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paingoes · 4 months ago

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Aegean Seas

Destroyer AU

long awaited roleswap AU. featuring royal delta and (defective!) living weapon paris

delta still has some psychic ability in this AU, but only a moderate amount. its nothing to write home about.

paris doesn’t have any powers, just an incredible capacity for violence.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, royal whumper, carewhumper vibes, institutionalized slavery, blood, biting, choking, electrocution, choking, suggestive language, background lady whump, clowns, hidden injury, past abuse, past trauma, PTSD triggers, emotional whump, scars, body image issues, war mention, alcohol, non-con touching (nonsexual), conditioning, magical exhaustion, seizure, kinda fluffy?)

“You don’t have to look so upset about it.” Delta twirling the pearl earring around within the pierced fin. The golden bangles of his wrist clicked together lightly at the motion — and all the silver and sea-glass ornaments he wore jingled in time with the movement of the airship. He hadn’t been looking at Paris when he said it, and they were not the only ones in the cabin, but he understood it was meant for him.

“I’m not upset,” Paris said. At least, not as much as he could’ve been.

Far below, the cerulean sea reflected the sun so that the water itself was blinding. Foam was gathering along the coast — a sure sign of rough waters. On the horizon, the embassy building jutted out from the cape.

The ship lowered itself in a hover just by the surface of the beach. Paris slid the exterior door open. He hopped the remaining few feet onto the sand right before the craft finally landed. By way of reflex, he extended one hand back to Delta, who took it without thanks as he stepped down.

The other members of the court soon followed, a handful of advisors and scribes sent to keep the time. With a home advantage, all support had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Paris shifted carefully in between them, eventually settling a few steps behind Delta and a bit off to the right, which he knew was the best sightline he’d get without drawing too much attention to himself.

The path up to the embassy was lined with basalt — and a pretty long walk uphill, considering how many of its visitors were geriatric. At the peak, he again pulled the entrance doors open, taking a cautious look in through the entryway. He felt the familiar weight of the blade tucked up into his sleeve, though he had no real expectation of using it. He held the door open for Delta alone, but deigned to let the rest of the congregation pass through in the same way. He stole a last glance out at the countryside before he pulled the door shut tight.

At the front, Delta’s eyes flitted up in the same clouded concentration he always fell into before the meetings. He refused to take notes, so dedicated to committing absolutely everything to memory. He played all the information back like rolls of film. He waved vaguely at the prompting of his advisors, but it was clear he was somewhere else.

He only came to when they reached the center. It was a large room, polished, and most everything in it was the soft color of sandalwood. The painted monarch sat perched within the straight-backed chair. His own court spread out in a half-moon around him, all their papers all ready to go. Paris only caught a glimpse of them through the doorway, but the glimpse alone was enough to make him spiteful.

“Watch the entrance,” Delta whispered to him just before they passed through the entryway. Paris nodded and stepped off to the side of the door.

Soon he was alone in the large hallway. The building was old and its halls were echoing, though not quite as bad as the castle. He leaned back against the wall, wishing he’d brought the cigarettes with him. He passed the butterfly knife idly in between his hands, having no better way to occupy the time. He’d gotten good enough at it that he didn’t even need to look while he did. His eyes still scanned the corridors in the way they’d been trained, sizing up each impotent official or underpaid clerk whose heels tapped down the linoleum tiles. There was no real threat. Nothing ever happened.

The jingling bells warned of her approach before she came into view. He sighed, slipped the knife back into hiding. Jo popped out from the doorway. She was quicker than he would’ve thought, skipping out a few paces before she even turned to see him. When she did, her painted face contorted into an express of unadulterated mirth. She giggled — and the bells of her hat jingled again as she flipped over to stand on her head.

“I was wondering where they were keeping you this time.” Her voice was raised in faux cheeriness.

Paris watched her carefully — he couldn’t not. The rapid movements set all his nerves on edge. He was sure she knew that. He was sure it was why she did it. He didn’t answer.

She rolled over into a backbend and let her hands guide her up. When she was upright, she was not more than a few inches from his face. She was shorter than him, the difference exaggerated by the heels of his boots and the flatness of her stupid pointy shoes. She rose up on tiptoes to meet his eyes. He could see the glitter against her sclera.

“No dogs in the house of law, eh?” She stretched one leg up over her head. Her movements continued so fluid and so completely uninfluenced by anything she was saying, as if they were completely different hemispheres of her brain.

“I heard that when the neophytes drop out, they give ‘em a new name and put ‘em out on the street. Painted silver! They spend the rest of their days doing tricks for spare change. Is that true?”

No one ever dropped out. He didn’t answer. She did a back walkover, her speech uninterrupted.

“Or I heard what they’re really doing now is selling all the new grads to Crimson’s West Front,” she paused for dramatic effect, “There’s a famine there, you know. They need new meat!”

She cackled. He stiffened slightly, because that part was probably true. Even if they weren’t getting eaten, a lot of the kids did get bought out for the war effort, and were given no arms when they arrived. They were getting pushed into the meat grinder, literally or figuratively.

She seemed disappointed with his lack of outward reaction. As she rolled onto the floor again, she laid there on her stomach for a second, kicking her legs back and forth.

“You don’t have to worry about that though. I bet he’s nice to you,” She grinned impishly, pushing herself up into another handstand. “I hear he’s nice to everyone.”

She erupted into a laughing fit at that. His eye twitched. He felt the weight of the blade in his sleeve. She looked over to see his expression and her smile widened. She cartwheeled towards him, again landing only inches apart from him.

“People on High Street got a name for him. What was it again? The something wonder? You’ve heard it before, right? You had to. You spend enough time with that whore to-“

He threw her into the ground before she could finish, the last synapse snapping within him.

The sudden violence got a forced, clipped laugh from her. She did a back roll before he could strike again, sitting up on her knees before she swept one of his legs out. He dropped, but it didn’t slow him down. Nothing could have. He still drove his fist full force into her jaw, once, twice, about as many times as it would take to break it off.

She didn’t let him get that far. Jo was stronger than she looked and just as quick as he was. She was not downed easily. When he pinned her, she slipped. When her nails reached up to scratch out his eyes, he bit down upon her fingers hard enough to break them. Her blood gushed into his mouth. It was familiar. He didn’t even stop to spit it out.

She elbowed him in the face at the same time she drove her knee up into his stomach — all sharp angles. It was hard enough to knock him off of her and onto his side. Blood poured from his nose. It splattered on the floor right beside her own. She crawled forward on her bloodied fingers, trying to get even. He forced himself back upwards, lunging at her again. He became vaguely aware of a commotion behind him.

“Stop,” Delta said tiredly.

Paris did not stop. No fucking chance. Not now. She was still moving, still breathing, still fucking laughing. His hands closed around the undulations of her throat.

“Stop,” Delta repeated.

Blood dripped thick and hot from the both of them. Johanna twisted beneath him, her eyes shining like stars. He wanted them barren. He wanted her to stop moving.

“Stop,” Delta said it with no more emphasis than the first two times, but he’d closed the distance between them now. The prongs of the choke collar dug into Paris’s neck, cutting off his oxygen.

He backed up on his knees, leaning backwards into the touch, the only way he could loosen the chain. But for all the slack the proximity created, Delta only pulled it higher, tighter. No air reached him, even when he’d stopped, even when he had stilled. It kept going. The panic gripped him immediately, tempered only by experienced. Delta wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, and as soon as he started to think that he would, the chain released. Paris gasped shakily, collapsed down onto his hands and knees. One hand pawed desperately at his throat. Small beads of blood had formed there in the collar’s outline.

He felt the pressure of the chain being picked up and winced, but it did not tighten again.

“Sorry about him.” Delta frowned. “And…sorry about your…clown.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s had worse.”

And sure enough, Jo sat up again, the wounds he’d given her already half-healed. Her stupid fucking hat jingled as she shook her head clear. The sound was enough to re-trigger the prey drive. He lunged.

Sharp and course electricity ran straight through his body, aborting the attack before it could even begin. All his muscles locked up. He’d built up a tolerance for the dryer sparks, but being tased was rare. It was a different story. He knew the shock only lasted a few seconds, but those seconds dragged out like years. Delta didn’t even say anything, the tips of his fingers retreating from the raw skin of his neck.

“Here girl,” the monarch snapped their fingers.

The clown stood up in her wet clothes, skipping happily back into the employ. Paris kept his eyes trained on the empty space in front of him, the blood spots on the floor. He heard their footsteps retreating. The hallway was silent. One of Delta’s fingers was still hooked around the circle of his collar.

“Clean it up,” he said. Paris nodded. The chain went slack and he was alone in the hall once again.

“She started it-“

“She is a jester,” Delta cut him off. “She was doing her job. If she didn’t have that healing factor, you would have killed her.”

His eye twitched. Killed her. Kill her. It flared up within him again, without any target. He dug his nails into his wrist to keep from something worse. The anger burning so hot inside of him he thought he might just be sick from it. She’d done it on purpose. She’d got him on purpose, but it shouldn’t have worked.

“You weren’t there,” he said, the ache of defensiveness rising in his voice. “You don’t know what she was doing.”

“Did she draw on you?” Delta asked, sounding bored. He already knew the answer.

Paris’s face flushed anyway. He gave no reply.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Some small satisfaction crept into his voice, then faded quickly into irritation. “You didn’t have any impetus. Nobody was in any danger until you snapped. And now they know that if they so much as wave a flag in front of you, you act like a rabid fucking animal.”

“I was defending you, you ungrateful fuck!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Delta looked up in shock.

“I’m sorry,” Paris amended quickly, retaining at least some sense of self-preservation. He covered his mouth with his hand in a a belated effort to silence himself. It wasn’t enough. He’d been on thin ice before, but that could not be tolerated. They both knew it.

“Why are you like this?” Delta asked. He didn’t say it as an insult. He asked like he really wanted to know.

That only made it worse.

The inner courtyard of the Aegean palace was dense with marble and wildflowers. He always thought the statues looked out of place among the foliage, the vines creeping up the legs of the gods as if they’d already been forgotten. The last of the day’s light was held up in the violet clouds. Beneath them, the walls were doused in the cool blue of dusk. The air was warm and wet.

Paris went without prompting, without needing to be forced. He pulled the shirt off of his back, shivering a bit as the scars that already laid there were exposed to the open air. He knelt down by the post. The guard shackled his wrists to the side of it. He rested his forehead against the wood, curling and uncurling his fingers. It made it more tolerable.

He heard the whip crack against the ground as the guard made practice shots. Delta sat off to the side, one elbow propped up against the aluminum garden table, watching without much interest. He’d never get his hands dirty doing it himself. He wouldn’t even know how.

That idiot guard didn’t know much better. The first strike came down unpracticed, landing diagonally along his shoulder and against the old scars. He pressed his head further into the post, preferring the pressure he felt there to the hot pain that was forming along his back.

It only grew. It layered. It would’ve layered already, in just a single beating, but his body had years worth of them just waiting to be reignited. The whip dredged up the old pain easily. It didn’t split the skin, but he could remember when it had. The thought alone made him dizzy. The pain quickly became all he could focus on. It kept going.

“Please stop,” he said, beginning to get truly nervous now. It’d been going on too long and was pushing up against the bounds of what he could tolerate. His hands turned over anxiously in the solid iron of the manacles. He couldn’t have gotten out even if he tried.

Delta held a hand up. The whip temporarily ceased. He stood up from the table, electrifying the air as he got closer.

He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Hm?” Delta asked, leaning down a little, “Stop?”

He could tell that he was feeling vindictive. Delta’s voice took on that soft, too-patient tone it always had when he was furious.

“Paris, when I told you to stop, what did you do?” he chided.

“…Kept doing it,” he muttered miserably into the post. He hated when he got like this.

“So you do understand.”

“It hurts.” He kept his voice soft, somewhat whiny. It was calculated, but he didn’t have to force it. It didhurt.

“It’s supposed to. I wouldn’t have to do this if you would just listen the first time. You don’t have anyone to blame for this but yourself.”

There was no making him understand. Delta had no concept of what hurt meant — of how much was too much. His own body was unblemished. He’d never bled for anything.

For as long as he was standing there, the punishment couldn’t continue. They wouldn’t dare swing the whip when Delta was in line of it, god forbid. He took the break for what it was, a few needed seconds for him to catch his breath. Delta seemed to catch onto what he was doing, taking a few steps back. He turned back to the guard.

“Finish up. Gag him if he talks again. He knows better,” he instructed.

He paced out of the courtyard, retreating back inside the castle walks. He never liked to see the aftermath, either.

Delta had been sixteen years old on the eve of his first and only assassination attempt. It had been a failure, in the sense that he had not died from it. It had also been a failure in the sense that the assailant had not even gotten close. 36,000 volts ran straight through his circulatory system before the knife could even fall.

Delta had been uninjured — and in the end, unshaken. The King and Queen were not. They had no other heir.

Paris came as a knee-jerk reaction, dredged up out of whatever trench they’d found him in. He could play nice, when he needed to. He knew exactly what was on the line.

He was passable. The King bought him alone and unannounced. He’d complain for years afterwards that he’d been ripped off.

Paris had glanced up when he was first made to kneel in the throne room. His first impression was that Delta looked awfully calm for someone who had just survived an assassination attempt.

Delta was unimpressed by it, and had been unimpressed by everything since.

Almost everything. Kitty glowed blue in the light of the lounge. It was Delta’s favorite room. in the palace. It had been even since he was little. The walls were all made of glass, with thousands of gallons of seawater lying just behind them. Whole shoals of fish reflected silver onto the dark floor. The sequins of Kitty’s slit dress had the same effect.

She was wearing a collar. He didn’t know why he found this so funny. He guessed it could be considered a choker, if he wanted to be generous, but with the ears and the tail, “collar” was the first word that came to mind.

Hers wouldn’t choke her. If he wanted her to, he’d have to do it himself.

She draped herself over the arm of his chair. Kitty was growing into herself so beautifully. Her eyes still lit up at the sight of the fish swimming, just the way they had when they were kids, and he knew she wanted nothing more than to break straight through the glass to get at them. But everything else about her now shone with such a honed sophistication.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, her eyes widening with concern.

“What?” He blinked. He hadn’t meant to.

But sure enough, a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose just as soon as she got close to him. Delta blushed, a pale blue hue rising up beneath his freckles. It came as a betrayal.

“You’re so predictable.” She almost smiled, pressing a pink handkerchief to his face before the blood could drip onto the soft sheen of his clothes.

The air around him crackled so badly both their hair stood on end.

Apollo tread into the kitchen with the golden fringes of his clothing catching all the light. He dragged the kitchen chair out and fell lightly into the seat. He made a soft sound of surprise as he found Paris leaning back against the edge of the counter.

“You have to stay up as long as he does?” Apollo asked. He leaned forward against the marble table, rocking the chair from side to side.

“I’m not supposed to sleep at all,” Paris responded flatly, only half joking. It was a bad look for him to be sleeping while Delta was awake, in the same way it was a bad look for him to be sleeping in. That left a very small window for him to get any rest at all.

Apollo grimaced in sympathy. He placed the empty glass down on the counter. Wordlessly, Paris took it to refill.

“Oh, I didn’t- Is that even your job?” Apollo asked, a blush rising to his face.

Paris shrugged, pouring the last of the bottle out into the glass. He slid it back across the table.

“You should let me fix that for you,” Apollo offered.

Paris yanked his hand back as violently as if he’d been burned. He thought it was invisible. It hadn’t healed that wrong. It still worked. It wasn’t an impediment. He clutched it to his chest protectively, shielding his wrist with his other hand.

Apollo gave him a knowing look. He stirred the drink idly. The ice made a soft noise as it clattered against the edges of the glass.

“They didn’t splint that for you in training?” He tilted his head.

