(mostly) whump

“And you decided to take him? Why?”

“He does not need to be present for this conversation. We can discuss this later. Now, back to your posts. And get me Broderick.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The floorboards creaked as someone approached the discarded slave. Elliot whined beneath his gag, tensing as he awaited the tug of a fist in his hair. But that didn't come. Instead, his blindfold was torn off and his gag was gingerly untied. Elliot forced his eyes open, despite the glaring sun and yelped when he saw Karine kneeling in front of him. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head in reverence. “P-Please, d-don’t hurt me,” he mumbled.

Karine was silent for a beat and Elliot didn't breathe until she finally said, “What's your name?”

Shocked, Elliot lifted his eyes slightly. What game was she playing? Master always said slaves didn't need names. Was she testing him just to punish him right out the gate? Didn't she know that she didn't need a reason to punish him? That he was hers to play with as she pleased? Maybe this was part of the fun for her. Maybe she liked the thought of playing with his anxiety. He might as well find out what her punishments looked like. It would save him more stress in the long run.

“E-Elliot,” he finally answered.

Karine smirked and Elliot's stomach dropped. “Nice to meet you, Elliot,” she said, to Elliot's awe. “I'm Captain Karine de la Peña. Pleasure.”

Elliot shuddered. “Y-You're Captain de la Peña?

Karine nodded. “Aye, but you can call me Karine. Welcome aboard the Relentless.” She made a wide sweep of her arm to gesture across the ship, but Elliot’s eyes remained firmly planted on his lap. He had to be good. He was at the mercy of the infamous pirate king. What other choice did he have?

“Captain?” a new voice said. Elliot flinched, a sense of dread swelling in his stomach. Karine peered over her shoulder, but didn’t stand up from her kneeling position. Elliot was confused. She was the captain, and not only that, but she was also the most feared and respected pirate to ever set sail across these waters. How could she stand to sit lower than her crew? Didn’t she know she was meant to be above them? How could they ever remember their place if she allowed herself to kneel beneath them?

“You wanted to see me?” the stranger said. The man was tall, but not nearly as tall as Landon. He had warm brown eyes and skin to match. His black, tightly coiled hair was cropped close to his scalp and there wasn’t a single visible scar on the man’s body. Elliot was astounded. He’d never seen an unmarred pirate before.

“Aye,” de la Peña said, finally standing to her feet. From Elliot’s low vantage point, she and the stranger seemed to be of relatively equal height. Not that it mattered. Elliot was exactly where he belonged, bound and sitting at their feet. He bowed his head again in an attempt to make himself smaller. “This is Elliot.” Karine gestured toward the prisoner at her feet. “I need you to examine him for injuries and treat any you find.”

The man looked at the shivering boy as though just noticing him for the first time. “One of Whitlock’s?” the man asked. Karine gave a single curt nod in response. “Since when do we take prisoners?” Elliot flinched again. Was this man seriously questioning his captain? Elliot had borne witness to far too many executions and he squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for another.

But all Karine said in response was, “Since today. Now I’ve given you an order, Broderick. Once the boy is sufficiently treated, I will gather the crew and explain everything. Now, take our guest to the med bay and make sure he is well looked after. I will be hearing no more qualms about this. Savvy?”

The man nodded but said no word in response, even as Karine left the two alone. The stranger fixed his gaze on the bound slave at his feet. Elliot was trembling, terror igniting in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to go to the med bay. He was too exhausted and his only injuries were the lash marks on his back and the deep purple bruises painting his limbs and torso. Why couldn’t they take him to the brig instead?

The stranger sighed. “All right, little thing. Up you get.” The words were gentle, not spoken in the way of a command, but Elliot knew an order when he heard one. With his hands bound, it was difficult to push himself to his feet. Each movement pulled at the welts on his back, sending fire shooting up the boy’s spine. Just as he nearly managed to scramble to his knees, he slipped, his back crashing against the crates he was propped against. Elliot hissed in pain, a faint whimper escaping his throat. The stranger rushed to his aid, gently taking hold of his shoulders in order to hold him steady. “Ah, apologies there, mate. Let me help ya.” The man gingerly guided the slave to his feet. “Don’t worry. The med bay is just below deck. Not far at all. Think you can make it?”

