#self deprecating whumpee

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Febuwhump 2025 ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Day 4 || “On The Run”

TW: Suicide, self-deprecating thoughts 

Felix leaned against the cool tiles of the wall, his heart beating fast in his chest. The room was spinning, the small single-person bathroom more cramped and suffocating than ever, the walls threatening to close in on him, to smush his very being. Broken sobs escaped out of his chest, leaving him shuddering and shaking, his form curled up protectively as he wheezed and coughed for air. 

God, he was so pathetic. 

It really hit him, for the first time, how utterly useless he was. What this all meant. He had no family, no friends; people couldn’t even tolerate his fucking presence anymore. Reagan and Paisley were gone, pushed away by too many of his fuck-ups. They weren’t a family anymore. No, not after he’d broken them. All his friends were gone: dead or traitors, disillusioned by some evil, horrific dream that he’d never be able to follow. The only person that might agree to even sit beside him was Akali, and well…. 

Akali didn’t care. He was sure of it. Sure of all of it. Akali was growing sick of him too, he had to be. If Paisley couldn’t stand him, if even his own sister couldn’t stand him, then who was to say that Akali ever would? 

No, nobody wanted him. 

He had nobody left for him in this life. Nothing. He was doomed to spend the rest of his sad, pitiful life on the run, taking up refuge in a cabin hidden deep inside the woods, his only companions being the remnants of a club that never brought any good, and never would. People who hated him more than anything else in this world. 

There was no reason to live anymore. He shouldn’t even exist. 

Felix was trembling as he lifted his hands, staring down at them with a sense of understanding. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t run from place to place, never belonging, never home. He couldn’t keep losing the people he cared about the most, the world’s corruption slowly stealing all he held dear. He couldn’t keep failing, keep causing more strife and pain for all that dared get close to him. He’d lost so much, lost all he’d ever had. He couldn’t….

He couldn’t stand himself. 

It would be better this way. He’d be doing them a favour. It was what they all wanted. Without him, things would be better. Without him, they’d all be at peace. 

No one wanted him here. No one cared about him. He was nothing more than an inconvenience: an extra mouth to feed, an extra bed to need. Nothing more than a burden. 

He took a shaky breath, another sob choking out of him. It would be better this way. 

The knife was in his hand before he could think about what he was doing – think to stop himself. His mind was racing, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, slipping onto his shaking fingers. They were wrapped tight around the handle, holding the weapon so tight his knuckles had gone white.

He raised the blade up high. Everything seemed to be suspended in time, the quiet chatter from down the hall now replaced with silence. 

It would be better.

With one sharp arc, he brought it down against his wrist.

masterlist || next

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

I feel like today’s oneshot didn’t convey what I had envisioned for the actual prompt very well, but it kind of fits?? In the context of the story at least??? oh well

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

This story can be found on my alt account @dioles-writes. If you’re interested about the context of this scene, I’d recommend checking out this fic ੈ✩‧₊˚

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @febuwhump @ohagiwrites @vesanal @aalinaaaaaa @fangedcinnamonroll @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @seastarblue @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @iamheretohurt @corinneglass @melodxi @thebookishkiwi @lancedoncrimsonwings @sugaredparchment @cepheusgalaxy @fizzydreamz @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @nosebleedgirlpunch @sunflowerrosy @charlachan

[dioles-writes]

"3 A.M."

Masterlist | Credits go to @jiphenn | Characters: Shehani (she/her), Felix (he/him)

“Felix.”

A voice pierced through the hollow silence. Shehani’s figure across from him was only a shadowy outline in the pitch black of the living room, her chestnut brown eyes sharp as an owl’s as she stared at him, gaze burning holes into the side of his head.

“Do you need me to wrap up your arms?” She asked in a hushed whisper.

Felix laid there, unmoving.

His first instinct was to deny, deny, deny. He had never gotten out of bed, had never gone to the bathroom, had never sat with his back to the wall on the cool tile floor, had never materialized a knife in his hand, had never raked the blade along his skin. He’d never left. His arms didn’t sting, the bloodied bandages weren’t rubbing against the soft cotton of his shirt sleeve, his heart wasn’t racing with adrenaline, beating so hard he could swear it would jump out of his chest.

No, that never happened.

But, staring into Shehani’s piercing gaze, he knew that would never work. Her eyes held nothing but sincerity. She’d see right through his denial, his lies. He’d been absolutely cornered.

His heart racing, he slowly turned to her and nodded.

She stood up from her spot criss-crossed on the ground, lightly sitting down on the bed next to him, careful to not move too much and wake up Una. Gently, she lifted his sleeves up.

She unwrapped the bandages, not even so much blinking at the sight of the cuts making their way down his arms in a jagged line. She started to work on his arms, properly wrapping them up, working diligently like she had done this plenty of times before.

“Don’t tell the others.” Felix blurted, his voice carrying nothing but urgency. “Please.”

“Why not?” She didn’t look up to see his pleading eyes, her gaze focused intently on his arms as she continued wrapping the cloth around.

Felix went quiet for a minute. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“It’s important for the others to be informed of your health. And Reese can heal your arms in the morning.” She finished with his right arm, quickly moving onto rebandaging the next.

“No.” Felix shook his head, growing frantic at the idea of everyone finding out. “I dont want them to.”

He thought about the looks he’d get: pity, disgust, disappointment. The image of Akali’s face, the look of revulsion in his crimson eyes….

He couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t tell Reese, tell Cora, tell anybody. If they knew how truly pathetic he was, would they even be able to stand him? He couldn’t even allow himself to entertain the suggestion. There was no way he’d ever be able to admit what he did. They’d all be so ashamed of him. He couldn’t let that happen.

What if they told Reagan? What would she think? No… there was no possibility anyone else could find out.

Shehani paused, looking confused at why he could possibly not want to get healed, but she stayed silent, continuing to wrap him up.

“Promise you won’t tell them.” Felix stared at her, his expression holding nothing but pure desperation.

She thought for a moment, before deciding to respect his one desperate wish. “Okay.”

She continued to wrap his bloody arms up in silence, finally pulling his sleeves back over the bandages. “Done.”

“Thanks.” Felix mumbled quietly, his chest feeling hollow, the relief he thought he’d get at Shehani’s promise having never came, leaving him to sit there with his burning arms, regret seeping through his core.

“You’re welcome.”

Shehani belongs to @jiphenn

[defire]

Defiant whumpees joking around with whumper

Content: degradation, beating, whipping

Whumper doesn't slap them for their sarcastic comments, instead they laugh

Randomly punishes defiant whumpee for their sass, but not consistently enough to make it stick. They don't actually want whumpee to stop, it's entertaining.

"I think you're enjoying torturing me too much." "No such thing as too much fun."

Whumper coming back down to the basement where whumpee is tied up. "What's it gonna be this time, whumper?" "Oh, maybe the brass knuckles today." *Whumpee goes silent.*

Whumpee trying even harder to push whumper's buttons and getting a laugh and ten lashes for it.

Over time whumpee stops joking. They get that dead, glassy-eyed look as the last piece of their personality is erased.

Whumper ordering them to sass them so they can punish them for it. But also punishing them for not speaking.

"it's alright." Whumpee mutters. "I know I'm just a piece of shit. you don't have to keep trying to prove it."

[sir-fenris]

Whumpcember24 - Day 15

Broken Glass

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: good caretaker, recovery whump, fear of starvation, quick mention of eating glass, blood, domestic comfort, domestic whump, self-deprecation, dissociation, kind of unreliable narrator.

Catetaker had told him not to touch kitchen stuff. They had said that this house didn't go by the rules Whumpee was used to. Caretaker didn't need Whumpee at all, so the least he could do is stay out of the way.

