#curly hair whump

[whumppromptoftheday]

curly haired whumpee spending so much time on trying to keep their hair tamed in captivity only for it to be cut/shaved off during their escape

[skittlewrites]

Freefall - Prompto Oneshot

It's here! I just posted the Prompto oneshot over on AO3, so go take a look! I hope y'all enjoy.

[butterfirefly]

I can't even make a Venn diagram for Han Yoohyun and Lee Min because I'd literally only need one circle

[cherry-pop-elf]

Night terrors

Anya x Reader

Can be read as platonic because we all want to take care of her like we wish someone would for us

AN: As a victim of sexual assault I feel it is important to have a realistic fluff story about the aftermath of it. How it affects the person after it’s been done and how the trauma lingers. How it’s so very important for the person to have a support network. YOU will be her support network. Thank you

Also not to get political but god women in the USA are experiencing a massive increase of assaults so call this projection, or call this training for the inevitable

SUM: Despite surviving that Tulpar adventure, despite all the good karma thrown back at you all, there are just too many many scars to truly recover from

Warnings: Past sexual assault, nightmares, PTSD, whump, abortion, paranoia, it’s gonna be a stressful read, there will be fluff don’t worry, paranoia, inspired/based on my own experiences

“STOP-!”

Anya was screaming in her sleep again.

Woke you up pretty quickly, as you were sharing a bed with her. She was rather scared to sleep alone. Afraid that someone will just break in and take advantage of her. That somehow Jimmy, who long since was dead, will break in again.

“Anya-! Anya wake up! It’s me! Anya-!” You would shake her and try to get her to wake up. To get her out of that terrifying cloud of memories. Her poor face was pale and full of sweat, and she was scared awake by you shaking her. For a fleeting moment she thought it was Jimmy.

As she gave another cry, you reached over and turned on the bedside tables lamp.

She saw your face, and finally took a breathe.

You two weren’t on the Tulpar anymore. Jimmy wasn’t going to hurt either of you ever again. Swansea was home with his wife. Daisuke was home with his mother and father. And she was here with you.

She was alive.

“I….Im sorry-“ Anya sniffled, as you just pulled her into your arms. Gentle with combing your fingers through her hair. Just gentle reminders to not be sorry. To not be sorry for being justified with her fear.

“He won’t ever get you again. I promise.” You would remind her, but she would still tremble.

“Can we check the locks again?” She would ask you, and you would nod. Often times this was the case. No matter how many times she would ask you that question you never got annoyed. It’s good to check the locks anyway. Gotta stay safe after all.

You would both climb out of bed, put on your robes, and go walking around the home. One of your hands was left to be held by Anya’s, as the other would be used to check the locks on everything. From the multiple at front door, from each window, to that of the back door. Each one checked, as Anya would hug at you close.

Was a very nice home, you had to admit. After having rescue finally called, and being saved, the media went nuts. Especially on the fact Curly was still alive. Gave Anya the much needed support to show she was very worthy of a position as a proper doctor. That also meant she got herself quite the hefty salary. Also helps that she now had partial royalties to the book she helped write about the adventure on the ship.

“Every lock is secure.” You explained, as she gave still an anxious look.

“Let’s check each room, and closet. Yeah?” That made her quickly nod.

Now you two were roaming the entire house now. Checking under furniture, in closets, all the nine yards. No stone was left un-turned. You would do it a million times for her. She deserved to have some kind of relief from it all.

“There we go. No Jimmy.” You would give her a hug, and she hugged you back. Still shaken, but at least she was breathing more steady.

The two of you would return to the bedroom, where she did her routine. Checking under her pillow for her sheathed knife, the bedside for her baseball bat, the drawer for her gun, and to take an extra pill to help with the anxiety burst she was having. Her routine.

She would try and lay down, only to dart her head towards the bedroom door. Eyes wide with raw and pure fear.

“I swear I heard him at the door. I swear I did. He said my name he said my name-“ She whimpered, as you would get up. You opened the door, looked around the hallway, and returned.

“Don’t worry Anya. I didn’t hear a single thing.” You reassured, as you would lock the bedroom door for her. Along with putting a chair under the door handle. Even went as far as to double check the bedroom windows, and closed the curtains.

“I’m so sorry-“ She would begin again, as her eyes watered. She felt like such a burden. To have all this fear and paranoia. To the point she couldn’t feel safe when left alone. You couldn’t blame her though. The wounds were still so horribly fresh. Not to mention sometimes PTSD can kick in so many years later. You’ll take the morbid comfort in having it kick in now where you all can handle it now and prepare for the future than suddenly out of nowhere in God knows how long.

It is what it is.

She wasn’t the only one traumatized after all, and she shouldn’t need to apologize for justified fear.

You would pull her back into your arms, and you both laid down. You would turn on the white noise machine for her, to help block the paranoid sounds of voices and scratches from the doors, and would just talk with her. Talk until her medication kicked in to help her sleep.

Didn’t matter what it was. It was just noise to keep her mind distracted.

You wondered how the rest of the crew was doing. How they were dealing with it.

They all had family, so maybe they were doing well. Really should meet up again soon. Can’t be blamed life is so busy.

Curly was back living with his parents and siblings, which they welcomed with open arms. Even his friends before the crew were willing to all share a space to help.

Swansea had his wife and even his kids. Sure he says he’s too old to be traumatized but he keeps checking on his kids way more often now. That’s for sure.

God knows when poor Daisuke’s PTSD will kick in. He may be acting fine now but it’s gonna be a ticking time bomb. It’ll come at him sooner or later. For now his parents were feeling like monsters for pressuring him into that intern ship. He never blamed them, of course. He is even still working under a mentorship with Swansea even. Guess not everything was negative.

Then there was you and Anya. She was the most traumatized of all. There was even the trauma of an abortion. There’s still so many emotions with that as well, but you held her hand through it. Even as far as to move in with her to help. You two had always been very close. Even before joining the crew. You two were always tagged together. Even nicked named her assistant to a point.

You’ll stick with her through the ends of the earth.

“Wanna go visit Curly in the morning? It’ll be Saturday. Maybe we can even invite Swansea and Daisuke.” You offered. Just something positive to look forward to. Something worth waiting for.

“That would be nice.” She muttered, as her own paranoias exhaustion was kicking in. Too tired to even be afraid. Often times how it ends. She gets herself so worked up it ends up being the very same thing that makes her fall back asleep.

“Yeah. We can check out his new prosthetics. Daisuke said he even bought stickers specifically for them.” That had Anya smile. That sweet smile that was hard to come by right now. One that was filled with comfort. Comfort of such an innocent and sweet thought.

“Swansea says he’s also going to attach his own upgrades to it. Not sure how that will work, or what the hell he’s planning, but not gonna lie I need to see if he gives him rocket boosters.”

That got a little laugh from her. The both of you imagining poor Captain Curly flying around in the sky, as Daisuke runs around with some trampoline to try and catch him on.

Just something silly to cut through it all.

Seemed to work, as you could feel her breathing easier now. Her breath not so intense. Was far more steady, and you could tell she fell back asleep. You were thankful for it. Not because she was annoying you. No. Never. But because she needed her rest. She deserves it. She already is working long hours at the hospital, which you bet is because she is trying to avoid being isolated and alone at all cost maybe even reduce sleeping to, so she needed proper sleep more than ever.

And you’ll do your best for her. To help her with it all. You were her little assistant. You’ll do what an assistant does best. Make sure your boss is able to tackle projects easier.

And this project was healing. A project that won’t ever end, will have ups and downs, and be taxing. Over time out the ass and no vacations.

And you know what you say to that?

Bring it.

Thank you so much for reading. This was a more vulnerable piece because Anya really reminded me so much of myself. How I’m suppose to take care of everyone else, while my traumatic abuse is just swept under the rug.

Since you read all the way to the end, maybe take a look at this

National Sexual Assault Hotline:

1-800-656-4673

National Domestic Violence Hotline:

800-799-7233

RAINN (Rape Abuse Incest National Network)

1-800-656-4673

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-8255

You deserve love and support. What happened wasn’t your fault in the slightest. Not even for a single second. You deserve happiness, hope, and to live a long and healthy life. Everything will be ok again. Doesn’t seem like it now, but it will. I promise

[maracujatangerine]

85. Chunk of clay

CW: NSFW, violence, forced nudity, forced medication, institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

The hash glare from the overhead lights glinted off the tabletop. The young man stretched out on the metal surface was completely naked. His golden-toned skin pricking with goosebumps. His every muscle taut with fear and anticipation.

The two handlers with him, the man and the woman, were both fully clothed.

The woman, dark-haired and brown-eyed, just completed her slow circle around the table.

“Give me your hand.”

Her tone was quiet and very calm. When the man on the table tremulously reached out to her, she took a roll of thin, dark blue sewing thread from her pocket. She methodically wrapped the end of the thread around the leg of the table and then looped it around his wrist so that his hand, palm upward, was tied to the table. A red and white tattoo of chrysanthemum flowers circled his forearm, the beautiful imagery at odds with the clinical surroundings.

“Now, your other hand.”

Slowly circling the table once more, clockwise this time, she tied his other wrist. The WRU barcode tattoo clearly visible. Then she carefully tied down his ankles. It was as if he was bound to the table with gossamer strands.

If the young man had but twitched, the thread would instantly have broken.

She took a step back, surveying her handiwork with an air of satisfaction.

“That’s good.” She smiled. “You are doing good.”

She brushed her hand across the dark, curly hair covering his chest, gently, as if petting a cat. Then, she moved her hand down his chest in a languid caress, following the string of hair down along his rib cage, pausing to stroke her hand a few times over his flat stomach. Then, decisively, she moved further down.

The young man jerked involuntarily, his muscles trembling with the effort of keeping himself completely immobile.

She just rested her gloved hand there, between his legs. Her skin warm beneath the thin, black rubber of the glove.

He is hardly breathing. Rolling his eyes to watch her without turning his head. Fear written in every line of his face and body.

“Now,” she said, “I know you haven’t been trained for this. But, what if I wanted to have you? Or… what if my colleague here did? What would you do?”

The young man’s bottom lip shivered, his eyes glassy with tears. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… I w-would do my best, Trainer Álvarez.”

”That’s good.” She nodded. “What if I asked you to break the thread that I used to tie you to the table, would you be able to do it?”

The young man blinked, clearly surprised.

“Yes, Trainer Álvarez.”

“And what if I - or your future owner - would tell you that this is a magic thread, totally impossible for you to get out of. Would you be able to break it then?”

“Eh…” He looked at her, bewildered. “…no?”

“That’s right. I’m telling you that this is a magical, unbreakable thread. What is the rule? The owner…”

The pet on the table relaxed visibly. This was home ground.

“The owner is always right, Trainer Álvarez.”

“That’s right. Good boy.” Letting go, she instead reached out and cupped his cheek affectionately. The young man eagerly leaned his head to press into her touch.

With her free hand, she fished something out from her trouser pocket, holding it up for the man on the table. His dark eyes instantly fixed on the small, white pill, tension returning to the set of his jaw.

“It’s time for you to take your medicine.” She said, deceptively gently. “Now, open up, but don’t swallow yet.”

He instantly opened his mouth, dark eyes wide with fear. It was clear that resisting was not an option he even considered. He held the pill on his tongue, while she turned and took a few steps to the sink in the corner of the room. She filled a glass of water and returned to the table.

“Now you can swallow.” She said, carefully cradling his head and raising the glass of water to his lips. It was an uncomfortable position, spread-eagled like that, but her raising his head helped and he quickly swallowed the pill with the water. Afterwards, she gently lowered his head to the table.

“I want you to lay here and just relax for a while. Unbreakable thread, remember?”

The fear was back with full force in his eyes, but he nodded immediately.

“Yes, trainer.”

*

The trainers fill their WRU-branded mugs from the coffee machine, a double espresso for her, an Americano for him, and watch the naked young man shivering on the table from behind the sound-isolated two-way mirror.

“I always like to teach them all the ways to take their medicine.” She explains. “Pills, liquids, eye drops, through their nose, up their bum… you get the drill. They should be fine with all of it. You never know what an owner will need or enjoy. It is also important to train in different situations, you want them to be absolutely rock solid in their ability to obey.”

