CW/TW: Compulsion, recapture (that wasn't planned but my writing somehow ended up there), magic whump, generic whump, brief mention of alcohol, kidnapping, cruel whumper,
Word count: 557
The place was buzzing around Whumpee; Voices and music in the background, dimmed coloured lights hanging from the ceiling. It was nice, not enough to be overstimulating, just enough to drown out the noise from their head.
They took another sip from their beverage, non-alcoholic of course, ever since Whumper they preferred to have a clear head. Surely someday though they‘d be able to enjoy a proper cocktail again.
Regardless.
I wanna have some fun. Maybe a game of pool will do me so good, betting for nothing more than a round of drinks again.
As Whumpee took a couple steps forward, leaving their backpack at the wardrobe they approached the nearest pool table as two hands suddenly rested on their shoulders. A sickening feeling rushing through their body in consequence, sinking in and carving itself inside them. Whumpee whipped around, steadying their drink with one hand only to look up into the grinning face and cold eyes of Whumper!
„How did-You shoudln’t be here. I got out, I broke free.“ They shook themselves out of Whumper‘s grip, the sickening feeling lessening in turn.
Whumper‘s grin was unfaltering. „Did you now? Cute that you think so. Last I remember I own you, body and soul. Now quietly go and get your coat.", they ordered with the ever present grin, the ever casual swing in their voice.
Whumpee stiffened, taking another step back. "I don't have to take orders from you anymore."
But as they said it they could feel their inside start to burn, from their toes to their hair roots. The sensation worsened until Whumpee could feel their body move against their will, move to fetch their coat. Dread closed over them like an icey wave. Compulsions, that feeling, that feeling that they had banished to the darkest corners of their mind. NO.
Once their body Whumpee had picked up their coat their gaze fell onto their backpack. There really wasn‘t much in it, just some hygiene articles, a book a smaller bag full of little trinkets and a notebook. Not much, definitely not a threat but important to them.
They crouched down to pick it up but Whumper who had followed them on the heel tutted: „Ah ah ah. No, leave it here.“
Whumpees eyes, previously fixated on the backpack slowly travelled up to Whumper‘s face only to find a way too familiar cruel grin laying on it. They knew there was no reasoning with them if they‘ve got themselves set on something. It was even more shameful that they didn‘t even use the compulsion, barely phrased it as an order…
As Whumper again stepped away for a moment Whumpee frantically removed some trinkets from their bag and stuffed them in their pockets.
But the other's form returned quicker than anticipated, forcing Whumpee to kick the trinket bag underneath a tower of chairs.
Whumper simply forced them to walk with them, guiding them with a painfully firm hand around their arm.
Once they were out of the bar Whumper painfully twisted Whumpee‘s arm behind their back, leaning in close, their breath against the forced one's ear in the night air. „I saw that, Whumpee. Maybe once we're back home, if you beg me well enough I won't force you to destroy whatever you stuffed in your pockets.“, they whispered icy, shoving Whumpee into a car.
"In Philip José Farmer's short story "Wolf, Iron, And Moth" only people who have two recessive genes can become werewolves, and even those people will not become werewolves unless they are bitten by another werewolf or receive a werewolf pelt. The transformation from man into wolf requires food energy which the change burns off, so in human form werewolves gain as much as twenty pounds before losing the weight after the full moon. The compulsion to eat food and put on the werewolf pelt on nights of the full moon is too powerful to resist. Indeed, the werewolf experiences sexual arousal and orgasm during the change itself. Aside from the transformation and urge to hunt, werewolves have no magical abilities—-an ordinary lead bullet will kill a werewolf just as easily as silver. Finally, in the closing paragraph the reader becomes aware that the sheriff who kills the werewolf in the story also carries the fatal werewolf gene and will soon become a werewolf himself now that he owns the pelt which he cut off the body. The sheriff realizes the danger and thinks he will have the will power to burn the pelt before the next full moon. The last sentences of the story, which explain the title argue otherwise."
servant is under magical computation to follow orders
master unexpectedly shrinks small enough that servant can no longer hear coherent words and is not obligated to follow orders they cannot hear or comprehend
past instructions may still be in effect
if this includes orders to ignore their presence then it sets up an unaware scenario that lasts longer that it normally would
it could be ambiguous if servant is feigning ignorance
other people coming to the house could be the ticking clock pushing the master to fix the situation
master may have to convince servant to help them without relying on direct commands
alternate take - robot girl following asimovs three laws
TW: man-handling, non-consensual touching, casual power imbalance, forced obedience, exploitation of someone referred to as a child.
