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secretwhumplair · 6 days ago

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Destroyer - Sonar

hiii! flashback chapter, set before the emperor died. delta is about 14-15 years old here and simon is newly assigned to the handler position. they’re still sizing each other up.

i was so inspired by this prompt by @seth-whumps i wrote this as soon as i saw it

(Content: living weapon whumpee, minor whump, dehumanization, sensory overload, magical exhaustion, migraines, underage drinking, minor panic attack, implied past abuse, implied addiction)

Seven different shades of scarlet decorated the petals thrown onto the shale. The path led all the way down to the ocean, but that was not the direction he was led. He was brought further up the hill, into the pitched tents of the plaza, the radius that would encompass the whole of the festival.

Delta had known it was going to be a bad day as soon as he’d woken up. The migraine had come to him overnight — and had not gotten any better as the day progressed. He’d slogged through the exercises as best he could, the same as he would have any other day, without any hint to pace himself. He’d been about to limp back to his room to recover when he learned that respite was no longer in the agenda. Not until tonight. More likely, not until early the next morning.

This one was a new trial run, grid-based, over-active. The idea was just so abysmal, he couldn’t even justify it to himself. Threat detection. There was nothing he could do better than a radar already could. There was too much noise. And even if he had found anything, what was he meant to do about it? He wasn’t a sniper. It was more likely that he’d burn up a five meter radius in which no plants would ever grow again.

“I don’t…see the utility in this,” he said as much to Simon, quietly, careful not to let anyone else overhear. Even in private, he was cautious about that.

Simon took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of nose. Delta knew he was pushing it. It was his fifth time saying as much. He tried hard to keep any whininess out of his voice, any hint of a complaint, even thought that was clearly what it was. He just wanted to go home.

Now that they were on the grounds, the “You can tough it out, you’re strong,” suddenly became one hand on his shoulder with a bit too much pressure and a look that was all too serious for the circumstances.

“Listen to me,” Simon’s voice lowered. “You were given an order. It does not matter if you personally see the utility in it. Your role is to obey. You are not going to complain about it again. Are we clear?”

Delta rolled his shoulder back, which only caused the grip to tighten more, shaking him a bit. He looked down under the chastisement. He was always so sensitive to it, more than he should’ve been. He nodded.

Simon sighed, releasing him. Secretly, he agreed about it being a fruitless endeavor. He resented any initiative that seemed to treat Delta as a cost-cutting measure, as if all the effort that went into maintaining and operating him was simply expendable. It was insulting.

At the same time, he’d about had it with the whining. Despite his best efforts, he could feel his own annoyance growing as the sky darkened into night.

He’d been improperly briefed for the career change. It hadn’t taken him very long to realize that. When they had pitched it to him, they’d made it seem as though the psychic was nothing more than a an advanced piece of biotech, no more than a strange machine. Even after they’d met, Dr.Martino had insisted the same thing. He looks like a person, maybe, but you get no mileage out of treating him like one. He’s only used to commands. All the rest needn’t be bothered with.

What Simon really had not been briefed for was just how young he turned out to be.

He never could bring himself to handle him the way the doctor did. It made him feel itchy inside, unpleasant, shameful. All the efforts they went through to dehumanize him seemed unnecessary. Delta was polite and responsive, and seemed to react well to any courtesy shown to him. This was Simon’s default manner of treating him. He felt no need to alter it in order to make a different impression.

Though he was starting to get it now. Delta argued with him, in a way he never argued with anybody else. He’d gotten a bit too comfortable doing it. Simon caught the looks the doctor gave him whenever Delta had the nerve to talk back in his vicinity. Martino didn’t correct it for him, but the look spoke for itself. See how he mouths off, just as soon as you give him an inch?

For now, Delta only trudged silently beside him. The warning seemed to work well enough on its own.

Another firework went off — and with it, a sharp pang of pain throughout his skull. Delta covered his eyes with his hands. He wished he could do anything to block out the constant music, but he knew it’d run just as loud, well into the night. His head hurt so bad that it was making him nauseous.

He sent out another pulse and did not bother to suppress the quiet gasp of pain that it caused him. It was low enough that he doubted anyone could hear it but himself, but Simon did appear to take notice.

“You need more water, kiddo?” he offered. “Anything to eat?”

He nodded yes for water, no to food. He wouldn’t be able to keep it down. Though he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep the pills down either, he asked for aspirin. Simon indulged him.

He swallowed the tiny white pills down with the caffeinated beverage. It wouldn’t do much, but it was better than nothing. Delta turned his focus back to the crowd, as best he could. He didn’t even know what he was looking for anymore. The little node just by his temple recorded all the brainwaves diligently, but if Simon’s expression was anything to go by, they weren’t producing anything useful. He wasn’t happy with it either.

He decided to try his luck again.

“Simon, I don’t even need to be here.” His voice took on a high, whiny tone that embarrassed him even as he did it. He didn’t know where it came from. He wouldn’t have dared with Martino, certainly not with the Emperor. He was just tired. Everything hurt. He wanted to go home.

It was a mistake.

The binder slammed shut against the table, just as abruptly as he stood. The night was getting to Simon, too. He was too old to be staying out this late. He could do without the constant badgering, in that tone that Delta only ever seemed to reserve for him, because he knew he could get away with it. It was boundary testing. Of course it was. If he was going to push that hard, he was going to get a response.

Delta cringed back just as soon as stood, visibly caught off guard by it. Of course he was. He thought he could get away with anything.

Simon cupped Delta’s face in one hand, the same way he’d seen the doctor do to make him listen. Delta froze up instantly, staring back with an almost blank look on his face.

“Delta,” he said in low warning. Not one-oh-seven, which he’d also seen work. Just Delta should have been fine. He should know to respond to his own name, without any qualifiers.

“I can make this a lot worse for you,” he promised. “You know that. I don’t like being strict with you. But if you keep this up, I don’t even want to hear from you for the rest of the night. Do you understand?”

He hadn’t thought he’d gripped him that hard, but when he let go, what looked like the start of bruises had appeared on either side of his face. Delta shivered, which admittedly made him feel a little bad.

“Yes, sir,” Delta affirmed, which definitely made him feel worse. He tucked his chin back into his chest just as soon as he was able to, drawing his legs up protectively into the chair. He was quiet for a long while afterwards, seeming to take the conditional as a direct order for silence. Simon did not bother to correct him.

They changed to a different outpost throughout the night, trying out different vantage points for the sake of experiment. Delta was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that he had not been brought into the Emperor’s presence that night. It made him tense, always, but the idea that he had not wanted to see him made him feel even more nervous. He pushed the thought from his mind. He had to be overthinking it.

The pain had spread down from his head and now burned all along his neck and the start of his arms. He wanted to close his eyes and lay down so badly. He just needed the sound and the light to stop. It was unnatural for anything to be so loud and bright this time of night. He was so tired.

“Can I have more water, please, sir?” he asked quietly, with a new abundance of caution. But Simon’s compliance was immediate. And he trusted him enough to be left alone.

He was not left alone for very long. He startled a bit at the noise from behind him.

“Heyyyyyy.” Paris leaned over the banister, eyes half-lidded, with a half-cocked grin that didn’t sit well on his face. It was too early into the night for him to be as drunk as he was. Frankly, it was too early into his life. But no one was around to stop him.

“Your Highness,” Delta returned in bare minimum acknowledgment. He’d had to turn his back on the festival to do it, but the sixth sense could fill in the blanks while his eyes preoccupied. His pupils were almost invisible against the bright blue of the sclera, but Paris seemed to catch the once-over. He huffed in disappointment as he pulled himself up and over the railing.

“Fuck are you here for?” he asked with a very genuine bemusement. Even he knew it was pointless.

“…Radar,” Delta answered slowly. He didn’t think Paris would understand beyond that, if he even got that much.

This outlook point was not as secluded as the others had been, not half as guarded. Delta could hear not-so-distant voices, right on the story below him. All the noise made it hard to concentrate. There was too much motion to pick up.

“You look like shit,” Paris told him, which Delta did not know how to respond to. He was never really given the chance to. Paris pushed the nip into his hands before he could protest.

“Makes it easier.” He tried to wink, failed.

Delta very much doubted that, but he could tell Paris believed it. It was, as far as he could tell, a genuine peace offering. Paris jumped just as badly as he did when Simon abruptly re-entered.

“Oh,” the scientist said with a downright sinister contempt for the scene. He seemed to hesitate for a second, unsure which of them to confront first. He seemed to settle on Paris as a quicker target.

“Do you think your father is going to be happy to know you’ve tried to poison an asset worth more than his crown?”

“Fucking bite me,” Paris said with as much venom as he could manage. He was getting good at that. But he still slinked away quickly, disappearing back down the stairs, the opposite direction of the Emperor. Not taking his chances.

He left Delta holding the bottle.

Delta met Simon’s eyes. He immediately dropped the glass to the floor, unopened, as if it had burned him.

“And you? Is this your way of getting back at me? I didn’t let you have your own way, so the second I turn my back, you-“

“I’m sorry,” Delta said, feeling the awful pulse in his brain as he did so, the knot tying up in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to.”

Of course he wasn’t going to, he had a migraine, the alcohol would only make it worse. He felt an often suppressed frustration rising up within him. To his horror, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He’d been behaving and Simon hadn’t been listening and he didn’t know how it could “get worse”. He just wanted to sleep. His head hurt so badly, and the music didn’t stop, and he didn’t want to get hurt anymore. His vision blurred as he wiped furiously at his eyes.

“Okay. Woah. Okay,” Simon placed one hand on his shoulder, much gentler this time. Delta flinched away anyway. Everything hurt. He wanted to go home.

“I wasn’t going to,” he insisted, desperate. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted it to stop hurting.

“Okay. I believe you. I should’ve known, really.” Simon cast a disdainful look in the direction Paris had gone. He led Delta further from the stairs, sitting him back down in the chair. Delta was still shaking badly. He buried his face in his hands, trying to steady himself. He wasn’t really crying. His body tended to struggle against the act. But what he got instead was almost worse — muteness, convulsions, aches.

“You’re overstimulated,” Simon said, as if he hadn’t been trying to tell him that all night. “Here.”

He changed the setting on the collar. It constricted the powers further, cut off his sixth sense. It was something. It helped a little. Delta took a few ragged breaths. It was still too bright, too loud. He took the bottle that Simon pushed into his hands. He’d asked for water. He was even more in need of it now.

“Thank you, sir,” he said weakly, trying to regain some sense of composure. Martino would have beaten him bloody if he’d ever broken down like that in front of him. He waited nervously to see if Simon would do the same. It was still so loud.

“Poor thing. That really did take a lot out of you, didn’t it?” Simon frowned in sympathy.

Delta was so tired he could cry.

“Okay. Look, we can’t just leave, but you clearly can’t go on like this. I’ll find you somewhere quiet to lay down and then we can go back with the Emperor in an hour or so. Deal?” he asked.

He said Deal? Delta nodded, grateful that Simon was open to his input again, however minimal. It sounded better. He really didn’t think he could last much longer on the perch.

Delta said thank you, again, blearily, as he was led into the small backroom. It wasn’t soundproof, but it was dark, and quieter than it had been anywhere else. As tired as he was, he fell asleep easily, even with all the background noise.

He only perked up slightly when he realized he was being carried back to transit. He didn’t hold onto consciousness for long. When he finally did wake up, he was already back in his bedroom, with a now-lukewarm ice pack placed over his forehead.

