#silas loves you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forwhump · 1 month

Text

a/n; :’) I was actually looking for smth caretaking (@ chi if you see this I deleted your ask but I won’t forget I promise !!!) but I found this instead & tbh it’s just kind of a banger so here we are (I also found a fun one that’s just wren literally holding silas’ head onto his body but is that postable ??? I guess we’ll see)

I forgot how much fun the wren pov folder is so big shoutout to the anon who asked for it im having a great time !! & obviously thank you all of y’all you who read my nonsense for coming along for the ride :’)

(fun fact !: the reason Point is called Point is because of the cane he has in this one that I don’t know if I’ve posted about before LOL in the big grand scheme of things it’s almost a reoccurring character)(he calls it “little debbie” if you were wondering)

tw/cw: implied noncon, graphic depictions of violence, caning, skinning, grievous bodily harm, mutilation, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, slut shaming, humiliation, point’s daddy kink, major character death (but he dies all the time it’s kind of a thing)

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper (it’s point again idk he’s not NOT creepy)(he makes wren call him daddy)

There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human.

It haunts Wren more than he’s willing to admit.

It sits on his chest, a dead weight. He dreams of getting out of here, of seeing the sunlight again, his mother, his friends, and it’s hard to superimpose Silas into those dreams; Silas, who shares more in common with Michelangelo’s David than any human man.

He’s a weapon crafted from violence and stone, but the parts of him that are still human are so human that Wren aches for him. He thinks of himself as a violent dog, but Wren knows him better than that — he’s reactive. He’s protective. He loves with a ferocity that Wren barely understands.

The way he bleeds is human.

Silas thinks of his own blood as tainted, but Wren knows better than that. His blood is all human. His pain, as well.

He roars and it’s an animal sound, but the look on his face is entirely human. The way his chin drops to his chest and he shudders with blood loss is all human, nothing else.

Wren tries to scream but Gore has a gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He shakes against Wren’s back every so often, bouts of laughter at his expense.

It’s inhuman, is what this is. There isn’t a lot of Silas left that’s still human, but he’s still so much more human than any of these men, these soldiers. They crowd Wren’s room, they block the doorway, they have Silas on his knees in a puddle of his own blood, growing too quickly, covering too much of the floor. They hold a buck knife to Wren’s throat so Silas doesn’t fight them. Not once.

He kneels on the concrete. Point has this cane, long and crafted from iron, heavy and barbed lethally on one end. He swings it again, and the barbs snag the sensitive flesh beneath Silas’ Adam’s apple and tear it right out of his throat.

Silas doesn’t roar this time, he just gurgles, low and pained. It makes Point laugh — that rasping, dead leaves sound that somehow passes as laughter. Almost jovial, he swings his cane around to point the end of it at Wren, but then he isn’t smiling anymore. “Whore,” he says, and he enunciates very carefully. He whips around to swing at Silas again and the jagged hooks of metal catch on the puckered hollow of his empty eye socket. Silas makes a rasping sound, probably as much of a roar as he can manage, and Point grins like a cartoon supervillain and rips Silas’ eyelid off his face.

Wren thrashes and Gore’s chest rumbles with laughter as he holds him a little closer.

“I warned you,” Point says, and he’s speaking to Wren but he throws his cane at Silas again, rips a chunk of flesh and muscle off his chest, “no dogs on the bed.” The barbed end of the cane sinks next into the hollow beneath Silas’ sternum. A noise is knocked out of Silas like nothing Wren has ever heard. Point has to brace a boot against his chest to pry the cane free, and he’s particular about shoving it deep into the skinned meat of his ribcage as he wrenches it out of his flesh with a sound like suction.

“But you just can’t keep your legs closed, can you, cowgirl?” Point asks, sickeningly conversational as he swings his cane again, peeling the muscle of Silas’ bicep clean away from the bone in his arm. “You just can’t help yourself. You’ll even let the dog fuck you.”

The heat burns in Wren’s face, blistering.

