writereleaserepeat - Tumblr blog

writereleaserepeat · 2 months ago

Text

In League – The Caller

Masterlist

I have little explanation for this. Go unhinged or go home, right?

CW: Late-19th century, indentured servitude (read: captivity), implied past noncon, implied nudity, noncon in dubcon clothing (masturbation), unblanaced power dynamics, sympathetic intimate whumper.

August stays curled up against the headboard in the place of a pillow for there is none. Neither sheets nor blankets, though it isn’t cold that makes him hold his knees to his chest. Wanting for warmth wouldn’t be fallacious either, but he knows it a fallacy to hope for anything of the sort. Even the fire can’t be trusted not to burn.

Not for a second is he able to put his state of undress out of mind—and with it his purpose here, but the sound of a key in the lock makes it feel as fresh as if the door itself is the shirt on his back. He hardly hears the final tumbler over his galloping heart, pulse heavy and loud in his ears.

A man enters, only noting August’s presence in passing as he turns around to lock them in. August swallows.

The stranger drops the key into his waistcoat upon facing the room and removes his jacket, draping it over the arm of the chair. August doesn’t permit himself to think anything of the fact that he stops at that. Or the fact that he folds gracefully into the armchair beside the fire. He doesn’t look familiar but that doesn’t mean anything either.

August bites the inside of his cheek, fear no less assuaged by this slow approach. He’s not meant to speak until spoken to. That’s a universal truth of every station he’s ever held. It’s never mattered quite as much as in this one, he thinks. The first impression he makes and what it incites, whether such reactions are only surface level or drawn from somewhere deeper, he doesn’t wish to offer bait.

The visitor produces a tobacco case and busies himself rolling a cigarette. His dark hair must be held in place by pomade. Even as he looks down, it doesn’t fall into his eyes. His features and posture are devoid of tension as he works. Entirely at ease and unhurried, practised fingers coaxing the paper into a perfect roll.

August flinches at the snap of the match igniting but the man doesn’t see. He keeps his eyes on his task until he’s taken a few drags, satisfied by the result, match long waved out and tossed into the hearth to be relit and destroyed.

When the man’s gaze finally floats to him, August stops breathing. He feels like a stag caught in the open. If only he could make an ill-fated attempt to escape, pull the trigger on the kill shot that much faster.

“My, you are green aren’t you?” The stranger says, more statement than question. “You look terrified.” He doesn’t speak with accusation or contempt but tilts his head, almost sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, sir.” August chooses the safest response, no idea what to make of this man, who still hasn’t made an advance, or his comments.

“Don’t be. I’m sure they’ve given you every reason to be.”

August blinks at him, fingers gripping tighter to his sides.

“What’s your name?”

He swallows. “August.” He’d never dream of giving a false one and risk Keats finding out, though he’s loathe to lend his name to the men. He foolishly wishes for some part of himself to covet.

“August.” The man repeats, as if it’s the first time he’s heard the word and finds its shape on his tongue a marvel. “August, I have no interest in hurting you.”

Mercifully, he spares August from having to produce an appropriate response by holding up his hands, cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“I realize how that sounds. I am here after all.”

August is even more taken aback by this display of self-awareness.

“But I have no interest in violently raping you.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

The stranger quirks a brow. “You truly are new. Tell me I’m not your first.”

August shakes his head, lowering his eyes under the weight of his shame at what he’s become. The man’s gaze never leaves his face. August wonders if he has yet looked at the rest of him and finds the omission—and, even more, his awareness of it—unsettling.

“I thought you might sit with me by the fire.”

August bites his lips together. The walls have ears, one of the first lessons he learned in this house, even locked up in the attic. He pushes away the thought for the ache it brings.

It’s not that he’s forbidden from uttering the word. Some of them seem to want that, his denial oil on the fire, but he’s uncertain what this one seeks and doesn’t want to needlessly anger him.

“Don’t be shy.” August can’t tell if he’s referring to his defensive position or his hesitation to speak.

“I-I can’t, sir,” he whispers.

“Show me.”

He tries to hide his unease as he unfolds himself and crawls off the bed. The rope binding his wrist to the bedframe allows him to stand for the sole purpose of being bent over it but he’s unable to step further. He crosses his free arm over his torso, wanting desperately to curl up again.

The stranger clicks his tongue. “Your master knows nothing of subtlety.” He sets his cigarette in the ashtray and stands.

August forces himself to remain in place as he approaches. His breath catches in his throat when the man produces a pocket knife. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I truly have no interest in hurting you.”

“Sir,” he says by way of recognition but it comes out a whisper.

“If you’ll allow me?” He lifts the rope with one hooked finger as if it were sodden or dirty and he’s loath to grip it.

