“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Whumper cuts Whumpee off, grabbing them by the roots of their hair and wrenching their head back so their neck is exposed and vulnerable. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. I can do any damn thing I want.”
We're on to Part II of our now 2-years of RPing with @i-eat-worlds! The hurt-comfort-whump-wonderfulness shall continue until morale improves.
A huge thank you to everyone who read The Wolf and His Flock <3 and an invitation to anyone who's interested in either of our series (Freelancers or Alex & Friends) to check out this epic crossover!
Content: Living weapon, medical whump, caretaker new whumper, recovery, action/adventure, angst, implied past rape and abuse
Fevers in places that are already either way too hot or way too cold for comfort 🙏
In a building or a vehicle that has the A/C cooling all the way up. Outside on a really chilly night. In a drafty house in winter. Woefully underdressed for the climate. They were already shivering a little from the fever, and they’d probably shiver a little in this situation even if they didn’t have a fever, so in combination they’re shivering enough it’s making their teeth chatter. It’s sapping every last bit of energy they had, really quickly and efficiently.
Dead of summer. Vehicle or building with broken A/C, or just A/C turned way too low. On a hike in the sun. In long sleeves or long pants when it’s too hot for something like that. Overworking and feeling way too physically warm from it. Maybe they can even tolerate the heat just fine normally, maybe they can’t, but either way it’s putting them far over the edge and it’s making them flushed and sweaty and nauseous. Just maximum possible discomfort from this fever.
The Sentry and the Strays: The Lost Boy #2 - 'Violet Hill'
Previous Part: [X]
Masterlist: [X]
Wordcount: 3408
Warnings: Mentions of SA | Mild Gore
The cutter screamed as it bit into the plating; sparks flying and gloves singing at the edges, yet Fennec stubbornly adjusted his grip, one boot braced against the wall as he forced the blade through the alloy. It gave as much as it could, but eventually the Red Diamond blade won the fight, and the pile of strips began to build on the trolley behind him. The derelict freighter groaned under the pressure; a final guttural croak as the life was slowly pulled from it bolt by bolt, and strips of metal were collected to be re-melted into something functional. Fennec sometimes felt a strange sense of empathy for the ships; they held a likeness to him that felt raw and unimpeded. There was steel, but it still gave way if the blade was sharp enough.
Nausea tugged at his stomach - the combined fault of having forgotten to eat hitting the pints of bottom shelf alcohol he’d had the night before, and the pills that sat even further down in his stomach. Still, what the doctors didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them, as the alcohol always made his mind clearer somehow, allowing for his short term memory to start stitching together.
As expected, The Ballast has been noisy: layers of overlapping conversations in several languages, the raucous cheers of winners, and unsettled arguments rearing their ugly heads in the middle of drunken conversation. The floor, discoloured and chipped from pavement grit, was tacky underfoot like velcro, and the building reeked with the tang of smoke, stale beer and oil. He’d stuck close to Willman, listlessly following him deeper into the belly of the beast as he felt eyes on the back of his head. He had his arms wrapped around himself despite the warmth lingering in the air, and kept his head low, allowing his long-ish hair to hide his soft complexion.
Instead of rolling his eyes, Willman easily pulled him up to the copper bar top and quickly put the drinks order in. Next to them, a pair of Recland workers groaned at the apparent favouritism.
“Just something light.” He leaned over to ask the bartender, who smiled and easily passed the beers across the counter as soon as payment was made. Willman took them both before Fennec could even pull a hand from his pocket, and gestured vaguely with his head. He carved a path through the noise with easy familiarity, and greeted many by name as they passed. Fennec's eyes stayed to the ground, shuffling his feet awkwardly with the idle desire for community. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he would be able to remember their names.
Before long, Fennec had found himself sitting on an unbalanced stool around a table with a small group of Scrappers. He feigned familiarity when they greeted him, and he took the pint to his lips in order to keep them busy. The first sip was bitter and malty; the second and third were easier. He wrote as much in his journal.
Conversation passed comfortably above him, though he offered answers when appropriate. He waited for comments that never came; and drank accordingly to the level of alcohol still left in the group's glasses. He tried to hunch in on himself as much as possible, as his back was to an apparent walkway between patrons, and he often caught the edge of someone's coat - or an elbow depending on their level of intoxication. Each spark of contact sent prickles across his skin, so he tried his best to keep tabs on the conversation at hand. Every time he opened his mouth, he braced for impact; for the inevitable silencing remark that never came. They didn’t comment on his voice that carried a softness he hated. They didn’t care about the way he held himself; hunched forward so his curved shoulders offset his chest. No. They cared more about the fact he could strip twelve lengths of crystalline cabling in under an hour and still had hands that weren’t reduced to ribbons.
