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leuchtstabrebell · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 3 / Prompt: "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon"

It is a strange thing for a vampire to lose their religion.

His father says that Herbert was a pious child. He would not only go to church every Sunday but was fascinated with various saints and even wanted to become a monk for some time. His favorite was Saint Sebastian, of course. One of the only memories he has of his mother is her face in the candlelight of the church, the candles they had just lit together. Her face is surrounded by a halo, so Herbert has never been completely sure if she really looked like that or if he hasn’t infused the memory with the picture of the Virgin Mary that was painted one on of the windows of the church. He loved the heavenly hymns and he loved to praise the Lord. And even though once he got older, he indulged in all kinds of sins, lust and pride chief among them, he remorsefully repented every week.

Then he died and God died with him and that was that. Or so he had thought.

When they came this time, Herbert thought he was safe. Yes, he might have embarrassed Carl in front of his peers – he really made it too easy to do so, let’s be honest, but Daniel, Carl and Andrew loved to hurt him only when nobody could see. This time, however, Ludwig was with them. And even though he would not call the mortal a friend – he wasn’t so foolish as to call any mortal a friend – he and Ludwig had come to an understanding. And maybe it was just the starvation and loneliness speaking but he did care for the young man to some extent and thought that this feeling might be mutual. He had not forgotten that it had been Ludwig who provided him with a blanket and fresh clothes, who saw him as a person worthy of some form of dignity.

The fact that Ludwig looked deeply uncomfortable should have been the first sign that something was wrong. “On your knees, face to the wall!” Daniel called before they even entered the cell. Apparently, they were capable of learning from their mistakes after all.

“Why should I?” Herbert called back and instead remained sitting on his bed, one leg crossed over the other. “If I were you, I wouldn’t risk entering this cell. Remember what happened to your buddy? What was his name, again? Frank? Fridolin? Doesn’t matter. You can give him all sort of names now. One-Armed Freddy, or something like that.” He grinned.

“Shut up,” Andrew said coldly. “Don’t think that we won’t make you pay.”

Herbert laughed. “Well, for that you’ll have to enter the cell first.”

Carl smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll be very close to you in no time.”

Herbert gave them his fakest smile, but his eyes flicked around the room in panic, looking for potential dangers.

“And then you’ll wish you’d obeyed,” Daniel said, “But we’ll be nice and give you another chance. Get on your knees now, face the wall, hands behind your head.”

“Fuck you.”

He had not been so openly defiant in weeks, and it felt good, if dangerous. Ludwigs presence assured him that whatever they would do would be nothing compared to what he had been through before.

Daniel sighed deeply at his response. Then he opened the door and in the blink of an eye, Herbert had closed the distance between them and wrapped his hands around the unprotected neck of Daniel, only to recoil in pain when his skin met something burning hot. A fucking rosary. Of course. He struggled to stay upright, both with the pain and the exhaustion that had followed the sudden, strenuous movement. It had more been the sound of blood rushing through veins then any real escape-plan that had lent him the strength to leap if he was being honest.

“God, you just keep trying. You really are a stupid, mindless creature,” Carl said and also entered the cell, along with the other two men. Herbert snarled at them, a frightened animal looking for an exit.

Ludwig closed the door, a strange look on his face. While Herbert was busy watching him, Daniel had stepped closer again, and now suddenly shoved him in the chest. The impact wasn’t strong, but Herbert was weak and unprepared, and stumbled. Another shove, and another, and Herbert fell to the floor, only just keeping his head from hitting the cold stone beneath. He struggled to get back to his feet fast but was held back by a cruel hand on the top of his head, pushing him down on his knees. Herbert didn’t dare to try and get up.

“Good boy,” mocked Carl, to whom the hand belonged. “I see you’ve finally managed to obey our very simple order.”

“And now the next order: Open your mouth,” Daniel said, and pulled out a familiar brass container. Holy water. With dawning horror, Herbert watched as he came closer with the container.

He shook his head, shaking of Carl’s hand while doing so. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.” He scrambled backwards, or tried to, but the cell wasn’t that big, and there wasn’t anywhere to escape to. He tried to make himself as small as possible, curling into himself, but Andrew, the strongest of the men, grabbed him by the forearms and pulled him open, while Carl leaned his weight on Herberts legs, spreading them out. Ludwig was still standing in the corner and looked as if he wanted to say something. Their eyes met for a brief moment.

Then Ludwig looked away.

Daniel stepped closer and opened the container. He held it in one hand and with the other caressed Herbert’s throat and chin.

“Open your mouth,” he repeated. Herbert tried to twist away but the other two were holding him tight in place.

Daniel cocked his head in thought, then lifted the container to Herbert’s face and poured the holy water onto his face, right in the space between his mouth and nose, so that some of it found it’s way to his nostrils. He gasped out in horror and pain, involuntarily opening his mouth. Daniel immediately used the opportunity to pour some of the water downs his throat as well. For a short, blissful moment, his body hadn’t yet fully registered the pain. Then it came, a giant wave of agony. It felt like the inside of his body was peeling, like boiling water was destroying everything inside. Immediately, his body tried to get the fluid out again. He started heaving, his body shaken by the pain and the effort.

“If you vomit, I’ll make you lick it all up,” Daniel said. Finally, and Herbert barely noticed it through the haze of the all-consuming pain, Ludwig spoke up.

“That’s enough,” he said. “You wanted your revenge; you have it now. Let’s leave.”

Herbert’s body was still rebelling and heaving, his throat and face and mouth and stomach hurting. There was pure acid inside of him, and the men were still holding him down. Finally, he couldn’t keep it together anymore, no matter how hard he tried, and vomited up some of the water. To his horror, he released that it was a reddish-black, and that there were pieces of flesh in it. The sick had also landed partially on Carl, who yelped in disgust.

“Fucking idiot,” he cursed. He got up but Herbert was too weak to use the opportunity and get away.

“What did we tell you?” Carl asked and slapped him hard across his face. Herbert tried to speak but to his horror realized that he wasn’t sure he could use his throat. There was something seriously wrong with it, as if his vocal cords were only partially intact.

“Answer me!” Carl demanded and slapped him again. When that didn’t work, he took one of the crosses he carried with him and held it directly in front of his eyes.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll put this thing straight through your eye. What did we tell you about throwing up? Hm?”

Shaking, Herbert tried to force his voice to work, feeling as if he was using a razor on the inside of his throat.

“Not… do it.” It came out garbled, wrong. Herbert felt like sobbing but even that hurt too much and oh hell, the holy water was still in him and burning through his stomach.

“So why don’t you be nice and apologize for getting my clothes dirty?”

