#past starvation

[wolfeyedwitch]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Sorry for the wait!

- - -

When Charles went in to check on the vampire, he instantly realized his mistake.

They were kneeling and looking up at him, blood bag entirely untouched.

He was so stupid! Of course they wouldn't take food just like that. The poor thing probably thought he was taunting them or testing them. Or maybe they came up with something even worse, who knows what horrors they have been forced to accept as normal.

"Ah. You're up." He tried to make his voice seem calm and content to limit any possible misunderstandings of intentions.

Who knows how effectively that will be, but at least he's trying.

Watching them carefully, he stooped down and picked up the bag. He held in front of him, handing it to the vampire.

"Here you are, dear. Please eat, you have my permission."

He didn't know what he'd do if they refused a second time.

Masterlist

CW: internalized dehumanization, it as a pronoun, disordered eating, past starvation

---

The vampire did its best not to appear tense as its new owner entered the room.

"Ah. You're up." He sounded.... not quite casual. Like he was trying for it, but missed.

Well, too late for it now. It just hoped that he would explain why he was upset when he inevitably punished it.

Its owner walked over and picked up the bloodbag, watching the vampire like a bug under a magnifying glass the whole time. He...

He held the bag in front of himself.

Out towards the vampire.

Offering it.

This was a new level of cruelty. It was one thing to avoid temptation when left alone; it was another thing entirely to maintain control when the blood was being held out in front of it like Tantalus and his punishment.

"Here you are, dear." His voice was more genuine now, a mix of pity and some other emotion it couldn't quite place. It wasn't any of the usual emotions it heard from owners: anger, disgust, or malicious glee.

"Please eat."

What?

"You have my permission."

What?

It hadn't done anything for him yet! It had only just arrived; why was he feeding it now, before it did anything to earn such privileges?

It hesitantly extended one crooked hand to the outstretched bag, expecting it to be taken out of reach at any moment. When it grasped the bag, it snuck a glance at the man's face once more, trying to see if this was truly allowed.

He gave a small nod.

With that encouragement, its control snapped. It snatched the bag out of the man's hands before he could change his mind. It raised the bag to its mouth and bit, savagely tearing it open and greedily gulping the contents.

The first taste was beyond description. It didn't matter that the blood was room-chilled rather than body-warmed, or that the taste of plastic and chemicals pervaded it. To the vampire, it was ambrosia, the finest thing it had ever tasted.

It wasn't just any blood— it was human blood. The best sustenance for a vampire, and the only kind that could fuel a vampire's preternatural healing. It had been denied the substance for longer than it cared to recall, subsisting off the animal blood it was given only rarely.

In moments, the contents of the bag were gone. All that was left was the gore it could feel coating its mouth and chin in messy smears.

Oh.

Oh, no.

No, no, no, it had made such a mistake.

How could it have been so careless, so disgusting as to make such a mess of itself? It could hear its trainer's voice echoing in the back of its mind, reminding it that if its owner was gracious enough to feed it, the very least it could do was be neat while eating.

Do you really want to remind your owner of what a disgusting parasite you are? If you act like a wild beast, you'll be treated like one.

As it tried in vain to wipe away the remnants of its meal (it could lick its hands clean later, but for now it needed to not anger its owner further), it made the mistake of glancing up to see the look the man wore. He was looking at it like a butcher looks at a lamb going to slaughter: dispassionate and assessing.

Like he was imagining where to make the first cut.

With that thought, it finally connected the pieces. The artist, his macabre art, giving it blood.

This was in preparation for a painting. It had to be. Its owner had decided after looking at it that it needed sustenance before he could start any project. It couldn't stop the shiver that ran down its spine at the thought.

To hide the mess it had made of itself, and to show proper gratitude and submission, it bent down. It was already kneeling, so it folded itself over its legs until its forehead touched the floor.

[honeycollectswhump]

Things End | People Change – Healing

to the surprise of literally no one, i've been insane about vincent again... enjoy the result of that: a continuation of this!! i guess this is a slight spoiler for @whumpcloud's story? but rather for the vibe than specific plot points

CW: implied / undertones of past sa, references to past torture and starvation

There it is again. The thing, the wobbly metal plate Vincent has come to think of as a weird mirror. It’s the best he’ll get anyway, even though he likes to steal glances at the way modern mirrors are shaped and designed so very differently than what he grew up with. He is denied any grace of a reflection though, another trade for immortality and power he thought so simple. And yet…

Sometimes when he sees Clary’s reflection, her posture held high and proud, just like she should be, Vincent’s mind drifts, wishing for a similar soul that would allow him to see himself as he is. Unlike before though, he doesn’t dwell on it. The knowledge simply is, passing briefly through him, but barely leaving an impact.

