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whumpcereal · 17 days

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behavior modification, part eleven

<previous, masterlist here

content warnings: EXPLICIT NONCON (touch & forced orgasm), adult language, creepy/intimate whumper, forced nudity, muzzles, restraints, stress positions, shock collars, dehumanization, humiliation, emotional manipulation, noncon kissing, implied future noncon

Thanks to @darkthingshappen for letting me run a few things by her!

part eleven, jack's consequences

“Now, you’ll stay this way until I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

Fuck. Jack tries to shake his head, but the distended heft makes his neck feel like it’s going to snap. He can’t stay this way. He can’t. Jack may not be a doctor, but he’s damn sure that people aren’t supposed to be left upside-down. Ivan has to know that. Doesn’t he? He tries to look at Ivan, but he can’t get his eyes to focus. Too many shocks.

Ivan’s phone rings.

Please! Jack shrieks. The word rockets up his throat, but it doesn’t make it any further, because there’s a fucking metal plate trapping his tongue. The only sound that comes out is an animal’s groan. But they have to hear him! They have to!

Jack tries again to raise his head, but he can’t. It weighs a fucking ton, and with his arms wrenched back the way they are, he has no way to brace himself–his entire body shakes with the effort. Of course, Ivan designed it that way.

The thought traps Jack’s breath.

He tugs at his cuffs, but the movement burns all the way down to his calves. Jesus. He’s trussed like game, for Ivan’s pleasure. He’s mute, for Ivan’s pleasure. He’s burnt and sick and so fucking tired, for Ivan’s pleasure. And he can’t even scream.

He tries to wrench his mouth open, but the bit stays in place, and the leather of his muzzle glues itself to his sweaty skin. For the millionth time in the last forty-eight hours, his eyes sting with tears–only this time, they run up instead of down.

The phone rings again, and Ivan glares down at him.

“Don’t. Make. A. Sound. Or I’ll push this button until you have more in common with a potato than a man.”

The thing is, Jack knows he will. He’s already seen the way Ivan’s eyes light up in the split second before the collar throws him to the floor.

But what Jack didn’t realize is that he already thinks it might be a relief. To disappear. To not feel everything that’s happening to him–or everything that will happen to him.

Jack doesn’t know if he can take it. Not again. And he doesn’t know if it’s better to be good or bad.

He swallows his whimper and lets his body go slack. The blood rushes to his head, but this time, he doesn’t fight it.

Ivan nods at him and taps his screen. “Dr. Ivan Peters?”

For a moment, the only thing Jack hears is the roar of the blood in his ears–and then Ivan’s breath hitches.

“Oh, uh, hello, Sergeant.”

Sergeant.

It’s the police. The police are looking for him. Joe is looking for him and–

“Would you mind holding for just a moment, Sergeant Wade? I’m in the middle of some work, and I’d like to keep my hands free.”

The police sergeant must assent, because Ivan lays his phone down on the floor next to Jack’s chair. He kneels down and cups the back of Jack’s head in his hand, raising it so that Jack can’t help but look into Ivan’s steely blue eyes.

“Are you there, Sergeant?”

Jack knows Ivan’s speaking to the person on the phone, but his gaze is for Jack alone. Don’t make a sound, Ivan mouths again.

“Yes, doctor.” It’s a woman. The sergeant is a woman. Her voice is kind, Jack thinks. She’ll help him. He knows it. “Sorry to interrupt your morning,” she says. “I’m calling in regards to a missing persons report on a Mr. Jack Kenyon.”

Jack’s tears cut a salty path into his hair, but he manages to keep himself still. He squeezes his eyes shut. Joe knows–he knows Jack wouldn’t run off. Joe knows Jack. Joe loves him. Maybe–

“Jack Kenyon?”

Ivan says it like Jack isn’t on display right in front of him.

“Yes, sir. Dr. Prescott–Mr. Kenyon’s partner–indicated that you may be someone with whom Mr. Kenyon might have had recent contact?”

“Did he?”

Ivan kneels down next to Jack’s contorted body, and he drops his mouth to the swell of Jack’s ribs. Jack feels the hard pinch of Ivan’s teeth, then the brutal seal of his lips. Another mark.

Please, Jack thinks. Please don’t. But Ivan doesn’t want to hear him beg now.

Teeth still pulling at Jack’s skin, Ivan seizes Jack’s hair with one hand, and he tugs Jack’s head backward until his shoulders fold like cardboard. He slides his other hand between Jack’s legs.

It’s then that Jack realizes what’s going to happen.

No, no, no–

Ivan slides his tongue into Jack’s navel, scraping his teeth against his belly as he backs out. Jack nearly cracks his back teeth trying to keep still. He feels a whimper rising in his chest, and he wills it to stay put.

Ivan takes Jack’s cock in his hand, running a gentle thumb over what is still soft. But Jack feels heat start to pool in his gut.

“Yes,” the sergeant is saying. “He said that you recently hired Mr. Kenyon to be your research assistant?”

Ivan raises his eyebrows, and wraps Jack in his fist. He squeezes Jack’s cock and slides his warm palm down the shaft.

“I did. I–oh, God. Is Joe okay?”

Jack’s chest feels like it’s going to explode. He can’t hear Joe’s name. Not like this. Not right now. But he feels himself responding. He’s stiff now, and his cock stands up at the center of his arched body.

Ivan smiles, and he begins to move in earnest. Jack’s breath slams from his nostrils. Ivan releases his hair and uses his free hand to pinch Jack’s nipples, one after the other.

The sergeant sighs on the other end of the phone. “He’s understandably very distressed. Dr. Peters, when was the last time you spoke to Mr. Kenyon?”

“Oh, goodness.” Ivan pretends to think, but his hand doesn’t stop; Jack feels his ass cheeks clench against the edge of the chair’s metal seat, and his legs start to cramp. “Maybe a week ago? I’m sorry. I’ve been out of town–I was at the APA conference in New Orleans, and I–”

“With Dr. Prescott?”

“I saw Joe there, yes.”

Ivan’s rhythm builds, and Jack presses himself as hard as he can into the chair, but it’s no use; his hips start to rise, to meet Ivan’s touch. The room blurs through Jack’s tears.

I’m sorry, Joe. I’m so sorry.

“So, you haven’t heard from Mr. Kenyon in the last three days?”

Ivan is quiet, long enough that the police sergeant must think he’s searching his memory. But Ivan is quiet because his mouth is on Jack’s chest, lapping at his nipples, scraping between his pecs, carving a warm path down Jack’s body with the tip of his tongue. His hand doesn’t let up.

“No,” Ivan finally says. Jack can’t see his face–he can’t raise his head, he can’t, he can’t–but he hears the husk in Ivan’s voice. “I’m so sorry.”

He thumbs over Jack’s slit, and the motion is smooth and wet.

Jack used to know how to do this. He used to know how to pretend it wasn’t happening to him. But he doesn’t anymore. Every nerve in his body burns white hot, and he feels like he’s choking on backlogged sobs.

He ruts into Ivan’s hand, and his chains rattle.

Ivan’s stills. He squeezes Jack so hard that Jack is sure he’s going to crush him. But the detective doesn’t notice.

“That’s alright, sir,” she says. “We’re just gathering information. Was there anything about your interaction with Mr. Kenyon that gave you any cause for concern?”

Ivan’s grip relaxes, and he begins to move again. New tears seep from Jack’s eyes, hot and fast. He can’t tell if he’s relieved.

“No, of course not. He’s a very bright young man. Highly motivated. He was very interested in working with me.” He twists his wrist, and Jack stifles a moan. “I think he thought it would be a great opportunity.”

“I see. Did, ah, did Mr. Kenyon say anything to you about his relationship with Dr. Prescott? I understand you’re former medical school colleagues. Was there anything that might have suggested to you that Mr. Kenyon was unhappy?”

No, Jack thinks, even as Ivan’s touch pulls him closer to the edge. No, I was never unhappy with Joe. Never, never, never–

Ivan picks up speed. “Oh, I don’t know about that–”

“Sir, any information would be helpful.”

“The last time I saw him, he did seem frightened.”

Ivan noses into the thatch of hair beneath Jack’s navel, letting his breath settle, hot and wet.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Please–

“Of what?”

Ivan sighs and presses a soft kiss to Jack’s pubic bone. Jack prays for his blood to pool in his head, for darkness to swallow him whole.

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to know that,” Ivan says. “Just that he was a bit skittish.” He pinches Jack’s skin between his teeth and sucks down. His hand does not stop moving.

It’s too close. He’s too close. Jack can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t–

“I see. And he didn’t say anything about Dr. Prescott?”

Ivan pulls away, and he rubs at the fresh bruise with his thumb. “No. But it isn’t necessarily about him. It’s my understanding that Jack’s had a complicated life. You may want to ask Joe a bit more about that.”

Joe. I love you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–

“Thank you, Doctor. I will,” says the detective.

And if Jack could think, he might think that she sounds less than convinced. But he can’t think. He can only feel. And he hates it. He hates himself.

Papers shuffle on the detective’s side of the phone. “Is there anything else you might–”

“I’m sorry, sergeant,” Ivan says abruptly. He rolls his wrist and slides down Jack’s length. “That’s about the only insight I can provide. But I’ll certainly let you know if I hear from him.”

“Please do.”

“I hope you find him soon. Joe must be losing his mind.”

Ivan smiles at Jack, and his hand beats against him, hard and fast.

“Thank you,” says the sergeant.

Jack arches against the chains, his muscles so hard that he’s sure he’s going to break in two. But he can’t let himself down. He can’t make a sound.

“Good luck, sergeant. Give my best to Joe,” Ivan says.

Distantly, Jack hears the hollow beep of the call’s end. He lets himself crash against the chair, and a broken sob rips at his throat. Still, his hips buck up, and the chains rattle in earnest now.

“He’s looking for you, sweet boy,” Ivan murmurs. “Your Joe is looking for you.”

And then, wet heat surrounds Jack’s cock, and he screams–or at least, he tries to. This can’t he happening. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. And yet–

Ivan pops off of him with a wet smack, and his hand is back, running over Jack’s slick length and drawing him closer and closer to the edge.

“I’ll let him find you, you know?”

Jack’s chest is so tight that he’s not sure he’s even breathing. His head is full and dizzy, and he thinks he might be breaking apart. All he wants is Joe, but he doesn’t want Joe to find him. His body is a knot of paradox.

Ivan strokes him harder. Jack is close, and this time, he knows that Ivan won’t spare him.

“I’ll let him find you when you’re a good little toy. I’ll let him see you like you are now.”

Jack’s throat aches so deeply that he thinks he might choke. His forehead burns under the salt of his tears, and he can feel slick sweat coating every inch of his skin.

Joe–Joe can’t–he can’t–Jack doesn’t–no, no, NO–oh, God–

“And I’ll let him see this, too,” Ivan whispers.

And then, Jack falls. His vision burns white, and his body seizes against his chains as he spills over Ivan’s hand.

“Yes, sweet boy. That’s it.”

Jack waits for Ivan to punish him, for his touch to keep on, but he doesn’t. Instead, Ivan’s hand slips into the mess Jack’s made of himself and spreads it over Jack’s belly and up to his chest.

