Future Chaotic-Orphan

It's giving an organised blog from the get-go?

On-Going Series

Heroic Betrayal

To be Continued drabbles (possibly into future series)

Civilian x Crush kidnapped Doomed Heroics

Fun Mini-series

Pathetic and Defeated

One-off drabbles

Fantasy Hero x villain Whump

Unfinished requests (that queue posted🙄)

Whump Events

Febuwhump 2025 Master-post

Welcome to the first (official) original series on this blog ooga booga, this is the paranormal species (I think?) I invented (WHICH IS REALLY FRICKEN COOL!) this was just sitting in my drafts for months so enjoy!

The hair on the back of Whumpee’s neck stands on end. Her blood chilling, warmth leeching from her body as the frigid sensation takes over. She couldn’t strangle the shudder as she straightens subtly, disengaging from her friend’s conversation when the door to the bar opens and shut behind her. Her skin blossoms with goosebumps as her heart picks up and she fights the urge to flee.

One of her friend’s glances behind her and smiles. “Oh, Whumper! You made it!” She beams and steps past Whumpee to embrace the newcomer.

Whumpee stiffens.

The Game Begins Anew

Read part one // Master-post // Continued from here

A soft white light illuminated the room, highlighting the plush carpets making them look like a soft bed of clouds when Morgan opened her eyes. A dull drum beat against her skull, as if her brain was breathing erratically, having a panic attack, and she moaned softly and closed her eyes again, cuddling into the warmth of her pillow.

Her pillow inflated softly and deflated lightly. Morgan frowned. She opened her eyes again and craned her neck back to look up at her pillow, which she realised was Flynn’s chest. A melancholic ache bloomed in her chest, like a bubble around her heart compressing, as she looked into his face. He slept so peacefully, his face devoid of stress or strain, his fire red hair loose around his forehead. His mouth lay open comically as he slept soundly and Morgan couldn’t help the soft smile that crept onto her face.

Looking at him like this, her mind wondered why he would ever do this to her; to himself, why he would ruin what they had, ruin their trust. He was the closest person to her in her life, the man who cheered her up when she was down, who had her back during missions, who trained with her relentlessly at all hours because she couldn’t sleep. Her confidant who helped her piece together cold trails and chase the most obscure leads to stop Supervillain… all villains.

Now when she looked at him, all she could feel was heartbreak and betrayal. Why would he help her capture villains for the Agency? Was it just to get rid of the competition for his family? The thought turns her stomach. But she promised him… she promised him last night that she would stop fighting. She wanted things to go back to normal. Or as normal as they could be now, a new normal.

Her stomach yawned like a mouth and grumbled as if waking a slumbering giant. At once she felt both nauseous and starving, like she hasn’t eaten for weeks but if she ate anything now, she wasn’t certain she would keep it down.

Tired eyes drew to the heavy white clump of bandages around her hand and wrist. It looked like a hand dipped in white concrete a couple times. She tried to squeeze her fingers down, but the bandages were too thick, all she could manage was a flex of half of her fingers. Supervillain wrapped them tight and thick, which was probably for the best. A fucking doctor… at least she could rest easy knowing there wouldn’t be devastating consequences for his– first strike, as he said.

Fucking sadist. When she got out of here, she was going to enjoy locking him up and watching him rot.

Footsteps pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned her head to the archway that led into the hall. God this house was fucking gorgeous, she couldn’t help but bitterly realise. Crime really does pay.

A sleeve of red leather appeared first, and Morgan’s heart hitched in her chest as she settled her expression into a scowl. She turned her body in Flint’s arms so she would be facing the bastard when he appeared. Villain strut in with a burrito in one hand and his phone in the other. He barely looked up as he walked in until he felt her eyes on him and stopped on the steps down into the room.

His eyes find her hand immediately and widen slightly. “Hol–y shit,” he mutters, walking over to Morgan with confident steps and staring down at the thick bandages wrapped around Morgan’s hand. “Damn. You really pissed him off,” he says as he studies her hand, taking a giant bite of his burrito, his dark eyes flicking up to Morgan’s face and the bandages wrapped around her head. “What did he do to you?” he asks with a mouthful of food.

