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[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns | Solomon | @sunshiline-writes

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├┬┴┬|•⊖•) ├┬┴┬| art tag: @demondamage @firewheeesky @jayghore @lonesome--hunter @softmutt444

@sunshiline-writes @suspicious-whumping-egg @whump-captain @whumpsday @whumplr-reader

@yet-another-heathen

[sunshiline-writes]

I want Miguel to go to the apartment and get the rest of the day and I will be there for you to make me learn how to do it for you to make me learn how to do it for u and I will be able to do it for you to make me learn how to do it

Is this you saying you wanna be my dog for the day buddy? We can make that happen.

[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #17: Dirt and Oranges

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This chapter is a bit chunky! Hope it makes up for the wait LMFAO. word count:3.9k CW: emotional whump, gaslighting, dissociation, some amnesia, ableism, POC whump, fade to black noncon, self deprecating, hand feeding, confinement, captivity, mentions of minor whump (blink and you miss it), aftermath of hand whump, disability whump, let me know if I missed anything

The hayloft wasn’t too bad. He had a thin blanket for the night time and every few days, Xavier or Jesse switched the manacle on his ankle to the other so it didn’t chafe too much. All he had to do was behave. Wake up with the sun and when he saw the top of their hair above the ladder, he waited on his knees. His knees were bruised constantly and so was what little was left of his ego. 

Xavier had started to let him down in the barn to clean the stalls, start polishing the saddles, and cleaning the tools. He’d even been given a bucket and a towel, told to clean his own blood off the barn wall. Blood stained. Migel didn’t know that before he started to scrub at the wall with cramping hands. Ah yes. His hands. His hands were, quite plainly, fucked to all hell. His left hand was better off. It always felt tight and there was a scar right in the middle of his palm, circular where it always hurt the most. His right hand. His right hand was the worst of it. It had been set as best as it could, but his fingers still looked wrong. Some of them still bent a little the wrong way. That was the least of his problems though.The problem was the way his hand was curled like he was about to make a fist but stopped midway through. Straightening his fingers outward was excruciating and curling into a real fist was also painful. 

Looking at them too much made his skin crawl and his stomach twist. So mostly he just avoided looking. But signing had become an arduous process too. It made him angry, even though it wasn’t allowed. Somehow, Xavier had been patient with him when he was figuring out how to grab the rake to clean out the stalls. Even offering advice and helping him figure out a grip. Xaviers mood swings made Miguel dizzy sometimes. 

There was a brightside. Jesse was still mostly the same. The torment was the same. Fake sweetness followed by an angry backhand to the face. Mocking the state of his hands and then softly massaging them so that they felt better. The push and pull was familiar. He was used to that. Xavier had been oddly sweet… Just sweet. Providing words of encouragement and comfort. He hadn’t hurt him in weeks. Miguel preferred him when he was playing mind games. Maybe it was because he had stopped fighting. He didn’t know. Most of the time.. He was too tired to really try and figure it out either. 

Today the rays coming through the barn window were soft and warm on his face as he awoke. He half wanted to go back to sleep. But they would have his head if he was still asleep when they came up the ladder. He pushed himself up on his cot, tried to do the exercises for his hands that Solomon had given to him. When that failed, he stared at the wall, trying to remember what got him here. 

Miguel had lost time. That much he knew. There was a period of time he didn’t remember. After Jesse.. In Solomon's bed.. He shook himself  free of the memory. It was better if he didn’t remember. He could stand missing time. It had happened many times before. To be honest, Miguel didn’t remember much of his first year here. The entirety of his thirteenth year of life was a distant blur, only recalling bits and pieces. He didn’t feel like trying to remember. It wasn’t worth it.

There were certain memories that stood out among the rest. A gun hot and heavy in his hands pointed at Xaviers face, burning pain on his chest, the smell of melted skin, and lots of darkness. He spent so much time blindfolded when he was thirteen, unaware of his surroundings. Moving through the darkness like drowning in a lake. Miguel mostly just accepted that he would never know exactly what they did to him that year. 

He did wish he remembered some things before he was taken. He had siblings once. He knew that. His sister's faces were fuzzy. Sophia had dark hair that curled into a nest on her head and was shorter than him even though she was older. Marisol’s hair was longer and more brown. She had soft hands. He remembered Jaime the most though. He was smaller than him. The smallest of the four of them. Jaime used to run around a lot. His father used to call him travieso, but he would smile while he did. Miguel assumed that was because for all the mischief his brother liked to cause, he was harmless. 

Harmless fun. When was the last time he had that? Before Xavier? Before he could remember? Miguel tried to hold onto their faces, to the way they looked when they laughed. But they were fading. All of them were fading away from him like water through his hands. The tighter he held, the more they slipped away from him. It had been eight years since he’d seen their faces or felt their touch. All of it seemed to escape from him. They never came for him. He remembered that. His parents gave him up to a devil, demiono, and never even tried. Miguel shouldn’t be thinking about them at all. Yet here he was, lost in his thoughts, wondering what life could have been if they had at least tried. 

It wouldn’t have made a difference, but at least he would have known he was loved once. Real love. Not whatever Xavier and Jesse had to show him. Jesse’s constant need to be feared and loved at the same time. Xavier’s desperateness for Miguel to rely on him for everything. None of it was real love. He wondered if the two of them ever had been held or hugged. If someone had hugged them when they needed it, would they have been different? Could they ever be different? 

Miguel was thinking too much again. He did that sometimes. His mind always moved faster and faster until they dug him into a hole he couldn’t get out of. Sometimes, when he thought too much, a sinking feeling would rise in his chest. Make him feel like a cave, hollow and dark. When he felt hollow, he would go to Solomon, help him with his chores. Make up new ones to keep himself occupied until the feeling passed. If the feeling didn’t pass, sometimes his chest collapsed. It never actually collapsed, it only felt like it did. Like all the emotions and memories were sitting on his chest at all times and sometimes they broke his bones. Then everything was painful and it was hard to breathe. 

It happened sometimes before he came to the ranch. When it did, his father would hold him close to his chest, make Miguel feel his pulse, and hum. The vibrations were always calming, following along with the pulse, his fathers steady breathing. Solomon would hold him sometimes. But now all he felt was a sinking emptiness in the pit of his stomach the longer and longer he spent alone in the hayloft. He’d grown so used to company. To the feeling of other people around. Especially Solomon. Miguel had forgotten what it was like to feel lonely. 

Loneliness was killing him. So much so that he had begun to look forward to his visits from Jesse and Xavier. Heart racing when he saw them. Even if it was just to make sure the manacle hadn’t chafed his ankle too much, give him food or water, and take out his waste bucket. Simple things like Xavier running a hand through his hair, or Jesse wrapping a hand around his throat made him ache for more touch. More anything. At least now he had jobs to do. Taking care of the barn, cleaning the saddles and boots when they came back from rides. He cherished his time down from the hayloft. Even if he was watched like a hawk all of the time. Even if no one dared to talk or look at him. 

Today was no different. When he saw the shocking red hair appear from the ladder, he got on his knees. At least they didn’t hurt anymore when he did it. Or maybe they did, he was just used to it by now. 

Jesse had a bucket in one hand, and his other hand was behind his back, hiding something. What was he hiding? It made his stomach sink to his knees too. 

Morning mutt, Jesse said, grinning from ear to ear. Walking toward him and putting down the bucket with a thud. He looked up and squinted at Jesse’s face. He seemed chipper. Happy and less angry. There was something wrong here. Miguel moved to look at the bucket but Jesse grabbed at his hair, pulling him back and making his neck arch painfully. He whined, breathing picking up. Maybe Jesse is in a mood today. 

Jesse lifted Miguel to be face to face with him, making Miguel grunt and one hand wrapped around Jesse’s wrist. 

Close your eyes and open your mouth for me kid, Jesse said, licking inside his ear again just to see him squirm. Miguel came to a realization of what he wanted from him. Was this the reason for being so chipper? He just wanted a hole to fuck? Open them and I’ll get out the blindfold and the bridle and I’ll leave you like that to do your chores. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Jesse’s done that. Left him to his own devices when he’s blindfolded. He wouldn’t doubt that Jesse would do it again. So he just closed his eyes and tried to relax. Let his mouth hang open as Jesse slowly lowered him back down, releasing his hair. Miguel only wanted to be done. Get his breakfast, do his chores, come back and sleep. That was all he wanted. The darkness was enough to try and consume his thoughts. He waited for the salty taste of sweat and come on his tongue. Nothing came. 

Not for a while at least. Miguel’s mouth was getting dry from sucking breaths in through it. Then something was placed in his mouth, soft and almost pillowy. A finger under his chin pushed slightly to make him close his jaw. Miguel bit into the citrus in his mouth, cool juice exploding over his tongue. The taste was sweet and tart, spreading into every corner of his mouth. He chewed and he let it sit a bit longer before he swallowed. He opened his mouth again eagerly, awaiting another slice. A finger tapped against his eyelids and Miguel opened his eyes, staring up at Jesse with an orange in his hand. 

He was smiling. Good right? You want some more? 

Miguel kept his mouth open, nodding. He wanted more of that orange, he hadn’t had much more than stale bread and water for his time in the hayloft. It was the sweetest thing he’d had in a while. 

Two more slices of orange were placed in his mouth and he chewed greedily. Tongue slipping over Jesse’s fingers that sullied the taste a bit with dirt. He didn’t care. Miguel no longer cared about much anymore.The shattered remains of his dignity were on the floor in front of him. Along with drops of his blood. And the last of it was being stolen from his body from fingers that tasted of dirt and oranges.

He could barely remember what it felt to be a person anymore. If he ever was one in the first place.

You’re being real good today aren’t you? Here’s some more, Jesse said, an amused smile on his face as he gently placed another slice on his tongue. With every slice, Miguel could feel himself slipping deeper and deeper into desperation. He was desperate for more of the sweetness, even if it was made slightly bitter by the taste of dirt. Dirt and oranges. Was this what had become of him? Begging for scraps. 

My uncle got them for Hen. She asked for some from the market. I managed to steal some from the crate before– Miguel didn’t see the rest of what Jesse said. He had turned away from him and Miguel whined as Jesse stepped back. Jesse wore that same grin as he did, wiping his hand on his pants to try and rid himself of the juices from the orange. I don’t have any more, mutt. If you’re real good today, maybe you’ll get some more before I take you back. 

With that, Jesse flicked out his hand. The man tilted his head slightly to the side. Clean my hand, you can have the last of the juice. 

Miguel burned with shame as he moved, grabbing Jesse’s fingers and sucking on them. 

Dirt and oranges. He wished Jesse always tasted like this. Jesse’s fingers were rough and calloused, but he did his best. Swirling his tongue around them, in between, trying to get at every last taste of orange. Jesse pulled his hand back and a trail of saliva came away, connecting Miguel's mouth to Jesse’s hand. He almost retched at the sight. Disgusted with himself.. with Jesse. With his predicament. All of it was almost too much. He was angry and tired and he just wanted to sleep. 