“What about injections?”

She nods.

“Of course. Well. Not for this one at the moment. This is a trust-building exercise, not punishment. We want him to learn the lesson that good dogs get rewarded… sometimes.”

She smiles again, this time with an edge, like a hidden knife glinting in the dark.

“Just give him that hope for ��sometimes’. He is going to chase that high so hard. There’s no limit to what he will do.” She pauses. “Anyway. Needles, he has a bad time with those. That is something we’ll have to deal with, but this is just an exercise reinforcing focus and obedience. There’s no need for torture.”

The man nods respectfully.

“What drug dig you give him?” He asks.

“It’s just a mild painkiller. Punishment pills should be reserved for special occasions only.” She takes a sip of her espresso. “They need to know that the pain is a possibility, but there’s no…” Her explanation is interrupted by the door opening.

“Hey.” The large man in a black handler uniform rolls his shoulders and stretches before stepping up to the coffee machine.

“Harris.” Trainer Álvarez nods in curt greeting.

He chooses an Americano and glances idly out the two-way mirror while waiting for the machine to finish his drink.

”I see you’re still playing your little sewing games, Gabriela. How’s that coming along for you?”

“It’s going great. Thanks, Harris.” Her tone is carefully neutral.

“Mhm… Well, I guess…” He turns and nods to the younger man. “Don’t worry, Jason. Next rotation you’ll be shadowing me, and I’m not afraid to show you the ropes of the real, hard work.”

He grabs his coffee and walks towards the door. “Later, guys.”

As soon as the heavy door falls closed behind him, trainer Álvarez scoffs.

“Jesus, he’s such a prick at all times. I’m sorry you’ll be stuck with him.”

She turns full on to face the younger man.

“Listen, Jason. You are going to meet a lot of guys like Harris here. They talk a lot and they think they are so great at their work, but actually they’re just getting off on their own fantasies of violence and domination. But really….”

She pauses and shakes her index finger back and forth in a ‘no’ gesture.

“They have no finesse. You need a light touch with this job, you might not think it, but it is true.

If you like to just break someone, his methods are just fine, but that… I think that is not enough. We should aim to create works of art.”

She gestures out at the bound man behind the glass.

“I like to send them out to love their master. Not just fear them. Jason, do you know what a golem is?”

“Ma’am?” Confusion is written all over the younger man’s face. Gabriela smiles.

“In Jewish mythology, a golem is a figure created by clay or mud. It can do tasks, but it is mindless, without a soul. That is what Harris and his ilk does. He makes the pets into empty husks. They obey, all right. But no one is home.”

She shakes her head slowly, eyes shining.

“I want to make them beautiful. When I am finished with them, they will obey, yes, but more than that, they will feel and love and desire. I don’t trample all over their hearts. I cultivate them, strictly, but carefully. It is like trimming a fruit tree, or cutting a hedge. There is violence, yes, but also gentleness. In the end, with all their being, they don’t only fear, but they yearn to please their master.”

She walks over and puts her empty mug in the dishwasher.

“Come on, it’s time. Let’s go shape our chunk of clay.”

*

This post has really been a long time in the making. I have had several people asking about Brutus. (Thanks for the asks! ❤️) I hope you’ll enjoy this glimpse into his past.

*

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[mysticstarlightduck]

Late Writeblr Intro!

Hello, friends!

I figured it was about time I made an actual blog intro of my own since I forgot to make one when I started this blog last year. Better late than never, lmao!

Pls, reblog, like, and/or reply to help boost the blog! 💕

Let's get started:

Personal Stuff! 💜🩶🖤

My name is Anna/Anya but you can call me Mystic, Ducky, or just Anya on this blog! My personal nickname is Ani and I adore it (:

I am an Asexual woman (my pronouns are she/her!) and I'm also personally an atheist who puts my faith in the spirits of Mother Nature, though I respect all other religions equally!

I'm Gen Z and Latina (Brazilian). I was raised bilingual (Brazilian Portuguese + English) and I love learning languages - currently, I'm working on learning French and Spanish! Career-wise I am studying in college to become a character designer and hopefully animator, as I want to pursue a career as an artist and writer! I also wish to have my WIPs published in the near future (:

Some fun facts about me!

My favorite shows are Critical Role, Game of Thrones, Castlevania, The Legend of Vox Machina (animated series), Star Wars, Voltron, The Dragon Prince, Avatar the Last Airbender, Legend of Korra, and DC Comics content, as well as many more lmao. I love watching movies and series!

My favorite Vox Machina characters are Vax'ildan and Percy (:

I am a younger sister 💖

My hair is short and curly (pixie style, similar to the haircut Rapunzel has at the end of the Tangled movie!)

I adore listening to music, especially songs that can inspire me to write my WIPs! Playlists are a huge part of my writing process and something I really enjoy making.

I'm currently rereading Shadow and Bone (+ Six of Crows) and I am always looking for more good dark fantasy/historical fantasy books to read so book recs are always welcome! I also am a huge fan of the Percy Jackson series and Trials of Apollo (by Rick Riordan), though I'm usually more of a gritty/dark fantasy fan (like Game of Thrones)!

I have three dogs and two cats!😺🐶

I know how to play the piano, though I haven't done that in a while because things have been chaotic for me, but I'd like to start playing regularly again in my winter vacation.

I have worn glasses since I was 5 years old and have terrible eyesight without them (and some days with them, lol, so bear with me).

My friends and I are doing a DnD campaign every Sunday, where I play as a half-elf rogue named Aeryn (he/him). I'm adoring this adventure so far, it's so fun!!!

I love to bake and am rather good at it, but am a painfully average cook lmao (some specific recipes I make are actually rlly good, but it depends a lot on my mood and the 'alignment of the stars' lol)

I want to learn how to knit/crochet! 🧶

I'm a theater nerd and love musicals (:

About my Writing!🏹⌛

I write fictional works mostly in the genre of fantasy (high fantasy/epic fantasy/dark fantasy/historical fantasy/urban fantasy, etc. You name it!) and science fiction (space opera/cyberpunk/superhero, etc).

My works usually revolve around themes such as epic quests, secrets, adventure, rebels fighting an oppressive system, sibling bonds, acceptance/respect, outcasts, and much, much more! I love fluff and whump equally, and though my stories tend to focus on serious topics (or at least darker/heavier themes) within a fantasy/sci-fi setting, I like to have a good bit of humor, lighthearted fun, and comedy to my stories to lighten up the mood!

My main WIPs:

Song of Thorns

🌹WIP Intro: (here)🌹

Genre: dark fantasy, medieval fantasy, adventure/mystery, dark fairytale, eldritch horror (mild)

Style: Standalone (possible Trilogy)

Tags: #wip song of thorns #song of thorns

Short Summary/About: "A peasant girl moves with her siblings from her struggling seaside village to the kingdom's glittering floating capital, but after her older brother is kidnapped, she ends up discovering the dark, bloody secrets hiding behind the long-lasting royal family of the town and must team up with a young dhampir thief, the exiled prince, and a lonely druid girl to save the dying kingdom from this web of lies".

Supernova Initiative

🎇WIP Intro: (here) 🎇

Genre: space opera, adventure, exploration, laboratory whump, heist, thriller/mystery

Style: Episodic book series with an overarching plot (each chapter/group of chapters equivalent to an episode in a TV series)

Tags: #wip supernova initiative #supernova initiative

Short Summary/About: "A young intergalactic thief and his crew are captured after a heist gone wrong and forced to accept a strange deal - complete a mission for the Junction, retrieve important missing files, and get their freedom back. All the while that is happening, Jack Tithus, the protagonist, finds himself trapped as a test subject to an immoral, and elusive, man known as the Director."

Enchanted Illusions

💀 WIP Intro: (here)💀

Genre: Victorian fantasy, adventure, mystery, gothic fantasy, dark fantasy, crime-solving

Style: Possibly a trilogy

Tags: #wip enchanted illusions, #enchanted illusions

Short Summary/About: "On a magical setting inspired by Victorian times, a group of strangers and outcasts must work together to thwart a powerful secret organization and stop a murder spree that could lead to another civil war between myths and humans."

Of Starlight and Beasts

✨⚔️WIP Intro: (here)⚔️✨

Genre: medieval fantasy, epic fantasy, adventure/quest, dark fairytale, sword and sorcery, prophecies

Style: Book Series

Tags: #wip of starlight and beasts, #enchanted illusions

Short Summary/About: "A young knight in training and an amnesiac star mage embark on a quest to prevent an ancient prophecy from coming to fruition as a vengeful sorceress queen's army marches relentlessly onto their land with the intent to destroy all their kingdom has built."

The Last Wrath

🔥⚔️WIP Intro: to be made...⚔️🔥

Genre: dark fantasy, warfare, political intrigue, espionage, adventure/quest, medieval fantasy, whump

Style: Book Series (currently on hiatus)

Tags: #wip the last wrath, #the last wrath

Short Summary/About: "In a land torn by an ancient war between two sides of a continent, a mageborn girl finds herself trapped amid the bloodshed after her past comes back to haunt her and her family. Now, stopping the war may be the only chance she still has to survive."

Tales of Wilted Flowers

🥀WIP Intro: to be made...🪻

Genre: RPG-inspired fantasy, high fantasy, adventure, fairytale, epic quest, heist story, whump, light fantasy

Style: Trilogy (currently on hiatus)

Tags: #wip tales of wilted flowers #tales of wilted flowers

Short Summary/About - "A group of youths rejected and betrayed by society in many different ways come together due to unexpected circumstances and must rely on each other to prevent the kingdom's corrupt Head Sorcerer and the King from reviving an ancient evil."

Realms of Loss

🍂WIP Intro: (here)🍂

Genre: dark fantasy, warfare, medieval fantasy, high fantasy, ancient times fantasy, Viking-inspired, prophecies & curses

Style: Book Series (currently on hiatus)

Tags: #wip realms of loss #realms of loss

Short Summary/About - "In a continent destroyed by the fall of the Old Gods, and trapped in an endless toil for survival, a cocky young prince discovers his role in an ancient prophecy after his brother, the King, is murdered and assassins come for him too. Running away into the forsaken land beyond the walls of his kingdom, he'll have to learn to be a leader and save his people as a dead, murderous God awakens."

Mutant Inquiries/Open Secret Files

🤖 WIP Intro: to be made..🤖

Genre: superhero, cyberpunk, futuristic, dystopian, science fiction, urban fantasy

Style: Episodic Series, still in development

Tags: #wip mutant inquiries #wip open secret files #mutant inquiries #open secret files

Short Summary/About: "In a dystopian, high-tech future, a group of mutant teenagers become vigilantes and crime fighters to rebel against the oppressive government regime and survive their crime-ridden city."

I have a few other smaller-scale WIPs I occasionally, less frequently work on, such as Lies Untold and Jade Ruins, but those up above are the main ones that I wish to publish. I've also got a big, secret extra WIP I'm working on for fun and will share it with you guys soon!

[paingoes]

Rubies

Asking

“Aegre fero” here has a double meaning of “I’m sorry” and “It hurts”. Taking some license with the Latin I think. Forgive me.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, comfort!!!, crying, past trauma, conditioning, malnutrition mention, emotional whump, abuse mention, rocky recovery)

=========

Apollo readjusted the dials on the old receiver. He clicked in between the channels of the small device, listening in as best he could through the static. The sheer range of Galatea’s radio always impressed him. 

“-off the Western side now, escalating-“

“-running out of provisions! Just a reminder-“

“-tell Contra if she doesn’t fix her damn-“

“-worst summer in years, but not like-“

“-does anyone not need their kidney-“

Delta came out of his room, slipping quietly out into the hall. His short hair was hard to get used to. It was actually kind of curly when it wasn’t weighed down. Apollo thought it was cute. His expression was totally unreadable, but that was about typical for him. 

“Hey.” Apollo pulled one of the earbuds out. He didn’t move much beyond that. Delta had gotten comfortable enough that he didn’t feel the need to fuss after him nor the impulse to coax him out of hiding. It’d be better to stay still, not spook him too much.

