whumpyreader

Hello, you can call me R (they/them)! Just a reader who has loved reading stories on Tumblr for a while! And apparently writing...when I want to

[whumpyreader]

Whump Intro and Masterlist

All you need to know about me:

I'm genuinely so excited to support you, see you, and cheer you on and keep in mind I'm not a people-pleaser. If I comment or like something, it's because I genuinely LIKE it!

I'm an adult

I detest the publishing world and AI

I support indie authors

I have a masterlist Masterlist of all my stories

You can support me on Ko-fi here

I'm self-proclaiming to be the community's friendly therapist and believe in connection <3

I also wanted to add why I love female and male whumpees (because I think it's important): ever since patriarchy became a thing, women became forgotten. Their skills were forgotten, they weren't allowed to develop the skills they wanted, and suddenly society gave rise to these macho men that thought they were these amazing protectors. It's all a bunch of bullshit and whump is a beautiful way to not only even out the playing field but also explore new identities. Females in whump have these amazing back stories, grit to survive, badassery, and can be taken care of in deep, profound ways rather than being forgotten. And males can now be emotional, scared, weak, and need help in ways that aren't macho. Same with disabilities, sexual orientation, skin color, and more. As I have explored these "new" identities in whump (reading and writing) I have better been able to treat people for who they truly are in real life AND I see the bullshit all the more.

I have so many favorite authors here. Here is a list of the legends:

@deluxewhump, @whumpty-dumpty, @little-peril-stories, @galaxywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpflash, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpwillow, @writereleaserepeat, @secretwhumplair

[forbiddenchapel]

Melania: Devourer of Men

[annethecatdetective]

[justbreakonme]

The cover is my favorite part of this lol

[whumpyreader]

To the whump community

For those of us that use whump as a way to process our past, being neglected, and being hurt without much repair, I just want to remind you, if needed, that you should be loved no matter what. You don't need to be tortured and sick for a caretaker (aka another human being) to see you and love you. I think sometimes I get it in my head that my whumpee characters are so lucky. They're lucky they are hurt to an extent that they are given love. I think that if I was guaranteed a caretaker at the end I could endure a lot too. But that is so wrong to have to be hurt so bad just for someone to notice. I think it's why people daydream of breaking a leg because our society is set up to send caretakers when the extent of hurt crosses a level. Even if you're just sad, or if no one ever knew you were hurt as a kid, you deserve a caretaker. IRL, you deserve love no matter what. In writing whump though, hell yes, let's put our characters through hell! Just don't forget that IRL, you don't have to cross a line for me to see you. I'll see you and I hope you all are surrounded by people that see you ❤️

[shutyourmoustache]

After the hell of the past two days, this reminded me of what America could and should be about. It’s a little pocket of hope when our administration is trying to extinguish diversity and community and basic human decency and replace them with fear and hate and division.

[whumperofworlds]

Saw someone do this. Thought it would be fun!

End of year important people list (whump community edition!)

Reblog and tag all of your favorite whump creators, friends in the whump community, anyone in the whump community really, and let them know how much you care about them!

[whumpyreader]

This year I intentionally embraced whump! I made sure it was part of my life. I read so many amazing stories and want to tag everyone because I appreciate you all so much!

@wolfeyedwitch - before I even had an account, yours was one of the first pages I lurked on!

@classicwhump - really enjoying your story right now!!

@whumpering-heights - yours was the first whump blog I ever read and loved your villain and sidekick story. I hope everything is going well for you

@shydragonrider - love your stories! They are go-tos for me

@whumpty-dumpty - you have done so much for the whump community! And I secretly look up to you so much because you are a busy mom in your forties paving a road for the whump community. I think, when I was a new parent five years ago, I assumed I would have to give whump up when my kids got older. Then I saw you. I hope you're doing well and you are very appreciated!

[whumpyreader]

We Left the Trees

I gaze at the chimpanzee; the ones Jane Goodall loved over all.

I tell the mammal, "It was not easy leaving the trees."

I think, To be Prussian, dead after the Franklin Expedition,

Samurai, female, black. None of it was easy.

The chimpanzee has no time for me.

"You had no choice but to leave the trees," she reminds me.

"Of course, you're right," I say. Evolution was in charge.

Evolution needed me. For what, I cannot remember.

I am too far removed from my initial purpose.

With slavery and wars and racism standing in between.

All unnatural. All unnecessary.

"Who am I?" I ask the chimpanzee.

"I see nothing but space," the chimpanzee replies.

"A species with no purpose but to argue and feel quilt.

A species reliant on their goodwill as if this zoo means

something to me. As if our world is reliant on you.

As if you have dominion. As if we are mere symbols

for your gods. All I see is space, wasted."

I hate that we left the trees.

"There has been so much sadness," I say.

The chimpanzee raises her brow. "Those wars,

the deaths, the wasted lives in slavery were your own doing.

Maybe that is your purpose now: to free the world

of what you humans have done. To clear out the energy

of the haunted dead, to realize your place.

You are no more than a slug, no more than me.

Your brains turned out good for nothing; Evolution needed them for something.

Now you sit around, sad and stewing, wasting

your change to be what you were meant to be.

Return to the trees, if you insist, you selfish animal."

"What was I meant to be?" I beg to the chimpanzee. Surely she knows!

"Space," she says. "A tiny universe giving to the whole.

With the ability to rain with your eyes,

blow wind with your mouth,

thunder with your stomach,

run like fallen leaves,

stand still like a tree,

and dance like fire.

You have forgotten."

I nod, ashamed.

The chimpanzee turns toward her tribe.

There is nothing I can do to get her attention.

She walks away, her fingers and toes pressing into soil.

She sits further away, watching a butterfly dance in the wind.

I feel empty without her; but it is an emptiness I am familiar with.

Empty home alone, empty driving to work;

Empty single parenting. Cut off. No wonder I feel stark mad.

I was not made to feel stark mad. I do not remember

my purpose; but, surely, it is not to pay for insurance,

to barely fill my belly.

I hate my species for what they have done.

I hate the Franklin Expedition.

I hate the wars.

I hate fences and landowners.

I hate slavery and starvation.

I hate torture..

I hate bullies and shame.

I hate gender norms and expectations.

Where is my tribe? Where are the healers, the slugs, the lovers?

The universe inside of me calls out. "We're here.

We're infinite. We're all encompassing. We're untouchable."

"Is it enough?" I wonder. Is it enough to only have me

to rely on? An abuser, new articles, politicians, all ripping me apart.

Is it enough to only have me?

Did others ever hear this from within? Or were they too busy

claiming the earth? Amelia Earhart. George Mallory. Christopher Columbus.

Did they care? Or did they only care of their reputations,

of plundering and claiming the earth?

Was I ever in their thoughts, a poor single mother with no hope?

Did they want to make the world better for me?

Did any of the shoulders we stand on prepare for us?

Did any of them put out fires and cool the ground we were destined to walk?

Or were they too busy leaving the trees?

Maybe the ones that cared are now silenced.

I bang on the glass. "Let me join you!" I call.

But the chimpanzees ignore me, like they have a secret

agreement to keep the humans out.

A zookeeper glares at me and I shrivel.

I catch the eye of the chimpanzee

and she shrugs as if to say,

"You are the ones that left the trees."

[whumpyreader]

my incomplete thoughts on whump

Whump makes so much sense! Let me explain. Whumpers are inevitable in life. We've all had times where we felt put down, wounded, and unappreciated by a whumper. Maybe we've been the whumper. And here's why whump makes sense in my world: it simply lays out the human soul and what we're all made of. What we all need after a hard time. I can count on one hand how many caretakers have been in my life. I was brutalized growing up and turned into a hard shell. I love in whump that caretakers are rarely scared of that hard shell. Whumpees need touch, love, being seen, comfort! It's just so simple how to mend a broken soul. May all of you who feel unseen and not taken care of have a caretaker with love oozing from their soul 💜

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 9

TW: reference to slavery, mom and son talking about past abuse, wound mention

Syrup and oranges were the first things to break the darkness Brandon refused to let go of. Syrup because his nose was sure breakfast was somewhere nearby and oranges because the most enchanting color of orange danced in his vision. If he could, he would have stayed in this trance for at least a day. But, alas, his brain deemed him ready to wake up. He needed to wake up because his brain was not yet convinced that danger was gone.

Movement swirled next to him which was fine as long as—

He jolted when cold air hit his body. He was definitely still naked. 

His eyes peeled just as a nurse covered him back up with blankets from the side of his body. He recoiled the best his drugged body would let him. 

“Oh, you're awake,” the nurse said. He turned to his computer and typed some notes. “How do you feel?”

Panic filled Brandon's spleen. Had the nurse touched him? Was this a real hospital or Gerard’s clinic? Did he dream his own rescue?

The only thing that could convince him this was real was Erin.

“Woah, don't sit up just yet.” The nurse moved to push him back down but must not have fought too hard because Brandon easily stayed on his elbows.

A quick look told him it was only him and the nurse. Brandon almost went into fight mode. 

“This is real, Brandon,” a voice cut through his fear like a sharp knife.

Erin. He barely managed to glance at her before he collapsed back into the bed with a teary exhale. “Thank fuck,” he sighed.

“Yeh,” she smiled, setting a tray down next to the bed. Syrup. “You’re safe. We’re all safe now.”