“The scarring helps, it's like extra padding.” He said, eliciting a round of knowing chuckles that warmed him from the inside.
They didn’t ask where he came from, or why he was there. At that table he was Fennec - just Fennec. Not an heir; not a liar. It was nice.
Still, two hours passed with agonising torpor, and Willman's friends had drunk enough to gather interest in a game of darts. With the distraction, Fennec was able to make his leave, waiting for their backs to turn before tossing some credits next to Willaman's jacket; an apology wrapped with thanks. The reasoning was that he had to leave before the alcohol-induced warmth in his chest morphed into something more reckless.
A harsh spray of sparks across his forearm brought him back to the present. The checkered fabric singed and smoked, though the frigid temperatures and the coat's fabric type halted its attempts at igniting fully. The thin air hung thick with the stench of oil and smoke; mechanical in comparison to The Ballast, and much more familiar.
Fennec adjusted the cutting angle and pushed it along, mind half on the job while his other thoughts drifted. He hadn’t hated the pub, not entirely, as for a brief moment he was treated as human rather than a tightly wound rope waiting to simply snap.
A sharp tang hit him at the back of the nose, and the cutting ceased almost immediately. He sniffed again, and his eyes started to water. His instincts were telling him it was just a minor oil spill from a small tanker taking a corner too quickly, but these assumptions were quelled when he quickly came to the realisation he wasn’t out in the hangar. Instead, he’d chosen an inside assignment, happy to traipse deep into the bowels of the ship to work alone. While it made moving the trolley of scrap to the drop-offs difficult, it allowed him time to breathe, and the space to exist without the burden of being known.
The young man set the blade down, powering it off and hanging it on the handle of his trolley before slipping the headphones from his head, and hanging them securely to his belt. Immediately, his ears were assaulted with the echoing thuds of impact drills and the banshee-like screeching of cutters against metal. Still, his biggest concern was the smell. Like deja-vu, it hung heavy in his mind; a memory just out of reach as he attempted to place just exactly what hung beneath the usual bite of coolant, heated steel and sweat.
He moved out of the room, just narrowly avoiding a Kommonth as it raced by with its own full trolley. For a moment, the breeze that followed the bug-like humanoid displaced the stench, before it drifted back in full force. Tears began to stream down Fennec's cheeks, and he pulled the neck of his coat up in an attempt to mask it. In the stark lighting supplied by spotlights lazily wired across the expanse of the ship, Fennec looked to the walls for a nearby vent.
Instead his eyes were met with an oily sheen dribbling carelessly from a narrow pipe trailing high above his head. Further along, a second split forced more of the liquid down the walls, painting them in a deep forest green.
Somewhere, pressure was building in the pipes, forcing fuel along avenues that were never meant to carry it.
His mind went blank as his hand dove to his pocket for his Echo, thumb already unlocking it before the screen came into view. His legs carried him back towards his exit as he fumbled for the emergency alert-
And suddenly Fennec was back there.
Screaming. Scraping metal and agonised cries like the wails of orbital strikes.
Gunfire. Locks popping under pressure and tumbling debris rolling across charred rooms.
Flames. Licking at the edges of corridors and spitting from broken pipes.
Smoke hung thick in the air like a desert haze, suffocating and all-encompassing. Outside, alarms shrieked. Inside, metal buckled and corridors began to collapse as cladding fell from the ceilings, and floors shifted underfoot. He was on his back, staring up at a dull metal sky that solidified into gunmetal plating. Amber flashes rolled through a crack in the wall where the metal had split and blown outwards from the force of the pipe's ignition. Jagged pieces of hull twisted and morphed into something humanoid against the rolling emergency lights, and Fennec flinched at each stoic movement. Gasping, he pulled himself onto his elbows, pupils blown and skin clammy, though not from the heat.
Logically, he could deduce that the tertiary feed of the fuel lines had been compromised, resulting in a build up of pressure that flooded additional pipes until they were severed by the wrong tool. Imprudently, subdued memories were determined to trick him into changing such reality. His ears were still ringing, adding to the sensory nightmare as he tore his coat off from the stifling heat that pulsed from deep within the fraying corridor. Places try to overlap; fighting for a prominent place as shattered plastic beneath his palms shifted like sand.
Move.