Delta skirted the edge of the couch carefully and knelt down onto the carpet. He folded his arms on the cushion, resting his head down on top of them. It hid his face. Apollo took out the other earbud, leaning forward.

“You okay, bud?” Apollo’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Delta hadn’t knelt for him in a while. He’d thought that he was getting out of the habit. Delta nodded, his face still buried in the cushion. Not speaking, but that was also to be expected.

“Do you want to sit up here?” Apollo offered, just in case he needed to be reminded that he was allowed to. He shook his head for no.

“…Okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” He only put one earbud back in. Delta spoke so softly, he didn’t want to miss it. He wasn’t going to force him to talk about it, if there was anything to talk about at all. Delta needed to do what made him feel safe. As odd as the behavior seemed to him, he wasn’t going to correct it. 

He turned his attention back to the radio, but kept his sights on Delta to see if there was any change. His eyes widened as he noticed the small hitches along his shoulders. He was definitely crying.

“Hey, hey.” Apollo put the radio aside on the couch, sliding down onto the floor. He touched Delta’s arm lightly, “C’mere.”

It was all the invitation he needed. Delta shifted off of the couch and into Apollo’s arms, burying his face in his chest. Small sobs wracked his body. Apollo was surprised at how silent he was being in spite of this. He made shushing noises reflexively, even though there was no sound. He felt the fabric of his shirt marginally tighten as Delta gripped it. 

“Aegre fero.” Delta’s voice wavered. It was only when he spoke that Apollo could hear just how much trouble he was having breathing. He carded his hands through his hair.

“It’s okay. Deep breaths, yeah? Four-seven-eight,” he said. Delta knew how. Apollo had caught him doing them alone before, unprompted. He was clearly used to being the only one to calm himself down. Apollo’s heart ached at the thought of him sitting up whenever they had kept him, forcing himself stable for somebody else’s sake. Still, he slowed his breathing, picking up the pattern. From where Delta was curled into his chest, he should’ve been able to hear it well. His shoulder blades gradually steadied. The shaking stopped. He didn’t let go.

“Do you…like when I play with your hair?” Apollo’s hands stilled. He realized he’d never actually gotten permission to touch it. He probably should have. Delta nodded slowly. His face was still hidden. Apollo continued to run his hands through it. It was very soft — and seemed to be a lot healthier than it had been when they’d first picked him up. He was proud of that, the way the malnutrition symptoms were gradually fading. He had missed cooking for people.

It took a while before Delta would pull away. His face was flushed when he did, eyes bleary. He looked down like he was ashamed. Apollo patted the couch cushion.

“Sit up, sweetheart.”

Delta climbed onto the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was always more responsive when given direct orders. Apollo didn’t want to force him, but honestly, his joints couldn’t take any more time on the floor. He stood up himself, disappearing briefly to retrieve a cup of water. He brought back the burner phone too, passing both of them to Delta.

~

It was mortifying. When had he ever cried? He could count on one hand the number of times he had done it over the last two years. On two hands, he could count the last decade. Now it was like he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t supposed to behave like this. He had learned, so early on, that he was not supposed to behave like this.

It had felt so nice to be held for a second.

Mortifying.

Apollo sat back down on the couch and opened the IRC program. The burner phone buzzed in Delta’s hand. He unlocked it.

sunspot: Hey

nodiving: hi

nodiving: sorry

sunspot: Do you want to talk about it?

nodiving: i dont know

nodiving: i dont know whats wrong with me

nodiving: im not supposed to be like this

sunspot: Be like what?

nodiving: pathetic

sunspot: Why do you think it’s pathetic?

nodiving: because it is

“That’s circular logic,” Apollo said aloud. Delta typed faster.

nodiving: im not supposed to need anything and i usually dont

nodiving: now i have to keep bothering you for everything even things that dont matter

nodiving: im sorry

He began to type something else, but couldn’t bring himself to. He knew he should be punished for it. For having the audacity to even take notice of the emotion, let alone make it someone else’s problem. He should’ve just stayed in his room until it passed. 

sunspot: Everyone needs things. 

sunspot: I’ve been telling you this entire time to please come to me if you need anything

sunspot: Thank you for trusting me enough to take me up on that

Delta blushed, his fingers idle about the device. Apollo looked him up and down.

“When you say ‘things that don’t matter’,” he ventured cautiously, “You mean your own feelings?”

Feelings. The word itself sounded childish to him. He was supposed to be above it, as cold and mechanical as they’d trained him to be. But his skin was still damp where he’d been crying. It was a little late for that.

He nodded. Apollo couldn’t be mad at him for it; Delta already acknowledged their own worthlessness. It wasn’t a lie.

“Okay,” Apollo said softly, “I understand why you would think that. Nobody’s had much regard for them throughout your life. But it’s not true. Your feelings do matter. It was wrong for anybody to make you feel like they didn’t.”

No they don’t. Delta hid his face in his hands. He shouldn’t need this. He recoiled from the words as if they had burned him. No they don’t.

“I know you might not believe me right now. That’s okay. I’m still really proud of you for coming to me with this instead of trying to deal with it alone. Even if you think it’s not important, I still want to know what you’re feeling. It matters to me.”

Awful.

“Delta?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, showing he had heard. Not that he agreed, just that he’d heard.

Apollo paused while he caught his breath. It took a lot of effort to try and recover from what he’d just said. It still burned.

“Do you want to try?” Apollo encouraged.

Delta nodded, picking the phone back up. He typed slowly and decisively.

nodiving: nothing caused it

nodiving: im just sad

“Thank you. That’s a really good start, Delta. I know you’re not…used to talking. So maybe you don’t have all the vocabulary you need for it right now?”

Delta’s eyes narrowed at that, the mention of vocabulary. He wasn’t stupid. He read books.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you’re smart.” Apollo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your technical skill is advanced. You’re great at arguing. I know. All I’m saying is that you probably don’t have a lot of practice talking about this kind of thing. It might be difficult at first. And that has nothing to do with your intellect.”

That was objectively true. He had no idea what to describe what was happening to him, not with all the words he knew. He thought of the one that had shocked him most when they first suggested it. Abuse. He knew the definition. He did not see how it could slot into his life. Many of the words they used triggered that same uneasy feeling in him. Chess-piece. Feelings. Love. 

Most days, he could barely talk at all.

“I’m...gonna get you some CBT workbooks or something. We can work on it more later. Is there anything you need for right now though? Anything that normally helps?”

He didn’t know anything that would help. He’d never felt like this before. Whatever it was, it seemed like it was receding. The mood had passed.

He realized that crying might’ve helped. Touch. Talking. All the things he’d never been allowed before. All the things he thought he didn’t need.

Mortifying.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[whumpinthepot]

Hamster Interactive Story

Chapter 12. Decision

Prev - Masterlist

Content: Giant/tiny, tiny whump, pet trope/whump, kidnapping, cages, loss of mobility aid (prosthetic leg), solitary confinement (non descriptive), manipulation, power dynamics, fear, female cast

Ashley’s Pov

Poll winner: Let Hamster decide what to do with Soap Scrub. 

ART, WRITING, AND POLL UNDER THE CUT

-

A row of ideas fills your mind on what to do with this pest. Just as you’re thinking of chucking the whole jar out, you look at your little girl's face. Hamster’s eyes are full of worried tears and it dawns on you to get her input on the matter.

Placing the jar with the tiny man inside in a different room, you return to converse with Hamster. Admittedly you sway the options in your favour when speaking to her. Picking her up, you wipe her tears and brush back her curly hair. “Do you want him gone sweet pea? I can get rid of him for you,” you roll the words slowly, “Or, would you like a new friend?” A careful smile spreads across your lips while you rub her back gently. “I think he could warm up to us. He could be a new model for our blog. Who knows, if we got rid of him he could get hurt again. He would be safer with us don’t you think?” 

Hamster frowns slightly with pressed lips. You can only guess her worries and reassure her. “Don’t worry honey bunny, I would never let anyone hurt you. Ever. If he’s not nice we can make him go away after all.” 

Hamster hums and then nods her head. She smiles some, and dare you say she’s starting to get excited by the idea. You give her a little kiss on the cheek and explain that it might take some time to become his friend. She’ll have to be patient with him. You also tell Hamster that she gets her cast taken off in the next few days, giving her more to look forward to. 

Once that's settled, you go into the room where the pest was left alone. He’s there in the jar with his head slumped against the glass. He becomes alert when you get closer. 

You rest your arms on the dresser with your face close to the jar to talk to him. “I know it was you who scared her before. Tell me what happened.”

The man reacts exactly how you want, and goes rigid. “I- I never hurt her. Ask her. When she fell off the counter a mouse was going to attack her, and I scared it off.”

“And then?” You raise a thin brow. 

“And then, what? That's all that happened,” he defends quickly. 

You watch him for a second as his eyes dart around, then break the news to him. “I’ve decided to keep you. It's that or I sell you and who knows what could happen to you then. I won’t hurt you as long as you never upset Hamster. M’kay?” 

“You have to be kidding me…” Tears well up in his eyes and he cradles his bandaged hand. “Can’t we make some soft of deal? I- I can do what ever you want if you let me go after. Then you’ll never see me again, I swear.”

Furious, you pull the jar closer just to startle him, who does he think he is trying to negotiate as if he has any leeway. “That is the deal, little boy. You’ve caused a lot of stress to my pet, and now you’ll pay it back to her with nothing but kindness. Do that and I’ll make sure you’re comfortable, well fed, and I won't hurt you. If you don’t, well… I’ll sell you and who knows where you’ll end up. Snake food? Some kids live Barbie doll? Neglected, starved, forgotten in a tiny. Little. Jar?” You tap the glass with your long nail between words. “The choice is yours.” 

The man is left speechless with his mouth gaped open and his hair sticking out everywhere. You take a second to breathe deeply to calm down. The thought that you're taking this overboard clouds over you - but he really did cause a good amount of grief for you last week. "So, tell me your name or I'll come up with one." You smile, feeling just slightly sadistic. "Maybe Rat, Pest, or maybe Hamster can choose."

“It’s Soap.” He chokes out in a tiny voice.

You snort at the strange name, but wild pets are usually an odd bunch so you don’t hound him on it. 

“It's nice to meet you, Soap.”

The next few days you set things up as a precaution. Making sure there are no other wild pets in your home, getting Hamsters cast off, setting up an escape proof cage for Soap, and isolating him just enough for him to crave the company of yourself and Hamster. On the fifth day of leaving him in the dark alone, you enter the spare room to check in. He’s sulking, hidden under a toy that you’ve given him in his cage. 

“Soap?” You use a softer tone than the last time you two spoke, “Are you ready to come out? What would you like to do?” You give him a few options to choose from and offer to give him his doll leg back if he cooperates. 

—-

(Multiple options may be used depending on the top poll winners)

Thank you @alittlewhump for looking over my chapter <3

Tag list: @frogkingdom @verkja @whumpsday @octopus-reactivated @marvel-gt @rsitb-second-account @fallen-grace-smd @winged-wolf-s-collection-of-arts @kyp-the-spacekiwi @ilasknives @hollowgast1 @redd956 @zobodahobo @alittlewhump @blackrosesandwhump @angst-after-dark @sandygarnelle @coppercoyoti @kim-poce @mayisreallygay @smoll-stace @demondamage @vickytokio @whump-in-the-closet @sunshiline-writes @coyotehusk @cypresscove @shadowsnowdapple @whumpy-wyrms @re-whump @whumpninja

[gottawhump]

Stay a While

Gideon

CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU, mutual dubcon (I think) (nothing too explicit, I think). I don’t think either I or Gideon was prepared for this to happen. 115 is still not in a very good headspace.

Gideon comes in from night patrol around the property, feeling guilty.

“I’d like you to keep an eye on the new shelter rescue,” wasn’t exactly a command. But it definitely conveyed responsibility.

So before he goes to his room to sleep, he makes sure to pass by the new rescue’s room. Someone left a tray of food outside the door; it looks untouched. The door is slightly ajar. He knocks lightly, before stepping in.

