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much-ado-about-whumping · 1 year

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Help for when you’re having a rough time

(If you're looking for my old pinned post with my whump masterlists, you can find it here.)

In light of some deeply sad news in the whump community today, I’m thinking about how many of us here struggle with mental health, sometimes including physical or mental self-harm and suicidality. Since I know lots of folks might be having a hard time right now, I wanted to share some resources that have helped me in rough moments. Please feel free to add on to this post (or make your own, if you want!) with the resources that have worked for you.

First, a note:

Trauma, shame, and suicidality all tend to isolate - they make us feel like we’re all alone in the world, like no one else would understand us, and like the only solutions we have available to us are ones we can think of all by ourselves. In my experience, the antidote to that is connection. If you’re feeling scared or alone, you can hop into my asks or DMs if you want. I’m sure there are other folks in this community who would offer that, too. Many of us have grappled with mental health struggles, including suicidal ideation, and sometimes we can offer each other the care that can be hard to offer ourselves. Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need support.

A quick note about location: I live in the US, but about half the resources in this post are written guides you can access from anywhere. The hotlines and warmlines linked below are US-based. One or two are accessible in Canada or have an online chat or moderated forum that could be accessed anywhere. If you have good local resources from another place, please reblog and add them! (Thank you, @straight-to-the-pain, for flagging this in the notes!)

That said, here’s my absolute first recommendation if you’re feeling generally awful and don’t know what to do:

1. You Feel Like Shit (also available at its original site here)

If you’ve read a lot of ~self care tips~ in your life (and if you’re a bit of a salty bitch like me), you might be sick of being told to eat something and take a nap. (I don’t think we can hydrate our way out of long-term trauma and late-stage capitalistic hell, but thanks.) That said, I’ve found this site REALLY helpful. Personally, I have ADHD and CPTSD, a combination that makes it ROUGH for me to know how to take care of myself sometimes. This site speaks to you calmly, like a non-judgemental friend, and walks you through steps that you might struggle with if you have a hard time with executive function in general, or if you’re ill, grieving, overwhelmed, or otherwise just off your game. I pretty much always walk away feeling at least a little better, even if I don’t complete every step.

There are more suggestions and resources below the cut. Wishing everyone in this community love and care. <3

2. The 15-Minute Rule (info available in many places; after a quick google, I really like this site as a place to start)

One key principle to understanding the resources I’ve put together here is the 15-minute rule. If you’re feeling an urge towards physical or mental self-harm or suicide, studies show that the urge is unlikely to last more than about 15 minutes at its peak intensity. (Sorry I don’t have data on this off the bat - anecdotally, I can tell you that this rule also tracks with my own personal experience.) This means that, if you’re presently feeling overwhelmed by grief or pain that’s turning inwards on you, if you can stay afloat through the next few minutes, the tide of it is likely to ebb. The site I linked above has information about this concept and some great harm-reduction ideas, too. (Another resource on this that I liked in my quick search is here.)

3. Read This First (a compassionate distraction from feelings of self-harm)

I’m gonna be honest; this resource is aimed at folks having urges towards physical self-harm, but it looks like something I would find helpful with urges towards emotional self-harm, too. (It also looks like it could be handy for body-focused repetitive behaviors - BFRBs - like dermatillomania/skin-picking or trichotillomania/hair-pulling).

4. Resources from Pete Walker, psychotherapist and author of Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving

Obviously not everyone reading this will have complex PTSD (also called C-PTSD), but if you’re a person who, in general, tends to beat yourself up a lot, I’d highly recommend checking Pete Walker’s work out. If some of it doesn’t apply to you, that’s okay - take what you need, and leave the rest. This site (and the book it references most heavily) assumes you may have had parents who were emotionally or physically abusive or neglectful. If that doesn’t ring true for you, but other parts of the resources seem helpful, use them anyway! A handy place to start maybe this page on Shrinking the Inner Critic in Complex PTSD (that is, reducing the volume of the voice that screeches unpleasantness at you when you feel ashamed or scared).

As a note: this website looks VERY mid-2000s (which I kind of love). Most of the resources you want will be in the right-hand column full of links. Some of those links will open new pages, and some will automatically try to download a PDF of the article you want to read.

5. Warmlines:

This is something I just learned today - if you’re feeling really lonely and sad, but you’re not in immediate crisis, there are warmlines you can contact! These seem to be numbers where you can call (or sometimes text) to talk with a counselor or trained peer when you need support and connection. I can’t vouch for any of these numbers personally, but as someone who has definitely thought, “It’s not bad enough to REALLY need help,” I think this is a fabulous idea. Here’s a list of warmlines you can check out in the US.

6. Specialized hotlines:

There are lots of good crisis hotlines out there, but some may be better for your needs than others. For one thing, if you’re feeling seriously suicidal, it’s good to know the policies of the hotline you’re calling. In my opinion, everyone deserves bodily autonomy and the right to refuse care; for that reason, I think it’s important to know the policy of the hotline you’re calling as to whether or not they’ll call emergency services without your consent. Everyone has to make their own judgment call on this one, and I’m a little too (lightly!) triggered to go deep into my analysis on this right now, but I wanted to flag that it’s something to be aware of - if you’re going to call a hotline, you can try to look up their policy on calling emergency services before you contact them. You could probably even ask them in the beginning of the call. (A script: “Before we start, can you tell me what your policy is about contacting emergency services on behalf of callers?” If this is true, you can add: “I’m having some feelings of [suicidality/self-harm], but I’m safe and am not in danger of hurting myself or others.”)

With that in mind, here are some hotlines that seem promising to me, in no particular order:

A. For queer and trans folks in general:

Trans LifeLine

Available in the US (1-877-565-8860) and Canada (1-877-330-6366)

Available in English and Spanish

Will NOT call emergency services without your consent (you can read more about this policy on their website, including here)

Peer to peer support for transgender and questioning folks; also, microgrants (small amounts of money) for trans-related needs!

Does not offer text/chat-based support

I’ve never used Trans LifeLine myself, but I’ve heard excellent things about it from peers who have.

The Trevor Project:

Support from trained counselors for queer, trans, and questioning folks

Definitely available in the US; I’m not sure where else.

