I've got another Project Hail Mary fic that I've been working on. This one is a standalone that I wrote specifically for this event. I'll probably post it on AO3 at some point.
Summary: The Eridian scientists manage to alter the weather in the dome to include a thunderstorm. For Grace, it brings up memories of the incident at Adrian. (Fic under the cut.)
Grace didn’t know how the Eridians did it. Yes, they had succeeded in creating fog and rolling tides and sunny days and starry nights – those last two weren’t all that hard, of course, but it still amazed Grace that they could do it at all. But today, they’d outdone themselves.
It was raining.
Starting light, sprinkling and intensifying to heavy, torrential. A downpour. It hammered on the roof of his house as Grace sat on the couch, trying to ignore the lurking memories of Adrian.
Where…is that noise…coming from?
Noise is from all around! It’s loudest at portside of bedroom.
He breathed in, deep and steadying. The smell of petrichor through the open window filled his nose. The simulated sky was dark, clouded over. Grace wasn’t sure if it was just a projection or if the Eridians somehow found a way to produce the thick cumulonimbus clouds that now loomed overhead. Either way, it was convincing.
A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.
“It’s open.” Grace called out.
The door opened and shut, and he looked over to see Rocky standing there, rain sparkling like crystals on his xenonite suit. Rocky shook himself like a dog, water droplets scattering everywhere.
Grace groaned. “Really? Do you have to do that inside? Come on, man.”
“If shake outside, will still be wet.” Rocky sang, as if that was the most logical thing in the world.
“Yeah, but now the house is wet.”
Rocky tapped his foot on the floor. “House seems fine.”
Grace rolled his eyes and sighed. “I can just get you a towel. That way, you won’t—”
Thunder rumbled.
Grace flinched. Stared wide-eyed out the window.
“Grace, question? Heart is too fast. Why distressed, question?”
Trying to catch his breath, Grace shut his eyes for a moment. Inhale, exhale. He bit his lip and opened his eyes.
“Uh, I-I’m okay.” Before Rocky could call him out on his blatant lie, Grace said, “The Eridians made a thunderstorm. Th-That’s…new.”
Rocky stood straighter. “Yes, yes, yes.” He bounced with every musical note. “We find on Earth thinking machine. You like, question?”
Another roll of thunder stole his answer. This one was louder, longer. Threatening. Every part of him tensed. Grace whimpered.
Rocky squeaked. “You are hurt, question?” He climbed up onto the couch, one foot tapping against the cushions.
Grace couldn’t get the reassuring words to form past the lump in his throat, the hammering of his heart. Another crash of thunder. A flash of green. Violent thumping, rumbling.
Gravity is tearing the ship apart!
Lightning snaked across the sky. Sparks flying. His seat throwing him forward. Grace felt the scream rip from his throat. Raw and burning. His arms flew up to cover his head. The ship spinning and spinning, plummeting. He curled into a ball. His head pounding. LCD screens flashing their warnings through a straight streak of blood.
Adrian, their emerald beacon of hope, stealing away their fuel.
Rocky’s voice shrieking his name. A terrified chorus, a desperate litany. His claw touched Grace’s arm, smooth xenonite on tense skin. Not quite the same place. Grace yelped. Expected his flesh to sizzle. Static crept in at the edges of his vision.
“Grace, breathe breathe breathe.”
His breaths were too shallow. Panting. Chest tight as he trembled.
“Stop thunderstorm! Grace is distressed. No more storm. Bad bad bad.”
Through the flashes of the Hail Mary’s damaged control room, Grace could hear the thunder stop mid-rumble, the rain slow to a soft patter then vanish into the fog that rolled through in its place. The sun didn’t exactly shine through, but it was lighter outside.
And silent.
With the thunder gone, Grace sucked in a breath through gritted teeth with greedy lungs. It shuddered and hitched, but one breath led to another. To another. Chasing away the memories of crushing gravity and rhythmic pounding and Rocky’s screams. He was still shaking, still curled up. But he lowered his arms and wrapped them around himself.
Rocky took a tentative step forward. “You are back, question?”
Grace nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears forming. One slipped free.
“You are leaking. You need hug, question?”
Again, he nodded.
He felt Rocky climb into his lap, pushing his knees so he wasn’t so curled up, and slipped under Grace’s arms. Instead of hugging himself, he was now hugging Rocky. The sobs tore free from his control, wracking through him. Grace pressed his forehead to the warm xenonite suit, trying to focus on the weight holding him together, anchoring him here, as he shook. He wasn’t on the Hail Mary anymore, no longer adrift in space. The gravity, while a little heavier than what he was used to, wasn’t trapping him against the console, wasn’t dragging him back to the planet Adrian. He was in his house in his dome on Erid. Home. Safe.
As his sobs died down, Grace realized Rocky was singing. It was a song he always hummed when Grace was distressed. A gentle melody, soft and steady. Grace fought to match his panting breaths to the rhythm, slowing down to keep pace through the sharp pains of overworked lungs.