In the end, the radar was deemed frivolous, and that experiment was never repeated.

~~~

tags:

@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

#whump #poor delta #simon. agh.#you KNOW in your heart of hearts you should do better

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secretwhumplair · 6 days ago

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"Just focus on your breathing. Yeah, good, like that."

Whumpee tries their best to stay in control. To collect themselves. To stop their mind from screaming at how wrong all this is. To ignore Whumper's hand still resting on the knife.

"In," while Whumper counts to three on his fingers, "and out." an other three seconds.

It's uncomfortable at first.

"In,"

Their body isn't used to the rhythm, their lungs fill up too fast and too shallow, and their exhales are accompanied by miserable noises forced out of their throat.

"Out."

But their breathing steadies slowly. Their body isn't shaking violently anymore, their hands aren't desperately grasping Whumper's shirt, their thoughts getting less and less jumbled.

"In."

They recoil at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Sitting in their captors lap, his hands running up and down their exposed back. The same hands that held him down and scarred him forever.

"Out."

They hate how despite this, they managed to calm down. For a moment of impossible peace, only their breaths exist, and the warmth they've been craving for so long.

"In." He says, tightening his grip on the knife.

Their mind switches back instantly as they notice the blade shift in Whumper's hand. With the swiftest movement, it's now held against their throat, threatening to cut if they dare exhale too early. Panic sets in once again, their heart rate rising with every painful second.

They close their eyes as their vision starts to go black. Their chest feels like it's about to burst from the pressure.

"Out." After what feels like several minutes, he finally commands.

Whumpee is only relieved for a moment, as they exhale, but it doesn't last long.

It's even worse this time. Their lungs burn. Their ears start to ring, and they feel their heart pounding in their throat. Black spots start appearing in the corner of their vision again, and they just can't help it. They reflexively suck in a small, hitched breath. They, of course, quickly realise just how big of a mistake that was.

Whumper pushes the knife harder against their throat, and as they try to squirm away, they're stopped by his hands firmly holding his back.

"You only breathe, when I say so. Do that again, and I might just go a lot deeper. Understood?"

Whumpee nods, only driving the knife further into his skin. Whumper grins at their desperate struggle not to breathe, panic growing with each second. Even when he moves the blade, they don't make a sound, only the slightest movement and a small twitch of his facial muscles.

"In."

A horrible gasp, on the verge of tears. They can't cry, that would surely be the end. They keep staring at the ceiling. It hurts so bad. Drops of sweat roll down his neck, mixing with the blood from the wound. Their hands start to go numb, either from clenching them too hard, or from the lack of oxygen. Just keep looking up. They let their mouth fall agape, closing their throat instead. Keep looking.

"Don't pass out."

The ceiling is spinning. Is there a fan? Or is that just a lamp?

It won't stop spinning. It's so bright.

Keep looking. Keep looking. Up.

"You can do it. A few more seconds."

Where is that sound coming from? A repetitive thump-thump-thump from afar. The kind of bass that reverberates in your whole body. Must be a concert somewhere.

Did they turn the lamp off-

"Out."

#whump #suffocation #MEAN >:)

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secretwhumplair · 7 days ago

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Destroyer Bonus - Glow

something lighter after the last update

@pumpkin-spice-whump sent an ask game about “best memories” w paris and delta and it made me sad because yeah there arent many! but there are a few. heres one of the softer ones. ft. drunk!Delta

(Content: living weapon whumpee, dehumanization, touch starved, implied physical abuse, alcohol, power imbalances, war mention, passing drugs mention)

“What do you mean they surrendered?” Paris’s phone charms clicked together as he paced up and down the hall. “When? Just now?”

Delta listened at the other end of the hall, taking careful notice of the silent pauses that marked it as a phone argument, not a normal argument. The former always disappointed him. He liked hearing both sides so he could figure out who to root for.

“Well what the fuck did I come here for then?” Paris’s voice was more whiny than angry this time. “We already unpacked!”

Most of the ship’s cargo had been emptied to set up a new base camp, most of the soldiers already occupied with its assembly. The relative vacancy of the ship made all sound echo within it.

He heard Paris curse, the call ending abruptly, and the footsteps approaching. Delta peeked out of the alcove he’d been hiding out in.

“Not on?” He mouthed.

Paris jumped back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He rolled his eyes.

“No, we’re not on,” he said. “I didn’t call you, did I?”

Paris shooed him away, even though he’d been there first. He was barely looking at him, all his attention still absorbed in the broken screen.

“Go to your room.”

He went to his room.

That was fine. He was never unhappy about cancellations. Even before his little moral doubts had started nagging at him, the work was hard on his body, even harder on his brain. He didn’t mind going back to his room. It meant he wouldn’t have to do anything today — and he was always so grateful for any rest.

He stared at the book he’d been reading until the room had grown so dark he could not see the pages. When he finally came to, it was pitch black outside the windows. He didn’t know how much time had passed. There came a knocking from out in the hallway.

The only light that came through to him was a thin line of orange beneath the door. Shadows crossed over it. He heard giggling, faintly. He didn’t bother to turn the lamp on before he opened it.

Sierra stood in the doorway, one hand flying to her mouth coyly as if to conceal her smile. She was flanked by her other handmaidens. Without the standard coifs and corsets, they were almost unrecognizable. They were dressed all in white, though the fabric of the gowns was frayed and torn at the edges. Their hair was undone in loose, messy curls.

“Hi Delta,” Sierra waved, then covered her mouth again in faux shyness. “We’re having a party, cause like, there’s nothing else to do here. We were wondering if you wanted to come out?”

He blinked, his head still foggy as he was emerging from the fantasy novel. He stared back at her tiredly and did not even consider the offer.

“I’m not allowed to leave the ship,” he said.

Sierra shook her head, smiling wider.

“Already asked. His Majesty said it’s alright.”

She slipped on the title, or she was being mean. Delta wasn’t convinced either way.

“He wouldn’t say that.”

She held up a small slip of paper.

𝒮𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈.

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓈 ♡

He went to tell Simon he was leaving, just to cover all his bases, but found his office empty. It was a total ghost ship. The girls hadn’t been lying. It seemed like everyone onboard had gone out to the encampment.

There seemed no better use for it, if they weren’t going to be fighting, if they weren’t leaving until tomorrow.

He followed them down the ramp, dressed more casually than he usually did for any “party” occasion, but still done up in the way they had liked. He didn’t argue.

He began to regret the easiness with which he had followed them as they walked past the groups of soldiers. He did not actually want to be near any of them if they were getting loaded, or even if they weren’t. They were too rough, too entitled. They thought he had to answer to them — and though he didn’t, he did not have the boldness to correct them. Not that they would’ve listened anyway.

But Sierra did not stop at the main camp, though some of the girls did peel off to see all the commotion. She led Delta and the others out on the knoll.

There was a crop of trees surrounding a stone pit. He watched her struggle to start a fire there before finally offering to do it himself, igniting the wood with electricity until it caught flame. He blushed at the cheers he got for that. It was nothing.

They had only taken him out as a toy. He had no misconceptions about that. He sat down in the spot where they’d indicated, keeping his posture straight so as not to throw off their machinations.

They talked amongst themselves while they worked. He caught the edges of their conversations, found none of it especially relevant but entertaining enough. It was more entertaining the more drinks they slipped into his hand. The girls seemed to get the same rebellious thrill out of his drunkenness that he got out of being drunk. Martino would’ve killed him if he knew. He drank in spite of, or maybe because of this.

He liked the way the night air felt against his skin. He was grateful to have experienced it before they made the return trip. As large as the ship was, it could easily become claustrophobic after enough time spent in deep space. It made him crazy, sometimes.

He flinched at the abruptness of the contact, then gradually relaxed underneath it. He was so unused to gentle touch. As the maid’s hand moved through his hair and down along his neck, he had to stop himself from leaning into it. It was hard for him to recognize anything as want, but in this, he came close. The touch was fleeting. It never lasted long.

They braided flowers into his hair, stopping every few minutes to check their progress.

He hadn’t realized Sierra had left until she reappeared. In the dark, their silhouettes all looked the same. She came back over the promenade. Paris tread casually beside her.

Delta tensed a bit, fearing Sierra’s permit had not actually been all-inclusive, that he was not actually supposed to be outside. But Paris didn’t look very shocked to see him. He tousled his hair absently as he passed behind him, made no other acknowledgment.

As usual, he followed Paris’s voice before any other sound. He couldn’t keep himself from listening in on their conversation, even if he wanted to.

“-not like it’s real. You’d know if it was.”

“It isn’t, though. I’ve always known it’s not real, that doesn’t make it any-“

“My brother used to get those. They gave him Ativan for it.”

“I tried that already.”

Another flower was braided into Delta’s hair. All the stars were out. The music carried over from the main camp, not deafening the way it must have been at its source, but pleasantly muted by the distance.

Paris held the bottle in his periphery, shaking it gently, like a lure. Delta took it. The prince’s attention immediately left him, did not wait to see his reaction. An offer, then, not an order. Delta drank it anyway.

It was only when Paris sat down by the other side of the fire that Delta noticed the laurel wreath woven into his hair. He’d never seen it before, did not know where he had found it.

“Hi,” Delta said, already very drunk.

“Hey,” Paris shrugged, more sober than he normally was this time of night.

Sierra was laying down on the other side of them, playing on her phone. There was no way she had a signal out here. She was feeding a virtual cat with blue pellets, watching the status bar go up.

“Do you remember when the Emperor first got you?”

He said the Emperor, instead of my father. Delta tried to remember if he’d ever said the word dad. At most, he would call him the old man, but it was stark and without any playfulness. It was accurate. The Emperor had been old, even when the two of them were just children. Too old not to have a succession plan.

Before Delta could respond, one of the maids snapped her fingers by his face. He turned around.

“Stay like that,” she said before blinding him with the camera’s flash. He stayed like that, holding still as she took a few more. The only experience he’d had with cameras was in clinical settings. He held the same indifferent expression he’d been coached to wear, which to be fair, was not very different from how he normally looked.

“Delete those,” Paris said without much passion. It was against protocol, but it was clear he didn’t really care either way. He turned his attention back to Delta. “That trick with the dragon. Can you still do it?”

He couldn’t believe he even remembered that. Delta had found it insanely gaudy at the time, even more so as his tastes had developed. He realized, a bit sadly, that the purchase anniversary was coming up. He wondered if they’d send a card.

“No.” Delta shook his head. It’d been a party trick, never repeated. “I couldn’t do it in the dark, anyway.”

At that same instant, the fireworks went off in the distance. Paris flinched, moving both hands protectively to the back of his skull like he anticipated an attack from behind. When none came, and there was only red and purple across the sky, his expression changed from embarrassment to annoyance and then eventually relief. The fireworks weren’t from their camp. They’d come from across the river. Not his responsibility.

Nobody else seemed to see him flinch, so Delta pretended not to either. His attention drifted back to the fireworks alone.

They were impressive for what they were. Nothing compared to the sheer shock and awe of the campaigns that could have just as easily lit up the sky that night. He could have spent all night trying to stop the bleeding from his mouth, the numb static in his hands. He was glad they’d surrendered. He knew that this was how he was meant to be used, what the Emperor had intended. The threat of destruction was almost more powerful than the carnage itself. He wished it could play out this way more often, without anyone actually having to die.

The case clanked noisily to the ground. Sierra knelt over top of it with her hands on her hips, before giddily prying off the lid.

The interior was bright with all the different paints held inside of it. They were some algae derivative, bioluminescent, glow-in-the-dark.

Sierra licked the tip of her paint brush. Her other hand moved to take Paris’s. He offered it without resistance, about as used to being handled by her as Delta was. Well, not quite as much.

In thin lines, she traced shapes over the back of his hand and along his wrists. She scooted closer to him to drag the brush along his cheekbone.

Delta hadn’t realized until then just how much the two of them resembled each other. Pale skin, light gold hair. But she looked more alive than he did. Paris took the brush from her.

As he watched Paris paint the dahlia in careful strokes along her cheek, Delta was overcome with the sense that none of them belonged here.

It passed quickly, the way it always did. It had to.

He startled a bit as Paris caught him looking. He couldn’t exactly hide his staring in the dark, both his eyes shining like headlights. He hadn’t meant to stare.

Paris quirked one eyebrow at him. He uncurled his hand, waiting a second. When he was met with no resistance, he finished the gesture, curling the fingers back inward. Here.

Delta arranged himself carefully in front of him, offering his wrist. Paris took it, readjusting his arm to have a better angle at the canvas. Like before, he was almost overwhelmed by the touch, so unused to any softness that he thought he might’ve just lost sensation.

The paint was more cool than he’d been expecting, like river clay. Pale green. Paris made the first marks with his fingers. They were loose ferns and vines. Soon after he switched back to the brush. It moved in smooth, tickling arcs. The old lines were cleaned up. New ones were drawn on more precisely.

Sierra had marked Paris in the traditional style, mostly roses and spirals along his veins. He’d done hers in the same way. The marks Paris left on Delta’s skin were different. He did not understand why they looked so familiar. After a few drunken seconds, he recognized them. He’d seen them scrawled out along the columns of the Imperial churches. They were bind runes. Protective sigils.

He flinched as his chin was tilted back up.

“Not gonna hurt you,” Paris said.

He was embarrassed that his flinch reflex had gotten so overactive, though frankly it was Paris’s fault. He didn’t sound annoyed though, or even particularly surprised. He had to have known it just as well.

Delta closed his eyes. The brush tip was slick against his face and not altogether unpleasant. Oddly gentle.

After a few strokes, Paris clicked his tongue in disappointment, “You’re already glowing.”

It was true. The glow wouldn’t stand out on him the way it would on the others. If anything, the paint might’ve blotted out the light from his freckles. But the color would show. He still wanted it.

Paris painted a few more lines beneath his eyes. His eyebrows were knit in concentration; he was taking this more seriously than he needed to. Even without seeing them, Delta could feel just how tight and tidy the lines were. It was a collection of five point stars.

While they’d been working, the other maids had done themselves up just the same, their practiced hands moving much quicker. The patterns they had drawn along their arms seemed to come to life as they moved amongst the flickering shadows.

Delta settled back against the tree. He finished out the last of the bottle. His skin felt strange and newly exposed, like the brush had cut him open. It’d still felt nice at the time.

He was drifting off. Everything was fading out into a pleasant haze. All he could focus on were the golden embers and the way they drifted upwards into the black sky.

“You kept him up past his bedtime,” he heard Paris chiding. It sounded like it was coming from very far away. Sierra giggled a bit in response, not unkindly.

“Can I…?” His own voice faded out. He asked out of politeness, but he did not feel it was something he had much control over anymore.

“You’re good.”

Delta fell asleep right there on the grass, wrapped up in the strange glow of night.

~~~

tags:

@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 @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

#awww #paris tousling delta's hair?#kind of patronizing but also pretty sweet #delta being so touch starved ahhhhh

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secretwhumplair · 7 days ago

Text

Caught Out

Crash Out AU

I have been alluding a lot to what would happen to Paris if he was caught, but I’ve never really established it in depth. It’s time. This is an AU where Paris is delivered straight to Nezu after the night of the Centurion.

To put it another way, this is a story in which Paris gets tortured to death. Dead dove.

This is non-canon.

(Content: torture, gore, self harm, broken bones, noncon drugging, referenced child abuse, humiliation, whipping, flaying, emeto, non-con body modification, attempted suicide, major character death, parental death, extreme angst)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He kicked the door again. It didn’t even have an exterior lock, he didn’t know how the fuck they’d trapped him in here. Three days worth of violence against it had not gotten it to budge. He could calculate the ships velocity just by glancing out the porthole. Three days nonstop — and there was not much time left.

He didn’t know what he intended to do when it was open, of course. Kill people. Kill everyone. Something like that. But his main objective was simply to not be trapped.

When the ship finally did stop, the door was still unmoved. It was okay, though. They’d locked him in his room. Everything he owned was inside of it. He’d inherited a weapons collection extending back several centuries. In spite of everything, his favorite was still the saber. He sat in front of the door and waited. When they did come, he would not make it easy for them. He promised himself he would not make it easy for them.

As he waited in front of the locked door, he began to feel very tired. It crept up slowly, but it dawned on him all at once.

“Fuck,” he said, accidentally taking in more of the air.

He threw the blanket down by the gap in the door, trying to seal off the entrance. It was too late, though. Enough of the chemical had gotten in. He blacked out.

He was high at a party. When was he not high at a party? Why did it have to be any different this time? It was a different kind of high.

They’d changed his clothes. He didn’t remember when. The ceremonial dress wasn’t comfortable even at the best of times. The starchness of the fabric was almost unbearable now.

Lights and colors. He was dimly aware of someone speaking to him. He walked away, irritated by the noise. He did not know where he was going.

They guards shooed him away from the doors, ushering him back towards the center of the hall. They have guns. He barely registered them. The music was too loud.

“Oh, there you are.” An old voice spoke close enough that he couldn’t ignore it.

Paris turned his head, It took too much effort. It took far too long.

“Enjoying the party?” Nezu asked him.

There was a gleam of gold. Corona Radiata. The imperial crown.

He was slowly remembering where he was.

Paris took a tentative step forward. It didn’t serve him well. He tripped over his own feet and was barely able to steady himself. He still did not break eye contact.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Paris whispered.