Paris looked down. He tentatively loosened the grip on his wrist. It’d just been a fall. He’d gotten knocked backwards and he’d needed to stop himself from cracking his skull onto the floor. He’d done it wrong. The wrist had taken the brunt of the impact. He kept it in a splint at night — and when he was alone — but he couldn’t ever wear it around the trainers. He made use with the bandages instead, prayed everyday that medical didn’t come see him. In time, the bones had stitched themselves back together. Not enough, apparently.

Apollo was still staring at him.

“…It’s disqualifying,” he said softly.

“Ah,” Apollo leaned his elbow on the counter. He pressed one finger up against his lips. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Paris looked at him gratefully. Apollo took another sip of the drink, seeming to study the swirling patterns of the table’s surface. After a while, he added:

“He wouldn’t mind, though.”

Paris frowned. He didn’t think so either. That wasn’t the point. He couldn’t have his wrist be unusable for a full six weeks. He could not stand to be any more unusable than he already was.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He never would. The silence endured. Apollo shrugged, taking the drink back with him as he ducked out of the bright kitchen. Paris drew the sleeve of his shirt all the way past his fingertips.

ponyboy: heyyyyy

headrooms: holy shit

headrooms: i thought you fucking died

ponyboy: nope :-)

ponyboy: just busy yk how it is

headrooms: fuck

headrooms: dont scare me like that

ponyboy: sorryyyyy

ponyboy: how have you been

headrooms: im chill

headrooms: i got beat up by a jester last week

ponyboy: lmfao

ponyboy: dude shut up your job is cushy as shit

ponyboy: you wanna know what they had me doing last week????

headrooms: uphill both ways in the snow

ponyboy: i was pushing whole barrels full of petroleum and poison uphill in the coldest day of winter. they didnt even give me gloves until my fingers were already falling off!!!

ponyboy: hey fuck you

headrooms: lol

headrooms: are you good though like actually

ponyboy: ya i mean

ponyboy: its definitely heating up here but we’re still holding a good position

ponyboy: they kinda treat me like shit but they also dont want to lose me so im not being sent for the real suicide missions yet <3

headrooms: thats good i guess

headrooms: is vi chill

ponyboy: omg no shes been on her fuckin period lately

ponyboy: bitch mode

headrooms: lmfao mine too

headrooms: i swear its the full moon

ponyboy: IT LITERALLY IS IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM IS

ponyboy: ughhhhhh

headrooms: i miss you

headrooms: like

headrooms: all the time

ponyboy: i miss you too !

ponyboy: ill let you know if im ever in your corner of the galaxy! i want to see you again so badly <3

Paris winced. If her people ever ended up in his corner of the galaxy, that was a bad, bad sign. Selfishly, he wished for it anyway.

He heard footsteps approaching and quickly slid the phone back into his pocket. He was not quick enough to get rid of the cigarette. Delta paced out onto the balcony in a whirlwind. Little bouts of lighting lit up by his eyes.

He plucked the cigarette straight out of his mouth. His other hand smacked hard against the side of Paris’s skull.

“Ow,” Paris winced, though it didn’t really hurt. Because he wanted Delta to feel bad. Or because he knew he wanted to hear it. Whichever it was that day. Whichever worked.

“Those are my fucking lungs,” he hissed. The guilt trip hadn’t worked. Paris shrugged.

“Sorry.”

The apology worked better. Delta’s body language relaxed some as he snubbed the cigarette out on the palace wall. He didn’t ask for the rest of the pack. Smoking was fair game, really. It was getting caught doing it that was the issue.

“Who were you texting?” he asked mildly.

He hadn’t hid the phone quick enough. He tried to play it off.

“Just Lorry.” He looked down.

“Oh.” Delta’s expression seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered automatically. His heart quickened right after. “…Why? Did you-“

“No,” Delta cut off that train of thought before it could really begin. “No news. I was just wondering.”

“She’s fine, then,” he confirmed. As much as she could be.

It was only then that Delta actually looked guilty. He didn’t have to. It wasn’t his fault. Lorelai had been purchased months before Paris had. It was a miracle he was even allowed to stay in touch with her. He knew most of the program’s graduates weren’t half as lucky.

He still wanted the cigarette. He leaned back against the wall, unsure what to do with his hands or his mouth when it was gone. Delta didn’t leave after that, the way he’d expected him to. He pulled himself up onto the railing with a kind of stupid abandon.

The air carried the scent of salt from over the ocean. Down on the beach, two kids flew a white kite right above the waves, blissfully unaware of the peacetime’s fragility.

“Keep?” Paris asked, holding up the alligator skin boots. They’d been dyed a shade of ruby red.

“Absolutely not.” Delta shook his head frantically, “Toss. Don’t even tell anyone I had those.”

“I thought they were nice,” Paris muttered.

He tossed them into the trash pile anyway. He crossed back over the length of the massive closet, pulling another bag off the shelf. This was absolutely, definitely not his job. But it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He liked anything that did not make him feel like a total waste of space.

His knees hit the ground before he really knew what he was doing. It was a better instinct, though, probably the least harmful out of all the ones he could not control. Delta looked up in surprise, only realizing what had just happened as the King stepped in through the doorway. Delta’s attention recentered on his father. They both acted as like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t you have a dispatch to be filling out?” Ulysses leaned against the doorway, surprisingly casual in the company of his only son. It was a reprimand, but his tone was still playful.

“I’m fuckin’ working on it, jeez,” Delta snapped.

“Doesn’t look like it,” the King glanced around the room. Paris flinched a bit as his gaze passed over him, but it didn’t linger long.

“Oh!” The queen Andromeda appeared in the entrance before Delta could even respond, looking excitedly at the gown Delta held in one hand. “I’ve always loved that dress! You never wear it!”

“Oh my god,” Delta said, “Can you leave me alone.”

She rushed forward anyway, squishing his face with one hand as she kissed his cheek.

“Mom!” He blushed terribly.

She smiled, knowing exactly how much she was embarrassing him. He shoved her lightly back towards the door and shut it quickly before either of them could protest. He slammed his head against it once it was closed.

“You can get up,” Delta rolled his eyes. Paris did, rigidly so, in the same mechanical way as when he’d gone down. He blinked a few times, trying to bring himself back to the present.

“They’re so fucking annoying,” Delta muttered to no one in particular, wiping his face off.

“Your parents are nice,” Paris protested weakly in their defense.

“He beat you with a 2x4,” Delta reminded him.

Paris shrugged. The King could’ve done much worse. He’d snapped at Delta that time — not on purpose. Never on purpose. It was only the nerves firing wrong, the signals getting twisted. He couldn’t help it. But it’d been grounds for immediate termination. Paris got off easy, and had moved on from it fairly quickly. Delta still held a grudge against his father for it.

“Keep?” Delta asked this time, desperate to change the subject. Paris guessed he was glad, too. Something in him ached awfully whenever they were around.

“Keep,” he affirmed.

It was awful. They had to hold court later, had to hold it in ten fucking minutes, and his heart felt like it was about to explode if he didn’t kill something. He paced uncontrollably, snapping at the air no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Delta watched idly from the throne. Not angry. Just visibly unpleased with it all.

“Come here,” he called finally.

Paris flinched. It was not a request. He tried anyway.

“I don’t…want you to…” he protested weakly.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”

Paris reluctantly approached, kneeling beside the throne. Delta tilted his head, the tiara slipping down a bit as he did so. A soft blush rose to Paris’s face. He pulled his shirt off, then lowered further onto the floor, laying down flat on his stomach. He rested his head against his arm, burying his face. He heard Delta rising up from the throne and settling cross-legged onto the floor beside him.

Delta made that same soft, dissatisfied noise he always did when he saw the old whip scars all along his back. Not his work. The lashes he gave didn’t leave a mark. He didn’t like it when they did. Paris winced.

They were ugly. Paris knew that if the King had caught a single look at the lattice, he’d have never been bought in the first place. Because it was defacement. Because they were ugly. The thought echoed in Paris’s brain every time he caught a glimpse. It was pure vanity. He was a weapon, he knew it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have even cared about that kind of thing. But he did. He hated them.

“So tense,” Delta murmured from above him. His hands kneaded into the ridges along Paris’s spine – that strange, analgesic touch. Paris could feel his muscles softening involuntarily, the tension in them forcefully removed.

The urchin spine slid into the center of his shoulder blades. He bit his arm to keep from gasping.

It wasn’t the toxin alone that did it. He knew that because he’d pricked himself with it once, just out of curiosity, and he had felt almost nothing at all. It was the way he used it.

He didn’t always hate it; sometimes it was almost nice. It was nicer when they did it alone, when he wasn’t forced to take it, exposed on the floor of the throne room. It was viscerally unpleasant to experience against his will. He did not like Delta having that much control over his body. He didn’t want to calm down.

The spine entered again, and he calmed anyway.

It went on like that until all the rigid tension seeped out through his skin like poison, then a while afterwards too. It was gentle, despite everything. He could’ve cried.

“Better?”

He nodded, though he really just felt hazy. He didn’t think he could even hold a sword anymore. The calm felt intrusive. He was sure he couldn’t move at all, almost limp in the aftermath. He didn’t need to, though. Delta pulled him up a little, trying to straighten him out. He found his position again, on his knees.

He pulled the shirt back on, roughly. His arms had gone numb; it took so much more effort than it had to take off. He shifted, readjusting so that he was facing the rest of the room this time. It took so much effort just to sit upright then. He felt high.

“Good boy,” Delta said, about a half second before the doors opened. He was only saying it to be mean, but in the moment, Paris couldn’t bring himself to care.

Delta yanked his hand away from his face just before Paris could snap it off. Paris hissed in frustration, falling abruptly to the ground. He pounded his fists against the tile. It was all he could do to not fucking kill him.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” He hissed out through gritted teeth. It was wrong. He was making it worse for himself. He had no fucking right to be talking to him like that.

He couldn’t help it. He felt like he was going to scream.

Delta watched impassively.

“It’s getting worse,” Delta said. There was real concern in his voice.

Paris pressed his forehead to the ground, curling up. Anything else.

“I know it’s getting worse,” he growled.

Delta started to bend down, which was the worst thing he could’ve done.

“Get away,” Paris warned. For fucking once, Delta actually listened, taking a few cautious steps back.

It took ten whole minutes for him to get back to a state where the prey drive wasn’t waiting two inches beneath the surface. He sat up wearily. Exhausted. Fucking embarrassed.

Delta’s eyes were wide, but then, they always were. The rest of his expression revealed nothing at all.

“You need to figure that out,” he announced quietly.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Paris buried his face in his hands. “You know I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“That isn’t going to matter to them and you know it.” His voice was soft. Almost sympathetic. “And don’t talk to me like that,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Delta…” Paris whined into his hands. It was an undisguised plea. As if the way he was talking was what mattered right now.

“I’m serious. Don’t.” The plea went unanswered. If anything, his voice hardened. Paris watched with some small horror as all the patience seemed to bleed out of him. As if he could afford to lose a single ally.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Figure it out,” Delta said with such sincere urgency that it seemed like now was his turn to beg. He stormed off, unwilling to let anyone else get the last word in.

Paris picked himself up off the ground and put his fist through the nearest wall.

No matter what happened that day, he still came crying in the night like a little kid.

Paris flinched a bit as he was awoken, but not for very long. He guessed he should’ve been used to it by now. Delta stood over him, tugging at his sleeve impatiently, wordless. His eyes shone like beacons in the darkness of the bedroom. His hair was down. He looked so young when he was like this. His look was all pleading.

Paris sighed, letting himself be roused from the bed. He just barely had time to grab the sword before he was dragged out into the hallway. He followed Delta all the way up the stairs, all the way up to his bedroom. He could hear the water trickling well before he entered.

His parents really did spoil him. Delta’s room was probably the most expensive part of the entire palace. Water rushed down from the ceiling in an artificial waterfall, landing into the koi pond that took up a whole quarter of the room. All the rest of the room was crystalline, opalescent. Absolutely cluttered with anything that would shine.

Paris didn’t roll his eyes at the giant seashell that held Delta’s mattress. He’d seen it enough times that it had lost its novelty. He didn’t expect anything less.

“Watch the door,” he begged.

Paris nodded. He knew the drill. He sat down on the floor by Delta’s bed while the sheathed sword rested in his lap. He wouldn’t need it. He knew he wouldn’t need it. Delta was just scared.

Delta crawled up into the bed, arranging himself carefully for the meditation. The low drone of electricity began to fill the room. Channeling again. All the stars had aligned for it.

“παρακαλῶ,” Delta muttered beneath his breath. “παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ…”

The incantation began shortly after that. The hair on the back of Paris’s neck stood up. He kept his eyes on the door. He didn’t like to watch.

He’d learned to tune out the rambling, for the most past. He knew Delta didn’t like it when people overheard — and he only let Paris do it out of necessity. It was fine. He didn’t understand any of the Greek. It was only the rapid, manic way he spoke that really scared him. Hushed and quick and ancient. It felt right to avert his eyes for it. It was something he had no business witnessing.

His eye twitched a little bit as he realized just how loud the incantation was growing behind him. The room was getting brighter. He got the awful feeling he always did when he felt lightning was about to strike. It was getting bad this time. It was getting worse than he could ever remember it being.

He turned around.

It was about as bad as he imagined. The light burned and radiated off of him, bright enough to be blinding. Delta was definitely seizing beneath it all. His eyes were shut tight like the power was painful. His hands clutched at the blanket. Paris realized with horror that the bedding was turning blue from all the blood that then dripped from his mouth and his eyes.

“Fuck,” Paris muttered beneath his breath.

He should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

He regretted it as soon as he touched him. For a minute, he thought he’d really gone blind. The pain exploded in his arm as he was thrown back against the wall. His own body seized with the residual electricity. He gasped, crumbling down into a heap onto the soft floor.

“What the fuck did you do?” Delta coughed up blood onto the floor. Blood or tears poured from his eyes. In all likelihood, it was both. He wiped at them idly, not seeming to be in any particular hurry. It wasn’t like he’d be able to get all of it off with his hands.

He stumbled up from the bed — and immediately fell onto the floor. He crawled the rest of the way over to the koi pond, scooping the water up with his hands to remove the rest of the blood.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” he repeated, even angrier now.

“You were seizing.” Paris gasped. His arm hurt badly enough that he thought it might be broken. He couldn’t tell. He was still mostly blind.

“I told you not to interrupt,” Delta pressed his forehead onto the stone. He couldn’t even stand.

“You’re pushing it too far,” Paris said. It was all he said. It was all he needed to.

“Shut up,” Delta warned.

“You’re pushing it too far,” he repeated, sing-song.

“Shut the fuck up!” Delta stood up again. Paris knew he meant to hit him, meant to fight him, and suddenly that was what was happening.

“Oh god damn it, you fucking moron.” Paris blocked his fists with his arms. It hurt a little bit, but not nearly enough to incapacitate. He pushed Delta off with zero effort, which only seemed to piss him off more.

Delta growled, stumbling to his feet. He marched over to the bedside table, pulled out what Paris recognized belatedly as a fucking muzzle.

“Wait.” He tensed up, still not having risen off the floor. “Wait, wait, wait, chill-“

Delta fell messily to his knees, trying to secure it onto him. This time, Paris actually did fight. He caught his wrists. He hated that thing so much. It was the middle of the fucking night, he’d never be able to sleep with it on. He didn’t deserve it. He’d been trying to help.

“Stop,” he pleaded while he still had the ability to. “Come on. Stop. Please.”

Delta sighed in defeat. He dropped the muzzle to the floor — and let himself fall to it a few seconds later. He mumbled something in Greek.

“I’m tired,” he muttered into the carpet. His mouth was still bleeding.

Paris stood up, with a lot of effort, but he was still in better shape that Delta was. He picked him up with his uninjured arm. It wasn’t difficult. Delta was light. He wouldn’t have won the fight he’d tried to start. Paris pushed him back onto the bed, letting him collapse there.

“On your side,” Paris reminded him. Delta readjusted onto his side so that the blood wouldn’t asphyxiate him.

