#tw referenced whump of a minor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

actress4him · 1 year

Note

>_>

<_<

~Psst~

Gimme 'Gilded Cage' for the bthb

For 'anyone' *wink wink*

This totally isn't someone you know o.o

*gasp*

Who could this be from?? And how did they possibly know that the very day this ask was sent, I was talking with Izzy about wanting to write something for the new AU using this prompt??

You must be psychic, Anon.

Introducing the new (well, not SO new at this point, but new to Tumblr!) Brumaria universe, The Royal AU. This piece is pre-Bruno, however, and hopefully sets up Kamaria's side of the story well enough that it doesn't require extra explanation. If not, feel free to ask questions, I love to ramble about ocs (especially Brumaria!) and aus.

Also this got, uh...really long, so, yeah.

Taglist: @painful-pooch (who obviously had NOTHING whatsoever to do with this ask), @badthingshappenbingo

Shadow of Death Masterlist

Fandom: Original Work

Prompt: Gilded Cage

Contains: fairly mild whump of a minor (14yo), lady whump, referenced parental death, referenced war, referenced fire, manhandling, non-graphic stabbing (not of the minor), hitting, prejudice, hunger, corporal punishment

Kamaria slips in and out of the throng of people like a shadow, unnoticed by most. It’s market day - the perfect opportunity for making a living. While the people of Ethorcon shout and haggle and admire stalls full of goods, she eyes their wrists and belts.

There’s a lady who doesn’t belong in this part of town, some noblewoman entertaining herself by watching how the simple folk live. It’s fairly common. Kamaria follows closely behind her and the girl who’s probably her maid, reaching easily between them to release the clasp of her golden bracelet and let it slide silently into her palm. She disappears immediately into the crowd again, waiting until she’s out of their sight before opening her fist and transferring the trinket to the hidden pocket she created for herself in the folds of her tattered skirt.

Brushing by a busy stall of dried meats, she tips a piece off the edge and into her other hand. It goes into her pocket, too. There’s already a pouch of roasted nuts nestled inside. She’ll eat one herself, and save the other for Aisling. The orphanage workers do what they can to feed them, but it’s never enough - which is why Kamaria takes to the streets as often as she can.

She won’t be able to stay for much longer, though. Too much time in one location is just asking to be caught, so she needs to make her last finds good ones.

There are actually a few brave Navarians out today, risking the scorn of all the true Ethorconites and the prices that the merchants raise as soon as they see them. She skirts around the small group, letting her eyes linger for just a moment on the rich earth tones of their clothing. She misses when everyone around her was dressed like them.

Once she’s put some distance between herself and the other Navarians, not wanting to risk any possibility of them being accused of anything, she spots her next target - a man with a large shoulder bag. There’s not as much of a guarantee that she’ll snag something of great value, but she can’t help the curiosity that pulls her toward it. She sidles up nearly beside the man, waiting until his head is turned the other direction before she sticks her hand inside, fingers closing around the first item of substance she feels and smoothly sliding it back out.

She doesn’t look at her new treasure until she’s in a nearby alley. It’s…a knife. Small enough that the tarnished brass hilt fits in her not yet full grown hand. Carefully, she removes it from its sheath. The piece may be old, but the blade seems to be in good condition, and she can tell just by looking at it that it’s sharp.

Thoughtfully, she tucks it into her pocket alongside the other items. This one she won’t sell, maybe. She likes the weight of it in her hands, the feeling of safety it brings.

She takes her usual route back to the orphanage, crisscrossing through alleys and abandoned back streets. No one looks up when she walks inside. For the most part, the workers allow the children to come and go as they please. It’s up to them to arrive on time for meals if they want to be fed, and to come in before the doors are locked for the night if they want a bed. At first she thought she would hate it here, and she does hate that she’s stuck in the capital city of Ethorcon, no longer within the borders of what used to be Navar. But she can’t pass up the food and shelter the orphanage provides, and at least they don’t try to control her.

She hasn’t thought of leaving, anyway. Not while Aisling needs her.

The small girl’s brown eyes light up when Kamaria enters the bedroom they share with four other Navarians, the room next door reserved for several Ethorconite children. “Did you bring anything interesting this time?” she whispers in the language the two share.

The room is currently empty, so Kamaria sits down on the floor mat with her and begins to empty her pocket. She holds out the two food options first. “Which do you want?”

Aisling hums, considering, then taps her finger on the pouch of roasted nuts. Passing it over, Kamaria takes a bite of the dried meat before reaching into her pocket again. “I haven’t checked to see what’s inside yet,” she explains as she drops a small purse into her lap, tugging it open. The two girls eagerly count out the coins inside, then hurriedly put them back, Kamaria running to hide it beneath the broken floorboard before returning to the bed.

“Look at this.” She displays the bracelet, and Aisling gasps in delight.

“So pretty! Can I try it on?” Giggling, she holds out her hand.

Kamaria smiles a little and acquiesces, slipping the dainty, expensive piece around her frail wrist.

The girl laughs again, twisting her hand so that the gold catches the light. “Someday, I’m going to be a rich lady and own hundreds of jewels.”

Snorting, Kamaria takes the bracelet back. “Being rich isn’t anything to strive for. The rich think they’re better than everyone, but their lives mean nothing. Strive for…independence, instead. And a position where you can help those who can’t help themselves.”

She turns her back to place the bracelet inside the hiding spot with the purse, trying not to think too hard about Aisling’s future. The way things are now…she may not live to be Kamaria’s age, much less to achieve riches or power.

“Tomorrow I’ll take a bit of the money and buy us some more food.” She returns to the bed, settling down next to Aisling and leaning her back against the wall. She can still feel the weight of the knife in her pocket. “Is there anything you’d like me to look for?”

Popping one of the roasted nuts into her mouth, Aisling chews thoughtfully. “Apples,” she declares finally. “And chocolate!”

Kamaria elbows her in the ribs, not too hard. “I stole the chocolate, you goose. We can’t afford luxuries like that.”

Aisling pouts, but it’s obviously playful. “Well then, can you steal some more chocolate next time you go out?”

Huffing a bit of a laugh through her nose, Kamaria shakes her head. “I’ll do my best.”

They sit in contented silence, munching their food, until a loud knock sounds on the front door of the house. Kamaria tenses, sitting up straight.

Aisling grabs onto her arm. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She tries to keep her voice calm, despite her body language. “Someone’s here. But no one ever visits.”

There’s a murmur of one of the workers answering the door, and a louder man’s voice responds. “We are here on behalf of His Majesty King Alaric, ruler of Ethorcon.”

Aisling’s grip on her arm grows tighter, whether in fear, shock, or excitement, she doesn’t know. Kamaria personally feels anger start to bubble in her chest at the mention of the man’s name. He’s the reason all of their parents are dead. He’s the reason that her home is a pile of ash, that she’s had to steal and beg and dig through rubbish for the past two years in order to survive. He’s the reason that they each take turns waking up during the night, gasping for breath with tears pouring down their cheeks.

“His Majesty requires a child. A Navarian child, to be exact.”

Another voice, slightly deeper. “King Alaric wishes to show his goodwill toward the former people of Navar by taking in one of their orphans as his own. They will be raised in the castle as royalty and afforded every advantage.”

“What a marvelous opportunity for one of our poor young ones!” That’s one of the workers. She sounds blown away. “They’ve all been through so much. Well, I can take you to see our boys over here, there are four of them -”

“Not a boy,” the first man interrupts. “We’re not looking for an heir to the throne. A girl will be more…suitable for him to bestow his goodwill upon.”

“Of course. We only have two Navarian girls, I believe they’re in their room.”

Kamaria jumps up off the mat and places herself in between Aisling and the door, allowing them to still see her but not come near. Her mind is racing with the conversation she’s just overheard. The king wants to adopt one of them. To turn them into a…a princess. It sounds too far-fetched to be true. All the Navarians know that he hates them. He invaded their kingdom solely to conquer it and extend his power, slaughtered them by the thousands, and now claims that they are citizens of Ethorcon but sits idly by while the real Ethorconites treat them like the dirt under their feet. And now he wants one as his daughter?

The door opens, and her hands clench into fists. The worker enters first, beaming. “Ah yes, here they are.”

Two men in rich attire enter, glancing back and forth between the two of them. The bald one looks her over closely, from her frizzy brown braid and dirt-streaked skin to her patched clothing and bare feet. “How old are you?” he demands.

She considers not answering, but doesn’t see the point in the end. “Fourteen.”

He sighs heavily. “That’s older than I was hoping for. Harder to train.”

The other man, the one with the deeper voice, nods toward Aisling. “The little one looks to be around the right age.”

The bald man doesn’t even glance her way. “She’s sickly, can’t you tell it just from the look of her?” He turns toward the worker, clearly exasperated. “You said these are the only two Navarian girls you have?”

“She wouldn’t be if you took her.” The words are out Kamaria’s mouth before she can fully decide whether she should say them. “She’s frail now, yes, but with proper food and access to a physician she’d flourish, I’m certain of it.” And she’d be able to be a rich lady with hundreds of jewels, like she wants.

She doesn’t want to be separated from Aisling, she’s become like a little sister to her. She isn’t sure, either, that the castle is the best, most loving place for her. But if it means guaranteeing her survival…

Besides, she has no intention of going with these men herself, and if she’s taken then there will be no one to look after Aisling, to bring her extra food. This is how it needs to be.

“I’m not taking that risk,” the bald man grunts. “The older will have to do. Come.”

He nods his head toward the door before turning to walk out, as if he expects her to follow him just like that. Kamaria stands rooted to the floor, heart pounding and thoughts swirling.

“Come,” the other man repeats, holding out a hand to her. “You’ve been chosen. This is a great honor for you.”

“No.”

The bald man turns, and they both stare at her. “No?”

She lifts her chin, gathering her courage. “No, I won’t go with you. I don’t want to go, you’ll have to take her, instead.” She looks briefly back over her shoulder at Aisling, who’s watching everything silently with wide, fearful eyes.

Taking two slow steps toward her, the bald man huffs. “You behave as if you have any say in this matter, girl. We are acting on behalf of His Majesty, and you will do as we command.”

Kamaria’s anger flares. “His Majesty has never cared anything about my existence before, and he can live without it now. I want nothing to do with him. If he wanted to extend his goodwill, then he should have refrained from murdering my family and my people.”

The fury in her heart is reflected back at her in the man’s expression. As the other man mutters something like, “Are you sure that you want this one?”, he stalks toward her. She takes a few quick steps backwards away from him.

“I haven’t the time for this.” Lunging forward, he grabs her by her waist and yanks her into him, wrapping one arm around her and beginning to drag her toward the door.

Kamaria forgets how to breathe. For a moment, she’s one of the women that she sees in her nightmares, being carried off by laughing soldiers while the town burns around them.

She’s brought back to the present by Aisling’s screech. “Kamaria!”

“No! Let go of me!” She fights, digging her heels into the floor as best she can, hitting and scratching his arm and anything else she can reach. “I’m not going anywhere! Let me go, I will not be your stupid princess!”

The knife in her pocket knocks into her leg as if politely reminding her of its existence. She clamors for it wildly, somehow managing to get it out and fling the sheath to the ground.

“I said let me go!” She has no idea how to properly use a knife, but she has plenty of access to drive the point of it into his arm near the elbow.

He curses loudly and she’s suddenly free. Knife still in hand, she runs back toward Aisling, who’s sobbing uncontrollably, only to be tackled to the floor by the second man. He pins her there, and she screams, memories from the night of the fire washing over her again.

“The little minx stabbed me!” the bald man roars. “Get that knife away from her! You let these children have weapons?”

She can’t see anything but the wooden floor, but she tries to stretch out her arm so that the knife is out of reach. It doesn’t matter, though. The man on top of her holds down her arm and wrestles the knife out of her grip, handing it off to someone else.

She should have just left it for Aisling. Now it’s gone to waste, like the bracelet and coins hidden underneath the floorboard that the little girl won’t be able to sell.

“Get her out of here!” the bald man growls. “I clearly have my work cut out for me, teaching this one even basic manners.”

She’s flipped over onto her back, large hands holding her wrists tightly, then yanked up off the floor and thrown over the man’s shoulder. Beating and scratching on his back and kicking her legs doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Aisling screams her name again, and she cranes her head up to find her tear-streaked face.

“Ai-Aisling…stay strong for me, okay? Stay…stay strong.”

The younger girl sobs again. “Please don’t leave me!”

She’s carried out the door and around the corner before she can respond.

The carriage ride through town is tense. Kamaria is too angry and afraid to enjoy the novelty of it, crushed in between the two men on the bench seat. She tries to fling herself out the door at one point, and gets backhanded across the face so hard that she falls into the opposite wall.

It’s the first time anyone has ever hit her. With all of the violence she’s seen in her life, it shouldn’t feel as sickening as it does.

She spends the rest of the ride in her seat, staring at a spot straight ahead of her with her mind racing with thoughts of what’s ahead.

The second man walks her into the castle with a firm grip on her arm that she wants to shake off but tries her best to ignore. It’s obvious she’s not getting away from them anytime soon. She’s never been anywhere close to a castle before, much less inside of one, and despite her determination to hate every inch of it she can’t help but gape. Every surface seems to shine. The floor is cold beneath her feet, and when she looks down she can nearly see her reflection in it. Above her, the ceiling stretches almost as high as the sky itself, and staircases with polished railings wind up toward long balconies.

“This way.” Her arm is jerked, and the bald man leads them through a door and into a series of hallways and stairs that seem to never end. Kamaria tries to memorize the route, in case she gets the chance to escape.

At last they go through another intricately carved door, into a room that looks to be a bedroom but is so huge it could fit an entire house inside. There’s a bed against one wall, with a blue canopy over it and heavy curtains at each post. Pillows are piled on top of the covers. In the corner sits a dainty table with two matching chairs, and on another wall a sofa with even more pillows. Opposite the bed, nearly the entire wall is taken up by glass doors leading out onto a balcony.

“These will be your chambers,” the man holding her arm announces. He glances over at her dumbfounded expression. “See, this arrangement isn’t all that bad, is it?”

She quickly reins in her shock, throwing a glare back at him. “I don’t want any of this. Not when it comes from him.”

The bald man whirls around and slaps her cheek, not nearly as hard as the first hit but enough to turn her face to the side. “We’ll start your first lesson now. You will refer to His Majesty with respect and honor at all times. Understood?”

She clenches her jaw and stares him down, refusing to respond.

Taking a step forward, he grasps her chin hard between his fingers, tilting her head back to stare down into her face. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she spits. She understands. That doesn’t mean she’ll do it.

A quiet knock sounds on the open door behind her, and the bald man looks up and releases her chin. “Come in, let’s hurry this along.”

Several women appear, most wearing matching plain dresses. Kamaria watches them warily.

“Lord Roderick,” the one who doesn’t match the others begins, addressing the bald man. “This is she?”

“Yes. Get started right away, there’s no time to waste. You -” he turns his attention to the others, whom she guesses are maids -“go draw a bath. She’s absolutely filthy, and this hair is a disaster.”

She wants to snap something back about how he’d be the same way if he was forced to live on the streets and actually had hair, but decides to keep her mouth shut this time. It would likely only get her slapped again, unless he wouldn’t do it with the maids around.

A few of the maids curtsy and disappear through a door on the other side of the room. The woman who spoke approaches her, and the man finally lets go of her arm, going to shut the door to the bedroom.

“I’m going to measure you for a new gown,” the woman explains, holding up a measuring tape. Without waiting for a response, she sets to work wrapping it around various parts of Kamaria’s body while the two maids that are left assist her and write down the numbers she calls out. Kamaria stands stiffly, unsure of what to do or where to put her arms. She’s uncomfortable with all the hands in such close proximity to her, but at least these are female and aren’t hurting her right now.

“I have everything I need,” the seamstress announces eventually. “The fabric and trim is already chosen, and we’ll all work on this tirelessly until it’s done.”

“Good.” Roderick gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “See that you do. If all goes well I want to introduce her to His Majesty by tonight.”

The three of them curtsy and exit the room. One of the other maids peeks out from the door they’d exited through. “Her bath is ready.”

Roderick places a hand on her back and prods her forward. A bath…actually sounds rather nice. She is filthy, though she’d prefer that not be pointed out by this horrid man, and she’s certainly not going to let on that she’s grateful for anything they’re forcing on her.

The bathtub in the next room is, of course, also fancier than anything she’s ever seen. Roderick ushers her inside and leaves, and the maids immediately descend upon her, hands grabbing at her clothes. With a wordless shout, Kamaria swats them away, backing up until she bumps into the wall.

“We only wish to help you undress, Your Highness,” one explains, as if that somehow makes their intrusion better.

“Keep your hands off me! I’m not a Highness, and I definitely don’t need help getting undressed! Nor do I need you watching me get undressed! I’m not a child, I can bathe myself perfectly well.”

Roderick throws open the door and steps inside again. “Lower your voice, girl. You’re a princess now, there will be no shouting and causing a ruckus.”

She glares at him, arms crossed protectively over herself. “I’m not a princess, and I’m not staying here so there’s no need for me to adhere to all your stupid rules. You may have conquered Navar, but that doesn’t mean that -”

Stepping forward, he grabs a fistful of hair on the back of her head. “I said to lower your voice, and unless you want your head shoved into the water in that tub, I suggest you also keep war talk out of your mouth.”

