#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

[whumpspicelatte]

A Mouth Filled With Blood: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Set about four days(?) after Two Steps Back

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: Depression, suicidal ideation, implied past dubcon/noncon, implied past abuse, fear of future noncon, mild accidental self injury (twice), fear of becoming like past whumpers?

Time passed. The week ended. Juno healed enough to return to his crate that he still preferred to sleep in when not in their now-shared bed in his eight-months-new king’s room. Terrance finally, finally got to take off the gloves. The court was even finally beginning to cool down a bit from their thwarted feeding frenzy. 

Juno watched Terrance like he was going to tear his throat out with his teeth, and that wary gaze had banished Terrance from his own rooms like he had four ravenous, white-faced ghosts nipping at his heels. 

What had he done to earn that? What had he done to make Juno fear him? 

….had Juno seen what he’d done to his advisors? Had he scared his boy? Was that why Juno seemed to think Terrance was going to hurt him? Why Juno was looking at him the way Terrance might have once looked at-

No. No. He wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t his father, he wasn’t his older brother. 

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. 

…was he? 

Terrance rested his head in his hands, elbows braced against his desk. Nothing felt quite real since he’d settled Juno back into his rooms. As if he were walking through pearly white mist and everything he touched were made of solid smoke. 

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? Juno was alright. He didn’t have to deal with his advisors anymore. The ensuing ripples through court had finally begun to calm down. For the first time in years, he didn’t have fresh bruising to layer upon the yellowing and purpling flesh hidden under his robes. He no longer had to wear silks and fabrics which could fall off his body with just the tug of a hidden ribbon. 

Nobody touched him. Nobody hurt him. 

…nobody touched him, not since he’d emerged from the council room with Juno half-dead in his arms. Nobody. 

Nobody at all. 

He closed his eyes, trying his best to banish the burning threatening to make him tear up. The inner lining of his throat began to swell. 

What was wrong with him? Something had to be wrong with him. Nobody else seemed to struggle with just getting up in the morning. Nobody else seemed to spend hours in the bathtub, trying to even gather the resolve to get up and dry themself off. Nobody else had to spend an entire day unable to get out of bed not out of pain, but simply from the mental exhaustion of doing his duty the rest of the week. Not that he knew of. 

Something was wrong with him. So very, very wrong. But what was it? 

Did anyone else ever fantasize of going under the bathwater and never coming back up? Of a punishment having gone too far, having dug too deep, having hit something vital, of bleeding out on wood and stone? Of one day falling asleep and never having to wake up? 

He shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts. If he died, with no viable candidate to inherit the curse and the kingdom, Rhodantheia would implode at the breaking of the curse. Not quite literally, but with the resulting wave of cataclysms…

Terrance couldn’t be a second King Raphael II, no matter if the vile man were his namesake. He couldn’t let himself be the last of his line. 

Even if it eventually meant marrying, now that it was unlikely to end in his death. 

He… he should get on with that, shouldn’t he? Finding a bride. A mother to his children who could raise them well. Who was…was fertile. Willing. Capable. Who would… would use him…

Terrance choked down bile, hands cupping his mouth. 

Later. Yes, later. He could do that- later. 

Plenty of paperwork he still had to do now. The prospect of marriage could wait for another day. 

He groped around for pen and paper and threw himself into his paperwork in the hopes it would help him flee from his own thoughts. Deaden his mind. Allow him to be useful. To be worth something beyond his blood and bones and flesh and-

And- 

His fingers shook too hard for him to properly scrawl his signature, forcing him to set the inkwell pen down and press his open hands against the wood of his desk. 

Enough. He was fine. He was fine. 

Maybe, if he repeated it enough times, he would begin to believe it. 

He was safe. Juno was safe. Everyone was safe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back against his seat. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles white. And yet still tremors ran up his hands. At any moment, someone was going to come through those doors. Antoine or Ser Beauchene or Elodie or Wethoras or- or one of the others. Someone was going to slip inside, see his state, grab him by the shoulder, twist him over their lap and- 

What was wrong with him? 

They were gone. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back. None of them were going to hurt Terrance again. None of them were going to get even a chance at hurting Juno again. 

Juno…

…Juno, who feared him, now. 

It took a moment for him to realize that the blood filing his mouth behind his thinly pressed limbs leaked out from his tongue instead of another person’s flesh, that the ache in his teeth was from him grinding them together instead of his canines and molars breaking another person’s bones. 