Instead, Jesse moved to unlock the manacle from his ankle. The skin there, angry and red. It was time to switch legs when they got back. 

The rest of Miguel’s day went in a blur. He was far away. Following instructions. Cleaning the horses, washing them as Jesse watched with mock interest. He cleaned the bridles, including the one that was reserved for him. He didn’t think about it. Miguel found that when he didn’t think as much, everything got easier. 

Brush, clean, walk. Brush, clean, walk. Taking walks with Jesse or Xavier had become normal as well. Jesse walked with him around the ranch, taking the black draft horse with them. It walked behind them at a leisurely pace. They didn’t talk. Jesse was unusually quiet and it filled Miguel with dread. Sinking into his stomach and into his legs. They turned around to go back to the bark, a breeze making the day cooler. A minor help from the brazing sun hot on the back of neck. 

Jesse waved to get his attention and Miguel looked at the other man. 

Do you ever think about them? Your family before you came here? 

Miguel frowned. He wasn’t allowed to think about them. Let alone talk about them. He narrowed his eyes at Jesse, cautious. Why was he asking this? Why did Jesse look so tired? What was happening outside the hayloft that was making Jesse ask questions that weren’t allowed? The hair on the back of his neck raised, sensing some sort of danger. Miguel shrugged in response to the question, an attempt of playing it safe. 

Sometimes I think about my mother before I came here. Do you think about yours?

A memory shattered through the fog in the back of his brain. His mother running her hands through his hair, untangling the curls. Gentle fingers rubbing his earlobes, the soft rumbling vibrations that meant laughter. The tiredness that came from being safe in his mothers lap. 

Miguel found himself nodding without his permission. Jesse nodded along with him. It was almost normal. A conversation he would have had with a friend. Precious and intimate. Miguel couldn’t let himself feel like that though. If he started to think of Jesse as more than just the person who hurt him, he’d never make it out alive. 

Don’t worry. I miss my mom too. I won’t tell Xavier. 

He took that sentence, those words and held them close to himself. Jesse was just another person who missed his mom. Miguel didn’t know what to do with that information. He could throw it out, leave it with the rest of the darkness he didn’t remember. Or he could keep it close, a reminder that Jesse was just a person. A bad person. But a person nonetheless. Miguel decided that he would save a decision like that for later. 

The man walked on. Leading the horse back to the dreaded barn, back to the hayloft. Back to where everything would be awful again. He suppressed a shudder. Keeping his head straight, not looking at Jesse. Not ignoring him but not inviting him in for more conversation either. Miguel no longer wanted to think about mothers and fathers and brothers. He just wanted to put the horse back in the stable and make it back to the hayloft in one piece. 

Something caught his eye, a movement to his left. It made his heart stop, his stomach drop. Miguel's hands tightened their grip on the lead of the horse, the pain somewhere distant. Everything else was distant. Solomon was walking out of the house, down the steps. Staring at him too. How long had it been? How long since he’d even been allowed to ask if the man was alive? Something in him compelled him to let go of the horse's lead. He took a step toward Solomon. Solomon took a step toward him. Signing something, saying something. 

His face was bruised to all hell, brown skin covered in fading green and yellow blotches. Solomon's eyes looked so tired. So fearful. Miguel couldn’t help himself. He ran toward the man. The man who helped him, who raised him, who never once left his side unless he was forced to. He took only a few steps before a hand wrapped around his waist and yanked him backwards. Solomon stopped in his tracks. Literally feet away, if Miguel reached he could almost touch him. He wanted to touch him. He wanted to hug and let himself be held by the only person who ever provided any true comfort. But the arm around his waist started to drag him backwards. 

Something in him ignited. He fought, kicking and dragging his heels in the dirt. Nails digging into Jesse’s freckled skin on his arms. Drawing blood. There was a sinking feeling as Jesse continued to drag him. Solomon took a few steps forward, reached out to him. Miguel reached back out to him and their fingers touched. A tingling spread through him and he could feel his throat tighten. He was so close, so close and he was being dragged away again. 

Was it worth it? To hug the man he considered a father? Was it worth the punishment that awaited him? His body seemed to act again without his permission as he threw his head backwards. Skull cracking against Jesse’s lips. Jesse’s arm around him loosened and he wiggled out of the hold, sprinting toward his caretaker until his arms were wrapped around Solomon’s waist. Breathing in his scent. 

Solomon always smelled of earth and rosemary. Arms wrapped tightly around him and Miguel buried his face into the man's chest. Solomon was warm and safe. Every memory he had that was ever good of his time here included Solomon. He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t. If he did, he was afraid that he would never be able to see him again. Something in his chest broke. Shattered right into pieces. And it released out his eyes and mouth, flowing out of him like a river. Was he screaming? Wailing? There was wetness on Solomon's shirt and Miguel wailed harder. Hands curling into the soft fabric of his clothes. His whole body shuddered with his cries. 

Slowly, gently, Solomon lowered them both to sit on the ground. Miguel in his lap and curled into his shirt. Sobbing softly at the warmth of another person. Solomon slowly rocked Miguel back and forth, holding him like a small child, until his cries stopped. When he stopped, Miguel finally found the courage to look Solomon in the eye. 

Hello she’awee. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Jesse’s going to take you now. You go with him. You go with him and you live and you keep on going. Do not give up yet. Please. For me. Don't you give up. Miguel took in a shuddering breath as Solomon wiped his tears. Jesse’s cold and calloused hand yanked him by the shirt into a standing position. Shoving him to move forward. Away from Solomon who stayed on the ground. He forced himself to look ahead, to not look back. If he looked back he wouldn’t make it. With every step a part of him faded deeper and deeper into itself. Until when they were back into the barn and the world smelled of horse manure again, he was no longer there. 

He was outside his body, watching Jesse march him up the ladder. Watching as Jesse shoved him down to his knees and locked the manacle around his ankle again. 

Don’t fucking.. Come back. You asshole, Jesse said, slapping him across the face. Miguel blinked and he was back in his body. Seeing it through fresh eyes. Looking up at Jesse. You with me? 

“Yes.” Miguel answered lamely with his hand, tears welling in his eyes again. A sharp pain came across his cheek. 

Don’t you dare fucking cry. You fucking ran. You went to Sol, you’re not supposed to do that you fucking shit. I thought Xavier burned those rules into you. You aren’t even supposed to mention him and you fucking ran toward him. 

Oh. Oh he really was in trouble wasn’t he? Xavier was going to kill him this time. Or worse, kill Solomon. Jesse grabbed his chin with a bruising grip and he leaned in real close. Even his breath smelled of oranges and dirt. 

I won’t tell if you act like you want it. If you’re real convincing, I might even be gentle, he said, shoving Miguel backwards on his back. The wind knocked out of his chest. Miguel instinctively crawled backward. Are you angry yet Miguel? Jesse asked as he pulled tighter on the chain that held him. You can be angry. I promise. You wanna go back out? Go see Solomon?  Come on.. he drawled, crawling over Miguel on the floor. Hovering over him. Or do you wanna stay with me?

Nausea rose in his throat and he whimpered. But he brought a hand to Jesse’s chest and looked up at him 

“I want to stay with you,” he signed slowly. One hand snaking behind Jesse’s neck to pull him close. Pressing their lips together.  

Good boy. 

And Miguel closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wooden floor. 

He focused on the smell of dirt and oranges. He pretended that the scent was something comforting. Something easy to stomach. When Jesse was done, Miguel was hand fed another orange. He told himself he was content with that.

 He was still hungry. 

Do not give up yet. Please. For me. Don't you give up. Miguel wouldn’t, but he wasn’t sure how much left of him there would be by the time hope came round again. But maybe it would. Maybe it would and there would still be a piece or two left of him to save. He could be a better dog for someone else. For someone kind. 

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[sunshiline-writes]

A Rose Amidst Thorns #17: Dirt and Oranges

Previous | Masterlist | Next

This chapter is a bit chunky! Hope it makes up for the wait LMFAO. word count:3.9k CW: emotional whump, gaslighting, dissociation, some amnesia, ableism, POC whump, fade to black noncon, self deprecating, hand feeding, confinement, captivity, mentions of minor whump (blink and you miss it), aftermath of hand whump, disability whump, let me know if I missed anything

The hayloft wasn’t too bad. He had a thin blanket for the night time and every few days, Xavier or Jesse switched the manacle on his ankle to the other so it didn’t chafe too much. All he had to do was behave. Wake up with the sun and when he saw the top of their hair above the ladder, he waited on his knees. His knees were bruised constantly and so was what little was left of his ego. 

Xavier had started to let him down in the barn to clean the stalls, start polishing the saddles, and cleaning the tools. He’d even been given a bucket and a towel, told to clean his own blood off the barn wall. Blood stained. Migel didn’t know that before he started to scrub at the wall with cramping hands. Ah yes. His hands. His hands were, quite plainly, fucked to all hell. His left hand was better off. It always felt tight and there was a scar right in the middle of his palm, circular where it always hurt the most. His right hand. His right hand was the worst of it. It had been set as best as it could, but his fingers still looked wrong. Some of them still bent a little the wrong way. That was the least of his problems though.The problem was the way his hand was curled like he was about to make a fist but stopped midway through. Straightening his fingers outward was excruciating and curling into a real fist was also painful. 

Looking at them too much made his skin crawl and his stomach twist. So mostly he just avoided looking. But signing had become an arduous process too. It made him angry, even though it wasn’t allowed. Somehow, Xavier had been patient with him when he was figuring out how to grab the rake to clean out the stalls. Even offering advice and helping him figure out a grip. Xaviers mood swings made Miguel dizzy sometimes. 

There was a brightside. Jesse was still mostly the same. The torment was the same. Fake sweetness followed by an angry backhand to the face. Mocking the state of his hands and then softly massaging them so that they felt better. The push and pull was familiar. He was used to that. Xavier had been oddly sweet… Just sweet. Providing words of encouragement and comfort. He hadn’t hurt him in weeks. Miguel preferred him when he was playing mind games. Maybe it was because he had stopped fighting. He didn’t know. Most of the time.. He was too tired to really try and figure it out either. 

Today the rays coming through the barn window were soft and warm on his face as he awoke. He half wanted to go back to sleep. But they would have his head if he was still asleep when they came up the ladder. He pushed himself up on his cot, tried to do the exercises for his hands that Solomon had given to him. When that failed, he stared at the wall, trying to remember what got him here. 

Miguel had lost time. That much he knew. There was a period of time he didn’t remember. After Jesse.. In Solomon's bed.. He shook himself  free of the memory. It was better if he didn’t remember. He could stand missing time. It had happened many times before. To be honest, Miguel didn’t remember much of his first year here. The entirety of his thirteenth year of life was a distant blur, only recalling bits and pieces. He didn’t feel like trying to remember. It wasn’t worth it.

