AN: Dear whump lovers (and anyone else who enjoys stories with major drama and angst), I'm excited to present my contribution to the OUAT Winter Whump event on tumblr! Just a few notes before we get underway.
A million thanks to the organizers of the event! The influx of whump in the past few weeks has been amazing and I'm so grateful to be joining with such talented, like-minded people in the torture of our favorite characters. Extra thanks to ouatwinterwhump for graciously assigning me a later posting date by request. I've had some productive weeks recently and am 75% sure the story is 75% complete :]
At my new friend huffleporg: thank you for the offer to beta for me, and SO sorry this blossomed into too much. I feel bad that you didn't get to participate because of me. I support you 100% in having to kindly decline the role, and I'm glad you're being sensible and not biting off more than you can chew. For what it's worth, I think that just the idea of using a beta for the first time made me even more nitpicky than usual, so you ended up helping anyway! :) Good luck with med school! You're awesome!
This tale is 35 chapters long so far. In order to keep it a true "winter" event, and not stretch all the way into next summer, I plan to do my very best to post twice a week. However, the holiday weeks may see only one update apiece.
One great thing about this event was the thought that it could truly be a story with whump as the whole motive, no (self-imposed) pressure to give a deeper meaning or make it fit a more mainstream audience. So... you may find that the whump and aftercare drags on longer than in a "normal" story... because those are the parts I like the most! And is kind of the point :) Also, in the usual OUAT style, it jumps back and forth between "past" events and "present," and the timeline will probably get confusing. My only advice is to pay attention to the labels.
Last thing: warnings. Obviously, there's going to be a lot of pain and graphic injury involved. Also: abduction, restraints, brainwashing, serious medical issues, nudity, some bad language, and finally, hints that could be interpreted as non-con. Especially if you're a Krakillian shipper who knows all of the wonderful things tentacles can be used for :) BUT nothing explicit is actually shown.
Enjoy!
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Fading echoes of a scream bounced off stone walls and lofty ceiling timbers, rattling giant organ pipes and shards of stained glass. Atop the cracked altar, a glut of misshapen candles bore skittish flames that seemed to shudder at the sound. The lower pole of a shabby purple banner tapped an impatient cadence against the nearest wall, persisting beyond silence restored.
"Get up."
The prone figure shuddered at the command, gathering himself for the effort. A single spear of soft violet obscured one corner of the patch of sunlight in which he lay; it painted his upper arm and shoulder a rusty brown distinct from the pinks and reds mottling the rest of him. But when he finally managed to push himself to his elbows, the anomaly vanished, revealing more of the same.
Blood. Crusted dry in places, smeared in strangely frantic scribbles across the skin. Oozing from countless small Vs that adorned shoulders, arms, and sides, all a similar size and shape, varying only in depth and neatness. Welling, dripping from deep, round punctures that came in matching pairs: ribs, flanks, and hips. Each feeding a growing crimson pool collecting on ancient paving stones.
Behind him, impassively watching the pathetic struggles, a monster loomed. Six tapered legs supported a rotund thorax, all a mottled blue-gray mimicking cyanosis. The bald head boasted five eyes; a wide, human-like mouth; and no nose or visible ears. Its upper pair of arms ended in seven-fingered hands, each topped with a wicked-looking claw. Protruding from the armpits were a second set of arms ending in the giant pincers of a crab. And the most jarring part: it wore tailored clothing on its top half, looking like a CEO caught in that common nightmare of having arrived to work without pants on.
The beast allowed its slave to push himself as far as his knees before losing patience. A tentacle snaked from beneath its waistcoat and thrust itself through the iron collar that was the wounded man's only semblance of clothing. One brutal yank, and the slave was scrambling to his feet, pulled by the neck as he clawed desperately at the choking metal. Any noise of protest or pleading that he might have made was thwarted by the closing off of his airway.
A heavy pincer fastened around the prisoner's bicep and forcibly twisted him to face the monster. Tearing free from the arm, the claw left new stripes of blood along its circumference. Staggering, the slave continued to grip the collar with his singular hand. He would not - or could not - raise his gaze, but stood swaying, muscles quivering visibly, his head bowed. The leash-tentacle maintained its hold, slightly gentler now, allowing the collar to settle more evenly around the bruised, abraded neck. A second tentacle slithered forward to gently stroke the prisoner's cheek, and the man stiffened in an obvious struggle not to flinch away.
The whole left side of his face was covered in scrapes, almost as if someone had taken a vegetable grater and removed all but the thinnest layer of skin, particularly over the more bony areas. Similar abrasions were apparent all down his front, most notably on knees, feet, and elbows, although all were overshadowed by deeper slashes widely distributed across his person. Some sloppily sutured, others in need of the same. A shiver of contentment rattled the monster's carapace as it surveyed its prisoner.
"Did you enjoy it this time?"
Its voice was smooth, eerily normal for such an abhorrent appearance. The words startled a flock of oddly pink-hued pigeons in the rafters, and they fluttered urgently around the ceiling before settling back onto their original perches. A second tentacle trailed lazily down the captive's neck and shoulder, suddenly secreting a sticky slime as it wound around his upper arm. Seconds after contact, the skin beneath grew an angry red and small white blisters formed. The man cringed, squirming slightly in amplified pain, but he managed a calm, though hoarse, reply.
"Yes, Master."
Both tentacles tensed, squeezing and pulling momentarily, then relaxed and withdrew. The slave stumbled, nearly fell, and the monster chuckled.
