the uncommon sensation

whump adult ᝰ he/him sometimes i draw... sometimes i write...

[doumidas]

ᝰ welcome to my whump blog :) i like to make art.

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v masterlists for my ongoing pet whump story v

solitaire (act i)

solitaire (act ii)

* * * * *

ᝰ never be afraid to talk to me... i don't bite!

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[nimcest]

That day you realized you can just beat the shit out of people until they pass out or die.

[whumpawaydarling]

#26.1 - core collapse

chapter 26 ☆ amor vincit omnia masterpost

writing this gave me a headache

summary: ada bringing a new meaning to going out with a bang. (she doesnt actually go out dw). this is set back at the hospital!

cw: sickfic, magic whump, exhaustion, caretaker-turned-whumpee, multiple caretakers, hospitals, delirium, comfort, siblings whump <3, sibling caretaker, near death experience?

---

By the time she slipped away, the migraine was bad enough that she couldn't speak. The hospital was so loud and so bright. Every noise seemed like it burst holes in her brain, and every light bored holes in her skull. It was agony on a scale she had not experienced in a long time. It was dark by now, but it may as well have been midday on a salt flat.

Elene saw her clutching the side of her head. "Migraine?" she whispered.

Ada didn't reply, just moaned quietly. She was much too concerned with keeping her eyes as closed as possible. It had been bothering her for weeks by now, but the trip out here had tipped it over the edge. And now she couldn't get the taste of blood out of her mouth. She couldn't even pretend it wasn't real, because it was.

Even apart from the spell existing semi-permanently in her nose, she'd bit her tongue trying to drive with the pounding in her head. Her teeth had clenched so tightly that she was sure she'd chipped something. She was ripping her hair out for the desperation, and her nails were already bitten to stubs but they scratched perfectly good enough. Anything to take her mind off it. Nothing worked.

It was a miracle they had survived. But they had survived. Calyx was waiting for an ICU bed. Ada had the overwhelming urge that she needed to leave. It wasn't safe. For her, and everyone else. Something was encroaching, some other-worldly punishment for her hubris. It would be a bad fallout, and she had no inclination to deal with it in full view of everyone.

When she got up, because she had been kneeling on the floor to rest her head on a chair, she swayed, then retched - and covered her mouth with a quiet pang of alarm as she did. She was starting to shiver, the pain making her feverish. "Need to…" she trailed off, opening the eye that didn't feel as if it was actively being drilled into so she could find her way to a wall.

"Bathroom? Need me to come?" Elene was standing. Ada stepped away. There was no way she was letting her sister come to help with this. She didn't need her pity. Ada was proud of herself for helping, and she knew she'd overdone it.

"S- stay. Back soon." She ground out the lie so easily. If she had been thinking clearly, maybe she would have thought to explain what she wanted to do. Maybe not. Elene's extant worry was the last thing on her mind - but in a way, she just didn't want to be the focus of it.

She did throw up first, though. It usually helped the migraines, but it just made the feverish feeling worse. Images of textbooks flashed through her mind. Acute magic withdrawal. Over-exertion. The dangers of tinkering with already-dangerous spells. Fucking illegal spells, at that. They were banned for a reason, she thought with a miserable laugh. Her vomit was stained with blood.

—

Getting through the self-admission process was both quicker and longer than she expected. She was really, really run down. She kept passing out in chairs. She kept letting herself pass out in chairs, now that she was alone. The migraine never left, the nausea didn't ease and the retching didn't stop. Neither did the blood.

At one point, she saw through lidded eyelids and sweat-soaked lashes that the sick bowl was full of it. Not even bile, just blood and saliva. Horrifying. She had just been trying to help. She couldn't stop shivering. It was all very scary, suddenly. She didn't want to be alone. Her hands shook too much to think about touching her phone, and she didn't really want Elene here, either. Or anyone else. But the only person she was thinking about was her sister.

Elene was ringing her. She'd started - at some point. Three missed calls. Someone asked if they should answer it. Ada was in a bed by now - how had that happened? When did that happen? It terrified her that she was losing so much time. The darkness outside made it worse.

"No," she croaked out. "Don't. Just my sister." Ada regretted speaking. It reminded her of the taste of blood too much. There was water by the bed but she was exhausted and too nauseous to reach for it.

Noah, the nurse, blinked at her. "I'm sure she'd want to be here, love."

Ada stared at the ceiling, heard her own breathing come out laboured. The IV going into her arm burned unpleasantly, but the migraine was receding and she knew that the fluids had something to do with it. They'd given pain meds that weren't working. She could hear her own heart leaping and racing, and she knew it was making everyone nervous because people kept looking at her as if she'd died, or was dying. Maybe it was confirmation bias. Feedback loops.

"She'll just worry."

She said it without looking at the nurse, but knew what his expression would be.

Elene rang again. Ada whimpered, turning over and away from it. "Switch it off," she whispered. "Just switch it off. Or - or - " her breathing quickened. Her heart did, too. "Is it really bad?" she asked, knowing the answer.

She had been feverish, and now she was freezing. Dunked in a lake of dread. Ice in her bloodstream instead of blood. She'd thrown it all up, and they were transfusing her with more. They had to reset her body. Too much magic. Too much fucked up magic. She was so sorry. They wrote case reports about things like this. How many died?

"We're taking care of you, Ada."

She didn't move from where she'd buried her face in her hands, so she felt her face fall. "It's really bad, isn't it?" She sounded like a child, like someone who had no idea what was happening. But that wasn't true. What worried her was the knowing.

She turned over, but spun too quickly and dizziness made her frantically throw out an arm for the rail. Noah was there too, in a heartbeat.

"Hey, hey, I've got you. We can have a conversation about family later, if you want? Together? You don't need to do it alone."

Vertigo wanted to overwhelm her. She had so far to fall. Ada lowered herself back down, stared up at the ceiling. They'd dimmed the lights for her, but it was still bright and painful. She had the feeling that she could put herself in complete and total darkness, and it would still be bright and painful. The light was coming from inside her brain. Her core was burning up. A white star. She'd explode soon. It was awful, waiting.

"I think I really messed up," she whispered.

"You got yourself here, though, didn't you? Steps in the right direction. Strides, even. That's all we need."

Ada didn't know what was wrong with her. She'd never felt so vulnerable in her life. She wanted to ask something stupid like, Did I do the right thing? or Am I going to die? or Can I have a hug? But she knew the answers already. She had been helping Calyx. If she died, it wouldn't be her problem anymore. And she had too much pride to ask for a hug from a stranger.

"I feel horrible," she murmured. She did. She felt wrung out and hung to dry, empty and hollow and aching.

"Understandable. Your body's under a lot of stress. You should rest, Ada. You know how to call me?" Noah pointed to the call button. Ada nodded, wanting desperately not to be left alone. But he had a job to do, so she watched him leave. He smiled on the exit; she couldn't bring herself to return it. She couldn't make everyone pause their lives to keep her afloat. She wanted to. She was not as selfish as she had been, once.

Elene rang again. Even with all her dread, all she wanted to do was pick up the phone and tell her sister that she was fine, that nothing was wrong. The intervals were getting shorter. Ada knew that Elene hated talking on the phone. They must be too far away to communicate telepathically. Had Elene tried?

The two of them had been so good at that as kids. No one could figure out how they could do it across two school buildings, but they knew. They could hold conversations with each other and exist in the real world at the same time. It was a game to them, to see who could do the most complicated thing while holding the telepathic connection. Ada won a game of basketball, poking fun at Elene's boyfriend all the while. Elene translated a page of Latin, talking the whole time about how she'd figured out how to clean dishes faster. Ada solved a page of long division. Elene won a game of chess. It went on. Nobody could eavesdrop. Their own private space, in the safety of their minds.

It wasn't for anything other than their own amusement, but the competition always seemed more important to Ada. Really, Elene had probably been letting Ada win. Oh, sorry, got distracted, her sister would say. It was impossible for Ada to believe, how easy it was for her to get caught up in focus. She always pushed it too far. Her focus. Like the force of a star, she burned and burned and burned, then exploded. But it meant that she always won. Now she was losing. Or this was the truth of winning after all - this emptiness.

One day, Elene stopped playing along entirely. This isn't fun, Ada, I'm busy. She'd been around fourteen, Ada nine. Ada had been so angry. At least, she acted like she was angry. Really, she was devastated. Elene closed herself off. Ada had half a mind to do that now. Why, though? They only had each other.

Hey, Ada thought, pushing her thoughts to the clearest image of Elene she could make out. She sent the magic out, but she couldn't be sure if it'd reach her. She wasn't supposed to be using any. It inspired a quiet thrill in her that she still could.

Just when she thought it wouldn't work, the phone stopped ringing.

Dee? Ada winced at the panic in her voice. Ada! Where are you? It's been hours!

Calm down. I'm - um. Let me. One second. I'm fine.

Ada held her phone with shaking hands. The picture blurred, but her name was clear enough.

Elene's reply came quickly.

E: ??????

E: What is that. Ada. Where are you?

The picture had been easy enough to send, but Ada was shaking too hard to type. Sweating, too. Panic, at being found out. Panic, at the image in the centre of her vision - a pulsating sun. The magic had been a bad idea. Such a bad idea. Fuck, Ada, why can't you know your fucking limits?

The migraine was coming back, and with it came the fear. The nausea. She heard herself make a desperate, keening sound. Absolute helplessness. She had no idea how to fix this.

Ada bit her hand as she answered Elene's call, so she had the first word. Competition. At some point, it'd stopped being friendly. Ada didn't know what it was now.

Her sister spoke in one panicked breath. "Ada, I swear to fucking Elysium if you don't - " She paused. Ada knew she'd heard the beeping, or her ragged breaths as she tried not to cry. This was a mistake.

"I'm fine," she said - or tried to. Her throat was tight and hoarse and she knew there was no way Elene would believe her half-hearted reassurance.

She could almost see Elene's frown, her face pinched with worry. "Ada? Please tell me where you are."

"I - I'm - I'm okay, El. It - I couldn't - didn't want to - make things worse." She coughed, and the star pulsated in time with her ribcage fluttering.

She heard a sharp sigh over the phone.

"You've been missing for hours, Dee. After what we just came out of? Are you serious?"

Ada stared at the ceiling, confused. Or - she tried to. The star moved to the centre of her vision - the roiling mass of bright, white anguish. About to explode. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew. It was majestic and terrifying. If it had been in a textbook, she would have marvelled at it and studied it for hours. But it was here, above her bed, and all she felt was scared.

Elene's obliviousness was a welcome distraction. If I'm going to die, at least I don't have to see her cry.

"Ada? Hello?"

Even with everything, annoyance flashed through her mind. Why was she being scolded? No, she knew why.

"Can't you just be happy to hear from me?" she asked, knowing that neither of them were being rational. She didn't like hearing her scratchy voice. It hurt to speak. She'd been coughing a lot. Everything felt raw and confusing.

Elene made a frustrated sound. "No, don't - what happened? How do you have a - have you been admitted somewhere? Why did you just vanish like that, I could - " Elene cut herself off, but Ada knew her sister well enough to know the tight-lipped, clenched jaw expression she had on her face when she stopped herself before finishing a threat. They hurt each other so easily.

"I said I'm fine," Ada said, a little angrily. "They're taking care of it." They're taking care of me. Suddenly, all her concerns about dying seemed very far away. She was annoying and being annoyed by her sister. She could still see the star, even with her eyes closed. It was getting bigger. Her panic was a restless wolf in her chest. She locked it away, closed off the cage, covered it up. Not now. Not while Elene could hear. They had roles to play. Too much honesty was required from Ada to talk about this. She thought her mind would explode from the effort, if the supernova didn't go first.

"I - Ada! This is why I told you to - "

Ada snapped back quickly, unwilling to let her finish her sentence. "No, no, Elene, you do not get to tell me I told you so."

Unbelieveable pragmatism appeared in her sister's voice. Fucking bitch. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Look, just - I'm just calling to say I'm fine."

Elene hissed, real anger in her voice. "Can you stop saying that and just tell me where you are?"

The yelling had nothing to do with what happened next. Probably.

Something crackled in her skull. Ada smelt burning, and she knew, somehow, that it was coming from herself. Nails in her skull. The light got brighter, but the star imploded. Quick as a bolt of lightning, and yet she saw every atom of it. Sounds increased in pitch and volume. She opened her eyes and regretted it. Fractals in the fabric of the universe. Dread gripped her chest. Ada suddenly hated all the books she'd ever read, all the time she'd ever spent learning about what could go wrong with magic. Impending doom, right?

"Ihavetogo," she said through gritted teeth, breathing heavy with the effort of keeping herself conscious.

"No, no, Ada, wait, tell me where you are - "

"Seventh floor," she slurred. "They…" They might not let you in. I don't know if I want you to come. Ada couldn't say any of this. Her hand was burning, or the phone was? Deaf to her sister's pleading, she cut the call off and surrendered herself to the impending implosion.

Or - she thought she did. The pain reached a heady crescendo and she went limp in the bed, the phone falling out of her hand onto the floor. It wasn't quite a seizure, what happened next, but to the newly-graduated nurse who saw Ada drop the phone and faint out of nowhere, it certainly looked like one. Her eyes glowed brilliant white even through her shut eyelids, and in the dark of the night and the dimmed lights of the ward, she was as good as a small sun. As volatile, too.

The next few minutes were a frantic blur. Ada was already hooked up to a lot of things, and a lot of those were pulled out as she got worse, and volumes got louder as it didn't stop, and the curtain was drawn because people were watching, but this, of course, did nothing for the noise or the panic, and this ward was full of people with magic-related injuries - but Ada was by far the worst. This was a comedown six weeks in the making, and the doctor on call had never seen a case this intense in a person this young for a long time.

Still, Ada had a good instinct to get herself somewhere safe. In all of six minutes, they got the not-seizure under control, a sedative in her veins joining all the rest of the medication keeping her heart calm and her lungs expanding. They wanted to check her brain activity, they wanted to clear her system, they wanted to get the specialists in. Ada, asleep, knew none of this.

But Elene, who had heard all of it, almost passed out from sheer panic. The phone had been kicked under the bed, so sound was muffled but still audible.

She'd already left Calyx's room to call Ada, and stood in the corridor as she tried to process her relief at hearing from her sister and frustration at still not knowing where she was. So when she froze and sank to the floor, phone glued to her ear, it was in full view of the moving traffic of patients and medical staff alike, but she could hardly even see them.

"Ada?" she whispered after a few long, long, silent moments, knowing that she wouldn't get an answer. "Dee, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Then, and only then, did she cut the phone off, and with shaking legs and tears that she would not even attempt to cease, moved to find her sister.

—

She was scared. She was dreaming. She was trapped.

They didn't know this. They didn't know that she was paralysed in a nightmare, crushing weight on her chest. They were just trying to help.

- "She's seizing!" - "Some privacy, please!" - "Can we get some - " -

Ada cried. It made no sense - it shouldn't be like that - it was impossible - she was impossible - she'd done the impossible? She had been so proud.

It seemed like with every second that passed, she was in more pain. New aches. Old aches. Ones she'd been ignoring, ones that had long-ago healed. Every cut and scar she'd ever healed started to open itself back up. Something was very, very wrong with her magic. And her magic was part of her. Lightning flashed in her eyes, and in the world, the lights above her bed went out. She was in so much pain that she could not even scream, just writhed and whimpered desperately.

The lucidity was gone completely. Some of it was the meds, some of it had never really returned. She messed up. She should've listened. Why didn't she listen? She just wanted to help. She just wanted to do the right thing for once in her life. No one ever had the chance to fix things, to change things, and she had the chance, and she did the right thing and now everything hurt. She wasn't angry. She was just scared, and so alone, but surrounded. Alone because she was surrounded. There was no one on her level. Everyone stood above her, worked around her.

Then there was the terror. She knew she was going to die. Her heart was being squeezed by a thing with claws, her chest stepped on and crushed. The hellhound. She had had to let it in, to let the spell work. Now it was here and would not leave. She had relied on it too long, made her magic familiar to it. But it had worked, it fucking worked, it worked when nothing else had, when her best friend would have died otherwise, so she refused to feel anything but proud.

Still. There was this frustrating instinct to survive that kept bringing back the fear. Her body was trying to expel it, trying to turn itself out. Her mind was trying to escape it, but there was nowhere to run so it simply locked her in a small room and shut out the world. Her magic was destroying itself to destroy it. How had it gone so wrong?

Her hands were trapped by her sides. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. The thing on her chest wouldn't let her breathe, and she didn't want to open her eyes either, didn't want to look at it because that would make it real, and then she would panic, and then -

Something shifted. Something like ice-cold wind in the air. It cleared something. Ada was cold from the blood loss and hot from the stress, but she still felt it. Paralysed as she was, she didn't freeze, but she focused. Tensed.

"Oh, Dee. There you are. What did - what have they done to you? What happened, my love? I'm here. I'm so sorry."

Her sister brushed away hair that clung to her forehead. The hound shifted. Ada still couldn't move. She could breathe. Elene was here. Elene was -

"Hey, uh, hello! Is - is she okay? She's breathing?"

Ada was breathing. Yes. Yes, and she took another breath for her sister, just to be sure that she could see. I'm here. She's here. That wind. She'd grown up knowing the smell of that wind. She could not help the sob that rose up in her throat. Breathing. Elene, I'm breathing.

"Yes, hi! Are you -"

"Her sister. Elene Silverstone. She - I called? I called her. A lot. I called the ward, as well, I'm - is she - can you tell me - "

"She's stable," someone said. "Gave us all a fright."

Ada's eyes were still closed, but she could hear just fine. So she heard, and she ached, at the quiet whimper and gasp from Elene.