August takes a step back, shaking his head, breath coming fast and ragged. “I can’t sir, please. I’m not to leave the bed, I’m not to touch the ties.”

The stranger considers him for a moment, watching the tears pool in his eyes. “You’re not, I am.”

He shakes his head. “Please, sir. Master Keats—he’ll-he’ll—”

There will be no denying a cut in the rope, Keats will know and add another restraint.

Three strikes. Mind you keep count, you don’t want to find out what comes after you’ve no limbs left to tie.

“What?” The visitor prompts, still holding the rope aloft.

August shakes his head. He can’t risk speaking ill of Keats but that’s the only way he could so he keeps his mouth shut.

“You’re shaking,” the man observes, dark eyebrows knitting together. “What does it say that you’re more afraid of him than of the stranger standing before you with a knife?”

“Please,” August breathes, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“No subtlety.” He pockets his knife and drops the rope, turning on his heel to collect his cigarette from the ashtray. When he reaches for his jacket, August’s stomach drops. He’ll be in even more trouble if it gets back to Keats that he was uncooperative and unsatisfying.

“Wait, sir, please.” He swipes away his tears, desperation plain in his voice. He moves to follow in spite of the rope, pulling against it to gain mere inches. “You can’t—don’t go, please. I beg your pardon, I’ll do anything you want.”

The man tilts his head, looking at him as if he just spoke in tongues. “I have no intention of ending my visit prematurely.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll just have to work around the medieval restrictions imposed upon you.”

August swallows.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the stranger chides, as gently as if they were good friends. Inexplicably, he drapes his jacket over August’s shoulders and guides him back to the bed with a light touch between the shoulder blades. “Come, sit with me.”

He does as he’s told, pulling both feet up beside him and forcing himself to turn to face his caller. The lining of the man’s jacket is silk, smooth against his skin in a way that should be pleasant but for how bewildering the gesture is. He holds onto the lapels from the inside, wary despite his relief at being able to cover himself.

The stranger takes a long drag of his cigarette, nearly at the end now. If it weren’t for the jacket, he’d assume the intention was to put it out on him as many of the others are wont to do. It’s almost easier to bear those that simply want to cause him pain. The ones who use their fists and belts as much as anything else to render him redundantly boot-kissing. He’d entertain dozens of them over even one with lust alone in his eyes.

He stiffens when the stranger catches his gaze, dark brows lifting in amusement. “Pray tell what occupies you?”

August shakes his head, flushing. “Nothing. I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Your thoughts are your own, I won’t pry.” He finishes his cigarette and rises to put it out in the ashtray.

August fidgets, uncomfortable at being caught lying.

When the man sits back down, his attention falls on August’s leg, the bottom of the brand just visible under the hem of the coat.

“That looks like it hurt.” He reaches out slowly, making his movements plain, and lifts just enough of the fabric to see the rest. August flushes at his inspection of the desplicable thing. Once he’s seen enough, the man lets the coat fall, folding his hands in his lap.

August bites his lip. The stranger must know he can’t speak ill of Keats, though he’s starting to feel increasing pressure to be conversational if it’s wanted of him.

“I’d venture to guess most things have since you came under this roof.”

He looks away, blinking back the threat of moisture in his eyes. It would not do well to burst into tears, crying is another invitation for extremes.

“You’ll have to excuse my morbid curiosity,” the stranger apologizes, a bemused smirk lifting his lips. His eyes trace the perimeter of the small room, the white-washed walls, dark walnut moulding. He pauses on the ceiling rose, ornate but naked without a chandelier. Deemed superfluous to the room’s utility, besides there being electric sconces on either side of the mantel. August’s discomfort rises the longer the silence draws out. He almost answers just to fill it.

“You don’t seem as though you were meant for this world,” the man says, eyes returning to study August’s face. “Before Keats forged your path in fire and brimstone, you never knew such horrors existed.”

He shakes his head, can’t seem to tear himself away from the stranger’s knowing gaze. Even if he could, he’s uncertain if he wishes to hide. Couldn’t say for himself if he’s angered or saddened or frightened having these things bared.

“It must be terrifying, not knowing what to expect every time the door opens.” He pauses as though placing himself in August’s stead. Brows knitting together with the effort. “Especially if your worst nightmares can’t even keep pace.”

August swallows, throat tightening. He eyes the stranger, unable to discern if his sympathy is genuine or not. At the least, he doesn’t seem to expect any response but it’s beginning to feel like picking at a wound. Trying to dissect the layers, morbid curiosity driving the need to see what’s beneath, how deep until it bleeds. Either way, August doesn’t understand the man’s end nor can he reconcile it with his purpose here.