He’s not sure what he was expecting. Not the little Romantic curled around his pillow, sobbing. He looks so… breakable.

Gideon puts his hand ever so lightly on the Romantic’s side. There’s a shiver, then 115 shifts a little, and reaches for Gideon, pulling him down onto the bed.

Onto him, and he’s kissing Gideon. Hard and hungrily, unexpected and intoxicating. Gideon can’t help responding, cupping 115’s head, fingers tangling in his dark curly hair. Kissing and touching, feeling bones too prominent under the skin.

He pulls away, though, when the other Pet fumbles at his pants. “I’m not-not sure this is-“ Allowed? Appropriate?

115’s eyes open, sleep-glazed, unfocussed. “Please. I want this. I want you.”

Gideon draws in a sharp breath when the Romantic pulls his cock out from his pants. “I don’t, I don’t want to hurt you.”

It feels like even the slightest pressure might break something.

“Please.” The fierceness surprises him. “Please hurt me. I want you to hurt me.”

115 guides Gideon into him, and wraps his legs around him, and oh….

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in the morning, seeing the marks his hands left.

“Don’t be, “ replies 115. “Just-stay a while.”

He does.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump @nicolepascaline @inpainandsuffering @simbahhishere @whimpers-and-whumpers

[whumppromptoftheday]

curly haired whumpee running away from whumper and they get stuck on a branch/something catches on it

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter One

CW: Captivity whump, some... implications... references to branding. This is just me getting a feel for the idea and character, though, really.

-

The robes he once kept pristine are caked in dried mud around the hem. Grigory frowns as he inspects them, rubbing along the seam. It flakes away, leaving imprints of itself behind. 

Maudlin, certainly, but it feels like the stain of their sins painting his soul.

Maybe suffering can give even a man of the Goddess the sentiment of a poet. His lip curls in disgust at the very thought.

Please, please speak to me, Dromada. Tell your priest what he must do to escape this nightmare.

She is, and has always been, silent to his pleas for Her assistance. 

The Goddess the people worship may be a paragon of compassion and forgiveness, her sculptures solemn and grave with hands outstretched to embrace even the lowest-born of Her children, but Grigori is beginning to suspect the holy men have got it wrong. 

She isn't gracefully wise. She does not reach Her hand out to hold Her children. No, as each day passes without Her so much as whispering a reassurance, he begins to feel She is th goddess of laughter, and he is Her current favorite joke.

A knock at the door to his room - his cell, really, but of course they all like to pride themselves on keeping him in high style in his gilded cage - has him looking up, a little startled. The moon has only made half of its trek across the night sky, through the looping swirls of galaxies far, far beyond the reach of mere mortal men. That milky spin of stars, everyone knows, is where the gods live.

He wonders how many of them are looking down on him, sipping crystalline waters, and mocking his pain.

He would spit on every last temple step, if he could.

If he could just leave the fucking room-

“Brother Grigori,” His guest singsongs, half-dancing into the room. Grigory turns away from him, laying one palm over one of the iron bars that blocks any escape through the window. His fingers close slowly around it. 

“What do you want.” His voice is curt, it cuts short and sharp. “Bastard.”

“Oh, see you got my name all wrong again.” The leader of this little gang is tall - too tall - and all knees and legs, lean muscle making him heavier than he looks. Grigori is tall enough for a man, but he seems like he’s half-grown, compared to the bandit. The man’s hair is a shock of white atop his head, shaved on the sides, while Grigori’s curly brown grows to the bottom of his ears, as is prescribed for the priests. He swaths himself in black kohl around his equally dark eyes and shining black leather worn back to brown from age and ill-use at the knees and elbows. Grigori’s hazel and his dirtied robes look like a joke, placed next to the bandit’s appearance.  “It’s Bohli, remember? Or that’s what my mother calls me, anyway. Or she would, if she were still alive. She probably uses that when she curses my name from the heavens above, granted. I mean, probably, unless she really is suffering in the Dark After, like she deserves-”

“What do you want, Bohli?” Grigory’s head is already starting to hurt. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Nonsense. You have all the time in the world. You have nothing but time.”

“Not for… you. Please leave.”

“Nope. Not going anywhere. This is my house, remember? I just let you stay here.”

“Let me.” The words are sour in Grigori’s mouth. “Right, of course. Let me. Because I asked to be branded and trapped here in this room-”

“Hush. I take you for walkies every day, little god’s dog.” Bohli winks, and Grigori - who took a vow of pacifism, once - imagines stabbing his own knife through his eyeball until it comes out the other side of his head. “If you don’t want a leash, you just have to prove you won’t run off.”

He would, of course. Run. Outside, the woods stretch far and wide. There’s a path he could take to find a village, to find freedom...

Or… more realistically… to get arrested for being in league with Bohli and his bastards, which he isn’t, but everyone knows the goddess would save Her most faithful, and he’s been here too long. He would be branded a heretic. Everyone knows he’s a heretic. His own fellow priests would turn their backs on him. The people would burn him at the stake, for being defiled, degraded, a paragon of nothing but the filth they have covered him in. Little more than a bandit himself. 

Maybe he is one.

Dromada would have saved him if he were truly Hers to save. And instead, here he is, the infamous giver of absolution to the men and women who massacre whole towns in defiance of - in direct insult to - the power and might of His Majesty, the King.

No. he would be burned as an enemy of the King's, and he would have no standing to defend himself. A captive this long isn't a captive at all, in the eyes of the world.

Just a man who no longer wants to be saved.

Tears prick at his eyes, and he struggles not to let Bohli see them and mock him even more. It’s not like he hasn’t already been marked. It was one of the first things they did. Bohli had given the order and watched while they tied him down. Grigori himself had been made to look as they put the iron in the fire, made to watch them heat it to red. Bohli had been whispering in his ear when when they pressed it to his pelvis, and Bohli had cooed over him while he screamed, stroking through his sweaty hair.

“Just leave,” He whispers, the area aching all over again. They branded him over the symbol of Dromada tattooed, a mark of his vow of chastity.

Another one broken.

Maybe that was when She stopped listening.

“Oh, but I can’t, darling Grigori. I’ve come to make a confession.” Bohli laughs, and his laughter could make you bleed even better than his blade. But somehow Grigori can’t seem to die from the loss. “Isn’t that why I keep a priest of Dromada around, anyway? For to save my poor mortal soul?”

Grigori fights the urge to wish aloud someone would poison the asshole’s food. “You would burn if you touched the Hem of her robe.”

“Maybe.” Bohli shrugs, kicking a chair over and dropping down into it, loose-limbed. His eyes spark with delight as he takes in Grigori’s misery. “But you wear Her robes, and yet I never burn when I touch you-”

“Speak your confession,” Grigory snaps, his heart twisting and going briefly silent and still in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and Bohli’s peal of bright, brittle laughter tells him the flush isn’t going unnoticed. 

“Say it.” Bohli watches him, and it’s like being watched by one of the terrifying big cats that roam the woods just beyond this hideous prison. Unblinking, a predator’s stare. “Say the words, priest.”

Each time he does, they feel more bitter on his tongue. 

But still.

Grigori draws the ruins of his robe closer around himself, and sits up straight. He swallows and sets his jaw. “Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, the goddess Dromada hears and forgives all from those who love Her. You have only to ask. Speak, child, and be forgiven.”

Bohli licks his lips, leaning forwards. Somehow, Grigori can’t make himself look away. The bandit leader’s teeth are sharp - those canines can rend skin from bone. He’s part-elf, they say, somewhere in his bloodline the half-mindless shrieking hordes of the elven race lurk. You can always tell, so it’s said, from the sharpness of their teeth. From how little they care for the lives of men.

Maybe he’s half-elf.

It would explain why he’s so fucking smug.

“Forgive me, Dromada’s Chosen, for I have sinned against Her,” Bohli says, and he doesn’t even try to feign sincerity. Why he even plays this game, when Dromada isn’t a goddess for the elves of their wretched offspring to begin with, is beyond Grigori’s understanding.

Grigori fights the urge to sigh. He makes Dromada’s Sign, wondering if it even calls to Her any longer. If She even feels the spark of a follower’s call, or if he’s cut off from Her entirely. Who hears him when he prays?

Does anyone?

“How have you sinned against Our Mother, She Who Gave the Waters?” 

Bohli licks his lips. His smile is a little too wide, shows too many of those sharp, sharp teeth. He'd be blisteringly handsome, if it weren’t for the sight of fangs where none should be. “I won’t lie, Brother Grigori. I set some stuff on fire yesterday. And I’m going to do it again. Will I be forgiven?”

Grigori imagines the mud climbing higher and higher up his robes, pulling him into the earth, forcing itself down his mouth and pressing over his eyes. He imagines the gods in the sky, looking down from their stars.

The image shatters with the memory of first sitting at the table with the dozen or so of Bohli's favorites, each of them smiling at him, while he sat in his pure white robes and felt himself bared, as if naked, before them.

Until Bohli had given the order for what to do with him.

“Dromada forgives all who seek Her,” Grigori intones, thoughtless. The words memorized before he was even thirteen years old, before he was old enough to take his vows. Before he was taken, and they were all broken, one by one. Bohli loved breaking Grigori's vows. “You have only to ask.”

“Good.” Bohli’s voice drops low. He has to focus to hear it, which is probably the bastard’s entire point. “Because I really, really love asking, and I love the sound of your answers.”

The bandit stands, walking over to him, putting one finger under his chin and forcing Grigori to look up - and up, and up, and up - to see the demon smile.

Grigori is sure, as Bohli watches him with his head tipped to the side and his black eyes as bright as the stars, that he can hear the goddess laughing.

[kabie-whump]

CYOA Whump Part 8

First | Previous

You chose: Beg for Tinny’s help. What do I have to lose?

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

You crane your head to watch as Tinny leans on the railing and waves her arms at someone. “Hey! Blondie! Come up here!” she shouts.

Then she returns to you, checking over your restraints.

“Please,” you whisper, making an effort to sound as pitiful as possible. “Please, Tinny. Help me. We can even make it look like an accident. Just leave the ropes a little loose. I’ll slip out on my own tonight. You will not be blamed.”

Tinny raises an eyebrow. “Then what would ya do, hm? We’re miles from land.”

Shit, she’s right. You might be able to gather the strength to fly away, but you’ll probably fall out of the sky before you find land. You’re not the strongest swimmer.

You try and fail to suppress a frustrated sob. “I don’t know. But please, I need help.”

“Sorry, kid. No can do.”

A thudding of footsteps draws her attention behind you. “Gotta job for ya, blondie. Watch the prisoner. Captain says no food and no water till he decides to cooperate.”

“Understood.” The ‘blondie’ in question enters your line of sight, looking at you with open curiosity.

Damn it. He’s attractive. Tall, muscular, rugged but not filthy. He has tanned skin and ivy green eyes and a splash of freckles across his flushed skin. Pointy ears poke out from a halo of curly blond hair.

“Hi,” he says to you. “I’m Onthyes.”

“Ventis,” you return shakily, trying to will the tears on your face to evaporate.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Tinny says, clapping Onthyes’s shoulder. “Don’t let the little freak of nature outta your sight. And don’t let him talk ya into nothin.”

“I won’t,” he assures her.

She leaves you two alone and Onthyes has a seat on a nearby crate. He’s still staring at you. It’s getting unnerving.

“Do I have something on my face?” you snap, your voice still thick with tears.

Onthyes jumps, shaking his head quickly. “No! Well yes, actually. You’re a bit bloody.” He stands and walks over to you. There’s a wet rag slung over his shoulder. He must have been cleaning something before this. He grabs the rag and holds it up to your face, stopping before it touches you.

“Can I clean it off?”

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

Next

CYOA whump taglist: (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @rainydaywhump @whumperofworlds @hauntedroseart @3-2-whump @fleur-a-whump @whumpsday @whumpisfun @whumper-whimsy @ghost-whump @fabled-whump @violets-whumperflies @whumped-by-glitter @thewhumpening-thesequel @lumpofsand @whumpycries @unicornbeck

[lili-loves-whump]

writing prompt

*the lonely hero mesmerised by a painting of them in a museum wondering who was able to capture their essence perfectly*

the villain is also an artist

lili-loves-whump presents:

My Muse

“Isn’t it amazing?”

