#magical exhaustion whump

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XXVI)

A Fool’s Bargain

Read part one // masterpost // Continued from here

This part is dedicated to @neongalaxiie who always reminds me to link the posts, so you don’t have to go looking XD

*~*~*~*~*

Kit grabbed the keys from Jude’s body as Tides helped Sawyer to his feet. Kit gave her the keys and she gasped, retracting her hand quickly.

“Shit, ow!” She said, shaking her hand and Kit frowned, glancing down at the keys in his hand. Small sparks still flying from his hand and arm. Sparks he couldn’t feel.

Sawyer’s dark eyes found Kit’s and said: “you open the door, Tides and I can get up the stairs together.”

“But—” Kit protested, and fell back a step, his temple throbbing with a gasping pulse. So much power, so much energy, why stop now? Release, release, release, release, release.

Tides widened her eyes. “Kit?”

He shook his head, every component of his body thrumming with power that was begging like a child, keening like a dog, singing like a siren for Kit to give into the temptation. Stop trying so hard to fight it. Sawyer’s so weak, give him a jolt, a little hit. A pick me up. Come on—

“M’fine,” Kit mumbled, walking towards the stairs so he could ignore the looks of concern painted plainly across Tides and Sawyer’s faces. His heart was in his throat, blocking his oxygen and pulsing the thrumming blood around his body from there. What the fuck was happening to him?

He was happy to be standing, though his butt was numb from the constant sitting as he climbed the stairs and went through the keys one by one, sliding them into the lock and turning until one actually fit and opened the heavy door.

Kit frowned as the door opened.

They were in a house. Somebody’s home. Jude’s? Supervillain’s? He held the door open, eyes scanning the dark wooden floors and picture frames hanging on the walls for clues as to where the fuck they were. Tides helped Sawyer up the stairs, standing behind him so he wouldn’t fall and there to catch him if he did.

Kit frowned at the mirror directly across from the door, and glanced back at Sawyer. He was only halfway up. Kit let the door go and grabbed the mirror off the wall, glancing quickly around for a place to hide it. A small table with sticky notes and pens was on the other side of the door, blocked, so Kit stuck the mirror upside down under it and went back to the door, grabbing the handle and pulling it open again.

Sawyer grinned at him as he got to the top. “I thought you were abandoning us, Mallory.”

“Not until we’re free of here, and then maybe you two can get a room,” he said, closing the door after Tides had cleared the stairs. Tides laughed, shaking her head at Kit. “We need to move a little faster though, who knows when Supervillain will be back.”

Sawyer and Tides nodded. Tides went to support Sawyer again but he put a gentle hand on her wrist and told her he was fine. Kit walked ahead of them, giving them a little privacy as he peeked down a hallway. It was an old house, he realised, something passed down the family for generations. The hallway they were in seemed to be at one end of the house, tucked away into a little nook.

They was nobody else in the house, nobody Kit could feel anyways, but he didn’t exactly trust his abilities at the moment so he sent out a small pulse through the house under his feet.

Nothing. He straightened. They were on their own.

“There’s nobody else here,” Kit said, standing in the hall. “I can’t feel any other pulses except Jude’s in the basement. I think we’re good.”

“So we can actually get out of here,” Tides said with a wide smile. Kit could see the hope blossom in her face like relief washing over her. Kit nodded.

“I’ll find the door,” Kit said, his blood felt like fizz in his veins and he just wanted to go. To move, he couldn’t stand still.

“No,” Sawyer said with a breath. “We’ll stay together.”

Kit clenched his jaw. If he just zapped Sawyer unconscious then he could carry him the rest of the way and not have to wait for his—

Kit slapped a hand over his temple, groaning. Sawyer’s eyes hardened. “Kit? Why are you able to use your powers? And why aren’t they blue?”

Kit opened his eyes, which he didn’t remember closing, but as soon as he did he regretted it. A raging headache thumped behind his eyelids with every pulse of his heart. No, not his heart. That other thing inside him, the well of magic. It felt like a rabid dog, eating him from the inside out, and wilder too. Unpredictable.

“Kit!”

Sawyer’s words felt like bullets, bouncing off his inner ear canals and pin-balling around his skull.

“Kit!” A hand on his arm and Kit opened his eyes again, the world swaying a little in front of him. Kit stepped back, the hand fell away and he shook his head, leaning a hand against the wall for support.

Tides looked between the two boys, one was practically a walking safety hazard and the other winced with every word he spoke, his wounds congealed with dark, jelly like crimson glueing in the cracks.

“Okay,” she said. “New plan. The two of you will go sit down, rest on the stairs,” she told them, pointing two feet down the hall. “I’ll find a phone and we can call Superhero.”

Kit groaned. “No… there… Supervillain destroyed the city. I don’t know if Superhero’s alive, or any of the heroes for that matter.”

“What?” Tides asked, breathless.

“What do you mean Supervillain destroyed the city Kit?” Sawyer demanded, grabbing a fistful of Kit’s shirt and slamming him back against the lip of the wall.

“I— when Supervillain lured me to the clock tower,” Kit said, his memory scratching like nails on a chalkboard but he continued. “You were unconscious,” he said to Sawyer, “so you wouldn’t remember. But I thought—”

“Thought what?” Sawyer demanded.

Kit raised his head, catching Tides’s eyes in his unnatural glowing red. Brows furrowed over his sockets casting them in shadows. “You were there, Tides.”

Tides frowned in reply. Sawyer looked at her now too. “I don’t—” Tides sputtered, scrambling to find words that wouldn’t come.

Sawyer let out a grunt, tightening his grip in Kit’s shirt. “That doesn’t matter right now. Tides, go find a phone.”

“We should get out of here!” Kit protested, glaring at Sawyer again.

“How? Call an uber? Oh wait, we need a phone to do that!” Sawyer snapped as Tides walked past the pair and went searching the house, their voices dimming the further she walked away.

“You didn’t answer my question, Mallory, why can you use your powers and Tides and I can’t?”

