Hello and welcome to our blog!! This is a personal passion project of ours that we’ve been working on and developing for the past two years.
Chrysalis is an in-progress hurt/comfort web series, with act I currently in process. It will be co-written by the both of us, and aims to update at least twice a month. All writings, meta, and art will be posted to this blog. If anything seems of interest of you, feel free to check out some of our writing below, or send us an ask. We love interacting with people.
Find us at our main blogs for more :)
ohagi ⋆ any prns ⋆ @ohagany
WRITINGS.
THE GARDEN OF EDEN ⭑⭒ Atlas Zieliński is a child soldier that has served Eden, an all-powerful governmental organization, all his life. But when he discovers that everything he thought he knew of the company was a lie, he does the only thing he can think of. He runs. [Incomplete]
EXTRAS.
BACKSTORIES ⭑⭒ An assortment of pre-canon pieces. Can be read separately. Updates as we get the inspiration for it.
BONUS CONTENT ⭑⭒ Moodboards, playlists, meta rambling, etc.
chrysalis posting again because it is all i know how to do at this point. i must. for the wellbeing of everyone else. anyway though this is like a brief timeline + explanation of the setting of everything leading up into arc ii. may expand more in later arcs.
chrysalis takes place in what is basically america with extra steps tbh.. there is the occasional trip to canada but the rest of north america isn’t truly important here. so for now i’m just going to say they are in the usa. pretty much all these characters are american. moving on.
where is everyone from??
atlas was born in louisiana but he moved around a lot as a kid before settling somewhere in kentucky. it was about when he was six he was transferred into cato’s care. the facility he’s from (warehouse x-101) is located in washington state, a ways off from seattle.
wren was born inside new york (technically) but moved to ontario very early on. they have dual-citizenship in both canada and the us. currently they’re on the run though!!
alastair was born in massachusetts and also moved once or twice as a child. when taken in by the cadwalader family, he was relocated to michigan. currently takes up residence inside a quaint little town named st. augustus, where the main headquarters of the congregation of the chosen can be found.
jeremiah is michigan born and raised.
wasn’t going to do ira but i cannot let doumidas down. her only fan. and i still haven’t done her backstory. anyway!! she was born in connecticut and relocated to new york when she was about three. moved around a lot for a year when she was thirteen before she eventually wound up in oregon, at one of cato’s warehouses. shortly after they were transferred to live in washington at the same facility as atlas :)
where are they going…
the first arc takes place from september 14th (first meeting) to september 27th (formal introductions) and then september 28th to october 14th. so atlas & wren have known each other for a full month.
their travels from leaving eden went from washington to roughly north dakota (just us). there aren’t any true specifics here. wren doesn’t have a strict plan and moves around wherever for the first week before things get serious. they then drove to about mississipi, which is pretty much where they’ve ended up by the arc i finale!! who knows where they’ll be off to next :?
The most delicious trait a defiant whumpee can have (in my opinion):
Bloody teeth.
Yes, give them a rough punch to the face, watch their bottom lip split open, wait a few seconds for them to spit a bit of blood onto the floor, then wait for them to raise their head and smile at you.
Look at their teeth, stained with blood!
I love that in particular.
Bonus points: include laughter + licking of their teeth or lips.
““He staggered a little, unsure whether he should drop to one knee because he’d been shot or because it was the dramatically correct thing to do. He did so anyway, to give himself something to do while he thought about it.””
— The Brothers Cabal, Jonathan L Howard (via cabalquotes)
do any of the chrysalis gang paint their nails. would baz paint his nails
ATLAS AND WREN PAINT THEIR NAILS!!!!! shoutout to the last and only ira & atlas interaction in the text where they paint each others nails. throughout the first arc he is walking around with painted nails lol. in the chapter he does black and red to match his hair :] but i think he’d mix it up too.
also i love the baz mention hashtag hell yeah. after some consideration i think he WOULD paint his nails lol. he’d go very glittery and eccentric looking.
Hi I’m pretty new to tumblr but I wanted to ask if anyone had good recommendations where to read fanfics and like any recommendations for rlly whumpy fanfics (I’ll pretty much read from any fandom but if it’s marvel specifically I would LOVE that omg) >_<
obvs I know like ao3 and stuff, but if anyone actually sees this post and can help I would be forever grateful 🥲
Although all for original fiction, I have a rec list for my favorite whump series here on tumblr here o7 i also have my own living weapon story espada so you can check it out if you want 👉👈
From ao3, these are my favorites:
Compliance (fandom: boku no hero). AU where the main character is raised as a secret living weapon for the government. Peak + angsty + includes recovery + very whumpy. Series.
Fevered Lullaby (fandom: hunter x hunter). Mostly sickfic with a stoic whumpee trying to tough it out due to trauma reasons. Very tasty. Standalone
The Last (fandom: tokyo ghoul). Features self-harm and OCD and aftermath of trauma and is pretty sweet and awesome. Standalone. I think.
This one drabble (fandom: percy jackson & the olympians), canon-compliant, giving a glimpse of Nico's time at Tartarus. Standalone + part of a whump event prompt fill.
Living weapon (original fiction rather than fandom). Title is pretty descriptive. Currently just one chapter but seems to be part of a bigger series.
If you're into the living weapon trope I've also out together a catalogue of literally all living weapon whumpee series on Tumblr I could find here. I haven't read them all myself but I can say that it is a pretty nice collection.