Gerard was dead. He was safe. He had survived. And, hopefully, this was a real hospital.

“Where am I?”

“You're in a hospital, still not home, but safe,” Erin said, plopping into the chair next to him and pulling the tray to her lap. Her pupils dilated at the sight of her hospital-grade pancakes. She must be hungry.

With this body still half-dazed, he almost accepted her words and shut his eyes to let her enjoy her breakfast. But a thought that had been nagging him beneath his sleep popped up again. “How did you know where to find me?”

Erin scoffed. “During our session.” She stuffed a bite into her mouth and looked as if she had answered his question.

“Our session?” he pushed.

“Owner is a weird word to use unless you're talking about slavery,” she chomped out. “And he told you to strip. Also, the way you responded . . . it's like you turned into a zombie. I knew you had been through something unimaginable.”

“Yes, but how did you find me.”

Erin shrugged, keeping her face casual. “I started with my brother because I knew he was in the business. And . . . well, part of the reason I chose you as a therapist was because you were from my home town. I figured it wouldn't be far off to assume my brother had you.”

“All of that was real,” he mused to himself, reminded of that last session, those last few seconds of his ideal life. “Honestly, I was more scared it wasn't real and that I was having a panic attack in front of you.” He turned toward her when she chuckled. The light, happy noise affirmed to him he was okay. He was human. And it was definitely time to change the conversation. “Have you talked to Jake?”

“Gee, way to change the topic,” she threw at him first before sobering. “So you both talked?”

“Quite intimately, actually.” He dropped his gaze and landed on two big lumps on either side of him, where his hands most likely were covered in bandages.

Both of them quieted as the nurse finished with the line and left the room.

“I can't get myself to see him,” her voice sounded from miles away. “He's been convinced I've been a deadbeat mom . . . which was true for a while until I got out and started my career.”

A sudden heaviness pushed his body down. The nurse must have put something in his IV. “Well,” the l’s felt funny on his tongue, “after what I just saw you do, you're no deadbeat mom to me.” He relaxed fully onto the bed. “I want mashed potatoes and fried shrimp.”

“After hell, all you think about is food?”

“Comfort food, Erin,” he corrected. 

“You sounds drunk. Must have some drugs in you.”

Wasn’t it amazing? He giggled although he was very serious when he said, “I'm not joking when I say I want to gain a lot of weight. I want to feel healthy in my body knowing that fucking bastard is dead. Since you're some . . . whatever the hell you are. A secret agent? I need you to get me that food ASAP.”

She smiled at the devilish grin on his face and Brandon could have melted at how it felt to be responded to.

A noise froze both of them and Brandon realized, gratefully sooner than later, that he was holding his breath for when Gerard found him again. There was a man at the door.

“Mom?”

The gasp was tiny but contained more shock than Brandon had ever heard before. Jake stood at the doorway, holding his ribs and staring at Erin.

Erin didn't move, didn't even stand to greet him. “Hi, Jake,” she retorted instead.

“Oh, jeez,” Brandon bit, rolling his eyes. “Let's not be too sappy, Erin.”

Her gaze shot to his and, in one moment, she understood everything he meant. She had a chance to make the life she wanted. It didn't have to be torn apart because of Gerard.

Erin stood, placing the sheets down behind her. She stood up straight and licked her lips. “Hi, Jake,” she tried again. “How do you feel?”

“I understand why you were doing drugs, Mom.”

Completely taken back, Erin cleared her throat. “Oh?”

“To escape Gerard.”

She shot a glance at Brandon but Brandon was too happy to let her swim in the thick waters alone.

“You never gave me a chance Jake and,” she rolled her neck as if this conversation was giving her a headache, “while I can own your brain has only recently fully developed, it hurts that you always chose his side. Because, actually, Gerard and his predecessors were keeping me drugged since I was fifteen.”

“What about the men coming over and abusing me?”

Brandon clenched his jaw. Even if he could understand Jake's confusion and shock, he hated the lack of validation toward Erin.

“They were abusing me too, Jake. That was Gerard wanting to set the scene to be able to rescue you.”

Silence filled the room as Jake chewed on everything. Tears filled his eyes. “I thought he loved me so much.”

Erin's face filled with pity. “I'm so sorry.”

“How do I even get over that?”

“You don't,” Erin admitted. “It's part of your story and always will be. But you can heal so that it doesn't own you anymore.”

Well done, Erin, Brandon thought. And, because he was drugged, he figured it was alright if he shut this discussion down. They could talk later . . . when they weren’t in his room where he was bedridden. “I mean it, Erin,” he pressed. “I want mashed potatoes and fried shrimp.”

Her giggle sent him into sleep.

END

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 8

TW: character death, aftermath of scary situation, blood loss

Brandon was too close to unconsciousness that all he could do was watch. But a sob escaped him and so did a tear as Jake grew quiet. “Help him,” he whispered, as if anyone could hear him or even care to listen.

Apparently someone did because a door banged open and a gun exploded. Brandon knew Gerard's men didn't carry guns inside the mansion. Only knives. So, after a few bullet shots, the room was completely silent. 

Bright red shoes stepped into Brandon's puddle of blood. Knees knelt and hair dipped into view. A face ducked down to his, mostly covered by a black hood. The grim reaper was back to claim him for good.

“Brandon, can you hear me?”

The voice was familiar. And—

Brandon choked on a sob.

Someone knew his name.

“Don't make me slap you. Grip my fingers if you can hear me.”

A hand touched his own and Brandon whimpered, clenching his teeth against the pain. He couldn't take anymore pain. He was too tired and hungry and cold. “Don'hur . . . t’me . . . please. Don’havta slap me.”

“Wha—shit.” There was a pause as the fingers drew away from his palm. “I should have looked. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you. I only meant slap as in to arouse you.”

Death rubbed his arm and patted his cheek.

“You've been through hell, by the looks of it.”

Only one word came to his mind. “Slave.” Just in case Death was not aware of that fact.

“Fuck. Not anymore. Imma sit you up. Put all your weight on me.”

He was pulled out of his puddle of blood and up against a chest. They must have taken their jacket off because now it was wrapped around him and a curly mane of hair sprung in all directions. Was this not the grim reaper after all?

A hand pushed the back of his head to their shoulder and, for some reason, it released his tears. He sobbed against their neck, gripping their shirt to keep them there.

“You're a bit out of it, love. I'm not the grim reaper, if that's what you said. I'm going to get you out.”

He must have said that out loud but he didn't remember. He was just grateful they held him and promised him safety. 

“I can't carry you but I'm going to help you up. We'll get out of here. I don't have any service in here to call the cops.”

“Jake.”

“What? It's hard to understand you, hon.”

Brandon licked his lips. “Jake.”

“Fuck.”

It seemed to be the word of the day.

“I'm going to pull you to the wall. Stay sitting if you can. I'll go check Jake.”

His skin caught against the foyer’s marble floor, only partially slick with blood, as she pulled him to a wall. His rescuer left him and he tried to watch as they knelt next to Jake. His neck fell and he pressed his cheek against the wall.

Something in that moment came to his attention. A pain. An irritation that sucked strength from him. He looked down, stomach dropping when he realized he was still erect against the ring squeezing his cock. Fuck.

His brutalized fingers could barely move and when they grazed against the ring he nearly screamed from the pain.

Fuck.

The rescuer had picked Jake up by his armpits by now and pulled him next to Brandon.

“He's unconscious.”

Brandon dropped his hands in his lap.

“Need help getting that off?”

Brandon must have blushed or something.

“It isn't your fault, hon. I've seen much worse in my life. My eyes haven't been virgins for an eternity.”

Brandon supposed that made him feel better though he flinched violently when she took a step forward.

Her arms shot up. “I won't hurt you. Do you recognize me yet?”

He shook his head, forcing his muscles to relax.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” she repeated as she took two more steps and knelt beside him. “I'll keep the touching to a minimum.” 

Her hands were practiced as she gently coaxed the ring off. When she was done and Brandon came to his senses, he was surprised to find his palms pressed against her shoulders, keeping her far enough away.

 “Sorry,” he muttered, dropping his agonizing hands into his lap.

“Nothing to apologize for. I understand how scared you are.” She patted his shoulder and looked around. “I need to find a place with reception. And I need to get you medical attention.”

“I can walk.” The words barely left his mouth and he recognized they were more a fight or flight response to knowing something had to bend in this situation.

“Hon, you're barely conscious.”

“I can handle it.”

“Gerard taught me that too.” Her voice was full of pain, morphing her voice into someone he knew. She was wearing a hood but, even against the shadows along her face, Brandon knew who it was.

The wind left his lungs and he gawked at her. “Erin?”

She grinned. “I thought you'd never remember me.”

The sobbing came on its own accord and once it started, it wouldn't stop. Erin held him and patted him.

“Thank you,” he cried over and over. “Holy shit, thank you.”

“Well, you've rescued me plenty of times. Now I'm returning the honor.”

He nodded against her chest, another sob bubbling out of him. “Secret agent?”

“Something like that. Look, when this is over, I'll hold you some more. For now, I trust you can handle walking and it might be our only bet.”

He stayed in her embrace for only a moment longer, sucking in a breath and pulling what was left of him together. He pulled back and nodded.

“Ready?”

At his nod, she grasped his torso and helped him to his feet. His vision left him and weakness shot down his spine. But strong hands stayed around his torso, giving him time to see again and force strength to his legs.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“I'm going to let go.”

