CW: captivity, male whumpee, female whumper, asthmatic whumpee, begging, forced intoxication, noncon drugging, restraints, threat of burns, implied past abuse (belt beatings), intimate whumper, degradation, crying
Masterpost
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Otto never thought he would be somewhere like this; surrounded by tons of extravagant luxuries, nightgowns of silk and lace adorning his skin. A life where things like comfort and security were a given and not something you had to fight for. A life like this was always so far out of his eye line it wasn't even a speck on the horizon.
But if he knew the cost before the check was signed, if he had glimpsed the ink that would inevitably seal his fate, he would have happily continued living the ordinary, boring life no one gave a second glace at. He would have gladly played the unimportant side character, a blimp in the background, not once looking back at his decision if he knew what laid within the director’s cut.
Now here he sat: kneeling on the hard floor, bruised knees turning a deep shade of purple from being forced to crawl like a scorned dog. The violent flames of a fire baked his flushed face and stole the air from his already wheezing lungs. They constricted in his chest like an iron vise, hardly able to take in enough air to keep him from crashing to the ground, each breath keeping him on the edge suffocation as the tang of blood became a stain on his tongue. He was on the brink of death with each inhale; fighting for his life on every exhale while his owner constricted the leash on his existence.
His head floated miles above his body, his conciseness just a mere toy for his captor to squeeze and bend at her wish. She was more than satisfied in making him guess whether he’d live or die each day.
Silvanae sat propped in a plush chair, on knee slung over the other, resting on her self appointed pedestal she saw no one else was worthy of. Hovering like a sovereign empress carrying the weight of a heavy crown, wine swirling around in her glass. From a tilt, it almost resembled blood.
A delicately manicured finger hooked itself under Otto’s chin, tilting his teary gaze up to stare into the monarch’s eyes. She smiled as sharply as a wolf down at it’s prey while she brought her glass to his lips. Otto didn't have a chance to reaction let alone resister what was happening before he was drowning in the sting of alcohol, it rolled down his face, mixing with his tears as it soaked his nightgown. He gagged, doubling over to try to stop the burning liquid from stealing what little air he had.
“Just like you to waste a perfectly good wine,” she sneered down at him, letting him go to hack up the last of the drink, accent thick with malice, “No matter, I have plenty more for us to enjoy.”
“Please I—can't breathe I-….please stop–” his pleas were cut short as an inhaler parted his lips. The subtle disperse of fumes entered his airway. A hand clamped down over his nose and mouth until he was forced to inhale the tainted air. Otto’s desperate squirming didn't matter—his struggles slowed under her grasp, head lazing against the hand on the nape of his neck to keep him from escaping.
“Ah ah ah,” she tsked, “Can't have you blacking out on me again.” She hushed him as the smoke settled in his lungs. It was drugged—something that made him twitchy and weak—the perfect concoction to keep him awake yet pliant, bound to the hearth of the fireplace and too feeble to wiggle out of the restraints far too close to the flames.
He wheezed out any foolish hope of escape he had and let the tears fall for the other’s entertainment. If he was lucky maybe he wouldn't remember this in the morning. The bite of the ropes around his wrist would just be another cut he couldn't recall getting. He missed when those used to be tiny scratches, barely noticeable, and not swollen lashes in the shape of belt buckles.
Laughter erupted from above him, “Do you ever not cry? Honestly, you're lucky you're pretty or you would just be pathetic.”
She let go of his face to pour another glass, stopping before it reached her lips. Her eyes glinted dangerously in the fire’s light as she smiled. To Otto, that smile usually meant pain. Deep dread pooled in his gut before she even spoke, inky black tentacles leached off his nerves as she leaned forward, “Why don't we see how many tears this will wring out of you.”
Otto could only beg desperately as Sil’s glass of wine was tipped onto the length of rope.