Now, he’s in front of his almost-mirror, that twists and turns his shape and everything around him, that Cai got rid of again after what happened the first and last time Vincent had it in his room. The dent –a reminder of what happened– is still visible, distorting the reflections even more. It surprises him that Cai didn’t throw it away and instead just disposed of it in this room, that holds so many memories but mostly also old possessions they can’t seem to bring themselves to get rid of. 

Today, the twins have decided to declutter and Vincent is more than delighted to help. Maybe his vampiric strength couldn’t protect him, but now it can help with the mundane chores that come with everyday life, and maybe that's worth something more too.

Which is how he ended up here, once again face to face with his own warped reflection, and he can’t help but stare. He looks…different?

Logically, Vincent knows he shouldn’t look the same as he did after years of starvation and torture, that he prefers to bury in some dark corner of his mind. But without a reliable method of visualising himself, and too afraid of appearing eternally, cursedly bloodstained, he never dwelled too long on how his body might look, never even debated asking Clary or Cai. It was for the better that way. 

He’s not bloodsoaked though, his hands are not stained with ash sticking to him like goo, the scars where he ripped his own skin off in an attempt to cleanse himself of the reminder are long gone.

Instead, as he steps forward to take a closer look, he finds that his face seems softer. Gone are the hard edges carved by malnutrition, the sunken-in eyes setting shadows over what remains of Henry. His now rounded jawline is a stark contrast to what it used to be, and together with his slightly plump cheeks, feign a picture of youth.  Against all odds and the passing of centuries, he feels like twenty-two again, when he was still unburdened with immortality and foolishly wishing for a change. 

His hair is changed too, though he consciously worked towards that. He knows from the way it feels, his curls finally getting defined, the length cut regularly. It takes work, but it feels nice, so nice to finally have something only he can control.

Suddenly, a stray thought overcomes him, and Vincent sheepishly looks around for any onlookers, even though his vampiric hearing already tells him that the twins are busy in the living room. Hesitantly, almost afraid of what he will see, Vincent lifts his jumper up.

Maybe he should feel embarrassed at such a childish action, but right now his curiosity overwhelms any sort of shame. 

He chose the jumper by himself too, just like he decides how his hair looks, even though Clary said it makes him look like a grandfather, said that he is finally acting his age. Before, he would have scrambled to rip the fabric off of his body in a desperate attempt to please her again, but now he knows that she is joking. It feels good to know.

His skin is more lifelike, a blush shining through the paleness that makes him look like a dead man. It’s not just that though. Where once protruding ribs used to sit, he can’t even see his bones now, not even a hint when he stretches. It’s a hard-earned layer of fat, chubbiness he’d never take for granted

All of it is both a gift and a symbol, showing the care of feeding him every single day even when it comes at a cost to the twins. He can’t even remember the last time someone showed him such consideration, and it must have been back with Henry, two lifetimes ago, but now that thought doesn’t fill him with the same sadness anymore that it did before. 

He is not just grieving something of the past. Care was given once before and it will be given again, no matter how unlikely that still feels to him. Every moment he spends with Clary shows him that. Despite it all, life became good again.

It feels almost easy to believe, that his flesh and skin are ignorant of what happened, that the memory went past them like a light breeze, leaving no mark. Like seeking a thrill, Vincent looks for the imprints he once saw, collaring his neck, tainting his heart and hips. He–

He can find none.

Like a piece of paper left blank, he feels oddly empty. Even without seeing them, he had grown accustomed to expecting them there. The knowledge painting a clear picture spoken in dark, hand-shaped prints holding onto him forever. Something even death could never erase, and yet… And yet he finds himself devoid of such things, finds himself almost—

He cannot finish that thought, cannot think further, not yet. 

The curiosity that had taken hold of him made room for a wondrous disbelieve. Vincent looks closer, he finally does, expecting to see contradictions to the fickle hope bubbling in his chest like a new heart.

Another person stares back. 

Not the timid boy, with his eternally lowered gaze for reasons he couldn’t understand, hunching his back to make himself as unassuming as possible, always, next to everyone else. Born soft and squishy just to force himself into a rigid form, fitting in with expectations he could never hold, his spine bending under the weight. That never changed, not even after becoming a vampire, especially not with Lyfelde. One head held up high, the other forcefully pushed down. 

