Jan 8
the teammmm
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seen from Australia
seen from United States
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the teammmm
espada masterlist
Espa (they/she/it)'s life as a weapon was mostly filled with pain, obedience and blood—some of it its own—, until it met a kind, generous stranger. The namesake of Espada means "sword", but, unfortunately for the compliant, loyal life they've built for themself through all these rough years, they can't quite bring themself to remain as only that.
(note: please block '#espada spoilers' if you aren't caught up on arc 1 yet!)
General cws: Human trafficking, child whump, compliant whumpee, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, torture.
-> Espada is now on Ao3!
-> Drabbles Masterlist
ARC I:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
(Bonus) 11.5
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17.1
Chapter 17.2
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
ARC II:
Chapter 23
(coming)
--
-> AU Masterlist
-> Art Masterlist (+ picrews and fanart!)
-> Other writing: Liar | Dog | Sniper | Escravos de Jó | Cold | Interrogated | Fingers in the wound | Forced to hurt | Touch aversion | Disposal | Sixteen | Natural | [And more!]
-> Fanfic (!!!): Out of This World by @whumpshaped
-> Misc: #espada wip tag | #espada asks | #espada art | #meta rambles tag | #espa oc tag
———
Taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit @melpomenelamusa @whump-until-wretched @sirnef-fenris @stars-hide-our-fires @mxrr0rball @supasos0 @aromanticsky @violets-whumperflies @painwithoutplot @whumpshaped
febuwhump day 6: (ALT prompt 5) "auction"
This got out of control :) it is long. A little raw, since we're not giving it days of revising and marinating, but hey, I like it! Say hi Sabre I missed Sabre.
-> Espada Masterlist
[CWs: Child traficking, (future) pet whump, dehumanization, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, Juste sucks, his friends suck also]
Mr. Juste leaned in and adjusted the tie around his neck. Sabre didn’t recoil. He should. This was extremely uncomfortable. He knew his handler knew that. He knew he didn't care. He knew he liked it that way.
“There,” he smiled, putting some distance to admire his work and backing up on his seat. “Don’t you look stunning?”
The weapon loosened the thing, getting some space to breathe. The handler’s lips irked up. He didn’t berate him nor try to fix it. Sabre sighed. “I don’t know why you even come here. There are servants back at home.”
“Servants ain’t pets, dear,” he retorted, taking out a hairband and tying up his loose locs behind his head. One fell out, but as always, Juste didn’t mind. He curled it around his finger and just tucked it behind his ear. The handler shrugged, continued, “But I’m not looking for any. We have to support our friends in big moments, don’t we?”
He could feel his eye twitch. ‘Big moments’. Sure. He still didn’t know why he had to come along.
Sabre sighed. He didn’t like these events.
“Oh,” Mr. Juste spoke up. Sabre didn’t uncross his arms, but he turned in his direction. He was glancing out of the window. “Our stop.”
How lovely. For him, all the city lights looked about the same, every street just as busy, every alley an identical mix of hidden and undesirable. He hadn’t ever come here. Juste must have, before. In a couple minutes, the driver stopped and the handler adjusted his lapel. Sabre groaned, shoving his door open.
“Thank you,” Juste smiled as he opened his side for him, allowing the handler to step out. Sabre slammed the thing with a sound that made the driver cringe from their seat, before adjusting their glasses and sending an unsure look at Mr. Juste. He just smiled and waved back at them. Another cringe. It didn’t take long for them to step on the clutch, the accelerator, then drive away. Juste put his hands on his pockets, watching them go. Sabre turned behind them instead to take a look at the building they were entering.
His turn to cringe. Of course.
The reception hall was large, and the house was, as the facade implied, an icky kind of modern. Glass panels, high ceiling. None of the business would be carried around here, though. There were only tables with that fancy party food in little portions, a delimited queue to allow everyone to enter. Well. It was mostly empty by now. He figured they were late. Sabre didn’t really pay attention to what his handler was doing with the guard at the entrance, what kind of letter or invite he’d shown them. The walls were disappointingly bare. He liked it better when it was those old-style, ornate places. Those were just boring.
The handler wrapped an arm around him. Sabre almost jumped.
“Mr. Juste,” he hissed. “You—”
“Now, now,” he interrupted him. “Won’t wander off on your own, will you? Management will kill me if someone thinks you’re up for sale and gets you before I can get there.”
His eye twitched again. “How responsible.”
He giggled. “I should put a leash on you, just to make sure,” he joked, leaning away. The fact he wasn’t serious didn’t make Sabre any more pleased. “C’mon. It’s downstairs.”
Of course it was downstairs. Everything was always downstairs.
Sabre ignored the thin crowd walking around the reception, chatting amongst themselves or, in less dressed-up attires, cleaning up the floors and serving drinks—were the guests killing off some time before it started?— instead landing his attention on the person that led him and his handler on the way. He found it a little strange there was no second guard following from behind or something, but maybe Juste was already too well-known around the circles of whoever was even hosting this for that. He felt a chill run through his spine.
