whump-world

[whump-world]

Moonlight

1818 words | The dragon’s toy (sequel to Ground down)

Content | NSFWhump (with objects), begging, sleep deprivation, starvation, forced to work, crying, escape attempt, recapture, falling/being dropped, beating, victim blaming, mention of throwing up

Notes | The elf is so brave. Sadly they're not in an action movie but in a whump story.

Taglist | @i-walk-on-the-dark-side @echo-goes-aaa @scoundrelwithboba

Things would not get better.

The realization slowly settled into the elf's bones as each day was as horrific as the last, with never a break to recover, or wrap their head around everything that had happened.

Or even really adjust to the fucking toys the dragon kept shoving into them. Every evening, without fail, when the pain started to fade into being bearable even when moving carefully, the toy they had been forced to wear would be replaced with a bigger one. Sometimes in the mornings too, when the dragon decided for reasons the elf couldn't fathom they were ready for it.

It seemed pleased with the progress they were making, while the elf felt they were trapped in a horrible, never-ending, looping nightmare.

It enjoyed the way they screamed and cried when the replacements happened, too, they were certain of it, though that never seemed to matter in the moment--their pride never outweighed the agony of it. It enjoyed the way they begged for just a little more time to get used to it. It laughed at the way they crawled away, once more barely able to move at all.

They never seemed to get enough rest, not when the pain wouldn't let them sleep half the night, nor enough food--they had, themself, had to carry a fresh bag of food up to the lair from the altar when the time came, struggled under its weight and against their pain, when the dragon could have carried it up with perfect ease. It was, again, plain bread and grain and a few vegetables. Beetroot, which they had always hated, but they couldn't afford pickiness now.

And then, of course, they were expected to satisfy the dragon whenever it desired--which was often. Most mornings, they were awoken by being yanked out of their poor excuse for a bed, dragged before the dragon--or worse, onto the dragon--and forced to perform whatever degrading acts it felt like. Despite its promise to leave their other holes for later, they were sure it pushed deeper into their throat every day; they no longer knew whether it was sore from screaming, or from the rough treatment.

Inbetween, they dragged their exhausted body through the lair to clean. There always was something to do; never again did they dare to steal a moment of rest, even if every part of them begged for a break. Sometimes the dragon watched them move about, always awkward from trying to avoid the pain inside of them, no matter how little it helped. Sometimes it laughed at them.

All in all, there never seemed to come a time when they would be more fit to make their escape.

So they decided that tonight, under the helpful light of a full moon that would hopefully keep them from breaking their neck on the mountain path, would be the night.

They realized they had never been more terrified of anything in their life.

They were so tired. But they could not stay. This couldn't be their life.

The toy the dragon had worked into them in the evening was so large it gave their thinner and thinner belly a bulge. It was unnatural, it was horrible; it was barely visible now, but it would get worse from here on out, they knew it. They were haunted by nightmares in which the dragon had lost its patience and fucked them apart, stabbing right through them, and this? This only gave them more fuel.

The dragon was asleep. It had to be asleep.

Like they had in that first night, they worked the toy out of themself--they couldn't run like this. Like in that first night, it was agonizing.

They felt hollow when they were done, as if the thing had permanently carved them up, left them open to invasion.

They held back sobs, letting their tears fall quietly. Quietly, they put down the toy.

The dragon was asleep. It had to be asleep.

They tried tiptoeing, then found, with all their aches, it was easier to quietly move on all fours, like an animal. What was a little more degradation?

They made it to the lair's entrance.

The dragon was asleep. It had to be asleep.

Before them, the mountainside rolled down, bright ash and smooth coal shining in the moonlight.

If they could make it to the trees below, they could hide. They would be safe.

Their heart was beating so fast and hard it might shatter any moment. For too long, they remained frozen in terror.

Then they escaped.

They wished they could run, but the path was too steep and dangerous for that. Their way down was agonizingly slow, and any moment they feared they would hear the flap of wings. They had to force themself to keep their eyes on the path. If they fell and hurt themself--well, hurt their legs--it would be over.

When they reached the first trees, they could hardly believe it.

They cowered under the thick canopy of an overhanging shrub, pressing themself against its stems. They had made it. They were hidden, they were safe.

Tears burned in their eyes. They would go home.

They gathered themself, and moved to find their way between hte plants.

That was when the stretch of light forest ahead of them burst into flames.

Their hand flew to their mouth to suffocate a scream. The suddenness of the fire left no doubt as to its cause, and now, now they heard the wingbeats. They dragon was circling above.

Smoke filled their nose as they sobbed, barely breathing.

The fire rushed up the slope toward them, and they were left with no choice. Ancient instincts kicked in, and they fled the flames into the open, barren land further up the slope, even as they cried with terror of what they knew they were running into.

They didn't make it more than a few steps into the open before it dove down upon them. Before they could do more than scream, they were grabbed by the ankles and hoisted into the air, the dragon's grip bruising as the earth fell away, away, away.

They screamed as they soared further and further up, from terror and from the pain of being whipped into the air like this.

And then the dragon dropped them.

Time seemed to slow as their mind balanced on the precipice of fainting, and the overwhelming urge to struggle for their life when there was nothing they could do. This was the end-

Then the dragon's claws slammed into their body again, yanking them out of their path to the ground with terrible force. Something cracked in their ribcage. The dragon flipped them around until it had them by the ankles again, and they screamed, they didn't want to fall AGAIN-

The speed and the dark and the terror confounded their senses eonough they didn't know where they were, or where they were going, until they were dropped once more, and this time slammed into the ground after a much shorter fall. Somehow, they managed to cover their head as they rolled over several times. Their whole body most be bruised.

But it was not enough.

The were hit hard in the side, hard enough to fling them against the nearest wall, where they stayed crumpled down, hoping against all hope it was over now-

Something struck them along their whole curled-up body. Then again, and again, over and over until they were screaming, barely managing to intersperse words, "Please" and "Mercy" and "I'm sorry" as if they stood any chance to be heard.

They weren't the awful, but controlled clawstrikers they had suffered before, they realized--the dragon was whipping them with its tail.

And it kept going, until all words had left them, until their voice was hoarse and broken. Each blow slammed them into the rock wall they had collapsed again.

The horrible thought occurred to them the dragon might simply beat them to death.

Eventually, though, it stopped. Every part of them was bruised and battered.

But even that was not enough.

"I was granting you mercy," the dragon growled as they helplessly laid on the ground, sobbing weakly. "But you have lost that privilege."

They had not managed to make sense of the words by the time it grabbed their face, and their yelp was choked off by an object forced into their mouth, forcing their jaws wide--into their throat-

They couldn't even scream as they gagged on it. It was too far in, they had to get it out, their throat was working desperately to expel it, it was all they could do not to throw up--they scrabbled uselessly at their face, the fear of punishment momentarily forgotten over the feeling of suffocating-

The dragon strapped the thing securely in place. They could feel a buckle close too tightly at the back of their head, feel drool already running down their chin. It couldn't stay there, it couldn't stay there-

"Oh, your throat is working. Unlike you when you can get away with it, hm?"

Without further comment on the tears streaming down their face, even on their hand trying to find a way to pull it off their panicked mind couldn't, it pinned them to the ground belly-up once more, and in a moment, they knew what would come next.

This time, they couldn't even scream as their cunt was forced open again, forced to give way to too big an intruder.

They felt a faint spark of gratitude it was still not actually fucking them, and that was almost as bad as the rest of it.

When the toy was shoved in all the way, stretching them past their limits, the dragon flipped them over. They would have screamed again from the way the floor pressed against their bulging belly, pressed against the toy inside them, if only they had a voice. But they were still struggling just to breathe--if only they could beg for mercy, they would do anything, this was worse than everything-

Then their ass was forced open. Another fresh, sharp pain, another intrusion, and they could only cry and cry as the dragon worked yet another toy inside of them, competing for space in their poor abdomen--they could feel it pinch the tissue against the one in their cunt, they couldn't take this it had to go out-

The dragon fixed a chastity belt around their loins. It dug into their nascent bruises, but that wasn't the worst of it.

They couldn't take this-

"There we go. Is this what you wanted, little toy?" The dragon looked down at them, trembling with pain and fear before it, pleading for mercy with their eyes as best as they could.

As if they could ever hope for any.

A terrible grin revealed the dragon's sharp teeth. "You do look lovely, all stuffed like this. I can't wait to watch you clean tomorrow. Now sleep, for however much of the night you've left for yourself."

[whump-world]

Emotional whump for Caretakers cause I want them to suffer too

- they’re silently judged by teammates for letting down whumpee. it’ll kill me if it was actually caretaker’s fault. 

- nobody tells caretaker how much they’re loved and valued when they always see their teammates assuring whumpee of their unconditional love and support.

- ofc caretaker taking punishments for whumpee’s sake is awesome but gah what if caretaker falls apart from the pain and gives whumpee away or something. their role as strong, reliable caretaker would be torn apart. it’ll be so humiliating. 

