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sunshiline-writes · 5 months

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #10: When A Good Man Breaks

Post-Thanksgiving Chapter!! WOOO.. Uh... yeah always a doozy. Be safe Heed warnings.

Solomon finds Miguel after a situation and makes a deal with Xavier. CW: POC whump, NSFW whump, Western whump, aftermath of noncon (caretaker POV), aftermath of noncon drugging, bath, multiple Whumpers, multiple whumpees, descriptions of hand whump, emotional whump, manipulation, victim blaming, gaslighting, bootlicking (literal), threat of amputation, other threats, non con hair touching, let me know if I missed anything!

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The smell of herbs filled his nose. He had gathered some today, a necessary break from watching over Miguel. It wasn’t that he was tired of the boy, he was just tired in general. It seemed like his duty of care as of late was never ending. His mind needed a breath of fresh air. He needed a breath of fresh air.

Gathering the prickly pear was a good distraction and the bucket was full now. After removing the needles and peeling the pad, it was a good antibiotic. He could also make a sweet with the fruits. A sweet was a good pain killer too, in itself. Any distraction was a good distraction at this point. He had forced the boy to read, to ask him questions, to stay awake as long as possible. Some days were better than others, but it was slowly getting better. It was coming to a point where he did believe that Miguel would also have to learn to live with the pain in his hands. He didn’t need to break it to him yet though, he’d let him have his moment later.

Solomon walked into the house and placed the bucket of cactus pads on the kitchen table, getting to work at scraping the needles. Repetitive motion let him get lost, clearing his head. It was eerily quiet in the house. Until Jesse came stumbling into the kitchen, a lopsided grin on his face. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, towel over his hand and sat down. Jesse was looking at him expectantly. Solomon frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for you,” Jesse said with a grin, “I hurt my hand. Think I need stitches.”

“How did that happen?” Solomon asked, eyes narrowing. His stomach did a flip, there was something wrong here.

“A bitch in heat bit me.”

Solomon bit back a growl, his mind racing. His mind was in the bedroom, but his body was not there yet. He needed to get there now. His body was starting to move. Trying to get past Jesse, but Jesse stepped in front of him.

“Well, are you going to help me?”

“Get out of my way,” Solomon growled. Stepping to the side, but Jesse just followed him, eyes following him.

“My hand is bleeding Solomon. You’ve got to help me.” Jesse said, making a point to show his fingers to him. His index and middle finger were sliced straight to the bone, bits of white showed past the gore. As Jesse flexed them, the skin moved, and blood covered the bone once again. He would need stitches. But for now, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Solomon did not care.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way,” he said, shoving Jesse to the side, his back hitting the wall. He cried out and started to follow, talking at him. Solomon wasn’t listening. There was one focus. The house in front of him, getting to the bedroom. Jesse was a gnat in his ear, following him, speaking nonsense. He went up the stairs and with each step his gut felt heavier. Jesse had stopped following him about halfway up the stairs. Which meant that something was wrong. His hand was on the door handle, skewed sideways and broken.

His heart twisted as he opened the door, his eyes immediately landing on the naked body on the bed. His legs were starting to form bruises, there was blood smeared on his thigh, he was covered in filth. Solomon found himself rushing to the bed, examining him closer, the blood between his legs, the white liquid everywhere. Fire erupted in his chest. Spreading through his body, it was everywhere. He was seeing red.

“HENRIETTA!” he screamed out, gently cupping Miguel’s face. His chest tightened as he whimpered, turning his face away. “I need you to look at me..” he gently shook him, and Miguel let out another groan. Eyes opening. They were glazed over, he was.. not here. Not fully. His mind was elsewhere.

“HENRIETTA!”

Footsteps running up the stairs, Henrietta was coming. Solomon felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“What is it?? Hey–” then a gasp. Solomon looked over at her, tears in his eyes.

“Draw a bath. Warm water. Not too hot and not cold. Now. Go.”

Henrietta nodded mutely and left the room. Solomon was frozen, hand still cupping Miguel's cheek. Tears streamed down his face. This was what happened when he left for too long. Especially with Jesse around. He just needed a moment to compose himself, to relieve himself of the pulsating fire that burned within him. Solomon took a deep breath, calling a prayer, begging his ancestors to take away his anger. At least for now.