It wasn’t a tangible thought, but an order born from something primal: a condition that would never truly be cured. It cut through both timelines, like a promise that he’d never be able to leave his past behind. He rolled onto his side, instinctively grabbing for the nearest tool and coughing hard. He blinked harder, clearing dust from his eyes, and fumbled for his Echo that failed to materialize in his hand.
The bowels of the supertanker groaned around him, belching flames from side rooms and spitting debris. Shakily, he got to his feet. The pressure from the blow had tossed him a few feet, but nevertheless he raised a weapon, the metal handle biting into his palm as he desperately waved the smoke away with another. His lungs burnt with the effort, and he turned in a slow, deliberate manner despite the dizziness rocking his equilibrium.
Head down, L.A.S.E.R. The cadet’s lifeline. The letters had been engrained in his psyche the moment he stepped off the transport and onto the craggy lands of a planet so torn by war, it has lost all markers of identity. It was known simply to them as The Field.
Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return.
Repeat until there's no one left to save.
And so Fennec was fourteen again, wearing boots two sizes too big, and combat gear that had to be rolled up at the ankles and sleeves to make a man out of a malnourished child.
He moved - robotic and mindful of piles of debris stacked like bodies, and the stench of death that punched him in the back of the throat. The corridor towards the central part of the ship was partially collapsed and almost pitch black as the standing lights lay toppled like dominos. Growing hotter with every step, the air was thick enough to chew. Instead, Fennec held his weapon high, and pushed on, lips pressed together and eyes streaming. The first victim was quick to materialise.
Fennec was quick to spot a shape beneath a fallen support beam; a scavenger clutching at a broken leg with burned hands and an arm that spat blood. The man was screaming something gory. Though if sound was passing through, then there was air in the lungs. Good.
“I’ve got you.” He thinks he says, voice steady in a way that felt borrowed as he dropped to his aching knees. He ripped a filthy rag from his harness and tied a tourniquet with the terrifying efficiency of an experienced medic. The man's eyes began to drift, rolling into the back of his head as Fennec pulled the fabric tight. Blood slowed but the weight of the beam persisted. He jammed a snapped strut into the gap between the beam and the floor, his face a mask of blank neutrality as he did. He didn’t feel the heat of the encroaching fire, or the scream of materials and injured victims. Instead, Fennec barely registered the burn of muscle as he heaved; the strut groaning under a force that should’ve been impossible from his wiry frame.
The man underneath hauled himself out with a yelp, gasping for air. Fennec already had him under the armpits, hauling him back and towards safety - towards voices beckoning him to salvation.
Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return.
Repeat until there's no one left to save.
He was a scrapper. A 'cargo specialist'. Someone who was supposed to move items from point A to point B without delay. After all, who in their right mind would give a child a gun? Still the cargo was heavy and awkward, and the heat remained unrelenting as was the gravelly sand beneath boots so cheaply made, they left blisters that scarred his soles and ankles.
Inevitably, metal crates baked in inexorable heat slowly phased into smaller rations. Their weight slightly relented due to the lack of supplies, though intended to be moved as frequently as possible.
Whenever they arrived at the bases for drop off, he kept his head down pushing the trolleys towards battered tents covering trenches dug or supplies. He’d learnt pretty quickly that his ‘pretty face’ has attracted far too much attention; enough for him to be left discarded on a cot, bleeding and soulless. But that’s what happens right? That’s what he needed to do to be a man.
Take it. Compartmentalise. Locate. Airway. Stabilise. Extract. Return. Repeat until there's nothing left to save. Cargo specialist or scrapper, he was a cadet forced to prioritise everyone before himself. Even when familiar faces were begging for his mercy, he had to give it. So he extracted. Returned. Repeated. Until everyone from the base had been freed, and they were onto the next location. And despite it all Fennec continued to put a shift in, even when his lungs burned and his sunburnt skin was scraped raw from over-starched uniforms. Even when the black and white distinctions between the true enemy began to blur.
So when the crates began their transition from rigid metal boxes to black sacks, and viscera dribbled onto his shoes and splattered against his legs: he bit down the bile, breathed through his nose and pushed on. One body after another, until his calloused hands bled and his legs continued to shake even after a short rest in a camp always in danger of being shelled. Fear was his blanket, its persistence providing more comfort that his past ever could.
He carried it with him as he pressed onwards. Locating, checking airways, stabilizing, extracting and returning. Repeating until there was no one left. Smoke persisted, as did the snapping of severed wires showering him in sparks like ash from a detonation. One more corpse, this one screaming, followed by another but more agitated than what he was used to. Fennec persevered, lining each one at the threshold for the medics to take them away to the medical tents, and barking injuries and states of consciousness like he was trained to. Whether or not they got the right care was another story, as Fennec knew for a fact they ran out of medical rations three deliveries ago.
