Caretaker at the whumpee's bedside, reassuring them that they're still here every time they stir but Whumpee's only half-conscious and thinks it's Whumper saying it
An unconscious character stirring a bit in another character's arms and being semiconscious and murmuring disjointedly for a bit before slipping away again because they're so desperately in need of rest. The one holding them realizing this and being relieved that they'll pull through.
Characters who are touch-starved and in need of comforting hugs.
Whumpees appreciating being cuddled or patted on the head.
Using magic or sedatives to put a suffering whumpee out, especially if the whumpee begs to be knocked out.
Wet clothes clinging to shivering, vulnerable bodies.
Semiconsciousness, disorientation, electrocution, shock collar, nonsexual nonconsensual touch, anticipated violence, fear of noncon, implied past noncon, implied past captivity and torture
AU Masterpost / Previous / Next
Wolf tried to get up, to scrambled back, away from the hands and the voices - at least, he thought he was trying. Every nerve burned bright, and his thoughts fizzled between the sparks behind his eyelids.
Time had become blurry after they got on the highway, his focus on getting to the safehouse muddled by pain and desperate hope that every shock would be the last. It never was.
“Roll him over.”
Wolf nearly gagged on his own acrid breath, catching himself before a plea could climb up his throat. No - not now, not so soon after his handler had hurt him. Not like this, he wasn’t ready -
(He should have expected the volunteers would want revenge.)
The sand under his face was warm, a dusty, earthy scent replacing the sour burn of bile in every ragged breath. Hot tears leaked from his eyes, screwed shut as he forced his entire being to still, trying to relax. It always hurt worse when he was tense.
(He hadn’t even gotten a chance to really look at the sky one last time.)
Another shock made every fear and grievance inconceivable outside of the singular, all-consuming pain. But the second that shock ended, his limbs still twitching helplessly, there was a weight on his back and panic bright in his chest.
Wolf tried to push himself up, to brace himself for what was coming, but a calloused pair of hands took his arms out from under him, fingers trapped in their grip. His handler hated sharing - god, had the guards he knocked out gotten free? Were they the ones working their fingers around his collar, agitating the burned and bloody skin - ?
And suddenly the weight on his back was gone, the hands gripping his own absent; had he dreamed them?
But the brief reverie was broken by another shock, and this time Wolf didn’t hold back a keening sob while the pain shot down his throat into his chest and limbs. He was too disoriented to make a sound as the weight and hands returned, holding him down down down touching and grasping and pinning him -
The collar clicked, unlocked.
(Only Smith had the key - he took it with him - had he not left? Had he caught the Wolf red handed and now he was going back back back - )
“There you go - there, it’s…it’s off. You’re alright.”
He didn’t know that voice, husky and unsure. He didn’t know the soft hands gingerly taking the collar from his throat. He didn’t know how to stop shaking.
“Easy, easy…Christ, good work on the lock Harrison. Not sure he could take much more of that.” The weight on his back was gone and the hands holding his own moved, rolling him to his back. (Safe. At least, safer than lying prone.)
Wolf breathed - the night air was cold and clean and fresh, the broken skin around his throat stinging as icy air kissed it. He was alive. He blinked his eyes open, vision too blurry to make out the faces above him, but memory was trickling back into his brain.
The volunteers. The escape. The collar.
Wolf heaved a sigh, but was distracted by the clouds rolling across the night sky, a sudden silver light washing across the desert. The moon was full, a pearl hung above the distant mountains and framed in glittering stars. His breathing evened, exhaustion heavy in his bones.
At least he got to see the sky again, one last time.
Before a pair of dark, fiery eyes glowered down at him.
“You’re fucking welcome.” He blinked owlishly up at H (Harrison?), muscles still seizing intermittently and vision foggy. Harrison didn’t seem to appreciate his lack of response, a hand balled in the front of his jacket. (He didn’t have the strength to pull Wolf off the ground.) “Now, what the fuck is going on?”
He was tired. That’s what was going on. He was tired and didn’t have the energy to be scared or care about the consequences of being tired right now. Wolf knew that should have scared him, should have lit that spark of frantic self preservation that had kept him alive all this time. But it didn’t.
He got out. That was enough. If the volunteers wanted him dead, he didn’t have the will to fight how heavy his eyelids were, the bone deep exhaustion and ache that had been his constant companion over these fear filled years. He could let it go, he could give into that dark, heavy embrace of surrender.
“Harrison, I don’t think he’s - ”
“We need answers Merrick - where the hell was he taking us? How the hell did he get us out of there? Why?” The hand tugged at his jacket in emphasis, but Wolf’s eyes were already sliding closed, the silvery stars traced behind his eyelids. He hadn’t seen the stars in so long. He so badly wanted to see the sun, but he wasn’t sure they would let him live to see his first sunrise in…too long. For now, he stole a moment of reprieve, just a breath, and then he would…
Run? However long he could, however far he could. To a safety that was never guaranteed or maybe never existed to begin with.
He could submit. Accept his fate at the mercy of these men he had tortured. (At the hands of these men he had saved.)
He should return. There was nothing left for him out here. He just ran to prove he still could. It was safer to go back back back -
Wolf wasn’t sure what he would do, and a dreamless sleep consumed him too quickly for him to further consider his scant options.
