#ladywhump

"Oh, the first prince keeps sending spies into Princess Rayana's house. He's been doing it since before even I got here, and I think maybe also the king?" Dandelion said, dropping the first of her buckets into the water. The two of them were down at the river, Stomme helping Dandelion collect water for scrubbing, since Dandelion wasn't the strongest all on her own, and it'd be a couple extra trips otherwise. "He sends her maids and servants and slaves saying it's because he feels bad for her for not having magic, and every so often one of 'em will be a spy, and the princess will interrogate them and has to chase them out of her house."

Stomme hauled a bucket full of water out of the river, because if she didn't do something with her hands her whole entire body was going to collapse. And the princess had thought she was—?

"But, hey! You're still here, which means the princess knows you really are just a slave, now!" Dandelion said brightly, turning to head back to the castle, bucket in each hand.

"Why—the prince—?" Stomme spluttered, staggering to keep up, her mind fractured and lurching.

"Oh, he's paranoid," Dandelion said, answering a different question than the one Stomme meant to ask, "Been like that his whole life I hear. He's obsessed with the idea that his siblings will kill him for the throne. Which, y'know, not to be irreverent," Dandelion lowered her voice and ducked her head towards Stomme, "but the second prince just might. And I don't even know if that'd even be any real worse for any of us common folk if he did, y'know?" Straightening again, she continued at volume, "But if he ever actually listened to any of the spies he sent into Her Highness's house, he'd've told by now that Princess Rayana has no interest in the throne. She likes monster hunting, and she likes the Shelley household, even if the count is one big old grouch, and she's so in love with Lord Mori," Dandelion's tone turned romantic and wistful at that, fluttery in a way, "and she doesn't like the capitol at all and she wouldn't wanna have to deal with any of their siblings trying to scheme behind her back either, and I think she'd miss the area out here, you know? Capitol gets too hot and sticky in the summer."

"Ah," Stomme said, because Dandelion had paused, and it seemed like she wanted Stomme to say something.

"But don't worry!" Dandelion said, smiling, and turning, the heavy buckets sending her arms whirling out in front of her before stopping on opposite sides of her body, walking backwards for a few steps. "He only really does it about once a year, so we've got plenty… of…"

Dandelion's face fell into concern, no longer looking at Stomme, and Stomme turned back to see what Dandelion was looking at. It wasn't some rapidly approaching direwolf or rock troll, fortunately, neither was it Overseer Yan or the princess herself, which would've been worse. At first, Stomme couldn't tell what Dandelion was looking at. There was the river, the village, the cold and brittle woods, the road stretching towards the capitol with—

With people.

And there was one large flag raised high above the crowd, still so small in the distance she could only make out their vaguest shape, no individual sense to them. But she could see the flag, tiny though it still was. And that flag was magenta.

"Stomme we should hurry," Dandelion said, as flat and rushed as Stomme had ever heard the cheerful girl speak. Stomme nodded silently, and pushed through the pain in her legs to rush. Dandelion did not run, laden as she was with heavy buckets, but even so Stomme barely kept up.

"Your Highness!" Dandelion called, not hesitating to set her buckets aside and rush to the training fields, where the soldiers sparred and stretched and practiced at their deadly crafts. "Your Highness, when we were down by the river, we saw, your brother, I think! A magenta flag."

"Shit," the princess hissed, breaking off from where she had been quite thoroughly besting a knight (soldier? Stomme still wasn't sure) twice her size. "You're sure, girl?"

"About the flag, princess. They were still a ways off, but—"

"Your Highness!" someone called from the walltop, telescope in hand. "Party approaching; they carry the crown prince's flag!"

"Shit!" the princess hissed more violently. "Get me Yan!" she bellowed, tossing her practice sword aside and setting into a swift stride, now ignoring Dandelion entirely. "Clean out guest accommodations, tell the cooks—Josh, go ready my armor!" she barked out orders as she walked, Stomme only realizing she was coming this way when she was practically on top of her. Stomme stumbled backwards as the princess approached her, but not fast enough. Princess Rayana seized Stomme by the collar, thankfully not choking this time but still more than enough to have Stomme jerking down, panic flaring wildly within her, her knees buckling from the ache still in them.

Did the princess think she was at all involved in this?? That Stomme was somehow involved with the crown prince??? If Stomme had only just proven herself to not be a spy—a thing she had not known was in the realm of concern—did his arrival now make her suspect once again? Stomme opened her mouth, maybe to insist that she was no spy, maybe to beg for mercy, but the princess cut her off.

"Not you," she grit distractedly, not even bothering to look at Stomme, "You go change, you can wear your underclothes, collar, and tunic only, leave your boots shirt and pants in your room, then come meet me in the antlered reception room."

The princess did not wait for Stomme's response, simply released her and barked out a couple other names of people she wanted. Not that she would need Stomme to confirm her obedience, anyways. Stomme would do as she was told.

Stomme wasn't sure if it was consoling or not, that the princess seemed to know that. Did that mean she didn't blame Stomme for the prince's sudden appearance? Had Stomme proved her innocence well enough the night before? It was the most caught off guard Stomme had ever seen the princess, though it did not make her less intimidating. Did Stomme's presence in the reception room mean that Stomme was about to be blamed for something she had, a mere ten minutes ago, had no idea was even an option? Was she going to be near the crown prince again? Surely not, right? And if she was—

Oh gods. What if the princess made an example out of her to the crown prince? A "see what happens to the spies you send me" sort of thing? Stomme braced herself against the stone wall of the castle, her aching legs and the fear of what was to come making her weak, stumbling, slow. She did not fall over, neither on the way to her room nor while she was getting dressed, stripping down to her underclothes and replacing only her tunic back on top, but she did stumble and fall, feet frigid on the cold stone of the castle, on the way to the reception room.

