whumpees being used as decoration, surrounded by enemies:
handcuffed to a chair in the middle of a room where a business meeting is taking place.
dressed in black tie, and then tied and gagged at the head of the table as whumper conducts a fancy dinner party.
pinned to a wall of an office or living room or private study like a butterfly under a case, hands impaled and bleeding freely.
left to dangle from their wrists in a public location, under an arch or a stairway maybe.
kept in a hanging cage in a trophy room amidst the tokens of whumper's previous conquests.
chained to the foot of a throne, forced to kneel at all times, a permanent reminder of whumper's absolute power over both them and the realm they just won.
lugged around to wherever Whumper happens to want to take them, led to parties or events via a leash attached to a collar, hands bound behind their back so they can't even brace their fall if Whumper tugs too hard.
left overnight in a public place, tied to a fencepost or dangling from a tree branch. everyone knows exactly who left them there, and who they belong to, and so no one would dare touch them to help.
tied up and used as a human dartboard in some seedy beer hall.
restrained in a brutally demanding stress position and left to wobble and pant and squirm in a lobby or entrance of some underground organization as a reminder of what happens to anyone who tries to doublecross the boss.
the helplessness of any of these positions, of being poked and prodded by passersby or henchmen, especially people who whumpee has had the upper hand against in the past. now reduced to just sitting/standing there and being left at the mercy of whoever walks by.
whumpees being used as decoration, surrounded by enemies:
handcuffed to a chair in the middle of a room where a business meeting is taking place.
dressed in black tie, and then tied and gagged at the head of the table as whumper conducts a fancy dinner party.
pinned to a wall of an office or living room or private study like a butterfly under a case, hands impaled and bleeding freely.
left to dangle from their wrists in a public location, under an arch or a stairway maybe.
kept in a hanging cage in a trophy room amidst the tokens of whumper's previous conquests.
chained to the foot of a throne, forced to kneel at all times, a permanent reminder of whumper's absolute power over both them and the realm they just won.
lugged around to wherever Whumper happens to want to take them, led to parties or events via a leash attached to a collar, hands bound behind their back so they can't even brace their fall if Whumper tugs too hard.
left overnight in a public place, tied to a fencepost or dangling from a tree branch. everyone knows exactly who left them there, and who they belong to, and so no one would dare touch them to help.
tied up and used as a human dartboard in some seedy beer hall.
restrained in a brutally demanding stress position and left to wobble and pant and squirm in a lobby or entrance of some underground organization as a reminder of what happens to anyone who tries to doublecross the boss.
the helplessness of any of these positions, of being poked and prodded by passersby or henchmen, especially people who whumpee has had the upper hand against in the past. now reduced to just sitting/standing there and being left at the mercy of whoever walks by.
Thinking about language barriers in whump, and yes, the potential for terror is great, but also what if it was just plain humiliating instead? Whumper isn't going to punish Whumpee for not knowing their language, and is willing to be as patient as necessary, but the way they teach Whumpee new words is more like trying to train a dog than teaching a person. Whumpee doesn't know whether the word Whumper's taught them to respond to is a pet name or an insult or even a threat, nor do they know whether what Whumper introduced themself as is a name or a title.
Whumper, of course, is all too content with this situation. Pets don't need to know how to talk, after all.
it's been. a longass time and I'm not sure if you'll remember them but....
a craft for shade?
- onlybloodandwhiskey
!! Shade!!
They get resin crafts! They specifically love the part where they get to sit and methodically swirl the colors to make these beautiful waves and patterns. It’s just so satisfying and unique every time.
You can’t really make mistakes with the swirls… feels freeing.
I think somewhere down the line when shade is safe-ish and happy-adjacent a therapist tells them to try crafting as yknow! a safe and positive hobby! and they complain about right up until they try it and unfortunately it is actually really nice and they're so mad about it.
apollo laughs at them for complaining and then enjoying it but he also bigs up every single thing they create as though it is a masterpiece. (all of them are in his eyes)
Public humiliation in a prison fantasy context, where they chain them up in the middle of the yard or mess hall, and let all the other prisoners taunt them, hurt them, cut them etc.
dragging a fully restrained and gagged prisoner by the hair into a room full of the enemy’s henchmen, dropping them on the floor with a “do whatever you want to him for the next hour, but I want him alive at the end of this.”
