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caribbean1989 · 8 months ago

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Stage Fright - a Baby Lasagna fanfiction

Who: Marko Purisic / Baby Lasagna Request: maybe smt where you work for esc and marko has a panic attack before going on the stage and your there for him calming him down and stuff. just angsty with lots of comfort. Requested by: anonymous. Word count: 2010 Warnings: contains descriptions of panic attack / anxiety / stage fright. Lots of angst, but also some comfort 😇

A/N: I usually write footballer imagines and fandom whump, so writing something like this is quite new to me. Hope you'll like it, let me know what you think of it 😇 If you want me to write more like this, you can always make a request through my Asks 😉

This story can also be found on my AO3 account, here. For more information on my Baby Lasagna fanfics, see this masterpost.

At your job working backstage at concerts and events, you were one of the people making sure everything went smoothly backstage, and that the performers had all they needed. This month you would be working at the Eurovision Song Contest.

Today was the biggest day of all: the final. You felt confident. Everything had been rehearsed endlessly, the semi-finals had already gone well, and you had built up a good relationship with most of the performers and their entourages.

It was a nice group of artists this year, but one still was your personal favourite: Baby Lasagna. At first you were drawn to the Croatian candidate because of the rather unusual name, but you quickly learned he went by Marko off-stage, and was somewhat different from the other participants. He was a flamboyant personality on-stage, which proved to be the complete opposite of how his personality was off-stage.

You didn’t need long to see Marko was actually rather shy, could be very insecure, and was humble and polite. There was a cheeky side to him as well once you got to know him better. You liked that about him, and, without actively trying to, you already formed a rather close friendship with him in only this short time of working together.

That was why you immediately knew something was wrong when you found Marko sitting alone on the day of the final, huddled away from everything and everyone. He sat amongst crates of sound equipment, on the floor, in a dark corner of the backstage maze, hugging his knees. His hands were clamped so tightly around his legs that his fingers had turned white, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind. Marko had chosen a spot far from the foot traffic from and to the stage, hidden even from his own entourage, and it was a small miracle that you stumbled upon him like you had.

"Marko?" You lowered yourself onto your haunches in front of him, but mindful to keep enough distance between yourselves so not to frighten him or make him feel more uncomfortable.

He looked disheveled, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, and surely not in control of his emotions. In this moment he was not the extroverted Baby Lasagna, he was introverted Marko. The eccentric costume he wore on stage was replaced by regular jeans and a black hoodie. The make-up wasn’t applied yet, which might be a good thing, because you saw the tears on his face. The haunted look in his eyes scared you, worrying you even more about his well-being.

Suddenly your mind went to a line from the song he was performing with here this week.

My anxiety attacks.

Whilst Rim Tim Tagi Dim had people dancing all over the world, you couldn’t help but notice its darker meaning, too. And it clicked into place for you now. That line about anxiety wasn’t just a line. It actually held truth for Marko, and the proof of that was right in front of your eyes with him having a serious panic attack.

"Marko?" You repeated softly. His gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t acknowledge your presence in any other way. "I need you to talk to me," you nudged carefully. Marko swallowed hard. He made every effort to get himself to speak, but couldn’t. The words he meant to say got involuntarily silenced on their way to his mouth, and, finally, he just sadly shook his head. Fresh tears fell as he rested his forehead on his knees, shrinking even more into himself.

Your heart broke for him. It was hard to believe you only met him a week and a half ago, with how much you already cared for him.

Marko shivered in his hoodie. His breaths became even more rapid and shallow, accompanied by the occasional wheeze or whimper. He was losing more and more control over himself with every heartbeat of his racing pulse. Where first maybe only his hands had shook, there now wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t shaking. He raised his head and looked up at you again, this time really seeing you.

Marko’s lower lip trembled, and it took effort, but finally he got some words out. "Help me…" "I’m trying," you answered helplessly. You wanted nothing more than to help him, take him out of this panic attack, but you really had no idea where to begin. "Do you need me to bring someone from your team over?" "No!" Marko nearly jumped a foot into the air at the mere idea of that. "They don’t need to see me like this. I’m a mess, I…" "Calm down, calm down," you tried to ease. "We can do this. You and I, we can get you through this."

Having suffered from panic attacks yourself, you suddenly remembered what your sister used to do for you to get you to calm down. "Marko." You got his attention. "I want to try something to help you calm down. Are you okay with me touching you?" He still was in the height of his panic attack, with fear wild in his eyes, but he still nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but he trusted you.

You scooted closer to him, fully sitting down on the floor by his side. Marko trembled heavier than ever and he was truly hyperventilating now. Tears sparkled in his eyes, but he gave in to you. He wanted for you to offer comfort and take him out of this anxiety.

"Close your eyes," you said softly. Marko hesitated for just a second, but slowly closed his eyes. He didn’t know you for that long, yet you felt secure and safe to him. "Whenever you’re no longer comfortable with anything I’m doing, you need to tell me," you insisted, "and I’ll stop immediately." Marko gave you a strained nod, but he surrendered to you.

You moved slowly, making sure not to make any unexpected movements which would cause Marko any more fright. You placed one of your hands flat on his chest. Only now you realised how heavy this panic attack actually was for him. His chest heaved and trembled under your hand, and now that you were closer to him, you heard the whimpers that were hidden in the wheezes of his breathing. With your other hand you picked up his wrist, gently pressing two fingers against the pulse point. As you had expected, his heart was racing.

"I need you to focus on my hand on your chest." You kept your voice as calm and serene as possible. Marko dipped his head once, eyes still firmly pressed shut. "Whenever I press into your chest, I need you to breathe in through your nose, and try and press my hand away with your chest," you instructed, "when I release the pressure, you exhale slowly through your mouth." Marko wanted to speak, show you he had understood, but he found his words once again stolen from him by the panic attack. Instead, he dipped his head once again, but it was all the confirmation you needed.

You slowly and gently pressed the palm of your hand a little firmer into his chest. Marko took a shaky breath. He did his best to get his lungs to fill properly and get his chest to give counter-pressure against your hand, but couldn’t quite manage. "It’s alright," you eased him, "take your time. Just focus on the rhythm of the pressure of my hand and try to breathe with that." You felt how Marko was really trying to, but also how he wasn’t succeeding yet. His inhales were broken by shudders, and his exhales disrupted by sudden and involuntary gulps. "That’s it," you encouraged anyway, "easy does it."

Your hand never left his chest as you gently applied pressure and released it, with Marko doing his utmost best to get his breathing to fall in sync with it. You spoke soft encouragements, yet the silent moments in between were filled with Marko’s quiet whimpers. It didn’t matter to you how long it would take, you would help Marko through this.

---

Eventually, you sat with Marko like that for well over 30 minutes. There was no reason to rush anything. Soundchecks for the grand finale of tonight wouldn’t be starting for another few hours, so you gave him all the time he needed to pull himself out of this panic attack.

Marko’s pulse had returned to a regular, calm rhythm, as had his breathing. His trembling had subsided, but he sat beside you looking worn out from everything he had just gone through.

You gently let your hand fall away from Marko’s chest for the first time again. You kept a close eye on him, but he was able to keep his breaths calm by himself now. "Open your eyes," you said softly. Marko slowly did so. Even though the area where you sat was dimly lit, he still squinted at the light. He ran slightly trembling fingers through his silvery hair, before he finally looked up at you sitting next to him.

"I’m sorry about that." Marko sounded tired. "No need to apologise." You shook your head. "May I ask what happened?" "This happened." Marko chuckled wryly, motioning his hands to the area around you. "I’ve never performed at an event of this magnitude before. And… well, my stage fright took the better of me, I guess. It does that sometimes."

The airiness with which he spoke of his stage fright was pitiful, almost like it was the most common thing in the world for him. "But it doesn’t often get this bad, I reckon," you said sympathetically. "No." Marko sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair once more. "It doesn’t usually lead to a full-blown panic attack, and certainly not like this one, but, apparently, big stages lead to big anxiety." A dark chuckle followed. "That’s not even remotely funny," you scoffed. Marko gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I’m used to it by now."

He shifted his body, grunting softly as he stretched his cramped legs out in front of him. He leaned his head back against one of the crates behind him and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

"But what you did really helped me." He spoke after a few seconds of silence. "I’m not quite sure I would have gotten through this one on my own, so I’m really grateful." You shrugged. "I’ve got a bit of experience with panic attacks as well, I’m afraid. So I know how bad they can get."

