[*grins like she's not about to get murdered by angry readers* I'm back and like I promised, I'm going to start posting some more stuff! Starting with this, which as you can tell by the title, I wrote for Whumptober last year! This is the first part, which doesn't really connect to the prompt that much, but all will become clear when I post the second bit! Hopefully. If I get around to it, I might post it separately, depending how long it is, but for now I'm dumping it here. :D.
CW: (boy oh boy do i have some for ya and you can also tell me if i need to turn on the mature tag for when i post it separately =D) i will add a warning for when it gets really bad like past knife violence sooo yeah
- blood and gore
- choking/suffocation
- attempted(?) suicide
- knives
- exploitation of a physical disability (also im a bit iffy with this let me know if its ok or if i should omit it from the thing because i dont want it to come across as offensive its just the character is canonically disabled and i dont want to not include that and yeah just let me know if i need to remove it)
- intense emotional distress
- just prepare for sad feelings i felt sad writing this until each time i wrote hotguy and cracked up in the middle of crying because just i picture the shirtless beachball picture in my head and could not take this seriously anymore]
Grian was just your average guy.
He worked eight hours a day, nine to five, five days a week. He had Saturdays and Sundays off, a nice apartment, a wonderful roommate, and, to top it all off, two adorable, wonderful, beautiful little cats named Pearl and Maui. He was more average than average, if that was a thing, especially now, as he strolled down his street on an average winter evening.
Grian sighed, turning to head down a frequently used alleyway.
What degree of average was it to be an ex-villain?
Or, well, raised by villains, he thought to himself. Besides, the average guy didn't have wings. Nor would they be an avian, much less a parrot hybrid.
He continued to stroll down the alley as soft flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky, blanketing the ground as he walked.
Something at the end of the alley suddenly caught his eye, and he hesitated, seeing a hooded figure approaching him... swiftly. He shrugged to himself before continuing.
They were probably just out for an average stroll (much like he was): probably someone from his very average street. Yeah... that was about as much as he could expect from his very average area.
He did not expect to be suddenly pinned against the wall, a cold blade pressed to his throat, in a matter of only a few seconds.
"I—"
"Don't you dare say anything, Watcher," the man snarled, forcing the knife to dig deeper. "I'm the one with the knife right now," he added.
Grian mentally cursed himself for not reacting quicker. Instead, he panted and watched — huh, how ironic — the other.
"You," the stranger said. "I waited for you! And you never came — I waited for all of you! And none of you ever came!" He paused and looked Grian in the eye. "Tell me, Watcher," he spat. "Look into my eyes. Do you recognise me?"
And Grian did.
Oh, how he remembered brilliantly green eyes — eyes that always seemed to twinkle with mischief and joy; how they seemed never to spill any tears, nor dim with unhappiness; how they lit up in delight at every smile and compliment; how they stared at him with the most heart-wrenching betrayed gaze and pleaded, begged for him to—
"I'll — I'll turn you in to the heroes," he stammered, and he winced as he heard that achingly familiar laugh that tore its way out of Hotguy's throat, because he knew — and he knew Hotguy knew he knew — how ironic this situation was.
