in good company

by WritingVaries (OneBadMammaJamma)

Summary:

Von Bergow takes a particular interest in his newfound captive. What's originally meant to be a bargaining chip becomes more, and he tests the limits of his pretty new asset.

Hans goes into this expecting to be treated like a noble, and receives the exact opposite.

"Hans is safer there than we are here." Is he, Jobst? Not in this reality.

Updates frequently.

Notes:

Heyyy everyone! Decided to do some whump. I like whump. I was inspired by some, um, juicy stories I read on here. So couple things to explain characterization;
Brabant tells Henry upon saving our dear Capon that the nobleman spent hours sulking/feeling sorry for himself. I have full faith that if Brabant wasn't there, Hans would have lost his damn mind there.

So that's why he's sort of... more afraid. He's alone, and has no allies. Don't worry, though. He doesn't take it lying down. He's a brat, but he's not weak, and he's /very/ determined.

Chapter 1: Buried Alive

The chamber is dim, cloaked in a heavy dusk that seemed to linger even long after the sun had risen. A single narrow window let in a sliver of light, and it was just enough to allow Hans to predict the time of day.

The air was stale, thick with the scent of old timber and alcohol, almost like a sealed wine cellar.

The walls were thin, sealed with fading colors, and the door was locked.

It was the last place a man like Hans Capon needed to find himself in after what he’d endured at Nebakov.

He’d spent the last few days in a haze, his body wracked with pain, blood, and half-consciousness. It was only recently that he felt returned somewhat to his previous self, Von Bergow summoned a physician to check him once he settled in, and now he was alright.

Except for the sudden jab in his ribs whenever he turned, and the deep bruises lining the side of his jaw as if he were some rotten piece of fruit on a market stall.

However, despite this, the worst wound lingered inside him, and it ate him alive.

Any shake or shudder of the walls, or the ceiling, sent a violent chill through his core. A fear that…

He won’t say it, not even in his mind.

Currently, he paced restlessly across the floor, to and from either side of the wall. As he continued to do this, he noticed just how abysmal the space was. The walls felt far too close to each other, and the narrowness of the room would start to press on him whenever he stood still.

A familiar feeling of choking panic threatens to take him at any moment. It was a rock that sat in his chest, his stomach, and it tightened with every breath, whispering the same truth over and over:

He’s now a prisoner of war. A nobleman stripped of his honor, his power, his sword, and everything else one can imagine.  

Surely Hanush will pay the ransom once it’s requested. That’s how this works, right? His uncle may be rude, refusing to hand over his birthright, and stingy but he’d never leave him to the mercy of a rival Lord.

Right?

And surely he won’t act irrational, which will prompt a retaliation from Von Bergow, one such terrible consequence that will be enforced on him.

Markvart paid him a visit earlier and told him as much.

‘Should the Lords of Leipa try anything, we’ll slit your throat and leave your corpse at their doorstep. You’d best pray to the maker that they stay within those walls.’

A sudden creak of the door intruded on his solitude, and he nearly flinched in his quick effort to straighten out, stand tall, and raise his chin.

Von Bergow stepped in without any sort of greeting, one of his hands resting on the hilt of his sword. His demeanor was polished, his expression refined, and it was hard to tell whether he was in a state of neutrality or anger.

“Truth be told, I’m a little surprised.” He spoke calmly, his eyes raking over Hans’ form. He assessed the noble before him like one might a literal piece of livestock. “You’ve recovered from your wounds with remarkable speed. Not your first time, is it?”

“No.” Hans gave a thin smile, every muscle in his body clenched with anticipation. “I’ve stood at death’s door once or twice before.”

“Mm. Tell me about those… experiences.” Von Bergow’s tone carried no warmth, no safety.

Hans hesitated. He wasn’t particularly fond of the way he was being looked at, or the way he was being spoken to.

It was like he was being measured.

“Do not be shy.” Von Bergow didn’t even attempt to disguise the clear command in his voice. “You’re a valuable asset, and I don’t intend for my men to spend all their time watching over you. I’d also like to be involved with your captivity, so we might as well become acquainted, don’t you think?”

A valuable asset. As if he were a prize horse. Something to be used, weighed, and traded around to the highest bidder. It left a sour taste in his mouth.  

Still, maybe there was something to be gained from this. If he could find common ground with the Lord, stir even a sliver of pity from him, then maybe he can argue for better treatment, and even freedom further down the line.

He just had to be sure not to disclose anything private, such as potential war plans or schemes that Zizka or Henry may have mentioned.

The sudden thought of Henry began to claw at him.

Henry. God help you, please be alive.

“You are silent.” Von Bergow lowered himself into the chair by the hearth. “I see your mind running in circles around itself. Do you make it a habit to ignore your elders when they ask a question?”

Hans remained standing, his arms stiff at his sides. “It’s about Henry.”

“Radzig’s bastard.” A scoff, clearly annoyed by the mention.

“He’s more than that.”

“I’m sure. I was impressed with the conversations we’ve had.” He sounded bored recounting this. “Now, enlighten me of your previous escapades.”

“I need to know if Henry’s alive, first.” Hans insisted, his throat tight and his mouth dry. He was afraid of the answer.  

“Perhaps. I left him in the hands of Sir Istvan, over at my keep in Trosky.”

The answer stirred something bitter in Hans’ gut. Istvan? There’s no way he’s showing mercy, not to Henry. Not with everything between them.

Then again, Henry’s not the type to take shit lying down. There was fire behind his eyes, and a fury of years-long rage somehow packed within the span of a week.

No, Henry will survive.

“You’re quite rude.” Von Bergow said. “I’ve asked you the same question twice, and you’ve neglected to answer me both times.”

“I apologize,” Hans hissed. “But I’m still struggling to wrap my head around all this.”

“Allow me, then.” Von Bergow gestured toward the armchair resting beside him.

Hans hesitated.

“I don’t bite. Have a seat.”

Hans opted for the rickety chair across the room, sinking into it quickly.

“As I’ve mentioned before, you are an asset, and as such, you will be treated with the dignity and respect of one.” At this, Von Bergow motioned toward a nearby servant that Hans didn’t notice before. The scrawny peasant immediately sprung to action, pouring a chalice of wine for both the Lord, and for Sir Hans. He steps back into the shadows.

“Unless, of course,” Von Bergow continued, swishing the wine in the cup before having a quick sip. “You anger me. Then, I’ll punish you as I see fit.”

“Tch.” Hans crossed his arms, “A ‘punishment’? As if I’m a brat?”

“You act like one, you’ll be treated like one. Now, are you going to regale me, or must I ask a third time?”  

“Fine.” Hans took his glass, swallowed it quickly to ease the nerves. “The first time wasn’t so long ago. I was hunting with my newly-appointed page, and I foolishly rode my horse into a band of Cumans. They spooked my horse shortly after, and I landed harshly on some jagged rock. They then tied me to a tree, roughed me up good. No idea what they planned to do with me after that though, considering Cumans aren’t known for their mercy.”  

“Perhaps they recognized you.” Von Bergow proposed.

“Maybe. I didn’t understand a word they were saying.”

“Fortunate your page was present. Henry, I presume?”

“… Yeah.”

Von Bergow nodded. “A curious young man. I was not aware at first that his claim was true, the one that he’s related to Sir Radzig of Kobyla. To think he had a bastard all this time, and only now, after all the real responsibility is passed, does he want to claim a potential heir?”

“Everyone has their reasons.” Hans swallowed, feeling angered by the direction of this conversation.

“Ah, but you do not agree. No matter. Go on, another tale.” He motioned for more wine.

“When we got here, Zizka’s men ravaged my camp, killed my men, and chased us through the woods. Let me have it in the guts, and I was out for a while until we were able to walk to your castle.”

“And I recall another story where your now-allies were looking to take you for ransom as well.” Von Bergow chuckled. “Seems to me that you forgave them way too easily. All for, what, because they support an idler for the throne?”

Hans simply nodded.

After a long sip, “You are a damsel in distress. Your page has his work cut out for him.”

“A damsel?” Hans bristled. “I am not-” He had to reel it in, stay calm and collected. “Respectfully, you know nothing about me, or the-”

Von Bergow raised a hand to cut him off, his stone still calm, his gaze still measured. “I know more than enough.” This is when he rises, the steel plate over his tunic capturing a glint of the fire’s reflection. “I asked for these stories to get a better grasp of your character, and now I have it. You are reckless, hotheaded, and you stumble without any sort of thought as to where your two feet are landing.”

“You don’t know anything-”

“It is no wonder that your guardian kept you leashed for so long.”   

“You’re wrong.”

“I am not.” Von Bergow dismissed him, gestured for the servant to follow him out. “Every mission you’ve ventured on failed. You are ineffectual at the sword, and the bow,”

“That is not true!” Hans’ voice is shaking with rage, his body trembling under the weight of humiliation. “You don’t know anything about me!”

Von Bergow stood by the door and simply began to watch him unravel.

“When Henry was one foot in the grave, I carried him all the way through that cursed backwater forest to safety! He couldn’t even walk, and I had to defend him from those bandits. Only me!

“And when Sigismund’s dogs overran Talmberg, we used a trebuchet to defend it. He threw all his rabble at it, wave after wave, and who do you think held the line while our reinforcements were scrambling from halfway across the kingdom? Me! It was all me!

And you know what else? Your men were easily toppled at Nebakov. Especially the long-ranged. I took them all out! You had to bring your miserably ‘finger of God’ because you were losing,”

The elder’s lips curled ever so slightly. He seemed to enjoy this. “Ah, yes. And before that, you offered us a rather crude remark. Do you remember that?”  

“Of course I do, because I’m about to say it again. You can’t hurt me unless you want the Lords of Leipa to retaliate, and-”

“I can’t kill you.” Von Bergow clarified.

“What’s the difference? You can’t torture me, either!”

At that, Von Bergow smiled.

“There are many ways to torment a man,” He said softly. “Without leaving visible scars.”

Hans faltered at that. The certainty in those words sent his bravery running for the hills. Still, he managed to remain steadfast. “I’ll never break.”

“The goal isn’t to break you, it’s to help you grow. Before you so rudely interrupted my assessment of you, I was going to offer an opportunity to do just that.”

“I’m plenty grown as it is.”

“Let us prove that.”

As if on cue, four armored soldiers entered, their arrival marked by the jarring sound of clinking and clattering metal. They moved in tangent, almost robotic, all their expressions neutral and cold.  

 “Are you challenging me to a noble duel?” Hans asked, a bit startled by their abrupt arrival.

“Oh, no. Duels are the sport of bored nobles and hotheaded young boys. Their practices are almost… archaic. No, this is about facing your fears.”

“… my fears?”  

“Mm. On journey here, my men noted your behavior. They told me you flinched whenever we crossed dark, cramped, and enclosed spaces. Such as smaller wagons, small inn rooms, and even the sight of an attic or cellar.”

“Yes, my lord.” The nearest soldier bowed slightly. “Sir Hans was quite perturbed.”

“They told me you mewled like a kitten.” Von Bergow chuckled at that.

“I…” Hans started, but the words fell. His face began to heat, each breath coming slightly quicker.

Memories of Nebakov briefly flashed his mind.

The dark, the silence, the smell of stone and dirt, the cramped miserable space that nearly became his grave,

“I…” He tried again to speak.

“You what? You have anything to say in your defense?”

“I was in a rough state.” Hans managed. He sounded on the verge of literal tears, and he was further humiliated. “I was always in pain, and those sounds were only meant to-”

“If I may, my lord.” The soldier interjected again. “He never made a sound otherwise, not even a whimper. It’s not until we approached tight, dark spaces.”  

Hans couldn’t say anything else.  

“At the foot of the castle, there lies a small crypt. Just inside, at the bottom of the stairwell, rests a stone coffin. Unused, so there’s no risk of desecrating the dead.” Von Bergow targeted this toward his soldiers, but his gaze was on Hans.

The younger male’s mouth went dry. He knew that crypt, he’d passed it a couple times on his escorted walks. The cold, stale air that wafted up the stone steps was enough to leave him dry heaving.  

“I’d like you to place him inside that coffin,” Von Bergow continued, still directed toward the soldiers, but still looking at Hans. “Just for a short while. Not long enough to suffocate, of course, but long enough to teach him that fear is not greater than a man’s will.”

The thought of going anywhere near it, let alone being stuffed into a coffin inside that damning space, made his stomach churn. His entire body wanted to revolt, every drop of liquid within his humors desperate to escape.

Hans stopped breathing.

“A… A coffin?” He repeated, his knees growing weak. His heart began to race, and his eyes were watering. “There’s- there’s no need! I can face it another way-”

“The color’s drained from your face. Are you unwell?” Von Bergow asked, unconcerned.