“Remarkable!”

“This is extraordinary…”

Hero hummed their agreement to the people around them. The piece was truly spectacular.

“I shall never- not ever- forget this piece!”

Beside them, a young girl stood, hands pressed into her cheeks. They were warm with colour and bright against her pale skin. "This is a really good art, person."

Hero chuckled and shrugged. The piece in question was a mix of warm-toned colours: auburn, and orange, and deep hazelnut. They were splashed against a pale background, and looked sort of like a landscape.

The girl had shuffled on, but Hero continued to watch the piece.

They weren't quite sure what everyone else saw- to them, it looked slightly like a colour palette for their face- whispy brown hair, deep hazel eyes, orange peekaboo dye. But who was the artist anyway?

Another man was next to them now. He was tall, with curly blonde hair that fell over the edge of his eyebrows. He smirked at Hero.

"Admiring the art, I see?"

Hero nodded slowly. What was with the art? Why did everyone enjoy it so? It did kind of look like them, if they tilted their head.

"It looks like you, if I may say."

Hero's eyes widened, and they looked up at the stranger, then back at the painting. "I guess you're kind of right," they mused, tapping their ear with a finger in thought.

"No, not literally," the stranger replied, "but your essence, kind of. Your personality- who you are."

Hero shrugged, and the stranger must have walked away, because they didn't say anymore, but they were right. Somehow, the abstract painting that looked like a landscape in the sunset had Hero's exact vibe. But who would know that?

"Enjoying my art?"

Hero rolled their eyes. Why was everyone talking to them? They wanted to expect the art in piece for God's sak-

"Your art?" they echoed, shuffling their feet.

Villain stood next to them, wringing their hands. "Yes," they said, slowly, "my art. I applied to have it shown in this museum, and I won." They laughed nervously, eyes darting to their companion. "You like it, then?"

Hero nodded quickly. "It's very nice- to meet you, as well."

Villain chuckled. "Of course..."

"Hero."

"Ah, lovely name. I am Villain. I must say, you look slightly of my muse- the person I based the painting of. But no matter, they aren't around. Well, I must be leaving now. Enjoy!"

And as Villain sauntered away, Hero felt the vague pull of familiarity drain from them.

[eight-littlenightmares]

hello!! i am making an intro post for my whump OCs :D (i’ll be honest, it’s specifically so i can reblog those whump ask games and people can actually know who i’m talking about 😭)

(also i am writing a book about them. also also this is technically a Little Nightmares AU)

SO. here they are. under the cut.

the main group: (all technically Whumpees, so i’ll just talk about their other roles, and just note ig that they’re all Whumpees)

Eight: (MC) eight years old, female, deathly pale, black eyes, short brown hair. she definitely fits with the obedient/submissive Whumpee trope. she was artificially created in the Signal Tower, by the Tower Entity, as the eighth clone of his daughter that he murdered. she escaped one day, met the rest of the group, and now she’s traveling with them. she’s constantly on edge that any day now, they could turn on her, or she could do something wrong and they’ll shun her. or worse. (she autistic and has OCD and C-PTSD)

Mono: (Caretaker role, occasionally Carewhumper/bad Caretaker role) ten years old, male, black eyes, pale, curly dark hair. he’s interesting. he has abandonment issues and a deep fear of being alone. he used to be best friends with Jinx, until she betrayed him. he can’t say he doesn’t resent her a bit for that, but eventually he had to put it behind him and reconcile with her. now he is best friends with Eight—he is quite toxic and controlling. he couldn’t possibly let her leave, after all. i can sort of put it past him because he’s only ten and he improves when he gets older. (he has C-PTSD and ADHD and OCD)

Elena: (mostly caretaker role) eleven years old, female, green eyes, tan/brown skin, dark hair that she usually wears in a braid. she is very kind, definitely the boss of everyone, and always tries to be the mediator between anyone who’s fighting. best friends with Jinx, and also Lucia. traveling with these people is a bit stressful, if she’s being completely honest. they just won’t stop fighting and getting injured and nearly dying from things! (would be neurotypical, but she has C-PTSD)

Jinx: (i don’t know how to define her role) nine years old, female, pale skin, red eyes, short black hair. she is sarcastic, rude, but does genuinely care about the people around her. she LOVES Elena to death, has basically adopted Lucia, and Eight and Seven are her buddies. she likes to give nicknames to everyone. Mono does piss her off a bit, maybe more than a bit, he still thinks he’s in the right after he broke her music box and she dropped him off a cliff. it’s annoying. (autistic, and C-PTSD along with the rest of them)

Seven: (lil guy 🥺 he’s just a lil guy) eight years old, male, pale, ashy brown skin, blue eyes, and shaggy black hair. he’s the second shortest out of the group (next to Shadow) and- look, i just love him. he’s so endearing. he’s best friends with Eight. he’s very cautious friends with Jinx—she did eat him once, after all. and technically his best friend is supposed to be C, but.. she scares him. he wishes she were nice again. (autistic, C-PTSD, and he’s also trans FTM)

Lucia: (i don’t rlly know how to describe her role) eight years old, female, pale, pale teal eyes, white hair. (she is albino) she originally came from a place where there weren’t monsters after her at all times, and to be honest she’s having a bit of a hard time adjusting. Shadow is her best friend, and Jinx and Elena are basically her adopted mothers. (autistic, possible NPD but idk yet bc i need to do more research into that one, probably C-PTSD as well)

C: (Carewhumper/Whumper role) nine years old, female, tan, honey brown eyes, brown hair. she’s a bit of a Yandere. after the- ahem, the incident, she’s terrified that something is going to happen to Seven again. he could get hurt, or he could LEAVE her! she’s a bit like Mono in that regard, only Mono needs to be pushed farther to arrive at violence. it’s not entirely her fault, she’s traumatized after thinking Seven was dead. but maybe she should retire the knife in her pocket. she really doesn’t like how close Seven and Eight are getting. (C-PTSD, BPD)

Shadow: (she’s just a baby 🥺 she’s just a baby) seven years old, female, dark brown skin, bright gray eyes, and black hair. she is best friends with Lucia, and as the youngest she is also just the baby of the group. everyone loves her. she’s so tiny, how could you not love her?? she also has shadow magick—hence the name. she’s a bit scared of it, to be honest. hopefully she doesn’t kill herself or anyone else with it.. also hopefully there’s no catch involved with her powers.. (autistic, C-PTSD, she’s also deaf)

The Whumpers:

the Tower Entity: (THE Whumper) 30s-40s, can switch between his human form and a very monstrous form. he usually settles somewhere in the middle. he is the absolute bastard of bastards—he’s the one who destroyed the whole world. he made Eight as an additional power source for the Signal Tower—plus it’s not like there’s anyone else in the Tower. he needs a little buddy—never mind the fact that he tortures her and has killed her multiple times.

Siete: (Caretaker/Carewhumper, however it’s complicated and she has the best possible intentions) 8-9 years old. she was the seventh clone made—she was terminated like the rest, but they stick around as little ghosts. she’s trying to train Eight to fight back against the Entity.

every adult there. (the adults are all bad. all try to murder them. :C)

thank you for reading!! :D also just adding this just because

[whump-me]

Protector: Chapter 19

Chapter 19 of Protector, a novella-length whump story about a ruthless superpowered assassin trained from childhood to kill, and the brother determined to save him from himself.

Masterpost | the Mind Games universe | Read the complete novel on Patreon

---

Loren should have killed him.

Zach’s wound wasn’t anywhere close to fatal. Loren had intended it that way. A graze to his side—something that would make him take notice, something that would slow him down even more. But it wouldn’t kill him.

It would let Zach know Loren meant business. But now, too late, Loren realized it would signal something else. It would tell Zach that Loren was willing to hesitate before killing him.

Also, if he had taken the lethal shot he had lined up, the mission would be over. Done. All he’d have to do was take out the other three—three civilians, a trivial task—and then he could go back home to PERI headquarters. He could put all this behind him: his own weakness, his poor choices, the inevitable consequences.

As it was, he would still have to take that kill shot. He had only postponed the inevitable.

For now, he had to watch Zach suffer.

Zach lay on the floor just inside the door, hands pressed to his side, one leg twisted at a painful-looking angle. Bright red blood spilled through his fingers. Red like a stop sign, like a warning light. Like all the internal warnings Loren had ignored before they had reached this point. All the inner whispers that had told him to stop.

Zach squirmed in visible pain. Loren couldn’t hear anything from where he was perched in the tree, but he had heard Zach in pain before, and his imagination supplied the sounds as clearly as if he could hear them. The faint grunts of pain that Zach would try in vain to swallow back. The small, involuntary whimpers.

Loren’s hands clenched with the need to hold Zach, to press Zach’s head into his chest and let his own flesh swallow those whimpers. His fingers tightened around cold metal. He had forgotten he was holding the rifle.

Loren forced himself to drag his sharp eyes away from Zach, to focus on the others. The woman and the curly-haired man were partially out of his sight, too far back from the door for him to get a good shot. He would need to wait for them to come closer—or, more likely, for them to leave the house. They would let their guard down eventually—civilians always did. Then he would get his shot at them.

He already had a good shot at the brother.

The brother was staring down at Zach, with an expression like someone who had taken a shortcut and found himself lost in the deep woods. Loren had worn a similar expression on his first mission.

As Loren watched, the brother crouched down beside Zach and reached out a hesitant hand to him.

The resemblance to Zach was strong enough that Loren didn’t know how he had missed it the first time he had seen him. Now that he knew Zach had a brother in that cabin, he had recognized him at first glance. His face was broader, his body thicker—both in muscle and fat. His eyes were softer than Zach’s, his face more expressive. But even considering those differences, in the right light it would have been easy to mistake one of them for the other.

Zach froze as his brother reached out to him. Then, slowly, he tilted his head up to look at Bryce. From where he was sitting, Loren could only see the back of Zach’s head. He couldn’t see the expression on his face.

The brother started to reach toward Zach’s wound. Then he rested his hand on Zach’s shoulder instead, lightly, like he was afraid Zach might break under his touch. Loren understood that feeling. Sometimes he felt like he would break Zach just by breathing too close to him. But then, back in the field, Zach always proved his strength once again. Zach was simultaneously more and less fragile than he appeared.

Loren had thought Zach was strong enough to complete this mission.

He had thought Zach was loyal enough.

He had thought Zach could save him from having to complete his own mission.

The brother said something to Zach. His lips moved; Loren couldn’t hear the words. Whatever he said, it made Zach shake his head sharply.

The brother’s face darkened as he spoke again. He surged to his feet and stepped over Zach toward the door.

Loren raised his gun.

Zach lifted one hand from his bleeding wound to grab at his brother’s leg. When he turned his head toward his brother, Loren could finally see his face. His expression was urgent. Terrified. His own lips moved. Loren could practically hear him shouting out a warning.

The brother didn’t heed the warning. He shook off Zach’s hand and strode toward the door.

Loren fired.

In his years working for PERI, Loren had made shots much more technically difficult than this one. This was easy. Training stuff.

And yet.

At the moment he pulled the trigger, his aim shifted slightly to the side. The wind, maybe, or the awkward perch—he was used to operating in a city environment, not balancing on a branch like an oversized bird.

Or maybe he had been afraid of hitting Zach.

Maybe he hadn’t been able to bring himself to shoot someone whose face so closely resembled that of the man he loved.

Maybe he had been afraid of the pain he would see on Zach’s face when Zach realized his brother was dead.

Loren shook his head sharply. It was the wind, and the awkwardness of maintaining his balance in this position. That was the safest explanation. It was the one he would choose to believe.

He forced himself to line up another shot. He felt like he was moving in slow motion. The rifle felt awkward in his hands, an awkwardness he hadn’t felt since he had begun his training at eight years old.

A blur darted out of the door. Zach, Loren thought at first—but the figure was only moving as fast as an ordinary human, and the pattern of the movements was all wrong. It was the woman from inside. She grabbed Bryce’s arm and tugged him inside before Loren could finish lining up his next shot.

