#oleh

Drawing an oc for every letter of the alphabet, part 2!

Masterlist

CW: Multiple whumpees shown, multiple whumpers mentioned, whumperee, carewhumper, whumpee's perspective, mention of torture - specifically a beating, pretty short I think, no real plot just some emotional whump, whumpee forced to choose others for punishment

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Rolan tried not to make a sound as he was pushed to the ground – slaves were meant to be silent if they were not told to beg or cry – but a yelp escaped his torn lips anyway. The stone was always so hard on his bruises…He missed the soft carpet of the bedroom already, even though he knew what pain came with it.

He sniffled and pushed himself up onto his knees, deliberately keeping his eyes to the darkness of the floor. He did not look to the other prisoners for comfort, or for pity. He didn’t deserve it, and they were all looking elsewhere anyway. They were all being very still and quiet, trying as best they could to hide away from Master Oleh’s hard gaze. But he wasn’t interested in any of them in particular today. Not yet.

“Choose,” he grunted. Rolan tried in vain to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He could feel the others’ trembling from here. That voice was like a tiger in the darkness, prepared to spring and bite and claw each of them. If that tiger struck, their skin would be shredded into ribbons and their screams drowned out by his roar. Then they would be left with nothing but a faintly beating heart and agony before being dragged back to health by a touch that was anything but kind. The tiger was never allowed to finish off his prey. Maybe that’s why he was in such a bad mood.

“I-I don’t understand, Mas–”

“One of them is being beaten today. Choose who,” Master Oleh snapped down at him. Rolan flinched like the coward he was and his eyes widened. He could hear his former coworkers whimpering and shuffling backwards even more, like mice hiding in the dark of a storeroom, and he almost wished he could join them. He didn’t want to make this choice again, and it was almost always him!

But somehow worse was the completely irrational feeling of betrayal. This was a game. Master Oleh never played games! He was a soldier, a tank meant to punch and kick and fight until whatever he’d been pointed at stopped moving. He wasn’t made for cruelty or manipulation. He wasn’t Master Adrik or Master Érik.

“M-Master, I don’t understand. Y-You don’t have to d-do this,” he whispered. “You don’t need to play games to discipline us, r-right?”

He didn’t like talking back to any of his masters, but sometimes…well, sometimes it was clear he hadn’t fully learned his place.

And sometimes, his masters forgot their place.

“It was Adrik’s idea,” the monster said, arms crossed. His face seemed permanently drawn in a glare, his mouth twisted in a snarl, his eyes almost glowing with hate.

Rolan bit his lip and looked away. That was his fault, just like everything else that happened in this place. He had taught his masters hatred, and pain, and disgust for humanity. He had taught them war. How else could he have thought this would end?

Then he looked into the crowd of faces. He could name each of them if he so chose. Kirill, Boris, Sofron, Artur, Gena, Bronislav…He had chosen each of them to be sacrificed on the pyre they all once had a hand in creating. The pyre Rolan himself had lit.

Each of them looked directly at him, trying to catch his eye. He was not without a heart, unlike their creations. If they could just catch his eye, he might not choose them. He might spare them pain that day. It was a twisted form of power, one Rolan had once not thought twice about owning.

He lowered his eyes. He didn’t want to see any of their faces, the relief at not being chosen in most, and the horror in the one he chose.

“Díma, Master,” he whispered. Díma cried out, high and pleading, and the jingle of chains said he was straining to crawl even further back, but it was impossible. Their cells were small, and there were already too many of them crammed inside. The only place to truly run was out the front door…through their master.

Without delay and without a word, Master Oleh stepped through the crowd. They all scrambled away from him, and the unlucky few he stepped on cried out as bones cracked beneath his heels. Díma was crying, but it did him no good now. It never did. Master Oleh did not stop for false comfort, nor even to insult or jeer. He unlocked the chains and dragged the man into the light of outside, and soon the sound of their footsteps and cries faded into silence.

Rolan lied down and covered his face with his hands. He had not been chained, either to the wall or to the others. It was a privilege to have this amount of freedom. He should be grateful. But all he felt was despair.

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Hope y'all enjoyed this short one. If you weren't aware already, I'm taking a break on writing whump for the forseeable future. I'm focused on writing my novel, and my inspiration for seeing pretty boys has been lacking. It's been real, tho