Kamaria snaps her mouth shut, fury sparking in her eyes. She doesn’t want to follow this man’s orders, but she has no doubt at this point that he’ll follow through on his threat and she’d rather not be drowned.

This can’t last. She keeps hoping maybe it’s a nightmare that she’ll wake from soon, but even if it is reality…it can’t last. Either they’ll realize that this is a terrible decision and send her back, or she’ll escape somehow. There’s no way that she’s actually going to be stuck here for more than…a few days, maybe weeks.

So maybe, for now, she should just play along. Not enough to make them think that this actually is a good idea, but enough that she doesn’t keep getting hurt by this man. She can let her displeasure be known, but learn to stop before he gets too angry.

He stares her down for a few more seconds before deciding she’s done talking for now and releasing her hair. “Behave yourself and do as your maids say. Just hurry up and get in the bath.” Exiting the room, he slams the door shut behind him.

Kamaria narrows her eyes at the maids. Her maids, he’d called them. Well, if they’re her maids, and she’s supposed to be a princess, then they should listen to her, right? “I will undress myself. I don’t want you to touch me.”

The maids glance at each other. “I suppose it’s alright this time,” one replies. “In the future, though, Your Highness, your gowns will be much more complicated, and you’ll need help removing them.”

There’s no way she’s letting anyone put their hands all over her like that, ever. She’ll just have to figure out the so-called complicated gowns herself until she can get out of here. “And I don’t want you staring at me while I undress, either. Do royals have no sense of modesty, or is that an Ethorconite thing?”

Reluctantly, they turn their backs and allow her to undress and slip into the hot water herself. In all honesty, it feels extraordinarily nice, but not nice enough that she’s ready to turn her back on her people to indulge in it for the rest of her life.

An awkward hour later, Kamaria sits in front of an ornate mirror, wearing undergarments that cover nearly enough of her to be an actual gown and are made of the softest fabric she’s ever touched. Each of the maids is yanking a comb through her still-damp hair, trying to get rid of the never ending tangles, while they discuss how to style it when they’re done.

“A braid,” she says simply.

One of them frowns at her reflection. “A braid is too simplistic, Your Highness. You’ll need something regal to meet His Majesty.”

“Then multiple braids. That’s how the Navarian nobles style their hair.”

The maid sighs, turning her attention back to a particularly stubborn snarl. “You’re a princess of Ethorcon now. Not Navar.”

Kamaria jerks her head away, putting a hand to her sore scalp, and glares into the mirror. “So? What is the point of the king adopting a Navarian if you’re just going to try to turn me into an Ethorconite?” She reluctantly lowers her hand, allowing the combing to continue. “We all know that he doesn’t actually care anything about ‘extending goodwill’. Which means the only reason for him to do something like this is to try to fool people into thinking that he does actually care about us.”

“You shouldn’t talk about His Majesty that way.”

She continues on without pausing. “And if that’s the case, then shouldn’t I actually look like who I am? Doesn’t he want to be able to show me off and make sure everyone knows that it’s a Navarian he’s taken in?”

These thoughts have been occurring to her through everything that’s happened, but saying them aloud makes them much more terrifying and sickening than turning them over in her head. She’s a trophy, that’s what she is. What he wants her to be, at least. A shiny new thing that the king can wave around and use to prove how wonderful he is, while continuing to do absolutely nothing to actually help her people.

“There will be an announcement of your adoption in due time, and the people will be informed of your heritage then. But Lord Roderick and His Majesty want you to look the part of the princess of Ethorcon. And braids are not part of a traditional hairstyle here.”

“But -”

The door opens, and Roderick strides back into the room. “Are you still arguing?”

She snaps her mouth shut, transferring her glare to his reflection before finding her courage again. “I will have a braid somewhere in my hair.”

“You will do what you’re told, or you’re going to regret it.” He walks up beside her, and she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hide her immodesty. He just grabs her chin again and turns her face toward his. “At least you clean up decently, though you’ll look much better once that hair is dealt with.” His other hand comes up to brush across the purple bruise that has begun forming on her cheek, and she flinches away.

“Would you like us to do something to cover that, my lord?”

“Don’t bother.” He turns and walks back toward the door. “His Majesty will understand. I’m going to check on the seamstress’ progress and attend to a few other matters. Be sure her hair is finished by the time I return.”

She’s never had to sit still for so long in her life. It feels like all of her hair is going to fall out of her head by the time they’re done, but she does have to admit - to herself, at least - that they do a good job of making her curls look soft and shiny for the first time in two years. And the updo that they settle on is elegant and regal - for an Ethorconite, that is.

When she’s finally allowed a moment alone in the privacy of the bathroom, the first thing she does is tug out a section of hair on the side and braid it, then pins it back into place. She studies herself in the mirror. She’s thinner than she used to be. The last years have hollowed out her cheeks and made her collarbone more prominent, though nothing like poor Aisling’s. And now she looks ridiculous in this fancy foreign style, and she hasn’t even put on a gown yet.

At least she has the braid now, though. She’ll cling to any part of Navar that she can, no matter how hard they attempt to strip it all from her.

Eventually the maid knocks on the door, probably worried that she’s doing something drastic like destroying all their hard work by adding a braid to her hair. While she was inside, the second maid brought up a tray with lunch from the kitchen. Kamaria can smell it as soon as the cover is removed, and finds herself drawn to the table where it sits.

There’s so much food, and it’s all supposed to be for her. Poultry with a golden sheen, steaming vegetables, bread with butter pooling on top. For the longest time she just stares at it all. She wants it. The hunger that’s been a constant presence in her life for two years suddenly lurches to the forefront of her mind, demanding that she stuff everything on the tray into her mouth as quickly as she can.

But she also can’t stop seeing Aisling’s face. She’s the one who needed this, not Kamaria. It isn’t fair, that she should sit here in luxury and eat her fill of the finest foods, while her friend stays behind and continues to suffer.

“I can’t eat this.” She takes a step back, hand pressed against her stomach, eyes still fixated on the overflowing plate.

The maid sighs. “Why not, Your Highness? I understand that it’s not the cuisine you’re accustomed to -”

“I’m not accustomed to anything except scraps of whatever happens to be available!” she shoots back. “I just…I can’t. I can’t.” How can she explain that eating this food would feel like betraying the only person she’s cared for since losing her family? They wouldn’t understand, and they don’t need that kind of personal information about her.

“Well we’re not going to feed you scraps, Your Highness. You must eat.” She gestures to the food. “You don’t have to worry about going hungry anymore, all your needs will be provided for here.”

That’s the whole problem. But she’s right about one thing, she has to eat something. Especially if she ends up needing to escape from this place, if they don’t just kick her out, she’ll need energy and strength.

Reluctantly, she walks over and takes a seat and begins picking at the food. It’s delicious, but it’s so rich that she can barely stomach it, and guilt accompanies every bite. She only makes it through a small fraction of the pile before she’s pushing it away.

“I’m full.” She waves a hand without looking at the food again. “The two of you can have the rest if you’d like.” This isn’t the orphanage, food isn’t a rare and precious commodity. It’s doubtful they want to eat your leftovers, Kamaria. Among the children it was incredibly rare for someone to leave any of their food, but on the occasion that it happened there would always be a tussle to split the rest.

She spends the rest of the afternoon being trained by first the maids, then Roderick, on the perfect curtsy with which to greet the king. Despite her disdain for the idea - and her great desire to come up with the most disrespectful greeting she can to substitute - she tries her best to copy them and follow the instructions, especially once Roderick arrives and starts threatening to slap her around again. He’s still not happy with her performance by the time they end the lesson, but throws up his hands with a sigh and declares that it will do for now.

Finally, the seamstress arrives with the finished gown. She’s forced to let the maids help her slip it over her head and lace it, partially because Roderick is still lurking and she doesn’t feel like being hit for arguing again, and partially because they were, unfortunately, correct, and she probably wouldn’t be able to wrangle all of the fabric and reach the laces herself. The dress is a deep red, and it feels expensive, silky and smooth and so much skirt that she feels twice as heavy once it’s on.

Roderick stares her down critically, a scowl permanently painted on his face. “I suppose you’re as ready as you’re going to be. You look the part, at least.”

“How did this braid get here?” a maid gasps, and Kamaria can’t keep a smirk from quirking her lips.

“Never mind, it’s hardly noticeable and we don’t have time,” Roderick growls. “Let’s go.”

Her nerves rise as she’s led through the castle halls once again. She’s only a commoner, she’s never met anyone like a king before, and certainly not King Alaric, whom she’s heard so many stories about. Obviously she doesn’t care anything about making a good impression on him. She’d rather he take one look at her and immediately order Roderick to send her back.

But…this is the man who destroyed her country. This is the man who ordered his soldiers to kill her family and burn her home.

At one point, as a foolish, grieving child, she’d sworn that if she ever stood in his presence she would kill him herself. Now she’s expected to pretend to be his daughter.

The doors to the throne room tower over her head, ornately carved and inlaid with gold. They swing open suddenly, and she finds herself in the largest room she could ever imagine, with the king staring down from his throne a great distance away.

She freezes. Her feet won’t move forward, refusing to carry her into the same room as her mother’s murderer.

A hand on her back shoves her through the doorway. She nearly trips over the long skirt of her dress, but still can’t take her eyes off the man at the other end of the room. He’s as stern-faced and intimidating as she’d imagined, face pale beneath his black hair and beard and eyes bright and intense. They watch her every move as Roderick gives up on her walking herself and drags her by the arm.

The walk seems to go by in an instant and take an eternity all at once. Suddenly they’re at the foot of the steps that lead to the throne, and Roderick is pinching a bruise into her arm. Right, curtsy, she’s supposed to curtsy. Was she even planning on doing so? Maybe she was going to just stand here and refuse. It’s too late now, she’s already moving. Everything that they taught her this afternoon has escaped from her mind, though, and whatever motion she makes is clumsy and awkward. She can hear Roderick sigh quietly next to her.

“Your Majesty, may I present the Navarian girl that you requested. I’m afraid she will require quite extensive training before she’s ready to make an appearance as a princess, but rest assured that I am up to the task.”

King Alaric just keeps raking his eyes over her, stoic expression never changing. “How old is she? I thought you were getting a little one.”

There are so many things she should say to him, but they all stick in her throat. The emotions swirling through her chest are fighting against each other. She feels at once everything and nothing.

“Fourteen, I believe she said. I was originally planning for younger, but unfortunately she was the best option.”

The words finally take shape and burst from her lips. “No, I wasn’t! Aisling was the best option, I told you so right then and there, she would have flourished here and she would have been happy to do whatever you wanted.”

Roderick grabs her arm in the same place he was pinching it earlier. “You will hold your tongue in the presence of the king,” he hisses.

She tries to pull away from him, glaring daggers. “I told you I didn’t want to come here. If you want a perfect, obedient princess then you’ll send me back, because I will not be her.”

“Shut up, girl!” He twists her arm hard, wrenching her shoulder, and she gasps in pain. “I apologize on her behalf, Your Majesty. As I said, she requires extensive training. And the other child she’s referring to was sickly and frail, so don’t let her deceive you. She was the best choice…” He throws her a disdainful look. “Such as she is.”

King Alaric leans back in his throne, expression still unreadable, as Kamaria continues to glower at them both. “I must say I’m disappointed. I was hoping to have something I could present to the people sooner rather than later. I trust that your outing was discreet, at least?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. The orphanage worker was the only one outside the castle who knew of our mission, and she was paid handsomely to hold her tongue until the proper time.”

The king sighs, looking her over one more time. “Fine. Start your training and make sure absolutely everyone knows that she is to remain unknown until I make the announcement. I’m counting on you, Lord Roderick, to make this work.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I will not fail you.” He bows his head, still firmly gripping her arm.

“Does the feral child have a name?”

There’s a pause, and Roderick shoots her a look, jaw tight with anger. She raises one eyebrow at him - oh now you want me to speak? Now that someone is actually bothering to find something out about me? - and the anger grows. He jerks his head toward the king, prompting her to answer.

She lets the silence linger for another moment before answering. “Kamaria.”

The king scoffs. “Of course. Well, at least there will be no mistaking that she’s Navarian.” He waves a lazy, ring-laden hand. “You’re dismissed.”

Kamaria has never been so glad to leave a room, though she’s furious that her hope to be sent back right away has been dashed. Part of her wants to run back and argue some more, to show the king just how bad of an idea this really is, but even if she had the courage, Roderick isn’t giving her that choice. He doesn’t let go of her arm until they’re back in the bedroom that’s been designated as hers.

Unfortunately, he’s just as angry as she is at how that meeting went. She’s gotten glimpses of what this new life under his control is going to be like throughout the day, but it’s that evening that she’s fully shown just what to expect from his training.

#bad things happen bingo #gilded cage #original content #whump of a minor #lady whump #lady whumpee #referenced parental death #referenced war #referenced fire #manhandling #stabbing #hitting #prejudice tw #hunger tw #corporal punishment #the shadow of death #kamaria the assassin #royal au #whump writing

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thewhumperinwhite · 7 months

Text

WKW: The Truth, Carefully Chosen

Masterpost // previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff

TW for: minor character death/murder, decapitation; referenced beating/caning; abuse of power, basically an interrogation under threat of death/torture; temporary paralysis; noncon touching (nonsexual); possible/threatened brain and heart damage, nosebleed.

gonna ride this unexpected burst of motivation as far as it will take me. thanks for the positive response to last chapter, it was a surprise!! hope you like this one too.

----

The Winter King seems to have burned through most of the incandescent rage that animated him back in Thorne’s quarters, barring the occasional flicker in the depths of his black eyes. Morden has entered the Healer’s parlor carrying a small golden chest under one arm, which he sets gently on the floor. Then he settles into the chair beside the Healer’s operating table; Andry lies there, able to keep his eyes open- but little else. The cane Morden did not quite finish beating Andry to death with is not in evidence.

“Tell me about your sister,” Morden says.

Andry feels his heartbeat, already rabbit-fast, stumble a little faster. A long night of being dragged back and forth across death’s threshold has wrung all the fear out of his mind, but evidently there is still room for it in his body.

“Wait,” Morden says, when Andry has managed to convince his mouth to open. “Before you begin. Insurance.”

He lays his hand on Andry’s shoulder—Andry feels the muscles in his back spasm slightly as try and fail to go tense at the touch—and a faint jolt of energy shoots from Morden’s palm, branching down Andry’s arm and in towards his fluttering heart.

For a second it doesn’t feel like much at all; and then it reaches his ruined arm and explodes back upward like lightning hitting a dead tree. White spots burst across Andry’s vision; he hears the thunk of his own head hitting the table as his back arches on its own. His head doesn’t hurt until a few seconds later; by then his heart is pounding hard enough that his chest and temples feel hot and sore. His head has snapped to the side, so that the new stream of blood from his nose is dripping down the side of his face. There is blood in his mouth, too; he must have bitten his tongue.

He tries to swallow, and winces. The back of his throat feels like broken glass.

Morden is watching him closely, though he seems focused on something other than joy at Andry’s suffering, for once. Andry wishes he could find that comforting. The air between his face and Morden’s has taken on a faint purple shimmer that he realizes a second late must be magic. The pain in Andry’s arm settles slowly into an almost-bearable background hum, though the muscles in his bicep keep jumping, making the metal cuff clatter against the table.

“If you want to live, Highness,” Morden says, “don’t lie.”

Andry tries to nod, and realizes that he can’t; the muscles in his throat and back have stopped responding to his commands. He blinks once, rather slowly, instead.

Morden nods to show he understands. Andry hates him. “Who is your sister?” Morden asks, his tone firmly neutral.

Andry—breathes in. His throat is cracked and dry and tastes like blood; it takes him three tries to make any sound at all.

“…inth,” he manages. Closes his eyes, breathes, tries again. “Hya… cinth. Of… Rose.”

Morden nods again.

“Very good. There’s a start. How about this, then: describe her.”

Andry swallows, and is immediately sorry; the shudder that runs through him afterwards is weakened by exhaustion, but still hurts the wrung-out muscles of his back and stomach. He feels as though he has tried to swallow his Father’s sword. Or one of Karya’s antlers.

“Faster, Little Prince.”

It took all the energy Andry had to move his arm to stop the Healer from killing herself; at least he does not have to fight to keep from making rude gestures at the Winter King.

“…Blonde,” he manages, after he wrestles past the bloody-tasting lump in his throat.

Morden’s black eyes flash, and for a moment Andry thinks that he has finally done it, finally reached the threshold of the Winter King’s limited patience, and without being ready for it this time. Then Morden raises his hand again, and presses two gloved fingers against the side of Andry’s throat.

Andry closes his eyes, since he cannot back away. He can feel his heart fluttering against Morden’s fingers, like a bird in a cat's mouth.

The air shifts as Morden gets to his feet. Something soft brushes Andry’s cheek. When Andry opens his eyes, Morden is leaning over the table, his face very close to Andry’s, the long black curtain of Morden’s hair hanging around them both. His fingers are still pressed just under Andry’s jaw, palm now resting lightly across Andry’s voicebox.

“Your heart is running itself ragged, little Prince,” Morden says. Andry can feel Morden’s breath on his cheek. “I don’t know if it will take another jolt, but I can make the experiment, if you’d like.”

Andry breathes out, thinly, past Morden’s fingers on his throat. There’s little enough else for him to do.

“Describe Lady Hyacinth of House Rose, Prince,” Morden says. His voice is soft, as though speaking to a lover. “Not her hair. Her heart, if you please. What kind of woman is she?”

