#slavery whump

[secretwhumplair]

Whump prompt XVIII

Caretaker is trying to buy whumpee to free them.

Only they cannot afford the asking price, so they're left haggling down whumpee's value, picking out every conceivable flaw and arguing with the seller that whumpee really isn't worth that - all fully within earshot of whumpee.

[echo-goes-mmm]

I love when Whumpers inspect their Whumpees

Grabbing their chin, tilting their head back and forth

Circling Whumpee like a predator stalking prey

Forcing them to strip so Whumper can see every inch

Running their hand along Whumpee's skin, up their spine, splaying their fingers over Whumpee's ribs

Whumpee doesn't know what they're looking for, if they're searching for anything at all

Maybe Whumper just wants to see Whumpee vulnerable, amusing themselves with the fear in Whumpee's eyes

Maybe Whumper really is searching for a flaw, ready to punish Whumpee after, but refusing to say what they did wrong

Maybe there's nothing wrong, they just want to pretend there is. Keep Whumpee on their toes. Sometimes they'll "pass" and sometimes they won't

Maybe Whumpee is being sold and doesn't know it. Whumper is inspecting their goods, calculating the price, what to offer, what to bid, etc

I love when Whumpers inspect their Whumpees

[jordanstrophe]

Hallow Island, 2

[part 1] [Series Masterlist] [Part 3]

CW: Back-handed slap, gagged, bound, manhandled, controlling whumper, kidnapping/imprisoned, sliiight failed escape attempt if you squint

The strap around whumpees wrists and ankles were undone and they were tugged out of their airplane seat by an arm.

Immediately whumpee tried to rip the gag out of their mouth, but whumper took it as an opportunity to get their other arm.

"Easy! Easy now. I don't want to hurt you. Calm yourself." Whumper lulled. The words sickened whumpee to the core as they got one more burst of adrenaline and managed to rip an arm loose.

"HEY!" Whumper yelled, swiping to grab them but whumpee twisted free and bolted out the plane exit just as it opened.

The second their foot was out the door, they ran face first into two guards who seemed like they were waiting right there for them. They each grabbed an arm and pinned whumpee between them, neither budging their grip.

Whumper sniffed angrily and motioned for the guards to turn them around; before striking whumpee hard against the cheek. They whimpered as the side of their face hit the guards arm by force.

"I really tried being gentle with you... Try anything like that again and you'll lose that privilege." Whumper spat, grabbing whumpees face as they flinched.

"Nod if you understand." Whumper hissed.

Whumpees eyes flickered between defiance and fear, before giving a small angry nod. There was nothing they could do between the two guards aside from giving in.

"Splendid. Take them to the hollow. I want them clean and ready for tonight. And check their cheek before they go up for auction, I don't want to see a bruise. It's bad for business." Whumper fixed their sleeve and waved them off.

Whumpee felt weightless between the two guards. If they fought they got yanked so hard their feet went off the ground. The island was surrounded by a sandy beach, their toes left skid marks from where they struggled. They tried burying their heels but all they did was get sand in their shoes.

Despite it being an island, they could see massive glass buildings in the center beyond the palm trees. Up ahead there was a cave with a built in iron wall and door. Whumpee tried to plead with the guards, but all they could do was make sad muffled noises.

The guard on their left never looked at them once. The guard on their right occasionally glanced to make sure they weren't squeezing too tight, at least not enough to leave a mark.

Someone from the inside opened the door. The halls got dark quick and soon enough, whumpee was gently laid down in a cell where they sunk to the floor on their knees. That would be their chance to run if they had the energy; it took the plane nearly a day to get wherever they were and they spent the last energy in pitiful efforts.

"Someone will be by soon to look you over. Just try and get some rest, mmkay?" The last guard spoke, looking over their shoulder. Whumpee ripped the gag out of their mouth and shouted "PLEASE HELP ME!" Before the door slammed shut.

Whumpee let loose a broken cry they had been holding in since they shoved the gag in the first place. 

To be continued- [Series Masterlist]

@enigmawritesstuff

[galaxywhump]

Prompt: Wren doing something that's blatantly stupid/suicidal (like going out into the jungle to pick fights with the wildlife) when he becomes apathetic about his own life, and Daniel's reaction to that?

[SV-240 masterlist]

Thank you for the prompt, anon! Sorry it's so late, it's been in the making for a while now and I finally got the motivation to finish it.

Warning: this is a rather heavy one; it's also not canon.