The guard stopped them by the middle of the staircase, after having passed through what seemed like an unnecessary amount of floors. There was one door in front of them, and the way continued below for maybe several meters, but she had her hand on the doorknob just to the left. He wondered how many “downstairs” rooms there were in here. How many were just decoy, for the sake of confusion, and how many were actually used. For what.
Okay, maybe he should just cut the thinking short for today. Yeah, he was gonna do that.
When she opened the door, a slight bow to allow Mr. Juste in, the lights were so strong against the dimness of the staircase that Sabre winced away. His handler grabbed his arm, regardless, and he was pushed into the salon before he could actually see where he was.
It was a giant auditorium.
He sucked in a breath, taking it in. Surely there was no need for anywhere to be this big. Rows and rows of seats placed around a low platform, some sort of stage, and the lights above were so, so bright. Mr. Juste pushed him out of his awe again, leading him to one of the seats. He turned to send him a glare, but the handler’s eyes weren’t even actually on him. Sabre blinked. Juste’s gaze was set on the stage, no smile to be seen on his face. There was a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. The weapon couldn’t help but tense up.
Before Sabre could continue worrying, he peeled his attention from the center of the room to look around for something. When it seemed like he’d found it, Juste took him in sure, confident steps to a spot in the audience. He barely resisted, already used to it. The weapon only let out a sigh and let his arm be yanked around.
Juste didn’t even need an actual leash, like this.
There was chatter. Because of course there was. The grand hall was filled with people and their sounds, laughter coming from one side and energetic conversations from a few rows below. Some seemed just as excited. Some adjusted the collar of their fancy dress shirts, looking around with a nervous sweat. The chairs he was leaded towards were padded and fancy, a crimson color for the seats, and there were five of them freed in the spot. A man and a woman sat just beside these ones, waving and smiling at Juste, something about having guarded him a spot. The handler giggled, but Sabre could only feel his stomach sinking further. Fantastic. So they wouldn’t be alone. Just what he needed right now.
Juste sat down like a peacock with his chest stuffed, and he swore he could almost see the little feathers twitching from enthusiasm. The weapon knew better than to stay standing in this kind of place, so he resignedly went to take a seat just behind his handler. Their spot was high off the ground, way into the back, so at least he didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking from behind. He didn’t, but he did anyway. It was why he’d been probably brought for.
Someone grabbed his arm before he could find a chair.
It was the woman. She had smooth, brown skin and long curls cascading in front of her blue dress. Her smile was wide. And it was feline. He couldn’t help it. He flinched.
“Why, don’t go running, boy,” she bared her teeth. “We don’t bite.”
He hadn’t been worried about that. Prior. The man sitting just beyond her leaned forward to take a peek at him. He looked amused. Sabre didn’t let his eye twitch again. Juste wasn’t even looking. His attention was back on the stage.
The weapon stomped back to their row, threw himself on a seat just between his handler and the lady. The other man—paler, slightly tanned from sun—watched him with curiosity. He prepared himself to be poked and prodded at, sinking into the chair. At least it was comfortable.
The couple—they looked like one, at least—resumed their chatting, and for a blissful few minutes, he was an appliance in the room and not a toy. He allowed himself to slightly relax, unfortunately unable to tune out their voices.
“You look stunning, Ananda,” his handler was saying to the woman across from him. He shouldn’t have sat in the middle. “The color suits you.”
She snorted. “Ernesto will think you’re trying to steal me from him,” she joked. Her partner made a protesting sound from her side. Juste laughed. It was the easy, loud sort of laugh that meant he was temporarily forgotten. In the clear. For now. Ananda pointed a finger at Juste’s attire. “I’d say you don’t look any short of lovely, either, but...” She smiled, turned her face at him instead. He locked his jaw. And here we go. “You outdid it. I think he’s looking cuter than you.”
He remained staring ahead. The stage had warmer light cast upon it, and the ones above them were slowly being dimmed. The platform was completely empty. He noticed that there were curtains circling it, too. He swallowed down some eeriness at how everything down here seemed to be decorated red.
“You’re so mean,” Juste teased her back. “Ern, do you think I look better than my weapon?”
The Ernesto one shook his head, shrugging with a faux air of nonchalance.
“You two look identical to me.”
Between Ananda’s burst of laughter and Juste’s dramatic sigh, Sabre fiddled with his tie. He wasn’t fully wrong. Juste’s suit was white, fitted, three-piece. The thing he’d chosen for him wasn’t much different aside from the color. Dark, no jacket for him, and he had a normal tie unlike Juste’s weird and long silk stripe. He ran his fingers over the sew lines on his gloves.
Then the lights went fully off at once.
