#intimate whump

[whump-in-the-closet]

“For fuck’s sake, let me go!” As far as demands went, this was one of Whumpee’s weakest. They were getting tired. Murderous still, but tired in a way that made their bones ache.

“And get killed for my efforts? No, I like you tied up and kneeling.” Whumper reclined in the living room chair and with one finger, tilted Whumpee’s chin upwards.

The fire snapped brightly, reflected in Whumpee’s red-rimmed eyes. The flickering, laughing shadows mocked the bruises and the lines in their face.

God, they were tired.

Whumpee twisted, everything in knots. Everything wrong. From the carpet they knelt on to the chains around their wrist and Whumpers hand at their bruised throat. Wrong.

All wrong.

“You’re a sick bastard.”

[the-bloody-sadist]

Mori’s playing with sharp objects ✂️💉(full ver on Patreon)

[m3rakii]

Pretty little hero

tw: implied captivity, hero getting beat up, a lot, whump, non con touch (not sexual), a kinda yandere villain, idk what else lol

➽───── ⋆｡˚˚̣̣̣͙« ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ »˚̣̣̣͙⋆｡˚ ─────▸ 

Hero was lying in a slump against the wall, opening their mouth to say something witty, or at least a simple “Shut up” in response, but instead, blood came out in tiny droplets, splattering all over the wooden floor of the bed-  no, torture room. 

Hero rose up, or rather tried to, but with a swift kick from Villain in the gut, Hero was back on the floor, coughing, no… more like, hacking, growing increasingly worse. Hero clutched their side, letting out a small whine as Villain grabbed them by their shirt, lifting them up into the air, their feet dangling. 

Villain threw them back onto the ground, scoffing at the pathetic waste of space on the floor continuously wailing, sobbing, pleading, and basically, just being annoying. 

Villain sighed at the sight, as Hero’s cries grew louder, and their words no longer coherent, as they were blubbering, and blubbering, and blubbering-

“Shut up.” 

“P-please I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just, j-just stop, please, please-”

“Shut. Up.” The Villain repeated, clenching their fists. 

“S-sorry just please, ple-please don-” 

Villain grabbed them by the hair, tightening their grip as Hero let out a shriek, hitting their head against the wall, once. Twice. Thrice. And-, honestly Hero had lost count as Villain kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting, and hitting their poor head over, and over. 

Hero lifted up their arm, grabbing onto Villain’s arms, in a rather pitiful attempt to stop Villain. Villain rolled their eyes at this, pausing for a moment. They brought Hero’s head away from the wall, to slam it into the floor, however Hero had tilted over, collapsing, hitting their head onto the floor themselves instead. 

Villain scoffed, beginning to lift up their leg, however they dropped their leg, the sides of their mouth quickly turned up, and into a mechanical, almost grin as Hero’s eyes began fluttering shut, their vision growing dark. 

Hero tried to stand up once more, to preserve the tiny shred of dignity that they had left but, to their avail, they collapsed immediately, right into Villain’s arms. 

Villain’s eyes had slightly widened, yet visibly softened as they saw their dear, precious, Hero fall limp into their arms, now fully unconscious. Not Supervillain’s, not Superhero’s, not Sidekick’s, but theirs. 

Villain placed Hero against a wall gingerly, to grab, then wrap a plush set of bandages around Hero’s head, since it was the only place that was actually bleeding. Villain then lifted them up into a bridal carry, before kissing the top of Hero’s head, brushing their bangs aside. 

They left the room, walking through the endless corridors of Villain’s hous-, no mansion-, a manor rather, resembling a pristine castle. After a few minutes of walking, they arrived at Hero’s room, or rather, “Hero’s lush cell��, Villain said under their breath, mimicking Hero’s constant disapproval of being locked up in a room “against their will”. Villain let out a small sigh, before kicking the door open, and placing Hero onto an enormous bed. 