Fingers in their mouth, seeing how wide they can stretch their jaw before tears start to gather in their eyes. grabbing their tongue roughly and pressing a knife to it, threatening to cut it off if they don’t shut the fuck up already.
Or forcing their eye all the way open with their fingers, Hovering the tip of a knife closer and closer, telling them that if you move, my hand might just slip.
Once they’re too injured to fight back effectively, they just get tied up as part of the room decor, posed in a very uncomfortable position, while the villains have their various war meetings or entertain guests in a main hall, showing off their little trophy all beautifully wrapped up and shaking from the strain.
Speaking of trophies. A royal au where the monarch eventually captures their enemy, and after torturing the shit out of them, chains them up above their throne, arms spread eagled against a cross like metal structure, blindfolded and draped in all sorts of gold and jewels, so everyone who gets an audience with the monarch sees the display of their power—the conquered one strung up as a decoration for their throne room.
I realize my brain could just keep going but I’ll stop it here for now.
Two years later, they come back with some vampires and something that they're not even sure is technically whump at this point! Anyway, I have feelings for my own silly little ocs!
TW: Being Hunted, Flashbacks, overuse of superpowers, nosebleeds, siezures. Referances to past lab whump and medications.
Word Count: 3038
--
Jake was formally declaring that he hated their bug-out plan.
In a more rational mind, he could acknowledge that it made sense. There were 10 of them, and the words 'group of 10' and 'travelling unseen' didn't even belong in the same sentence, let alone in their plans to not get dragged back to the hell they'd sacrificed so much to run from.
It made sense to split up, to set a location as far in advance as they could when they settled in a new area, plot out the different routes and learn them until they could recall them even in the pitch dark when terror was starting to crawl around the sides of their minds. To split into small groups, to each grab their bags and maybe find the time to grab a hand in a hurried goodbye before they had to run.
He wondered sometimes, what it would be like if someone didn't show up at their next rendezvous, for the last time they ever saw each other to have been in a crush of panic, a stolen second of skin on skin before they scattered into the winds. He got the impression it would tear him apart.
So yes, Jake knew the plan made sense.
That didn't mean he had to like it.
Right now, huddled in a crate with Jet, pressed to each other as much as they were pressed to the rough wooden sides of the crate, the two backpacks that contained the entirety of both of their worldly possession shoved into one corner, and hunters thudding around in the werehouse they'd been cornered in, Jake was pretty sure he fucking hated it.
Jet was his bug-out partner. They set the pairs based on how they got along, complimentary power sets, and Jake was honestly willing to say that they accounted vibes into it - hence why Cole and Liling weren’t allowed anywhere near each other for the bug-out. Jet was a few months older than him, when they’d bothered to compare actual ages instead of how long they'd been in hell for, and their power sets worked pretty well.
Jake was all-loud; soundwaves bending to his - usually explosive - will, as well as the base set of mildly enhanced speed and strength that they all seemed to have picked up. Jake was actually one of the fastest, his speed factor ramped up just a little more.
For all they were all the same, the differences between them all were interesting.
Jet was almost his polar opposite. They settled at average on the speed score, but they were stronger than most people gave them credit for, especially given their slight stature. Nico, the only one he would bet for sure was stronger, was at least 7 inches taller and almost twice as broad. But their true power, the one that made them Jet, was the cool invisibility that rippled from their hands, that felt like dipping into a pond on a summer's day.
Currently, that invisibility was covering them, with one of their hands pressed to the crate to make it vanish, and the other holding Jake like a vice, the quicksilver invisibility coating him like a second skin. He was thankful for it as the torch beams of the hunters crept closer and closer with each thudding footstep.
He knew they were out of sight, but as the footsteps grew closer, the two men close enough now for Jake to count their heartbeats, rabbit-quick in the otherwise quiet night, the wood of the crate started to melt into silvered bars, shimming silver in the moonlight.
The funny thing about anxiety is how easy it can be to recognise it when you look back, but Jake's mind was curled around with fear the moment he looked at the crate and saw metal.
The moment he saw the bars made to keep them in, to burn them if they got close enough to even think about touching them, let alone ripping them from the windows to vanish into the nights.
The moment he looked at the torchlight on liquid-silver invisibility, and saw a place that had once been home. It would be so easy to go back. All he would have to do is let go of Jet and step into the torchlight, and then he would be back in a place where he didn't have to run - all he had to do was be good, and take his pills every morning. To let the doctors do their work and not complain, to let himself be strapped down and restrained so they could poke and prod at him. To show his power whenever they asked.
