A whump blog. Writing masterlist Explicit NSFWhump will go on @secretsmutcorner, but some mild/referenced stuff may show up here! Other than that, expect whump of all flavours. Please no chain asks or personal tag games. Character/writing tag games welcome! Legal adult. English is my second language.
“You have been rude and disrespectful to the other employees. We have been over this. If you are upset, take it out on the company stress toy. That’s why we have it in the first place.”
Whumper starts to protest. "But I'm in the middle of---"
"No buts!" Their boss takes them by the shoulders and steers them away from their desk. "You're obviously too stressed to work with the team right now. Take 5, and come back when you've taken out all that unhealthy agression, m'kay?"
Whumper's eye twitches. Their boss's condescension isn't helping their "unhealthy aggression." They relent, however, and travel down the hall to an out-of-the-way portion of the building.
They stand in front of the repurposed supply closet. For a moment, they consider not going in, and simply letting the silence in the quieter part of the building calm them down instead. Soon, though, the distant sound of their coworkers' incessant chattering echoes down the hall, and their anger is stirred up again. They grip the doorknob tightly and whip the closet door open.
The stress toy is curled up in the corner of the dark room. It sits up straight as the light streams in, blinking sleep from its eyes.
"Napping at two in the afternoon?" Whumper strolls into the room, one hand in their pocket, the other slowly closing the door behind them. "I wish that could be me."
The stress toy squirms away from them, pressing its back into the cold concrete wall, already stained with its own dried blood from previous sessions.
"Let's get some light in here." Whumper pulls the cord attached to the lightbulb, illuminating the closet in sickly yellow hues. They lean down to inspect the stress toy. It's looking a little worse for wear, with some bruises and cuts still fresh on its skin. Its mouth is duct taped shut, and its hands and feet are tied.
Whumper wrinkles their nose. "My boss did most of this, didn't he? He's such a sadist. At least you're still wearing clothes."
The stress toy's eyes dart between Whumper and the shelf of tools beside them.
"He's actually the one who sent me here. He can't wrap his dense head around the fact that not everybody relieves stress like he does." Whumper taps their fingers on the shelf, perusing its contents, letting their gaze linger on each item, as if they can't decide what to pick. There's a crowbar, a knife, a pack of needles...
The stress toy lets out a small whimper.
"Oh, sorry, did you have something to say?" Whumper leans down and rips the duct tape off of its mouth in one swift and calculated motion. It yelps, sucking in a breath through its clenched teeth. "There you go. What's up?"
The stress toy pants for a second, before simply saying: "You don't have to."
Its voice is ragged and weary. No doubt it's been strained many times from screaming.
Whumper's gaze softens. They finally settle on their tool of choice: a sharpie. They take it off the shelf and sit down on the floor. "I know. Come here."
The stress toy awkwardly shuffles forward, keeping their head down. Whumper takes their wrist, uncaps the sharpie, and starts to draw on their forearm.
"I can be quite forgetful when I'm angry. Sometimes I forget really important things. Like locking the door behind me."
It glances up at Whumper, a tiny glimmer of hope crossing its face.
"And I also forget how to get around this place. That's why I always doodle maps on everything. It's almost subconscious, now."
Whumper capped the sharpie, stood up, and checked their watch. "It's almost been five minutes. I'll have to go back, soon."
"Thank you," the stress toy whispered, looking at the map drawn on their arm in awe.
Whumper looked at them with pity. "Don't be thanking me." They grabbed the crowbar from the shelf. "I still have to dispel suspicion."
It's eyes widened.
"Sorry," Whumper said, raising the crowbar above their head. "Boss's orders."
.
Whumper scrubbed the blood off their hands in the bathroom. It had been a little longer than five minutes. Hopefully their boss wouldn't be too mad.
They turned off the water and looked at themselves in the mirror.
(Content: living weapon whumpee, past child abuse, referenced physical abuse, angst, conditioned whumpee)
~
katkittykat: imagine its the wrong house
nodiving: lmfaoooooo
~
The neighborhood was dark, dark, dark this time of night, only a thin winding string of streetlights to distinguish it from the encroaching wilderness. Nevertheless, it was a neighborhood, and that gained the ship more proximity to society than it’d had for most of its life. The little imperial suburb was dead quiet as Delta entered.
He’d left Lorelai a little ways behind, half-awake in her ship to keep watch. They both had business, but these missions came one at a time. She didn’t want to leave him, and he didn’t want to be left. Still, there was no accounting for just how lonely Delta felt as he walked through the thinning tree-line, just beyond the backyards.
The target stood out just as lightless as the others had been. A quick pulse flared out, searching for bodies, any signs of life — but all the readings came up as birds and as insects, little teeming things. The house was empty. No. Small motions. The feeling of water running, comforting even as a phantom sensation against his sixth sense.
A fish tank.
Delta approached the building. Silently, he worked the mechanism of the back window until he was able to slide it open. He lifted himself up into its frame, pulling one leg up and over into the house’s quiet interior. The gentle trickle of water grew audible. Only the light of dormant electronics — and the strange and ghostly blue of the tank — guided his way. He took a moment to appreciate the aquarium. Sharp-toothed, docile things stared back at him with curious eyes. Even small things like that were enough to make him homesick.
Delta found a comfortable seat in the empty living room and waited.
~
Tires crunched on the gravel of the driveway, and a two long beams of light were cast through the front windows to herald the car’s arrival. Delta steadied himself, settling further into the chair as one hand creeped up towards the lamp.
The front door opened, and only for a minute was the entering figure silhouetted against the night sky. As the door closed, all the darkness was made equal again. Delta’s pulse still beat beneath his conscious attention — and he could parse the figure just fine. He reached one psychic limb out to lock the door as he flickered the lamp light on.
Simon startled, falling back against the door in an appropriate panic. He did this before his eyes had adjusted, before he even recognized the intruder. When the door did not open, and he saw the scene in front of him, it did not work to calm him.
Delta was looking more like his old self than he had in years. His black hair hung loose at a familiar length, and his eyes glowed with the same dangerous intensity. He was dressed in black now, so as not to draw attention to himself as he moved through the undergrowth. It all worked to make the image more dreamlike and uncanny as he lounged there, in the flesh. He watched impassively as the old scientist came to his senses — whatever sense remained.
“Oh my god,” Simon said in hushed greeting.
“…Oh my god.”
“Hello, Simon,” Delta returned.
“Delta.” There was a controlled curtness in how the man handled his name. A little too firm to be soothing. Simon slid back against the wall, scanning with wide eyes behind larger spectacles. “…Hey. Hey,” Simon said when the boy started to move. One of his hands raised up —open palm — to stop him, or to signal one half of a surrender. The scientist spoke more hastily.
“I know you’re mad at me,” Simon soothed. “And you have every right to be. But let’s talk about this first, okay? We’ll talk. Don’t do anything rash.”
The fear was plain on his face. Delta tilted his head to the side. He frowned.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Simon.” His voice came out calmer, softer. It was hushed too, with a kind of mute horror. How could he even think that? When had Delta ever hurt him?
Nevertheless, Simon’s gaze remained fearful and untrusting.
“You’re alive,” he stated.
“Yes,” Delta confirmed.
The scientist shook his head as he slowly pulled himself away from the door, further into the house. He said: “I knew there was something…” but he trailed off and did not finish the thought. Delta watched him with a placid ease. His power hummed throughout the room, granting him an unfamiliar kind of safety. They both knew it.
“I need to sit down, okay?” Simon said. He sort
of staggered over to the counter, leaning up against one of the kitchen stools. His movement was agitated. He was dressed well. He no longer stared at Delta — either because the disbelief was fading or because he recognized that he wouldn’t see anything coming, if it did come. “What do you want?”
“…What do I want?” Delta repeated back, deadpan.
“Yes. I-,” Simon cut himself off, pausing to press his hand to his temple. He took a deep breath, and spoke less hurried from there on: “Forgive me, Delta. It’s been a rough few years.”
That it had.
“But — how are you alive?” Simon asked.
He was met with the same unyielding cyan blankness. Simon deflated a little in return. It didn’t take much for him to tell when Delta was in a bad mood.
“Industry secret. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share the specifics with you. Surely,” Delta managed. It sent a little jolt through him, bordering much too close to real rudeness. Simon let him get away with a lot, but taking a tone like that was unacceptable.
“Mm.” Simon removed his jacket. “Sure. You’ve earned that. Did you- did you mean that earlier? That you’re not here to hurt me?”
“Why would I want to hurt you?” Delta asked, wholly genuine. “You were nice to me.”
