watsonwrites (general writing tag if you want to avoid all the reblogs)
watson'saddress (answered asked)
watson'snotice (irl stuff)
watson'sprompts (the occasional whump prompt)
Some of my favorite tropes include:
𖦹° Ladies in whump!!!!
𖦹° Stoic/ defiant whumpees
𖦹° Submissive/ compliant whumpees
𖦹° Carewhumpers
𖦹° Creepy/ intimate whumpers
𖦹° Living weapon whump!!!!
𖦹° Army whump
𖦹° Med/ lab whump
𖦹° Yandere whumpers
𖦹° Sickfics!Sickfics!Sickfics!
𖦹° Stockholm Syndrome
𖦹° Drugging
𖦹° Psychological whump
𖦹° Autistic whumpees
_I have a kinda inconsistent writing/ posting schedule but I’m always open to asks or questions about my ocs/ writing, those are always welcome!
_Just to clarify, there are probably some “internet understood” things that I don’t understand. But if I offend or step on any toes on accident just lmk, and if you’re unsure about something just ask, I don’t mind!
DNI: basic dni,if you harbor any harmful ideologies towards anyone this space is not for you; just be a good person
If you like it, Pease comment! It means a lot to me!
Tws: Extremely harsh language, Gore, Threat of sexual abuse (not carried through on), Verbal and Physical abuse, Kidnapping, Restraint, this is a Torture sequence and it will be graphic
Eilene's home; May 23rd, 2011: 7:49am
026 Woke up zip-tied to a chair. It wasn't a nice chair either; it was one of those nasty old metal folding chairs, and it was rusty, too. He could tell because the bruises on his knuckles were pressed into the coarse bar of metal beneath the seat. The whole room smelled of lavender febreze and wet pennies.
On top of it all, he was blindfolded, and a musty old rag had been stuffed so far into his mouth that he had to suppress his gag reflex every time he went to inhale. He would have panicked—should have panicked, actually. Maybe he was getting used to being bound and gagged, or maybe it was just the febreze.
Honestly, he wasn't too sure.
026 tried the zip-ties, but the more he yanked, the more the plastic sunk into his flesh. Whoever invented these things should be shot. Unfortunately for him, neither the man who'd invented zip-ties, nor his guns were present. The torturous silence only stretched on as he came to his dreaded conclusion. Only one person he knew went this far with the theatrics of kidnapping, and she was the only one he knew who would even consider using lavender febreze. The audacity was the thing that made it familiar. That also told him they weren't in any of her facility buildings or unusual rented chateaus-or-whatever. This was a location he knew well, and the only one that smelled like this.
It was also the place he'd lost his fingers.
026 gave up the idea of escape even before he heard her footsteps: perfect and delicate as snowflakes. Her pull, however, was rougher than diamonds as she ripped the blindfold off his eyes. He let the scowl ripple over his face at the sight of her, his locs loose and messy in his face making an easy comparison to the perfectly sleek bun collected at the back of her head. Aw. She'd even worn a hairnet for him.
How flattering.
He tried not to flinch when she slipped her fingers under his chin—they were so cold.
“Good morning, my little puppet,” she said, “How are you feeling?” Her voice was gentler than he expected, a strange warmth hidden in it. 026 could almost have mistook her tone for affection.
The basement itself was colder than her hands. It was a large stone box, really, with a concrete floor and foundation bricks hidden behind all that deceptive plaster. The drywall had been painted a particularly boring shade of beige, but the ceiling itself was pretty much nonexistent. A few vintage-looking lightbulbs hung from the rafters, both activated by a pull switch. It looked like a torture dungeon, and that was exactly what she used it for—except, of course, for the little laundry room in the corner to his left.
“Well! Let's get started then, shall we, love?” Her smile was as sharp and venomous as a rattlesnake as she set her armful of materials on a little cart alongside her favorite pair of black leather gloves and a deep red washcloth. 026 made an attempt to curse her out, but the gag brushed against the back of his throat like a demented finger and he tried to cough. He struggled against the zip-ties, defiantly pushing up the one middle finger he still had, despite the fact it was trapped behind his back.
Her gentle hands made him shudder as she pulled the rag from his mouth, letting him gag on nothing for a few moments. He knew her well enough to read the mild air of amusement about her.
“Fuck you!” were the first words out of his mouth before he choked on his own saliva and spent the next two minutes coughing.
“Is that all?”
“HA! You wish, bitch. How about you get out of my goddamn sight and fuck yourself in the backyard with that blowtorch!”
“Oh,” she said mildly, “It's not for me, darling. But we can experiment if that's what you're asking.”
“Damn, at least—” he struggled against the zip-ties, grinning at her as he ineffectively threw himself forward, “—buy me a drink first… if you're going there!”
“You know, I think I like you a little better when you can't speak, 026,” she soothed, a tight smile decorating her face as she pulled on a surgical mask with her dancing fingers. “You're so much easier to talk to when you listen, after all.”
He inhaled, stared her defiantly in the eyes, and screamed as loud as he could possibly manage.
She frowned. It was followed by those clammy fingers of hers closing around his throat and siphoning off the noise at the source. “Now, now. I understand I've been too lenient as of late, but that doesn't give you any excuse to fight me. What have I done? Hurt you? I'm doing what I must, darling. You kill people. Am I really all that bad for making certain you do your job right?” She leaned in close, tapping a single finger delicately against his nose. “I'm certain the electric chair is much worse.”
That shut him up.
026 eyed her cart of instruments, particularly what looked to be a fire poker beside the blowtorch.
“I'm keeping you out of it, after all. Aren't I? I think a little bit of gratitude is in order.”
He glared at her in response, making a subdued snarling as her only consolation.
“No? Well, I did try my best. It seems you're really begging me to do this the hard way. It could be so simple if you only listened to me, dear. I don't understand why you must make me hurt you.” She released his throat to write something on her little notepad.
“I HAVEN'T MADE YOU DO ANYTHING!” He thrashed in his bonds as she fired the blowtorch into the end of what was now revealed to be some sort of metal stamp. He could gather nothing from those deep wells that were her eyes, for there was nothing in them besides solemn determination. She was a woman of her city, and Ethynoé was a monster.
“Yes you have. It's not my fault you're uncontrollable and rebellious. I'm trying to help you. You've only been arrested because you didn't follow my orders.”
He knew there was no way out. She was right. He didn't want to be okay with that, but somehow, he was. Resistance had become a performance because even he didn't know what he believed anymore.