Loren told himself he wasn’t relieved.

Surprise caught the brother off-balance and let the woman tug him back inside. As soon as he was through the door, though, he planted his feet and refused to move. He kept himself angled toward the door, shooting a wary glance out, even though Loren knew no person with ordinary vision could spot him from here. His hands and the woman’s moved as they argued.

Zach lay on the floor behind them. The bleeding had slowed. His face was creased with pain, but he didn’t have to hold his wound quite so tightly anymore.

Loren was willing to bet not all the pain on his face was physical.

Loren had a clear shot. He could make it a headshot—painless, instant.

Zach first. The civilians later. Once he took care of Zach, the rest would be easy.

He wanted so badly to take care of Zach. Cradle him in his arms and—

No. The mission came first. He knew that, even if Zach didn’t. PERI had taught him well. He still had the scars to show for it.

He steadied his rifle—and paused.

Zach clearly still thought he had a choice here—a choice besides completing the mission or dying at Loren’s hands. How did he think this could end for him? What did he think he could gain from his refusal to do what was necessary?

His brother, obviously. The family he’d had before PERI. How could he still not understand that that life was gone forever?

Loren rubbed one of the burn scars on his wrist. It had taken a long time for PERI to get that lesson through to him, but he had come to understand.

Maybe now he could make Zach understand.

If he killed the brother, if he brought his weakness under control this time and didn’t let his aim slip, that would surely bring Zach to his senses. When Zach saw that completing the mission was inevitable with or without his cooperation, he would do what was necessary. And if Loren took the hardest part away from him—if Zach didn’t have to kill his brother himself—Zach could handle the other civilians. He could do enough to prove himself to PERI.

He would come back to himself, to the PERI operative he was, once he saw that he had no other choice.

He would come back to Loren.

Loren shifted his aim. He took the shot.

The brother went still. A red circle bloomed across his chest.

Then he toppled. He fell across Zach’s legs and went still.

When Zach’s mouth opened, Loren didn’t have to be close enough to hear in order to hear his scream.

He had done it this time. He had kept his hands steady. He hadn’t let the weakness take control.

That was what he told himself. But he didn’t have the solid certainty that he normally felt in the wake of a bullet that had hit its target.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that at the last possible moment, a tremor had run through his hand, throwing off his aim the tiniest bit.

He watched the brother’s still form, searching for movement. Was he twitching in pain? Maybe even struggling unsuccessfully to get to his feet? Or were those simply the desperate movements of Zach under him, trying to stand, trying too late to save his brother?

The woman and the other man dragged the brother’s prone form away from the doors. They paused, both of them at once, just long enough to shoot twin glances down at Zach. For a second, Loren thought they would stop to help Zach up, and make Zach’s job easier.

Then they dragged the brother the rest of the way away from the door, and Loren couldn’t see them anymore.

Now it was just him and Zach.

Zach went still. The emotion drained from his face. He stared out the open door, and although Loren knew Zach couldn’t see him from here, he felt like Zach’s eyes were focused directly on him.

His eyes were cold. As cold as a PERI operative’s should be.

Did Zach understand now? Did he see what he needed to do?

Slowly, with pain written in every movement, Zach pushed himself to his feet.

He clutched his new wound and swayed precariously. But he didn’t fall.

He turned away from the door, and toward where the others had dragged Bryce. Toward the broken window.

He understood what he had to do now. He would finish the job Loren had started. He would complete the mission.

That was what Loren told himself. He told himself it made sense that he didn’t raise his rifle again and shoot Zach while he still could.

And then Zach, too, was out of sight. The choice was no longer in his hands.

Loren let out a long breath.

He shifted his gaze away from the door. There was nothing to see there anymore. Instead, he swept his eyes back and forth across the woods, searching for movement.

It didn’t take long for him to see Zach. The man limped slowly through the woods, stopping frequently to catch his breath, steadying himself against nearby trees. His face was still empty. His eyes were still cold.

Loren’s eyes caught movement from the other side of the cabin. The two remaining civilians, carrying the brother’s body between them. Assuming the brother was actually dead. They were moving slowly enough to be easy targets—or they would have been easy targets on a city street. Here, the trees shielded them too well for him to line up a shot.

Zach undoubtedly couldn’t see them from where he was, but he stopped, tilting his head toward the movement. He must have heard the crack of a twig, or the whisper of voices.

Zach reached for his unwounded side, where he had tucked the weapon Loren had given him.

Loren held his breath, waiting for Zach to head toward the others.

Instead, Zach turned away from the source of movement. He looked toward the cabin, then away, like he was searching for something.

Like he was calculating angles, the way Loren had tried to teach him.

He took a hobbling step toward Loren’s tree. Then another.

His eyes were still so cold. He looked ready to kill.

Loren didn’t think he was planning to kill the two civilians.

Zach was moving slowly even by the standards of an ordinary human. That had to have been maddening for him. But even hampered by his slow-motion hobble, he used the trees to his advantage, ducking out of Loren’s sightline too frequently for Loren to have enough time to line up a shot. Intentional, Loren was sure. He knew Loren’s movements, Loren’s patterns, as well as Loren knew his own.

Loren raised his gun, and he waited for Zach to get careless. Or for his body to give out on him, and leave him flat on his back on the forest floor, waiting helplessly for the killing shot.

Something tightened painfully in Loren’s chest.

A whisper rose up from the soft part of himself—the dangerous part of himself.

He didn’t have to take the shot. He didn’t have to finish the mission.

He didn’t have to go back to PERI.

He and Zach could run together.

He looked down at the burn scar on his wrist. Then down at his chest, where more scars lay hidden.

He had tried to run, when he was younger. More than once. He had sworn he would never give PERI what they wanted from him.

That had been a long time ago. The memories were distant, like they had happened to a different person. And still, his mind shied away from the remembered pain.

He had learned. Zach clearly hadn’t.

He shifted in the tree, and he waited for Zach to show himself.

---

Tagged: @sowhumpful

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[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (3/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 3: Tradition. The siblings are about to move into their new home when Omega suggests a Pabu tradition. Crosshair struggles with accepting help. ~5800 words, Crosshair & Omega POV. (This incorporates part of a previous ficlet, but adjusted to fit within this story, just in case you think some parts seemed familiar!)

---

The days kept coming.  Omega seemed to be feeling better again, her regular sunny self once more, and she was buzzing with excitement about the new house.  There were only a few more days of work on the electronics and finishing touches, and then it’d be ready.  Good.  None of them liked using the Imperial shuttle as their home, and even though it was bigger than the Marauder, they seemed to get on each other’s nerves more easily in here.  

Crosshair yawned.  He hadn’t slept well the night before, waking up several times and then sleeping long after the sun had risen.  Wrecker, Hunter and Omega were apparently already up, leaving him alone.  It was time to get up and get ready.  He shambled out of his bunk and into the ‘fresher.  

He stared into the military shuttle’s poor excuse for a mirror, frowning at what he saw in the dimly reflective gray metal.  The stubble on his face was slowly trying to turn into a beard, gray shot through with white, coarse hairs slightly curling.  The hair on most of his head was much the same, scruffy and wavy.  After their cadet years he had always kept his hair short, irritated by its curly texture and the maintenance needed to keep it from tangling.  After Bracca he’d gone even further, keeping it nearly fully shaved, and even on Tantiss they’d allowed him to keep it shorn close.

But now --

His left hand curled into a fist.  His stump hung uselessly at his side.

He knew Hunter or Wrecker would grab the clippers or razor they’d picked up from the market and cut his hair for him happily.  All he had to do was say the word.  It shouldn’t be so difficult, and yet…

Crosshair let out a long breath.  To hell with it.  He glanced around, looking for the clippers, but they weren’t in their usual spot.  His eyes landed on the razor instead and he hesitated.  Before he could think better of it, he splashed his face with water and lathered his patchy beard with soap, then picked up the razor with his left hand.

How hard could it be?

He set the razor down five minutes later, dropping it into the sink to let it wash clean.  Bloody water swirled into the drain, and he grimaced, wiping his face.  Multiple streaks of blood came away on the back of his hand.  Close enough.

He turned on the hot water in the shower.  He stripped off his nightclothes one-handed, fumbling with the shirt as usual,  and stepped beneath the water, his face stinging, his eyes burning.

---

”Cross?” 

“Hrm?” he muttered, toothpick wavering between his lips as he sat down on the gangway, where Wrecker was working on what remained of breakfast.  It seemed Hunter and Omega were out with Batcher.

“You, uh, you shaved,” said Wrecker, giving him an odd look over his mug of caf.  

Crosshair shrugged, looking at the bowl of fruit resting beside his brother.  He should probably eat some of it, though he wasn’t particularly hungry.

“Time for a change.”

”But you’re bleeding.”  Wrecker reached over, holding out a napkin, looking concerned.

Crosshair froze.  “Kriff,” he hissed beneath his breath.  He reluctantly accepted the napkin, dabbing it at his face and wincing.  

”You know, if you ever need a hand—” Wrecker began.  

He glared at his brother, suddenly needled.  The breath felt trapped in his lungs.  “Very funny.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that!”  Wrecker sighed, looking abashed and shaking his head.  “I didn’t mean --  You know what I was tryin’ to say.  If there’s somethin’ you need, you can bug me any time.”

Crosshair nodded.  He’d known Wrecker wouldn’t ever purposefully jab at him about something like this, but in the moment, it had surprised him how the casual phrase had stung.  He looked down, balling up the napkin in his fist.  “I… didn’t want to ask.”

”I get it.  Must be hard.”  He held out the bowl of fruit to Crosshair.  “You want some?”

”Sure.”  He tucked the napkin under his right arm, remembering to reach for the fruit with his left hand.  He grabbed a meiloorun, its flesh pleasantly firm in his grip, and sniffed it.  The aroma was sweet.  He took a bite, though chewing took more effort than it should, and the fruit didn’t taste as good as it had smelled.

“So… you gonna grow your hair out like Hunter?” Wrecker asked slyly.

”Don’t.  You.  Dare.”

Wrecker broke into peals of laughter.  “Just picture it!  We could get you a bandanna with a crosshair on it!  Red or black?”  

“Wrecker, I will end you myself,” Crosshair growled, before a grin stole over his face.  He chuckled, shaking his head.  “All right.  If my hair starts looking anything like Hunter’s, I’ll ask you to shave it immediately.”  

“Deal!”

“Well, now that that’s settled,” said Crosshair.  “Any caf around?”

“You work on the fruit, and I’ll get you some caf.”  Wrecker got to his feet to head back inside, then paused.  “You slept awful late today.”

Crosshair’s mouth quirked down at the edges.  “Happens now and then.”  It didn’t used to happen.  He’d always been an early riser after a lifetime of military training.  Now, though… “I can’t sleep in?”

“No, no, you can.  Just doesn’t seem like you, that’s all,” said Wrecker.  He gave Crosshair an appraising look, as if he could see right through him.  

He slept through the night, Crosshair told himself.  I would have noticed if I’d woken him up.  He had an unsettling feeling he might have talked in his sleep, though.  Flashes from the night seared his mind, an electric shock arcing through the calm summer morning --

His hand useless and shaking, losing its grip on the binoculars in the jungle -- the vibrosword’s blade lifting back up, his own screams in his ears, what did they do to him -- being dragged away in a trail of blood, staring helplessly at a small bundle limp and sodden in a lake of red, five half-curled fingers --

He shivered, then busied himself eating his fruit, turning away from Wrecker and gazing out on the colonnade with an effort.  He barely noticed how it tasted, distracting himself with watching the marketplace.  His eyes scanned the crowd carefully until half a klick away he spotted Hunter, Omega and Batcher, their silhouettes instantly recognizable.  They looked to be doing the day’s shopping in the market.  He tried to focus on small safe details, sunlight glinting off Omega’s hair, Batcher frisking around Hunter’s heels.  

A lake of red --

He huffed a deep breath.  No.  Don’t think about it.  

“Cross?”

Crosshair shook his head, giving Wrecker a faint smile.  “I must really need that caf.”