- the guilt and embarrassment when people imply “hey you didn’t really suffer” because yeah caretaker only watched helplessly-

[whump-world]

when whumpee is pinned against the wall. by their hands, by their throat, shoved against it by their shirt collar. Just…the choking, the clawing hands, the suffocated begging. and whumper leaning in too close for comfort. the terror, the sudden shot of panic in whumpee’s veins and the floor-dropping sensation of being trapped. when they feel more like an insect pinned to the wall than a human with whumper’s eyes studying them as if they were under a microscope. just…caught. not even like an animal in snare, just caught off guard and disoriented and wide eyed.

[whump-world]

♱Heavenly Feast♱

𓆩Chapter 6 - The devil reborn𓆪

𓆩 Previous 𓆪 ♱ 𓆩 Masterlist 𓆪 ♱ 𓆩 Next 𓆪

CW: Explict non-con, implied child abuse, strangulation with a belt, victim blaming, immortal whumpee and whumper, murderer and somewhat defiant whumpee, creepy cannibal whumper, weird incestuous vibes on this one (whumpee looks like whumper's father and non-con still happens. Make with that what you will.)

The screams of terror and pain that echoed from the laptop brought Benjamin indescribable pleasure. He touched himself as the scene unveiled in front of him, as the knife stabbed through her chest. Oh, if people knew what the perfect, sweet Benjamin fantasized constantly about. How he wished he was the one holding the knife. But no one needed to know as long as he kept it to himself. As long as he didn’t kill anyone, no one would know.

He leaned his head back as he came, and that was when he saw. His father stood behind him with a horrified expression on his face, staring at the screen. Benjamin tried to stay calm as he paused the video and tucked his dick in.

“Dad, I didn’t know you would be back so soon.”

“I should have let her kill you,” he mumbled, “no, I should have killed you myself long ago.”

Benjamin knew at that moment — tears and pleading wouldn’t save him from his fury like the other times.

…𓆩♱𓆪…

Kieran tapped his foot, chewing on his nail. He stared at Benjamin lying before him naked, with no trace of what happened the night before, and his ankle shackled once more. Kieran, however, was stuck in it. Sitting on the chair, waiting for Benjamin to wake up, he couldn’t stop replaying it in his mind. He couldn’t believe he had never noticed how similar they were. Why were they so similar? How? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself all those things were coincidences.

Benjamin’s whimpers echoed in the silent basement, pulling Kieran out of his thoughts. Tears fell from his eyes as he clenched his fists in his sleep. And butterflies fluttered in Kieran’s stomach even what happened. He slowly woke up, distraught, and sat up. He wiped his tears and looked at himself and around the room.

“You didn’t waste time, huh? Back to square one.” He pouted and smiled.

The angelic voice and cute attitude were laced with malice and mockery. Kieran stared at Benjamin at a loss for words as he stood up and took a step toward him.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growled.

“Why?” Benjamin tilted his head. “Aww, are you hurt? Or are you disgusted?”

Kieran gritted his teeth.

“Oh, it’s both, isn’t it? And you’re also disappointed I’m not as sweet and innocent as you thought, I bet. Aww, poor, poor Kieran. You must be so heartbroken.”

“Benjamin shut the fuck up. God, just shut up.”

Benjamin walked closer with a soft smile on his face. Kieran tensed up the closer he got, his throat closing up. He shouldn’t be the one disturbed, but the parallels to that man were like chains binding him. Benjamin lowered to his eye level and cupped his cheeks.

“You’re awfully honest and easy to read. It’s rather endearing.” His chuckle ached in Kieran’s bones.

Benjamin sat in his lap. He held onto his arms to push him away, but he couldn’t. His smile mocked him; anger and disgust boiled inside of him.

“You should have told me you’re immortal too, you know? I would be willing to play my part a bit longer if I knew.”

Kieran grabbed his chin, digging his nails into his cheeks.

“Is this amusing to you, you bastard?”

“I don’t understand why you’re so mad.” Benjamin tilted his head. “You said it yourself you wanted to hurt me, but suddenly I’m in the wrong for hurting you back?”

“I wouldn’t do anything to you if you hadn’t kissed me! I was doing a good job of controlling myself. You decided to kiss me even after I warned you.”

Benjamin stayed silent for a second, before sighing.

“... God, you’re pathetic.” He laughed, shaking his head.

Pathetic. That demon’s voice mixed with Benjamin’s. Pathetic, eh? The anger inside of him boiled over, and he hit him hard, throwing him on the floor. Before he could spew any more bullshit, he kicked him in the gut.

“Hadn’t I told you to shut the fuck up, eh?” He kicked him again and again. “Pathetic? Have you forgotten you’re the one in chains this time? Are you stupid or just cocky?”

He kicked him until he was reduced to a groaning, shaking mess on the floor. It didn’t take long. Kieran was the pathetic one when he was the one with such a low pain threshold? Hilarious. He crouched and grabbed his hair, watching the tears fall from his eyes. Wasn’t that what he wanted? Taunting him like that, pushing him like that. Those tears were genuine tears of pain. Kieran realized how fake the other ones were, as these made him squirm with desire in a way the others never could.

Even as their faces blended, he wanted it. No, even more. Benjamin glared at him through the pain. He hated that look. Benjamin still thought he had enough control to be angry at him when he should be crying and begging for forgiveness. But he would soon. Was there any reason to hold back anymore? Didn’t he want him to stop being pathetic, to be ‘strong’ like him? If he wanted Kieran to be wicked, so be it. If he sent a demon that looked like him to punish him for being ‘weak’, then he should watch from Hell what his pathetic child does to his mirror image. He dropped him on the floor and towered over him. Benjamin’s eyes widened when Kieran took his belt off.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m finishing what we started yesterday.”

He struggled, trying to push and kick Kieran away as he buckled the belt around his neck. His face contorted delightfully when Kieran tugged it, strangling him.

“Don’t fight, Benji. It will only make everything worse.”

Benjamin tried to pull the belt off in desperation. As satisfying as it was to see him losing his composure, those struggles were a hassle. Kieran rolled his eyes and punched him hard in the stomach. He stopped struggling, hugging his stomach and gasping for air. His pain satisfied Kieran like no other. He sucked his fingers, spread his legs and shoved it in without a warning. Benjamin cried out, kicking and pushing more.

“Oh, come on. I’m trying to make this better for you too, you know? Would you rather I do it raw?”

“S-Stop,” he croaked as he was choked, gripping Kieran’s clothes, “please, stop!”

Kieran laughed. His pleas only made him want to ruin him more. He moved his fingers, delighted to hear him break into sobs. When he deemed it was enough, he pulled them out and lowered his pants. Benjamin shook his head desperately, putting a grin on Kieran’s face.

“How about that, Benji: you apologize to me for what you did and kiss me nicely, and I might go easy on you.”

He sniffled, considering his options. But it was clear by the look in his eyes that he wouldn’t hurt his pride by apologizing.

“Fuck off…” He said in a final act of defiance.

“Your choice.” Kieran shrugged.

He thrust in hard, getting a choked-out scream out of Benjamin. He cried and moaned as Kieran fucked him without care, intending to hurt him as much as he could. His helplessness as he was choked and raped was much, much better than he imagined. He wished he could capture the moment he slowly gave up fighting, crying silently and beautifully. Kieran savoured the sight as he came. He panted, looking into his vacant eyes.

He felt nothing but satisfaction. Not an ounce of guilt. It was what he deserved — what his mirror image deserved. A younger version of him, a weaker version that was delicately beautiful and easy to abuse, a… He had an epiphany.

That man was indeed a demon in human form, as his mother preached. A demon that cursed him and tormented him and several people. She was right. And the demon crawled out from Hell into another human form, into this weak beauty. They acted the same and looked the same because they were the same. The same soul, the same demon.

It all made sense looking at that angle. All the evidence pointed to it. All those coincidences. Kieran laughed, seeing how pitiful and broken he looked.

It wasn’t a punishment. No, no, Kieran looked at it all wrong. It was an opportunity. He crawled out of Hell into such a weak form, and Kieran could give him the punishment he deserved. He would bring Hell to him. Kieran lowered himself to whisper in his ear.

“Know that you brought this on yourself. It’s what you deserve.”

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @thatonefoxyplush @hidden-dreamland @whump-me-baby-one-more-time

[whump-world]

Once again I see you've got a royal whump brainrot lol. I

What about a royal whumpee who just knows they're going to be dethroned? They're not blind. They can see the stolen glances. The subtle papers. Midnight meetings. They know all the traitors. But despite having power over an entire kingdom, they can do nothing about it. So they wait. They wait for the inevitable.

Every full moon i cycle back into the royal whumpee brainrot so yes please give me your offerings

But yes this is a stunning idea! It’s so complex because the royal should have the most power in the kingdom and should be able to take down the traitors, but that would only be possible if they had anyone on their side at all and they don’t. whumpees who are paranoid because of this. whumpees who are brutal and overly ruthless because they need to scare people to not think of messing with them because that’s the only way they can protect themselves. the powerlessness of waiting for the inevitable. so spicy

[whump-world]

Royal whumpee brainrot again? What about a royal whumpee who is doing the right thing but failing because of that?