He leaned against the wall and let her move away from him. He didn't have much strength in him. Pain was eating away whatever resolve he still had and then there was the starvation and cold. Oh, and blood loss. Luckily, Erin already had Jake and flicked her neck toward the exit.

“Let's go.”

She walked slow under the burden of another human which gave Brandon enough time to slide his feet under himself to keep up. If there were any bad guys left, it wouldn't be hard for them to find the wounded group. Brandon left a trail of blood behind him.

They were not far from the actual exit though, much to Brandon's surprise. She led them outside, into a frigid night, and toward a mustang.

“Might be better to speed toward a hospital rather than wait here for one, don't you think?”

Brandon fell against the gorgeous vehicle's trunk and nodded against its cold finish.

She laid Jake in the back seat and opened the front passenger door for him. 

“Coming?”

There was absolutely no way he could still be on his feet. Unless of course adrenaline was keeping him there. It hadn't died off yet. “Did you kill him?” he croaked against the vehicle.

“He'll bleed out soon.”

I should have bled out soon. Brandon pushed himself up and eyed the mansion. “He'll come back for me.”

“I'll make sure he won't. Brandon, get the fuck in the car.”

“I have to make sure . . . ”

“Trust me.”

Erin continued talking but Brandon was beyond hearing it. There was no room for trust at this point, or whatever she was going on about. There was only one last chance to save the rest of his life. One.

Nakedness, blood loss, and pain were now just figments of some alternate universe when the warmth and the smell of the mansion enveloped him.

Distantly, he was aware of stumbling into the foyer in a broken body but, that was only distantly. What little adrenaline he had left gave him a clear focus as he came to a halt before Gerard's body.

He felt no fear as he knelt down and stuck a finger into the side of Gerard's neck. Either he would die here or live and, for some reason, he was okay with that as long as Gerard was gone.

No pulse.

He brought his hand back to his lap. His tormentor was pale and completely lifeless. 

Why did he not feel more closure? Where was the relief?

From out of nowhere, Brandon collapsed. Oh right, adrenaline.

“You idiot,” came Erin's voice from the doorway. “Did you not trust my ability to aim?” 

Brandon should have, he realized then. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Unless you want to end up like our mutual monster, I need to get you in the car now.”

She pulled his body up but he was barely aware of it.

The moment he sat, she wrapped a blanket around him and buckled his seat belt. 

She sat in her seat, turned on the car, and made sure his seat was heated. Brandon groaned in pleasure. Her voice cackled in and out as she called the police and talked to him.

He woke up only a few times during the speedy trip to town. And each time, he was laying against her shoulder, the heat turned up all the way.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 7

TW: BRUTAL, forced r*pe, manipulation, whipping, dissociation, reference to past abuse, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

“Ah,” Gerard sang as they entered the foyer. “Let’s get started. I don’t have all day.”

“What is this?” Jake growled, leaning heavily against the wall. His face was pale but he looked like he could start a fight and win with the anger plastered on his face. Brandon was sure Jake hadn't finished processing his uncle yet.

“You need to trust me, boy,” Gerard growled back, just as angry. Except he was fed and unharmed and took advantage of that fact by jumping forward in a mock attack.

Jake snarled but it was Brandon that fell into a crouch, protecting his vitals.

Gerard snorted. “You went against me, Jake, and . . . honestly I'm tired of defiance right now. I have enough on my plate . . . for instance, that bitch of a mother of yours. So,” he brightened, “we're here to prove Mico can handle anything and that you can lay off.”

“He has a brain injury,” Jake shot back. “I was doing everyone a favor by helping him—”

“I don't care about your point of view, Jake. I only care that it was defiant. You listen to me or else.”

Some man dressed in black kicked Brandon from behind. He didn't know if he screamed or went silently, sprawling to the floor like broken eggs. Gerard had never weakened him so quickly. Usually it was a gradual withdrawal of food and clothing. It was going on over a week now since Brandon's last food. And while he had been given water, his body was used to at least a gallon per day. He'd maybe gotten a gallon since he was kidnapped, if that. All of this was not to mention the injuries he'd received. 

“Your only job is to watch, Jake.” Gerard's voice was miles away.

“And if I don't?”

“I'll make you rape him.”

The words were muffled to Brandon but Jake's gulp after that last word was as clear as day.

A snap of a finger and Brandon was pushed to his stomach. He knew what this meant and it felt better to be compliant than fight it, especially with Jake around. He pushed himself to his knees and held himself up on an elbow. Hands wound under his belly and gripped his hip bones, taking some weight off his shoulders. But it also meant no cushion when—

There was no lubricant. Just a hard, warm member being shoved inside of him. Slammed into him, over and over while he whimpered and hissed. It definitely took a few minutes, long enough that Brandon was panting against the awful dryness and the motion of being forced forward and backward. The man orgasmed, pulled out then pushed him the rest of the way to the ground.

Brandon curled up on his side, winding his arms around his stomach.

“What else would you like to see him handle?” Gerard asked Jake.

“I get the point,” Jake ground out except now his voice was thick with emotion.

“No, I need to make sure you have evidence. I can't have you ruining more around here. The man you kicked out is up my ass about needing more time with Mico.”

Jake didn't respond.

“Then do I have a treat for you. Join him on the floor.”

Brandon watched as Jake pushed himself from the wall and limped toward him. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting far enough away to not touch Brandon.

Brandon flinched when, from his peripheral, another man bent toward him. A ring snapped around his cock and immediately he began to harden.

“Lay down, Jake.”

Jake kept his scowl focused on his uncle but obeyed, lowering himself to his back.

“Do your magic, Mico.”

Shit. Brandon froze.

Gerard must have assumed as much because someone was ready with the whip behind him when he froze for too long. The rawhide split into his wounded back, slicing his muscle apart.

He screamed, ducking under his hands.

“Obey.”

It seemed low to obey Gerard just because of one whip lash. But he knew Gerard. Things would get exponentially worse for both him and Jake if he didn't obey. So he crawled on all fours to Jake's side and knelt.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, feeling very lame it was all he could offer. He reached forward with his shredded hands to Jake's pants and paused. Jake didn't move, rather watched him with dull eyes. 

The button would not unclasp with Brandon's injured hands. He hissed in frustration and adjusted his position over Jake.

Warm fingers met his at the button as if Jake were really trying to help the rape along. But the moment Gerard noticed, another slice fell across Brandon's back and he screamed against Jake's belly.

“This is what I'm talking about, Jake,” Gerard huffed. “Mico can handle it.”

The button was now slick with his tears but Gerard gave him an infinite amount of time to get the button unstuck and Jake's pants down. He pulled them away from Jake's ankles and did the same for his underwear.

Brandon risked a chance up at Jake's eyes and was surprised to find him vacant, completely dissociated. Then it hit Brandon. He remembered Jake's confession about childhood sexual abuse.

“Hey, Jake,” he whispered, rubbing at Jake's sternum. “Stay with me, okay?” 

Jake coughed and shot forward, holding his stinging sternum and staring wildly at Brandon.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Brandon continued. “I'm right here. I'll keep you safe.” It felt silly saying the words, knowing what he had to do next. But owning he was a victim too, Jake was in very good hands. “You with me?”

Jake blinked and laid back down. “Yes.”

“Have you done this as an adult?”

Jake gave a small shake of his head. “Couldn't bring myself to do it,” he whispered so only Brandon could hear.

“That's okay. I'm right here. Just stay with me. I'm sorry,” he repeated, getting into position. He hated this. He hated human suffering. He was a healer, not a rapist. 

Jake recoiled as Brandon moved his legs up.

“Stay with me, Jake. Is this okay?”

Tears spilled down Jake's cheeks, into his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

“Look at me.”

Jake opened his eyes, tears streaming out but he looked at Brandon.

Brandon used a finger first and was grateful he did when Jake arched his back and nearly screamed. He panted, relaxing and looking back at Brandon.

“I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want this either. I'm so sorry.”

Jake relaxed even more with the words and nodded his head as if to say Just get it over with.

Brandon pushed his cock to Jake's hole and gave a little pressure. 

Jake's eyes lost focus again.

“Hey, hey, stay with me, Jake.”

“I'm sorry,” Jake sobbed. “Please don't, sir. I don't want to. It hurts.”

Fuck.

Another lash of blinding pain split into his back and Brandon fell over Jake with no strength to hold himself up. He screamed into Jake's chest then panted against the pain that didn't seem to go away this time. 

Warm arms wrapped around him and Brandon shot up, fighting against them.

“Mattie, it's me,” the small whisper reassured. 

Brandon opened his eyes to find Jake was with him again and holding him.

“I'm here. Just do it.”

Brandon's eyes were blurry with tears as he sat up again and nodded. He pushed himself inside Jake slowly and Jake held onto his arms, grounded this time.

Brandon began to thrust and the moment he did, the whip fell on his again. Did Gerard want him to stop?

“Keep going. The whip won't stop.”

Fuck.

Brandon forced himself to keep going, only pausing for a moment after the whip hit him. Obviously it took him a minute to feel the pleasure after the whip tore away his skin and, by then, the whip was landing again. He would never orgasm which meant Gerard was not going to stop.

Brandon felt himself losing touch with reality after only a few lashes but he could fight it. After several more minutes, he could no longer fight it.