“I’m… I’m about to retch, yes,” Hans’ voice was barely above a whisper. He couldn’t stop the developing tremor in his limbs.

Keep calm, don’t let them see, don’t let them see,

“What is it? Are you afraid of the dark? The silence? The press of stone as you’re unable to move?”  

“No!” Hans cried out, the description tearing him apart. “No, you can’t do that to me!”

“And who says I can’t? It won’t hurt you.” Von Bergow nodded toward the soldiers.

Two of them stepped forward and seized the noble by his arms.

That’s when Hans finally broke. He thrashed wildly, and the cry that tore from his throat was out of instinct, rather than defiance.

“No! No, no, let me go!” He was almost screaming. “You can’t! You filthy- you ungrateful-”

His thoughts scattered like a flock of birds, all fleeing from the toss of a stone. He dug his heels into the wooden floor, the loud sound of scraping as they struggled to drag him amidst his desperate fight to anchor himself. “Stop! Stop!”

“He’s panicking.” One of the soldiers on standby muttered uneasily. He felt genuine sympathy for the lad.

“Then make him move,” A soldier holding one of their captive’s arms growled. “Grab his bloody legs unless you want to defy Lord Von Bergow!”

With that, the remaining two soldiers rushed forward, seizing Hans by his flailing legs. Together, all four men worked to haul the writhing nobleman through the hallway and down the stairs as if he were nothing more than a large sack of apples.  

The descent toward the first floor was the hardest part. They had to press themselves against the wall and railings to make sure they weren’t accidentally kicked to the point of falling.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Hans shrieked, over and over, his voice echoing through the stone hallways. Nearby patrons and noblewomen closed their doors for some silence. “Don’t do this! It’s not right, you can’t, I can’t! I can’t do this!”

They manage to wrestle him down the cobblestone steps into the crypt, the walls tighter than the castle. He scrabbled at the walls, his feet kicked, and his body bucked, but it was for naught.

“Stop it! This is inhumane!” Hans’ voice was frantic and laced with fear. As soon as he realized they were in the musty old crypt, his terror reached its peak. “Don’t do this! Don’t! Don’t!”  

The soldiers grunted and cursed, straining to control him as they continued to drag him further into the cold, unwelcoming dark. Soon as they reach the coffin, it’s an even worse situation trying to get him in.

It was like trying to force a wildcat into a tub of water, every limb snaking and growing taut, his back arching up and away from it. He was flailing with such desperate ferocity that could hardly position him over the stone coffin.

“Make sure to use the wood over there as a cover, it’ll be a pain to pull the stone slab again.” A soldier grunted, gesturing toward the large slat leaning against the nearby wall.

“For fuck’s sake, someone knock him out!” A soldier groaned.

“We can’t hurt him.” Another spoke, sweat beading beneath his helm.

“Just shove him harder, a bruise won’t kill him!” A third barked, trying to wedge the noble’s legs inside as Hans began to scream, his nails scratching helplessly against gauntlets and armor.  

The moment his back touched the cold, ancient stone of the coffin, Hans let out a strangled, almost inhuman, sound. He continued to claw at them, and tried anything to escape, but there was no escape.

“For the love of God!” The largest soldier snarled, finally losing his patience.

His mailed fist slammed into Hans’ nose with a sickening crunch. A splatter of blood marked the surrounding soldiers’ armor, and Hans momentarily went slack, dazed and stunned.  

It was just the opening they needed.

Rough hands folded his arms across his chest, another pair forced his legs to still, and the last pair slapped the wooden slab on top, effectively closing the momentary prison.

“Sit on it,” A soldier instructed, breathless from the effort. “Make sure he can’t push it off.”

Two soldiers had a seat, and the other two stood around.

The crypt fell eerily silent, save for the muffled, frantic screams from beneath the wooden slab.

Then came the scratching. A sickening sound of fingers scraping wood, an erratic and desperate attempt to escape.

After several long minutes, a new sound reached the soldiers’ ears. A muffled, pitiful sobbing. It was barely audible beneath the stone lid, and this trembling voice spoke very weakly,

“Can someone please let me out?”

No one said anything. Then again, the nobleman wailed,

“Please let me out of here! I’m- I’m losing it, I can’t breathe,”

The sympathetic soldier shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “He’s been in there long enough.”

“Oh, come off it.” Another replied with a scoff. “He’s a grown man scared of the dark, he’ll love.”

“He can’t be more than twenty.”

“And we’ve lads half his age dying out there with swords through their guts.”

“Doesn’t mean I agree with that, either.”  

“Bah! You’ve gone soft. Ever since your lady squeezed that brat of yours out, you’ve been crying over every lad that whimpers.”  

“Oh!” A third soldier, one of the sitting, perked up. “I didn’t know the baby was born. “What’d you have?”

“A boy. Named him Josef.”  

“Jesus Christ. No wonder you’re going tender in the bits.”

“That’s enough.” The larger one snapped, seemingly pushing aside all his barbaric urges from earlier. He shoved his shoulder against his companion to get closer to the coffin. “Lad’s gone suspiciously quiet!”

“So?”

“So we’re soldiers, not butchers. Let’s get him out of there.”

With some rough movement along with a few grunts of exertion and strained breaths, the wooden slat was pushed aside.

Inside, Hans lay limp and deathly still, his pale face streaked with dried blood and tears. His body was slightly curled, arms pulled tight to his chest with bloodied nails.

“Well, that explains why the twerp stopped screaming.”

A hand pressed to his neck. “He’s still alive.”

They carried him back inside and up the stairwell, his head lolling gently with each step. It was much easier this time around.

They returned him to the sparse comfort of his room, gently laying his body on the bed before leaving without any other words.

“Anyone want a drink?” Was the last thing one of them said before the door slammed shut behind them.

A moment passed, and Hans jolted upright with a strangled gasp. For a second, he couldn’t tell if he was still in the crypt, trapped in that damned coffin. His eyes scanned the walls, his chest heaving and his shirt drenched with sweat.

The room was dark, but spacious. The air was dusty but no longer suffocating or limited.

He could freely move his limbs.

His stomach churned violently, and the sour taste of bile rose in his mouth as he clutched at the blanket with shaking hands. He tried desperately to calm his breathing, remind himself that he was okay, and that he totally did not just lose his mind in front of an esteemed Lord.

That’s when the tears came.

It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t pretty, either. His cheeks were steadily stained with slow, hopeless dribbles as his mind tried to make sense of everything that happened.

Why? Why me?

He then swallowed a sob, and straightened himself out. He staggared over to the mirror, carefully adjusted his clothing and cleaned his face with the pitcher of water and linen provided.

He takes a slow, steady breath. He’ll have to put on a mask once Von Bergow returns.

He clenched a fist, and resisted the urge to destroy everything in his path.

How utterly humiliating is that?

To prove to someone just how ineffectual you are after they accuse you of being just that.

For a second, he longed for Henry, and wished more than anything for him to show up and save him.

Then he shook it out of his head. He’s on his own here, and he knows that there’s no way anyone could successfully undergo a rescue mission for him at this point.

He’ll have to figure it out for himself.

Watch out, Von Bergow, because Hans Capon is never letting himself crack again.

Ever.

Chapter 2: Clinical Study

Summary:

hans feels pressured. after undergoing a humiliating exam, von bergow has to remind him who the boss is.

Notes:

so embarrasingly enough i did research and saw that the word 'mewl' was invented circa 1500s, so it shouldn't be used here in this context. i apologize for the bit of immersion-breaking but i have plans to replace that word with something equivalent soon... i just love the word...

Morning crept in uneventfully, the dim light dribbling in through the grimy spot of a window. Hans had been left to rot in solitude the past two days, and he took full advantage. He wallowed and bled out the remainder of his pride in a chamber that stank of mildew and years-old sweat.

He currently sat hunched on the edge of his cot, picking splinters out from his fingertips.

There wasn’t much else he could do to occupy these hours other than long bouts of self-loathing and self-pitying.

He’s doing a piss poor job of silencing the memory of Von Bergow’s fist of punishment, how quick and deliberate his order had been. And Hans? He couldn’t even raise a proper hand in protest. A fine bruise now bloomed an ugly shade of purple over the bridge of his nose, matching the one still fading from his jaw.

The door flew open without warning, so sudden that Hans flinched with the energy of a kicked dog.

“Come.” Barked a voice he barely recognized. “Lord Von Bergow wants to move you.” It was the larger brute, with a fist made of stone.

“To where?” Hans asked, his voice cracking slightly.

“Now.” The brute simply growled.

 Hans quickly rose to his feet, and tried to maintain even a modicum of dignity. “He can bloody well fetch me himself if it’s so important.”  

“Oh yeah? He thought you’d say some shit like this. He told me to remind you that the coffin in the crypt is waitin’ for you if you give me any trouble.”  

Hans scowled. He wanted to be brave, show this literal peasant that he was a force to be reckoned with, but alas, he was tired. His limbs felt as if they were made of straw, and his stomach twisted with hunger. “Fine, keep your trousers on.” He muttered. “Where are we going?”  

No answer. The brute merely turned and started up the stairs.

Hans followed reluctantly, growing further irritated the longer this dragged on. “… Can I at least know the name of the cur dragging me about like livestock?”

Apparently, he didn’t have one, because all he heard in response was the clink of armor and boots clattering against wooden steps.

“You ought to learn to speak when a nobleman addresses you.” Hans snapped. “Do you also address Lord Von Bergow in this manner?”

“I treat men with respect if they’ve earned it.” The brute replied in a dull voice. “His Lordship has no qualms with that.”

Hans clenched his jaw. “You rotten little-” He bit his tongue before he finished. There was no sense in feeding their disrespect. They already saw him as a joke, nothing more than a noble brat. He shouldn’t further prove their point.

They finally reached their destination; a nook in the highest floor of the tower. This is when the soldier raises a key.  

“Try to run while I open this, and it won’t end well. Every hall’s watched and every door’s guarded.”

Hans didn’t reply. A taste of his own medicine. He watched as the key turned the lock with a smooth click, and the door swung open. He was then shoved inside with so much force that he stumbled forward, catching himself against a cushioned bench.

Hans whipped around. “Christ’s wounds, what is wrong with you?! That’s no way to treat a nobleman, respect or not!”

The door slammed shut in his face, and the lock clicked again.

He stands quietly, his fists clenched as he began to seethe quietly. Then he exhaled, and turned to survey his new room.

This was a much nicer room. The walls bore the finest tapestries that he’d ever seen, and the bed looked far more inviting with its thick linen sheets and its carved wooden frame. A heart flickered low with real wood, rather than suffocating bits of coal. Books lined various shelves, a dice table waited in the corner as if beckoning him, and even a wine cabinet stood at attention for him on the other side.

He wandered over toward the cabinet, poured himself a glass. He didn’t bother sniffing it, still way too exhausted to play it safe right now.

What’s the angle here? He thought bitterly as the wine wet his lips. First the crypt, now the comforts? Trying to break me with whiplash? Build me up just to cut me down again?

He finished glass at an alarming rate, returning it to the rack before drifting toward the bookshelf and trailing his fingers along the spines. He’ll likely be here a while, it’s only natural to try and learn what sort of authors his captor admired.

He was so distracted that he didn’t hear the door open again, a true testament to the quality of this new room.

“Is this more to your liking?” Von Bergow’s voice pierced the veil of comfort.

It’s still cramped, and I still feel as if I can’t breathe, it still feels as if I’m being controlled,

“Yes, it’s much better.” Hans forced himself to say instead, forcing a thin smile on his face.

“I can’t help but feel a measure of remorse over the way you were handled earlier this week.”

A measure?

Hans didn’t want to talk about it. Not with him, not with anyone. He plucks a random book from the shelf, holds it tight as he straightens his back.

 “You weren’t wrong when you said that a man’s fear shouldn’t be greater than his will.” He speaks quickly, trying to usher the conversation in another direction as quickly as possible. “This may have been the push I needed.”

“A man oughtn’t be pushed unless he’s willing. That’s how you get corpses lining the streets of a skirmish, a line of souls with no spirit to hold the line.”

An oddly poetic turn of phrase…  

“I’m here to apologize.” Von Bergow added, as if his statement were lost in translation.  

“Well, thank you.”

“Your wailing and shrieking rattled the walls; I should tell you. Stirred a few of my distinguished guests from their rest.”  

“Oh.” Hans began to flush. He had no rebuttal and hated that he didn’t. His mouth opened slightly as if to form one, but still nothing came. He glanced toward the book in his hands, some mind-numbing title about the cadences of royal court.