Marko’s gaze slowly shifted back to you. "Yourself or helping someone deal with it?" "Myself, unfortunately." You sat back into a more comfortable position, too. "Some events in life leave more scars than you can imagine," you added darkly. "I’m sorry." Marko shortly rested a hand on your arm in support. "What I just did with you, my sister used to do that for me whenever my anxiety flared up," you explained, "it always helped me through it, so…" You let your voice trail off. "Well, tell her it’s a good technique." Marko winked lazily. "And I’m glad you’re the one who found me just now. Thank you." The sincere thankfulness was in his voice and in every fibre of his being.

The two of you talked for a while longer, before Marko slowly hoisted himself back onto his feet. He looked steady again, ready to go, and a glimpse of the extroverted Baby Lasagna shone through the cracks again.

"Will you be alright?" You stood back up, too. "Yes." Marko nodded confidently. "I know it sounds strange, especially after what you’ve seen just now, but it feels like I needed to get this out of my system in order to be ready for tonight." You chuckled, glad to see the sparkle of joy back in his eyes, instead of the sparkle of tears and panic. "Come see me if anything threatens to overwhelm you again." Marko nodded gratefully. "I sure will."

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paingoes · 2 months ago

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Aegean Seas

Destroyer AU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” Delta said tiredly.

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

“Stop,” Delta repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here girl,” the monarch snapped their fingers.

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

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

“She started it-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That only made it worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t have said anything.

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

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

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

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

“So you do understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apollo was still staring at him.

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

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

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

“He wouldn’t mind, though.”

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

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

ponyboy: heyyyyy

headrooms: holy shit

headrooms: i thought you fucking died

ponyboy: nope :-)

ponyboy: just busy yk how it is

headrooms: fuck

headrooms: dont scare me like that

ponyboy: sorryyyyy

ponyboy: how have you been

headrooms: im chill

headrooms: i got beat up by a jester last week

ponyboy: lmfao

ponyboy: dude shut up your job is cushy as shit

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

headrooms: uphill both ways in the snow

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

ponyboy: hey fuck you

headrooms: lol

headrooms: are you good though like actually

ponyboy: ya i mean

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

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

headrooms: thats good i guess

headrooms: is vi chill

ponyboy: omg no shes been on her fuckin period lately

ponyboy: bitch mode

headrooms: lmfao mine too

headrooms: i swear its the full moon

ponyboy: IT LITERALLY IS IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM IS

ponyboy: ughhhhhh

headrooms: i miss you

headrooms: like

headrooms: all the time

ponyboy: i miss you too !

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

“Who were you texting?” he asked mildly.

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

“Just Lorry.” He looked down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought they were nice,” Paris muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!” He blushed terribly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep,” he affirmed.

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

“Come here,” he called finally.

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

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

“I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The spine entered again, and he calmed anyway.

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delta watched impassively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch the door,” he begged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned around.

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

“Fuck,” Paris muttered beneath his breath.

He should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” Delta warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay?” Delta asked.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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staycalmandhugaclone · 7 months ago

Text

Fool's Errand Pt 1

Part (1) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Warnings: Back to some good, ol' whump here. Minor ptsd, blood, broken nose, needles, profanity

WC: 3,183

“Damn it, get down!!”

“I am! Any lower and I'll need a kriffing shovel!” I snapped back, tempted to mute him just to hear myself think.

“I’ve got eyes on her, Cross; just focus on finding us a way in!” Even Echo's voice held the faintest rush of unease.

We'd known this wouldn't be easy. They'd caught someone – some big-name politician I hadn't made much effort to remember, but the Republic deemed them important enough to send us behind enemy lines to get them back.

The Marauder lay hidden nearly a dozen klicks away, nestled amidst brambles and fallen logs until even I struggled to notice it. We’d stolen a pair of Separatist transports to approach the black ops site without raising much suspicion and split up to search the compound faster. Tech and Wrecker infiltrated the northern side, Echo and I came in from the south, and Hunter was on his own along the crumbling remains of the eastern wall with Crosshair posted in the nearby tree line. He’d violently opposed my going in, but we had no means of knowing what kind of state our target would be in when we found them.

The politician was the least of my concerns, though. I’d been on edge since entering those transports. The ping of the metal walkways against our boots, the hum of the engine, even the color of the walls… it was just too similar. But were weren't on Agamar, and I hated how softly the others were stepping around me. I hated even more the undeniable knowledge that I needed them to.

That tension hadn’t lessened as we reached the Separatist black site. It looked abandoned; scarce buildings in such a perfect state of intentional disarray as to almost promise nothing but ancient debris and decades of dust lay within, but Tech's scans confirmed massive power fluctuations underground. It wasn't a huge compound, but it didn't need to be. Barely a half dozen structures remained standing, skeletal framework partially hidden by an overgrowth we now used to our own advantage as we crawled through the dense brush, thorns somehow numerous enough and sharp enough to occasionally find purchase in the slim crescents of skin left unprotected between sections of armor.

Echo and I had just finished sweeping through the second building in search of an entrance to the lower level when the site’s defenses suddenly roared to life. Numerous turrets burst from the soil that, mere seconds prior has shown no trace of anything beyond untouched wilds, and we’d just managed to hide behind a partially caved-in room before being noticed.

I could hear dozens of gears whirring to life just beyond our dilapidated shelter, the harsh crunch of leaves and branches breaking beneath heavy, metallic feet. Droids were flooding the site. We were pinned down by the turrets. And Hunter wasn’t answering his com.

“Can we make it to the next structure?” Echo asked, voice forced into a whisper.

“Not yet.” There was a long moment of silence, and I could feel myself tensing more with each passing second, legs coiled beneath me. “Now!” We were moving before the hushed order fell silent, both crouched so low that we were practically crawling, one hand occasionally darting to the ground in a gate more natural to some forest dwelling beast, but our awkward appearance didn't matter. The half dozen droids mere meters to our right posed little threat in and of themselves, but revealing our presence now might cause untold numbers to swarm. If they had Hunter, our only hope to free him was to keep ourselves hidden.

My legs burned from the effort of keeping up with Echo. He moved as though he’d been born for such things, body stalking preternaturally through tall grass and biting bramble effortlessly, but I still found myself watching him, worried I'd note some hint of a falter in his stride, but whatever strain the motion surely wrought upon his residual limbs was a torture to which he was far too accustomed to show amidst the threat lingering over us.

“Down!” We dropped harshly to the ground, and my every instinct balked at the helpless position. Mere seconds passed before the almost musical chorus of shifting counterweights and metallic limbs raced through the foliage just feet ahead of us. Droidekas. The nervous tension dancing beneath my skin turned to dread in an instant, ice bursting through my chest in a rush of panic. I didn't want to notice the way Echo glanced back toward me, the depth of concern that tiny movement conveyed. The droid presence was no longer a simple annoyance. We were in danger.

Was Crosshair switching between com channels to warn Tech and Wrecker lest their chatter create a lethal distraction? Were they balancing the risk of striking first versus continuing what felt like a doomed plight to remain unnoticed? My lungs ached from the effort of controlling each breath, body eager to fall into the too tempting frenzy of fear.

Echo’s hand flared out, signaling me to move around his left flank before readying his pistol, attention trained toward the sound of machinery falling into formation. I knew at least fifteen meters still lay between us and the next building; knew that he was purposefully placing himself between me and the enemy units; that, even among this squad of elites, Echo was the most capable soldier I could hope to have guarding my back, but, still, I had to grind my teeth against useless objections, abhorred at the very thought of letting him act either as distraction or delay if we were seen.

That fear surged anew at every shuffle of leaves and snap of twigs as I crawled forward, stealing one final glance just as I passed him. He couldn’t see the plea in my eyes, the order begging to scream from lips carefully trapped between ground teeth that he not put himself in danger, but he didn’t have to. With the smallest movement, he looked toward me in kind and offered the faintest nod, and that tiny gesture was enough to push me on.

He waited until several feet separated us before he started after me, and something about that, about knowing he was following just behind me granted me a confidence I had no right feeling, determination numbing me to the burn in my arms as I hauled myself through an undergrowth that showed no sign of the wear it ought to have from the abuse of concealing a Separatist base.

When the ridge of a tattered roof finally jutted above the line of greenery, I couldn’t restrain the deep sigh of relief, but I had to remind myself that any façade of safety feigned by the crumbling walls granted only a fool’s comfort and forced myself to pause just shy of the entrance. Echo didn’t stop until he was nearly flush against my side, and we both waited with bated breath.