Elliot nodded, though his confidence was minimal. With the way his hands were bound, keeping his balance aboard a rocking ship would be difficult. But he didn’t have a choice. “Y-Yes, Sir,” he said. Elliot didn’t look to gauge the man’s reaction to his obedience, but he hoped he was pleasing the pirate. Captain Whitlock had trained him well. He could be good. He could prove himself worthy of serving the pirate king and her crew as a hostage.

The stranger gently nudged Elliot in the direction of the ship’s hatch and helped him below deck. He didn’t bother to untie the boy’s hands, but Elliot had expected as much. A slave couldn’t be trusted with unchecked use of its appendages.

Elliot let himself be led through the underbelly of the ship until they reached the med bay, at which point, the slave finally looked up from his feet. The med bay was nothing like the one Elliot was used to. This one was clean and well-maintained with glass cupboards fully stocked with multi-colored labeled jars. There was a cot in the center of the room with a thin mattress, atop which lay several white folded sheets. There was a wash basin in the corner, but this one looked to be made of steel, as opposed to the splintered wooden one aboard the Serpent’s Wrath. It was empty, but the cauldron suspended over the furnace along the wall gave Elliot hope that hot water was a possibility. He quickly snuffed out that flicker of hope. Obviously, that wasn’t for him. He had never bathed in hot water before. That luxury was reserved for the captain and possibly a lucky first mate. Hot water would be wasted on a slave.

“All right, just sit there,” the stranger commanded, gesturing to the cot. Elliot did as he was told, wincing at the pressure on the welts along his thighs and buttocks. He sat as still as he could manage while the man dug through one of the lower cabinets in search of something that Elliot couldn’t see. “It’s Elliot, right?” the man said, his back still facing the slave.

It had been so long since Elliot had last heard that name. He knew it was his, but it sounded so foreign. “Y-Yes, Sir,” he mumbled, his voice soft and quivering.

The man stood to his feet, joints popping as he did so. He turned back to face Elliot, a crooked smile on his face. “I’m Broderick. Ship doctor,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” Confusion immersed Elliot’s features, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the thought before he noticed the pristine knife in Broderick’s left hand. Elliot paled, suppressing a gasp at the sight of the weapon in the medic’s hand. They were gonna kill him. This wasn’t a hostage situation at all. This was revenge.

Broderick didn’t seem to notice his terror, moving to kneel behind the slave. Elliot tensed, preparing for the familiar feeling of steel carving through his flesh. What came instead, however, was a gentle tug at his wrists followed by the sound of the knife slicing through his ropes. “So,” Broderick began as he worked to relieve the boy of his restraints. “The Serpent’s Wrath, eh? What made you wanna join that crew? You’re not the kinda pirate they normally take in. You owe money to Whitlock or somethin’?”

As the pressure around Elliot’s wrists fell away, Broderick stood to his feet and returned the knife to its resting place. Elliot brought his hands out from behind his back and gently rubbed at the raw skin the ropes had left behind. “N-No, Sir.”

Broderick hummed, still facing away from the slave. “Ah, just fell for his charm, eh? Can’t say I blame ya. The man’s a right bastard, but least he’s nice to look at, eh?” Elliot didn’t respond, opting instead to ponder what the medic was talking about. Did he not know that Elliot was a slave? If he could look at the state of the boy and assume he was just a regular pirate, what state did they keep their slaves in aboard this ship? Elliot shivered at the thought.

“Right then,” Broderick said, turning to face the boy once more. “Captain says I need to check you for injuries. Mind stripping to your undergarments?”

Elliot froze. He wanted to obey, he really did, but… “I don’t have undergarments.”

Broderick furrowed his brow, a deep blush crawling up his neck. “Uh…” his voice shook a little and he nervously scratched the back of his head. “Not really sure how I'm meant to check you for injuries then. Might I ask why not?”

Elliot averted his gaze, choosing instead to focus on the raw skin encircling his wrists. “Master doesn't allow them. N-Not for me.”

