cw: forced nudity, noncon drugging, anticipation of noncon, implied past noncon, death threats
Secrecy Masterlist
~ ~ ~
Vic returns to awareness sitting up.
He keeps his eyes closed, breaths slow and measured as if he still hasn’t resurfaced, something he always plays at when he knows things have gone wrong, when he knows he’s been taken prisoner or otherwise incapacitated. Gives him time to think. To listen. The habit is one of the few things he’d consider thanking Nichols for.
His first observation is the restraints. There’s always a complete lack of surprise at being restrained. Anyone who takes his physical state for granted and leaves him unbound dies a very quick death for their stupidity. The positioning is a little odd though. A little unique, like whoever put him here thinks they’re special or clever or some bullshit.
His arms are pulled upwards and away, about as stretched as they can be, shaping his upper body into a stiff “Y”. Manacles dig into his wrists, and when he twitches a finger, he can feel it, which tells him he hasn’t been in this position for too long. His back is nearly flat against a stone wall, rough unfinished concrete, and his legs are spread in front of him, held apart by cuffs of their own.
The pose feels too deliberate, too obvious, like his captor wants to unsettle him. He’s naked, of course, the nice linen shirt and tailored slacks he’d changed into after the mission no doubt cut off him and thrown away. It’s expected, it’s something he’s lived through dozens of times, but recurrence doesn’t make his chest any less tight.
It’ll be the same as always. Wait. Endure. Take his vengeance in blood before getting the hell out of dodge. With the way his arms are chained, he’ll have to fuck up his left hand to make any headway. Just a dislocation if he’s lucky. Some skin with it if not. He isn’t gagged or blindfolded. Not that either of those matter in the scheme of escape, but he can’t deny the relief of the absence. There aren’t any consequential injuries on him either, besides the handful of bruises he got on his most recent mission. The picture is almost complete. Now for the final piece: how did he get here?
The restaurant is the last thing he can clearly recall. Nice place, a treat to himself after finishing his last job quicker than anticipated. He’d dressed up, gone in, took still water instead of wine. No one approached him. No one so much as brushed against him on the way in. So what went wrong? He’d clearly been drugged somewhere between the hotel and the check, he can still feel the waves of it in his head, the odd dryness on his tongue. He just can’t pinpoint how, unless…
The waiter.
“I know you’re awake.”
Through stubbornness and a great deal of practice, Vic doesn't react to the voice that seems to be just a few feet away, even though he didn't hear anyone approach. Has its owner been sitting here the whole time? Just watching him in complete silence?
“Come on Vic, don't play hard to get. Open your eyes. Say hi, if you feel so inclined.”
He doesn't want to, not when it's an enemy demand, but that's part of the game, isn't it? Give in to the little things. Swallow your pride for just a brief moment.
He needs to determine the layout of the room he's in, anyway.
“There he is,” the enemy says when Vic raises his head slightly, eyes blinking open. They appear to be a younger man, at least a few years younger than Vic, wearing a plain t-shirt and a ski mask. Alone. No weapons Vic can see.
His ankles are cuffed to a metal bar that's been anchored to the ground. Same treatment with his wrist manacles and the wall. Odd, maybe a hasty setup. Blank concrete beneath him, small room, single door. No windows, bright lights, metal cabinet.
Camera.
His jaw clenches when his eyes land on it. Right behind his captor, pointed Vic's way, red recording light steadily blinking. He finds a second one in the corner, smaller, filming him from the side, and a third directly above him when he glances up.
Fuck. Cameras are never a good sign. Cameras come with a purpose, a motive that goes deeper than finding out what Vic came for, who hired him, what he knows. Is it a live feed? Someone watching from behind the lens, patron of the young man in front of him?
His last mission went smooth. He was in and out, no one saw him, nothing went wrong, so this has to be something else, some older grudge or grievance. That's not a good sign either.
“I know, I know. You're not the chatty type. That's okay. Honestly, if you were, I probably would've gagged you, but given your track record, I can trust you to hold your tongue unless it's important.”
Track record. He's pretending he knows Vic, and even Vic can't deny that he seems to know more than most. Not that it matters. Of course he won't let someone stupid enough to catch him in a trap and brag about "understanding him" live. The cuffs will be tricky, and he appreciates that his captor tried to take his capabilities seriously, but as soon as he leaves him alone for a moment he'll be out of the restraints. Kill the enemy, break the cameras, maybe take their memory cards to see if he can learn more about whoever's behind this and kill them too. Easy. He's done it a hundred times before.
The young man stands and struts over to the cabinet. Vic can read confidence in the way he moves, see the muscles in his forearms and under his shirt. He's either a professional or he's way too cocky, but when Vic shifts his foot, scraping a cuff against the floor, his captor doesn't flinch at the sound. Doesn't even look back.
Someone who's at least pretending he's done this before. Whether it's an act or not though, Vic knows better than to underestimate an opponent.
The enemy opens the cabinet, and Vic grits his teeth when he draws out a capped syringe.
A further complication, but it's not as if he's never been drugged. His captor waited for him to wake up, so he doubts whatever's in the vial will render him unconscious, but it'll probably fuck with his head. Something that makes him more woozy and disoriented is his best guess, but he's encountered other experimental shit in the past. Hallucinogenics, wannabe “truth serums”, substances that only serve to make everything hurt worse, doesn't matter. Vic can work around anything, endure anything, and this man not accounting for that will be his downfall.
He doesn't move when the enemy kneels beside him, injecting the stuff into his neck. Vic knows there's no stopping it, and he's not about to put on a show for the cameras by trying to make things difficult.
“There we go. That'll take a few minutes to kick in, but I'm in no hurry.” He returns to his spot in front of Vic, sitting cross-legged with his chin balanced on his knuckles. Vic sneaks a glance behind him, but the cabinet has been closed. No previews of what's to come, unfortunately. Not that it matters.
“Vic Shepard. We meet at last. How was your dinner?”
Vic doesn't answer, of course, doesn't even grace his captor with a reaction, despite how much he hates to hear his name coming out of an enemy's mouth. It's rare, but it's happened before. He thrives on secrecy, on being a living shadow, more myth than man, but he's not so deluded to think it's impossible some snooping asshole could figure out who he is.
“Right, you won't answer that. Sorry, it's just hard to find the words to say. I wasn't sure I'd be able to catch the Black Kite—or, well, at least the only Black Kite that's still alive.”
Another name Vic wants to bristle at, but he keeps it contained, certain the man is trying to get a reaction out of him. Some know Vic, some know Black Kite, but only a handful of people have ever connected them, and fewer still know enough to drag Nichols into the moniker. Who does this enemy work for? What does he know? If there's someone out there tracking his movements with such scrutiny they know about Nichols, he has no choice but to find them and take them out. He can't move with eyes on him like that.
And he can't just let that information be recorded either, not without consequences.
“I thought about killing you, you know. There's a part of me that keeps insisting it would’ve been easy. Just open your throat while you're unconscious, right? You didn't fight me when I stripped you, or when I chained you up like that. You couldn't. You were out cold. Fuck, maybe I could've killed you. Maybe I still can.” He laughs.