Herbert shook from the effort. Tears of the water-blood mix were running down his cheeks and Herbert wondered if they would leave deep tracks, down to his flesh. He wasn’t sure he could feel his face. Where it was supposed to be, there was only a void of pain.

He must have lost consciousness for a moment because he was in a slightly different position when he opened his eyes again. Carl was still looking at him expectantly and it took Herbert a minute to remember that he was supposed to apologize.

“Sorry,” he forced out.

“We’re leaving. Now,” Ludwig said from farther away, and maybe Herbert was imagining it, but he thought that he sounded horrified.

The others protested but Ludwig stayed adamant.

“I’ll tell Van Helsing and the Professor what you did,” Ludwig threatened, which finally convincing the others to leave. Although Ludwig had probably prevented worse mistreatment, through the mist of the pain, Herbert felt betrayed by him. The fact that he had allowed them to do this and hadn’t spoken up until it became too ugly for him felt so bitter. It shouldn’t have, probably, but it did. He thought he would be safe as long as Ludwig was there. He was supposed to be safe at least for a little time. Fuck.

They left him lying there, curled together on the floor, his body convulsing and cramping.

Herbert prayed that night. He called out for someone, something, to get him out, to release him from the pain. For the first time in years, he thought about the golden candlelight and the stained windows and his first act of eating another human – communion. He prayed to Saint Sebastian, and he prayed to Saint Andrew, and to Saint Irene, and to anyone who might listen. He prayed to God and the Devil, to the Universe. And when all of that did not work, he cried for his Dad.

He must have been better than the greatest ascetic martyrs. He hadn’t eaten for so long, and he was brought low, and he was dirty and humbled, and he was prostrating on the cold stone floors, and still, nothing.

Finally, Herbert realized with the absolute certainty of a believer that there was no one. Not for him. There was no help coming. There wasn’t even a reckoning to come. God was not dead. He had simply never existed. Intellectually, of course, he had known that for years. But there must have been the tiniest part of himself that had kept believing, that had wanted to believe in something greater, something sublime. It had been, after all, in integral part of his upbringing and had still shaped the way he saw the world around him. No matter. It was extinguished now.

The deep conviction of nothingness took root in his core, and as it did so, Herbert felt the pain receding to an uncomfortable but bearable feeling. Surprised, he slowly and carefully uncurled and moved up to the bed.

With the morning came the dawning realization of three things: First, that he had truly stopped believing in any higher power. Second, that he could suddenly very much bear the presence of Holy Water and Crosses. And third, that these facts changed absolutely everything.

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon #tanz der vampire #fic #emeto #gore #blood #blasphemy #this is pretty gross #vampire whump

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isamajor · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 : day 3

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal

The journal had a nice leather binding. He had piled up inside, pell-mell, his thoughts, his fears, his anxieties of having fled his home. Caryalind had landed in the town of Solitude, and he didn't know if the place had been the right choice, he had noted in his journal. He had written there his fear of being recognized, recaptured, and dragged before his father. Or quite simply lynched on the spot at the mere mention of his name Thallery... And for the moment, he couldn't confide in anyone : his journal remained his only friend to whom he could vent. (103)

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Solitary Confinement

He had stunned the Riften guards. This Khajiit wanted to be thrown in the dungeon, begging the guards to lock him down because he had killed his best friend. One of the guards suggested that the cat was too addicted to skooma and was no longer in his right mind. But faced with the gold that the Khajiit paid them, their scruples vanished and they quickly threw the guy into a cell, naked and all alone, as they had been asked. Let this poor madman be delirious all alone in his corner, away from the other prisoners, since that was his wish, they thought. (104)

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« Make it stop. »

The Dwemer ballista's bolt had punctured her abdomen, causing her to fall to the ground from the shock of the impact. Quickly, heavy bleeding appeared at the wound and horrified, tears began to roll down Remiel's cheeks. She was in pain, she was bleeding profusely, she didn't want to die.

“Make it stop!”, she yelped, pale and trembling, feeling panic overtaking her. Her eyes were wide and she didn't see her friends around her working to contain the bleeding.

"Make this stop... Please... I don't want to die... Not now..." she begged in a weak voice. (100)

#whumptober2023 #n.3 #like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon #journal #solitary confinement #make it stop #skyrim #caryalind thallery #inigo #remiel #skyrim custom followers #drabble #blood #hemorrhage #whump

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ice-cap-k · 7 months

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By the Light of Santa Perla

Day 2 of Whumptober. Is this Whump yet?

Cross-posted on AO3 here: By the Light of Santa Perla

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Sausage scratched at the walls of his cell mindlessly. The rough-hewn stone had already worn down his fingernails to nubs. The skin beneath tore open wider and wider with every scrape against the rock. A red stain was spreading out in an arc with every motion. It was small for now but would grow as the blood accumulated and dripped down in little red rivulets, just like before.

Red like the granite and bricks in the roofs and walls of the Sanctuary he built for himself. He could do so much better than the sorry excuse for a builder that put this place together. If they had put him in charge, he could have made the cells just as bleak and intimidating. Moreso, even. Vaulted ceilings and a more interesting mix of colors and materials could strike fear into hearts better than a stone brick box. This place could use more black. More red. Red carpets. Red masonry. Red sheep… no. He shook his head, though nobody was around to see it. No red sheep. That was a different life. He was an angel now.

His wings dragged the floor behind him as he scratched away. White feathers were stained brown and grey where they mopped up the damp and grime. Bent and broken primary shafts scraped across the floor with every twitch of his shoulder muscles, and if he were to stand up and pace the length of the room, then some of the looser, more damaged ones would fall in a trail behind him. The rotten patches were more numerous among the primaries at the far ends of his wings. Only when the rot started to fester on the coverts close to his muscle and bone did he start ripping out feathers to keep it from settling as an infection. Feathers could grow back. Wings could not regrow. Unless he died again, but that was impossible. This was his last life. The life after all others. A gift from Santa Perla. He wouldn’t throw it away needlessly.

So many others had already done so. Scott, Jimmy, Gem... Flickering lights that flared too bright and fizzled out as one by one they burned through their lives. He hadn’t been the only one left when he left the cathedral. Oli was still back there, and he hadn’t seen Joey or Shubble for a while. They could have still been around. But that world was so brutal. A life in itself is so fragile. He had lost track of how much time he had been there. Months? He hadn’t thought to keep count of the sunsets or sunrises. And by the time that it occurred to him to keep track, would anyone be left to find him If he came crashing back down?

Scratch.

Scritch.

Scratch.