And yet, Whumpee was disobedient and tried to get his own plate instead of waiting at the table until Caretaker was done bringing dinner stuff to it. They must have known this would happen, must have known Whumpee was so useless and clumsy that he couldn't even hold a plate.

When the sound of breaking glass hits Whumpee's ears, the sound of him falling to his knees hits Caretaker's.

Without even realizing he was doing it, Whumpee was getting all the wasted food and glass into a small pile. He tries to keep the glass parts more on the outer sides, so when Caretaker forces him to eat it, he can avoid the glass for some time and at least enjoy the food-

"-pee! Hey! Listen to me, stop!" Caretaker's voice finally rings in Whumpee ears, and he freezes. He can feel his cheeks wet.

Caretaker's hands come in view, ignoring Whumpee's flinch to reach his hands and carefully take them away from the glass. His hands already had bloody cuts.

"It's alright," Caretaker said calmer, trying to nudge Whumpee away from the broken glass. "Let's clean this hand, hm? Can we do that?"

They had that voice of when Whumpee is feeling numb and weird. He wasn't feeling that much numbness today, he could speak.

His mouth didn't move to answer. Perhaps he wasn't ready to speak. Whumpee just nods shakily instead.

Caretaker guides them to the laundry's sink and washes his hand for him, then gets small band-aids when the blood keeps coming back. Whumpee knows hands bleed a lot. Whumper used to get mad when Whumpee dirtied their kitchen with blood.

Was Caretaker mad because of it? Whumpee could never read them, so he didn't know what punishment they would carry out for this. Perhaps they wouldn't make him eat from the ground, like Whumper. Would they starve Whumpee? What punishment would suit disobeying them, breaking a plate, and wasting food?

"...-back. Take your time, you're safe, everything's okay." Oh, was Caretaker speaking to them? Their voice sounded a bit far.

Was he sitting? When did they leave the laundry?

"Hey, there," Caretaker whispers with a sad smile when their eyes meet. "You're back with me, buddy?"

Whumpee nods, though he still feels floaty and wrong. Was he... on the couch?

"It's okay, you're safe," Caretaker repeats and adjusts the blanket around Whumpee-

Blanket? Where did that come from?

For how long was he out this time?

"I'm sorry," Whumpee whispers, almost with no sound. His hands were tingling, all the way up to his elbows, and he registers how his body feels heavy now.

Caretaker just shake their head. "There's nothing to apologize for." They pause, looking for something in Whumpee's expression. "Are you still hungry? I can bring your food here if you prefer eating on the couch. Watching that TV show you enjoyed yesterday, maybe?"

"... Food?" He could eat, then? On the couch? Watching TV? Why was he being rewarded after messing up?

"Yeah. We got pasta, roasted chicken, and some veggies today. There's boiled eggs if you want some, too." Whumpee knew that, he dropped that food, he saw the pasta staining the floor. Caretaker must have seen something in his face, because they speak up again, gently. "Whumpee, you get to eat another full, new dish. I'll throw away the food that fell, it's alright."

"I can eat it, you made it for me," Whumpee whispers, not able to look Caretaker in the eyes.

"The floor is dirty. You shouldn't eat something that fell on it. I made plenty of food, not just that dish. I can get you another, there's no problem." Caretaker smiles, shifting the weight of their crouching legs. "Do you want the food here on the couch?"

Whumpee doesn't know how to answer. Caretaker was so, so different from all he knew. It was too hard to read what they wanted from him. So Whumpee just nodded, hoping that was the right thing to do.

Caretaker's face didn't change, didn't give him the green light that it was the right answer, but they didn't seem angry either. "Alright, I'll bring it here. You can put the TV show when you want, okay? I'll take a few minutes."

Once Caretaker goes back to the kitchen, Whumpee realizes his body is all okay again. Nothing tingles or feels heavy, nor his mind feels floaty. It still takes a while for him to reach for the remote and turn on the TV, but he's not feeling bad, or "anxious", as Caretaker calls it.

For some reason, the voice that always screams "danger" is quiet. Whumpee knows it'll come back soon enough.

But for now, he can believe nothing bad will happen, because Caretaker always promises they'll never hurt him. Because they never broke that promise.

Even when Whumpee broke their rules, wasted their food and broke their plate.

For the first time since the rescue, the tears in his eyes aren't sad ones.

-

[blackrosesandwhump]

Augusnippets Day 16: Dehumanisation/Conditioning

CW: Gothic whump, vampire whumper, human whumpee

As the clock strikes seven o’clock, sending echoes resounding through the house, whumpee turns slowly from the window and draws the curtains tightly. Better not to surprise his master with deadly sunlight, even if the light is waning and the room is whumpee’s own.

No, not his own. Nothing belongs to him. The room, the bed, the meals his master provides, they’re all gifts, borne of his master’s desire to keep his bloodbag alive and well. Whumpee doesn’t deserve any of it. I should be grateful, he tells himself, changing his clothes for dinner. I owe my life to him, after all. He could choose to kill me at any time.

The thought is a common one, neither terrifying nor surprising.

Whumpee opens the door and slips out into the cool, dark hallway. The house feels strangely quiet as he descends the carpeted stairs to the dining room. A brief wave of uneasiness creeps over him, but he pushes it back, focusing on calming his breathing, soothing his own nerves. The prospect of being fed on is still vaguely discomforting. But his master prefers to drink from a calm human, rather than an agitated one. So whumpee starts to count: fifteen steps to the bottom of the stairs, three paintings on the wall next to the dining room door, four breaths to open the door and step inside.

His heartbeat has slowed, and he crosses the room with barely-audible footsteps. Whumper is already sitting at one end of the long table. As if about to eat a human meal, whumpee thinks.

“Ah, there you are.” Whumper beckons curtly. “I’m ravenously hungry tonight.” He snaps his fingers.

And just like that, nothing matters. Nothing matters, not the way whumper grabs whumpee’s arm and yanks him to his knees, not the way whumper’s hands squeeze his throat so tightly he can’t breathe. Nothing matters, except that his master gets his fill and drinks all he can. That, after all, is whumpee’s purpose: to provide fresh, warm blood whenever needed.

When whumper pulls away at last, wiping his mouth, whumpee remains kneeling. His body won’t obey. His mind is disoriented. He can’t comprehend the passage of time, or the warm trickle down the side of his neck. It’s over. He’s fulfilled his purpose, for now. All that’s left is to return to the room that whumper says is his.

“Oh dear,” whumper says, taking a handkerchief to whumpee’s neck, “you look a little weak. Blood loss, I imagine. I did say I was hungry.” He reaches out a hand to help whumpee to his feet. But whumpee refuses and staggers upright on his own, nearly falling as the dining room dips and sways. He doesn’t deserve help. Whumper has already shown him enough mercy.

As whumpee climbs the stairs, sliding a trembling hand along the ornate railing to steady himself, the clock strikes eight.

Only twelve hours until the next feed.

@augusnippets

[honeycollectswhump]

Augusnippets Day 31

bonus day: relapse comfort

CW: alcoholism relapse, drunk whumpee, heavy self deprecation

She was a dirty fucking liar and too disgusting to touch, covered in her own vomit, heaving and sobbing. At last, Caretaker would see she wasn’t worth it and leave for good. Nothing made Whumpee recognisable as a friend; just a lying addict getting what she deserved, left to rot in her puke.

“Whumpee, my dear, what happened?” She couldn’t see Caretaker through her own tears, gasping for air. She deserved to be abandoned for this. There was no world in which Caretaker would stay after seeing her.

But then she felt a soft hand lifting her head up and wiping away her tears. Despite it all, Caretaker knelt down next to her, in the mess. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry!” Whumpee sobbed. “I’ll dirty you.” Her tongue felt numb and heavy in her mouth and the obvious slur in her words made her want to die.