He pawed at Nezu’s chest weakly, the only way he could. He barely had the strength to curl his fingers. Nezu’s ruffled his hair affectionately, the same way he had when he was a child. And for a second, Paris was seven years old again, up too late at his dad’s party. His legs started to give out. Nezu lowered him gently to the floor just as the darkness settled in. It would be the last time he ever saw him.

He was so easy to wind up. The guards didn’t always make a habit of teasing the prisoners, but with him, the temptation was irresistible. The smallest things sent him into a fit.

It was abundantly clear just how badly he wanted to hurt them. It was abundantly clear just how badly he needed something to hurt. All he had was himself. There were scratches all up and down his arms from the way he’d been clawing at them. His hands were bruised from hitting the wall. He was yelling, constantly. They hadn’t even started with him yet and he was already bleeding and screaming all on his own accord.

He was in the middle of another fit just then, pacing the cell, cursing. Only stopping for sudden violence against the wall, on and off again. The screams of anger were suddenly interrupted by a sharp yelp of pain. The kicking stopped abruptly. He lowered himself to the ground.

“You just broke your toe, didn’t you? Fucking moron.”

Paris didn’t answer, clutching his head in between his arms. He gripped his own hair so tightly, they were sure he was going to rip it out.

He’d already been struck with about every standard implement you could imagine by the time he had turned fourteen. A long chain of behavioral issues had ensured that. When they stripped the jacket from his back, it felt almost nostalgic. He naïvely believed there would not be much difference.

He was wrong.

The bullwhip cut. It drew blood at the first lash — and each one after that too. Spiteful as they were, his teachers had at least told him in advance how many lashes he’d be getting. He’d been able to count them down.

He tried to keep count in his head this time. It was impossible to think around the pain. The whip came down again and again, so many times he’d lost track of it. Maybe it was better not knowing. He made all his soft sounds into the stone wall, proud that his voice never rose beyond it. He didn’t scream. He startled as blood suddenly dripped onto his face. It’d been running down his arm from where the rope had chafed into his wrist. He was losing too much blood too quickly. His spine had become slick with it.

The whip stopped. She undid the ropes at his wrists. He fell limply onto the cavern floor, lacking any more strength to hold himself up with. She grabbed his upper arms before he could fall onto his back. Instead, she pulled him forward onto the board. She poured water over the cuts, covering them up with antiseptic and cloth. They couldn’t have him dying this early.

He caught his first glimpse of her face. She was looking at him curiously. His blood stained her hands.

“I hate you,” he said. He still thought that meant something.

She ran her fingers over the scar, the place where the arrow had once pierced him. He shivered; the skin was sensitive there. In the cold, it was even worse.

“You know, this really wasn’t us,” she said quietly, “We had nothing to do with it.”

He believed her, but it was far too late to mean anything to him.

“I’ll kill you,” Paris said, “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” she promised him, “I’d be scared too.”

He shook his head.

“It almost looks like a star,” she observed, tracing the pattern with her nail. Without her even looking, as if it had a will of its own, her left hand retrieved the scalpel from the tray. Paris closed his eyes; he thought it might be easier that way. He found there was no difference at all.

He tried to be quiet when the blade entered him. It was the only time in his life he had ever tried to be quiet. She carved a perfect five point star into the skin around his scar. It was awful. Blood dripped from his lip from how hard he had bit down on it

“This has to come off now, okay?” she said.

He didn’t understand what she meant until she tilted the blade, sliding it in between his skin and the muscle it was meant to protect.

“I know. I know,” she shushed him. It did absolutely nothing to silence him. She didn’t stop until the whole shape detached, until she could hold the bloodied star in her hand, presenting it back to him like it was a great trophy.

“Leave me alone.” He backed further into the corner of his cell.

“I won’t lie to you Paris, it’s going to be bad today.” She stepped forward. Dainty. It was the only word he could think of. He missed Lorelai.

They had to drag him out in chains. He fought too much otherwise — and someone had decided he didn’t need any more drugs.

She didn’t strap him to the table this time, though. He was down on the ground. His arms extended up over his head, held in place by the manacles.

“It’ll be easier like this,” she promised, “Less blood loss.”

He got the message. Elevate the wound. He clenched his fist open and closed, trying to brace himself for it.

She had that fucking scalpel again.

He bore the initial cut gracefully, but there was no calming him down once he realized what she intended. It was one of the few times she had to gag him — and then, he was almost grateful he had something to bite.

The first ran the length from his wrist to his elbow. It was superficial. Just skin. The second traced the path of the manacle. The third mirrored its shape at the elbow. She loved to make shapes. It was the most she had ever taken from him. She angled the knife again, starting to separate the skin all along his forearm. It peeled off gradually, coming off like a stubborn sticker. He was so sure he would black out from pain. He so, so badly wished he would. But he was awake for all of it.

She pulled the gag from his mouth quickly, making sure he did not choke to death on his own bile.

Pieces of his skin laid out on the floor of his cell, cut into cutesy shapes. She took a little more each day. Mostly from his chest. Today, it’d been from his back. He moved delicately on the floor. Even though the open wounds had been bandaged, there was no way for him to lay down flat without putting pressure on them. Shifting his body at all stretched the skin taut, making the pain worse. He didn’t know why she left the skin in his cell. What the fuck was he supposed to do with it? It was disgusting. He wanted to kick the pieces off into the far corner, but he wouldn’t risk moving more than he had to.

Staying upright was exhausting in a different way. He ended up on his side, gazing idly at the guard posted to watch him. It was the same one everyday now. No one else could stand him, probably.

“Why don't you just kill me? You’re going to have to do it eventually,�� he sniffled, “Why not just do it now?”

“Because I don’t want a regicide charge, dumbass,” the guard retorted, leaning back against his gun. “Why is Nezu keeping me alive?” he clarified. His voice curdled around the name.

“I think,” the guard said, “it is because he doesn’t like you very much.”

It wasn’t funny. He turned over onto his other side, facing the wall.

“Aw, don’t get bitter. I’m just teasing.”

“Kill yourself,” Paris rasped.

“I thought you wanted me to kill you.”

“Both of us.”

“You’d like that?”

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely.”

“No.”

“I’ll do it,” the guard said, picking up his gun. He clicked the safety off, “You want it?”

Paris sat up. He did not need to glare. The expression was permanently fixed on his face. The hatred burned so deeply within him that it would’ve been visible all the way from space. He moved forward on his knees, leaning his forehead against the bars of the cell. The guard pressed the barrel in between his eyes. He didn’t flinch.

“Do it.” Paris said.

“Ask nicely.”

“Fucking do it.”

The guard laughed, clicking the safety back on. He shook his head.

“You can’t do it, can you? Not even to save your life. Wow. You’re really something.”

Paris laid back down, facing the wall again.

“Kneel,” she said.

He did. It took too much energy for him to stand. She attached the manacles around his wrists to bind him closely to the floor.

Someone else was in the room. He hadn’t even noticed before, the way the shadows covered them up. He still couldn’t see them well, but their silhouette was visible in the dark doorway. This jarred him greatly. He’d forgotten there was anybody else in the world but for him and her and the night guard. Something about an audience almost snapped him out of it.

He was so tired, though.

“Looky,” she said. He couldn’t even process what she was holding, a mess of metal and wire. She tilted it, slightly, and its form became more clear. It was in the shape of an animal head, some kind of wolf. Some weird art project.

He realized a bit belatedly that it was a mask.

He whips his head a little bit when she tries to force it on him, accidentally smacking his head into the metal. A small stream of blood poured out from his forehead. It was all he could offer in terms of resistance, and the blood only made the mask slide on easier. He flinched as part of the mask wrapped around his throat. She clicked the lock shut at the back of his neck. Oh. Collar. He felt funny. The metal weighed against his skin heavily.

The man came out of the shadows, taking a few tentative steps around his bound form. He had a camera in his hands. It was at this that Paris withdrew, though his options were limited. He looked away, not meeting the eye of the camera. He didn’t know if it was recording or not; he wasn’t going to speak if it was. He didn’t trust himself to.

“C’mon, pretty,” she cooed, “Look at me.”

She hooked a finger into the mask’s metal grate, tugging it so that he’d face her. He pulled back, cutting himself worse on the mask. He lost more blood.

“Shy now?” The man tsked in disapproval. He couldn’t catch his eyes. He tried to get better shots from different angles. Paris shifted his shoulder to avoid ever giving him anything clean. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She gripped the mask tighter, pulling it to look dead into the lens.

"What are you even scared of, Paris? Who do you think is going to see it? Your friends? Your family? There's no one left alive that cares about you. So what difference does it make?"

Her voice had a grotesque gentleness to it, like she really means to comfort him.

Hot, feverish tears ran down his cheeks. With the cage around his face, he couldn’t even wipe at them. They fell uninterrupted, continuously.

The camera flashed.

All he did was cry after that. He barely even noticed they were there. It took her too long to realize what was wrong with him; she almost felt bad. As she undid the manacle around his left wrist, it caught on the bandage. The tissue beneath was green.

He looked at her blearily, not understanding. She helped him up onto the table. He started to cry harder.

“I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home,” he muttered to himself. She doubted he even knew where he was when he was like this. She pressed her hand to his forehead. Burning.

“Mm tired. No more.” he murmured.

She took his arm, unwinding the bandages.

“No more today,” she promised, “You’re sick. Just gotta fix your arm.”

“I wanna die.” He tugged his arm back weakly, “Don’t fix. I wanna die.”

“No, no,” she hushed him, urging him still. “You’re not gonna die. It’s okay.”

She reached out to pet his hair. He’d always pulled away before. In the delirium, it was like he couldn’t even recognize her. He sobbed, leaning into the touch.

“Emperor said you had a volume problem.”

He was still coming out of the fever. He didn’t remember much of what had happened while he was under its influence. He didn’t understand what she was trying to say.

She stuck her tongue out.

His eyes widened.

“Wait. Wait, wait. Don’t. Wait. I’ll shut up. I won’t talk. Don’t. Don’t.”

His wrists were still bound up over his head. He ducked his chin into his chest protectively. She always left his face alone; he’d taken that for granted. He’d never thought of it as something he’d needed to protect.

“It’s not as painful as you’d expect,” she said, as if she knew personally.

“I don’t- please-,” he begged. His words were slurred; he was trying as best he could to speak without opening his mouth.

“This is from the top, Paris. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I don’t want this,” he said. He knew how stupid it sounded. He didn’t care.

“Just hold still, yeah? Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” She cupped his face, angling it up.

“I don’t want this,” he repeated. It was the last thing he ever said.

He never got all of the blood out of his mouth. The torturess had tried to cauterize it, but it still bled all day and all night. He had no way to tell her anymore.

He would never return from this. Deep down, he’d always known. But some small part of himself had been stupid enough to hope. It was dead now. It had been killed and replaced with the everpresent ring of fire that circled his head.

There was never any breeze inside the dungeon. It never felt like there was enough air.

Nevertheless, the breeze came and it carried the scent of rosehips. He looked up.

Though he knew it was impossible, he swore he could hear her voice. Something in the room was glowing. She was radiant, so bright it hurt to look at. He averted his eyes back down to the stone in reverence. His heart beat and beat.

It couldn’t be. He’d been dreaming again. He dreamed of her often. But something about this one had felt different. More real, somehow. More final. He knew who it was.

“Mom?” he mouthed.

And when he looked up again, the bars weren’t there anymore.

Delta twirled the ring around in his fingers, watching the way even the dim light played off of it. Sapphire. The dust had dulled its color, but the gem was just as sharp as he remembered. There were dark splotches along the inside of its band. He could not tell if it was dirt or blood. He put it on, briefly, then immediately took it back off. It had felt too macabre.

"…And all the graves are unmarked?" he asked.

Iza leaned back in the chair. Her boots rested up against the desk, which was clear except for the small box of jewelry. All around them, Galatea’s forces buzzed and busied themselves with the clean-up. The cavern smelled of iron and lemon.

“‘fraid so. We’re not gonna be able to do a mass excavation. The bodies are literally holding the walls up. If we tried to take them all out, the whole structure would collapse.”

She leaned back even further, smacking her hand onto the wall behind her. It made a soft thudding sound.

Delta examined the ring again. It was definitely blood.

“I’d still like to look, if that’s okay.”

The catacombs were directly adjacent to the chamber, then several stories below it. The tunnels encircled the entire dungeon. They’d had to dig out new spaces to make room. The newest ones were down in the lowest levels.

They didn’t need to carry a light. Delta cast a soft blue glow throughout the earthen corridors. He sent small pulses throughout the walls, feeling around for what he could. Though he’d been warned, he was still shocked at just how many bodies were packed inside of them. The sheer abundance of calcium. He couldn’t make out any differences amidst them; some of them were missing more parts than others, but they were all just bio-matter. There were no tells. It dawned on him that the trip might have been for nothing after all.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Iza nearly tripped over him.

“This one.”

Iza looked down at the indentation that he’d stopped by. It looked indistinguishable from all the others.

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“There’s a crown,” he said, kneeling down beside it. The gold was a lot denser than the surrounding dirt. He could feel its conductivity when he sent the pulse out. He could feel its shape.

Iza slid the shovel into the dust. The grave was not deep. It did not take long to unearth.

The body was surprisingly well preserved. Rot had set in at its edges, but not by much. They’d buried him in ceremonial dress, though the fabric was so worn and bloodied that it was impossible to make out the insignia. The whole front of his jacket had been carved out to reveal the soft and mutilated flesh of his torso. His left hand was wound in bandages, from the ends of his fingertips all the way up to his elbow.

Blood matted his hair. It had been blonde, once. Now it was forever stained a shade of light pink.

“Did it say how long they had him?” Delta stared unblinkingly. He had been dealing with corpses from an early age. Paris did not look dead.

“About fourteen months.”

“…He lived that long?” Delta’s voice was soft.

“Yeah. Tough, I guess.”

He almost looked peaceful. Delta’s eyes returned to the crown. He couldn’t understand why they had buried him with it. He’d never worn it in life. Without any conscious intention, he found himself reaching to remove it. It didn’t budge. He realized with a start that it had been melted onto his skin.

It wasn’t much of a funeral. Paris already had a burial plot back on Thales, but they had no contacts there. There’d be no way to deliver the body.

They settled on a closer, unaligned planet. Its landmass was mostly meadow. The soil there was soft and willing. The climate was mild.

