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thewhumperinwhite · 1 month

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WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

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Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

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kiriscreama · 7 months

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can’t really think right now

Whumptober 2023 - Day 1

Prompt: “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Warnings: Concussions/Head Trauma, Back Injury, Memory Issues, Emetophobia/Vomiting, Strong language (Bakugou), possible medical inaccuracies

Summary: A surprise villain attack leaves Izuku in critical condition. Katsuki and Kyoka need him to hold on until help arrives.

A/N: super didn’t need to do whumptober when i’ve got so many WIPs but i got overly excited lol. i fully do not expect to get all of these posted this month, but i’ve got a handful done, and i’ve brainstormed/outlined a fic for each prompt, so i’ll do what i can this month and we’ll see what happens from there. title from Home by Cavetown

also on AO3 | whumptober 2023 masterlist

Izuku hurts.

It’s the only thing he’s able to process right now. The rest of the world is a haze of color that bleeds together at the edges and noise that hits his ears in one big block of sound. He can’t identify anything specific but he knows that he is in pain.

He tries to remember the seconds before he was knocked out. Tries to remember blinking awake a moment before. Tries to remember how to make his mouth work, how to respond to the muffled voices that are slowly starting to distinguish themselves from the fog in his brain.

Something separates from the rest of the blur of colors, a smear of orange and black and ash blonde. Izuku’s ears are ringing now, but words slowly break through the noise flooding his ears.

“-me, shitty Deku. How many fingers am I holding up?”

Izuku blinks, strains at a smaller blob of black in front of him, and makes out four fingers coming off of a gloved fist. He tries to say as much, but his tongue is dry and far too large for his mouth. He coughs and swallows, much to the dismay of the figure above him.

“F-four?” he manages thickly.

“Shit,” the figure says. It turns, shouts some sort of instruction, and then bends closer.

Izuku recognizes the gruff voice, the spikes of dandelion fluff around the head but the name won’t come to him.

He frowns. Why won’t it come to him? It feels like someone has stuffed his brain full of cotton. There’s massive gaps where his mind should be.

A thick, sweet scent fills his nose followed by a crackling sound. The sound makes Izuku flinch, pulling his shoulders to his ears and letting out a low whine.

“Sorry, nerd,” the figure says, voice low. “Shit. Your eyes. You sure we can’t move ‘im, Jack?”

Another figure distinguishes itself from the blur, someone swathed in black and bright salmon. “No way, dude. His back’s fucked. We could make it worse.”

The voice is monotone, but more feminine. The names are there, just out of reach. Izuku tries to turn his head for a better view, but a sharp pain shoots up his spine, alarming in the way it’s so distinct. He feels himself cry out but the sound barely registers.

“Gotta support his neck at least,” the first voice says. The second utters some sort of agreement.

The second figure comes closer, kneeling at his side. A small hand wraps around one of Izuku’s, the one resting on his chest. “How’re we doing down here, Deku?” she asks.

Izuku manages a grunt before large gloved hands find his sides, moving him as gently as possible, and he cries out again. It hurts for another moment, before his head is gently placed in a lap. The change in angle relieves something in his back. It’s a small mercy.

“H’rts,” he finally says. He thinks it’s been too long to answer.

“No shit,” says the first person from above his head. “Fucking hell, Deku. Gonna get yourself killed.”

The person holding his hand huffs out a laugh. “We’re gonna have to wrap you in bubble wrap,” she says. A pause and then, “Five minutes ‘til extraction.”

“Tell Cheeks to hurry the fuck up.”

A switch flips in Izuku’s brain. He can practically picture the name, like a spotlight is shining on it. A spotlight that lights up every corner of the part of his brain that he takes up. “Kacchan?”

Someone groans, and Izuku’s vision is obscured by a face. Red eyes peer down at him, haloed by fluffy blonde hair. “What, nerd?” he asks, and now that Izuku knows, he can hear the worry. “You know where we are?”

Izuku tries to crane his neck, but Katsuki’s hands keep him from moving. He fights the fog in his brain to remember. He can see himself putting on his hero costume, remembers creeping through quiet streets, remembers a villain laughing and getting separated from his partner.

He remembers hearing someone scream and turning towards the sound and then—

Nothing.

“We’re in the city,” he says. He doesn’t specify which. He can’t remember. “The class—“ is all here, but why, he can’t remember why, “got split up. Was supposed to be training.” But it isn’t anymore. The panic he remembers, the panic he sees in Katsuki’s face, that’s real.

“Someone got the guy.” The second voice says. Katsuki had called her Jack. Izuku searches his memories. “He’s in custody. Few more minutes.”

“Ky’ka,” Izuku breathes. He remembers her yelling out, remembers shoving her backwards and her body hitting the ground feet away. “‘Re you h’rt?”