Morgan’s face would have screwed up in disgust if her stomach didn’t decide to growl extremely loudly in reply. Villain grinned at the sound and Morgan’s lips settled into a scowl. “None of your business.”

Villain shrugged. “Alright grumpy. Well, you look like shit.” He tells her. His eyes skim to Flynn then underneath Morgan, his arms wrapped around her, limbs entwined as if only noticing that he was there too. “Oh. You two make up?”

Morgan didn’t reply. She didn’t know how to. She was tired. She didn’t want to explain the last few confusing hours to Villain of all fucking people. But… her stomach was whining longingly for some food, and she did promise that she would try to be civil, or be civil, or at the very least stop fighting last night, didn’t she?

“You hungry?”

“Not for poison,” she snaps.

“Oh please, I don’t need something as pathetic as poison to kill you. You’re half dead already. There’d be no fun in it for me.”

The certainty of Villain’s words struck her like a slap. Right. She was nothing here. They could all do whatever they wanted to her, in theory, and she just has to endure.

And it was like a bolt of lightning struck her, as she looked up at Villain.

No.

She doesn’t just have to endure. What was it her mother always said? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Morgan glances down at her bandaged hand and frowns. Vinegar wasn’t working. Resisting, being prickly wasn’t working. She wasn’t the type of person who keeps trying failed strategies over and over again, no. She learned to adapt in order to catch and understand Villains over the course of her career. And she was one of the best in her career, the only reason Supervillain and Villain eluded her for so long was because Flint always pushed her off their scent. Or at least tried to.

But she was here now, in their fucking home, and she wasn’t taking advantage at all. Villain stood in front of her now, offering food. Sure, he might make her skin crawl, but she could use this weakness, her injured hand, pretend she was beaten and cowering, submitting, changing, and get as much information out of the family before she eventually escapes or is rescued, or is… released but, she’d be damned if she just sat her anymore doing nothing except throwing tantrums.

 “You know what?” she asks, raising her gaze to Villain’s black eyes. “I am fucking starving.”

Villain raises a brow and smirks. “Well okay then,” he says and turns, pocketing his phone. Morgan sat up, gently moving Flynn’s hand off her hip as she sits up and stands. She follows Villain out of the living room, glancing down the hall to Supervillain’s war room as she passes it to get to the kitchen.

“Where do you train?” she asks Villain as they pass into the kitchen.

“Why?” Villain asks with a smirk. “Have you gotten bored of Flynn already?”

Morgan blinks at him and walks towards the fridge, opening the door and peering in without dignifying the question with an answer. “Please, make yourself at home,” he scoffs.

“Well, I’m allowed to roam freely,” Morgan replies blandly. “And I’m not allowed to leave, so I think I will act like it’s my home, thanks,” she finishes with a chirpy pitch, oozing sarcasm. She peeks out behind the door to look at Villain who took a seat at the marble island. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

Morgan blinks at him. “I want to train. I assumed it was obvious from the question.” She winces, her brows furrowing as she holds Villain’s gaze, “sorry. Maybe I overestimated your intelligence.”

Villain barks a laugh. “Dad must have cut out your seriousness,” he says, a smile in his voice. Morgan shoots him a pointed look, and he nods out the kitchen window to the garden. “We have a shed out back where we train for the most part,” he answers. “Though, you’ll have a hard time convincing dad to let you.”

Morgan frowns at the shelves of the fridge, happy it hid her expression from Villain. Most of the food in the fridge made her want to throw up. She looked at the ham and thought of the texture and wanted to hurl, so she thought of cheese and a phantom taste clogged her throat. She sighed and settled on a tub of strawberry yogurt and took the milk from the fridge before elbowing it shut.

She set them on the counter in front of the kettle. She stared at her heavily bandaged hand and at the kettle and frowned. Her back straightened as she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, cursing whatever cosmic being enjoyed humiliating her.

Then she turned and put on her most charming smile. “Hi, Villain. I really like coffee.”

He raised a brow at her. “Okay.”