She was a waste and a pathetic mess. How could anyone love her like this?!

Whumpee didn’t realise she had said it out loud until Caretaker wrapped her arms around her, bringing her vile body closer to her heart and carding a gentle hand through her sweaty hair.

How? How could Caretaker stand her sight? Why hadn’t she left yet, like everyone else?

“I love you, Whumpee. I love you. This isn’t changing anything, nothing could.” Caretaker sounded so determined, it felt easy for her fuzzy mind to believe.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, my dear.” Whumpee was carefully lifted off the floor and carried into the bathroom, where she was placed on the floor, leaning against the bathtub for stability.

She was still sobbing between hiccups, but this was the longest anyone had ever stayed with her when she got like this. Her vision was too blurry to make out any features but somehow Caretaker’s face felt kind. Whumpee was just so tired from everything, the alcohol and living like this. It was exhausting being her.

Taking a warm washcloth, Caretaker cleaned Whumpee’s face before gently putting her dirty shirt and pants off and replacing them with something soft she found in the closet. Slowly, she lifted a glass of fresh water to Whumpee’s lips and almost on instinct she gulped it down.

It felt like some of the grime was finally lifted off of her, yet it would take hours more until she was even close to sobering up.

“’m so sorry f-for disappointing you.” She slurred, while Caretaker lifted her up once again, carrying her towards her bed like a child.

As she was sat down, Caretaker pressed a kiss to  her forehead. “You haven’t disappointed me, at all. You are allowed to struggle, it won’t change your place in my heart. I’m sorry if I made you fear that, that was never my intention.”

It made Whumpee tear up again. It felt too good to be true, but if it wasn’t, wouldn’t have Caretaker left by now? She was too drunk for this, her head was spinning.

All she knew was that Caretaker felt warm and nice and perhaps would hold her tight enough to keep her from breaking apart. Her hand twisted in the fabric of Caretaker’s shirt, unable to bring up the strength to let go.

Faintly, she heard Caretaker giggle as she sat down next to her and helped Whumpee lay down, keeping a protective hand behind her head.

“I’ll stay with you, I promise.”

Whumpee snuggled up to Caretaker’s gentle embrace, fitting her head right in the crook of her neck. And Caretaker held her just as close and tight as she had hoped.

@augusnippets

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Whumpril Day 8, Day 16

Bloodshot, Coughing Fit

Whumpril Prompts List

TW: coughing, sickness, pneumonia, self-deprecation

Whumpee could feel the cough rising in their chest, the unbearable tickling, burning sensation in their throat as they held it back. Caretaker was asleep nearby; Whumpee didn’t want to wake them. Unfortunately, they could only keep the cough back for so long.

Whumpee cleared their throat, trying to soothe the burning. It didn’t work. What started as a simple grunt snowballed into a cough, and another, and another. And another. Whumpee’s chest spasmed as their lungs tried desperately to expel the sickness. They covered their mouth, but it didn’t do anything to stop the coughing or muffle the noise.

Eventually, the fit subsided. Whumpee’s throat burned even more from the force of their coughing, and the sound trailed off into a quiet sob.

“Whumpee…? Are you okay?”

Whumpee exhaled slowly. “Yeah, I’m okay, Caretaker, go back to sleep.”

Caretaker was silent for a few moments before sitting up. Whumpee could see their eyes were bloodshot from many nights of little sleep spent caring for Whumpee. “I’ll get you some water,” they said, rising to their feet.

“Nonono, it’s fine…” Whumpee weakly protested, but Caretaker ignored them and left the room.

Whumpee slumped. Stupid pneumonia. Stupid cough. Stupid me for getting sick.

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @whumpril

[andithewhumper]

The Lab (3)

Getting the motivation to write House of MacCaélan again. I love this series so much and have been brainrotting it for a while. Hope y'all enjoy. :)

First - Masterlist - Prev

Content: Medical examination (not in much detail), panic attacks, self deprecation

Quinn could feel their breath being taken away when they followed Master into the lab. The room was huge. It was full of big machines that came out of the floor and the ceiling. There were glass bottles and vials everywhere and spools of film sitting in a stack next to one of the counters. Quinn wondered how it all worked. Master must be really smart to be able to use all of these machines. It was scary. Quinn shook as they thought about all the ways that Master might use them in her experiments. She had said that she wouldn’t use Quinn in her experiments but Quinn knew that it was only a matter of time until she changed her mind. Their old Master said that no one could resist hurting Quinn. They knew that their new Master would want to use them eventually. Would Master cut Quinn up like their old Master did? Quinn’s mind raced with horrible ideas and they could feel their knees knocking together. 

Master marched into the room and Quinn, trembling, tripped over their own feet as they hesitated to go through the doorway. Master turned quickly to catch them and Quinn shook in her arms. Quinn cursed their own incompetence. Surely their Master would punish them for this. They were so useless they couldn’t even walk properly. 

“Careful, Quinn. You can’t go falling in my lab, you might get hurt.” It must have been a result of Quinn shaking, but they could have sworn that their Master sounded amused. 

“I’m sorry, Master. It won’t happen again. I-” 

“Calm yourself, Quinn. Just correct yourself in the future. If I want an apology out of you, you will know.” 

Quinn nodded, not sure how to respond to the comment. They righted themself with help from their Master. They wondered why they weren’t being punished. Surely Master didn’t want some useless thrall that fell into things and broke tools in her lab. No-Quinn reminded themself-Master doesn’t want you as a thrall remember. You are so useless you can’t even serve your intended purpose correctly. She only took you because she had to, not because she wants you. 

Quinn knew that they were a burden. Their only use was for blood and entertainment. Otherwise they were just in the way. Quinn wondered how long it would take for their new Master to punish them for that. 

They followed Master diligently. They were led into a separate room with a medical table and several cabinets. This was clearly where Master was going to do experiments on Quinn. They forced their feet to go forward. Master had not told them they were allowed to stop walking and they needed to prove to her that they could obey. Then maybe she would go easy on her thrall-not that Quinn deserved it. They had messed up so much already. 

“Alright Quinn, sit on the table for me.” Quinn hears Master’s order and their eyes shoot to her. Of course they had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but it was naive of them to believe it wouldn’t. Quinn tried and failed to hold back tears as they sniffled and nodded.

“Y-yes, Master.” They climbed onto the table, ready to be cut into. At least they thought they were ready. The second they sat down and faced Master though, Quinn pulled their legs up to their chest and buried their face into their knees. 

“I’m so-o-orry, Muh-Master,” they sobbed into their knees. After several hours of trying to hold it together, it had finally started to crumble. They waited, tense for a strong hand to strike them or pry them apart to secure on the operating table. After a few moments when that didn’t happen Quinn looked up. Master was hovering over them looking annoyed. Her eyes were focused on Quinn and they could see her creep closer to them. Here it was then, the strike. Master brought her hand down on Quinn’s back but it didn’t hurt. Quinn was confused, why was Master just rubbing their back? The confusion pushed more tears out of their eyes.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Just cry. I know you need it so much. You are allowed to cry.” Master’s voice was soft in their ear and when Quinn heard the words they thought their heart might burst with relief. 

The release was heavenly. Sobs racked through Quinn’s broken body and they didn’t even notice as their Master pulled them into her chest. Quinn sobbed until they thought they might just fall asleep. What kept them from drifting too much was a very grounding voice whispering praise into their ear. It must have been Quinn’s imagination, though. There was no way Master was actually saying all of those things. Quinn wasn’t a good thrall, they had never been. 

“Good girl, Quinn. You’re doing so good for me. You’re very obedient aren’t you, sweetheart?” Master’s voice was clearer now and Quinn had a hard time believing that they had made it up. “Are you back with me now, Quinn?” 

