It’s Enough To Make A Grown Man Whimper

Pegs/21 non-human whump, nsfw whump, intimate whump, all the works. Feel free to send asks, prompts or messages. No minors, thank-you.

[whumpologyy]

reading a book about secondary/vicarious trauma (in the book it’s called trauma exposure response) and they list 16 signs of it, if anyone is interested in tormenting their Caretakers:

Feeling helpless and hopeless

A sense that one can never do enough

Hypervigilance, always feeling “on” or scanning for danger

Diminished creativity

Inability to embrace complexity

Minimization, of your own feelings but also of incidents that you deal with

Chronic exhaustion/physical ailments such as chronic fatigue, muscle pain, headaches, high blood pressure, etc

Inability to listen/deliberate avoidance of tough situations or feelings

Dissociative moments

Sense of persecution, especially if caretaking is your career; a sense that the system/world is working against you

Guilt, particularly for your own privilege

Fear; of intense feelings, of personality vulnerability, of potential victimization, etc

Anger and cynicism

Inability to emphasize/numbing as self-protection

Addictions of any kind

Grandiosity, an inflated sense of importance related to one’s work, the feeling that only you are capable or responsible for getting it done

The book is Trauma Stewardship by Laura van Dernoot Lipsky and Connie Burk!

[sobadbad]

Edvin Ryding as Linus Ek Gåsmamman 6.06

[storyweavingspider]

I’m blessing you with restful sleep and a slightly lucky day for tomorrow. You don’t have to do anything for it, you just got lucky seeing this :)

[hol-hot-wholesome]

Passing this onward, with NO NEED TO REBLOG!

[doumidas]

destruction of the mind

solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev

content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), discussing the system of slavery/pets, caretaking, backstory and lore... light on whump, heavy on exposition

port wonders about his history.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

Port was sitting at the mouth of the neighborhood when the headlights appeared. He had a feeling they must belong to Beau, even with the shine in his eyes leaving him unable to discern what the car looked like. They were the only ones he’d seen in the entire time he’d been on the curb.

The car slowed and rolled to a stop as Port rose to his feet, a yard away. The driver’s side door swung open and Beau’s boot emerged, planting itself on the asphalt as he unfolded from the seat. His hair was styled in the same two braids that Port had last seen him in, flyaways framing the open look of concern on his face. He did not look like he'd only rolled out of bed an hour ago.

Port was hesitant to approach, anxiety peaking now that the man was directly before him. Beau took a step, but did not entirely close the gap. His hands hovered in an odd way like he did not quite know what to do with them, like he was either calming a wild animal or about to go in for a hug.

“Hi, Porter,” he said. “Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

It took him a second to find his voice. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. It’s just… splinters.” It sounded really, really stupid to say it out loud. He had called Beau all the way here in the middle of the night for this?

“Splinters hurt,” Beau said graciously. “Are you hurt any other ways?”

“No,” he said, willfully ignoring the way his thigh burned and his heart ached.

Beau accompanied him to the other side of the car and held the passenger door open in an excessively chivalrous way. Port climbed in, becoming antsy once Beau sat in the driver’s seat beside him. They should not be sitting so close, on an equal level, separated only by the center console.

Beau seemed much more at-ease now that he knew Port was not dying or having some sort of outwardly hysterical breakdown. It had been an incredibly awkward phone call, mostly on Port’s part. Beau had asked him questions in a carefully calm manner while Port was quiet and stuttering, overtaken by the shame and guilt of it all. He managed to convince Beau that his keepers were not the ones who had hurt him— it was nature’s doing.

He worried Beau might scold him and expose him to Rida, or that maybe it was all a trap he had set— to test if Port was disobedient enough to warrant being taken away and decommissioned for good. But Beau did not seem to care. He was willing to whisk him away in the dead of night to save him from a few wood chips and cactus needles. Port found himself wondering how ethical or even legal this was— not that he cared. He was so far removed from ethics, law, and basic human consideration himself that he had no right to judge. 

“I’ll take you to my office,” Beau said, making a U-turn. “Get you fixed up. What do you think about that?”

“Okay, sir. Thank you.”

Beau flicked his blinker on before he turned out of the neighborhood street, even though there were no other cars in sight. It clicked rhythmically like Beau’s tapping finger, cutting through the silence. Then they were on their way.

“So, are you one for nature walks?” The tone was not quite accusatory, but it was certainly more than small talk.

“Um… I don't usually have the opportunity.” The answer came out so quietly he feared Beau may not be able to hear him over the hum of tires on asphalt. “But I suppose I am,” he said louder.

“Sometimes it just calls to you, right? It’s a little dangerous to be walking out in the desert at night, though,” Beau said lightly. “There are snakes out there. Scorpions.” He was taken by a shiver, shoulders shuttering. “Hate those things,” he muttered.

“I heard some coyotes,” Port said. He feared their sharp teeth more than he feared a scorpion’s curled sting.

“Oooh,” Beau intoned, like this was incredibly interesting. “Y’know, I’ve been attacked by plenty of scorpions, but never a coyote. I’ve never heard of one hurting a human, so they’re probably okay. I used to see them all the time, where I’m from.”

“Where’s that, sir?” Port asked, welcoming the change of topic. He would much rather talk about Beau than talk about himself.

“Oklahoma, the southeastern part. It’s pretty rural there.”

Port took a moment to picture this in his head. Five hundred miles north of Houston, maybe, or something like that. “Why did you move?”

“Well… there’s not much to do, unless you like to gamble. And it’s not great career-wise, either. Life just led me here.” 

Maybe Mr. Oz would have enjoyed Oklahoma. “Do you like it here?”

Beau’s chin dipped. “Yes. I love it. My only qualm is living so far away from my mother, but sometimes…” His eyes flicked over to Port for a second, either realizing he was sharing too much or feeling awkward that he had brought up the privilege of having a mother at all. “Uh, anyway, what do you think of it so far?”

“It’s nice,” Port said noncommittally. He missed the familiar landscape of home. “It looks a lot different.”

“It’s beautiful,” Beau said. Port peered out the window, but all he could see were the shadows of those clay-looking buildings passing them by, all smooth edges. Sonny had taught him the word for it: adobe. “Lots of things to see, nice people, great culture… say, have you heard of Taos Pueblo? It’s only a couple hours away, you should visit. The Rio Grande Gorge is near there, too.”

Port had no idea what those were, nor when he’d possibly have the opportunity to go there, but perhaps it was a nice thought.

“If you like art, the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum is here in town…” Beau went on. “She painted a lot of flowers.”

“I like flowers,” Port said.

“I think flowers have a universal appeal,” Beau mused. 

Before long, they were parked by a pale and rectangular building. Port got out of the car and followed Beau to a nondescript door with no signage. Beau fumbled with his jingling key ring on the way, picking out the correct one and twisting it in the lock. 

It was dark and silent inside other than the hum of electrical appliances thrumming through the walls. Port had trouble making anything out, but Beau seemed to know where he was going. He led Port down a hallway and into a room, carpet scratching beneath his shoes. There Beau flicked on the light switch, revealing a modest space with a few unoffensive wall decorations and furnishings, including an armchair. 

“You can sit there,” Beau said. “I’ll be right back.”

Something about sitting alone in the small room made his anxiety pick up again, like he was waiting in a doctor’s office or about to have some sort of psychological evaluation. The feeling was hardly eased by Beau's return, though his relaxed demeanor was comforting. He was carrying a First-Aid kit and a roll of duct tape.

“Should we look at the spines or the splinters first?” Beau asked.

“Whichever you’d prefer, sir.” Port found himself increasingly embarrassed by his situation. 

“You said the cactus got your ankle, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He had the sudden urge to slip out of the chair and drop to his knees when Beau lowered himself onto the carpet, right by his feet. From this angle he could see the crown of Beau’s head and the neat part running down the middle of his scalp. Nobody had ever kneeled before him before. It did not feel right. 

“I can sit on the floor, too,” Port said, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt.

Beau’s brown eyes met his face curiously. “I think it’ll be easier if you stay in the chair.”

“Okay,” he relented. 

He told Beau which leg it was and Beau lifted the cuff of his pant, neatly and precisely folding it over on itself to reveal his pale ankle.

“These are very tiny,” Beau said. “No wonder you didn’t have any luck with tweezers.” He peeled up a strip of duct tape with his nail and tore it from the roll. “That's what this is for. I’m going to put this on your leg and then rip it up, like a wax. It’ll get them right out. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Beau carefully pressed the piece of tape over the affected patch of ankle. “It might sting a little. Would you like a countdown?”

Port smiled with humor before he could stop himself. “That’s okay, sir. Do what you need to.” It would not bother him. 

He preferred it when Beau was not looking up at him. Beau pinched the edge of the tape between his fingers and tore it from his skin in a quick motion. It didn’t feel like much at all. Beau lightly pressed on his foot to get a better look, like he was tapping a horse’s hoof. Port shifted his legs wider without thinking. “There are still some in your skin, so I’ll do it a few more times. Look at what came out so far.” He held the piece of tape up. The sticky side was coated with a few needles, tiny white hairs against the dark ribs of the tape. And a few of his actual leg hairs, too, pale follicle buds still attached to the ends. Ripped out at the root.

Port took the piece of tape from him and folded it over so that the hair was trapped inside, and then folded it again for good measure. Beau started scraping at the roll again. Port’s ear picked up on the scratch of his nails against the tape, and then the buzz of the ceiling light, and then the beat of his own heart. The clinical quiet bothered him. “Why did you choose this job?” he asked.

“Well... I like feeling like I’m doing a good thing for people,” Beau said, still fiddling with the roll.

Port waited for him to continue, but he left it at that. Port liked his smooth voice and the pleasing way he enunciated his words, and wanted him to keep talking. “How did you choose this, specifically?”

Beau blew soft air from his lips, considering. “Well, if you want my whole story… My goal was to work for CPS, originally.” He finally freed a new piece and started sticking it to Port’s ankle in an almost ticklish way. “But you have to work up to that, so I took my first job at a residential treatment center for kids and teens. And then I had a brief stint in juvenile detention. The thing is, it was…” he trailed off, pressing the tape down. “Well, I just wasn’t a good fit. Especially because I was young, myself.” He ripped the tape away with no warning, a tug at Port’s skin. Beau squinted at his ankle again and went for another piece.

“I see,” Port said. Could they be the same age? His skin was clear, and his hair was thick, but the lines under his eyes made him seem mature.

“It got me thinking about all those kids who slip through the cracks, and how increasingly more people look to Contract Companionship as an option. When you age out of the youth system, and you’re either looking at WRU or prison, it seems pretty tempting, right? And it’s not only criminals, of course. A lot foster children, too, who just have nowhere else to turn. The whole thing is just…” He stuck the tape to Port’s skin. “Well, you don’t need my opinion.” Beau met his eyes. Port imagined what he might be seeing— the perturbed look on his face, his furrowed brow. “What do you think about it?” Beau asked.

“I… don’t.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“That’s fair enough. I’m, uh, sorry to bring it up at all.” Port flinched, this time, when Beau ripped the tape from his skin. “Oh! Sorry. I should have warned you. It looks like that’s the last of them, though.”

Port resisted the urge to pull his foot up and rub at his abused ankle. He could feel his skin was irritated and see the pinkness of it. Beau flicked open the latch on the First-Aid kit and pulled out a packaged alcohol swap. He ripped the paper open and swiped the wet square over his skin.

“Thank you,” Port said, though he wasn't sure how necessary that was. Surely if he was going to get an infection it would be too late to stop it now.

“Of course. Can I take a look at your palms?”

Beau pulled over the other chair that was in the room and settled across from him. Somehow it was even more unsettling than when Beau had been kneeling by his feet. Port extended his right hand first. The tender way Beau tilted it and leaned in closer to see it better in the light felt overly intimate. He did not even press hard enough to make divots in Port’s skin. His nails were neatly trimmed and filed, clean tips of white. Port was self-conscious of his own ugly ones in comparison.