Villain grabbed the chains dangling on the bed’s headrest, clasping a separate chain around each of Hero’s arms. They moved back a bit, admiring their handiwork, contemplating whether or not they should chain Hero’s legs as well, so there was no chance of escape. Villain decided not to, however, since Hero would most definitely awaken to be very, very, dazy, given the state of their head. 

They moved forward, trailing their fingers along the countless bruises littering Hero’s soft, plush skin. Given most of them were fresh, most appeared a bright red, however a few dark purple ones also resided, especially around Hero’s wrist, which was a multitude of colors, since it was Villain’s very apparent place to manhandle. Though the Hero was extremely lean and fit, they were just so… tiny. 

Villain chuckled to themselves, as they moved down to Hero’s abs, drawing their fingers all over them. It was rather funny to Villain, that had they not drugged Hero, rendering them weak, Hero would have easily been able to attack back, and actually win. Hero was a miniscule little thing, well only to Villain really. Hero was around 5 '3, at max, which isn’t even small to most, but given Villain stood at the glorious height of 6' 3, Hero resembled as a little figurine, to the Villain. 

A gorgeous, little thing the Hero was.  

“You're so pretty…” Villain cooed into Hero’s hair, causing Hero to rustle a little, however still remaining unconscious. Not wanting Hero to awake just yet, Villain having many, many things to prepare for the Hero, they left both Hero, and the room. They slid a few bolts, and a chain while marveling to themselves just how adorable Hero would be when they awoke.

Just before they left, they peered at Hero through the peephole, letting out a soft sigh at the sight of their pretty little hero, just so helpless. 

Oh how much fun they would have the next day. 

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Tender

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Tender is the flesh that yields so easily. Tender is the flesh that refuses to yield at all.