Repeat until there's no one left to save.
The mantra kept repeating in an ugly font behind his eyes like a realisation. A needle drop. Pieces falling into place. It drove a bolt from the blue straight into the back of his eyes as memories threatened everything he thought he’d forgotten on account of his broken mind. So he ran back in, pupils blown and hands stinging with sweat. Blinking through black clouds that smelt dusty instead of charred, he followed the distant rattles of screams that bounced off metal walls that he swore should have been canvas. A blazing sun hit his face the second he turned a corridor; a sheen of sweat breaking out as he soldiered on. Someone needed him. There was cargo to be moved; trolleys discarded in the wake of the attack, and more casualties to find.
A hand fisted the collar of his shirt and hauled him backwards from petrol-fuelled flames that licked at his skin. Naturally he fought back - of course he did - because of the mission. The mission - the orders! He whirled round, screwdriver in hand and ready to strike.
He still had to-
“Stand down, kid! You hearing me? We’re going. You’re done. Time to go.”
Extract.
Had he completed the first three steps already? An arm snaked around his shoulders. The air got a little clearer but he wasn’t seeing. It pressed him into the broad expanse of someone's torso as he was hauled from the site; he tried his best to wriggle free of the hold until their boots hit the suspended gangways, and he was dropped altogether. Secondary explosions rattled the railings, and set Fennec's teeth on edge. The world was still fiery at the edges; blackness fighting for prominence as spots swam across and pulsed with a heartbeat that stammered like artillery fire. His palm stung with the pressure he was putting on the handle of the tool, but it was his one last lifeline. All he could think was danger - danger! So much so that he backed up until his back hit frozen railing, pupils like pins and unseeing as his arms scrabbled for purchase against rusted supports. When his feet fought against solid ground, his mind finally began to distinguish where he was; the settings no longer intermixed in an ugly display of shock.
“Fucking hell, kid, get a grip alright? It’s done. You’ve saved seven people, just calm down. It’s alright - it’s alright.”
Fennec blinked.
And fell into the embarrassing realization that he had been crying. And not just a few errant tears he let slip in the night; when those in the bunks next to him were too bone tired to realise or care. No, these were open sobs with snot collecting at his upper lip and a chest that heaved and tightened with every breath. Logically, he could breathe. Logically, everyone was fine. Logically, it was an unfortunate accident.
So why was his brain trying to convince him otherwise? Where did these memories come from?
“You back?”
He knew he’d been there; he knew he came back. He just didn’t remember the in between.
Fennec’s eyes finally swam into focus. Willman Brass was uncomfortably close, towering over him as Fennec was on the floor, backed against uncomfortable metal banisters. Adrenaline began to ebb like the tide; eventually petering out until all he was left with was an estuary of exhaustion. The boy didn’t know what to say. The bandages around his chest had begun to loosen beneath the excitement, the screwdriver still in his hand and jacket nowhere to be seen. Willman looked as uncomfortable as Fennec did, his round face twisted into something between pity and disgust.
All Fennec could do was nod, and accept Willman hauling him up by the forearm and steadying him when his legs didn’t quite take to being upright straight away. He kept his hand there, trying to find Fennec's eyes as he started at the swimming floor. A crowd had gathered, staring, waiting for him to finally snap.
He dropped the screwdriver to the deck, hands going slack as he couldn’t quite manage the motor function needed to keep a hold of it. He swiped a lazy hand across his upper lip, coughing as his lungs finally caught up. Supervisors stormed towards him, eyes wary with disbelief. Apparently, word had spread uncomfortably fast, or he had been in his head longer than initially imagined.
“Name?” The forward-most one asked.
“Fennec.” Willman supplied when Fennec couldn’t. There was a moment of consideration as the supervisor swept through digital payroll files. In the meantime, an oversized jacket was draped over his shoulders, and pulled tight around his neck to stave off the frozen air. It was then that he realised he was vibrating with the cold, knees trembling as he fought to stay upright for just a moment longer. He was fine. He was always going to be fine. So he started walking.
“Try Tanner. Born 2699.” He rasped in passing.