He’d only told Apollo — and only because he couldn’t avoid it. Iza had come out of some odd sense of obligation, having been the one to unearth the body. It was just them and the priest.

“Are you gonna…say anything?” Apollo asked with a great deal of hesitation.

“What am I supposed to say?” Delta asked.

He got no response.

They started to lower the coffin into the blessed ground. It was another unmarked grave. That was the safest, they’d decided. The body was the least likely to be disturbed that way. It had been through enough.

…………

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

#whump #death #oh noooooo #there was literally no reason to do this. they could have just killed him #hnnghgh

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Tubes and Tines

#art

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Surrender

912 words | Royal arms (after Ainsel's main arc & The royal pet... both of which are as of writing this still missing significant chunks ^^;)

Content | Fear of death, fear of others' death, borderline mock execution, subjective failure, kneeling, humiliation, mention of: war/battle, battle injury

Notes | For anyone who missed it, Royal arms and The royal pet... have now been officially conjoined! And here we go!

Arracen is having a no good very bad day, and Idalis is showing his worse side, partly for reasons that shall be revealed!

Taglist | @whumpy-writings @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @newbornwhumperfly @whump-cravings @nicolepascaline @thegreatwhodini @neverthelass @wolfeyedwitch @onlybadendings @melancholy-in-the-morning @quietshae @whumpcreations @whumpydaydreams @whumpsy-daisy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @kixngiggles @tears-and-lilies @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

Arracen didn’t want to die.

He had hoped - and his older and wiser advisors had agreed with that hope - that this narrow valley would counteract the enemy’s numbers, that the steep slopes would hinder his cavalry.

But they were losing.

There was no denying they were losing. He had tried to protect his country and people, and he had failed.

He had finally started to feel like things were looking up after he returned home and negotiated a costly peace from Thobrinos, and now this unprovoked attack from another side shattered that precious safety - and he had failed.

He could have cried, but there wasn’t time. In the middle of the battlefield, he knew there was only one thing to do, in hopes the enemy would be gracious enough to accept it. Continuing on would only mean to throw more lives away.

There had been too many already. He had failed.

His heart hurt and his eyes stung and he was sore all over after weeks of intermittent fighting and there was a vicious cut bleeding down his arm and he called for a surrender.

He rode to the front, knowing in his bones he might be killed. Even if the surrender was accepted, even if - and he hoped so with all his heart - his troops were spared, he might be killed as the enemy king.

He didn’t want to die. His whole body was screaming to run away; Petal, of course, noticed, swishing his tail and tossing his head nervously, and Arracen had to give him a reassuring pat. »It’s okay,« he mumbled to the horse, or maybe to himself. »You’re going to be okay.« That much was true, he hoped. Everybody knew the enemy king loved his horses, and there was hope he would treat Petal well.

There had been so many hopes shattered.

Arracen didn’t want to die.

The fighting had indeed stopped when his officers signalled their surrender, and a drop of relief squeezed through the fear. At least. At least his soldiers wouldn’t be massacred because he had ordered their weapons down.

He hadn’t been sure. This king had been conquering whatever he liked for no reason other than he liked to, there was no telling if he would be merciful.

In truth, he wasn’t quite sure even now. Maybe the bloodbath was yet to happen, if he said or did the wrong thing.

The enemy king had come forward as well, flanked, like Arracen, only by his bodyguards. Arracen couldn’t make out much of the man’s face behind the helmet as he approached, but he imagined he could see the spark of excitement in the half-hidden eyes.

The enemy stopped first, requiring Arracen to come to him. Idalis. He should really stop thinking of him as the enemy, when the best outcome left was that he would become his liege, the country he had sworn to protect subject to his whims. And what would become of Lint and Nelisa?

He felt sick.

He moved closer, slow so as not to appear threatening, steady so as not to appear disrespectful, until Idalis raised a hand, and he stopped like a well-trained dog.

»Kneel.« Arracen could hear the smug smile in Idalis’ voice - as if this was only a game to him, as if he wasn’t taking everything Arracen loved - but there was something more dangerous underneath it, a hardness that only made him more afraid for his people. For his beloveds.

He could not hesitate. He swung off Petal, handing the reins to the head of his bodyguard, stepped forward, and dropped to his knees, pulling off his helmet.

It was so easy; he was exhausted and wounded and desperate.

It was the hardest thing he had done in his life. There was a plea stuck in his throat, for Lint and Nelisa and his whole people. And under it, a more cowardly plea for himself.

He didn’t want to die. He was only too aware how very reachable his neck was to Idalis’ sword now.

The enemy soldiers whispered and chuckled between themselves.

The field behind him was dead silent. He should probably say something; he owed them this much.

»Please spare my soldiers, they were faultless but for their loyalty to me.« His voice came out scratched up worse than his body.

»A grievous fault, all things considered.« The king spoke lightly, as if each word didn’t plunge into Arracen’s heart like an icy dagger. No. He had surrendered to save these people. If-

»We’ll see what can be done about it.« Still that awfully light tone, as if the matter wasn’t of much importance, as if they weren’t negotiating the lives of thousands.

The cold tip of the sword caught under Arracen’s chin, and his breath caught in his throat just the same.

He didn’t want to die. He wanted to hold Nelisa and Lint close and never let them go. He wanted to protect them and protect all. He wanted to be safe, just once.

He didn’t want to die.

Idalis tipped his chin up and forced him to look up at him.

Arracen was frozen. He was not yet dead, and that was all that mattered. When Idalis, after staring down at him for a moment, took his blade back, and without further ado ordered him taken away, and a pair of enemy soldiers grabbed him by the arms, Arracen felt nothing but a dizzying rush of relief.

But not for long.

#self reblog #the poll reminded me :D

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Ambushed - Character is taken by surprise by some kind of blitz attack, and are overpowered before they have a chance to fight back

Tricked - Character is tricked into going somewhere with their kidnapper, and by the time they realize with a sinking feeling what's happening it's too late

Self-sacrifice - Character hands themselves over willingly to save someone else (whether that other character is aware of this or not)

Defeated after a fight/battle - Character fights as hard as they can, but end up losing and are taken captive

Unaware - Character isn't even aware of the moment of kidnapping - they just wake up somewhere else (hopefully bound and gagged <3)

In plain sight - Character is forced to go with their kidnapper while no one around them realizes what's going on...maybe they're being threatened with a weapon, etc.

#poll #fight fight fight

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Note

17, 19, and 23 for... Hmm. Paris, Delta, and anyone else you want I am happy to know about anyone :D

yay :D including lorelai for comparison and cause i want to. i went in on this one prepare for long answer.

general tw for disordered eating and insensitive language around addiction

17.) What's your character like when they're nervous?

paris - oh so annoying. he is nervous basically all the time and is always operating on some level of mortal fear but when the feeling is elevated he just gets a lot more bossy and impatient. starts micromanaging. its hypervigilance and a way for him to try and regain a sense of control but its unbearable for everyone involved including himself.

delta - does not feel that nervous often, but feels it most while anticipating violence. there’s nothing he can do. he will flinch more easily and get quieter. in recovery, his nervous behavior actually mirrors paris a little bit! except its less trying to control other peoples actions its more directed inward and he will overwork himself.

lorelai - another one that does not really get nervous! she will get scared in the moment and she cant handle a lot of pain but on the day to day she is not an anxiety-prone person at all and has nerves of steel 😄. but nervousness for her also translates into irritation, she gets Pedantic and Cold.

19.) Is your character a picky eater?

basically no for all three of them. paris and delta are both kind of difficult about eating, but that’s more about like…. the act of it rather than the specific food, which i think “picky eater” implies. paris genuinely just struggles w eating at all because he is on stimulants. with delta it is more of a control thing and he can be realllllly stubborn about it. lorelai is healthier than them in that department, like she is in a lot of departments…!!! i feel like unfortunately body fascism models must exist in empire so she feeds into them on a baseline level but nothing exceptionally disordered.

23.) Describe your character in an unkind way, then describe them in a loving way.

*cracks knuckles*

UNKIND paris - violent methhead and a raging narcissist. took two decades for him to even briefly consider the needs of another person and even longer to even think about putting them above his own. abusive slaveowner. coward. own father could not stand him and did not want him to inherit the throne. his reign lasted two years which is among the shortest of any acting emperor if you can even call him that considering he was never actually coronated. bitch.

delta - mass murderer who was more content to hurt and control people weaker than him than he was to experience even a second of pain himself. took two decades for him to develop any sense of empathy. constantine’s favorite child. passive aggressive and egotistical and incapable of communicating. coward. plays league.

lorelai - extremely sheltered and stupid. zero sense of self preservation and terrible judgement. spoiled rich girl who is playing at being a revolutionary for her own sense of gratification and to make her own life more “exciting”. needs other people to feel important. needs to feel important. crybaby. surface level understanding of space marxism. probably manic right now. abruptly cavalier and inconsiderate.

LOVING

paris - extremely lonely and neglected child whose inner sense of conscience and resistance to brainwashing fundamentally alienated him from his peers and his culture. was fully aware of the evils of the system he was born into but very genuinely wished to right them and to make a world that was not quite so fucked up, still understood that this effort was not redemptive. was given an impossible task at the ripe age of 18 without any social support and managed to hold it together for two years. cares so fucking much and takes his responsibilities really really seriously. genuinely very intelligent and capable of being sweet and kind if his environment had ever allowed him to be 👍

delta - dealt the worst cards imaginable and still managed to be an overall very kind and patient person. extremely intelligent and intellectually curious, was an excellent student. diligent and competent and adaptable. started trying to improve and to redeem himself the very second he understood what he was doing was wrong and did so at his own peril. developed pragmatic approach to compassion despite being born without any innate sense of empathy and despite being repeatedly punished for any attempts to connect with other people. not anywhere near as spiteful or destructive as might have been justified. very well-adjusted after all he’s been through and trying very very hard to make up for the damage.

lorelai - also had all the cards stacked against her and easily could have been another evil imperial content to live off her family’s blood money but instead actively renounced it and gave it up. felt the same sense of alienation as a child but did not turn hateful because of it. extremely empathetic and understanding. very willing to extend grace to people and especially to people who might be considered evil or complicit and she for the most part manages to do so without excusing their actions. principled without being dogmatic. very personable on the whole and comes to be pretty competent and responsible when given an actual role to fill.

#love the descriptions #the fact that 'constantine's favourite child' is in itself part of the unkind description lol

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Destroyer - Mercy

(Masterlist)

(Content: panic attack, body horror, threat of dismemberment, crying, begging)

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

Delta wished he hadn’t done it. He had never wished for anything in his entire life. He had saved it all for now. He wished, more than anything, that he hadn’t done it.

The holding cell was strangely warm, giving the impression of being on the inside of some massive creature. He supposed he was close to the engine. There was no light in the room, no sound besides his own choked breathing noises. He didn’t understand what was happening to him physically and that yet it was all the stimulus had to think about. Despite the room’s warmth, he was shivering. Sweat was beading at his bare arms, an unwelcome moisture. He was losing fluid through his eyes too, though he didn’t think of this as crying, oddly enough. He ached where they had grabbed him, but he knew it was nothing compared to what would come next. It was almost funny how little all of this would matter soon. His life was over, he knew it. It’d been a good run, at least. Maybe. Well, not really. It didn’t matter.

The door slipped open, letting a thin line of light in. Delta didn’t move. He didn’t have to. They’d drag him, sure now that his movement must be restricted, that he couldn’t be let out of sight. And they did drag him, upwards, out the door. It scared him that he did not recognize the guards, but his fear was so overflowing by then that it made little difference. He barely looked up as they moved him down the hall of the Thorn. Maybe he should have. Maybe he’d never see it again. He realized, to his own shock, that he would probably miss it.

Another set of doors slid open. It was small, but it was unmistakably a throne room. The General Nezu and his counsel Chanyu Brooks were standing in attendance. Sitting on the throne, almost entirely obscured by shadows, was His Highness, Paris of Thales.

The guards threw him unceremoniously to the ground, scraping up his hands and knees. He straightened himself into a kneel immediately. General Nezu was standing over him, in his blind spot. It would not have been right, under ordinary circumstances, for an old man who did not have any claims to Delta to be presenting him back to his owner. But these were not ordinary circumstances. Nezu had caught him, fair and square. He had nobody to blame but himself.

He kept thinking, if he’d just waited until the ship was airborne, he might’ve had a chance. They couldn’t reasonably accuse him while they were hurtling through the depths of space. There’d be nowhere for him to go. But instead he had done it while they were docked on a sanctuary planet. It didn’t matter what he was trying to do. Paris would never, ever believe him. And even if he did, now he had to save face. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. In the eyes of the law, Delta had attempted escape.

“Your Highness,” General Nezu spoke, “This is quite a high caliber security risk. I’m astonished you’ve given Δ-107 such free reign to begin with. Your father was very specific in his demands that the weapon be contained within the controlled environment that the Institute had constructed for it. This is precisely the reason why.”

Delta didn’t look up, knowing preternaturally that if he did, the General would wrench his neck. His man, the Chanyu, went on in a mechanical fashion.

“I discovered it attempting to access the engineering console in the middle of the night. That is the system that controls all functions of the Thorn, including her passenger doors. It is my belief that Δ-107 was attempting to exit the ship without authorization and to take refuge on the planet below. Needless to say, even the attempt to take control of the ship constitutes an existential threat to not only the Empire but the galaxy at large.”

Delta winced. How had he been so careless? He’d been building up to this for weeks, but he had gotten too absorbed to even hear the footsteps down the hall. Maybe it was their irregularity that had escaped him. It was not the sound of anyone he’d been trained to look out for. If Paris had caught him, he might’ve been able to beg for mercy. If he begged well enough and the two of them were alone, he might’ve even received it. But Delta had been caught by Nezu’s men, the ones who were always chomping at the bit to take over. He’d made Paris look bad in front of his competition, which was about the worst thing you could do to him. Delta was pretty sure he’d never see the light of any sun ever again.

“Not to mention the danger to your legitimacy. I’d remind you, nowhere in your father’s will did it stipulate that Δ-107 should enter your possession. It would not be a hard right to challenge, if one was so inclined. For that reason, I’d recommend you address this situation swiftly and effectively. I have some suggestions of my own,” Nezu picked up where his man had left off, as if they had rehearsed.

Paris was silent, which Nezu took as a cue to continue.

“Are you familiar with The Damian Foundation?”