Sabre’s body responded to the change in environment before his brain could properly catch up to it, but he forced himself to relax his back and fully lean into his seat again. Murmurs ran through the audience, a layer of silence slowly falling over them. Mr. Juste and his friends traded a couple last whispers, and then the platform was lit up again.
He pursed his lips. Clenched his fists.
There was someone standing on it, now.
The crowd started clapping when they noticed it, too, pleased hums of approval and whistles coming from them at the appearance. He couldn’t actually see much from here, and just as he was about to thank the stars for the fact, a big display screen he hadn’t even noticed flicked on, its shiny surface enlarging the scene onstage. Sabre hid his face in his hands. More sounds. Everyone was happy.
He could feel Mr. Juste adjusting himself against his seat, too. Leaning back, hands interlaced together and a leg resting over the other. The weapon let out a breath.
Someone was talking over a speaker system spread across the salon, but he couldn’t really make himself pay attention to it. On the platform was a kid. They looked around with wide eyes, posture perfectly straight and hands together in front of themself. Their hands were clasped together, he noticed, cringing. Fancy clothes wore them, different from the bullshit Juste had chosen for him. He didn’t like looking at whatever it was. Their hair was done neat, tight braids along their scalp. There was a collar around their throat.
The one around his felt slightly colder, against his skin.
The first bids started, and the one for sale flinched at the offers, loudly announced on the speaker. Their chest heaved, close if not already hyperventilating, and at some point they just dropped their head to the floor and stayed there, still. He couldn’t see their face anymore.
Some other number was shouted. Tension spread across the room, silence. One second went by. Then two. Then three. Double that.
They were sold.
It went like that for hours. He was starting to get genuinely bored, and Juste was also hungry. He bitched and moaned about it to his friends, who were insisting soon there’d be a break for all to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres before continuing. They were occasionally bidding, quickly quitting after a wave of higher offers outdid theirs, but they seemed to be waiting for something in particular.
Big moment for a friend, he recalled Juste saying earlier, but Sabre wasn’t sure if he cared at this point.
More people stood on the stage, sometimes a line of up to five. He wasn’t paying enough attention to figure out how that worked, if they were sold together or what, but those were few. Some were taller, more grown. One glared at a spot in front of them where he assumed was where the camera was, ire evident in their face. Sabre internally gave them points for the bravery. Others weren’t as bold as that one. Some had their hands cuffed. Some visibly bore chains around their ankles, receding to the back of the platform into the curtains. If you were paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it made a difference if the rest of the guests were or not.
Some of them were also fully tied up.
He looked away, in some, mostly because it was pretty samey and uninteresting of a show to look at. He caught a glimpse of a gag once, winced in sympathy. At least it wasn’t a muzzle.
Then the hundredth millionth thousandth merchandise came onstage, and the noises of excitement were closer to him that time. He flinched. Ananda—he was pretty sure that was her name—made a motion of punching her fist in the air, her partner shrieking in excitement. His gut was filled with dread. He figured he didn’t want to look.
He looked.
None of the others in the audience seemed as animated over that one as his rowmates were. He looked, stared, analyzed, but there didn’t seem to be anything special about that one for him, either. Dainty chains around the hands to keep them behaved in place, a modest outfit he thankfully didn’t have anything to note about, a single cuff around the ankle. Brown skin, not-long-nor-short hair, dark but very vibrant under the golden light. It was undone and the curls were loose. Nothing particularly remarkable—some scars and bruises in the bits of skin that were showing, but again, he hadn’t seen any devoid of these tonight either. Whatever. He’d figured by now that everyone Juste hanged out with was just weird.
The speakers announced their number and gave a commentary on behavior or a remark about their appearance, blah blah blah, something something, lot #076, something something, aged fourteen, nothing about acquisition type, because apparently no one here cared enough to want to know, and then a ding went off and it meant everyone better start bidding or they were going to throw it out or something. Everything went just the same as it’d been all the other times. He had a feeling Juste would be scrolling down on his phone, but he had a vague memory of being searched and told to leave potential recording devices behind back at the hall or maybe at the entrance, so the handler was mostly trying to hide his yawns and resting his head against a hand supported on the arm rest. Ananda was barely contained on her seat on Sabre’s other side. They were keeping quiet, mostly, but then after some other number was shouted they started bidding. No shouting, and now that he looked, there were little controllers handed to them. Numbers #11 and #12, respectively, started having their offers displayed on another screen and announced over the speakers. Sabre looked down to watch the one on the platform through the screen again. They looked upset. That was fair. He was also upset. The expression on their face was more a scowl than a frown, but they were avoiding looking the camera’s way. The angle the screen was getting was mostly framing their cheeks.
Another ding. Oh. The highest bidder hadn’t been followed by any. Had Juste’s friends gotten their new little toy?
