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kybercrystals94 · 2 hours ago

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The Defender (ch.5)

Febuwhump 2025 | Day 5 | Prompt: Not Trusting Reality

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Rated: G | Words: 2265

Character Ages

Omega (8)

The Batch (Chronological: 4.5 / Biological: 9)

Hunter thinks he is clever. He thinks that he can come back to the barracks after training with black eyes, bloody noses and split lips and explain that they are training injuries. But Crosshair is familiar with the work of fast swung, tight fisted, bony knuckles. He knows the weapon well, having wielded it and received it himself.

And yet, as Hunter grins sheepishly and tells another kark lie, Crosshair won’t call him out. None of them will, although they all know the truth. Because words without actions behind them fix nothing. It’s better to just shove it down deep and ignore it, that’s what Crosshair has learned. Cruel words, punches, sharp elbows, pushes, and shoves don’t hurt unless you let them.

Crosshair doesn’t let them. Not on the surface. His attackers would never know.

Any pain he might feel he uses as fuel when he retaliates to make sure it hurts whoever it was that tried to hurt him. Enough times of that, and the regs mostly leave him alone now.

Mostly.

Truth be told, regs as a whole aren’t the problem. Most of them could not care less about enhanced, defective, or altered clones. Weird looks, side eyes, and staring might be their only crime. Because in a sea of sameness, difference will always stand out. But Crosshair doesn’t like to be watched or stared at. Not for his leaner frame and shock of white hair. The only time he might not mind, though he’d never admit it, is when he’s at target practice and he hits mark after mark after mark.

He might not mind the wide eyed looks of surprise, awe and envy from his peers then.

Because if he has to be different, then he’d better be the best at what makes him so.

That is why Crosshair looks forward to specialized training, although he’d never say that to his brothers – especially Hunter. It had been hard at first, being separated; however, once Crosshair had made it known that he didn’t mind fighting back, fighting first, and fighting dirty, the problematic regs had backed off. That was Hunter’s problem. He only ever took the defensive, never the offensive.

Hunter’s other problem is that he had been advanced to training with cadet’s older than himself. While Hunter never talked about the issues that he faced in his own training, Crosshair was observant enough to clock the dirty looks Hunter got from three specific cadets during mealtimes, and the way Hunter carefully avoided eye contact with any of them. Crosshair had nearly exploded when one of the cadets had made a point to “accidentally” bump into Hunter while they were lined up. His brother had flinched, an indiscernible jerk of movement to the average eye, but Crosshair had seen it plainly. It took every ounce of his resolve not to drive his fist into that karking cadet’s teeth.

Crosshair wasn’t afraid to take the first swing, but he knew that the temporary gratification could cause bigger problems for Hunter. So Crosshair would bide his time and wait for just the right moment, when retaliation could come naturally. That was one of Crosshair’s most important, and difficult lessons: patience.

A sniper had to be patient, wait for the perfect shots to line up in their scopes. Squeezing the trigger too soon or too late could mean life or death for the soldiers that were depending on them. And that is why Crosshair looked forward to his sniper training. The sessions were designed to challenge him, to make him better, to make him the best.

With his enhancement, being placed with elite trainers had been easy. However, with natural talent came elevated expectations and standards. His trainers were tough and demanded the best from the best. And in that environment, Crosshair thrived.

“Hunter is late,” Tech declares to the room.

“We know,” Crosshair bites out, not moving from where he is sprawled across his bunk, sharp eyes staring dully at the ceiling tiles.

Wrecker is sitting at the table, half of his body slouched over the surface, toying with one of Tech’s pilfered tools. “I don’t like it when he’s late,” he says. “What if something happened to him?”

“He could have been slotted for extra training,” Tech says, but it's a weak explanation. Extended training is always scheduled beforehand, and the boys would have known about it before they went their separate ways that day.

Wrecker sits upright. “We should go look for him.”

“I agree,” Tech says, already pulling on his boots.

Crosshair rolls out of his bunk and snatches up his own boots. “We’ll start at his training room, then fan out from there.”

“That is unwise,” Tech says. “We should stay together.”

“We’d cover more ground if we split up.”

“We may not need to cover any ground at all,” Tech argues, “Hunter could still be at training. We don’t know.”

Crosshair hums doubtfully. “Do you really believe that, Tech?”

Tech’s silence is answer enough.

“We’ll just check his training room first,” Wrecker says. “We don’t gotta figure on anything else until we’ve done that, right?”

“Right,” Crosshair and Tech mutter reluctantly.

They set out after checking the halls for any sign of Kaminoan or droid. Technically, they are not supposed to be out of their barracks unless they are headed to or from training or the mess hall. However, the boys found the rule to be arbitrary, and it was only enforced if they were caught, which has never happened…yet.

“Think of it as extracurricular training,” Tech had told them the first time they’d plotted to leave their barracks unauthorized. “Stealth is a necessary skill for any soldier.”

It had almost become a game, blending into crowds they didn’t belong in, going places outside of their permissions. They found almost any excuse to play it, whether it be to raid the mess hall for extra rations or to pick through repurposing bins for Tech’s obsessive need for spare parts.