“I'm not really sure what happens when you pin a Kite down like this and snap its neck. Will the ceiling fall on me in an act of God or fate or sudden bad luck?”
What the fuck’s he rambling about? He probably could've killed Vic, but he didn't. It's the mistake they always make, leaving him alive and whole enough to seek his retribution and keep moving. The day someone gets wise enough to take him out quickly is the day Vic dies. It's that simple.
“I think I know how it works,” his captor carries on. “The only one in the last thirty years who's been able to kill a fledged Black Kite has been another Black Kite. I'm not sure I'm willing to risk what happens when you challenge the mark.” He leans in then, tapping the tattoo on Vic's chest, and this time he nearly flinches away, mentally cursing himself for the urge to do so.
Don't be a coward. What his captor is saying is senseless, even if he's gotten a few odd details right, even if he knows, somehow, that Vic is the one who took out Nichols.
What else does he know then?
Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. All the fun little facts and batshit theories will die with him before long. Besides, Vic has more pressing issues than the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist. There's an odd, tingling warmth that's beginning to spread through his body. It turns the edges of his thoughts hazy. Not enough to render them incoherent, no, the effect is far more physical than mental. Almost pleasant at first, then rising to an insistent warmth in his core, in his groin. Uncomfortable. He doesn't look down, doesn't break the cool stare he has leveled at the enemy, but he can feel his cock twitch, the heat pulsing through it, building.
His captor notices too, a small, anticipating smile on his lips as his eyes drop between Vic's legs.
“Well well," he says. "Looks like it's kicking in.”
18 for the wij prompts? (preferably unintentional..)
18 from wij is smoke. ngl, I was like...smoke? You want me to set their house on fire? Smok...ing? Not something I can picture Leo or Aiden doing but have written for Harrison (end of this & implied here).
Anyway, I'm lying in bed thinking smoke, smoke, smoke. Nothing. I start daydreaming about what I would really like to write and what I'd really like to write is Harrison & Aiden meeting up post-Leo, with Leo there(!) even, but there's this one really crucial discovery Aiden needs to make first... and, boom, up in smoke. *Might be helpful to read this for more snippets of Aiden's fragmented recalling of his first/only contract!
(If you had a more literal smoke scenario in mind, please feel free to send it in! Also, I'm posting this whenever like wij is a fluid prompt list instead of a calendar 💫)
cw: victim self-blaming, internalized ableism, past noncon, past self-harm & past suicide attempt mentioned frankly.
Previous — Masterlist — Next
It’s just a normal trip to the store.
He and Leo split up to get through the list faster. He’s just grabbed the cereal when he sees them.
It always seemed too theatrical, melodramatic even, when people in movies and tv shows dropped everything in a moment of shock.
But it’s almost reflexive. To empty your hands when everything you’ve built your life around goes up in smoke. So your fingers are free to cling to the fragments. To pluck the burning, rising remnants of all meaning out of thin air.
The cereal box slaps against the grey industrial linoleum, followed closely by the saltines and the mayonnaise. Thank god it’s the plastic squeeze bottle because there weren’t any of the glass jars they usually buy. If it weren’t for the explosions of sound in the vacuum inside his head, he’d never be able to tear himself away from that face, that expression, those eyes.
An impossible ghost in the flesh. Not a ghost at all.
And to think he felt a flash of uncertainty at the substitution of a fucking condiment minutes ago. Enough to make him hesitate for a half-second before pulling it off the shelf. It’s the same brand and we need it for dinner, he defended to himself. (And last he checked the container the mayo comes in was not on Leo’s List. The secret one Aiden keeps diligent catalog of in his head.)
He stumbles back, away from the groceries he’s meant to bring back to Leo and the cart. Away from the curious, judgmental, bored, prying looks of the other shoppers. He’s not fast enough and his ruination incarnate starts to turn. Either from the noise or the sense of being near a spectacle and wanting, needing to make sure you’re not it.
Aiden spins and smacks right into a scowling, broad woman but doesn’t stop long enough to make sense of her clucking accusation as he mechanically and clumsily rushes from the store. His skin prickles under the weight of a too-familiar glare on his back but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet it, confirm he hasn’t immediately been passed over as a random weirdo. He weaves around someone’s cart at the last second, almost takes down a whole stack of Nilla Wafers and knocks shoulders with someone else in his careening retreat until finally he’s stumbling over the rubber spaghetti carpet of the entrance.
Blessed fresh air and sunlight blinding him and all he can feel is his heart beating so hard he thinks it will crack him open and there will be nothing at all inside because he doesn’t know what’s left. Maybe one of the bored stock workers will lend him some notes for taking inventory.
He ducks down the space between the grocery store and the Barnes & Noble. It’s not the skinny alley he wishes it were but he can tuck behind the fenced off dumpster, beside a stack of empty wooden pallets, and pretend it’s the best hiding spot in the world.
His breath rattles through his throat, lungs like wet plastic bags caught on branches in the wind. For a second, he thinks he might pass out. His thoughts have slowed to a crawl. Glacial in grasping onto the next rung of reality, they just hang there suspended. Flight, freeze, at least he got out of there before fawn tripped along.
Laughter climbs out of his mouth, jolting him back to the brick of the building behind his back, the asphalt where he sits. He has to clap both hands over his wild, hysterical grin before it slices his head in half like a watermelon. What is he even made of? Instead of nothing at all, maybe it’s just liquified now, syrupy juice will run down his ears, over his nose and lips. The overturned top of his head a tiki bowl on the pavement. Just waiting for someone like Harrison to slip a straw in, stir it around and take a taste.
You’re being dramatic, the Harrison in his head says flatly. As close as if he were resting his temple on Aiden’s shoulder. Watching the whole scene unfold like a movie he would never choose but will obstinately sit through to the bitter end, if only for the opportunity to heckle as proof of his superiority. You can pick next time, Aiden easily cedes. Somatic comfort in giving him exactly what he wants, folding to the familiar dynamic, because that well-worn crease is rest compared to resisting. What’s the point?
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He’s been out here long enough Leo decided he’s taking too long. He’ll make a lap or two around the whole store. Then he’d pretend finding Aiden early was serendipitous. All the while swallowing a sigh of relief, playing at nonchalance when just a second ago he was pulling out his phone in a panic.
But Aiden’s nowhere to be found so Leo does call. His phone pulses with the fear Leo must be feeling but Aiden can’t bring himself to share in it, can’t seem to move. He just waits for the second call to come a heartbeat later, buried in his hoodie. For Leo to use the Find feature to get Aiden’s phone to sing a chorus of shrill beeps, silenced or not. Sometimes he can’t hear it if he’s working, if it’s across the room, or he left it on his pillow. Sorry! He’d text back, adding a monkey emoji covering its eyes. Leo would always call him after that. It’s okay, the first words out of his mouth. Twice, Aiden’s let the routine play out on purpose, just to have Leo’s reassurance in his ear. Squirming from the sweet guilt and the way it warmed him from the inside out.
