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Obsolete

previous // T$$ Masterlist // Secrecy Masterlist //

cw: noncon, violence, strangulation, manipulation, abuse, brief emeto mention, fear of death

~ ~ ~

Sahota slouches on the bed, both feet planted firmly on the tile floor as if that’s enough to keep him tethered, keep his thoughts from drifting too far. He holds the gag in both hands, turning it over and over and over, watching the metal sections that make up most of its structure catch the light. 

He doesn't know long Harbor had been there when he arrived, already shaking from the stress on his body, tension to his shoulders and core brought on by the heavy leather cuffs that secured him to the foot of the bed.

He'd tried to pull away when Sahota knelt to remove the ring gag.

“F-fuck off.”

“This isn't what you want, Harbor.”

“It's what Vic wants.”

He'd cursed and insulted and tried to elicit a reaction that wasn't get out from him, but in the end he'd left.

“You're jealous,” he'd spat as Sahota closed the door behind him. There was something desperate in his tone, like he hoped if he said it with enough fervor he'd believe it, like he wished a rivalry was the only thing to worry about.

Like he was willing to thrust his hand into a fire just to feel the warmth. 

“You're just fucking jealous.”

He isn't. Is he? Jealous is too simple a way of putting it. He wants Vic's gaze to linger on him the way it does Harbor, he wants the idle touches as they pass in the hall, the I'm proud of yous and I know you can do its.

He needs his attention as much as he loathes it.

Shouldn't he be grateful his master's lust is being directed elsewhere? 

Doesn't it mean he isn't enough anymore? What then? If Vic is finally tired of him, what does that mean? Will he be thrown out, abandoned? Or will he become another loose end that needs to be tied up?

It felt like that during their mock interrogation. It's been months since he's seen Vic that angry, much less at him, he's been far too careful for that. He never should've tried, never should've given the others the hope that they could take an alternate path. He's the reason they're trying to salvage control, he's the reason Vic’s tightening his fist around them.

If he hadn't gone behind his back with the challenge, would they have been allowed to to go after Manak?

Would Manak even be lost in the first place?

Sahota can't fight a grimace. He's learned this lesson a thousand times over already; he should know better. 

You can't say no to Vic.

He knows that, knows the consequences, and yet here he is. He can only hope it won't be Harbor that suffers for it.

The handle turns. Sahota half expects it to be the belligerent trainee, back with more choice words and arguments. When the door reveals Vic, a part of him wants to curl up and hide, reduced once again to a terrified kid who should fucking know better.

He wants to shrink under Vic’s gaze as they meet eyes, silence drawing out between them, but he doesn’t, instead stiffening his spine against the fear that curdles in his stomach, instead daring to open his mouth.

“How long would you have left him here?” A safe enough place to start. Not an accusation, He lets his hands fall into his lap, the gag still held between them. 

Vic leans against the doorframe, arms crossing his chest. “Would've been going on six hours now, if you hadn't cut him loose.”

“Six hours,” Sahota repeats flatly.

“I've kept you for thrice that.”

“He isn't me.”

“And you hate that, don't you?” He pushes himself up from the wall, moving into the room, closing in. “Why? I know you don't care for him.”

Because Vic always knows everything, because Sahota can never hide things from him. He doesn’t care for Harbor. He doesn’t let himself care for anyone these days. Still, under the envy and the fear there’s a stark horror at the thought that someone else will take his place, will suffer as Vic's plaything, will render him pointless.

“Am I not enough for you?” he says.

Vic clicks his tongue, cupping Sahota’s cheek with a warm hand. “Is that what you're afraid of, little spy? Being replaced?”

Yes. No. “Why do you want him?”

“He's a flashy thing. Caught my eye.” Vic chuckles. “So desperate for any human interaction he'd disembowel himself for a pat on the head.”

Is that what it comes down to? Another person for Vic to hurt, another body in his control. He shakes his head. “Vic—”

He's silenced with a kiss. There's something foreign in it. A new excitement, amusement that he cares about it, that he's scared.

“He won't replace you. He'd make a good dog though, don't you think?” He nuzzles into Sahota's neck. “Once you warm up to the idea, maybe I'll even let you play with him.”

Sahota jerks away, a breath lodging in his throat. He couldn't, he couldn’t. The idea of Vic bringing Harbor into their bed stings enough. The thought of playing along—of holding the younger man down, hurting him, controlling him—is too much to hold. He wants to throw up.

“Is that a no?”

“Whatever you want to do to him, you know I can take,” Sahota says, his voice low and insistent. He’s nearly pleading. He doesn’t know why he’s pleading for this.

It should feel good, shouldn't it? To know he may never again take the brunt of Vic's affections, to be elevated to a place of control.

It doesn't. It burns like bile.

“I know.” Vic’s hand strokes his cheek, thumb coming to rest on his lower lip. “When's the last time you cried for me?” It seems more a musing than a question he wants answered, but even if it were, Sahota doesn’t think he can speak to it.

He can’t remember the last time himself.

No, that's not true. Just days ago, he was crying, but not for Vic. It feels like such a potent secret he’s nearly purged it from his mind, and now he's afraid his master will see it on his face, the weakness he dared to show to these outsiders.

Ander, my name is Ander.

His own words echo back to him in a way that makes him shudder. By some stroke of luck, Vic doesn't notice, his eyes on the gag in Sahota's lap.

His hand falls away from his face, and he fixes him with a searching gaze. “Are you afraid he makes you obsolete?”

Sahota drops his eyes. “I… Yes.” It seems too simple an answer, but it’s the easiest explanation. One that might satisfy Vic.

“And you’d prefer it if I left him alone?” He tips his chin up with a finger. “If it stays just you and me?”

“Yes.” His answer is quieter this time. Vic hmms, and the silence seems to stretch for a long moment, every wordless breath drawing more fear into Sahota, pulling tension into his body. Then, Vic suddenly pushes him back onto the mattress, one hand curling in his hair, the other cupping his chin as he kisses him, hot and fierce. Sahota returns the kiss until he’s breathless.

“Hands behind your back.”

He obeys without much thought. It’s been a while since Vic’s tied him up for this. Months, at least. Silky rope winds around his wrists, and then he’s rolled onto his back, heart hammering with anticipation. There’s fear there too, but he tries to shove it down. Isn’t this what he wants? Isn’t this what he just begged for?

He opens his mouth to say something, but Vic’s hands shoot out, locking around his throat, squeezing, cutting off air. Panic floods through him but he has Vic's touch memorized. His body knows not to respond, to take it, no matter how much his mind wants to rebel.

“What if I did want to replace you, Ander?”

Sahota’s eyes widen at the words, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. His body spasms from the lack of air, heels digging into the mattress, but Vic doesn't let up.

“What if I am tired of you, hm? What can you do about it?”

His wrists burn, the rope digging into them as his arms shake involuntarily, reaching to remove the pressure. No… No, he can’t mean it, Vic can’t mean it, he’s his. He’s been his for twelve years, he can’t just be replaced, he can’t just let the fucking cycle start all over again. Tears sting his eyes but refuse to shed, his mouth opening wide, making soundless pleas.

It can’t end this way, it can’t end this way, Vic, sir, Shepard, please—

“You are everything I made you. Without me, you'd be nothing. If I want someone new, you'd better just be fucking grateful you still have a seat at the table.”

His lungs burn, body shuddering, vision blackening at the corners, closing in—

—And then Vic’s hands relax, slipping away from his throat. The spy gasps for breath, rolling onto his side and curling his knees in, unsure whether he’s shaking from the lack of air or the sheer fear, the knowledge that Vic could’ve done it, would've done it. He would’ve done it and not even batted an eye.

He can't hide a whimper as Vic grabs him by the hips and yanks him to the edge of the bed, letting his feet hit the ground limply, one hand moving up to grip his hair and keep him in place, as if he’d try to move, as if he's anything but obedient.

Vic yanks down his pants, thrusting into him so suddenly the spy can barely let out a gasp. He continues to thrust, sharp and brutal and angry. It hurts— when was the last time it had hurt? His hands are numb, head throbbing, throat burning with every little gasp he manages to catch.

Through whirling thoughts and lost air and pain, he knows Vic is trying to make it hurt, that this is either punishment or retribution, that the spy will stand for both himself and Harbor tonight. Every forward thrust is pressure on cracked ribs from deliberately placed hands, little bursts of fire in his chest. Every motion grates inside him, leaving no room to get used to it as he's violently slammed into, again and again and again until he thinks he might pass out.

Vic finishes inside him, grabbing his chin hard enough to bruise once he’s withdrawn, thumb pressing into his split lip until he can feel fresh blood slipping down his face in a trickle. His face is stony and empty when the spy looks up at him through blurring vision.

Something almost like satisfaction crosses his master’s face.