This is when he begins to feel that stare again. A cold, steely gaze that felt unwavering. As if he were a fresh cut of meat that a butcher were examining.

Hans shifted his weight and turned his face, feigning interest in the other books beside him.

“Do you dislike when I look at you?”

“It’s fine,” Hans said too quickly. Then, “No, I just…” He faltered. “I don’t.”  

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m not some prized chicken! I don’t enjoy being ogled.”

“You think my eyes ogle at you?”  

“Perhaps it’s not the right word, but you stare, always, as if you’re expecting me to perform for you,”  

“I like to observe.” Von Bergow stepped slightly closer. “And with respect, this is only the second time I’ve visited since you arrived.”  

That shut Hans right up.  

“It’s clear my presence unsettles you. Another apology, then. I’ve not given you much reason to feel otherwise you.”

“At the end of the day, I’m still a prisoner, so your apologies and your attempts to make nice won’t undo that.” Hans felt a bit fearful at the rush of bravery, and he couldn’t understand why he’d been reduced to this. He began to anxiously flip through his book of royal cadence, his fingers tingling with anxiety and his stomach a pit of churning heat.

“That is a fair conclusion.” Von Bergow remained composed with his gleaming breastplate, and a hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. He was unmoving.

If Hans didn’t know any better, he’d go as far to say that the older male was enjoying this.

Hans forced some distance between the two of them and sank into the nearest armchair, continuing to thumb through the literature.

He could feel Von Bergow’s stare burning literal holes in the back of his neck, almost hotter than the literal fire beside him in the hearth. He slammed the book shut and exhaled sharply.

The Lord let out a small hum of amusement. “If I were a woman, would you still bleat?”   

“… What?” Hans craned his neck to finally look back at him.

He really hated whenever the other would reduce his completely reasonable complaints to mewling or bleating. It was unbecoming, turning him into nothing more than a frightened lamb or a newborn cat.

“Have you ever experienced a relationship with a man?” Von Bergow continues.

A question that came out of totally nowhere. It stuns Hans, as if a bucket of ice-cold water were splashed over him. It locks his jaw, and his heart pounds. Anyone else asks this question, he’d give a scoff, maybe a chuckle, and move on.

Here? He felt unsafe. The air began to thin, and the walls almost seemed to close in. The question didn’t feel curious, it felt malicious.  

“I…” He’s flustered. The unwanted heat fills him head to toe, and his tongue feels thick.

“Well?”

A long pause. He swallows dryly, and his mind began to flicker to the various men in his life. He eventually, unwillingly, landed on Henry. Someone that always seemed to come for him, no matter the odds.

But he said none of that.  

“No, of course not.” He forced out of his clenched jaw. “I’m a good Christian,”

“Sins of the flesh, such as sodomy, are not any more or less egregious than others.” Von Bergow waved that off. “Fornication before commitment is a sin, too. Shall we tally how many times you’ve participated in that, Lord Capon?”

“… My answer is still no. I’ve never been with a man.” Hans felt extremely uncomfortable. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, the hairs of the back of his neck beginning to rise.  

“What sort of man do you think you’d prefer?”

Someone brave. Someone strong. Someone that doesn’t care, and is the person he is because he wants to be, not because he has to be. Someone that smells a bit like musk. Someone that always saves him, despite all odds stacked against him,

Hans felt stiff, as if he were shrinking inside his own skin.

The air was so thin right now, why was it thinning?

“I don’t think I’d ever…” Hans swallowed dryly again, shifting uncomfortably. He wanted to bolt out of this room, get some fresh air. Why was he so… why did this-

“I see that it’s a delicate subject. Very well, we’ll leave it for now.”

Hans breathed for the first time in what felt like hours.

Von Bergow stepped toward the door, cracked it open. A shadow passed the threshold. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

A man formally entered, meeting his shadow. He was modestly dressed, his left hand grasping a large bag of medical supplies. He smelled of tonic and ink.

“How long has he been standing out there?” Hans had to ask.

“This is Jan,” Von Bergow continues, ignoring the inquiry. “The finest physician in my service.” Then, as if Hans weren’t in the room, “I’d like you to conduct a thorough physical examination.”

“Wasn’t I already cleared?” Hans could not settle his frayed nerves. “I-I thought I-”

“That was merely for your injuries.” Von Bergow cut in. “This fine gentleman is here to ensure you’re in good health. No lingering sickness, and no ailments you might’ve dragged in.”

“Oh.” The word slipped from his lips, sounding as small and hollow as he felt. Jan approached him; a thin, older man with a trimmed beard, piercing eyes, and the sort of expression that suggested he’d seen far too much of the human body to be bothered by it at this point.  

“Go ahead and undress.” Jan instructed, unpacking his leather case lined with steel instruments. They were gleaming little things, all curved and pointed with their purposes left vague.

Hans couldn’t breathe for a moment, his hands hovering at the hem of his pourpoint. He glanced toward the bookshelf where Von Bergow still loomed, staring intensely.  

“Does he need to be here?” Hans asked the doctor.

“Pretend that I’m not here.” Von Bergow enjoyed how much he made the other male squirm. “I’m simply observing.”

“Hurry it along,” Jan said, growing impatient. “I’ve others to tend to.”

Hans had never, in his twenty years of pampered living, ever felt ashamed of his body. Not until now. He felt as if his skin were meant to be concealed, hidden from that oppressive view.

“Must we return to the crypt?” Von Bergow warned him. “You’re wasting poor Jan’s time.”

Hans held his pride together as he finally began to strip. First came the pourpoint, then the undertunic. With his chest laid bare, anyone with eyes could see the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing. His hose followed, tugged awkwardly past his thighs and knees, down to his ankles. Last came the braise, slid off with stiff fingers until he stood completely exposed before the hearth.

His body shivered despite the warmth of fire hugging him from behind.

Jan wasted no time. He began by examining Hans’ mouth, lifting his lip and tilting his chin with thin, experienced fingers. He checked under the tongue, then pressed his thumb against the pulse at Hans’ neck and wrist. He touched beneath his arms, his ribs, his joints. Each touch was methodical, very clinical.

The physician moved lower, cupping and studying his genitals. He lifts them with cold hands, shifts them side to side, carefully inspects for any swelling, foul odors, or imperfections.

Hans felt awkward, focusing his gaze on the painting across the wall from him. A robust woman with breasts swelling beneath a taut bodice, her eyes half-lidded with a lusty expression that seemed to wink back at him.

It was inappropriate, but it was better than looking at either of the old geezers, one touching his body and the other staring at it. No, scratch that, observing it.

“Turn around.”

“W-what?” Hans stuttered a little, his focus returning.

“Turn around.” Jan simply repeated.

“Right.” Hans obeyed.  

He felt the physician’s fingers on the back of his thighs, then over his backside. They were pressing, then parting. The touch wasn’t cruel, but it was firm and very deliberate.

Hans grit his teeth. He didn’t understand why this exam needed to be so thorough. He wanted to run away and hide in a closet, curled up like a frightened young lad.

Then, mercifully, it ended.

“He’s in perfect health.” Jan said, sliding his unused instruments back into leather straps. “Very clean. Unusually so, given his history.”

“Excellent. See the chamberlain for your payment.”

The physician bowed lightly and departed, the door closing with a slow creak behind him.

Hans couldn’t control the tremble in his hands as he redressed himself under the scrutinizing gaze. No matter how much fabric he wrapped around himself, it didn’t feel anywhere enough.

“Are you ashamed?” Von Bergow asked, his voice smooth as silk yet cleaving straight through Hans’ soul.

“Of course not.” Hans didn’t sound anywhere near as convincing as he wanted to. “I just don’t appreciate being-”

“Ogled, yes, I remember.” The older man interrupted. “But I assure you, I am not ogling. I do not find you sexually appealing, boy.”

“A man.” Hans corrected him. “Less than half your age, I’ll grant you, but a man all the same.”  

“Pathetic, really, that I have to repeat myself to you so many times. I study people, that’s all.”

“You’ve studied me enough!” Hans cinched the final garter on his hose, “I am not some sort of songbird caged for your amusement! Yes, I’m a prisoner, but I’m still a Lord, and you’d do well to remember that! Once I’m free, what’s to stop me from pursuing retribution?”

“Is that a threat?” The smallest of smirks tugged at the corner of his mouth.  

“It’s a warning.” Hans spat.

“Then what, pray, stops me from throwing you back into that tomb? Letting you lie there for weeks, months even, until your guardian comes crawling to fetch you?”  

Hans paled despite himself. He didn’t trust himself to speak at this moment, he simply held his gaze despite his defiance flickering, almost brittle.  

“I could have the lid opened now and again, let in a breath of air. Just enough to keep you alive. Would that suit your pride better?” Von Bergow’s voice was still so calm, and perfectly cruel.

In the tightest, lowest, and most painful voice of Hans’ life; “Do what you must.”

Von Bergow gives a hearty laugh. It was so startling that Hans thought he was going mad.

“What’s s-so funny?” Hans cursed himself for the small stutter.

“I like you. I think despite your upbringing, you have a lot of spirit.”

“And here I thought the tales I so graciously offered might’ve convinced you of that long ago.” Hans scoffed.

“Man tends to spin a tale in his favor to make himself appear stronger. I took it at face value.” Von Bergow shrugged.

Hans raised his chin. “I’ll show you something worth remembering-”

A flicker of movement, a flash of steel, and Hans froze mid-breath.

There it was: a sharpened blade. It was pressed delicately, almost lovingly, against the outer flesh of his jugular. There was just enough pressure to remind him how easy it would be to open the soft skin.  

“I could make it look like an accident.” Von Bergow murmured, his breath slightly shaky. He was enjoying this a little too much. “Tell Sir Hanush that you tried to flee, and in your haste you stumbled and fell on your own sword like some clumsy boy.”  

Hans didn’t dare to breathe. He couldn’t. His chest was tight, and his lungs burned. The edge of the sword continued to kiss his skin, the promise of a cut that would end his life in mere seconds.  

“To feel your warm blood on my steel…” Von Bergow was almost breathless. “I’d envy it.”

“Don’t-”

The sword vanished in a swift, silent motion. It clattered back into its scabbard, the metal on leather almost bidding him a formal farewell.

“I can warn, too.” Von Bergow smiled. “Do not forget the sort of Lord I am, or the power I carry.”

He turned to leave but paused with his palm on the handle. “I’ll allow you a supper tonight. A small courtesy for the pleasant conversation.”

The door shut behind him with a click.

Hans doesn’t move for a while. 

Chapter 3: Savor the Moment

Summary:

von bergow decides to indulge a bit.

Notes:

Okay explaining a couple things.
1. I love that scene of Erik learning about Istvan's death and running off but in-game wise it kinda doesn't make sense that, assuming it took days and days for Henry and Zizka to escape, rally the Devils, help Rosa and her family, recover her house, and then go rescue Hans, plus the side quests that Henry no doubt undertook... just for them to conveniently just then find out that Istvan was dead. The timing is just. hm. so in this, i decided that they found out after a few days straightaway.
2. henry was horrifically tortured. he probably doesnt have that much strength to stab too harsh, especially enough to push a full grown man out the window after too.... hm

If captivity had taught him anything, it was just how to keep his head bowed, his voice quiet, and his thoughts quieter. Those coarse brutes with little wit, if you can even call it that, toyed with him at first, taunting him like poorly-constructed idols, but after he’d ceased flinching, they eventually grew bored. They scattered like crows that’d become disinterested after pecking away at the remains of a deer carcass.

Otto Von Bergow, however, was another matter entirely.

This week, the man had brought him only one meal and it was served cold, and poorly constructed; A crust of stale bread, a slice of dried bacon, and a cup of something lukewarm that tasted vaguely like wine.

Still, it somehow wasn’t the lack of food that disturbed him most. It was the clothing.

He woke one morning  to find something laid eerily out, clearly with care, at the foot of his bedding. It was a pourpoint that mirrored his own from home, down to the embroidery of tiny birds that were stitched along the hem.

Hans really didn’t want to be here.

Every day the walls pressed in closer, and the shadows seemed to thicken. He’d wake in a hefty pool of sweat, his heart pounding and his mind convincing him that someone was leaning over him, staring with an ogling view.

He had a feeling that a reckoning was coming. He didn’t know what exactly, but that unknowing seemed to fester in his gut like spoiled milk.

Even the smallest of noises outside his chamber would send a ripple of prickly skin throughout his body. Any sound of steel boots, any jingle of keys, any voice…

It would leave him frozen mid-breath, and his heart pounding in his ears. When the door didn’t open, he’d slowly return to his routine.

Yes, a routine. It kept him from cowering in a corner and hollering until his voice faded.