contents: slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate whumper, suicide attempt (nothing graphic), depression, restraints, comforted by whumper.

~~~

Wren leaves the house without Daniel’s knowledge.

He still has the tracker, of course, but when he left, Daniel was napping, so hopefully he won’t wake up for a few more hours. Wren just wants to go for a swim in the picturesque pond he remembers the path to. He’s unarmed, without so much as a kitchen knife, but he’s not scared. He’s not anything.

There is an emptiness inside of him that has had a grip on him for several weeks now. It’s the sort of hopelessness he’s been trying so hard to avoid, but instead of making him Daniel’s loving partner, it’s only making him… do this. Go for a walk in the jungle, looking straight ahead, not scanning his surroundings, barely flinching when he hears rustling and other sounds of the dense forest.

He’s had these thoughts a few times before, but now he’s decided to follow them. Not directly, even though he knows there are several options inside the house; instead, he lets fate decide, since it seems to control his life anyway. So he goes for a swim. If fate decides he should stay underwater, he won’t fight it, nor will he fight if it decides not to let him reach the pond at all.

He’s clothed, and yet feels so exposed, a puny human in a jungle full of animals he knows nothing about, having only met one, which tried to kill him. Maybe there are others like it. Maybe one is already stalking him.

Keep walking, not running, walking with calm emptiness. Get away from Daniel’s house, leave his life on the jungle’s mercy. He frowns when he feels a small pang of regret. He should turn back. He should live. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s far enough that the way back would be anything but safe, and he doesn’t want Daniel to question him once he returns. He takes a deep breath, clenches his fists, and keeps walking.

There are noises all around him.

There’s a noise somewhere behind him.

Soft steps, a low growl. He’s being stalked.

He closes his eyes.

And then there’s a familiar man-made sound, cracking bolts of plasma piercing the air; one followed by the sound of the animal fleeing, one hitting a tree just a few centimeters left of Wren, making him jolt in place.

“Hi there,” he hears Daniel’s voice, almost playful. He swallows and slowly turns around to face his captor, who’s standing still with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

“You missed,” Wren says, lifting his chin, though there is nothing more to his defiance, no spark in his eyes.

“If I wanted to shoot you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” There is no affection in Daniel’s voice, and Wren prefers it this way. “Have you forgotten about your tracker?”

“No.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows.

“What was even your plan?”

“I went for a walk,” Wren explains, looking him straight in the eye; his expression remains empty.

“Good one,” Daniel scoffs. “You know you’d be dead before the day’s over, don’t you?”

“I do.”

The silence that follows is unbearably heavy. Daniel gets it, and for a split second he looks genuinely surprised before going back to his usual unbothered expression.

“Come here. Let’s go home.”

Wren doesn’t break eye contact.

“And if I run?” he asks. “Will you miss again?”

“I’ll shoot, but I won’t kill you. I’ll target your leg, maybe both, and I’ll drag you back. Now come here.”

He does, his head lowered, brow furrowed, mind blank. The jungle around them is bustling with life, never completely quiet, yet the silence between them feels suffocating enough that it could spread over the entire forest, forcing it into stupor. Neither of them says a single word on the way home.

Home. Wren sighs. Home. Daniel’s house is his home now, there’s no denying that. He’s too tired to deny anything anyway, not to mention worry about what Daniel’s going to do to him after his stunt.

They’re still silent when they reach the house and the door closes behind them. Wren follows Daniel to the living room, sits down on the couch, and watches him retrieve two pairs of leather cuffs.

“You’ll have to be restrained more after this, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Wren puts his arms in front, wrists close together, and does the same with his ankles. The cuffs close, a familiar sensation, and he stares down at them, barely feeling anything.

“It’s for your own safety.” Daniel doesn’t crouch down, doesn’t sit next to Wren, still standing in front of him, towering over him.

“Yeah,” Wren repeats, his voice monotone; he only wants this pointless conversation to end, and Daniel can sense it, which doesn’t mean he cares.

“Look at me.”

When he does, Daniel frowns seeing the weary emptiness in his eyes.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, and his accusatory tone makes Wren flinch, like he’s being scolded. It’s the last thing he wants to experience today.

“Take a guess,” he mutters, lowering his gaze, as if even looking up requires too much energy.

Daniel sighs and his frown deepens. He knows the truth, as much as he doesn’t want to accept it.

“I won’t let you do that, Wren.”

“I know. Cause I have nowhere to run, right?” For the first time today, there is something in Wren’s voice, the tiniest of sparks. “I can’t fucking escape you and this-this fucking nightmare, I’m stuck here and you won’t even- you won’t even let me-” He gets choked up, and to his frustration he tears up. “Fuck, just fucking hold me already and spew your bullshit, I know you’re going to do it anyway.”

Without a word, Daniel sits down next to Wren, who leans against him and exhales slowly when Daniel embraces him.

“I’m not going to spew any bullshit. I just…” Daniel trails off for a moment and gives Wren a light squeeze. “I wasn’t expecting this, and it hurts.”

“Oh, it hurts you?” Wren laughs in disbelief. “Poor you, the guy you’re keeping captive and torturing is a depressed loser. Cry me a river.”

“It hurts me because I love you, Wren.”

“You said you weren’t going to spew bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit to me, and I hope that soon it won’t be bullshit to you, either.” Daniel sighs, a heavy sigh that makes Wren even angrier, which he knows is, at the very least, better than complete emptiness. Daniel doesn’t have the right to feel and react this way, not when he’s the cause of all of this. “And remember that you were depressed even before I bought you.” He feels Wren tense up at that. “You can’t pretend otherwise, it was right in your file. Depressed, isolated, drinking problem. You were lonely, and that made it possible for Berkeley to make you disappear without raising any eyebrows. Now you’re here, I’m here with you, I know about your problems, and I want to help. On my terms and at my pace, but I do.”

“You’re not helping,” Wren croaks, trying and failing to blink away tears, Daniel’s blunt words feeling like a dagger piercing his heart, over and over again. “I wasn’t- It was better than this, I wanted to get better, I just…”

He just couldn’t, and it was only getting worse, until he started spending entire hours - he was too busy to afford days - curled up in his bed, staring at the wall, questioning the point of it all, and he was alone, completely alone, and-

“On Earth, I wouldn’t have been there to stop you.”

Daniel’s words are like a punch to the face, strong enough that Wren would sway on his feet if he wasn’t sitting down. It’s true, he realizes in horror, and a painful sob reverberates through his body; he slumps in Daniel’s embrace, overwhelmed by the most terrifying what if he’s ever had to consider.

“Shh, sweetheart.” Daniel gently runs his hand up and down Wren’s arm and pulls him closer as he sobs, unable to stop, because Daniel is right, and he was so stupid, and in a twisted way he almost let Daniel win.

What could have been back on Earth doesn't matter anymore. Here, if he dies, Daniel wins. It’s a way to escape, but it comes at too great a cost, and now that he can think more or less clearly again, he can’t believe he even attempted that. So stupid, so stupid, and if it wasn’t for Daniel, the very same person he's fighting against, he wouldn’t be here right now.

He won’t thank Daniel, he can’t, but he leans into his touch ever so slightly, and he’s still crying, so overwhelmed by what he almost did and so relieved that he’s still here, still fighting.

“Cry it out, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

For the first time, though he would never admit it out loud, he’s grateful for that.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

[3-2-whump]

Escape Attempt Last

<prev next>

As in, there were plenty in between this attempt and First Escape Attempt, but I won't enumerate them (unless you ask nicely, I guess)

Set one year after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: minor whump, slavery, pet whump, noncon body mod (tattoos, piercings), threats of permanent injury (not followed through), burning, inappropriate use of a clothes iron

The first thing he heard that morning was “Happy anniversary,” whispered softly over him as he stirred awake.

Khaled blinked. The blond man leaned over his bed, not a trace of a frown on his stern face. Khaled groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea what his master just said, though that might’ve just been because he was never much of a morning person. “What was that?” Khaled yawned.

“It’s our anniversary,” the man explained patiently as he helped him sit up. Those broad arms and bruising hands that once (and occasionally still) struck fear into Khaled’s heart now supported him as he climbed out of bed. “I brought you home a year ago, and so I wanted to give you something special today, if you’d let me…” he trailed off with a smile.

Khaled shuffled toward his wardrobe and began picking out a pair of boxers, denim pants, and a shirt. “A year, huh?” Though he was still in the process of waking up, having never been an early riser in his life, his muddy brain was slowly piecing it together.