“Fucking goodnight, I guess,” Paris muttered, picking his sword back up from the ground. He picked the muzzle up too, placing it back in the drawer. Should’ve just thrown the damn thing out.

“Stay?” Delta asked.

“Yeah, think I’m good on that.” Paris started to walk out the door.

“Stay.” It was an entreaty, now. Paris groaned. He walked back, collapsing onto the other side of the bed.

“Not all night. You cry in your sleep. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this.”

“So do you,” Delta muttered in reply, already half-asleep.

Paris shrugged. The waterfall was quiet and reassuring. He could stay for that, if nothing else.

~~~

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter @sir-fenris @a-formless-whumper

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aceofwhump · 1 year ago

Text

The Silencing starring Nikolaj Coster-Waldau

For @whumpers-monthly Shot with an arrow

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ashintheairlikesnow · 11 months ago

Note

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

#whump #ptsd tw #alcholism tw #withdrawal tw #alcoholic whumpee #recovering whumpee #recovery whump #vincent shield is not a hero #erase to control #since kauri makes an appearance #jameson bb #box boy universe #drunk whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #briefly and not on purpose

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defire · 2 months ago

Text

Washing a cut with alcohol

It stings and burns because it is actually drying out and cracking the skin, possibly deepening any cuts with repeated applications (because skin pulls away as it dries)

If it's alcohol for drinking it will probably also make it worse because of the sugar

If it's just rubbed over the wound it may just grind any dirt particles across/further into the wound, it won't help pick them up

Any kind of rubbing/scrubbing will be painful and probably just make it worse, especially if it's being rubbed with unwashed hands, unsanitary cloths, etc, introducing more germs

Putting on something like antibacterial cream after that is like adding insult to injury, like "here I will dry it out and add bacteria and then put something to moisten and clean it you're so very welcome"

This is not medical guidance just observations for fiction writing

#whump caretaker #whump injuries #medical whump #whump prompts #alcohol for cuts #whump writing #injury whump #sadistic whumper #stupid caretaker

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whump-galaxy · 7 months ago

Text

The whumper using makeshift weapons to keep the whumpee in line. Christmas lights as binds, broken glass or car keys as a dagger, lighters used as threats against an alcohol-soaked whumpee.

#whump #fear #angst #captured #injured #burns #alcohol #sharp objects #broken glass #threats #whump ideas #whumper #whump writing #whumpee #whumpblr #whump prompt #whump tropes #weapons

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whumpty-dumpty-doo · 1 month ago

Text

We Are TroubleD – “Try to Forget Him” (Pre-capture)

Written as a part of whumperofworlds' WoW's Birthday Whump Event! 2024

Day 7 and 12 (my chosen prompts are bolded) - Bloodied knuckles / Wounded / "Is that blood?!", Magic exhaustion / Collapsed / "So tired..." / Alternate prompt: Poison

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Event page | My event participation masterpost | “We Are TroubleD” Masterpost | Previous | Next

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Content warnings: Alcohol, blood, drinking, emotional whump, heartache from breakups, injuries, jealousy, off-screen homophobia mention, pining after unrequited love, self-loathing, smoking, swearing

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Tonight was going to be hard. There was no other choice though, Tristan had to do it. Only about a week had passed since his latest boyfriend, Spencer, had broken up with him, and Tristan needed help to move on. When Darius had first suggested the night out at Dorothy’s, Tristan wasn’t too sure… he hadn’t visited the LGBTQ+ nightclub in months, but Darius insisted that getting back out into the scene would be healthy and good for him.

“It’ll bolster your confidence!” Darius had said. “You need to be reminded that you’re one hot son of a bitch. One stupid boy can’t take that away from you.”

“And what if no one there wants me?”

“Then you’ll still have a great night hanging out with me, and that’s worth something, right?”

Tristan had mulled it over a bit, but Darius was right; he normally had pretty good intuition about these things. What was the worst that could happen? Maybe there was someone new and better out there for him. Either way, he was relieved that Darius committed to go with him. Tristan felt fragile, emotional, and raw, and having his best friend by his side would surely help to ease his aching heart.

The night of the outing arrived, and Tristan found himself fretting over his outfit in his bedroom mirror. He was sporting a teal Hawaiian shirt with a tasteful tropical leaf pattern on it, chartreuse shorts, and brightly colored socks sticking out of red high-top converse. He wasn’t going to win a “best dressed” competition by any means, but for him it was a lot of effort.

He had never been a super fashionable guy—that was definitely Darius’ realm— but he hoped that he looked alright for the evening. It was as much peacocking as he could bring himself to do. The outfit hopefully said “Hey, I’m a fun guy! Super chill and laid back, just like someone on a tropical beach vacation! Please talk to me!”.

The trick was figuring out how risqué he wanted to be. For him, such a decision came in the form of an obscenely scandalous choice of either buttoning up the top button of his shirt or leaving it open to expose some of his chest. He did and undid the thing several times, but simply couldn’t decide on the look. With a sigh, he gave up. It’s not like it’d make much of a difference, anyway.

Tristan glanced down at his watch and made a noise of discontentment; it was later than he wanted it to be. Hastily he decided on leaving the shirt buttoned, then headed off down the hall toward their bathroom to collect Darius.

Something small, circular, and black startled him on the floor, and he flinched back in surprise thinking that it was a spider. Quickly he realized that it was nothing more than one of Darius’ many elastic hair ties. Once his heart stopped racing, Tristan bent down and scooped it up. He figured he’d just toss it into the drawer by the bathroom sink, but something stopped him.

He twirled the little band between his fingers and was reminded of the time that he had come back from class completely exhausted and down in the dumps. Things really hadn’t gone his way that day- he had multiple projects due that week, one of his professors had added onto that heap by giving him yet another tough assignment, and things in his personal life… weren’t great.

He had flopped down on the living room couch and given up on the world for the night when something small hit and bounced off his shoulder- a hair tie. Across the room was Darius, leaning against the doorframe trying to play it cool and appear innocent.

“You looked sad.” Darius observed. Tristan vented the situation to him, and Darius patiently listened, but after the fact he shot another hair tie at him. And another. And another. Apparently, he had squirreled away an entire handful.

At first Tristan was irritated, and he almost snapped at Darius until he saw the playful smirk creeping across his friend’s face. Darius was playing with him, trying to get him to loosen up a bit and blow off steam. Tristan relented… Laughter was pretty good medicine.

It wasn’t long before they were engaged in a full-on war in their apartment, complete with furniture flipped over to hide behind as shields as they flung elastic hair ties and rubber bands at each other. It was stupid, but it was fun, and it did in fact melt away Tristan’s stress, making it easier for him to later focus and buckle down to get through that hellish week of work.

He needed that now- extra strength to get through the night. It sucked to be on your own again. It’s not like he had dated Spencer for long, and he wasn’t really vibing with him much anyway, but it was the thought of being alone that scared Tristan. He wanted that safety. That stress relief. That companionship…

Tristan slipped the hair tie around his wrist and quietly decided that it was a good luck charm for the night… A simple reminder that it was okay to let loose and have fun, even when things seemed hard. He was glad that Darius took the time to assure him of things like that.

… Plus, Darius had a million hair ties anyway. He wouldn’t miss this one. Tristan could probably collect a whole sleeve of them if he picked up every one he randomly found around their house.

The bathroom door was still shut. Really? Darius was still getting ready? They were going to the club, not the Met Gala. Tristan knocked.

“Almost done!” Darius called.

“Hurry up!” Tristan barked.

The door lazily creaked open, revealing Darius messing with his eyeliner in the mirror.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. Being beautiful takes time.”

Tristan cocked his head to the side. Darius was hopeless. “The universe has given you all the time you needed and then some.” he said, and he meant it, especially when Darius turned around with a flattered twinkle in his eye.

“Awww, thanks!” he chirped. He probably thought that Tristan was just being nice, but really, truly, Tristan thought that Darius Astor was one of the most beautiful boys he had ever laid eyes on.

Tonight Darius looked like he would fit in at any goth-themed event in town, which really wasn’t too far from his normal MO aside from looking a little more rave-ready. He wore a cropped black tanktop that hugged his chest in all the right ways and showed off where defined abs would be if he exercised more. Fishnet sleeves trailed down his arms and ended at his black-painted nails. Tripp pants made for a striking silhouette that Darius didn’t often flaunt (he tended to be a skinny jeans guy most of the time), especially with all the bits and bobs dangling down. Those pants always cracked Tristan up- they were so over the top with their straps and chains. On the bright side, with all the resulting jingling, Darius would be hard to lose in a crowd.

Darius really had nailed the look, right down to his accessories- a matching studded belt and bracelet, a spiked choker, a face full of tastefully spooky makeup, and of course his signature platform leather boots.

As per usual, he was a vision. A gorgeous sight to behold. Every inch of him was flawless.

Tristan stared. Man, maybe his stiffest competition for the night would be Darius. With looks like that, everyone would fall for him. After all, he certainly had Tristan’s attention.

… Wait— O-oh… no… No. Not like that.

No.

Not again…

Tristan tossed his head, physically shaking the thought away as if he hadn’t considered it a million times before. Fuck. No. He shouldn’t think about Darius that way. He shouldn’t.

Luckily he was interrupted by Darius studying his look.

“Ooh, tropical? That’s fun.” he said. “I love it, but why so conservative?”

“Huh?”

Darius tapped at his sternum, indicating the top button of Tristan’s shirt.

Tristan shifted. “I wasn’t sure if I should open it or not. What do you think?”

“Definitely unbutton it. Show off a little!”

There really wasn’t much to show off, but Tristan didn’t need to be told twice. If Darius thought that was the better style, he’d listen. He undid his top, and the two were off.

***

Even before getting inside, Tristan could tell that Dorothy’s was hopping. It was to be expected though, as almost any club on a Saturday night would be bustling. All the same, it really had been a while since Tristan had been there… he had forgotten just how crazy the crowds could be. Thankfully he knew that soon things would settle down as the masses split up either to sit and watch the drag show downstairs, or to head up to the club’s second story to dance. He and Darius hadn’t even gotten to the front door when he heard someone calling their names.

“Tristan! Darius! Hey!!” he perked up at the sound of the familiar voice. Was that—?

A girl about Darius’ age bounded up to them, and the boys recognized her immediately: Cici, one of their closest friends, and Darius’ ex-girlfriend. Her long brilliant red hair popped against her sparkly lavender crop top and y2k-chic denim bellbottoms adorned with a stenciled-on star pattern.

“Oh hey!” Darius’ eyes lit up at the sight of her and he reached out and pulled her into a hello hug, then kissed her on the cheek in greeting. It was just a quick little peck, but all the same, Tristan pretended not to notice. Despite the two having broken up from their romantic relationship not too long ago, Darius and Cici were still close. Very close. That was fine… But like… did he have to kiss her?

Cici didn’t seem to mind. She laughed and gave Darius a gentle shove back in response.

“Careful,” she warned, though her tone was sarcastic and playful. “If you act like that then people will think we’re still together... Or worse: straight.”

Darius flashed a cheeky grin, a mischievous look that could get him into trouble just as easily as it could get him out of it.

“That’s bi-erasure.” he joked, and Cici shook her head fondly. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Same as you, Lover Boy.” Cici replied. “I’m looking for my rebound. You can’t distract me. I’m the pan with a plan.” They both snickered.

“Me? Looking for a rebound?” Darius scoffed. “Babe, there’s simply no replacing you.”

Ah. They were flirting. They were broken up, yet they were still flirting with each other…

Tristan instantly felt like a third wheel. His shoulders sank and he stared at the two of them, though he didn’t mean to watch so intently.

Cici was a beautiful, loving girl, and he never was surprised that Darius had fallen so hard for her. She had only been a positive influence on him, and Lord did Darius need that when she first came into their lives. By some miracle, she had managed to mostly calm him down from his rebellious streak and really bring him out of his shell in a way that Tristan had never fully been able to. She was a bright light in Darius’ weird—and at the time, morose—world, and undoubtedly she had changed him for the better.

Their relationship had been solid for ages, but over time cracks began to form. Small issues compounded, and after a while it became clear that they both had aspects of themselves that they wanted to improve upon or explore. Darius still didn’t fully have a handle on some of his self-destructive habits, and Cici began to realize just how much she was attracted to other women.

There was no falling out or blowup that ended things, the two just decided that it was best to go at it alone for a while as they figured themselves out and grew up a bit. Maybe once they had lived a little more, they would find their way back together, but only time would tell.

Despite the split being mutual, it wound up being a lot harder on Darius than he anticipated. Cici had been his longest romantic partner to date, lasting a few years. He missed her company in that respect but was thankful to still have her friendship and support. It was a relief that they were still so close, because Tristan figured that things would get super weird and awkward in the friend group if one or both of them suddenly decided to leave. Cici had been the one to bring them together in the first place; it wouldn’t be right to have her or Darius duck out over personal issues.

…

But again, did he have to kiss her?

Tristan’s ears felt hot, and he finally came to his senses enough to realize that he was still looking at the pair. He snapped back to reality just in time, because Cici turned her attention to him and stepped around Darius to give Tristan a hug as well. She always wanted to make sure that everyone felt welcome and seen.

As he hugged her back and said his hellos, he prayed that she missed how flustered he was. And like… why? It made no sense for him to be so out of sorts, especially around her, but tonight he felt caught off guard by her presence. He really hoped it would just be him and Darius, but… the more the merrier he supposed…?

The three of them headed inside, and it wasn’t long before they decided to go upstairs to check out the bar and dance area. Cici came and went, occasionally striking up chats with lonely-looking girls, but she and Darius kept meeting back up and getting lost in conversation. It was bugging Tristan, and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was how he felt like he disappeared when the two started talking, as if the wall swallowed him up and he was nothing more than a decoration in the background- ever present, but ultimately ignored. He really didn’t need that tonight.

Eventually he gave up, resigned to the fact that Darius had been lost to the land of the ex. Whatever, they could catch up if they wanted to. Tristan had nothing against Cici, but he had his own priorities tonight and really didn’t feel like hanging around her. He hoped he wasn’t being rude when he excused himself to go grab a drink from the bar.

“What would you like?” The bartender asked him.

“A White Russian.” Tristan said bitterly, and the irony wasn’t lost on him. Frankly he also would have enjoyed Sex on the Beach.

Stop it, Tris. Stop it.

The server slid his drink over. Maybe Tristan was going a little hard right out of the gate, but he didn’t care.

As he sipped the cocktail, he scoped out the other clubgoers. There were plenty of cute guys around, but no one really struck his fancy or seemed like they were open to talking. To be honest, Tristan didn’t really know if he was, either.

His vision kept finding its way back over to Cici and Darius, who were standing close together by the stairwell. Cici beamed and played with her hair while Darius busted up laughing at whatever she had just said.

Tristan had seen them like that a thousand times before. Afterall, they had been together for years. Why, why, why then was it simply eating him alive tonight? It was so much easier to keep his feelings in check when Darius and Cici were dating, but Darius didn’t belong to her anymore.

He didn’t belong to anybody.

That was the problem.

A song started playing from the DJ booth- something with an industrial sound as heavy as the thoughts pounding in Tristan’s mind.

I don't wanna share this space I don't wanna force a smile This one girl taps my insecurities Don't know if it's real or if I'm spiraling

Charlie XCX. Great music, great album. Horrible time for that particular song to play. Tristan forced himself to tear away his gaze and took a large swig of his drink. He needed to forget it. All of it. He needed to forget about the relationship that he so desperately wanted. He needed to forget how lonely he was. He really needed to forget—