I also gotta give a special shoutout to some of my favorite individual chapters from the series I have linked in my personal rec list (original fiction rather than fandom):
[link] — Living weapon gets in trouble at lw temple trying to protect one of her subordinates from a superior (nsfw warning). Side story of Aros Against Fate by @aromanticsky
[link] — "Father", chapter from the 2nd arc of Chrysalis: The State of Change by @chrysalis-thestateofchange. Church cult member gets in trouble with his superior for "losing" his archival reports :( (warning for whipping)
[link] — "The Black Syndicate's Survival Guide", sidestory of Forsaken by @inhurtandincomfort. Assassin whumpee under the mercy of a ruthless criminal organization gives tips on how to survive it if you find yourself in his position
[link] — "Nowhere Town", main story chapter of Codename K: Kev by @chiswhumpcorner. Introduces the story with a living weapon in training sent on a hard mission and failing to meet impossible standards
[link] — "Outside" chapter from the 2nd arc of Amor Vincit Omnia by @whumpawaydarling. Captive whumpee trapped in a basement by a sadistic and mischievous fae begs to be let outside and ends up tied up during a storm
[link] - "Jane Doe", main story chapter of Crash Out (sequel to the main story called Destroyer) by @paingoes. A former prince and his partner on the run from the empire, one of them gets terribly sick while they can't risk going to an actual hospital
[link] — "Escravos de Jó", sidestory of Espada, by me :) Bunch of child soldiers in training are led underground and forced to kill a bunch of people.
I also have more than one favorite chapter/fic in most if not all of those stories but tried restraining myself to only one 😭 definitely recommend checking them out!
atlas: billy idol, system of a down, hole, the smashing pumpkins, jeff buckley, my chemical romance, alice in chains, jack off jill, the strokes
wren: weezer, the cardigans, björk, david bowie, the beatles, the sundays, alanis morissette, jack stauber, barenaked ladies, lots of kpop
alastair: fiona apple, mazzy star, ethel cain, cocteau twins, the smiths, julia wolf, the marias, portishead, radiohead, pixies, pale saints, the cranberries
jeremiah: pink floyd, foo fighters, freebird, goose, queen, rolling stones, talking heads, the smashing pumpkins, oingo boingo
I swear there is no aromatic representation in any shows I’ve watched or books I’ve read, the only song the aro community has is Romance is boring, which isn’t even about aromantic relationships and instead just about a dysfunctional relationship. If y’all have any aromantic characters/songs please tell me
@aggressivelyarospec has been running their #Aro Tunes Thursday for almost 8 years now and has a very expansive catalog of tunes sent in by fellow arospecs who found music they relate to.
You can find the tunes here if you're interested!
Some of my personal fave aro tunes are:
The Benefits of Being Alone by Rose Cousins
Romantic by Hooverphonic
I Can't Go for That by Hall & Oates (for folks who are alright with romance up to a point)
Never Been in Love by Will Jay (a must-have for any aro party playlist)
Do My Thing by Estelle & Janelle Monáe
Sweep Me Off My Feet by Jeremy Messersmith
I like (the idea of) you by Tessa Violet
Don't wanna fall in love by Green Day
They've also been running an #Aro Movies Monday tag for arospec folks to send in aromantic friendly/romance free films/shows/web shows/etc... (as well as letting other aros know if they found something especially aro-unfriendly). Some of the media listed in #AMM does have canonical aro representation (like Koisenu Futari, a J-drama about co-habituating aroaces) but it's mostly about the aro vibes of the media rather than explicitly aro representation.
This one is rec'd to death but Loveless by Alice Oseman is a coming-of-age novel about this girl going to college and figuring out shes aroace I'm personally more of a fantasy guy, but I found it was a very sweet read.
IF you want something more action/sci-fi then I can't recommend enough The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells. It currently has eight books, most of them novellas rather than full novels, and it's one of my all-time favorites. Very explicit aro (aroace) rep and is also a story about trauma caused by institutional abuse. There is also a TV adaptation on Apple TV but I've heard mixed reviews about it and would recommend the books, at least at first.
If you're into webtoons I also know of a neat slice-of-life "non-rom com" called Another Lovely Day. Very light, the artstyle is quite pretty, if you're into that I recommend checking it out.
And if you don't mind indie webseries rather than published, printed books, there are a couple nice series on Tumblr itself which I love:
Aros Against Fate by @aromanticsky (ze might also know other aro fiction recs), set in a modern fantasy world with an ensemble cast of a couple main characters, all aromantic, struggling under the rule of an evil empire. It's really fun and ae plans on publishing it eventually but it's still being written. Aromanticism is a big part of some of the character arcs and a not-that-important thing for others.
Chrysalis: The State of Change by @chrysalis-thestateofchange, being released by two very talented co-writers, set in an alternate Earth where a fraction of people have superpowers and are called "anomalies". One of the main characters was raised into this organization called Eden that takes vulnerable anomalies from the streets and trains them as a mini-army of their own (tw for child abuse and indocrination), until one day, a spy breaks into Eden to try and bring their atrocities into light. The two of them end up running away together. One of the three protagonists is aromantic (the spy), although this doesn't come up that often and it's not a significant element of the story.
Forsaken by @inhurtandincomfort, a thriller set in fantasy London that follows its acearo main character and his unfortunate life: Eldwin, a powerful "warlock" who made a pact with a daemon during his childhood in order to save his family and is outcast from society for this reason. He is currently under the wing of a criminal organization called The Black Syndicate, who provide him with home and shelter when nobody else would, but in exchange abuse him for his powers and use him as an assassin to carry out their shady business. Very awesome and although the main story is still very early on chapters, there is a true treasure of drabbles and fics following the characters and giving further context into the setting and relationships if you want to check it out. Also deals with heavier topics of trauma and recovery which I'm a sucker for and it is written very beautifully. I'm currently very excited to see where it goes.
There is also Espada, written by me u_u Follows an aroace child soldier called Espada (meaning "sword") who was raised into this criminal organization called the Dove, and who one day meets a very gentle outsider on a mission who befriends her and is the first person to show her genuine, caring kindness. Espa doesn't know that she's aro but she's never been interested in romance (or sex) (which she rationalizes as being because she is not supposed to pursue relationships as a loyal asset) and it involves mostly platonic love. Also throwing a trigger warning for trauma and violence and child abuse for this one.