There were certain memories that stood out among the rest. A gun hot and heavy in his hands pointed at Xaviers face, burning pain on his chest, the smell of melted skin, and lots of darkness. He spent so much time blindfolded when he was thirteen, unaware of his surroundings. Moving through the darkness like drowning in a lake. Miguel mostly just accepted that he would never know exactly what they did to him that year. 

He did wish he remembered some things before he was taken. He had siblings once. He knew that. His sister's faces were fuzzy. Sophia had dark hair that curled into a nest on her head and was shorter than him even though she was older. Marisol’s hair was longer and more brown. She had soft hands. He remembered Jaime the most though. He was smaller than him. The smallest of the four of them. Jaime used to run around a lot. His father used to call him travieso, but he would smile while he did. Miguel assumed that was because for all the mischief his brother liked to cause, he was harmless. 

Harmless fun. When was the last time he had that? Before Xavier? Before he could remember? Miguel tried to hold onto their faces, to the way they looked when they laughed. But they were fading. All of them were fading away from him like water through his hands. The tighter he held, the more they slipped away from him. It had been eight years since he’d seen their faces or felt their touch. All of it seemed to escape from him. They never came for him. He remembered that. His parents gave him up to a devil, demiono, and never even tried. Miguel shouldn’t be thinking about them at all. Yet here he was, lost in his thoughts, wondering what life could have been if they had at least tried. 

It wouldn’t have made a difference, but at least he would have known he was loved once. Real love. Not whatever Xavier and Jesse had to show him. Jesse’s constant need to be feared and loved at the same time. Xavier’s desperateness for Miguel to rely on him for everything. None of it was real love. He wondered if the two of them ever had been held or hugged. If someone had hugged them when they needed it, would they have been different? Could they ever be different? 

Miguel was thinking too much again. He did that sometimes. His mind always moved faster and faster until they dug him into a hole he couldn’t get out of. Sometimes, when he thought too much, a sinking feeling would rise in his chest. Make him feel like a cave, hollow and dark. When he felt hollow, he would go to Solomon, help him with his chores. Make up new ones to keep himself occupied until the feeling passed. If the feeling didn’t pass, sometimes his chest collapsed. It never actually collapsed, it only felt like it did. Like all the emotions and memories were sitting on his chest at all times and sometimes they broke his bones. Then everything was painful and it was hard to breathe. 

It happened sometimes before he came to the ranch. When it did, his father would hold him close to his chest, make Miguel feel his pulse, and hum. The vibrations were always calming, following along with the pulse, his fathers steady breathing. Solomon would hold him sometimes. But now all he felt was a sinking emptiness in the pit of his stomach the longer and longer he spent alone in the hayloft. He’d grown so used to company. To the feeling of other people around. Especially Solomon. Miguel had forgotten what it was like to feel lonely. 

Loneliness was killing him. So much so that he had begun to look forward to his visits from Jesse and Xavier. Heart racing when he saw them. Even if it was just to make sure the manacle hadn’t chafed his ankle too much, give him food or water, and take out his waste bucket. Simple things like Xavier running a hand through his hair, or Jesse wrapping a hand around his throat made him ache for more touch. More anything. At least now he had jobs to do. Taking care of the barn, cleaning the saddles and boots when they came back from rides. He cherished his time down from the hayloft. Even if he was watched like a hawk all of the time. Even if no one dared to talk or look at him. 

Today was no different. When he saw the shocking red hair appear from the ladder, he got on his knees. At least they didn’t hurt anymore when he did it. Or maybe they did, he was just used to it by now. 

Jesse had a bucket in one hand, and his other hand was behind his back, hiding something. What was he hiding? It made his stomach sink to his knees too. 

Morning mutt, Jesse said, grinning from ear to ear. Walking toward him and putting down the bucket with a thud. He looked up and squinted at Jesse’s face. He seemed chipper. Happy and less angry. There was something wrong here. Miguel moved to look at the bucket but Jesse grabbed at his hair, pulling him back and making his neck arch painfully. He whined, breathing picking up. Maybe Jesse is in a mood today. 

Jesse lifted Miguel to be face to face with him, making Miguel grunt and one hand wrapped around Jesse’s wrist. 

Close your eyes and open your mouth for me kid, Jesse said, licking inside his ear again just to see him squirm. Miguel came to a realization of what he wanted from him. Was this the reason for being so chipper? He just wanted a hole to fuck? Open them and I’ll get out the blindfold and the bridle and I’ll leave you like that to do your chores. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Jesse’s done that. Left him to his own devices when he’s blindfolded. He wouldn’t doubt that Jesse would do it again. So he just closed his eyes and tried to relax. Let his mouth hang open as Jesse slowly lowered him back down, releasing his hair. Miguel only wanted to be done. Get his breakfast, do his chores, come back and sleep. That was all he wanted. The darkness was enough to try and consume his thoughts. He waited for the salty taste of sweat and come on his tongue. Nothing came. 

Not for a while at least. Miguel’s mouth was getting dry from sucking breaths in through it. Then something was placed in his mouth, soft and almost pillowy. A finger under his chin pushed slightly to make him close his jaw. Miguel bit into the citrus in his mouth, cool juice exploding over his tongue. The taste was sweet and tart, spreading into every corner of his mouth. He chewed and he let it sit a bit longer before he swallowed. He opened his mouth again eagerly, awaiting another slice. A finger tapped against his eyelids and Miguel opened his eyes, staring up at Jesse with an orange in his hand. 

He was smiling. Good right? You want some more? 

Miguel kept his mouth open, nodding. He wanted more of that orange, he hadn’t had much more than stale bread and water for his time in the hayloft. It was the sweetest thing he’d had in a while. 

Two more slices of orange were placed in his mouth and he chewed greedily. Tongue slipping over Jesse’s fingers that sullied the taste a bit with dirt. He didn’t care. Miguel no longer cared about much anymore.The shattered remains of his dignity were on the floor in front of him. Along with drops of his blood. And the last of it was being stolen from his body from fingers that tasted of dirt and oranges.

He could barely remember what it felt to be a person anymore. If he ever was one in the first place.

You’re being real good today aren’t you? Here’s some more, Jesse said, an amused smile on his face as he gently placed another slice on his tongue. With every slice, Miguel could feel himself slipping deeper and deeper into desperation. He was desperate for more of the sweetness, even if it was made slightly bitter by the taste of dirt. Dirt and oranges. Was this what had become of him? Begging for scraps. 

My uncle got them for Hen. She asked for some from the market. I managed to steal some from the crate before– Miguel didn’t see the rest of what Jesse said. He had turned away from him and Miguel whined as Jesse stepped back. Jesse wore that same grin as he did, wiping his hand on his pants to try and rid himself of the juices from the orange. I don’t have any more, mutt. If you’re real good today, maybe you’ll get some more before I take you back. 

With that, Jesse flicked out his hand. The man tilted his head slightly to the side. Clean my hand, you can have the last of the juice. 

Miguel burned with shame as he moved, grabbing Jesse’s fingers and sucking on them. 

Dirt and oranges. He wished Jesse always tasted like this. Jesse’s fingers were rough and calloused, but he did his best. Swirling his tongue around them, in between, trying to get at every last taste of orange. Jesse pulled his hand back and a trail of saliva came away, connecting Miguel's mouth to Jesse’s hand. He almost retched at the sight. Disgusted with himself.. with Jesse. With his predicament. All of it was almost too much. He was angry and tired and he just wanted to sleep. 

Instead, Jesse moved to unlock the manacle from his ankle. The skin there, angry and red. It was time to switch legs when they got back. 

The rest of Miguel’s day went in a blur. He was far away. Following instructions. Cleaning the horses, washing them as Jesse watched with mock interest. He cleaned the bridles, including the one that was reserved for him. He didn’t think about it. Miguel found that when he didn’t think as much, everything got easier. 

Brush, clean, walk. Brush, clean, walk. Taking walks with Jesse or Xavier had become normal as well. Jesse walked with him around the ranch, taking the black draft horse with them. It walked behind them at a leisurely pace. They didn’t talk. Jesse was unusually quiet and it filled Miguel with dread. Sinking into his stomach and into his legs. They turned around to go back to the bark, a breeze making the day cooler. A minor help from the brazing sun hot on the back of neck. 

Jesse waved to get his attention and Miguel looked at the other man. 

Do you ever think about them? Your family before you came here? 

Miguel frowned. He wasn’t allowed to think about them. Let alone talk about them. He narrowed his eyes at Jesse, cautious. Why was he asking this? Why did Jesse look so tired? What was happening outside the hayloft that was making Jesse ask questions that weren’t allowed? The hair on the back of his neck raised, sensing some sort of danger. Miguel shrugged in response to the question, an attempt of playing it safe. 

Sometimes I think about my mother before I came here. Do you think about yours?

A memory shattered through the fog in the back of his brain. His mother running her hands through his hair, untangling the curls. Gentle fingers rubbing his earlobes, the soft rumbling vibrations that meant laughter. The tiredness that came from being safe in his mothers lap. 

Miguel found himself nodding without his permission. Jesse nodded along with him. It was almost normal. A conversation he would have had with a friend. Precious and intimate. Miguel couldn’t let himself feel like that though. If he started to think of Jesse as more than just the person who hurt him, he’d never make it out alive. 

Don’t worry. I miss my mom too. I won’t tell Xavier. 

He took that sentence, those words and held them close to himself. Jesse was just another person who missed his mom. Miguel didn’t know what to do with that information. He could throw it out, leave it with the rest of the darkness he didn’t remember. Or he could keep it close, a reminder that Jesse was just a person. A bad person. But a person nonetheless. Miguel decided that he would save a decision like that for later. 

The man walked on. Leading the horse back to the dreaded barn, back to the hayloft. Back to where everything would be awful again. He suppressed a shudder. Keeping his head straight, not looking at Jesse. Not ignoring him but not inviting him in for more conversation either. Miguel no longer wanted to think about mothers and fathers and brothers. He just wanted to put the horse back in the stable and make it back to the hayloft in one piece. 

Something caught his eye, a movement to his left. It made his heart stop, his stomach drop. Miguel's hands tightened their grip on the lead of the horse, the pain somewhere distant. Everything else was distant. Solomon was walking out of the house, down the steps. Staring at him too. How long had it been? How long since he’d even been allowed to ask if the man was alive? Something in him compelled him to let go of the horse's lead. He took a step toward Solomon. Solomon took a step toward him. Signing something, saying something. 

His face was bruised to all hell, brown skin covered in fading green and yellow blotches. Solomon's eyes looked so tired. So fearful. Miguel couldn’t help himself. He ran toward the man. The man who helped him, who raised him, who never once left his side unless he was forced to. He took only a few steps before a hand wrapped around his waist and yanked him backwards. Solomon stopped in his tracks. Literally feet away, if Miguel reached he could almost touch him. He wanted to touch him. He wanted to hug and let himself be held by the only person who ever provided any true comfort. But the arm around his waist started to drag him backwards. 