She twirled the long metal rod around her fingers as easily as if it were no more than a pen. It ended pointed to the ceiling, the burnt end of her soldier's bayonet to the sky. Her grey eyes probed his muddy black ones, scraping the dirt out of him with a thousand tainted needles.
Eilene's advance stilled his struggling as he stared at her in wide-eyed terror, like a deer in headlights. He barely heard the click of the blowtorch shutting off as she placed it neatly back in its spot and returned to the iron hell in her hand. All he could do was close his eyes.
She was gentle when she bore the brand into his ribcage. Fire licked at his bones like white-hot metal against metal; it was roaring sparks and lungs full of water. A wave of hot nausea screamed through his nerves as they cried a plea for mercy and then died. A hiss of air escaped from his mouth as pain like teeth growing from his organs made him gag on his own tongue. Skin sizzled.
He was torn in half and put back together again, strings snapping like the prey of a hungry parasite. Pressure built in his head, a thousand knives twisting in a delicate dance along the brand. She sank into his flesh. Acid flowed through his tear ducts, and in all his thrashing for freedom: he was only rewarded with rotten meat—his meat. He awoke to hot coals filling his windpipe.
Chemicals carved deep gouges into every inch of his soul in a vain attempt to extinguish her flames. Her knuckles brushing tenderly across his cheek drowned out all his willpower and killed the plea for mercy budding in his throat. Steel sliced through tendon, charring at the edges like a well-done steak. He couldn't tell the metal from his bones when his vision turned white. It hurt so much he wanted to throw up, but he was a fish on a hook, and she was the lure. When she removed the brand, it peeled layers and layers of sticky, broken skin away with it. Blood filled his lungs, and agonized sweat carved rivulets of salt into his open wound. It bubbled like a witch's cauldron, stinging enough to produce another strangled shriek from between his straining teeth.
026 was too busy gasping for breath to realize what she was doing. His head slumped forward, begging for any sort of reprieve. He didn't want to know what Eilene had carved into his body. Her sessions of madness usually lasted longer than a half hour. It felt like a lifetime, but he knew it had been less than ten minutes. If he was lucky, she might consider stopping; but 026 didn't think he'd seen a single four-leaf-clover his whole life. He was still thinking about luck when he smelled the isopropanol.
His muscles tensed. For a moment, he forgot again what she'd done. The burn pulsed violently like an overheated gun or a misshapen blade. It was as if she were reforging him in a gas fire he couldn't put out. Fury burned in him at the same time as sickening curiosity. He wasn't ready for the excruciating eruption of a firework beneath the skin of his open wound—or at least, what little skin was left. Charcoal debris lodged in his flesh.
026 hated tests. He hated her. He'd seen the types of things she put in that fucking notepad. Things like: ‘Still resistant’, ‘Perhaps a tolerance?’, ‘Simulants provide complacency’, or even his least favorite; ‘He remains the optimal outcome. How much further can he stretch?’.
The sting of alcohol came like a stormcloud on a sunny day. A sudden, hot flash of death and searing metal pressed burning liquid into his open wound, almost hotter than the brand. Then it moved, in all of its disgusting, agonizing glory. It swept over the edges of the wound, shredding his muscles into carrion as desperate maggots seeped their way in, laughing at him from the shadow of his involuntary tears.
Acid soaked into his body, and he had to tolerate it through his blurry vision and rapidly fading conscious thought. It was wet. His body was soaked in flames and the desperate pus-like fluid of cells attempting to replace their dead siblings.
Tears accompanied the rubbing alcohol in burning him over and over again. He knew curiosity made her pull the soaked rag away from his wound, warm with sweat, speckles of blood, and whatever else was gushing into his canyon of charred skin. He didn't feel real anymore. All that remained was dizziness and muffled sobs.
“Oh?” Eilene crouched to be eye level with him, her grey eyes as blank as a new chalkboard as she studied him. She made a disappointed note; he wanted to kill himself.
“I'm sorry, Ms.Hallon–”
“I'm certain you are.” Her voice held the faintest hint of malice as she grabbed something smaller from the table and pulled up a stool a few inches away from him.
As he returned from the corners of his mind, she cut the zip-tie around his legs and pulled one of them up to rest on top of her lap.
“What the hell-”
The blade of a potato peeler was a strange sensation against the front side of his knee: scarred and discolored as the skin already was. Her scrape was faster than his train of thought.
“MOTHERFUCKER—!" He tried to pull away as fast as possible, but the blade was already biting his skin before he could. It sunk in, tore, and then peeled as smoothly as a ripe banana. The long ribbon-like strip of flesh hanging from his ankle dripped onto the floor: rhymically, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. She went slower the next time, the small fold of skin beneath the blade catching on the metal easily.
He thrashed in his bonds to get away from her, but she did nothing to indulge his petty, fearful struggling. Strips of flesh collapsed from his body onto the floor like spaghetti, the color of the concrete sometimes visible through the translucent folds drowning in red.
Her face remained still through it all: gracefully still—almost umovable. She never faltered, even when he tried to kick her. All that remained behind her eyes was her sick fascination with making him feel pain.
And feel it he did—every boiling inch of it, separating his flesh from himself until he couldn't remember what he was. Eilene kept scraping. The humanity peeled off of him next: in rhythmic, pristine, straight lines, her hands carved him. She moved to his other leg. His struggles weakened with every piece she took until his head hung limp, like a dead sock puppet, dark eyes staring vacantly at his own dripping appendages. He didn't even realize when she was done.
Nothing stopped the cold, bitter tears from draining down his face. Eilene made a note. He didn't notice. The strangled sob that came out of his mouth when she poured the alcohol on his new wound came from a dissociative child, not a weapon. He flinched when she zip-tied his legs back to the chair, but he didn't speak.
When 026 woke back up in hell, she was waiting. He opened his mouth to speak, but she emptied the bottle over his head as one last humiliation. He stirred to life when she turned her back on him.
“Is– IS THAT ALL YOU GOT, BITCH?”
When she swivelled around again, her tight grin glued his mouth shut. “Yes, for now. It did a pretty good number on you, I think. You look like a piece of roadkill.”
“You did this to me!”
“No, no. I think it's in the eyes,” She said absently, her fingers easily finding the railing of the stairs.
“Oh, and by the way,” 026 watched her grab the light switch, “Ray is dead.”
The long silence that stretched between them accentuated the sound of the door slamming as she plunged him into darkness.
He’s such a little shit, just yelling at nothing in particular!!