Beau decided he would be able to go at them with tweezers and grabbed them from the kit. He gently cupped Port’s hand with his own, skin strangely soft and girlish. Beau stared intently into the lines of his palm and delicately pinched one of the minuscule chips between the metal, plucking it out painlessly. He dropped it to the floor. “This room gets vacuumed every night,” Beau said, as if Port would confront him about it. 

Something about the way Beau carefully picked the splinters from his palm made sweat break out over his forehead and the back of his neck. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, though Beau did not look up. “Sir?” he said.

“Yes?”

“May I know your opinion?”

“Hm?”

“About me. I mean— about us. Pets.” 

“Oh. Well…” The tweezers stilled as Beau thought it over. “There’s a distinction between pets— or Companions— and the system itself.”

“Ms. Rida doesn’t like it,” Port was compelled to say. 

Beau picked out another splinter. “She made me aware.”

“Do you think similarly?”

Beau sighed, head tilting. “If you really want to know, I find it kind of... grim. The System isn’t exactly kind. That’s why I chose this job,” Beau said. “To help individuals.” He removed the final splinter from Port’s hand. “If you can't beat 'em, join 'em,” he muttered, touch lingering a few seconds too long. “That’s what I have to say about that.” He pulled away. “Other hand, please?”

Port dropped his right hand to his lap and extended his left one apprehensively. The one with the missing fingers. People’s eyes tended to skip over it, but it was impossible not to notice at such close proximity. Port waited for Beau to make some comment, or even just hesitate, and wondered what sort of tale he should tell this time.

It didn’t happen. Beau grabbed his hand without faltering. 

Still, it did not prevent Port’s discomfort. The stumps had not been painful for a long time, but there was still something disturbing and sensitive about having the scar tissue touched. Sometimes they tingled or ached. But Beau’s own fingers did not brush against them, nor did the tweezers. It was a relief.

As Beau worked at his palm, and he turned Beau's story over in his mind, something he had mentioned was nagging at him. “Can all criminals go into the System?” Port asked. “Not just juveniles?”

“Well, there is an age limit,” Beau said. “And many factors are taken into consideration. But generally speaking, it’s an option. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it all started as a way to clear out prisons in the first place. The 13th Amendment outlawed slavery except as punishment for crime, so… I think it was only a matter of time before that was taken advantage of,” Beau said, displeasure scarcely concealed. “And of course, now the System has expanded so that anyone can go in if they want to.” 

Port was getting strangely restless and fighting the desire to pull his hand away. The intimate novelty had worn off. Now he just wanted to be done, and not to be touched anymore. “I didn’t know that,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody ever explained it to me. At least not that I can remember.”

“I guess I wouldn’t expect them to.” Beau accidentally poked Port’s palm with the tweezer, making him twitch. “Sorry.”

Phantom taste of metal in his mouth. Sweat on his neck. The missing space of his finger prickled. “Isn’t it dangerous for criminals to become pets?”

Beau glanced at him in a way Port could not quite decipher. “Like I said, there are multiple factors. People who commit, say, first-degree murder don’t have it as an option. And there are psychological evaluations involved, even if things slip by sometimes. I used to do a lot of screenings for suicide and homicide risk.”

Port’s leg shifted. His thigh burned. More prickling.

“I think that’s all of them,” Beau said.

“Huh?”

“I think I got all the splinters. Can you see any?”

Port lifted his arms to inspect, eyes running over the lines of his palms. His hands were red. Splinter-free. Beau sat back in his chair, allowing him his personal space once again. 

“May I ask something?”

“Of course,” Beau said.

His eyes remained fixed on his palms. “Do you know why I became this?”

Beau did not answer right away. Immediately, Port knew the question was too revealing. He was toeing a line.

“No,” Beau said. “I’m not made privy to that information.”

Port lowered his hands. “Oh.”

“The files they gave me are, uh, extremely redacted.”

Port knew this. He had found where Rida tucked the files on a shelf. He had needed to know if they would tell him anything about himself, and spent an hour pouring over the tiny and nauseating letters, sounding out each word in his head. All he got from it was a headache and tired eyes. Nothing of use. Too many black bars.

“But the information exists?”

Beau was looking at him quite seriously, but in a way that seemed more thoughtful than it did dangerous. “I assume so. Has it been on your mind?”

Strange dreams. Weird flashes. Wondering about a past he was not even supposed to spare a passing thought to. You chose this. That’s all you need to know. “At a certain point, it’s… hard not to wonder,” Port said, having revealed too much to backtrack now. He kept seeing images behind his eyelids he could not explain. Phantoms sitting on his chest.

Beau hummed. “I can imagine.” His fingers were tapping on his thigh, one after the other, over and over again. “I can look into it for you, if you’d like.”

Port shook his head, though the offer made something thrum in his chest. “I ain’t asking you to do that, sir, I was just wondering if you knew.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Beau said it casually, not even meeting his eyes. He was busying himself with the First-Aid kit, and pulled out another alcohol swab. “Hands?”

Port held them out, palm-up, like in supplication. The cold swipe made his fingers curl, antiseptic smell filling his nose. “Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.” Beau sat back, and tilted his head, eyes turning a little impish. “Now did you want to go back home, or… like… McDonald’s?”

More time away? Of course. “McDonald’s sounds good,” Port said. Beau rewarded him with a smile.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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[doumidas]

vertigo in the radical experience

solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev

content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), SELF HARM, burns, mentions of gore and torture, light environmental whump, light dissociation, suicidal ideation?

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

It was not so difficult to stomach hurting himself, anymore. 

There used to be that mental block— reservations that made any attempt difficult to follow through on. Sliding paper between fingers, kicking a brick wall barefoot, stubbing a cigarette out on skin. It might as well be impossible. Or this: biting down on a finger to see if the human jaw is really as strong as people say it is.

He decided he would put his own digit in his mouth to test it, even though he knew from experience that it was the truth. Index finger pressed to his tongue like a gag, he settled the little jagged edge of his teeth directly at the joint. He bit down, gently, experimentally, to feel the pressure of enamel digging into flesh. It did not hurt. He gradually increased the force until it did. At a certain point, when he felt his finger ache and tingle and threaten to split, he could not bring himself to bite down any harder. Was that the threshold at which it would break skin? How much more for the joint to pop off? What if he had a countdown, and promised himself that when he reached one, he would bite down with all the force he could muster?

The sensation flashed through his mind. Bones separating. He could've sworn he tasted iron in his mouth. He removed the damp finger from his tongue, sweating and disturbed. There was a deep, pink divot in his flesh where his teeth had pressed, a little gap in the line that reflected the missing chip of his front tooth. No blood. He watched the skin slowly raise with memory and the mark fade like it had never happened at all. 

Port knew, for a fact, that he could do it if he really put his mind to it. The idea did not scare him as much as it should.

He allowed his focus to shift to the sensation of the raw burn on his thigh— the one he had given himself not long ago, with a heated fork like a four-pronged brand. 

The utensil he had used lay abandoned on the table beside him. It was blackened with soot, now, dropping to the temperature of the night air. The insistent heat on his skin lingered long after he’d pulled the scalding metal away. It was a familiar feeling, stomach-turning and honeyed and numb all at once.

A faint gust of wind like a tail wrapping around his ankle sent a soft wave of goosebumps running up his bare leg. The night was nearly silent except for the wind chimes like bells as he dragged a feather-light fingernail from his knee to the midpoint of his thigh, drawing a shiver out of himself. The hair on his legs rose like with magnetic attraction to the surrounding air. His chilled and buzzing skin, in all its minuscule peaks, was the texture of tongue.

He was not cold. At least not anymore, and not yet. The rapidly cooling sweat was still prickling on his neck. His heart was slowing to relative normality.

He stared into the flickering flame before him, the small form of Rida’s lighter gripped tenderly in his hand. His eyes went out of focus as it danced for him, mesmerizing. In spite of the breeze, it did not go out until he snapped the lid shut and stifled the glow that fell upon his face. In its absence, he let his hand fall to the arm of the chair.

He’d never been branded before, though the old circular burns littering the insides of his thighs were proof of the cigarettes, and the warped texture on the bottom of his feet was proof of the way Ginny had held her lighter there to make him squirm and scream. His heart rate picked back up at the mere memory.

He brushed his thumb over the inside of his wrist, pressing into the tendons there, feeling his fingers curl involuntarily. There were not so many scars there, and they were faded, but it was the first time she had ever put the fire to his skin. It was also the first time he had ever betrayed himself like this— and for that, they were special. He wondered if Sonny had ever noticed them and elected not to mention it. Probably. Definitely. He could be subtle like that.

Port wondered how he had ever thought he was being subtle, himself. 

He realized he was gripping the fork again at the thought of Sonny and everything he had done to him. There were so many things he wished he could take back. 

The flame was at his fingers once again. He dipped the tines into the heat. He imagined it was alive and screaming and he was torturing it, forcing it into the fire until it begged for him to stop. The image made something sick settle in his stomach— he could not tell if it was thrill or disgust. When he felt it was hot enough, he flicked the Zippo shut. Without giving the fork a chance to cool, or himself a chance to rethink, he pressed the metal to his flesh.

It burned. God, it burned like a motherfucker. A little taste of hellfire.

He kept it there until he could bear it no longer. He tore the fork away, teeth clenched. He shut his eyes and pressed the back of his head to the rough wall behind him, basking in the pain. He inhaled deeply, breathing through it. It felt sticky, almost, if pain could even be such a thing. Like hot tar or syrup clinging to his skin. 

He deserved the pain, of course— even if it would not atone for anything. He liked to think of it as proof that he was still alive. Gore played out behind his eyelids. Barrel to temple. Brains on carpet. Blood from nose.

Eyes open, he looked at what he had done to himself. The burns were raw and blistering. Three sets of uneven four-pronged shapes marring his leg. 

He decided he was finished. Somehow it was not as satisfying when he did it to himself. Ginny would not have waited for him to be ready before bestowing him another mark. She would’ve had him pleading for her to stop, or wait, or at least give me a second to breathe.

He should not be out here, outside, at all. But everyone was asleep, and no one was here to tell him no.

Scarcely any light filtered into the backyard from the street that ran along the front of the house. Port thought he might be on the very edge of the city. He knew beyond the fence was desert. Beyond that were mountains. Beyond that…?

The lighter went in his pocket. The soot-covered fork, too. He stood from the chair. The fabric of his shorts, which had been hiked up, slipped down his thigh and brushed against the burns in a distracting way. Every step and swish of fabric stung all over again, breath-catching pain that made him wince. He told himself to embrace it.

Port pressed his hand to the old wooden gate until a gap appeared wide enough for him to fit through. Though his feet were planted firmly on the ground, he felt he was standing on a ledge. Fighting vertigo and the assured plummet, he crossed the threshold. Confined no longer. 

He nudged the gate shut behind him. For the first time in five years, for the first time in all the life he could remember, there was nobody he needed to follow. His head spun.

It was very dark out, but the moon offered just enough light to see the western landscape spread out before him. Barely, just barely, he could make out the mountain peaks in the haze, scraping the firmament. He wanted to go there.

Once he passed the wooden telephone poles, he had left the realm of man-made creation. The sound of the spinning wind chimes faded into the ether. There were only cacti, bushes, dry trees, and a whole lot of rocks and sand. There were surely creatures as well, out of sight, scuttling or slithering away from his footfalls. Maybe he would step on an unsuspecting serpent. Maybe it would send venom into his veins. He did not particularly care. His body moved of its own accord. He was little more than the thin vapor that permeated his limbs.

A sharp scrape at his ankle momentarily distracted him from the insistent burning on his thigh. Fangs, he thought— razor-sharp pinpoints. He pulled away instinctively, looking to see what had hurt him. Not a snake, but a cactus. 