“Hey bud, how you doing?”

Darius. While Tristan was lost in thought, he must have come over. The boy hopped up on the stool beside him, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous sparkle that implied that he had just said something cheeky and maybe a pinch irreverent. He must have sent Cici off with some smart aleck remark or groan-worthy pun. He was alone now, though.

Tristan couldn’t look at him. “I’m fine.” he replied, not peering up from the glass in his hand.

“Are you?” God, Darius was good. It was hard to hide anything from him. That was to be expected from your best friend, though, especially when Tristan was so horrible at masking. Darius leaned in a bit, studying him a little more intensely.

Tristan ran his hand down his face hoping to wipe his expression clear of any sort of outward turmoil, then turned to look at him finally.

“Yeah, I just…” he wasn’t quite sure where he was going with that sentence, trailing off and ending it with a sigh.

Darius softened and gave him an understanding look. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

What was he apologizing for? There was no way he could know that Tristan was thinking about—

“But screw Spencer. You don’t need him.”

Right… Spencer… That was who Tristan was supposed to be upset about tonight. That was who he was supposed to be mourning. That was who he was supposed to want. It was so stupid and fake. So disingenuous…

He took another sip of his drink, then nodded halfheartedly.

“You’re right.” Tristan said “I don’t need him. I don’t— I dunno what I need.”

'Cause I couldn't even be her if I tried I'm opposite, I'm on the other side I feel all these feelings I can't control Oh no, don't know why

Darius reached out and lightly tapped the back of his knuckle against Tristan’s free hand, sending a tingling spark through him.

“You can start with a friend.” Darius said, a gentle smile touching his lips.

Fuck that smile. Fuck that confidence. Fuck that tenderness. It just made Tristan want him more.

All this sympathy is just a knife Why I can't even grit my teeth and lie? I feel all these feelings I can't control Oh no, don't know

Tristan was transfixed by Darius’ gaze. Those warm chocolate eyes held him captive, silently telling him that everything was going to be okay… or at least that’s what Tristan wanted to believe.

“Y-yeah.” Tristan said at last, breaking eye contact. “Thanks.” he chugged the rest of his drink and set the glass down on the counter with a clink.

“Any time, Tris. I’m here for you.”

The two sat in silence for a minute or two, Darius peoplewatching and Tristan waiting for some sort of buzz. The song switched to something bouncier and fun, and Tristan noticed Darius nodding along to it absentmindedly.

Fuck it. He’d shoot his shot.

“Do you wanna dance?” Tristan asked timidly.

Darius swiveled back around and regarded him fondly. He wasn’t much one for dancing on his own, but he’d indulge almost any of Tristan’s requests if he asked. He’d do a lot of things for Tristan that he wouldn’t do for anyone else.

“You coming with me?” he asked.

“Of course!” Tristan hopped up from his seat and reached out for Darius. His friend took hold of his hands and slid down after him, then they made their way over to the dance floor.

The crowd’s energy was vivacious and undeniably electric- beautiful people were throwing their arms up in the air and shaking their cares away. It would be impossible to be sad in such company.

The boys squeezed through the sea of dancers and made their way back to a corner of the room near the video screens. Tristan had intentionally led Darius away from the view of the bar and lounge area, so they’d be relatively hidden and hard to spot.

Every thump of the bass from the speakers shook Tristan right through his chest, consuming his very being. It didn’t take long at all for him to lose himself in the beat, and his other senses were quickly hijacked as well between the lights spinning dizzyingly overhead, the fog machines, the blinking colors on the ground, the videos on the wall, the disco ball hanging from the ceiling…

It was overwhelming. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t process anything. He couldn’t feel.

It was perfect. Maybe he didn’t need that drink after all. Maybe he just needed to be here.

A blast of the delicately scented fog belched from one of the machines and momentarily swallowed Tristan’s vision. The rest of the club disappeared entirely aside from the flashing colors in the mist. He was alone, but only for a second. Darius emerged, positioned right before him. He grinned as he shimmied back and forth to the music, an expectant look on his face waiting for Tristan to join him.

Together they jumped, rocked, and hopped from side-to-side to the club classics being spun. During a more trancey song Darius closed his eyes and blissfully brought his head back, clearly enchanted by the rhythm. He was fully relaxed, something he rarely tended to ever be in public spaces. It was a lovely, dreamy scene.

Another puff of fog hissed from the machine, enveloping the area where the boys were dancing. Once more the rest of the crowd faded away as a song that Tristan recognized came on. He had heard it once before and remembered liking it enough to Shazam it. He tried to recall the title. “Jenny” by… gosh, what was the band… “Studio Killers” or something?

Jenny darling, you’re my best friend But there’s a few things that you don’t know of Why I borrow your lipstick so often I’m using your shirt as a pillowcase

Darius had opened his eyes and was peering at Tristan now, swaying back and forth and bobbing his shoulders up and down to the beat. Did he know the song, too? Their vision connected, and Darius took that as an invitation to move closer. He danced his way up to Tristan with a goofy expression clearly meant to make him laugh, especially when paired with his silly, exaggerated dance moves. It worked, Tristan cracked up during the chorus, entirely missing the words as he twirled in a circle and made his own wacky motions, trying to get Darius to laugh back.

Jenny, darling, you're my best friend I've been doing bad things that you don't know about Stealing your stuff now and then Nothing you'd miss, but it means the world to me

During the second verse they were so wrapped up in their lighthearted dance battle that neither was fully aware of just how close they were getting. Before they knew it, they were touching each other. It started with Darius making a very serious expression, grabbing Tristan’s hand and lacing his fingers through his, bringing it up, and staring deeply into his eyes.

“Dance with me, Lyubimyy.” he purred in a deep, overly dramatic tone. In the blink of an eye Darius’ other hand was on the small of Tristan’s back, and he dipped him backwards like they were entangled in a passionate tango. Tristan yelped in surprise but trusted that Darius wouldn’t drop him. They both were laughing as Darius hauled him back up. The boy was ridiculous.

Another blast of fog hid the rest of the club from view. It was just the two of them again, or so it seemed. Tristan and Darius. The only two people in the club. The only two people in the entire world.

Tristan answered Darius’ moves by grabbing his hips and pulling him in close. Darius’ face lit up with a playful glee, and he took the hint, wrapping his arms around the back of Tristan’s neck. They swayed and grinded against each other as the chorus played once again.

I wanna ruin our friendship We should be lovers instead I don’t know how to say this ‘Cause you’re really my dearest friend

Tristan heard the words that time, and his eyes went wide. Oh shit. That was why he remembered liking this song. Darius didn’t seem to notice his panic though- his eyes slipped shut and he pressed his forehead against Tristan’s to catch his breath, knowing that he wouldn’t mind.

Darius was hot and sweaty, but he was right; Tristan didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Gingerly Tristan raised a hand up and cupped the side of Darius’ face in a gentle action that he could have easily played off as a caring caress to comfort his winded friend. Darius leaned into the touch with a pleasant grin.

The blonde held his breath. He wanted to kiss him so badly.

Jenny, take my hand 'Cause we are more than friends I will follow you until the end Jenny, take my hand I cannot pretend Why I never like your new boyfriends Oh, your love for them won’t last long

Darius’ arms had returned to his sides, and Tristan grabbed one of his hands, then brought it up to spin Darius out and away from him. Darius followed the motion, fully into their continued masquerade game.

Forget those amigos Oh, your love for them won't last long

Darius wound himself back in and spun into Tristan’s embrace.

Forget those amigos Forget those amigos

The beat picked up again and Tristan let go, then the two fully broke apart and gave each other some space again, jumping and going all out for the end of the song.

I wanna ruin our friendship We should be lovers instead I don't know how to say this 'Cause you're really my dearest friend Oh, your love for them won't last long We should be lovers instead Oh, your love for them won't last long 'Cause you really are my dearest friend

The song faded out and blended into Chappell Roan’s “Good Luck, Babe!”, a welcome break from the higher BPM stuff the DJ had been blasting for the last 10 or 15 minutes. Darius fanned himself with his palms and took a step back, that wonderful blissful look still plastered on his face.

“Phew! Thanks Tris, that was fun! I think I need a breather, though.” He pulled a water bottle from one of his deep cargo pockets and guzzled it down, then checked his text messages. “Cici’s outside. I’m gonna join her to cool off. You wanna come?”

Of course she was. Of course he’d be going to see her. Back to reality.

“You go ahead, I’ll be there in a bit.” Tristan answered. “I’ve just gotta…” he pointed to the bathroom, and Darius nodded in understanding and gave him a friendly pat on the back.

“Okay man, see you out there.”

Darius turned and made his way to the stairs and once again Tristan caught himself staring, watching him leave as if he hadn’t seen him walk away a thousand times before.

You can kiss a hundred boys in bars Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling You can say it's just the way you are Make a new excuse, another stupid reason

There was a pang in his heart, and he felt like such a damn fool. He hated himself. He really did. He finally broke from his trance and made his way to the bathroom, silently cursing the Midwest Princess’ words as he blinked hard, trying to force back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t keep doing this. Something eventually had to give.

Good luck, babe (well, good luck), well, good luck, babe (well, good luck) You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling

***

Tristan descended the staircase down to the main floor and shuffled outside, figuring that Darius and Cici were most likely on the patio. As he rounded the corner, he spotted them, Darius lounging on one of the railings and Cici seated beside him at a table.

The two were engaged in a conversation with one of the club’s drag performers, Steeple Towers- a very tall queen decked out in a gorgeous sparkly hot pink number, complete with a comically oversized bow on the back of her dress. Her cotton candy-esque wig was so poofy and enormous that it probably should have had a blinking light on top to warn airplanes to steer clear.

For a second, Tristan was too shy to approach. He had met several of the local drag performers before when they were their normal selves. Darius knew some of them from school and had even invited them over for dinner a time or two. They were all very kind, sweet guys and loved trading makeup tips and tricks. But man, when they put on their drag personas it was like they were different people. Fierce, confident, scary… not frightening, just scary in how incredible and otherworldly they were. It blew Tristan away how someone could be so well put together and perfect that they were intimidating.

How cool it would be to have even a shred of that fun, unapologetically outgoing personality…

He took a step forward but spotted something that he really didn’t like- between Darius’ fingers was a lit cigarette. With utter disdain, Tristan watched as the smoke curled up toward the sky. Ugh. Darius hadn’t indulged in that vice for quite a while.

Cici had an equally disapproving look on her face, watching judgmentally as Darius took a long drag of it. She had been the one to spearhead the campaign to make him quit, and all of their friends had joined in the journey to help him along the path.

Darius saw her staring and grinned innocently with the stupid object between his teeth.

“I love you!” He tried, but Cici shook her head. He withdrew the cigarette and blew the smoke straight up into the air like a chimney, then snuffed the thing out on the railing without it even being half spent. “Fine, fine. Don’t give me that look…”

Cici’s face melted into a satisfied expression, but she turned to Steeple and crossed her arms.

“I told you not to enable him, damnit!” she chided. Steeple threw her hands up as if being accosted by a cop, but she was still playing her saucy character.

“Arrest me then, officer! I’m only guilty of giving this cutie pie what he wants.”

It was a funny scene. Tristan should have wanted to join in and play along. He should have wanted to take a seat and chat with them in the nice evening air. He should have been enjoying himself tonight… but he couldn’t get up the nerve to go over.

He felt that same pang in his heart and tried to figure out why. Was it the pain of seeing Darius hurt himself again by smoking? Or was it once again seeing him with her…?

‘I love you!’ Darius had said in that cutesy voice that begged “Don’t be mad at me!”. He said stuff like that all the time to get out of trouble.

But he had said it to Cici, and once, he did love her.

… God, was he ever gonna stop?

Tristan clenched his fists. This wasn’t healthy. He shouldn’t be thinking about Cici like that, like she was “the other woman” or something. Competition. She wasn’t.

No… he wasn’t.

There wasn’t a contest. He wasn’t in the running. He never had been in the running. Darius had been hers for years. Tristan had been fine with it then. Why was it now that he was suddenly so…

So…

… so fucking jealous?

With a frustrated noise in the back of his throat he spun on his heel, turning and making his way back inside. He had to get out of there. He didn’t want to hate Cici. He didn’t hate her. He couldn’t. He hated himself. He hated himself and his stupid fucking crush and how he couldn’t ever, ever let it go. Why was it flaring up so badly tonight?! Jesus!!

As he reentered the building, he heard that “Mr. Brightside” was playing. Of course it was. Tristan wished that it all would fucking end.

If Darius could indulge in one of his unhealthy vices, Tristan would, too. He plopped down at the bar and ordered two Skittle shots. At least that was one surefire way to taste the rainbow tonight. He slammed the drinks back and shuddered at the vodka's sting, then took a long deep inhale through his nose and buried his face in his hands, trying to get a grip on himself.

“Boyfriend trouble, eh?”

Tristan peeked out and over to where the voice came from, a little way down the bar. A man sat there, a big burly guy jacked to all smithereens with close cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a sort of military look going: a tank top, camo pants, and big heavy combat boots. Man, what did this random older guy care? … But Tristan supposed he could chat with a stranger for a bit anyway. Maybe it’d help him calm down.

“Something like that.” Tristan said miserably. “He’s not my boyfriend, though, just—” he sighed and lowered his head again, eyeing the menu on the table in search of his next drink selection.

“Ya wish he was.” The man said knowingly.

Tristan sat silently, now staring at nothing, but eventually he nodded smally.

“Hey, it’s rough.” The man said. He had a country drawl that somehow disarmed Tristan. The guy could be spewing pure bullshit, but with an accent like that, it was hard to believe that he would be capable of saying anything unkind. “Some guys ain’t worth the heartache.”

“I feel like he is.” Tristan picked at the hair tie on his wrist. “It’s stupid, but I’d go to the ends of the Earth for him if he needed me to.” He took a beat, his dewy-eyed expression dissolving back into full on sorrow. “Love is stupid. It’s so fucking stupid and unfair. I hate it.”

“You should stay away from him.”

“What?” Tristan couldn’t help but look back up at the guy. That advice felt like it came out of left field.

“You're only gonna get hurt if ya don’t.” The man said.

Tristan frowned. “He wouldn’t do that intentionally.”

“Of course not. But is he tryin' to hurt you now?”

“… Well, no…”

“And are ya feelin' hurt anyway?”

Tristan dropped his gaze.

“Trust me kid, cut ties now for your own good. It’ll be a lot easier on you that way when he’s not around anymore.”

‘When he’s not around anymore’? Geez, that was pessimistic. The drawl didn’t cover up bleak sounding things after all. This dude must have seriously been burned by past relationships to instantly assume that someone would leave, not could. Darius wouldn’t just up and disappear someday… right? Their friendship was solid. Even if things got awkward, they could work it out.

Perhaps the guy meant something else though… Darius not being around in the future… it hurt to think about, but they were nearing the end of college. Despite both being from the same town, they probably would have to part ways eventually for their careers. That didn’t mean the friendship needed to end, but things weren’t going to be the same once they moved out and were no longer roommates.

‘When he’s not around anymore’… Ugh… How would Tristan handle that? It would be a sad goodbye, that’s for sure. He hoped that they’d keep in touch and maybe see each other a few times a year if they were lucky.

Tristan scrunched up his nose, not wanting to think about it anymore. Hopefully that was a long way off in the future still… No need to dwell on it now. Darius wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. They’d just have to make the most of whatever time they had left together… to live it up while they still could.

The man seemed to notice Tristan wrestling with that idea; his face gave it away.

“Look, you're an innocent, nice fella.” The guy said. “You don’t deserve to be hurt.”