He tries to see if he feels anything knowing Leo is zooming in on the little map and rushing to find him. Guilt for making him worry? Shame for losing it in public, yet again? He peels his hands off his face and presses them into the gritty pavement, tiny rocks digging into the skin of his palms, the pads of his fingers. At least he can feel that.
There should also be at least a tiny shred of comfort, of warmth, at the fact that Leo knows him well enough to come peering around every obstacle in the no-man’s land between the buildings to find his hiding nook. Empty handed of course because Leo would abandon anything to come to his rescue.
Leo kneels down, close enough to reach but leaving enough space that he’s not boxing Aiden in. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s freaked out. Face lined with worry, eyes searching and probing and Aiden knows his dead expression isn’t giving him anything.
“Aiden,” he has to ask. He’s never gotten any better at letting Aiden suffer silently. “What happened? Are you alright?”
He jerks his head in a nod, drags a hand over his face to try to reset the muscles. “I saw someone—some…two,” the sounds roll over his tongue, meaningless syllables. His lips twitch into a smile. She smiled. Right at him. As unreal as all the words, spoken countless times already and washed clean of all meaning they reach his lips. “Two people.”
“What?” Leo’s panic doubles in turn. “Did they recognize you?”
He shrugs. That smile. “She might’ve but she’s…she’s only…” He’s crying. “Three now.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks. “She turned three,” he whispers to himself, grinning giddily. Testing Leo’s anxiety.
“Aiden? What about the other person?” He looks like he’s about to throw him over his shoulder and sprint to the car.
“Dunno.” He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters. She turned three. “If he did, he’d call.” It’s not funny but he can’t help laughing. “He’s…an asshole,” he laughs. “He always hated me. Didn’t stop him fucking me—” He claps both hands over his mouth but it only makes him sound more manic.
Leo’s jaw hangs open.
He tries to pull a breath through his nose, gags because he can’t stop laughing. Has to release his out-of-control mouth again to choke down enough air. He flaps a hand at Leo. It’s fine.
Leo shakes his head, a gentle pushback.
He tries harder to get a hold of himself, presses the heels of his shaking hands to his temples. Switches to covering his eyes. Pulls his hood down low over his forehead instead. He’s still laughing. Or something close to it.
“I think we should leave…” Suggested with all the care of trying to balance a soap bubble on his finger tip, like Aiden’s about to detonate. (Hasn’t he already?)
He nods, tears streaming down his face. Leo pulls him up with a strong grip around his wrist and doesn’t let go of his arm. Aiden puts his head between his knees as soon as he’s buckled in, unable to remember if he did it himself or if he even opened his own door.
Eventually, the hysterical sounds coming out of his mouth simmer down to a silent vibration deep in his chest. A rumbling, rearranging of everything that used to hold him together.
They’re halfway home before Leo pierces the silence he let Aiden rest on for the last ten minutes. “I’m gonna need to know who you saw. Just tell me it wasn’t…” He shoots a nervous glance at Aiden, testing the waters before he nevertheless throws a rock in. “...Harrison?”
“No, no.” The idea is almost enough to make him laugh all over again. Imagine. He stops himself from blurting that Harrison never touched him like that. Leo should have known already it couldn’t possibly have been Harrison from that comment alone. He will have to clarify that nuance later. For some reason it’s important, a needling itch he won’t be able to leave untouched.
“Okay…” Leo tries to give him a minute to answer on his own but he’s out of patience. Counting without Mississippis. “So?”
He leans his head against the window, watches the blur of leaves against the clouds. They’re already starting to turn, the first hint of fall coming in to soften the brightness of summer into shades of sepia. “Mira, Mr. Park.”
“What?”
“Even after everything I did, they’re alive.”
Leo blinks at him, has to brake hard when he misses the light turning yellow and it’s red by the time he looks back at the road. “You’re serious? Aiden. Aiden—”
“Leo,” he cuts him off. They’ve had this conversation more than once.
When he forced himself to confess because he couldn’t bear the thought of Leo signing for legal responsibility of him without knowing. He practiced through tears night after night, condemning his reflection in the powder room mirror while Leo slept upstairs. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, punishment in equal measure for his mistakes and for still not having full faculty of his speech. A murderer, he finally articulated. What? Was it in self-defense? Leo didn’t believe him. No, I killed two people. He felt his soul shake under Leo’s silence. Minutes of it, until he thought it would press the life right out of him. Did you mean to do it? Aiden shook his head. Okay. He didn’t think it was right to promise he wouldn’t do it again, knowing what he was capable of.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells Leo’s profile in the car. He lets himself smile again.
“Like fuck it doesn’t matter, Aiden. You were…” Leo pulls over and stares out the windshield as the traffic streams past. He punches the steering wheel, making Aiden tense.
The second time, he found himself in an exhausting tunnel of nightmares about it. He couldn’t see an end, thought he had to earn a reprieve. Leo caught him with a lighter, burning lines with a heated knife high on the sides of his ribcage where he thought they’d never be seen. He’d spelled out the entire series of events in a panicked, desperate defense, so articulate was he at last. You didn’t kill anyone, you’re blameless. Leo was furious, devastated. Two people are dead because of me, because of my actions. I killed them. It was much worse than the first time. What else was a complete lie? All Aiden could do was apologize. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Louder and louder to try to drown out Leo’s escalating desperation to find something, anything to tip the scales in his favor. Nothing was worse than letting Aiden go on believing this about himself, until it was. Did you even slit your own wrists or did Harrison come do it for you? And then he was crying too hard to get the words out and Leo surrendered, rushing in to hold him and wrap him up in a tide of his own apologies. We’re not done with this. He’d whispered between kisses to the crown of his head. But there was no way either of them would bring it up again.
It starts to rain, little drops hitting the windshield.
“Please don’t,” Aiden whispers, holding onto the smile even though the muscles in his cheeks are starting to tremble. Tears stinging the corners of his eyes.
Leo still won’t look at him. “This is how you should have felt all along. Dead or alive, nothing that happened that day was ever your fault. You were being hurt, you were being—”
He pulls Leo’s hand off the steering wheel. “Please?”
The most recent time, it brought itself up. A series of perfectly laid dominoes falling to pave the path to him refusing to babysit Jesse’s daughter. Leo caught on instantly and this time he was prepared. What if I had been in your position? Determined to keep his cool and find a weak spot in Aiden’s resolve. You weren’t. Again and again, mapping out hypothetical situations after alternate chains of events after endless what-ifs. Would you blame me? What about Delia? He’d just shake his head. It’s different. There was nothing Leo could draw on from his own life, no horror he’d shared in close enough to even hold a candle to the darkness Aiden was sheltering. Please, I promise to be good, he finally said, letting tears fall from his eyes, pretending it was hard to meet Leo’s gaze. I know what you’re doing. He faked a flinch. I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to change your mind. He nodded solemnly, genuine in the hopelessness in his expression. Another layer of punishment to fit the crime: Leo having to share in his suffering. One more addition to the list of things he’ll never repay.