“We tortured you.”
Delta shrunk back, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. Chills ran up and down him. It didn’t feel good to hear. Almost timidly, he said: “Can’t you just be happy to see me?”
“Oh, come here,” Simon sighed. His exasperation could be dangerous. “Let me look at you.”
Obediently, Delta rose and approached. Simon, thankfully, was not so bold as to attempt to touch him. Delta might not have been able to handle that.
There wasn’t all that much to see. Long black sleeves and loose pants covered most of Delta’s skin, leaving really just his hands and face exposed. No bruises were visible anywhere, nor extent at all. There was just the electrical scarring along his bare neck.
Simon studied him for a few long moments, before his composure began to crumble.
“Oh, honey,” he lamented, shielding his eyes with his hand. He sniffled. “You look healthy.”
Delta flushed blue beneath the skin, growing bashful under the appraisal. He felt nervously at his wrists, as if appreciating the flesh there, the fact it wasn’t rubbed raw. Simon recovered quickly enough. Somewhat. His eyes were oddly bright even in the dim light, and his voice still came out a little choked. Only in that moment did Delta realize how much older his handler looked.
“I’m not an idiot, Delta. I know I failed you,” Simon spelled out with caution. Despite the slow rhythm, his manner was intense and serious. “It was never supposed to be like that. You were still a child. I should’ve done a better job of protecting you. I’m sorry.”
Something shattered in the back of the weapon’s mind. Dangerous tears surged forward in the recesses, but the company kept them at bay. Delta still couldn’t quite bring himself to cry in front of a handler. He bit his own lip hard before he could find the words to speak again. Borrowed words. He echoed them back:
“You’re sorry now?” He couldn’t keep the bitter frustration out of his voice. Delta took a step back, looking around the room like it might hold the answers for him. He glowered: “Why is everyone sorry now? Instead of when it mattered? I don’t need it now. It doesn’t do me any good.”
The pain in his chest was so immense for a second that he could hardly breathe. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t want to be hurt.
“…Everyone?” Simon parsed. A few beats of silence passed. He sounded more fearful as he spoke again, but retained a cautious gentleness. “Delta, what did you come here for?”
With that, Delta stood down, falling a few steps back into the darkness as he tried to recover a more natural way of existing in the space. His own directive had felt distant for a moment, swept up as he was in the shock of seeing him. He felt like Simon had disarmed him somehow.
“Just want what’s mine,” Delta remembered. “I want any files you have on me. Everything you documented. You owe it to me.”
His handler considered this for a moment. He propped one elbow on the counter, staring off into space: “Is that all?”
It was.
“Alright.” Simon rapped his knuckles against the surface, standing up. “Sit tight. Can I get you anything? Are they feeding you enough?”
“I’m okay, sir.” Delta watched him carefully.
The sightline had to be maintained. He paid careful attention to Simon’s hands, to anything he touched. The scientist moved further into the kitchen. He turned the burner on beneath the kettle. The flame of the stove provided a new, surreal light to the space.
“It’s Galatea, isn’t it?” Simon guessed. “Took you in?”
Delta didn’t respond at first. After careful consideration, he answered: “I don’t belong to anyone now.”
A blush rose up to his cheeks as he said it. He found it a little trite, a little embarrassing to admit, but he meant it sincerely. It’d taken a lot of work to internalize. It still felt so new.
Simon placed dried leaves into two mugs. Delta read the writing on them: from interplanetary conferences, from tourist traps. It tickled him a little to recognize the names. He’d killed people there.
It took about twenty minutes for all the physical documents to be gathered in one place. Only with great hesitance did Delta let his handler out of his sight, and not once did he dim the sphere of influence. The phone lines to the house had been cut in preparation, but as far as he could tell, Simon made no attempt to alert anyone. Instead, he poured the hot water over the leaves, sliding the drink over to Delta.
Simon must have noticed the hesitation, because he took a sip from his own cup before he spoke.
“Do you think I’m going to drug you?” he asked.
“You have drugged me,” Delta stared.
“Ah. Touché.” Simon shrugged. He took another sip. “I missed you terribly, Delta. I’ve replayed those final weeks over and over again in my mind for as long as you’ve been gone. I’m glad that you’re free now. I wouldn’t do anything to harm you.”
“…Wouldn’t you?” Delta asked softly. “You beat me until I cried.”
Simon looked at him sadly. “I’m sorry. I told you I was sorry.”
He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but was having difficulty with it. Delta glanced around the room. He felt tempted to give the man an out, some dormant draw of sympathy. But the pain was so acute. He was so sad.
“I’m retired,” Simon followed up, eventually. “I’ve tried to put it all behind me. I don’t do much of anything these days. Besides litigation. Maybe you heard.”
Delta raised an eyebrow in polite inquiry. Simon seemed to smile at that, amused at the flicker of emotion on a face so characterized by its absence. He continued.
“Nezu gave me the runaround. Did it to virtually everyone on Paris’s staff, but he had a special interest in me. Told me it was the labs or the rope. I refused. I told him I’d be no good at it, that my expertise had nothing to do with whatever freak show he was running. He got me blacklisted, but he seems reluctant to have me killed. He thinks if he intimidates me enough, I’ll cave. But I don’t want anything to do with it. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
There was a lot of shock that came with the whole notion of Simon speaking to him like a person. In captivity, he treated Delta much like a child. The subtle acknowledgment of his intelligence, of his capacity for reason — it left him a little bitter. But he turned the information over in his head. He resisted the urge to apologize for the trouble.
“Do you think I was a mistake?” Delta tilted his head.
Simon hesitated. He said: “I love you, Delta. I’m sorry.”
Delta nodded, blushing. Okay. He didn’t know how he would’ve answered that either, in all fairness.
The mention of Nezu and the labs made him very, very nervous. The term freak show made him very, very upset.
“It’s okay,” Delta answered. “I’m not mad at you. I’m really not. I never wanted for you to get hurt over any of this.”
He played idly with the sleeve of his shirt. The documents were spread out before him like an autopsy, and he was reluctant to touch it the way he might shrink back near a corpse.
“Are you going to be okay?” Delta mouthed.
Simon shrugged, taking another sip from his cup. Delta’s remained untouched. Carefully, he placed his nails by the nearest workbook.
A cursory glance over the papers revealed their exact age. They were all dated after Simon had taken the case, and recounted events and developments in the same person. Delta read out a physical description of himself as a young teenager, at a shorter height, with injuries that must have been very shocking to see the first time. Simon’s footnotes described him as quiet and polite and smug.
Delta bit his lip. A map of a nearby canyon was dotted with crosses which marked how the practice was going. There were readouts of his blood pressure throughout the training day, how his neural activity fluctuated. There were progress reports. Write ups.
107 had to be disciplined today. The doctor gave him twenty with the cane, which nears the legal limit for someone his age. I’m told he doesn’t receive the same protections legally, but it’s still a good benchmark to follow.
This wasn’t even what he came here for. Why pause to read it?
When he looked up, Simon’s gaze was settled on that same excerpt, lips pressed tight together with what was only sane mortification. The vision comforted Delta somewhat. Barely.
He flipped the page, skimming a few further mission reports. Allusions to the then-living Constantine, which made his heart hurt. Medical documents. More sparsely, fragments of Delta’s own psyche that he’d for some reason felt compelled to reveal.
Kid had a dream about wading in dark water. He said he could feel skin and hair beneath his feet, like he was treading over a drowned corpse. He couldn’t breathe when he woke up. I put him on oxygen and gave him some pills to calm down. I’ll let him sleep late tomorrow to make up for it.
That wasn’t what he came here for either.
~
“…Most of this is useless to me,” Delta concluded, having worked through the whole hoard.
Simon glanced up. He’d been trawling through it too, a gesture that read to Delta as blatantly nostalgic.
“You’re not the first one to come asking for these, for the record. Government asked me to hand over all of it, as well as all of Martino’s work. I told them it’d already been destroyed. That was a real request of his, by the way. He never wanted the experiments replicated. Threw a fit when anyone tried to talk to him about cloning. God forbid.”
Simon tapped his fingers gently on the counter, and seemed to consider his words very carefully. Quietly, he asked: “Whatever happened to him, anyway?”
“I killed him,” Delta answered.
The room fell silent, void of air. All that remained was the gentle trickle and the rippling of water from the aquarium in the adjacent room. Delta did his best not to look Simon in the face after that, eyes carefully averted, but he could sense the displeasure written across it.
“…He had children,” Simon said finally.