Rocky paused his singing, and Grace mourned the loss of the calming metronome. “You are okay now, question?”
“Y-Yeah. Sorry.”
Rocky cocked his carapace. “Why sorry, question?”
“I didn’t mean to f-freak out. You and the scientists did a nice thing for me, and I… I ruined it.” He looked away and tried not to think of his mad dash across the compound, of Stratt’s disappointment, of Carl’s final words to him. “Just like I ruin everything.”
“You no ruin. Thunderstorm bad bad bad. Distresses you. I make sure they no make thunderstorm again. Only fog. Fog is calm and good.”
Grace chewed his lip. “Can you, um, can you keep the rain? I don’t mind the rain. Just…maybe not so hard?”
“Yes yes yes.” Rocky let out a trill. “We keep rain. I talk with scientists about altering. No loud weather.” There was a short pause before Rocky, sounding more subdued, asked, “You want to talk about fear of storm, question?”
Grace hunched his shoulders. “I-It’s the noise. It…reminds me. Of Adrian. The planet. The fuel…” He shook his head.
Rocky held him tighter, a tremor coursing through his carapace. “Bad bad bad memory.”
“Yeah.”
“Just a memory. We are on Erid. We are safe.”
They remained curled around each other as Rocky resumed his serene song. Grace shifted down until his head rested on a throw pillow, his back to the window. He shivered against the memories. Rocky kept him warm.
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This would take place about two weeks after their rescue ☺
TW: flashback, post nightmare, caning, stress position (sort of), noncon mention, recovering whumpee
Quinn closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the feeling of phantom fingers crawling across his skin.
Focus on something else.
Focus on something that is real.
One, two, three, four, five...
Today wasn't a good day.
He swallowed down another wave of nausea and tilted his head up to the ceiling as he swayed even from his seated position on the edge of the bed. The grounding techniques weren't working. They usually did help, at least a little bit, but today, simply sucking in enough air to fill his own lungs was enough to send him tumbling over the edge.
He cast his mind back to last night, to the nightmares full of the most macabre display of his own lived out pain and humiliation that plagued him in his sleep. Something in those twisted memories must have followed him back into his waking consciousness. Still, it was no different than any other night.
Why was today so much worse?
The clothes on his body felt suffocating, itching across his skin, and the floor warmed beneath his feet in a way that made him want to be sick again. He pressed the back of his clammy hand against his mouth and swallowed thickly, his skin prickling with sweat.
It was too hot.
He twisted the hem of his shirt between his fingers, trying to just feel the material.
Let it calm you down.
Let it ground you.
You're safe and you're free and you are allowed wear clothes and to not be on display for anyone that might want to bend you over the fucking desk and fuck you open until you bleed.
A cold sweat broke out across his body and his arms moved without his permission, stripping off the soft shirt and letting it slip from his fingers to the floor. He could smell his own fear, seeping out from his pores and being soaked up into the loose fibers.
That shirt was safe. It belonged to Collins, smelt like him.
Quinn didn't want it to smell like something else.
Sweat and salt and something bitter and cloying filled his senses as a tear slipped down his face. His fingers begged him to pick up the shirt again and bury his face in Collins' scent. It would help him. Ground him. He knows it would.
Fuck.
Is this what he's become?
Collins hadn't even been gone for more than 20 minutes and Quinn deteriorates into some quibbling heap for him to clean up when he gets back. He didn't even want to leave him this time. Quinn had to assured him he would be okay for an hour.
Of course he'd be okay.
He felt himself slip off the side of the bed and sink to his knees. The world seemed to right itself in some awful way as he pressed the palms of his hands against the cool floor.
This was right. He belonged on his knees.
Fuck! Please don't do this.
One, two, three-
Quinn opened his eyes and blinked back his surprise at finding his own thighs still hidden beneath his pants.
That was wrong.
His fingers curled and his nails scraped against the metal of the ship. His pants felt heavy and too hot as a phantom touch dragged down his side, scraping at the hem of the pants he wasn't supposed to be wearing.
A shiver quaked through Quinn's body and he hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband, pulling them over the curve of his ass. The phantom fingers touched him there, cool and poking and prodding at the exposed flesh. They were pleased with him now, demanding more.
He dragged the pants down his thighs and shifted on his knees to pull them off his legs, one by one.
Sweat cooled on his body and he shivered in his nakedness, his heart calming its frantic pace slightly.
This was how it was supposed to be.
His knees already ached painfully, shooting barbs of electricity deep into the joint and down his shins. He pressed down harder. The pain was grounding.
That was good, right? Wasn't it?
He didn't think so.
The brush of touch with no body ran up his spine and he dropped his head down like he was supposed to do, exposing his neck, allowing them all the access they desired.
He was good.
He knew his place.
His mouth dropped open unbidden and his world narrowed, a darkness washing at the edges of his vision and obliterating his senses. Up was down and he couldn't trust himself to move. That wasn't his place anyway. He didn't have to worry about that anymore. The Captain would move him as he sees fit. Spread him open and break his hips to keep him in place- wouldn't he?