It was well into midday when Khaled finally let its implications sink in.

One year of his life in slavery. One whole year of his life spent in servitude. His head swam in an unsettling mix of shock, anger, and grief, emotions that traveled down to his gut and twisted it into knots. A lot had happened in a year; the sixteen-year-old shot up a few inches in height, his voice had deepened, and his body hair (everywhere) had grown in enough to prompt his owner to teach him about shaving and ‘hygienic practices.’ That was an embarrassing talk, and one that he deeply wished his father could’ve given him instead.

It had been more than a year since he had seen his family; were they thinking of him? Did they notice he was gone? He brought home one of their main sources of income; how was his mother coping, providing for his siblings all on her own? They didn’t hate him for abandoning them, did they? Khaled blinked back the mist in his eyes at the thought.

The car lulled to a stop. “We’re here,” the Boss announced, taking Khaled out of his head. He looked down at the small box resting in his hands. Twin diamonds set in white gold rested inside the velvety interior. At first, Khaled thought it was a mistake, since his ears weren’t pierced. The man only grinned as he simply replied “not yet.”

They got out at the now-familiar tattoo parlor, entering soon after they opened. This was where the boy got his second and third tattoos, the initials and the skull and snake, respectively. The bearded, bespectacled man known only as Leo spotted them immediately and approached them with a welcoming grin. He made small talk with Khaled’s master as he led them to the back.

“So, we’re doing a set of piercings today?” he asked, pulling out a pair of single-use gloves.

Master nodded. “Ears, just one pair for now, unless we want more.”

Khaled let out an unbidden scoff. His master threw him a reproachful glare. There is no we, there never was, he wanted to scream. He didn’t consent to any of his tattoos, what made the man think he’d be okay with piercings? Yet his owner initialed him like an object and drew the symbol of his crime family on his skin, and he could just do that –he bought him, after all.

“Well, let’s get to it, then!” Leo said.

“Wait. I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” Khaled murmured. Master glanced at Leo, who merely shrugged. He silently pushed past the two men and made his way to the front of the store to the bathroom, where he locked the door and slumped against it as he settled onto the floor. He allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath behind the closed door, resting his head back against it with a dull thunk.

One year… he thought morosely. A streaky bathroom mirror bordered with stickers glared back at him under artificial light. Curious, Khaled got up from the floor and leaned over the sink to look at himself, to physically see how much he had changed in only a year. How much of these changes were within his control?

None of them, he realized sadly. He turned his newly shaved head side to side to look at his ears, taking in the sight of the unpierced lobes as much as he could. These would change too, and that was also out of his control.

Or was it? Out of the corner of his eye, Khaled spotted a slit of natural light seeping in from above. He turned; there, above the toilet, was a small window, vented open to let in fresh air. He assessed the window immediately, judging that he was still skinny and flexible enough that he could climb through, and without much else besides a desire to just be in control of something, he did exactly that.

-

With exception to the mall incident (which shouldn’t even count, he genuinely got lost), this had to be the worst escape yet. He was recaptured within two hours, tied up and thrown into the back of a car yet again, and now lay on his back on a large table, hands and feet bound to each corner as two unfamiliar goons stood on each side. Beside him, Master stood solemnly ironing a dress shirt on an ironing board. His resting bitch face was back, and he was re-ironing the same sleeve for the third time. Khaled gulped, only sensing a fraction of how fucked he was.

“I really thought we had made some progress this past year,” the man growled. A puff of steam escaped the iron as he set it aside and hung up the crisp white shirt. He then moved on to ironing a pair of slacks. “I trusted you, I provided for you, I gave you everything you could ever need, and what do you do? You run away the second I loosen your leash,” he continued, straightening out a seam with a bit more force than necessary.

Khaled cleared his throat and tried to look up from his awkward position on the table. “I’m sorry, Master, I just freaked out- “

“Quiet! Let me finish.”

Khaled shut his mouth immediately. He sunk back down, fixed his eyes on the dim ceiling lamp above him, and awaited his punishment with dread.

Master continued talking. “You know, the last time this happened, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons.” Beneath the quickening pounding of his anxious heart, Khaled heard the faint hiss of the iron. “I don’t want to permanently cripple you though, mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

Khaled tore his eyes from the ceiling and looked over his outstretched toes. His master settled in front of his feet, the steaming hot iron in hand. Moist tendrils of heat lapped at his exposed bare soles. Dense as he may be, it didn’t take a genius to realize what was about to happen. Khaled trembled, then began struggling in earnest. The mob members held him firmly by the legs and shoulders as he thrashed frantically in his restraints, fearfully begging. “No, no, no, please, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “

“You’re only sorry you got caught,” Boss snapped. “Now hold still.”

Searing hot pain erupted in the soles of his feet as Khaled screamed himself hoarse.

After what felt like too much time and yet not much time at all, the goons above him let him go and started working on the knots tying him to the table. That must mean he’s done, Khaled thought, but why does it feel like my feet are still burning?

“Get up.”

The now untied boy paused rubbing his chafed wrists to look up at him in shock.  His master glared down at him coldly. “I said get up!” he shouted.

He can’t be serious. With horror, he realized the man was completely serious. “I-I can’t,” Khaled whimpered, “I -you wouldn’t -I can’t!” He caught his trembling lip between his teeth before a small sob could escape.

“I’m not going to repeat myself again, brat,” the Boss gritted out. “Get. Up.”

Khaled hung his head and nodded. He stiffly swung his legs over the table and gingerly lowered his burnt feet to the floor. The freshly blistered flesh barely touched the ground before an effusion of pain shot up his legs. He gasped in agony. His owner, meanwhile, stood in front of him in silence, waiting. Khaled sniffled, grit his teeth, and, with legs quivering and tears streaming down his cheeks, he stood up straight and tall.

“Walk,” Thomas said.

No. Khaled shook his head, completely unable to get a word out through the pain.

“Walk.”

Please, no, he wanted to say. He hung his head and shakily took a step forward, not making it even two steps before he collapsed. The strong arms of the Boss’ cronies caught him just before his knees could hit the floor. They scooped him back onto the table before one ran off to find the first aid kit, and the other ran off to get a basin of cool water. Khaled thankfully slipped into unconsciousness and took refuge in the nothingness.

-

A hesitant knock at the door brought Khaled’s attention back to the present, three hours after the Iron Incident. “Khaled, it’s me.” His master entered his bedroom soon after.

Facing away from the door in a fetal position on top of the bed, Khaled curled up even tighter. His heart picked up pace as he heard the man settle to his knees in front of his bed. “Your bandages need changing.” He flinched away when he felt the man’s fingers graze his injured feet, but ultimately he relented, letting his master unwind the soiled bandages as he winced and whimpered. Not all of the gauze was peeling off neatly. He heard a faint click of a tube opening, then felt cooling salve on his burned soles. Then, with a level of tenderness he did not think the Boss capable of, the man wrapped his feet up in clean gauze and taped the bandages in place. “One more thing,” he murmured softly, reaching into the first aid bag he brought with him.

Khaled had raised his head from his pillow, his red-rimmed eyes trailing down to his feet as curiosity overcame his pain and apprehension. His owner procured a pair of socks, gingerly slipping them over each gauze-wrapped foot. “There are plenty more of these, so if this pair gets dirty, you can just ask me for more,” he told him. “Comfortable, right?”

Khaled reached over and brushed his fingers against the soft fabric. His eyes misted with tears again at the act of kindness. “…They’re nice,” he sniffled. “Thank you, sir.”

The man replied with a pleased grunt before he lifted himself from the floor and stood, ready to leave. “Now then, is there anything else you need before I go to bed, Khaled?”

A hesitant silence. “No, but I-I’m sorry. Really.”

“I know,” he answered, his tone sincere. “Goodnight, Khaled.” Khaled flopped back onto the bed, face to the wall as he heard the door close gently behind him. What was that? He wondered. In the whole year that I’ve been here, he’s never been that gentle with me. Was that even the same man?He didn’t hear the faint click of the lock this time. In any other circumstance, this would give him hope, but at this point, the hope had been burnt out of him through the soles of his feet.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter

[whumperofworlds]

Welcome to the Whumpers' Retirement Home!

If you're a whumper and you're an elder, come live here! You have:

Whumpees who are forced to work and do everything you ask!

Pet whumpees who comfort you, whether they like it or not!

Whump bingos, where you play bingo but with ways to torture a whumpee!

