Soft and Hurt

Hey! I'm Dex. He/him, 34 years old. I write comf and whump (mostly comf). This blog is safe for minors and queer folks.

[decepticonsensual]

The dynamic of, "I see myself as nothing but a monster, but for your sake I am going to change and try to become kind," and the dynamic of, "I have moved beyond being a monster, and that is very important to me, but for your sake I will let my old self off the leash just this once," are both very juicy.

[iamafkrn]

enemies to lovers but its not "who did this to you?" but its "I did this to you" bc damn in the moment it felt necessary but the cuts weren't supposed to be that deep. the lashes should have faded by now, right? why are they still limping? make your characters self reflect. burden them with guilt and regret :) imagine laying in bed with the person you grew to love, only for them to roll over in their sleep and for you to see the nettled scars you inflicted on them

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

A whumpee with sleep apnea is kept captive with a muzzle for a long time. They are without their CPAP, so they don't get restful sleep and keep dozing off during the day and getting punished for it. When they're eventually rescued, they keep having panic attacks and flashbacks when they try to use their CPAP mask, because it feels so much like the muzzle. Even if they sedate themself before bed, they wake up panicking in the middle of the night. Restful sleep yet eludes them, and they panic whenever they doze off during the day.

[spiritbladed]

something something extremely sexy when magic users resort to physical violence. yeah i have the power of god and anime on my side but i also have THESE HANDS. i cast Punch You In The Face. i take my magic staff through which i channel the vast energies of the elements and the cosmos and i cast Severe Concussion And Skull Fracture. casting time for xenoglossy too long, chose the quicker route of Stab You In The Throat.

[gumy-shark]

sometimes my Beloved Mutuals will rb a post about a certain character archetype and i will have to physically restrain myself from saying “yeah you would say that wouldn’t you”

[gumy-shark]

jasper you don’t get to get away with this that easily.

new ask game: what’s the character archetype that makes you go “of course you would say that” when i post about it?

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

Is there such a thing as "slow burn whump" or would that be called "boiling the frog" instead

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

BLESSING OF THE WITCH PRINCE: DRAMATIS PERSONAE

More will be added at later dates, but I'm having fun making the cast in Heroforge.

Bel-Tasar: An ancient chimerical being reawakened from 400 years of magical slumber. He used to serve the imperial family as a protector and guardian, but now finds himself seeking revenge for their downfall.

Lauritz Altholm: A descendant of the emperor Bel-Tasar once served. He is on a quest to restore the imperial bloodline to the throne, and seemed to think he was after something rather different than the chimerical guardian recovered in the palace.

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

Blessing of the Witch Prince - Part 2

Part 1

In which Bel-Tasar meets the team and has some dinner. No whump (yet), but some angst. Google translate was used for the danish spoken here, and I hope it's accurate enough that nobody comes for me!

---

Bel-Tasar held quite still as Lauritz bade him, watching as one of his party unlocked the cell door and approached him with the ring of keys. She spoke to him in that unknown language, her words ending in chirpy laughter.

"She asks that you not kick her," Lauritz translated.

Bel-Tasar only nodded somberly, and once his ankles were freed, he waited for the woman to leave before emerging from the cell himself. He had to duck his head with great care, remembering how often he would bang his horns or the crown of his head on too-low doorframes. Most of the palace was constructed with his traversal in mind, but the occasions on which he traveled with the family had resulted in more than a few mishaps.

He'd had very few occasions to visit the dungeon before, but the state of the place lead further credence to Lauritz's words. Bel-Tasar could smell old rot and mildew and moss, surely the product of centuries of disuse. He felt layers of grimy dust shift and slide under his hooves as he followed his three new charges out of the dark.

The three of them did not speak to him further, though the one who had released him from the cell walked most easily of the trio, laughing at Lauritz as he gesticulated at the strange wood-and-metal staff she had slung across her back. The other man seemed to be trying to placate Lauritz, his words easing the crease from his brow.

As the small group emerged from the cold and damp dungeon and into the cool and dry evening air in the palace's courtyard, Bel-Tasar breathed deep. The outside smelled much the same, but absent of people, absent of the humming activity he had been accustomed to.

Not completely absent of people, though. Lauritz called out in his language, and Bel-Tasar forced himself to pay attention once more. There was a camp of sorts set up in the courtyard, gathered around one of Elu-Seru's favorite garden pavilions. It seemed that without her care, the garden itself had not survived in the dry heat, and he had to suppress another keening and drag his attention towards the group they now approached.

There were four waiting, sitting on squat stools around a crackling fire. Lauritz motioned for Bel-Tasar to wait, and he waved his other three companions over to the camp. "I will introduce everytone," he said. "However, we must do something about your language. I will not translate every word."

Bel-Tasar nodded. "Those who made me were of a similar mind," he said. "One of the intuitions I was gifted with--it allows me to learn another's language if I listen to them speak for several hours."

Lauritz's eyebrows raised, giving him the look of an incredulous hawk. "Intuitions?" he repeated, slowly, as if the word was not known to him. "There was no mention of--" He cut himself off and muttered in his own language. "It does not matter. If listening to us speak is all that you need, we will speak. Now, come."

He beckoned, and Bel-Tasar followed obediently until they stood mere yards from the campsite. Lauritz first gestured to him, speaking in what seemed to be a preamble before saying his name. "Bel-Tasar," he resumed. "This is my group. I am Lauritz Altholm. This is my friend Keld Frank."

A man of similar age and fair skin to Lauritz waved one hand, his freckled face jolly and looking interested.

"Ziri and Titrit of clan Jlassi." A pair that Bel-Tasar took to be siblings, both dark of skin and hair, the first sitting forward with interest and the second lounging and plucking an instrument that resembled a curvy lute. "Ziri is a surgeon, and Titrit plays music."

"Francesca Paz Gama and her wife Prani Chacham." The woman who had unlocked him from the cell, sitting with her strange staff across her lap, and another woman regarding Bel-Tasar with suspicion. "Francesca is a..." Lauritz made an annoyed sound and gestured vaguely at her staff. "There is not a word for it. Archer. You will see later. Prani makes our maps."

"Wilky Hale." A large and imposing figure, who seemed to be the tallest of the group but nevertheless head and shoulders shorter than Bel-Tasar. "They are a shield-bearer." Wilky Hale shouted something that the rest of the group seemed to find funny, and Bel-Tasar was put somewhat at ease by the laugher and relaxing of postures.

"You are not of use to us until you can understand us," Lauritz said, turning back to Bel-Tasar. "Tomorrow, you need to do nothing and listen to everyone talk. The day after, I will tell you our plan."

"Thank you, my liege," Bel-Tasar said, bowing his head. "I appreciate this opportunity. But I must ask, before the evening is over, that you allow me access to my chamber. I must retrieve my arm and my clothing."

Lauritz looked to the darkened sky, and Bel-Tasar followed his gaze, his heart calmed further by the familiar moon and stars. "Not tonight," Lauritz said after a moment. "It is too dark. After you can speak to everyone, someone will take you."

"I understand." He didn't like it, but he did not have to. His liege's command was absolute. "I will be patient. Thank you again, my liege."

Lauritz fixed him with an expression that Bel-Tasar could not identify, then went to join the rest of his group. Bel-Tasar approached with caution, and when none of them reacted with fear or hostility, he took a seat on the edge of the garden pavilion, a feeling of purpose returning to him.

---

The camp remained active for quite some time. Everyone seemed relaxed together, despite what seemed to be great differences in culture. Bel-Tasar had rarely been able to meet visitors from outside the empire, and those few he had cause to spend time with acted radically different from the family and palace staff. Much seemed to have changed during the time he slept, and perhaps not all of it was for the worse.

One of the Jlassi, Titrit, was tending a cookpot over a fire, and as she lifted the lid a meaty, spicy aroma filled the air. Bel-Tasar leaned forward with interest. He had always been a favorite of the kitchen staff, being seen as someone who would try new flavors and textures without complaint. The spices were strange to him, but not entirely unfamiliar. With a metal ladle, Titrit gave the pot a few stirs, then clanged a wooden spoon on the metal in a clear announcement that the meal was ready.

Bowls were filled, and Bel-Tasar noticed with disappointment that there were not enough for him to have a helping. That was of no consequence; he did not need to eat, truly. He could not help fixing the pot with a yearning look, wishing he could have a taste. And when he realized Titrit was bringing a bowl over to him, his ears perked up.

"Du kan også få nogle," Titrit said in the language all of them seemed to share, setting the bowl down next to him on the pavilion. "Jeg har ikke noget imod at vente." Her eyes trailed down from his face, and he followed them, looking at the scarred stump where he had once lost most of his right arm. "Så, hvordan skete det?"

