Rabbit and Wolves: Killan

CW: Dehumanization, pet whump (sort of), sadistic whumpers, creepy whumpers, rich people being awful, wing whump, noncon touching (nonsexual), humiliation, noncon piercings, noncon… tasting? (it makes sense in context), this is like three steps from vampirism

TIMELINE: Killan’s first proper owner after Calon Nie abandons him

 As always, Killan’s universe and details of fae meta/biology/magic all belong to @wildfaewhump!

The tray was a heavy dulled copper, and it made the boy think that maybe his owner didn’t understand that he was not fae at all, that iron and other heavy metals did nothing but give him a fain itch that disappeared an hour or so after the iron was removed. 

The blood in him was diluted, broken down, but it was not fae blood. Not really.

Maybe the lord of the house just had a fascination with copper in general. The boy was certainly surrounded by enough of it, now.

He moved with carefully silent steps on bare feet in a pair of loose diaphanous deep blue pants and a matching sleeveless shirt that tied like a halter at the back of his neck. It was nearly backless because of his wings with a single set of ties just resting against the small of his back. The cold stone beneath his feet was so icy it felt more like a burn than a chill, but the boy continued on, carrying the tray balanced just the way he had been taught. 

His human hand balanced the underside, to make sure the small beautifully-wrought glasses would not spill the cherry-colored cordials contained within, while its weight balanced against his upper arm and his talons curved along the outside rim, so they would be seen, put on display.

Just like the rest of him.

He felt like a wind-up toy, or a horse in a victory parade.

He felt like a thing, which of course he was, but he had never felt the stares burn into his skin as deeply as they did now. 

The low conversation continued unabated as the nameless creature entered the great dining hall, but it didn’t matter that they kept talking - he could feel them looking at him, hear the slight intakes of breath.

With every step, he heard the sound he made, the shifting-shivery sound of metal scraping and clinking, and he knew himself to be no more human than the portrait of a woman dancing that hung on the wall behind the man who sat at the head of the table, the lord of this house and the person who could decide whether the boy lived or died on a whim, and no one would stop him.

His eyes burned worst of all.

He had given a merchant a hundred marks for the boy’s purchase, hadn’t even haggled. Might have been flattering, if the boy did not still feel a sting at the reality that he was sold at all, or if the man had not spoken with the careless air of a man for whom a hundred marks was nothing more to him than a copper coin dropped in the road to be washed away by the rain, hardly worth a second glance.

The thought of copper made the boy feel a sick lurch in his stomach.

He was drowning in it.

Keep reading

The Shortest Horror: Killan

Listen, I wrote what agreed to be written. 

CW: Implied/reference gore and body horror (none explicit, but you can figure it out if you think about it), a kind of pet whump and dehumanization, creepy whumper, nonconsensual touching (nonsexual)

Killan exists in @wildfaewhump‘s Iesin and Talvos universe!

Tagging Killan’s crew even though this, um, isn’t really a drabble:  @astrobly @burtlederp ​, @finder-of-rings ​, @slaintetowhump ​, @quirkykayleetam ​, @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, (if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

TIMELINE: about a year after Calon Nie takes Killan

Even though he still didn’t know their language, it didn’t matter. He watched their panicked speech and comprehended every word even though he didn’t know a single one.

He knew from their horror what they thought of the sight of him, knew from the disgust dripping off their narrow tongues and shining against their sharp pointed teeth what the unfamiliar words meant. 

Their wings bristled behind them, the lot of them, fluffed up to look bigger in response to the threat that knelt, worn to nearly nothing, before them. Five of them, all similar to Calon Nie in coloration and form, all of them staring down at Killan with identical expression of pure and perfect revulsion.

Killan, mostly, was just tired.

He might have collapsed into the soft, powdery snow, if he hadn’t been ordered to stay kneeling. His shoulder blades ached with a pulsing, pounding agony he can only just barely stand, the counterweight off his back helping him to balance even as his limbs trembled and he wanted to pitch forward or back and fall into darkness. 

An ache throbbed behind his eyes, forcing them closed. He ducked his chin, hoping it looked at least a little bit respectful, rather than simply exhausted.

What have you done? That’s what the lead one said, the one that looked like Calon Nie. She looked to her mate, just by her, who stared stone-faced at Calon Nie. He doesn’t know the words she speaks.

He didn’t have to. He understood them anyway.

It’s what he might say, he thought, if his son ever came home with a dog with cat legs sewn on, or put a lizard’s heart into a pig.

Up here the air was thinner, and cold, and Killan’s lungs - the human ones, anyway - fought to get the oxygen they need from the air. He let the sensation bring on dizziness he didn’t really feel. 

He wasn’t wearing a shirt - he felt the cold but only just, and he knew he would have frozen like this before - and the haphazard stitch-scars that litter his ribcage, abdomen, and back were all on hideous display.

His eyes wept reddish fluid like a kind of vampire’s tears, but they did that sometimes, now. 

They knew he shouldn’t be here. They knew they shouldn’t be where they are, either. 

Calon Nie spoke back to them, and Killan knew-without-knowing, understood-without-the-words, what he said. Calon’s voice was lined with an awful, thick pride. His hand settled on Killan’s head, toyed idly with a strand of hair, curling the light, warm brown around his talon and then letting it go, again and again.

Killan held still, only just. 

He was the buachaill del, Calon’s ragnaith, the chosen. 

He did not move, only listened to the chirruping trills of Calon’s voice.

I have made something new.

The lead fae trilled, chirped. Confused, unsettled, frightened. The younger ones behind her cringed back and away. Killan looked at them through eyes opened only to slits.

He saw more than he has ever seen before.

What is it? She asked, one taloned finger pointing. Killan buries his own blunt-edged human hands in the fabric of his shirt, as if ashamed of the hands he was born with, that have not yet been replaced.

Calon Nie’s hand trailed, slow and steady, along his shoulder and to the back of his neck, making Killan shiver at what he doesn’t - but very nearly did - touch.

Talons gripped tight to his hair, yanking his chin up and back, eyes wide in surprise. Calon Nie showed them Killan’s eyes - bright blue sclera with slit pupils, unnaturally saurated and utterly inhuman, weeping blood down his cheeks to dry and then be covered by new blood soon after - and watched with delight as his family recoiled again from the sight of them.

Monster!

Killan would have agreed with them, if he could speak. But Calon Nie had silenced him - his voice still controlled Killan’s world.

Calon Nie trilled, happily.

My monster. I made him.

He slid his talons through the feathers of Killan’s stolen wings, forcing a new pain through the places where they were attached in a mockery of how a new fae might be formed, and his laughter echoed no less on a mountaintop than it had inside the trees.

Mine.

Oh my god that “my monster. I made him” 😂

Im sorry Im an horrible human who laughs at the obscenely grotesque. This is gorgeous and I’m so sorry for the poor boy.

ASH the whumperflies from this are STRONG. what have they done to that poor boy omg skjhdfjaslkjhfslajdfh i love it