“Oh, he had children?” Delta scoffed.
Contempt grew in him like a cancer, and for a minute he felt too sick for words. Simon raised his hands in mock surrender. Even he had to have understood how he’d misspoken.
Delta sulked, too caught up in the death dream to parse what had been said at first. He glanced up.
“…Did you just say Martino’s work was destroyed?” he repeated. He could practically hear his own heart rate increasing.
“Well, I said that. But it isn’t. I’ve still got most of the hard copies backed up, and I saved his work computer.” Simon winked.
Delta’s hands stilled on the countertop as his expression grew vastly more intense. “Please bring them to me immediately.”
He did so. Delta wondered why he hadn’t just gathered them from the jump, but upon closer inspection, much of it was borderline incomprehensible. He’d need Apollo to translate it for him, if he really wanted to know. And he wasn’t sure if he did. The sections he could understand were not comforting.
There were two laptops. Delta recognized both, but only one made his heart drop.
“Found it when I searched your room,” Simon said casually. “I never mentioned it to anyone. I couldn’t get it unlocked, so I figured you didn’t want anyone going through it.”
Delta froze, staring at him. He couldn’t quite place the feeling. Gratitude was the closest thing. He supposed this unnamable regard was the one which had characterized most of his interactions with Simon, and which might only increase from then on.
He gathered the laptops up, throwing them in his bag.
“They’re both locked,” Simon clarified. “Be careful not to break them.”
“I got it,” Delta answered. Or, at least Kitty would have it. He was shaking a little. Don’t break it. Don’t break it.
It was getting late. He’d stayed longer than he meant to. Lorelai would worry. He needed enough time to retreat under cover of darkness. But Delta gave a final glance around the room, and felt his own resistance. He’d lose control of the room when he left it.
“Are you going to be okay?” he repeated. “The litigation, I mean. Are they going to let you off the hook for it? Is there anything I can do?”
Delta had been let off the hook in a way that still shocked him to this day. He found himself wishing the same for most of his contemporaries. Neither Simon nor Paris ever seemed to be punished for what they’d actually done wrong. The Empire always came down on them for the wrong reasons.
“We’ll see,” Simon answered, a slightly grating air of mystery. Gentler, he added: “Don’t worry, kiddo. I can handle myself. I handled the rest of it.”
Of course. There would have been nobody else around to manage the aftermath. By all accounts, Simon was the sole survivor.
Delta had heard the story before, but he did his part now to confirm. He wanted another source: “Do you know what happened to Paris?”
“Nope. He left about a week after you. Probably dead in a ditch right now, good fucking riddance.”
Delta didn’t object to that. He shifted the bag on his shoulder. “Did he say anything to you?”
“Please don’t go looking for him now,” Simon begged. “It’s not worth being wherever he ended up. Stay out of imperial territory, Delta. Haven’t you gotten your fill of it? You shouldn’t have even come this close.”
Delta shrugged. He didn’t feel like he was in any danger. Even the next part felt more like a formality than anything else.
“I trust you’ll keep this meeting between us, then? That I won’t have to worry about you ratting me out?”
“Come on. Who do you think I am? I owe you that much.”
“Alright. Remember I know where you live.”
“You can’t even say it with a straight face.”
Delta frowned. He thought his face was straight. But he couldn’t bring himself to seriously threaten the man. It felt improper and it felt mean. It was a betrayal of his own heart.
He stepped forward cautiously. Despite all the discordant context, Simon somehow seemed to understand what he wanted. He extended his arms as Delta got closer, wrapping him up into a hug.
“Thank you,” Delta said, muffled.
Simon ruffled his hair, which brought a self-conscious glow to his face. Delta slowly pulled away, making his way back to the window.
“Take care of yourself, Delta,” Simon called after him.
Delta nodded, mouthing a small “you too” as he exited.
He felt the weight of the laptops in his bag, and found a real comfort in it.
Stoic Whumpee in recovery, who is struggling with someting. Maybe their first panic attack, maybe their wound started bleeding again and it's bad and now they can't fix it, maybe they're sick and delirious and are seeing things, maybe they hate throwing up but have to.
Caretaker finding them freaking out, but still expecting to be told to fuck off.
Instead, Whumpee just gives in to the fear, because it's too much right now, and they look up at Caretaker. "Help."
1,281 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to The dagger)
Content | Suicidal ideation, mention of murder and slavery
Notes | Was going to do some more little ""domestic"" bits between this and the last one but apparently we're doing plot! Some other time.
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
They all sat together in the conservatory, with only Tulya and the slave enjoying their tea. It had been well nigh a month.
Loz’ family must be growing impatient. His duty — his awful, dishonourable duty — sat like a stone in his stomach. He had no satifying reason to give as to why he hadn’t long since killed Ivin and left. Gone home. He was suppsoed to go home.
Traitor.
The little voice in his head was familiar, although it had never gone quite that far.
Ivin looked like she was preparing for another attempt on Loz, even though the hopelessness of her enterprise must be obvious by now.
»You’re wasting your time,« he told her before she had even oppened her mouth.
Her face turned hard for a moment, then she suddenly looked away, hiding from all of them.
Weakness.
»I wasn’t sent here to negotiate,« he heard himself continue. Gods, what was he doing? There was no way out in this — for him, her, their entire countries.
»What were you sent here to do, then?« It was a desperate outcry. She couldn’t mean anything by it.
»To kill you.«
Dead silence followed his words; he could feel it like a hand pressing down on his throat.
He stood. Their eyes followed him. He couldn’t look at Tulya; he kept his eyes on Ivin, who stared up at him with a fear he hadn’t seen in her yet.
»We knew they’d send one of you here after I married Tulya. And I was to kill you.« He wished he could look at Tulya. The most he managed was his hands, hovering above the table, as if readying to grab something. Grab him, Loz realized. »Clearly, I haven’t done it.«
»Clearly.« Tulya’s voice was quiet, but stupidly firm.
»You’ll excuse me.« He turned, giving Ivin a wide enough berth to not appear threatening, and left the room.
He couldn't cry.
It was simply unthinkable.
What was going to happen to him? Surely Tulya would cast him out; he had plotted to murder his wife. He could only imagine what Ivin was saying to him right now. Maybe she would even demand his execution?
He couldn't return home; now his treason was complete. He would almost certainly be executed there; executed, or enslaved. And he didn't want to. He hadn't wanted to in a while; it was painfully clear now.
The dagger in his belt called for his hand again. He had nothing left; the most honourable option left to him-
Soft steps closed in on him. The slave.
»His Majesty asked me to follow you. Make sure you don't do anything foolish.«
Loz turned away as the slave fell in step beside him. »There is not much left for me to do.« He heard, with horror, how wet and trembly his voice sounded.
Even the slave had lost his smile, and that seemed the most damning. But his voice was soft. »The King will be the judge of that, I believe.«
What was that supposed to mean? As if Tulya had any options with the murderer in his house. He should have continued lying.
As if reading his mind, the slave said, quieter, »You have not murdered anyone yet.«
*
»But he didn't.«
»It was his whole purpose in coming here!« Ivin could not control her voice; could barely control her tears. Tulya had followed her back to her bedroom; even it barely felt safe any more. And not only that; it had been pointless — everything had been pointless. She should be at home supporting her people. Loz would not sway Tulya’s mind any more than she his, had had no intention to, and those were the only points of any relevance.
She should not have come here.
»I understand you are upset. You have every reason to. But there is a difference between intention and action still.«
Ivin closed her eyes, which seemed a foolish thing to do after she had just learned there was a murderer out for her in this very palace. But she had to acknowledge he was right. It wasn't just to judge a man for an act he did not commit. And her hatred for him only meant she was in no position to judge him fairly to begin with.
By Ustrid, the high road was tiring. But she was a princess.
»I don't suggest pretending that nothing happened,« Tulya continued. »But he has come clean and he seems remorseful.«
»How do you know it's not another ploy?«
Tulya looked thoughtful. »Ask something of him in recompense. Some intelligence, something useful a Prince of Solgania would know. See if his change of heart is complete.«
She looked at him, wide-eyed. She hadn't expected it from him as a person, and as a politician- »That sounds terribly close to you supporting our war effort.«
»I will not tolerate having my palace turned into a murder den. If the plot had… come to fruition, it would have forced my hand regardless.« His face was painted with sorrow as he looked out the window, across the bustling capital sprawling below.
She couldn't blame him. No one wanted war to come to them. She wished she had ever had a choice. Maybe his holding back was not so hard to understand.