Mornings would start with a bout of hefty reading. The mid-day was spent with repeated games of dice against himself. He’d also begun to keep a tally of days that he’d spent here, scratching each notch under the table. Then, he spends the night writing his thoughts and feelings down meticulously with words that would make no sense to any other onlooker.

Today’s tale had been about a songbird trapped in a gilded cage, eventually rescued by an unwashed mutt. This mutt then began to serenade him with barks that sounded far more magical than any hoot his own beak could ever hope to howl.

The door suddenly opened, and Hans rose so fast that the chair nearly toppled behind him. His throat tightened, and he did his best to remain poised.

“Hans.” Von Bergow’s unmistakable voice greeted him.

Hans swallowed bile, “Von Bergow.”

“Only refer to me as a Lord, it’s far more proper.”

“… Lord Von Bergow?”

A humorless smile began to curve his lips.

Hans hated that smile. It oozed something evil, as if he were chuckling to himself over an inside joke only he understands. A sickly heat began to crawl up and over the back of his neck, and he wanted to shatter the nearest window, hurl himself out, and let the fall shatter his bones (assuming he even survived). Literally that is better to him than staying here under that oppressive gaze.  

“I was thinking of you.” Von Bergow began to speak again,

“Were you?” Hans made a real show of adjusting the armchair beside him before flopping back into it. “I was writing, so I can’t say the same.”  

“Enlighten me, what does one ‘Hans Capon’ write about?”  

“… Childish things.” Hans muttered. “Silly stories, nothing of note.”

Damn it all, he was flustered again. He hated how this place made him feel, as if the real him were hollowed out and replaced with this pathetic, flustered little creature. But he can’t let it show. He’d spent far too many sleepless nights analyzing this wretched man’s behaviors, his mannerisms. He knows that he’s playing a long game, and hoping to emotionally erode all his walls.

He saw it in one of the books from the shelf;

Break the mind and the mouth should soon follow.

A shame that he won’t give in so easily.  

“I have news.” Von Bergow moved on.  

Hans tensed, but said nothing. He listened.

“Your faithful page, Henry, is refusing to spill any of his secrets.” Von Bergow sounded a bit miffed. “The priest sang a bit, but it wasn’t enough for us to properly read their intentions.”  

“He.. he isn’t?” Hans was very relieved to hear that. Of course he wouldn’t spill, he’s one of the toughest men alive.

“It doesn’t matter what Sir Istvan does to him, he won’t sing.” Von Bergow nodded. “So he proposed the idea of coming to you, and seeing if you know anything of their plans. Any other allies we should know about?”  

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“There is only one thing in this world that I despise more than vagabonds, you want to know what it is?”

“Not really.”

“Liars. I detest them.”

“That so? The mighty Lord Von Bergow detests lies? Unless, of course, they’re his lies. Then it’s perfectly acceptable!”

Von Bergow grew still. It was a dangerous type of still, like a predator just before it lunged.

Sharing the news that Henry held firm, even under the lash of torture, seemed to stir something within Hans, returning his wit from before his visit to the crypt.

Ah. Now the little pup has fangs.

“Well?” Hans pressed. “Cat got your tongue? Not fond of it when people don’t fear you?”

Something in the air shifted. Hans felt it all the way to his marrow.

The aura changed, and it wasn’t anger. It was something much worse.

Von Bergow silently left without another word, the door shutting behind him with a hefty click.

Did Hans finally win for once?

He could only hope.

~

The next morning arrived without a hitch, carrying with it the kind of quiet that makes a man feel as if the world were holding its breath with him.

Von Bergow walked calmly down the halls. His expression was composed, his posture elegant, but his eyes carried a determined spark.

He was almost too eager.

After yesterday’s insolent display from the lordling, Von Bergow decided it was time to humble him again. He wanted to clip that witty tongue, snip that revived confidence in the bud, and put out the flames of defiance.

It was admirable, in a way. Perhaps even alluring.

No, that’s the wrong word. It was intriguing. Von Bergow usually didn’t allow himself such foolish distractions, but there was something about the boy’s poise, the coiled tension in his jaw, and his renown sarcasm that left a deep piece of him trembling.

A man like Otto wanted to feel it. Smell it.  

But he can’t do that while the other male was fully aware. Bravado muddied the waters, and that’s no good. He needed clarity, a window to the soul inside. Hans could not be properly inspected while strutting about like a rooster.

His spine needed to be softened, his mind slackened.

And he knew just the way to do it.  

He began, as always, with presentation.

A servant wheeled the food trolley down the hall beside him, the scent of roast pheasant and wine sauce thickening the air. He also provided grapes, root vegetables, fresh bread, and even a wedge of the richest cheese in the cellar. It was a meal fit for a king, not a prisoner, and yet he was serving it regardless.

He suspected that Hans Capon was no stranger to such indulgence.

Lord Hanush may have clutched his coin purse tight, but when it came to his nephew, he spared no ounce of comfort. The boy had been raised on gold-rimmed goblets and feather-stuffed pillows.

Von Bergow chuckled under his breath.  If only the old dog kept him on a tighter leash. Now he would learn, painfully, what it meant to be trapped in the care of a true nobleman, one much richer and sharper.

His train of thought was cut short as the servant suddenly jerked the trolley forward and rolled an iron wheel squarely over his foot.

“I-I’m sorry, my lord!” She stammered.  

“You are pardoned.” He forced out, already irritated. “Make haste now, we mustn’t keep our guest starving.”

She curtsied quickly and continued to push the tray forward without another word, too afraid to even breathe wrong.

The door is pushed open, and the familiar smell of ink and stale sweat greeted them. There, at the dice table, sat Hans. He was curled into himself, one knee pulled up against his chest while the other leg lazily kicked out. He leaned forward over the table with a bored expression, rattling the wooden cup over and over in an effort to achieve some unknown score.

He didn’t bother to look up as the tray wheeled squeaked against the wooden floors.

Von Bergow cleared his throat, and Hans finally looked up.

“Sir Hans Capon.” Von Bergow said. “I present to you, a meal fit for a king.”

Hans looked to the food immediately. Despite his best efforts, his mask of indifference cracked. His lips parted just slightly to allow his tongue to slide over them. His stomach also betrayed him with a long, hollow growl.

“Is it to your liking?” Von Bergow asked.

Hans gave a small nod of approval, his eyes lingering for too long on the pheasant.  

“You are dismissed.” Von Bergow alerted the servant.

She vanished almost instantly, eager to be gone.

Hans began to eat like a man half-feral. He didn’t speak, offer any thanks, didn’t even look up let alone breathe in between his bites. The roast pheasant vanished in chunks, the wine sauce smearing the corners of his mouth, almost like blood dribbling off the maw of a feasting wolf.

No problem. Von Bergow wasn’t looking for conversation, anyway. He began to glance around his study. The once-elegant study now resembled a neglected storage shed. Books littered the tables, some still lying half-open with creased pages. A drawer rest ajar with the sleeve of a noble’s doublet dangling from it.

“You’ve any intentions to tidy the place?” He clicked his tongue.

“In time.” Hans replied, his cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s.  

When the young lord finished, he leaned back in his chair with a long, satisfied exhale. He draped his arms over the sides of the armchair. He looked content, as if he were back in Rattay.  

Von Bergow only smiled. He nodded once, then, he grasped the cart handles and rolled the trolley out himself.

It wouldn’t take long now.

The tincture, mixed carefully into the wine sauce of the pheasant, was said to take roughly an hour to root itself. Never fear, for it wasn’t poison, but it wasn’t necessarily a sedative either. It blurred the line between wakefulness and dreaming. A slow fog will creep its way into the corners of his mind…

The physician he acquired it from described it as leaving the door open in one’s mind. Whatever the hell that means.  

He spent the hour in idle wanderings. He checked the kitchen, walked the perimeter, spoke to some guards, and greeted some guests.

At last, he returned.

He opened the door quietly and noticed that the candles had all been snuffed out.  

On the bed, Hans curled sideways with his limbs folded in on themselves. One arm was tucked between his curled knees, the other lay outstretched in front of his face. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, his facial expression entirely relaxed.

He looked almost boyish in this state, and far too vulnerable.

Von Bergow stepped forward, taking this moment to test the tincture’s strength. He started by raising Hans’ free arm and letting it go.  

It dropped with a muted thud onto the mattress, not a single bit of resistance.

He sat at the edge of the bed, dragged his knuckles slowly along Hans’ cheek. An a small sound escaped his parted lips, perhaps in protest, but the elder promptly ignored it.

The doctor was seemingly correct. The door to Hans’ mind was open enough for him to be semi-aware of what was happening, but not conscious enough to do anything about it.

Perfect.

He slid his fingers along the edge of Hans’ jaw, then along the smooth line of his neck, particularly the side of it where the skin was its most warm and slightly damp. Hans stirred weakly, his head tilting just enough to expose more of his throat. He didn’t even seem to realize what he’d done.

Von Bergow leaned in close, his breath stirring the fine hairs near the lobe of Hans’ ear. “I could do anything I please,” He whispered. “And you’d remember it like a dream you weren’t sure you had.”

Hans let out another small, pitiful noise.

Von Bergow straightened himself slowly, studying the ride and fall of the other man’s chest. He admired the way the fine fabric of his tunic clung to his skin. The way the hem of it rose slightly, revealing a small peak of his lower abdomen.

There was a beauty to this, to witness someone like Hans Capon reduced to such a helpless state.

He reached out, touching his neck again before leaning over to plant a kiss over the soft skin. He kissed it again, then slid his tongue over the area of light sweat.

It was salty, almost sweet.

He carefully rolled the male onto his back, taking pleasure in the way that his limbs began to flop about, sprawled at odd angles as though he were arranged as part of an abstract art display.

He lowered his lips to the warm skin just above the waistband of his trousers, dragging his tongue slowly upward and over the bits of pubic hairs. He followed the subtle curve all the way up and over the navel.

Hans stirred faintly, his body reacting only on instinct.

A pleased hum slipped from Von Bergow. He could take this further, strip away more to continue the show. He wanted to see those balls again, determine if they were as big as the renowned fire that burned deep within Hans’ gut.

But not yet. There was no rush, for the night was long and Otto had always been taught to savor his food before swallowing it.

He pressed a final kiss to the skin just below the navel, then pulled back, brushing a hand through the blonde hair of his captive, already debating where to stick his tongue next.

The helpless specimen below him started to burn hot, which in turn ran his lower half hot. He couldn’t control the anticipation for much longer, reaching for Hans’ trousers and pulling them slightly down anyway.

There’s no harm in a peak.

Then BANG

The door burst open.

Von Bergow stood upright immediately, his jaw tightening as he moved between this intruder and the bed to cover his toy from anyone else’s gaze. It was a move born from possession.

“This had better be important.” He warned the door-slamming soldier.

“A-A messenger arrived, my lord. Prisoners Henry, Godwin, and Zizka have all escaped, and Sir Istvan is presumed dead.” The soldier garbled out, his words forced before he could take a proper breath after sprinting all the way here.

“What?”

“They-”

“How?”

“W…We believe someone on the inside helped them,”  

For a moment, all the Lord could do was stare. It wasn’t just the interruption that soiled things, it was also the slow unraveling of careful threads brought together over months of planning. Every step had been calculated prior, and now?

It was all falling apart, like poorly construed fabric.

He was furious. Before he could bark a response, another man entered the room. This one with far more authority than the shaking soldier beside him.

Markvart Von Aulitz.

The other soldier took one look at him and bolted, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Markvart began, his arms folded. “There is no need to worry. Despite this setback, we still have the heir of Pirkstein.”  

“… Correct.”

“They may plot and scheme in whatever rat-hole they’ve fled to, but if any of them, including the Lords of Leipa, want Hans Capon back alive then they’ll have to tread carefully.”

“You sound remarkably calm.”

“I am. We are still ahead, this changes nothing.”

“I have to agree, then.”

Markvart nodded. “I’ll head over to Trosky, scout it out for myself. Erik’s already gone ahead but I don’t imagine the boy’s in any fit state to properly assess. He was losing his head after the news.”

“It comes as no surprise.” Von Bergow was unsure if he should be outright with it. “Sir Istvan was like a… father, to him.”

“Ah.”

The man departed shortly after, the door closing behind him.

Von Bergow turned back toward the bed, where Hans still lay partially exposed in the window’s light. He would have loved to continue indulging, tasting his skin, but the moment was gone, his appetite soured.

The meal had gone cold, and so had his interest.

With a sigh, he adjusted Hans’ tunic back over his stomach and moved to the door. He stole one last glance before leaving, locking the door tight behind him.