Andry wants to shake his head. Perhaps it is fortunate that he cannot; he doesn’t know if Morden’s spell will count feigned ignorance as lying. He blinks again, instead. Morden sighs, sounding indulgent, if anything. His hand on Andry’s throat—the implicit threat there, and Andry limp and unmoving under it—seems to have calmed him; he looks almost affectionate, now.

“Surely you don’t want me to be cross with you again already,” Morden says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Andry is very aware, this close, of Morden’s beauty; fear is starting to lick at the edges of Andry’s mind again, like fire catching on paper. “Come, Prince. Talk. I’m sure you can think of some simple words that won’t hurt your poor pretty throat too much.”

Andry does not close his eyes; that would mean dropping Morden’s gaze, and he doesn’t have the strength left to do that.

“She's... clever,” he rasps, after a moment. He can’t think of anything else that isn’t a lie.

Morden stays where he is for another long, torturous moment. Then he sighs and sits back the Healer’s chair, crossing his arms; Andry breathes out, feeling limp and wrung out with relief.

“Yes,” Morden says. “I got that impression. And is your sister kind, Prince?”

Andry stares at him. It is—it is unfair of the Winter King, to lay traps like these so soon after trying to kill him. If Morden had given him another hour or two to gather his thoughts, he would not feel so much like he was walking beside a very long drop with no light by which to see the edge. Andry tries to push aside the childlike anger that is threatening to make his eyes well up; it is more difficult than usual.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is still a burnt-dry rasp; now it is also trembling. He feels his face heat up with a nonsensical embarrassed flush.

Morden shakes his head, gives one huff of mirthless laughter. “Fine. Better question.” He leans forward, watching Andry’s face closely. “Does your sister love you, Summer Prince?”

Andry stares at him.

He still cannot see the edge. But he knows what is at the bottom of that long drop: that the wrong answer will hurt him, will hurt Asher, as every wrong step in this House has always threatened to do—might hurt Cinthy, the last safe unthreatened thing he has.

Andry cannot move. But that is nothing new; he is used to this House binding his hands and breaking his back; he has never been able to move freely. Andry closes his eyes, gathers what he has, all the skills he has learned after all these years in his Father’s house, and thinks, instead.

He thinks of Cinth’s face, of the arrogant lift of her chin, of her mouth twisted in disdain at Audoine’s back; of her the speed with which she could slap Andry’s hands away from a coveted book or toy without their mother seeing; of her sharp words and her sharper elbow aimed Andry’s ribs under the table; of the fierce narrowing of her eyes as she corrected his posture, and her own. He thinks of Hyacinth, her cleverness, and ambition, and anger. It has been months, now, with no word from the Rose Trellis; who knows what plans she might have made, if she has decided to give him up?

“I don’t know,” Andry says, and it is true exactly long enough to matter.

Morden watches him, waiting—the same as Andry is—for his spell to tell him that Andry is lying. When nothing happens, Morden hums thoughtfully, and then bends down to retrieve the little golden chest he brought with him into the room. He sets it on the table, where it sits coldly against Andry’s aching ribs.

“Lady Hyacinth has sent me a gift,” Morden says. “It’s a—oh, what would the word for it be, in your tongue? A dowry.”

Andry does not know what expression he makes, but is an honest one; he doesn’t have time to hide it. Surprise is too mild, probably. Maybe horror. It seems to satisfy Morden, either way. His eyes are no longer flashing; they have simmered down to their customary amused twinkle.

“It’s rather extravagant, Highness. Here,” Morden says, “I’ll show you.”

Andry will never forget what his father’s head looked like, when they threw it at him on the balcony, and Thorne held it up for everyone to see. This is—both better, and worse. It has clearly been longer; time and travel have not been kind to Cinthy’s gift. It takes Andry a long moment to recognize the face of Cinth's grandfather, the Rose Count.

“Custom dictates I reciprocate, I believe,” Morden says, though Andry only half hears him. “What do you think your sister has asked for in return, Summer Prince?”

----

“I am begging you, Lady,” General Amara says, while Lady Hyacinth is drafting her letter, two weeks before it arrives, battered parcel attached, on the Winter King’s desk. “Ask for something else.”

Hyacinth does not look up from her desk, where her quill is moving swiftly along the current parchment sheet, half-hidden among a small graveyard of balled-up rejected drafts. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line, and a few strands of hair have come loose from her elaborate braid. If she knew her Lady even slightly less well, Amara would believe her wholly unbothered. Lady Hyacinth’s hands are still pink from over-scrubbing, but she is clean of blood.

“You cannot do this, my Lady,” Amara says, not for the first time.

“I’ve already cut it off, General,” Hyacinth says, tearing this sheet of parchment free from the pallet and throwing it over her shoulder. “It would be a waste not to send it now.”

Amara shakes her head, strides up to stand behind the Lady at the desk, shuddering slightly at the sight of the gold box perched upon it, looking neat and innocent now that it has been shut and locked. “No, my Lady. I have agreed to this—plan; I have not tried to steer you from this course; we have gone too far to turn back now. But I must counsel you, please—ask for something that will be of use.”

The Lady’s expression does not change, but her quill snaps in half mid-stroke. She sets it down on the desk, her movements calm and deliberate.

Amara winces. “Sorry, Lady. I didn’t mean—you know.”

The Lady takes a visible breath, and squares her shoulders. Then she turns in her seat to meet Amara’s eyes. Amara wilts under her gaze. Even now—eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, hands clasped neatly on the table to keep them from shaking—the Lady is very beautiful. Amara feels, not for the first time, that she would be much better at her job if the Lady were plain.

“General,” the Lady says. “Do you trust me?”

It isn’t as simple as that, and they both know it. The Lady is an excellent liar, and Amara is better at seeing her tells than most, and is almost sure that what Cinth has told the officers, that the Count’s death was natural, and to her great sorrow she has no choice but to make use of the opportunity, is a lie. So, in point of fact, she does not trust Lady Hyacinth; it is just that she has—begun following the Lady, and keeps letting the Lady have her way, and doesn’t seem to be able to stop.

“…Yes,” Amara says, reluctantly, and has the unsettling impression that the Lady knows exactly what she means.

“Good,” Lady Hyacinth says. “Then fetch me another quill.” She turns her back on Amara, and Amara sighs, and does as she is told.

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #truth spell #exhaustion #magical torture #minor character death #beheading

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ao3feed-crimeboys · 2 years

Text

Tommy Has a Bad Day

by Goldstone_Wolf

“No, no, Dream. I want to know. Are you here to rescue your dude in distress, sweep him off his feet, bring him back to America, and marry him?” Tommy asked softly, beaming at him and raising his eyebrows. “I’m going to start filming again and I will make fun of you on Twitter.” Dream said, opening the camera again and then focusing on Tommy’s face. Grinning, Tommy opened his mouth, fully aware of the blinking red light but not caring. He was about to fire back something. A joke or an insult. (He didn’t get the chance.) ~ During another vlog, Tommy is asked inappropriate questions about his cane by random people, has to deal with some ableists, and then has to deal with a Karen. + RATED M FOR ABLEIST LANGUAGE (SPECIFICALLY THE USE OF CRIPPLE) AND CONTENT. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS FOR ALL WARNINGS THAT I COULD THINK OF. LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED ANY.

Words: 3826, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 11 of Chronic Pain, Innit?

Fandoms: Minecraft (Video Game), Dream SMP, Video Blogging RPF

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson | Philza, Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Cricket Crew in the Background

Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit

Additional Tags: TWs:, Ableism, Referenced Bullying, mild bullying, Ableist Language, harrassment, Karens, Bullies, Ableist Architecture, Panic Attacks, Subluxations, minor character injury, Canon-Typical Injury, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), (he subluxates his hip and falls when someone takes his cane this fic), Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Whump, Shopping Malls, Tommyinnit Has Chronic Pain (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit has a Mobility Aid, Chronic Pain

#ao3feed #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #crimeboys #crime boys #crimebois #crime bois #mcyt #This is an automated process #If you see any fic that breaks boundaries #or the fic is yours and you don't want it shared send an ask #it will be looked at and removed if need be

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endless-whump · 4 years

Text

Damian: A Friendly Visit

Masterpost

For..um..reasons, I’m not entirely sure if this will be canon, but I thought the idea would be rlly fun to mess around with

Special thanks to @castielamigos-whump-side-blog for reminding me to finish this XD its been sitting unfinished in my drafts for months now. Glad to be diving back into some stuff with Damian!

CW: Implied child abuse, threats, threats to a minor, coercion of a minor,

---

There was what sounded like friendly discussion in the hallway, and Damian glanced around nervously, fingers fidgeting with his hoodie string. His dad had said his social worker was coming to do a home check today, but the hearty, masculine voice coming from the entryway didn’t sound like Miss Kelly.

There were more footsteps, the sound of a short laugh, and then his father and a tall man entered the living room, smiling as they talked.

“Damian, this is your new social worker, he’s just coming to check in on you.” His father was smiling, but there was that never leaving, underlying threat in his expression, like one misstep would have his anger resurfacing. Damian stared at him, anxiety rising up in him.

“W,what happened to Kelly?” He asked quietly. Kelly was nice, she always brought snacks and talked with him about how school was going, and last time he’d heard from her she said she was going to see about putting together a case for him to get emancipated.

“Kelly got reassigned or something, I don’t know.” His father shrugged, like it was unimportant. “Anyways, this is Mr Con-“

“You can just call me Eugene,” the man said with a smile that made Damian uncomfortable. He reached out his hand, and the teen hesitantly took it, Eugene giving him a firm handshake.

He took off his hat, and Damian noted the long coat he wore, dressed a little strangely compared to other social workers he’d seen.

“I don’t like to be super formal, I’m just here to check in on how things were going around here. You doing ok recently?”

Damian nodded, wanting desperately to avoid eye contact but knew it would just make him look shifty and nervous the way that always made his dad so frustrated.

"Have you started school yet?” He asked.

“Not yet, I’m still trying to get him adjusted at home and on his new meds before sending him out yet.” Damian's father answered for him, and if it annoyed Eugene it didn’t show.

“I see. Is everything going well after getting home from the hospital? Doing ok adjusting back home?”

Damian's nails dug into his palms, frustration growing in him. He could feel his dad's eyes boring into him and knew if he said anything short of a stellar description of his life at home, he would pay for it. Something told him this new guy wouldn’t be of much help anyways.

“It's been good,” He said, looking down and rubbing nervously at his wrist. “Just been itching to go back to school, you know,,”

Eugene nodded, a sympathetic smile on his face that seemed so artificial.

“Do you think you could give us a minute alone? I’d like to ask Damian some questions, if you don’t mind.”

His dad clapped him on the shoulder, earning a stifled flinch Eugene didn’t even give a second glance at.

“Sure, just don’t be too long. Gonna get some dinner in the oven, Eugene’s got a strict med schedule he needs to stay on with his meals.”

“Of course.”

Damian watched as his dad left, somehow feeling even more uneasy with the person he feared most gone.

“So are things at home really ok? I want you to be honest with me.”

Damian fidgeted with his sleeve, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“It's rough, I guess, my dad is just overbearing.” He muttered. “Wish I could go to school at least.”

“You know,” Eugene leaned close, giving him a sympathetic look. “I can understand that you’re in a tough situation right now. There's things I can do to help, if you’ll let me.”

Damian eyed him warily, feeling uncomfortable. There was something off about Eugene he couldn’t pinpoint. It felt like he was being reeled into something, no matter how much he wanted to believe he could really get out of here.

‘Like what?” He asked, after a moment of silence. Eugene smiled, tilting his head just slightly, observing the teen.

“We have some really good programs that could get you away from the house, internships and education programs. We even have some therapy type groups that we think might help with your current...situation.”

Damian grit his teeth,

“G,groups?” He asked. “Like..overnight stuff? I could go to those?” He tried not to sound too hopeful, tapping at his leg nervously. “I’m..I’m not sure my dad would let me go to those..”

“Don’t even worry about that.” Eugene reassured, leaning back in his chair again. Damian felt like he had more room to breathe again, relaxing a little. “We could probably talk your dad into it, and if not? Since his custody is circumstantial I think I could maybe even get a court order to let you go. How does that sound?”

That sounded amazing, if Damian was being honest. He didn’t really want to admit it, but it did. Maybe..maybe if nothing else it would get him out of the house more. Maybe he could start getting job skills with that internship, and be able to get out and actually stay on his feet.

“You...you think you could do that?”

The man smiled, nodding. “Sure I can, kiddo. It’ll be great, you’ll be able to start seeing your friends again and even make new ones, if you want.” He lowered his voice, glancing at the kitchen where Damian’s father had disappeared. “And..if we’re being honest, your dad doesn’t sound like the most stable guy. I don’t exactly have enough paperwork to pull you, especially with your medical record, but I want to help as much as I can.”

His heart was racing, but some of his distrust in Eugene was fading. Maybe he was just..overly nice. A lot of the social workers had that type of energy about them. He finally met the man’s eyes, nodding.

“That..um..that sounds good. I mean..that sounds great. I’d really like that.”

Eugene sighed, pursing his lips together like he was making a decision.

“I wouldn’t recommend this unless you want to do the internship program..but if we can prove that you aren’t a danger to yourself..we could probably pursue emancipation arrangements.”

His breath caught in his throat, a wave of nervousness and hope flooding through him. He could possibly get out? Be able to leave without being pursued?

“W,what does the..the internship program include?” He asked quickly. “What kind of jobs would I be able to do? Can I..can I start working soon? Even with my dispatch? Do you think I could?”

“Woah there, slow down.” Eugene chuckled, putting a hand up. “I’ll have to work some things out with the higher ups and talk to your doctor with your dad’s permission..but yes. Theoretically, we could get you into one of our programs relatively soon. As to what kind of jobs you could do?”

He tilted his head, and the last bit of distrust faded from Damian’s mind, replaced by a hope and curiosity about the possibilities he could have.

“We have a..household assistance program of sorts..it's like a training process. I think you’d find that one especially rewarding to intern for.”

@spiffythespook@simplygrimly @cinnamonflavoredhugs

#whump #box boy universe #crossover #threatened #tw child abuse #tw referenced whump of a minor #my oc's #my writing #Damian #haven't written with this boi in a w h i l e #coercion

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

📋 Hello I am putting a formal request in for more Chris Saves Himself AU ft Mama Nakamura taking him I’m home only to realize the full situation

Continuing the Chris Saves Himself AU: One | Two |

CW: Grief, memory loss, recovering whumpee, some very brief and very vague references to noncon, minor whumpee (OC is 17), angsty fluff, reunion

It takes six days for the cops to let Akio's mom bring Tristan back to their house.

He's ready to be discharged from the hospital by day two, but there's nowhere for him to go. WRU is still saying there's no record of his existence, even with the barcode on his wrist. Tristan's only known living relative, Joanne Botham, is claiming he ran away from home and she had no idea what happened to him, that what she had told the Nakamura family was out of frustration and anger at Tristan for disappearing. The governor is out on bail facing charges for keeping Tristan in the mansion in the first place.

There are a lot of charges.

Akio feels by turns numb and enraged when he hears a news anchor read them out loud, bloodless words that don't seem to reflect at all how serious their meanings are.

The first few, he can process - false imprisonment, bodily assault - but then they keep going, and they get worse in ways Akio can barely even begin to imagine.

What Tristan has lived through... Akio's brain refuses to let it coalesce fully, but he has nightmares, dreams about Tristan screaming for him and being on the other side of a door Aki can't open.

He dreams about hands on Tristan's body and the way he might have screamed for help. Akio wakes up crying, retching, running to the bathroom to throw up whatever he's eaten that day as if he can rid himself of the poison of knowing.

His mom calls a therapist.

His father tells him to stop watching the news.

Akio just waits until they're in bed and searches for everything he can find on twitter, on reddit, on every-fucking-place anyone is talking about this. And it's everywhere.

He stops telling his parents about his nightmares after the second night.

Oliver Branch says WRU sold him a product they knew was outside the bounds of the law and lied to him about it. WRU says they don't know what he could possibly mean by that and they have no paperwork or documentation that Tris was ever in the system at all, and if he was, then there must have been a mistake about his age. They swear they'll do a total review of every single Box Boy, Babe, or Buddy to ensure absolute compliance.

The soundbites make Akio's mouth dry.

How many are there, then? If they have to keep looking to find more? How many like Tristan?

How many?

Joanne Botham, who never answers Aimi's furious calls and then changes her number after the second day, goes on TV and says she did nothing wrong and there's no proof that anything happened except maybe Tristan lying about his name and age to make WRU agree to take him in. Oliver Branch says he has the proof WRU knew, and he'll provide it in exchange for immunity.

They all point fingers at each other on national television, in press conferences and through their attorneys.

Through it all, Tristan sits in a hospital bed staring out the window at the blue sky as though it will be stolen from him all over again, waiting to be told where to go, what to do.

And it takes Aimi nearly a week to get the police to agree to allow her to take him home. She brings everything she can think of to meetings with the detectives heading up the case, shows them reams of team photos and home movies, folders and folders of everything Aimi and Mrs. Higgs had ever talked about or done together with the boys.

The hospital needs the room, needs the bed. The detectives don't want to put him into foster care when he barely seems to understand he's a person. The social services people won't take him because they're not equipped to handle a situation like this one. The adjustment houses don't want him because of something to do with what kind of Boxie he was, and Aimi doesn't elaborate and something in the set of her expression makes it clear Akio shouldn't ask.