“Master?” Broderick repeated, a hint of disgust slipping into his voice. “You mean Whitlock? He makes his crew call him Master?”

Elliot shook his head. The medic seemed confused, but Elliot hadn't been given an order to elaborate. As much as he wanted to explain himself, it was improper of a slave to correct its superior. He had to be good. He just had to be good.

After several long, agonizing moments of awkward silence, Broderick nodded. “Right. I'll fetch you some undergarments. Wait right here, mate.”

Elliot didn't lift his gaze from the floor. “Yes, Sir.”

Once the medic had gone, Elliot took the opportunity to finally process what was happening. He was a hostage aboard an enemy ship, at the mercy of de la Peña herself. His master had hardly fought for him, despite claiming that he was his prized possession. He was alone in uncharted territory, surrounded by pirates that seemed to hate the very existence of the man that owned him. What was he supposed to do? What was going to happen to him?

Elliot flinched at the sound of the door swinging open, the medic nervously reentering the room. “So, uh…” Broderick began. “We've nothin’ that'll fit you. S’pose you could leave your trousers on. Do you've any injuries on your lower body?”

Elliot nodded sluggishly. He was exhausted. Whatever this game was that the medic was playing with him, he just wanted to get it over with. He knew what was about to happen to him. It was just cruel to delay the inevitable like this.

“Right,” the medic said. “S'pose we don't have a choice then.”

Elliot wanted to laugh at that, if he were even capable of making such a sound anymore. He never had a choice. That was the whole point of all of this.

He knew what he was supposed to do, and this time, he didn't need instructions to do it.

Elliot pushed himself off of the cot, his insides churning. He didn't want to do this. He really didn't want to do this. But that was the point, wasn't it? That's what made it so exciting for everyone else. That's why it would never stop.

Elliot slowly and deliberately stripped out of his oversized clothes, starting with his poet's blouse. He grasped the hem between his thumb and forefinger, blinking back tears, and methodically pulled the loose, stained garment over his head.

Broderick gasped. The boy's torso was a rainbow of bruises, countless shades of black, blue, purple, red, yellow, green interlacing to create a masterpiece of the midnight sky across the boy's skin. The angles of his body were sharp, bones jutting out in all directions. As the boy leaned over to strip out of his trousers, the medic caught sight of angry red lash marks on his back. His lower body was a similar story. Cuts and slices criss-crossed his skin overtop old scars, hand-shaped bruises painted his thighs, and Broderick could see the whip marks that were wrapped around the back of his thin legs.

The boy didn't even try to cover himself, to retain any semblance of dignity. He just stood there, still as stone, as though waiting to be given an order.

It was only then, as Broderick’s eyes roamed across the poor thing's battered body, that the medic noticed the long-healed scar over top of the boy's heart. The scar’s glossy sheen gave away just what kind of scar it was.

The burn was clearly old, likely several years old, but the image it created was as clear as the day it was burned into the boy's skin.

No, not burned.

Branded.

The insignia of the Serpent's Wrath was branded into this young boy's chest.

Elliot couldn't take the silence any longer. He knew what the man must've been thinking as he took his time gazing upon the slave's naked body. He was wondering how he wanted to use the slave. And Elliot was truthfully thinking the same, though the exact opposite. He was wondering how he'd be forced to repay this man for the medical attention he was about to receive. The ship doctor aboard the Serpent's Wrath always appreciated a simple blow job after treating the slave. Elliot just hoped this one would be as easy to please.

“Um…” Broderick began, voice quivering. “Would you mind turning ‘round for me?” Elliot did as he was told, almost robotically. He slowly turned on his heel, and Broderick didn't miss the tiny, near invisible wince he gave.

Save for the brand over the boy's heart, his back looked even worse than his front. The myriad of bruises matched those on the front of his torso, but this time they were intersected by long, fresh lashes. The glimpse of the lashes Broderick had spotted before didn't do them justice. The welts were long, jagged, and swollen. They were a bright, angry red, but that could've been attributed to the thin coating of blood covering Elliot's back. But they didn't stop there. The lashes continued downwards, mostly concentrated on the boy's ass, but his thighs hadn't been spared either. The welts below his waistline ended just above his knees and were clearly not as fresh as the ones on his back.