»Let us try that, then.«
*
Tulya and Ivin returned faster than Loz had expected. He rushed to slip out of the bed he had lain in, staring vacantly at the canopy, robbed of all strength and any actions to put it towards. Beau — the slave stood up with him, after watchfully sitting on the bed's edge, as if he could genuinely stop Loz from laying hand upon himself.
But in the end, it was not up to him.
What was the verdict?
»You shall support our defense efforts and share all intelligence you have.« Ivin pronounced the words as clearly as a judge. Fitting. »If you are found to deliberately mislead us, you shall be put on trial for your crimes, those committed and those plotted.«
Loz nodded mutely. He had already committed treason, what would a little more matter? He'd chosen it, chosen it over cowardly murder.
He didn't know why he found himself looking to Tulya; it wasn't for forgiveness or help. Maybe he wanted to see for himself the hatred the King must now harbour for him. But all he found in his face was a gentle sadness — always Tulya with his gentleness — paired with something stranger. Hope?
He continued to let Ivin do the talking.
»Give me your dagger.«
Loz recoiled internally; outwardly, he only put a protective hand on the weapon's hilt. No Solganian royalty would be caught without a weapon; he felt he would sooner go naked. But in a moment, he reconsidered. It was just; less than just, perhaps.
He knelt before Ivin, head bowed, and offered her the dagger.
»Come, you needn't-« Tulya started, but Loz had already prepared to speak.
»Do what you think is just.« He looked up to meet her eye, baring his throat.
Ivin had taken the dagger so gingerly as a woman who had never handled a weapon before. Now she looked down upon him, a fierce spark in her eye.
»No.«
»Come now, my spouses.« Tulya stepped up to them, reaching a hand out to both. To him, Loz. »We have much to discuss. We need to lay out the future, together, if all are willing.«
He looked at Loz as he said it; it was clear he and Ivin had already talked about it.
Loz nodded, briefly. The shame of it all still constricted his throat, and he did not trust himself to answer aloud.
1,281 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to The dagger)
Content | Suicidal ideation, mention of murder and slavery
Notes | Was going to do some more little ""domestic"" bits between this and the last one but apparently we're doing plot! Some other time.
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
They all sat together in the conservatory, with only Tulya and the slave enjoying their tea. It had been well nigh a month.
Loz’ family must be growing impatient. His duty — his awful, dishonourable duty — sat like a stone in his stomach. He had no satifying reason to give as to why he hadn’t long since killed Ivin and left. Gone home. He was suppsoed to go home.
Traitor.
The little voice in his head was familiar, although it had never gone quite that far.
Ivin looked like she was preparing for another attempt on Loz, even though the hopelessness of her enterprise must be obvious by now.
»You’re wasting your time,« he told her before she had even oppened her mouth.
Her face turned hard for a moment, then she suddenly looked away, hiding from all of them.
Weakness.
»I wasn’t sent here to negotiate,« he heard himself continue. Gods, what was he doing? There was no way out in this — for him, her, their entire countries.
»What were you sent here to do, then?« It was a desperate outcry. She couldn’t mean anything by it.
»To kill you.«
Dead silence followed his words; he could feel it like a hand pressing down on his throat.
He stood. Their eyes followed him. He couldn’t look at Tulya; he kept his eyes on Ivin, who stared up at him with a fear he hadn’t seen in her yet.
»We knew they’d send one of you here after I married Tulya. And I was to kill you.« He wished he could look at Tulya. The most he managed was his hands, hovering above the table, as if readying to grab something. Grab him, Loz realized. »Clearly, I haven’t done it.«
»Clearly.« Tulya’s voice was quiet, but stupidly firm.
»You’ll excuse me.« He turned, giving Ivin a wide enough berth to not appear threatening, and left the room.
He couldn't cry.
It was simply unthinkable.
What was going to happen to him? Surely Tulya would cast him out; he had plotted to murder his wife. He could only imagine what Ivin was saying to him right now. Maybe she would even demand his execution?
He couldn't return home; now his treason was complete. He would almost certainly be executed there; executed, or enslaved. And he didn't want to. He hadn't wanted to in a while; it was painfully clear now.
The dagger in his belt called for his hand again. He had nothing left; the most honourable option left to him-
Soft steps closed in on him. The slave.
»His Majesty asked me to follow you. Make sure you don't do anything foolish.«
Loz turned away as the slave fell in step beside him. »There is not much left for me to do.« He heard, with horror, how wet and trembly his voice sounded.
Even the slave had lost his smile, and that seemed the most damning. But his voice was soft. »The King will be the judge of that, I believe.«
What was that supposed to mean? As if Tulya had any options with the murderer in his house. He should have continued lying.
As if reading his mind, the slave said, quieter, »You have not murdered anyone yet.«
*
»But he didn't.«
»It was his whole purpose in coming here!« Ivin could not control her voice; could barely control her tears. Tulya had followed her back to her bedroom; even it barely felt safe any more. And not only that; it had been pointless — everything had been pointless. She should be at home supporting her people. Loz would not sway Tulya’s mind any more than she his, had had no intention to, and those were the only points of any relevance.
She should not have come here.
»I understand you are upset. You have every reason to. But there is a difference between intention and action still.«
Ivin closed her eyes, which seemed a foolish thing to do after she had just learned there was a murderer out for her in this very palace. But she had to acknowledge he was right. It wasn't just to judge a man for an act he did not commit. And her hatred for him only meant she was in no position to judge him fairly to begin with.
By Ustrid, the high road was tiring. But she was a princess.
»I don't suggest pretending that nothing happened,« Tulya continued. »But he has come clean and he seems remorseful.«
»How do you know it's not another ploy?«
Tulya looked thoughtful. »Ask something of him in recompense. Some intelligence, something useful a Prince of Solgania would know. See if his change of heart is complete.«
She looked at him, wide-eyed. She hadn't expected it from him as a person, and as a politician- »That sounds terribly close to you supporting our war effort.«
»I will not tolerate having my palace turned into a murder den. If the plot had… come to fruition, it would have forced my hand regardless.« His face was painted with sorrow as he looked out the window, across the bustling capital sprawling below.
She couldn't blame him. No one wanted war to come to them. She wished she had ever had a choice. Maybe his holding back was not so hard to understand.
»Let us try that, then.«
*
Tulya and Ivin returned faster than Loz had expected. He rushed to slip out of the bed he had lain in, staring vacantly at the canopy, robbed of all strength and any actions to put it towards. Beau — the slave stood up with him, after watchfully sitting on the bed's edge, as if he could genuinely stop Loz from laying hand upon himself.
But in the end, it was not up to him.
What was the verdict?
»You shall support our defense efforts and share all intelligence you have.« Ivin pronounced the words as clearly as a judge. Fitting. »If you are found to deliberately mislead us, you shall be put on trial for your crimes, those committed and those plotted.«
Loz nodded mutely. He had already committed treason, what would a little more matter? He'd chosen it, chosen it over cowardly murder.
He didn't know why he found himself looking to Tulya; it wasn't for forgiveness or help. Maybe he wanted to see for himself the hatred the King must now harbour for him. But all he found in his face was a gentle sadness — always Tulya with his gentleness — paired with something stranger. Hope?
He continued to let Ivin do the talking.
»Give me your dagger.«
Loz recoiled internally; outwardly, he only put a protective hand on the weapon's hilt. No Solganian royalty would be caught without a weapon; he felt he would sooner go naked. But in a moment, he reconsidered. It was just; less than just, perhaps.
He knelt before Ivin, head bowed, and offered her the dagger.
»Come, you needn't-« Tulya started, but Loz had already prepared to speak.
»Do what you think is just.« He looked up to meet her eye, baring his throat.
Ivin had taken the dagger so gingerly as a woman who had never handled a weapon before. Now she looked down upon him, a fierce spark in her eye.
»No.«
»Come now, my spouses.« Tulya stepped up to them, reaching a hand out to both. To him, Loz. »We have much to discuss. We need to lay out the future, together, if all are willing.«
He looked at Loz as he said it; it was clear he and Ivin had already talked about it.
Loz nodded, briefly. The shame of it all still constricted his throat, and he did not trust himself to answer aloud.
Most of the other tutors — even its family, little though they saw of it — called the princet a freak or a monster. Sir Yoran didn’t find that to be a very useful approach. It was a child. Not the worst child he had tutored in etiquette by far, at that; on most days, it was an eager student.
Today was no such day. It was late in the afternoon — Yoran had been tied up in a court function at their usual hour — and the child was staring at the wall as if it was more interesting than he was.