“Y-yes, Master.” Quinn tried to push the tears away with their hands so that Master didn’t have to look at the imperfection of her thrall any longer. 

“Alright. Perhaps I should explain to you what is about to happen. I am not going to hurt you, Quinn. I am just going to check your injuries and your general health. Do you think you can handle that for me?” Master ran her hand down Quinn’s cheek and they tried very hard not to lean into it. They were a bad thrall and didn’t deserve Master’s affection. They nodded in response to Master before remembering that Master didn’t like that.

“Yes, Master. I will behave.” They meant it. They really wanted to be good for Master. They wanted to prove that even after all of the ways they had already messed up, they were worth keeping. Master didn’t need to give them to old Master’s friend. 

“Good, Quinn. Now I need you to put your legs down so I can begin.” Master stepped away from them and Quinn slowly unfolded himself and let their legs hang off the examination table. 

Master grabbed some tools and began giving Quinn instructions. They behaved as much as they could through the whole ordeal. Master directed them to stand and walk around on their toes, lay down and allow them to feel around their stomach. That part was the hardest for Quinn. They yearned to be able to protect the soft parts of themself, but they clenched their jaw and allowed Master to touch them wherever she wanted. When Master strayed down between their legs, they expected a new kind of torment to begin, but Master simply peaked behind their smalls and put them back as quickly as they had been removed. When the whole thing was over, Quinn was still shaking, but they could feel themself relax just a little bit. 

Master seemed very pleased with them. “That was very good, Quinn. You behaved so well for me.”

“I-I did, Master?�� The words were out before Quinn could even register them. They weren’t meant to question their Master. Of course Master was right, even if Quinn couldn’t possibly imagine how they could have behaved well enough. They squirmed when being prodded and hesitated after commands throughout Master examining them. Surely that wasn’t good enough behavior for praise?

“Of course, sweetheart. You did so well.” Master sounded so sure of herself that Quinn let themself believe it. Maybe just this once, Quinn was good enough for praise.

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpycries @a-formless-entity

Lmk if you want to be added :)

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

writing request:

IDK JUST SOME ANGST FLUFF THAT ENDS WITH HERO AND VILLIAN CUDDLING ON THR COUCH PLEASE

I need to feel something in this dark world

(OFCOURSE THIS IS JUST A REQUEST YOU CAN CHOOSE TO DO IT OR NOT)

First off, I am truly very sorry this is late. High school and finals are responsible. Also, ty for the request 💙💙, this is right up my alley!

Stars in a Pitch Black Sky

TW: Violence, the agency is toxic, self-depreciation, blood mention

Word count: 1.29 k

Villain kicks Hero’s legs from underneath them, their body slamming into the asphalt. The criminal pins the hero down with their boot, letting it rest on their ribs, earning a soft whimper from them.

They expect resistance, a hand trying to claw at their boot, but they receive nothing. The crime-fighter doesn’t even stir, staying so terribly still to the point that the villain would’ve thought they were dead, had they not heard the exhausted panting.

As though trying to get their attention, Villain slowly increases pressure. Nothing. . .

The hero was normally relentless. Irritatingly so. They never gave their nemesis a chance to recover, their attacks swift, their movements skilled and unpredictable. The villain never wanted to admit that their fighting had the graceful air of a mesmerizing dance. Hero had this fiery passion blazing in their eyes, as though this job was bound to their soul, their legacy inked in with the blood coursing through their veins.

So seeing them like this, letting themselves remain limp under the villain’s foot is definitely unorthodox.

“What is wrong with you?” they ask, strangely frustrated.

“I’m not dead,” the hero replies listlessly.

“Well, you’re as good as like this,” they retort, cocking an eyebrow.

“What if I. . .” they trail off, breathing laboured, “don’t really care?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the criminal barks. They dig their heel into the crime-fighter’s ribs, resulting in a groan from them. “Fight back!”

At this, the hero finally snaps.

“For what?” they shoot back, forcing the criminal’s shoe off them, finally standing up and slamming their body into the building behind them with so much force that it draws a sharp gasp from the villain.

“To be the agency’s old poster hero? A shiny, little weapon that’s been used so many times, it’s gone dull and rusty?”

“I-but the news is chock full of articles about you. You’re the city’s favourite hero!” they protest.

Their nemesis lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. “The articles – are simply there to sate the public until a brand new hero gets all the spotlight. It’s a performance. The government throws out these ‘heroes’ so that no one questions them.”

Villain’s eyes widened and the hero’s bruising grip on their shoulders softens, as does the diamond-hard gaze.

“I was just some experiment. A coverup. I’m no one’s hero,’ they say softly, their cold fury crumbling to nothing as they worry their bottom lip between their teeth. They let go of the villain, which was sloppy and unprofessional and so unlike the hero.

“You save people. You show up to fight me no matter what,” the villain reasons.

The crime-stopper sucks in a careful, measured breath, as though it was their last. “I only fight you because they tell me to. You’re far from the worst thing out there. The agency just labels anyone with functioning braincells who isn’t their goddamn puppet ‘a threat’. ” Hero snorts inelegantly, but the look in their eyes is anything but amused. Desperate. Broken.

The confession leaves Villain dumbfounded, and their agape jaw quickly snaps shut. They want to say something to soothe their enemy, but they were never one for gentle words and complicated feelings. Because they currently have no one they care about to have any knowledge of. . .basic human emotions, apparently.

Yet here they are, practically itching to find a way to offer their nemesis any comfort they can. “I- the people don’t care about the agency, Hero. Just because they made you feel like your time is over or whatever stupid publicity stunt they’re trying to pull – doesn’t mean it actually applies to you.”

Hero only gives them a wry smile, and it seems to age them decades in matter of instants, even though they’re young, like the villain. Too young. “It was nice feeling like I meant something, even if the affirmations were false. A pretty lie is something to hold on to.”

Villain tilts their chin up, cautiously, as though they are more fragile than glass. “What are you planning on doing now?”

“I,” the hero starts, “I don’t k-know!” And with that, the hand on their jaw started to get wet with the steady flow of tears that they immediately wipe away, their face flushed and their throat burning like acid was forced down it with the shame, the tears tasting like salt on their tongue.

“You can stay with me,” the villain offers, pulling the hero close to them. They flinch violently, letting out a sharp gasp, but they cling onto their greatest enemy like a lifeline.

“Just until you figure things out. My civilian identity arouses no suspicion. I have a legal source of income too.”

“Why?” the hero rasps, pulling away from the embrace, “Why would you help me? Why do you care?” they ask, their form trembling with every step they take.

“Because,” they breathe out carefully, “I care about you,” they realise.

“I have no one to hold on to. No one I know whom I give a damn about. You know me better than people who’ve seen me with my mask off every day.”

And it was true. Because when the hero showed up to all those fights, it almost felt like they were keeping each other company more than anything. Old friends and perfect strangers mixed into one.

Hero takes the risk of believing them. The lesser of two evils, if their intentions prove to be rotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♤♤♤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Villain’s house is spacious, decorated in a way that was both luxuriant and simple. The place smells like expensive. Like exotic wood and potted plants with their fragrant blossoms, like fancy tea and brand new furniture, like the villain themselves: the crisp pages of a book mixed with the criminal’s musky perfume, though they currently smell more like blood and the day’s activities than anything else. But no matter how striking the difference is between their estate and the hero’s practical and brilliantly staid apartment, they both have one major thing in common.

The air reeks of mind-numbing loneliness in both places.

Reluctantly, the criminal rips off their mask, offering the hero a shy smile. Even though their features are somewhat sharp, maybe a little less harsh then the hero’s, but still defined, they look incredibly soft. It makes the city’s saviour wonder how they ever saw them as a menace. They reciprocate, feeling completely exposed as a scar underneath their eye is revealed. The villain’s smile widens to a grin.