"Thank you," Bel-Tasar murmured, dipping his head in thanks. He did not know what she asked, but he lifted the bowl with his left hand and brought it to his face for a sniff. Up close, he saw chunks of meat and some vegetables, with sprinkles of greens, in a deep brown sauce. The smell was exotic to him, but it reminded him of his favorite cook's stew, in several ways. His tail swished in anticipation and he carefully tipped the small bowl to his mouth, careful not to scratch the metal with his teeth. The taste was rich, and his tongue tingled, and he hummed appreciatively and couldn't resist pouring the whole thing into his mouth.

Titrit clapped her hands and looked up at him with delight, then accepted the empty bowl and hustled back to the cookpot. Bel-Tasar licked his lips of the last remaining sauce, slowly chewing the tough meat. He did not wish to use up all their resources, but if he could get cooking like this every once in a while, he supposed that would make his heartache a bit lesser.

As the night passed and the group began to settle down, he began to pick up on some words and phrases as they were used. He heard "riffel" connected with Francesca's strange staff, and supposed that was the name for that style of weapon. A few more hours of hearing them talk, and Bel-Tasar imagined he would be able to speak with them easily. It would certainly make thanking Titrit for the meal less of an ordeal.

The fire was eventually banked, and people began to disappear into tents. Wilky remained awake, giving Bel-Tasar some sort of salute as they took up a seat on the other side of the pavilion. Bel-Tasar returned the motion hesitantly, but he was rewarded with a grin and Wilky's deep voice as they chatted at him through the first few hours of a watch.

[melpomenelamusa]

Night of Recovery and Salvation

~Original story~

Masterlist. Previous

CW: nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman caretaker, royal whump, mention of past captivity, mention of past torture, mention of character death, character in catatonic state, PTSD, recovery.

The morning began as it had for the last five days since the rescue. Freyra entered Teklómenes’s room, still completely dark at that hour, and pulled open the curtains, letting in only a sliver of sunlight. Then she crossed the room in silence, approached the nest, and woke the sleeping avian with gentle strokes over his head.

“Good morning, Teté.”

He opened his eyes after a moment but showed no further reaction. He hadn’t reacted at all since Freyra had pulled him out of that dungeon, where she had found him on the brink of death. The healer had explained that his condition was the mind’s response to a trauma too great for him to process. Though Freyra could see on his body the traces of the abuse he had endured in his captivity, nothing could truly reflect the horrors Teté had faced alone in her absence.

Sarktur’s words intruded on her thoughts again:

“Did you know the little chick cried so much waiting for you to come back? He cried, begging you to return and save him, but you took nearly three months to do it. He must have thought you’d abandoned him, that you didn’t love him anymore. It was such a pity when, after a while, he simply stopped talking. I miss his screams and shrieks when he begged me to stop. You should have seen him—pathetic on the ground as I broke his wings, his bones, his hope, and even his pride.”

Freyra bit her tongue. No—she would shed no more tears. A single death would never be enough punishment for Sarktur after all the harm he had caused; but the dead remained dead, and now that she was back on the throne, she needed to care for the living—her kingdom, her people, her little one. She had no time left for guilt or sorrow.

A maid brought breakfast. After she ate and fed Teklómenes the revitalizing broths prepared by the royal cooks under the healer’s instructions, Freyra lifted him gently from the nest and carried him to the bath chamber, where the servants had already prepared the tub. She set him on the small stool—where he sat motionless, like a doll—and carefully removed his garments. His body was malnourished, his skin dry and still marked with bruises—nothing like the slender, strong build he had developed after years of training.

Once he was settled in the tub, Freyra poured warm water over him and washed his hair and fragile feathers with luxurious soaps. It had been years since she had last bathed him—back when he was only a fledgling rescued from the landslide that had killed his family. Back then he would splash and flap his wings, drenching the tiles and spraying the drakona with water and foam as he let out cheerful little hoots. Now, only the sound of falling water accompanied them, a quiet and nostalgic murmur.

When he was clean, Freyra dried him thoroughly and dressed him in soft, comfortable clothes before carrying him back out and setting him on a thick rug on the floor. There, she carefully moved his arms, legs, and wings through the slow mobility exercises.

Many maids and servants had offered to take on these daily tasks, insisting she needed rest:

“Your Majesty, you also need to recover from your injuries. Don’t forget your medications.”

“Your Majesty, your dark circles worsen every day. Shall I stay with the prince while you sleep?”

“Your Majesty, I’ve brought tea—it will restore your strength and the shine of your scales.”

“Your Majesty, shall we prepare a room and summon a concubine to entertain you? You’ve been terribly tense lately—you should relax.”

But Freyra gently refused nearly every offer, insisting she wanted to spend as much time as possible with Teté, especially in his vulnerable state. Despite her enormous responsibilities and the exhaustion weighing on her, she preferred to dedicate every free moment to her son’s care—whether out of guilt or fear that someone else might take advantage of his fragility and harm him again.

After the exercises, Freyra returned Teklómenes to his nest. A knock sounded at the door, and Rozelva entered to relieve her so Freyra could attend to royal duties.

Each time she walked away from her little one, a sharp ache struck her chest; but the responsibilities of a queen and a mother often collided, forcing her to choose one over the other.

At nightfall, Freyra returned to Teklómenes’s room to keep him company. Sometimes she sat on a cushion beside the nest, solving puzzles or reading aloud from one of his many books. Other times she climbed into the nest and held him against her chest, wrapping her wings around him as she sang. She didn’t know many songs, but she had once read that avians were fond of music. So she tried to remember a lullaby her mother used to sing when she was very young:

“The moon and the sun dance together;

the little and big stars are all welcome.

Take my hand, open your wings,

and tonight dance with me.”

When Teklómenes finally fell asleep in her arms—often deep into the night—Freyra allowed herself to shed a few tears.

As the weeks passed, Teklómenes’s condition slowly improved. He gained weight, and his pale, thin skin grew firmer and healthier. Freyra took him onto the terrace to absorb sunlight at dawn and moonlight at dusk.

The healer also decided it was time to change his diet—from fully liquid to soft solids like purées and porridges. Teklómenes began responding slightly to stimuli: rather than staring into the void, he now followed Freyra with his eyes as she moved about the room or turned his head toward sounds. Though still mostly mute, he let out sighs or soft hoots from time to time.

“Do you remember the first time you came to the palace?” Freyra asked one day, sitting beside the nest with an illustrated book. “We read this together. We chose your name from it, remember?”

The feathers along the sides of his head fluttered faintly in response.

Someone knocked.

“Your Majesty, I’ve brought the new medicine,” said a young male voice.

“Come in. Leave it on the table.”

The door opened, and a young red-scaled drakón entered—the healer’s apprentice. As he approached the nest to set the bottles down, Teklómenes suddenly let out a sharp cry. His body reacted instinctively: he covered his head with his arms and wrapped his wings around himself.

“Teté, what’s wrong?”

Freyra watched as his pupils shrank. His mouth hung open, gasping for breath. His feathers stood on end, his whole body rigid.

The drakona leaned in, unable to hide her worry.

“Teté, what is it? What’s happening?”

“Can I help?” the young drakón asked, stepping closer.

Teklómenes recoiled, pressing himself as far as he could from the stranger. Tears streamed down his face; he trembled like a newborn chick.

It took Freyra a moment to understand.

“Call the healer!” she commanded.

The apprentice nodded urgently and ran out. When they were alone again, Freyra pulled Teklómenes into her arms, drawing circles on his back.

“Easy, Teté, it’s all right. It’s not him, it’s not him. There are other red-scaled drakones who won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t have to fear him. He’s dead—he won’t hurt you again. I promise.”

She repeated the words until Teklómenes calmed and slipped back into his vegetative state. Minutes later, Rozelva and the healer—a purple-scaled elder drakona—arrived. The healer gave the boy a relaxing draught that soon put him to sleep.

“Panic attacks are common in patients suffering from post-traumatic stress,” the healer explained, adjusting her glasses. “If this reaction is triggered by the sight of red scales, reintegration into drakonic society will be more complicated. It’s a fairly common color…”

“What can we do?” Freyra asked, her voice tight with anxiety. “I can’t lock him away forever—that wouldn’t be fair. But I can’t let this happen every time he sees—”

“Your Majesty.” The healer’s firm hands gripped her shoulders, grounding her. “We can help him. His condition is not permanent, but his recovery will take time. We could try exposure therapy, and—”

The old drakona kept speaking, but Freyra couldn’t hear her anymore. Her words felt distant, as though filtered through water.

