#carewhumper tag is kind of a stretch flint is kind of just turning into caretaker/normal guy

[painonthebrain]

Please Don’t

Masterlist

CWs: Captivity, angel whumpee, masc whumpee, carewhumper, masc whumper, stitches (mentioned)

Flint and Oath… talk things out.

Flint bends down over Oath’s sleeping form, curled in the blankets Flint gave him. His knees strain as he kneels, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.

He wants to try something different… since last time ended with blood. He’s sure it’ll be painless. After all, he just needs a loose feather. … Well, wants one. Same thing.

Flint reaches out, touching Oath’s wings cautiously. They’re soft yet sleek, and his fingers brush over Oath’s wingtips. His touch is almost reverent in a way, careful not to disturb the angel, yet curious, probing.

He tugs on a primary. It stays on, rooted in Oath's flesh.

No. He can’t take that one. It needs to be easy. Oath shouldn’t be able to feel anything.

He reaches out again, taking hold of another feather — and Oath startles, his wings snapping to his sides. Flint jerks back in surprise, and the feather comes off with the movement. He drops it, stabbing pain piercing his legs from the sudden movement while kneeling.

“Ah, oW—” Flint groans, shifting his weight so instead of being on his knees he’s sitting on the floor. He takes the feather back, picking it up off the ground and clutching it close to his chest.

Oath turns to look at him, his expression a mixture of groggy annoyance, coupled with the telltale look of someone fighting the nerves of being scared in the middle of their sleep. “What the hell are you doing?” He groans, eyes narrowing as they meet Flint’s.

When met with silence, he huffs. Then he spies the tawny brown feather between Flint’s fingers.

“So that’s what you wanted. Asshole. You could have at least woken me up and asked.”

“I didn’t —” Flint fumes, then sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. “Even if I asked, you’d say no.”

Oath smiles tiredly, eyes narrowing. “Oh no, I’d say please don’t.” He tilts his head, giving Flint doe eyes, smile disappearing and clasping his hands together, a mockery of the perfect victim. He crawls to where Flint sits. “Please don’t! Please — please don’t!”

Flint chokes in response, eyes widening in horror. “Stop! Listen, I —”

“You’re so easy.” Oath cuts him off, killing the act. “You could have my feathers, if you didn’t take them.” He stresses the emphasis on the word ‘take,’ glaring at Flint.

“I didn’t mean to!—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Oath snaps, and Flint looks down, holding the feather closer.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“You better not.” Oath snaps.

The silence is thick. Flint opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He stares at Oath, who clutches his blanket and settles back in, turning away.

Oath scoffs. “You're lucky it wasn't a blood feather.”

“A what?”

“A feather with a vein or an artery in it. It bleeds when it's broken.”

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t —”

“Didn’t know?” Oath turns back, twisting his body to face Flint. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t need to know. Not like you have wings or anything.”

“Well, it’s nice to know,” Flint says, looking away.

“Yeah,” Oath huffs, eyes narrowing, “sure it is.” A beat passes between them and Flint finds himself staring at the floorboards. The worn wood, the grooves and gaps between boards, the patterns from the tree they came fr –

“Listen.” His thoughts come to a shuddering halt at the sound of Oath’s voice. “Don’t you think you seem awfully reserved for someone who's doing what you've been doing?

“What's your deal?”

Flint’s throat closes up. His gut feeling is to leave. “Nothing –”

Oath groans, getting up again, pushing his blankets away. Coming closer.

“No. It’s not ‘nothing.’ Clearly it’s not.

“… So let’s talk about it.” Anyone else saying that phrase would be kind and reassuring. Oath’s inflection is vindictive, tightly-strung and stilted.

“You've kept me in here as a prisoner –” he spits the word – “and all you've done is give me clumsy stitches and pull out a feather. It’s honestly pathetic.”