“You’re cute.” They trace the shape of their scar with their fingers, and if the hero was blushing a few moments ago, right now they can pass off as a very convincing beetroot.

Moments later, Villain settles themselves on the couch, much too tired for anything else, patting the spot next to them. Hesitantly, Hero joins them.

“What movies do you like?”

“Thrillers,” the hero answers, without missing a beat.

At that, the villains laughs and raises an eyebrow in amusement. “You felt more like a Disney movie kind of person. But I’m into thrillers too.”

“Don’t patronise me,” they chide jokingly.

Villain smirks and reaches for the remote, picking a film neither of them had seen before. They pull the hero into their lap, even though the crime-fighter was the taller of the two. They’re ridiculously light, they note. They need to eat.

Halfway into the movie, Hero still perched on top of their lap, Villain asks them, “I’m getting takeout. Pizza or Chinese? Or something else?”

“Chinese is my favourite. Go for it!’ they chirp excitedly.

Villain’s heart doesn’t melt. It spontaneously combusts. “Do you know how tempting you are to spoil?” they stage-whisper, stroking the hero’s hair.

Hero just laughs softly in response.

Yes, the world gets dark. Hope is a thin thread to cling to, a precarious journey to make. There is a fine line between trust and utter foolishness and mistakes are inevitable, but to avoid everything in fear of them is to avoid living, to be a living body with a dead soul. Because between every wrong choice, there is always a right one, a chance we'd regret not seizing. Because even in the all-consuming darkness of a pitch black sky, the stars never fail to illuminate the night.

Notes: Thought I'd finally answer one of my asks before going back to radio silence for a while!

Tagging for comfort fics: @roblingoblin285

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @addictedsandwhichakii @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @catsarecool00 @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @shr3ya @crotchgoblin69

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

[rocy-slo]

aaand right after that i am posting another one, since i've been trying to figure out why the fuck it wouldn't let me post it completely Chapter 1.2? tw: body horror, self deprecation, scarring

And he will. He got up, bones in thrumming pain, starting to wipe the mirror the best way he could without turning it into a bigger mess- licking it and then drying it with his arm. The only part of his arm that didn’t hurt when dragging along the mirror was his wrist, the bottom of his palm in particular. The lines being thin was a blessing, he didn’t have to clean the mirror for long, only going for a few long licks and strokes until full sterility. As far as sterility went, at least. He went over the parts where the streaks of blood were, sure, he forgot about the saliva around them. Now, there were parallel lines of dried, already stinking saliva on the mirror. His eyes focused on his own self, the lines of saliva seemingly accentuating his appearance. The scarred dots upon his cheeks, the cuts upon his cheekbones and his pale-white, dry lips were the only things unblurred. I… He turned around. He was still there. Unblurred and bare, staring back at himself. I- His eyes darted around the place- from the pile of dead skin to the lines on the opposite mirror and to himself. His breathing hitched, the tears coming back to his eyes, earlier determination completely gone and replaced with horror. I only made things worse- It went quicker and quicker. His heart, his thoughts, his breathing- up until the point his mind couldn’t keep up, finally causing him to faint. Another day, perhaps.

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* “Visit from Jeremiah” *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Alastair (he/him), Jeremiah (he/him), Julius (he/him)

Alastair weaved in and out of the narrow, towering shelves, his little cart creaking gently behind him, the noise only stopping as he paused at a certain drawer, moving to tuck new files away in their proper, designated spot. For hours, he had been doing this very thing. Organizing files, sorting them into perfect piles, placing them away into the dark isolation of their drawers. It was this very thing, this quiet, repetitive action, that filled each of his days. In the dark gloominess of the Archives, with only his thoughts to keep him company, the busy, albeit dull, work was somewhat of a relief – it almost, for a moment, made time seem to go faster than it really was. 

As Alastair made his way through another section, eyes scanning over all the filing cabinets marked by different dates and senders, he briefly allowed his thoughts to drift. He wondered if Jeremiah was back yet… Today was the day he was supposed to be arriving from his mission, was it not? Though, with how the days seemed to be blending together lately (always), he wasn’t so sure. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure he could recall what day it was, much less when Jeremiah was supposed to come back, so maybe his brother wasn’t set to return until much later. 

He grabbed the sleek metal handle of the cart again, doing his best to push down the longing thoughts of seeing Jeremiah again. He was busy, of course he was. He was one of God’s Army, and he had much better things to do than to be down in the basement, taking careful time out of his already-packed schedule to come and visit him. Still, that didn’t stop Alastair from secretly hating the time when they were apart, which only seemed to go on longer as more time passed. 

“Alastair?” 

Alastair's ears perked up at the distant sound of a voice, as he was pleasantly surprised by the very person he was so desperate to see. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as a rush of excitement flooded through him, filling his stomach with eager jitters. His cart was abandoned in a second, Jeremiah instantly pulling him away from all thoughts of files, organization, and work. He fastened his pace, hurrying through the long, winding aisles, before finally coming out on the end, finding Jeremiah near his desk, a smile on his face. It seemed to make the whole room brighter, the coolness of the underground no longer bothersome. Not with Jeremiah there, staring at him so fondly. 

“Jeremiah,” he said with a small sigh of relief, slightly out of breath. “You’re back.” 

“Yup.” Jeremiah grinned a little wider. “Just got here.” 

Alastair quickly moved to close the gap between Jeremiah and himself, looking down at his older brother. “The mission went well? Everything fine?” He asked, giving Jeremiah a once over. It had been… at least two weeks since he had seen him last. Alastair knew he was lucky it wasn’t longer, but still, the two weeks had lasted an eternity. He never felt more glad than when his brother returned. And fortunately, Jeremiah didn’t look like he’d changed very much in the time he had been away, his hair still the same short length, eyes still shining in the same soft way Alastair had grown accustomed to. 

Jeremiah gave him a firm nod. “Yeah, it was actually really successful. We got a lot of work done.” 

Just like any other time that Jeremiah spoke about his missions, his eyes flashed with this sort of fire that nothing else could fuel. He looked so satisfied with himself, so proud, that Alastair couldn’t help but feel the same. Jeremiah was out in the world, helping spread the word of God — of the existence of Magicae. Making a real difference. Alastair was lucky to be able to call someone so incredible his brother.

Alastair offered Jeremiah a small smile before quietly nodding towards his desk, sitting down in his own chair and gesturing to the one he always had set up, for the rare occasions during the month that Jeremiah could make time to stop by. “How much time do you have before your next mission?” 

Jeremiah plopped himself down, leaning back as a sigh of contentment fell from his lips. “A few days this time.” He said, shooting another small smile in Alastair’s direction. “I’ve got a bit more of a break to see you.” 

Alastair felt his face flush with excitement, undoubtedly a deep pink as he relaxed into his seat a little bit more. “Oh. Good.” Although his awkward, timid demeanor didn’t fully express it, he hadn’t ever felt so happy to hear those words. For a few days, he could have Jeremiah. For a few days, he’d have a reprieve from his mountains of work – something to look forward to every morning. Something to give his days a little more meaning. 

There was a beat of silence, before a thought suddenly occurred to him. Of course – now he could finally grab what he’d been waiting the past weeks to show Jeremiah. He perked up, quickly standing before stooping down low to shuffle through his drawers, carefully searching through the contents before finally producing something small and white. “I made you another one while you were gone,” he said quietly, flushing a little as he took one of Jeremiah’s hands with his own and pressed the object into his open palm. Now that his hands were no longer shielding it, Jeremiah could clearly see that it was a little piece of paper folded into what looked to be some sort of four-legged animal, all the small little folds working to give it more life. “I tried to do a dog. Does it look like one?” 