She held her bandaged hand up. “It um, well, I won’t be able to pick up the kettle like this, and I also can’t use it with the tap.”

Villain stared at her for a beat before realisation and a slow, delighted smile spread across his pale face. “Huh. That is a shame.”

“Yes.”

“Seems like you’re in a pickle.”

“I am.”

“Sounds like,” he drawled, getting from his chair and walking over to her, “you need a hero to come to your rescue.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened but sucked it up and said, “I really do.”

Villain looked down at her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how him and Flynn were brothers. Flynn had a weight to him, a presence, but Villain floated like a ghost, or a cat, unseen but felt, the same chill to him as his shadows. His black hair and eyes stood out starkly from his paleness, along with his red leather jacket, all rich colours, deep, full; a contrast at odds with himself, grabbing your attention while the rest of him opted to sink behind your perception.

He leaned down, his hands going to the counter on either side of Morgan caging her in. She couldn’t help but arch her back over the counter, lowering herself, her face a picture of surprise and shock as she looked up at him, her fingers splaying for her daggers before she quickly closed them in panic.

“Flynn’s asleep,” he said softly, his eyes searching her face, drinking in her unfiltered expression with an unreadable expression. “So I guess I’ll have to do. Are you alright with a villain helping you?”

Morgan wanted to tell him to go to hell, to fuck off, that she didn’t want his fucking help and that it was all his fucking father’s fault that she needed his help in the first place, but… no words would come to her. Why were no words coming to her?! She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but a choked start of a sound.

She felt an angry blush climb her cheeks as her heart raced in her chest. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said with a cocky grin. Morgan flinched at the sound of the tap but didn’t move her eyes from Villain’s face. It wasn’t until the tab of the kettle clicked on that she regained control of her limbs. “All done,” he said with a wink before stepping back and walking back to the island before sitting in the same chair as if nothing happened.

She turned and glared at the kettle, now full of water and realised the bastard used his shadows. She whirled on him, eyes blazing, and he was already looking at her, a smile on his lips.

“You didn’t have to do that!”

Villain tilted his head at her. “You asked me to help with the kettle,” he said, feigning innocence.

“That’s not – you know what I mean!”

Villain tsked, shaking his head. “It’s not my fault you don’t know how to ask for help, Morgan,” he said and then laughed. “A hero who can’t ask for help. How cliché.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she huffed and turned as he laughed again.  

The rest of the coffee making she could do by herself thankfully, one hand still operational. After a beat of silence she asked, “where do you keep the spoons?”

“In the cutlery drawer.”

“And where is the cutlery drawer?” she asked, impatience leaking through.

“Do you need help, Hero?” he asked in that faux kind voice, and she flipped him off without looking at him.

“Whatever. I’ll find it myself.”

Shadows curled around her wrist, and she froze as shivers danced around her skin. She followed the wispy darkness with her eyes to a drawer beside the sink. It opened, revealing the spoons and she mumbled a begrudging: “thanks.”

“No problem, Morgan.”

She could stab him. With a spoon. Gouge his eyes out, so they couldn’t give her that mocking stare. The thought calmed her rage, and she was able to be pragmatic again. She grabbed a spoon for the coffee and the yogurt. Making the coffee was awkward, but she did it herself and then brought the coffee and yogurt tub to the island, sitting as far from Villain as she could.

He lifted his inky eyes to her. They dropped to the strawberry yogurt, and he let out a low, “Oooh, you’re gonna be in trouble,” like a child.

“What?”

“That’s dad’s yogurt,” he said. “The last person who tried to eat it on him got –” Villain said and drew a line along his throat before closing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.

“Not spreading rumours, Villain?”

Morgan’s spine went rigid at the voice. The last time she saw him she was strapped to a table downstairs, no windows in sight. Her chest constricted as if there was no air, his voice repeating: “The first two strikes will be in your palms, Morgan. To remind you that even if you try to fight back, with your knives or your words or otherwise, you will fail.”

“Me? Spread rumours? Absolutely not,” Villain said distantly. He felt so far away, too far. There wasn’t anything between her and Supervillain, and she regretted very much not sitting facing the door to the kitchen. This doesn’t have to happen again, Morgan. We can be civil with each other.