Tristan lightly chuckled at that. This stranger didn’t know him at all, but it was nice that he still wanted the best for him.

“Thanks.” Tristan said quietly. He had no intention of cutting Darius out of his life, but hey, free advice was free advice, even if he wasn’t going to follow it. The guy only seemed to mean well.

The man tipped his head and went back to nursing his beer. Tristan sat quietly and stewed in thought.

Suddenly there was a commotion from outside: a high-pitched shriek, a loud and angry yell, the sound of a scuffle, then more shouting and screaming. Tristan sat up and craned his neck to get a look, moving to hop off the barstool when Darius stormed through the front door clutching his face with one hand and waving Cici and Steeple off dismissively with the other.

“Are you fucking insane?!” Steeple shrieked, her heels clicking loudly against the wood floor as she followed him. “You could’ve been killed!”

“I got your fucking bow back, didn’t I?!” Darius snapped.

“He was an asshole, Dair! Just some fucking loser! I much rather would have preferred for him to walk off with it than for you to get hurt! How could you be so stupid?!”

Cici ran over to the counter and frantically asked the bartender for a first aid kit.

“What’s going on?!” Tristan exclaimed. Cici turned and relief flooded her face when she noticed him.

“Tris! Oh, thank God! Darius, he… Stupid idiot! There was this guy—”

“Is that blood?!” Darius had finally gotten close enough for Tristan to see him in the dim light. His roommate blew past on the way to the bathroom, too distracted to see him.

“Some jerk on the street was harassing us… Darius went after him and there was a fight, and, and—” Cici was tearing up, the fright suddenly catching up to her. “I didn’t know what to do! It all happened so fast, I—”

Tristan caressed her upper arms and tried to calm her down.

“Hey, shh, hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, Cici. I’ll go help him.”

Cici threw her arms around him, and Tristan felt like a complete idiot. All night he had been vilifying her and feeling horribly jealous as if she wasn’t like a sister to him. She loved and trusted him, and now she was vulnerable and scared and chose to come to him for comfort.

How could he have been so heartless?

She was trembling. Tristan returned her embrace and gently rubbed her back, lingering in the hug for longer than he originally intended, hoping that she’d feel better. She needed this. Maybe he did, too.

Cici straightened with a sniffle and handed him the first aid kit that the bartender had slid over.

“Thanks Tris… You know how he is… I just—”

She worried. So did he. They had this conversation before as two of the people who knew Darius the best. The guy could be bullheaded and impulsive, rushing into almost anything—even something dangerous—to help someone that he thought needed it. A self-sacrificing dumbass who occasionally leaped before he looked.

Again, Tristan felt so foolish. He had shared many late nights with Cici where they had deep, heartfelt talks, even without Darius around. She was one of his closest friends, too; that was how he knew exactly what she was feeling and thinking in the moment. Boy did he feel terrible.

“It has to be you. I can’t go in there.” Cici sobbed. Almost on cue, Darius shut the men’s room door behind him.

Tristan stood and the world swayed. Fuck, the shots! Not now… not now! What a horrible time for them to kick in! He steadied himself against the barstool and flashed Cici as confident of a smile as he could muster, praying that he looked sober enough that she wouldn’t worry. He focused extra hard on walking straight and hoped that he was nailing it.

In the bathroom Darius sat on the sink counter looking pissed off and ill-tempered as Steeple patted at his wounds with a wet paper towel. Darius shoved her hand away.

“Knock it off! I’m fine. You’re gonna get blood on your outfit.” he complained.

“I don’t give a shit, Darius. Shut up and let me help you.” she pulled the bloody paper towel away and tossed it in the trashcan.

“I’ve got a first aid kit.” Tristan announced, holding up the supplies. Steeple gave him the same look of relief that Cici had. Darius must have been giving her a rough time.

“Oh, thank God! I think it looks worse than it actually is, but still, let’s get him cleaned up.” Long manicured nails be damned, the queen dug into the box and ripped open a hand wipe, then reached for Darius’ face again, dabbing at a cut. Darius flinched away.

“Fucking stop it! That hurts!”

Steeple looked exasperated and opened her mouth to snap back at him, but her thought was cut off by a tinkling melodic alarm.

“Shit!” She reached between her fake bosoms and pulled out a cellphone, then shut off the alarm and checked the time.

“The show’s about to start. I’ve gotta run… will you be okay?”

Darius looked terrifying with the streams of red trickling down his face, even more so when he fixed Steeple with a deathly serious stare.

“Get out there and be fabulous.” It was a threat. An encouraging one, but hostile all the same. “Do it for me.”

Tristan gave the queen a proper answer. “I’ve got him. Thanks Steeple.”

“Thank you Tristan.” Steeple turned and punched Darius lightly in the arm. “Don’t. be. stupid! And don’t be mean to this nice boy! He loves you just as much as I do! We’re your friends, you dick!” She rinsed her hands and grabbed her bow.

Tristan’s throat bobbed. Just as much as Steeple loved him? Oh, no. No. Tristan loved him more. Far, far more.

“Good luck. He’s still riled up.” Steeple whispered to Tristan, then set off to head backstage.

Once she was gone, Darius deflated and bent forward, his defensive walls tumbling down. It was just him and Tristan now. He didn’t have to act tough and put up a brave front anymore.

“Motherfucker…” he groaned. “Fuck, that hurt.”

Tristan put a comforting hand on Darius’ knee.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Darius peered up at Tristan, his face ragged and tired, though he forced a wry smile.

“You should see the other guy.” He laughed darkly.

Tristan scoffed, then took a moment to assess Darius’ condition. He was pretty roughed up. Blood trickled down his face and cemented clumps of his flowing black mane to his temple. Gently Tristan swept those out of the way, but the strands flopped back down again.

“Here,” Tristan said, slipping the hair tie from his wrist. “put your hair up.”

“My friend the Boy Scout.” Darius teased, taking the elastic and pulling his hair into a ponytail. “Always prepared…”

“Shut up.” Tristan lifted a towelette, then carefully reached up to go over the cuts on Darius’ face and hands. Judging by the injuries, it seemed like he had been forced to the ground either from being pushed or punched.

“What happened anyway?” Tristan asked.

“We were sitting outside talking and some homophobic asshole came by and started slinging slurs.” Darius sucked in a sharp hiss with the sting of the wipe, but didn’t pull away. “He ripped Steeple’s bow off and started running, and I went after him. I don’t know who threw the first punch. It’s kind of a blur…”

Tristan finished cleaning Darius’ wounds and pulled out a few band-aids. Luckily Steeple had been right: he wasn’t as bad as he looked, head wounds just tended to bleed a lot and look really dramatic.

Darius watched Tristan studying him when he took a step back.

“Is it bad?” Darius asked warily.

Tristan tsked, his voice gentle.

“I think you’ll live, idiot.”

‘Idiot’. He didn’t have to say anything more. The corners of Darius’ mouth pulled up slightly in a tiny, knowing smile. That one word expressed everything that Tristan was feeling regarding the whole situation. Darius knew him well enough to figure that out. ‘Idiot’, meaning something more along the lines of ‘How could you be so reckless? You care too much. You shouldn’t have put yourself in harm’s way, even if it was the noble thing to do for a friend.’

Tristan was slow with bandaging up Darius’ hands, his movements a little unsteady. Darius took notice, especially when Tristan started swaying.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just… alcohol…” Tristan admitted. The multiple drinks were finally fully hitting him.

Darius’ thick dark brows pulled into a frown. “How much more did you have?”

“Two more shots… I’m fine…”

“Yeah, okay. Come up here and have a seat with me.”

The blonde finished dressing the wounds and sloppily tucked the remaining supplies back into the first aid kit. Clumsily he hopped onto the countertop next to Darius.

“Thanks Tris.” Darius said, a pinch of embarrassment in his otherwise grateful tone.

Tristan nodded heavily. “I agree with Steeple.” he replied. “Don’t be stupid.”

Darius chuckled. “I try not to be as a general rule.” but they both knew that wasn’t always the case.

Without looking at him, Darius leaned over wearily and rested his head on Tristan’s shoulder in an appreciative gesture. He must have been crashing from the adrenaline rush. Tristan tried to keep cool and bite his tongue, but the liquid courage in his system was making him… well, courageous.

What would he even say in a moment like this? 'I love you, don’t you ever scare me like that again!'? 'Hey, could you stop flirting with your ex? You’re kind of killing me.'? 'Please promise you won’t ever leave me.'?

Instead, he pressed his lips together and simply rested his head on top of Darius’. The two of them sat there for a moment in silence to recover from the chaos.

The moment lingered on.

And on…

It was weirdly peaceful.

“You know we can’t stay like this forever…” Darius finally mumbled.

Tristan didn’t realize that he had closed his eyes until they were open again. Had he just taken a three second nap? His heart beat faster, his half-asleep, alcohol impaired mind trying to figure out what Darius meant. They couldn’t stay like this forever? What was he saying? Darius must be about to dump him as a friend. That was the only explanation. The guy at the bar was right. Tristan was convinced. In the span of a millisecond, Tristan spiraled. It was over. Their entire friendship was over. It had to be.

“I’m not staying the night in a dirty club bathroom.”

The flurry of paranoia swirling in Tristan’s brain stopped on a dime and his panic dissolved. Darius was right, this place wasn’t fit for them to stay in at all.

“Mm…” Tristan nodded in agreement and groggily sat back up.

“I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough clubbing for tonight. You wanna head home?” Darius asked.

“Uh huh.” Tristan was woozy. It was a nice buzz, and his heart wasn’t aching as badly, but he was definitely done with the evening. Darius hopped off the counter, then helped him down, supporting him until he could stand better. Tristan collected the first aid kit and they moved toward the bathroom door.

“You’ve gotta tell Cici you’re ok.” Tristan uttered. “She was really worried about you.”

Darius' face fell. “Yeah… Well, that’s partially why she left me... Too scrappy. I sure did a great job of proving her point tonight.” His tone was bitter as he reflected on his own actions. Perhaps the breakup hadn’t been as mutual as Tristan initially thought.

“You still love each other.” Tristan said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah, as friends.” Darius answered.

“You mean you’re not trying to get back together?”

“No. Of course not. What makes you think—”

“Flirting.” Tristan blurted out. “You’ve been flirting with her all night.”

Darius looked perplexed. “I’ve been flirting with everyone all night. Even you.”

What little shred of sanity Tristan had left broke at those words, and temporarily he was speechless. His dumbstruck expression must have read, because Darius gave him a weird look.

Tristan wanted to ask a thousand questions- ‘How seriously were you flirting?’, ‘Was it just for fun, or are you actually romantically interested in me?’, ‘Is this a joke to you?’, ‘Are you trying to lead me on?’, ‘Do you know how badly something like that could destroy me?’ but all that came out was one simple word:

“Why?”

Darius shrugged.

“Because I love you, Tris.” he said it so nonchalantly, like it was simply a matter of fact. There was no sense of gravity to the thought. It was light. Airy. Easy.

Tristan was silent. Dead freaking silent.

As a friend. Darius didn’t say it, but somehow, Tristan knew that was what he meant. Darius loved him as a friend. Nothing more. Clearly, he was still completely clueless as to how Tristan felt. He had to be. He wouldn’t just speak that sentiment so casually otherwise.

All the same, Tristan’s insides felt warm.

“I—”

‘I want to be with you.’, ‘I need you to know just how much I care about you.’, ‘I don’t ever want to leave your side.’, ‘I wanna ruin our friendship, we should be lovers instead.’

… Careful, Tris.

“I love you, too, Dair.” Not even Tristan knew what level of intensity he was putting behind those words. He would never force something on Darius like that, no matter how badly he wanted it. It felt nice just to voice the thought out loud either way… to officially release it into the universe.

They loved each other. It didn’t matter in what capacity. At least now they both knew.

Darius beamed and wrapped an arm around Tristan’s shoulders to keep him steady.

“I’m glad. Now let’s go home.”

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Previous | Next

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Thank you as always to risahraun for beta-reading! <3

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ziptiesnfries · 2 months ago

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Season's Beatings

Read part 1 here - Box Bastards masterpost

CWs: beating, drunk whumper, pet whump, noncon touch, creepy whumper

The basement is chilly as usual, but for once, Lynx isn’t cold. They’re curled up in their pet bed, bundled in their new red blanket. Their food and water bowls are full, and they haven’t seen Kennedy in hours. He went out to have Christmas dinner with some friends, which means Lynx won’t see him until tomorrow morning. The promise of solitude is an even better gift than the blanket—although they’re not complaining about either.

Lynx has never celebrated Christmas before. At their last owner’s house, they stayed chained to the hot radiator in the living room, watching Christmas movies on TV while the humans did their little rituals. Everyone in those movies, even the meanest, shittiest people, seemed to be nicer on Christmas. Lynx never really believed that a specific day of the year could make someone nicer; that was just made up for TV. But they’re not sure how else to explain Kennedy’s attitude today. He fed them three meals, didn’t dig his fingers into the sores on their arms, didn’t even snap at them. He treated them more like a regular pet than a punching bag.

Of course, they’re not getting their hopes up. He’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Maybe he’ll even take away their blanket and bed again and leave them freezing in the corner of the basement. But tonight, they don’t have any new wounds, and they drift off to sleep warm and content.

The basement door slams open, and Lynx jolts awake. Their heart pounds to the sound of footsteps beating down the stairs. They’re upright before they can even think about it, pushing off the blanket as they scramble out of bed. The lights flicker on, searing their eyes. “Get over here, mutt,” Kennedy snaps.

They stagger to their feet, still squinting. Suddenly Kennedy’s fingers hook through their collar, yanking them off their feet. “I’m not in the fucking mood,” he hisses. His breath reeks of alcohol. Lynx cringes away. “Get on your knees.”

He drops them, and they let their knees hit the floor, tensing their stomach instinctively. Sure enough, his foot drives into their gut and sends them sprawling backwards. The next kick catches them in the ribs, and they curl up to protect themself as the blows rain down. “Son of a bitch,” Kennedy seethes. “That fucking asshole—” The next kick hits Lynx in the stomach, forcing the air from their lungs.

The kicks let up sooner than expected. Lynx takes the opportunity to catch their breath. They remain curled on the ground, arms wrapped around their torso, bracing themself for more.

Kennedy’s catching his breath, too, panting hard. “Ah, shit.” He kneels down, his hand sliding into Lynx’s hair. They flinch, expecting to be yanked upright. Instead, his fingers scratch against their scalp. He sighs, and they hesitantly peek up at him. “Those guys piss me off sometimes,” he mutters. “You didn’t do anything. You’re a good pet, Spike.”

They raise their eyebrows, but stay quiet. He’s drunk, they think to themself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Their skin crawls as he pets them, but as long as he’s giving them a break, they don’t want to set him off again. Lynx stays put, resting their head on the carpet.

“You’ve been so good today,” Kennedy mumbles, continuing to pet their hair. “I shouldn’t have kicked you, since it’s Christmas and all. I was just a little mad after hanging out with the guys, that’s all …” They stiffen as he drags their head into his lap. They try to squirm away, but his grip tightens, pulling at their hair. He doesn’t seem mad about it, though, so they reluctantly stay still. “I promised myself I wouldn’t hit you today,” he continues. “I was giving you a break, as long as you didn’t act like a little bastard, and you’re being so good …”

He cups their face, his thumb stroking their jaw, and a shudder runs down their spine. They’re just about to pull away when a shaft of light catches their eye. Hesitantly, they follow it up the wall, all the way to the top of the stairs. The door is open. Kennedy, in his drunken stupor, left the basement door open.

Lynx’s heart flutters. They take a deep breath and brace themself against nausea before nuzzling into Kennedy’s leg. “Aww,” he coos, laughing. “Are you tired? Is that why you’re being so cute?”

“Yeah,” they grumble, “you woke me up.” They have to be careful. Too much attitude, and he’ll get pissed off. Not enough, and he’ll sense that something’s up. They have to keep him distracted.

“Oh, you poor thing.” He sounds mocking, but only a little. His fingers stroke skin-crawlingly through their hair, catching on knots. “Want me to rock you back to sleep?”

“Fuck off.” Lynx slowly pushes themself upright, pressing their cheek into his shirt. It makes them feel sick, drowning in the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body. They’d rather freeze to death than fall asleep on him. They swallow down bile as they rest their head on his chest, faking a yawn. Now, they’re in a better position, leaning sideways to rest against Kennedy’s chest.