“Tech and Wrecker found an entrance. If you don’t find one in there, stay hidden until they report back.” Crosshair’s voice fell into a carefully detached hum. I wanted to respond, to offer some reassurance, but we couldn’t risk even that, so I merely watched in silence as Echo took point once more, waiting for his signal before following him into the derelict structure.

Once, it stood a couple stories high, brick walls more akin to a school than a prison, but there was no sign of such possibilities within any longer. Nature had reclaimed the half-dozen rooms and interconnecting hallways long ago. Ferns draped through shattered windows, and mounds of dirt collected in the corners reached halfway to the ceilings. There was no broken furniture nor remnants of belongings hidden amidst the rubble, and I found myself wondering if it had ever been anything more than this. Had the Separatists built it solely to be abandoned; its fate preordained to ruin from the start purely to act as camouflage for what horrors lay below? I wanted to hate them for it but knew it was fueled by naivety; knew that far more had been wasted for less in this war on both sides and that even more would be lost before there would be any hope of armistice.

Only after Echo stood did I move to regain my footing as well, body still hunched forward in that instinctive drive to hide as we searched each room in turn. When he paused in what must have been the central chamber, attention trained in the corner just to the right of the doorway, I stepped back toward the hall, carefully watching for any signs of encroaching danger, my own pistols at the ready.

“We’re heading in.” Echo stated seconds before the hiss of an airlock screamed through the tense silence.

“Copy.” Crosshair replied shortly. He hated this. I knew he hated this: being forced to wait behind as we tread beyond his sight, beyond his reach should something go wrong, and my heart ached knowing there was no comfort I could offer as I turned to follow his brother down the narrow porthole into what was surely a maze of identical passages designed to be inescapable.

No veneer of color was granted to bare metal walls and exposed purlins overhead, and what few lights flickered within granted only fleeting glimpses of the lifeless passageways. This place was not created for comfort. Every detail was made through cruel intent to rob those trapped here of even the thought of warmth, and I couldn’t force the memory of that filth-stained cell from my mind; the scent of stale moisture and blood and rot.

My stride must have faltered; my pace slowed or breath hitched. Something drew Echo’s attention back to me, and shame sank into my gut like something rancid and squirming, and I couldn’t find the strength to push it back in time to dismiss it entirely.

“You alright?” He whispered it, body leaning carefully over mine as though he could hide me from the nightmare surrounding us, and I hated the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to answer him directly.

“Let’s just get Hunter and the damn politician, and get out of here.” I nearly growled. He hesitated a moment longer, and I wanted to yell; to shout that there wasn’t time for this, to berate myself for causing even this short delay, shoulders pulling back with a determination fueled by the rage I felt toward myself for my weakness. He drew a slow breath before wrenching his focus back toward the long hallway, and a shaky sigh of relief escaped me.

I wouldn’t have noticed the port had Echo not stopped suddenly beside it, needing only to shoot a quick look for me to take watch as he plugged himself in. There was no cover here, nowhere we could hide if a patrol came upon us, and each second we lingered stoked the anxious certainty that we were moments from being found, but I didn’t waver, attention shifting between the direction we’d come from and the path ahead.

“Tech, Wrecker; looks like the target’s in the far west corner. Are you guys near there?”

“We are.” Tech responded quickly. “Have you located Hunter?”

“No, but we’ll head east and see what we can find.” My heart dropped at Echo’s response, and I fought to convince myself that that didn’t mean they didn’t have him; that didn’t mean he was…

Echo disconnected from the port, and I forced myself back to attention. He didn’t say anything more before continuing forward at a quick trot, weapon held loosely before him. Our footsteps boomed around us, mocking our every attempt at quiet. We slowed at every intersection, carefully searching down each hall before crossing. It was a perfect grid, an even number of paces separating each corner for what felt like eternity.

I heard it first. It was wet. An occasional crunch of metal against meat. I knew that sound. I knew the heat of abused flesh swelling beneath the assault; knew they would kill him long before he talked.

My hand was reaching for him before consciously acknowledging the movement; a quick tap on Echo’s shoulder singling him to stop. He needed only to pause before he heard it, too, and I watched his body tense as he reached the same conclusion I had, breath quickening beneath a flare of rage and dread. Without a word, we took off toward the wretched sound. There was a rhythm to it. Two strikes and a pause. Two strikes. Pause. I couldn’t hear what they asked in those fleeting seconds between, but my mind wouldn’t let it remain quiet long enough to wonder.

Who ordered the hit?

I swallowed back the bile that tasted too akin to rancid water.

We barely slowed at crossings now, nearly sprinting through the underground base.

Who placed the bombs?

Two strikes. I could hear him cough in the brief silence that followed, heard the splatter of liquid against metal and knew it was blood.

Echo looked over his shoulder to catch my gaze, to make sure I was ready, before tearing through the door. An alarm blared. The lights flashed a deep red that paled beneath the blue of our blaster fire filling the small cell. His armor was gone, blacks torn where they’d snagged on metal fists. I didn’t count them, nor did I need my overlay’s targeting system as Echo and I stormed the room, both strafing the enemy units in a frenzied rush.

I vaguely noticed the lethal elegance of the man beside me as he dove between a pair of B2s, rolling to his feet behind them, pistol already raised and firing before he’d come to a stop. I ducked to the side just as another droid raised its arm, the wall behind me hissing as metal melted beneath the powerful, crimson shots. It didn’t get the chance to fire again, and I watched with eager satisfaction as the towering machine fell heavily to the floor.

It took mere seconds. I didn’t have time to find a new target before Echo felled the few remaining enemies, sparing only a fleeting thought toward a figure among the metal corpses that was far too soft to belong among the droids, nor did I pause to wonder if it had been my shot or Echo’s that claimed their life. Whoever they were, I was too happy to leave them to rot among the destruction they sowed, attention training instead on Hunter.

Already, Echo was working to sever the bounds securing his wrists to the metal slab behind him, and I rushed forward to catch him as his first arm fell free, wincing at the stifled groan my touch drew from him.

“T… took yuh… long ‘nough.” He slurred, jaw barely moving around the strained words.

“Not our fault you let yourself get caught at a kriffing black site.” Echo retorted, already working on his other wrist.

“S… st’nned m…” His reply broke into an agonizing flurry of coughs, thick drops of crimson smearing across my chest plate.

“Alright, enough – you can make all the excuses you want after I patch you up,” I interrupted, a gentle warning in my hushed voice, “For now, just try to slow your breathing and stay awake, alright?” His head shifted toward me in silent consent, and my worry spiked. He was barely recognizable from the sickeningly wrong angle of his nose, and already his eyes were nearly swollen shut. His ribs were far worse off, however. I could see the heavy bruising through tears in his shirt, could hear the rattle in his every hitched, shallow breath.

“I presume the alarm indicates that you’ve found Hunter?” Tech asked just as the other shackle clicked open. Hunter fell against me with a choked grunt, and I tried not to imagine the pain shooting through his torso.

“Easy; just sit back.” I murmured softly, carefully guiding him to the ground.

“Yeah. He’s hurt, but Doc’s with him.” Echo responded, already treading back toward the door to watch for incoming troops. He paused briefly at the figure lying amongst the droids, but I didn’t see what he did, attention devoted to helping the wheezing man before me.

“Hunter, I want you to focus on me for a bit, okay?” My voice left in a whisper void of the urgency with which I dug through my bag. He hummed some manner of a reply, but I couldn’t make out anything akin to actual speech.

“We located the prisoner, but… it seems we were only given a portion of the information regarding this mission.” I had to stifle a surge of frustration that I could hear mirrored in Tech’s clipped statement as my scanner buzzed to life.

“Great.” Echo groaned.

“We’ll rendezvous at the Marauder and discuss how to proceed. Crosshair, is-” He was interrupted by a violent shockwave tearing through the base.

“That… wasn’t me.” Wrecker said hesitantly after a moment of tense silence.

“All clear.” I nearly scoffed at the haughty pride in Crosshair’s voice before returning my attention to the scan results, stomach twisting as I read over his injuries.

“Looks like you’re gonna live, Sarg.” I managed to tease softly despite my own dread, earning a groan heavy with mock disappointment. “You’re going to be pissing blood for a week, though.” He let out an even less thrilled grunt that drew a quiet chuckle from me. “How about I get some pain killers in you, and you let me help you back to the ship?” His eyelids shifted but weren’t able to fully open. Still, he offered no objection when I laid an autoinjector against his neck, and my worry grew at how quickly his body went limp.