He knelt and used the lighter to bestow enough light to see the minuscule spines sticking out of his skin, each one the width of a strand of hair. He doubted he would have much luck trying to remove them with his fingers, so he accepted that they would have to stay. That was fine. He kept going. 

He did not know how long he had been walking towards the horizon when a coyote’s distant howl like a mourning cry traveled across the land and cut through his haze. It struck a cold fear into him that, wrapped in his blanket of numbness, he had forgotten he was capable of. He froze in place, halfway between steps. 

A second, high-pitched howl, from a different direction. Suddenly the idea of walking until he could touch heaven did not seem so appealing anymore. He noticed he was cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, taken by a shiver. His heart beat rabbit-quick.

When he turned around, the house was simultaneously further and closer than he had expected it to be. He would not have been able to estimate the distance if he tried. The walk of shame back to the glowing beacon of the neighborhood was like wading through water or shifting through a dream, no matter how hastily he moved. 

It hardly seemed to draw any nearer until seconds, minutes, or hours later when he realized the fence was already directly before his eyes. He had been to the other side, and now wanted to return. He pressed his hand to the gate once again, but it did not budge. The latch had closed.

Well, there was nothing to do but climb it. He tested his weight on the horizontal slat of wood running near the bottom of the fence, a perfect foothold. It seemed sturdy enough, so he stepped on to it, only room for his toes. He gripped the top of the fence and winced at the new wood splinters in his palms, blooming pain like the needles of the cactus. How could something so small be so painful? He hoisted himself up and swung his leg over, pressing his foot against the other side, then the other foot, and then he was back in the confines of the backyard. He twisted and dropped down, but lost his footing at the landing— he stumbled forward and ended up on his knees in the dusty earth. 

The marks he had given himself still burned like hell. What an insistent pain it was, impossible to ignore. He stood up, brushed the pebbles from his legs, and made his way to the back door. 

Inside the house was wonderfully warm, but it did little to assuage the chill within him. He stepped out of his sandals and crept to the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light.

He was a mess. It was obvious without the shroud of darkness. He wet a washcloth and swiped it over his legs to wash the dirt away, avoiding the burns. He wasn’t quite sure how to tackle them. Just water? Soap? Alcohol? He used another clean cloth to wet them gently, hissing through his teeth at the sting. Even the soft pressure sent pain radiating, though the cool water was somewhat relieving. 

He searched through the drawers, looking for some sort of bandage. He found a box of them in various sizes and a few small tubes of ointment. He tried reading the labels on them, but they were impossibly long and tiny in text. He unscrewed the cap of one and squeezed some onto his finger. It was clear, gel-like, and did not have any discernible smell. Maybe this was what he was looking for. He spread more of it over the burns and topped them off with the plasters. There. He was not completely far gone— he was taking care of himself. 

His splintered palms still stung, as did his ankle, but when he tried to pick at them with tweezers he realized they were too big, or the spines were too small, or his eyes were too blurry or his hands were too shaky. Horrifyingly, he found himself so frustrated that he could cry, if he only let the tears out. He refused to.

He threw the tweezers back in the drawer and just sat there on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, wondering what to do. This was his own doing, like everything else. He would just have to sleep with it, maybe, and shamefully ask someone for help in the morning. But he did not want to put this upon anyone, let alone have to explain how he had suffered them in the first place. Really, he did not want to have to face anyone at all. He did not want to look Sonny, Rida, or Talha in the eyes. He had wronged all of them in ways they didn’t even realize. 

For a few minutes he stared off into space. I want to leave again, he thought. When his eyes came back into focus, he realized they where they were aimed— at the porcelain. That was when it dawned on him.

“If you need anything,” Beau had said, “and I mean anything, you can call me.”

He had never thrown away the card the social worker gave him— the one with the phone number. He had not flushed it, nor ripped it up. Despite wanting to, something about it felt harmful, like within the fibers of the cardstock and its black printed text was some essence of the man’s soul that he would be destroying, and Beau would be able to sense it torn in half and hate him for it. 

Now, in his desperation, he was grateful he had kept it intact. If Port remembered correctly, the card must still be tucked within his old pair of grey clothes from the facility, which he had folded neatly and not yet had the chance to wash.

When he slipped back into his and Sonny’s shared room, his companion was still sleeping soundly in bed, covered in blankets and facing the wall so that all Port could see of him was his black hair. He was not sure whether to be thankful for it or not. On one hand, he did not want to have to explain himself. On the other, it would be wrong of him to leave without a word. 

“I want us to go back to how we were before all this,” Sonny had said.

He had been unable to explain to Sonny, at the time, why he’d done it. Right up until he put himself into motion, right up until he did not stop himself, right up until the warm contact with Sonny’s lips, the idea was nothing he’d ever entertained before. The thought had been so sheerly foreign and exotic, that in that moment, he could not help but want to try it.

Looking back on it, one reason he’d done it was the hope that it would quash any misguided feelings Sonny was harboring for him— get it out of both their systems, as opposed to fueling them.

The other reason he had done it— the reason he hesitated to articulate, even to himself: He had wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, Sonny had the right idea. He’d wanted to see if it would do anything for him. He’d wanted to see if something would ignite.

It only succeeded in making him guiltier. And that was that.

Port really hadn’t made it easy, had he?

He opened the dresser drawer as quietly as he could manage and found his pile of grey sweats. He slipped his hand inside the folds and found it— the sharp corner of cardstock. He layered a warm sweatshirt over his clothes, stepped into longer pants, and peeled the dusty socks off his feet to replace them with clean, white ones. He slipped Beau’s card into his pocket.

The blankets rustled behind him, and he turned. Sonny’s eyes peered at him through the dark. Port froze the same way he had upon hearing the coyote’s howl. 

“Where were you?” Sonny asked. There was no discernible tone to his voice, other than the low and quiet inflection of tiredness.

“Outside,” Port admitted uneasily.

Sonny’s gaze flicked up and down. “What are you getting dressed for?”

Port’s hand tightened around the card in his pocket. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you left. Are you gonna answer my question?”

Port brought his hand to the back of his neck, cupping it nervously. He could not exactly lie about this. “I’m calling Beau,” he said. “I was gonna wake you up and tell you."

Sonny lifted his head, the concern that appeared on his face making him seem more awake. “What for?”

“I— I wanna talk with him. And… see if he’ll... take me out.”

“Huh? Where?”

“I don’t know, IHOP?”

“Are you serious? Did you tell Rida?”

“No,” Port said. “She’s sleeping.”

Sonny stared incredulously. Port stared back, unwilling to give away anything he didn’t need to. His ankle prickled, and his palms stung, and pant leg rubbed against the burns in an uncomfortable way. He subtly shifted his stance.

Sonny put his head back on the pillow. He had given up. “Okay. Whatever. Have fun.”

“Are you gonna tell Rida?” Port was acutely aware of his own insubordination. A year ago, he never would have even dreamed of this, but lately, rules did not feel so important to him anymore. This would be nothing in comparison to what he’d already done and gotten away with.

“No,” Sonny sighed, rolling his eyes. “I ain’t no snitch.”

Port dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Sonny only rolled over and pulled his blanket back up to his chin. Port took a final look at the rise and fall of shoulders before leaving the room and gently shutting the door.

Standing before the landline, Port turned the card over in his hand. He ran his thumb over the print, illuminated by the dim lamplight. 

He unhooked the phone attached to the wall with a cord like a curling strand of hair. Port stuck his finger in the ringlet, testing the elastic stretch. He held the receiver by his head and got an earful of the droning dial tone. He was compelled to wiggle his toes, feel the solid floor beneath him. 

Before his vertigo could get the better of him, he punched the first digit. He remembered the last time he had used a phone, when his hands trembled so badly he could hardly make the three button presses. Now was not nearly as bad, and that was some consolation. Ten presses. Ten musical tones. The tinny ring shook his eardrum. It rung once, twice, three times… Was Beau even awake at this hour? It was a stupid idea. He should just suck it up and ask Sonny to help him— face the consequences of what he had done and explain himself. 

He was close to tearing the phone away from his ear and setting it back in the holder when the ringing abruptly ceased, cut off unfinished. 

A faint click. A familiar voice. 

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

taglist:

@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi

@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @jumpywhumpywriter

@justanotherchangeling @masterofdumbassery @ohagany @oldspruceinn @paingoes

@painwithoutplot @palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire @sirnef-fenris

@string-of-broken-hearts @suchprettypieces @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox

@weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs @wollemi-whump @ziptiesnfries @yourlocalgaefae33

@zozgreenery

[doumidas]

sickens him in practice

[deerslayer14]

Playing darts with defiant stoic whumpee

[oddsconvert]

Declan, my bloodbag whumpee from my series 'Shattered'! 🩸⛓️

---

Commissioned from the AMAZING AND BEYOND SUPER TALENTED @elgrajaz ! thank you so so much for drawing my boy!!! 🥹😭 It's beautiful, I can't stop looking at him!!! AAAAAA!

[whumpmania]

mghnnnfmmnhughhh

[muzzleboywhump]

oooooh please please take his journal away and have us witness it

I intended this to be a short little thing and now it’s 2,000 words and I have a follow up planned lmao. Takes place a few months into Aster’s captivity <3

CW: captivity whump, implied past noncon, strangulation mention

***

Aster shivered where he sat on the couch, curled up with his feet under him to keep warm. He could tell the weather was changing outside, it had been nearly unbearably cold in the basement lately. He’d had to ask Warren for more blankets, thicker socks, even slippers, all of which the man happily provided. Aster supposed he was lucky that he wouldn’t freeze to death down here, unpleasant as the whole situation was, at least he had that peace of mind.

He briefly glanced up at the TV, one of the few movies he had playing on low volume, before flipping to a page in the back of his journal and making another tally mark under the title of that movie. He’d officially watched every movie he owned ten times now. He then turned to a clean page, writing Friday across the top of it. He wasn’t sure of the exact date, though he suspected they were nearing the start of December, but Warren had let the day of the week slip once a few weeks ago. Aster had been clinging to that ever since, writing down the week day with every entry in his journal, finally able to maintain some sense of time.

He’d been writing in that journal every day since Warren gave it to him. He found immense comfort in continuing the routine he’d kept at home, writing a little about his day, his thoughts, making notes of positive things that happened to him. He used to make a list every day, marking down every single positive thing he could think of, everything that might remind him life was worth living, and as his mental health improved he started listing only one thing for each day. He no longer felt like he was clinging to a lifeline made up of tiny positive moments, but he still wanted to keep track of the notable ones.

-Monday, Warren brought me dessert. Blueberry cheesecake. Still unsure whether he makes these himself or buys them.

-Tuesday, I made 26 paper stars in total. Will need to ask Warren for a jar to store them.

-Wednesday, Warren brought me thicker blankets to deal with the cold. One of them has a beautiful floral pattern.

-Thursday, we watched a movie with dinner, The Last Unicorn. My favorite.

-Friday, Warren let me sleep in. I don’t mind skipping breakfast if it means I get to sleep alone once he’s left me.

He still had bruises from the night before, the usual around his wrists from struggling, on his hips, but this time around his neck as well. Warren didn’t usually strangle him, but he seemed to want to try something different last night- with no warning to Aster, of course. He’d hated it, in fact he’d already told Warren once that he did not like it during sex, but Aster suspected that’s exactly why he did it.

I’ve been alone all day today. It’s been nice, relaxing really. I’ve watched every movie I own ten times now. I think I’ll need to ask Warren for more soon, but I need a break first. He always wants something in return and last night was too rough for me.