“Goodness, you must have been holding onto that for a while,” Ivan chuckles.

I didn’t want to, Jack tells himself. I’ll never want to. I didn’t–oh, Joe. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Ivan stands, and distantly, Jack is aware that he’s gone to the sink to wash his hands.

Jack wants to wash. He wants to scrub at every inch of himself until he’s raw; he wants to grow new skin.

He wants to go home.

He sobs, and Ivan stands over him again, cell phone in hand. Jack hears the artificial snap of the phone’s camera.

“Perhaps we’ll send this to him sometime, huh?”

Ivan leans down and presses a kiss to Jack’s soaked forehead. Jack wonders if he can taste the salt. Ivan angles the camera again, and he yanks Jack’s head up by his hair.

“Smile, darling. If we do send these, I want Joe to know just how happy we are together.”

Jack does not smile. Not that anyone would be able to tell. But when Ivan shows him the photos, Jack feels the tiniest spark of satisfaction that there is still blood on Ivan’s lips.

“Now,” Ivan says, stuffing his phone in his back pocket. “I have some case notes to update, and you have some thinking to do.”

Jack doesn’t even have the energy to shake his head.

“You were very naughty today, Jackie,” Ivan says seriously. “And I told you–there are consequences for your actions. I hope you know that now. You’re mine, sweet boy. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be.”

Ivan ruffles Jack’s hair and then pulls his hand away in distaste.

“You’re filthy. As you should be. A filthy little whore, aren’t you?”

He is. He’s always been. But Joe’s voice breaks through the rush in Jack’s ears.

You are more than what’s happened to you.

“You can sit in that filth until I come back for you. Think about what you’ve learned, Jackie.”

Ivan leaves him then. And even though he’s humiliated, Jack is blessedly alone. His limbs are starting to come down from his ordeal, and as they settle back into the stress position, they burn, and then, go numb. It’s a kind of relief.

I am more than what’s happened to me, Jack reminds himself. He even tries to believe it. He’ll try as long as he can. He hopes it’ll be enough.

next>

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @reflected-pain, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @the-non-binary-cowboy, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (let me know if you'd like to be added, and please let me know if I've missed you!)

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whumpcereal · 18 days

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Still can’t calm the crap down

so I better kick it up a notch for Alfred, then

#Tommy vibes again

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whumpcereal · 19 days

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Shattered #10 - Happy Birthday, August! Part II

Previous / Masterlist

CW: kidnapped whumpee, captivity (kinda), defiant whumpee, whumpee thinks caretaker is a whumper, forced to kidnap references, vampire caretaker, unwilling whumper, forced to be whumper, ALOT of self-loathing and fucky thoughts and guilt and all of it, weapons, adult language, mentions of blood, brief mention of vomit/nausea, reference to toxic/abusive family dynamic (if I've missed any, please let me know! <3)

Part two! A long time coming! The final part should drop in the next few days/this week! :D thank you to the amazing @whumpcereal for her AMAZING beta on this 🥺🫶

---

August has always dreamt of cake on his birthday, the warm scent of sugar and butter taunting his vampiric senses like forbidden fruit. The cake would be chocolate, of course. Every human loves chocolate; it must be the tastiest thing on Earth. This year, there would have been one hundred and thirty candles, barely fitting on top of it. And August could blow them all out and make his birthday wish. Just like the humans do.

But if the flickering flames on his imaginary cake could really grant his wishes, he wouldn’t wish for chocolate. With a single puff of breath, he’d wish to rewind time and erase this horrific day out of existence. Or, perhaps, he’d wish for a clean slate - a life free from the regret that eats him alive. But above all, he would wish to finally be happy - whatever that means. But where does August get the gall to wish for his own happiness when he is the catalyst of another’s misery?

He stole a human being tonight. He crept through the streets, snatched them from where they slept and locked them away. He’d lurked in the shadows and all, like a true monster. As far as the human is aware, they saw the stars for the last time this eve and they’ll never feel fresh air stream through their lungs again. August could see it the moment their eyes first locked - the human feared the blood coursing through his own veins was his no longer, that he had become nothing more than food.

No, if August had birthday candles, he should be wishing for the human’s pain to stop, not his own. He should pray for any memories of this miserable night to fade away, and for the human to feel nothing but warmth and safety for the rest of his days. How dare August make this about himself?

How dare August call himself a doctor?

Really, if August is anything other than a feral creature, he is a coward. He can’t find a drop of courage in his selfish core to face the human. Of course not. That would mean facing up to what he has done to the human.

Instead, August kneels in the bathroom, and he hugs the toilet bowl tight in his arms. He sputters and heaves as spit dribbles from his lips. It’s a battle against wave after wave of never-ending nausea. August is sickened by himself. Repulsed by the cruelty that he and his kind are capable of. Even if he earned his family’s stamp of approval tonight - something he’s always dreamed of and strived for - it wasn’t worth it. Not one bit. He refuses to hurt, abuse and sacrifice an innocent life for a scrap of their regard. Curse their prideful smiles and damn their hollow praise.

CRASH! Shattering glass pierces through the silence in-between retches. August’s heart leaps up into his throat, and his gut clenches.

His human is awake - no! August shakes that insidious thought from his head. Not his, and never his. The human does not belong to him.

August wills the ground to open up and swallow him whole. The thought of skulking down to that basement with his tail between his legs and shame swelling in his chest - it turns his already churning stomach with bubbles of dread. Still, he must. He peels himself from the bathroom floor, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and makes his way downstairs to greet his guest. There’s not a second spare to wallow and drown in self-pity.

He grips the stair bannister for dear life, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. Still, he forces his dragging feet to move one step at a time down to the basement. There’s no backing out of this, no turning and running now. August needs to face the music–or face his victim, rather. He must fix what he’s done to this poor human.

There is the sound of a jarring crash, and then another dull thud resonates from behind the locked basement door. August’s shaking hands fumble to fit the key in the lock. With a click, the door opens, and he cautiously descends into the dimly lit basement, every footstep echoing in the sudden, eerie silence.

That is until he hears the human’s heart. It pounds like a war-drum in August’s ears, each beat louder and more erratic. August flicks the light switch, and as the basement floods with light, he freezes on the spot, beyond horrified at the scene before him.

His life's work, decades of dedication, lay in ruins. His surgery looks like the aftermath of an explosion. All the furniture is flipped over, and shards of shattered glass sparkle across the floor like jewels amongst the blitz. Charts and graphs once meticulously hung on the wall now dangle in tatters, their scientific data reduced to meaningless scraps. His medicinal cabinets have been ransacked; trails of viscous liquid snake across the concrete floor from countless broken vials. The air is thick with the acrid smell of chemicals.

And there, behind his masterpiece of destruction, cowers the human, pressed flat against the farthest wall, a scalpel gripped in trembling hands held out before him. Its sharp tip is pointed in August’s direction, glistening against the surgery's harsh strip lights.

August has seen fear in human eyes more times than he can possibly count, but he has never seen fear like this. The human’s eyes burn with such primal terror that they touch the very core of August’s being. In the man’s eyes, August sees his own fear, his own isolation and his own despair. But August stays there, unable to look away no matter how it hurts him. He is trapped in this man’s stare, lost in a labyrinth of his own reflections.

But August feels something else too. A raw and untamed emotion. Rage. All-consuming anger that makes goosebumps prickle down the vampire’s pale skin. Rage courses through the human’s veins like a river of molten lava.

“You stay the hell back!” the human roars until his voice wavers and wobbles. He swings the scalpel into the empty space between them, stabbing at the air. “Don’t you dare come near me!”

August’s hands fly up in surrender. Words escape him. What could he possibly say to make this right? Where does he even start? Surely nothing he could say could do justice to his regret.

“I’m sorry-”

That’s the first thing that blurts out of August’s pathetic mouth. Because it is the only and the most sincere thought that comes to him. As though his apology could ever mend the damage or heal the pain he’s caused tonight.

August is shaking now. He can’t stop. His palm slams against his mouth as he chokes back a guilt-warbled cry. “I’m - so…I’m SO sorry. I - I don’t - I…I -I never. I didn’t want to hurt you. I - I won’t hurt you! I don’t want this. Please - y-you have to believe me. You’re safe here-”

August moves without thinking, over the rubble and glass shards. He moves barely an inch closer, and the human erupts into panic. Like a great cat, the human swiftly pounces and flips the table in front of him to form a barricade, stopping August dead in his tracks. Surgical instruments clatter about, and yet more glass scatters across the cement floor.

“I SAID STAY BACK!” the human brays like a feral animal. His chest heaves dramatically as his lungs seem to fight for breath, and he takes an unsteady step back to create even more distance between them. Gingerly, he cradles his hand, still clutching the scalpel. A gasp escapes his lips as crimson wells from a sudden gash. The tang of iron hits August’s nostrils, drool coats his tongue and his fangs tingle, ready to feed. He wrestles with his animalistic instincts and pushes back the unwanted and primal hunger that threatens to take over. He knows he doesn’t want it, but his body thinks he needs it.

The human had hurt himself in his own destructive frenzy. August can’t help but feel responsible for that too. But that doesn’t seem to deter the human, in fact, it fuels him. He launches himself at the countertops. In one fluid motion, sweeping his arms across the surfaces, clearing it of every single object in a deafening cascade that shatters across the floor.

“HUMAN! PLEASE STOP!”

The human doesn’t speak, but a slow, cold anger radiates off him. Brows slam together, his jaw clenches until the muscles stand out starkly. A single word, each syllable dripping with disdain, finally leaves his lips: "'Human'?"

August immediately realises his mistake. Guilt eats him from the inside out. You utter barbarian; he scolds himself.

“I have a name, you know!” The human snaps incredulously, bloody hands curling into fists.

“Of course, of course! Just…” August breathes, “What is your name?”

“Why the fuck would I tell you?!”

The bookshelves are the human’s next victim. He doesn’t bother pulling or ripping at them; he just bulldozes them with a barge of his shoulder. The shelves topple with a cacophony of splintering wood and flapping pages. His gaze is already fixed on his next target: a framed diploma hanging on the wall, defying the human’s rampage.

“Wait, no! P-Please, not that!” August begs, hands clasped together in supplication. The diploma represents his proudest achievement, everything that he’s worked so hard for. It is the only proof August has that there may be good in him somewhere. “Please! Don’t destroy anything else! I just need you to hear me out!”

“Open the door and let me walk out, vamp,” the human scowls, glossing over August’s pleas. “Or do I have to go through you?”

August swallows hard, the human’s casual threat sending a fresh wave of terror through him. He doesn’t doubt the human’s raw strength or willpower for even a second. The destroyed furniture and the fiery defiance in his eyes promise more violence. A heavy silence stretches between them, thick with tension.

“I - I want to help you - please just let me explain all of this-”

The human slams his fist into the nearest wall, a crater of dust left in its wake. August flinches into himself. Then, the man lets out a sound that no soul should ever have to hear. It’s a keening cry - a grieving wail for the life he fears he has lost. It rocks August to his core. It’s bloodcurdling.

“Why’d you choose me, huh?!” The human seethes, damn near foaming at the mouth. “Is it because I sleep rough on the streets? Is that it? Because my life is so fucking expendable?!”