Offers support via phone (1-866-488-7386), text message (678-678), and online chat (link here - scroll down to Start Chat)

Also offers an online peer support space, TrevorSpace, for folks ages 13-24

Their site says, “In very specific instances of abuse or a clear concern of an in-progress or imminent suicide, Trevor counselors may need to contact a child welfare agency or emergency service.” When you click Learn More, it takes you to their Terms of Service (informative, but in legalese that might be hard to parse if you’re in crisis).

Again, not a service I’ve used myself, but I’ve heard good things!

B. For BIPOC folks (Black folks, Indigenous folks, and people of color more broadly), especially those who also hold LQBTQI identities:

Call Blackline:

Available via phone or text (both at 1-800-604-5841)

Available for people in crisis. Call Blackline can also help connect you with local community organizers and officials if you need to report a negative, inappropriate, or physical interaction with police, other law enforcement, or vigilantes.

From their website:

Call BlackLine® provides a space for peer support, counseling, reporting of mistreatment, witnessing and affirming the lived experiences for folxs who are most impacted by systematic oppression with an LGBTQ+ Black Femme Lens.Call BlackLine® prioritizes BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color). By us for us.

Here’s what I found regarding their policy on emergency services:

You do not have to provide any personal information to use the service. All calls remain private and will never be shared with law enforcement or state agencies of any kind.

Of course, a BIPOC person can contact any hotline for support, but for people dealing with racism, anti-Blackness, and other specific bigotries, I can very much see the importance of talking to someone who shares or understands that experience.

C. For folks processing bad psychedelic trips:

Fireside Project:

This one is something I didn’t even know existed! They do call- or text-based support (1-623-473-7433, or 1-62-FIRESIDE) for people processing psychedelic drug experiences, available 11am to 11pm Pacific time. I don’t have a ton more info, but their site seems really interesting and like they’re serving a unique need.

7. A soothing distraction:

One of the glories of the internet is the fact that it enables us to conjure up images of kittens at a moment’s notice. In that vein, I want to offer up a VERY cute distraction: Peptoc is a hotline (1-707-873-7862, or 1-707-8PEPTOC) where you can hear encouraging messages in English or Spanish from kindergarteners. How sweet is that? (Thanks to the wonderful @newbornwhumperfly for this suggestion!)

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Beloved whump community, I want to know about things that help you when you’re struggling. Please feel free to share them if you want.

And, Moya - we’ll miss you so, so much, even those of us (like me) who didn’t know you well. May your memory be an absolute blessing. <3

(I was going to put this in the tags, but oops, it’s going up here - I really hope this post will be helpful to someone, but it was also helpful to me to build. I feel better in a crisis when I can find a way to help - it’s how I soothe myself when I’m sad or scared. I really hope this doesn’t seem preachy or self-aggrandizing - it’s really just me processing-processing-processing. <3)

One more note: if this post makes you think you might want to follow my blog, you're totally welcome, but you should check out my note here first. This is not a DNI list; it's just a heads-up about my content, which could be inappropriate or triggering for some people.

#whump community #how to be a person in the world #ways to stay afloat #suicide mention cw #suicidality mention cw #self-harm mention cw #resources for taking care of yourself #bel talks #touchstones #sorry another disclaimer but also i know my experiences are not universal #my feelings might come from a really different place than other people's feelings #idk for instance if any of the shit in this post would have been at all useful to moya #but I'm sharing it anyway in case it's useful to SOMEONE

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transjudas · 1 year

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Leathermouth - Sunsets are for Muggings / The Hirs Collective Ft. Frank Iero and Rosie Richeson - Trust the Process (x, x, x)

#frank iero #frankieroedit #leathermouth #the hirs collective #mental health #userkam #these songs are SO MUCH ALIKE in what he's saying #which i find so interesting #also like. the way he's talking about how shit you try doesn't always work but keep fighting #life is a fight + never let it take you out #mental illness #trauma mention #medication cw #self harm mention #blood mention

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blaisenova · 8 months

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(half) brothers

Miguel O'Hara finds out the rather unfortunate truth about his biological father and makes a decision to do something really stupid, but not without properly saying goodbye first.

Gabriel O'Hara does not think it's cool that Miguel suddenly wants to call him his "half-brother."

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a fun little exploration of gabriel and miguel's relationship that's inspired by this post by @/flipsidesfangs! needless to say, i was inspired.

because of sensitive content (suicidal thoughts/ideation as well as implied/referenced self-harm) the actual work will be beneath the cut, but, despite the angst, it does end happily!! gabriel and miguel brotherhood for the win!

i'd also like to apologise if any of the spanish is off at all. i've been learning it for years now, but some of the stuff i wanted to say was a bit beyond the stuff i can consistently get down just yet. i did my best to research the stuff i was unsure about, but the internet will never be as good as an actual speaker. if you speak spanish, please don't hesitate to correct me!! (thank you @/anneichigo for the correction already!)

anyways please enjoy <3

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Maybe, before, there was a time that Gabriel would have been grateful to find out that Miguel was technically his half-brother – namely, when he’d first found out about whatever was going on between Miguel and Dana before that, too, fell apart (which, really, just proved even more that they were family; they both had the shittiest luck with women, though Miguel’s misfortune was, admittedly, a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy) – but, regardless of how much his asshole of a brother could piss him off and make him wish they weren’t related, Miguel was still one of the only good parts of Gabriel’s childhood and would always be the closest family he had.

So, when Miguel had dropped by in the middle of a nasty rainstorm (fortunately, during one of the rare occasions that their mother was out) looking an awful lot like he’d just been told his holographic dog got run over and he was ready to jump in front of the car, too, Gabriel hadn’t hesitated to bring him inside and lead him to his couch; even if the rainwater that had soaked Miguel to the bone jumped to Gabriel’s couch, as well.

There were very few times that Gabriel had seen this look on Miguel’s face – eyes distant, their red hues not hidden behind sunglasses for once, and even redder than usual, like he’d been crying – except for maybe when their parents would fight. Then, Miguel would go distant just like he was now, but, even then, he had never stopped holding Gabriel until the sound of shouts and shattering glass bottles settled back down to silence. It wasn’t often that Gabriel got to return the favour, and even less often that Miguel would let him, though he was, admittedly, kind of miffed that Miguel had chosen right now to finally take him up on the offer; getting beaten by cops didn’t exactly leave him feeling ready to take care of someone else.