Back inside the room, somewhere deep into the fog of Hans’ drugged stupor, he stirred slightly. His mind floated in a sea of half-formed thoughts and feelings, all voices distorted by miles of distance, but one thing managed to come through, like a ray of sunlight through the cracks of his warped reality;

Henry was alive.

Notes:

i know i should just be saying "otto" rather than von bergow but i prefer the last name for him for some reason LOL like i feel like i'll get in trouble if i use otto too much. i might go back and change it eventually though.

Chapter 4: Touch and Feel

Summary:

von bergow explores his captive, succeeding this time.

Notes:

alright alright i apologize for the absence. as mentioned on my other story, i had to quit my job suddenly and then i got a new one, set up an office, and settled in.
to prove how sorry i am, i present to you a juicy chapter...

Von Bergow had arrived at a conclusion only recently, though it lingered in him like a worm burying deeper into the earth.  

That Capon boy… what a pitiful little creature. A noble, yes, but softer than silk and all too proud of it. He strutted about as if the world owed him something, yet the moment steel rang or the dangers lurked, he was exposed for what he truly was- a delicate, pampered boy that needed far more room to grow.

He was a kitten pretending to be a lion.

It almost made Von Bergow laugh. Almost.

And so, he had the potion administered again just before Hans stirred back to his senses.

Throughout the day, the noble consistently drifted past the chamber door like an eager vulture. He’d constantly steal glances inside, and he’d never grow tired of the sight.

Hans Capon, noble of Rattay, prince of Pirkstein, laid out like a carefully positioned doll. His breath shallow, his movements feeble. At times, he whimpered, sometimes mewled, like a frightened child haunted by night terrors.

The more he looked, the more his patience waned. That gnawing need to touch him, explore him, slowly returned and it was sharper than ever.

So he made arrangements. A polite word here, and a stern command there. Soon, the entire household knew when he was not to be disturbed, not for any reason. Not even if an army came knocking at their door.

And then the fated hour arrived. He glided down the corridor in silence, excitement coiled within his stomach. He gently pushed the door open, peaking inside before slipping in and shutting it behind him with care. He locked the door.

There upon the bed lay Hans Capon, still helpless, still meek. He was curled in on himself like some frightened animal. His hair was damp with sweat, pressed at his temples with his lips slightly parted as if he were whispering in his stupor. Every twitch of his limbs, every tiny shift against the sheets was a reminder to Von Bergow just how easily a man of noble birth could be brought to heel just as any other.

He chuckled.

He drifted toward the bedside, eager but patient. He bent down until his face was inches from Hans’ neck. For a moment, he lingered there, drawing in the scent of sweat and faint traces of perfume.

“Somebody’s been stealing from my cabinets.” Von Bergow hummed in amusement, his breath tickling the lad’s ear. “Well, no matter. I can smell the fear you try so desperately to hide with scented oils.”  

He stuck his tongue out, razed it sloppily all along the side of Hans’ neck. From the collarbone, up until he was just under the jaw.

He was delicious.

“I’m not sure if you can hear me, let alone understand me, but I’ll tell you nonetheless. I’ll be taking my time with you, and if you behave, I may be inclined to reward you.” Von Bergow stood up again, loosening his armor piece by piece. He was slow with it, allowing the room to fill with the sound of straps undoing, chainmail slithering, and buckles unclasping. He wanted Hans to hear every second of it, even if he couldn’t comprehend it through the haze.

With a deliberate amount of care, he lowered himself back onto the mattress. Straw shifted, and the bed bowed inward until Hans’ limp form tilted slightly toward him. A heavy hand takes hold of one of his prey’s legs, moving it aside as if arranging a doll.

“There.” He whispered, “Now I can study you properly.”

His hand traveled over Hans’ chest, creeping the fabric of his tunic upward until it brushed over his surprisingly perky nipples. He slid his tongue over the soft flesh of his naval, dragging it upward over his sternum and toward the collarbone. He mapped the entire area, taking note of every twist and tremor of his captive’s body as he went along.

Here, the skin tasted sweet.

He allowed his thumb to slide over his throat, feeling that faint thrum of a pulse. His touches were both tender and measuring, like a vendor appraising the quality of a newly found relic.

His eyes drift over toward the perky nipples. They were pink, budding little roses. He decides to help himself to the left one first, his tongue circling around until he sinks his teeth. He bites until there’s blood, and he suckles until the copper fades.

Hans let slip a soft sigh.

There’s a pause, as if Von Bergow were anticipating more to the reaction. “I wonder…” He murmured. “If you dream of anything while you lie there.”

When no response came, he resumed. His fingers move lower, pressing briefly into Hans’ abdomen before sliding over to the bones of hips. He feels through the fabric of his hose, tilting his head.

He was rather limp, his cock extremely flaccid. That is to be expected, of course. Let’s try and remedy that.

Von Bergow sat up slowly, straightening his robes before resuming. There’s something almost clinical about his movements, with the way he adjusted Hans’ garments and tugged his trousers downward until they slid over his knees and pooled at his ankles. He scoffed at the rough braies underneath.

“Peasant’s cloth.” He muttered with disdain. “Hardly fitting for one who prides himself as a lord.”

The fabric is grabbed, tossed and discarded without another glimpse. He then grabbed hold of his parted leg, raising it and setting it around his waist. He wanted to settle in between those warm thighs, and settle he did.

He didn’t dare to move further. He took a moment to study the skin in that private, vulnerable section. Pale, yet mottled with small freckles and moles. His hand lingered on the limb at his hip, and his thumb slid over the heated skin before he raised the leg high enough to rest on his shoulder. He brushed his cheek against the living flesh, testing the warmth on his face. He plants a chaste kiss there before moving on.

He rested his palm across Hans’ sternum once again. He follows the shallow rhythm of his breath before moving lower, tracing the bones of his ribcage with a finger. He pressed lightly at certain intervals as if he were a physician locating a potential break.

He leaned forward then, positioning himself directly above Hans. He pressed his clothed frame against the lad’s limp, nude body, savoring the contract between fabric and soft, yielding flesh. He enjoys the feeling of his victim’s soft cock pressed against his thigh as he leaned in deeper, the leg straining against his shoulder in a position that shouldn’t be possible for the other male.

Ah, well. Minor injuries aren’t the end all be all.

He lowered his face into the crook of Hans’ neck, breathing it in deep before brushing his lips all across the skin.  

Hans stirred ever so slightly, a faint whine sliding out from his inner gullet. His eyelids momentarily fluttered as awareness suddenly threatened to creep back into him.

Von Bergow was unbothered. His hands resumed their ministrations. He traced Hans’ face in a show of mock devotion, noting the structure of his cheekbones, the ridge of his jaw, and the fragile flutter of his lashes. He pressed a heady kiss to each and every spot as he went along. He created a mental catalogue of every twist, every tremor, of Hans’ helpless body as he went along.

After a bit of dry humping as if he were some dog in heat, he freed the trapped leg from his shoulder and carefully shifted him, rolling him onto his stomach.

“We mustn’t neglect the backside.”

He brushed the damp hair from Hans’ nape and lowered his lips there, pressing a soft kiss directly where spine met skull. “The hinge of a man.” He murmured against the area. “I could cut this, and your entire body will no longer function.”

He lingered there, breathing steadily as he embraced the amount of power he held over the lad.

The room was filled with nothing but the sliding of Von Bergow’s fabric, and Hans’ trembling breaths.  

The older male moves again, using his lips to trail downward and brush over the line of Hans’ back. He tastes every ridge of his spine before raising himself slightly to admire the shape of his shoulder blades. They weren’t broad as a typical noble’s, but they carried definition. It was very clear that he preferred archery over the sword.  

He pressed along the ridge of his spine again, using his finger this time. He traces each bump as if counting the beads of a rosary. His touch then lingered at the base, near the tailbone, where he rested his palm and hummed softly to himself yet again.  

Then, his hands drop slightly lower to cup at the muscles of Hans’ buttocks. He tests their firmness, squeezing and shifting as though gauging the quality of meat. His thumbs press in, pulling the muscles apart just enough to observe the hole in between.

“Clean.” He murmured, “You make strides to keep yourself presentable, even where no one looks.”

He raises two of his fingers, sliding both of his digits inside the opening without any sort of lubricant or preparation. He prods around, nudging thoroughly for any hidden imperfections.

“Supple and unclenched.” He muttered. The drug must have loosened him somewhat too. He flexed his fingers a bit more before drawing back, observing his captive once more before proceeding.

He plucked a small vial of oil from the nightstand, and rolled it between his fingers.

“Preparation,” He said softly. “Is vital. I don’t wish to tear you apart.”

Hans moved every so slightly. There’s a twitch in his fingers, a flutter in his breath.

Von Bergow chuckled, uncorking the vial with a simple flick of his wrist. With his other hand, he freed his eager erection, throbbing with far too much anticipation for his own good. He poured the oil into the palm of his hand before anointing himself with slow, deliberate strokes. He took his time, ensuring that every inch of his flesh was slick and glistening.

It was funny, really. Due to his age, he’d always assumed that his body could never rise to the occasion again. Yet, here he was, standing at attention and it was thanks to this kitten-weak noble sprawled out before him. Not even the finest maiden, nor his ex-wife, had been able to reignite him.

Fresh blood was all it took.

He rolls the noble onto his back, the body still pliant and hopelessly weak. He seizes a leg, slinging it over his shoulder once again. He pressed a small kiss to the lad’s ankle before sliding forward and raising his captive’s hips slightly.

He starts with a gentle, exploratory dip, as if he were sticking his feet into steaming water. Then, he’s sheathing himself entirely inside, groaning at the enveloping warmth. He loves the shudder he drew from the captive beneath, and he started to move with slow, languid thrusts.

He takes his time with the thrusting. It’s intentionally slow until he can’t take it anymore and starts to speed it up. The room is flooded with the naughty sounds of skin slapping skin and breathless groans.

The lad is breathing hard, his fingers twitching, the leg over his shoulder shifting this way or that.

Von Bergow’s climax arrived quickly, embracing the rush of heat and pleasure. He ensured that every last drop of his seed was properly buried inside before withdrawing and standing up. He cleans himself with the edge of the sheets.

He quietly redresses himself, a smirk playing at his lips as he realizes that his captive was now fully aware, staring at him with watery, almost lifeless, milky blue eyes.

“What, no words?” Von Bergow drawled, tightening the straps of his armor. “I know you’re awake.”

“What is there to say?” Hans stirred, his voice barely above a whisper. He sounded defeated, almost broken. “You took what you wanted.”

And indeed, he had.

+

Hans lay on the straw mattress, unmoving and feeling discarded as a useless piece of clothing. His body ached in ways he could not name, and every one of his breaths were shallow.

The silence was suffocating. Only the faint crackle of the dying flames in the hearth marked any type of passage of time. His skin crawled with the memory of hands, weight, and tongue where none of which should have ever been. He wanted to claw it away, scrub his skin until it was gone, but his arms felt unbelievably heavy, as if he truly belonged to someone else.

It felt as if a million little ants were crawling over him, each one marking their territory and reminding him of how helpless he truly was. He felt as if he were reduced to something less than a man.

A specimen.

He was Hans Capon of Pirkstein, prince of Rattay, and yet danger had touched him in ways it shouldn’t have, and he felt like a former shell of himself.

He was hollow. Filthy. A cracked vase, something to toss away and replace.

He tried to feel angry, but it gave way to shame every time. Blasted shame, it felt worse than any bruise he’d ever had. It told him that he brought this on himself, that he should have been smart enough not to eat or drink anything offered to him, and yet he wasn’t.

His lips began to tremble. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth to silence any potential noises. Nobles don’t weep (and he's done enough of that anyway), especially those that brought suffering on themselves.  

And yet that did little to soothe him. He felt himself splintering, piece by piece, in the solitude of this locked room.

Why didn’t I stop him? Will anyone believe me?

These questions coiled in his gut, left him nauseous and uncomfortable. He thought of Hanush, and what he’d think of him now. He already thought so little of him, and the potential of him finding out about this…

He couldn’t bear the thought.

And oh God, Henry. What would Henry think of him now?

It may sounds crazy, but he cared so much about what the other male thinks of him. Would he no longer find him worthy of protecting once he learns of this? Would he even want to stay friends?

He managed to turn his head, bury his face into the pillow. He allows the scent of it to fill his lungs until it burned.

He felt terrible.

He felt gross.

He hated himself.

Now more than ever.

Chapter 5: Lament

Summary:

von bergow decides to examin a fully aware hans, have a bit of fun too.