He tensed seeing the smaller screen with the bid history. Okay. Maybe not. He didn’t know who guest #53 was, but he hoped it wouldn’t end up badly for him. The pause stretched, not quite silence with all the background noise, but much more quiet with the muteness of the speakers, and he counted a couple seconds. How many were there, again? Six? Three went past. Then four. He threw his head back in the chair. How fantastic. He hoped Juste wouldn’t borrow him out as consolation or anything.
Five seconds.
A new number appeared on the screen. It was so high he couldn’t quite name whatever it was called, but it was signed below by something much lower. That he could read.
#012.
No other bids followed, and Sabre figured that the others just were a little shocked or maybe very sleepy already, because the next six seconds went by in a blink. Or maybe he was the one already falling asleep. Another ding followed, and Ananda leaned back on her seat, beaming. He couldn’t quite see Ern’s expression, but from the barely-contained giggling, he figured that it would be similar.
The kid back onstage had a sour face when the speakers announced sold.
The hors d'oeuvres weren’t all that bad.
The break area seemed simultaneously both smaller and larger than the auction salon, but maybe it was the lack of chairs. Or the lighting. This one was much brighter. It was a bit of a relief to his eyes, to be honest. Sabre chewed down on a bite-sized coxinha, teeth hitting the shredded bits of meat nested inside the dough.
Oh.
He raised a hand over his mouth.
Maybe this event wasn’t that awful, after all. Maybe.
Mr. Juste had been going off and grabbing stuff from tables—mostly drinks—chatting with random people Sabre didn’t know (and whom he probably didn’t, either), and had ordered him to stay in place so he wouldn’t lose him. The weapon was fine with that. Waiters were going around carrying trays with canapes and fruit and water and he hadn’t been forbidden to eat. So.
He could enjoy himself.
When his handler came back (for the third time) Ernesto was by his side, checking on some little notebook he’d been keeping in his pocket and gesticulating a lot. Juste was just nodding along with attention instead of opening his mouth, which was kind of unusual, but the other man seemed really excited. Sabre had a feeling of why that was.
“What do you suggest?” He was asking Juste, once the both of them got within Sabre’s earshot. He plucked an olive from his little stick and stuffed it into his mouth. They tasted strong. “Like, Nanda and I haven’t ever had the opportunity to get something like that, but you’re experienced, right? This one, the boy, how did you get him to—”
Another ambulant tray walked past, and then Sabre wasn’t listening anymore. He reached out to grab a cheese puff and a little fried something.
His shoulder was grabbed from behind before he could. He closed his eyes, opened them, took a breath. Turned behind.
“See?” Juste was speaking. Not even to him. He pushed down the frustration and looked away. “You need to train them like this. Positive reinforcement is important, but if you have a firm grip, they’ll take the cue and get used to following your lead.” Ernesto was nodding, eyes shining, as if Juste was some sort of sage or a master that was passing down valuable knowledge to the mere mortals. Juste, to his credit, was speaking as if he actually knew what he was talking about. He put a hand behind Sabre’s neck as if he’d shove him somewhere, lightly closing around just to show he could, or something. He was so weird. Sabre couldn’t help but stare at him. “Don’t overdo rewards. You should give them an adjustment period, as well, but you two can’t forget to assert the rules and that—” He stopped himself in a sudden. “Oh, there she is. Our cue.” Ernesto whipped his head to where Juste was looking at, one of the guards pointing to them beyond a door and gesturing. Sabre’s neck was released. He didn’t need to be told to follow when the handler and his friend walked away and into an unknown room.
Two white, professional corridors to the left, there was an office. Not a party room, nor a hall, an actual office. Somebody the host had hired was watching over the place, an old lady who seemed bored. She was wearing something similar to the guards, but a little golden clip was attached to her lapel. She held a pen and had her arms crossed. As the door closed behind them, Sabre just caught three places in her outfit where she could be hiding a gun or a knife (which he did not get worked up about). The previously-missing Ananda was there, too, signing something that was on a table too low for her to reach comfortably, but she didn’t seem to mind. There was a big smile dancing on her lips.
The #076 kid was sitting just behind.
Sabre didn’t straight-up look at them, risking barely a glance from the corner of his eye. They were still upset, annoyed, maybe, looking at their lap and seething under the expensive layer of linen. Ernesto beamed at their sight, which they definitely noticed but pointedly ignored, and went up to approach his partner.
They happily signed away some papers whose contents he wouldn’t be able to decipher nor guess, nodded to some of the stuff the lady was saying and sent stares to the merchandise sitting on the small sofa. Their bangs were falling over their eyes. They didn’t ever look up.
“Don’t they look happy?” Juste whispered to him, at some point. He had been mostly trying to not fall asleep standing as they worked when the handler’s voice snapped him out. He blinked, narrowing his eyes at the couple.
“If that’s what you’d call it.”