“Why don’t you rest for a while, Freyra?” Rozelva said softly, taking her hand. “I’ll stay with Teté tonight.”

The golden-scaled drakona wanted to refuse, but she was too exhausted. She nodded and left the room, dragging her feet. Instead of going to her chambers, however, she descended to the foot of the mountain and slipped into a sacred grotto. There, two monoliths of gleaming black stone stood: one adorned with a golden scale above a carved name, the other with a white scale. Coins, gemstones, dry flowers, and a small oil bowl lay at their base. Freyra knelt before them and lit the small brazier with a breath, illuminating the grotto.

“Father, Mother,” she whispered, bowing before the graves. “I need your help. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m so tired… overwhelmed. The nightmares barely let me sleep, they torment me every night. I still hear his voice mocking me, taunting me, betraying me… And Teté… he still doesn’t respond. I’m afraid he’ll never be the same—afraid I’ve lost him forever… And I have to pretend everything is fine for the sake of the kingdom, but I couldn’t even protect my own child… And I don’t know how to help him now…”

Her voice broke, and she allowed herself to cry before her parents’ tombs.

“I’m so tired… I don’t know what to do…”

Sobs shook her chest as she wrapped her arms and wings around herself. She had never felt so utterly alone.

The golden drakona cried for what felt like hours until exhaustion overcame her, and she fell asleep right there. In her dreams, she thought she heard her mother singing that old lullaby about dancing stars. She felt her father’s familiar hand stroking her head, and between her fingers she sensed a warm ball of feathers fluttering like a heartbeat.

When Freyra awoke, it was late morning. The grotto was bathed in golden light, making the scales embedded on the tombs shine. The drakona jumped to her feet. It had been the most restful sleep she’d had in months—but her calm vanished instantly.

She had left Teté alone.

She spread her wings and flew back to the palace as fast as she could. Without stopping to change clothes or seek food, she rushed straight to Teklómenes’s room and threw the door open.

Rozelva stood beside the nest, holding a bowl of porridge and a spoon.

“Your Majesty,” the pink-scaled drakona exclaimed, quickly standing. “Where were you? Your chambers were empty—we were all so worried.”

“I’m fine,” Freyra replied, still breathless from the flight. She knelt beside the nest and ran her fingers through the avian’s hair. “I’m sorry I left you alone, Teté.”  

The young avian looked at her—and his eyes filled with tears. His face tightened, his lips trembled, and fragile sounds slipped out, forming the first words he had spoken in weeks:

“I-I’m s-sorry…”

Freyra’s heart lurched.

“Teté… you have nothing to apologize for,” she assured him.

“A-all of this… is my fault…” he whispered, his voice cracked and trembling. “I only cause… trouble… I’m just… a useless… weak bird…”

“That’s not true,” Freyra said. “You’ve shown me you’re brave, agile, and noble—qualities worthy of any drakón warrior. You are important and special.”

“Not anymore… not after… this. Not after what I’ve become…”

“You’re going to get better, no matter how long it takes. You’re strong enough—and I will always be here to care for you.”

Teklómenes pressed his lips together as more tears streamed down his face.

“Why take so much trouble for me… for something like me?”

“Because you’re my son,” Freyra said. She had known it from the moment she first held him. To hell with her vow never to bear children or build a family. She had taken this child as her own, and so it would be until the end of time. “And a mother, like a queen, always protects her own.”

She wrapped him in her arms, and Teklómenes clung to her, moving on his own now, crying into her shoulder.

Freyra had not given him life—but she would do everything in her power to ensure he kept it. He was, after all, her greatest pride and treasure.

“I want to live…” he murmured. Not a request—an oath.

“You will live, little one,” Freyra replied. “I’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains

That's all for now! Freyra and Teté will return when I have the inspiration to write, but that doesn't diminish all the affection I feel for these two ^^ Thank you to everyone who read this far! ⭐

[melpomenelamusa]

Night of Torment and Madness Pt. 3

~Original story~

Masterlist. Previous

CW: nonhuman whumpee, human whumper, royal whump, captivity, lady whump, lady whumpee, manipulation, mention of death, suicidal thoughts, crying, mourning, hallucinations, mention of murder and violence.

Days passed.

Freyra woke up like a living corpse, letting herself be dragged by the guards from her cell to the palace, obeying whatever whim King Dóminus demanded.

"Lizard, bring more wine!"

"My guests are bored. Go entertain them."

"I think I dirtied my shoes. Clean them with your tongue."

If at any point she refused to obey, Dóminus only had to snap his fingers for a group of guards to drag her by the leash connected to the shackle around her neck out to the courtyard, where she was chained to a thick pillar and then beaten with whips and sticks until the king deemed the punishment sufficient.

Drakón’s skin is very thick, further protected by their tough scales, so sometimes it took over an hour of constant beating and cruel lashes to leave Freyra bleeding and begging them to stop.

With shackles nearly permanently around her wrists and ankles, there was little she could do to protect herself, other than wrapping herself in her wings, which ended up taking most of the damage.

She hadn't flown in years, so there was no point in keeping them intact.

She couldn't rely on her fire either. That had died along with Teté.

When she was of no further use in the palace, neither as a servant nor a pet, the guards would escort her back to her cell. There, she would lie down once more on the pile of straw that served as her bed and wish to sleep and never wake up again.

What was the point anymore? Wouldn't it be better if she just died?

Everyone she had ever loved was dead: her mother, her father, Teté...

How had she endured such humiliation for so long? How much longer could she keep going?

I don’t want to anymore, she told herself, exhausted, staring at the stone ceiling, longing for the sun on her scales and the breeze beneath her wings.

She was utterly drained.

Perhaps the best thing would be to end it all at once.

Freyra stood up with a very clear and dark idea in her mind, determined that this would be her last night.

However, when she turned toward the small window, she was shocked to discover she was no longer alone in the cell.

There was someone standing under the moonlight.

A drakona, with long black hair and a body covered in white scales that shimmered like pieces of diamond. She smiled at her with gentle lips and a pair of blue eyes that reminded Freyra of the sky she hadn’t soared through in what felt like an eternity.

“Freyra,” the drakona greeted her with a sweet and familiar voice.

Recognizing the newcomer, Freyra felt shaken to her core. She couldn't help but stumble forward toward the figure before falling to her knees and clutching her legs with desperation.

“Mom...” she said, before her voice broke completely, tears streaming down her dirty and battered face, forming dark circles on the ground.

She hadn’t seen her mother in years—not since she was a child, not since… that event.

The white-scaled drakona knelt in front of her, keeping a peaceful smile.

“My child, it’s not too late,” said the figure. “You can still save him.”

“No,” said Freyra, covering her face with her hands. “I let them kill him. I let them kill him just like they killed you…”

Sobs shook her chest, overwhelmed by guilt.

“Don’t let their illusions fool you. The truth is not what it seems at first glance,” said the white-scaled drakona, gently wrapping her arms around Freyra’s shoulders. “Search deep in your heart, and you will see through their lies. You can still save him. He’s waiting for you.”

“I don’t have the strength…” Freyra whispered, clenching her fists on her knees, ashamed. “I’m no longer a queen or a warrior… I’m unworthy…”

The white-scaled drakona lifted the golden one’s face, allowing their eyes to meet.

“Freyra, the title of queen and warrior isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you earn. If you feel unworthy, then earn it again. You are strong and brave and have a great heart. You are my daughter and your father’s daughter. You are a queen, a warrior, and a mother. You can overcome anything you set your mind to. Now go—defeat your enemies, take back your kingdom, and save your own child.”

Freyra wiped her face with her hands, and when she looked up again, she found herself alone in the cell, beneath a beam of moonlight.

The drakona took a deep breath, reflecting on everything that had happened until now:

Sarktur and his betrayal, the trap, Dóminus, Teklómenes, the electricity, the darkness...

It was as if something inside her head was trying to block her true memories, showing her twisted, nightmarish lies. It was almost like…

Magic, she thought.

The image of the masked, wide-brimmed-hat-wearing figure flashed through her mind. They had done something to her mind, to her memories. If she wanted to uncover the truth, she would need to be alone with the court wizard.

And that’s when the plan came to her.

"Your Majesty, it’s true—I saw it myself. The drakona has gone mad."

Dóminus walked through the dungeon, flanked by his guards, unable to believe what he was hearing and desperate to confirm the rumors with his own eyes: that the drakona had lost her mind.

When he entered the cell, what he saw left him speechless: The drakona was sitting in a corner, rocking her body back and forth while humming a song. In her arms, she held what looked like a crudely made doll of straw, which she gently caressed and cradled as if it were a baby.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dóminus exclaimed.