The rain falls harder, audible on the roof of the car. Competing only with the rush of tires on the wet road outside.
He squeezes Leo’s hand in both of his, begging him to cede.
“God.” Leo sighs, looking skyward for serenity, patience. A purer, softer kind of grace than the thorned yoke Aiden had pinned himself under. Mirroring the punishments he bore on the outside. Needless, all of it.
He cries from relief. Trembling in the upside down state of the world now that the smoke has cleared. Uncertain how to hold the fragile clarity that it’s within reach to deserve all the good. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all but snowfall. Everything fresh and clean, just like when Leo found him. A sob escapes his lips.
Leo brushes the tears from his cheeks. “Com’ere.”
Aiden gathers fistfulls of the back of his shirt, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, of Leo, of home. He feels weightless. Cocooned in Leo’s arms and the knowledge that there’s nothing left to forgive.
Pet whumpees in dog kennels. Leaning up against the wire where they’re lined up in ‘shelters,’ longingly watching people pass by. Or curled in the back corners, snapping at anyone that so much as looks at them. Defiant whumpees being labeled reactionary, sensitive, to be handled delicately, like a traumatized dog rather than a person that didn’t want this. Spoken about right in front of them like they wouldn’t understand the words. Idk. Pet whumpees
CW: for mention of institutionalized slavery, surgery, broken bones
In response to an ask from @orange-twilek-guy
Mikey felt restless that evening. He wasn't sure if it was the pain, which he was supposed to be used to, or just the strangeness and weight of his cast and the bandages that held his right hand still. It bothered him not to be able to use his hands, and he felt obscurely ashamed of this. He hadn't been able to use them much before the surgery, either, and they had hurt even more, then.
Besides. He was a Guard Dog. Master and Mistress said he wasn't anymore- but it didn't go away that easily. He had been trained to it, even if he hated it. And he did. To be allowed to be gentle was the one want he had kept when they taught him to give up wanting and thinking. But from all that training, he could work through any pain and had, plenty of times.
Mikey wondered if he was going weak from being in this house, where everything was so nice and easy and comforting. Nathan told him this was how it was supposed to be and he really, really hoped that was true. It was his second want.
So far, his experiences in the house suggested that it might really be happening, which made him excited to think about. Everything here seemed soft and safe, when he was able to look around and take notice of it. The temperature was just right and his clothes were clean and he always had enough to eat. Francis and Nathan were kind to him- they were his friends. Mistress looked after him and never raised her voice. Master had shared his name with Mikey, who now had two names.
It was just that he had thought... he had thought the surgery would fix his hands right away. If he was honest, he felt disappointed. He hadn't understood that it would take so long, or that they would hurt so badly afterwards. He didn't really feel better yet, not without medication, and that could only be taken at certain times.
This wasn't one of those times. In fact, despite all the pleasant things about the house, Mikey wasn't having a very good evening. He couldn't even pay attention to the movie Nathan had picked, which was too bad, because it looked good and it was about Dungeons and Dragons, which Mikey found slightly incomprehensible but knew Nathan enjoyed. He would have liked to understand it better, himself, just to please Nathan.
But he couldn't pay attention for more than a few minutes at a time. The medication had worn off and the ache in his shoulder stretched deep down into damaged muscle and bone. His left arm cramped and there was no way to move it to ease the muscles.
He tried rocking back and forth to see if that would help, which it sometimes did. Even if it didn't make the pain better, it was comforting. But with this stupid, heavy cast holding his shoulder still, it was harder to move and wasn't quite the same.
At least he could move his right arm at the elbow, to shift it when the ache became too much to bear. Mikey adjusted his throbbing hand, sighing at the pain of moving it without some kind of support underneath it to take the weight of the bandages. They felt so heavy over the broken fingers and the pain when he had to lift the soft cast was terrible.
They had given him a pillow to rest his hand on, and that helped a little bit, if he didn't have to move. And sometimes Master or Mistress would help him lift his hand if they noticed him trying to move, but they didn't always see in time. He wished he could ask for a sling, like he used to have for his arm, but he didn't know how.
Mikey put his arm back down on the pillow. Mistress promised he would have more medicine before bed. All he had to do was make it through the movie. He sat quietly for a few minutes before another problem presented itself.
His face itched. He hadn't had a shave since before the surgery and it was starting to really bother him. Normally, Francis or Master helped him with it when they brushed his teeth. But he had been doing everything from the couch lately, including having his teeth brushed and spitting into a cup, and they seemed to have forgotten. Or maybe they didn't think it was that important? After all, shaving was just a question of looks, not like tooth brushing, and they hadn't been bothering to comb his hair, either (but he didn't mind that- it was almost too short to comb, anyway, and besides, it didn't itch).
The prickling feeling along Mikey's jaw was going to drive him up a wall, he was pretty sure. The closest he could get to a solution was going to cause other problems, but... finally he couldn't stand it anymore.
Mikey lifted his right hand painfully, wishing someone would notice and support the bandages for him. They didn't and he gritted his teeth as he lifted it so that his elbow was on the pillow and his hand was in the air. That helped, a little, and it put his face within scratching distance.
He leaned his hand toward his face and stuck his head out as far as it would go, rubbing his chin back and forth across the bandages and wincing as it put pressure on his hand. It didn't help a lot, but it helped a little.
"Mikey?" Nathan asked. "You okay?"
Mikey made a considering face, trying to figure out how to tell Nathan what he was doing. He settled for tapping his fingertips against his face and moving his hand back and forth, as if scratching.
"Your face itches?" Nathan guessed. He usually didn't have to guess but, to be fair, this was a pretty obscure thing to communicate. Mikey nodded.
"Sorry, man. Do you, uh, do you want me to scratch it?"
Mikey nodded, slightly desperate, and Nathan leaned over, laughing slightly as he gave Mikey's jaw a firmer scratch.
"Your beard's growing in," Nathan observed. "Do you want it like that?"
Mikey shook his head, a little miserably. He tried to scratch his cheek with more force, but this sent a spark of pain down his wrist and he drew in a sharp breath.
"I'm sorry," Nathan said sympathetically. Mikey just shrugged. "Look, if you don't want to have a beard, we can probably do something about that. Hey, Tim?"
"Yeah?" Master had been absorbed in the movie and in sharing a bowl of popcorn with Francis, who had to be reminded that just because he had bumped Master's hand when they reached for a snack at the same time, that didn't mean that he was in the way. Mikey could tell that this still made Francis uncomfortable, but Master seemed to be pleased with how he was doing.
"I think Mikey could use a shave. He keeps trying to scratch at his face."
"Beard's kind of itchy, huh?" Master said. Mikey nodded again, wearily. He couldn't wait for his hands to heal. He wished he could just sign and tell them what he was thinking.
"And it's not like he can scratch it," Nathan reminded Master.
"Yeah, true enough. Sorry, Mikey. We can take care of that. You want to stop the movie and do it now?"
