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Wemmbu wakes very quickly. There is a something sharp—not sharp, he’s so tried he’s mixing up sensations—hard. solid. in his hair. There should not be something hard and cold and solid coasting through his hair. And he’s a fighter, for fuck’s sake, he lived through prison. He wouldn’t have survived if he didn’t have quick reflexes. So, as soon as his sleep-addled brain registers the sensation, he kicks out wildly, flailing around and reaching in his inventory for his sword.
He doesn’t have a sword in his inventory. Of-fucking-course, because the caves didn’t want him to carry his sword to bed. No, of course they didn’t, they like to have control over him, especially when they actually aren’t able to watch over his every move. God, it’s like they don’t trust him or something.
So instead, he lashes out with the back of his hand and his elbows, driving them as hard as he can into the source of the strange sensation, which is a…person. Huh.
They are warm, Wemmbu notices all of a sudden, not really as warm as they should be, but still warmer than the bed, which hasn’t been warmed by his body heat, because he doesn’t really have that. They are also not the most comfortable person he’s ever slept on/next to, what with strange…plates of something covering their body and their fingers—
Oh, that’s what that is! It’s like chitin, on the fingers in his hair and on the person’s body. Egg would be so proud of him and his knowledge of animal biology.
If he was here. Wemmbu’s mood sours even further, if that is possible.
The person (?) reacts much faster than Wemmbu can even comprehend, grabbing his arm and pinning it to their chest. Wemmbu goes very still, very suddenly, as his body registers that he is so tired—if Egg was here, he would talk about how it was because one of his REM cycles was interrupted—that he’s not going to be able to win this fight.
The body under him laughs, a rough and gravelly sound that is odd in the air. It sounds—oh, yeah. Voice changer. That’s a normal thing in his life, now. He’s gotta get quicker on the uptake, this would be so easy to manipulate.
Well, he guesses it is getting manipulated right now, but what’s he going to do? He’s trapped.
“Go back to sleep, Wemmbu.” The voice says, which. wow. He can’t really place what’s going on, but he knows that he doesn’t like this. This isn’t Egg. Which, that’s already not great. Egg is the only person he trusts to be in his bed. But, on the positive side, the voice doesn’t spike any actual panic in his mind, just mild annoyance, which might mean that he’s not in danger?
It takes a couple of embarrassing seconds for Wemmbu to actually assemble his thoughts into a logical sequence. “Why’re you in my bed?”
“I needed to make sure you won’t leave.” The words are sharp and mean, but the way that the hands come back to trail through his hair is so soothing that it cancels out any of the fear he would otherwise get from this. The difference in the way he is being treated is kind of staggering.
“Mmm not—” There’s a reason he’s not leaving. He can’t quite remember it, but it is there, dangling like a hostage in a cage off the roof of his mind.
The person humms, and Wemmbu can hear the smile on their breath. “Well that’s good, then, isn’t it? Nothing bad has to happen.”
Wemmbu wants to go to sleep so bad. But there is a person in his bed. Which—he’s not going to go asleep if there is someone is his bed, that’s just—he doesn’t do that. That doesn’t seem like a good idea. He’s not really coherent, but he is going to go with his natural instincts on this matter. That seems like the better option than just letting someone keep petting him while he’s trying to go to bed.
“So—” Wemmbu bats his hand wildly at the person, because his eyes are not able to register anything but fuzzy shapes, “can you—you leave now?”
“No. And you can’t do anything about it, you know.” Something about those words feel true to him, even if he has no reason to believe them, settling deep inside of his lungs like a cough. He doesn’t like it, but what else is new? This doesn’t feel all that strange in the grand scheme of things. Of course he is doing things he would rather not do. Of course. He is Wemmbu, that’s what he does. That’s what happens to him.
The feeling of his body melting back into the bed and the person and his body giving up is so familiar it basically takes no effort whatsoever. This person keeps villian-monolouging (because of course they do), and it really does help Wemmbu get himself back to sleep. He’s not registering any of the words, obviously, on account of the adrealine that has mostly left his system and the exhaustion crashing back over his broken form.
“You’re mine—” the person pauses, the words sitting heavy in their throat and heavy in the cool air of the bedroom, in the dark, “you’re ours. You belong to the caves. You belong to me.”
Wemmbu gets the dull impression, based on the way that the words are “heavy” and “laced with intention,” that if he was more cognizant, the words would scare him, as he is, they don’t. But hey, on the bright side, that means they aren’t having the intimidating effect they should! Yay.
The person also keeps up with their ministrations in his hair, trailing around the base of his horns, just light enough to be soothing and nothing more. Or maybe he’s too tired to even think of their being “something more.”
It just all blends together, at this point. Zam? Ash? Lettuce? fuckin—whatever the name of the guy he’s dealing with now? and it’s all the same, right? Control, weird power plays, looking at him like he’s a bug, fucking with him. Fucking him.
“We’re never going to let you leave.” There should be a finality, there, Wemmbu thinks. But he can’t find it. The person, the villan-of-the-week, says it and then pauses as if thinking through something.
“We’re not cruel, either Wemmbu, if that’s what you are worried about. Eventually you’ll stop wanting to leave. We’re going to take care of you. You won’t have to want for anything. I—” their voice cracks right down the middle, “I’m going to take care of you.” And inside of their words, in the soft, fleshy middle, is a sort of achy tenderness that rubs Wemmbu all the way in the wrong direction.
That, at least, is strange. The person sounds almost-maybe-close-to-tears, desperate for some word from Wemmbu, something to reassure them. What the fuck is waking-world-Wemmbu doing? How does he get into these kinds of situations?
This wasn’t—he probably would have taken some kind of mental note before about this if this was what this guy just like did regularly.
No one else does this. No one else did this. It’s not like—It’s not like Zam ever expressed this much fondness for him, and she was the only person out of the Wemmbu’s lineup of enemies who ever turned somewhat of a kind eye towards him. He doesn’t know what to do with this.
“Whatever, I bet he’s already fallen asleep.” They mutter to themselves, and shift slightly to cradle Wemmbu better, a position which lands them a little bit higher, and probably lets them see him better. He wouldn’t know, his eyes have not opened since he realized he wasn’t in any danger.
God, he just wants to sleep, is that really that hard to do? Come on, guys. Sleep? Sleep for Wemmbu?
It is really hard to sleep when Wemmbu can feel this man’s eyes tracing their way all the way across his body. Eventually, their hands come, too, out of his hair and gently trailing over Wemmbu’s body through their sleep clothes.
Wemmbu is too tried to react.
“You’re beautiful.” The person says, and that Wemmbu understands. Clearly, it wasn’t intended for him to hear, but it was aimed at him, Wemmbu doesn’t know who else here that could refer to. “You’re so beautiful, so perfect, so strong. For us. You’re going to save us.”
Their voice is very, very quiet, and very, very reserved. It sounds strange out of the mouth of someone who Wemmbu has marked as a—well, a “villian.” It has the cadence of someone at confessional, telling secrets to a pastor. It has the cadence of something that no one should ever hear. Wemmbu should not be hearing this.
They swallow. “You’re going to save me.”
Fuck, that’s what it is. It’s gratitude. This person’s mouth—their words—are filled with gratitude.