"Yeah," she breathed. Her voice was so high and tight and thick with tension. "Yes. Yes. God. My baby sister. But she's okay now? Better?" Elene held her hand, and Ada would have squeezed it but she was too focused on every painful sensation now returning to her, to do anything other than breathe.

"Is she - is she going to wake up soon?"

A pause. "Hopefully. We had to give her a sedative, but we want to monitor her brain -"

"Her brain?"

My brain's fine, El.

Ada heard her sister's heart stutter. Oh. Oh, Ada. You scared me.

Sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm - - but she couldn't finish the sentence, even in her head, because her head ached and a flood of tears escaped her.

Elene wasn't standing anymore. "Hey, oh, darling, it's okay. It's okay, I've got you." She held Ada in a shaky, awkward embrace, cradling her head. She kissed her hair, her awful tangled hair, and here was the love that she had been missing for half her life. All she had to do was die. But she had it now. The urge to be resentful was gone. It might come back. Here, in this hospital room, being held by the first person to love her, she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but grateful.

She was still scared to open her eyes, anticipating all those old wounds open again - but the feeling was fading, so she let out a shaky breath and opened them just a fraction.

Not a scratch. It was almost mocking, how innocuous her bare skin looked. There had been so much blood. Rivers of it.

A tear fell down the side of Ada's eye. The pillow was soaked with them. She couldn't distinguish between the feelings of blood or water, and in her mind, it was still the river of blood she lay in, not a sweat-drenched hospital bed.

"Oh. Hi," Elene said quietly. Her eyes were red and puffy.

Ada smiled briefly, coughed. "You - your hair's a mess."

To her shock, Elene laughed. She never usually laughed at those jokes. Then she pulled her hair out of its bun and ran a hand through it, then left it out. Very strange. Ada saw that her hands were shaking, though.

"So is yours," she teased lightly. Then the smile was gone, and she leaned forward, serious. She pressed a kiss to Ada's forehead. "We aren't going to fight about this."

"Mm," Ada hummed in agreement. "Fine - with me." Her voice broke and she coughed, retching suddenly at the intensity of it. She tasted blood in the back of her throat and knew that Elene saw the way her eyes widened at the realisation. After all this time and that terrible divide, they still knew each other so well.

"Woah, woah. Easy. Here." Elene didn't sound panicked, just calm. As calm as she always was. If she cast her mind back far enough, Ada could remember countless times where Elene had been the only one who could calm her down. She reached into her bag and uncapped a water bottle, nudged Ada with it gently. Ada just stared at it mournfully. Her arms hurt. Phantom pain? Memories?

Her sister laughed softly and wordlessly helped manoeuvre her to a half-sitting position. Ada drank gratefully, then slumped forward to rest her head on Elene's shoulder before the crying started again. Ada knew it was coming, and she didn't want Elene to see.

"Oh," Elene said quietly, holding her close. "Oh, Ada. What happened?" She wasn't seriously asking, Ada knew. It was more of a stunned comment on their combined bad luck.

This hug lasted longer. Ada still twitched with misfiring magic and shot nerves, but Elene held her through it, stroked her hair, and Ada was so taken by how easily she leaned into the comfort that she did not have it in her to wish it happened more often.

She wanted to talk about it, but where to start? She was so tired. Sleepy fog rested at her peripheries, beckoned silently, but she was afraid. The hound was there, too. She knew it was. She knew she would have to face it again but she was awake now and her sister was here and her stupid plan had worked.

"It was too quick, El," she explained quietly, trying not to let her voice shake. "I didn't mean for that to happen."

She meant: I'm sorry.

"It's okay. We'll talk about that later. I would've ripped this place apart looking for you, you know that?"

She meant: I love you.

The rift that had existed between them for so many years meant that neither could not say either phrase when they meant it so much. It would feel dishonest; untrue. These sisters, though. They had never needed words to understand each other.

---

taglist: @whump-is-love-whump-is-life @morning-star-whump @cepheusgalaxy @inhurtandincomfort @days-on-the-road @whumpologyy @weibun-art @faultsandfractures @whump-until-wretched @00blackbirdwrites00

[whumpawaydarling]

#28 - war I

previous / next ☆ masterpost

i feel like its the destiny of every clem chapter to just be very long awaited. shoutout to everyone who's been waiting i love you

summary: let's check in on everyone's favourite knight <3 oh shit clem wtf man didn't you get the memo. we're supposed to be convalescing ?? takes place immediately following their pov ending in chapter 21 :)

cw: immortal whumpee(s?), living weapon whumpee(s?), nonhuman whumpee + whumper, role reversal, no caretaker, (temporary) death, gore, injury, fights/violence, (brief) eye whump, crying, fear, grief, sensory deprivation?, ambiguous ending

---

In a way, Clem had overprepared.

In a more realistic, truthful way, they had absolutely no idea what was coming their way.

They barely had a second to recalibrate being in the new place — before their sword came up almost instinctively to block the strike aimed at their chest. The suddenness stunned them, and though their wide eyes narrowed immediately, they knew she would have noticed.

"Scared?" K sneered.

"Fuck off," they hissed, shifting their weight to the offence. They realised that all she wanted was to see them panic, because the fray had not yet started in earnest. They circled each other, swords out, the metal reflecting the light of a hundred thousand stars.

Stars. Of all the places Clem had expected, it was not somewhere with stars. All were vaguely purple-tinged, speckled across the sky. There was nothing on the horizon. Literally nothing. Just stars as far as they could see, and all of them reflecting onto the floor. The effect was disorientating, like they were standing on the surface of a lake, or a mirror. It almost seemed like marble, both sets of boots stepping heavily over the terrain.

Hers were steel-toed. Better to realise that now than when they were inevitably being used to kick in their ribs.

Green eyes glowed in the darkness. It was strange, phantasmal, how the world could be lit by so many stars and still dark. Their hands in front of their face were clear enough, though. It was only her who seemed shrouded in shadow.

"Calculating, Clemency?" There was an edge of mirth in her voice, but mostly malice.

It almost blushed to be caught, but of course she knew that they would be assessing the battlefield. They were surprised she even let them take anything in. They wouldn't have. She could've won the first fight in seconds if she wanted, purely because of the element of surprise. But she didn't want to win, not yet. She wanted them to be afraid. That was a mistake, and they didn't reply to the jibe.

K smiled, all teeth, letting her sword drop in false surrender. "Go on," she urged. "What have you learnt?"

There's nowhere to hide, they thought instantly. What they said, though, was, "you have a weird taste in personal limbos, kitty cat."

They barely finished speaking before she was on them, furious at the insult. Just as they expected, or - hoped. There was no time for satisfaction, though. Her sword came down at their shoulder, but they dodged to the right, swinging in the same motion to slash at her neck. To her discredit, she seemed shocked at the escalation to a killing blow. It hadn't done what they hoped, though, because of the shock and the loss of momentum from shifting at the last second.

They'd both escaped with mere scratches. That did not last long.

Throughout the course of this first fight, Clem realised: she favoured her left side. She was trained in the skill but didn't often use swords. She only started trying to incapacitate once they did, preferring to cause pain. And this one was the kicker — she fought so fucking dirty.

It was her turf, but it felt grossly unfair that she had so much influence over it. The floor was solid beneath them, but they swore that she shifted it, so they fell, tripping backwards and landing solidly on their back, hitting the back of their head as they did. They saw stars, literal and metaphorical, purple pinpricks spinning in their vision. The lack of any other focal point made the disorientation worse, and the pain kept them down long enough for her to step closer. They started to push up, queasy, but (- and this would later be downright embarrassing, how little she tried -) she pressed a boot to their chest and the resulting pressure made them sigh. A forced exhale, a manufactured surrender.

"Scared yet?" she sneered again, levelling her sword at its neck. She was trying to seem composed, but blood seeped out from gashes in her clothes. She was not any less injured than they were. "Because you should be."

Truthfully, it was not. Clem felt drained, more than anything. It could take more hits than most, and she was agile, dodging enough hits to spark genuine frustration. This frenzy had gone on too long. Both of them were too strong, too well matched. For a flash, it worried about what was to come.

"Okay," it croaked mildly. "Whatever you say. Kitten." This part was, in essence, a yielding. They could have continued fighting, but they had time. Once their strength returned, they could try again.

Her sword came down straight through the trachea. It couldn't embed into the ground, so Clem choked on the agony as it fell to the side once she let go. Almost a full decapitation, except messier and altogether worse. It cut the carotid, mercifully cutting short the time it had to spend gurgling for air around the gaping hole in its throat. The boot now forcing their lung cavity closed made it quicker, but more painful. Clem heard ribs break, and the next time they opened their eyes, K was gone. She hadn't picked up the sword, so they had to drag themselves away from the blade so their neck could heal. Stars blurred. With their vocal cords useless, the sounds they made were unlike anything they'd ever heard. The seconds stretched out painfully. Despite everything, it felt like it took far too long to die.

—

The stars watched them die. The stars watched them wake up.

For a moment, Clem tried to think whether they had been dead long enough to miss a whole day, but it never usually took that long. No moons. The stars were difficult to isolate, and in no recognisable constellations. None seemed particularly brighter than any others. They wondered how far away they were from home, and felt, impossibly, the tightening of tendons in the muscle of their heart. Stop, they thought. Don't go there.

As they brought up a hand gingerly to their neck, their fingers felt tight with the crusting over of blood from their knuckles. Her blood, too, very likely. All the blood remained, and the memory of the pain, but they could clean the blood, and pain would never stop them fighting.

Still, they got up carefully, assessing. Nothing hurt in the way it did when it needed tending to. No stabbing, burning, nothing that seemed poisoned or like it was resisting healing. Good.

They summoned the armour. Then they took it off, frowning. It was stored in a pocket dimension, as was the rest of their armoury. Easy access, if they needed it. Which they did. But did they want it? Was protecting themselves the goal here? Did they need to make themselves harder to hit, because that would buy the rest of them more time? They knew K's type, though. They would hate for her to make them lose their temper with taunting.

What do you need all that protection for? Where's it going to get you? You're destined for the grave, Clem.

In the end, they were right about her attitude. But they still should have worn armour. If they hadn't already died for it, it would be tempting fate to say that pride would kill them one day.

—

Clem knew that there would be no time to breathe. They had trained themselves to never relax fully, to always be ready for danger to strike.

It was one thing to know it, though, and another to one second be resting, in a state of relative ease, and in the next, be hit with a barrage of attacks from someone aiming not only to kill, but to hurt. They felt an unrelenting scorn build in the back of their mind at the thought of it. The very act of her simply materialising was dirty. It wasn't fair.

It was fair, though. In a cosmic sense. They asked for it. They could have guessed she would not make it easy for them.

They grit their teeth and threw up their shield, blocking a blow that aimed to slash across their face. Not lethal, obviously, but they weren't stupid enough to think that she didn't know how to kill. K just didn't care about lethal now that she had time to make them suffer.

This was part of the plan, of course. They would buy time for centuries if they could.

"Think you're so fucking brave, huh? Hiding behind - "

Anger surged at the notion that they were hiding. Shields were not cowardly, but they were halfway to dismissing it when Ruth's voice in their mind cut through the haze.

Don't let her rile you up.

It stayed up. For a second, because she disintegrated it in the next. They lunged, she dodged, and then they started circling. Clem felt wild blood bubble at the familiar motion. Something twitched and growled in their core. The locket around their neck burned — pleasantly, but it burned. Not yet, they promised.

"Rude," they hissed. "I was using that."

She shrugged. "And I decided you don't need it." So fucking pompous. It was indescribable, how intensely they wanted to wipe the smile off her face.

Clem scoffed. "I don't need it. I was using it."

With that, the pause was over. She cut them, they healed, they cut her and blood spilled out of her with reckless abandon. But she was angry and stronger, and refused to let herself be hit, throwing up shadow or shifting slightly so their sword only met air. They tired quicker than they'd expected, the sword slipping out of their hands slick with sweat and blood. They fell to a knee, and she knocked the back of their head with — something? A fist? The hilt of her sword? It didn't matter. They fell flat, exhausted, and knew that they had lost.

When the sword impaled the centre of their back, and twisted, a guttural groan escaped them as they heard their own vertebrae break. The shock of their spinal cord being severed was masked by a sudden, aching memory. They'd died like this before. They knew, somehow, that she was reminding them of it, of her involvement in that one. The betrayal stung, even now.

Perhaps she meant to make them feel weak. Unsteady. All it did was piss them off.

—

One boot pinned their chest down, the other crushed their hand. Broken. It would be a miracle if even a single bone was intact, given how she ground it into the ground. The pain was unbearable, cutting off their speech and blacking out their vision. They screamed, for the first time. The sound of it rung in their ears, even now. Embarrassing. Pathetic.

They could not see her, face to the ground, but they did not want to. The air was thick with the stench of their blood. Their heart beat unsteadily, magic and pain working to oppose each other. Clem knew: they could not survive this. They would simply run out of blood before it could heal them. An early death would be a mercy, and they suspected they were going to get it.

"Scared?" she asked. The axe blade grazed the base of their neck. An execution.

She liked asking it, as if waiting for the fight that they would say yes. They did not, hoarse and shallow breaths all they could manage with their ribs cracked and lungs bleeding. They would not have admitted fear even if they could. Of course they were scared. It was the most natural thing in the world, but it would not stop them fighting. Not when they had a job to do. A duty to fill.

"No," they whispered. Mostly an exhale of breath more than any real answer. They accepted it, gritting their teeth as pain shot down their arm again. This was one death closer to the end.

She pressed the axe down further, choking them. It cut into their neck now, and blood flowed down it. They tasted it, metallic and warm. Perhaps if they were at full strength, if the locket wasn't cutting off half of their power, it may be easier to survive this.

"Then you're fucking stupid," she growled. "You're nothing. It is going to be this, over and over, and when I find your fucking friends again, I will delight in recounting how easily you yielded to me."

They somehow found the strength to feel indignant at the lie. She would lie, if she won and they lost. This alone could give them enough strength to keep going. They would not have their name slandered if they could help it.

Clem gasped — the last gasp that they would take. Their brainstem had never been severed before. The pain was not as terrifying as the gasping was. Air refused to fill their lungs. Nerve took the longest to regenerate.

Their last conscious thought: I wouldn't get too cocky, K. I'm just getting started.

—

It was interesting at least, after all this time, to figure out how K fought.

"You really like getting in people's heads, huh?"

They kept their voice low, unsure if they even cared about being audible. She heard them anyway, narrowing her eyes. Her lip curled when she replied.

"Is it not effective?"

Clem tilted their head, an almost concession. Leading her on. "It just seems like if you didn't have that, you'd have nothing."

The next swing of the sword came down harder, faster, too quick for them to dodge. If it had been an axe, she might have taken their arm off at the shoulder.

"Nothing?" The anger was more than audible. They felt it, tight and squeezing.

Despite the pain shooting through their arm and torso, Clem smiled. The effect would have been more of a grimace, but they knew that they smiled. They wanted to make her angry. They wanted to make her fight recklessly, clumsily. They were learning her movements, and they could feel the tide turning. It was only a matter of time, and they had so much of it.

"Do you think your friend would have joined me if I offered nothing?"

Truthfully, Clem did not hear the back half of the taunt. But their anguish came through in the way they started a silent offence, frustrated with the play and furious with the reminder.

"Ultimately, Clemency," she continued, "There is no relationship without transaction. You can delude yourself all you like that I manipulated, or forced an outcome that suited me, but all I did was offer a good deal. It was the smart choice. And here you are, a glorified guard dog, fighting for - what? Do you seriously think there's honour in this?"

She was distracted by the talking, and they were so focused on ignoring her that they disarmed her - easily, sword swinging in the air and landing lightly in their offhand. They held the two weapons in a cross at her neck, noting distantly how she did not react and did not surrender.

"You don't know anything about honour," they growled.

K grinned, all sharp teeth. "It's touching, really, how loyal you are. Where has it gotten you? You think they care about you, but we both know that's impossible. You could do the smart thing and abandon this, and I'll let you walk away free."

Clem, by this point, was so angry that they could not speak. They thought: you know nothing about me, and you know nothing about my friends, and I know I'm nothing more than a sword, I've never wanted to be anything else, and you must be fucking stupid if you think I would abandon someone in need, and they remembered Calyx's fear and thought they could never trust me again, actually, but I would still feel satisfied if I give you what you put them through, and I will never, ever back away from a fight.

Of course, they said none of this. The crossed swords were an X in one second, and parallel in the next. Later, they would be shocked that she did not see it coming. In the moment, though, they felt wrung out, raw, pulling the blades away from her neck as she choked and gurgled around the twin gashes.

She fell to her knees, or started to, because Clem didn't trust her for a millisecond. They thrust their sword, then hers, through her chest, making sure to hit something important. And twist. And pull them out. They paused before they did it all over again, eyes wide with shock at what they were seeing. What they were doing. For the first time, they felt the full force of their terror. Why were they so uncertain, so unsteady?

It knew why. This was an enemy who had bested it time and again, who was able to worm into their friends' minds like a parasite, who was, in all honesty, better and stronger and quicker than they were. It was strange to see her die.

The realisation came slowly, a stunned smile spreading over their face. This was the first time it had won. Blood poured, no, gushed - out of her. It would have been painful, Clem considered. Good.

Clem nudged her unmoving body with a boot, heart thumping with leftover adrenaline. They couldn't see anything healing. How would she come back? How long would it take? It wanted to watch, but it remembered how revival brought strength with it, temporary but deadly fury, a blessing or curse from whatever power had sent you back.

It backed away slowly, keeping their eyes on her. This was her domain. She would find it when she returned. For now, the various stinging places on their body threatened to tip over to outright painful, and if they let it, it would be unbearable. It needed to rest, and let themselves heal the worst of what it had sustained.

Her words barely touched it, truthfully. Clem knew that she would say them again, would want to keep gloating, but it had a job and a purpose and a duty. The history didn't matter.