He looked up as he heard footsteps above him, Warren must’ve gotten home. Aster didn’t look forward to his arrival, but he knew it was inevitable. He didn’t find it as fear inducing as he once did, these days it was more like disappointment. He knew what to expect, Warren would probably bring him dinner, he’d sit and talk with him, sometimes he’d even stay and watch a movie with him. After that, more often than not, he would expect more. Aster considered himself lucky if he only had to put up with being fondled all evening. Any peace he’d found in the last several hours would be ruined, Warren always made sure of that.

With the weather getting colder, I keep thinking about the holidays. I don’t think we’ve gotten to Christmas quite yet, but we will. I keep thinking about my family, I didn’t think that last Christmas would be the last that I got to spend with them. It makes me feel guilty, as if any of this is my fault, but I just can’t stand the idea that they may be suffering during the holiday season because of me. I wish I could tell them I was okay… well, I’m not okay. But I am alive, and I think that would ease their nerves somewhat. I would tell them that I’m okay anyway. There’s no point in making them worry even more.

He continued writing, even as he heard the door finally being unlocked. There were three locks in total, he still wasn’t sure if they were meant to keep him in or to keep anybody else besides Warren out. He stayed focused on his journal, he wanted to at least finish up today’s entry before having to deal with Warren. He never felt he could rest until he’d gotten his thoughts, his feelings down into words. The door opened, and Warren shut it behind himself as he walked in.

“Aster, darling.” He said, but Aster stayed focused on his journal, hastily trying to write down the last of his thoughts. “Aster,” He said again, but he still didn’t look up, he was almost done- and then the journal was suddenly ripped from his hands, his pen leaving a line of ink down the page.

“Hey!” He cried, looking up at Warren. “I was almost done with that!”

“You were being rude.” Warren said simply, closing the book. “I haven’t seen you since this morning, surely it would not kill you to put your pen down for a second.”

“Well surely it wouldn’t fucking kill you to give me a few more minutes!” He got on his knees on the couch, trying to take it back from him, but Warren held it out of reach. “It’s not like I’m fucking going anywhere!” He growled, and Warren took the pen from him as well.

“Stop swearing so much, it’s unflattering.” He told him, which only made Aster angrier.

“Oh I’m so fucking sorry.” He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I forgot my one purpose in life is to make myself appealing to you.”

“You have a lot of attitude tonight.” Warren said. “I’m sorry for coming back so late, I told you-“

“Yes, I know. I just don’t care.” He said bluntly. “Can I just have the damn journal back now?” He asked, reaching for it again, but Warren took a step back. He looked at the journal briefly, before giving Aster that look he dreaded, that hint of a smile that told him Warren was going to ruin his night.

“No.” He said, and Aster’s heart sunk. “I think it’s too much of a distraction. You could use some time apart from it.”

“What- a distraction?! Of course it’s a fucking distraction, you’d want a distraction too if you were locked in a basement all damn day!”

“What did I just say about swearing?” Warren asked him, and Aster groaned in frustration, he made one last effort to snatch it back but Warren pushed him backwards so he fell back onto the couch. “I understand that you must be restless, but if having it taken away makes you this much of a brat, then clearly you’re too dependent on it,” He said, taking the pen Aster was still holding as well, “You can have it back when I decide.”

“Warren- you can’t do this.” He insisted, sitting up and looking at him pleadingly, hoping if he just bat his eyelashes enough Warren would give in. “It’s not like I have much else to do down here, I sure as hell don’t have anyone else to talk to-“

“You have me.” Warren reminded him. “It would be nice to hear your thoughts when I come home, rather than you trying to keep them to yourself in this book.”

“But that’s-“

“Aster,” Warren said sternly, like he was talking to a whining child, “I’ve already made up my mind.” He told him. Aster hated it, but his eyes welled up with tears, he felt like he was having something as fundamentally necessary as food or water taken from him. Warren crossed the basement, over to his bed and nightstand, and Aster scrambled off the couch to follow after him, his chain dragging on the cement floor.

“Warren, please, I- I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” He said, hoping that if he begged nicely enough the man might take pity on him. “I promise, I-I won’t ignore you again, I swear it, I’ll be good!” He insisted, but Warren was unmoved, opening the drawer to his nightstand and taking the other notebook he had as well.

“You will be good, once you’ve learned your lesson.” He told him, giving him a cold look before he turned and started walking away, leaving Aster standing there, desperately wracking his brain for any way he could think to convince him. “Honestly darling, you need to learn to accept the consequences of your actions, you’ve been acting incredibly immature.” He said, a few steps away from him. For some reason, that word, immature, flipped a switch for Aster. His fear and dread quickly turned to rage, his chest hurt as his heart hammered away.

“Are you serious- of course I’m fucking immature!” He yelled at him, snatching the nearest stuffed animal off his bed and throwing it at Warren’s back. Warren tried to ignore it, which only made Aster angrier. “Maybe you shouldn’t kidnap a fucking twenty year old if you wanted somebody more fucking mature,” His voice raised even more, he was practically screaming at him, begging for a reaction as he threw a pillow at the back of his head, “But you like this, don’t you? You get off to this childish bullshit? I know you like ‘em young, just admit it you fucking freak!” He finally got Warren’s attention with that, he dropped the books right there on the floor and whipped around, storming over to him.

Usually this would’ve terrified Aster, but he was too angry to even care, trying to throw more things off his bed at him before Warren reached him. Aster had reached across his bed, grabbing a throw pillow to hit him with next, but as he stood up Warren swung his fist, punching him so hard he fell back into the nightstand, knocking the lamp to the floor. The glass flower shaped lampshade shattered on impact, but neither of them even registered the noise. He dropped to the floor, disoriented, he tried to brace his hand on the bed frame so he could get up but Warren grabbed a fistful of his hair, hauling him up so he could force him onto the bed. He climbed on top of him, straddling his legs so Aster couldn’t kick him away.

“Get off of me!” He screamed, somehow still angry after that hit. He was hardly thinking anymore, consumed entirely by the rage he felt. “Get the fuck off me! I fucking hate you!”

“Enough, Aster!” Warren yelled at him, he slapped him across the face, again when he continued to struggle, and finally he drew back and punched him again, the sickening sound of his nose breaking under his fist drowned out by Aster wailing in pain. He finally went limp beneath him, sobbing and gasping as he gagged on the blood running down his throat.

“Ha-hate you, I fuck-fucking hate you.” He sobbed, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. Warren roughly grabbed him by the face, leaning down so Aster was forced to look him in the eyes.

“You need to stop being such an ungrateful fucking bitch.” He snarled. “Remember- everything you own is because of me. I’ve given you everything, and I can take it away. I thought you would’ve learned this lesson after the kennel. Is that what you want- do you want me to put you back in the kennel?” He asked, it was more a threat than a question, and when Aster was crying too hard to reply, he dug his nails into his jaw. “Answer me.”

“N-No!” He cried. “No- no I don’t- I don’t want that, I’ll be good I- I swear, I don’t want to go back there!”

“Then stop acting like you do.” He growled at him. “You’re a smart boy, I know you know better than this. You know that too, don’t you?” He said, and Aster nodded frantically.

“I-I do- I know better, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll behave!” He insisted. Warren was still holding him tightly, studying his face with that cruel look in his eyes.

“I’ll believe you when I see it.” He finally said, and he got off of him, leaving Aster to curl up on his side, still crying his heart out as he listened to Warren’s footsteps retreat, only pausing once to snatch the journal and notebook off the floor on his way out.

***

Tag List: @whump-queen , @inhurtandincomfort , @blurryeyeswhump , @technicallydeliciousdeer , @thegravylady , @goosebumpsandwhumps , @xberylliumoxide , @theloveofwhump , @littlelambramblings , @sporadicallysentient , @yet-how-they-creep , @phoenixpromptsandstuff , @anarchypup , @auradastler , @whump-slump

Let me know if you’d like to be added!

[doumidas]

what appealed to him in theory

solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev

content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), effects of alcohol, vaguely incestuous implications (no actual incest, they are unrelated), brief implication of past CSA, sexual themes, argument between whumpees

port & sonny have a discussion about what happened.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

Sonny knew that Port was not going to mention the fact that he knew Sonny was tipsy, but Sonny knew that he knew, and Sonny had a feeling that Port knew that Sonny knew that Port knew, too. 

All Port said to him was: “Are you feeling okay?”

“Better,” Sonny said. “Better.” When he closed his eyes, he had the sense he was spinning atop the bed like a skipping record. 

“Good,” said Port’s voice beside him.

By the time Sonny and Rida had gotten their fill of fresh air and returned inside, they found the living room vacated. Both Tal and Port had retired to bed. When Sonny pushed open the door to his room, he found Port laying flat on his back, without a blanket, fingers intertwined over his chest. Sonny might have thought he was praying had his eyes not been wide open and glazed over, pointed at the ceiling fan. 

He was still in the same position now, not having moved an inch in the time it took Sonny to change into nightclothes, turn out the light, and crawl into bed beside him. 

“You’re like a brother to me,” Port said, unprompted. 

Oh. There it was.

Over the course of the night, with the aid of whiskey, Sonny had successfully pushed from his mind what he remembered of that interaction up until just now, and would have been perfectly happy to leave it unaddressed. It took every modicum of his control to prevent his face from morphing in a way that might reveal some particular emotion. The mask didn’t matter, however, because when he opened his eyes Port was still not looking at him.

“I love you,” he said by way of response. It was not what he had intended to come out of his mouth, even if it was the truth.

Port finally shifted, no longer stone, twisting and pushing himself up onto his elbow. Sonny thought his brown eyes were beautiful, even in the dark, in a way that made him want to simultaneously shy away from the eye contact and keep staring into them forever. There was a furrow between Port’s pale brows. “I love you, too,” he said. 

There was no hesitation in his words. For some reason Sonny was surprised by how unflinchingly he said it, even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it from him— but never so blatantly, never face-to-face like this. Only ever in the dead of night, Port’s lips pressed to his hair or near his ear, whispered in soft or scary moments. He’d figured Port might find it difficult to say in any other context.

“Okay,” Sonny said.

Port sat up fully and interlaced his fingers in his lap. One of his thumbs brushed over the other, running along the fingernail. Sonny could not see too well from this angle or in the darkness, but he knew from every past sneaking glance at Port’s nimble hands that the nail was warped, like dented sheet metal or the rippling surface of a pond. 

“I’ve been thinking about the files,” Port said.

It took Sonny a moment to realize what he was referring to, with the sudden non-sequitur. Those redacted documents. Port hadn’t seemed very interested at all two days ago. At this point, Sonny was done with them, too. “What about them?”

“I think… I get why you wanna know more about who you are.”

Sonny shook his head minutely, listening to the soft scratching sound of his hair rubbing against the cotton pillowcase. “I don’t care anymore,” Sonny said. “I decided I don’t want to know.”

Port stopped rubbing at his thumbnail. “Really? Why?”

Sonny turned his face away, frustrated. He had not intended to continue thinking about this at all, let alone put it to words for Port’s benefit. Sonny cursed his stupid fucking immune system and his own self and every single circumstance that had led up to this moment. “Yesterday…” he said through his teeth, “…in the bathroom, it brought up some shit I don’t really wanna think about. I don’t wanna look back at all, including anything in those files. I’m done with all of it.” 

When Sonny turned back, Port was looking slightly pained, some discomforted emotion pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were very still, aimed at some spot on the blanket, as he looked for words to say. “Did… did you know who I was?” he asked.

Fucking embarrassing. Sonny pressed his palm to his forehead, fingers in his bangs, and groaned. “Forget it happened.”

“Did you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.” He felt a little fuzzy right now, like he might dissolve into the bedsheets. 

Port rubbed at the back of his neck, over the delicate collar. “Y’know, family… has been on my mind, lately,” he said haltingly. “And I just feel like I should tell you… You’re family to me.” The look he was giving Sonny was something a little wide-eyed, a frightened sort of sincerity.