No. No. No. Delta felt bile rising up in his throat, his body shaking so much he was sure they all could see it. The voices rose up in an awful cacophony from the dredges of his memory. He saw their mutilated forms as if they were there with him, the limbs strung up, the eyes gouged out, the bones pushed through the skin to better attach to the metal grating.

“The standard procedure there is to just remove the offending limb. Here it would be the legs, if you want it to retain some degree of independence, the care needs would be lessened. But if you have the labor to spare — or if you would accept mine — quadruple amputation is also an option. They’ve learned to do it very safely. When the threat level is this high, I think it’d be appropriate to respond in kind.”

This isn’t happening. This is not fucking happening. No. No. No.

“All they really need is the brain, you know. The jarring tech is still experimental, but so far it’s very promising. Of course, its applications are not as flexible, but all the power is preserved and is able to be drawn from. We believe this is in your best interest, Your Highness. From your current position, there is nothing that is better left to chance.”

It was happening, though. In some sectors of the Empire, it was becoming the go-to solution for unruly psychics. It was a safe, intuitive way to get the energy out of someone who refused to give it up willingly. The other generals and their factions would surely agree this was a great compromise. Delta was going to pass out, which only made him panic worse, he’d be out and then when he’d wake up it would already be over. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive anymore, half convinced he had died in his sleep and was now stuck in a kind of hellish afterlife. He would be stuck forever, he was sure. God, he was so young, he would live forever like that, trapped in his own body, a body that had been-

“From my current position?” Paris asked.

The General stiffened.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to undermine my authority,” Paris said, a bit testy.

“Not at all, Your Highness. It’s si-“

“Did I give you permission to speak?”

Like that, silence filled the room. Paris took a deep breath.

“Thank you for the warning. It’s a very serious issue you’ve brought to my attention and so I will go over it with my own people. At no point did I request your advisement in the matter. I don’t appreciate you offering it unsolicited — and I don’t ever want to hear you suggest it again. Delta is mine. I’ll discipline him as I see fit.”

Silence. The General didn’t move an inch.

“If that’s all then, the two of you are dismissed. And in light of this security crisis, I think it’s best if you disembark as soon as possible. I’ll flag your ship right now.”

Like it pained him, General Nezu bowed out. The two of them left without saying goodbye, disappearing through the large doors of the throne room. The doors slammed shut violently, and then there was no sound at all.

Delta looked up. Paris’s face was hidden in the shade. He could not see his expression. Delta was still shaking badly, his skin a pallid color. He wouldn’t have been able to stand up if he was asked. He didn’t know if he could move at all, the animal terror rolling off him, the relief. The gratitude. It scared him. He’d never felt this way in all his life.

Paris pulled his own leg up onto the throne, rocking it gently.

“Well?” The prince asked.

“Thank you,” Delta said, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

He was crying. He hadn’t meant to. He was lower than he had been a second ago, closer to the ground, half bowing and half keeling from the exertion.

“Thank you,” Delta said and meant it. It shocked him how much he meant it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”

Paris didn’t say anything, letting him grovel or cry for as long as he needed to. It took a while. Paris closed his eyes. He was so tired. He held up a hand and the sobs quieted.

“Go to your room, Delta. I don’t even want to look at you right now,” Paris’s voice was deceptively calm, only the words revealing the anger beneath them.

Delta felt a rush of shame. Paris was still angry at him, of course. He always was. Why did it hurt so badly now?

~~~

Tags: @catnykit @indigoviolet311 @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @defire @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump @pumpkin-spice-whump

#hmmmm went back to this to remove my tbr tag for this series because I've in fact r'ed it #aughhh the first paragraph alone #whump #living weapon

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Destroyer (Vol. II) - of Pressure

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past abuse, conditioning, PTSD, comfort, caretaking, crying, power imbalances, collapse, angst)

On an industrial catwalk three stories beneath the surface, Delta was doing everything he could not to blow the entire compound apart. He was half crazy with fear — and with a world-ending, all-consuming guilt. He’d fucked up. He’d been unforgivably disrespectful. He’d used his powers, without permission, against his owner.

He’d be lucky if he was only beaten, whipped halfway to the bone. But the trespass was enough to justify far worse. To decommission him, make it so that he could never do a single thing for himself ever again. Cut out the tongue for good measure, just to make up for the tone he’d taken.

He gripped hard at the fabric of his own jacket, keeling forward as his balance was thrown. The room was spinning. He pressed his head to his own knee to anchor himself.

Why’d Paris have to go and cry? Why was he allowed? If Delta had ever dared to cry in front of another person, he’d have been torn apart for it, whatever punishment he was meant to take doubled. They would have eaten him alive. He hadn’t even hurt Paris, not really. Why’d he fucking cry?

How dare you speak to your superiors that way? Who do you think you are? Ungrateful, insolent-

The half that was not terrified was instead a dwindling void. Stones clattered down into the abyss. It hadn’t felt good. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. When did things ever feel good for him here? That had never been anyone’s priority.

Nobody cares how you feel about it.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, just when he thought he couldn’t sink any lower. He could have gone on like this indefinitely, dreading retribution, knowing full well he’d never do a thing to resist it. The light around him crackled, static settling against his skin so that it was almost numb. So that he might not even feel it when it came.

He flinched at the sound of footsteps. Apollo, wisely, did not touch him.

“Can I sit?” Apollo asked from a few paces behind him.

Delta nodded, not knowing why he’d bothered to ask. He didn’t know why he was still offered the ability to choose, given all he ever did was make the wrong ones. The walls still formed a vortex around him, the endolymph in his head swirling unpleasantly. He shouldn’t have tried to move.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered quietly.

The crying shut off like a tap as soon as he approached, though the effect could not have been that convincing. Delta was still shivering, still curled in on himself. But it was passable, surely, enough to spare him.

He was bracing himself to be hit, or at the very least to be reprimanded. As the silence drew on, he settled slightly. Apollo wasn’t looking at him head-on. Probably waiting for him to speak first.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing he said. He didn’t know exactly what he was sorry for this time — he couldn’t even narrow it down.

“You don’t have to apologize. That must have been really hard for you.”

It was hard. The sympathy embarrassed him. He almost would have preferred to be hurt. At least then, he’d still be held up to par, without tolerance or expectation of weakness. Of course it was hard, but he’d always been harder. Only diamond could cut diamond.

When Apollo didn’t indulge him, he dug his own claws in by his neck, doing his best to make it painful. Gently, Apollo pried his fingers away.

“They’re gone now,” he said softly. “We should be heading out too.”

There was a light urgency beneath his words. Delta interpreted it easily: They shouldn’t see you like this. It was true enough. He’d pulled rank on Mars and the others only hours ago. Falling apart in front of them was the last thing he needed. He nodded, offering another quiet apology as he worked to steady himself. The presence alone helped. The hand that had tried to draw blood was still held within Apollo’s. He found himself clinging to it, what felt like the only truly living thing for miles.

A lifetime of practice made it so that the pokerface returned to him with little effort. His expression dropped off into total blankness, a royal poise seeping back into his movements. He knew if they saw him as he left, he’d look more pissed off than anything else. And maybe they were right to see it. The rage played no small part in the end.

His body was rigged with caught tension as he made it out to the bay. Delta’s eyes scanned for any signs of life, the guarantee that they were truly gone, that they would not take him by surprise. He wasn’t so sure what he feared anymore, but whatever happened, he would have to be seen for it to begin. He wished to prevent even the catalyst. He wished nobody would ever look at him again.

There was no way he’d be able to drive. The ship he climbed into was not even Apollo’s, just some craft he must have borrowed for the midnight ride. Delta felt like a guest in it. He felt like a guest often, the recipient of other people’s good will. He was dependent on it. He was fucking ungrateful.

The both of them were silent for a long time, without even the radio to intersperse the empty air. Delta wouldn’t dare speak unless spoken to, no matter how badly he may have wanted to. He had to wait for Apollo to give him permission. He was surprised by how long it took to prompt.

“Did you tell her?” Apollo asked finally.

This gave Delta pause. He took a moment to decipher which her he could have meant. There had been something like self-consciousness in the question, which was his main clue.

“No, sir.” His hands combed through his hair again, preening. He hadn’t told Kitty. And if word had reached her anyway, she certainly would have been in touch by now.

“Why not? She would probably want to know,” Apollo said gently, but with the insecurity diminished.

“I don’t want her to be mad at me,” he mouthed. “She’s going to think I’m fucking stupid. Because I am. You think so too.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Apollo argued immediately. “I would never think that. You’re brilliant. Everyone knows you’re a genius.”

“I’m a fucking moron,” Delta said, with too much venom. His voice softened exponentially to apologize. “I’m sorry.”

He rubbed at his temple, taking a minute to recompose. His voice was still soft when he spoke again.

“…I shouldn’t have done that though, right? I should’ve killed him. I shouldn’t have shown myself. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so sorry.”

Apollo’s tongue clicked softly, a sound Delta probably wasn’t meant to hear. “I don’t think you should have talked to him. But I don’t think you’re stupid for it. I’m not mad at you for it. No one is mad at you.”

Delta sat still in the silence. Without really thinking about it, he leaned forward in the chair, reaching over to the radio. It took a few moments before the other line picked up.

DELTA: its me.

LEVON: Status?

DELTA: …coherent.

LEVON: And the prince?

DELTA: …alive.

DELTA: i let him go.

LEVON: Sorry?

DELTA: i let him go, sir.

LEVON: You what?

LEVON: Really? After all that?

LEVON: You were about ready to mutiny a few days ago. I thought it was a sure thing.

DELTA: i know. im sorry.

DELTA: i couldnt do it

LEVON: Nobody said it had to be you. That’s just what you demanded. If you need someone else to take the shot, we could have arranged it.

DELTA: no

DELTA: i let him go

LEVON: And you stand by that?

DELTA: yes sir

LEVON: Ok.

LEVON: So it was never about justice.

LEVON: It was about you getting what you want.

DELTA: i never get what i want

LEVON: Delta.

LEVON: Give it a rest.

Hours later, Delta was kneeling upon the jewel-toned carpet. His head was bowed low, long strands of black hair concealing his face. He hardly had to think about how best to show repentance. Even after all this time, his body moved without conscious effort, as if it knew best how to protect him. All he knew was appeasement. He’d have let himself be beaten bloody if he thought it would help.

“Get up,” Levon said. Exasperation tinted his voice. There was no threat behind it, but it still sent a small chill down Delta’s spine. A few years ago, the most common reason he was told to get up was just so that he could be kicked back down.

He couldn’t bring himself to stand, but he straightened out enough to bring his eyes back up.

Levon leaned against the edge of the desk, each item upon him as black as the night. They were alone in the space. Delta would have been humiliated to have anyone else bear witness, though he still might have preferred it to being alone.

“Get up.” The command was repeated.

Delta’s hands fidgeted between one another, head bowed again. He mouthed the apology, soft but certainly audible. He didn’t move off of the floor.

“Delta.”

A sudden, dangerous edge emerged in his voice. He stepped forward as he spoke, and Delta could not help but to scan the movement. He got the overwhelming sense that his good will had finally run out, that maybe this was the time that he would actually hurt him for it. He braced himself for the kick.

Like always, it didn’t come. Slowly, shamefully, Delta rose to stand.

“You let him go,” Delta said. He didn’t know where he’d found the gall. “What did I do wrong?”

“When I let him go, I didn’t inform him that his superweapon was alive.”

“…You said it was my choice.”

“It was obvious you meant to kill him.”

“But I didn’t say that.”

Levon scoffed: “You people are worse than the devil. I’ll never work with any of you again if it’s not in writing. I can’t keep putting up with this.”

Delta looked down, fidgeting with his sleeve a little bit. “Can you forgive me?”

“I- Delta, that has nothing to do with it. It’s not about me being mad at you, it’s a matter of your safety and everyone else’s. That’s the issue. I’m trying to think.”

Yeah. That made sense. Delta bit at his nails anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, yes, I know I created a new hazard. But I genuinely don’t think anything will come of it. He’s been humiliated enough. He doesn’t have any resources. Even if he had me, he couldn’t rebound from this. And he doesn’t have me. I can defend myself.”

“You’re sure about that?” Levon tilted his head. “Because that’s what’s on the line here. You want to place your own life in his hands — well, you already have. But if he snitches, and if they come looking for you because of it, I am not helping. The policy has always been to kill you before letting you be recaptured. Don’t think that’s changed.”

“I wouldn’t want it to,” Delta answered immediately. “If you doubt me, you can kill me. I won’t fight. I owe you that.”

It pacified him. It might’ve pacified both of them. Delta found something almost comforting in the thought of offering up his own life to somebody else’s judgement, at finding himself at someone else’s mercy. He’d just done it twofold, twice in one night. There was something nice about surrendering the responsibility.

Levon tsked, and notably did not kill him. He turned to cross the room again, sinking back from the confrontation.

“It’s your life,” he conceded. “Your risk. Do what you will.”

Mercy. It felt like absolution, and all the sting that carried with it. Visions burned brightly through his head, time flattening and folding in the shape of a knife. Did he even want to be spared?

All at once, he felt sure he might faint. It took all the power he still had to prevent it. He fell to his knees again. For a second, Levon opened his mouth again, undoubtedly to scold him. But it melded off into a soft “Oh” of concern before any other words could get out.

It was too late to catch him, clearly, and it was certain that bruises would be forming along his legs. There was little to do for him by the time he’d actually collapsed. Levon seemed more alarmed by it than he did, far less acquainted with the sight. At least this one had been bloodless. Still, there was a hand by his shoulder, the light “Easy” before he could descend any further. The back of his hand pressed against Delta’s forehead in an almost paternal gesture. Despite the pain, Delta leaned into it.

“Am I dismissed?” he muttered. He did not know if he meant to be petty or not, whether he wanted a yes or no.

“…Yeah. You should rest. Blood pressure’s low.” Levon didn’t take the bait, if he had meant to keep fighting. Delta still clung to his hand for support to stand, but once he was upright, he was more than ready to end things.

With his fingers already brushing the doorknob, Levon called out to him again.

“What’d you say to him?” the captain asked.

Delta sighed lightly, shrugging his shoulders. He thought about it for a second. He wished he had a better answer, something to justify the breach. None came.

“Nothing meaningful,” he admitted.

He didn’t go back to his own room. Instead, he trekked a few floors down, palming the rail for support as he did. In truth, this path was still more distinct in his head than the current one. It felt safe in a way nothing else ever had.

The sun would be rising soon, but there were a few good hours until daybreak. He tapped lightly at the door, before slumping with exhaustion against the frame of it. It didn’t take long for the entrance to crack open.

Olive eyes peered out from the darkness, like they had the first time she’d set sights on him. This time, they were both bleary with exhaustion.

“Can I come in?” Delta asked quietly. “Please?”

Kitty nodded, yawning so that her fangs exposed like a threat display. The door opened enough to let him in, then snapped shut just the same as her jaws did.

He wouldn’t tell her. Not tonight, when she was barely conscious, when he could barely stay awake. This could be the last night of peace before she found out. Instead, all his effort went into stripping the jacket off, tying his hair back quickly to keep it out of the way.

“Something go down?” she guessed anyway, eyes closed.

“Mhm.” He nodded, which she couldn’t see, before settling down beside her. She pulled him in tighter, familiar with where he’d be. He was already on the verge of the tears all night. The gesture brought him closer than ever. But just as he thought he was getting there, he’d already fallen asleep.