Contains: Intimate whump, vivisection, gore, vampire whumper, captivity/gilded cage, mind control

~~~

“Stay with me, my light. I want us both to experience this.”

A shuddery, pained breath was his only response. The deep, vacuous agony that had swept over him made anything else seem inconceivable. All he could do was follow his Lord’s orders— keep breathing, cling desperately to consciousness, and maintain a steady outpouring of healing magic to weather the storm as his Lord cut deeper into his chest and pulled his skin aside.

It wasn’t enough to soothe the agony that ripped through him as his ribs met the cold air of the castle. It wasn’t enough to stop his blood from pouring out over his Lord’s fingers. It wasn’t enough to stop tears from gathering at the corners of his unseeing eyes. But his Lord wanting him alive, wanted him present, so he would keep his magic pulsing through him to deter the hungry jaws of oblivion.

“Beautiful.” There was something akin to reverence in his Lord’s voice as he trailed his fingers delicately along exposed ribs. A whine escape him; each touch sent panic and pain through his body, a feeling of distress and discord that had been muffled when his Lord had used magic to caress him in this way. His Lord merely chuckled, a dark sound that chilled his bones more than the open air. “Relax, my light. There is no need to be afraid. This is a wonderful thing, another way for us to be intimate. I’ve felt every part of you; now I’m going to see you, laid bare before me.”

The gentle touch turned firm, insistent, as clawed hands found their way to his sternum. The rush of fear had him closing his eyes; through the pain, he couldn’t see much anyway. A soft yet haunting scraping sound rang through the air as his Lord’s claws searched for purchase on his breast bone. His back arched at the sensation, almost bucking into those grasping hands as they found their grip and pulled. The sound of cracking bone was only drowned out by the scream of sheer uncomprehending agony that ripped through his rupturing chest.

Cold, comforting darkness surged forward to envelop him. There was no fighting it. His magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell back into oblivion.

Somewhere, someone was screaming. There was no sound, no voice, but he felt it, deep in his soul, a scream of rage and grief and terror so fundamental he almost thought the emotions were his own. If he could have shrank back from the force of it, he would have, but there was nowhere to flee to in the gentle, calm nothingness broken by the scream, nothing to do but absorb the torrent of love and fear that threatened to overwhelm him, and in his not-awareness try to decide what he could possibly feel about it.

“My light, wake up. You’re not done yet.”

His Lord’s voice was a lifeline, a shackle, a tether that wrapped around him and pulled him right back into awareness. He gasped like he was drowning, struggling to force his lungs to work through the pain that his chest had become. His fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically, a tortured body’s desperate attempt for some sort of control or release. Healing magic shuddered erratically through him; it was all he could do to keep himself conscious as his Lord wished, despite the wounds he had sustained, despite the agony, despite how little strength he had left.

A hand warm and slick with blood cradled his cheek. The sensation pulled a whine from him, even as he leaned desperately into the touch. “There you are, my light. I knew you could handle this. And it is glorious, is it not?”

Maybe it was, if glory was profound and all-consuming agony. That didn’t seem right, but he didn’t have the strength to deny it, to question it, to think much of anything at all.

The next weak, trembling breath he took was met by another hand pressing lightly against his lungs. There wasn’t enough force to prevent his inhale, but it still made his fluttering heart clench with fear, made his stomach churn with disgust and dread and despair. Lungs weren’t meant to be touched like this, even so reverently. They weren’t meant to be exposed to the same air that they breathed. They weren’t built to deal with clawed fingers tracing trails of blood down their lengths, leaving the body surrounding choking and spasming with distress.

And yet. Was any of his life really meant to be like this, when he was under the care of a being so dedicated to corruption?

“How wonderful. Even now, you are enduring beautifully, my light. A lesser man would have perished. But you are truly worthy of this, aren’t you? You’ve proven that time and time again. I chose well in making you my beloved.”

The words slid off of him like water off of glass as he struggled to just keep breathing under the gentle pressure of his Lord’s hand. The instinctual writhing of his body had already weakened, his strength having dissipated as rapidly as he had found it. All for the better; moving hurt, and risked damaging himself further. He couldn’t have that. Not when he was already struggling to keep himself together and whole enough to please his Lord’s will.

The hand on his cheek caressed him tenderly as it pulled away, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Did he feel better or worse now that it was gone? He couldn’t tell, at least not until that hand came to cup his heart with the same reverence it had held his face, as though it were the most precious thing in all of creation. The muscle quivered weakly, each beat an effort of magnitude, and he could feel how his heart strained to keep pumping blood that was spilling out against fingers that could very well push his body into stillness.

Heartbeat and breath. With barely a thought, his Lord could take away the very things that kept him alive. And yet, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Instead his Lord let him balance on the precipice, had him put everything into maintaining his grip on mortality, so that…

Why? For what end? Had there ever been a reason? Did he ever know, and just not remember? Or…

“What trust you give to me, my light, to put your heart in my hands.” His Lord’s words washed over him, mixing with the excruciating desolation that enveloped him to steal away all thought. “And who am I to waste this gift?”