The hand around his squeezes. She lets out a shaky breath. “I’m okay. Little sore, but I’m good.” There’s a pause, a curse. “We forgot to ask him— Deku, what year is it?”

“We already know he’s got a concussion, Ears, what are you—“

“There’s a checklist and we totally ignored it,” she says. Is her voice shaking? Izuku’s not sure. He kind of wants to close his eyes but fights it. What year is it, anyway?

“Thir’ year?” he tries.

Kyoka sounds a little amused. “I mean, that’s good enough,” she says. “And how’s the head?”

Izuku frowns. He’s told them this. “Hurts,” he says, apparently able to enunciate properly by sheer force of will. It makes his head shift a bit, his neck twinging, but he grits his teeth through the pain.

“We got that part,” Katsuki says, but his voice is still a little too tight. “Dumbass. You dizzy?”

Izuku manages an affirmative noise. Somewhere to the left, Kyoka is muttering about checklists in an increasingly frantic tone. Momo must be rubbing off on her, he thinks, because the coping mechanism is familiar. Izuku wants to do something to assure her, but he hurts. He contents himself with squeezing her hand a little harder. She squeezes back and he hopes that means it’s helping.

Izuku takes a shaky breath and Katsuki grunts. “The fuck is that extraction? My stupid comms are dead.”

The second part is for Izuku’s benefit, he thinks, because Kyoka would have already known that.

“Soon,” she says, squeezing Izuku’s hand again. “Uravity will be here soon.”

Ochako is supposed to be with someone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s certain of this.

Izuku had been with — he remembers a low chuckle and purple ribbing down a black jumpsuit; remembers, “If you’re not back in thirty seconds I’m coming in after you,” and thinking about how strategically, you wouldn’t usually want him coming in after, that he’s supposed to be the first strike from the shadows; and then he remembers nothing —

Shinsou.

God only knows where he is now. Izuku’s chest seizes with panic at the thought.

Katsuki is with, strangely, Kyoka. They work well together, but they’re an unlikely pairing. Her advanced hearing balances out the deafness in Katsuki’s right ear, giving him an advantage when he rushes in for a first strike.

But they’re opposites — Kyoka does stealth and Katsuki barely knows the word. Plus, his explosions make her quirk near useless, her headphones doing little to muffle the noise when they’re back-to-back in a fight. It’s a weakness they’ll overcome in time, Izuku’s sure.

But still. It doesn’t feel right. They didn’t start out that way, Izuku doesn’t think.

Who was Ochako with? Where are they now? Why is she alone?

Everything feels wrong, woozy and hazy. The solid shapes that he’s identified as Katsuki and Kyoka drift out of focus again, twisting into each other in the amorphous blob that takes up the entire world around Izuku. He wants to reel them back in, and tries to say something to that effect, but nothing more than a whine escapes his parted lips that he barely recognizes as his own.

His stomach flips and twists, and he begs himself not to vomit. He can’t find his voice to warn Katsuki. He’d probably drown in it.

Something must change in his face, because he recognizes the cadence of Katsuki swearing — his hearing seems to have switched off again, like he’s focusing too hard on keeping his stomach inside of his body and can’t spare the energy to concentrate on individual noises.

There’s hands at his back and hands on his head and he’s shifted onto his side. Someone, presumably Kyoka, settles behind him, and something large and hard — a rock? — is maneuvered to prop up his top leg, keeping his spine as straight as possible. The change in position made the pressure build in the back of his throat, and he can’t stop himself from being sick.

He distantly hears what must be the sound of his vomit splattering onto the ground beside Katsuki’s laugh, but the predictable volley of swears and threats doesn’t seem to follow.

Izuku groans. Tears well in his eyes, perhaps overdue. Someone strokes his hair back from his face. Something stiff and leathery is used to wipe his face clean. Kyoka’s jacket?

Izuku feels like he’s barely clinging to consciousness. A small hand finds his again and he squeezes as hard as he can. Even he can tell that it’s barely any pressure at all. Still, she squeezes back.

There’s a rumble of voices above his head that Izuku strains to understand.

“—know it’s a hard concept …but you have to sit there and wait. There’s nothing…be here soon.”

“Shut the fuck… get here fucking faster. What kind of rescue hero can’t even do her damn job?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“The hell…tell me what I mean?”

The sound of their bickering is familiar and comforting, even if Izuku can’t make out all the words. He lets himself float on their voices, his eyes slowly drifting closed.

Ochako would be here soon.

A short nap couldn’t hurt, could it?