It took Gabriel a few moments to collect himself and regain his bearings as he rooted through his still unfolded laundry for a towel in an attempt to save his brother from hypothermia, but, with a deep breath, he clenched the half-threadbare, yellowed fabric in his hands, and returned to the living room where he’d left his brother.

“Think fast,” he quipped, tossing the towel towards his brother in some attempt to bring him back to reality, only to flinch when the towel simply landed haphazardly on Miguel’s head without garnering a reaction.

Gingerly, Gabriel settled himself next to his brother, pausing and scooting a bit away when he felt a bit of water seeping through his pants. He fixed Miguel with a pointed look, though the look quickly turned to a frown when the older wouldn’t meet his eyes. A hand reached up, and he gently flicked one of the man’s cheekbones, mouth falling agape when even that didn’t earn a reaction.

“Dios mío, Miggy,” he mumbled, sitting up just enough to reach the towel that had landed on Miguel’s head to scrub it around enough to sop up the excess water, “And here I thought I was having a bad day.”

Gabriel removed the towel from his brother’s head, leaving behind a fluffy, tangled mop of hair that he couldn’t help but snicker at; strands of half-dry hair stuck up in the air in a gravity defying show. The short sound of laughter was enough to earn a glance from Miguel, though his eyes just as quickly darted away again, and Gabriel just caught the subtle way that his older brother’s brows furrowed even more.

With a frown, he rolled the towel up into a deadly weapon and skillfully snapped it against Miguel’s chest with soggy squelch.

That was enough to earn the older man’s attention in full as he bit out a yelp, sitting up stick straight before fixing Gabriel with a snarl, fangs bared. “¿¡Qué chingados?! What was that for?”

For all of Miguel’s ridiculous height and increasing amount of muscle that turned him into quite the intimidating figure, Gabriel just didn’t have it in him to be afraid of his own brother. Miguel may have been much bigger now, and, even without the super powers, he could have folded Gabriel easily, but that felt more like an older brother staple than just a S-Man thing.

“Mi, mi, mi,” he unabashedly mocked, towel held out threateningly in his hands. “It was for freaking me out, you dick! What the shock is wrong with you tonight?” He shrunk back a bit, a finger pointing at his brother’s fangs accusatorily. “Put those away… I’ve been beat up enough for one day.”

Cheeks reddening a bit, Miguel dropped the snarl, carefully situating his fangs back behind his lips. His voice turned more muffled, almost slurred, as he worked to keep his teeth hidden. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he bit out, venom in the words. “I should’ve just-”

“Ay, coño- Alright, Miguel, I get it,” Gabriel began, raising his hands, only to wince backwards when Miguel all but yelled,

“No, Gabriel, you don’t get it!”

Silence filled the room again, thick and tense like the humid, smog filled rain that pressed down on them outside. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed as Miguel’s widened, the light of the overhead lamp doing well to illuminate the bright red of the older brother’s eyes that had replaced the brown they used to share. In a way, it was almost poetic that the physical characteristics they shared would be ripped from them as their sense of blood bond was ripped away, too. After a few moments of tense eye contact, Miguel was the one to break it, eyes darting to the ground with a frown.

“Gabri, I’m-”

“No, no,” Gabriel cut in once more, waving what he hoped was an apology off. Bitter words rested right on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down, forcing himself to remember the uncharacteristic distance that Miguel had entered the house with. “Help me understand, then.”

Suspicion flashed behind Miguel’s eyes as he forced himself to look at his brother again, though his expression softened as he didn’t seem to find the sarcastic vitriol he was searching for. His shoulders remained tense, muscles flexing and unflexing beneath his shirt in an unconscious, nervous rhythm that both impressed and worried Gabriel. Rain sounded from outside enough to make the onward stretching silence just a bit more bearable, though only for so long as seconds turned to minutes.

“Miguel?” Gabriel coaxed carefully, feeling an awful lot like he was talking to a wounded animal, a strange and novel experience with his brother who used to protect the both of them; though whatever had ended up with Miguel becoming 2099’s Spider-Man had seemed to shift something in the man he once knew, for better or for worse. “Talk to me, man. What’s going on?”

Talon tipped fingers came up to rake across Miguel’s face (which only momentarily scared the shit out of Gabriel before he realised that the claws seemed to retract when they came into contact with skin), and the older man sighed.

“I just… came to tell you that I loved you. In case something happens with the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing,” he began, a nervous waver concealed behind monotony that might have fooled anyone else, but not Gabriel. “I know things haven’t always been great between us, considering everything with Ma and Dad, and…” a beat, “with Dana too, I guess. But you’re still my brother…”

The word trailed off, and he sighed again, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Coño, estoy jodiendo esto…” Miguel mumbled, so quiet that Gabriel almost didn’t hear it. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that I care about you. I wanted you to know just in case anything happened.”

If possible, Miguel only seemed to get even more tense once the words were out there, as if it pained him to say. Gabriel watched him with some semblance of disbelief, eyes narrow and mouth slightly agape. When it became clear that was all his brother was going to say on the matter, his eyes only narrowed even further.

“¿..En serio?” he squeaked out, only to backtrack as Miguel gave him an extremely pointed look. “I mean, you’re a little late on that, aren’t you? You’ve been doing the whole S-Man thing for a while now. Are you in trouble? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Gabri,” came the response, bit out in the same way that things always were when Miguel was lying, “I just wanted to make sure you knew. That’s all.”

“No chingues, man,” he scolded, doing his best to sound angry and only succeeding in expressing his concern. “Seriously, what’s up with you? This sounds like a goodbye.” A nervous laugh fell from him and landed flat; Miguel wouldn’t even look at him, his hands wrapped so tightly around each other that his knuckles were white. Horror settled in Gabriel’s stomach, heavy and nauseating. “...Wait. Wait, Miguel-”

“Don’t be stupid,” Miguel hissed, too little and too late. There was a sort of desperation to the way he shot to his feet, eyes still anywhere but on his brother. “I have to go.”

Gabriel was quick to follow him off of the couch, grabbing onto his brother’s wrist and not letting go even when Miguel bared his fangs at him once more. “‘Go’?” he echoed. “Where are you going?”

“Let go of me,” came the hiss.

Gabriel didn’t deign to fulfil the request. “Answer my question first.”

