secretwhumplair

[secretwhumplair]

A day at the pool

862 words | Xerxes & Nor (timeline)

Content | Pet whump, mild temperature whump, forced exercise

Notes | Happy heatwave to those who celebrate (most of the northern hemisphere it feels like). Stay hydrated and don't do excessive exercise. If you have the choice :D

Fun point in their (captive) relationship! Fairly settled and "comfortable", but distinctly before Xerxes gets There.

Taglist | @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @melancholy-in-the-morning @snakebites-and-ink

The bungalow Xerxes had rented while they were staying in this town came with a swimming pool, which was a blessing, because the heat was stifling.

A blessing for them, that was. Pet watched as they paddled ungracefully along the length of the pool; at least he was allowed to sit in the shade under their parasol, on the ground next to their sun lounger. Even here, he felt the sweat drip down his back, but he was going to take what he got.

It was a large pool, and he wasn’t surprised when they climbed out at the far end, never the sportiest. The wandered back towards their lounger, in no hurry to get out of the sun now that cool water droplets were running down their body. They were wearing a black-and-white striped swimsuit, like the first Barbie. Pet idly wondered whether it was a deliberate reference, but given even he made the connection, it probably was.

They sat down on the lounger and, without a word, placed a cool hand onto the back of his neck. Pet thankfully leant into the touch. They’d lathered him with sunscreen earlier, so he was already spoiled for touch today, but the cool was extra welcome. They’d given him a bottle of water, but it had long since gone warm.

The sun sparkled blindingly on the pool.

It was a foolish thing to ask, really.

»Master, could I. Just take a quick dip?«

Xerxes, who had taken a sip from their ice-cooled mocktail, raised their eyebrows at him, but they didn’t seem overly annoyed. Probably was to hot for that, anyway. After a moment — long enough he was sure, even after, that it hadn’t occurred to them before — they smiled, and shrugged. »If you do, you’re going to give me at least ten lengths. No breaks.«

At least. Pet had lived with Xerxes long enough to realize what that meant; even just the ten would be pushing it. The water was so tempting, though.

»Actually, I’ve made up my mind.« He’d let the pause get too long; they shooed him off, towards the pool. »Go.«

He should have known better, really. But as he lowered himself into the pool, he found it hard to regret his boldness; it felt heavenly.

He was sure they were watching him as much as he had been watching them before. Not for the same reasons, though.

The first five or so lengths were easy. He was reasonably fit; Xerxes made sure of it. He had to pace himself, knowing what was to come.

He was starting to feel the effort over the next few. By the ninth, he was so glad he was close to done he allowed himself the foolish hope he was actually close to done.

But of course, when he finally finished the tenth, Xerxes stood at the edge of the pool, looking down on him. »Twelve.« Nothing more.

So he pushed himself through another two lengths. His arms were burning.

»Actually, make it the whole twenty.«

He didn’t have time to protest, even if there had been any point. No breaks. He just tried to focus on his breathing, even as it grew quicker, even as his muscles grew heavier with every stroke. This had been such a stupid idea. Most of the time he didn’t even like to be near water, after everything Xerxes had done. He tried to push the thought of going under away. Xerxes would have a guard rescue him if he didn’t make it, they surely wouldn’t let him drown; but that wouldn’t make the experience better.

He couldn’t think about it. His breath was coming short enough as it was.

By fourteen, he was ready to beg, if that had been an option.

At eighteen, Xerxes sat at the edge of the pool, their legs dangling into the water. They caught his wrists in their hands, and he gratefully let himself float in their grip, desperate to catch his breath. They wouldn’t let him out before he finished, and at this point, the cold was starting to get to him as much as the exhaustion, but he needed that break.

They knew that, of course.

When he came back again, they were back on their lounger. No further demands. His arms felt like jelly when he tried to pull himself up out of the water, so he just flopped as far over the pool’s edge as he could manage. He heard Xerxes chuckle. The heat of the flagstones circling the pool now was welcome.

Several minutes passed before he managed to crawl out of the pool and return to his designated spot at their side. He was still catching his breath. His hands fumbled when he opened his bottle for a much-needed swig of water.

»Fan me.« There was a smile in Xerxes’ voice.

There was a fan on the side table, next to their stupid cocktail glass. He opened his mouth, swallowed an Are you out of your mind, and just noted, »I can barely move my arms, Master.«

»Sure you can. It’s just going to suck.«

It wasn’t really torture; he knew that well enough.