“There's the tears.”

~~~

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Crucible: The Pretender

cw: referenced noncon, violence, noncon nudity

previous //

§ § §

Holden’s throat was bone dry. It felt like he'd fallen asleep with his mouth open, though he'd been awake for hours at this point. It was all too clearly a bad case of nerves, but he tried to brush it off. What did he have to be nervous about? He'd already watched Avery cut Crucible to ribbons through the security cams; already watched Jared fucking violate the man, though he'd had to leave halfway through the session. What could he possibly do that was worse?

Maybe that was where the nerves came in. There was an unspoken expectation to do worse, to one-up the first two. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't know everyone else would be watching. Hell, Penny was following him on the way to the cell, chatting idly about some new restaurant she wanted to try.

“...and I love curry. Love it. But I'm not sure how I feel about Indo-Cuban fusion, y’know? Guess we'll see tonight.”

As if he wasn't on his way to torture their captured nemesis.

Holden nodded along, wondering how everyone else could act so normal about this. Did they seriously not care what happened to Crucible? Just because he was a villain? Or were they all pretending like him? Trying to placate the status quo, trying not to be outed as the weak one.

“So what are you thinking?” Penny asked, abruptly changing the subject from ceviche naan. “Wanna stop by the armory?”

“I don't know,” Holden said, and meant it. He'd hurt Crucible before. They all had, but that had been in combat. Heat of the moment, save the city, do or die. He had never hurt anyone who couldn't fight back.

Huh. Maybe that was the answer.

“Actually…” Holden paused in his stride. “I think we should do this in the training room.”

Penny raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, getting creative, are we? What's the plan?”

“I'm gonna fight him,” Holden answered. It sounded so much easier than hurting him while he was tied down or some shit. Penny's expression shifted to something more dubious.

“Really? All the possibilities and you just wanna do something you've already done?”

“I just… I think I'd be bored with anything else,” Holden lied. “And besides, we haven't had a call all week. I'm getting antsy just sitting here.”

Penny rolled her eyes. “Ugh, you and Avery both. So boring. Just wait until it's my turn, I'll show you how to have fun.”

He wasn't sure he was looking forward to that. “Yeah.”

“Well hey, if that's what you want.” She shrugged. “You go on ahead and warm up. I'll grab our guest and let the others know to meet you there.”

An unpleasantly cool feeling spread through him at the mention of the others, but Holden shook it off. They'd be watching either way. Having them on the sidelines would help him stay on target. 

Penny vanished, and Holden made his way to the training area, glad he'd at least have a minute or two alone to gather his nerve. The sparring mats were littered with various weapons—Jared sucked at putting shit away, and Lucas was almost just as bad—and the obstacle course hovered silently overhead. He'd probably keep to the mats today. No need to complicate a task he was already dreading. 

He paced around, half-heartedly stretching his arms as he waited for the rest of the team to shuffle in. How should he do this? He could grab one of the training weapons and tell Crucible to square up. Even if he hit the villain too hard and broke something, Avery would be right there, right? Nothing to feel shitty about. Besides, it would feel less wrong if the other man was holding a weapon too.

He dropped and did a few pushups to get the blood flowing, not pausing when he heard the others come in, low buzz of chatter filling the high-ceilinged room. Penny materialized in front of him a half-second later, nearly making Holden stumble back as he was getting to his feet.

Crucible was beside her, half-kneeling, kept in place by a hand in his tangled hair. He was naked, the tattered remains of his suit gone, and there were residual bruises Avery hadn't bothered to heal splotching his body. He didn't look up, simply dropping onto his hands and knees when Penny teleported away to join everyone else on the observation deck.

Fuck.

The sight of the villain's battered body seemed to lock Holden in place. He looked so much worse in person than he did over the monitors… thinner, practically shivering in the room’s AC.

He didn't want to do this anymore. But fuck, what choice did he have? He could already hear the team muttering to each other. Judgemental tones and low laughter. He had to do something, but before he could order his thoughts in a way that would prompt him forward, Crucible spoke.

“Whatever it is you're gonna do to me, please fucking get it over with.”

There was more bite in his voice than Holden had anticipated. 

He cleared his throat. “I—”

“Holy shit, get on with it!” Jared shouted from above, and Holden grimaced, grabbing a blunted sword from the ground.

“Stand up,” he said. Crucible’s fists clenched, but he obeyed, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He wound up in a hunched sort of position, and Holden couldn't tell if it was because he was in pain, or because he was embarrassed at being exposed like this in front of the heroes. Maybe both.

Wordlessly, Holden offered the villain the weapon's hilt. Crucible's brow furrowed in suspicion, but he took it, holding it carefully at his side.

“We're going to fight,” he said. The villain gave him a sardonic look, but Holden took it with a grain of salt. He could see how his hands were trembling.

“What's the winner get?”

“Less bruises.”

“This is lame as fuck!” Jared called down again. “You're being boring, Shadow.”

Holden clenched his jaw. It wasn't enough, was it? They wanted more, something interesting to watch. He spoke again, this time raising his voice so he was sure the others would hear. “If you win, we'll let you go.”

The peanut gallery shut right up at that. 

Crucible’s lip curled. “Bullshit.”

Holden opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the villain was charging. Instinct took over and Holden dove sideways, the blunted sword nearly catching him full across the ribs.

Dirty fucking start. He grit his teeth, searching for the nearest weapon as Crucible changed direction, slashing at him again. Holden tucked and rolled, picking up a staff as he came to his feet.

Even now, the villain was pretty quick, but it was clear even just a few seconds of movement had taken a lot out of him. He was already panting, the muscles in his legs visibly twitching, though his eyes burned with fury.

“Well damn.”

“You gonna let him show you up, Shadow?”

No. There was more fight left in Crucible than he'd expected, but his body couldn't keep up. He'd probably pass out on his own in a few more—

Holden jumped backwards as the villain suddenly darted forwards, another heavy slash aimed at his chest. This time, he came back with a strike of his own, and Crucible barely managed to sidestep it, nearly losing his footing in the process.

“See? He's fucking with him,” Penny's voice rang from the observation deck. “It's funny. Don't you think it's funny?”

He tried not to linger on her words. Just fight. Just get this over with. He swung again, and the blow connected.

Crucible let out a grunt, the sword slipping from his grip. Cheers erupted above the mats.

“That's more like it,” Lucas said.

“Go invisible!” Jared added, and something inside Holden recoiled at the suggestion. It just felt cruel. This was already spectacle.

“Go invisible,” Penny repeated, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

Damn it. He could ignore them. Play out this scene, give the villain a few more whacks and call it a day. But what would the team say after? 

There's no way it would be as bad as I'm imagining, Holden told himself, but he activated his power anyway, transparency pouring over him like water.

He could read the uncertainty in Crucible's face, immediate and almost fearful. The scant handful of times they'd actually fought had been like this, and even against the villain's mecha suit, Holden had been able to hold his own. Now the suit was gone. And he was supposed to feel better about it just because his opponent had access to a fake weapon.

Holden came around behind Crucible silently, sweeping his legs out from under him, which got a laugh from the rest of the team.

He waited for the villain to get back on his feet before striking again; a nudge of his staff against the man's hip, move around to the other side and give him a light smack on the thigh. Try and fail to find the humor in it as Crucible flinched and yelped, breaths coming quickly through clenched teeth.

Alright, time to end this.

Holden tossed the staff aside, tackling Crucible to the ground when he jumped away from the sudden noise. He fought past the blind punches rained down on him, wrestling the villain onto his stomach and wrenching an arm behind his back.

At last, he switched off his power, leaning in to whisper in the villain's ear,

“Looks like you lose.”

“Please don't,” Crucible whispered back, and Holden realized he was on the verge of tears. “Please don't.”

Fuck. The memory of Jared's session came back in a sickening rush, and Holden scrambled to his feet. Fuck.

The villain wasn't even trying to get up.

“Was that all?” Jared taunted, and he almost cringed at his voice. Sick asshole.

“Yeah,” Holden called back, trying to maintain an impassive expression. “I'm done. Look at him,” he added, as if it was obviously pointless to carry on.

“Lame,” Jared said.

“Yeah,” Penny agreed, and Holden froze in step. “I thought you were giving us a show, Shadow!”

Momentarily torn, Holden forced himself to shrug. It clearly wasn't enough for his team; he'd barely even touched the villain. But how could he fucking continue after Crucible's pathetic little pleas?

“I’m bored of it,” he said. “Besides, I got work to do on last week's mission reports.” That was definitely a lie. He usually finished them the same day the team was called out. But reviewing old shit was better than whatever this was.

Holden left the training room to a chorus of boos. Yeah, yeah, they all thought he was a killjoy, whatever. They'd get over it as soon as Penny got tired of this and turned Crucible in. He hoped it happened soon, hoped his own boring participation was enough to shame Jared.

Not everyone is a sadist like you.

Would Lucas at least follow his example? Holden didn't know the other hero to be a cruel guy; maybe acting as the sane man would give him the push to not be a piece of shit.

Or maybe he'd follow in Jared's footsteps. Then what? Avery was indifferent, but he listened to Penny. If everyone but Holden was onboard with this…

Didn't matter. Didn't matter, they'd be done with it soon. 

Trying to pretend it didn't feel like he'd abandoned the villain in the lion's den.

He stalked back to his office to boot up his computer, trying not to think about it.

§§§

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Pride of Princes

A story in the Blackmuir Reign Verse

2: the cell

CW: imprisonment, torture mention, fantasy religious persecution, threat of execution, royal caretaker

Prev

Robb Muirdwele was a prison guard for castle Blackmuir. He was not kingsguard, nor was he a knight as he’d once naively dreamed of. But guarding the cells below the castle was an easier job than others he’d had, and he was grateful for the relative shelter the stone walls provided, and the generous meal they were given once a day, as all staff and servants inside the castle were.

But there were drawbacks. For one, it was dark and damp, and even in high summer he had a cough he could not shake. For another, there was the new prisoner. Robb now had to be on his toes at all times because of unusual visitors to the cells, including clerics and more than a few knights. Not only that, but there were the awful sounds that accompanied these visits to the new prisoner. They were torturing him, that much was clear. Robb wondered what it was he’d done to elicit such ire from men of the Tercet and knights and soldiers of the king. The prisoner never said. He never said anything to Robb, or any other of his ordinary guards. He never begged for an audience with the King, or something to write with, or tried to bribe them with desperate promises of money and favor. He cried out and screamed during the torture, of course, but that was all.

When Prince Aedric came to the cells, Robb thought this prisoner must have really done something extraordinarily offensive to House Blackmuir. He bowed his head hastily to the prince, and let him inside the cell.

“Light,” he requested, and Robb lit the cressets. When he’d provided the prince with all the light the cell was designed to provide, he stood just inside the door and watched with his hands folded in front of him dutifully, his back straight. He’d never been this close to a Blackmuir, and only seen the king once. Aedric was the eldest son and heir, with pale brown hair and sharp, straight features that made his face both unforgettable and striking. He wore a doublet of black lined in silver, Blackmuir colors, and a knife at his belt. He’d brought two soldiers with him, but instructed them to wait at the entrance door ten yards down the corridor. They did so silently.

Robb watched as the prince approached the prisoner, his fine boots making soft chuffs on the stone. The prisoner lifted his head slowly, fearful and bleary. The last visit involved a cleric again, and he’d had him beaten before they’d even exchanged words.

The prisoner stiffened at this new presence and flattened as tight as he could against the cell wall. The prince squatted to sit on his heels before him.

“Lord Barrowfen?”

So that was his name. Not that it mattered to Robb. Sometimes he knew their names, sometimes he did not. It wasn’t his job to know them, only to guard them and keep them alive.

“Are you alright?”

The prisoner lifted his head. One eye was swollen to near shut, and he had caked blood that had dried from his nose to his upper lip. He held his arms protectively over his torso, which Robb knew was likely deeply bruised, if not riddled with breaks. The knights or soldiers did the hurting. The cleric only ever watched, holding his white robes an inch off the floor so they would not be dirtied.

“Will you not answer?”

The prisoner spat in his face. Robb flinched.

Incredibly, the prince did not retaliate, but lifted his sleeve to wipe his cheek. “I would feel the same,” he said wryly. “I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. That was not on my orders, Lord Barrowfen. I want you to know that, because I’m trying to help you.”

“I’m not a lord in here,” said the prisoner. Robb strained to hear. “I belong to the gods. Not to my father’s new pretender gods. Nor yours.” The prisoner coughed and winced, giving an involuntary whimper at the pain it caused him to do so.

The prince turned. “Did you do this?”

“No, your highness,” blurted Robb. He’d forgotten the word royal. It was your royal highness for a prince, and then ‘sire’ thereafter. He licked his lips nervously. Why did the prince not know this was done by the king’s own men? Under supervision of the clerics? It didn’t matter. His job was to answer a Blackmuir’s questions.

“Who then?”

“Soldiers, sire. His Grace’s knights.”

“What about the clerics?”

“Yes, sire. They are present for it.”

The prince turned back to the prisoner. “Roan,” he said gently, almost beseechingly. “May I call you Roan, then?”

The prisoner looked at him guardedly. He blinked, something like a wince. Perhaps it hurt to shrug.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m going to send a healer down to you.”

The prisoner was caught off guard, if only for a moment. His look of naked hope turned to one of distrust. “One of the king’s healers?”

Robb could only see the back of the prince’s head, but he tilted it slightly at that. “I’ll come with him. I’ll watch him.”

“It won’t matter. They’re not going to stop,” said the prisoner. “They want me to recant.”

“Will you?”

The prisoner’s eyes grew bright as if wet, and he looked away toward the dark corner of his cell. “No.”

The prince moved from a squatting to sitting, letting his fine clothes contact the cell floor.

“Get us water,” he said over his shoulder. Robb turned to fetch it, wondering if it was for the prince or the prisoner. When he returned, the prince held out his arm to receive the cup without turning around. He dipped a kerchief into the water, and motioned toward the blood on the prisoner's face. Robb watched as the prisoner allowed the prince to blot the kerchief against his upper lip until the blood came off. When he was done, he offered the prisoner the rest of the water. He lifted one hand gingerly from his ribs to take it.

“But would it not be surrendering to go through with the arrangement?” the prisoner asked. Robb understood he had missed a piece of their conversation when he’d gone for the water. “Would I not still be capitulating?”

“Not to me,” said the prince, with his knees drawn up and his forearms draped over them casually, as if he were picnicking on a green hill and not sitting on the floor of the dungeons. “You can keep your gods, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll build you a shrine.”

“My gods have no need of a shrine.”

“Whatever it is they need, then. Whatever you need. You’ll have it, but we have to say the vows. I can protect you much more effectively if you are my peaceweaver.”

“Why would you protect me?”

“You’re betrothed to me. Why wouldn’t I? ”

“They won’t let me out without a recantation. They’re going to do worse, and then there will be a trial, and then they’ll kill me.”

The prince nodded. “It seems so, at the moment. Do you know how?”

“How they’ll kill me?”

There was silence before the prince spoke again.

“Treason is usually resolved with burning at the stake.”

The prisoner dropped his eyes.

“I don’t tell you that to be cruel. I’m trying to find an answer, but I think you might need to be that answer for yourself. Will you work with me?”

“I won’t accept the Tercet,” said the prisoner. His voice trembled slightly. “And I’m not afraid.”

The prince hung his head, and then brought it back up again. “Don’t do it out of fear, then. Find something else.”

In the firelight, Robb could see the prisoner’s eyes well up again. He grit his teeth and hugged his arms over his abdomen, looking over the prince’s shoulder at the wall of his cell. He was resolute. At length, the prince climbed to his feet.

“I’m still bringing a healer,” he said as he walked out of the cell. Robb shut the wooden door and fastened its iron bolt with the prisoner inside.

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Pride of Princes

A standalone story in the Blackmuir Reign verse ~150 years before Therrin Blackmuir takes the throne. This story is complete, around 12k words. This is part one.

CW: fantasy setting with a monarchy, fantasy politics, fantasy religious tensions, pressure to convert, torture, beatings, burning, threat of execution, imprisonment, defiant whumpee, forced/arranged marriage, polygamy, sex, court drama 

Characters and terms:

King Thyran Blackmuir (tie-run) 55- Therrin’s great great grandpa. Has ruled 30 yrs at this time and recently suffered an illness (stroke)

Prince Aedric Blackmuir (A-drick, strong A sound) 32 - the eldest prince and heir. Has one brother Cedric and two peaceweaver brides, Esther and Miline. Has one child with Esther, 6yo Esti. 

Roan Barrowfen (Row-n, rhymes with shown) 28- noble-born second son of Randall Barrowfen, of the easterly reaches. Given (unwillingly) as a peaceweaver to Aedric 

Tercet The new official religion being implemented by the Blackmuir crown. (Also a term in poetry, but here it's the name of a religion lol) The Tercet has three sections of religious importance that focus on commerce, agriculture, and the sanctity of law (the monarchy). 

Peace-weaver (Old English: freothwebbe)- Anglo-Saxon tradition of marrying women to an enemy tribe in hopes of mingling bloodlines and encouraging future peace between the groups. Peaceweavers here are specifically matched to smooth over a current conflict in the region, and not the same designation as matches to strengthen alliances or procure wealth. I prefer it as one word, not hyphenated.

Other notes: 

Title from The Wanderer.

Polygamy is encouraged for royalty at this time in the Blackmuir rule, if they are peaceweaver matches. Peaceweavers can be any level of nobility, but the first bride's children are typically the only ones recognized as viable heirs, unless they do not bear one or the heirs do not survive, and then it goes down the line to the second spouse. As you can imagine this causes lots of problems, but not in this story. 

This is loosely inspired by the history/legend of Saint Juliana by Cynewulf, as told in the Exeter book. 

_

1.

Prince Aedric was fast asleep when he was roused by Juliana, a timid handmaiden of his first bride, Esther. She never entered Aedric’s chambers, certainly not without invitation, or her mistress’s presence. 

“Prince Aedrick,” she said, giving a hurried bow. Her head was uncovered, her hair in two mussed braids as if for sleep. 

Aedric cast his eyes about the room for signs that something was amiss. He heard nothing from the open door of his chamber, or from the eastern window that caused any alarm. The fire was still burning in the hearth. He could not have been asleep for more than a few hours. 

“Juliana,” he said sharply. “Esther? Esti?”

“Are both well, sire. I don’t come on her behalf.”

“Then why? What is it?”

The girl pursed her lips and looked behind her, as if someone might be standing in the doorway in pursuit. “I wish to tell you something, but I fear it is not my place.”

Aedric sat up further in bed, his head still thick with sleep. “It must be important, to wake me in the middle of the night. Have out with it.”

“I only mean to serve you and my lady’s interests.”

“…Yes, Juliana. I know. I’ll… make sure there are no repercussions.”

She nodded solemnly. That had been her concern. “I was not told to come to you.”

“I understand. What is it?”

“The lord from the far reaches. He arrived this afternoon.”

Aedric frowned. He’d been recently betrothed. It was to be his third peaceweaver match, and the first to be male. The match was the youngest son of a Barrowfen from the easterly reaches, that wild and unforgiving marshland he’d visited as a boy and never had any desire to visit again. The reaches were an insular and stubborn region of his father’s vast kingdom that had caused some difficulty of late, but Lord Barrowfen was prompt with the annual taxes, and receptive to the new religious order.

But if his new betrothed had arrived in the afternoon, why had he not been called to meet him? Why had he not been sent to him directly, as Esther and Miline had been? He asked Juliana as much.

“The king. He is speaking to him now, in the Oath Hall. He is displeased.”

“Why?”

Juliana shifted her weight, nervously twisting at a small silver ring on her right hand. “He is refusing the Tercet, my lord. It’s caused some trouble.”

Aedric shook his head. “Why has he come all this way,  just to protest when he got here?”

“I-I don’t know, sire. I don’t think he wanted to come.”

Aedric raised his brows. 

“I know nothing more than this. I only wanted you to be aware. They’re very displeased with him, my prince.”

“Go,” he said, throwing off his covers. “I need to dress.”

She hesitated, wringing her fingers bloodless.

“Your name will not be mentioned,” he assured her. “Go.”

_

Aedric wondered if he’d ever been in the Oath Hall at such an hour. Every brazier was lit, casting jumping shadows on the high stone walls. His father sat elevated on his dais, attended by two knights, his favorite Tercet cleric in robes of snowy white, and several members of his court. 

Aedric’s eyes swept over them in turn. All had turned to watch him enter, and soon their eyes turned to their king to gauge his reaction to the prince’s intrusion. 

“It’s late, Aedric,” came Thyran Blackmuir’s weakened voice from his throne. A sudden illness had struck him before spring’s last snowmelt, and he had not been the same since. 

“Indeed it is, Your Grace,” Aedric answered. “What matter could not wait until after we had all slept and breakfasted?”

At the base of the dais stood a young man in modest clothing, unmoving, with his gaze fixed on the stones beneath his feet. Aedric gave him a wide berth as he approached, looking to see if this was the peaceweaver he’d been sent a portrait of in the initial negotiations. It appeared to be. He was of a similar height as Aedric, and though he could only see his bowed profile, it seemed to be the Barrowfen from the picture — Roan, was his name, or else it was someone strikingly similar. The portrait had looked promising.

He was of a similar age as Aedric as well, highborn, and unrelentingly beautiful, with dark hair and green-brown eyes, high easterly cheekbones, and a particular, intriguing smile that Aedric hoped was not just the flattery of the artist, but a look the subject had worn while sitting for the sketch.

“Hello,” he said, standing to the nobleman’s right, a safe six feet of distance between them. 