It hurt. She was exhausted. She was scared. She was sick of feeling hurt and tired and scared all the time. None of that mattered.

Stomme stumbled out of the way as the door to the reception room swung open, Lady Rosa, Overseer Yan's wife, trotting out with a vase of flowers, one of the few decorations typically in the room. It was not an especially ornate vase, nor were the flowers particularly impressive, so Stomme could see why it would be insufficient viewing for a crown prince, but also, there weren't exactly many replacements which could be brought in, and its place was bare when Stomme hesitantly entered.

It was easier to focus on the vase than on the rest of it. The princess was currently absent, and Stomme felt her nerves buzzing from the lack of direction there. It felt like she was intruding, underdressed, skin prickling with cold and fear, without the princess there to direct her. With the vase gone, the only objects of note in the large stone room were the two large (beautiful) windows, two couches facing each other across a plain, thin rug, the low table perched between the couches, a large fireplace with two other servants stoking it to a roar, and the massive leshen skull on the wall that hung over it all. It was from a truly ancient beast, each antler the length of a man apiece, and Stomme had always found it intimidating to look at, like even though the monster was dead it could still somehow view her through those too-dark eye sockets.

It. Would not have been her first choice of room to receive a prince in. Fortunately, her opinions didn't matter and impacted exactly nothing.

Stomme hovered anxiously until increasingly-familiar fingers slipped below her collar and tugged her forward, casually, as the princess passed her, carried along by the motion of her stride. She, likewise, had changed, but while Stomme was exposed and self consciously trying to readjust the flaps of her tunic to cover more of her thighs, the princess was laced back into her dragonleather armor, clad from booted toe to the high necked jacket, her face the only skin visible on her. She had even larger, spikier teeth dangling from her ears than when Stomme had first seen her, the fangs segmented so as to have two sharp points each, and her sword at her hip, scabbard fine-made but having clearly seen real use. She was otherwise unadorned, and snapped (surprisingly loud despite her thick hawking gloves, also dragonleather) as she sat heavily upon the couch, pointing at her left foot, her right elbow on the couch's arm and magenta eyes on Stomme.

"Kneel here."

Stomme knelt.

"Face away from me."

Stomme turned, and let her arms be pulled behind her, tears stinging at her eyes again as vivid memories of only the night before returned full force, rope tying them together once again. Mercifully, this time, the princess left Stomme's legs and ankles untouched.

"Turn back towards me."

Thumb and forefinger gripped Stomme's chin, tilting her face up, not forceful but neither gentle, and the princess scowled irritably down at her.

"You," she said, fetching a little copper bell from her pocket and securing it to the front of Stomme's collar, the little metal clasp cold against Stomme's throat, "are a set piece. You understand me girl? You're furniture. From the moment my brother enters through those doors your one and only goal is to remain absolutely, perfectly silent. I don't care what you need to do to keep yourself so, but if you make noise, I will punish you. Confirm."

Stomme swallowed dryly, too scared to speak, afraid that even now she would be punished for the sound. Moving as little as possible to avoid ringing the bell, Stomme nodded, just barely, into the princess's grip.

"To help you stay your tongue," the princess continued, retrieving the second item from her pocket, a thin iron bit which would not have looked out of place on a horse's bridle, and Stomme opened her mouth obediently to receive it. The princess secured it, then tilted Stomme's face from side to side, making the bell jingle and Stomme wince, but no punishment came as the princess examined her work.

"You have until he gets here to get acclimated to your task," she said, releasing Stomme's jaw. She instead gripped a fistful of Stomme's hair (her hair tie had not been on the list of articles the princess still permitted Stomme to wear, and so she'd left it with her pants and boots) and pulled Stomme (surprisingly gently) so her head was on the princess's lap. Her heart jackrabbited in her throat, tightly wound as a hare in the bush while the fox stared on, but the princess released her hair and stroked gentle fingers through the strands, flattening and straightening what she had mussed.

"Off your heels, you'll injure your ankles that way," the princess ordered, "Ass on the floor."

Stomme shifted as ordered, wincing again when the bell jingled. But she had until the prince arrived. She had that long. She wouldn't be punished yet. It felt just as wrong to lean her shoulder against the couch, to lay her unworthy head upon the thigh of one so high above her, but Stomme was a set piece. She was furniture. She was where the princess wanted her, and clung to that truth as a drowning man.

The bit in her mouth meant her lips were always at least a little bit open, and gravity meant that when she drooled, it was going onto the princess's lap. She tried to discreetly suck her saliva back in, but the princess's gently carding fingers tugged sharply.

"Noise, girl. I said be silent."

Panic flailed inside her. She couldn't drool on the princess! But the other option was sucking spit back in through her teeth, and she knew the princess would not merely reprimand her, if she were to make the princess repeat herself.

Stomme, lowly and unworthy slave that she was, let herself drool on the dragonleather of a princess.