Maybe he should have died. Let it end on the whims of fate like his friends. As far as he knew, he was the only one that chose to leave. And that had backfired royally. The guiding light of the moon had been good to him. Smiled on him with all the warmth and radiance of his goddess, promising direct passage to her waiting arms. The wind had practically swelled beneath his once pristine feathers, spurned on by the heartfelt tribute Oli sang for him as he departed. It was a beautiful hymn. Oli always had a talent for music. He hadn’t felt alone then.

But now he was. He was alone. Alone. Alone. Alone alone alone alone alone alone alone-

Sausage’s head twitched sharply, rattling with a hollow thunk as it bounced off the wall. None of that. Not now. Not today. Not tonight? Was it tonight yet? One look at the little window across the room framed an empty square of navy. Soon, but not quite.

Scritch.

Scratch.

.Sometimes he imagined he wasn’t. Alone, that is. He was good at coming up with voices. And he knew his friends. They may have moved on to somewhere he couldn’t reach, but his memories remain vivid and bright. Being left to sit in a dirty grey box for so long had done nothing to dull their sparkle.

He pulled his hands away from the wall. One finger swiped absently at his lip. He licked away the blood still pooling at the ragged edge of his fingernail. “What do you think, Scott? You’ve got an eye for design. I think this place could use a bit more red.”

There was no answer. He had to fill that space himself.

Scott’s voice was a bit more nasally. A bit softer spoken. He couldn’t do the accent justice, but he tried. “Red? You always go red. You’re not planning on starting some blood cult again are you?”

“What? Me? No way. That’s crazy. You know I’d never do anything like that, heheheh.”

No answer. Oh right. Scott had to answer.

“Likely story. Those walls aren’t helping your case, mister.”

Sausage waved away the jab, switching back to his own natural voice. “You’re one to talk. You spent one of your lifetimes as an actual vampire. I don’t know why I even asked you. All of your builds are teal.”

“Yes, and they’re all on point, thank you very much.”

“Got me there buddy. What do you think, Gem? Psst! Gem!” He lowered his voice. “Back me up here.”

Silence. He had to fill that void to. “You know Scott,” he trilled, dropping Scott’s accent and pitching up his voice. “Sausage has a point. Red is a lovely color that can be used in a lot of good designs. Especially ones that don’t involve blood magic.”

“You too, Gem?! You too? Betrayal! Oh the humanity. That wasn’t even during this adventure. I’ll have you know that I am a changed man. An Angel! Remember?”

“I thought those were just for show.” A new voice this time. Teasing and scratchy, more self-assured than it had much right to be.

“You stay out of this Jimmy! Or do you want us to go back to teasing you?”

“WHAAT!”

Sausage couldn’t do Jimmy’s shout of exasperation justice. It just didn’t sound like him. He laughed, dropping the voices completely. He instead folded his arms across the tops of his knees and let his head drop. Forehead bounced on his forearm before settling. Too long strands of brown hair slipped down along his head. Draped along the sides of his knees. Eyes screwed shut against a tide of tears. He made no effort to keep the shake out of his lungs. Didn’t try to stifle the sobs as they rose with his shoulders. Why bother to hide it? There wasn’t anyone around to care that he was crying.

It was about all he had left. There was no way out. No food. No tools. Nothing that he could use to damage himself and put an end to it all, not that he would. But the thought was starting to grow tempting.

The people who had snatched him had been lucky that he had left behind his worldly possessions. Had he thought to bring his sword, he would have smote them with divine and righteous fury.

They were committing a crime against the heavens by keeping him here. But his captors were clever. He hadn’t crossed the threshold to the true Afterlife yet when they found him. Had yet to reach the world beyond the world. The place where Santa Perla resided. He was no fallen angel, but he was outside the direct influence of the divine. They found him before he could cross that line.

Even now, his goddess couldn’t reach him. Only look down on him from the silver moon in the sky, the light from which was only visible for an hour between the bars in the only window Sausage’s captors had afforded him.

He had tried breaking out, of course. That window had been the first thing he tried. The bars were sturdy, but after a few nights started to loosen as he constantly worked at them. His heart had soared the day he managed to knock out the first bar. It fell outside. He never heard the thump or clank of it hitting the ground. The second bar took more time. By then, he was growing tired. He felt low on energy all the time. His captors had not bothered to provide meals over the days. Wiggling the bars a little each day was about all he could manage.

Eventually, the second bar came loose as well. Without it, the window was just an empty gap in the wall above his head. It should have been enough. It should have been an open door to his freedom. But when he managed to crawl up to its ledge, it was all he could do to stick his head through the gap. It was too small to fit through, no matter what angle he tried. His shoulders were too wide. Even without the wings, the window was just too small.

The next logical conclusion was to make the gap bigger. His options were limited. There were no tools or utensils he could use to chisel away at the wall. That was where the habit of scratching at the walls must have started.

Sausage let his head roll to the side. He eyed the window at the far side of the room through the screen of his hair. The outline of the now star dappled night sky was framed by black and brown. Layers upon layers of dried blood crusted the edges, but from this distance and with the tears still in his eyes, those edges were a bit blurred. He could almost convince himself that the red patches on the sides of the gap were actually curtains.

The stone block making up the bottom ledge of the window, however, was unmarked. Not a speck of red on it. There had been a different brick there before. One that had been considerably more stained than the others. That had been his last hope.

It had taken so long, but even rock can be shaped by the friction of bare palms and nails and teeth, if you keep at it long enough. He had kept up as best he could, considering he had been running on empty for who knew how long? Breaks were frequent, but so was his worrying away at the mortar holding the rock in place. He had been foolish enough to get his hopes up when he started noticing the heavy brick getting looser. It got to the point where he could rock it back and forth a little if he pressed at its top hard enough with a severe enough angle. If he could just move that one brick, he could have enough room to fit his head and shoulders out the window. That was all he needed.

But that hope died in his chest when he woke up from one of his mid-day naps to see that someone had replaced the brick and bars while he was passed out. The new mortar was spread out messily from the edges of the new rock. It was already dry to the touch when he managed to stumble within reach.

Everything he had worked on could be undone in the span of, what? An hour? The futility of all of his efforts hit hard, and he didn’t bother picking himself up after the impact.

“At least I still have you, Santa Perla,” he managed to croak out. As if in response, the edge of a half-moon crested the corner of the little window. Her silver glow washed over him, making his ruined feathers sparkle a brilliant white like they once had.

It was almost blindingly bright in his dreary box. He raised his head and stretched out an arm towards the window. Shafts of moonlight broke over his fingers and knuckles, wrapping around his wrist like someone taking his hand in theirs. He could almost picture the goddess’s sad smile framed within the bright disk in the sky.