—

Sleep was not needed, here. That made sense. Their eyes never tired, even though at times their body clock registered multiple 'days' of being awake. There was no cycle, simply the ever-present stars. They were too afraid to rest, even when they won. They didn't know how long she took to heal, or be revived, or however it worked, and they tried to count but it seemed so random.

After a win, they would simply walk until they could not see the body, cleaning and mending their clothes on the way, then sit, attuning to the world and its magic. It helped. They were getting better at feeling for the fabric of it, understanding when K wanted to manipulate it. Her metaphysical hands reached to tug and Clem hoped, perhaps arrogantly, that they would one day be able to oppose. Till then, they could simply learn more. There was a lot they could find out.

This meant that the only time they truly closed their eyes was in death. They didn't know how to describe the feeling of waking up with tears on their face. How did that work? In the moments before consciousness returned, after their heart restarted, their body wanted to cry?

—

It felt important, instinctively, to switch up what they were using. Never let her anticipate what was coming next, try as much as they could to get any element of surprise over her. The brass knuckles were easy, and effective. If they played their cards right, there was a chance she'd miss them till it was too late. One good punch could win them this fight. It was almost laughable, how easily the tides could turn when she expected something and they gave something else.

As it stood, she saw. Perhaps it was the glint of bronze reflecting the firmament.

"New toy, Clem?"

They were actually getting sick of the taunts. "Don't you get bored?" they asked, completely genuine. "Like, actually. Say something else. Whatever you want from me, you're not getting it."

K sighed. "I want you to hit me, then."

Clem didn't falter. They were not playing around. It was shocking that she still was. Bones cracked in her face as they made contact, and she stumbled to the ground, clutching her face.

"Funny," she spat.

They kicked her in the chest, but she grabbed their leg and pulled it down before they could recalibrate. She unsheathed a dagger in her belt — they kicked out again, using the backwards momentum to push and sit up on their knees. She lunged; they dodged and punched again, aiming for the side of her head this time. They didn't want her to have a knife - it was so difficult to defend against in close quarters. Getting cut was an inevitability.

They wanted their tail, suddenly - to disarm, but a few moments of scuffle later, they managed without. She could get a new one, so they kept her arms pinned above her head and drew a hand back to punch. They didn't have to kill her via brute force alone, but they'd rather have her unconscious.

"Must - " she coughed up blood, lips deep red with it. "Must not be very good, if you need all of this shit."

"As if you don't use - " Clem paused, an old anger resurfacing at her words. "No, fuck you. You had Calyx in chains in a fucking basement and you're insinuating that I'm the one punching down? Are you insane?" The anger was more of an inferno, or a frenzy, and it felt so good to yell.

She laughed. She actually laughed. "You know nothing about me."

Clem rolled back on their heels, picking up the knife they'd discarded to pin her dominant hand to the ground. Ignoring her almost-scream, they stared at her, incredulous. "No, I don't. By design! Clearly! You're - what the fuck is wrong with you?"

They had no idea if she was even listening. They'd given her back the knife. They didn't particularly care, all of a sudden, standing up so they could use the full advantage of their sword pointed to her chest. It was unwise to be completely unguarded, and they could use the weapon in their sleep.

"What do you want? Surely there are better things you could be doing with your time?"

The knife came for their thigh. Bad call. They swung instinctively, slicing her wrist and half of her arm.

"Give up! Fucking yield!" they yelled, furious. "You're the worst fighter I've ever met!"

They didn't get angry, categorically. Not like this. It clouded their judgement, it meant they missed tricks that they had no business missing. They had been getting so good at figuring out when she was going to draw shadows closer.

She was bleeding, glaring, at the tip of their sword, and then she had bloody hands and a knife at their neck —

Clem stared at stars on the horizon, distantly aware of a shaking in their legs, and pain. Pain everywhere, not just the neck. If anything, it was everywhere except that. It'd healed before the blood spill could get anywhere near fatal. Her grip wasn't strong enough with two damaged hands. But they panicked. How did they get here? What happened?

The locket was broken. They knew what had happened.

They knew, could taste, that the blood in its mouth was not all theirs. Chunks of flesh surrounded a body in their peripheries, solid and constant as a heartbeat. As their own heartbeat. They could feel it: in their chest, their arm, their hands. They could hear it, thumping loud and violent. It felt stronger, but Clem did not feel stronger.

They were alone. No one was watching. They felt like someone was watching. They didn't want to cry if anyone was watching.

Clem's lip wobbled. They covered their face with their hands, turning over - away from the body - away from the crime - just away - and curled up like they had when things were easier, when they did not know the sting of betrayal or the agony of grief. Their wings stretched out, soft from disuse but instinctive in their ability to protect. Quietly, they wept beneath the cover, the makeshift canopy.

Or - they tried to be quiet. The keening noises came out without permission, the gasps took over their breathing and refused their attempts at self-soothing. It felt vulnerable to fight like this, and they could not go back now. They couldn't seal their nature up alone.

The last time Clem had entered a fight without hiding, their wings had been cut off, their tail trampled. Pathetic, how averse they were to it now. It didn't like the dark. It wanted to go home.

The tears stopped just as abruptly as they'd started. Clem crawled for a moment, then pulled out a mace. Staking it down, they pulled themselves up. Without looking back, she walked away.

—

The way they fought after this would easily be described as feral, because it was. K could no longer sneak up on them. She tried to switch to ranged weapons, but the arrows simply bounced off the scales, barely leaving them with a graze. And that was when they didn't anticipate the hits. The familiar sound of displacing air was all too easy to twist their body away from.

At rest, which they had a lot of, it was almost unfathomably easier to attune now that they were not blocking off half of their magic. Their senses were stronger, better, faster. The training fell away. This was instinct.

It did not help that K, in an all too serious whisper, said that she would love to have the privilege of slaying a dragon. They gouged her eyes out for it, claws digging in deep enough to draw out the vitreous fluid. The pure, animal anger meant that part of them would have gone all the way to brain if they could. She tried to stab them in the heart, but she couldn't see and missed badly, hitting somewhere in their stomach instead. They used her own dagger to do what she couldn't, giving her a quicker death than she deserved. It felt like that whole encounter only lasted about five minutes.

They retched afterwards, covered in blood and gore, and sat with the mess for longer than they usually did, simply staring at their shaking hands. It was pure fear that had done that. They vowed to never let it get that bad again. She never tried that particular taunt again, but something inside them always heard it.

They cried more, in general. Never as intensely as the first time, but the singular sobs left Clem feeling similarly raw, like something had ripped through its core.

But, and the very fact of this kept them going — they won more fucking fights.

They stole her arrows and shot her in the thigh, watched as she bled out slowly; they clubbed the side of her skull in and spilled brain all over her stupid marble floor; they stabbed her to death, claws and daggers useful to that end in equal measure. They cracked her arm clean in half at the elbow and twisted it to show her the bone, then headbutted her and watched as her chest stopped rising. They broke her nose, just because they could. Because they were angry, and winning, and could not stop thinking of all of the people she had ruined the lives of. How dare she? Who gave her the fucking right?

She took the deaths well, annoyingly. But they supposed that she was also not getting what she wanted. They could live with the fact that she refused to scream.

It became sleek efficiency from them both, in these near-silent and furious frenzies that were simply means to an end. Her focus was razor-sharp, and still she was losing. They both knew it.

She didn't stop trying to kill them. They sported their fair share of healed bones, stab wounds that refused to heal properly because there was so much to heal, and it scared them, vaguely, but they could block out the pain. Sometimes, even they couldn't decide what the worst thing was. It didn't have time, though, to rest or heal or think about that. It just had to keep going.

The pain never ended. They were healing too quickly for it all to subside, phantom wounds frustrating them to no end. The quicker K lost, the quicker Clem could go home.

Then —

The frenzy paused.

Legimitately paused. Not officially - they were the only two in the world and thus the only ones who could make any decisions, and they had not spoken about it. But it paused. Clem won, (obviously), and walked. Their tail trailed behind them, every atom of their body full of a quiet ache. The initial surge of energy had worn off. They both were tired, now. Not physically - not in the sense that they needed sleep, or at least it was a kind of exhaustion that sleep would not fix. It was just… bone-deep exhaustion. Cellular.

K was getting sick of losing. Clem kept score. Eighteen deaths under their belt, and thirty-three of hers. That made fifty-one.

Oh. Halfway. They hadn't noticed.

For the first time, it occured to them: they didn't really need to go to a hundred if someone hit fifty wins first. That gave K seventeen chances to claw back a chance. It made them stumble. The possibility that they could completely forgo more than thirty of the brawls was staggering.

They didn't know, at this point, that there would be a pause. So they resumed their normal routine. They cleaned up, sparing a little magic to mend their clothes and clear the mess. They had a whetstone in the armoury, so they sharpened things, idly. They didn't need to. It felt like claws and teeth were enough, most days. Those couldn't be used against them, not in the typical ways they'd been warned about. But they felt a certain satisfaction when they held a sword, a knife, a mace.

This all completed, they waited. Senses trained for anything, literally anything, even something as small as a rustle in the world's magic, because there was absolutely nothing else. They could keep walking until she found them, but why? They must have covered miles by now. It seemed fruitless to walk. Giving themselves the illusion of rest was a kindness.

At some point, they got bored. Antsy, because it had been too long. They had taken to counting seconds, envisioning them as grains of sand in a timer. They hit a hundred thousand seconds. Once. Twice. Three times.

The sixth time, something snapped.

"Hey!" they yelled, standing up in a flurry. "Hello? You can't just leave me here! If you give up, at least have the fucking decency to tell me?"

They forced the sudden shrill and panicked tone down, away. It was too close to hysterical, the image that presented itself. But this was no kind of life. It was a limbo, they knew this. Had they doomed themselves to a lifetime in limbo?

"I'm serious," they said to absolutely nothing - and felt only the hint of a blush touch their cheeks. Please, they started to think, but they would not beg. Not yet. Not now. They were winning. She was being cowardly. Old fucking news.

They spun around slowly, assessing the horizon for anything, any sign of change. The stars were just as bright as ever.

"This isn't - we can talk about it." What was there to talk about? The rules were set, the game was in motion.

Clem stayed standing, chewing their lip. They couldn't stop thinking of -

No. No, they wouldn't think of her. It'd only upset things. They needed a clear head. Most likely, she had already moved on. They sighed, leaning slightly on their sword. "If you're giving up, I would like to go home." If she was anything like a worthy opponent, they'd have offered to say that she fought well. But she fought dirty, and the only reason they were here in the first place was revenge.

They waited.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Their armour clanked loudly as they sat back down, frustrated, and rubbed at their forehead.

"Fuck."

---

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[whumpawaydarling]

#26 - burden

previous / next ☆ masterpost

summary: so, tom. about that fever you definitely don't have,

cw: worried caretaker, caretaker-turned-whumpee, sickfic, fevers, ex demon whumpee?, guilt, multiple caretakers, past trauma, accidental self harm, delirium, panic attack?, self-hatred, comfort

---

A dizzy, heady feeling got him out of bed. If he had been lucid, he wouldn't have left Calyx alone, but his mind thought he was still by himself - and it didn't help that they'd shuffled onto the floor in the night. So he was alone, confused, and very, very warm. A familiar misery lay in the back of his mind. Muscle memory got confused between his nightmare-dream of home and hell and the old apartment and the living room, so Tom slammed into the doorframe with a groan and a muffled swear.

His brain caught up slowly, and he was halfway to the bathroom before he realised that that was where he was going. He had a sore throat and a blinding headache unrelated to the distant throbbing from hitting his head. He bent over the toilet bowl for long minutes before he realised it was hunger, not nausea that stabbed at his stomach. There was nothing to bring up. When had he last eaten? When did they get home? Where was Calyx?

For a few long seconds, he stared into the dark and tried to convince himself that he hadn't made it all up. Yes, it was real. It was real? They'd been in the hospital. Home now.

He had to check. He just had to check. They were definitely home. Had they been in the bed?

(They had not.) That had not changed, when he checked.

"Shit," he whispered into the dark. They'd gone to sleep with the lamp on, but it'd been turned off at some point in the night. He switched it back on and knelt beside them. "Hey, Cee," he began, but they flinched in their sleep and he moved his hand from their shoulder. Oh, he felt very unwell. And they were sleeping. They weren't having a nightmare, as far as he could tell. Was it so wrong to leave them? It felt wrong to wake them. His mind was too addled for this. Indecision made him freeze, and he just - watched them. They had fallen asleep right by the bed. If they wanted to get back into it, they could?

No. No, no, that was a horrible thought. Or - was it? They weren't a child. He couldn't exactly lift them.

"Cee," he whispered, leaning over to rest his burning forehead on the cool cabinet. "Fuck. Don't wanna leave you on the floor, sweetheart. Please wake up." It hurt to talk through his sore throat, and the predicament made him want to cry.

Then they stirred. He straightened up and wiped his eyes in one motion. They startled, briefly, but breathed out forcibly when they met his eyes.

"Tom?"

"I - why're you on the floor?"

"Oh." They pushed themselves up to lean against the bed, and they bit their lip when they looked away from him. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?" Even through the horrible feeling in his bones, it was a breath of fresh air to hear their voice.

"No. No, Cee, I - I'm - " he wanted to admit it. He didn't want to worry them. "I just needed water," he lied. Then he coughed, right on cue. "Saw you - you know. You okay?"

Calyx just sighed. "Yeah," they said quietly. "No. I'm better." Then they looked at their hands, and Tom didn't know what they were seeing but knew from how they curled on themselves that it wasn't good.

It was completely silent in the room, save for their breathing and the quiet buzz of electricity from the lamp. He noticed his breathing was coming out ragged as he tried not to irritate his throat.

"You needed water?"

"I'm okay," he replied without thinking. "I mean, yeah. I'll - are you okay being on your own? Just for a bit. I'll be back."

They nodded.

"Getting back in bed?"

It took longer, but they shook their head no.

"Okay," he murmured. "I love you."

"I love you," they whispered back. There was an air of solemnity between the two of them. These mundane interactions would become normal again. For now, both could not forget all the times that they had been impossible.

Tom walked back to the bathroom in the dark, turned the tap on in the dark. He felt dizzy, and he hoped that keeping his eyes closed and unaffronted by light would help. He couldn't stop thinking about Calyx. Why was he letting himself be miserable?

Fumbling for the tap was harder than he'd expected. He wanted to open his eyes, but he didn't like knowing that there was a mirror in front of him now. He was hot. His heart was burning hot, and he was shivering too. He kept expecting fire. Fire was supposed to be dry heat, but he knew more than anyone that boiling water burned just the same. Cool water. That's what he needed. Ice. It had snowed, outside, that was why it was so silent. Not a soul moving around, except for Tommy, who didn't belong here.

The sound of the tap made him startle. At least the sound got rid of the creeping feeling behind him, the not quite being watched but being known feeling, the one where someone wanted to say or do something but was restraining themselves.

"Fuck off," he couldn't help but whisper. "Leave me alone."

Sleep pushed closer to his mind. He pushed against it. No. For all his anger, he felt panic more than anything. Not now. Not here. He stuck his hands under the cold water and hissed immediately, like it had burned him. The irony. Still blind and getting steadily more nervous, he switched to warm but didn't remember to wait for the pipes to adjust before he did it again, and this time he cut off a cry out with a barely concealed whimper. It hurt, it hurt.

How pathetic, he thought. It was just water. At least he had water. He didn't try again. Exhaustion pulled him to the floor, and he knelt by the side of the tub while he tried to figure out what to do.

He had no idea what time it was. Everything was still and quiet. The bathroom was illuminated only by a streetlamp. The dark outside didn't mean much. It would be dark for most of the day, and he had the vague idea that he would be asleep for most of the day too. Perhaps it came from the fact that he was curling up on the bathroom rug now, resting his forehead on the tile and sighing contentedly at the bliss he got out of it.

Something jolted him awake, though, at the last second. Calyx -

They were home. Asleep. Making choices. He could rest. He wanted to get back to them, though. Anything could happen.

A firework exploded outside, quickly followed by a smattering of laughter below him, on the street - and he was suddenly young again, shaking, panicked by the explosions outside. Home-grown terrors. He clenched his fists, dug his nails into his palms. Come on, Tommy. Get up. This is pathetic. Nothing's wrong.

He coughed, waves of heat muddling his thoughts. The fever had been building and his body didn't want to push it away any longer. An unwelcome wave of calm settled over him. He had to get back to Calyx. They'd worry. He had to make sure they were okay. What if they wanted him? What if something happened?

Waves of heat and sudden, freezing cold overwhelmed him. His breathing came out raspy, painful. The cold was worse, the cold was always worse. Not water - not water - he hated water -

Not water. It wasn't water, it was just cold.

He'd get up in five minutes. He had to rest. Sleep overcame him as quickly as he'd been pulled out of it.

—

It was Ada who found him. Not that he knew this, of course. He'd gotten worse in his sleep. In his mind, it was a kind and soft-spoken stranger - no, a cruel, cruel man - no, his mother? His brother? His best friend? Everything was swimming. He was submerged in water again. Boiling, he was boiling. Hot water - trouble. He was in trouble? He didn't want to be in trouble.

"Shit, Tom, what happened to you?"

He mumbled something, tried not to be intelligible. It wasn't as effective as he wanted it to be. "Sorry. Jus' tired. 'M fine. Please." He wasn't sure what he was asking for. It was the only thing Ada understood.

"Okay, come on. Back to bed."

Four things happened next, very quickly. She touched his arm, he flinched, and a burst of flame leapt from his outstretched hand to land on and singe the rug. Then Tom passed out, overwhelmed. That had not happened in a long, long time.

"Oh, fuck!"

This was Ada. Tom was out for the count. It wasn't magical fever - he was just tired. His body was trying to turn back time and return to safety, but it was difficult to fine-tune the dial. There were relatively thin windows for safety. Tom had not known a lot of it.