”All right, then.”  Wrecker headed back inside to the tiny galley.

Crosshair watched him go, then finished his fruit mechanically.  He reached up to wipe his face, wincing when the acidic fruit juice stung half a dozen tiny cuts from his shave job.  He’d have to figure something else out, or go for a beard after all.  

He gazed out sullenly at the marketplace, his mind empty, feeling cold despite the sunny day.

---

Omega steadied her breath, trying to keep her hope tempered.  Moving day could be as early as tomorrow.

Of course, the idea of “moving day” itself was silly.  Between the four of them and Batcher, their possessions were meager -- what remained of her brothers’ armor (no backpacks, no helmets, Wrecker’s chestplate nearly unusable), the two blasters they’d managed to make it off Tantiss with, the few sets of clothing they’d cobbled together with the help of the villagers, and a few other odds and ends.  Wrecker could easily carry it in a single load; even Omega could bring it all down from the ship with a cart.

But as they’d worked with the village to build their little house, Lyana had told her that moving days on Pabu were special.  They weren’t common, most people tending to live in the same home for their life on the island, but sometimes when a family grew or changed there would be a move, and there had been many moves after the sea surge.  It was a time for letting go and saying goodbye to the old, but also joyfully welcoming in the new.  

That sounded like something they all needed, but now she had to figure out how to get her brothers on board.  She found her opening at dinner.

It was Crosshair’s turn for dinner plans.  At first they’d told Crosshair he didn’t need to worry about the dinner rotation, he was still healing and getting used to doing things one-handed, but he’d just glowered as fiercely as ever, the angle of his toothpick sharp and aggressive.  “I’ve got it,” he’d said, eyes narrowing, and they’d backed off.  If he had it, he had it. 

Omega waited for dinner while playing with Batcher and Wrecker, Hunter sitting beneath the great weeping maya and watching them.  Wrecker and Hunter still weren’t fully back to their regular selves either.  Wrecker got tired more quickly, more easily out of breath than he used to, and Hunter was stiff in the back, with a slight limp.  Like Crosshair, they were both slowly improving; but also like Crosshair, they tried to pretend that they’d come back from Tantiss with nothing more than a few scratches.  She hated seeing them do it, but she understood, too.

After all, she hadn’t told any of them about the nightmares she kept having about the bridge.  

She shook her head.  They were here on Pabu.  They were safe.  She repeated it to herself.  We’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.

Batcher snuffled, running up to her and nearly knocking her over.  Omega laughed as her reverie broke, giving the hound a good scratch on the chin.  “Wrecker, do you have her ball?” she asked.

“Oi!  Batcher, over here!” Wrecker called, winding up and chucking the ball a good thirty feet past Omega.  Batcher shot off, her claws scrabbling on the stone as she galloped for the ball.  Omega turned back to Wrecker with a grin, but her smile faded when she saw him rubbing his chest, wincing.

“Maybe we’d better take a break, Wrecker,” she said.  “Besides, Crosshair’s probably ready with dinner soon.”  She wandered to where Hunter was sitting and took a seat beside him, and Wrecker followed a moment after.

“I hope it’s something good,” Wrecker said.  “I’m starving!”

Hunter chuckled, patting Wrecker on the shoulder.  “You’re always starving.  Don’t worry, everything here’s good.  Hard to go wrong with our basic plan of ‘trade for something from the market, put it together with something else from the market, eat.’”

“But the house should be ready tomorrow, right?” Omega asked.  “We’ll have a real kitchen.  We could learn how to really cook something!”

Hunter gave her a small smile.  “You want to learn to cook?  We can figure it out together.  Maybe there’s someone in the village we can ask to give us some pointers.  Your guess on how to cook anything is as good as mine.  Which is to say, terrible.”

She giggled.  A loud whistle came from the direction of the shuttle, and she looked up to see Batcher tearing off to meet Crosshair out front of the shuttle.  He leaned down to pat her with both arms, but Omega saw him glance to his right as he did so.  

“The forgetting must be so hard,” she said quietly to Hunter as they walked back to the shuttle.  “With his hand.”

“I know,” said Hunter.  “I see it too.”  His face darkened with a hint of sadness. “It took Echo a good while before that got better.”

Omega reached out, taking Hunter’s hand for a moment and squeezing it.  “I wonder when Echo will come back.  I think it’d be good for Crosshair if he was here.”

“I do too, but we talked it over before Echo left.  Crosshair insisted that if Echo was up to it, he should get back to the fight.  Especially with his work helping the other clones from Tantiss,” said Hunter.  “He didn’t want Echo to put that off for him.”

She sighed.  “That sounds like him.”

They reached the shuttle and followed Crosshair and Batcher inside.  Something smelled good, though the tiny galley was a mess, with tins piled on top of each other and splotches of sauce all over the slim counter.  Crosshair was normally exceptionally neat -- nothing like the chaos of Wrecker or Tech -- but Omega figured it’d be hard to keep things clean as he went in such a small space, with only his left hand.  

Besides, the mess mattered little.  The narrow collapsible table was pulled out with a tray of seaweed wraps, cooked fish, a large dish of rice, and an assortment of thin-cut vegetables of varying sizes.  There were so many tasty things there wasn’t room for their plates on the table, but eating with a plate on their knees had never stopped them before.  Omega grinned.  “Crosshair, this looks delicious!”  

He shrugged.  “Not like I did most of it.  I just asked around at the market for what went well together.  All I did was the rice and the vegetables.  I think it’ll be edible.”

“Looks great to me!” Wrecker said.  He doled out portions for each of them, then they sat down on the flight seats lining the walls, balancing their plates in their laps.  Omega rolled up rice, fish and vegetables with the seaweed and stuffed the whole thing into her mouth, grinning and flashing Crosshair a thumbs up.  He smiled slightly back at her.

“Well, the house is… done, I think,” said Hunter.  “We can pack up everything and sleep there tonight.”  He shook his head, taking a bite of a roll.  “Hard to believe we’ll have a house.  Us.”  

Omega looked up at him with wide eyes.  He looked so wistful, still half in disbelief even though they’d all been down in Lower Pabu working on the house all week.  “Actually, Hunter, I had an idea.”  She beamed at her brothers.

“Shoot,” said Crosshair.  He balanced his plate on his knees, keeping it pinned in place with his right wrist, and worked at trying to roll up food with his left hand.  Rice spilled out of the end of his wrap as he took a bite.

“What if we do moving day tomorrow?”

“Moving day?  It’ll take about an hour to walk back down there tonight with everything, and then we’ll be done,” Wrecker said with a hint of confusion.  “Why do you wanna wait?”

“Lyana told me about how people here make a big deal out of moving day.  It’s a tradition.  You say goodbye to your old home first, and thank it for what it did for you.  Then, you make a fresh start in the morning in your new home.  It’s a way to celebrate new beginnings!  And… that’s what I want.  A new beginning, with my brothers.”  She smiled, looking around at each of them hopefully.

Hunter looked touched, a soft smile on his face.  Wrecker wiped at his eyes, clearing his throat.  Crosshair nodded thoughtfully, setting down his half-eaten roll.  

“That sounds real nice, Omega,” Hunter said.  “All right, we’ll do things your way.”  He chuckled.  “Though this shuttle isn’t much to say goodbye to.  It’s… serviceable, and it got us where we needed to go.  But that’s about all I can say about it.”

“I know,” Omega said, wrinkling her nose.  “I don’t like it either.  But…”  She hesitated.  “Maybe we should say goodbye to the Marauder instead.  We lost her so suddenly.”  She folded her arms over her chest, squeezing herself in a slight hug before returning back to her food.

“Villagers said they hauled up a few more pieces of her, a few days ago,” said Wrecker.  “Nothin’ salvageable.”  He hung his head.  “It happened so fast.  I saw the detonator flash one, two -- I grabbed Gonky -- and I jumped --  That’s all I remember, ‘til I woke up.  And then you were gone.”  He reached out, tousling her hair and letting out a long breath.  “That was a rough night.”  

Gonky, charging in the corner, let out a soft, mournful warble.  “Yeah, we almost lost you, you pile of bolts,” Wrecker said.  Gonky gonked back at him, sounding much more chirpy.

“I don’t think any of us like thinking about that night,” said Hunter.  He glanced at Crosshair, and Omega followed his gaze.  Crosshair had stopped messing with his food and sat there silently, his face somewhat paler than usual, his gaze lowered.

“We don’t have to talk about that part of it,” Omega said quickly.  “But… what about happy memories of the Marauder?  Like -- like the first time I ever saw hyperspace.”  A warm glow filled her chest, remembering Tech’s sure hands on the controls, Hunter’s encouragement, the starfield opening wide before her.  She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so thrilling, so alive with possibility.  The memory sparkled in her mind’s eye.  “The whole galaxy opened up for me the day we first left Kamino.  All those stars.  I’ll never forget that, not ever.”

Wrecker grinned at her.  “Aw, kid.  You shoulda seen your face.  You just lit up.  Never seen anyone so happy before.”

“That was special,” Hunter said fondly.  “Even with everything else going on --- that was a good moment.”  

Crosshair quietly rolled a clumsy wrap together, taking a bite and chewing slowly.

Omega frowned, trying to catch his eye and failing.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that that memory was tied up with their fleeing Kamino… leaving Crosshair behind.  She knew it hadn’t been his fault, it hadn’t really been him that day, and they’d had to leave.  She knew they’d all been moving past that, but it still stung if she let herself think about it.  

She tried a different tack.  “Well, what was it like for all of you?  The first time you saw space?”

Hunter gave her a quick look.  He’d picked up on what she was doing, and approved of it.  He pursed his lips together, deep in thought.  “Our first spaceflight as Clone Force 99…”  He laughed.  “We were itching to get out there.  Knew we were ready.  We’d had the training and then some.  The Kaminoans wanted to make sure we were… ah, worth the investment.”

“We couldn’t be as good as the regs.  We had to be ten times better,” Crosshair said at last.  “And we were.”

“Hell yeah we were!” Wrecker said.  “But they wouldn’t let us go out without those flight tests.  We each had to pass.”  He shook his head.  “Never liked flying.  I passed, but uh, it’s not my thing.”

“What about you, Crosshair?” Omega asked.  “You let me fly when we escaped.”

“I’m an adequate pilot,” he said, shrugging, his nose wrinkling.  “But up in vacuum without atmo, the light can be a little much.”

Omega tilted her head, puzzled.  All ships had treated viewfields to help protect their pilots’ eyes.  Shouldn’t that be enough to block out the radiation?

“Crosshair’s enhancement,” Hunter explained.  “He sees more of the spectrum than we do, but in space, it’s too much.  Gives you headaches sometimes, right?  Something about UV light and scatter?  Tech could explain it better.”

“Something like that,” Crosshair said.  “It’s better with a helmet.  Keeps things manageable.  But I prefer my stargazing from solid ground.”

“Well, Tech and I had fun with the test, at least,” Hunter said.  He grinned at the memory.  “The reg who was grading us did not approve of some of our maneuvers.  Something about not being regulation.  Tech just quoted back three pages of the flight manual to him and then pulled a Tech turn for good measure.  The reg almost failed him out of spite, but Wrecker cracked his knuckles at him, and that was that.”

Omega laughed brightly, hearing Hunter use her name for Tech’s most outlandish maneuver.  It made her miss Tech a little extra, but in a good way. 

“Good thing they didn’t bother with inspections after we passed,” Hunter said.  “They’d have had a heart attack with some of the modifications to the Marauder Tech made.  Some mods weren’t just against regulation, but I think they were technically illegal in many, many star systems.  Of course, that didn’t matter to Tech as long as he thought his ship flew better with them.”  He snorted.

Crosshair abruptly set his plate down on the seat beside him.  “Anyone want any more?  I’ll put the leftovers away if you’re done.”

“Oh no you don’t, I got cleanup!” said Wrecker.  His eyes fell on Crosshair’s plate, still mostly full of food.  “Wait, you aren’t gonna finish that?”