Blackmailing to not turn him in for the thing he was forced to be, treating her abuse as if this is barely anything, as if he’s not suffering either way, as if his entire life has been nothing but suffering and pain and all he has is two options of evil. Her saying that he’s making her do this augh I hate her so much! Banish her and her treachery into The Abyss.
“Resistance had become a performance because even he didn't know what he believed anymore.”
Oh sweet summer child what have they done to you? The pain is progress, always turning him into something. SHE’S turning him into something. And I love when the pain and progress eventually makes him fold over and apologize GRRR AWRRR GROWL GOING FERAL GRRRRR!!!!!!
AND STILL THE ROBOT METAPHORS!! METAL AGAINST METAL! BUT WHOSE GOING TO TELL HIM HE HAS MORE THAN JUST MECHANICS IN HIS CHEST???
But also sobbing crying curling into a ball because underneath it all he’s just a kid that was never protected the way he should’ve been.
Random but LOOK AT THE BEAUTY!!! THE WONDER AND VISION THAT IS THIS GORGEOUS ART OF A TOMATO WE GREW!!!!!!
This is our very first crop!!! (Besides basil, which we’ve pleasantly learned isn’t as complicated to keep alive as we thought!) Sadly birds got to the other two :(( but we’ve still managed to grow this majestic creature unharmed!!!!
"hold on, pl-ease," whumpee gasped out, doubling over in excruciating pain. there was something tearing inside of them, as if they were coming apart. they knew it. this was— this was different than the low thrumming pinch of the daily bruises.
"I don't have time for your whining right now," they heard, as if from a distance. there was a sharp ringing in their ears. it intensified to a pitch as whumper grabbed at their hair and yanked them upright. the agony was unlike any— a fever eclipsing their vision as blood coated their tongue. something was terribly wrong.
even so, whumper delivered a sharp kick to their torso when they wouldn't get up from their fetal position. with a last coughing cry, they felt everything fade away into inky blackness.
🛏️ Hands on faces in the dark. Your lamb twists, thrashes, and writhes in the throes of a nightmare amongst blankets and furs, heart clamouring inside their chest, disturbing the hounds at the foot of the bed.
The scraggly mutts circle the bedframe, whining and licking their hand.
Wrap them in your arms. Be their warmth, a pillar at their back. Stroke their eyebrow with the pad of a finger. Shh-shh, it’s alright. An unfamiliar bed, that’s all you have to be afraid of. Direct their hand to the hides draped over their chest. There. Soft, you see?
Tell them they’re safe. They will be unnerved by the tang of bitter herbs on their breath and tongue, but you have a wise voice that demands listening to. You know the touches to unmake fear, delicate and soothing. On their brow, cheekbones, and along their jaw to unknot the tension warring in the divots between the vertebrae of their spine.
Safe?
Draw the furs up to their shoulder. The wound there has been retied with bandages over a poultice. The downy animal hairs touch their upper lip and they sag into the comfort, breath deepening.
You are already thinking of what kind of fragrant oils you will massage into their scalp and scent their hair with.
Wave off the beady-eyed servant at the door who has been alerted by the clamour, watching for your safety.
It isn’t yet morning. Sleep. Fit the heel of your hand to their temple where the thoughts brim inside their skull.
Hours later while they drowse, lift them up under the arms, their head curved to their chest, hair falling over lids and lashes. They stir at the sound of cold water poured from a jug into a basin.
Water.
Of course. Offer them a cup. They gulp frenziedly to make up for blood lost. Lower them to the floorboards and lean their head back. Bundle a folded cloth on their brow to dam the outflow from the pitcher. Wash and comb their hair. Thread your fingers through the damp strands. Part, section, and braid, your movements exact.
Servants move about the room, opening curtains, remaking and smoothing the bed coverings. An arrangement of flowers is placed on the sill. The sunlight that sluices over the oak desk with your curls of parchment and wax seals rouses them a bit, but they are pale, shaking, and you can tell by their unsteadiness, their vision sways.
They drink palmfuls of more water from the bowl on the floor beside both of you. Exhausted by the smallest movements, they stare blankly at the clothes the servants have brought for them to dress in. Braies, hose, a shirt, tunic, and boots.
I can help you dress, if it please you.
A scowl warps their mouth. Like fucking hell you will.
Dress yourself on the other side of the room. Behind your back, hear them struggle into clothes that smell of you. Fawn-legged, their head addled by the dwale, they cannot stand on their own. Where is this place? We were in a cart.
Yes. The rest of the folk from your village have been pressed to serve King and country.
Why have you brought me here?
My estate needs another set of hands. You’re to be its caretaker. Lift them onto the bed again. They fall asleep, or feign it, belly-up like a fish in the sun. Once they’ve had a meal to soak up the dregs of medicine in their stomach, this one’s going to be trouble.
On your way out of the room to see to the day’s affairs, mention as much to the servant who had been watching at the doorway earlier. Don't intercept them, they can wander this floor all they like. Let me know when they try to run downstairs.
Captors torturing living weapon to get information out of handler because they aren't allowed to touch handler
#391
content: living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, restraints, torture, no holds barred beatdown, knives, whipping, lashing, guns, threat of death, forced to watch, stoic whumpee, self-deprecation, multiple whumpers, sadistic whumper
Whumpee wouldn't break.
Whumpee wouldn't break.
Whumpee wouldn't break.
It took blow after blow silently, its face a bloody, swollen mess by now. Its hands were going numb from how tight they'd been ziptied together, but it wouldn't break. It wouldn't make a single sound that could worry Handler.
Handler was on the other side of the mirror, it was sure. Well, it wasn't entirely certain — the case could always be that its torturers were simply getting some sadistic sense of pleasure from making it look at its own battered body. But logically, it was sure it was a one-way mirror, and Handler was on the other side.
The enemy had talked amongst themselves about how they weren't allowed to touch Handler, and that was why they were wailing on it. But it wouldn't break. It wouldn't give them what they wanted.
Handler would surely stay strong on the other side, if only Whumpee didn't break.
So it took the blows.
It took the whip.
It took the knife.
And when eventually, one of its tormentors took out a gun and aimed it at its head, it didn't flinch.
But then, the gun was lowered. Its soon-to-be-executioner put a finger to their earpiece, listening to someone say something, probably an order from a higher-up. They grinned.
"We're done here," they said, and Whumpee froze up. That couldn't mean... "Handler is chirping like a little bird. They couldn't stand the thought of losing their precious weapon."
Those last two words were dripping with sarcasm and condescension, and Whumpee found itself wholly unable to process this entire thing. Being beaten, that was one thing. Being hurt, it was used to being hurt. But its handler betraying the organisation? For its sake? When it had been so good at keeping quiet and docile?