—

He didn't want to get Calyx ill, so he wanted to insist on going down to the couch. Ada was having none of it. She said that Calyx could share her room, but he was going to a bed. She pulled him around like a ragdoll. He was taller than her, and he felt bad to be relying on her so much to stay upright, but there was nothing for it. He felt like he'd keel over otherwise.

He had not been sick like this in a long time, maybe ever. Delirium rested at the peripheries of his mind, and everything he could see head-on blurred. She switched the lights on and he ached too much to be embarrassed about the whine he made when the hallway illuminated itself. He thanked her when she switched them off, when she used her phone torch to go the rest of the way.

"S'rry," he mumbled as she pushed on his shoulders so he would lie down. "Wastin' - your time. Don't worry 'bout me." Then he coughed, and could not stop - the fit left him doubled over and whimpering pitifully.

He sighed gratefully as a cool towel found itself on his forehead. His vision was hazy.

"Shush. You need to take a break. It's good you're getting one."

Something broke through the delirium. "Miserable fuckin' break. You can't - " he broke off coughing, leaning over to retch absolutely nothing into a bucket. Where had that come from? "Heal?"

She hummed a discontented reply. "Unless you want me frying your immune system. I'm not advanced enough, Tom, sorry." She sighed, as if she knew what he was going to reply. "I can call a doctor."

"No," he groaned through gritted teeth. "I'm f- fine."

Ada sank into the chair across from him, pulling her legs up to hug her knees. "Sure. You set the rug on fire, Toms."

Sudden dread spread through him. "That was real? Sorry."

"Hey, hey, it's fine. It's fine. I'm just saying - what am I saying? You just get better, okay? You haven't rested for weeks. This was bound to happen."

He tried to laugh but it got caught in his throat and became a coughing fit, which became a dizzy spell, which led to him groaning and biting back a half-sob into the pillow. She moved to kneel beside him, rubbing his back and shushing him quietly. Shame made his cheeks burn more than they already were.

"Hey, you're okay. Just - sleep, okay?"

Ada had been ill too, back at the hospital. They'd lost track of her at some point after Calyx was admitted, and then Elene said she'd checked herself into a ward for magical illnesses. Just for 24 hours - she needed more attention than they could give her. Elene hadn't known about it till Ada sent her a picture of her hospital wristband. The guilt never stopped.

She was asleep when he went to see her and he felt antsy if he wasn't around Calyx, so he didn't stay. He wasn't sure if she'd even want that. He left her a few things to eat, drew her favourite flowers in a card he got from the gift shop. (Wisteria was a little hard to put in a vase, and crocuses weren't in season.)

"Sorry. You - you didn't ask. For help. I didn't stay. Sorry." His voice was weak, but he hoped she got the message.

She just hummed. "You haven't asked either. And it's fine. I left on purpose."

He wished he could leave. "'M fine, Dee. Don't worry about me."

"Very noble," she replied dryly. That was unfair, but he was so tired. She understood this without him even saying anything about it, and laughed softly. "I had nurses. I'm not being your nurse, but you just sleep, okay? Want me to wake you up for breakfast?"

"What time is't?"

"Uh, just a bit after five."

He made a quiet, puzzled noise. "Why're you up?"

"Nightmare. Breakfast or no?"

Tom gave a completely useless, noncommittal hum in lieu of an answer.

"Guess that's a no. I'll grab you some water -"

"No," he choked out. "No. No, leave it."

Ada was silent for a moment, and shame flushed his cheeks. "Sorry," he started, but she cut him off.

"It's fine. That's fine. Tell me if you - need anything else. Please don't set the house on fire."

He couldn't help but laugh bitterly. I'll try my best.

—

He felt positively wretched, but he didn't want them to fuss. At least, that was what he kept saying.

"I'm - 'm okay, guys, I'll just go to - I'll go back home," but he couldn't finish the sentence because a fresh bout of feverish shivering cut him off.

"You'll go back home?" Ada asked, voice edged with disbelief. "How are you going to do that?"

"I'll - " he coughed, then groaned at the indignity. It was so frustrating, how little control he had over himself. "Get the train. I'll fucking walk, who cares? I'm - warm enough."

You're burning up, you're burning up. How long till an inferno? It's been so long. The chorus of voices did not stop, no matter how much he wanted them to. Icarus flew too far to the sun.

Shut up, he shot back. It was the wrong fucking metaphor. It made no sense. They never made any sense, they liked riling him up, and it was fucking working.

The only thing that betrayed his internal war were his clenched fists. Ada had no idea.

"Okay, no. Tom, there's no need." To do what? He'd forgotten what he said. "We're all resting, it's fine." Oh, yes. He wanted to go home. He couldn't go home, not like this. It was true and he knew it, but a part of him just wanted to be in that house, with that warmth. His mum's favourite pie, hot enough to burn his tongue. He was burning with the fever but still felt freezing, and all he could think about was getting warmer. All he wanted to do was cool down. Nothing made sense.

"Sorry," he rasped. He wanted to reach for the mug of hot honey water, but embarrassment kept his hands still.

"It's fine, Toms. You've got nothing to be sorry for. It's fine to get ill sometimes. No one's judging you. Try to sleep?"

He really was trying. He just couldn't get comfortable, but he wouldn't complain. What right did he have to be ungrateful? What had he even done to deserve all of this?

Ada closed the door with a soft click, and he collapsed further into the bed, if that was even possible. Curling up, he tried to do what Ada asked, but something restless buried in his chest wanted to escape and it was terrifying to think that if he slept, it'd get out.

Nothing would get out, of course. The worry was all irrational, but Tom didn't know this. Or if he did, he couldn't process it. What he was processing was - everything else.

Every shift in the light, every pulsating spot of heat in his exhausted body, how awful he felt to be congested and worn down and guilty all at the same time. Mostly, though, the noise. The ringing in his ear was getting louder, and his other ear was compensating by trying to focus on every real sound, but he didn't want that at all.

He wanted to cry about it, about all the noise. He was six again, hiding under the bed. He was sixteen and locking himself in a school bathroom. He was nineteen and on fire and he didn't want to be, didn't want to make any of his friends fuss over him or realise just how fucked up he was. He wanted to go home.

In the end, he did sleep. Fitfully, but he slept.

—

The nightmares always went the same way. They never, not after years of them, ever got easier to handle. Violent. So fucking violent. Everyone telling him to rest was sentencing him to this.

The descent, because it was a descent, no matter how much they tried to tell him it wasn't, was rocky, swift, and always painful. He landed on his front, immediately getting a face full of ash and chalk and iron. The ground had been so soaked with blood, it'd stained permanently. This was not new to him. Neither was the setting, the volcanic turrets reaching to the sulphur sky and pits of endless agony going deeper than he could ever fathom. He'd tried. It was impossible to wrap his head around the impossible.

He got up quickly, snarling. "No. Not now. Not now. I'm not done."

Someone grinned with too many teeth, and it seemed that every time Tom saw them, their wings got bigger. Sharper, too.

"Tommy," they chided. "You didn't miss me?"

He scoffed. Even now, now that there was so much more that the demon could concern themselves with, they still came back to this.

"We aren't kids anymore," Tom murmured. He wanted vitriol, but he couldn't keep the sadness out of his voice. "Stop playing. Send me back."

He knew by now that he could not do it himself. The nightmare would only end when they ended it.

"You belong here," they purred.

Tom looked down, flinched at his pitch-covered, inhuman hands. Claws. He wasn't hot anymore. It had equilibriated with his surroundings. He bit the inside of his cheek, clenched his fists. The implication that he existed as a piece of hellish flame in the world never got easier to swallow.

"One of these days you'll stay." It scared him, how little conviction he could hear in their voice. It was all inevitability. Why bother trying to convince him that he would be back when they both knew it would be true eventually?

"Please," Tom whispered. "Not today. Please let me go home."

Their smile dropped. They were despondent, and he was a disappointment. A bad friend. Then it was over.

As always, it took less than a second. Heat rushed in, and with it, all the pain. He always forgot to breathe, so frantic hands grasped at his throat while he took in desperate gasps. He'd fallen onto his hands and knees on the floor. Oh, the heat. Like being doused in lava floods, being fossilised and reanimated. It hurt here. It didn't hurt there. His punishment, for choosing this one. One day, he'd give up. One day, he'd stay.

Tom staggered to the window. It was bright, brighter for the snow carpeting everything, untouched and pristine in the garden. The rest of the house was asleep. There was nothing to do and everyone was exhausted from their respective ordeals. Tom, though, all he felt was restless. The heat was ruining him. He couldn't think. He hated it. He hated himself, he wanted to destroy himself, he wanted to make this stop.

Calyx was not in the room. They would've been able to make him see sense.

—

The shock to his system upon stepping outside could not be overstated. It was not actively snowing anymore, but it was cold enough to stun his body into instant shivers. He knew it was a bad idea as soon as he opened the door, but it was a siren call, this instinct he had never managed to get rid of. He ruined everything. At least it was self-contained, now.

The frigid air hurt, burned, tore at his airways - stopped him breathing - kickstarted it again as he gasped to take in more of it - the snow blinded his eyes and flayed his skin, and still he knelt down in it, too far gone with delirium and anguish to listen to every instinct telling him to go back inside.

All he could see was Calyx. Those barbed wires, the blood, the cold and their almost-absent pulse, their blue lips, that distant stare, hair like ice stuck to their face, their neck, that cold and awful collar, the shivering, the shivering, the incessant shivering -

He didn't hear them calling him inside. Any of them. He was too occupied with his shaking sobs. Even in this frozen state, the burning never stopped. Why wouldn't it stop? It was coming from inside of him. Water dripped off his hair, from his hands, and blood too. Ice had gotten under his skin, cut so cleanly his frozen hands that he had not even felt it.

—

The fever got worse after his little escapade. No longer was he coherent through the pain.

His hands were bleached white from the cold, and it burned as heat returned to them - his hand, cut with invisible daggers, exposed now that his life-force covered them, melted them down so there was no proof anywhere except on his own body.

He couldn't stop shaking. A glimpse of himself in a mirror made him cry. He was wrong, he was so wrong, he wanted to hide away from it, because he could only see what he didn't want to be, what he'd become to survive, who he regretted letting in. All this boiling anger. The flame in his chest masked as a beating heart reminded him of his anger, but he had no one to point it towards except himself. No one else to blame for his own destruction. How had he been so stupid? He was so sorry. He wanted to be good, but he'd never be good, he knew this and hated it and hated himself, but he knew that he could not destroy himself because he didn't have the privilege, and he didn't want to, because -

Because he wanted to live and had so much to live for - and he wanted it so badly that his own admission of it was too much to force out of his throat - so he choked on it, his desire, his reminders - and he forced himself to breathe. He was shaking so much under the blankets, terrified of the hands touching him - even though he knew it was safe, even though he knew he was safe. He wasn't safe. He'd never feel safe. He couldn't breathe.

Why? Why couldn't he breathe? He was unwell. Lying down again. Curled up like a child. Feverish, shivering. Doing badly. Worse than before. Because he was stupid and childish and couldn't fucking deal with it like an adult. Shaking and freezing and boiling. Why? Why had any of this happened? Surely there was some reason, some deficiency in his character that meant he needed to be punished. He had to leave. He pulled sulphurous fury and anguish with him, wherever he went. His fault. It had to be his fault. How had he been so selfish?

He was distantly aware of someone cupping his face, cool hands brushing tears away. He couldn't stop crying. He was trying to listen to them telling him to breathe, to let them help, to rest, but discomfort stabbed him through the heart and his inherent evil rejected the comfort.

Please make it stop. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts -

—

Tom was asleep when the fever broke. Calyx was glad. They had been anxiously watching over him for hours, couldn't shake the feeling that this was how he had felt for so much longer than that.

They hadn't been able to get him to drink anything or take anything, and they worried that he would keep waking up. Going outside seemed to have tired him out, though. The shock of realising he was kneeling and bleeding in the snow had not stopped ringing through their mind. Then there was the guilt. All he did, all he said while they pulled him inside and cleaned his hands and helped him change was murmur barely coherent strings of apologies, and all they could do was forgive him. For what? He had done nothing wrong.

—

Tom woke up the next afternoon, having slept for more than twelve hours. He felt better, but the effects of the mental decline would send aftershocks through him for a long while. For now, though. He could breathe. He felt settled. Calyx was reading a book, sitting cross-legged on the bed. They looked up with a soft smile when he stirred and pushed himself up on his elbows.

"How are you?"

"Good," he croaked, leaning against the headboard. "What…?" He couldn't finish his sentence, exhausted as he was. His throat still felt tight, but he winced when he tried to massage it. He couldn't see the cuts, bandaged as they were, but his hands felt stiff and vaguely painful.

"What happened?" they offered.

"I'm… not sure," they admitted. "A lot. It was a bad fever, Toms. How are your hands?"

How could they be asking him about his hands when they still had healing bruises on their knees, around their neck? "They're okay. They're fine. Did you… Cee, I'm so sorry."

They frowned, moving to sit closer to him. They didn't mark what page they were reading. He noticed, how could he not? "Nothing to be sorry for. You just got sick. It's fine. It happens."

"But I - you -"

"It's fine," they insisted. "Let me take care of you."

"You don't have to." He looked down, fidgeting with the blanket.

"I want to. I love you." It came unexpectedly, and when he looked up to meet their eyes again, was floored by the soft expression on their face. The shock must've shown on his, because they laughed softly.

"You're too good for me, Calyx." He meant it.

"That doesn't make any sense, Tom. You're my best friend."

"I…" he trailed off. He couldn't argue with that and they knew it. "I love you too," he whispered.

They made a quiet, happy sound, then beamed at him. What had he done to deserve them? But it didn't matter, because they were here and not going anywhere, and were insisting they made him something to eat even though they had only been home for a matter of days and he was the one who should be looking after them. When he said as much, though, they just hummed.

"Why can't we both look out for each other? That's what we always said. Nothing changed."

They seemed so insistent on that. The idea that nothing had changed. Maybe they were right. Maybe all of this was just… exposing what had already existed. The receding fever remained a fog in the back of his mind. If it was exposing his evil, would the love end some day?

If it did, he would deal with it then. He had no strength or will to reject it today. Even if he thought he didn't deserve it, Calyx seemed to think he did. He could content himself with that, if nothing else. In the dim light of the winter afternoon and the quiet warmth of a home full of people who had no reason to love him and did anyway, Tom found himself embraced in something that felt like forgiveness.

---

taglist: @whump-is-love-whump-is-life @morning-star-whump @cepheusgalaxy @inhurtandincomfort @days-on-the-road @whumpologyy @weibun-art @faultsandfractures @whump-until-wretched @00blackbirdwrites00

[cepheusgalaxy]

chapter 8 — a carrasco named sword

translation notes: "carrasco" means "executioner".

Cws: Torture (YIPPIE), kidnapping (temporary), whumpee-turned-whumper, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers, implied domestic slavery, noncon drugging.

Masterlist || previous

The sky’s hue rapidly turned dark. In not long, the stars would start to flicker into its realm. The very last rays of sun blessed Sebastião da Graça, shining through the remnants of day in all its small town glory. It was still not late enough for the glowing street lights to be turned on, making it so that shadows ever so bigger reached out over the entire town like a blanket. And floors above one of the busiest districts—bustling with life as its workers closed gates and doors to get ready to go home after another day’s work—a man started his car.

The white BMW looked almost silver in the faint light, but it was, noticeably, still the same. Though it wasn’t really... doing its job. The man was the only one in the parking lot—the upfloors one was private, and the few other employees who used it were either still working or home by now—, all alone, except for the secret company of the one watching him from the shadows. Hidden in a corner, shielded from the gaze of any security cameras.

The man’s name was Ferdinand. Espada remembered it this time.

It was the reason his car wasn’t starting, obviously. Over the day, she didn’t have to watch him—they had gathered enough intel over this past week already—and had had way more than enough time to dodge security and sabotage its system. It wasn’t Espa’s strong point, but it wasn’t really that hard to meddle with a little part of the vehicle and render it useless. For such strong machines, cars were hilariously reliant on tiny details.

The target seemed to get ever the more annoyed with it, growing in impatience, and took his phone out. Probably calling someone to come fix it as he tapped his foot, checking over the shiny golden watch on his wrist. Not long after, a few people, indeed, came in, and he yelled at them to take care of the car. Irritated, Ferdinand pulled out his phone again and came out of the parking lot.

Just as they’d expected him to.

Espa didn’t take long to reach him at the bottom floor, and was not surprised to find him in the entrance, past the automatic doors of the building, before the busy road and staring at his phone. Awfully vulnerable.

They approached him from behind. He did not even notice.

“Good evening.”

The target jumped at her voice, turning and dropping his device. It caught it with a foot before it could reach the ground.

“Here,” they offered it back to him. “You should be more careful.”

That seemed... to anger him. He grabbed it from its hands, running his eyes through Espa from top to bottom. There was distaste written on his gaze.

“And who the hell are you? I’m not buying anything, and don’t come at me with flyer bullshit, either. Get off.”

It didn’t have a chance to answer as the target pointedly turned his back at it in a clear signal to leave, looking back ahead to wait for his driver to arrive. Oh, well. That was to be expected.

In the following second, Espa heard his breath hitch. They adjusted their grip on the knife, tip pressed onto his back.

“Wha—”

“Follow,” it cut him off. The man didn’t move, and it pressed the blade harder, ripping the shallowest layer of skin. He did not seem to need any more convincing.

“W-who are yo—” They drove a finger to their lips, demanding silence. His voice went mute. She tilted her head in the direction of the little alley behind Shia Co’s building. His pupils shrunk to the size of dust specks, and he very much looked like he did not want to comply. Espa gave him the smallest push, hearing him whimper at the blade sunken deeper. Slowly, he finally moved.