“What are you, my mom? I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“Then you’re not going anywhere.”

That earned a bonafide laugh, dark and bitter, from the larger of the brothers, and Miguel stepped closer, shoulders squared and talons out. His fangs flashed noticeably in the light as his lip curled back in a snarl as he finally met his brother’s eyes, their red almost seeming to have a faint glow to them. “You’re going to stop me?”

To his credit, Gabriel didn’t flinch. “I sure as shock am. I’m not just going to let you leave and kill yourself, Miguel.”

“You can’t keep me here,” he seethed.

Gabriel’s grip on his brother’s arm only tightened, his brows furrowing into something pained. “So, you don’t deny it, then?”

At that, Miguel’s face fell again – eyes wide and terrified – and his shoulders went tense once more. “I…” Then, all at once, the rage was back, and Miguel pulled against his brother’s grasp again, enough to pull Gabriel forward with the force. “I shouldn’t have to deny something that stupid. Let me the shock go, Gabriel, I’m not kidding.”

“And I don’t believe you,” Gabriel retorted, undeterred.

“I didn’t come here to be mothered.”

“Yeah, you came here to say ‘goodbye,’ and I’m not letting you,” he said, grabbing Miguel’s arm with his other hand and practically wrapping himself around his brother. “So help me, Miguel, I’ll latch onto you like a shocking koala. The only way you’re killing yourself is with me attached to your arm.”

“What is wrong with you?” Miguel tried again to push Gabriel off, to no avail. “You’ve already been beaten all to hell once today, do you seriously want to make it a second?”

The thinly veiled threat drew a scoff from the younger, who looked up at him entirely unimpressed as he tightened his hold on the other’s arm. “What, you’re gonna beat me up if I don’t let you commit suicide? So much for ‘you’re my brother! I love you!’”

“Half-brother,” came the shout, and that was enough to get Gabriel to pause.

“...¿Cómo dices?”

Caught off guard, his grip loosened just enough for Miguel to successfully push him off, giving him a much better view of the anguished expression on his brother’s face.

“Half-brother,” Miguel repeated, the words spat out like they were something foul.

For a moment, Gabriel could only reel at the admission, and, when he finally managed to force something out of his mouth, his voice came out equally as strained. “I… ¿Te cae?”

“Me cae.” Then, again, quiet, until Miguel couldn’t seem to take it anymore. “I was… I was furious about what that bastard Tyler Stone did to you, and I… I was going to kill him, Gabriel. I really was.” He almost seemed horrified with himself at the admission, his hand coming up to his face once more. “I was at his house. I was going to break in, and I was going to kill him. It was going to be so easy. No one would’ve known it was me, and I wouldn’t have regretted it. Not one bit” His own pathetic whine cut him off, and Gabriel, with his own muted horror, could clearly see the way tears had sprung to his eyes once more.

After a moment, he quietly – half afraid, but not in the way Miguel had so desperately wanted him to be mere moments before – pushed, “...but?”

“But Ma was there,” Miguel answered immediately, sounding rather out of breath for how much he was breathing. “Ma was there, and she blackmailed him into letting Kasey go.” A laugh; short, breathless. “I thought she was talking crazy, or lying out of her ass, like always, and I thought I was going to have to break in to save her, but Stone just laughed and- and kissed her.” His expression screwed up into something equal parts disgusted and mortified, but he didn’t pause, even for a moment. “They argued, and he admitted that all the bullshit that led up to me becoming this monster was nothing but a lie, and, as if that wasn’t enough, Ma says he’s my father. Casually. As if it didn’t mean anything. And Stone didn’t deny it.”

Cautiously, Gabriel laid a hand on his shoulder, so gently he wasn’t sure it would catch his brother’s attention. “Miguel, breathe-”

Fortunately, the feeling was enough to knock Miguel out of the horrific retelling, but the agony didn’t leave his eyes as his head darted to look at Gabriel as tears finally spilled over. “I can’t live knowing I’m his son, Gabriel. I can’t live knowing all of this was for nothing – just a lie.” His breathing hitched, almost stopping completely, as he mumbled breathlessly, “necesito morir. No quiero vivir. No lo puedo hacer. No puedo más. No puedo más.”

It was, admittedly, extremely frightening to watch Miguel – Gabriel’s older brother, and the one that had, somehow, always managed to keep it together for the both of them, even if he’d become an asshole to do it – unravel before him, nails digging into his own skin as if it was the only thing keeping him from dying on the spot. His chest heaved dangerously fast, and Gabriel could feel the way his body trembled just from the minimal contact he had with Miguel’s shoulder.

“Miguel,” he called, gently.

The word earned him no response, and Gabriel frowned, concern spiking in his chest like a too firm grasp on his heart, and he rushed to try again, louder this time. “Miguel.”

When that, too, didn’t work, Gabriel was well and truly terrified, and, without thinking, latched onto Miguel’s hands, wrenching them from their grip on his own skin and leaving crescent marks in their wake.

“Miguel!” he cried, loud enough to make Miguel jump, but finally earning the man’s attention. “Mirame. Necesitas respirar, ¿vale? Respira, güey. Si no lo haces, morirás, si quieras o no, y yo no quiero eso, ¿entiendes?”

“No puedo,” Miguel wheezed desperately, voice trembling almost as violently as his hands. “No puedo.”

“Cállate,” his brother immediately shushed, squeezing Miguel’s hands tightly. “Sí, puedes. Hazlo conmigo.” It was a fairly straight forward demand that didn’t need much of an explanation, but, even then, as Gabriel took as exaggerated of a deep breath as he could managed, he was more than a little relieved to see that Miguel was attempting to follow along, albeit shakily.

The first few breaths Gabriel managed to coax out of his brother were still shallow at best, falling back off into wheezes the moment he finished exhaling, but, after a few minutes, Miguel had managed to bring his breathing back into some sort of regular rhythm. His shoulders still shook, and his hands still trembled, but he was, at the very least, no longer on the verge of passing out, or so Gabriel hoped. Once he was sure that Miguel could manage to breathe without his guidance, he allowed his hands to slip off of Miguel’s, brows furrowed in concern.

“You okay?” he asked, going right back to that gentle tone of before.

It took Miguel a moment to answer, heaving a sigh as his hands wrapped around one another again. “...Yeah. Lo siento.”

