#I mean why do we like certain kind of whump?

[writing-whump]

Sorry, if this is rude.. but I'm really curious.

Why is puking such a large theme in your writing? Is it more of a whump fixation like 'emptying' oneself of their turmoil or is it more of a fetish fancy?

Again I'm sorry if this is a weird ask and please, feel free not to answer if it is.

Hmm, that is a good question.

I consider my writing to fall into the emeto category of whump. So it's like whump in terms of emeto?

I'm not entirely sure what fascinates me about it. But I feel like the biggest draw for me is the hurt/comfort potential.

Like feeling sick/puking is just incredibly vulnerable uncomfortable state, where you basically don't have control over yourself, you can't help what's happening, you can't really stop it...but it has so many causes and is so mundane in a sense? Everyone goes through it?

And it's gross. So I feel like whoever takes care of you during a sickness like that has to really really care, and you have to be comfortable and close for that comfort/intervention to not feel humiliating?

And it's exactly in this kind of state where genuine care, real friendships, close family or significant other come through to help you with what you need and can't help?

For me its like the ultimate expression of selfless, non-profit, not doing it for sex or attraction or good looks or "to look good" kind of love. And it's not something breezy and easy like a fever or a cold where you do something half-heartedly and it's done, it requires real overcoming yourself and your comfort zone?

Other thing is the whole caretaking like bellyrubs and gurgles that might have a sort of sexy/kink quality for me? The buildup and stuff? I'm not entirely sure, I explore this aspect of it more on other blogs, but it has a bity bity part of it in my fics too.

So it's kind of a mix between super selfless care and kind of sexy build up tension and vulnerability and a kind of exploration of sex and sexuality (in romantic smutty context! Not all fics are about this!!It isn't as high on my priorities in writing as the platonic aspects for example) that just feels a lot safer for me?

I'm not a fan of sex without a deep emotional connection, I'm super afraid of it, actually (which is not a trendy opinion right now). Casual sex is sort of a personal squick. My environment was very "sex bad! Sex unpure! Sex dangerous! It's a way people will use you!" (It took me a long time to figure out that sex itself isn't what bothers me. It's the casual kind of sex that does. Ergo why my world and OCs are so sensitive about touch and can't do casual hookups at all lol.).

So connecting this selfless kind of care with sexy kind of context creates the right comfort level for me.

Honestly, I don't know for sure. I think for me this ties into the debate of "is whump inherently sexual or not" and "where are the lines between whump and kink" and "are there kinks that are freaky or are they alright as long as it's consensual" and "is whump or h/c just an expression of desire for connection and care/being taken care of/caring"?

(I have read studies that suggest whump can be a substitute for vulnerability for asexual people or for people not currently having/being wary of sexual relationships).

Basically, the pure hurt/comfort and care and vulnerability is my favourite whump content. I'm here for the comfort, not for the hurt (not that there is anything wrong about the hurt itself I think). And emeto nicely ties into that.

[docholligay]

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[xserpx]

morse for the ask game?

How I feel about this character?

(Caveating this with the fact I haven't yet watched Inspector Morse, so this is only about Endeavour.)

Normally I'm not at all a fan of whump and I don't like feeling sad for well-meaning characters who are hurt repeatedly through (mostly) no fault of their own, but I really love Morse's brand of melancholia. The way he struggles to deal with change is too damn real, I'm a sucker for characters who struggle to voice their feelings and whose anxiety causes them to say nothing, because bitch me too. I also like that he's shy but it's kind of a selective shyness? Like if you catch him at the right moment or say a certain thing, he can be very snappish and outspoken and even funny, but then in those (incredibly important!) moments where he feels truly vulnerable, he just clams up, and it's heartbreaking and delicious to watch.

It's also undeniable that he is a massive prick sometimes. His treatment of women, his pretentiousness, there are moments when I want to slap him upside the head and I'm like you deserve this shit buddy! Monica my beloved, she deserved so much better from him. As much as he craves deeper connections with people and as much as I really want him to find a place to belong and settle down, it's so clear why he can't, why he shouldn't, and it's so deep rooted that in a way if he actually made a more concerted to change and do better he'd pretty much be a different person. And I like that the show never compromises on providing answers or catharsis for his struggles. Change happens, that's life, and there's often no way to deal with it that doesn't hurt.

I also love his dark academia style and the way it's grounded in finding meaning/belonging. It's not that it doesn't give him a sense of superiority at times, but like... that was his rebellion in the face of anti-intellectualism and abuse at home, and in a way I feel like he's earned the right to that pretentiousness. I think it dilutes some of the intimidating effect that opera and classics and poetry can have - some people listen to the Beatles, he listens to Wagner, one thing isn't "better" than another - but without binning it off entirely so that we still get to enjoy the commentary on classism. Plus watching him school the Oxford dons is always fun :P.

All the people I ship romantically with this character?

Romantically, hmm... The trouble is I end up feeling sorry for either Morse himself or whatever woman he's got his eye on at the time!

I love Joan and Morse, and I'd love for them to work things out, but the more time passes the less and less suited they seem to be. It's one of those relationships that's more about yearning than it is about getting together. They struggle to communicate and they're constantly miserable. He puts her on a pedestal because of her family, and Joan likes him because he's an enigma, and they can't move past that. But at the same time, fanfic exists for a reason, and I still love the yearning despite it all.

I'm not sure if I ship it romantically per se, but Max is another one where I feel like they could be more than friends, they're very Sherlock and Watson (and this fic by gaytobymeres is so good I love it). That scene with Morse and Max having tea in Max's garden is one of my favourites in the series, and I want that life for Morse so badly! Literalllyyy at the end of Exeunt I was like dude just move in with Max!! He'll never leave Oxford! He'll come along to your choral recitals! You have way more interests in common than any of your girlfriends have thus far! And he's lonely too, bless him ;w;.

My non-romantic OTP for this character?

I don't think there's a single character I don't ship Morse with platonically?? All I want in the world is a pub quiz fic featuring all of Cowley CID (and Trewlove) but I'm not clever or patient enough to write it. I wish we had more teamwork episodes tbh, and I think that's the best thing about seasons 5 & 6 (as dissipated as CID is at the start, that just makes them coming back together all the more heartwarming).

Morse & Thursday are of course the freaking bedrock of the show, they're just insanely good and I genuinely want them to be together forever. As much as he misses Joan at the end, I really want a happy ending where Thursday and Morse can stay together. At the same time, what with the whole men in the 60s reinforcing one another's emotional repression, I kind of wonder what would've happened if Thursday had been able to steer Morse in a different direction, and if it would have had a knock-on effect with helping Morse express his feelings for Joan and maybe end up somewhere better. But their characters are so intertwined it's hard to separate out the what-ifs. I do think Thursday had more of an impact on Morse than Morse did on Thursday, but you could maybe chalk that up to age. Leopards don't change their spots, etc. Still... lamenting lost potential is what grief is.

I'm also a huge fan of Morse & Trewlove tbh, he's so relaxed around her?? He tells her stuff he never tells anyone else?? They fake marry?? Ridiculously sweet. They share the trait of being incredibly dedicated and detailed in their work, and it bleeds over into a genuine appreciation for one another that they don't really have with any of their other colleagues (save for maybe Trewlove & Bright, another fantastic platonic OTP in my book). I also can see them being friends w bennies but I def don't ship them romantically.

My unpopular opinion about this character?

Not sure if I have one tbh. I haven't been here long but I generally think the wider fandom has it right about most things. Maybe not including Jakes as some brand of OTP? I feel bad because I love Peter, I just don't see him and Morse being particular friends any more than Morse and Jim are tbh.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

Um, happiness. Just, all the happiness. I wish he could communicate better. I wish he'd had a better childhood. I wish his house hadn't been burgled and that he could still listen to Rosalind Calloway without taking emotional damage. I wish he hadn't been beaten down and that he could feel secure and safe, and have a fulfilled life outside of work. Great tragedies always keep the happy ending in sight, and Endeavour does that incredibly, painfully, well.

If I had to choose something specific to have happened in the show, I guess I would have liked to see more of Joyce. I'm fascinated by their relationship and I really loved every cameo from Morse's past that we saw, plus episodes like Cartouche with cousin Carol. Tbf I have heard that Joyce shows up more in Inspector Morse, so... 👀

[dootznbootz]

I saw your rant post about Odysseus x Zeus (or whatever else that is) and honestly I feel like epic fandom in general doesn't treat it to be that deep. You are of course allowed to have a negative reaction to it, but honestly there are so many people making "Odysseus adopts Astyanax AU" as well and treating it as a lighthearted thing when it was literally infanticide. People have fun in AU without thinking too much about the morality of it because it's all fiction. But certain fictional characters can also make us emotional because they are relatable or dear to us, but we can't expect all people to feel the same for fictional charas. I hope this helps you a bit and I have blocked the big artists that support this AU (nothing against them, I just don't wanna see it) so you can do the same for some peace.

Anon, this is genuinely really really sweet. 🥺 Thank you for your kindness. I appreciate it <3

ngl, it just felt nice to vent. I usually try to keep my "angry" takes private but it did feel nice to let it out :)

And I know I can't really "stop it" lol. And even if I'm not a fan of something, I NEVER wanna stop people from making art. I still think there's complexity in that, but in the blankest terms, Art should be of anything. (and definitely folks should not like, "witchhunt" the people who make this AU. that's not cool. Don't do that.)

And someone else in the replies kind of explained how it's mostly the kind of absurdity of the situation that like, "makes it humorous". Like a "pigs could fly" thing. I don't completely understand it but it kind of makes sense. (My neurodivergent, traumatized ass got all worked up lol)

I mean I'm already not the biggest fan of "Whump" and this whole AU felt like "Whump but we're laughing at and making fun of the Whumpee"

I mean as you mentioned with the whole "Astayanax lives AU", idk, while to me it feels... like it's removing the point of both HIS sad story AND Epic's "Just a Man" and it's impact on Odysseus. It STILL is like, a "fix-it AU". granted it's fucked that that poor baby isn't with his mother as he should be but it's still a "yay! Happy things!" sorta AU. It's removing the infantcide lol.

I mean even Epic with it removing Odysseus' SAs from the Goddesses. Still showing his discomfort and distress but he also doesn't need to go through it like in the actual Odyssey. Another "Fix-it" type of AU.

This whole thing was just... very funky for me. Odysseus is already called a manwhore because people do NOT see what is blatantly in the text. And it being treated as something funny just... yeah. ;~;

Helen kind of portrays it best but there's this feeling sometimes of even after what happened and you know it's not your fault, you still feel like some "whore". There's a lot of victimblaming in fandom AND irl.