^all of those I've talked about are explicit aro rep, although in some (ie. Forsaken or Chrysalis or Espada) the main character's aro identity doesn't play such a major role in the story.
Good luck in your search for aro rep it is truly dire out there but I hope this helps o7
CW: Minor whump, institutional abuse, implied child abuse, fear of/allusions to sexual assault, grooming, some allusions to past CSA but not really, forced stripping, sexual undertones, whipping, punishment, priest whumper, religious context
── ⟡ ˙
Alastair is pushing his cart along the far side of the Archives. He slinks along, his posture hunched, his eyes tired. He feels unnerved. Everything has felt off, Julius and the new files, the intrusion, even his latest interactions with Jeremiah have just been… wrong. He feels terrible for even thinking so but he can’t shake it no matter how much he tries.
A soft shuffling comes from somewhere to his right, pulling him from his sluggish dread. He straightens up, glancing down the aisle he’s in. “Jeremiah?” He calls out. Then, more carefully this time, “Father Julius?” There's no response, only a pause in shuffling before it resumes, more frantic. “Who’s there?” He calls, nervous. Maybe Jeremiah was right. He isn't safe. Has the intruder come to finish him off? Alastair tucks the file he's holding under his arm and abandons his cart to creep around the edge of the shelf, peering down the rows on either side of him.
There's a thump and Alastair lifts the file to cover his chest as if it will protect him. "Excuse me," he tries to say sternly. "I know you're there." He can't sound afraid. The trespasser can't hear the crack in his voice. Alastair steps into the next aisle and peers down it. He swears he can see ribbons of silver appearing and disappearing through the air at the end of the row. He takes a cautious step closer and then theres a silent snap through the air. Light flashes and the silver drops like water dripping, vanishing.
Standing, bent over, is the man with plum eyes and his child companion, cradled in his arms. Alastair quickly notes how pale the child is, their face gaunt. It seems their condition hasn't much improved. Alastair doesn't dwell on it long though, remembering Jeremiah's warnings about intruders and his interaction with the stranger who'd beaten him. He's since realized that of course it was this man here. Who else could it have been. He puts more distance between himself and the couple at the end of the aisle with a large step backwards. "You."
The child staggers forwards, still leaning heavily on the man. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
Alastair shakes his head, shoulders drawn back, white-knuckling the file. "No... You're lying. You came back for more files, didn't you? I know he wants to hurt me," he says, nodding to the larger stranger, accusing.
“He isn't going to hurt you." Releasing their companion, the child surges closer to Alastair, fingers outstretched. "But we really do need those files."
“What files are you talking about?” Alastair asks desperately, a frustrated whine in his voice as he takes another step back. “The Virtues' files? The ones just sent in, isn't that right? That's what you’re here for. Why are they so important?” One hand releases the file in front of him to clutch at his hair. He scrunches his eyes closed, letting out a muted groan. This could have all been prevented if he’d been told anything at all. Instead he’s left floundering and confused.
So called ’Keeper of Knowledge’.
“Tell me. Tell me what’s in them,” he says, straightening. A low creak groans through The Archives as the doors are pushed open, parting before Alastair can ever receive an answer. The footsteps are all he needs to hear to know that it is not Jeremiah returning to him. Dread creeps up his throat, hot and twisting around him.
“Father Julius,” he whispers to himself in a panic. He stands there frozen for a moment, eyes darting back and forth between the center aisle and the two trespassers. A 'light' scolding from Father Julius is torture enough, Alastair can’t imagine what he would do to them. As threatening as they may seem, Alastair doesn’t wish such harm on anyone. They may be his only opportunity to know more.
He doesn't give himself a moment to doubt his decision. “Hide."
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Alastair's hands tremble, hovering over the drawer pulled out in front of him.
The pressence behind him is slow approaching, prowling. Then it's right behind him, heavy and disconcerting. Alastair's entire body tenses and he feels the prickling of his hair standing on end. The breath he takes in is shaky and uneven. He shuts his eyes and he knows from the pull of skin that his face has contorted into an expression he cannot imagine.
“Archives' Master.” Julius says in a low voice, the low rumble pulling a nausea from the boy.
He doesn’t want to turn and face the man but having his back towards him, not knowing how he stands and where his hands are, is worse. He slowly rotates, clasping his shaking hands together. His hair covers his eyes in a protective shield. At least he doesn't have to see the Archangel's face. “Father Julius,” he whispers.
“Finally doing some work, I see.” He always manages to sound so displeased.
Alastair can only nod. “Yes, Father. I've kept myself busy.”
Father Julius clicks his tongue. “Then you’ll have my monthly reports already finished, I presume?”
Alastair's stomach sinks instantly. He feels like he's been punched, a sensation he's experienced too literally, too often recently. The reports. He'd... given those to the intruder. No. How stupid could he be? Those files were the most expendable at the time but now he— No, he dare not think it. His mind races to conjure some plan or even an excuse to slake the Father for the time being. Anything to avoid his punishment.
"I, Father Julius, I made— I made a mistake," he begins shakily.
The man is instantly closing in, leaning up, close enough that Alastair is forced to meet his scrutinizing gaze beneath his fringe. “Archives' master,” he hisses, like the name is an insult. “What could you possibly mean?”
Alastair wills himself not to look towards his desk where the intruder had left him pathetically beaten on the ground. He could sell them out — yes, them, he was sure now that the man and the child were working together, for whatever purpose that may be — and shift the blame. But would Father Julius believe him? Surely not. Not unless Alastair can provide him with proof and details as to why they had come, what they'd been in search of. These details that he does not have but certainly wants. He wants to know, he feels that insistant pull of curiosity he hasnt quite been able to ignore. What is this all for? What has he suffered so much for the sake of? With a careful, baited breath, he mumbles, "I don't have them."