“Ay, don’t start with that shocking ‘lo siento’ nonsense,” Gabriel immediately huffed. He almost sounded offended, probably because, in a way, he was. The idea that Miguel would ever need to apologise to him of all people for something like that. “That was a heavy discovery,” he reconciled. “It’s not your fault you freaked out over it. In fact, I’d say you earned that panic attack.”

The wording earned Gabriel a glare, which he took as a sign that his brother really was feeling better, and he returned the look with his own shit eating grin.

“Gee, thanks, asshole,” Miguel drawled sarcastically, making Gabriel snicker.

“Hey, I’m your brother. I’m contractually obligated to be an asshole to you in your lowest moments,” came the retort, and there was a certain sort of pride to the words that only seemed to lighten the mood for a moment.

Visibly deflating again, Miguel mumbled, “half-brother.”

Whatever playfulness that had managed to find its way back into the atmosphere was immediately iced once more, and Gabriel couldn’t help but frown, his grin chased away by the sombre mood. For a moment, the two were quiet again as Gabriel considered and Miguel wallowed, before he not-so-gently pinched his brother’s bicep, drawing an ungraceful yelp from Miguel who immediately swatted away the offending hand with a snarl.

“¿¡Qué mierda?! ¡Pendejo!” he all but shouted. “Have I not suffered enough today? What’s your problem?”

“Don’t call me your half-brother, stupid,” Gabriel said instead of answering. His tone left no room for argument. “There is nothing half about us being brothers.”

Apparently not having the impact Gabriel had hoped for, Miguel gawked openly, blinking in disbelief. “Gabri, were you listening to none of what I just told you?”

“Oh, my god, Miguel-”

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “Did none of that mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, actually!” Gabriel answered bluntly. He fixed his brother with a look that said he was the one being weird here that Miguel clearly didn’t buy. “Who the shock cares who your biological dad is?”

“I do!” he hissed, clearly not getting the message as he gestured to himself furiously.

“Well, I don’t!” Gabriel hissed right back, shoving Miguel’s shoulder and trying not to be embarrassed by the fact that Miguel hardly moved. “We grew up together, man. I beat you when you’re already down. It literally does not get more brotherly than that.”

“Acting like you’re my brother does not make you my brother,” Miguel groaned back, and there was a beat as Gabriel just frowned up at him.

“I don’t care who your ‘real’ dad is,” he repeated, making his position clear and impossible to miss. “He’s clearly just as much of a dick as the one we grew up with, and that means he’s close enough for me.”

And there was that suspicious glare again, as if there was no possible way that what Gabriel was saying could be true, and that meant he must be lying. It would have been hurtful if Gabriel wasn’t acutely aware of the fact that it was more a reflection of Miguel’s shit mental state than of him. Red eyes searched brown and were once again left without finding whatever they were looking for. For the second time, Miguel’s face fell, and he leaned forward to hide his frown in his hands.

“I don’t get how this doesn’t bother you,” he mumbled.

“Miguel, how do you want me to react? I’m being honest with you, and I don’t care. Please tell me what you want from me,” Gabriel practically pleaded. “Do you want me to have a panic attack, too? Disown you? Tell you that if you’re not my full brother that you’re not my brother at all?”

There was a short huff of what was either a laugh or a sob; Gabriel couldn’t tell which with Miguel’s face hidden the way it was. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe.”

“You cannot be serious,” Gabriel deadpanned.

The tone made Miguel sit back up, frown clear as day. “I said maybe-”

Immediately, his brother cut him off, “Like that makes it any better?!”

“Wha- Doesn’t it?”

“No?!”

With a groan, Miguel raised his hands in surrender, though his expression more screamed frustration than defeat if the way his lips unconsciously twisted into a snarl said anything. “Ay, coño- Alright, alright. I didn’t mean it.”

And, for a moment, Gabriel simply studied his brother’s face again. They had the same eyes – or, at least, they used to, before brown turned to red – and the same nose. They shared their mother’s rich, caramel skin tone and prominent cheekbones, and the same deep brown hair colour that almost looked red in the right lighting. Really, they were the spitting image of one another, stress induced wrinkling included, though Gabriel, admittedly, hadn’t quite earned the few grey hairs that Miguel had already managed to grow despite only being in his late twenties. Nevertheless, Gabriel couldn’t understand how Miguel didn’t see their similarities; the things that screamed beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were related; that they were brothers.

His brows furrowed as he continued to stare, and Miguel’s furrowed in turn. He glanced between his brother’s eyes and anything else uncomfortably, hands shifting in his lap.

“...What-”

“Were you really going to kill yourself?” Gabriel interrupted instead, and Miguel immediately went tense again.

“I… was thinking about it,” he finally admitted; whisper quiet as if he was afraid what would happen if someone else heard.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed once more, the glance of suspicion now on his brother. He could only hope his look was as effective as Miguel’s was; that Miguel’s skin was crawling just a little bit under the glare. “‘Thinking’ as in ‘the thought crossed your mind?’ Or ‘thinking’ as in ‘you actually had a plan?’”

“What difference does it make?” Miguel murmured, eyes boring holes into the floor. “I’m here. I’m not dead.”

“Miggy, I don’t think you realise how much a non-answer reveals,” Gabriel stressed a bit desperately, though he quickly cut himself off as his brother shifted.

With a growl, Miguel threw his hands up in frustrated defeat, turning his glare to Gabriel once more. It looked more tired than he probably meant for it to, and there was a pang of guilt that hit Gabriel at the realisation. “Alright, fine, yes, okay? I was going to do it,” he hissed. “I fought with Dana, and I said goodbye to you. All I needed was to see Xina, and then I was done. So what?”

“So what?” Gabriel echoed in disbelief, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, the high of frustration still pulling the words out of him with ease. “So what?”

All of the anger seemed to dissipate as Miguel caught sight of Gabriel’s face; he looked crushed, and, honestly, he felt it, too. Tears threatened to spill over onto his cheeks, and, honestly, Gabriel had half a mind to let them just to try and knock some sense into his brother. It was a bit of a petty thought, and maybe selfish, too, but if selfishness was what would keep Miguel around for another day, then so be it. He could have thrown the Spider-Man card – told Miguel that he was the only one that could save people – but it wasn’t Spider-Man that Gabriel was trying to save.