Supervillain laughed and Morgan suppressed the flinch. Stop it, you’re not down there anymore. You’re fine. Get a grip. Get a fucking grip.

Her grip tightened on the spoon. She refused to look at Supervillain, or even acknowledge he was in the room. She just popped the lid off the yogurt and peeled back the foil tab before she sunk the spoon into Supervillain’s favourite yogurt. She wanted to devour it, to pour it on the ground in front of his fucking feet, she wanted to do something just to spite him, just to show him that she wasn’t going to just lie down and die.

She glared at the bandages. Took a breath. No.

No.

She had to play smart. Pretend she was beaten, keep a handle of her rage.

She raised her eyes to Supervillain who smiled warmly at her.

He could hide being a psychopath behind his smile, his kindness.

She would play better than him.

This was the man she spent the last two years hunting, intercepting, studying. The black and white tiles between them stretched like a chessboard between them as Morgan stared at him.

Game on.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile of her own.

He inclined his head at her. “Good morning,” he replied. “Sleep well?” and he went to the kettle. She didn’t miss how his eyes went to the yogurt in her hand before going back to her face, the pleasantness never dropping, not for a second.

“I did,” she replied. Civil. Pleasant. “Villain was telling me about the shed actually, before you came in.”

Villain raised an amused brow at her but didn’t say anything.

The tap turned on. Water gushed. It turned off.

“He did?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if I could go out and see it?”

She could have imagined it, but it seemed the kettle was turned on with a little irritation. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea with your hand, Morgan.”

“No, I know. I just want to see it.” Y’know, its flaws, weaknesses, see what weapons I could smuggle to murder you in your sleep. “I’m feeling a little couped up.”

Come on, she willed. You said I could have a life here, prove it, asshole.

Supervillain sighed. “I suppose if you just want to see it, that won’t be a problem,” he said eventually. “Besides, it’s not like you could run. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and some exercise and fresh air will be good for you. So, under supervision, and without permission to train, yes. You can see the training room.”

Morgan smirked at the little win.

“Thank you.”

*****

Orphanage roll-call: (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @xenlust @books-are-everything @micechomper @shywhumpauthor @aarika-merrill @0eggdealer @watermelonrandom @tippytappytyping @swift-perseides @gloriousqueen101 @isnortkoolaidpowderteehee @jumpywhumpywriter @bitter-space @lumpofsand

@xxgalgurlxx @silentpotat0 @ladygwennn @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

“You’re going to ruin it you know,” Whumper sang from the shadows of his cell. Whumpee on concrete dusted floor sat, their back against the wall, knees bent and hands resting lazily on top. Caretaker told Whumpee a few times now that Whumper was secure, that he wasn’t going anywhere and that Whumpee didn’t need to be down there with him, but… Caretaker didn’t know Whumper like they did. And it wasn’t like they could sleep anyways.

Whumpee glared at the darker shadow of space where Whumper sat, mimicking Whumpee’s position. “What?” Whumpee snapped.

Whumper lifted a finger and twirled it around, gesturing at everything. “This little… team of yours. Caretaker and the rest. You think they’re gonna look after you? You think they’re gonna try’n what— rehabilitate you?”

Whumpee’s glare remained, their face remained impassive, but inside they wanted nothing more than to rip off their skin and take someone else’s for a little while so they didn’t have to deal with Whumper anymore.

“You’re a lost cause, Whumps. We both know it. Why bother these nice people with your grocery list of problems.”

“I’m only like this because of you.”

“And that’s how I know you’ll fuck this up,” Whumper replies with a flash of white teeth. He leans out of the shadows, his eyes gleaming. “Cause at the end of the day I made you who you are. And if you think I built you to endure safety, you’ve got a whole new world of pain waitin’ for ya Whumps.”

***

Um, um, um, um I know you will all roll your eyes but I have something new I discovered in my drafts and I’m pretty sure it has um, never been done before??? Ever??? Maybe???

