So Whumpful

Blood drips from his nose. Steady, persistent. His front has been spotted by it, a smattering of dark red, fresh. He can feel it drying upon his face, cracking along the curves of his lips, the dip of his chin. Itchy, stretched thin when his expression twitches and the mask slips. He blinks back the waves of emotion, swallows away the sudden urge to reach up, swipe the wet from his face, dare look them in the eyes. He doesn’t. He only swallows, adams apple bobbing, lines drawn between his brows. A minute change, enough they cannot punish him for it. Head bowed, a dull pulsing through his skull, where fist met skin, he reckons with it. This beating. Blood on his clothes, pooling steadily along the traces of his hands, curving around the black ink etched against the skin. Dipping in the ridges between vein. He bit down on his tongue when the first hit came. It’ll ache later, with the bruises around his eyes. Red, blue, green, then yellow. He’ll apply concealer to them in the morning with tense fingers, pretend that none of it ever happened. 

Punishments are only a collective of seconds, minutes, hours. A punch to the nose, fingers curled around his bicep. The rake of a whip. He can take it. There are sixty seconds in a minute. Three thousand six hundred in an hour. He can manage that. Punishments rarely will last longer. Not here, in the light, men’s eyes glaring down at him. He is in the open, blood on his face, something sore aching in his back, and yet. It is all entirely tolerable. An hour reduced to minutes. Minutes reduced to seconds. Only time. Time, before the promise of an end. Something soft. He doesn’t cry, nor does he shake. He does not argue, or resist the pain. He takes it, face turnt down; ready, pliant. It’ll all be over soon, that’s the important part. What really matters. He waits it out. Take the pain, bite your tongue. Repent for all that has been done, that he ever will do—

Boot to cheek. His head swings to the side, an involuntary cough escaping his trembling lips. He shudders. His hair is undone, comes down in straight, dark rows along his face. He’s suddenly fortunate for it. He doesn’t want them to see it, the shock of the blow. The fear that wracks his body, barely contained, even now. 

No, that’s not right. He couldn’t give a shit about them. 

It’s her he cares about. 

She stands at the edge of the room, away from the mess. The men have blood — his blood — on their boots, their pants, rubbed against their knuckles. It’s on the floor, a ring of red that encircles him in his spot, knelt down, shameful. She doesn’t dare touch it. Watching, separate, glorious. She has her arms crossed over her chest, eyes trained onto him and him alone. There is something pristine about her, even now, in all her fury. Oh, she’s livid. He knows it. Feels it, felt it, the moment she dared allow him within her presence. She is rarely so angry with him. He must have done something heinous to upset her in such a way. He can’t be sure. The details have begun to escape him. Cato’s eyes on him, nothing else is relevant. Beaten down, vulnerable, as she watches on. And she does not attempt to stop any of it. 

He guesses he should feel betrayed. Hurt. She promised him no pain, she promised him protection. But he knows he deserves it, in one way or another. He always does. It’s humiliating, more than anything, that they called her down here. Watching, the disappointment written along his swollen skin. He wishes she would cast her gaze away. He wishes she would leave altogether. To fail her… why, there is no comparison on all of earth. Her disappointment washes over him, the prickling of pins against his cheek. Disgust, bared against his soul. He shivers on the pure weight of it. He wishes to shed his skin, to bend further, press the tip of his forehead to the bloody, cold floor. He wishes to atone for all it is he has done to anger her. Plead with her for forgiveness. Sitting in it, allowing it to fester. Lead in his blood, poison in his sore mouth. That’s what really fucks with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quiet. 

Peeking through the fringe, quick, catching glimpses at twisted expressions, sneering, before the split-second shot of the backside of a boot. A metallic taste in his mouth, neck pulled taut, head knocked backwards. He gasps, fists clenched. Controls his movement enough to not knock flat, but not enough that they lose the satisfaction of the flinch, the instinctual snap. It’s all about the performance. Give them something to revel in. Break down enough to be worthy, but never weak. Control yourself, even now, under the weight of their hands, the soles of their rough, unmerciful boots. He knows what they want. Breathing, uneven, he reigns himself in. Through the pain, through the fear; holding still, moving to regain any sensation that isn’t the rapid fluttering of his own heart, the ache inside his brain.