Something in him ignited. He fought, kicking and dragging his heels in the dirt. Nails digging into Jesse’s freckled skin on his arms. Drawing blood. There was a sinking feeling as Jesse continued to drag him. Solomon took a few steps forward, reached out to him. Miguel reached back out to him and their fingers touched. A tingling spread through him and he could feel his throat tighten. He was so close, so close and he was being dragged away again. 

Was it worth it? To hug the man he considered a father? Was it worth the punishment that awaited him? His body seemed to act again without his permission as he threw his head backwards. Skull cracking against Jesse’s lips. Jesse’s arm around him loosened and he wiggled out of the hold, sprinting toward his caretaker until his arms were wrapped around Solomon’s waist. Breathing in his scent. 

Solomon always smelled of earth and rosemary. Arms wrapped tightly around him and Miguel buried his face into the man's chest. Solomon was warm and safe. Every memory he had that was ever good of his time here included Solomon. He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t. If he did, he was afraid that he would never be able to see him again. Something in his chest broke. Shattered right into pieces. And it released out his eyes and mouth, flowing out of him like a river. Was he screaming? Wailing? There was wetness on Solomon's shirt and Miguel wailed harder. Hands curling into the soft fabric of his clothes. His whole body shuddered with his cries. 

Slowly, gently, Solomon lowered them both to sit on the ground. Miguel in his lap and curled into his shirt. Sobbing softly at the warmth of another person. Solomon slowly rocked Miguel back and forth, holding him like a small child, until his cries stopped. When he stopped, Miguel finally found the courage to look Solomon in the eye. 

Hello she’awee. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Jesse’s going to take you now. You go with him. You go with him and you live and you keep on going. Do not give up yet. Please. For me. Don't you give up. Miguel took in a shuddering breath as Solomon wiped his tears. Jesse’s cold and calloused hand yanked him by the shirt into a standing position. Shoving him to move forward. Away from Solomon who stayed on the ground. He forced himself to look ahead, to not look back. If he looked back he wouldn’t make it. With every step a part of him faded deeper and deeper into itself. Until when they were back into the barn and the world smelled of horse manure again, he was no longer there. 

He was outside his body, watching Jesse march him up the ladder. Watching as Jesse shoved him down to his knees and locked the manacle around his ankle again. 

Don’t fucking.. Come back. You asshole, Jesse said, slapping him across the face. Miguel blinked and he was back in his body. Seeing it through fresh eyes. Looking up at Jesse. You with me? 

“Yes.” Miguel answered lamely with his hand, tears welling in his eyes again. A sharp pain came across his cheek. 

Don’t you dare fucking cry. You fucking ran. You went to Sol, you’re not supposed to do that you fucking shit. I thought Xavier burned those rules into you. You aren’t even supposed to mention him and you fucking ran toward him. 

Oh. Oh he really was in trouble wasn’t he? Xavier was going to kill him this time. Or worse, kill Solomon. Jesse grabbed his chin with a bruising grip and he leaned in real close. Even his breath smelled of oranges and dirt. 

I won’t tell if you act like you want it. If you’re real convincing, I might even be gentle, he said, shoving Miguel backwards on his back. The wind knocked out of his chest. Miguel instinctively crawled backward. Are you angry yet Miguel? Jesse asked as he pulled tighter on the chain that held him. You can be angry. I promise. You wanna go back out? Go see Solomon?  Come on.. he drawled, crawling over Miguel on the floor. Hovering over him. Or do you wanna stay with me?

Nausea rose in his throat and he whimpered. But he brought a hand to Jesse’s chest and looked up at him 

“I want to stay with you,” he signed slowly. One hand snaking behind Jesse’s neck to pull him close. Pressing their lips together.  

Good boy. 

And Miguel closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wooden floor. 

He focused on the smell of dirt and oranges. He pretended that the scent was something comforting. Something easy to stomach. When Jesse was done, Miguel was hand fed another orange. He told himself he was content with that.

 He was still hungry. 

Do not give up yet. Please. For me. Don't you give up. Miguel wouldn’t, but he wasn’t sure how much left of him there would be by the time hope came round again. But maybe it would. Maybe it would and there would still be a piece or two left of him to save. He could be a better dog for someone else. For someone kind. 

__ TAGLIST:

Taglist:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader @cyberwhumper

ask if you'd like to be added or removed!!

[sunshiline-writes]

cw: guro, guts, blood, torture

a sketch with nikolay!

[sunshiline-writes]

cowboy warmup sketch 26/2/24 ft. the transgenderification beam

[sunshiline-writes]

Dark Water

Chapter 43 : L.A.S.T

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cw: drinking, manhandling, restraining, descriptions of gutting a fish, threats with a knife, light asphyxiation, use of a knife, hand whump, description of wounds, gore, environment whump, hastily tending to open wounds, desperate whumpee, angry whumpee, sadistic whumper

By month four of him being under Jacobsen, Isidro was no longer afraid of shadows under the door. By month five he had memorized their footsteps, the way they would grab the door, and their touch in the dead of night.

It was Reid’s footsteps that woke him, but there was something about the pirate’s gait that made Isidro sit up rather than pretend to be asleep.

The key scratched against the padlock. The removal was loud and sloppy, scraping and banging against the wood. Then Reid stumbled in; the smell of liquor was so strong, as if an open barrel was underneath Isidro’s nose.

Isidro watched as he took unsteady steps forward. The movement of his head was enough to set him swaying. Reid was a man of vices.

“A bit late ta be up, ain’it?”

“Where’s Moss?”

“He’s safe. Gonna be ‘sleep fer a while,” Reid stepped forward, reaching into his pocket, “I been givin’ him doses 'a this.”

He held a small corked jar, half-full of white powder. Isidro had seen it before; tasteless, best when taken with water on an empty stomach.

“He begged me for it,” Reid smiled, “can't imagine what else he would do. Aye?”

Isidro grit his teeth. “You could kill him.”

The pirate shrugged. “Risk, reward. He’s grateful I gave ‘im any at all after yest’rday,” he chuckled. “I would’a let the croc have him if I didn’t have other plans for the stupid sod.”

Isidro's jaw tightened as Reid’s smile curled more at the ends, meeting his eyes with teasing fascination.

“Oh don’t act so concerned. Ye haven't been very honest with him, have ye, Duncan?” he said the fake name caustically. “I'm guessin’ ye have ten ‘a those in ye back pocket, aye? Tried it on like a new pair ‘a trousers.”

The humidity disappeared and suddenly it was only him and the silhouette towering over him as he sat bound, back against stone. It wasn’t the first time, but if his gut had been right about everything else it was likely right about this being the very last.

“Or, I'm wrong and he's ye partner.”

“No.” Isidro defended. “Assassins don’t have partners.”

“Ye word ain’t exactly trustworthy-”

“Ask him.” Isidro challenged, “He doesn’t know anything.”

Reid stilled; arms crossed. “Then why is he here?”

Isidro said nothing. Reid’s expression told him he didn’t have to, and he was right. It didn’t matter why, only how, and that was obvious enough.

When Reid forced him out of the shed, all he could do was try to keep up. Besides the usual noise, there was Isidro's own stuttering footsteps that randomly dragged along the ground while Reid held him up, aggravating the welts on his skin that was sticky with sweat, beat down further by the humidity that siphoned out what little energy he had left.

The sun was stuck behind the trees, helped along by the light of a lantern over the dock that Reid dumped Isidro onto. He sucked in quick breaths and blinked away black spots, rolling to his side to see Reid at the end of the dock, hoisting a net from the water.

He turned towards the table, stopping suddenly when he noticed a foot beyond a set of iron bars.

“Moss?” Isidro called; still catching his breath. He grabbed onto the table’s leg and pulled himself forward, revealing the lad, slumped against the wall.

Then, hands grabbed at his shirt, pulling him upright. “What? Ye don’t trust me? Look.”

Reid yanked him toward the cell. Moss was fast asleep; his head cradled in the nook of the walls with his jaw slack, with a cup barely grasped in his hand.

“Told ye he begged me for it.” Reid said. “Think ye will, too?”

Reid tossed Isidro onto the table, pulling the rope over his head. The two metal tongues squeezed between his hands and the ropes, making them unbearably tight.

"Ye like these? Invented ‘em myself." Reid grunt, pushing a long bolt through the holes.

Isidro swallowed; looking at the reflection of the sky on the water. The sun was rising.

Reid moved the chair to the middle of the dock where he had abandoned the net. Fish flopped around inside, until he grabbed them and pushed his knife in.

He scraped the scales. They fell off with a click, followed by the unmistakable ting of the side of a knife’s blade lifting from a surface. The smell of raw fish was overwhelming. Isidro could hear the knife tear through the fish’s stomach, followed by it’s spine being ripped out.

How long was he going to make him lie there? If anything would make him go crazy, it was the waiting—the pull between knowing of his impending agony versus the hope that maybe it wouldn’t be right now.

“Ach!” Reid scoffed with disappointment. “Damn crocs... won’t have enough now.”

Isidro tensed against the restraints as Reid stood. His eye snapped open when he felt his grip like a vice on his left hand. The pirate was looking down at him with a soft smile on his face, but the rage of burning mischief in his eyes.

“Care to spare some bait?”

Isidro’s eye flashed toward the knife that quickly found his pinky. He didn’t have time to blink before the pain seared into his hand. His whole body tensed; his neck bulging, spine arching. His mind disconnected, and in a moment he was no longer in his body but somewhere else—outside, beneath—but in a millisecond he was slapped back together and a scream erupted from his mouth, tearing his throat apart.

“A-!”

His scream—his release—was suddenly corked by a thick hand over his nose and mouth. His eye snapped opened. Reid was looking down at him, watching his eye blur as his body shook with desperation.

“Shh, don’t want to wake up Moss, do ye? Think he’d enjoy seein’ ye like this?”

Isidro’s hand trembled from the feeling of blood gathering in his palm, and air hitting where it shouldn’t; igniting the overwhelming feeling of something being wrong.

The pressure released, and Isidro took a desperate breath as a tear fell from his eye. Reid’s finger caught it, swiping over his bubbled skin.

Isidro pulled his chin away from the gentle touch. “W-why don’t you just t-turn me in?”

Reid chuckled, “Ye would just do the meter jig. Where’s the fun in that?”

Isidro let out an involuntary whimper. Between deep breaths, he heard Reid's voice.

“I'll give ye the courtesy ye victims never got," he smiled. "Time."

The prospect made Isidro’s heart drop into his already tumultuous stomach. He shouldn’t even be here; he should be at home with his family, taking care of Ghost and the farm. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. He didn’t want any of it!