This is the first time that the game has been played to find a missing brother, and with it comes a sense of gravity that makes Crosshair’s insides feel like knots. They should have pressed Hunter about the three cadets in his training, about the injuries that seemed to get worse as the days wore into weeks. Crosshair had wanted to believe that Hunter could handle himself, and judging by the scabbed over cuts on Hunter’s knuckles, he always managed to get a few licks in. But three verses one…Crosshair didn’t think anyone – not even the nearly graduated cadets – could win with those odds.

He should have stepped in.

They should have stepped in.

Even if Crosshair doesn’t know how that would have worked.

They reach Hunter’s training room, but it is occupied by cadets twice the boys’ age. Nonetheless, they press their faces against the window and peer inside.

“I don’t see him,” Wrecker says, pushing away from the glass. “What should we do now?”

“Split up,” Crosshair says at the same time that Tech says, “Stay together.”

The two of them glare at each other while Wrecker glances nervously between them. Wrecker hates being the tie breaking vote. Hunter excels at it. That’s why he’s the one taking leadership training modules.

“How about this,” Crosshair says in his best imitation of Hunter’s mediation skills. “You and Wrecker stay together, and I’ll go on my own.”

Tech’s frown deepens. “I don’t think Hunter would like it if we separated.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?” Crosshair growls. “You’re the one that said it was good for us, didn’t you?”

“Being separated for training is entirely different, and you know it,” Tech snaps back, temper flaring.

Crosshair did know it, but he tended to push sensitive buttons when he was anxious. “Whatever. We shouldn’t be wasting time. You and Wrecker go left and I’ll go right.”

Before Tech can say anything else, Crosshair turns and heads down the right hall leading away from the training room. He is halfway down the hall before he glances back to make sure Tech and Wrecker aren’t trailing after him. They aren’t, and Crosshair grins wryly at his small victory.

Now to find Hunter.

Crosshair moves quickly, but not quickly enough to draw attention from anyone that matters enough to stop him. He tries to think like Hunter would, but Hunter has always navigated with a precision lost on any of his brothers…or anyone for that matter. His enhancement always leads him in surprising, unexpected directions. Likely the reason they’ve never been caught during their games.

The realization makes Crosshair pause, looking back the way he came warily. He’s going to get himself lost, if he hasn’t already. Tech is smart enough to keep him and Wrecker on track…Crosshair…not so much.

Maybe Tech was right. They should’ve stayed together.

Pride rears its stubborn head and Crosshair continues his course, supposing that if worse comes to worse, he can let himself be caught and delivered back to his barracks. He practices excuses in his mind that might be believable to a disappointed, disapproving Kaminoan.

The farther Crosshair goes, the thinner the population of the city becomes, and he soon finds himself in long, echoing halls alone. Fear coils in his chest, around his lungs, making his breathing stutter. However, he won’t acknowledge the traitorous emotion that tries to cloud his mind.

Focus on finding Hunter, he reminds himself sternly.

“Hey!” a sharp voice calls behind him.

Crosshair turns around. At the end of the hall behind him, three older cadets loom.

“You’re one of those defective clones,” one of them says. “You’re the brother of that magnetic freak.”

It doesn’t take Tech’s genius to realize they mean electromagnetic. Leave it to the idiot, bully regs not to know the difference.

“Where is he?” Crosshair demands, planting his feet and drawing himself to his full height.

The three boys approach, their identical faces twisted by sneering, hateful smiles.

“We could ask you the same thing, little defect. What’s your power, huh? Is it in your head like the freak’s?” The cadet that had spoken stabs a finger against Crosshair’s forehead.

Scalding anger boils under Crosshair’s skin. “You better not have touched him!”

“Or what? What’s a little, ugly thing like you gonna do about it?”

Crosshair smiles, a snarling grin that bares his teeth. He thinks he’s been patient long enough.

And he thinks he can give one versus three a try.

Someone is holding his hand.

It isn’t Tech, because Tech doesn’t do that sort of mushy stuff. And it can’t be Wrecker, his hands are much bigger. So it must be Hunter.

He’d been looking for Hunter.

“Hunter?” Crosshair asks.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” It isn’t exactly Hunter’s voice, but it is Hunter’s gentleness.

“I want to go back to our barracks,” Crosshair tells him.

“I know. You will,” Not-quite-Hunter’s voice soothes. “You got hurt. You have a concussion.”

“How?” Crosshair asks. His eyes are open, but the world swimming in his vision is warped and blurry.

“You got into a fight with some cadets. You hit your head really hard…”

Crosshair barely comprehends the words, hardly remembers that the syllables have meaning. He is distracted by the way the focus of his eyes won’t regulate. His breathing quickens as panic settles in. His vision is everything. Without it, he won’t be the best sniper, he won’t be able to protect his brothers…he might not be able to survive.

“Nala Se! Something’s wrong!” Not-quite-Hunter’s voice calls out.

Scared. Hunter sounds scared.

