[ID. A drawing of Espa, a black girl with large coily black hair, wearing a São João dress; it is bright yellow and red with accents of purple and lots of frills, bows and plaid patterns, the skirt being layered into multiple colors and stopping a bit before her knees. Espa stands holding a short sword in each hand, expression neutral. A caption with festive decorations reads "Feliz São João!" /end ID.]
Look who's all dressed uppp
art taglist || @for-the-love-of-angst @seastarblue @inhurtandincomfort
Hi. The drabble I promised u_u Like and subscribe for more espada extras
———
CWs: Noncon/child sexual assault (<- explicit but not graphic), teen whumpee, living weapon whumpee, implied past noncon, compliant whumpee, touch-averse whumpee, abuse apologia (on whumpee's part; you know how she is)
“Espada,” she said, voice as sweet as honey. The tone ought to have put it at ease. “Would you come over here?”
Espa did. The handler—Ms. Júlia, who was usually assigned to headquarters work but was on special leave and in need of a bodyguard—had not moved from under her sheets ever since it arrived. Her dirt-brown hair cascaded around her like a water spill. The bed was wrinkled all over from her moving and creasing over the bedding. They thought they could hear her crying, before, but now, a little smile played on her lips. Espa’s expression didn’t change. She ordered, sing-song, “Bring me water?”
Espa did. There was a clay filter downstairs, but they didn’t go there. This inn, unoccupied but for them right now, was the Dove’s; no dingy motel with unwilling servants, no trying to deal with them with the only handler ridden to bed for unknown reasons and the only weapon fixed to her room to attend to her. There was a little frigobar here upstairs, with chilly bottles refilled every now and then by someone. The workers—more surely loyal—weren’t allowed to enter the room. This place was as safe as it could get, so it had found itself wondering why; the weapon could only assume it was paranoia.
On whose part? The headquarters’? The handler’s? They weren’t sure.
“Ma’am,” it offered, giving her the drink. Her hands weren’t trembling, but it had a thought they wanted to be, so the cups were all metal. No brittle materials. The weapon, if it had been more curious, would’ve liked to know what had gotten her so... indisposed. Ms. Júlia’s white skin was unmarred. Unmarred, to the extent it could see. Her body had been fully hidden under a long robe that showed not even the neckline for the entire day, which was unusual for her, as far as it could tell, and she didn’t seem to be ill. Not ordinarily ill at least. But they wouldn’t know. They had gotten the spine to ask prior, out of some desire to be sure, if it didn’t need to give her any meds. Espa always messed those up; the thought of getting a dosage or an interval wrong and murdering a handler had not been brief on their head.
But there was nothing. She’d made them tell one of the housekeepers to go down to the drugstore and bring her something for a headache, but that’d been it.
As it was now, Ms. Júlia took the glass from its hands with a soft thank you, and raised it to her lips. Espa watched as the liquid made its way down her throat in thick gulps, bobbing the soft flesh of her neck, and she asked for a refill. They refilled it. The handler sighed, somewhat wearily, cupped her head again, and placed the cup on the bedside table. She didn’t finish it.
It hadn’t been told to fuck off to its corner, and it had a strange feeling she wasn’t done yet, so it stayed there. This close, by the bed, the weapon could see the slight eyebags shaping up like bruises under her eyes, the uneasy lines on her posture. It truly had been a while since it’d last run into her. They remembered her being more composed.
Espa didn’t adore Ms. Júlia, per se; she was far from being like its favorite handler, with his deep warm laugh and steady moods and easy treats, but if it had to make a tier, she wasn’t very bad either. They could even say they liked her. She was somewhat... affectionate. It wasn’t too far away an ambition to keep her proud of you. Her punishments hurt, as they should, but they weren’t so often. There was something exquisitely effective about them: She would tell you, plain and clear, what you had done wrong, give you a slap to the wrist and then drag you down the basements to tie you up while carrying a knife or two and making you repeat back what you should do to improve. She had a way of keeping your body twisted so you could neither get away nor relax. It hurt too much to. They’d gotten, on a couple occasions, nightmares with her face. But it wasn’t anything too awful. They had been looking up to this assignment, really: She was a reasonable person you could trust in to lead you. She only raised her voice when she was actually very pissed, and it felt nearly safe to be under her gaze.