He leaned into the light, basking in her glory. She couldn’t be with him directly. Couldn’t reach him. But he knew she would stay with him like this for as long as possible, offering what comfort she could.

A smile played at the corner of his lips. He started to pray. The words came to his tongue easily. He knew these words well. It was a prayer he had sent to her every night since he got here. One that he believed deep down would be answered someday.

He prayed for freedom. For deliverance. To one day return to her side as he had fully intended. And that those who saw fit to keep him here burned in the deepest, darkest pit of the Nether.

#whumptober 2023 #prompt no. 3 #like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon #solitary confinement #Minecraft: Afterlife SMP #creative writing #blood #insanity #captivity #angel mythical sausage #pearlescentmoon

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xp1icit · 7 months

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spööky

#like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon #anime tiddies #semetary #i love goth girls #korn

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daughterofthehighlands · 7 months

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WHUMPTOBER DAY 3

I own nothing

Modern AU

TRIGGER WARNING: depression

¥¥¥¥¥

Chris Larabee stood in the middle of his cabin, whisky in his hand, as the full moon shone through the window, the only light in the room.

A strangled scream ripped through the night, as he fell to his knees, throwing the near-empty bottle into the unlit fireplace, as his screams turned into a cry.

“Please, God, make it stop. Please, just make it stop.”

¥¥¥¥

Vin Tanner rode his horse quietly down the darkened trail, meeting Buck Wilmington at the fork leading to the main house, “You feeling it too?” The younger man asked, hoping he was wrong, but knowing he wasn’t.

Buck nodded, “It’s the anniversary of their death, Vin. He isn’t going to take this easily. Especially since we found the ones that did it.”

A scream broke through the night, and the sniper was set to ride out quickly, but a firm hand stayed his move, “No, Vin. We ride together. He’s going to be too dangerous right now and we don’t need more guilt on his mind if he hurts someone.” The Texan nodded his agreement, as the borne rode towards the lonely cabin.

PROMTS: Make it stop, Crying out in empty rooms, with no one there, except the moon.

#whumptober 2023 #the magnificent 7 #the magnificent seven #chris larabee #day3 #male whump #whump #like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon #make it stop

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serickswrites · 7 months

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Except the Moon

Warnings: captivity, torture, touch starved, loneliness, self sacrifice

Whumpee hadn't bothered to get out of the makeshift bed they had made in the room Whumper locked them in for the last several days. And they knew it had been days based on the progression of light and changes in the night. But they couldn't be bothered any longer. They had been here for so long. So terribly, terribly long. And they just couldn't care anymore.

When they had volunteered in Caretaker's stead, begged Whumper to take them instead, that had thought that Whumper would hurt them until they died and that would be it. They didn't think they would be locked in a room, alone, for weeks with no one to talk to, touch, or even see. All they had was the small window near the top of their cell where they could see the sky, the sun, and more often than not, the moon.

They had screamed and hollered the first several days they were there. Beat on the door. Tried to scale to the small window. But it had all been to no avail.

They had thought that Whumper would come for them then. Begin their torture then. But Whumper hadn't. Other than the slat opening in the wall and food appearing at regular intervals, Whumpee had not seen nor heard from Whumper since Whumper threw them in the room.

And they were so terribly lonely. They had nothing. No one. Except the moon. "I wish Caretaker was here. Not here instead. But here with me," they whispered to the moon. In the last few days, they found themself talking to the moon, hoping she would listen, but not daring to hope she would grant their wish.

Whumpee knew all they had to do was beg Whumper to make it stop, to trade places with Caretaker, and they would be free. But they couldn't do that. Though they longed to be seen, to be heard, and most of all to be touched, they couldn't do that. They couldn't let Caretaker be tortured like this. Or like anyway.

And so they would stay. Alone in this room with no company, except the moon.

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw captivity #tw torture #tw touch starved #tw loneliness #tw self sacrifice #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #whumptober day 3 #“like crying out in empty rooms with no one there except the moon”#prompt: solitary confinement #queue

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whumpypepsigal · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 | No. 3

“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

1899 s01e02: “You’re not real.”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #like crying out in empty rooms with no-one there except the moon #1899 netflix #1899 #gifs #whumpedit #whump #grief #tears #whimpering #eyes #crying #emotional whump #my gifs #eyk larsen #andreas pietschmann #*sedate me

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firapolemos05 · 7 months

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No devil hides beneath my bed

Part 1, Part 2

@whumptober | Ao3

No. 3 "Like crying out in an empty room, and no one's there except the moon."

No. 9 "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days."

CW: NSFW (minors dni), noncon, captivity, pet whump, mind control, forced kiss, forced arousal, past whipping, licking wounds, mentioned death of a minor, multiple whumpers, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, object insertion (used to hurt and punish), spanking, bath scene, nudity, forced stripping, disassociation, restraints, future forced prostitution, whumpee injures whumper, begging, non-human whumpee, 'master' as a title, thoughts of self-harm, muzzles

(This fic is a direct sequel to my other story Still your heart, so much to prove so I recommend reading that before this. And of course Please Mind the Content Warnings.)

Tonight was not a fight night, so the Champion was rather alarmed when the silence of the dark cell was broken by the approaching footsteps of several people. Perhaps there was an event he'd forgotten? Did Master have company tonight, someone she wanted to show him off to? Was she angry?

The notion made him shiver as his blood ran cold. He thought he'd been good since the last time he was punished. Memories flooded back from that horrible night at the fighting pit. A too-young body lying cold. The bite of shackles and Master's whip. The wounds on his back were still sore.

It's why he was here, in a cold, dark stone box rather than his more comfortable quarters. His disobedience had cost him that privilege. He scrambles off the pallet serving as his makeshift bed, pushing himself to his knees as the door begins to open. But it was only a couple servants and one of the manor guards.

"You are being summoned to meet the master’s guest. She has ordered that you be presentable."

Most of the tension and anxiety drains out of the Champion’s shoulders. Ah, so it was just some company for the night. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He wasn't in trouble. Master wasn't angry.

He rises to his feet, following them down the familiar corridor to the baths. If he was being displayed to a guest, then he needed to look his best. He may be a fighter who got himself covered with blood and bruises for other's entertainment, but outside the caged arena, all he was was Master Scarlet's pretty little trophy. And pretty little trophies shouldn't be soiled with dirt, or unkempt hair, or the smell of old stone that enclosed his cell.

None of them speak a word, not during the walk, and not when they enter the bright, cold marble room. The servants because it was unnecessary; they knew the procedure. The Champion because he was not permitted to speak to them. Or at all, and he learned long ago what doing so without permission would get him. The guard takes post at the door while the other two strip the tiefling of the sparse fabric adorning his body. The enchanted gilded gold shackles chaining his wrists, along with his golden collar, are left untouched.