Captive whumpees that you can torture if you need to blow off some steam!

And so much more!

(Feel free to add on!)

[rizzoto-whump]

"Whumpee, tell me one thing, don’t you ever feel the desire for freedom?"

The question dumbfounded Whumpee. Freedom was an elusive concept to them, nearly mythical. Their eyes widened, and they responded in their usual naive way, "Freedom? What could be better than being here, serving you?"

Interested in Whumpee's thought process, Whumper probed further, "Surely, you don't want to be serving me forever? What about your dreams, Whumpee?"

"Dreams, Whumper… are for free men."

[whump-blog]

Prompt 50

Whumper has owned his pet Whumpee for as long as Caretaker has known him, and while Caretaker has often considered taking Whumpee with him, he has never been able to do so.

Today, when Caretaker arrives at Whumper's house, he notices how bad Whumpee's condition is. Seeing the opportunity, Caretaker offers Whumper a juicy sum of money in exchange for Whumpee.

Whumper hesitates for a moment, but Caretaker tries to convince him by explaining how broken Whumpee is, how useless he has become over time, how his beauty has faded, and how Whumpee has become nothing but a burden to Whumper. Yet, Caretaker expresses his sincere interest in taking Whumpee off his hands and freeing him from the problem.

Whumper, without thinking much more about it, accepts. And Caretaker takes Whumpee home.

But, how will Caretaker get Whumpee to trust his good intentions after hearing all the horrible things Caretaker has said about him?

[secretsmutcorner]

First night, p.1

1,874 words | Mirai and the serpent king (sequel to A sunny afternoon)

Content | NSFWhump, noncon touch (sexual), noncon kissing, slavery, fear

Notes | This got. Out of hand. So here's the first part for now. Mirai is having... a time! The serpent king is having a significantly better time!

I don't know what I'm doing!

Of course, let me know if you don't want to be tagged in the nsfwhump parts.

Taglist | @yet-another-heathen @echo-goes-aaa @whumpinator @neverthelass

It was a full week before the guard called upon Mirai in the evening.

Mirai felt all eyes on him, his heart leaping into his throat.

He had started to feel oddly... safe, almost. He was starting to get accustomed to hear another elf sing, out of his own volition, like it should be, and to his language lessons, terrifying though as the concept had been at first. Of course he had known this would happen, and he had quickly found himself getting nervous at the daily appearance of the guard coming to collect whoever it was the serpent king wanted to entertain himself with that night, but other than that, he was fed and comfortable and unhurt, and not alone.

Sometimes it was just one of the harem, sometimes two or three. But this night, it would be just him and the serpent king.

He obediently got up and went over. He found he couldn't stop his hands from shaking, even as Aravia gave him a smile and a thumbs up in a bid to encourage him.

He was no longer sore, for the first time in a long while having been given the time to recover. His bruises had faded. It had to count for something; he had to hang on to the little things.

The guard led him to what he recognized as the royal bedchamber from the night of his arrival, knocked, and opened the door for him.

"Come in, Mirai." The serpent king was lounging on his bed, his eyes hungrily fixed on him. It still felt sweet, finally being called by his real name--and sweeter to hear his master doing it, not just his peers. But it wasn't enough to offput the fear clawing up his throat.

Nonetheless, he obeyed; the door quietly closed behind him, and he approached the bed.

"You know what I have called you for, of course." The serpent king reached out a hand and, like in that first night, pulled him onto the bed when he took it.

If it weren't for his words, Mirai almost could have fooled himself that nothing more would happen than then.

"Yes, Master. I'm yours." Mirai's hands were cold with anxiety.

The serpent king smiled, and very softly replied, "You are." He put his arms around him and pulled him up against his chest, his tongue flickering at him briefly, then he leant in to touch his forehead to Mirai's.

Mirai, of course, let it happen, following the guidance of the strong arms which were now, when he was sufficiently close, sliding down and down his back. He let his head drop forward against his master's.

He was being good, and that was how to earn what little mercy there was to go around. He had learned that lesson all too well.

"I let each one of my sweets ask for one thing I shall never do to them, within reason." The serpent king's golden eyes seemed to smile, even if it was impossible to read his whole expression from this close up. His hands cupped Mirai's ass firmly, keeping him close.

Mirai didn't have to think twice, not even on whether there was anything specific the serpent king was expecting. "Please- please don't strangle me, Master."

If Mirai wasn't mistaken, the serpent king's eyes softened at that. "I shall not, Mirai. You have my word," and then he closed the hair's breadth left between them and kissed Mirai fully on the mouth.

Mirai didn't for a second consider resisting; much less when the serpent king's hand came up to cup his head. He simply closed his eyes, tilting his head the way that seemed most conducive to what the serpent king wanted, and let it happen. When the serpent king's long tongue pushed forward against his lips, he opened his mouth and let it enter him, exploring wherever it wished.

The serpent king's body shifted around him, and his other hand slid around his hip, reaching, ever so gently, between his legs.

When he ran his warm fingers along Mirai's length, his body responded, in spite of all the worries in his mind. The kiss and the gentle invasive touches preceding it had already put his nerves at the ready more than he realized.

The caress, if such it could be called, wasn't fully unexpected. Many of his masters had figured out how sensitive he became after coming, and had gleefully taken advantage of it. You make such pretty sounds, pigeon.

He didn't bother to hold back a whimper. The serpent king probably wanted to hear him, anyway.

The serpent king's hand stilled, warm over Mirai's cock, and he pulled their lips apart, only to trace more kisses down his cheek and the side of his neck. "Are you alright?" he muttered as he went.

That was unexpected.

"Yes, Master," Mirai replied before he had thought it through; but it was probably the safest answer to give, anyway.

The serpent king resumed; but his touch remained light and slow, enough for Mirai to breathe through it, to focus his thoughts on how to best please his master, to remain just half-hard--uncomfortable, moreso knowing what the future might bring, but far preferable to the alternative.

"Lovely." The serpent king's other hand now ran through his hair, slowly undoing his braids. He leaned over to bury his face in it, and Mirai thought he heard, from there at the nape of his neck, a little hiss, like an animal.

The serpent king's body shifted, and--

The traders had been at it for hours, passing Mirai back and forth between them. Mirai was too exhausted to beg anymore; he had stopped screaming, his throat aching, even after the trader who had decided he was fed up with it had withdrawn from his mouth again.

"You’ll remember this fondly," the one currently on top of him told him, grinning, while Mirai could only cry weakly. "They say snakes have two dicks, and given you only have one little hole down there, guess where both of them are going?"

It had been true. Far down the serpent king's body--right at the base of his tail, Mirai realized, although he had previously struggled to determine where that would have been--not one, but two members had emerged, each of them big enough on its own to make Mirai cry if the serpent king so desired.

Or even if he didn't.

They were crowned with spikes.

What arousal the serpent king had coaxed from him was gone in an instant. Mirai froze, and then he cursed himself for it, because he knew the serpent king had noticed--he drew back from him slightly, returning to him forehead to forehead, his hand slipping up to his hip again.

"Oh, don't be afraid, little one. I won't hurt you tonight."

How, Mirai wanted to scream. But of course he kept quiet. It was enough work to keep breathing.

"And I'll never ask you to take more than you can."

But Mirai knew the serpent king, not he, would be the judge of that.

He still couldn't bring himself to move. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The serpent king put his arms around him, pulling him into a hug, gently guiding his face with one hand to look at his instead. "Shhh, little one. Don't be afraid."

He rubbed the nape of Mirai's neck, his scalp, and Mirai tried his hardest to relax. He didn't look again. It was no use. But then, his imagination surely made things worse-

He stole another glimpse past the serpent king's arms.

"Don't worry, little one." The serpent king stroked down his spine, then let him go. "Bring me that bottle over there."

There was a glass jar sitting on a low shelf by the bed, easily within reach of the latter without an excuse to leave it. He crawled over, all too aware of how he was presenting his behind, and picked it up. Some thick liquid sloshed inside. It had a strange scent--almost as if of... magic?

"Apply it to me," the serpent king said softly, his eyes filled with a hunger Mirai was all too familiar with.

Mirai was simply grateful there should be oil, no matter how little of a difference it might make given the serpent king's equipment.

But it was something more than simple oil; his nose had been right. The thick liquid that poured into his hand had a shimmer to it that could only tell of magic.

He very carefully closed his oiled-up hand around the first shaft. He had never liked handling his masters this way, far too anxious of doing something wrong, far too nervous at the wrongness of their most vulnerable parts in his hands; he should be the one vulnerable to their actions, as much as he feared it, and upsetting that order only brought more pain.