“I imagine it’s thankless too.” The visitor reaches out to fix the flipped collar of the jacket. “No matter how hard you try with one, you’re back at the start with the next. Keats the most unpredictable of all, though he’s the only one you’re expected to know.”

His eyes are filling, tears perilously close to spilling. He has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

The stranger sees his efforts and hums a sound of sympathy. “All you can do is survive. It’s the only thing they allow you.” August teeters on the precipice, dragged out into the open away from any cover or shadow. Prey drawn into the sights of the hunter after all. “But you just want to be good.”

A sob escapes August’s lips. Another tight on it’s heels. Even knowing it only hastens the stranger’s morbid victory, he lets them come. As good as using his own finger to push the bullet deeper.

“It’s an admirable pursuit,” the man says in a belated attempt to placate him.

If he’s to have a hand in this, it won’t be a half. August spends most of his time alone in this cell of a room trying not to let the ache in his chest drown him. An ocean’s worth just waiting to be unleashed. He cries harder.

The stranger’s expression falls in tandem, as if this wasn't his aim all along. He reaches for August and stops, fingertips just shy of touching his cheek. “May I?” He asks needlessly.

August leans forward to meet his hand. A sob hitches in his chest at the warmth of the man’s fingers on his face, the tender way he strokes his cheekbone. His caller holds both of his cheeks and August cries into his hands.

Even greater than his fear of this stranger, his fear of his own sadness and the gnawing ache, is his fear of wanting more. For now it might mean comfort, a gentle touch. But its hunger knows no end. It comes with blurred edges, shape unknown for it’s a stretching, gnawing, endless thing. There’s no telling what it could twist into want just to satisfy the need.

Aware it could be the very thing that turns the tide, August reaches an arm out of the warmth of the jacket to take hold of the stranger’s sleeve.

His caller wraps an arm around his waist, the other slipping beneath his knees to lift him onto his lap and into his arms.

August shudders in his embrace, sobbing into his shoulder and gripping fistfuls of the back of his shirt. The man cards his fingers through August’s hair, holding him tightly and shushing into the shell of his ear. It’s too easy to melt into the comfort, to allow someone else to hold him under the weight of his circumstances and everything else. All of it. It’s so easy and he never had a choice in any of it.

He’s not sure how long he cries. It’s less than hours, the light from the whitewashed window beside the bed doesn’t change, but it’s longer than minutes. August feels wrung out by the end of it. Equally lulled by the tenderness and exhausted by the undiminished ache in his chest.

Even once August stops crying, the man doesn’t pause. His fingers still comb softly through the curls at the nape of August’s neck, arm around his waist and hand rubbing gentle circles there. Entirely at ease and unhurried though August doesn’t want to think about the intent of his focus. He keeps his eyes closed, head resting on the stranger’s chest. Lets himself float on the warmth for as long as he can.

He flinches when something brushes against him, straightening defensively only to find the man’s hands haven’t drifted. It’s his own untoward arousal that meets the jacket’s hem. A sound of embarrassment slips from his throat and he hides his face in the stranger’s shoulder again. If he hadn’t called attention to it, might it have gone unnoticed? A naive thought, he’s never been that lucky. It’s as good an invitation as any now. Perhaps what his caller was waiting for all along.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, hand coming up to August's cheek to turn his face to his.

August keeps his eyes lowered, afraid of what he’ll see in the stranger’s eyes, be it hunger or violence.

“Don’t be ashamed. It’s been so long since you’ve felt a kind touch, hm?” He regards August calmly, expression unchanged.

August nods belatedly, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

The man’s thumb strokes his cheekbone, the other still holding him fast. “They’re so rough with you and it’s all unnecessary. You’d already do anything to be good.”

Tears well in his eyes, close at hand from before.

“Oh, sweet thing,” is all it takes and August is crying again.

The stranger cards his fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck. “It’s no wonder you’re moved by it. There’s nothing bad in yearning for tenderness.” He gently thumbs the tears off his cheeks. “Take it.”

August sobs in earnest at the inevitable turn. Even if it starts this way, or a hundred others, it only ever ends in one. He knows better than to let his guard down, let alone play a hand in advancing its pursuit.

Undeterred by his hesitation, the man takes August’s hand softly by the wrist. He smoothes August’s fingers out, his own gentle and insistent, and lifts his open hand to his chin. August cries and lets his eyes fall closed. Slipping under the current of self-pity for just a moment as he pushes and pulls the saliva in his mouth, collecting enough to spit into his own palm.

The man guides August’s hand back down and he doesn’t resist, wrapping his fingers around himself. He shivers involuntarily from the pressure and the stranger tightens his arm around his waist, holding him closer.