Princess Rayana settled her right cheek on the back of a loosely curled fist, leaning against the arm of the couch, while Stomme trembled against her left thigh, the princess turning her scowl out towards the window while servants and other slaves moved about.

"Easy girl," the princess murmured, petting absently at Stomme's hair, still. "You'll tremble yourself into ringing the bell. Try to relax."

So Stomme tried. She tried to go—not limp, limp would be too out of control—but loose. Tried to let herself sink her weight against the thin carpet and the couch and the princess's leg. She noted that a good number of the other servants in the room were stripped down like she was, most of them slaves. Actually, most of the slaves Princess Rayana owned were accounted for in this room, a rare sight that they would all gather this densely. And that all of them should be dressed like Stomme. They, at least, got to keep their boots on, a fact that reminded Stomme of just how cold her legs were, in this autumn month, despite the roaring fire, and how prolonged exposure would only make her colder.

She wouldn't move a muscle, though. She would stay where she was put.

"Yraima, fetch the Seveian rum, three mugs," the princess ordered one of the older slave women, who left silently and swiftly.

Stomme tried to. To relax. To hit an almost trance-like state, where she was nothing, not present, not meant to know or react to anything. She was a set piece. She was furniture. She was silent, that and nothing else. She nearly startled when Sora of all people entered the room, flushed red down his neck and shoulders hunched up to his ears, dressed down to a tunic and his boots and nothing else. He stalked awkwardly across the room, taking up a spot standing next to the fireplace, face turned away in mortification and just barely visible in Stomme's peripheral. She wondered what that was about, since Sora was a freeman, as far as she knew, though there were a couple other free servants here also adhering to the princess's odd dress code, and not all of them women either. Maybe it was just that Sora was a groom, and should be in the stables, and also had a nasty and biting attitude unfit for polite company, and should be nowhere near the princess and the crown prince.

Stomme didn't need to know. She was only a slave, and right then she was not even that. No more than a set piece. Silent.

Lord Mori entered some time later, and for the briefest moment Stomme almost didn't recognize the man.

Gone were his flowing eastern robes with their artful embroidery and many hanging baubles. He was in a long and flowing tailcoat of rich green and gold buttons, the tail of it rimmed with ruffles and lace. Beneath it, he had a purple vest and a silken ascot, and there was a golden chain connecting his lapel pins. His sleeves ended with a burst of ruffling that sprang wildly free from the tighter overcoat, and his pants were skin-tight and tucked into shiny black boots that squeaked on the stones before he reached the carpet. His hair, maybe, was the most jarring part of it all. When normally he wore it long and flowing, today it was all neatly secured in a tight topknot, not a single strand loose, and no less than three ornate hairpins securing it, the only part of his current attire that seemed connected to his normal aesthetic preferences. He wasn't even wearing earrings, from Stomme's admittedly limited angle.

"Your brother," Lord Mori hissed irritably, flopping himself on the other side of the couch, his right leg coming anxiously close to knocking Stomme in the back, "could give us some fucking warning."

"Mm," the princess hummed, a more curt sound than she typically made at her fiance. He huffed, and leaned in, caressing her jaw.

"Are you alright my love?" he asked, tone void of any of the syrup his "concerned" voice normally took, just a brief and short check on her well-being.

"I'll feel better once this is over. Everyone in place?" she asked. No one responded verbally, but something outside Stomme's range of vision must have satisfied her, because she then just ordered, "Rosa."

Lady Rosa curtsied, and left the room with a quiet swish of skirts.

The tension in the room grew thick enough to cut with a knife.

Lord Mori sighed, and hauled himself up behind Stomme, her peripheral vision not really well enough to see him, despite laying on the princess's lap. From best she could tell, he now sat perfectly upright, one hand resting on his thigh, while the princess did not move from her slouch against the arm of the couch, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the only movement the princess's gloved fingers in Stomme's hair.

The crown prince entered.

He was dressed entirely in expensive true-black, with even-more expensive magenta aiguillettes over both shoulders and parallel bars of expensively braided, intricate frogging down the length of his torso. He wore gems on each finger, most of them magenta as well, and his pitch-black beard was full and meticulously groomed, his equally dark hair slicked back and pink glints at his cufflinks.

Stomme was furniture. Stomme wasn't even a slave, she was just a set piece. Stomme was silent. Stomme wasn't important to what was happening here. She breathed, and did not move, and did not make a single noise to draw attention to herself.

Lord Mori rose as the crown prince strode into the room, bowing low, a placid, blank smile on his face that did not change as the crown prince did nothing to acknowledge him in return. The first prince's magenta gaze settled, hard and expectant, onto Princess Rayana, more than a decade his junior and many spaces back in line from his position for the throne. She did not rise. She did not move. She met his gaze, and pet idle fingers through Stomme's hair.

"Little sister," the crown prince said, both a reminder and a demand in his tone.

"Your Imperial Highness," she returned coldly, her words a wall more impenetrable than the thick stone surrounding this very castle. An angry muscle twitched in his jaw, but he merely sat on the opposite couch, gloved hands tugging at his pants as he did in that way of nobles whose pants had been fitted so utterly completely they could no longer sit without having to do that stupid little shuffle. Not that. Not that Stomme would think it was a stupid gesture. Stomme didn't have opinions about important free people, and she especially didn't have opinions then. On account of the fact that she was just a piece of furniture.

The fact that she had almost thought something negative about the crown prince set her back on edge, and she focused again on her task to remain still. To remain silent.