It took a moment after that for the sting to hit his senses. 

Ow. 

He breathed in, breathed out. Inhaled, exhaled. In, and out. In, and out. 

Shaky fingers pried themselves off varnished wood to knead at silk-covered knees instead. Terrance lowered his chin to protect his barred neck. Focused on the air whistling in and out of his nose.

He pried his eyes open to stare down at ink printed over paper. 

Right. Work. 

He…he had to work. 

Terrance picked up the pen, set it to paper, and did his best not to cry. 

His mother would be so very angry with him to know how much he had cried these past few years, after all her work to yank such an undignified habit out of his skull like a loose tooth. 

She would have never let things get so bad with the council. 

The council had respected her. In a way they never had him. In a way that they might never respect him. Especially now. 

The door creaked open, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch, sending a sharp jagged scrawl across the paper he was signing. Damn it all. Why had he done that? Why did he keep on ruining whatever he touched-

A soft, wrinkled hand glinting with rings laid itself on his fist, and only then did he notice the sharp sting of his nail digging into his palm. When he set his hand flat on the table, he spotted blood under his nails. 

Damn it. 

His gaze drifted up to meet the Duchess’s own eyes, lined with subtle makeup to hide the tired shadows beneath. Dread pooled in his gut. The wetness along his lashes felt like the first symptoms of poison in an empty cup. 

A king does not cry. A king does not let others know that he had cried-

Delphine Valentin’s hand cupped his cheek, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch at the graze of her soft skin, skin prickling for the sting of a slap. But all she did was let his head rest in her hold. Let his thoughts fizzle in his head, empty out of his skull. Let him melt. 

Quiet. 

Finally, finally quiet. 

Her thumb ran beneath his eye and drew away wet. Distantly, he recognized the heat trickling down his cheeks. But all he could focus on was touch. 

It had been a little over a week since anyone had touched him. Anyone at all. Nobody had touched him since he’d brought Juno for healing. His hand hadn’t brushed against another’s skin since Juno had first woken up. 

He’d gotten spoiled, having his boy press into his side to sleep every night, having Juno’s calloused hands wrap his fingers around a warm mug on the daily. 

Gods, he missed it. 

And he didn’t know if he’d ever get that back. 

If he’d ever get back the one person in over a year to touch him without ill intent-

His vision blurred, a rough sob leaving his throat mangled and bruised. Soft lips pressed against his forehead. The Duchess’s voice rippled through the air like water, but he couldn’t make the slightest sense of it, burned out by the warmth of her hand bleeding into his skin. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he was hauled up into someone’s side, glove slipped off for a gentle, wrinkled hand to take its place. Leading him somewhere. He didn’t know where. He just knew he was being touched. 

He didn’t know when would be the next time he’d get to be touched. 

[estellardreams]

Some Prisoner Trio related stuff that idk where else to put.

First was actually a scrapped two parter because I literally didn't know where I was going with this. I think I was gonna go down the idea of "King Red gets so sick of TT Red resisting that he just starts flat out scarring him however he could (my first thought went to ice ocean water)" but then I just... Forgot. Oops.

Second... Post Prisoner Trio. These three are SCARRED. And this is only scratching the surface, quite literally.

If you had to base the time frame these three were under... My mind instantly went to at least two years under King Red. And YIKES did it get brutal.

Unsurprisingly Macaque got the least amount of damage. Sure the fillet became an issue from time to time but he usually did the work. Meanwhile Wukong and Red continuously resisted, and since King Red probably hates Wukong WAY MORE than his past self, especially after the monkey king killed his parents, then suffice to say he took most of his brutality out on the stone monkey.

And third... A small assortment of doodles. Including timers on the longest each has had their fillet activated.

Red once got three days, to the degree his body went numb to the pain and headache.

Wukong had the wreck of an entire WEEK to deal with. Absolutely sucked.

And Macaque only got an entire day once due to legitimately covering for Wukong so the two wouldn't get caught after purposefully sabotaging one of the King's devices. Wukong still took the fall for it, but for being the accomplice he still got a pretty extreme punishment.

And for the small doodle of TT Red trying to sleep... Well, I remembered that one ask I read on TT Red indulging in very cutesy stuff to not make himself like King Red. And while stuck in their current position he had an extremely hard time sleeping through the pain.