It couldn't be Handler's fault. Whumpee must've done something wrong. It must've been Whumpee's fault somehow. Somehow, it had messed up. Somehow, it had caused Handler to stumble.
Everyone left the room, leaving Whumpee alone to stare at its reflection. Its face was unrecognisable. Its body a mess of blood and scars. It should've been dead by now.
CW: Suggestive language to a minor (nobody is aware they are a minor), creepy, stalkery behaviour
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
+++++++++++++++++
The mess hall is crowded, clamorous. Soldiers mill around, talking, brushing against each other, breathing in each others’ air.
A recent influx of manpower has ballooned the camp to capacity, and the crowding is most evident during meal times. There's talk that the major engagement on the western front will happen soon, and it's all anyone can speculate about.
Vetch tries to avoid the mess hall during peak hours when he can, more so when camp is as bloated as it is now. But meal times is when he can most reliably spot Hann.
So here he is. Seated by himself with an unopened tray in front of him. Waiting.
Hann doesn't always make it to the mess hall. Sometimes he's out in the field for days on end, cycling though back-to-back field assignments, before being shunted straight into triage.
The last time he showed up, he was grey with exhaustion, barely upright.
Vetch had wondered why the man would drag himself there when it was obvious he needed sleep more than food. Herd instinct, maybe.
Vetch clocks him the moment he shows up at the grub station, where he picks up a food tray, then stands forlorn in front of the dessert crate. He doesn't take the chocolate pudding available.
Vetch loses sight of him several times as he disappears into the mess of milling, uniformed bodies. His smaller frame is entirely obscured by taller soldiers, only reappearing where there's a gap. He's like a duck disappearing underwater, only to bob up elsewhere.
He weaves his way through the mess hall, approaching a rowdy table where the people seem to know him. He slips in effortlessly, sets his tray down.
Not at the centre, and not at the periphery either. Close enough to belong, and far out enough to leave without attention. Safe.
A soldier at the centre of the group is loudly recounting an unlikely escape from an enemy battle drone, drawing laughter from the table. Without taking his attention off the storyteller, Hann peels the wrap off his food tray, only looking at it when the plastic is off.
He studies his food, then looks between his tray and the one belonging to the quiet soldier adjacent to him.
Vetch remembers the man. Taller and broader, he still somehow manages to seem younger than the medic. It's Mok's farmer boy. His tray is nearly empty.
Hann exchanges a few words with him, and they come to some agreement. Half of Hann's protein mash goes into the other man's tray, and now, the man is passing over his bright yellow pudding cup.
An exchange.
Vetch glances at his own dessert in front of him. It's the same eye-searing colour. Some exotic fruit called "mango".
Hann holds the dessert up like it's a prize, inordinately pleased. A quirk lifts up the side of his face.
And something twists inside of Vetch's chest. In the exact same shape of that crooked smile.
It's a feeling that makes him wince. He's not sure he likes it.
Instead of dwelling on it, Vetch watches Hann's hands. Even with his attention switching between the centre of the table, and the people next to him, his hands are precise and sure. The economy of movement seems to belong in a surgery rather than a mess hall.
Hann eats without fanfare, his attention more on the conversations around him than the meal. He nods and grins, laughs out loud when appropriate, angling toward the reserved soldier next to him on occasion.
When it seems a conversation is about to stall, he throws in a question or a quip. Just enough momentum for the conversation to roll on. Even the farmer boy starts to respond with small smiles and nods.
And the focus never remains on Hann. He holds it momentarily, long enough for people to register him, and then he slips it off and hands it right over.
When attention is aimed directly at him, he... ducks. Gracefully. Disappears momentarily and reappears when the focus has passed him by.
Nobody seems to notice.
Vetch wonders what Hann would do if the attention didn't shift off him. Would that blithe, carefree smile falter?
Vetch finds himself smiling. He would like to see Hann flail. Now, that would be real.
The table erupts in mirth again.
Vetch watches the smile stretch across Hann's face. Glossy and frictionless. A transparent barrier.
He feels his lip curl with disdain for the people at the table. That they would be so easily duped by the shiny, plastic facade Hann is putting up.
Stupid.
He doesn't want to have what they have with him. To be talking to him and sitting at the same table, close enough to share food; and yet not perceive that everything is sliding past him and around him, untouching and untouchable—
No. Vetch doesn't want that at all. What he wants is...
He wants... to dig his fingers in and find the edges. Peel them back. See what's underneath.
His pulse pounds in his temples. That odd twist in his chest again.
Yes.
He doesn't know what the question is; not yet. But the answer is yes.
He looks down at his tray, the wrapper still on. He is suddenly hungry.
He lifts the corner and tugs at it. The margin comes off in a strip, leaving the rest of the plastic film still on.
He stares at it, mildly amused. Finally uses the sharp edge of his utensil to perforate the wrapper and saw along the inside of the tray's edge so the wrapper curls back.
He had counted on the packaging to keep his food warm, but he's waited too long. The food is glossy with cooled grease. Curdled.
When he looks up again, Hann is getting up, empty tray balanced in one hand. His departure hardly causes a ripple.
Hann disappears into the crowd.
+++++++++++++++++
It doesn't take much to arrange for Vetch to get his name on the roster next to Hann's for inventory duty.
The med-tech he's replacing doesn't even ask why. Simply pockets the pack of cigarettes Vetch hands him and says "okay." It's not a task that requires any sort of clearance, not for uncrating medical supplies like pressure bandages and injector cartridges.
When Vetch arrives at the logistics bay, one of the crates is already opened. Someone is tipped halfway into it, his off-tune humming drifting up with the rattle of supplies being gathered.
When Hann pivots himself out, his hair is tousled, shirt tail hanging out the back of his pants. An armful of medical supplies in wrapped plastic trays go on the table, and Vetch watches as Hann adjusts his sleeves. He doesn't seem to notice that one is higher than the other.
Vetch waits until Hann's fingers are flying over cartridges, checking them against the records on the datapad, before he decides to step in. Hann glances up, his hands not stopping.
"Here to do inventory," Vetch says.
Hann's smile is friendly, if slightly quizzical. "I thought Syllo's name was on the roster," he says.
Vetch shrugs. "I didn't mind doing him the favour."
He picks up the crowbar off the floor. "This the next one to open?" he asks, using it to point at the crate next to Hann.
The medic nods, and Vetch gets to work. He taps the edges of the crate with the tool, and finds the corner that seems easiest to wedge the sharp edge of the crowbar into.