That’s not who he sees, though. Instead, he sees a young man, standing straight, only bending through the warbling mirror. There is a shine in his Henry-green eyes, and for a moment Vincent thinks that if someone were to look in his face, they’d notice his eyes first and the scar second. Maybe, the scar wouldn’t catch their attention at all. 

He can’t remember the last time was allowed to look this soft, the last time he allowed it himself. It goes beyond his rounded cheeks that bring back an air of innocent youth, beyond the comfy sweaters with the good texture. It’s the smile that comes to him easier, the glimmer it brings to his eyes, the silly laugh at stupid things he isn’t afraid to hide. It’s the piles of books, old and new, about linguistics, and the evenings where Clary listens to his rambles. It’s that somehow, before this moment, he had never noticed it all like this, never noticed the meaning beyond the thankfulness that occasionally overwhelms him.

It’s that all of this has never been touched by Lyfelde.

Maybe some of his impact will never leave Vincent, like the honour of creating the last scar his body could ever remember. Maybe he will never be who he was before Lyfelde. But, and the thought makes him feel almost giddy, he is not who he was with Lyfelde anymore either. A metamorphosis maybe, two- or threefold, a life categorised by before’s and after’s but never always’.  

Vincent hopes –victoriously–, that if Lyfelde saw him today, with all of his joy, and love, and caring friends that are starting to feel like family, he would be unrecognisable to him.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

Can you please write a whumpee that was locked in their cell to starve for weeks and weeks when they were with whumper, and now they're safe at caretaker's house, but they refuse to eat because they think they don't deserve it

They wait for the middle of night where they're sure caretaker is sleeping and go to the kitchen to raid the fridge, desperately eating like they were never going to eat again

Caretaker walks on them mid act and comforts them, reassuring them that they will never starve again

Thanks in advance <3

aghh love this idea! pls enjoy <3

cw starvation, past trauma/abuse, whump recovery, hurt/comfort 

Caretaker slowly crept into the kitchen after they had been woken by the noise. They didn’t know what to expect, but when they stumbled in half asleep, rubbing at their bleary eyes, they certainly weren’t expecting to see Whumpee sitting on the floor, devouring a container of leftovers. 

“What’s going on?” they muttered. 

Whumpee looked up in shock. Empty Tupperware and snack bags were discarded on the floor next to them. “I—I’m sorry,” they gasped, eyes wide with horror. “Caretaker, I'm sorry, I just—I couldn’t...” 

Caretaker rushed to kneel beside them. “Hey, shh. It’s okay.” 

Whumpee set the food they were eating aside as they began to shake. “No, no, it’s not okay. You’ve been so kind to me a-and I’m so ungrateful. J-just eating your food without asking, I’m sorry.” 

“Whumpee, it’s alright. Breathe, okay?” Caretaker said softly, pulling Whumpee into their arms. They recalled the last couple days, and how Whumpee had refused to eat anything—it suddenly made sense. “Were...were you not eating because you didn’t think you were allowed to?” 

Whumpee sniffled, clinging to Caretaker’s shirt. “I don’t deserve it,” they whispered. “I don’t deserve any of the kindness you’ve shown me. B-but I just couldn’t—I was so hungry...” 

Caretaker’s fingers stroked their hair, gentle and comforting. “Of course you deserve it. You deserve to eat, Whumpee. I don’t care if anyone’s told you otherwise. From now on, you can eat whenever you want.” 

“Really?” 

Caretaker nodded. “Yes. Now come on—if you’re still hungry, I’d be happy to make you something. I think I have some brownie mix around here, as well.” 

[bameme]

"Pa! The Anarcho-primitivists got into the therapy talk!"

[baldurs-gate-official]

Thinking about Astarion and trauma again (shocking)

He really is the first character I've seen that depicts PTSD/C-PTSD the way he does. He's angry. He's collecting the pieces of himself he had to chip away over the years and figuring out how to fit them back together again, and it's hard.

I rarely see good PTSD rep in media (and C-PTSD is even less depicted/understood). And when I do, it's always the soft pitiable side of it. The side of it that's more palatable and easy to accept. But the reality is that the trauma that stems from such abuse can be vicious, and messy. It can lash out and push people away. Bring out the worst in you, at times. It can be so, so angry.