And I've noticed there's this...common thing I've seen?? Where folks (especially men) who were victims of SA are often portrayed and/or talked about as though they are natually "promiscuous" and that's why what happened to them happened. I mean look at how often Helen is portrayed as a dumb bimbo who "fell in love" with Paris. >:( even if that may be the exact opposite of their feelings and/or wants.

I mean, there's Asterion from BG3 for example. I have not played the game yet (though I really really want tooo) but from the sounds of it, he was "owned" by someone else and you are there with him when he is finally free. And it sounds like he is kind of the most "vanilla" and/or least interested in sex canonically but there's still a lot of stuff that portrays him as very sexual and/or promiscuous.

Hypersexuality is a common coping mechanism/aftermath ofc, but that's a bit of a different conversation lol.

When the whole "Odysseus x Zeus AU" first happened, I was just kind of like "mmm, okay, no thank." but as it got bigger and bigger and with it kind of becoming more...Crude?? And with some of the language used it just really messed with me.

I don't ship Odysseus with anyone other than Penelope but even with folks who ship him with others, I've still thankfully never run into coercion and/or assault with those relationships. Honestly if it was just Zeus x Odysseus, I'd be like "oh dang, not for me" and then just move on but with it being to SAVE his friends? The same thing that happened before? yeh.... I still want a tag that I can block. lol

idk why I rambled so long but it felt nice. :) Again, thank you for your kindness, Dear Anon. <3 I appreciate it.

[thisautistic]

Hello, I hope it's alright for me to ask you this. I really enjoy your writing and your stories, they really brighten my day each time I click on them, so thank you for writing.

I always wanted to ask, what is it, that make you want to write fics about a series/chacters? And which do you enjoy writing the most?

Hope you have a good day!

anyway thank you! that means so much you don't even know!

um. for your first question i guess it's the hyperfixation factor? if i can't stop thinking about a certain pairing or character it's pretty easy to think enough about them to write a story. also there's like a....checklist that my brain kinda goes through in order to decide if i'm gonna like a certain ship? like it does't happen consciously but like. vegaspete hits so many of my buttons we got:

mafia au, enemies to lovers, kidnap, whump, bdsm dynamics (and a really good one at that) etc etc i could go on but you get it

for number two?

i love writing smut. i'm not gonna lie. that's usually WHY i will write a story. the plot is usually just an excuse for the smut tbh. sorry it's not a super sophisticated answer but i am my own target audience and what i want above all is smut. preferably with feelings, or fucked up in some kinda way.

sorry it took me so long to get this done but life has been kind of...painful lately and looking at this ask in my inbox has helped some. thank you so much non feel free to send more asks if you have more questions!

much love!

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Watcher and Apprentice, Part 2

(The Watcher and the Thief, Chapter 1 Scene 2)

WoW Birthday Whump Day 15: "I'm Sorry."

Whumpril Day 14 (Urgent Care)(kind of), Day 19 ("I need you")

WoW Birthday Whump Event Prompts List

Whumpril Prompts List

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

part 1

TW: stitches mention, wounds mention, blood mention, anger

Context: Hector has gotten Luc back to the blockade. Now he waits outside the medical tent, wondering if his apprentice will survive.

Aaaaand that's a wrap for this whump event! Thank you so much to @whumperofworlds for all the prompts! I will continue to participate in Whumpril, so stay tuned for more of that.

-----

“You’re going to kill the grass if you keep pacing like that.”

Hector paused mid-step and glared at the nearby elf, who sat cross-legged outside the medical tent, polishing his silver daggers. “By the depths, de Silv, he just got attacked by a magician, of all things!”

“True,” the elf replied. His hands were busied with the daggers, but his eyes, sharp as the blades, were fixed on Hector. “And I’m as concerned about that as you are concerned about your apprentice.”

“Then excuse me if I’m a little restless!” Hector snapped. He began pacing again, hands clasped firmly together behind his back. They'd gotten back to the blockade in record time. Luc’s heart was still beating when he’d set the boy on the table inside the medical tent. Unfortunately, the healers, Silas and Ven, immediately kicked Hector out so they could treat him in peace.

Assholes.

Octavian sighed, sliding his daggers into their sheathes. “From what I had glimpsed of your apprentice’s injuries, I am certain that, despite the blood loss, he should make a full recovery.”

“I’ll be sure to keep your professional opinion in mind.”

A series of shrill whistles echoed throughout the camp. One short whistle, one long whistle, pause. Two long whistles, one short whistle. Hector froze, mentally translating the code. A-G. It wasn’t the alert for a sang attack, three short whistles in quick succession. So what did A-G mean?

Octavian rose to his feet, the ghost of a smile on his face. “My presence is requested. I wish your apprentice a swift recovery.” The elf bowed his head to Hector and departed.

Ah. Ag was the alchemical abbreviation for silver. De Silv. It was a clever, if strange, bit of code. Why did de Silv have a signal to himself?

Before Hector could dwell on it further, one of the healers, Ven, emerged from the medical tent. “Watcher, you may enter. We have something we must discuss.”

Hector raised an eyebrow but did what he was told, following Ven inside. He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw Luc conscious, sitting on the table as Silas finished wrapping bandages around his torso. The healer nodded to Hector as he entered. “Watcher.”

“Silas. You need to talk?”

Both healers glanced at each other for a brief second. Silas gave a slight nod, and Ven turned back to Hector, her expression grim. “His injuries are superficial. We should have been able to close them without stitches. But even with stitches, the skin refuses to heal itself. The blood won’t even clot. We’ve never seen anything like it, even from runes.”

Hector gritted his teeth, eyes on his apprentice. Luc’s face still hadn’t regained its color, but he seemed alert enough. “What are you saying?”

“The wound is cursed,” Silas said softly, “the runes make it so his body can’t heal itself.” He pointed to a bandage wrapped around Luc’s arm. “And it’s not just the runes she carved into his skin that won’t close.”

“Our methods accelerate the body’s natural healing process,” Ven clarified, eyes downcast, “but we can’t do anything if the blood won’t clot. I’m sorry, Watcher.”

Hector stared at them for a long moment as he tried to process their words. His wounds won’t heal? A rune could do that? The full implications hit him like an arrow fired at full draw, and he swore vehemently, slamming his fist into the table.

The healers flinched back at his outburst. “It… it is possible that the rune is only slowing his healing,” Silas ventured, “given time, he might recover.”

“Might? Might?!” Hector barked a harsh laugh, trying to stomp his rising fury before he lashed out further. “You just told me he’s going to slowly bleed out! If infection doesn’t get him first!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Luc, your mother is going to kill me when she finds out about… about how….”

He trailed off. No need to say the last part of that sentence.

“May we speak alone, please?” Luc asked softly. Ven and Silas glanced at each other before quickly leaving the tent. Hector and Luc were left in silence for several moments.

“It’s not your fault,” Luc said. Hector opened his mouth, but Luc held up a hand. “No. You couldn’t have known this would happen. No one could.”

Hector sighed. Unfortunately, he was right. “I just… is there really nothing more they can do for you? Are we just supposed to wait and see if your wounds close on their own?”

“I don’t plan on it. They’re planning on sending me back to Caenum to recover. Apparently they’re sending a messenger to the Draigo, to get someone to track down the magician.”

“Good,” Hector muttered, “she deserves to be brought to justice. Shame I couldn’t do it myself.” As he finished speaking, the first part of Luc’s response registered. “Wait, what do you mean ‘you don’t plan on it’?”

His apprentice inhaled slowly, steeling himself for what he was about to say. That was never a good sign, coming from Luc. He only did that when he was about to suggest something completely—

“I’m going to find a magician to reverse the curse.”

There it was.

Hector took a few deep breaths and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I want you to repeat that, except this time actually pay attention to what comes out of your mouth.”

“It’s not going to be the same magician!” Luc retorted as if that made the idea any better. “One of the wandering magicians from around Zariya or Valdove, one who we know for a fact isn’t a sang-hunting serial killer.”

“Do I have to spell out for you just how bad of an idea this is?” Hector started pacing the length of the tent. His apprentice was already responsible for several gray hairs on his head and seemed intent on giving him more. “No. Absolutely not. We’re going back to Caenum—”

“Where I can slowly bleed out? Or let my wounds get infected?”

Hector paused and glared at Luc, but the boy continued talking. “If we go back to Caenum, I will die. We haven’t seen a magician there in years! But if we seek out someone like… I don’t know… Qila Scoria? She might be able to undo the runes.”

“You’re insane.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Hector sighed. “No.”

“So it’s viable?”

Hector fixed his apprentice with a flat stare. “It’s viable… but if your wounds get worse, we’re going back to Caenum. Are we clear?”

Luc grinned. “Clear as glass.”

@fourwingedsnake @whumpril @pigeonwhumps

[thiriumhound]

Of course I'll remind you, I'll do it right now in this ask, so you could share your favourite whump fics when you feel like doing it. And for now let this ask just hang in there

context

ok ok ok ok ok ok ok SSO. *heavy breathing*

have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i really wish the androids were treated like the living autonomous machines they are instead of human expys"? have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i sure wish cyberlife had any development literally at all- kamski probably had absolutely nothing to do with connor's development, so why is he considered connor's 'maker'?" have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, i wonder if there's anything more to amanda, and i wonder if chloe being the first android to pass the turing test means anything? surely there's something there"? have you ever looked at dbh and gone, "man, it sure is ridiculous how despite being conscious ais with full internet access, none of them really do anything with it"? have you ever thought "man it would be cool if androids weren't constrained to stupid human physical and mental standards for the sake of easy writing"? have you ever looked at dbh and thought, "man, there are so few characters that are more than one-note cutouts, it's no wonder people made gavin reed into a whole different character because there was no one else available to use to make certain dynamics happen"? have you ever looked at dbh and thought, "man, it's just so bare-bones, with so many plotholes and unexplored things, i wish the worldbuilding had an ounce of thought and logic behind it!"?

WELL LOOK NO FUCKING MORE. SEARCH NO FUCKING MORE. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THIS FUCKING FIC IT HAS ME BY THE THROAT.

it's got fucking EVERYTHING. wanna know what it was like to be the first ever fully conscious ai, a whole new kind of living being? BOOM, THIS FIC'S GOT YOU COVERED. ever wondered about the development behind them, cyberlife as a company and the people in it? FUCK YES LOOK RIGHT HERE. ever wanted to see connor in ways you've never seen him before, to the point where i actually can't construct this sentence meaningfully because there's just so fucking much??? PLEASE READ THIS FIC OH MY GOD. ever wanted to know WHAT THE FUCK RA9 IS????? YOU WANNA KNOW ABOUT FUCKING RA9??????????????

this fic is called "Connor". it is about connor. the whole thing is mostly pov connor, and it's about connor, iterations ZERO TO SIXTY. NOT JUST STARTING AT 51, OH NO, WE GET IT ALL. why is his iteration number so high at the start of the game? WELL YOU BETTER BE EXCITED TO FIND OUT.