Based on the fact that some were still oozing blood, it was safe to say the lashes spanning from his shoulders to his hips couldn't have been received any longer than an hour ago. While the ones below his waistline must've been given the night before.

Broderick's heart ached for the boy. He silently cursed himself for being too blind to see it before. He'd called Whitlock Master, he was branded with the serpents’ insignia, all he seemed able to say was “yes, sir” and “no, sir”, he was thin as a needlefish, and he wore more wounds than Broderick had ever seen. This wasn't a pirate. However Elliot had ended up aboard the Serpent's Wrath, it wasn't by choice.

Broderick’s stomach twisted into a knot. He'd known Christian for years. The man was an entitled piece of shite, but Broderick could never have imagined he'd do something like this.

Broderick cleared his throat. “Uh…you-you can turn back ‘round now.” Elliot did as he was told, not a flicker of defiance in his small, horribly beaten body. Broderick nervously scratched the back of his neck. “Right then. Um…why don't you, uh, just sit here a minute? I'll go have a word with the captain.”

Elliot's stomach clenched, but he did as he was told, sinking into the thin cot mattress. Why did he need to speak with the captain? Had Elliot done something wrong? Had his marks turned the man off? No, that couldn't be it. Master always said he was prettier like this.

Broderick paused just in front of the door and turned back to face the slave. “Uh, feel free to use one of those sheets to cover up, if you want.” He gestured to the pile of folded linens beside Elliot. “I'll be right back.” With that, he disappeared into the corridor beyond the med bay.

Elliot glanced at the white sheets, contemplating whether that was explicit permission or not. He desperately wanted to be covered, of course, but what he wanted didn't matter. Was the medic simply trying to be polite? He'd seemed genuinely disgusted at the sight of Elliot's body. Perhaps this was his way of telling the slave to cover up without being overtly insulting. That was generous of him. Elliot hesitantly took one of the sheets and draped it over the lower half of his body.

Elliot's attention was stolen by the sound of harsh, muffled voices on the other side of the door. It was difficult to make out the words, but they sounded frantic and stressed and like they were trying their best to keep a hushed tone. Elliot tried his best not to eavesdrop, but the walls were thin and he couldn't help the way the words slipped through the cracks as the voices grew louder.

“You didn't tell me he was a slave, Karine.” Broderick's voice said. “What use have we for this boy?”

“I told you, I would discuss this with the whole crew after you've treated him,” Karine's voice returned. “So, if you want answers, I suggest you do your job.”

“It will take me a very long time to treat him. You haven't seen how bad it is.”

“I know how bad it is,” Karine's voice said.

“No, you don't!” Broderick exclaimed in a whisper-shout. “I've never seen someone in a state like this before. It's horrific.”

Elliot glanced down at his body, at the brush strokes of purple left behind by boots, fists, and anything else the crew was creative enough to see as a weapon. Horrific. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought. Master had always said he looked beautiful like this, like he was their very own work of art. He'd never been described as horrific before. Was he really that repulsive?

The conversation continued, but Elliot's thoughts were too hyper focused on that one word to continue listening.

By the time the door opened again, his tears were flowing freely. He threw himself to his knees at the medic's feet, not noticing the captain lingering behind him. Elliot lowered his head and cried, shoulders shaking with the effort to hold back the loud sobs rising up his throat.

“I-I'm so sorry, Sir,” Elliot said, bowing down until his forehead collided with the salt-stained wood.

Confusion etched onto Broderick's features. He glanced over his shoulder at his equally-confused captain, but she was more focused on the black and purple bruises spanning the boy's torso. Looking back at the kneeling, naked boy, Broderick didn't know what to do. “Uh…sorry for what, mate?”

Elliot knew what was happening. He'd been through this song and dance more times than he could count. Broderick wanted him to admit what he'd done wrong. He wanted to hear the slave accept how disgusting he was.

“I'm s-sorry I-I've r-repulsed you.” Elliot lifted his head, eyes bloodshot and overflowing with tears. “P-Please don't p-punish me for-for my ugliness. I promise, I-I can still service you.”