Espa walked beside him, not releasing his back from the pressure of the dagger. A passerby might find the scene suspicious, so it was a thin thread to walk on, but they didn’t have much trouble with it. The target tried turning around and delaying their course a few times, but a cold glare and the sharp tip of the small blade piercing his skin was enough to get him back on track.

When they reached the alley, thankfully empty, she let him go. He scrambled on his feet, putting the widest distance he could between them.

“Who—what do you want? I-is it money? I don’t—this isn’t—”

“Please be calm,” it said. “We don’t want to draw too much attention.”

Ferdinand, again, did not seem very eager to comply, and his chest weaved. Espa slowly walked in his direction, and he tried to turn to escape. With a sigh, it drew a small gun from under its cape. He froze, taking a step back. They walked forward, backing him up against the wall.

Without a word, Espa shoved his head on the ground and got her weight over him, weapons secured to her vest. They muffled his sparkle of a scream in a second, moving their hands to his throat next. He squirmed, hoarse gasps coming out of his mouth as his airway was constricted, but to a person his size, he wasn’t actually very strong. It didn’t move, legs on each side of him pinning the assignment’s body to the ground, and, in a few minutes, he finally ceased to struggle. The weapon looked around, making sure nobody had seen it. The busy people hurrying home passed by the other side of the street without a bother. With a muffled grunt, Espa got its target over its shoulders.

The sun was almost gone now. They’d do well to hurry.

--

When Ferdinand awoke—a bit dazed and still groggy—opening his eyes, he was immediately aggressed with a harsh light to his face.

He whined and tried covering his face against it, only to find that he could not. He closed his eyes shut to shield them from the light instead, letting out a groan.

Oddly, the sound that came out was muffled.

He took a moment to process it before he tried, again, making a sound. Was this...? Was there something inside his mouth?

Through his eyelids, he saw it when the flashlight was turned off, and he opened and closed them again, unable to recover his vision.

“Took you long enough,” an annoyed voice said nearby him. Ferdinand tried narrowing his eyes open to catch sight of what was even happening. Spots danced in his vision and he tried blinking them away.

A brunette woman stood in front of him.

Who are you? He tried to ask, only growing in distress when remembered that he could not. Ferdinand screamed through the gag—because that was it, they had gagged him—but barely any sound came out. Someone stepped on his thighs. His breath got caught up on his throat.

“A noisy one, huh? She did tell me you were loud. Didn’t expect this much. But go ahead,” she said, leaning over his chair—a chair. He was sitting down. No he—he was... he was tied to it? Every detail that made it through Ferdinand’s dazed mind only added up to his newfound and slowly-growing terror. “You can even scream if you want. Nobody that cares is gonna hear you, anyway.”

The woman—her light skin was a sharp contrast to her coal-dark black hair, barely falling over her shoulders. Her expression was harsh, accentuated by the myriad of thin, light scars across her face, and it made a chill run down his spine—she had to be younger than him, in her thirties at most. Ferdinand’s eyes darted around, trying to access his situation as it dawned on him.

He had been kidnapped.

This was—no, this was unreal. This couldn’t be. These things didn’t actually happen to people. But yet here he was, tied to a chair by rough rope—so terrifyingly tight that he truly, actually couldn’t even move—in some basement, and his captor was a young woman with a glare so evil that in other circumstances he would have thought her a villain of some film.

No, but this—this was a dream. It could only be it. The stress of the week was catching up to him, and when he’d gotten home today the worries flooded into his brain and followed him to slumber. It could only be it.

Although the longest he stayed awake, growing more and more alert with adrenaline at every second, the harder it was to cling onto that.

Then all of a sudden, his world went red with pain. He screamed. The cloth between his teeth didn’t let it be heard.

“Eyes on me. I’m talking to you.”

Through tears, Ferdinand set his eyes back on the woman’s face. She didn’t shift her expression in the slightest, but from her arm, in her hands it was...

She had just stabbed him in the leg.

He cried out again, trying to get her off him. She didn’t budge. It was like he wasn’t struggling at all.

She twisted the knife, and for a second Ferdinand thought he’d black out from the pain.

When he came back to himself, he was panting, head hanging low and eyes opened wide. His thigh—where a kn-knife, an actual knife, and it was a big knife, was buried inside—was soaked in blood and pure agony radiated from it, making the world waver in front of him. The feeling of the viscous liquid travelling down his skin was as if something was crawling over his flesh. He thought he’d go sick.

This couldn’t be real.

This couldn’t be. W-where was he? Who was this woman? What had even happened? The memories of the few moments before he blacked out came back to him then, and he remembered—the lanky black kid who had approached him while he was waiting for an Uber and pressed a knife to his back, who had dragged him to an alley before pinning him to the ground. He moved his head around again.

“I said,” a hard slap was dealt across his face. Ferdinand’s mind stopped, the impact reverberating on his skull. His brain vibrated as if it had been shaken inside his head. “Eyes. On. Me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.

His ears picked up a sigh.

“Espada.”

Then, a terrible, searing pain shot from his back, burning hot, and it took another scream out of him. There was someone behind him. As soon as Ferdinand could move again, he tried moving his head behind to see who—

“Ah-ah,” the woman grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her face. He closed his eyes again. Oh, no. Oh, God, oh God, this was really happening and he was locked in some shady room, and he was gagged and tied up, and there was a knife on his leg and a goon behind him and—

The hard, flaming metal pressed against his spine again, and Ferdinand screamed for the fifth time that night. His eyes opened against his will, and he tried—god, he tried—frantically squirming away from the pain, but between the sharp nails digging into his face and the harsh ropes digging into his limbs there was no escape. He sobbed, waiting for whoever it was to retract the tool from his skin.

They didn’t.

Ferdinand’s shut eyes were overflowing with water, and the pain wouldn’t stop. He whined, he begged and pleaded through the cloth between his teeth, but it wouldn’t go away and it kept making his mind flash red. His skin was being torn apart.

He might have screamed again.

“Eyes on me,” she commanded again, her angry voice making it through his clouded conscience. He couldn’t think. He just opened his eyes, trying to plead without words, and was met with a smile forming on her face.

The burning finally stopped.

Ferdinand panted, blinking the tears away. From a distant corner of his mind, he registered the clang of metal hitting the floor. Her hand, still, did not leave his face, and he couldn’t turn it away from her.

A devilish grin spread through her lips. He flinched in terror. “See? Was not that hard.”

She dropped his face, and Ferdinand could swear his heart was going to rip right through his ribcage. Blood pulsed on his ears and he could—he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to taste your own fear. He was gonna go sick.

When the woman reached out her hand at his face again, he flinched away—without success—and she lightly cupped his cheeks. With such lightness that it was almost like that same hand didn’t have a blade inserted on his leg moments prior. Fuck. Fuck! It hurt, he needed to get away from her, away from this place and—

“Now,” she cut off his thoughts with a calm voice. She spoke slowly. Pragmatically. As a teacher berating a boy for being too lousy in class. “I will remove your gag. And you will do your best not to scream, hm? It won’t make a difference, of course, but you can afford to be the slightest bit polite to your hosts,” there it was again, that terribly wide smile. “Can’t you?”

I will remove your gag.

Ferdinand did not want her nails anywhere near his face a second longer, but he did not want to be gagged, either. He braced himself for the touch of smooth and slender fingers on his face again, but they didn’t come—instead, a set of cold hands approached his head from behind, making him freeze up, and within a few seconds, there was nothing muffling his mouth anymore.

He was trembling. Oh, God, he was truly, actually trembling from fear. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what this woman wanted from him. His breath started coming short—he could breathe a bit better now, without the thing constricting his mouth, but it still didn’t feel enough—and he sucked in his lips inside to avoid making a sound. The woman seemed pleased. Against himself, his body had the audacity to slightly relax.

The woman, then, stayed quiet for an awfully long amount of time, idly watching him from her own chair like a spider watching the food try and squirm in its web. Ferdinand subtly sent glances around the room, trying to access his surroundings. His eyes every now and then darted back to her, who seemed lazily still, as if waiting for him to do something. Her seat had its back turned to him and her legs were spread on its sides, face resting against the wood. The room he was in was not dark—not like the shady basements from cop movies he’d seen—but brightly lit by an electrical lamp. He couldn’t see what was behind him, for every time he dared move his head too much, a painful grip would put it back in place—he couldn’t see whose it was, but he got the message well enough. He glanced up and down the farthest he dared, heart beating faster when he saw the brown stains on the floor, which looked a suspicious and terrifying lot like dried blood, and then he catched a glimpse of tools in the wall. Whips. And blades. And devices he’d never before seen.

He genuinely thought he would faint from the sight.

Another painful pulse of agony seared through his mind and brought his attention back to his bleeding leg—the woman had just left the weapon in there, not making any move to acknowledge it, and it hurt like hell. Ferdinand breathed sharply through his nose, teary, and weakly tried to wiggle his hands behind the chair he was tied to—only for the same firm grip to grab them with so much strength he thought it might crush his fingers.

“Ouch—sorry! I won’t do it again, please, let me go!”

The woman lifted an eyebrow in front of him. He half expected her to say something, but she stayed as quiet as she had been for the past ten minutes—or perhaps it had been hours—and all of a sudden Ferdinand couldn’t take it anymore.

“You—I beg you, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if it’s money I swear you don’t have to do this, I’ll give it to you, please—” he choked on his own breath. After having found his words, he discovered he could not stop them from spilling out anymore. “We don’t need to do this, please don’t h-hurt me, I’ll—”

A pair of hands closed around his neck. Ferdinand’s voice died in his throat.

“Espada,” the woman berated. Whoever was behind him loosened the grip, and he could have sobbed in relief again—weren’t he paralyzed by fear.

“Well,” she sighed, stretching her arms over her head. “Since you have already gotten comfortable and put behind that awfully loud panicking of yours,” she got up. He did not dare move his eyes from her. “We should get started, shouldn’t we? Espa,” she called. Suddenly, the presence behind Ferdinand seemed to disappear, and when he tried looking behind—nothing restrained his head this time—there was nobody.

He snapped his eyes back to the woman, breath hitching when he saw her—now standing stiffly by her side—, the kid who had pulled him to that alley.

If the woman looked all too calm for having just kidnapped someone and locked them in her basement, the kid looked almost bored. She didn’t look satisfied, nor glared at him cruely—like a predator enjoying the view of its prey squirming into a trap, unlike her—but didn’t look upset either, nor distressed or sympathizing in the slightest. He didn’t know what terrified him the most. The fact that his captor didn’t seem at all fazed or bothered at the sight of him trembling in fear, or that she held no sign in her eyes of willingness to let him go.

The woman nodded to her, and the girl—because it was it, she was an actual, little girl, probably not many years older than his own nephews—started to speak.

“Ferdinand Garcia Porto,” she recited, in a monotone but clear voice. He froze up at his full name. “Forty-six years old. Chief Information Security Officer at Shia Cosmetics. Single. One older brother, living in the capital. Parents still alive. In this field for almost twenty years. Lives on street Augusto Campães, number ninety-eight. Preferred coffee order is the classic latte from the store a floor below your office, preferably with butter biscuits. Takes average of twelve minutes on the course from work to your house. Blood type is B positive. You always lock and turn off the air-conditioner in your office before going home, even though staff would do that for you. Owns a white BMW that you drive to most places, usually parked in the top floors of Shia Co. Prefers warm showers. Always picks a different watch to wear for work,” Ferdinand only got more horrified with every sentence she uttered. The details got ever more specific and—what scared him the most—precise. They even knew what hospital he had been born in and how he’d stay in his office instead of going down to the cafeteria for lunch. The man could feel the thin composure he’d managed to gather over the past few minutes in which his torturer let him be to slowly evaporate. “You root for the football team São Paulo, first and foremost. You have an air-fryer at home, despite always forgetting to use it instead of the microwaver. Your car,” she added, voice as even as when she had started. Ferdinand wasn’t gagged anymore, but he didn’t think he could find it in him to speak if he tried, “malfunctioned this afternoon. You do not have anyone at home waiting for you to arrive.”

“Thank you, Espa,” the woman finally spoke, petting the kid’s head. She still didn’t move. Ferdinand’s stomach turned. “Now,” she resumed, turning to him and seeming to relish in his terror, “you can see we’ve taken a bit of effort into knowing you better. I’m sure you are a little confused why that is, Ferd,” he flinched at the nickname and another smile sliced through her features. He didn’t like this. Oh, he didn’t like this by one bit. “So let me lay it out on the table, plain and straight: You have access to something that we want, and we need you to get it for us. Simple, right?”

From the way she said it, Ferdinand started to fear that we she was talking about wasn’t just her and the kid.

“W...” he tried, not finding his voice. More tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Ferdinand swallowed down, throat feeling dry—and so did his lips. He felt as if he had not been given water for days—, and opened his mouth again. “I-I—I don’t understand.”

“Espada,” she called again, and he flinched. The kid—her name couldn’t actually be Espada—approached him again, and he froze up—still, ever so still—and within a second, pulled the knife out of his leg. He screamed, then squirmed, the pain ignited in full force at the harsh move, and was left panting again. He felt his voice going raw. The girl stared at him—her black eyes seemed to stare into his soul, reading his every thought, every fear—and Ferdinand shook in his spot.

He tearily looked up at the woman, then back down at the kid feeling a bit of bile rise up. His blood had splattered on her.

He did not want to find out what the woman would get her to do with that knife. No—he, he could comply. He-he could—

“Y—yes, I’ll—anything. I’ll do it! J-just please,,” his lips trembled, and he didn’t know what it was—if the fear, the pain or the utter helplessness of this whole situation—but he started to sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”

--

Ms. Ann kept interrogating the target, and Espa barely had to keep him on the right track from then on. She asked, he answered. He seemed terrified.

The weapon just kept still in its place beside its handler and kept an eye on the assignment.

“Espada,” its ears caught in a sudden. They looked up at Ms. Ann. There was a displeased expression on her face and the weapon held itself from tensing up. “The poker.”

Espa did not think twice and turned back to grab a metal poker stick from the drawer near the whipstand. It could feel Ferdinand’s eyes on her as she did so, picking out a different one than the tool she’d discarded to the floor earlier, sharpening this one once, just in case. They turned the little heater on—there was always one on these basements—and warmed up the metal until it shone red.

“Miss,” they held it out to her. The assignment’s breathing turned more frantic behind their back. Espa ignored it.

“N-no, you don’t need to, you don’t need to! I just—like, I can’t do that, they’ll catch me and—”

With a hand gesture, Ms. Ann dismissed the poker Espa offered and pointed her to the man. The weapon looked at him and swiftly moved behind the chair, moving the collar of his shirt away—the man flinched so hard he might have moved out of the way weren’t if for the fact of being restrained—and traced the hot side of the stick to his shoulder.

The wail he let out carried so much agony Espa had to strain to hold back. God—it narrowed its eyes—couldn’t he be a little less whiny?

“Let’s try this again,” the handler said, still sitting by a chair turned backwards in front of him, as soon as the weapon removed the hot weight from the man’s body. He was full-on sobbing now. Espada just tuned it out. “I ask, you answer, remember? Unless you really like the knife and the stick?”

Ferdinand sucked in a breath.

“No! No, no, no, no—no n-no I don’t—please!”

Ms. Ann raised an eyebrow. She was mildly bored—she was used to difficult ones—but put on her face an expression of dangerous annoyance. It put the man at edge. The weapon could almost smell his fear.

Not long after, he was back to spilling out whatever Ms. Ann asked of him—passwords and codes and details on Shia Cosmetics’ cybersecurity structure, the handler noting all of them down—but he took a bit to cave on some questions. They had cut through his skin in more than one place by now, but Ferdinand would not stop going on and on about how his boss would kill him and how that would get him fired and so and so. Ms. Ann simply kept pressing. There were various tools by the floor now. The handler didn’t mind that it didn’t pick them up.

She wasn’t the slightest bit angry—unfazed, really, Espa noticed from behind the man—when she furrowed her brow and stared at him at another question gone unanswered.

“Hm,” she hummed. Ms. Ann snapped her head at Espa. The weapon didn’t move. “How was his family, again?”

Espa accessed the information it had memorized over the past week. They had gone over these way more times than they needed to in order to remember. “Two alive parents, living in town. Matias Machado Porto and Ana Rosa da Silva Garcia. Both descended from Argentinians. One older brother, professor of gymnastics at the Federal University of Ipabara in Anaconda. He has two young sons. Marco Garcia Porto. Gabriel. Ian,” it recited. Ferdinand seemed to grow ever more horrified with each of the names of his brother and nephews. He went still for the first time that night “Marco’s spouse is—”

“Don’t!” He yelled. There were more tears in his eyes. Espa allowed itself to be interrupted. “Don’t, please, please, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t touch them.” He pleaded to Ms. Ann.

You wouldn’t touch them.

Well—Espa had done all the work of memorizing their addresses and their jobs’—even the boys’ school’s—so that wasn’t really that unlikely.

Ms. Ann shrugged. “That will depend solely on you. Your neck,” she said, mimicking the motion of a blade cutting through hers, “isn’t the only one in line, Ferd.”

The man went pale.

“No—you, you wouldn’t—” He interrupted himself, staring at his lap. Oh. So he hadn’t realized that yet. It silently looked up at Ms. Ann for permission to speak up.

“You have seen Miss,” it explained. “If you are not going to be useful, there’s no need in keeping you alive.”

Ferdinand slowly—almost comically so, if it weren’t for the utmost horror dawning at his eyes—, slowly turned his head back to look at Espada. They carefully kept any expression off their face. That was just facts. It hadn’t lied, and Ms. Ann hadn’t corrected it, so it was true. Leaving off a target that had seen their faces just walking free was risky, especially if he wouldn’t be worth the effort by providing them with anything useful. That was pretty obvious, actually. For someone working in technology and “information security”, he was really dense.