Mikey did not- surely it couldn't be much longer and he didn't want to ruin movie night for the rest of the house. He made a gesture and an expression that communicated he could wait. He tried to wave his hand in a nonchalant way, as if he wasn't bothered, but his injuries protested at this and he gasped again, pulling his arm back to cradle it against his chest as the pain washed up his arm.
"Oh, gosh," Tim said sadly. "I'm sorry, Mikey."
Mikey just shook his head and waited for the pain to subside a little.
"Two more hours until you can take your meds again," Mistress said, rubbing his back. "I know it's tough."
"Listen, when this is done- there's only about another twenty minutes- we'll give you a... sort of a spa day. Evening. How's that sound?"
It wasn't clear to Mikey what a spa day was, but it was clear that Master sounded eager to do it, so it would probably be fine and he nodded. Mistress kept her hand on his back for the rest of the movie, rubbing it in broad, slow, soothing circles.
When the credits finally rolled, Master got up and left the room. Mikey could hear him walk up the stairs and then back down, with his hands full of things. Mistress opened a small folding table and Master set down a razor, a can, a tube of something, and a matching washcloth-and-towel set that Mikey thought looked very fancy, being color-coordinated.
Then Master went into the kitchen and Mikey could hear water running. When the sound stopped, Master came back with a bowl of water that had steam rising gently off its surface.
"Okay," he said, sitting down next to Mikey. "Let's do this the right way. I think you deserve it."
Mikey was never sure he deserved anything, but it wasn't up to him to decide such things.
"Lean your head back- Angie, can you give him that pillow?" Mistress reached up to tilt his head forward and slide a thin pillow behind it. "Great, thanks. Now lean against that."
The pillow was soft and good support for his neck and Mikey closed his eyes.
"Yes, just like that. Perfect. Now I'm going to put a warm towel on your face- warm, not hot, okay?"
Mikey nodded and Master placed the towel over his chin, drawing the ends over his cheeks and pressing down lightly. It was, as promised, pleasantly warm. Mikey felt a shiver run down his spine but, for the first time, in a good way.
Master left the washcloth there just long enough for it to start to cool and then he lifted it off. Mikey didn't even bother to open his eyes.
Next, he heard a sound that he knew was the can of shave gel and after it came the feeling of cool foam being spread onto his cheeks. When the razor drew slowly up the side of his face, it occurred to Mikey that this would once have frightened him. The idea of a blade so close to his skin, even his throat- but not when it was Master. He trusted Master. Master really wouldn't hurt Mikey, he had proven that.
Mikey sat still and silent as the blade passed over his chin, his cheeks, his throat. Sometimes Master paused to rinse the blade in the warm water, and then continued his work, slowly and gently, until Mikey knew his face must be smooth again. It didn't itch, not at all.
Once that was done, the washcloth was back and cool now as Master wiped the last of the foam away. Then there was the towel, patting firmly but gently at his cheeks as Master dried his face. Last of all, Master put some kind of cream on his hands and massaged it gently into Mikey's skin.
Then he wiped his hands on the towel and sat back.
"Better?" he asked.
And it was.
Master List
Notes: Always happy to answer asks, and I'll do it in story format when possible!
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
When Nathan's phone buzzed, waking him from a light sleep, he shifted to his left and fumbled around the bedside table until his fingers closed on it. He lifted the phone above his face and squinted at the time.
It was 9 am. A perfectly normal time to be awake and responding to texts. Nathan put in his passcode and opened the message. It was from Angie.
Ready for breakfast?
yeah sure, he wrote back. He didn't have long to wait until he could hear footsteps on the stairs.
"Morning, Nathan." Angie's voice came from behind the door, but she hadn't opened it, which Nathan appreciated. He was the last one up, as usual, and he enjoyed having a little time to himself in the mornings, after Mikey and Francis were already downstairs.
"Morning," Nathan called back, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He sighed, thinking of how much work it would be to get up. Maybe he could just stay in bed all day. Angie would probably be fine with it if he asked.
"How's your leg this morning?" she called. She still hadn't touched the door.
"You can come in," he called back, in place of an answer. The more he woke up, the more willing he was to accept company. She opened the door and let herself in, still in her bathrobe.
"Thanks. You don't have to get up if you don't want to," she said. "But I wanted to see how you're feeling and if you're ready to eat something. You're probably due for more meds, too."
Nathan shifted and put a hand down to the bandages wrapped around his thigh, taking stock of how his body felt. The answer was that it felt bad. His leg, set only days ago, was throbbing and still felt swollen, the bandages tight and uncomfortable. The doctor had told him that this was nothing to worry about.
"Yeah, meds would be great."
"I figured." Angie fished in the pockets of her robe and pulled out a water bottle and a packet of pills. She handed them to Nathan and he took them, then finished the water.
"Now I just have to wait for them to kick in."
"Sorry. You want to stay in bed for now, I assume?"
"I really do, yeah."
"Do you want company?"
"Sure. I mean, I'm not that exciting, so you don't have to, though."
"It's fine."
They sat quietly for several minutes, during which Nathan decided that he was impressed with Angie's ability to wait in silence. He was wracking his brain for something to talk about, just because it felt so weird to sit there. She, on the other hand, seemed perfectly calm and not at all bothered, and sat in the chair next to his bed, looking out the window into a bright, sunny day.
"So..." Nathan said when he couldn't stand it anymore. Then he wasn't sure what came next.
Angie grinned at him and he thought she might be just a little amused by the awkward look on his face. "You want some help getting ready for the day? I can do it, or I can ask Tim to come up if you'd rather."
"Not quite yet. It'd be nice if the meds kicked in first. My leg- uh- doesn't feel great."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. My brother Greg broke his leg in high school and he was a mess. That was playing football, though, so... more straightforward."
"Probably not more fun, though."
"I don't think so."
There was another moment of quiet and then Nathan said, "Hey, I haven't been in the bathroom a lot to look around- okay, that sounds kind of weird, but you know what I mean- do we have any razors in the house?"
"Razors?"
"I would really like to shave. I haven't looked at myself in a mirror the last couple days, but I can tell I'm getting scruffy."
"Oh, yeah, we must, huh? Let me ask Tim." Angie had made a point to break the habit of going to the top of the stairs and shouting. It was a very normal thing to do in a house with several siblings, but she had found that it startled the rescuees, who were uncomfortable with loud voices.
The text came back without much delay. Yup- under the sink in the bathroom. There's shave gel and washcloths down there, too. For Nathan?
Angie tapped at the phone in reply and then slid it into her pocket. "You want to shave? We can make that happen. Here, if you want."
Nathan pondered the question for a moment. "I guess. I'm not sure I'm up to, like, balancing in front of the mirror."
"Okay, give me, like, two minutes and I'll be back with everything you need."
It was slightly more than two minutes when Angie returned carrying a laptop. Nathan looked at it in confusion, but before he had a chance to ask what that was all about, she left again. When she returned, she was carrying a dinner tray with a dish of water, a washcloth, shaving gel, and a razor. She flipped the legs of it down and set it over his lap.
"Tim says that should be everything," she said. "I'm taking his word for it."