[secretwhumplair]

A day at the pool

862 words | Xerxes & Nor (timeline)

Content | Pet whump, mild temperature whump, forced exercise

Notes | Happy heatwave to those who celebrate (most of the northern hemisphere it feels like). Stay hydrated and don't do excessive exercise. If you have the choice :D

Fun point in their (captive) relationship! Fairly settled and "comfortable", but distinctly before Xerxes gets There.

Taglist | @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @melancholy-in-the-morning @snakebites-and-ink

The bungalow Xerxes had rented while they were staying in this town came with a swimming pool, which was a blessing, because the heat was stifling.

A blessing for them, that was. Pet watched as they paddled ungracefully along the length of the pool; at least he was allowed to sit in the shade under their parasol, on the ground next to their sun lounger. Even here, he felt the sweat drip down his back, but he was going to take what he got.

It was a large pool, and he wasn’t surprised when they climbed out at the far end, never the sportiest. The wandered back towards their lounger, in no hurry to get out of the sun now that cool water droplets were running down their body. They were wearing a black-and-white striped swimsuit, like the first Barbie. Pet idly wondered whether it was a deliberate reference, but given even he made the connection, it probably was.

They sat down on the lounger and, without a word, placed a cool hand onto the back of his neck. Pet thankfully leant into the touch. They’d lathered him with sunscreen earlier, so he was already spoiled for touch today, but the cool was extra welcome. They’d given him a bottle of water, but it had long since gone warm.

The sun sparkled blindingly on the pool.

It was a foolish thing to ask, really.

»Master, could I. Just take a quick dip?«

Xerxes, who had taken a sip from their ice-cooled mocktail, raised their eyebrows at him, but they didn’t seem overly annoyed. Probably was to hot for that, anyway. After a moment — long enough he was sure, even after, that it hadn’t occurred to them before — they smiled, and shrugged. »If you do, you’re going to give me at least ten lengths. No breaks.«

At least. Pet had lived with Xerxes long enough to realize what that meant; even just the ten would be pushing it. The water was so tempting, though.

»Actually, I’ve made up my mind.« He’d let the pause get too long; they shooed him off, towards the pool. »Go.«

He should have known better, really. But as he lowered himself into the pool, he found it hard to regret his boldness; it felt heavenly.

He was sure they were watching him as much as he had been watching them before. Not for the same reasons, though.

The first five or so lengths were easy. He was reasonably fit; Xerxes made sure of it. He had to pace himself, knowing what was to come.

He was starting to feel the effort over the next few. By the ninth, he was so glad he was close to done he allowed himself the foolish hope he was actually close to done.

But of course, when he finally finished the tenth, Xerxes stood at the edge of the pool, looking down on him. »Twelve.« Nothing more.

So he pushed himself through another two lengths. His arms were burning.

»Actually, make it the whole twenty.«

He didn’t have time to protest, even if there had been any point. No breaks. He just tried to focus on his breathing, even as it grew quicker, even as his muscles grew heavier with every stroke. This had been such a stupid idea. Most of the time he didn’t even like to be near water, after everything Xerxes had done. He tried to push the thought of going under away. Xerxes would have a guard rescue him if he didn’t make it, they surely wouldn’t let him drown; but that wouldn’t make the experience better.

He couldn’t think about it. His breath was coming short enough as it was.

By fourteen, he was ready to beg, if that had been an option.

At eighteen, Xerxes sat at the edge of the pool, their legs dangling into the water. They caught his wrists in their hands, and he gratefully let himself float in their grip, desperate to catch his breath. They wouldn’t let him out before he finished, and at this point, the cold was starting to get to him as much as the exhaustion, but he needed that break.

They knew that, of course.

When he came back again, they were back on their lounger. No further demands. His arms felt like jelly when he tried to pull himself up out of the water, so he just flopped as far over the pool’s edge as he could manage. He heard Xerxes chuckle. The heat of the flagstones circling the pool now was welcome.

Several minutes passed before he managed to crawl out of the pool and return to his designated spot at their side. He was still catching his breath. His hands fumbled when he opened his bottle for a much-needed swig of water.

»Fan me.« There was a smile in Xerxes’ voice.