Not tolerating someone disrespecting their staff? An economy treaty is gone. Not taking bribery from the wealthy families for turning a blind eye to unfair taxes? The friendly visits to the palace go with dodging (and maybe with barely succeeding to dodge) assassination attempts. Councillors trying to "educate" whumpee in arts of politics with challenging their authority everywhere, or even going as far as turning their private meetings to torture sessions. Maybe putting them out of commission for a while to gain temporary power.

But despite all, Whumpee needs all of those people. They can't run everything by themselves. So they endure.

oh my gOD i love this. i have a long-running daydream that’s kind of similar, but now I’m thinking of this royal who’s just trying his best and ends up getting on the wrong side of literally everybody, leading to SO many people being after him. cue the torture sessions to intimidate the royal into making the decisions they want, the royal’s internal conflict between their morals or safety, them wanting to protect the people, them disobeying the others and taking the punishments because they know there are lives on the line other than theirs and their suffering means something if they can stop the corruption in the kingdom, but then the nobles / advisors / courtiers / etc get it in their mind to take out the whumpee so they can finally get their way aaaaaaaA

[whump-world]

this person gets it

[whump-world]

a royal whumpee (in my head he’s a prince) who is generally hated and very stuck up and spoiled is captured by gang of criminals who probably have a personal vendetta against him (something along the lines of they lost loved ones to poverty while the royal family lived expensively and lavishly)

they lock him in a cell with no food and no water, in an attempt to make him face a bit of what they had to suffer through all their lives and the only way they’ll feed prince is if he begs them for it

prince, being stuck up and proud, refuses for several days because he doesn’t want to submit to the criminals, but eventually he becomes so weak, desperate, and delirious from hunger and and dehydration that he breaks and ends up sobbing and begging for even just a small amount of food and water. he sobs that he is sorry for everything and that he just wants to go home and sleep and is essentially reduced to a blubbering mess

i cant decide if i want the whumpers to remain cold and apathetic, or if i want them to maybe realize that a lot of what they are upset about isn’t the prince’s fault and it becomes like a whumper to caretaker kind of thing

sorry if this writing is too long and all over the place i just love royal whumpees i’ve been so happy to see em on your page

Don’t be sorry!!! This is fantastic, phenomenal, amazing, stunning ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ and yeah I’m glad people are coming together on here to help populate the royal whumpee tag because it was sorely lacking

[whump-world]

Would not have been my first choice but I heard what the people said in the poll, so here is Kai with nothing but jewels on. Really hope it doesn’t get nuked, thanks 😁

Tag list: @suspicious-whumping-egg @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @flowersarefreetherapy @sunshiline-writes @enigmawriteswhump @luminouswhump

[whump-world]

okay inspired by another prompt but-

A prince that acts all high and mighty and well to do and overly confident. Someone - maybe a noble, or maybe a commoner, could be anyone that doesn't live in the palace with him - decides they hate his attitude and wants to take him down a notch or ten, so they kidnap him with full intent to torture him.

They get him somewhere alone, toss him around a bit. The prince's behavior has changed like the flip of a switch. His confidence and regal bearing is gone, replaced with cowering and feeble, half-formed pleas and teary eyes. The kidnapper thinks it's just an act to get them to let him go, and they get even angrier about it, so of course they take their anger out on him.

At some point they do strip him down...only to find the evidence of past abuse. Not anything simple either, nothing that could be caused by accidents. His clothes covered whip marks and scars, old and new. And an intricate pattern of brands spanning his shoulders, which looked to be a piece still be in progress.

The prince's change in behavior makes a bit more sense, but does the kidnapper actually care? Or maybe they feel vindicated, believing they're not the only one who thinks the prince needs a behavior adjustment.

[whump-world]

Royal Whumpee has always been and always will be one of my favorites. Everyone hates them because why should they get to stay up in the bright palace? They're on the brink of war and yet the Royal is off at parties, laughing with the enemy. Embargos are starving the people and the Royal is having a feast. Most people can't afford to clothe themselves in anything other than rags and the Royal has servants upon servants to dress him in the morning. They wouldn't last a day out here in the real world.

Of course, only their closest servant knows that they haven't slept or eaten in days and if you entered their room, you would find them at their desk, surrounded by crumbled paper and letters, bargaining away their soul just for a few years of peace for their subjects, willing to do anything just to lift the embargo, greeting every request for them to rest or eat with a simple, "do not disturb my circles."

[whump-world]

a royal who’s trained for assassination attempts, specifically poisoning. building up a resistance by taking small doses, getting sick, writhing in pain, and healing only to do it again and again and again until their body no longer reacts to it anymore.

then they switch to a different poison.

[whump-world]

Grievances

Summary: Prince Logan wants to be a good son and a good person. His father shows him that he cannot be both.

CW: royal whump, minor whumpee, adult whumper, prince whumpee, king whumper, family whump, child abuse, manipulation, public punishment, public humiliation, restraints, begging, crying, tearing whumpee’s clothes open (not full nudity), cutting whumpee’s skin, spanking (through clothing), mouth whump, forcing whumpee to be temporarily mute, inaccurate views on mutism

This story is minor whump. Logan is fourteen in this. Do not read if that makes you uncomfortable.

Also, this does take place in APOP, but I didn't include any of the main lore to keep things simple. That's why Logan doesn't have his Corrupted arm, Blessings are not mentioned or used, etc.

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good son. He endured his lessons with an impersonal air, careful not to stray too close to either apathy or indulgence. He spoke down to those beneath him and bowed for those above – because, to Logan’s surprise, his crown did not make him worthy of respect in the eyes of his father’s court. Nor did being a snot-nosed prince earn him the respect of his people. 

He wanted to be a good prince who would grow up to be a good king. For that, he needed to be a good son.

David tried to reshape him. Logan was to be diplomatic, charming. Yet he was to approach every conversation as if it were a secret battle. Every little thing that Logan paid no mind to suddenly mattered. A well-timed smile could secure victory. A slip of the tongue could admit defeat. 

He struggled. The boy’s instinct was to be honest about what he thought and how he felt, not wrap up the truth in lies and niceties. But after countless beatings and humiliating public displays, Logan learned to hold his tongue. He learned the power of words and their hidden meanings, though he still could not quite grasp them. He watched as his father brought enemies to his side and turned allies against each other, weighed down with the dreadful knowledge that he would one day be doing the same. 

David had kept him away from the people’s grievances for a reason. Logan had heard it many times, before and after each punishment; he was too soft. His heart beckoned him to ease the suffering of others before his own. It lay waste to his judgment, leading to selfish choices that benefited his conscience more than they did his people. 

The people who mattered, of course.

Prisoners did not matter, but the king was generous enough to listen to their woes once a month, and grant the requests of a select few. This time, Logan was in attendance. He had recently turned fourteen, standing a bit taller now that he was leaving adolescence behind. Their audience consisted of the king’s court, here to oversee the proceedings and judge the young prince’s performance. Logan tried not to be intimidated by them.

David waved his hand to allow the first prisoner inside of the throne room, where they would kneel at the bottom of the steps and lay out their burdens to the king.

They will do anything to garner sympathy, David had told him earlier. It is very rare that I find one who was either falsely arrested or worthy of being freed. Remember, son, they would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

As the first prisoner was escorted through the doorway, flanked by two of the royal guard, Logan took in their appearance. The man appeared to be near his father’s age, though that could be due to his gaunt features. Dark, matted hair fell over his face as he approached with his head down, wrists bound in front of him. The chains connecting his manacles rattled, a grating noise that Logan wanted to lean away from.   

The prisoner nearly lost balance when he knelt down. Logan could tell he was starving. A flicker of unease threatened his composure. What crime did this man commit? 

David gestured for the prisoner to speak. 

“I do not expect mercy for myself,” the prisoner rasped. His voice was just as unpleasant as the chains, chafing Logan’s ears. “I know that my crime is unforgivable. All I ask is that my daughter be spared. She–” He burst into a coughing fit. 

Logan glanced at his father. David nodded slightly, giving permission. 

“And why,” Logan said, as royally as he could muster, “is your daughter here?” 

The prisoner’s expression was mostly concealed by hair. But his voice tightened as he gathered his breath and said, “She is mute and cannot speak for herself. The guards who arrested us–they saw the blood on her hands and thought s-she–” 

Another coughing fit seized him, this time producing blood. Logan realized it was not only starvation causing his body to decline. He waited until the man finished.

“--thought she was an accomplice. I swear to you, she had no part.” 

Logan raised an eyebrow, in the way that a prince should when conveying his rightful skepticism. “And we should simply take the word of a criminal?”

“Not just a criminal. Her father,” the man said, more strained.

Logan scoffed. “All the more reason to lie for her then.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, David looked pleased. It meant he was saying the right things, even though it felt wrong. But that was just one of the many flaws that his father had pointed out; his heart tried to mislead him.

The prisoner slowly shook his head. “She cannot speak, but–but she can write. If she was allowed to write what happened–” 

“Can she write Helson?” 

This was David’s question. It gave Logan pause, wondering why that would even be a question. If she was a Helsoner, and if she could write, why would it not be in the language of their country? 

The prisoner seemed to flinch from the question. 

“No. Only Born.” 

“Because she is part Borna,” David said, answering the next question Logan had. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You brought her to Helsoner because it was safer, and then murdered your own son when he tried to show his love for her.” 