He couldn’t quite see what his Lord did next; pain had overtaken his vision, leaving it blurry and incomprehensible. But he felt something new tenderly brush against his trembling heart— something he had felt countless times before, but never like this. The semblance of affection his Lord offered was just as chilling as the contact from the lips that kissed his heart, chastely at first, but then more insistently, more greedily. His lips parted in a silent gasp, his entire body rigid with horror.

How could he handle this? What could he do in the face of something this grisly and dreadful and perverse? If not for his Lord’s power continue to pull the puppet strings of his magic, he was sure he would have lost consciousness once again. He almost wished to; if this had to happen (and it didn’t, some part of him howled),he didn’t want to bear witness, be aware of being subject to something so uniquely violating in its intimacy.

At least his Lord wasn’t—

Teeth scraped against the soft exterior of his heart, sharp and probing, and despite how utterly empty and drained he was, he still found the strength to scream. Somewhere in the depths of his soul, someone screamed with him. And his Lord’s pleasure filled the room and his mind and the spaces between his ribs as his Lord drank and drank and drank from his frantically beating heart until it threatened to give out entirely.

And though his heart kept pumping that which his Lord loved so much, unable to fight the tethers of control, the tangled and thorny knots of emotion that encompassed it did begin to shrivel. As he lay there in utter devastation, listening to the screams in his soul, Elze’ith began to call back, crying out in agony and despair and determination, having realized that Lord Denholm would never offer him the tender mercy he so craved.

[comfy-whumpee]

If your whumpee is clingy and trained to give physical affection, make sure they have a caretaker or fellow whumpee who finds that uncomfortable and unnerving!

If they put themselves low down or kneel, or call themselves derogatory names, at least some people will find that offputting!

If they offer slavish devotion, that can be unsettling! Disturbing and pressuring! Unfair and destabilising!

Let your whumpees be creepy to outsiders!

[echo-goes-mmm]

Echo's Writing Masterpost

Ambrose and Elliot Masterpost

Ongoing

A runaway slave finds roadside inns and taverns perfect places to hide from his old master. That is, until the next stop has already heard of him.

Hoarding Behavior Masterpost

Ongoing

A village in the mountains risks angering its neighbor, a dragon. Unfortunately for a certain human, he's been chosen to be the peace offering. Hopefully the beast isn't hungry.

Moonflower Masterpost

Ongoing

A stolen fae is forced into slavery. Tortured into giving up his true name, he doesn't feel much of anything anymore. Until he's given to Queen Iris, who wants to make a deal.

Old Friends Masterpost

Finished, five parts

While captured by a notorious supervillain, Theo meets an old friend; one he thought was in prison.

(supervillain whumper + villain whumpee + hero carewhumpee)

Note: This was supposed to be a oneshot, but has expanded.

Second-Hand Goods Masterpost

Finished, seven parts

Emmett is the newest victim of a local serial killer. Or at least, he would be if the murderer hadn't gotten bored halfway through. But apparently someone is still interested in him.

Silas and Wren Masterpost

First version discontinued, Rewrite Ongoing

A lonely vampire decides to venture into the mortal markets to purchase a slave. He's sick of having no one to talk to, and maybe some company will make him feel better. It's just a bonus if they taste good, too.

Oneshots

Anniversary Present (vampire whumper + possessiveness)

Circle of Life (vampire whumper + whumper turned whumpee)

Evening Entertainment (non-con + forced to watch)

Juno (bbu-esque pet whump + allergic reaction + comfort)

One Week (vampire whumper + forced to watch)

Quiet Backstage (noncon body mod + captivity)

[cuteangsty]

Whump prompt #7

[TW: dehumanization, dub con, implied non-con, non con, Stockholm sindrome]

Pet whumpee can't process they ware abandoned so they keep referring to their past owner ar a romantic partner. Everything they say about their relationship is coded as romantic in whumpee's head. Stockholm sindrome at it's rawest form.

"We wanted different things, I guess..."

"we are on a break"

"we broke up"

"he would even kiss my sometimes"

"we would have 'at home' dates everyday"

"they loved me, they were just rough"

"they hurted me, but it wasn't their intention. They just liked it rough."

"maybe I got to clingy after we... You know..."

[whump-for-whumps-sake]

Intimate Whumper yanking whumpee into their lap and holding them there, kissing their neck, not letting go even if whumpee struggles. Telling them to stay quiet or they'll draw attention.

[poewritesgayshit]

☾⋆⁺﹐i saw a dead rat | fyodor/sigma ﹐📔

words: 2k

summary:

Sigma gets shot twice while trying to break up a gunfight. Exhausted and in pain, he decides to tend to his own wounds. However, he didn't expect Fyodor to be waiting on him.

content warnings:

drugging in conjunction with dubcon/noncon

wound abuse/improper wound care/fingers and tongues where they shouldn't be

whumpee sigma and creepy whumper fyodor

ao3 link below!

[ccieatchildren]

Prompt #2

“How beautiful you are when you lie, I’m certain even Lucifer himself is jealous of your prevarications.”

[go-whump-in-the-night]

“Look what you made me do.” Simms started to shift himself towards Knox, knife still held up as if to stab again, “Knox… why would you make me do that?”

As Simms came with arm’s length, he slowly, gently, laid the blade across Knox's pale neck, “I warned you… I warned you I would hurt you if you tried to wriggle away.” Simms looked almost hurt, “Why would you want to provoke me? What is it you think is happening here?”

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Shame

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

After so long, Elze'ith has learned how to take care of himself, though that doesn't make it easy.

For @whumpril Day 3: Shame

Contains: Aftermath of noncon, captivity/gilded cage, dissociation/depersonalization, isolation, briefly mentioned desire to self-harm