So... Wukong, knowing full well that the object couldn't be used to break them out but would still be quite "embarrassing" for someone like King Red to have around in his fortress, decided to grant TT Red's request of receiving something cutesy to help him sleep through the night.

That just so happened to be a Fluttershy doll (mlp looks so cutesy doesn't it? Also if Red probably had to choose his favorite would've most likely been between Rainbow Dash and Twilight Sparkle. But Fluttershy is absolutely NOT who he sees himself relating to (he actually does but doesn't know it) and chose that pony in particular. It's also the most soft looking main character there is).

[DKR and TT Red belong to @purble-turble]

[ceramicwings]

[whumperly]

— Misery by Stephen King

[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)

[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.

[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—>

taglist: @whumpshaped  @whumpsday  @emmettnet  @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @wolfeyedwitch  @whumper-soot @unorganisedalienrubbish  @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived just ask to be added or removed <33

[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

[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

[whumpspicelatte]

The Last Straw: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's King's Counsel pt.2

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: power imbalance, physical abuse, implied child abuse, implied sexual abuse, whipping, near-death of a major character

Unlike what most might expect of someone of his station, Terrance had been whipped before, in the past. By his mother’s hand, in the quiet of her private chambers during that year she took care to break him bit by bit for trying so foolishly to turn his back on their family; their kingdom. From Admiral Victoria Wethoras, the only one of his advisors experienced enough with a cat ‘o nine tails to put it to use to punish her wayward king, leaving him to bleed over the council table in deep rivulets. 

Every time, his deep weeping wounds knitted back together under the spell of the healing potions fed to him. As if he’d never been touched by a whip before at all. But the pain lingered. In his muscles. His skin. His bones. 

His chamberlain had no such experience in properly wielding a whip for the sake of correction. 

And Terry had never yet been torn apart by a bullwhip. 

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” his chamberlain murmured. An iron rivet glinted at the end of the heavy leather rope. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. From the faint hint of a smile on his advisor’s face, the older man knew that very well. 

Listening to his advisors was difficult, with the whip on the table in plain view. His stomach churned, shaky hands folded together in his lap under the table, where only Juno might be able to see. How had he let this get so far?

Everyone here knew what this was about, save for maybe the boy standing at Terrance’s side. 

The marriage proposal of Lady Genevieve. Or, rather, of the young noblewoman to Terrance, as proposed by her mother, the Duchess of Heloise. She was of marriageable age, it was agreed. Twenty-four years of age, only a decade the king’s junior. Fresh in her prime of life. Already having proven herself in terms of politics, charity and governance. Beautiful, bright, beloved. Fertile. 

Terrance had refused the offer. As well as the next dozen his advisors tried to sneak past him. 

If Terrance believed this was genuinely done in good faith, he likely would have allowed himself to be all but sold off as stud to whatever worthy future queen was decided upon as best suited for the role by his advisors and court. His reservations didn’t lie in the act of procreation necessary for the union; his dignity there had been carefully stripped from him, slice by slice, behind closed doors. All for the sake of the kingdom. 

No matter how the filth clung to his skin and filled him with rot, hours after being washed out, washed away. Hours after being hidden. 

But he’d seen the looks being traded between his advisors. Heard the whispers. 

Rhodantheia needed at least one son of the rose to survive. Needed its Desrosiers king to prevent the cataclysm the bloodline’s curse held back. 

Nothing said that king had to be Terrance, so long as there was a viable substitute. A more…malleable substitute. 

He couldn’t risk leaving a vulnerable child open to be ground into dust and groomed into an empty, silent, helpless little puppet king for the council to rule through. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t put his kingdom through that. 

He couldn’t put his future son through that.

So he refused. And refused. And refused. And refused. And refused. And refused.

And, like with everything else, he was going to pay for it. 

The only advisors in the room with him and Juno right now were Ser Beauchene, his chamberlain Antoine, his spymaster Elodie and First Magistrate Telesphore. A violent combination. 

This was going to hurt. 

“You have shirked your duty long enough, Your Grace,” Magistrate Telesphore murmured, setting his hand on the whip. Terrance’s breath caught in his throat, blood draining from his face. Nobody had potions on hand. What were his advisors thinking? “Your throne needs an heir.”

Elodie’s eyes trailed consideringly over to Juno, then flicked to Terrance’s face. Her gaze sharpened. 

No.

Before he could pry himself up, Juno took the bait. 

No. 