There was a fan on the side table, next to their stupid cocktail glass. He opened his mouth, swallowed an Are you out of your mind, and just noted, »I can barely move my arms, Master.«

»Sure you can. It’s just going to suck.«

It wasn’t really torture; he knew that well enough.

[secretwhumplair]

A day at the pool

862 words | Xerxes & Nor (timeline)

Content | Pet whump, mild temperature whump, forced exercise

Notes | Happy heatwave to those who celebrate (most of the northern hemisphere it feels like). Stay hydrated and don't do excessive exercise. If you have the choice :D

Fun point in their (captive) relationship! Fairly settled and "comfortable", but distinctly before Xerxes gets There.

Taglist | @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @melancholy-in-the-morning @snakebites-and-ink

The bungalow Xerxes had rented while they were staying in this town came with a swimming pool, which was a blessing, because the heat was stifling.

A blessing for them, that was. Pet watched as they paddled ungracefully along the length of the pool; at least he was allowed to sit in the shade under their parasol, on the ground next to their sun lounger. Even here, he felt the sweat drip down his back, but he was going to take what he got.

It was a large pool, and he wasn’t surprised when they climbed out at the far end, never the sportiest. The wandered back towards their lounger, in no hurry to get out of the sun now that cool water droplets were running down their body. They were wearing a black-and-white striped swimsuit, like the first Barbie. Pet idly wondered whether it was a deliberate reference, but given even he made the connection, it probably was.

They sat down on the lounger and, without a word, placed a cool hand onto the back of his neck. Pet thankfully leant into the touch. They’d lathered him with sunscreen earlier, so he was already spoiled for touch today, but the cool was extra welcome. They’d given him a bottle of water, but it had long since gone warm.

The sun sparkled blindingly on the pool.

It was a foolish thing to ask, really.

»Master, could I. Just take a quick dip?«

Xerxes, who had taken a sip from their ice-cooled mocktail, raised their eyebrows at him, but they didn’t seem overly annoyed. Probably was to hot for that, anyway. After a moment — long enough he was sure, even after, that it hadn’t occurred to them before — they smiled, and shrugged. »If you do, you’re going to give me at least ten lengths. No breaks.«

At least. Pet had lived with Xerxes long enough to realize what that meant; even just the ten would be pushing it. The water was so tempting, though.

»Actually, I’ve made up my mind.« He’d let the pause get too long; they shooed him off, towards the pool. »Go.«

He should have known better, really. But as he lowered himself into the pool, he found it hard to regret his boldness; it felt heavenly.

He was sure they were watching him as much as he had been watching them before. Not for the same reasons, though.

The first five or so lengths were easy. He was reasonably fit; Xerxes made sure of it. He had to pace himself, knowing what was to come.

He was starting to feel the effort over the next few. By the ninth, he was so glad he was close to done he allowed himself the foolish hope he was actually close to done.

But of course, when he finally finished the tenth, Xerxes stood at the edge of the pool, looking down on him. »Twelve.« Nothing more.

So he pushed himself through another two lengths. His arms were burning.

»Actually, make it the whole twenty.«

He didn’t have time to protest, even if there had been any point. No breaks. He just tried to focus on his breathing, even as it grew quicker, even as his muscles grew heavier with every stroke. This had been such a stupid idea. Most of the time he didn’t even like to be near water, after everything Xerxes had done. He tried to push the thought of going under away. Xerxes would have a guard rescue him if he didn’t make it, they surely wouldn’t let him drown; but that wouldn’t make the experience better.

He couldn’t think about it. His breath was coming short enough as it was.

By fourteen, he was ready to beg, if that had been an option.

At eighteen, Xerxes sat at the edge of the pool, their legs dangling into the water. They caught his wrists in their hands, and he gratefully let himself float in their grip, desperate to catch his breath. They wouldn’t let him out before he finished, and at this point, the cold was starting to get to him as much as the exhaustion, but he needed that break.

They knew that, of course.

When he came back again, they were back on their lounger. No further demands. His arms felt like jelly when he tried to pull himself up out of the water, so he just flopped as far over the pool’s edge as he could manage. He heard Xerxes chuckle. The heat of the flagstones circling the pool now was welcome.

Several minutes passed before he managed to crawl out of the pool and return to his designated spot at their side. He was still catching his breath. His hands fumbled when he opened his bottle for a much-needed swig of water.

»Fan me.« There was a smile in Xerxes’ voice.

