18+ only, must have age listed to follow!

Adrian shivered, had to suck in a breath, before he tilted his head and switched to their mother tongue. "Quizás." Maybe.

Bea's head leaned against his shoulder.

"You know Noor," he began. "I once knew a young man, who looked almost like him. He meant a lot to me. His name was Eric. And I lost him."

He told her everything, starting at the very moment their back door had opened and his sister's frisbee teammate casually strolled to their fridge, helped himself to a Coke and just as casually winked at Adrian.

He told her about the realization that this boy's smile, this boy's face, all of him, was beautiful in a way Adrian had never perceived before. It wasn't love at first sight. But it certainly was a first sight that led to love.

Eric was Adrian's first real partner, and the one he gave his virginity to. Marta was their biggest cheerleader, and Adrian's parents easily took him in as another family member.

Eric's family didn't. They didn't know about Adrian; but what they did know about Eric was enough for them to despise their own son. Adrian, Marta, Eric's other friends couldn't be enough to replace the love of his family.

And Eric slipped. He drank too much at parties, said things with a hurtful, cruel edge to them, pushed Adrian into sex that was too rough for both of them.

Adrian took it for a long time. Didn't give up hope, doubled his efforts to pull Eric back from the edge.

Eric dropped out of school, tried stronger drugs, searched for sex with men who cared less about boundaries than Adrian did.

It was Eric who eventually broke up with Adrian, crying and determined at the same time.

Within days, before Adrian could even process what happened, Eric had left.

It took a lot to pick up their everyday life again after this, for both Adrian and Marta. They graduated that summer, Adrian found a new girlfriend, won a scholarship to study medicine at a college near home.

When Eric called one day, he didn't answer.

Then, some time later, his parents called him, horrified, after 25,000 Dollars showed up on their bank account.

Sent by WRU.

There was no doubt about where it came from. Whom it was compensation for.

Adrian hadn't been active in pet lib, but Marta was. Thus, he knew enough to be aware of how the system destroyed people. And he knew he had to get Eric out.

While Eric had signed up with WRU as a trainee pet, Adrian signed up with WRU to be a trainee handler.

"Did you find him?", Bea whispered in English.

Adrian resorted to English, too. "I did. Through research, determination, but honestly, mostly sheer luck. Facility 012. Got transferred there." Adrian's jaw clenched. "I was too late. WRU has always been efficient."

Silently, Bea's small hand wrapped around his. Adrian held her. He knew that she knew. She understood so much more, so much deeper than words could convey.

Yet she gave him the space to say it.

The language of truth. He switched back.

"He... he'd been made a Romantic." He didn't even try to find a translation for that term. "I just found him, because they hadn't shipped him yet. Withdrawal let him be at the facility for a long time and he... Eric was very handsome, and very desperate, in a way that even the worst of my colleagues can't ingrain as deeply as an abusive family can. In a way that predators love. And so the... the handlers had taken a liking to him. They... - I..., I still don't know what I did. Looked at him too long, too horrified, too nervous? He noticed. My colleagues they... they also noticed." Adrian ran a hand across his face. It came back wet with tears. "Eric still had that sleazy, mischievous wink, that was... should've been his. His alone. The company made it theirs. They made everything theirs."

"He did not recognize you."

"He didn't. But I... he's always had a type. He flirted with me. He, he wanted it. I can't even tell how much of it was WRU, or how much of it was a part of Eric that had always been there. But I know that I - I did not want it."

"You did it anyway."

Adrian stared at the ceiling, swallowed back the bile. "I did. I raped him."

"He understood."

Adrian rapidly blinked to clear his eyes. 'They didn't leave you a choice,' Marta had said. 'It was the only thing you could do to protect your cover', Ray said.

But Bea didn't talk about Adrian. She talked about Eric.

"Romantics understand." Bea's voice was soft. "Romantics might not understand numbers, or business, or logic, but our existence is based on reading feelings. Lust, anger, attraction - yet most of all, Adrian, we understand fear. Maybe Eric did not know you, but he understood the situation you were in. It was not only you, who played along to save you."