The man’s lips trembled as he looked back forward, defeated, before starting to shake with yet more sobs. Espa’s hand didn’t waver behind him. The poker stick had started to cool off, so they had heated it again, holding it near the man, far enough that it wouldn’t burn him on accident with all his wiggling around.

He didn’t put up much of a resistance after that.

With the ordeal done—Ms. Ann seemed satisfied enough with the information of one session—Espa was ordered to go upstairs to fetch her briefcase. The weapon had just come up from the stairs and opened the door to the laundry room—with a slight sigh of relief at leaving the basement—when they bumped up with her.

--

Gi was a little bit on the edge today.

A bit after seven, Espada had come in through the backdoor carrying an unconscious man, and not sparing a look at her, reported to the handler. The girl did nothing but watch in horror as they both, without a glimpse of ceremony, dragged his limp body through the laundry room and went downstairs.

Downstairs.

To the basement.

She had sucked in a breath, dread sinking into her stomach. She didn’t like this. But she didn’t have a say in anything, so she just got out of the way and waited until they were both out of sight. Nobody had even laid a hand on her, but Gi still trembled. She didn’t—this wasn’t—

She had tried to forget about it and just focus on her chores. Chores. That. You just have to do your chores. That’s how you survive here. 

Washing the floor cloths by hand—and the clothes so particular that couldn’t be put on the washing machine lest get themselves completely ruined and earn her a beating—Gi tried her damn best not to think about the man being kept downstairs. He looked well-groomed, a bit rich. A terrifying, dangerous thought crossed over her mind but she repressed it with all her might. She had no idea what they wanted him for. He didn’t seem injured from a glance, but definitely unconscious. Had Espa drugged him to bring him here? Knocked him out with force? She couldn’t help but tense up at the image of the girl doing such things. But she knew she could. If Ann ordered, Espada would cease to be just a bored young kid and become a ruthless executioner in a blink.

Oh, god. Gisele covered her mouth with a hand.

She really, really hoped that they wouldn’t kill him. She didn’t know this man, she had never seen him at all—but she didn’t think she could stomach it if they did.

After a few hours—Gi had started shooting nervous glances at the locked door. What were they doing in there? The basement was apparently soundproof, so anything (anything) could be happening and she wouldn’t know—, she had successfully done most of the laundry, when she heard a lock click open and a very, very light set of steps come up from behind her.

Gi turned, eyes meeting Espada’s.

Her breath got caught up in her throat.

The kid was wearing a vest—a thing with a high neck that was suspiciously just the right height to cover the collar hugging her throat—and gloomy-looking pants, her hair loose with the blue bandana over her forehead like always. Her face, nothing in particular. Never anything in particular. Which only served to make Gi more horrified, because in her hands—and splattered on her clothes—was a gruesome amount of foul, red blood.

Espa caught her staring in the same second, and Gisele flinched. They just stood there, holding each other’s gaze for what felt like a very long amount of time, before the weapon broke the silence.

“Hello,” she said. It was so... tone-deaf it could have baffled Gisele if she wasn’t already trying not to collapse over her own legs.

“Is that his blood?” She spurted out, before thinking her words through.

For a second, she thought that Espada would tell her off for asking, but—

“Yes.”

She didn’t hesitate for a single moment in responding. There was no shift in her expression whatsoever.

Gisele just stood there, and Espa went straight through her towards the hall—she didn’t even try to process why—barely hearing the kid mutter a low thank you for your work before storming off out of her vision.

Gi leaned her hand against a wall, covering her mouth.

A bit of the blood had dripped on the floor.

--

Ms. Ann took the briefcase—Espa had become a bit worried about the servant, whom she bumped over while fetching it, but quickly shoved it out of her mind. There was a task at hand—and clicked it open with the key she carried in a string around her neck as Espa wiped out some of the fresh blood that had smeared from Ferdinand’s leg on them. There were a few jars in it, empty concoctions, needles, small pots. She took out one and analyzed it under the hard, white light of the basement. It had a blue tape around it and contained a transparent liquid. Satisfied with her pick, she opened it. The cap had a dropper attached.

“So, Ferd,” she spoke up all of a sudden, making the middle-aged man in the middle of the room flinch. Espa stayed in their spot, hands behind their back, silently watching him close. Ms. Ann looked at it and gestured for the weapon to get near. Espa wasn’t sure why, but they did. “We’ve had a nice little chat, haven't we? But now I think it’s time to get you home.” She picked a few drops of the substance, counting them. “How about we ride you back?”

“...W-what are you going to do?” His voice was hoarse and shaky from the time he’d spent screaming or weeping. The assignment looked absolutely drained.

“Do you know what is gamma-hydroxybutyric acid? Although, you might also know it as GHB,” she asked, not bothering with his question. Whatever color he still had in his cheeks drained from his face.

“N-no, y—you—please,” he started to plead, energy that wasn’t there before coming through his words. Ferdinand weakly strained against his restraints. Espa didn’t waste a second in sprinting towards him and immobilizing whatever movement he had by bending his neck a bit too much and making him halt from pain.

“Espada.”

It held back a flinch.

“Yes, Miss.”

A glare. Espa’s heart skipped a beat. It hurried back to its designated spot as Ms. Ann kept counting the drops into the picker. Its blood pumped a bit too fast and they almost, almost tensed up. Breathe in, it told itself. Just breathe. You didn’t mess up. It was just a warning. Just be good and don’t disobey again.

“Give him this,” she idly handed them the picker. “All of it. Make him swallow,” she glared at him from the corner of her eye. It was enough to pin Ferdinand frozen in his chair.

Espa merely took it into her hands and slowly walked towards the assignment. Whatever was this drug, it didn’t have any smell. Espa faintly recalled hearing some other handlers use this GHB before, but it wasn’t any knowledge they needed to have. Within a minute, it had the assignment locked in place as it shoved all of the oily liquid down his throat, grabbing his skin a bit too tight whenever he struggled.

Ms. Ann smiled at both of them. Ferdinand shook with a violent chill, already seeming dizzy.  Espada didn’t allow the one that went through her to make it to the surface.

In less than half an hour, Ferdinand Garcia Porto was off to dreamyland.

In less than two, he was back home, dropped by his living room’s floor, bloody pants long disposed of.

--

Francisca watered her plants. It hadn’t rained in the last few days, so she, unfortunately, couldn’t count on God to do it for her today. It was a rather warm Friday afternoon. She couldn’t leave her hydrangea to die in this heat.

She was just emptying the plastic bowl she used to pour water and taking a moment to relish in the lovely scent of the flower, when the woman catched sight of a visitor through the metal porch.

Ciça smiled and waved at her, mildly surprised.

“Oh, hello, Espa!” The kid looked a bit stiff at being noticed—though she usually did, to be fair—but coily raised her hand back at Ciça in a way of greeting. It was a bit unusual for her to come by this hour. It was usually much later, the woman had come to learn over the past week, when her parents were sleeping or by late afternoon. “How are you doing?”

“Good afternoon, Ciça,” she said, in that soft voice. She wasn’t wearing her cape today. Ciça supposed it was too hot to. (Although she did remember the kid just wearing it in any darn weather.) Instead, Espa had a green shirt and some trousers. It was a bit weird of a color in her, the woman having grown used to only seeing her in yellow and black. Always black.

Ciça went up to the only other flower in the frontyard—a blooming daisy. It was a new addition to her garden that she was quite happy with—and took the spare key from under its pot.

“So,” she smiled, unlocking the gate. Espa entered, quiet as always. “What do you want to do today? I’m a bit busy and had planned to watch the new episode of Love Cataracts today, but obviously, you’re welcome to hang around,” she said. “Oh! And I’ve also bought a cake! Do you like chocolate?”

They stared at her. “...Chocolate?”

Ciça offered her a smile and Espa seemed to light up a bit. Now that she thought about it... She was looking the slightest bit tense—uh, that is, more than normal—, but the kid always seemed to get excited about food. Well, excited might be a bit of a hyperbole, in her case. “Yes. There’s a bakery across the town that I didn’t really visit before but a friend convinced me to try it and their cakes are delicious. Would you like some, honey?”

The kid stayed still at that, seeming to process her words. Ciça waited. She never knew what was going on in Espa’s mind. Though she could catch the slightest glimpse—a slight switch in her face that seemed to be the closest she ever got to tears—before it was gone, replaced by the same soft mask of indifference. Although this time, she seemed to be trying to give her a smile. Oh. It made Ciça a little proud of herself.

“...Yes. If it is okay,” the kid said, avoiding her gaze. “Thank you, Ciça.”

The woman sighed, a bit content. She found it sorta comforting when she managed to get a nice thing for her.

“Of course,” a grin spread through her face. “Kids gotta have sweets, after all,” she recited, pulling Espa inside. There was a bit of a weird smell in her—faint and carrying a hint of copper—but Ciça didn’t linger on it much.

She had more important things to focus on.

Like the new episode in the opera—Anastasia was to finally defeat the Executioner and get rid of her family’s cursed heirloom sword and she was quite excited—or the two new additions to her home:

The blooming daisy in the frontward; and this closed, timid and oddly kid.

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Taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @calic0-critter @whumpawaydarling @catnykit

[venerable-thief]

wallet phone keys cyanide pill in case of capture

[whumpawaydarling]

#24 - pervivo

previous / next ☆ masterpost

summary: heyyy calyx. its been a while. lets check in. in a way this is the spiritual successor to wait but the complete opposite actually

cw: delirium, not trusting reality, med whump (?), hospitals, multiple caretakers, fear, scared whumpee, compliant whumpee, guilt, recovery whump, aftermath of whump

---

The Latin verb “pervivo” translates to “I live through,” “I survive,” or “I endure.” It is derived from the combination of “per-” (meaning “through” or “by means of”) and “vivo” (meaning “I live”).

—

Day 1

Not safe, they kept reminding themselves. They weren't safe. They couldn't be safe. They weren't in the right place. They weren't allowed to be here. Never mind everyone telling them otherwise.

But they still had to be good. It was just a test. She was being nice to see if they would still behave. They could do that. That was easy. Really easy, actually. It would end soon, and then they would miss it, so they took all the discomfort as best as they could. They had to. That was what she would want. They missed Arthur, suddenly. They missed his familiar face. They missed just having one pair of hands to worry about. Everyone kept touching them. They had to take it. They didn't want to.

The morphine made them feel floaty, distant, detached. Every time they woke up, they were in new places, still afraid. They still thought they were dead, vaguely, but everyone talked too much. Everything made too much sense. People kept saying their old name. That had never happened, but K probably knew it. She was testing them. She had to be. They were confused, though, about what she wanted them to do. Did she want them to fight? Or be good?

Gentle hands smoothing their hair down. Someone was touching their arms, and they squirmed away. No, no, no, please -

They forced themselves to stay still. They'd had enough. They didn't want to be hurt anymore.

Tears leaked out of their eyes, and someone with warm hands wiped them away. Their arms were stiff by their sides, and they had gotten used to crying without being able to brush the evidence away. There was no point, anyway. There was no tricking her.

A kiss to their temple. Tom. Tom was here. They could trust Tom. If Tom hurt them, then they would know it wasn't him, and if he didn't -

What did it mean if he didn't hurt them? It had to be a trick. They - they couldn't let their guard down.

"Are you in pain, sweetheart?" someone asked.

A sob rose up in their throat. They tried to nod. It did hurt. Something in their chest ached and ached and would not stop aching. They didn't know what to do.

"Can you take a deep breath for me? Nice and slow. There we go - okay, love. Just keep breathing. You're doing really well."

I am? they thought. That's good.

Day 2

Every muscle in their body tensed in anticipation of pain that didn't reach them.

They slept often, as did Tom, by their side. Tom, Tom, Tom. They couldn't believe it.

He slept on an armchair, with the railing of their bed down so he could rest his head on his arms on the bed. They wanted him to get in the bed with them, but they remembered when they had blinked and seen K in his place, and thought better of it.

Still. They reached out a hand, and ruffled his hair. It had grown longer, but was still soft. He wore it in a little ponytail. He slept soundly, even when they touched him, and Calyx knew that meant that he must be exhausted. They were exhausted too. The machines set on with their now-familiar tune, and the world continued outside of the room. There was no silence, here. That helped.

Day 3

The realisation came in waves. It was the little things.

It was the warmth of Tom's hand holding theirs. It was the pictures of sunrises and sunsets and flowers and clouds that he'd taken, "so they didn't miss any."

He swiped along to a blurry picture of a bird. The lighting was off, the bird was unrecognisable. He laughed at it. They stopped looking at the phone, and watched him smile.

"Never said they were good pictures," he said, swiping again.

Please be real. Please let this be real. This has to be real.

At some point, they forgot that they needed to be nervous. Through the pinching pain of the IV in their hand, the strange feeling of the morphine, his voice cut through it all. Slow and patient and gentle. He didn't delete a single picture, but he sent their favourites to their phone.

He'd brought their phone.

They couldn't touch it. They couldn't face it. It would make the world more complicated. It would make what happened real. It meant replying to emails, answering questions. They didn't have the words to ask Tom to get rid of their notifications. It confused things, and they were so tired of being confused. The world could keep being this one room for a little longer.

The waves. Lapping at their hard edges, gentle water eroding their shield. They resisted it. They had to, to survive. It was hard when they caught themselves spiralling about it. Then the sun - the winter sun, no less - shone right in their face, unexpected and briefly blinding, and lucidity returned to them in one bright and solid moment.

"Oh," they said quietly.

Tom looked up. He was sitting on the chair by the bed, a book beside him. He'd brought them a pile, and was working through some himself. They weren't reading. They couldn't focus on anything, except -

"The sun," they said quietly. They were staring out of the window. Straight at the sky. Cloudy, but there was a gap in them - shining light straight onto their face. Real light. "Is that real?"

He took a moment to reply, and their eyes flicked down to meet his. One of his hands held theirs, and his other one came up, slowly, to brush away the tear on their cheek.

"Yeah," he said softly. So softly. "It's real, Cee. Do you want to get closer? To the window? I can help."

"Oh." They thought about it for a moment. Confusion, fear, the feeling of being a cornered prey animal, lay in the back of their mind. "I don't know." They weren't sure exactly what they were afraid of, but they were afraid. Tension was a constant companion, one that they feared that they'd never be rid of.

He nodded. "Okay. Okay, but if you change your mind, all you need to do is say so. Or - write it down? Or, um. Just point, if that's too hard."

They blinked at him, registering all the options. They felt something shift in their mind. Something small. The smallest brushing away of dust from a buried geode, a found fossil.

Calyx felt it happening, and forced it - whatever it was, their heart, maybe? - back into the dirt. They couldn't relax. They couldn't let their guard down. It wasn't safe.

They couldn't hear K, or see her, which wasn't as reassuring as they wished it was. They would be safer if they knew where she was. They needed to see her to be able to distance themselves. To brace for hits. To know when and how to apologise. She could be anywhere, doing anything, counting their infractions to tally up the punishment.

They shrunk away from Tom, retreating back into their shell. They didn't know why they bothered - there was no safety in it. She would just invade their space, if she wanted to. Their space, their home, their mind, their family. Break everything apart into little fractured pieces, and Calyx would be left holding painful shards of what they once had.

They weren't allowed to pull away, but their hand went limp in Tom's, and a moment later he had let go.

"Cee?"

They couldn't reply. There was nothing to say. As they tucked their knees up in their familiar way, they felt the ghost of shackles tug at their ankles, at their wrists. It was strange to pull and not feel any resistance. They didn't know what game she was playing, but they could not be safe. They had to keep being good. They couldn't jump at chances of freedom. At some point, the nightmare would begin again. Then they could relax. It meant something different to be on edge around her. Anticipating violence and knowing that it would come at some point. They'd learnt her moods, how to change themselves to suit her.

They sighed, biting their lip. Tricks were the hardest part. This was the hardest one she'd presented them with. All this false comfort. It would end soon. It was going to end soon.

Calyx did not want it to end soon.

Day 4

The cloak was gone. Oh, fuck.

Calyx blinked awake in the infirmary - and their hands were free but there was no blanket and that meant they'd fucked up and she'd taken it in their sleep even though they'd been good -

Tom walked out of the bathroom. Oh, yes. Private room. Private bathroom. In the hospital, because they were out and free and this wasn't… a trick. It wasn't.

Calyx still wasn't sure. No cloak. Where had it gone?

"Sorry," they whispered, wringing their hands and looking at their lap.

"Cee? What's wrong?" He was at their side instantly, and they tried not to flinch as he held their hand. Tried not to think of wrists being forced into cold metal. Tried not to think about rope around their hands and spikes in their palms -

"I'm sorry," they murmured again. They couldn't look at him. They were breathing faster, terror building in their mind. She'd made them get their strength back so she could hurt them again -

Tom cut through their racing thoughts, quiet confusion in his voice. "What for? You didn't do anything." He sounded so genuine, but they flushed with shame anyway. How could they be asking for something that they had never earned?

"My…" They flinched. A mistake. It wasn't theirs. "Clem's, um, cloak."

"Oh," he said, as if that was the most enlightening thing in the world. "No, Cee, I'm sorry. Ada took it home to get it washed. She's bringing your blanket, we didn't - we didn't think about bringing any when we came here. I'm sorry, starling. Is it cold?"

The hospital sheets and blanket still covered them, but it was cold. They'd kicked them off in their sleep, and for a moment, they forgot that they could reach out to pull them back again. More than even considering if they were allowed, they just forgot that they could reach that far now.

They met his eyes, feeling very small and - still confused. Though this was more extant. They nodded the smallest amount, before dropping their gaze back to their lap.

"It's always cold." It came out as a whisper, and Tom shuffled to get both of their hands in his. They were warm. He was always warm. His warmth alone helped convince them that they were out.