Then, it’s as if a dam has burst. The human’s face just crumples as a choked sob croaks from his lips, barely even audible. Slowly, he slides down against the wall. Head in hands, shoulders slumped, any bravado completely drained from his posture.

“You knew no-one would come for me… didn’t you?” The human manages a whisper, his head hung low in defeat. Words just seem to keep failing August time and time again, he can only watch miserably and quietly.

“DIDN’T YOU?!” the human bellows, eyes bloodshot and wild as his head shoots up. August flinches at the outburst.

“What gives you the right to play god?! What makes my life worth any less than yours, or any other person you could have plucked from the damn street. It was a shitty life. But it was my life! There was nothing left to take from me, and you took it all anyway. You’re a… you’re a parasite.”

August bites his lips and nods, a silent, pathetic apology. He is a parasite. Every word burns like a red-hot fire poker but he knows he deserves every scorch. Scarlet-shame colours his cheeks. Monster, parasite, animal - he’s all of the above.

“I won’t stop fighting you,” the human huffs through tears of fury. “I won't stop until I kill you, even if it kills me. You're right. I have nothing, and no-one. Nothing to lose but everything to gain. So if I’m going to go down, I'm going down swinging. Do your worst…leech.”

Leech.

August has always thought of himself as a healer. A protector. It is here, in this moment, he finally realises he is nothing more than the predator he was born to be. Afterall, there is no denying what he has done. He did take the human, he took away everything the human had to take. He, too, sinks to the floor in devastation, landing heavily in a cross-legged slump opposite the tear-streaked human.

Worst birthday ever.

August is drained and depleted, but he won’t waste any more breath on defending himself; he isn’t worthy of any defence. But the very least he can do is comfort the human - help him to weather the storm and be the anchor he needs right now.

“You can keep the scalpel,” August sniffles, “if it gives you some comfort. If it helps you to feel safe.” It’s an impotent gesture. A scalpel would be useless against him in combat if it really did come to that, but hopefully the human can see the sentiment behind the offer. “All I ask is for a minute of your time, and I promise, I will explain everything to you.”

The human stares at the scalpel in his hand and then locks eyes with August’s in a silent duel. No accusation, no defiance this time - only a deep well of desperate inquiry burning in their depths. A million silent questions hang in the air. He begrudgingly nods for August to go on.

“I will take you home tomorrow morning. I swear it. I wish I could open the front door for you and let you stroll free and wave you off into the world, but we’re deep in vampire territory right now. You wouldn’t last five minutes out here on your own. You’ll be snatched back up in a heartbeat, and by a creature less...inviting than myself. We will go after sunset tomorrow and not a minute later, you have my word.”

“Your word,” the human spits, “Your word means jack all to me.”

“Then let me prove that I am who I say I am - a man of my word. Let me show you to a bed for tonight. Let me give you food and water, and a pillow to rest your head. And then I will leave you be, to get all the sleep you want and need, and I will keep to myself. The next time you see me, it will be to make our journey back to human territory.”

“...Why should I trust you?”

“I’m not asking for your trust.” Heaven knows August doesn’t deserve it, could never earn it. “I’m asking, from the bottom of my heart, for your leniency. You could, and probably should, drive a stake through my chest for what I’ve put you through. I cannot say I would blame you, if you did. But…why don’t we both survive the night, and come tomorrow we go our separate ways?”

Relief floods in as the human seems to reluctantly ponder the deal. It’s just a night. They just need to make it through the night, and then they can both go back to their separate lives and try to forget each other's faces. The human must realise that too, because his boiling anger seems to simmer down. August rises to his feet and slowly moves across the room to extend a helping hand. The human only grunts his curt refusal and snubs the offer, forcing himself up off the cold and unforgiving ground.

“Spare bedroom. First floor. It’s all yours for the night. I’ll show you to it.” August nervously beckons the human over as he heads towards the basement door. The man sluggishly follows behind, keeping a distance that feels like miles. August feels distrustful eyes burning into the back of his head. He half expects to feel the scalpel pierce his spine any second.

But it doesn’t. As August leads the way upstairs, their unified steps echo strangely in the emptiness of the house. With each turn, the sheer scale of this place, his home, hits August anew. In the company of this poor stranger he’s pulled from the grime of the street, the house feels absurdly oversized. Every step reveals yet another opulent space – a bathroom, a bedroom, a study, a library, another bathroom. August marches him through this excessive display of wealth with a sinking heart. Does he truly need all this, especially when the man trailing behind him apparently doesn’t have a penny to his name or a roof over his head?

August pauses before what is now the third bedroom door they’ve come across, this one already ajar. Inside, the air is stuffy and still, as though the room hasn’t been disturbed in decades, and it hasn’t; it is untouched and unslept in. A sliver of moonlight creeps through the drawn curtains and slices across the four-poster bed.

“This is yours,” he motions the human through the doorway, “for the night-” he quickly repeats. He chooses every word with due care and diligence, to reaffirm that this situation is by no means permanent.

Hesitantly, the human steps inside. His eyes flit across the ornately carved furniture and over thick layers of dust. August takes his moment to disappear down the hallway, returning minutes later with a tray holding a jug of water, a glass and a bowl of steaming chicken soup - he was lucky to find the tin of it at the very back of his cupboard. A strained smile tugs at August’s lips as he sets it down on the nightstand.

Again, the human recoils from him, pressing himself into the corner of the room.

“I’ll go now, okay? I-I hope you can get a good night's sleep. If you need me, for anything, my bedroom is on the very end of the hall, on the left”.

“I won’t need you,” the human scoffs. “Go. Leave.”

The rebuff curdles August’s smile, his lips twitch nervously. “As you wish…” he mutters, stalking towards the door with defeat. Hand on the doorknob, he pauses, “My name is August, by the way. Could I please at least know your name, too?”

Rooted to the spot, the human squares his broad shoulders, a challenge radiating from his posture. “Names are sacred, leech,” he declares, teeth gritting together. “I plan to keep that secret for as long as I can keep my mind.”

The human’s words strike August like a physical blow. The air whooshes from his lungs, deflating him like a pricked balloon. Regret, sharp and bitter, settles in his chest. He can’t stay a second longer, not with the humiliating spark of unshed tears threatening to spill. His family is right, he’s a weak and pathetic excuse for a vampire. With a twist of the doorknob, he flees down the hall to his bedroom. He collapses onto his bed and buries his face in the pillow.

—

For the human, however, sleep will be a stranger tonight. Any last vestige of drowsiness flees as the vampire vanishes. Sleep just isn’t in the cards. He has to hold out until dawn. He scrambles for anything he can get his hands on to barricade the door. It’s his first line of defence overnight;it will give him a fighting chance and an advantage over the creature.

The heavy dresser groans in protest as he drags it across the room to block the door, scratching and scraping the floorboards along its path. He doesn’t think twice about the damage, if the vamp gets to destroy his life, then he gets to destroy it’s property. Then the rickety chair and the desk it sits at gets pushed into the barricade. And the bedside tables, the bookcase too. Finally, his gaze falls on the bed and its sturdy oak bedposts. He pulls his scalpel from his pocket and digs his scalpel into the wood, feverishly wedging a chunk out of it with all the strength he has left. Shavings rain down as he whittles it down to a sharpened point. Slapdash, but a stake nonetheless.

Every creek of the settling house, every rustle in the wind sets the human’s teeth on edge. He crawls into the bed and slips under the blankets. He’s pleasantly surprised at how soft they are, and how the mattress feels like he’s floating on a cloud and how warmth seems to instantly envelop his fatigued body. He’s not felt this much comfort in…in, well, years.

But he can’t afford to let his weary eyes slip shut. He stays watching the door like a hawk from his bed, his staked clutched close to his beating chest.

Morning can’t come quick enough.

*!*!*!*!*

Dawn finds the human bleary-eyed but alert. His crafted weapon is still clutched tightly in his palms as he half-stares and blinks drearily at the barricaded door, as ready and poised to attack as he can be. Moonlight has dwindled and now sunlight beams through the velvet curtains instead. He leaps up, rips the curtains open and basks in the sun’s kiss. It’s something he thought he’d never feel again,

He survived the night. It’s nothing short of a miracle. A silent thank you rises in his throat as a single tear slips from his eye. Someone, he thinks, has to be watching over him. His parents, he hopes. There’s no way he would have made it through this without them.

Now the vampire just has to hold true to his promise. If his word holds any weight, the human will be back in human territory before dusk. Yet, the whole situation defies any logic. The human can’t wrap his head around the absurdity of it all. Why would a vampire snatch him, just to return him by nightfall, less than twenty four hours later? He can’t fight the feeling that a deeper motive lurks beneath the surface, a sinister plan at play. Suspicion clings to the human like cobwebs. Beyond the hospitality and kindness… the vampire has to be up to something.

The human dismantles his barricade and heads out to go downstairs. Every fibre of his being screams ‘it’s a trap!’...but the human can’t deny the smallest sliver of hope in his chest, piercing his bubble of suspicion. The vampire had kept true to its word so far, it had left him alone and untouched, fed and watered, a bed to sleep in. It hasn’t laid a hand on him nor tried to feed. In fact, it had kept far away. Maybe the vampire deserves the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, there isn’t anything more to this than meets the eye, and there are no strings attached?

But hope is a dangerous thing, tempting him to lower his guard and leave himself vulnerable for thirsty fangs to sink into. No, he thinks grimly, tightening his grip on the makeshift stake. He will not trust, cautious acceptance will have to do. He’s ready to fight with all he’s got when it all heads south.

He reaches the landing and sneakily peeks over the railing. The vampire stands by the front door, guarding it like a troll bridge. To stop the human from escaping? The vampire meticulously folds up his sleek, black umbrella and places it back in his stand. He looks so tall, impossibly tall, even from the human’s vantage point. The vampire is dressed in a three-piece suit and leather dress shoes that seems more suited to an office boardroom than house wear.

As the human strains for a better look, a sudden creak of the floor makes the vampire snap his head up. Chilling red eyes lock with the human’s in a way that sends a jolt of pure terror down the man’s spine. Would he be punished for this? Would the vampire strip him of his free will and send him marching down to the basement for punishment? He’s heard they can do that–and worse. All the fear sparks anew. He can’t catch his breath - he’s panicking.

But the vampire's eyes aren’t actually filled with the predatory and furious glint he expected. Instead, a swirl of emotions flickers within them - concern, sorrow, even…anxiety? It’s a disarming sight. This creature looks nearly as worried as Lucas feels…

—

"There's been a change in plans,” August laments.

August could literally hear the human’s heart drop in his chest, like a lead weight falling into a deep well. The human’s eyes are wide with despair, and his mouth drops open as though he’s been struck across the cheek. A wave of guilt crashes over August, and he isn’t oblivious to how this looks. It looks like the betrayal and deceit the human has anticipated since he first set eyes on August. August is well aware he just crushed the man’s hopes to dust, and confirmed every doubt and fear. But it’s out of his hands. Mother nature is a cruel mistress.