“That was not love,” the prisoner spat. “She did not want it. She kept refusing–” 

“Because she was raised by snakes,” David cut in. “How could you expect her to embrace him when she has been manipulated? You should have been patient with them both, and yet you chose Borna blood over your own.”

The prisoner’s hands curled into fists. “I loved my son.”

David’s smile was cold. “Not as much as you loved your mistake.” 

Logan was shaken. He understood now why the prisoner was being starved. He had sinned by having a child with a Borna and then committed one of the most egregious sins of all; killing your own flesh and blood. 

But the half-Borna girl did not ask to be born. She did not, Logan presumes, choose to be mute out of stubbornness or secrecy. He had read once, when he still snuck out books from the library unrelated to his studies, that losing your voice was a result of something truly horrific. You no longer spoke because the fear was unspeakable, as if your mind wanted to prevent you from uttering a word about what happened. It was a sickness, not a choice. 

Logan understood all too well. There were times where his throat refused to work, no matter how much he wanted it to. He could sympathize with the girl, and perhaps it was making him soft. But it was his father’s own words that led to his decision:

They would not be in chains had they not committed a crime.

Here was the father, in chains for his crime. Yet his daughter was in chains as well, and they never asked her why there was blood on her hands. Simply having Borna blood, while an unfortunate fate to have, was not a crime.

“Please,” the father begged. “She is innocent.”

“She speaks–writes in a language none of us care to know,” David said, dismissive of the man’s pain and his daughter’s plight. He kept it hidden, but Logan knew he took pleasure in it. Just as he took pleasure in bringing his own son to tears.

The injustice of it all swelled in Logan’s chest. He fought to keep his voice steady as he stepped forward and said, “I read Born. We will let her write, and I will translate.” 

This was the wrong thing to say.

The king’s court remained silent, but visibly expressed their displeasure. Some of them were bold enough to shake their heads in disappointment. 

Logan turned towards his father. Apprehensive, but firm in his stance. It would earn him a severe punishment later, but he could handle the pain. He could sleep with aching bruises and stinging lashes, so long as the image of an innocent girl wasting away in chains did not haunt his nightmares. 

He expected David to oppose him. After all, only the king could grant the prisoner’s request. But he was prepared for an argument, and the longer that it went on, the more embarrassing it would be for his father. He was supposed to have Logan under control; this display of defiance proved otherwise.

It all came down to appearances, as David often told him. The boy could not help feeling a bit smug for using his father’s own tactics against him.

David gave him a long, unreadable look before turning back to the prisoner, speaking with a note of finality. “My son is willing to show mercy towards your daughter. I will grant your request, but not out of mercy. We shall see how innocent she truly is after receiving her word.” 

Logan’s smile fell in an instant. Of course. Even if the girl was innocent, her words could be twisted against her. Nobody was going to trust a half-Borna to tell the truth; it made no difference whether she was allowed to tell it or not. 

The girl’s father had to have known this. Yet when he finally raised his head, his eyes were soft with gratitude, and they were looking at Logan.  

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

His face carved itself into Logan’s memory. That was before the guards came forward and turned the man around, leading him out of the throne room. The sound of chains could be heard in the corridor, followed by a hoarse sob.

Logan did not even know his name.

—

Once upon a time, Prince Logan tried to be a good person. He listened to a total of twenty prisoners beg for mercy, and did his best to be fair. King David ended up granting more requests that day than he had ever granted in a year. 

He also broke a few of his son’s ribs, but Logan still considered it a victory. 

About a month later, the splitting pain in Logan’s sides had faded into a dull ache, and he could stand straight again. He was surprised when his father invited him to another grievance hearing, but did not refuse. He dared to hope that he had impressed both the king and his court. There might not even be a beating this time.

With that in mind, Logan was in high spirits when he entered the throne room, unable to stop grinning. This was proof that he could be both a good son and a good person. That he did not need to compromise his morals to be a ruler worthy of respect. David was simply lost in the traditional ways, but now that he was starting to value his son’s opinions, Logan could show him the right way. 

He made to ascend the stairs leading up to the two thrones, letting his guards stay at the bottom. But before he could reach the first step, his arm was grabbed. 

Unhand me, he was about to order. It came out as a startled yelp when his arm was wrenched behind him, and another set of hands circled his waist. Logan failed to squirm out of their hold before something heavy and metal clicked into place, worn like a thick belt. He gasped as a manacle was attached to the wrist of his only hand, the chain looped through a ring in the belt. 

The guards stepped away. When he tried to move his arm out from behind him, the chain went taught, and his muscles throbbed in protest. 

Frazzled, the young prince’s wide eyes darted around the room. His father’s court had taken their places already, a mixture of satisfied looks and smug whispers. His father, Logan realized, had walked past him while he was being restrained and now sat on his throne, the perfect image of a vindictive king. 

Logan snarled at him like a trapped beast. “Father! What is the meaning of this?!”

David’s eyes looked colder than usual. “You wanted to grant mercy to our prisoners, and I allowed it,” he said, smirking. “Now, we will see if that mercy was deserved.” 

“What do you mean? I only granted it to those who–” 

“Send in the first one,” David said to the guards.

Logan whipped around. There was a young man approaching, keeping his head bowed in the presence of royals. Logan recognized him as one of the prisoners that were freed; the circle of bruises on his wrists had not yet faded. He staggered away from the man when he got close, baring his teeth in warning. The man just smiled back.

“You are a freed man now,” David said, voice filling the room. “You told my son that you were wrongly imprisoned for defending yourself against a thief. What is the truth?” 

Logan stared at the man, heart in his throat. He remembered the prisoner’s emotional tale, the guilty tears that stained his cheeks when he spoke of the unintended killing. He did not mean to do it; the thief was armed, and the man simply panicked. Logan could not fault him for wanting to live. 

But now, the man’s eyes gleamed with spite. “The truth,” he said, far too proudly, “is that the bastard made me lose my job. I took his wife to lure him into my home, and then I stabbed him until he was more holes than flesh.” 

Logan’s stomach twisted. 

That–that was far more repulsive than the crime he alleged. 

He turned on his father. “You knew all along! Had you just spoken up–” 

“You would have accused me of being cruel,” David said. “But no, my son, I did not know until the man later confessed. I could only tell that he was lying, as you should be able to do by now.” 

Logan’s pride flared in response, and then quickly deflated. His father was right. How could he have been so naive? He trusted his instincts to warn him of dishonesty, yet this vengeful killer slipped right past him. He only had himself to blame.

“Tell me,” David said, speaking to the killer. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of man you really are?” 

The killer unsheathed his dagger.

“I would like to cut off a few of those layers and mark up that perfect skin.” 

Logan’s mouth was agape. He could not believe–he did not want to believe this was happening. That his father would let him be tortured by a sadistic murderer just to teach him a lesson. He stepped forward in a hurry, desperate to earn his father’s forgiveness.

“Father, please–” 

“Your request has been granted,” David declared.

The boy’s shrill scream echoed off the walls when the killer grabbed him, grinning as he raised the dagger. “Keep moving and this might go in you,” he warned, pressing the blade to the front of Logan’s vest. 

Logan was too afraid to listen. He kicked the man’s legs, screaming again when he was shoved down to the marble floor. The man’s weight pressed down on his thighs, keeping his legs flat as the buttons of his vest were snapped off. The fabric split open, exposing the intricately laced tunic underneath. With a single movement, the laces were cut, falling to the sides as the tunic was forced to open.

Logan thrashed against him, uncaring of the sharp blade. It was not the pain he feared. It was the humiliation of it all. A prince being pinned down in his own home, while a filthy criminal rips off his clothing. It was depraved that his father would allow it, but nobody else seemed to agree. David’s courtiers looked viciously pleased.

David looked no different.

His throat and sternum were exposed. The indecency made Logan flush, now panting from his efforts to escape. The killer seemed to enjoy it. This time, the tip of the blade met skin instead of fabric, and left a throbbing trail down Logan’s chest as it dragged across his skin. Blood rose to the surface.

Logan’s eyes were burning. “Stop! Father, please stop this!” 

“Should have listened to Daddy sooner,” the killer sneered.

Another line was carved over the first one, deeper this time. Pain swelled, twisted in with fear and shame. Logan could not bear to think about how he looked right now. Being cut into, being forced into an immodest state, all while he cried and screamed; this was a punishment fit for a prisoner, not a prince. 

Yet nobody came to his defense. 

It was David who, after two more cuts, told the killer to stop. Logan rolled over as soon as he did, stifling a sob. He could not bring himself to look when his father told the next freed prisoner to enter.

“You are a freed woman now,” he heard David say. “You told my son that you were remorseful. That you were blinded by rage when you defiled one of the statues of my visage. What is the truth?”

Logan was hefted up by the guards. He fought to swallow back tears, thick in his throat and still rolling down his cheeks. Surely, this one could not be as bad. She was just a petty vandal, not a hardened criminal worth keeping in the dungeons. 

Truthfully, though it was not the reason he gave for extending mercy, he found it amusing to think of David’s stone face being pissed on.

Now, however, there was nothing to be amused about. Not when the woman’s lip curled back with apparent malice. “The truth is that all you royals make me sick, and I would have smacked your boy silly for disrespecting his father.” 