Kit ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He felt the static charge from his hand ignite his hair and set it standing on end. “It’s a long story,” Kit said. “One we don’t have time to tell. Just know that I can.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?” Sawyer demanded. “How do I know you’re not working with them?!”

The words were like a slap in the face. Kit felt his emotions stirring inside and he wrestled to keep them down. “Sawyer, I’d advise you let go of me if you don’t want to be fried in the next three seconds.”

Sawyer’s hard eyes searched Kit’s face, scoffed and stepped back, running a hand through his own hair and letting out a breath, turning away from Kit.

“Fuck. I need to sit down,” he mumbled, walking to the staircase and planting his arse on the third wooden step.

Kit stared as he gingerly touched a bad gash on his face and winced, shuddering slightly. They were all stressed and tired, Sawyer and Tides more so than Kit, but here Kit was, throwing a tantrum and letting his powers consume him.

“I’m not one of them,” he said quietly. Sawyer raised his head, but Kit didn’t meet his gaze. “And I’m sorry for… acting out. I’m antsy. I’m gonna have a look around. See if I can find out any information.”

Before Sawyer could reply, Kit turned away in the opposite direction that Tides went, back towards the cellar and around the small wall to the other hallway. The house was oval like a continuous loop so you could explore every room and reach every place without having to walk through a rigid set of rooms. It was also massive.

Out one of the lattice patterned windows he could see an expanse of a garden, no, not garden— gardens. A three tier design with mixes of stone and perfectly cut grass and hedges, flowers of every colour. Kit frowned. This wasn’t Ambrose level rich, this was something else entirely. Would you even call it rich or wealth?

Kit continued walking. There was a second staircase, more rigid with creaking floorboards as he walked up to the first floor and stepped out. The floor was carpeted in a rich burgundy between two strips of dark wood, so deeply brown it would have looked black if not for the beam of light shedding the gleam of brown from it.

Portraits hung on the walls.

Actual painted portraits of women and men in old timey dress, starting from around two hundred years ago if Kit had to guess. It was so strange. He felt like he was walking through a museum, the walls thick and dense, seemed to close in on him a little. Sparks zipped out at his feet, the fibres from the carpet charging static in him.

It was so annoying.

He sent out another pulse through the house, just to make sure. Nothing.

It unsettled a sixth sense within him. Shouldn’t Supervillain have thought of this? That leaving them with just Jude was a bad idea? Did he honestly think they wouldn’t escape? And why the fuck were they looking for a phone, they should be looking for keys to a car, or even better a car. Kit could make it run.

Maybe.

He hadn’t tested the bounds of his new red lightning before, maybe it could do other things that Kit never ever considered.

Right. Decision made, Kit nodded. He would do a quick search of the upstairs, see if anything stood out and if it didn’t then they got to leave sooner. Lingering would just lead to problems later on, and they were in no shape to fight.

Kit’s feet moved through the upstairs. Some of the walls had small balconies in them that overlooked the ground floor, and at one he saw Sawyer on the steps of the staircase. “Hey, Sawyer?”

Sawyer looked up to see Kit leaning over the railings and scoffed. “Jesus, what kind of fucking hogwarts castle is this place?”

“I was thinking more great gatsby,” Kit said. “Wait til i find a wardrobe and I’ll shower you with clothes.”

“Have you found any clues?”

Kit shook his head. “Nope. It’s like mausoleum. Quiet as the grave.”

“Clearly it’s bringing out the romantic in you,” Sawyer said with a smirk then winced, oil like blood leaking from a split in his lip. The motion pulled at Kit’s heartstrings. They needed to get Sawyer to a hospital, ASAP.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

Kit went straight, knowing the hall would loop around to the stairs eventually and just when he got to the mouth of the steps he saw it from across the way. His feet stopped suddenly, frozen on the step as his heart thumped in his chest once and then stopped altogether.

His mouth lost all moisture, his tongue scraping like sandpaper out over his chapped lips. His legs were moving as his mind stuttered along, trying to make itself comprehend what he was seeing.

On the wall were a collection of framed photographs and diplomas, degrees, awards. There’s a picture outside the Hero Academy, Mentor with his arm around a young Ambrose, beaming at the camera. Another on the same day, Mentor stood with his arm around a younger Ambrose who smiled genuinely at the camera, so unreserved and unfiltered. He had dimples in his cheeks that Kit had never seen on the real version of him, rather than this snapshot of him frozen in time.

The boy on the other side of Mentor, was a little taller than Ambrose, his hair a chestnut brown and his grin just as wide as Ambrose’s and Mentor’s, but his eyes… he had the same silver eyes as Mr Silver. Kit frowned. Were they brothers? Did Mr Silver have a brother that Kit didn’t know about? He must’ve, Kit… he would’ve known— or would he?

Mr Silver was more family friend than professional acquaintance. They had dinner together, surely it would’ve come up, but then again… he was a very private person. And Kit didn’t like sharing his past either so he couldn’t exactly berate him for it.

Kit stepped back, searching the photos. And sure enough, there was a younger Mr Silver shaking Mentor’s hand on the day they established the link between the Hero agency and the government.

He stepped back again, a picture of an older Ambrose with Mr Silver’s brother, a lazy arm wrapped around Ambrose’s shoulders and a cigarette dangling from his teeth. Ambrose looked more gaunt in that one, his eyes unsmiling, his expression stoic. So unlike younger Ambrose.

Did Ambrose go to the Academy? Was he in one of the older years? How had Kit missed him? Kit knew everyone older than him unless Ambrose was already gone by the time Kit joined.

A degree in Pure Mathematics with a minor in theoretical physics from the best college in the country attributed to Nathan T. Scarrow.

Kit’s eyes went back to the picture of Mentor and Ambrose, zooming in on the third, Nathan.

Why the fuck was Ambrose in the pictures of Supervillain’s house? Kit felt the anger surge in him before he could check in, before he could rein it in, it roared with a beast’s fury and Kit’s feet no longer touched the ground. Sparks erupted from every part of him, every inch of his body as he snarled, cracking the pictures, revelling in watching the glass shatter into pieces, falling from their hooks to the ground.