To know respect as he owed to those who had made him greater than he could have been alone.
…To watch as his family were put through the same, to watch as they curled smaller away from the hurt, retreated into the place in their minds where they were good and obedient so that it only hurt sometimes.
No.
Never again.
The hand clamped around Jake's was shaking when he managed to claw his way out of the mind-numbing fear, the desperate urge for this constant cat and mouse game - where they were always the mouse - to end. The heartbeats of the hunters were practically next to them. Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Jet was trembling like a leaf.
Their nose was bleeding, when he looked.
A slow trickle of deep red that had already run down their face and started to drip off of their chin, their chest a sticky mess of their own blood. He was pretty sure he could only hear them breathing because of whatever enhancements had happened to their senses, but it was enough that he knew they were forcing each and every breath, probably through their teeth.
They were at their limit. Probably had hit it a few moments ago, while Jake was spiralling. They'd been holding their power for too long, had hit the wall that they all had somewhere in them. Jake knew how it felt to run into a place where keeping your power up burned like fire; Jet must have been in agony. Their invisibility wasn’t even faltering, even as they shook. It was frankly a little impressive, if Jake put aside his worry for them for a moment, how strong their control was through the pain.
Jake was already holding their hand, and so he rubbed soothing circles against their knuckle with his thumb. He wished he could tell them to stop, to breathe, but if they did they were both screwed. As much as he hated it, Jet couldn’t stop, and they knew it too.
The hunter’s heartbeats were still close enough that Jake could hear the blood pounding through their veins, smell the fear creeping off of them.
Ha. Scared of them, of what they had been told they were capable of, of what they might do to them, as though they weren’t currently hunting them down like animals, like foxes sent scattering from the dogs and horses. Like rodents hiding in burrows before the dogs were sent down where men couldn’t reach.
Jake ought to give them something to really be afraid of.
He wouldn’t though, because Jet was scared and in pain next to him, and when you chopped off one head, three more grew in its place. Killing these hunters would just bring more down on their heads. He had more sense than that, even when filled with righteous rage, to bring that down on them when Jet was already overtaxed with keeping them both safe, and they had miles to go once the hunters left and they could get out of this godforsaken box.
If it were just him, he’d rip through them and be done with it.
…Maybe that was another reason Calle had insisted on the buddy system for when they ran. He knew that when cornered and alone, having someone there with them would calm the urge to take a more permanent solution to the problem.
Next to him, Jet’s breath came out louder than he was sure they had meant it to, a half-choked off whimper of pain that they had clearly tried to keep down in their chest. Jake felt like his heart was going to break, shattered into a million pieces, but he knew there was nothing he could do to help, not right now.
Outside the crate, the hunters stilled, as though they had heard. The torchlight swung back in their direction.
Jake’s heart leaped up somewhere into his throat, and seemed to be there to stay, thudding like the wings of a caged butterfly. Jet was biting down hard on their lip, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough. They all knew that once the first sound slipped out, the rest were near impossible to smother down into silence.
Slowly, carefully, so that the wood around them wouldn’t creak and give them away for real, he pulled Jet into his lap with his free hand, situating them in his legs, their back to his chest. He was careful not to jerk them, to break their touch with both the crate and with him that would cause the invisibility to fail and really fuck them over, with Jet out of commision and him half-scared out of his wits.
He wrapped his free hand around Jet’s jaw, covering their mouth and holding their head back, leaning them into him. God, they were shaking so hard, constant tremors wracking their slight frame. He forgot how small they really were sometimes - their strength and their nature enough that their stature was almost ignored - but now, tucked into his chest, head under his chin as he held them, he was more aware than ever of how small they were next to him.
Their nose was still bleeding. Sticky blood in a steady pour found his hand instead of its original path, and so instead it tracked its way down his hand first, cloying and wet as it slowly dripped down his wrists. It was moving faster than he might have liked, having evolved from a trickle into a near-cascade.
They’d need to feed once they were safe. He wasn’t sure if that would be all that possible.
They felt warm under his hands. That probably should have been the first sign that something was wrong. All of them ran cold, a side effect of what had been done to them, and Jet especially. Their invisibility was cool and cold, and they followed suit.