I love that we see that in Astarion. Both because it's good representation, and because I'm a survivor too. I'm angry. I'm upset. I want to kick and scream about it, but I can't. I feel like I must always remain in control, or that displaying those feelings will only hurt those around me and push them away. I don't want that. I don't want to hurt others or be alone.

Seeing Astarion do those things, being angry and messy over it all... It makes me so happy. He says things to Cazador I wish I could say to my own abusers, with no regard to how others perceive it. He doesn't hold back. And I get to see a character with a very similar kind of trauma do/say the things I only dream about, and not be abandoned for it. He's given the chance to heal and grow as a person, and feel loved. He gets to have a happy ending.

And he gets to be mad. And that's ok.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had a bad habit of getting attached to anyone that showed them even an ounce of affection, and that just got worse after the whumper had captured them. The whumpee just wanted any semblance of comfort after what they went through, and they’re willing to ignore anything just for that.

[pinchan]

why are people mad toshiro beat laios up that white boy hit him first

[go-whump-in-the-night]

a character who desperately craves touch, who needs to be held and cared for so much it's eating them up inside. and that same character was hurt so badly in the past that even the gentlest brush of fingertips on their skin makes them fall right back into the person they were before. do they react with fear? or anger?

[bl0rbohandbag]

I was going to say that Lilia was pleasantly wrong and that Malleus is nowhere near as bad as Mallenoa sounds, that he is actually pretty level-headed and calm despite having his moments and is considerably less temperamental and more mature than his mother but you know what. I forgot we are currently in this entire situation because of his selfish desire for everything to remain unchanging and poor emotional management to the point he overblotted and put not only Lilia but the entire NRC under a sleeping spell because of his unwiligness to engage with upsetting emotions and letting go of people he loves.

[painsandconfusion]

Dionysus

An episodic continuation of 'I Have a Job For You'

(tw: siege, death, starvation, war, alcohol consumption, so much dread)

“..sire?”

The request was timid. A gentle interruption of the king’s somnolescent pacing. 

He sighed, coming to a stop as his eyes fell on his captain. “Yes?”

“..the water has officially run out.”

The king’s eyes fell upward toward the sky. Toward whatever god might still care about them.

None seemed to. This siege has lasted months now with no response. 

No Ares to grant them strength in battle. No Indra sent them rain as they withered. Kratos sent them no strength to withstand this. Odin took their dead and neglected their war. Minerva refused to send him even a scrap of wisdom - of even the smallest morsel of cleverness to find a way out. Ra bore heat down on them every day, not sparing them once.

Not one single god took up the sword in their name. 

Not one god wanted anything to do with them. 

“..sire?”

Ah yes. The captain was still here. Expecting a response. 

Expecting some kind of divine wisdom.

Expecting him to lead. 

But no gods were guiding him. Not anymore. No voices pulled him toward prosperity, wisdom, or strength. 

His people would starve to death in their homes, wrapped around their loved ones and surrounded by their own filth. 

With a deep, languid breath, he gave the command. “Then open the wine cellars. Our people will drink tonight.”

There was a beat of silence as the captain stared at him. “...wine..sire?” Surely wondering if their king had gone mad. 

“Wine,” he confirmed. He looked back to the captain now, crossing the room to retrieve his crown. “Gather the people and have the last of our stores brought to the castle kitchen and let them know to prepare a feast. Gather the musicians and performers and have everyone in their beset. I don’t want a single crumb left in the mornings when we open the main gates.”

In silence, the captain stood. And in silence, they left again.

The king settled the heavy metal over his skull again, just a thin layer of hair and skin between bone and gold. What once glimmered with warmth now felt so cold at it bruised against him. 

He bore it anyway as he dragged himself for the stairs. To his rooms to find a garish outfit to match. Something with tassels and gold and rich furs.

The Coyote offered them no cunning to escape for this. Hephaestus lent them no aid as their swords and spears broke away under the enemy’s blows. Shiva seemed the only one interested in them, watching their kingdom wither and burn. Jupiter gave them no strength to hold out any longer. 

But tonight at least, they would dance with Dionysis. Just this one last time.

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @a-galactic-fox @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @treasureguardingdragon @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun @suffering-and-misery @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @yetanotheraltwhumpblog @whump-queen @a-whumped-tea @whumpsday @sonder35)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[wolfeyedwitch]

Masterlist

With that settled, Charles figured he should excuse himself and leave the vampire alone.

