#f Paris | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

paingoes · 3 months ago

Text

Destroyer

Trigger Discipline

(Masterlist)

this is pre-series, set in the first year delta was given to the emperor. delta and paris are both around 13 here.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, child abuse, dehumanization, power imbalances, minor bullying, slavery, emotional whump, mass death implied)

==============

It was fall break, one of the few times Paris was allowed back into Castle Thales. He dragged the suitcase behind him. There was barely enough time to set it down before the attendants swept him into the dressing room. It was hard to play the handheld with his head up straight, but he’d gotten good at it — in the same way the maids had gotten good at working around him.

His leg bouncing annoyed them enough that they let him take recess. It was only then that he first saw his father, out in the empty hallway, against the backdrop of the purple banners. The Emperor grabbed at Paris’s wrist. He pulled it up to examine the bruises on his knuckles that the makeup hadn’t covered. No hello.

“The school called. Do you think this behavior is acceptable?” His voice was calm, always calm. Paris pulled his hand back protectively.

“They started it,” he insisted.

“Don’t talk back to me, Paris. This is beneath you.”

“I got all As. Four point seven with APs. Did the school call to tell you that too?” He didn’t hide the ire in his voice. That school was out to fucking get him. None of the other students ever got in trouble for fighting. It wasn’t like he could do it by himself.

The look his father gave him killed that argument before it could start. He wilted. The old man paid him no further mind, sending him straight back into the changing room. He spent the remainder of it in terse silence, not even arguing when they placed the crown on his head, the heavy one that always gave him migraines. He never wore it during the school year. He never wore it if he could avoid it. The weight of it felt all wrong.

Nobody mentioned there was going to be a showcase that night. (They might’ve, actually. He never checked his email back then.) Even if he’d known, he still would not have been prepared for the little off-worlder kneeling on the opposite side of the old man’s throne. Dark blue skin, even darker hair. Bright, bright eyes. The Emperor’s new toy.

Paris realized with a start that they were the same age.

He settled into the throne. The old man hadn’t come in yet; it was weird to share the dais. He watched the other boy try his best to stay invisible, like he wasn’t even there. They’d clearly had different media training. He slipped the handheld back out of his pocket while he waited for the event to start.

He sat through most of the ball unbelievably bored by the whole thing. They’d ceased to be impressive by the time he was seven years old. He never could fix his face; he was sure the discontent was obvious upon it. He didn’t understand how anyone else could manage to be polite about it or why they bothered to. The old man was good at many things, but true spectacle was not among them. That part desperately needed work.

Still, he was intrigued by the motion to his left-hand side, the noise as they unchained the boy from where he was kneeling and led him into the center of the room.

The lights dimmed — and his colors burned. He did not fully grasp the technical significance of the display; he doubted most people there did. The handler explained it as a kind of microscopic manipulation of the light, some supreme physical achievement. What it manifested as was the holographic appearance of the scale dragon right over their heads, its shimmering form reflected in all the small particles of air. The mirage was impressive. Paris still did not understand what it had to do with statecraft.

He saw the boy swoon like he might faint, then steady himself. He really was fresh out of the box. His eyes flitted nervously from side to side, trying to take it all in. He flinched at any loud sound — and there were many. He wasn’t used to it yet. When they led him back to the side of the throne, he seemed more grateful to be out of the spotlight than he was upset at being chained. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

It took a while before Paris could get him alone, without the old man watching. He had to wait until after the showcase was over and only the ball remained.

“How did you do that?” Paris asked. He leaned against the leftmost beam of the dais, partially obscured by the curtain. The boy was still kneeling there, still chained to the empty throne’s base.

He turned his head slowly. His glowing blue eyes studied Paris carefully; for a moment, he was afraid of the intensity behind them. Paris could not read his expression, did not appreciate the creeping silence he commanded.

“I know you heard me.” A certain defensiveness crept into Paris’s voice. The boy looked at him apologetically, raising a finger to his lips.

“Oh,” Paris’s eyes widened with the realization. “You’re not allowed to talk?”

He nodded his head so subtlety that Paris guessed he wasn’t even allowed to move.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promised.

The boy seemed unconvinced, his eyes passing over the crown in Paris’s hair. Fuckin’ thing. He took it off.

The old man barked his name so loudly that the boy jumped, as if it was his own. Paris just rolled his eyes, replaced the crown, and stepped away from the dais.

“It isn’t your friend,” His father warned him, “Just because you can’t keep your own doesn’t mean I’m buying you new ones.”

His face burned.

Paris stayed up until the party was over, even when it ran well into the next morning. As the last of the guests trickled out, he sat down on the stairs of the dais. The boy’s handler came to untether him, pulling him roughly to his feet.

“Did it talk to you?” The man asked. It took Paris a second to realize the question was addressed to him.

“No?” He said. The boy looked at him gratefully, like he’d covered up for him, when he was just telling the truth. The doctor looked somewhat disappointed by this answer. His irritation switched targets.

“You shouldn’t speak Common in the palace. It’s unbecoming.”

Every adult swore they had a right to tell him how to act. Even this total stranger.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Paris snapped.

The fight drained out of him as his father re-entered the hall. All noise died but for his voice.

“I’ll take it,” his father said, extending one hand out in an almost chivalrous motion. The boy, now unchained at the neck, quickly jogged down the stairs to meet him. Paris watched as his father slid his hand onto the boy’s shoulder, leading him gently out of the hall. He watched as one ringed hand brushed a strand of black hair out of the boy’s face. The boy flinched — ungrateful.

========

The Emperor did the same thing over spring break, the next time Paris returned to Thales. He had to watch the same routine, watch the old man carefully soothe out the folds of Delta’s clothing, run a thumb over his cheek. He’d been given free reign at this one, apparently. Even though he kneeled by the dais again, he wasn’t chained to it. It seemed like he was allowed to take breaks.