Quinn flinched back hard at the sound of the cane against his palms. He looked down at his hands, startled to see his slight pink of his palms and no bright red from the strike.
He'd felt it though. He knew he'd felt it.
No. Please.
–
Quinn screamed behind his clenched teeth, dropping his head as the cane came down hard across his palms.
It felt like a he was being beaten with a hot knife. He swore that the Captain was shattering every delicate bone in his hands with each strike.
He shuddered violently as the tip of the cane came up to press just beneath his chin, tilting his face up.
“Eyes on me, boy. I've already told you once. I wont tell you again.”
Quinn sucked in a wet breath, lifting his eyes to where they belonged.
“Yes, sir,” he whimpered. He wanted to cringe back at the brokenness of his own voice, but he was broken, wasn't he. He sounded exactly as he was supposed to sound.
He watched as the Captain smirked down at him, trailing the cane down Quinn's cheek and over his outstretched arms.
The Captain swung his arm up sharply and Quinn braced, eyes firmly on the Captain, as the cane whipped through the air and struck against his palms.
Quinn screamed.
His fingers curled, desperate to protect the swelling, tender flesh of his palms as Quinn fought against his own body to stretch them out again.
A whimper peeled out of his throat when the cane brushed lightly against his hands. The Captain tisked as he rolled the thin, smooth length of the cane across his fingers, forcing them open again.
“Your punishment hasn't even begun yet, boy.”
Quinn fought to keep his trembling fingers straight and his arms outstretched as the Captain circled him, the tip of the cane grazing over his naked, exposed flesh. A shiver traced the path of the cane as it was trailed down his back and over his ass, back up towards his shoulder and down his arm to his throbbing hands.
Tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down his face, obscuring his vision but the moment the Captain was back in front of him again, his eyes were where they belonged.
Please stop.
“That's my good boy.”
The Captain whipped the cane back and struck his palms in rapid succession. Quinn braced with each punishing strike, pulling his hands back into position the moment the force of the cane struck them down again.
He never looked away.
With another vicious strike, the Captain cursed loudly, reaching out and roughly grabbing Quinn's left hand.
“Fucking pathetic piece of shit. That's going to fucking scar.”
His palm had split open, bright red and weeping against the violent purple of his palm.
His hand was dropped and Quinn risked pulling his throbbing hands to his chest and folding his body over them as the Captain turned away, tossing the cane across the room.
“Get up,” the Captain demanded as he pulled off his jacket, “If you're going to fucking bleed all the over the place, I might as well enjoy myself. Get over here, over the desk.”
Quinn lifted his head and moved immediately do as he was told. He stood on numb, shaky legs and stumbled towards the desk as the Captain unbuttoned his pant.
He practically fell against the edge of the desk, allowing himself to be pushed down and his legs kicked apart. He watched his own blood seep onto a stack of papers and idly wondered if they were of any importance.
Quinn shifted his hips and spread his legs open even wider as fingers ghosted over his flesh.
He heard the Captain hum his approval.
Just be good.
It won't hurt so bad if you're good.
--
That took far longer than Collins had thought it would. Prim was planning to land on the nearest friendly planet to stock up on supplies and had needed to go over security measures and new protocols, etc., etc.
It had taken forever. He needed to get back to Quinn.
Collins forced himself to slow down his pace as he turned the corner to the crew's quarters. He was fine. Quinn would be fine. He was only gone for an hour. He looked at his watch and grimaced. Well, almost two hours now.
He felt his heart flip as he neared their door and he took a moment to slow his breathing before sliding it open. Quinn didn't need to know how much he worried when he was out of his sight. He had enough to deal with without Collins adding his own fears to the pile.
The door slid open and his heart dropped.
“Quinn?”
It took more strength than he cared to admit for him to tear himself from his spot by the door and enter the room.
The air felt thick and heavy, stepping inside was like approaching the open maw of a bottomless cavern. Collins forced himself to take the few steps it took to reach Quinn and knelt down, his hands held out in front of him in a calming manner but he didn't think it mattered.
Quinn was gone.
“Quinn? Can you hear me?”
Sweat had slicked down his naked body and wet the floor beneath his knees. He was trembling violently with his eyes shut tight. His entire body had tensed when Collins had entered the room and he'd curled himself up even tighter.
“Goddamn it,” Collins swallowed back his panic and reached out to touch Quinn's jaw, if only to close his mouth. It looked painful how wide he was holding it open. Nausea swelled in his gut as Quinn flinched bodily at the soft touch and opened his mouth even wider.
“No, Quinn. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you.”
The whine that tore out of Quinn's throat sliced a piece off of Collins' own soul and laid it at his feet.
“Quinn, can you hear me? It's Collins. There's no one else here, okay? Quinn?”
He watched as Quinn's mouth lost some of its tension and his brow creased in confusion. His chest began to heave in rapid succession as he waited, his hands balled up into fists on his thighs and his eyes still firmly closed.