Then he turned around again, pulling Miguel into a sitting position by grabbing him under his armpits. The boy’s head rolled around limply, falling forward on his shoulder. Solomon examined his hands, they were bleeding through the bandages again. Slowly, he unwrapped them, cleaned them, and rebandaged them. Solomon also resplinted his broken hand, which had made Miguel cry out weakly in protest. Every single little noise made the anger grow and blossom. He tried to shove it down, but Miguel’s limp form only made it stronger.

Solomon held Miguel, arm around his shoulders, propping him up. He was barely coherent, barely awake. There was a possibility he wouldn’t even remember this day. Actually, he hoped he wouldn’t.

Henrietta returned to the room, “The bath is ready, do you need.. help?”

Solomon nodded and shifted Miguel into a bridal carry in his arms, carrying the naked boy to the tub.

“His hands need to stay dry, grab them gently..”

Henrietta followed his instructions, keeping his hands above the water as Solomon lowered him into the tub. His eyes were unseeing, staring blankly ahead. Henrietta placed his hands on the sides of the tub.

“Hey, Miguel?? Hey..” she said, staring into his eyes, tears forming in them. “You’re so brave you know that? You’re so brave and strong and I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’re gonna be okay.”

Miguel's eyes remained fixated on the wall in front of him. Solomon sighed, it was going to take a moment for the boy to return to himself. His mind was far away and perhaps it was for the best. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood as he remembered how Miguel used to be. All fire and anger, all wild and untamable. But even the wildest mustangs could break in the right conditions.

He grabbed two rags, handing one to Henrietta. There was no need to give her instructions. They simply started to move in sync. Dipping the rags in the water and slowly cleaning the boy.

Solomon took note of everything. Every bruise on his hips, his legs, his throat. The bite on his inner thigh, the one on his neck. Every sore spot that made him whimper. Solomon could only see that his kid.. his ward.. had been raped and defeated in such a way he didn’t think possible.

His thoughts turned to Jesse and Xavier. He’d never been one to think that true evil existed in this world. Nothing was so black and white. But these men challenged that belief everyday. Especially in the way that they treated Hen and Miguel. Perhaps they were just evil. A spirit had taken hold of them young, passed through their bloodlines, unable to be cleansed.

“Solomon, do you want.. to clean his.. I can’t..” Henrietta said, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yes. Just, can you make him some soup? He needs to eat something. Oh.. and burn the sheets on my bed.” “Are you sure? We can just wash-”

“Burn them.”

“I-” Henrietta pursed her lips and nodded. “Alright.” She pressed a kiss to her index and middle finger and gently pressed her fingers to Miguel forehead. “I’ll bring it up to you when it’s done.”

Then she left.

Solomon shifted his position, grabbing Miguel’s face gently with both hands, forcing him to look at him.

“She’awee.. I have to clean you. It’ll be uncomfortable. But I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just cleaning you. Okay? I need you to come back just for a moment, so I know that you’re okay with this.”

Miguel’s eyes were trained on his lips, then he lifted his eyes to Solomons. Nodding slowly. Tears began to stream down his face. Solomon gently wiped them away with his thumbs.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be quick okay?” he said, grabbing the cloth and reaching down between his legs, quickly trying to wipe away everything. Miguel sobbed quietly, coughing out every shakey inhale of air. Solomon’s blood boiled.

He finished quickly, throwing the cloth to the side. The water in the tub was tinged pink. He drained the tub, and picked up the trembling form, placing him to sit on the edge. Miguel’s gaze stayed focused on the ground as Solomon dried and dressed him. Then he carried him back to his room. Miguel had buried his face in his chest and inhaled.

In the doorway was Xavier. His grip tightened on Miguel as he stared at the man, who was clearly waiting for him. His expression, unreadable. Though the other man's eyes looked over Miguel for a second and he stepped out of the doorway to let him inside. Solomon placed the boy on the bed, rearranging him on the bed. As he did so, Xavier’s voice wafted through the doorway.

“Are you upset?”

Upset didn’t even begin to cover it. He could barely hear Xavier over his own blood boiling. He covered Miguel with a blanket, turning to face Xavier. To his surprise, Xavier actually had a hint of worry in his features. Solomon couldn’t bring himself to answer him still. His silence was an answer enough. Xavier seemed to understand this as he stayed in the doorway, not daring to come into the room.

“Will he be alright? There was no… permanent damage was there?”

Red. Everything was red.

