Guys. Guys I Dont Think Its Only A Quarter

Guys. Guys I don’t think it’s only a quarter

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Fog licked at the edges of the bridge, curling around the street lamps and up into the stars. It was cold, bitterly in a way that sliced to the bone. She shivered, tucking her coat around her.

The street was as silent as a tomb, nothing more than wet concrete and wind, and she could be at home right now. She probably should be, at least. At home, her cat was probably waiting for her in warm bed sheets.

Here, though, secrets might be waiting.

And oh, how she loved secrets.

The suicides weren't anything special- every city has them. She had dealt with her fair share.

But this? This was strange. One person jumps off a bridge, and it's a tragedy. Two, it's awful.

And three? That's a pattern.

The wind picked up, howling as it tore through her hair. Ten minutes. Ten more and she would leave. It was edging towards two in the morning, and from what little the autopsies could gather, that was the latest time of death.

Five minutes.

Eight.

Nine.

She pushed off the edge of the bridge, turning—and froze.

"Hi," the little girl smiled, all teeth. She had ribbons in her hair.

"Hi." It was more out of reflex than anything. She glanced up, and found no parent, no guardian. Just empty street.

"Are you out here all alone?"

"No," the girl replied drily. "You're here too."

She paused. "Right. Your parents-"

"Are dead," the girl blinked, and smiled softly. "Yours are too."

Her throat went dry. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"That your parents are dead," the girl repeated.

She didn't have a response to that, and she was trained in crisis management. Her chest squeezed like a vise, tighter,tighter still.

The girl seemed to know.

"You want to know," the girl observed, eyeing her. Her eyes drifted over the edge, the water deep and churning.

Deep and dark and deadly.

"Yes," she admitted.

The girl's smile disappeared.

"I wish you didn't."

The wind had vanished.

She studied the girl, in her perfect dress and braided hair.

"You know, don't you."

The girl tipped her head one way, then the other.

"Yes. But then again I know a lot of things. So in the scheme of it, it isn't important to me."

"People are dying," her voice went sharp. She regretted it as soon as the girl’s eyes snapped to hers.

"Everyone dies."

"Not like this," she said, and the girl shrugged one shoulder.

"Death is death in every form." She turned her gaze to the water. “The method reaches the same result."

"Where are your parents?"

"I lied," the girl said bluntly. "Earlier, when I said they were dead. They don't exist. Not really, at least. Belief systems are so strange sometimes-"

"Stop."

The girl did, patiently.

"You see the people who die here?"

"Of course I do," the girl said it like it was obvious.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Why?"

"Why do they die?"

The girl twirled one long strand of hair around her finger, face the picture of child innocence.

"Because they jump, silly."

"And why do they jump?"

The world went silent. The girls face dropped. Something infinitesimal slammed onto her back, the weight of a star itself, the air like thick syrup.

"I can show you," the girl took a step forward. The strand of hair dropped. "If you like."

She swallowed, throat dry. "I do," she rasped.

"You don't," the girl corrected, but she stepped forward anyways.

"They always do this," she murmured, and she was almost certain it wasn't directed at her.

Her small hand landed her forehead, and she was gone.

The vicious bite of loss, the cry of a child, the smell of burnt toast. Abandoned buildings and car filled highways. And empty tombstone, barren elementary school chairs.

It roared through her head like a newly released dam and she was almost certain she was crying, that tiny palm set so firmly on her forehead.

She sat on the edge of the bridge, feet dangling. The girl sat with her, legs kicking in the air as she hummed.

She choked on a sob, cheeks wet.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

She merely nodded, throat closed.

The girl took her hand, fingers tiny and warm.

“You’re okay,” the girl soothed, but she didn’t believe her.

The water beckoned.

“What’s your name,” she managed, and the girl smiled, just barely. She released her hand.

“Say hi to my brother for me.”

“I thought your family didn’t exist.”

“My parents don’t,” the girl agreed. “My siblings and I kind of do.”

“Ah,” she laughed, and it was wet. “Makes perfect sense.”

The girl’s mouth twitched.

“Truth.”

The puzzle pieces clicked into place. The girl’s name. Truth.

Her sister was going to have to take care of her cat from now on.

“That’s why,” she said dully. “It’s you.”

“I don’t give them anything they don’t ask for. It’s not my fault most of them don’t realize they never want what they think they do.”

She watched the water undulate for a moment.

“What’s your brother’s name.”

The girl’s smile turned into something wide, child-like joy.

“Death.”

She laughed then, and it rang out over the water. The girl still smiled.

“Truth hurts,” she murmured. The girl nodded.

“Truth hurts.”

Her fingers slackened on the edge of the bridge and she finally, finally let herself fall.

Truth stayed behind, image wavering above her as the waves swallowed her whole.

For a moment she wondered who would find the little girl next. Who would be bestowed that knowledge. Who would feel that pain.