Everyone had their dirty little secrets, their guilty pleasures. The things that excited them, or kept them up at night fantasizing, or simply made the day to day more bearable, but which were demonized by society.
The thing about existing for only a short period of time, especially as compared to the world one existed upon, was that while the exact nature of said sinful indulgences varied, at their most basic, they were all primal, even if they didn’t appear to be. The needs for socialization, for amusement, and for comfort and pleasure, drove all mortal creatures.
It was a lovely and oh-so fascinating observation Granville had made about ten years ago, after five years running various Underworld dens of inequity. Whenever the moral powers that be declared something an affront to the deity no one had ever met or had proof of existing, a new den opened. A new niche for the hungry and desperate to stumble into and trade their valuables for a chance to satiate their desires.
For now, and for the past seven years, he and his partner ran the casino, the brothel and the speakeasy, though they’d have previous ventures. Granville had been disgusted by the moral laws set in place on sex for only his first year. In the Underworld, one had to become well acquainted with the inherent disconnect between one’s own morality and that which imposed by the Upstairs.
The desperately hungry and needy trickled down to the Underworld, no matter how often they were warned, how many mundane or magical defenses were put in place, because it was simply in the nature of the world to twist and reshape reality to open the doors to wherever that thirst could be slaked. It wasn’t as though anyone Upstairs had the ear of an actual holy being to enforce the rules created.
And tonight, as testament to that, the casino pulsed and throbbed with life, full to bursting, but that wasn’t what had captured Granville’s attention.
“Kastrom,” he said idly to his partner by his side as they overlooked the main floor. “Do you see it?”
“There’s a lot to see,” she replied. “Be more specific.”
He snorted, then gestured to the oddity.
A child, though obviously old enough they would take great offense to the description, sat at a blackjack table with a glass of amber liquid and a veritable pile of chips. They winked at the croupier and added their latest winnings to their stash.
He nodded at the hellhound croupier at the table. “Rot Bite typically has turned the tables by now. Our guest is skilled.”
She hummed her agreement. “They appear… young.” Her gaze flickered briefly to his, lurid orange cat’s eyes meeting pale brown.
To be fair, recognizing the ages of mortals was hardly a priority for an effectively immortal being such as herself. Demons didn’t typically interact directly with mortals. He was a select exception.
“I would wager they are,” he agreed.
This was hardly the first time a young soul had found their way to the Underworld and it wouldn’t be the last. It was merely the nature of the prices paid in such a place like this that made it tricky. While Upstairs, no child could legally drink, for example, but a soul belonged to a mortal just as soon as they decided that for themselves. A guardian could teach, could bring them to religious institutions or elect not to, but it was the individual who owned their own soul, no matter the age they recognized this natural right. In the eyes of the Underworld, in the eyes of countless demons, that meant the souls were afforded the same responsibilities and contractual autonomy as a legal adult.
Admittedly, Granville had just enough of Upstairs morality clinging to him to keep the youngest souls from leaping headfirst into a contract, to warn them prior to signing that dotted line just what they were selling. He collected enough souls to make quota without being reduced to such easy pickings. It was pride, perhaps, and not Upstairs morality, that stayed his hand.
Kastrom snaked the tip of her tail under his shirt, untucking it to drag a cold line along his lower back. “Their luck has to run out soon,” she said.
Steadfast in place despite the chill, Granville merely angled his head, trying to determine whether she meant that as a passing comment, or for him to make sure of it. “I believe I’ll visit our young friend then.”
With her silence as answer enough, he started to make his way to the main floor of the casino.
“Once you’re finished mingling,” she called, her tone stopping him in his tracks, “I believe you still haven’t finished your collections.”