The drakona turned to look at him with a frown.

"Shh! Be quiet! Can’t you see Teté wants to sleep?" she said, then returned her tender gaze to the straw figure in her arms and continued humming.

Dóminus stood there, his mouth open in a grimace of disbelief.

"You stupid lizard! Don’t you see that what you're holding is just a pile of straw? Get up and get back to work!"

At the human’s shouting, Freyra sighed and looked up at him with concern.

"You made him cry!" she said, rocking her fake baby with more intensity. "There, there, Teté... are you hungry? I’ll get you something to eat."

Freyra reached out, scooping up some moss and mud that had collected between the stones of her prison, and shoved it into her mouth. After chewing for a moment, she regurgitated it onto the face of the straw doll.

Dóminus turned his face away, struck by sudden nausea.

"Disgusting," he muttered. "She really has lost her mind..."

"Shall we call a doctor, Your Majesty?" one of the guards asked.

"No, no... Call the court wizard. Have them come as soon as possible."

The humans left and Freyra was once again alone in her cell. Once the sound of footsteps and clinking armor had faded away, she allowed herself to relax. She got up, took some water from a bowl, and rinsed her mouth.

Good. Part one of the plan had worked.

Some time later, the door of her cell opened again and the figure with the wide-brimmed hat and mask stepped inside.

Their presence was unsettling and made Freyra nervous, but she did her best to hide it, focusing all her attention on the straw doll as she continued cradling and humming to it.

"Leave us alone, please," said the court wizard.

The guards nodded and closed the door behind them. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor. The wizard walked toward Freyra with a relaxed stride. And once they were close enough—she attacked.

She lunged, using the element of surprise to knock the wizard to the ground and wrap her claws around their throat, tightening.

"Don’t make a sound, or I’ll break your neck before you have time to cast a spell," she whispered.

The masked figure let out a choked sound and quickly nodded, raising both hands in surrender.

Freyra didn’t waste time. She flipped them over and tied their hands behind their back with a strip of cloth she tore from one of the dresses in the wardrobe.

The wizard chuckled softly.

"I suppose if you're doing this, it means you’ve discovered the truth," they remarked.

"What did you do to me?" Freyra demanded. "You tampered with my memories, didn’t you? What really happened that night? If you don’t tell me, I might just have to kill you and see if your magic fades with you."

The wizard stayed silent for a few seconds.

"Your name is Freyra Gyllendrage, isn’t it?" they said, tilting their head back. Even with the mask, the smile in their voice was clear. "You're even more fascinating than I expected."

"So you know who I am?"

"Well, I recognized the Queen of the Drakones the moment I laid eyes on you. I'm honestly impressed you saw through my illusion so quickly. Otherwise, I would’ve been disappointed."

"I thought you worked for Dóminus," Freyra said suspiciously. "I thought your role here was to keep me imprisoned."

"Hmm. I am working for King Dóminus at the moment—we made a deal. But that doesn’t mean I’m loyal to him. The truth is, I don’t care what happens to him or this pathetic little kingdom. What I’m saying is... I could turn a blind eye and let you escape."

"Ha. You think I’m stupid? You wouldn’t offer this for free out of the kindness of your heart. What do you want?"

The wizard paused before answering:

"Just what I’d expect from you, Freyra Gyllendrage. You’re right—I don’t offer this for free. In return, I only ask one favor: give me a strand of your hair."

The strange request surprised Freyra.

"Why do you want one of my hairs?"

"Well, you could say I’m an experimental wizard. I like to invent spells, and I think a hair from a powerful drakona might help with my experiments. I won’t hurt you or anything. I think it’s a very small price in exchange for your freedom, your revenge... and the chance to save your son."

"So Teklómenes is really alive?" Freyra asked, her heart pounding.

The wizard said nothing.

Freyra closed her eyes and opened them again.

"How do I know you’re not lying to me? That you won’t betray me the moment I set you free?"

"You don’t. I suppose we’ll both have to trust each other: trust that you won’t kill me and trust that I won’t betray you. We’re in the same boat."

Freyra hesitated.

It was a risky plan. Wizards were dangerous—their magic powerful and unpredictable. The safest route would be to kill them, then escape the cell, murder Dóminus, and find the quickest path back to her kingdom.

She was still thinking it over when the wizard said:

"Killing me won’t solve your problems. I’m not your enemy, Freyra. Let me go, and I’ll bring you a potion that will help you recover your memories. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be... conveniently gone from the palace."

"Say no more. I accept," Freyra said. She pulled out a golden strand of hair and quickly untied the wizard’s bonds. "Here. Betray me and I swear my wrath will find you, wherever you hide."

The wizard took the hair and lifted their face, still hidden behind the mask.

"A pleasure doing business with you," they said, then stood and exited the cell.

No one disturbed Freyra for the rest of the day.

As night fell, someone opened her cell door and the wizard set a small vial on the floor—a transparent liquid, almost like water, except for its faint blue hue.

"Don’t forget to take your medicine," they said before closing the door again.

Freyra picked up the vial and examined it suspiciously. It had no smell, so she drank it all in one go. It had no flavor either, but its texture was thicker than regular water.

She lay back on her bed and waited, going over that night in her mind, trying to relive the moment and see beyond it, to break the illusion.

Little by little, her blurry memories—the nightmarish images that had felt so real—began to fade, losing sharpness and detail, replaced by different scenes. Slowly, reality started building itself again before her eyes.

Soon the image was clear, and everything returned to her like a spark igniting a coal.

A heat rose from deep in her chest, climbing up her throat in a warm and familiar sensation.

They had tried to deceive her, to manipulate and use her. But now she had seen the truth.

Freyra would go and save her son. She would take back her kingdom.

And she would burn to ash everyone responsible for this.

The next morning, when the guards entered to put her shackles on as usual, Freyra greeted them with a breath of fire.

She made sure to kill them as quickly and quietly as possible—she didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.

After cleaning her hands, she stole one of their swords, stepped out of the cell, and began climbing the stairs that would take her out of the dungeon and into the rest of the palace.

That’s when the fun began.

Any human who crossed her path had only two options: Either be smart enough to run and hide or be foolish enough to face the edge of her blade or the fury of her flames.

Soon, a trail of corpses began to form wherever she passed. The halls filled with screams and the scent of blood.

Freyra carved her way through the palace like an unstoppable volcanic eruption, destroying and burning anything that stood in the way of her goal. She spread her wings, numb after months of disuse, flapping them like two wild gusts of wind.

She felt the heat of flames rise through her throat, letting out bursts of smoke as she kept her mouth open in a feral grin, baring her fangs like a predator on the hunt.

Today, she was thirsty for blood.

Next

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains

This was so exciting to write! Thanks for reading! ⭐

[melpomenelamusa]

Night of Torture and Waiting

~Original story~

Masterlist. Previous

A/N: Finally, the sequel to Night of Feathers and Flames! I'm here just to say: Sorry, Teté :c

CW: nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman caretaker, nonhuman whumper, royal whump, blood and injuries, wing whump, captivity, torture, physical torture, imprisonment, malnutrition, physical abuse.

Day 1

“The Queen is missing!”

Chaos, confusion, fear.

“In her absence, I will take her place until she returns”.

The news spread like fire consuming dry grass. What had happened to Queen Freyra? No one knew, but someone had to take charge of the Kingdom of the Drakones, and who better than the queen’s oldest and most faithful advisor, who had also served the former king?

In less than a day, Sarktur rose and claimed the throne.

As expected, rumors spread as well, especially when the first human troops began crossing Drakonic borders. But Sarktur was clever and charismatic, experienced in politics. He made sure to keep the population under control with strict rules and punishments, assuring them it was for their “protection” and that “certain changes were necessary for the greater good.” After all, the best form of government was one ruled with the strictest iron hand.

Every time he walked through the palace, he heard whispers from the depths of the corridors, saw glances of suspicion and surprise, fingers pointing at him. Those unfortunate enough to be caught rebelling or speaking against him ended up dismissed at best—or arrested under any accusation, condemned to rot in the dark dungeons of the prison. Soon, no one dared speak or even lift their head.

As was now his habit, the red-scaled drakón descended into the underground dungeons. He headed toward the farthest cell, damp and dark, the one where neither sun nor breeze nor even the lowest vermin dared to enter. With a key that only he possessed and carried with him at all times, he unlocked the heavy metal door and stepped inside. With a single breath, he lit the torches along the walls, revealing the small figure curled up in a corner.

“How have you been, boy?”