He chuckles, hands sliding up to support their back. They halfway suppress a shudder, but Kennedy’s used to that—enjoys it, even. “I’ll never understand why you don’t just let yourself be a lapdog,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against their hair, palms sliding down their waist. “You’ve got the looks for it, when you’re not acting like a little asshole …” His pinky brushes the bare skin beneath their shirt.

Lynx’s stomach riots, and their patience evaporates all at once. They shove Kennedy as hard as they can. He tumbles backwards, and they just barely glimpse the slow, shocked expression on his face before they slam the heel of their hand into his nose. He grunts in pain, and they scramble over him, slipping away from his blindly-grabbing hands as they sprint for the stairs.

They take the steps two at a time, using the handrail to haul themself up. They hear Kennedy growl behind them, maybe at the foot of the stairs already, but they don’t look back. Their feet pass the threshold, and then they grab the door and slam it, fumbling with the deadbolt. Not a second later, Kennedy’s weight slams into it. “Spike!” he shouts. His fist pounds incessantly against the wood, jolting Lynx’s body with each strike. “You fucking bastard, open up!”

The doorknob rattles. Lynx backs away and watches it cautiously. It doesn’t budge. Their heart pounds as they fumble with the chain at the top of the door. The motions are unfamiliar, clumsy; they’ve never locked a door before. They’ve fought and spat at people all their life, but they’ve never done something this brazenly stupid before. They watch the door with amazement, and for all its trembling and shuddering with the force of Kennedy’s struggles, it holds true. He’s locked in.

“Spike!” The pounding continues as Lynx brings themself to attention. They’re out. They need to … they need to … fuck, what should they even do? “Spike, I swear to fucking god, if you don’t let me out right this second, I’m putting you down!” Lynx unbuckles their collar and tosses it on the ground with a satisfying thud. They’re so glad Kennedy never bothered with the padlocked one he always threatened them with. “I’m serious! First thing tomorrow, you’re going to the vet and I’m making them euth—euthan—” Kennedy’s threats become background noise. They consider their thin sweatpants and tank top, and then glance down the hall. “I’m going to kill you!”

Kennedy’s voice recedes as they make their way to the foyer and glance out the window. There’s snow on the ground; of course, it’s Christmas, it’s probably freezing as fuck out there—not that they’ve been outside recently. They have to do some scavenging. Quickly.

The screaming from the basement keeps Lynx on task as they root through Kennedy’s closet. His clothes are too big for them; they have to roll up the sleeves and pant legs, and cinch the belt tight. What the hell do humans wear out in the cold? Hat, gloves? Lynx isn’t used to it. They grab everything they can put on. They find Kennedy’s wallet in his coat pocket and strip it for cash; they’re not making that mistake again. Kennedy’s stench is thick on the scarf as Lynx wraps it around their neck, pulling it up to their face.

“Spike!” The door almost sounds like it’s splintering now. “Let me out, you stupid, evil little son of a—”

A frigid wind blows into the house as Lynx opens the front door. Just for a moment, they stand at the threshold. The cold, dry air stings their nose as they drag it into their lungs. They step out onto the porch. The fresh snow on the railings sparkles under harsh floodlights and gentler, decorative string lights. Lynx has never noticed the snow before. It’s pretty.

They shut the door behind them, and Kennedy’s protests go silent.

Box Bastards tag list: @spectral-whumpy-writer @transgender-scout

#happy holidays everyone!#whump writing #pet whump #creepy whumper #box bastards #beating tw #drunk whumper #alcohol tw #whump #oc: lynx #oc: kennedy adams #gee i wonder what's gonna happen next ... 👀#i'm open to suggestions #it's gonna be an adventure

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fern-writes-whump · 2 years ago

Note

Favorite trope? Trauma reveal

Hi ✨️

Look I'm a sucker for this happening on accident, better writers than me can make the characters have a good talk, but not in this house!

Whumpee gets drunk and ends up having a breakdown in front of caretaker! Extra points if they're not in the condition to actually explain what is happening. Caretaker might try and get them to bed at that point but going to bed means fast-forwarding to tomorrow and tomorrow means talking so No Thank You!

Whumpee who's having a flashback over something seemingly mundane and now has to either find an improbable excuse for what's happening or come clean about their past.

They meet whumper out and about in the street! Caretaker has no idea why whumpee seems so terrified of this random stranger, they look so nice!

Nightmares! I'm always a big fan of nightmares :D

Caretaker tries to surprise whumpee but ends up instead startling them and Oh No! Now they have to explain how they know martial arts?? what is going on??

Caretaker is helping them clean and finds old photos of them <3

So yes, trauma reveal, good stuff :] Thank you for the ask!!

#ask #thefangirlwriter #ask game #whump #whump prompt #whump trope #whumpee #caretaker #whumper #mention of alcohol #tw alcohol #fern whumps

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3-2-whump · 6 months ago

Text

It Started with a Gray Hair

After a couple months' worth of balancing two jobs, hardly getting any sleep, and running himself ragged, Khaled finally snaps.

Thanks @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for the feedback on this chapter, I've applied your advice and hope you like what I did with it!

TW/CW: emotional angst, emotional whump, defiant whumpee (?) (whumpee loses his last fuck to give), slave whump, captivity whump, alcohol, very briefly mentioned food whump (like it's barely there but I'll tag it anyways), intimate whumper, dub con, hate sex

Khaled noticed it when he was towel-drying his hair in front of the mirror after a shower. He accepted it wasn’t a trick of the light as he blew his hair dry in front of the mirror, and he finally confirmed it was exactly as he feared when he combed through his wild floof. Standing starkly contrasted against the black night of his hair was a single silvery strand, long and twisted and brittle amongst strong sable waves.

There was a sharp rap on the door, accompanied by his master’s complaints. Khaled ignored it, still horrified by the discovery of his first gray hair. It was less about vanity for him more than it was a visible sign of the passage of time, of how much time he’d spent living under this man’s thumb. His hands unscrewed the pomade jar on autopilot. He went through the motions of dipping fingertips into the sticky substance and running them through his hair, thoughts racing all the while. He managed to hide the silvery offender –the only one, as far as he knew, though where there was one, there were probably more, and what was that under his eyes? Lines?

“Sometime today, Khaled!” Thomas yelled through the bathroom door.

“Almost done, Master!” he shouted back as he rinsed the hair product off his hands. He hastily dried them and opened the door, subconsciously straightening out his shirt collar as he righted his posture.

“Everything alright?” It was funny, how he almost sounded concerned.

“Fine,” Khaled lied. As if he was going to complain to a forty-something year old man about his first gray hair.

“Well let’s go! We’re going to be late for the reservation I made!”

The restaurant they drove to overlooked a harbor boasting a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, plus or minus a few barges, with the city skyline largely forgotten behind the vast blue expanse. Regretfully, the outdoor seating was closed for the season, with it already being late fall, so the mob boss and his slave got a table indoors, right next to the wide windows above the balcony.

Whatever hope Khaled had of forgetting about the passage of time was quickly dashed by the first course. “We’ll take the antipasti plate, cured meats on the side, and your 2015 Merlot, two glasses, leave the bottle.”

Khaled cleared his throat, getting Thomas and the waitress’ attention. “Just one glass, please,” he corrected. “I’ll take a water.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Thomas asked. Khaled shook his head. “Best give him a glass anyway,” he whispered not too subtly. The waitress dutifully wrote down their order before leaving them to their complimentary bread basket.

“Ah, 2015,” the boss reminisced with a sigh. “The year my grandfather passed and I became the head of the Costa Family, what a tumultuous year!”

Yeah, 2015, the year I was kidnapped and sold halfway across the world to you, Khaled remembered. He tried to wash away the bitter memory with the water the waitress had given him, but the icy cold drink only numbed the sensation for a moment. He halfheartedly smeared some butter onto a piece of bread and picked at the marinated olives on their shared plate as his master kept reminiscing about how much time they had spent together.

“That was also the year I got you, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you remember how small you were back then?” Thomas popped a salted almond into his mouth, chewing it only for a second before answering for him. “You were 5’1” and barely 90 lbs, a scrawny little thing. Then, with enough food and shelter and a stable environment-”

Khaled nearly choked on an ice cube.

“-you hit your growth spurt and made up for lost time!” The older man laughed, taking a hearty sip of his wine. “As soon as I bought you clothes that fit, you would need them replaced! You shot up like a weed over those first two years, and now look at you!”

Look at me now, Khaled bitterly echoed. His gaze flitted to the deep ruby liquid in his master’s wine glass, and then to the opaque green bottle set in the middle of their table. If he was going to make it through the rest of this dinner, he might change his mind about the merlot after all.

The man across from him helped himself to a slice of prosciutto from the side plate. “You’re a handsome young man, now twenty-two years old, 5’8”, 138 lbs. You’re built like a whippet, svelte and sexy in all the right places,” he crooned, throwing in a wink. “It has been nothing but a pleasure spending all these years with you.”

The bread on his tongue felt as dry as ashes in Khaled’s mouth. “I think I will take some of that wine, thanks,” he murmured. He leaned over the table to reach for the wine, but Thomas beat him to it.

Their hands touched on the neck of the wine bottle, two sources of warmth meeting on cold slender glass. Khaled shot his master a questioning look, only to receive a cryptically soft gaze in response. “Allow me.” Thomas took the bottle and effortlessly filled the spare wine glass. “Here you are,” he said, passing it to Khaled with a fond smile. Their hands met once again, the older man’s touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary on the neck of the wine glass as he stared into Khaled’s eyes. There was something softening the look in those steely-gray eyes, and it wasn’t just the candlelight ambiance. This look was warm and cozy, almost comforting like a fresh cup of tea; nothing like the fiery and lustful glances that promised Khaled equal measures of pleasure and pain. At least Khaled was used to the latter type of looks. The way Thomas looked at him now was almost as if –but no, Khaled thought, he’s just playing it up because we’re out in public.

“Aren’t you going to eat any more of this?” Thomas asked, waving down toward the sliced cheeses and grapes and nuts. Khaled hated how concerned his master sounded, making it sound like he cared.

“I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” he replied. He threw back the glass of wine and let the liquid pour down his throat, just to give his mouth anything to do other than talk to the man across from him.

“Oh, come on, Khaled, you know the dietary rules don’t apply on your birthday! At least eat something to absorb all that wine you’re inhaling?”

Brushing uncomfortably past the reminder that today was his birthday –the seventh birthday he had spent in slavery to his master, owner, and abuser –Khaled polished off the rest of his wine, instantly tipping his glass forward in a nonverbal request for more. “Why should you care?” he asked.

“Because maybe I care about you.” Thomas refilled his wine glass. He did that thing with his voice again, using the tone that sounded as if he were genuinely concerned. He was looking at him in that same soft and worrisome way as before. Khaled decided that he hated it. It made sense that the man would be concerned about his $150k asset, but anything vaguely resembling more than that was just …wrong.

He made a show of turning his head all about the restaurant, clocking how few patrons there actually were on a Monday night. “You can drop the act you know,” he murmured. “There is no one within five tables around ours, so you can cut the crap and just be yourself, Master.” The title left his tongue like a bitter epithet.

“Cut the –Khaled, what are you talking about?”

Oh, so he’s going to play dumb? Fine! You want to fuck with me, I’m the King of Dumb –wait, hold on. Khaled tipped back his second glass of wine, not stopping until the whole vessel was drained. Whether it was the insincere gestures of concern, or the accumulation of remarks about how much time had been stolen from him, or whatever the hell these soft and warm looks were, Khaled had decided he’d had enough. “I mean, stop being so goddamn nice to me, stop acting like we’re good friends or boyfriends or whatever lie you told these people when you made our reservations, and please, please, please, stop acting like you care about me beyond what I can do for you in bed!”

A few patrons turned their heads toward their table, since Khaled had raised his voice a little at that last statement. The mob boss glanced around with a flicker of nervousness in those gray eyes. “Khaled, baby, calm down,” he soothed quietly, opting to go for damage control.

Wrong choice of words, fucker! Khaled scoffed loudly, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. “You bought me, at fifteen years old, like an object, and you brought me into your empty, soulless home for what exactly? To leave me chained up and alone to slowly lose my mind for the first year I was imprisoned with you?” He slammed his empty wineglass against the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. “Nobody even treats their dog that badly!” he shouted.

“Khaled, keep your voice down, you’re drawing attention-”

The hypocrisy nearly made Khaled laugh. How dare you care about drawing attention onto us now, of all times! “And then,” Khaled continued, retelling his story as he raised his voice on purpose, “you took me to work with you and kept me on an extremely short leash, while the rest of the mafia treated me like the plague! Do you have any idea what they would say about me when you weren’t there? All the names they called me that I didn’t understand? Well, you made me understand, didn’t you?” His master reached out to hold his hand, but Khaled smacked it away, rising from the table to put even further distance between them. “Four years ago, this very night, the night of my eighteenth birthday, you made me understand, didn’t you?!”

“Khaled, shut up!” Thomas raised himself from the table, his livid eyes narrowed threateningly as he stared the young man down.

“You treated me like a whore –no, worse than a whore! You broke and violated my body nearly every night for years on end! You dolled me up and passed me around to your boys like a party favor until I was thrown away like garbage-” Khaled furiously blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes “-back into your arms when they’d had their fill!”

A small squeak in their periphery interrupted their intense staring match. “U-um, excuse me, have you gentlemen decided on your entrees yet?” the waitress timidly interrupted. Both men fell silent as they realized the weight of a dozen stares were on their table, with both patrons and staff tensely watching them as they fought.

Thomas composed himself first. “No, thanks, I think we’re done here,” he answered gruffly. He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a few $100 bills. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he muttered as he pressed the cash into the woman’s hands and strode purposefully towards the exit. Khaled himself muttered a quiet “sorry” before he followed his master out the restaurant, where they both picked up their argument where they had left off as soon as they reached the parking lot.

“What was that?” the mob boss shouted. “Fuck, boy, what is wrong with you tonight?!”

“What’s wrong with me?! I wasn’t the one who went out and bought a teenager to turn into their personal bed warmer!” Khaled screamed. “I wasn’t the one who stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in silk and pimped him out to strangers he barely knew! I wasn’t the one who tore down everything he loved about himself-” Khaled’s voice broke on a wet sob he couldn’t suppress, “–everything that made him unique, to wring all the hopes and dreams from his broken body, just to build up whatever I wanted from his remains!” He raised an accusatory finger at the man he called his master. “That was you, you did that, that was all you!”

A brief grimace of an unnamed emotion flickered across his master’s face, disappearing before it could even be named. “You’re making it out to be way worse than it was!” he defended himself. He shook his head as he grabbed Khaled’s elbow and started steering him toward the car. “See if I ever let you drink again, fuck,” he muttered.

“Get off me!” Khaled yanked his elbow away from Thomas’ grip. He bit his trembling lip and swiped away the tears in his eyes. Any and all pretense of wanting to appear strong was abandoned as Khaled angrily wept.

“I could have loved you, you know!” He wrapped his arms around himself as his posture crumpled, squeezing himself in a hug as if he were desperately trying to hold his shattered pieces together for a little longer, if only so long as it took him to finish his damning indictment. “You wouldn’t know this, but I don’t have a father, at least not anymore,” he shuddered through ragged breaths, “but for a little bit, I thought I had you. If you had just been a little kinder, a little more understanding, if you had never touched me like that at all, I could have loved you like a father, and I think I was about to! But you didn’t love me, and I know you never did!”

“Hey, that is just not true!” Khaled heard the crunch of gravel under expensive leather shoes. A shadow cast over him as the mob boss leaned over the young man.