After a week of mostly just being able to look at him through the small little square window in the hospital room's door, Aimi finally gets legal permission to take him out of there.

Akio isn't prepared for the slew of news vans that are there when he and Aimi arrive, someone having tipped off reporters that they might get a glance of the governor's secret Box Boy today. Aimi, though, simply sets her shoulders, slides a pair of dark sunglasses on, and walks through the crowd like a queen with her head held high, a small duffel bag handle in hand.

Akio hurries behind her, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, hood pulled over his head, trying to ignore ten thousand camera flashes. It's so much worse than the leadup to the Olympics would have been, if he were still performing at elite.

Or at all.

He has a strange, surreal hope that Tris won't be disappointed in him for quitting after Tris died.

Even though he's not dead.

They step into the hospital room around 10 in the morning to find Tristan not in the bed, but sitting on the couch built into the wall under the window, curled up on the crinkly plastic cushions to look out the window, humming low, soft and tuneless.

The hum makes Akio's heart ache with a sudden realization that this odd waking dream he's been living for a week isn't a dream at all. Tears flood his eyes and he has to blink them away as fast as he can. He's heard that hum in his ear as kids during sleepovers, he's heard it when Tris was nervous before performing a new routine, he's heard it while they waited anxiously for scores or studied for school.

"Hey, sweetheart," Aimi says, her voice low and soft, but even so Tris jumps and turns to look at them with wide, startled eyes. One hand goes up to his neck, and Akio swallows when he sees Tris has wrapped gauze around his neck to sit like the collar he was wearing when he fell from the governor's bedroom balcony.

Akio watched the cell phone video that made the rounds over and over and over again. The flash of red hair, shirtless, the bruises he was covered with, his hazy drugged eyes. Over and over and over again.

Watch him fall, watch him land, watch the people run to him and get him out of there when Akio has been sitting here crying his eyes to red half the time for a dead best friend who wasn't dead at all.

"H, Hello," Tristan says, but he doesn't know them. Akio can tell, the way his eyes move between them is uncertain, unsure. "Hello, ma'am. Can, can, can I, what..." He swallows, shivering, and Akio watches the fear move across his face. "What... what can I... do for you?"

His slowed-down voice makes Akio feel sick. He's only ever seen Tristan do that when he's with people who don't understand him or love him for who he is. Now it seems like it's the only way he remembers how to talk.

All Tristan's muscles from gymnastics are gone, leaving only faded shadows of his strength behind. He's skinny, so pale he nearly reflects the light from the ceiling. His freckles are faded, and his hair is shorter than Tris ever liked it.

Being so thin makes his eyes even bigger, they seem to overwhelm the rest of his face.

"Honey, we're going to take you to our house," Aimi says, keeping her voice the same low gentle cadence. "While we figure out what happens next. Aki and I will be taking care of you for a while. How's that sound? Would that be okay?"

Tristan looks between them again, and something shifts in his face. A kind of desperation moves there, and he turns more fully to face them, leaning over a little to look up at them. Hair falls over his forehead, and his hands move to rub over the texture of a loose pair of sweatpants someone gave him to wear under his hospital gown. "To... your house? Would I be... yours?"

He looks at Akio again, and there's something in his face that says he sees that as the best case scenario, that he was ready for far, far worse than simply changing owners. That he's... hoping he'll be Akio's property now.

Akio's stomach flips at the thought and he has to put a hand over his mouth and turn away, catching the sob before it can make its way up out of his throat.

Aimi's arm moves around his shoulders instinctively, and she leans over, pressing a kiss to her son's short black hair. "It's okay," Aimi whispers. "It'll be hard at first. But it's going to be okay, Aki. Saishūtekini wa daijōbudesu. Tristan wa mada anata no shin'yūdesu."

Tristan, sitting on the little couch, blinks a few times. "Friend," he says in English, a little haltingly. "Shin' yu. Means... best friend." He scoots closer to them along the couch, and his eyes are so big and so very, very green. Just how Akio always remembered them.

Aimi's head raises and turns to look at him, her arm tightening around Aki, breath catching in her throat. "You remember that?"

"No." Tristan shakes his head. Scoots a little closer, even. "Yes. I don't know why. Are you..." He looks at Akio. "Wa-... watashitachiha... sh-shin, um, shin-shin'yūdeshita. Yes? Did I-... did I say it right?"

Tristan's Japanese was never great, he'd just picked up some here and there from all the time he spent around the Nakamuras at home and in their car. They used to lay awake at night during sleepovers practicing over and over until Tristan had a new phrase to impress Aimi with.

But hearing his voice, his living breathing real live voice, sounding out the words...

It's too much.

It's too fucking much.

"Yeah, um, y-yeah, you-..." Akio's words are suddenly gone. He chokes on his fear that this somehow is a dream he will wake up from to find Tris still cold in some unknown open grave, and he can't keep the tears back any longer.

His knees buckle under the onslaught of grief and hope and fear and love, and he drops to the cold tile hospital floor, hands pressed over his mouth until his lips are pushed painfully into his teeth, and he wails, muffled but loud enough that there's rustling as the cops guarding the door turn to look inside through the viewing window.

Aimi drops into a crouch behind him, rubbing at his back as he curls over himself. Her voice trembles with tears she doesn't shed. Akio remembers the days after they were told Tristan was dead, how she would cry in her room at night with Aki's dad when he was home from work, but somehow when he and Emi were bawling their heads off, her voice stayed calm, she kept her composure.

Right up until she was alone.

Now, though, she's barely hanging on as her son sobs on a hospital room floor before the emptied-out shell of his best friend.

Bare feet pad along the floor until Tristan drops down in front of him, reaching slowly out. Cool fingertips touch the back of Akio's hand, and he pulls them slowly down to look and see Tristan only a foot or so away from him, kneeling, watching him.

"I know you," Tristan whispers. "It hurts, but... I know... you. Don't, um, don't I?"

Akio can barely see him through the tears that have turned the world to watercolor suggestions. Nothing's in focus. But he grabs onto Tristan's hand, those familiar always-cold fingers, and holds tight.

"You know m-me," He manages. "You do, Tris. You know me. We-... we know you. We want to t-t-take you h-home."

Tristan tilts his head to the side, and it's such a familiar gesture, one he was so sure he'd never get to see again. "My... name is Baldur," He says, softly. "My Sir named me-"

"Please don't call him that. Can you... can you answer to Tristan? Please?" Akio is the one to reach out this time, touching Tristan's shoulder, hesitant. Waiting for him to pull back and away, to flinch like he's been doing when they watch him with the nurses.

Instead, Tris takes a breath and leans into the touch.

"It hurts," He says. "But, but, but, but-... but I can try."

Akio nods, and then Tristan is moving forward, and their arms are around each other and Akio is scared of himself for a second, scared of the welling of feelings he can't control. He's afraid he'll crack Tristan's ribs with how tightly he holds on.

Tristan's face buries itself against his neck, into the crook of his shoulder.

"I missed you so much," Akio whispers against the coppery hair. He's going to start crying again. He can hear his mom sniffing behind him, digging into her purse to pull out the little pack of tissues she always has in there. "I missed you so, so much, Tris."

"I think... I think I, I, I missed you, too," Tristan whispers back, and Akio isn't sure if he can even know if he means it, but he also knows that it's so good to hear the words that he doesn't even care.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @what-a-whump @whumptywhumpdump @downriver914 @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

#whump #chris saves himself AU #chris the strawberry blond romantic #akio nakamura #rescued whumpee #escaped whumpee #recovering whumpee #memory loss #dehumanized whumpee #reference to collars #grief tw #referenced death #caretaker and whumpee #memory recovery #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #box boy whump #minor whumpee

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pumpkin-spice-whump · 3 years

Text

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

back at it again with the chaos posts. takes place before ashley moves in.

CWs: 17yo whumpee, slavery whump, tooth whump, blood, choking on blood, brief emeto, sadistic whumper, referenced self amputation, claustrophobia

Masterlist

-----------------------------------

He took the lock off the bathroom door.

He’d heard Kensington crying and tried to get in, and was pissed when he found it was locked. Kensington had unlocked it immediately, but he’d still been hit because of it. Leaving Kensington injured on the floor, Master went out and bought a new doorknob without a lock, saying that Kensington didn’t need or deserve any privacy in this house.

He held back all his tears until night now. And even then he cried with his hand over his mouth, his breaths short and shallow so Master didn’t hear him.

Things just kept getting worse. Kensington spent every second Master was home in constant fear. He never knew when he would mess up or say the wrong thing or breathe the wrong way. Honestly, it seemed like Grays-- … Master got pissed at every little thing Kensington did now. Kensington could go days without saying a single word or leaving his bedroom when he wasn’t needed, and Master would still scream at and hit him.

It left Kensington feeling exhausted. Worn out. Nerves shot. At the end of his rope, and every other word or phrase in existence for being real freakin’ tired. He lived in the same house as someone who hated him, someone who he was absolutely terrified of. Every day was spent just trying to survive without getting hurt too badly. It wasn’t even spent trying to not get hurt, now it just not too badly.

There was nowhere to be safe. He wasn’t allowed outside. His bedroom didn’t have a door, and the window was bolted shut. Master’s bedroom was strictly off limits, not that he’d really want to go in there anyway. And now the bathroom didn’t have a lock.

At least it still has a door, Kensi, he told himself, shutting it behind him. Be grateful for that much.

It was kind of hard to be.

Kensington took a breath and looked at himself in the mirror. The scar on his face was healing well, now just a raised pink line. The bags under his eyes from lack of sleep were worse. He was paler. His hair didn’t curl quite as much as it used to. He looked like the tossed out slaves he’d see on the side of road and give his extra food to because he felt bad for them. Kensington’s eyes filled with tears. He looked awful. He looked like he never wanted to see himself again.

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Knock it off. Master’s only in the living room, he’ll hear you if you cry. Don’t be a baby. He took a steadying breath, ignored the tightness in his throat, and got on with what he came to do.

He opened his mouth and pulled back his cheek, looking inside. There, on a tooth in the back of his top row of teeth, was a painful black spot that had been bothering him for days. It hurt to eat hot food and drink cold water. He couldn’t chew on that side. He apparently ground his teeth in his sleep last night, because he woke up with his whole jaw throbbing in pain.

It was a cavity, he thought. Those have to be fixed, don’t they? Yeah, a slave a couple houses ago had one and it got infected really bad. He was taken to the dentist and came back with his face swollen and numb, blood falling from the corners of his mouth. That master had been livid about the money he’d had to spend.

Kensington’s heart fell. What would his master do? He sure wouldn’t want to help him, he knew that much. Would he take him to the dentist? Master had taken him to the clinic when his eye was hurt, so maybe…

“Kensington!”

He cringed at the sound of his master’s voice, but hurried out of the bathroom to him nonetheless. What other choice did he have?

-----------------------------------

Kensington winced, chewing slower. He sat on the floor of the living room, Master on the couch behind him, but sitting where Kensington could see him. He had hardly eaten any of his dinner even though he was starving. Every bite hurt.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He froze, glancing up at Master. “Hmm?”

“You’re hardly eating. You always eat. So what’s wrong with you?”

Kensington hesitated. Should he tell him what’s really wrong? He might help, but he also might just make it worse… But there was also no chance it would get better on it’s own. “Uh, it’s my tooth. It… hurts.”

Master raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of food. “Your tooth hurts?” he asked, mouth open while he chewed. Kensington swallowed back his annoyance and disgust and nodded. “Hmm. Show me.”

Kensington set his plate on the coffee table and crawled over to his master, flinching when he took him by the jaw and forced his mouth open.

“Left or right?”

“Left. On the top.”

He shined the light of his phone and looked for a few tense moments before letting go. “Looks like a nasty cavity. Don’t you brush your teeth?”

Kensington didn’t answer as Master fell into silence, thinking. Hopefully thinking about when to take him to the dentist, but in the back of his mind he really didn’t think that would happen.

“Alright. Stay here.” He got up and headed to the garage, leaving his nervous slave behind.

Nothing good ever came from the garage. Every time Master went there, he only brought back pain. Kensington should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Compared to other things he’s felt, this really wasn’t that bad. He would’ve survived just fine with the pain but now Master was going to come back with something awful and hurt him. His heart pounded in chest as he heard Master rifling through the garage.

He came back soon… with pliers in hand.

Kensington exhaled hard, like all is air was stolen at once. “Oh. Um, Master, I don’t think--”

“Then stop thinking.”

“You really don’t need to pull my tooth, sir,” Kensington said quietly. Just the thought of anything touching it made the pain worse, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Master wouldn’t even pull it quickly, like you would with a loose tooth. He’d probably stretch it out, listening to Kensington’s screams and tears and not even caring at all.

Master’s eyes widened in faux shock. “What? No! No, I wouldn’t do that. You will.”

Really, all Kensington could do was stare at him as the words settled in his mind, louder and scarier than anything he’s heard in a while. You will. “What?” he asked, lips barely moving.

Master held out the pliers, handle first. “Pull out your tooth.”

His mouth opened and closed with no words coming out. Not again, he thought miserably. Don’t make my hurt myself again. “Master…”

“Either you do it or I will.” He took another bite of food. “In three days. Want it to stop hurting now? You do it tonight.”

Now that Master knew it hurt, he’d probably make it the worst three days ever. Not to mention him actually pulling it out… Kensington felt tears sting the back of his eyes but he pushed them away. It would be much worse if he cried beforehand.

With a sickening sense of deja-vu, he took the pliers and followed Master to the kitchen sink. He looked at him one last time, pleading with his eyes to make this stop, but all he got in return was a horribly familiar look of expectation.

The faster he did it the faster it would end, and maybe then he could beg Master for some painkillers… He also tended to back off a bit after a big punishment so hopefully Kensington could have a few days to himself to heal.

Okay… just get it over with.

But as he opened his mouth and lightly gripped his tooth with the pliers, his hands began to shake. His breaths came short and heavy as a sweat broke out on his forehead. His limbs froze up. He looked desperately to his master, but all he did was cross his arms over his chest and lean lazily against the counter.

“I don’t have all night, Kensington,” he said. “I’m not going to help you this time, either, so you better get going.”

The longer it took, the more impatient Master would get. The longer he would hurt. The longer it would be until he could go to his room and cry himself to sleep. If he could cut off his own finger, he could pull out his own tooth. It should be easier, right? People get teeth pulled all the time. It would be fine. He just had to do it.

But the last time he was forced to do something like this he was blinded by panic and adrenaline. He had no other choice. Tonight was just a regular night until now, and Kensington was clear-headed despite his pain, which allowed all the fear and unwillingness to get in his head and freeze his body. He could really stop and think about what he was doing and how badly it would hurt. And he didn’t want to do it.

“You’re pissing me off, Kensington,” Master said after a minute or two. “I could give you worse options, you know.” Kensington’s eyes shut. He knew. “Tell you what. If you do it within the next two minutes, I’ll even give you one of my good painkillers before you go to sleep.”

That did it. Kensington opened his eyes and leaned over the sink, taking one deep breath in before pulling hard.

He let out a groan that turned into a breathy scream as the pain intensified, spreading throughout his whole head and making white spots appear in front of his eye. Blood filled his mouth and spilled onto his chin, dripping steadily into the pristine steel sink. Nausea overcame him suddenly and he gagged on the taste of the blood, leaning forward so none of it slid down his throat.

Kensington ignored the overwhelming urge to drop the pliers and stop the pain he was inflicting upon himself, taking another quick breath through his nose and pulling again, this time with much less resolve. Tears mixed with blood as he screamed again, his other hand gripping the counter to hold himself up, legs shaking. Kensington whimpered as he gripped the pliers tighter, squeezed his eyes shut, and finally yanked the tooth free.

He collapsed to his knees, sobbing as the pain receded a small amount. Blood and drool continued to poor from his mouth, staining his shirt red. He opened his eyes as Master knelt by him, his face unreadable and blurry through the tears.

“See, Kensington?” he said. “That wasn’t too hard, now, was it?”

Kensington froze, mouth open and still drooling blood. Wasn’t too hard? Wasn’t too hard? He just lost another part of himself. He was forced to make himself suffer through pointless pain again just because Master wanted him to! Living here every day was ‘too hard’! Kensington was suddenly overcome with a rage so fierce he wanted to scream. Instead, he did something he knew he would regret from the moment it crossed his mind. He tilted his head up, glared at his master, and spit blood directly in his face.

Master reached up slowly, wiping the blood off his face and staring at Kensington with shock-filled eyes that Kensington returned. They stayed like that for a long moment as they both fully realized what he had just done.

Then Master moved all at once, taking Kensington by his blood-soaked shirt and hauling him down the hall.

“W-wait,” Kensington begged uselessly, knowing that there was nothing he could say, “wait Master I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to--”

“When will you learn that I don’t care what you want?” Master opened the door to the garage and tossed Kensington inside, his knees hitting the cement floor as he scrambled to sit up before Master could kick him.

But Master only stood there, smiling smugly and looking behind Kensington, like he was waiting for him to turn around. Hesitantly, he did, and his whole face paled.

There, in the middle of the garage, was a wooden chest, a lock hanging innocently off the latch. It looked sturdy and modern. And just big enough for an underfed teenage boy to fit inside.