"And the laptop?"
"Oh! That's genius- it was Tim's idea. We don't have any small mirrors, so he said to set it up and turn on the camera so you can see what you're doing."
Nathan laughed. "Okay, that's pretty good."
The camera was a pretty good solution to the problem and Nathan was proud that he didn't get much water on the blankets- and almost no shaving gel. It felt good to clean up, especially since showers were going to be a challenge for a while.
Master List
Notes: Asking questions is a great way to get new writing! I'll answer this question for all three rescuees. I decided to do this as three shorter stories, rather than one very long one, so that it'll get published faster.
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump, forced nudity, humiliation
”My dear, my dear.” Cecilia tsked, shaking her head slowly. ”I think you haven’t been practicing enough. Look, there’s some slack here.”
”Yes, Mistress.” The brown-haired romantic nodded gracefully. ”I will adress it at once.”
His quick, nimble fingers flew along the rope, adjusting and tightening, making sure each loop was perfectly even.
”That’s better. Let’s take a step back to admire your handiwork, shall we?”
Obediently, Absalom stood beside her, both of them looking at the guard dog in the centre of the room.
Brutus was completely naked.
He stood barefoot on the cold, tiled floor. It was obvious from the flaming red of his cheeks, and the way he struggled to keep every breath smooth and even, that this was not a pleasurable activity for him. From time to time, panic rose in his dark eyes. So far, he had succeeded in fighting it down again and again.
The red silk rope artfully wrapped around his chest and arms, keeping his elbows together and his back straight. His palms were pressed together in a prayer position behind his back.
The red rope contrasted against the bronze skin of his sun-tanned arms, the paler gold colour of his round buttocks and flat stomach, the curly dark hair on his chest and the deeper, longer hair around his groin and under his arms. The burgundy shade of the rope matched almost perfectly the red chrysanthemums in the red and white tattoo wrapping around his lower arm.
Cecilia nodded. “Not bad.” She stepped closer to Brutus, caressing her hand down the middle of his chest. Ignoring the way the bound man shivered at her touch. “Now,” she looked back at Absalom. “What do you suggest that we do with his legs?”
wij day 3 | prompt: restraints | @whumpmasinjuly-archive
I could see myself doing more posts like this, since I often know a bit about the characters that doesn't make it into the story. Tim's family, similarly, exists and I'd like to know them better.
For today, though, let's start with the DiMeo family, Angie's folks.
Family members:
Mom: Nancy DiMeo
Dad: Al DiMeo (it's short for Alfredo, which he prefers not to admit)
Mom and Dad met in their early 20s through friends and bonded over the experience of being first-generation Italian-American. Mom's family arrived in the US before she was born, but Dad was born in Italy and moved to the US when he was very young. They both speak Italian with native fluency, but have slight American accents when they do. If you talk to them in English, you'd pick them out as residents of New York City.
When they were working, Mom was a librarian and Dad was an electrician. Mom stayed home with the kids for a few years, because it made good financial sense, but she looked forward to going back to work when it was practical to do so. She loves libraries and reads voraciously. When the youngest was 1 and Mom was ready to go back to work, Dad took a few years out of the workforce to be home with the kids. Until they were all in school, it was financially and logistically easier to have a parent at home and Dad loved being a stay-at-home parent.
Like many people their age from the Northern US, Mom and Dad retired to Florida. Mom participates in three book clubs, a swim class, a drawing seminar, and regular movie nights with her friends. Dad likes to putter around in the garage and "rest his eyes" while watching sports. They both have weekly phone check-ins with each kid.
Mom and Dad never got over being madly in love and have a long-standing tradition of a weekly date night. Dad buys Mom flowers and Mom puts on Italian music from their parents' day, because she feels it's the most romantic option.
Their only regret about Florida is that they're not as close to their children and (they hope) eventual grandchildren as they would like. The family stays in touch through a group chat and regular visits and they're collectively very close, which Mom and Dad really appreciate.
Marina Sanders (her married name) is the oldest of the DiMeo kids. She's 31 and recently got married to Brad. They live in Texas, near Brad's family, and they've quietly started talking about having children. Marina loves animals and would describe herself as a Cat Fancier and a Horse Girl. She volunteers at a pet shelter on the weekends. When one of them has had a long day, she and Angie sometimes joke about working in the same field, but only when nobody can hear them.
Since moving to Texas, Marina got a job on a ranch that hosts tourists for week-long visits. She works in the stables as a riding instructor and tour guide for groups going on trail rides. Though she is a naturally pleasant person, working around the combination of large animals and tourists has taught Marina how to be stern when she needs to be. She deploys this skill very carefully.
Gregory and Chris are 28-year-old fraternal twins. They shared a bedroom growing up, went to the same college and grad schools, and now live near each other because they couldn't imagine living farther apart than a couple of miles. Mom talked them into living in separate buildings because she felt it would be healthy for them to develop just a little independence. Still, they tend to treat their homes as shared space.
They also share a friend group and in their free time, they can usually be found getting into adventures together- visiting new places, checking out restaurants and bars, and attending the occasional protest. This sometimes surprises people who don't know them well, because Greg and Chris at first seem very different from each other.
Greg is a natural athlete who enjoys working out because he finds it satisfying to reach personal goals through nothing but hard work. Repetitive work on a particular muscle group is meditative for him and he finds that he sleeps particularly well after a gym visit. He works in sales for a tech company, more because he's personable and likes people than because he cares about the technology itself.
Chris prefers to be in the kitchen rather than the gym, and sometimes jokes that they're the perfect advertisement for their own cooking. Chris got into baking sometime after college, when it was too late to consider culinary school, but they like to make bread and pastries and leave them on the neighbors' doorsteps. As a result, Chris has a very warm relationship with everyone on the street. They're also great at remembering who has an allergy, and when everyone's birthday is, so they always seem to know exactly what the neighbors will enjoy.
Chris got into training service animals by accident. They took an internship during their Senior year of college and found that they loved it. The dogs are adorable, the challenge of helping the dogs learn is fun for them, and they get a real sense of reward out of helping the service dog handlers learn to work with their dog as a team.
Chris chose their own name and it's not short for anything; their mother calls them Christinopher because it's more satisfying to bark at your child when they've said or done something that warrants The Mom Voice.
Angela graduated with her Bachelors Degree in Psychology a couple of years ago. At the time of this story, she's 25 and working in one of the underground safe houses that help former Pets escape abuse. She wasn't ready for grad school, although she considered it. Chris, with whom she's particularly close, recommended that she go. She thinks she may do that if she chooses to leave the Safehouse network at some point (but Angie leaving won't be a plot point in the story- she'll stay at least until the Safehouse residents are ready to be independent.)
In school, Angie played soccer and participated in Model UN. Once she got to college, she continued playing on an adult recreational league and found that she enjoyed the after-game hangouts as much as she enjoyed the sport. When she was living alone, she was in the habit of going for early-morning runs, but that's kind of on hold now that she has the Safehouse to be responsible for.