"Well, then, with that settled, I will leave you now. If you need anything, knock at the door or wall. I'll keep an ear out for it and come check on you. Beyond that, I will visit you tomorrow and we can talk more then. Good day."

And he left.

So far, so good. The vampire didn't have any major issues, they were able to communicate, and no one is suffering too much due to this circumstance. Therefore, things were going well.

Hopefully they could stay that way.

CW: severed tendons

The vampire waited until long after it could no longer hear its owner's footsteps before it dared to move. Even then, it moved slowly and cautiously. No need to make any noise that might cause him to come back.

He had said it had permission to move, but he'd also said any noise would cause him to check on it. It didn't want to learn what exactly that meant. Not yet.

The fresh blood it had been given was already starting to heal its severed Achilles tendons. The hot-stabbing-needles sensation of its unnatural healing was a welcome pain. Maybe this new owner would let it walk, rather than crawl? He had said given it permission to move.... No, better to not get its hopes up. Even if he did decide to give it that long of a leash, that would most likely not be for some time. It would have to prove it could behave, first.

Either way, that wasn't the problem at hand. The problem at hand was that it was a mess. It had been hasty, greedy, gulping down the blood it had been so generously given without any thought of the consequences. Now, it could feel the blood beginning to dry and crack on its skin.

No one likes a messy pet. Messy pets make for angry owners.

It needed to clean itself up.

It crawled to the doorway across the room, hoping that its suspicions were correct about where it led. Almost there...

Yes!

The adjoining room was a bathroom. It could almost weep with relief. Now it could get clean; it could wash away the evidence of its monstrous nature before its new owner would be reminded once more.

This new owner already had a favored pet. It was unwanted, unneeded.

The last thing it wanted to do was give him any reason to get rid of it.

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

31st Story, Part 2

TW: Blood, implied past captivity and torture, stitches, wound description, angst, corrupt system, issues regarding figure (brief), bruises, angst, knife, touch starvation

Part 1

Guess who's back with a hella long piece. vacay from college for some time with semester 1 over, woo! enjoyyy 💙

“So how did you sleep?” the vigilante asked as she walked downstairs to find the villain sitting cross-legged on her couch. 

“Well,” he answered evenly, emotionlessness overtaking his tone as usual. It wasn't a complete lie; he'd slept better than he had in a long time, but his eyes had wrenched open a little after sunrise, even though he wasn't a morning person. He couldn't relax too much into this life, the knife he took shoved into the pocket of his sweatpants, but she didn't need to know that. 

“I'll make us breakfast,” she announced.

“I'll help you out,” he offered, even though he knew she could probably infer what his motives were. He still wasn't taking any chances anyway. 

She nodded curtly in response, leading him to the kitchen. And he'd almost wished someone had warned him about the whiplash of doing something so outlandishly casual with your enemy, as he watched her make a sandwich and soon enough followed suit, still hyper aware of the knives and the boiling water in the kettle. 

And of course, nothing was lost on Vigilante, even if she probably wasn’t half as nervous as he was, the half-frantic, wild animal wrapped in the poorly fitting garment of someone calm and collected. “Are you always this tense?” she questioned as she sat down at the table and he sat opposite from her.

“Just hungry,” he shot back smoothly, a seasoned liar. Sure, he technically was half-starved, trying to eat slowly just so he wouldn’t retch, but if that was the case, he would’ve relaxed when he ate.  

The vigilante said nothing as she took a bite of her sandwich, but her disbelieving eyebrow raise needed no further additions. 

The villain’s grip tightened on his mug as he worried his frayed bottom lip between his teeth,”What do you want? If you’re going to question every micro-gesture of mine, then why’d you bring me here?” His voice was hoarse with exhaustion, probably from all the screaming he couldn’t muffle, not that he cared.

“I get it,” the vigilante said placatingly, even though it was clear she was somewhat irritated. She wasn’t a goddamn bleeding heart just oozing compassion and patience, not that he expected any different. “You’re afraid of getting hurt.” 

“I am not afraid of crap, Vigilante.” It came out softer than he’d intended, almost as though he was the one trying to calm the situation, a new trait of people-pleasing a new and heavily despised survival skill he’d recently acquired. 

The vigilante wanted to argue, but she also knew that from the day she’d walked into his cell and pulled him out, that she’d been walking on thin ice. That the man in front of her wasn’t his normal, unflappable self that could dish out a lot worse than whatever she dared to throw at him, so for the rest of this tense, awkward breakfast, they both remained quiet. 