He would have cracked open both of their skulls with his weight if Jake's arms hadn't caught him first. Brandon peeked his eyes open to find Jake staring up at him in concern.

“He's passing out, Gerard,” Jake warned.

“Whip him harder.”

“No! It's from blood loss and starvation. Whipping him harder will do nothing,” Jake protested.

The whip landed again and Brandon's neck went limp. From a mile outside his mind, he could feel Jake's warm cheek pressed against his forehead and Jake's hands still holding his chest up.

Then his world flew upside down and his back slammed into the ground. Jake was on top of him now and caught the next whip. He didn't even scream. He gritted his teeth and patted Brandon's cheeks.

“With me?”

Brandon eyes fluttered open. Why was he so tired? His eyes fell shut again.

Jake screamed and suddenly the warmth from his body left Brandon.

Brandon opened his eyes again and wondered if Jake being dragged away was real or not. He rolled to his side, a pool of red meeting him there.

Jake fell to the floor. Boots and fists flew into him.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 6

TW: TBI injuries, Gerard wishing ill for his sister, view of wounds, panic, r*pe

Brandon did not expect to rest so long. The only reason he knew it was days was because he would periodically wake up to different lighting from the windows.

It was his owner's bed. 

Brandon could smell him. 

He lay on his stomach, arm hanging off the bed, too exhausted to assess his safety. He slept deeply only to be woken with a straw in his mouth. He would sip at it like a crazy person then drift off again. His sweat was wiped away, his aches soothed. After almost a week, Brandon woke one day and his brain let him stay awake. The headache was still there but not blinding as it had been. His back and hands were sore and hard to move but had scabbed over at least.

Gerard was waiting for him.

Strong arms rolled him away from the edge of the bed and set him on his back. His legs were bent upward and Gerard knelt between them.

“There you are,” he smiled, giving one thrust to penetrate him.

Brandon was only barely awake so he gasped at the pain, wishing he could grasp the sheets for some sort of grounding.

Gerard moaned. “I need a favor from you.” He thrusted again and went to his elbows, flush with Brandon now. His mouth covered Brandon's but, thankfully, for only a moment.

“I need you to talk to Jake.” Gerard's eyes rolled back after another thrust and he moaned against Brandon's chest. “Remind him of his place. It appears he thought he was in charge here.”

“He won't listen to me,” Brandon pushed back.

The next thrust hurt and Brandon hissed.

“Now you have an opinion too? Jake is new. You should know your place.”

Oh, Brandon knew his place. He bit back a remark and simply nodded.

Once Gerard finished, Brandon was pulled from the bed, onto legs that shook like a newborn deer, and escorted to the basement. 

…

“You've got to be fucking with me,” Gerard grumbled, putting his hands on his hips.

“Fucking you?” His sister pulled a face as she spun from the window. “I'd barf all over you if that were the case.”

This insolent brat! Gerard needed to get rid of her. “Why the sudden coming around? You've never visited this often.”

She winked. “Maybe I never left. Maybe dear little sister needs a place to stay and has been hiding out in one of your many rooms.”

Gerard knew he paled and that she saw every second of it.

“Bother you?”

“One of my men would have seen you.”

“You hire idiots.”

“Tell me why you're here and get the fuck out of my house,” he tried again. Something was dangerously different about her. She had never been able to stand her ground before.

“I want to have sex and know you have a whore in the house. I want him for a night.”

“It's a him, huh?”

She mocked him with wide eyes. “I told you I never left. I've been listening to some delicious noise like a man suffering. Let me have him. Then I'll leave.”

Gerard snorted. “The only whore I have here right now is one I wouldn't share with you.”

“He's your favorite?” Her lip pouted.

Gerard wanted to rip out his hair with how fake and revolting she had become. He liked her better drugged. “I won't give you a whore to fuck. Get out of my house.”

“Then I won't leave. Good luck trying to force me out. I know you have pressing business to attend to right now.”

“You--”

“I know where your stash of drugs is. I'll help myself and maybe take a swim.”

I hope you drown. But something inside of him softened. If she really were still a druggie, he had nothing to worry about. A swim while he attended to business and then he would kick her out.

…

The hallway in the basement was lined with doors that would have tricked anyone into believing they were bedrooms. Really, they were cubes with no windows and no sound, kept dark to isolate whoever had angered Gerard.

Brandon had been in one before for two weeks. He scrambled backward, staring at his escort in shock.

The escort gave him a look. “It's not for you. Gerard wants you to talk to Jake.”

Jake was in one of these?

“I'll turn the light on for you.”

A door was opened and the stench of waste and blood poured out. It was momentarily pitch black until his escort turned on a light and a harsh blue hue covered the room and its contents.

“In you go.”

Brandon didn't even have a fight before he was shoved into the box. He held himself, eyes shut tight, and curled up against the door, convinced this was for him.

“Mattie?”

Brandon's eyes shot open and he threw himself into a corner.

“You're okay, you're okay. I'm right here.”

It was Jake's voice but barely. Brandon peeked open his eyes, surprised to find Jake lying on his stomach not a hand length away. He looked exhausted and hurt but not scared like Brandon was.

Jake wore only pants. His shirt lay under him like a barrier between him and the grimey floor. He had several swollen black patches on his face but that was nothing compared to his torso, incredibly swollen and the deepest black Brandon had ever seen. He had been whipped too but probably from a cord because there was no blood across the red welts on his back.

“Fuck,” Brandon breathed.

Tears bloomed in Jake's eyes.

“How long—” Brandon's voice broke.

“Days. I think.”

“Can you move?” Brandon was no doctor and his ability to move after a beating was the only assessment he used to figure out if he would live or not.

“I've tried,” Jake choked. 

Fuck.

And maybe he couldn't move because this was his first beating and he wasn't used to it yet.

“Why are you here?”

Jake's miserable whimper drew Brandon back to the present. “Gerard wanted me to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Jake's eyes closed as if he were already done with the conversation.

“He said he expects you to listen. And that I can take it.”

Jake's eyes peered into his soul. “Can you take it?”

Brandon knew he should nod and obey Gerard but he was depressed and it seemed to be okay to be depressed in front of Jake. Although he hadn't known Jake for long and it was probably stupid to already trust him. “It's been . . . easier with you around.”

Jake was silent.

Brandon sucked in a breath and forced himself to say the words he truly wanted to say. “Just don't do anything that will get you thrown out or worse. Unless, of course, you can walk away and leave for good. If that's an option, I suggest you take it.”

“It's not an option.”

Something softened inside of Brandon. Why was it so comforting to know Jake was a victim too? “Well then, stay on Gerard's good side. For your safety and my sanity.”

“Deal.”

“And if Gerard asks, I gave you a talking to.”

Jake's lips broke into a sad smile. “I didn't know he could be this way.”

Brandon pulled a face. “I think there's a lot you don't know about your uncle. But . . . in any case, I'm sorry you had to find out like this.”

They sat in silence for who knows how long. Jake appeared to have sunk back into unconsciousness while Brandon fought to keep himself awake. He had nothing he could offer Jake—no clothes, no water, no medical care skills. He himself was only just coming out of a week of delirium without food and enough water. And, if he was remembering right, Death had come to claim him. What was keeping him alive at this point, Brandon did not know.

Brandon failed to keep himself awake. When the door slammed open, he jumped in fright. Jake merely opened his eyes, not even flinching at the sound.

“Boss wants a word. Upstairs, both of you.”

Jake groaned, his face suddenly pale.

Brandon stumbled to his feet, barely strong enough to stay standing. He trembled and waited for Jake to stand up too.

Jake didn't move.

“Get him up.”

Brandon stiffened, throwing a look at the escort. “Me?”

“Obviously.”

Brandon took a step and nearly fell. “Jake, help me here, man. If I get back down, I won't be able to stand up.”

Jake's gears were moving in his head, thinking this through as if there was a way to not feel pain.

“It'll hurt like hell no matter what,” Brandon hissed. “It's just neurotransmitters. It's the same as when you feel pleasure. It's just a feeling. Pain is just a feeling. Choose to like it . . . it'll get better.”

Jake snorted but the speech must have done its job because Jake's arms began to tremble as he heaved himself upright. He cried out several times and Brandon bit his lip in empathy.

“Take my hand.”

Jake looked up and reached out, taking Brandon's offered hand. Gratefully, he didn't pull too hard or else Brandon would have fallen hard.

Jake swayed on his feet but so did Brandon. They shared a quick sad smile before following the escort up a few flights of stairs, the equivalent to Chomolungma in their bodies.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 5

TW: TBI injuries, slavery topic, forced haircut, whumper's pov

Why was the door opened?

The wondering didn't stay long in Gerard's mind once he leaned against the doorframe and eyed who lay inside.

Jake had his clinic all set up, like the big boy Gerard always knew he'd be. The hospital bed sat against the corner and currently cradled Mico and Gerard's mouth filled with saliva.

“Mico.”

Mico’s eyes shot open then he hissed, squeezing them tightly shut. “Yes, sir?” he mumbled, arching his back upwards. 

Gerard loved the way Mico was always trying to keep him happy and it settled a ball of sunshine in his stomach.

“Patched up?” He sat next to the thing and rubbed the stubble that had grown on Mico's chin.

“Yes, sir.” Mico relaxed his back and pushed himself upright, his eyes remaining closed.

“Ready for some TLC?”

Mico groaned, dropping his chin to his chest.