Logan stared at her in shock. “I gave you mercy!”

The woman scoffed. “You have no idea what mercy is.” 

“Tell me,” David said, humored by the woman’s attitude. “What would you like to do to my son, to show him the kind of woman you really are?”

She narrowed her eyes at Logan. “A good spanking should suffice.”

“No,” he blurted out, stepping back when she came near. His legs were trembling. “No, you are not my father, that is not for you to–” 

“Your request has been granted,” said David.

A guard stepped behind to hold him. His chain rattled during the struggle. The boy shouted and cursed and flailed his legs, much like a child having a tantrum. But he was almost a man now, and the thought of being spanked in front of his father’s court, the guards, any servant who passed by the throne room–it was too much. 

It was no use. He was shoved to the floor once again, a gloved hand forcing his head down while another pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. The woman did not pull his leggings down–thank Fotia for that–but she knelt behind him where he could not see. Raising her hand to strike him as he writhed on the floor. 

“No,” he cried out. “No–stop–get away–no!”

His voice broke off into a sob when her hand made contact, followed by a sharp sting in his backside. It did not hurt as much as the bleeding lines in his chest did. He tried to concentrate on that. Tried to listen for the small drops of blood hitting the marble instead of the mortifying smack smack smack coming from behind him.

He did not count how many there were, as he would have with his father.

Eventually, she was told to stop. He heard the woman let out a harsh breath before standing up, and the strong hands holding him down were gone. The boy grit his teeth, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs. 

His backside was aflame. His cheeks were burning. Part of his torso was exposed and still bleeding. Every inch of his skin felt tainted, sinful. The indignant anger he felt was nothing compared to the shame coiling in his stomach, writhing like a ball of snakes. He thought it would devour him. 

He looked up at his father silently, knowing his pleas would be ignored. David looked satisfied, but not placated just yet. “If you stay still and do not need to be held down,” he told his son, “I will make this the last request. Otherwise, there will be more.” 

Logan’s lip quivered as he stifled a sob. He nodded to show he understood.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Logan did not turn around. He kept his head down as they stopped near him, dropping in a bow for the king. When the boy finally chose to look, his eyes went wide. He recognized the man’s face; it was the father who killed his Helson son to protect his half-Borna daughter.

No, his heart whispered. Not you as well. Please, not you.

“You are a freed man now,” he heard David say, but that made no sense. Only the daughter was found to be innocent, after she was allowed to share her story. “Tell my son why that is.” 

Logan looked up at the man, dreading his answer. He was not nearly as thin as before and his hair had been combed, now tied back in a low ponytail. Logan wanted to be happy for him. 

The man hesitated. “Your father promised to free me if I did this,” he said, heavy with remorse. There was a vial of some liquid in his hand. 

Logan stepped back without thinking. “Do what? What is that?” 

“Tell me,” David said, like a blade descending. “What would you like to do to my son, to repay him for his kindness and live freely with your daughter?”

The vial in the man’s hand shook. He spoke as if reciting by memory.

“I would like his voice to be gone as well.”

Logan looked to his father. Opened his mouth. David glanced at the guards, an unspoken reminder of his offer. Stay still and his punishment would end.

“Your request has been granted,” David told the man.

Logan forced himself not to move. He heard the cork of the vial being popped, and nearly recoiled at the foul odor that escaped. The man stepped in front of him, gently taking the boy’s chin between his fingers to tilt it up. More tears slipped down Logan’s blotchy face as it was lifted, looking up at the man with resignation.

He was not just a man. He was a father. He put his daughter’s freedom before his own, and now he had the chance to be free as well. What was one boy’s suffering compared to his daughter? A part of Logan knew this. Yet his heart still hardened into a cold, tight fist of fury when the rim of the vial touched his lips. He let them part.

The pain was instant.

It was like liquid fire. It scalded the inside of his mouth and raked over his tongue, like hundreds of stingers pricking at once. Logan was torn between choking and screaming, somehow managing both when his mouth was pried open and the rest of the vial emptied inside. 

It burned everywhere. Down his throat. In his nostrils. Behind his eyes, where he could no longer see past his tears, squeezing them shut as he swallowed the last of the liquid in agony. The pain made his head throb. He clutched it with his hand once his restraints were taken off; he did not see the man’s expression before he left.

The prince fell to his knees. He was reduced to short, wheezing breaths, feeling his senses go fuzzy from the lack of air. But after a moment, his throat went numb. It started there and worked up to the inside of his mouth. His tongue felt heavy, useless. The fire was snuffed out, and the boy could breathe again. He opened his mouth to speak.

All that came out was a soft, strained gasp.

—

Logan’s voice returned in the morning. Before it did, every member of David’s court took great lengths to let him know how much they enjoyed his silence. The guards who were present for his punishment shared the details with their teammates, laughing at their prince’s expense. Even a few servants were audacious enough to make a snide comment that Logan could not respond to.

He stayed in his chambers for most of it.

When sunlight snuck into the room, Logan turned away from it. He lay flat on his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. He wondered if it was possible to suffocate himself with it. His body’s self-preservation would most likely prevent that.

The sound of a key turning interrupted his morbid thoughts. Logan assumed it was his personal attendant come to wake him, but the footsteps sounded different. Heavier, like boots, not the soft pad of a servant’s slippers.

It was certainly not a servant who laid a hand on his back. 

Logan stiffened. Even through his sleep clothes, his father’s hand was an unwelcome touch. Or so he told himself. The bed dipped with David’s weight as he sat next to his son, and despite all of Logan’s anger towards him, his body relaxed. This was not another punishment; this was the part that came after.

David’s voice was soft. Soothing. “I will grant one more request, only to you.”

Logan wanted to stay upset with him. In his mind, his request was some kind of punishment for his father, one that might make up for what he put his son through. Or it was something personal and gutting, an attack disguised as a request. The type that David might deliver had their positions been reversed.

The hand on his back started rubbing in circles.

Logan’s anger wavered.

David did not offer him kindness out of remorse, but he still offered. No matter how badly he hurt his son, or how horribly he embarrassed him, Logan could expect mercy once he earned it. After every punishment, Logan was treated to a side of his father that cared for him. A part of David that did not utterly loathe his son. 

It was the closest thing he had to his father’s love, and Logan could not bear to lose it.

He raised his head to look up at David. Already, there were tears in his eyes. His father was here to help, and he was grateful. He had already forgiven David, and now he needed his father to do the same.

The boy’s voice cracked with emotion. “Can you please forgive me?”

He could never quite tell what his father was feeling. But he wanted to believe it was something close to affection when David smiled at him. Logan’s chest felt lighter, his guilt lifted, as his father leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead.

“Your request has been granted,” David said.

my writing x my whump x a promise of purity au x ko-fi

[whump-world]

2023 year of whump: January 22

Whump prompt: Public humiliation

—

Whumpee being strung up by rope into a stress position as a public punishment in the middle of a busy city. They were told not to let anyone help them, and was threatened badly if they did. What they were shocked to find out was the power of bystander syndrome, as people walked past them without so much as a glance of sympathy. After all, whumpee probably deserved this for what they’d done. Thats what the public was probably made to believe.

[whump-world]

The Party

<prev next>

TW/CW: public humiliation, pet whump (I think?), objectification, whumpee on display, whumpee being talked about as if not even there, light microagression towards whumpee (?) This is fun to tag.

By now, Khaled should’ve been used to hearing the faint sound of metallic clinking as he walked. His owner used to bind his feet in cuffs for nearly a year straight when he had first come into his home, leaving just enough chain in between to walk comfortably and not an inch more. That was nearly six years ago, yet even hearing the faint shk shk shk of shimmering chains whenever he moved mentally transported him back to boyhood, when he was scared, shy, and didn’t know what was going on or what was expected of him. Much like tonight.

“Stand up straight, pick up your feet, and don’t look so glum,” Thomas chided.

Easy for you to say, Khaled thought as he eyed his fully dressed owner in envy. The mafia boss was dressed in a three-piece suit as usual, though he had changed into one of the more expensive ones for tonight’s function, a charity ball of some sort. The garnets set into his golden cufflinks glowed like freshly shed blood under the foyer’s lights as he gestured at him.

Khaled wore gold and garnets of his own, except they were…everywhere. They were in his earrings, in his nose ring, studded like pomegranate seeds in his necklace, acting as connection points in the harness-like body chain draped over his bare chest and torso –he was covered in them and still felt naked. A sheer and silky fabric tied unskillfully around his waist matched the color of the sanguine jewels and provided the only shred of modesty in this obscene outfit. Khaled prayed it would not fall off, but he did not favor his chances.

At least I get a break from that chastity cage, he consoled himself.

He straightened his posture and adopted a more neutral expression. His master smiled. “Good boy,” he said, and yet the usual praise did not ease the nervous churning in his gut. The golden bracelets on his wrists, matching the bands on his ankles, clinked softly as the man reached out to squeeze his hands in reassurance. “You look beautiful,” was all he said to him before he dropped his hand and parted the large doors to the ballroom.