“How is he?” Echo asked, voice tense as he walked back toward us. My gaze caught on a sack thrown over his shoulder. “His armor.” He explained, much to my relief. They hadn’t had him long, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that they wouldn’t have had time to dispose of it, but it was still a stroke of luck that he was able to find it so easily.

“He’ll be alright… but we should hurry.” Even through our opaque visors, I knew he felt the intensity with which I held his gaze, that he understood the truth behind my carefully even reply. He gave a small nod and dropped to a knee at Hunter’s other side.

“Hey, brother, think you can hold on to me?” My lips pulled into a small smile at the gentleness of Echo’s deep voice, the care in his movements as he eased Hunter’s arm over his shoulders. I threw my bag back on and followed suit with his other arm.

“Mmm… m’alri’.” His dismissal faded into a barely audible mumble as we pulled him upright, head slumping toward his chest.

“Those drugs won’t last long.” I warned quietly. Again, Echo responded with a short nod, and, together, we began the lock trek back toward an exit I doubted I’d ever find without him.

Next Chapter

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ro-sham-no · 8 months ago

Text

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him.

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear.

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent.

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion.

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation.

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy.

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too.

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.”

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions.

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other.

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean.

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected.

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it.

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother.

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

#2.5k+ words #lucifer wants to be jesus #religious imagery #aftermath of torture #mentally anyway #this doesn't rlly follow canon LOL whoops #(#spn #wincest #< implied/referenced #sam winchester #sam whump #happy sam winchester's birthday #to those who celebrate #ro writing tag #)

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victimeyez · 1 year ago

Text

Professional//Victim

Darwin

CW: captive whump, drugged whump, graphic depictions of torture, intimate whump

Taglist: @lonesome--hunter

The nausea starts when they roll off the highway. An unfamiliar town lies here, sporting lots of fancy diners and shops for wasps.

“It’s coming up. Get ‘im lively.”

Tommy had been awake for a while now, but a bump of coke made him “more lively” for clients. The bitter taste didn’t help his stomach when he rubbed it into his gums. Sure, it was more direct up the sniffer, but one time he sneezed blood into the passenger window, so they switched strictly to the oral route. He didn’t like the taste or the buzz, but it helped with the pain a little. Not that it mattered.

His stomach drops to his knees when they turn off onto a long side street and begin passing houses. Only a few down and they turn onto a long, neat driveway that slithered into the woods. Finally, a house emerged from the foliage.

(Brown, drab. Not a mansion, but expensive. Groomed lawn. Driveway, maybe a quarter mile. Isolated. Definitely not a client we’ve seen before. New clients are always crapshoots.)

Caius dragged Tommy up the path to the door. He hesitated before ringing the doorbell, making Tommy face him while he fixed his curls and looked him over. He pinched his cheeks and his lips to give him a flushed look, pinching some of his eyelashes between his fingers and tugging them painfully. He repeated it on the other side, making Tommy’s eyes water so they were tearful and moony. He then pressed the gold-framed button next to the door. A twinkling classical piece played inside in lieu of a standard bell.

A middle-aged man answered too quickly, surprisingly well dressed in a tortoiseshell suit and matching glasses. He looked like a professor. He smiled kindly at the two of them.

“Please, come in.”

Caius put a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder and pushed him through the doorframe into the house, while the client politely held the door for the pair. He closed it behind them and activated an electronic lock, hidden from the outside. A heavy deadbolt slid into place with a loud chink. It resonated with an ominous finality that made Tommy’s stomach clench.

“I am Darwin. I take it this is Tommy?” He gestured to Tommy.

“I’m Caius, and this is Tommy.”

Darwin nodded, and then hesitated as he began to turn.

“Forgive me if I’m new to the etiquette of these…arrangements. Could I offer you a water, or maybe some wine?”

“Don’t worry about formalities, you’ve paid for us to be here. Let’s not waste your time.”

Darwin's eyebrows raised just a touch, but he seemed relieved to dispense with niceties. He began up a flight of stairs, which Caius ensured Tommy followed close behind. His heart was starting to pound and his feet felt heavy. Upstairs rooms were less common than basements. They somehow felt so much more intimate. Tommy had long since learned you can’t tell what a client wants based on appearance. He wasn’t sure what he feared more - a dungeon, or a bedroom.

He could feel himself starting to shut down already, and he embraced the dissociation.

(Left, right, left, right, keep walking, just follow. Don’t feel anything, just exist. There’s nothing you can do now. Just breathe. Disconnect from the feeling of desperation. We don’t have to remember this part.)

He walked robotically behind Darwin until he was led into a room that looked like an enormous study, with a fireplace at one side and rows of nice bookshelves and displays lined the walls. The display closest to him looked something like fireplace tools, but not like ones he had seen before. The floors were of a rich hardwood.

“Remove your shoes, Tommy.”

He hated it when they used his name. As if they knew him. As if they were friends. All it took was a warning look from Caius and he peeled off his tennis shoes, setting them awkwardly to the side. (Avoid eye contact. Makes it easier.)

“Are you wearing underwear?”

Tommy didn’t like where this was headed. He despised the romantic ones.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Strip down to them.”

Tommy mechanically removed his shirt, and then more hesitantly, his sweats. He was down to plain black boxers, a stark contrast to well-dressed Darwin. He handed them off to Caius while his eyes scoured the room.

The center of the room was filled with precariously placed items that looked very old and worn. There was a big lumpy looking chair made of wood, a kind of bench-like table with three rolling pins attached in the middle, and a big sort of horse-shaped wooden structure. It looked badly built, and had a big triangle for the saddle.

(Don’t panic. Don’t run. You don’t have to know what’s happening. Don’t think about it. Don't think at all. Turn your brain off. It makes it easier.)

“I curate for the museum here, and over the years I’ve become a bit of a collector of sorts myself. When the museum here wasn’t interested in these pieces, I knew I just had to buy them up. Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten the chance to play with them, and they’ve gone without use. Then I found a video of Tommy here online, and I thought I found the perfect person to try them out.”

Tommy felt like his body was moving without his will as he was led to the chair, which upon closer look, was more than uncomfortable. It had no open slats but was made of uncut pieces of wood with a high back, wide arm rests, a flat seat, and another solid plate between the front legs, almost to the floor. Every inch of it was covered in neat rows of small, wooden spikes.

“Which video?” Caius asked conversationally.

(Market research.)

“It was some kind of flogging scene, with Mistress Alice. A few months ago now.”

Tommy’s head swam before he realized he was holding his breath. He felt a little shaken by the mention of Alice, and struggled to stay adrift from his feelings.

“It looks like he’s healed up marvelously though,” Darwin appreciated, looking him over hungrily.

“He cleans up well, and we have excellent doctors on hand. We cannot allow certain things that will damage him beyond repair, so I will be staying with you for our time. Most nerves can be fixed, but no severing of central tendons or arteries, and go easy on the spine to keep basic motor controls intact.”

Darwin nodded. “They shouldn’t puncture too deeply. Everything is antique, but sanitized.”

Without ceremony, Tommy was shoved back into the chair.

He took a sharp breath in when all the points sank in at once, biting into the sensitive flesh of his ass and thighs. The shock of It was like being submerged in icy water. He instinctively leaned forwards away from the back of the chair, but he could feel beads of blood forming where he had knocked into them initially.

Hands appeared from nowhere, wrapping a leather strap across his throat and pulling him flat against the back of the chair. The shock of the pain winded him, and he gasped for breath as Darwin fastened his restraints. His ankles were locked with leather and pulled taut hard to force his legs into the spikes, and his arms were pulled hard down on the spiked armrests. Thick leather cuffs bound his wrists in place, and slight sides built into the back ensured his outer arms were also penetrated.

The best he could do was try to arch his back away from the back of the chair, but with his neck fastened it only seemed to drive the ones in his shoulders deeper. The awkward position made his back start to cramp immediately, and he doubted he could hold it for long. The urge to fight the restraints was overruled by the pain that the slightest movement caused, and he found himself paralyzed by it. Even breathing agitated the punctures, and on instinct he started to breathe shallowly to avoid it. A muted thought came to him, of the sharp wooden skewers used for shish kabobs, and he suddenly related to being a piece of skewered meat.

He vaguely registered that Darwin had stood back and was watching him, a great grin on his face.