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled glared up at him through his mess of tears. “What was it about me that justified pouring out all your wrath and your lust against me?! Why was it so hard to love me?! Am I unlovable, is that it?! Why-”

A rough hand grabbed him by his hair and tugged him forward. Khaled’s rant was smashed against a regrettably familiar pair of warm lips as Thomas brought him in for a kiss. Khaled clawed at the front of the man’s chest, fighting with a fervor he had not had since the early days to try and put the distance back between them. He groaned in protest against those smothering lips as his master maneuvered both their bodies and flipped Khaled back-first onto the hood of a car. Thomas broke the kiss and quickly covered Khaled’s mouth with his hand before the young man could say anything else. “You want me to love you?” he growled. “What does it look like I’ve been doing?!” Khaled thrashed against the hand on his mouth and the body pressing him down inch by inch into the chrome hood of the car. “I have been nothing but sweet with you for months now, but if that’s not what love looks like to you, I could always go back to what I had done before!”

The statement that would’ve struck terror and fear into him before now just made Khaled even more angry. He had finally freed one of his arms from where it had been pinned and scratched at his owner’s face. Thomas recoiled and let go of Khaled’s mouth on instinct to catch Khaled’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip. It wasn’t long before he had both of Khaled’s wrists pinned in one hand in front of him.

Khaled glared at him as he struggled against his master’s hold. “Touch me like that again, and I will scream,” he promised.

His master scowled, but ultimately released him and stepped away, allowing Khaled to peel himself off the hood of the car. They were still in a restaurant parking lot, after all. “At least wait until we’re in the car, you fucking savage!” he muttered.

They had just made it to the back of the boss’ Bentley when Thomas tried to grab Khaled in one hand and open the backseat door with another. Khaled dodged, and as Thomas reached for him to pull him into the car, he pushed into the man’s body and sent him falling backwards. His back met the seat of the backseat with a satisfying thud. Khaled wasted no time in climbing on top of him and closing the car door behind him.

“Cut this shit out!” the older man yelled, trying to sit himself up from where he fell.

“No!” Khaled pushed him down by the sternum. His master, in turn grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back to bare his neck. The sudden pull made Khaled gasp. The warm, moist pair of lips kissing at his Adam’s apple made him involuntarily groan. He blindly clawed at his master while his head was craned up to the car roof. The pair of lips against his throat murmured a breathy request against his skin. “Let’s do it, here, now.”

Once the hand in his hair let Khaled go to begin tearing off his shirt, Khaled snapped his head back to stare down at him. “I’ll ride,” he said. Thomas blinked up at him as his hands retreated from Khaled’s waistband. “I’ll ride,” he repeated, his tone assertive and acerbic. His fingers moved over the button and fly of his pants before his brain could keep up with what he had demanded. Thomas mirrored the motions as he undid his pants and quickly whipped out his hardening member. “You have taken so much from me, you can at least allow me this, Master.” He pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles, taking them off entirely before climbing on top of the dumbstruck man again.

Khaled straddled his master’s hips, splitting himself in half on his master’s cock as he gripped the front passenger seat and the back seat to steady himself. A pair of roughly calloused hands maintained an iron grip on his hips, but Khaled had set the speed on his own, pushing himself up and down the rigid shaft at a brutally masochistic pace. The familiar stinging burning sensation accompanied every movement as he pushed himself to his limits, but Khaled didn’t care. This was the most control he’d ever had –more like the most control he’d been allowed to have with his owner, and as he kept hitting that sweet spot inside of him with every punishing thrust, the repugnant act finally began to feel good.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He did both.

“Fuck me!” Khaled looked below, into the eyes of the man he was riding. The mob boss was a mess, with his short blonde hair mussed up, top three shirt buttons undone, and outer suit coat long forgotten. “I don’t know what I did to get you so worked up, but I should do it again if it gets you this eager!”

“Shut up!”

One of the hands let go of Khaled’s hips to slap him across the cheek. “That is no way to talk to your Master!”

Undeterred, Khaled kept riding. After every abuse that he’d endured, there was no way a mere backhand was going to stop him. He felt himself smiling, a dark and twisted little upturn gracing his lips. “Oh, I know you missed this, you sick son of a fuck!” he gloated. “I figured those girls in the whorehouses could only satisfy you for so long! I am your perfect plaything, doing exactly what you have trained me to do!” His pace was becoming erratically frenzied as he sought release from the ever-mounting pleasure. Thomas bucked his hips into Khaled’s, trying to keep up with him as he squeezed the young man’s hips impossibly tight. That’s right, I can’t cum yet, not until he cums at least, I’ve got to get him to cum first, Khaled reminded himself.

“So, so tight –you’re gonna rip my dick off, Khaled!”

“What are you complaining for?! You wanted this!” he screamed. He was close, so close, he just had to hold out a little more-

A strangled mix between a roar and a moan erupted underneath him as a familiar pulse of hot seed injected deep within. Khaled didn’t take much longer to cum after that, spilling himself over imported cotton as he rode through the high of his climax. His grip on the front and back seats slackened, knees and thighs trembling with the effort to keep himself seated on the man’s cock. When Thomas finally let go of his hips to gently guide him down onto his chest –face first into the puddle of his own spend –Khaled went down limply without a fight. He rested his head against his master’s chest, picking up the sound of the older man’s heartbeat and the smell of cologne and sweat and sex radiating off his broad body.

“Holy fuck, Khaled.” Thomas’ voice rumbled in his ribcage as his fingers idly played with Khaled’s hair. “That was kinda hot-”

“Nope,” Khaled cut off, “stop talking. Please.” Fortunately, this time, he listened.

The mob boss and his slave fell into a contemplative silence as they lay against each other. The silence only broke by the fingers in Khaled’s hair, stopping as they twirled a single lock of hair. “Oh my god, is that a gray hair?” the man asked incredulously.

Khaled laughed/cried again.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

#whump writing #slave whump #captivity whump #emotional whump #emotional angst #defiant whumpee #sorta #whumpee loses last fuck to give #tw alcohol #food whump (briefly mentioned)#intimate whumper #tw dubcon #tw hate sex

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ashdoeswhump · 5 months ago

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Tws: abuse, implied noncon, non-sexual nudity, blood mention, restraints, alcohol

Some summer whump ideas for you:

Whumpee is forced to lie out in the sun for hours without sunscreen or even clothes as punishment. Their skin burns and peels. Maybe they were tied down, so they have stark white lines cutting through the red.

Whumpee is made to wear a long sleeved shirt and long jeans while working. They're covered in sweat, and whumper tells them how gross they are, how filthy and smelly and sticky.

Whumpee is the guest of honour at whumper's pool party, wearing a revealing bikini/speedo for the guests to coo over and stare at. Whumper's friends force them to drink alcohol on an empty stomach, to dance for them, to go in the water where no one can see the guests' straying hands.

Whumpee's cell has awful insulation, so all the sweltering heat comes in. Salty sweat mixing in with the tears and blood. Maybe they're in a stress position, their muscles already burning from exertion, the heat just making everything worse.

#ash's prompts #whump #whumpee #whumper #whump prompts #tw: abuse #tw: implied noncon #tw: nudity #tw: blood mention #tw: restraints #tw: alcohol

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painsandconfusion · 2 years ago

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Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Prompts and starters A collaboration with @wormwriting

[Prompt Masterpost]

“How much did you hear?”

Whumpee crouched and trying to stay quiet until they can slip away. Then the cool barrel of a gun pressing against the back of their head. Bonus for ~click~

“You know what happens now, right?”

Whumpee stumbling home, breath ragged and body in shock still. They stare at the liquor bottle - and without thinking, uncap it and start downing as much fire as they can stand. They don’t want to remember what they just saw. For everyone’s sake.

Whumper shoving a bottle against Whumpee’s chest. “You’re going to want to forget that. I’ll check back in tomorrow to make sure you did.”

Walked into the wrong bar at the wrong time - now they’re a vampire’s lunch.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who fucked up everything. Now I need to clean up your mess.”

The shaky hand Whumpee presses to their mouth to try to stifle their echoing breaths. Eyes squeezed shut so hard that they might press the memory of what they saw out of their mind.

“How’s about you and me go for a little walk, hm?”

“Sorry kid - boss said no loose ends.”

Whumpee stepping around the corner to see people and blood and heads slowly turning toward them. Seeing them seeing what just happened. Seeing the blood. Seeing them seeing the blood. Whumpee slooooooowwwwwly steps back, eyes stricken with horror-

“Can’t talk without a tongue, right?”

Whumpee driving in the middle of nowhere - how were they supposed to know it would be fifty miles to the nearest gas station? At least they can cal-......they don’t have signal either…

Whumpee flinching at each echoing footstep, tucking further back into their hiding spot. “I know you’re theeeeerrreeeee~ Come out come ouuuut~”

“You know this isn’t personal, right?”

And escaped whumpee bumping into Whumper completely randomly years later. The s t a r e. Aaaaaaand run-

“What are you so scared for? I don’t gotta kill you~”

“Wh-y me?” “You were the easiest to grab.”

Stepping into a bear trap.

Whumpee getting mistaken for a target. Tortured in their place while pleading all the while that they got the wrong mark. Of course, no one believes them.

“Know what you are? A liability.”

The random guy the villain shoots in a bar just to make a point.

“Don’t. Move.”

[Prompt Masterpost]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

(a few of these arent working so if wibbly-wobbly-whump or hold-back-on-the-comfort changed their blogs please lmk <3

#whump #promp list #whump prompt list #collaboration #kidnapping #gun #knife #forced drinking #alcohol consumption #wrong place wrong time #incidental whumpee #murder mention #blood #mouth gore threat #threat #fear #angst #multiple whumpers #wrong whumpee

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paingoes · 5 months ago

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Crash Out

Mercy

(Content: whumper turned whumpee, ex royal whumpee, sadistic whumper, female whumper, alcohol, physical abuse, choking, guns, blood, begging, broken bones)

game (noun) /ɡām/ 1. a form of play or sport, especially a competitive one played according to rules and decided by skill, strength, or luck. 2. a person's performance in a game; a person's standard or method of play. 3. a secret and clever plan or trick 4. wild mammals or birds hunted for sport or food.

game (verb) /ɡām/ 1. manipulate (a situation), typically in a way that is unfair or unscrupulous.

Thales Courtyard. Seven years old.

Paris sat on the steps, a mess of sharp angles. It was a bright summer. Thales’ children grouped in bunches across the lawn.

“You’ve never played?” One of the boys asked him.

Paris shook his head. The boy got closer. He took both of Paris’s hands in his own and intertwined their fingers. For a brief moment, it felt intimate. He’d been too young to feel repulsed by that yet.

“It’s easy. The first one to say ‘mercy’ loses,” the boy explained, waiting to see Paris’s reaction. He wasn’t afraid; he nodded his assent.

In a swift motion, their hands rotated outward. The boy pressed Paris’s wrists back up against the sockets, bending back the fingers.

“Mercy!” Paris yelped.

The boy let go instantly. Paris shook his hands out to relieve the ache. He had hissed at first, but he quickly broke back into a smile.

“Let me try again,” he said.

House party. Sixteen years old.

Paris leaned down to light his cigarette on the stovetop burner. He’d been drinking a lot that year. The novelty had yet to wear off. All the kids that orbited him clattered around in the kitchen, seeing who could make the worst cocktail from the pre and the sugar and all the alcohol they’d stolen from the host’s parents. The ones who weren’t busy with the concoction were playing stupid games.

“You go.” One of them tapped his shoulder. He swatted the touch away on instinct, but he straightened up. The boy he played against was younger — shorter hair, shorter stature.

It wasn’t even a competition. Years of fencing had strengthened his grip to an obscene degree.

“Mercy!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, dude, stop!”

The alcohol had slowed his reaction time. It took Paris a few seconds to process the words; he’d kept pressing in the meanwhile. By the time boy pulled his hands back, there were rings of bruises around each of his fingers.

“What the hell, man?” He rubbed at the marks, shooting the prince an accusatory look.

“Baby.” Paris rolled his eyes, “Let’s play the knife game.”

The Thorn. Eighteen years old.

Paris bent Delta’s wrist back at an odd angle, pushing threateningly against the bone of his middle finger. Delta stared back with half-lidded eyes. His expression was placid — and unmistakably bored.

He did not ask for mercy. Delta never asked for anything. It was no use. Paris let go. Delta fell limply at his feet without the grip holding him up. It took longer than usual for him to get back into the kneel.

Paris kicked him roughly in the chest, forcing him back onto the floor just as soon as he’d steadied.

Wildflower patch. Nineteen years old.

Her knee pressed directly in between his shoulder blades. She was putting her full weight on it; she had to if she wanted to keep him there. Her left hand gripped the nape of his neck. Her right forced his arm back, threatening to pop out of its socket.

It was a good pin. Paris cursed himself for having been surprised. Johanna always fought like she was feral, but there were moments it was clear just how thoroughly she must have been trained.

He pushed up with his free arm, which only made the pain in the other worse. Johanna’s grip tightened around his neck, readjusting herself in anticipation of struggle.

“Say mercy.” Her smile was audible. She said it like she was joking. She was joking. He knew that if he had said nothing, she would’ve just let it go.

“Get the fuck off of me, you crazy bitch.” Paris’s voice was venomous. She could still hear the panic infusing it. Her heart swelled.

“Say it,” she insisted now, her voice still light. She levered his arm further up. It was slow, but without signs of stopping. Paris could tell it was about to snap. He knew her well enough by now to know she’d do it without a second though.

“Mercy,” he blurted out.

Johanna laughed, releasing him.

Nettle’s Campsite. Nineteen years old.

Once she learnt she could get it out of him, she wanted to do it every time.

She didn’t always accomplished it. Paris wasn’t helpless, especially not if Lorelai was close. Sometimes he won. Most times, he just got away.

Not now. She twirled the length of the chain around like it was a lasso. The gesture was eerily similar to one Lorelai would’ve made. He wondered if she was making fun of them.

Paris knew he couldn’t win. Today was one of the bad days. His breath was short. His spine wasn’t listening. He held the sword out in front of him, knowing exactly how bad it was about to be.

The chain caught on the blade, an attack he still hadn’t found a good defense against. He swore it was magnetic. With a flick of her wrist, the saber landed several meters away, totally useless. The other end of the chain came down again across his chest. It hit the sensitive skin of the scar. Johanna moved quickly, toppling him into the ground.

Paris elbowed her in the face, starting to scramble back. She moved the chain deftly, managing to fix it around his neck. Victory was certain. She could enjoy it now. She pulled tight, pressing the metal flush against his skin.

“Say mercy!” she smiled.

His mouth only opened to gasp for air. Speech was impossible. He tapped limply at her hand. Her eyes widened in recognition. Tap out. She loosened the chain.

“Say it.” Johanna encouraged.

“Fuck you,” Paris managed through ragged breaths. She started to lift her arms up again. The chain rattled. He held a hand up. Stop.

“Mercy,” he choked.

She only got to enjoy it for a second. She had just heard the brushes being pushed aside before Lorelai’s bullet passed cleanly through her skull. Her not-quite-dead body collapsed on top of him, temporarily deprived of its motor skills. His mouth had been open when the blood splattered. It tasted like aspirin and battery acid.

Johanna’s Ship. Nineteen years old.

She really fucking had him this time. The chains were tight against his torso and around his wrists. She barely needed them. His body had entirely given out on him, no fight left at all.

She was running out of positions to try, points to poke at, joints to press. He’d endured all of it, hoping the stupid fucking game would end like last time, that she might finally get satisfied after she’d made him repeat it twenty fucking times. There was no part of him now that didn’t hurt.

Irritation showed on her face just as easily as it did on his. She grabbed his wrist again, pushing it back. The same one she had started with. Hard and fast.

“Mercy.” His breathing picked up, the pain radiating throughout his arm. She let go, a little slower on the release this time around.

“Jo, stop. You made your point.”

She moved her hand up to his palm, intertwining her fingers with his own. Pushing it back again. Starting over.