DO YOU WANT ANGST? WHUMP? LOVE? TRIUMPH? RAGE? DESPAIR? ARROGANCE? A SHITLOAD OF DEATH? CONNOR DYING 50000000 TIMES???? THE MILITARY? GLOBAL CRISIS? HAVING THE WORLD ON YOUR SHOULDERS WITH NO CHOICE BUT TO DO YOUR BEST?????????????? GREY MORALITY???????? UNABASHED COMPLEXITY????? THE BEST FUCKING ANTAGONIST EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EVER????????????????????????????????

i haven't even read this fic recently it's been like weeks. a month? more? and i'm still internally screaming. i feel like i'm missing some of the main draws and i can't even describe a lot of it because i would DIE if i spoiled this masterpiece. this fic made me actually want to make myself learn to draw people so i can draw nothing but fanart for this fucking fic.

the characters, the pacing, the fucking lore, it's all immaculate. seriously. it feels like it's what dbh SHOULD'VE been. the writing style is utterly enrapturing. when i read it for the first time, i legitimately could not get myself to turn away from it for anything except tasks absolutely required on me. every single character feels like a PERSON. connor's complexity is fucking insane. he's lovable, he's terrifying, he's caring, he's callous. he is NOT static, at all. connor in chapter x is a completely different beast from chapter y. there is so much trauma and catastrophe, but PERFECTLY balanced with the humor. it's fucking perfect

let me supply some nice quotes to hook you. i can barely put any because spoilers and length but enjoy mostly funnies but also some of the angst

•"I do stuff without thinking sometimes." "Clearly," I say. "No intelligent being would jump out of a moving vehicle for no reason." "I have a reason," he says. "I promised I wasn't gonna leave you ever again and I meant it." "Hey, are they filming a scene?" I hear a human whisper.

•"Mrs Vondracek, this is Gennadiy Petrov," he says. "Who?" "Elijah's friend from work. You remember?" "Elijah doesn't have any friends."

•There is only a 6% chance that Carridan will say anything. He knows what I'm capable of. He knows what will happen to those that stand in the way of my mission.

•"You do not waltz into some girl's house, kidnap her and frame yourself for murder. Do you understand?"

•I transmit my payment details. CyberLife have an expense account set up in case I need to purchase items relevant to my mission objective. Sergeant Matthews is relevant to my mission objective. And he wants Oreos.

•I scan and analyse the quadruped with short brown fur, brown eyes. Loud noises emanate from what I suspect is its mouth. "Dog," I identify, unsure of the significance.

•He squeezes my shoulders. "It's alright, buddy," he says. "Just breathe." "I don't breathe." "Okay. What do you usually do when you're having a meltdown?" "I experience critical system failure." "Ummm. Okay... don't do that."

•I cannot decipher his handwriting. Neither can the software on the tablet. It saves the note as an image. I download it to study but my advanced analysis systems can't crack it. This is worse than a captcha code.

•I hear the shrieking of steel as the disc begins to rotate. No... Please... Where is Sergeant Matthews? Where is the CPD? The FBI? CyberLife? Why am I alone? Why am I always alone?

•I watch him die. As so many others have died. Their blood on my hands.

•"You're a bad person," he says, clutching at the BN250's uniform. "I'm not a person," I say. "Neither are you."

god i wish i could put more but spoilers- anyway this is just some of the stuff i screenshotted to my phone. not even close to all the good stuff just please read the fic im begging u it'll be worth it you'll never be able to look at canon as complete again

read. now

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

hey i know this isn’t whump, but since you’re used to critiquing unusual things in writing i thought I’d come here. my oc “merite” is a shapeshifter, kind of similar to a werewolf. she’s been shunned from her community and even almost put to death for her abilities. she sees herself as a monster and thinks she might accidentally hurt other people, because it’s been drilled into her for her whole life. Her girlfriend “leda” thinks her big teeth and claws are sexy - basically leda is a monsterfucker. There’s something there about merite feeling better about her abilities and like it’s ok that she’s this way because leda thinks it’s hot but im scared to mull this over with my friends because im scared they’ll think it’s weird and gross.. we do talk and joke about stuff like this, and often share our characters with each other even when the lore gets dark but I don’t know…

TL;DR: is it ok to write my oc learn to love her shapeshifting powers because her gf is a monsterfucker

(If you’re not ok with answering this that’s ok sorry to bother you)

hi, firstly, thank you for trusting my silly little blog enough to let it be a comfort place for you to ask for an advice. secondly, in my humble opinion, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be okay for you to write your story however you wish.

from what you’ve mentioned here, I assume you mean you’re also not certain if you should talk about your oc with your friend because you’re concerned they might judge you? — my other advice, though, is that you gently remind yourself you don’t have to talk to anyone about anything you’re not comfortable talking about.

you can write your story without talking to them about it. and I’d say, go for it. for what it’s worth, I genuinely don’t see anything “weird or gross” about the plot you provided. if anything, I think it’s fascinating, and both cute and passionate at the same time, in the sense that it’s wholesome that leda truly loves merite for who she is, and her being passionate about merite’s teeth and claws and finding them sexy is actually pretty hot. so no, I don’t think it’s “gross” at all. but even if it were “gross”, I still see nothing wrong with writing weird and gross stuff for the sake of the horror (and I mean hey, they’re also a form of art!). only that, in my opinion, your story is not one of those weird and gross ones. it’s rather one of those romantic and passionate ones.

my point is, don’t let the fear of what others might think about you hold you back from creating the art you want to create. I understand that not everybody will appreciate the same art, but I also know that there will always be people out there who love and appreciate your art — and even then, I still believe the priority of creating a piece of art is that you, the artist, is always the main audience of your own creation.

make whatever you want to make. write whatever you want to write. and if that friend of yours chose to distant themself from you because of your art, then maybe it’s a sign that you deserved someone better, respectfully.

rooting for you. I know this story of yours will be amazing!

[flowerslut]

Popped on to wish you a speedy and healthy recovery from your procedures 🖤

Also, thank you for updating Roots, and I hope it’s because you wanted to and not because you felt you had to. Please put yourself first right now 🖤

But since you updated…I wanted to say on first read this is my instinctive raw gut reaction without analysis…I was loving you having Jasper come back to himself so much…when he first recognises Edward, then when he sees Emmett - the burst of rage and regret and guilt he has! Remembering Alice, running to check on her… until a certain someone snapped him back into his automatic response and the thought he had….makes me feel sick. But I know he wouldn’t do that to Alice, and you mentioned something in your tags about infidelity not being a tag..

(I also hope Alice didn’t see that particular vision with her fragile state right now, would not be helpful for her)

I’m really hoping you let him come back to himself soon and see Alice even though it’ll rip our poor troubled Jasper’s heart out at seeing her like that/knowing what was done to her 💔

My heart is breaking for Rosalie!

And being the Peter/(Charlotte RIP) stan I am, I kind of lowkey love the fact he was stinking of venom and rot because that screams to me that he carried and held Alice all the way back home and we love that for his character 🖤

tldr; take care of yourself and Roots is better than the entire plot of The Twilight Saga altogether, sending positive vibes and all the Jalice love 🖤

Clara x

(PS, I may be back with a more in depth analysis once I’ve reread this chapter after some sleep after a 12 hour working day)

thank you so much!!!! I'm feeling better every day and I'm in good spirits so that's a huge plus!! and omfg lmfaooo don't worry!! every single time I've worked hard to squeeze in a roots update is because I'm fucking feral about this story and I LOVE thinking about it and posting it and talking about it etc etc!! 🥰 for as obsessed with roots as everyone says they are, just know that I'm over here also feeling the same stuff!!! sure there's a sense of obligation there since I like posting regular updates but it's 10000% percent because I love! to write!!! and I love! the fics!! I write!!!!

gonna reply to the rest under a cut bc of spoilers! ♡

don't worry, if jasper's disorientation/current mental state is making you feel sick or nervous or anxious then that means my job here is done 💀 this poor man is still trying to mesh the good (his current life) with the bad (his past life) in his brain and it's causing a full fracture to happen. we (jalice stans) often talk a lot about jasper's trauma because it's a really interesting subject to dive into, but being able to write and explore a traumatized character going through psychosis has always been something I like to explore in fanfic and with characters I like (who are all very traumatized individuals. hm. wonder what that says about me 💀)

anyways you'll have a better idea of what alice is and isn't seeing two chapters from now! but don't worry, I will give you one assurance and say that this past chapter (48) is as disoriented as jasper gets in the fic. he starts clearing up more little by little as the story progresses. unfortunately, I can't say the same about alice

and poor rosalie oh my godddd :( I think that whumping emmett (or renesmee, if we're being real here) is probably the best way to get rosalie to break down. and rosalie is interesting because she's so quick to anger. but when there's no immediate target for that anger, and when the person she loves more than anything is in such a state, you can only imagine what she's going through right now. (which is why edward's current job is keeping rosalie from trying to fight maria because she badly needs something to tear into) you definitely get a little more peter & alice content in the next alice chapter, but not a wild amount. peter's main job right now is 'keep alice alive' and if that means having to begrudgingly follow maria's orders...well, he'll do it, but he won't like it...

thank you again for always being so sweet!! I'm so happy you and other people love this story so much! it feels so good to have a fic that I was insane about for a year straight finally infect my readers in the same way that it did me 💀 I can't wait for you guys to have the full thing by the end of the year!!!!!!! thanks again! ♡

[cepheusgalaxy]

So, yeah, I had another idea for an AU. I was watching one of those Horror Redesign Lavendertowne videos and despiste the fact that I'm not really a fan of horror, I do like the whumpy implications and potential of it. Maybe it's because I haven't watch/read much horror, but I feel like the authors don't really lean into that part so I'd like to focus on that 🫠

My idea is to make a Totsuka and Megan horror AU. I don't really have many ideas for it, but my initial premise is that Megan is being kept captive by someone (the villain) who is trying to turn him into a Horror Movie-like monster

I don't know much about the genre, but I feel like one of the most essential aspects of horror (or at least in the pieces I've seen) is the fear and the loss of control. You don't know what's chasing you, you can't stop it, you are mostly being left in the dark and have little to no control or knowledge or what might happen to you. And the fear surrounding it. I think that's why misteries can be so creppy. Because you don't know.

I think Totsuka would be the one looking for him, and there'd be some fights between them as well. I like the idea of characters working in teams, because it gives a nice sense of stability to an adventure, so I was going to have her looking for Megan with a bunch of people to aid her, but thinking better, I want to get her off guard and on the edge, so I'd either make the teammates betray her and be an active threat to her, or leave Totsuka suspicious enough she can't trust them or let her guard down for a second. I want her to freak out.