“This piece is called the ‘Armchair of Inquiries’ - a bit of a cheeky name, in my opinion. This one was actively used a bit longer than most, with the last recorded use being May 8th, 1868. I’ve had it thoroughly cleaned and disinfected just for you.”

Tommy tried to pull his head away from the pins, only resulting in choking himself against the leather collar.

Darwin smiled. “I had that strap attached as an extra, from a heretic’s fork. I think it makes a good addition, even if it wasn’t the original.”

There was something deeply sickening about the pride in Darwin’s voice, while he gladly explained history that hardly mattered to the butterfly he had pinned.

The initial shock was starting to wear off, but the pain was blooming. He doubted there was enough coke in the world to shield him from this. His shallow panting took on a whine to it on every exhale as the pain began to steep.

Darwin had walked away, and returned with quick steps holding some sort of miniature harness. It consisted of metal bands arched and connected, with an adjustable leather strap. Tommy couldn’t identify it, but the glee with which Darwin presented it made him think he would find out the hard way very soon.

With a surprisingly gentle hand, Darwin guided his head forward as far as it could go against his neck restraint, and slipped the harness over his head.

“This one has many names, and many forms. It was the first piece in my collection. There are other ones that are shaped like pigs, or fools with long noses, or even a cone coming out from the mouthpiece. Just to name a few.”

At being masked, Tommy started to panic and struggle, shoving hard against his restraints only to have the spikes impale him again and again, agitating the wounds with every movement.

“Wait, wait, wait, fuck, fuck, wait you don’t have to do this-”

Tommy finally begged, which Darwin only acknowledged with a soft smile as he worked the cage mask on. There was a metal band that ran down the back of his head, parting his hair, but pushing him off of impalement on the spikes there as the metal band rested atop the points.

The other band came down the middle of his face, forking into a triangle around his nose. Right below, it connected to a thicker metal band across his mouth, and a sharp obtrusion from it pressed hard against his lips. He clenched his teeth against it to try to keep it out, abruptly ending his ability to beg with words. His pleas reduced to panicked keens of fear and pain.

“It’s called a bridle mask, a scold’s bridle, a mask of shame…” Darwin rattled off idly. He tapped a finger against the metal bit against Tommy’s lips.

“If you can’t feel it yet, there’s another spike in here. I’m about to fasten this tight across your jaw, and if you don’t let it in, it’s going to puncture through your lips and cause you quite a bit more…discomfort. Open up for me, Tommy.”

Darwin’s hands cradled his face with a disturbing intimacy, stroking over his cheeks. His fingers found the hollows of his cheeks and pushed into them sharply, forcing his jaw open. A long metal spike followed by a thick metal bit pushed in, and he had to curl his tongue to keep it from skewering straight through. The metal bit held his jaw slightly open, but if he tried to speak, he would pierce his tongue.

The strap at his jaw was pulled sharply taut and secured. Darwin’s hands returned to his cheeks, stroking his face gently between the gaps of the mask.

(Don’t spiral. Just another - just ignore it - the pain is - how much -)

His best guards against the pain were failing, easily overwhelmed by this unfamiliar torture. A new hysteria was building deep inside of him, and he was starting to grow light-headed from his shallow panting around the gag.

Darwin’s lips were parted and he was panting a little too, his face so close, hungry eyes roving over Tommy’s own caged face. His thumbs tenderly stroked comforting circles over the apples of his cheeks, and Tommy felt a wetness there. (When did we start crying?) His eyes felt so heavy as they spilled over without relief.

Darwin closed the gap between them suddenly, pressing his lips intensely against the outside of the gag. Tommy tried to turn away from him, but Darwin’s gentle hands became restraints holding his head in place. He slowly kissed and tongued and licked the dark metal there, and Tommy couldn’t help the harsh whimpers escaping his opened mouth.

Darwin finally pulled away, his lips wet. A strong urge to wretch boiled in Tommy’s gut.

“You look so beautiful.”

His stomach lurched.

“I have one more piece for you,” Darwin murmured, mostly to himself.

Tears ran down the sides of his face, wetting the metal harness as it started to warm against his skin.

“But before that…can I take a picture?”

Tommy was confused for a moment until his brain finally caught up to the fact that Caius was still there, sitting off to the side and witnessing his agony with a look of profound boredom.

“Sure. I have a camera in my bag if you’d like me to take some nice ones for you. It doesn’t cost extra if you let us also use them for promotional materials.”

Darwin licked his lips. “Of course.”

Tommy let out a miserable moan of protest, with heavy tears of humiliation and pain dripping down his face and cooling uncomfortably at his neck.

Caius kept a calm demeanor of cool indifference while he circled Tommy, collecting photos with his camera. Tommy was only addressed with a sharp snapping of fingers, directing him to look one way or another. He could see a dark reflection of his face in the wide lens of the camera, and he closed his eyes with a sob.

Darwin emerged to be front and center again, holding one of the metal tools that Tommy had noticed when he entered. It was a crude, thin piece of metal, with two fork-like tines on each end. He held it up so Tommy could see it, and then playfully tapped one side of tines against his cheek.

“The heretic’s fork. It fits right in here,” Darwin offered, and slipped it into a leather buckle of the collar around his throat. Tommy tipped his head back to try to avoid it, but yelped when he felt one pronged end pushed shallowly into his neck behind his collar bones. This firmly locked the fork vertically against his throat, the tines on the opposite side baring threateningly against the soft flesh under his jaw.

“If you can keep your head up, this won’t hurt.”

With this last attachment, Tommy suddenly felt entirely overwhelmed with helplessness. He couldn't move an inch, couldn’t even breathe without disturbing the bed of thorns beneath him. His tongue was cramped in the back of his throat, and he was starting to drool around the gag. Lowering his head at all would impale him on the tines of the fork, driving it both into his jaw and into his sternum. He couldn’t think of a time he was held in such strict binding, and his brain was starting to short circuit with the horror of his situation.

Darwin seized this opportunity to lean in and press another kiss over his gag. Tommy whined impotently, hyper-aware of his inability to pull away.

Darwin stood back and took a long, shuddery breath of excitement. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“P-pictures, please,” he called breathily. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas could see Caius toss his cellphone aside and get back up to take pictures.

Tommy stared at the ceiling, blinking tears of terror. He always hated the feeling of something stuck inside of him, the gnawing urge to pull it out only growing with the many barbs penetrating his skin. He thought his regular collar was bad enough. He could no longer see anything around him, and he had no idea where Darwin or Caius were in proximity to him. The anxiety made him tense, agitating his wounds.

“This doesn’t quite fit in with the others, but, well…we only have so much time. I think this will speed things up.”

He sounded close. There was a popping, crackling sound Tommy couldn’t quite place.

(How much time do we have? How long has it been? It felt like an hour, at least. Maybe. It always feels slower than it is.)

Something touched him, two dull points maybe an inch or two apart. Pressed to his diaphragm. He braced himself for it to puncture him, but for a long minute it just rested there. Darwin was breathing heavier. (Psyching himself-)

His body was on fire.

It almost felt like relaxing. He lost all control while a painful, hot tingling went through his body. He spasmed, shuddering violently until it stopped as suddenly as it had started.

He sagged back into his bindings, but the damage had been done. There were a thousand points on his body that throbbed in urgent pain. It was a full-body pain like he had never experienced before. It was terrifying not being able to look down at his body to see how bad it was - he felt like his skin must be shredded, vivid imaginings of his flayed corpse pinned to this throne.

A touch against his diaphragm, heavy breathing in front of him. Excited sounds from Darwin. He was lit up once more, for a longer time. He could feel himself tearing around the spikes. This time he was vaguely aware of the sound it pulled from his, a deep, guttural cry as the breath was knocked from his body. It was a unique sound he didn’t recognize as his own voice, but a deep wail of anguish. It felt entirely disconnected, like the sound was coming from the prod pushed to his stomach, not his body.

When it ended, his vision was swimming. Everything was black, gray, yellow, dancing shadows. He blinked a few times as he slowly started to come back to his senses.

This time, he noticed the foam in his throat. He coughed, and blood burned on his lips, long dried from the gag. He finally registered the taste of blood on his tongue, the pain in his mouth. His tongue had been speared on the spike inside of the gag. His brain couldn’t process where or how his tongue was pierced, but he drooled blood out the corner of his lips and struggled to swallow the rest pooling in his throat. He couldn’t identify an exact moment when, but the fork under his chin had been driven into his jaw, and judging by the burning pain in his chest, it was up to the hilt on bottom as well.