Who would get to meet her brother, afterwards.

She supposed it didn’t matter, after all.

Everyone meets them both at some point.

Truth hurts, indeed.

The dark swallowed her whole.

Hi there!

Having whumpee OCs of your own often means having a preferred way of whumping for the each one. Sometimes it's not planned, not deliberate - just a feeling these kinds of suffering fit them right.

If this sounds relatable for you, which whump tropes each one of your OCs usually get? Which ones are just made for them?

Ooooh, this is a good question!

Adelie: exhausted, bloody, and bruised, knowing that no matter what she does, she cannot save someone in a given situation, and blaming herself for it.

Melody: being confined or bound, especially small rooms/fear of her whumper no longer being imprisoned

Cat: having to watch as someone he loves is hurt, helpless to stop it

Travis: the people he loves being hurt mere hours after he left them, but being too far away to do anything

if ur doing requests, I would absolutely looveeee anything w enemies being forced to work together/fake dating <3 thank you!

“Smile, hero,” the villain murmured. “There’s photographers.”

The hero pulled back, looping her arms over his shoulders as he looked softly at her. Cameras flashed out of the corner of her eye, and she grinned at him, digging her nails into the back of his neck.

He hid his wince with a smile.

“Maybe stop trying to rip out my spinal cord in public, love.”

“Sorry babe.” She smiled wider. “I’ll save it for the bedroom.”

His hands settled on her waistline, tugging her flush against him.

“Oh, hero,” he pressed his lips to her ear. “And when my blood is on your hands, what then? The public adores you, but do you really think they won’t slaughter you for ruining their ‘golden couple’?”

She had to turn her face into the side of his neck to hide her snarl, because he was right. Her superiors knew who he was. They knew who they forced her to work with, stand with, fall in love with. And they had her do it anyways, because they looked pretty together in pictures, and the media couldn’t decide if they wanted to be with them or be them.

The perfect pair—the golden couple.

“Hmm?”

She could feel him grinning, real this time, all cat like satisfaction and cruel amusement.

“Go fuck yourself,” she hissed, and he laughed.

“Sorry, what was that?”

She put her palm to his chest and shoved, grabbing his lapel.

“I love you,” she breathed, soft with adoration. Someone cooed, and the camera flashed.

His smile was sharp.

“Oh,” he agreed, “I know.”

Someone reached for her arm, and he caught it before they could touch her. For a moment, just a moment, she saw that writhing mass of power beneath, the darkness he hid so well with a smile.

“Sorry, sorry,” the person apologized as the villain released their hand. “I figured I should introduce myself—”

“Colonel,” the villain greeted, and the man shook his hand. He almost reached for hers, then thought better of it, eyes darting to the villain. Anger flared in the pit of her stomach.

“You’re enjoying yourselves?”

She smoothed a hand down the side of her dress, beaming. “Oh, absolutely, I—”

The villain wrapped a hand around her waist and tugged, pressing her against him. She slammed her foot into his.

“We should be going,” he said pointedly, and the Colonel swallowed once. He disappeared into the crowd and she whirled on the villain, eyes flashing.

“God, can you be less possessive?”

“They know who I am. You think they expect me to play nice, especially when I’m clearly so taken with you?”

He looked out over the floor, eyes catching on everyone who was pretending not to watch them. She glared at him.

“You—’’

“Hero, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s the plan,” she snapped, and his smile was real again. She didn’t resist as he tugged her closer.

“I think maybe I could love you,” he said casually, and before she could manage a response he twined his fingers through her hair and kissed her.

It was like being swallowed by the sun. She melted into him and he kissed her like she was everything, as if he took every breath for one more chance to see her face, every heartbeat for another second to spend with her.

They broke apart, and she was gasping, his grip on her hair the only thing keeping her up.

He winked, smirking, like he knew that and was proud of it.

Her lipstick was smeared on his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon.

This would be splashed across the news by midnight.

“I hate you,” she reminded him, half breathless. At some point her hands had ended up in his hair.

“Maybe,” he grinned roguishly. “But you love the way I kiss you.”

And he kissed her again.

I suffered a mental break after writing like eighteen college essays and wrote the newest one about a bagel and I just call it college essay bagel and it haunts me but like objectively it’s funny because it’s about a bagel you know? And my English teacher is gonna throw a book at my head when she finally reads it

“If I help you learn this, you won’t do anything illegal with it, right?”

The villain shot them a dry look.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question, and if it helps, you can pretend I gave a comforting answer.”

The book was soft like butter under the hero’s fingers, old and worn. There had been a lock around the cover, but that was easy enough to break off. It was a miracle the school kept any students at all out of the restricted section—but maybe that was the point.

The villain leaned over their shoulder, warm through the hero’s coat.

“You figured it out?”

“You asked me to, didn’t you?”

The villain snorted, reaching over to scoot the hero’s hand off a piece of the text.