Because if they were going to commend or punish him, they might as well use his family name.
the idea of whumper leaving facial scars is just so. cruel. whumpee's entire body is littered with scars and blemishes which they can cover up and hide their shame.
but the ones on their face, they are inescapable. whumpee starts hunching their shoulders, their neck is always bent, their face in the uneven flickering shadows. avoiding eye contact, avoiding their own reflection like it's a plague, skipping baths because the idea of the full-bodied mirror right by the shower stall is agonizing. catching a flicker of themself in windows and glasses, fading but still recognisable.
whumpee does everything in their power to stay coiled up in their bed, to avoid the questioning, if not judgmental, stares from those who don't know. and the pitying ones from those who do.
they are just so tired of this reminder etched in the lines of their face, of having to look at it every single day.
“It’s not the pain, Whumpee,” Whumper said, as though explaining something simple, obvious. “It’s the control. The fact that you have no choice but to feel it, no choice but to stay here with me. You can scream all you want, beg me to stop, but none of it matters. Because I’ll keep going until I say so.”
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
Note: Medical details are 68% imaginary.
Note 2: Guys, this is all super indulgent and I apologise.
Masterlist ||| Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
+++++++++++++++++
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 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.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Masterlist ||| Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer (whispers: you people get it)
Small Caretaker cradling big Whumpee's head in their lap, tenderly stroking their hair,,, Caretaker practically wrapping themself around touch-starved Whumpee in a hug,,, Physically intimidating Whumpee who has been treated as a threat to be contained and frail Caretaker who isn't afraid of them for a second... Small/weak Caretaker who desperately wishes they could carry injured Whumpee but they both know the best they can offer is a shoulder for support, Whumpee's going to have to power through it for a little while longer,,, Small/weak Caretakers and big/strong Whumpees, man <3
admittedly I have at least as much of a weakness for big/strong/intimidating characters who have been seen and construed as a threat in the caretaker role :> learning and/or proving to others that they have the capacity for so much gentleness and nurture... that their strength can be used to protect... that they are worthy of trust... earning the trust of someone so vulnerable and being awed and terrified at the honour. yeah <3
I've been agonising over posting TSATS stuff so much that I fear I'll never post anything at all. So here it is. I'm going to aim to post consistently, though as always life finds a way...
The Sentry and the Strays: The Lost Boy #1 - 'The Way I Tend To Be'
Masterlist: [X]
Wordcount: 2026
People have often been described as being a product of everyone who has loved them - or at least been in their life, for good or for bad. That their physicality is formed of stardust, but the soul is a commodity comprising all the resources of a person's history, language and culture. In short, they are who they may become each given day, not who they have been.
Though this only reaches as far as the past will let it. Sometimes it can dig its claws in; sink its teeth into the jugular and tear the voice from the lungs; the thrumming of the heart; the listlesses and evolution of the thought. It wraps bandages around the chest; pierces the ears and churns the stomach. The past will lurk in the shadows; be otherwise harmless glances and innocuous comments. The past had its chains wrapped around his ankles, biting and heavy.
Some days he let the weight hang from his shoulders. It was easier that way - to him it was, anyway. Therapists had been offered and subsequently declined as far as his limited rights to consent could manage. What good could they do if the people paying for them were biased in their selection? Still, he took the pills that were offered, when he remembered, and worked. And worked. And worked until his scarred fingers bled. He worked until his thoughts ran clear and the water ran murky with a hard day's toil. After all, the Supertanker wasn’t going to dismantle itself.
Three standard months had already passed since it had been ‘sunk’ - the last of its fuel reserves keeping its heart beating as it followed a controlled descent into the atmosphere of Hephaestus Ten before being laid to rest at the hands of scrappers looking for a paycheck. Like whale fall to the seabed, its body was being shed by scavengers to be redistributed among their ecosystem and build newer ship models. Easily, a simple bolt had travelled more miles than the scrapyard workers had combined. Regardless, Fennec kept his head down, and repeatedly pushed the oversized helmet back from where it slipped in front of his eyes. The straps dug in uncomfortably around his pierced ears, and harness housing his tools at his hips only accentuated what he tried to hide.
It was getting late, as evidenced by the twin suns finally completing their journey across the smoggy sky, and beginning to settle behind the industrial horizon of the ‘backside’ of Hephaestus Ten. It was the so-called flagship planet of the system, and home of the H.U.S.C - Humanities United Systems Commission, a company that spread across several systems, and then some. Regardless of its status, the ground was cold and cracked from two suns that were a touch too far away like they were just out of reach. The days were dim and damp, and the nights were cold and frigid. During the winter months, the polluted snow was known to pile several meters, with the paths dug lining themselves with ice that crunched underfoot.