Collins didn't know what to do. Every single instinct that resided in his body felt wrong. He wanted to be gentle with him, to smooth his sweaty hair back from his face and kiss the corners of his eyes until they finally opened and awareness cleared his vision. But he knew. He knew every single touch would be felt as if it was coming from someone else's hand.
Collins stood abruptly, turning to the shower and flipping it on as cold as it would go. The sound of the water cascading down filled the room and seemed to clear some of that heavy fog that had settled around them.
His put his hand over Quinn's shoulder and the man flinched violently, almost falling off his knees before righting himself.
Collins decided he had to move quickly. He didn't want Quinn thinking he was about to be assaulted for even a fraction of a second longer than he needed to be. Collins bent down and hauled Quinn into his arms in one sweeping motion, stepping to the shower in two quick strides.
The terrified, broken sound that cracked out of Quinn's chest tore at his mind but he stepped quickly into the stall with Quinn in his arms and slid them both down to the floor.
Quinn gasped out in shock as the freezing water shattered whatever specter of memory had gripped his mind. He kicked out and Collins hissed when Quinn's fingernails scraped down his neck as he fought for purchase.
“Quinn. It's me! QUINN!” He yelled in the small space, holding the man tight against his chest until Quinn finally looked up and Collins watched his eyes begin to clear as he tried to focus on his face.
“Hey,” Collins said, pressing his fingers into the back of Quinn's neck and hoping to god that it was soothing instead of horrifying, “You're okay. You're here, with me. He's fucking dead, Quinn.”
Quinn suddenly jerked in his arms and scrambled out of his reach, sliding across the shower floor into the opposite corner, his chest heaving as he frantically looked as his hands in some kind of horror.
Collins had frozen in place, his one hand outstretched and his jaw clenched tight, as Quinn desperately tried to piece his world back together again.
A panicked breath forced itself from Quinn's chest like a punch as realization fully hit him.
“Oh fuck,” Quinn breathed out, sinking back against the shower wall and dropping his head into his hands, “Collins-”
The last came out on the edge of a pained whimper as Quinn swallowed repeatedly, trying to force the hitching sobs back down his throat.
“I'm here,” Collins reached out but held back just shy of actually touching him in the small space, “I'm right here with you, Quinn.”
The water pounded down around them. Collins' clothes were soaked through and sticking heavily to his skin but the freezing cold water felt almost warm with the adrenaline burning itself through his veins.
He wanted so badly to reach out and hold Quinn close. Instead, he straightened one leg out a bit, letting their knees touch.
Quinn finally met his eyes.
Collins watched him pull in one shaky breath after another through his trembling lips before the set of Quinn's jaw hardened and he lashed out with his arm, banging the side of the shower with his fist.
“Fuck!” He screamed, digging his fingers back into his hair and pulling at the roots with his fists, “This can't keep happening.”
He shivered hard and Collins leaned forward slowly, eyeing Quinn carefully before reaching up and turning the water to just slightly warmer but still cool.
Quinn's eyes tracked his every movement. He seemed to force his body to release a shred of the tension buzzing viciously underneath his skin.
“I'm here, Collins. I know you wont hurt me,” Quinn said, dropping his hand to rest over Collins' ankle, his thumb brushing back and forth over his now thoroughly soaked pant leg.
“I know,” Collins tried to assure him, “but when you're- lost, like that, you don't know it's me.”
“Lost,” Quinn repeated, his body slumping against the wall of the shower as if the word stole all his remaining strength away. He met Collins' eyes. “I'm sorry.”
Collins rested the side of his head against the tile, letting the water wash away the droves of adrenaline. He wanted to gather Quinn up in his arms and soothe away all the pain that was etches across his face. He reached out and covered his bare knee with his hand instead, hoping that the touch would calm them both.
“What do you remember?”
“I don't know,” Quinn said as he looked down at his palms, curling his hands into fists and opening them again. “I remember that my clothes felt wrong somehow, like they didn't belong on my body, and I knew I was starting to panic again. I couldn't focus on anything. I tried to do what you said but-”
His voice broke and he swept a hand through the rivulets of water mixed with tears streaming down his face.
“I was back there-,” he tried again before his face crumbled and he moved the two feet it took to draw himself back up against Collins' side. Collins opened his arms and let Quinn decide how close he wanted to get. Quinn dropped his weight back into Collins' arms and tucked his legs up against his side and Collins felt the tension in his chest begin to ease back.
“They didn't have to hurt me like that,” Quinn whispered, “They didn't have to fucking tear me apart until there was nothing left.”
“Hey,” Collins spoke loud enough for Quinn to hear him clearly over the drone of the water, allowing himself to finally brush Quinn's wet hair back from his face, “You're still whole, Quinn. You're still you.”
He felt Quinn shake his head against his chest.
“I'm not.”
“You are,” Collins said wrapping both his arms around Quinn and letting the water wash freely over them, “You're still strong and kind and honest... and an angry little shit when you need to be.”
