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paingoes · 3 months ago

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Aegean Seas

Destroyer AU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” Delta said tiredly.

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

“Stop,” Delta repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here girl,” the monarch snapped their fingers.

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

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

“She started it-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That only made it worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t have said anything.

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

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

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

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

“So you do understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apollo was still staring at him.

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

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

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

“He wouldn’t mind, though.”

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

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

ponyboy: heyyyyy

headrooms: holy shit

headrooms: i thought you fucking died

ponyboy: nope :-)

ponyboy: just busy yk how it is

headrooms: fuck

headrooms: dont scare me like that

ponyboy: sorryyyyy

ponyboy: how have you been

headrooms: im chill

headrooms: i got beat up by a jester last week

ponyboy: lmfao

ponyboy: dude shut up your job is cushy as shit

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

headrooms: uphill both ways in the snow

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

ponyboy: hey fuck you

headrooms: lol

headrooms: are you good though like actually

ponyboy: ya i mean

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

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

headrooms: thats good i guess

headrooms: is vi chill

ponyboy: omg no shes been on her fuckin period lately

ponyboy: bitch mode

headrooms: lmfao mine too

headrooms: i swear its the full moon

ponyboy: IT LITERALLY IS IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM IS

ponyboy: ughhhhhh

headrooms: i miss you

headrooms: like

headrooms: all the time

ponyboy: i miss you too !

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

“Who were you texting?” he asked mildly.

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

“Just Lorry.” He looked down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought they were nice,” Paris muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!” He blushed terribly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep,” he affirmed.

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

“Come here,” he called finally.

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

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

“I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The spine entered again, and he calmed anyway.

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delta watched impassively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch the door,” he begged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned around.

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

“Fuck,” Paris muttered beneath his breath.

He should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” Delta warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay?” Delta asked.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

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

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bltzgore · 3 months ago

Text

Tw: language, broken bone (whumper's), mention of past trauma, young whumpee (could be under 18, idk reader's choice), swearing, yeah just a lot of swearing. Caretaker is very protective and very mad.

Caretaker put their hands gently on whumpee's shoulders, guiding him to their left, "could you just stand here for me, baby?" Whumpee followed their guidance without hesitation, confused but mostly still shaken by the fact that whumper was here. How had he found them?! What would he do now that he had?

What whumpee hadn't noticed was that caretaker had carefully moved them out from between whumper and themselves. Once whumpee was clear caretaker reared back and floored whumper with a single blow to the jaw. Something in there cracked, and whumper was on his ass attempting to gather himself and figure out what had just happened.

Caretaker snarled, "I don't care who the fuck you are! I know what you fucking did to this child and you should feel lucky to be alive right now. Cause the only reason I'm not ripping the bones out of your body one at a time and FEEDING THEM TO YOU is because there is a child present. Now, here's what's going to happen, you're going to pick your sorry ass up off my floor and you're going to drag it out the door and out of my house, and you're going to fucking keep it there or next time I will not be showing any restraint."

As whumper shakily got to his feet, he glared at whumpee, who's trembling only got worse. He was frozen under that monster's gaze. He couldn't even manage to get his lungs moving. That's when caretaker stepped between them again and shoved their face stright up to whumper's.

"Don't fucking look at him, look at me! You're dealing with me! Not him." Once they were certain whumper was focused on them again they continued, "Now I gave you the good option, the other one is you stupidly refuse to leave and I beat your ass right here and now then dump your bitch carcass on the side of a road somewhere. So what's it fucking gonna be?"

Whumper seethed like he wanted to say something, but wisely didn't. Instead, he stumbled towards the door, glaring once at whumpee as he stood in the frame, "This isn't over."

Caretaker, however, shoved him out the rest of the way, flipping him off before they slammed the door in his face. "Yes, it is."

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whump drabble #whump scenario #whump prompt #protective caretaker #caretaker #caretaker rage #tw language #parental caretaker

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befuddled-calico-whump · 5 days ago

Text

Total $hit$how: The Wager

in which Jericho pursues secrets

cw: referenced threats, fear of/talk of death, violence, beating, intimate whumper, heavily implied/fade to black noncon

previous // Masterlist //

×~×~×

There were tools to be gathered before they could act. Jericho was glad for that; it gave him something to focus on until night fell, something besides the photos, besides Ari in bed and Marla beside her and some stranger outside the house, watching them. His chest tightened, throat constricting like someone was wrapping their hands around it, and he tried to divert his thoughts.

Tonight. He'd figure out how to fix this tonight. He remembered where the computer was, and he could probably figure out how to crack it quickly. It was old, from the era of minesweeper and desktop solitaire. Vic didn't seem interested in keeping up with technology that didn't directly help his work.

(---would he actually do it? Would he hurt them? Kill them? Ari was just a kid, why would he threaten a kid?)

Jericho physically cringed, as if his body was trying to jar him out of his mind, away from the worst-case-scenarios, and he sucked in through gritted teeth. They wouldn't let it happen, they wouldn't let it happen. Would it be better to play Vic's game? To sacrifice themselves and hope he kept his word?

Would it be enough to safeguard his family?

He didn't know, and that uncertainty pushed him towards trying. If they didn't find enough on Vic’s computer, they didn't have to go forward with this. But if they found something, they needed more than just verbal threats. They needed a weapon.

Sahota had used a micro-usb before, back on the mission that had gone wrong. Jericho knew there had to be more laying around the compound, and he'd set Benji to work on locating one. Meanwhile, Joy and Kaius were on the map-studying shift to throw off suspicion, and Jer was in the gym, jotting down notes on a scrap of paper between bench sets.

It was his job to carve a path into the computer, his job to find something and utilize it. He could still remember the folder Hunter had found. Untitled 1, all the odd videos tucked inside. Who knew if there would be more? Kaius had suggested a backup: along with the USB, they'd also schedule an email containing their findings, just to ensure it all got out there somehow. He didn't know who he'd address it to just yet. Maybe his entire contact list. All that mattered was threatening whatever secrets Vic held.

Once night fell, they'd find out exactly what those secrets were.

Once night fell, the game was on.

×~×~×

Third time's the charm.

Sneaking through the compound’s halls was practically a team bonding activity by now. Waiting until the end of the day had been agony, but somehow Jericho hadn't lost his mind, though the last few hours before they'd agreed to meet had been spent curled up in his bed, praying furiously and trying not to break down.

Benji had managed to snatch a USB, so at least one step of the plan was covered. Now for the rest… the variables felt endless. Vic could spot them in the hallway, he could be at his computer, he could wake up when they passed his room, but they had to try, didn't they? Even if he did catch them, would they really be so much worse off than they already were?

Maybe if he caught them, if they were forced to take the fall, not all of them would have to go down. Maybe just one would be enough to satisfy the machine. Benji already had a criminal record, and Joy had enemies who might go after her family if they saw her on the news. Jericho would make the most sense; he'd nearly been caught elbow-deep in corporate guts before, doing as much damage as he could. What was one more company on his list?