He shoves it hard into the gap, and flexes, prying the lid of the crate off neatly. The fabric of his uniform goes tight against his back and shoulders.
The medic whistles, low and impressed. "That was fast," he says. "Took me a full ten minutes to get mine open."
He gestures at the wrecked lid lying in pieces on the ground.
Vetch pulls the lid of his crate off. Places it neatly on the side next to the crowbar.
"It's just about finding the right spot to apply pressure," he says. "Once you find it, it wants to open up."
"Huh," Hann says. "Guess you've got a talent for it."
The soldier puts out a hand in greeting. "Vetch," he offers.
The hand that closes over his is unexpectedly hard and callused. A sharp, downward tug. "Hann," the medic says.
"The Ghosthands," Vetch says.
He still feels Hann's calluses against his palm, even though the man's hands are back counting cartridges.
"Not that again," Hann says, his grin crooked and discomfited.
"You have quite the reputation," Vetch says. "Cool under pressure, impossibly fast--"
"--seven feet tall, eyes lit with fire, farts smelling like napalm and jet fuel..."
"You don't like the reputation? Most would kill to be this well respected."
Hann's laugh is bright. "I got it after I almost dropped a scalpel blade-first into someone's open chest cavity. Caught it out of the air and then made finger guns at the senior med. Pew pew."
Vetch looks at him, searching his grin for something to anchor on to. "Is that true?"
Hann's expression looks like it belongs in a magazine. "Sliced my palm open from grabbing the scalpel," he says.
He mimes a slash across his open hand.
"I've seen you work," Vetch says. "Never seen someone move like that."
Hann shrugs. "My dad bought me a juggling kit for my birthday," he says. "Made me dexterous."
He starts juggling three empty cartridge boxes. Badly.
Vetch doesn't flinch as one of them almost hits him.
Hann grins as he lets the boxes fall. "I only practiced for two weeks before I gave up. Maybe if I had kept at it, I wouldn't have dropped that scalpel in the first place."
"Maybe," Vetch says mildly, backing off.
He starts laying out boxes of gauze and bandages on one of the table surfaces.
They work quietly, the silence only broken by Hann's broken humming.
Vetch watches the medic as the man scratches his chest, above the name tag. Vetch pauses, distracted; he wonders what it would be like to press his own fingers against it.
Hann glances up, catches his look.
"What does the R stand for?" Vetch says.
Hann looks down, at his tag, which reads "R. Hann".
"Funny story," he says,"my mother loved names that start with R; she named the cat Radar, which--"
"My name is David," Vetch says.
Hann's mouth is still curved over the last word he'd said. Vetch watches him slowly unfurl his lips out of the deflection.
There is a guarded set to his face as he swivels to regard Vetch fully.
He shifts a box as if to align it, even though its already perfectly oriented.
"... Riko," he says carefully.
An exchange.
Vetch smiles. Finally something real.
"Riko," he says. Feeling the name out in his mouth. Holding the medic's circumspect gaze.
"Nice to meet you."
He picks up the crowbar again. Riko watches him, his hands gone still over the supplies.
And Vetch carefully cracks open another crate.
+++++++++++++++++
Mok leans deep into the smaller man's personal space. "You have pretty eyes," he breathes into his ear. "I'd love to have them looking up at me as I--"
"What?" the man yells. "Hard of hearing! And the music's too loud!"
To be fair, the music at the bar is loud. It's pounding out of the hidden ceiling speakers, and no amount of angling makes it easier to be heard.
"You have pretty eyes," Mok yells back.
"Thank you," the man says, and his voice sounds closer to normal. Mok finds himself regulating his voice down too.
He's met by a grin. He grins back. He feels like he's somehow been maneuvered.
No matter. Maybe Min will have better luck.
He tugs at her hand, pulling at her. She's loose and lets herself be yanked forward in a way that she would never have tolerated without a couple of pints in her.
"What," she grouses.
He tucks her under his chin, holding her head between his two large hands, and angles her head so she's looking at the man in the medic uniform.
"How about this one?"
There's a pause as she takes him in. He knows she's decided even before she leans forward. The medic looks amused.
"How about it, sweetcheeks, how would you like my thighs wrapped around your head tonight?"
The man’s laugh is loose and easy.
"I'm flattered," he says. "You're both very attractive, but I am still waiting on my lab results to come back." And he gestures at the area below his belt.
Min makes an annoyed "tch" and waves her hand, dismissing him.
"Maybe next time," Mok says with a wink, and follows her as she turns away.
Further down the bar, Vetch watches.
The medic turns to the counter, chuckling. His fingers patter over the counter, and pick up the coaster again. He'd laid it down when Mok approached him, but now it's back in his hand.
Vetch watches him fiddle aimlessly with it. Then he taps the edge of it against the surface of the bar.
Once. Then twice.
Tap. Tap-tap.
And then he clips it between two fingers, flips it unexpectedly into the air. It behaves like it's strung to his fingers. Controlled, puppeted. Obedient to the gravity of his hands.
Somehow the coaster ends up on the back of his hand, and he rolls it along his knuckles, like a magician with a coin. Deft fingers tip it on its corner against the bar counter, and now it's spinning in an impossible pirouette, so fast that it's a holographic blur on the bar counter.
Vetch can't tear his eyes away. And Riko isn't even looking at it.
Instead, his eyes are glued to the bartender as if willing the man to move faster with the drinks order he’d placed fifteen minutes ago.
"Same line you used two weeks ago," Vetch says.
The coaster stops spinning and flickering between his fingers. Goes face down onto the bar.
Riko turns.
"What?" he says.
"You used the same line two weeks ago. You should at least say you’re on medication now."
A flicker of recognition. Riko's grin comes up a beat late. A tad too bright.
"Don’t need a new story. I said the same thing to them last week," he says. "They don’t remember me."
"It must bother you," Vetch says.
Riko shakes his head. "Better to be forgettable."
Vetch nods slowly. Taking that in.
They watch as Mok and Min make their way down to the end of the bar. They hover there, looking down to the middle of the counter, and Vetch sees Mok's farmer boy seated on one of the stools, his feet hooked together.
"Looks like they've got their eyes set on Jonk," Riko says.
Jonk catches the heated gazes they are throwing in his direction. He's watching them as Mok and Min slowly push themselves off the bar, and head together into the back of the establishment. Min throws Jonk a deliberate look over her shoulder.
His face blazes red, all the way up his scalp.
To his credit, he waits enough time to not call attention to himself before he unlaces his feet from the stool and goes down the same hallway.
Not his first time with them, then.