“What's up with you? Usually, you're more…touchy.”

Mico's eyes opened at that comment and he raised his head slowly to meet Gerard's gaze.

Gerard's stomach flopped.

The purple under Mico's eyes was delicious. The way his spine couldn't quite straighten. His fingers that trembled on their own accord. Gerard licked his lips.

“Feeling alright?” he tried again.

For a moment, Mico's brow tightened as a thought ran through his mind. But he must have decided against it because he dropped his head. “Sure.”

“You need a good pick-me-up. I'll take you to the bathroom and we'll get you fixed up.”

Mico was completely compliant when Gerard pulled him to his feet and pulled out his IV. The pain was obvious with every gasp, wince, and tremble. Mico stumbled forward as Gerard led the way to his own bathroom. 

His bathroom was more of a studio, really. Equipped with a salon area, Jacuzzi, and sauna. Gerard pushed Mico into the salon chair and stepped back, his gut flopping again once Mico whimpered when the cosmetologist came into view.

“Just a good shave and wax,” Gerard said.

“What kind of wax?”

“The kind I always ask for,” Gerard grumbled, frowning at the so-called professional. When the idiot only raised a brow, Gerard sighed. “All of it.” He'd fire them later.

“Right away.”

The cosmetologist started with a face shave and Mico was as tense as a traumatized man the entire time. The head bandage came off next and clippers fixed the overgrown mess of Mico's choice in hairstyle. He was moved to a table and spread open. This was the part Gerard was waiting for. Each time the wax was yanked off, Mico nearly lost himself and Gerard was there to see every last second of it. From between his legs up to his chest. 

“Anywhere else, sir?”

Gerard thought about it. He enjoyed the sight of a groomed Mico and bit his lip in thought. “Do his underarms as well and I think that should do the trick.”

Gerard didn't care as much about armpits but they had time to kill and watching Mico in whatever mindset he was in was too delicious to give away just yet. Besides, with Mico's arms up for the waxing, Gerard had a better view of the scabbed whip marks where the whip had once licked his ribs.

Mico squirmed under the pain of the waxing but it was done too soon and Mico was moved to a bath warmed just a little too much. Against his injuries, Gerard could only assume the pain level. But when Mico screamed and fought to get out, Gerard's wildest dreams came true. 

He was scrubbed down and all the tiny hairs stuck to his skin from his hair cut were washed away. He was toweled off and perfumed and Gerard wished he could take Mico right there and then.

“You have a customer,” he informed reluctantly. “But don't be too sad. I'll have you soon enough.”

Mico didn't even bat an eye. His shoulders stayed bent under his weight and he kept his eyes on the ground.

“What has gotten into you?” Gerard growled and Mico snapped to attention. The big brown eyes that met him soften his anger somewhat and, suddenly, he would do anything for his little Mico. “Okay, okay, you're right. I went too far with the punishment. I'm not gonna hurt you anymore today. No hurt, I promise.”

Mico flinched at the words before he went deathly pale. For some reason it had him tensing up and looking down once more. No matter.

 “I expect you to be on your best behavior, Mico. This customer just so happens to be a loyal client who I do not want to lose.”

“Of course, sir,” Mico replied but his voice was just as dead as his eyes were.

…

Jake knew Mattie would probably be awake soon and he felt bad to not be there for him. But he had wasted no time after bandaging Mattie’s back then brand wound to hop into his car and drive the six hours to the nearest clinic he had once worked at. Mattie had already fallen asleep. 

Stocked up on painkillers, Jake sped back to the mansion in the middle of nowhere and hurried back to Mattie.

But Mattie was already gone. The IV was draining into a puddle on the bed.

Jake seethed. Mattie had a TBI and was covered in wounds that could easily get infected. What the hell was his uncle thinking?

Jake admitted that he had not fully processed the line of business his uncle was a part of. Maybe if he had he would understand the dangers of the job he currently had. But Jake trusted Gerard's love, to an extent. Gerard would listen to him, surely. The atrocities committed last night against Mattie weren't even thought of—buried too deep below the surface.

It was his mother he had never been able to trust, not Uncle Gerard. She was the one who sold him to men every night in his childhood. Gerard was on his side and always had been. If not for Gerard, Jake would have nothing.

It seemed that the top two floors were used for sleeping so Jake listened behind every single one of the doors until he heard grunting.

He kicked open the door, momentarily stunned by what he saw. A brutal man knelt over Mattie, ramming into him from below. Mattie was sobbing, holding his head tightly between his shredded palms. Vomit dripped over the edge of the bed and sex was heavy in the air. 

“Time's up,” Jake growled, throwing the man off of Mattie. 

Mattie's legs fell to the sides and he huffed out breathless sobs, still keeping his eyes shut. Blood smeared between his thighs. 

“Get your fucking things and leave.”

Probably drunk, the rapist stumbled to his feet. “I paid good money. Gerard promised—”

“Gerard isn't here. Leave.”

The rapist tumbled out of the room, still naked.

“Mattie?”

With no response, Jake pulled out his flashlight and checked Mattie's eyes. He needed serious medical attention and getting raped did nothing to help.

Fuck.

He needed to get Mattie help, now.

“Alright, Mattie. It's just me, Jake. I'm going to pick you up.”

Mattie kept his face buried in his arms and didn't even move.

So Jake picked him up and dashed down the hallway. He had just made it to the garage and spotted his car when a voice sounded from behind him.

“Jake.”

Jake spun. “Uncle!” Something like relief flooded through him, ignoring the fact that it was his uncle that said he'd watch over Mattie hours before Mattie was reduced to a pulp. “I'll have him back soon. He needs—”

Gerard stepped into the garage and every step he took built an even bigger ball of lead in Jake's stomach. Something wasn't right. Gerard could see Mattie was hurt severely. It only made sense they took him to get help.

“Uncle?”

“We'll talk later, Jake.”

Gerard gave one nod of his head and all hell broke loose. Several men surrounded him. One took Mattie and left. Gerard disappeared. 

Jake did not expect the blows that began to rain down.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 4

TW: painful wound cleaning, gore from hand wounds, talk of past child abuse, worried Death has come, effects of TBI

Brandon woke to yelling.

“His first day? What the fuck do you plan to do to him? Kill him tomorrow?”

“I told you,” came Gerard's calm voice, “my Mico can handle a lot.”

Brandon's body had been discarded after Gerard came. The semen burned the severe cuts on his palms, made worse by the back and forth motion he had been forced to do. Gerard had allowed him to sink to the floor. He still laid where he had crumbled only now the window was bright behind the cracks in the black-out curtains.

“I'm off, Jake. Do what you need but don't wrap his hands.”

A door closed.

Hands carded through his hair and Brandon's adrenaline surged through his gut, igniting the stinging feel of his limbs fighting for safety. He jerked back, slamming his head into the bed frame. Pain exploded and he remembered his brain was splintered.

“Hey, hey, remember me?”

The lump of bile still stuck in his throat loosened now and spilled out from between his lips, momentarily taking his vision and all defenses. If this were some man wanting pleasure, he'd easily be able to do what he wanted. Brandon had no spine left, like a gutted scarecrow. 

Although his eyes protested, Brandon peeled his eyes and observed the man kneeling in front of him. No, he had no idea who this human was. But at least the human knelt a safe distance away.

“I met you last night. I'm Jake, a doctor?”

Last night was fuzzy. It was the whipping that brought him back to the present but he was pretty sure that had taken place after Jake, if Jake were even real.

“Well, since you don't remember, I'm Jake. I'm not going to hurt you.”

In that case . . . Brandon sank more into the floor, his arms splayed out in front of him. He groaned, forcing himself to assess the damage from last night. His fingers were swollen and looked more like raw sausages than anything else. His palms were unrecognizable . . . red and black and definitely not belonging to a human. There was no way he would be able to move them anytime soon. And he couldn't make himself wiggle his body to assess the damage from the whipping. He let his neck relax and eyed Jake.

Jake knelt on his knees, biting his lip as his eyes, dark and haunted, stared at Brandon's hands. 

A ball of sadness nestled next to Brandon's heart at the realization that he had no desire to ask Jake about himself. Brandon lived for interaction, to get to know stories. But having all needs met was a prerequisite for living an authentic existence and, well, no needs were being met at the moment.

“Should I call you Mico?”

Brandon had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain that ignited at the mention of the name. He hated it. It meant beloved or something of the sort and only Gerard called him that. Brandon was the name he chose for himself after he escaped and it was now locked in his heart for safe keeping.

He only had one other name: the name his parents had given him, the one Gerard already knew and hated: Mattia. “Call me Mattie.”

“Okay. I'm going to move you to the clinic. No one will hurt you there.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Brandon let out a breath.

“What?”

“M’tired.” Please, for the love of god, don't touch me.

Jake's face was already filled with pain but he melted even more into the saddest puppy eyes Brandon had ever seen.

“I know you're tired. We're going to let you rest but you can't stay in my uncle's room.”

That ball of lead reignited and Brandon remembered something about Jake from last night:  not only was he a part of this slavery but a member of the family that kept slavery thriving.

“I don't want him touching you at all.” Jake's voice raked against anger and sounded more like an animalistic growl. Maybe Jake wasn't a part of it after all. “I need to check your back because he said he . . . wh-wh-” Jake couldn't even say the word. 

Brandon softened at the innocence of this doctor. “Yes. He whipped me.”