There was a fan on the side table, next to their stupid cocktail glass. He opened his mouth, swallowed an Are you out of your mind, and just noted, »I can barely move my arms, Master.«

»Sure you can. It’s just going to suck.«

It wasn’t really torture; he knew that well enough.

[secretwhumplair]

Nick's Bed

cw. whumpee forced to sleep in whumper's bed, nightmares, manhandling, intimidation, flashbacks to past torture, creepy comfort from said torturer, noncon touching, begging

next

—

Hayko watches him walk through the door with cold terror.

Nick—dripping in blood, arms soaked to the elbow, face unreadable beneath a smear that might’ve once been someone’s nose or jaw—is holding a hammer like it’s an extension of his wrist. The slow swing of his gait makes time stretch unnaturally. Hayko knows he should run, but he doesn’t. He can’t. The paralysis of it feels molecular.

Nick stops in the doorway. Their eyes meet across the hallway, Hayko still in socks, still holding a half-eaten sandwich, and the hammer drips once, onto the floorboards.

They stare at each other for what feels like a year.

Then, without preamble, Nick starts sprinting—grin manic, arm winding back without hesitation. Hayko doesn’t move. Can’t move. His body is cement and his heart is thundering and the sparse moonlight is glinting off Nick’s wild eyes.

The hammer descends with a high, clean whistle.

Hayko wakes up screaming.

“Are you fucking serious, Hayko? Again?” 

Hayko jerks violently into consciousness. His throat’s raw and the residual scream echoes in his skull. He’s drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around his legs like restraints, breath coming in short, high hiccups.

He pushes himself upright, scrambling back against the headboard, and only then does he register the shape at the foot of the bed.

Nick, back lit in a near-exact recreation of his nightmare, stands in the doorway. His arms are crossed, eyes shadowed with irritation. His mouth is set in a flat line with the kind of restrained displeasure that suggests he’s had just enough sleep to make being woken unbearable. 

Not angry enough to act on it—but close.

"I can't tell if you're fucking with my sleep on purpose," Nick drawls, looking particularly murderous. "Because if you are, I'm just gonna make you scream louder."

Hayko swallows hard.

For one vertiginous moment, he swears he sees blood dripping down his hands. He blinks. Just tired eyes, just shadows. And for once, Nick’s looking at him like a nuisance and not prey. Like he wants to return him for store credit.

He pulls his knees up instinctively and runs a hand over his face, wiping away sweat and the hot burn of shame. He doesn’t look at Nick.

Night terrors weren’t a thing before Nick. Now, he stars in them.

And for the past three weeks, Hayko has been living with chronic low-grade terror that those nightmares will soon become reality.

The house was—he’d admit it—a step up from the cracked drywall and mold-riddled heater he’d left behind. Heated floors. Industrial-grade espresso machine. A walk-in closet that could accommodate his entire former apartment and still have room for a corpse or two.

The fridge was stocked. The shower pressure was decent. He had a working space with a real desk, a warm place to sleep, a temporary address he could write on his casework. Not bad, for someone who was almost on the street with no intention of surviving the winter with his dignity intact.

And Nick, against all odds, hadn’t made it hell. Not yet.

Mornings were almost surreal in their mundanity. Hayko would wake, shower, make breakfast in the obscenely sterile kitchen, review case files for whichever criminal Nick was currently courting or covering for. Some days he wouldn’t see Nick at all. Others, Nick would saunter in around dusk, fresh clothes, damp hair, and either a grocery bag or a splatter of something red-brown on his collar. 

They had a rhythm, of sorts. 

Nick would make Pho, or something approximating it. Sometimes he’d talk about his day: who got killed, who got talked out of killing someone, who needed legal coverage and who just needed to disappear. Hayko would nod along and tell himself not to get used to it or read into the lulls.

Because it wasn’t peace. It was a prelude. Waiting for the next act of cruelty from a man who had given him some kind of long-term post-traumatic stress syndrome in just a few months of knowing him.

So when Nick says, “Grab your shit,” in the doorway of the guest room, Hayko’s first thought is: Shit. This is it. I’m getting thrown out. 

He doesn’t move, not wanting to make the inevitable easier.

Nick sighs like Hayko’s being deliberately obtuse and turns on his heel. “Come on. Get up. If you wake me up one more fucking time, I’ll stick your head in the oven.”