His breaths came in white puffs as the cool grey night sky speckled itself with a few boastful stars; nowhere near the freckled skies he used to see as a child from his family home on the other side of the planet. So he kept his head down, and continued to work until the last of the sensation in his fingers numbed beneath the two-handed drill, and then until they locked up beneath the gloves he allowed himself to wear. With nothing but an empty room to return to, he found it easier to work until his legs began to shake, and his stomach growled so violently it could be heard beneath the rumble of impact tools and shrieking metal. It didn’t bother him much, as beneath the oversized helmet was a set of headphones pressed against his ears, allowing him to be unencumbered by small talk, and protected from the agitating sound of footsteps on the gangways behind him. Everyday he played his music loud and bleating - rattling his teeth and pulsing behind his eyes, just the way he liked it. It allowed him to keep his mind clear; falling into maladaptive daydreams to offset the screaming visages of vague memories from too little life already lived. It kept him in the present when the crashes of moving metal tore from the loading bays, and the backfiring of engines threatened to pull him into suffocating flashbacks that he only ever saw the edges of.
He let the night push on. With him, a sparse collection of deconstruction workers continued to collect their overtime until the final buzzer rang, signalling any further work would not be awarded pay. At just thirty-percent of the hourly rate, overtime was hardly worth it to many; and supervisors had long since departed from the offices that looked over the hangar from the far-end. But he had nowhere to be, he never did. At just nineteen years old, he’d settled firmly into the idea that he was alone; given permission by his family to fade into obscurity to not demean their name further. If people knew the circumstances he came from, he would’ve been called insane. But if he stayed there, he would be she, and she would be supervised down to the length of her hair.
Some would argue - and have argued - that his being was a reflection of childish rebellion, and that he could be talked out of it.
That being enlisted would force him to snap out of it-
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
Involuntarily, he turned and ducked on instinct. His grip tightened on the drill and he fought every nerve that was telling him to raise the barrel at the intruder. The movement was terrifyingly clinical for such a small frame; a baby-faced teenager whose shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the planet and then some.
He blinked. Spotlights illuminated the gangways, a solitary moon hung behind the clouds visible from the open side of the hangar. He took a breath, then another, before realising the person was speaking to him. Frustrated, he knocked his helmet off and removed his headphones, letting them hang around his neck so the deafening music played at a normal volume like a tinny speaker. Willman Brass, human and a good twenty years older than him, held his arms up in mock surrender.
“-before first buzzer, and hang around until last. You ever stop working, kid?” He asked, smirk creasing the corners of his eyes. The kid huffed, and let the drill drop to his hip, it clattered painfully against the bruised skin of his thigh as a fraying cord kept it attached to his belt. He huffed, forcing a smile. Willman rubbed his gloved hands together, briefly looking away. His round cheeks were pink with cold, and his oversized puffer jacket offered some protection against the cool air. Mid-shift, the ceiling vents had been opened, forcing all hot air that had risen out into the atmosphere.
“Ships not going to dismantle itself.” He shrugged, voice hoarse and still deceivingly high. It’s possibly the most he has spoken in days.
“Maybe not, but you’ve only been here, what, seven months? You’ll burn out quickly.”
“I know what I'm doing.” He said, heckles raised. Willman stepped back as the kid took hold of his drill once again, preparing to turn back to the bolts that weren’t going to unscrew on their own. He just had one more section of plating to go before he exposed the wiring, giving him something lighter to handle as opposed to straining to move sheets of metal out of the way on his own.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” said Willman, and gave him a pointed look, “no one even knows your name.”
“No one ever asked.” He levelled. Willman waited.
“It’s Fennec.” He said finally, the name falling easily from his tongue, if a little forced.
“It’s good to meet you, Fennec.” Willman held out a hand. Fennec took it weakly and shook it. His brain almost stopped at the contact; the warm squeeze of someone else holding onto him if just for a second as he overthought the ways in which to navigate the handshake. Fennec nodded, face blank as he idly inspected his drill, both hands reaching down to grasp the worn metal. The power bar told him it had less than an hour of use left.
“Likewise.” He said, forcing the conversation forward despite every instinct daring him to lock his voice down. He was yet to meet Willman’s eyes. He couldn’t even say what colour they were, but he knew the man's stature from a mile away, it was hard not to. He was well-built: thick with old muscle and from nutritious home-cooked meals, and a mop of dark hair and beard so thick not even their metal-cutting tools could tame it. Like all other Scrappers, he wore a brightly coloured coat with a fur-lined hood. His was an oily yellow, and Fennec's was an ugly, checkered thing of very shade of blue and a grey, fur-lined hood, but it was his. It had been new; bought with money he didn’t want, so he made sure to beat, crease and mangle it before his first day. He wanted to fade into the scene; appear just like everyone else and remove the possibility for watchful eyes. By the way Willman had clocked him, offering greetings in passing and pointing him towards the best place to store his backpack, Fennec had been evidently unsuccessful in his attempts. It made him physically recoil to be seen as he’d never been taught how to be able to.