Khaled’s skin seared hot under the chandelier lights as he felt the gaze of every patrons’ eyes on him. Keeping his eyes focused on some neutral midpoint ahead of him –like that potted plant, yeah, is that even real? –he followed his master into the fray, swallowing nervously as he heard the heavy doors close behind him. It felt like everyone was staring at him, and from the glances he dared to take from his periphery, he understood why. Every other patron was dressed in formal attire. Even the few escorts he saw -and he could recognize a fellow sex worker when he saw one- were dressed more modestly than him. At least their chests were covered! His face burned with embarrassment, a blush that probably rivaled the cerise garnets, all the way down to his collarbones.

The boss stopped, finally, and so did he as they settled into the corner of the ballroom. They stood next to the bar and very close to the table laid out with several dozen little canapes. Khaled’s stomach loudly rumbled and his mouth pooled with saliva just looking at them. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, which was nearly eight hours ago. He glanced at his master, who was currently receiving a glass of whiskey from the bartender, and he carefully stretched a hand out to reach for the tartlet-thing closest to him.

“No.” His bracelets jingled as his hand was swatted away like he was a misbehaving pet. His master stared down at him as he threw back the shot of whiskey. Khaled drew his hand back to his side. “I’ll feed you when we get home, if you’ve been good, that is.” He sighed, but reluctantly nodded. He cast his gaze down to his sandaled feet as he tried not to think about the ever-present food and the persistent gnawing of his stomach.

A pair of expensive black leather shoes stepped into the top of his vision. “Thomas, so glad you could make it,” the unseen stranger greeted.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” his owner replied, a polite smile in the tone of his voice.

“So, who’s this?” The stranger’s attentions were on him.

“This,” he said boastfully, “is my darling, my dearest, my worst-kept secret!” Khaled wanted to shrink away from the attention, but has master’s hand on his waist reminded him not to. “Come on, Khaled!” He summoned his courage to look up. An older man with a pot belly and a short, dour-faced wife on his arm was appraising him curiously, as if he was an exotic item and not a person. Smile, damn it, an impatient voice rang in his head. He flashed them a shy smile as he looked at them through his kohl-rimmed lashes.

“Your intern?”

“My ‘intern’,” his master clarified.

“He’s a pretty one, how long have you had him?”

“Oh, about six years now, come this spring.”

“Wow! Well, you’ve obviously been taking great care of him!” It was so obvious that this stranger wanted to do more than just look at him, with the way his fat fingers practically vibrated in excitement.

 “Six years?!” a second guest –a tall and thin woman– gasped. Khaled realized by now they had attracted a small crowd of partygoers to the bar, all with the intent to sneak a peek at Don Costa’s boy toy. He ducked his head in shame.

“Mine didn’t even last six months!” the woman whined, trying to garner sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I just got lucky, I guess,” Thomas shrugged.

“Tell us, how is he in bed?” another guest asked.

“Good, though there’s not much skill in lying back and taking it!” A chorus of laughter accompanied his master’s. He found a scuff on the hardwood floor and pretended that was the only thing that existed.

“Does he speak?” yet another faceless guest asked. The whole semicircle of gawkers fell silent. Khaled dared to look up. All eyes were on him.

“Well, go on, boy, say something,” his master directed.

Khaled wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow him whole.

“W-what should I say?” he asked nervously.

An irreverent number of oohs and aahs erupted from the small entourage.

“Not even the faintest hint of an accent!” the first man exclaimed. “Now tell me, Tom, did you train him to speak that well?”

“No,” his owner admitted, “I mean, I hired a tutor to teach him English, but he trained the accent out of himself on his own.”

“Why, though?”

The stretch of awkward silence indicated they were waiting yet again for Khaled to speak, that they wanted him to answer. Khaled shifted his eyes to the floor again, swallowing past the discomfort of being scrutinized this closely. “Because… I didn’t want to stand out.”

-

“You were amazing!” Thomas complimented Khaled as he watched him shovel take-out falafel pita into his mouth like it was his first meal in days.

“So, this was just a one-time thing, right?” his beloved slave asked, cheeks distended with half-chewed falafel.

“Hey, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Thomas chastised him, “I trained you better than that.”

Khaled swallowed the food and apologized under his breath. “And to answer your question, who knows? They couldn’t keep their eyes off you,” he smirked pridefully. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, either. He glanced from the road over to his passenger in the car. Khaled had looked every bit as alluring as he had imagined when he was covered in gold and jewels and blood red silk. He would never admit he was hard for nearly the entire time they were at the party, but the evidence probably spoke for itself through the bulge in his slacks. “It’s no wonder though. Red is a good color on you.” And I want to see what you look like in blue next, he mentally added. “I just might drag you out to other parties in the future if we get attention like that.”

Khaled set his stub of a pita down on his lap. Thomas couldn’t help but grimace; what if it left a stain? “Do I have to dress like this again?” the young man asked, though his defeated tone told him he already knew the answer.

“Oh, don’t be so sad about it, you were gorgeous!” I thought about nothing but how to get you alone for the entire time we were there!

“I was nearly naked, Master. In public. In front of strangers. Does that not bother you?”

“So? I like to show off what’s mine,” he shrugged. “Look, when you’re free, you can choose to wear whatever you want, but until then, you’ll put on whatever I give you, okay?” Khaled slumped further into the car seat. Maybe it was a bit cruel to tease him with the freedom he’d never willingly give him. Thomas sighed, feeling a little guilty. He reached out a hand to pat a silk-covered thigh. “It won’t be very often, I promise,” he reassured him.

“Yes, Master,” his pet murmured.Thomas smiled. At the red light, he leaned over to kiss the side of Khaled’s sauce-stained lips.

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

[whump-world]

Chapter XXIX - The Crow and the Dove

CW: beating, knives, knives wounds, sadism, mention past non-con, compulsion, blood, abuse, collar, chains, scars, captivity, food denial, death threats, mention of past torture, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, public humiliation, mention of past main character death, muzzle, gore (undeads eating human flesh, not explicit but gore described), hair pulling as Kyriel's favourite past time

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In the end, Kyriel did bring Kai to dinner. More than one hour later than he’d originally planned to, after he’d thoroughly beaten the boy to an inch of his life - the angel pushing his prisoner to his knees, wrenching his head back by the hair, and carving out every inch of him he could reach with that same cursed blade Kai had hoped to stab him with. Ordering him to be still, cooing at him not to move, to open that pretty mouth of his-

Kai’s only defiance was silence, refusing to make a sound beyond choking. The runes blazing on his skin, keeping him caged and meek.

They did get to dinner, though, after it. Albeit late, albeit with Kai limping and bleeding all through the clothes Kyriel did grace him with - the angel making sure he was presentable, even though battered and abused, into fresh black clothes that reminded him of what his pupil uniform had been. The fabric soft and sleek, covering him like a second skin - only the armoured paddings on his shoulders and chest, his knees and sheens, missing from it.

Kyriel chained him again, this time to a rich, lustrous chair, as soon as he had him sitting on it.

“Is that even necessary?” Kai asked, hoarse - the boy tensing, clipped, as his wrists were secured to the armrests. “I’m hardly a threat.”

It came out sour, more raw than he’d intended it to be. His knees still chafed from when Kyriel had forced him down in front of him, the runes pulsing with the aftermath of pain from when they’d held him still. His face bled, the cuts from a cursed knife outside the reach of his healing.

The angel only chuckled, looming tall over him.

“Now, don’t you be silly,” the monster smiled, fingers testing the manacles to his pupil’s wrists. Irons, again, no longer pretty jewels to wear in bed. “You are always a threat.”

Kai swallowed, not knowing what to say that wouldn’t make him scream.

The boy turned his head to the side, letting his eyes wander to the room. Looking for the beauty, looking for something to focus his mind on like he’d done thousands of times in the dungeon underground - trying to ignore the oppressive presence of his murderer, his captor, at his side. Kai oh so polished and pretty, white hair tidily brushed back behind his ears, heavy bags under his silver eyes. The collar, the hated thing the angel had marked him with, unmovable around his throat.

He couldn’t say, at least, that even this part of his prison wasn’t pretty again. Kyriel having many faults, but lack of taste and funds clearly not one of them - the Dusk Room a large, exquisitely decorated windowless hall with tall ornate ceilings and walls covered with heavy, golden mirrors flanked by one Fallen each. Kyriel’s guard fully armoured, in black and golden finery matching the hall’s decor - the golden plates and onyx cutlery alternating with crystal goblets, laid over a perfectly ironed white tablecloth, covering a large table dominating the length of the space.

Kyriel stood next to the seat at the head of the thing, Kai chained to the tall chair to his left. 

“I assume it will be an awkward captivity then, Magister,” Kai swallowed, fixing his gaze to an indefinite point on the wall. “Will you hand-feed me for the rest of our eternity?” He sneered, pointedly glancing at the golden plate in front of him - at the lack of knives among the cutlery within his reach, even though Kai knew twenty different ways to kill a man with a fork and spoon both. “Again,” he mused, “not much of a weapon I am going to be like this.”

He hated the flinch, the unmistakable trained reaction that went through him, as Kyriel gently seized his chin to turn his gaze back towards him.

“My sweet, my pupil, my darling,” the angel purred, low, “are you going to put that attitude in check on your own, or do I need to assist?” He cocked his head to the side, smiling in that horrible, smug, hungry way of his. “You only have to tell me, if you don’t want to breathe.”