»We look at those who speak to us, your Highness.« He rapped a rebuking spoon on its knuckles.
It flinched harder than he had expected, its eyes snapping to him; he caught a sharp ripple of its skin, like turbulent waters, before it hid the hand under the table, knowing full well it wasn’t supposed to change its body, either. It muttered an apology.
»And we speak clearly.«
»I’m sorry, Sir.« It put its hand back on the table, within his reach, and met his eyes with its unnervingly bright silver ones. There still seemed to be a kind of vibration in its skin, though, like a string pulled too taut.
»What is diverting your attention today?«
It looked at him in that tense way that seemed like a struggle against the urge to look away. He could understand the wish to turn away from a scolding, but they needed to learn their manners. This one even more than others, he supposed.
Finally, it said, »I’m in pain, Sir.«
He raised his eyebrows. The child didn’t seem injured, but that needn’t say anything. »Did you hurt yourself?«
It shook its head, then remembered its manners — Yoran felt a spark of pride — and said out loud, »No, Sir.« It hesitated, licked its lips, then said, still speaking clearly, »I have had lessons since the morning, Sir. It — hurts to remain still for so long.«
Its eyes slid away from his, but returned in an instant. There was fear in them, but also a sort of desperate defiance.
Yoran looked the child over. It wasn’t supposed to shapeshift — that was the directive of his Majesty, its father. But if it hurt to suppress its nature, that would change things. No one could reasonably expect a child in constant pain to learn well.
Unless it was only trying to get out of an unpleasant rule. But it was, by and large, a good child.
»I am only going to ask you this once. Are you telling the truth, your Highness?«
»Yes, Sir.« There was a fervour in its words he couldn’t expect a child this age to fake. Its gaze slipped again, then returned. »Sometimes — some days it’s so bad I rather take the beating. I’m telling the truth.«
There was genuine despair in its eyes now, the despair of a child — a child — made to choose between two kinds of pain. Yoran had never particularly agreed with the princet’s handling, but this was a new depth of misery.
»Alright.« He thought quickly. He wasn’t sure whether his Majesty would approve of his decision, but he would explain it to him. He had a job to do. »I’m going to turn around, and you are going to do whatever it is you need to do to ease your pain. And then I’m going to turn back around and we will continue our lesson, with full focus. Understood?«
»Yes, Sir!« The child’s entire face lit up. »Thank you, Sir.«
*
It wasn’t a week before Yoran arrived at the rooms the child was sequestered off to and found Sir Ganis, who taught it geography and history, mercilessly hitting it with a rod. The beating must have been going on for a while, because the child, who was usually good about taking its punishments, was curled up on the floor, wailing, and Ganis was panting from the effort.
Yoran caught his arm. »What are you doing? That is enough!«
»It was shapeshifting again.« Ganis pulled free from him.
»You know it can’t always control it!«
»Well, it’s going to have to learn.« He raised the rod again, and Yoran had to catch his arm, again.
»That is enough. Anyway, your timeslot is over. I’m supposed to teach it etiquette now.«
Ganis looked, for a moment, as if he wanted to argue. Then he leant the rod by the chair he must have sat in — the tutor’s chair — and shrugged. »Good luck. For whatever value etiquette has for a monster.«
The door closed behind him. The room instantly felt calmer.
The child had remained on the floor, weeping. The ripples running down its exposed skin were indistinguishable from its shivers.
Yoran crouched down beside it and carefully rested a hand on its shoulder.
Not careful enough. It flinched from the touch. »I’m sorry, I’m sorry.« The ripples faded like water calming after a thrown rock, then piled up, distorted, accompanied by more sobs. »I’m sorry. I’m trying.«
»Shh, it’s alright. Come now, your Highness.« He didn’t know what possessed him. It was still a princet. But he gently pulled it into his arms.
It leant into him, howling with anguish that Yoran took to be more than physical.
»Come on. Off the floor.«
»Please. Please-« Something sharp pricked his back where it had thrown its child arms around him. Claws, like a kitten clinging on for dear life. They withdrew in an instant, the child pulling back its arms entirely, folding them close to its body. »I’m sorry-« It sounded even more fearful now, yet- »Please.«
»It’s alright. Come, let’s sit.« He carefully pulled it up, it scrambling to stay as close to him as it possibly could, and it occurred to him this might be the first time in its life someone held it in their arms.
He navigated the pair of them to the ottoman opposite the table where they would have had their lessons. He could not find it in his heart to let go of the child.
It still sobbed into his chest. He wondered what he could possibly do to help it. He could not undo the cruelty it had suffered. He wondered if he should speak to its parents again-
»You told him.« It twisted its head to look up at him, its uncanny silver eyes full of tears, without moving an inch away. Its body was quieter now. »You told him that, that the beatings were hurting me less than s-staying still, so he had to hurt me more.«
Yoran felt a lump in his throat as the horror of what it was saying sank in. »I told your parents,« he said quietly. »I was aiming to encourage them to give you more grace.«
It still leant against him, even as he could feel it tense. He couldn’t blame it. He had made matters worse; his intentions didn’t matter. He’d tutored enough children to understand he had disappointed its trust, and it would be near impossible to win back.
Yet even so, it didn’t seem to want to escape his arms.
Everything about this was horrors upon horrors.
It surprised him when it pulled away from him, sitting up. It wiped its eyes. »I’m sorry. I’m, I’m ready for my lesson.«
»No lesson today,« Yoran said. What could he hope to teach it in matters of etiquette when it had just been taught, in no uncertain terms, that if force didn’t get it the results it wanted, more force was the answer? »You deserve a break.«
He hadn’t expected the distress on their face. »I don’t need a break. I’m by myself all the time. I, I want to learn.«
He gave it a long look. He was watching a tragedy unfold, he knew it in his heart, and there was nothing within his power he could do to stop it.
At least he could humour the child. »Very well then, your Highness.«
The three fics that first got me onto whumpblr are Destroyer by @paingoes, Codename K by @chiswhumpcorner, and Espada by @cepheusgalaxy. Definitely my all-time personal faves among living weapon whump on Tumblr. For military whump I really really like Morja and Company by @newbornwhumperfly, and my favourite pet whump fics are The House Guest by @secretwhumplair and Solitaire by @doumidas.
Those are the big ones that come to mind, but I've got some other favourites and favourite instalments under #fave on my blog. A couple of favourite oneshots from that tag are The Rat Finds a Prize by @syncopein3d (hero-villain universe, aftermath/rescue/first aid), and "This Will Hurt" by @whumpsday (medical treatment, superpowers, gore).
770 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to Customs)
Content | Mention of murder
Notes | Loz has a job to do.
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
The princess’ presence bothered Loz more than he would have expected.
To be fair, he hadn’t expected her to be this active in bothering him.
The very day after the wedding, she had hit him with, »Let us talk,« and he couldn’t avoid her every hour of every day.
»I only wish for peace.«
»You know how to effect it. We have been very clear about it.«
»Forgive me, I wish for two things. Peace and the freedom of my people.«
»That is one too many. Surrender, or perish.«
Ivin looked directly at Tulya, as if she was hoping for him to intervene on her behalf. It gave Loz less satisfaction than he would have expected that the King stayed completely silent, although his eyes were on Ivin, as if she was watching a ball game, waiting for her to take her turn.
When she turned back to Loz, for a moment she let slip the mask of civility, and he saw her hatred for him flare up in her eyes. It was a strange relief.
»Will you not even entertain the possibility of negotiation, spare your brave soldiers further bloodshed?«
»Our brave soldiers want bloodshed. They wish to prove their courage and honour.« Itraz knew he rather would have been on the battlefield than here. »Even if I could, I would not.«
»If you could? Are you not a Prince of Solgania?«
He bit back a bitter laugh. »Your efforts are wasted here.«
Three or four times they had the same conversation every day, with little variation. Then she started skipping days, staring blankly at her plate, for usually it was at mealtimes he could not evade her. He had hope she at least would soon give up and leave him be.
Not that it mattered. Neither of them would be here much longer.
Tulya attentively split his free time between his two spouses who would not stay in the same room. It was another thing that irritated him more than he had expected. That was his husband who was sharing his love with some Vasikyan. Surely she put out more.
Not that he could truly fault her for it, seeing as Tulya was, technically, her husband as well.
But the irritation only compounded as the days passed, and that irritated him more. He shouldn’t care, didn’t care about Tulya.
And then there was that other, nagging truth he had to face: now was the time to act.