Jeremiah’s face split into an instant grin. “Alastair, this is incredible.” He murmured, holding the small origami sculpture in his hand up to the light, admiring it with a sort of reverence that no one else could hold when staring at one of Alastair’s little creations. He glanced up at Alastair, beaming, and Alastair felt himself puff up at the praise, breaking into a full, true grin, showcasing his dimples and all as his cheeks grew all warm. “Thank you.” He said quickly, glancing away and staring down at his feet instead as he rubbed his hands on his slacks repeatedly. “Um, it’s kind of hard to tell how they’re shaped just looking at paintings and diagrams but I think I’m kind of proud of it. You can add it to your collection.” 

“No, no, you did good.” Jeremiah’s assurance was immediate, eyes focused back down on the paper dog, scanning over every careful fold and crease, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “This looks perfect. It’s definitely going into my collection.” 

Alastair smiled, lips closed, and nodded. “Okay. Thank you. I’m glad you like it.” He said, still rubbing his hands against his pants. “I’ll make you another one when you leave on your next mission. I even might ask Father Julius to send down some coloured paper. For ‘file organization’, of course.” 

“Of course,” Jeremiah said with a grin, a unspoken understanding passing through the two of them as he carefully tucked the paper sculpture away in his pocket, safe. 

As the conversation lulled, Alastair found his gaze wandering from Jeremiah back down to his old, slightly worn, leather shoes. He numbly tried to think of things to tell Jeremiah. Sometimes he wished that he wasn’t so dull to talk to, more like Jeremiah, who always seemed to know just the right thing to say. But no matter how much he tried to be like him, tried to will himself to change, he always fell short, in some sort of way. 

The thought then crossed his mind that maybe this was a good time to bring what had been lingering in his thoughts for quite a while now. He’d meant to say something earlier, but they never seemed to really have enough time together. At least, that’s what Alastair would’ve blamed it on, but really it was just as poor of an excuse as any. Now though, he had no reason not to say anything. 

“Hey Jeremiah,” he said, voice much softer than before, as his eyes darted around the room anxiously, looking anywhere but at his brother’s face. 

He could feel as Jeremiah glanced over at him, gaze landing on his hunched, fidgeting figure. “Hm?” He hummed, the slightest bit of concern flickering in his eyes. 

Alastair’s fingers clenched around the fabric of his pants and he awkwardly cleared this throat. “Well, it’s just that, I’ve… uh, I’ve been running low on things to read. There’s only so many files in this place that I’m actually allowed to look at.” He cleared his throat again, his ears and neck flushing a deep red that matched his already-burning cheeks. “And I was wondering if maybe on your next mission you could….” He hesitated, worry creeping up his spine as the air around the two of them only seemed to get thicker with tension. Despite the anxiety coursing through his veins, Alastair tried to will himself to go on, gathering up whatever courage he had left in his weak, timid body. He took a deep breath, the next of his words spilling out in a fast rush, too afraid to look Jeremiah in the eyes, but not allowing himself to back down now. “If you could bring me some human books. Or just a human book, not multiple. I was thinking maybe something…. Fictional? Maybe. I know, I know, it’s terrible for me to ask that, and you don’t have to. I know that could get you in a lot of trouble. Just, please, don’t tell Father Julius I brought it up.”  

Jeremiah relaxed back in his chair again, eyes never leaving Alastair’s face. “Yeah no, I could probably do that for you.” He said all nonchalant, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like maybe it wasn’t so bad of Alastair to want something for himself. 

Alastair fell silent, blinking a few times before jerking his head up from his lap, his eyes wide as he stared at his brother, trying to decipher what he just heard. Just like that? He’d said… yes? “What? You… you could?” He asked, hope flickering in his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’ll pick some up on my way back.” He said with a shrug, not losing his casual tone. “And don’t worry,” he added, leaning in close, offering Alastair a soft, almost sympathetic, smile. “I won’t tell Father Julius about it.” 

Alastair was quiet for a long moment, just staring at Jeremiah, taken aback. The thought that someone would do something so kind for him, to go out of their way to fulfill his selfish desires, well…. It was foreign. He had been so nervous to ask, scared of what his brother might think, scared of what Father Julius would do if he found out about his little request, but Jeremiah’s instant assurance made his fear almost feel a little dumb, now that he was thinking about it. Of course Jeremiah wouldn’t mind. Jeremiah was the epitome of selflessness — never judging him, always checking up on him, always there when he really needed him. He truly was beyond lucky to have someone like him in his life. 

He allowed his shoulders to sag in relief, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. He shouldn’t have been so afraid in the first place. Jeremiah would never put him in harm’s way. There really was nothing to worry about, not with his brother staring at him so gently. With a sigh, he tipped his head forwards, letting it thunk against Jeremiah’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice barely more than a faint echo. 

Jeremiah ruffled Alastair’s hair, leaving it more tousled and messy than usual. “Hey, it’s no problem. You gotta have something to do while stuck down here.” He said, a smile in his voice. 

Alastair huffed with no real annoyance as his hair was mussed. He lifted his head, meeting Jeremiah’s eyes again. “Yeah. But still, thank you.” He said, offering a smile of his own. “Does Father Julius know you’re down here?” 

As soon as the words left Alastair’s mouth he regretted them. 

Almost as if timed by some higher being, the door swung open and in walked Father Julius, hands behind his back, pious as always. Alastair instantly stood, posture straight as he took half a step away from Jeremiah, ducking his head down low. “Father Julius,” he greeted, almost silent, Jeremiah quickly following his lead, straightening up and bowing towards the man standing before the two brothers. 

Father Julius strode forwards, stopping in front of Alastair’s desk. He took a long moment to regard Alastair, his dark eyes flicking over his trembling, lanky figure, almost calculating, before he tipped his chin up, his gaze level. “Archive Master,” he said calmly, voice silky and smooth like the ripples of velvet. “I take it you’ve completed your daily tasks if you have the time to lounge about.” 

It was almost phrased like a joke, just a light comment with no true meaning, no consequences attached to it, but Alastair knew better. He shrunk under Father Julius’ gaze, wishing that he could just crawl into a hole and disappear forever. Anything would be better than the disgust in Julius’ eyes, burning into him in a way that made him feel even more foreign in his body than he already did.  

Julius turned to Jeremiah and the change in his expression was unmistakable. His gaze grew fonder, almost soft, if Alastair could ever think to describe Father Julius as soft. “Jeremiah, I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.” He said, offering his protege a warm smile. “I should have known. Can’t keep you away from this one for long, can I?” 

Jeremiah flushed, appearing slightly sheepish. “Sorry Father,” he said, his tone now dripping with respect and formality when directed towards Julius. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” 

The change in Jeremiah’s demeanor made Alastair’s skin crawl. 

Father Julius, the ever-gracious soul he was, simply waved a hand and smiled. “Nonsense, nonsense. All is forgiven.” He said, pardoning Jeremiah of any wrongdoing. Alastair knew he wouldn’t be let off the hook so easily. 

“Why don’t you head up to the chapel? I need to speak with the Archive Master here about some important files.” Father Julius said, gesturing towards the door. Alastair paled, his gut twisting. No. He didn’t want to be alone with Father Julius. Not for one second. Please, anything but that. 

Jeremiah glanced over at Alastair for a second, his eyes flickering over his face momentarily. Alastair looked at him pleadingly, begging with his eyes for his brother not to leave. But of course Jeremiah, never one to disobey Julius, did so anyways. With a curt nod in Father Julius’ direction, he turned around, the doors closing with a gentle click behind him. 

Alastair watched him go, praying to God that maybe his brother would turn back, just this once. That maybe he’d rescue him from the terrifying wrath of Father Julius. But the sound of Jeremiah’s voice, his one solace, never rang out again. No, he was completely alone. 

As always. 