Point grins at him, grotesque. “Good girls don’t fuck dogs,” he says. “Whores fuck dogs. What does that make you, baby?”

Silas makes a low noise, kind of groan, still disturbingly wet. Point looks down at him quickly. Sometimes the way he moves is sickening, unsettling, too jerky to be human. It’s cruel, but it’s also just unfair; this evil marionette, wearing the skin of a man, gets to carve a place for himself in the outside world, and Silas doesn’t?

Point’s grin stretches across his face, each time more grotesque than the last. “What was that, boy?” He asks, and cups a hand behind his ear. “I think Lassie’s trying to tell me something.”

Silas makes another rumbling groan of a sound and Point leans in a bit closer. “Your girlfriend’s a filthy whore?” He mocks. “I think so, too.”

His one arm, bicep severed, is limp at his side, but his other arm is still functional, and Silas is strong. Wren doesn’t think he can even quite grasp how strong Silas actually is. With his other hand, he grabs Point by the windpipe with so much force Point’s face changes colour three times in less than a second; red, then blue, then purple.

Point croaks, which makes Silas grin. Wren sobs.

Letting the cane start to slide through his hand, Point curls his fingers around the middle, sturdy, before he cracks the barbed end into the inside of Silas’ elbow with all his weight. It sinks all the way through flesh and viscera, and when Point pries it free again, he peels the skin off his forearm, a flap of bloody tissue that sways at Silas’ wrist.

Silas snarls as Point quickly covers his bruised throat with his other hand. That marionette grin is gone, replaced by the simmering rage he always keeps boiling just beneath the surface. “Fucker,” he spits.

He doesn’t kick him, not really, so much as he cracks the bottom of his boot into Silas’ face and puts all his weight into it. Blood sprays from Silas in an explosion of clotted red mist and Point spits on him, fuming. “No dogs on the bed,” he snaps. “I won’t keep repeating myself.” He swings his cane back over his shoulder, looking at Wren, too close and too intense. The way Point looks at him has always made him shudder. “And you,” he says, softer, in the sickly sweet mocking he reserves just for him, that rage flickering on his face. “Why won’t you just behave?”

Wren scowls at him from beneath Gore’s hand, but he’s crying and he’s helpless and it only makes Point grin, wide and mean.

“If you don’t smarten up, cowgirl,” he says, “I will put your dog down. I’m not playing with you anymore. I will put it down, carve it open, and fuck you in its carcass. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

He scowls again, but his eyes are burning.

Point lifts his chin at Gore, who’s hand slides from over Wren’s mouth to around his neck. Point grins at him. “Say it.”

Wren doesn’t. He opens his mouth and the best he can do is a sob.

Point raises his eyebrows. “What did I just say?” He asks sharply. “Say it.”

Wren tries to look away but Point grabs him by the jaw, forcing his face up, forcing Wren to look at him as he whispers, just barely, “yes, daddy.”

Point pats his cheek twice. “Giddyup.” He motions at Gore, who drops Wren into an ungraceful pile on the concrete. With a whistle, he angles his head towards the door, and his men start to file out of the cramped space of Wren’s bedroom. Point lingers last in the doorway, watching Wren pull himself up from the floor. “If I find out you fucked this thing again,” he reminds him, “I’ll fix it, and I’ll make you swallow its testicles. Y’hear?”

Wren doesn’t consider himself a particularly violent person, especially not amongst such violent people. Point, though — Point brings out something in Wren that Wren is almost ashamed of. Point makes him violent. Wren had never wondered what it would feel like to crush a human head until he met him.

But Silas’ blood is seeping through Wren’s joggers, warming his skin, so he’s good. For Silas’ sake, he’s good. “Yes,” he whispers, “daddy.”

Point winks at him as he leaves. Wren wants to watch him die.

Before the door has even closed completely behind him, Wren lurches closer to Silas, kneeling in a pool of blood so thick it isn’t red, but a sickening, shimmering black, an oil spill.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, cradling Silas’ face, almost impossibly gentle. “Hey.” Carefully, he lifts his chin from his chest.