“No-” the human rasps, nearly falling down the stairs as his legs give out on him. “No, vamp. You said you’d take me home. You said today. You promised-”

“That’s not the element that’s changed. My promises are sworn and imperishable. There is, however, a delay.”

"A ‘delay’…” The human repeats incredulously, a hint of sarcasm to his tone. His suspicion eats away at him, misplaced though it is. August is many things - a liar, he is not. But there’s no way the human could know that. Not yet, anyway. The human takes a cautious step back from August, staring him up and down with disdain.

"A storm is raging outside. The streets are thick with snow and ice, and the skies are dark with thundering clouds. It’s too dangerous to make the drive.”

“I don’t care,” the human snidely retorts. “I’ll walk it if I have to. Just open the door for me, and I’ll be on my merry way. I’ll be out of your hair and you can have your big, lonely mansion all to yourself again.”

Yes, his lonely mansion. All to himself. The words sting more than August cares to admit. He winces like a knife is twisting in his belly. When the human goes home, he will be all alone again. It was nice…is nice…the company. Talking to someone that’s not a suffering patient or his own reflection in the mirror. He already feels the emptiness settling over him once again. He longs for companionship, for someone to share his home with. He sighs, knowing that he'll have to wait a bit longer for his wish to come true. He can’t keep the human here–at least not indefinitely. But he will have to make the human understand that tonight is non-negotiable.

“You can’t-” August shakes his head. The man would never make it home. Not with the minus temperatures and the blankets of snow.

“I can. I am. Move,” the human growls, his hands balled into fists. Only then does August notice the crude stake in the human’s white-kncukled hand. No, this human will never be his friend, but even still, August has a duty to him.

The human storms towards the door and tries to push it open. It doesn’t budge. He barges his shoulder into the door, desperately ramming it. Still it doesn’t give. Soon, he’s kicking and shoving and a warbled cry rockets up his throat. Despite his frantic assault, the door only cracks open slightly.

“Snow,” August chimes in, pointing to the falling white powder crumbling through the gap in the door. “We’re snowed in. Must be at least twelve inches of it, I would think.”

“No. This can’t be happening. We-We climb out the bedroom window!” The human’s eyes light up at the idea, sprinting towards the staircase in a panic.

“And then what will you do? Trek all the way back to human territory in this snowstorm? Do you know how far out we are?”

In the blink of an eye, the human tumbles to the floor in a heap, screaming into his hands, pulling at his hair. The blizzard howls like a banshee outside, a gust of snow blows in from outside. The human knows he’s stuck here. He’s trapped here, with a bloodsucker. He’s going to die. Or at least that’s what he must believe.

“I can’t stay here. With you. I won’t do it.”

“Please,” August says. He resists the urge to move closer; there’s no point in riling the human any more than he’s already riled himself up. “My word is my bond. I won’t harm you. But I can’t in good conscience return you to where I found you. I’m a physician. I can’t put anyone in harm’s way. To sleep rough on a night like tonight–it would be a death sentence.”

The human laughs coldly. “Was this your plan all along? Crush my spirits? Delude me into thinking it’s my choice to stay?”

“I don’t control the weather,” August sighs. “This doesn’t change a thing. I will still take you home as soon as the roads are clear.”

The human remains silent, his jaw clenched. With a final, hate-filled glare, he storms towards the stairs, and, like a sulking teenager, stomps upward in a whirlwind of fury. The slam of his bedroom door reverberates throughout the house.

But the human is still here. He is still safe. August hasn’t failed entirely.

An exhausted breath escapes August’s lips. He isn’t used to this, the vulnerability of sharing his haven and bearing the weight of responsibility for another life. A knot of unease tightens in his gut. These forced close quarters may at least offer him a chance to ease the human’s fear and earn a crumb of forgiveness, but August can’t help but wonder – will they be able to bridge the chasm between predator and prey?

This is going to be a long couple of days…

---

@octopus-reactivated @whatwasmyprevioususername @ramadiiiisme @darkthingshappen @whumpsday @thecyrulik @t0rture-me @redwhump @the-cryptid-finch @snowstuffscuff @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @wolfeyedwitch @interdimensional-chaos @termsnconditions-apply @whump-blog @leyswhumpdump @not-a-space-alien @onlybadendings @darlingwhump @sparrowsage @flynnswhumpprompts @whumpcereal @wolves-and-winters @ashh-ed @idkmansomeusername @whuarri @33-sdtr-45 @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @the-whumpers-grimm @damienxozmoze @predacon-skydrift @morning-star-whump @neverthelass @espresso-depresso-system @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @androgynousqueenie @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @kadeee00 @that-one-small-world @doodlepoodle154 @sodacreampuff @cupcakes-and-pain @topsheepstudent @mylovelyme @anonfromcanada @astrokea @turn-the-tables-on-them

#august is lovely #and so sensitive #and he wants so badly to be more than he's been allowed to be #and i dig it #but i just love lucas in this piece #the absolutely feral energy that he brings to this moment #the way he wants his life even though it might seem worthless to other people #top tier #we love a good back story #and well developed characters #and we love shannon

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whumpcereal · 22 days

Note

can we see a snippet of a shower scene from derek's time in prison?

just one shower, any shower, pls

did not proofread, cannot be tagging folks, this was supposed to be a super quick little ask game thing but it got away from me a little bit

cw: noncon shower , noncon touch , noncon nudity , prison setting

✥ ✥ ✥

Derek hadn’t showered in days. When they finally came for him, it had been nine, he thought. He had tried, initially. Every day when it was his unit’s turn, when the guards banged on the cell door and shouted words that were incomprehensible to him, but understood by the others, he had followed suit.

He had wrapped his arms around his stomach and kept his eyes on the wall and, even then, even when he made himself as small and invisible as he could, people noticed him. He learned quickly that the showers were not a place he wanted to be.

After those first couple weeks, he stopped going all together. At first, no one seemed to care. They could find other ways to torment him, and they did, so his suffering wasn’t worth the fight of dragging him through the prison and depositing him into the cement box full of rusty shower heads and blood-stained drains.

Today, though, after everyone left the cell, a guard hovered in the doorway. Derek shrunk back into the corner of the room, his corner, now, where he had carved out a place to sleep, to eat, to sometimes read or draw. It was partitioned off by the bottoms of two adjacent beds, and although that made his corner small, it gave him the illusion of safety.

Sometimes.

The guard narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Derek’s sliver of the cell, and barked a drawn out command in Turkish. They all knew he didn’t understand, and at this point, they usually didn’t bother speaking to him at all. He looked down at his hands, waiting for whatever came next.

When two additional guards closed in on him, he didn’t look up. He watched his fingers work together, watched as his own limbs started to shake, while heavy footfalls, hushed conversation, scoffs and laughter, came nearer and nearer and eventually, as calloused hands gripped into his shoulders, hauling him up.

The guards turned their commands toward him, over and over, louder and louder, and with each word, Derek retreated further inside of himself until his eyes closed, his mind singularly focused on surviving this– whatever this would become. The crack of knuckles across his cheekbone brought him back momentarily, long enough to get his footing and then lose it, long enough to see men, rows and rows of men inside of their cages, watching as his body was dragged through the long corridor.

He didn’t fight as his clothes were ripped off of him, or as he was shoved under one of the showers. He felt the burn of tears behind closed eyelids, and he crumpled to the floor, but he didn’t fight.

One of the guards, one who had taken a particular interest in him, spoke quickly to another; their fingers dug into his wrists as they lifted him, and still, he didn’t fight. When they turned the water on, the frigid stream instantly laying its own assault on him, he cowed, and something close to a whimper escaped him.

All three guards laughed, and the two released their hold on his wrists, shoving him once more into the wall.

“You stink,” one of them said, pushing a bar of soap into his hands. Derek shook as he accepted the silent cue, and as quickly as he could, ran the bar over himself. He was painfully aware of their eyes tracking every movement, but the freezing water, the days of too little food and too little sleep, the beatings and the laughter and the tears and cold, made it hard for him to care. He finished quickly, too quickly, and the guard closed the distance between them, took the soap from his hand, and vigorously scrubbed every inch of Derek’s trembling form.

Derek wasn’t sure when he had started crying, but the heat of the tears that slid down his cheeks drew his attention to the fact, and he closed his eyes, and he slid to the floor as the water was finally turned off.

He was left like that, that day, on the cement floor, shivering, with no towel, and no clothes, and not a single soul in that prison who had any intention of helping him.

#i love what isn't said here #poor derek #so glad to see him on the dash

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whumpcereal · 23 days

Text

the kennel, part seventeen

part of the kennel. masterlist here.

content warnings for: heavy mental manipulation, aftermath of noncon, nudity, references to mouth whump, captivity, extreme dehumanization, human trafficking, parent whumper

part seventeen, a part of it

It takes longer than Annie thought it might to get Will clean.

It isn’t like she’s never cleaned up the rescues before, but it’s been a while since–well, since her father’s hurt one of them this badly.

Justin. The man who belonged to the one in the doghouse before Will’s Tommy. She’d rinsed his mouth and staunched the bleeding after Doc took his teeth, even though it made her stomach turn. She remembered holding his head in her lap on the cement floor, gently stuffing wadded cotton into the empty cavern of his mouth. He wouldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t. And it wasn’t his teeth or the pain or any of it. It was Tony. His husband, the one who’d been in the doghouse. Doc had sold his Tony away. That’s why Justin had gone after Doc.

Annie had taken care of Doc too, once Justin was sedated and back in his cage. She soutured his ankle where Justin’s teeth had torn into the skin. Doc barely flinched. It wasn’t in his nature to dwell too much on pain–at least his own.

“He’s just upset, Dad,” Annie had said. She always tried to make him see. “His husband–”

“Don’t ‘husband’ me, Annie Marie. You know it’s hard to keep the rescues together when they come in packs. I found his Fido a nice home, where they’ll keep him safe and he’ll never want for anything. The mutt should be grateful his mate has such a nice place.”

It was the first time the word made her flinch. Mate. Justin and Tony weren’t mates, not the way that Doc meant it. There was more than biology at play, Annie was certain. She’d seen that when the two men arrived. They weren’t muzzled, the way Will had been–it had been a late night, and Doc must have forgotten. When the two men woke in their separate cages, they screamed for each other. Well, Justin screamed for Tony. Tony couldn’t answer because he was having a panic attack.

Annie heard them. She was in the back, cleaning cages, and she’d nearly tipped her bucket when she heard the hoarse cries coming from Justin’s cage.

“Tone–Tony, where are you?!”

All that came back were rasping gasps and stifled sobs.

“Oh, Tony. Baby, no,” Justin murmured. There was still an edge in his voice, but his words were suddenly gentle.

Something about the way Justin spoke made the hair on Annie’s arms stand up. She’d never heard someone talk that way to another. That wasn’t how Doc spoke, and the rescues often didn’t talk at all. Annie suddenly wanted someone to say her name the way Justin said Tony’s.

“Baby,” Justin had said, his voice still loud enough to be heard, but calmer now that he knew he and Tony were in the same place, now that he knew he had to keep Tony calm too. “Baby, you’re okay. I’m here. We’re still together. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Tony couldn’t catch his breath. He gulped and strained at the cold air. Annie wanted to go, to help him, but just now, she was frozen to the spot. Something told her it wasn’t her place. That, knowing Doc, this moment might be one of their last with one another, and she did not want to take it from them.