“GAH!! g-GOD NO!” Isidro screamed as the knife plunged into his knuckle, hitting bone with a horrendous burn, then a crack that made him gasp back, pulling his spit into his lungs. He coughed, blinking back the white-hot pin-pricks of pain that splashed across his vision. He heard a rattle, like an earthquake, quieting only when Reid adjusted the hold on his wrists.

Then Reid held something in front of him. The bottom flesh was torn and ragged; stretched as if pulled to separation. Blood leaked from where the freshly cut bone was still pink and dripping. Isidro’s eye widened. That was his finger.

“What a beauty.”

Isidro retched; his body trembling from the onslaught of disgust as bile erupted into his nose and down the back of his throat.

“Oh, I know what I’m gonna do.” Reid muttered to himself, “Luh...” he twisted the fingers on Isidro’s other hand. “Ah...s...tuh.”

The pirate chuckled like he had discovered something clever while Isidro was willing every fiber of his being to not break down sobbing. His throat was already raw from screaming, now coated with the acid from his stomach it felt like he had swallowed a torch.

“Last. That’s what that says, aye?” Reid nodded, pleased, “I’ll be the last face ye see before the crocs.”

Isidro realized the river sound he heard wasn’t actually the river itself, but the splashing of crocs attracted to his blood and flesh as Reid tossed his freshly carved finger in the middle of all of them.

“I think they like the taste.”

He bit back another scream when he felt the blade’s tip hit his adjacent finger; wanting so badly for Reid to plunge it deep in his chest instead.

...

When the metal tongues were loosened, it was early evening. A chilling cold had set in over the swamp; the fog thicker than usual. Isidro was lift from the table, his arms and legs like rubber; his head cottony and body pillaged of strength and stamina. His scream came as an exhausted whimper even as he was dropped on the ground.

His body twisted to find familiarity, but found none.

He reached out his arms to feel the wall, instead catching the sight of his mangled hand under a flash of lightning. One finger remained on his left, and a deep gash on the first of his right—the last remaining before spelling out Reid’s curse between red, swollen flesh that coated his hands and the rope in dark copper.

An iron door slammed shut. Isidro’s limited vision couldn’t pin-point where, though as he attempted to stretch he could feel his foot slip between two bars. They felt freezing against his hot skin, sending a shiver up his leg and spine, and he was suddenly taken back to years ago with the question on the tip of his tongue. Why? Though now he knew better than to ask.

More lightning flashed above, bringing with it the smell of rain.

Isidro opened his eye as another gust of wind blew. Reid was crouched, gripping the bars with one hand while the other sat upon his knee, loosely holding the bloodied knife. The willows blew behind him, picking up speed as the sun was blotted out with the looming darkness of angry clouds. More thunder struck, quickly followed by a clap, then Reid stood as the light from the lantern snuffed.

“Sleep tight, fish bait. I’ll see ye when the storm clears.”

Reid’s boots descended, disappearing in the torrent that whipped over the trees and rattled the ground. Isidro curled in on himself as he shied away from the door, listening to the rain approach like a tidal wave. Starting far off; large drops on calm water consuming everything in it’s path, until the swamp descended into the chaos of a summer storm.

A sheet of water flooded the deck, dispersing into Isidro’s cell. Within minutes he was drenched, with his knees to his chest as he shivered violently.

Lightning struck, slicing into a nearby tree with a horrendous crack. Splintering wood fell with a splash into the river. Isidro shut his eyes and shoved the heels of his hand on his ear, feeling every muscle twitch in the nubs of his severed fingers, involuntarily pulling them to curl; burning when there was nothing there to move.

The wound needed to be kept clean and upright; anything to stall him from bleeding out. Just a little longer.

He reached under his shirt with shivering fingers and moved it up, wiggling it from underneath him like a snake shedding skin. The rain pelted his bare torso, and by the time he had the shirt over his head, he was exhausted.

He pulled the right sleeve down with his teeth, freeing his hand, then draped the cloth over his left.

The blood took to the wet fabric, turning it pink, then dark red where his fingers once were. He took a few preparing breaths, pressing his head to the wall, just for a second, before wrapping his hand tight. He screamed once; tears fell from his eyes until the anguish melted with the pressure. It felt secure; better than exposed to the elements.

Better, but it still sucked. He kept breathing. There wasn’t enough air in the world to make him feel like he had enough.

His shaking hand reached for the bars as he tucked the other to his chest. With grit teeth, he pulled himself closer, then adjusted his grip up, blinking back the rain as he prepared for another burst of effort.

“Okay...” he huffed, counting in his head. Down from... three—no, five.

Five. His gut twisted with the thought of moving more, but he had to. Four. His stomach growled, sending shockwaves through his body as if he was eating himself alive. He was so damn hungry, but the thought of eating mixed with the pain made him sick. Three. Wait- Two-

Suddenly, there was a crack, and a stream of water pelted him from the poorly made roof of the cell that sent him to the ground, crushing his hand beneath him.

Someone had chiseled their way into his bones and was mining his marrow with dynamite. His vision went white as he screamed and jostled his body, slamming his bare back against the wall again, and again, and again to break up the agony.

He screamed to the sky. To the earth. To the sea. He screamed to his father buried in the briney deep, cursing the day he was born. His words were swallowed by the storm—echoed back with thunder and wind until he slumped back, panting, staring at the view completely changed by the storm that still raged.

He ended on his side, shivering intermittently between pangs of pain that melted with the cold that ate at his extremities. It was a kindness, much like that of his brain to allow his misery to fade just enough to disconnect.

taglist: @sparrowsage @kixngiggles @honey-is-mesi @annablogsposts

[sunshiline-writes]

sorry but it’s actually so horrific how little of a sense of community people have, how little regard they extend towards the other humans around them. killing people for being loud on the subway or turning around in your driveway. loading your gun and waiting at the door because a child ran your doorbell unexpectedly. ring cameras, neighborhoodapp, community watch group Facebook pages. you’ve assigned yourself the role of the one true peacekeeper and casted everyone else around you as a threat to be controlled. there’s no connection or love or compassion. just a deep distrust and hatred.

and the people who face the most significant consequences from this are the ones who are already deemed as outsiders. people of color, especially Black people, disabled people, people with mental illnesses, homeless people.

[sunshiline-writes]

once i get taken out back and shot i'll be fine

[sunshiline-writes]

Recollection

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Elze'ith confronts Lord Denholm about his mental manipulations.

For @whumpril Day 15: Mind Games.