Kensington swallowed, then gagged at the taste of blood. More tears gathered in his eyes at the fear gripping his heart.

“Wh… what is that?” he whispered.

“It’s just a little something I picked up for you.” Master rested a hand on Kensington’s head, gripping his hair. Not pulling. Not yet.

“For… for me?” Kensington’s jaw trembled, his head still pulsing with pain.

“Mmhmm. Let’s go.” Master gripped his hair, pulling him up and hauling him towards the chest.

Kensington wished he still had that foolish anger he possessed only a couple of minutes ago. Now he could only watch in paralyzed terror as he was dragged harshly towards one of his worst fears. He didn’t fight Grays-- Master as he opened the lid and pushed his slave onto his back inside this new torture.

Only once the lid closed and Kensington was blanketed in suffocating darkness did he unfreeze. He sobbed forcefully, his legs kicking out but immediately hitting the rough wooden lid of the chest. He couldn’t even move his arms at all, stuck with them crossed overtop of him. Tears fell and gathered in his ears, his chest heaving for breath. He sobbed again at the sound of the lock clicking shut, sealing him in hell.

“Master!” Kensington cried, the sound echoing back around him. “Master I’m sorry! I’m -- I’m so sorry just pl-please let me out! Please!” He coughed as blood ran down his throat, his dread taking a new form. He kicked out again, horrible, panicked sounds coming from deep inside himself. “Master please! Please don’t leave me here!” He screamed and coughed, the blood pooling inside his mouth. “Please I can’t -- I can’t breathe! Please I can’t breathe!”

Oh this was so so much worse than being tied up in the hall closet. At least there he could see light under the bottom of the door and he could stand and hold himself as he cried but he was just trapped with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait until he ran out of air and passed out or worse --

“MASTER!” Kensington screamed, his throat burning as blood kept going down. “Please! I don’t --” he coughed again, “I don’t want to die here! Please please! I don’t want to die here! Just let me -- let me out! Please why are you doing this?! Just let me go! I’m sorry!”

Kensington coughed on the blood again, but this time he couldn’t get in another breath. His eyes widened as he gasped in vain, kicking out at the lid. His chest heaved uselessly, gargling the blood caught in his throat.

I’m dying, he thought. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die locked in this stupid box and no one’s even going to care. He killed me.

He started to get lightheaded, his incessant kicking slowing down as his eyes slid shut.

Grayson killed me.

-----------------------------------

A firm hit to his back woke Kensington up. He coughed hard, gasping for air and crying when he realized he could actually breathe it in this time. Kensington took a few deep breaths, eyes tightly shut, before leaning over and expelling all the blood he’d swallowed.

“You’ll have to clean that up, you know.”

He flinched back at the sound of Grayson’s voice, opening his eyes. He was sitting not even a foot away, the lock hanging off the chest behind him. Kensington’s chest and head ached, and he could already feel the bruises forming on his knees.

Grayson stood, making Kensington flinch again. “There’s blood on the kitchen floor,” he said, heading to the door. “I want it cleaned before you go to bed.” He opened the door and paused, turning back. “We’re not done here, Kensington. You have something else coming.” He slammed the door behind him.

Kensington waited until he heard the distant sound of his bedroom door closing before he exhaled in relief.

It wasn’t over. Grayson had said he had something else coming, and that thought alone made him want to break down into tears again. But now, behind his abject fear and conditioned respect for Grayson, there was a deep hatred growing. Kensington didn’t quite know what to do with it, but he knew he wanted it to stay, and grow, for as long as he was forced to live in that house.

-----------------------------------

Taglist: @batfacedliar-yetagain @haro-whumps

#my boy kensi #the horrible grayson wayne #i gotta write why hes so claustrophobic sometime #its actually not something grayson did to instill that fear!#he just exploits the heck out of it #poor kensington #oh well #whump #slavery whump #minor whumpee #sadistic whumper #claustrophobia tw #tooth whump #brief emeto tw #blood tw #choking on blood tw #referenced self amputation

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blackrosesandwhump · 3 years

Text

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy, Part 1

@whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump

CW: minor/immortal whumpee (he's 17), death, restraints, poison, referenced pet whump (it's just a reference to his past, but I wanted to include a warning anyway)

A/N: Bram is from my archived series Inherited, but I decided to write a new story with him since I didn't much like the original one.

Musty wood. Close, stale air. Voices murmuring, a gentle creak and sway under him, rope digging slightly into his wrists. His legs felt cramped, folded into a corner of the box. His left foot had fallen asleep. Sweat clung to the back of his neck and the palms of his bound hands. Not comfortable in the least. But he was used to coffins, and this wasn't much different.

He opened his eyes. Darkness, slatted with lines of light. The view hadn’t changed since before he’d managed to doze off. But beyond the scope of voices, he could hear a strange bustle, languages he didn’t understand, mysterious noises he didn’t recognize. Where was he? What was this place?

Bright sunlight flooded in abruptly, blinding him. A pair of rough, scarred hands reached in and pulled him out. He stood up, shaky from being cramped for so long, hands tied in front of him. Too many pairs of eyes. He kept his head down.

“Spindly little lad,” someone remarked in a thick, strange accent. “Not what I expected for someone who can’t die.”

A different pair of hands lifted his bound wrists, examining his arms, peering at his chest and profile. He forced himself not to shrink away. He couldn’t handle a punishment just yet.

“Still,” continued the voice, “he’ll make a perfect new attraction. Who could resist seeing for themselves the Marvelous Resurrecting Boy?”

---

The Marvelous Resurrecting Boy. That was his new title, his new name, his new identity. He was no longer an inherited pet.

A breeze caught the letter from his old master, casting it into a patch of fresh mud just outside the tent flap. He didn’t bother picking it up. His old life didn’t matter anymore. He was a legend now, the prime attraction in a traveling show of monsters and curiosities. Crowds of well-dressed onlookers paid the expensive viewing fee over and over again, eager to watch him rise from the dead. His death was the attraction. His death, and the awe-inspiring, breath-taking moment afterward when he opened his eyes, alive.

Bram pressed a hand over his stomach. A dagger in his gut. His last death had been on the spectacular side, the melodrama heightened by a rehearsed dialogue between him and his handler. Just what the audience loved. He still felt sick at the memory of their thunderous applause.

Someone ducked through the entrance of his tent. Bram swallowed hard, glancing at the pocketwatch that hung at the foot of his bed. Almost time for his next performance. Almost time to die again.

“You ready, boy?” The stage-hand, his face pink from working outside all day, looked him over. He seemed satisfied with Bram’s appearance, but barely.

Bram nodded. It felt like a lie. He wasn’t ready. He never was.

“Coming.” The word tasted like cotton in his mouth. His throat had already gone dry. He swallowed again, letting his mind grow blank as he followed the stage-hand to the wings. The crowd gasped and clapped passionately as the act before him finished and the horned girl emerged from her pool of fire, unscathed. Bram’s stomach knotted. It was his turn, his turn to perform. But his feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t die again, not this time—

“Move!” the stage-hand hissed, shoving him forward. He stumbled onto the stage. The crowd broke into applause yet again. They knew him. They couldn’t wait for his performance to begin.

This time, it was poison. The vial was waiting for him, displayed on a table in the middle of the stage, catching the light. His handler was waiting too. At his cue, Bram stepped forward and took the vial in his hand, showing it to the crowd so they could see it clearly.

They gasped as he drank. It didn’t take much. His body spasmed. He felt himself collapse—he couldn’t breathe—his lungs were paralyzed—he arched backward once, fighting—and the world winked out.

---

He jolted back to life with a ragged gasp. His heart pounded; a few seconds of silence, then the crowd erupted.

Bram’s head felt foggy. He staggered to his feet and turned in a slow circle, showing that he was very much alive. The crowd’s appreciation doubled, a barrage of applause and cheers, the same he’d heard every time he came back to life. Sickening, just as it had been the first time, and the fifth, and the tenth.

Sleep. That was what he needed. Death was exhausting. At least this time, he had a few days before he had to do it all over again.

He collapsed onto his cot and sank into a dreamless doze just as it began to rain.

#whump #whump fic #whump story #immortal whumpee #minor whumpee #dehumanization #death tw #poison whump #poison tw #original character #referenced pet whump #my writing

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serickswrites · 2 years

Note

Get this a whumpee who has been in danger their whole life and after being rescued, almost always puts themselves in dangerous situations and act like it's normal and being like " woah that was a close one. I'm okay " while giving their caretaker(s) a heart attack. And being like " okay ?! Are you sure ?! Dude you almost got stabbed "

I love this! I love a whumpee who doesn't care about their own safety. Reminds me of a certain danger magnet that i love so dearly (iykyk)

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, knife, stabbing, blood, wounds (minor), caretaker and whumpee

"WHUMPEE!" Caretaker shouted as Whumpee raced ahead after Whumper. "WHUMPEE WAIT! DON'T!"

But it was too late. Whumpee and Whumper disappeared around the corner and out of Caretaker's sight. They hurried along after, scenarios of Whumper hurting Whumpee, Whumpee bleeding out on the ground, Whumpee dead in the dirt flashed before Caretaker's eyes as they ran.

They let out a sigh of relief as they rounded the corner and saw Whumpee kneeling on Whumper, a pair of cuffs on Whumper's wrists, bloodied knife tossed to the side.

"Whumpee! You can't run off like that! You could have been hurt," Caretaker came up beside Whumpee.

"It's all good, I'm fine." Whumpee grinned at Caretaker. "And I caught Whumper!"

"So you did."

"They're not that bad. I've been held captive by worse people," Whumpee said darkly.

Whumper spat. "Insolent little--"

Caretaker silenced Whumper with a swift kick. "Shut it. You'll get your day in court to talk."

Whumpee nodded and stood up, swaying as they did. "Oh, how did that happen?" They lifted blood soaked fingers from their side.

"Whumpee, you're hurt! Let me see." Caretaker pulled open Whumpee's jacket.

"It's just a graze, Caretaker. No big deal. I've had much worse." Whumpee sighed. They hated it when Caretaker lectured them. It was just a graze, no big deal at all!

Caretaker knew that Whumpee had been through worse. When they'd first found Whumpee, they weren't sure Whumpee would live. But live they did. It was truly a miracle. A gift. And they were constantly toeing the line of ending that gift. "You've been stabbed, Whumpee. That's no big deal. We're going to the hospital."

"What? No! I'm fine. Fine!" Whumpee whined.

"And you'll be fine when they stitch you back up." Caretaker took Whumpee by the arm and led them back to the car. They were getting Whumpee to help, whether Whumpee wanted it or not.

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw knife #tw stabbing #tw blood #tw wounds (minor)#caretaker and whumpee #queue #requests

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aseasonwithclarasblog · 2 years

Text

Drunk and Drugged

15 weeks into Jack’s captivity

tw: drugs implied, alcohol mention, cigarettes’ mention, noncon- nothing explicit, minor drinking, minor taking drugs, light swearing, conditioning trauma, implied torture, bbu, hunger, starvation, boxboys, this short bit has a lot of implied stuff

Previous // ~ Jack Masterlist ~

~~~~~~~~~~

Jack found himself awake, listening to the sounds of Victoria coming back home at 2 am. He had to look out Lily’s bedroom when he heard her walk inside because she was giggling… like a physical laugh? It didn’t sound like her but it was her. He’d heard her laugh before, and of course, he’d heard her cursing like a sailor, but it wasn’t like this. She was never like this. She smelled like cigarettes, smoke, alcohol, and everything awful all wrapped up in one beautiful package. Beautiful of course because it was her- What h a p p e n e d? He shrunk back when a guy came in after her. “Sssh. Vicky~ be quiet.” He covered her mouth while laughing softly. She waved her arm around. “Ssss fine. No one’s ‘wake Tony.” She gave him a look before bursting into giggles. Victoria laughing was weird, her giggling was unheard of. “Still.” Tony smiled kindly at her. She drowsily directed him to her room. Jack frowned heavily. She looked high as hell and he knew her policy. She didn’t want to sleep with anyone. She said it all the time. And this guy, “Tony,” was grinning too much for him to just be helping her get back home safely. Not your problem- Jack. But what if she needs help… He held his head, shaking a little as fear crept into his bones. “Nonono.” He whimpered before running to Lily’s room. Sitting down on his ‘bed’ and hugging his knees. Rocking back and forth while listening. The door to Victoria’s room closed. It sounded like furniture was slowly and quietly being moved. Tell her father… You wanna talk to him again? Do you want to be with him again? No. Anything but that- Good boys DON’T say no. At the end of the inward torment of yes and no, he found himself walking to Al’s room. Not realizing it until he was in front of their door. He froze like a deer in headlights. When did I get here… Before he could think anything else his hand was already knocking on the door. Al answered with a near growl. “What-?” Jack swallowed while taking a breath. “I… I’m s-sorry Sir. I-I j-just… just wanted to um… tell you, t-tell yu-you-” “Tell. Me. What.” His eyes seemed to glow with anger, though when Jack blinked they were perfectly normal. He took his best option, avoiding eye contact at all, staring at the ground instead. “S-Sir V-Vic… Victoria… a-and a guy…” He whimpered. “I-In her ro-room… I-I’m so sorry.” He whispered an apology. He stared at him for a beat before knowing he wasn’t lying. After all, Jack was a horrible liar. When his words really took effect Al’s face twisted in fury. Jack quietly crept back to Lily’s room as Al went off. Listening to the boy screaming a minute later. He closed his eyes while curling up against the wall and holding his legs. It took hours to fall asleep, and when he woke he was terrified to go out of the room. Lily was already gone to school and after a while, he knew he couldn’t keep hiding forever. He crept out of the room, being silent as he snuck off to the kitchen, hoping he could get some food. He noticed most of the others staring at him, not only the maids and such but the pets as well. He lightly waved at Annie and Kendall. When he saw a plate of untouched food on the table it sent a short spark of fear through him. “Uhm… M-Maka? D-did on-one of them, uh, f-forget breakf-” Maka glanced over. “Na. I think it’s for you. Masters said.” “F-for me?” He blinked at him slowly. “You sure?” “Well, Sir said so.” He shrugged while putting the other dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Trap. It has to be a trap. But Jack didn’t know where the trap began or ended, and his stomach told him to stop caring and to- Just eat… please? So with shaky, gingerly hands he slowly took the plate before sitting on the ground and quietly eating. He had noticed the silverware but he wasn’t allowed it, and maybe that’s where the trap would close in on him? He didn’t dare touch them. When he was done he gave the plate to Maka who cleaned it up, giving a shy smile to the older boxboy. Maybe he had done the right thing after all?

~~~~~~~~~~

Written on September 10th, 2021

Next // ~ Jack Masterlist ~

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whumpqin · 3 years

Note

Flashback for Adair as well please ✨

As you wish! Sorry this took so long, but hope it was worth the wait! <3

CW: nonhuman whumpee, whumpee who is a minor (16 y/o), beating mention, blood, glass cuts, nonhuman caretaker, hurt/comfort, (slightly) painful caretaking, referenced character death (if I missed something please let me know and I'll edit!)

Content under the cut!

In the underbelly of The Fallen Seeker, where the metallic pipes rested and hissed as she continued her neverending journey across the sea, there was a quiet sob. It was muffled and hitched as its presence was hushed.

Adair pressed his thumb and index finger over his nose to prevent another ugly noise from coming out. His brow furrowed in pain as his chest heaved, pressing upon bruised ribs - or maybe they were broken, he hadn’t learned to tell just yet. His other hand clutched onto his compass, broken glass scoring into his hand, where the object's face had been shattered an hour before.

His thoughts raced. Adair opened up his airway briefly to sniffle, pressing his head against the cool metal of the ship to soothe the throbbing in his head. Everything hurt with every quick beat of his heart, and that only made him all that more miserable.

He didn’t know what he said was wrong. But something had bothered the Captain when he’d been trying to make idle conversation, and he had seized Adair by his wrists and thrown him to the ground. He’d landed kick after kick on him, blows that left him breathless and crying. In the finality of it all, to “send a message”, he’d fished out Adair’s compass and ground it beneath his heel, cracking its foundation and shattering the glass on it. He tried to grab every broken piece of it, but between getting away and the Captain’s shouting voice he’d never be sure that he did.

Those same pieces still dug into his palms. Adair’s eyes scrunched up as another hopeless, terrified sob wracked his body with pain. He wanted to go home.

With the sound of footsteps echoing into the halls, however, he was quiet once more. Thumb and index slipped over his nose to keep in his crying as a crewman walked close by.

A Cambion, aqua skinned with two sets of chipped horns and choppy black hair, stepped into view. One of the only other Cambion on The Fallen Seeker, Adair was quick to recognize him as Kairon’s black eyes swept across the room suspiciously.

Adair shifted, trying to curl in on himself. His boot slipped against the pipes and banged into another, creating a hollow sound just loud enough that Kairon’s gaze landed on him immediately.

His posture seemed to relax instantly upon recognizing Adair. “Little one,” he muttered, ducking his head underneath some pipes to get a better look at him. From this distance Adair could still see the way his faded gray pupils darted around, assessing him. Kairon’s brow furrowed. “What has happened?”

Kairon’s hard exterior wasn’t present in his voice. Instead, it was laced with an almost fatherly concern, and that thought made Adair’s eyes well up with more tears. He made a few false starts to speak, opening and closing his mouth before finally turning away to sob.

When the lump in his throat didn’t hurt so much, Adair finally forced out an “I can’t,” in the form of a whisper.