Notes:

oh boy, this one's.... a lot.
took me a bit longer to comb through the thesaurus and write this evil, fucked up nonsense. hope you have as much fun reading this as i did writing it :)

Von Bergow relished the shift in rapport, the change in their dynamic. Hans grew quieter, withdrawn, and though his silence was meant as defiance, the elder mistook it for submission. A hardy confirmation of the chain he now held.  

Hans also refused to leave the bed. He wouldn’t eat, or drink, and wouldn’t acknowledge anything outside of his internal misery.

Von Bergow, ever patient and always cruel, had the servants strip him of every comfort. Blankets, sheets, and all clothing. The boy was completely stripped of any and all sort of covering, forcing him to remain naked as the day he was born.

He hoped the deprivation would elicit some sort of reaction, finally grant him the vocal yield he was seeking,  

It didn’t work.

At last, late one evening, Von Bergow leaned close, his voice smooth and unwavering; “Since you are so keen on languishing in that bed, I’ve devised a solution that will benefit the both of us.”

Hans gave the weakest scoff, rolled over and exposed his back toward him.  

Von Bergow gestured, and guards stepped into the room. There’s two of them, both holding iron cuffs and heavy chains. Hans didn’t stir until the cold steel brushed his skin. Then, with a violent surge of energy, despair broke out and he lashed out.

“Get off me!” He cried. “Get your hands off me!” His voice grew shrill, desperate. “Stop! Unhand me, stop!”

The scuffle was brief. Strength of will could not match iron and numbers. They forced him down, pinned him with brutal strength until the shackles bit tight.

His arms were stretched wide above his head, his wrists clamped hard against the boards. His legs were wrenched apart, bound so far he could barely shift at all. He was so open that his groin almost hurt, and a pitiful gasp slipped from him as reality splashed him like cold water.

Hans refused to speak. His face turned away from Von Bergow, though his body betrayed the trepidation. The tremor in his limbs was so fierce that it rattled the wooden frame of the bed.

“Now then,” The elder drawled, hardly containing his arousal. “You can take what my cooks have so generously prepared for you, or you may persist in this state of rudeness, and remain stripped of all freedom.”

Hans’ maintained his silent act of defiance. Fear may be knotting his stomach, and despair may be clawing at his mind like a feral cat, but he was not going to grant this perverted freak the pleasure of seeing him break.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to please Von Bergow further. The elder felt his trousers grow tight, and he lingered a bit too long for comfort as he studied his bound captive with a craving that had little to do with food.

Slowly, almost deliberately, he turned and locked the door soon as the guards made their departure. 

Hans’ breath hitched. “Don’t you dare,” His words tumbled out, the last word slipping out in a half-sob.  

“It’ll only be a moment.” Von Bergow assured. “It’s for your benefit, Hans. I need to make sure your body isn’t decaying from the lack of nutrients.”

“Don’t touch me!” Hans’ voice cracked.

Von Bergow smiled, advancing step by step until his shadow fell across the bed. “Untense yourself,” He muttered, sensual.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me!” Hans strained against his bindings, terror and fury colliding in every violent movement.

Von Bergow chuckled, savored the sight of his terrified captive and taking a mental note of his struggles. “This,” He whispered. “will be fun." His eyes narrowed, and he studied the way Hans continued to fight in his chains, observing the way his body twisted and strained against them. He drew a slow breath, as if he were committing the sight to memory. Perhaps he will hire an artist, pay them well to paint this pretty picture.

“You,” He spoke at length, his tone still calm, almost conversational. “Are so delicate, and yet still so convinced of carrying strength. I wonder…”

He grabbed a stool, dragged it over toward the bed before sitting down and folding his hands as if he were preparing for a consultation.

Hans felt as if he were the patient of a very twisted physician. He turned his head away, fought against the intense burning of his eyes.  

Von Bergow, like everything else, ignored the resistance. He reached for one of his captive’s wrists, testing the tension of tendons and the strain against iron. “Circulation’s holding. Not for long, if you keep thrashing like this.”

Hans jerked, earning nothing but the rattle of chains.

“Pulse is quick.” Von Bergow continued, pressing his fingers to the underside of Hans’ trembling palm. “Fear, or anger? Perhaps both.”

His other hand traced over Hans’ arm, stopping at the faint bruising at his elbow. “You’ve gone too long without food or water. Your meager amount of muscle is already fading. If you continue this way, you’ll waste to nothing.”

Hans spoke with a sharp voice, slightly high-pitched, in utter disbelief. “Let me rot! It’s better than letting you drug me again, treat me like I’m not even- not even a person!”

The elder leaned in, his lips almost grazing his ear. “You are far too valuable to let rot.”

Hans’ chest heaved with quick, shuttering breaths as Von Bergow pressed his hand against his sternum, feeling the rhythm of his lungs and his breaths.

He was making a mental note of all the little things he could control, a catalogue of power.

Hans felt sick.

The stool was dragged closer, the scrap of its legs against the wooden floor grating against the silence. The elder sat calm, his fingertips gently resting on a bare thigh as he continued to study the young noble spread before him.

“Now then.” He spoke. “Since you refuse to eat or drink, I’ll have to thoroughly inspect everything else to ensure that you are still viable.”

"Didn't you just- what was- what was that just then?" Hans stuttered out, flustered. 

"A glimpse of what's to come." Von Bergow chuckled. “You may try to act brave throughout this procedure, but your body will betray you.”

Hans was still trembling so hard that the chains were rattling against the bedframe.

Von Bergow touched his wrist again. “Still a rapid pulse.” He said. He adjusted the cuffs slightly, testing how far the ligaments strained. “You will lose complete circulation if you keep fighting, but perhaps it will teach you to behave.”

His hands ventured downward, pinching lightly at the flesh of his arm. “Dehydration evident.” He prodded along the muscle. “Atrophy beginning. I give you three, perhaps four, days before total collapse.”

Hans hissed, jerking against his restraints yet again.

Von Bergow pressed his ear against his chest. “Rapid breath. I can hear your wheeze.” He smirked at the recoil. “Lungs sound clear, however.”

“Stop it!” Hans spat.

“Open your mouth,” Von Bergow moved on. When Hans refused, he pinched his foolish captive’s nostrils shut until instinct forced a gasp out of him. Gloved fingers slipped inside, sliding his lips up and over his teeth for a careful inspection of the teeth, gums, and tongue.

The biting did nothing to stop him.

“Moisture diminished, salivary function is low. You’ve gone without water for longer than I thought.” He withdrew his fingers, “That will need correction.”

Hans began to glare, but the anger was soiled by the sight of unshed tears.

Von Bergow continued, pressing his hand along Hans’ abdomen with the careful precision of a doctor.

“What was the point of that doctor if you’re just going to do everything yourself? All over again?” Hans mustered an ask, his voice shaking every step of the way.

Von Bergow ignored his foolish question. He should know the answer to that, and it’s two simple words;

Power and control.

He continued to press against his lower stomach. “There’s a bit of tenderness. A cramp? Hunger pangs? The intestines are still active, which means they can be filled.” His hand lingered, and Hans bucked with disgust.

“Here is the truth of it, Hans.” Von Bergow smiled. “I am going to continue this, and you are going to take it. I will record every one of your weaknesses, and your responses. You know why? Because you are mine to observe, to maintain. Do you understand?”

Hans bit his lip. His face flushed, and he threw his head backward. “This can’t be happening.”

“The upper half is serviceable enough.” Von Bergow shifted slightly. “Now we must examine what supports it.”

He pressed both hands against Hans’ hips, a firm hold assessing the bones beneath the fat. “Weight loss is not yet pronounced.” He rotated the pelvis slightly, ignoring Hans’ strangled protest. “Good flexibility,”

His palms slid to the thighs, kneading along the quadriceps as if testing premium meat a butcher’s stall. “Muscles are still firm here. You’ve not yet lost strength, a shame to let it waste.” He slid his tongue over the area.

Hans writhed, turned his face into the mattress to muffle a sob. Chains clinked as he uselessly tried to close his legs.

Bergow ignored that, checking the knees next. He bends them against the chains until he hears a faint crack from each. “No swelling. Strong ligaments. Excellent,” He chuckled again. “You could still run, if one day permitted.”

He started to press firmly into the inner thigh, moving upward until he reached the crease of his groin. He pressed against the artery there, which earned a violent shiver from his captor. He continued to palpate, pressing into the soft tissues of buttock and groin, directly under the balls. “No swelling,”

The force of his touch caused Hans to flinch again.

“Hold still.” Von Bergow said, as if Hans had a choice. His hand shifted toward the balls, cupping and raising them to check for any bruising or rashes. He moved toward the shaft next, giving it an equally measured gaze.

It was unbearably invasive.

Hans shut his eyes, his cheeks flushed hot with shame. It spread down to his neck, up into the tips of his ears.

“How’s my seed feel?” Von Bergow suddenly asked. “Does it still hurt, and that is why you flinch so aggressively at my touch?”  

Hans’ lip began to tremble.

“You act brave, and tough, yet you are nothing but a scared little boy. You have no battle experience outside of that meager tower you tried to defend,”

No response. Hans’ body stayed rigid, his arms stretched so tight that the iron bit deeply into his skin. Raw red lines marked where the shackles rubbed, and he trembled with every shallow breath.

“Perhaps I’m being too cruel.” Von Bergow licked his lips. “Let’s try another approach, something gentler.”

The chains rattle again,

“Look at you! So stubborn you’d sooner shred yourself against iron than admit fear. Admirable, if I didn’t already find you so pathetic.” Von Bergow doesn’t wait any longer. His lips land soft, chaste kisses along the pale skin of Hans’ thighs.

To Hans, they feel like embers burning in places that should never have to bear such heat. The legs thrash, desperate to break free, but the movements only betray him by opening his legs wider, baring like a pheasant that Von Bergow had full plans to devour.

The elder slides in between, dragging his mouth slightly higher until he stops at the swell of his balls. A hand seizes the shaft, forcing it up against his belly to make way for his tongue’s obscene pilgrimage.

“Stop it, for Christ’s sake,” Hans’ voice breaks, and he was utterly raw, his resolve fraying to allow tears to finally slip free. “You’ve already had your fun!”

“Which is precisely why I’m doing this,” Von Bergow’s eyes gleam with sadistic joy. “You deserve a taste of that fun yourself. Perhaps it’ll motivate you to eat something.”

“I deserve none of this! I’ve done nothing-” Hans jerked in the chains. “Just stop, stop fucking touching me, you vile-”

A rag is stuffed into his mouth, effectively silencing him. It’s jammed so deep that he gags around it, his moist eyes wide with surprise.

Von Bergow wasn’t a fan of needless insults, so he makes certain the cloth properly lodges into his throat, a plug no thrash of the tongue can hope to dislodge.  

Hands began to roam Hans’ body, tracing his ribs and mapping bones through the trembling canvas. Hans twists violently, his body straining despite the raw skin he’d left in the chain’s wake. His hips jerk with futile defiance, and every wriggle betrays just how thoroughly pinned he is.

Von Bergow laughs, his first genuine one in a while. “Oh, dear. You don’t want to test what else I’m capable of, believe me. It can get far worse than this.” He pressed Hans’ cock against his belly again, allowing himself a good view of his balls again. “I could see you force-fed, drugged until you’re hanging just between life and death. I can then toss you back in the crypt, let the damp and dark of that coffin keep you company until your guardian determines whether his coin or his heir is more important.”

Those words ignite a flame. Hans screamed, muffled and raw, the sound buried into the cloth.

“Hush,” Von Bergow crooned, a mock image of sweetness dripped from his lips as he planted a kiss on his captive’s sack. The reaction is immediate, earning him yet another violent jolt.

It only aroused the elder further.  

Von Bergow is slow, tantalizing with his movements. His mouth closes over one ball, swirling his tongue. He savors the helpless quiver before shifting and swallowing the other one, delighting in how humiliated his dear captive may feel.

Hans’ breath sawed through the gag, every ragged pant continuously muffled by the rag. Split slicked the cloth, his jaw now aching from the strain. His cock stayed soft, stubbornly unmoved by the unwanted attention currently thrust upon it, but that didn’t seem to matter to his captor. No, not at all, he still couldn’t stop the invasion, or twist away from the mouth worshiping what shouldn’t be touched without his consent.

His chest clenched tight, his lungs seizing as if the air were physically stolen from them.

This couldn’t be real, not to him. Not Hans Capon. What sin could he have possibly committed to earn a torment this degrading? He searched himself desperately, his mind clawing for any sort of justification for it.

The predator above him, meanwhile, was tireless. His tongue finally abandoned his sack, and a hand claimed the shaft of his cock instead. The limp flesh seemed to offend him, and he began to rub the flaccid tip with his thumb.