“‘Lito, eres muy estupido,” he nearly whispered, voice strained. “Me importas. Te quiero mucho. No puedes decir ‘so what’ como si no estuviera loco si estuvieras muerto. ¿A ti eso no te importa? No quiero que mueras. Te necesito.”

Miguel shook his head, brows furrowing again, though his voice didn’t have the same bite as it did before. “Eso no es justo. No es sobre ti.”

“Pero estaría herido,” Gabriel insisted, and Miguel grit his teeth, averting his gaze once more.

“Me vale verga,” he spat, the words intentionally harsh and biting.

But Gabriel didn’t believe them. “Mentiroso,” he shot back without hesitation. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have bothered to say goodbye.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have,” Miguel snapped.

Again, there was a brief moment that Gabriel really wanted to be hurt, but he’d seen enough textbook cases of Miguel lashing out because he was frustrated with himself that he didn’t believe for a second that his brother meant what he was saying. He could be upset later, when his brother’s life wasn’t on the line. They could have that conversation once they finished having the more important one.

“But you did,” he insisted once more. “No es neta que te vale verga.”

“God, you’re so shocking full of it,” Miguel bit back, face flushed a furious red that almost matched his eyes.

“Yeah, if ‘it’ is knowledge,” Gabriel huffed.

Talons flipped in and out of hiding in a frustrated rhythm that, admittedly, made Gabriel a bit nervous as Miguel continued his furious rant. “Por el amor de Dios, why the shock did I have to end up related to you? You’re the worst brother anyone could ever get the misfortune of being stuck with.”

And, really, this time Gabriel couldn’t even want to be offended because how could he do anything but grin at that? “Yeah,” he agreed, “brother.”

Anger was driven away once more – and, really when had Miguel ever been able to stay mad at Gabriel – replaced by some sort of actual defeat, and he sighed as he placed his head in his hands again, correcting himself. “Half-brother.”

“Brother,” Gabriel insisted.

As if he was too exhausted to even feign anger for the fourth time in quick succession, Miguel simply allowed a half-hearted scowl to peek out from his hands. There was a hurt behind his eyes that he didn’t seem willing to acknowledge, but Gabriel knew him plenty well enough to see it clear as day.

“What is it with you?” Miguel feebly sputtered. “I’m not worth it.”

With his own sigh, Gabriel carefully leaned against Miguel’s shoulder, peering down at him with an equally as tired look and allowing his own hurt to shine through, too. Thankfully, Miguel didn’t move to try and push him away. “Shouldn’t I be the one who gets to decide if you’re worth my effort?”

“Maybe you don’t know what’s good for you,” came the weak retort.

“Oh, yeah, bold words from you,” Gabriel shot back; a much better counter, he felt.

Apparently, Miguel felt the same, grumbling out a frustrated and almost inaudible, “touche.” He allowed his hand to slip back over his face and hide the way his eyes shut wearily. “Can I leave now?” he tried, though he certainly already knew the answer.

Nevertheless, Gabriel humoured him with a snicker, leaning even harder onto his brother as if to weigh him down. “After all this? Fat shocking chance.”

“You know I’m stronger than you, right?” Miguel hummed. “That I’ve got superhuman strength?”

Unfettered, Gabriel wrapped an arm around Miguel’s with an exaggerated yawn. “Yeah, yeah, and you’re gonna, what, beat me up?”

Miguel sat up, knocking Gabriel’s head off of his shoulder but not managing to get his brother to let go completely, much to his chagrin and, even moreso, to Gabriel’s delight. Miguel fixed him with the same suspicious look as before, though there was a certain lightheartedness to it that hadn’t been there before, something else that added to the intensity of Gabriel’s shit eating grin. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Maybe I will beat you up,” he threatened, but Gabriel was a brave man when it came to empty threats.

“You wouldn’t.”

At the very least, his unhesitant bluntness seemed to catch Miguel a bit off guard, his eyes widening for a moment before his face dropped back into a scowl. “Do you really wanna risk that?”

Again, Gabriel just yawned, being so daring as to release Miguel’s arm only to lay entirely across his lap. His eyes were half-lidded, as if he were mere moments away from falling asleep, and he made a show of settling into his position before meeting his brother’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I think I do.”

An indignant choked sound was pulled from Miguel’s throat, though he didn’t move to stand up, which would have easily solved his problem and given Gabriel a few to deal with himself. The man crossed his arms over his chest, scowl deepening as he gave his brother the most overtly annoyed look he could possibly manage, complete with flared nostrils and a twitching vein in his forehead. Despite how many times Gabriel had drawn that exact look from the other, it still never managed to get old.

“I’m not feeling very beat up,” he teased. “Or, at least not any more than I already was.”

“Some half-brother you are,” Miguel mumbled, but he still didn’t move.

“Brother,” Gabriel corrected, allowing his eyes to slip shut.

And, a moment later, “brother,” Miguel agreed.

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pokeberry5 · 6 months

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PLS what is the story/lore behind the tim insomnia art piece (w/ him holding the bloody batarang) the angst looks SO GOOD

ngl it's been a while so my memory of the concept behind insomnia is spotty, but for more artsy pieces like this it's less about the lore or specific situation and more about the visuals/feeling to me? so it's more that i have a scene come to me and i build that out (<- me trying to explain that i dont have elaborate lore lol)

so the context i came up with to justify the scene is tim being overwhelmed/semi-dissociating, caught up in the problems he's been running from as tim drake using robin an escape, unable to deal with them, and trying not to think about the fact that half of those problems are caused by the fact that he's robin, that he has a secret identity, and that he's going through it in ways he can't explain to people not in the know -> hence, tim clutching the batarang both as something to ground him and as something that's hurting him

i had also recently read silverwhittlingknife's post about tim as a watcher, especially when he's first introduced—the set of panels where tim is just a set of eyes definitely informed some of this ("some" being the panel with the giant eyes lol) (pls read swk's meta their stuff is always so cool)

i think? i also pulled the aesthetic of the bloody batarang from an old scrapped piece i never posted bc i didnt like how it turned out (it's like. from when i first started drawing tim) so some of that is there

this was like. one of my first attempts at more comic-style dramatic lighting and yeah damn i've come a long way. again! i dont know what's happening here, i just wanted to draw tim bleeding, clutching a batarang, and under some dramatic lighting

(this is also. beyond what you asked but: i think this shows how much my design for tim has changed since my initial conception of him--he had much straighter/longer features that have really softened up, which i think you can see most in the nose. and no moles!)