I could be completely bullshitting this but I think I just invented a supernatural race— UM UM UM

* throws a calendar into the room and runs away *

We were promised IF chapter pleaseeeeeee!!!

I think I can offer my first born and my friend's cat if that'll help 😔

First born’s and cats, the way to my heart, anon!

Originally I was gonna have all the stories updated by The New Year, then I was like, okay the first week of January, but now it will have to be the second week because I am a silly little goose and have actually been busy?!?

So updates for the stories promised before New Years will be within the next 14 days!!!

“Why are there so many flies around them?” Youngest asked, curling their lips back in disgust.

“Probably because I’m dead inside,” Whumpee replied melodramatically, while Rogue said at the same time, “probably because they stink.”

Whumpee nodded sagely. “Mmm… yes. I would like to change my answer to Rogue’s. I have become nose blind at this point. The flies and I are one.”

“Are they okay?” Youngest whispered to Leader, who simply sighed.

Second answered instead, pinching their nose. “Yup. They were always this weird.”

Whumpee gasped indignantly. “Give me some credit, Second.” They jutted their chin into the air, “torture has really added some weight to my insanity now. I feel I am more well rounded because of it.”

Medic, who was meticulously lifting Whumpee’s shirt all this time, peeling the sticky, heavy fabric from the gaping wound in Whumpee’s side, gasped. The rest of the team stiffened as they all saw the size and seriousness of the gaping hole in Whumpee’s torso. It seemed to vomit blood, the edges sticky with shirt fibres and scabs that had healed through the fabric.

Whumpee, taking this silence for reverence for their new wise torturee persona, waved them away. “Oh come on guys, please. I’m still one of—”

“Whumpee!” Medic snapped. Whumpee shut up and glanced at Medic. “When did you get this?”

Whumpee blinked and peered down at the wound and hummed, bringing a bloodstained hand to their chin. “Hmm… I don’t know. It all gets fuzzy from the excitement of the rescue,” they answered with a grin. “Which I am very grateful for by the way.”

“Whumpee…” Leader said, drawing their attention back to them. Whumpee frowned at the concern etched into Leader’s face. “How are you so nonchalant about this?”

Whumpee let out a bark of riotous laughter, slapping their knee and then hissing as their wound stung. “Ow! Leader, please! This? This is nothing. Whumper was going easy on me. I’ve had worse,” they assured with a grin. They didn’t notice with their crinkled, smiling eyes how everyone else on the team stiffened at their attempt to reassure. “Now. I think I may pass out. If you’ll excuse me—”

And Whumpee fainted. Medic cursed and sprung into action, barking orders at Rogue and Second who had medical training too, as the rest of the team stared on helplessly.

***

Who the fuck is pukicho? Is this a meme?

*throws some random offering at you and runs of the door *

The next updated fic will be— Vendetta, but I could try and get one or both of them done soon anon *picks up rubber duck of Beethoven and frowns* uh… t-thank you?

IF has it’s own place in my brain tbh— it exists outside of my brain— IT WILL NOT BE THIS SATURDAY THOUGH! Sorry, I need more time than that ahahahah

This is absolutely not pointed at anybody in particular, so if you read this and think it was inspired by you... um, don't :)

Whumpee winced as Whumper started setting up the chess board again. “No,” Whumpee mumbled weakly. Whumper paused, glanced at Whumpee on their mattress on the floor and grinned.

“Good morning, Whumpee. What exactly are you protesting today?”

“No chess,” they begged, their voice croaking from sleep.

Whumper straightened and stepped around the table, walking towards Whumpee slowly. Giving Whumpee enough time to fear his advances and back up on the flimsy mattress, cornering themselves against the wall. Whumper kept coming and stopped at the edge of the bed. He crouched and grabbed the chain that attached to Whumpee’s ankle cuff. Whumpee’s heart raced as they stared wide eyed at the monster.

Whumper clicked his fingers and pointed at his feet. He curled the chain around his hand in warning, come here or be dragged here. So Whumpee bit back a whimper as they crawled towards Whumper’s feet and sat back on their heels, kneeling before him, head bowed. Whumper kept wrapping the chain around his fist so Whumpee couldn’t get away as he leaned a hand down and tapped two fingers under Whumpee’s chin.