No, no he hadn’t. Between running the casino, brothel and speakeasy, he’d gotten sloppy. Four souls had escaped in the last month alone, and two the month previous, each taking with them their talismans. Then there were the derelicts raiding the Outskirts, and the squatters camped in the Sweltering Plains. The infestation of Crawlers needed exterminating, and the old opium den was still to be cleared for demolition. Yes, there was work aplenty and yet… Very carefully not clenching his jaw and forcing the muscles in his neck not to tighten, he smirked and offered a flippant wave. “Have a little faith, partner,” he said before continuing down the stairs.
He felt fire on his back and knew she’d taken her leave for the night. What a cluster. His neck ached and his temples throbbed, reminded him of his own outstanding balance several months building. Even he had to acknowledge that he had his limits, much as they were far beyond the typical mortal’s, and he could feel their rapid approach.
Concentrate on the present issue, he thought as he reached the table. Plan for exhaustive collapse tomorrow.
As Granville approached and placed his bet, Rot Bite barely looked up before seamlessly dealing him in.
How to play this, beyond carefully? The kid, perhaps, didn’t recognize him, or they were pretending not to. Either way, so far they hadn’t so much as looked at him, keeping their gaze on the dealing shoe. The other two at the table, a nervous looking kelpie and a snake picking at her shedding scales, didn’t seem to care either about his presence.
It wouldn’t do to tip hands too early, to declare his intentions so immediately. He had to hold off a minute, get a feel for the table and the kid’s tells. And while they would hardly lower their guard quickly, sometimes observing their inaction was twice as informative as catching someone in the act.
As expected, their effortless flow and easy wins became more ragged and sporadic. Certainly they still won, but their luck took an abrupt turn away from the preternaturally profitable. Still, Granville wasn’t about to let the kid off the hook quite so quickly. He could be patient. Dealing with immortal beings necessitated some degree of patience.
Mortal humans, especially young ones, did not have much patience.
A scant couple hands later, the kid’s luck began a miraculous comeback Granville studied them in his peripheral vision, watching their hands fluttering over their own cards and tapping a nervous pace.
Nervous, or were they signaling someone?
No, they had to be working alone. The angle of their seat offered poor lines of sight, the din of the casino was too loud to allow the sound to carry clearly, and the only other two at the table were still wholly absorbed their own business. Desperate, he’d say, and ripe for a deal. Perhaps after dealing with the card shark he’d make a deal or two.
Then the kid doubled down on a eleven and hit blackjack.
That was something he didn’t miss about his youth— the foolhardiness to assume his plans infallible and those around him blind.
Rot Bite gave them congratulations and their winnings. Granville offered only the bare minimum to match the kelpie and the snake’s interest. Another hand later and the kid stood on a twelve while Rot Bite busted.
Interesting. Some sort of card counting, or— yes, there. On the back of the queen Rot Bite had drawn, a mark in the upper right corner.
He’d wasted enough time in observation, now he could act.
Smoothly, he slid out of his seat to move behind the cheater.
“Say, friend,” he drawled as he roped an arm around them. “You and I ought to go cash out.”
To their credit, they merely brought their drink to their lips and took a sip from the trembling liquid.
“I’m going to keep playing,” they said as they tried to pry him off them.
He merely readjusted his hold, left hand digging into their scrawny upper arm and right arm wrapped around their shoulders. “With what money? Not a single scrap of that’s honest pay.”
The kid went very, deathly still, which was smart. Before they could get any wise ideas, Granville allowed a crackle of magic to dance along his fingers as he waved them in their face.
He chuckled, low and smoky, the charcoal taste of his little display on his tongue. “Now… Let’s you and I talk terms. Step into my office.”
They audibly swallowed.
Ah, how sweet youth was. So easily exploited and wrong-footed.
They resisted him for all of a second, long enough for his magic to singe their shirt, before obedience reasserted itself and they leaned into his direction.
“You are going to give me your name,” he said, smirking as he led them across the floor. The other patrons, if they acknowledged them except to move out of the way, tried not to glance too obviously at the scene.
The kid puckered their lips.
Tasting each honey-sweet enchantment on his tongue now, he insisted, “You will give me your name, my friend, or I will take it by force.”
With his every word, their expression strained and crumbled further as they valiantly fought the compulsion, but, like a sapling branch steadily twisted, and bent, and sawed, and folded until it sprang free of its trunk, their resolve split open.
“Jules!” Their name burst from their cracked will, music to his ears and a heady rush through his whole body.