It had taken them about two hours of trepidation spent in the opposite ends of the living room for Vigilante to break the silence. “So, about the plan,” she started.

“Yeah?” he asked, now turning to face her. 

“We can’t fight her by traditional means. We don’t have the time to amass an army big enough to rival my sister’s own. The main thing we need to do is find some way to desecrate that shining image of hers,” she explained. 

The villain let out a low hum as though he was contemplating something, but the slight shift in the nature of his gaze indicated he’s noticed something. “Knocking your sister off of her pedestal is surely going to gain you some traction,” he noted. 

“I don’t care much for the spotlight,” she countered. 

“I know. But you seem to care about making sure your sister doesn’t have everything. Still, that isn’t the issue anyway.”

And again, he was right. There is something so utterly sickening of being born in someone’s shadow, of having all your power from someone else’s name. Vigilante was only formidable in people’s eyes because it was required of Superhero’s sister. Again, she’d never claimed to be dramatically selfless.

Still, she took note of how the villain made no effort at eye contact, his eyes trained on the pattern of her wooden coffee table, but she refrained from commenting. “Right. The general idea is, if the adoring public find out what she does to the people in her custo-”

The villain, in his most daring act of the day, had let out a sardonic snort. “Oh, save it. I don’t think you realise that how people like me are treated doesn’t really irk anyone. Because that’s how the world works, it’s easier like that. I’m not the most notorious, but it’s safe to say I’m ‘famous’ enough,” he made air quotations with his fingers, “People usually want to know about the trial, when it comes to people they’ve heard of, but no one gave a damn. No one cared to know I never really got a trial in the first place. Because they were just relieved that the Big Bad Guy was off the streets. Locked up somewhere. It doesn’t matter that my record says I’m guilty of crap I’ve never done. Because technically, I’ve committed my fair share of my crimes, what’s more to the pile? Hell, if it keeps me locked away for all eternity, then why not?” 

This time, the villain’s gaze was steely, his teeth gnashed together and his tone harsh, and yet before she’d even commented, the villain was quick to force the muscles of his face to work on pulling it into a blank expression, his hand going to his pocket. 

Where, unbeknownst to Vigilante, the knife from yesterday was. .  .

It took her a moment to register his words and realise he was right. The likes of Villain wouldn’t garner the sympathy of the same people that cheered when they were locked up, at every suffocating press conference where her sister’s airy voice seemed to ring in her ears. 

But how else was she supposed to rouse some sort of public outcry against her sister? She needed the key, the concept, the idea, and from that she could form a plan. It was why she thought of asking the villain in the first place. 

“Then what should we do to get people to notice?” 

The villain’s pale hand made its way out of his pocket, his expression still nearly unreadable. “Your sister’s clever. She’s almost untraceable, and uncovering her shady past would be difficult. Or actually, more difficult than having her do something terrible now.” 

“So you’re saying we somehow force her to commit some sort of terrible crime?” 

“Force is the wrong word. It wouldn’t be a choice she wouldn’t make on her own accord. And that’s our selling point. No one needs to make her pull underhanded crap because she’ll take that choice anyway. And from then, whatever it is you want to reveal is actually going to have a basis.” 

The villain straightened his posture, pulling his now slightly loose fitting hoodie down so straighten a wrinkle only for it to come down with a strange difficulty, like it was stuck to his skin, the man letting out a soft hiss. 

“You alright?” she asked. 

“Fine,” he answered curtly, getting up. He knew exactly why his jacket had stuck to his form in the first place, and he really didn’t need Vigilante’s supposed concern. There’s a lot worse he’d seen in his life, in those three months alone than some old scratch reopening. Walking into his room, he shrugged his hoodie off in front of the mirror only to notice that the stupid scratch was in an area he could barely reach, deeper and uglier than he thought, blood running down it in crimson rivulets, exposed tissue that was barely healing showing too. He didn’t know where the gauze was, or how he’d even manage treating the wound. And somehow, his past vanity, or rather basic awareness of his appearance that he now called vanity hadn’t completely faded away considering he noticed bone and skin where muscle used to be and the ridiculous amount of bruises adorning his figure in various shades of dusty purples and browns; every sign of how his captors had turned him into a punching bag for all their sadistic cravings. 

“Villain?” 