Lord Mori sat after the prince had, posture still exactly precise, impeccable. The crown prince barely glanced at him before saying to Princess Rayana, "You greet me with such odd formality, little sister."

Stomme could not parse some diplomatic doublespeak of nobles, but thought she caught the scolding there, that the princess had addressed him by his title while he called her sister, but she had not risen and bowed as he had clearly wanted her to.

"I recall you stating you wished that we should regard one another as family, brother. Has this wish changed?"

"Not so," he said, smiling in a way that felt slimy. "Indeed, it is familial love which has brought me all the way out to this quiet backwater of yours. I worry for you, little sister, that you should grow wild and uncouth on these savage hills and this barren castle. You should come visit the capitol more, that you may not forget your own refinement. It does not suit a princess to live in such paucity."

"Yes, well," the princess said, tone inscrutable, her fingers unerring in their rhythm through Stomme's hair, "I do not doubt the people of the capitol's ability to surround themselves with such refinements, rather than spending their budgets on matters of practical use."

She paused a moment, just to let the blow of the insult really land. Stomme, if she were a person and not a slave and not a piece of furniture, might have snorted, or at least smirked, as Lord Mori did. That the nobles in the capitol spent quite a lot on very frivolous bullshit was not a particularly rare opinion, though it was one that caused that muscle in the crown prince's jaw again to twitch. His anger was enough to keep Stomme low and small and afraid, shielding herself with the fact that she was not expected to be anything other than glass eyed and silent.

She wasn't sure what Lord Mori was smirking about, to be fair. He was a greater peacock than most noblewomen Stomme had heard stories of and seen, all added together.

She was furniture. She had no opinions. She was silent. Only silent. She did not have opinions on men who could hurt her.

"Though you need not worry for me, brother. I am kept quite comfortable here, and my every need is attended to by a plentiful number of servants."

"Yes," he said, magenta eyes sliding briefly down to Stomme, to the metal bit in her mouth and the ropes 'round her wrists and the bare stretch of her naked leg with the front flap of the tunic only barely covering her modesty. A shiver coursed through her, involuntary, scared, and she could only be grateful it did not ting the bell. "I see you've made use of the workers I have sent you."

"Some of them," Princess Rayana agreed, the rhythm of her fingers in Stomme's hair breaking only briefly, as she stretched her fingers out to full length, slow and purposeful. "Unfortunately, it seems you may yet need to work on your judge of character, elder brother, as some of them claimed—quite fictitiously—that they were spies who entered into my house under your order."

More than just his jaw twitched, that time, a vein in his temple pulsing briefly.

"I see," he said, tone lower, growing ever so slightly strained. "I am glad you knew better than to believe such obvious lies."

Yraima entered with a tray with three stout mugs on it, but did not go to the crown prince first. Instead, she knelt down at the princess's right side, head bowed low, leg outstretched so the whole room could see her bare skin, soft and beginning to sag with age, as the princess lifted her head from her fist for the first time since before her brother entered the room. She took a mug with that same casual, careless grace she lived her whole life exuding, and Yraima crossed behind the couch to kneel again by Lord Mori's left side, and offer the tray to him as well.

Visibly angry now, the crown prince snapped, "Rayana. While I know you were not raised with the same expectations as the rest of us, you should know better at least than to order your slaves to serve you and your gigolo before your future king."

"Oh?" Princess Rayana said, and Stomme could hear the single, smoothly arched eyebrow in her tone. As though cued, Lady Rosa entered pushing a small cart, a well-crafted but simple tea pot and a single delicate tea cup and plate sitting atop it, a pleasant smell wafting off. "Forgive me, brother. I recalled you saying you did not care for the taste of bitter rum, and did not think to offer you something you would dislike. No, no, Rosa," the princess ordered, tone higher pitched but far from light, interrupting the gentle lady as she placed the delicate cup (Stomme didn't know they had a set so fine. Maybe it really was just the one cup and plate, which was why she had never seen it used) on the low table before the prince. "You and Yan go enjoy the tea, my apologies for pestering you for its making. My brother will have rum with us."

Yraima crossed to the crown prince, knelt down, note-perfect to the same gesture she'd made at Princess Rayana's side, and offered up the tray with the final remaining mug.

Princess Rayana drank from hers. Lord Mori cradled his in his lap.

Stomme was so scared she could hardly breathe.

She did, of course. Because not breathing would mean she would gasp when her lungs finally remembered their function in spite of her, and to gasp would be to make noise, and she could not do that, but Stomme felt so, so, so scared, sitting quietly on the floor, head in her princess's lap, the crown prince sitting with two fists curled tight and his jaw so clenched his temples bulged with it. And he was not the third princess, which meant that he was not quite so terrifying as she. But it also meant that he had magic, and the princess didn't, and Stomme didn't think Lord Mori would let any real harm come to the princess, if the prince did snap, but Stomme was technically seated between the two, and would not assume any protections would be offered to her if the man's rage exploded.

She was furniture. She was nothing. She wasn't even really here. She was breathing, and she was not moving, and she was silent, she was silent.

"Also, I was older than her, last I checked," Lord Mori said cheerfully, blithely ignoring the mood of the two royals. "And I have yet to pleasure her in bed, as we are naturally waiting for the night of our wedding for our mutual deflowering." He took a sip from his mug.