“A couple of us are headed to The Ballast. Wanted to see if you’d join.” Willman said after a moment, hands deep in his pockets to stave off the ever-decreasing temperatures. A thin layer of frost had long since descended on the railings of the gangways, though shaved off in places where the clips from dated harnesses scored along the tops. It was cheaper to have workers tether to metal bars than it was to pump heat through the walkways to stop them freezing over. It was their fault if they fell, a morbid tally in the locker room displayed as much. Fennec licked his lips, mouth dry at the request.
“Only needs to be one drink,” Willman pressed, “just thought I’d ask.”
The Ballast. He knew where that was - just down the street from his apartment block. It was noisy and always packed and had a steady stream of patrons drunkenly stumbling down the street at all hours of the cycle. It was full of people and eyes and expectations and conversations that would stick in his head longer than he would have been a patron there. While testosterone had sharpened his edges, and put a smattering of hairs on his chin, the tight bindings across his chest reminded him he wasn’t one of them, and that wasn’t going to change for a while.
“It’s not really my thing.” Fennec said apologetically, eyes fixed to the ground.
“Why, you not old enough to drink yet?” Asked Willman, mirth spread across his lips. “Doesn’t have to be your thing. Just don’t think you should be alone. Not here, anyway.”
Fennec finally met his gaze. His eyes were kind, yet steeled for the rejection. Fennec didn’t need a minder, he didn’t need someone telling him what he should and shouldn’t be doing. This new life was supposed to be void of those presuppositions; giving him control of his choices. However, Willman had given him the perfect opportunity to lie about his age, despite it not mattering, and he was too slow on the uptake to only just realise it.
“Just one.” The agreement tumbled out faster than he could stop it.
“One.” Willman nodded, and clapped his hand over Fennec's shoulder, sealing the deal before he could back down.
One. He could do that. He could entertain them for just one drink; it wouldn’t last forever. If anything, it would give him something to write about.
Whumpee is beaten up, has a bad fall, is in a car accident, etc. etc. But they can't go to the hospital for some reason (they're on the run, there are extenuating circumstances, whatever). They assure Caretaker that it's fine, they're not even hurt that bad, just some bumps and bruises. They don't need the hospital, really. Caretaker reluctantly agrees.
But then Whumpee's condition takes a sudden turn for the worse—internal bleeding makes itself known, broken ribs shift and puncture a lung, a head injury turns out to be more serious than they originally thought, etc.—and Caretaker is forced to make the decision: do they respect Whumpee's wishes and risk them dying? Or do they get them to a hospital and risk whatever might happen to Whumpee because of it?
Living weapon who feels like they can't trust themself and that they'll hurt the kind person that took them in, one day. They look down and can only see the blood on their hands. Everything they touch, they destroy, it was what they were made to do. They don't want to ruin the only good thing that's ever happened to them.
Do they run? Do they try to compromise themself, make their body weaker so they can't hurt anything ever again? Do they put their old shock collar around their throat, refusing Caretaker's attempts to take it off and offering them the control? Do they even feel safer with all that? They did defy their handlers once. Can they be sure they won't do it again?
Chapter Nine of The Rebel, The Seer, and the Ghost.
Also on AO3.
Zaya thinks that Gaius might be onto her
*
“I’m a little disappointed,” Gaius said.
“The Seer was deep in trance,” Zaya said, “I thought it best not to wake him. And from what I understand one can’t force someone to have a vision. It’ll come soon enough.”
“I admire your confidence but I don’t have the patience to deal with this forever,” Gaius said.
“Of course not,” Zaya said.
“Lux was pleased with your willingness to use violence,” Gaius said.
“I’m glad that he was pleased,” Zaya said.
“Were you?”
“It would have been more pleasing if I had been able to get something useful but I won’t stop until I have what you need,” Zaya said.
Gaius got up from his chair and circled around her. Zaya tried to keep still and not flinch at having the King so close to her. She desperately wanted to pull out her dagger and stab Gaius through the heart; but she knew she could not do it.
“There’s something about you, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”
“Oh?”
“Something almost familiar,” Gaius said.
“I don’t know what that might be,” Zaya said.
Gaius grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the wall. She reached up and tried to loosen the grip around her throat. Gaius only pressed harder.
“Who are you?”