Jake took a breath then swallowed, a million emotions flipping through his face. “Would it hurt you too bad if I carried you?”

It would hurt no matter what, Brandon instinctively knew. Maybe he was once a people pleaser and could make Jake's life easier by saying ‘Yes, of course you can carry me unless you'd like me to walk . . . I can handle any and all pain’ but Brandon had long ago healed the part of him that people pleased. Besides, he didn't have it in him to want to people please. “I don't know.”

Jake seemed to have come to the same conclusion—that there was no point in reading each other's minds. It was better to be straight forward and survive. “I'll carry you. You're in shock and exhausted. If it's too painful, let me know.”

Brandon warily watched as Jake knelt closer to his worn out, frayed body.

“I won't hurt you,” Jake reminded and Brandon had to force himself to relax. Jake's arms wound underneath him and pulled him against Jake's chest. Jake stood and the sensation of his only point of grounding being another person's arms which were attached to a brain that Brandon could not read, Brandon gritted his teeth and a whine escaped him.

“I've got you. I'm not going to hurt you. Is this okay?”

‘Okay’ meaning Brandon could be dropped at any moment? ‘Okay’ meaning his whole body was alight with red hot pain and this position made it worse? Yes.

“Try to relax. I'll get us to the clinic.”

Jake's behavior as they wound down hallways and descended four flights of stairs was curious. Anytime anyone walked past them, Jake stopped and turned his back, pushing Brandon into the wall. Jake seemed on edge.

Or he was trying to keep Brandon from pleading for help or seeing who everyone was. It worked for the most part and would have succeeded if a woman hadn't audibly gasped in the middle of an echoing hallway. Brandon couldn't blink fast enough to recognize her before Jake pulled him into the clinic.

The clinic was bright with LED lighting but it was warmer than any room or hallway in Gerard's mansion. Jake set him on a hospital grade bed and the explosive feeling of warm towels against his chilled skin sunk Brandon down into a dozy state.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Brandon had to open his eyes to check that it was still only Jake with him. Jake's voice had become lower, clinical.

“Uh . . . days ago.”

“I'm going to start an IV to get you fluids. I'll get you food in a minute after we patch you up.”

Brandon held his breath as the IV was attached to his arm. Even after a whipping, a needle pushing into his body was so much worse. 

The towels were readjusted lower to his waist and a cold stethoscope was pushed into his chest. Next was a blood pressure cuff and then his temperature.

“Considering everything, your vitals look okay. I need to clean your hands and patch up your back.” Even though Jake talked about other body parts, his eyes were glued to the brand.

Out of nowhere, a scream erupted from Brandon. His mind spun its wheels, trying to keep up and, when it did, it was his right palm lit up in agony. He rolled onto his side and curled around his hands, making noises he hadn't made in years as he exhaled then inhaled.

“I'm sorry,” Jake jumped. “Just saline right now. Just getting the . . . ” semen out is what Jake meant to say, Brandon knew. “Will you let me clean them?”

Brandon's eyes widened in shock. How was he to offer his hands back knowing the pain?

Jake turned his back and went to the counter, flipping through drawers and muttering damn it over and over. He came back with a bottle. “You'd think they would have thought to stock this damn place with painkillers. I only have Tylenol. I'm not even sure it would take the edge off.”

Brandon just lay shivering on the table, wishing his legs could meet his chest and, deep deep down wishing Jake didn't care to clean him up. Dealing with mistreatment everyday was enough to keep him compliant.

“Can I give you a few pills?”

What the hell, why not? He opened his mouth and immediately dry swallowed the pills. Jake's eyes widened and he still offered the water but Brandon shook his head.

“I don't know how to make this less painful.”

Brandon considered the statement. Jake seemed to be in as much pain as he was and he supposed he understood that. He was also a bleeding heart and bled with his clients. “I'm sorry.”

Jake's brow rose. “What are you sorry for?”

“That you're here. Gerard ruins happy things.”

Jake pulled over a chair and sat, eyes lost in some corner of the room. “Gerard took care of me growing up. It's not worth getting into, obviously—”

“Tell me.”

Jake's gaze met him then and Brandon nearly withered under his hard stare. “I've never told anyone.”

Brandon didn't say a word.

“My mother was a drug addict. She brought her friends over every night to . . . use me. Once Uncle Gerard found out, he brought me in. He kept me safe, loved me and even paid for my medical school. I only learned of the details of his job two days ago. And now I'm realizing why my mother was the way she was.”

“That's a lot.”

Jake snorted. “Not as much as what you are dealing with. Did you know my uncle before?”

Brandon grimaced. “Ten years ago I thought I was done with him for good. He bought me when I was thirteen and I managed to hide when I was twenty-three. I guess not good enough,” he concluded with a lifeless chuckle.

“I had no idea.” Jake was pale now. “When he took me in is when . . . he was abusing you. I'm so sorry Mattie.” 

Jake fell into silence so Brandon resorted to silence once more. It was neither of their fault so there was no point in following Jake to guilt. Jake seemed to notice and snapped out of it.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Tired.”

“And in pain, I'm sure.”

Yes, pain was above all else.

“Can I clean your hands?”

It was best to get it over with. Infection would only make the pain and memories worse. “Yes.”

“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Technically speaking, more of his needs were being met now. He was covered in towels, he had fluids draining into his veins, and he was not actively being hurt. “I'm okay.”

Jake picked up the saline with a pinched look. “I'm sorry.” 

This time, Brandon was ready. He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes on Jake's movements. He still whimpered and groaned but Jake was not hurting him more. He felt miserable for his poor hands. Torn flaps of skin moved under the saline and Brandon wanted to vomit.

“You okay?”

Brandon looked away.

“Queasy? Your hands look awful and it might be best to not watch.”

Brandon obeyed but Jake was done soon and standing. 

“Ready for your back? I promise you can sleep all day after that.”

 . . . 

Brandon fell unconscious the second enough soup was in his stomach to satisfy his instincts. When his eyes blinked open again a grim reaper sat next to him.

Black hood drawn over their face. Faceless. Angry.

He wasn't well enough to even move let alone defend himself. As he shrank down into the sheets, he whimpered.

Instead of violence, the grim reaper’s hand extended toward him.

He flinched.

They paused.

Warmth fell against his cheek and carded through his hair.

“I knew I'd find you here.”

Brandon's eyes wouldn't stay open but he furrowed his brow in any case.

“After a little searching, I mean.”

This was death, come to greet him. Not his dead parents. Not some celestial being or whatever. Just a hooded figure. At least it was someone.

Their hand sat near his face and Brandon couldn't talk himself out of brushing his face against it.

Their fingers uncurled and held his cheek.

It was the heat of their palm that welcomed him into darkness again.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 3

TW: reference to branding, whipping, hand injury and gore, slavery

Brandon woke to someone else gasping. 

Maybe it was Erin, shocked he had had a panic attack. He hadn't had one in years.

A hardness was pressed against his side, evidence that someone was too close . . . much too close. His head burned with the brightest pain he had ever felt before, as if his head was split open and half splattered around the room. The sensation of a tight bandage was the only thing holding his tender brain together.

When had he been bandaged?

“Oh, it's just you.” A voice directly next to him was quiet and tired and Brandon wondered if they were talking to him until another voice sounded.

“Did you fix his head?”

Brandon recoiled at the sound of his owner's voice. His eyes unsealed and he forced his body to stay still as he took in the man that stood above him. The lights overhead aggravated his head and a whine hissed between his teeth, threatening to empty his stomach.

“No. I could only clean it. Your . . . Matrix guy wouldn't let me take him to the clinic.”

“You did a fine job. I'm sure you'll already be getting a raise.”

“A—” It was a knee pressed against his ribs and it suddenly disappeared. When the voice sounded again, it was higher above him. “The fuck are you talking about? This man needs medical attention I wasn't allowed to give him. And I get a raise for it?”

“Ah,” his owner sang, “my boy can handle much more than this. He's done it plenty of times.”

“Uncle . . . ”

Brandon's stomach filled with lead.

“I need to get him to the clinic. Are you going to stop me too?”

“Tomorrow morning, dear. I'll send him your way then. Now, go get some rest. I'll take care of him.”

Brandon peeled his eyes once more to find a man watching him, standing defeatedly next to his owner. He looked green and dizzy as his eyes trailed up Brandon's body. But there was no hunger in his eyes . . . rather a look of distrust as if he really did not want to leave Brandon.

“What is going on, Uncle?” the man said finally, voice barely audible and completely deflated.

“You'll know soon enough. Be on your way before I lose my patience.”

Maybe the man obeyed because he thought he was saving Brandon some heartache by leaving but Brandon knew better.

The door shut and all was quiet. 

“My precious little Mico.”

Brandon let out a long breath as Gerard squatted down and pulled the comforter off.

Cold hit his body and he quaked in a violent shudder.

“I appreciate your patience in waiting for me. I had something come up that couldn't be ignored.” Gerard's eyes softened and Brandon guesstimated Gerard was looking at the brand. “It suits you. I heard you covered the other one with a tattoo.”

Gerard knew? Brandon flinched in preparation.

“Oh, I'm not mad. I love a good hip tattoo. Besides, this brand is upgraded. Now, if you'll follow me, I sense we have some reorientation to go over.”