Now their gun-metal grey hair was stuck to their face, long strands plastered to their skin with sweat, and Jake didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t say how long the pair of them sat there for, Jet tucked into him, until the footsteps and heartbeats retreated, and the rumble of a car engine drew off into the distance. In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. It had felt like years.
They’d gotten through it. Now they just had to get to the next place that they’d be calling home.
First, they had to get out of the crate.
“Jet.” He whispered as soon as he dared. He was sure they were gone, but better safe than captured. “Jet, you can drop the invisibility. We’re okay.” He let go of their mouth, shook the blood off of his hand.
Jet stayed silent. They didn’t drop their invisibility. Their hand around his was like a vice.
“Jet.” Jake said, louder this time. He put his free hand onto their shoulder, shook them slightly. Maybe they were somewhere in their head that wasn’t quite here, somewhere where they could hold their power without falling apart. Maybe that was why they weren’t dropping it, because they couldn’t tell they were safe-ish.
In return, Jet’s head lolled back onto his chest, and he could see their eyes rolled way into the back of their skull. For a moment, he thought they were unconscious, that had been too much for them to handle, before he felt them twitching against him, muscles spasming with no rhyme or reason.
“Jet.” He said, voice clear as he moved, wrapping an arm around them and dragging them out of the crate into the cool night air, laying them on their back. As their hand disconnected with the wood it shimmered back into being, but both them and him stayed under the wraps of their power. “Jet, you’re seizing. You need to drop the invisibility, now.” He wasn’t really sure if they could hear him, let alone actually make the conscious choice to drop their power, but it was worth a shot. He had to say something, couldn’t just sit there whether they could hear him or not.
In the back of his head, he was counting, trying to keep a timer. He knew that was what you were supposed to do when someone normal had a seizure, but he had no idea if that applied to something like them. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it anyway.
A hospital couldn’t treat them, and going to one was a surefire way to drag the hunters back down onto them. All Jake could do was sit there and count, and hope Jet came back to him soon.
Eventually, the twitching stopped, after what Jake would probably consider several of the most terrifying moments of his life, but Jet didn’t really seem to come back to themself. Their eyes were still back in their head, half-open and showing just the whites.
Their power was still up.
“Jet.” He said, trying to see if they understood enough in that moment that they could do it of their own violation. “Jet, can you hear me?” He asked, and got a broken-sounding whimper in return, voice cracked and raw sounding. “We’re safe. You’ve gotta drop your power.” He said.
Jet flexed one of their hands slightly, the one still clamped onto him, and he felt the quicksilver coating on his skin vanish in an instant, night air hitting his skin.
“Now you’ve just gotta drop it on yourself.” He said, reaching down to cup one of their cheeks, where the moonlight shimmered against their skin, fever-warm despite the cool brush of their power. “Jet, love, please" He half-begged them, his own voice cracking as he looked down at them.
They froze for a moment, and for a horrifying moment Jake thought they were going to slip back into another seizure. Then, inch by inch, their power slipped back into their hands and flickered out altogether, and Jake felt all the tension slip out of him on one simple breath, right before the tears followed suit, unable to hold them back now that he knew they were going to be okay.
Thank whatever god might have been looking down on them. Jake couldn’t lose his sibling, love, family, coven - whatever it was that they all were to each other after so many years - like this.
“Jake?” A voice asked, and a warm hand pressed against his face, a thumb swiping cold tears off of his cheek. “Why’re you crying?” Jet’s voice was muffled, half-slurred from clear exhaustion and over-exertion. Groggy, like they’d woken up from a nap that had stretched for far too long.
“Because of you, idiot.” He answered, his voice more wet sounding than he might have liked it to be. “You scared me.” He said, forgetting - for a moment - of the danger they were in just by being out, and flopping to lie next to them, taking their hand in his. “You scared me.” He repeated, no better words to describe the bone deep terror he’d felt.
“ ‘M sorry.” They said, although Jake would be damned if they actually remembered half of what they were trying to apologise for, with the state they were in. “My head hurts.” They told him, voice plaintive like a child, as though the pain had shocked them back to how they had all been before they were made monsters.
“I know.” He told them, both unsurprised at that face and fully convinced that Jet had just made the understatement of the century. With that bad an overuse of their power, the stress of the hunt, and the need to feed that the bloodloss had doubtlessly brought on, there was no way it was just a headache. “We need to get out of here. Think you can walk?” He asked, giving them the option, but knowing that they wouldn’t be able to, not with the exhaustion that was surely like lead in their bones.