"I see I have misunderstood," the prince grit out, face turning slowly redder as the time went on. "I will have the tea. Thank you. For your consideration."

"Of course," Princess Rayana said, and though her tone almost sounded congenial, it also very, very much did not. "I would not want for you to be made uncomfortable, brother."

Stomme noticed that he did not apologize for his insult to Lord Mori. Because she was furniture, and also a slave, she didn't have an opinion on that.

Lady Rosa turned right back around and set and poured the tea, and curtsied low before leaving again. Princess Rayana finished her mug, and set it on Yraima's platter in dexterous exchange for the last remaining full one.

"So," Princess Rayana said, magenta eyes locked upon each other, both siblings seated with wide-spread legs, though Princess Rayana lounged while Crown Prince Viktor sat rigidly straight. She continued to pass slow fingers through Stomme's hair. "What brings you here unannounced, brother? Have you come bearing news that father has at long last set the date for my wedding, now that Anika has not only been wed, but had her first babe besides?"

"Perhaps you should visit the capitol and question father thus yourself," he said, "I have not asked after such arrangements, though there is still time, little sister. If you were to apologize on bended knee and ask politely, he may yet be willing to call off your engagement to this coxcomb."

Princess Rayana's fingers gripped suddenly tight, real anger lancing through her in the first rise the crown prince had gotten out of her the whole exchange. Stomme grit her teeth and closed her eyes, tried so hard to breathe through her nose and stay quiet, dreading what would now be—

Lord Mori laughed, loud and Stomme couldn't even tell, from the sound, that he was faking it. It sounded genuine.

"Oh, and here we were worried that because you had not sent word ahead, your visit heralded something bad! Oh, but I see you are in a fine mood, if you can jest with us thus."

He set his hand atop the princess's, which also happened to be on top of Stomme's head but that was fine and not terrifying at all because she was furniture and no one in this room would pay attention to her as long as she was quiet.

"As though either of us would wish to annul that which brings both of us such joy."

Princess Rayana, tension sliding out of her just as swiftly as it had come, turned her hand beneath Lord Mori's and gripped it squarely.

Crown Prince Viktor's eyes slid to Lord Mori with poorly disguised disgust, then returned to his sister without acknowledgement.

"Little sister—"

"Brother."

His temper flared again, pulse in his temple, but he continued on, "Being so far from the capitol as you are, I doubt you have heard much of the rumors circling that there is unrest amongst the nobility."

"From my brief time spent there, I was under the impression that there was always unrest amongst the nobility."

"Now more than ever. There is talk of a faction rising in support of the second prince, who would usurp my place as future king. Ridiculous, I know, but there are whispers that you back him. And without your presence there to reassure them of your intentions, the air grows hostile towards you, little sister."

"I would think it would grow even moreso towards him, if he is the alleged insurgent."

"Oh certainly! But Jo can handle himself. I am more worried about you, little sister, and how increasingly pressing it is becoming that you make your fealty towards your king and crown prince known, so you cannot be misconstrued."

"Of course I am loyal," the princess said, Lord Mori's hand just barely twitching in a squeeze overtop Stomme's head, "But if there are those who doubt me, I fail to see how this is my problem. I made my oath on bended knee before our father and the entire Styrggian court. If the nobles take issue with me now, it is their doubts and penchant for rumermongering which is the cause, no action of mine."

"It is your inaction, little sister, which stirs Styrgge's heart to doubt."

"Do I not slay its monsters?" she asked. "Do I not protect its border each year? Do I not take up my sword and fight for those soft handed nobles who know nothing of violence and blithely expect me to do so with no respect nor comprehension of just how arduous a task it is?"

"Oh, do not act so put upon; you love slaughtering those nasty things and we all know it. And you might aid their comprehension if you returned home!"

"My home is here," she hissed.

"You are a princess, Rayana! You have duties to your crown—"

"I have sworn my fealty to the crown."

"You have not sworn any fealty yet to me."

"You, elder brother, are not yet king."

Rage roiled across the prince's face, and he stood, tall and looming even from his distance, his magenta eyes glowing.

"You do know your barbaric attitude is why mother refuses to visit you."

Stomme hit the floor hard, flung from the princess's lap as she sprang from her seat, wild fury on her face and Stomme's bell jingling against the floor. Shit. The princess's mug was dropped as well, rum splashing into the carpet, the low table between them overturned and cast aside, tea soaking into the bottom hem of the prince's pants, and Stomme curled on herself and cowered and wished she could cover her head with her hands, her neck, the delicate and vulnerable parts of her as two very powerful people raged above her.

"You dare—!" the princess shouted, her hand on her sword's hilt.

"And what will you—" the prince started in return, eyes glowing brighter and magic thrumming through the air so tight and overwhelming Stomme couldn't breathe—

"Both of you, please!" Lord Mori shouted, inserting himself between them with a hand to the princess's shoulder and an arm outstretched towards the prince. His own eyes glowed, amethyst and emerald, but instead of a thick and cloying darkness, whatever magic the crown prince had started popped like it was naught more than a soap bubble.

It also made Stomme so dizzy she reeled, nauseating vertigo even though she was entirely laying down and could not possibly fall over. Some of the other slaves and servants in the room did fall over, others merely staggering as sailors on their boats in a storm, the prince and princess both knocked off balance by the nullification. Nullification? It seemed that way to Stomme, but she was also a little too dizzy and frightened to make much sense of magic.