“You don’t have them,” a deliberate bass repeats. “Tell me, Archives' Master, why might that be?”
Hands tremble, warm and damp. He won't sell them out. Not until he knows more. They've come down here twice. They'll come again, he's certain, and then he'll get answers. The dull honed-finished floor seems to mock Alastair as he stares at it, tethering himself, avoiding Father Julius's regard. "I lost them."
Cold, excrutiating silence followed by a steady, “I see," shifts the tone between the two to something more dangerous. A rustle against the stone and a more significant warmth in front of Alastair indicates a step closer. “How did you lose them?”
Alastair screws his eyes shut. "I just-" His voice cracks. "I just lost them. I don't know what happened to them."
Father Julius scowls and then theres a resounding crack as Alastair's face is knocked to the side.
His cheek stings instantly and he brings a hand to cup it carefully, not lifting his head. He swallows down the shame that knots in his throat.
“Do you enjoy this, Alastair?” The question doesn't seek an answer. It's simply to pry at him — make him squirm. “Do you like being punished? Constantly failing me? Failing this good syndicate?”
Alastair's lip quivers. He shakes his head. No matter his answer, he knows another strike awaits him. "No, Father Julius. Forgive me. It wasn't my intention."
“It never is, is it?” Father Julius says, voice clipped. “What is it then? Stupidity?" The man begins to pace before Alastair, his wide frame intimidating, trapping Alastair's lankier frame against the shelf. "Or perhaps we've gone too easy on you. I've allowed you to continuously lure Jeremiah down here. Tolerating your foolish games has made you spoiled. Is that it?”
"No, sir." Alastair shakes his head and lifts his wide eyes to meet Father Julius's for the first time. The thought of Jeremiah being punished because of him makes him sick. He shakes as he regretfully imagines Julius's hand knocking Jeremiah to the ground, bruising him. Blood pouring down from his lips. "Please, it has nothing to do with Jeremiah. I promise I won't let something like this happen again."
“No,” Julius says, his eyes dark. “You won’t.”
Alastair can feel his throat close up. "Father... Please, I'm-I'm sorry." His pleas are in vain. He knows this. But even then, he cannot fight the panic, the prey instinct to escape.
“Stand straight.” It's an order. Though not one that is expected. Usually the firm command that comes for him is 'kneel'.
This makes Alastair falter. It slips out before he can catch it. "Sir?"
“Don’t speak.”
He grimaces and corrects himself, spine straightening, shoulders lifting back. It isn't an easy position to maintain when he wants so badly to shrink, curl in on himself.
Father Julius halts his stalking in front of Alastair and turns to face him with a chilling slowness.
His hands extend and Alastair tenses entirely so that he does not cower or flinch. Heavy, thick fingers grip his shoulders. Eyes rake his figure meticulously, lingering long enough to make Alastair avert his gaze again and visibly squirm under the grip that tightens in response.
Father Julius exhales thickly. Slowly, his fingers grab for Alastair's collar and begin to undo the first button. They undo the second as well before Alastair reacts.
He stumbles back, he open drawer behind him prodding at his shoulder. His eyes are wide, frantically taking in Julius's expression that can only be described as malicious and hungry. There's a sour taste in the back of his throat, clogging up his lungs, keeping him from gasping.
This earns him no scolding. Alastair would prefer scolding now.
Strong — too strong — hands extend again, curling around the back of his neck and forcing him forwards. His body is moved so it’s standing tall and stiff. Julius is rough with it this time, unclasping the rest of the buttons with a less calculated haste.
Everything is moving slower than it should be. Alastair's mouth is dry and he's frozen with fear. He wants to pull away again but Julius’s fingers are digging into the sides of his throat. His arms are useless at his side. He can't— he can't move.
He feels like he’s being skinned as Julius removes his shirt. The air is too cold, his head is spinning. The shirt dropping to the floor barely makes a sound, and yet, it is the loudest thing he’s ever heard.
The hands move lower and Alastair feels dizzy. They start on the belt then, fingers hooking in between his trousers and the waistband of his underwear. His eyes well up and he bites down hard on his lip. The clanking of the belt, fingers pressed against this skin.
"So soft for a man."
Alastair suddenly wishes he'd grown more hair on his stomach. “Father,” he croaks. “Please.”
“You’ve forced my hand, son.” Julius murmurs. He steps back, pulling the belt with him, slipping it out of the loops. He folds it together, slow and methodical and Alastair is almost relieved when he stops there. Julius looks up from Alastair's bare chest and his stare burns.
Alastair's arms cross over himself protectively, his posture hunched again. The sharp edge of the drawer reminds him that there is no escape. He chokes. “No… N-No. Forgive me.”
“Face the wall, Alastair.” His hands stroke the leather, shifting the weight from one hand to the other.
Alastair closes his eyes to keep the tears at bay. He turns, slow and unsteady as he faces the wall. Slowly, he pushes the drawer closed and braces himself against the shelf on both sides. His head hangs, knees weak. “Please.”
Nothing is said in return. Julius snaps the belt.
The lash against his bare back isnt unexpected but Alastair isn't prepared for it nonetheless. He cries out and his knees wobble.
Another searing snap causes him to choke.
“I want you to count for me,” Julius murmurs into his neck. Alastair doesn't recall him coming so close. The humid breath makes him squirm. “How many do you think you deserve?”
Alastair clenches his teeth and shakes his head, breathing hard. “I don’t know." He sniffles, fat tears building in his eyes. He can feel them threatening to fall.
Julius draws back, hitting him thrice more. Each slap of hide against his skin harsher than the last. He sobs now, his face going red as he whines in pain with each resounding smack. “How many,” he repeats.