Jake remembered a time when their powers were pushed like this on a regular basis. He remembered how it felt. Jet were going to sleep like a log the moment they got to the next safe-house
Jet made a token effort of trying to sit up, only to collapse back onto the ground like a sack of bricks, undignified and inelegant in every way. They whined in the back of their throat, frustration clear in their grey eyes.
“I got you.” Jake said, reaching back into the crate for their bags, slinging one over each shoulder. “Don’t worry, J. I’ve got you.” He added, scooping them up bridal style, tucking them into his arms. They squirmed a little in his arms, adjusting their position before letting their head slump down on his shoulders. It was a little much, with both bags and Jet in his arms, but what was the point of supernaturally enhanced strength if not to use it?
Once he was sure Jet wasn’t going anywhere, he grinned, as though it were any other day. As though he hadn’t been crying, as though Jet were fine, as though they weren’t being hunted.
“Close your eyes.” He muttered to Jet, before he rolled his shoulders once and ran, shaggy hair whipping in the breeze as the streetlamps of a darkened world blurred into one long line of light.
He’d get them home safe. He always would. That was why the bug-out plan worked, in the end; because they would never leave each other behind.
While traditionally used in a caretaking setting, I thought it would be interesting to think of kind restraints being used in whump.
Kind restraints are usually any kind of restraint used with the purpose of restraining someone for their own good (say, a character who is possessed, delirious with pain, etc), and/or are restraints meant to cause as little pain as possible. Some examples include soft padded handcuffs, straightjackets, and leather straps on a bed or chair.
- So, a whumper restraining a whumpee for their “own good”? Maybe whumper has convinced the whumpee they’re too dangerous to be left unrestrained- perhaps whumpee has been trained as a weapon and has dangerously quick reflexes, they’d fight back hard against anyone who tired to get near them if they had the chance…. At least that’s what whumper tells them. And after so long of being used to hurt and kill, whumpee doesn’t want to take that risk.
Whumpee is terrified of the idea of killing someone innocent- whumper is far from innocent, sure, but what if it was someone else? They don't want to harm anyone ever again.
So, playing right into whumper's hands, they beg to be restrained. They plead to be tied down, to be subdued because they're too dangerous. They realize whumper is right, that they can't trust themself. Maybe it's good that whumper is keeping them captive, anyway. This way, no one can hurt them.
Needless to say, they don't fight when padded cuffs lock their wrists to the rails of their bed, or when thick straps are buckled over their body so they can't even sit up. It's better this way. They won't be able to hurt anyone if they're tied down like this. They won’t be able to be a weapon again.
- Maybe a whumpee has recently tried to escape and got brutally punished for it. Maybe their feet were flayed until they sobbed when they tried to walk, maybe they were whipped until their back was nothing but a tangled mess of flesh and blood. But whatever it is, whumpee does not want to be punished like that again. Whumper lectures their whumpee on how poor of impulse control they have, on how stupid they were to try and escape. And soon, their words begin to sink in. Whumpee can't trust themself to be good, they can't trust themself to stave off whatever pain can be avoided. So when whumper threatens them with restraints, whumpee doesn't hesitate to hold out their hands for them. Whumper might not have even planned it, they just wanted whumpee to comply. "If you really can't control yourself, I'll have to give you a bit of help." But whumpee thinks for a minute and realizes it might be for the best- after all, then they can't try to escape. They can't risk being horribly punished just because they have a freedom to follow a stupid idea.
So they let their fingers be slipped into mitt cuffs, their fingers slotting and curling into the thick leather before they're securely locked around their wrists, turning their hands into useless stubs. The cuffs are uncomfortable, the complete lack of movement causing their fingers to become stiff and numb where they’re uselessly curled, but at least they can't do more damage to themself. At least they can’t be tempted to pick locks since they can’t even open a doorknob.
Whumper grins before they leave, hardly able to believe that their whumpee chose to be restrained. If they hadn't witnessed it themself, they'd have said it was too good to be true.