The thought of moving splintered his brain even more, straight down his spinal cord. It blinded him and he arched his back against the horrid pain, if pain was even the word. This was so much more than pain.

“Hurts that much?”

The only answer he gave was an involuntary whimper as he rolled to all fours. 

“Do you remember the airplane ride here?”

Brandon stilled. Airplane? Where the hell was he?

“You fought them nearly the entire time. Three hour flight. I'm sure you can handle standing and following me.”

Brandon was not sure. 

An airplane ride meant only one thing. Obviously it began with being kidnapped but it meant he was off-grid again. His chance of getting out this time would be next to none now that Gerard knew he had escaped once.

He stayed ducked down since Gerard usually forced him to his feet midway through trying. Gerard only stood and watched this time and Brandon could see the deepness in Gerard's eyes as he studied Brandon's every move.

“You've grown up some, haven't you?”

Brandon was fully on his feet now and swallowed as he faced his owner fully naked. His head felt like a bowling ball, threatening to tip him over. Based on the kink in his spine, he was pretty sure he was standing crookedly but he couldn't know for sure. Up and down felt the same at the moment.

“I just meant, you're a therapist now. Marriage and family, right?”

Brandon jerked his head, knowing no words were going to make it out of his throat unless he wanted to vomit all over Gerard.

“A little shy? That's okay. I've missed you too.” Gerard clapped him on the back, igniting another wave of unbearable pain, and pulled him out into the hallway.

There was something deep inside Gerard that Brandon sensed with his instincts. Gerard was livid and would not be holding back for much longer.

“I've ensured our rooms are close to each other. You are my favorite after all.”

Brandon stumbled into Gerard's room and immediately fell to his knees. At first, he couldn't understand why but then he remembered this is what Gerard liked. It was the only way he could think to placate to calm whatever anger charged Gerard.

“You remembered,” Gerard said warmly. “So, what's it like being a marriage therapist?”

Brandon looked up, exhaustion and fear pulling at his eyelids. Fake interest was all he saw on Gerard's face.

“Thankless? I thought so. You know, I've always felt for therapists. No one thanks them for their service. No one acknowledges they hold the world together. You're like invisible saviors that anyone is happy to fuck over and sue. As long as you keep your clients happy, right?”

Brandon looked down. He had his days of feeling those things but he was lucky to have a caseload of connective clients . . . or did have that.

“I'd love a taste of that. Therapize me.”

Brandon rolled his eyes inwardly. How many times had he been teased like this? Now worse, Gerard was playing some sort of game and Brandon was too shattered to figure it out. “That's not how it works,” he croaked, swallowing hard against the lump of bile waiting eagerly in his throat.

“Then lay your hands out. Here.”

It was an odd request but Brandon was sure this would be a punishment. Maybe Gerard was angry he had escaped before. Brandon crawled forward to reach where Gerard pointed at the desk.

“No. Palms up.”

The moment he obeyed, Gerard already had a cord whipping through the air. It struck the middle of his palms and stung so bad Brandon's brain couldn't process it. His mouth gaped open and he gasped. Pain in contrast against the epic pain in his head should have been dulled, Brandon was sure. But this ignited every nerve in his body and his fight or flight only made the nerves more sensitive and his limbs uncontrollably tremble.

“I've always loved your hands,” Gerard said. “The way your fingers move.”

Thwack.

This time, Brandon hissed, ducked down to process more pain that was too sharp for his senses to grasp.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon whimpered, sweat already dripping into his eyes.

“Let's try this.”

Brandon couldn't stop himself in time to not look at it. He glanced up then let his head fall back down at the sight of a knotted cord, folded in two inside Gerard's grip.

Thwack.

Brandon screamed.

“There we go,” Gerard said proudly as if Brandon had won the spelling-bee.

His hands trembled in shock and he fought not to lower his hands which would only make things worse.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon hadn't had enough time to draw in breath so his last scream died in his throat and his throat constricted like a swallow. “Nahgmmh,” he swallowed.

“Look at your hands, love.”

Brandon obeyed, squinting past the sharp pain behind his eyes. His palms looked just as bad as they felt. Delicate slices oozed red on top of angry red swelling. Deep black lines swelled from the inside where blood vessels had popped. The pain was so bad his brain was already warning him they were unusable.

“Can you believe that was only ten? I'm going to do ten more and we'll be done.”

Brandon dropped his head, grounding himself for more.

I can

Thwack.

“Aaahg!”

handle this

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

The pain was so bright, Brandon couldn't even think. He blinked up at the ceiling, wondering when his head fell backwards against his neck. He was gasping like a fish for air.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon was screaming something awful, unable to breathe. He was looking down again, his back arching like a cat against the nausea.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“Fu-AAAgggfffah . . . ah . . . ah . . . ” He panted without any vision.

“We're done, Mico.”

One more. Only one more.

“We'll be done.”

Brandon's mouth wouldn't close. His arms stayed stiff as he lowered himself to a hip and then sat on the floor, holding his hands out like fragile china in front of him. 

Blood. Flaps of soft skin. Deep black swelling.

A sudden breeze of lightheadedness blew into him and Brandon fell to the side.

“Whoa, woah, too much?” Gerard asked. 

He cradled Brandon as if he were some rescuer and pushed him upward. Dizziness seized him again. 

“We only made it to nineteen. It looked like you were going to pass out.”

How kind of you to notice.

“Let's change the activity. I forgot you don't do well seeing your own injuries. We'll do something you can't see.”

And for the next hour Gerard played a game where Brandon had to therapize him, which, Brandon was learning, meant keeping Gerard happy or else Gerard would fuck him over, literally. Any moment of silence and Gerard flayed his back open with rawhide. 

Gerard stopped when they were both slick with Brandon's blood and Brandon could barely keep his head up.

“Make it to the bed baby then you can stop.”

Gerard was still angry and it was the farthest Gerard had gone in punishing him, ever.

With no way to use his hands and his back barely holding his weight, Brandon shuffled on his knees and elbows toward the bed. There was no way he could straighten enough to get up.

“You're fine where you are,” Gerard conceded. “I want you to stimulate me. With your hands. Then we'll be done today.”

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 2

TW: reference to kidnap, reference to branding, brain injury, panic, reference to past sexual abuse, reference to being drugged against will

Despite how heinous the job description was, Jake didn't mind the clean and crisp clinic in the basement already stock full of any supplies and equipment he would need and even not need. The bed, the stocked cabinets, everything was better than any clinic he had ever worked in during residency. At least he would have his own space.

“He's waiting for you.”

Jake stepped back from the counter and turned to glare at the man. Dressed in black, tall, and wearing sunglasses. 

What was this? The Matrix? “I'll see patients in my clinic just like everyone else.”

“Not this guy. He's special. He's your uncle's favorite and  . . .  we wouldn't want to disappoint, would we?” His voice had sunk to the dangerously low level like a knife in Jake's side. A threat.

Jake huffed, feeling more like one of his uncle's puppets than anything else. It was a new realization, as of yesterday when he stared at the birthday cake. Being a puppet was part of the job description. His uncle might have loved him and paid for his schooling but . . . for what end? 

He shook his head, fighting the thoughts. His uncle loved him and raised him. No one could hide behind pseudo-love for that long. He couldn’t have been a pawn this whole time. His uncle loved him.

He pushed himself roughly from the counter and grabbed a bag full of unpacked supplies only to follow Sunglasses out of the safety of his clinic.

His uncle's mansion was enormous. Five stories. With his clinic in the basement, Jake climbed four sets of stairs to get to a hallway identical to the rest. 

A scream pierced the hallway and Jake went rigid, his feet frozen in the exact spot he had stepped when the scream hit him.

Anguish. Pain more than Jake could even comprehend.

The scream ended when all the air left the lungs it came from and was replaced by ragged breaths. No pleading.

“Come.”

They stopped in front of the door that several were now exiting, one holding a rod still white with fiery heat and the other two wrestling an empty body bag into a smaller shape.

“Shit,” he spat under his breath. There had clearly been a kidnap. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Sunglasses pushed him with a hand against his shoulder blade but it felt more like a bulldozer knocking him into the room. He tripped on his anxious feet and fell against the bed. He threw a growl toward the door before it was slammed and locked behind him. 

Seriously? What had been the point to all of that? Locking him in? Or . . . 

The overwhelming scent of charred human flesh filled Jake's nostrils but he had no time to gag when the ragged breathing turned up a notch. Jake turned at the sound.

Or was it to keep this prisoner in?

Naked and tucked next to the bed sitting in fetal position, staring at him as if Jake were the next in line to find pleasure and suck his soul dry.

Jake flew up from the bed and backed away. He slammed into the wall and heaved in breath, staring in terror at the sight before him.

His uncle's captive barely flinched, rather closed his eyes in submission and relaxed the side of his head against the bed as if—

“Are you alright?”

The captive’s eyes opened slowly and still his pupils were slightly off even after he corrected his vision and tried again.

A TBI.

“Don't try to move. My name is Jake. I'm the doctor and have no intention of hurting you. I'm not . . . I'm not them.”

The captive dropped their gaze as Jake took a step forward.

“Is it alright if I come closer?”

He attempted to nod from the looks of it but whimpered instead and choked out a stream of bile with his eyes closed tightly.

Definitely a TBI.

“You have a brain injury. Don't try to move. I'm going to check your head for bumps.”