Contains: Intimate whump, captivity/gilded cage, temporary amnesia, mind control, begging, manipulation

~~~

“Milord?”

Elze’ith’s pulse pounded in his ears, but he held firm, knocking lightly at the door to Lord Denholm’s study. As nervous as he was, he couldn’t continue on without addressing the uncertainty and fear lingering in the back of his mind. Best to confront Lord Denholm now, when they were both calm, when Elze’ith could afford to take whatever consequences his boldness might bring.

“Come in.”

The fire in the hearth bathed the room in warm light, but did little to ease the chill in Elze’ith’s bones as he stepped into the study. Lord Denholm was sitting on the large, plush couch, a tome in his lap, a curious expression on his face. “Ah, my light. What brings you here at this hour?”

He gestured at the spot next to him; after hesitating for a moment, Elze’ith sat. It took an effort of will not to wring his hands. He wasn’t used to direct confrontation, but he knew it was unwise to let his apprehension show. “I… was hoping to talk to you, Milord.”

“Of course.” Snapping the tome shut, Lord Denholm offered a beneficent smile that did nothing to assuage Elze’ith’s anxiety. “What is on your mind, my light?”

He took a deep breath. Steadied himself. “I… have been noticing some… oddities.” Even after all of his time thinking and preparing, now that he was trying to bring things forward, he couldn’t quite find the words. “In recent… weeks,” he paused, struck not for the first time that he didn’t know how long he had been in the castle. Shoving the thought aside he pressed on, “I… have felt at odds with my own mind. Threads of thought and reasoning that I lose and cannot reclaim, emotions that are not fully my own…” He averted his gaze, trying to suppress the shudder that wanted to rip through him. “It has been… disconcerting. And it started when I came to stay with you here.”

There was no direct accusation that Lord Denholm was causing any of this. He didn’t dare. But the implication remained; something strange was going on in Elze’ith’s mind, and he knew that Lord Denholm had to have something to do with it, one way or another.

“I see.” Lord Denholm placed his hand on Elze’ith’s thigh, the gesture making him tense ever-so slightly. It didn’t matter than he didn’t want to be touched right now. It never seemed to. “I can see why this would be distressing, my light. I am glad that you came to me about this.”

Something like hope flickered in Elze’ith’s chest. He didn’t dare kindle it. “Of course, Milord. I… do not know who else I would turn to.” As painful it was to admit, it was true. And maybe admitting it would help get him the relief he sought.

“What must it feel like, to not be able to trust your own mind.” Lord Denholm’s voice was calm, as though he were idly musing, even as his aura thickened with animus. The small flicker of hope in Elze’ith’s chest immediately extinguished, replaced by dread. “To know you are forgetting things, to not know where your thoughts and emotions originate…”

Elze’ith swallowed. “Milord?”

The weight of malice in the air thickened. In the back of his mind, Elze’ith felt the lingering presence of Lord Denholm grow stronger as something seemed to slither inside, as though it were rooting around for something. A gasp tore itself from his lungs, his eyes wide with confusion and uncertainty and fear.

“I wonder just how frightening it could be.”

The slimy, slippery thing in his mind sunk into something and twisted. Pain lanced through his skull, making Elze’ith double over. Though the pain faded quickly, it was replaced by a wave of dizziness, a sense of overwhelming wrongness that settled over him and didn’t go away. It took him several long moments to collect himself, and even then the profound sense of unease didn’t fade, nor did the knowledge that he was far less alone in his own mind than even he was accustomed to.

Gasping and trembling, he looked up. He was in Lord Denholm’s study. There was a fire in the hearth. Lord Denholm was next to him, hand on his thigh in a way that made his skin crawl. There was a tome resting innocently on the table in front of them.

He didn’t recognize the book on the table, had no idea if he had read it. He didn’t recall coming into the study; it could have been minutes or hours ago. He didn’t remember anything beyond waking up this morning, and his eyes widened as he realized his entire day was one strange, hazy blur.

What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember?

(The presence in his mind burrowed deeper.)

“Light?” Lord Denholm’s voice snapped him out of his terrified thoughts. Elze’ith turned, eyes locking onto Lord Denholm’s curious expression. “Is everything alright?

No, it wasn’t. But he couldn’t say that, all of his instincts screaming that he wasn’t safe, that something was wrong. There was too much dark delight radiating off of Lord Denholm for him to feel otherwise. “I— I am alright. My apologies, Milord.”

“Oh?” Lord Denholm’s eyes seemed to sharpen. “Are you sure? Tell me what’s going on in your head, my light.”

Elze’ith knew it wasn’t a request even before he felt the pressure on his mind, almost painful alongside the dizziness that still clouded his thoughts. “I do not remember anything from today. I do not remember coming into the study, or anything we were doing prior to this moment.” His voice shook. His entire body shook. But he kept speaking. “I— I am very afraid. I do not know what has happened. I do not know if you took something, Milord, or if I just forgot, and both of those possibilities are terrifying. Especially because it could happen again, and I could lose even more,and I know I could not stop it. And I do not want to admit how frightening it is, and I do not want to lay the blame at your feet, because I am even more afraid of what you might do now.”

A hollow sense of dread gripped his bones the more he spoke, the more he was forced to confess. Sharing his fears, especially with the man at the center of them, was somewhere between mortifying and horrfying. More importantly, though, despite the fact that he had suspected for a while now that Lord Denholm had been tampering with his mind, this was not at all how he wanted to broach the subject. Such matters had to be handled delicately, not like this.But he could not hold back the traitorous words. All he could do was watch as a faint smile tugged at Lord Denholm’s lips.

“I see.” His slow, deliberate words made Elze’ith’s blood run cold. “You are afraid that I will take more, then?”

Elze’ith swallowed. “Yes, Milord.”

“Good.”

The tension in the air shifted, like a grip being released, and all of a sudden Elze’ith’s memories of the day fell back into place. Dizziness was replaced by pain was replaced by relief, but he was barely given a chance to collect his thoughts, to realize what had happened, to grapple with the implications of a day’s worth of memories being smeared and erased on a whim. Because the pain returned, sharper and deeper and more intense than before, as the strange foreign force in his mind surged and expanded and grew, roots branching out and implanting in every corner of his psyche. Letting out a strangled yell, he clutched at his head and folded in on himself, desperate for it to stop.

There were flashes, images, as Lord Denholm’s influence embedded itself within him and did its work. A face, one he knew better than his own, radiant and lovely and looking like home. A love, one he couldn’t bear to leave behind, despite everything that had happened. A person that he would do anything for, even this, because they (he) was worth every ounce of suffering. And Elze’ith screamed as those memories were pried from his grasp, pulled out of his reach, shrouded by a fog too thick to pierce.

It wasn’t like before. Even as the process ended, even as the dizziness and wrongness settled over him, the pain didn’t fade.He still ached. The pain was soul-deep, felt in every heartbeat, in every scrambled thought, in every lonely breath he took. As he sat there, shaking like a leaf, he distantly realized that he was sobbing, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto his lap. He was missing something, someone, someone so fundamental that he couldn’t fathom ever losing them, but here he was, with such a hole in his soul that part of him was surprised he was still alive.

Though he tried to find something to hold onto, some shard of memory to remind him of who had been so important, all he could grasp onto was too insubstantial to make sense of. It all faded fast, like a song heard in a dream, like dew in the morning sun.

(Like he will, one day.)

“Please.” He didn’t wait until Lord Denholm addressed him. This was too painful, too devastating, too miserable. He couldn’t do this. “Please, give them back. I— I can’t—“

Mustering all of his strength, he straightened as much as he could to meet Lord Denholm’s gaze. There was no mercy in those eyes, only cold regard, and satisfaction, and focus. “Oh? Are you sure? What if I told you that this was for your own benefit? This person has caused you so much pain, after all.”

Elze’ith might have remembered something like that, might have remembered something like betrayal and heartbreak. But he didn’t care about that now. Because he knew he had loved them at one point, loved them more than he loved the sun and the stars (other things he missed so, so dearly), and that love was more than worth the heartbreak of losing them.

Besides, the memory, however painful it was, had to be easier than this. Right now he was in utter agony, overwhelmed by a torrent of grief more potent than he had ever felt. He couldn’t imagine it ever getting any better, not without regaining what had been lost. At least if he remembered he would know what he was missing. At least if he remembered then he would have shards of happier times to cling to. This hollow nothingness was too much to bear. He wanted more than echoes and shadows of a past that had been his everything. He wanted—

(He wanted his partner—)

Please. I’m sorry, he called out in his mind, though he knew that this cherished, irreplaceable person would not, could not respond. I don’t want to lose you. I never wanted to lose you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back. Just please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me behind. I can’t bear to be without you.

“Please. I do not care how painful it is. I do not care what I have to do. Just— just please, give him back—!”

Desperation colored every word bright and sharp and potent. Lord Denholm studied him for a long moment, and Elze’ith found his fear surging. If Lord Denholm didn’t agree, if Elze’ith couldn’t find the right things to promise to get him to relinquish his memories, then—

But the swirling power and malice around Lord Denholm withdrew. The burrowing, writhing force in his mind went with it, causing Elze’ith to go rigid as everything cascaded back into its rightful place.“Very well. You may have your wish.”

Elze’ith cried for a long, long time after. In pain, in fear, but mostly in sheer relief. He had Altair again. No matter what else happened, he had Altair again.

He would never bring up Lord Denholm’s ability to directly influence his mind again. His point had been made more than clearly enough.

[sunshiline-writes]

Murmur of Ground: Chapter 1

SURPRISE! New series! Let me know what you think!

4592 words

CW: violence, slavery, past noncon mention, noncon monsterfucking

Masterlist, Next

~~~

The Labyrinth was not simply a maze.

The Labyrinth was an undead city, the buildings fungal, moving, growing, shifting, occupied by scavengers and other foul creatures. Rats the size of small dogs scurried down the porticoes and halls, climbing over marble drums of fallen columns. Harpies nested in the friezes, unphased by the violence depicted in the facades, preferring to inflict the violence themselves, territorial as they were. Caryatids, columns in the shape of gowned women, stared faceless and threatening down upon the concrete and stone walks, paced by restless ghosts. Archways lead to atriums full of silent, dry fountains and lifeless gardens. The occasional Propylaea, grand multi-tiered entrances decked out with stairs and pillars and wall carvings lead to sharp drops into nothingness, as if any temple, any holy place had been surgically dissected out. Nooks and crannies abounded, little chambers that tricked you into thinking you were safe there.

The most haunting aspect was the familiarity. The buildings and interiors took on tauntingly comprehendable shapes, just often enough to make you look twice, make you want to cry I’ve been here before, I’ve been here before – not lost, not home, but some happy distant memory of visitation, I took a picture here, trusted a stranger with my camera and posed. It had the flavor of a moment only remembered though a lens, or a description by someone else. You were five. Do you remember when Daddy had a beard? Look at the picture!

It’s not like you could find the same place twice to check. The Labyrinth grew and in equal measure died, creating a constantly shifting environment. Stay in one place, and it would whirl around you while you slept, never revealing its movements to mortal eyes. Travel, and you’d never find your way back, halls rearranging themselves as soon was they left your sight.

Yani ran.

He stumbled down stone steps, darted around pillars, dodged swooping birds with bronze beaks. It was dim in the Labyrinth, but not dark. There were no lights, no torches, braziers, or anachronistic spotlights. Instead the stone and concrete itself seemed to shed some illumination, glowing just enough for human eyes to see the way, to see the rotten splendor the Labyrinth had to offer.

Yani stood out to the denizens of the Labyrinth like a sore thumb. He was dressed all in white, as a proper sacrifice should be: drawstring trousers and a boxy button down, all linen and ill-fitting. The clothes had come out of a box at the temple – the temple provides, you see. At least his shoes fit, simple cotton slippers that they were. He had been clean when he was first thrown down the shaft, heavily sedated and bathed against his will by the priests. Dressed like a doll. Discarded as easily as one. Now he was sweaty with fear and exertion, and the creatures had his scent.

He did not know how long he had been in the Labyrinth, only that he was hungry and exhausted. The Harpies and bronze-beaked ibis birds dogged him relentlessly, driving him from one brief shelter to the next. A deep hopelessness had set into his heart, sending it racing along at a haphazard pace.

He really was here to die.

His breath seemed dangerously loud, in the quiet of the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth was not silent; low eerie rumbles could be heard in the distance, evidence if the movement of masses of stone and concrete. Nearer, harpies could be heard arguing. Their harsh voices sounded like the cawing of ravens until you tuned in, became practiced at picking out the words. But nearby, currently, it was all quiet, disturbed only by Yani’s hurried footsteps and haggard breath. He had evaded the bird-like monsters – for now.

He ducked into an alcove, home to a dry wall-fountain, and huddled under the basin to catch his breath. His brown, calloused hands shook as he wrapped them around his knees, curling to a ball. His dark hair, usually neatly pulled back in a half-tail, fell loose and lank with sweat around his face. Now that he wasn’t running, his thoughts settled into their new, self-flagellating pattern: Could have. Would have. Should have.

Yani was an indentured servant of the Mylonas family. Or rather, he had been, until the patriarch, Leon, decided to sacrifice him to the Labyrinth. Yani had always thought of himself as a good worker – every order followed, no matter what, regardless of his own thoughts or feelings – but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps if he’d worked harder, been more amenable, done… more of what Leon wanted.

There were certain nights, when the Lady of the house went to visit her father. Leon didn’t like to be alone.

Yani shuddered at the memory, but at the same time chased it; examining it. What had he done wrong? What could he have done better?

Had he been too lost in the relief of being loved to submit himself as fully as he should have to his master?

The harpies were back, flitting to and from column capitals and archway crowns. Yani knew he should run, he just needed a moment, a few seconds to collect himself, then he would run, he just needed…

The harpies spotted him. A call went up, and the flock made a cacophony of whoops and jeers. They surrounded Yani, landing on the smooth stone floor in a semicircle around his nook. They had the faces of women, sure, but their eyes were cold, reptilian, inhuman. Their heads bobbed and twitched as they examined him, shouting overlapping, indiscernible threats in their shrill voices. They flapped their wings in a show of dominance, like fighting cockerels, shedding mangy feathers and blowing back their stringy hair.

“Dinner! Dinner!”

“White clothes, white clothes, no one wanted you anymore!”

“Come with us, boy, we’ll save you from the Minotaur!”

Yani cowered, frozen, until one darted forward and seized his ankle with a claw. Yani shrieked, any semblance of dignity long lost as he kicked out with his legs, grabbing desperately at the empty basin of the water fountain, holding on as the creature tried to drag him out. He landed one kick to the harpy’s sharp breastbone, and she screamed at him and only dug her claws into his ankle tighter, drawing blood. A second harpy dove at him, hooking her claws into his shirt, and that seemed to break the floodgates. The entire flock fell upon him, dragging him out of the alcove and clawing at him, buffeting him with their wings. Yani screamed and sobbed, feeling every talon as they ripped into his flesh. Words abandoned him – not that the harpies would listen if he pleaded. For far too long his world was feathers and airlessness and scratching pains, then the harpies started in with their teeth, blunt human teeth, biting at where they’d loosened and bloodied his flesh.