Mr Silver. Ambrose. Mentor.

They all knew Nathan, they had to be complicit in covering up the fact that he was Supervillain, right?! RIGHT?!

“Kit!”

But Kit didn’t answer. He could only hear the warning voice so very far away from him as he clenched his hands into fists and shattered the windows behind him, letting the breeze blow through the house and still it wasn’t enough.

He wanted to destroy everything.

Everybody.

How could he be so stupid?! To think Ambrose would actually— that Mentor had ever— that Mr Silver was a friend?!

“KIT!”

Terrified blue eyes found his and reached for him. Kit dropped his head to his chest, collapsing to his knees on the shattered glass crunching beneath his combats but he didn’t care as they pierced his skin. A sob wracked it’s way up his throat and caught in his throat, causing him to tip forward onto his elbows on the jagged glass staring at the smiling, happy photo of Mentor and Ambrose and wailing like a child.

“Kit,” Tides said, reaching an arm out to him despite the currents rushing through him but he knew, somehow he knew, he wouldn’t hurt her as she tried to comfort him.

“He lied…” Kit mewled, his back arching as fat tears splattered down onto the old photograph, staining it. “He lied about everything. Everything.”

Tides gathered Kit in her arms, gently picking him back away from the shards of glass and held him as he cried like a chief mourner to a funeral that wasn’t real.

None of it. None of his life, his happiness, his connections, his career— none of it was his, he could only ever contribute it to other people. Even now, when he should be focusing on escaping here he was, curled up like a child and sobbing into Tides shirt.

A hand plucked at a piece of glass on his legs and tugged lightly to remove it. Sawyer. He could see him from the corner of his eyes, tentatively working to remove the shards.

Kit didn’t care, he couldn’t feel it. The cold presence of betrayal felt like an overwhelming absence of all else, every good thing, even his friends who silently waited and tried to help him, hold him, be there for him. He couldn’t feel any of it except for the twisting knotting of guilt like a double barrel buckshot in his chest.

He shouldn’t have gone looking. He should’ve left well enough alone and escaped. They should have escaped.

Tides stiffened under Kit, and Sawyer paused in his movements. Kit blinked, staring at nothing, his mind and body numb.

It was Sawyer who spoke. “Kit?” He said, his voice a whisper. Kit’s heavy eyes turned to Sawyer. The weight of them too great to function. He was exhausted. He wanted to go home and forget everything.

No. He wanted to get Ambrose to make him forget everything. Everything about his life. He didn’t want to be a hero anymore. He didn’t want to do anything other than sleep, but his eyes met Sawyer’s and he sensed the urgency in them.

“Can you sense anyone outside?”

The question washed over Kit like alarm bells in a prison because yes, when he pushed his powers out along the ground he could sense a car that had just stopped and two heartbeats outside the front door, down and to the right of the staircase.

“Kit!”

Then a slap in the face. Kit blinked, eyes wide at Sawyer who had leaned over Kit’s legs and grabbed his face in his hands. It was like a spring uncoiled suddenly, releasing and launched itself forwards. Kit stared, eyes dazed at Sawyer.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. Kit reached a hand up to his face where Sawyer slapped him, dumbly fumbling for the blood. Before his fingers found it it dribbled over Kit’s lips and he blinked lazily, withdrawing his fingers as the warmth went over his lips to his chin.

“Oh,” was all Kit said, feeling so, so very far away from his body. Time seemed to be moving in slow motion as Sawyer helped Tides grab Kit and snuck into one of the bedrooms, closing the door. They put Kit against the bed, his bloody fingers staining the soft white carpet as Sawyer and Tides danced in a swirl of colours in front of him, pushing something heavy and wooden across the door’s threshold.

A barricade.

Kit blinked dumbly at them. He felt like he was going to throw up.

Kit?

Kit stiffened on the ground, hands fisting the carpet to keep himself steady.

Are you here?

Kit looked up at Tides and Sawyer who were huddled in the corner, speaking lowly. “We need to get out of here.”

“We know,” Sawyer said, his voice hard. “But we need to be smart about it.”

“No,” Kit said, shaking his head. Oh, fuck that was a bad idea. “No, you don’t understand,” he protested, shifting his weight to the side so he could push himself to his hands and knees. He grabbed the fabric of the duvet and pulled himself up on shaky feet. A pair of hands grabbed him and steadied him but Kit didn’t really notice it other than the fact that he didn’t face plant the floor.

“Kit!” Tides hissed. “Be quiet.”

Kit kept his eyes trained on the broken windows of the room. They were only up one flight. They could make it. Kit reached a hand up to the window frame and felt solid wall.

“Fuck,” he said with a slightly hysterical breath. “Can one of you find the window? I think I’m seeing double.”

“Kit,” Sawyer said closer to him. “You just spent an unprecedented amount of power blowing every window in this house to bits, you can’t take jumping out of one.”

“He’s right, Kit.”

Kit?

Kit swallowed, turning in Sawyer’s hands a lopsided grin on his face, eyelids drooping as if he was drunk or drugged, but he fixed them on Sawyer’s swirling face. His nose drifting up to his forehead like a unicorn.

“WHO THE FUCK BROKE MY WINDOWS?!” A voice boomed from below.

“Omen’s here,” Kit told him. “Omen’s here,” he said again. “He’s the reason my powers are fucked. He’s the reason I don’t have a family anymore. He’s the reason for everything wrong in my life and he’s downstairs, Sawyer. So you can stay here and be his new little toy to break, I’m fucking done with him. I’m done. Now show me the fucking window.”

He didn’t know what Sawyer looked like. He didn’t know if he was happy or sad or effected by anything Kit just said but it didn’t matter because gently, Sawyer took Kit’s hand and placed it on the windowsill.

“There. Just hold on, we’re going together. Tides?”