“This will go much smoother with some measure of cooperation,” he reminded them as he led them into his office.
As he all but shoved the kid into the chair opposite him, he smiled, far away from prying eyes. Jules watched him with wide eyes
“‘Jules’ is a very decidedly human name, as is your appearance, and yet you know to be wary of anyone asking for your name. You, my young friend, are multi-talented, worldly. Why, I do wonder what ever could draw you here.”
He leaned back in his own chair and studied them for some sort of reaction. They were very obviously trying to keep from speaking again, going so far as to grip the arm rests with white knuckles, pressing themselves against the chair back.
How cute. If slightly predictable.
Beyond that, they seemed far too out of their depths to manage any sort of intriguing reaction to their situation.
“How fortunate for you I am not truly Fae, or else you’d be fully committed to my offer already.”
“What is your offer? You speak a lot in vague terms, saying barely anything worthwhile.”
Irritation sharpened his smile. “How would you like to walk out of here with both your soul and your winnings?”
Their dark green eyes gleamed, a slight furrow on their brow. Interested, but not yet sold. Foolhardy enough to attempt to cheat the most powerful demon currently known, yet nowhere near desperate enough to leap at the chance to save their soul.
“Say, you may even keep your hands, you filthy thief.”
“I didn’t take anything,” they protested. “Just some liberties with your rules.”
Granville masked his wry amusement. Finally he recognized why the kid’s behavior felt so unduly familiar— his own greed and ambition, his own hungry childhood, reflected in their features. “You have cost me a small fortune,” he said after his study. As entertaining as this has turned out to be, it was time to cut to the quick. He required a final determination now. “My time is a precious commodity, luckily, and you will repay your debt by performing menial tasks to free my schedule.”
“You want me to run errands for you. That’s what all this is about? ‘Run along to the store and pick me up some tea and biscuits, dearie’!”
They laughed, the sound harsh with hysteria, and laughed again when his expression didn’t so much as twitch. Their bravado melted.
“Wh-What do want me to do?”
He reassured Jules, “Nothing overly sordid.” They were too young for his tastes to bind a contract, but there were other methods to ensure some degree of compliance. In a practiced motion, he took hold of their left hand, removed his pen from his inner pocket, and drew a simple glyph on their palm.
“Hey! What gives?”
Granville twisted their arm, their bones birdlike in his grasp. A quick flick of his wrist would be more than enough to get his point across. Instead he left bruises under his fingers.
“Hush. Now.”
They stilled.
His focus frayed to the end of the mark, sparks flying off, but while it was ugly, it was perfectly serviceable collateral. With an exaggerated, insouciant flourish, he released them.
Jules yanked their arm back, nearly tipping over their chair, and cradled their no-doubt stinging hand. Even at this angle he could see his list beginning to form on their skin.
“What the fuck is this?” they demanded. “This isn’t a grocery list!”
“Hop to it, kid,” he ordered.
“You want me to deliver a hand!”
“Yes. Risk disobedience at a cost.”
Pushing past the building tension in his magic, Granville discorporated from his office and left them to their tasks.
Calon Nie's yellow eyes glinted, gleamed, shone like strange lights on a deep still pool. They settled in his face, behind his eyelids, and Killan could still see them - feel them - even in his sleep.
Watching, always watching him.
He had thought his eyes were stars, at first, but he could tell now he got that wrong.
Calon Nie's eyes were something worse. Will o'the wisps to lead men off trails and to their deaths. Siren-song from beneath the waters of a lake. They caught him, again and again, as soon as he felt some hint of unease do more than flicker underneath the soft weight of obedience.
"Buachaill del," Calon Nie called to him. Pretty boy. He knew the words now in the fae's sibilant tongue. It passes for a name.
Killan wanted his own name-... just once-... but he didn't have it here, either.
He moved as though his legs were someone else's legs. Pretty boy, puppet on strings, watch him dance to the fae's song.
Calon Nie loved to sing.
He loved to see Killan dance, too.
"Yes?" He dropped to his knees before the winged fae, who watched him with a hint of amusement in deep yellow eyes. In the dark woods they glowed, slit-pupiled, as much demon as bird and man combined.
Killan used to think people made the horror stories about the fae being monsters up.