- An injured whumpee violently fighting their captor, thrashing and kicking every time whumper comes near. They’re making their own injuries worse, reopening the stitches that whumper’s medic applied only hours ago, and whumper can‘t resist the opportunity to make their toy even more helpless. So they buckle whumpee’s arms into a straightjacket so tight they can do nothing but wiggle, then place a heavily weighted blanket over whumpee. In the captive’s weakened state, it might as well be a set of shackles. And while the restraints are a mercy from a distance, whumpee is miserable.
characters being comforted when they don’t expect to be comforted.
thinking they’re alone, that no one cares for them, that even though they may be “part of the team” now, they’ll never be fully accepted
a whumpee in enemy territory, tortured for information, but given extra rations by one of the guards, along with a sad look that says ‘i wish i could do more’
a whumpee in a hostile environment, one who’s grown to have thick skin and iron fists, walls around themselves so high they might never come down. this whumpee hurt, beaten, broken, but found by someone who takes care of their wounds and isn’t driven off by the rancor of their words
a former villain, shivering after a nightmare, not wanting to be alone with their thoughts but knowing the rest of the team still hates them for what they’ve done. Being so surprised when one of the heroes comes and sits with them on their bed until dawn, just so they feel safe
whumpees getting comfort from the most unexpected places. whumpees thinking the people around them are enemies (and maybe they are) and yet someone shows them kindness anyway. whumpees wholly undone by the shock of it, breathless and grateful.
I really love your portrayal of Chris and I'm also looking for autistic writers to support? Do you know of any in the whump community?
Off the top of my head:
@outofangband writes some really great Silmarillion whump that you really don’t need to be a Tolkein fan to dig into!
@redwingedwhump has multiple amazing stories going - Captured is a definite whump must-read!
@whumptywhumpdump is a big part of the whumpblr community for me! Do you have any stories going atm, Vicky? My break in October is going to give me way more time to catch up on reading
Help. My brain is empty of knowledge today. Introduce yourselves, autistic whumpblrs! I will rb!
Raccoon why would you do this to Shade, that's so mean!!
**
Shade lashed out before they could register what they were doing, their palm cracking into the side of Delusion's face with a sound that seemed to echo.
They drew their hand away from him like they'd been burned, blood pounding in their ears as they realised what they'd done. They'd lost themself in the moment, lashed out. They'd been scared.
They'd suffer for it now. They knew it.
"Delusion, I-" They started, taking a nervous step back.
They were cut off by a hand, grabbing their jaw, lightning quick. Delusion held them tight, his fingers digging in, grip tight and unforgiving.
"Do you think you can treat me this way, Nightshade?" He asked, tone cold.
"No, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!" They tried. Delusion pulled their head up, forcing them to meet his eyes. He stared at them like he was looking into their very soul, cold steel eyes hard and unforgiving.
"Good." He said, and for a moment, Shade let themself relax. "We'll punish you for this transgression, and say no more on it." He continued, reaching down to grab their hands in an iron grip, and Shade's heart sunk. This was going to be a very bad day after all.
"My feelings for Shade include being constantly worried about them, if that's what you're asking." Apollo said, folding his arms and leaning back. "They were here first, and Delusion expects the best. It's a hard line to walk."
"Personally?" He added after a moment. "Shade's a good kid. They deserve better than being stuck here with me and Delusion, but life's brought them here same as it did me. I try and keep them safe. I figure they deserve someone watching their back."
TW: dissociation, self-harm as a coping mechanism, self-mutilation, trichotillomania, unhealthy coping mechanisms
So I meant to write more Shade but then my dnd character had a bad time so here we are lmao
The brain process of this was essentially 'huh birds pull out their feathers when they're stressed right? what if mira did that do her wings lol'
Tags: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi ((racoon i tag you in everything i write at this point please let me know if you want me to stop lol)
***
Mira sat perched up on one of the artificial branches of the bunker, poised on the balls of her toes, wings wrapped around her shoulders. It was a position poised for takeoff, and Mira had relaxed comfortably into it as she idly watched the ground below. The others were trying to relax, make the best of their new environment, but she just couldn't settle.
It was why she'd simply abandoned her room last night, and taken off into the air. The ceiling wasn't really high enough to fly properly, but it'd only taken a few beats of their wings to get her up to a good perching spot.
She hadn't come down since. She couldn't think of any reason too. If she went down there, she'd have to talk to the others, and they'd all want to know how she was doing, how she was feeling, as though her world hadn't fallen apart around her.
She barely knew how to breathe right now, let alone figure out how to answer their questions.