~~~

tags:

@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 @sacredwrath

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump @fuckclimatechange

@jumpywhumpywriter @sir-fenris @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas-whumps @toyybox @c0zy-drag0n @half-duck

#whump #augh #that went. aughgh

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Destroyer (Vol. II) - Collection

(Content: whumper turned whumpee, GUILT, rescue, comfort, crying, emotional whump, shock collar, self hatred, vague suicidal ideation)

When they finally did come to get him, Paris was still crying inconsolably on the frozen tile. He hadn’t gotten up from his knees, had not managed to pry his hands away from his eyes, as if that might dam up the sheer cascade of it. He couldn’t see through his tears. He could barely breathe around it. Delta had walked out a long time ago, but the phantom pressure remained against his neck, right above the collar. Right where he would’ve-

Inconsolable, again. Another cold shock ran through him, not even from the collar. His body was trying to self-destruct. He’d let it.

When the door opened again, he almost didn’t recognize her.

“Hey.” Lorelai bent down onto the tile beside him. There were soft, plum-colored bruises visible on her knees, right below where her dress hemmed. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, and it was all pressure there too, not even grasping so much as working against his own resistance. “Hey, hey, hey. Come on. We’re leaving. We need to go.”

As if it mattered at all. He shook his head in protest, but his words couldn’t match it.

“He-“ Paris’s voice broke on the first syllable.

“We have to go,” Lorelai repeated, gentle and unrelenting. She placed her hand on his upper arm, a grip he could not wrench himself out of, though he tried. Someone else was pulling at him now too, he hardly cared who it was. Paris pulled back repeatedly, hardly noticing or caring how little effect it was having.

“No. No, I can’t. I can’t. I - You don’t understand, I-“

And how could she? How could anyone?

“He’s alive. I need to-“

What?

“Paris, he doesn’t want to see you,” Lorelai said softly.

“I can’t-“

He could not do a single goddamn thing but let himself be led out. He was vaguely aware of Mars sulking in his peripheral, of the medic fretting at his left. Delta was gone. There was no talk. If there had been, it’d been over his head. They’d waited until the last possible second to collect him. With the state he was in, it was easy to see why. He was in no rush to collect himself, either.

Vi said something to him, which he didn’t hear. She’d come from somewhere, which he could barely even process. Barely cognizant of his own surroundings, he was no better off in the ship’s backseat, the enormity of his emotion consuming him entirely.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. The word rang through his head like a bell. He’s alive and I

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded. Lorelai was next to him, combing her fingers through his tangled hair, and so he guessed he meant it for her. He meant it for something else. It was too deep to see the bottom of. “I’m sorry.”

Had she even heard him? He hadn’t stopped crying, even now, however long it had been in the ship. Vi was still talking. Someone else’s voice came in over the radio. Lorelai had answered, her voice clearer than the others, but still too clouded for him to make sense of. He was hardly there himself, his own senses slipping back the years, so that the blood in his mouth tasted like iron. He wasn’t there at all.

Something broke. A critical sense of time, or his ability to perceive the world. Paris had blocked out most of the journey, unsure if he’d even been conscious or not — if he had been, he didn’t know when he’d woken up. His awareness was gained gradually, without him able to pinpoint how it’d began.

His head was in Lorelai’s lap. He watched in a daze as the stars flew past them in the windows. Not fast enough to streak, but still blurry, incandescent. Her hand moved through his hair again. What was she doing that for? Why did she even bother? He’d fucked this up forever. He had fucked up so bad.

She said something to him. He didn’t catch it again, but her fingers clicked onto the collar. At the first tug, the shock coursed through him. It got him crying again, and the resumption was the only thing that even made him realize he’d stopped.

It woke him up, though, the rest of the way. He heard her frantic apology, could start to make out her features again. Lorelai looked so tired. How long had they been there? How long had it been since they left? What had they done to her, and had he known?

All the aches in his body seemed to intensify under the thought. The bruises along his arms and legs, the shallow cuts along the skin, what must have been cracked ribs on his side, so many times now, so much and never enough. Had Delta known? Had he asked for it?

Why the fuck did he let him go?

It was nighttime when they got to Jay’s house. Paris was still crying lightly, vision still halfway blurred from it, but he could recognize it easily. He was surprised to see it. He was surprised that Jay was inside of it, sat up waiting, and that he had been waiting all this time. How long had it been? It hardly mattered. Paris had no object permanence. A week away, and he was sure he’d already been forgotten. There was no way anyone had even been thinking about him.

The light from inside the house was just as soft and warm as the expression on Jay’s face. This was Paris’s breaking point. He’d never be forgiven.

He still needed to be guided, incapable of making any decision himself right then. He stumbled on the stairs up to the entrance. Two different pairs of hands caught him and it made everything worse. Why would they? Why-

“-still sorting it out, but-“

“-pretty bad, yeah-“

“Legal nightmare,” Vi agreed. “We’re never gonna hear the end of it. Nobody’s happy right now.”

“Is he back?” Anna’s voice, further than the others, bleary like she’d just woken up. It was past her bedtime.

“Go back upstairs,” Jay responded immediately, something Paris was deeply grateful for.

“Are they going to call me?” Lorelai asked. “I can’t do it tonight, I’m not gonna make it ten more minutes.”

“They’re gonna try,” Vi said.

Someone was guiding him into a chair at the kitchen table.

“The collar won’t come off,” Lorelai said, half in warning and half in complaint. The warning went unheeded. Jay’s tentative “Can I-“ followed by yet another system shock. Paris cried out in pain, unable to contain anything anymore. Holes had been bore straight through him. Someone tried again, a few seconds later, to the same effect. The voltage turned up on the third attempt.

“Ffffucking stop,” Paris managed, shuddering.

“I got it.” Annalise said, walking back in from the garage. She slid the bolt cutters between the metal and the irritated skin beneath. With a click, the collar broke off. The shears nipped him hard enough to blood, and he was crying softly into his hands again, elbows propped up against the whorls of the wooden table.

“Easy.” Jay placed his hands against his shoulders. His thumbs pressed gently between the blades of Paris’s back, the right amount of pressure to brace against. To Anna: “Thank you. Go to bed. Please.”

She did this time, leaving the bolt cutters on the counter.

It was nice to be touched and not hurt. What did he know about that? Why did he get to not be hurt, why did he think he deserved that?

Lorelai slid into the chair next to him. She folded her arms over before resting her head against them, gazing at the rest of them softly, sideways.

“Do you think you can eat?” Jay asked.

“Yes, actually. I would love that. That would be, uh, so nice,” Lorelai agreed, absolutely delirious.

Selfishly, Paris did not want him to let go. It was a relief when Vi volunteered instead.

“I got it. Something light, probably? Easier? Paris-“ She started to address him, then decided not to. Looking at him, she must have known he couldn’t have answered. He could barely form words.

“You should lay down.”

It was said to Lorry, but the touch against his shoulders got firmer, and he was the one being led back into the living room. Lorelai trotted after, falling into place upon the opposite couch.

Jay tried to get Paris to sit. It didn’t work. It was too much for him to be at eye level with anyone now. He didn’t even feel like a person anymore. He collapsed down to the floor, pressing his forehead against the edge of the cushion instead. It was just as well. He found Jay’s hand as he sat down, readjusted slightly to hide his head in his lap. His hand stroked his hair, and the sobbing started in earnest again.

“I’m so sorry. I’msorry. Sorry. I’m sorry,” Paris murmured, decipherable only due to the repetition.

“I know, angel.”

Paris shook his head. He didn’t. He didn’t get it, no one did. He gripped his hand desperately, almost painful. Everything was painful. He should’ve been beaten. Jay’s hand traced gently over the raw skin on his neck, and all Paris could think about was that he should have been fucking hanged.

“What, um…?” The question was directed to Lorelai. She wasn’t quite asleep yet, but she was on the brink.

“We saw Delta,” she answered softly. “Alive, by the way.”

“Oh. Oh my god?”

Paris whined softly at the name. The touch remained gentle, which made him feel even worse.

Vi placed a glass down on the table beside Lorelai, another directly to Paris. He took it blindly. Didn’t say thank you. He should’ve killed himself.

The water helped, though. It forced him to concentrate on something besides crying, but did almost nothing for the spiraling. His thoughts all still moved toward oblivion. Why did he get to live?

When he tried to piece any of it together, the pain in his head spiked violently, pressure building behind his eyes. He couldn’t form words, couldn’t even form the thoughts into legible shapes.

Vi and Jay were talking over their heads. Fair enough. Lorelai was out, or at least pretending to be. Paris could barely follow along with what they were saying. The past surged up again, and he could think of nothing but waves and water.

~~~

tags:

@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 @sacredwrath

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump @fuckclimatechange

@jumpywhumpywriter @sir-fenris @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas-whumps @toyybox @c0zy-drag0n @half-duck

#whump #aughghhghg <3 <3 <3

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secretwhumplair · 8 days ago

Text

Destroyer (Vol. II) - Blink

(Content: torture, royal whump, living weapon whumpee, captivity, institutional abuse, whumper turned whumpee, PTSD, past abuse, humiliation, crying)

“Torture.” Apollo gave a thumbs up.

Delta’s arms wrapped around himself. His hand moved up to cover his mouth, then curled up into a fist. He bit into it. His hands moved up further, racking through his hair, as if somehow, if he scraped and clawed enough at his skull, the unhappy thoughts might be banished from it.

No such luck. Apollo discarded the gloves. He looked equally uneasy, gazing around the base as though it might turn hostile. He supposed it might. It wouldn’t get far, either way. It was an annex of Galatea; it was beholden to it whether it liked it or not.

“Minor lacerations. Bruising. Atypical heart rhythm.” Apollo listed off. With a quiet hesitancy, checking Delta’s expression several times throughout, he admitted: “He was wearing a shock collar.”

One of the lights in the ceiling exploded.

Delta flinched, hands balled up into fists at his side. He hadn’t meant to do that. He didn’t even know why. Apollo recoiled slightly, like the shock had got him too, and that was enough to make Delta want to cry and to beg for forgiveness. He managed not to — all the energy went somewhere else, into the movement, tracing down the hall with all the coldness of a comet.

“You’re fired,” he told Mars.

Mars leaned back in the red velvet chair, tilted up on its hind legs in an awfully precarious position. He squinted, amused and disbelieving.

“You don’t have the power to do that.”

“Consider it an advance notice.” Delta’s eyes had narrowed into slits. He got zero satisfaction out of this at all.

“C’monnn,” Mars sighed, still disbelieving, now annoyed. “He’s fucking imperial royalty, he deserves what he gets.”

“That’s not the point. We have standards that we’re not allowed to deviate from. The party’s reputation is what’s at stake here. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”

“Lighten up. He’s slated to be killed soon anyway. No one’s ever going to know.” Mars held a finger up to his lips, winking at him.

“He’s not going to die,” Delta said, and watched the blood drain from the other’s face.

“…Not what Levon said,” he muttered.

“What did Levon say to you?” Delta titled his head. “What were his exact words?”

“Well he fucking implied it, okay?” Mars brought the chair back down to the surface, slumping forward on the desk. Agitation played across his features.

“And did Levon give you permission to beat him? To collar him?” Delta didn’t know now whether he was rubbing salt in the wound, or simply testing out the last limits of his trust. As Mars glowered at him, he knew it must have been the former. A small flood of relief, the only warmth he could feel in that instant.

“Your entire work history is now suspect. So thanks for the headache,” Delta added petulantly.

He stormed off before he could honor Mars’ reply, if he had one at all. Delta didn’t care. He went back to find Apollo — not where he’d left him, but at the near side of the hallway, clearly having heard all of it. Lightly, Apollo placed a hand by Delta’s elbow, guiding him away.

“You’re not going to kill him, then?” Apollo asked without looking at him. He didn’t have the energy to even act surprised. Delta found this frustrating for reasons he could barely articulate. That much, Apollo caught on to. He guided him to sit. Delta was so wound up that he’d have resisted the pacification from virtually anybody else. Apollo had earned it, though. He surrendered.

“Let’s calm down,” he suggested. “Breathe with me. Please.”

It helped. Delta didn’t really want it to. Anger was so fleeting for him that he sometimes wanted to treasure it. But he knew it was wrong here. The whole situation was so delicate.

He settled, eventually, the frustration dying down again until all that replaced it was a soft sadness. Apollo sat across from him, listening patiently as he outlined his thoughts.

“…We can just give him back to CTRL. It would keep from souring things with them. If they’ve managed to keep it on lock for this long, they can be trusted to continue. Since he is their prisoner de jure, we wouldn’t be abdicating any responsibility by releasing him. And it’d be a show of good faith, since Lorelai is getting released no matter what and she can already testify she was mistreated. Just let CTRL claim them again, tell them to keep him on a tighter leash.”

Apollo blinked in response. “…You’re really letting him go?”

“What else is there to do?” Delta threw his hands up. “I don’t want this to go to trial. Nobody wants that. It’s a waste of time, everyone knows what the sentence would be. He’d never behave himself in court, anyway.”

It was true. Delta had been so obsessed with the idea of justice; it was the point he kept hammering on. But realistically, he already knew what Paris deserved: That was why he’d come here. Make it clean. Why dredge up the past, or bother to vivisect him? The outcome was the same. He’d be killed in the end. He’d be killed in the end, so he might as well kill him right now.

Delta clasped his hands together, bringing them up by his face in prayer. He closed his eyes.

“Alright,” Apollo agreed mildly. “I could call CTRL for you, if you like. Their girl’s still outside. We work out some kind of NDA. And you don’t even have to see him. If everyone’s onboard with that, there isn’t much else you need to do.”

Delta stood up abruptly, moving at a clip towards Paris’s cell before anyone could stop him.

Paris startled, violently, volcanic black eyes widening with shock and fear. He got half of one word out, a sputtered “Wh-?”, before the grip around his jaw tightened and he was thrown backwards into the wall. The chain rattled and broke loose, manacles still locked on but now bound to nothing. Raw psychic pressure kept the limbs forced against the concrete anyway. He was a pinned insect, without even the capacity for speech. The pressure forced his whole body still, down to the muscles of the mouth. Delta simply couldn’t handle hearing his voice.

Trapped as he was, Paris’s chest was still heaving. It wouldn’t be hard for Delta to stop the movement of the lungs, of the heart. With all that force, it would not be hard to bore holes into his skull and trepan until there was nothing left of him.

As it was, Delta simply stood there, his own breathing not much steadier, not any less afraid. Little works of lightning moved up and down his skin. The electricity within the walls began to hum powerfully with song. His own light singed him. It was turning him feverish.

“…I’m talking now.”

Delta’s clothes and hair floated around him with gentle levitation, as if he was underwater. He was drenched in the glow. It must have set off every radar in a five mile radius.

“Your Highness. Are you listening?”

No answer he could give. Paris was still immobilized but for the eyes and the organs. Good enough.

“Blink if you can hear me.”

He blinked. Delta nodded lightly.

“Good.”

Almost at a loss now, the momentum stopped as soon as any possibility of harm was eliminated. Delta studied him in the silence. His hair had grown longer, now tinged a soft pink from either blood or dye. Bandaged in several places. Visibly exhausted, the way Delta remembered him, but without the wired mania to mask or counterbalance it. The metal collar around his neck buzzed lightly in response to all the electrical noise of the room. His finger twitched slightly, almost defiant. The pressure increased.

“…The last time I vouched for you, you repaid me by trying to drown me and by breaking my bones in three places. The very same night.”

No reply.

“I’d have to be an idiot to do it again, right?”

He waited for him to blink, but he didn’t. The powers coiled and uncoiled, vying to clamp down onto something. Delta choked down his own blood where it was rising in his throat. The eyes were trained on him with an urgency.

“Once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?”

One blink.

“Does Empire know where you are?”

Two blinks.

“Are you still in their employ, or working on their behalf?”

Two blinks.

“Did you hurt Lorelai?”

Two blinks. It’d taken him longer to answer.

“If we let you go, would you retaliate?”

Two blinks.

“Do you even want to live?”

Another pause, drawn out. One blink. Delta could not tell if he’d decided, or if his eyes had simply dried out. Delta exhaled softly through his nose. The pressure did not relent. Still, some of the tension in Delta’s own body began to bleed out onto the floor.

“How many lives have you got?” Delta asked. “Why do you get away with everything? It’s not fair. All the deaths we’ve caused, why do we get to keep living?”

He might as well have not even been there anymore. Delta looked towards the ground, the table, the broken chains. He felt a phantom pain around his neck. Something tugged at him.

“I have always tried to make things easy for you. And you have never once been grateful for it.”

His own eyes closed, sinking deeper into the feeling. He picked up the old thought where he’d dropped it.

“Living is the punishment, I guess. It has been for me, anyway. I have to live with the guilt of it all the time, knowing I can never take it back… I don’t know if it’s like that for you. I doubt it. You didn’t care. You’re not even sorry-“

His speech cut off as he looked up again, words stunted by surprise. Delta stared dumbfounded.

Paris was crying.

He’d always been so fucking sensitive.

Outraged, Delta released him, practically throwing him into the ground as he did. Paris landed on his hands and knees. Delta heard the short gasps, realized he probably had been choking him, but he was too busy heading for the exit. He made out the choked beginnings of his name, “Del-“, before the door slammed shut.

“Let him go,” he told Apollo. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t even use the screen for himself. Delta pushed it numbly into his hands instead, then flinched away from any attempts to hold him. The light still burned brightly in his eyes, but it was flickering now, unsteady and uneven. If it didn’t settle down soon, he was going to die.

“Just let him go.”