"Okay, um. Can I - does it hurt?"

They shook their head no. It didn't. That helped too, but in a way - made it worse. They couldn't be certain that this wasn't all a fever dream.

"If you want, if you're okay with it, we can, um. Can I come in? The bed? Only if you want me to."

They looked up suddenly, catching his uncertain expression.

He smiled a little. "Otherwise I can just keep holding your hands. If that's okay. Is that okay?"

They squeezed his hands in response. "You can come in." They whispered it, shuffling to the side to give him space.

"Here," he said, handing them a cushion from the chair. They stared at it for a moment before he said, "for the other side. The rail. So it doesn't - you know. Hurt you."

"Oh." They didn't move, stunned by the gesture.

"Can I -?" He took it, placed it between Calyx and the guard rail, and then settled back down.

They felt a slow smile spread across their face as he made himself comfortable. He looked at them with one arm tucked under his head, and the mud in their mind settled for long enough to realise that he looked at them with the same awe with which he watched sunrises. They'd watched him watch enough. Now, he looked at them with the same… stunned amazement. They almost wanted to shy away from the intensity of it, but it was not intense, really. It was gentle. He was so gentle.

…This was not a trick, was it?

"Oh, Calyx. Fuck," he said quietly. "I missed you so much."

They were so very tense. It wasn't due to anything in particular. They were just tense, so tense that it hurt, so tense that they were operating on a low level of nausea. Laying here, beside him, drinking in his warmth… they felt it melt away. They wanted to cry, suddenly.

"I missed you too," they murmured, before turning to bury their face in his shoulder. They took a single, shuddering breath, and whined through the familiar tightening of their throat before tears fell. He kissed their forehead, held them through it.

Not home yet, but this was good enough.

In the end, they didn't end up needing the cushion on the other side of them. They fell asleep practically in his arms. Cold didn't touch them. In his arms, nothing could.

Day 5

They dreamed that they were back in their cell, dreamed of pain and blood and all the threats she'd never followed through on, and woke up terrified. Tom consoled them back to sleep, but it happened again, and again, and again, and they ended up so confused and shaky that they pulled out their IV in their distress, and the sight and smell of their own blood when some stitches ripped made everything worse.

"Just stop," they sobbed. "Stop pretending. Stop lying to me, please. I'm trying."

It wasn't a good day.

Day 6

Calyx found themselves thinking in circles a lot. Days passed, and there was no end to the trick. The geode exposed itself, though didn't crack open yet. Even if it wasn't a trick, K wasn't dead. There was no safety in this brief respite. Even if it wasn't a trick, they were being such a burden. Their friends must hate them.

Still, their shield eroded. They couldn't help it, couldn't fight it. They didn't want to. It was so nice to be cared for.

When Ada came back, warmth spread through them at her tired, quietly joyful expression. Her hair was tied up with a ribbon, and she'd braided feathers into it. Purple ones, and they were too mesmerised to remember to be distrustful. She brought her embroidery and worked at it with shaking hands by their bedside, swearing when she pricked herself. It was a gift for them: jeans, like hers. She spoke constantly. She never said a cruel word. She never hurt them. Nothing bad happened.

She wanted them to know that now they were well enough to get up and walk, they were in charge of who could come inside.

"You don't have to let anyone in," she said from the other side of the door.

"Oh." They tested it for a moment, waiting for punishment at their delay. None came. They heard her slide down the door and continue talking about the person she'd met in the library.

"Um, Ada?" She paused instantly, and they flinched. They hadn't meant to cut her off, but they hadn't really been listening.

"Yeah?"

"I - think I'll open it now."

"Okay," she said quietly.

When they opened it, they stepped away from her and wrapped their arms around themselves, fear flaring up like flames licking at their legs.

"Hey, it's okay." She put her hands up in surrender. "Can I come inside?"

They nodded mutely, but still flinched when she stepped in. She skirted around them, moving to sit on her chair again. "Does the needle bother you?" The embroidery one. It was pretty blunt, from how she'd been complaining about it. They considered it carefully.

"Um. It's okay." They were still standing. Bare feet on the cold floor. "Ada?"

She looked up, eyes wide. "Yeah?"

They twisted their fingers together, stepping on their own feet and looking at the floor. Inconvenient, they were being inconvenient. "Nothing. Sorry," they whispered, pushing themselves back up onto the bed.

"Did you want something?"

They flinched. Not want. Even if it was okay to want things, they were already wasting enough time and energy. Better to just forget about it.

Ada got off the chair and they tensed, but all she did was crouch on the floor to make eye contact without making them look up. They were trying to trust her, but they couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking a thin, dangerous line. One they couldn't see, one that they'd only realise they were on the other side of when they got hurt. And by then it'd be far too late.

"I can ask Elene to get something from home for you, if you'd like?" Tom was the only one who hadn't been back. He'd been sleeping in their room, but he'd gone to get drinks.

They nodded silently. "Please?"

"Just name it. Whatever you wan- whatever you ask for."

They swung their legs a little, hands clutching the sheets on the bed. "Uh - um, can I - have, um, socks?" The fear that twisted their gut as they asked the question was painful, pure and simple. They knew they weren't allowed. They would have to give something up, or get hurt, or -

"Oh, fuck, yes. I completely forgot about that. Course you can. Those bear ones?"

The relief that flooded through them was enough to make them stagger, and they were glad to be sitting down because their legs went limp with the release of tension. "Please," they whispered, looking down. So endlessly grateful. "Thank you." It came out choked.

The trick would end one day. When would it end? It had to end. They couldn't handle this. Their guard was slipping away day by day, and then they'd get hurt again, and they wouldn't be able to survive the next time.

Day 7

Amy had been helping them shower, since they were well enough to get out of bed. They'd seen in their records that they'd been getting sponge baths for the first couple of days - and it scared them that they didn't remember it. It had all converged together with all the touch they couldn't get away from. The blurry days, the delirious terrors and disjointed memories. They were awake more often now. They could stand, walk, speak. Things they'd taken for granted. It felt like their body and brain had shut down for a while, and they had been too out of it to worry that they wouldn't find themselves again.

They knew they were getting better now, physically, so they weren't sure they still needed it - her help - but it was still scary to be alone. Scarier still to be exposed. And they didn't like seeing everything. The IV had come out for good this morning, but all their bruises… and every time they looked at the places where wire cut into their skin, they had to force themselves to breathe for the panic. Amy distracted them.

She'd draped a towel around them after a dizzy spell, and they were sitting on the shower seat. She sat, cross legged on the floor of the shower. They were waiting out the dizziness, working up the strength to get up and back into bed.

It was a small bathroom and the door was locked (Calyx had locked it) and the thought occurred to them that they should feel afraid. If something happened -

But nothing would happen. Amy wouldn't hurt them.

Their hair, freshly washed and still wet, was tied up, away from their neck. Her hair tie. Their arms were still stiff, so she'd washed their hair too. They'd noticed about Amy - she didn't ever ask. She just did what she knew they needed. It was impossible, how easily she could read them. They couldn't explain how comforted they were by just her presence. Like nothing was off-limits. Nothing would scare her.

"What if I'm dead?" they asked, looking right at her.

She was trailing lazy patterns in the leftover soapy water. "Do you really think that?"

They hummed. "Maybe."

She looked up, met their eyes. "Would this be heaven, then?"

Calyx tilted their head. "Yeah. But I don't want to be dead." 

"Why not?"

They frowned. "Because I like being alive? I wanted to get out and be me again. I didn't want to die. If I died, then I died there. With her. Because of - it's just not nice."

Then it was Amy's turn to hum. "Okay. But if you still think you're dead - "

"I think it's a possibility," they corrected pragmatically.

She continued, seamlessly. "This isn't a bad heaven though, is it? We're all here. When you get out of here, you'll be able to do everything again."

Calyx thought about it. She wasn't wrong. Still, they didn't like the thought. "I don't want to be dead, Amy."

She shifted to sit on her knees, and took their hands in hers. "You aren't."

"But if I was dead, you'd say that too."

"How do you know? Have you ever died?"

She smiled, as if she knew she'd won, and - well. She had.

Day 8

Elene had been quiet and kind, and so helpful, but they had never been alone with her. Then they were alone with her, and as she quietly closed the door and leaned against it without looking at them, memories flooded back.

"Sorry," they choked out as soon as they realised what was going to happen, pressing themselves into the bed. "I'm so sorry."

They expected the open expression she'd walked in with to drop. Expected pain, fear, shame. They flinched before anything had even happened. She didn't move, and they saw her fidget with her hands.

"You don't have anything to apologise for, Calyx."

Her voice was steady and serious, and they didn't believe her for a second. They couldn't even look at her. They were so ashamed.

"I'm - you don't have to lie, Elene. It's okay. I know I deserve it. I'm sorry for wasting your time. This is so hard. This must be so hard. You don't have to be here. I'm sorry - "

She cut them off, and as she stepped forward, panic surged in their chest. But she stopped at the end of the bed, hands free and visible where they rested on the rail. "Woah, woah. Hey. No, don't say that. Calyx, I am speaking the whole truth when I say that there is nothing you have to apologise for."

They whined. They couldn't help it. It escaped them before they could control themselves. "No. No, it's - it's okay, Elene, You can be mad. I - I stole from you." They balled up their fists, horrified. This was real and they were in so much trouble -

"It's okay. I came to talk about that, but I am not upset with you. I never was. Look."

They looked. She reached into the inside pocket of her coat and pulled out -

"Wait." Her spellbook.

Elene nodded. Calyx barely registered it, stunned. "Pocket dimension. I have two, Calyx. I've always had two. Any paranoid wizard does. My mother had four."

They took long moments to reply. "I'm… confused."

"I know," she said quietly. "Just know that you're safe, okay? I promise. No one is going to hurt you. No one is upset with you."

They still felt small, though they relaxed their grip on their legs slightly. "You don't have to help me," they whispered. "I'm sorry for making your life hard." They sniffled, and the familiar refrain of pathetic weak worthless restarted in their mind. Had it ever stopped?

"Oh, Cee. Can I - oh, dear. It's not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay?"

"But I should've been stronger," they murmured. "Then I wouldn't have wasted your time."

"Oh, Calyx." Then she moved forward and they yelped quietly, pain pain pain, but all that she did was pull them into a hug. They blinked in the embrace, heart pounding like a rabbit's, but it was gentle. Short. She didn't linger, but just before she released them, she kissed the top of their head. They caught something dazed in her expression as she smoothed down her hair.

"I - " They had never seen her flustered. "Sorry, Calyx. Oh, please don't say that again. Please?"

They blinked, fixed to her. She was shaking, hands in constant motion. They fluttered as if she wanted to touch them again, but nothing came. At some point, they'd stopped expecting to be slapped.

"You aren't mad?" They just had to check.

She sighed deeply and practically collapsed into the chair, burying her face in her hands. "No," she said vehemently. "Whatever she told you, whatever she said about me being upset, it was a lie. All of it. She lied, Calyx. She lied to you."

She did. They knew that. "This isn't a lie?"

"No, it isn't. I promise. It's okay if you don't believe me. It'll take time, but it's not a lie." She bit her nails, pausing for a moment. "The doctors said that you should be able to come home soon. Like, today."

Home. Today.

"Like, your house? You don't mind?"

Elene looked at them with wide eyes. "No, no, of course I don't mind. It's your home too, Cee. It is. It felt so empty without you, sunshine."

They smiled at the nickname, repeating it quietly to themselves. She laughed softly and nodded.

"Yeah." Then, "Oh, God. You just smiled."

— — —

Calyx would never go so far as to say, or think, that they had good days. There was still very little safety in every breath, but that did not mean that there was none.

When they woke up crying, or screaming, or begging, or just tense and stressed and fearful, there were no chains around any of their limbs. They would forget, sometimes, and catch themselves before they thrashed hard enough to tug painfully, but as if they were expecting to lift something heavy and ended up with something light, their arm swung out anyway. Into the air, because it was free. Because they were free.

It got easier to accept the fact of their freedom. It was one of the strangest sensations they'd ever experienced - like a grand hallucination, finally ending. Calyx realised that they had never seriously thought that it would end, that they could survive it.

They might not have, if not for their friends. Calyx watched them. Silently, anxiously, they watched. Waited. Knew that the penny would drop at some point, and the game would become boring, and K would drop the illusion and throw them back into hell - but flame never touched them. Warmth, yes. But warmth, not pain.

Warmth in Tom's gentle touch. Their hands were still always a little cold but his were warm holding theirs, massaging soothing circles into their sore spots. Warmth in their blanket, the one that they didn't want to let go of, that no one so much as tried to take away. Their soft purple blanket. The one with their name embroidered on it. It smelled like Tom and lavender.

Warmth in the winter sun on their face, through the window that they could look through for hours. They wanted to make sure it wasn't a trick, that the same cars wouldn't loop around somehow, but they didn't, and the clouds shifted too. They took pictures, just to be sure. Just because they could.

Warmth, again, in the steaming cups of hot chocolate that Ada bought from the café downstairs. In the fuzzy socks that Elene made sure to bring, and homemade soup from Tom's parents. In the way that Amethyst kissed their forehead when she walked into the room, bypassing everyone to speak to them first. Warmth in their friend's smiles.

It still felt dangerous to trust. Some instinct, some terrified animal, begged them not to. Begged them to remember the cold, to remember pain and burning and what happened when they took things for granted. Still, the warmth was undeniable. They were fed and comfortable and untethered. Free. Alive.

---

taglist: @whump-is-love-whump-is-life @morning-star-whump @cepheusgalaxy @inhurtandincomfort @days-on-the-road @whumpologyy @weibun-art @faultsandfractures @whump-until-wretched @00blackbirdwrites00

[distinctlywhumpthing]

First Night Home pt. 2

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Inhale, one, two, three, four. 

Exhale, one, two, three, four. 

Aiden jumps when Leo turns on the water. It seems like so long ago that he waited in this very spot on the first night. It’s fuzzy but he fixes his mind on those memories: Leo bribing him to come out from under the van with mini marshmallows; watching him cook dinner; even how scared he was, imagining how he might be punished for breaking the bowl. 

Anything but the last time he was in here. 

“Alright.” Leo takes a breath worthy of the size of this undertaking. “I’m gonna stay with you. We’ll skip the Saran Wrap and you can just hold onto my shoulders so your arms don’t get wet. Sound good?” 

He swallows and takes off his underwear. 

“Just look at me, okay? I’ve got you.” Leo lifts his hands one by one up to his shoulders like a slow dance. He’s so careful settling them there, especially his left hand, that Aiden’s covered in goosebumps when he’s done. Before he has a chance to breathe again, Leo starts to gently peel the tape and gauze from his collarbone and his arm. He curls his fingers into fists on Leo’s shoulders. 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

He’s not Harrison, he’s so far from being Harrison. 

It’s an insult to even have to draw the anti-comparison but his focus is like a scanning radio. It’ll lock onto the next strongest frequency whether he likes it or not. 

Inhale, one, two, three, four. 

Exhale, one, two, three, four. 

It’s not the same as when Leo counted for him at the hospital. 

“Alright, ready?” 

He is not. He nods. 

In a graceless dance, they get him standing in the tub and under the stream of water. He grips Leo’s shoulders, tries to focus on his steadiness. 

“Is it okay? Not too hot or cool?” 

He jerks his head in a nod, even though that only answers the first question, keeping his eyes locked on Leo’s face just like he said. 

Not looking down at the blood-colored water circling the drain, just like— 

No. 

Inhale, one, two, three, four. 

Exhale, one, two, three, four. 

Leo has to help wash the blood off but at least it’s a loofah. 

Not a washcloth. Not a sponge. 

He grits his teeth against the sensation, switches to counting straight up. Would he actually prefer a scrub brush and a cold hose? 

“Turn?” Leo poses it like a question, like there’s a choice. As if Aiden could bail right now. 

He lets Leo lift his hands off his shoulders, holding them up out of the shower spray. Turns to face the wall, raising his hands above his head to rest there, like he’s about to be strip searched. He starts to breathe through his teeth. 

Leo must hear the change because instead of the almost-scratch of the soaped-up loofah, it’s Leo’s hand that rubs circles across his shoulder blades. 

Aiden almost loses it. 

Trapped there, pinned against the tiles. He doesn’t want to look at them. But they are decidedly better than the ones he sees when he closes his eyes. He locks every muscle, forcing himself not to arch and twist out from under Leo’s too-careful, too-soft, too-kind, too-slow touch that he can only half feel. It’s all he can focus on and it goes on forever.

Even when Leo finally helps him turn around, replacing his hands on his shoulders, the other half of the sensation keeps ghosting across his back. 

It won’t stop. He wants to scream. 

Leo grimaces when he sees his expression. “Sorry, I thought— ”

“M’good,” he grates. 

Leo doesn’t push it. “You’re doing good, almost done.” 

A stab of guilt cuts through him. Leo’s helping him. Not hurting him, not even close. If only he could explain—

“Hey, nice choice.” 

It takes Aiden a moment to figure out what he means, he’s not pointing to anything. As soon as he realizes, his throat tightens and tears prick in his eyes. 

Lavender. 

When Leo wraps him in one of the giant, soft towels, something releases inside him and tears start running down his cheeks. He tries to hide them, lifting the towel to his forehead or hair to secretly brush them away before Leo can see. But it’s no use once he has to hand over the towel to get dressed. 

He gets as far as putting on clean underwear before Leo notices. 

“Oh, Aiden…” Leo says in that too-gentle tone that only makes him cry harder. 

He gives up trying to step into the sweatpants and sits on the bed, immediately regretting the loss of Leo’s hand under his elbow. He drops his head into his hands and sobs. 