Sighing, Mira let her legs slip, sitting properly on the branch, legs dangling down and wings wrapped tight around her body. Her wings were great big things, the feathers a sort of tawny-blonde that almost matched her hair. She didn't remember a time without her wings. Her dads didn't either, said she'd had them when they found her.
It was rare for aasimar to have permanent wings, but Mira had always been blessed. She'd taken her wings as a blessing from her god, and worn them with pride.
She didn't know what would happen now. Her god had just impaled her through the chest, and she'd seen her soul simply flow into him, merging into him.
Her god, her father, had killed her, and watched her die with a smile on his face like the one he used to tuck her in at night when she was little.
If it weren't for Erathis, she would be dead.
She didn't know how to even begin dealing with that.
It was as she thought about it all that it first happened. She thought of her dad's smile, warm and calming even as she died, and her hand twitched to her wing, a sharp jab of pain following.
When she looked down, she'd pulled one of her feathers out. It was only a small one, a downy little thing, one of the under-feathers. Pulling her wing around, wrapping it around her chest, she squinted at it, seeing if the feather she'd just pulled out made any effect.
It hadn't, but her wings were a state. She'd been slightly neglecting their grooming the last few days, considering that her world had turned upside down three times over.
Huffing, she gently started grooming her wings, straightening out feathers and combing through for dirt and debris.
It usually grounded her. Today, it did the opposite, as she groomed her wings, she slowly started to space out, mind replaying the days just gone past over and over as her hand moved on autopilot.
Nothing felt real, for a moment. She felt floaty, like she was drifting away from herself, untethered from her body.
She thought of the black void she'd been in for a moment, where all she'd known was cold and black and the horrible realisation that she was dead. That'd felt a bit like this.
She was vaguely aware that she was still grooming her wings, the feel of feathers faint on her hands if she tried to focus. It was difficult though, her head fuzzy and hazy as she tried to ground herself again.
Idly, she thought that this was something Aurora would probably have something to say about in therapy.
Mira couldn't tell you how much time had passed when she finally startled back to herself at the sound of someone dropping a glass below, just that her cheeks were wet, and her wings stung. Little pinpricks of pain were scattered across her wings, and when she looked down, there was a pile of feathers on the branch, the amount slightly worrying considering Mira couldn't remember doing it.
There was blood on her hands, and when she checked her wings, some of her feathers were stained with the stuff, sandy-blonde now dark and damp. She could tell where they'd gotten the feathers from, there were patches on either wing where the feather coverage was noticeably thinner than the rest.
She must've sat there and meticulously pulled out the feathers from those patches. She didn't even remember any pain as she'd drifted.
Luckily, it seemed she'd mostly stuck to the small downy feathers of the undercoat, leaving the top layer mostly intact. Shifting her feathers a little, the thinner patches were almost invisible, unless you knew what you were looking for.
She went to adjust the long feathers, and found herself wrapping her hand around one of them, gently rubbing down the vane, the feather soft under her hands. It was like a compulsion, irresistible as she jerked her hand away and tugged the feather out.
It was a sharp pain, worse than when she'd tugged out one of her softer down feathers. The tip of the shaft was bloody, and when she looked, there was a bead of blood welling up from where the feather had used to sit. It throbbed gently, the pinprick of pain adding with the rest, her wing aching.
She dropped the feather into the pile, and reached to touch the little bead of blood. It smudged easily, coating her fingertips, wet and vibrant against her tanned skin.
The red soaked into the pale vane of the next feather, as she methodically wrapped her hand around it and pulled it out, adding another pinprick of pain, another bead of blood to her connection.
Mira couldn't tell you why she was doing it, just that there was an edge to the pain that quieted the roar in her head, that calmed her down to the point that she could take a breath. It was relief, pure and simple, that made Mira pull out another chunk of feathers, this time grabbing a handful and yanking, the sudden pain of the feathers ripping out from their roots making her bite back a gasp.
She was wiping away the blood, seeing if the patch could be hidden when a voice called up from below.
"Mira?" Relix called, and peering down she could see him looking up at her. "Are you alright?"
She wiped the blood off of her wing with her sleeve, and hopped down, tucking her wings in the moment she hit the ground.
"I'm fine!" She chirped, smiling up at him. "How are you?"
He didn't need to know about this. None of them did.
Still smiling, she rolled up the blood-soaked sleeve, and followed after Relix as he walked back to the group.