Then, a sound cut through everything: a deep, rumbling bellow. Yani, his eyes screwed shut, felt the weight of the harpies lift away from his body. Their cries turned from triumphant to fearful, and faded away into the distance. Yani curled up into a shuddering ball, his sobbing breaths soon the only noise he could hear.

Then, footsteps.

He heard the soft pad of bare calloused feet, moving towards him. He cracked his eyelids open, saw only blood, and so rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. The portico came into focus, and with it, a figure.

A horned figure.

Yani blinked, staring in awe up at the Minotaur.

~~~

The Minotaur stood tall, at least a foot taller than Yani, not even counting the horns. It was pale, its skin almost translucent from years underground. That didn’t make it any less threatening; its human body was broad, muscular, and hairy, and its bull head sat unnaturally on top, brown-furred and dark-eyed. Its horns pointed upwards, proud ivory. It wore only a loincloth, in the traditional style the priests wore when the went down to the river, leaving its body in nearly full view. The occasional scar marred its skin, marking it white like a chalk tally. A tail hung behind it, languidly swishing.

Yani stared up at it, frozen in shock. This was the true king of the Labyrinth, not King Minos miles above them. This was who the sacrifices were truly meant for, not the harpies, not the rats, not the ghosts.

Who he was meant for.

Yani turned his face to the ground, shutting his eyes, praying that it would be over quickly. Would the Minotaur strangle him? Snap his neck? He flinched, involuntary, when he felt its large hands upon him. Digging under his shoulder, threading under his knees.

Picking him up.

Yani hadn’t been carried since he was very small, and his parents were still around; the sensation of firm but soft arms supporting him, bearing him up, sent electric shudders through his body. The Minotaur cradled Yani against its chest, and began to walk.

“Wait,” Yani croaked, and the Minotaur froze in place.

“Where are you taking me?”

No answer. Yani stared up at the underside of the Minotaur’s head, not sure what he was expecting. After a good twenty seconds, the Minotaur resumed walking.

Yani was still petrified, still convinced that he was doomed. Surely the Minotaur was taking him somewhere to be killed – some dark mirror of the temple on the surface, perhaps, some clandestine altar to the old gods.

Yani’s wounds stung against the cool air of the Labyrinth, some clotting, some still oozing. The blood was smeared on the Minotaur’s chest now, its arms, growing dry and sticky. Yani didn’t want to see it. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the Minotaur’s shoulder, and could almost imagine he was being rescued.

After some time, he had the sense that they had moved from the long hallways and open spaces of the Labyrinth into someplace smaller. Someplace warm. He opened his eyes, and saw something he thought he’d never see again: a home.

The floor was covered with fragrant reed mats. A great fireplace dominated one wall, paired with a nook full of firewood. A settee faced it, draped with a fur blanket. The opposite wall had a high bed with countless pillows, and more fur blankets. In the center of the room was a finely carved wooden table and chairs, all graceful lines and fauna reliefs. An open door on the back wall provided a glimpse of a bathroom, beautifully tiled in blues and whites. A closed door suggested storage. The other walls had arched nooks that suggested windows, but they were bricked up. Instead of a vista they were decorated with hanging tapestries depicting figures and gardens.

The whole space had an energy completely separate from that of the Labyrinth; the very air felt different. It felt stable. Solid. Alive, rather than undead. Homey.

The Minotaur laid Yani down on the bed. He refused to relax, sitting up, wrapping his arms around his knees. The tearing claws of the harpies had not spared his clothes, and while he wasn’t indecent he certainly felt exposed now that he wore tattered bloody rags. He watched the Minotaur with wide eyes as it moved around the room – its home, it had to be. It stoked the fire, then went into the bathroom. Yani heard the telltale squeak of a water pump, and the rushing splatter of liquid into a basin. Then the Minotaur returned, approaching Yani. The blood Yani had smeared on its chest and arms was gone, washed away. That didn’t make it less intimidating. Yani flinched at every step it took, and it seemed to see this, and stopped just short of arm’s reach of Yani. Instead of picking him up again, it offered a hand, its tail still.

Yani felt as if he might be dreaming – perhaps the harpies had truly mauled him, and he was dying, and this was his brain’s attempt at making his death kinder.

He took the Minotaur’s hand. What else was he to do? He rose onto shaking legs, and let the creature lead him into the bathroom, its hand large and warm around his.

It was even grander than the small glimpse through the door had promised; there was a bench with a toilet, a counter with a basin, and a massive tub inset into a raised platform, quickly filling with water from a pump. All of it was tiled with hand-painted ceramics, patterns of flowers and geometry. Overhead were soft white electric lights.

Fit for a prince, Yani realized. It was all fit for a prince.

The room was so dazzling Yani didn’t realize the Minotaur was reaching to unbutton the remains of his shirt until he had already started. Yani jerked back with a yelp.

“Back off!”

The Minotaur took two steps back.

Yani stared at it, panting. The bathroom was large, but so was the Minotaur – and it now stood between Yani and the door, dominating the space.

“I’d like some privacy,” Yani said, his voice wavering. The Minotaur didn’t budge.

“Fine.” Yani grit his teeth, and tried to continue unbuttoning his shirt – but his hands were too tremulous, and as he looked down and tried to focus he found himself swaying on his feet.

“Help?” he admitted, and the Minotaur was there, unfastening the buttons with deft hands and easing the shirt off. Yani hissed and gasped as it peeled away from spots where his dried blood had glued it to his wounds. The Minotaur cast the shirt aside and crouched, untying the drawstring of Yani’s shredded trousers. Yani opened his mouth to stammer out a protest but they had already fallen, leaving him naked. The Minotaur, at least, seemed unphased; it stood and offered a hand to help Yani into the bath.

Yani stood there, dazed and blinking. A prince. The Minotaur was a prince. The Minotaur was a prince and here it was, defying every horror story about itself, helping a lowly servant – less than a servant, a sacrifice. Someone the Minotaur had every right to kill.

Yani took its hand, and stepped into the tub.

The water was warm, warm enough to be comfortable but not hot enough to irritate his wounds. Yani sank in, running his hands over his body, taking stock as the blood washed away. There was barely a single area larger than a few square inches that was left unscratched. He dipped his head below the water, feeling his face with his fingertips, working away the dried blood. He had a long, shallow slice across his forehead.

He surfaced and wiped the water out of his eyes. The Minotaur crouched next to the bath, watching him. Its eyes were so strangely human. Yani looked away. It was obvious by now that the Minotaur could not speak; any questions Yani had, like why are you helping me and why haven’t you killed me would go unanswered. He didn’t bother asking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Minotaur shifting up to sit on the edge of the bath. It leaned forward, and Yani shrank back. What did it want? At first, Yani’s anxiety seemed unfounded; the Minotaur reached over him to shut off the water, plunging the bathroom into near silence. But then it lowered its hand, and Yani’s breath caught as it settled onto his chest, massaging slow circles. His heart pounded hard enough that surely the Minotaur could feel it through his ribcage. The hand slipped lower, dipping below the water to caress Yani’s stomach, sending through him a chill of fear.

That’s what it wanted.

“Stop,” Yani choked out, expecting nothing, expecting to be overruled – but the Minotaur stopped, immediately. It withdrew its hand, and sat back.

“Leave,” whispered Yani, and the Minotaur obeyed. It stood, and exited, closing the door in its way out. Yani stared after it in disbelief. There was no way it was that easy. No way.

He knew the Minotaur would get what it wanted, sooner or later.

~~~

A bar of soap discovered on a little shelf allowed Yani to clean himself properly. After he got out of the bath he found a cabinet full of towels, and while he hated to stain one with his blood he had no other choice. The Minotaur had also left a set of clothes, and a roll of bandages, scissors, and medical tape, along with a container of store-brand healing ointment that looked absurdly out of place there in the Labyrinth with its red and white plastic tub. Once he’d towel-dried Yani applied the ointment liberally, and taped bandages over the worst cuts and bites left by the harpies. His hands shook with exhaustion, but he did the best he could.

Deciding he was finished, he shook out the clothes to have a look at them. They were made of a dark brown cotton, deliciously soft. The color proved some forethought on the Minotaur’s part – if Yani got blood on them it would hardly be noticeable. One piece was a pair of shorts, pleated and flowy; the other was a short-sleeved v-neck top. The outfit was far more revealing than anything Yani would have chosen to wear, but it was better than the bloody rags he’d arrived in. He dressed slowly, and braced himself to exit the bathroom and face the Minotaur.

Upon opening the bathroom door Yani was hit with a wave of delicious smells. Warm bread. Spices. Freshly chopped greens. His eyes were drawn to the table in the middle of the room, where a simple but abundant feast for two was laid out. Bread, moussaka, salad, wine. Yani’s empty stomach clenched and his mouth watered – but between him and the food stood the Minotaur. It no longer wore only a loincloth, but had donned a velour loungewear set from some designer brand Yani recognized the logo of but couldn’t place the name.

Princely, crossed Yani’s mind. Despite having the head of a beast, and apparently the lust of one, the Minotaur had a certain grace, clothed and standing there with one hand in its pocket. It half turned, sweeping the other arm out, inviting Yani to the table.

Yani’s exhausted, frightened, starving mind considered this for a moment. The Minotaur had rescued him. Made unsuitable advances. Respected his request for it to stop. Could kill him at any time. Was offering him food and shelter…

Yani stumbled over to the table and collapsed into a chair. He couldn’t think, not now. Survival was all that mattered. He would accept the hospitality of the Minotaur, and simply pray that its advances would not be repeated.

The Minotaur sat next to him at the table, and they ate together in silence. Yani’s hands shook as he served himself, and he did his best not to devour the food like an animal. The Minotaur had surprisingly good table manners, using its utensils as one should; but presently, when they were both close to finishing their plates, it rested a hand on Yani’s thigh under the table. Yani’s heart began to pound, his eyes fixed on the remains of his food. At first he just twitched his leg away, but the Minotaur’s hand remained firm, fingers pressing into Yani’s flesh.

“I don’t like that,” Yani tried, quietly, meekly, afraid of the repercussions. The Minotaur slid its hand further up Yani’s thigh, fingers brushing under his shorts. “Stop touching me,” Yani said, even softer, but at those words the Minotaur instantly pulled away. Yani blinked, risking a quick glance up at it. It just sat there, watching him, its food forgotten.

It struck Yani then how lonely the Minotaur must be. If his own experience was anything to go by, most sacrifices to the Labyrinth were likely killed by the harpies. Who knew how long it had been since the Minotaur had been in the presence of a human? It was also a prince, and aiding lowly Yani out of the kindness of its heart.

“I truly appreciate your hospitality,” Yani said slowly, carefully, “But please, give me some space.”

The Minotaur stood, knocking back its chair, and quickly stepped away from Yani, putting a couple yards between them.

“Oh, wait!” Yani exclaimed in surprise, and the Minotaur froze, “That’s not what I meant. Please, come back, sit.”

The Minotaur promptly obeyed; it returned to the table, sitting down.