Sonny didn’t want to look at it. He brought his other hand to his face and pressed both palms to his eyes, scoffing. “Do you always have to talk around things like this?” The pressure had stars exploding behind his eyelids. “Just say what you really wanna say.”

Quiet. Darkness. “Did you mean to, uh, lick me?”

Sonny nearly laughed. Only Port would word it like that. 

It was something he’d wanted to do many times before, in moments tantalizingly close to Port’s bare skin, restrained only by his sense. When he was sick, he’d had none. Right now, Sonny thought he might still have none. And even though he hadn’t really known whose neck he was pressing his tongue to at the time, it did not matter. It was not the real question Port was trying to ask. “Yes,” he said.

Port did not respond to that. Sonny told himself he would simply lay in the silence and force Port to say something if he truly wanted to talk it out. He wondered if Port was mulling over his words right now, eyes still and focused in the way they were whenever he was calculating a response, trying to decide on a way to let him down easy. He could not help but imagine the way Port might be looking at him— as he hid behind his hands in a way that now seemed pathetic rather than resolute— perhaps with pity or apprehension or disgust.

His resolve for silence did not last even a minute. “I’m not your little brother,” Sonny said, even if it sometimes felt that way and he didn’t always hate it. “I feel like you put me in this box. You put me in this box and you refuse to see me any other way. And you think I’m, like, incompetent and… and immature.” The words were spilling out of his mouth.

“I—“ Port sounded weak. “I just don’t know where this is coming from.”

Sonny injected as much incredulity into his voice as he could manage. “You had no idea?”

Port’s voice was suddenly a little bolder, words a little quicker. “I mean, do you really think that would be good for us? Really?” 

Sonny was brave enough to pull his hands away and open his eyes. He set his jaw and fixed Port with a look he hoped came across as angry rather than ashamed, swallowing hard, fearing the bob of his throat was too obvious. Port’s look in return was something akin to wariness, nervous wrinkles under his eyes. “I don’t think you actually want me like that, Sonny.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me what I want.”

“I’m all you had, and you’re all I had, for— what— eight months? I’ve been the only person around for you to… to put those feelings on.”

“For god’s sake, stop talking.”

“You’re just starved for—“

“Shut up!”

“—for that sort of stuff. You’re a romantic sort of person…” Port had started to drawl out his words, and his eyes could not stick to a single spot for more than a few seconds, rolling all over the room— landing everywhere except on Sonny. “…and I think you’re misinterpreting your love for me.” 

Sonny could feel the heat rising to his face and sweeping over his entire body like a fiery alcohol flush. He burned. He could imagine too well the thought going through Port’s head: This stupid child doesn’t know what he wants. Sonny remembered they were not alone in the house and had the restraint not to raise his voice. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed.

Port’s eyes steadied, looking down at him, and Sonny realized it was ridiculous to be laying flat on his back having this conversation. He sat up, rising to Port’s level. 

“I’m not trying to put words in your mouth,” Port said, shrinking away. “I just…”

He did not care for whatever stupid explanation Port would try to give. “Why did you even bring this up in the first place?” he asked, throwing his hands up. “What are you getting out of it? Do you get hard to the thought of humiliating me?”

Something cracked in Port’s expression, then. Sonny could not stop himself from continuing.

“You want me to answer your question? No, I don’t think it would be a good thing for us. Which is why I’ve never fucking brought it up before!” His hands balled into fists. “I was sick, man. I wasn’t thinking when I did it. And if you’re really as oblivious as you say you are, you never, ever would’ve known, because I was never going to bring it up.” 

Port just stared at him, mouth shut.

“Are you happy we’re talking about this? Is this making you feel better? Is this conversation productive to you?”

Port’s wide eyes dropped to his lap at the same time his hand rose to his temple. He looked heavy in every limb of his body. “I… thought it would fester,” he said quietly.

“You’re the one who was making it awkward,” Sonny snapped. “You refused to look at me.”

Port’s eyes squeezed shut, pained. The skin of his forehead dimpled as he pressed his fingers there. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and despite himself Sonny found some of his frustration melting away at the sad sight before him. “I’m sorry,” Port repeated. “I was nervous. And I— I scared you real bad. I really messed up. I’m just… awful,” he finished weakly.

This switch in his demeanor— the evaporation of all that condescending self-superiority— really took the wind out of Sonny's sails. He no longer wanted to shout at him or insult him until he broke and admitted to the ways he was hurting him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny asked.

Port stared blankly into his lap. “I’m a terrible person, Sonny. I just lie to you and upset you.” His words had a flat affect to them, like he was reading from a script. Like it was something he’d gone over in his head so much he had lost all the emotion behind it. “I’m even doing it now. I… I deserve…” he trailed off. 

His admittance of his faults was not at all satisfying, nor did it ring as true as Sonny had expected it to. “Stop,” he said. He felt bad, and at the same time, he was angry at Port for making him feel bad.

“Sometimes I wish we never met, for your sake.” Port’s voice was quiet. “You’d be happier.” 

That sent a stake straight through his heart. “Jesus. Stop it. This is—“ hurting me. No. That was not the right thing to say to him right now. “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re the most important person in the world to me.”

Port was silent for a moment. “I feel the same,” he replied. His eyes lifted, hesitatingly, to meet Sonny’s. In all their guilt, they were still beautiful. 

Sonny had told himself he wouldn’t try anything. He had told himself he would not try to take whatever his feelings were for Port any further. But, of course, leave it to himself to get sick and drunk and stupid and smash open the bottle he had worked so hard to stuff everything inside. “Is it really so impossible for you to see me that way?” he asked, against all better judgement. 

Port’s eyes dimmed a little, brows ever-so-slightly lowering on his forehead. “Still hoping?”

“…I’m drunk.”

“I know.”

“I just… can’t help but wonder what it would be like,” Sonny admitted quietly. 

Port tilted his head almost imperceptibly, face turning a little contemplative. 

Sonny did not want to be subject to whatever was going through his mind. He laid back down, head on the soft pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced, though he did not pull the covers up and did not close his eyes. His lidded gaze ran along the blades of the ceiling fan.

Port was unmoving for some time. Perhaps a few minutes passed where he simply sat there, Sonny sensing his stare.

Then he shifted. The mattress beneath Sonny dipped lower as Port’s weight moved closer to him, two points of depression joining into one. Sonny could feel his own eyes going wide and bewildered as Port’s arm carefully and deliberately swung over him, hand landing by his other side. Sonny glanced to his lean forearm, then up to his face. It hovered above him, expression unreadable. His wavy hair hung down from his forehead and over his ears. 

The last time someone had leered over him like this, he’d been choked to unconsciousness. The memory rose to his mind unbidden and unwelcome, but Port did not seem so sinister. In fact, Sonny had imagined being in this position so many times it was downright surreal. He could not be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Port’s face dropped lower. Sonny stopped breathing. He blinked at Port’s upturned nose, almost afraid to look him in the eye. He could smell the mint off him, feel his soft breath. Port was so close that Sonny could count each freckle on his cheek, if he wanted. There was the scantest layer of air between their faces, and Sonny would only have to lift a few inches, and then their lips would be touching.

So that’s what he did. Port met him halfway. And then they were kissing. 

...If it could even be called that. It was little more than a chaste, dry press, closed mouth to closed mouth. Port’s eyes were shut. Sonny observed his pale eyelashes, and the slightest twitch in his eyelid, and then Port was pulling away. It had lasted maybe a single second.

Port’s face was still quite close, brow furrowed. They stared at each other for a moment. Sonny felt like a weight was pressing his chest into the bed and at the same time like he might simply float away, or just spin forever and ever the same way he did when he closed his eyes.

It had been too quick. He’d lifted his head on such instinct and suffered such shock that he had not had the chance to savor the moment. He needed to try it again. He gently placed his hands on either side of Port’s head, over his stick-out ears and soft hair, and pulled him back in. 

Sonny tried to really focus on the feeling of Port’s warm mouth against his, focus on the heat radiating off his skin and the sheer sensation of what it was like to have this man leaned over him with his palms pressing into the mattress on either side of him.

It was not as he'd pictured this moment. Despite how many times he had imagined Port like this, and in ways more illicit than this, it suddenly felt too vulgar to try anything more. In all of his prevailing chasteness, and his still unmoving lips, Sonny could not bring himself to try and coax Port's mouth open or let his hands wander anywhere else. Something about it would feel corruptive.

He loosened his grip on Port’s face and gently pushed his head away to signal that he was done. Port straightened his arms so that he was no longer so close to Sonny’s face. Brow still knit, his eyes fluttered open. They were intensely pensive. 

“Did that satisfy you?” Port asked, after a moment. 

“Why did you do that?” Sonny asked. It was a genuine question.

“I wanted to see if…” His eyes slid away as he trailed off, aborting the thought. His head hung lower from his shoulders and he shook it side to side, hair swaying gently. “I don’t know.”

A non-answer. Absurdly, Sonny found himself endeared by such a Port-like response, even as it pained him.

“Did it feel right to you?” Port asked. 

Sonny hesitated, even as he knew his answer immediately. “No.”

“Okay,” Port said, with some sense of finality. "There you have it.” 

He removed himself from Sonny’s space and sat back so that he was no longer on his hands and knees. His expression was difficult to read. Sonny felt bruised.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Port muttered.

It had been so much more alluring in fantasy, without all these strange strings attached. Sonny wondered if they might be better off if this had never happened at all. It was too fresh to tell. Would it really have rotted within him? Would he have been haunted by the question: What could have been, had I tried? 

“No, it’s okay,” Sonny said, even though he still had not decided if it was the truth or not. “I think it was a good experiment.” Maybe this confirmation of his doubts would allow him to forget about it for good. “So can we move on from this, now? No more hang-ups?”

There was the subtle bob of Port’s head. The noncommittal response was not satisfying to him. “I’m serious,” Sonny said. “I don’t want you to kill yourself feeling guilty about it. And don’t feel guilty about what happened yesterday, either. I want us to go back to how we were. Before…” He swept his hand through the air. At everything. “…all this.” He was pleading.

Port nodded more deeply. “That would be nice.”

Sonny did not like that answer, but he simply lifted his arms to interlace his fingers behind his head and inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air. He pinched his elbows inwards so they covered his ears and acted like blinders, imagining what it would be like to squeeze so hard that his eyeballs popped out of his skull. He exhaled. A sigh. 

He shifted his legs under the blanket and pulled it up to his collarbone. “I’m actually going to go to sleep now,” he said, still spinning. But he knew he would not sleep. He would lie awake and replay the moment over and over again behind his eyelids, even as it sickened him.

"Okay," Port said. "Goodnight."

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

taglist:

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@zozgreenery

[whump-side]

Brace for the storm 🌩️

[roaches-inthecereal]

[uwuinhell]

[whump-queen]

The Brig

Masterlist: La Sirena de Sangre

Tags: pirate whump, slave whump, manhandling, confinement, restraints, cold whump, whipping mention. // Words: 3.6k

༻✦༺

Jonah was lost, deep beneath the waves of slumber, tumbling through sweeping, dreamlike currents, when a loud thumping sound suddenly thrust him up to the surface of the sea that held him.

Jonah’s eyes flickered open. The room was dark, save for a single lantern that flickered from its place atop the dresser. The sound came again—a heavy pounding—a thud, thud, thudding sound. Someone was rapping at the door. 

Sebástian stirred against him, groaning a bit as he rose from his sleep. 

“Mmnn..” Sebástian mumbled, his voice gravely with the remnants of his slumber. “Someone’s at the door..” 

He lifted his arm from where it had been, wrapped around Jonah’s body. Jonah turned to him as he sat up, blinking up at him with unfocused eyes. 

“Stay here, dear,” Vale ordered. “I’ll go check.”

“Mmn,” Jonah hummed affirmatively, burying his head back into the pillow. It was probably nothing. He was so warm here, nestled in the silken sheets atop the Captain’s luxurious bed. He just wanted to go back to sleep. 