~~~

tags:

@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

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter @sir-fenris @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas-whumps @toyybox

#whump #!!!!!!!!#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #REUNION!

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secretwhumplair · 9 days ago

Text

Destroyer (Vol.II) - Do No Harm

(Content: past abuse, whumper turned whumpee, living weapon whumpee, PTSD, guilt, comfort, medwhump, captivity, implied addiction, needles, stitches, wound care, reluctant caretaker)

Delta made it about halfway down the hallway before he realized there was no earthly way he’d be able to do this. The realization stopped him dead, dramatic, the steps coming to an abrupt halt. One hand moved against the concrete wall for support as he lowered to the ground, head bowed forward over bent knees, asphyxiated. Air returned to him passively; he was too far gone to focus on it. Years of psychic pain had resurfaced all at once. Some kind of ancient fear. He remembered what it felt like to drown.

He had to clamber back upright, claws dug into divots in the wall. The other cell laid a few meters down. From where he stood, he could see the beginnings of the window. It was pale green on the inside; an aquatic, unnatural light. It was a two-way mirror. If he were to stand in front of, Delta would see Paris in the flesh, for the first time since they last tried to kill each other. The prince would not be able to see him back. Delta didn’t believe it, though. He felt sure that somehow the glass would fail. He’d be recognized. He’d be seen, and known, and he could not stand it. There was no way he could even bring himself to look through the window.

He turned around, back down the other end of the hall. There were living people here, ones who had no idea what he’d done, nor what he intended to do now that he was here. For a few grateful seconds, he was innocent. All his effort went towards not passing out outright.

APOLLO: Hello?

DELTA: did you know

DELTA: please be honest

DELTA: lun knew and they tell you everything so i find it really hard to believe that you wouldnt

DELTA: but i dont understand how you could keep this from me. if thats true then i really dont get it

DELTA: i dont understand any of you anymore

APOLLO: What?

APOLLO: Is everything okay?

DELTA: no

APOLLO: What’s going on?

DELTA: did you know that paris was alive

DELTA: galatea has had leads on him for years apparently they just didnt fucking do anything about it

DELTA: lun knew

APOLLO: I?

APOLLO: Um. Okay, give me a second.

APOLLO: It’s 4AM here, I need to go outside.

DELTA: did i wake you up

APOLLO: Yes

DELTA: im sorry

APOLLO: Its okay! Its going to be fine.

APOLLO: No I did not know about any of that. I was pretty sure he had just died somewhere along the road and Id yet to see anything to suggest otherwise

APOLLO: Though I was never following that case particularly closely, to be honest with you.

APOLLO: If Lun knew anything then they did not tell me about it. I can call them after to see what’s going on but this is the first I am hearing of it

DELTA: okay

DELTA: i believe you i guess

APOLLO: Are you okay?

DELTA: no

DELTA: i dont know what to do

DELTA: can you come over

DELTA: please

It was a two hour ride. Nothing could happen in the meantime, no matter how much Delta was prodded to act. He felt like he was holding his breath the whole length of it.

When Apollo did arrive, he looked as awake as he’d sounded over the phone. He had to have left immediately after the call ended. His hair was still tousled from sleep, and the ever-present circles beneath his eyes looked a little bit darker tonight. Delta felt immediately humbled — not unlike he had been in those early days. It was so kind. Delta melted into the first touch he got, the hand cupping the side of his face, until he sank into the embrace full-bodied. Like always, Apollo was warm.

Confused, though, which made Delta regret the accusation. Confused about what had happened, and about what exactly he’d come for. Delta realized he didn’t quite know either. Away from the others, when it was just the two of them, he tried to untangle the thoughts.

“…Said it’s my choice now,” Delta managed. Then, clarifying: “I had a tantrum. I don’t know. I don’t understand why no one would tell me in the first place. I had a right to know. I should’ve had a say in it.“

“Levon’s pretty sensitive over you,” Apollo said softly. It was unclear who he was defending.

Delta shrugged. He twirled strands of hair between his fingers in a nervous tic, the kind he never would have even been allowed before. History bore down on him like a great weight.

“What did you want to do?” asked Apollo.

“I was going to kill him,” Delta admitted freely. “I think I’m going to. I’m just scared.”

After a bit of hesitation, he added:

“I haven’t gone to see him yet. The girl he was caught with, Lorelai, said the people here have been starving her. So he’s probably not doing that well either.”

Delta trailed off without conclusion.

“Well, that’s illegal,” Apollo supplied helpfully.

He got a small nod in response. Delta bit down on his claws, staring off into space. He buried his face in his hands, so that the next words came out muffled:

“…I can’t even look at him.”

“I can.”

The offer was immediate. Delta looked up in muted surprise. He hadn’t expected it. He didn’t know what he really wanted Apollo here for in the first place, besides some vague need for comfort. And the idea of Paris anywhere near anyone he cared about made him prickle with awful energy. But Apollo seemed unbothered by it. Not even inconvenienced. Too calm, in a way that made Delta suspicious. It brought a new anxiety into stark light.

“Don’t hurt him," Delta begged.

“I took an oath!” Apollo raised his hands in mock offense. That oath couldn’t have counted for much, knowing what Apollo had already done in his defense. Nevertheless, the reassurance came across clean and sincere.

Paris didn’t know how long he had been in the cell. He would have guessed hours, but with nothing at all to indicate the time passing, and his own tenuous grasp on reality, it might have only been a few minutes. Who could say?

He studied the reddened skin around his nails. It had been a while since his hands were chained in front of him rather than behind, the longest he’d had in a while to observe them. Little cracks played along the skin from where they’d been stomped on. Cracks in the nails from malnutrition. The central scar from where the knife had been driven through his palm now dominated the landscape. Unlike the others, it was several years old, and as healed as it ever would be. The sight was familiar, of course, but the reminder made him anxious in the new setting.

He was probably going to die here. He knew it. They acted with the abandon of people who knew they wouldn’t see the consequences of it. They’d kill him soon, and there’d be no other witnesses. Or they could toss him back to Nezu, who he knew was still looking. That would be worse. Paris told himself he would find some way to kill himself before that happened, but the thought only made him sad, in a way it never had before.

He wondered if Levon would come to see him off. That wouldn’t be too bad. There was something dignified about it. It was certainly more dignified than just passing him off to his underlings, waiting for one to get too enthusiastic with the shock collar. Paris would have preferred the ceremony of the firings squad. He didn’t expect it, though. Levon probably wasn’t coming back. That was the first and last time Paris would ever see him.

Someone twisted in his heart. There would be a last time for everything. There already had been, and he hadn’t known it. Involuntarily, he began to run through the list. The last time he’d see Vi, a few weeks ago, her head resting against Lorelai’s forearm in the warm light of the patio lantern. The last time he’d see Beatrice, drunkenly kissing his cheek at the last house party. The last time he’d see Annalise, the morning he was captured, disappearing down the dirt road with her backpack on. The last time he’d see Jay, the same morning, helping him to load his own equipment up into the ship. He had squeezed at the back of Paris’s neck, in the same spot the metal collar now touched the skin. It hurt too much to think about. Paris pressed his damaged nails to the wound of his palm, looking for something else to replace the pain.

The last time he’d seen Lorelai, they were dragging her off into a separate cell. What if he never saw her again? What if he did?

The last time he’d seen Delta, he was kneeling at the base of the throne. His bones were broken in three places, and he was wincing with each breath. What was the last thing Paris had ever said to him? Formalities, probably. Orders. Get up and Stay and Behave. But what was the last thing he’d really said?

I hate you.

Paris pressed the wound harder.

He jumped as the door opened.

It wasn’t anyone he recognized, but then again, he’d been blindfolded a lot. The new person had the same barely concealed contempt written across their face, which Paris could not help wanting to recoil from at this point. He was tired. No matter how much he told himself to be still and take it, for dignity or karma or otherwise, no matter how much he intellectualized it, he could not help his body’s involuntary avoidance of pain. It wanted for that part to be over. Paris told it not to get its hopes up.

Instead, he eyed the visitor. Behind golden spectacles, his eyes were narrowed. A single white fang — alarming — bit into his lower lip. One bronze-colored hand still rested lightly against the door handle, as if ready to retreat at any moment. Then he sighed, detaching, instead kicking up the metal seat by the table and sliding into it.

“I’m going to treat your wounds.” He said decisively. “No hitting, okay?”

Was that a promise or a condition? Paris couldn’t tell. If it was the latter, he couldn’t move his wrists up from the table anyway.

“…Okay,” he agreed.

Paris stared back fully untrusting, not liking the new game. The other seemed to be studying him too, as if unsure where to even start. Paris could feel each injury on his body, but without access to a mirror or even the ability to move freely, he couldn’t see all of them for himself. The medic seemed to take notice of the gash along his shoulder. There were smaller cuts along his arms, and probably on his face, but none were anywhere near as deep or as wide. He watched the medic’s nails tap indecisively along the tabletop, until his gaze settled onto his neck.

“Can I…?” The question was perfunctory. He wasn’t really waiting for an answer. He stood up out of the chair and moved behind Paris, in a motion that made him extremely anxious. Before he could warn him not to, his hand had already moved to the collar’s lock, and a harsh shock went off into Paris’s body.

A soft gasp of pain escaped him. From the medic, a gasp of genuine surprise.

“Oh! I’m-“ He cut himself off. He’d started to apologize, then didn’t finish it. Paris shook for a few moments afterwards, trying to recover. He flexed his hands in the restraints. That barely helped, but it was still the most motion he was afforded. He was so fucking tired.

In a kind of embarrassed silence, the medic began to clean out the cuts and scrapes along his arm. The antiseptic stung slightly, but in a way that only grounded him. Paris didn’t really want anyone to touch him anymore; he flinched at every instance. But the resignation had already set in as far as touch went. At least this time he got something positive out of it. A soft blush rose into his cheeks.

Paris scrambled back all at once just as soon as the needle was produced. As much as he could with his wrists still trapped.

“Don’t,” he said automatically, with all the authority he could still force into his voice. He knew it sounded more like panic. He was panicked. He didn’t want it, and no one was going to listen to him, and no one would even care what it meant to him.