Their group made it to the corridor where their trainers stayed without any close calls. Benji and Joy had agreed to stand guard while Jer and Kaius tried their luck with the computer. Kaius had done investigative work before, and Jericho hoped he could offer better insight, find things that were incriminating. No, better than that, find something that would actually scare Vic to know they knew. Assuming such a thing was even possible. Tonight was one big gamble; a wager with their very lives as the betting prize. They had to find something, there had to be something.

It was surprisingly easy to crack Vic's login. Probably because he wasn't worried about software security within the physical security of his locked compound. Good. He'd call that good. Any other occasion, he'd feel guilty betraying the trust of someone who had brought them into their home, but all those feelings had become unreasonable the second those photos were taken.

He'd given Sahota a letter for his mom. Was that how Vic had found them? Was it his fault? It was his fault, wasn't it?

Stop. Stop, you're working. You're fixing it.

Jericho opened the file explorer with a soft exhale. Where to start? This would be easier with Hunter's supernatural directions. The thought of the younger man made him wince. What would happen to Hunter, if they blackmailed Vic? Of course Jericho would give him the chance to leave with them, but would he take it? He didn't want to think about that, not on top of all the other terrible possibilities, but the thought lingered, merging with his very movements like dye spreading through water.

Ari’d had a science project like that in kindergarten. Mixing primary colors to see what she could make. By the end of it, there was water everywhere, and the plastic cup was full of a muddy, murky green.

I don't really like that color very much, dad, let's try again.

Jericho felt like that overcolored water now, full of too many different dyes, clouding his thoughts, driving his focus to pieces.

Drop, Marla, Ari, Mom.

Drop, Me, Joy, Benji, Kaius.

Drop, Hunter.

Sahota.

Vic.

Whatever they found, it had to be enough. Everything hung in the balance.

“What do you think?” Jericho whispered, letting Kaius take the mouse and scroll through the various folders. The first batch of titles seemed straightforward. Mission Data, Logs, Expenses, Locations. A few were only acronyms, but Jericho could guess at what they contained. POI (persons of interest?), UD (useful documentation?). There was a lot they could potentially work with, but there was also… a lot. And they didn't have all night.

“If we're threatening governmental action, we need as much as we can find. Certain agencies let certain crimes slide if their asset is useful enough.” Kaius clicked the folder labelled UD. “Treasonous activity could be enough on its own, but we may not find anything of that degree.”

Jericho nodded, reaching past him to plug in the USB. “Guess we gotta keep our eyes peeled.”

They scanned each folder quickly, Jericho watching from over Kaius's shoulder. A few files made their way to the USB; foreign contacts, suspicious looking documents on people who were either CIA or former CIA, and a few files full of vague descriptions and decades-old dates.

But even if that was enough to turn the agencies against him, was it enough to get him off their backs right now?

“We need to keep looking.”

“I know.”

They'd already used up half an hour, according to the computer's clock. There hadn't been any alarm from the other two, but that didn't mean he wanted to sit around and risk it. They'd barely scratched the surface of what was here, but doing a thorough search would take hours, if not days.

Was it worth it to look for Untitled 1? It could be a waste of time, something important only to Vic, but Hunter had been pulled towards it before. Didn't that mean something?

“Here, let me.”

Kaius relinquished the mouse to Jer, scooting aside to let him drive for a bit. He was half expecting another wild goose chase, a plethora of Untitled 1s to sort through, hoping one of them gave them the tiniest scrap to work with.

But there was only one.

Jericho opened it.

Inside, he was greeted by the same video files as before, bottle, battery, switch, along with a few he'd failed to catch before Hunter clicked away. Gag. Needles. Knife.

“What's this?”

“I'm not sure. Hunter… Harbor found it when we were doing work for the mission. I feel like it's important.” One of the files, he realized, wasn't a video at all, instead standing out as the only PDF. And unlike the others, it was only labelled as Untitled Document.

He didn't want to open it. Something about this was just all kinds of wrong; he could feel the danger in his guts. But that was what they were looking for, wasn't it?

Jericho clicked the file, waited for it to load, held his breath and hoped it wouldn't be as bad as his instinct insisted.

The first page was a missing persons flyer, big red letters in bold across the top, little black rows of informational text running downwards, parallel to a photograph.

For a heavy moment, Jericho could only stare at it. He’d had moments like this before. Times where he was looking at something obvious, familiar, but his brain was short-circuiting, thoughts disconnected, disbelieving. A moment frozen in a prey-animal panic when he realized he was almost hit by a car, when the wires he'd been working on were live and he'd only gotten lucky. A moment of delayed recognition when Marla had an interview on the news about a new wing opening at the hospital.

This moment filled him with a sick mixture of both; bone-deep fear and familiarity all rolled into one.

The boy on the flyer was Sahota.

Kaius seemed locked in that same frozen silence, saying nothing, the quiet of the room ringing in their ears.

Sahota was smiling in the photo, looking so much younger, smaller, brighter. It was shot like the kind of picture used in a student ID. Beside it there was a number to call, a name. Drishti Sahota (Mother).

Jericho forced himself to breathe, scrolling deeper into the document and finding more of the same. Articles about where he was last seen, friends and coworkers speaking out about their concern, clues and hints that went nowhere. A sudden stop as the case went cold.

“It's possible he ran away, right?” The words tumbled out of their own accord, more of a self assurance than a genuine question. It was possible, but did he really believe it?

Kaius didn't answer. “What are the videos?” he asked.

Videos. There were still the videos. Jericho closed the PDF, hovering over the first video file. Bottle. What did it mean? He already knew it was something he didn't want to know, but he opened it anyway. Hit play.

The screen filled with a concrete room, a shelf lining one wall, a chair in the center, a person in the chair. He knew it was Sahota. God help him, it was Sahota. Their trainer, looking fifteen years younger, bruises and fear staining his face, small and uncertain in the ropes he was bound with.

Kaius was rigid beside him, hardly breathing, his eyes wide as they both took it in.

The boy on the screen straightened at the sound of a door opening, putting on his best attempt at a brave face and pointing it at the intruder. It was Vic. Of course, it was Vic. He was younger, less gray in his hair, but he was unmistakable in his movement, in his voice.

“Ten days,” the Vic on the screen said. “That's how long you'll have to tell me what I want to know. And every day you don't…” He laid a hand on the empty shelf. “We'll have something new to play with.”

Tell him..? Was Vic trying to get information from Sahota? Had that been the start of it all? A fleeting voice in his head was trying to be heard above a rush of panicked thoughts. It's only training, see? It's just like the fake interrogations we did last week. He ran away, that's all.

But even as he whispered it, hoped for it, his guts were coiling.

Jericho glanced at the timestamp. Forty-five minutes. “We can't finish this,” he said simply. What else was there to say? The image on the screen felt unreal.

Kaius said nothing, simply skipping forward. When the picture loaded, Sahota was on his stomach, legs still bound to the chair, hands still tied behind his back, Vic postured over him.

“Wait—” he said, but it was already playing.

“No, no, no, what are you—?”

Vic was holding him down, one hand fumbling with the boy's belt. “Shhh, I'll be as gentle as you let me.”