Hayko climbs out of bed slowly, heart jackhammering and every nerve alert. He follows barefoot, watching Nick’s back like he might spin and lunge at him. The walk through the hall is slow and quiet. The air is dead. The storm outside is a muffled hush against the windows, thick with snow.

Then they stop at the master bedroom.

Nick pushes open the door with his elbow and gestures inside like he’s hosting a tour. “Get in.”

Hayko blinks once. His eyes flick from the bed to Nick, back again. “...I—what?”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “You scream loud and for too long. We’ll solve that problem by putting you in arm’s reach.”

“N-no.”

Nick doesn’t react, only keeps him pinned with that flat, snake-like look. 

“I’ll be quieter,” Hayko tries. “It won’t happen again.”

“Hayko.”

“I can manage it. I’ll—I’ll take something. I’ll sleep in the living room. You won’t hear me.”

“I’ll hear you,” Nick replies, voice flat. “You scream like you’re being flayed. It’s not something I can sleep through.”

Hayko takes a step back, heels brushing the hallway tile, and his heart begins its slow, familiar climb toward panic.

“Nick,” he says, and it came out too soft, too pleading. “Don’t make me do this. Please. I’ll be quiet. I swear.”

Nick's eyes flick downward—at Hayko’s hands, clenched at his sides. At his bare feet. At the way he trembles, the fear probably curled into his posture like a muscle memory. He steps forward, one pace but enough to bring them chest to chest.

“Don't be dramatic. You sleep here,” he continues. But they both know the matter is settled. “I’ll know when it starts so I’ll wake you sooner.”

Hayko flinches as Nick reaches past him, turns the bedroom light off, and waits. When he speaks again, the finality in his tone clips like the snap of a closing door.

“Get in the bed.”

Hayko doesn’t move.

For a moment, the silence between them stretches so taut it could split skin. He can’t will his feet forward. Doesn’t want to know what might happen in the alternative.

He finds out anyway.

Nick moves viper-fast—faster than Hayko can react, even if he saw it coming. A sharp grab at the collar of his shirt, and then the sudden momentum of his body leaving the floor.

Hayko lets out a breathless grunt as he hits the mattress, spine thudding against the plush, too-soft surface, limbs splayed awkwardly. He scrambles to sit upright but stops short when Nick follows, bracing himself over Hayko on both arms, pinning him in place.

Their faces are closer than Hayko could stand. He can smell the last withering scraps of patience on Nick’s breath. 

“Surely,” Nick says, voice low, clipped with exhaustion and sharp with menace, “you’re not going to make me ask a third time? I’m being very nice, so far.”

Hayko stares up at him, panting, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to claw out of his chest. Finally, he forces himself to nod.

Nick pushes off of him and turns away, letting Hayko rearrange himself. He sits up slowly, embarrassment prickling hot beneath his skin. Then, like dragging a lead weight, turns and pulls himself under the covers, settling rigidly on the very edge of the mattress.

It feels like sleeping in a bear’s den.

He curls in on himself, arms crossed tight over his chest, knees drawn in. Every sound makes his pulse spike—the rustle of sheets, the slow creak of the mattress as Nick shifts in behind him.

Hayko stares out into the dark.

He counts Nick’s breathing. One inhale. One exhale. Then again. And again. Trying to match it. Trying to time his own in that rhythm, hoping that if he can just fake it long enough, the real thing might follow. 

“I’m not going to fall asleep before you,” Nick eventually mutters, muffled by the pillow. “So just close your eyes and relax before you lose any more brain cells.”

Hayko’s lips part—some half-formed retort, too tired to finish. He shuts his eyes. 

His body stays tight for a while. And then, without his permission, loosens.

He drifts off, not realizing when.

—

Hayko wakes to a pale streak of sunlight cutting across his eyes and realizes that Nick is already gone. He groans under his breath, shifting slightly to reorient himself, scanning the room. There’s no immediate sense of danger. No looming presence. Nick’s side of the bed—and God, the fact that he’s mentally designated it like that—is already made.

He sits up slowly, the comforter sliding down his chest in loose folds. His mouth tastes of nothing. His pulse is steady.

He feels impossibly rested.

Rubbing a hand through his hair, he exhales and tries not to linger on it. Gratitude, for the moment, edges out analysis. He’s intact. No new bruises. No phantom aches to account for. Nick, evidently, hadn’t felt inspired to act on any midnight whims. Though Hayko knows that if he had, he wouldn’t have slept through it.