Darwin let him stew with the tip of his device pressed to his stomach again. Tommy sucked in a breath, his only chance at pulling away from it, but his movement was easily followed.

He writhed in his restraints as he was electrocuted again, spasming uncontrollably even as it tore him open. Everything was pain, every breath, his nose burned, his eyes rolled back into his head. It let up again and he shuddered to stillness. He could still feel the tingle, and he continued to twitch in spite of his best attempts. He dry wretched, blood in his throat, in his stomach, making him sick. The still room reeled around him.

“Next time…you can call me Arthur.”

It felt a bit like sweating, an intense sweating across the entire side of his body. As the blood trickled out underneath him, he was starting to feel very cold. The shocks left him feverish, and he felt quite sick, like when he had the flu and felt hot and cold at the same time. He hoarsely barked out sobs that wracked his body. Every surface he touched pooled blood, making his seat feel wet and tarry underneath him. He was limp in his restraints, his heavy head supported solely by the prongs driven into him.

He numbly felt a prodding against his naked torso, and unconsciousness took its mercy on him.

pictures of tools used: x

series masterlist: x

prev: x next x

#captive whumpee #intimate whumper #sadistic whumper #medieval torture #professional victim

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manwathiel-elensar · 4 months ago

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For @tobias-hankel 2024 Pre-Whumptober Challenge

Prompt:

Main Whump-ed Character: Spencer Reid

Bad Thing: Childhood Sexual Abuse

Bad Person: Parent/Family Member

One Line Prompt: "I don't have to have a reason... just... don't touch me in my sleep again."

Summary: Unspoken feelings have been bubbling between Morgan and Reid for some time. When they finally get it together, it feels like everything they ever wanted. But deeply hidden and painful secrets threaten to tear them apart before they've even started.

Tw: Childhood sexual abuse, PTSD, flashbacks, sexual content

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #derek morgan #spencer reid whump #spencer reid criminal minds #pre-whumptober #reid x morgan

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theprodigalpragmatist · 10 months ago

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Fic Tag Chain

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern! (thank you to @roxannepolice for the tag!!!)

"Six dogs. One Will Graham." ~ old mr graham had troubles of his own (will graham + dogs + cat + L + ratio)

"At first there’s sound—noise, really—it grates and grates and is that panting he hears?" ~ you reap what you sow (uhhh...tensimm identity crisis with a twist, we'll go with)

“Kneel.” ~ cut mouth bleeding razors (tensimm smut, with its own twist, even...)

"The issue isn’t that the Doctor is old, though he is…unpleasant to look at, the Master can admit that." ~ hand in unlovable hand in unlovable hand (simm master + simm master + ten + the most rancid selfcest vibes in eternity)

"They used to play a game when they were children, a long, long time ago." ~ a martyrdom, a kingdom that will never come (part ii of a gallifreyan funerary ritual fic w/ @koscheiisms, tensimm edition)

"Borusa was the one who found them." the purest lick of fire (part i of the gallifreyan funerary ritual fic, academy era thoschei, torvic rock murder ft. borusa pov)

"He stumbles, helpless as a newborn woprat, and sometimes not being bad is like being good, so she watches him meet the ground of his own accord without throwing herself into the mix." ~ and i find you with a thimble weeping (tenmissy <3 beloved tenmissy <3)

"He opens his eyes to darkness, to a staunch nothingness that grates in its totality." Clawing for the Stars (sam tyler whump) (edit: currently hidden because of bot targeting 😔)

"Crawly adjusted the tails of their blouse around their embroidered girdle, the shirt spread wide and exposing the smooth planes of their chest." As time began unwinding, I'd be yours alone (aziracrow through the ages + music)

"The knife glints in the peek between shadows—sharp, wicked, honed to a point and chipped towards the hilt." i'm only what you wanted for a little while (installment from ongoing series informally known as 'saxteen kissies')

WOW okay i am terrible at analysis...however, fascinated by the recent trend of launching into the thick of it...in my head, most of my fics start with a heavy lead-up, this is really great insight! and was a blast to do, so thank you again @roxannepolice!

tagging @lohengreen @harrowq @koscheiisms @incorrectquotesconaisseur @thesecondbeatitude (fully sure i've double tagged people but soo la voo, as the kids say) (please join in if not tagged if you'd like!)

#hannibal #tensimm #thoschei #tenmissy #life on mars #good omens #saxteen #prodigalpragmafic #i really need to change that tag

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shadowgast-recs-weekly · 2 years ago

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Hidden Gems: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have one of our recurring themes: fics with fewer than 150 kudos! Check under the cut for twenty fics that are beloved, but you might have missed the first time around:

Another Time, Another Place by Operafloozy (9780, Teen) Warnings: none Essek discovers the key to time travel. Bren discovers the key to time travel soon after. They start a time war. Reccer says: It's a great enemies to lovers fic, epistolary fic, and weird time travel shenanigans fic all in one. It's based on This is How You Lose the Time War, but you don't have to know anything about it to make sense.

I Have Blood On My Hands And A Smile On My Face by Professor_Rye (5836, Explicit) Warnings: Dead-Dove, Graphic Amputation, Torture, Hurt no Comfort Essek and Caleb get captured by a rogue Volstrucker who proceeds to torture them. Reccer says: It's intense, it's dark, it hurts, it's bloody... The whole whump experience dialed up to a hundred. If you're in the mood for something on the more extreme end of the spectrum that is very well written, this is your fic.

Dream a Little Dream of Me by CatgirlTheCrazy (2258, General) Warnings: None Essek uses the Dream spell to spend time with Caleb, even while they're apart Reccer says: Nothing

let the earth humble you withal by essektheylyss (midnightindigo) (13777, Mature) Warnings: None A ghost story: In his grief following Caleb’s death, Essek summons an old familiar. It does not come alone. Reccer says: A heart-wrenching exploration of grief.

something so precious about this by ThatFanwriter2424 (1684, General) Warnings: None It's valentines day and Essek has a gift for Caleb Reccer says: It's so sweet

Of Constellations and Freckles by Professor_Rye (100, General) Warnings: None Essek's love of Caleb's freckles Reccer says: Nothing

blood and bond by royalgreen (allyoop) (2069, Teen) Warnings: None Caleb is dying from a curse and Essek is desperate to save him Reccer says: It's very ambiguous but the emotions and vibes are immaculate regardless. An impressive and wonderful balance

desire, fulfilled by burningafterdark (burningdarkfire) (8809, Explicit) Warnings: Mind the tags and author's note: Extremely dubious consent typical of pon farr/heatfic Essek becomes dangerously insatiable when he undergoes his drow mating cycle while visiting Caleb. Reccer says: Hot and incredibly unsettling, with a mounting horror through the final line.

SA 4301: Advanced Transmutation, Excerpt Recorded 9th Horisal 1152 PD with Guest Lecturer: E. Widogast, Arch.M by soot_and_salt (1231, Teen) Warnings: Grief A transcript of Essek giving a lecture about what makes a great wizard, according to his late husband, Caleb Widogast Reccer says: There is so much love and adoration in Essek's tone and words, and the worldbuilding and setting is phenomenal

i'm really not so with you anymore (i'm just a ghost) by flashhwing (4104, Mature) Warnings: Essek is dead Essek Dies. Caleb keeps on seeing his ghost. Reccer says: It's haunting and beautiful; a wonderful depiction of grief with a side of spookiness. The art is amazing, too

The Thumping in My Chest by GayAssWizard (5309, Explicit) Warnings: None Caleb gets Essek a special surprise and then edges him with it. T4T Shadowgast with some light D/s. Reccer says: Essek drunk on pleasure is Best Essek.

Tooth of Zehir by witches_chant (17359, Mature) Warnings: Nope This fic happens in an alternative reality where the war between the Empire and the Dynasty was not prevented. Essek fled to a castle at the end of the world and has stayed hidden and alone for a very long time. One day Bren finds him, a pathetic shade of a man, feral and hungry, and an enemies to friends to lovers story begins. Reccer says: All the wumptober prompts give theme to the chapters in a neat way. The vibes are gothic and melancholic with the raging storm outside and the careful contact between the two men.

to take off the mask by KmacKatie (2560, Mature) Warnings: No major archive warnings, however it could be read as mildly dubious consent When your face is not your own, are you still you underneath it? A moment in a tavern where Essek is contemplating the loss that morphs over time and the lingering effects it can have on a soul. Reccer says: It's a short exploration about identity and disconnecting from yourself after having to hide who you are fundamentally from those around you. It's angst-adjacent, with some heavy implications wrapped up in a deep understanding of the other.