Kai’s face twisted - the memory of the dungeon, of the living grave Kyriel had locked him in, making a broken, traumatised part of him begin to scream inside his head. The altar, his wings-

“Why don’t you order me, Magister,” he hissed, fingers tightening around the wood of the armrests - the boy grabbing at the fury inside his chest, growling not to let his voice shake. “You seem awfully comfortable with getting what you want regardless of consent.” He swallowed, silver eyes flashing in caged, pointless rage. “I don’t see why you must toy with the pretence of giving me a saying about it, sir.”

He did manage not to flinch this time, to keep himself still when Kyriel tightened the hold on his chin. When the angel lowered himself to close the distance between their faces - his breath mingling with his prisoner’s, black eyes bearing into his.

“Oh, but I do like to see you trying, sweet,” the monster whispered, holding Kai’s face still - the boy chained, at his mercy, once again. “Trying to hold yourself in one piece. To keep it together.” He smiled, slow and cruel, giving the boy a one-over that made Kai’s skin crawl. “Besides. Where would the fun be if I just forced it?”

Kai watched his torturer with disgust, repressing the instinct to jerk his head to the side. The instinct to spit in his captor’s face - knowing full well the pain that would entail, what awaited him if he dared.

“Of course, Magister,” the boy whispered instead, barely above a breath. He kept himself perfectly still, not even letting a muscle twitch. “As you wish.”

Kyriel smiled, smug, patting his prisoner’s cheek. 

“That’s right, sweet” he mused. “I am glad to see that something does get into that thick skull of yours, if one hammers with enough insistence at it.” His smile warmed an inch, Kai shuddering as his torturer let go of him. “But enough of this now.” The angel straightened, turning towards the doors, bringing his hands together and clapping loudly at the guards to their sides. “Let our guests in, please.”

The two Fallens obeyed as one, the undeads moving to open the two white, massive stately doors wide. The wood groaning, pulling inwards to the corridor behind.

Kai tensed in his seat, irons tight around his wrists, as he beheld the small crowd awaiting on the other side.

They were richly dressed, all ten or so of them. The table in the Dusk Room set for twelve, including Kyriel and himself - the men, for of course they were all men but one, slowly coming into view as they streamed into the hall. Fallens all, undeads who willingly drank Kyriel’s blood to be raised as immortals under his command - the creatures bowing their heads to their master, graceful in submission and salute both, as soon as they crossed the threshold. Their red undead eyes, of various shapes and forms for Kyriel did not discriminate when taking followers to his cause, trailed towards Kai next - clocking his chain and his clothes, the pallor of his skin and the collar around his throat. A mix of curiosity, fear and hunger washing over him like oil on skin.

Kai glared back at them, setting his jaw. His silver eyes flashing, bright and swirling - windows to the immortal, caged power within.

There was Vasilije, dressed in battle attire, pale and with black light armour covering his shoulders and chest. The governor of Ispania, tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a purple robe embroidered in gold, watching him like a reptile would - cold, unblinking, and absolutely nonplussed by the threat in Kai’s gaze. The Master of Coins, a sombre man with onyx skin and too many golden rings on his fingers, following suit with a closely guarded expression on his face - one of the few, Kai knew, who permanently resided in the Tower and would not return to their seat once the assembly was over. The governors of Acquetane, of Lechia, Freislend and Gaulle - the central regions at the core of Kyriel’s lands, came next after the man, all wearing various layers of tunics and mantels and furs, Kyriel’s emblem purple and blazing on their chest. The only woman of the group, a golden skin beauty with sharp features and coiled red curls who, Kai recognised with a shudder, was Kyriel’s Eastern Commander of War, closed the procession together with the Keeper of the Tower - a youthful Fallen who bowed all too gracefully to his master, red eyes crinkling in the light as they fell onto the boy chained to the chair next to his lord.

Kai’s jaw tensed, the boy forcing himself to keep a tight leash on himseld in front of that crowd. The members of Kyriel’s Empirial Council, the most powerful of his Fallens and his closest advisors - those that governed the day-to-day of his Empire, that enforced his rule. Kai having personally tried to kill at least half of them twice, and murdered a couple of their predecessors in their post, if he recalled well - a cut the snake’s head kind of strategy, assassinations before Kyriel had started to use them as bait to lure him into a trap he had anyway eventually fallen in.

But then the last member of the group came through the door. And Kai forgot his caution, forgot his reserve, as Alaric walked into the hall.

The boy stood, the chains yanking at his wrists. He snarled, the governors’ flinching back as one-

Kyriel yanked him down on his seat, his magic wordlessly grabbing at his collar and pulling him back to sit.

“And that, pupil darling, is why you need the chains,” the fucker mused, holding him still. He grabbed the back of Kai’s nape, painfully yanking his head to the side. “Behave.”

The boy growled, the runes activating on his skin. The compulsion burned under his clothes, wrapping tightly around his lungs - searing, forcing him to heed.

“I hadn’t realised you’d developed the habit of dining with swine, Magister,” Kai sneered, slightly out of breath. He wheezed painfully through gritted teeth, yanking at his chains. “I can’t say I approve.”

The angel pulled his head further back by the hair, exposing his throat to the crowd.

“Careful, love” Kyriel murmured, low. “What did I say about that attitude of yours?” He clicked his tongue, pointing his chin towards the men standing still to the side of the table, the Fallens watching warily as he dominated his prisoner - Kai’s caged power flashing under his skin, the net that entrapped him coming to the surface like spiderwebs made of silk. “Do you need a public reminder of what happens when you misbehave?”

Kai shivered, fear and humiliation making him flush. 

“No, Magister,” he whispered, hoarse. “Thank you.”

Kyriel smiled, oh so sweet.

“Mmm, that’s what I thought.” The monster turned the boy’s head to the side - gently, so fucking gently - so that Kai could look at the Council to his front. “Why don’t you apologise to the Prince then, love?”

Kai’s face twisted, hate acid and familiar in his mouth. 

The boy lifted his eyes, wrists chained to the chair. The collar stark around his throat, his clothes tight and sleek over his too thin, too pale form - the boy moving deliberately slow, silver eyes meeting Alaric’s gaze in front of them on the other side of the hall. The man, the hated traitor that had caused Ashe’s death, that had delivered him to this fate, watching him stiffly and awkwardly from where he stood, dressed in his house’s colouring - the silver lining over the black, the furs of his mountains catching the candlelight.

Kai wished he could rip him apart, make him feel at least an inch of the pain his betrayal had caused him so far.

“Apologies, Alaric,” the boy drawled, sweet. “The comparison was unfair to the swine.”

The governor of Ispania barked a laugh, the rest of the Council tittering behind Alaric’s back. The man, the only human of the group, turning a lovely shade of crimson at that - looking at the boy as if he wished to strike him, to slap him hard-

He didn’t dare come close to Kyriel though, the angel looming possessive over him. Even though he, too, couldn’t quite repress a smirk.

“Oh, you are a terror.” The monster chuckled, letting go of Kai’s hair - a hint of pride, of dark amusement, in his eyes. “I did warn you though. That sharp tongue is getting muzzled before it cuts someone.” He snapped his fingers, the familiar, heavy metal contraption appearing in his hands next. “Come here.”

Kai’s resistance was barely perfunctory, the boy snarling and twisting in his chains - knowing full well he had no meaningful way to stop the angel from silencing him if he wished it. The compulsion even stopping him from jerking his face away - his body seizing, leaning forward an inch, to let Kyriel fasten the thing on his mouth, when he snapped his fingers at him.

Kai swallowed down the humiliation, the familiar feeling of powerlessness at being declawed, deprived of his voice.

The angel proceeded to order his Council to sit at the table next, calling for the slaves to bring the dinner in. Kai doing his best not to move, to maintain whatever dignity was left to him when he was collared and chained in such a public way - even when there was a part of him that knew this could be worse, could be infinitely worse, for at least he was dressed and sitting rather than half naked on his knees. The boy trying not to make a sound, even when the muzzle forced his mouth open with a bite in between his teeth - the cuts on his face glinting red in the candlelight, savage and untamed, Kai trying to keep his back straight not to lean with his wounds against the chair.

The boy was grateful for the muzzle, for the heavy thing covering his nose and muffling the scent of the meal, when the courses began to come in. As the starters were laid on the table, the menu catered to the tastes and needs of the undeads - as the first portion of children’s hands was laid on the plates, the things so impossibly small, toddler-like, they made Kai’s stomach roll. The fingers roasted and crispy on the outside while the inside remained bloody to be picked out like the flesh of a crab - the members of Kyriel’s Council smiling, pleased, before digging in while laughing during the meal. An open ribcage filled with freshly harvested organs coming as the main plate next, the thing overflowing with fresh human hearts, livers and lungs from what must have been at least six of seven different victims slaughtered for this meal alone - the poor fucker to whom the ribs had once belonged to having been gorged of his insides and everything below the hips, his head still fresh and preserved even though with a golden, silked blindfold on his eyes, an apple in between his teeth hiding his dying scream. Floating eyeballs, served in delicate flutes filled with champagne, accompanying the meal-

Kai was grateful his plate was left empty all along, Kyriel and Alaric being served some normal meat and mead, even though the latter could visibly barely eat.