“No permanent damage to his body,” was Solomon's clipped reply.

“Good, that’s good. I’m.. I’ll talk to Jesse,” he said, expression serious.

None of this would have happened if he had any control over his nephew. If he ever faced any real consequences, he would never think to do this after Solomon's explicit instructions not to touch Miguel. At least until he was healed. It was the ‘at least’ part that killed him inside. Made his soul darken with guilt. But it was the best he could do. He couldn’t stop them, but he could delay them. It was his best excuse as to why he let these types of things happen.

Right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care about his own wellbeing as he stepped toward Xavier. He grabbed Xavier’s shirt and shoved him backward, out of the room, into the hallway. Then he shut the door behind him. His jaw clenched and he turned back to face Xavier, eyes alight with amusement.

“Oh? You want to hurt me Sol?”

Yes. “No.”

“I understand that you’re upset. He is your responsibility after all. You left him alone. He got hurt. You must feel so guilty. You couldn’t even protect him.”

“You-”

“What? What is it, Sol? You can’t possibly think I ordered him to do it? What would I have to gain from that?”

“I don’t think you ordered anything! You’re complicit. You.. you let it happen..”

“Yes.. Didn’t you as well? Why is it all of a sudden a problem when you were perfectly okay when it happened before. All the times before.. were you not complicit in that?”

Solomon reached out, grabbing Xaviers shirt again and shoving him against the wall, hand wrapped around his throat next. His breathing came in heavy pants. He felt inhuman. Even more so when Xavier gave a choked off laugh. A hand coming up to grab his wrist.

“You gonna kill me Solomon? You gonna kill me?”

Solomon swallowed the lump in his throat, working his jaw.

“You can’t kill me. If I die, you’ll lose everything. Besides, you don’t have the balls.”

No. It wasn’t that Solomon wasn’t brave enough to kill him. It was that he was brave enough not to. Something had a hold of him right now though, something that made him want to hurt. Want to kill. But he wasn’t going too. That wasn’t him.

His hands released Xaviers throat and he took a deep breath. Then he punched his throat, sending the man into a coughing fit. Shaking his hand he took a step back. Watching as Xavier struggled to catch his breath. His raspy breaths made Solomon remember. Violence was not his way. This did not make him feel any better about the situation. He had forgotten himself for a moment. Letting the anger take control. He needed a cleansing. Perhaps he’d do that. Create a cleanse for himself to be rid of the anger. So he could do what he needed to do.

Xavier rubbed his neck, coughing lightly and gave him a strained smile.

“So.. that’s what it looks like when a good man breaks.”

Solomon narrowed his gaze. “I want you to leave him alone. I want you to tell Jesse to leave him alone. I want real consequences..”

“I want.. I want.. I want.. You want so many things Solomon. What do I get in return? What are you willing to give me?”

“I can’t..” A pause and he groaned slightly, “What do you want from me?”

What could he possibly want that Xavier didn’t already take from him. What did he want? Did he want him to do his job better? How could he possibly do more for him?

Xavier took a gentle hold on one of Solomon’s braids, thumb rubbing the dips softly. His soul felt defiled, with his hair being touched so intimately. His core felt rotten. He was so tired. Solomon smacked his hand away and growled.

“I want you to clean my boots Solomon.”

“What?”

“Get down on your knees and clean my fucking boots. Show me that you’re willing to do anything to make up for what you just did. To make me punish Jesse. Show me just how much you want this.”

Solomon growled, slowly, going to his knees. He wasn’t doing this for himself, he had to be reminded.

“What do you want me to clean it with?”

“Your tongue would suffice.”

His head raised for a moment, raising a brow incredulously. He wanted to say no. Wanted to get up, grab Miguel and Hen and walk out of this house forever. But instead, he lowered himself so his chest was nearly at the ground, and he licked his boot. Choking on dirt, horse crap, and leather. His tongue was dry by the time he was done, pausing to moisten his tongue again, before moving on to the other. He was nearly boiling again when he looked up at the man again.

“Good Solomon. You can get up now.”

Solomon forced himself to get up, his knees cracking with the effort. Was Xavier going to be satisfied with this? He needed Xavier satisfied with this so that Jesse wouldn’t bother them again. He needed to keep Miguel alive, because he would not survive another attack like this. The boy was already mentally broken at the moment, another assault would shatter him. He could degrade himself for this. As long as it was a good enough reason. Right? His soul could be clean if this humiliation was for a good reason. It had to be enough.