He threw his arms over his face, curling away from Kairon. He didn’t care what the Cambion thought of him or how pitiful he looked. Adair wanted, for just a moment, to pretend like he wasn’t on this damned boat with these damned people. The cracks of the hard exterior he’d worked to put up to earn some form of respect had become too great to bear or cover up. The forced back tears and grief now flowed out of him like a broken dam, and their reserves were not going to run dry any time soon.

Despite what he’d expected of Kairon - which was to lunge forward and take advantage of his weakness somehow, considering that’s what they all did - there was instead a long pause. Adair could hear his own crying. In an effort to quiet the echoing noise he turned his head and bit at his sleeve.

“Little one, you’re hurt,” Kairon muttered. “Come here. I will take care of you.”

Adair shot him a glare to show that he didn’t buy it. Why should he? Kairon would never risk looking weak himself for something like this. He’d said so, multiple times.

In the short silence, Kairon sighed. “Adair.” His voice lowered, more commanding but still holding that soft tone. “I will help you.”

“And what- and what about your stupid reputation, huh?” Adair choked out.

Kairon made a show of looking down the halls. “I see no one. You?” He didn’t doubt he was telling the truth. Adair couldn’t hear the footsteps of anyone else. So, he shook his head. Kairon waved his hand in an inviting gesture. “Come here. I will bind your wounds.”

There was another pause as Adair considered his motions and words. He’d never seen Kairon take sadistic pleasure in hurting him, nor participate in whatever the other crewmen were doing to him. He’d always stood on the sidelines, working quietly. Was it really too much to want to trust him? In Adair’s muddied head - still throbbing with sickening pain - he wanted to think that he would be taken care of, just this once. The lull of reprieve was too great to shun in favor of caution.

So, slowly and painfully, Adair wriggled out from the pipes of The Fallen Seeker, wincing when his wounds were brushed. The warm touch of Kairon pressed against his shoulders to bear some of the weight, until Adair was settled on his knees, head angled up to the other Cambion. He knew he looked pathetic and hopeless, tear-streaked cheeks still wet despite his own attempts to dry them. Kairon paused for a moment, a deep set frown worked onto his face as those black eyes scanned him over and over. Then he reached down, pulling up Adair’s clenched hand. Gently Kairon pried open his fingers, revealing the broken compass, along with several shards of broken glass.

“Do you… want to talk?” Kairon asked. He slowly began to pick at the glass shards, pulling them from skin and setting them down. “About what happened?”

Adair firmly shook his head. “N-no. I don’t. I don’t want to think about it more than, than- no no don’t take that!” his voice suddenly raised in a shout as Kairon picked up his compass. Adair jerked back, pulling it from the other Cambion’s grip as it held it close to his chest. “It’s mine. Don’t you dare touch it.”

Kairon opened his mouth, before closing it and setting his jaw. “It belonged to your father, yes?” Adair nodded slowly as he gave him another glare. “No no, do not worry. Such things… you treasure them. At least… At least he had something to give. Keep it hidden, Adair. But please, someplace else. Your hand must be tended to.” Kairon pointed to the ground further away from him.

Adair’s brows knitted against the bitter tang in his mouth, hating the idea of putting it down somewhere it could be taken from him. He turned enough to see where he’d come from, to the pipes Kairon could not squeeze behind, and slid the metal frame of the compass until it gently impacted the wall.

When he looked back Kairon was already setting to work, ripping up spare bits of cloth from his clothing with a small knife previously hidden. The other Cambion gently touched Adair’s wrist and held his hand palm up to again work on removing the glass underneath his skin. Though Kairon was clearly careful, Adair winced and flinched at the sharp spikes of pain shooting up his arm. Low hitched whines echoed in this small space as the pain wove into the bruises along his face, his ribs, sinking in the form of deep aches Adair was sure wouldn’t fade any time soon.

Silence stretched on between them as Kairon wrapped cloth tightly against his cuts and tied it so no more blood would flow. Adair sniffled as his hand was released, and curled it close to himself. A thumb and index finger softly touched his chin, lifting his head to angle it to the left and right.

“Mm… that will bruise. But there is little else to do but wait.” Kairon’s gaze drifted down to Adair’s side, where he wrapped arms to shield his injured ribs, and frowned. He placed a hand on Adair’s shoulder. “It will hurt, but if you are careful it will be better soon.” Then he withdrew to stand.

Adair lifted his hands to wipe at the stray tears that had fallen from his face. “Why are you doing this?” he said after Kairon, who paused in his leaving.

The Cambion turned and gave Adair a force smile. His eyes, however, were clouded with a mix of emotions that were weighed by a deep set frown. “You remind me of someone else. Strong heart. Deserves better.” Kairon’s head angled towards one of the halls at the sound of a very faint whistle. “Ah, I must go. Take care, Little One. I cannot always be kind.”

Adair nodded, muttering a small word of thanks, heard only by himself, before crawling back behind the pipes. He cradled his broken compass and listened to the footsteps as they echoed down the hall.

#whump #ask answered #whump writing #my writing #nonhuman whumpee #minor whumpee #minor whump #beating tw #blood tw #glass #cuts #nonhuman caretaker #hurt/comfort #painful wound cleaning #referenced character death #The Captain #Kairon #(The Captain being lil bby Adair)#The Fallen Seekers

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thewhumperinwhite · 1 year

Text

WKW: The Rose Queen, Part 2

WKW Masterlist / The Rose Queen Part 1

alternate title: [insert power man] you in danger girl

like i said i dont remember who my taglist was and i think a bunch of those people are inactive now so i'm just going through my activity on other wkw posts i'm so sorry anyway uh @whumpitywhumpwhump @buggy-about-town @the-monarch-whumperfly @whump-cravings (also yk please message me if you wanna be tagged in wkw stuff)

TW for: implied/referenced child abuse/neglect; (graphically) referenced whipping; Mild Ritual Self-Harm (cutting palm); Fantasy Religious Themes

----

She should know better by now, she should. But when the news comes that some shadowy invader from the North has besieged the Castle at Colomur and means to take the Lion’s head, Cinth really believes that her grandfather will rise in his King’s defense.

The Rose Count has been one of the royal family’s most important political allies for seven generations, almost as long as the Horned Lady herself. Cinth takes it as a given that the count must marshal his forces against the invaders—he must. He has tied himself to Fourshield house by decades of service and by blood, too—Cinth’s mother may have left the Court at Colomur, and have dragged Cinth away along with her, but she is still the Lion’s wife, and the Lion’s sons have Rose blood in their veins as surely as Cinth does herself.. Cinth knows there is no love in the old man’s heart for anything more complex than the silks and feathers of his own Court, but surely it must be politically expedient to—surely—

“The Rose Court has weathered many of the Lion’s wars,” he tells her while she stands before him in his study, her face hot and palms cold with horror. “We shall weather this, as well.”

About the House, he may even be correct. That remains to be seen.

About himself, at least, he is wrong.

By the time she leaves her grandfather’s study that evening—the second evening of the Seige of Colomur, twenty days before its fall—it is late and her voice is hoarse from an hour of reasoning, twenty minutes of shouting, and another fifteen of begging. She thinks, very briefly, of running to her mother’s chambers, next. Of waking her mother with tears, of crawling into her lap like a child and begging her too, of wasting the rest of the night pleading with Lilianne of Rose to raise one single bejeweled finger to save her sons from death and torture.

However, Cinth has bashed her head against that particular wall before. And, truthfully, she has never had her brother’s stomach for punishment.

She goes to the library, instead. She reads for three days. She picks at the sweetmeats and fruit the servants bring her, thinking of siege rations. Starving herself will not give Andry extra food; she resists the temptation.

The seat of House Rose is an elegant and sprawling manor, not a Castle like the fortress at Colomur. It is an edifice of plaster scrollwork and elaborate frescoes and about a thousand doors, and it is much easier to leave without being seen. Slightly harder to pilfer the fine stuff she needs from the kitchens, but all it takes is a single raised eyebrow to convince the scullery maid who spots her to let her leave with the meat and wine, and a gold coin to ensure her silence about it afterward.

There are a dozen illuminated volumes about the Faefolk in House Rose’s library, and they are almost all glorious histories of the Horned Lady and her generous patronage of Fourshield house. (Cinth tucks one of these into her bag, just in case.) Of the few remaining books and scrolls, one is transparent propaganda from the north about the dangers of the unbound faery and how to kill one, one is an exhaustive catalogue of every minor house in the kingdom and its Patron; and one—Lady-Be-Blessed—actually contains some actionable fucking information.

At sundown on the fourth day of the Siege of Colomur, Cinth rides out through the Rose Trellis’s extravagant manicured gardens and keeps going, through the surrounding town and past the vineyards and farms, into the forest beyond. She brings her rapier, more for a sense of security than anything else; it might deter a wolf if wielded cleverly but no amount of skill will make a rapier any good against a wild boar or a bear.

Cinth does not gamble often. She is gambling a little, now. That the rumors she has heard about this place are true, and that something lives here stronger than a wolf, fiercer even than a boar. And that the book she found in the manor’s library, a unadorned linen-bound volume, many decades old and rarely read if she had to guess, has any truth on its pages at all.

By the time she has finished assembling her little makeshift altar, the only light is the occasional firefly, and the candle she sets on top and lights with a flint from her grandfather’s tinderbox. She sits back on her heels, sweaty and out of breath from hauling stones around for what feels like hours.

One does not summon a Faery, according to the book, and attempting to do so will only cause insult. However, the un-patroned man (or woman, Cinth assumes, though of course the text does not say so) might—entice one, with a little effort.

She doesn’t know if its true. She has not prayed to the Lady since she left Colomur Castle, and does not do so now—her prayer, if so it may be called, is directed at no one in particular.

Lady Hyacinth of Rose is a highborn lady, three steps removed from royalty; she is accustomed, also, to being ignored. She will not be ignored tonight.

Cinth raises her palm above the meat and wine she has arranged on the altar. This isn’t in the book. She thinks, though, of the way the blood poured from her brother’s back the day the Lady claimed him, how it soaked through his once-fine trousers and puddled on the packed earth under the pillory. She draws her sword, wraps her fist around it. Slices through her palm, once, clean and deep.

“Hear me,” she says, fiercely, into the candle’s flame. “No one else with any power will. But if you will hear me, whoever you are, and you have power—give it to me. Give me your power, and I swear, on the Lion’s Head, on my own: I will make your name heard from here to the depths of the Leisevan Wastes.” She squeezes her fist once, brutally; blood splatters over the lamb and wine upon the altar. “And if it means anything,” Cinth says through bared teeth, “I promise you a great deal more blood than this.”

As she says this, a drop of blood lands squarely on the candles wick, extinguishing it with a hiss. Cinth swears at the sudden darkness, and her hand opens automatically.

In the blackness, Cinth feels another hand take hers.

“I think we can work something out,” a voice says in her ear.

#original whump #fantasy whump #caretaker pov #the winter king's ward #Plans And Schemes #Fantasy Religion #cinth of rose. getting ready to Fucking Get You

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sadistgalore · 3 years

Text

Chapter 12: Burn Together, Friends Forever

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Taglist: @elliei-m

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist.

CW: Heavy dehumanization, pet whump, torture, burning, branding, conditioned whumpee, slapping, verbal abuse, kicking, referenced whump of a minor (nonsexual), implied starvation, Luther is his own warning, boils, impalement, left outside in the cold, implied noncon

Harper’s stomach dropped as soon as she heard the bastard’s voice, and heard a hard whimper behind her.

“Naughty, naughty girl, Harper. I don’t think your master would approve.”

Harper huffed. “You lied. You said you had a dog, not a human!”

Luther glared. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference? You people are fucking impossible!”

“I would watch your attitude, kitty. You’re just making this worse for yourself.”

“H-Ha-Harper,” said a voice behind her. The girl turned around, seeing Killian look up with tears in his eyes, trembling. “D-D-Don’t m-m-make h-“

“Doggy.” A voice cut him off. “That sounds an awful like talking to me.”

Killian lowered back down. Harper noticed this, and her police instincts kicked in once again. “Stop talking to him like that. You’re mad? Then take your anger out at me, you’ve hurt him enough.”

Luther smirked. “Fine, kitty. Come here.”

Harper looked once more to the shaking boy, then followed the orders given. Luther went across the room, looking towards the wall lined with Dark’s torture devices. He finally picked a long metal cord with a wire attached to it, and plugged said wire into the wall.

“I don’t know why Edward insisted on picking a defiant one like you, there’s so many other trained pets with black hair he can just buy for a few hundred bucks,” he muttered, beginning to loop the cord around her right arm.

“Sorry that me trying to preserve my dignity is a problem for you,” she spat.

Luther chuckled, hand moving to a button attached to the cord. “We’ll see about that,” he finished as he pushed the button.

At first, Harper didn’t feel anything, but soon felt a warm sensation after thirty seconds or so. That sensation only kept growing into a burning pain. She gasped, soon realizing what Luther was intending to do, and began trying to pull it off.

Luther grabbed her hand, “Bad kitty. You better stay still unless you want Doggy to have this looped around his throat.”

Harper looked up, eyes beginning to form tears, and put her hand down. She soon screamed as the heat only increased, the hot metal burning into her arm.

“Ruff!”

“No, doggy. Your punishment is later.” Luther said without even looking up, admiring the smoke coming from the kitty’s arm.

“S-stop, please! I’m begging you!” Harper screamed, beginning to grow nauseous as she smelt more and more of her burnt flesh.

“Just another minute,” Luther hummed, causing Harper to yell in frustration.

That minute felt like hours, during which the pain became too unbearable and she fell to the floor. She writhed on the ground, other hand burning as she tried to pry the clip off to no avail. Luther bent down, ignoring her defiance, and pushed the button on the wire.

“Such a crybaby,” he said as he walked towards his shackled dog.

Killian began whimpering loudly, crying out as Luther began to unshackle his wrists.

“You’re a very bad doggy, you know that?” Luther said as he cupped his face, feeling the tears streaming down his pet’s eyes. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

“B-bark-“ Slap.

“Stupid mutt. Use your words.”

“I-I’ll,” Killian started, not quite sure how exactly he was going to make it up to his captor. “I’ll be a b-bet-ter dog-“ Slap.

“Well you’re pretty fucking terrible at that, aren’t you?!” The man yelled, making Killian flinch back. “Answer me! Aren’t you a bad dog?”

“Yes sir-“ Instead of a slap, Luther punched Killian hard in the face. He got up, beginning to kick him to each word he spoke. “Stupid. Fucking. Dog! Why are you using your words?!”

“I don’t know what you want from me!” The young man screamed, Luther seeing a defiance in his eyes that he hadn’t seen since he was 17. Killian soon snapped back to reality, cringing at the cruel smile of his captor.

“No, no, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t- ruff! Ruff, ruff, bark, woof!-“

Luther grabbed his hair and began to drag him upstairs. He stopped as he passed the girl on the floor, the coil around her arm now turning into a dull red instead of the fiery orange. “I’ll be back kitty. Once I’m back, I expect you to have dinner prepared for me only. Neither you or the doggy are getting food for a while.”

He didn’t stop to hear the choked gasps of the kitty as he walked upstairs, ripping the poor boy’s scalp as he continued to be dragged. Once they reached the kitchen, Luther threw the dog on the ground and stepped on his neck to prevent him from escaping.

The man grabbed a pot and filled it with water, setting the gas stove burner to high as he waited for it to boil. The boy was crying openly, not bothering to whimper or whine as he saw the rare aggression in his captor’s face.

“Oh, Killian,” Luther sighed as he leaned against the counter, foot still pressing on the dog’s neck. “You were doing so well, I thought I finally broke you.” Killian’s cries filled the room. “Still, you’re too incompetent to follow the rules.”

After a few minutes of more sobbing and the man’s silence, the water finally stopped boiling.

“You need to learn, pup,” Luther said as he grabbed the pot handle with a towel. “The only one who can give anything in this world,” he dumped the pot on the boy, ears straining at the blood-curdling scream that came with it.

“Is me.”

____________

“Wonderful dinner, kitty,” Luther complimented as he finished the last few bites of his steak.

The girl said nothing, completely exhausted from trying to ignore the unbearable pain on her arm and using what little energy she had to cook a meal for the bastard.

She can’t imagine what Killian must be going through, though.

The said boy was still on the kitchen floor, screams long since stopped and have resorted to painful crying. His face was an angry red, only a few boils on his face since he covered most of the splash with his arms. But those were scaly and irritated, raw skin being exposed. Harper had mentioned giving him some medicine, but one angry look from Luther was enough to shut her up.

Luther stood up from the table, and snapped his fingers. Harper moved hesitantly towards him, Killian didn’t. “Your punishment isn’t over. Since you two want to bond so much, you can bond in the cold outside. And no meals for three days. Clear?”

Harper nodded, dreading the thought of being chained up outside into the freezing cold.

Luther gripped her chin. “I said, are we clear?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Luther said nothing as he walked towards a drawer, pulling out chains that had very thick cuffs attached to the ends. He tightly gripped her burned out, smiling as she screamed in pain. He dragged her outside and pushed her to the ground outside the porch, connecting the cuff to her ankle and linking it to the wall. He left, and came out with Killian who was also crying out in pain. He did the same procedure with him, and then flipped a switch on each of their ankle cuffs.