"My love. My future brother. Please, you lash out at each other unnecessarily. We are all family, here. Let us conduct ourselves with the civility befitting of our ranks, no?" Lord Mori said, soothing and placating, looking between the crown prince and his intended with an imploring smile. The royals heaved in breaths, teeth bared at one another, eyes wild with rage, but the prince seemed aware, at least, that in a battle of swords his sister would best him, and the princess would not draw her blade with Lord Mori so near. Around them, the slaves and servants heaved for breath, some staggering back onto their feet, others leaning on the walls, a rare few trying to draw themselves back into their silent and professional posture. Stomme remained where she was, terrified that a second infraction of ringing the bell would mean a worse punishment, and desperate not to draw any attention towards herself in the tense, relative silence of that long and awful moment.

The crown prince spat at Mori's feet. It landed on Stomme.

"I see your fuckpuppet placates you like a wife. What a blushing bride he'll make for you."

"And how is Crown Princess Amy?" Princess Rayana spat in turn, nose wrinkled with her sneering. "Still content in that happy marriage of yours? No recent bast—"

"My heart, my brother, please! Your Imperial Highness, you have ridden long and hard to arrive here. Let us settle you into your rooms that you may rest and recuperate from the long journey, and we will see you for supper. My dearest heart, he has come here specifically so that you don't make enemies of your own family, let us welcome him with due grace."

Princess Ranaya's rage did not quell, but she mustered it, and stepped back, breathing deeply and audibly, chin jutting up. Stomme flinched, and prayed to any god that looked out for slaves and the unworthy that she please, please, please not act as tripping hazard for her princess.

"Rosa. Guide him to where he'll be staying."

"At once, Your Highness," Lady Rosa's clear, gentle voice answered, even-toned like she did not even notice the magic or the raging royals.

The crown prince took an audible breath as well. Smoothed his hands over his slicked hair. Sneered one final time at his sister, refusing to acknowledge Lord Mori even now, and stormed out of the room with heavy footsteps. The door closed with no hands on it, presumably the prince's doing, because when they shut they boomed.

"Silence us," the princess ordered. Lord Mori's cloying, heavy, liquid shadows did fill the reception room then, blocking out even the tall and gorgeous windows, and the princess bellowed, "FUCK!"

Stomme almost whimpered. The bell did tinkle, just a tiny bit, as she instinctively curled in closer on herself. Shit. Shit! And the princess was right there, so of course she'd hear it!

"Oh my love, oh my love, pay him no mind. He said it only to upset you," Lord Mori soothed, taking her hand between his own and bending so as to catch her eye.

"No shit! You think I don't know that?!" the princess shouted, whirling on him, snatching her hand from his grip, and regret lanced instantly through her anger. "I, shit, fuck, Mori, I, I didn't—"

"Shhh, love, I know, it's alright."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you," she continued, scrubbing at her face with both hands.

"I know, I know, it's alright love, I know you," he said, smiling a little again, rubbing his hands down her shoulders, and Princess Rayana took a deep, ragged breath.

She spun again, and kicked her ceramic mug with enough might to cave a goblin's skull in, launching it into the wall and shattering it into a hundred tiny pieces with an emphatic, "Fuck!"

Stomme was crying, desperately swallowing her sobs in hopes it would spare her any attention. She was just as in kicking range as that mug had been, and if the princess unleashed an equal force on her—even half the strength of such a kick, it would kill her! Stomme might not always like her life, but she didn't want to die. And if the princess only went for her shins or stomach, rather than her skull or neck or spine, it would still hurt so bad.

"My darling, my dearest, my heart, it's alright."

The princess swallowed audibly, and almost before he had finished doing so she said, "I want him gone."

"He is not a man of patience. He won't stay here long. He came to try and coax you into joining his faction, but remembers now how much he doesn't like you. He'll leave soon, my love, just ride it out." He cupped her chin and turned her face to his, smiling warmer now. "Like you did on his arrival. I swear, I could hear his patience rubbing raw."

The princess chuckled, a little weakly, and Lord Mori along with her. Then she sighed, and pressed her face against his shoulder, the most vulnerable Stomme had ever even heard of the princess being. "I hate the way he talks about you."

"Oh love," Lord Mori crooned, wrapping his arms around her, "I've had worse said about me. You know I don't care for the opinions of the irrelevant."

"I know," she muttered, "I still can hate it."

"Of course. You are my radiant and glorious Rayana; you can do whatever you want."

The princess snorted, and then just… let herself be held. It lasted only a moment, before she rallied herself, and drew herself again to full height. "No one in this room goes anywhere near my brother without my say. Someone help her up," she ordered with a dismissive hand waved at Stomme, and the princess left the room with a decisive, heavy stride of her own, shadows melting away like morning fog as the princess swung the door open, Lord Mori following at her heels.

It was Noe, of all people, who Stomme found kneeling next to her, still shaking and crying and biting down on the metal bit so hard her teeth ached. Noe was dressed the same as her, though with her boots still on, and the other slave unbound Stomme's wrists and helped her get the bit out of her mouth. Around them, the rest of the staff knelt to clean up the spilled drinks or broken dishware or right the now-damaged table, bringing the room back to some degree of sense.

Noe sighed, and plucked the bell from Stomme's collar. "Come on then. Let's get back to our room and dressed," she said, a little curtly, but she hoisted Stomme's arm over her shoulders and an arm around Stomme's back and helped her stand, which Stomme was duly grateful for.

