"Now, now...Husk. I believe you've forgotten your place." Alastor's voice came out rather menacing and staticky in a way as he laughed. "I find it quite rude for you to be talking about me behind my back, I heard everything that you told our dear friend, Angel Dust." He then yanked Husk's leash towards him, looming over the former Overlord.
It's clear that Alastor has taken extreme measures and he is furious. "Amuse me, did you find it funny that I had to leave in the middle of a fight due to getting injured?" He tightened his grip on Husk's leash as his grin widened even more. "Do you really have such a problem with me having control of you? You should be lucky that you're still alive and that I didn't kill you just like the former Overlords."
"Trust me, I can't kill you or get rid of you because the rest of our friends cares a lot about you and I'd rather not get on Angel Dust or the Princess of Hell's bad side." His eyes glowed a bright ruby red as he crouched down to Husk's height. "Husk, you're going to have to make it up to me if you'd rather keep your skin well-intact."
CW: Pet whump
It’s Take Your Pet to Work Day and everyone is bringing like their dogs and cats and stuff and then someone walks in with their human whumpee on a leash-
c.w. forced collaring, defiant whumpee, threats of finger-breaking, alcohol mention
"Now what did you go and do that for?"
He was tipsy. It had been impulsiveness and inattention, a slip from the vodka he was currently metabolizing. But Hayko stood firm, glaring him down with his stinging palm loose at his side.
"Don't grab my hair like that. It hurts."
Despite the darkening mark on his cheek, Nick had yet to lash out. He said nothing for another beat.
"I was kidding."
But you're about to be serious, I've heard it before.
Hayko snorted quietly, too foggy in his thoughts to be impressed at his boldness. Instead of pressing his back to the freezer, in the kitchen where they both stood silently, eyes out-of-focus on the shot glasses behind them, he was solid and present for whatever would come next.
"You gonna hit me 'r what?" Hayko slurred.
He thought he could see a smile sprouting on the other man's face.
"Mm, considering it."
"'Did it, though. I warned you not t' pull my hair."
No, Hayko hadn't bothered with the implication of the smile just yet. This was giving him more of a rush than the countertops spinning around them, than the shape of his hand on Nick's patient, smiling face.
And then a knock at the door, which must have been Vlad, just on time.
Hayko glanced across the bar, relief mixing in with his giddiness until-
Until he noticed he could see every one of Nick's teeth. Until he noticed the taller man's hand slipping into his pants pocket, picking blindly, and sliding out with a studded collar.
Hayko was stupefied for a moment. Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe.
"No," more like a breath than a noise.
Nick played his tongue over his teeth, still smiling. "Get. over. here."
His hands suddenly weakening, Hayko's pulse froze in his chest. "N-No, c'me on, I didn't mean it."
"Hayko?"
"Don't-... He can't see me like that-"
"Either you wear the fucking collar, or I break one of your fingers in the next ten seconds," Nick said calmly. Then, jingled it lightly, the sound being more damning than the crack of his hand on his cheek had been.
Than the sound of the door had been.
The leather snapped around his throat and before he could slur out another plea, Nick had pulled the strap to the furthest notch.
CW: Intimate whumper, collar, denied air, asphyxiation, non con touch (nonesexual but a lot), oxygen mask,
They had been too distracted the last few days, too preoccupied with their new little pet to get any actual work done. But the boy was doing better now, nearly all of that defiance bled out of him. In fact, he was kneeling at their side as they worked, temple resting on their thigh.
Taking a break for a moment, they peered over and reached a hand down to card through his dark hair. Weak thing barely moved, barely reacted. They smiled privately, pleased by such a reaction - or lack thereof.
He had started out as such a handful. Kicking, screaming, fighting at every turn. Bit one of their guards, broke the skin. But now the boy was kitten weak, unable to pull away or even react to the fingers that softly skimmed his cheekbones and across his dark straight hair.
The collar buckled tightly around his throat made sure of that.
Air was a silent necessity. The weak and the mighty both fell without it, every corner of life required it. They took a deeper breath with the thought, quietly basking in what he couldn’t. Such a simple thing.
“Look at you. So still and good for me.”
The boy’s eyes fluttered lightly, but he wasn’t strong enough to open them fully. Fingers twitched, brows barely furrowed. The most movement he showed was the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
The boy had been in the tight collar for nearly three days now and his strength was gone. Their hand slipped down farther to his nose and mouth. The soft puffs of air on his skin were barely noticeable, save only the slight warmth. Gently, they thumbed across his bottom lip. A slight jerk, eyes opening a bit farther, but no other defiance.
So good.