Broderick grew increasingly uncomfortable. “S-Service me?”

Elliot nodded eagerly. “Y-Yes, Sir. I-I've done it before, h-hundreds of times. Master's ship doctor r-required it after every-every time he treated me. I-I could use my m-mouth. Or-Or my hands, wh-whatever d-disgusts you the-the least. You-You don't even have to l-look at me. Please, l-let me p-prove to you that-that I'm a good boy.”

Broderick's breathing had ceased somewhere during Elliot's desperate pleas. Surely he wasn't hearing what he thought he was. He wanted to look at Karine, to gauge her reaction to this, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the trembling, naked boy at his feet.

He didn't want to ask. He really didn't, but he had to know for sure what the boy was asking.

“Are you—Are you offering to-to suck me off?” The medic shakily asked.

Elliot's face reddened, his eyes darting from side to side, unable to land squarely on the medic standing above him. He forced a nod. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

Broderick didn't know what to say. This was too much. Karine had taken prisoner a slave from an enemy ship, a slave who had clearly been beaten and whipped sometime recently, a slave who had just offered himself up to be raped. It was just too much. “I think I'm gonna be sick,” Broderick mumbled.

Devastation flowed through the boy at the sound of those words. This was all he had. This was all he could offer the medic in return for his treatment, but he was too disgusting. The man was too repulsed by the sight of him, even the thought of using him made Broderick sick. What else was he supposed to do?

Karine watched the scene unfold, mouth agape. She'd known upon seeing the boy for the first time that he had been treated like scum, but this was so far beyond what she could've imagined. The poor boy looked crestfallen. Maybe she was way more in over head than she thought.

Broderick panicked upon seeing the way the boy deflated. “I-I'm sorry, mate. I shouldn't have said that. What-What I meant to say was, I-I'd never do anythin’ like that to you, not because you're ugly, but-but because I-I'm not like your old ship doctor, okay? You don't have to repay me or anythin’ like that. This is my job. This is what I do and I don't expect payment for it.”

Elliot sniffled and wiped his tears, lowering his head in shame. “I'm s-sorry, Sir. I-I shouldn't have a-assumed.”

“No worries, mate. I just wanna treat your wounds. Savvy?”

Elliot nodded, keeping his face hidden from view. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

Broderick nodded. “Right then. Um…why don't you lay face-down on the cot? I promise, I won't do anything to you. You-You can use the folded sheets as pillows if you'd like, and-and I'll prepare to clean you up.”

“Yes, Sir.” As Elliot scrambled to obey, wincing as he did so, Broderick glanced at the horrified expression on Karine's face. Once the boy was settled on the cot, she finally met the ship doctor's gaze, shock and awe visibly displayed on her face. Broderick motioned for her to leave the med bay, but not before shooting her a look that said, What have you gotten us into?

-

Thank you so much for the ask!! This was so much fun to write. I'm having a blast exploring my characters in a new environment.

I know a lot of you were excited for more post-rescue pirate content, so I really hope you enjoyed this!! If anyone else has any suggestions or requests for this au, please send them to me!!

The next couple weeks are gonna be very busy for me, so forgive me if I take a short break from writing. Unless I come up with something that I simply can't ignore😏

Taglist:

@phoenixpromptsandstuff @ofclrosewriteswhump @whump-queen @melpomenelamusa @hueningplushie @paperprinxe @neuronalwhip @written-in-the-stars135 @ieattoenailsforlunchlikearealone @lolrpop @butterflywhump @writing-for-gold

Dami had rolled partly over him in their sleep, one heavy forearm across his waist and one knee pressed against his thigh. Their face was tucked into the space between his shoulder and the pillow, breath warm against his neck.

Wick could’ve moved.

Probably.

His hip would object. His ribs would object. Dami would wake immediately, and Kestrel would wake half a second later because Dami had.

He didn’t want to. There was something humiliatingly comforting about being pinned beneath two people who would’ve moved the instant he asked.

The distinction mattered.

He wasn’t held because they’d been told to remain. He wasn’t being guarded. He wasn’t the center of someone’s assigned vigilance. They’d fallen asleep touching him because they liked touching him.