“Tony-love, it’s okay,” Justin said, his voice just barely loud enough to carry across the kennel, like he didn’t want to disturb anyone. None of the other pets moved in their cages; Annie wondered if they were listening too. If it made them want what she did. “It’ll be okay. Hit the side of your–hit the wall if you can hear me, baby.”

A soft tap on the inside of the cage. Another gasp.

“Good, love. That’s good. I want you to put your hand on your belly, okay? Tap when you’ve done that for me.”

Another tap. Another gulp.

“Okay, Tone. I want you to take a deep breath for me, okay? Just try to make your hand move.”

Silence.

“Did you do it, babe?”

A weak tap.

“Good, Tone. Do it again. Make your hand go higher this time.”

Annie heard Tony’s breath this time; Justin must have too.

“Good, baby! That’s so good!”

“Jus–” Tony’s voice was ragged and weak, “Jus, where are we?”

“I don’t know.” Justin suddenly sounded like he was going to cry. “But we’re both here. We’re together, okay?”

They weren’t together for much longer.

Doc must have earmarked Tony for the doghouse when he rescued them, and he didn’t waste any time moving his new Fido out of the kennel and into the pole barn. Justin was left alone.

Doc never lets anyone stay together too long.

“It isn’t good for them to stay attached to their old lives, Annie.” That’s what he’d say.

When she was little, she believed him. How could she not? He was rescuing them. Saving them. Doc was a hero. He must know what was best.

But then there was Kara, her friend. No, not her friend. Kara didn’t want to be Annie’s friend. Kara wanted her mother, and Kara found her, wearing a pink collar in the yard. Kara disappeared after that.

That’s when Annie started to wonder. And there were others too. The ones that Doc taught Annie how to stitch and clean on. The ones who would yell at her father, “How can you make a child part of this?” He always muzzled those ones after.

But Annie wondered what it was she was a part of.

She took care of Justin the way she takes care of Will, the way she’s taken care of so many over the years. She talked to Justin, used his name, tried to keep his spirits up. He told her about Tony—that he was a teacher, that he made the best enchiladas, that they were just married. They were on their honeymoon when Doc found them stranded at a gas station.

Annie didn’t understand. She didn’t know what second grade was or what you put in enchiladas or anyone who was married. But she liked listening to Justin talk about Tony. It made something ache in her chest, and even though she knew it made Justin sad, it kept him calmer too. His voice would get warm and slow when he talked about Tony, like honey from a spoon. It sweetened Annie’s day, to hear about his love.

But it made things harder too.

How could Doc do this to people? If they were really being rescued, they would be happy, wouldn’t they? But Annie heard them cry themselves to sleep at night, and she wondered.

Sometimes, Annie thinks about unlocking the cages and setting the rescues free, but she doesn’t know how to help them after that. She can’t go with them. She doesn’t even know where she is. And without her, Doc would be alone.

She knows he loves her, in his own way. But it isn’t the way that Justin loves Tony or Kara loved her mother or even the way that Will’s Tommy loves him.

And maybe, just maybe, she’s learned to be afraid of Doc too. Like Will is afraid.

Even after Annie had taken off that horrible collar, he wouldn’t speak. He still won’t, although now, it’s because he’s asleep in the grooming tub.

There are a lot of things Annie doesn’t know, but she knows what she scrubbed from Will’s body. Why there was blood on his legs that didn’t come from any kind of cut she could see. She’s seen it plenty of times, even before she understood. She’s cleaned up the studs and the breeders, wiped down plenty of cages, even been allowed to help in the doghouse a few times–well, before Doc installed the cameras. She knows what was done to Will, at least in theory.

But she doesn’t know if it was Doc who did it.

He does sometimes. She knows that. To teach them, he says. To train them and make sure that they’re prepared for their forever homes. The ones with the red collars. They get a different kind of love than the other pets.

But Will doesn’t have a red collar. And Doc doesn’t always do it.

There was one time, after he took Tony away, that he actually let Justin go out to the doghouse. But Justin hadn’t been hurt when he came back. Just sad. He wouldn’t tell her much– “It isn’t right, Annie, for me to talk about it with you”--but she knew that he and Tony did something like what had been done to Will. For the cameras, but with each other.

It wasn’t the same for Will. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.

Nothing has been easy for him, not since he got here. And Annie’s terrified that it isn’t going to get any easier. Doc doesn’t talk about finding him a home. Even Justin–there will be a place for him to go. But Will, Doc just seems to enjoy hurting.

Annie hates it. She hates seeing any of them hurt, but Will–there’s something about Will that makes her feel the same way she did when she heard Justin say Tony’s name. She doesn’t know what the feeling is, just that, even though it hurts a little, she does not want to let it go.

She looks at him now, his big brown eyes buttoned closed in real sleep, and she hates to wake him. His face is clean and at ease, gentle breath slipping from lips that have finally closed after however long he spent gagged. His hair is dark and damp against the lip of the tub; it’s longer than when he came to them. Annie wonders if he likes it that way, if she could maybe cut it for him when Doc is busy elsewhere. The rest of him–well, she doesn’t feel right letting herself look, even though she just cleaned every inch of him. This is different. She wants him to have something for himself, just for a little while.

Because she knows she’ll have to put that awful collar back around his neck and put him back in his cage. She knows what she’s done to help him won’t fix any of what’s been done to him at all. He’s been hurt, and badly. Nothing in Doc’s medical books tells her how to help with that, or why anyone would do it.

She reaches to touch his hair before she even realizes what she’s doing. Will’s brown eyes flutter open. He doesn’t smile.

“Sorry,” Annie says. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shrugs, naked shoulders smooching against the back of the tub. He shifts his hands to cover between his legs, and his cheeks color. He won’t quite look right at her. She understands.

“Are you–” she stops herself. He isn’t feeling any better, and they both know it.

“Could I–” Will’s voice is wheezy and small, which, given what that collar did to his neck, makes perfect sense. “Underwear. Could I–could you–please?”

It’s Annie’s turn to blush. “Yeah, of course.”

She leaves the tub, going over to the cupboards to find a fresh pair of briefs. Doc stocks them from whatever he can find in the rescues’ bags when he takes them in, but Annie does the laundry: she knows they’re clean. She rifles through until she finds a pair that might fit Will–he’s smaller now than when he first came. Because her father doesn’t feed him. Because her father wants to hurt him. And she’s part of that.

She slips a towel from the countertop and tries to smile.

“Let’s get you dried off,” Annie says.

Will shakes his head. “I c’n do it.”

“Are you sure?”

She doesn’t want him to fall. It was hard enough to get him into the tub. But Will nods, and she hands him the towel, leaving the briefs on the high stool beside the tub. Even though he doesn’t ask, she turns around, shoving her fingernail in her mouth and worrying the cuticle with her front teeth.

It’s silent for a moment but for the soft buff of the towel against Will’s skin. She hears each of his feet rise and touch down again as he dresses, if that’s what you can call putting on someone else’s used underwear. It’s fine. All of this is fine. He will be fine. Annie will make him fine.

And then she hears the muffled thump of the towel hitting the floor and Will’s cracked sob.

Annie turns, and Will is gripping the side of the tub with both hands. His arms are stretched wide, and under the bright lights, the scars that her father laid down on Will’s ruined back practically shine. The newly sharp points of his shoulder blades shake, and he’s crying now, really crying, the way that Justin did after Tony was taken from him.

Something’s been taken from Will too. Annie doesn’t know if she understands what, but she knows that it’s true.

She moves closer, but she doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t think he wants to be touched anymore today, and she will respect it, even if every cell in her body is telling her to take him in her arms and hold him, to let him cry, not just watch it happen.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, because it’s the only thing she can think of to say.

“Why?” Will half-whispers.

“Because you’re–”

“No!” He can’t yell, not really, but he slams his hands against the inside of the tub. Annie jumps. “Why–why me? This–this–” He presses his forehead against the tub’s metal lip, still sobbing.

Annie stands there, close enough to touch him, but knowing that she can’t. She thinks of the collar on the counter, the way it would have already shocked him into silence and brought him to his knees. She has to put it back on before her father comes back, but for now, she will let Will suffer standing on his own two feet, like a man.

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader

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whumpcereal · 26 days

Note

A prompt: Myles has Elijah strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

This is a good excuse to insert a piece of canon I've been meaning to write.

WARNINGS: Captivity whump, scars, branding, knives, referenced noncon, self harm

When the shower shut off, the first thing Elijah reached for—the first thing he always reached for—was the tube of scar gel on the bathroom counter.

He stuck his hand out from behind the curtain, groping blindly in the dark. No matter how much time passed, he still couldn’t bring himself to take a shower with the lights on, leaving him dependent on the sliver of sunlight that came through the small frosted window above the toilet. It was enough to get by, and just enough to leave his body a shadowed blur in his vision.

When his fingers found the familiar plastic, he grabbed it and flipped the cap with his thumb. He dispensed a dime-sized circle onto his palm, careful not to use too much at once. This shit was expensive, and definitely more than he and his mom should be spending with limited funds, but she knew how important it was to Elijah, so she never mentioned it. But every few weeks, a new tube would appear on the bathroom counter like clockwork.

She just didn’t know the real reason why he needed it so badly. Not entirely.

There was no shortage of physical reminders of Elijah’s captivity etched into his body, and none of them were easy to cope with. Some of them were easier to cover, and some of them never saw the light of day. But only one instilled such a burning revulsion, one that went beyond skin deep, to the point that on several occasions, Elijah found himself on the bathroom floor next to a shattered razor, fighting the urge to filet the entire ugly fucking patch of skin from his body. Instead, he settled for thin, violent slashes across the existing scar, like he was crossing out words on a page. Just to alter it in some way. To take ownership of something that so inherently robbed it from him.

Today, he bypassed the superficial scars altogether, ignoring the sharp lines of raised skin that had split apart under Myles Voss’s blades and belts, on his arms and shoulders and chest and stomach. Instead, he took the full amount of gel and smeared it across his inner thigh, rubbing until it covered every inch of scar tissue.

It was overkill to close his eyes so tight, but he did it on instinct, keeping his chin tilted up so there was no chance of seeing the lines on his thigh. He wished there was a way to detach his brain from his nerve endings, so he didn’t have to feel the ridges of lettering under his fingertips like braille, reading it out over and over and over and—

The handcuffs were nothing new, but Elijah knew something was off when Myles didn’t unlock them immediately after he rolled off of him.

Myles stood from the bed, stretching his arms over his head, and walked to the dresser on the far side of the room. Elijah stared after him blankly, slowly coming back to himself. He blinked hard a couple of times before Myles turned back to him. A golden knife gleaming in his hands.

He was pretty sure this fucking scar cream didn’t work. He had spent countless hours online looking up his options: creams, lotions, surgeries. Most of which were too expensive to even consider, and none of which would be one hundred percent effective. No matter which route he went, even in a fantasy world where he could afford a real procedure, there would always, always be evidence of the marks Myles left on his skin.