Quinn huffed out an incredulous laugh as Collins continued, “I know we didn't know each other much, before, but I remember, one time, when you were programming something on the console that I wont pretend to understand and Murphy came over and flipped the wrong switch or something. You were so pissed. I remember thinking your jaw was going to shatter from you trying to hold back whatever it was you wanted to say. You still have that in you. That fire.”
“He deleted half of my work with one press of a button,” Quinn said, “Paid me double for the day though.” He paused, his tone soft in remembrance, “I miss him. He was a good man.”
Collins felt his throat try to close with guilt, instantly regretting bring up Murphy at the sorrow in Quinn's voice.
He couldn't respond. He didn't have the right.
He had no right to share in that grief.
Quinn might not be as he was before, but he was still a far better man than Collins could ever hope to be.
Quinn shifted a little, stretching out his left leg as if his hip hurt, and leaned further against Collins, letting the last of the adrenaline finally bleed out of his system.
“You ready to get out?” Collins asked.
“In a minute,” Quinn said as he rested against Collins' chest, his eyes fixed to the faint line that crossed his palm.
He flinched, only slightly, when Collins placed his hand over Quinn's. He brushed his thumb over the scar and Quinn let out a surprised breath when that light touch didn't hurt.
"Never again," Collins whispering against the wet mess of Quinn's hair as he placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
Quinn felt himself smile. The water was cool against his skin but Collins’ warmth was enough to keep him from shivering. He pressed his now healed palm against Collins’ chest and closed his eyes.
Contains: Rebecca (Centaur) Flashbacks. Noncon, crop/whipping, punching, piercings, bit/gag, fantasy slavery, on display, bitch as a derogatory term, centaur whump, multiple whumpers
Please let me know if I missed any warnings
——
Things had been going well for Rebecca so far.
She'd been at the Inn for a couple months now— watching, waiting, listening.
She was still fully clothed, had remained fully clothed since she'd arrived. People would come into her room and she'd prepare to be told to strip but she never was.
Everyone treated her like a person.
She didn't know what to do with herself. Her training had been brutal, absolute. Her purpose was to entertain. To accept any treatment, to make her master money.
That had been fact for as long as she could remember. It had just been shows when she was little, pageants, but the plan had always been clear.
And she'd been good at it. She'd never known another life and, sure, she didn't like being hurt, of course, but…
She didn't like feeling useless. Like a waste.
She didn't want to be thrown away.
She knew there were worse fates than what her master had allowed. Far worse, he had been… merciful, really.
When he'd "boarded" her with his friends for retraining… well, she'd learned well how merciful he was.
Still, the markets were brutal. Her master had taken pride in dressing her in as little as possible and made good money renting her out. At first, it was to anyone interested— there were days where she had entertained ten or more clients. As he lined his pockets with her suffering, he raised prices and became more exclusive.
Folks who just wanted to ride a centaur weren't willing to pay the premiums he charged. Her clientele became more specialized as her price was driven up. They weren't supposed to leave lasting marks but… if the money was there…
A group had rented her out for the entire weekend, payed handsomely, and she accepted it with the same stoicism as the rest of her ill-treatments. They were having some party or something, and wanted to claim her as a centerpiece. The thought made her sick with dread, but this was her life. This was her only purpose, and she knew she was lucky that she was able to help make her master money.
They loaded her into a wagon and hauled her off to their home.
She recognized the stock, the cage.
It was the first time in years she'd considered fighting. But she heard the heavy doors lock behind her and knew better.
She was forced into the cage. Her hands were bound above her. A bit was forced into her mouth and fastened around her head and they used it to tie her head still. They shoved a couple wooden bars under her belly and clipped her hobble chains from her ankles to the rings implanted along her inner flanks. Then they smacked her on the ass and told her to 'stand pretty'.
"You'll be appreciatin' those supports later," one man whispered in her ear, and she suppressed a shudder.
Every party guest got a 20 minute turn all on their own, then it was a free-for-all. She stood and shook and bore every indignity and abuse placed on her as they each explored every inch of her. She was pliant as they had their way with her. Didn't complain when they climbed on her back to get handsy with her human half. They'd take her bit out to make her beg for bites of food, sips of water.
The evening of the first day, things went from bad to worse. One woman found the piercings along her inner flank and squealed with joy. She hauled one of her legs up and out to get a good look— then someone else offered to tie her leg up so everyone could see.
Two men grabbed her ankle and she tried, she tried not to react but they yanked her leg up and back and her hip popped and the chain tied to her ankle ripped one of the rings from her flank and she couldn't bite back the pained cry that escaped her.
Her own cries were drowned out by the howls of the woman who had started it all. "Fucking bitch got blood on my face!"
"'m sorry, 'm so sorry," Rebecca whimpered as if it were her fault. The woman punched her hard in the flank, then someone handed her a crop and she struck her flank, her inner thigh, over and over and over.
Rebecca broke down into sobs, teeth clacking against the metal in her mouth. There was nothing she could do to shield any part of herself. The woman came around to her front, grabbed a step stool and took out her bit.
"Hold still," she hissed, then punched her in the face, over and over until her lip split and her nose was bleeding.
She held still.
"Now you've got blood on your face," she spat.