Teklómenes lifted his head, which had been resting on his arms, hatred burning through his yellow eyes. The boy said nothing and only wrapped his body in his wings, trying to distance himself from his captor.

At the lack of a verbal response, Sarktur stepped forward and grabbed Teklómenes by the hair, yanking him and dragging him to the center of the cell. The boy screamed in pain, struggling in vain to free himself from the rough grip. The chains that bound his wrists and ankles to the wall rattled with every movement.

“Pay attention: this will be the first day of your new life”, Sarktur said, releasing him. “No more fine clothes, no more banquets, no more training. You’re not a prince, you're nothing to this kingdom, so you deserve nothing from it.”

The young avian propped himself up on his arms and raised his head in defiance.

“Then why don’t you just kill me? You’ve always wanted to, haven’t you?”

“Of course I want you dead,” Sarktur replied, hands behind his back, face calm. “But I won’t kill you for one simple reason: Freyra. I know her very well. I know that sooner or later she will escape and return, demanding vengeance. And that’s where you come into play. I won’t kill you now, but I will do it in front of her eyes. I will wait until she believes she can save you, and at that very moment I will slit your throat and rip out your eyes and heart. Whatcha think, boy?”

A chill ran through Teklómenes’ body at those words.

“Bastard…” the boy muttered through clenched teeth. “She trusted you!”

“Silence!”

The slap turned Teklómenes’ head almost a full 180 degrees. He spat a bit of blood onto the stone floor. His cheek burned, and a few tears welled up in his right eye. His lip was split.

“You don’t speak unless I tell you to”, Sarktur continued. “Didn’t I say you’d make an excellent jester for my court? Get ready, because now you’re going to entertain me.”

Without warning, a powerful kick slammed into Teklómenes’ stomach. The impact hurled the avian across the cell until he crashed against the far wall. The blow knocked the air out of him, pain spreading through his body, forcing him to collapse on the floor and vomit bile. He had barely begun to catch his breath when Sarktur seized him by the hair again, yanking him up to smash a fist into his face. The avian boy dropped to the ground, stunned, stars dancing before his eyes. More blood dripped from his mouth. It was a miracle he hadn’t lost any teeth.

He tried to rise clumsily, and that was when Sarktur stomped down furiously on his wings. Teklómenes screamed in agony, hearing the crunch of bone.

“We’re just getting started!” said a voice above him, before a new kick slammed into his side, knocking him down, followed by another, and another, and another. “Stupid, weak little chick! Come on, scream louder!”

Teklómenes tried to bite his tongue, covering his face with his arms to shield himself; but the brutal assault eventually forced the screams out of him, echoing off the walls of the small cell.

Minutes passed while Sarktur amused himself by kicking, beating, and insulting his victim without pause, until the avian was nothing more than a trembling, bloody heap on the floor, completely unable to defend himself. His ragged, wheezing breaths were the only sounds that escaped between his teeth stained crimson.

“Wasn’t that cathartic?” the drakón said, wiping the blood from his hands onto his trousers. “Don’t you dare die before Freyra returns.”

And with those words, he extinguished the torches and exited the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

Day 5

Teklómenes tried to fight—he truly did.

When Sarktur entered the cell once more, he already knew what awaited him, so he tried to come up with a plan, a strategy. He tried to defend himself, using his teeth, his claws, his fists, his wings, even the chains that bound him—anything, everything within reach. He fought, just as Freyra had taught him, just as the Drakonic warriors fought, as if his very life depended on it.

Unfortunately, his struggle was no match for Sarktur’s violent assault—so much older, so much larger, so much stronger—who took delight in putting on a vicious display for his own amusement, laughing as he broke bones and tore feathers, reveling in Teklómenes’s screams as they echoed against the four stone walls.

“Thank you for entertaining me,” he said, wiping his hands and turning his back on his barely conscious victim, before leaving him once again in the darkness.

Day 7

Teklómenes was crying.

He tried to shield himself from the cold by wrapping his broken wings around his form, but every movement drew a scream of pain. His body had become his worst enemy.

He cried—the only thing he could do that didn’t bring unbearable agony. He cried like a newborn chick begging for food. He cried, praying and wishing Freyra were there.

He felt guilty, remembering how he had been captured and used as bait to lure the queen. How had he allowed himself to be defeated in such a way? If only he hadn’t been captured…

Thinking of Freyra broke his heart. What had become of her now? Was she, like him, suffering alone in some cold, dark dungeon? Sarktur was confident she would return, but how long would it take for that to happen? How long had Teklómenes already been locked away here? It felt like an eternity. With no access to the sky, spending most of his time between Sarktur’s abuse and restless sleep, the passing of days had lost all meaning.

"Freyra... I need you..." he whispered through sobs, curling up on the floor, missing his nest, missing the warm touch of his mother.

Heavy footsteps approached, and the door creaked open.

"Good morning, little chick," came a mocking voice. "Ready to entertain me?"

Teklómenes tried to stifle his crying, ashamed, bracing himself for what was to come.

Endure, he told himself, feeling the oppressive hands seizing his body, tearing away his clothes, ripping out his feathers, crushing his bones. You are a warrior, you are a drakón, you are the queen’s son—so endure.

He had to survive.

He must survive.

Day 20

Teklómenes had become a shadow.

He had lost all his muscle mass. His body was now a bundle of thin bones wrapped in bruised skin. His feathers, the few that still managed to grow on his atrophied wings, had lost all their shine, growing in uneven and coarse, as fragile as autumn leaves.

Each morning, Sarktur would throw him the leftovers from his luxurious meals—the only food the boy was allowed. Nothing but bones with bits of cartilage, fruit and vegetable peels, and bread crumbs, which the boy devoured hungrily. To drink water, he had to lick it from the puddles that formed on the floor when Sarktur dumped a bucket of the vital liquid over him to "clean him."

"You look just like an animal," the drakón would comment, watching the thin figure crouched on the floor like a broken twig in the middle of the forest. "Don’t die yet, don’t you want to see your mommy?"

Teklómenes mumbled something, too softly to be heard.

Sarktur crossed the cell in a few strides and grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head.

"Say that again," he ordered.

The boy parted his dry lips and said,

"J-just kill me..."

Sarktur let him fall again.

"As much as I wish you were dead—as you always should have been since that landslide—you’re more useful to me alive for now. So don’t even think about dying."

And with those words, the drakón walked away.

Day 40

The bird boy didn’t move.

When Sarktur entered the cell that day, the bird boy didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head, didn’t cry or beg or say anything at all—he just stayed there, lying in a fetal position, his battered wings wrapped around his battered body, his glassy eyes staring forward at nothing.

For the first time, the drakón felt fear.

“Shit,” he muttered through clenched teeth, rushing to the avian’s side and dropping to his knees. He placed two fingers against the boy’s neck and waited… and waited… And there it was—a pulse. He couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

“Damn brat,” he muttered.

The boy gave no sign that he had heard, or even that he was aware of Sarktur’s presence. He was just there—like the living dead.

Sarktur grew angry. He couldn’t let this useless child ruin his plans before Freyra returned.

Day 41

A drakona walked through the dungeon corridors. Her pink scales reflected the torchlight like shards of quartz. Her name was Rozelva, and she was Freyra’s lady-in-waiting—arrested under mysterious circumstances after the former queen disappeared and refused to submit to Sarktur’s rule.

Behind her, like a looming mountain, the red-scaled drakón walked in silence.

"If you want to live, then fix him," he said, opening the cell door and shoving her inside.

Rozelva gasped at the sight before her.

"Teklómenes!" she cried, rushing to the motionless figure on the floor. "You’ve had him here all this time?! What have you done to him?!"

"Just keep him alive," Sarktur said. "If he dies before Freyra returns, I’ll rip your head off."

She did not let herself be intimidated. She frowned and snapped,

"This boy... it’s a miracle he’s still breathing! But he won’t survive much longer if you keep him locked up in here! Do you even know how cold it is down here? Why don’t you give him a blanket at least? And food? He’s skin and bones! I feel like if I move him, he’ll shatter into a thousand pieces!"

"I don’t care what you have to do!" growled the red-scaled man. "Just keep him alive."

Rozelva pressed her lips together but nodded. She knew she had no other choice. If she didn’t act fast, this boy was already one step away from death.

Day 45

"Come on, Teté, you have to eat. You need to be in good shape for when your mama comes back."

Rozelva gently lifted the boy’s head and carefully spooned warm soup into his open mouth. Some of the liquid dribbled down the corners of his lips, and the drakona wiped it away tenderly with a cloth.

"That’s it... good job."