She felt like something was pushing into her mind. She felt like he was looking for something in her childhood. She thought about every mundane thing she could think of but Gaius was searching for faces. She thought of any person she could picture besides any of the men in her family. White dots were dancing in her vision and she felt her legs going weak.
Gaius let her go and she was somehow able to keep her feet as she gasped for air. Gaius watched her struggle for a moment before he spoke.
“How did you burn your hand?” Gaius asked.
“When I was burning down Yels, a building collapsed quicker than I thought it would and I was burned.”
“Hmm I’ll figure the rest out eventually,” Gaius said and brushed past her to leave the room. Zaya let out a heavy sigh. She hoped she’d be able to get some information soon because things were getting difficult without something to distract Gaius.
Zaya paced around the room a little. She needed to go to the dungeon and work on Lauren and the Seer. Zaya looked around the room, up high there were a few missing bricks here and there.
Somehow Lauren and her people had known that the search for the Seer was going on. The order had come from the room she was in.
“Lauren is alive, as is the Seer,” she said. It felt like an insane thing to do, she didn’t even know if there was anyone in the walls, if there had ever been anyone in the walls. But if there was…it was all she could do. Zaya left the room and headed for the dungeon.
The Seer was awake when Zaya arrived and he didn’t fall into a trance right away. Lauren was also awake and backed away from the cell bars.
“Did the guards bring food as ordered?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
Zaya nodded. She had no intention of starving either of them to get information though she supposed she could give it a try. Zaya pulled up a small stool and sat outside the Seer’s cell.
The man was young, from a small village, clearly not well, but there was strength in his gaze.
“What did you see in your vision?” Zaya asked.
“Nothing important,” Ben said, “Just a voice telling me that everyone is hungry for something.”
“True enough I suppose.”
“That was it,” Ben said.
“I know you don’t control this, and that this…gift is new to you but if you don’t have something relevant soon I can’t guarantee things will go well,” Zaya said.
“I can’t guarantee what I see will make sense, it’s always a little odd,” Ben said.
“So what I’m hearing is that you saw a brief glimpse of the soul transfer but more is coming?”
“I suppose you can tell the King that,” Ben said.
“I will, but again it won’t do for long,” Zaya said.
“Understood.”
Zaya left the stool to go after to check on Lauren, “Did the salve help?”
“It did.”
“Good.”
“What happened to your neck, the bruising,” Lauren asked.
“The King,” Zaya said, “I’ll be back later.”
*****
Lauren had to admit it was a little satisfying to see that Zaya was hurt. The woman had tortured her and deserved a little pain. And yet. It was the King who had done it and that was just wrong.
Ben sighed, “I don’t know what to make up if I don’t have a vision soon.”
“You want to help Zaya?”
“I don’t know, but if it's not her Lux will be here, or Gaius himself and I think that’ll be worse.”
Lauren groaned, “You’re probably right.”
“If I don’t have anything by tomorrow I might need help,” Ben said.
“I’ll think of something, but if you can try. I’ll be quiet and won’t interrupt you,” Lauren said.
“I’ll try in a bit. I…I think that’s why the King hurt Zaya, because I didn’t have anything,” Ben said.
Lauren shrugged, “She’s a royal guard, she knows who she serves.”
“Right.”
“Someone knows we’re here, it might feel like it is just you and I but there are others with us even if they can’t be here,” Lauren said.
Ben smiled.
Lauren paced around a little bit, being locked up in such a small place was the worst. She was used to living in a cave but at least there she could go outside and walk in the forest when she needed to.
“I don’t know what I’m going to see, but I’ll try to keep you alive, if I can’t think of a good enough reason,” Ben said.
“Thanks, I’m sure we can come up with something,” Lauren said. She continued her pacing unable to do anything else. After a while she turned back to Ben only to find that he had slumped over a little. She could see that he was breathing and looked like he was asleep. For both their sakes she hoped that he was having a vision and that it would be enough to keep them alive for a little while longer.
whumpee who lives rather isolated and alone getting sick. insisting to themselves that they're fine, they have to be fine. but when someone calls them and finds they're completely delirious, still insisting their fine.
whumpee passes out on the phone.
"seriously, are you okay? you've been going forever between texts and when you do text back it's, like, 3 words."
"just tired."
"yeah, you've been saying that, but you sound pretty bad. what's going on?"
"just... tired. a little cold. it's cold out here."
caretaker knows whumpee is at home. they can see their pillows on the video chat.
"what do you mean, out here, whumpee? you're in bed, aren't you?"
"bed," they laugh. "i wish."
now, caretaker realizes things might be much worse than they originally thought.