Adrian shook his head. "He-"

"Do you not think he realized your discomfort? He was made to serve you, but he was also made to never lie to his handlers. He should have told them that you hesitated. And he did not." Bea waited, searched for Adrian's gaze. "He understood, Adrian."

The tears ran freely now. "Fuck," Adrian whispered. "Fuck, Bea, I'm sorry, you shouldn't see me like that, I shouldn't have-"

"Have you not listened?" She rested her forehead against his. "I understand, too. I see you, Adrian. It is not your tears that make me feel your grief."

"It... that was the last time that I saw him. He got lost in the system. Like so many others."

"Yo no," Bea whispered. I didn't.

Adrian wrapped an arm around her and buried his face in her hair. "No. You didn't," he mumbled.

I couldn't take it.

He didn't say it out loud.

She would understand anyway.

-----

--

Tag list (ask to be added or removed!):

@gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses

@pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy

@whumpzone @tragedyinblue @theelvishcowgirl @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

Continued content warning: whumper touching + harming female whumpee's breasts, intended in context non-sexually, whumper is just choosing sensitive/painful but nonlethal areas, but I understand how this could cross a line into nsfwhump for some.

----

Though he should take advantage of an early bedtime, Owynn is too restless to sleep that night. Too many questions weigh on him, and try as he may, he cannot shake the image from his mind of the injured fairy princess, sobbing at the sight of her severed wings, shaking from pain and fear, begging not to be returned to the dark confines of an iron box...

Once in his nightclothes he pulls out the small book Sir Gavyn gave him, desperate to know more, to understand what is happening and why. Protection From and Control of Faefolk, Vol. II, the cover reads, and the writer's initials are etched into the bottom corner. Owynn opens it and begins to read.

The pages are packed with neatly written text and detailed illustrations, describing the anatomy, habitat, behaviors, abilities and weaknesses of fairies - with particular emphasis on weaknesses. There are several pages on the use of iron, and to a lesser extent, steel, to harm and subdue fairies - how it weakens them to be near it and burns them to touch, and how it suppresses their magic. According to the book, fairies can be deceptively powerful, and ones of royal birth most of all. Owynn supposes that explains all the precautions, the iron box, the room of wall-to-wall iron chains and tools. If it prevents the fairy from hurting anyone, then perhaps it is worth all the trouble.

He learns that a fairy's true name is a secret, and anyone who learns it can gain control over the creature. The sound of bells can repel them or drive them mad. Other substances such as salt, gold, and lemon can also cause them harm, and so can plants like alder, rowan, mountain ash and yew. They love sweets and detest bitter things.

If their wings get too wet they cannot fly, cold will make them freeze and crack, heat will make them wilt. Damaged wings will not mend but removed wings will eventually grow back. Owynn pauses upon reading this; he recalls Sir Gavyn saying that the wings would grow back...after they have what they wanted from her. He still does not know what that is.

Fairies, it seems, are not as easy to kill as their size would suggest. They can endure long bouts of thirst and hunger, heat and cold, severe pain, they can even be burned, crushed or suffocated and recover. But they are not immortal. Iron is the quickest and most effective means of killing one, but some have died by burning, drowning, prolonged illness. It is even said, the book reads, though few have witnessed it, that a fairy can die of sorrow.

The final few pages consist of designs for fairy traps and recipes for poisons. Owynn skims past those, hoping he will have no use for them. As it is, he hopes he never has to use any of what he has learned except in self defense. He meant it when he said he did not wish to hurt the princess. Whatever she has done, surely there is a just solution. He must believe this.

Owynn closes the book and sits back in his chair, staring at the flickering flame of the candle over his desk. The uneasy feeling that formed in his stomach earlier that day has not abated. If anything, it has only solidified with this new knowledge. While plenty of methods described in the book are simply for repelling or protecting oneself against fairies, a great deal more are for the purpose of hurting, controlling and killing them. It is only meant to inform, he tells himself, but that doesn't feel entirely true, and he can't yet explain why.