Hell no. He didn’t want anyone in this room with him while he looked like this, frantic again and wishing he could rip his hair from its roots. He almost didn’t care that he was still bleeding and it hurt to shift even slightly, or that his wound felt warm to the touch and was probably infected. He sat there on the bed, gripping onto the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to the world around him. “Just,” he faltered. As much as the villain hated it, he couldn’t do crap right now without her help. He bit his lip again and exhaled slowly. “Come in.” 

She cursed softly when she looked at the wound, the scarlet already snaking down his lower back now. It didn’t take her long to come back with a whole lot of first aid equipment. “This’ll hurt,” she said slowly. 

All she got was a low grunt in response as she pressed antiseptic-soaked gauze to his back, and even though he barely let out a noise, didn’t move out of the way, his shoulders still tensed up under the pain. 

Involuntarily, she stroked a hand through his hair, a reflexive action even though the vigilante wasn’t particularly touchy, especially with her enemy turned ally of convenience. He turned to stare at her, looking nothing short of surprised, but not irritated or afraid. He turned around again as she stitched up his wound and tended to his other scratches, surprised how well he was holding out. The villain barely flinched through the process, but again the man had always been surprisingly enduring.

The villain seriously didn’t remember the last time anyone had tended to his injuries, even before getting captured. He’s sure someone did, during the times he couldn’t do it himself, but no one had ever run a hand through his hair when he’d tensed up or anything of the sort. He despised the fact that it hadn’t irritated him, instead he was left there dumbfounded, half-wishing she would do it again and half-grateful she refrained from it, from making him feel so bloody exposed like that. This entire ordeal, how strangely gentle the vigilante had been with him, how he slowly relaxed even though the idea of being this vulnerable, this close to one of his enemies terrified him.

The villain didn’t like to feel things that weren’t dry, controlled anger or smugness or absolutely nothing. So he didn’t, pretended he couldn’t until he believed it. 

Every lie dies in the end, no?

The vigilante had got up to hand him a new t-shirt that he slowly pulled on, minding his wounds but still refusing any help with it. “Thanks,” he mumbled awkwardly. 

“Y-you thank people?” she asked, half out of genuine surprise and half to lighten the mood. 

The villain didn’t smile, but his lip twitched up ever so slightly with a half-smirk, “I’m a villain, but I’m not a complete tactless bastard.” 

“I guess you could say that, and you’re welcome. I’ll just go clean up. Put your jacket in the basket over there.” The vigilante looked down at her bloodstained hands, and the villain gave her a curt nod. 

He was lucky she hadn’t taken the jacket herself, or noticed the knife somehow, and he could still keep it. It felt even scummier after right now, when she could’ve just let him bleed out, or made it worse since she was this close to him. He didn’t even know what she would try the second he was no longer useful. 

Carefully, he lowered his form onto the bed, letting out a soft groan. This was the strangest stage of his life yet, he presumed. 

So many times, life is about choosing the worst option, the choice you’d swore to never make, about condemning yourself to being at the mercy of the unknown. People will scream at you to avoid the lion’s den, but sometimes it is the only shelter from a raging storm ready to destroy you into nothing. And yet, maybe there is wisdom in the most foolish decisions, and safety in the most dangerous risks. Because even if you’re riddled with deep wounds and scars, even those can heal under care, even in the most unexpected places.

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi @those-damn-snippets @genuinelythioehat-is-whump @ghostofnorth

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

[matrose]

nightmare

[lovelesslittleloser]

People should be more afraid of asexuals, because they’re the only people that are immune to one of the seven deadly sins

[whumpshaped]

red!

Red: danger

tw implied captivity, past starvation mention, dislocated joints mention

The fire crackled quietly, trying to fill the room with the sort of ambience that had no place in it. Whumpee stared at it blankly, knowing that at any moment, this hungry little creature of flames could turn into a monster, devouring skin from their flesh and flesh from their bones.

They didn't blame it. They had been starved to the point of attacking anyone they were told to before, too. They had been kept in a cage, poked at, fed nothing but scraps. Ordered to dance and entertain, fill the room with a dangerous warmth that always threatened to burn but never did, but unless it was allowed to, not unless Master wished it.

The fire poker lay on the ground and Whumpee picked it up, settling in front of the gluttonous thing to watch it burn through its dinner for the night. It cast all sorts of lights and shadows on the wall, on their face, painting everything a deeper, warmer colour than it usually was. The golden rays of the morning were not nearly enough to combat the chills within these walls, but the fire, the fire possessed more power, even in its tamed form.