Roan Barrowfen gave him the barest glance, looking up without lifting his head. Their eyes met for only a moment and he returned them to the floor, his jaw set in something between determination and fear. Aedric was mildly stung by the sheer disregard of the exchange, a disregard he was unaccustomed to. 

“Is this my new peaceweaver, then?” Aedric asked, addressing his father. “Is this Roan Barrowfen?”

“It is,” the king answered wearily, his left eye now permanently drooping like a melting clay doll. 

“Why was I not sent for?” he asked, in front of the men of court, the cleric, and the knights. “Surely there must be some reason I was not sent to greet him upon his arrival?”

“Sit,” bade his father. 

“I prefer to stand, Your Grace.”

Aedric was nothing if not a loyal firstborn son, but he was not as docile as he might be. He tried to remain respectful to his father, the king, especially in front of members of court, but he would not be seen as a mincing puppet, either. And the king could be stubborn.

Of late, that concern had flagged. His father was not the man he was the year before, or the thirty years of his rule before that. He sometimes lost his train of thought, or his words entirely, and spent much of his days in bed. 

“Your betrothed has insisted on an act of….of  treason since his… arrival,” managed the King. 

Cleric Alfonsus looked down from the dais at Roan Barrowfen with a disdainful sort of pity. 

“What treason is that?”

The King motioned at his cleric, inviting him to speak and save him the trouble.  

“Lord Barrowfen maintains the false gods of the easterly reaches,” explained the cleric in a smooth voice, still powerful enough to project. Aedric admitted his unnervingly blue eyes and unrelenting gaze gave him an air of authority. His arms were folded together in the white fabric of his robes of office, hiding his hands, which Aedric thought was another apt metaphor. “He has denounced the Tercet, and by extension, the authority of the King.”

Aedric could have laughed. The Tercet was a fledgling religion, breeding in several pockets of the north for only two generations before gaining fast favor these last ten years. When he was a boy, no one had even spoken of the Tercet, the three-deity trident of land, commerce, and law. It was about as relevant as whoever this easterly man’s far-flung gods might be. And now it was treason to refuse them?

 “I’m sure this is a thing being done on principle,” he said amiably, opening his hands toward his father and the cleric. Even the knights were looking at him. “A well-intentioned principle, at that. Your Grace, is not the point of a peaceweaver to make peace? Peace is not something that can be expected upon arrival, or overnight.”

“The terms were clear,” answered the cleric, speaking over Aedric’s last word. “Randall Barrowfen sent a letter with his son. He knew this might happen, and in it he outlines his sincerest regrets, along with fealty to the Tercet and the king. His son’s life, if not as a peaceweaver, can be of some use as a forfeit.”

Aedric made a sour face. “Forfeit? To be an example, you mean? That is the perfect opposite of the goal we have in making this arrangement.”

The cleric continued. “Rejection of the Tercet directly undermines-”

“Your Grace,” Aedric cut him off, addressing his father. “This is mad. Put a swift end to it.”

With some difficulty, the King adjusted in his straight backed throne, a simple and elegant design of carved wood meant as an homage to humility and efficiency. “Your Esther and…Miline are worthy brides, Aedric. They are peaceweavers, and they are Muirish now. They serve a purpose. This…” he waved a hand irritably, “open dissent is not something I can ignore. I will not have a hostile…. traitor at my table. Bearing…. our name.”

“Hostile traitor,” Aedric echoed in disbelief. He wondered, not for the first time since his illness, if those were his father’s words, or repeated words of Cleric Afonsus.  “Has he spoken of any plans to murder any of us in our sleep?”

“No,” said the nobleman in question. Aedric turned to him, surprised he’d spoken. “But I will not abandon my gods for you. Or for the king.”

A murmur of offense broke out among the men in attendance. 

“I am a theurgist for the gods of our land,” he continued, looking up at Aedric with his head still slightly bowed. His eyes looked greener in the light of the braziers, and he had a high color on his cheeks that Aedric couldn’t discern between a sign of good health or the start of a fever. “I will serve my gods, and my gods alone.”

“A theurgist. You conjure your gods?”

“On behalf of others,” he answered. “As much as it is in my ability to do so. And if they answer.”

“And where are they at this moment?” he asked quietly, directed only to the foreigner. He meant it in a friendly, exasperated sort of jest, but Roan Barrowfen dropped his eyes like it had been a taunt.

Aedric set his jaw and looked back to the dais. “Give me the night, Your Grace. Let me speak to him privately, as I expected to do upon his arrival.”

“When you arrived,” said the king, “I had just sentenced him to the holding cells. He will….await there. Await his…ah,” he struggled for the word. “His trial.”

A pit of dismay formed in Aedric’s stomach. They had only exchanged one letter, but it had been promising. Roan Barrowfen was clearly well versed in his letters, and well spoken. He’d seemed modestly eager for the arrangement. Had he not realized he would have to, at least publicly, lay down his gods and his theurgic practices to do so? Another thought— had he even written the letter? Had he come of his own free will at all?

Aedric wished he could speak his true mind to his father, but there were lines he knew better than to cross in the Oath Hall.

“He will have a chance to recant, Aedric,” said the King, as if he were placating Aedric when he was a petulant child, over some small matter. “He will have many chances.”

He thought the wording of that promise to be ominous. Many chances? Did they intend to harm him in hopes of eliciting it, like a confession from a criminal? A highborn? Betrothed to the prince? Roan Barrowfen seemed to take the same meaning from the words. His chest rose and fell with noticeably faster breaths, but he did not move a single muscle. Aedric felt a sharp pang of protective sympathy towards this stranger he’d so been looking forward to meeting. 

“I ask you to reconsider this,” he appealed again. “It’s highly reactionary, Your Grace, for naught but some words.”

The king only motioned weakly to the knights, who came forward and took the prisoner under each arm, leading him away. He stumbled, but caught his footing and went willingly. Aedric stood rooted to the spot as the King rose from the throne. Others followed, and Oath Hall began to empty. 

Cleric Alfonsus stepped down from the dais carefully so as not to trip over his robes. He fixed Aedric with his deliberate gaze. “Naught but some words,” he repeated as he passed him. It felt like an admonition. 

The following morning, Prince Aedric learned that the trial was set for a full month away. Roan Barrowfen’s noble status required three representatives from his home to travel to the Muirkeep to sit on the jury. Aedric knew this would influence the outcome, but he was not confident it would be in the way he’d like. Lord Barrowfen himself had condemned his son with that letter, to appease the king. Whoever came from the reaches was likely prepared to do the same.

The final decision would be the king’s, but that would undoubtedly be influenced by the clerics, as it was a religious matter. That was a fact that had been concerning him of late— more and more seemed to fall to the discretion of the Tercet leaders, namely Cleric Alfonsus. 

After speaking with his father to no avail, he did the other thing in his power. He went down to the cells. 

[favwhumpstuff]

The Rare Bookseller Part 61: Fitz's Insecurity

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, conditioning, mention of branding

September 1905

Fitz felt numb from stress and exhaustion as Lex helped him into the manor. He breathed a sigh of relief as the familiar and comfortable smell of old books rose to greet him. He was home.

Lord Edgar's blood had soaked through the front of his dress and he stunk of rats and cigar smoke. The only thing he wanted more than washing up was to help his master -- the spell he'd been placed under was still fogging his brain, whispering to him that there was nothing more important than serving vampires.

And Lex needed the service. His face was bloody and swollen in places from where Jameson had beaten him, and there were dark bruises blossoming on the parts of his skin that were visible. He'd suffered those injuries for Fitz's sake, all because he'd been an idiot who couldn't take care of himself at the ball.

A weak human who always made poor decisions. Who needed the guidance of a strong hand.

He shook his head, trying and failing to dislodge Lord Edgar's words. It didn't help that he could feel desire radiating from Lex. He could use Fitz's blood to heal, and Fitz was eager to provide it.

"Ugh, glad we're finally home," said Lex, hanging up his coat. "Let me help you clean up and check you for injuries."

"I think I should be the one helping you wash up, sir," said Fitz, aware that he had stopped calling his master 'sir' weeks ago, but finding it slip out of his mouth anyway. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Or I will be. I can easily recover from these wounds. I'm attending to you first, and that's final."

In this state, Fitz couldn't very well argue with a direct command from his master. He nodded, allowing Lex to carry him up the stairs.

"I need to remove the remains of Edgar's enthrallment from you as well. It's bad enough that he was able to lay hands on you. I won't have him influencing your mind as well." He looked down at Fitz. "I know that you shouldn't be this quiet right now. It's not like you."

"I suppose it isn't, sir."

Lex sat Fitz down in a chair when they arrived at his spacious bathroom, remembering to light the lamps so that Fitz could see. For his part, Fitz couldn't help but slump in the chair, almost too tired to hold himself up.

Sweet-smelling steam grew thick as Lex filled the washbasin with hot water and a generous amount of lavender soap. Fitz's extravagant dress was pulled over his head and tossed in a heap on the floor. As Lex undid the clasp of the ruby necklace he was wearing, Fitz looked down at the bare skin above his corset, that spot below his shoulder blade where twin brands lay.

The topmost one was a circle containing a single note surrounded by repeat signs. The bottom was a bass clef.

He may have been rescued from Lord Edgar, but the brands served as a daily reminder that the true threat to his freedom still remained. Lex's sire would someday coming to steal away everything he was, down to the smallest movements of his face and fingers, and Fitz would be utterly helpless to resist. His only chance to escape this hellish fate was Lex's plan to kill his sire.

He truly was completely at Lex's mercy, helpless like he hadn't felt since he was a small child trapped in his father's house.

Lex undid Fitz's corset, helping to strip him of his elaborate undergarments, and his touch was so gentle. He was always so gentle, and if Fitz had to be at someone's mercy, he preferred Lex above all others. Lex, who despite his faults, always seemed to want Fitz.

As Lex knelt before him, wiping the sweat and stench from Fitz with a warm cloth, Fitz's mind drifted back to that place of obedience that still lingered in his head. Serving Lord Edgar, laying his head in his lap, had felt so satisfying despite being so wrong.

It wouldn't feel wrong with Lex. He could picture himself, docile and subservient, with his master caressing his head as he knelt by his side. Would Lex prefer him that way? Did he only object to Lord Edgar's influence, to Fitz's subservience, because he himself hadn't put it there?

If Fitz was helpless here regardless, wouldn't it all be simpler?

Lex took his hands, turning them over tenderly, inspecting the places where the ropes had worn angry red marks into Fitz's wrists. His aura strengthened, further fogging Fitz's mind, and all he could think of was his master's clear need.

"You should drink, sir," he said, tilting his neck enticingly.

Lex seemed almost startled by this, as though he didn't realize how obvious his need was. "No, not tonight. You're already weak and tired from your experience. You don't need me to compound that."

"I want you to, sir. And you want it too. I can tell. Why deny yourself? Drink."

"As I said, not tonight."

"Why not, sir?" This was the one thing that Fitz could always provide for his master, and he didn't understand why he was being rejected now. "If I want to serve you, and you want me to serve, then what is the --"

Lex leaned forward and hummed a note in his ear, a clear, perfect note that captured all of Fitz's attention. He could hardly remember what he was talking about a minute ago, but it wasn't important. The only thing that was important was listening to the song and sinking into Lex's spell. He slumped forward, caught and lowered onto Lex's shoulder, maneuvered into a position where he could listen so easily.

"Do you trust me, Fitz?"

Normally, that would be answered with a laugh and an easy "of course!" But here with his mind in Lex's grasp, it became harder to give the simple answer that would earn him favor.

"I want to trust you," he said, and that was truthful enough to slip past.

"If I asked you to serve me in the way Edgar wished, would you?" he whispered in Fitz's ear. "Would you kneel by my side, provide me what I need? Would you throw away all thought and free will and obey my every whim? Would you give that to me?"

The fear running through Fitz's veins almost broke through his entranced calm, but the intense feeling of need was even stronger. "I would, sir," he admitted helplessly, "if you asked me to. And I don't want you to ask me to, because I would do it."

"So, then, you agree I could do this. But I don't. Do you know why?"

He should know. He should know how to read Lex like a book. But… "No, sir."

"Because I prefer you as you are."

Fitz scoffed automatically. "You can't be --"

"I want you to trust me, at least in this matter," said Lex, his voice quite serious. "If I wanted a docile servant without a thought in his head, I could have bought one for cheaper than you, or I could have molded you into what I desire. But I didn't, and I won't, because you are what I want."

"Why, sir?" came the question from his lips before he could stop it. It was the question he was always asking himself. How could he make people like him? More charming, more handsome, more funny, more useful -- his guards against a world that would otherwise discard him without a second thought.

Just as he feared Lex might.

"Why?" Lex repeated as though he didn't understand.

"That's what I asked, sir," said Fitz, not liking how needy he sounded.

"You make me happy," said Lex, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Isn't that enough reason?"

A pang of disappointment stung his heart. "With my blood, then, sir?" he said.

"No, not your blood. You." Lex pulled him in closer and hummed in his ear. "If nothing else, I want you to believe this one thing. I want you here with me, brightening my manor with your sunshine."

"…Oh," was all he could say in the tide of conflicting feelings. "Sir," he added.

"Now I want you to sink deeper into my spell. Deeper and dreamier, Fitz, just like that. And all of Edgar's thoughts and preferences are going to wash out of your head as though they were never there. No more desire to kneel or call me 'sir' as you used to. Nothing in your head but your own thoughts and my song."

"Nothing…"

"Nothing else but that. You can let your mind wander, feel so calm and peaceful as all of Edgar's influence is wiped away."

Fitz sank into Lex's arms, finally feeling himself relax after everything that had happened.

"I do love to see you in a trance like this, Fitz," Lex whispered into his ear. "I love to have you under my spell. It's my nature as a vampire. But it's you that I want under my spell, not a mindless puppet version of you. It's not nearly as fun to take your defiance if you don't have any."

"Lex --" said Fitz, filled with a mix of fear and desire.

"I love to see you when you're happy and charming and full of energy, knowing that I'm the only one who gets to pull you down into sleepy submission," he continued. "I want to see you laugh and play music and dance and tease me, and grace me with your company, and then, when the time is right, I want to see you fall into enchanted bliss when I drink from you."

His head was fogged from trance and praise and flattery. "I… want that too…"

"Then I want you to start to wake up gradually for me, but remain relaxed and happy, with only my influence remaining, no other vampire's. Wake up, Fitz."

Fitz blinked slowly, coming to. His head felt clearer, as though he was returning to himself, with the memories of the ball and the kidnapping growing distant.

He could see Lex, now. Not a vampire superior he needed to serve, but the real Lex, the one who always looked like a mess when he woke up, whose tired eyes lit up when he found a particularly precious book, whose handwriting was disgustingly perfect, who was uneasy around any modern invention. His Lex.

Lex ruffled his hair, breathing deep. "My Fitz. My delightful Fitz. My perfect thrall. What can I do to make you happy?"

"Drink from me," he said automatically.

"Besides that," said Lex, laughing. "What is it that you want most? Be honest."

It was a tall order to be honest when Fitz, on his best days, barely had any sort of a handle on what he actually wanted. One thing did automatically come to mind, though. "I want to return to the stage."

"Oh." Lex drew back, depriving Fitz of his touch and making him feel that he said something wrong.

Fitz blinked, trying to regain his thought processes. "You said to be honest."

"I know. And I do want you to return to the stage. I even promised that you could. But… I confess that I wanted to take care of my sire first. If he finds out I'm allowing you out of the manor to perform…"

"He agreed to leave you alone for a year, didn't he?" said Fitz. "And you're going to kill him."

"If I fail…"

"If you fail, I think we're both doomed, aren't we?" Fitz pulled Lex in closer. "If we're doomed anyway, we might as well have some fun before we go."

A rare and genuine smile blossomed across Lex's face. "You're right," he said. "And I do want to see you on stage. I want to see you in your element."

"Then, I can…?"

"Yes. Yes, you can." Lex kissed him softly, prompting Fitz to kiss him back as though his life depended on it.

---

The dingy office reeked of sweat and makeup and cigarettes. It was surreal to be back here, a familiar location in the world of ordinary humans, after so many weeks spent in the company of vampires. Fitz knocked on the door and entered before there was an answer.

"Son of a bitch," said Mr. Reed. "If it isn't Fitz de Hastings. We thought you were dead, or run out of town."

"Well, here I am, very much alive," said Fitz with a flourish. "Alive and ready to perform for the adoring public, as soon as you'll have me."

"Like hell. You left us in the lurch! I had you booked twice and you didn't show -- I had to put up some novelty music act to fill time, and the way the crowd reacted, I should've just left the stage empty."

"So you needed me, then?"

"Needed you like I need a hole in the head." Mr. Reed stubbed out his cigar. "Where the hell were you, anyway?"

Of course, he couldn't very well say he was kidnapped by vampires. "I was… enthralled with a lover. Surely you understand."

Mr. Reed was unimpressed. "You expect me to believe you had a lover that took up so much of your time you couldn't be bothered to pick up your last paycheck?"

"Alas, slender Aphrodite filled me with unbearable longing," said Fitz, draping himself across a chair. "I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't walk to the theater --"

"All right, all right, shut up, I don't really want to hear it."

"Then you'll have my act back?" said Fitz with his most endearing smile. "I'm sure the audiences will love to see me now that I've been away for months. The playbill can even advertise my triumphant return."

Mr. Reed groaned, pinching his nose. "You know I really shouldn't give you another chance with the shit you've pulled," he said. "But I've got an acrobat now who just isn't working out. He can twist himself up like a pretzel but he's got no stage presence, you know? Half the crowd falls asleep."

"So what I'm hearing is that you have a slot for me."

"Yes, de Hastings, I have a goddamn slot for you," said Mr. Reed. "Next Friday at 7pm sharp. And if you don't show, that's the last I'll ever do you a favor."

"Thank you, Mr. Reed," said Fitz, jumping up and shaking his hand vigorously, bursting with excitement about returning to the stage. "You won't regret this."

"I think I already am."

Previous > Masterlist

Next week: The first day of Jenny's new life.

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[favwhumpstuff]

The conversation where Max finds out about Carlo’s new habits (cw for drug use/abuse, post series and post ch10)

previous part

***

“I was…I was out, wasn’t I?” Carlo asks.

Max gives him a look. 

“I was really tired.” He adds lamely.

“Mm.”

Max can feel the lie, palpable. Carlo’s not budging, waiting until it’s dragged out in the open. He won’t give himself up. He looks small again, like the boy who had blinked up at him from the back of a tinted black SUV in a CVS parking lot. 

Keep reading

[favwhumpstuff]

Max and Carlo post series

Prologue to an Epilogue? Idk. Long post-series drabble because I decided to think too much on what Carlo might go through trying to be a college student living downtown. Growing pains. Some referenced abuse, prescription drug abuse and Carlo trying to pick a physical fight. Strong language. Also fluff, comfort, and the established Max and Carlo dynamic galore. I’m really really bad at remembering to tag people but I’m tagging this one!

***

Carlo sits in the driveway for fifteen minutes, car idling. He drives this year’s model of a silver Chevy with heated seats and a free year of Sirius XM radio. He’d never have been able to afford it on his own. He’d refused to take money for a nicer apartment, but the car was something Max had pushed. It’s a really modest payment, he’d said. Don’t worry about it. You just need something reliable, you don’t need to be taking public transportation late at night. 

That makes tears well up in Carlo’s eyes again. He wipes them away, the skin under his eyes raw from doing just that a dozen times with his coat sleeve. The lights on the dash come back from blurred to focused. Max is awake. Or someone inside is. He can see light from behind the drapes of the tall french windows. It’s almost winter again. The trees on the property look as stark and bare as when he’d first come here, wrapped in Max’s coat. Could it really have only been a year? Sometimes it seems ten. 

Max isn’t going to notice he’s sitting there like a weirdo in the driveway. He’ll just go to bed eventually and Carlo will have to decide if he is going to call and wake him or drive home to his apartment, sliding off his shoes by the door to avoid waking his roommates. But he can’t go home… Not the way he left things with Mr Carlson. The man might still be angry enough with him to show up, looking out of place in his three-piece suit next to Carlo’s shabby futon, the wires from the TV running along the wall.

Mr Carlson. He worries the aching split on his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s aware he probably shouldn’t be referring to anyone he’s had sex with by their last name. But that’s how he thinks of him. He’d been so surprised when he’d felt the slap, delivered with the same snakebite precision Erik Holstrom used to give him. 

As he’d tasted blood, something had clicked into place. That’s what Mr Carlson was to him. A new Master that was not his old Master. Maybe one that dressed like Erik and acted like him…but who would love him. It had not turned out to be the case. 

He tilts his rearview mirror to look at his eyes. Bloodshot. Clearly puffy from crying. No fixing that. He doesn’t look high though, his pupils aren’t blown. It’s probably well worn off by now. He kills the engine, pockets his keys. He can’t decide whether to try to call first or just knock, but his feet are carrying him up the steps to the front door, the one Max’s mother had stood at with an armful of cinnamon buns and called him her son’s ‘little social experiment’. 

He takes a shaky breath, rings the doorbell. He can hear its muffled echo inside, and it seems like a long time before the latch is drawn back, the deadbolt turned. When Max opens the door already concerned, Carlo struggles not to throw himself at his feet.  

****

Max takes his coat off of him, brings him into the familiar kitchen. Carlo looks around as if trying to find some telltale sign that something is different. A new calendar on one wall… a dry erase board he’s never seen stuck on the fridge. Everything else is familiar, comforting in a way that pulls at a deep cord inside him.

He feels dazed now, sitting in the seat where Max had given him a second cup of bourbon-cider, told him to charge his card with books from Amazon. 