After college Angie felt kind of adrift- her friends had gone off in different directions and she knew she didn't want to go straight to grad school but she wasn't sure what she did want to do. She heard about the Safehouse network through what was essentially gossip and she jumped at the idea to help. She likes the idea of being able to do something big to help- she likes being the one to fix things and there's a part of her ego that enjoys being the person to step in and help when something is wrong. She recognizes this about herself, and is aware that the Safehouse is a benign and genuinely useful way to indulge this, without getting an ego about it.
Obviously Chris knows where she works, and if you've read the Christmas story from last year, you know that Greg does, too. Lexi also does, because she lives close by. The rest of the family knows that she works in a group home for kids who've had a hard time, but they tend to picture children in foster care, not legal adults with trauma.
Alexandra recently graduated from a five-year-Masters program and works as a Kindergarten teacher. She's the Mom Friend, both to her friends and her siblings, as well. Lexi is still figuring out where adulthood is going to lead her and she's glad to be living near her siblings while she does- it's comforting to have them to rely on when she needs a real adult. Lexi loves to read and has an impressive library. She was a ballet dancer when she was younger and misses her dance company, so she's hoping to get involved in another one near her new home.
Phillip hasn't really had a part to play in this story, because he's 18 and away at college, majoring in English. They keep up through texts and he was at Marina's wedding, of course, but mostly he's busy with school work and activities and the business of being 18. Coming from a large and rather involved family, Phillip has the distinction of being the quietest of the siblings. He's closest with Lexi and looks up to his older siblings- he hopes to basically be Greg one day.
Master List
Notes: Happy birthday, @orange-twilek-guy! Hope it was a great one!
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
(🧽 ask from this game) cw: what it sounds like...but maybe not that bad in the way you would think...? idk
masterlist
Absence gnaws the air when he comes to. Even though it sinks its teeth into his mind instantly, impossible to ignore, he can’t quite put his finger on what’s missing. He feels it like an unexpected step between the rooms of sleep and consciousness. His stride falling through empty space for untethered seconds until it hits home, lower than anticipated, jolting the body with its newfound altitude. A few inches felt like miles.
He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within.
It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone.
Nothing but empty, cold air.
Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side.
No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination.
His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real.
The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin.
He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.
The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming.
His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too.
He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen.
It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable.
A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation.
Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath.
What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements.
For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core.
He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake.
As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea.
Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed.
His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation.
He’s naked.
Harrison is bathing him.
How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move?
He doesn’t want any of the answers.
Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin.
But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.
If only it were that.
He peeks one eye open.
Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow.
He opens his other eye.
Something simple, dismissible, understandable.
Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.
Harrison sweeps down his side.
He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing.
He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt.
Keeping still is nearly impossible.
Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold.
He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him.
Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.
The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable.
He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air.
Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.
The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name.
Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect.
It’s no easier to bear.
He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights.
His eyes fall back to Harrison.
Again
and again.
Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him.
He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.
Harrison continues to his hips.
Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore.
There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist.
As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself.
What if—
What if—
What if—
He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down.
But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either.
He’s relieved, numb.
He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone.
The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way.
He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named.
Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands.
He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake.
He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells.
Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone.
Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind.
Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits.
What possible name can he give to this kind of creator?
Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end.
Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers.
All that matters—
Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing.
His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs.
Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.
Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now.
He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers.
Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before.
It’s impossible he didn’t know all along.
An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins.
Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse.
Wave the white flag.
The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable.
He closes his eyes.
Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange.
Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them.
He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head.
Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh.
He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost.
Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart.
Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.
And leaves.
He’s cold, alone.
masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)
A narrative parallel I love: Whumpee seeing themselves in other objects/animals/etc that Caretaker interacts with.
-Caretaker gently carrying a spider or other creepy crawly out into the garden instead of squashing it gives the Whumpee who was always considered expendable a lump in their throat.
-Caretaker having a “scary” dog breed like a Pitt bull or Rottweiler but treating it like a pet and lapdog, loving on it instead of training it to attack. Living Weapon Whumpee watches hopefully from their spot standing guard as the dog lays its head in Caretakers lap.
-Caretaker fixing their old beater of a car instead of getting a new one, even though they could afford it, and the Whumpee who was replaced after get hurt/making a mistake/getting too old/etc feels a sense of overwhelming relief.
-Caretaker feeding and watching over a feral stray cat from a distance, never trying to trap it or get too close, just making sure it’s okay. Stoic/defiant Whumpee not letting themselves think about how that makes them feel. Also, if/when Caretaker has to catch and treat the stray because it’s gotten injured or sick, realizing that that’s what Caretaker had been doing for them. They just were too scared to understand.
-Caretaker oiling and polishing their tools, putting them away carefully, taking pains that they were well taken care of and would last forever. Mentioning offhandedly that if you take care of your tools, they’ll take care of you. Slave Whumpee nodding emphatically, hoping that mindset extends to them as well.
-Caretaker tending their garden, trimming buds from flowering plants to keep the plant healthy instead just pretty, and Whumpee who’s only ever been valued for their appearance feels less shame and guilt for “letting themselves go” in recovery.
Hmm rich Whumper in BBU/adjacent universe custom-ordering a pet for their friend, Caretaker
Bonus points if Caretaker can't free Whumpee, either because there's not a legal way to do that in this universe, or because Whumper will assume Whumpee wasn't up to par and will just order them another one. :)
You can do a lot of fun/interesting things with the "custom-ordered" aspect in particular. Caretaker ending up with a Whumpee they didn't want nor plan for is a tried and true trope, but it adds delightful new layers if Whumpee is made specifically to appeal to Caretaker by someone who knows them.
Maybe Whumpee is trained in a service or task that will make Caretaker's life easier, maybe even something Caretaker needs. Maybe Whumpee is a Romantic who fits Caretaker's tastes exactly (the implications!). Maybe Whumpee was picked to fill a specific lonely hole in Caretaker's life. Etc. The important thing is that even though Caretaker wants to do right by them...the temptation to take advantage is non-zero.
Especially if Whumpee is conditioned enough to consistently beg for it and/or be upset that Caretaker's not using them as they were intended. >:)
honestly i go back and forth. it kinda depends on whose perspective i'm writing at the time lol! both of their internal worlds are very interesting to me...
Francis watched the mall approaching. Sir had explained it to him- it was a big building with lots of small shops inside. He had never been to the shops before, but Sir and Ma'am said that you could buy lots of different things there. Some shops were for food, others for clothes. There were shops that would sell you music, though Francis wasn't sure how, and others that sold books, which made more sense.
Sir pushed a button and the doors opened without anyone holding them, wide enough for Sir to push his wheelchair through.
"It'll be down here, on the left," Sir said. He didn't even sound like he was nervous, which was comforting to Francis, who thought his heart might beat out of his chest.
As Sir had predicted, there were a lot of people there. Some of them moved very quickly, their arms full of items and bags hanging from their elbows. Others moved slowly, talking with each other or stopping to examine the things in the windows. And, sure enough, a few of them looked straight at Francis, looking long and hard enough to remember him later. He did not like that.