Which was probably why, when she said, in that weakened state and with such a cotton-candy voice, “Will you do me a favor, Espada?” it hadn’t looked for clarification with a standard, ma’am?
It had just said yes.
Ms. Júlia had taken in a breath then, as if bracing herself for something. They’d have filed it away, observed with time if they were right, but then it all got fuzzy from down there. They wouldn’t be able to tell.
Her favor had been to go downstairs and bring her food. They were reluctant to leave her chambers alone, after so long standing there on watch—perhaps, they thought, that odd paranoia had rubbed off on them—but she had ordered so, so they went.
It was a warm bowl of soup that smelled like cassava and was tenderly poured into a lovely mug. As the innkeeper in the kitchen gave it a small spoon to go with it, he gave it a sad smile and asked if it wanted some. It left them feeling weird, wrong, and they just told him they weren’t allowed. He had let out a resigned sigh, as if he’d already expected it, and told them to keep up the good work.
It was silly, and it was doing mostly nothing, but it liked hearing that bit.
Ms. Júlia had sat up on her bed with her toes teasing the floor when they entered, closing back the door behind them. The room was mostly plunged into darkness. There was a window, a large one and see-through, but the handler had told them to close shut the blinds only a few hours after they’d arrived so she could try to take a nap. There were books on the tables, and a large TV on the wall, ready to blink on into entertainment, and board games whose names Espa couldn’t read, but Júlia had touched none of them so far. She’d just slept through the better part of morning, and tossed around in her sheets, and cried a little in her sleep, and then woken up, and the blinds had remained closed. Now a pleasant, dim light came through them, bathing the bedroom into a soft glow. They could get behind the choice. They were not so opaque, though firm and heavy. Through them, the glow of the sun came through—but the worst of it couldn’t reach them indoors. If it had to take the guess, neither could the eyes of onlookers outside.
“Oh, darling, thank you,” she said at their appearance, still in that gentle voice. It was weird, and odd, like the man downstairs asking them if they wanted a secret bite of the food, but it didn’t comment. She was also being generally weird. They supposed they just had to let it pass. “Bring it to me. Here, here. Yes, like that. Is it chicken, do you know?”
Espa did not know. “Apologies, ma’am. I can’t tell.”
She smiled. “That’s alright. Of course you wouldn’t.” They stood, hand outstretched to offer her the warm mug, but she didn’t take it just yet. She wasn’t looking at them. “Aren’t you a good girl, Espada?”
Something about the praise, out of the blue, made its stomach turn. It blinked. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The broth in its hands smelled good. Too good. It hoped she’d eat it all before it turned cold. Surely this would lift her bluey moods. But she said nothing, for a while, so neither did they, and silence filled the little dim chambers. Her fingers clenched by the bed. The sheets caved to wrinkles under her hands.
“Give it to me,” she ordered in a whisper. Espa did. They held the cup in one hand, brought it over to her awaiting grip. She made a motion to hold it, wrapped her fingers around the wing, and so Espa let go. There was a split second in which they might’ve wished they hadn’t. Ms. Júlia’s fingers slipped, the mug untethered, and between one heartbeat and the next, all of its contents had spilled onto the floor.
Oh.
The handler stared at the disaster, taking it in without so much as a comment. Espa’s hand twitched over nothing, the warm broth spreading around their feet. The handler, at last, sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Espa, Espa.”
It opened its mouth. Closed it. They thought, shit. It hadn’t meant to. They opened their mouth again, and said, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?” Her smile still had that pitiful edge to it, a sad twinkle to her hazel eyes. Espa bit its lip, debating whether to call someone to clean it or to shove its hands on the floor by themselves. The latter. “No, no. Don’t bend down. Leave it there,” she said, as soon as their legs made motion to crouch. Espa froze in place. The handler eyed them up and down, not so pleased.
It felt frustration bubbling up in its stomach, along with a wave of cold. Disappointment. They had been doing well. And why with something so simple? “I’m sorry.”
“You are,” she agreed, a mild, pensive expression taking over her face. It was still smooth. Soft. “Strip off your shirt.”
Espa’s sigh was internal, more aimed at themself. They didn’t bother with a yes, ma’am before sliding the turtleneck fluidly over their shoulders, folding it up neatly in the same motion. Its head bowed slightly to her, shoed feet stepping over the ruined soup. Presenting. She did nothing with the offer. Just patted down the mattress beside her. “Put it here.”