Jericho closed the video, nearly launching the mouse into the wall in his hurry, heart hammering in his throat. The image burned at the back of his eyelids, stomach pitching every time he blinked. Even now, his mind was trying to find reason in what he saw, unhelpful, laughable. Oh, it's okay, they're just playing, see? Everyone's okay, see?

Kaius was silent beside him, his expression unreadable as he took the mouse. Clicked another video.

“What are you—?”

“We need to know what's going on.”

Jericho’s eyes were glued to the desk as the audio started, his voice coming out uneven. “Is that not clear? He's… he was kidnapped.” It had to be said out loud. He couldn't let the side of his brain that was still sitting in shell-shock, still optimistic, tell him otherwise. He was kidnapped. And whatever Vic did to him didn't stop when Jericho closed the video.

“But why?” Kaius said. There was no emotion in his voice. “And why is he still here?”

Now wasn't the time. Knowing this much should be enough, they could just send these files in the email, couldn't they? They didn't need to keep watching. But his eyes trailed up anyway. Wager, this one was called.

It took a second to spot Sahota, huddled behind the door to the room, a knife in his hand. Naked. Shaking. Welts across his back and upper thighs. The door opened, and the shivering bundle of limbs became a blur, knife flashing out to sink into Vic's leg. The older man yelled, jerking away, but Sahota caught his leg, bringing him to his knees.

Jericho already knew how it would end, but that part of him still in denial dared to hope, adrenaline spilling into him, insisting he could make it, he could beat the bad guy and get away. But he already knew how it would end.

Sahota fell onto Vic, attacking him with the knife, but the older man was stronger. He caught each of the boy’s wrists, backing him into the wall, speaking to him in a low voice while Sahota cried and struggled. After a moment, the blade clattered to the ground, and Vic rewarded his captive with a blow to the stomach. He grabbed Sahota by the hair, throwing him into the center of the room with the ease of a man who truly didn't care how his victim landed.

“That was so brave of you,” Vic hissed. “So fucking courageous.”

Sahota tried to push himself up as the man rained vicious kicks onto him, grabbing his ankle and jerking him backwards when he tried to crawl away. Vic straddled him, mumbling something Jericho couldn't hear, then his fists rained down on the boy's face, again and again until he was senseless, eyes glazed, face bloody, no longer struggling as Vic rolled him onto his stomach, and—

“Turn it off.”

Kaius was quick to comply.

“This is enough,” Jericho said, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, squeezing the base of his dreads, trying to pull away from a moment that happened so long ago.

Did it keep happening?

Was it still happening?

“We should go.”

“One more,” Kaius said, in that same emotionless voice. He was honed in, still seeking answers. Would he be able to stop on his own? The mouse hovered over the last video. Knife.

“No,” Jericho said before he could start it. “No, we already know, Kaius. We already know.”

“We don't.” His teeth seemed to grit around the words. “This isn't just to use against Vic. Sahota is a part of this too. If we don't know how this ends… what's keeping him here? Did he choose it?”

“How could he choose? You saw him.” He was afraid, hurt, pleading with Vic. There was no choice there.

“There could be something Vic is using against him. We can't rush in if we don't know what could go wrong.”

Jericho dropped his gaze as Kaius opened the video, listened as he clicked through it, perhaps not wanting to see Sahota's hollow eyes, the unhealed wounds covering his too-thin body, Vic maneuvering him around.

The frame he landed on saw the boy on his knees before Vic, a heavy blade in the latter’s hand.

“...not a spy, Ander, but you could become one. I see your potential. Hell, I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but I've gotten a little attached to you. You can stay with me. Train under me.” He leveled the blade, angling its tip towards Ander's frozen form. “Or you can refuse my offer, and I'll slit your throat.”

Bastard. Jericho looked down again, unable to stomach the sheer terror in the boy's eyes.

“Wh-what happens if I–?”

“If you accept? I'll put you through hell, but you'll come out stronger. Accept, and you belong to me. You will follow every order. You won't so much as breathe without my say-so. But I will shape you into something great.”

God help them, God help them. This all felt like something they never should've seen, a peek into Sahota's memories, something private and vulnerable and painful. It all had to be for a reason, they had to do something about it. If Sahota was here against his will, if Vic…

Jericho clenched his jaw.

Why had he never run? Was he afraid? Did he think he couldn't?

Would he run now, if he knew they knew? Would he run if they only asked, if they promised they'd watch his back, keep him safe from Vic?

"You’re mine now,” the man on the screen interrupted his waterfall of thoughts. “If anyone but me touches you, I'll make them regret it, but if I touch you, you shut up and take it. Betraying Tom was your key to a better life, trust me, but if you betray me I'll make these last ten days look like a fucking tea party. Mhm?”

Kaius closed the media player. His face was stony as he transferred the video files onto the USB.

You're mine now.

All this time… was it any wonder Vic showed no concern for Sahota when he was willing to do something like this? Was it any wonder he'd let him be hurt during the mock interrogations? And Sahota was so obedient, never hesitated, did everything Vic asked, because he had no choice. He was a prisoner here, snared by Vic, just like they were, but worse. So much worse. The kid on the missing poster, the kid in the videos was young. Maybe not even out of his teens yet. How had Vic gotten him? How had they possibly crossed paths, what had Vic wanted with him? He knew Vic did top secret work, but what did Ander Sahota have to do with any of that?

Not a spy, but you could become one.

Was it all some brutal initiation? No, it was more than that, he was missing, he was crying in those videos, begging for it to stop. And in the end, he'd been given a choice. Join Vic, or die. A choice that was still in play, keeping him in line, keeping him coming back. His mother was listed on the flyer, was that Vic's chip against him? Was he keeping her under threat the same way he was with the rest of their families?

What does it matter, how he keeps him here? We need to do something.

The room was silent aside from the roar of the ancient computer, the scrape of the mouse as Kaius slid it over to him. They still had work to do, and as hard as it was to make himself move, just sitting here wasn't an option.

Jericho felt like he was on autopilot as he logged into his burner email. Drag the files in, address to the CIA tipline, to the FBI, to his church, to the damn local news. The files on Vic, pointing to his more scrutinizable acts, and any information they could compile on who he was. The video files. Jericho tried not to linger on their titles, a younger Sahota's cries ringing in his ears, building a pressure behind his eyes, in his throat, in his stomach.

He scheduled the email for three days from now. Plenty of time to delete it if they found another way. Hopefully enough of a threat that Vic would back down. His body felt like lead in the chair as he removed the USB and shut down the computer.

“It'll work,” he whispered, more to himself than to Kaius. “It needs to work.”

“We’ll need a second plan. In case it doesn't.”

The other man's response made him want to scream. It had to work. They had to get away from here, they had to bring Vic to justice, they had to help Sahota. Jericho took a deep breath. It didn't satisfy his lungs. Kaius was right. They couldn't stake everything on this, but what else could they do? They could force Vic to back down, or they could comply. Or…

“We may have to kill him,” Kaius spoke aloud what Jericho didn't want to think. “Do you think you could? If it came down to it?”