You Mean The Worm To Me by GoldenEyeWitch (2318, General) Warnings: None Feel-good fluff about a polymorph gone wrong. Reccer says: The situational comedy, the dynamics between the characters and the general premise. It's a perfect little pick-me-up story on a rainy day.

Series of Smaller Adventures by 2manyboys (3576, Teen) Warnings: None Caleb returns home after a long day. Essek is waiting for him. Reccer says: It is so soft and cozy and as sweet as these two can be together, like a warm blanket.

The Heat Between by Ahmose_Inarus (8221, Not Rated) Warnings: None Essek teleports to Caleb's home during a blizzard. Caleb massages him to relax his tense muscles and, well, we all know what happens when characters give each other massages in fanfiction. Reccer says: You can tell that Essek is already quite comfortable in Caleb's cottage and I find that to be a cute detail. I also love Caleb thoroughly teasing Essek and drawing out the encounter.

a healer's gift by toneofjoy (7280, General) Warnings: None One of Caleb's cats fall suddenly ill and he seeks help from a druid healer to find the cause. Reccer says: This is the best of outsider pov fic looking at shadowgast from the perspective of one of Caleb's (well, really both of theirs) cats. It's adorable, and there are some really sweet moments.

As per my last email by LivThael (11651, Explicit) Warnings: None Caleb and Essek annoy each other with emails at work. They solve their professional dispute in a storage closet after a party. Reccer says: Nothing

jealousy by mllekurtz (1724, Explicit) Warnings: no archive warnings, but it does have consensual non-consent Essek sleeps with someone else to further his goals. Bren is into it. Reccer says: This fic is incredibly hot and does a lot with a shorter word count. It's the delicious morally-grey brenessek flavour that I love, with some sharp and interesting insights into not-love but the closest thing two it that these two are capable of in the moment. Very delicious!

Daughter of the Burning Stars by Chaotic_Lesbianstringworm (928, General) Warnings: None Caleb and Essek celebrate the birth of their daughter. Reccer says: It's very sweet, extremely soft, and gives good gender feelings.

All recs are made by members of Aeor is For Lovers, an 18+ Shadowgast discord. Have any questions? Check out the FAQ. You can also join the discord here, or check out our previous list of Hidden Gems recs here.

Check back next week, when we'll have recs for current WIPs!

#Critical Role #Shadowgast #essek thelyss #Caleb Widogast #Fic Recs #cr fic rec #Critical Role Fic

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adzeisval · 1 year ago

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Why I like Izzy's death scene

I’ve got a longer post (or series of posts) coming eventually but I just wanted to do a quick version of why I like Izzy’s death scene.

To me Izzy always had an air of tragedy around him. Guy pops off the lines “I’m not dying, not for that ponce and not for you” and “The only retirement we get is death” and I’m not supposed to worry? I wasn't sure they’d do it and do it this fast but the possibility was there.

I liked that they did character development first. If they had killed him right away like in the dream sequence that would have pissed me off. I wish we would have gotten more time with Izzy but we got some and it was enough for me. Love to watch his journey and cry at the tragic end.

I like that Izzy is a defiant bad ass when he talks to Ricky. Ricky just said he was going to hang them all and things look bleak but Izzy’s gonna sit there and buy some time and insult this rancid syphilitic cunt. If Stede, Ed, and Zheng hadn’t arrived I’m sure Ricky would have killed Izzy there. But alas it’s only a delay and Ricky shoots Izzy.

I’m a sucker for the hidden injury whump trope. I like that Ed looked back and asked Izzy if he was already. Clearly he checked in again because he’s helping Izzy toward the ship the next time we see them. I like that they try to make Izzy comfortable, there’s a blanket or something under him and the coats to cushion his head.

I like that Izzy dies at home, with friends/family, and the arms of a man he loves. The crew is there and I’m betting even dying and in pain Izzy looked over and made sure everyone else was there and was comforted by the fact that they all were.

Took me a few rewatches but I do like the dialog between Izzy and Ed. By this point Izzy knows he is loved, has a home, and is worth something. Ed’s still working on it and Izzy tries to help with the little time he has. He wants Ed to know that just being Ed is fine. And Ed’s there, holding Izzy, crying for Izzy, begging Izzy to stay. Saying he’s family. He might not say I love you but his actions do.

“I wanna go.” I really like this line. I love the line delivery, how quiet and personal it is. Izzy accepts he’s dying and wants Ed to know that too. I like when Izzy tells Ed he’s surrounded by family it’s louder. They are Izzy’s family too and I feel like he wants them to hear that.

“There he is.” Love the callback. Love the touch with the ungloved hand. All around the acting in this whole scene is wonderful.

So yeah that’s the uh “short” ramble version. More to come.

And probably a fic from Izzy's pov as he's dying because I can't help myself.

#ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd #izzy hands #izzy death

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dagger-n-ravvi · 1 month ago

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Chapter One: Muddy Little Potato

Epel can't wait to start the school year as a Night Raven College freshmen. Unfortunately, he is placed in Pomefiore, the dorm for sissies and weaklings, with a housewarden who immediately hates him.

But worse than that, there is a dark and horrible secret hidden beneath Pomfiore’s beautiful facade. Epel is chosen to satisfy it, and it will be nigh impossible for him to resist.

This fic is a whump, and Epel is put through physical, psychological, and emotional hell. There will be warnings for the chapters with especially dark themes. Please read responsibly.

This is an edited RP (roleplay) Please be understanding of grammatical issues, and enjoy!

We love comments and feedback! Feel free to let us know what you think ^_^

Warnings: physical abuse, misogny

Next Chapter | Fic Index

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55557751?view_full_work=true

It’s the beginning of the school year, and the orientation ceremony at Night Raven College is about to begin. Gilded, ebony coffins have been placed standing up, shoulder-to-shoulder across the walls of the mirror chamber. There are three hundred and fifteen incoming freshmen this year, and as is traditional, they are currently asleep inside the coffins. Housewardens and vice housewardens stand nearby, ready to maintain order and assist with the sorting. The rest of the school is sitting in chairs across the room, filling the air with excited murmurs.

“…and without any further interruptions, let’s begin!”

A surge of golden, magical energy pulses outward through the mirror chamber. In perfect unison, the coffins open. Epel Felmier wakes with a little inhale, then steps out and stretches his arms with an excited grin. He cain’t help feeling all fluttery, even though he’s been stuffed into a set of sissy, black and purple robes. At least it feels a little less embarrassing when everyone he can see is wearing ‘em too. He’d almost hid from his mee-maw after putting them on earlier today. Stupid thing looks like a dress.

“First years! Welcome to orientation. In just a moment, you will all be sorted into the house that the Dark Mirror deems is the best fit for your soul. Please step forward, form a set of lines shoulder-to-shoulder, and wait for your name to be called!”

Epel looks up and can just see a man in a black mask at the front of the room. His view is almost immediately blocked by hundreds of students all jumpin’ to make those lines he told everyone to stand in. Epel crosses his arms and moves between a pair of boys who look so highfalutin’ it immediately sets his teeth on edge.

“Whatchu gawpin’ at?” He growls as they stare at him in a way that all but screams that they think he looks like a girl. Epel might be small, and his hair is the same, pale lilac as his mee-maw’s, but he ain’t no sissy. And so he feels right pleased when they swivel their heads ‘round and mind they own business. ‘That’s right, you don’t want none’a this!’

The first name gets called, and he can just barely see a bit of movement as someone walks up to the big mirror in the center of the room.

“The shape of thy soul is… Savannaclaw!”

Epel’s face splits into a massive grin. Hell yes! That’s where he’s gonna go! To the King of Beast’s dorm, where everyone’s as tough as nails. He stands up on his toes, and then hops a bit to try ‘n see his new dorm-mate..

“Stand still!”

Epel flinches as a hand claps down on his shoulder. He whirls around, and sees a tall, robed figure standing behind him. He’s skinny, and he’s got a girly face with delicate features and perfect, glowing skin.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the man looks down at Epel with an expression like he stepped in something downright nasty. “Your appearance is utterly unacceptable. Button up your collar and fix your belt this instant.”