If Hunter’s scared…

…and Nala Se…nothing good ever happened when Nala Se was involved.

Crosshair tries to sit up, tries to pull away from Hunter’s hold on his hand. He wants to go back to the barracks. Please…just let me go back!

“He is experiencing a panic attack.” Nala Se’s voice is crisp and clear.

And awful.

“Crosshair, you’re going to be alright,” Hunter whispers, desperately. Crosshair can feel the warmth of Hunter’s breath against his ear as his brother leans in close. “Please, you have to trust me. Nala Se is going to help you.”

Crosshair trusts Hunter. Crosshair doesn’t trust Nala Se.

“Why can’t I see?” Crosshair pleads, voice thick in his throat.

“You must calm yourself, CT-9904, or you will be sedated,” Nala Se says. “Omega, get the hypo.”

Crosshair doesn’t know who Omega is, but Hunter lets go of his hand. “Hunter? Where are you going?”

“The unit is experiencing impaired vision, confusion, and disorientation. Prepare the necessary scans, AZI,” Nala Se says.

“Here, Nala Se,” Hunter says, and Crosshair tries turning his head toward his brother’s voice. There is only a blur of movement where he thinks Hunter might be.

“Please, Hunter,” Crosshair entreats, although he doesn’t even know what he is begging for. He wants this all to be a terrible nightmare he wakes up from. The kind where he climbs into one of his brother’s bunks for comfort, falling back asleep to their rhythmic breathing.

Hands cup his face. Soft, gentle hands. They are small, but they don’t feel like Hunter’s at all. They are missing the callouses that Hunter has been cultivating during training. “I’m here, Crosshair,” Hunter says softly. “You’ll be back with your brothers soon.”

The sting of a hypo-needle pricks his neck, and the tug of sedation pulls at the edges of his consciousness. “Our brothers,” Crosshair corrects him, voice flagging.

He hears a sharp intake of breath. “That’s right,” Hunter whispers, but Crosshair has to strain to hear the words. “Our brothers.”

And then, unconsciousness claims him.

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Prompt: Forced to Stay Awake

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robin-writing-with-a-bad-hand · 5 hours ago

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Febuwhump: day 5

(Prompts by @febuwhump)

Not trusting reality

“Seymour! Seymour!”

It was him… he’d come back disguised as his saviour to take him again. Well he wouldn’t let him.

#whump #whump writing #febuwhump #febuwhump 2025 #whumpblr #whump art #whump idea #not trusting reality #whump oc

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coffeeangelinabox · 2 hours ago

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Febuwhump Day #5: Not Trusting Reality

tw/cw non con nudity, mind fuckery

None of them go back to sleep. None of them try.

Team Leader crosses the room to sit with Medic and in tense, hushed voices they go over what she has available for wound treatment, laying it all out in neat rows. Teammate One paces furiously, face getting grimmer, jaw tightening until even Smallest winces just to look at him. Teammate Two gathers Second’s discarded clothes. The bottom half is fine, though he’ll have to go commando. The shirt is unsalvageable. She brings the fabric over to Medic, holding it out wordlessly.

Smallest sits and feels useless.

She had wanted this so much when she convinced the Team to take her.

She had been filled with the righteous fury and indignation of all fifteen of her years. When it had finally happened, the political wave which had promised equality for all turning and engulfing the nation, her small South-East suburb had remained untouched. Most of the people there had been professional middle class workers, their jobs not easily filled by sprites and golems. They had been kept in their homes and workplaces, expected to laud the new regime. And to report those that didn’t.

Smallest had seen them, neighbours who used to wave now turning their faces in fear from one another.

Once, when she had been small, her mother had promised to fill a quiet afternoon with her and her sisters baking. They had been planning on a surprise birthday cake for her father when he came home, but, trusted as the oldest to fetch the ingredients, Smallest, little more than five or six if she remembered correctly, had dropped the flour in her excitement, powder spilling over the floor.

“Never mind, dearest,” her mother had said. “Go next door and see if Mrs Turtle can give us some.”

Mrs Turtle had, old lined face creased with grandmotherly understanding as Smallest had blurted out the whole sad story on her doorstep. Smallest had brought her a slice of cake, and mother had replaced the flour next time she went to the market.

After Supervillain took over, a similar thing had happened. Smallest had gone into the pantry one day to discover the milk splattered on the floor, probably someone hadn’t shut the door (Youngest Sister, she was always doing that!) and the cat had gotten in again.

“Never mind, mum,” she had said after clearing up the souring mess. “I’ll see if Mrs Turtle can give us some.”

Her mother had put a hand on her shoulder. “No,” she had said sharply, then more gently, “No. I don’t want to imply…if they think we’re saying we don’t have enough, it might be seen as a criticism.”

A cold heavy rock had settled hard in Smallest’s stomach at that. That such an ordinary act as helping someone could be viewed with suspicion. Then one of the girls at school had simply not come back after sharing a silly cartoon she’d scrawled about the lack of an election. Smallest had decided she wanted no part of it.