"Yes ma'am," she whimpered. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Did the bitch just thank you? Leave the bit out— I wanna hear that."
Someone grabbed an awl and shoved it through her flank to replace the ring. Someone decided they didn't want their own earrings anymore, so they added two more holes. Someone else decided it needed to be symmetrical and suggested they add piercings under her front legs as well, which was met with cheers of approval.
The man had been right. She did appreciate the bars holding her up. No one noticed when she passed out.
She jolted awake to the smack of the crop to her cheek.
"There's the pretty pony," a man purred, running the end of the crop along her jaw. She just blinked at him through blurry eyes, exhausted and thoroughly dehydrated.
"Don't worry, we'll clean you up real nice before we take you back. What do you say?"
"Th-thank you, sir."
"Good girl." He used the crop to pat her on the cheek before stepping out of her field of view once more to give her backside more attention, and she gritted her teeth and bore that, too.
They did clean her up, the next day. She knew warm water was too much to hope for, but being sprayed with a cold hose while still bound made her heart ache. She was… nothing, to them. To anyone.
She was just… nothing.
She squealed when they cranked up the hose and shoved it between her legs. And they were certainly thorough about cleaning that part of her, it seemed everyone needed to double check to ensure the job was done properly. They were equally as thorough under her tail.
They still weren't as bad as retraining. Or maybe it was just that she knew when it would end.
She slept on the floor of the wagon on the ride home, still soaked, too exhausted to care.
Master was livid. He assumed she had torn out her ring by kicking someone, and her clients agreed to that story.
"Seems they punished you pretty thoroughly," he grumbled as he looked her over. "Not gonna be able to rent you out til your face heals up."
She felt a flicker of relief at his words.
"But just in case. Knees."
Her hope died as her knees hit the ground. His fist collided with her jaw so hard she saw stars.
She remained kneeling as her blood and tears mixed and dripped down her face.
"Stand."
She pushed herself to her feet.
He cut her hands free. "Go pick a switch."
Her blood ran cold. "Master please, I—"
He punched her in the stomach. "Now."
So she did. Because she was nothing. Returned, still bleeding, to hand him the willow branch.
"Twenty lashes on each hind leg. If you so much as lift a hoof I will grab the whip."
"Yes sir. Thank you, Master."
She tried to stand silently, but cried out on the eighth strike, when the switch struck the wound on her flank, and he paused.
"Why the fuck are you crying? You kicked a client! That's another twenty lashes now, both sides."
She knew better than to beg, but, "Master I didn't, I swear I didn't, I never have."
"Then what happened?"
"They, they wanted a closer look at my piercings, so two of the men yanked my leg out of the way and didn't notice the hobble. Then they… decided I deserved more piercings."
She nodded and braced for the lashes she knew she hadn't earned. At least he let her lean against a fence. "Thank you, master." She imagined that he didn't hit her quite as hard as he would have. Merciful.
"Hm."
He paused long enough to take a closer look and agreed that the angle was... Improbable.
"I still have to finish your punishment. Can't have you thinking I'm going soft."
It was the first time he believed her.
He even got her antibiotics and left her hands unbound for a few days so she could deal with her bandages.
"Maybe weekend outings aren't such a good idea." It was the closest he came to an apology. Not that it changed anything. He continued to rent her out to be abused. Continued to profit up until the day she was stolen.
Maybe the folks here didn't know what she was good for. She assumed Spruce did, but maybe not. Or maybe they just hadn't told everyone. Why else would everyone treat her so kindly?
Why wouldn't they tell them? Were they waiting for her to offer herself up?
Maybe it was selfish but… did she have to tell them? What if they looked at her differently?
Would they still care about you, if they knew? What would Aspen say? She wouldn't want to touch someone like you.
Atlas. The orc had tried to buy her first. Maybe… maybe she was supposed to offer herself to him. It was strange that they'd been so patient with her but. That had to be it. The longer she thought about it, the more it seemed like the only answer.
She'd do whatever she needed to do to be allowed to stay.
"Oh Whuuumpee!" Caretaker walked into Whumpee's room with grocery bags hanging off her arms. "Are you ready to decorate the Christmas tree??"
"Yes!" Whumpee slammed his book closed and shot up from his seat. After hearing stories about Christmas trees and seeing pictures, Whumpee was ready.
"So," Caretaker smacked her hands together and turned to Whumpee once they were in the living room. "I've already put it up, cause that's the boring part, but so is lights, so you can tell me which colors to put on and I'll do it. I've prepared some hot chocolate, and we'll drink some while we decorate the tree."
"Oh, ma'am, you don't have to do that. I can put lights up." Whumpee pushed his sweater sleeves up to prepare.
"No no...it's fine. I want you to have fun today, and the lights, garland, star, and skirt on the tree isn't really fun. Well, maybe the star, but everything else is boring." Caretaker put her bags down next to her red and green Christmas decor boxes. She popped open one lid, and held up colored and yellow lights. "Which one?"
"Um...yellow?"