“It’s an object,” the Emperor would insist whenever Paris tried to get close. “What use do you have for it? I won’t tell you again.”

He still paid it more attention than he ever spared him. So publicly, as if he wanted him to see. Paris bit into the flesh of his own hand, leaving teethmarks. His father smacked him on the back of the head; he withdrew his hand back to his side, wiping the blood and saliva along his pants.

He could only corner Delta when the night was closing in, when all the adults were too drunk to notice. Paris caught him just outside of the dining room. He flicked at the silver tiara placed into his — its? — hair. It fell a few inches out of place. Wordlessly, Delta readjusted it. He kept his head bowed, his hands at his side, not speaking. Totally resigned to the treatment.

“He doesn’t actually like you, you know.” Paris said. There wasn’t much certainty behind the statement.

It got a reaction, but not the one he had hoped. Delta looked up a bit, the side of his mouth quirked up into a disbelieving grin. He thought it was funny. He was fucking laughing at him.

Paris was temporarily too mad to even see. Delta seemed to recognize the danger and immediately became expressionless again.

“Sorry.” There was still a bit of humor in his voice. “Um. Yeah. I know.”

Like he didn’t even care. It didn’t mean to him what it meant to Paris.

His hands curled into fists. Delta noticed, stepping back a little.

“Your Highness,” He added the honorific on quickly, as if that was the problem.

“Forget it,” Paris waved him off.

He walked away before Delta could even respond, retreating to his room. He’d be reprimanded for it later, but there was no way he could go back to the party now. There was something hollow in him that would not let him sleep.

===========

Delta moved the pawn forward, his claws clicking delicately against the piece. The whole board shook from the turbulence of the ship.

Even in summer, it seemed like they were making a concentrated effort to keep Parks out of his own house. He saw his dad more, though. It was tour season; he was obligated to tag along. It meant that his schooling never truly ended throughout the year, but he didn’t mind so much. Everyone said he was a natural.

Delta was the only person even close to his age on the tours. As much as he’d been discouraged from interacting with him, they saw each other constantly, the only ones at each other’s eye level. He would’ve sworn the kid sought him out on purpose.

He didn’t talk much, but he was good at listening, which Paris cared more about. They broke off from the main group in the downtime, descending deeper into the ship. There was an old chess set laying around in the crew’s lounge. Paris had climbed up to the top shelf to get it, letting it clatter loudly against the coffee table. Delta knew how to play; it was weird, the things he knew and didn’t know. The things he was good at. Paris got the sense that Delta was letting him win.

They were halfway through the second game when the doors opened up, entirely too many personnel for the situation at hand. The Emperor was among them. Paris shrank back.

He startled as Delta’s handler abruptly backhanded the boy, knocking him out of his seat and onto the floor. He heard Delta take a sharp inhale of breath, but remain silent otherwise.

“Apologize.” The doctor’s hand was in a vice grip against the back of the boy’s neck, nearly pressing his head to the ground in the forced bow.

“I’m sorry,” Delta responded immediately, without hesitation, even though it hadn’t been his fault. The doctor shook him a little, prompting a stronger reaction. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness.”

Paris had asked him to. It’d been his idea. But his father was standing right there. He couldn’t bring himself to admit to it, not after he’d already been warned.

“It’s okay,” Paris said softly; the words felt sickly in his mouth.

As he caught the expression on the Emperor’s face, he could tell it hadn’t mattered. The old man hadn’t believed it for a second.

The doctor released his hold, pointing sharply back to the exit. Delta scrambled to his feet, practically running out of the door. He hadn’t been looking at Paris when he’d apologized and he didn’t look back at him when he left.

They all followed out onto the balcony for the show of force. With the handprint still across his face, Delta sat by the edge of the platform, his eyes closed in deep concentration. In the next moment, there was calamity. The large fortress walls all broke down beneath their own weight, sending the enemy castle tumbling down into the sea. All the residents had still been inside. The old man kept a tight grip on the back of Paris’s collar, making sure he saw all of it.

===========

The clipshow continued in the Emperor’s office, all the shades drawn and the lights dimmed. It was a supercut of the weapon’s military record, all the carnage, even the burnt bodies. Some of the shots were truly gratuitous. Paris wasn’t allowed to look away.

“Twelve years in the making and you’re selfish enough to endanger it. You can’t be that desperate,” his father said.

“I wasn’t trying to endanger it.” Paris’s fist clenched and unclenched against the chair. “I didn’t…think it was a big deal.”

“And I assume you know more than the experts, like always.” It was still dark in the room. The clips were still playing silently.

Paris’s lip bled a little from where he bit it. He had matching cuts along his tongue. He shook his head.

“I don’t know how to make this more explicit to you, Paris. It is a weapon. It may look like a person, but its sole purpose is to kill and destroy.” The video showed a still-living hand reaching out from beneath the rubble. “It does not need you confusing it or meddling with its programming. When I tell you not to interact with it, I am doing it for your own good. Its reactions are unpredictable. The last thing I want is for you to become one of its casualties.”

Paris flinched as his father’s hands slammed down onto the desk. His voice still came out calm.

“It only exists to be commanded — and that command is not yours. You will not meddle with my property. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“This will not be a conversation next time,” the Emperor promised. Paris nodded. His throat was choked up.

He slinked out of the still-dark office, back down the hall to his room. He was glad summer was ending. He didn’t even want to be home anymore.

He was surprised to see Delta still pacing the halls with his handler, not yet placed back in his cell. He briefly made eye contact with Paris, then immediately cast his gaze back down to the floor, chastened.

……

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

38 notes · View notes