He climbs out of bed, pads down the hall to the guest room, showers, dresses. The routine helps settle him into his skin. He makes coffee, then paces the kitchen in restless circuits, as if physical motion might put distance between him and the reality that he slept better next to the man who once cracked his ribs for speaking out of turn.

There’s no lingering drowsiness, no ache behind his eyes. Nothing to suggest he was drugged.

Just as he reaches for the carafe to pour his mug, the front door creaks open and he freezes, eyes flicking to it with reflexive tension. But it’s only Nick, humming contentedly to himself as he steps inside and sets a brown paper bag on the counter.

Hayko watches him in silence, then turns to finish pouring his coffee.

After a beat, he clears his throat.

“Do you want a cup?”

Nick doesn’t look up. “None for me, love,” he replies lightly, already unpacking groceries into the fridge.

Hayko hesitates for a moment, then exhales through his nose.

“Did I have another nightmare?”

Nick pauses, a carton of eggs in his hand, and smiles broadly, like it pleases him that Hayko has the courage to ask about it.

“You did,” he says. “Didn’t get far. You started tossing. I woke you before it could spiral.”

There’s no way for Hayko to know if that’s true. But something about it lands. He does remember waking up briefly and feeling cold, heart stuttering hard against his ribs. The realization that Nick was right behind him had startled him into full awareness.

And then... a hand. Soft, slow, carding through his hair.

He remembers that now, dimly. The hush of a voice too low to parse, the warmth of someone petting him back to sleep like a frightened animal.

He's scared to ask for confirmation.

—

That night, Hayko brushes his teeth in the guest bathroom with more nerves than usual.

And as expected, he hears the approaching unhurried footfalls. Padding in rhythm down the hall. Then, a quiet shift at the threshold. Hayko looks up and finds Nick standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he has all the time in the world. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Nick says nothing at first, seemingly content just watching him.

Hayko spits out the toothpaste and rinses his hands.

Nick tilts his head. “Have you given any thought to where you’re sleeping tonight?”

Hayko doesn’t turn. He keeps his eyes in the mirror, jaw tight. “Figured you’d make that decision.”

Nick hums. “I will. I’d just like your input. I’m not a tyrant.”

Hayko stares at his reflection and nearly laughs. Hysterically. He bites it back.

“Is there a right answer?”

Nick smiles slowly. “Only if you sleep better than usual.” He pushes off the frame, stretching his arms behind his head as he creeps up behind him. “I’m just screwing with you,” he adds, amused. “Don’t look so worried. You don’t have to say it out loud—I’ll just make you do it again. As a personal favor.”

And that’s how, for the second night in a row, Hayko finds himself tugging the blankets back on Nick’s bed, sour and uncertain, still hugging the edge of the mattress like that extra inch of distance will help him escape faster if things go south. Nick settles in beside him, arranging his pillows with practiced ease, then pulls out a battered paperback of Sense and Sensibility from the nightstand.

He clicks on the reading light. The warm glow pools beside them.

“Is this bothering you?” he asks without looking up.

“No,” Hayko answers, quieter than he means to. The ambient light, actually, is a comfort. It softens the corners of the room. It distracts him from the yawning dark overhead. The ceiling is too high. The space too cavernous. 

He lays back, arms folded over his chest, and lets his breathing even. The tension seeps out in stages. His eyelids grow heavy. The warmth and quiet pull him down, slow and steady.

Until—

He blinks awake.

The mattress is gone. He’s on cold, filthy concrete.  His ankle is chained to a metal pole. He doesn’t need to look around to know where he is. The smell—rot, blood, damp earth—tells him before anything else. He whimpers, too dazed to recognize his own voice.

The door creaks open.

Nick steps in.

No tray. No water. Just a whip in hand, curled like a snake, his smile too wide, all teeth.

Hayko scrambles backward, chain snapping taut, and collapses hard onto the floor. He’s babbling now, words tumbling over each other—please don’t, I haven’t done anything, please, I just want to go home—but the sound feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else. Then he sees it. The shape beside him.

Blond hair. Blue eyes. Unblinking.

The jaw is missing.

It’s Vladimir. 

The scream tears out of him without warning. Pain flashes hot across his chest, down his arms. Another lash. The fire blooms on his skin. He begs. Nick doesn’t hear him. Or won’t.

“You’re alright.”

He’s mocking him.