By now his eyelids are heavy, and so he gives in and finally goes to bed, uncertain what the morning will bring.

-

-

-

-

"It's very simple," the broad, heavily armored man says. "You tell us how to enter the Faelands, and we will move you to a comfortable room with a view of the garden. You will be fed and clothed befitting your station, your wounds tended, our servants at your call. Or..."

He motions to a tall, thin, pointy-faced man standing behind him, who steps closer, leering at the fairy princess in a way that puts all of Myrie's senses on alert. He is holding leather that has been rolled up into a tube. At the knight's behest, he unrolls it, revealing a wide assortment of small tools. Nearly all of them are iron.

"We had these made just for you, princess," the thin man declares with pride.

The princess tries to maintain her composure, but her eyes betray her as they flicker fearfully over all the ways they have devised to make her suffer - for she knows that is where this is heading before he even says it. Myrie quivers with dread, yet another betrayal of her body. She does not want to give these men the satisfaction of her fear.

But she has only just started feeling better after her capture. A few days of rest, albeit in this iron-clad hell they have devised, and food, however repulsive, have helped her regain her strength. The young man who enters a few times a day to give her food, water, and a short but blissful reprieve from the iron box, says he does not wish to harm her, and so far he has not. Still, her body is sore, the constant, overwhelming presence of iron keeps her weak and powerless, and without her wings she is unsteady on her feet. She stands no chance of fleeing or resisting whatever it is they plan to do.

"Or," the knight continues, "we will hurt you until you do. You see? Simple. Now." He leans close enough that his warm, foul breath brushes across her skin. "I want to give you a chance to simply tell us now. This can all be over before it even begins. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Myrie nods. "I would," she answers calmly.

A big smile spreads across the man's face, while the thin man behind him looks mildly disappointed. "Good girl. See, that wasn't so hard -"

"I wasn't finished," Myrie interrupts. She stands tall despite being a fraction of the man's size. "I would like that. But I will not allow you to enter my home with your fire and metal, to steal our magic and lay waste to all we hold dear. Nothing you do will change my mind."

"Hm." The smile has disappeared, leaving only hardened determination. "We will see about that. Princess."

Before she can brace herself, he grabs her and lifts her from the table, pulling off the pitiful scrap of a dress that has been her only cover. Myrie struggles purely out of instinct, knowing deep down there is no escape, but she must try. She bites down on his hand as hard as she can; the man only scowls. He digs his thumbnail into one of the barely healed wounds where her wings once were, forcing her to open her mouth as she yelps.

The knight takes a plank of wood and sets it on the table, then places her on it flat on her back. His massive hand keeps her firmly in place, while the thin man slips something out of one of the pockets in his leather kit. Myrie's breath quickens. Her eyes go wide, watching in horror as the the man holds out a needle, so thin she can barely see it but for the reflection of candle light on the shiny new metal. It tapers to a perfect point. To demonstrate its sharpness, the thin man pushes it effortlessly through the leather in his hands, then draws it back out.

"Are you sure you don't have anything to share with us?"

Myrie feels all hope flee her heart. She is sure of only two things: that she will never give them what they want. And that she will suffer for it in ways she cannot yet fathom.

Gathering what little courage she has left, she looks the larger man in the eye and presses her mouth into a line. She shakes her head. No.

He sighs. "Very well."

That man holds her down, while the thin man takes one of her arms and guides it out to the side, surprisingly careful with the small limb, but only, she will learn, because he is in total control of how and where he administers pain. He holds her arm in place with a single gnarled finger. He places the point of the needle at the center of her palm. Before it even touches her, Myrie can feel the prickle on her skin simply from being near iron.

And then she can't feel anything - anything -

- anything but pure, sharp, blinding, sickening, unspeakable pain -

"A-a-ah - " Her eyes and mouth are open wide but the pain has stolen her breath so that only a meek sound escapes at first.

The thin man drives the needle in, piercing through her hand and into the wood, pinning her there.