He wasn't a killer.

“Could you?”

Kaius's mouth tightened. “I want to believe I could. I don't know.”

Could he? If Vic tried to hurt one of them, could he? Joy was better with weapons, but Jericho was bigger, the only one who rivaled Vic in sheer size. If it came down to it, he'd have no choice, would he? He'd kill Vic, or he'd let someone else die, and both options ended with someone's blood on his hands.

He had to. He had to make that choice right now, tell himself that he would, or he knew he'd hesitate.

“If it does come to that, we'd all need to act together.” Vic was skilled, strong, but they could outnumber him. Unless Hunter—

Hunter.

A sharp sickness shot through him, memory of the video once again flooding his head. Vic was targeting Hunter, too. Jericho tried to go back to the meeting, tried to remember if the younger man had any new wounds. But those could be hidden. Hunter hadn't said anything to them, hadn't given them a secret look or come to them for help, but would he? He was dead set on staying with Vic, but was he stubborn enough to stay if Vic…

Would he let Vic hurt him like that? Had he already, while none of them were looking? Jericho couldn't rule it out, couldn't let the hopeful part of him speak over the part that was afraid, not now. What could they do, if Hunter had already seen this side of Vic and still chose him? If the worst had already happened, would continue to happen, but he refused to leave? Was it right to let him make that choice if it would kill him? Or would they have to drag him away, kicking and screaming, to save his life?

Let him listen, please just let him listen. It wasn't a choice Jericho wanted to make. He prayed he wouldn't have to.

He and Kaius left the room in a heavy silence. Judging by the way Benji looked at them when they entered the hall, something of what they'd witnessed must've reflected on their faces—and how could it not? How could they walk away smiling after that?

“Shit, what's wrong? Did you find—?”

Jericho hushed him. Not here, not in the open. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to be the one to tell him and Joy about Sahota, about what Vic did to him. It wasn't his to share. But they had to be aware of it. They had to be on the same page. They had to know that Hunter was in just as much danger as the rest of them, if not more.

“Let's go back to my room,” Jericho said under his breath, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

“We… we have a lot to talk about.”

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden ,

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa ,

@whumpcateyes , @clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000 ,

@neverthelass , @melpomenelamusa , @what-if-i-just-did

#RAHHHHHHH this took me so long askfhsjdjjs #this has been very anticipated and it's very -heavy- so i had to get it right #total$hit$how #past whump #tw noncon #tw abuse #captivity whump #kidnapping whump #Jericho says 'kid' but to clarify; sahota was 20 at the time. still very much a bb though

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macknus · 4 months ago

Text

Civilian x Crush kidnapped

TW: lady whump, lady whumpee, male whumpers, multiple whumpers, broken bones, kidnapping, kidnap whump, physical violence against a woman,

please be aware of the tags and don't engage if you don't like lady whump! Thank you :)

*~*~*~*~*

It was pouring out, Civilian realised with a groan, resting her forehead against the office window. “Another late night, Civilian?”

Civilian turned her head to see her crush stopped in the middle of the cubicle, his sweater draped over the crook of his elbow. He was just in his tee shirt that showed his defined arms.

That was just unfair, Civilian thought. Why does he have to have a nice face and body?

“Yeah. I’m trying to finish the report on the increase of Villain activity.”

Crush hummed with a nod and a pretty smile. “It seems we’re always the last two to leave,” said Crush.

“Probably because we have no lives,” Civilian said with a small laugh. Oh god she just said that. Out loud. To her crush. When he was probably gonna think she was a weird, boring loser now. Great. Perfect. And it started to rain heavier. Perfect. As if on cue.

To her utter surprise Crush laughed in reply, and not a forced laugh, like a proper, real one. Civilian could listen to that laugh all day.

“You don’t have to expose us like that, Civilian,” said Crush with a small shake of his head. He cleared his throat and then turned his body more towards Civilian. “Since we’re both workaholics and have no lives, how would you like to grab a drink with me?”

“Now?” Civilian asked, eyes going wide.

She looked like shit, and probably smelled like ink.

“Yeah. Now. Why not? I mean… like only if you want to…”

“Yeah, no. Now works,” said Civilian with a smile and Crush’s shoulders relaxed. Civilian quickly shut down her computer and started to gather her things before putting her jacket on and grabbing her crossbody bag before walking to Crush. He gestured towards the lifts and Civilian smiled and walked with him.

When they got into the lift, Crush pressed the ground floor button and the pair of them leaned against the back wall in silence.

Then they both tried to fill the silence at the same time.

“So what do—”

“This report you’re—”

Then they laughed and both said: “you go first.”

Civilian laughed again as a blush climbed Crush’s neck and coloured his cheeks pink. “I was asking,” Civilian continued. “What keeps you in so late every night?”

“Oh,” said Crush, then opened his mouth and a hesitant hum fell from his lips. His eyes almost nervous at Civilian’s question. “Okay, look. You can’t say it to anyone—”

“My lips are sealed,” said Civilian innocently, miming locking her mouth shut.

Crush smiled and leaned in closer to Civilian his voice dropping to a whisper, “you know the new guy? He covers politics…”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen him around,” said Civilian, eyes bright as she looked at Crush.

“Yeah. He is such a shit writer,” said Crush and Civilian let out a startled laugh. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I’m in late every night trying to fix it up and make it presentable.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Civilian with a grin. Crush laughed.

“No,” he agreed. “We must be very wicked.”

“Extremely,” said Civilian, then as the doors open, she looked straight ahead as she added, “I’m going to tell him what you said.”

“Ah no. You can’t do that! I’m supposed to be an unbiased editor.”

“Still,” Civilian teased. Crush grabbed Civilian’s arm, stopping her from going out into the cold wet night. Civilian looked at his hand then up at Crush as he pulled an umbrella from his bag. He stepped out first into the little roofed area and opened the umbrella, holding it high enough for them both to fit under.

Civilian said, “you’re so prepared.”

Crush shook his head. “I just listen to the weather after the news.”

“Then what surprise is left in life, Crush?”

Crush brought her to his local bar just down the road, The Public Domain. Crush told her that a lot of lawyers around the area come drink here too. Civilian smiled politely. Crush always had a good network of people that he trusted for his sources. It always seemed like a secret, and now that he was bringing Civilian here, it felt… well, like he was willing to share it with her.

The bar was buzzing with chatter and life. The smell of carpet dust and stale beer greeted their senses the moment they stepped into it. Crush held the door open with his foot, shaking the excess rain off the umbrella before closing it. He smiled slightly when he caught Civilian’s eye and nodded towards the bar. Civilian got the hint and walked up to it with him. The bar was quaint and bustling with patrons, chatting animatedly, laughter occasionally punctuating the conversations leaving a nice rhythmic lull to the pub.

The barman grinned when he saw Crush. “Another late night, Crush?”

Crush’s hand went to the nape of his neck and rubbed it bashfully, it endeared Civilian to him even more if that was possible.

“Yeah, you got me.”

“The usual?” the barman asked, and Crush smiled and said, “yes. A Guinness please and—” Crush said, looking back at Civilian. He leaned into the barman and held up two fingers. “Actually, two please.”