Francis tried to take deep breaths, like Ma'am had taught him once, and to focus on looking around. Sir had promised that the shop wasn't far away.
They passed a shop filled with bright colors and some of the items inside showed characters Francis had seen on television. Then they passed a shop that smelled beautiful and was full of small jars. Francis found himself turning his head to look as they went past, enjoying the scent.
"They sell tea there," Sir said, his voice relaxed, like he did this every day. Did he really go out into crowds like this all the time? Did Ma'am? It was overwhelming, though the tea smell was nice.
When they arrived at the store Sir was taking him to, Francis was relieved in one way, but nervous in another. They would be getting out of the busy part of the mall, but staying in one place would make him easier to watch. He had no choice, though, and Sir pushed the wheelchair through the doors.
"Okay," Sir said. "Here we are." They came to a stop near the entrance, but slightly to one side, where Francis took some comfort in the fact that a display blocked the view through the large, glass front windows.
"Angie and I put together a shopping list," Sir went on, "But it's all pretty basic stuff. Shirts, pants or shorts, some pairs of socks... should be easy to find."
Sir moved them over to a display of shirts and stopped close enough that Francis could reach out and touch them with his hands.
"Look through here and see if there's anything you like." Sir's suggestion was casual, but also impossible. There was too much. How was Francis to begin? And it wasn't as if he had... preferences. Likes. Francis gazed up at Sir in total bewilderment.
Sir didn't react- he just nodded, as if Francis should know what that meant. Still watching to make sure he was doing the right thing, Francis reached out and touched a shirt. Nothing happened and he decided maybe this was what he was supposed to do. Francis tried to look at the different designs, buying himself time to figure out what happened next, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone, that someone could wander up to them without warning.
It was when he looked up that was when Francis realized he was, in fact, being watched. There was a counter along one wall, halfway between the front and back of the shop, and there were two women sitting there, eying Francis and Sir with frank curiosity. Francis looked up at Sir, his eyes wide.
Sir followed his gaze, but when he realized what Francis was looking at, he just smiled, as if everything was all right, and nodded to the women. They smiled back, which made them look less frightening, and shared a look with each other that Francis couldn't decipher.
Then, to make things worse, the women got up and started walking towards them. Quickly, Francis pulled his hands back and settled them in his lap. He dropped his head so they wouldn't see him staring around the place as if he belonged there.
"Hi there," said one of the women. Francis sneaked a look up at them and found that it was the one with blonde hair talking. "Is there anything we can help you find?" She was talking to Sir, but the other woman was looking at Francis and when their eyes met, he lowered his gaze again, feeling his cheeks burn red with discomfort.
"I think we're just looking around," Sir said with a shrug. "My friend could use a few things."
The two women exchanged a look and the brown-haired one crouched down a little, so she wasn't standing over Francis.
"Man, what happened to your legs?" she asked, straightforward but not unkind.
Francis looked up at Sir again. This was exactly what he had feared. How could he even speak without giving them away? He knew the way he spoke was unusual.
But before Sir had a chance to respond, the blonde woman said, with a knowing look, "Would you like to take advantage of our private shopper program?"
This was clearly some kind of code, because Sir grinned at her like he knew what she was talking about and said, "Yeah, actually, that would be perfect."
"Great!" the woman replied. "Okay, I'll close the doors up. Would you grab me the sign?" The other woman popped back up and hurried over to the counter and brought back a sign on a string, which the first woman hung on the doors as she closed and locked them.
"This is a program they have for the Safehouses," Sir told Francis quietly. "The owner of the store is one of us and his employees are, too, or at least they're on our side. They'll close up for a little while so we can shop in peace and you don't have to worry about strangers."
The two women were strangers, Francis thought, but he knew what Sir meant.
"So," asked the brown-haired woman who wasn't afraid to speak her mind. "Is this your first time in a store?"
Next Time: Francis makes friends and tries on clothes
Master List
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds
Whumpee wants to be good so deeply, wants to get the pats on the head, the praise, the safety that comes with being good.
But here, they couldn’t figure out what good was.
They’d stay awake all night, cleaning in practiced silence, till the entire apartment was immaculate, but all they got was a worried look and encouragement to sleep, to “rest”.
Why? What benefit did their master get from them sleeping or resting? Sleeping was a necessary delay, they knew that well enough, but resting? They’d never had so little to do that there was time to waste resting.
Of course, it wasn’t up to them, even if they didn’t understand, it was their job to obey. So, here they were. “Resting”.
They even thought they were doing that wrong, with how master kept glancing at them out of the corner of their eyes. Sitting criss cross on the floor, perfectly still. Resting.
“Hey honey?”
(Honey must be the name master had picked for them, though it seemed like they weren’t sure if they wanted to call them Honey or Buddy, but that was okay, they figured out to respond to both.)
“Yes?”
(Master didn’t want to be called master, or sir, or anything, so it made all of their sentences sound choppy and clipped, like a mouth with a missing tooth.)
“How about you come sit over here on the couch?”
Their heart sank. They must have done something wrong if Master wanted them within arms reach. Or they were expected to mess something up, and would need to be corrected often.
Carefully, they stood, and sat on the couch, trying to figure out what it was that they’d done wrong. Were they slouching? They sat extra straight, just in case. Had they been making a face? They made sure their expression was exact, placid and pleasant. What else could it be?
“You can slouch you know, it’s just us here.” Their tone was light, almost playful, but he knew better. He’d learned already, he knew how to win this game. He looked towards them, carefully avoiding eye contact, then looked forward again. Acknowledge, but don’t lapse. It was a test, to see if he’d break the rules without being told to. It had caught him thousands of times before, but not anymore.
But when Master only sighed slightly, it didn’t feel like he’d won.
Did they want him to mess up? Were they looking for a reason to punish him? They truly didn’t need a reason, surely, but…
It was good, right, that they would only punish him if he did wrong, even if they wanted to otherwise? But then, how long before they grew frustrated, and the impending punishment would be so much worse.
All of those thoughts happened in seconds, and boiled down to a single question. Should he slouch?
On one hand, he should, it would give them what they wanted and it would be better than waiting for a worse fate down the road. On the other hand,,, Even the idea of being hit or scolded made his chest tighten up painfully.
Selfishly, he stayed still, heart beating in his throat.
He wanted to be good so bad, he hadn’t figured anyone out yet here and it was going on two weeks. And they seemed so much nicer than the others, he hadn’t be punished even the few times he’d slipped, why now?
“Honey…” their voice was so soft, and so was the gentle hand on his shoulder, but he flinched anyway, “you really can relax, it’s okay.”
His mouth was so dry he almost changed his mind, but he figured one way or another, he’d have to do this eventually.
“Do I have permission?”
At least if he got hit for asking, it would give them what they wanted. He braced for the worst but all that came was-
“Huh?”
“Do I have permission to relax?”
“Of course? Yes, yes, you have permission to relax, please do.” There was something in their voice, almost like relief, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that exactly, and that certainly made no sense anyway.
Nothing made sense.
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