Espa did. It awaited, uneasy.
Her smile was gone.
“Strip off your shoes too. And give me that bandana.”
Espa pursed its lips, though it didn’t hesitate. It was a shame, really. They’d been doing well so far. They ignored the stickiness meeting the soles of their feet. At least, they recalled, there would be still more at the kitchen.
Fingers trailing over the blue stripe of fabric they’d just untied, eyes glued to her lap, Ms. Júlia spoke: “Take off your pants, too.”
Its lips went bitten. Espa did. Folded them over their arms. Standing before her, nearly bare, it offered them to the handler. It silently breathed in.
Instead of taking them, she took their arm.
The weapon’s mind blanked for a split second, but they were quick to readjust. They fell limp on her grip as she pulled them closer, close enough for an easy slap, and the trousers fell to the ruined floor. It kept its gaze down, somewhat nervous now. Yes, her punishments indeed had a way of being exquisitely effective. It didn’t like being naked. It could feel her eyes boring onto the top of its head, bowed low. She fought the urge to flinch under it. Ms. Júlia’s fingers travelled, shy, and landed on the tip of her chin.
She tilted their face up.
“Are you sorry?”
It reluctantly locked its eyes on her. It could take a cue when it was given. This was embarrassing. It really wished it hadn’t let it drop. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her other hand, resting on her side, came over to join the first, brushing over its skin to hold its face. The fingertips soon grew bored and lowered down to cup their shoulder instead. “Sit here.”
Ma’am? Espa kept silent. It sat. Ms. Júlia turned to them, face cold and scrutinizing, neutral, soft, undecipherable, and Espa sat. She was half a head taller than them. Espa’s primary handler was shorter. She looked at them, and took all of them with the light irises of her eyes, and landed one hand spread flat on their chest. Espa was glad she didn’t have a knife, just then. It hoped she didn’t plan on using the collar. It would be far too shameful, to scream like this.
She pushed them on their back to the bed.
Espa’s head glitched, again, but it stopped it from running in circles. This was weird, novel maybe, but they figured it meant they weren’t going to bleed. The thought ought to be relieving, but it didn’t really do much. There were plenty of things you could do to someone without drawing a bead of blood.
Breaking certain bones, for example. Its stomach dropped as she leaned over them, with that weird face. It schooled its own, keeping the thoughts out of its expression. She wouldn’t want to see that.
Ms. Ann would have them apologize here. But it could sound like begging. That could be annoying. Before Espa could even think to draw a breath to say anything, the handler collapsed on top of them. It froze.
Her skin was close. So close. There weren’t enough layers of fabric in between them and it was damp against its, raw and full of goosebumps. Her fingers sunk in the flesh of its back, a painless hold that was like having its skin ripped off. Espa didn’t breathe and didn’t move. Was this the punishment? It sounded merciful, but also too much to bear. Her body shifted on top of theirs, trapping them, and Espa didn’t move. “You’re sorry, aren’t you?”
It nearly didn’t have the breath to say, “Yes. Ma’am.”
“You’re a good weapon,” she said, hands suddenly moving up—dragging across the narrow vacuum between its back and the cushion, fingers digging as they tried to flee upwards towards its neck—and Espa resisted the reflex to lurch. It breathed in. Then out. Then stopped, because she could probably sense it against her chest. “You’re such a good weapon. A good girl... yes, you know that—you know that, right?”
Espa didn’t answer. It sounded entitled to, although they probably should have, but their skin was being rubbed every inch by somebody else’s wiggling body. Her body wrapped them as if they were a pillow, freely. It couldn’t even think to manage the sensation. Ms. Júlia nuzzled her face in the crook of its neck and it nearly gagged. “Good,” she took a sniff. “So good.”
The weapon was still, bearing their predicament, distantly mourning for the mug of broth that had smelled that good and felt that warm, when Ms. Júlia adjusted herself over them, planting her arms on the mattress to hold her weight on her arms. Were they any less well-trained, they would’ve let out a trembling sigh of relief. She moved to sit atop their dangling legs, and then frowned, and then dragged them by the arm to lay in the middle of the bed.