“Stand up.” He doesn’t expect her to step forwards, speak through the silence. An interruption, cutting through the satisfied humming of the handler, the soft, pained gasps that come from out of his chest. Its far too early. The act hasn’t been played out, the apologies slipping past his teeth. The sorry’s repeating, persistent, until they become unintelligible and meaningless. His form slipping, slipping, slipping, pushed just to the edge. She presses a hand to the curve of the handler’s shoulder, moves him out of the spotlight. Her heels click, resounding, against the harsh concrete. Something satisfying within it. Her fury is the low roll of the tide, the ebb and flow of the waves. He can feel it, dimmer. More controlled. There’s a predictability to being in front of her, kneeling, bleeding. Just waiting for her own graciousness. He’s come to expect it. 

He clambers to his feet, swaying a second by the sudden motion. Steadying, just as quickly. He’s grown taller than her by now. Just barely a few inches, but enough that when he looks into her eyes, he no longer has to look up. He hasn’t lost any of the reverence, despite. Just being within her company is enough to send a chill through his spine. She is God. He’d do anything for her. Really, he would. 

She grips him by the jaw, forces him to meet her gaze. There’s blood streaking down his cheek, still, and he suddenly feels terrified by her touch. He wishes not to taint her, stain her by the reminders of his own disobedience. There’s something evil about it. But she doesn’t seem to mind, holding him in place, unrelenting. “You’ve disappointed me.” She speaks, clear. “Do you understand why?”

He goes to nod, remembers she has him in her grip. He opts for a quiet “yes, ma’am,” instead. The notion is kind of ridiculous in itself. He rarely calls her ma’am. Cato, yes, but never ma’am. Their relationship has never been so stuffy or formal. He knows, still, its what she expects. He reads it along her features, anticipates the hit if he fails to perform. She holds him carefully, but not too gentle. This is not over yet. And he is to know it, too. 

“I expect better from you,” she says. Her eyes are dark, piercing. He finds them magnetizing, on better days. A wonderful contrast, silver tech against her own flesh. Something beautiful. But so close, he cannot help but feel like she is peering into his soul, reading the thoughts inside his mind. He cannot hide anything from her. 

The grip on his face tightens. That flare of anger is back, alight in her eyes. He flinches, instinctively. Bites himself for it. Never resist. 

“What do you say?” She grits out. 

“I’m sorr—” 

He’s slapped. It all happens so quickly that he doesn’t expect it. The nails embedding themselves into the soft of his cheek lessen, touch ripped from his skin with a startling severity; the force of the hit replaces it, a second wave of pain. He almost thinks it came from her. Almost. If not for the fact that she’s never slapped him before, and never will. That, and the fact she steps away, the handler moving in, a replacement, features blurred and indistinguishable. The grin of a beast, a flash of teeth. Bright red tinging his vision, something sharp along his tongue. A breath being knocked loose. 

“S—so—”

Again, harder. He sucks in a breath, foot sliding as he tries to regain his balance. Straightening, eyes dry, muscles tensed. Back straight, hands folded out in front of him. Perfect form. Understanding comes to him, slower than it usually would. He’s dizzy, almost swaying on his feet. The blood leaking from the side of his temple has left him unsteadied. His certainty is far away, distant. Something else has begun to take its place. 

“Sorry,” he repeats, automatic, breath hitching. 

The hit comes, and he’s ready. He holds still, keeps his head facing straight. She snaps at him anyway. “Speak.” 

“I’m sorry.” Voice calm, even. Apologies flow out of him easily. He can give them readily, more than anything else. He could apologize to her until his voice went out. Even then, he’d find some way to make up for it. 

The handler slaps him again. His cheek has begun to throb. Reddened, he wouldn’t be surprised if the handprint has been marked across his face, like something disgraceful. Ugly. 

“I’m sorry.” He speaks, again. “I’m sor—” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so—”

Smack. 

It’s as his voice cracks, that she puts her hand up. He wants to flinch at just the sight of it, suddenly afraid, doubtful, that she will hurt him too. That the promises will be broken, as his promises were, when he landed himself here. When he disobeyed every other thousandth time, earned himself the crack of a whip along the length of his bare back, or a steeltoed boot to the ribs. Anything, really. All that he owes her, and all he has done to fail. He thinks she’ll truly let him feel it, an ounce of her fury. But she doesn’t. She speaks again, quieter. Dulled out. “Stop. Go.” 