Crosshair shrugged.  His face looked pinched, his jaw set tighter than usual.  “Wasn’t that hungry.  You can take it.”  He got to his feet.  “Going to go take the hound for a walk.  So it’s settled?  We’ll ‘move’ tomorrow?”

“Uh -- yeah,” Wrecker said, giving Hunter and Omega an uncertain look.  “Come on, Cross, stay.  We can all take Batcher later.”

“She needs to go now,” said Crosshair, in a tense, strained voice.  “Save any leftovers for her.”  He hurried out of the shuttle and into the soft dark of the early evening, Batcher at his heels.

Omega, Hunter and Wrecker looked at each other.  “Was it somethin’ we said?” Wrecker asked.

“I don’t know,” said Omega, her good mood fading to be replaced by worry.  “I thought it was nice, talking about the Marauder.  And Tech.”  She glanced back at Crosshair’s mostly untouched plate, remembering how hard it had been for Crosshair to keep his plate steady and roll up his food.  “Maybe his hand is bothering him.”  She sighed.  “Do you think we’ll be able to find him a new one soon?”

Hunter smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  “You’re always looking out for him, aren’t you?”

“All of you,” she said stubbornly.  “My little brothers.”  They chuckled, and Wrecker reached out to pat her on the back.  She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

“Echo talked to him about a prosthesis,” Hunter said.  “It’s not as simple as just running out to the nearest marketplace.  One, they’re not always easy to find.  Two, the people who make and sell them might ask questions about clones looking for them.  It’s a… sensitive thing to acquire.”

“They’re expensive, too,” said Wrecker, taking a bite of the leftovers from Crosshair’s plate.    “Crosshair’s worth it!  But might take some time.”

Omega leaned back against her seat, remembering the credits she’d won off that Imperial officer.  Crosshair had almost been scandalized at how good she was, but she knew he’d been impressed, too.  Despite how dire the situation had been, it was still a good memory -- the two of them against the world.  

Her eyes narrowed.  They’d stuck together in tough times before.  She’d do everything she could to help him here, too.

---

His blood pounded in his ears, a dull roaring rush, his pulse jagged and skittery.  Crosshair rounded a bend in the stairs, descending them aimlessly, no clear idea where he was going.  Batcher followed him, looking up at him now and then with a soft whuff, but he kept onward.

Dinner should have been easy.  He should have gotten something premade, something he could have doled out of a tin one-handed onto their plates.  But the fresh fish had looked good, the villagers’ vegetables fresh and vibrant, and he’d wanted to show his family he could give them something decent.  He’d figured he should try.

It hadn’t been too bad, except for the chopping.  It had taken him the better part of an hour to cut up vegetables for four people.  The vegetables had come out all different sizes, and more than a few big hunks had dropped on the ground for Batcher to eat, but he’d gotten there eventually.  By the time he’d finished, he had thought he might have had this dinner thing down.

Except for failing to account for the fact that everyone else had two hands to roll their food up with, and he had one.  

But those little things didn’t matter.  He was starting to realize that there were just going to be obstacles now, things he couldn’t think of in the moment that would prove to be frustrating and difficult, and that truth was starting to settle into his bones, where he could expect it.  He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

He jogged down the steps, the stone ringing under his feet, his breath coming quickly.  

Dinner would have been fine.  But why they’d had to start talking about --

He stopped, catching his breath, leaning on the short stone wall overlooking the moonlit sea.  He bent over the wall, breathing hard, his eyes screwed closed.

Batcher nudged his leg, whining.  He reached down absently with his left hand, patting her half-heartedly.  

“Sorry,” he muttered.  “You can go back to the ship, if you like.  Just needed -- to get out of there.”

They’d all sat around, trading stories, laughing, eating their dinner easily with both hands; and he’d sat there, getting quieter and quieter, tenser and tenser.  He didn’t understand why panic had started clawing at the inside of his chest, why it had gotten harder and harder to breathe as they kept going.

His breath seared.

He shook his head, nostrils flaring, biting his lip.  Focus.  He went perfectly still.  Then he balled up his left fist and smashed it into the wall.

Pain instantly radiated out from his knuckles, despite the fact he’d pulled back at the last second.  He swore, shaking his hand out, then tucking it beneath his right arm and pressing it tightly to his chest.  

Stupid.  You only have one left, idiot.

He shook his head again with a growl, trembling slightly, breathing hard.  Batcher whimpered, nudging his leg again.  

“I said go!” he snarled.

Batcher sat down, looking up at him defiantly, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.  She tilted her head and whined.

“Fine,” he relented.  He crouched down beside her, reaching out with his throbbing hand to pat her.  He scritched her on the chin, which she always loved, and he took a deep, shaky breath.  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered.  The hound just leaned into his hand, closing her eyes as he scratched her.  He scratched and scratched, until the throbbing in his hand went away, and the moon swung high above them.

---

Hunter was waiting for him.  He sat on the gangplank, a cup of caf in hand, watching Crosshair and Batcher cross the moonlit colonnade.  

Crosshair sighed.  He’d hoped that being gone so long might have meant the others had gotten to sleep.  He should have known better.  

Batcher galloped to Hunter for a good scratch, then went on inside the ship to go find Omega.  Crosshair closed the distance between him and Hunter much more slowly, at last stopping a few feet away.

“Evening,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s a nice night for one,” said Hunter, just as awkwardly.  He tried to crack a grin, but took a sip of his caf instead.  “That was some walk.”

Crosshair sighed.  “You didn’t need to wait up.  Don’t tell me I have a curfew.”

“No,” Hunter said.  “But I thought you might want to talk.  You left dinner in a hurry.”  He reached behind him, pulling out a closed food tin.  “Hungry now?”

Crosshair glared at him for a moment, then relented, sitting down and taking the proffered tin.  “...yes.”  He’d almost forgotten, he had been feeling so agitated, but his stomach gave a reminding rumble.  He struggled for a moment with the lid, batting away Hunter’s hand before he could lift it for him, and popped the top off.  Inside was a portion of dinner’s leftovers, except the food had already been assembled for him in easy-to-grab rolls.  

His shoulders sank.  Hunter must have noticed he’d been having a hard time at dinner.  He closed his eyes for a moment, torn between accepting the small kindness and telling Hunter just where he could shove it.  

He took a roll and crammed it in his mouth Wrecker-style, barely tasting it.  “Thanks,” he said with his mouth half-full.  He ate a few more pieces in silence, then glanced over at Hunter, who was watching him closely.

“So where’d you and Batcher head to?” 

Crosshair shrugged.  “Around.  Took the stairs for a few laps.  Needed to stretch my legs.”

Hunter nodded, apparently accepting the explanation.  But his eyes flicked down, then back up.  “Did you trip or something?”

“What?”

“Your knuckles.”

Crosshair swore to himself, picking up his left hand.  Scrapes adorned the knuckles, clear as day, and they were faintly swollen.  They didn’t really hurt anymore, but it had been careless of him.  “It doesn’t matter.”

Hunter sighed.  “You’re damn stubborn, Crosshair.  But you’re not subtle.  What happened at dinner?”  

“I don’t know,” Crosshair said honestly.  “But I had to leave.”  He stared down into the tin of food.  He’d been looking forward to sharing a meal with them. He’d wanted to stay.  But there’d been an emptiness gnawing at him the longer they’d talked.  “Felt like… the walls were closing in.  Needed the air.”

The simple admission took Hunter aback.  “Oh.  You’re actually telling me.”

Crosshair chuckled.  “It’s my new softer side.”

Hunter nearly choked on a stifled burst of laughter.  “You’re a shit sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

He finished his dinner, setting the tin down.  It had been far easier to eat like this, with a little help.  It galled him even as he appreciated it.

“Did the fresh air help?”

“I think so.  Hard to describe it.  I… wanted to stay.  But I couldn’t.”  He shook his head, frowning, breathing a little harder.  He rubbed his head with his left hand, his palm brushing against the short crop of hair stubbornly growing back.  “It’s nothing.  Just… adjusting.”

Hunter nodded, mouth pulling to one side with a bit of tension.  “If it stops being nothing, and starts being something… just remember, we’re here, Crosshair.”

“Since when did you get so warm and fuzzy?”

Hunter laughed, a sharp barking sound, and checked Crosshair with his shoulder.  “It’s my new softer side.”  Crosshair snorted, and for a moment they laughed together like they were cadets, their guard slipping.

“And how’s your hand?” Hunter asked.

“You mean the lack of it?”

“I -- yeah, I guess.  Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Crosshair waved his wrist at him.  “Don’t be.  It’s awkward.  I’m still getting used to it.”  He gazed off into the strings of glow lamps adorning the colonnade and the surrounding buildings.  Their bright orange and white and yellow colors swirled together, a soft blush against the dark.  

“Is it still hurting?”

He thought of saying no.  It was certainly less painful than it had been, by several orders of magnitude.  But that didn’t mean it was fine.  “Yes.”

“When’s the last time you saw AZI?”

“Yesterday.  He still has me on pain pills.  I don’t need them often now.  But when I do, it’s --”  He scowled.  “And it’s random.  Hard to predict.”

Hunter nodded.  “You know, Echo pinged us while you were out.  He’s between missions for another rotation, wanted me to let you know in case… you know, you wanted to talk.  Left a message for you.”

He thought of Echo lightyears away, with Rex, Howzer, Gregor.  Good men, after everything.  He had no doubt Echo would continue to fight for a long while.  But talking to him — there was nothing new to say, especially over long-range comms.  Crosshair shrugged.  “Hm.  I’m good.”  He wondered what Echo’s message had been.  Maybe he’d check it out, after the others fell asleep.

Hunter cracked a half smile.  “Yeah, he figured as much.  He and Omega had a long chat, though.”  

“Mhm.  She misses him,” said Crosshair.  He wondered if that had been part of the reason she had seemed so off a few days ago.  

“I think she hoped he might stay with us with Tantiss gone.  But Echo’s followed his own path for a while now,” Hunter said.  He sat back, gazing up at the night sky.  “You were right back there.  On Tantiss.”

”About what?” Crosshair asked, giving Hunter a wary look.

”We’re not Clone Force 99 anymore,” Hunter said in a rough voice.  He held out his hands, bare instead of gloved, no plates or gauntlets on his arms.  They were the hands of a civilian, not a soldier.  “We can let it go.”  He let out a long sigh.  “Ahh, look at me getting — well, whatever this is.”

Crosshair closed his eyes.  Let it go.  It sounded so simple.  He was the one who’d thrown it out at his brothers like a grenade, a bomb to impress upon them the seriousness of what he was saying, something to jolt them into accepting his sacrifice.  And then they’d stepped up.  Told him they were in it together.  He believed it — then on Tantiss, and here on Pabu.

So why was it so hard to lean on them?

He didn’t have an answer.  He opened his eyes, meeting Hunter’s gaze.  “Letting go is easier than it sounds,” he said at last.  

“I think I know what you mean,” said Hunter.  He gave Crosshair a nod.  “Come on, it’s getting late.  And we’ve got the move tomorrow.  You left before Shep and Lyana came by with their announcement.  Guess moving day comes with a party.”

”Oh?” 

“They said the villagers will be stopping by with donations, food, drinks, little things to make the place feel like home.  I tried to tell him we were fine, they’ve already been too generous, but Shep’s as stubborn as you are.  And I could see Omega really wanted to do it.  Wrecker, too.  I mean, there’ll be food involved,” Hunter said.

”Goody,” said Crosshair.  It sounded like a kind enough gesture.  But a day of near-strangers in their new house, when all he felt like doing was being alone, sounded like… a lot.

His arm prickled with a sharp, arcing ache.  He hissed, rubbing it hard with his left hand, biting back a curse.

”Want me to grab your meds?” Hunter asked.

”No.  I got it,” said Crosshair.  He got to his feet, picking up the empty tin of food in his left hand.  He gave Hunter a long look.  “Thanks.  For this.”

”We’ll be more mindful of your hand,” said Hunter.  “Should’ve helped you from the start.”

Crosshair shook his head.  “I have to figure this out on my own.  It’s the only way.”  He hurried back inside to get his medication, his arm tingling in waves, and nearly missed Hunter’s retort.

”It doesn’t have to be on your own.”