A snort. He leaned against the closed door. “It was good for them to have contact. Ever since this one was acquired some months ago, Ernesto was over the moon and convinced Any that they needed it,” he chuckled. Sabre didn’t express his reaction. He just kept looking forward to the concrete on the floor. What a maze of a facility. “Been getting sent photos and everything. I’m glad they managed to buy him.”
The weapon hummed in acknowledgement to not have to give him a response, and then Juste’s friends finally finished their stupid little paperwork and took the leash the lady had been holding. The merchandise twitched in their seat when the restraint switched hands.
“Thank you for your contribution,” the lady smiled, giving a firm handshake to Ananda. It was the first sign of emotion she’d given ever since they entered the little negotiation office. Ananda’s smile hadn’t ever faded, but it was a little more professional than that of her partner’s.
“Always,” she replied. “I’m very pleased with our acquisition. It’s been good doing business with you.”
The lady retracted her hand, giving her a slight bow. “Likewise.”
“Shall we go?” Ernesto called, already at the door. He was sending not-that-subtle glances to their brand new little pet still sitting at the corner of the room, thankfully not the one holding their leash. They’d already have been pushed to the ground with a rough pull or another from the over-excited puppy there. Ananda was far more gentle. Something dawned over them, a slight tremour settling over their features, but they slowly, as if trying to convince themself to do it, got themself up on two legs and followed the tug of her hands.
A wise choice.
They went out in a different direction than the one they’d come from, Sabre being pushed by his handler to the back, his friend’s acquisition right in front behind everyone as they were led by another guard. He let out a breath. What a long, disgustingly boring event. He really wanted to go home. The kid ahead, wobbling slightly with what he supposed was less likely weakness and more like barely-contained distaste, had their hair waving behind them as they went. They were still looking down.
When they took a turn and Sabre briefly stood side-by-side with them, he caught them glaring up to the woman holding their leash.
Hm. They really ought to follow whatever advice Juste was willing to offer. Probably. He found himself hoping that it went smoothly. He had enough experience assisting handlers at the training facilities to know all that could go wrong in the process.
He thought there’d be no car waiting for them on the way out and that they’d have to call the headquarters to send somebody to pick them up again when Juste finally received his phone back, but Andy (?) and Ernesto had their own limo and chauffeur ready to find them at their location and give Juste a ride home. Oh. That was convenient.
Whatever it was the auction house had dressed their merchandise with, it wasn’t warm. The night was cool, more now that they were probably past midnight, and he caught them trying and failing to hide chills running through their arms. Or maybe it was the fear. Who knew. Sabre was put to sit right beside them, the adults a seat in front and the leash clipped to the inside of the car. The privacy glass between the properties’ section and the owners’ one slid up, and he felt his eye twitch for the thousandth time that night. Gossipy bastards. He crossed his arms again, looking out of the window. The bought one didn’t speak.
It was only a little awkward.
The house Juste was staying in for the weekend was also way too far away, he was reminded, when half a dozen hours passed and they still hadn’t arrived. He took off his gloves, looked back inside. He was getting tired of the landscape.
The seatbelt against his chest felt tight.
“You can speak, you know,” he said out into the open, not looking at anything in particular. “They’re not listening.”
He thought he heard a scoff. The other one kept their arms firm at the sides of their body, looking in the opposite direction of him. He could guess they were glaring daggers into the cushioning.
He heard them swallow.
“I’m not fucking with you,” he added, more of a whisper. This was really boring. He wished he had another weapon to talk to, then. But that was the best he was getting.
There was another pause. Sabre considered quitting.
“Speak,” a voice muttered across the limo. It was strange, low and hoarse. Almost tentative. “And I can also run off and fly,” they snorted, copying his phrasing, then mocked, “They won’t catch me.”
He fidgeted with the gloves. They were thinner than what he was used to. “Very funny.”
They didn’t answer.
...And he’d fucked that up.
Before he could mentally mark the next twenty minutes as five hours, though, they decided to talk. Maybe they’d bought the they aren’t listening.
“...Do you know what it’ll be like?” They eventually whispered into the car. The sound was so abrupt he raised his head off the hand he’d been supporting it into and turned it in their direction. They were staring at their lap, hands fallen beyond them as if still weighted down by whatever chains they’d made them wear. “Did they buy you?”
Sabre didn’t sigh. “I’m not worth many bucks.”
They recoiled. Okay, maybe a bad joke. “He’s my handler,” he vaguely gestured in Juste’s direction through the thick glass. They raised their head a little and seemed to squint their eyes to see whatever he was pointing at. “He just drags me around. I’m not supposed to be a...” he wet his lips, didn’t allow himself to pause, “a pet.”
Something heavy fell over their shoulders. “I’m not, either.”
That’s what they all think, he thought, but didn’t say it out loud. “It’s not like they care,” he said instead, since it was mostly true. They didn’t answer.