Vale slipped on a robe and padded out of the bedroom to the main entrance. Jonah heard the wooden door side open, then he heard a voice. 

“Captain,” Voss’ low voice reverberated from outside. “We have a situation.”

“What on earth is so important as to wake me in the middle of the night?” Vale hissed. He sounded clearly irritated. 

“Ship’s headed right into a storm,” Voss said matter-of-factly. “We need you to approve the new heading. Alejandro’s already identified several ways around it, but you have the final say, Sir.”

Jonah could hear the rushing of the rain now, if he focused his ears to listen—a rushing wind echoed from the open door like white noise. He could hear the raindrops hitting the side of the ship, pattering against the dark window on the wall to his left. 

“Agh,” Vale let out an irritated grunt. “Fine. Let me put on some real clothes.” 

“Right,” Voss said. “And what of the boy? Surely you don’t intend to leave him in your quarters alone.”

“No, no,” Vale concurred. “It’s far too soon for that. Take him to wherever you’re keeping Sawyer tonight.”

“Aye, that’d be the brig tonight, Sir,” Voss reported. “Mutt’s earned it with his shit behavior today.” 

Jonah’s world crumbled. He was so incredibly comfortable and warm right now—it was the most incredible bed he’d ever slept in, truly fit for a royal. And now they were going to send him to the brig? After all he’d endured? He’d tried so hard to be good for the Captain. He’d earned this! Jonah buried his face in the pillow and groaned, wishing he could just disappear. 

Jonah heard the Captain sigh. “Very well. It’s not my first choice, but it’ll do. Do give him a bedroll, though, won’t you? He’s been quite well behaved this evening and I don't want him messing up his bandages.”

Jonah’s heart jumped a little when the Captain called him well behaved. He was relieved his efforts had at least been acknowledged by someone on this god forsaken ship.

“Fine, fine,” there was a growing impatience in Voss’ voice. “Just hurry up and get dressed. Alejandro needs that heading.”

“Come in and get him now, then,” Vale said, sounding far too tired for this. “And don’t forget the shackles.” 

“As if I’d forget,” Voss muttered, but the Captain ignored him, beckoning him into the room and sliding the door shut behind them. 

Two pairs of footsteps echoed along the wood as they approached the bedroom. Jonah hid under the covers—a childish instinct really—but some tiny part of his brain wanted to hope that if he just hid from it all, they’d let him sleep. 

Jonah winced sharply when the covers were abruptly ripped off of him. He curled in on himself, suddenly freezing cold—the open air snapped all that warmth out of his body instantly. He looked up, wide eyes dismayed and pitiful, and was met with Voss’ stony expression staring down at him. 

“Get up,” Voss ordered sharply. “And put your clothes on. You’re coming with me.” 

“Oh, I do apologize, darling,” came Vale’s voice from the other side of the room. He pulled the ruffled midnight blue shirt over his head and reached for a pair of folded trousers. “But I have some urgent business I must attend to now and I’m afraid I just can’t leave you here unsupervised.” 

He buttoned his pants and walked over to Jonah, fondly cupping the side of his face. 

“You’ll be good for Voss, won’t you, dear boy?” 

Voss rolled his eyes, but stepped back to allow the Captain some space. 

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah said, his tone exhausted and dismayed, nearly a whimper. But he obeyed, he agreed, he did as they expected of him.

Jonah heard the familiar rattling and looked up to see Voss holding the chain, shackles dangling down threateningly at him. 

“Legs out,” Voss ordered, cold and stern. Jonah obeyed without thinking, stretching his legs out in front of him on the mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut as Voss snapped the shackles around his ankles and locked them in place with the padlocks. Jonah felt the weight of them instantly—the freedom of motion taken from him once more. His heart sank in his chest. They’d never let him forget his place here, and the shackles were integral to that, it seemed. 

“Arms up,” Voss commanded, holding the bunched up silken dress he’d worn earlier. Jonah felt his lip wobble as he raised his hands above his head, allowing the first mate to slip the meager garment over his body. Were they really going to take him out in the pouring rain like this?

“Stand,” Voss said curtly. Jonah slipped his body off the bed, mourning the loss of those silken sheets. He shivered in the cool air of the room. 

Voss grabbed the thin gold chain that held the garment together and simply draped it around Jonah’s neck. No time to lace it up properly, he figured. 

Voss was growing impatient. Jonah could feel it, and it made him uneasy. He just had to be good. Be good, and they would allow him to go back to sleep.

“Give him a cloak or something, would you?” Sebástian said, slipping his coat over his shoulders. “I don’t want that silk getting wet.” 

Voss gave a low hum, not bothering to hide his irritation and urgency. This was taking too long, clearly. 

Sebástian tossed a bundle of fabric at Voss, who caught it and let it hang from his fingers before wrapping it around Jonah’s slender frame. It was a long dark cloak—smooth fabric draped over Jonah’s shoulders and engulfed him down to his knees. Voss tugged the hood up, and took Jonah’s wrist in a vice grip and began to pull him out of the room. Jonah spared one last look at Sebástian, who was slipping on his boots now. 

“I’ll see you later, darling boy,” he said, a fond smile curling at his lips. 

Voss pulled Jonah from the room without another word, and when the door to the main entrance slid open, Jonah nearly gasped as he was hit with a sudden wave of bitter cold. He clutched the sides of the cloak and wrapped it around himself as tightly as possible, trying to shield himself from the wind and rain as best he could while Voss dragged him across the deck towards the staircase that led down below. 

They descended, and Jonah had to walk slowly to avoid tripping over his chains on the dark stairs. It was warmer down here, shielded from the brunt of the storm, and Jonah was grateful he at least would be able to sleep inside tonight. He shuddered, remembering the nights Carlisle had chained him up outside for the night. The brig wouldn’t be comfortable, surely—nothing compared to the Captain’s luxurious cabin—but it was better than suffering the elements. Jonah tried his best to be grateful for that, at least.

Voss pulled Jonah through the corridors of the ship’s underbelly until they reached a room with a large metal cage along the far wall. Its walls were made of iron—thick rows crosshatched back and forth to create a grid-like pattern. More barrels and crates lined the walls on either side, resting beneath the lanterns that illuminated the space in a dim glow.

As they approached the cage, Jonah’s brow furrowed when he saw another figure was already locked inside. The man’s torso was wrapped in bandages, seated on a sleeping mat with his hands chained above his head, locked to the iron grid. Jonah recognized Sawyer instantly. The young man was slumped over in the sitting position—his head hung down limply, black hair dangling over his face. He appeared to be sleeping. Jonah’s heart clenched in trepidation at the thought of being left alone with him, but he found a tiny bit of solace that he was at least chained up. Sawyer couldn’t hurt him like this, even if he wanted to. 

Sawyer startled awake when Voss unlocked the padlock on the cage and the heavy metal door creaked open. He gave Jonah a rough shove, causing him to trip as he stumbled into the cell. His chains caught on metal at the cage’s threshold and he tumbled to the floor, nearly colliding into Sawyer, who sat back against the far wall. Jonah scrambled up into a kneeling position, ignoring the ‘tch’ he swore had just come from Sawyer’s direction. He could be as smug as he wanted—Jonah was not trying to incite Voss’ ire right now. 

Voss reached into a nearby crate and pulled out a folded bedroll. He wordlessly tossed it into the cell and slammed the door shut. 

“You two play nice,” he ordered, staring down at the boys through the bars. His piercing blue eyes now appeared light gray in the orange glow of the lanternlight. 

“Yes, Sir,” Jonah answered automatically, his voice small. He was still shivering. He curled his knees up to his chest and huddled in the cloak. 

“Could you at least fuckin’ unchain me so I can lie down?” Sawyer drawled. The layer of sleepiness in his tone did nothing to mask the irritation.

“You already asked that, and as I already told you—not happening,” Voss hissed. Jonah flinched at the edge in his sharp tone, even though it wasn’t directed at him. “I already said I don’t want you fucking up those bandages.”

Sawyer let out a dramatic groan in protest, but Voss ignored him. He walked to the side of the room, extinguishing all but a single lantern. Without so much as a ‘goodnight,’ Voss thudded impatient footsteps towards the room’s entrance and disappeared into the corridor, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Jonah sat in silence, grieving the loss of his comfortable accommodations. This was truly a dismal downgrade. He pressed his face to his folded knees, trying not to cry again. He didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, least of all Sawyer, who he knew would tease him for it.

“You can at least lay out the bedroll, you know.”

Jonah blinked and lifted his head up. He’d nearly forgotten. He nodded, crawling forward to grip the folded roll in his hands. He stood on shaky feet, chains rattling beneath him, and laid out the mat against the cell wall adjacent to Sawyer. He didn’t want to be near him, but he didn’t want to block the entrance either, in case Voss came back for them. 

Jonah settled atop it, resuming his earlier position, huddling in the wet fabric of the cloak and trying to conserve enough body heat to rid his bones of the deep chill that had followed him in from outside. 

Jonah felt Sawyer’s eyes on him. He looked back, unsettled by the unreadable expression on the man’s face. 

An awkward discomfort overcame him. They were alone in the cell, nothing to distract them now but the heavy silence and the pattering of the rain that thudded against the wooden walls of the ship.

“I’m sorry, um, about your uh, your wounds,” Jonah stammered out. 

“Fucking bastard,” Sawyer mumbled, and it took Jonah a moment to realize he didn’t mean him. “Voss wants to pretend I bring it all on myself, but the truth is that sadistic fuck likes it. Probably gets hard under his trousers every time he gives me a whipping.” 

Jonah didn’t want to say the obvious. He hadn’t seen what Sawyer had done to instigate today’s particular whipping, but based on what he’d seen of the young man’s behavior, Jonah was certain it wouldn't happen to him so much if he just held his tongue. 

“Is.. Is he like that with everyone?” Jonah asked, trying to gauge the probability of landing in the same situation. 

Sawyer scoffed. “Agh, he’s a right sadistic prick that’s for sure. Cactus up his arse, I swear.” Sawyer paused. Then, his voice lowered a bit. “But, he isn’t quite as rough on the others,“ a bitter resentment and a hint of dismay laced his tone. “Seems he’s got it out for me in particular.” 

He took a deep breath, looking down at his chained feet. “Though, suppose it makes sense, to a bastard like him. Anyone else would just quit if he beat them like this.. But I’m the only one who can’t leave.” 

Sawyer looked over to Jonah, who was staring down at some spot on the floor. 

“Though, I guess, now that you’re here, that makes two of us.” 

Jonah felt his stomach twist. He hated this conclusion, that Voss just beat Sawyer because he could, because he was a slave. Jonah was in the same position—was he doomed to the same fate, even if he tried to be good? It was clear Sawyer didn’t even try to behave, and Jonah had found solace assuming he’d be spared if he just obeyed and didn’t talk back. But Sawyer seemed convinced that his torture here was inevitable. Dread rose up Jonah’s throat as he thought of Voss’ whip, of the deep bloody lashes that lined Sawyer’s back beneath the bandages. 

They let the heavy silence hang over them for a few moments, before Jonah spoke up again. 

“How, how long have you… been here? On the ship, I mean.”

“Tch,” Sawyer turned his head. “Fuck’s it to you, anyway?”

“Oh, um, I’m sorry,” Jonah deflated. He was just trying to make conversation. Trying to learn more, if he could. He didn’t want to make Sawyer mad, but he needed to figure out how he could avoid the same fate as the ship’s resident whipping boy.

Sawyer sighed, relenting. “‘Bout two years,” he said. “They captured the vessel that held my contract—I used to be a paid man, you know—killed most of the men, sold another few to other ships, but the Captain kept me for whatever fucking reason.” Sawyer paused, and Jonah let the silence form between them, listening intently. “Haven't stepped foot on the land since the day I was captured.” 