"Fix mah…?” Epel glares up at him, wondering whether he’s one of the Housewardens. The Pomefiore one…? Eh, it doesn’t make no nevermind. He wants no part of this hoity-toity beanpole…

“Hmm. I couldn’t tell from across the room, but you have an exceptionally winsome face,” he says with a little smile.

“Exception WHAT? Didja just call me a wuss? Yer one ta talk, ya baby-faced, woman-lookin’ weakling sissy!” Epel retorts.

“Excuse me?” The look that the man gives him rapidly curdles into flat irritation. “Oh my. Your mannerisms and ideals are just as sloppy as your dress, I see. What a waste.”

“Waste?! You wanna say that ta mah fists outside?” Epel ain’t takin’ guff from anyone here, and definitely not from this prim-n-proper femboy!

“Did you just challenge me to a fight after I instructed you to wear your uniform in a way that does not bring shame to yourself and our entire school?”

"Ain’t no shame but you’n yer sissy face! Ya wanna go, or ya chicken?!" Epel demands.

“Very well,” he agrees with that same, flat tone and expression. “Come.”

He turns and starts to walk through the crowd. Epel is surprised that he didn’t back down, but he quickly follows anyway, ready to take this wuss down a peg or two…

Another tall man with chin-length, blonde hair just visible past his hood glances down at him in surprise. But before he can say anything, the Housewarden gives him a look, and opens a door. Epel steps through it, and into a clear, crisp night. The apple orchards are heavy with fruit this time of year, and it feels strangely thrilling to be standing here, breathing air that doesn’t have so much as a hint of ripe fruit on the breeze. He’s so, very far from home and what he knew.

And then the door slams shut behind him, leaving him entirely alone with this stupid, sissy person.

“People gonna think a bee made out with ‘chur face!” Epel snarls, then throws a vicious haymaker at pretty-boy's nose. Pretty-boy dips backward, easily dodging his punch without retaliating with one of his own.

“You almost spoke proper English for a moment there,” he smirks, pushing his hood back. Lavender-tipped hair cascades down his shoulders in such a sissy, highfalutin’ way that it makes his blood boil.

"Shut up ‘n git back here!" Epel throws out another punch. The man pivots slightly, catching hold of his wrist and yanking him forward. He stumbles forward, skidding down to one knee in the grass just a few inches away from the trunk of an oak tree. Yeesh! Woulda hurt if he hit that-

"Pathetic." The man draws the word out into a flat, disgusted sneer.

“GHAAAAA-!” Epel leaps to his feet and lunges forward to tackle those long, skinny legs. The man makes another weird pivot, then grabs the hood of his ceremonial robes and yanks them hard.

“AGH! FIGHT ME STRAIGHT YA WUSS!” Epel shouts. He squirms out of his robes, then leaps onto the man’s arm and throws his entire weight onto it like a feral cat.

“Mff?!” The man grunts as the unexpected move drags him down to his knees, looking surprised at first, and then very angry.

“GOTCHA, HNNK-“ Epel grunts as a knee rockets around and slams into his stomach. The wind is utterly knocked out of him, and he buckles forward into a tiny ball.

Oh... fuck…’ Epel squints up at the man as he struggles to breathe. One… one hit and he's already going down?! No. No way!

“HNGGGH-!” Epel forces himself up and throws a punch at the man’s stomach. He twists away and grabs his extended hand, yanking him forward hard enough to make him skid, face-first through the grass.

"Are you done with your tantrum yet, little potato?"

"Gah...!" Epel stumbles to his feet, panting heavily. Tarnation! He ain't even usin' magic, and he’s wipin’ the floor with me… "Ah ain’t… no potato."

"What was that? I believe that I heard you speak improperly in my presence. Try again.”

Epel's stomach HURTS, but he lunges forward anyway with a furious scream. The man does another one of those stupid little pivots, and this time he tries to follow it around…

“GHH-!” Epel yelps as a palm slams into his upper back and shoves him forward. He falls face-first into the grass, panting and groaning under his breath. This… this sucks. There would be a sort of honesty and pride to the pain of a broken nose. Better’n the cold humiliation of getting shoved into the dirt again and again…

"You're done."

“Agh-!” A knee jams itself hard into space between Epel’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground before he can get up again. He squirms weakly, gasping for breath. “I… I ain’t…”

“I said, you’re done.”

“HHHK-“ Epel chokes as that knee grinds into his back. C-consarnit. He’s sweating, grinding his teeth, and so mad he wants to scream. He lost.

"Kay..." Epel finally wheezes, going limp on the ground and just struggling to breathe. “‘M done.”

"Better," the man says softly, letting up a bit in his knee. "I am Vil Schoenheit, the Housewarden of Pomefiore. To you, I am Housewarden.”

"Okay. Git offa me-“ Epel mumbles, feeling like a butterfly that got caught under a pin. What's this guy gonna do to him now? Take all his money? Make him his errand boy?!

“Incorrect.” The knee grinds down again. “When someone introduces themselves to you, you introduce yourself in return. Try again.”

“Ngh! Eh-Epel… Felmier.” Epel grunts through gritted teeth. “Th… there. You’s got… mah name.”

“Epel. Felmier.” Vil repeats his name slowly, with a tone of open scorn. “You will use the proper tone and inflection when speaking with your betters. And you will remember to include honourifics such as Housewarden, Vice Housewarden, or Professor where appropriate. Do you understand?”

"Whuh?! Y’all takin’ issue with the way I talk ‘cause I don’t sound like you city boys?!” Epel snarls.

“Do NOT misinterpret my words. Your dialect is unclear, and it will be seen as disrespectful when used with those who are in positions of power over you. They will assume you are stupid, and disregard your opinions regardless of what you actually say. Tell me, Epel Felmier. Are you stupid and disrespectful?”

"Ghhh... N-no." Epel pants angrily into the grass, just tellin’ him what he wants ta hear. This ain’t gonna matter in another minute when he gets sorted into Savannaclaw… he wants nothin’ to do with this Vil Schoenheit and his frou-frou dorm…

“Then let’s hear your response. Properly this time.” Vil lets up on his knee, and Epel sucks in a deep, ragged breath. “I am Vil Schoenheit, Housewarden of Pomefiore. Who are you?”

"I'm. Epel. Felmier. Housewarden." Epel spits into the grass. If saying this stupid introduction will get him free, then fine.

“Better.”

Vil finally gets off of him. He stumbles to his feet with a little groan then flinches as Vil grabs his shoulder and spins him around.

“Stand up straight.” Vil brusquely smacks his hip, just above his backside.

“OW?!” Epel flinches away, eyes wide with shock. “Whatcha do that fer?!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Vil rolls his eyes. “Your posture is appalling and so is your memory. What did I just tell you about your speech? ENUNCIATE.”

He shouts the last word, and Epel cringes back in alarm. “Ya hit mah rear!”

“Do you already want to fight me again, Epel?”

“… no, Housewarden,” He says very quietly, trying his best to mimic the way his mee-maw talks with visitors.

“Better.” Vil reaches down and takes a purple, magestone pen out of a holster on his belt. He gives it a flick, and Epel’s ceremonial robes leap up off the ground, shedding grass stains, dirt, and wrinkles. They land in Vil’s hand with a little snap, clean as a whistle.

“Hold still.” Vil reaches out and, with no regard for Epel’s personal space, puts his robes back on him.

“Hnngh?!” Epel freezes as he buttons up the collar, tugs his belt tight, and re-creases the sleeves in quick, precise motions. Gha! He feels like a doll gettin’ stuffed into a dress-

“You have good structure under all this mud, spudling.” Vil catches his chin and turns it up toward the moonlight. Epel can feel a faint ripple of pressure around his eyes and across his left cheek as Vil does something to his face with magic.

“Grrr…” He growls under his breath, eyes watering as he glares up at Vil. He’s just looking at him now with a weird, quiet expression. Epel resists the urge to yank his face away, wondering what the hell he’s thinking about…

“Back inside. You had better be the very picture of good manners for the rest of the ceremony.” Vil finally lets him go.

“… yessir…” Epel mutters, taking a step back and glaring at the ground. His stomach hurts, and his robes are so tight he can barely breathe. He just wants to go back inside, and make sure that this’ll be the LAST time that he ever talks to Housewarden Vil Schoenheit.

#my poisoned apple #fanfic #twisted wonderland #epel felmier #vil schoenheit #aged up characters #mystery #whump #dead dove do not eat #dollification #abuse of authority #rape/noncon #rook hunt #ace trappola #twst

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