Loz knew it. He lay in the dark and stared at the beautiful canopy now hidden from his eyes. He should never see it again. He could hear the slave’s soft breath beside him; no nightmares tonight, it seemed.
He should go and do what he had come to do: kill his enemy, then vanish into the night. Return home, reap the honours for what indignities he had gone through — though it was more likely that would be Gela, whose idea the whole ploy had been.
Tulya would sleep like a stone next to her; she might feel safe in his presence, and not expect the attack. One quick stab to the lung to stop her from screaming, and then he would be free, his task fulfilled.
Free to go home, where everything was as it ought to be. Resume his duties. Train the softness that had started creeping into it back out of his body. Rest alone.
For a heartbeat, an unbidden image flashed across his mind: the slave, silent and cowed, scrubbing the floor in his chambers, not daring to so much as look at him. Much less talk, much less smile — had he ever seen a slave smile before he came here? — much less disturb him in his sleep.
Dawn would break, and for Tulya it would break red, and soon his, Loz’, disappearance and guilt would be obvious, Tulya and the slave cursing his name together as they carried the princess to her early grave.
Now was the time to act.
*
»Are you well, your Majesty?«
»I’m fine,« Loz hissed, not enough sharpness in his voice to deter the slave.
»Would you have some tea today, perhaps?«
Daylight, albeit grey, was filtering through the curtains, and the slave looked at him with a faint trace of worry in his big eyes, repeating the offer that had been met with derision what felt like a long time ago.
»Yes.« It was barely more than a mutter.
He had to do it. He was going to do it.
Tonight, or maybe some other night, when circumstances were right.
897 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to A lonely night)
Content | Slavery, implied non-con
Notes | Ivin and Beau have a disagreement. Loz is not the only one who has some growing to do
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
The new Consort found him in the orchard the very day after her wedding, in one of his favourite spots by a babbling fountain, reading.
They had briefly met at the wedding. Unlike Consort Loz, she had been keen for him to be introduced to her. Now there was earnest concern on her face.
He had some suspicion where it came from, of course. The Vasikyans didn’t keep slaves, one heard, as outlandisch as it seemed.
»Good morning, Beau.«
»Good morning, your Majesty.« He smiled a reassuring smile at her. It did nothing to smooth her expression.
»May I sit with you? I wanted to talk to you.«
»Of course, your Majesty.«
She sat, folding her hands in her lap. He set his book aside and watched as she collected her thoughts.
Finally, she asked, »Is… is Beau your real name?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« It was the name Tulya had given him so many years ago. Then, even he, Tulya, seemed taken aback that it was his to choose, but he had been so young. It seemed mind-boggling that a woman of the Consort’s age could not know that.
Beau — Tani — had learned it even younger; learned fast not to contest it. Now, he could probably have, with Tulya. But there was no need, and Tulya had never again asked after their first clumsy meeting.
The Consort eyed him for a moment, then nodded. »Are you alright?«
He beamed another smile at her. »I’m very well, thank you, your Majesty. And yourself? I expect you do not quite feel at home yet, but are you liking it so far?«
She smiled back, but only briefly. »Some things more, some things less.« She looked at him as she said it, but before he could ask any more, she continued, »You read?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« A little defensively, he added, »His Majesty the King was so kind as to teach me.« Not everyone liked a slave who could read.
Another brief smile. »That’s good of him.« She hesitated, then quietly asked, »Do you feel safe?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« He looked her earnestly in the eyes. It was true, though even she must understand that such a question, posed to a slave, couldn’t always produce a true answer.
»… that’s good.« She didn’t seem convinced, so Beau decided to go out on a limb.
»His Majesty loves me. He would not mistreat me.«
»Is that so? He loves you?« She didn’t believe that, either.
Beau nodded, a little irritated. He reined it in. Really, he was spoiled in terms of being taken at his word, and he wasn’t a fool — she had good reason to doubt him.
»I love him too,« he added softly, a smile seizing his lips without his doing this time. »We have been together for many years. He…« He didn’t know how to end that sentence. There was nothing he could say she would believe, anyway, and how was he to encompass in words the trust and love, the sense of safety and understanding, that had grown between them as steadily as a tree now in bloom?
»That’s sweet.« She took a deep breath, as if to brace herself, then pushed on. »I do not understand how he can claim to love you, yet still keep you enslaved.«
It was a thought that had never once crossed Beau’s mind. »I… don’t see the connection, your Majesty.«
She stared at him. For a moment, he thought he saw outright horror flash in her eyes, then there was just a deep sadness.
»Our customs are different from yours,« he tried.
»I… see.« She sounded oddly defeated.
»I am glad to be his. He’s good to me.« She didn’t see, it was plain. »I wouldn’t know where to go if I were free.«
»He need not send you away. He could just give you the liberty to leave. Or to be a real courtier. Or whatever you prefer. It should be up to you.«
»I’m exactly where I want to be,« he replied softly. »Are you?« A little part of him flinched at the audacity of the question. How dare he-
»I — I made a choice out of my sense of duty. No one forced me to.« The Consort’s look had flickered away, but now returned to him. »And what if he hadn’t… purchased you?«
»I was given to him as a gift.«
»And what if you hadn’t been?« she insisted. »What of you were subject to a master who hurt you, who- I’m sorry.«
She had caught him turning away. He didn’t want to think about these things — about growing old in the brothel until he was too ugly. About being kept by Tulya’s uncle intead because Tulya hadn’t wanted him. About a million worse possibilities.
»Customs or not… I’m sorry, the concept of slavery is abhorrent to me. I suppose I just… I just wanted to know you’re — he’s treating you well, at least, if he’s doing nothing to abolish this abomination altogether.« Her voice trailed off into a whisper, her eyes now staring into the distance.
»He’s done lots to improve the living conditions of slaves,« Beau ventured. It was true. One of his first acts as a king had been to ban slaves younger than Beau from being worked in brothels. Sometimes it was even enforced. More had followed.
897 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to A lonely night)
Content | Slavery, implied non-con
Notes | Ivin and Beau have a disagreement. Loz is not the only one who has some growing to do
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
The new Consort found him in the orchard the very day after her wedding, in one of his favourite spots by a babbling fountain, reading.
They had briefly met at the wedding. Unlike Consort Loz, she had been keen for him to be introduced to her. Now there was earnest concern on her face.
He had some suspicion where it came from, of course. The Vasikyans didn’t keep slaves, one heard, as outlandisch as it seemed.
»Good morning, Beau.«
»Good morning, your Majesty.« He smiled a reassuring smile at her. It did nothing to smooth her expression.
»May I sit with you? I wanted to talk to you.«
»Of course, your Majesty.«
She sat, folding her hands in her lap. He set his book aside and watched as she collected her thoughts.
Finally, she asked, »Is… is Beau your real name?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« It was the name Tulya had given him so many years ago. Then, even he, Tulya, seemed taken aback that it was his to choose, but he had been so young. It seemed mind-boggling that a woman of the Consort’s age could not know that.
Beau — Tani — had learned it even younger; learned fast not to contest it. Now, he could probably have, with Tulya. But there was no need, and Tulya had never again asked after their first clumsy meeting.
The Consort eyed him for a moment, then nodded. »Are you alright?«
He beamed another smile at her. »I’m very well, thank you, your Majesty. And yourself? I expect you do not quite feel at home yet, but are you liking it so far?«
She smiled back, but only briefly. »Some things more, some things less.« She looked at him as she said it, but before he could ask any more, she continued, »You read?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« A little defensively, he added, »His Majesty the King was so kind as to teach me.« Not everyone liked a slave who could read.
Another brief smile. »That’s good of him.« She hesitated, then quietly asked, »Do you feel safe?«
»Yes, your Majesty.« He looked her earnestly in the eyes. It was true, though even she must understand that such a question, posed to a slave, couldn’t always produce a true answer.
»… that’s good.« She didn’t seem convinced, so Beau decided to go out on a limb.
»His Majesty loves me. He would not mistreat me.«
»Is that so? He loves you?« She didn’t believe that, either.
Beau nodded, a little irritated. He reined it in. Really, he was spoiled in terms of being taken at his word, and he wasn’t a fool — she had good reason to doubt him.
»I love him too,« he added softly, a smile seizing his lips without his doing this time. »We have been together for many years. He…« He didn’t know how to end that sentence. There was nothing he could say she would believe, anyway, and how was he to encompass in words the trust and love, the sense of safety and understanding, that had grown between them as steadily as a tree now in bloom?