Riko turns, so his back is against the edge of the bar. His elbows rest against it.
There is a scar across the inside of his forearm. It close enough that Vetch could touch it if he reached out. What would Riko do if he did?
"There are at least three people with their eyes on you, if you're looking for company," Riko says. "I could wingman for you." He tilts his chin surreptitiously, pointing Vetch's attention to someone across the room.
Vetch doesn't look. Glances instead at that coaster face down on the bar.
"I'm good," Vetch says.
A small beat. And then Riko shrugs.
"Yeah, same... not feeling it tonight." He turns toward the counter, leans his arms against it, so they're both facing the same way.
Vetch glances up at Riko, studies the lean angles of his profile. Something just happened there, and he's not sure what. Riko is running circles around him, in the dark.
He frowns down at his bright yellow cocktail. Dips his fingertip in the moisture trickling off the outside of his glass onto the bar, drags it across the sticky countertop until his finger jitters dry against the surface.
Riko glances at the drink. "What's that?" he asks.
Vetch looks at it. Taps the glass. The yellow slush inside collapses into itself.
"Some fruit. Mingo, I think. Or mungo."
Riko smiles. Doesn't take the bait.
"Is it any good?"
"Unusual," Vetch says. "But growing on me." Vetch rotates the drink so the little pink paper umbrella is facing Riko. "You should get one."
"Nah," Riko says. "Waiting on my beer. Which is... taking forever." Riko leans over the counter, trying to spot the bartender, who is crouched down in the far end behind the bar.
"Are you really hard of hearing?" Vetch asks.
Riko's grin is back. "Was caught in a tunnel blast on the southern front last year. Explosions tend to mess with your hearing."
Vetch nods. Riko didn’t answer his question. Vetch tries not to look at the coaster.
Jonk wanders out the hallway, his face still blazing red. He takes his seat by the bar again. Even though he's angled himself away from the corridor he came from, there is a perceptible shift in his shoulders when Mok and Min stroll out moments later.
Impossibly, Jonk flushes even redder. He presses his lips together, to keep his mouth curving up.
"Hm," Riko says. He sounds amused.
The bartender arrives with Riko's order. Nine bottles of beer for his table.
"Finally!" he exclaims. "See you around, big guy."
Vetch watches him leave, balancing the bottles overhead on a tray that is too small. Sidesteps a drunk patron that upends a stool in front of him.
He makes it without incident to his table, where he is greeted with glad yells.
Vetch pulls his gaze to the coaster Riko left behind. Face-down, askew, damp from the condensation coming off Vetch's glass.
He slides the cardboard mat toward himself. Picks it up, holds it on its side.
Taps it once. Twice.
Tap. Tap-tap.
Lays it face up. Aligns it straight, parallel with the edge of the bar.
+++++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
Note: Ok enough of the buildup! Next chapter is the inciting incident! We get to see what actually tips Vetch over into Whump. It’s more actiony yayyyyyy
This chapter took a bit longer to write because I was trying to finesse something I couldn't quite name. I think I managed to do it, but I also wonder if I am not somewhat delusional, and the landing I struggled so mightily to achieve is entirely imaginary.
But really, the main reason is fuck Vetch.
Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky (crooning sweet nothings into your ears. Shsshh shhhh, stay still, don't struggle)
CW: Suggestive language, battle injuries, minor character death
Note: This chapter PRECEDES the whumpy chapters. Felt I needed to properly introduce Riko and Vetch so things make sense afterward.
Note 2: Yes, Hann is Riko.
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
+++++++++++++++++
10 WEEKS PRIOR
Sweat trickles down Vetch's spine, gathering at the small of his back. His pulse is already dropping back down to baseline.
Soldiers in sweat-patchy shorts and t-shirts are already dispersing after the run. Some are heading to the showers, or on to the gym-- a generous name for the mismatched collection of free weights that have accumulated in the open area next to the truck bays.
Mok and Min remain, turning to watch with Vetch as an air transport hovers, throwing a long shadow across the scorched ground of the landing field. Vetch feels its low thrum vibrating through his teeth.
Mok lets the water from his canteen run over his head, then shakes his hair like a dog over Min, where she's crouched tying a shoelace. She hisses in annoyance and punches him in the thigh.
The air transport lands heavy, sending up a cloud of dust. As the gangway rolls out, they see a small group gather by the transport, being briefed by someone handing out documents. They are shadowed shapes, barely visible in the dim interior.
A slant of sunlight illuminates their legs from the knees down. Vetch estimates eight men, excluding the one conducting the briefing.
Mok rolls his shoulders, and shades his eyes against the setting sun to see.
"About time they sent new people. How many are we down since last month? Twenty? Twenty-five?"
Min squints into the sun. "You're only invested because you're running out of new bed partners," she says.
Mok grins, and his teeth bright against his dark skin. "Like you're any different," he says, tugging at her ponytail. "With any luck there'll be a lanky, dark-eyed one, just for you."
"I should be so lucky," she sighs.
He grins. "If you weren't so fussy, you'd actually enjoy the buffet."
Min rolls her eyes and turns to the silent man standing behind them. He's still watching the small shadowed group. "How about you, Vetch? You got a type?"
He doesn't take his pale eyes off the transport.
"No," he says simply. And then, "We need medics."
He takes a swig from his canteen.
Seconds later, a small group of men troop out the transport, the clatter of their boots barely audible over the low roar of the transport. Their uniforms are crisp, their boots still stiff on their feet, barely broken in.
Mok points his chin at a hefty, blonde youth, who looks like he's fresh out of bootcamp. The kid's eyes are wide and searching in his broad, genial face.
"Ooh, I've got dibs on farmer boy over there. I'm going to fold that one like a pretzel."
"He's more likely to fold you like a pretzel," Min scoffs. "Look at the size of him."
The small group clusters at the bottom of the gangway, then trots over to the sergeant who is waving them over away from the air transport.
Vetch almost misses the last person out the aircraft. A smaller man, stepping out into the sunshine.
He's dressed in a medic's uniform, the sleeves cuffed halfway up his arms. Even this far away, they can see his med pac is weathered, the colour faded and the edges fraying. The straps have been modified so that the pack moves with him instead of jouncing about as he jogs over to the group.
His short, wavy hair is dark and mousy even in the sun, and the man himself is nondescript, if smaller than most.
"There's a brunette for you," Mok says.
Min hums noncommittally. "Too small," she says. "I could pick him up and bounce him like a ball."
"Looks seasoned," Vetch notes, taking in the sure gait, the easy salute.