There were reports of terrorist actions, carried out by once-regular army only a few towns over. Watching the reports on the scry-projectors, Smallest had found herself thinking more and more that far from being immoral, unpatriotic monsters, these people, whoever they were, were carrying out the only actions that were conscionable.

She didn’t want to put her family in danger, so she had left her home, leaving only a letter of explanation for her mother and walked. It had been a cold, uncomfortable, homeless month before she had found the Team, and longer before she had made them see her as anything but a refugee to be saved.

"They weren’t looking to recruit children," Second had said, outraged at the suggestion.

She’d pulled herself up to her full height. She’s young and looks it, she knows, but she’s tall and her time on the streets had given a hardness to her face.

“I’m nineteen,” she’d snapped. “Supervillain had my family killed for disagreeing with him. I’m not going to suck up to his government, and I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

“Take her,” Leader had said.

“But-” That had been Three, London accent strong even in one appalled word.

“I don’t want to debate it.” Leader had been implacable, and Smallest had felt an almost embarrassingly overwhelming surge of hero worship. “She knows our faces, we can’t leave her here, and we’re not recruiting.” She had looked narrow eyed at Smallest, who had nodded hastily, “But…there’s also only six of us. We can’t topple a government without-”

“At least seven?” One had finished sarcastically.

Second had lifted what was left of Smallest’s possessions and walked her to the ramshackle contraption that claimed to be a crystalkart and which probably wouldn't run out of arcanium mid hop.

She had followed him like a puppy after that. Leader she worshipped, as a small child to the idol she one day hoped to be. ("My daddy can do anything," she’d once bragged to a teacher, the same stars shining in her eyes, though she doesn’t remember). But it was Second who made sure she had everything she needed, made sure the others - all old soldiers - didn’t tease her too much. He hadn’t wanted her there, but it had obviously been out of concern for her, not rejection, and having taken her, he taught her to use a Blastwand, how to fall and fight and read a map and use a crystalwhisper. Leader she idolised, but Second she adored as an admired older brother and loved with everything hot and fierce inside of her.

And now he’d been taken.

She’d watched, pointlessly, uselessly as Whumper had hurt him, humiliated him and she hadn’t even had the courage to tell him to stop.

Even now, as the others prepare and make plans, she has no role. She’s nothing but a waste of space child and Leader should have chosen her to die and spared Three. At least Three would have brought some skills to the room, other than just sitting.

Then there’s a footstep, a low grunt of pain, the now familiar sound of the door hinges, and Second is shoved roughly in.

He’s conscious, Smallest has time to see that much in the rounded whites of his eyes before he topples forward like a cut oak and falls to the floor. He’s still naked, and there are bruises in darkening hues blooming over his body. There are cuts too, though most of those appear shallow and, Smallest notices, looking at the way the skin has been shredded in parallel lines up his forearms, above painful abraded bands on his wrists which speak of restraints, look like he did them to himself. She moves forward.

Leader pushes her back and Teammate Two catches her, holding her close in a sideways hug that Smallest can’t help but lean into.

“What did you do to him?” she demands furiously of the silent, helmeted guards in the doorway.

Smallest watches as Medic approaches Second. “Hey, Second, I’m gonna-”

He comes up swinging with a roar. His wild punch clumsy and uncoordinated, but still powerful and Medic flinches back.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. I’m-”

Second lunges at her again, gets fingers around her throat. “Stop!” he growls, accent pronounced. “I know-”

Teammate One grabs him, forcibly dragging him off Medic who stumbles back, coughing and holds him still.

Team Leader gives up on the motionless soldiers and turns back to them as Second in Command struggles like a thing possessed, howling and screaming a mixture of obscenities and French and curses that could do real damage if he had enough power to rate even a one on the European index. She steps up to where he is restrained by One and slaps him, full across the face.

He spits at her, snarls a few more insults, drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts and then says in carefully enunciated English, “I know you’re not real. I’ll tell you nothing, you hear!”

It is Medic that rounds on the soldiers this time, “What did you give him?” she sounds furious. “What potion is this?”

They don’t acknowledge her any more than they did Leader.

Second is still throwing himself from side to side. It’s becoming harder and harder for One to hold him still unless he is willing to do some actual damage. Instead, he pinions the other man’s arms in a full bear hug from behind.

“Get it together, Second,” he grunts. “You’ve got your crack rubbing on my junk. It’s awkward, man.”

Second pushes backwards, taking them both to the floor in a pile of limbs and thudding of flesh. One inhales sharply as his skull clonks on the floor but doesn’t let go. Second whines, high pitched like a wounded animal and Smallest sees blood, bright red and frothing on his lips.

“Hold him still!” barks Medic. “He’s got a broken rib. It’s in his lung.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” grunts One.

Team Leader moves over trying to help immobilise an increasingly incoherent Second in Command who continues to shriek that they’re not real, that he won’t help them, that he knows what they are and who made them, that he won’t, won’t, won’t. “Can you put him out?” she asks Medic over her shoulder.