“So, Prince,” the angel drawled, after the desserts had started to come through - a bone marrow sorbet served in children’s skulls, paired with more bland pastry with whipped cream for Alaric and himself - “As the newest member of this Council, I feel obliged to ask you about the state of your standing guard. What would you say are the exact numbers of the forces still under Berne’s command?”

Kai stiffened, feeling the attention of the room shift, razor-sharp, towards the man sitting to his front.

“Majesty,” Alaric straightened in his seat, voice carrying in the hall. “Even after separating ourselves from the coalition, Berne commands seven thousand men strong. This includes standing forces and the currently contracted militias, as well as the auxiliary peasantry that was trained in the past year.”

Kai’s brain ticked, his mind flashing with the vision of Berne’s capital - the city where he had spent the past three years with Ashe, living in Alaric’s halls, forever fixed in his memory. How beautiful it had been, how peaceful, surrounded by the sharp whiteness of the Alps all around-

“Mmm.” Kyriel leaned back, eyeing the man at his side. “And counting the reserves, Alaric?” 

“Ten thousand, Majesty.”

The boy forced himself to remain perfectly still, his face a mask of stone. The vision of the city, of the stone fortifications and castled walls, filling with people in his mind.

Kyriel’s eyes flickered towards him, a small smile on his lips. 

“Is it true?” He asked, soft.

Kai stiffened, the compulsion sinking its claws in his brain at the command. The order to speak and to tell the truth, all the truth and nothing but the truth, seizing him whole-

The boy whimpered, wordless, as his head shook despite his best efforts to hold still.

Alaric made an outraged sound of protest, the entitlement covering the fear in the same way as Kai grabbed at his fury when he needed to keep himself afloat. 

“Majesty!” He cried, snarled at Kai chained to his front. “You cannot trust the boy. He is hardly impartial-”

Kyriel only smiled, watching the mounting horror fill Kai’s silver eyes in front of him. The boy paling, chained and stiff, realisation dawning on him.

The compulsion burned hotter, the runes blazing, as the angel winked at him.

“Oh, I do trust my pupil darling to speak true, Prince,” the monster drawled, reaching towards his prisoner. The room quieting, the Council members holding themselves perfectly still, raptured attention snaking over their master - the angel seizing Kai’s chin in his hand, tipping his head up. “You know better than to try to lie to me now, don’t you sweet?”

Kai flinched, repressing the whimper lodged in his throat. He growled, fingers digging in the armrests of his seat.

Horror, fresh and anew, filled him as his head moved to nod against his will once more.

Kyriel laughed, low, letting him go.

“Excellent.” The monster smiled, smug, snapping his fingers at him - the muzzle on the boy’s face disappearing into thin air, Kai gasping softly in relief. “Elaborate then,sweet.”

The boy set his jaw, nausea filling him.

He tried. He did try, pushing all his battered, exhausted will against the compulsion forcing him. Tried to resist, to keep quiet and still - for Alaric might have betrayed him, might have sold him out into a nightmare, but Kai wasn’t a snitch. The revenge was his, and he would take it - but he wasn’t going to put the Prince’s civilians, the innocent men, women and children that had welcomed him and Ashe both, in danger for it-

The runes scorched him, snatching a whimper out of his lips.

“He is not counting the women,” the boy blurted, breathless, after a too short beat. “Nor the Grivarns, Alvaerns and Montarvectribes.” He whimpered. “He does not command them, but they have a standing treaty of mutual support. They- They share the mountains-”

Kai moaned, his throat burning as he tried to stop. He folded over himself, panting hoarse - a soft whine escaping his clenched teeth, his fingers clawing at his constraints. The runes searing on his flesh, hidden from view - his dark clothes concealing the cage over his skin.

“Oh, put yourself together, Kai, before I give you a real reason to scream,” the angel threatened, casual, leaning back in his seat. “How many?”

The boy flinched, stiffening in pain. He lifted his head an inch, looking at his torturer with distilled hate - his silver power, caged and swirling, flashing savage behind his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Kai snarled. He straightened, the compulsion slowly pulling him up and forcing him to sit straight. “I rather unfortunately never had the pleasure to count them, Magister. Lacked the time, somehow.”

He winched, crying out in pain and surprise, as the angel backhanded him on the face.

Kyriel’s fingers were harsh, familiar and brutal, as they grabbed him by the hair. Pulling, forcing him to yield.

“If you want to play this game the hard way, by all means, love, do go ahead,” the angel smiled, feral, reaching out to grab his steak knife on the side of his plate. He lifted it up, Kai stiffening in his chains, the blade cold and sharp as it lay against the boy’s throat. “Want to give me an estimation of the numbers of these tribes, sweet? One based on the best of your knowledge?”

And so the rest of the evening advanced like so, the angel interrogating the new member of his Council with the information he had Kai fact-check to his side at the point of a knife. The boy doing his best not to speak, to claim ignorance when he didn’t have certainty of the truth he spoke - for, after all, that was the only thing the compulsion forced him to disclose. The truth, all the truth, nothing but the truth - and as long as he hadn’t seen things with his own eyes, as long as he hadn’t seen and trusted the report, hearsay wasn’t truth in his books. Neither was gossip, nor rumours, even though intelligence was made of those. Even when the angel activated the runes when he thought Kai was defying him, even when he did sink his knife in his leg, shoulder and chest - even then, Kai resisted him, snarling and hissing when he wasn’t screaming. The boy turning to sarcasm when he dared to, deflecting questions with questions and threats with humour, until Kyriel’s Council was howling with tears in their eyes and even the angel’s hold in his hair had softened an inch.

“Alright, Kai, very clever. I understand you don’t know this, but if you were to advise me? The best advice, on the basis of all the information you have?”

“I’d suggest you to stop fighting, Magister. Wars are bad for business and the well-being of civilians. Make a treaty. Start trading.”

“Very funny.”

Alaric, turned out, had however no qualms in disclosing the secrets of the coalition when the line of questioning did not involve himself and his resources. And Kai realised, for the first time, why Kyriel hadn’t needed to interrogate him once in all those months they’d spent in the dungeon underground - not when he had his spy at the heart of the coalition itself, when Alaric had been pretending to be a loyal member of the principates until one week earlier, when Kyriel’s forces had inflicted a mortal wound to the southern front and advanced deep in the Balkans and the Italic peninsula itself.

It was at that point that the boy started feeling a lot less sympathetic towards the Prince and his people, his ears filling with the sound of the slaves Kyriel must have refilled his camps with. Of the blood shed on the battlefield, the broken castles and cities and people’s homes-

“You are a spiteful, pathetic thing,” Alaric spat, at the end, once Kai had managed to turn the line of questioning from the supply chains of the eastern frontline to the most juicy topic of the multiple and colourful infidelities of the Prince’s wife with the servants in his hall. The Council laughing, more and more, as Kai made a mockery of the human they’d been forced to accept in their ranks.

“And you are a fool,” Kai shot back, exhausted - the boy leaning back with a wince against his chair. “Don’t you see there is only one that wins, in all of this?”

He stiffened, too tired to even let a flinch run through him, as Kyriel gently reached forward to pinch his cheek.

“Now, that sounded dangerously like a lesson well learned, sweet.” The monster grinned, pushing a hand against Kai’s thigh - the boy tensing, his torturer’s fingers trailing the inside of his legs, squeezing possessively at his flesh. “Are we finally learning what is best for us, darling mine?”

Kai shuddered, expression twisting in disgust.

“You’ll get what you want, Magister,” he whispered, hoarse. “Not much point fighting it.”

He didn’t realise the importance of what he’d said, what it meant, before he caught the eyes of the governor of Ispania. The Fallen watching him like a hawk, impossibly still, red eyes glinting like rubies at him. The whole of Kyriel’s Council, all ten of them, having fallen perfectly silent once again.

Kyriel’s squeezed Kai’s thigh once more, possessive and smug.

“See, I did tell you,” the monster drawled, low, reaching to grab his wine. “He could be cracked.”

They all raised their goblets in acknowledgement at that. And Kai, terrifyingly, didn’t even want to snarl.

Previous - next - masterlist

@badthingshappenbingo: chained to a chair, original fic

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @flowersarefreetherapy @sunshiline-writes @enigmawritesstuff

[whump-world]

When Whumpee is in public with Whumper, perhaps at a social event, and Whumpee gets a little too bold. They start assuming they can speak without first being spoken to. Their lingering glance at a kind stranger who’d asked if they were well sours Whumper’s mood. They accept a dance from that same stranger as if they have the right not to look to Whumper first, to seek their approval before being borrowed for the length of a song.

When Whumpee returns from the dance, Whumper pulls them in roughly by the arm. They hiss a threat into Whumpee’s ear, pressing hard on a fresh bruise beneath their clothes as they remind Whumpee that they’re a possession—nothing more than a statement piece meant to adorn Whumper’s arm.

Whumpee is glued to Whumper’s side the rest of the night, pretty and silent, Whumper’s threat ringing in their ears. They don’t dare to meet the kind stranger’s eyes again. They fear what will happen if they do.