The skin of Alastair's back is burning hot, throbbing like he's been cut open. He swears he can feel blood dripping down his spine. “Five, ten, I don’t know!” He wails, his body shaking.
“Are you trying to get off easy?” Julius snarls, bringing the belt down again. “Double it. Twenty. Count them.” Another crack. "Wipe your damned face."
Alastair whimpers, shaking his head, dizzy. He stumbles forward, one hand slipping from the shelf. He doesn't know how many it's been. Is he supposed to start at one? He can't think. “Six! I don’t— I don’t know,” he sobs, trying to muffle the sound by sucking in his lips. It's to no avail.
Julius swings his arm again, slicing at a welt that's begun to form. “Enough!” He hisses. “Stand straight, I said.”
“Seven!” Alastair shudders, shakily pushing himself up again. "Stop!"
“Start over,” Julius orders, voice distant in Alastair's ears. He presses a thumb into the small of Alastair’s back, forcing his posture to straighten. The pressure on the tender area makes him cry, letting out a small, broken sound from the back of his throat. “Loud for me, no whining.” Crack.
Alastair writhes. “One,” he grits as loudly as he can, his voice trembling uncontrollably. He's not sure if the wet trailing his back is real or not. He's lost all feeling that isn't the burning slicing agony.
This time it's buckle end. The hard metal cuts through with a sickening squelch that Alastair can barely register above the noise of his heartbeat thumping in his ears and his own heavy breathing. He cries, sobbing and shaking his head over and over again. The stabbing, burning pain in his back is more than he can bear. “Seven..” he mumbles, feeling sick to his stomach.
“Stop crying.” Julius yells, bringing the belt back down on his back. “Louder,” he hisses.
Alastair sniffs and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Eight." His voice breaks, and yet he follows through, saying it strong.
“Constantly you disappoint me, Alastair. What have you done to earn your title?" The spray of Julius's shouting hits Alastair's shoulder blade, lost in the wet of his blood. "Cherubim before you would be disgusted by your failure," he growls, bringing the belt down against Alastair’s spine.
Alastair lets go of one of the shelves to scream into his elbow. He can’t see. His vision is dim and blurry with tears. Black spots dance across the shelves. “Twelve,” he grunts out. He pants, not caring that spit hangs from his lower lip. “Father, please.”
“I am so gracious with you,” Julius spits, whipping him harder. "Is this how you repay my kindness? What repentance have you offered? Does your own deliberate sinning not disgust you? You will grovel at the feet of The Maker when you are to be consumed by flame.” He slaps him again. “Filthy demon, ye who disguises yourself as a pillar of light."
He's lost track. He’s fully slumped against the shelf as he trembles, swaying. “I’m sorry, Father…” he slurs, his face red and swollen from crying. He can't remember when the tears began to fall. “Sin. Forgive me.” He tries to pull himself up but his knees buckle and he staggers against the shelf.
“You are not worthy of the knowledge you possess,” Julius hisses into his ear. His arm swings eternally, eliciting constant cries and screams.
Alastair feels as if he's no longer in his own body as it collapses in on itself. This isn't happening to him. These are not his screams, nor his own tears. His counting is mumbled and unintelligible now. He's forgotten what he's saying. “Forgive me.”
He hits the stone floor hard. He would welcome the coolness if he felt it at all. His hands are trapped beneath him, limbs heavy. As blood runs down his sides, his body twitches limply. “No… more—”
Spit slaps the ground beside Alastair, splattering his face. He can't feel it. Files drift down, knocked from the shelf by the belt being discarded. Alastair cannot force his eyes open. They burn, heavy and unseeing. When the large doors slam closed, Alastair, finally alone, succumbs.
CW: Conditioning, ex-living weapon whumpee, guilt, whumpee thinks caretaker is new master (??), aftermath, minor whump, implied child abuse/institutional abuse
── ⟡ ˙
“Explain,” they pant out.
Wren is leaned up against the wall of the van, breathing hard. Atlas had to half-drag, half-carry them back the rest of the way. Their cheeks are flushed, both from the cold and the last remnants of energy they burned climbing up that nearly endless staircase. They wipe the now-chilling sweat from their brow and push their matted hair from out of their face. Loose strands had been sticking to their cheeks, curling into the corners of their mouth. Wet, gross. They shake out their head, blinking slowly. Their chest rises and falls with the heavy heave of their breath.
Atlas is crouching beside the door, hand still resting on the handle, thumb hooked around the curve. His gaze is not on them; rather the stains splayed out along the chipping, white paint. Smears along the ridges in the siding. Dark, ugly, it’s turned the colour of rust. The splatters are sickening to acknowledge, the last reminders along with the uneasy tremble in their hands, of the attack. The gore is too gruesome to ignore. Wren wants very deeply to wish away the whole thing, return their van to how it was. The thing had never been clean, of course. But it had been theirs. They miss it. Atlas has pushed out all their trash by now, remarked offhandedly that living in such filth was just “unacceptable”. Their own blood has taken its place. So much is different.
“I got the files.”
His admission cuts through the air, hangs there for a moment too long, jagged. He does not turn to face them. There, amidst the clean-cut confession, the sheet of pale paperwork pressed together neatly in his grip, it becomes all the more clear. Their eyes widen, locking on the file no longer hidden, illuminated beneath the gentle moonlight. They suck in a sharp breath through their nose; breathe out, inaudible.
“What?” They gasp, eyes wide. They are more awake than they have been in weeks. This sudden clarity has fallen upon them, like a sharp slap against their cheek. “What? Why the hell did you go off alone?”