Through the cracks between his fingers, he sees Leo kneel. “Okay, that’s okay,” Leo whispers. He takes the sweatpants off his lap and gathers one leg top to bottom to slip over his foot. Does the other the same and lifts them up over his knees. Pulls socks onto his feet. 

It aches how gentle he is. How steady and unhurried. No one’s ever given him permission to cry before. 

He rests his hands on either side of Aiden’s head, thumbs overlapping Aiden’s. “Come here.” 

Aiden lets him move his hands down to the waistband of the sweatpants, ready to pull them up. He pauses to wipe the tears from his cheeks with the softest brush of his rough fingertips. Aiden feels like he might split in two. He can only ever remember crying like this once before, when she died. He doesn’t know why he’s crying so hard now. 

Leo pulls him to stand and right into his arms. He’s barely aware of Leo threading his arms through a t-shirt, followed by another one of his old hoodies, because all he can feel is the steadiness of the arm he keeps locked around his waist. Like Leo knows he would otherwise fall to pieces. 

Once he’s dressed, Leo sits on the bed and pulls Aiden right back into his arms, holding him like he’s never letting go. He cries harder when he realizes Leo rubs his back to the same cadence as his own steady breathing. Up as Leo’s chest rises, down as it falls. Giving him something else to hold onto, all the while holding him together. 

All the shadows cast by the rising sun are gone now. The light changed from warm to bright, morning sun all the more brilliant from the snow reflecting it right back at the sky. 

“Leo..?” It slips out, something between a whine and whisper that he’s not even sure is coherent. 

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“Mm’sorry,” he whispers. “Mmm….so’sorry.” 

“It’s okay, it’s all good.”

“Mmm…I—I—” He chokes on a sob, fingers curling into fists in Leo’s shirt. He almost didn’t get this. “I—mmm—”

“It’s all good,” Leo says him. “You don’t have to apologize for crying—” 

“Nnno, no—m’sorry, mmm’sorry, I-I—I—”

Leo stops trying to reassure him, just keeps rubbing his back in smooth, steady circles up and down, up and down. 

Aiden’s throat tightens. “I…mmm…w-w-w—” He shakes his head. Tries again from a different angle. “I-I…mmm…d-don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “W-w—” The word evades him again and he just skips it this time. He wants to say this. He needs to say this. “Mmm…t’go.” 

Leo’s hand stops and Aiden’s breath with it. “You don’t want to go?” 

A sob shakes through him and he nods. 

“Hon, we’re not going anywhere…?” 

He holds his breath. The voice in his head tells him he shouldn’t have said anything. He should have said ‘sorry’, should have said ‘thank you’, instead of trying to say more. 

“You don’t want to go? I— Oh...” 

Aiden can picture the change in Leo’s expression perfectly. He squeezes his eyes shut because he can’t bear to be wrong and catch a glimpse of anything different. Leo inhales to say something a few times but he doesn’t ever start. He doesn’t let him go either, so he can’t be too angry, but Aiden starts to feel the pressure of the silence like a door closing. It was so stupid to think—

He flinches when Leo moves him off his lap. “M’sorry—” he rushes to say but his voice breaks and it only sounds like another sob. 

“Hey, hey.” Leo’s hands find his face. “Look at me, hon.” 

He blinks away tears to find Leo kneeling in front of him again. “M’s-sorry,” Aiden whimpers, shaking his head. He wants to take it back. He’s sorry for saying anything that made Leo let go. “I—”

“Me too.”

A tear runs down Leo’s cheek and Aiden forgets whatever it was he wanted to say. He wonders what it would be like to lift his hand and brush it away with one of his fingertips like Leo does for him. He settles for bringing his hands up to hold onto Leo’s wrists. He feels worse than guilty that he’s upset Leo too, like this ache inside him is contagious. Aiden catches his bottom lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling, from pulling him back under the sobs.

Leo leans forward, bringing their foreheads together like he did at the hospital, and closes his eyes. “I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers. 

Aiden sobs, hands moving up to Leo’s shoulders almost on their own. Leo understands perfectly and pulls him back into his arms for the hug he wants. 

He’s shards and pieces but he’s here. 

And he’s not alone.

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

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@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

I think you should write about atlas getting beat as a punishment in his training days. It probably isn’t worth it using corporal punishment for all the trainees but it’s for the whump ok

i like the way you think.

little drabble that takes place while atlas was still in eden. he was about fifteen here !! ft. cato of course :)

CW › Minor whump, corporal punishment, humiliation, multiple whumpers, living weapon whumpee, carewhumper, institutional abuse, grooming, kneeling

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

“Sorry.” He chokes out. “I’m sorry.” 

He’s on his knees. Keeled over, nails digging into his thighs. Typically, they would tie him up. If he were anyone else, he already would be. But he knows better than to fight. Take the hit, swallow the blood. Kneeling feels good, natural. He would never dare resist it. He’s meant to be down here. He understands. It calls, something within him, a buried, deep-rooted desire. Beneath them, bent over. He knows, with long standing clarity; it’s only right. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

Blood drips from his nose. Steady, persistent. His front has been spotted by it, a smattering of dark red, fresh. He can feel it drying upon his face, cracking along the curves of his lips, the dip of his chin. Itchy, stretched thin when his expression twitches and the mask slips. He blinks back the waves of emotion, swallows away the sudden urge to reach up, swipe the wet from his face, dare look them in the eyes. He doesn’t. He only swallows, adams apple bobbing, lines drawn between his brows. A minute change, enough they cannot punish him for it. Head bowed, a dull pulsing through his skull, where fist met skin, he reckons with it. This beating. Blood on his clothes, pooling steadily along the traces of his hands, curving around the black ink etched against the skin. Dipping in the ridges between vein. He bit down on his tongue when the first hit came. It’ll ache later, with the bruises around his eyes. Red, blue, green, then yellow. He’ll apply concealer to them in the morning with tense fingers, pretend that none of it ever happened. 

Punishments are only a collective of seconds, minutes, hours. A punch to the nose, fingers curled around his bicep. The rake of a whip. He can take it. There are sixty seconds in a minute. Three thousand six hundred in an hour. He can manage that. Punishments rarely will last longer. Not here, in the light, men’s eyes glaring down at him. He is in the open, blood on his face, something sore aching in his back, and yet. It is all entirely tolerable. An hour reduced to minutes. Minutes reduced to seconds. Only time. Time, before the promise of an end. Something soft. He doesn’t cry, nor does he shake. He does not argue, or resist the pain. He takes it, face turnt down; ready, pliant. It’ll all be over soon, that’s the important part. What really matters. He waits it out. Take the pain, bite your tongue. Repent for all that has been done, that he ever will do—

Boot to cheek. His head swings to the side, an involuntary cough escaping his trembling lips. He shudders. His hair is undone, comes down in straight, dark rows along his face. He’s suddenly fortunate for it. He doesn’t want them to see it, the shock of the blow. The fear that wracks his body, barely contained, even now. 

No, that’s not right. He couldn’t give a shit about them. 

It’s her he cares about. 

She stands at the edge of the room, away from the mess. The men have blood — his blood — on their boots, their pants, rubbed against their knuckles. It’s on the floor, a ring of red that encircles him in his spot, knelt down, shameful. She doesn’t dare touch it. Watching, separate, glorious. She has her arms crossed over her chest, eyes trained onto him and him alone. There is something pristine about her, even now, in all her fury. Oh, she’s livid. He knows it. Feels it, felt it, the moment she dared allow him within her presence. She is rarely so angry with him. He must have done something heinous to upset her in such a way. He can’t be sure. The details have begun to escape him. Cato’s eyes on him, nothing else is relevant. Beaten down, vulnerable, as she watches on. And she does not attempt to stop any of it. 

He guesses he should feel betrayed. Hurt. She promised him no pain, she promised him protection. But he knows he deserves it, in one way or another. He always does. It’s humiliating, more than anything, that they called her down here. Watching, the disappointment written along his swollen skin. He wishes she would cast her gaze away. He wishes she would leave altogether. To fail her… why, there is no comparison on all of earth. Her disappointment washes over him, the prickling of pins against his cheek. Disgust, bared against his soul. He shivers on the pure weight of it. He wishes to shed his skin, to bend further, press the tip of his forehead to the bloody, cold floor. He wishes to atone for all it is he has done to anger her. Plead with her for forgiveness. Sitting in it, allowing it to fester. Lead in his blood, poison in his sore mouth. That’s what really fucks with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quiet. 

Peeking through the fringe, quick, catching glimpses at twisted expressions, sneering, before the split-second shot of the backside of a boot. A metallic taste in his mouth, neck pulled taut, head knocked backwards. He gasps, fists clenched. Controls his movement enough to not knock flat, but not enough that they lose the satisfaction of the flinch, the instinctual snap. It’s all about the performance. Give them something to revel in. Break down enough to be worthy, but never weak. Control yourself, even now, under the weight of their hands, the soles of their rough, unmerciful boots. He knows what they want. Breathing, uneven, he reigns himself in. Through the pain, through the fear; holding still, moving to regain any sensation that isn’t the rapid fluttering of his own heart, the ache inside his brain.

“Stand up.” He doesn’t expect her to step forwards, speak through the silence. An interruption, cutting through the satisfied humming of the handler, the soft, pained gasps that come from out of his chest. Its far too early. The act hasn’t been played out, the apologies slipping past his teeth. The sorry’s repeating, persistent, until they become unintelligible and meaningless. His form slipping, slipping, slipping, pushed just to the edge. She presses a hand to the curve of the handler’s shoulder, moves him out of the spotlight. Her heels click, resounding, against the harsh concrete. Something satisfying within it. Her fury is the low roll of the tide, the ebb and flow of the waves. He can feel it, dimmer. More controlled. There’s a predictability to being in front of her, kneeling, bleeding. Just waiting for her own graciousness. He’s come to expect it. 

He clambers to his feet, swaying a second by the sudden motion. Steadying, just as quickly. He’s grown taller than her by now. Just barely a few inches, but enough that when he looks into her eyes, he no longer has to look up. He hasn’t lost any of the reverence, despite. Just being within her company is enough to send a chill through his spine. She is God. He’d do anything for her. Really, he would. 

She grips him by the jaw, forces him to meet her gaze. There’s blood streaking down his cheek, still, and he suddenly feels terrified by her touch. He wishes not to taint her, stain her by the reminders of his own disobedience. There’s something evil about it. But she doesn’t seem to mind, holding him in place, unrelenting. “You’ve disappointed me.” She speaks, clear. “Do you understand why?”

He goes to nod, remembers she has him in her grip. He opts for a quiet “yes, ma’am,” instead. The notion is kind of ridiculous in itself. He rarely calls her ma’am. Cato, yes, but never ma’am. Their relationship has never been so stuffy or formal. He knows, still, its what she expects. He reads it along her features, anticipates the hit if he fails to perform. She holds him carefully, but not too gentle. This is not over yet. And he is to know it, too. 

“I expect better from you,” she says. Her eyes are dark, piercing. He finds them magnetizing, on better days. A wonderful contrast, silver tech against her own flesh. Something beautiful. But so close, he cannot help but feel like she is peering into his soul, reading the thoughts inside his mind. He cannot hide anything from her. 

The grip on his face tightens. That flare of anger is back, alight in her eyes. He flinches, instinctively. Bites himself for it. Never resist. 

“What do you say?” She grits out. 

“I’m sorr—” 

He’s slapped. It all happens so quickly that he doesn’t expect it. The nails embedding themselves into the soft of his cheek lessen, touch ripped from his skin with a startling severity; the force of the hit replaces it, a second wave of pain. He almost thinks it came from her. Almost. If not for the fact that she’s never slapped him before, and never will. That, and the fact she steps away, the handler moving in, a replacement, features blurred and indistinguishable. The grin of a beast, a flash of teeth. Bright red tinging his vision, something sharp along his tongue. A breath being knocked loose. 

“S—so—”

Again, harder. He sucks in a breath, foot sliding as he tries to regain his balance. Straightening, eyes dry, muscles tensed. Back straight, hands folded out in front of him. Perfect form. Understanding comes to him, slower than it usually would. He’s dizzy, almost swaying on his feet. The blood leaking from the side of his temple has left him unsteadied. His certainty is far away, distant. Something else has begun to take its place. 

“Sorry,” he repeats, automatic, breath hitching. 

The hit comes, and he’s ready. He holds still, keeps his head facing straight. She snaps at him anyway. “Speak.” 

“I’m sorry.” Voice calm, even. Apologies flow out of him easily. He can give them readily, more than anything else. He could apologize to her until his voice went out. Even then, he’d find some way to make up for it. 

The handler slaps him again. His cheek has begun to throb. Reddened, he wouldn’t be surprised if the handprint has been marked across his face, like something disgraceful. Ugly. 

“I’m sorry.” He speaks, again. “I’m sor—” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so—”

Smack. 

It’s as his voice cracks, that she puts her hand up. He wants to flinch at just the sight of it, suddenly afraid, doubtful, that she will hurt him too. That the promises will be broken, as his promises were, when he landed himself here. When he disobeyed every other thousandth time, earned himself the crack of a whip along the length of his bare back, or a steeltoed boot to the ribs. Anything, really. All that he owes her, and all he has done to fail. He thinks she’ll truly let him feel it, an ounce of her fury. But she doesn’t. She speaks again, quieter. Dulled out. “Stop. Go.” 

It’s all said so quickly he thinks it’s meant for him, the sudden dismissal. He figures she’s become so angry with him, disappointment burning within her so deeply, that she cannot stand him within her range of sight for one second longer. But it is not he who moves. It is the handler, with hard fists and cruel eyes, stepping back, breaking away. Faithfully obedient, dog on a leash. Just as he is. Footsteps receding, moving with the same fast pace in which they came. The doors shutter closed, a distant booming, silence following.

They are left alone. Quiet. 

“Atlas.” When she speaks, it’s softer this time. Just the first syllable of his name, and he is at rest, free. Cato breaks the charade. Master and student. Son and… well, he’s not quite sure, is he? She’s an enigma. Whatever she is, and whatever he has been molded into. Fuzzy, now. With the spots of his vision, the distant rush of blood in his ears. Something unreal about it all. But none of it matters, really. Because then she is stepping closer, cupping his cheek, her lips pursed, and he forgets all that had to do with it. Her touch is gentle this time, just as he’s come to expect. Thumb brushing against the raised skin there, smoothing away the blood. It stings, still, the good kind of pain. The one he likes from her. Wiping at his reddened skin, surveying him with that soft-eyed stare, her head cocked to the side. There’s always been something private about it, special. No one has ever looked at him in such a way. 

As if he’s something magnificent. 

“Does it hurt?” She asks. It’s more of a whisper than anything else, like she does not mean to be heard. But he knows better, at least he thinks he does. He never truly can be sure the true meaning of her words, of any her actions. It’s all so confusing, grappling with her distant emotions, her secret desires. He wonders, silent, if this is a trick. Did it hurt? Was it supposed to? 

“Yes,” he chokes on the word. 

Her expression darkens, approving. Releasing him, she nods to herself. “Hm.” 

· ─ ·✶· ─ ·

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[friendlylocalwhumper]

Slow, ragged breaths huff out of the exhausted warlock, sending ripples across the water inches from his face. There’s no more frantic slippery scrabbling against the walls of the tub, no more pleading; his arms are pinned between his back and Emory’s chest as he’s held firmly in place, ribs pressed in on by the edge of the tub. A hand is fisted in his hair to keep his head just above the water.

“What would you do for this to stop, huh, Curls?”

Lux takes another heavy, shuddering breath. “An-nything.”

“Would you beg some more for me?”

A weary nod. “Ple-ease, please…”

“Would you be good for me?”

“Yes, please, I, I’ll be, good…” It’s so much slower than his usual panicked begging. Emory pushes Lux’s head down enough for the chilly water to kiss his cheek, and it steals the warlock’s breath.

“Very good?”

“V-v-very, very g-good.” A weak cough sends water splashing, and Lux flinches back from it, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, no mo-ore…”

Keep reading

[justbreakonme]

Whumper leaving whumpee alone to “think about what they’ve done” before the actual punishment so every time Caretaker leaves them alone, they feel this overwhelming sense of guilt and dread, even if they know logically nothing is coming.

[doumidas]

Two seizures???

@ephemeral-phosphorescence

“It happened again,” Sonny clipped, stress curling his lip. “This is the second time this week.”

Oh. Of course. He was deteriorating. He would be useless, soon. “P- please don’t tell him,” Port begged. 

Sonny blinked hard, frustrated. “Mr. Oz is dead.”

Port’s heart dropped. Was he? Right, he had…

There was the clench of a residual twitch in his hand— the thought, whatever it had been, slipped away unfinished through the holes in his mind. His master could not know that he was defective. He needed to prolong it for as long as possible. “Don’t tell him,” he pleaded, trying to get it through Sonny’s head. “I- I’ll get better.”

Sonny just sighed. “Go back to sleep. You’re out of your mind.”

[doumidas]

today’s public diary entry

does anyone else looooooove that alcohol in the wound sting? my tire completely shredded (?!) on the highway omw home from work so i had to change it on the side of the road and managed to rip some skin off my finger in the process (nothing major). i’m home now and just holding an alcohol swab to the skin flap because it stings so good

[doumidas]

give it to us pls

pray tell, what dost thou desire?

[doumidas]

act i: 33k words, takes place over 8+ months

act ii: 42k words, takes place over 5 days ..........

[whumpawaydarling]

big fan of the listless dissociated look that whumpees have after something that causes incredible pain (whether emotional or physical just a Lot of it) - when their eyes are focused on nothing and their mouth is a little open and maybe they're covered in blood and they're limp and just move with whoever is pulling them up rather than actually using any of their own strength. when blinking is the only acknowledgement they can give that they can even hear or understand what's going on. when they aren't even crying because that would take too much energy. they're just... tired. empty. dazed. yeah. big fan