Whumpee bunched their hands into fists as they turned their head up to meet Whumper’s almost fond expression that curled their stomach.

“Now, pet, what was that no about?”

Whumpee trembled as they stared at Whumper. They swallowed to try and clear their throat but they were scared to speak so boldly with Whumper this close. They looked away but flinched when Whumper clucked his tongue twice and looked up at him with pleading eyes.

He put his hand under their chin again to make sure they couldn’t look away. “Come on, darling. You know I don’t ask twice,” he purred. Whumpee’s heart raced against their chest. “Are you going to make me ask twice?”

“N-no! No, sir. I just… please, no chess today.”

Whumper’s horrible blue eyes looked concerned as if Whumpee was a child who had fallen during play time. “Why, pet?”

“I never win,” Whumpee replied mutinously. “It’s— it’s not fair. I don’t- I never played before you—“”

“I taught you the rules,” Whumper supplied.

“The rules, but not plays. And everyday it seems you use a different one and I can’t adapt and—”

Something simmered under Whumper’s skin that terrified Whumpee and they quickly tried to appease their kidnapper. “I mean, I am grateful you taught me, sir, it’s just— I can’t— it’s frustrating.”

“Hm.” Whumper’s hand moved to Whumpee’s head and patted it lightly. Whumpee struggled to repress the shiver dancing down their spine. “So you want to forfeit your chance at freedom today?”

“No!”

“But you know the rules.”

Whumpee knew the rules. They knew the rules alright. They knew that everyday Whumper would come down and set up the chess board and they would play. If Whumper won, he got to do whatever horrible torture he thought up to Whumpee that day, and if Whumpee won they’d be granted their freedom. Which was a sick twisted game in and of itself because Whumpee didn’t play chess.

“I do, but I—”

“And now you’re interrupting me, pet. My, my, you really have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Perhaps it’s the mattress. Perhaps, I’ve treated you too well.”

“No! Sir, no, please sir. I’m sorry.”

“I like playing chess with you everyday, pet. You’re improving so quickly.” Probably because torture’s a great motivator, Whumpee thought dismally.

“What’s the point if I can’t win?!” Whumpee snapped. The words flew out of their mouth in pure frustration, their hands coming off their lap in a helpless gesture at the futility of it all. It was cruel. That with every move Whumpee thought that maybe, maybe, they could win and go home today.

They realised their mistake as soon as the words left their lips. Terrified eyes went to Whumper’s face, which had lost all softness and warmth, replaced with a cold fury.

“I’m sorry sir. Please. I’m— please sir—”

“We will play chess today,” Whumper said, grabbing Whumpee under their arm and pulling them to their feet roughly. “We will play multiple games, to help improve your skills.”

Whumpee blanched. “M-multiple games?”

“Yes!” Whumper replied brightly. “I may even teach you an opening.”

Multiple games meant multiple losses. Whumpee dug their heels into the ground, resisting. “But, sir if I lose more than one game, do I get punished t-twice?”

The question nearly stole the air from their lungs as Whumper stopped by the table and grinned at Whumpee who shrunk back.

“I think that’s only fair, don’t you? Considering you’re getting multiple chances at freedom.”

And Whumpee had the sudden, awful feeling that even if they won, Whumper would never let them go in that moment. His eyes were too bright, his smile too twisted. Helpless anger bubbled up inside them as they spat, “none of this is fair!”

Whumper raised their hand and Whumpee’s head whipped to the side with a soft gasp. Gentle fingers turned Whumpee’s cheek to face him again, his expression sympathetic, his eyes anything but.

“Let’s play.”

***

Protagonist gasps as he’s flung from his horse, the wind knocked out of him as he lands painfully on his back, his sword clattering a metre away. He blinks at the gun-powdered sky, fog like smoke filling the air as his horse kicks up dirt on his face and races away. Protagonist groans as he rolls, a hiss pulls from between his teeth as his ribs scream at him for moving, but he has to. He’s defenceless on the ground.