Wick knew this. His body still held itself carefully around the knowledge, as though too much reliance might turn affection into demand.

He watched the shadows change along the ceiling. A thin bar of streetlight cut through the gap in the curtains. It shifted when a car passed outside, briefly illuminating the framed photograph on the wall.

The coast.

Kestrel disappearing into his scarf.

Dami behind them.

All three laughing into the wind.

Nadia’s face kept appearing over it.

Not angry.

Worse.

Hurt.

The moment he’d said, Don’t make him pay for your hatred of her.

He’d seen the recognition land.

Not because he’d been wrong.

Liam had still been inside that house. Still preparing lunch for the woman who’d purchased him. Still convinced the threat of release meant he’d become too expensive to feed.

Nadia’s anger couldn’t be allowed to sever the only path they had to him but Wick had sounded like someone who believed he had the right to teach her what ownership cost. Like someone standing safely on the far side of the word.

He hadn’t been. His name had once appeared on documents beside Kestrel’s. Not because he’d purchased her. Not because he’d asked for her. Malcolm and Charlotte had built that arrangement long before Wick had understood what Kestrel was being forced to endure.

Then Wick had found Malcolm punishing her. He’d defied both his parents. Threatened them. Threatened the company. Threatened to expose every useful secret the Wickham family had ever buried. He’d taken Kestrel out while Malcolm was still alive, while Charlotte was still capable of calling him ungrateful and hysterical and too sick to understand the consequences of his own decisions.

He had freed her from them. That was true. Then he’d brought her into an apartment where every safe choice was still made by him.

Doctors.

Security.

Food.

Clothing.

Visitors.

Locks.

He’d opened one door and assumed the door behind it didn’t need to open too.

Wick closed his eyes.

Dami shifted. Their hand moved higher along his ribs, fingers spreading beneath the hem of his shirt until their palm rested partly over Kestrel’s.

The two of them touched in their sleep without waking.

Wick’s throat tightened.

“You’re awake,” Dami murmured. Their voice was rough with sleep.

“So are you.”

“I’m responding to evidence.”

Wick’s mouth twitched. Kestrel’s fingers flexed against his side.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “What time?”

“Too early.”

“That isn’t the time.”

“Four forty-one.”

Kestrel made a quiet sound of disgust and pressed her face more firmly into his chest.

Her hair tickled beneath his chin.

“Morning should be illegal before six,” she muttered.

Dami opened their eyes.

Even in the dark, Wick could feel the directness of their attention.

“You’re rehearsing.”

Wick looked at them.

“I’m lying here.”

“Rehearsing while lying here.”

“I can do two things.”

“Yes.”

Kestrel lifted her head just enough to speak.

“He’s going to apologize six different ways until Nadia has to comfort him.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Kestrel said. She opened one eye. “You’ll begin by apologizing for your tone.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“Then your timing.”

“It was poor.”

“Then your wording.”

“It could’ve been better.”

“Then for having made her feel judged.”

“I did judge her.”

“Then for having feelings while judging her.”

Wick exhaled through his nose.

Dami pushed themself up on one elbow. Their hair was flattened badly on one side. A long section stood nearly upright above their ear. Wick reached up without thinking and smoothed it back. Dami leaned into his hand. The movement was small and immediate. Wick’s thumb paused at their temple.

“What are you going to say?” they asked.

“That I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Wick stared at the ceiling again.

The answer he’d prepared during the first twenty minutes of wakefulness returned in full paragraphs.

He rejected most of it.

“For speaking to her as though I had moral authority over her anger.”

Kestrel’s eyes opened fully.

“That’s one.”

“For assuming she couldn’t separate her beliefs from her work.”

“Two,” Dami said.

“For making the conversation partly about me.”

Kestrel raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t do that out loud.”

“I was there.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It felt the same.”

“No,” she said. “It felt shameful. Those aren’t interchangeable.”

Wick’s jaw tightened. The difference should’ve been obvious.

It still wasn’t.

Dami watched him carefully. They flicked his forehead.

"Don't apologize for feelings.”