The serpent king hissed when he ran his hand up his hot cock, and Mirai was glad his hands, even with their claws filed down, weren't now holding him from the way they grabbed into the sheets.

That was good. His master was enjoying himself, and he was learning.

He cupped the tip of the cock in his hand, running the liquid over it, and--as it covered the spikes, it seemed to aggregate around them, turning their sharpness into mere knobs and bumps.

He would still feel them, and keenly. But at least he need no longer worry to have his insides wholly cut to ribbons.

The member in his hand bounced at his touch, and the serpent king made a sound that could no longer be even called a hiss, deep and throaty and beastly.

"See? I told you not to worry." He grabbed Mirai around the waist before he could approach the other cock, leaning back and pulling him, with force, on top of himself; he just caught the jar out of Mirai's hand before it could spill.

Mirai gasped with fright, catching himself with his arms on the serpent king's chest.

"Shh, Mirai. It's alright." The serpent king made an obvious effort to look him frankly in the face. "I won't hurt you. Try to relax."

His hands returned to uncanny gentleness when he grabbed Mirai's thighs, making him straddle his body, spreading his legs. Mirai was pulled down until he lay on the serpent king's chest, wholly exposed to the long, flexible body that would allow the serpent king to come at him from whatever angle he pleased.

There was nothing he could do but obey. Breathe. He rested his head in the crook of the serpent king's neck, his entire body over-attentive to every touch placed upon it. The warm skin and smooth scales beneath him. The way his hair was being ever so lightly tugged as the serpent king arranged it however he pleased, before his hands returned to running along his back, rubbing gentle circles like they had that first night.

"Easy, Mirai," the serpent king murmured, and for a moment, Mirai managed to believe he could relax. That he wouldn't be hurt. He knew he was being foolish, but there was nothing he could do to change the outcome anyway.

[pigeonwhumps]

Capture

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

WoW birthday event: used as bait | held for ransom | "it's a trap!"

Erik invites Cedric and his slave around for the evening.

1.9k

CWs: slavery, beating, whipping, non-consensual nudity (non-sexual), captivity, whumper pov, use of the word 'bitch', punching, bruises, drinking, drugging

Cedric yanks open the door to the boiler cupboard and claps his hands together twice, sharply. The eyes of the choppy-haired girl curled up on the hard floorboards snap open and she scrambles out, not quite fast enough to avoid the encouraging kick to her lower back.

"Look sharp, Savannah. Erik's invited us round this afternoon and I need you to look better than that."

He looks Savannah up and down. She's only ever allowed to wear black tank tops, shorts and either a bra or binder when they're at home, and her hair is still mangled from when she was a little bitch and hacked it off (she doesn't dare do that anymore). Her appearance isn't entirely her fault, but he does love how much she shrinks when he comments on it.

"Yes, sir."

"Follow me then. Quickly now."

Savannah bows low and follows hot on his heels. He doesn't look back - she doesn't need it anymore. He unlocks the door to her small bathroom, containing a toilet, sink, cold shower, and very little else. The only lock is a deadbolt on the outside. The plumber had looked at him oddly when he'd had it installed.

"Shower. Dress. Kitchen in five minutes."

She shuts the door, and he strolls to the kitchen, sinking down onto the worn chair. It's early afternoon already. He'll have Savannah make him a sandwich, then they can set off.

Five minutes later almost exactly, Savannah enters the room. Her hair is shinier now, and she's in a cute little blouse, cardigan and skirt.

"That's better. Ham sandwich and then you can take the beers to the car. I hope for your sake it's tidier this time."

"Yes sir."

Savannah fixes a quick sandwich, before bracing herself and hefting the large case of beers into her arms, staggering slightly at its weight. Cedric smirks, watching her legs. She has wood nymph blood in her, as much as anyone does these days. He's glad he bought this particular broken girl from Erik to be trained as his slave, even if she's had a few relapses.

She's waiting by the jeep when he gets there, perfectly poised with her hands behind her back and eyes on the ground. Cedric looks inside the jeep. Then he turns back to stare at her.

"Really, Savannah? Does this look clean to you?"

She hesitates. "Yes, sir?"

He cuffs her hard around the head. "Try again."

"No, sir."

"Better. You can clean it and receive a suitable punishment later. For now, get in the back. You won't get any dirtier there than in the rest of this vehicle."

Savannah obeys, climbing inside with the case of beer, hugging her legs.

It's a bumpy journey, and Cedric relishes every one, knowing Savannah is suffering for her sloppiness. Stupid girl.

Savannah staggers a little upon exiting, legs probably stiff, but lifts the beers without complaint. Cedric smiles. Her eyes don't even flicker towards the trees anymore. Erik broke her well.

Cedric rolls his eyes at Erik's ring doorbell as he presses it. He has cameras everywhere, it's so excessive.

Kieran, Erik's slave, opens the door, scrambling backwards to usher them in but not in time to avoid Cedric's punch to the chest. He strides past him as the boy doubles over.

Savannah's footsteps don't falter behind him. Good.

"Show us the way, then, Kieran. Unless you want your owner to think we had to do it ourselves?"

Kieran scrambles in front of Cedric and Savannah, still winded. Cedric smiles. He still resents the fact that Savannah is more afraid of Erik than him, her owner, but he can't take it out on Erik. The boy however...

Erik smiles as they all enter.

"Cedric! It's been too long. I'm glad to see you still have the slave I sold you, it would be a shame never to see her again. She was prettier with long hair, but each to their own. Leave us a few beers and put the rest in the fridge. And fetch the snacks, both of you."

"Yes sir."

The boy just nods. He hasn't changed much since they last met up, wearing a t-shirt and trousers with long, dark, twisty hair, with a few extra bruises. Erik has never avoided the face.

Cedric plops himself down on the leather couch and accepts a beer, taking a long swig. "Cheers."

Erik smirks. "Savannah giving you a hard time?"

"Nah. Hard week at work. I'll get her to give me a massage or something. How's your boy? Misbehaving?"

Erik shrugs. "Entertainment. And he needs reminders sometimes. All slaves do."

"Still don't regret keeping him?"

"Never will. Even the special projects I rarely keep, but I trained him perfectly for my needs and he's excellent. I'll need a new special project soon though. The space is looking rather sad without one."

The slaves come back in, carrying a plate of tortilla chips and another of dips. Cedric tries some and grins. The fear in both slaves' eyes is the perfect complement.

"Yeah, okay, I see what you like about him." He takes another swig of beer. "What shall we play?"

_

Erik throws his controller across the room. The slaves both duck, Kieran not quite managing in time as it grazes the top of his head. Savannah steadies him.

Cedric is well past tipsy and heading towards totally sloshed. He must've drunk more than he thought.

He snaps his fingers sloppily. "Girl, beer."

"Yes, sir." She obeys, pressing one into his hand. He drinks as much as he can in one gulp and then dumps the rest of the can over her. "Oops. Must be time for strip poker."

Erik smiles. "Kieran, fetch the cards and deal."

Kieran does so. They have... roughly the same amount of clothes, it's fine.

Erik loses the first hand.

"Clothes off, Kieran. M'choice. Top."

The boy pulls his t-shirt off. He turns his back, as is traditional, and Cedric whistles, sobering up slightly. The criss-cross of scars, the colours and textures and areas where they meet and overlap... it's beautiful. Amazing work.

"How did you create that?"

"Trade secret. Maybe I'll show you one day."

Oh, he'd love that.

The game passes in a bit of a blur after that. He knows his slave ends up completely naked, serving drinks and snacks with the same poise she had before, and then the boy removes the last of his underwear because it's only fair. He knows that he confesses to Savannah's occasional bitchy fits and, with encouragement, beats her clumsily with Kieran's belt.

"Hey, Cedric, what do you say I show you my special project workshop? You keep asking."

"Surreee."

"Kieran, help me get him upright. I don't think he can stand properly." Erik mutters something Cedric can't make out. Kieran obeys, and the floor seems to sway and swirl under Cedric's feet but somehow the slaves are staying upright.

He envies that.

It's only Erik with him now, who pulls an arm around his shoulders to help move him along. It's… it should be cold outside. Should it? He isn't.

There's a shed that feels so far away. He blinks, watching it blur. No, there's two sheds. Odd. Do sheds usually duplicate?

Then he's inside the shed. It's darker in there, things he can't make out. It feels unnatural. A shiver runs down his spine.

He wants to leave, suddenly, he'd much rather see it in daylight. His knees buckle before he can do anything about it.

“Finally,” mutters Erik from somewhere far away. “I thought you were never going to succumb.”

Cedric's vision finally goes, and with that the rest of the world.

_

Cedric wakes.

His head throbs like he's been on the biggest bender of his life. His knees hurt too, and his arms are numb. Must've been a hell of a night.

Doesn't feel like he's anywhere comfortable though. Where is he?

“Oh, finally! You're awake!”