Medic rolls a ball of power between her fingers consideringly. “Not when he’s like this. If he’s not calm, if he’s resisting…and I still don’t know what they did. It could have adverse effects.”

Smallest ducks from under Two’s arm and crosses to the group on the floor.

“Smallest-!” Two says, grabbing for her, but she shrugs the woman off and kneels down.

Leader puts an arm across her, barring her way. “I don’t think you should-”

Smallest laces her fingers through Second’s and feels the muscles straining in an arm that Leader is barely holding down. “Hi, Second,” she says quietly.

He blinks at her and the terrified, hate filled look turns to confusion. “Smallest,” he gasps. “How- You aren’t-?”

“I am real,” she says, leaning into him a little, keeping her eyes on his face. “But…even if I weren’t, you know I wouldn’t hurt you. You wouldn’t imagine a me that would hurt you.”

He chuckles a little and it turns into pained gasps, more of that red bubbly blood running down his chin. “I-”

“And even if you would, you know I couldn’t hurt you.” Though, with him in this state, she probably could.

He closes his eyes for so long that she thinks that he’s fallen unconscious, then his fingers grip hers, so tight that it makes her repress a gasp. “You’re real?” and his voice is so quiet, so tentative, her heart hurts.

“Yeah. We all are. We just want to help. You’re hurt.”

Another long pause, then he nods once, sharp and jerky like surrender and the tension runs out of him.

Leader and One look at each other and One, clearly poised to react should this turn out to be a trick, carefully lets go and shimmies out from under Second’s bulk.

There’s a noise from the door and another as Medic edges close once more. All their heads snap up to see the soldiers leaving, key clanking in the lock, clearly whatever they were waiting for has happened. Second on the other hand, cringes away from Medic’s footstep.

“Don’t touch me.”

“It’s just Medic,” Leader says and that doesn’t help with his flinching and cowering at all.

“It’s just Medic,” Smallest repeats and his eyes open, locking onto her face.

“Medic?”

“Yeah,” she moves close to him once more. “She just wants to help.”

His eyes are still locked onto her, blurry with pain. “You promise? Promise me, ma chérie.”

“I promise, Second. No one here wants to hurt you.” She can hear her voice getting high pitched and squeaky, making her sound like a distressed nine year old.

“I don’t like this,” says Two.

Everyone turns to look at her in astonishment.

“Really?” says One laconically. “I thought this was quite a good teambuilding exercise. Better than building a tower out of loo roll tubes.”

She gives him a disgusted look. “I mean- I’ve read about this.”

Medic looks up. “What is it? A potion or a spell or-”

“It’s a psyworm,” Two says. “It’s in his brain, eating into his memories, showing him whatever it thinks will get him to give it whatever it's been trained to look for.”

Second makes another broken sound and his hand tightens convulsively on Smallest’s once more, then terribly, dreadfully, he begins to cry.

#my writing #whump #writing prompt s #whump prompts #team whump #defiant whumpee #febuwhump2025 #febuwhumpday5 #not trusting reality #tw non con nudity #tw mind fuck #aftermath of torture #team as family #my personal challenge this year is making this one continuous story

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tina-mairin-goldstein · 8 hours ago

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Day 5: Not Trusting Reality

Chapter Summary:

Something strange is going on in the Sanctum, and Daniel doesn't know what to believe.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Multi

Fandom: Doctor Strange (Movies)

Relationships: Ancient One & Hamir the Hermit (Marvel), Kaecilius & Wong (Marvel), Kaecilius & Karl Mordo, Daniel Drumm & Kaecilius, Daniel Drumm/Kaecilius

Characters: Ancient One (Marvel), Hamir the Hermit (Marvel), Kaecilius (Marvel), Wong (Marvel), Karl Mordo, Daniel Drumm, Tina Minoru

Additional Tags: Febuwhump 2025, Major Character Injury, Injury, Blood, Violence, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Emotional Hurt, Angst, Whump, Everyone Needs A Hug, Sign Language, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon timeline is there but adjusted to my needs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Mind Control, Medical Inaccuracies

Language: English

#febuwhump #febuwhump 2025 #febuwhumpday5 #day 5 #not trusting reality #doctor strange #daniel drumm #kaecilius #fanfic #fanfiction #my fanfic #ao3

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cardcatcardboard · 8 hours ago

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Febuwhump Day 5 - Not Trusting Reality

cw // Derealization, Dissociation (lmk if I missed any)

Words: 906 Fandom: Hermitcraft Character(s): Scar and Grian Ao3 Version Here! @febuwhump

~\/~

Walking through the flower fields, the sharp leaves poked at his thick clothing, trying to pull him back. The shadows whispered at him, sounding vaguely familiar, but he ignored it and tried to press on.

Looking over the server of Secret Life, the season he won, it was empty. Too empty. He’d lost track of how long he’d been stuck here, unable to die no matter how much he tried.

He could envision what it had looked like when everyone was green—when they were all happy and simply doing their tasks.

He’d killed them. He had blood on his hands. And they all left him behind. Nobody was coming to save him.