“Calm down. Hayko. For fuck’s sake.”

His eyes fly open. His lungs seize.

Nick’s hands are gripping his wrists, pinning them to the mattress. Hayko thrashes instinctively, gasping, the scream still caught in his throat, his face wet and his vision blurring. He can’t stop crying. Can’t stop begging. His voice is high, broken. “Please don’t—please, I want to go home—don’t hurt me—please—”

Nick tries to speak over him, trying to guide him back to the present. Hayko isn’t hearing it. He’s not hearing anything.

Then—crack.

A sharp sting across his cheek. Nick’s hand.

“It was a dream,” Nick says, firmly. “Calm down.”

The world tilts back into place in fractured pieces. The dark ceiling above him isn’t concrete. The sheets aren’t filthy. The smell is clean. Air is circulating. It’s not the basement.

He isn’t chained.

Nick isn’t hurting him. Not right now.

Hayko tries to steady his breath, but it won’t catch. The panic’s still threading his veins, seizing his chest. He repeats to himself—he let me out. He let me go. But he didn’t, not really. Not when every inch of this house is a weapon pointed at Hayko’s head. Not when there are hands holding his wrists instead of chains on his ankles and he’s right back under Nick’s thumb where he belongs.

Nick’s hand is still on his wrist, gentler now. He shifts and draws Hayko fluidly in against him.  Hayko doesn’t fight it. He’s too wrung out and disoriented and the contact is warm. Nick’s disembodied voice, warming and steady, fills the space between his ears.

“You’re safe. It’s alright. Just breathe.”

Hayko trembles against him, face buried in his shoulder. His body can’t seem to follow instinct or pattern recognition because the words are so soft, and the hand in his hair is softer. His objections are still howling, but they’re losing volume by the second.

The sobs taper off. The shaking slows. Eventually, he stops crying entirely.

“There we go. Shhh. Doesn’t that feel better, love?” Nick coos against his ear, rocking him. “You’re perfectly safe. Just breathe deeply.”

Hayko does because he can’t keep fighting. The air comes too fast, too shallow, and still the warmth of the voice, the rhythm of the touch, wears him down. Nick strokes through his hair again, careful and probably enjoying every bit of this hilarious spectacle.

Hayko’s fingers twitch, then settle against Nick’s back. First light, then gripping hard. Not a gesture of affection but closer to clambering for a life vest in open waters.

His breath steadies in increments. 

He doesn’t mean to hold on. But the stillness around them is a trap, and Nick’s body is the only solid thing in reach. His shirt smells like clean cotton and skin. Hayko presses closer, barely aware of it as he tucks his face into the curve of Nick’s neck. Barely aware of it when Nick laughs quietly and holds him close.

There is no peace or safety here.

But for all his horror, all the instinct telling him to run, his body has chosen to cling to the one place Nick can’t chase him from. In the end, there is nowhere safer from Nick than inside his arms.

—

@doveotions @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna  @whumperfully​​ ​@brittaunfiltered09 @absolute-bean-loverr

If you like my stuff, consider supporting me on ko-fi! :D

[secretwhumplair]

Controlling whumper

-whumper who controls what whumpee wears, always picking the next outfit for whumpee

-whumper preferring Whumpees hair in specific style and length and maintaining it for whumpee everyday

-also whumpee being subjected to whumper brushing their hair daily while whumper dotes on them

-whumper also completely controls what whumpee eats and when and exactly how much

-perhaps whumper even showers whumpee

-or dumps cold soapy water on them and thinks good enough

-escaped whumpee struggling to take care of themselves due to whumper never allowing them to do it themselves, or out of pure fear of punishment

-whumper catching whumpee combing their hair with their fingers and hitting Whumpees hands with ruler till whumpee cries

-after that whumpee has to have their hands tied behind them while unsupervised

-whumper mocking whumpee for not being able to take care of themselves as if whumper Doesn't delight in it every second

-as if whumper hadn't specifically done their best to condition whumpee to depend on them for everything

-also can enjoy the duality of whumper always complimenting whumpee while looking the way whumper prefers Compared to whumper tearing everything apart about post captivity whumpee

-imagining whumper crying over whumpee getting those "hideous" tattoos or "bad" hair cut

-whumper being enraged about whumpers dyed hair since it'll take time to grow out, even better if whumper preferred whumper with long hair thus it taking longer for whumpers preferred style to return

-basically anything that could change Whumpees appearance in long term which clashes with whumpers preferred style

-you could also imagine whumper being devastated over whumpee getting their forced tattoo removed for example

-well whumper will make sure it'll all be Whumpees problem way more than whumpers

[secretwhumplair]

I know there's a well loved niche for royal whump, but lately I've been thinking a lot about royal *guard* whump.