“Carlo,” Max says, and Carlo turns to his old Master. He’s said his name more than once just now, he thinks. 

“Yeah?”

“Your face,” Max says, dipping a kitchen cloth in water he’s heated. He wrings it out over the sink and comes close. Carlo wants to lay on his chest. 

“My face,” he repeats. He doesn’t flinch when Max dabs the warm cloth to his split lip. He doesn’t have to say ow, please be careful. Max will be careful. Max held him when they cut the chip out of his chest. Helped him wash the sheets. Max took care of his shredded hands after the belt. 

“I got… I got jumped,” he lies. He might have gotten jumped a hundred times, going to the places he goes, asking the strangers he asks for the tiny white pills that make everything nice and soft and painless for a while. 

“Jesus. Where? Did you call the police? Are you hurt?”

Carlo closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at Max while he lies. “Didn’t even… see ‘em. It was dark. I was going… to my car and.. They just wanted money.”

“Did they take your wallet?”

Ah. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. His wallet is in his car console, safe and sound. Fake ID and all. 

“N-no. They uhm. I just gave them the money. The money that was in it.”

Max pauses his gentle cleaning. Carlo opens his eyes just in time to catch a flash of suspicion. 

Stupid. He should’ve thought of a better story before stumbling in here. But he can’t tell Max about Mr Carlson. He just can’t. He should know better. He should be studying, he should be applying for internships and study abroad programs. 

“You’re sure? Just your lip?”

Carlo nods lamely. “Yes, Sir.”

Max gives him a sharp look at that, sets down the towel. “It’s clean. I want you to ice it for a bit.”

Okay. He thinks thickly. Anything, Sir.

“What part of town were you in so late?”

Carlo shrugs. 

“You should be more careful.”

Careful. He should be more careful. You know where he was careful? Here. He was so careful to be the best Pet, and to be Perfect. He was careful to accommodate Max’s slowly changing expectations. Even when that was eventually for him to throw away everything he ever knew, everything he ever wanted, and go out and live in some apartment with other college-age kids and try to pretend like everything is fine. He sticks out like a sore thumb. 

In class he’d raised his hand and asked what 9/11 was after a professor referenced it, thinking it a perfectly normal question. A hundred pairs of eyes swiveled in their seats to look at him as if he’d just made a very distasteful joke. He’d googled it afterward and skipped that class the rest of the week. He has a patchwork idea of the world, missing pieces that were a part of these kids lives while he was locked in a dog kennel, while he was being a piñata to a warehouse full of grown men. 

For the umpteenth time tonight, the tears are back in Carlo’s eyes, his voice. “Oh yeah? I should be more careful? You know where this wouldn’t have happened!?”

Max regards him quietly, calm in a way Carlo finds infuriating.

“Here. Here, where I ought to be. Not out pretending I’m… I’m somebody’s son. Coz guess what? Guess what—  I’m fucking not.” He can hear himself getting louder, shriller. 

“And I did everything you ever asked of me.” He blinks angrily at the tears but doesn’t swipe at them, not admitting defeat. “And you send me out there to… to play civilian by myself and then you tell me to be more careful? Fuck you.” He slides off the island barstool, pushes the heels of both hands into Max’s chest. Max takes a measured step backwards, regains his balance. 

“Fuck. You.” Carlo pushes again, harder. 

 Max catches his wrists before he can pull away and hit him again, holding them tight. It doesn’t hurt until he tries to twist away, and then he feels the bones pinch.

He yelps—  pulling, crying harder, suddenly in the vacuum of fear that descends over his ears like a fishbowl when he realizes he’s in over his head. The strength in Max’s grip reminds him he’s bitten off more than he can chew— and he has a feeling Max isn’t even trying very hard.

Hey Slugger, what’s the rush?

Max’s voice cuts through Carlo’s whimpering— stern. “Stop it. Enough. Stop.”

The words make him go limp. Completely boneless, not an ounce of struggle. Max could break both his wrists at that moment and Carlo would offer no resistance. He looks up into Max’s face. “Or what?” 

Max’s grip loosens slowly, as if making sure Carlo isn’t going to start swinging again. 

“Or what?” Carlo repeats, a little louder. “What’ll you do?” 

Max raises his eyebrows. Carlo can’t believe the complete lack of a rise he’s gotten out of him. 

“Cut it out,” he says evenly. “Don’t play those games with me. You know damn well I won’t hurt you.”

Carlo’s throat feels wrung out, like there’s a pair of thumbs pressing into his voice box. He knows he must look a mess, with his red eyes and his messy hair he hasn’t cut in three months, his busted lip. He gives in to sobbing in a way he hasn’t in weeks and weeks, knees buckling, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Max catches him around the waist, holds him. He throws his arms around Max’s neck instead, holding onto him tightly as he did that day he saw the kennel in the garage and had a grade-A meltdown in almost this exact spot.

“Easy,” Max hushes, as warm with Carlo as if he hadn’t just shown up at his door in the middle of the night and hit him, accused him of awful things and lied to him. Just as warm as he’d been with the loveable Pet he’d tried so hard to make comfortable and unafraid. Carlo still doesn’t feel either of those things, except maybe for here, in this house. Everything else is a cheap imitation— a synthetic sense of security. 

Carlo pulls away when shame finally hits him in a wave. “I should…” he glances at the digital clock on the stove. “Oh, God. I should go…I- I should go home.”

Max shakes his head. “Carlo. Honey.“ He holds the back of Carlo’s neck, squeezes how he knows he likes. “You are home.”

****

It’s Max’s cell buzzing on the counter that makes them separate again, makes Max’s hand stop its soothing motions over Carlo’s back. Carlo holds himself around the elbows and Max points at him, mouths “stay”. 

Carlo hears him answer, not his business voice or even the voice he uses with Eddie, or Simon. Soft, familiar. He strains to listen but Max steps out of earshot, back toward the foyer. He waits a minute, then two before slipping off his shoes and following on stocking feet, having learned long ago how to be as quiet as a mouse when he needs to be. 

He sticks to the wall, tilting his head just close enough to the corner to catch what Max is saying into his phone. 

“I know.”

He can hear him pacing, hears him unlatch the front door and then re-latch it. 

“No you’re right,” he sighs. “I’m just trying to do right by everyone here. Especially him.”

Carlo worries at his lip but stops himself, afraid it’ll start bleeding again. He holds his breath to hear. 

“He is, Elle. And I want him here if I’m being honest. It’s just…” an exasperated sigh. “It’s the blind leading the blind here. Always was.”

Carlo wonders if he means himself. Max has never seemed blind to him, he’s always the one with the answer, the one keeping his cool. 

“You’re right. I’m going to. Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “No, definitely. Alright. I love you, too, baby.”

Carlo’s heart skips at that, trying to put together such a late call, the name he’s never heard. L. El? Elle? Baby?

 He retreats on the balls of his feet through the dark hall, back to his place in the kitchen. Max comes back and picks up the cloth, holds it under the ice dispenser til it groans and churns out a few cubes. He wraps them tightly, hands it to Carlo. 

“It’s swollen. Don’t pick at it.”

Carlo winces as he holds the bundle to his lip. He sort of likes the ache when he sucks at it. “I really should go.” He tries again, wondering what sort of verdict was reached on the phone. He doesn’t want to be here if Max doesn’t want him— as much as it hurts him to think about. 

“Oh no you don’t. None of that. That ship sailed when you showed up on my doorstep bleeding. In five minutes you’re going to go upstairs and take a shower.” He pauses. “And to clarify, a hot one.”

Carlo perks up— hopeful. 

“Then you’re going to put those clothes in the wash and go get something good for sleeping in. Take something of mine.”

He feels an old warmth settle over him, a glow at being told what to do— to be given clear direction. And from Max. He has to throw a fit to bring out his stern side but it feels so good he wonders if it isn’t worth it. 

“Yes, Sir.”  He glances up. Max gives him a look, but for the second time tonight doesn’t call him out on it. I thought we were past that. 

“…Then what?”

Max grins. “You didn’t let me get that far. If you’d just call ahead I could plan your whole evening for you.”

Carlo knows when he’s being poked fun at, but there’s a softness to it, a fondness Max always has for him even when Carlo thinks he is being too pathetic or too wild to deserve it. 

“Then you decide if you want to go to sleep or not,” he says more seriously. “You can sleep in your bed. You can watch movies all night on the couch…”

Carlo likes thinking of it as his bed. Not something that has reverted to a spare bed in his absence. 

“Can we watch a movie in your room?” he ventures. For old times sake?

Max glances at his phone. Carlo wonders if he isn’t thinking about the person he’d been talking to. It sounded like a girlfriend. But he just looks at Carlo fondly again, like he hasn’t seen him in months instead of just a few weeks. 

“Of course we can." 

****

He wakes up in Max’s bed, alone. For a long time he just blinks himself awake, watching how the winter sunlight makes the hardwood glow like honey. 

He’s scrubbed clean, smelling like Max’s shampoo, not the cheap brand he buys for his apartment. He’s in one of Max’s t-shirts, some band he’d gone to see in college. The lettering has faded, and the collar is roomy and comfy. He’s wearing a pair of Max’s shorts too, and there had been socks that he’d long peeled off his heels with his opposite toe and kicked to the floor.

 They’d watched The Conjuring. The scene where the little girl sees something in the blackness behind her bedroom door never fails to make the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Max had seemed happy to hold him through it, squeezing him when he jumped.

"Fraidy cat,” he’d whispered, and Carlo had nodded happily, just wanting to be his Pet again, something Max treasured and looked after and told what to do. He’d give up all the freedom in the world to be told good boy, to sit at his feet as he worked in his study, waiting for a pat to his hair. 

He wondered if his phone was piling up with missed calls, with clipped texts accusing him of being a tease, a slut, a junkie. 

It was in his center console, the battery probably drained dead from the cold. He didn’t care. He was with Max and Max was holding him. He couldn’t remember what had pushed him into the arms of someone like Mr Carlson in the first place when he was so warm and sleepy and safe. 

Even if this touch was platonic where Mr Carlson’s was not… he’d trade it in a heartbeat. As he’d fallen asleep to Max slowly petting through his grown-out curls, he thought it might even be preferable, to know Max would never offer him anything but chaste, gentle affection. Not that Carlo would refuse it. It was just never offered. 

Finally, he decides it’s time to get out of the warm bed. He shivers when his feet hit the floor, searching for the discarded socks. In the third drawer of Max’s dresser he finds his favorite hoodie with the slightly chewed strings. He tugs it over his head and let’s it fall, baggy and familiar. Max is watching the news in the living room, laughs when he sees Carlo.

“You’re like a heat seeking missile with that thing.”

Carlo raises his arms a foot to demonstrate how his hands are swallowed up by the sleeves of the hoodie, grinning. 

“Come here.” Max waits for Carlo to crawl on the couch beside him, holds his face to look at his lip. 

“Better.“ 

When he lets go Carlo falls into his lap, snuggling close like a cat. Max scritches his hair. 

"All purr now, huh? Last night you were pretty prickly.”

Carlo groans, wondering if he had been as sober as he’d thought he was last night. Someone else might’ve broken his nose for something like that. Keith would’ve skinned him alive.  “I’m sorry. I…” he sits up urgently. “Are you upset?”

“Shh.” Max slides his hand under Carlo’s chin to rub his fingers there. Carlo’s eyes droop, his posture relaxing.  

“No. But I gotta say…you wouldn’t really be picking a fair fight so… if you’re angry with me your best bet is to use your words.”

Carlo chases the touch when Max drops his hand. He doesn’t want to say that he’s started seeing someone he knows is potentially dangerous, who gave him this split lip. He doesn’t want to tell him he can’t sleep at night, that he’s lonely and feels like a freak. He definitely doesn’t want to say he’s been buying prescription pills from friends of his roommates friends so he can fall asleep happy and numb, that sometimes Mr Carlson will give him some so he won’t go out looking for them.

“I… I just really…needed to be here. For the night. After what happened…”

He can’t tell if Max believes him about the mugging story. He thinks probably not. 

“I want you to stay all weekend. Well, every weekend, if you’d like.." 

Carlo looks up, wide eyed. 

"I think I may have…pushed you too hard. Too soon.”

He watches Carlo’s face carefully for a reaction.

“That and I miss you.” He smiles boyishly, and Carlo knows he’s about to tease. “That’s why I didn’t just give you that sweatshirt. This way I knew you’d come back.”

Carlo wonders if he should leave his phone dead in his car or if he should charge it and try to do damage control with Mr Carlson, if he should just come clean with Max and let Max fix it like he always does. Max would understand, wouldn’t he? The shame keeps him tongue-tied. 

“Thank you,” he says, and he hopes Max can see the gravity with which he means it. 

He thinks he does because his ex-Master gets almost awkward, almost apologetic in his next question. 

“Uhm. Do you think… do you think you’d be willing to meet someone for me?”

Carlo remembers the time Max had brought him in front of four of his friends, how scared he’d been and how kind they’d been to him. 

“Yes. Who is it?” he asks, already suspecting. 

“A girl I’m seeing. Her name is Elle.”

Carlo feels a pit of worry in his stomach like a canker, but knows if he’s going to be allowed to hang around the house he’d better go ahead and meet this person. 

“Does she… does she know…?”

Max puts his hand on Carlo’s, rubbing his palm with his thumb. “Yeah. I mean not your address or school or anything, and she didn’t ask. But she knows what happened. That we’re uhm. Close.”

Carlo knows there’s still a danger in telling the wrong person what he used to be. The crime is implied in the phrase used to be. He could still get in trouble. Max had been very clear on that warning. Max’s friends know, and now his girlfriend. Of course she does. Carlo himself doesn’t feel like he has anyone to tell. Anyone he wants to know.

 He watches the marquee on the bottom of the TV screen without really reading it, eyes unfocusing on the letters. “Okay.”

“She’s good people. Promise.”

“Did she want me to stay last night?”

Max narrows his eyes at the referenced phone conversation. “You are the worst. It’s like being wiretapped.”

“M’ sorry.” Carlo looks at their hands. Max’s thumb keeps pushing into his palm, so he must not really be mad. He has a numb spot where his heart line used to run in an unbroken path beneath his fingers. The scar tissue is thicker there, and sometimes it tingles like a tiny livewire is stuck underneath.

“Yeah, she did. She told me to stop pushing the agenda I made up for you so hard and just give us both what we want. Which is just…”

“To be here,” Carlo finishes quietly. 

“Yeah. For you to be here.”

Carlo doesn’t know whether to be curious or cautious of this Elle girl. 

“Does she live here?”

Max shakes his head. “No. She stays over sometimes.”

Carlo feels a twinge of jealousy for how often she must sleep in Max’s bed with him. Of course they get up to more than movies…He pushes that thought away quickly before his face gets red. 

“Do you love her?”

Max gives him a look. C’mon. 

“Sorry.” Carlo squirms. 

“Do you need a break from your classes? Is it too much?”

Carlo worries his hurt lip until Max swats at his wrist lightly. Carlo tries not to let on how that sends his nerves tingling like bees to a hive of honey, like when he’d snap the rubber band for him. 

“No. I like… I like my classes. It’s just…”

“Everything all at once, huh?”

Carlo nods. 

“It’s okay. We’ll reel it back. I put the cart before the horse, that’s on me. And honestly, I’m glad you’d rather be here.”

“I’m sorry.” Carlo takes a shaky breath. “That I’m not.. that I can’t…”

Max shakes his head. “No. Stop that. You’re a good boy, Carlo.”

****

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The Rare Bookseller Part 59: Jenny's Rescue

Prev > Masterlist

tw: character death, mind control, hypnotism, stabbing, adult woman called girl

October 1925

Jenny woke up.

It'd been happening less often these days. She spent most of her life in a half-remembered, hypnotized haze, but every so often her mind would shake itself just barely free. She wasn't sure what triggered it -- a memory, perhaps, triggered by a sound or a smell. It never lasted long before her master effortlessly put her under again.

That's where she was now, with Master Edgar, kneeling at attention beside his favorite armchair. The fact that he was keeping her close at hand probably meant that he intended to feed, but for now he was relaxing with a magazine and his favorite pipe. She stayed still, trying to maintain her posture, so that he wouldn't immediately realize that she was awake. The fireplace was warm with a cheerful crackle, the cushion below her knees was mercifully comfortable, and she was generally content with just remaining like this for some time.

Back when she was first put under her master's spell, whenever she woke up like this, she would try her best to find a way to escape. She'd never gotten far, and she'd earned harsh punishments each time. She touched the place on her hand where her smallest finger used to be, remembering why she had stopped trying. It was far better to enjoy a moment of relative peace and relaxation than incur her master's wrath for no gain.

She'd just about accepted that she was never getting out. She had wished to never see the lace factory again, and like a girl in a fairy tale, she'd had her wish granted in the most awful way. Even so, on quiet nights like this, it seemed bearable.

"Hm. Are you awake, girl?"

"Yes, master. Sorry, master," she sad demurely.

He sighed. "I suppose I ought to put you back to sleep, then, so I can feed later."

"Master --" She hated to ask, fearful of getting in trouble even though it was such a small request. "May I stay awake just a little longer? I'm enjoying the fire and your company, sir."

"…I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as you're silent and don't make any trouble," he said, to her surprise. "I'd like to finish up the article I was reading, anyway. You may stay up for a bit longer."

"Oh, thank you, sir," she said, straightening her posture to show her dedication to being obedient, even when not fully entranced.

Or was she? It was hard to tell the difference sometimes. Maybe her serene attitude was only because she was still very much entranced, despite feeling awake.

She sat in silence, basking in the warmth of the fire, and letting her mind wander. Her thoughts quickly latched on to the many things she missed: sunshine on her face, the scent of flowers blooming, cool summer rains, the bustle of shops, sweets at the county fair. How she regretted not appreciating those more when she had the chance! She hadn't left the manor since she arrived. If only her master would let her outside, even once…

She would appreciate the fire and the quiet of the study now, though. She feared there was a time when she would go to sleep and never again be awake enough to think such thoughts.

Master Edgar tossed his magazine onto the side table with a huff. "Rubbish," he said, and Jenny knew he was talking to himself, not to her. "I can't believe what passes for publishable these days."

Jenny didn't move a muscle as she heard the familiar sound of her master's pocket watch's chain, the soft tick-tock already beginning to make her drowsy. Master Edgar placed one hand on her head as the other dangled the watch in front of her face. It began to swing in slow rhythm, the weight of the watch bearing down on her mind, her eyelids already starting to droop. Her short reprieve was over.

"Focus, girl," he said, unnecessarily, because she already had all of her attention fixed on the watch. "Each swing will make you sleepier and more obedient. You know what it is you need to do."

"Sleep and obey," she murmured.

"That's it, girl, sleep and obey. Sleep and obey…"

She was so well trained that it took very little for her master to put her under. She knew from her hazy memories that once she was fast asleep, she would be made to open her eyes and conduct her master's household business with very little input from her mind, a dream of servitude.

That is, except on nights like this, when he chose her to feed from, when fangs in her neck would only drive her deeper into unconsciousness. She thought perhaps that she was his favorite, the one he chose more often than the rest, and this gave her some odd comfort. Falling into her master's arms during his feedings was the only tenderness she had in this place, and she would be permitted to spend the rest of the night in bed afterwards, so she welcomed it.

"What is that sound?" The watch was abruptly removed from her sight, and she blinked slowly, trying to adjust. Master Edgar looked deeply concerned in a way that was unusual. Had another vampire come to challenge him? Master had a number of enemies, for reasons she was not allowed to understand. "Wait here in the study, girl. Don't move from this spot."

But her master didn't have time to leave the study before the sounds grew louder, loud enough that Jenny could hear it with her ordinary human senses. The door to the study burst inward, revealing a most unusual sight.

The woman was small but looked athletic, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. She was wearing a practical man's suit with a sort of leather vest. Her thick belt had holsters for knives, wooden stakes, and other items Jenny couldn't identify, and she had a large leather satchel and an enormous silver cross on a chain around her neck. Most unusual was the crossbow and quiver strapped to her back.

A vampire? A human here to rescue her? She felt a pang of excitement followed by immediate guilt. She shouldn't wish for her master's death when he'd given her food and shelter and work for so long now -- and for all she knew, this wouldn't be a rescue at all, but an even crueler master.

Master Edgar thrust his pocket watch towards her like a weapon. "Focus," he said with enough force that Jenny was easily caught up in it too, staring at the swaying watch regardless of how much she wanted to observe the new visitor.

She glared. "Fiend, do you think you can --"

"Focus," he said, gesturing towards the watch. "You will focus. Focus now, little hunter. Focus, girl."

So she was a hunter! Jenny's heart clenched. She could just see the hunter behind the swinging watch that threatened to capture her full attention. To her disappointment, the hunter was already focusing, her eyes moving back and forth perfectly in time with the hypnotic watch.

"That's it, girl, that's it. Keep focusing. More and more hypnotized with every swing and sway. Feel my hypnotic power beginning to set in, no matter how hard you fight it."

"Nnnngh," the hunter groaned, trying to tear herself away.

"No, no, none of that, little hunter. You're too hypnotized to resist. You're going to start sleepwalking forward… closer… closer and deeper into my spell, little hunter. Deeper and deeper into hypnosis…"

She took one slow step forward, then another, clearly trying and failing to resist Master Edgar's commands. Jenny couldn't help but wish for her success, but she knew that none could defy her master for long, not when they were caught up in his mesmerism. It was already too late for this poor hunter, a dead woman walking. Jenny did hope that he wouldn't kill her right here and now.

"Your limbs are growing heavy, little hunter. Your eyelids are growing so heavy. You're tired, so tired. You want to rest," said Master Edgar with a wicked grin, as the hunter drew closer. "Don't be afraid. My pretty watch will help you sleep."

Jenny was fighting sleep herself, wanting to stay awake and see what would happen. The hunter was so close now, close enough that her master could reach out and pet the top of her head. She was so small -- how could a woman like this hope to stand up to a vampire like her master?

"Awww, poor little sleepy vampire hunter. You're being hypnotized by the scary vampire, aren't you?" he laughed, as her eyes began to fall shut for longer and longer. "You're just too hypnotized to resist. You will sleep, little hunter, and you will obey. Sleep… sleep…"