“If you will not rise for me willingly,” He muttered, almost out of breath. “Then I’ll get you off by other means.”  

Hans whimpered. It was a real one at that, raw and vulnerable, breaking from deep within his chest. His limbs were now still, shaking with exhaustion as the iron confines continued to restrict their movements. Every one of his tremors betrayed how little fight he had left.

His head arched back into the pillow as though he could sink into it, disappear into the boards of the bed forever, leave before the shell of a body that Von Bergow delighted in desecrating.  

The first stroke of his shaft came slow. One hand enclosed him, sliding up and sliding down, while the other thumbed the foreskin back, peeling it to bare the pink, glistening crown beneath. That tender blush of flesh seemed to gleam under Von Bergow’s hungry gaze. He studied it carefully, regretting passively that he hadn’t devoted more car to this the night before, when he’d conducted his exam on an unconscious subject.

He laps a tongue ever so gently across, directly over the slit.

Hans burned. His cheeks were flushed red, his neck blotched, and his ears scarlet. His whole body was the pure image of humiliation, and his cock continued to lie stubbornly unresponsive in his captor’s palm.  

“You don’t strike me as a man ashamed of his body.” Von Bergow immediately singled out the red across Hans’ features, wanting him to drown in shame. “And yet, here you lay, burning. Curious, isn’t it?” His thumb continued toying with that delicate tip, smearing the dampness he’d left there. The shaft continue to lay in his fist, held upright.

Hans forced himself to meet his eyes. The look he gave was clouded, a storm of rage warring in those blue-eyed depths, his lashes heavy with unshed moisture, and his skin still lit up with a tasty shade of crimson.

Von Bergow drank this look as if it were the finest wine in all the province.

He holds this gaze as he swept his tongue over the slit once again, a show of pure dominance.

Ownership.

Hans broke eye contact, his head thudding back into the pillow as he seemed to surrender. His chest heaved, and the gag muffled various pitiful sounds.

“Perhaps I’ll remove that.” Von Bergow decided, reaching for the cloth.

He wanted to hear Hans’ voice again. Listen to him whine properly as he-

A knock interrupted him.

Von Bergow froze, irritating flashing across his features. He stilled, the cock still held upright in his hand with an air of simplicity, as if he were merely holding a goblet.

Another knock, this one hard enough to rattle the wood, signaling its urgency.

He let slip a long, frustrated sigh. His eyes peered at Hans’ flushed, trembling form one last time before rising to answer the door.

“Where is he?!” Erik’s voice tore through the air. “Let me see him!”

“The captive?” Von Bergow inquired, his shoulders squared against the doorframe like a barrier of unmoving stone.

“That bastard of Radzig is tearing everything apart! It’s time he learns he can’t just do whatever the fuck he wants, kill whoever he wants!” Erik’s expression was wild, his veins bulging as he tried to shove forward.  

“And what do you expect to do when you barge in here?” Von Bergow remains leveled. His calm was more dangerous than a shout.

“I’m going to kill him.” Erik leveled his tone to match a frightening amount of quiet.

“No. He’s still a nobleman, and his blood isn’t ours to spill. Not yet,”

“Oh?” Erik snarled. “And you think raping him is acceptable? That it won’t draw heads onto pikes? They’ll come for you same as me, you mad fuck!”

“You need to watch your tongue.” Von Bergow stepped forward, forcing the conversation out of the room as his chest nearly touched Erik’s. “You seem to have forgotten your place,” His breath came slow, the frustration of interruption coiled beneath his words. “Walk away. Cool your head, or there’ll be consequences.”

“Blast it all!” Erik slammed his fist into the wooden wall beside them, the skin of his knuckles splitting from the force. He then turned, stormed down the hall and the steps as curses echoed after him.  

Von Bergow waited patiently until the sound faded. Only then did he finally return to his captive, closing the door behind him.

Hans was watching, his eyes wide and every nerve taut.

“I’m afraid your pleasure will have to wait,” Von Bergow gave a mirthless grin. “But next time, I’ll bring help with me.”

+

As soon as his gag was removed, and the latch clicked behind Von Bergow’s departure, Hans collapsed back into the mattress. His breath tore from his chest once again in ragged burts.

Pain sharpened every edge of him, and he began to twist, kick, and writhe with all the ferocity he could muster. The chains clinked and rattled, the bedframe shook and shuttered, but he still fought.

Surely, the chains couldn’t hold forever. Surely if he just moved harder, faster, his wrists and ankles wouldn’t stay pinned like this, splayed out like some sort of toy.

His prayer was silent, his lips trembling as he uttered reassuring words to himself as he he grew more frantic with every strain. Sweat dampened his temples, and the room seemed to close in and press tighter against him, almost as if he were back in that coffin all over again.

Tears began to dribble over his cheeks, leaving hot trails. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt as if he were choking. He thrashed his head side to side, until he finally forced a cry out of his throat.

It was unguarded, and completely raw. His body shook with sobs, the chains rattling through his bones.

“God, it’s not fair.” He rasped between broken gasps. “Please, what have I done? What did I do to deserve this?” His words tangled with hiccupping sobs. “I-I know I’ve been reckless, a fool, even, but surely not this… surely not this!”  

And God, yet again, maintained his silence.

Chapter 6: Embrace

Summary:

von bergow has a lot of fun. hans does not have fun.

Notes:

oh boy. this one's evil.
piss is involved.

Morning crept in after a long, restless night. Hans was stiff, his wrists and ankles lifeless in the restraints. Every one of his joints were aching, his body screaming for relief, but he still had to stew in the misery of captivity.  

Worst of all, he really had to piss.

This, he thought bitterly, is going to be his life until the war ended. Assuming it ever will.

The door suddenly creaked open, which earned a violent flinch from Hans. He pulled against his bonds despite knowing it was useless.

“Not happy to see me?” Von Bergow stepped inside, a satchel clutched in one hand. He grabs a stool with the other, drags it over to the side of the bed.

Hans opened his mouth, but no words came. His throat tightened, and the urge to break down began to overwhelm him but his tears had seemingly run dry. He already knew exactly what was coming. 

“The servants tell me that you’re still refusing food and drink.” Von Bergow remarked, setting the satchel down on the mattress in front of him as he took a seat.

Hans swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, as if an apology could somehow stop this.

“No need, you’re only harming yourself.” Von Bergow unlatched the satchel and drew out its contents, placing each piece neatly on the edge of the bed.

Hans heart began to hammer as he stared. A slim metal rod, a tongue depressor, and a pair of forceps.

“What’s… what’s that for?” His voice cracked despite his effort to sound steady.

Von Bergow rose without any urgency to answer his question, moving to light the candles around the room one by one. Shadows began to stretch along the darkened walls. “I told you that I’d return with aid,” He said. “These are the instruments to assist.”

Hans’ body locked rigid, fear coursing through him the longer he stared at those strange instruments. His breath quickened.

“Oh, don’t fret over that.” Von Bergow raised the forceps, turning them in his hand so they caught the flicker of the nearby flames. “I’ve no intentions of putting this inside you. I’ve heard of irreparable pelvic floor damage from improper use.”

Hans couldn’t stop the violent rattle of chains as he jerked on instinct. The image of that was not pleasant.

“As you know, I consider you a curious study.” Von Bergow continued, grabbing hold of the metal rod. He slides it along Hans’ shaft, gently tracing the pale skin.

“Wait,” Hans let out, breathless. “Don’t-”

“Ah, ah. Must I gag you again?” Von Bergow pressed the probing rod against the tip, explored its sensitivity as it threatened to enter through the urethra.

Hans jerked again, his chest heaving and his lip quivering as he fought every instinct not to cry. He felt so fucking helpless.

Von Bergow moved the instrument down to the balls next, cups them with a hand and lifts to inspect the area underneath as if there was something new to be seen. He allows the rod to slide downward and brush along the tender skin below before Hans seemed to shiver uncontrollably. The elder pressed deliberately, elicited every instinctive flinch that he could.

“How’s that feel?” He asked, almost mocking.

“Stop.” Hans uttered through grit teeth. His eyes were shut, his forehead perspiring with a fresh layer of sweat.  

“Hm. How’s about this, then?”

He used his gloved hand to pry Hans’ mouth open. He inspected the gums again, pressed on his tongue with two fingers, and reached into his throat, toward the uvula, until Hans started to gag.

All the while, he’s using his other hand to continue pressing against that soft area of skin below the balls.

Hans whined, strung tight as a bowstring.

Leaving two fingers hooked in his mouth, Von Bergow set the rod aside and picked up the forceps. He holds them up, allows Hans to glimpse at it before lowering it toward the tiny sections of hair along Hans’ groin.

Hans recoiled into the mattress as far as he could.  

Von Bergow chuckled. He closed the forceps around a strand of hair, slowly tugged until he decided to pluck it free. The quick hot sting made Hans flinch.

He repeated this motion at least five more times.

It hurt.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hans sobbed. “That hurts!”  

“Hush. It can’t be that bad.” Von Bergow smirked. He shifted the forceps, letting their cold tips trace the sensitive curve where thigh met hip, and hip turned to groin. He then raised the balls again, pressed the sharp tip of the forceps against the delicate skin there.

Hans jerked, his eyes flew open, and his head snapped back as if he were punched and the air were physically stolen from him, “You- you said you wouldn’t-”

“I won’t. I didn’t say I wouldn’t provoke a reaction, however.” Von Bergow was amused.  

That earned another sob of frustration from Hans. His limbs strained against the chains until they bit into the raw skin. The cool, sharp metal of the forceps continued to tease and stroke that ever so gentle spot of skin, and it forced a twitch and whimper out of him every time.

Hans couldn’t be sure whether Von Bergow meant what he said, and the anticipation of this tool potentially breeching him was its own form of cruelty.

“Alright, that is enough foreplay.” Von Bergow set the forceps down and picked up the rod again. He pressed it along the underside of the shaft again, up until he reached the top where he then digs into the tip.

Hans convulsed, a reflexive spasm running through him as his body began to betray him with the twitch of his cock.

“Ah. There it is.” Von Bergow brushed the hair from his forehead with a mischievous smile.

“Stop.” Hans sobbed again. He felt himself falling apart at the seams. He couldn’t take much more of this calculated violation, nor could he ignore the pressure that unwillingly began to build in his lower stomach. Why couldn’t Von Bergow at least be normal about his degeneracy? Just rape and dump, that would feel way less bad than whatever this is. He was certain of it…

Von Bergow grabbed the forceps again with his free hand. He lowered the rod toward the balls, toyed with them by stroking up and down with the metal, and simultaneously used the forceps to pinch and kiss every inch of the shaft.

A surge of blood began to finally stiffen the flesh despite Hans frantic shake of his head and the tears on the verge of spilling. His hated the way that his body preferred stimulus over mental wellbeing. 

“You rise at last.” Von Bergow noted.

This caused Hans to thrash, his head whipping side to side as if he could suddenly wrench himself free. The betrayal of his own flesh hit him like a spear through the heart. The heat building in his groin and the sensual touch of the probe and the forceps felt far too real. His lungs stuttered for air, and he couldn’t speak any longer.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of it to stop. He didn’t want to be here, at the mercy of this lord, made to be some sort of object to be played with and tossed aside when bored!

 Metal grazed the slit, skin was pulled, and the inner thighs were teased. Both balls were held in a palm, squeezed in tandem. He was worked hard.  

“You see? Even your cock betrays you. It swells under my touch, and it wants despite your crying.”

“N-not… not crying.” Hans whimpered. The words somehow hurt worse than the betrayal of his own flesh. His hips arched against his will, his cock stiffening by degrees. A wild sob ripped from him, and his body continued to shake with fury and terror.

Von Bergow continued pressing the tip of the rod against the slit until Hans began to convulse. The precise touches, repeated movements, it dragged him toward an arousal that left him panting, broken, and somehow more helpless than he was before.

The tools are suddenly gone.  

“It’s all natural from here.” Von Bergow said, packing them back into his satchel.

Hans’s head lolled back against the pillow, hair clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, every muscle trembling as Von Bergow wrapped his entire hand around his shaft, shifting into a fist.

He began to stroke steadily, quick, the obscene sound of slick skin on skin flooding the chamber along with Hans’ rough breathing. His breath came in desperate sobs, torn between begging and denial, his hips jerking up into the hand that currently owned him.

“How pathetic,” Von Bergow chuckled, his thumb dragging over the swollen tip, smearing the bead of fluid that began to spill. “Even your body doesn’t respect you enough to pay any mind to your words.”