“Mmmh look at you know,” they murmured, pulling the limp boy up into their lap. “You’re so perfect like this, so soft and dazed for me. Isn’t this better? Better than all that screaming and fighting and swearing? Don’t you like it more?”
The boy’s back was to their chest, head lolled back to rest on their shoulder. They wrapped their arms around his waist, nuzzling into the side of his head. A light wheeze, a twitch, a painful swallow followed by a wince. Enthralled, they buried their nose into his black hair, fingers starting inching up to his ribs and chest.
Practically no movement; no breath.
“The marks around your neck will be so dark, so beautiful. Do you know what makes them beautiful?”
Just as he should, the boy couldn’t respond. They continued.
“They’re beautiful because everyone knows what they are. Everyone knows how they got there, what you went through to earn them. They’re beautiful because of the face you’ll pull when you see them. The way your eyes will harden and your jaw will set. So much turmoil in those green eyes, so much hate in your face. That’s beautiful.”
They wrapped a hand around his chest, holding it down to stop the shallow rise and fall. His lungs struggled, pushing up against their arm in a desperate attempt to continue their endless pattern.
It failed.
“Emotion is what makes something beautiful, is it not? Anger, fear, grief, joy, excitement - there’s no real difference. Not to me, anyway.”
Regrettably, they released his chest to allow breathing again. As the boy started to regain his rhythm, they reached down to the side of the desk to pull out the oxygen mask and canister.
“Just a bit longer, I think. I want them to be dark - stark against your skin. But I don’t want to kill you, so this will help.”
They adjusted the straps and fit the mask around his nose and mouth and opened the line to the canister. A soft hiss, a little fog on the inside of the clear plastic. They repositioned his head against their neck, snaking their arms back around to get back to work.
Moments later, they felt the sensation of his lashes on their neck. They smiled and squeezed his arm in affection. There was an unhappy huff but that was it.
Still too weak to do anything about it.
“Don’t worry, o2. I’ll make sure to put the straps nice and tight around your chest while the collar is off. Wouldn’t want to let you get too comfortable, now would we?”
Alternative branding/collaring idea: piercing your whumpee's ear with an ear tag, like the ones cattle uses. Especially if they didn't have their ears pierced before.
Imagine whumpee’s humiliation having to walk around with an ear tag filled with whumper's information, or a new name, or maybe just a number because that’s what they are now...
It’s subtler than a collar and less painful than a brand, but just as degrading if you think about it… just imagine whumpee being completely restrained, whumper really close to their head, the helplessness of wanting to thrash but having to hold still because they're holding something really sharp way too close to their face, the shock of pain and indignation when their earlobe is perforated, the hatred and shame every time they move and feel the tag dangling from their ear.
Besides, it's so pretty! Imagine your cute little whumpee with a new earring they loathe 🥰
This is not March 20th, even though I said I was going to start reposting on March 20th.
But this is March 17th, and it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I just couldn’t wait another three days to get my Irish OC Devin (back) into the world!
So yeah. Here’s the repost of the first historical whump piece I ever wrote! Welcome to my Thrall series, take two!
A note about the taglist: a lot of people on this taglist already liked/reblogged/commented on the first upload of this piece. This is the only taglist for this series that I have due to The Incident, so if you were one of those awesome people who interacted with the first incarnation of this piece, absolutely feel free to ignore it and the rest of this series until I start posting new content again. If you’re just now encountering this series and like what you read, just ask to be added to the taglist! (Or removed, if you’re not interested anymore! I completely understand- it’s been awhile!)
Also please note that, while I use a bit of Irish Gaelic at the end of this piece, I have literally no idea how to pronounce the words. I also disgrace my Irish heritage with my clumsy attempt at writing accents later on in this series. Whatever. I had fun, and I can’t wait to move on to the new pieces!
As a blanket warning: this whole series deals with slavery in the Viking age.
This chapter has: a mention of slave collars and a character who wears one, mild-ish physical abuse, and threats of violence.
Thrall
Lightning cracked open the sky. Rain slashed down like knives, accompanied by rolling thunder. It relentlessly pelted the Norwegian countryside, tearing through the trees at the edge of the forest with freezing claws, coming down hard on the back of a young man struggling with a load of firewood.
Devin bowed his head against the wailing wind, brushing rain out of his eyes. He set his feet and tugged, stumbling backwards as the bundle of wood finally moved. Crouching down, he shouldered the heavy load and let it slide down, finally coming to rest against his back.
He flinched as he moved out from the relative shelter of the trees and into open space, the rain pounding at him mercilessly and the wind howling through his thin tunic. Carefully steadying the load of wood with one hand, he used the other to shield his eyes from the storm.