Teklómenes still didn’t react. She had to feed him, give him water, clean him, and wrap him in a worn-out cloth during the freezing nights, while the boy remained silent, eyes open and vacant, like a glass doll. Only the fact that he still breathed, that blood still flowed through his veins, was proof that he was alive and not already a corpse.

But could this even be called life?

Freyra, where are you?, Rozelva wondered with desperation. Freyra was her friend. They had known each other since the golden-scaled drakona was a child, back when Rozelva had started working at the palace, serving the queen’s mother. She knew Freyra was clever, brave, and incredibly strong, having led armies and won countless battles in the past. So her prolonged absence could only mean something terribly bad had happened to her. Otherwise, she would never have abandoned her people, her friends... her son.

Rozelva looked again at Teklómenes—his expressionless face, his sunken eyes and cheeks, the ribs like spikes threatening to break through the pale skin at his sides—and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Freyra, please... come back," she whispered, though no one was there to hear her. "We need you."

Day 53

"Your Majesty!"

The messenger ran breathlessly through the throne hall, where Sarktur sat.

"What is it?" the drakón asked with indifference.

The messenger stopped, taking a few seconds to catch his breath. Then, looking the red-scaled drakón in the eyes, he announced:

"It’s Freyra. She has returned."

Next

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains

Next chapter we´ll see what happened to Freyra during these months of absence 👀 Thanks for reading! ⭐

[melpomenelamusa]

Night of Feathers and Flames Part. 2

~Original story~ Masterlist. Previous

CW: nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman carretaker, nonhuman whumper, human whumper, royal whump, parental caretaker, lady whump, kidnapping, bound and gagged, blood and injuries, wing whump, mention of murder, open ending.

Teklómenes didn’t wake up until nearly past midday. He definitely wasn’t a morning bird. He stretched his arms and wings, giving them a shake. A few feathers came loose and fell into the nest, landing atop a carpet of others just like them. Yep—he definitely needed to do a deep cleaning one of these days.

He got up, bathed, and put on his finest clothes. Freyra had told him a couple of days ago that today, before sunset, she wanted to hold a small celebration for him. The drakona hadn’t given him any details, only instructed him to dress properly and meet her at the entrance to the banquet hall.

The young avian wondered if it might be a belated birthday party. Ever since Freyra had rescued him, she had made sure to care for him, teach him, and protect him, always providing him with the very best.

Teklómenes owed her his life.

Instinctively, he brought his hand to his chest, where he wore the pendant of a necklace Freyra had given him years ago, for one of his past birthdays. It was a bright red stone. Whenever sunlight touched it, a little flame seemed to flicker inside, as if trapped within the crystal.

“It’s called the Fire Stone, one of the greatest drakón treasures,” Freyra had once explained. “I give it to you as a symbol that you are part of our kingdom. Never forget that.”

The first years of adaptation had been difficult. It was clear to little Teklómenes that he didn’t belong in that place—it became more obvious every time he saw how the other children his age had gleaming scales, elegant horns, sharp fangs, and could breathe fire, while he had only a pair of dull-colored feathered wings. The drakón children played rough, were loud and expressive, while he could barely stay awake for an entire daylight cycle.

It was in those moments, when he hid in the hollow of a tree to cry where no one would see him, that Freyra always showed up to comfort him, to tell him he would never be alone again.

The truth was that, whenever the she was near, he felt safe.

I wish I could do something to thank her for all she’s given me, he thought. Maybe he could use tonight’s celebration to do just that.

Teklómenes soared over the treetops, planning to get in some more crossbow practice before the ceremony, when a column of smoke caught his attention. There shouldn’t have been anything in that area but trees and shrubs. Could it be a forest fire? But drakones were forbidden from using their fire to harm nature. Could it have been an accident? The thought intrigued the boy, who decided to fly in that direction, drawn by curiosity.

The closer he got, the thicker the smoke became, making it nearly impossible to see—even for his sharp vision.

He landed, trying to pinpoint the source of the thick smoke that limited his sight to just a few meters. He coughed, picking up the scent of burning damp wood and feeling his eyes begin to sting. He was following the sound of the crackling fire, searching for the heat source, when suddenly he heard flapping wings behind him. He turned his head at a 180-degree angle—but too late. A shadow lunged at him, slamming him into the ground. His crossbow flew from his hands, landing several meters out of reach.

“Didn’t you pride yourself on that sharp vision of yours, chick?” said a rough, mocking voice.

Sarktur looked down at the bird boy with disdain, pinning him to the dirt. The fake bonfire smoke began to clear, and Teklómenes soon saw that they were surrounded by dark-hooded figures: humans, all carrying ropes and weapons.

“What’s going on?” Teklómenes growled, struggling to get up, but the man’s weight was too much to shake off. “Let me go!”

“Ah ah,” Sarktur said, flashing his fangs. “A predator never lets its prey escape.”

A chill of dread ran down Teklómenes’ spine. He had barely ever spoken with the red drakón, who was always busy with royal affairs. His constant scowl made him someone no one really wanted to chat with—but now he looked like a true monster.

“Let me go! I haven’t done anything wrong! Please!”

Sarktur’s large hands gripped Teklómenes’ cheeks like a raptor’s claw.

“Oh, boy—it’s not about what you’ve done. It’s about what you will do.”

As if that had been a signal, the humans pounced on the avian boy, grabbing his arms, legs, and wings.

“Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!”

Teklómenes fought with all his strength, trying to bite his captors' fingers and slash at their bellies with his talon-like claws, but it was no use. Thick rope soon bound his wrists behind his back. More rope wrapped around his ankles, calves, thighs—even his wings, folding and pressing them tight until it hurt.

“Excellent,” Sarktur muttered with satisfaction. He crouched in front of the captive boy and, with a swift movement, tore the necklace with the Fire Stone from his neck.

“I’m sure this will be enough to make Freyra come running to rescue her little chick.”

Teklómenes thrashed, but the ropes only dug deeper, cutting into his skin. They were expertly tied—unyielding.

“Bastard,” the boy spat through gritted teeth, glaring at the red-scaled drakón with hatred. “Whatever it is you’re planning, you won’t get away with it!”

“Oh, chick,” Sarktur said. “But I already have.”

Without wasting another moment, he crouched down and stuffed a wad of cloth into the avian boy’s mouth. Before Teklómenes could spit it out, a knotted rag was forced between his teeth. Sarktur gripped the boy’s head and twisted it 180 degrees to tie the gag tightly at the base of his neck.

“Nghh! Lmh mmn ghmm!”

This couldn’t be happening. Panicked squawks and chirps burst from the boy’s throat in a desperate plea for help.

“If you don’t stop that squawking, I will.”

Teklómenes didn’t stop.

Not until two more cloths were tied over his mouth, muffling his screams into barely audible whimpers, did Sarktur finally seem satisfied.

“Ready for the trip,” the drakón remarked, tying a last rag over the boy’s yellow eyes, robbing him of sight.

Multiple hands dragged Teklómenes to a carriage hidden behind some rocks and threw him inside a small wooden compartment. By now, any trace of anger had vanished from the boy, leaving only fear. All he could do was curl up in a corner, trembling, as weak sobs escaped through the gag.

Where were they taking him? What did they plan to do? What would happen to Freyra?

The carriage door slammed shut—and soon, it was on the move.

~ 🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Freyra knew something was terribly wrong when, fifteen minutes past the scheduled time, Teklómenes still hadn’t shown up. The avian boy was always punctual, and she had made sure he understood how important that evening’s event was—even if she had chosen not to reveal her intention of naming him Honorary Prince, wanting to surprise him.

But all of that would have to wait, because if the boy didn’t appear, none of it would matter.

She went to Teklómenes’ room and found it empty. She asked around the palace and the village, but no one had seen him. It was as if the avian boy had vanished into thin air. One of the border guards mentioned seeing him flying toward the forest, probably to train. Freyra wasted no time heading in that direction.

She searched the woods as best she could, shouting her son’s name without pause—but her vision was nowhere near as sharp as the young bird’s, and after a few hours, she returned empty-handed.

With her heart gripped by anxiety, Freyra locked herself in her office. A heavy feeling in her chest refused to go away—some kind of dreadful intuition.

Where was Teklómenes?

That’s when she noticed the box on her desk. Wooden, plain, with no decorations or inscriptions.

The drakona examined it, and when she found no trace of suspicious magic on its exterior, she opened it.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside were four items: a wooden crossbow with the letter T carved into its side, a necklace bearing a Fire Stone pendant, a gray-and-brown feather, and a letter.

Freyra didn’t need more than that to connect the dots.

She felt the fire within her churn in her gut, smoke escaping from her nostrils. She grabbed the letter and read it quickly—as if she needed any further confirmation of her fears.