The voice is too loud, but he recognises it and forces his eyes open, trying to figure out where it's from. Maybe he had someone over last night.

But then… he visited Erik, didn't he?

There's a dark silhouette moving around the dimly-lit room, and then his head pounds, eyes burning as a bare bulb flicks on directly above him.

The floor is bare earth, a pile of cages and tools in one corner. Cedric's on his knees, arms suspended above his head, naked except for what looks like a hospital wristband but black and sturdier.

Erik's in front of him, wearing a grin unsettlingly past ecstatic.

“What the hell?”

“You wanted to see my special project shed. This is it.”

Cedric growls. “I'm not your fucking ‘special project’. Let me down.”

Erik clucks his tongue. “You know better than to make demands. I'll let you down when I'm good and ready.”

Cedric snarls. Why's he even here? He's not a slave, he's not one of those pathetic losers fool enough to be captured by Erik. He's not weak or cowardly, like they are, he wouldn't let himself be broken and kept.

Wouldn't let himself get taken.

Hang on a fucking second.

“Did you drug me?”

“Took you long enough to cotton on. I always thought you were at least a little smarter than that.”

“Fuck off.”

“Now, now. That's not how we do things around here. And I don't give adjustments periods. Let me show you my baby.” Cedric narrows his eyes as Erik crosses behind him and comes back carrying a long, braided rope, split into nine in the middle. And each of the nine strands is in itself braided with–

“Fucking shards of glass?”

“I said I'd show you how I made Kieran’s scars. Quite something, isn't she? She's mostly reserved for my special projects, unless a regular victim gets too cocky. Lucky you, getting to experience her first-hand.”

Cedric responds by grasping the ropes tight and struggling to his feet. There isn't much to hold onto but he manages to get his legs under him, standing shakily. He needs to get out of here. And then he can get his bitch back and rain down hell on Erik and the boy for all of this. Admittedly he's not sure what the boy has to do with it apart from having the misfortune of being here at the time, but Cedric is still going to give him hell for it.

And then his legs are kicked back out from under him and he collapses back to the ground.

“You're going to be fun.”

Fun, thinks Cedric. Yeah. But why does Erik want him? Everyone's fun to break. Savannah has forest nymph blood, Kieran's part ceasg, but Cedric's completely human. Nobody buys full-blooded humans from Erik, that's not his business model.

Erik pulls him back to his feet and pushes him against a stout wooden pole that Cedric had been wondering about, tying his arms around it tightly. He growls, struggling.

“Temper, temper. We'll break that from you. Gotta say, I haven't been this excited about a special project in a long time.” He flexes the whip a little. “What do you say we get started? We need to figure out your baseline tolerances, so this whipping is going to be a little different. I'll keep going until you can't take any more. And I'd usually bring in someone newly-broken for this part, as a test, but I thought you'd like to see a familiar face. Meet Megan.”

Cedric hadn't heard anyone behind him – curse the customarily-silent wood nymph footsteps – but then Savannah comes into view. She's clean again, any injuries hidden, in a fitted t-shirt and long shorts.

“You look disgusting,” he snarls. She shrinks backwards, arms not quite coming up to hug herself but not quite not, either.

“Megan, get a grip. Take a seat. It's this man's whipping, not your own.”

“You can't just go changing my slave's name!” he cries, outraged. “And my name is Cedric.”

“She isn't yours anymore. Nor is that your name. Your *number* is now 197, until I sell you and then it's their decision. Now, let's start with your baseline whipping tolerance. Megan, do not lose count.”

Despite the humiliation, Cedric smirks at her. He's going to take that as a challenge.

From her seat on the dirt floor, Megan flinches but looks up at him determinedly, fear-filled eyes focused just off to his right. That's where Erik must be standing, then.

The whip hisses through the air and Cedric has a split-second warning before all nine ends land on his back.

All the breath is forced out of him and he arches his back. The glass tears into him, shredding the skin and flesh even beyond what the rope alone can do.

“One.”

“Louder, sweetheart, I need to know. It's not your whipping.”

The next hit is harder, rope abrasive, skinning, glass digging into flesh where the skin’s already gone. It rips a scream from his throat, one that should surely bring people running.

“T-two.”

“Better.”

Cedric gives up listening after that. If his bitch of a slave is allowed to sit and watch while he's whipped, Erik isn't likely to say anything sensible. He'll have to be alone before he can do anything.

But he's out cold well before that.

[secretwhumplair]

Bath

1,776 words | Mirai and the serpent king (sequel to Anxiety)

Content | Slavery, fear, nudity, noncon touch (yes sexual), strong language, implied past and future noncon, mention of choking

I feel we're getting into Dead Dove: Do Not Eat territory.

Notes | Obligatory bath scene! And the long-awaited first interactions of Mirai and the serpent king.

This one is overlength! Please pay overlength fee Jk of course but friendly reminder I have a ko-fi!

Taglist | @yet-another-heathen @echo-goes-aaa @whumpinator

It was a bath.

It made sense—Mirai needed some cleaning after the journey before his master could sully him again. He wished his could stay clean, even just to enjoy the feeling of it for a bit, but he knew well enough that wasn’t what he had been bought for.

A large basin was set into the floor, filled with clear water. Beside it, several jars and a bar of soap were lined up, along with a sponge, a hairbrush—Mirai didn’t look forward to a second brushing in the same day—and washcloths folded into so neat a stack it was impossible to tell whether it was one or several. On a rack on the wall, towls were hung, embroidered at the edges in similar patterns Mirai was starting to recognize from the palace’s floors and ceilings. The wall opposite the door was—well, mostly it was absent, the same sort of slender columns Mirai had seen before framing arched windows looking out over the palace grounds, sloping down from where the bath was situated on a sort of terrace.

The serpent king lowered himself into the basin gracefully, encircling the bottom twice, then looked up at Mirai with only the faintest trace of the hunger Mirai had come accustomed to seeing in his masters’ faces. His heart clenched, but there was no getting out of it.

»Come in, little one. Don’t be nervous,« the serpent king added, again with that little smile. »I won’t fuck you here.«

Mirai could feel his cheeks redden, somehow as embarrassed as he was confused. It should be reassuring, shouldn't it? Or it might be a lie.

He still braced himself before he approached the basin, and lowered himself on the edge, when he realized a logistical problem. He couldn’t simply—

»You may step over me,« the serpent king said, a flash of amusement in his eyes when he noticed Mirai’s hesitation.

Somehow Mirai managed to half-hop over the king’s serpent body into the center of the basin. The lukewarm water was pleasant on his feet, hurting from the days of hurried travel, and he immediately felt cleaner, too; now, surrounded by his master, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on what little mercies he could find. It would help him when the time came, here after a lie or anywhere. He needed to avoid tensing up.

The serpent king had lowered his upper body into the water until it was almost up to his neck, and looking down on him felt wrong, so Mirai moved to kneel before him.

The serpent king eyed him up. »What is your name?«

So much for not tensing up. What answer would be safe to give? Of course, his master could call him whatever he wanted. He had worn many names, most of them degrading or falsely sweet, since he had been first sold. The slavers who had brought him here hadn’t even bothered—

»Don’t be afraid, little one. I am not in the habit of tricking those who are already at my mercy.«

»I—my mother called me Mirai,« but then he couldn’t help himself but add, »but of course it is your right to call me by whatever name you please, Master.«

»Mirai is pleasing enough. Sit.«

And indeed, there was a stool submerged in the center of the basin Mirai hadn’t even noticed, so preoccupied had he been with observing his master and keeping him pleased as best as he knew how.

Mirai is pleasing enough. He swallowed down an odd lump in his throat.

When he sat, the serpent king moved behind him, taking with him the sponge. A hand slipped under his hair at the nape of his neck, moving it over his shoulder, and that was when Mirai realized he didn’t feel the bite of claws. When he quickly reached to hold the mass of hair out of his master’s way, he caught a glimpse of the hand, and indeed, the serpent king’s claws were clipped and filed down to be short and round and harmless.

Mirai didn’t know what to make of it, but he was willing to hold on to it, especially while feeling as exposed as he did now, not even his hair left between his master and himself.

But all that happened was that a flowery fragrance he couldn’t quite pinpoint reached his nose, moments before a warm hand ran over his back with the tell-tale slickness of soap. Then the sponge, now soaked, touched, scrubbing in gentle circles. He was being cleaned by the serpent king himself.

It was a little odd, sure; this task could have been accomplished or even just overseen by a loyal servant; but he wasn’t going to question his master’s whims. It felt nice, really, being gently touched without being fucked, even if he knew it couldn’t last.

When finished with his back, the serpent king moved on to his arms, going even lighter over the bruises the traders had left when pulling him along. It was kind, and it made it easier to relax a little, even as the serpent king moved to his front, never hesitating, fully secure—as he had every reason to be—in his right to touch wherever he wanted.