“Two Guinnesses,” said Crush again, and took out his wallet as did Civilian. Crush pushed her hand back and said: “put that away, I’m getting it. We’re here on my invitation.”

“Fine. I get the next round,” said Civilian.

Crush cocked an eyebrow at her. “So confident we’ll have another.”

“I’m just ensuring you know what you’re in for,” said Civilian with a wink. She thanked Crush for the drink, and they went to a small booth in the back. The conversation flowed easy, easier than Civilian flirting with him in the printer room. Or at the office offering to get Crush a coffee from the canteen because she was going anyway. It was better, more intimate.

The conversation got back to work on her third round of drinks and Crush’s smile was far better looking and almost irresistible. Civilian realised halfway through a story Crush was telling her of work that she could just reach over the table and crush her lips to his and all would be well.

His lips stopped moving, then turned up into a grin. “Civilian?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering when you got into current affairs?” Crush asked, his husky laugh making an appearance. Civilian blushed at being caught staring.

“Oh,” said Civilian, trying to think back to when she got interested in current events. “I mean… with all the Hero/ villain stories going around, and our paper not really being Pro or Anti Heroes I just wanted to start reporting the facts. As it happened, so people can witness the unbiased information, the before and after, and make up their own minds about it.”

“And?” Crush asked and Civilian let out a small laugh, lifting her hands in a shrug.

“And… Alice liked the idea and told me to handle the Hero–Villain side of things. It got a lot of positive feedback from our readers too.”

Crush leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. “But why were you interested in it to begin with?”

“I was reading about Hero and how good it is that we have them to help us and stop the Villains running around our city. Praising them to the brim, it was bordering on sycophantic…” Civilian trailed off, taking a sip of her Guinness. Crush smiled and reached over the table, wiping some of the foam off of Civilian’s upper lip with his thumb.

It was as if the world froze in that moment between them. Civilian’s heart stopped beating for a fleeting second that stretched into eternity. Crush retracted his hand and licked the foam from his thumb with a secretive smile.

Civilian’s face burned redder than cherries, her cheeks heating up. From all the drinking, Civilian told herself, not anything else. Not how hot Crush was, not at all… she barely noticed.

“And you didn’t like that?” Crush asked with his perfect knowing smile. He knew exactly what caused the blush covering Civilian’s face scarlet and continued on the conversation while they were distracted. As if he didn’t do anything at all.

Oh no Civilian loved that, she wanted to get more foam on her lip just so he could wipe it off again.

What were they talking about again? Oh god, she was making it so obvious. Think Civilian! Oh yes, Heroes and Villains, oh god, she was making it so obvious. Play it cool, Civilian.

SPEAK CIVILIAN! A voice screamed at her from the back of her mind, and she blushed again.

“No,” said Civilian, turning the clammy glass around in her hands. She continued thoughtfully, “I don’t like when things get shoved down my throat before I know what shit they’re shovelling. Turns out the Hero agency had donated a very generous sum to the publication and that’s why there was a sudden exposé on how good Heroes were.”

Crush sat back when Civilian stopped talking, a small hidden thing twinkling behind his smile. “What?” Civilian asked, cocking her brow.

“Nothing,” Crush said with his handsome smile.

“No what? What’s that smile for?”

“I just didn’t realise you were so passionate about Heroes and villains from reading your pieces. It’s… you’re very surprising, Civilian.”

Civilian bowed her head and Crush laughed, getting to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Civilian nodded, following Crush out of the booth then out the door to the pub. It had stopped raining. A sheen of water covering the streets the only remnant that it had ever rained. So, when water splashed on the pair of them from a passing car, they could do nothing but laugh.

That laugh got cut off as into a scream as something suddenly slammed into Crush. Civilian whirled a scream of horror in her throat. “Crush!”

Civilian was running after him, deeper into a side street, shoes splashing the puddles up her feet. At the bottom of the alley Civilian saw Crush engaged in a struggle with someone. Civilian pulled pepper spray from her bag and ran up on the pair.

Crush’s eyes found Civilian and widened as he yelled: “Civilian! No— ngh, run! Go!”

“Civilian, hmm?” Civilian turned on her heel, pepper spray aimed and ready at the newcomer, but her wrist was caught in the attacker’s hand, and he twisted it roughly. Civilian cried out, as her attacker twisted her wrist further and plucked the pepper spray from her hand with ease. Her only defence, tossed over his shoulder carelessly, the canister clinking against the ground and then rolling. “How lovely to make your acquaintance.”

Civilian’s eyes went hard, and she balled her hand into a fist. She found her centre in her feet, bending her knees slightly. Then twisted her whole body with the slap that she threw straight for the attacker’s cheek.

The attacker simply caught that wrist too, smiling down at her with a grin that exposed too many teeth. Civilian yanked her wrists down, trying to break free of his grip, but her attacker yanked her forward suddenly and Civilian stumbled, her balance thrown off. Her attacker spun her, so her back was to the attacker’s front, her arm twisted behind her back and pinned there. Then there was a gentle hand on her throat, holding her head up, and when Civilian tried to struggle the attacker lifted her captured arm higher. Civilian cried out.

“Crush. You might want to stop,” said the man holding Civilian. The scuffle came to a pause, Crush’s head lifting to see Civilian and whoever was holding her. His eyes narrowing at the person behind Civilian, but he stopped fighting, nonetheless. Then he got a punch to the face for good measure from his attacker.

“I think…” the man behind Civilian said, “we’re all going to go for a drive, hmm?”

“No,” said Civilian. They were in a public place. Her best weapon was her lungs. So, Civilian opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs: “Help! Help! FIRE! Somebody help us! Police! Ple-”

The coolness of a blade biting into her neck cut her off. “Keep screaming, they’re so pretty… but I would hate for my knife to slip…”

“Okay. Right Hand,” Crush said, glancing between Civilian and Right hand behind Civilian. “I’ll go with you, just… just let Civilian go.”

A rumbling chuckle from behind Civilian sent a shiver m down her spine. “Oh no, no, no, Crush. Civilian’s coming along to make sure you behave.”

Civilian’s blood went cold as she looked at Crush’s resolve shattering right in front of her eyes. She wanted to fight. She wanted Crush to fight. To try. To struggle to punch to do something…

“Henchmen take Crush, don’t worry. He won’t put up a fight,” Civilian was pushed forward, and she resisted. Her hand was twisted further up her back, and she winced as she was forced a stepped forward.

“Keep walking or I’ll break your arm, Civilian,” Right Hand said into Civilian’s ear. Civilian obeyed because what else could she do?

At the end of the alley there was a black car parked where they had come in. Which meant these guys had been following them… for how long? Right hand kept pushing Civilian forward and when they got to the car, he pushed Civilian into the backseat then slammed the door shut. They did the same to Crush on the other side and Civilian’s panicked eyes went to Crush who just whispered: “everything will be all right.”

“Why do I get the feeling you know these people?” Civilian whispered back. Her hand went to the door trying to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. Child locked, no doubt. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is going on? Crush opened his mouth to reply when the two front doors opened and their attackers, Henchman and Right hand, got into the front of the car.