“Are you...” they trailed off. Drew a breath. Closed their mouth. Turned their head to the other side. “No, forget it.”
“Am I what?” He frowned. He had a couple guesses for how that sentence could end. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know.
“...Willing?”
He cringed. “That’s a strong way to put it.”
They snorted again. It seemed a bit more like a laugh. “Ah. Okay.”
“You don’t need to be,” Sabre mumbled, for some reason. “Just follow through what they say and you’ll be fine,” he lied. They seemed to sulk further at that.
“Who are they?” They asked, next. Sabre glanced in their direction. Maybe they did want to talk. Or maybe they desperately wanted a source of information, that’d do it too. Sabre considered trying to extrapolate from what little he knew to give them a lead, but quit halfway through.
He leaned back against his seat. Answered, “I don’t know.” Then added, “I’m sorry.”
They fidgeted with their thumbs. “Then why you’re here?”
“My handler drags me around,” he repeated. “I told you. He’s their friend or something.” With a little bit of cotton in his mouth, he added, “He has a lot of friends.”
A heavy sigh left their lips. It was slightly dramatic. “This sucks.”
“Pretty much.”
“Why don’t you have a leash?”
His sigh, he hid. Yeah, Juste probably asked himself that pretty often. He hoped they really weren’t listening from ahead. Juste didn’t need any more ideas. He didn’t want it to become more than a joke. “I have a collar,” he said, instead. Looked at them. Their eyes, also brown, were facing him back. Wide. They were crowned with eyebags, scared, sure, tired, but not scared. He wasn’t sure if that was good. He hoped they’d manage to power through panic when they finally found it. The word collar got them to make a sour face, recoil further. Sabre made himself shrug. “We all do.”
“We?”
He breathed in. Then out. “There’s more of me. We kill,” he told them. “Hurt. Restrain. Pets don’t need ‘handlers’,” he pointed out.
They visibly tensed up. Okay, amazing.
“I wasn’t told to hurt you.”
“How old are you even supposed to be?”
He averted his gaze. “Maybe... fifteen?”
He didn’t need to be looking to see they were staring at him.
“Around fifteen,” he repeated, crossing his arms again. “I’m sure.”
They didn’t voice their disbelief. “I’m fourteen.”
“I know,” he said, then regretted it. “They said it aloud.”
They let out a load of air through their nose. “Of course.”
He stared at them for a little longer.
“You’ll survive it,” he said. “They haven’t bought you to send into the field or kill off.”
They played with their loose locks. “That isn’t very reassuring.”
He looked down. “It is.”
They drew a breath, closed their mouth. Mustered the courage to open it again.
They didn’t actually find it in them to ask him to elaborate.
Another bit of time went by, and Sabre wasn’t sure if he wanted them to drop at Juste’s temporary house already or for it to go on a little longer. He was tired. He didn’t want to get up and walk to bed. He wished they’d let him sleep here.
“Do you have a name?” They tentatively asked. Sabre had closed his eyes. Hummed something in affirmative. “And it is...?”
He opened them, groaning. Maybe that pushiness wouldn’t really serve them in the long run. But again, who was he to say anything.
“I’m probably not meant to tell you.”
“You’re probably not meant to dislike it here,” they mumbled, as if afraid to retort. Sabre pursed his lips. He’d pretend he hadn’t heard it.
The car stopped. He tensed, then realized it was just a red light. Sabre raised his hands to his face. He wished they’d stayed home. He wished the entire auction house exploded before anything could have been set up. He wished—
“I’m Nie.”
He peeled his palms from his face. “Sorry?”
They were sitting with their arms crossed, back to looking down. “I’m Nie. They called me seventy-something, but I’m Nie.”
He swallowed. “Maybe not for long.”
A pause. “Was that how it went with you?”
“I don’t remember,” he replied, annoyed. “It’s been too long.”
They tensed up. He could almost see the I’m fifteen replaying on their head. “Liar.”
“Whatever you say,” he shrugged. Nie looked to the side. He had the urge to ask them about something. If they knew how to tend wounds. If they knew how to keep quiet. If they knew how to put on a show. If they were smart enough to make it. He looked out of the car window again. He recognized the neighbourhood.
They were drawing near.
“I’m Sabre,” he mumbled. “Have been since I can remember.”
Nie’s gaze weighed on his side again. He bit the inside of his mouth.
“That sucks,” they said.
“Doesn’t,” he replied, because it was all he had the energy to. He watched the streets pass through the window. The pizza place Juste had dragged him to yesterday showed up when the car turned the corner, vanished into the distance again. Nie waited. He didn’t say anything further.
When the silence fell over their side of the car again, he didn’t resist it. He really wanted to go back to sleep.
His companion drew a breath, loudly. Exhaled it back. Drew in another, held.