The rain, thick and heavy, made it hard to find his way. Puddles of water dotted the ground, chilling him whenever his bare feet splashed into one. Twice the bundle of wood slipped, and he had to reposition it. But at last he reached the trodden-down earth that told him he was near the longhouse.
He made his way to the end of the dark shape veiled by the rain, breathing a sigh of relief as he found the door. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, slipping through like a shadow.
Hardly anyone spared a glance for him as he let the door close, standing still for a moment and allowing the warm, smoky air inside the longhouse take some of the chill from his body. Three or four families lived all together in this one house, their animals in a stable at the darkest, coldest end, a fire pit crackling in the center of the other end. Devin made his way carefully to that side of the longhouse. An old woman stirring a pot turned sharply, throwing up her hands and hurrying over to him.
“Devin! How long have you been outside in the rain, lad? Look at you! Poor lamb, you’re shaking! You’ll have a rough time of it this winter if you don’t get some warmer clothes.”
“I don’t have anything else, Ilka,” Devin answered, shifting the load of wood to a better position.
“No, and the fault’s not yours.” Ilka huffed. “Here, tend the fire. That’ll keep you warm for a bit.”
Gratefully, Devin set down his burden, crouching at the end of the fire pit and carefully feeding the flames. The heat from the fire wrapped him in its embrace, soothing his aching body and banishing the cold sharpness that had been piercing him down to his bones. Even his tunic- soaked through from the rain- began to dry a little, though the wool still stayed damp. Devin balanced on the balls of his feet, trying to judge whether the fire needed more wood or whether it was hot enough.
A hand grabbed him from behind, strong fingers seizing the short black hair at the back of his head. Devin gasped, dropping the piece of wood he had been holding.
“What are you doing?”
A low voice, smooth as molten silver, cold as an icy river, with the same undercurrent of danger both carried with them. Devin flinched at the sound. “I’m...feeding the fire,” he answered, barely managing to keep his own voice from shaking.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
Devin’s shoulders dropped as some invisible force tried to press him into the floor. “No.”
The hand released him. Devin dared not move. A pair of sturdy leather boots appeared beside him, and he looked up instinctively. He found himself confronted by a young, handsome face, surrounded in tousled blond hair and set with a pair of sky blue eyes that would have driven almost any girl mad with passion.
To Devin, however, those eyes were cruel.
The man had his arms crossed, looking down on Devin with a sneer on his face. He was young, only two or three years older, but Devin was afraid of him. He would have been a fool not to be.
“If I didn’t tell you to do it, then why are you doing it?” the young man asked, his voice rippling with danger. “For that matter, why are you in here at all? I told you to fetch firewood. I never said you had collected enough.”
“I-“
“I don’t care. I don’t care who told you to disobey me. I don’t care why you disobeyed me. You belong to me, remember.” Long fingers tapped against the iron slave collar around Devin’s neck. “Your master is Mikkel Haldorsson and none other. You obey me.”
Mikkel leaned down and picked up some of the wood. His lip curled in irritation. “This wood is drenched! It’s worthless for the fire!” Angrily, he tossed it down again, kicking the neat pile and sending the wood scattering over the floor.
“It- it’s raining outside,” Devin said.
Mikkel backhanded him across the face, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Did I say you could speak?” he demanded.
Devin got no chance to answer, as Mikkel’s grip suddenly tightened on his collar. The young Viking dragged him to his feet.
“Now,” Mikkel said sharply, “fetch another load of wood at least that size. I don’t want to see your face in here again until you have it. And it had better be dry this time, or I’ll break every one of these useless sticks across your back.” He kicked at the scattered wood again.
There was no chance to answer this time, either. Mikkel pulled him by his collar to the door, shoving it open with an elbow. He roughly threw Devin out of the longhouse. Devin fell hard into a puddle of muddy rainwater. He picked himself up, turning once only to see Mikkel’s angry face as he stabbed a finger toward the edge of the forest. “Go!”
Devin fled, stumbling up the hill. The rain hailed him gleefully, as if enjoying the chance to pound down on him again. Within moments, all the warmth from the longhouse dissipated, leaving Devin shivering with cold. The fat drops of rain punched through the trees with ease. It would be hard to find a single stick of dry wood in the downpour. He had been set an impossible task, and he knew it just as surely as Mikkel did.
He wasn’t sure when the tears came to his eyes. He suddenly realized that the wetness on his face was not all from the rain, and blinked fiercely, trying to hold back the sting. “Is fuath liom é,” he whispered. He knew he would be punished if someone heard him speaking Gaelic, but for once he didn’t care. The familiar Irish words tasted sweet on his tongue, even dripping with the helpless half-anger that filled him. “Is fuath liom é, is fuath liom é.”