"You lie, Tripod. But… I forgive you." The crab legs straightened as it raised itself to its full height and adjusted its ridiculous half-suit, continuing, "I think I shall miss that delicious defiance of yours. It added such spice to each and every session. This will be better, though. They always say that deprivation sweetens the dish."
It snapped its pincer in a double-click, and two smock-clad slaves materialized from the corners and assembled themselves at their Master's feet. It allowed their automatic prostrations for a moment, then waved a hand in dismissal.
"Take him to Z. I must rest now."
Wearing vacant expressions, the two newcomers took hold of an elbow each. Their fellow slave did not resist, nor did he say a word as he was frog-marched out of the cathedral, leaving uneven, blood-smudged footprints in his wake.
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Z did not speak. Z never spoke, not ever, to any of the dozens of fellow slaves who came staggering through her door. She did what her Master compelled her to do and nothing more. No point in making connections when each passing moment brought them all closer to their inevitable end.
Next. The wounded man took the expected position without being directed, lowering himself gingerly down onto the bare wooden table in the center of the cottage, taking his place among vivid stains that implied blood and gore and other unsavory substances. His escorts disappeared outside: no one particularly enjoyed Z's attentions, necessary though they may be. Best to avoid her scrutiny whenever possible.
She heard him stifle a groan as his mangled back contacted rough wood. This one - the handless one, the one called "Tripod" by their Master - had been here a remarkably long time and was familiar with her routine. No matter how much the position hurt him, he knew she wanted frontal access first.
Wasted effort, trying to suppress his reactions like that. Z wouldn't care if he were to howl imprecations, mimic a banshee, or cry like an infant. Most of them did, and it made no difference to her personally. The Master, though… she could feel it, sometimes, commanding her to press a little harder, dig a little deeper, linger through her work. All to encourage the indulgence that would benefit their Master. Didn't this man understand?
Just the same as every day for weeks, Z shuffled over to the table, dragging tray and stand, assessing her patient with a dispassionate stare. She hefted her spray bottle and stepped to the head of the table. He closed his eyes in resignation. They all hated when she went for the neck veins. But more often than not, her patients were so dehydrated that it really was the most practical option.
Patch them up, keep them alive, send them back for more.
Sliding the iron band up toward the slave's chin, Z proceeded to squirt diluted disinfectant all over the right half of his throat. Thunk: a bottle on the tabletop. Soft click and rattle: a cap joining it. And then two fingers, pressing firmly just above his collarbone. Seconds later, she drove the blunt needle into his jugular, the curl of blood in the attached tubing confirming the accuracy of her aim. A single strip of tape secured the setup in place.
Life-sustaining concoction flowing. Next step: the straps. Restraints of leather, crudely affixed to the legs of the table and pulled up to wind firmly around wrists and ankles. Regardless of whether the patients ever intended to struggle, Z's ministrations were anything but gentle. It was mostly a matter of protection, for her as well as the miserable soul on the table.
This particular slave had presented an interesting challenge at first, but it was nothing that some ingenuity and a couple spare shards of metal couldn't handle. A thin but rigid post had been driven straight through both bones of his truncated wrist, and the protruding ends contained a ring not unlike that which might adorn the nose of a livestock animal. It was through this that the appropriate strap was threaded, creating a most effective method of controlling his handless arm. The Master had derived a full 48 hours of sustenance from that bit of torture. Z was not gentle in reaching for the limb, even though he always had his arm fully extended in a useless attempt to stop her from yanking on the device. Perhaps it still pained him.
Now tied and helpless, lying spread-eagled like some kind of deformed starfish, the naked man was fully at her mercy. She catalogued his visible wounds while performing the ritual flood: water of questionable cleanliness, tossed from a bucket, head to toe. Rinsing blood, filth, and corrosive slime and leaving him shivering with cold and probably painful dread.
The filthy water cascaded off all edges of the table, puddled on the stone floor, and slowly trickled in the direction of the single drain near the door. Red trails like capillaries, feeding into venules, filling one single vein at the end.
Her patient prepared to her satisfaction, Z expertly arranged her tools. She was no cutting-edge physician - no physician at all, in fact - but she could identify outdated equipment when she saw it. Old-fashioned, worn, and short-stocked: that's what she had to work with. Rarely, a raid brought in new supplies, but the Master never made it a priority. Why bother, when most of those being treated would last no longer than a week anyway? The favorites, this one especially, received the precious doses of antibiotics hoarded away, and were better off for it. But even these would one day run out. The question was whether he would live long enough for that to become a concern.
She made inadvertent eye contact just as she was lifting an iodine-soaked gauze pad toward a particularly nasty laceration across the ribs. The slave squeezed his eyes shut in a hurry, but she'd seen the usual mix of fear, despair, and anguish there. She pushed the gauze into the wound, scrubbing roughly. There was no room for what else she had identified: a persistent will to fight the pain.
Another glance at his face. Through the rictus of agony, he seemed to be mouthing a soundless mantra. No… hope? No hope. It was. He was finally coming around to the realization, then. No one could resist, not in the end. Not even him.
Nor should he. His Master wanted - needed - his screams. And that's all that mattered anymore.
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AN: A MILLION, BILLION THANKS TO COCOHOOK38 / SANCOCNUTCLUB ON TUMBLR! Her masterful art is the new cover for this story - click on it to see it bigger, or better yet, GO TO TUMBLR AND VISIT HER BLOGS! The more whumpy pieces are on sancocnutclub, but there are also ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE scenes of CS, KnightRook, and others based on other authors' fics. She is just AMAZING! So detail-oriented and every piece is jaw-dropping!
THANK YOU COCNUT-SAN! 3