“If you ever hit me like that again, I will take Henrietta’s hand and chop it off. Understand me Solomon?” “Yes.”

“I’ll make sure Jesse doesn’t touch Miguel again. I swear it.” A small pause and a chuckle, “Until he’s able to walk again, then he’s free game. Does that sound like a good enough deal?”

No. “Yes.”

Xavier slapped his shoulder idly, grinning again.

Everything was changing. He’d have to see it through. All he had to do was hold on until Miguel was better. Then they could make a plan. Then they could.. escape. It was a waiting game. That made Solomon nervous. He never was really good at games, but he could learn.

“Next time you pull something like you did earlier Solomon? I’ll make sure you wish you’d never worked for me.”

“I already do.” “I know. But I’ll make sure they wish you never had to fix them either.” __

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a-painful-ordeal · 6 months

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8. My Head's Not Yours, Its Mine, And I'll Take My Fucking Time.

CW: explicit references to slavery, force feeding, literal boot-licking, references to violation of bodily autonomy (non-sexual), fantasy religious stances, extremist fantasy religious beliefs, references to fantasy devils, references to floggings, Evan’s terrible language, usage of ableist language, attempts at conditioning.

Warning: Any opinions held by either Maynard, Evan or Trygve are not my own. They are the characters opinions. Additionally, a lot of issues presented are addressing world building quirks.

A few days crawl by as Evan’s back recovers from its assault. He remains in the little safe room for the first couple of days after the flogging, though the boredom proves to be worse than the actual wounds. Trygve visits frequently, keeping Evan fed and in good company, whilst also keeping the boy updated on how long he can hide for.

Finally, the half-orc enters being greeted by an incredibly twitchy and bored Evan. Trygve has a look of sympathy on his face and an apology in his eyes. “Good morning…”

Evan looks around, as a flash of excitement dashes across his face on seeing this man. Company. Finally. “Did you bring food?” He pauses and his expression falls as Evan sees Trygve’s grim expression.

Trygve pauses with a nod, passing over a bread roll and some cheese, which Evan eagerly devours. “How’s your back?”

Evan shrugs as he eats before swallowing “Painful as shit but… fine... Why...?”

Trygve lets out a long sigh that he’s clearly been holding in. “Because Lord Maynard is asking for your attendance. I- I’m sorry… I couldn’t do anything more… just…” He sighs again, shifting from foot to foot.

Evan’s face falls for a moment, before he pulls his features into an upbeat expression, despite the dread beginning to pool. “It’s not your fault he’s a colossal cunt.”

Trygve pinches the bridge of his nose before squaring up to Evan. He puts his hands, heavily onto the boy’s shoulders. “Don’t say that. I don’t care if you think it’s true or not, saying it will get you beaten again… At. Best. In this place, you must learn not to just blunder forward and say what you want.”

Evan brushes the warm, calloused hands from him. “I won’t say anything. Promise.”

Trygve narrows his eyes, eyeing the boy with suspicion. “Why do I feel like you’ve never not said anything in your life.”

Evan fights back a smirk until his dastardly face betrays him, and he gives Trygve a shit-eating grin.

Trygve holds eye contact with the boy, with both a look of exasperation and some level of quiet amusement. Finally, he relents. Picking up a shirt nearby and tossing it to Evan. “Pull your shirt on and let’s go. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

***

As they make their way out of the small corridors that are clearly only meant for servants and slaves, Trygve’s animated expressions vanish. Instead, they are replaced with a neutral, almost apathetic look. They pass guards on the way to Lord Maynard. They pay Trygve no mind as he pauses and ducks his head to let them pass before continuing to Lord Maynard’s chambers. Evan watches this closely, mimicking Trygve’s expression, which seems to cloak them both as they move to the door of the chambers.

Trygve pauses and knocks.

“Enter.”

Trygve drops back and gives Evan’s hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t get hurt. Please.” He mutters to Evan before vanishing off to complete his own chores.

Lord Maynard is in the process of affixing a belt over a red velvet tunic as Evan enters. “Ah. Good. You are finally here.” He adjusts his clothes and picks up a pile of papers. Maynard looks at Evan, his tone commands attention. “The first order of business today. You are going to scrub these floors until I can see my reflection in them. Do I make myself understood?”