»That’s sweet.« She took a deep breath, as if to brace herself, then pushed on. »I do not understand how he can claim to love you, yet still keep you enslaved.«
It was a thought that had never once crossed Beau’s mind. »I… don’t see the connection, your Majesty.«
She stared at him. For a moment, he thought he saw outright horror flash in her eyes, then there was just a deep sadness.
»Our customs are different from yours,« he tried.
»I… see.« She sounded oddly defeated.
»I am glad to be his. He’s good to me.« She didn’t see, it was plain. »I wouldn’t know where to go if I were free.«
»He need not send you away. He could just give you the liberty to leave. Or to be a real courtier. Or whatever you prefer. It should be up to you.«
»I’m exactly where I want to be,« he replied softly. »Are you?« A little part of him flinched at the audacity of the question. How dare he-
»I — I made a choice out of my sense of duty. No one forced me to.« The Consort’s look had flickered away, but now returned to him. »And what if he hadn’t… purchased you?«
»I was given to him as a gift.«
»And what if you hadn’t been?« she insisted. »What of you were subject to a master who hurt you, who- I’m sorry.«
She had caught him turning away. He didn’t want to think about these things — about growing old in the brothel until he was too ugly. About being kept by Tulya’s uncle intead because Tulya hadn’t wanted him. About a million worse possibilities.
»Customs or not… I’m sorry, the concept of slavery is abhorrent to me. I suppose I just… I just wanted to know you’re — he’s treating you well, at least, if he’s doing nothing to abolish this abomination altogether.« Her voice trailed off into a whisper, her eyes now staring into the distance.
»He’s done lots to improve the living conditions of slaves,« Beau ventured. It was true. One of his first acts as a king had been to ban slaves younger than Beau from being worked in brothels. Sometimes it was even enforced. More had followed.
1,210 words | Prince Loz learns to love (flashback)
Content | Slavery, non-explicit dubcon sex between teenagers, implied past whump of a minor
Notes | Beau has been with his new master for a little while, and well. Boys will be boys or something idk
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
The Prince’s sixteenth birthday was approaching, and with it, Beau’s first anniversary in his ownership.
A year of safety. Not a year of feeling safe, but in hindsight, it was clear.
He had, of course, noticed the way the Prince looked at him change. Something inside of him ached at it. No one had ever looked at him that way, because he had always been available. He knew what he was supposed to do; remind the Prince, like he hadn’t in a while now, that he was available to him, too. That it wasn’t for him to be looked at with desire and longing, but to be their fulfillment and annihilation.
But he couldn’t bring himself to it; he was no longer afraid enough to give up the sweet ache for what he was supposed to do.
He knew what he would say if — when — the Prince propositioned. He wouldn’t refuse him, of course not; what was new was that he no longer wanted to.
But the Prince just kept looking at him. Whenever he knew Beau saw him, he simply wore the same kind expression he had in the beginning; when he realized he was watching mid-gaze, he got flustered as if he was the one doing wrong.
Beau didn’t know how long it took him to realize he was longing for the Prince to make a move, as well. It was an entirely alien sensation. He wasn’t supposed to want. He certainly wasn’t supposed to want that. He had been fixed, for crying out loud. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
They spent the Prince’s birthday together, inasmuch as a slave and crown prince could. Beau floated around the lavish party, staying as close to the Prince and as far from his uncle, who had gifted him to him a year ago today, as he could without getting in the way of anyone more important. He smiled and looked pretty, as was his entire job.
He was the only one who went with the Prince when he finally retired to his bedchamber.
»Phew. Those are always a lot.« The Prince dropped himself onto the bed.
»Do you not like being celebrated?« Beau pulled the shoes off his master’s dangling feet.
The Prince warmly smiled at him. »No, it’s fun. But it is a lot. Come here now, no more work. I’ve got something for you, too.«
He looked up to him. The Prince seemed a little flustered, again. Beau’s heart hopped in his chest.
»For me?«
»It’s… well, it’s been a year since you’ve been here. I never asked when your birthday is,« he added sheepishly.
»I don’t remember.« The brothel hadn’t bothered keeping track of their slaves’ birthdays, of course — and even before they had never been anything special, his family too poor to make it so. He pushed the thought out of his mind.
The Prince looked at him with sad eyes, then smiled again. »I suppose we can always celebrate together.«
From under his pillow, he produced a cloth-wrapped rectangle, and handed it to Beau.
Beau took it reverently. A gift, for him. He couldn’t look at the Prince from the warmth blossoming up his throat, constricting it. »Thank you.«
He was very careful unwrapping the object. He could tell what it was before the fabric fell away: a book.
A year ago, he couldn’t read a word. He had to swallow tears, sounding out the words embossed on the leather cover, shimmering in the light of the fire. »Poems. Of. Pe-Per-sev-er-an-ce. Perseverance?«
The Prince — his master who had taken it upon himself to guide him into the secrets hidden on his bookshelf, like that was a slave’s place — nodded, beaming. With pride? »You seemed to enjoy the books and — well, I thought this one suited you.«
»Thank you, your Highness.« He resisted the temptation to flip it open right away; it still took him too long to decipher even a few sentences. Or verses, in this case. He wanted to stay with the Prince instead.
When Beau looked up, there was that look on his face again.
He leant in and put a hand on Tulya's — the Prince’s cheek and kissed him, very softly.
He’d never done this before. It wasn’t his job to take initiative, to seduce. If he had grown older at the brothel, he would have had to learn it eventually, but so far… his clients had known what they wanted, and it wasn’t for him to take action.
Now, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back. It stung, even in its softness. Had he imagined things? Did the Prince really not want him… ?
»You don’t have to do this.« Tulya met his eyes in the firelight.
»I know,« Beau breathed. »I know.«
And something changed in the Prince’s face, shifting into a look of surprise and wonder. »Oh.«
Beau just looked back at him, silently praying that he would be believed.
Finally, Tulya closed the distance between them again for another kiss, careful at first. His arms wrapped around Beau, warm and strong, and Beau thought his heart might leap out of his mouth. He was cupping Tulya’s face with both hands now, pushed deeper into the kiss.
»Is this okay?«
Beau tensed when Tulya came down on top of him. That was wrong; he had trained himself to relax, because tensing up would make things worse, but now… without a word, Tulya slipped back off of him, spooned him instead, holding him tight and gently-
»Does this feel good?«
He hadn’t known his body was capable of feeling this way. He had believed that pleasure wasn’t for him. Tulya’s warm hands caressing him and Tulya's soft lips at the nape of his neck and Tulya Tulya Tulya-
»Was it good? For you?«
And for some reason, Beau felt a sob lodged in his throat.
He fought it. Why — where did it even come from? He had never felt so close to someone, so comfortable and safe, why was there a sob crawling into his mouth-
He lost.
The Prince shifted, just like he had feared. He didn’t want him to think-
»Oh no.« The Prince’s voice was so soft.
»It’s not — I’m fine. I’m sorry.« Another sob. On Reluza, if he didn’t get a grip, he’d soon be fully crying.
»Did I hurt you?«
»No, no.«
»I didn’t mean physically-«
»You didn’t. I know, I’m not stupid. You really didn’t.« Beau buried his head in the Prince’s chest, partly for his own comfort, partly to convince the Prince he still provided it. There they were now, the tears.
The Prince gently wrapped him in his arms. »I just — I’m sorry if-«
»Please believe me.« Beau was himself surprised at the ferocity with which the words broke from him. He couldn’t have the Prince believing he was hurt, when in reality he had just been given the sweetest gift, something he hadn’t even thought possible, not anymore.
He looked up at the Prince, who met his eyes, full of worry. But finally something shifted in his expression. »Okay. Okay, okay.«
He pulled Beau closer into his arms, like no one had ever done before, and Beau nestled up against him, overwhelmed and warm and safe.
@paperprinxe I will probably be sitting on your ask re: the emperor for a while but it is SO good and chewy. I don't have an answer yet. Thanks for sending it I love it.
Captors torturing living weapon to get information out of handler because they aren't allowed to touch handler
#391
content: living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, restraints, torture, no holds barred beatdown, knives, whipping, lashing, guns, threat of death, forced to watch, stoic whumpee, self-deprecation, multiple whumpers, sadistic whumper
Whumpee wouldn't break.
Whumpee wouldn't break.
Whumpee wouldn't break.
It took blow after blow silently, its face a bloody, swollen mess by now. Its hands were going numb from how tight they'd been ziptied together, but it wouldn't break. It wouldn't make a single sound that could worry Handler.