The hot water is a rare comfort. It chases away the chill of the stone tiles where he kneels, glittering black streaked with bold white. The servants pour the water and lather various scented oils and lotions into his skin and hair.

There was once chains dangling from the ceiling, forcing him upright as they hosed him down.

He lets his mind drift off. The air smells of roses and apricots.

He'd snap at any hands that drew close, until they forced a muzzle over his head and sedatives into his bloodstream.

Indifferent hands scrub a bit too rough at his still healing back. It hurts, he doesn't dare move.

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It's far from the worst bath the Champion has ever had. He at least now has the privilege of being allowed to clean his lower half on his own.

He buries the memories back down.

One moment the warm steam curls up his skin, and he lets himself get lost in the feeling of being somewhere else. Someplace with no chains, cages, or whips to assault him. Someplace he can finally see the sun as much as he wants.

Then the next moment, he blinks and there's the touch of smooth, cool fabric. The water is gone, and he's standing as the servants dress him. By now he's already accustomed to the disappointment. Pants of sheer black chiffon embroidered with tiny red gemstones secured with laces up his thighs. Opaque black cloth with golden thread hangs from his waist, front and back. And finally a sash of red silk, set across his lower back before looping around to criss-cross his chest. The gold hooks fastened to either end clipping onto his collar.

It's certainly on the more revealing side of outfits Master has made him wear. But if the tiefling's opinions had mattered at all to her, he wouldn't be here.

Then came the jewelry. Dainty gold chains and more red gems. Draped elegantly around his arms, hips, horns, and tail. Tonight's guest must be expensive clientele if Master is decorating him this much. But they're finished with preparing him, so perhaps the Champion can finally get this meeting over with.

A lift brings them up to the main part of the manor, the churning of the mechanisms a pleasant break to the absent voices. Its doors open, and their master is waiting for them. All three kneel upon stepping off the platform.

With the Champion’s head bowed low, he feels his master’s eyes rove over his form, before she gives a pleased hum. "Good work with him, you two," she praises the servants. "You are dismissed. Follow me, my pet."

She leads him down one of many hallways, lined with various artworks and shining sconces. It's unfamiliar, and while he's supposed to keep his eyes cast downward, he can't help but take in the decor. Usually when Master presents him, he's brought to the dining room or the parlor, or some other gathering area for guests.

She stops at a pair of wooden doors, and once opened, gestures for him to enter.

It's one of the guest bedrooms.

A crackling fireplace bathes the space in a warm glow, colluding with the darkness leaking in from the night outside the windows and balcony doors. The glow lights up the rich browns of the wooden furniture, carved with ornate motifs that must be the bane of whomever was tasked with keeping them polished and free of dust. His eyes are immediately drawn to the large four-poster bed. The columns at its corners taper to spire-like points above the canopy frame, from which hang silk drapes of burgundy. A cushioned bench sits at its foot, and a plush rug of intricate patterns ('looks like Muthamian make,' says a far-off point of his mind) spans the area of dark hardwood surrounding the bed.

"Ah there he is." The voice pulls the Champion’s attention back to the opposite end of the room. A figure rises from an armchair in front of the fireplace, and years of training make the tiefling drop to his knees, eyes down. "My my. You have my compliments, Scarlet. This is quite the ravishing introduction."

Something about the man's tone doesn't sit well. It twists a knot in his stomach. He can't pinpoint exactly why, it's not like this was the first time someone made condescending remarks towards him.

"I figured this would be to your liking," Master replies. One of her fingers strokes the spikes on his horns, flicking a dangling gemstone. "You did mention wanting to see him in red."

Footfalls approach, and black leather shoes with gold buckles enter the Champion’s vision. A snap of fingers tells him he should look up. Pale stockings, slate blue pants rising high on the waist, a white dress shirt frilled at the collar and cuffs, and a smiling face framed in brown hair. In his hand was a wooden cane with a curved ivory handle.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, Champion," the man greets, words rolling with a thick Mężnydzik accent. Short, rounded ears speak human and high-quality clothes plus a well-trimmed beard speak high class. "Ivan Mitreski, I am an associate of your master."

"It's nice to meet you, sir." The Champion’s reply is automatic.

"Ivan here is rather new to the business with the fighting ring. He was witness to some of your most recent matches."

"Indeed, I was quite impressed. Though it's a shame you weren't able to handle killing that last dark elf fighter."

The comment feels like a slap to the face. Why did he have to remind him of such a failure, a horrible act he was forced to commit?

"His disobedience did come as a surprise," Master states, the coldness of her words further chilling his nerves. "But he won't be foolish enough to repeat such an offense, isn't that right, pet?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why don't you show Ivan what happens when you disobey." She snaps her fingers again and points down.

The tiefling bites his lip and quiets the part of his mind that bristles with humiliation. He hated this command. Lowering his chest to the floor, he crosses his shackled wrists to rest his head on, then raises his hips with an arch of his back. With nothing but a single sash of silk over his torso, there was barely anything to hide the tender stripes now on full display.

He awaits Ivan to make some sort of remark, relieved that he at least didn't have to see the man's face. But instead he was nearly jolted out of his skin as Ivan touched one of the wounds.

"So sensitive."

He wishes he could bite him. Touch still stings.

"If there’s anything else you find yourself desiring, feel free to ring one of the servants. Though come straight to me if he gives you trouble."

'Wait, what?'

"Of course, Scarlet. Again you have my sincerest gratitude for this."

And without a single regard for her pet's confusion, Master turns and departs the room. The Champion was left breaking position to stare at the closed door in bewilderment.

Master never left him alone with a guest.

'What's going on?'

"Your master has allowed me to spend time with you for a little while." Ivan sits on the bench in front of the bed, cane to the side, and gestures for him to come closer. "Don't be shy now, I'd like to talk with you."

The expression was soft, inviting. A warmth washes over him, easing his nervousness and tension, and he crawls over to kneel in front of the man. Ivan just wants to talk with him, almost no one ever wanted to make conversation with a slave. This would be a nice break from the norm.

"What would you like to talk about, sir?"

"I'd love to hear more about you. Tell me, how did you come to be Scarlet's fighter?"

He usually didn't like to think about this, the memories were often unclear, but with clarity began tragedy. But Ivan wanted to hear what he had to say, so it'd be rude to not answer his questions. "I don't remember everything, sir, but I did something unlawful and got caught. Master says she brought me here as punishment."

"I see, I see," the man nods, no judgment in his tone. "And how long have you been here?"