Alastair quickly cast his gaze down again, the Archives suddenly feeling so very cramped and suffocating with Father Julius glaring up at him, the harshness of his gaze unrelenting. 

“Look at me.”

Alastair flinched at the cool sharpness of Julius’ words, biting his tongue to force down a whimper. He longed for Jeremiah. With his brother at his side, he always felt just a sliver more of bravery that he otherwise didn’t possess. Jeremiah always knew how to make him feel better, even with just a subtle look of reassurance. But his brother was not here to save him. 

He looked up. 

“You know better. Jeremiah is a good soldier: a servant of The Lord. This is not how he should be spending his time.” 

“Yes, Father,” Alastair mumbled, barely able to force the words out. 

“You are a distraction. Jeremiah doesn’t need distractions.” 

“Yes, Father,” Alastair repeated, his voice even weaker this time. 

Julius scoffed. “I thought Demons were wicked beings with a strong bite. When did you lose yours?” 

Alastair ducked his head down again, chin practically tipping into his chest, hands clasped in front of him, as he desperately tried to stop their shaking. 

He did not respond. 

“I’ll have one of the Cardinals ship their files here. Clearly, you need more work.” 

“Yes, Father.” 

Julius spun around and was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. Alastair jerked at the abrupt noise, inhaling shakily and blinking hard. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stood like that, whether it was three seconds or an hour, but finally his shaking legs gave out, and he collapsed back down into his desk chair, hunching over his work and rubbing his temples.

Why was he so stupid?

masterlist || next

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

Credits go to @ohagiwrites as she helped cowrite this. Alastair, Jeremiah, and Julius all belong to @ohagiwrites ੈ✩‧₊˚

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @seastarblue @vesanal @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @bioniclechronicles @lancedoncrimsonwings @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @whump-till-ya-jump @sharkblizzardblogs @sugaredparchment @scoundrelwithboba @corinneglass

★ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

[justbreakonme]

Mmmm this is my jam…

i really love when a character, calmly and completely earnestly, is like i’m not important, i’m no one really, just a blade that people use and throw away. no one remembers me for long after i leave their life. and then you look at the evidence and it turns out that every person who meets them becomes permanently obsessed with them, for better and for worse, and the character has somehow completely missed this fact

[sir-fenris]

can I use my "technically inspired cyrus via the prompt response you wrote a drabble out of" privileges to give him a rlly nice warm bath and brush and clean his hair when it's wet and apologize whenever I tug too hard plsplsplspls

Yes! You do have that privilege! You prepared the soil for Cyrus' story to grow :D (Sorry for the wait)

This is technically the first time you ever see Cyrus actually in a scene :)

Self-deprecation and kinda unreliable narrator ahead

-

(Curse of Withering)

Cyrus really thinks you're just bringing him to the bathtub to drown him as punishment, so he apologizes instantly, trying to step back.

When he realizes you're allowing him to bathe with warm water, and you're even letting him use his hand freely to wash himself... His eyes fill with tears. Cyrus thanks you over and over again in a quiet voice, and says he'll behave.

You even allowed him to use actual bath products! His hair never smelled so nice before, and his body feels so floaty, so much cleaner... Cyrus thanks you again for allowing him happy time (that is, indeed, how he calls it), and he promises once again to keep behaving.

He leaves the bathtub feeling cleaner than ever, floaty in a happy way he hasn't felt in a long time.

When you reach to brush his hair, he doesn't even flinch. It's okay if you hurt him now. After you gave him such a rare happy time, he won't even whimper in pain from the yanks, he'll behave very well and be very quiet.

But... you're not yanking his hair carelessly or hissing about how "stupidly hard" his hair is to detangle. Cyrus knows he has a lot of knots, but you are careful, and even when you tug a little (nothing compared to what his handler does), you apologize.

He doesn't understand what he did to deserve this, and he's not sure how to respond to apologies. So he just mutters, "Okay, ma'am", trying really hard to keep his tears away.

No one wants his annoying crying, and he doesn't want you to be angry at him.

His eyes close from how nice it is to have his hair brushed so gently. It has been so many years since the last time someone had done that. Memories flood his mind, and he can't help but to cry again, but he makes sure it's quiet so as not to bother you. You're being kind, he won't repay it by being annoying.

When you're done with his hair, he's already asleep sitting up. Cyrus is good at sleeping in any position. For the first time in months, he has pleasant dreams.

Once he wakes up to the lonely room, he whispers, "Thank you," one last time, hoping you can still hear.

-

Taglist: @whump-till-ya-jump @floral-comet-whump @paingoes

-

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whumptember Day 27

27. "Don't forget about me, alright?" packed bag | leaving home | secret destination Alt. Prompt 6: Curled into a ball

A/N: Ren previously appeared here and here.

CW: emotional whump, guilt, implied character death

Ren sat curled up on the floor of the shared bathroom under the cold fluorescent lights. How long he’d been sitting there, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He couldn’t move anyway, under the smothering weight pressing down on him.

Useless. You’re completely useless. You can’t save anyone.

The voice in his head was silent for now, the voice that told him to do things, hurt people. The voice that controlled him. But another voice had taken its place, one equally merciless and just as much a part of him.

You’re just a weapon. Nothing more.

He hugged his knees tighter, digging his nails into his own skin.

You couldn’t save them. Not Jude, not Cassidy, no one. The only thing you’re good for is destruction.

Tears pricked at his eyes. He wrestled them back, cursing himself, ashamed even though he was completely alone.

Weapons don’t cry.

His cheek touched the cold tile as he let himself slump to the side, still curled in a fetal position. The sensation shocked him just a little, enough to clear his head for a second.

But I'm still a human. And they still believe in me.

@whumptember

[actress4him]

Querencia 12.5 - First Healing

You guys voted, and amazingly enough, I have delivered! This chapter was already floating around in my head, though it’s not technically the “next” chapter of the series like the poll said. This falls right after Shopping Trip and before Just a Cold and the Mind Control trilogy, and is a moment I realized was missing from the story.

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps , @bookworm2107

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Contains: lady whump, dude whump, broken ribs, self-deprecating thoughts, references to past homelessness, hidden injuries

.

.

Liliana is alone in the warehouse, and it’s…a bit creepy, if she were to be honest. The place is huge, and her footsteps echo everywhere she walks. She’s tempted to hide in her room until the team returns. Then again, something about being shut in a room with no idea what’s going on in the rest of the building is even more disconcerting than being out here in the emptiness.

She should be ready for when they get back, anyway. This is the first time they’ve gotten called out on superhero duties since she’s been staying here, which means that they could very well get hurt and need her to heal them when they get back. Nari has assured her that it doesn’t happen very often. Still, that’s the only reason she’s here, right? If one of them does come back hurt, she should be ready to help right away, not locked away in her room.

So she makes her way to the infirmary, instead. It’s a small room, mainly comprised of a cot in the center, a counter with cabinets above it on one wall, and some shelves on another. They keep it stocked with first aid items, some a bit beyond what’s typical like crutches and slings and forceps.

They don’t really like to go to the hospital, Jamil had explained. None of them have ever had personal encounters with people who hate Nons…Supers…but they’ve heard the tales. They can’t risk being at the mercy of doctors and nurses whose political leanings they don’t know.

Liliana understands that perfectly.

They won’t need all the paraphernalia anymore, though, not with her around. She’s happy that she can take that burden off of them, take away the worry of what if someday we get hurt too badly to treat here. They’ve done so much for the city, after all, and now for her. They deserve to be taken care of.

At the same time, the longer she sits there, kicking her feet and staring at the blank walls, the more nervous she gets. She hasn’t healed that many people. There were a few accidental healings when she was young, but other than the arthritis those were all scrapes and bruises and one common cold. Then came the years at the facility, when she wasn’t allowed to even think about using her power.