Caretaker strung the lights to the top, and reached into the box to find some garland. "Beads or fluffy garland?"
Whumpee reached out a hand to feel the tassels, and then felt the wooden garland. "Is the fluffy garland okay?"
"Yes it will look wonderful!" She was done with the garland; looking deep into the box.
"Feel like I'm forgetting something...." Caretaker muttered. "Oh! The hot coco!"
Whumpee stared into his cup once brought to him. Did Whumper use hot coco to drug him? Whumpee remembers the drink being hot...Was it around Christmas too? Caretaker would never do that to Whumpee, but then again Whumper seemed pretty innocent at the time too.
"Whumpee?" Caretaker's broke through his running thoughts. "Are you alright?"
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Content warnings: painful flashbacks, character death (temporary)
It had been something so simple. Something that under ordinary circumstances wouldn’t have been a big deal. Leo had been sketching, something he did to keep his mind occupied when he was in a bad place. He had likely just fallen asleep but it was the position he was in. His head at a horrible angle, one that would definitely give a human a neck ache. But it dredged up an even worse image.
A basement cellar, cold and dark. The sharp scent of both his mates blood on the air. The fear of the unknown that he was walking into, the agony pulsing through the bond from two sources. They were both hurt and Oliver had no idea how badly. He’d pushed into that room and found the worst possible thing. Angel with his hands bound above him, his feet just barely grazing the floor, covered in so much blood. Leo held back by Viktor, a hand over his mouth and nose. And Merrick standing behind Angel. He remembered Merrick demanding he give up their bond. Demanding that Oliver return to him and resume his place on the throne. “I have everything worked out with your uncle, he is willing to convince the court to forget all of it. All you have to do is break this fool mating bond.” But he didn’t. He wouldn’t give up the happiness he’d found. He’d hoped, incorrectly that Merrick would concede. It had been a fool's thought. In one swift motion, Viktor snapped Leo’s neck.
He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, stuck in the memory. But his awareness came back to him slowly and he became conscious of a set of cool hands on either side of his face. The fingers were wiping away the tears, humming something soft and low. When had he fallen to his knees? His vision came back into focus and Leo was kneel in front of him, his face drawn in worry. A relieved smile crossed his lips when Oliver refocused on him.
Oliver was moving before he’d fully regained feeling in his arms. He threw his arms around Leo, drawing him close to his chest. Leo allowed it, curling in close, his arms wrapping around Oliver’s waist. Oliver’s hands soothed down Leo’s back, tucking Leo’s head under his chin letting his breathing ease with the scent of Leo around him. Jasmine and white tea, floral and delicately sweet. It was comforting. A scent that had been with him for so long.
“What happened?” Leo’s soft voice was gentle in the quiet.
“Just a bad memory,” Oliver whispered in reply.
“Of?”
Oliver squeezed Leo, breathing in deeper. “You dying,”
“Ah, that,” Leo tried to maintain a causal tone. He nuzzled Oliver’s throat, pressing a kiss to the hallow there. “I’m right here Ollie.”
Oliver nodded once and ran his hand along Leo’s back again, keeping his fingers light. He drew back just enough that he was able to crook a finger under Leo’s chin drawing him up into a gentle kiss. Leo sighed into it, melting against him and it helped to assure him Leo was there. He hated that he needed those assurances. It had been far too long since Leo’s death for it to still affect him that way.
I've got SO many WIPs, it's not even funny. But I chose one that I've been slowly whittling away at for awhile now. It's a M*A*S*H fic that centers around Hawkeye's return home and attempts at re-acclimation into "normal" society. It was supposed to be a one-shot about his dad serving chicken parmesian for dinner and Hawkeye having a PTSD episode because of it. And then it turned into what it is now, which is 25k words and no chapter breaks. Anyway, the two scenes are below the cut. The first scene is the first night Hawkeye is home, and the second scene is about a week later.
His dad makes a chicken dinner. It’s a celebration meal, a surprise, a welcome home. He always did show his love best by cooking for others.
Fragrant grilled chicken spiced with basil and garlic, accompanied by fresh carrots and egg noodles. It’s grand, it’s special, it looks delicious, and Hawkeye can’t bring himself to eat it. Every time he cuts into it, he hears the baby scream, hears its mother cry, hears himself snap at her to keep it quiet.
“Something the matter, son?” his dad says from across the table, and that space between them feels like the 12,000 miles distance it used to be.
Hawkeye clears his throat. “No, it’s just been a long time since I could identify my food.”
His dad’s smile is genuine, sparkling in his pale blue eyes. “Ah. Yes, you told me such horror stories about the food over there.”
“Sometimes I’d rather deal with the shelling than whatever gruel they had dressed up as dinner.”
His dad chuckles at that. But he doesn’t take his eyes off Hawkeye, an anticipatory look sparkling in them. Hawkeye realizes he’s waiting for a verdict on the food.
Hawkeye forces down the nausea. Ignores the baby’s screams. Reminds himself that it’s really a chicken this time. Not a baby he’s about to cut into, stab, and eat. It doesn’t help, but he manages to get a forkful of chicken into his mouth.