Another one he didn't know for sure. Prior to the fighting ring, Master had him held under some sort of spell that left him nothing more than a feral animal. Time and language meant nothing. He had no idea how long she kept him like that. "A few years. Sorry I don't know the exact number. But I do know I've been brought to the fights for about four years."

"And from what your master tells me, you became the Champion not too long after joining. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

Simple questions like that Ivan asks him. Back and forth they went. The man asked him his age (Master says he's in his early 20s), if he had any family (not anymore), where he grew up (the outskirts of Altruek Atea). The question if he'd ever been in a relationship before seemed a bit off, but when he answered in the negative, Ivan didn't press further, so it was probably harmless.

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

That catches him off guard. Without thinking, he looks up and Ivan is leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, leveling the tiefling with a strange smile. He doesn't scold the Champion for making eye contact.

It was a compliment, right?

"N-not really. Master sometimes calls me that, but not in a serious way."

"Well that's a shame." His hand reaches over and brushes a lock of black hair behind a pointed ear. "I'm positive you'd be quite popular, little devil."

The touch was gentle, affectionate even. He should’ve detested it. He always did when Master touched him like that, a controlling caress meant to remind him of his place. But somehow this felt different. This stranger . . .no, Ivan's hand and words didn't frighten him. This was the first normal conversation he's had with another person in years.

"Thank you," he replies, as that was the polite thing to say.

Ivan smiles some more, then pats his thigh. "Why don't you come sit with me here?"

He . . .he wanted him to sit on his lap?

"Master says I'm not allowed to sit on the furniture."

"Oh I'm sure she won't mind as long as I'm allowing it, right? Plus she's not here right now, isn't she?"

That did make sense. If Ivan is requesting him to sit with him, it must be okay in this case. And yes, Master had left them alone, with the order to call her only if her pet was being disobedient.

He doesn't want to disobey Ivan.

Rising to his feet, he walks closer. He'd been expecting to simply sit on the man's leg, so he jolts in surprise when Ivan takes hold of his arm and waist and pulls the tiefling onto himself.

"Relax, Champion."

That was a little hard to do now when he was straddling the man. This seemed too close, too . . . intimate. "Is. . .is this what you wanted?"

"Yes, you're being very good, Champion."

Good, Ivan had said. That was reassuring. He wants to be good. So he continues to be good and not move when an arm wraps around his waist. When a hand cups his chin.

When Ivan purses his lips and angles his face towards his. The pressure of the hands holding him told the Champion he should allow himself to-

'What are you DOING?!'

A bubble bursts. A sudden brick shatters the veil that was the charm spell from his mind. Just in time for his wits to scream at him to get away and his body to respond.

It was a trick. A cruel lie.

He shoves at Ivan's chest, pushing the two of them apart. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact as he fell, but that hardly mattered now. Putting distance between them, the tiefling scrambles back, then faces the man with a snarl.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The moment those words leave his mouth, he realizes he'll be made to regret it.

Ivan's face holds no trace of that once kind smile. Only cold disappointment.

"Well then," he begins, standing up and dusting off his shirt, as if the Champion pushing him somehow dirtied it, "I had thought you would've liked to have this the easy way but it appears that isn't the case."

His hand traces a sigil in the air, one all too familiar, and for the second time that week, the Champion feels his mind shut off.

The average charm spell is valued for its subtlety. It falls over the mind like a friendly embrace, the warmth of an inn, a pair of rose tinted glasses. Most people won't even recognize the change until the spell lifts, and certain mages could make it so that their victims won't find out at all.

But a dominate spell holds no such features. It does not need to be subtle. It forces itself onto the mind like a muzzle and cage, locking down the conscious so that the body is a pliant little puppet.

So the Champion can't question it, can't fight back, when Ivan orders him to crawl forward. A hand grasps his jaw and the tiefling is incapable of resisting when Ivan leans in and presses into him with a possessive kiss, devoid of the faux affection. A tongue worms into his mouth, and even through the spell he tenses with revulsion, a small whimper escaping.

Ivan purrs into his ear when he withdraws. "Oh I'm definitely going to enjoy you tonight.” He turns away to drag the bench away from the bed before facing him again. “Be a good boy and kneel right here for me, facing the wall. Arms raised."

His body moves on its own, against his will. He takes his place on the mattress as commanded, lifting his arms over his head without a word. He can only wait in terrible silence as Ivan fixes his shackles to the canopy frame. The man then retrieves several cords of silken rope, tying his ankles to the bed posts. Even his tail was restrained to his leg to keep it out of the way.

The spell goes as easily as it came, allowing the Champion’s awareness of his predicament to set in.

Trapped. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Too similar to the position he found himself in mere days ago. The ache in his back grew into a throb until he could practically feel the stone pillar against him and smell his own blood.

"Wait." At this point, Master Scarlet usually wouldn't allow him to beg. The damage had been done and he needed to be taught a lesson. But Master wasn't here and maybe Ivan would show mercy. "Sir please, I'm sorry I re-. . . I disobeyed you. Not the whip again, please, anything but that. I can't-"

A hand on his horn pulls his head back, and he cuts himself off to bite back a pathetic sounding mewl as Ivan licks a wet stripe up the shell of his ear. "You beg quite nicely, little devil. Rest assured, I don't intend on lashing you."

The Champion’s thoughts are caught between distrust and relief. He wants to believe him. He can't begin to imagine how painful it would be for his wounds to be assaulted so soon after. That punishment had been agony, he can't handle it again. Is Ivan telling the truth or only trying to lure him into a false sense of secur-?

Something touches his thigh.

His gaze shoots downward and Ivan is undoing the laces in the silk.

"What are you-?" he begins to say, fear tainting his voice, but the man presses a finger to the tiefling's lips and orders him to be quiet. The undone threads bare more skin from thigh to hip, and soon the pants are tossed aside.

It's when the black cloth is removed, with the red in quick succession before he can protest, that the pieces fall together into a vile puzzle.

No.

The revealing outfit, Master leaving them alone, the charm spell, the lurid stares and honeyed words on his looks, the kiss, the fact that he is now naked as the day he was born with his legs spread.

No. NO!

"Oh did you figure it out?" The damning chuckle accompanying that question took a sinister tone. A harsh squeeze of his ass shocks the denial right out of him.

The Champion jerks away, body trembling in revulsion and terror. "Don't touch me!" But he can't go far, and the bindings hold tight.

Hands latch onto his hips, and Ivan pressed up against him. To the tiefling's dismay, he can feel the man's hardened member against his thigh. "Let's make something clear, little devil. Your master has given me full permission to use you to my desire. So I have full allowance to touch any part of you I want. Understood? So I have a question for you."

