#im not retyping all that to correct hitting return on my keyboard too fast

[painonthebrain]

DAY #1: SANTA CLAUS

Claustrophobia | Forced celebration | Panic attack

Fandom: Original work/OCs

CWs: Captivity, nonbinary whumper, demon whumper, masc whumpee, angel whumpee, nonbinary whumpee (mentioned), restraints, humiliation, alcohol use/drinking, forced drinking, choking, beating (past), neck whump/gore (past)

@amonthofwhump

Hearing footsteps, Oath looks up, his face dark. His body is tense, forced to kneel, chains holding him down — pinning his wrists and ankles to the ground, with a slimmer chain around his neck keeping him from holding his head up. His muscles burn with the strain of holding the position. His wings are secured, bound together with tough leather, cramping and twitching, the tightness of the bonds creating a horrible ache that spreads from the limbs to his back.

There’s a spell circle keeping him from escaping too — but it has no use, because he has no way out of the restraints anyway.

The rest of his surroundings serve no further purpose than to humiliate and break him down. Blank concrete walls littered with cracks on every side box him in, still leaving too much space that he can’t occupy because he’s tethered to the floor. He’s cataloged every detail of this place, and still he hasn’t been able to leave. Now the only thing worth paying attention to is the person walking into the room, waiting for whatever cruelty they have in store for him now.

As Oath turns his eyes upward to see who it is, he sneers. The approaching figure is tall, imposing, with long curly hair tied back in a low pony — messy and wild otherwise. They carry themselves with a confidence like what Oath once had long ago, lips curved into a toothy smile, canines sharp like shattered glass. Their face is dotted with dark red markings, as if they gored someone only moments before, the deep black of their eyes reflecting back death and untimely demise.

It’s Marrow.

A demon, a beast of hellfire. Someone who thinks they can tame Oath, turn him into a trained animal, rip apart his spirit and turn him into something he’s not. Like it’s simple.

Oath’s eyes narrow.

He should be in its place.

He doesn't speak, merely eyeing the demon suspiciously as he bites his tongue. And despite refusing to speak, his gaze communicates his inner thoughts perfectly.

What do you want, scum. Going to beat me again?

The marks from that have already healed anyway.

Marrow stands, regarding him thoughtfully. Or at least appearing to.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” it teases.

“Shut up.” Oath scoffs.

Marrow goes silent for a moment, then smiles. “You know, that pretty little mouth of yours would look so much better without a tongue. I’d have half a mind to chop it off if that little halo around your neck didn’t do that wonderful thing where it stabs you!”

Oath jerks a hand against his restraints, trying to bring it to his throat. The halo around it does exactly what Marrow describes. It punishes liars for their dishonesty.

Oath has tiny little scars in a ring around his neck.

…

He’s been lying a lot recently.

He says nothing more. He’d rather not test Marrow. After all, he’s not the important one here. That’s Starling.

“Oh, don’t worry!” They wave their hands, brushing off the threat like it’s a silly joke. “You won’t be punished for that. I’m here to celebrate, after all.”

“… Celebrate what.” Oath says, his voice flat. He can’t imagine anything Marrow would celebrate is worth celebrating at all.

“Oh, you don't know?”

Oath shakes his head, regretting it when he hears it crack. No, he doesn't.

“I’m going to let you go!”

Oath stares. “Really?” Yeah, right. They still haven’t finished questioning him. The irritated pinpricks around his neck are evidence of that.

Yet for a brief moment, he indulges in the fantasy that his captor might actually let him go free. Albeit probably without his charge, but the cost of freedom is great sometimes. It would be worth it — besides, he could come back later to save Starling. Just to save his reputation. Just to save his job. Nothing more.

“That’s… that's—” That’s unbelievable, when did Marrow ever express any sympathy or care for him? Who is he trying to fool?

Marrow’s expression doesn’t look right, and Oath knows they don’t mean it.

“You're lying.”

“Oh no, I’m not! You’ll never see this place again, I promise.”

“Sure.” His voice is laced with sarcasm. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit. There’s two options: let him go or don’t. Simple.

Just pick one already.

Marrow grins. “Come now —” it tips Oath’s chin up to look at it, bending his neck backwards; Oath bites back a groan, knowing he isn’t truly able to stretch it that far, not without the chain around his neck — “that’s no way to act during a celebration! Loosen up!”

Marrow pulls out a flask from its pocket. “Here,” it holds the container out to Oath. “Drink.”

“Oh-“ He stares at it. “No… no thanks.” It has to be a trick. Besides, how does Marrow even want him to drink it? With them holding the flask for him? Heat rises to Oath’s cheeks. The idea is humiliating.

“I insist!” Marrow smiles, all teeth, and Oath shrinks back, as much as he can while immobilized by the chains.

“No, I don’t —”

“You don’t what?” Marrow growls. “You don’t want to? I don’t think you have a say in that.”

Marrow unscrews the cap and presses the lip of the flask to Oath’s, holding his jaw tightly, tipping the container back. “I. Said. Drink.”

The liquid spills down Oaths' chin and he chokes, sputtering as the bitter liquid floods his throat, almost too fast for him to swallow.

Marrow takes the flask away before it’s emptied, leaving Oath to hack and wheeze, spit and whiskey dripping down his chin. Gasping in fresh air and hacking, he doubles over with every cough. The taste of it coats his tongue and throat, hand in hand with searing pain.

“Was that good?”

Oath stifles another cough.

“W-wonderful.” He doesn't want any more trouble.

“Then surely you'll want more.”

“No no no —”

Marrow dumps the rest of the flasks contents on Oath. The alcohol drips down his forehead, into his eyes and down his cheeks, and for a minute, Oath is too stunned to speak. His mouth fails to form the words.

His body is so warm, the drink is like lava across his skin, washing him away as it dribbles down his face.

“Aren’t you just drowning in excitement? I know I am! I’ll be rid of you and someone else will have to deal with your bullshit.

“Someone stupid enough to sign a contract over you.”

Oath goes rigid.

“I only have so long to whip you into shape, now. So maybe you’d best behave.

“I know you’d hate to spoil all of this for yourself.”