Atlas flinches, instinctively. He squeezes his eyes closed tight for a millisecond, a brief flicker of fear returning to his features, tainting his expression. It takes him only seconds to come back to himself again, square his expression, the lines along his forehead smoothing over. He blinks, averting his gaze, cheeks flushed. His fingertips grip the files tighter, nails drawing indents into the paper. His shoulders have been drawn up protectively, head held low. He looks effectively chastised, and Wren has not even begun to tear into him yet. How could he be so stupid? He was supposed to be the strong one. The older one. He knew better than this, that was for sure. What was he thinking?
Pinching at the bridge of their nose, Wren sighs, resigned. When did Atlas ever listen to them anyway?
“I wanted to help,” he mutters.
“So you went off on your own?” They ask, no real bite to their words. Their tone is more concerned than it ever could be accusatory. He’s been acting stranger and stranger these past few days. It’s become all the more apparent, as the fog clears and the state of him really hits them. They don’t think he’s been sleeping down there. Not enough, that much is certain. They blink up at him through their eyelashes, pouting. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”
“I didn’t,” Atlas’s gaze slides down again, lands on the spot where they laid, days prior, gut torn open. The ring of dusty red encircles him, brushes against the files, his worn jeans. Amidst the gloom of shadows, he looks more tired than ever. The bags under his eyes seem to have been drawn-on, dark and haunting. Wren has the sudden urge to grab at him, wrap him inside their arms. He looks so lonely, sitting from across them. Older than his years, but younger yet. It hits them that they have been terribly harsh on him. He must be drained. His injuries are no less gruesome, the smatter of bruises painted across his cheeks, a ring around his bare neck. His hair is enough to hide the real damage. He notices them watching, scrutinizing, and tugs at his shirt collar awkwardly. His knuckles are all split, sore and red.
“I’m fine.” He adds, almost an afterthought.
They don’t believe him for one second. The lies have become so automatic, so easy to catch. Wren’s eyes narrow, skeptical, as they gulp down more cold air, sniffling through shallow breaths. The very action tires them still. Everything seems to, now. “What happened down there? Why’d we have to run?”
Atlas has turned himself away, back positioned to them, files splayed out at his side. He avoids them, pulls at wrappings and other miscellaneous items from within their backpack, rummaging through. His hands tremble as he flips around, head bowed, and moves to fiddle with their pant leg. His eyes are trained very pointedly at his own hands, the rough skin and bitten-down fingernails. They were white, neatly-trimmed, when he first arrived with them. Bangs swooping over his eyes, he mumbles hesitantly, “I should check your wounds.”
Wren huffs, pulling back. A spark of pain shoots from their knee, works its way up to their hip, like the line of a scalpel. They wince, barely recover quickly enough to square their expression. They attempt their best shot at looking stern, shooting him a look and crossing their arms over their chest, nose upturnt. “If you tell me what happened.”
Atlas eyes them, a millisecond that passes between the two of them, the air terse. For a moment, his eyes flash, dangerous, and Wren thinks he’ll press a hand to their cheek like when their first tears fell, unashamed, blood seeping through the white of their shirt. It had been a regretfully gentle touch, so much so that Wren found themself leaning into it, despite, shivering at the circles his thumb stroked against their cheekbone. Sleep came easy then. Their forehead was pressed to his shoulder, eyes fluttering weakly, before they had any mind to resist it. His slender fingers had combed through their hair, had not left their scalp, until they were gone, pulled under. He’d done it so easily. It’s only recalling it now, that they recognize anything wrong with the memory.
Atlas’s brows furrow and his bites his lip, gnawing at it. The bandages drop from his fingers loosely, thunking against the floor, rolling away. Neither of them pay any mind to it. It’s not until Atlas moves away, reaching up to tug at his hair, that the contact is finally broken. “I might’ve, um,” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes closed. Those wrinkles appear upon his face again, sharpen his features. “I kind of… ran into somebody.”
When he finally admits it, his words are whispered, nearly silent. They are almost inaudible, would be, if this were anywhere else, not spoken into existence in the back of a sketchy alleyway, whispered beneath the shine of the moon. There is no one else awake to disrupt the confession.
There’s a tense quiet that follows. Wren lets it stretch on, agonizing, their gaze focused on him and him alone. They wait for it to draw against the line, all entirely intolerable, wait to watch him cringe, expectant. He’s waiting for them to yell, to grow angry. They do neither, breaking the stillness with a steady breath, in and then out, and shifting so that their leg is splayed out in front of him once more. Easy to reach. They force their voice into no more than a whisper, careful to not spook him. That does nothing to rid to complete urgency inside their tone.
“Who?”
Atlas has begun to roll up their pant leg, not flinching this time, despite. He still works with the same gentle attentiveness as he did, leaning over them in the light of the van, pressing salve to their wounds; huddled in the darkness of the dungeon, fingers trembling as he forked out pale cylindrical pills. When he unwraps Wren’s bandages, it is with the same unexperienced fingers, no more confident than they were two weeks ago. Yet, undoubtedly soft. His next words come out in that same low tone, no more than a mumble. “The Archives’ Master.”
“Fuck.” Wren grimaces as his fingers press into their leg slightly, electric shocks of pain piercing at their thigh. They bite their tongue, sucking in a sharp breath. It’s nothing to shake Atlas, who continues, face downcast. He won’t look at them, doesn’t dare to. He helps them all the same, pats down their wound, cleaning along the raw pink flesh before he moves to wrap it up again, returning with fresh white bandages this time. Wren watches his clumsy work quietly, nodding to themself. He’s getting better at this stuff, as inexperienced as he is. If they had more time, they could teach him how to do it properly. They could teach him many things. He’s missed out on so much.
They feel the dread begin to seep in, slow and dangerous.