He’s made his way to Flint now, almost as close as he was before, and he sneers, leaning into Flint’s face. “You can’t make up your mind about who or what you want to be; you’re not kind, you’re not cruel. You’re a fucking coward.”

Flint struggles to form words.

“What the hell is so wrong to you about this? You're the one who took me away!”

“I — I don't know! C-Can’t I do shit without you prying?”

“Prying? About what? How you’re using my blood?” Oath snaps, jabbing a finger into Flint’s chest. Flint slaps his hand away, and Oath grabs his wrist, hard.

“It’s not like you can stop me from asking — because what’ll you do? Hurt me? Oh, no you won't! Because you're too scared! Is that what you really are? A frightened, lonely, washed-up loser who can’t even —”

Flint’s face flushes. “You — don’t — I’m none of those things!”

“Yes you are.” he hisses. “If you weren't, you wouldn’t act so dysfunctional. You’d pick a side. Hurt me or not.

“Because I’m just your ingredient supply, aren’t I?”

“No, I  —”

… Supply.

“I’ll back off. If that’s what you want from me.”

“You already do that all the time! I’m asking you to stay. Stay and answer my question directly.”

Flint grits his teeth. “God, okay! It’s my moral failings! I made my choice and I either have to double down or — I don’t know!”

“You feel bad?”

“Yes!” The admission is like a relief somehow. “Yes, I do!”

“Hm. That’s interesting. Yet if you really feel bad, why do you keep on doing what you’ve been doing?”

“This?” He holds the feather out. “No, that was an accident.”

“Touching my wings wasn’t.” There’s a visible tint to Oath’s cheeks when he makes that statement.

“It wasn’t.” Flint repeats. No use lying.

“You need to get your shit together.” Oath mutters.

“…I know. I’m sorry. I want to make it right.” Flint holds out the feather for Oath, and Oath stares at it lazily, uninterested.

“Really?” He asks, not taking it.

“Yes, really.”

Oath looks deep into Flint’s eyes. “Hm,” he says, noncommittal.

“‘Hm’ what?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.”

“You did wake me up a few minutes ago. Give me a second.” Oath turns over and lays back down, covering himself in the blankets. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut. 

Flint sits and waits, avoiding looking at Oath and instead examining his surroundings once more.

More silence.

He shifts, and his knees begin to ache, protesting the movement.

He examines the ceiling of his poorly put together home, eyes tracing the aged, water-stained surface. The beginnings of spiderwebs can be seen in the corners where ceiling meets wall, and Flint internally notes that he’ll have to clean them … or else he’ll feel like a slob. Somehow.

He leans back, laying on the floor.

He’s noticing how disorderly everything is, lazily drinking in every detail of his surroundings, twisting the feather between his fingers and growing more uncomfortable. How much is too much? Too much silence, too many things — when is the balance disrupted?

The pain has become worse. There are little nonexistent knives driven into his knees now. Stabbing over and over, working their blades into his cartilage, slicing his legs open.

He supposes he should do something about it.

But maybe he’d rather stay here. Lay next to his mistake, not risk the pain of standing up, just keep waiting and waiting and waiting for an answer.

He ignores the urge. He pulls himself up without wincing, using the nearby table for support.

“… I’m going to put this away,” he says to Oath, standing up straighter, hoping to elicit a response. His legs strain, burning as he trudges to where he keeps his ingredients, a kind of storage unit comprised of both shelves and drawers — and shoves the feather in a random drawer, eager to rid himself of it.

He returns to Oath, and finds that the angel is already asleep again. He laughs involuntarily. Taking ‘sleeping on it’ literally, isn’t he?

But what else did Flint expect after waking him up so suddenly?

His momentary smile fades.

He won’t wake him up again. He’ll just have to wait.

Flint slumps into his seat at his worktable, and despite the stress on his knees gone, they still ache, burning with pain. He groans, folding his arms on the table and sinking down into them, resting his forehead against them.

“Please don’t.”

Flint lets his head sink down, hitting the wooden surface.

“Fuck.”