“Those damned humans,” she growled. “I’ll make them burn in flames for what they’ve done to my boy.”

Freyra took less than an hour flying at full speed toward the palace of the Human Kingdom. Any guard who tried to stop her was met with the fury of her flames, the beating of her powerful wings, or the bloodthirst of her fangs—leaving behind a trail of crimson and the scent of scorched flesh. She moved like an unstoppable catastrophe through the long, deep stone corridors until she reached the innermost chamber of the castle.

There, in a vast, high-ceilinged hall with damp black stone walls, she saw him.

The moment she entered, Freyra’s eyes widened in horror at the thin figure hanging several meters above the ground: Teklómenes.

The boy’s hands were bound and raised above his head, chained to the ceiling. Two metal hooks pierced through his wings, stretching them out to either side with more chains—like a butterfly on display. Freyra could smell the blood flowing between the feathers, seeping from the wounds.

 “Teté!” she cried.

Teklómenes weakly raised his head. His eyes were swollen from crying, but they widened like twin full moons when they met the gaze of the golden-scaled drakona before him. He shook his head rapidly.

“Nggh! Gmmmnh! Mnh mn dhmh!”

He was clearly trying to say something, but the multiple layers of cloth gag, stuffed in his mouth and on his lips, made his words unintelligible. He struggled in his restraints, but the movement only drove the hooks deeper into his wings, tearing at the wounds and forcing a scream of pain from his throat.

Seeing this, Freyra couldn’t hold back. She spread her wings wide, preparing to fly toward him and set him free.

That’s when a metallic sound rang out, and suddenly something heavy crashed down on her, slamming her into the stone floor. A cry of surprise escaped her lips as she tried to comprehend what had just happened.

A heavy metal net was pinning her to the ground.

She fought to free herself, but the net was laced with small metal barbs that dug into her clothes and the patches of unscaled skin. She couldn’t even spread her wings without risking serious injury. She inhaled deeply and exhaled a stream of fire—but something embedded in the net's welding points absorbed the flames the moment they left her mouth. Fire stone? Had someone used Fire stone?

Footsteps echoed, and Dóminus appeared from a corner of the room, wearing a broad, triumphant grin.

“Looks like capturing the leader of the drakones turned out to be easier than expected.”

“How dare you?!” Freyra roared, no longer hiding her hatred and fury. “Kidnapping my son just to steal our land? People say humans are scum, but you’re the worst of them all!”

But something wasn’t right. How did Dóminus know about her relationship with Teklómenes? And the Fire stone used on the net—how could he know about its magical properties? It was a secret treasure of the drakones. No outsider should know it even exists.

“Judging by your face, I bet you're asking yourself a lot of questions,” the man went on. “I admit, I’d love to take full credit for this brilliant plan—but the truth is, I had help. Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”

At those words, a tall, broad figure emerged from the shadows, with long ruby-red horns.

When Freyra saw him, she felt her blood run cold.

 “Sarktur…”

Her voice cracked with betrayal and pain, impossible to disguise.

The red-scaled drakón looked down at her like one might a dying animal about to be devoured by ants.

“You don’t have what it takes to rule,” he declared, his tone cold and authoritarian. “This era of peace, of picking up trash and calling it royalty…” he practically spat the last word, “It’s over.”

“Fine, don’t support my way of ruling!” shouted Freyra. “Fine, take the throne if you want, I don’t care! But please, don’t drag Teklómenes into this—he has nothing to do with it!”

“You get soft over a weak little bird you found one day in the forest?” Sarktur mocked. “Weren’t you the one who said you’d never have children, so you could be the strongest, put your people first, have no weaknesses?” He clicked his tongue. “I’m deeply disappointed. What would your father think if he saw you now?”

Freyra bit her lip, suddenly ashamed of her younger self—the one who, after her father's death, truly believed that cutting all ties would make her invincible. She felt pathetic.

“Please…” she whispered. Her voice had lost all of its usual confidence, revealing something far more vulnerable. “Kill me if you must. But let my child go.”

Teklómenes let out a muffled sound beneath the gag, fresh tears pouring from his eyes and trailing down his cheeks. His gaze was filled with guilt and helplessness.

“Neither of you is going to die,” Sarktur said. “Even without your crown, you’re still the daughter of someone who was once my closest friend. No—your punishment will be exile. You’ll stay here in the Human Kingdom and serve His Majesty Dóminus. And as for you…”

Sarktur spread his wings and flew up to the avian boy’s level. Teklómenes tried to recoil, but couldn’t escape the hand that gripped his face tightly, pressing against his cheeks. Yellow eyes met red.

“I think you’ll make the perfect jester for my new court. Don’t you think?”

“You bastard!” Freyra screamed, struggling once more beneath the net, which now pressed heavily on her wings and her head.

The barbs had begun to tear her skin, thin lines of blood trickling from her wounds. Trapped, unable even to breathe fire to help herself, she was powerless.

Her most trusted advisor had betrayed her. Now she was losing her kingdom—and her son.

How could fate be so cruel?

“Enough spectacle,” Dóminus said. “Tomorrow, the preparations for conquest begin.”

With a snap of his fingers, a group of servants began dragging the net away, hauling Freyra out. She fought with everything she had, but in the end, there was nothing she could do to stop them from taking her out of the underground chamber and locking her in a dungeon.

The last thing Freyra saw was Sarktur still gripping her Teklómenes’ tear-streaked face with that look of arrogant superiority.

“Say goodbye to mommy.”

Next

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16

This was so much fun to write!!! I've really grown attached to these characters, and even though I haven’t planned more of their story, if I ever get whump ideas involving bird characters, dragons, or just winged folks, I might write more! Thank you all for reading! ⭐ Edit: Now there´s more!!!

[lokisuggestion]

the world's most easily injured man just had a LinkedIn post written about him

[melpomenelamusa]

Aw, glad that Tete finally made friends!!!

Here's an idea:

To no one's surprise, used as bait. Teklomenes learns that his new friend Reyvren is kidnapped, and he goes out to save his buddy, but it was a trap and Tete gets captured too!!! Oh no!

-- @whumperofworlds

My good old friend, used as bait

~Original story~

Masterlist

CW: nonhuman whumpee, nonhuman whumper, multiple whumpees, multiple whumpers, kidnapping, mention of "racial" discrimination, mention of death, death threats, used as bait, bound and gagged, restraints, captivity, ransom, hostage situation.

"Okay, now it’s my turn. Mmmm, why do you always wear such revealing clothes?"

"Well, I don’t spend all my time training for nothing. Besides, lacking scales like you drakones, what else could I flaunt if not my muscles?"

Teklómenes and Reyvren were sitting on a cliff, watching the lush gardens of pink, white, and purple flowers along the slope of the palace mountain. Both young men had grown used to seeing each other whenever Reyvren finished his work at the infirmary, whether to talk or to wander around the surroundings together. Both quickly discovered that they shared many things in common, such as their love for books, so the conversations flowed long and pleasantly, sometimes lasting hours.  

"I think I should go now," Reyvren said, standing up and stretching his wings. "I don’t want to leave my grandmother alone preparing dinner."

"Alright, say hello to her for me," Teklómenes replied in turn.

The other boy’s cheeks flushed. His pale face always took on a warmer color when he was with the young avian.

"Okay. Goodbye, see you later!"

The friends said their goodbyes, glad for having each other’s company. Meanwhile, far from that place, someone with darker intentions watched through a spyglass as the two youths separated. A malevolent smile crept across a face.

It was time to act.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Reyvren was walking calmly through the village when he accidentally bumped into someone else.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, embarrassed. The things that happened to him for walking around lost in thought…

"Don’t apologize," a rough voice replied.

When he looked up, Reyvren found a drakón smiling at him with malice, much taller and broader than him. Discreetly, the stranger held a knife in his hand, the tip level with Reyvren’s navel. "Why don’t we go for a walk?"

The boy felt his stomach drop. He glanced to the sides. The wide street was almost empty; no one was paying attention to him. Nothing in his attacker’s relaxed posture raised suspicion, who, leaning forward, gave the impression of engaging him in an intimate conversation. The tip of the knife pressed into Reyvren’s abdomen, not enough to break skin, but enough to send a chill through him at the clear threat.

"Shall we?"

With trembling legs, the young man let himself be guided through several streets until they left the village, heading into the wide fields along the slope. The sun had already finished setting behind the mountain when they stopped in front of an old, enormous barn. Two other drakones were waiting there, accompanied by a shepherd warg.

"Looks like it was easy," one of them commented, not taking his mocking, predatory gaze off Reyvren before he was thrown inside the barn.