“Fucking stop.” He tugged his hand back as best he could with the chain binding it. His best was not much. She didn’t let up. “Mercy.”

She released the tension in his wrist, but she did not get off of him. With a slight smile, she brought her other hand up. One gripped his palm tightly, trapping the thumb. The other wrapped around his index finger. Pushing it back again. Paris let out a small sound of frustration. The chains rattled when he thrashed.

“God, stop, I’m not even fighting you anyone, I’m not even fucking fighting, can you stop, what the fuck, fucking stop stop-“

Crack.

He shuddered as the torn sound escaped his throat, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. Johanna giggled, slipping her fist off of the broken digit. She moved it a single space over, around his middle finger. The pressure started slower this time. She wanted him to catch his breath.

“Did you forget how to play or something?” Johanna smiled at him crookedly. His eyes were shut tight. She patted his cheek lightly, trying to coax them back open. She waited until he was looking.

“You are terrible at this game."

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

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scratchandplaster · 16 days ago

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Tales of Arcadia - Adrift

The second part of Lukas' recapture!AU. Poor guy is still out, so let's see how well his brother and roommate are coping.

CW: parental Whumper, recapture, Ben being cringe when drunk

Previous | [Masterlist]

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Wake and sleep fought over Lukas' mind like a pair of twisting snakes.

Deep down, in a primal sort of sense, he knew the rumbling under him meant that he was moving. Someplace he would normally fight and spit to get far away from.

Still, the easy dizziness clouding his senses had won for a while now, swallowing up anything that may rouse him into reality again.

If anything, Lukas knew he was thirsty. So thirsty, his lips sealed shut and every breath reminded his body of how sore the inside of his mouth was. He tried to speak, to reach for the bottle on his nightstand.

Not even a finger twitched.

I'm gonna be late.

What time it was it? Usually, the noise from early IHOP fistfights or Ben stomping through the kitchen woke him up soon enough...

In a strained attempt, he managed to pry his eyelids open for a second and was immediately overcome by a wave of nausea. Somebody shushed him from the left, and a moment later, the rumbling stopped.

Split lips opened slightly, as a hand cupped his nape and held a flask to them. The liquid felt heavenly against his dry tongue. Sip by sip, Lukas let the relief push him back into his seat-

Seat? Why was he sitting?

Yet, he drank it all down - the sweet aroma of chamomile was reassuring, the chalky aftertaste of the pills hidden by warmth inside his chest. The voice, now seemingly miles away, talked quietly to him while combing through his hair, always careful to hold him upright.

The rhythmic sound of the motor started again, not quite repelling the skin-deep nausea inside him, the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

Doubts, ebbing away with the minutes, only bothered him for so long.

As the tea did its duty, Lukas' attention drifted far away. Behind his heavy eyelids and numb spirit, all was well again.

--------

"Unbelievable..." an upset Avery barked under the weak shine of the streetlights, "Lukas! For fuck's sake, this ain't funny."

After twenty minutes, a quiet suspicion had started to sprout between bass beats and Happy-Hour-cocktails. It wasn't Luke's style to take this long to calm down, and especially not to leave without them - quite impossible for someone overwhelmed by the mere concept of public transport.

Something was wrong, Avery felt it creep around like a predator hiding among them. If it didn't already, it was about to strike in no time flat.

Ben floundered close behind over the asphalt, a hot mess filled to the brim with god-knows-what. Avery had never seen him drunk. It was cute at first, no so much anymore when he stopped being able to walk straight. And the redhead he met somewhere near the bar, continuously sticking to them like shit to a boot, didn't help to soothe this premonition either.

Avery held on tight as they circled around the parking space for what felt like forever, every second more irritated by Lukas refusing to answer his phone.

"Hey!" The unwelcomed third spoke awkwardly, too nervous for comfort, in Avery's opinion. "How about you search for him and we-"

"What?"

"Your friend?" they stuttered, surprised by the rough tone, "You can search."

"Yeah, no. If you won't help, you can leave."

"Don't fight," Ben interrupted, staggering on the spot and eager to pat Avery's jacket reassuringly, "How about we...uhm...we can-"

He trailed off, either too drunk or too interested in the piece of ass he picked up to be worried. If he was a lick more sober, the realization that his brother would never walk off unannounced may have hit him sooner.

Unusual, for a guy who preached about the virtue of abstinence every time Avery dared to enjoy a late night's smoke. Clenching his teeth, somehow their new addition to the group stood out, in the most egregious way yet.

His grip on Ben's arm tightened, and so did theirs.

"Ohh, one at a time, please! I have space for everyone," Ben slurred, amused when the ginger pest refused to let go, and glitter chafed against his skin like sandpaper.

So that's what was going on here.

Avery's normally oh-so playful spirit hit its limit. The embarrassment, the recklessness, the uncertainty - all that he could handle.

A deceiving cunt on the other hand...

"What's your problem, dude?" They stared up at Avery like a pushy chaperon. Too bad; if they needed it that badly, two healthy hands could do the job just fine. Ben and him had more pressing issues.

"Not sure, you tell me," Avery answered in a low tone.

It felt desperate, how they acted so uneasy all of a sudden.

No, not desperate - wrong.

"You don't understand, I'm just trying to-"

Not letting go of Ben, Avery snapped forward. His hand snatched theirs, maybe a bit more roughly than intended, and ripped it off his roommate's wrist. He, more absent-minded than anything, still tried to protest but with a swift push against their shoulder, Avery's new acquaintance stumbled backwards against a dumpster.

Cold metal vibrated as they were held in place, an angry fist clenching their shirt.

"Do you understand?" he asked, voice sharp and impatient.

The redhead nodded, not even daring to let out breath.

"Yes?"

"I do, I do!" they wheezed, suddenly as gentle as a lamb.

"Great," Avery hissed, only his index finger still pressing against their sternum, "then piss off."

Without another objection, they took a final glance at Reuben and scurried away.

"Sam, w-wait!" he whined at the loss of attention, but without anyone to listen to him, "Why?"

Because whatever escaped Avery's radar had already struck its target. Blind to the danger, they both were left stranded on the sea of asphalt. Maybe Lukas had found comfort in the small strip of forest at its edge, felt a little homesick and hugged a tree or whatever.

"Come on, he has to be somewhere around here."

"No!" Ben spit and finally wrenched himself away from getting dragged along the pavement. Hiding his face, lit red by frustration and confusion, he weakly slumped over and kneeled on the ground.

"Seriously?" Any attempt to pull him back up got repaid with a meek slap in Avery's direction.

"Don't," he murmured, head in hand like nothing else could hold its weight, "Why can I have a single good thing?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I'm a cockblock. We'll find you someone else. For now, let's focus on getting your brother back."

Was Ben even listening? Judging how violently he was keeling over, retching nothing out of his system, he was already plenty occupied.

"First Martin...and now this."

"Martin?" The whine from his friend's lips did confuse Avery, despite the situation. If Ben wanted to talk bad about his partner, fine. It was obvious he didn't enjoy sharing attention, but he'd rather listen to it later at the kitchen table, a hot cocoa for the three of them in hand.

A nagging itch pinched his heart nevertheless: "What about him?"

"H-he ruined everything," Lips loosened by too many glasses of Malibu Sunset and Blue Lagoon trembling with every sob, he spit on the ground - not obvious whether it was the alcohol or simply good old disgust this time.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Avery groaned.

"Y-you and me."

Him and... Oh, come on! The unrelenting talent to be haunted by his careless decisions once again distracted from the pressing issue at hand.

"Ben- No, I'm not doing this with you right now. Get a grip!"

He just sat on the cold ground, shaking from side to side like a flag in the wind.

"He did! He-" Reuben slurred before cutting himself off. A sore loser, that's all what he was, a bridesmaid desperately grasping for the bouquet.

Obviously Avery would choose this weird geezer over him.

It was wrong, this was all wrong! Wiping the tears away, Ben had finally realized it too.

"Where's Luke?"

Whether the two men wanted to admit it yet or not, the cold black night had already eaten him up whole.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whumpyourdamnpears, @whump-till-ya-jump, @kawaii-cakes

#crackhead caretaker Avery strikes again #Sam gets bullied #queer on queer crime #new Ben unlocked: jealous Ben #parental whumper #noncon drugging #kidnapping #alcohol #recapture #arcadia #cult setting #mind control #conditioning #whump series #whumpeexcaretaker #failed romance #protective caretaker #recapture!AU

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patchworkorphan · 1 year ago

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The Hero and the Infant: Part Three

Read part one here

Continued from here

*~*~*~*~*

Hero threw their arms wide as they strut onto the roof in a gesture of questioning: “hey! What the fuck are ya doing?”

That got Villain’s attention. Violet eyes snapped to theirs, floating a couple metres off the roof. Out of reach for Hero.

“Silent treatment? Really? You just tried to kill a kid, Villain.”

“Superhero’s new sidekick. I did warn them about the mortality rate of such a job before I dropped them,” Villain said with a shrug. Hero looked back over their shoulder at the sound of the roof door opening and Sidekick stepping out, fury winding all of their limbs tight.

“See?” Villain said, getting Hero’s attention again. The Villain’s hand was spread to Sidekick’s appearance. “They’re fine!”

Hero rolled their eyes, scoffing. “Is that supposed to be a justification for attempted murder?”

Hero felt the strong invisible hand wrap around them and yank them up into the air straight into Villain’s awaiting arms.

“Maybe I just don’t like the company they keep,” said Villain, grabbing Hero by the lapels of their duster and pulling them close.

Villain’s nose crinkled up as they said: “you smell like whiskey and cigarettes.”

“It was never a problem before. In fact, I think I remember you enjoying the smell at one point,” said Hero with their dashing smile reserved for only Villain.

“Why are you running around with Superhero’s new scapegoat?”

“Why are you disturbing these good people just trying to do their jobs?” Hero shot back.

“I am a Villain, my dear. It is what we do.”

“And I am a hero, at your every public beck and call. To make sure you don’t do irrevocable damage. Such as killing a child,” Hero admonished and yelped as they felt Villain’s power vanish from under them and they were falling.

Villain held them with one hand over the precipice in their usual showmanship of power. Hero narrowed their eyes and shifted their weight, so they were almost a perfect 45-degree angle to the ground thirteen stories below.

A challenge coated their words as they spread their arms wide, “if you want to kill anyone Villain, do us both a favour and kill me.”

Villain searched Hero’s face for any weakness. Any sign that they were lying and found none. The next thing Hero knows wind is whistling through their ears, stopping only when their back cracks off brickwork and they crumbled to the ground hands catching themselves on the ground, gasping for the air that was wrenched from their lungs.

“Hero!” Sidekick yelled in surprise from the opposite roof.

Hero barely had time to force themselves to stand again before Villain was in front of them, fist bunching in the collar of their shirt. Villain threw a solid left hook. Hero countered, taking the brunt on their forearm before an invisible hand grabbed Hero’s wrist yanking it above their head and keeping it there. Hero’s toes barely scraping the roof below them.

“No fair,” said Hero with a grunt, levelling Villain with a knowing scorn.

Villain’s smile was more of a snarl as they said: “when have I ever played fair?”

Hero threw their other hand out, but Villain caught it and slammed it back against the brick wall, drawing another grunt from Hero. Villain stepped in close, close enough that Hero felt Villain’s breath on their face as those violet eyes peered down at Hero, tightening their grip on Hero’s wrist.

“You look good, Vil,” said Hero softly. “What happened that made you rage against these innocent people today, hmm?”

Villain’s free hand settled on Hero’s cheek and Hero leaned into the touch. “I don’t need a reason.”

“We both know you’re not like that,” Hero said, smiling sadly.

Suddenly Hero was released, and they dropped to their feet, knees bent. Villain was recoiling to the side, hand on their cheek as a once invisible Sidekick became visible again.

“You alright?” Sidekick asked as Hero straightened and nodded.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You looked like you needed help,” Sidekick said, a little breathless and Hero searched the opposite roof wondering how Sidekick had got there so fast but didn’t question it. They could ask later.

Hero fixed their jacket, rolling their neck as Villain’s gaze turned to face the pair. “I had it handled.”

“Sure, you did,” and Sidekick was invisible again. Villain’s eyes burned like the cold fires of hell down at Hero and Hero shrugged with a smirk.

“Kid’s annoying,” said Hero. “But sure, what can you do?”

“Drop them off a building again. Maybe it will work this time.”

“Probably not,” Hero said with a flash of their teeth. “Not as long as I’m here.”

“Well then perhaps I will force you to watch,” said Villain as they shot their hand out. Hero sucked in a breath and felt the pop in their ears as they reappeared behind Villain. They whistled and Villain turned. Hero threw a punch which Villain caught, clenching their hand down around Hero’s fist and stepping forward, pushing Hero back. “You always did think I relied too much on my power.”

“Eh,” Hero shrugged with tired eyes. “It’s an off day.”

Villain’s eyes narrowed, their tone dipping dangerous as they turned Hero’s arm. “Maybe you should have answered my texts then and we could have arranged this on a non-drinking day for you.”

“Come on, Vil. You know me better,” Hero said with a toothy grin. “They are no non-drinking days.”

Villain pulled Hero in and brought a sharp knee to Hero’s stomach. Hero gasped, as Villain leaned in. “We’ll sober you up yet. Just like our academy days, huh Hero?”

The comment had barely registered when Villain squeezed Hero’s fist with their hand, their force backed by Villain’s unfair power.

“No wait, Villain—” Hero protested just before there was a resounding crack over the roof. Hero screamed bloody murder as Villain kicked them back, and unable to catch themselves, Hero stumbled back and fell, their head hitting off the stone roof. White spots burst behind their vision as Hero shuffled back on their good arm. “Motherfucker!”

Hero looked down at their hand, their index and middle finger bent backwards. A deep purple and black colouring the battered flesh. They had to get off the ground. Hero sucked in a sharp breath closing their eyes. Then a boot came to their chin and Hero cursed as their world rocked and their head hit the ground again.

A headache was already forming, and Hero just wanted to lie on the ground and give up then and there. Then he thought of Sidekick who would no doubt lecture them which would only make their headache worse. A rock and a hard place, headache, or worse headache. Before they could decide, Villain stomped on Hero’s ribs, and Hero’s eyes shot open. Their good hand pushing at Villain’s ankle to alleviate the pressure.

“No popping out if your brain’s clouded with pain, ain’t that right Hero?”

“Normal people just say: I missed you,” Hero hissed, they let out a harsh cough. “They don’t try and kill you.”

“What can I say? I’m not normal people,” said Villain with a smile of their own. Then their hand shot out on instinct and Sidekick reappeared two feet away, gasping on no air. Their hands went to their throat with wide eyes. Hero sat up suddenly, but Villain just put more pressure on their leg keeping Hero pinned. “No. No. Don’t get up. Stay.”

“Let them go, Villain!” Hero cried. Sidekick dropped to their knees, face going purple as they choked on nothing, hands clawing desperately at their throat.

Villain tilted their head at Sidekick’s struggles. Hero reached their hand into their pocket, taking out their lighter. “It’s not every day I don’t kill someone first try. The last, and not to blow my own trumpet, but only time that happened Sidekick was with…” Villain turned back to Hero. “Well, was you, dearest.”

Hero shot their hand out, setting fire to Villain’s trouser leg that was currently weighing on Hero’s ribs. Villain gasped, concentration broken, stepping back and Sidekick sucked in a lungful of air. Hero looked at Villain.

“I’ll be back,” they said to Villain as they lunged for Sidekick’s arm, hand clamping around their wrist. Hero closed their eyes, sucking in a breath.

Then pop.

*~*~*~*~*

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whumpty-dumpty-doo · 2 months ago

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We Are TroubleD – “Try to Forget Him” (Pre-capture) - Part 2

Written as a part of @whumperofworlds' WoW's Birthday Whump Event! 2024

Day 7 (my chosen prompts are bolded) - Bloodied knuckles / Wounded / "Is that blood?!"

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This is part two of a two-part short story! Part one is here.

Event page | My event participation masterpost | “We Are TroubleD” Masterpost | Previous | Next

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Content warnings: Alcohol, blood, drinking, emotional whump, heartache from breakups, injuries, jealousy, off-screen homophobia mention, off-screen violence (fist fight), pining after unrequited love, self-loathing, smoking, swearing