He turns his head to see his sword lying in wait and he gets to his hands and knees, sucking in a breath as his body screams at him to stay down.

A foot slams into his back, right between his shoulder blades and Protagonist’s head smacks against the dirt. White flashes behind his eyes as he groans miserably. The foot retracts and Protagonist takes it as his opportunity to lunge for the blade, and just as it’s within his grasp—

“My brother,” a voice mocks above him as a boot slams on the back Protagonist’s hand. Protagonist cries out as the spiked heel digs into his hand, pinning it to the dirt. “The white knight. Ever the saviour.”

Protagonist gasps, freezing beneath his attacker. He— he knows that voice. He swallows as he tilts his head over his shoulder and looks up into the smoke soaked sky, and there, bathed in grey, stands a face that looks like his own.

An impossible face.

A face that is dead.

His brother is dead.

“Brother?” he asks with a soft breath. The spike is yanked from Protagonist’s hand and he hisses as blood pumps freely, clamping his other hand over it as his brother steps around him towards his head. Protagonist follows him the whole time with his eyes. “It— it can’t be, y-you’re alive?”

A tip of a steel toed boot catches Protagonist’s cheek, flipping him onto his back and staring at the sky again before a weight slams down on his waist. Another punch slams his head to the right and careful fingers draw him back to face the sky, but the sky isn’t visible with his brother’s cobalt eyes glaring down at him.

“I’m alive, dear brother,” he snarls and his arms snaps out again. Blood spurts from Protagonist’s lips onto the dirt as careful fingers draw him back again. He chokes on the blood as he tries to speak, but it doesn’t matter when Brother grabs his wrist of his uninjured hand and pins it under his knee. Protagonist cries out as Brother leans his weight on his wrist, blood bubbling up over his chin, reaching up with a bloodied hand to try and bat him away. But his blood greased palm only makes Brother’s polished black armour gleam in the light. “You would have known that if you tried to look for me.”

Protagonist stares, his eyes wide, his heart racing beneath his chest plate. “I— I did. Brother, I looked for you, I—”

Brother’s hand shot out, grabbing Protagonist’s cheeks between his fingers and squeezing viciously as he leaned down, eyes manic and filled with rage.

“You left me! To rot!” Brother cries, tears gleaming in his eyes, making them brighter. “You left me, and for what? Hmm? For the cause? For the mission?”

He leans in, his grip tightening further until Protagonist can’t contain his grunt of pain. Blood slick hand grasping Brother’s desperately, trying to ease the pressure.

“For the girl?” He whispers venomously, his breath fanning Protagonist’s face he was so close, his words poisonous and filled with hurt. In a flash he releases Protagonist and slams his fist against his jaw again.

White flashes again behind Protagonist’s eyes as the pain makes his ears ring. He coughs onto the ground, and Brother doesn’t turn his head back this time as Protagonist’s vision shutters.

“Brother,” Protagonist groans, his eyes filling with tears. “I— we thought you were dead. I… I mourned you.”

The battle could have stopped for all Protagonist could hear of it. The only affirmative he has that they are still on the battlefield is the rumbles of feet and horses beating against the dirt below. The world slows around them as Protagonist turns his head back with an effort to look at his brother.

But all he sees is a stranger staring down at him with disgust and apathy.

“You were right to,” Brother replies, sniffling. His eyes hard, even as tears trail down his dirty face. “Your brother died that day. And after they tortured me, after they got tired of my screams, after they broke me,” Brother says, his voice breaking. “They built me up again. Thought I’d be useful. They knew I knew your skills, your training, your tactics, brother to the king,” he drawls like it’s an insult. “And you know something? They were right.”

“Brother… no. You’re not… you can’t be one of them.” Protagonist whispers, horror flashing across his features.

Brother smiles and it freezes Protagonist below him. “You can take that up with Antagonist.”

Before Protagonist could protest, Brother’s fist slams down on his face and darkness swallows him whole.

***

Oh yes of course!!! Oh my god, heheheh, I’m glad you enjoyed it, thank you~ You are now officially a Gentag congratulations