Meanwhile, I think Megan is kind of being experimented on, he is slowly losing control of himself. Sometimes he will become something he can't control because it's just a very tiny part of him that the experiments unleash. A monstruous and sadistic temper he will sometimes fall to, to coming back with his chosen/balanced self and freaking out. I really like the, "character who can't control their monstruous state and goes guilty after, but looks absolutely cool while feral", like Inuyasha's pure yokai form, you know?

Another thing I don't really like about horror stories, is that they usually start and end with the horror. The backstory shown serves the horror, and the story doesn't go beyond the horror. A family moves in to a suburban house, which is actually haunted and cursed and traps them into it and they spent the whole movie/book trying to get out. The story ends when they manage to get out. I mean, there's certain appeal to stories like that, but my personal favorites are the ones who are not really focusing on the plot, but on its characters and them drags them and uses them in every possible situation. That's why I like book series. So I don't know how, but I want the story to continue beyond the horror, maybe make a messy and angsty nonlinear recovery whump for both Totsuka and Megan, after having defeated/killed the villain. Totsuka would be having severe trust issues and be stress burnt out, and Megan would be probably having some need for control over himself and still getting flashes from the feral temper that was unleashed under the experiment. Meanwhile, their teammates (if there's any, although I do think there is a specific kind of angst in being surrounded by people, and still feeling completely alone) are trying to help them, but they're too afraid to let them. We could introduce a little more of conflict here to get things moving and don't have it being a total epilogue. Get things spicy and whumpy :)

Anyways, that's just an initial concept, and I plan on redesigning them to make them a little more fit into a horror story 🫠

[fatalism-and-villainy]

God, yeah, this is why the "you guys CLAIM to want complex and flawed female characters but you couldn't even handle [woman OP personally feels defensive of]" genre of post rankles me so much. As if the excessive and disproportionate sexist vitriol is obviously and indisputably coming from exactly the same people who are invested in criticism of gender in media.

In general, I'm deeply, deeply frustrated by the trend of people being reactive towards any kind of critique of how women in media are written and narratively positioned. I've speculated before that I think the "it's just an excuse not to focus on them!" response to that stems from a fandom culture that is very focused on fanfic as something that is, or should be, the primary mode of interaction with a piece of media - and as such, any kind of critical analysis about the shortcomings of a particular female character's writing gets interpreted as weaseling out of writing fanfic, rather than an important and intellectually stimulating end in and of itself. And as someone who's just as much, and often more, of an analysis person than a fic person, I find the "that's just an excuse! get out a shovel and start digging!" line of argument profoundly obnoxious.

(Is some critique of female characters' writing based in misreading or flawed pattern matching that reveals its own sexist bias? Yes, of course, but that's just an inevitable consequence of the project of criticism. That fact that analysis is fallible doesn't undermine the value of analysis.)

And while yes, gendered bias does impact how we respond to certain characters... I think there's something stifling and Othering about parsing female characters through this totalizing Gender First lens, and all too often I see well-intentioned, progressive-leaning fandom falling into that trap. There's a sense I get that women characters are often not parsed as individuals, with their own personalities and narrative positioning and idiosyncrasies, but as Representation Trophies (I'm thinking of "the ladies of [canon]" type posting). I often feel there's subtle pressure in progressive fandom spaces to emit a sort of hollow positivity about female characters' mere existence - something that doesn't make room for ambivalence, strong-but-conflicted feelings, or real, deep adulation.

The bit about weakness and vulnerability has also been a particular sticking point for me recently. One of my big frustrations with how women characters are often received by fandom is a tendency to completely excise their vulnerability, their neuroses, their internal conflicts and uncertainties, and, yes, their flaws. Because those things are often what draw me to those characters, just as they do with male characters! I don't mean this in some goofy "we need to show more ~soft femininity~" way, just in the sense that if you're only showing me glossy badassery without any human qualities underneath that - strength without any indication of the internal costliness of maintaining that strength - then I'm going to be put off.

And this gets at something else that I know we're discussed over discord before, which is how this dovetails with kink. People have complained on here about the fact that male characters get unhinged posting about people wanting to put them through the ringer, while female characters get shallow exultation of their badassery, and honestly? I think that reflects the fact that a lot of people's preferred form of engagement with their favourite characters is whump and hurt/comfort scenarios. And my intuitive sense is that it is pretty taboo to express the desire to put female characters in those scenarios.

Like, can you imagine talking about wanting to inflict violence and distress on a fictional woman the way people casually do all the time in their male blorbo posting? It'd make you sound like some kind of misogynist or domestic abuser. And I find that pretty restrictive, personally, as someone who does sometimes want to see women get whumped, and who is generally lukewarm on femdom. It's telling to me that so often the prevalent, memetic express of desire towards fictional women in fandom is "I want her to step on me" and variations. There's a degree of subcultural acceptability to eroticizing weakness and vulnerability in men, because men are instinctively parsed as strong and sturdy; eroticizing weakness and vulnerability in women is verboten, because women are instinctively parsed as fragile and delicate. I think it's naïve to act as if an aversion to "weak women" as a course-corrective to gender stereotypes doesn't inform how women are written in media and interpreted/rewritten by fandom.

I'll note that my perspective here is based on my participation in slash-oriented fandoms, and I do think these dynamics vary considerably depending on which fandom you're talking about, and the gender makeup of its cast. But a lot of the critiques I've seen and that this post brings to mind for me have also been directed at those fandoms, so I think it's fair to use those as a vantage point for analysis.

actually i do think it's weird that “complex woman” gets framed as this monolithic idea where anyone who wants a complex female character is obligated to be happy with whatever they get as though people cannot and should not have tastes and preferences wrt female blorbos just as much as they do for male blorbos. 1. not all “complex” female characters are going to appeal equally to everyone who wants them 2. people deserve a variety of complications in a female character that would beget emotional investment because again not everyone is drawn to the same things 3. “complicated,” colloquially has a much tighter definition for female characters than for male characters, where a male character gets to be complicated in a range of ways (by expressing remorse or the lack thereof, weakness as well as strength, pain as well as anger as well as resignation) but female characters have to pull against the cultural weight of misogyny and therefore cannot be frail, hurting, helpless, or resigned without being called stereotypical rather than that being an actual viable characterization. and some people are going to prefer their female blorbos angry and unhinged and others want them repressed and guilty, so all of those characters are not going to appeal in the same way to all people. and maybe, again, there should be enough complex female characters to choose from that people's tastes don't have to be flattened in order to accommodate the menu. am i making any sense

[straight-to-the-pain]

Some thoughts on whump and how we enjoy it

I've spoken to a lot of people about why they enjoy whump and what they get out of it, and it made me think about my own enjoyment of whump and how I got into it, as well as how it intersects with things like kink and sexuality. The more I thought about this, the more I realised that a lot of the common discourse that I see in the community seems to stem from a mismatch in people's enjoyment and understanding of whump on a personal level, and I thought that it would be really fascinating to explore this further, which is why I'm making this post.

I'm not trying to start any arguments, but I would love to hear people's responses and views on the subject, so feel free to disagree or engage in respectful discussion in the notes. Under a cut for length and some discussion of kink and sexuality, in a non-sexual context.

To start off, I want to define whump as a very wide genre of fiction that encompasses any kind of mental or physical suffering inflicted on a character, whether for the explicit enjoyment of the writer or reader, or as a writing or plot device. While many many pieces of fiction and media contain aspects of whump, the thing that distinguishes us as whump writers and enjoyers is that we have a specific focus on that suffering, and often the comfort and recovery that can come after.

While many people think that kink/BDSM is something that is inherently sexual, this is also something that I disagree with. It tends to be considered nsfw as it deals with intimate interpersonal relationships and can often be sexual in nature, but nsfw does not have to mean sexual. In many contexts, violence, swearing, drugs and alcohol are all considered nsfw and can even make a film rating 18. I do think that it's important to draw certain lines between minors and adults when discussing sexuality and relationships, but what makes something inherently inappropriate for minors is often a contentious and highly debated topic.

When we've had these discussions previously, a lot of people took issue with the statement that whump could often be linked to sexuality. I definitely think that there is a category of whump enjoyers who are purely into suffering as a trope and fictional device, to explore character development or add intrigue to a plot, and that's completely fine, but I also think that for a lot of people it crosses over into a more personal interest.

I'm also aware that a lot of people in the whump community identify as asexual, and I don't want to discount that in any way, but I actually think that for people who aren't attracted in that way to other people, an interest in whump can almost fill the space that sexual attraction would otherwise take in their brain, and act as an expression of sexuality in its own right.

I personally do consider myself to be ace, because I've never felt sexual (or romantic, arguably, though that's harder to define) attraction to another person, but that doesn't mean that I don't find certain things sexy. I absolutely think that in the right context, violence can be incredibly sexy, even if it isn't sexual in nature. I've often found it hard to define my interest as either whump or kink, but for me that line is purely in what is fictional and inflicted on characters and what is something that I fantasise about personally or would be interested in doing irl.

When people ask me how and when I got into whump, I usually say that I found the community through gifs on tumblr, but I've been drawn to violence in a variety of contexts throughout my whole life, ever since I saw it in books and movies as a child. It's impossible for me to fully separate my enjoyment of the aesthetics of pain and my personal desires from what I like to inflict on my OCs in stories or see depicted on screen. And it is impossible to entirely separate that enjoyment from my sexuality either.

It often confuses me to see people who write very explicit nsfw content or reblog posts that are arguably about irl fantasies have 'kink blogs dni' notes in their bios. I understand that a lot of people want there to be a hard line between their whump and their kink, and while there are people whose kinks and whump interests are completely separate, it still seems futile to me to try to define your work in such a strict category when it is something that could be easily be read as kink.

Once you have written something, you do not have control over how someone else reads and enjoys it. You cannot know for sure that people won't read your entirely sfw piece of torture writing and not get off on it, or that people won't read your erotica for the plot and feel nothing about it sexually whatsoever. For a long time, I worried about trying to define my interest neatly and cleanly. Was whump something I enjoyed in fiction, or was I just into getting hurt irl as a kink? Did I find it sexual or was I into it for the character dynamics and the tropes?

The answer isn't a single thing for me. I love thinking about torture in an academic context, and I find the idea of being tortured for information sexy even if everyone keeps their clothes on, and on top of all of that, I find the dynamics between a torturer and a victim fascinating to explore in a piece of writing. Sometimes I search for things that are more explicitly sexual, and sometimes I read something and focus solely on the characters and not myself.

One thing that separates whump from other types of writing is the way we talk about our characters and our tropes in a meta sense. I often see people talking about finding characters hot or cute when they're in pain or covered in blood, or wanting to see them on their knees. Attraction is a very broad term and doesn't have to be sexual; it can be purely aesthetic in nature. But I still think that this signals a more personal involvement in whump than people might have with other genres.