"I—Noe?"

"She likes you even less than me," Noe grumbled, not looking up at Stomme, who was staring down at her in pretty open bewilderment. Stomme hadn't thought Noe… tolerated her. Liked her? She wasn't sure what this was.

"Th-thanks," Stomme got out, shaky and weak.

"Don't hurt yourself," Noe grumbled, "And don't fuckin' mention it."

Stomme nodded, ever obedient. "Okay," she whispered, and focused on just putting one foot in front of the other, distantly amazed that she'd laid her head on the princess's lap, had felt her gloved fingers stroking gently through her hair, had laid at the feet of a dragon, and lived.

Prompt list:

Gift

Cold

Tree

Celebration

Feast

Warm

Share

Free Day

Challenges:

Completionist- Standard finish all days (in order or not), as long as you've completed them all, you're a completionist!

Female Whumpers- Additional attention on the ladies of whump: If all your entries also have a lady whumper, you've completed this challenge!

NSFW- If all your entries are 18+, you'll complete this one! Working on more taking out more taboo with this category.

One Story/One Character- If you manage to create all entries to make one full complete story for one whumpee, you've impressed the heck out of me and earned your way into this category! (I myself will probably never be in this one, lol)

For formatting your posts, you can use this template! (Easiest for me to see, lol)

Prompt/Trope- Day # (Biggest text style) @beatingthebabesbirthdaybash Post entry text

For tags please use:

Event specific- #btbwww2025 Days- #btbday1, #btbday2, #btbday3, #btbday4, #btbday5, #btbday6, #btbday7, #btbday8 ^^^use as applicable (you can switch prompts around, just put the tag for the day you post; ie if you write Warm on Day 1, tag #btbday1

Hope you have fun and enjoy!!! :D

“Where is he?” Caretaker all but growled. Whumper didn’t answer. He tilted his head to the side, eyes locked on Caretaker’s the whole time, as if Caretaker wasn’t holding a gun that could kill him in heartbeat. A small squeeze of the trigger, so gentle a touch for such a big weight off her shoulders.

Caretaker could kill him, she realised. Right here, right now. She could be free of him forever. A tremor ran through her hands at the possibility. So tempting. So tantalising. If she killed him she wouldn’t get Whumpee back.

“You know you really shouldn’t aim those things at someone you don’t intend to shoot.”

Caretaker’s eyes flashed. “Try me.”

Whumper hummed, snapping the book shut and placing it on the table beside the couch. Caretaker swallowed, planting her feet on the ground, expecting him to stand.

Instead he crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee and leaning his elbow on the armrest, his hand propping up his cheek. Completely relaxed.

“Where’s Whumpee?” Caretaker ground out through clenched teeth. Whumper smiled coyly, his eyes the half lidded fox gaze, that saw everything. It was as if he could strip back skin with his gaze, peeling back layers and peeking inside you to see how you thought, how you felt, what made you tick, what made you scared, what made you scream. The world his playground; people his play things.

“Did you come alone?” Whumper asked instead. The question sent shivers down her spine because yes, yes she did come alone and he knew that. She could feel it. He just asked to let her know he knows.

Caretaker stepped closer, hopefully menacing, but her body was thrumming with a mixture of fear, anxiety and adrenaline. She had to keep her nerves for god sake, her hands clammy on the grip.

She clicked off the safety. “Where’s Whumpee?”

Whumper smiled. It made the hairs on her arms stand on end, at attention, every fibre of her being registering the threat he was to her. And he wasn’t even moving. He was just sitting. Fuck! She was freaking out.

“Look at you, Caretaker. Taking the initiative, I told you that you’re magnificent,” Whumper purred. “If you could see yourself right now you’d know what I’m talking about.”

Caretaker swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that formed in her throat. This is just his trick, his verbal disarmament. Reel you in with his honeyed words and once he has you, he…

Caretaker steeled her resolve, raising the gun a little higher, about to ask where Whumpee was again when Whumper stood suddenly and she faltered. His movements fluid like a cat, a deadly grace as he towered over her, humming. She fought the urge to step back.

“How long do you think a person can survive without breathing, Caretaker?” He asked, his voice rumbling in his chest, echoing off the wooden cabin walls and back to her ears.

“What?” She asked.

Whumper put his hands behind his back, observing her down his nose now. “How long do you think someone can survive without oxygen?”

Dread opened in her guy like a black hole, yawning and threatening to pull her organs into it. “Wh— what does that have to do with anything?” She stammered, hating her mutinous voice.

Whumper hummed, shrugging. “It may or may not have something to do with where Whumpee is,” he said casually. Caretaker paled.

“So would you say a minute? Two minutes? Say, how long was this delightful chat, hmm?” He crooned, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Whu—” Panic and rage blinded her at his words, heart jumping into her throat because how long have they been speaking? Was it longer than a minute? Two? Three? Can normal people go without oxygen for three minutes? Could Whumpee?

She abandoned the thought of shooting Whumper, clicking the safety on and opting instead to hit him with it. A blunt weapon, probably more effective than killing him if she wanted Whumpee back and he caught her wrist before it could make contact.

How— she didn’t even see him move. Her eyes widened as she yanked back, but her wrist didn’t budge from his grip. His eyes flashed down at her, tipping his chin back as a smirk slowly made its way across his face.