Evan stands straighter than normal and nods slowly, his eyes scanning the size of the room “Yes…. Sir…”

The Lord looks pleased with this response. “I have business to attend to. I expect to see it finished when I get back.” He takes his time to collect a few more things, before striding off through the door, locking it behind him. Leaving Evan stood alone with a bucket of water and a cloth.

Evan looks behind to make sure his new master has genuinely left the room before muttering “A please would have been nice... Prick.” Under his breath. He looks slowly at the cloth, poking at it with the toe of his shoe. He lets out a groan “Head… down. Right… I guess I can’t just duck out of this…” He picks the bucket and cloth up and scans the room until he spots a corner that would be a good place to start.

Making his way over, Evan slowly, gingerly gets onto his knees, wrinkling his nose as he does it. He’s fine with getting dirty, gods that’s been his life for the past six years… but it’s about the principle. He takes the cloth, dumping it and his hand into the water, “Gods above! Fuck me… you couldn’t have made it colder if you’d fucking tried!” Evan pulls his hand out quickly, waving it around to warm it up.

The cloth slowly begins to sink back into the ice depths of the bucket in response to Evan’s yelps.

Evan lets out a long groan before plunging his hand in and grabbing the cloth. He then slaps it onto the floor, beginning to scrub.

***

After a few times dunking his hand into the water, his fingers begin to ache from the cold. The battered skin on his back also complains as he kneels washing the floor. After maybe ten minutes, Evan pauses and stretches his muscles before getting back to it, letting out a groan as he does. More minutes tick by and the boy changes hands. However, it doesn’t take long for that hand to turn white too.

Throughout the next couple of hours, the monotonous back-and-forth motion of scrubbing absorbs him. Evan had never really had a skill for cleaning, but he’d never really needed one. By the time he was eight, he’d already lost the house he’d grown up in. The squat that M, he, and Meg had held up in never really got dirty, just untidy. And they all had an understanding that they all had to clean up after themselves.

His thoughts then drift to M. What would she do in his place? He doubts she would have already been flogged; she’s always been able to keep herself in check. She probably wouldn’t have argued back to Trygve either… just agreed right up until she had an undeniable opportunity to leave. That’s what the rumours about her said at least and… despite M being one of the sweetest, most clever people Evan had ever had the fortune of knowing, he didn’t doubt the rumours one bit. She’d do whatever it takes to get out of a situation like this.

The boy is jostled from his thoughts by the skin breaking on his knuckles. “Fucking bollocks…” Evan grumbles pausing to suck at the stinging skin “Can’t you just keep your shit together for five minutes….?! Please.” He demands from his skin, which of course gives him no answers. Evan sighs and looks around the room. The damp floor glistens in the light from the window. The boy had no idea how long it had taken him, but he was more than halfway done. He gives a smile of momentary satisfaction before he hears footsteps the doors open and His Lordship re-enters.

Fancy boots, covered in mud lead the way in first. They pause as Lord Maynard assesses Evan’s work. He pauses and slowly looks at the boy. “What on earth are you doing?!” He demands.

Evan pauses, not really having expected the anger. “… breathing… before I finish my job… Sir.” He says slowly, fighting the urge to adopt a patronizing tone.

Maynard looks at the room, and then back to Evan. “Do it again.” He says with a hint of disgust as he walks through, onto the wet floor, taking his jacket off and discarding it over a chair.

Evan blinks. Again?? His heart races as the blood pulses in his ears. “I am almost finished cleaning it… Sir.” Evan speaks slowly, keeping his tone level despite his urge to shout and swear.

Maynard stops. He turns on his heel and slowly, agonizingly begins to walk towards Evan. “I told you to clean it again. So, you will clean it again.” His voice is soft, almost like that of a priest in a temple, as he stops in front of the boy.

Evan’s eyes dart between the Lord and the floor. It’s fucking clean. What the shitting fuck does this man want from him?!

Maynard hums, before tutting. He then adopts a tone that you would only use of talking to a small animal or a baby. “I am your master.” He starts, making his words painfully obvious, enunciating every word. “When I say jump. You will jump. When I say kneel, you will kneel. And if I say die…” Maynard takes a deep breath. “Then you will ask ‘What method suits your needs best, master?’ Am. I. Clear?”

Evan looks at Maynard, clenching his jaw before slowly nodding. “Yes… Master.” He fights the need to flip this bastard off.