It was shaky when they breathed out. Sabre kept staring out. He didn’t want to look. If it was him, he wouldn’t want to be looked at, but again, he wasn’t them. They weren’t him. They didn’t know what they were getting into.
He fidgeted with his tie again.
“Our stop,” he said, when the car started slowing down. For good. The stupid house Juste had borrowed stood tall, looming over them in their little limousine. He sighed. “You’ll go with them now.”
He heard doors clicking open on the front. He should probably unbuckle his seatbelt, too.
“Do they meet a lot?” Nie whispered, looking at him. Sabre met their gaze, uncomfortable. “Can—will—you—”
“No,” he anticipated. Looked away. “I don’t think we’ll meet again.”
They visibly held in a tsk. He took in their appearance for one last time. Their door was opened.
Nie flinched. Sabre didn’t.
He turned his head to look at Mr. Juste.
“I was resting my elbow on that.”
“Of course you were,” he replied. “Up. Or I’ll just leave you with them if you want to stay,” he teased. “That works, too.”
Sabre rolled his eyes, freed his chest from the belt. “Because you can afford to lose a Canary.”
“They’d forgive me,” Juste said. “Maybe they can give me Espa next.”
He snorted. It wasn’t a happy laugh. Nie was still in the back of the car.
Sabre sent them a last glance.
Good luck, he mouthed. Understanding downed on their eyes. They’d gotten it. Nie’s face hardened.
They didn’t look forward once as the windows rolled up, closing the last sight of their brown curls, and their new owners’ car drove away. Silence replaced the limousine’s engine. He felt cold, all of a sudden. It was probably way too late.
“So?” Juste’s arm landed heavily around his shoulder, making him actually flinch this time. The cunt. He glared at him. He was also due to go to bed. “Had fun?”
“No,” he spat. “I wish they didn’t have as much security. Could’ve had some burglar kill you and free me off your ass.”
Juste laughed into the night, nudging him towards the door.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you,” he teased. Sabre didn’t grit his teeth. “You’d get sold, too, Sabre. Loose dog without a tag.”
Sabre’s shoulders slumped as he said it, inserted his key into the door. A tag.
#076.
“It’s better than you, anyways,” he replied, voice low. The weapon walked past Juste before he could enter. Kicked off his shoes at the door. He wanted to go to bed. He made himself add, “I’d make a great pet.”
———
febuwhump taglist: @mxrr0rball @aromanticsky @oros-ash3s
(lmk if you'd like to be tagged for febuwhump! not all of these months fics will be as refined as what i strive for when i give myself more time to revise and edit them, so i separated this taglist from the main one, where you'd be tagged for those other fics.)
"sniper"
A little silly drabble ^_^ Living weapon shenigans yay <3 They are both around fourteen here.
Espada Masterlist
———
CWs: Minor character death, living weapon whumpees, mentioned corporal punishment, child whumpee (as stated above).
It was way past three AM. Sabre repressed the urge to yawn. He lightly adjusted his grip on his rifle, more out of boredom than out of necessity. He was firm on his spot for what—hours? And there was no movement coming from the neighbourhood below the hill he was settled in—no significant one anyway.
Mr. Juste was taking so long. The hell was he even doing? How hard was it to lure out the target to get him shot down? Despite his annoyance, he stayed silent, and stayed put, because as gruelingly bothersome and irritating as it was, this wasn’t play.
It was a mission.
And Sabre was a Condor. He was one to honor the title.
A faint ruffling on the bushes he was hidden in made his eyes snap to the spot, tensing up. It was so weak he wouldn’t have caught it on time if his ears weren’t this sharpened by the silence. When there was nothing else to listen to, any noise felt like a roar.
He relaxed when he saw who it was.
The figure crouched down on his side, quiet as a leaf in a day with no wind.
Espa didn’t say a thing. Not with its words. It would be foolish of them to talk out loud. But they turned to him, signing some simple signals. They’d been taught them almost a decade ago, but it was always useful. His eyes were adjusted to the dark, and her gestures were clear.
Time.
Here.
How much.
You?
Not a mission-relevant question in the slightest. He hadn’t expected one.
He resisted the urge to mutter something that would have gotten him slapped were a handler present for it. He just shot her a look that was enough to convey how done he was holding position. Its lips faintly curled up. He knew it was on purpose, to make fun of him, because Espa’s lips never curled up on their own. He deepened his scowl in response.
A mute giggle.
He didn’t know what they were doing here, nor the exact details of their part of the mission—but if they were here, it must be done. Its presence was a bit comforting. He liked it when they were assigned to the same place.
Another noise drove him out of his thoughts. This time, it came from down there. Sabre shot his vision into the spot, all of his attention sharpening on the scope of the rifle now, in a way it hadn’t been before when he was aware of his surroundings. With Espa here, he didn’t need to worry about it. She noticed his shift—it was minimal, more a change in demeanor than a movement—and took another look around, assuming position. They would guard his back if anything came to happen.