He reached his free hand to her face, cupping her cheek. She flinched at the contact, but Whumper didn’t make fun of her for it. She was trembling violently, her index finger pulsing, reaching for the safety to click it off and shot him because she had to get away—

Whumper yanked her closer, making her lose her balance and stumble forward into him. He plucked the gun from her hand, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “So bold of you, Caretaker. To think you could threaten me.”

Tears welled behind her eyes. “Please,” she begged. “Please just tell me where Whumpee is. Please let him go.”

Whumper tilted his head, regarding her. “And what do I get in return?” He mused but Caretaker didn’t have time to negotiate! Whumpee didn’t have time!

“Anything!” She blurted out, desperate, trying to pull her hand free from his grip. “Please! Please! He could be dying! He could be dead, please!”

“Anything,” Whumper repeated, tasting the word on his tongue. “How interesting. Tempting. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Caretaker lurched forward, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, eyes wide. “Please! Anything! Please, just free Whumpee! Please!”

Whumper paused. “Are you begging?”

“Yes! Yes! I’m begging you, please!” She cried, her heart racing, feeling sweat bead on the back of her neck, horribly conscious about the passing seconds ticking by while Whumpee could be dead or dying, or unconscious.

Whumper’s smile glinted with a knife’s edge as he leaned his head down to hers. “You don’t look like you’re begging, Caretaker.”

Ice flushed her blood, her knees locking as her heart stuttered, shaking like a dog during halloween. Her mouth suddenly very dry, but she was hesitating. She couldn’t— no, for Whumpee.

Her face flushed with shame as she dropped to her knees in front of him. He still didn’t release her wrist, holding it above her head now, tears burst from her lower eyelids, spilling over her cheeks. She stared at his feet.

“Please,” she whispered, tightening her free hand into a fist on her thigh. “Please let him go.”

“Look at me, Caretaker,” Caretaker stared at the ground, she didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. But Whumper didn’t let her have any of her dignity. He sat down and tilting her head up to look at him. “I’ll release Whumpee, if you take his place.”

Caretaker flinched. “What?” She asked with a stolen breath.

Whumper smiled, sitting back in the couch and propping his head up on his hand again, his eyes dancing with a pleased maliciousness.

“You heard me, Caretaker. Those are my terms. You for Whumpee,” he said, his eyes flicking to something behind her. “And I’d say you need to decide quickly.”

Caretaker searched his face for a trick, for a lie, for any hint that he was joking but he wasn’t. He was just watching her with his cut amber eyes, smirk on his face because he already knew her answer.

She looked away from him. “Fine,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Now let Whumpee go.”

Whumper sighed. “Alright. But first, I need you to do something for me.”

Caretaker’s eyes burned, narrowing into a glare. “No, give me Whumpee! Now! He could be dead already!”

Whumper tightened his hand on her wrist but she didn’t wince or show it hurt. She needed Whumpee. To see him safe and sound. Whumper leaned forward, making her lean back almost falling if he didn’t have a tight on her wrist keeping her up.

His hot breath fanned her face, blowing a stray hair as he spoke. “I can leave Whumpee to die all I want, Caretaker. I’m the only one who knows where he is, now do you want to save him, or do you want to refuse me and waste more time?”

Caretaker pulled her wrist back and this time he let her. Still glaring, she kept his gaze. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to get me something from that room over there,” he said, nodding his head to the right. Caretaker turned her head to follow his order and nodded.

She got to her feet quickly, speed walking over, but Whumper stopped her. “Don’t you want to know what?”

“Tell me when I’m there,” she spat, throwing the door open. Hanging from his wrists, covered in blood with a blindfold and a gag stood Whumpee. His head hanging on his chest. Caretaker covered her mouth with her hands and screamed into them, running in and putting her hands on his face.

“Whumpee! Whumpee! Can you hear me?!” She pressed her ear to his chest, sobbing when she heard his heartbeat. He was alive. He was alive, he was alive, he was alive, he was alive.

“You know,” Whumper drawled from behind her. “If you’re coming in guns blazing, you really should do a quick check to see if the thing you want is already there.”

“You tricked me,” Caretaker cried, turning her furious gaze to Whumper. Instead, her eyes found the barrel of a gun.

He smiled lazily. “Not at all, to be fair, breathing is hard when you’re strung up like that, you wouldn’t think it, but your arms squeeze your chest and make it harder to breathe, especially when you’re gagged and dangling.”

“You’re a bastard,” she hissed.

“Compliments don’t get you anywhere with me, Caretaker, but you’ll learn. Maybe the first thing I’ll do to you is leave you like Whumpee here, hmm?” He asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Caretaker took a cautious step back, one arm stretched to protect Whumpee, keep him behind her.

“I don’t care what you do to me, just let him go.”

“Mmf?” Caretaker whirled to face Whumpee, eyes wide.

“Whumpee? Whumpee! Can you hear me?” She reached up and pushed the blindfold away from his eyes. “Whumpee. It’s me. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened, flicking to Whumper and back to Caretaker again, struggling in his chains. Trying to speak behind the gag.

“Hold on, I’ll—”

She felt Whumper’s presence behind her and jumped, going to hit him but he grabbed her by the back of her neck and squeezed until she stopped struggling. Whumpee’s struggles increased tenfold, screaming into the gag as Whumper leaned down to Caretaker’s ear.