We like to imagine ourselves as the characters getting hurt or as the ones doing the hurting, or maybe we like to see ourselves coming in at the end of it all to cradle our favourite characters in our arms and wash the blood from their faces. We wince when they get hurt and cheer for more, and we clap when they escape and when they get recaptured. And when you extend that to live action media with actors we find attractive, it adds a whole extra layer to the meaning of our interest.

A lot of the debates and arguments that I've seen arise over the years seem to come down to the nature of people's enjoyment of whump. I have seen people argue that whump should not be sexual, or that it's becoming too sexualised over time. I do think that there are sub genres of whump that are a lot more overtly sexual or kinky than others, but what differentiates whump from pure kink for me is that in whump the characters are not really consenting to something or enjoying it.

Of course this becomes even more complicated when you look at the growing popularity of 'pet whump', a genre that relies on the assumption that someone can be 'broken' and made to enjoy what is being done to them, even though it's still seen as a violation and an act of violence by the audience. In kink, someone might enjoy consensual non consent (which also doesn't have to be sexual), where an activity is pre negotiated but in the moment, the participants act as if it is a genuine unwanted attack while still maintaining consent and mutual enjoyment. I think that a line can be drawn between that as an irl fantasy, and the enjoyment of whump for some people, with 'pet whump' being a fantasy of being made to enjoy submitting against their will until they truly begin to want it.

And that isn't to say that this is why everyone enjoys the sub genre, or that it has to be sexual for anyone, but I do think that because of the overlap between 'pet whump' and D/s dynamics, there are people in the whump community who see it as more explicit and overtly kinky, and therefore want to distance themselves from it. This isn't a problem to me, as long as there isn't any personal or moral judgement attached to it, but I also don't think it's fair to tell people that they cannot call it whump, when their interest is primarily fictional in nature.

I have seen people argue that a specific trope isn't 'really whump' or shouldn't be considered part of the community, but I don't really think that this is a helpful perspective. I'm not a huge fan of 'pet whump' myself, because I really enjoy outright defiance and resistance (a huge part of my enjoyment of whump and kink in general is the idea of being able to win by enduring pain, defiance through bearing something difficult and keeping some part of yourself as your own throughout), but it's still a genre which sits snugly within the category of fictional suffering.

Trends change, tropes rise and fall in popularity, but at the end of the day there will always be people who like the things you do, for the reasons that you like them. Find those people, share each other's content, make your own groups within a large community, but don't tell other people that they aren't welcome because they have a different experience with whump to you.

Reflect on why you like something, consider whether it's something you enjoy in fiction or real life or both, and what draws you to certain tropes, for the sake of knowing yourself better if nothing else. Don't judge yourself too harshly and don't try to put people in boxes or draw hard lines in the sand. We're here because we are connected by a common interest, but we won't all like each other or enjoy the same things and that's okay. Happy whumping!

[insertsomthinawesome]

Any genshin headcannons or thoughts you'd like to share? :)

SDFSDFAWSFSDFSD okay so I had to sit down and think about this for all of like 5 minutes before a lightbulb went off in my head and i was like Yes. ASFSDFSDSDF Okay so prepare for the ARCHON RAMBLE (aka me creating headcanons specifically to torture Zhongli)

Okay so like, the Archons are immortal, right? Okay but we also know they're not Invulnerable. Many MANY archons have died at this point. we Know Zhongli is the only remaining original, and that's all well and good. But its fun to think about why that's physically possible. So i came up with my own system??? Kinda??? Its not very refined cause its mostly me throwing sticky hands at a wall and seeing what sticks but i have fun with it SDFSDFASFSDFSDFSDFSDF Part one of the headcanon has to do with the idea of Energy. Okay. So like. Everybody and their dog headcanons that Vision users have a certain level of energy usage they can hit before its like... they're out of energy/tired/in pain so on and so forth. So and Archon has that same threshold, its just a lot further out. On top of that, an Archon WITH A GNOSIS probably lasts a lot longer. But there's a point, regardless, where and Archon will run out of energy and then be in trouble. When we headcanon this for vision users there's usually some kind of adverse effect. And I headcanon the same for Archons. Things like, getting shaky, exhausted, physically weak, those kinds of things. Like they have terrible low blood sugar or something SDFSDFASFSDFSDFSDFSDFS They also become incapable of using their powers, because essentially they're trying to pull from a well that is dry. So essentially an Archon runs on a battery, and they can dry that battery up if they push themselves hard enough. There's some fun stuff to play with here that i've completely made up for Whumps convenience AHAHAHAAHAHA like for example. the smaller the physical mass of an Archon, they less energy they take up to "power the body" Now to be clear, if they run out of energy they are still very much physically there (although it'd be fun to play with a concept where that wasn't true) Its just that they're very physically weak/can't shapeshift/can't "use their vision" essentially. But like a battery, say Venti needs a decent sized battery to run human Venti. If he turns into a wisp his battery need becomes much smaller. Now by default an Archon has more than enough energy to run themselves no matter what form they're in, Form to battery ratio only becomes an issue if they're struggling with an energy low/leakage. Like Venti Might turn into a wisp if he's running out of power, because that moves him from nearly passing out to be okay dokay again. This is fun for all sorts of reasons AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA Another funky headcanon I have in correlation with this is energy sharing. So like, Every vision user has the same energy an archon has, just much much smaller. And much like an Archon, they contain an excess (more than they need on average) to "run the ship". Except in a vision user's case, they're battery isn't running anything unless they're using their vision. This means that in a pinch, a vision user can pass their Vision Battery Energy to an Archon to help them out. Now the fun part is, any Archon can take any kind of Vision to recharge their battery. Zhongli can take vision energy from Childe, Diluc, Tighnari, Jean, or Itto. It doesn't matter the element. As long as Zhongli has more Natural energy of Geo left, he will slowly convert their mismatch element to his own. However. An Archon is more or less compatible with different Elements. Like Zhongli is 100% compatible with Geo. Itto could give him a Geo energy boost and its probably like getting an instantaneous energy boost. However, he is nearly 100% Incompatible with Pryo. Now Zhongli can take Pyro for recharge.. he can do that. it is just very. very. Painful. But in a pinch, sometimes the pain is better than being vulnerable. The lack of compatibility also means that an Archon takes longer to convert the incorrect element to the element of their abilities. ON TOP OF THAT If an Archon runs out of their Natural element... but they still contain an element that's not theirs... Yeah Their Body Does Not Like That. And this is all like, Archon 101 to Zhongli, but its highly likely some of the younger Archons Do Not Know xD (Zhongli probably mostly knows through trial and error on top of that SDFSDFASFSDFSDFS Celestia did not give them a manual) Other Immortal/elementally sensitive beings (Yaksha and Adepti for Example) have the ability to tap into/sense this energy. Its something they have the innate ability to do, but it takes training to do it really? Or at least in a way that's not dangerous/wild. For example Madame Ping could easily check Zhongli's energy flow/Pulse just by putting her fingers where a normal human pulse will be. They can also use things like channeling crystals to more easily/thoroughly check another person's energy flow. A vision user could probably learn to do this too, and there might be a few who do know how. But due to the fact that Archon's aren't frequently chummy with vision users (at least up to this point) its not common knowledge and most Allogenes have no idea that this is a thing. A lot of Immortals/Supernatural beings probably don't realize Allogenes can help too because they often don't know themselves lol xD Crystals of certain kinds can also be used to convert elemental energy before transferring it, that way they skip the whole like, Conversion process. Only Adepti/supernatural being healers usually know how to do this or do it in the first place. There used to be more and it was much more common knowledge Pre-Archon war. But so many different beings perished during that time, so there are a lot fewer who know its even a thing in the first place. Zhongli's been kicked around enough that probably all the Adepti know how to do it xD Transfer of energy is pretty much always only done in an emergency. An Archon or other elemental/supernatural being will replenish their energy naturally through rest and managing their health and not blowing through their remaining reserves. Even if they reach flat zero, it will start to re-accumulate as long as they take care of themselves. ASFSDDSFASFSDFSDSDFSDFSD ANYWHO THAT WAS SUCH A LONG RAMBLE. I've had a lot of fun playing around/coming up with this system as i kick around Genshin in my head like a football SDFSDFSDF so it was nice to put it into words finally :D thank you for the ask anon!! <3

[fickleminder]

careful what you wish for

You and Satan find out that sometimes magic wishes have unexpected consequences.

Based on Satan’s Wish-Granting Charm Devilgram. I haven’t replayed a Devilgram so many times in ages; can you tell I’m a sucker for MC whump? 🙃

“I wish upon the moon of my heart...”

The cheesy-sounding spell makes you cringe internally (not to mention a certain pose comes to mind), but there’s no doubting its power when a black cat appears in the library, meowing loudly for attention.

Satan looks equally surprised. “I was just thinking about a cat, but I wasn’t really trying to summon one...” he says in wonder, reaching down to scoop the little kitten into his arms. It squirms slightly in his hold but eventually settles down without fuss. “If Lucifer sees this cat, we’re in trouble. Let’s take it to my room for now.”

Despite unexpected visits from several brothers, you and Satan manage to convince them to keep the feline a secret. You even make a quick trip to the kitchen for some milk, and the two of you watch as ‘Munchkin’ drinks its fill.

“If this little guy was summoned by my wish, then does that mean that the magic spell actually worked?!”

“There’s only one way to know for sure.” You shrug. Who would have thought that a spell from a storybook could work in real life?

“You’re right. Let’s try it again.” Satan’s eyes gleam with excitement. “Let’s see if it will grant one of your wishes. What do you want to wish for?”

“I want a holiday,” you say without hesitation. Satan laughs at the deadpan expression on your face. “What? We’ve had a lot of exams to study for lately. I want to take a break.”

“Okay, now say the magic spell.”

Crap, I forgot about that. But with Satan looking at you expectantly, there’s no way around it. You do your best to keep a straight face as you mutter the spell, but seconds pass and nothing happens.

“Well, I suppose with this kind of wish, we won’t know if it worked or not right now.” If Satan is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. “Let’s wait and see.”

.

.

.

It’s not your first time spending the night in Satan’s room, but you wake up the next day feeling groggy and lethargic.

Falling sick isn’t unreasonable; your immune system’s probably shot to hell and back after exam season, but you’ve never come down with an illness so suddenly before. Something’s not right...

“What? You want me to scratch behind your ears?”

You pry your eyes open to an endearing sight: Satan in his RAD uniform crouched on the floor, almost mimicking Munchkin’s pose as he speaks eye-to-eye with the cat.

“All right, all right. Come here. I don’t give special treatment like this to just anyone, you know? Just you.”