“We’ll make a Baneswallow out of you yet.”

The use of the villain’s last name pulled a blush to the hero’s cheek, and they ducked their head. The villain’s family was—nice. Ostentatious, and well known, but they still smiled at the hero whenever the villain dragged them home for dinner. They looked at the hero like they were worth just as much as their own child, asked about their day like they were one of their own.

It was a kind of softness the hero didn’t have for themself.

“So. It’s mainly a concentration spell, which means you’ll need a conduit—“ they twisted around, and found the villain focused on them intently. “What?”

“Nothing.” They shook their head, stepping back. “I just forgot how happy you were.”

The hero’s brow furrowed. They closed the book.

“Are you okay?”

They reached for the villain, standing from their chair, and fell instead, the smell of metal permeating their nose, sharp on their tongue, down and down and down.

They slammed into wet concrete with a snap.

“Fuck,” the hero wheezed. It took them a moment to get enough breath to roll onto their back. They were dizzy, mind swirling as they tried to figure out where and when they were. The villain watched them closely. “A memory spell?” They asked as they sat up, head reeling. They massaged their temple with one hand. “Why?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder.

“I wanted answers.”

The hero swallowed, nauseous and sick with the bone deep out-of-place feeling that came with being thrown into a memory, especially one so old.

“Did you find them?”

“Yes.”

The silence was palpable, a fragile sort of thing the two of them never used to hold between them.

“How’s your family,” they tried, and the villain’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“They’re fine. They miss you,” the villain’s voice was quiet, but it was steeped with anger. “They’re proud of you, too.”

Their mouth went dry. “They’re proud of me?”

The villain scoffed. “Of course they are. Did you think they stopped caring when you stopped coming around?”

The hero didn’t have an answer for that.

“You really thought—“

“I didn’t think they’d appreciate my profession.”

The villain shrugged once more. “They don’t care too much about that. Plus, it’s you.”

It’s you? Like it was any sort of answer, like the hero was something the villain’s family held dear.

When they spoke again, the villain’s voice was hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I always told you everything, you know that.”

“No,” the villain spat. “I thought I knew that. Then I found out that you—“ they broke off. “Why?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s complicated,” the villain seethed. “That’s what you said. It’s complicated.”

The hero went cold.

“It is,” they rasped.

The villain turned away, hands shaking with unspent anger.

“It’s complicated is what you say when your parents don’t believe in magic. It’s complicated is when you aren’t speaking, or when they don’t accept you, or when they’re divorced. It’s complicated is not what you tell your best friend when your parents are brutally murdered.”

For a moment, they couldn’t breathe.

“Villain—“

“You could have told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” their voice was sharper than they had intended, and the villain froze. “What, you think it’s easy to tell someone, someone you love, that your parents died in the worst way possible? That you found them? You think I should have just said it over breakfast one day, like it was nothing?”

“I think you should have let us support you—“

“Shut up,” the hero hissed, and the villain did. “You still have your family at home. They’re wonderful, and they care, and they love you. I don’t have that. I haven’t had that for a long time. So stop telling me what I should have done, when you’ve never had to do it.”

They were wearing the villain’s coat, from all those years ago. The villain’s mother had given it to them on the way out the door, tucked it around them and whispered “keep it,” one winter break. They had wanted to keep that feeling of belonging, too, but the hadn’t. They wondered if the villain recognized it.

“They love you too,” They murmured, and the hero just stared at them. “To them, you were always just another child of theirs.”

“What?”

“They ask about you,” the villain continued. “All the time. Ever since graduation. Dad keeps all your newspaper clippings. Mom hasn’t given me a moments rest ever since she found out, asks me to invite you for dinner every time she sees that we’re fighting again.”

The hero was going to vomit, or cry, or both.

“Stop it.”

“Why,” the villain challenged. “It’s true. They miss you.”

They were a breath away from the hero, and the hero didn’t know when it had happened, or when they had stood from the ground.

“I miss you,” the villain whispered, and then, the hero did cry.

“I was worried you’d never look at me the same.” It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

“What way is that?”

“Like I’m something more than a tragedy.”

The villain smiled something soft.

“You are a tragedy. But you’ve always been my favorite.”

The hero swayed, and then they were tucked into the villain’s neck.

The villain hushed them, arms tight, and it felt like childhood.

“My parents are dead,” they murmured into the villain’s neck, and this time, they just hummed.

“Mom is making Alfredo,” they said quietly, and the hero didn’t move.

“She still makes that?”

“You told her it was the best thing you’d ever had, once.”

“I remember.”

The villain held them closer, like they were memorizing them.

“Let’s go home,” the villain breathed. “Please.”

Home. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Somewhere between starting school and ending it, they had become something more than just the villain’s friend.

Somewhere between starting the academy and eating Alfredo, they had become a Baneswallow.

“Okay,” the hero whispered. “Okay.”

With a snap of magic, they were gone.