Now he knew better, because it wasn't just a story at all. Not for him. Not now.
"Mine," the fae reminded him, was always reminding him. "My boy. Calon Nie's human. Want wings clean, me. You do."
Killan shuddered - he hated the softness of the fae's wings under his fingertips, at odds with the life he was trapped in, now. "Calon-"
"No argue. Clean wings now, you, or punish."
Killan shoved himself to his feet. The yellow eyes locked on his. Reflections of a monster's attention, cutting as deeply as any knife ever could.
"Clean wings," Calon Nie repeated. "Happy to clean, you. Happy to serve."
There was nothing different in his voice. There was no resonating echo, only the gentle insistence of the command as it settled into Killan's mind.
When he moved behind Calon Nie, he was smiling.
He loved the feeling of soft feathers between his fingertips. He loved everything he did for his fae.
balter (v.) - to dance artlessly, without particular grace or skill but usually with enjoyment
(Killan Josta exists in @wildfaewhump‘s Iesin and Talvos universe)
Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, (if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)
CW: Mind control, magical compulsion, brief hinted-at upcoming potential gore, kind of pet whump in that Calon Nie basically thinks Killan is a sentient prey animal he owns now
Calon Nie could not dance.
Killan was making a list inside his head - the only safe place to keep such a thing, even though he was pretty sure Calon Nie couldn’t read or write in any human language - of things Calon Nie couldn’t do.
He could fly, he could make Killan do or feel whatever he wanted - even if there was always some dim scream in his mind that reminded him that he had a mind, and Calon Nie never kept it forever. He could light a fire with a hissed whisper to a green twig, he could lurk unseen in the branches of trees, dive for prey from the sky like a stone dropped from a great height at immense speed, bashing into deer and rolling them dead before they hit the ground, tearing into them with his talons and teeth and then hauling back what he didn’t need for Killan to dress, cook, and eat himself.
He stared at Killan with those unsettling yellow eyes, slit pupils widening with an occasional fascination that was even worse than his usual focus. He could, he said, speak to stars. He knew more about the world than Killan did, or at least he knew more about the skies above it.
In the mountains, he said, there were more like him - many more, and more powerful. Killan shuddered in terror at the idea of meeting any fae who had more control over him than Calon already did.
No fear, you, Calon Nie murmured when he saw the tears glimmer as tracks down Killan’s cheeks. He did not command it - only suggested, ran his knuckles down Killan’s face, talons carefully turned away. No fear. Buachaill del is Calon Nie’s human. No one hurt you but me.
Killan was not reassured.
But beside his list of things Calon Nie could do, Killan was also keeping a list of things he couldn’t.
Top of the list? Dance.
Calon Nie liked Killan to show him human dances, but having to balance with his wings threw him off the steps. He did them anyway, his screeching inhuman laughter-sounds echoing off the trees, startling birds away into the air. Killan watched them go with envy twisting dark around his heart.
If only he could fly-
But no, Calon Nie had wings. Daydreaming about flight wouldn’t mean anything like escape, not now.
So he kept in his mind the list of things Calon Nie could not do.
He couldn’t dance.
He couldn’t make Killan think new things, not forever.
He was scared of humans, no matter how derisive he acted about them. He avoided any hint of human habitation with his captive in tow, sent Killan for supplies with money he stole from the murdered bandits that had been the closest Killan had to a family.
He couldn’t go back to his family or into the mountains, although Killan didn’t know why. He wouldn’t say, only that he would only go home when he had an offering.
He couldn’t dance, he couldn’t go home, he couldn’t make his captive human love him. He couldn’t take Killan’s mind away from him forever.
But he-
He could-
He could keep cutting those things, those symbols, into Killan’s skin-
He could take Killan’s mind for a while. He could twist his heart with jealousy and fear. And he could swear, day by day, that one day Killan would hear the starsong and never want a human mind again.
You show me dancing, Calon Nie said, And I show you how to see starsong, to fly.
I don’t have eyes like yours and I can’t learn to fly. I don’t have wings, Killan said, lips barely moving.
Calon Nie’s eyes had spat reflections from the fire. You will. I give you wings, one day. I give you fae eyes.
Killan had asked, how? with his heart in his throat.
Calon only smiled, with all his sharp teeth, and began to dance again.