While she was on the streets, she’d healed twice - both times with an enormous amount of fear that someone was going to leap out into the open and drag her back to the facility for doing so. The first time was the worst thing she’d ever healed. A lady had gotten mugged in an alleyway, and Liliana had healed where the mugger had hit her over the head with the butt of his gun. The only reason she’d stepped in and shoved her fear aside then was because she was afraid the woman might die otherwise. The headache she’d gotten from that was horrendous and lasted for a few days straight. Not something that she was looking to repeat anytime soon.

The second time she did with slightly less trepidation, since there hadn’t been consequences for the first. That was the man with the broken glass, the time when she’d met Nari and Quinn. The pain from that wasn’t all that bad, just a few stinging cuts. She still has the little white scars on her stomach.

And the only other time she’s healed was Jamil’s broken nose, which had been nerve-racking, too, but she was the one who’d broken it so she had to offer to heal it. That had hurt for days, too, and she kept feeling like she couldn’t breathe.

Today could be her first official healing, though. Her first time really performing her new job.

When she’d agreed to join their team, it had been a spur of the moment decision. A decision she’s second guessed many times, for reasons ranging from I shouldn’t have moved in with a bunch of strangers to they need someone better than me, someone with less problems than me.

Now, in this moment, she’s second guessing her ability to handle the kinds of injuries a team of superheroes might come in with. They could have broken bones. They could get shot, stabbed, burned, impaled, electrocuted…the villains they fight against have all varieties of powers that can do a ton of damage. Can she really heal any and all of that? More importantly, can she do it without letting on that it hurts, for however long it may take for those things to heal?

She doesn’t have a choice. They let her in so that she could heal them. If she can’t do it, then she’ll get kicked out, and she’s not sure she can handle going back to the streets, losing all of this comfort and care that she’s finally starting to get used to. And she can’t let them know that it hurts her, they’ll think she’s too weak and the result would be exactly the same.

It isn’t that they’re mean. They’re the nicest people she’s ever met. But they need someone who can do this job. She has to make sure that’s her, so she won’t lose even more people and yet another place to live.

The wait is excruciating, but eventually she hears the beeping and opening of the front door from just down the hall. Jumping to her feet, she moves to the doorway, wringing her gloved hands as she peers out. One, two, three, four…they’re all on their feet. It doesn’t mean no one is injured at all, but it’s certainly not as bad as it could be.

Quinn’s face brightens when he sees her. “Liliana, hey.” His eyes dart toward the room behind her. “Everything alright?”

She nods, still glancing up and down at what she can see of all of them. “I’m just, just waiting. For, um…for you guys to get back. Just in case.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. We’re mostly in one piece, but Alex did break a rib or two.” He gestures back toward the redhead, who she can see now is pressing one hand to his side.

“Ehh, I think they’re just cracked.” He waves his free hand casually. “Nothing new for me, honestly. I get beat up a lot.” He laughs at his own joke, then winces in clear regret.

Liliana’s eyes widen. Cracked ribs. She can handle that, right? She’s never had injured ribs before, but if Alex can treat it so nonchalantly then maybe she can, too. She definitely doesn’t want him to keep being in pain, it makes her stomach churn watching him react.

“I can, I can help. That’s what, um, what I’m here for, r-right?”

He grins at her and enters the infirmary as she steps back to make room. “I’d really appreciate it, if you think you’re up for it.” Gingerly, he settles on the cot facing her. “I’m used to having to deal with these things for weeks. If you can really make it disappear in an instant…”

“Mhm.” She nods again, still toying with her fingers. She’s just standing there, and he’s sitting, watching her…waiting on her, she realizes. Everyone is waiting on her. The other three are crowded into the room behind her, ready to watch her perform her task.

Right. She can do this. Gloves have to come off…well, maybe just one. One glove off, then she has to…oh, shoot, she has to ask him to…

“Um. I, um…I n-need…” Her face is growing hot. “I-I have to, to…to touch…like, um…s-skin…”

His eyebrows go up in realization. “Oh! Yeah, no problem.” He lifts the bottom hem of his shirt, revealing a cluster of bruises on his right side. “And don’t worry about hurting me, I’m tough.”

Her cheeks are still burning. “It, um, it shouldn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t!” Jamil pipes in from the doorway. “At least it didn’t for me. Barely felt a thing.”

“Oh right! I forgot you’ve done this before.” Alex leans over slightly to see him. “Is it cool?”

“Definitely. Though I didn’t get to actually, you know…see it. I’m looking forward to it this time.”

The others are agreeing, and Liliana wants to curl up in a hole somewhere and disappear. They’re all acting like this is some huge special thing that she can do, and it’s just…her power. The power that got her kicked out of her family and locked up for three years. Yes, if she has to have a power she’s glad that it’s one that helps people, but it’s not special. It’s not that big of a deal.

“Okay, I’m, I’m gonna…” She motions toward his ribs and steps forward, sliding the glove from her fingers. Her hand is shaking a little.

Ever so gently, she places her fingertips against the bruised skin. Blue light immediately spreads across the area, soaking up the black and purple, seeping down until it reaches the cracked bones and beginning to mend them.

Don’t make a face, don’t make a face, don’t make a face.

The pain of her ribs “cracking” is sharp and immediately invades every breath. Liliana bites down on the inside of her lip to keep from gasping or making any noise.

Cállate, cállate, no hagas ruido, no pueden averiguar.

She glances up at Alex’s face, but his head is tilted down to watch the healing. Good. If she did slip and make any kind of expression, no one would have seen.

The light fades away as the last of the pain transfers, and she lets her hand drop, quickly moving to put her glove back on. “How’s, um…how’s it feel?”

His gaze comes up, and his eyes are wide with amazement. “Wow.” He stretches his arms over his head, bends his torso back and forth. She knows for a fact that those movements would have been very painful a minute ago.

“It feels great! It’s…totally gone, like, not even a trace left.” Looking down and pulling his shirt up again, he runs his fingers over the now unblemished skin. “That’s crazy.”

The others crowd around, Jamil poking at Alex and Nari making teasing comments about how he just can’t keep himself from getting hurt, and Liliana shrinks backwards, out of the way. Sharp pain shoots through her ribs with any little twist of her body. She’s going to have to learn how she can and can’t move, but try her best not to look stiff in the meantime.

A few weeks, he said, right? She can do this. It’ll be fine.

Alex stands and pushes his way past the others, not a difficult feat considering how much space his height and muscles take up. “Seriously, Lil, you’re fantastic.” He chuckles to himself. “Get it? Lil? ‘Cause you’re so…lil? I’m calling you Lil from now on. Anyway, I’d hug you, but you probably don’t want me to and that’s fine, so…fist bump? Can we fist bump it?”

She definitely does not want a hug right now, not with cracked ribs, but…she can handle a fist bump, she thinks. Tentatively, she raises her fist, and Alex gently knocks his knuckles into hers.

“Welcome officially to the team, kid. It’s great to have you here.”

Everyone spills out of the room exclaiming similar messages, making a huge deal out of what she just did and her presence with them. Liliana follows along silently, cheeks flushed again, trying not to let the praise get to her.

She still wishes they wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. But if her power can make them this happy, then she’s very glad she can share it with them. Even if it ends up hurting much worse in the future.

[rosetyler42]

Simon and Lucy (they have it better than Dennis or Mavis did, but they still got some of these)

Though to be fair, their franchise, while lighthearted and cartoony, is ABOUT discrimination.

Half-breeds, y’know? Shunned and despised, the victim of hate crimes by both species for not really being either, having it pressed upon them that they’re a disgusting, shameful mistake. Trying to stand up for the parents/creators they love but also quietly struggling with resentment toward them for bringing them into a life like this.