— — — —

Scar opened his eyes in his bed, looking up at the ceiling that was not made of acacia wood. He sat up slowly and looked out the window, finding that there were not any sunflowers growing there. The outside was made of buildings, not the sad tan grass of Trader Scar’s and not the orange colored walls that surrounded it.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if he was hallucinating to make himself feel better?

What if he wasn’t back in Hermitcraft?

Scar felt his mind go fuzzy, afraid that he might still be back in that terrible and lonely acacia biome. There was a pricking in his fingers as he continued looking out the window, and he could almost feel the familiar pull of Sunflowers on his clothing.

He’s not sure how long he sat there staring out the window of his bedroom, lost in thought, but it was enough for the shadows to move as the Sun continued rising.

What if he was still there?

He was brought back to the present by an incessant pinging on his communicator that sat on his bedside table.

His communicator.

Somebody was messaging him.

They didn’t do that back then.

There was nobody else back then.

He was alone back then.

Back then.

His communicator pinged again, and it felt like trying to move through syrup as he turned his head to look at it, seeing the screen light up over and over again as somebody messaged him.

It took all of his energy to move his hand and reach out, grabbing the communicator and putting it on his lap.

9:45am

<Grian> Hey Scar! I was wondering if you could swing by my base later?

<Grain> If you can’t that’s okay, it’s not super important

10:27am

<Grian> Is everything alright?

11:03am

<Grian> Do you want me to come over?

<Grian> It’s okay if you’re having a bad day

<Grian> Do you want help?

12:16pm

<Grian> I’m gonna come over and check on you if that’s okay

Scar was barely able to process the messages before there was a knocking on the door that made him jump.

The shadow people sometimes knocked. Then he’d open the door and there was nobody there.

They knocked again.

“Scar?” they yelled. That was Grian’s voice.

The shadow people sometimes sounded like Grian.

He didn’t get up. He continued staring at his lap. The shadow people would leave him alone eventually.

“Scar I’m gonna come inside!” ‘Grian’ yelled.

Silly shadow people. They couldn’t open doors.

His thoughts didn’t make him move at all either, and he ignored the sound of a door opening.

It was his mind playing tricks. The shadow people never came into his house.

There were footsteps in his bedroom.

The shadow people never had footsteps.

His bed dipped as someone sat on it.

The shadow people never sat with him.

“Scar?” ‘Grian’ said.

The shadow people were never concerned for him.

Tears sprang into his eyes.

“Can I touch you?” ‘Grian’ asked.

Scar nodded slowly.

The tears fell, splashing onto his communicator as a hand came forward to grab his.

The shadow people never held his hand.

“…How do I know you’re real?” Scar whispered with a trembling voice, still staring down at his lap.

A second hand came forward and rested on his chin, pulling his head up to look forward at Grian.

Grian.

In front of him.

With tan skin and bright red wings and brown hair and not just a faded silhouette that whispered in his ears and followed his footsteps.

With a hiccup, Scar fell forward and into Grian’s chest, the avian’s arms immediately coming up to hold him tight, his wings doing the same and blocking out the outside world.

It was grounding.

“You’re here in Hermitcraft,” Grian muttered.

But not whispering.

The shadow people could only whisper.

Grian was not the shadow people.

“You’re here in Hermitcraft in Scarland and I’m hugging you right now in your bed and it’s currently the afternoon and there aren’t any sunflowers or acacia biomes around for miles,” he continued.

Not whispering.

Never whispering.

Only the shadow people whispered.

“You’re not there anymore, Scar.”

The shadow people never said his name.

Scar shook in Grian's arms while neither was keeping track of the time and Grian just continued talking.

Not whispering.

Never whispering.

Only the shadow people whispered.

He was in Hermitcraft in Scarland being hugged by Grian in his bed. It was the afternoon. There were no sunflowers or acacia biomes around for miles.

He wasn’t back there.

Never back there.

He was here. In Hermitcraft. In Scarland. In Grian’s arms. In his bed. In the afternoon. Not in an acacia biome. Not around any sunflowers.

He was home.

#febuwhump #febuwhump2025 #febuwhumpday5 #Not Trusting Reality #tw derealization #tw dissociation #hermitblr #secret life

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damejudyhench · 10 hours ago

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Sometimes when he was in the dungeon he would tell himself it was a bad dream, that he would wake up and go to the great hall and they would all be there. He would tell himself so hard that he could almost smell his father’s coffee, taste the butter and the malted bread.

Percy is hit by a strange spell and begins to relive the horrible experiences of his youth. Can the rest of the team convince him of what’s real, or will his mind be trapped forever in the laboratory beneath Whitestone Castle?

@febuwhump

#febuwhump2025 #febuwhump day 5 #febuwhumpday5 #not trusting reality #tw hallucinations #tw torture #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #vexahlia #the legend of vox machina

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adzeisval · 12 hours ago

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Not Trusting Reality

Izzy keeps connecting with Murder Izzy. Also on AO3.

Izzy sat at the dining room table with a cup of coffee in his hands staring out the window as the sun came up. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after the nightmare, vision whatever the fuck it was. He wasn’t even sure if it was safe to do so.

