#also crytpids age slower than humans

[whump-in-the-closet]

Raising Chaos.

cw: flogging, sadistic whumper, bad caretaker, inhuman whumpee, whump of a minor (chiar is 17), for context Chiar refuses to obey the orders of his. uh. employer and gets punished

masterlist.

***

The door unlocked. Finally. It felt like it had been hours since they had taken Chiar.

Syl brushed past the man who held it open. Blue shadows warped around his skin, buzzing with an irritation he could not hide.

Syl ran before Fain could stop him.

The entrance to the Yard was left open, allowing Syl to take in two things at once.

Two things that hit him with all the weight of a physical blow. The electricity inside him coiled tight in his chest, winding around his ribs, coating the bones in burning anger.

He desperately wanted to set something on fire.

The first: a discarded whip, blood-flecked and hanging from the wall. As terrible as any curse and far more painful.

And then Chiar chained by his wrists to the wooden post set in the middle of the Yard. He didn’t look conscious, his limbs hanging at odd angles and his back–

God.

He really was going to set something on fire. Syl was by Chiar in an instant. Close enough to hear the cryptid’s ragged breathing. Close enough to see there were far more than the ordered five lashes on his back.

Syl stepped in blood and gagged, bile rising up in his throat. The tiles were coated in blood.

Fain snorted derisively.

Syl ignored him. Forcing his hands to hold steady, he pried the leather gag out of the boy’s mouth. Gently, he brushed aside Chiar’s hair, whispering to him to hold on for me, okay? Just hold on.

He turned his attention to the chains around Chiar’s wrists.

“Let’s get you down from there,” he muttered. “You idiot.”

Chiar groaned, pressing his forehead into the wood.

Syl yanked at the chains, careful not to prod at Chiar’s damaged wrists. The bands were locked. Of course they were. He yanked at them again. It was pointless.

He could practically hear Fain’s smile, cold and bitter.

Syl whirled around, hands balling into fists at his side. “Get him down!”

Fain didn’t move. The key hung from one finger, swinging back and forth as Fain pretended to consider what Syl had demanded. Then he smiled. “That’s not how you address your betters, now, is it?”

The corners of Syl’s mouth twitched into a snarl. He glanced at Chiar, his back covered in those god-awful lacerations and snapped at Fain.

“That’s far more than five lashes you gave him! Now so help me, get him down, or I’ll fucking–” He bit the word off.

Fain was no longer smiling. He cocked his head, daring the boy to go on. To finish the threat.

Syl trailed off, inspecting the blood on his boots. Then, slowly, he spoke again. Carefully this time: “Can– can you get him down?”

Fain sighed in mock disappointment. “One more try, Westerling, I know you can manage this. It's such a simple thing and yet you manage to mess it up so well.”

Besides Syl, Chiar’s breathing picked up. Fast. Consciousness brought cramped muscles and the taste of leather and the smell of sweat– Chiar choked on it. And then the pain brushed everything else out of his mind. He cried out without really meaning to.

Syl stiffened. He worked his jaw in a tight circle, glancing at Chiar. And then he exhaled softly. “Lord Fain, please, let him down.” He infused as much venom into the words as possible.

Fain backhanded him. The blow took Syl by surprise and he stumbled, falling to one knee.

A handprint, violet-red, began to form on one side of his face.

“Almost there, Westerling. None of your sarcasm.”

Syl wiped his mouth and stood, eyes blazing. But he swallowed blood and dignity. “Please, Lord Fain, let him down.”

Fain smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

One day, Syl would make that man burn. One day. But not today.

Fain unlocked the chains and Chiar slumped to the ground, Syl barely managing to catch him in time.

He was far lighter than Syl expected. There was blood on Syl’s neck and clothes as Chiar’s head thudded against his chest. Syl could hear the boy’s heartbeat, beating fast and hard against his chest.

Syl pulled the boy’s arm over his shoulder, doing his best not to touch his back. “Can you walk?”

Chiar struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Syl. He nodded, refusing to make eye contact.

Carefully, Syl led him out of the Yard. With each step, Syl was sure Chiar would collapse, the floor spinning beneath him. The very air seemed to become blood-stained around them.

Bloody arm around Syl’s neck.

Bloodier breathing.

They managed to reach Syl’s room with Chiar still conscious. Syl breathed a small prayer of thanks to whatever gods were watching over him.

He lowered Chiar onto the cot.

“Lie down.”

Chiar didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, hands shaking.

“Lie down.” Syl repeated, snatching up his bag of medical supplies and slamming the cabinet door shut.

Chiar flinched at the noise. “Sorry.” Wincing, he did as Syl said, burying his face into the blankets.

Syl knelt down and grabbed a pair of small scissors, cutting away the remains of Chiar’s shirt. This completely revealed how deep the lash marks were. And how Fain had not held back in the slightest.

As Syl worked, he seethed, air coming in sharp hisses from between clenched teeth. “You’re an idiot, you know that? An absolute idiot.”

Chiar muffled a curse as Syl began cleaning the wounds, pain flaring up his back. Everything was on fire.

His voice cracked.“But– but you talk back to Fain all the time.

“Hold still! You are not me, Chiar. Stop acting like it. Besides, see where your tough act got you?” Syl’s ranting did not end there. “I can’t believe you! Do you have no self-preservation at all? When Fain tells you to do something, you fucking do it.”

Chiar whimpered. “Syl–”

“Don’t Syl me. It’s like you have a death wish.” He paused, “Alright, four of these needs stitches, the rest are fine if we bandage them tight enough. Hold still, okay?”

“Is it–” Chiar could hardly get his voice to work. “Is it going to hurt?” He hated how weak he sounded. How pathetically his voice carried up to a high note.

Syl rested a hand on Chiar’s head, messing up his hair. That was as gentle as he knew how to be. “Deep breaths for me.”

Breathing deeply hurt. It made his ribs ache. And it did not make the sharp pain on his back any better. The needle bit deeply and set trails of fire underneath his skin.

But the comforting weight of Syl’s hand in his hair in between tugs of the needle– that did not hurt.

Even if it was just to hold him down, Chiar found a measure of comfort in the small touch. It was a kindness Chiar rarely felt.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @pigeonwhumps (lmk if you want to be added or removed!)