Henchman was in the driver’s seat and took off, while Right Hand turned in his seat and smiled at Civilian. She couldn’t really tell his features from here. It was too dark. Did he have blue eyes? Or brown? And his hair… she’d need to remember something concrete to tell the police when she got free.

If they get free.

“Sorry to interrupt your date, Civilian.”

“Go fuck yourself, Right Hand,” Civilian said in reply. Right hand just laughed and stared forward again.

“You got a keeper there, Crush. You tell her who you are? Or does the little reporter want to figure it out all by herself?”

Civilian looked out her window, but it was all blacked out. She couldn’t even see her own reflection. Of course. Of fucking course.

Crush spoke next. “Right Hand, let Civilian go, okay? I’ll come willingly.”

“You’re coming willingly now, Crush.”

“For now,” Crush threatened, his voice taking on a completely different tone than Civilian was used to. Not in her wildest dreams would she imagine it was something Crush was capable of. He was always smiling, always kind and polite. That voice sent fear racing white hot through Civilian’s ears.

“Put your claws back in,” said Right Hand dismissively. “We’re almost there now anyways. Besides… you wouldn’t risk putting poor Civilian in danger by trying to stop the car and be a hero now, would you?”

Civilian glanced at Crush from the corner of her eye, her heart hammering in her chest but he wouldn’t look at her. Civilian put her hand out, resting it on the middle seat. Crush put his hand over hers, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing gently.

When the car stopped Henchman and Right Hand got out of the car. Civilian’s door opened first, and she was grabbed by the arm and pulled out. She looked into the face of Right Hand, who was still smiling down at her. She mustered up her best glare in return. Right Hand just pushed her in front of him again and told her to walk.

Civilian did just that, trying to take in everything around her. Figure out where they were but all she saw was a garage made of cinder bricks and concrete floors. Then a door opened to them, and Right Hand pushed her through. It just led to a larger room. A man stood at the opposite wall, his back to them as they entered. Right Hand’s grip tightened on Civilian’s arm when he felt Civilian almost stop.

“The prodigal son returns,” said Right Hand to the man ahead of them. Civilian looked over her shoulder, trying to find Crush, but a hand squeezed her cheeks and dragged her gaze to face forward again.

Crush spoke and Civilian’s head flooded with relief. He was still here. Civilian wasn’t alone. They were fine. He was fine.

“I’m not saying shit until you let Civilian go,” said Crush to the room. Then a grunt of pain and Civilian shot forward to help and was yanked back by her hair with a yelp.

The man finally turned to face the group and Civilian’s breath caught in her throat. That was Supervillain. That man was the Supervillain. Civilian and Crush were taken here to see Supervillain?! But then that means the person holding Civilian was… Right hand… Supervillain’s right hand. Civilian felt all the blood drain from her face as a small laugh sounded above her. Civilian took an involuntary step back, but just hit Right Hand’s chest.

“Oh, not so brave now, are we?” Right hand asked and Civilian couldn’t find it in herself to reply.

Supervillain approached them. Fine shoes clacking off concrete, echoing. Civilian didn’t dare breathe as Supervillain came closer and closer to her. Supervillain was taller than Civilian. Taller. Broader. Crueller. Instead of going to Crush he walked right up to Civilian and Right hand pushed her forward, letting go of her hair and arm.

Civilian felt very cold and exposed like this. She nearly missed Right Hand’s brutal hold on her. Supervillain looked down at her without a hint of an expression on his face. He looked almost alien. Cold.

Supervillain took Civilian’s hand in his and pulled it up as if to inspect it. Civilian let him. She hated herself for it, but Supervillain killed people, this wasn’t a time to be brave.

“You’ve been gone too long, Crush,” said Supervillain simply. His voice sent shivers down Civilian’s spine. Then Civilian was screaming, white hot pain burst behind her eyes as a resounding crack tore through her hand. Her legs went to jelly, and she wanted to be sick, but she just put her other hand out for support against the only other solid thing there: which happened to be Supervillain.

“LET HER GO! She has nothing to do with this!” Crush yelled. Distantly Civilian was aware of the scuffle behind her. That Crush was probably trying to get to her, but it didn’t matter because that wouldn’t stop the pain in her wrist from burning.

“Are you going to keep making demands, Crush? Because there are 206 bones in Civilian’s body, and I can break as many as you need to remind you of who has the power here.”

Civilian shivered at the threat. Or the pain. Or the shock. She didn’t know.

“Please…” Crush again. “Please let her go.”

“No,” said Supervillain, and Civilian wanted to throw up. She wasn’t sober enough to deal with this shit. A hand on her chin tilted her head up to look Supervillain in the eye. “Just a hairline fracture, my dear. Nothing to worry about. Right hand?”

Civilian felt Right hand’s hand on her shoulder again and she nearly sagged against him. “If Crush decides to make any more demands break something else of hers.”

“I won’t,” Crush said quickly, the words rushed out panicky and desperate. Then he cleared his throat and said again: “I won’t, sir.”

“Good,” said Supervillain, eyes going between the two of his captives. “Let’s begin again then, shall we?"

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deviant-doughnut · 5 months ago

Text

Augusnippets: Day Fourteen

Chosen Prompt: Protective Caretaker

CW: past violence; implied past non-con; non-con touch

“Get away from them,” bites Caretaker. All it took was a momentary glimpse, the party in full swing in the very next room. Whumpee’s birthday. They’d insisted they didn’t want celebrations, all that attention like a spotlight upon them. It’s been like that since The Incident, the one Whumpee has barely spoken of. They turned up one night, darkest hours of the morning, bloodied and bruised and trembling badly. Their knees had buckled in the doorway. Caretaker had urged them to come to the hospital, then respected them when they refused. Caretaker brought them clean clothes instead, stayed with them in the bathroom while the water ran red.

“He hurt me,” Whumpee said, as Caretaker towel dried their hair. “He made me…he…he hurt me.”

“Who?” Caretaker had whispered. “Who did this to you?” The question hung between them on the steam, and changed something in Whumpee forever. They’d smiled when they looked up at Caretaker then, a forced and terrible mask.

“Never mind,” they’d said. “It’s doesn’t matter now. I’m fine.” The haunting was plain in their bloodshot eyes, but they only repeated the insistence when Caretaker pressed them.

That’s how it’s been for the last four weeks.

Now Caretaker drifts past the kitchen doorway and sees two figures close together by the sink, water running like static. Whumpee pulling away, Caretaker’s best friend leaning into them as though magnetised, a hand on the small of their back. Whumpee makes a noise in their throat. It’s quiet, a strangled whimper that transports Caretaker back to the night Whumpee careened down onto his doorstep. That, coupled with the way his best friend laughs at the way Whumpee withdraws, how he follows their bodily recoil instead of easing away.

Caretaker’s blood sparks to magma in his veins. A rush of sheer anger sweeps through him.

“Get away from them.”