Elijah’s wrists tugged against the restraints before he could even fully process what he was seeing. “W-what are you…?” He couldn’t even form the whole thought. This was normally the part where Myles would force him into some sick semblance of an embrace, followed by a hellish shared bath that always led to the probability of another round. He almost never brought out the knives after they had sex.

Myles’s expression gave no leniency when he said, “We’ll keep the cuffs on for this, baby. You don’t want to fight me.”

He yanked his sweatpants up to his hips before the towel even hit the ground, like leaving the scar exposed for one more second would reveal him to the world. He could still feel it, though. There were days where the scar tissue was bad, and days where it was worse, but he could almost always feel it; if he stretched just the wrong way, if the jeans he wore were tight enough for the seam to rub just the wrong way against his inner thigh.

Half of his wardrobe was eliminated when Elijah returned home, and not just because all of his clothes hung loose on his malnourished frame. Any pair of pants that had rips along the thighs—which, given Elijah’s fashion choices through high school, were most of them—posed the risk of showing it.

Elijah would never be able to forget it was there. Myles had made sure of that.

He heated the knife first, dipping the blade into the burning fireplace for a few long seconds. Elijah’s first panicked, incoherent thought was that maybe he was sterilizing it. Maybe creating a way to cauterize as he cut. In hindsight, he wondered if it had more to do with making sure the it scarred.

The moments between seeing the blade glowing in the fire and the knife making contact with his skin were chopped into a motion blur. He recalled pieces: Myles’s weight dipping the mattress. Hands prying his legs apart. He remembered screaming, and even if he didn’t, he would have remembered the dry ache in his throat rendering him unable to talk for the entire next day, leaving Grayson to a silent cellar and a nearly catatonic companion for company.

The heat itself, the slice of the blade through the delicate skin of his inner thigh, was a blare of white, hot pain that blew out any conscious thought. He passed out. Several times, he knew, because he recalled waking up over and over to the realization that it was still happening.

It could have lasted seconds or hours.

When he woke up, he was on the floor of the empty bathtub, alone. The excess blood had been washed away, a bandage fastened over the wound. Through the white of the gauze, he had already begun to bleed through; patches of red in the neat shape of two letters.

MV.

He never told anyone about the brand on his thigh, but that didn’t mean it was a secret. There were the agents and paramedics who found them, naked and terrified in the master bedroom, leaving nothing to the imagination. Then there were the people at the hospital, both doctors and police, who poked and prodded and splayed him open for photos and inspections and bandage changes and—

And of course, there was Grayson. There was very little Elijah could ever hide from him. This was only one more thing they never spoke about.

Elijah shut off his bedroom light and crawled under the blankets. When he stretched out onto his stomach, the position tugged at the scar tissue unevenly, like a thread pulled too tightly under his skin. He flipped onto his back and scrubbed both hands over his face and into his hair, pulling tightly enough on the damp curls to sting.

“Now you won’t forget, baby,” Myles crooned, running a calloused finger over his initials. “You won’t ever forget who you belong to.”

***

TAG LIST: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @distinctlywhumpthing @diyalogues @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @wicked-whump @scp-1296 @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @whumpcereal @reflected-pain @pigeonwhumps @canislycaon24 @flowersarefreetherapy @there-will-always-be-blood @whatwhumpcomments

#my poor darling elijah #I missed him so #but this hurts #peachy #what you do to me #and to these beautiful boys #😭😭😭

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whumpcereal · 1 month

Text

You know those music boxes with the ballerina figures?

That but with a tiny whumpee having to hold a ballet pose as long as the music plays

Especially if they have to stand fully en pointe :) I know from experience that even holding demi pointe for a long time is torture

#Or a full sized whumpee #named tommy

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whumpcereal · 2 months

Text

the kennel, will & his dad reunited

part of the kennel. follows will's rescue; master list here.

content warnings for: graphic descriptions of bodily injury and scarring, med whump, mild body horror, references to mouth whump, references to past noncon, hospitals, absent parents, unconscious whumpee, aftermath of captivity, adult language

after will's rescue, the fragile cry

“Mr. Cartwright?”

Brian looks up, blinking at the woman in front of him. She wears a navy pantsuit, and her dark hair is tamed into a tight, perfect bun at the nape of her neck, and maybe he would think she was attractive under any other circumstances.

But this woman is here because of Will. She’s Brian’s handler, meant to keep the news of Will’s recovery underwraps until the Bureau is ready to put out a press release. Until they know what they’re dealing with.

Brian Cartwright hasn’t seen his son in 293 days.

He isn’t supposed to keep track–the counselor he’s been working with says that it isn’t necessarily helpful to watch the time so closely–but Brian can’t help it. He keeps a running tally of the days in the corner of his desk calendar. Sometimes, updating the long line of hatch marks is the only thing he remembers to do when he goes into the office. They don’t expect much from him, of course, and they won’t fire him; no one fires the guy whose son has been kidnapped.

And Will was kidnapped. Well, worse than kidnapped, but Brian tries not to think too much about it. “Trafficked” is the word the FBI uses; Brian never would have thought the word could apply to his son. That there would be whole teams of people working undercover to recover whatever is left of his boy. But Brian’s spent the last 112 days coming to terms with it, ever since Tommy and Annie were rescued.

Brian waited with the Mahoneys that day. The team that raided Barker’s compound had been so sure that both boys would be there. After all, Will and Tommy had been–well, filmed together. Brian and Doug Mahoney had both had to positively identify their sons from one of Barker’s endless live feeds. The agents brought them in separately, at least, but what that monster made Tommy and Will do–what he made Tommy do to Will–it’s fucking burned on Brian’s retinas. He and Doug have barely been able to look at each other since.

But the boys were there. They had proof that they were with Barker. That they were alive.

Brian and the Mahoneys waited then, just like Brian is waiting now. He’d envied them then too. They had each other, someone else who understood the fear and the anguish of losing their child. Brian had tried to call Casey after Will disappeared, but she’d changed her number. He sat on the other side of the waiting room from the Mahoneys, and he’d tried to ignore the jealousy. He tried to feel relieved. But somehow, he couldn’t. He knew somehow, he guesses.

When the ambulance came to the hospital, Will wasn’t in it.

We weren’t able to recover him, sir. He wasn’t there. The girl–Barker’s daughter–she says he was sold a few weeks ago.

Sold. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out for what. Not after what Brian had seen in those videos.

Brian collapsed in the waiting room that day. Boom down, like Will used to say when he played with his G.I. Joes. Doug and Joanne were escorted back to be with their son, and Brian was put under observation for forty-eight hours. He thought he was having a heart attack. He wasn’t. His heart was just breaking. What was left of it, anyway.

He’s spent most of the last year wandering around with a hole in his chest. Truthfully, he’s spent most of the last fourteen years that way. Ever since Casey left them. He just never thought it could get any worse. He didn’t think of what might happen to Will.

But who thinks of shit like this? No one. Because things like this, they don’t happen. Except, now, Brian knows, they do.

“Mr. Cartwright?” the agent says again. Brian nods and forces himself to focus on her face. She smiles. “I’m Agent Madeline Hevener. I’ll stay with you until your son arrives.”

Brian nods. There was an agent who waited with them before too.

“What–” he clears his throat and stares down at the broad backs of his hands, “what do you know?”

Agent Hevener sits two chairs away from Brian, but she angles her knees toward him. She glances up at the waiting room television. The cable news station is still talking about a late-season hurricane in the Caribbean. Soon, they will be talking about Will.

“We know that he’s alive,” she says gently.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he’s coming home to you, Mr. Cartwright.”

“But–”

Agent Hevener crosses her ankles and sinks back into the vinyl chair. “We won’t know many specifics about his physical condition until the doctors here have a chance to examine him. He was unconscious when he was extracted, but Agent Derringer was able to speak to him briefly before transport.”

“What did he say?”

“Agent Derringer?”

“No. Will. What did he say to Agent Derringer?”

Agent Hevener’s green eyes soften a little. “I don’t know, sir. He was likely in shock, and sometimes, people aren’t very communicative when they’re in such a state.”

“Oh,” Brian says numbly. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. Like she knows something he doesn’t.

“The important thing is that he’ll be here soon.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to prepare you for that, sir.”

Brian scrubs his face with his palm. “What do you mean?” He asks, even though he’s under no illusions that anyone can prepare him for what’s happened to Will over the last ten months.

“I mean that the press attention on this particular case is going to be intense. After Barker’s compound was raided, it set off a tremendous interest in your son’s disappearance. Once the news breaks, Will is going to be the center of attention, most of it unwanted. The Bureau will manage as much of it as we can while he’s hospitalized, but it’s going to be difficult. People will assume they’re entitled to access to him.”

Brian nods. “I–I know the Mahoneys have had to deal with some of that.”

“Tommy’s case is a little different than your son’s,” Agent Hevener says, and Brian can tell she’s choosing her words with care. “Agent Derringer wanted me to communicate to you that Will–well, he likely will be very different than he was the last time you saw him.”

The hair on Brian’s arms stands up. “What does that mean?”

“Again, we don’t have all the specifics just yet. But cursory appraisal of injuries–”

“Just say what you mean.”

“Agent Derringer’s initial reports suggest Will was very likely tortured, sir. In a way that’s left him noticeably physically scarred.”

“Oh,” Brian whispers. The coffee he had an hour ago pitches in his gut. “Oh. Oh, God.”

All he can think of is Will’s face the night Casey left. His big brown eyes hovering over full baby cheeks. His little body pressed against the front room window, roly poly in his Ninja Turtle sweats. It physically hurt Brian to look at him that night, to realize how small and fragile his son was. How he would never be able to protect Will from the hurt that was barreling toward them both. But this—this—

“Mr. Cartwright–”

“No, go on. Please.”

“It may be difficult to hear.”

Brian shakes his head. “Just tell me.”

“Agent Derringer also saw some indicators that Will was exposed to repeated sexual violence.”

It isn’t a surprise. Brian knew it was likely. The agents warned him when they found out that Will had been sold that Barker’s transactions were typically for the purposes of sex trafficking. And there was the evidence from the compound, of course. But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. How could this happen to his little boy?

The explanation worries the underside of Brian’s ribs like a blade. It’s his fault. If he’d only been more present, if he’d only done better by Will–

He can still see Will, his little face pressed against that damned window.

She’s gonna come back, right, Daddy?

Brian hadn’t answered his son. He let Will stand at that stupid window for hours because he didn��t know how to answer. He poured himself a drink and let Will cry, and he never answered any of Will’s questions. Brian retreated into his own world after Casey left, and he told himself he was doing right, that he was taking care of Will in his own way, that Will would be better off for it. Will didn’t need him.

But Will had needed him, and he wasn’t there. Brian buries his face in his hands.

“It’s likely–” Agent Hevener hesitates, “In cases like Will’s, there may be some communication deficits. We know that he was quite literally silenced during his time with Barker, and he probably wasn’t allowed to voice his fears or concerns at any point during his captivity.”

Brian blanches. It’s bad enough to be reminded what that sick fuck did to his son, but it’s the agent’s choice of words. Captivity. Like Will is some kind of animal. But after his time with Barker, maybe that’s exactly how Will thinks of himself. Oh, God.

