Blood of the Children

We love some trauma <3

/cross posted form ao3 lol. Have fun/

An: "RaNdOm DiScLaImEr! Hey, don't do anything that I say in this song, okay? It's fuckin' fiction. If anything happens, don't fuckin' blame me, White America. Fuck Bill O'Reilly." - Tyler, the Creator (song: Radicals)

Take Tyler, the Creator's advice here. <3

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"You have something very important to do in the future, son," the man next to him murmured as he watched his siblings run around the yard. He wasn't allowed to play with them, he was too important.

He didn't understand that at the time though, "what is it Papa?" he asked quietly, looking up at his dad's defined face.

"The Gods have chosen you, your grandfather said so," A large hand fell to his back, rubbing circles into his small shoulders.

After a while, he asked the question he had been hesitating about .

"How does Grampa know?"

Mistake.

His father's cold eyes seared into his skull as he turned back towards him. He couldn't help but quiver in fear. His dad gave him this dark vibe even when he was content. It was significantly duller when he was happier though, so everyone does their absolute best to keep him stable.

Killua may have messed up and he would not get off easy.

"Because the Gods told him, Kill. Are you questioning the Gods judgment?" Killua gulped. He remembered clearly the look on his fathers face. Angry, disappointed, betrayed. Scary to a five year old child, or to anyone really.

He had dug himself too deep and he knew that no amount of apologizing would dampen his fathers rage. He knew the punishment all too well.

"Papa...?" was all he managed to say as he was dragged by the wrist into the house where his family lived.

His father, six mothers, five biological siblings, and sixteen non-bio siblings. The house was essentially an apartment building of one family.

As they turned the corner to go to his Dad's room, Mother Carol stepped in front of his dad, blocking the way.

"Please Silva, don't you think this is a bit much? He's just a-" she was cut off by a hard slap across the cheek, sending her to the carpeted floor with a thump.

"Good wifes don't question their husbands," he spat and kicked her out of the way. Before his father had closed the door he could hear the muffled cries of his fourth mother.

The door slammed in his face when he tried to help her. He was pulled by the waist to the bed. His dad gripped his white hair and slammed his head into the sheets, bending him over.

A hard slap was heard throughout the room followed by many more. He had had spankings before, but this one was different. Now that they were in the privacy of his dads bedroom, it soon became much more than just a spanking.

He had suddenly felt the cool air hit his behind. He turned to find that his dad had taken his shorts off. His face was then forced down again as the spanking continued. He could feel blood drip down his leg at one point. He wiggled and struggled but with no luck.

Suddenly, the brutal feeling of flesh on flesh contact disappeared, leaving only the sting of the fresh bruises and cuts down his ass and upper thighs. He whimpered to be let go with no response.

Unfortunately for him, his dad wasn't done yet.

"Killua, if you move I will beat you more. If you scream I will beat you more. Understand?" He didn't but nodded anyway, not wanting to get hurt any more. What happened was worse than any beating.

He felt big hands pull open his buttcheeks, exposing his asshole to his own father. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run but he knew if he did he would die sooner than what was planned.

Killua was spreading butter on his toast and tuning in on his brother's conversation in the other room. They were fighting over TV remote privileges in the massive living room.

It was the first time they were allowed to have outside technology in camp. Of course everything was monitored and controlled by his grandfather so no one from outside could brainwash the people.

Reality is scary. The outsiders are troubled. The Children are the only correct ones.

That's what the church always said. He knew something was wrong with him though. He should believe in those words wholeheartedly, but recently he's caught himself in a bit of a predicament. He didn't believe it. What if the outsiders know something they didn't? What then?

But he didn't want to betray his trust in the church. The Gods were the only reason he had purpose anyway.

He sighed and took a troubled bite out of his toast, walking into the living room from the kitchen.

Just then, his bio-mom walked into the room and snatched the remote from his second oldest brother's hand, "no more television for the rest of the week boys, you know the rules," she scolded and put the remote in a metal tin that filtered out toxins spread through the air from the outside tech.

Milluki, the one who had had the remote, grumbled and crossed his arms. He acted so childish for being nineteen years old. Illumi, standing next to him was emotionless as usual and just nodded, making a comment about outside things rotting your brain.

Killua rolled his eyes and finished his toast, "Mom I'm gonna go take a stroll, alright?" he said.

He stepped out the door connected to the den without waiting for an answer. He could vaguely hear her telling him to be home before services.

He didn't respond.

Killua took a nice, peaceful walk around camp before deciding to go further than the last few houses. He walked through the dusty landscape of the Utah country and found himself gazing up the hill that shielded the camp from the outside.

He had always wanted to peek over it when he was a child, but he had always been caught before doing so, much like that time.

He heard one of his neighbors calling him back down before his impulsions got the better of him.

When he returned home, he was just in time for church; services started at 6:30 on Thursdays and it was 6:07.

He then got ridiculed because he had no more clean church clothes and he had to go in temple attire instead like an idiot.