The hunter made a soft sound of protest, swaying gently in time with the watch, falling asleep on her feet.

"Go to sleep, girl… sleep… sleep…"

A fountain of blood was gushing down her master's chest.

Jenny was so dazed, and it had all happened so quickly, that it took her a few moments to comprehend. As her master crumpled to the floor, the hunter was standing before him with a bloody stake, her eyes perfectly awake and aware. Master Edgar began to crumble into dust, and Jenny was screaming.

"It's all right." The hunter put her stake down and pulled Jenny into her chest, and Jenny clung to her, not knowing what else to do. "Shhh, I won't hurt you. He won't hurt you any more. You're safe."

"You -- you killed --"

"Listen to me now. Are there any other vampires in the manor?"

"No, only Master Edgar."

"How many thralls does he keep?"

"Six, including myself, miss."

"Hm. That's far too many for me to support. I'll have to contact the guild," she said. "Are any of these thralls in immediate danger?"

Jenny could barely answer through her choked sobs -- what exactly she was crying about, she wasn't entirely certain. "No, miss, they're all -- they're asleep, under his spell, and doing the chores --"

"That's fine, then. I'll leave them be for now, and you can come along with me. Can you stand?"

"I -- I -- I --"

"Here, let me help you up. There you go. Can you sit here for a moment? I need to do something important before we leave and I send the guild in to clean up."

Jenny nodded as she was placed onto the same armchair where Master Edgar had been lounging a few moments before. She couldn't seem to quite comprehend that he was dead. Perhaps she had fallen asleep after all and this was all a dream.

The hunter picked the pocket watch off the floor and stuffed it in her satchel, along with several gold rings her master had been wearing. "I need light valuables to carry with me. Do you know where he would keep them?"

"His bedroom, miss," she said. Uncertain as she was about helping the hunter, it was easy for her to fall into a state of obedience.

"And where's his bedroom?"

Jenny directed her, and the hunter was off to ransack her master's belongings, as Jenny huddled in on herself for comfort. Her master was gone. What would happen to her now? Would she have to go back to her job in the lace factory, after all that had happened? Would they even accept her now? She felt so frail and weak compared to the woman she used to be, a life barely remembered. All she was good for was doing chores and providing blood.

…Would she get to see sunshine?

Was her master truly dead? How did this hunter defy him? Jenny had never seen anyone escape from his hypnotism.

"I'm back," the hunter announced. "That was very fruitful." She held her hand out to Jenny. "Come with me. My car is outside."

Jenny took her hand in a daze, stumbling past the dusting corpse that was once her master and out of the study. She couldn't seem to quiet the part of her insisting that this was all a trick, that she was to be punished, that she was going to be discarded and left destitute…

The cool night air hit her face, and for the first time in years, Jenny looked up at the moon. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Here, you can ride in the passenger's seat." The hunter was gently directing her into a waiting car as Jenny stared at everything around her like a woman possessed. The moon and stars, the streets and the gaslamps, the shops and houses -- it had been so, so long since she'd seen the outside. "It's going to be okay," said the hunter. "You're going to be safe now."

Jenny sat inside the car, trembling. After years of being asleep and obedient, her mind was now swirling with so many thoughts and worries that she felt she might burst. The hunter got into the driver's seat.

"It's going to be okay, I promise," she reassured again. "I know it's a lot to deal with right now, but you're going to be fine."

"Yes, miss," she said numbly.

"Oh, you don't need to call me miss -- I didn't introduce myself at all, did I? My name is Vivian, and I'm a vampire hunter and a witch."

"A witch?" Jenny really had fallen into a fairy tale.

"That's right," Vivian said with pride. "It's probably nothing like you're thinking, though. I can explain more later."

"How did you defy him?" said Jenny, unable to hold back the top question in her mind. "His hypnotism -- I couldn't resist him at all, not ever, and you just…"

"I can make myself immune to vampiric enthrallment for a short time. The method is a secret, though, I hope you understand," she said. "It's how I'm able to kill vampires that no other hunter can touch."

"Like my master…"

"Like your master." She started the car. "I hope you won't hold it against me for too long. You're free now."

"Free…"

She didn't feel free, not yet. But she had gotten to see the moon.

Prev > Masterlist

I've been looking forward to introducing these characters.

Next week, Oliver finally gets to meet Alexander's mysterious friend.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

@pokemaniacgemini

[favwhumpstuff]

The After Party

BBU Hollywood: Chapter 2

I guess this is a whole story now??? We'll see :)

Takes place after THIS.

WARNINGS: BBU, NONCON DRUGGING (LOTS OF IT), bad tripping, mentions of noncon, religious imagery and trauma, rich assholes and the hollywood elite

The tint on the windows doesn’t do enough to block the camera flashes as the limousine descends into the waiting crowd. Henry squints, turning his gaze forward and away. Beside him, Paul is on his phone, which is a mercy. His preoccupation means Henry can take these last few seconds to collect himself before the start of a very long night—as long as he is able to drown out the absent circles being traced on his upper thigh. Henry is so tired he thinks he might be able to drown out anything. If he only let his eyes close for a second or two, he thinks he might drift enough to—

A pinch on his leg—not hard, but firm enough to get his attention—pulls him back from the edge. Paul ends his phone call without a proper sign-off and shoves his phone into his pocket. Henry watches him carefully, assessing his mood. If the phone call was a bad one, it wouldn’t bode well for the rest of the night. But Paul seems to shrug it off easily as he produces a small, glass vial from inside his jacket. 

Henry grinds his back teeth but forces his expression to remain neutral. 

“Look alive, superstar,” Paul says, sprinkling a line of white powder across the side of his finger. “A lot of eyes on you tonight.”

Henry knows the routine, so he doesn’t hesitate when a finger is placed under his nose. He may even be grateful for it later, before the crash, when the dim lights inside the theater want to make his eyelids droop. For now the familiar sting in his sinuses elicits a few watery blinks. 

“Good boy.” Paul rubs a thumb gently under his eye to wipe away a bead of moisture before it can smudge the bright concealer keeping his dark circles out of sight. Henry lets himself be pulled into a kiss, closing his eyes on cue. It could almost be a comforting gesture of affection, if he lets himself believe it. “You did well today. You’ll do well tonight.”

It is not encouragement, but a command. Henry knows this but as he leans a cheek into the large palm that cradles it, he decides to let himself take small comforts where he can. Pretending, after all, is what Henry does best.

“You’re due for a reward. Maybe next weekend, we can take a trip. Just you and me, huh?” Paul says, smiling. “How does that sound?”

Henry fights to keep his expression in check, even as his stomach roils. Flashes of memory assault in a steady stream: the sticky sweetness of pineapple juice sucked from Paul’s fingers, a pill on his tongue (and another and another), the smell of chlorine and saltwater on Paul’s skin. 

“I’d like that,” Henry says.

His smile—the one that he spent months practicing and polishing and perfecting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the training facility—is plastered on for several seconds before the door swings open, exposing him to the awaiting crowd. 

The roar of sound and light and energy used to send his heart skittering. Now, he lets it wash over him as he steps one leg out of the car, then the other, raising a hand into a robotic wave, and he tell himself this is good. The screaming of the crowd is what he wants, what he needs, because Henry has been made for their adoration, and without it, he is nothing. Their attention is what makes him valuable. It’s what keeps him alive. 

Paul places a hand at the small of his back as he steps out beside him, and Henry’s shoulders roll instinctively at the touch. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Smile bright. He knows this dance too well to let something like exhaustion make him miss a step. 

“Henry!” A faceless voice cries out from the crowd of photographers. “Give us a smile!”

His beaming smile turns toward the voice like a sunflower growing toward the light. The mechanical movement of his head on his shoulders makes him feel like one of the animatronic figures he was frightened of as a child, hiding his face against his mother’s chest at an amusement park he doesn’t remember the name of. A lifeless imitation of a real human being, uncanny in resemblance but with none of the light behind the eyes. What makes Henry so different from that, really?

***

By the time the film screening is over, and they step out of the theater and into the afterparty ballroom, Henry’s eyes burn with fatigue. The comedown snuck up on him well before the credits rolled, and it was all Henry could do to keep himself awake and aware, pinching his legs in the discrete darkness of the theater. He knows that Paul will pull him aside soon, into some corner booth or a bathroom stall, and give him another bump to get Henry through the rest of the event. He will need it, and at this moment, he craves it. 

Evening has long faded behind them, but the night is just getting started. 

After the second bump, the world moves by him too quickly. The party becomes little more than flashes of light and color, impressions of touch on his back, his arms, his neck, his face. Henry recognizes some of the faces; the usual parade of executives and A-listers that either greet him with hungry fascination or outright indifference. (He might prefer the latter if the fear of falling out of favor of someone’s attention hadn’t been so thoroughly trained into him). 

Eliza Darling is there, of course, dressed to the nines in an elegant red gown and long, black gloves, but she regards her co-star as little more than a prop, a breathing mannequin, as they are pushed together for photo after photo after photo. 

Once the press has gotten their fill, the cameras and media badges begin to filter out of the crowd. That’s always the first sign that the shift is coming. The night will become something different soon. Eliza leaves, too, hung on the arm of this week’s PR arm-candy, not before exchanging tipsy kisses on the cheek with Paul, and one for Henry as well. Just in case any cameras are still lurking nearby. 

It’s not long after that Henry is ushered into the backseat of a limousine. Paul is there, pressed against his side, but there are others as well. The other Hollywood high-rollers—studio executives, the upper echelon of producers on their payroll—and, of course, their contracted Companion stars at their sides, like ornately decorated shadows. Henry recognizes the others. It isn’t yet common practice to employ Companion labor in film and television, and some studios forbid it outright. Maxwell Entertainment has taken no such stance. 

Still, there are only a few of them in the business, and Henry knows each of them with some degree of intimate familiarity. 

Across from Henry and Paul sits Geoffrey Bellmonte, a sitting board member of Maxwell Entertainment, and nuzzled into his neck is a young man Henry knows as Aspen. Henry tilts his head to Paul's shoulder the way he knows he likes and tries to avoid both sets of eyes. 

It’s not often that Henry is made to perform with Aspen—at least not nearly as often as he is with some of the other favored Companions in the Inner Circle—and for this, he is grateful. They still spend plenty of time together in close quarters at events and afterparties like this one, and at each one Henry tries his best to fly under Aspen’s radar. 

He is a lithe, fox-faced beauty, all pointed features and long limbs. Henry knows that some of his features are the product of a customized plastic surgery plan, implemented before his final contract was ever signed, same as all of them, but there is an undeniable natural beauty underneath. The only thing sharper than his cheekbones is his whip-smart tongue. He gets away with more than most in his position. His cutting remarks and cold condescension—often aimed at Henry—are generally met with a level of endeared amusement from the Keepers. 

Several years ago, Aspen was the first contracted Companion to star in a major studio film. His contract used to belong to Paul himself, but everyone knows that Mr. Maxwell prefers to keep fresh talent cycling in. Nobody gets to stay under him for more than a few years if they’re lucky, but if they prove to be a fan favorite onscreen and an equally favored asset behind the scenes, their contract stays within the Inner Circle a little longer. 

It’s a widely known but unspoken truth that Aspen, growing closer to 30 with each passing day, is nearing the end of his welcome. 

After, when they are alone, Paul sometimes attempts to assuage Henry’s hurt feelings with silken promises that Aspen is only cruel to him because he’s jealous. Of Henry’s youth, of his beauty, of his time in the limelight. He sees in you an image of himself that he can never recreate, he tells him, as if someone else’s misery could somehow make Henry feel better. 

They arrive at Paul’s house in the hills a little after 2 a.m., where the exclusive after-after-party has already begun to trickle in. There will only be about thirty to forty people in attendance this time, and much of that crowd will end up dispersing into groups of two or three or more into guest bedrooms and balconies and hot tubs. 

Henry doesn’t know which he will end up in, and it does him no good to try and predict how the night will go ahead of time. 

***

Every light in The Hills House is programmed to change color at the click of a remote. Tonight, every inch is bathed in blood red. 

It’s exactly the kind of dramatic flair Paul Maxwell is known for, in his life and in his work. Henry thinks the red light and shadows make the house look like a nightmare in his memories. 

Still beaded in sweat from the brief three-way exchange he was pulled into on the living room floor, Henry sprawls among a tangle of bodies on the couch. One thigh is hooked over Paul’s lap, while his back leans against the broad chest of an older man he only ever sees at these kinds of parties. Fingers—he isn’t entirely sure whose—card through his damp hair, over and over. Is it pool water or sweat making the strands plaster to his head? He doesn’t remember, but he leans into the soft repetition, letting his eyes drift shut. 

How long has it been since he slept?

Call time was at six this morning—yesterday?—so that means transpo would have been outside to pick him up by five-thirty, and Henry would have had his alarm set by…

“Looks like someone is tapping out early.” Henry peels his eyes open at the saccharine voice, dripping with condescension. His tilted vision converges to form the smiling face of Aspen, who is draped over Geoffrey’s lap in the chaise across from him. “What’s wrong, Henry? Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?”

Paul’s hand lands heavily on his thigh, and the man pressed against his back rumbles with soft laughter. Geoffrey chuckles into the side of Aspen’s neck. The young man tilts his head to the side with practiced ease, opening himself to the affection, but his sharp eyes hold Henry’s the whole time. 

“Sorry,” Henry mutters, mostly for Paul’s benefit. The apology is met with a sharp squeeze, which Henry can interpret as either acknowledgement or warning. He will find out for sure later. 

“Looks like your boy could use another taste, Paulie,” the man under Henry says, the words vibrating through his upper body. 

“You offering?” 

Henry is jostled as the man reaches into his pocket for something just out of his line of sight. Whatever he holds up makes Paul’s eyes light with amusement. 

“How does he do with Lucy?”

Paul reaches over to scratch Henry’s belly, which makes him feel like a pet. “I think that’s a new one for you, sweetheart. Yeah?”

Henry doesn’t know what “Lucy” is, but almost all of his experience with drugs has been in Paul’s presence, so that must be true. He swallows, forcing himself to nod.

Paul’s eyes cut over his head, meeting Sal with a nod. “Go on, then.”

A hand from behind him taps twice on his cheek. “Open up,” he says. Henry obeys, and immediately a small tab that feels like paper is placed on his tongue. “Don’t swallow it. Just let it sit.”

Henry nods again, trying to hide his reaction to the bitter, sharp tang. 

The effect isn’t instantaneous, like it is with the bumps he takes off of Pauls’ fingers. For a long while, Henry lays there with his head on Sal’s lap, staring at the ceiling as the party moves around him. At some point, hands begin to wander again, sliding over his chest, stomach, legs, face, neck. 

Across from him, Geoffrey pulls Aspen into a deep, consuming kiss, but when Henry looks that way, he catches Aspen stealing glances at him. This time, it seems the usual coldness in his expression has been washed out by something he can’t quite identify.

***

Henry wakes up in hell.

It’s not the first time he’s had that thought upon waking, but it’s the first time it’s been true in such a literal sense. 

This is the hell from the Bible, the hell from his childhood, all fire and brimstone gnashing of teeth, and Henry has woken here, consumed by the flames. 

His limbs shoot out in every direction, flailing—or at least he means to? Is his body moving? There is something wrapped around him, suffocating him. Long cascading limbs. No, they’re tentacles. And he’s… He’s so hot. They’re killing him. He has to get free, free, free, free—

The flames stick to his skin like hot wax as he lands on the ground, soft and scratchy under his hands and knees. He crawls forward, desperate to escape the heat. He doesn’t know where he is and the ground gives beneath the weight of his palms, shifting between sand and concrete and carpet. 

Some part of him he doesn’t quite have access to knows there is water, and knows (hopes?) he is heading toward it. It is this thought alone that drags him forward, down winding tunnel-like hallways. Water. Water. 

Water. 

Water. 

Water. 

Light floods his vision. Henry spins around, thinking he’s been caught (by who? Who is he running from?), but he sees his own hand resting on a lightswitch. And then, much to his horror, he watches his fingers melt down the wall like candle wax. That can’t be good. Can it?

He doesn’t care, though, because then there is water! Water! He found it! It runs cold and beautiful over his hands, and then his arms, and then Henry is rubbing it all over his body, splashing it into his hair, on his face. He has never felt happier than at this moment. 

“Shit,” someone says behind him, and Henry watches as the word spells out in front of him in big, white, puffy letters. S H I T. He reaches for them and they dissipate like clouds of smoke. 

“Shit,” Henry whispers. It echoes through the cave behind the waterfall. “I found a waterfall,” he remembers to tell the person standing behind him. He feels it’s important to tell him this. Who is that anyway? Should he know him? “Do you want some water?”

But then the water stops, and Henry is so sad. 

“It’s all over the floor,” The Voice says again. 

Henry looks down at that, and the floor around his feet is squirming with neon-pink, rice-sized worms. They wriggle under his toes, some of them crawling up his ankles, cold and wet and slimy.

Henry begins to cry. 

“Shhhh. Henry, shh.” The shhhhhhhhh moves through the cave like wind, Henry can feel it blowing through his hair. He can’t stop crying. “Henry, listen to me. Look at me, please. You need to be quiet.”

Cold blocks of ice touch his cheeks, Henry leans into the touch but they melt quickly into the warmth of skin. Hands. Somebody’s hands. 

He follows the movement as the hands turn his head, and in front of him stands a tall, skinny man with a fox face. The fox is talking to him. Henry’s eyes are wide, but he can feel the tears burning his face like raining fire, and then he remembers he’s in hell. He lets out a wail. 

The fox says “shit” again. The words don’t appear this time. The bathroom door slams shut. When did they leave the cave?

“Henry, you’re okay. Can you take a few deep breaths for me?”

He listens, picturing his lungs like big, fat balloons inside his body, inflating his chest to twice its size with each breath. The air feels good. 

“Can I have my water back?” Henry asks the fox man. 

“You’re currently covered in it. Maybe let’s try inside the shower this time.”

The shower sounds nice. Put me in the shower, please. Thank you. You have to remember your manners, Handler Rex said. Please and thank you, ma’am and sir, you have to remember your place. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just close your eyes and feel the water for a minute. Try to keep breathing.”

The waterfall is back and he is standing directly beneath the stream. It’s nice. 

***

Henry opens his eyes and he’s on the bathroom floor. Aspen sits in front of him in nothing more than a pair of light-blue boxer briefs. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” Henry says. “You’re always mean to me.”

He can’t tell what face Aspen makes at that, because colors start to smear together, dripping like an ice cream cone on a hot day. 

“Maybe your skin is too thin.”

Henry looks down at his arms, turning them over and over. He can see the blood and bones and muscle and sinew beneath the paleness. Shit. Maybe he’s right. 

“Not your actual skin, numbskull. Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ,” Henry echoes in a whisper. He doesn’t think he’s in hell anymore, so that name is probably okay to say here.

“The good news is you probably won’t remember most of this in the morning.”

“You looked like a fox.”

Aspen raises an eyebrow, and it keeps going higher and higher until it disappears into his hairline. Henry blinks and it’s back to normal. 

“A fox, huh? Are you hitting on me now?”

Henry pinches his face together. “No?”

“I know, Henry.”

“Okay. Why are you mean to me, Aspen?”

“Oh god. I’m way too sober for this.”

“Aspen?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Okay.”

“You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m really fucked up.”

“Look, I… I’m sorry, okay? About this. I didn’t mean to prompt that asshole to drug you. If anything, I thought he would just give you another bump to get you through the last couple hours. I didn’t… I knew Paul would get mad if you started snoring on Sal’s lap in the middle of the party.”

There’s too many words. The white, bubble letters try to spell them out, but they start popping like balloons before they can finish a sentence. Henry stares after them, trying to make sense of what’s happening. 

“I don’t really know what you’re saying,” Henry tells him honestly.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I can say it.”

“Am I going to feel like this forever?” He thinks he might cry again if that’s true. 

“No, Henry.”

H E N R Y. The bubble letters don’t pop this time. They float up and up and up until they disappear into the sky. He doesn’t think that’s his name, but he’s talking so nice and gentle to him, so he doesn’t bother correcting him. 

“It will be over soon. Just close your eyes. I’ll stay right here.”

*****

TAG LIST:

@hold-him-down - Let me know if you wanna be added! :)

[favwhumpstuff]

Dark!Alex AU: Zee breaks a dish

CW: dark!Alex AU, pet whump, BBU, blood, broken glass, past abuse including mouth whump and multiple whumpers, implied NSFW, implied dubcon, dubcon kiss

I’ve perverted one of the purest hurt/comfort tropes there is.

Zee thought he’d set the glass on the edge of the counter. Maybe he had, and the surface had just been wet. Or maybe he’d misjudged it. Either way, the thick drinking glass shattered on Alex’s kitchen floor a second later, a spray of cobalt blue shards against white tile.

“Damn, Zee,” Cameron said, closing the refrigerator door. “Tell us how you really feel.”

Zee’s heart hammered in his ears and throat. He wanted to apologize, to stammer out an explanation for his klutziness, but words wouldn’t come. He was rooted to the spot, his cheeks heating with shame and adrenaline.

Alex appeared in the doorway, coming to see what the commotion was about. He eyed the glass on the floor, then glanced at Cam— leaned against the far counter taking a casual swig of orange juice. His physical distance from Zee suggested he had nothing to do with it.

“Was that an accident?” Alex asked Zee gently.

“Fuckin’ better’ve been,” Cam muttered to himself and drained the rest of the carton.

“Yes.” Zee whispered. He could feel his voice was going to shake if tried to speak at a normal volume. “I didn’t mean to.”