“Morning Izzy,” Bonnet said sweeping into the room in a fancy robe. Izzy bristled. He wasn’t sure about Bonnet, he’d barely known the version in his world. He knew from what Ed told him that this version of Bonnet had left Ed and hurt him before. Of course Izzy himself had hurt Ed so maybe there wasn’t much there.

This version, that version, it was all fucking insane.

“How’s your head?”

“Not too bad,” Izzy said. The slight ache was actually welcome in comparison to thinking about what was actually going on.

Ed was up a few moments later and Izzy stared out the window as Bonnet and Ed talked a little bit. He was having trouble focusing. He didn’t think it was the head wound. Maybe it was because there was another version of himself on the loose.

He closed his eyes and pondered as to how bad things would have had to get for him to kill Ed. He didn’t think he could do it, ever, and that a version of him had and wanted to do it again was disturbing.

“You fucking twat.”

Izzy heard his own voice say and before he could do anything he was hit by some sort of memory or vision.

Edward shot him, in the leg. The leg began to rot. Jim and Archie amputated the leg. Izzy felt it, felt every bit of it. Then Ed came in where Izzy had been hidden by the crew. Ed gave him a gun and told Izzy to shoot him, that it would be good for him. Izzy shot and Ed went down.

“Eddie!” Izzy jolted awake and almost fell out of the chair.

“Iz? Fuck are you alright?”

Ed was there, Ed was alright. It wasn’t real or wasn’t real here where he was, fuck why was evertying so fucking confusing and stupid and…

“Just breathe Iz, you’re alright,” Ed said. Izzy did just that trying to focus on the reality he was in enough to get the vision to go away, it wasn’t one he wanted in his head.

“Was it the bad Izzy? Is he close?” Bonnet asked.

“No, I saw…you shot me,” Izzy looked at Ed, “Then Jim and Archie amputated my leg.”

“That’s what happened here,” Ed said.

“Then you came down with a loaded gun and asked me to kill you. I did it.”

“Fuck,” Ed muttered, “That…I did ask you to kill me but you didn’t here.”

“Well I did there and now that version of me wants to kill you,” Izzy said.

“Well we’re not going to let that happen,” Stede said and for a moment Izzy saw something in the man he hadn’t before.

“I’m sorry, I keep letting him…”

“None of that either,” Stede said, “You are not the problem Izzy or well I suppose this version of you isn’t the other is.”

“We’ll figure this out, we know he’s coming and you know how you think,” Ed said.

They were silent for a little while before Izzy decided to say what he was pretty sure they were all thinking, “We’re going to have to kill that version of me.”

“Is there any way we can send him back?”

“If we timed it right with a storm, he might be able to come back again,” Ed said.

Izzy looked at the two men, and he supposed it was nice they didn’t want to kill a version of him but…it was going to have to be done, it was the safest way to ensure that Ed didn’t get killed.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Ed said.

“Mad dogs have to be put down,” Izzy said. Bonnet flinched at the wording.

As the day continued the crew came in and a discussion started as to the best way to deal with the murder eager Izzy. They thought of setting up traps and just keeping an eye out for him. There were elaborate plans of making murder Izzy think that Ed was on the ship when he was not.

They pondered sending murder Izzy back again but there was no way to tell if the event would ever happen again, and it was too risky to keep him around.

Every single one of them expressed the idea that they didn’t really want to kill Izzy, that it would be difficult.

“Someone has to,” Izzy said, “And I’ll try to do it, but you can’t hesitate.” He could kill to save Ed, he had done it many times before in his life and he thought killing another version of himself would be weird he could do it. For Ed he could do it.

The talking continued and Izzy felt himself drifting away a little. He was so tired he just wanted a little nap and the talking was going on and on and on…

Izzy felt a moment of concern as he realized he was falling asleep but he couldn’t help it; he was so tired.

He was on the sloop again and looked around. Murder Izzy was nowhere in sight so Izzy decided he needed to look around a little bit, get a good idea of how many crew there were to worry about and maybe see if he could tell where the ship was.

He counted a crew of eight and it looked like the ship was maybe a day or so away from getting to the Inn and was on the correct heading.

Suddenly there was a cold chill on the back of his neck and once again everything went dark.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

“You’re already awake.”

Izzy could see out of his own eyes, there at the Inn, but it didn’t feel like he was in control of his body at all.

Fuck!

Murder Izzy was in control of his body somehow and Izzy reached for a knife on the table. No one was paying attention, no one knew and Izzy couldn’t warn them.

Please, please, please let someone notice!

Izzy was too close to Ed, if no one saw then he might be able to stab Ed. Izzy tried with all his might to regain control of his body as he stood with the knife in his hand.

Please someone stop me.

Izzy lunged but Ed saw him coming and dodged out of the way. He slashed with the knife until someone was able to take it from him.

“Izzy come back! Izzy!”

Suddenly everything went dark again and Izzy wondered for a moment if he was dying. But then things reformed around him and Ed was holding him down on the floor. Izzy started to shake and tears ran down his cheeks.