~~~

It always happened the same way. Lord Denholm would take him to bed. He would stay for a while. And then he would leave, and Elze’ith would try to bind the fragments of his soul back together.

It never seemed to work. It always felt like there was something missing, every single time. Something he could never get back, no matter how hard he tried. Pieces of him lost to the ether, and ultimately he wasn’t sure if anything resembling himself would remain.

Occasionally, Lord Denholm would take him to the bath himself. Even more rarely still, they would bathe together. Elze’ith found himself craving those moments, where he wouldn’t have to think, where he wouldn’t have to force his attention onto his wretched body. But more often than not, Lord Denholm departed straight from his bedroom, or his study, or wherever he had decided they would be coupling that day, and Elze’ith would have to painstakingly gather his strength and carry himself to the bath all on his own. It was never easy. But the idea of lingering in the sweat and blood and other remnants of Lord Denholm’s ministrations was far, far worse. And if he went early enough, the distance his mind tended to keep could carry through to his time in the water, and he could get himself washed without his thoughts dwelling on why.

Not that it was always easy. Just the mere act of being in the bath, no matter how scalding he made the water, could be enough to send chills down his spine. Even when he was alone he could sometimes feel Lord Denholm’s hands on him, sickeningly gentle, mapping out every inch of his skin. Those times were the hardest, when not even the quiet fog in his mind was enough to keep him safe, and he had to hurry to finish and get back to his room before the urge to claw into his own skin grew overwhelming.

Though there was a linen closet not far from his chambers, he started keeping a fresh set of bedding in the bottom drawer of his dresser. As much as he rarely wanted to go through the effort of actually changing his linens, of being faced with the aftermath of his encounters with Lord Denholm, he wanted even less for that evidence to remain. So he kept fresh sets close as hand, to accommodate for the frequency at which he couldn’t muster the willpower to venture back out into the castle halls to fetch something. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough; sometimes his sense of mortification and disgust and the fog that clouded his mind left him feeling immobilized for ages, and he would sleep in one of the chairs in his room rather than face what he and Lord Denholm had done together. But sometimes he could collapse onto a bed that felt cleaner than he ever would, and he knew to appreciate that.

As he appreciated the fact that he could set his laundry outside his door, and one of the servants would take care of it for him. At times like this, he didn’t even care that no one would talk to him, that he couldn’t speak to anyone even if he wanted to, that the halls were always achingly empty when he picked himself up from what he could not refuse. He didn’t want anyone else looking at him, talking to him, knowing him, out of some thorny mix of fear and shame and other emotions he dare not name. It didn’t matter how much part of him yearned for comfort, how much he didn’t want to deal with this alone, how the brambles in his heart felt like they were going to cut him open every time this happened. No, best that he be left alone. There was no helping him anyway.

It was all he could do to help himself. Go through the motions. Heal any outstanding wounds, the pain both grounding and disorienting but never pleasant. Put on clean clothes, so that he might feel more like a person and less like some monstrous, wretched thing. Brush his hair; it always seemed to get tangled. The routine of it was almost soothing in its own right, simple tasks he had completed thousands of times before and that he knew by heart. It was almost enough for him to forget what had just happened, to pretend that he was anywhere else. He never could, but maybe someday that blissful ignorance would come.