At the old house the boys would’ve gathered over this, brainstorming his punishment with the excitement of a class on a field trip. But away from the others, he only had Alex and Cameron to worry about. They were all that mattered.

Alex looked him up and down. “Okay. It’s okay, it’s just a cup. Clean it up, please.”

The please at the end stung worse than if he’d simply said clean it up. The cool civility of it made him feel worse. Alex was too level headed to be angry over a broken dish, but he was not above disappointment.

He sank to his knees, gathering the larger shards of glass in his bare hands. He was shaking so badly it was difficult to keep the broken pieces still, and soon he whimpered as a jagged blue edge bit into his palm. The cut was white for a moment and then welled with blood, weeping over onto the broken glass. He choked back overwhelmed tears and kept going, adding more pieces to the pile with his unhurt hand.

A pair of shoes came into his view and he froze, raising his eyes slowly, half expecting to be kicked. Cam had put sneakers on and was holding the broom and dustpan, looking down at him with a mixture of pity and disbelief. “Al,” he hollered. “Come look at what this weirdo is doing.”

Alex came back, tilting his head in exasperation when he saw Zee’s bloodied hand. “With a broom, Z2,” he said. “I meant clean it up with a broom.”

Zee bit his lip to keep it from wobbling. His stomach was in knots, and the cut had started to sting as well as bleed. It wasn’t just his hands shaking now but his whole body, and he couldn’t make it stop.

Alex held a hand out to him, curling his fingers in a come hither gesture. Unlike Cam he was barefoot, unwilling to venture across the broken glass. “C’mere,” he said. “It’s okay, c’mon.”

Cameron grabbed under Zee’s armpit and hauled him to his feet. He chose his steps carefully toward Alex, barefoot and vulnerable.

Alex took his wrist and together they emptied his handful of bloodied glass into the trash can.

Zee heard the windchime-tinkling of more shards being swept up and looked over his shoulder. Cam was sweeping up the mess. His mess. This upset him more than the initial break had. This was all wrong.

“It’s okay,” Alex said, adressing his distress. “You cut your foot too, didn’t you?”

Zee looked numbly down at his feet. There was a smear of blood where his right foot had just been. He lifted it gingerly, afraid to put weight on it and wedge the shard in further, though he couldn’t yet feel it.

“We’ll get it,” Alex assured him. “We’ll have a look when Cam’s done.”

Zee’s vision blurred with unwanted tears. He felt the cut on his hand now, and thought a good punishment might be pouring vinegar over it in the sink. He’d heard so many ideas of how to hurt him floated in the old house he was pretty good at coming up with them himself now.

“Where’s your head at?” Alex asked. He cupped Zee’s face in his hands, thumbed at his cheeks. “What’s got you so scared?”

Cam came beside them to empty the dustpan in the trash, banging it against the side to get all the glass out. “They used to give him a hard time at the house,” he said. “Any excuse, you know how it was. Dropped Tyler’s bowl of macaroni once, because it was too hot out of the microwave. So Tyler put the pieces in his mouth and made him hold them there all night.”

Zee winced in Alex’s hands at the casual retelling.

“What was the other thing you broke?” Cam asked. “ Was it some girl’s wine glass? Did they put that in your mouth after, too?”

“Alright,” Alex said, “I get it. Thanks for cleaning up.”

“I do what I can,” Cam said, and gave Zee a sharp little pinch in the ribs. “Don’t sweat it, Zeezee. That’s a freebie for last night.”

“See? You’re alright,” Alex told him when Cam left to go put his shoes away. “You’re not in trouble. I’d tell you if you were. I’d tell you exactly why and what I was gonna do about it. You know that.”

Zee nodded, though fresh tears fell against his will. Alex watched them a moment before leaning in close and kissing him, barely-there, on the mouth. He pulled back and hovered his lips a centimeter from Zee’s, like he wanted to drink in his thudding pulse, the tearful hitch of his breath.

“I don’t like to see you cry,” he said softly, nosing at a wet spot on Zee’s cheek. Zee shivered, tilting his head back an inch to offer better access to his mouth. “But when you do, it always kinda makes me want to fuck you.”

The second wave of adrenaline spiking in his belly was almost painful, but it made him shudder and press himself against Alex’s upper thigh. 

Alex grinned, kissing the tip of Zee’s nose. “Wanna forget all about that stupid broken cup?” he asked in an overly pitying voice that made Zee whine breathlessly in response. 

“Yeah? Cmon, little boxie, I’m gonna take care of you. I’ll even get the glass out of your foot after, if you make me happy.”

[favwhumpstuff]

Give me a whumpee who is defiant as hell, but is resigned to their situation. They get the gag just before whumper can muttering “I know, I know, too much talking.” Whumpee who brings a weapon to their whumper because they know they’re going to get punished for speaking out of turn but they’re gonna call them a bitch anyway. They have no escape so they’ll behave, but only in the most sassy inconvenient way possible.

[favwhumpstuff]

The Rare Bookseller Part 58: Edgar's Pocket Watch

Prev > Masterlist

tw: kidnapping, mind control, hypnosis, assault, stabbing, eye whump, rat-based horror, possessive behavior adult referred to as boy

September 1905

It had always been hard for Fitz to wake up, but usually not this hard. His eyelids felt as if they were made of concrete, and he had an uncomfortable headache to boot. As he forcibly dragged himself back to consciousness, he realized he was being moved at an alarmingly rapid pace.

He had just managed to return to reality a second before he was tossed onto a hard wooden floor, thankfully landing mostly on his backside and not hitting his head. His head was pounding quite enough already.

"Is there any need to be so rough? You'll damage the thrall," said a smooth voice.

"That little pig spit in my face, he deserves it." Shit, that was most certainly Jameson, by no means a voice that Fitz wanted to hear under the circumstances.

Fitz cracked his eyes open just enough to see a pair of expensive dress shoes. There was a cloth gag in his mouth, and ropes binding his ankles together and his hands behind him.

"If a dog bites you, do you blame the dog, for acting on its instincts?" said the first one, who Fitz now recognized as Edgar. "Or do you blame the master who trained the dog poorly and fails to control him?"

"I think they both should get what they deserve. You're going to erase him, aren't you?"

"No, I don't think I will."

"But you said --"

"Now that I have him here, I can clearly see how he's built for obedience. He'll look and smell so fine in a mindless daze, standing by my chair or kneeling at my feet, serving my every whim. A thrall like this deserves that obedience, not to be chained in some filthy pen."

Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to tremble. He should have let Lex bring hime home, instead of trying to prove… whatever it is he was trying to prove. Now, he was caught between two vampires with the worst of intentions for him. He had no doubt that Lex would rescue him, but would it be too late for his mind?

Jameson huffed. "Do what you like, then, as long as I get to see the look on Alexander's face."

"I thought you'd see reason. I won't be able to enthrall him permanently by the time his keeper arrives, of course, but I can give him a taste of how much improved his thrall would be. And then, of course, I'll have to run the poor little vampire back home. I can't have him getting ideas about taking his treasure back, not when he's treated his thrall so poorly."

Fitz heard footsteps getting closer, and then he was lifted up and sat upright on a soft chair.

"Open your eyes now, boy," said Edgar. "I know you aren't still sleeping."

He stubbornly kept his eyes closed, not foolish enough to get caught in Edgar's hypnotic gaze so easily. Ears straining for some clue as to what was happening, he heard a soft noise he couldn't place.

"Ah, so you think you're being defiant, do you?" The commanding voice whispered in his ear. "Don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Deep down inside, you know that you want to submit to your betters. It's in your nature."

Fitz felt the gag being untied. "Alexander's going to make short work of you when he finds you, sir," he said as soon as he was free.

Edgar laughed. "Boy, do you really think I would have taken you if I feared your so-called master? I have a healthy respect for his sire, of course, but that hardly extends to Alexander. I'm not impressed by his party trick of enchanting a room of weak-minded thralls."

As much as Fitz truly did believe in Alexander, he couldn't help starting to be worried. What if he wasn't found in time? What if Edgar's confidence was warranted? Feeling that Edgar was behind him, he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was. Through blurry vision he could see an opulent drawing room. It looked like many of the parlors he had spent his youth around -- ostentatious, full of wealthy objects with no particular meaning other than bragging rights, resisting any personal touch that would make it look as if people lived there.

"I'm sure your master will like you better once I've tamed you," said Edgar. "Ah, you've opened your eyes. Are you ready to accept your place?"

Fitz screwed his eyes shut again. "My place is with Alexander, sir."

"Oh, then I suppose you'd prefer if I enthralled you like he does, with a little song." Edgar sang a lullaby into Fitz's other ear. "Go to sleep, don't resist, you will obey, sweet little thrall…"

His voice was nowhere near as enchanting as Lex's, but it held enough hypnotic power that Fitz felt his mind begin to fuzz against his will.

"Ugh, how long is this going to take? It'd be faster if you just erased him," Jameson complained.

"I'll take as long as I please mesmerizing this thrall to my standards. It's truly a shame you can't appreciate the unparalleled joy of breaking in a willful thing like this. But if you're that bored, feel free to help yourself to one of the cigars on the side table."

"Don't mind if I do."

"And as for you, boy, you're going to open your eyes while I talk to you."

"The hell I will, sir," Fitz scoffed.

"That was a command, not a request." Fingers snapped next to Fitz's ear. "Open your eyes. Focus."

His eyelids flew open, and to his momentary relief, he wasn't looking into Edgar's eyes. Instead, he was staring straight into a golden pocketwatch with ornate carvings of flowers and birds, perfectly polished glass, smooth mechanisms, and a quiet, rhythmic tick-tock.

"Focus," Edgar said again as the watch began to sway before his eyes. The movement was slow. Heavy. Fitz couldn't stop himself from following it, couldn't tear himself away. A weak protest died in his throat.

"Yes, that's it, watch the pocket watch as it swings back and forth… back and forth…" Edgar's voice seemed more mesmeric now, dangerously so. "You long for a taste of power. You crave obedience. I can see it written on your face. You'll be a good boy and focus now."

He needed to look anywhere but this, needed to ignore Edgar's words dripping into his ear like honey.

"Every slow swing of the watch draws you deeper into my control. Every slow swing of the watch draws you deeper into obedience." The watch swung to the left. "Deep." Right. "Mindless." Left. "Obedience." Right.

"No… stop…" He could feel the trance taking hold as his eyes helplessly swept back and forth.

"Deep, mindless obedience. The obedience you need, the obedience you crave. A perfect, submissive thrall, eager to serve my every whim. Everything is slipping further and further away. Your mind will sleep deeply in my will, and you will obey without question."

Fitz struggled again, trying to keep the words from sinking in. He imagined himself, blank and empty-eyed, kneeling at this vampire's feet. He imagined Lex coming to rescue him, finding him in this embarrassing, compromised state. And for a fleeting moment he imagined Lex approving of it, bringing him back home to be a handsome ornament in his library, Fitz fawning helplessly over his master --

"That's it, boy, keep watching and listening. You know very well that you're just a silly little thing who craves the guidance of a strong and dominant hand. You often make poor decisions, don't you?"

"No, sir," Fitz objected, even though he felt Edgar was more than a little correct. The watch looked so heavy as it swayed in front of his face. His eyelids felt heavy, too, and it was becoming so hard to think.

"Oh, I think you do. I think your impulsiveness and foolishness was on full display for everyone when you shamed yourself in front of Lord Jameson here," said Edgar, still swinging the watch in perfect rhythm. "Wouldn't it be so much easier to let a superior mind make those decisions for you? You can let go, and let your mind sleep, and obey without question. Don't you want to serve?"

"I… want…"

"Yes, that's it."

"I… only want… to serve… Lex," Fitz managed. Something stirred in him, a spark of defiance lighting his way before he was swallowed by the dark. He didn't want to provide for or obey anyone but Lex, he knew that for certain. That was where he truly belonged, and no mere pocket watch could change that. The realization washed over him like waves crashing against the shore, and he opened his eyes fully, forcing his gaze away from the fatal watch.

"Ha! You see, you can't even control him properly," Jameson crowed.

Edgar wasn't remotely fazed. "He's a bit stubborn. It's a good sign. Stubborn ones always fall so much harder once they're brought to heel." He stroked Fitz's cheek with his hand even as Fitz flinched away. "Tired of fighting, exhausted from making decisions. The stubborn ones only resist because they're frightened of how badly they crave the obedience. This boy is no exception."

The gentle hand suddenly grabbed Fitz's chin and wrenched his face upwards. "Focus," he hissed, and Fitz was staring into his eyes again, twin pools of darkness. "Deep into my eyes. Deep into obedience. No more resistance now, no more fighting. Your thoughts are too slow, heavy, and docile. You've already sunk too deep into trance."

Fitz tried to shake his head, to look elsewhere or close his eyes, but he was trapped in Edgar's gaze, his powers slowly but surely draining Fitz of his willpower, returning him right back to entrancement.

"Yes, that's right, no need to fight. Only obedience and submission now. You will submit to me. Say it."

The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I will submit to you, sir."

"You will obey me."

"…I will obey you, sir."

"You're completely under my control."

"I…"

"Say it, boy." Edgar's eyes sparkled with malicious glee.

"I'm completely under your control, sir," said Fitz, eyelids drooping and voice growing dull.

"Good, very good boy. Now repeat that as you become drowsy and docile."

"I will submit to you, sir. I will obey you, sir. I'm completely under your control, sir," said Fitz, helpless to stop himself, the words becoming more true as he spoke them. "I will submit to you, sir. I will obey you, sir. I'm completely under your control, sir…" His eyelids were closing down, down, down, as he reinforced his own hypnotized state.

"Sleep, now," said Edgar. "Sleep and submit to my will. Sleep and receive the precious gift of my command. Sleep and fall into a dream of docility. Sleep."

"I will… sleep… sir…" Fitz muttered as his eyes closed and his head pitched forward. He struggled for one more fruitless moment before his consciousness fell into an abyss.

"Very good, thrall. And now you don't need to think any more. All you need to do is listen."

Fitz felt Edgar sit down next to him and whisper into his ear, but he was too deeply hypnotized to do anything but absorb his suggestions and commands.

"…two, you will open your eyes but remain deeply entranced. And on three, open your eyes and obey."

Fitz's heavy eyes blinked open easily. He felt strange, his head foggy. It was hard to think. The room he was in looked familiar, but he couldn't remember what it was or why he was here. He stretched his wrists, which felt oddly stiff, as did his legs.

"Ahem."

Fitz looked up to see a vampire in a sharp suit, lounging imperiously on an overstuffed armchair, and he was consumed with the deep need to serve, to do anything he commanded. The small tug of wrongness in his thoughts was snuffed out as Lord Edgar beckoned him forward, and Fitz felt himself falling to his knees in front of this strong, powerful vampire. His superior.

Lord Edgar reached forward and pet his head with a condescending smile. "There you go. Don't you feel so much better?"

"Yes, sir." It would be easy and effortless to serve. There was nothing he wanted more. And those vague, nagging thoughts he had were difficult to focus on and hurt his head. This vampire would do the thinking for him, as was his right.

"Such a good little thrall. So calm and obedient. Not a scrap of fight left in you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir," said Fitz, swallowing hard as he looked into Lord Edgar's captivating eyes.

"Do you see now, Jameson? He's so much more agreeable like this. With a little time and conditioning, he'll be a masterpiece."

Jameson scoffed. "If you say so. Of course this is an improvement, but I still think he'd be better erased."

"And that's why quality thralls are wasted on you." Lord Edgar pet Fitz with a gesture that might have seemed affectionate if not for the malice in his eyes and smile. "Hm, how shall I have you serve me? Why don't you polish my shoes?"

Lord Edgar tossed a little black bag at Fitz, who fumbled it in his dazed state. He picked it up and opening it, revealing shoe polish, a horsehair brush, and several cloths. Pleased to have been given a task by a vampire, he got straight to work brushing the dust and dirt off from every crevice of Lord Edgar's exquisite dress shoes.

"Don't you dare miss a spot," said Lord Edgar with amusement as Fitz began to rub the polish in, treating the vampire's shoes with more care than he had ever treated his own.

"I'm finished, sir," he said meekly, once the shoes were shining bright enough to show Fitz his reflection.

"Passable work," said Lord Edgar. "Now you can be my footstool. I expect your former master will be here any minute. Don't you want him to see what a good, obedient thrall you are?"

Fitz's face burned with both shame and pleasure as he got on all fours in front of Lord Edgar's chair, allowing the vampire to prop his feet on his back. The thought of Lex -- a powerful vampire, his superior, his true master -- seeing him reduced to this state…

He hoped that Lex would approve of how well he could serve.

As it turned out, Fitz didn't have to wait long. Just as his hands were becoming sore from pressing into the floor, the door to the drawing room was flung open, and a familiar feeling swept over him like a rush of water. Fitz craned his neck to see Lex standing there, ringed in fury.

"Finally, there you are. Come to collect your trash?" said Jameson.

"Now, now, this thrall certainly isn't trash. He just needed some fixing." Lord Edgar bent down and pet Fitz's head as he would a dog. "Do you like what I've done to him, Alexander?"

"Get your hands off of my thrall immediately. This is your only warning." Lex's voice was a low rumble of thunder, a storm brewing over the ocean.

"Oh, dear, I don't think I can do that. I've already become quite fond of him. I don't think I could in good conscience release this thrall to someone who doesn't take proper care of him."

Lord Edgar lifted his feet off of Fitz and beckoned him upwards. As if floating, Fitz found himself rising back into a kneel. "In my lap, thrall." Fitz helplessly rested his head on Lord Edgar's lap, allowing the vampire to caress him gently.

"What have you done to him?" Lex demanded. "Fitz, are you all right? What has he done to you?"

"I --" Fitz started.

"I molded him into a better thrall, as you can very well see," said Edgar. "Of course, this is just the beginning of his necessary conditioning, but you can see how well he's already taken to it. All of this time, you've been depriving this poor thrall of the control he truly needs. I'm doing both of you a favor."

"I did warn you." Lex pulled out a silver knife that gleamed in the flickering gaslight.

"Come now, even you're smarter than that. I have your precious thrall entirely in my grasp. If you even consider attacking me -- well, you wouldn't want something to happen to Fitz here, would you?" Lord Edgar tilted Fitz's chin up to look at him. "You don't want Alexander to do something he'll regret, do you?"

"No, sir."

"So I thought. Now why don't you put the knife down and --"

There was a flash of light and a horrible wet sound, and cold, inky blood was gushing down Edgar's front and soaking his shirt, dripping onto Fitz. Fitz looked up to see the silver knife sticking out of Edgar's right eye, as the vampire gasped and choked. Lex was still on the other side of the room, and Fitz realized that he must have thrown the knife with pinpoint precision.

"Hell!" Jameson cried, leaping from his seat, a second silver knife narrowly missing him.

Edgar slumped over almost on top of Fitz, and Fitz felt his mind begin to clear a bit. As he tried to shake himself free, he felt something tickle his ankles, and let out an undignified scream as he saw a swarm of rats swirling around him. Rats were filling the room, almost thick enough on the ground that he couldn't see the carpet, climbing his pant legs. They were everywhere, squirming and chittering, climbing Edgar's legs and up the chair. The gaslight was reflected in their beady eyes as they crawled closer to Fitz's face.

"Fitz!" Lex cried out. "You --"

"Come any closer to me," said Jameson, "and my rats are going to eat your thrall's eyes."

Any bravery Fitz had mustered was out the window as he tried to scramble away from the rats to no avail. They were clinging to his shirt, clawing steadily upward.

Lex hesitated, and that was enough for Jameson to kick him square in the chest, sending him reeling backwards into a curio. Ceramic ornaments shattered against Lex's body, covering him in shards. Before he could get back to his feet, Jameson had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, delivering blow upon blow to his face.

Fitz tried to get up and help, but he was still dizzy from enthrallment and adrenaline and the rats were all over him. He couldn't see what was happening. He could only hear awful noises, catch a flash of movement out of the side of his eye. The rats were everywhere, and he couldn't help but shut his eyes in a futile attempt to protect himself. There was a shout, and then an eerie silence, and Fitz thought his heart would burst from anticipation.

"Shoo! Get away!" It was Lex, drawing closer. The sound and smell of rats began to recede, and Fitz cautiously opened his eyes again. He was hauled upright into strong arms, and there was Lex, his handsome face a bruised and bloody mess. "Fitz, are you hurt?"

Fitz couldn't help but laugh to keep himself from crying. "How can you even ask me that, when you're…"

"I've had worse. It will heal."

Fitz could see Jameson on the ground, bleeding from multiple wounds including a nasty gash across his stomach. He grew lightheaded, and thought he might faint or vomit or both.

"Easy, I've got you," said Lex, gathering Fitz up into his arms and letting him rest his head on his shoulder. His grip was too tight. "They took you, I can't believe they took you and touched you and --"

"Did you kill them?"

"No. I'd have to put the silver knife in their hearts for that," he said. "A certain amount of violence is accepted in vampire society. This incident will blow over, particularly since neither Edgar nor Jameson will want the story to circulate. But killing other vampires, particularly powerful ones… Edgar's friends and allies would never rest until I'd been taken out."

"I see," Fitz said shakily, ashamed that he was so weak, that Lex had seen him happily serving as the footrest of a different vampire. "Lex, I…"

"He got in your head," said Lex, furiously. "What did he do to you?"

"Lord -- I mean Edgar mesmerized me. He made me obey him, and… well, you saw the results. I should have fought it harder, I should have --"

"No, it isn't your fault. As conditioned as you are, I wouldn't expect you to be able to hold out against Edgar's power. You did the best you could. I have no doubt." Lex's eyes were terrifying. "Stabbing him in the eye is too good for him. I should teach him a lesson he'll never forget. I should…"

The tension in Fitz's chest was rising. "…We should have left the ball when I got myself into trouble the first time. I thought I could handle it, and now you're…"

"I'm not upset with you, Fitz. I'm upset with myself. I should have kept closer watch on you. I didn't expect them to steal you in the middle of the crowd, during the dance… the sheer audacity of it."

"I should have been able to take care of myself!"