He barely swallows it, doesn’t taste anything except blood and bile, and he smiles again.
Hawkeye clears his throat. “It’s good, Dad. Really good. Thanks.”
His dad beams. “I’m glad it’s still your favorite after all this time.”
His dad talks the evening away, catching him up on the latest happenings in Crabapple Cove, regales him with news and gossip and rumors, intersperses a joke here and there. Hawkeye makes sure his laugh doesn’t sound too forced.
When they finish dinner, Hawkeye volunteers to wash the dishes while his dad turns in for the night, citing his early morning hours at the clinic tomorrow. Hawkeye understands. His office hours at the 4077th were Always o’clock.
The house is silent as he plunges his hands into the hot, soapy water. He zones out while he washes, and when he comes back to awareness, he finds his forearms wet and skin raw and his hands held in the air and not a single dish has been touched.
He’s waiting for gloves, he realizes, waiting for a patient to be carried in and placed in front of him and a scalpel slapped in his hand. It’s habit at this point. The only purpose for the sink Over There was to scrub up.
Hawkeye sighs to himself, shaking his head. He runs the sponge over the plates and the silverware instead of his skin this time.
The taste of chicken returns, coating his mouth with basil and blood.
The baby screams. The mother cries. Hawkeye is sick in the sink. The house is silent.
---
His dad makes another chicken dinner. Chicken parmesan, long strands of spaghetti, slathered in bright red tomato sauce.
It’s something out of his dreams, the mother clutching tight to the dead chicken, her tears streaking down her cheeks; his own hands soaked in blood, dripping from his fingertips, smeared up his wrists and forearms and elbows.
He just stares at the blood and gore on his plate, red and chunky, intestines curled and coiled beside the liver. There’s a scalpel in his hand. The buzz of the OR is all around him. He has the urge to tell a joke. The tension in the room is far too heavy. It’s crushing him. Suffocating. His lungs can’t pull in enough air to tell a joke or belt half-remembered lyrics or impersonate a radio host or recite a poem. But being unable to breathe during surgery isn’t new to him. It’s a regular Tuesday. He grips his scalpel tight. Prepares to fight through the tightness in his chest and ask the nurse for suction.
There’s a voice calling his name. He thinks it’s Potter. But the tone and timbre are off. The accent is New England, not Midwest. It gets closer until it’s no longer a surgical table away but in his ear. A hand lands on his shoulder. Hawkeye tenses. The most anyone touches him in the OR is to change his gloves. He wants to say something, but he can’t get enough air in. He’s choking. But he has a patient to save, and they’re wide open on his operating table. He doesn’t have time to die.
The hand gives him a shake. The voice gets louder. He frowns, about to reprimand whoever is treating him like a maraca, and in that moment, he tries to suck in a breath, can’t, and his eyes pull away from the surgery and land on faded-blue, concerned eyes. Hawkeye blinks and finds himself not in the OR but in his kitchen, not at a surgical table but at the dining table. The world slams into focus, but he still can’t breathe. Pain stabs in his chest with every quick inhale, and stars twinkle at the edge of his vision.
“Just breathe, son.”
He’s trying, really trying. The stars are clustering into static.
“Hey, hey. Look at me, Ben. Good, that’s good. Okay, watch me. Deep breath in and deep breath out.”
Hawkeye’s breath stutters as he tries to mimic the actions, tries to draw in a breath. He forces it about halfway before it sticks. He coughs, sputters. He tries again. Shallow breath in, slowed and shaking breath out. The tightness in his chest loosens, and while breathing comes a little easier, he finds he’s trembling. A dull pain shoots from his hand, and he realizes he’s holding the handle of the knife in a white-knuckled grip. He has to will his stiff fingers to release the knife, and it finally falls to the table with a clatter, the shape of the handle indented in his palm in deep, red lines.
“You with me, son?” And Hawkeye finally attributes the voice not to Colonel Potter but to his dad.
“Read you loud and clear, Sparky.” Hawkeye says, trying to keep the shakiness from his voice. He knows he fails.
His dad frowns. “You all right?”
“Loaded question there, Dad.”
“Ben.”
“I’m fine.”
His dad raises his brow. “You’re shaking, son.”
“It’s cold in here.”
“It’s August.”
“A guy can’t be cold in August? Was there a law passed while I was away?” Despite it being tied closed, Hawkeye pulls his robe even tighter around him and crosses his arms over it, hiding his trembling hands in his armpits.
His dad stares at him, and this close, Hawkeye notices the flicker of frustration pass over his worn features. He can practically see a new wrinkle be etched into his dad’s face in real time. Guilt gnaws at him.
Hawkeye sighs. “I’m not really hungry.” He takes his plate to the trash bin and scrapes the patient—the chicken, really chicken this time, into the garbage and leaves his plate in the sink. “I’ll do dishes tonight.”
“You’ve done them every night since you got back.” his dad says.
“I’m practicing to be a housewife for when I meet The One.” He heads for the back door.