Maynard smiles. “Good boy. And under my rule, over time, your evil soul will be redeemed. Your work will set you free.”

Evan sets his gaze on the ground near him as he blinks slowly, praying that the Lord can’t see the expression on his face, or read his thoughts. “Yes…. Sir…” Gods above, this man is fucking mad. Evan had interacted with enough of the priests in the temples to the gods both before and after he’d ended up on the streets. Some had been a bit quirky but they’d pass out free food, Evan didn’t have an issue with them. This man though. This man is fucking nuts.

“There we go. You’re learning. How about you put that into practice. Hm?” The patronizing tone seeps into each word he says, making them sickly sweet.

Evan pauses. No, he fucking doesn’t want to put any of this into practice. Piss off, he desperately wants to say, but the tender skin on his back begs him to keep his mouth shut. Evan says nothing, staring dead at the floor to make sure he’s giving nothing away.

A muddy boot is placed in front of Evan. “Clean it.”

Evan pauses, before reaching for the cloth.

“No. I don’t want to have this floor seeped in muddy water. I want you to use your tongue.”

Evan freezes, his nose wrinkling at the thought before he looks at the boot. Running isn’t an option, not really. Nor is the tantalizing idea of dumping the bucket of cleaning water over this man…

The foot is tapped impatiently on the ground. “I don’t have all day.”

Evan slowly shuffles closer to the boot, on his hands and knees. The shadow of his lord blocks the light from the window. He gingerly leans over the boot, taking a second to pull his courage together before licking the well-worn leather.

The mud is warm, and the texture is foul. It’s slimy with bits of grit in it that get between Evan’s teeth. The taste is difficult to place. Salty and coppery together with a strong bitterness that makes Evan want to gag.

“I want that clean. Or I’ll be walking the rest of it around my floor.”

Evan pauses, pulling back, his face flushed from frustration and the humiliation. He looks to the bucket where he can spit his mouthful out.

“And swallow.”

Evan glares at the boot as the order comes. His lips turn down in revulsion, as he feels his stomach begin to protest. No… this… this is better than a beating… if he can play this right…. Maybe he can do enough to slip under the radar properly… swallow his pride. That’s all that this is. Swallowing pride. He takes a deep breath as the muddy mouth vanishes. The boy finds himself coughing and gagging as he feels it slide into his stomach like a rock. He gingerly brings himself closer to the boot again, fighting back bile as he swallows. And again. Continuing until the leather is damp with spit and the mud is gone.

“There. And that’s where devil-worshipping scum like you belong. Isn’t it?”

Evan breathing slowly through his nose, jaw clenched, nose, close to the toe of this man’s foot. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“That wasn’t so difficult, is it? Boy.” The shadow of Lord Maynard looms closer and a hand brushes gently through Evan’s hair. It toys with the strands for a moment, like one would with a pet. Evan bites into his cheek to stop himself from lunging at the man, as the sensation of his hand in Evan’s hair makes his blood run hot.

Finally, both the hand and the presence vanish, as the Lord stands, moving to pick up a different jacket from the large wooden wardrobe along a wall. “Now. I want this clean. No talking back next time or I’ll make you actually regret it.” And with that, he continues his business in the room for a few moments, before leaving.

The door shuts. And Maynard’s footsteps lead away.

As soon as he’s certain, that the Lord has gone, Evan spins around and spits into the bucket of water, making sure his mouth is as clean as he can. He then turns and looks at the door bristling as he does. “Cunt.” He growls with venom, making sure to keep his voice low.

Evan gets to his feet, fighting the urge to kick the bucket across the room, he instead brings his shoe into the nearby wall. Once. Twice. Before slowly placing his forehead against it. Letting his breathing slow and the frustration leave him. Instead, all that is left is a feeling of disgust. At the cunt who holds the power. At himself for letting his body and pride be used to hurt him like that.

Evan takes a deep breath. Calm. Slow. Play the long game. He came out of this without a scratch after all. In some perverted way… this is a win…

Trygve is right, not about giving up but about how he should work. If he's going to play this at all… he might as well play it smart.

-------

AN: I hope you are enjoying my angy boi as much as I am writing him! I plan on pulling together both a picrew of him, at some point and maybe doing some art. Though currently all art I have of him is post what is being written here, so once my wrist stops hating me I'll do that!!

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