#asks #this got long again rip #tim drake #red talks #thank you for asking tho <3333 im always happy to talk more about stuff like this and i love insomnia so #cw dissociation #cw self-harm #man the scrapped art piece was also an attempt at thin line art bc I HATE thin lines idk how to draw w thin lines and make that look good #i liked the batarang tho it came out very clean #this was from the onset of the tim hyperfixation so like. summer 2022?#sometimes i send drafts of stuff to my friend and shes like 'so whats happening here?' and im like 'i dunno i just thought itd look cool'#<- my artistic process in a nutshell

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macbcth · 4 months

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my grandma won’t stop commenting on my SH scars and i kind of froze bc i didn’t realise my mum hadn’t prepared her or anything?? or talked abt my depression at all?? so my mom said they were cat scratches— just a blatant god awful lie In Front of me— and now my grandma won’t stop asking questions abt it like oh what cat! and when will they go away? and i think im going to have to sit my very Indian grandma down and explain depression and self harm to her in my broken hindi and i’m dreading it so bad

#i hate that i have to do this but im sick of her asking questions #and my mum is just going to keep lying bc ik she’s really ashamed of my SH scars #so i can’t count on my mum for support #im going to literally have to be so so brave yall im so scared #but you know what they say do it scared #hopefully she won’t make it a big deal #im just not going to talk to her if she does like lowkey i don’t need another judgemental adult in my life #aisha.txt #self harm cw

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murderoushagthesequel · 10 months

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I'm Here

from @jegulus-microfic's prompt, impatient (352 words)

ok i think this feels a bit rushed but overall i quite like it so! yeah enjoy. also this is a happy one despite the cws i promise. CW for negative self talk, mild self harm

Fuck, he’s so stupid. Of course James wouldn’t show. He’s, well, James Potter. And Regulus is just Regulus. He paces the small stone room hidden behind his favourite tapestry in the castle. He’s been told he paces when he’s nervous, which, of course, he always denies. Regulus Black doesn’t get nervous, what a preposterous notion.

He continues to obsessively check his watch. In thirty seconds, James will officially be late. Merlin, why would you even think he would meet you here? You’re just his best friend’s know-it-all, grossly skinny, rude little brother whom everyone hates. Of course James Potter would never be interested in you. He probably only agreed to meet you for a laugh. He begins to scratch at his arm, feeling the burn as the skin gets redder and the voice in his head only continues to berate him.

And then, he hears a rustle behind him. Whirling around, Regulus is broken out of his trance by none other than James Potter standing before him in the cramped room.

“You’re late,” he snarls with a glare, though inside he’s flooding with relief.

“And you’re impatient, Reg,” James laughs, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I told you I was coming, and here I am. I’m here,” he assures. And Regulus sighs, letting the tension seep out of his body and relaxing, feeling the warmth of James’ hand radiate through his body.

James is here. James was always going to be here. Because he’s good. Because when he sees the red scratch marks on Regulus’ arm, he kisses them better and doesn’t ask questions. Because he sits and talks to Regulus all night. Because it turns out someone like him is interested in Regulus, and will do everything he can to prove that. And, well, that just fills Regulus with warm, fuzzy feelings he didn’t know he was capable of.

“It’s really rather repulsive, you know,” Regulus says as the sun is just starting to come up. James cocks his head in question. “Feelings.” James laughs wholeheartedly and the feeling only grows. Well. Regulus is in trouble now. Isn’t that wonderful?

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rawliverandgoronspice · 5 months

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The more time goes on, the more I think we (= westerners, especially white westerners) are just so fucking bad at guilt. I feel like guilt is among the most pernicious and dangerous emotions out there --not because guilt is literally deadly in isolation, it is an excruciating emotion but it will not kill you in itself, but because we have been trained to associate guilt with worthlessness (I partially blame christian values, the idea of impurity and sin --not to downplay, of course, the danger of a community judging you or being expelled from that community on the basis of being considered a danger to its other members due to the thing you've done that has been generating this guilt), and so we must, absolutely must, protect ourselves from simply feeling that guilt and processing its cold indifference washing over us, and we must do so through any means necessary. This can involve defensiveness, denial or reject of that guilt altogether so we are mentally protected from having to reevaluate ourselves and our place in the world, or can involve wallowing in and using it to self-harm --focusing on the pain and on self-hate rather than on what the guilt is telling us about ourselves and our heritage; blinding ourselves to it still in a twisted way.

I think it's also complicated to know how to manage guilt in a world where we're generally (as a whole) deeply powerless. It feels unfair to be called out about not doing enough when you know that pulling even mediocre heroics on your own will most definitively do almost nothing, hurt you, and be buried in a way that might be extremely unhelpul --not to mention, that it would actually hurt you in a very real and final way and lead to entirely thankless results, even if it was the morally correct thing to do. I do not want to pretend that it's not, very often, the results that awaits even serious and well-practiced activism --or even mild activism, major shoutout to everybody who got maimed or arrested or even killed on zero basis simply because they happened to be at or even near a protest, when they were not brutally attacked for no reason even outside of activism because an officer was racist or sexist or queerphobic or simply bored that day. There are genuinely good reasons to be scared.

So we feel guilt because of this fear, because of our isolation from any serious movement and the fact that we privilege our comfort over letting action taking over whatever else we have going on, and because fear and comfort knowingly keep us into inaction --or action that doesn't feel like enough, or that we feel doesn't achieve much of anything (which I think is never true: even giving someone a glimpse of hope for a second because we made an effort towards them is always always worth it in my opinion, it's not nothing and it's not a cop-out --of course it's not enough and we collectively need to find ways to do more, but it's not nothing and it should never discourage people from taking action --but I digress). But I think we start making a mistake when we point at this very real powerlessness as a shield from the guilt. Both can coexist. Both have to coexist. It isn't fair that some people are being forced to be courageous when we can afford to remain cowards. It is not even a moral judgement that condemn our souls forever, weakness is human and lack of individual reach against an overwhelmingly powerful and removed system even more so; it is a simple fact that we *have* to acknowledge if we want to take a clear look at the actual situation instead of camouflaging it behind self-justifying walls to give ourselves temporarily relief from that awful feeling. And I'm not saying it's not a constant effort, to keep those instincts of self-preservation at bay, or that some people don't have really good reasons that they cannot act more than through social media or miniscule donations or by talking about it around them, or being powerless to even do that without putting themselves into real and concrete danger --or that letting guilt in will be pleasant or even healing. It won't be. But it's also not the point.