He's prepared to ignore it, or say some lie or refusal depending on what the question is. But then Ivan runs his finger up the length of his tail.

"Is it true tiefling tails are quite sensitive?"

An unfamiliar sensation rushes up his spine. His breath hitches in his chest. A strange heat begins to build up within him.

"Judging by that reaction, I'd say my presumption is correct." And Ivan continues his caresses with a heightened vigor.

What is this?

His tail is sensitive, and each stroke is sending jolts of . . .some feeling throughout his body. It makes him shiver and bite down on his bottom lip, the heat in his face darkening his cheeks and ears. It pools in the region between his legs and he tries to close them to no avail. His toes curl. He can't even thrash his tail to dislodge the offending hand, whose fondling is clouding his mind into fuzz. His brain keeps saying this is wrong, invasive; he doesn't like what this sensation is doing to him.

So why does it feel good?

Each time he tries to pull away, some semblance of his body resists him, tries to lean in for more of this pleasurable touch ('No, this is not pleasurable. You're not enjoying this.') He tries to ignore it. Ignore the touch, ignore the hands and chains. Instead he bites his lips until blood drips down his chin, digs his claws into his palms until they bleed, and focuses on the pain.

And it almost works, if the fingers hadn't been replaced by a tongue.

The Champion's vision floods with blurry stars and the sound he makes is some cross between a gasp and a moan. He would feel ashamed and disgusted with himself if his senses weren't being overwhelmed by his tail being licked and nibbled and dear gods one of you please burn that fucking thing out of Ivan's fucking mouth.

"Oh, you like this don't you? That won't do."

He wishes he could tell the bastard to go fuck himself. This was nothing likable. This was wrong and violating. But unfortunately, he was having a hard time convincing his body of that. He refuses to look down and see how else his body is responding to it. He doesn't even hear the second statement over trying to stop himself from whining and panting like a dog in heat.

When the mouth leaves his tail, it's a breath of relief. Until he lets out a pained yowl as it introduces itself to the wounds on his back.

Saliva stings abused flesh and the Champion writhes in agony. Ivan begins with a stripe across the small of his back and works upward, aiming for all twenty-five. Meanwhile his hands resume their torment of the tiefling's tail, assaulting the poor creature's body and mind with a simultaneous barrage of pleasure and pain.

"S-stop, pl-please!"

"But you taste so good, little devil."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want any of this. But the touch won't stop.

The whip would be preferable to this, and that terrifies him.

Each stinging lick sends him squirming, arching his back desperate to escape. With every movement, the dangling jewels mock him with their chimes. They only entice his assailant on further. Further. A painful stripe running between his shoulder blades. Strokes at the base of his tail that almost make him break. It's maddening.

And then a single digit slips under to edge the rim of his entrance.

NO!

The Champion tosses his head back under a surge of panic, and the tip of his horn catches Ivan right in the face.

The hands release his body with a grunt of pain as the man stumbles back. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Ivan hold a hand to his bloodied cheek and lets himself bask in the satisfaction. Serves the bastard right, he wishes he gouged out an eye.

But that vindication soon melts away as reality comes to slap him in the face with the enormity of his actions.

He hurt one of Master's guests.

Oh gods, he hurt one of Master's guests.

The dread returns in full, and only grew when Ivan composes himself and levels the tiefling with a knowing look.

“I- I didn’t mean-.”

“Save your breath. We both know that’s a lie.” He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the wound. “Now I am going to go fix this little mess you made, and when I return, it will be with your master."

"Wait!"

Ivan exits the room, ignoring the Champion’s protests.

His gut twists into a knot. If he wasn't chained up like this, he would've crawled into the smallest space he could to hide.

It's been years since the last time he lashed out. The last time he'd bitten a woman's hand for yanking on one of his horns. The punishment he received for that kept him from ever repeating that mistake again. Until now.

Master's going to be furious.

Whatever's going to happen next will be horrible.

It's futile to try and break free, but he tries anyway. He yanks at the chains holding up his arms, tries to wriggle his legs free of the ropes. Hopes that something will give.

Nothing.

The dread takes hold, squeezing at his insides like a snake constricting prey. The fireplace continues to crackle, yet soon there's more sounds filling the Champion’s ears. It takes a moment before he realizes what he's hearing is his own hyperventilating breath and the rattling of chains from how violently he's shaking. Terror takes root and his fear and anger feed it.

He doesn't know how long they keep him waiting. It simultaneously feels like both eternity and a brief moment.

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

The Champion’s never been the religious type.

'Dear gods.'

The door opens.

Maybe now's the time to try.

'Please don't let this happen.'

"Did you think that just because I'm absent from the room means you can ignore the rules, pet?"

Ever since Master Scarlet first captured him, her voice always felt like icicles stabbing into him. Sharp and cold. Even her words of praise held an icy undertone he could sense under the mask she placed over her apathy.

Scoldings felt like getting trapped in a blizzard.

"It was an accident-" A force he cannot see slaps him across the face.

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

He snaps his mouth closed, burying the hopeless frustration far down so it wouldn’t show. It was always a gamble with her. Sometimes she would ask the tiefling questions expecting an answer, others were only rhetorical. It was up to him to guess the difference.

"Besides, it doesn't matter if it was an accident or not. You're in no place to strike my guests at all. So you are going to apologize to Ivan, now."

His training egged him to submit. He messed up big time and punishment would be worse if he didn't say he was sorry. But anger clawed up his body like a cornered cat. Why should he have to apologize to the bastard? Ivan stood besides Master, puncture wound nowhere to be found, not even a blemish. That only further boiled his rage. Years have gone by without him managing to lash out, and now that he did, there's nothing to show for it? Ivan's wound is gone without a trace, yet the Champion has scars (from far more painful wounds) that will last the rest of his life.

It's not fair.

Does Master know what Ivan's planning to do? Maybe he should tell her. Perhaps she'll stop Ivan to prevent her pet from getting damaged like-

' "Kill the girl." '

No. She wouldn't care.

She definitely knows already. Ivan no doubt has informed her. She doesn't care. She forced her Champion to kill a little girl, of course she wouldn't have anything against this. She doesn't care.

He forces down the rage. The injustice. Forces it down into the deepest pits of his gut. He can't show it. Getting angry is showing disrespect. Hissing his words is showing disrespect. Giving an apology that doesn't sound genuine is showing disrespect.

He growls with venomous sarcasm, "I'm sorry for hurting your fragile pride, sir."

He's not sure how his grip slipped.

By the way her eyes narrow and fill with disappointment, Master doesn't find it funny. "So easily you forget your lessons. Did we not just have this discussion the night of your recent fight?"