“I’m trying not to make them anyone else’s problem.”

“You can have feelings without handing them to Nadia.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No,” Dami replied. “Feelings aren’t wrong.”

Wick glanced between them. Kestrel settled her chin on his chest. Her hair fell across his shirt.

“You’re allowed to hate being included in the word owner,” she said. “You were included.”

He looked away. Her hand came up and touched the underside of his jaw. She didn’t force him back.

“You’re allowed to want to be seen as different.”

“That’s self-serving.”

“Yes.”

Wick blinked.

Kestrel’s expression remained calm.

“Self-serving isn’t the same as unforgivable.”

“It’s still ugly.”

“Sometimes.”

Dami nodded.

“People like good stories about themselves.”

“Thank you for that devastating insight.”

“You’re welcome.”

Kestrel kissed Wick’s sternum through his shirt. The contact lasted only a second. He let his eyes close. The room was warm with all three of them pressed together. The heat from Dami’s body gathered beneath the blankets. Kestrel’s cold foot had finally begun to warm against his leg. For a few minutes, none of them spoke. Wick listened to their breathing.

Dami’s slow and deep.

Kestrel’s shorter, occasionally catching when the position pressed against one of her ribs.

His own still too deliberate.

“Should ask Nadia what she needs.”

“I was planning to.”

“Should accept the answer.”

“I know.”

Kestrel studied him.

“Even if she says distance.”

Wick’s throat tightened.

The word opened a small, sharp space inside him.

“Yes.”

“Even if she doesn’t forgive you.”

“Yes.”

“Even if she says she still thinks you’re irredeemable.”

His answer came more slowly.

“Yes.”

Dami lowered themself again, resting partly across him. Wick’s hand found the back of their neck. His fingers moved once into their hair. Kestrel tucked herself beneath his chin.

“You’re not allowed to punish yourself afterward,” she said.

“I don’t punish myself.”

Dami and Kestrel both went silent.

Wick sighed.

“Fine. I occasionally make decisions while distressed.”

“You draft resignations,” Kestrel said.

“I haven’t resigned.”

“Because we stop you.”

“I listen to feedback.”

Dami hummed. Wick closed his eyes again. He wanted to stay there. He wanted to delay the shower, the medication schedule, breakfast, the drive, Nadia’s face, the Foundation, all of it.

That, too, felt self-serving. This time, he let it. For seven more minutes.

Dami counted.

At four fifty-eight, they lifted their head.

“Need to move.”

Kestrel made another disgusted sound.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Foundation doesn’t open for hours.”

“Have to eat.”

“I can eat later.”

Dami looked at her.

Kestrel opened both eyes.

“I can eat now.”

Wick laughed softly. It hurt his ribs. He kept laughing anyway.

Dami made breakfast.

Not because Wick or Kestrel couldn’t. Wick’s hands were unreliable that morning, and Kestrel had become distracted halfway through fastening her shirt when she noticed a loose hinge on the bathroom cabinet.

Dami confiscated the screwdriver.

“Work,” they said.

“This is work.”

“It’s a cabinet.”

“It’s deteriorating.”

“Been loose.”

“That makes it urgent.”

“No.”

Kestrel glared at them.

Dami placed the screwdriver on top of the refrigerator. Kestrel stared upward. There was no dignified way for her to retrieve it from a surface Dami could reach without lifting their heels.

“You’re abusing your height.”

“Using available resources.”

Wick sat at the kitchen table with both wrists braced again and his head resting briefly in one hand. The exchange loosened something in his chest.

Dami placed toast in front of him. Then eggs. Then his medication.

“I already took medication.”

“Took the early dose.”

Wick looked at the tablets.

“Oh.”

Kestrel sat beside him and stole half his toast.

“You have your own.”

“Yours is cut better.”

“They’re rectangles.”

“Yours are more structurally sound.”

Dami set another piece on Kestrel’s plate.

Wick watched them.

The familiar kitchen. Dami checking the kettle after turning it off. Kestrel tucking one bare foot beneath herself in the chair. The morning light beginning to collect at the edge of the windows. No one was waiting for him to decide what happened next. They were only getting ready for work.