In a single, choked inhale, Myrie's voice returns.

"Ggh-hah-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!"

She screams and thrashes, frantic, desperate to escape the pain. Her fingers curl and twitch, fighting against the intrusion, while the fresh new wound sizzles at the touch of iron. Her screams become quick, ragged breaths as she begins to hyperventilate.

"Shhh..." the thin man is touching her face, making little circles with his thumb on her tear-soaked cheek. "Oh, my dear, this is nothing. But then, you must have had quite the soft life. This may be harder on you than I thought. But I know you will endure."

His words rush past her like air, intangible and meaningless. He allows her to catch her breath, but no sooner has she calmed enough to think clearly than her other arm is extended out to her side. The point of a second needle hovers just above the palm of her uninjured hand.

"No," she whispers, dizzy at the very thought of this agony increasing twofold. "Ple - please, no, no, no..."

To her great surprise, the needle lifts away. Myrie lets out a long breath, eyelids fluttering weakly. Thank the heavens, she thinks, believing she has been spared, at least for now -

With her eyes closed she does not see the smirk on the thin man's face, nor his hand swing down swiftly.

Bright new pain explodes through her hand as the iron needle pierces clean through. Fairy flesh and blood crackles and burns, but the sound is drowned out by the raw, feral scream dragged from Myrie's throat. She throws her head back, face twisted, body arching violently up away from the wood and then collapsing back down, twitching and spasming. Sparks dance in her vision, and then it blackens, her eyes rolling back while her mind begins the merciful descent into unconsciousness...

...then is pulled from the edge, back into cruel reality. She takes harsh, gulping breaths, shaking with the fierce throbs of pain that shoot up both her arms. Tears pour from her eyes down the sides of her face, dampening her hair. Myrie begins to sob outright.

This time, her torturer does not even feign sympathy or offer hollow comforts. The princess has barely brought her breathing under control and he is already pulling out a third needle. Myrie blinks through her tears and glances over, regretting it immediately when she sees that the pocket contains many more. Her lips tremble and tears flood her vision again.

I want to go home.

Before the third needle can find a home, the knight steps forward. She forgot he was there, forgot where she is and why, forgot everything but the pain. He stands over her expectantly.

"Have you changed your mind?"

It should seem the easier choice, to give in. To say yes, to say anything that will spare her from this. She thinks back to the man's offer of comfortable rooms, real food, her wounds tended, and it all seems so heavenly that it makes her heart ache. And yet it is not easier to invite ruin upon her people. Even if she could return home, how could she ever face them, knowing she chose her one body, her single life, over all of theirs?

No. It is not even an option. But that doesn't make her stomach churn any less when she shakes her head. It doesn't calm her racing heart or ease the relentless pain. Myrie thought that being brave would feel better than this somehow. It turns out it only hurts.

"So be it."

The knight steps aside and the thin man leans over her, casting the small fairy in shadow. He skims his dry fingertips over her sweat-damp skin until he chooses the next spot. Myrie gasps as his fingers glide up her ribs to the sides of her chest, squeezing up just slightly, pushing the flesh together. Her blood runs cold at the quick, calculated and cruel decision, one predicated only on causing the greatest amount of pain without killing their prisoner. The men have many needles, and the fairy many soft and tender places to pierce. She resigns herself to the knowledge that this will not end with the third needle, nor the fourth or the fifth or the sixth...

Despite her resignation, the moment the point of the needle lines up with the side of her right breast, Myrie begins to beg, until her words become whimpers and then cries and then wails as the needle pierces an agonizing path through her skin. Just as before, every place the iron touches burns with a terrible hissing sound. Her blood feels like it's boiling, her chest like it is engulfed in flames. She begins to cough, sickened by the closeness of iron to her heart.

By the time the needle emerges from the other side, Myrie is half conscious, head lolling back against the wood while weak moans escape her lips unbidden. Every breath she takes is labored. Stillness hurts no less than moving. Her fingers have gone numb.