“And post-traumatic stress is almost a guarantee.”

No shit. “Yeah. I–yeah, of course.”

Agent Hevener ducks her head to meet Brian’s eyes. “What I’m saying is, Mr. Cartwright, is that, while you should absolutely be happy that Will is coming home, you need to be prepared for how difficult it may be to connect with him for a while.”

Brian wants to laugh even as tears needle the back of his eyes. Like he’s ever known how to connect with his son. But none of that is Will’s fault. None of it.

“And in the case that communication is a challenge, you may need special support when it comes to dealing with media attention. As I said, the Bureau will provide you with a consultant for the duration of Will’s hospitalization, however long that may be–”

But Brian isn’t listening.

“What did you mean?

Agent Hevener’s nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry?”

“When you said Will’s different from Tommy? Tommy, he–what that bastard did to them–it was the same, and you’re not–you aren’t giving them–”

It’s something Brian hasn’t voiced before, because who would he tell? What would he say? But it isn’t fair. It’s a ridiculous thought for a grown man to have, but that doesn’t make it any less true. He saw Doug Mahoney’s face just after they saw those videos. He sees the way that Joanne covers up her relief with pity. Because Tommy came home, and Will didn’t. Because even if Tommy was hurt too, it was Tommy who did some of the hurting. Tommy, who was worth so much more to Barker. And his Will–God, Will–

Brian gasps for breath. He braces himself against his thighs.

“Sir–”

“Will is just as strong as Tommy! He–he–”

Agent Hevener moves discreetly into the chair next to Brian’s. She puts a gentle hand on his knee. “I’m sure he is, Mr. Cartwright. He would have to be to survive the things he’s been through.”

“He’s a good boy. This isn’t his fault! I–”

“We know. There is nothing Will did to deserve any of this.”

“Then why–”

Why was it Will? That’s what Brian wants to ask, but he knows that he can’t. There is no possible answer that will ever make any of this make sense.

Agent Hevener seems to understand. “I don’t know, Mr. Cartwright. I’ve been doing this a very long time, and I still don’t know. But if I may–”

Brian nods, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“He survived, sir. He’s coming home. And that’s worth celebrating, even if we don’t know exactly what it will bring.”

They sit in silence for a while. Brian knows she’s right, that it’s a good thing that Will’s on his way home. But somehow, the warnings, the preparation, the fucking anticipation of waiting to see his child after nearly a year–it doesn’t feel quite the way he thought it might. What was it that song said? The waiting is the hardest part? That’s bullshit. Somehow, Brian knows it’s going to be the end of the waiting— the seeing, the knowing— that will kill him.

Agent Hevener’s phone buzzes. “They’ll be here directly. The reception staff in emergency is prepped; they’re the only ones who know he’s coming.The ambulance won’t have any lights or sirens. No one will know he’s arrived until we break the story.”

“When can I see him?” Brian asks without hesitation.

“I can’t answer that. But we’ll keep you here. This waiting room is a little further removed, and we can control who comes in and how you get out. Agent Derringer says there’s a good chance that Will may need to be prepped for emergency surgery–”

“For what?” Brian interrupts.

He can hear the desperation in his question, but he doesn’t care. The answer doesn’t even really matter–it won’t change anything–but he’s suddenly greedy for knowledge of his son, how he’s feeling, what’s wrong, what will come next. He imagines Will in the back of the ambulance. Just now, in Brian’s head, Will is still a little boy. The broken young man in those videos—he isn’t real. Brian doesn’t know how to help the person in the videos; but he can help his little boy. He failed at that once, but he won’t now. He won’t.

Agent Hevener’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. “I don’t know, sir. But–”

“--please! I just–I won’t get in their way. I just want to see my son.”

He does, but he doesn’t. Once he sees, Will can’t ever be his little boy again. But goddamnit, Brian has to see him anyway. Has to touch his face or hold his hand or whatever it is people do. Brian has to let Will know that he will be there, even if he’s never fucking been there before.

Agent Hevener looks down at her phone again and then at Brian. She doesn’t say anything.

“Please, ma’am.”

“Mr. Cartwright, I don’t think you understand–”

Brian shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand.” His voice is quiet; this isn’t a soap opera, and on some level, he knows this woman is just doing her job. But he won’t back down. Not this time. “He is my son. I haven’t seen him in a year–and what I have seen has–God, I can’t–someone hurt my boy. They hurt him so badly. I don’t care if you think I’m not ready–it doesn’t matter if I’m ready. I have to be. I have to be there for him, even if–even if he doesn’t know it for a while, Fuck, I–”

Agent Hevener holds up her hand as if to stop him, and for just a second, Brian’s ready to rip her hand right off. But she looks up from her phone, and her mouth presses into a thin line, and Brian knows.

“He’s here?”

Agent Hevener nods. “If you come with me—”

“Whatever you say. I’ll do whatever you say,” Brian says instantly.

“He’ll be in the emergency treatment area until a doctor is able to fully examine him. You can be in the treatment room, but you cannot get in the way. If they need to move him–”

“I understand. I understand.”

“Good.” Agent Hevener stands and smooths her pantsuit. She looks back at Brian and he thinks he can see sympathy in her eyes. “Remember what I told you: it won’t be what you expect, Mr. Cartwright.”

Not might. Won’t.

“I understand,” Brian says again.

“Then, let’s go.”

Brian follows the agent like a puppy, keeping his eyes on the lacquered hunk of her bun, which doesn’t move at all as they weave through the hospital hallways. It’s somehow too quiet back here, but Brian understands. The agents have taken control; every few corridors, there is a faceless person in a suit standing by. They are doing their best to protect Will. It’s more than Brian’s ever done.

“Here, Mr. Cartwright,” Agent Hevener says finally.

They’re in a nondescript hallway, all washed out neutrals and pastel hospital curtains. Agent Hevener quickly ushers Brian behind one of them.

Will isn’t here yet. Brian stares at the empty hospital bed, willing himself not to picture Will inside of it. The monitors are dark, cords dangling listlessly, and the whole room has an antiseptic smell that Brian understands but wishes were different. This is not a homecoming. This is not what Will deserves. But then, Will has never gotten anything he deserves; Brian and the entire fucking universe have pretty much made sure of that.

Brian looks around, unsure of what to do or where to stand or precisely how to handle this particular moment in any way, shape, or form. Agent Hevener glances down at her phone again. Brian presses himself against the tall storage cabinets in the corner of the room. He has to stay out of the way. He will stay out of the way. As long as he can see Will.

Then, the silence is broken.

A gurney pushes inside the curtain, flanked by four different uniformed paramedics. One of them rattles off information to a nurse in pink scrubs, and even though Brian can’t understand a word he’s saying, the nurse seems to know; she takes feverish notes on a metal clipboard, and the gurney is shoved backward to the side of the bed opposite Brian’s corner.

And there’s Will.

Suddenly, Brian is in a different hospital room. Casey’s hand is wrapped around his, squeezing his bones with some kind of wild mutant strength he didn’t know she possessed. She isn’t screaming like in the movies. No, the noises coming from between her grit teeth are far more primal.

Brian can’t blame her. He tried to stand next to the doctor to watch the baby come, but one look told him that he wasn’t prepared for that nature documentary in the making; the nurse must have agreed, because she told him in no uncertain terms that no one would be helping Brian if he fainted.

Casey’s grip somehow manages to tighten. An animal grunt. Brian lets go of her hand, and someone guides him through snipping the gummy cord that stretches from Casey’s body. At the end of the cord is his baby. Slimy and gray and impossibly small. Whisps of dark hair on a blood-tacky scalp. Scrunched eyes like white beans. Tiny fingers and toes. Tiny. Just so tiny.

It’s a boy! Congratulations, Dad!

But even with all the commotion, it is too quiet. The baby is too still.

Why isn’t he crying? Casey asks, even as one of the nurses continues to maneuver between her raised legs. She is angry; Brian never quite knows what to do when she’s angry.

A nurse has the baby–their son–and she pivots away from Casey’s bed. Brian can’t see what she’s doing. He feels like he’s frozen in amber.

He’s supposed to cry, Casey says, her voice tight and breathless. Why isn’t he crying? What’s wrong with him?

Nothing, Brian thinks. There’s a spark of annoyance that Casey is already looking for the cracks in the facade, and their son isn’t even a minute old. The baby is beautiful, even if he isn’t really beautiful at all. He is theirs. Brian knows that he’s being unreasonable, that Casey is just concerned, but still–

Brian!

Terror washes over Brian. His scalp prickles with sweat, and he can’t look at his wife. He can’t watch the nurse with the baby. He can’t move.

There’s a crib at home. A changing table with a weird embroidered pad. Blue walls. A mobile with cartoon animals. A chestful of tiny clothes. They’re prepared. But Brian never thought to prepare for this.

The silence crawls on for what feels like years, and then, a fragile cry, so small and strange that it brings tears to Brian’s eyes, cuts through the air.

Casey is gone, and the boy on the gurney is so much bigger than the baby Brian held in his arms, but that sound is embedded in Brian’s sense memory. He’s heard it in his dreams since Will disappeared, and even though it goes through him like a knife, he leans into the pain. It means Will is okay.That things progress as they should. And Brian wants nothing more than for that to be true.

The nurse and paramedics are still going back and forth, but Brian can’t really hear them. He can only look at his son. He takes an unconscious step forward, and nobody stops him.

Will may be grown, but somehow, he has never looked quite so small. Brian can hear Casey’s voice. What’s wrong with him?

Everything. Brian shakes his head, and his hand moves to his mouth as if pulled by puppet strings. Everything is wrong.

The smell is overpowering. Urine and shit and sweat and blood and who knows what else; the filth on Will’s sallow face is caked on, an unsettling streaky brown. Dried blood clings to the corner of his lips and the underside of his nose. His dark hair hangs around his shoulders in thin, greasy clumps, and his cheeks are dusted with patchy suggestions of beard; there are smatterings of white hair in both. When hands shunt Will’s slack body from the gurney to the bed, his mouth doesn’t move. Brian’s gut lurches when he realizes that Will’s jaw is still wired shut.

But even with the commotion around him, Will doesn’t stir. His gaunt body seems to sink into the white sheets on the bed. Even under the space blanket they’ve wrapped him in, Brian can see how Will’s bones swell where there used to be flesh, how skeletal his arms are, the way his head lolls on a neck that is too long and thin for the body Brian could have sworn he knew. Will’s neck is collared, of course. Brian saw that in the videos, but this close, he can smell the reek of infection beneath the electrical box. Brian thought he was ready. He thought he knew.

He didn’t know anything.

The space blanket is peeled away, and Will’s body–what’s left of it–is exposed beneath the harsh exam room lights. Brian only just catches himself against the wall.

“Mr. Cartwright–”

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just don’t.”

And then he looks away, because he thinks he might collapse if he doesn’t.

It isn’t that he can count Will’s ribs like ladder rungs or the way that his hip bones jut into space. It isn’t the chunky leather mitts where Will’s hands should be. It isn’t even the smears of blood between Will’s bony thighs; Brian can’t even begin to process that little tidbit.