Mr. Juste was coming out of the building—finally—and in his tow, was an old dude in fancy clothes. The handler wobbled and leaned against the shorter man, looking tipsy. Sabre knew he wasn’t. The bitch never got drunk mid-operation. He was almost thankful for that. A drunk Juste was somehow even worse than a sober one.
The lights inside the building were still lit, even this dead in the night. He faintly registered the chatter of the two men, Juste’s sly smile seeming to draw the other one in. He held the target with a boring conversation which the man was no doubt, just too polite to decline. And in a very inconvenient position, at that. Sometimes, Sabre could swear his handler just did shit like this to make things harder for him. He could never know with him. They were both half-hidden by the wide awning of the apartment’s entryway, and Juste gestured way too much around him for Sabre to get a more comfortable shot.
He adjusted his aim, regardless. The weapon steadied his breathing, all his world narrowing down into one point of focus. All he could hear was his heartbeat pumping blood to his ears and the even air coming in and out of his lungs.
A thought crossed over his head, then. He could just shoot Mr. Juste here. Espa wouldn’t sell him out. He could even claim it was an accident or something. Probably would get beaten to an inch of his life regardless, but the thought of getting rid of him was worth it. The man was distracted and barely even knew Sabre’s exact position. If he did it right, he could even take out both of them with a single bullet.
The silencer muffled the shot, but in a second, the old man’s body jerked with surprise and red. Juste caught him, faux-worry visible on his face from here. He felt limp in the same breath. Limp, heavy, and dead.
Blood dripped down his temples, precisely into his brain. Sabre breathed out, relaxing his posture for the first time in hours.
He felt a little friendly punch to his shoulder. Espa gave him a proud thumbs up. He chuckled into the grass, a silent thing.
Soon after—both weapons hidden in a more closed spot now—Sabre’s speaker rang with an overly annoying voice.
“Good job,” Juste’s words pitched in his ear. He could feel himself rolling his eyes. Espa caught it, activating theirs.
“Mr. Juste.”
“Ah, Espa,” he greeted. “So you’re done with your part.”
“I’m with Sabre.”
“Great,” a pause. “Bring him. One of you is going to give me a shot in the leg in half an hour. Mind the location. Stay hidden. Go back to the camp, after. Don’t wait for me to sleep.”
“Can’t it be on the head?” Sabre asked. “‘Cuz I was just about to do it anyway. If you didn’t get out of the way there you’d have more than a hole in you already.”
He heard a laugh.
“No, Sabre. Espa, darling, make sure he gets himself five lashes for that, alright? I’ll be by the park,” he provided.
Before Sabre could think over a retort, the device’s sound gave place to the grainy static. In another second, it went mute.
A slap on his back.
He tensed and turned to her. “What?”
“Jesus, you’re stupid,” Espa muttered, sighing. Her hand wasn’t heavy in the slightest, but he was annoyed today. He didn’t like it. “I swear you seem to have some sort of death wish.”
“He likes my jokes,” he shrugged.
They rolled their eyes.
“Next time I’m the one killing you,” they poked out their tongue at him. “No, you know what? I’m giving you your lashes now.”
“Not falling for that,” he accused. She didn’t even move a finger to take off her belt.
But he knew they’d do it, eventually. Juste would be rougher on both of them if Espa didn’t. If he asked her—maybe she’d back down with it, but he wasn’t going to, anyways.
“A punch, then.”
“Mr. Juste is waiting. We should go.”
Espa repressed another sigh, seeming to genuinely want to punch him right now. He considered it a win.
The road to the coordinates the handler had given them was surrounded by nature, branches and trees concealing them in the already dark night. They made him trip on one of them on the way. Sabre glared at her.
It grinned.
“I’m gonna get you back for that,” he muttered in the dark.
Espa just chuckled.
“Of course you are,” they replied. There was no doubt behind it. They weren’t worried. Their voice was the only thing cutting through the faint noises of the woods’ path. It drew out a hand for him to take.
He picked it.
———
Espada Taglist: (lmk if you'd like to be tagged on main chapters only!) @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit
well then. Lipstick emoji :)
a bazillion heart emojis ty :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
[ask game]
💄- Doll them up
this is what happens when you let juste borrow it to one of his stupid parties
legit spent the longest time trying to settle on a color i swear theyre all so cute
and a bonus as well
i think every now and then the other handlers are like 'damn how do you keep that thing tamed hes so wild' to juste all amazed at how this seemingly defiant and troublemaking weapon still obeys to his orders and doesnt actually put up any meaningful resistance. how someone so fiery can be all bark and no bite when it's with him. but the truth is that like. it's juste's fault that sabre is like that.
Febuwhump Day 9 (ALT prompt 7): The devil you know
Nvm finishing this just have like the vision. ok.
taglist: @mxrr0rball @aromanticsky @oros-ash3s