Harper flinched as she felt spikes just grazing her skin, regretting that as they seemed to break contact and draw blood.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Luther smirked, seeing the girl’s face in pain. They are spikes embedded into those cuffs; the more you struggle, the more they get into your skin. So you don’t try to run away, of course.”

Harper resisted the urge to roll her eyes and looked towards Killian, who was now crying again.

“I hope you learned your lesson today, kitty. I’ll be sure to tell Edward about this.”

“You branded my fucking arm,” Harper growled. “Dark said not to scar me.”

Luther gave the girl a cold glare. “You’re gonna learn, like all of his other pets did, that I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want with you despite if your master likes it or not. I’m sure you’ll see that in the nights we’re going to spend together, kitty.”

With that, the man walked back inside, content that his new playthings wouldn’t try running away.

Harper tested Luther’s claims by doing little movements with her ankle, but the spikes only dug into her skin more.

“Shit,” she whispered as she slumped against the porch behind her. “We’re gonna be impaled even if we moved an inch.”

Killian whimpered, but remained still as he curled up against the porch wall. Harper looked over to him, seeing spike-like scars on his wrists and ankles. “This isn’t the first time he put these damn cuffs on you, isn’t it?”

The boy shook his head.

Harper looked at him with a sorrowful look; she spent mere hours with this man, how long had Killian been with him? “Hey, we’re gonna be okay, alright?” Harper started, gently placing her arm on his non burnt shoulder. “I’m a police detective for Washington, D.C. My friend has been investigating this group for years, a rescue will come for me soon.” She said it more to herself than to Killian. “I promise.”

Killian listened to her words, but couldn’t get himself to believe her. He might have been a street rat, but he’s been missing for seven years. He’s met other pets like her, with reputations and hopes of being rescued. But he’s also met other masters, ones that have too good of a reputation to ever be met with repercussions for what they’ve done to their pets, like Luther.

But Harper was nice, nicer than most people he’s met in almost a decade of hell. Maybe the cycle will change. Maybe his torment will finally end.

He looked up at her, and smiled, and was met with a warm smile back. He nuzzled into her, and closed his eyes when he felt her arm wrapping around his back and running it gently. Together, they could try their best to remain warm.

Harper rested her head on Killian’s, and yawned as she prepared for an uncomfortable and cold night of sleep. “One day, Kill-”

Killian groaned. Harper chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I like giving people nicknames. ‘Kill’s’ not a good one?”

The boy shook his head, Harper thought some more.

“How about Ian?” She got a head nod in affirmation.

“Okay, Ian, one day we’ll get out of here together. From now on, I’m gonna do whatever I can to protect you, alright?”

There was silence for a moment, just their steady breaths filling the space, then a very silent,

“Alright.”

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sofspook · 4 years

Text

stay

so i kinda went radio silent for A Bit but I’m back with some parental caretaker content tm

this takes place like. a long time after that first post I made. This is after all the foundations of trust and things have been established and they’ve known each other for like a year. I just needed some Super Indulgent Projection Writing Time so here’s some Super Random Lee comfort I wrote at 3 a.m. for ya

CW: Implied/referenced box boy stuff in general including dehumanization, implied past emotional neglect, implied/referenced past of being an underage romantic box boy. Keep safe, y’all. This is just fluffy & platonic comfort really though, so not much to look out for but the reference of past abuse

“Hey, kid, what’re you doing awake?”

“I’m- I’m just.”

Keith rubbed sleep from his eyes and then watched the wide gaze above him, saw how a blanket was held close over Liam’s shoulders, how he hugged his sides.

“Nightmare?”

“N...no. Just, ‘m just... scared.”

“Okay, well-“ he turned to the lamp. The room lit up in cool golden light. “Do you wanna stay in here for awhile? Would that help, maybe? Sometimes that helps.”

He nodded, seemingly glad to have not had to ask. Grateful for the invitation. He crept forward slowly on bare feet, and Keith shifted back to make room for him to lie down.

He stayed a small space apart from him, and that was fine, but Keith watched as the shaking boy unconsciously wrapped his own arms around himself, ran soothing fingertips over his own sleeves. A sad little tug pulled at his heart.

“I can hold you. Do you want that?” he murmured.

Liam stopped, hesitated, then peeked over his shoulders. Hopeful. “Can- can, you?”

“Course, here. C’mere. I’ve got you.”

Liam shifted slowly, settled into Keith’s arms and nestled into the crook of his shoulder. He cuddled closer, pressed his nose softly into Keith’s white tee. All the anxiety built up in his shoulders and arms and chest eased and melted away, just being held like that, tucked close and kept safe. Soft things were whispered above his head, gentle it’s okay’s and I’ve got you’s and I love you’s, every now and then accompanied by a little kiss at the crown of his head.

His eyes grew heavy and he wasn’t afraid of that, wasn’t afraid of sleep anymore, because Keith was right there, would protect him. Careful hands carded through his hair, scratched lightly over his scalp to calm him. Still, a small piece of the boy clung to consciousness, out of anxious habit rather than rational fear.

A tired Keith muttered something quiet, upon noticing. “No one’s going to touch, honey. I promise,” he said, voice gentle, an echo of the reminders Liam often asked for during nights like these, after nightmares or bouts of panic. “You’re safe, Lee. Go to sleep. I’m right here.”

His eyes closed, mind went dark, just after those words. Liam fell asleep curled up in the softest blankets next to someone he could finally trust, someone he could count on, someone who would never break that promise.

---

Y’all probably don’t even remember asking to be tagged because it’s been so long lmao (and let me know if you’d like to be taken off the list) but:

@looptheloup @deluxewhump @burtlederp @grill3dch33seinmybloodstream

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pumpkin-spice-whump · 3 years

Text

Can't Run, Can't Hide

I was gonna give Kensi comfort and write a soft Christmas piece (and I still might) but for now we have this

CWs: slavery whump, 17yo whumpee, nails, threats, threat of noncon, threat of amputation, begging, referenced eye whump, imagined eye whump, blood

Masterlist

-----------------------------------

Master came home drunk.

As soon as Kensington saw him he began to rush through his chores so he could go to his room for the night. He was halfway through sweeping when he heard his master’s voice from the living room.

“Kensington! Get in here!”

Kensington cringed, his heart starting to race. He quickly put the broom away and left the kitchen, his mind running through anything and everything he could’ve done wrong that day.

He didn’t go outside. He only ate what Master said he could. He did all his chores, the TV stayed off, he didn’t answer the door when someone knocked, what could Master possibly be mad about?

He took a deep breath before he entered the living room. Master was sitting on the couch, red faced and reeking of alcohol. He glared at Kensington.

“Yes, Master?” Kensington asked from the doorway.

“I said come here.”

Kensington didn’t hesitate before walking forward and stopping in front of his master. He’d learned his lesson about hesitating.

Master looked up at him with red rimmed eyes. “Where’s dinner?”

“I…” Kensington furrowed his brows. “I-- you said not to make dinner tonight. That you were going out…?”

“Do I look like I went out to eat with my boss, Kensington?”

“Well you...you came home late so I thought--”

“You didn’t!” Master pointed at him. “The issue is that you didn’t think. If you were thinking you would’ve seen that I obviously didn’t come home from a celebratory dinner with my boss because I was passed up on the promotion!” Kensington flinched as Master began to yell. “And you only have one job in this house and you can’t even do that right!”

Kensington took a steadying breath before speaking again. “I’m sorry Master. If--if I had known--”

Master suddenly stood, staggering on his drunken legs. Kensington took a short, panicked step back and his heart dropped.

The last time he backed away from his master, he’d been beaten so badly that he’d had his ribs broken for the first time. His heart began to pick up as he thought about the pain he’d been in for weeks after as Master continuously denied him medication. Master and Kensington stared at each other, both frozen.

Then a smile crept onto his master’s face.

“W--wait Master, no please I -- I didn’t mean to--” Kensington stuttered. He tried to keep himself still no matter how strong the urge to run away was. “Please I really really didn’t mean to--”

“Kensington, you know you’re not supposed to pull away from me,” Master said with a smile. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?”

Kensington remembered a lot more pain than talking. Tears stung his eyes. “Master, please, please no--”

“Should you lose your other pinky for this?”

And Kensington ran.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done before he was in his room with the chair propped against the door. He broke down in sobs, his hand covering his mouth. Oh. Oh no. He’d had his ribs broken before just from stepping back not from running away. If Kensington was going to lose his other pinky before then Master was going to kill him now--

Sudden banging on the door made Kensington sob with the realization. He clutched his chest, his eyes squeezed shut as Master began to yell. Violent sobs ripped through his chest and made him nauseous with the power of them. Master really was going to kill him this time. He’d crossed a line he couldn’t un-cross and Master was livid and drunk and Kensi he’s really going to kill you you’re gonna die you’re gonna die you’regonnadie--

“KENSINGTON!” Master screamed, the door rattling. Kensington whimpered, pressing himself against the wall. Tears streamed over the hand pressed to his mouth as he tried desperately to breathe. “Kensington you open the door right this second or I’ll cut off your whole hand and leave you outside to bleed to death! Do you hear me?!”

Kensington shook his head, taking the hand off his mouth to gulp air around his coughs and cries. What had he done what had he done oh what had he done? There was no way out, no way to win this. He was totally trapped. His master would eventually get inside and have no mercy for his stupid slave.

“Kensington I said open the door!” The banging on the door continued, the doorknob rattling. A loud crack sounded and made Kensington back away in a panic. The banging stopped, but he knew he didn’t have a lot of time.

He turned to the window. Master had bolted it shut after Kensington had snuck out months ago, but he still gripped it with both hands, pushing upwards and praying that it would open. But it stayed down, not budging a bit no matter how desperately Kensington pulled. The pounding on the door behind him didn’t stop and eventually his knees gave out, leaving him a gasping and shuddering mess on the floor.

The pounding stopped, and the only sound in the house was Kensington’s desperate and hopeless crying. Then: “Kensington, listen to me,” Master said calmly. “Are you listening?”

He paused, so Kensington answered in a broken voice. “Ye-es.”

“Good. Now Kensington, you messed up. Do you understand that?”

Kensington nodded, then, “Yes, Master.”

“So you need to be punished.”

Kensington’s sobbing started anew, fresh tears falling down his face. “I’m sorry Master, please, I’m so sorry I didn’t--didn’t mean to please--”

“KENSINGTON.” He fell silent, biting his fist to keep quiet. “If you open the door right now then I won’t kill you.”

He lifted his head from his arms and stared at the door.

“I won’t kill you if you open the door but you have to open it now.”

Kensington pushed himself up so he was kneeling. He wanted to get up and open the door, but it was like his legs wouldn’t obey him anymore. His chest still shook with small gasps for breath as he forced himself to gather the audacity to speak. “Do you promise?”

It took a moment for Master to answer, but his voice shook with anger when he did. “What?”

“Do you promise not to kill me?” Kensington asked in a small voice.

Master hit the door, causing Kensington to flinch, before he answered in a tight voice. “Yes. I promise. Now open the DOOR!”

Kensington didn’t hesitate again before crawling to the door and pushing the chair out the way. He finally found his way to his feet when Master opened the door and wasted no time taking Kensington by the throat and dragging him out of the room.

The wind was knocked out of him when Master tossed him into the garage, and Kensington had to struggle to breathe. The trip down the hall from his room to the garage wasn’t long, but he knew his throat would bruise with how harshly Master had him in his drunken rage. He tried to get on his hand and knees, but was pushed to the ground again when Master kicked his side, making him cry out pitifully. Master took Kensington by the hair and raised his head off the ground so he could speak in his ear, the alcohol on his breath making Kensington sick.

“You’re not going to get a lot more chances from me, do you understand that?”

Kensington nodded frantically. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his exposed throat as the threat set in. What did he mean ‘not going to get a lot more chances’? Was he going to throw him out? Take his other eye and ruin him even more? Sell him to the breeders? …Take him to get put down?

He didn’t even realize he was hyperventilating until Master threw his head down on the concrete, making his ears ring and his vision in his one eye go white for a few seconds.

“Shut up with your stupid whining!” He stood up, watching his slave try to orient himself through the dizziness. “Go to the hooks.”

It took a few more moments for the fog to clear in Kensington’s brain enough for him to crawl to the hooks Master had installed in the cement floor, but Master allowed it. At least he had that. Still, that meant that his fear was able to break through as he crawled on trembling hands and knees. The last time he was told to go to the hooks had been around a month ago. When he’d lost his eye.

“Lay.”

He obeyed, laying down in between the hooks so they lined up by his wrists and ankles on either side of him. Master quickly got to work tying Kensington up with the rope on the hooks, pinning down his wrists, chest, and… When Master got to his ankles, he didn’t simply tie them down like he did the last time. Instead, he bent his legs at the knee, forcing his heels to his thighs painfully. He used the rope to tie his ankles to both the hooks by his wrists, and the hooks meant for his ankles, leaving his feet trapped in place by tension, unable to move either direction.

Master then stood and left to the other side of the garage, sifting through a tool box. The sounds of the metal tools hitting each other made Kensington cringe and close his eyes. He tried to breathe slowly and let himself calm down, but the more he waited the more scared he became.

The last time he was here, Master had taken his vision. Stabbed his eye with a ragged shard of glass and rendered him blind on the right side forever. It was the most scared Kensington had ever been in his life, and the most pain he could remember. Was Master going to hurt his other eye? Blind him again or just take it entirely? Pull it out with pliers or burn it with a lighter? Then leave Kensington a worthless blind slave with no way to ever see what punishment was coming, and no way to work and no way to save himself from being put down or worse--

Master stopped rummaging, but Kensington kept his eyes closed. He heard him set something down by his feet, then stand again. He opened his eyes when he felt Master slip a hand under the back of his neck. Kensington flinched violently, his throat already tender from the bruises forming there. But all Master did was slip something under his head so he was propped up.

“I want you to see this,” Master said, going back to Kensington’s feet, where he set down the tool. But he sat in front of it before he could see what it was.

And then he began pushing down Kensingon’s shorts.

He hardly even knew that he’d flinched away and pulled his legs to the side, the ropes pulling painfully at his ankles. He hardly even heard himself shout ‘NO!’ at his Master. The only thing he knew -- the only thought he had was Why would Master do this to me?

Master knew -- he knew -- how terrified Kensington was of that happening to him. That was why he always chose to use the breeders as a threat, why he brought over scary friends to put their hands on him. It was because the fear of being raped far outweighed the fear of whatever his Master could do to him. And then Master was touching his thigh and pushing away his clothes and Kensington had been so scared of other people doing it to him that he hadn’t been considering that it might be his own Master that finally did it--

A harsh slap to the face brought him back enough to hear his Master talking to him. “--not pull away from me Kensington! You stop it and you listen to me! Now!”

Kensington froze, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and focused on his Master.

“I wasn’t doing that. I won’t do that. That’s for someone else to do if you piss me off enough to actually let them. So you stay still and let me get to your punishment or I swear I will call the breeders and give you away tonight you useless waste of space!”

Slave and master stared at each other for a moment as they both tried to calm down. Master soon nodded and reached behind him for the tool.

“Do. Not. Move.”

Kensington swallowed and nodded, his chest burning with anticipation of what was going to happen. Finally, Master showed the tool he had gotten. Or tools. In one hand was a hammer -- which made Kensington nervous enough -- and in the other was a box of nails. Master pushed Kensington’s shorts down again, just so it showed his soft inner thigh.

It felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over Kensington’s nerves. Oh. Oh. He wanted to beg, to scream, to pull away from the rough hands touching him where he didn’t like to be touched and were about to hurt him in a way he hadn’t even imagined before.

“Master…” Kensington begged softly. Fresh tears poured down his cheeks. “Master I’m sorry, please…”

“No, Kensington,” Master said. He placed a nail on Kensington’s soft skin, and let the hammer hover over it. “You don’t get to beg me, remember?”

And he swung the hammer down.

Kensington’s whole body jerked in his restraints as he screamed. Warm blood flowed from the wound, leaking down his leg and soaking his basketball shorts. He squeezed his eyes shut, sobs racking his chest. Sharp pain radiated through his whole leg, and he had the sudden fear that it could’ve pierced an artery. Could his Master be that careless? Or would he do it on purpose and let Kensington bleed out?

He didn’t get any time to focus on his fears as his master lined another nail up on his other thigh.

“Five more will properly teach you a lesson, don’t you think?”

Kensington’s sobs of fear quickly turned into screams of pain.

#whump #slavery whump #minor whumpee #nails tw #threat of noncon tw #referenced eye whump tw #begging tw #abuse tw #torture tw #blood tw #feeling nervous about this one for some reason #i wrote this piece a while ago #i really love it #my boy kensi

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haro-whumps · 5 years

Text

Group Whumpees: 1. Start

Inspired by this post by @whumping-every-day and @justtorturewhump about a group of whumpees. I’ve been thinking about it on and off ever since I saw it but I finally got the giddyup to actually write for it

CW: Modern slavery, implied + referenced abuse, death of a minor character, multiple whumpees, transphobia (brief), aftermath of torture/conditioning

Galo settled himself into the hospital chair, perfectly comfortable and positioned at a thoughtful angle to the side, opposite the door so physicians could easily enter. He’d intended for this to be a quick visit, but clearly his aunt had other ideas, so he might as well take a seat.

“Here I am on my deathbed!” Auntie Bethany raved, flinging her arm about wildly, and Galo internally winced each time she got too close to jerking on the IV, “Only ONE person comes to visit me! In my whole family!”