Something itched at the back of Yani’s mind. Something wasn’t right here.

“…Stand up,” he breathed.

The Minotaur stood.

“…Sit.”

It sat.

“Stand up and turn in a circle.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

“Jump.”

The Minotaur obeyed.

A deep horror washed over Yani. Something compelled the Minotaur to obey his commands, to the letter. Some horrible curse had stripped away the Minotaur’s autonomy, and handed it to Yani. For a moment Yani couldn’t fathom how dehumanizing that must feel – until he realized, he could.

Yani had been an indentured servant his whole life. From as soon as he could understand them, orders given by his masters were to be obeyed, to the letter, no matter how trivial or ridiculous – on pain of punishment. A rap across the knuckles, all the way up to flogging.

Yani had never had control over his life. He didn’t even have control over his death – that, too, was chosen for him.

Yani didn’t want that kind of control over another being. He couldn’t do that to a thinking, feeling creature – and clearly, the Minotaur was.

“I’m sorry!” Yani leapt to his feet, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I’ll never do it again, you don’t ever have to do what I say, please, I’m so sorry,” he pressed his hands to his face, on the brink of tears, “I swear, I’ll never order you to do anything, I promise, I swear.”

The Minotaur stared at him for a long moment, its eyes unreadable. Then it approached, slowly, cautiously, drawing close to Yani. Yani didn’t move, just held his hands to his face, near-petrified. The Minotaur slid its hands over Yani’s hips, teasing under the waistband of his shorts. Yani’s breath caught.

I can’t say stop.

“I don’t… want that,” he whimpered instead. The Minotaur ignored him, pulling him close, breathing hot on his ear, his neck. Its hands edged downwards, tugging the shorts around the curve of Yani’s rear. Yani’s hands flew down and grabbed the Minotaur’s wrists.

“Please,” was all he could think to say. He didn’t want this, of course he didn’t want this, but how else could he say no without overpowering the Minotaur’s will?

Yani was by no means a weakling, but the Minotaur was even stronger; it easily broke out of Yani’s grasp and seized his wrists in turn, twisting them behind his back and gathering them into one large hand. Yani yelped and squirmed, but he was helpless against the strength of the Minotaur. The creature pinned Yani to its chest, its free hand plunging down into Yani’s shorts to grope his ass.

Yani cried out, flinching away from the touch and unintentionally pressing himself against the growing hardness in the Minotaur’s sweatpants. One word and it would all stop – but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not when his words had the power to override the Minotaur’s autonomy.

“Please,” he sobbed, tears finally escaping him – he was so tired, so exhausted, and every inch of him hurt – “I don’t want this!”

The Minotaur didn’t let go. Instead it pressed its muzzle into the crook of Yani’s neck, its hot breath snuffling, blowing away Yani’s hair and taking in his scent. Then it licked Yani, its tongue sliding out and drawing a long line up Yani’s neck behind his ear. Yani yelped and cringed at the sensation – unlike a human tongue, a bull’s tongue is sandpaper-rough. Yani squirmed as hard as he could, and that seemed to annoy the Minotaur. It snorted, spun Yani around, and threw him onto the bed.

As soon as his stomach made contact with the plush blankets Yani was scrambling away, crawling across the bed. The Minotaur snatched an ankle and yanked him back easily, and Yani gasped in pain as the furs and blankets dragged across his many scrapes and scratches. The Minotaur had Yani bent over the side of the bed now, his bare feet brushing the floor, searching for purchase. It pinned him in place with a heavy hand on the center of his back, its other hand divesting Yani of his shorts.

“Wai-mm!” Yani almost forced a stop, but he caught himself, biting his bit hard. He refused to impose his will over the Minotaur’s, even now.

It wasn’t worth it.

He pressed his face into the covers, letting his tears soak in.

Leon had told him he’d missed his calling as a whore.

When the Minotaur’s finger, warm and wet with spit, probed him, he knew how to relax. How to take it.

See how good you take it? You ought to live in my bed.

Yani was lost in a haze of fear and memories. His heart pounded in his throat as he choked on his tears. His hands clenched fistfuls of blanket. His feet gave up reaching for the floor, going slack as one finger inside him turned into two. He groaned at the pain and sensation, the fingers inside him reaching, groping, spreading. They left far too soon – he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t ready at all as the Minotaur’s hands gripped his hips, lifting and spreading him.

What followed was brutal. Yani cried openly, sobbing and moaning while the Minotaur fucked him. The Minotaur remained, as it had been, silent. Only its breath became somewhat louder, harsh and ragged with lust. Yani’s body was jolted with each painful thrust and he clung to the bed for dear life, for any sort of anchor.

The only mercy was that it didn’t last long. The Minotaur spilled its heat inside Yani and remained there for a minute, panting. Then it withdrew, releasing Yani, who slid off the bed and crumpled to the floor. He was as silent as the Minotaur, now – all cried out. He pressed his scratched forehead to the reed mats, the coolness emanating from the floor soothing the painful heat of his face. He heard the Minotaur’s heavy footsteps retreating to the bathroom, and water running before the door closed between them. Yani melted even further down then, curling up on his side on the floor.

Was this his fate, then? To be the Minotaur’s plaything?

Others had made decisions for Yani his whole life. Had he died and gone to the Underworld, only to be punished with the same plight? Was there no way out?

Something lit up in the back of Yani’s head. A way out. He felt around for his shorts and rose on his wobbling legs, putting them on. Then he looked up: at the exit.

There was door the Minotaur had carried him through on their arrival. It had been there the whole time. Yani had always been distracted by the food, or the Minotaur, but the door was there. Yani stumbled to it, placed his hands upon the filigreed knob.

He froze.

The Labyrinth would kill him. The harpies and ibis would shred him, the ghosts would suck out his soul, the rats would gnaw his bones.

He screwed his eyes shut.

At least with the Minotaur, he was alive. The Minotaur wanted him alive.

The Minotaur wants me.

Isn’t that enough, to be alive and wanted?

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Everything taglist (I think? let me know if I've got it wrong, and whether you'd like to continue to be tagged in this): @angst-after-dark, @flowersarefreetherapy, @sunshiline-writes

[sunshiline-writes]

“Get a rat and put it in a cage and give it two water bottles. One is just water, and one is water laced with either heroin or cocaine. If you do that, the rat will almost always prefer the drugged water and almost always kill itself very quickly, right, within a couple of weeks. So there you go. It’s our theory of addiction. Bruce comes along in the ’70s and said, “Well, hang on a minute. We’re putting the rat in an empty cage. It’s got nothing to do. Let’s try this a little bit differently.” So Bruce built Rat Park, and Rat Park is like heaven for rats. Everything your rat about town could want, it’s got in Rat Park. It’s got lovely food. It’s got sex. It’s got loads of other rats to be friends with. It’s got loads of colored balls. Everything your rat could want. And they’ve got both the water bottles. They’ve got the drugged water and the normal water. But here’s the fascinating thing. In Rat Park, they don’t like the drugged water. They hardly use any of it. None of them ever overdose. None of them ever use in a way that looks like compulsion or addiction. There’s a really interesting human example I’ll tell you about in a minute, but what Bruce says is that shows that both the right-wing and left-wing theories of addiction are wrong. So the right-wing theory is it’s a moral failing, you’re a hedonist, you party too hard. The left-wing theory is it takes you over, your brain is hijacked. Bruce says it’s not your morality, it’s not your brain; it’s your cage. Addiction is largely an adaptation to your environment. […] We’ve created a society where significant numbers of our fellow citizens cannot bear to be present in their lives without being drugged, right? We’ve created a hyperconsumerist, hyperindividualist, isolated world that is, for a lot of people, much more like that first cage than it is like the bonded, connected cages that we need. The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. The opposite of addiction is connection. And our whole society, the engine of our society, is geared towards making us connect with things. If you are not a good consumer capitalist citizen, if you’re spending your time bonding with the people around you and not buying stuff—in fact, we are trained from a very young age to focus our hopes and our dreams and our ambitions on things we can buy and consume. And drug addiction is really a subset of that.”

—

Johann Hari,

Does Capitalism Drive Drug Addiction?

(via bigfatsun)

[sunshiline-writes]

I think I'm spoiled on the OC whump side of tumblr. This shit is so good. Sorry I can't go back to Fandom whump I am far more invested in like Riot Kings and A Rose Amidst Thorns and Fear no Void and characters like Dog and Mal and Mariano and Aldercy and Altair and Lord Denholm and Nico and Mica. Like they're all so cool and then I go to Fandom whump and I'm bored. Hot take maybe but ugh ocs and original content just hit different.

[sunshiline-writes]

Welcome to Art Whumpers Anonymous!

AWA is an 18+ discord server intended to be a space for artists of all levels, styles and mediums to come and share art, seek critique, share OCs and talk about whump in a community setting! We also run weekly and yearly events.

Additionally, we welcome those who are writers/hobbyists/lurkers/just testing the waters with art, as well as offer a space for OC threads, writer's talk, sfw/nsfw roleplay seeking/playing, commission/trade seeking and sprinting, among others.

The server is 18+, and has adult channels and discussions. Sorry kiddos, but unfortunately any minors will get banned!

INVITE:

FAQ below the cut:

Who are the mods?

@coyotehusk @demondamage @sunshiline-writes and Ev (no tumblr)

Can I join if I don't have an active whump blog?

By all means!

What if I don't make art but still would like to be able to check out the art there?

Though AWA is focused on being an artist community, we do encourage anyone to join.

I want to get better at art. Can this server help with that?

The AWA offers a crit space!

Why is the server 18+?

The AWA mods wanted to create an adult space where adult topics could be engaged with without worrying about censoring for the sake of minors. We do ask that explicit content stay within their respective channels, but otherwise try to cultivate a nonjudgemental environment.

What events do you do?

AWA currently is running an OC Trade Event, as well as a weekly member spotlight DTIYS. Anyone in the server is free to participate.

I have another question you haven't answered here?

Feel free to drop us an ask or DM.

[sunshiline-writes]

a poor lonesome cowboy

[sunshiline-writes]

Finished comm for @just-a-silly-little-whumper ! Gotta have the boys being sweet :3

Art Tag: @whump-tr0pes @whump-queen @whumpsday @kixngiggles @onlywhumpcomments @project-xiii @ka1imba @suspicious-whumping-egg @cyborg0109 @whatwhumpcomments @whumpcomica @i-eat-worlds @blood-and-regrets @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @burnticedlatte @lonesome--hunter @whumpifi @oddsconvert @painsandconfusion @whumpasaurus101 @sadcatjae @kiratheperson @studyofwhump @sunshiline-writes @just-a-silly-little-whumper @chaotic---calm @ladyjaye13 @befuddled-calico-whump @safetypinflavouredgrass @mottinthemainpot @to-be-a-bee @ .

[sunshiline-writes]

vampires… save me…