"You can't fully protect yourself against vampires, no matter how clever you are. No human can. That's why I'm the one who is meant to protect you, and I failed," said Lex, drawing Fitz even closer, so that he could hardly even breathe. Fitz could smell Lex's blood, but also his familiar scent of woodsmoke and book bindings, and he was suddenly so exhausted. He couldn't keep himself from collapsing into Lex's embrace, kissing him softly on his neck.

"Fitz. My Fitz," Lex murmured into his ear. "I should've never allowed anyone but me to lay hands on you."

Fitz felt so utterly vulnerable. He'd been so easily subdued by Edgar's spell, his mind so willing to go along with the idea of a strong vampire taking over his difficult decisions. Was that truly all mesmerism, or something deep within him?

If it had been Lex coaxing him into his lap and caressing him like a pampered dog…

"Ugh, my sire is surely going to hear about this," Lex was muttering to himself. "Edgar won't want it spread around, but my sire find out anyway, with so many partygoers. I'm going to need to speed up my acquisition of hunters, possibly take a risk…"

Fitz no longer felt comfortable with himself. He'd been fooling himself to think that he and Lex were equals, that Fitz could easily handle whatever the supernatural world had to throw at him. Now he knew that he'd been nothing more but a naive lamb among the wolves, only allowed to frolic at their mercy. Edgar could have taken his entire mind so easily, had Lex not intervened; Lex could take his mind whenever he wanted, and Fitz might not even realize it.

The words of the first strange vampire he danced with bubbled up in his mind. It's just the cutest thing when vampires let their thralls think they're so independent.

He hadn't tried to escape since arriving at the manor. He spent his evenings fawning over Lex, trying to get his master's attention, and anticipating feedings. He slept soundly in his master's bed each day. He rarely even thought of the stage.

He was losing himself among the vampires.

"Are you still under his spell? You have a strange look on your face," said Lex. "Even if you weren't enthralled long, it still may take some time to wear off. I'll make sure it's all washed out of your head when we get home."

More enthrallment, more control, and Fitz did crave it, just as Edgar had said. Exhausted as he was, he craved the peace and bliss of Lex's song more than anything. He knew as soon as Lex opened his mouth to sing, he'd fall completely for its spell, floating in a deep trance where Lex's words were the only thing that mattered, and he wanted it.

"Fitz? Let's go home, okay?"

Fitz nodded. "Yes, sir."

Prev > Masterlist

Next week: the vampire hunter who defies all vampires.

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The Rare Bookseller Part 57: Fitz's Dance

Prev > Masterlist

September 1905

tw: mind control, dehumanization, slavery, kidnapping, drugging

He was being shaken gently, and he managed to crack open his heavy eyes. "Nnnn… let me sleep…"

"You need to wake up now, Fitz," said his master, and Fitz's eyes popped open with a gasp.

"What happened?" he said, looking around. He wasn't in the middle of the party any longer, but seemed to have been taken to a darkened hallway. He could hear the muffled din of the party from a distance -- or maybe it just seemed muffled because his head still felt stuffed full of cotton.

"I did something ridiculous and petty," said Lex. "That rat Jameson wound me up, and instead of ignoring his bait, I just had to show off. I put every thrall in earshot under my power." He sighed. "You must think it's ridiculous. I put both of us in more danger simply for a cheap thrill, and -- why are you smiling like that? Did I not wake you from trance?"

Fitz couldn't hold back the slightly maniacal laugh bubbling up inside him. "Perhaps I'm pleased that my dashing master swooped in to rescue me, and that he made such an ostentatious show of power just because he could."

"You're not upset with me?"

"Lex. Do you really think I would be upset with you for making a big dramatic scene in the middle of a party? I'm just glad that I got to witness it -- well, the beginning of it, anyway. And after that -- Jameson, was it? -- called me filthy cattle and called you a half-wit, he deserved everything he got and more." Fitz leaned in closer to Lex. "You have to tell me about the look on his face. I was trying to stay awake to see it, but… you know."

"Oh, he was absolutely furious, with nothing to say," said Lex, finally returning Fitz's gleeful smile. "As ill-advised an idea as it was, it was very satisfying after what he tried to do to you."

It felt intoxicating, to have Lex defending him so eagerly, to have such a powerful vampire at his beck and call. "That idea barely counts as ill-advised. I used to do a dozen things more ill-advised than that over the course of a normal week."

"It just calls attention to us, which is something I normally prefer to avoid. I'm powerful, yes, but not invincible. It's generally not wise to make yourself a target," he said. He picked up Fitz's aching wrist and gently stroked his thumb across it. "Are you hurt?"

"It's a bit sore, but nothing serious. I'm fine."

"Jameson said you had fallen under the sway of Lord Edgar. Is that true?"

"I wasn't -- I wasn't under a sway," Fitz protested. "I was simply distracted for a minute and got separated from you. That's all."

Lex cupped his cheek. "Fitz, you have to tell me what happened so I can be on my guard against it."

"Damn you and your eyes," said Fitz, caving to Lex's worried look as he always did. "…He had a pocket watch out, hypnotizing some other thrall," Fitz admitted sheepishly. "I stupidly looked at the damned thing, and the next thing I knew, I couldn't look away. Ugh, I made a fool of myself."

"You didn't make a fool of yourself. Edgar is an old, prominent vampire, and his enthrallment skills were some of the best in the city before Lily and I were sired. Steer clear of him, and watch yourself around any other vampires using their powers, all right?" He squeezed Fitz's hand. "Do you want to leave? If you don't want to be here any more, we can leave. I wouldn't think any less of you."

"What? No. This is by far the most interesting thing that's happened to me in weeks," said Fitz honestly. "I can handle it. And if I can't, well… you'll bail me out, won't you, sir?"

Lex sighed. "You might be the death of me yet," he said fondly, running his hand through Fitz's hair and planting a kiss on his forehead. "If you're that eager to stay, we can. But the dance will likely be starting soon, and I might not be able to keep my eyes on you."

"What, you're not going to dance with me?"

"Of course I will, but during this dance, it's customary to constantly switch partners. Thralls need to dance with whatever vampire wishes. We'll very likely be separated, and someone like Jameson might even take the opportunity to harass you."

"I'm not afraid of Jameson," Fitz lied, pushing the memories of how his skin itched from Jameson's vampiric aura, how for one bleak moment he was sure he was going to die.

"Perhaps you should be," said Lex. "Edgar as well. Vampires who keep their thralls in deep, mindless states are often not friendly towards humans. The only reason they'll refrain from drinking from you and doing as they please is because they believe you're my property."

"Aren't I? You did purchase me."

"You're much more than that, and I truly hope you know that," said Lex. "But as I've told you before, most vampires here would think I'm a deviant for having such… feelings… for a thrall."

"And what's wrong with being a deviant?" said Fitz with a blinding grin.

"…Vampire society, like human society, isn't kind to those who violate the unspoken rules." Lex glanced at the end of the hallway. "Well, if we're going to return, perhaps we should before the dance starts." He took Fitz's arm in an uncomfortably tight grip, clearly still upset about another vampire having laid a hand on his thrall, and Fitz couldn't help the little thrill he felt about that.

Fitz was dazzled all over again by the costumes and spectacle as they re-entered the main ballroom. Lex, however, was scanning the crowd with a purpose. "I suppose I should find someone agreeable to mingle with, before someone less agreeable notices I'm free. Maybe -- oh, there she is."

Fitz was pulled toward a small gathering of thralls, some of them kneeling, some of them swaying gently, all of them with dazed and blissful smiles. "What vampire brought an entire herd with them?"

"She didn't bring a herd of thralls. A herd of thralls simply forms around her at these events, since so many of them are attuned to her voice."

The group parted enough to reveal a petite woman in a beautiful green gown, her matching mask bearing several sparkling peacock feathers. Despite her small size, she had a commanding presence, and Fitz felt her voice before he could even make out what she was saying, felt it resonating somewhere deep in his mind.

"Miss Lily," he said, memories of the auction house flooding back. The logical part of him thought that he should feel fear or anger at the sight of the woman who kidnapped him, but the deeply ingrained thoughts of hypnotic bliss were stronger. Besides, if it weren't for her, he never would have met Lex.

"Oh, if it isn't dear Fitz!" she said, and Fitz felt powerless to move as she approached and laid a hand on his cheek. "You look well. I assume your master has been treating you right?"

"Yes, sir," he said far too quietly. Just the proximity to Lily was sinking him back into a hypnotic daze. He shook himself out of it, cursing under his breath. "I've been taking good care of Lex here," he said with a mischievous grin, grabbing Lex's arm.

"Good, he needs someone to take care of him."

"I'm hardly that hopeless," said Lex. "I see you've gathered quite a crowd."

"I speak, and thralls listen," she said with a smug grin. "Although I don't usually flaunt it as dramatically as you did earlier. I saw that little stunt with Jameson." She leaned in towards Fitz. "And I saw you spit in his face. I knew there was a reason you were one of my favorite thralls."

Fitz didn't bother to fight the warmth blooming in his chest at Lily's praise. "He was about to drink me, sir. I hardly had a choice in the matter unless I wanted to become some oaf's midnight snack."

Lily laughed. "As much as he did deserve it, be careful. Lord Jameson has few friends, but there are also many vampires who won't suffer the presence of a disrespectful thrall. You should know that, Lex."

"I don't keep Fitz on a leash like a dog, and you know that. He's free to do and say what he wants. Anyone who takes issue with that can answer to me," said Lex, and Fitz's heart fluttered.

"Between that and your all-too-obvious affection… you do realize that our sire is going to hear about this, right? I don't know how he knows, but he does."

"So let him stew in his manor. Perhaps someday soon, he'll also have to answer to me." Despite his bold words, Lex's face showed his concern, and Fitz couldn't help the suppressed fear bubbling to the forefront. "But let's not talk about him. This is a party. You've been working so much that I've hardly even seen you. Don't you want to make merry?"

"I never thought I'd see the day when you were telling me to be more merry. Fitz really must be taking good care of you," she said.

They laughed and chatted for a bit longer, until a cacophony from the stage at the back of the ballroom served as the announcement that the band was setting up. Around them, vampires took their thralls by the arms and began to gather on the dance floor.

"Shall we?" said Fitz, offering his arm before Lex had the chance. Lex smiled and took it, allowing Fitz to lead him on.

"Dance with whatever vampire engages you. I'll find you at the end of the dance," said Lex quietly as the music started up. "And, you know…"

"I'll try not to offend their delicate sensibilities," said Fitz. "For supernaturally strong immortal beings, some of them seem quite fragile."

"Too much time spent with nothing but mindlessly fawning thralls and spawn will do that."

Fitz placed his hand on Lex's back and began to effortlessly lead him through the room in a waltz. His dance lessons were some of the only lessons he'd actually enjoyed as a lad, and he was proud of how graceful his steps were, how Lex easily followed. He'd always lamented that his skill in dance would be wasted in stuffy society balls; he'd never expected he'd be using it to weave in and out of masked vampires, his heart brimming with the thrill of being one of the few lucid lambs among the wolves.

And as they twirled around, Fitz could hardly tear his gaze off of Lex's intense blue eyes, boring into him with such intensity that he couldn't imagine any other vampire cutting in. "I'm surprised vampires allow their thralls to dance with anyone else. An unusual tradition."

Lex shrugged. "The mild taboo of it is what makes it interesting, I suppose. The power play, the chance to touch a thrall you could otherwise never."

Fitz could understand the intriguing novelty of that. "Oh? And is there a thrall here you've just been dying to touch?"

"Only you," said Lex. "Although I suppose others here would enjoy touching you as well. I'll have to endure it."

"They're all staring at us," said Fitz, watching heads turn as he glided past, unable to deny the thrill of desirability. "We just might be the most handsome pair here."

"That may be true, but that's not the only reason they're staring. It's because you're leading."

"Leading?" Fitz hadn't even thought about it, falling back into his lessons. "We're both men, though. Does it matter who leads?"

"Yes, but not because we're both men, but because you're a thrall leading a vampire."

Of course, he should've realized that -- every social rule Fitz stumbled across seemed to revolve around keeping thralls beneath them. He continued to lead the dance with renewed stubbornness now that he knew it was a transgression, and Lex kept following. "If that's so, then what happens if two vampires dance? Or two thralls?"

"If it's two vampires, the more powerful one leads, and yes, this has led to actual brawls on the dance floor. If it's two thralls… no one cares."

Before Fitz could question Lex further, a female vampire in a sleek dress that would have been considered scandalous in human company tapped Lex on the shoulder. In a swift motion, Lex bowed to her and motioned to Fitz. Ah, right, trading partners. He curtsied to the woman and took the lead on instinct before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be doing that.

The vampire laughed. "A thrall that leads the dance! That's such an adorable parlor trick. And you're skilled at it, too, aren't you?"

"I like to think so, sir," said Fitz, suppressing the urge to keep his eye on Lex. He'd be fine, he could handle himself.

"It's just the cutest thing when vampires let their thralls think they're so independent. And Mr. Alexander is so handsome, too! You're a lucky boy, aren't you?"

Okay, perhaps he couldn't handle himself, gritting his teeth against the insinuation that his free will was an illusion. Thankfully, before he had to form a response, another vampire cut in, grabbing the lead from Fitz before he realized it. This vampire didn't say anything, but he had an appraising, hungry look in his eye that Fitz found unnerving.

His mind was still spinning with what the previous vampire had said -- that thralls like him just think they're independent. It wasn't true, obviously. He was still himself, still had his own thoughts.

…But of course, if Lex had used his prodigious hypnotic powers to subdue Fitz in ways he didn't even realize…

Another vampire cut in, and Fitz momentarily thought it would be a reprieve from that uncomfortable gaze, until he realized who he was now dancing with.

"If you think your master will shield you from all consequences of disrespecting me, you're sorely mistaken," said Jameson, pulling Fitz along in a clumsy facsimile of dance, with a tight and furious fake smile.

Fitz swallowed his fear and put on a contemptuous face. "Well, if you're going to punish me, sir, get on with it. Or are your atrocious dancing skills my punishment?"

"Oh, it will be so deeply satisfying to silence you forever," he said.

"Is that a threat, sir?"

"It's a vision."

Someone tapped Fitz's shoulder, and he was more than eager to let another vampire cut in and escape from Jameson. He turned, and was swept up by a man in an impeccably tailored suit, wearing a sparkling white mask with blue feathers, gliding easily across the dance floor. Fitz looked up and found himself looking into deep, dark eyes.

"That's it, boy. Focus," said the soft but firm voice. "Look straight into my eyes."

Fitz swallowed hard, eyes widening, as he felt himself practically falling into those eyes, completely unable to look away. As his brain caught up to what was happening, he realized that this was the same vampire who had been swinging the pocket watch earlier, the one who had captured his attention so easily -- Lord Edgar, Lex had said.

The other vampire he was supposed to stay away from.

"There you are. Everything has its place, and you need to be put in yours, don't you?" he said. "I saw your little stunt earlier. A born thrall like you would be so much happier with your will dissolved into obedience."

"N-no… what are you trying to do, sir…?" Fitz managed to get out, struggling against the unnatural urge to obey and submit. This Lord Edgar was bold enough to entrance Fitz right on the dance floor, right under Lex's nose, and Fitz found himself powerless to stop it.

"Your master isn't giving you what you crave. You need real guidance, real power. It's written all over your face."

"I… don't…" He could feel his will being locked down, a cage with no escape.

"May I have this dance?" said another nearby voice.

"I'll see to you later, then," said Edgar, passing Fitz over to…

"You looked like you needed a bit of rescuing," said Miss Lily. "Don't ever say I haven't done anything for you."

"You're the reason I'm here in the first place," Fitz pointed out as he regained his senses. "…But yes, thank you."

Miss Lily glanced over at Edgar. "He had you under his spell, didn't he? What was that about?"

"Punishment for speaking my mind with Jameson, sir, at least I think."

"Hmph, figures. I didn't think anyone would actually want to defend Jameson… knowing Edgar, it's probably more that he doesn't like so-called disrespectful thralls." She smiled at Fitz as she led him in the dance. "No taste, if you ask me. I think I did an excellent job with you."

"You had high quality material to work with, sir." This vampire gathering certainly made Miss Lily seem like the lesser of many evils.

"I don't see Lex anywhere in this crowd, do you?"

The room was a dizzying chaos of elaborate gowns and masks, vampires and thralls crowded together. "No, sir, I don't."

"When you see him again once the dance ends, let him know what Edgar said to you. And be careful!"

"You're concerned for my wellbeing now, sir?"

"Why of course, you're my dear Lex's precious thrall. And if anything happens to you, I'll have to deal with him moping and whining for months."

Lily relinquished Fitz to another vampire trying to cut in, and Fitz was barely paying attention to who it was, nodding his head to whatever they were talking about. He was trying to spot Lex in the crowd -- or, failing that, to make sure he kept his distance from Jameson and Edgar. He was passed to another vampire, and then the next, and just as he was starting to get frustrated, his thoughts scattered to the winds, mind filling with haze.

"Why hello there, you cute thing!" Lady Jessica patted his cheek, cooing at him. "You're just the sweetest, aren't you?"

"Uh… sweetest…yes, sir…" said Fitz, once again fighting against a current of mind-bending power, this one threatening to drain him of his thoughts.

"Such an adorable, dazed look on your precious little face! Oooh, I could just eat you up! I know Mr. Alexander would never allow it, though, so I'll just have to imagine how good you taste."

Fitz's mind, already compromised from various enthrallments and the high concentration of vampire auras in the room, had little defense against Jessica turning it to mush. "Yeah… I'm looking for him, sir… for Lex…"

"Awww, the poor little thrall misses his master! Of course you do, sweetheart. Let's see if we can find him?"

He nodded dumbly. That sounded good. He'd like to be in Lex's arms where he was safe. The room was too loud, too bright, and and too chaotic for his dampened mind.

"Excuse me, Lady Jessica," said a voice behind him. He recognized that voice. This was important. Who was it?

Jessica pressed Fitz to her chest protectively. "Aw, I have to give this doll up already? If you insist."

And Fitz, already incapacitated by Jessica, had very little defense as he found himself looking all too deep into Edgar's eyes again.

"Focus. There you are," he said, with a firmness that indicated he wasn't going to miss his target this time. "Look deep into my eyes, and sleep in my will."

"Nnnnn," Fitz groaned, succumbing all too quickly. He was being pulled, taken somewhere, and he dimly realized he was in danger of something more than being insulted and condescended to. "Lex --"

A hand clamped over his mouth before he could do more than weakly call out. "None of that. You will sleep. Sleep. Sleeeeeep."

Fitz felt his limbs grow heavy, his vision blurring as his eyelids drooped. He was someplace darker than the ballroom, now. The hand left his mouth, but before he could react in his drowsy state, a cloth with a noxious smell was pressed hard to his face.

"This will help you sleep," whispered the calm and commanding voice in his ear. "Go to sleep now, boy. Just sleep."

He was too weak and enthralled to try and pull the cloth away, to do anything but let his head spin and consciousness fade. His last thought before going under was that Lex would be so mad at him.

Prev > Masterlist

Next week, the conclusion to Fitz's little adventure.

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[favwhumpstuff]

The Rare Bookseller 90s AU: Lily's Rental

This came to me in a dream. I don't know how much of it I'm going to write, but I love the late 90s as a setting and couldn't resist.

Masterlist

tw: hypnosis, kidnapping

September 12, 1998

Lisa shook her can of Mountain Dew, dismayed that there didn't seem to be any more in it. She'd had three sodas tonight and was still struggling to stay awake.

She was working the late shift at the video store again, and she was really more bored than she was tired, the endless preview reel playing on the TV above her head doing little to hold her attention. She'd grown tired of the book she brought with her, she'd already restocked the candy and cleaned out the returns, and as she lived in a city that very much slept, there weren't a lot of customers so late on a weeknight.

Maybe no one would notice if she rested her head on the counter for just a few minutes and…

The sound of the door sliding open had her jerking back awake. "Welcome to Blockbuster, can I help you find anything?" she said on instinct.

"Well, you're a helpful one!" said the customer in an annoyingly cloying voice. "But we're just looking to browse the movies. Don't mind us."

She was wearing a floral sundress and tights, and looked a little too put-together for someone looking to rent a video at 11:40pm on a Tuesday. Trailing behind her was a man with a purple flannel shirt, a long blonde ponytail, and sunglasses perched on his head for some reason.

Far from the strangest people she saw in this job, of course.

"I'm feeling something with a lot of action," said the man as he walked deeper into the store. "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking of -- ooh, no one told me Titanic was out on video!" The woman had stopped in front of the cardboard Titanic standee, apparently having lived under a rock until today.

"Did you somehow miss the nonstop ads on TV?" said the man, echoing Lisa's thoughts.

"I don't have time to watch that much TV. Some of us work for a living, you know," she said. "We have to rent this."

"Isn't it supposed to be four hours long? You know my attention span sucks."

"It'll be fine. I'll let you know when the interesting parts are happening."

Normally Lisa would mind her own business and not be especially interested in the usual chitchat of customers picking out movies, but right now it was the only thing keeping her alert. She idly flipped through a catalog as they talked.

The man picked up one of the many rental copies of Titanic and flipped it in his hands, a dubious look on his face. "I guess. And Lex might like it, he loves tragedy. It's cute when he's trying not to cry."

"I don't know, does Lex watch movies with color? You might blow his mind."

"I'm pretty sure he's still getting used to talkies."

"Anyway, I'm definitely getting this," said the woman. "And I think there's something else I'd like to take with me…"

Her tone of voice was a little strange. Lisa's brows furrowed in confusion as she pretended to be interested in winter fashion.

"Oh, right," the man said. "Brian wanted some video game. Ah, shit, what was it? I should've written it down. Final something."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Come on, Fitz, I want to show you something."

The two disappeared behind the rack of horror movies, their voices too low for Lisa to hear what they were saying. She was starting to get uneasy now. They were probably planning to shoplift, which was not at all the kind of excitement she was hoping for. Lisa ran her hand over the panic button on the underside of the counter, just in case.