The air changes in the kitchen. Two sets of eyes snap quickly towards him. Whumper’s hand falls back to his side. Whumpee’s shoulders drop in relief. For a moment, a heaviness encases the three of them, the air thick with the tension of waiting to see who breaks it.

“I’m sorry, Caretaker,” says Whumper. “I didn’t want you to see that just yet. We were going to tell you soon, you know — about us.”

Whumpee’s lips part in horror. Their pallor turns instantly ashen. Caretaker’s heart pounds hard, his blood sparking hot with adrenaline. And the air is still, gone breathless and thin. Whumpee stares wordlessly at him, pleading and terrified. Whumper looks down at his shoes, and feigns an affected self consciousness. There’s three feet of distance between their bodies, the water still running behind them. Whumper reaches for Whumpee’s hand.

Whumpee whimpers, and Caretaker jolts into motion.

“Come here,” says Caretaker, but he’s moving already, crossing the kitchen with his teeth clenched together. Whumpee meets him halfway, arms open. They press themselves against Caretaker, cocooned instantly in the safety of his arms. And they tremble. They shake as though gripped by cold terror, and it stokes the flames of Caretaker’s anger further.

He glares across the room at Whumper.

“I should have known it was you,” Caretaker says. “You’ve been way too interested in them lately.”

“We’re in love,” Whumper tells him. He flashes a momentary tell, a half second of his lips quirking upwards. Caretaker grits his teeth so hard that he wonders if they’re going to crack.

“It was him,” Whumpee manages. They murmur it into Caretaker’s chest. They gather fistfuls of Caretaker’s shirt and they tell him what he needs to know. “He’s the one who…who hurt me.”

“I know, love,” Caretaker tells them. He strokes his hand down their spine. “You’re safe now. He’s leaving. We’re done with him, and he’s never coming near us again. Are you.”

He doesn’t say it like a question, and he doesn’t loosen his grip on Whumpee.

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

#augusnippets #augusnippets day 14 #whump writing #whump #protective caretaker

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justwhumptypethings · 5 months ago

Text

tw: heavy objectification, conditioning, torture, mention of limb death

art piece whumpee.

strung up and injured and hurt to look pretty and literally exist as an art piece in a gallery.

their arms are folded, intertwined with their legs so that their bony arm is twisted around their left leg, the other under the right, the right leg splayed out and upwards farther. their knuckles go red and their body suffers long term damage for being kept in a stress position like that for so long.

they lost feeling a long time ago. When they eat, they get spoonfed by one of the employees at the gallery. People gather around to watch and it becomes part of the art because the employee has to wear something that evokes whatever morbid image they think it’s displaying.

they get let out twice a day- before and after opening and closing- to use the bathroom, and otherwise they’re constantly strung up. their body is in a constant stress position, and both of their shoulders have been dislocated to achieve it for a long, long time. their vocal cords were also cut. whumper would have just cut their tongue, except they thought that had value to add to the piece, in whumpee licking their scabbed chapped lips, or getting their jaw pulled open. they decided to cut their vocal cords instead.

before they got strung up, they had to be turned into an art piece. Whumper scarred them to all hell, not trying to hurt them, but trying to evoke a certain image. their clothes aren’t normal clothes, obviously, they’re the type of thing you’d imagine on a statue. That type of revealing, robe-ish thing.

there’s a little plaque that sits on a stand next to them, with whumper’s name and credits to them, and the name of their website if any viewers want to buy one of their own to keep, and the title of the piece. not their given name, not the name their mother gave them- the title of the piece.

they’ve stopped being able to feel things a long time ago. They almost dislike when they’re let down, because it gives their body just enough time to recoordinate to normal gravity and walking before getting strung back up. they have to start the process of the initial blood rush, followed by the asleep feeling, followed by pain and then numbness. they haven’t been able to feel their feet or their fingers since training. if they do get rescued, they won’t be able to use either- their toes and fingers both look purple, almost black, from the blood- almost like bad hypothermia. it adds to the look. they think their fingers and toes might be dead.

whumper was looking for the type of look you see sometimes in old rennesiance oil paintings, but more tangible. whumpee’s body wasn’t the only thing they worked on- they looked through different types of bonds- ropes, chains, before finally landing on strings. whumpee is a proper art piece to whumper- they spent hours styling and changing whumpee’s clothes, if you could call it that. Whumper spent days sketching and thinking about ways to string up whumpee- which arm and leg should go where to achieve the most pain and blood flow block up, making their knuckles and every one of their bony joints red and swollen.

alternatively, art piece whumpee who’s heavily conditioned. they’re an art piece. that’s all they are. there’s nothing wrong with the way the viewers look at them or touch them or the mocking way they talk to them. they want to be a good art piece. that’s all they are.

human speech sounds garbled in their mind. somehow, whumper’s training managed to make whumpee unlearn language, all human language coming out strange and gibberish to them. they can’t communicate, can’t understand.

the strings are light and clear, and they give enough for whumpee to be able to move and change their position slightly, but they can’t get out. the strings are wrapped too tight around them, further affecting their circulation and biting into their flesh, leaving permeanant scars. the strings don’t give, despite how thin they are, they’re sturdy.

if whumpee does manage to get out of them, somehow, they’ll be decommissioned. A new living art piece will be up a couple months from now. they’ll hand in a heap on the floor, much too dizzy to get away from the security guards.

they’ve long stopped trying to fight it. They’re a touchable exhibit, and so people are allowed to pinch their cheeks and laugh when their eyes widen or touch them however they want as long as they don’t break their strings. People poke them in the sides and laugh when they flinch, looking over at them with terror.

they’re surrounded by objects- paintings and cloth and clay. Beautiful objects, human expression, but objects nonetheless. they’re left there after lights out, just like all the other art pieces, sitting in the dark for 15 hours surrounded by objects just like them until the next employee comes in to open at seven.

they’re the pride and joy of their exhibit.

#whump writing #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump tropes #conditioned whumpee #dehumanized whumpee #art piece whumpee #whump ideas #whump community #sedative whump #i had an image in my head #i love this one tbh

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mj-iza-writer · 9 months ago

Text

Warning: Forced self cannibalism and cannibalism. Wing mutilation and amputation.

Fresh blood trickled down Whumpee's back as they leaned weakly against a wall.

Moving hurt too much, even breathing felt like they were tearing their back apart more.

Their wings were the only thing Whumpee could think about.

The muscles that worked the wings sent shock waves of pain through Whumpee's back.

"It's like they're crying. They feel empty", Whumpee's breath hitched.

Their feathers scattered the floor around them. They had lost quite a few because of stress.... and nervous preening.

They shook as they reached for one of the feathers. Tears flooded their eyes as they cuddled it close.

Whumper carried a plate in and set it down by Whumpee.

"I thought you'd be hungry after losing that much blood", Whumper smirked, "just some leftovers from my dinner."

Whumpee side glanced the plate, "I'm not interested."

"Oh, come on, they taste really good", Whumper chuckled, "I didn't do anything to them. Those are from my plate. They're fresh to. You need something to eat to regain your strength."

Whumpee cautiously reached for the plate and grabbed a small piece of meat.