The sergeant takes the document that the medic pulls out of his vest, and points the man towards central medical, beyond Vetch and his group. The rest he sends to the intake office, in the other direction.
The medic walks towards them at a clip, like he already belongs. He jerks his chin at the low building behind them as he draws up.
"Central medical that way?" he calls. Now closer, they see he looks young, but the planes of his face are lean.
"Yup," Mok says, making the 'p' pop. "My name is Mok," he offers.
"Hann," the man says. He doesn't slow down or offer a hand in greeting. The smile is friendly enough, but Vetch is reminded of the edge of a knife.
"You look for me if you need anything, okay Hann?" Mok calls as he nears them. "Me or my very good friend here, Min."
Hann offers his knifelike smile again. "Hello, Min."
His eyes flick up briefly at Vetch, a small wordless acknowledgement of his presence.
"Anything you need, day or night, okay Hann?" Mok yodels after him.
Hann waves without turning, his steps not slowing a beat.
They watch him duck into the low white building.
"What happened to your interest in farmer boy?" Min says.
"I'm an equal opportunity pretzel bender."
The reverberating hum of the air transport cycles up a pitch, and the gangway clanks as it's drawn back up.
Min empties her water canteen onto the ground. "Well, at least we got a medic, like Vetch wanted. God knows we need those," she says.
She starts nudging Mok towards the barracks. "See you, Vetch," she calls.
Vetch nods, and then remains, watching the air transport blow dirt and dead grass into the air as it lifts off and rises into the twilight.
+++++++++++++++++++++
Vetch sees Hann again a week later, after the big skirmish on the western front.
Vetch is in with a long but shallow laceration down his forearm, nothing serious enough to require emergency triage. So he waits patiently, pressing gauze against his arm, until the ones with the guts hanging outside their body are attended to.
He gets to watch Hann at work.
Vetch has seen plenty of medics. They all have that disciplined briskness about the way they move. No-one stays a frontline medic long without very quickly learning that hesitance costs lives.
But Hann displays more than the precision and decisiveness of a good medic. There is an almost fae quality to the way his hands move, as if each possesses a preternatural awareness of their own.
Vetch watches Hann shear impossibly fast through a bloody uniform, sure and unerring. Nimble fingers pulling out the exact injector he needs from the triage kit. He checks it and uncaps it, in the same movement it takes to jab it into the screaming soldier that's trying to buck off the contingent of medics trying to hold him down.
There is no sense of flashiness or performative intent. Just spare, elegant execution-- movements that flow from one to the next, as if he had practiced according to some secret schematic.
It would be uncanny, if it wasn't also... beautiful.
Each time Vetch blinks, the lingering imprint of Hann's hands form a perfect, graceful image on his retinas. Like a butterfly in a display case.
His hand curled around an injector, thumb poised over the trigger. Imprint.
Hann is cupping a soldier's face up, his thumb on her jaw, the other hand curled around the light aimed into her pupils. Vetch shuts his eyes. Imprint.
Hann is easing a line into another soldier's vein. Vetch shuts his eyes. Imprint.
"Kid's got magic hands," he hears a voice say, to his right. It's a soldier, hand clutched over a leaking bandage over his flank.
"Yeah," Vetch says. "He's... fast."
"Joined us two weeks ago. Came with a callsign, Ghosthands."
Vetch turns to look at Hann again. A soldier is yelling profanities, trying to push Hann's hands away from his torn midriff. The medic simply avoids the man's violent hands, rerouting effortlessly to reach the wound.
Vetch wonders what it would be like to have those strange, fascinating hands go still. Palm up, pressed open and immobile, so he can look.
"Hm," is all he can say.
The man is still talking. "Thought it was a stupid name at first. Thought maybe the kid was seeding it around camp, trying to boost his own rep. You know the kind."
Vetch nods absently.
The man shifts his grip on his side, readjusting the slipping bandage. "It fits, if you ask me. Ghosthands."
He chuckles. "I mean, look at him. Those hands."
Hann has paused, over the body of a soldier who has stopped breathing. The other medics are moving on, wheeling away equipment.
Vetch cannot see Hann's face, only the top of his head. The tips of his fingers rest momentarily on the still, bare chest.
Vetch shuts his eyes. Imprint.
When he opens his eyes, the medic is gone.
Only the soldier remains, inert.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen (I think about you guys a NORMAL, HEALTHY amount)
CW: Aftermath of stabbing/beating, manhandling, withheld medical help, inverse care, general whump, minor!whump (but the attackers don't know), a lot of non-consensual touching
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
<< Masterlist
+++++++++++++++++
Riko's pupils aren't tracking. Just drifting. Vetch wonders what he's seeing; if he's seeing anything at all.
"This is going to make you feel better," he promises.
He jams the stim into Riko’s arm.
Again, the few moments of stillness. And then Riko arches violently, jerks upright with an awful noise. His limbs fire at random, reaching, spilling half the kit.
“There you are,” Vetch says, pleased. “Back in the room.”
He pushes the kit closer to Riko.
"You're doing so well, Riko." he murmurs. "Let's go again."
He leans in close, hanging an arm over a knee. Watches Riko's face as he blinks dazedly at the kit. A hand hovers. Goes for something.
Vetch sees the change on his face before he registers the motion on his periphery.
Riko’s fist, low and fast, arcing toward him.
Vetch's reflexes kick in. He tips back; a crisp, exact maneuver that leaves him just outside the arc. A glimpse of Riko; teeth bared, eyes dark and narrowed with intent.
The swing is more desperate than it is forceful. Still, it's a close call. Plastic skids across his collarbone. Leaves a clean sting behind.
Vetch catches Riko's wrist easily. He turns the hand, looks at what is in his grip. An injector, the needle out. A fast-acting sedative.
He squeezes until Riko lets go. It falls to the floor with a small, plastic clatter.
Vetch touches his other hand to the scrape on his collarbone.
"A souvenir. Sweet of you."
Riko’s weight tugs at Vetch’s grip. He’s slipping down sideways, boneless. Vetch eases him down gently, lays Riko’s hand down next to the cheek that’s pressed into the ground.
The stubborn tamp of Riko's mouth is gone now. His breathing breaks through in short, rhythmic stutters; the sound of effort collapsing.
Tears leak from his eyes unnoticed, dotting the concrete. His eyes are hazing, the fury in them dimming with the effects of the stim.
Vetch is drawn in like a moth. He dips a careful finger into a wet spot on the ground. Smears it out as far as it will go, until the moisture peters out under his fingertip.
“God," he whispers. "You’re beautiful like this.”