»I’ll lift you,« the serpent king warned quietly after finishing with his chest, then he picked him up and draped him across the coils of his body. The warning was kind, too, and Mirai tried to focus on the feeling of the smooth scales on his back as he was reclined, his hips and thighs raised to be more accessible to his master.

Once again, he was suprised; the serpent king simply continued cleaning him, lingering, sure, on his ass, and stroking, with feather-light fingers, once or twice more often than was strictly necessary over the insides of his thighs still bruised from the trader’s escapades, and watching his face for a reaction when reaching all the way between his legs, but after all he just continued on, moving down his legs as gently as before.

Mirai simply tried to squirm as little as possible. Looking up at the ceiling, he could see the same beautiful, intricate patterns inlaid as there had been in the throne room, blue and mossy green and white.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Finally, the serpent king was done. Mirai was clean. It felt nice; it had been a while since his last proper bath. It had been gentle, and kind. He couldn’t trust the kindness to last yet, but if things would continue on in this vein…

»Thank you, Master.«

The serpent king smiled, flushing Mirai with relief. It had been the right thing to say. He wasn’t used to speaking out loud, but even when he had been expressly ordered not to, he had always felt it put him at a disadvantage—not being able to plead and express respect and, yes, gratitude out loud meant they were more easily overlooked, or underappreciated.

He hated the sound of his voice, but maybe he could get used to speaking more quickly than he had thought.

»Did anything happen with your voice?« The question hit him unprepared. The serpent king soaked the sponge once more and easily placed him back onto the stool with a fluid shift of his body, moving behind him again.

»Yes, Master.« He avoided thinking about it when he could, and not just because of the devastation it had caused him in the long run - the disgust or outright punishment he was met with whenever he opened his mouth, until speaking filled him with dread. The event itself had been horrifying enough. »One of my old masters liked to choke me when he took me. One time, he - it was more than my throat could take. It never recovered.«

He shouldn't have said that. The serpent king's face was a quiet sort, but he had long since learned to read the smallest expressions, and he saw the anger flaring up.

His master must have noticed his worry. »I am not angry with you, Mirai. I am angry that someone would recklessly endanger the life of a slave they're responsible for like this. And with those who sold you to me, for trying to scam me by hiding it.

»Does it hurt?«

Mirai shook his head before he caught himself; his master wanted him to speak, so he would speak; his apprehension didn’t matter.

»No, Master.« The pain had faded eventually, after weeks of every breath feeling like a stab, every swallow feeling like dying over again - like he had felt there under his master, passing out with the pain in his throat his final sensation, certain he would not wake up that time. He was sold soon after that, when his voice wouldn't recover. He was worthless to his master without it.

»Good.« The serpent king squeezed the water from the sponge out over Mirai’s head, letting it trickle down his hair.

Mirai remained still as he repeated the process a few times until his hair was sufficiently watered, again trying not to overthink. It didn’t really matter whether it was good or bad that speaking didn’t hurt, he’d have to do as he was asked regardless, but it was nice that his master thought it was good. Right?

The serpent king reached for one of the jars, and soon Mirai felt another liquid drip onto his scalp, thicker than the water before. It smelled—not bad, a little tart, herbal—and was then brushed into his hair.

»I’ll want you to do this yourself, every week,« the serpent king said as he gently—yes, still so gently, much more so than the traders or anyone else had ever been—worked through Mirai’s hair.

»Yes, Master.« Mirai had to trust he’d be given the means to. It wasn’t always so, he knew that, and he would still be blamed if he wasn’t; but there was nothing else he could do.

After he put the brush aside, the serpent king ran his hands through his hair several times, never catching on the slightest remaining tangle. Mirai was used to his masters playing with his hair, and he just was grateful it was this light.

»You’re very pretty already, I’m sure you know,« the serpent king said, in a low voice, but close. Mirai was used to that, too; everything from shallow compliments to words so demeaning even those speaking them didn’t want to say them out loud had been whispered in his ear. He knew which end of the spectrum he preferred. »But you’ll be even prettier. Come, Mirai. Let us go eat.«

[echo-goes-mmm]

So we all the love the whumpee-thinks-caretaker-is-their-new-master trope but what if it's true

Caretaker who did buy whumpee, and who does wholeheartedly believes and acts like whumpee belongs to them

But damn it they take great care of their possessions. After all, cats and dogs get spoiled with treats and comfy beds and vet visits when they're sick and cuddles and a form of love

Why should a slave be any different? Especially because caretaker bought whumpee for companionship

Plus whumpee can tidy up, cook for themselves, hold a conversation, and even play games like cards or board games, and can go everywhere caretaker can

That's infinitely better than a cat or dog.

It's just such a shame their old owner was so terrible. Whumpee is so timid now, and nearly skin and bone. But that's nothing a good owner can't fix, right? The poor thing needs some proper structure and attention that's all. It's a good thing whumpee is human. It would be a lot harder to rehabilitate a rescue who can't comprehend speech.

And whumpee doesn't want to leave. Fetching files from a desk and playing checkers and occasionally cleaning the kitchen while master chatters about work is far better than being locked in a cold basement and getting beaten every day

Their new master doesn't lay a hand on them, their version of punishment is no music while doing chores, or no dessert

After all, you wouldn't hit your dog. Caretaker's new pet deserves at least that

[jordanstrophe]

Hallow Island, Masterlist

CW: Enslaved, auctioned, caretaker/whumper in one package (caring/possessive)

Part 1: The Plane

Part 2: The Cell

Part 3: The Inspector

Part 4: The Auction (Coming soon)

[galaxywhump]

Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago. 

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

[3-2-whump]

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

[a-painful-ordeal]

4. Endless Lists of Don't do That Again.

CW: implications/references to non-con/sexual assault. References to burning. References to slavery. Botched escape attempt. Beating with a belt. Fear of non-con. Non-consensual stripping.

“Just keep your head down, alright?” Was the last thing Trygve told Evan before showing him to the kitchens. And that was exactly what Evan intended to do. At least until he got the opportunity to run.

Over the next week, he’s given a variety of jobs, though by far the worst one is turning the spit that meat is cooked on. The hours on end of turning the meat on the heavy iron spit makes his back and neck ache; the proximity to the fire leaves him with blisters on his hands but worst of all, the smell makes his hip scream and nausea seep into his throat.

The kitchen itself is huge with at least 20 other people all scrambling to get things done. At first, he expected that at least a few of the kitchen people would be here voluntarily, but the stone-faced guard at the door, and the silence, other than hushed whispers attempting to coordinate jobs, suggested otherwise.

Evan’s job gives him a good view of the kitchen, and the repetitive nature allows him to make notes. When the guards changed. How can careful they are. At what stage they seem to get tired and distracted. Where the spare food ends up.

The guards seemed to change as the preparation for a meal ended. The kitchen itself had only a few small windows for natural light, and very few of them were allowed to leave their place in the kitchen outside of latrine breaks. Most of the staff also tended to sleep in the kitchen rather than elsewhere. This meant that the meals were the best attempt at keeping track of the hours that passed. So, the guards were likely changing every 3 or 4 hours.

The guards' distractibility seemed to alter depending on who was there. Some didn’t leave their posts at all, whilst one, slightly greasy-looking man seemed to take a liking to one of the maids, choosing to spend parts of his shift escorting her out of the room for a while.

Evan can only guess what was happening from the twitchy fear on her face before she was called away, and the blank expressions after she’d been brought back. The other kitchen staff seems to cover her absence seamlessly, and with her return small, discreet hand squeezes are exchanged. Evan meanwhile finds himself imagining several different ways it could be possible to ram a knife through the back of the fucker’s throat. It’s a surprise no one had even tried it yet.

Over the week, Evan uses his proximity to large amounts of food, to slip extra off plates. He stashes it in a small corner near where he sleeps. However, for anything that looks particularly perishable, Evan makes the quick decision to eat immediately. He needs to put on some weight if he’s planning on lasting any time without food. Evan has spent years watching how M works. How she uses her large dress to conceal what she’s taken. Evan is clumsier than her and a large shirt isn’t quite as good, but he seems to make it work.