Theo was walked through a series of corridors, each bleaker than the last. There were no windows, no tapestries. Not even any doors. At last they came to a set of stairs that led downwards. The stairs seemed to go on forever before they finally reached a short corridor with doors branching off on either side. The guards led Theo through the last door on the left. The room inside was surprisingly nice. There was a bed, with a canopy no less. A small sitting area with a sofa and chair. A round table. A wardrobe. It was much finer than his room back at the tavern, at any rate.

As Theo was taking in his surroundings, the guards left him and slammed the door behind them. The hair on Theo’s neck rose as the key turned in the lock. It was a gilded cage, but it was a cage nonetheless. Theo stumbled towards the bed, spilling into it as his limbs gave out. He was so, so tired. His entire body ached. He didn’t even bother getting under the covers before falling asleep.

His dreams were muddled things. Not so much scenes, but impressions. Roasting flesh. Fire licking beneath his skin, his bones cracking in the heat. And all-encompassing terror.

Theo gasped awake. Cool sweat gathered in the small of his back and goosebumps peppered his body. He sat up and wiped a hand down his face. It came away wet with tears and sweat.

Theo didn’t know much about mages. No ordinary person did. The thought made a sob bubble into his throat. He wasn’t ordinary anymore. He never would be ordinary again.

He tried to gather himself. Mages were the only ones who could bring magic into the world. They were powerful, and frightening. People whispered that they were unnatural, cursed, an abomination. But at the same time, they were respected. Mages won wars, made kingdoms rise and fall. Few people had ever met them, but when they talked about them it was with a combination of fear and awe. Mages needed vessels, and reapers were necessary to find mages, vessels, and other reapers.

That’s where his knowledge of magic ended. He hadn’t known exactly what mages could do. He didn’t know that mages could only manifest magic in one way. A pyromancer. That’s what the reaper had called him.

Theo looked down at his hands, soft, devoid of calluses, unburned. He hadn’t meant to kill the vessel. His stomach twisted at the memory of the blood against his hand. In all the rumors about magic, it was never said exactly how mages extracted the magic from vessels. In hindsight, the knife made sense.

Theo jumped when the door swung open. A woman walked inside, holding a tray. She set the tray on the table and left without a word. The door locked behind her again. Theo’s stomach twisted and he got to his feet. He was starving. The tray held a bowl of thick stew, a slice of bread with yellow butter, and a glass of water. Theo sank into the chair and grabbed the water, gulping it down. Then he dug into the stew. He hadn’t eaten in days. The stew was rich on his tongue and he nearly cried in relief as the hot food filled his belly. He had gotten to the bottom of the bowl when he noticed a fine crust of white powder stuck to the side. He frowned and dragged a finger across it. It almost looked like fine sugar, the stupid expensive kind that was only used for special occasions. He licked his finger and immediately wrinkled his nose. It was bitter.

Theo stared at the bowl for several long seconds, dread coiling up his spine. They’d drugged him. He didn’t know with what, and he didn’t know when the effects would hit, but that was the only explanation for the powder. He bolted out of his chair. He ran to the door, grabbing the doorknob and trying to turn it. It was locked of course. He cursed and kicked the door. Nothing. He spun around and frantically took in the rest of the room. There weren’t any other exits. He was trapped.

Tears burned at this eyes. He wiped at them angrily with the back of his hand, then swayed on his feet. The room seemed to be spinning. Vertigo hit him and he had to sink to the floor. What was happening to him?

Theo put his head in his hands as queasiness rolled over him.

Then the door opened and Simeon walked in.

“Wh-what did you do to me?” Theo asked. He hated how pathetic his voice came out.

Simeon grinned and crouched down in front of Theo. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy, queasy,” Theo replied.

“That’s the smoke plum,” Simeon said. “Don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon. I’ll help you into bed.”

Theo didn’t have the strength to argue as Simeon gently pulled him to his feet. Theo’s legs shook and he clung to Simeon as the other man led him to the bed.