The two split up and seemed to be browsing the movies. Lisa was keeping her eye on the man -- Fitz, what a goofy name -- who was over by the video game rentals, watching if he tried to slip one under his shirt. At the moment, he was staring at the video games as though they were some puzzle he needed to solve. This guy really didn't seem clever enough to get past our security, so maybe he was a distraction while --

"Hello, I had a question!" said the woman cheerfully. She had walked up to the front desk without Lisa even noticing, because she was too focused on the other customer.

It was probably part of their scheme -- the woman would distract the clerk, while the man stole video games. Lisa made a point of keeping her eye on Fitz while talking to her. "Sure, what do you need?"

"I was wondering if you have any good movies to help me sleep at night. Something calm… relaxing…" She yawned, and Lisa had to fight not to yawn along with her. "I have a hard time sleeping, and I take medicine that makes me so drowsy, so I could really use videos that will help me sleep."

"Um…" Lisa blinked slowly, feeling like her head was stuffed full of cotton. "We have some, um… some nature videos. Over there in the nature video section. Those are relaxing." God, she was way too fucking tired for this. She couldn't even think straight.

"Nature videos do sound relaxing. So, so relaxing." The woman's voice was very soothing, and her eyes were soothing too. "I think I might be able to fall asleep to a video of rain or waterfalls. Do you have anything else that would help me sleep? I get so tired this late at night."

Lisa yawned wide, and as oxygen hit her brain, she realized that she was being super unprofessional (not that she would get in trouble or anything) and that she had completely lost track of Fitz. Instead, she was gazing into this stranger's eyes, like that was a normal thing to do. "Well… uh…" she said, trying to tear herself away. "I think we probably have… like, lullaby videos for babies? In the kid videos. And we probably have some meditation videos over in the self-help section."

"Lullabies sound perfect," said the woman, a comforting smile on her face that made Lisa feel warm inside. "Lullabies are perfect when it's time for you to go to sleep. Don't you think so, Fitz?"

"I think you're right, Lily."

Lisa's hand was grasped by hands that were cold but incredibly soft. She realized that Fitz had also come up to the front desk, and was holding her hand for some bizarre reason. Before her sluggish thoughts could catch up to her and she could try to pull away, he began to rub a slow circle into her palm, and Lisa…

…just couldn't…

"There we go, sweet girl. You're so tired, aren't you? Tired and sleepy," said the woman. Lily.

"Mmm, she looks so drowsy. Like she could nod off at any second," Fitz agreed, as he stroked the palm of her hand so gently, a motion that seemed to steal away her focus and muddle her thoughts.

"Drowsy and docile. You'll be drowsy and docile for me, won't you?"

Fitz used his other hand to run his fingers down her jaw and tip her chin into his gaze. "You heard her. Drowsy and docile. Isn't that right?"

Lisa felt herself nod slowly. "Drowsy… and docile…" she said, her voice sounding like it was coming from a million miles away.

This wasn't right. There were alarms going off in the back of her mind, warning her of the danger. They were going to rob her. She was going to be in so much trouble. Why was she acting like this? Why couldn't she wake herself up?

"Shhh, shhh, just relax, dear," said Lily. "Everything's just fine. You're tired, aren't you? You just want to sleep."

"Go to sleep." Fitz's fingers traced down her neck. "Just go to sleep."

"I… I don't…" Lisa's vision was blurring, the buzzing fluorescent lights slipping in and out of her mind as her eyes began to close.

"It's okay, dear. Just have a little nap. You're safe with us. You can sleep."

"You look so, so tired. You want to shut those eyelids, don't you?"

"You do. You want to shut those heavy eyelids and go to sleep. It's time to sleep, dear. Sleep…"

Lisa, making a last ditch effort to resist whatever was happening here, pulled open her leaden eyelids. The new releases shelf was at an angle -- no, her head was tipped over, almost sinking onto the counter. Why couldn't she snap out of it, stay awake? It all felt like a dream -- not even the strangest dream she'd had about the shop.

"Poor sleepy girl," Lily whispered in her ear. "You're going to fall asleep now, all right? No more resisting, no more fighting, just a comfortable deep sleep."

The drowsiness was pouring into her from her hand and face where Fitz was touching her, like she was being drugged. Her thoughts strayed briefly to the panic button under the counter before her eyes shut and she slumped over completely. She just couldn't seem to stop herself from falling asleep…

"I've got her." Hands wrapped around Lisa's waist, and Fitz's voice was much closer now. "I can see why you wanted to take her. She smells delicious."

"I know good merchandise when I see it," said Lily.

Delicious? Merchandise? Lisa tried to stir.

"Shh, don't worry about it," said Lily, brushing hair out of Lisa's face. "Sleep tight. Pleasant dreams."

Lisa could feel herself being lifted in the air and carried, but she was too much asleep to protest or do anything about it.

"So I'm guessing we're taking her to the auction house, then?" said Fitz. "D'you think the Blockbuster's going to charge us a late fee if we don't return her?"

"Very funny, and yes, let's take her to the auction house. We can run a background check to make sure we haven't picked up anything too dangerous. I'm thinking she's going to fetch a nice payday," said Lily. "Oh, is this the video game your thrall wanted?"

"Hell if I know, but it's probably close enough. Could you grab that for me? Thanks."

Cool night air hit Lisa's face, waking her up just slightly as she realized she must be outside. Someone needs to close up the shop, she thought in a bleary daze. She heard a car door open.

"Stay with her in the back and keep her asleep, okay?"

"You're better at keeping thralls asleep. Are you sure you don't want to do it?"

"No, because I'm also better at driving. It'll be easier to keep her calm if we don't have you slamming the brakes and pounding the horn --"

"Oh c'mon, I only do that to people who deserve it."

The next thing Lisa knew, she was laying down. Her legs were only halfway on the seat and her head was in someone's lap. A chilled hand stroked her forehead and combed through her hair, and Lisa couldn't help but sink into it, losing herself.

"…could just take her home, you know."

"…don't think she's…"

"…don't you think she'd be a good match for…"

"…but she'd be worth…"

The voices slowly faded away as Lisa slipped deeper into slumber.

Masterlist

Stay tuned tonight for your regularly scheduled Bookseller update.

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[favwhumpstuff]

Ingrid and Carlo talk about their family and she makes a strong gesture that is the first of its kind for them

CW: (adult) adoption mention. Death of a parent mention (Carlo’s). Anxiety about belonging. Ingrid and Max have a two year old at this point. Affection between Ingrid and Carlo. Fluffy. Compliant with the Erik’s journals version of canon.

Carlo opened the email app on his phone and sighed. “I need to resign my lease by this weekend.”

“You could sublet it to an undergrad.” Ingrid suggested. They were sat at the kitchen table together, not doing much of anything but waiting for Max to get home so they could decide what to have for dinner. “Or just let it go.”

“It’s not that, it’s just a pain. I forgot my password to their stupid website, too.”

“You could always just stay here full time.”

He frowned. “You guys don’t need a twenty-five year old who won’t move out. You’ve got a two year old. Like, you’ve actually got a two year old,” he hurried to add. “I’m not comparing myself to your actual kid.”

Ingrid just smiled mildly. He could see she was shopping for something on her phone, oscillating between two similar pairs of shoes. He glanced away from the screen, afraid he was being nosy though it was clearly nothing private.

“You’re projecting how you feel onto how you assume we feel,” she said with deliberate slowness, her eyes still on her screen. “We keep inviting you to stay longer because we want you to. Not just Max, though I think that would be easier for you to wrap your stubborn little head around.”

She glanced up briefly to find him staring at her. She was rarely so direct.

“I want you, too. I want a family, Carlo. Whatever that looks like. That’s why we had Jack. And you’re family, too. Your last name was Svenson before mine was. You lived in this house before I did.”

She set down her phone and put her warm hand on his forearm. He knew it was childish to compare her wedding band to his rubber band, but his unruly mind supplied the thought anyway. He didn’t begrudge her. He didn’t. His relationship to Max was nothing like theirs, and he understood this better now than he ever would’ve at eighteen. He was somewhere between little brother and child to Max, with something else unnameable mixed in. Their relationship had always been a strange but comforting mixture of not-quites.

But things were different from back then. And Max seemed happy. He got support staff assigned to his account at work and he was putting in shorter days, and never worked from home on weekends anymore. He was taking to his new life like it was the easiest thing in the world— Ingrid and in-laws and baby Jack, shopping at the farmers market in the valley on Sundays and hanging out with their new couple friends on Labor Day and the Fourth of July.

It was true they always invited him to stay another night, stay the weekend, stay for the holiday… but he was worried lately he was overstaying his welcome. Max assured him privately that this was his home, but Carlo was mortified at the thought that he said it out of a sense of duty.

He stared at her hand on his skin, not thinking of her but of Max. He looked up and found she was looking at him with a steady cool gaze, with none of Elle’s hungry curiosity, but none of Cissy’s early pity, either.

He realized they were alone and wanted to pull back his arm out of propriety, but then worried she would take it as a request not to touch him. His throat tightened when he wondered, somehow for the very first time, if the adoption status made her his family in the same way that Max was. She pulled her hand back and he found he missed it.

He wondered if he rarely felt the mother-shaped emptiness in him because he lost her so young he had grown around it, like a garden of weeds around a well. He felt he’d always been without a mother, like it was a landmark of his psyche he’d grown so accustomed to that he never even saw it anymore. Unlike Elle or Cissy, Ingrid was a mother, not to just anyone but to Max’s child. And legally speaking, Jack was his little brother.

“Look, I know you don’t need anyone’s help financially,” she said quietly, switching from her usual we, meaning she and Max, to just I. “You’ve got more cash on hand than Max and I combined. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it. Max said you said it was ok if I know.”

“Yeah.” Carlo shook his head. “It’s fine. Of course you can know.” It would have felt duplicitous somehow to live in her house and keep secrets from her, especially about the money Erik had given him.

“It would be fine even if it was about money. But I just want you to know… that I know it’s not. You belong here as much as Jack and I do. Don’t keep that apartment just for us, is all I’m saying. Max and I like you living here. Because you babysit sometimes.”

He met her gaze and she smiled playfully, all the way to her eyes.

“I like to contribute.”

“You do. I just want you to know how I feel. I don’t want you to have to guess. I hope you stay.”

“I just need to finish this degree. I’ll actually do something after that.”

“Oh, you’re twenty-five, baby,” she said, adopting Max’s pet name for him. She said it the same way, too, like a mannerism or phrase she picked up unconsciously. “My God. You’ve got time to relax.”

He gave a short laugh. “I struggle with that. Historically.”

There was a stretch of silence. In the screen of the baby monitor, Jack stirred in his bed. He’d wake from his nap soon, one chubby cheek red and lined from sleep, asking for juice he didn’t know was mostly water.

“Thanks,” Carlo said, before Jack fully woke and she went to him. “Really. I just… I never want to impose.”

She got up and stood in front of him where he sat, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. When she did not immediately retreat, he let his head fall to her stomach, pressing his cheek against her shirt. He’d known her for over three years, he realized with a twinge of surprise. Was it her being cautious with him, or his own barriers that had kept them from having this kind of conversation before? Jude once told him he came off chilly, like the snobby rich kid he’d first taken him for in class. Had she been wishing they were closer the whole time he’d been trying to draw away from them?

Ingrid swept her fingers through his hair. “You can belong to me too, if you want,” she said from above him. She sounded unsure. He pulled back to look up into her face. She smiled, trying to make it less awkward for herself. “Like you do Max, I mean.”

He thought he understood. This was the first time she had ever said aloud that she understood what was between him and Max, too. Even if he wasn’t sure he wholly intuited her meaning, he nodded to save her from what she seemed to think was embarrassment, like she had overstepped and said something he might reject. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

She fixed his hair with her fingers with a hesitant, feminine touch that felt nothing like when Max did it. Jack fussed over the monitor.

“I’d better go get him.”

“I’ll get his juice,” Carlo offered, and stood to find Jack’s favorite cup.

[favwhumpstuff]

Post Series: Carlo and Erik Holstrom get a coffee 

Content warning: past child abuse, slavery, human trafficking, neglect, gaslighting, mention of torture/neglect, lasting injury. Erik is not apologetic, this is not that.

Carlo is still stockholmy at times. This is something I really wanted to write but it’s not particularly whumpy, I just wanted to explore it. (What else is new) 

*****

Erik lets Carlo order for himself, but pays for both of them. They wait for their drinks together and take a seat in the back of the cafe. Carlo has the fleeting, powerful impression he should not have put himself between Erik Holstrom and a wall. But he sits straight, doesn’t put his elbows on the table. 

“So. Do you like your gift? Is it wearing well?" 

He frowns and Erik smiles like a statesman.

"Your freedom.”

Carlo remembers how badly he used to crave this man’s touch. His warm, heavy hand in a loving caress instead of a backhand, a soft tsk that meant he was in a sentimental mood. Now, the thought of it makes him queasy.

The cafe is busy. Busy enough no one is going to clearly overhear anyone else’s conversation. Busy enough he doesn’t feel entirely stupid for allowing this meeting to happen. 

 "You didn’t give me anything,” he says calmly. “Max did." 

Erik raises his eyebrows, deepening the lines across his forehead. "Oh, little dove. If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.”

He reaches for his coffee on the small table and Carlo flinches almost imperceptibly, giving his old Master pause. He acknowledges it by giving Carlo a once-over, and picks up the cup. 

“He handed your freedom to you alright, but a man like Max doesn’t have the connections to get paperwork like that worked up. I have those connections. I have that ability.”

“Connections,” Carlo muses innocently. “Is that why you went to prison?” He would never be so insolent if they were not in public. Even here, his palms are starting to sweat. He sips his cappuccino. 

Erik just laughs, crossing one leg over the other and sitting back in his chair. “What a sharp tongue! Now, that I cannot take credit for. That’s new. Is that your Max’s doing, too then? Does he let you speak to him like that?”

Carlo feels a bit like the insect frozen in amber on Erik’s desk in his estate. It had caught his attention the day he interviewed Keith, back when Carlo had still only been chest-height to Erik and his Master had seemed so large, so untouchable and formidable.

“You look older,” Carlo says, tilting his head. 

“As do you, little Pet.”

“It’s only been two years. Your hair’s gone gray.”

Erik sighs. Carlo’s insults are nothing to him but pebbles from a child’s slingshot. “It’s been a long two years. I won’t bore you with the details, but there were times I missed your company. I found myself dropping my hand to the side of my chair to pet your sweet head and there was nothing there. And Max wouldn’t let me see you unless I dangled those papers like a carrot.”

Carlo’s chest rises and falls a little faster at Erik’s words, the way he pressed the air beside his chair with a flat hand to mime how he used to stroke him. 

“You didn’t want me to testify. You knew I knew things… names and faces. Your phone conversations.”

Erik shrugs. “I didn’t want you to take the stand, that’s right. But not out of fear of your testimony. I’m not sure you ever understood much of what you heard. It would have been circumstantial and not terribly credible— no offense. Those sharks…and they were sharks, Pet, that prosecution, miserable sonsofbitches…they wouldn’t have gotten anything useful from you even if you’d tried.” His eyes soften, voice lowering to a purr. “Yes, I wanted to keep you off the stand. Out of the eye of the press. You were too shy for that. Too sweet." 

Carlo teeters between shaking anger and an urge to fall to his knees in front of all these people and take his place at Holstrom’s feet.

"Not too sweet for Keith, though. For the warehouse." 

Eriks face doesn’t change. He taps his finger on the side of his cup. "No. I suppose not. I could’ve left you locked in a room instead, you know. Or your cage. I could’ve cut off your access to my library and left you nothing to do but stare at a white wall until you forgot how to speak. Would that have been preferable?”

One one hand, no, sorry Master, is on the tip of his tongue. On the other he wishes he could muster something like Max would say to Erik, something cutting to turn that question on its head. But he himself doesn’t have the words. What comes out of his mouth is some mixture of the two. Accusing, but ringing of self pity. “I wanted to be good for you. It was all I wanted, for a very long time.”

Erik tugs up his sleeve to check his watch. “You think I don’t know that? As if I hadn’t trained you that way? I raise hounds. If there’s one thing I know how to get, it’s loyalty.” He seems to think of something further along that train of thought and spreads his hands. “Even Keith, who you seem to think so little of. He stood up to a lot of heat from the DA. All my men did. I never spoke to you about that, though. I wouldn’t expect your loyalty to extend so far. A child.”

Carlo is somehow taken aback. He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates. He wasn’t that much of a child when it happened. “I… I would’ve stayed quiet if you asked. But you gave me away. You didn’t even tell me why. I thought I did something wrong. I didn’t know what happened.”

“And now you’re free,” Erik reminds him. “And so am I. So let’s let it rest, shall we? Don’t look so unhappy. If you need my forgiveness, you have it. What does he call you? Carlo?”

Your forgiveness? What about mine?

Carlo can’t imagine a more disorienting thing than Erik calling him by his name, another one of the things Max has given him. The two eras in his life are fairly distinct.

“Did your hands heal well? Let me see.” Erik extends his hand across the table for Carlo to give him his. 

Carlo twitches in instinct to rush to his Master’s touch, but keeps them in his lap. “Peripheral neuropathy,” he says. “Worse in my left.”

For a moment he thinks Erik is going to apologize, to ask to see his hands again and Carlo knows he might not be able to resist a second time. He thinks of resting the back of his long, knobby-knuckled hand in his Master’s large square one, of Erik’s other hand tracing gently over the white scars from the last time they’d met.

His cup shakes visibly when he tilts it to his mouth.

Erik retracts his hand. “Well. At least it’s your left. Not like you play pro tennis anyway, right? Hell, it’d probably get you out of a draft if you played your cards right. So would being a Pet, though.” He cocks his head. “So if you’re ever looking for a place to keep a very low profile for any reason … we can always un-work up those papers.”

Carlo takes a steadying breath. The barista keeps glancing at him when she sets finished drinks on the counter. It took him a few times to realize it’s because she thinks he’s cute, not because she can tell he’s a fraud, an ex Pet, that there’s an invisible muzzle on his face. Elle helped him unearth that phenomenon when they were out somewhere together. She was flirting with you, doofus, she’ll tell him matter of factly as she read the Times and picked at a croissant. 

Erik’s words seem half joke, half offer. 

“If I ever wanted.. or needed to…lay low, what makes you think I would choose you and not Max? Why in a million years would I choose you?”

Erik narrows his eyes. “You’re sitting here. That’s why.”

“Because-” Carlo blurts hotly, then lowers his voice, glancing around. “Because I wanted to ask you why.”

“Why what?”

“Why everything! Why you got rid of me. Why you couldn't…” he sits back, gritting his teeth so he will not tear up in this crowded, sunny cafe.

“Why I couldn’t what? Go on.”

Erik sounds sincere, but Carlo knows him well enough to know when he’s being toyed with. Why you couldn’t just love me. Just a little. Just enough. 

It may be the last chance he ever gets, but he cannot bring himself to ask. It would be a vulnerability he hasn’t tasted in years and the odds of being kicked while he’s down are too great. He’s played this game with this man his whole life. It would be handing him a scalpel.

Erik checks his watch again. “Well. I’d love to switch this coffee for bourbon, but I’ve got a meeting.” He fishes his wallet from his pocket and sets a crisp fifty on the table between them. “Buy yourself some lunch, Carlo.”

Erik stands, tugging his sleeves to smooth creases from the elbows. He walks out the glass front doors and steps onto the street. Carlo finishes his lukewarm cappuccino alone. He picks up the fifty dollar bill, giving the barista a smile as he drops it in her tip jar on his way out.

[favwhumpstuff]

Soft husky whimpers, muffled by the torn pillows. Quaking arms, rough with thick scarring, barely managing to keep his own body up. Sweat hangs in a bead from his stomach and wobbles with each jolt to his body.

At first, as always, Major was begging for it in his way. Insulting, sneering, swearing. Yeah, fuck, that the best you can do? and Is it, ha, fucking in yet? But now he is much quieter. Above him, against the back of his neck, Tank is huffing out hot, labored breaths. The thrusts are as violent and forceful as Major always asks for. It is too much, too much to handle, and Major is quiet with blissful overwhelm for once.

A hand slides into his hair, cinches a tight grip there, and Major barely has a chance to gasp before his head is shoved down hard into the pillow. Panic blooms in his chest as he tries to breathe and finds nothing but the hot, dense recycled breath that the pillow has trapped.

A sharp whine slips out of him, but Tank only bears down harder. He drives deeper, and Major could nearly kick out in panic when he feels a hand snake around under his stomach so Tank can feel his own slight bulge moving. Burn-scar-ridged fingers twitch spasmodically as the pinned healer suffocates.

You’re gonna pass out, this time, Tank promises in a low growl. Major shudders beneath him. No matter how hard you struggle, I… fuck… I won’t stop.

Major is smitten. All he can do is quake and twitch, trying and failing to get at any of the cool, fresh air that is on all of his body except his face. The sweat between their bodies is hot and slick, the weight above him is crushing. His vision, black already, is going sparkly and fuzzy where the pillow is mashed against his eyelids.

It hurts. The irrational fear of his guts being displaced is all-encompassing, and that’s the drive between half of his muffled cries.

The thrusts grow slower. As deep as they can go. Tank rolls his hips forward with a purpose, and Major lets out a croaking sob, tension rolling through him in waves with the agony that is being kneaded into him over and over.

His body starts to truly struggle, now, thrashing in whatever small measure Tank will allow. As if it makes no difference at all the bigger man keeps on rolling his hips, using the force of the thrusts alone to jolt Major’s body into a better position, not even bothering to take hold of his hips.

Major is crashing hard into unconsciousness just as teeth sink into his shoulder with bruising force. He can’t even manage a scream before he is giving a final spasm and passing out.