Jonah’s heart sank ever further down into his gut. “They- They don’t even let you off the ship? Not ever??” He was trying to suppress the panic that crawled up his throat now. How on earth would he ever escape if they didn’t even let him on land at ports? 

Sawyer gave a grave chuckle. “No, fucking pricks just chain me to the mast while they all go ashore and fuck around. Or lock me up down here. Must be fuckin’ nice for them though,” he said bitterly.

Jonah thought of the shore, the sand between his toes, the waves kissing the land—the trees and the birds, the bustle of a morning market, the music of a tavern fiddler. He’d only been off land for a day, and he already missed it all so much it hurt. The knowledge that he didn’t know when, or even if, he would ever see any of it again made his throat clench up and moisture prick at his lashes. Don’t cry in front of Sawyer. 

“We’ll— We’ll do it,” Jonah swore, finally looking up at Sawyer. “We’ll be on land again, together. We’ll escape, we will. We have to.”

I have to.

Sawyer gave him a puzzled look, then just laughed bitterly. “That’s nice, kid. You sound fuckin’ crazy, but it’s kinda refreshing, you know? I’ve been trying to escape this damn place for two fuckin’ years now, and every time they just fucking hurt me worse than before.” 

“Oh..” Jonah said, trying not to let despair overcome him.

“But that doesn’t mean I won't try again, you know,” Sawyer said, and Jonah’s head perked up a bit at that. 

“R-really?” he asked. 

“Look, kid, if you can come up with some kind of genius plan to get us the fuck out of here, then I’ll do whatever I have to to make it happen. But as it stands, I’m fresh out of ideas.” 

“I’ll.. I’ll think of something. I will,” Jonah promised himself aloud.

Sawyer sighed, the hint of a smile ghosting his expression. He leaned back against the iron bars, clinking the cuffs as he adjusted his wrists overhead. 

“Sure, kid. You just loop me in if you think of something. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He exhaled sharply, the hint of a laugh, as though he couldn’t believe it. “I’d be willing to try fuckin’ anything at this point.” 

“Just wait,” Jonah promised, trying to reassure himself it was still possible. “I’ll think of something. We won’t be stuck here forever.”

Jonah wasn’t even sure if he believed the words that came out of his own mouth, but it was better than the alternative. Better than sinking into endless hopelessness and despair. He had to remain alert, had to be ready for any opportunity to present itself. He had to grab it by the throat and jump at any chance fate would gift him. 

But for now, Jonah could do little more than shiver in the damp cloak. At least they’d given him a bedroll, so he wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare wooden floor. 

Sawyer studied Jonah’s huddled form as the silence stretched between them once more. 

“You look cold,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jonah mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric as he pressed his face into his bent knees. 

Sawyer sighed again. “Look, kid, we’d be warmer if we were closer together. Share body heat and all that.” 

Jonah looked up at him suddenly. “What— What are you saying, exactly?”

Sawyer rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me— Look, I’m not some blushing bride, okay. Just get over here and you can, like. Lean back against me. I can’t use my arms, but… you’d be warmer that way.” 

Jonah looked at Sawyer like he’d just grown a second head. Did he really just ask Jonah to fucking cuddle? Sawyer seemed like he’d try and bite anyone that came near him. He was practically feral in front of the crew. But perhaps Jonah was different. They did share a fate after all. Jonah shuddered against the cold for a moment longer, then thought, ‘Fuck it.’ 

“If you bite me, I’ll fucking punch you,” Jonah mumbled, climbing off the bed roll to drag it over next to Sawyer. 

Sawyer chuckled, his chains rattling a bit as he twisted his arms. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ bite you, kid. Jesus, you really think I’m some kinda rabid fuckin’ animal, huh?”

“No!” Jonah backtracked. “I just— You...” Jonah trailed off, not sure how to finish his sentence without offending the other man. 

Sawyer chuckled. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, kid. No biting, okay? Promise.” He flashed a smile. Jonah thought it was likely meant to be reassuring, but maybe he was just too jumpy from the day’s events, for Jonah thought he looked like a fox who’d just spotted an unsuspecting mouse. 

Nonetheless, Jonah was freezing in here, and beggars couldn’t exactly be choosers. He settled himself upon the bedroll and tentatively scooted closer to Sawyer, until his shoulder touched the man’s bandaged torso. 

“I’m not gonna bite you, Jonah,” Sawyer said again, a hint of impatience at the boy’s hesitation. “Can’t even touch you like this.”

“I— I know,” Jonah said, leaning up against him. He couldn’t lie, it felt nice. Not nearly as nice as being wrapped up in those silken sheets, but nice enough to warm his body up a bit. 

Jonah maneuvered the cloak around to his front to act as a blanket, sliding the fabric over himself and Sawyer, hoping to trap their body heat together. When the blanket was situated, Jonah’s arm instinctively wrapped around Sawyer’s warm torso. He flinched when Sawyer hissed in pain as Jonah gripped his side. 

“Shit!” Jonah grimaced. “Sorry–”

“‘Ss’okay, kid,” Sawyer’s voice sounded strained. “Just, yeah, uh, mind the lashes, could you?”

“Y-yeah,” Jonah said. “Sorry um, about that.” 

Jonah let his arm rest across Sawyer’s bandaged torso without gripping at his ribs, simply laying his fingers across the gauze gently. Sawyer gave a low hum in approval at the adjusted position. 

Jonah still couldn’t believe he was basically cuddling with Sawyer, of all people, but he couldn’t deny that it was working—he felt himself warming up by the second. Their shared body heat gathered steadily, trapped beneath the makeshift blanket. The goosebumps on Jonah’s arms and legs settled back down into smooth skin—the shiver in his chest seemed to melt away as the minutes passed there between the two boys. 

Jonah leaned up against Sawyer in the dim lanternlight, listening to the pattering of the rain until his eyes flickered shut. The steady beat of the storm ravaged the walls of the ship, but none of it reached them here. Eventually, Jonah slumped over into Sawyer’s body, his head falling into his lap as he slipped beneath the waves of slumber once more. 

༻✦༺

LA SIRENA DE SANGRE TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll @victimeyez 

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@hihi24

[justbreakonme]

One of the biggest “whump awakenings” I guess you could call it came from a book I read as a kid where the main character was accused of a crime and declared a “wolf’s head” which was described to mean he was no longer considered human, he could be killed or harmed or anything by anyone and they would face no consequences. So in a lot of things I write, that’s a concept I think about a lot. It’s not that a character is being actively hunted, it’s that there’s nothing protecting them. The only thing keeping them safe is someone else’s decision to do so.

[spookyboywhump]

Pictured Nicholas holding Zander by the face with one hand and gently running his thumb over his eyebrow, his eyelid, up to his forehead with the other hand, and when Zander finally gets fed up and asks him what the fuck he’s doing, Nicholas smiles and tells him that he was just picturing him with an ice pick through his eye socket.

[whump-queen]

Dagger's Edge

Masterlist: La Sirena de Sangre

Tags: pirate whump, slave whump, held at knifepoint, knifeplay, bloodplay, implied future noncon, creepy/intimate whumper, dehumanization // Words: 3.3k

༻✦༺

Jonah shivered as he stood before the ornate, carved wooden door that led to the Captain’s chambers. It was evening now, and the sun's absence cast a chill upon the wind that nipped at Jonah’s body as it blew past his bare skin. The sheer, baby blue slip dress barely covered him at all, and he found himself nervously tugging at the hem of the skirt to keep the breeze from pushing it up and exposing him entirely for all the deck to see.

The sailors at their stations had already taken notice of him from the moment he’d emerged from the staircase from belowdecks, jeering and whistling at him as he passed. One man had even tried to reach out and grab Jonah’s rear end, only for Crowe to slap his hand away just before he reached Jonah, with a hiss that the boy was ‘for the Captain tonight.’ The man had grumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue further, and Jonah couldn’t help but feel a small tinge of relief at Crowe’s defense of him, even if it was only to serve him up on a silver platter to another man within a matter of minutes. 

Goosebumps raised over Jonah’s arms and legs, and the wind chilled the golden chain that had been strung along his torso, causing his nipples to tense up and harden beneath the thin fabric. He still felt a dozen or so pairs of eyes on him—the sailors were more than a bit distracted by Jonah’s presence on the deck, dressed up like a little confectionery waiting to be devoured. 

Crowe rapped his knuckles at the wooden door again, and when it slid open, Jonah felt the sudden urge overcome him to run, to hide anywhere he could, but Crowe kept a firm grip on the back of Jonah’s neck, and the boy could feel the implicit threat in that grip—the way it would tighten if he were to resist. He really didn’t want to get choked again. 

The Captain’s face slid into view when the doorway was ajar, and Jonah’s eyes widened at the way the light of the lanterns seemed to lavish the man’s features in their orange glow. He had changed his earlier light-colored tunic for a dark midnight-blue garment with ruffles down the sides that lay unbuttoned down his torso. His face was all sharp, dramatic angles—shadows cast across his forehead and the light seemed to cling to the tip of his nose and the top of his cheekbones. His skin looked dewy and youthful in the golden glow, and Jonah found himself briefly wondering how old he was, and what someone so young would’ve had to do to become captain of his own ship—a ship like this nonetheless. 

“Evening, Captain, Sir,” Crowe addressed the man. Sebástian gave a polite nod to Crowe before fixating his gaze on Jonah. 

“Oh my..” he mused, reaching a hand out to cup Jonah’s face. “You are just breathtaking like this.” The Captain smiled, as if listless, and his hazel eyes nearly sparkled as he gazed down at the shivering boy. 

Jonah felt frozen in place. He didn’t speak, only returned the Captain’s gaze and tried not to pass out from trepidation alone.

“Alejandro really did ‘im up nicely, eh Sir?” Crowe commented. 

“Indeed, such a little treat,” Sebástian smiled. “I look forward to finding out how he tastes.” 

Jonah gulped, the shiver that ran through him was from much more than the cold now. 

“Well, he’s all yours Captain,” Crowe said, giving a little shove to the back of Jonah’s neck. The Captain reached out and took Jonah’s hand, leading him inside the chamber. Captain Vale’s hands were smooth and soft, not quite what Jonah would have expected from a pirate captain. Though, he supposed, nothing about this place seemed to be what Jonah would have expected. 

The doorway opened up to a large central chamber. There was a large mahogany desk on one side of the room, a lounge area with a sofa and a few chairs arranged around a wooden coffee table. Shelves and glass cabinets lined the walls, filled with an array of treasures—ornate plates and goblets shone brightly in the lantern light, necklaces, pendants, and rings rested upon plush black velvet stands. A large piano stood on the far side of the room beneath a wide bay-style window that looked out onto the starry seascape. It looked truly glamorous—befitting of someone like Captain Vale. Jonah could see another open doorway to the right side of the room, which seemed to lead into a bedroom. Jonah could glimpse the edge of a large, luxurious-looking bed through the threshold. 

“Welcome to my chambers, dear Jonah,” the Captain said, a warmth in his voice that reminded Jonah of Alejandro in a way he found deeply unsettling. Alejandro had seemed ever so pleasant, so warm—until he wasn’t. Alejandro had nearly drowned Jonah for daring to resist him, and Jonah would hate to find out what awful punishment would befall him if he were to disappoint or, god forbid, anger the Captain of all people. 

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He knew why he was here. He knew it wasn’t for a friendly conversation over tea. 

“It’s very nice, Sir,” Jonah said nervously. Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair and he was being shoved back until his head hit the now closed door. Jonah gasped at the impact—he’d hit his head way too many times today and was starting to feel concussed.

“First rule, dear boy,” hissed the Captain, his voice suddenly low and menacing. “Do recall what I reminded you of this morning. I’ll give you one chance to fix it. How are you to address me, slave?”

“M-master! I’m sorry—! It, it w-won’t happen again, Master,” Jonah was close to tears out of sheer panic alone.  