But now even what scraps of comfort he tried to stitch together were warped by how much of himself he had traded away. He drifted through a home that wasn’t his, dressed in clothes he would never choose and sleeping on a too-soft bed. There was no solace to be found in these frigid halls, no matter where he looked, and whatever he tried to cobble together was inevitably tainted. He felt like a ghost in his own body, haunting a life that was no longer his. He found himself glad that Lord Denholm had forbidden him access to a mirror. He didn’t think he could look at himself. Not anymore.

And yet he kept living. Day after day. He simply had no other choice. Such luxuries had been taken from him long, long ago.

[whumpers-inc]

"When I first saw you, I thought it was impossible to fall in love more than I did at that moment." Whumper paused to cup their former lover's chin in their hand, forcing eye contact.

"Now I realise that was only a crush. Having you here, covered in blood and bruises, completely under my control? This is true love."

[echo-goes-mmm]

Evening Entertainment (Oneshot)

My Writing Masterpost

Warnings: non-con, violence, forced to watch, slavery, past dubcon (oral), strangulation

Aster watched uncomfortably as Prince Richard tormented Sparrow. He’d come unannounced, and Aster was left scrambling to host the prince. Richard had unfortunately seen Sparrow, a small-framed slip of a young man, and there was no saving the poor slave. 

Aster regretted dressing Sparrow up in only a black leather collar and cute black boxers. It had been entertaining to see his staff embarrassed while Sparrow walked around unbothered, but it had only drawn Richard’s eye.

Now Sparrow writhed and screamed as Richard violated him bloody. Aster wanted to look away, but that would only encourage him. The prince struck Sparrow across the face again, splitting his lip.

Aster met Sparrow’s eyes, and the hint of betrayal in his expression made his insides squirm. He took a sip of his whiskey. Aster would have lit up a cigarette, but Richard had decided to put out his cigar on the inside of Sparrow’s sensitive thigh just to hear him scream, and it put him off from smoking. 

Sure, he’d put cigarettes out on Sparrow's shoulder once or twice before, but that was different. Sparrow was a present from a cousin, and Aster enjoyed him as an indulgence. But not like this. 

He never shoved Sparrow down on his dick when the slave sucked him off. He never strangled him, he never raped him, he never beat him black and blue and bloody. 

Sparrow was an amusement, a dutiful slave that fetched him whiskey and cocktails, kissed his boots and licked them clean. He wasn’t a doll for Richard’s sick games.

And Sparrow kept looking to him, to interfere on his behalf. Sparrow was so loyal and obedient, and he knew from the look on his face that he wanted to beg Aster to help him. Thank god Sparrow wasn’t so dazed from the blows he would actually do it. It would only make things worse for him, for the both of them.

But he knew the thought running through Sparrow’s head: Why are you letting this happen to me?

___________________

Master kept watching stoically. Impassive. Stone-faced. Did he even care?

He screamed as this- this stranger forced himself into him. It hurt so much. 

What had he done wrong? 

He’d been so good. He just wanted to go back to the way things were.

The stranger- the prince- bent him in strange positions and he ached all over. The stranger hit him across the face again, and stars burst in his vision. Blood dripped from between his legs and his ass burned. 

Please, he wanted to scream, What did I do? Sparrow looked up towards Master through his tears.

But Master didn’t seem interested in saving him.

Sparrow just wanted to kiss Master’s boots again, and be his astray and pour drinks and please him with his mouth like before. Anything but this. It was going so well; why was this happening to him?

___________________

In another life, Richard would be a bully on a playground, stealing little girls’ baby dolls just to tear the arms off in front of them.

Sparrow yelped as Richard flipped him over and grabbed his soft brown hair. 