Tides was by their side in a second. “Hold him, I’ll go out first. Send him after so I can catch him, and then you come. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Kit couldn’t see but Sawyer was concerned by his confession. But they could deal with that later. Right now they had to get out of here.

Sawyer put a foot on the bed, grabbing the window frame and swung his leg over, and, “what?” He breathed.

Kit frowned, but it made him nauseous to do so. “What?”

“I can’t— I can’t get through.”

“Jus’ open the window,” Kit said, slurring his words.

“There is no window, Kit. There’s no glass. There’s like— a barrier. I can’t fucking get through.”

Tides moved then and pressed her hand to the window, where Sawyer’s leg was perched in mid air. “What?!”

Kit sensed someone by the door, but by the time he processed that he should tell Tides and Sawyer the doorway exploded in on them. Wooden lats and splinters shot towards the trio, a wayward board hitting Kit over the head and he fell like a log.

His vision zoomed in and out, like a camera trying to focus on a subject but failing to find the proper balance. His ears were ringing violently, muting all other sounds except his wheezing breaths and his heartbeat that thumped thunderous in his skull and slow.

Kit got his elbows under him and pushed himself on shaky hands up to try and see what was happening. Tides and Sawyer were fighting, struggling beside him, Tides further away than Sawyer was. When did that happen?

But all cognitive skills died when he met two black eyes fixed on him. They were drawn down in concern, and Kit must be so fucking out of it because for a second— he could’ve mistaken them for worry. But that’s ridiculous.

“Kit?” Ambrose asked, grabbing his face in his cold hands. Kit blinked slowly like a cat. “Kit!” Ambrose said again, his voice muted and too far away for him to hear, but he could see his red lips moving. He couldn’t hear anything as if a bomb had gone off right beside his head.

He wished he would pass out but he remained stubbornly conscious the entire time, his brain pulsing in his skull. Ambrose shifted Kit to sit with his back against the wall, Kit groaning the whole time. Ambrose was still speaking, clicking his fingers in Kit’s face.

Across the bed he saw flashes of yellow and blue that he knew were Tides and Sawyer, on their knees in front of Nathan.

Supervillain?

He wasn’t wearing a mask, but the only logical explanation was that Nathan was Supervillain, right?

He didn’t remember. It seemed important at the time but now the thought melted into a puddle to join the pooling sludge in Kit’s head.

“Stop,” Kit said, leaning forward until he was stopped by Ambrose’s hand, his own reaching for Tides and Sawyer. “Don’t touch ‘em.”

Nathan laughed, or looked like he was about to laugh, gesturing to Kit but speaking to Ambrose.

“Get off me,” Kit said, slamming his hands down on Ambrose’s as he pitched forward again. “Don’t— hurt me instead, please. Please. Let them go.”

“Kit,” Ambrose said beside him, pushing him back again. It felt like he was submerged in water and Ambrose was speaking at him from above the surface. Muted, but he could make out the words now. “You have a concussion. You need to sit still.”

“We couldn’t get out,” Kit whined, red eyes meeting black. “We tried to get away. We tried to get out. And then— and then—”

Kit narrowed his eyes into a glare at Nathan. “You piece of shit! How do you think your brother would feel about you being a fucking Villain?! Supervillain of all people.”

“Kit, shut up,” Ambrose said, pushing him back against the wall. “For once in your life, just be quiet.”

“And you!” Kit said, tears welling up behind his eyes as he turned his attention to Ambrose. “You knew the whole time!”

“I didn’t, Kit. I swear. Don’t you think I would’ve told you?” Kit shook his head, slapping at Ambrose’s arms, his face, his shoulders. He grabbed the edges of Ambrose’s jacket and pulled him in, his lips curling back into a snarl that Ambrose almost recoiled at.

“No, no, no. Cause you’re a fucking liar,” Kit spat.

“You’re a monster, and you… you—” Kit said, but he couldn’t get the words out without crying, and so the tears fell over his cheeks, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at Ambrose, the realisation crushing everything in his chest, making it feel like his ribs were caving in on his heart and lungs. “I trusted you.”

Ambrose didn’t answer. Black eyes wide and hurt, and worried and it made Kit sick.

“I trusted you,” he said again, his voice coming out as barely more than a whisper through short, fretful breaths. “And look at what you’ve done to me. Look at what you did… I can’t— I can’t see straight, my powers are fucked, I lost my only family and now you’re going to make me lose my friends too? The only two in the world? How could you?”

Silence.

Hurt turned to anger and Kit launched himself off the wall, pushing Ambrose down and landing on top of him haphazardly, pushing himself to his knees straddling Ambrose on either side.

“HOW COULD YOU?!” He raged, spittle flying over Ambrose’s face, his blue eyes turning a startling red again and Ambrose thought that was it. He’d die there and then.

But just before the sparks erupted from Kit, an invisible hand grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, slamming the wind from his body. White hot stars burst behind his eyes as a crack sounded. Kit cried out as he fell like a rag-doll, his head and ribs taking the blow and burning. Kit howled, curling in on himself.

Fuck. Fuck, that was a rib.

Every breath was agony, but Kit still tried to push himself up, screaming and crying and raging all the while. Ambrose was on his feet, shouting at Nathan about something, his hand on Nathan’s wrist pulling it down.

Kit’s shaking arms faltered and he fell again with a startled breath onto his forearms, his screams dying to spine shuddering sobs, staring at the soft carpet below him. Twin streams of tears and snot and spit falling open as Kit wailed, pain seizing his mind and body but still he remained awake.

“I told you to leave him to me,” Ambrose snarled, shoving Nathan’s wrist away. Nathan inclined his head, smirking down at Ambrose.

“I think what you mean to say is thank you for not letting that kid fry my body to char, Nathan” Nathan said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Ambrose turned his head to Kit who was openly sobbing now, babbling incoherently to himself and slamming his fists down against the floor every once in a while. It pulled at Ambrose’s heartstrings in a way it shouldn’t have. Kit was nothing to him, nothing. He was just some fucking dime a dozen Hero who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A warm hand on his cheek turned Ambrose’s attention back to Nathan, something hungry in his gaze, a muscle clenched in his jaw. “Thank you, Nate, you’d say, and I’d say anytime love, but it costs a kiss.”

