Captured-16- Delirium
Tw: religious abuse, non-con touch, hallucination, semi-sexual implications
Harrow was lying on his back, which hurt, but he couldn’t remember how long he’d been there. That was strange. He was staring at the ceiling, which meant the blindfold was off. It swirled though. It wasn’t meant to be doing that, he was sure. His mind was full of mist, or fog. Steam, more like. He felt warm. He felt hot. Far too hot. But the air outside of his blankets felt too cold.
“You’ve been asleep for a while, Harrow. No, I am not telling you how long.” A light face with hard eyes and a dark red beard matching his red hair leaned over him, blurred and refocusing.
It made Harrow tense, but he wasn’t sure why, then he knew the man. Conroy. He tried to move, to get away. His arms wouldn’t. They were spread wide to either side of him. They wouldn’t move. Little flashes of pain happened every time he tried, on his… on his wrists. But he very much wanted to get away from this man. He knew that well enough.
“Ahh, that look- you remember me, don’t you, Harrow. Earlier you didn’t even recognize me. That was hurtful.”
A callused hand caressed his flushed cheek, slid behind his head, cradling his neck. He knew he was terrified by that gesture, that touch, knew it wasn’t meant to comfort him. He stared up at that face and knew he was caught like a mouse under the gaze of a snake. He couldn’t make his mind or his body obey him, his throat was dry, his mind was like pieces of shattered glass melting, he couldn’t hold thoughts…
“Poor little warlock. You can’t even speak, can you? I wish I could take credit for this fever, it’s doing my work beautifully. I think I ought to drug you later and see if I can’t get the same responses. Your arms are chained to the floor by the way, you can stop trying to move them. You keep scraping your wrists raw and they’re annoying to clean and bandage again.”
Harrow stared, only half understanding. Stop… moving arms? Lying down. He was lying down, and that man’s hand was on his neck. He wanted it gone. His neck hurt, his shoulders ached and wouldn’t relax, and his side bled a sharpness over his skin whenever he breathed. His tongue felt sandy and swollen, his lips cracked. He needed water, anything cool. Pain, so much pain though all of his body. Everthing was too hot, and everything ached.
The hand on his neck moved, and he winced, expecting more pain. Powerful fingers dug into the base of his skull, pressing deep into the muscles, and Harrow moaned helplessly as waves of pleasure released the tension in his shoulders, his back, his arms. That wasn’t pain. That was worse. Because he wanted it.
“Did you enjoy that, Harrow? I don’t always have to hurt you. You’re suffering enough, but I can help you. I won’t ask you for confession, you’re not lucid enough for speaking long sentences, but let’s try for something smaller, hm?”
“Yes, I know you won’t, you’ve said, but what about this, here?” Conroy’s hand moved against his neck, the back of his head, where it held him trapped. “Do you want this? There’s so much of this tension wrapped up right here, I can feel it. Should I relieve this pain?” He turned Harrow’s face to his.
Harrow was helpless to stop it. His blood was boiling inside him, heat flushing out every sense but his muscles pulling tight enough to tear, sweat stung in his eyes but they were too dry to weep tears. There was nothing he wanted, craved more right at this moment than to feel that relief again. His dry mouth moved. “Y- ye-…”
“If I do this, you’re going to thank me after, do you understand? That’s my condition. You call me Sir, and you show proper gratitude. Will you do that, Harrow?”
“ …Yes,” he rasped, barely a whisper, heavy with shame.
Then the touch at his neck shifted, massaged those same places again hard enough to hurt, but it didn’t hurt, it was- “Ohh-!” His eyes closed on his swimming vision, relief pouring through his nerves in a rush of pleasure. His breathing shifted, deepened even under the slowly circling touch of cool fingers beneath his ribs.
“There, breathe for me.” That voice filled his ears, his overheated mind. “Breathe deep like that. This body does not belong to you… and I can make it answer me. You understand now, Harrow. You can’t control this. I do.” He dug his fingers into the hot muscle to make his point and Harrow groaned again brokenly.
“Oh, that sound! Half pleasure, half utter despair. I could never get tired of that. Open your eyes and look at me, Harrow, let me see you.”
He couldn’t resist. He stared up at his tormentor. His face was flushed with fever and humiliation, marked with healing dark bruises, and blood on his lip, deep hollows around his dark long-lashed eyes. Every time those fingers against his neck circled again, his eyes rolled and his heavy eyelids started to flutter closed.