“More wine, your highness?” Richard grinned up at him.

“Sure, why not?” He let go of Sparrow’s hair to take the glass of merlot. Sparrow hung his head, sobbing, while Richard sipped at his drink and thrust into him. Richard smacked his ass, hard enough to make Sparrow cry out and jolt forward. Aster could see the red handprint begin to form. 

Aster poured himself another measure of whiskey. He drank it slowly. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in the alcohol. 

He plied Richard with more and more wine, until he was too tipsy and lazy for another round of torture. 

Richard declined to spend the night, thank god. After hours of watching Sparrow scream, Aster was incredibly relieved to see him go.

Sparrow curled up on the floor, trembling from shock. Aster finally lit up a cigarette and sighed into it. He rang for a servant, and his favorite appeared at the door. She looked pale and nauseous. The whole house had probably heard everything. 

“Marcie, could you get Sparrow a change of clothes?”

“Of course, my lord.” She disappeared into the corridor.

“Sparrow,” he called, “come here.”

Sparrow looked up, tears streaming down his face and an angry purple handprint around his throat. He dutifully uncurled, and crawled to him. He had a limp. Sparrow gingerly sat in front of him, his ass probably still on fire from Richard’s roughness.

God, he was such a good boy.

He poured a measure of whiskey into a second glass. “Drink. It will help numb the pain.”

Shaking, Sparrow took the glass. He took a sip of it. Aster could see a flash of disgust on Sparrow’s face but he smoothed his expression quickly. Aster snorted. Of course he didn’t have a taste for whiskey. 

Marcie returned with a pair of clean underwear for Sparrow and a button up shirt. Aster hadn’t specified, but Marcie’s quick thinking was why he liked her. 

“Marcie, make Sparrow a drink that doesn’t taste like alcohol. Something strong.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He took the whiskey from Sparrow. He got dressed, wincing at every movement. Marcie handed him a glass of something colorful, and Sparrow took a taste and then a long drink of the cocktail.

“That will be all, Marcie.” She bowed, and left.

Aster took out his handkerchief. “Here, wipe your face.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You did well,” said Aster. 

“Why- why did you..” Sparrow broke down in sobs again, clutching the handkerchief. 

Aster slapped him. Sparrow quieted, looking down at the floor. He couldn’t let Sparrow think he could talk out of turn, even if Aster had made a mistake.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. No one is exempt from the crown’s desires. Even if his highness has three siblings and five nieces and nephews between him and the throne. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.” 

He sighed. “I doubt you’ll have to see Prince Richard again. He rarely visits the minor nobility.” He swirled the remaining whiskey in the glass. “This is the first time he’s come here.”

He downed the rest of the drink.

“Take tomorrow off. I don’t want to see you working. You’ve done enough tonight.” Sparrow looked up at him, his honey eyes grateful.

“Get something to eat before you go to bed.”

“Yes, Master.”

___________________

Aster went to his bedroom after some quality time with his cigarette. Sparrow was in the kitchen, as ordered.

He truly felt bad about the evening. It was the most awful thing he’d ever seen. The tales of Richard’s sadism hadn’t prepared him at all. 

He passed by the spot where Sparrow slept- on the floor, at the foot of his bed. Aster hadn’t given him much in the way of comfort. But Sparrow had more than proved himself with how well he tolerated Richard. 

Aster rang for a butler. 

“My lord?”

“Order something for Sparrow to sleep on. Something unobtrusive. He’s spent enough time on the bare floor. And get me a spare quilt.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The butler fetched the blanket quickly, and Aster placed the folded fabric right where Sparrow would see it. He was a clever boy; he’d know it was for him.

Aster went to bed. He hoped the echo of Sparrow’s screams would leave him soon.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[whumpitisthen]

I am not really big on intimate whumpers but I can make an exception if they’re hot enough ( vampires are always hot enough)

Vampires are always hot enough

You 🤝 Me