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It doesn't even target him, but the Champion senses her magic take. The shackles above him unhook from the canopy frame and suddenly he's being pulled forward by an unseen force. He falls onto the mattress, arms outstretched, and is helpless as the chains magically meld into the headboard. The position leaves no doubt as to what is meant to transpire.

He won't let himself feel regret. The bastard doesn't deserve it. But the little voice in his head still yells at him. Calls him an idiot for not obeying.

The bed is soft. Far more comfortable than anything he remembers sleeping on in his life. It feels nice against his face. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could lose himself in the rare luxury enough to drown out everything else around him. Like with the bath.

A hand grasps onto his horn and his head is pulled back so he can face his Master standing beside him.

"Let me make this clear, since you're having trouble remembering." Her finger presses into his side and traces a shape. The Champion can't see, but he knows exactly what she's touching. The branded initials of his master’s name seared into his flesh. "What does this mark mean?"

That definitely isn't a rhetorical question. There's an answer that his training won't allow him to forget. "It means I belong to you, Master."

"Good. And given that fact, it should be obvious by now what you are. I own you, pet. You are my slave. You have the title of Champion in the ring because I trained you. You fight for the entertainment of your betters since that's your purpose. To obey your master and entertain however your betters wish you to, whether it be fighting, being a pretty little server, or more private favors. Do you understand?"

His blood runs cold. 'Private favors.' A sugar-coated term for sexual favors.

Did-

Did that mean this would be a regular thing now? Would there be more people than Ivan who would use and violate him? More pain and more punishments if he refused or didn't satisfy? More-

He feels sick.

In his panic, he forgets to answer Master's question. She snaps her fingers. He senses Ivan behind him again but he can't see what-.

A sharp yelp rips from his throat.

Something is pushed inside of him. It's cold and hard and covered in some viscous substance. His body instinctively tenses around the foreign object, that strange heat already beginning to sink in.

"If you continue to defy your purpose, expect to receive this punishment more in the future."

This-.

This heat isn't the same as before with his tail. It lingers in the area it started and intensifies. It festers first into a sting, then a burn.

"Take this, Ivan," Master says as she hands over a flexible metal rod, the correction device she often uses on her pet. Said pet barely notices through the tears filling his eyes. He clutches onto the sheets with a desperate but futile wish for escape.

His insides are on fire.

What the fuck did they put in him?

"Strike him."

The rod cracks across the top of his right thigh, an acute twinge that gets drowned out by the burning spike as he tenses against the fiery intrusion.

It hurts in such an intimate way. He should’ve known; the rod by itself was too easy a punishment.

"First question: what are you?"

The moment he requires to register the question is taken as hesitation, and upon the next strike, the pain only grows worse and worse until it’s an effort to keep his words coherent. “S-stop!"

Smack!

"What are you?"

"Please, I'm sorry!"

Smack!

"Make it stop! Master, please!"

So this must be what the Infernal Hells are like. How ironic that a being of fiendish blood faces his own hell on the mortal plane. Devils did always like to scope out evil, and Master Scarlet had enough of it to last an immortal life. Hellfire would be a measly candle compared to the sear that tears through him.

"What are you?"

He can't even try to turn onto his side, the way his legs are bound won't allow it. The rod strikes an already tender welt and he howls.

"A sl- a slave," he finally chokes out, because this is too much. He'll do whatever Master commands to get this to end.

But the rod falls down on him again and Master repeats her question. So the Champion cries out the horrible word again because that is the right answer, isn't it? It has to be, there's nothing else it could-

Oh.

"I-I'm your sl-slave!"

There's a pause as Master acknowledges the correction, and her frown lifts into a pleased grin. "Again, louder."

Tears streaming down his face, he screams as the agony flares once more. "I'M YOUR SLAVE!" He wants this to end, he can't take it anymore.

Pathetic. Weak.

"Good boy. Second question."

He hates her. There is not a single fiber of his being that doesn't roar with contempt for this woman. He mentally prays to every god he knows to curse her with an excruciating death.

"What is your purpose?"

A far off point of the tiefling's mind hears this and thinks, 'To rid this world of you someday.' It's a wishful thought, wrapped in a fantasy. It barely registers to him through the fire.

"T-to obey a-and entertain!"

Smack!

All he can focus on right now is the pain and doing what his master wants.

"Say it the right way, pet."

"I'M TO OBEY AND ENTERTAIN!"

His face hits the mattress, and it takes several seconds of heavy, uninterrupted breathing and no more strikes of the rod for him to realize Master finally released him. It's over. His breath is short and ragged, throat full of cotton. He tastes salt and iron from his tears and ruined lip. His wrists probably don't look very good either from how much he tugged on the chains. He doesn't want to know what his ass and thighs look like right now. The rod doesn’t usually draw blood, but there’ll definitely be some nasty marks that’ll swell.

Another sudden touch startles him, and he doesn’t have the energy to stifle the whimpers as that awful whatever-it-was is pulled out of him. He nearly cries again in sheer relief as that burning presence fades.

"You have thirty more minutes, Ivan."

That picture of relief is shattered. Ivan is still here. Ivan still hasn’t finished with him. This isn’t over yet, they aren’t done hurting him yet. This man is still going to rape him.

"Oh that should be plenty of time," the man replies, unfazed by the tiefling's broken wail.

"I would hope you have some form of covering, or else that cream will give you a bad night as well."

"Worry not, I've come prepared."

"Good. Have him repeat his rule until he no longer hesitates. Let me know how he performs."

With that final damning note, Master Scarlet made her departure. And Ivan turned to the battered and crying slave before him, cruely brushing his thumb over a welt before unbuttoning his pants. "Well, little devil, it's just you and me. I'm still waiting for that apology."

The Champion buries his sobs into the bedsheets.

----

They chained him up and muzzled him for his second bath.

He didn't want any more hands on him. No more touch.

But since when did the Champion’s desires matter?

The water could wash away tears, blood, and other bodily fluids. It could not wash away bruises and bite marks that were definitely going to scar. Soreness and pain where it shouldn’t be. Nor could it stop making him feel sick, wrong, filthy, disgusting, weak.

He's back in his cell, lying on his palette curled up in a tight ball. Not a scrap of clothing adorns him, only the dainty little jewels that, with his hands bound behind his back, he isn't able to rip off.

He isn't able to rip at his skin either. To tear away soiled flesh and let blood chase away the phantoms that wouldn't cease their tormenting caress.

Master had stopped by minutes ago to tell him the news. She would be hosting a dinner party in a couple nights, and he would be present.

She informed him of its purpose.

The events of tonight weren't going to be a one-time occurrence.

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