Gently, they push Atlas’s hands down from their leg, leaning over to fix the ends of the bandage, securing it snuggly. His hands hang down at his sides, wrists turned to the sky; it’s like an offering. They can feel the anxiousness coming off of him in waves. The way he’s blinking at the ground, abashed, chewing at his trembling lower lip, why, he looks exactly like a scorned child. It’s hard to yell at him when he looks so guilty. It’s hard to yell at him when they know that’s exactly what he’s expecting. All tensed, body locked up like their next words will hit him just as harshly as a blow would. They can’t stand to watch him any longer, their insides unravelling themselves at the very sight of his pink-cheeked face. They sigh, glancing out the window. Just the action of turning their head draws a small wince from the back of their throat, facial features contorting. Slowly, they breathe out a huff through their nose. The hot air clouds the blurry glass, turns it white.
It’s only when they feel the wave of anger pass, dulled from within the cavities of their chest, that they deem it safe enough to speak again. They turn back to face him, resigned. “What happened tonight?”
Atlas is silent for a long stretch. They almost think he won’t respond. Part of them doesn’t expect him to. He’s ignored them enough before. “I couldn’t—” he shudders. “Couldn’t stay any longer.”
“Because you were caught? Or because you hate the place?”
He cringes. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Wren asks, dubious. Rigidly, they move to roll down the leg of their pants, their face tight. Their eyes never leave Atlas, not even as they straighten again, moving to slouch against the wall, energy spent. They wish to poke, prod at him until he cracks open, secrets spilled out along the floor. He’s so infuriatingly vague, so mysterious and avoidant, that sometimes they wish they could hold him inside their steely grip, squeeze him until he pops. They don’t, though. They know well enough by now nothing like that will ever create any meaningful change. “Well. Either way, I don’t like that you went alone. At least we have files now.”
They tip back their head, closing their eyes with another heavy, soul-bearing sigh. This whole situation is tiring them. They miss the comfort of their bed, of a homecooked meal. Before all this, they could at least trust themself long enough to crash in some cheapskate motel. Now, they can’t even say that much. “What’s in the files? Get anything good?”
Atlas leans over, thumbing through the pile. He purses his lips, brows furrowed. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I didn’t have time to check.”
“Let’s take a look. If we’ve got enough we can leave right now.”
Atlas nods. He picks up his pile and splits it neatly, right through the middle, handing half to Wren. They take the stack from him, hunching in mirrored posture, peeling back the first file. Small, scrawled cursive handwriting greets them, written in neat, clear black ink that appears to have splashed across the paper from the tip of an old feather. An assortment of numbers, dates, and miscellaneous notes have been laid down in orderly rows. Frowning, Wren flips the page. It’s more or less the same on the next page, and the one after it. Wren’s brows draw close together, their worry deepening for every page they scan through. Nervously, they reach for the next file, tucking the first behind their fingers. That same neat, inky print is clear, present along with some older, yellowing pages, which appear to have been organized ages ago. Wren’s stomach has begun to sink, a new form of resignation settling in.
“Atlas…”
Atlas looks visibly smaller than he did before, head ducked low. His hair has been drawn, a wavy black curtain, around his face. Wren can’t even possibly try to discern what he may be thinking. What could possibly be going through his head right now? What is he thinking about? “All of these are routine monthly reports,” they say softly. They can feel the shame radiating off of Atlas. Whatever is going through his mind right now, whatever sickly mantras they’ve stuck inside his head, well — it must be damage enough. He doesn’t need their voice along with the rest. They hesitate, opening and closing their mouth. It’s difficult to decide on what to say, what will get through to him, and what will send him deeper down the spiral. They force their frustrations down, bite at their tongue. Moments pass before they settle on a choked, “Atlas.”
“I’m sorry,” It’s abrupt, automatic. He says it with such an intensity they think he may break.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, blinking hard. His voice breaks on the last syllable. His hand has developed that shake again, fingers twitching from where they grip at the file. He clenches his fist, knuckles white, and it ceases, ever-so-slightly. He rubs at his wrist, pressing the skin until it burns white. Sorry.
“Don’t be sorry. You left in a hurry,” they say quickly, reassuring him with a gentle shrug. They feel the sudden need to, with how easily he’s coming undone in front of them. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say he was about to cry. It makes the next part hurt all the more. They cringe, tensing as the words slip past their teeth. “But, you do know this means we’ll have to go back in. Right?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” Atlas nods, squeezing his eyes shut. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose again, shaking. His fists clench, unclench, veins popping. He’s breaking, right before their very eyes. His voice is hoarse, barely audible. He’s begun to choke. “Right. Sorry.”
I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry…
Wren glances away, guilt bubbling up and eating away at them. They cannot bear this any longer. “Hey, man, it’s okay.” They mumble. They suddenly feel the need to apologize, but they can’t place what it is they’re apologizing for. Dragging him all the way out here? Being so plainly callous when he’s so obviously afraid, has been all this time? He had put his foot down about coming here, refused, clear and certain. Then he had broken his promise, had done it so easily, for them. Always, for them. “Just, um…”
They sigh. They’ve never really been good at this stuff. They were the one that had always needed the comforting, back then. They still do. They didn’t realize until now how much they relied on his own stoicism all this time. He was always so quiet, so steady, they didn’t ever have to think about being emotional with him. He resisted all their attempts previous, given them the cold shoulder. It had frustrated them before; he was so willfully obtuse, sometimes. But now, staring into his wide, pleading eyes, they cannot help but feel grateful for it. They don’t know what to do with the intensity of his stare, the pure and complete enormity of his emotions. They think it might swallow them whole.
They’ve never seen Atlas look so brittle. They fear if they try to touch him, he’ll break. Shatter, like a piece of glass, fall apart upon their bloody floor. They’re wary, watching him. They weren’t ready to take on something like this. They know that now. They aren’t ready.