***

The week passes, during which he hears whispers of a large celebration that is being held. The work on the day is more hectic than normal, and Evan feels his bones and joints hate him. The day goes on and food preparation dies down, and the kitchen seems to slump collectively.

Evan finally has a moment to breathe as the fire dies down and the pan scrubbing subsides. His knuckles had blistered from the heat and then been scrubbed raw in the dishwater. He moves across the room to a small pan of cool water that he uses to soak his bloody, painful hands.

That’s when he notices it. The guard is gone. The man had been here most of the time, but he had been sloshing back a couple of glasses of wine towards the end and now… there was no one else there. They were probably all at the feast… and…. Oh. A small surge of adrenaline bubbles into excitement. He, however, forces himself to stay calm as a half-drafted escape plan begins to be cobbled together. He lets it simmer whilst he covers up the second wind of energy that he’s experiencing by shifting his expression to one of exhaustion.

He moves his way slowly through the kitchen towards where he’d been collapsing most days to sleep, unnoticed by most of the exhausted people. As he passes, he picks up a silver plate, like the sort that they had been using today to serve food on.

He quietly and fluidly takes out some of the food he’d been quietly stashing and lays it neatly on the plate. Now the trick came down to confidence. Confidence that he was where he was meant to be. How confidently and precisely could he navigate his way through the building?

He weaves his way through the kitchen, keeping his head down. He can be certain the people here are too tired to care. And he doubts they’d hand him in. Not really. The guards were who he had to be wary of.

He exits the kitchen, scanning left and right before choosing the right corridor. Where he’d first entered had been heavily guarded. So, he may have better luck going in the opposite direction.

He threads his way through the corridors. Trying to prevent himself from speeding up as adrenaline pounds through him. There’s a momentary pause as the corridor bleeds into huge, grandiose halls. It’s more glamour and money than Evan had ever really seen in one place. Even compared to when he still lived with his grandparents.

The walls are decorated with expensive portraits and are lit by large candelabras Music and chatter echo from where the feast is going on. Right. He stops blinking in awe and wills himself to relax and think. Best to avoid that route then. He changes direction and begins moving through the halls and away from the large dining room.

Evan manages to get a good distance away from the party. He follows to where

the doors should be logically. Away from kitchens and dining rooms. Somewhere near a staircase. Rounding a corner his eyes fall to two large doors.

The entrance.

That’s when he hears footsteps and laughter. His breath hitches. But he forces himself to push through. Keep calm. Keep steady. Keep walking. He wills himself to remember that if he looks like he belongs. It’s no one will notice.

The steps get closer and closer, he steps to one side to let them pass respectfully. Heart thumping away in his chest. Praying they couldn’t read minds.

Two guards, clearly a little too drunk approach and begin to pass him.

Evan exhales as they keep walking and begins to move towards the doors.

The steps stop.

Keep walking.

“Hey… the feast’s this way.” A guard calls over. His voice slurs slightly from the alcohol.

Evan keeps walking. Slow. Steady. He’s doing a job. There is a reason he’s going this way. He has a purpose.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” the guard calls at him.

Evan stops. His heart is in his throat. There are two choices. Run or pretend. Play along and certainly get caught out… or…. The door is so close. He has a head start… it could be so easy. Pretend or…

He breaks into a sprint. Food scatters to the floor. He finds himself gripping the plate tightly as he does.

It takes a second for the alcohol-addled guards to process what’s happening.

Evan reaches the door and goes to wrench it open, as two large men barrel towards him shouting. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The door opens and as quick as a street cat, he’s out the door. His feet pounding against the cobblestone.

Despite the alcohol, the guards close the distance with ease. Hands lunge to grab at him.

Evan takes the opportunity and frisbees the plate off in a wild direction. His only weapon clangs as it cuts into the brow of one of the guards. “Fuck!” spits the now very, pissed-off guard, rapidly blinking, trying to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes.

Evan digs his toes into the stone path as he bolts for the gate. A huge weight body slams into him. He hits the ground with a crunch as the full body weight of a man is on top of him. All Evan can do is put his hands out to stop smacking his head into the cobblestone.

“Look! He tried to make a run!” The guard on top of Evan proudly declares, gripping the boy’s hair and yanking it to one side. “You thought you could try and get away, did you?” The smell of liquor on his lips is strong.

Evan struggles. Trying to shift the weight off him, the guard moves so his knee is in the small of Evan’s back, and he kneels over the top of him. His hand remains in Evan’s hair, gripping it painfully and forcing the boy’s head to the floor. “I wonder what sort of reward we’ll get for this.” The tone is low, and sickly.

Evan’s mouth goes dry and his mind flashes blank as fear creeps its way through his body. No. Gods no.

A kick to the ribs pulls him out of it making him gasp. “Fucking prick” the guard with the cut brow snarls. He slams two more into the boy’s chest.

“Excuse me!” Evan’s hair is released, as the man pinning him down sits up to look at his colleagues.

“That little shit just cut me. You can save-” he gestures wildly “-Whatever this is, till later! Right now. He’s mine.”

There’s a long, elongated sigh from above. “Fine.” Evan feels his hands being pinned but the pressure from his back is gone for a moment, only to be replaced by the feeling of hands at his waistband.

The fear is back. Colder than ever. He goes to kick but feels a shoe pressing his legs down. He attempts to crane his head around but all he can see is the dark evening sky.

His breeches are dragged down and there is a small jangle of a belt being unbuckled.

Evan goes still, the fear makes him sick and-

There’s an audible crack as the belt contacts the bare skin on his lower back and upper thighs. Red-hot pain shoots into the back of his throat. The leather stings uncomfortably and the shock causes his lungs to rake in more air.

There's another strike and another, layering themselves on top of one another. Burning and stingy, aching and throbbing. The leather cuts through his skin, ripping jagged, bloody lines into the boy’s pale lower back. The impact of the leather tears into him in a pain that leaches its way through his body and into his throat.

Evan feels the desperate urge to cry but as each strike drives air from his lungs, he finds that he can’t.

After what feels like hours, there’s a pause. Some sounds of shuffling. Before two, very weighty strikes come down. The guardsman is clearly putting his whole shoulder into it as he does. A large chunk of metal scours bruises into his flesh, as the belt buckle is brought down on the boy’s body.

Finally, after an eternity. It stops. Evan lies there. Panting, pain ringing out through him, and tears begin to well in the back of his throat. The pain throbs in the gentle breeze, but the humiliation feels worse. The heat of being held down and beaten like a petulant child, and the fear of what else they could do, rises in his cheeks as he swallows back tears.

He is pulled to his feet, hands pinned behind his back to stop him from running.

“Good. That’s a lot better.” Bloody brow seems more relaxed. “Take him to Lord Maynard then? I’m sure he’d want to know about this little escape attempt.”

Evan’s captor sneers “Oh so you get to do what you want with him and not me?”

“Yes. Because getting in trouble with the lord is not my priority tonight. Come on. And let him pull up his fucking trousers. I don’t want anyone to think I’m that drunk. Even if you are.”

Evan quickly pulls his waistband back. The fear is back. Like hell does he want to see this lord… But he has very little choice as he is marched back into the manor and into the loud feast room.

The room is lit by blazing torches, food that Evan had been working with a few hours’ prior litters the table, mostly still intact due to the quantities.

On entering, some of the chatter dies down. A rather large man, at the head of the table, makes his way down “What is the meaning of this?” his voice demands the attention of the room.

The bloody brow takes a step forward whilst the other guard, forces Evan to his knees, by kicking in the back of his legs. “We found this boy trying to run.”

The Lord paces slowly towards Evan, looking him over as he approaches. “This is the new one, is it not Sir Ademar?”

The hulking knight who had bought him looks up and sighs very slowly “Yes, my lord. It is.”

Lord Maynard approaches before finally stopping in front of Evan. He hums slightly, as Evan glares back in defiance.

Sir Ademar looks to his lord “He was stationed in the kitchens, my Lord.”

Maynard looks at Evan a bit longer before smiling. “Have him reassigned to me.” His gaze pierces through Evan’s very being before he looks to the guards “Take him to my chambers. And remember to lock the doors.”

The guards nod as Evan is pulled to his feet.

“Of course, My Lord.” Sir Ademar nods before gesturing to the half-orc, Trygve, to pour his wine. Trygve begins to pour, but for a moment he locks eyes with Evan. A look of frustration, sympathy, and pity. The message is clear. I told you to keep your head down.

-------

AN: And now we can move to needlessly tormenting my boy! :D Shout if you spot a typo or want adding to the tag list!!!!

Masterlist Next

Tag list:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump