#king whumper

[whump-softie]

When they captured the Siren, the world lost its sound. Everywhere the King looked, everything he heard or commanded, was grey and boring and dull.

But the only way to truly capture the Siren’s voice, their unexplainable gift to command, to demand, was to ensure there was a contingency plan. A person incapable of falling victim, of succumbing, of listening.

When they forced the strongest soldier down, the King had his hand over the Siren’s mouth, knife to their throat. When they tortured the strongest soldier, over and over, forced into submission, took away their voice, took away their hearing, stole their world’s sound, the King only waited patiently.

The only way to ensure the Siren could not speak ill upon the King, could not demand someone to free them, kill them, kill the King, was to deafen someone strong enough to stop them.

When the King held his first meeting since the capture of the Siren, the room was silent. For the King, the people hushed their whispers and bowed their heads. For the Siren, they tiptoed like ghosts and stared like reflections.

For the soldier, who couldn’t hear a single thing, who couldn’t voice their thoughts, the room was quiet and still. For the soldier, throat still bandaged, ears still throbbing, the room would always be silent.

[shywhumpauthor]

Nothing better than a Whumper who wears thick, heavy rings backhanding a Whumpee across the face, the rubies that decorate their fingers splitting a gash across Whumpee’s cheek

And the little gasp that follows the impact

[cyberwhumper]

"Not the brightest decision on yer part, right?" The man laughs, guiding his captive through the seemingly endless crowd of people. All wrapped up in their own distractions, lost in a world of their concerns and tasks and appointments, not a single person seems to pay the two of them any mind. Not that, to them, there would be anything perceived as amiss anyway.

Pulled taut behind his back, restraints sitting so flush they bit into his skin, Whiskey's arms are sore and pained. This wasn't far from the reality of what happens when a mule is caught transporting illegal goods, but these people are supposed to be on his side. There's only one possibility in his mind that could lead to him being treated like this: Baxter thinks I snitched. Fuck.

A whole group of them had ambushed him outside an apartment building and roughed him up quite generously before Whiskey managed to slip away. Running had not gotten all of them off his trail, however, and when he was inevitably caught again they were all very eager to beat him up further for daring to escape. He's pulled up to his feet, unsteady and disoriented, restrained and redressed, dragged around like cattle through the parade of unsuspecting people.

The ritual humiliation is frustrating, sure. But being unable to do anything about it is nothing short of infuriating.

Realistically he knows what will happen to him once they reach Baxter. The man will string him up, beat him within an inch of his life, leave him there for someone else to cut down. Make an example of him. Torture recorded for later showings, abuse carved into the very essence of his being. Every step is another step in the direction of his demise.

When faced with the gallows, what other option did he have but to face it with his head held high?

In the hours that follow, as his flesh is pummeled and bruised and cut and burned, defiance serves as very little consolation.

But it sure makes Baxter mad.

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[honeycollectswhump]

Whumper's title

[masterlist]

It was the end of a lazy evening. Caretaker stretched as the credits of the last movie rolled. Whumpee was draped across her lap and had apparently fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. She wasn’t sure if he even witnessed the climax. Even asleep Whumpee had a soft smile on his lips; he seemed truly at peace. 

It hadn’t always been like that.

A year ago, serenity like this would have been unthinkable. Maybe he would have crawled into her lap if she ordered him to, but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t have been able to.

A year ago, he still called himself Pet or Mutt. He would beg for punishment, beg to be allowed necessities like sleep or food. But never for mercy because he’d thought he didn’t deserve it. 

A year ago, Whumpee didn’t even remember they lived together for years prior. 

But he did now, and that was all that mattered. God, how she had missed him and the time they spent together. Caretaker wanted to savor it all, savor every little moment she could spend with him.

With a smile playing on her lips, she brushed a stray piece of hair from his scarred face. She didn’t want to wake Whumpee up but she would have to. No matter how much she wanted it, they couldn’t spend the night like this. In the morning, his already aching back would trouble him even more. He was frankly too big for her couch, his feet already dangling over the side. With one hand she was playing with his soft curls, scratching the nape of his neck, and trying to grab the remote with the other – without success.

It had to be done. Caretaker softly whispered his name, tracing his jawline in an attempt to wake him up. He wouldn't budge.

“Whumpee”, the name came out as a soft chuckle. “Whumpee, you need to wake up.”

Again, nothing. 

This time she held him by his shoulders and started shaking him gently. Two bleary brown eyes stared up at her, blinking a couple of times. A sleepy groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright. Somehow Caretaker doubted that Whumpee was truly awake.

She stood up and held her hand out to him. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

Loosely, he took her hands and let himself be pulled up, almost immediately resting his head on top of hers. 

“Yes, Master”, he breathed into her hair. 

Caretaker could feel her blood running cold. She froze, waiting for any indication of what happened, any sign that Whumpee wasn’t feeling well. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t tense up or start shaking. He didn’t fall on his knees or stare at her in adoration and obedience or wait for her order. In fact, he didn’t seem to even realize what he’d said. Instead, he just nuzzled further into her locks, almost falling asleep on his feet. 

Slowly, she took a step backward, his hands still in hers, waiting to see if he’d follow. Whumpee shuffled along, although at a snail’s pace. Caretaker didn’t know whether to bring up what had happened but one look in his half-lidded eyes told her that any attempt at communication would just pass by him. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember how he got to bed in the morning. 

She took him upstairs where –at the sight of his own bed– he staggered forward and flopped down on his messy sheets. Caretaker followed him inside to tuck him in. While she was securing the blanket under his shoulders, Whumpee loosely grabbed one of her hands in his much bigger one and pressed it to his cheek. 

“G’night…”, he murmured into her hand. 

She couldn’t understand what he said after that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

This is very much inspired by this post by @whumpadventureprompts (i couldn't find how you want to be tagged when people use your prompts so i hope this is alright)

[whump-queen]

“You did so well”

It’s the way whumper says it—the way they speak to whumpee. It’s their voice—half the time angry, biting, and degrading, only to mutate into something sickeningly sweet in the aftermath of the pain, when whumper leans in close with sticky murmurs of affection—of mocking praise.

A toxic, slimy liquid that drips from whumper’s lips and oozes thick and heavy down whumpee’s ears and neck and shoulders.

It makes whumpee’s skin crawl. 

Or at least, it did.

At first. 

But there comes a point, during the more creative of whumper’s tortures, where the pain becomes too much, where the excruciating burn of the knife or the sear of the brand is blacking out whumpee’s brain and shoving their head deep underwater, shrinking their existence down through a tiny pinhole, only to be materialized again on the other side, dazed beyond belief, panting and shaking and still bound in whumper’s arms. 

It’s those precious few moments of reprieve in the aftermath, where the warmth of whumper’s shoulder against their cheek is enough for whumpee to sink into it— For their teeth to unclench, for their shoulders to slump against whumper’s torso, for their shaking knees to crumple into whumper’s lap.

For each part of them to give up—to give in— until they’re spilling hot tears into the fabric between shaking, heaving breaths, staining whumper’s shirt with the small beads of blood that still weep from their bitten lip.

Whumper only holds whumpee’s head tightly against their shoulder and let’s them ride out the sobs. 

tags—>

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[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

[ceramicwings]

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

[whumperer-86]

Mysterious lotus casebook epsidoe 30

[iolausian-fields]

ʜᴇʀᴄᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅᴀʀʏ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏꜱ s2e01 - The King of Thieves

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 134

prev next

[whumplump]

Content: vampire whump; unsuccessful suicide attempt; sunburn; aggression; blood; biting; swear words.

Word count: 1.5k words

The Angel King, chapter 1

Siege hesitated. He looked back at his brother's face. He looked ahead, at the door. He shot across the wooden floor until he left the house. His bare feet touched the grassy ground, damp with dew. He ran. He crossed the clearing until he reached the open plain. He couldn't hear the angry screams of his younger brother, who was trying to catch up with him right behind. He just wanted to escape. He didn't want to be a vampire. He was afraid of blood. One day, he hurt his face with his father's razor blade and fainted when he saw the blood running down his chin in the mirror. His older brothers made fun of him. The other day, they took him to the animal slaughterhouse to see the work. Siege was a child at the time. He cried, screamed, begged for his mother. He was booed, humiliated, like the fearful man he felt. He wanted to escape those memories. He was afraid of everything. Of the cold, the heat, the dark, the blood. How would he survive being a creature with a cold body, an unmoving heart, that only walks at night and feeds on blood? He preferred death. That's why he was running.

On the plain, he walked a long distance and fell to his knees on the grass. He saw the sun rise over the horizon. The star-king appeared, releasing its powerful rays across the entire plain. The sunlight soon reached Siege, who screamed in agony, feeling his skin burn and peel with condemnation. At that moment, Zaphir caught up with him. He pulled him by the arms, trying to get his brother to get up so they could run away, but Siege resisted. They both screamed in pain from the burns. Zaphir dragged his brother by force, desperate. If they didn't get out of the light now, they would die.

Siege, against his will, relented. Something in his instinct, which was now growing compulsively, told him to get out of there. And quick. It was greater than his desire to die. He got up and ran with Zaphir back into the house.

Zaphir slammed the door. The two brothers collapsed on the floor, covered in burns. A smell of burning flesh hung in the air. Siege curled up on the floor and broke down in tears.

Zaphir staggered to his feet and walked to a basin of water. He placed his arms in the water, feeling the painful sting of the wounds. He screamed in pain. He grabbed a handful of water and rubbed it on the side of his face that was burned. With care, the pain went away. The dead, burned skin detached from the rest of the body like shavings of coal, which turned into smoke as they fell useless into the water.

After he finished, Zaphir poured the water from the basin over his brother's shaking body. Siege coughed, choked and surprised. He felt the same pain as Zaphir: that of dead skin giving way to new cells. Zaphir roughly released the empty basin, letting it crash to the floor. Siege didn't get up, even when the pain was gone. He was still processing his new condition, imposed from now on.

“Do you think about what was proposed to you, brother?”

Siege glared at Zaphir over his shoulder. He continued crying. Zaphir knelt on the floor and hugged his brother.

“Tomorrow, I'll take you to see the city. You are confused now, but you will see our power. And you will love it.”

Siege woke up to a thump on the bed. Looking out the window, he realized it was night. Zaphir was kneeling beside him. They were both better dressed, no longer wearing the burnt clothes they had before. Now their bodies were covered in hazelnut-colored flannel fabrics.

"Did I sleep all day?" Siege asked.

"Yes. Me too. The necessary sleep. Now, get up and get ready."

"Where will we go?"

"To the capital, damn it. I told you I'd show you the city. Let's go."

"What do you want there?"

Zaphir didn't respond. He walked to a small mirror and stopped.

“First, come here," he called.

Siege got up and stood next to his brother in front of the mirror. He shook his head in disbelief. He knew that he himself was staring at the glass and that Zaphir was at his side. In the reflection, however, there was no one. No one. He was saddened.

Zaphir turned to his brother and looked at him proudly with a wide smile on his face. Siege didn't look back at him. Zaphir patted his brother on the back twice and left the mirror. He ran his hand through his long, straight brown hair, putting it back. He opened the door for his brother and waited for Siege to come through the opening, then left shortly after.

The capital is more populated at night than during the day. Torches on tall stone posts hold lights for the festivities. Music, dance, food. Cheerful gentlemen dance with perfumed ladies. Ownerless dogs are fed by charitable people.

Much joy. Little did those people know the danger posed by two ordinary-looking men, apparently peasants. Soon, the capital would be empty at night.

Siege watched the streets in fascination. Like his other five older brothers, he was born in the countryside, in the village. His parents were traveling when his mother was pregnant with her seventh and last child, Zaphir. His parents went to collect the rest of their children while the youngest boy was raised in the capital for a few years. Zaphir remembers a few things, mainly how pretty the fire lights on the ornate pillars were. He always wanted to share his fascination with the brother he was closest to, Siege.

Zaphir pointed to the decorations in the taverns, stalls and shops with his other arm around Siege's shoulders. The older brother looked happy. They stopped at a tavern and bought meat skewers and beers. They should take advantage while they can still consume human food, before the emptiness of their stomachs can be filled only with blood. They ate while talking, remembering moments with their family. They were alone in the world now, just the two of them, but they weren't sad.

“Hey!” A large, strong man grabbed Siege and Zaphir by the arms. “I already said that I don't want hillbillies in my bar!”

“Hillbillies?!” Zaphir replied, irritated. As answer, the man pulled the two brothers upwards, forcing them to stand up.

“Get out!”

Zaphir was becoming increasingly irritated by the tall man's attitude.

“Stop now, and I'll let you live…”

“Let's go, Zaph” hurried Siege, in a pleading tone.

Before Zaphir could protest, the bar owner grabbed the two peasants and roughly pushed them, until they were thrown out of the tavern. Zaphir grunted in annoyance.

“Leave it alone”, Siege suggested.

“No fucking way! He won't do it again.”

Siege saw Zaphir turn into shadow and walk with heavy steps towards the back of the tavern. He didn't follow, as he had managed to keep his meat skewer in his hand and wanted to finish eating. He sat on the floor and took generous bites of the meat.

After finishing, he reflected. What would his life be like from now on? Fear returned to his mind. He was also a little angry with the rude man from before, but he was afraid to act out. Unlike Zaphir, who was fearless and didn't take shit home.

Zaphir.

Siege stopped at the opening of the side hallway that led to the back of the bar. The darkness made that passage uninviting.

“Zaph?”

For a moment, no one responded. Suddenly, Siege got startled by the loud noise of something heavy falling to the ground. He started to shake.

“...Zaph?”

"I'm here”, the vampire's voice called.

Slowly, Siege crossed the alley until he reached the back. Zaphir was there, prostrate over the dead body of the bar owner. Siege put his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. Zaphir lifted his face from the dead man's jugular, his bloody mouth and vampiric fangs bared. He walked up to Siege who, in shock, had no time to react.

Within seconds, Zaphir had forced Siege to kneel and was insistently pushing his brother's head towards the corpse's neck, which was displaying fresh blood.

“N-No! I don't want to! Stop! P-Please, no!”

The tip of Siege's nose touched the pool of blood on the floor. The sweet, tempting scent of blood filled the vampire's nostrils until it made him dizzy. He stopped screaming, but he was still stiff.

“Drink it. Drink or you will die. I know you want this”, Zaphir persuaded.

Siege stared at the blood on the floor and at the dead man's mangled neck with wide eyes. Yes, that's what he wanted. He had just eaten, but he still felt hungry. It was what he needed. The blood. Blood. Blood.

He pushed Zaphir back and sank his head into the bloody jugular, feasting on the precious, invigorating liquid.

Zaphir wiped his mouth with his sleeve and watched Siege feed, satisfied.

[a-painful-ordeal]

5. Satanic and Chained Up

Cw: Slavery, slapping, extremist ideology in a fantasy setting, whumper believes in the Divine Right Of Kings, religious justification of torture, stress position, threats of a flogging, description of a flogging that hasn’t occurred.

Note: whumper and whumpee’s religious stances do NOT reflect my own. This is an exploration of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’ and general extremist bullshit. Evan’s views also are me playing with how atheism can manifest in a world where the gods frequently interact with mortals. Lord Maynard is a paladin and this is a subversion of the usual stereotypes.

---

Evan’s heart races as he stands in a huge bedroom with a four-poster bed. The beauty and size dwarves him in comparison. Beautiful curtains hang from the wooden frame above the bed. To one corner of the room is an ornately painted screen to change behind. The screen stands next to a well-decorated wardrobe. In the other corner, sits a wooden table with a bowl of exotic fruits that Evan has never seen before. A fire sits not too far from the bed, glowing gently in the absence of its master.

Evan moves around the room, checking and double checking the windows for an exit. They are locked. Fuck. They are locked.

His anger and fear blend together. Why couldn’t he have just gone along with those guards and pretended. Maybe no one would have noticed. At least that way, he wouldn’t have gotten a thrashing and- whatever this is…

Deep breath in. And out. Calm. He tries to relax as an eternity passes. Waiting. Focus on something else. Anything else. What would he be doing now…? If he hadn’t been so stupid to think someone would genuinely try to help a street kid. He’d be… bickering with Meg maybe. Arguing about her dumb fictional crushes which he had never been able to relate to. Or maybe he’d be telling her to put another flea-ridden cat she found back where she found it, or so help him… it was always an empty threat. Meg enjoyed the bickering. And in all honesty, so did he. Or, maybe he’d be trying to wash her smelly unicorn toy. That thing was disgusting. M, would probably be hanging around watching, or taking Meg’s side. M had always been soft when it came to the little ones, letting things slide that she’d chastise him for with a grin now. She’d looked out for him like that once, too. A long time ago. But now she counts on him being able to help her look after all three of them. Counted. But she counted on him helping her look after all three of them of them. What would she do now?

Evan rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. No. He will see them again. This is not the end. He’ll get out of here…. Somehow…and move his way back to…. Wherever they were before. It’ll be fine. Or maybe they will rescue him? Find out what’s happened and come to save him.

The doors swing open, cutting off his train of thought, as the large, well-dressed figure of Lord Maynard enters. Evan finally gets a good look at him as the man strides into his chambers. He’s a human man, with well-kept black hair. He has large, broad shoulders and styled black hair. If Evan had seen him around the town, he might have assumed he was a merchant.

Maynard moves towards Evan, like a lion assessing an antelope. Evan swallows, exhaustion from earlier being chased away with a fresh bout of fear. He fights the urge to move back, instead, standing his ground. He raises his chin and puffs his chest out, swallowing back the pain from his beating.

“So. You must be the little slave who stole food and tried to escape?” the Lord asks. His tone is light, with a hint of danger to it.

Evan stays silent. His mouth begins to dry and the urge to back up begins to scream at him.

Maynard steps close. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His demands echoes around the room.

Evan feels his legs beginning to shake. Answer or not… this is a trap. Anything he says… he’s fucked.

Maynard walks forwards and strikes Evan. The rings on his hand scour two bloody lines across the cheek. The lines cut into the already yellow and blue cheek, which hasn’t fully recovered from earlier. “You will give me a response or I will have a finger taken off for your insolence.”

Evan’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels his throat begin to constrict. He feels all bravery leave him. “Y-” he coughs “Yes. I am.”

“You will address me as Sir or Master. Understood?”

“Yes… Sir…”

Maynard smiles “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Evan stays quiet. Unsure what he could say in response.

“Now. Let’s get one thing clear. I will not tolerate disobedience from scum. The gods have placed me on this world to protect the good people from devils like you. And if that causes me to have to whip the evil out of you, then so be it. I will be doing my duty.” Maynard says this with pride in his voice, like man who has achieved something grand.

“You will obey me. And you will learn the place that the gods have allocated to you. Understood?”

Evan blinks. He fights the urge to call this man absolutely fucking nuts. Best not to do that when trapped in a room with him. “Yes…Sir.”

“Good. Now. You will kneel when I enter a room. Understood?”

Evan blinks, taking a small step backwards. His body shouts to run whilst his brain pushes him to fight. A surge of resilient pride runs through him for a moment, just long enough for all sense to be lost. “No-”

What he said suddenly registers, and he wants to kick himself.

“No?” There is a quiet rage in Maynard’s voice.

“Wait, I mean-” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fear shoots through him. Just comply. Stay alive and live to fight another day.

Evan drops to his knees with a thud that causes him to wince. He stares at the ground. Let that be enough. Please.

“Don’t you dare say no to me.” The Lord growls “But no. By all means. If you don’t want to kneel. Don’t.”

He grabs Evan’s thin wrists in one hand, roughly pulling Evan to his feet and dragging the boy across the room to the four-poster bed. Evan’s wrists are shifted from Maynard’s left hand to his right hand as he grabs some cord that holds the bed-curtain together. He throws it over the wood at the top of the bed, before wrapping the other end, tightly around Evan’s wrists. Maynard then begins to wrench Evan’s weight up, until the boy is on his tiptoes.

“There. Now you don’t have to kneel. How does that feel? Boy? Better. I hope so.” Maynard spits, his voice full of righteous anger.

Evan’s wrists scream at him as the cord tightens, digging into his wrists. His jaw trembles slightly from the pain as the skin on his hip is stretched out. He lets out a small whine.

“I asked you a question. Does that feel better?”

Evan’s mind races. Yes? Or no? What does the man want to hear? Anything. Say what he wants. Fuck bravery and resilience. He wants to make it out of this in tact. Evan makes a split second decision. “No... Master.” His skin crawls at the word. The word fills him with a strange repulsive nausea but he continues. “I would… prefer to kneel…” There is a foul taste on his tongue as he finishes the sentence. He wants to swear and spit and shout… but so far, that had just gotten him hurt. Maybe this will work better? Do what Trygve said… keep his head down?

“That is a shame… you can kneel in the morning. Before I have you flogged for your little scene earlier.”

Evan blinks. That… didn’t work… wait. Flogging. What?

The boy’s shock is clearly evident on his face as Lord Maynard looks at him “You didn’t think that you wouldn’t be punished for your act of dissidence did you?” He shakes his head as he causally begins to the screen to undress for bed. There is the click as he undoes his belt. The sounds of fabric rubbing together.

Evan can see an arm stretch to grab a night shirt.

“You stole from me and injured my employee. Clearly, you deserve some punishment. Otherwise the gods wouldn’t have brought you into my hands. No. But don’t fear. I’m not unjust. The punishment will fit the crime. You stole from around twenty meals. And injured a guard. I’d say thirty lashes should suffice.”

Evan’s stomach drops. And heart races in his throat.

Maynard reappears. “You can stay there till the morning, I think. Until you realize that kneeling for me really isn’t that bad.” He moves a candle to his bedside table. And spends a couple of moments pulling the bed’s covers back, causally. As if there wasn’t someone else in the room. He then climbs into bed. “Thirty lashes. Unless you wake me up. If you make a sound I will make sure that they flay the skin from your back. Understood?”

Evan nods quickly, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

Evan’s face has gone pale during this speech. As the realization begins to set in. He’d seen floggings before. Thieves who’d gotten caught, or someone who’d started a fight. He’d seen ten lashes bring a grown man to tears as his skin was abused by knotted leather. Evan’s whole body trembles.

“Good. Much better.” With that, the Lord blows out the candle and nestles down in his bed. Curling up to sleep off the feast.

Evan stands there, hanging silently. His elven blood allows him perfect sight of the dark, grey room and the glowing embers from the fire. Despite the darkness that covers the room. His calves hurt as cramp sets in.

He blinks and hangs there. His wrists hurt as his hand’s circulation begins to go and the cord bites into his flesh.

Big tears begin to well in Evan’s eyes as he just wants to curl up and go home. Fuck why couldn’t he have stayed with Meg? Life had sucked in places before but this… this was worse. Why couldn’t he have decided not to meet those fucking men? Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

The prospect of a flogging makes his chest heave deeply in a sob. He wants to sniff. To shakily cry and scream openly but he doesn’t. He uses all his willpower to keep himself from sobbing. He will not dig himself a deeper hole. A deeper grave to lie in.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His knees hurt. Fuck. He tries to stretch out one leg to disperse the cramp, but that makes the other hurt more.

He wishes the morning would come sooner. And then wishes that this would last longer. Before his back gets torn open. Skin ripped from flesh. What kind of whip would be used? A bullwhip looks lethal, but what if this man preferred to use a sailor’s whip? Or maybe he would use one which is metal-tipped. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. Evan’s throat contracts slightly as his breathing increases.

Evan had seen the scars before. Of course he had. The only way to avoid a flogging if you were caught stealing or some other crime, was to pay. Gold will get you anywhere. The scars were ugly, and humiliating. They told the world what you have done and there was almost nothing that could undo that.

His legs tremble. He feels sick. Tears won’t stop falling. He silently inhales, allowing the shaky sobs to be as silent as possible. He hangs there, exhausted and terrified. Silently waiting and dreading the dawn.

-------

AN: Hopefully that was alright!! I decided to not put it through grammarly this time so hopefully the grammar and spelling isn't Wattpad levels of bad 🤣🤣

Again please do not mistake any of the characters beliefs for my own. I'm mostly just playing around in a DND setting. Lord Maynard would be a Paladin of Conquest and I'm playing with subverting paladins as a 'noble' class. If you want, feel free to guess Evan's class!

Masterlist Next

Taglist:

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

[honeycollectswhump]

Holding Up The Sky

Even though Atlas escaped the claws of his old Master a while ago and built himself a new life, far away from any reminders of his past as a Pet, old habits die hard. While Atlas tries to find his footing as a person, his old Master does not plan to let this offence go unpunished.

Since an accident in her childhood, Aveline hasn't been able to feel pain. After another tragedy strikes, she moves in an attempt to start her life anew. There, she meets Atlas, who seems to crumble under a secret he can't possibly share. The two grow close, and soon Aveline has to decide just how far she is willing to go to keep Atlas safe.

The chapters will be posted non-chronologically but are listed in order here. Most of them can be read as standalones but they fit into a bigger story <3

The Rise

Aveline and Atlas during their college days, as Atlas battles with the remants of his life as a Pet.

The Pet | The Pet 2 | All That Matters | Stay The Night

The Fall

Atlas is recaptured and his old Master is intend on making sure he never, ever steps out of line again. Left without any support, Aveline decides to take matters into her own hands.

Gone, gone | Torn apart / away

The New Beginning

After the storm, Aveline is left to pick up the pieces of Atlas. Without any recollection of his past life, what remains of Atlas tries to regain his sense of identity.

Thorns of a Nightmare | Warmth | Chronic Pain (Augusnippets) | Whumper's title

Misc. Stuff: character info | picrew 1 | silly memes | commission atlas & aveline (by clickerflight) | commission aveline (by whump-blog)

taglist: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent, @clickerflight, @rabass

@silly-scroimblo-skrunkl let me know if you want to be added or removed :))

[darkthingshappen]

Merry Whump of May Day 2

@themerrywhumpofmay

“Need a ride?”

-wrench 

-paranoia

-club

Big huge thanks to my always amazing whumperful crew: @whumpcereal @quietly-by-myself @sparrowsage and to @oddsconvert who put in a lovely beta job for this little prequel.

Warnings for this story: bad intentions by the main character, whumper perspective, derogatory internal dialogue, intent to engage in noncon (talked about, not actually written), drunkenness, smoking.

A King of the Road Prequel (Find the original King of the Road (Whumptober 2022) post here.)

Six Months Ago…

The Trucker dropped his cigarette to the asphalt and ground it out with the toe of his boot.  He surveyed the parking lot of another club in another town in Somewheresville, America.  Fresh hunting ground.  

He watched the drunk college freshmen, who by all means shouldn’t even be here, idiotically looking for the friends he’d come with.  He’d been stumbling around the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes now.  The cars have been steadily streaming out or their owner’s steadily being bundled into taxi cabs and Ubers.  

When the young man passed by his idling truck for the third time the trucker smiled at him.

“You lost darlin’?”

The young man swayed a bit as he stopped and took in the sight of the big, red, oversized trucking cab.  The Trucker could see the wheels turning in the young man’s head, trying to process the question.  

“‘M not lossss...”

“But you’re not found either, are ya?”  The Trucker looked the young man up and down, smiling the whole time.  “What happened?  Can’t find yer buddies?”

“No… I… They’re here s’m where…”

This was just too easy.  And this little one was sure pretty.  His pale green eyes, watery and wide, set in a cute face with cheeks flushed a bit too red, and finished off by a pair of lovely cherry red lips.  The Trucker licked his own lips as he thought about shoving himself into that perfect round mouth.  The boy’s cherubic face was surrounded by a mop of messy dark blue hair.  He could see the boy’s warm breath huffing out in front of him in the cold night air.  

“I’d be happy to give you a ride, wherever you need.  My truck’s nice and warm.  I bet you ain’t too far from here, right?”

“No… I… not far.  I just… my friends have to be here somewhere.  I just… maybe over there?”

The young man started to walk away, tripping over his own feet and barely catching himself on a parked sedan, towards the far side of the parking lot.  

The Trucker reached out and wrenched the boy’s arm back a bit harder than he intended too.  The kid’s phone went skittering across the pavement and under the truck.  When their eyes met, the kid’s pale green eyes were wide with sudden fear and paranoia.  

The Trucker laughed it off.  

“Whoops, now look what happened.  You’re in no state to be walking across the parking lot, son.  You’re gonna get yourself kilt.”  He gently guided the boy towards the door of his truck.  “Why don’t you come have a lie down and I’ll get you where you need to go.  Hop up there and I’ll grab your phone.”

The drunk college kid blinked rapidly, still trying to process what the trucker was saying.  All the while the Trucker was guiding him towards the cab of his truck.  The big red door opened quietly and he helped the boy up on the first step.  The Trucker had done this a million times, and knew he had a charming, disarming personality.  As the boy swayed backwards, the Trucker let his hand slip from the small of his back to the roundness of his pert, tight little college boy ass.  Oh he was so going to enjoy this one.  

“You got a name, pretty boy?”

“B… Bob-by.”

“That’s right nice.  Little Bobby Blue.  Once you get up there, grab yerself some water.  It’ll help clear your head.  Might keep you from a mighty powerful headache in the morning.”

“Yeahhhh, that souns gooo…”

Little Bobby Blue was going to make a great companion.  The Trucker could taste it, or rather, Bobby Blue would be tasting it.  The Trucker leaned down and retrieved the kid’s phone from under the edge of his truck.  

Just as Little Bobby Blue was about to take the top step up into the truck, a sleek black Uber pulled up next to the truck. Several loud, clearly drunk, guys were hanging out of the windows.  

“BOBBY!!!!  There you are, you dumb fuck.  We’ve been looking all over for you.  How the hell did you get over here?”

“Yeah, what the hell you doing getting in that truck Bobby?” another one said.  

“Thisss guy’s gonna give me a ride.”

“Awe thanks, mister.  Awful nice.  But we got us a nice Uber to take us back to the house.  Come on Bobby, quit fuckin around and get your ass in the car.”

Bobby almost fell on the Trucker as climbed back down the steps and stumbled towards the car. That's the most amount of fucking action he'll get tonight, now.

“Nice to meet you, Bobby.  I’ll keep an eye out for you.  You be safe now,” the Trucker said, his face a mask of polite calmness while inside he was raging.   

“Don’t forget your phone, Bobby,” one of the generic drunk guys said.  Bobby staggered back towards the Trucker, retrieved his phone, and then nearly fell into the open doorway of the car, sending his idiotic buddies into a frenzy of laughter.  

The Trucker glanced around the parking lot.  FUCK!  There were no other tasty, convenient little fishes to be caught.  He slammed the door to his cab shut and then yanked open the driver’s door of the truck.  May as well start driving.  He was all hot and bothered and there would be no release tonight unless it was his own hand.  Perhaps he could try the rest stops.  Sometimes unsuspecting people found themselves in vulnerable situations.  He ground the gears of his truck as he started out of sheer frustration.  He revved the engine louder than he normally would, the rattling growl echoing across the wide open plains of the flat terrain.  He’d find someone.  He scraped his teeth together and reached for his cigarettes.  Maybe he could smoke himself calm.  He made a hard fist around the lighter as he struck it up.  

He sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it out again. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the blue framed face of his escaped victim.  Damn he would have liked that one.  If he came back through this town any time soon, he’d be on the prowl for his Little Bobby Blue.  

Little Bobby Blue had dodged a bullet that night.  It’s possible he wouldn’t always be that lucky.  But for tonight, Bobby Blue made it home safely.  

Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @darlingwhump @hold-him-down @quietshae @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this) 

[seetheothersideofparadise]

The King Will Bow: Fallen Crown

I asked in a poll what I should write and Whumper Turned Whumpee won so IM DOING IT! Had an idea I was thinking about using and this was just the push I needed, enjoy :)

Summary: Julian is well known and respected for his work in training servants, bodyguards, pets— whatever the client has asked. Cecil is a new up and coming trainer looking to make a splash, and decides his most recent project will be Julian.

Tags for this one are: Whumper Turned Whumpee, Kidnapping, Defiant Whumpee, Talk of Conditioning/‘Training’, Drugged, Bound And Gagged Whumpee, Creepy/Intimate Whumper, Dehumanization, Talk of past and implied future Pet Whump, Blindfolds, Blood, Nosebleed (But Not Broken), A Little Violence, POV Whumpee, and Human Trafficking. Tell me if I missed anything!

Note for the worldbuilding, while the characters act like the whole profession of ‘Kidnapping and Training People For Their Own Gain’ isn’t something to blink twice at, this is because they’re rich assholes. This is a rich asshole thing, not a normalized thing.

—

Julian was very good at what he did.

There were many people in the world who wanted servants, pets, bodyguards— the specifics varied. They needed people who were trained to never disobey them. And Julian? He could provide that.

He didn’t do the dirty work of choosing who was sent to him, or even capturing them. Someone else always took care of that and sent them his way. Someone who wouldn’t be missed, someone who could disappear and barely raise an alarm— someone who could be taken away and molded into someone else. And Julian trained them into their new lives.

Of course, it was forceful, because none of them were too happy about it, but that didn’t matter. They didn’t matter, they were a tool and it was Julian’s job to make them see that, however he saw fit. Once they were ready— obedient and pliable— Julian sent them on their way, or sold them off to the highest bidder. It was out of his hands then, maybe he’d see them around if he was around whoever they were shipped off to, but he never acknowledged them. They weren’t his problem anymore. They didn’t matter.

Julian was a trainer and a very good one at that, respected in his field. Sometimes other trainers coming up and asking him for advice on the process and what he did. There were people who requested a job be done by him specifically, even paying extra for it. He got to go to events with people who controlled whole chunks of the city and sit and chat with them like old friends. Julian was powerful.

He just… Was feeling a bit off at that moment.

Julian blinks a few times fast, trying not to sway at one of the most important events of the year. He manages to make it to his table and take a seat, feeling woozy all of a sudden. He sets his drink down in order to rub his face, wondering if maybe he’s had one too many. He wasn’t counting really— he was to excited. He had been talking to the Maxwell Ravens a few moments ago. To get the respect from that guy meant getting it from everybody. If he could get into his inner circle— be a trainer endorsed by him— it would change everything. His career would skyrocket.

He really didn’t want to go home early but Julian wasn’t seeing many options. The last thing he needed was to pass out at an event like this— people would laugh at him for years to come and that’s the exact opposite of what he needed.

Julian groans into his hands as his vision sways harder. The lesser of two evils it is.

Doing his best to walk straight, Julian makes his way across the room and over to Maxwell himself, flashing an apologetic smile. Those who were talking to him a moment before flash looks at Julian before shuffling away when Maxwell murmured something that Julian didn’t hear. It was getting hard to think but he forced the words out anyways. “Hey, I would love to talk with you more about business and pleasure and everything in between but I got some loose ends I need to take care of in the morning so I gotta jet! Get a good night’s sleep y’know?”

Maxwell regards him calmly. It’s hard to get a read on the guy— his ‘I think I like you’ face and ‘I think you’re a bug beneath my shoe’ faces are disturbingly similar. But he smiles politely all the same and nods. “Another time then.”

“For sure.” Julian agrees. “You got my number right? Anytime you want my services, I’m there. I would be such an honor that I’d do it for free!”

“I’m aware.” Maxwell says. There’s a flicker in his eyes— darker, Julian thinks?— but it’s smoothed over so quickly that he’s not certain. “You’ve sent several emails with the same message. And told all my associates how much your work could benefit me.”

Julian winces. Maybe he went a little hard on the sell there but— Maxwell could really change things, he had to shoot his shot. He laughs, albeit awkwardly, and holds his hands up. “I’ll chill out on that— sorry, you’re just— it’s an honor to even be in the same room as you!”

Maxwell’s expression doesn’t change. Julian supposes he probably hears that a lot. He’s basically a modern king— the way people talk about him sometimes sounds like he’s being worshipped, and for good reason. Maxwell controls the fate of the entire city in the palm of his hand.

Nonetheless, Maxwell continues, looking down at his drink and taking a long sip before running a finger around the rim of the glass. “I’m sure it’ll happen again sooner or later, and I’m sure one of these days, I’ll find a way for you to… Benefit me.”

Julian’s heart skips in excitement but he holds back his enthusiasm. He’s struggling to maintain the conversation at all— he better go. Julian dips his head and murmurs one last goodbye and thank you before heading for the exit. He feels eyes on him when he leaves but doesn’t dare turn back.

Julian allows his efforts to drop as he makes his way to the garage. He can feel a headache coming on from his effort, and it only gets worse from there. By some miracle, he makes it to his car without tripping over his own feet, finding they’re heavier than before, but just before he opens up the driver’s door, he realizes there’s no way he can drive without crashing. He’s barely even standing— he feels worse than before— and nauseous. Like his limbs are weighing down on him.

“Had too much to drink?” A voice asks from behind. Julian jumps, spinning around. He’s able to identify the person pretty quickly— Cecil Winters, a trainer like him. He got into the business just two years ago— Julian was surprised to hear that someone who hadn’t been around that long got into an event like this that quickly. It took five for Julian had to get invited— how’d he get picked so quickly?

Cecil looks him up and down, almost amused. Julian rolls his eyes, turning back to his car. “‘m fine.” He spits out. His words slur a bit but it doesn’t matter— Cecil might be a rising star but if it’s Julian’s word or his, Julian is pretty confident people will believe him. This damn newbie isn’t gonna ruin his reputation, no matter how fast he’s moving.

Julian refocuses his attention on his car, trying to think of a way he could get home. He could call a professional driver— or would that tip people off? Damn it, why wasn’t he paying attention to how much he was drinking?

Out of his rear view mirror, Julian sees Cecil stroll up to him, though not quite face-to-face. There’s something about the way he’s moving that’s so— off putting. Julian doesn’t understand it.

“Or maybe,” Cecil grins a little wider and Julian ignores how it creeps him out, “It wasn’t about the quantity of what you drank, just what was in it.”

Julian stops at that. It’s… Wrong somehow. Sends alarms in his head. Why is this little punk freaking him out so much? Is he high? “‘he fuck are ‘ou talkin’ about?” He slurs, sending Cecil a side glance. The world goes fuzzy at its edges.

Cecil laughs at him this time, openly. A bitter and furious feeling hits Julian— how fucking dare he? Does he know who he is?

“You’ve lasted longer than I gave you credit for, I’ll give you that. But there’s no way you’re driving home like that.”

He rolls his eyes at that, anger burning at the edges— who the hell does he think this guy is? “I told ‘ou—”

He doesn’t get another word out. In the blink of an eye, Cecil rushes him, grabbing him and wrestling him into the ground. Julian immediately shouts and fights back, but his limbs don’t quite hit as hard as he would like. Cecil wastes no time slamming him into the ground, knocking the wind out of him, and pinning him on his stomach. Julian attempts to thrash and kick him off but suddenly there’s a hand gripping his hair, pulling his head back, then smashing his face into the floor as hard as he can.

Julian gasps in pain, blood oozing from his nose. He’s taken hits before but not like this— not this brutal. The stars in his eyes take a while to fade and Julian wants to struggle but the hand in his hair lets go and he can’t keep his head up. His faces hit the ground again, lighter this time but with his new injury it feels just as bad, and Julian chokes on his pain.

He barely registers that his arms are being messed with until something tightens around them, forcing them to be folded behind his back. The fog in his head makes it hard to think but Julian tries to brute force his way out of whatever has his arms in a hold. It doesn’t budge— he’s weak and it strikes fear in him when he realizes it. His arms are restrained by something tough, and his years of experience of using very similar restraints tells him it’s leather. He can move and jerk all he wants but it only serves to tire him out. Julian is trapped.

Rage finds him easily. “You fucking—” Julian seethes but is abruptly cut off. Thick cloth is shoved into his mouth and tied around his head. He struggles as hard as he can, trying to buck Cecil off of him and not freeze and panic like his thumping heart wants him to but he doesn’t have the energy. He’s so drained, and it doesn’t help when something is strapped to his head that blocks out his eyes, plunging him into darkness. It only makes him feel more tired, eyes drooping.

Julian bites curses out, muffled through the gag but it’s all he has. He’s panicking now— terror and anger mixing until he doesn’t know what is what anymore. Cecil ignores him, humming as he seems to swap his position, now pinning his legs down and beginning to strap them together too. No amount of kicking does anything— his attempts are pitiful at best and before he knows it, there’s two straps on his upper and lower legs, giving him very little room to work with.

“There we go.” Cecil says at last, satisfaction and pride in his voice. Julian finds it hard to focus, sleep pulling him in, but the terror and fury just barely keeps it at bay. “I know you can’t see it right now but you’re a work of art. In fact, I think you look better like this.”

There’s a brief pause before there’s a hand grabbing his chin, forcing his head to move one way, then the other. Julian shouts angrily, muffled but hoping it gets his point across. Cecil doesn’t say a word to acknowledge it, still humming to himself.

“Yeah, lots better.” He can hear the grin in Cecil’s voice. He runs a thumb over the gag and Julian tries to snap at him but it doesn’t really work. “Someone needs to be muzzled.” Cecil laughs to himself, and Julian’s anger boils over even more. “I’ll get one just for you. But we have to get going— after all, you do have a busy morning ahead of you.”

Cecil lugs Julian over his shoulder like he’s a fucking bag of flour. Julian shouts curses into his gag, swearing vengeance and threats that are never heard, and the wind is knocked out of him again when Cecil throws him onto a cold, metal floor. Julian figures out pretty quickly that it’s a van when it starts up.

He tries screaming and fighting but he’s rapidly running out of energy. Everything is getting so heavy and Julian can’t stand it. It’s clear to him now— something he drank wasn’t right, meaning— meaning Cecil planned this. He wanted to do this all along and was just biding his time.

Julian doesn’t know what the hell is going on but he’s betting on hostage negotiations or— something of that nature. He has the money, that status— kidnapping him has a lot of uses. But it doesn’t matter— Julian is gonna get out of this and ruin Cecil. He doesn’t care how but he’s gonna make sure his career ends here and now.

The drugs wear him down bit by bit by the second. Julian feels his eyes grow tired and tries desperately to stay awake and not miss a thing, but it’s a losing battle. He’s too tired to move anyways— better to sleep the drugs off and deal with in the morning.

The second he stops fighting it, Julian passes out.

—

That’s the first part! Julian is about to find out really quickly that it’s not a hostage negotiation in the slightest, and get a taste of his own medicine along the way.

Hope y’all enjoyed!! Been wanting to do some Whumper Turned Whumpee stuff and just got the perfect excuse to :)