“Izzy? Are you back mate?” Ed asked.

“Think so,” Izzy managed. Ed pulled him into a hug and Izzy let himself cry for a few moments.

“Was it Murder Izzy?” Ed asked

Izzy nodded, “I didn’t know he could do that.”

“We’ll have to factor that in to the plan.”

They group spoke again as Izzy tried to get himself back to reality. But how was that possible when he wasn’t even from that reality to begin with?

#febuwhump #febuwhump2025 #febuwhumpday5 #not trusting reality #ofmd #fic #izzy hands #edward teach #storm shifted souls

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bloomzone · 22 days ago

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I am stronger than I think, and each day is a new opportunity to become better. The habits I have now do not define me; they are just where I am right now. I have the power to change, to build better habits, and to create a healthier, happier version of myself.

Each time I fall short, it is not a failure, but a lesson. I am learning, growing, and becoming more resilient. I am not perfect, and that’s okay. Perfection is a lie. What matters is my progress, no matter how small it seems.

I am capable of making healthier choices for my mind, body, and soul. I choose to let go of the bad habits that hold me back, and I replace them with habits that support my well-being, my growth, and my dreams.

I am learning to be patient with myself, to trust the process, and to believe in my ability to transform. Every step I take is one closer to the person I want to be. I am not rushing; I am moving forward at my own pace.

I will not let negativity control me. I am in control of my thoughts, my actions, and my future. I choose to think positively, even when it's difficult. I am not alone on this journey, and I have everything I need within me to succeed.

Today, I choose progress over perfection. I choose patience over frustration. And I choose myself over anything that holds me back.

@bloomzone ✒️

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edorazzi · 5 months ago

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Page 29 of my Miraculous Mentor AU comic A Matter of Trust! In which Chat Noir is NOT winning Ladybug's heart, and is so pathetic about it that even his arch-nemesis puts in a good word for him! 🪽💔

Index | Start | Prev | Next

Weekly updates each Sunday! You can also read ahead early on Patreon, and/or buy me a Ko-fi if you'd like to support my work! 💖

#miraculous ladybug #mentor au #felix sphinx #bridgette cheng #mr pigeon #xavier ramier #the mime #plagg #A Matter of Trust #josie's art #RIP felix you actually had mr pigeon trying to wingman for you in the middle of a fight :/#arguably the most humiliating part of this whole tale #plagg is just living his best life with a free reality show right in front of him

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hitracks · 7 months ago

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Can we see a c! Wilbur design maybe? (If you're chill w/ it) Or Technoblade and Philza?

I’m planning on doing a whole separate ref for Wil at some point so I will do both Blade and Philza for you… im really really normal about Techno like really serious I promise you. ( <- lying through his fucking teeth. ) LOTTTTS OF DESIGN PARTICULARS WITH HIM. I deviate a lot from his skin ( for one I get way too engrossed with drawing animals so humanoid it is. ) but I make his outfit more errr. Flashy…? Also southern inspo all over this bitch. as a southern man myself I am forced to give him ( modest ) matador esque pants and a bolo …. I think putting him in that is hilarious cause the closest things piglins have to bulls are fucking hoglins LMFAO. Imagine him in a Nether rodeo … terrifying … Away from design in general I love his character sooo much. I think its important to keep his funny nerd qualities when designing him. Like techno is a beast with technical skills and combat but if you ask him to sit in a room with more than about 3 people he starts sweating. Make him a little loser guys … hes got like one friend total and lives in the middle of nowhere in the snow as a Nether mob. Nothing normal about him. No bitches and no gains …

PHIL …. ghh … I have an unpopular take on him because i dont find him very fatherly. Hes more like an estranged uncle who dgaf about his kids. Shanks from one piece if you will. As much as I like his dynamics, for his character I feel like people are constantly glossing over the fact he isolates himself on purpose away from everything and everyone so he doesn’t have to deal with it … Him and Techno are so close because 1) They’re both crazy fucking good at everything and 2) Neither of them WANT to interact with others outside of themselves usually. Techno most often times only talks to people for his own personal gain or when he has no choice … Philza just get dragged into everything cause Wilbur is like a damn blight on the world. IDK! I wish people made him more aloof or terrifying because the concept of him is so genuinely freaky like hes got spies everywhere all the time and could or could not be immortal or some sort of biblical creature like THATS SCARY!!! I tried to mess around with him being green and the Minecraft equivalent of souls ( exp drop when you die ) being the same shade-ish …. Hes just some eldritch horror to me. Not explainable by mere words…

#drawntracks #dsmp #technoblade #philza #emerald duo #theyre also kind of qpr #In a really specific immortal ‘I can meet anyone but still only know you’ type way #Sorry Phil is so lack luster its hard as shit for me to visualize what he is in my brain into reality.#Ill get it better one day #trust #I love drawing Tech he is so special to me eu eu eu #Lwk need to get on my preyduo grind I used to draw them constantly #FOR ANOTHER DAY THOUGH!

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