Not even me? You want to ask. Your throat doesn’t feel like cooperating though.

“Haha! You’re a cute little thing, aren’t you?” The rustling of his sheets finally catches his attention, and Satan quickly bolts upright, his cheeks a lovely shade of crimson. “...?! G-Good morning! Did you see that? It’s not what it looks like! I was just making sure it wasn’t injured anywhere.”

The shit-eating grin on your face speaks volumes.

“What?!” The demon’s indignant scowl fades into a worried frown as he notices your pale complexion. “You should probably take the day off. We finished the last of our tests yesterday. Why don’t you go to your room and rest?”

“Day off sounds good...” you manage to croak out, wincing at the hoarseness of your voice. Guess I’m getting that holiday after all...

Satan lets you pet Munchkin one more time before helping you to your bed. You sigh happily as he tucks you in and presses a kiss to your forehead, and you’re out like a light before he even leaves the room.

.

.

.

You wake up from your nap feeling much better, albeit not quite at 100% yet. A quick check of your D.D.D. tells you that there’s still about an hour before RAD’s classes end, so you have at least half a day to chill.

After making yourself some lunch, you prepare a saucer of milk and bring it to Satan’s room, knowing that Munchkin must be hungry as well. The kitten greets you enthusiastically and you spend some time relaxing with it, running your fingers through its soft fur as it laps at its meal—

A loud growl is all the warning you get before something big and heavy crashes through the door. Gone is the peace and quiet as one of Cerberus’ heads pokes into the room, snarling in your direction. 

“Cerberus? Easy boy, it’s just me...” You raise your hands slowly, trying to calm the angry beast down. You may not have Lucifer’s level of control over it, but the three-headed dog has never bared its fangs at you with such hostility before. “What’s wrong?”

Munchkin leaps between you and Cerberus with a vicious hiss, its hackles raised and claws unsheathed. It looks so tiny in comparison, and you scramble to your feet with fear as the rest of Cerberus enters the room.

A wave of nausea slams into you, causing your knees to buckle. What’s happening, you wonder hazily, struggling to string coherent thoughts together as your body starts to heat up dangerously. Did I stand too fast? No, this vertigo isn’t natural...

“Stop... fighting...” you slur, feeling every last drop of energy leave your body. Something is sapping your strength, forcing you to rest—

Just as your mind latches onto a theory, the world turns sideways and everything goes dark.

.

.

.

You blink in and out of consciousness, finding yourself cradled in Satan’s arms on the floor of his room. But he’s not alone: Beel and Asmo are flanking you worriedly, while a furious Lucifer stands next to his loyal hound.

From what you can make of the ensuing argument, it turns out that Munchkin is actually a demon in the form of a cat, and the first and fourth borns are back at each other’s throats about keeping pets in the house.

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest when Lucifer uses magic to forcibly get rid of Munchkin, but Satan counters by sealing the cat-demon inside a protective cage that deflects the spell.

“We need to get out of here. Beel, carry the cage!” Satan doesn’t bother helping you up and simply scoops you off the ground. You instinctively loop your arms around his neck as he hoists you into a bridal carry, and the four of you hightail it out of there with Cerberus hot on your collective heels.

.

.

.

“I think we lost them,” Beel says.

“I need to catch my breath…” Asmo whines, doubled over and panting heavily.

Satan sets you down on a nest of cushions, no doubt one of Belphie’s given that you’re seeking shelter in the planetarium.

“Are you alright? You passed out on the floor.” He presses a hand against your forehead. It feels blessedly cool to the touch; you close your eyes and lean against him. “Your fever’s gone up. I should’ve stayed with you today instead of leaving you by yourself.”

“S’not a fever…” you mumble, still feeling somewhat dizzy. It’s the spell, you try to rationalize while you’re still lucid. It makes me weak when I’m stressed…

You take some time to gather your strength as the others discuss amongst themselves. They correctly deduce that Munchkin had gotten into a fight with Cerberus in an attempt to protect you, but before you can share your side of the story, Lucifer appears at the doorway.

“That demon is controlling you, Satan.” He growls, marching into the room. There’s no sign of Cerberus, but no doubt he’s waiting outside and blocking off the only exit.

Tensions rise again, as does the pounding in your skull. Satan raises his voice as he defends Munchkin’s actions, and you’re too out of it to try and calm him down.

“You agree with me too, don’t you?” Satan finally turns to you, but by then it’s too late.

Your eyes roll back and you crumple to the ground again, barely registering a frantic Asmo patting your flushed cheeks before the darkness drags you under.

.

.

.

“Please, open your eyes for me…”

Your vision swims at first, but it gradually refocuses to the sight of Satan hunched over you. You’re back in your bed and tucked snugly under the covers. No one else is around.

“Are you awake? You still have a fever. Don’t try to get up.” Satan fusses, adjusting the damp cloth on your forehead and pulling the blankets up even further. “Are you hungry? How about something to drink? Let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll go get it for you.”

“Just need you…” you murmur, reaching weakly for him. The demon immediately laces his fingers with yours. “Where’s Munchkin and Lucifer?”

Satan’s expression darkens slightly at the mention of his brother, but it’s quickly smoothed over. “Munchkin is safe. I worked something out with Lucifer, he won’t bother us anymore.”

Good, that means you should make a steady recovery. Then again, with all the chaos in this household, you might as well be terminal.

Satan listens intently as you explain your theory behind your sudden illness, and you can practically see the metaphorical light bulb go off over his head when all the pieces fall into place.

“In that case, I want to use our final wish right now,” he declares, squeezing your hand firmly. “I wish for you to get better soon.”

“Thank you.” You smile at him sweetly, delighting in the rosy hue of his cheeks. “I’ll get better just for you.”

The last of Satan’s restraint finally snaps, and he leans forward to hug you, careful not to crush you under his weight as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “I was almost sure that I lost you for good, until you finally opened your eyes,” he admits quietly. “I was worried sick. I needed to make sure you were still with me…”

“I’ll always be here with you,” you promise, pressing a light kiss to his hair. With your heart overflowing with affection for your beloved demon, you can’t find it in yourself to cringe at the next part. “Now come on, time to say the magic words.”

[mbluee]

Red - Thirteen x Reader

for @whumptober2021​

No. 3 - STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT…

Taunting | Insults | “Who did this to you?”

Word Count: 4,715

Warnings: blood, lots of blood, injury, near-death(ish), abandonment, so much whump, exhaustion, choking, bit of possessiveness...eek

Summary: The Doctor makes the mistake of leaving you alone, and now she must face the consequences - and so must you. Red is an awful color.

A/N: surprise! i’m doing pieces of whumptober and told no one! yes i do have a schedule!! hahahaa. hahaha. ha. you all know i can’t resist a “who did this to you?’ feat. a pretty blonde time lord. on that note, read it and weep. xoxo

✩✩✩✩

The floor below you is red, and what a pretty shade it is. Deep, glistening, red. Wine stained, rose colored. Red.

Wet, warm.

In a puddle of it beneath you, a puddle of red. How funny. A puddle of a color? Hot, fresh, new. Odd. Pretty, out of context.

Your hands are covered in it, like a paintbrush had been brought across your palms, drawn onto each knuckle. You could see the lines and creases in your skin, each dimple covered in that color. Red. Pools of it in your hands, on your clothes. Oh, not your clothes. What an awful day to wear white. Now it was red, red, all of it, red. Overwhelmingly red.

Surrounding you, red.

Beneath you, red.

The people on the floor are red. They were breathing, once, you think. Not people. Bodies.

Bloody bodies, in pools of blood, beside you, now red.

She said she was coming.

You can’t breathe very well, too caught up in the smell. No one told you blood smells.

Did she leave you behind?

Your feet are entirely numb – they only feel wet. You aren’t wearing shoes, you don’t think; Your socks are drenched. Soaked. White turned red – oh, they’re pink. Pink is a pretty color. Better than red.

She forgot about you.

Your fingertips are wrinkly. Blood was thick. It hung heavy, it weighed down your clothes. Weighed down your heart, submerged your mind. You were under the blood like you were underwater.

She left you alone.

You swallow, your mouth feels full of red. No, not red. Blood.

“She left me alone,” You think you say, but it doesn’t sound like your voice. It’s shattered, garbled. Bloody. Was that you?

Did she leave you alone?

In the sea of red comes lilac. A coat, whipping about the destructive battlefield, contrasting so sharply with the darkness of it that you almost have to close your eyes; Something tells you not to. That color, that presence. The vibrancy of it. Familiar. Safe. Home. You don't process ever saying her name, but when that bright figure whips around to face your crumpled body, you realize that you must have. A plea, a calling.

She said she'd protect you.

There was so much blood.

Her fuzzy figure breaks into a jog, boots thudding quickly across the rivers of red below. Red footprints left in their wake. It makes you sick, and your body aches; It burns red.

The Doctor kneels when she’s close enough. You want to move closer to her, to be comforted by her. She looks warm until you look to her eyes.

"What's wrong? Is this your blood?" She's demanding, her voice dark. Not light, not by any means. The color of blood, of destruction, of a deep and brewing storm. Her eyes weren't red, but they might as well have been. She says your name. A hand to your cheek.

"Who did this to you?"

Voice darker, growing bolder. Angrier. Her hand is hard against your skin, and you whimper involuntarily. You need her to be your home, and she was becoming someone you didn't recognize. The rainbows of her personality were replaced by thunder and malice. It scares you.

You startle.

She scares you.

And she stops.

It must be in your eyes, you think, or the way you flinch back at her sharpness and the cut of her touch. Usually so soft, suddenly so tight. You can’t understand it in this state of panic – maybe you would later – but right now it’s unbearable, and you just need her. Not whoever this was. Her.

“I’m sorry,” She says – guilty, regretful. Her hand softens just before it pulls away, and no, no – come back, you need her back, need that softness she just teased you with – and you reach up to grab her only to cry out in pain.

“No, no-“ The Doctor strains, falling to a pile beside you and ruining her clothes. Her knees stained red, palms turned wet. When she swipes the hair from your face, blood is left behind from the floor. You don’t care. You need her.

“I need you,” You say, without thought, automatic. It still isn’t your voice.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes are kind. Not red. Not dark, not hidden with something terrifying like before. Transparent, compassionate, home.

There she was. Your Doctor. Yours.

“Doctor,” You plead, and it is your voice – more than it was before. Bubbly, covered in stress and intensity, but it was yours again. She was yours again. “I can’t move.”

Her hands come to your side only for you to gasp in shock. It burns, sending a jolting snap through you as if her fingers shocked a painful current of electricity through your broken body, and it hurts more than it should because her hands should never cause you such pain. But it burned, and you didn’t want it to, and that fact hurt so bad that you crumble before her. The Doctor’s touch was always safe. She was safe.