The fist in his hair relented as quickly as it came, and the Captain let his fingers relax as he gently petted Jonah’s hair. 

“There, that’s better isn’t it?” Vale said, almost too gently. “Isn’t it better to do as I say and keep me happy?” There was a heavy condescension in his voice, and though he loathed it, Jonah hated to admit he was somewhat getting used to being talked to this way.

“Y-yes, Master,” Jonah panted, leaning back against the door. “Thank you, Master.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, it was pure instinct and panic—but he really was grateful to be given a chance to correct himself. 

“If I have to remind you again,” the Captain warned, “Let’s just say I might have to open up a few new scars on your body.”

Jonah paled, squeezing his eyes shut at the threat. ‘Yes, Master,” he squeaked, too afraid to say anything else. 

“Now then,” Sebástian seemed to recover instantly. “Let’s have a good look at you, shall we?” Jonah nodded, trying to still the trembling in his hands. The Captain led him back into the center of that grand room and positioned him facing the large window. 

“Stay,” came the order, and Jonah obeyed. Sebástian circled him slowly, like a lioness looking for the best angle to pounce, and Jonah could feel those sharp hazel eyes raking up and down his skin. The Captain’s hand traced up Jonah’s torso, gliding smooth fingertips over the lines of gold chain that held the thin pieces of sheer fabric to his body. The Captain stepped around him and that same hand slid down his back, so slowly that Jonah had to clench his hands into fists to suppress the urge to flinch. 

“My, my..” Sebástian’s voice dipped and he tutted his tongue down at Jonah, pausing his prowl to further study his back. “Badly behaved for your old master, weren’t you?” He’d already assumed. The tendons in Jonah’s neck tightened like strings on a violin bow. It wasn’t true.

“N-no! Master..” Jonah fought to keep his voice steady amid the rush of panic. “I- I wasn’t! I mean— I,” he was scrambling for the right words. “I always tried t-to be good, M-master,” he said a bit more quietly, a sheepishness lacing his tone as his face reddened in shame. He knew how this looked—all the years worth of whip scars layered over one another like brushstrokes on a bloody painting. The evidence was damning—and the Captain hadn’t even seen the brand yet—oh, Jonah loathed to have to live through the moment when he did. But for now, the pale chiffon seemed to just barely obscure the spot where it sat on his lower back. 

“Well, don’t worry, my darling,” Sebástian leaned in, wrapping his hands across Jonah’s torso and bringing his lips close enough to the boy to murmur into his ear. Jonah felt the Captain’s long hair sliding down his skin at their close proximity.

“I’ll simply paint over it,” Sebástian said, and Jonah could hear the dark smile lacing every word. “Just have to give you another few layers of lashes—really make sure that the marks you bear for the world to see are the marks given to you at my hand, at my command.” 

Jonah shivered against the Captain’s breath—hot on his neck, in the shell of his ear. He could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Moisture was building behind his eyelids, and he bit his lip to ensure he didn’t react. 

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. 

That perhaps stung worst of all—that even if Jonah behaved perfectly aboard the ship, he still had to suffer, just for what had been done to him by another man, his former master. Carlisle didn’t own him anymore, but he felt stupid for holding onto the hope that something here would be better. 

His mind returned once again to the brand. He didn’t want to think about what the Captain would say when he saw the brand. Don’t think about it.

Sebástian clicked his tongue, a short hiss of irritation, and Jonah instantly knew what it meant. He was supposed to answer. 

“Y-yes, Master,” he said morosely, trying not to start crying again. Fuck—why was he always crying. He loathed that part of himself—that it always seemed to be his automatic reaction. Why couldn’t he bite back like Sawyer? Though, then again, a lot of good it seemed to do Sawyer, whose back was in an even worse state than his own, by a long shot. 

“Good boy,” Sebástian cooed, running a hand through Jonah’s sandy hair and bringing his other hand up to cup the boy’s face. “I will make you completely mine. Every mark on your body will belong to me. Your every reaction, every word or sound you utter, will be only for me.”

Jonah wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer that, but he did anyway, just to be safe. Anything to be a little bit safer than he would otherwise be if he didn’t give this man exactly what he wanted. 

“Yes, Master,” Jonah said it like a promise, breathless words against his tongue. 

༻✦༺

Vale gave a practiced swish of his wrist, drawing a long dagger out from its sheath at his belt. Jonah winced when he saw the flash of the blade against the flickering light of the lanterns—he hadn’t even realized it was there. In an instant, Jonah blinked and Vale was holding it up against Jonah’s back, pressing the tip of the knife into the dip of the boy’s spine. Jonah’s heart beat like a racehorse running at breakneck speed, and he instinctively raised his hands above his shoulders in surrender. 

“Walk,” came the Captain’s order, and Jonah obeyed with a squeak of fear, allowing himself to be steered towards the doorway that he knew led to the bedroom. 

Inside was a slightly less large but nonetheless luxuriously designed room. A large bed sat on one side of it, covered with a plush, red satin comforter and adorned with a plethora of decorative pillows. The bed was flanked by intricately carved dual nightstands, atop which rested two hand-blown glass oil lamps—the glass had been blown in such a way to create the image of two birds taking flight. Jonah took note of how expensive they must have been. The whole room frightened him with how easy delicate things like the lamps would be to break. If he were to tip one over— Stop. Don’t think about it. He had to shove the thought of it away—he was only scaring himself with hypotheticals. He needed to take in his surroundings while he still could.

A long dressing bench, plush and upholstered, rested at the foot of the bed. On the other side of the room stood a large wardrobe and a tall, ornate mirror, its frame adorned with gold and jewels. It felt like the room would belong to a king or a prince of one of the many kingdoms beyond the great Atlantic. Jonah had only read of them in books before. He’d never been anywhere half as nice as this, and was afraid to touch anything at all. 

But the tip of the knife pressed him forward. His body obeyed the knife’s edge almost eagerly, melting into something malleable and moldable with its every movement. With every bit of pressure, the knife easily pushed him forward as if its wielder were a puppeteer, holding Jonah’s limp body aloft on tiny strings. 

“Sit,” Vale ordered when Jonah had been pushed up to the dressing bench. Jonah waited until the tip of the blade no longer pressed into his skin before he slowly turned. He sat obediently, trying and failing not to fidget with the hem of the dress. It was far too short—he was still clinging for any scrap of modesty he could get. 

The way Sebástian’s eyes slid over his body as he loomed down over the boy promised anything but modesty. The Captain held his hand out to run the blade up Jonah’s exposed chest. He slid it upwards, and Jonah let out a tiny gasp when the dagger’s edge caught on the boy’s sharp collarbone and left trickling beads of blood in its wake, before rising to tilt Jonah’s chin up to force him to look up into his master’s hungry visage. Jonah clenched his fists into the fabric of the dress and tried not to move—not to breathe—as the knife’s point slowly pressed against the thin layers of skin beneath his jawline. 

“I collect all sorts of treasures here, as you can see,” Vale mused, playing with the dagger’s edge and forcing Jonah’s head back as far as it would go. “You, my dear, shall be my prized possession.” His voice was a low, pleased hum as he slid the tip of the knife up and down Jonah’s neck. Jonah kept his head all the way back, terrified of moving suddenly and causing the knife to slice up his throat. The boy shook in place as he drew in a slow, cautious breath, trying to stay as frozen as a statue as the Captain played with the dagger. 

The tip pressed in deeper, and Jonah bit back a small, shocked cry—that had definitely broken skin, he thought miserably. He grit his teeth and hissed as the Captain dragged the blade of the dagger down, down, to his collarbone again, before suddenly swiping to the side like the stroke of a paintbrush, leaving another thin, bloody slice across the dip in his collarbone. 

Jonah didn’t dare move, didn’t dare crane his head down to try and look at it, to see whether that slow, warm trickle he felt was indeed his own blood. He kept his head back, neck bared submissively, and let the Captain slice him open—and slice him he did. Vale left long, decorative lines down both sides of Jonah’s neck, just deep enough to get a nice trickle of blood from each of the wounds. 

Jonah was shaking in fear, tensing every muscle in his body to avoid twitching into the blade. A pained, terrified whimper escaped his bitten lips at one particularly agonizing slice, and he nearly winced when he anticipated the Captain’s ire at his reaction. 

“Oh now, don’t be scared little one,” Vale cooed, his smile all teeth, like that of a wolf discovering a rabbit in a trap. “I like the little sounds you make.” 

Jonah whined in fear at that—he wasn’t even trying to give the Captain what he wanted, it just seemed to happen anyway. Vale gave a low chuckle, seemingly pleased with the way his new slave boy was responding. 

At last, the knife left his throat, and Jonah finally, tentatively, allowed himself to draw a full breath. Vale loomed down over him, leaning forward until he was in the boy’s line of sight. He worried the tip of the dagger against Jonah’s bottom lip, using a downward motion to pry the boy’s mouth open and lower his head a bit. Jonah panted against the blade now, his head dizzy with fear. The tears in his eyes made the Captain’s face waver above him as if he were gazing up at him from beneath the surface of a pool. He blinked, and a droplet broke the confines of his eyelids and slid down his cheek. He didn’t risk raising a hand to wipe it away. 

Sebástian held the knife sideways at the entrance to Jonah’s mouth, laying the metal surface across the boy’s bottom lip. 

“Lick it clean, now, slave,” Vale ordered, his smile wide and his voice smooth like the dark velvet beneath Jonah’s thighs. 

Like a horse that could be spooked by the snapping of a mere twig, Jonah tentatively pushed his tongue out of his mouth to lick at the tip of the dagger. It tasted metallic, like iron, as he lapped at his own blood. When the blood had been licked away, Jonah carefully wound his tongue beneath the blade to polish its underside with his saliva. More tears were falling now. He just wanted the knife to be put away. He could still feel blood running slowly down his neck, mixed now with the saltiness of tears that ran unburdened down the sides of his face.

When Vale was satisfied at last, the dagger was pulled away and sheathed back into its holster, and Jonah began panting hard—realizing only now how little he’d allowed himself to breathe throughout the entire time he’d been held at knifepoint. He felt so lightheaded—perhaps from the sudden rush of oxygen after what felt like ages of partial deprivation, or perhaps from the sheer terror of how close he’d come to getting fatally sliced open—likely a mix of both.

“That really is a lovely little number they’ve put you in,” Sebástian commented, trailing his fingers down the fabric that barely clung to the edge of Jonah’s shoulder. “It looks so nice on you. In fact, I think I’ve decided not to slice it off of you this time, just so you can wear it again for me.” 

“Um, thank you M-master,” Jonah whispered, still trying to get his head to stop spinning, trying to will away that nauseating feeling—all his fear and adrenaline had mixed now with the relief that the dagger was no longer being pressed up against his skin.

“Now, let’s get you out of that so I can fully enjoy you,” Vale smiled as he said it, beginning to unwrap the chain from the fabric loops at Jonah’s torso. 

Jonah tried to gulp down the heavy lump that trapped itself in his throat—there really was no getting out of this. This was going to happen. The man was armed and he would see the brand and he would— he would— 

There was nothing Jonah could do to stop whatever happened next. 

༻✦༺

First night with the Captain will be split into multiple parts! I was having so much fun I got carried away with just the foreplay! Actual noncon will start in the next part, stay tuned <33

LA SIRENA TAGLIST

@spookyboywhump @livelaughwhump @phoenixpromptsandstuff @unforgivenn @befuddled-calico-whump

@bloodthirsty-squirrel @writing-for-gold @thesecretgardenofmymind @unorganisedalienrubbish @thekneelingdoll

@victimeyez @veilofvoices @the-scrapegoat @ladygwennn @atomicsandwichprince 

@hueningplushie @girlsdogmotif @hikari-hat @whumpedydump @morning-star-whump 

@whumpwhittler @thegravylady @ilyaswife