“There’s a good boy,” Simeon said as he pulled back the covers and helped Theo to lie down. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Lying down helped with the nausea and dizziness. "Thanks,” Theo said weakly.

“Of course. You’re my mage, after all. I’ll make sure to take good care of you.”

Theo wrinkled his brow. “You will?”

“Yes. Always,” Simeon said, brushing a lock of hair off of Theo’s forehead. He climbed into bed next to Theo, moving Theo so his head rested on Simeon’s shoulder. A faint prickle of unease scraped against Theo’s mind. This was wrong. But Simeon was being so kind.

Theo’s limbs felt heavy. He was getting sleepy, especially with the heat from Simeon’s body next to him and the comforting presence of his hand stroking his hair.

“I like you better like this,” Simeon said, amusement in his voice.

“Like what?” Theo asked.

“High on smoke plum. You feel good, right? Calm and relaxed?”

Theo considered this. He did feel good. Better than he had in days. He couldn’t even remember what the anxiety had felt like. It was a distant memory, like a reflection distorted in a puddle. The vertigo and nasuea had faded now too.

“I’m not scared,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable.” And it was true. He had never felt more at peace. He snuggled against Simeon’s shoulder.

“That’s great Theo. I want you to be calm.”

Theo was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Simeon stroked his hair with one hand. The other hand rested on Theo’s upper thigh.

“Can I kiss you, Theo?” Simeon asked. Theo blinked slowly. He looked up at Simeon, who had a grin on his face. Simeon was being so nice to him. A kiss was fine.

“Yes,” Theo said. Then Simeon was pressing his lips against Theo’s, gently, so gently. Theo relaxed and let him explore his mouth with his tongue. He was too tired to kiss Simeon back. Simeon didn’t seem to mind.

Simeon pulled at the hem of Theo’s shirt, exposing his torso. One hand caressed Theo’s side, while the other moved between his legs.

A whisper of fear made it through the haze of the drug. “No,” Theo said, the word slightly slurred.“P-please, no.”

“It’ll feel good,” Simeon said, his voice husky with lust. “Let me take care of you.”

Theo tried to bat Simeon’s hand away, but he could barely move. His limbs felt like they had been loaded down with lead.

Simeon’s hand moved into Theo’s trousers. Theo whimpered at the sensation of the fingers wrapping around his cock. It did feel good. But he didn’t want this. Or at least, he didn’t think he did? He was having trouble thinking.

“S-stop,” Theo gasped out as Simeon started stroking. Simeon paused. Despite himself, Theo whimpered at the loss of sensation.

“You’re hard,” Simeon whispered in his ear. “You want this.”

“No–”

“You can’t tell me no. That’s not polite.” Theo wrinkled his brow. He didn’t want to be rude. “Just relax,” Simeon said, resuming his stroking. “Stop fighting the smoke plum. You want this, deep down. so let me do this for you.”

Theo didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. His eyes were drooping and he couldn’t grasp hold of any of his thoughts. Another wave of calm rolled over him, more powerful than the first.

“There you go,” Simeon said. “That’s a good boy.”

The praise was distant in Theo’s ears. Thought had left him entirely. All he felt was the calm, and the pleasure. He laid there and didn’t argue again as Simeon took what he wanted.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Through the haze of the drug, Theo was only aware of bits and pieces of it. Simeon undressing him. Oil. Hot sweaty skin, cries of pleasure.

He fell asleep in Simeon’s arms. When he awoke, a headache pounded behind his eyes and he felt like he was going to puke. He barely had time to roll over before vomiting all over the bed.

Simeon stirred behind him. “Oh dear, you’ve made a mess.”

“I feel awful,” Theo said with a whimper. Simeon stroked a hand across Theo’s back. Theo tensed and pulled away from him. The memories of last night were blurry, but there was no denying the aches and bruises and crustiness covering his skin. “You-you raped me,” he said, his limbs trembling.

Simeon snorted. “I only gave you what you wanted.” He climbed out of bed and threw on a robe before walking to the door. “I’ll be back shortly.”