Ambrose grabbed at Nathan’s wrist to push him off but Nathan’s grip tightened on Ambrose’s face, cupping his jaw in one hand, the other stretched towards Kit. Ambrose’s eyes widened as Kit’s screams increased in pitch until they were piercing and then another sudden crack broke through the air and Ambrose flinched, his heart hammering against his chest.

Nathan’s silver eyes didn’t leave Ambrose’s black the entire time, a smirk still present on his face though sinister now. A threat and a warning, and a knowing that he had Ambrose back where he wanted, at his mercy.

“Okay!” Ambrose hissed as Kit screamed again. “Okay! Just stop hurting him!”

Nathan lowered his hand and put it on Ambrose’s other cheek. “There. Was that so hard?”

Ambrose didn’t answer. Nathan ran his thumb along Ambrose’s bottom lip, his eyes flicking lazily to it, then to Ambrose’s eyes again, want shining desperately.

Ambrose swallowed hard. He didn’t… he swore he would never do this again, that he would never be under Nathan’s spell again. Max’s warning of not letting Nathan into his head again, under his skin, ready to do with him what he pleased because he knows Ambrose would go along with it.

Especially now, with Kit.

His weak point. And Nathan knew. How did he know? How did he know before even Ambrose knew?!

When did that happen? When did he start to think of Kit like he wasn’t just some hero to torture? Like he was something worth protecting, someone he cared for like an annoying little brother? When did his mind change from revelling in Kit’s misery, to doing the ONE THING he promised himself he would never do again, to make Kit’s misery stop?

Sure, he can torture Kit all he wants, but anyone else doing it was wrong. It felt wrong, and if his father— if his mother knew Kit, he knew she’d take him in like a second son too. Maybe, just maybe, in another world Kit and Ambrose could have been family. They could have been brothers.

The notion pulled ridiculously at Ambrose’s chest, and he was back staring at those horrible silver eyes. The enchanting twin pools of every vile thing imaginable.

“A kiss, Oskar,” Nathan whispered, leaning down to press one to Ambrose’s forehead, then his temple, his lips going to Ambrose’s ear. “A convincing kiss and I’ll stop hurting your little hero, hmm?”

Ambrose tightened his hands into fists. “I already said yes.”

“Oh, baby, no. You want something from it, you’re kissing me, not the other way around. I want to see just how much you’re willing to give for this kid.”

Ambrose hesitated, his index finger twitching as he waited, his heart slamming against his ribs. He couldn’t— he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t— fuck!

Nathan pulled back, his breath leaving Ambrose’s face, brows quirking. “No? Do you need some more convincing?” Nathan asked, raising his hand towards Kit again.

Ambrose didn’t think. He grabbed Nathan and turned them, shoving Nathan down onto the bed because Ambrose wasn’t leaning up on his toes to kiss the fucker. Nathan gasped, grinning like an idiot as Ambrose climbed on top of him, hands around his throat that he longed to squeeze.

“You look so hot when you want to murd—”

Ambrose captured Nathan’s lips in his before he could finish the sentence, swallowing it along with his pride, and the small part of him that died inside at kissing the most dangerous man he had ever known. Nathan smiled against the kiss, one hand on Ambrose’s waist while the other went to the back of Ambrose’s neck, pulling him closer.

Nathan lightly tugged at Ambrose’s hair, pulling his head back so he could tilt his head and deepen the kiss, which Ambrose allowed. It all came back so easy to him, remembering what Nathan liked and what he didn’t. The things he raved about, that drove him crazy when Ambrose did it to him.

Ambrose ground his hips into Nathan’s waist, eliciting a moan, which he swallowed, not allowing the bastard any space for breath, hoping to suffocate him. He drew back, biting at Nathan’s bottom lip and teasing it between his teeth as he drew back, planting kisses across Nathan’s jaw and down his neck.

Nathan laughed, his breath hitching when Ambrose found the spot he liked. Then the hand in his hair tightened again and pulled him back like a mother cat to a kitten, silver eyes meeting smouldering black.

Nathan’s fingers pinched Ambrose’s waist but he didn’t react. Nathan chuckled, his voice a little darker, coated with a amusing knowing. His hand trailed up Ambrose’s side, eliciting shivers as he went before cupping Ambrose’s cheek again. A long thumb smoothed across Ambrose’s cheek, just under his eye and pulled his eyelid down a little.

“Oh, Oskar. Haven’t you learned anything in my absence? What did we always say about showing people your hand, hmm? You care for this boy, for whatever reason, and I want to find out why.”

Ambrose stiffened above Nathan as he leaned up and pecked Ambrose’s lips again.

“I’ve missed you, Oskar,” Nathan said, softly as if it were a confession or a prayer. Everything about him; his voice, his smile, his dimples, his hair, his fashion, every except those eyes could make you forsake God for the sin that was the man laying under Ambrose.

“And I know you won’t just tell me why he’s struck a chord within you, so I think I’ll have to keep you both around to find out why.”

Ambrose’s expression hardened. “You can’t—” he began, retracting his hands from Nathan’s neck but Nathan didn’t let him, catching his wrists in his strong grip and holding them hostage.

“I think you know I can,” Nathan cooed. It had the opposite effect of reassurance, causing shivers down Ambrose’s spine.

“I don’t want this,” Ambrose spat, yanking his hands free from Nathan’s. He made to get off the bed but Nathan grabbed him by the waist, drawing his reluctant attention.

“We were made for each other, Oskar. There’s nobody in the world like us,” he said, voice almost pleading, yet still low and sultry, masking the desperation underneath. “I know you still feel this.”

Ambrose inclined his head stoically, cold black eyes running over Nathan’s face, searching for something that wasn’t there.

“I don’t.”