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #‘how many fingers am i holding up?’#mha #my hero academia #fic #concussion #emetophobia #vomit tw #back injury tw #head trauma tw #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #jirou kyoka #ham writes fics

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fycoren · 2 months

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wuh oh-

#ive been sitting on these so long #literally how did the devil himself bring back my like for whump?!#hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #whump art #whump #fycodraws #tw blood #tw injury #tw kidnapping #tw knife #lmk if im missing smthn #ichor got too fun to draw #dont think too much abt who's doing this bc i dunno #knife n situation are inspired by the scene in hb tho lol

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minimuii · 11 months

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Fading

—

#back on my bs #🫶#muii art #zelink #princess zelda #botw #zelda botw #zelda breath of the wild #breath of the wild #loz #link botw #angst #artists on tumblr #the final memory #fanart #illustration #injury tw #art

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keuwibloom · 6 months

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(Slight TW/CW for injury)

With how their whole positivity/negativity thing works (and that they're the only ones who can mortally wound each other), what if Dream and Nightmare aren't able to physically touch anymore?

Imagine, in the past, the brothers' main love language was physical touch (hugs, play fighting, etc). But after they ate the apples, the negativity and positivity act like poison to the other as a defense mechanism.

Any prolonged contact will burn Dream and make Nightmare's corruption boil and melt. It is extremely painful for both of them.

Imagine how this affects them in Parallel Synthesis.

When after all the fighting, after they've settled on a truce, after they've found peace and are able to actually be brothers again,

there will always be that one thing they can never have back.

Btw this takes place during the lunch meeting mentioned here! The stars and the gang decided to have an outdoors lunch :]

Dream and Nightmare belong to Jokublog

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spectra-bear · 1 year

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BEHOLD! the fruits of my labor,,, its been a pleasure working on this slowly for the past few months, ive learned so much from practicing and this proved as a great source of inspo to me

Especially dedicated to my buddy @apatheticrobots 💜 Hope you all enjoy~!

(the song used here is Fanfare of the brave, an ost from my fav anime of all, fullmetal alchemist brotherhood <3)

#the normal chapter scheduling will be back to normal after this!#so stay tuned for more~#and have a wonderful day/night #azzy art #rottmnt #animation #animatic #tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #future leo #rise leo #casey jones #casey jr #tw injury #tw impalement

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tangledinink · 8 months

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hes got a blue scarf and pronouns--

✩ the gemini ✩ [ start ] [ prev ] [ next ]

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st-hedge · 8 days

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That’s a weird sleep paralysis demon

#devil may cry #dmc #Nelo angelo #Vergil Sparda #tw injury #cuz uh look closer at his neck lol #I like that they brought back the angelo demons #they’re just so eeeeehhheeeeeeeeee

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4axel · 4 months

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The Next One / Antigonick, Anne Carson

#many such cases #im back and feeling ill about these strange canadians #sidney crosby #connor mcdavid #connor bedard #jack hughes #juraj slafkovsky #macklin celebrini #nhl #hockey #web weaving #tw injury

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macksartblock · 2 months

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familiarity breeds discontent

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #henry oak #henry oak garcia #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #this sat unfinished for...longer than intended lol #it was also started before the code purple memory but yknow what who cares #also has anyone else remembered Henry and Sparrow share similar injuries (stabbed by Lark/Boreanaz in the back-shoulder blade area)#they bear the same scars yet Henry can't forgive his son #tw: eye strain #tw: eye contact #my artwork

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eggdrawsthings · 1 year

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And in the arms of endless anger Will end the story of a soldier in the dark

#paz come back what about your son goddamn it #my art #paz vizsla #the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian #mando #star wars #tw blood #tw injury

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demynom · 9 months

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You stood up and paid the cost, I guess that truth and justice lost

So much for fighting like a Fey

#ace attorney #Mia fey #maya fey #turnabout musical #pwaa #turnabout sisters #ace attorney brain is back #i love you fey clan #also the new turnabout musical songs really got me #fuck man #ooughhhh #my doodles #blood tw #injury tw #death tw

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bulletsxlattes · 20 days

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I can see my baby swinging His Parliament's on fire & his hands are up On the balcony and I'm singing Ooh, baby, ooh, baby, I'm in love - x

#jaytim #tim drake #jason todd #red robin #red hood #this is titans tower coded #been binging some lana albums these days i been sick so i was in the mood for some delulu jaytim #tw: injury #tw: blood #Jason bit the back of tim's neck. I dont know if its obvious but just pointing it out. There is biting and there is lip biting and 😏 stares #ah he bit his ear too #so they fought and got a little too into it

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radio-writes · 12 days

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It's about time for your blood to spill + you should sleep + we were soulmates

(Congrats on the 300 followers btw!)

Now, The Echoes Interlace

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Blood, physical injuries to reader, ambiguous major character death(s), angst

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

"You always have looked so pretty in red, Al." You hummed as your combed your fingers through his soft hair. You pressed your fingers against his scalp, lightly massaging against his antlers.

The light static that varied in volume crackled. "Fuck you." Alastor managed to say as his head laid on your lap.