To be fair, your whole family is made up of jackasses, Galo thought privately, raising his hands in placation. “Auntie Bethany, please, you were just admitted today. I’m sure plenty of people will show up tomorrow.”

“None of them want to visit me, even when I’m going to die!” she persisted. To be fair, Galo didn’t really want to visit her either. He just… well, she was family. And she was in the hospital. And even though his family was estranged and largely filled with self-centered, arrogant individuals that made any kind of holiday event a stomach ache and a half, he tried not to be. So here he was.

“You’re not going to die, Auntie Bethany,” Galo said patiently. “You’ve had this surgery before, remember? And you made it through just fine. I bet the same surgeon still works here, even!” Galo tried for a positive tone, cheerful.

“Ah, you’re such a good niece for your dear old aunt, sweetheart.”

“I’m your nephew, auntie, we’ve been over this,” Galo said through grit teeth, smile significantly more forced now. This is why no one likes you, Galo thought.

“That’s why I’m leaving you all of my estate, darling,” Auntie Bethanie continued like she hadn’t heard him. Galo blinked twice.

“I’m sorry, what?” Galo asked nicely, sticking his pinkie finger in his right ear as though to clear it out. “You’re…”

“I have my lawyer coming to the hospital,” Auntie Bethany said, “Go get me a pair of socks. They keep it so damn freezing in here.”

Galo rose and went to the cabinet, pulling out the soft yellow cloth and helping the socks onto her feet.

“I had planned to split my estate between everyone who showed up, but you’re the only one! So you get the jackpot, you’re welcome!” she said, well, nearly-shouted, as Galo tugged the socks on over the socks she was already wearing, struggling with the tightness. He was strong; daily visits to the gym had his arms thickly muscled, his chest broad, but he wasn’t exactly trying to break his elderly aunt’s foot here, so he couldn’t just shove.

“Thank you, Auntie Bethany,” he said, trying to sound actually grateful and not just tiredly patient. So this was her newest passive-aggressive ploy. After Galo told the rest of the family there was money involved, the others would show up with their plastic smiles and loud voices and then she would get to gripe at how they were only in it for the money, but change the will up anyway to keep them visiting. She liked to play “games” like that. Galo tried very, very hard not to sigh.

It’d probably keep up after the hospital stay, too, Galo mused as he sat back down in the chair. People showing up to her home with flowers and wine and “earnest” attempts to make sure she was recovering just fine. Honestly, who knew how long she could drag this out? Her poor lawyer. He hoped she was at least paying them well.

The lawyer did, in fact, arrive, and Galo quietly apologized each time his aunt criticized or scolded the poor man.

“You’re uh, gonna need to use my legal name,” Galo said, handing him his driver’s license. “Not the uh, childhood nickname she keeps calling me.”

The lawyer gave him a sympathetic pat, and it was hours after Galo had planned that he finally managed to get out from under his aunt’s endless conversation and go home already. He sighed, dropping his coat on the floor of his small apartment’s entryway. For all that he was competent, intelligent, and good with organizational skills and the like; Galo had not been particularly successful in his life. He was good with people and good with life skills, he just.

Bluh!

Bluh bluh bluh! Now was not the time for a pity party, or else he’d turn into his aunt. He played an hour of his most recent video game, an open-world with a semi-voluntary plot, before turning in for the night. He should think about investing in a rabbit or something. He could eek out the money, and his apartment got awfully lonely, with just him, a computer, and a potted plant.

In the morning, he knew he should email his family and let them know Auntie Bethany wanted visitors, and she was messing around with her will. He should. A good son, nephew, brother, and cousin would. But then his dad would call him, asking for specifics (it never mattered how many specifics Galo put in the email. His dad would always call and ask for more), and that would mean talking to his dad and he really, really wasn’t ready for that, at the moment. Or at all. He could do it later. It wasn’t like Auntie Bethany was actually dying, after all, she was just up to her hysterics again. And god, if Galo’s sister or brother decided they wanted more than just an email… if they decided to “pop in” after visiting their aunt and gloat to Galo about how now it was their names on the will…

Oh and don’t even get Galo started on what Uncle Mike would do. He was a bigger attention whore than Auntie Bethany.

So he just… didn’t write. Didn’t call. Nothing that big was happening, they could afford to wait a few days before feeding into Auntie Bethany’s weird games. She could probably use a little disappointment for the first time in her spoiled, nasty life anyway.

Galo took a deep breath and covered his face with his broad palm. He shouldn’t think like that. That was uncalled for. Auntie Bethany was a fine person, she was just rude, and loud, and inconsiderate. But she was family. He should be polite. But, still, it would be fine if she had to wait a little while for everyone to get in on her weird ploys.

So imagine Galo’s surprise when the hospital called him after work, letting him know his aunt had, unfortunately, not made it through her surgery.

Her mansion (and that’s really the only word that could describe it, though “castle” was more fitting, in Galo’s opinion (it had an estate garden, who has an ‘estate garden’?!?!)) was huge. Galo had made that observation before, of course, every time he’d spent the weekend as a kid and the couple of times he’d visited during a family gathering. He couldn’t really believe it was his. The castle, the pool, the garden, all of her badass furniture he’d been warned to keep off of as a kid, her hella entertainment system that he honestly couldn’t wait to hook his game consoles up to. Didn’t she also own slaves? He wasn’t certain; he tended to get as drunk as possible as fast as possible at family gatherings, in order to survive said family gatherings, but he was pretty sure she’d mentioned putting away her servants for the evenings since they were “eyesores” or some shit. And he definitely remembered her having one when he was a kid, a glass-eyed guy only about a decade older than Galo himself.

Whatever. He unlocked the front door with her keys, attached to his keychain now, and took in the familiar foyer. He should go upstairs and check if her turquoise guest room was the same as when he was younger. It had an en suite bathroom with a bath the size of a hot tub, and it could definitely serve as his new master bedroom. Auntie Bethany’s had been the size of a ballroom, and he really didn’t need all that space (or to sleep in the same bed his dead aunt had slept in, guh).

“Mistress, w--” a thin woman with pale hair and over-wide eyes entered swiftly, then flinched back, grinding to a halt when she saw Galo.

“S-Sir, I’m sorry sir, but our mistress is out at the moment. You will have to visit her at a later time.”

“Oh, uh, I’m, not a home invader,” Galo assured, setting his little potted plant down near the antique vase his aunt had boasted about so frequently. The poor lady was trembling visibly, though he had to give her credit for not screaming and calling the police upon seeing a stranger enter her home. He probably should’ve called out and introduced himself when he let himself in; he’d just been thinking about how Auntie Bethany had kept slaves. “My aunt had a relapse, recently, and was admitted to the hospital yesterday. Uh, her surgery didn’t go so well,” Galo said, rubbing at the back of his neck. He needed to shave down his undercut, he thought rather inanely. “She didn’t make it. I uh, I’m sorta the sole inheritor of her estate? For the time being; at the funeral I’m sure we’ll get into plenty of arguments,” he said with a forced chuckle.

“My name’s Galo,” he greeted, extending his hand to the woman.

He was a little taken aback when she genuflected and kissed his palm, dropping fluidly and with unexpected grace. “Oh, uh, okay,” he said, cupping her face and stroking a thumb over her cheekbone. Except, whoops, that was the wrong thing to do, he realized, since her face contorted and her whole body locked up.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you,” Galo said, pulling his hand away immediately. She went down on both knees and pressed her forehead to the floor, further confusing Galo, her movements still fluid as silk.

“I apologize, Master. I reacted poorly.”

“No, no,” Galo rushed to reassure, his words making her flinch. “You’re good, you’re fine, it’s alright,” he tried, and that went over a little better.

“I apologize if I have angered you, Master.”

“You--didn’t. I’m just, surprised is all.” He bent down and touched his fingers very lightly against the back of her hand, and he noted that she flinched again. Okay. Probably a trauma response. His aunt had likely picked her up from somewhere bad, but that was alright. He had significantly more emotional intelligence than Auntie Bethany; he was better suited to help this kind of person than she was. Would have been.

“Will you tell me your name?” Galo asked, voice intentionally calm and reassuring.

“...” He watched her swallow, his brows furrowing. Did she… not know her own name? “Whatever pleases Master best,” she eventually answered.

“Oh,” Galo said, voice soft and pitying. “No, that’s alright. You can tell me what you’d like to be called.”

“I--wouldn’t, be presumptuous, Master, and put words in your mouth.” Man, she was shaking like a leaf. He would definitely be stuttering, if he was that scared.

But a direct approach clearly wasn’t going to work, here, he couldn’t just do it over and over again and expect different results. He’d come at this from a different angle.

“You’re so obedient,” he praised, stroking a finger down her fingers and along the back of her hand, light as a feather. “You’re very good, you were trained to answer just like that, weren’t you?”

“Yes Master,” she said, sounding relieved. Good.

“But right now, what I’m asking for is your name. If you don’t like the one Auntie Bethany called you, that’s fine, you can pick something else, but I’m not going to think of one for you, okay? I need you to do that, now,” Galo said patiently, feeling a little silly for talking to a grown adult in the same tone he might take with a crying child, but, well. Trauma response.

“Nyla, Master.”

“Good girl, Nyla.” He heard her breath of relief, and tapped the backs of his knuckles against her hand. “Stand up for me?” he asked, slipping his hands underneath her palms. He rose, and she stood with him, again with that eerie grace, pretty much none of her weight against his hands, although he had intended to help her up.

“So, is there anyone else here I should meet?” Galo asked, smiling patiently at Nyla who did not meet his eyes at all. “That other guy. Gr… G-something.”

“Greyson, if it pleases you Master.”

“That’s it! He still around?”

“Yes Master. I can fetch the others for you, Master, and bring them to wherever you’d prefer to inspect us.”

“Uh,” Galo blinked twice. Okay. Nyla was clearly going to require a lot of delicacy, and while he was definitely equipped to do that, he wasn’t fast. “Sure, how about you get the others in the--” No, not the living room, the furniture in there was all tiny and mostly just for her weird 60’s aesthetic, “--den.”

He mentally added “den” onto his brand new list of things that made Nyla lock up. He should probably turn it into a physical list, at some point, since he was going to live with her now, and it was important to make note of things like this.

But the damage was done, and maybe this would be a good way to show her his aunt’s den wasn’t like… whatever it was, that she’d experienced before here.

His den. It wasn’t his aunt’s anymore. Auntie Bethany was dead.

It was a weird feeling, he thought to himself as he grabbed his potted plant and went upstairs to the guest bedroom that was, in fact, still just as cool as he remembered it. He set it on the windowsill of his house. It was a weird feeling, a really weird feeling, that someone he’d known all his life was suddenly… gone.

He didn’t miss her. He didn’t like her, and they certainly hadn’t been close. He wasn’t mourning her. But. Hm. His grandparents had all died before he could remember them, so he hadn’t really had a death in the family before. It was strange and almost-melancholy, thinking that his aunt would never again walk through this place. Would never hassle him about his hair at family gatherings ever again, or complain about the TV being too quiet, or eat cantelope with her mouth open.

He shook himself. He had other people to say hello to and introduce himself to. He gave his cheeks two smart pats and left the room, mentally plotting where he would put his own personal effects. And ugh, he had to get rid of that weird hall painting. Actually, why not just do that now; he was there and it was large, but if he gripped under the frame on top he could sorta-shoulder-carry it down the stairs. The weight wasn’t much of an issue. He was a particularly buff stud, after all.

“Oh, there’s more of you than I expected,” he mentioned offhand, reaching the den. Five slaves stood at strict attention, ignoring the human-sized furniture he’d intended them all to sit on, including a girl who couldn’t possibly be older than twenty. He stared at her, a muted horror not quite breaking past the shock. She was absolutely covered in bruises. Some were purple, some yellowing, some bright red and fresh, hardly older than two or possibly three days.

“Oh god,” he breathed, very, very deliberately reminding himself to move slowly as he approached her. Poor thing! Had she fallen? The bruises differed in age too much for that. He reached out a hand to her, slowly, well within her field of vision, but she still flinched.

“Master!” Nyla interrupted before he could touch. “That one is Lilah, she’s the gardener for the estate.”

A little thing like her? The whole estate? Using the machinery needed to keep up with a yard this big, no wonder she was covered in injuries! She was way too small to be handling stuff that could hurt her like this!

“Nice to meet you, Lilah,” Galo said gently, extending his hand again, just as slow and careful as the first time. Lilah sank to one knee, almost as fluid as Nyla, and kissed his palm, which. Alright! Cool! Sure! Maybe Auntie Bethany had gotten Nyla and Lilah together?

Galo gave her a single, quick pat on her head, not wanting a repeat of whatever distress he’d caused Nyla in the foyer. Lilah was tan and freckled, with sunbleached brown hair, and wow, yikes, she was so small. Galo swallowed and turned to the next person in the lineup.

“Greyson,” Galo greeted with a smile. He looked a lot like he had when Galo was younger, just sorta gaunt now. Reddish-brown hair that was only just starting to sprout a handful of gray hairs, tall and skinny with knobby hands. “Remember me?”

“I do, Master Galo,” Greyson said with a bow, hand raised to his chest, and Galo chuckled.

“Good to see you again, dude. It’s been years,” Galo said, leaving his hands in his pockets. He’d already met this guy, however long ago that it might have been.

“It has, Master, I am delighted to see you again,” Greyson said, monotone and still bowing, but Galo was inclined to believe him. Greyson had always been like this, as near as he remembered.

“Look a little different than last time, huh?” Galo asked with a proud grin. Greyson lifted his head and quirked a very, very small smile of his own.

“I believe you’ve put some weight on, Master.”

Galo made note of how everyone else in the room tensed up at Greyson’s words, but he also laughed. “You bet I have,” Galo bragged, flexing an impressive bicep, before taking a mental red sharpie and writing DON’T DO THAT around the action in big letters. Lilah looked like she might cry.

He’d have to catch up with Greyson later. Or, well, get to know the guy? He hadn’t had much interest in the man when he was a kid, more preoccupied with the pool and old movie collection. He turned to the next person, a man closer to his own age.

“What’s your name?” Galo asked, calm, friendly smile that he used during work on his face.

“Evan, if it please you.” Evan had fluffy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and strong, handsome features.

God, everyone here was really formal. Greyson, he got. Again, the man had always been like that, but man. They sounded like they all came out of those weird books Auntie Bethany was always reading.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Evan,” Galo said, doing a little wordplay, and Evan lowered his eyes deferentially. Galo lifted his hand to maybe clap him on the shoulder or rub at his own hair or something, but Evan knelt mid-motion and kissed Galo’s hand and okay! Maybe his aunt had been the one with the hand-kissing-thing after all. That was weird as hell to think about, and Galo was gonna try not to.

“This is Sasha, Master,” Nyla stated when Galo turned to the last person in the room, a woman with thick, curly, dark hair and wide blue eyes. She was pale as a ghost. “If you will allow it, she does not speak very well, and I am capable of speaking for her, Master.”

“Okay, sure,” Galo said, not going to push too hard for information on that. And he wasn’t, like, gonna tell them no, either. If this was what made them comfortable, then alright, he could deal with that. “Nice to meet you, Sasha, you don’t need to kiss my hand.”

Sasha nodded tensely, and ugh, maybe he should have let her? Now she was the odd one out. Well, Greyson hadn’t either, so…

Nope, don’t overthink it. Galo could tell there was going to be plenty for him to overthink, moving forward, and he needed to get into the habit of cutting that in the bud right now.

“Alright, so, nice to meet you all,” he already said that. “I’m new, and I’m gonna be honest, the fanciest thing I’ve ever owned is my computer rig, so I’m probably gonna make a couple mistakes in the whole… running an estate, thing, at first. You’re all allowed and encouraged to make suggestions or tell me if I’m doing something stupid on accident, okay?”

It didn’t look like that was okay at all, but Nyla nodded with a “Yes Master” anyway so eh, Galo would take it.

What should he say now? Telling them they were dismissed would make him feel like a hoity toity jackass, but it also felt kind of lame to just… leave it at that. “I’m also a little slow,” he warned, “so please be patient with me. Sometimes I need an extra couple of seconds to think things through.”

“Understood, Master,” Nyla answered again, Evan swallowing nervously at Galo’s words. Yeah, he was definitely going to have to make physical lists of weird observations. Everyone here looked like they had trauma they were processing. Yikes. His aunt was hardly a philanthropist; why would she take in this many skittish people?

His stomach ended up saving him from further floundering, gurgling loudly. Lunch had been so long ago...

“Master, may we prepare dinner for you?” Nyla asked, swaning down to her knees and bowing her head low.

“Yeah, actually, that’d be great. I’m allergic to mushrooms so nothing with those, please.”

“Yes, Master. Is there anything you’d prefer tonight?”

Hm. They seemed to like direction, and giving them a solid lead would probably be kinder than forcing them to think for themselves and worry about what he did or didn’t like. But at the same time, he had no idea what his aunt kept stocked.

“How about pasta with white sauce?” he suggested. Open ended, basic ingredients that they were pretty much guaranteed to have, and easy to make. And relatively quick; he was hungry.

“As you wish, Master.”

“Cool. I’m gonna start going through my aunt’s stuff. Lemme know when it’s ready.”

Galo left the den with a “Yes Master” chasing his heels, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Goddamn, these people were not having a great time. But that was okay. Galo was confident he could help.

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