“Look at you. Such a proud warlock, weren’t you. Purifying breaks the strongest will. Now in a day or two, you’ll be well again. You’ll swear, and spit, and fight me every step again, but we’ll both know. We both know that I can make you moan.” He intensifed the pressure at his fingertips.
“Ohh…” Harrow closed his eyes as the pathetic sounds broke from him.
That voice said, “Look at me, Harrow,” and they opened again without his thoughts moving them.
What was happening to him? His will seemed dissolved in heat, every bone of his body aching, and then those hands on his neck- and he was pathetic. Mewling, helpless thing, chained to the ground. But what filled his mind, his every wish and need, was that those hated hands should not stop. Every wave of incredible pleasure pushed back the fever heat and the pain, let him breathe, gave him another precious second’s reprieve and he despised himself for it.
“Yes, Harrow. I did warn you. This body will betray you for just a moment’s relief. You have no more choices. You’re burning with fever, but I can give you this. And what do you have to say to me?”
“Nn…” He tried to gather some resistance, tried to protest, but it drowned as Conroy’s hands joined behind his head and kneaded against his neck, his knotted shoulders. “Ohh… Th- than’ you… S- s- sir…”
“Good. Now I imagine you’re thirsty. Your lips are dry and bloody, and you’ve been fevered for some time. Wouldn’t you like a nice cool drink of water?”
Harrow whimpered. He wanted it, wanted almost more than he wanted the touch at his neck relieving his pain. But he could guess what was coming and knew he would give in. He had no resistance, no strength like this. His body was no longer his own. “Yes…”
“Ask me. Beg me. I have water right here, Harrow if you just ask.”
Harrow tried to move his head, to shake a refusal but his parched lips said, “P- Ple- ase..”
Conroy smiled down at him, delighted. “After the rack, and hanging, and the anvil, you break for me… over a drink of water. Oh, I should savor this.”
Harrow’s lip curled in disgust with himself, with his weak body, with this fever that made him so pititful as to beg for anything, even to save his life- but when Conroy brought a droplet dewed copper cup into his sight nothing else mattered. It all dissolved. Water. He had to have water. Anything, for water to quell this raging fever, to end his thirst. He winced when one hand withdrew from his neck, stopped its pressures, but even when it was withdrawn, the other remained, working slowly now.
Conroy didn’t bring the cup to Harrow’s lips. He dipped his fingers in the water and then held them out before his prisoner’s face, still dripping. “Go on. If you want it, you’ll take it. Don’t you want it?”
From within the red mists of his fever Harrow glared up at Conroy. He would never- but- he would. He had to, had to have water and they both knew it, and he was furious and utterly, completely helpless. Against his will, his pride, his self respect, he opened his mouth and licked the falling droplets from Conroy’s fingers.
“There, that’s not so difficult, is it, Harrow? All you had to do was ask. I’ll even give you more. As much as you want.” He offered his hand again, meeting Harrow’s dull glare with a smile.
Two hot tears of shame seared their way down Harrow’s cheeks as he lapped up a few precious drops at a time. He was too burned out for more, too weak to fight it.
“See? When you give up your pride, and acknowledge that you have no more control, no need for strength, I can give you what you need. I don’t have to hurt you when you just give in, Harrow. There… Just like this.”
It went on for what felt like hours but he needed it, needed the water, so he gave in and Conroy drip-fed it into his mouth and talked to him, softly, persuading, commanding, wearing away at him. Slowly his withered throat eased, breathed freely, and his tongue could swallow again, no longer made of dust. The heat still hummed in his chest, across his skin, but he had relief brought to his lips and took it, and hated himself.
He must have dozed because the next thing he knew was a cool cloth being laid over his burning forehead, and blurry motion around him, as someone moved his blankets a section at a time and gently washed his naked body. Doing it that way seemed to prevent the chill air from making him too cold but he shivered anyway. There was no privacy, no dignity. He wanted to protest, to object, but the water felt so good against his skin, easing the heat. Every now and then a touch would press, massage a movement down the tension of an arm, a leg, and another surge of pleasure flooded him, undoing his resistance again.
How long would this fever last? How long had it lasted already? He couldn’t remember. What else had he said, or done, or allowed, or even begged for? It was all a blur of blackness and heat.
“That’s it. Give in. Aren’t you grateful, Harrow?” The voice floated in the air, in his head, He was sure it had spoken. “What can you say now? Show me how grateful you are, and then you may have more water. You’re so thirsty.”
“Yeh- yes-“ said his ragged voice without him, “Thhank you, Ssir…” and his mouth opened eagerly beneath those fingers.
Just ask to be added to the taglist!