“Let’s go to sleep for now. We can figure it out in the morning.” They mumble, tugging at a loose string on the seam of their jeans. They toss a blanket towards him and it falls, limp, on his lap, going untouched. They wince. “Um. Try to relax for now, ‘kay?”
“I’m sorry.” He blurts again, looking towards them. He really is so pitiful, like this. They wish he would stop.
“C’mere,” they murmur, patting their thighs. He drags himself over, tail between his legs. He lays himself out, pressed to their knee. Sorry, he mouths, and they just barely catch it. They’re not sure if he meant for them to hear it in the first place.
His eyes are so enormous, so big and violet in a way that they never truly noticed before. Inhuman, blinking out like lamplights from within the dark. They recognize how a kid like him could ever wound up in Eden, so young back then, too. He was never going to survive out here, was he? He’s too different from everything else. Too fragile.
They card a gentle hand through his hair, like he had done for them when they were sick, out of their mind. Scratch at his scalp, moving down just behind his ears. He twitches, but leans in, welcoming the touch. They grab for his hand loosely, hold it there, in theirs, feel the heat emanating off his skin. “It’s okay,” they murmur, giving it a squeeze. “Just go to sleep.”
Okay. He whispers it, tensing underneath their touch.
“Hey.” They poke at him, nail pressing into cheek. They only realize after that it must hurt; he’s still swollen there. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. He keeps himself perfectly still, silent, allowing them access to him as however they may please. It’s a sickening sight to behold.
“Stop thinking,” they say, louder this time. Clearer. “Just rest.”
The order is easy for him to follow.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
The next time Wren opens their eyes, its through the shine of the late autumn sun glinting against their window. Dust floats through the air, electric. It reminds them of wisps of magic, faint and forgotten within the presence of the day, a soft heat floating in through overhead. Sweat clings to their skin, clothes pressed tight against the contours of their body, and Wren feels even stickier and gross than they did before. After all of this is over, they’re booking it to the closest body of water. Anything, at this point. They bet they smell just as bad as they felt. Like death.
Their mouth is disgustingly dry, parched for water, and Wren has to swallow thickly, choking back against the tickle at the back of their throat. As they blink, coming to again, the general ache of their bones seems to have parted with them, left, with the last remnants of their sleep. They groan, tongue pressing against their teeth, and drape an arm across their face. It does wonders for the sun blaring orange against the backs of their eyelids. “Atlas?” They croak, uncertain. For a moment, they’re sure he’s left.
“Yes?”
His answer is automatic, dulling that persistent worries, the nightmares of him gone, so suddenly absent from their side, left without a trace. He’s always there, when they go to reach, hand slipping around theirs. The dread slips into the very backends of their mind, down amidst their subconsciousness. His voice comes to pull them back. They shift, shoulder brushing his leg, yawning into their fingers and scrubbing lazily at their eyes, wiping the last of sleep from their lashes. “What time is it?”
“About two in the afternoon,” he replies softly. “I didn’t wish to wake you.”
Wren groans, opening their eyes to look at him. “I shouldn’t have slept so long. We’ve got a plan to make.”
“Sorry,” automatic, again, slipping past his lips before he has the mind to will it not to. He cringes slightly, anticipates their response, the fury or the amusement. They offer neither, just sigh, pushing themself up on their elbows. They don’t know what to do with this, whatever this is.
“This again.” They say, eyes downcast. They can’t stand to look at him now, with that sorry, piteous look. They wish for anything else. Indignation, even. “Atlas, you don’t have to keep apologizing. It’s okay.” They sit up now, legs still tucked into their sleeping bag; straighten, despite the strain in their muscles. That has yet to go away. “We just need to get in, grab the files, and then get the hell out of here.”
They grab a granola bar from their crate and tear the wrapper open, suddenly ravenous. They haven’t been eating anything near to close as much as they should be. It won’t be good for when they finally set out on the road. They feel lightheaded, even now. All their energy has been spent on nothing but sleeping. Ugh. They take a large bite of their bar, nearly down it in one go, leaning to tip their head against Atlas’s shoulder. They draw circles along his pants, scratching with their chipped nails at the rough material. “It should be easy enough to get in,” they say through a mouthful. “I guess they don’t expect people to be poking around the back of a church and that’s why their security is so low.”
They finish their granola bar and toss aside the wrapper. “I’ll have to use illusions. There’ll be more people around in the middle of the day. And that archives guy might have blabbed. They’ll be on the lookout.”
Atlas doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The silence does enough talking than he ever could on his own. He tenses up imperceptibly beneath their touch, but they catch it almost instantly. His tells have become even easier and easier to manage, more clearer than they initially thought. He’s easier to read than he thinks. They bump his shoulder with their own, jostling him slightly. Enough to snap him out of it, they hope. “Hey,” they say. “It’s okay. You can keep the illusions up if I get weak. We’ll be out quick.” They reach over and give his hand a little squeeze. “Eat something. We need you strong.”
Slowly, he obeys.
Sitting up straighter, Wren scoots out of their sleeping bag, crawling over to where he discarded the stack of files. Even with fresh eyes, they know it’s nothing good. He managed to get a hefty amount, but despite, they don’t notice anything good. Most of the organization is confusing at best, they have to squint over the miniscule handwriting multiple times just to really soak it in. But even with it all, most of the paperwork they do understand proves to be useless. They squint, mouth pulling into a frown. There’s no use being angry about it, there’s really nothing else he could’ve done. Hell, they’ve made mistakes just like this, wouldn’t have him leaned up against their window if they didn’t. But the stress of entering the church again has begun to get to them. They can’t let themself be weakened — anymore than whatever it was the hunter did to them. Atlas has been tending to them so diligently for so long now, and its so clear that he’s tormented by just the mere mention of the Congregation. They can’t imagine the kind of stress he’s under right now. They have to be strong for him. Like he is, and has been, for them.