Laughter erupted as Juno knelt before his advisors, silks pooling to the floor by his side, ornate choker glimmering around his neck. Terrance’s gaze traced the tattoo binding them together trailing down the back of Juno’s neck and spine, peeking out under silky black hair. He had finally begun to fill out after a small eternity deprived of enough to eat. 

All Terrance could see while looking at him, now, was a lamb prostrating itself at the altar.  

No. 

They were never intending on using that on Terrance. 

“Let go of him.” He surged off his chair as the spymaster’s hand twisted in Juno’s hair, gaze sharp and cold and so, so full of hate. Elodie had always looked the least favourably upon Terrance’s decision to keep Juno by his side. Had always been the most vindictive towards Timorsia for reasons she never told anyone but the late Queen Catherine. 

Broad arms snatched him back, a calloused hand gripping his wrists above his head as the other fist sank into his stomach, choking a broken wheeze out of his lungs. Beauchene hooked Terrance’s legs over his knees, trapping him spread open. His chest tightened. 

On instinct, he went limp at the hand around his neck, the image of Juno being bent over the council table barely visibly through crooked glasses past the blurring of tears. 

“Stop,” he begged. Shame felt a distant whistle on the wind as his chamberlain lifted the whip. “Enough! Stop!”

“To think,” Antoine murmured with a sharp grin. “That this is all you now need to beg.”

The whip cracked down, and only the fingers shoved down his throat turned his scream to gagging as fingertips shoved right into his gag reflex. 

Juno’s skin split open like an overripe peach. 

Blood burbled like a fresh spring, trickling down from the long, open wound down his boy’s spine. Juno’s shriek shattered the entire room. 

The hand around Terrance’s wrists squeezed, and his bird-frail bones groaned. 

Antoine’s arm lifted. 

Thunder cracked in the distance, and Terrance felt something in his chest crack with it. 

The hand around his throat tightened, and he gasped for air to the sight of the two long, jagged edges of Juno’s skin cut apart down his boy’s back. Distantly, Terrance remembered how it had taken ten lashes for the cat o’ nines to break his skin. 

They were going to kill him. 

The whip cracked, metal rivet tearing open flesh. 

They were going to kill his boy. 

Blood drooled down to pool over the varnished wood. Juno’s thighs quivered the same way Terrance’s did whenever an advisor pushed up his skirts. 

They were going to kill Juno. 

He could barely feel the bruises blossoming over his skin as Beauchene struggled to hold him down, pain splintering through his wrists behind his commander’s skull. Could barely sense the rasp of his own wheezing as a meaty hand gripped his throat to squeeze, then release, squeeze, and release. Could barely hear his own words breaking past the gagging of fingers angled to keep his jaw from clamping shut on them.

All he could do was watch, as they tore his boy apart piece by bloody piece. 

He was barely aware of his own body when he finally managed to slam his thigh into Beauchene’s clothed cock and launch himself at Antoine, teeth sinking into the man’s hand. 

That ugly, bloody glint skittered across the room as Terrance cracked his chamberlain’s skull against the side of the table. 

Only Elodie’s nails dragged him back in time to keep him from leaving nothing but a mess of blood and gore where Antoine’s face should be, and it cost her a bite deep enough in her own wrist for her to let him go. 

He staggered for a moment, gaze falling to the limp, half-dead mess they’d left of the only person to genuinely give a damn about him in this entire bloody damned castle. Collapsed. 

His advisors watched him like an unchained mountain lion as he gathered Juno up into his arms, fingers shaking. Hot liquid trickled down his cheeks, iron soaking his tongue and teeth. Juno’s lashes fluttered up at him. His skin felt cold and clammy as Terrance painted his cheeks red with sticky, cooling blood. 

His voice cracked. “Juno?”

Thin ocean-blue slits blinked, then fell closed. Breath just barely whistled out of his boy’s lungs. Juno’s blood stained Terrance’s skirts, and he could all but feel the ragged edges of where his boy had been torn open.  

Something in him hung on the verge of snapping. 

Terrance’s gaze rose to find four advisors staring back at him, bloodless faces wide-eyed with shock, and his lips peeled back in a half-feral snarl. 

“The moment he dies, I tear out your throats with my teeth.”

And the rats infesting his council rightfully turned tail and ran.

[iolausian-fields]

ʜᴇʀᴄᴜʟᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅᴀʀʏ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏꜱ s2e01 - The King of Thieves

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 134

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[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.

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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!

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