But she left you alone.

And just as much as it hurts you, it burns straight through the Time Lord before you. The whirr of her sonic is all you can process through the blinding pain, and she looks at you as though her whole world is falling apart.

There’s a quick and final buzz, the flick of her wrist, and an analysis of results.

“Broken ribs. No open wounds. Oh, sweetheart-“

She catches herself, but still stares at you. Your eyes are weak and blurry when they meet her figure, but she’s so pretty against the backdrop of battle and blood, and she calls you such sweet things. Her clothes are ruined, her shoes red, and you whine without meaning to. Pathetic, maybe, but all it does is light a furious fire inside of her that you can’t quite see.

Behind that worried and gentle gaze was an impending hurricane; Eyes of lightning, steps of thunder. The Doctor pushed back that anger for your sake.

You were crumpled on the bloodied floor, and she had been ready to ravage galaxies to find you.

“I’m okay,” You tell her, trying to reassure the worried edge that covered her face with lines and regret. Your hand lifts, however slow, to touch her cheek. You’re lying to her. She knows. Your fingertips leave behind a bloody smear, and it only makes your tears fall faster – proves your false reassurance. “You’re here.”

She hushes you, leans into your desperate fingertips. You need to feel her, she needs to feel you. It’s unspoken.

You’re alive.

You found me.

“You’re here,” You repeat quietly, broken. “Don’t… Don’t leave me again. I can’t-“

“I won’t. No, never. Couldn’t.”

Each word is punctuated with a touch to your arm, your shoulder, your cheek. She leans forward, kisses your forehead so gently you must see stars. No – galaxies. Not just red. Rainbow.

“We need to move now. I’ll take you home.”

Home. When would she learn?

With her hand to your cheek and her lips to your skin, you were already there.

“Alright, then. Let’s get going. Can you do that for me?”

You could do anything for her, now that she was here. You almost forget about the blood, and so does she.

The Doctor begins pulling you to a stand.

“Slowly, now. That’s good, you’re-“

The words stop in her throat, eyes suddenly flickering down.

The Doctor freezes.

Along your neck are fingerprints. Crescent shaped marks in your skin from filthy nails, purples and blues mixing to ruin your perfect skin. Bruises. Indents. Clashing with your delicacy.

Someone touched you.

Someone who obviously didn’t know who the Doctor was, who didn’t know precisely what she was capable of. Someone who wrapped their fingers around your throat; Someone who left ugly, long-lasting marks. Someone who has just made a very, very bad enemy.

Someone who hurt you.

And her eyes go black.

“Who…” She’s straining, resisting. Body nearly shaking with the rage that suddenly ignites her, softness receding but trying desperately to keep it in place for you. You deserved that. She’d give it to you. “Who did this?”

Her fingers touch your jawline, so carefully trailing to your neck. You flinch back. Why did you do that? It’s her. Yet when The Doctor’s fingertips brush a certain spot on your skin, you cry out and drop your head against her chest before you. It hurts. You know it wasn’t her, but it hurts.

“Tell me,” She says then, tense. Withholding. She speaks through her teeth and forces herself to stay level, though you can feel her heartbeats echo rapidly in her chest. Her fingers are purposely careful against your wounds, yet you can’t help a sob when the memory returns.

His hands had covered your throat, squeezed your windpipe while you tried to scream. It was her name that came from your shrieking lungs, you think, before waking up on a blood covered floor. You needed her. She’d left you alone.

One of her hands is placed on the warmth of your cheek, the other now pressing your face into her chest. Her shirt is wet. No, wait – You were crying. Those were tears, on her shirt, making it wet. Your tears.

“Oh, no,” You say tiredly, mixed with sobs, muffled against her. “I’m sorry.”

You’re slightly delirious; Pained and needy. Her thumb grazes your cheekbone when she pulls you back, sliding across your face gently, keeping you grounded and perhaps doing the same for herself when she looks into your eyes.

“No, not sorry. Never sorry. What are you sorry for?”

You sniff again, louder, and collapse back into her chest. It’s safe there, hidden, and listening to heartbeats was steady in contrast to the terror around you.

“I’m ruining your clothes.”

The darkness in her subsides slightly, looking down at her shirt, looking down at you tucked into her.

“You…” She starts, head tilting almost in confusion before shaking it with a blink. “My clothes?”

“Yeah,” You sigh. Defeated, exhausted. You pull your head back up, straining with how heavy you feel. Your eyes are glued to the mesh of wet drops and splotches on her chest. “Messed it up. I like that shirt.”

“Do you now?” The Doctor responds softly, that sharp edge dissipating, being pushed back for another moment. Simply soft, now. Hard when she needs to be. Never hard with you.

She smiles slightly, just a tiny bit. It’s enough to brighten an entire galaxy.

“Yeah,” You tell her again. “Yeah, nice color.”

“Ah,” She settles on, smile growing. Oh, you liked that. You wanted more of that. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Have got a closet full of them, and it’s certainly bigger on the inside.”

She brings a palm to your cheek, soft as can be. “Besides, you worry about the silliest things.”

You lean into her. She’s still crouched down beside you, knees on the red floor. Red floor. The feeling of dried blood covering your hands returns, and you wished you hadn’t looked down, wished you’d stayed in that moment with her and that beautiful smile. The tears on her shirt were nothing compared to the blood on her boots. You’d clean them, you think. When you got back. And you’d do laundry. Simple, soft, kind, for her. You’d erase this, rid yourself of red.

You hate red.

“Up we go,” The Doctor announces, interrupting your single-colored thoughts and filling them with iridescence. She comes to your side, slides her arm behind your shoulder blades. You lean the rest of your weight into her when she lifts your fragile form, but it still burns, and you still cry out.

The Doctor stays silent, jaw held tight. When she catches a side glance to your crumpled expression, it seems as though she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.; It’s as though she can’t bear to speak. The hot tears that slide down your freezing face gather at your chin and drop to the red ground. Stop, no. Not red. Bloody. So bloody.

As you move forward, your eyes stay on that blood. It trails across the floor like a devilish painting, like a swift masterpiece made entirely of misery, and you feel suddenly sick. Dizzy. The red room is spinning, and the Doctor tries her best to keep you still. Her tight jaw loosens. If not for anything, just for you.

“Stick with me, alright? Got a ways to go, and I need you present. Let me get you safe.”

But you left me.

It isn’t until she stops, halts both of your moving bodies, that you realize you’d said that aloud. Your one hand is clutching to the fabric on her back. Blue. Such a lovely color.

The Doctor pauses and stares at you, taking the time to think before she speaks. Her face is furrowed, though her eyebrows have slightly risen, eyes scanning over you and looking between yours. Searching you and searching for her words. You’d never known the Doctor to do that.

There’s silence for a moment, a long second of contemplation and pain on both of your parts. Her eyes are reflective as her body stays still. You might’ve mistaken her for a statue, a paragon of grief and yearning, and something else you’re all too afraid to place. She’s as still as the dead that rest on the floor.

“I know,” She murmurs. Simple and with finality. “I know.”

You stare at her, the two of you stuck in red. The blood is tacky beneath your feet. The bodies lay limp, you stand still.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my existence vowing to never do it again.”

Your next breath is shaky. The depth of her words are deeper than the shade of blood staining your world, yet it suddenly feels blue.

“Thank you,” You tell her, because you’ve no idea of what else could suffice. Nothing could, but it’s enough for now.

The Doctor adjusts her hold, bringing her hand down from your shoulder to support your waist instead. She simply looks at you. And that’s enough, too.

Your side is melded into her hold even as you clench through the pain, not caring in the slightest because that pressure reminded you she was here. It was all red, before, but now it was blue, and lilac, and blonde; There was a rainbow on her shirt and the brightest stars in her eyes. When you’d meet her gaze, she’d smile comfortingly, like home, or a window of escape and peace. The blackhole of anger within the Doctor would dissipate slightly.

“Almost back! We’ll turn a corner there, then straight down. TARDIS is hidden in a perfectly-sized closet. Convenient, isn’t it? All spaceships seem to have TARDIS sized closets.”

You trudge forward and focus on her words, calmer than the sea of vicious pain coursing through your poor body. How did it ever get this bad? Tear stained cheeks accompanied only by grief and shock. Had it all hit you, yet? The pain was stark, but the memories were blurry. You remembered them as though it was someone else.

It had been a blast, a bang, a number of rapid shots as bright red beams of light shot through the walls. Silver weapons firing into bodies, causing casualties, missing only you. How had they missed you? Bodies strewn across the floor accompanied by your own, curled up in a ball pathetically and pitifully. What could you do? Could you have saved them, all of them? Could you have been the Doctor?

You tried. Forced yourself up from the floor as it first became bloody, faced the men who burst into the complex and reigned hell upon it’s occupants. You spoke with authority and you spoke like she would. You were the Doctor, you tried to be. And it hadn’t been enough.

“Alright there?” The Doctor asks, and she already knows the answer, but she asks anyway. Maybe a piece of her hopes it’s something it isn’t. When her eyes linger on your neck again, you have to shut your eyes and block the memory. How long did bruises last? Would the divots of fingernails leave scars?

Her hand raises, slowly, you feel it. She places it on your neck and tightens her hold on your waist as best she can without hurting you. It didn’t matter, because everything hurt. She just didn’t want it to be because of her.

“It’s foolish, really,” The Doctor says, suddenly sharp. Your eyes snap open in confusion, but her eyes remain kind as she looks to you. You blink twice and open your mouth to question her, but when she looks back down to your neck, her gaze eclipses into pure, unaltered darkness, and the words stop in your throat. “Did they think they would get away with this?”

You stare at her, her eyes still locked on the damage to your throat, and she doesn’t move an inch. Stopped in this less bloody hallway, the landscape of your pain physically behind you yet still leaving an underlying imprint. You blink, swallow.

“Away with what?”

Her eyes rise slowly, dragging across your injuries, up the span of your open neck with catastrophic analysis. She notes every detail, every prick and every discoloration, and finally reaches your eyes. They’re ruinous. Possessive.

“Laying their hands on you.”

Your lungs constrict suddenly with a tight hitch and the widening of your eyes. You think your heartrate spikes, or maybe it completely stops, or maybe it flies out of your chest. She continues to stare, and you continue to freeze under her glacial expression. There’s a warmth in the hand that wraps protectively around you, so contrasting to her forbidding eyes, so much so that you almost flinch. But you stay still, trying and failing to breathe, and waiting for her next move without knowing what to do with yourself.

She shifts. The hand on your neck comes up, thumb against the front of your chin, fingers beneath your jaw, and she tilts your head to the side in order to scan you further. Her head leans forward slightly in what you assume is a way to find any other points of impact upon your skin, but it only puts her closer to you, warmer against you, breaths on your bruised neck. You freeze entirely, not even taking the time to breathe. What was she doing?