No, it’s that every inch of Will’s skin is marked. Veins of raised silver curve and snake from Will’s collarbones to the tops of his feet; there is more scar tissue than there is filthy skin, or at least it looks that way to Brian. Whorls and curlicues and precise lines that were all laid down on his son’s withering flesh with careful intention.

Brian doesn’t have to stare to know that this DeAngelis monster spent his months with Will treating him like carving wood. The fucker bought Brian’s child just to ruin him. The patterns are deliberate, cruel–and they are permanent. Brian closes his eyes, and he can see Will’s little pink body wrapped in the striped hospital blanket; he can see the soft white neck peeking out from those rumpled Ninja Turtle sweats; he can see the boy who was almost a man, desperately uncomfortable in his own skin.

You don’t get it, Dad. I’m just–I’m not what she wants.

Brian got it. He understood better than Will knew what it was to feel lost, to measure yourself and constantly be found wanting. But this, Brian will never get. He will never understand this kind of cruelty, and he will never understand what Will is feeling, not ever again. How could he possibly?

But even so, even though his mind and body are buried beneath layers of incomprehensible pain, Will is still the most beautiful thing that Brian’s ever seen. Because he is here. Because he is real. Because he is all that matters. He is all that’s ever mattered.

Agent Hevener’s hand is firm on Brian’s shoulder. “Mr. Cartwright?”

“Can I–” Brian watches as the nurse begins to hook Will up to the various monitors, manipulating his thin arms as easily as a doll’s. Brian’s throat aches, but he doesn’t bother to try to stop his tears from falling. “Can I touch him?”

“I’m not sure that–”

“Please. The doctor–there isn’t a doctor yet. Just until they come. I won’t–I’ll be careful. Please.”

Agent Hevener sighs, but her grip relaxes, just a little; it’s answer enough for Brian.

Somewhere in the space of the last few minutes, someone has cut the mitts from Will’s hands. His fingers are gnarled bones, barely fingers at all, and the backs of his hands are scarred, just like the rest of him. When the nurse moves out of the way, Brian eases into the space next to the bed. He reaches over the plastic strut of the bedside, and he touches trembling fingers to Will’s wrist. He can feel a rigid line of scar tissue beneath his fingertips, and he lets out a kind of wet gasp.

Will is too quiet, too still. But he is real. He is here. Maybe this isn’t the reunion Brian pictured, if he ever let himself picture this moment at all, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

“Mr. Cartwright–”

“No,” Brian snarls. They will not take his boy again. “No,” he says, softly this time. He wraps his hand around Will’s curled fingers and exhales, breath shaking. “Bud?” Brian leans close and presses his lips to his son’s soiled forehead. “Bud, I’m so glad you’re home.”

It’s stupid. Will doesn’t hear, and even if he did, he couldn’t answer. His ruined fingers don’t move; his breath barely lifts the battered plane of his chest. But Brian doesn’t care. He will wait until he hears the fragile cry that will let him know his boy is still in there; that someday, somehow, Will will be okay.

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whumpcereal · 2 months

Note

A prompt: Ivan has Leo strung up and is doing something unpleasant to him

tw: forced to fight, electrocution, restraints, nonsexual nudity, noncon touch

notes: somewhere early in ivan days

Strung Up

“It’s different from the collar,” Ivan says, somewhere just outside of Leo’s line of sight. He tries to crane his neck, to twist his body, to get eyes on what's to come. He can't pinpoint what exactly it will be, but he knows it won't be good. He's been in this room for what could be hours, what feels like hours, his wrists bound tightly above his head, his body hanging.

From above the door, the red light promises as much.

He isn't made to wait long. Without warning, Ivan materializes in front of him, his fingers digging into Leo's chin to lift his head.

“You know it fucking frustrates me that you make me take these measures, Leo,” he says, peering up at him through narrowed eyes.

Leo can feel himself shaking, with every movement sending shooting pain through his shoulders. He doesn’t look away, though.

He can’t, however, form the words he knows he needs to form. The, 'I’m sorry, sir,' that he knows Ivan craves. His throat is raw, and even if he wanted to say it, he doesn't think any sound would come. He can't apologize, and he can't promise it won't happen again, because he's not sorry, and it will, he thinks. It will happen again, and again, and again. Because something in him is broken, and he's almost positive he won't make his way out of this contract, and at night, when that becomes its most obvious, his resolve gets stronger and stronger.

He's drawn back to the moment by an unexpected blow and his vision swims, and almost mercifully his head drops, and the world goes dark.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Come back to me,” Ivan is saying, almost lovingly. And then, as Leo forces his eyes open, Ivan says, “There you are.”

Leo's stomach turns over, and the inescapable pain momentarily overcomes him. Through dried, cracked lips, Leo whispers a nearly-silent, “Please,” and Ivan steps back.

It’s in that moment that Leo sees the long, almost definitely electrified baton, come toward his stomach, and a moment later, the world is engulfed in a fiery pain that consumes every part of him.

He can’t quite tell when Ivan stops, but he knows that it happens, because eventually he becomes aware of parts of himself. The screams that pull from deep within his chest, sending fresh flames through his already raw throat. Each thrash against the restraints that lights his shoulders ablaze. The sweat that drips from his hair, down his face and neck, onto somewhere below him.

“Easy, easy,” Ivan is saying, his voice close. “Take a breath, Leo,” he whispers. Leo sucks in as much air as he can, and Ivan laughs softly, his lips touching Leo’s forehead. “My boy,” he says, pulling back enough to see his whole face. "You are doing fine."

He’s distantly aware that it’s no longer just Ivan and him in the room, but further back, a man stands next to Ivan’s doctor.

Ivan is speaking to the man, who walks over to Leo with a hunger in his eyes.

He’s young, maybe no older than Leo himself. He rolls the sleeves up on his crisp white shirt and puts his hand out. Leo flinches as the man makes contact, first cupping the back of his neck, then running the same hand down his chest.

He holds Leo’s gaze for a moment then smiles, taking a step back.

“You think more?” Ivan asks, and the man nods.

Ivan looks at Leo then, and says, “You lost him a shit ton of money tonight.” Ivan sucks in a sharp breath, and continues, “Granted, it was fucking stupid to bet on you, wasn’t it? You are not ready for all that. Yet.”

Leo swallows, steeling himself against the pain that he knows is coming.

“I have been brainstorming with some of my guests, what to do with you.” He clicks his tongue. “A consolation prize would be interesting, I think. We have to keep the clientele happy, don’t we?” This part, he says softly; a secret between the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally chokes out, his voice teetering on the edge of desperation.

“You say that a lot,” Ivan whispers back, with bite behind the words. He retreats and hands the tool to the other man, winking at Leo as he does. “Enjoy your time with him,” Ivan says, louder now, more a message to Leo than to anyone else. “I don’t prefer to share my boys in this way, but sometimes, it is justified.” Ivan gives Leo a once-over and Leo wonders, briefly, what he sees. How bruised he’s become, just in the two weeks he’s spent here. How thin he is, how desperate for any kind of reprieve. If he can see how he shakes, if he knows how bad it hurts. He blinks slowly, on the edge of losing consciousness and simply drifting away. He knows Ivan won’t allow it. If he knows nothing else, of that much he’s sure. Breaths come harder and slower, and he hears, distantly, “If you feel that he is dying, send Mikhail a text message. He is prepared to deal with it.”

Through heavy, salt-burned eyes, Leo watches Ivan retreat, and the doctor follows. Without warning, the man turns to him, and as instantly as a thought of mercy crosses his mind, it vanishes, and the world is once more engulfed in flames.

✥ ✥ ✥

When Leo awakens, he’s being carried through the maze-like halls of the basement. He tries to lift his head, to give some indication that he’s conscious, but no part of his body will cooperate. He doesn’t have the strength to hope that the man carrying him is not the same man who did this to him; he doesn’t have the strength to hope for anything.

“It’s alright,” he hears, but the sounds are warbled, the voice unfamiliar. “Almost there.”

He’s carried into one of the bathrooms and placed carefully into the shower stall. Through blurred vision, he can see that the light is yellow, and he lets himself drift away.

He's distantly aware of time passing, of being moved, of being spoken not to, but about. When he opens his eyes again, it's another worker, familiar only to him in passing, who leans over him, washing away the evidence of what was done. Leo begins the agonizing process of trying to speak, but before he can, the man says, “Don’t.” He moves the rag down Leo’s side, his touch light but not light enough to avoid reigniting the dulling pain. Leo flinches.

“Sorry,” the man says, his voice devoid of any real emotion. “Petrov won’t tolerate camaraderie.” The worker repositions Leo, rinsing away more blood and exposing more of the damage to his body. “I’d be lying if I said I knew what exactly he wanted me to do to you here.” Leo isn’t sure if the man is talking to him or not, so he stays silent. “Mikhail, the doctor, will see you once you’re cleaned up,” he continues. “You’re Leo, right?”

Leo urges himself to focus on the man, nodding.

“I’m Dante,” he says. There's silence as the worker, Dante, continues dutifully washing Leo's wrecked body. Several minutes pass in this way, before Dante says, “I’ve been here for almost two years." Dante keeps his eyes off of Leo's face, but keeps speaking. "I saw your fight tonight, if that’s what you want to call it.” He pushes Leo forward, letting the water flow down his back. Leo cries out softly, the pain in his ribs electric, and squeezes his hands into fists.

There's another silence as Leo catches his breath, longer this time.

“My best guess is Petrov wants me to talk sense into you,” Dante eventually continues, running the rag down Leo’s spine. Leo hisses in a breath, automatically pulling away. Dante pauses in his movements, briefly this time, before taking some unspoken signal that Leo is ready to continue. He moves to sit back on his heels, taking Leo’s hands in his. He turns them over, running soap over each finger, under each nail, and rinsing away all remaining evidence.

“You can’t survive this way,” he finally says, his tone colder now. “Being under a contract like this… it could kill you. He’s killed more than a few workers since I’ve been here, but he always finds a way to get new contracts. You don’t have to fight every night, but when you do… you have to at least try... or, if not try, pretend. Even if you have no intention of winning. Even if you have full intention of sticking it to him. If you want to survive, you have to figure out what you're okay with.”

Leo nods. Dante drops his hands, standing abruptly.

“He’ll make you fight again tomorrow,” Dante says. “The doctor will tell him not to, but he won’t care. He’ll do it over and over until he thinks you’ve figured things out.”

“What if I don’t–” Leo chokes out, swallowing back a new wave of agony. “If I don’t figure things out?” He closes his eyes in a desperate bid to compartmentalize the pain.

“If you don’t tomorrow, you will the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that, maybe. There’s no long term opt-out. There’s only participate, or go through this, night after night, until you do.”

Dante opens the door, then turns to look back at Leo. “We’re not friends now, we’re not coworkers, and we’re not allies. I am doing what I can to survive, and if you get in the way of that, if it comes down to my safety versus yours, I’ll choose mine.” His face, and his voice, soften almost imperceptibly, as he says, “Just pretend. That's all he wants right now."

He leaves then, letting the door close behind him.

#sure you're not friends dante #let's just pretend #poor leo #but i'm glad he has subterranean allies #of a sort #who are definitely not friends #because i believe him

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