink into his hips, and, when Jack finishes, Joe suckles gently along Jack’s shaft. The wet heat of Joe’s tongue and the soft press of his lips coax every last bit of Jack’s release. Joe’s lips are red and shiny when he rises from his knees. He lays a trembling Jack back into the sheets.

The thunder rolls, distant now. The rain is soft on the window. Joe tucks in next to Jack, both their naked bodies slick and sticky with perspiration. Joe’s fingers playing absently with Jack’s hair.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks. “I shouldn’t have–”

Jack reaches to grab Joe’s hand. He kisses it. “Thank you.”

“Baby, you don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to,” Jack whispers. “I–I didn’t know I could feel like that anymore.”

He isn’t supposed to feel like that. He knows it. Boys like him aren’t meant to. But maybe, with Joe–

Jack knows that he’s supposed to ignore the things that Ivan told him, but somewhere, in the back of his mind, he can still hear Ivan’s words. Don’t you think it’s wrong to consign Joe to take what you give him?

He wants to give Joe so much more. Jack needs to know that he can do it–not because someone is forcing him to, but because he wants to. Because it will feel good with Joe.

It will feel safe.

“I told you,” Joe says. You deserve to feel good.”

Jack rolls so that they are face to face. “So do you.”

“I do,” Joe insists. “Seeing you like that? Doing that for you? I–Jesus, Jackie. I could live forever on that.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Jack says softly.

He rolls so that they are face to face, flush against one another. Jack’s cock is soft now, still twitching against his leg. Joe’s is not.

“I want you to take me,” Jack says.

Joe’s brow wrinkles. “What?”

“I want you to take me,” he says again. Then, softly: “I want you to fuck me.”

Joe’s arms tighten around him. “Baby, no–”

Jack shakes his head. “I want this. I–I want to feel you, Joey. I don’t want to feel–to feel him anymore.”

It’s Joe’s eyes that fill with tears then. “Oh.”

“And I want to make you feel good,” Jack says. He bobs forward and presses his lips to Joe’s. “Please, Joe. I want to.”

Joe hesitates. “I–Jackie, you don’t have to do this. Whatever he made you believe, I won’t–”

“I believe in you,” Jack says. “I want you.”

Joe’s fingertips trace over Jack’s cheekbones. “I want you too, baby, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

Joe kisses him, slow and soft, and then he rises off the bed. He slips into the en suite and returns with a little black shaving kit. He sets it on the bedside table and kneels next to the bed, taking Jack’s hand.

“Baby, I want you. I need you to know that. I–I can’t say that I’ve never thought about what this would be like, because I have. But I–if we start, and you want to stop, we stop. If anything hurts, we stop. If something happens and it reminds you of–just–we’ll stop. This is not something you have to do.”

“I know,” Jack says meekly. “I want to. I do.”

Joe reaches out to cup his cheek. “And I–I need to see your face. And I want you to see mine.”

Jack can only nod.

“Can you lie back for me?” Joe asks.

Jack complies, even though it is not an order. He lets Joe slowly part his legs, bending his knees as he lays them out on the mattress. Joe kisses his knee, and then he dips his hand into the shaving kit. He uncaps the bottle of lube, and Jack’s belly quickens.

“We don’t have to–”

“No,” Jack murmurs, settling back against the pillows. He knows that he’s shaking, but it doesn’t matter. He needs Joe. He knows it. “No, I’m ready.”

Joe gently guides one of Jack’s knees up toward his chest, and he holds Jack’s eyes. “I’m going to touch you, Jackie. Okay?”

Jack nods, and he feels one wet finger whisper softly against his entrance. Joe’s fingertip moves in a soft circle before it presses gently in.

Jack closes his eyes. It isn’t Ivan. It isn’t. He wants this. He wants Joe.

Joe’s touch withdraws. “Jack. Jackie, I need you to look at me.”

Jack opens his eyes. Joe’s face is a mask of concern.

“Keep going,” Jack says. “I’m okay.”

This time, he holds Joe’s eyes as another finger presses inside. Joe is slow and tender, gently curling his fingertips against Jack’s walls. He pumps out and adds a third finger, working Jack open with care. Jack moans, and it is not because he is frightened; it’s because it feels good.

Joe pauses. “Baby?”

“Joey. I–can we–”

Joe’s up in an instant, his lips on Jack’s. He positions himself between Jack’s splayed legs, working himself with a wet hand. Then, Joe covers Jack’s body with his own, kissing Jack’s neck, his collarbone, his chest.

“You’re sure?” Joe asks.

“I’m sure,” Jack breathes.

Joe gently raises Jack’s legs, hitching them around his own hips. They are pressed skin to skin. Joe’s eyes are serious. He kisses Jack’s cheek.

“I love you, Jackie.”

“I love you,” Jack whispers.

Joe fills him slowly, like water from a tap.

It’s like nothing Jack has ever felt before. With the others, he was always reminded of his place. Fucked from behind. Hurt. The sweet boy. The little whore. The good toy. Boxed up and shipped out. Ivan told him that’s how it would end. That’s always how it was going to end.

But there is no ending. There is only Joe. Jack can feel it in the way Joe’s hips shift and roll, desperate to get closer, needy for him: they are one. Jack feels deep and boundless. Free.

“I love you,” Joe says again. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Joey,” Jack breathes. His head falls back as Joe moves. Their chests slip against one another, and Joe angles to reach for Jack, to stroke him in time with the roll of their bodies. Jack feels himself rising again. “Oh, God. Joe.”

“You’re safe,” Joe whispers, and he rolls against Jack like a wave. “You will always be safe.”

Jack wraps his arms around Joe, tilting his hips to let Joe thrust deeper. Joe’s hand falls away, but it doesn’t matter. They are locked together now, and Joe moves faster, falling into Jack with abandon. Jack’s body vibrates with long-deferred pleasure. It falls on him like a wave.

They move together until Joe’s rhythm breaks against Jack’s shore.

“Jack–Jack–”

Jack is warm. Jack is floating in Joe’s arms. Jack can only feel Joe.

Joe’s sweat damp curls are warm on Jack’s chest. Jack smooths the hair away from Joe’s face, and Joe presses a kiss to his breastbone.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks, still breathless. “Jackie?”

Jack nods, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of Joe’s neck. They’re quiet now, spent and boneless. Eventually, Joe falls asleep, his breath warm against Jack’s chest. Jack stares into the darkness.

Soft rain still patters on the window, but the thunder and lightning have gone. He thinks of the way lightning strikes turn sand to glass, binding it forever to the moment of its own destruction–but making something beautiful all the same. Something that someone will pick up and keep safe. Something stronger than when it started.

He sighs and wraps Joe in his arms. He knows there are things that he can’t escape, but at least, for now, he is safe—and he is stronger than when he started.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @goldywhump, @reflected-pain, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-weridcity-werid (please send me a message if I missed you)

#behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #joe prescott oc #marilyn prescott oc #carl the dog is in here too #and the sparest of mentions of ivan peters #the sigmund freud of whump #tw past noncon #tw consensual spice #jack and joe bump uglies #and all is right with the world

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