The sheets were softer than what they were used to, and they felt wrong and slippery sliding along its back. Espa focused on its breathing, and didn’t move from its new spot, and pitifully didn’t catch back a confused sound as it made it past its throat upon Ms. Júlia’s fingers finding the brand on its pelvis. Its breath hitched without its permission. The fingers trailed there, rubbing a small circle over the symbol burned into their skin, and it made them shiver, which they hadn’t wanted to do. They heard a smile in her hum. The brand, the one all weapons had, shaped like the mighty Dove, rested just below where the hem of its trousers
Where the hem of its trousers would be. Had they not been dropped on the floor.
As it was, just below, was the fabric of their boxers. Ms. Júlia took a keen interest in them. Espa, through it all, didn’t find it in them to understand.
They figured it was punishment enough. The handler shed them every last layer of cloth and skin and flesh and left them bared to the bone, painful touch pressing too light against its face. She had told them to move, so they had, although it’d taken too long and they’d received a slap. That had been more familiar; it’d felt less wrong, somehow. They found themself clinging to the dull pain throbbing on their cheek as she shook off her own clothes, worsening the skin-to-skin contact, shed them to the side of the bed. This bare, they could see now, that she wasn’t so unmarred as they’d thought. There were small purple bruises on her thighs, her chest, like someone had pinched the skin or suctioned on it. An angry ring of red crowned her neck, mirroring the collar on Espa’s own, which tilted their world to the side. The image was unthinkable. It didn’t belong there. They had enough sense to know it didn’t. Like that, still with that heavy breath that betrayed she was nearly crying, the handler’s face covered Espa’s vision soon enough.
It’d been somewhat disorientating.
The weapon somehow hadn’t thrown up, although why, they weren’t so sure. They were maneuvered into positions for a beating, except no beating came, and she sounded sad. Then happy, then shivery, then relieved, and it was too much to catch up to. Espa’s body buzzed as if ran over by a strike from the collar. Its head pounded for some reason, and its mouth felt dry. Hers wasn’t. There were sticky bits and clammy bits and everything was unbearably warm. The handler collapsed beside it, at last, satisfied tears sliding down her face.
Espa hadn’t moved on its own, yet. She didn’t direct a word at them either, not even a dismissal. At some point, she nuzzled herself in her blankets again, playing with her own loose bangs, and ordered them to go back to the door. Espa hadn’t listened the first time, so their head was whipped to the side with so much strength it stung like fire. That slap, unlike the first, wasn’t so grounding. They were too stunned to even blink. But it listened, it searched for the fabric in the ever-dimming light, privative against the eyes, and slid up all its clothes all the way. There were dried things over their skin. It ignored them. It expected to feel more at ease, then, back on its feet. But the buzzing didn’t leave.
Ms. Júlia stayed there, and Espa’s body assumed position in front of the door, and its eyes didn’t watch her as they previously had. Outside, the sun continued to set. The housekeepers arrived two minutes after to refill the bottles of water she hadn’t drunk.
Stepping out of the room to receive them felt like finally breathing again after being dunked underwater. The hallway felt full of air, air they hadn’t known for hours. They took the bottle and tried not to tremble. Prevented, with some shock, their knees from buckling. Watched as the workers made their way back downstairs and found their gaze staring at the hardwood floor.
They were lucky, that the handler was napping again by then. They weren’t proud of the gasping noises they’d made on the other side of the door.
some very late fanart of mine. i’ve been wanting to draw espada since forever and i thought that its one-year anniversary was best to take a crack at it. i love espa i love your story and i’m extremely excited for the arc i finale :)
[ID. (1) A drawing of Espa, colored with lively strokes of markers. There are two little stars doodled over their shoulders, and its cape's neck is wide around them, showing their unders-shirt. Its brows are slightly furrowed. (2) A zoom-out of the drawing, with "Mar 14." written at the bottom. End ID.]
*makes some sort of high-pitched noise*
OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SO MUCH
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
sobs............thank you so much oh my god................elliot you have no idea how much i love your art this is so cool........ her cape.........................................its them.................oh my god its them............................................................................................................................im so happy.........................................................
Nobody talk to me now im thinking about baby espa (5yo) being all dressed up for são joão with a frilly dress and ribbons on its hair and running and giggling around a campfire while holding one of those little light-up wands and then one year later theyre trapped underground in some shitty facility to train new weapons and shaking while trying not to cry because the last time it cried someone slapped it and it doesnt want to be hurt.