Ambrose pried Nathan’s fingers from his waist and lifted a leg up and over Nathan’s waist so he was just kneeling on the bed instead, moving towards Kit. Kit was motionless on the ground, his breathing shallowly inflating his back and hissing out again.

An anger rose in Ambrose, a helpless kind of anger that aroused when you witnessed something so horrific like a car accident, or hear of a young person’s death on the news. Anger at the world. Anger at Nathan. Anger at himself for not helping Kit sooner. Anger at Mentor. Anger at Kit for getting caught by Nathan. Anger at himself for getting pulled back into his ex’s web.

Ambrose felt a presence behind him, hands snaking around his waist, a breath against his ear. “You may not want me now, but you want Kit alive, don’t you?”

Ambrose tried not to let the words effect him, he really tried, but when Nathan pressed his lips to Ambrose’s throat he froze. Nathan smiled against his neck.

“See?” He murmured. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement I’m offering Ambrose.”

Ambrose’s hands tightened into fists. “You can’t just make me love you.”

“Oh, darling.” The arms tightened around his waist, locking him in place. “You have no idea what I can do anymore. Besides, I have a hunch it was your hero who broke all of my windows, and I have killed people for less.”

“It’s not like you can’t just replace them, the windows don’t mean anything to you!” Ambrose huffed.

“Still,” Nathan teased, nipping at the side of Ambrose’s neck. “He destroyed something that was mine. A slight is a slight after all, Oskar.”

Nathan went back to kissing Ambrose’s neck again, trailing kisses up his jaw and over the side of his face, his cheeks, his cheekbone, the corner of his eye, his temple while Ambrose hesitated, considering any other way out of this situation.

He couldn’t compel Nate, but Nate couldn’t compel him either. Nate could compel Kit though, and who knows what kind of fucked up things ran through his mind.

“I missed your silence,” Nathan said. “It was always so profound, but it is taking a hair too long, darling, so I’ll sweeten the pot. I will keep you and Kit, and I will let his friends go free. Wipe their memories, make them forget, and when Kit wakes up you’ll be his hero.”

A knot tied itself at the base of Ambrose’s throat. What was he thinking?! Sacrificing himself for some kid he didn’t fucking know? His sanity?!

All tension left Ambrose’s body. Nathan smirked behind Ambrose. “Okay. Fine,” he replied, the words hard and thick in his throat.

“Wonderful,” Nate cooed, squeezing Ambrose tighter. “Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say those words.”

Ambrose didn’t want to know how long Nathan was waiting, so he just hummed, his eyes never leaving Kit’s back, watching his breaths rise and fall. Still alive.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

*~*~*~*~* A.N *~*~*~*~*

Hello, hello!! A little A.N. from me, I will not be continuing the weekly updates of this fic going forward, and it’s because the quality of the writing has rapidly declined and I don’t like what I’m putting out into the story — it’s not doing the story justice, because it feels like it’s floundering like a fish on a hook — it will be part of my regular uploads, but maybe every 1-2 weeks!!! I also feel like I can't edit it enough to have it up to scratch and it is slowly eating away at my brain and my motivation to write. The support for this story has been crazy, and I love that you guys like it so much, but I think for the story to be as good as it can be, this is what is best going forward - It also is draining me of creative flow that I want to put into my other fiction stories here! I hope you’re not too upset at this, but I think it is what is best for this story, the characters and myself — so thank you for reading :) enjoy!! this means I will be able to go back to regularly updating all my other fics that need to be dusted for cobwebs atm, like Heroic Betrayal, Defiant Leader, Vendetta (my beloved), etc.

TLDR; no longer weekly updates of this story, but it is still part of the regular update schedule - Which will give me more time to focus on my other stories here XD

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts

@whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @blood-enthusiast t @tippytappytyping @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie @jesterrinobutter @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @dutifullykrispyland @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep

[mischefous]

I had seen your "I have no mouth and I must scream" comic and thought it was fantastic. And then someone reblogged one of your recent whump requests, and it was amazing. And then I just started scrolling through your blog, and I love it.

If you're still taking requests, I would love some Legend whump! Magical exhaustion maybe, or if you're feeling it, stuck halfway in and out of his painting transformation

awwweee thank you @pokegeek151!

I went with Magical exhaustion hehe. I had the idea to give him a lil bit of a nosebleed. just like what happens to Eleven in 'Stranger Things'

and ohmahgosh that 'stuck halfway in/out of his painting form' is SUCH a good idea!!! unfortunately i have no idea how I would have drawn that XD. was almost imagining like- his top half is just hanging there stuck in the wall and the poor guy just fell asleep XD

anywaysss, i hope you enjoy!💙

CW! nosebleed

also yes I'm aware his bracelet isn't there. I tried to draw it on there but it just looked awkward

[whump-galaxy]

The whumpee trying so hard to fight off something mentally, either exhaustion, brainwashing, some kind of drug to enhance or prohibit their powers, etc. They know they can’t fight it off forever, so they warn their caretaker(s) to leave them.

[whumpdaydreamerx]

Magic Whumpee needing to perform a huge spell for whatever reason and it requiring a significant amount of life force. It starts to take a toll on them, starting to sway and lose their balance — yet never stopping.

Caretaker sees them continuously becoming more and more unstable. As Whumpee stumbles backwards, Caretaker reaches out to steady them, placing a hand on their shoulder and one on their arm.

Even as blood slips from their nose, Whumpee continues the spell, but nods their thanks and reassurance to their worried Caretaker.

[doumidas-whumps]

"He didn’t deserve it, but in a cosmic sense, he really did." x

(Delta from @paingoes' series Destroyer)

[serickswrites]

With a Price

Warnings: magical exhaustion, collapse, shaking, unconsciousness

"That was incredible, Whumpee!" Caretaker shouted as they watched the wave from the river crest over the hill with the invaders. By the time the waters receded, there was no trace of the army that had come to wipe them out. The water retreated back to the river and settled once more, as though nothing had ever happened.

"G-G-Good," Whumpee mumbled as they took a shaking step towards Caretaker.