He ate. It wasn't enough for Dami’s satisfaction but enough that they didn’t argue.

The drive to the Foundation was quieter.

Kestrel sat beside Wick in the back. Dami drove because Lucky had stayed overnight at the clinic after the threat. Wick kept his hand on Kestrel’s knee. At the second light, she put her hand over his. At the third, Dami reached back between the seats without looking. Wick placed two fingers against their palm. Dami squeezed once and returned their hand to the wheel.

He thought about Nadia. He thought about taking his hand away from Kestrel before they entered the building, so no one would see him arrive flanked by two survivors after being wounded by a conversation about ownership.

Kestrel saw the thought before he acted on it. Her fingers tightened around his.

“Don’t perform detachment.”

Wick looked at her.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were about to.”

Dami glanced at them in the mirror.

“Not about your image.”

Wick stared through the windshield.

“You’re both annoying.”

Kestrel lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.

“You married me twice.”

“An obvious administrative failure.”

“You’re considering marrying Dami too.”

Dami’s eyes moved to the mirror again.

“Under review.”

Wick’s face warmed.

Kestrel smiled.

The moment passed before he could become embarrassed enough to defend himself.

Day 1:

Hole Reversal

Fuck and Die and Cry

Sex Robot That Only Speaks Binary

Day 2:

Amateurbation

Neapolitan Sex (Chocolate, Strawberry, and Vanilla)

Plumbism (Lead Poisoning)

Day 3:

Gay Frogs

Grape Treading

Blue Collarplay

Day 4:

Cuck Electric Chair

Foreplay as Fighting

Force Feeding Arby’s

Day 5:

Clean Talk

Windsor Knotting

Getting Dressed Poker

Day 6:

Crazy Straw Sounding

Cock Cooling

Self-Soaking

Day 7:

Seven Deadly Simulated Sex Acts

Out of Control Orgasms

Funeral Crashers

Day 8:

Eyes for Nipples

Nipples for Eyes

Nipple Blindness

Day 9:

Ritual BBL

Size Peasant

Accidental Castration

Day 10:

Hot Denture Action

Five Stages of Queef

Vegetable-Human Hybrids

Day 11:

Gentle Hatemaking

Ineffective Hypnosis

Wasabi Figging

Day 12:

A Dildo Library

Chitty Chitty Gang Bang

Scared and Horny

Day 13:

Oral Degloving

Seance Sex

Mainlining Semen

Day 14:

Slow Splinter Removal

Memeplay

Balldo: the First Dildo for Balls

Day 15:

Only One Toilet

Ear Canal Enema

Flip Flop Worship

Day 16:

Magical Poisoning Cock/Cunt

Cum Inflation (Monetary)

Resolved Sexual Tension

Day 17:

One Night Stand-up Comedy Routine

Pea Play

Forced Flanderization

Day 18:

Orgasm Confession

Simultaneous Sneezing

Tit Punch

Day 19:

Sexually Charged BINGO

Cone of Shame

Extreme Cuddling

Day 20:

Amateur Genital Piercing

Logarithmic Sex

Inappropriate Use of a Monkey's Paw

Day 21:

Luxury Branding

Nemesis Identifying Marks

Black Market Sex Toys

Day 22:

Not Enough Coffins

Fraught Frotting

Uncharged Vibrators

Day 23:

Gemdom

It's Raining Body Fluids

Egg Abortion

Day 24:

Flag Semaphore Stoplight System

Atheism Kink

Sad Handjob

Day 25:

An Actual Sexual Revolution

Tender Loving Bukkake

Shartin’

Day 26:

Mystery Hole

Danger Word

Oppositely Polarized Magnets

Day 27:

Necrophilia Pollen

Squirtgun Play

Dressing Cross

Day 28:

Pube Eating Contest

Coke Nail Fingering

Vagina Dentata with Braces

Day 29:

Sexting in Morse Code

Brat Wilding

Hind Control

Day 30:

Too Sticky Lube

Nostril Gaping

Sentient Online Safety Protocols

Day 31:

Snorting Skeleton Dust

Birthing a Jack o’ Lantern