Another guttural sob ripped out of Hans, born from pure shame. His release soon followed in gushes, an embarrassing mess spreading across his belly and his thighs. It spurted in thick ropes, each pulse dragging a weak moan out of him despite his effort to hold clenched teeth to swallow it back. His legs kicked weakly, back arching off the mattress as if the force of his climax wrung him dry from the inside out.

Von Bergow held him through it, kept a stroking motion as he continued to milk every drop until Hans was left twitching, smeared with his own seed. His dignity drowned in the sticky mess of his shame…

When the last pulse ebbed and his cock jerked weakly in overstimulated throbs, Von Bergow wiped his hand deliberately across whatever dry spot remained on Hans’ stomach, making the mess worse.

“Look at yourself,” he muttered, voice breathy. “Messy as a common whore…”

Hans made a weak sound, his eyes glassy with humiliation, the taste of his own degradation like blood in his mouth.

Von Bergow didn’t allow him any room to breath. Fingers, still damp with the mess he’d wrung out of Hans, caught his chin and forced his gaze toward him. The rough pads of his thumb dragged across Hans’s cheek, slow, almost affectionate, but sticky, smearing the humiliation into his skin.

“Such a pretty face,” Bergow murmured, leaning in close, his entire body lay across him as he moved. “Made to command, to drink and to fuck… yet here you are, painted in your own filth. Do you feel how warm it is? Do you feel what I’ve taken from you?”

Hans said nothing, tried to turn his head, but Von Bergow’s grip only tightened, nails digging into soft flesh until he stilled, trembling. The thumb stroked again, dragging across his bottom lip now, pressing until the salty taste of his own seed smeared against his tongue.

“Taste and swallow your disgrace, Capon,” Von Bergow smiled, eyes glittering with satisfaction. “A lord who moans like a whore and comes on command… No amount of wine will let you forget this.”

Hans gagged, tears slipping hot down his cheeks. His own body is betraying him not once, but twice. First with the climax, now with the tears of his anguish.

Von Bergow chuckled, let go of his chin only to pat his cheek with the same soiled hand.

Hans closed his eyes again, every gasp broken with a sob, all the while Von Bergow’s hand lingered, stroking his face as though he were nothing more than a trembling pet, shamed into submission.

The only bright side to this was that he somehow managed not to piss himself.

A bitter, relieved sigh slipped from him.

Hans trembled, his body wrung out and sore, but the torment wasn’t over. No, not yet.

The pressure in his bladder had still been building, ignored through fear, until at last it clawed at him with a ferocity, almost impossible to contain. He shifted, thighs pressed tight together, a whimper escaping before he could stop it.

Von Bergow caught the motion immediately. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, like a predator scenting his prey’s weakness. “Ah,” he said, his thumb dragging over Hans’ cheek once again. “Why didn’t you tell me about your bladder? No need to be ashamed, it’s a normal human function.”

Hans shook his head desperately, eyes wide, the humiliation already choking him. “Please, don’t-” He rasped.

Von Bergow’s smile never wavered. He opened his hand, drifted down from Hans’s cheek, down his chest, to his stomach, gently touching the trembling muscles. He pressed in, slow at first, then harder, palm digging into the soft spot just above his straining bladder. He used his other hand to guide Hans’ cock, holding it downward and pointed between his legs.

Hans gasped, a strangled cry as the pressure forced urine to gush down his legs. He twisted, tried to jerk away, but Von Bergow pinned him, hand grinding cruelly into his lower stomach to squeeze every last stream out of him.

“That’s it,” Bergow purred, watching with sick satisfaction as Hans’s body convulsed against his will. “Empty yourself for me, like an animal.” His grip never loosened, each press coaxing more from him, wringing out his bladder as easily as he had wrung out his cock.

Hans’s face burned, the tears never stopping. Warm rivulets ran down his thighs, soaking the mattress below. The tiny slivers of dignity that he had left evaporated with every humiliating hiss, every mocking stroke of Von Bergow’s hand across his belly.

When at last the flow slowed to a trickle, the elder chuckled, withdrew his palm only to drag it up Hans’s trembling torso, holding his jaw once again. He strokes his cheek with his thumb as though consoling him, but his intentions were far from pure.

“Your body obeys me better than you ever have,” He said, pressing his forehead to Hans. “Your seed, piss, and tears… it all spills for me. And I hope you remember that every time you close your eyes.”

Oh, he’ll remember it with his eyes open too, trust and believe. 

Von Bergow didn’t step back to admire the stained mattress or the sticky mess on Hans’ stomach. He instead loomed ever closer, the heat of him almost suffocating.

“You’ve spilled everything else for me,” He reiterated. “Now I’ll take some more.”

Hans shook his head weakly, tears blurring his vision, but his body was too wrung out to properly resist. He couldn’t muster a single word.

Von Bergow’s hands worked on himself, undid the straps and belts of his clothing. The sound of leather slipping filled Hans’s ears louder than the rasp of his own broken breathing.

Von Bergow crawled atop him, pressed his weight into the warm stain of the mattress. One hand gripped his hip hard enough to bruise, the other guiding himself with obscene patience. He pressed his cock against Hans’ entrance, grinding slow and not quite entering yet to properly savor the tension in the noble’s trembling body.

Hans sucked in, the sound caught between a plea and sob. His fingers pressed into the palms of his hands as he clenched up as hard as possible. Then Von Bergow pushed, unrelenting, forcing his way inside.

The intrusion burned, it stretched old wounds, it tore through every last layer of defiance, and Hans cried out, his voice echoing raw through the room.

“That’s better,” Von Bergow hissed, his mouth grazing the lobe of Hans’ ear. “I quite like the sound you made.” His thrusting began, hard, every movement a savage push with his hips.

Hans gasped in tandem with every plunge, reduced to sobbing moans that scraped his throat raw. His body rocked helplessly with the rhythm, forced to take the brutal pace, the skin of his thighs chafing from the friction and the liquid. Von Bergow’s grip on his hip tightened, pulling him back into every thrust, using him like a sheath.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed wet and obscene in the candlelit room, all mingling with Hans’ broken cries.

Von Bergow’s laughter rumbled against his ear, low and cruel. “Even like this, I can’t help but call you beautiful,” He grunted. “A young noble, spread and filled like any bathhouse whore.”

Hans sobbed yet again, his body shuddering with every cruel push, his shame spilling louder than words. His skin was hot and flushed, the entirety of his face and ears burning as red as the hatred in his heart.

Von Bergow’s pace quickened, his hips slamming harder. The sound of it was brutal and wet, echoing through the room as a drumbeat of domination. Hans dug his nails deeper into the palm of his hands, the skin of his ankles and wrists somehow tearing all over again from the brutal strain against his chains.

His sobs were reduced to broken gasps each time Bergow drove in to the hilt. His body convulsed, shuddering around the thick intrusion, every thrust tearing through the last shreds of pride, if he even had any left.

“Take it,” Von Bergow grunted in his ear, sweat dripping from his brow to Hans’ face. His hand left the noble’s hip only to grip around his throat, choking him as he fucked him harder, deeper. Hans gagged on the grip, eyes wide, breath ragged, every sob vibrating through the chokehold. “You like that?”

The rhythm grew erratic, savage. Von Bergow’s voice dropped to a guttural moan, his teeth scraping Hans’ ear. “You feel that, right? That’s me splitting you open, claiming what’s mine again.”

A satisfied groan tore from the elder’s chest as he spilled inside, hot pulses flooding Hans body, each spurt searing into him as if it were made of liquid fire. Von Bergow’s grip on his throat tightened as he climaxed, forcing Hans to feel every twitch, every pump of seed forced into him.

Hans gasped around the hold, now more focused on trying to get a good breath of air. The warmth somehow felt worse this time around, and everything about this… In the back of his mind, he noted that he’d much rather be drugged again. At least during that, he hardly remembered it. He only rotted in the aftermath.

He went slack, legs trembling, cum leaking from the stretch as Von Bergow still ground his hips against him, milking the last drops inside before pulling back just enough to savor the sight.

Sticky warmth dribbled down Hans’s thighs, mixing with the piss and sweat already soaking him. Von Bergow’s hand slid from his throat to his cheek, stroking tenderly as if caressing a lover. “Marked from the inside out,” He murmured. “You carry me with you. Now, and for the rest of your life.”

Hans squeezed his eyes shut, tears burning hot as the weight of violation suffocated him, the filth of Bergow’s climax seeping from him, undeniable proof of his ruin.

Was it just him, or was there far more seed this time around?

Von Bergow stayed close, relishing the turmoil beneath Hans’ wet eyes. He also, sick enough, enjoyed the smell of sex and urine that thickened within the room. He held Hans by the chin, pressed their lips together, earned another flinch from the young man below him.

“Do you feel it, Capon?” He mumbled against his soft lips, really wanting this noble broken. “My mark inside you, dripping out of you? Even long after this, when you’re returned to your guardian’s care… You’ll wash as many times as you want, perhaps you’ll even pray more often, drink yourself into a ditch but this won’t leave you. The sting of this humiliation will stick with you forever.”

Hans said nothing. His eyes gazed toward the side, anything to not look at the man in front of him. He closed them, but it still did nothing.

“You’ll smile again one day, live free as a lord, but in the dark of your room, the disconcerting quiet of solace… you’ll hear the slap of my flesh, the feel of your piss on the mattress, the sound of your own moans... And best of all, you’ll hear me.”

Hans shook his head, wanted to deprive him of this, but he was helpless. He was right. He took a long, shaky breath.

“Oh, and when another lover touches you- and you will find one, won’t you? You’ll gasp, you’ll shudder, and then you’ll remember me. You won’t think any longer of their hands, not of their lips, either. Only mine. You’ll think of the one that split you open, the one that wrung your body dry.”

He dragged his thumb across Hans’ bottom lip, pressing hard until Hans tasted salt and sweat, harder until his lips trembled.

“They can hold you, they can even love you, Hans… but they can’t unmake this. I am stitched into your flesh, carved into your memory. I will live there, forever. Even long after God welcomes us into his heavenly kingdom.”

Hans comforted himself with the fact that this man was most certainly never seeing God’s heavenly kingdom.

The abrupt silence lingered heavy in the chamber, seeped into Hans’s bones, burning hotter than the seed still moist between his thighs.

Von Bergow’s hand caressed his cheek one last time.

“You’re think about the first time, right?” The elder murmured. “When I had you before, while you were drugged. Limp as a rag, your body pliant, mine to use as I please. You don’t even know how easily you opened for me.”

Hans made no sound, no movements. He wanted this man to leave.

“But this,” Bergow continued, delighted. “This was sweeter. To hear you cry, feel you trembling, awake while I claimed you. There is something so enjoyable about watching your cock betray you, forcing your body to piss itself empty.” He couldn’t contain his joy. “I hope you remember this as fondly as I do.”

He kissed Hans’ temple, then drew back at last. Von Bergow fastened his many belts and buckles, redressed without any haste. His eyes then lingered on the trembling noble, soaked in seed and piss, his blond hair plastered to his face.

“You’re perfect like this,” The elder lord said, voice carrying cruel satisfaction. “Tamed and broken.”

“I’m not.” Hans finally spoke. Through all the filth, the humiliation, the degradation, he still managed this. “I am not broken. I’m not some toy!”

It was hard to tell whatever Von Bergow was thinking right now. His smile was gone. Did this meager act of defiance anger him? Or did it arouse him all the more?

“I’ll leave you a couple hours to wallow in your own filth, branded by my cock and my hand. You can pretend all you want, but I see the shame in your eyes. You’ll never be the same after this, I know that.” His smile returned.

He turned toward the door, opened it without any hesitation. He spared one last glance. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading after the door slowly shut.

Hans crumpled then. He can’t stop the tears that seem to overwhelm him. Somehow, whatever he’d shed during that entire ordeal wasn’t enough. His head was killing him, too. He needed water. A meal. A nice, hot bath.

He needed to get out of here.

The stench hit him hard- urine soaking his skin, the sheets and the mattress, sticky filth leaking warm between his thighs, sweat dried salty on his skin. It clung to him like a second skin. He gagged, but there was nothing to rise, only the hollow ache of his chest caving in with each shuddering breath.

His cheek burned where Bergow’s hand had stroked it, his hip ached where it was held, his… everything hurt.

His soul throbbed.

He can not do this anymore.

He knew Von Bergow was right.

Even if he got out of here, healed up, brought back to his life before of boozing and fucking, nothing will ever be the same again.

He can’t love another knowing what had happened to him. No amount of drinking will drown these memories.

If Erik returns seeking vengeance, he’s not going to fight it. He’s not going to scream.

He’s just going to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep.

Notes:

Do let me know if you like this <3

Also. Fun fact. I love this title. Used it for another story of mine in another fandom ;)