Hurt for being loyal to the old king, punished for doing the thing they were trained to do. Grief-struck at the loss of their fellow guards in combat. Guilt at failing at their most important task: protecting the heart of kingdom.

[secretwhumplair]

big big biggest possible fan of when a whumpee who sacrificed themself for their friends/teammates is publicly displayed for their friends to see. Like their capture is broadcasted, or a video sent to the team, or its some sort of public setting where whumpee follows whumper around on a chain or more humiliatingly, a leash and collar. Even better if whumpee was someone they used to look up to as someone stronger/ more powerful than them and. Is now reduced to a toy

[secretwhumplair]

Tag Game: Whumpee Writes a List of Needs

Inspired by this post! Make a post with a list of things your character needs their Caretaker to do (or not do, in terms of triggers to avoid) for them during their recovery - things that it would be difficult for them to say out loud. Could be in-character or just author's description of what they need.

yippeeee thank you for tag @thewhumpcaretaker i love it

uhhh who would be good at this tag game..... @secretwhumplair @lethologick @rainbowsandwhumperflies @horrible-on-main @doumidas-whumps @baphomimi ??? no pressure

honestly open tag for whoever wants to do it and i really encourage you to do it because this is a v cute exercise

loosely in-character lists for both boys below :D

they both have multiple caretakers so not addressed to any particular person and its set roughly within Vol.II time period

Delta

i like being given a choice but sometimes its too much and i trust you to make decisions for me when i cant. not major life ones but its okay for small things

no yelling ever please

please don’t make me talk or tell me to shut up both are really triggering

you can tell me if im being weird. its less humiliating to be corrected at the time than it is to find out later. i wont know otherwise.

i can’t help the verbal tics and its not anything you did wrong most of the time my head is just fucked

please let me stay around even if i am quiet i still want to be near you

please just tell me if you are unhappy with me it makes me nervous when i cant tell

praise is good and i want to be good and i want you to be proud of me

telling me how much you hate my abusers just makes me feel wrong and broken for not feeling that way. i know you mean well but its alienating and makes me feel like a bad person.

im okay about touch. i like being touched. you don’t have to protect me when it comes to that. i know what i’m doing.

please stop me if ive been awake longer than 48 hours or at the computer longer than 12. 

crying or not crying does not really indicate anything anymore. it happens for no reason or it doesn’t happen when i need it to. it’s better to just ask and to believe me.

be patient and gentle during the lapses. you already do that please keep doing it because it means more to me than you know

Paris

warn me before you touch me because my nervous system is all fucked up and still launches into fight apropos of nothing and i don’t want to hurt you

you can tell me to fuck off if im being too aggressive and you can tell me if i need to leave. its okay if you leave too i will try to panic less about it but id rather that happen than keep arguing and say shit i cant take back.

its okay if youre mad at me but can you just reassure me that you are not going to leave forever because of it. or if the time does come when you are going to leave forever will you tell me that too

no drugging ever not even for my own good. i know if its an emergency i wont have a choice but i dont want it.

no matter what is happening to me do not call the cops

also can you give me a heads-up before i have to interact w any of the rebels because it takes me a while to psyche myself up

i can’t always come out of the dissociative episodes but i appreciate you maintaining presence anyway and id be worse off if you didn’t do that. just because im unresponsive doesnt mean i dont want you there. i like hearing you talk.

you can confiscate my phone and sharp objects if im manic but let me keep the cigarettes. you can take the lighter though.

dont talk to me like i’m stupid

dont take pics or videos without asking it makes me paranoid

you can ask me to do things for you no matter what state i am in. i want to help you and to repay you in some way and its good for me to not feel entirely useless. i will do it.

[secretwhumplair]

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

[secretwhumplair]

"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."

[secretwhumplair]

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

[secretwhumplair]

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

[secretwhumplair]

Tubes and Tines

[secretwhumplair]

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.

[secretwhumplair]

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.

[secretwhumplair]

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.

[secretwhumplair]

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?

~~~

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