He knelt before the captive and placed a hand on his head, surprised when the man gritted his teeth and pushed himself against Jake's chest. Was this trust or desperation? 

Jake wrapped himself around the man and held him, biting his lip when the man began to cry, his back heaving with sobs.

“I'm so sorry,” Jake whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

The man was weak as it was and didn't last long with crying. He sunk further into Jake's embrace and breathed.

Jake used a hand to rake through the man's hair, half for comfort and half for checking for injuries. Unfortunately, there was one but, fortunately only one, just above the man's ear against his temporal lobe. The blood had freely run its course, filling the ear and running toward the opposite shoulder. He must have been stripped a while ago and laying down for a quite some time but now the blood was dried and flaky.

“You'll feel better after a little rest. You got whacked hard. Can I help you into the bed?”

The man stopped himself before his instincts could shake his head too quickly. Instead he opened his mouth. “No. Please no.” It was hardly a whisper but Jake understood why there was urgency behind that no. 

“Let me grab a pillow.”

He unwound around the man and retrieved a pillow. Eventually the man would be cold if he wasn't already but there were no blankets so Jake ripped the comforter off and let it fall to the floor beside them.

“Let's lay you down.”

It pained the man immensely to lie down, Jake could tell. An enormous brand blistered and bled against his right breast, directly over the nipple and, in a clinical way, Jake hoped that was the only bodily injury. Once the man's head touched the pillow he collapsed and quieted. Jake pulled the comforter over his form and rummaged through his bag, retrieving sanitizer and a bandage.

“I'm going to touch your wrist to feel your pulse,” he warned before reaching under the comforter and grasping the shaking limb. The pulse was obviously high but there were too many variables at play. “And now I'll work on your head wound.” 

It was swollen and could be worse than Jake could feel. But there was no way to know without his clinic. He cleansed the cut and wrapped the bandage around the man's head. All the while, the man was still and dozy.

Jake was lost. Did he leave now? What would happen to the captive next? Could he ensure a hot breakfast and shower? Or did wellness here simply mean staying alive?

Luckily, the man answered every question in three simple words.

The man's wrist, still pressed inside Jake's palm, jerked back, only to be replaced with trembling, cold fingers that wound around Jake's forearm. “Please, don't go.”

So Jake hunkered down and nodded. “I'm not going anywhere.”

 . . . 

Gerard had planned this day for years. Ten to be exact. His little Mico was good at hiding which had built up enough anger in Gerard to want to punish him. And punishment would come. But, apparently, not now.

After ten years and a stupid phone call comes out of no where.

From his long lost sister. Inviting herself over without waiting for him to agree.

Why the hell did she have to ruin everything?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trudging down the last of the steps to the foyer.

“She's waiting in your study, sir,” his butler-like employee said.

It wouldn't be hard to throw her out. She'd be knocked up on some drugs soon and probably wouldn't even remember a thing. 

But he had always done everything for this bitch and old habits die harder when they are last minute.

The door opened for him and he stepped inside, grounding himself to see some druggie that pleaded for more money. He'd always willing give her the drugs, no money needed.

But there was no druggie in sight.

Just a woman who sat rigidly on a couch and watched him with a smirk.

Gerard's gut rolled uneasily but, even then, he still blinked his eyes to make sure it was actually her. It couldn’t be.

“There's my big brother,” she stated and stood.

She was toned now, Gerard noticed instantly. It has been years since he'd last seen her. And he hated every second of it. Just like Mico, she'd disappeared. He'd send drugs the best he could to her but they would always come back, returned.

“Where have you been?” he asked, keeping his voice free of any disdain toward this troublesome brat.

“Working, actually.”

“And you didn't think to keep in touch?”

Her voice widened in mock surprise and Gerard but back a snarl.

“Keeping in touch?” she gasped.  “Well, you're right that I didn't even think about it. You've meant about as much to me as . . . you know those loogies that people spit in the parking lot of Target? And you step in it and nothing will wipe it off but you're so grossed out that you throw your shoes away and try not to puke the whole way home? And then you get angry because you loved those shoes so you go back to Target and stalk the next bastard that spits a loogie and you put a dent in his car? Well, that's as close as I can get to how much you mean in my life. So . . . no, I didn't think to keep in touch. But you sure did!”

She paused at his face hardening, her smile only widening.

“All those drugs you kept trying to send me. I always thought you were doing me a favor. Until it hit me one day that I was gang raped. By you and Dad and Grandpa. You got me on drugs to use me and then you kept me on drugs to keep me out of the way.”

Gerard could only gawk. What had happened to his little sister? She wasn't threatened at all anymore. Gerard needed to punch someone.

“What can I help you with?” he said instead of all the insults lined up. Mico was waiting for him.

“Nothing. Just wanted to catch up,” she smiled. “I'll find my own way out.”

Her heels clicked like angry little bitches on her way out. Gerard should have followed her. But he had better things to do with his life.

Which was too bad because he didn't see his sister turn the wrong corner.

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 1

TW: fear, kidnap

Jake got a cake every year for his birthday. 

Really, getting a cake is such a sweet gesture, especially when you just turned thirty-two. 

But as Jake stared at the dancing flames of each colorful, childish candle, Jake's gut recoiled. 

It should have been a happy time because yesterday he had finished his residency, finally, after almost a decade of medical school.

Nearly ten years ago, young and dumber than most kids his age, Jake was given a gift: medical school paid in full by his uncle. Being a doctor had been his only dream, and of cours,e Jake wouldn't pass up an offer like that. His uncle was his mother's brother, and his mother was an unmarried nut-head that barely knew up and down half the time. Jake would have been no one without his uncle. With the offer accepted and Jake already packing his bags to jump on an airplane to his new life, his uncle rapped on the door and stepped in.

“No gift comes without a promise, Jake,” his uncle had said.

“Of course!” Jake was quick to agree, eager to jump when his uncle said to jump because his uncle loved him and there was absolute trust between them!

“I will have a job waiting for you when your medical schooling is over. All I ask is that you take the job.”

It was too good to be true. Of course, Jake accepted, and he was off to medical school.

Ten years later, as he stared into those candles, Jake gritted his teeth. And the reason why the thirty-two candles shoved into his overly decorated and definitely too expensive cake made his gut recoil was because only hours before, Jake was given the job he promised to take. And Jake didn't know how to process it.

 . . . 

“I appreciate your flexibility meeting with me virtually today,” Brandon greeted. He hated virtual sessions, normally avoiding them like the plague. But he was still getting over the flu and couldn't afford to miss a week seeing clients.

“Anything for you, Brandon.”

Brandon laughed at that, his heart warming to the love. Erin was definitely top five of his favorite clients. It was a myth that therapists didn’t have favorites; they were human after all. 

Brandon's favorite clients swore a lot. They were survivors and healers and lovers. Erin had a wild story that Brandon had yet to uncover more. This was their fourth session, but Erin had taken well to IFS and was uncovering buried parts of her well. 

Brandon loved the work. The more the trauma, the better. The reward was worth it. 

“How are you?”

“This week has been shit,” Erin said bitterly. “The work we did last time brought up a lot of shit from my childhood.” She rolled her eyes. “Who decided things should get worse before they get better?”

“Right?” he agreed. “Someone has a fucked up mind somewhere in the universe to make it that way. Would it be alright if we dug deeper into what came up?”

“I knew you'd ask that, and I've seriously considered saying no.”

“But you knew I'd tell you I think you can handle it, huh?”

Erin chuckled. “I knew you would. And I need you to.”

“Then go there. I'll be here to catch you if you fall.”

Erin closed her eyes, and Brandon gave her space.

“Have I told you what I do for work yet?” Erin asked without opening her eyes.

“No.”

“Well, let's just say it's confidential, if you know what I mean.”

The first thing to pop in Brandon's mind was a secret agent. But Erin didn't seem to want to elaborate, so he didn't push her.

“It's my job that keeps bringing a lot of this up. This part feels big.”

“It can't hurt you if you're not scared of it. Remember what you've found with your other parts: they're young and hurt even if they look scary at first.”

Erin nodded, the gears working in her mind. “It's nine years old. It's scared of my brother.”

Brandon knew only a smudge about her brother. Older and cruel. And something about a terrifying job. “Okay. How do you feel toward it?”

“I want to help it.”

“Do you know what to do?”

“I—”

Considering that Brandon was at home, wrapped up in his own blanket, it scared the shit out of him when his bedroom door smacked open.

A man dressed in black, his face covered, cocked a gun and pointed it straight toward him. “Your owner's been looking for you.”

“Brandon, tell me what's going on.” Erin's voice was dangerous and quiet. “Brandon!”

“Fuck.” 

“What does he mean by owner?” Erin asked.

But Brandon was freezing up. This definitely had to be a dream . . . or worse: a panic attack in front of a client. He'd had nightmares of doing that.

The man stepped closer, jerking the gun up and down. “Close your computer and strip.”

Brandon's trembling fingers reached forward and closed the computer. But his body wasn't as responsive. All he could do was rock himself as the man came nearer. Fabric ripped and cold hit him, signaling he was naked. Then something slammed into his head, and he dropped into darkness.

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer

Brandon is a therapist. Stereotypically, he should have an ideal life and sit in an office with wounded people all day. But, like most therapists, Brandon is wounded and his past catches up with him in front of a client. Forced back into slavery, Brandon has no hopes of escape this time. Male whump, caretaker whump, epic female rescuer

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