"Who are you?! What do you want from me?!" the boy exclaimed, facing his captors. Even though inside he was dying of fear, he tried to appear brave.

The three drakones exchanged looks and laughed.

"The less you resist," one of them said, pulling out several coils of rope, "the less it’ll hurt."

What followed happened very quickly. The three strangers lunged at Reyvren, who, without training and unable even to use the power of fire to protect himself, could do very little to defend himself. Cornered and outmatched in both number and size, his enemies subdued him in no time, pinning him against the ground while rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. Coarse rope bound his wrists, legs, and wings, tightened painfully to the point of agony.

Once he was tightly bound, they dragged him to the back of the barn and threw him onto a pile of hay. Reyvren struggled, but only managed to hurt himself against the coarse rope.

"Why are you doing this?!" he cried, blinking several times to keep the panic tears that threatened to blur his vision at bay. "Let me go! What do you want from me?"

"What would we want with a filthy half-drakón?" one of his captors mocked, crouching at his level. "We don’t want you, we want your little friend. The prince."

In that moment, Reyvren felt true terror. The reality of the situation struck him like a devastating lightning bolt from the sky.

He was bait.

"What do you want with him?" he asked, but he knew it was useless. They had captured him to lure Teklómenes. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the avian would come without hesitation if he found out his friend was in danger.

"We’re tired of this life of herding goats," one of the drakones said. "We want easy money. Before the crown can catch us, we’ll already be far away with the ransom."

No, this couldn’t be happening.

"He’ll know it’s a trap!" Reyvren insisted desperately.

The three drakones exchanged looks again and laughed.

"Good thing you won’t be able to tell him anything to warn him."

"No, wait, ple-mnph!"

A cloth with a thick knot in the middle was forced between his teeth and tied behind his head, painfully pulling at several strands of his long black hair. One of his captors began rummaging through the bag they had taken from him and pulled out a small round mirror: the magic mirror Queen Freyra had given him to communicate with Teklómenes.

"Time to call your little friend," one of the drakones said.

The reflective surface of the mirror began to grow increasingly opaque, as if a thick fog lay behind it, before it faded and Teklómenes’ face appeared on the other side.

"Reyvren, are you—?" The prince cut himself off when he saw the image on the other side of the mirror, the feathers at the sides of his head bristling. One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by one of his horns and lifted his head, while with the other hand he placed the tip of a knife right below his eye.

"We have your friend, Your Highness. If you want him back alive, you’ll have to pay for it."

Bound and gagged, with no way whatsoever to warn his only friend about the trap, Reyvren listened as the criminals gave instructions on how much gold to bring and the location where to leave it.

"You have one hour, Your Highness. Otherwise the damned half-breed will be dead."

"Mmph!"

Reyvren shook his head, but seeing Teklómenes’ terrified and pained face through the mirror only shattered what little strength he had left. He didn’t want his friend to be captured, but he didn’t want to die either.

"I’ll do it," Teklómenes said in a hard voice. "You’d better not touch a single hair on his head before I get there, or you’ll regret it."

"We’ll be waiting, Your Highness."

And with that, the connection between the mirrors vanished. The drakones left the barn, leaving Reyvren alone, with the warg at the door as the only guard. There, alone on a pile of hay, he allowed himself to shed the first tears of helplessness.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Teklómenes felt his mind tearing itself apart between destructive fury and suffocating fear. He had taken the gold he found and flown in the direction the kidnappers had indicated. He told no one, not even Freyra, for he feared for Reyvren’s safety. The kidnappers had made it clear that if he didn’t arrive in time, alone, and with the gold, they would kill his friend.

And he would not allow himself to lose him, not when he was the first and only one he had.

He arrived in front of an old barn, in an area of the kingdom used for raising mountain goats. There he saw three drakones waiting beside a warg. He recognized them from the mirror and knew he had reached the right place.

No sooner had he landed than he threw the sack of gold onto the ground at their feet.

"Here it is," he said sharply. "Now release my friend."

The drakones exchanged knowing looks. One of them took the sack, while another walked to the barn door and removed a huge lock.

"Go get him yourself," they told him.

Without needing to be told twice, Teklómenes pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior of the structure was empty except for some old wooden crates and tools in a corner. And at the back, on a mattress of hay, a body. Shining red scales stood out faintly in the dimness of dusk.

"Reyvren!"

Teklómenes ran to his friend. The addressed one lifted his head, his pupils blown wide into a tiny point in the middle of his large light-blue eyes.

"Mmm, gmh mph phmm!" Reyvren cried out, his warnings muffled behind the gag, shaking his head frantically.

Teklómenes needed a second to understand, but when he did, it was already too late: the three drakones had him surrounded and lunged at him.

He fought, of course he did, striking noses with his elbows, hitting ribs and stomachs with wings and fists, scratching skin and scales with his claws; but in the end he was still a young avian against three large, seasoned drakones. The battle was doomed to fail.

"You walked right into our trap, little bird," one of the drakones said, while the other two forced Teklómenes to the ground.

"Bastards," the avian growled through his teeth. Coarse rope had already begun binding his wrists, wings, and legs. "What do you want?"

"Simple, we want money. And we’re sure the Queen will pay very well to see her chick safe and sound again."

The knots were secured. Teklómenes struggled, but he was firmly restrained. It would be impossible for him to escape on his own.

"Good, we have the boy. Time to kill the half-breed."

One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by the horns and began dragging him out of the barn. At his waist he carried a large butchering knife.

"H-hey, wait!" Teklómenes shouted, something tightening painfully in his chest. Reyvren had his eyes squeezed shut, but he could see the tears clinging to his lashes and hear his quick, shaking breaths. "You already caught me! Why do you want to kill him?"

"He’s already served his purpose," one of his captors replied, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. "We don’t need a useless half-breed. If we let him go, that would ruin our plans. So the easiest thing is to silence him forever."

A broken sob escaped from Reyvren’s throat, and Teklómenes knew he had to do something.

"The Queen will pay for him!" he exclaimed. "Leave him alive, and I know she’ll pay his ransom too. Whatever you planned to ask for me, ask double for both, and I know she’ll agree."

The truth was that Teklómenes had no idea if that would work. He didn’t want Freyra to yield to the demands of these wretched criminals, but he was not going to lose his friend, not now, not like this.

The drakones exchanged looks again and discussed the matter as if their two prisoners were not even there.

"It could work. And we avoid having to get rid of a body."

"Alright. He can live."

"But if we don’t receive that extra money, we’ll kill him and sell his parts."

Having reached a decision, they dragged both young men back to the pile of hay. A piece of cloth with a knot in the middle was shoved into Teklómenes’ mouth and tied behind his head, cutting off any further sound. Once the barn door was closed, the two boys were left alone. Teklómenes twisted on the hay until he managed to sit with his back against the wall. Could there be any way to escape before the ransom was demanded? His thoughts were interrupted by a series of soft, broken sobs, barely audible. He turned his head and saw Reyvren, his body curled tightly in on itself. His shoulders trembled faintly.

The avian boy couldn’t help the sharp ache in his chest. All of this was his fault. Reyvren had been taken just to trap him, used as bait for him. Teklómenes was used to walking a narrow line over danger; but Reyvren didn’t deserve any of this.

He leaned forward and gently bumped his head against Reyvren’s to get his attention. Maybe his captors had taken his voice, and his hands were bound behind his back, but he wanted to do something, anything, to comfort his friend. After a moment, Reyvren lifted his face. His light-blue eyes, heavy with guilt and humiliation, avoided Teklómenes’ yellow ones for a moment, and when he finally dared to meet them, the tears only fell harder. Teklómenes understood that feeling all too well.

As best they could, they shifted on the hay, sitting side by side. They didn’t know if there was any way to escape their fate unharmed, whether the Queen would pay for their freedom or they would find another way out. But if there was anything good in all that darkness, it was that at least they still had each other to hold onto.

Part 2? 👀

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @eggy16 @justabitofwhump @writinglittlepains @warmfuzz-ies

@loreleiloon @scoundrelwithboba

[rockytheeridian]

MARK FISCHBACH as SIMON THE BUTCHER in Iron Lung (2026)

[whumporama]

I think you should put that character in a Situation

And then make the Situation a lottt worse

For enrichment

[soupmonarchart]

Dont enable me like this random internet person the situation™️ is already bad for him XD

[whumporama]

But Soupmonarchart, it could be worse.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumper: It is pride month, Whumpee. You know what that means?

Whumpee: Huh.

Whumpee: What.

Whumpee: Do you want to like.

Whumpee: Torture me gayly.

Whumpee: What.

Whumper: ...