It’s all said so quickly he thinks it’s meant for him, the sudden dismissal. He figures she’s become so angry with him, disappointment burning within her so deeply, that she cannot stand him within her range of sight for one second longer. But it is not he who moves. It is the handler, with hard fists and cruel eyes, stepping back, breaking away. Faithfully obedient, dog on a leash. Just as he is. Footsteps receding, moving with the same fast pace in which they came. The doors shutter closed, a distant booming, silence following.

They are left alone. Quiet. 

“Atlas.” When she speaks, it’s softer this time. Just the first syllable of his name, and he is at rest, free. Cato breaks the charade. Master and student. Son and… well, he’s not quite sure, is he? She’s an enigma. Whatever she is, and whatever he has been molded into. Fuzzy, now. With the spots of his vision, the distant rush of blood in his ears. Something unreal about it all. But none of it matters, really. Because then she is stepping closer, cupping his cheek, her lips pursed, and he forgets all that had to do with it. Her touch is gentle this time, just as he’s come to expect. Thumb brushing against the raised skin there, smoothing away the blood. It stings, still, the good kind of pain. The one he likes from her. Wiping at his reddened skin, surveying him with that soft-eyed stare, her head cocked to the side. There’s always been something private about it, special. No one has ever looked at him in such a way. 

As if he’s something magnificent. 

“Does it hurt?” She asks. It’s more of a whisper than anything else, like she does not mean to be heard. But he knows better, at least he thinks he does. He never truly can be sure the true meaning of her words, of any her actions. It’s all so confusing, grappling with her distant emotions, her secret desires. He wonders, silent, if this is a trick. Did it hurt? Was it supposed to? 

“Yes,” he chokes on the word. 

Her expression darkens, approving. Releasing him, she nods to herself. “Hm.” 

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"500?" the auctioneer yelled, and Whumpee opened their eyes. Nobody in the crowd was really paying them any mind. They were the last servant of the evening to be sold, and most of the guests already had a servant by their side that they'd purchased. The ones who didn't — well, they weren't interested in Whumpee either. "450!"

Great, they were lowering the price even further. Whumpee's legs were shaking from having been up and working all day, only to then be led to the auction where they had to stand for as long as the others were sold. They longed for the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the tavern.

"450?"

Whumpee glanced at their handler, and they got a glare in response. They would get the biggest cut of the sale, and the further the price went down, the less they would get. Whumpee looked away as quickly as they'd glanced at them, down at the floor. Their bare feet were bony and deformed from having spent so much of their time walking back and forth.

"400!"

They knew what happened to servants that didn't get sold. They'd never personally seen it before, but they knew. They'd seen their handler come back with patches of blood on their shirt, they'd heard the rumours, they knew they never saw someone from previous auctions ever again.

"300," someone finally yelled from the crowd. Whumpee risked a glance up at them. They were middle-aged, with hair down to their shoulders, in clothing that was quite unassuming. They didn't look cruel. If anything, it looked like they were trying to save Whumpee from the fate of an unwanted servant.

But would the auctioneer accept such a low bid?

When Whumpee looked at them, they looked a little taken aback. The whole night, the prices had only gone up, not down. The auctioneer exchanged a glance with Whumpee's handler, and when their handler nodded, they turned back towards the crowd. "300! Once, twice…" Whumpee held their breath. "Sold!"

Whumpee was grabbed by their handler and dragged off the stage, and they followed clumsily. "Lucky, aren't you?" their handler sneered.

"I'm sorry," Whumpee said, as though they had any power over the bidding process. They felt like they'd robbed their handler by being such a bad, useless servant.

"300 is still money, I suppose. Do not embarrass me. Do everything the way your master wants, be quiet, be docile. You know the rules. If they bring you back and ask for their money back, I will personally wring your neck."

Whumpee had no doubt about that. "I will do my best," they said quietly.

They finally arrived at the table where Whumpee's new master sat. "Whumpee, was it?" their master asked.

"Yes," they said meekly.

"My name is Carewhumper, I—"

"Money first, introductions later," Whumpee's handler cut in rudely. Carewhumper sighed and reached into their pocket, pulling out a purse with more than enough money to pay for Whumpee. They took out some coins, counting them carefully, not wanting to pay more for a no-good servant than they absolutely had to. Once they handed over the money, Whumpee's handler was gone. Not even a goodbye.

"I'm sorry you had to pay for me," Whumpee said, eyes downcast. "I will do everything I can to make your purchase worth it."