August wonders if he’s meant to speak or move first but he can’t.

“They’ve taken so much from you.”

August sobs.

“Don’t you want to take something for yourself?”

He blinks through tears to see if he’s sincere. All this time, the man’s eyes haven’t frightened him. Every time he meets them they’re steady.

Slowly, he starts stroking himself but he can only cry harder at the feeling of his pleasure rising with every pass. All of his pent up frustration, all the hurt, all the fear, overcome and forgotten as he lifts himself up.

The man caresses the back of his neck, slips his arm inside the jacket to rub his back with a gentle hand. All the while, eyes never leaving August’s face.

It feels so good, and only good. It doesn’t take long.

August feels the flush rising, molten heat coiling in his belly, sending sparks up to his temples, down his limbs.

“Sir, I-I—”

He takes August’s cheek in hand. “This is yours.”

August slows, in part to make certain he understands. He never stopped crying but at some point, the tears turned from something bitter. A release of a different kind. He doesn’t want it to end. Not yet. He rides the crest of the wave down into even deeper sensations, things he forgot were possible.

The man’s lips twitch. He’s enjoying this, which only encourages August to lose himself further. Until, suddenly, he can’t draw it out any longer.

His caller whispers sweet nothings while August comes apart in his arms. Muscles tensing, toes curling, grasping a fistful of the stranger’s shirt at his strong shoulder. He tries not to get anything on the jacket.

When he’s spent, he flushes even redder, nervous at yet another precipice but the man only produces a handkerchief. August’s breath catches in his throat as he unabashedly cleans away the aftermath of his ecstasy. In a later moment, he’ll remember this as another remarkable act of tenderness. With model aim, he tosses the soiled fabric into the fire to be cleansed, destroyed as if it never happened.

He turns back to August and cradles his face in his hands, thumbs stroking over his tear-streaked cheeks. “Will you think of me the next time you take something for yourself?”

August turns crimson.

“You’re too practised for that not to be a habit.” He searches August’s eyes. “Oh, come now. You may have been chaste but I don’t believe you were completely self-denying.”

“Sir.” The man holds his face fast so he can’t look away. Not just innocent prey. After all, he played a hand in his own undoing. August can’t help but squirm in his lap, gripping fistfuls of the man’s shirt as he tries to pull himself closer to hide his face.

“You can’t let them take everything from you, August.”

He stills, feeling chastised by the seriousness of his tone. The implication that he has any choice or power curdles in his stomach.

The visitor brushes the hair off his forehead, fingers one of his curls thoughtfully. He takes a deep breath and August finds himself holding his. “Regrettably, I must take my leave now.” August’s chest tightens, pulse quickening at the lopsided outcome he’s leaving on. The man shifts him onto the mattress and stands.

August reaches for his arm. “But, sir—”

“Dear boy, save your tears.” He sweeps his thumb under August’s eye, catching the tear that’s barely fallen, making his eyelashes flutter. “You were perfect company.”

He sniffles, still gripping the man’s wrist.

“I’d leave that if I could, it suits you.” He threads his fingers through the curls at the nape of August’s neck, fingertips grazing his skin one last time before he lifts his jacket by the collar.

August releases him and he backs toward the door, as though he can’t bear to turn away a moment sooner than he must. “I hope you’ll remember something from our time together,” he says in parting, leaving without a second glance.

August wraps his arms around himself and shivers.

Masterlist

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat @meetmeinhellcroutons

#screaminggggggg this one is IMMENSE in every way #the pacing here is great - both the pacing in a 'meta' sense and the pacing how we see it through august's eyes #the way he doesn't know exactly how much time has passed when he's crying but has an idea of it across a span of hours #the mysteriousness of the stranger - the customer/client of course - and how their warmth shifts and changes with their words and actions #the way this digs right into the problems with Keats!!#the way the stranger speaks with so much knowledge of what they do - and how new August must be #also if y'all want a masterclass in subtlety and building out characters and the world #even if it's just passing characters and context #OP is THE person to read because let me tell you #the way characters speak #act and react #interact with one another #it all tells you soooo much that doesn't happen on screen and it's delightful #like this piece gives us a lot of context about a strange man who we aren't familiar with as well as our MC and their keeper #and it does that all with words actions and responses between and among those on screen #like genuinely this was ridiculousssssssss omg #could read this ten thousand times over and keep finding new things to appreciate and pick apart #and as a final 'this is incredible' the opening lines of every. single. chapter or installment absolutely SLAP #the visuals of this one are no exception - absolutely delightful to have this visceral sense of where august is physically and emotionally

43 notes · View notes