Silas looks like a scene from a horror movie. Half of his face had been stripped to raw meat and his empty eye socket is leaking a sick, yellow fluid. The bone of his cheek and his jaw on one side have been stripped completely of meat and muscle, a sickening flash of bone beneath the gore, a bit too white to be entirely natural. He looks at Wren, and he looks dazed.

Wren thumbs slowly over a bloody cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Silas opens his mouth like he wants to speak and vomits blood all down the front of Wren’s chest and his lap. Wren makes an involuntary sound, something panicked, a hiccup. Silas must mistake it for disgust, because he tries to pull away, he tries to lift his head on his own. “M’sorry,” he slurs, so wet Wren can barely understand him, “m’okay,” and he isn’t, his skin is hanging from his meat in bloody ribbons and he can barely hold up his own head, but he’s speaking, however wet, he’s breathing, his heart is beating, he’s alive. He’s bleeding and he’s hurting but he’s alive. He’s okay. He’ll be okay.

Wren is gentle as he bats away Silas’ hands, reaching back up for him, cradling his face. “Silas,” he says softly. Silas blinks down at him, something dazed, maybe dizzy, and vomits again with a pained, gurgling cough.

They’d come in the middle of the night, Point and his favourite men, all his most cruel soldiers. Wren doesn’t need to guess to know exactly why they’d come to see him, or why Point was so furious to find Silas already there. They’d been sleeping — Wren can’t sleep if Silas isn’t with him, and Point is the reason why. He’s more scared of Silas than he likes to admit or than he wants his men to realize, and it makes him deranged. It makes him violent.

He’d woken Silas in the middle of the night by opening his gut with the barbed end of his cane. Silas, who didn’t do anything wrong. Silas, who didn’t do anything but indulge Wren and sleep beside him.

They can’t get to medical in the middle of the night. There’s nobody at the door to let them through. Point and his team have watch tonight, and if Wren were to hit a panic button, nobody would answer him. They’d punished Silas and left him alone to bleed.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes again.

Silas has his good cheek leaned hard against the palm of Wren’s hand. There isn’t a lot of Silas that’s still human, but there are parts of him that are, and Wren can see one of those parts in his face, in the very slight crease of pain between his eyebrows. Silas would never complain, and especially not to Wren. For a long time, Wren didn’t think he was even capable of feeling pain — it was Medic that told him otherwise. Silas feels pain, and the way he feels it is almost entirely human. He has no special tolerance. He’s desensitized.

But his head is leaned hard against Wren’s palm and Wren can’t imagine how heavy it must be. He can’t imagine what it’s taking for Silas to hold himself up.

Still, Silas slurs, “m’okay.”

He isn’t. He vomits again, blood that’s getting darker and darker in colour. His head kind of sways against Wren’s hand, and he doesn’t open his eye before he throws up more blood, too dark, too quickly.

“Silas?” Wren breathes.

He coughs, and he throws up more blood. Too much blood.

“Hey,” Wren says softly, touching his cheek, a little firmer.

There’s just enough of Silas left in him that he lurches away so he doesn’t crush Wren with his weight when he collapses, face first, to the concrete. His blood is everywhere, pooling on the uneven ground, and Wren can hear the way it bubbles, sickening, beneath Silas’ face as he gurgles for breath and vomits more blood, acidic amongst the oil spill, dull amongst the shimmer.

“Hey,” Wren breathes, and his voice breaks. He kneels quickly next to him, putting a hand at his back, slick with blood. “Silas.”

It happens really quickly. It happens so quickly. Silas stops heaving. The pool beneath him stops bubbling. His back stills beneath Wren’s hand. All at once.

“Silas?”

And he dies, skinned, on the floor of Wren’s bedroom.

He’s dead for all of three minutes before Point returns. He’s grinning.

21 notes · View notes