Handler was on the other side of the mirror, it was sure. Well, it wasn't entirely certain — the case could always be that its torturers were simply getting some sadistic sense of pleasure from making it look at its own battered body. But logically, it was sure it was a one-way mirror, and Handler was on the other side.
The enemy had talked amongst themselves about how they weren't allowed to touch Handler, and that was why they were wailing on it. But it wouldn't break. It wouldn't give them what they wanted.
Handler would surely stay strong on the other side, if only Whumpee didn't break.
So it took the blows.
It took the whip.
It took the knife.
And when eventually, one of its tormentors took out a gun and aimed it at its head, it didn't flinch.
But then, the gun was lowered. Its soon-to-be-executioner put a finger to their earpiece, listening to someone say something, probably an order from a higher-up. They grinned.
"We're done here," they said, and Whumpee froze up. That couldn't mean... "Handler is chirping like a little bird. They couldn't stand the thought of losing their precious weapon."
Those last two words were dripping with sarcasm and condescension, and Whumpee found itself wholly unable to process this entire thing. Being beaten, that was one thing. Being hurt, it was used to being hurt. But its handler betraying the organisation? For its sake? When it had been so good at keeping quiet and docile?
It couldn't be Handler's fault. Whumpee must've done something wrong. It must've been Whumpee's fault somehow. Somehow, it had messed up. Somehow, it had caused Handler to stumble.
Everyone left the room, leaving Whumpee alone to stare at its reflection. Its face was unrecognisable. Its body a mess of blood and scars. It should've been dead by now.
1,409 words | Prince Loz learns to love (sequel to Unfolding)
Content | Political marriage, war themes, slavery, half-hearted dehumanisation, implied dubcon and past non-con
Notes | No-one is alone, but who's feeling lonely?
Basically two for the price of one!
Taglist | @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces
Ivin’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and her heart hurt from its falseness. She’d never enjoyed court games. But she knew she had to make allies, as many and as fast as possible. Many of Tulya’s courtiers seemed agreeable enough. Tulya seemed agreeable enough.
There was always the shadow lurking in the corner of her eye, though. She’d greeted Loz politely; he answered as little as he could get away with. The dislike was mutual, it seemed, though she could not possibly imagine what propaganda lie the prince himself could have bought into to make it so.
They hadn’t spoken any more, and she was glad for it. She’d have to, of course, but maybe she could allow herself to face the day’s other challenges first.
Finally, Tulya walked her to the bedchamber. Her bedchamber, not theirs. She knew she was taking a risk, creating that distance between herself and the King, but she couldn’t have suffered sharing a bedroom — perhaps even a bed — with Loz.
She could suffer sharing a bed with Tulya. She had to.
He seemed nice.
»Permit me to ask a question, my husband.« She walked over to the washstand, watched her own hands in the polished silver as she started letting down the complex sculpture of twists and braids towering on her head.
»Of course.« She saw him, too, in the mirror as he sat down on the bedside, as relaxed as anything. He watched her, but there was no malice in his expression.
»Why did you choose to marry Prince Loz?«
He didn’t immediately answer. Her hair finally fell down to her waist, and she went to wrap it in silk for the night.
»The Solganians proposed,« he said softly. »It seemed prudent. Perhaps even helpful. Now here you both are, on neutral ground.«
She turned to look directly at him. »And if there is no helping the massacre of my people this way?«
»It’s the only way I can offer you.« The faintest edge appeared in his voice. »I will not push my people into a war that does not concern them.«
»Do you not think that once Vasikya falls, Trinura might be next on the Solganian itinerary?«
»It would be a hard fight, even if they had Vasikya. And I am married to Prince Loz now.«
»Do you really think that would stop them?«
That gave him pause. »I did.«
»For all these people talk about honour, they have none.« She realized she was too in his face now, but she couldn’t back away, too desperate to make him grasp what was at stake, to shake him into doing something. »Innocent people are dying as we speak. Children are being enslaved-« She caught herself; she’d made a blunder. The Trinurans were slavers too. It wouldn’t be shocking to Tulya. She nearly retched.
He reached out his hands, as if inviting her to take them. His face was serious. »You have to allow yourself to rest.«
She froze, her face sliding out of her control.
»I understand how much you care about your people. I also care about mine. But you cannot help them if you exhaust yourself. It is time to rest.«
»What do you expect me to do? Put it out of my mind?« She barely managed not to yell. »Like you do?«
»Not like I do.« His voice was unbearably soft. »It is right for you to care for your people. I do not fault you for it. But you need rest.«
She folded on the side of the bed, like he had spoken it into existence. The horrible truth was that he was right. She was exhausted. It had felt terribly wrong to leave her country behind, but here was where she could be most useful.
And she could only be useful tomorrow. Try and talk to Loz. Better if she was well-rested for it; Tulya was right. She could have cried over it. She didn’t want to, not in front of him.
She sat down next to him, using it as an excuse to avoid his eyes. »It is not time to rest yet, though. Our marriage is yet to be comsummated.«
He laid his hand over hers, very gently.
*
Not tonight.
It would have been foolish. Who knew how long the two of them would be awake on their wedding night? He’d experienced firsthand how slow and gentle Tulya would be, after all.
Loz stared into the darkness; sleep couldn’t seem to find him. Next to him, the slave rested, once again leaving the wedding bed to the newlyweds. He’d hesitated at the bedside, not fearfully, more questioningly. Loz almost wished he would have just asked out loud, the way he did with Tulya, what was so obviously on the tip of his tongue.
He hadn’t sent him away, and it seemed that had been endorsement enough. Loz could barely fault him for it; after all, he slept in this bed every night.
Now he listened to the slave’s calm breath, still the feeling of his dagger in his hand.
Until his breath was no longer calm.
A whimper escaped the slave. Then another. Then a mumbled plea — Loz couldn’t discern the words, but the tone was plenty familiar.
He sat up, looking down on the slave’s body, twitching now and then. It couldn’t have been more obvious that he was caught in some nightmare.
It was getting on his nerves.
He grabbed the slave by the shoulder and shook him awake.
»-please. Please-« The slave’s voice abruptly broke off into heavy breaths as he startled upright. After a moment, a weepy, »Sire?«
»He’s not here. It’s his wedding night. Again.«
Slowly, the slave seemed to catch his breath. He swallowed so hard Loz could hear it. »I’m sorry if I have disturbed you, your Majesty.«
He was still talking to him. That hadn’t happened since he had first told the slave not to. Something was wrong. Loz’ first impulse was to strike him, but this was, in a manner of speaking, his husband’s favourite pet, after all.
And it wouldn’t have made anything better.
The slave was struggling to control sobs, mostly successfully, but not enough to resolve the original problem of getting on Loz’ nerves.
»What would he do?«
The slave hesitated.
»I’ve asked you a question.« Loz heard himself sounding almost mild.
»Don’t worry about it. He’d — he’d just hold me, tell me I’m safe. I can handle it.«
»You are safe,« Loz snapped.
»Yes… yes. I… it’s just the dreams don’t make me feel that way.«
Stupid thing. Loz shook his head with irritation. The slave was still evening out his breath.
Loz reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
The slave made a surprised sound, but, after a moment, leant in to him.
»You are safe,« Loz repeated, still irritated.
»Thank you.« The slave’s voice was quiet, as was his breath. His forehead was warm against Loz’ shoulder.
»What do you dream about?«
For a moment, the slave was silent. »I belonged to a brothel. Before.« He raised his head, and suddenly his dark eyes were looking right into Loz’. »It was every night. For years.«
So what? He’s a slave. He had to cling on to the words over the haunting look the slave gave him.
»You know what it’s like.«
An ice-cold shiver of shame and fury ran through him. »Tulya told you.«
»He didn’t tell me anything.«
»Bullshit.« Loz let go of the slave, tempted to push him out of the bed. Something large and sharp seemed to be lodged in his throat.
»He didn’t tell me anything,« the slave insisted. »I’m sorry I brought it up. I didn’t — I know, I didn’t want to upset you. I just… I just wanted to say I understand.« His voice trailed off into a whisper.
»You’re a slave. We’re nothing alike. Know your place.« He spat the words out like venom — or like poison. He couldn’t tell. He could have thrown up.
He could make out the slave’s faint silhouette in the darkness, still sitting up.
»I’m sorry,« he whispered, and then, »Thank you for your kindness.«
»I wasn’t being kind.« Loz didn’t know what he said it for. What he even meant by it.
»Thank you anyway.«
Loz turned his back on him, burrowing back under the covers.
He listened to the slave’s breath for hours after he went back to sleep, leaving Loz alone in the dark.