They poked at it absentmindedly, more to remind themself that they had the piece of metal than anything else. If they held it in their hand, that meant Whumper couldn't burn them with it from behind. Plus, they liked to pretend the fire was somehow beneath them, and they could poke at it all they wanted without repercussions; just like their master could poke at them.

"Enjoying the warmth?" Whumper asked as they entered the room, and Whumpee tensed up, barely noticeable under the magical bindings they wore. They listened closely, waiting for the footsteps to draw nearer, trying to anticipate the sort of suffering that would be inflicted upon them. But from the sounds of it, Whumper had settled on the sofa instead of teaching them a lesson about enjoying anything. "Good. Tomorrow we depart on a long journey, and you know how cold the box is."

They shivered at the mention of it, but didn't dare object to the barbaric practice. "Yes, Master." If Whumper wanted them to travel in a cramped box like some dog, then they had no more of a choice in the matter than the fire that helplessly followed wherever the logs were placed.

They only wished the wretched thing was at least big enough to fit them without them having to reset their dislocated joints upon arrival every single time.

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump

[quirkle2]

oh nooo that's quite a bummer :( but i'm very glad that i helped brightening up your day :") tbh your writing brightens up my day too (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

AND WAIT I'VE BEEN ACTUALLY QUITE THINKING ABOUT WHETHER ZOMBIE MOB HAS FOUGHT OFF A ZOMBIE WHEN I ASKED IF HE HAS EVER BITTEN SOMEONE and since you brought it up, well, would be okay to ask about the details of how it went 👁️👁️ (also him fighting off a fellow zombie to protect tome got me sobbing)

- 🪻

aww im glad my silly little words brighten ur day!! ur so sweet :]

and yes, it went horribly <3! tome prolly wasn't paying attention as closely as she should've been and got herself surrounded by a crowd. to be clear, that's not Always dangerous, since zombies arent like,, after ur brains in this constantly. but these zombies did look quite hungry, and human or not, she looked like a good meal,,

she had wandered off a bit from mob n ritsu, but mob heard the commotion first. tome has a big fucking baseball bat in this au that she likes to swing around, but a baseball bat can only get u so far in terms of self defense. she thins the horde but there's simply too many of them

mob lets exactly One zombie grab her and yank her toward them before he goes ballistic

watching zombies fight is a lot closer to watching wild animals fight than anything else, and it gets quite horrid sometimes. since their bites aren't rly "dangerous" to each other beyond the typical Oh No a Chunk of Flesh is Gone (not even painful for them, since their nerves r.. less than functional), the fight is a lot more close up and gruesome than a fight against a zombie and a human would be. humans usually back away from zombies immediately and try not to touch them at all in fear of getting bitten; zombies don't need to care abt that

most of the horde realizes that this meal isn't going to be easy and they wander off, but a few more hungry, more desperate ones try to rip into mob's throat at the first sign of defiance. it's not exactly a fair fight; it's like 1 against 4, so he's sorta bound to lose

thankfully ritsu shows up and shoots two of them down (he's Terrified of shooting mob by accident, but either way he'll probably die, so) and tome gets the last one with a good swing to the head. ritsu rushes to mob and is horrified by the amount of blood dripping from his neck and his arm; tome is equally as shocked, but she's mostly thinking, "ive Never seen a zombie defend a human before"

mob's neck is thankfully mostly just scraped up and clawed, but there Is some gruesome punctures where canines sank in and tugged. it's a lot worse along his arm that's bitten and gouged beyond belief. he loses a lot of blood here, but the whole nerves-no-longer-work thing is a blessing in disguise atm; he'd be in a lot of pain otherwise. while ritsu and tome are patching him up w shaky hands he simply glares beyond their shoulders like he thinks he's still in danger, even when they tighten the bandages. it's like he barely notices what they’re doing

his strangely alert behavior makes them think abt the possibility that maybe mob Knows he could've easily been shredded apart there, and he's a little scared and worked up abt it. the only reason he managed to fight as long as he did without dying is prolly bc the other zombies weren't as well-fed as mob—they were kinda weak and shaky from days of no food, but mob has humans taking care of him and keeping him fed 24/7

they're all shaken up by it pretty good.. tome is still reeling from the fact that mob defended her so valiantly, and ritsu is quietly horrified by the idea of another zombie killing mob instead of a human. he doesn't know which is worse