“Hm?” The medic titled his head in confusion. “…It’s just local anesthesia. It won’t hurt. You won’t even feel it.”

“Don’t,” Paris insisted. Like he fucking believed that for a second, like he’d let any of them inject him with anything.

There was nothing he could do to fight it, though. He felt his own heart in his own throat, nearly choking on the fear.

What he got in return was not quite an eye roll, but close. The medic looked off to the side, towards the mirror.

“You need stitches,” he said, softer.

“I don’t care,” Paris said. “You’re not fucking drugging me.”

A sigh. He placed the needle down on the table, reaching for a notebook instead. Paris eyed him nervously.

“Documenting refusal,” he explained. “You’re still going to need stitches. I can do it without anesthetic, or I can bandage it now and wait for you to change your mind?”

“Just do it,” Paris said quickly. He wouldn’t change his mind. The thought of any drug entering his body then made him nearly hysterical with panic.

The medic’s eyes lowered a little bit, clearly unhappy with this outcome. Paris couldn’t see why. What did it matter to him?

He got no explanation. The medic’s chair only scooted closer as the tools for suturing were laid out on the table. He held a small leather strap up to his mouth.

“Bite,” he instructed. Embarrassed, Paris obeyed. Likewise, his hand squeezed tight around the stress ball he was given.

“I’ll be quick,” the medic promised. For the most part, he was.

Paris still cringed as the needle first entered. It was such a viscerally unpleasant sensation to feel the thread run through his skin, against the already aching edges of the wound. The skin coming together felt unnatural. It’d felt unnatural coming apart, but he found the two did not cancel out. It just hurt. He blinked back a few tears; he knew his pain tolerance wasn’t what it used to be. Years without action had made him soft. Or maybe it was the opposite. More likely, it was the opposite. He was just tired, and at the limit of what his body could handle. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to pull away, but knew it wasn’t smart to. He held still and quiet as the needle entered again and again.

“All done!” The medic concluded, for a moment sounding oddly pediatric. Paris spit the strap out. He wanted to slam his head onto the table from sheer exhaustion, but was not physically able to. Instead, it only hung halfway. He didn’t release his grip on the stress ball.

“Thank you,” he muttered lightly.

He didn’t understand why Galatea wanted him in one piece at all. Paris understood so little about any of this, what he was destined for, what the point of it was. He didn’t trust in any healing intentions. Nevertheless, it was the most kindness he’d been shown by anyone here. He felt his eyes watering again, and could not tell the reason. He beat them back before they could turn to outright tears, but he knew he was dangerously close. He was so tired.

“You’re welcome.” The medic adjusted his glasses with lightly bloodied gloves. He started packing up to leave. Paris didn’t think he imagined the glances he kept throwing at him, though he couldn’t place why. Didn’t know what he was looking for, nor if he found it.

He left without another word, or any explanation. Paris sat back in the chair, not any clearer about anything, but grateful the stitches were in and that they had not been pulled too tight.

~~~

tags:

@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 @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas-whumps @toyybox

#whump #medical whump #kinda mostly medical comfort?#again I am DYING to know if delta could bring himself to look after all

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secretwhumplair · 9 days ago

Text

Destroyer (Vol.II) - Honey

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past abuse, PTSD, abuse of power, captivity, light lady whump, manhandling, starvation, sleep deprivation, restraints, angst)

Several days of fretting and planning took up the space in between the initial confrontation and the moment Delta actually entered the planet’s atmosphere. As he neared the base, he could see that another small passenger ship was already parked outside of it. The owner languished atop its steel violet roof. As soon as Delta exited his own ship, she slid down to attempt an approach. He moved quickly enough to ignore her, to delay that confrontation. She was one of CTRL’s emissaries. He didn’t write off the possibility of speaking to her entirely, but he knew he couldn’t do it now. He knew nothing. He’d be no use to either of them, and he’d been on the receiving end of enough misdirected chew-outs throughout his life that he was never found wanting for more. He didn’t need to get any more keyed up than he already was. Instead, he slipped through the steel doors of the fortress, hearing his own steps echoing quietly within the entrance.

He’d sent them no advance warning he was coming. He rarely did. Levon liked him for that, his ability to drop into scenes quickly and quietly. Levon liked his willingness to snitch. Not everyone liked this about Delta, naturally. It didn’t make him very popular among middle management. But Delta knew who his loyalties belonged to, who they belonged to alone.

The first thing he found out was that Lorelai was still being held there. The acting officers reported this to him as if it was a known and uncontroversial fact.

“They ordered her release,” Delta pointed out. “Why is she still here?”

“Because she won’t fucking leave!” Mars replied.

Very tentatively, Delta viewed the cellblock arrangement from the computer terminal. Galatea had few formal prisons; this was a fortress first and foremost, only meant to hold a few of the unwilling at a time. As Delta’s eyes scanned the names, he felt his own heart skip a beat. Lorelai. Paris. His heart beat faster. It was like some slip in time, like the firmament was falling apart. An eternity had resided in between those years of absence. There was no accounting for the sense of strangeness. Paris. The name rang in his head like one of Pavlov’s bells.

There was no hope for him, for any of them. Delta had already made up his mind about killing him. But Lorelai was in the way of it — as he understood she often was. He had to fight down the tangle of nerves and nausea in order to even see clearly, to resolve himself into someone who had just been begging to do this.

They were in adjacent rooms, unbeknownst to either of them. Delta asked that they be brought into separate chambers as well, and though Mars had looked uneasy about it, the request was obliged. It might take a minute. Delta paced about on the roof, letting the end of his cigarette burn out until it hit filter. It did a little for the nerves, but the headache got worse in exchange. All things equal. Overhead, the sky was crystal clear, but slouching towards twilight.

“I can walk,” she’d insisted when the guards yanked at her arm. She’d had enough of it. They didn’t bother her excessively — they seemed content to let her rot for the most part — but when they did see her, it was always with the same degree of roughness.

Lorelai was brought into the same room as before. They’d brought her often in what she estimated to be the first week. They had wanted to talk to her then. They stopped wanting to talk to her as soon as it became clear she knew the fucking law. It was all fairy rules with them, total nonsense — they could do as they pleased and have no fear, so long as no one said anything. And once she did say something and they didn’t like it, it was as simple as shutting her back up again, and all harmony was restored. They thought it was just going to go away. She was starting to worry they were right.

They hadn’t taken the cuffs off since last time. She hadn’t had much use for her hands in the cell anyway, but the chain still lingered as an insult. Right now, she watched as it served its new purpose. Her wrists were chained to the table in front of her, like some bullshit police procedural. She took a moment to feel flattered by it; she got a kind of childlike thrill from the hint that they viewed her as dangerous.

The thrill faded into the same listless boredom as Lorelai was left alone in the chamber again. She wished to bite at her nails. Instead, she settled for chewing idly at her lip. She wished to go home. Hunger clawed at the core of her, waves of pain and nausea that ebbed and flowed. The lights never shut off in her room. They were trying to starve her out, in one form or another. Maybe this was the next phase of it. She tugged lightly at the restraints, hearing the sound of the metal chain sliding through the loop of the table. It was a pleasant sound, despite the circumstances. It dawned on her that she would likely be alone in here for hours, if not days.

Her head shot up at the first signs of life. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep and didn’t know how long she’d been out. It couldn’t have been that long; Lorelai felt even worse than she had before. The dark half-dreams were restless and spiral-shaped. For the first time in years, she was reminded of how it’d felt to try and sleep at school. She would wake up disoriented and warm, with a dull pain in her skull. It was the same now. She was already confused, and seeing Delta walk in alive didn’t help.

Lorelai was up out of the chair before she knew what she was doing. Shock had quickly given way to awe, which had given way to a softness she never meant to allow in a place like this. But what else could she have done?

“Oh, honey,” she cooed, soft in sympathy.

“…Hey Lore.”

He crossed the threshold to her. Lightly, his hands moved by her wrists. She heard a soft clicking noise as the mechanism within was manipulated, and then the cuffs fell away. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. She realized later how ill-advised that might have been to do without warning, given the circumstances, and given his own skittishness. But he only pulled her in tighter, like the urge had come just as naturally to him.

The haze of sleep had cleared by the time he pulled away and she got to see him properly. Alive. She could accept that easily. His eyes were more vivid than she remembered, and the skin more irregular than it had been in makeup. His hair was shorter, but still a good distance down his back. He looked healthier. Stressed out now, features marred with concern, but healthier. The collar was gone.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” She’d been meaning to say it for a while. Her hands didn’t leave him, tracing down from his shoulders until they hovered by his forearms. Another oversight, but another he didn’t seem to mind.

If she had known, would it have even made a difference? She wondered if she would have been able to stop it. She suspected that she might have the only one who could. She prided herself on it; and it was a cudgel she used to beat herself with.

Delta only blinked. The corner of his mouth turned downward by just a millimeter, and that was the only indication he’d even heard it.

“Are you okay?” He tilted his head. The pupils were invisible beneath the glow. She couldn’t tell where he was looking.

She wasn’t, really. The lack of stimulation, in combination with the lack of sleep and food, had made her half-delirious. She was pissed off, and the impotence of her anger only served to deepen the feeling. She found herself often in-between that floaty detachment and bedrock rage; sometimes both extremes at once.

“Does he hurt you?” Delta asked, and only then did she realize what he’d meant by it.

Blood rushed to her face. She was surprised it could still do that, considering how lightheaded she felt. None of it went to her brain. The embarrassment was too profound for her to even form words around.

“N-no. It’s not like that,” she said. She cringed at how unconvincing it sounded, even when she was telling the truth. “It’s not. Um.”

Delta’s expression was patient, which made everything worse.

“He doesn’t hit me,” she said, a little more confidently.

He tilted his head at a slight angle.

“…Does he yell at you? Or get aggressive at all?”

Worse, still. The shame was flooding her system faster than she could bail it out. She shook her head wordlessly. That one wasn’t all the way true. Paris still got aggressive, wound up enough that he did end up screaming. But that was something else. It wasn’t towards her. She knew why Delta was asking, and she knew intuitively that they were not the same thing. There was a gap between the two of them. How could she possibly close it?

“It’s not like that,” Lorelai repeated. “I know- Um. I know he hurt you a lot, but-“

She couldn’t go on.

It was far from the first time she’d had to defend her relationship with Paris. She’d been doing it for years now, and for the most part she did it shamelessly. Her conviction was strong enough. She loved Paris, and he needed help, not to be isolated and punished for the remainder of his life.

To justify this to Delta was another thing entirely. I know he hurt you, but- Impossible. The vision of him kneeling in the throne room played against the back of her mind. Paris’s own drunken, tearful confessions, when he was wounded enough to admit to the details, as if telling her might absolve him of it. She could barely speak.

“He doesn’t hurt me. He’s…different now. We’ve both been through a lot, and I think he’s really trying to be better. He’s not…how he was,” she said vaguely.

To her absolute horror, something like doubt began to creep into her mind. She hadn’t known the first time. Paris had lied to her. He hidden the truth about Delta from her and she had taken him at his word. She’d been wrong. How could she vouch for him now? What if she was wrong again?

She was almost positive this wasn’t the case. She’d seen the walls break down themselves — and as frustrating as he’d been, he’d never hurt her. He’d gone years without incident. She had to believe he had changed. But the doubt still nagged at her, and she couldn’t quite chase it out. It felt wrong to promise him anything.

“He’s sober now,” she added on lamely.

“Hm.” Delta showed no visible reaction. “Can I…?”

He reached one hand by her face. She nodded, confused, but leaning into it. His thumb brushed against her cheek. She realized pretty quickly that he was trying to see if she was wearing makeup — anything to cover up bruises. Her heart ached for him. She wanted to apologize again.

It came away clean. Even if she had been wearing makeup, it certainly would have worn off by now. There were no bruises to cover. But with his attention at her face, he only then seemed to notice:

“What happened to the gems?”

She blushed again, for lighter reasons. While there were still a good amount embedded in her skin, many had had their spots replaced with scar tissue. Most people didn’t pick up on it now, having no other frame of reference. But Delta had seen it when they were all intact. She shook her head.

“Field incident,” she said, not wishing to elaborate.

To her relief, he didn’t pry. Lorelai was staggered by how respectful he was being in general. He always had been to her. But it felt so out of place in the setting, so far from what she’d come to expect from the wardens. The conversation had been so personal, so fully enmeshed in the past, that the oddness of the situation had been but an afterthought.

“…Are you…working with Galatea?” she asked nervously. “Consensually?”

There was no collar around his neck, which reassured her, but she still dreaded the possibility the answer was No. She couldn’t see any universe where Galatea was keeping slaves. But she also wouldn’t have believed they would ever hold her hostage like this.

His turn to blush. “Uh, yeah. Yes, miss.”

He glanced behind him. It was just the two-way mirror; he couldn’t see out of it any more than she could.

“Why are you still here?” he asked quieter. “They said they offered you release.”

She bit her lip.

“CTRL still hasn’t made contact. If Galatea lets me go, that’ll be the end of it. No one from the outside will get back in this building again, and they’ll be allowed to keep doing whatever they want without consequence.”

And if they let her go, she’d never have any way to get Paris back. The doors would be shut to her forever. Lorelai was innocent enough and had enough capital by this point that CTRL had a real case for her release. They wouldn’t have the same case for Paris. Galatea’s grip on him dug in much deeper. She wasn’t sure if there was any hope at all, or whether she was only prolonging the inevitable, but she didn’t want to leave him to it.

“‘Doing whatever they want’?” Delta asked, latching onto another issue entirely.

Lorelai stared blankly up at him.

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” she said. She guessed she assumed he knew that already.

He clearly did not. His eyes widened, somehow. She hadn’t known they could get any wider.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. From the intonation, she could tell it was more to soothe himself than anything else. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m very sorry. I’m going to do what I can to fix this.”

What a vague and ominous thing to say. He was already moving towards the door, before she could ask what he meant by that. She took a step forward, but kept her distance, as if the chains meant to hold her still worked.

“I won’t tell him,” she said. It felt important. “If you don’t want him to know you’re alive, I won’t tell him.”

That was assuming she ever got the chance to, that she ever saw him again. Delta faltered, one hand resting against the door. He turned back to look at her, but gave no answer as he exited. The lock clicked automatically behind him.

~~~

tags:

@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 @the-monarch-whumperfly @doumidas-whumps

#whump #honey...#augh

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