Riko is fading again, used up already. His gut patch is soaked through. That last move had restarted the bleeding.
Vetch rolls the third stim between his fingers. One of the good ones. Red.
+++++++++++++++++++
He sits cross-legged beside Riko.
“Last one,” he says softly. “Gotta make it count.”
No response.
Vetch brushes sweat-damp hair from Riko’s face. Smooths blood from his chin with a thumb.
He touches the stim into the soft tissue just above the collarbone and triggers it.
Riko comes back gasping. A deep, awful sound. His eyes are wide. Horrified.
His eyes find Vetch, just for a moment. And then they slide right off. It's only been seconds, but Riko's gaze is already fragmenting.
He's barely surfaced and he's sinking again. Vetch knows he has precious few moments for the next part.
He guides Riko upright, tugging at him insistently, as if he is helping a drunk friend sit up. “There we go.”
Riko makes a small sound, like a child waking from a fever. His hand is over his gut, but loose, like he can't remember why he had it there.
Vetch crouches beside him.
"Riko," he whispers.
The word means nothing to a brain starved of oxygen. But the tone…
Something in it makes Riko still, just for a second.
“Hey... hey... look at me.” Soft, like a lover.
Riko doesn't.
The moment slips past untouched.
“Come on. You’ve got this. Stay with me.” Firmer now, like a leader coaxing strength.
Riko reacts, but not toward him. Something in him veers away.
Vetch reaches for the back of Riko’s neck. Cups it in his palm, thumb brushing quiet arcs along the hairline. Quiet, gentle contact.
“No one’s going to hurt you now,” he murmurs. Warm and enveloping.
Not fatherly. Something older. Something he knows will land deeper.
“You’re not alone.”
Riko is beyond thinking, beyond recognition. But he blinks slow, turns minutely toward Vetch.
Something opens, just a crack. It's all Vetch needs.
Vetch lets his hand slide forward, cradling the planes of Riko’s face. A thumb brushes away the blood and tears in one long, smooth stroke.
“You're safe,” he says, voice pitched low and warm.
And Riko, who has held himself through pain, failure, and mockery, finally gives himself over.
His head falls forward, and Vetch catches his cheek in his palm. Riko surrenders his weight into Vetch’s hand. Like a bird nestling into a hunter’s grasp.
Vetch smile stretches slow across his face. Soft. Satisfied.
“This,” he whispers, forehead touching Riko’s, “is the part I’ll remember.”
He holds him like that a moment longer.
Before his hand goes to the belt around Riko's leg.
He unbuckles it slowly, with care.
Riko's eyes flick towards it. His mouth moves but there is no sound. His hand drifts toward the belt, too low, too slow. It sags just before reaching it.
Vetch pulls the belt free.
Riko's gaze barely follows it, eyes emptying.
The result is immediate. Blood wells out of the wound, spills over the fabric of his leg. Unstoppable.
The weight of Riko's head is still in his hand.
Vetch leans in. Watches the pupils go wide and dark, the blinks slowing.
Breath brushes into his palm, light and staccato.
The lids drift halfway down. Don't rise again.
And he begins to fall.
Vetch catches him. Lowers him slow. Sets him down the way he would’ve landed.
He feels the fall move through his hands. Quiet. Complete. Claimed.
Small, wet, ugly sounds slip out of the slack mouth. Vetch can tell; Riko is absent. These are-- and his mind flicks to the medical manuals again-- agonal breaths. A body's final, mindless mimicry of breath.
Vetch thinks it's the most honest thing he's heard from Riko, ever.
Even as the body sags and stills, one hand keeps flexing in the air. It is not reaching for anything anymore. Just nerves firing without meaning.
Vetch leans forward and closes his own hand over Riko's. Softly.
"There now," he whispers. “You’re through the worst of it.”
He waits. Feeling Riko’s hand move gently in his, until it finally goes still.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vetch stays on, as the blood slows its spread, and Riko's body goes slack in stages.
Vetch sits in the moment, with the air of a man still enraptured by the last luminous notes of a song hanging in the air.
This quiet, this stillness, it could so easily be mistaken for emptiness. But Vetch knows better.
He tilts his head. Studies the body with unhurried calm. The hand in his grasp is cooling, but he doesn’t let go. He runs a thumb slowly across the calluses on Riko’s palm, traces each one carefully. Trying to commit the feel of them into memory.
He has so many of them; memories. All of them snatched from a distance. A grin in passing. A glimpse of Riko's hands pressing down on a bloody, torn uniform, barely glimpsed through the chaos of a post-battle medic tent. His fingers, worrying at the edge of a bottle label; his laughter sparking under the clutter of bar chatter.
So many. But none of them his, not really.
But this. This is his.
Shifting position, he eases the body gently onto its back. Clothes cling to skin, soaked through with red.
He unfastens the collar, baring the throat and upper chest. Examines the bruises. The cuts. A finger drifts along the collarbone, pauses where it's kinked in the middle.
Vetch turns the face into the light. The head rolls easily... no resistance now.
Then both hands close over the throat. A gentle squeeze. Under Vetch's grip, something inside shifts brokenly. Blood wells up. Fills the mouth and spills slowly down the sides of the face.
“I always wondered what it would take to shut you up,” he whispers.
He lets go. Runs his thumb across the slack mouth, pressing the lips out of shape.
A sense of grateful wonder fills Vetch's chest. To see Riko this way, so pliant and unresistant. Not with a smirk quirking his lips, or his smart mouth talking, trying to manipulate attention away from himself.
Away, always away.
Now, finally still. Finally here, with him.
Two fingers push through. Past parted lips, lax and yielding. Past the still tongue, slick with blood, and to the back of his throat. No gag reflex.
He pulls back, wipes his hand on his thigh, and stands.
Despite standing a full head beneath him, Riko always took up more space than his frame warranted.
But now, from this angle, the slumped figure under him looks so much smaller. As if some internal framework has collapsed, left him hollow and folded into himself.
Experimentally, he nudges the side of the ribcage with his boot.
The body rocks. Loose and unanchored. Like... a thing. He watches the movement with fascination.
He leans in once more. His hand is slow with care as he runs his hand through hair pressed flat with sweat and blood.
He stays a while longer. Silent. Simply beholding. The moment too deep for words.
Eventually, the moment thins.
And then it is gone.
He straightens up. “Goodnight, Riko,” he mutters.
He kicks the body in the ribs. Hard enough for it to roll, landing in a slump against the wall.
A hand flops, landing palm up on the ground.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
<< Masterlist
Comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer (whispers: you people get it)