His smile was strained—present, of course, as it always was, but strained. The trail of blood from his mouth dripped from his chin, joining the warm pool under both your bodies.

"Rude." You scolded him. Your breath coming out in a hiss as Alastor dug his claws into an open wound on your leg.

"Must you continue to hurt me? You're already dying." You glared down at him as you would at a misbehaving pet.

You leaned forward, easily removing his hand from your body without much of a struggle. He only had so much strength left after all.

"Fuck you." Alastor repeated, static morphing his voice this time around.

"Yes, well, I get that you're mad, Al." You continued your casual tone. "But it was about time for your blood to spill, don't you think?"

You grunted as you leaned your back against the cold wall again, sighing as the tension on the wound across your stomach was lessened.

"F—"

"Fuck me, yes yes." You cut him off. "Save your strength or you'll die out faster."

Alastor didn't mean to listen to you, but he just felt far too tired to argue otherwise.

Your hand returned to his head, damp with sweat and blood, and yet somehow still so adorably fluffy. Leave it to this guy to still look so presentable even when dying a second time around.

Your fingers scratched at one of his tufts of hair, causing it to give a slight, involuntary twitch.

"So they are ears." Your voice was soft. "I always assumed but was never really sure, you know?"

Alastor didn't respond. His red eyes continued to glare at you.

He adjusted his hands to lay over his chest. A weak attempt to slow his loss of blood. He didn't even have enough energy to press on it anymore.

"Hey, Al." You wheezed, breath slightly knocked from you. You had adjusted the way you sat so the demon could lay more comfortably on your lap. "Do you remember how we first met?"

"You told me that cheesy pick up line. How'd it go again?" Your hand paused as you tried to remember.

A rather dashing demon slid up to you at the bar; charming, sharp smile, on full display. You've seen all sorts of sinners by now, but none so happy while rotting in hell.

You expected him to sell you drugs, or quite bluntly tell you to sleep with him. What you got instead was a very corny:

"You must be buried treasure, because I am absolutely digging you." You let out a tired laugh, hand continuing to pet Alastor once more.

The sound of static crackling again was the only response you got. You think it meant fuck you.

"Well you must be treasure as well, Al. Because it seems I'll be burying you tonight." You met Alastor's harsh glare with a soft smile.

"What? That absolutely was funny, you can't deny it." You defended yourself.

Alastor didn't think him dying was funny at all, actually, but he didn't exactly have any energy left to say that.

His smile was a tight, close lipped one, but you see his lips try to curl just a tiny bit in what you assumed would have been a snarl.

"You always thought I was hilarious." Your own hand moving over the gash on your neck as if it was a mild inconvenience. You titled your head as you looked down at the demon on your lap. "What changed?"

Alastor merely glared at you.

Your eyes traveled down his body, staying on the deep wound oozing across his chest.

"That's not fair, Al." You laughed tiredly, eyes staying on his bloodied torso. "I always thought you were incredibly handsome—sinfully so really. But your attempts at killing me never changed that."

"Fuck you." The static over his voice was gone now. His tone was as spiteful, angry, and condescending as always, but much, much weaker.

Your eyes drifted back to his face. His smile was still present, but his lovely red eyes seemed more unfocused than they were a second ago.

Your hand in his hair stopped their movements. For a moment, the world was still as you wondered if your company had already left.

But it was merely for a heart beat, as a ragged breath from his lips snapped time back into motion.

You pealed your fingers from his hair, bringing them down to softly rub your knuckles down his cheek. He doesn't so much as flinch, but, you knew he would have had he been able to.

"Hey, old pal." You cooed softly. "You should sleep, you look so very tired."

His fingers on his chest twitched once, but you didn't get much of a reply anymore after that.

You sighed heavily. Your hands rested on his face as you leaned your head against the wall behind you, face craned upwards to the red sky that covered all of Hell.

Your own eyes closed, realizing just how tired and weary you yourself were.

Still, you were never one to be silent around a friend—or foe. It had always been unclear to you when it came to Alastor.

"We were soulmates, wouldn't you say so, Al?" You continued softly. "But in a funnier way, I think, where we were always meant to destroy the other."

Alastor's skin felt as it always did beneath your fingers. The stench of blood heavy as it always was around him. You felt his familiar eerie presence by you, as you always did.

And yet, you were unsure if he actually was still there. You were quite conflicted about how you were supposed to feel about that, truth be told.

"Fuck you, old friend." You sighed, eyes remaining closed, smile tiredly stretching across your own lips.

#tw: physical injuries #tw: major character death #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #vien writes #follower event #they're fine #i think #maybe #ending left intentionally ambiguous for those at the back who don't actually want to kill Al #but also for those who do so i didn't expressly put if they were saved or not #anon really saw the event and thought #im going to kill this man :)

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