Caretaker had been planning on proposing a celebration with the rest of the meager force of rebels they had found themself with, but seeing Whumpee's pale sweaty face had them rethinking everything. "What's wrong, Whumpee? What did you do?"

Whumpee's limbs trembled, a fine tremor moving through their whole body. "Wh-Wh-What hhhhhhhad-d-d-d-d t-t-t-t-ooooooo be d-d-d-d-one."

Caretaker reacted without thinking as Whumpee's shaking knees gave out and they collapsed forward. Caretaker caught Whumpee without a second thought. The village's elder had always said magic came with a price. Whumpee had used a lot of magic.

"Talk to me, Whumpee. Tell me what's wrong. Whumpee!" Caretaker urged desperately as Whumpee went completely boneless in their arms. "Whumpee! Say something!"

Whumpee didn't respond to Caretaker's shaking. Didn't respond to Caretaker's shouts and pleas. They lay as a complete dead weight in Caretaker's arms, completely unresponsive to the shouts of triumph and joy around them.

"HELP!" Caretaker roared. "SOMEBODY HELP! GET THE HEALER!" What had been the price of their victory? And what price was Whumpee paying now? "PLEASE!"

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[paingoes]

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

[whumperofworlds]

A Whumpee protects Caretaker from a threat by using all of their magic at once. All of them powerful. When the threat is gone, Whumpee collapses in Caretaker's arms, much to Caretaker's shock and worry.

Whumpee has been out for a few days, and when they wake up, they see Caretaker, asleep in the chair next to Whumpee's bed, holding their hand.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1322

Anon asked:

Do you have any whump ideas for a fairy?

It depends on what kind of fairy your character is/the general lore, but I have a few ideas:

They could be small and kept in a cage/jar with air holes. They could be a prized possession to collectors who trade them. Maybe some like to shake/shock/poke things into the cages.

Their wings are often trophy pieces for hunters. Maybe they don’t die when their wings are cut off, but it throws them off balance/makes them sick/weakens them. Maybe they can grow back, but only under certain circumstances. So if a collector knows this, they could leave the ‘stem’ of the wings so they can re-grow, and farm the wings for money.

^ if this happens to your character, maybe each wings have finger-print like properties, and when wings start to show up on the markets with specific markings, the caretakers are horrified.

Magic exhaustion could be pretty common for fairies.

I have an idea for an illness called ‘Wing Rot’ where fairies can get fungal infections of the wings causing them to, well, rot.

They could be drained of their powers by a curse/rune/magical pendant/shackles.

Maybe they have to fly away from danger but get shot out of the sky - bonus points if they’re carrying someone.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

I am of the firm opinion that we, as a community, are sleeping on the wealth of whump that is severe itching. Not only is itching just a horrible symptom in general but you have the mental exhaustion just like you have for more typical pain and also the potential for other types of pain from scratching too hard as well as the risk of infection. The itching can also be a warning sign of so many other things. And for teh nonhuman and fantasy whumpers out there, you can have it as a symptom of magical exhaustion or have a whumpee with claws tearing up their own flesh.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

i’ve always wanted to see more of lux being hurt while strapped down on a table. it’s a kind of restraint that he isn’t used to- wrists, ankles, neck all tied down which makes him unable to twist away from the pain (even if it doesn’t really help anyways) and with how much he HATES being restrained and HATES doctors/hospitals, make it a medical contraption of some kind that he’s strapped into and he’d be begging before the pain even started 😭😭😭

i know this isn't quite what you asked for, but you did inspire this, so here you go. hope that it is close enough!

Cold. Cold here. His hands are quaking, fingers knocking together like blocks of ice. He can’t feel them. He can’t feel much.

Lux ducks his head away from the concerned hand that comes to cup his cheek.

“Used too much…” He hears, although the words swim far from him. The sounds dance along the peripheries of the room. Every breath pierces his lungs, unwelcome in how badly it stings.

“...-ear us? Lux?”

He can hear them, just barely. Someone takes his chin and lifts it, and he allows it. His curls are brushed aside, and that, too, he lets happen. The tears on his eyelashes make them damp, and heavier, and he can feel that he is blinking. But there is nothing before him, just darkness.

“He can’t see,” Someone says somberly. Fingertips touch his cheekbones and wander up pensively to his eyes, and Lux flinches back, blinking rapidly.

“Sorry. Sorry, Lux. Come here.”

A cool washcloth presses to his ribs, and he hisses, brows knotting up in distress. He is already shivering where he sits on the edge of the bed that he was deposited on.

“C-co-cold,” He chatters, and cringes from his own voice. It sounds small. Frightened. He wishes he could do any better. “Co-old, please.”

Hands are on his shoulders, keeping him gently in place. Lux shrinks down but doesn’t try to escape them. “Lux, we have to clean it up. There’s blood all over you, you’re hurt…”

Indignation, tiny and brief, flashes hot behind his lungs. “I know I’m hurt,” He croaks miserably. “I - I know - I kno-ow that. Please… please, slo-ow down, I don’t, I don’t know, I - I don’t…”

Maybe there is some injury on him that is so severe, treatment can’t wait. Maybe someone was just informed of an approaching danger via whisper, and this has to be done urgently. Or maybe his stuttering, flinching hesitation finally broke their patience. Lux feels the hands on his shoulders tighten, squeezing a whimper out of him with simple pressure on the aching joints. He is pushed back until his shoulder blades press to the mattress, held down with a hand on his sternum, and Lux is instantly put in his place. His lip disappears into his mouth to chew on it nervously.

The washcloth returns, and his shivers worsen. Cold rivulets slide down his sides and soak into the bed. He was bad, he was bad, he could’ve been less annoying and then this wouldn’t be happening.

Fingers wrap around his wrists. So warm. A sob catches painfully in his throat as his arms are lifted. It stretches his ribcage, and then the congestion of blood in his lungs gets easier to breathe around - but it makes his shoulders ache so much worse, and it scares him. Doesn’t that matter? He tries to explain, tries to beg for it to stop, but the words don’t come out. His teeth feel air on them and his throat is sore, but he can’t hear any words coming out.