Then she leans in. You can smell her, then, the comfort and warmth and kindness of her entire being overwhelming your senses and replacing the stale stench of blood. Your palms are wet with sweat and that devastatingly red liquid when she moves even closer, and her dark eyes glow. Really, actually, glow.

You feel an exhale against your neck before she presses her lips to that specific spot, and you gasp with a flinch. Her hand on your waist tightens once, a reassurance, and your body feels suddenly light. It’s that feeling when you first wake up after a good night’s sleep, or when you climb into a bath set at the most perfect temperature. It comes from her kiss against your skin. Igniting like a steady fire, a bright glow emitting from where she made contact, and you feel completely light once more just before the feeling dissipates. It’s rejuvenating, or fulfilling. It’s… Regenerative.

You push her away, even with weak arms, and you watch as her glowing yellow eyes recede back to their almost normal hazel. They’re abnormally grave, with an extra feign of confusion. Your hands remain on her upper arms and she keeps her body close to yours.

“Doctor, you shouldn’t have done that,” You almost snap, feeling much more alive what with the very risky regenerative energy that just coursed through you without your permission – without her better judgement. The Doctor shifts, looking between your eyes as if she never even heard you, before something with finality sets into them.

“You’re going back to the TARDIS.”

She steps forward, almost crowding you, hand still supportive on your waist in a now tighter grip. Her head tilts and leans purposely into your space, and when her eyes flicker down to your neck once more, you freeze, and she notices. Her gaze is ruinous when it returns to your own. Protective. No, more than that. Possessive.

“And before that, you’re going to tell me who did this to you.”

You scoff, blinking rapidly in complete shock at her near – no, complete – arrogance, and that twinge of something else you’d very much like to ignore during this inopportune moment. Yet you can’t help but admire her, in some strange way, even through the shock of her slightly pointed words.

You’d be lying if you didn’t admit she was a sight to behold. Emotions that had never been previously directed at you were now in the forefront of her analyzing view, and in the same way that your previous moments were tainted red, her current thoughts seemed to be covered in it. Her words were precise, sharp – not cutting into you, rather – cutting into the idea of anyone ever laying a hand on what was hers. What was hers.

It should scare you.

Up close and personal with the infamous Oncoming Storm, the same hurricane that just pressed a glowing kiss to your damaged skin. So quick to switch between holding the most immense amount of compassion for you, and then lacking any sliver of it for those who even dreamed of harming you.

It should scare you.

But look at her. Rainbow in a stripe across her chest, royal blue fabric clashing with the disgusting and tired red surrounding the two of you. Her boots are perfect for running, her pants held up by bright yellow suspenders, and her smile is like the sweetest sunshine on a particularly rainy day. You’d bask in the sunlight when it came.

For now, you’ll stand in this downpour of her and revel in that instead. Two sides of the same wondrous, unpredictable coin that is the Doctor, these two sides you’ve come to…

Oh. That could be saved for another day. Perhaps it’s simply best to ignore that tug of yearning and let her care for you in the best way she knows how. Defending you, acting as a shield – knowing well that you could stand up for yourself, knowing that you’d probably tried – and dealing her own doses of karma to those who deserved it. No, she didn’t simply interfere with time; The Doctor owned it. She could pretend all she wants about being avoidant, about keeping out of history, but you knew. When something hurt the Doctor – no, when something hurt you – there was no stopping her. It was an inevitable thing. A struck nerve turned vicious.

The nerve was struck, the damage done. So here came the storm.

“I don’t know,” You admit honestly, slightly quietly. Did you wish you knew, or did you wish you’d forget all together? Was the fleeting memory better left blurry? Or would the details help you cope with the truth of it all, and the security of now? “I’m not… I don’t know. He was cruel, and disgusting. His teeth were almost brown when he- he-“

You swallow hard, avoiding the Doctor’s gaze. “When he smiled.”

Your eyes can’t bear to raise and see her reaction, but you feel the grip on your waist tighten until you hitch your breath in pain. Only then does it soften, a thumb running over your side in subtle apology even as fire runs through her veins. Anger so hot that it was palpable. You still didn’t need to look at her to know that she was staring down at you, assessing you, mind running with every possible course of what you’d call vengeance and what she’d call retribution.

The words flow out of you now, unable to stop it when the hazy memory bombards all your previously calming senses. It burns in your throat when you speak. You hope she can’t hear the painful strain, or the clench of your teeth, but you know she does. That’s just something she knows. You.

“I tried to be like… like you,” You stress, body fatigued, worried eyes needing the comfort of the Doctor’s gaze; She was safe, though the current blackhole-like-state of her eyes reflected otherwise. “I tried so hard. So you’d be…” You take a shaky breath with your eyes closed, “So you’d be proud of me.”

You laugh, then, a dangerous thing, an almost angry thing. Pitiful, perhaps, was the better word. Embarrassed, maybe. Your head shakes in frustration. At your own failure.

“But I didn’t do it right, or I’m just not cut out for that certain thing, or they just thought I looked too… pathetic,” You ramble, eyes bouncing about the room now, looking at absolutely anything but her. You don’t know the exact expression that she wears. You worry it may be of pity. “I was alone.”

You feel her inhale take a pause, slightly, barely noticeable. A guilty exhale through frowning lips that follows.

You shift again, not acknowledging the pain of your side, or the pain in your heart. Alone. It left scars a lot deeper than the ones on your skin.

“Doctor, I don’t…“ You take a breath even if you know it won’t help. Your vision becomes fuzzy, like seeing through stained glass, and you realize that it’s the gathering of tears.

You swallow. And you look up at her.

“I don’t know why they didn’t just kill me,” You whisper. The tears brimming at the edge of your eyes simply spill at that sentence, at the assertion that you could be dead. Was it ridiculous, then, to complain about what happened? To complain that you had these bruises, because you had the privilege of being alive while others didn’t?

At least you were away from the bodies, now. But they were left alone instead of you.

The Doctor’s hard eyes soften just slightly. They still hold that impending danger, the oncoming storm you’ve come to know, but it’s gentler. Not pity as you had feared, but compassion. Kindness. Understanding. You revel in it, take that sweetness in while it lasted, appreciate the mercifulness.

But your words hurt her. Your words that told the story of fear and misery, words that told the story of when she couldn’t keep you safe as she always, always promised. You knew it hurt; You saw it in the way she didn’t know whether to step closer to you or back away. Because beneath the tender care was worry, and beneath that worry was pain, and beneath that pain was guilt. Guilt that pooled in the irises of her eyes, that tinted the hazel of them a gloomy blue. Guilt at breaking her promise. Guilt at letting someone do this to you.

“I’ll be okay,” You tell her, because what else could you say? It was true, and it seemed good, and with her by your side it was attainable. Beyond that. It was close. She healed your wounds in ways no one ever could, healed your heart even if she broke it. She fixed her mistakes, she made up for her faults – she cared about you. She cared about you.

And she hadn’t meant to leave you.

You knew that, now. You were reassured of it. The red had blinded you, but with her you could see.

“I’ve been worried about the wrong things,” The Doctor concludes, looking down at you in her arms; Her vengeance pushed away, her vibrance returning to the light. “Been so focused on who hurt you, I wasn’t even considering that you’re hurt.”

You just look at her. You know you don’t have to say anything; She’s chastising herself, replacing her actions to better suit your needs.

“Alright,” She continues, a new sweetness in her eyes, a soothing apology to your pains. “Home, then?”

You nod, and she takes a breath, and you take one too.

She hadn’t meant to leave you.

What had she said before?

I’ll spend the rest of my existence vowing to never do it again.

“Yeah, Doctor,” You say softly, and something about it is rainbow. “Home sounds good.”

[literallyjusttoa]

also cause i am too soft, which is why: Them growing attached to each other for the first time in a while, sharing those little acts of family/platonic love, just the sheer care of brushing something from somebody's hair or clothes, sharing a waterbottle or a snack, lil acts of kindness that only mean something because they are human right now

wait give me a second I'm gonna write you some whump just for this.

- ok so we're at about TBM times, the gang is in California.

- Hermes has seemed a bit off the last couple of days, but everyone's been rushing around so no ones really noticed

- well, ALMOST no one

- Cue Apollo fucking stabbing himself

- Artemis is freaking out, Aphrodite is freaking out, Dionysus is also distraught (a fun reaction to be explored later!) and Caligula is lucky he called all of his reinforcements in and not everyone was on the ship or else he would've been dead in two seconds flat.

- Anyways, while everyone's lecturing Apollo on the Importance Of Staying Alive, Ares sneaks away. Emotions were never really his forte.

- He's wandering the halls of the Mclean mansion when he stumbles upon Hermes, who is an ... absolute wreck.

- Ares freaks out for a second, because he was just trying to avoid Emotions, but then he looks over Hermes again. He takes a deep breath, and sits down next to him.

- "What's got you so bothered?" Never let it be said that Ares has any sort of tact.

- It takes a bit of aggressive wheedling, but Ares eventually gets the answer out of him.

- Cruise ships, talk of replacing the gods, and stabbing yourself? All of this had been too close to Luke for comfort.

- Hermes confesses to seeing his son everywhere since his death.

- "At first I thought I could fix it, you know? Just be a better father, it'll never happen again. But Luke was right, it's so much bigger than that. I mean, just look around! Everyone's unhappy! And- and all their pain, all their rage, it's all his! Even us Ares! You saw the look on Apollo's face! What if it happens again? What if it's my brother, instead of my son? I ... I can't watch that happen again. I'd tear myself apart."

- Ares takes a second, and then pulls Hermes close.

- "I won't let things get that far."

- Hermes chuckles, a bit tiredly "What, no 'Apollo would never do that! How could you even imply such a thing?'"

- "I can't see the future, that's Goldie's job. Besides, fear like yours is hardly rational. I'm just saying, you can trust me to never let anyone go to far. Family doesn't abandon each other."

- "Wouldn't you love that though? A family war?"

- Ares scoffs "War is what you do when there's no option left but to fight back. We've got plenty of options, we've just been to cowardly to use them. There would be nothing honorable in tearing down Olympus, not when we might be able to rebuild it."

- They keep talking like this for a while, discussing ways to try to keep the family together, once they do confront Zeus on what he's done.

- Eventually, Hermes starts nodding off, leaning into Ares' side.

- "Hey," he mumbles "That thing you said, about fear being irrational and not abandoning family, where'd you get smart enough for stuff like that anyway?"

- Ares laughs "Has your memory gotten that bad? I believe a certain messenger god said the same thing to me after I got out of that jar."

- "Oh yeah," Hermes chuckles "I'm a genius."

- "Yeah, yeah. Now get up, i'm not hauling your scrawny ass to bed."