"Is this chicken?", Whumpee smelt it before taking a bite.

"Well, kind of", Whumper smirked, "it is wings from a bird like creature."

Whumpee stopped mid chew, "what?", they squealed.

"Your wings are delicious, aren't they?", Whumper laughed.

"I'm going to throw up", Whumpee threw the food away from them and leaned forward to puke.

The movements caused their back to tear open the scab that formed on their back. More blood oozed down.

"Why? Why did you cut them off?", Whumpee yelled.

"I was tired of trimming your feathers, and you fighting me. Plus I was hungry", Whumper picked up the plate, "you eat these or I force feed you. Your choice, my hard work making these won't go to waste."

Whumpee looked at the plate, "I can't eat my own wings. Please, don't make me."

"You didn't even take care of them. Look at all the feathers everywhere. You pulled them off yourself", Whumper yelled, "eat."

"You did this. You did all of this", Whumpee yelled back.

Whumper slapped Whumpee before picking up another piece of the meat and forcing Whumpee's mouth open.

Whumpee sobbed as they were forced to eat their own body.

Blood loss was getting to Whumpee. They thought they saw Caretaker opening the door and running to them.

Everything was blurry.

What was being said? Everything sounded like echoes.

"Who's there?", Whumpee jumped suddenly, "please no more, I'll be good. Don't touch me."

"It's Caretaker. Shh, it's Caretaker", someone held down Whumpee's hands, "don't fight. We are here to save you."

"Car-Caretaker?", Whumpee whispered, "Caretaker... you're here for me?"

"Yes, you are safe now", Caretaker stopped and rubbed Whumpee's head to comfort them.

"M-my wings, they cut off my wings", Whumpee cried and tried to bury their head in Caretaker's body, "they cut them and ate them. They forced me to eat them."

Caretaker sat on the ground to comfort Whumpee. They saw some pieces of bone that had been tossed away. Feathers were everywhere... Whumpee's feathers.

"I'm sorry Whumpee. I am truly sorry", Caretaker frowned as their friend shook, "I wish I could have found you sooner."

Emergency responders worked around them.

"Where is Whumper?", Whumpee looked up fearfully.

"They are being arrested", Caretaker soothed, "you are safe now. I finally found you."

"Could you grab some of my feathers so I can keep them", Whumpee asked as they were loaded onto a gurney.

"Of course I can do that", Caretaker comforted, "these nice people are taking you to the hospital. I will be there soon to help you okay."

"Okay", Whumpee nodded, "please don't forget me."

"I won't Whumpee. I promise."

Caretaker gathered several feathers of different sizes and color patterns.

They were shown the leftovers of Whumpee's wings.

"This is a nightmare", Caretaker sighed as they patted the wings gently, "this person is sick minded. They will pay for this."

Caretaker quietly watched Whumpee sleep.

They had had a busy few hours as the doctors had to carefully take care of Whumpee. Anything done wrong to the avian's back could be disastrous, especially if the wings were able to grow back.

Whumpee winced as their eyes opened.

Their eyes darted around the room. Their field of view was limited due to not wanting to move.

"Caretaker?", Whumpee whispered.

"I'm right here", Caretaker quickly knelt beside them, "right here."

"What's going on?", Whumpee frowned.

"You just got out of surgery, you were under for a few hours. You are resting now", Caretaker knelt beside them, "do you have any pain?"

"Not right now", Whumpee frowned, "is it bad?"

"It's not great", Caretaker sighed, "but the doctor believes if your wings do grow back, you shouldn't have any problems."

"Even if they grow back, it will be years before I have them the way they were", Whumpee felt a tear form in their eye, "do you think they'll grow back?", Whumpee whispered.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. An avian having their wings cut at the base doesn't normally happen", Caretaker sighed, "whatever happens I will help you get through or try my best to help."

Caretaker looked down, "I am so sorry I didn't get to you sooner. You were so hard to find and I know that isn't a good excuse. I'm sorry."

Whumpee weakly held out their hand to Caretaker.

Caretaker gently held it.

"You tried your hardest. I appreciate you saving me", Whumpee smiled weakly.

"Here is, uh", Caretaker quickly wiped a tear away, "your feathers you requested, I hope the ones I grabbed are okay."

"Thankyou", Whumpee reached for a feather.

"The leftover parts of your wings and the rest of your feathers are being taken care of by the Avian Society. I didn't know what was best for your wings and feathers, I hope it's okay I trusted them to the leaders", Caretaker sighed.

"That's okay, they will probably destroy them", Whumpee frowned, "I'll receive the cremated remains."

"Are you okay with that?", Caretaker made a concerned look.

"That's normal, because of what we are, most of our bodies are cremated.... unless it's an honored person. Some avians believe those people are gods and follow them", Whumpee sadly rubbed their feather across their face, "we don't want the bodies of our people to be dug up and studied in years to come."

Caretaker nodded, "I guess that makes sense", Caretaker glanced at Whumpee's back, "you should get some more rest."

"I feel like I've been hit by a bus... do you think I can eat yet? My last meal was my wings, and I don't want that to be the only thing in my stomach."

"Let me ask your nurse, and I'll go get you something if they allow it", Caretaker stood.

Caretaker came back into Whumpee's room, but was startled to see a few winged people in Whumpee's room. They figured it was part of the Avain Council.

They all glanced at Caretaker.

"Sorry, I'll come back when you are...", Caretaker knew they weren't exactly welcomed, they put up with Caretaker because of Whumpee.

"Wait, you are Caretaker right. You saved Whumpee?", someone stepped closer.

"Y-yes sir, I was able to find them. I wish I could have found them sooner though", Caretaker frowned as they looked at Whumpee.

"Please come in, you're a hero for saving them. Please eat", another invited.

"Oh this is for Whumpee, they were hungry", Caretaker started to walk to the bed.

"Ah yes, thankyou for feeding them", they stepped back to allow room for Caretaker.

Caretaker knelt beside the bed, after a second of Whumpee struggling Caretaker started to help them eat.

"Thankyou", Whumpee smiled after swallowing a mouthful.

"You're welcome Whumpee. I'd do anything for you", Caretaker smiled.

"The council will leave now and allow you to eat and rest. Please let us know if you need anything. We will happily provide you with anything you need", they started to leave, "we will also return the remains of your wings to you when you return to your home."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou for visiting me."

Caretaker sighed as they got up and sat down.

"I hope that was okay. I wasn't exactly sure what to say to them", Caretaker frowned, "I get nervous around them."

"You did good, I think they will be showing you a lot more respect after this", Whumpee smiled weakly, "I wish I had my wings to cover me up, I'm a little chilly."

"Though your wings are softer, I hope this will suffice", Caretaker pulled up a blanket and covered Whumpee.

"Yes thankyou, and thank...you", Whumpee yawned, "for the food."

"Your welcome Whumpee, get some rest. I won't leave you", Caretaker smiled as Whumpee's eyes slowly closed, "I promise."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots @whumpbump @everythingsscary @skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr @theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee @candleshopmenace @whumpanthems @lavndvrr @ivymyers @starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

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