Someone presses down on his wrists to keep them in place. His chest is touched by something rubbery - a gloved hand - and someone else grabs his leg, the throbbing one. Lux thinks he screams, but apparently not, because everything remains quiet.

The grip on his leg tightens. Someone seems to decide not to leave it to chance whether he’ll get noisy, and presses a hand over his mouth.

Shouldn’t have used his magic in the first place. Shouldn’t have spoken up, caught anyone’s attention. This is his fault, all his fault - even if he is being helped right now, being patched up, it is worse. Worse than going cold outside, forgotten on the side of the road, struggling to breathe. Lux tries for one more sound - a whimper, would’ve been muffled against that hand, but no sound leaves him - and then he gives up, falling limp with a shudder.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Magic Whump Week Day 3

9/25: Human battery / "Give us more."

Prompts List | Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 600

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: 2nd person POV, threats, knife, blood, unconsciousness, bruises, magic whump, magic exhaustion, human battery, collapse, passing out

----------

"I'd rather die than give you my magic!"

"Is that so?" Your captor asks with amusement. "So intent on throwing your life away?"

"I know what you'll do with it."

"Perhaps. You're keen on sacrificing your own life to keep me at bay. That, I can respect." Your captor snaps her fingers, and two of her underlings enter the room, dragging a limp body between them.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"But will you sacrifice the life of your beloved, as well?" Your captor grabs the captive by the hair and lifts their head. Their eyes are closed, blood dripping from a cut on their temple, a dark purple bruise forming under their right eye. You are in no position to run to their aid, chained to the floor before a clear, black crystal, a magic suppression collar around your neck that only allows you to transfer your magic.

Your beloved lets out a low groan as your captor flicks out a knife and holds it to their throat. "You see their predicament," your captor mocks, "and you know my terms. Empty your magic into the crystal, and they live."

You grit your teeth, eyes fixed on your beloved. "Fuck. You."

She smirks, and a slight trickle of blood runs down the blade of the knife. "Is that a yes?"

Rage seethes through you at your helplessness, but you have no choice. If your beloved dies... If your captor breaks her terms, there'll be hell to pay. You can break out of the magic suppression collar if given enough time. But time is something you sorely lack.

Chains clattering on the stone ground, you reach forward and place your hands upon the crystal. The smooth surface beneath your fingers is cold, as if it were formed of ice. Inhaling shakily, you call upon your magic, feel it coursing through your veins, mingling with your blood and flesh and bone, permeating your very essence with warmth and light.

You exhale, and push it into the crystal. Once the flow of magic starts it becomes a flood, pouring through you into the rock, setting it aglow. You watch in fearful fascination as your magic swirls within the confines of the crystal, the once-cool surface warming from the inside out. 

It is wonderful and terrible how it absorbs your magic, as the flood becomes a stream, then a trickle, then a drop. Then nothing at all. Leaving you feeling like a wrung-out cloth, cold and parched and so, so tired.

The entire world tilts, and you are suddenly on the floor, staring up at the crystal, at the magic dancing within, the magic that is rightfully yours. You hear footsteps, and your captor stands above you, a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

"Was that so hard?" She asks, that same smugness oozing from her voice. She lays a hand on the crystal, and your magic swirls violently, rising to meet her touch. "Of course," she muses, "We will run out of this eventually. And I know for a fact you'll soon regain your magic. So when the time comes, we'll need you to give us more."

She withdraws her hand from the crystal, her hand glimmering with the same light. Glancing down at you, she crouches and strokes your temple. Her touch buzzes with your magic. "You look exhausted," she murmurs, "but you're a clever one. So how about you fall asleep instead?"

Nonono that's your magic she can't use that to....

...to....

...

[whump-galaxy]

Thinking about runes in skin again.

A whumpee with magical chains that are almost unable to be broken. Maybe they could be broken by altering the rune, but the whumpee refuses to let anyone touch their skin.

So, their new team helps them as best they can. They draw expansion runes to their chain runes. All along the walls of their base, the runes softly glow until the whumpee gets close.

Most days the chains are no longer an issue. They hardly even notice the magic keeping them trapped, or the one long rune leading back to where they were saved from.

The team has even suggested expanding their reach far into the surrounding environments and towns. They’d just have to stockpile the supplies to do so.

But there are days when everything is still just out of reach. Even in their own base.

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #7

Trope of the day: magic with a cost

_

Whumpee always promised Caretaker to never use their powers unless things are looking bad. And now it happened.

Things are looking bad.

Really bad.

Whumper is far too powerful, they won't be able to survive if they don't do anything. Fast.

Their heart is racing against their chest, Caretaker calls over to them to hide, but Whumpee has already decided to act. Rushing out catch Whumper's eye, they try staying calm.

The team depends on them, they have to do it. They have to do it now.

Taking a deep breath, Whumpee casts their spell, feeling the power building up inside their body. The spell is mighty, they all know it. Whumper tries to evade it, but it is too late.

Whumpee doesn't even see the effect of their spell as their knees buckle underneath them, collapsing to the ground. The taste of blood is on their tongue as everything turns dark around them, but Whumpee manages to stay awake, coughing as Caretaker rushes to their side.

"That was... impressive," Caretaker mutters as they get a piece of cloth to wipe away the blood that runs out of Whumpee's nose. Their body trembles, everything hurts. "You did it, kid. It's over."

A small smile pulls at their lips, another cough shaking their body.

It's over. It's finally over.

[librathefangirl]

@whumpgifathon | Day 24: Magic | Magical Exhaustion Nowhere Boys | S01E11 | Felix Ferne

[echoingalaxies]

Magical whumpee using their powers to help their team even though it hurts them >>

Maybe they won't even let the team know, until they can't hide it anymore and pass out.

Or maybe their team consists mostly of assholes who do know but just don't care, perhaps even force them.