Yeah, I get that it's hard to truly reckon with the fact that almost everything that made us (= westerners, especially white ones) is soaked with blood, imperialism, white supremacy, sexism, queerphobia, and a whole sweve of truly rancid ideologies that we cannot afford to passively accept as our lot. We were not given a choice in that legacy, and we don't have a ton of leverage over reorienting our haunted civilizations into something that isn't a horrible nightmare; but it is a fight that is happening right the fuck now.

I genuinely think guilt is a feeling we are not taught to handle in a healthy way; and because we have essentialist, pseudo-religious and punitive justice concepts terminally untangled with that feeling, guilt governs our politics and our private lives in the most rabid and unchecked way imaginable. But guilt will not kill us, unless we allow it to, and it will help literally nobody if it does. Guilt isn't evil in its soul-crushing pain as much as it is informative. Guilt is unbearable, unfliching clarity. But fever boils us alive because there is an infection that needs to be destroyed.

#thoughts #personal #not zelda #palestine #free palestine #guilt #cw self harm #(not graphic and really in passing)#sorry it's quite different than usual and it's a lot and I don't know if I'll agree with everything in five seconds #but I feel like we don't talk enough about the impact of guilt on our lives and psyches (and politics)#I am not great at guilt either (tho tbh I don't know many people who are)#but I'm trying to get better at simply... shutting up and Feeling It #I'm sure there's a way to face guilt that isn't destructive or self-pitying or generally useless #but I am.... I am so pessimistic about the future #not in a: let's all give up and cry but in a: we must fucking brace ourselves and look after one another #and put our foot in the sand right now because everything is unnacceptable and we need to acknowledge it much harder #if we let it fester it will only get uglier and uglier #and it doesn't mean we won't win or that hope isn't an absolutely essential component to it all #I am ultimately optimistic that there is an After to capitalism and imperialism and that brand of self-centered preservation and brutality #and this general oozing of toxic and unprocessed guilt #But #let's say that we'll all have to lead our own fights against it at some point #and I think that time should be right now #tl;dr imo there's no hope for justice and genuine resistance without facing guilt and resisting the urge to deny or fret against its ache #which doesn't have to equate with allowing guilt to rule us and use it as a tool of self-torment #anywayyyyy #saw a LOT of very weird reactions to the gaza genocide in my personal circles #some that really disappointed me even though they came from people I know to be better than this #so #yeah

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autistic-katara · 1 month

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there r fics that make u insane (so amazingly good it’s removed ur sanity) and then there’s fics that make u insane (you need to fistfight the author for how they did a specific thing that caused u to rant for hours)

#i know i just posted that other thing but ffs that is NOT how u handle someone in that situation everyone involved made everything 10x worse #yet it’s being treated like the right thing to do (which again ofc they’re cops they don’t understand harm reduction but still) like #seriously everything’s so forceful like u seriously think forcing ur friend to talk to u or forcing a patient to talk to a therapist under #the threat of being admitted to a psychiatric hospital is gonna make her feel comfortable talking to u? or anyone? she’s just gonna trust u #less and get better at hiding it and speaking of which the taking away all sharp objects thing makes sense in theory but like think abt it #for a minute she confirmed she isn’t suicidal and this is her only way of coping so do not just forcibly take away all her coping mechanism #like yes she is hurting herself but it’s a COPING MECHANISM. she’s coping with something. help her with that don’t just take away her penci #sharpers or whatever (which btw since she’s an adult she could easily buy more stuff and yk learn to hide it better) which again has to be #voluntary it isn’t gonna work if u force someone to do smthn they don’t want to like as ur friend u could’ve made it clear u care abt her #and wouldn’t judge her for anything and r here if she wants to talk don’t just say “you have to talk to me” and casually threaten #hospitalisation when she isn’t ready in the moment like seriously if this wasn’t a badly written fanfic she would completely stop trusting #bcz given that this wasn’t even done out of panic i would like ffs u are NOT doing any of this right #oops sorry ranted abt the bad fic in my tags-#it’s not where the author’ll see it and know it’s about them i don’t feel bad abt it #this was my first time even looking at stuff for this fandom so #cw self harm in tags #idk if i need to tag anything else for that 😭#fanfic #ao3 #ryan shut the fuck up

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wis-art · 1 year

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I want to make sure you all understand that i do not encourage self harm, nor do i romanticize it. The reason why i draw the scars on Lucy is that, the trauma does NOT define her and that she's herself despite all of it. She still wants to show her skin like anyone else and i think it's okay. I know i haven't revealed much of my character's personality and story and lore, but she is not perfect and i want to make sure you all understand that. I want you to understand that people with trauma can grow and change and even though the past might manifest in your behavior or your body. You are beautiful and i love you. Please do not hurt yourself.

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ribesrubrum · 1 month

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under the mask of pride (fear rises as a guide)

//so i feel...honestly, a little guilty for how little i've been around as of late, especially since things are picking up drama-wise. irl debuffs aplenty will do that to you. but i wanted to get some writing out to kind of describe Carmine's mental state, so. here we are.

//fair warning: this fic is technically kind of offscreen rp in that it's at least canon that ren and carmine talked like this, though i'd greatly prefer it not be spread as a rumor or leak or something. but it also does talk about some heavy topics; namely very heavy self loathing, some mention of parental abandonment and abuse (heehoo headcanoning carmine's parents/why she's like this), mentions of bullying, self harm in the form of hair pulling/trichotillomania, and uh. ...look i'm not gonna beat around the bush, i don't wanna edgelord, i wanna treat this with respect but i also don't wanna sugarcoat it, this gets about as close to implying carmine was about to take drastic measures to alleviate her suffering as i'm comfortable with getting. the less implicit version of this warning will be in the tags. please uncollapse the tags before reading. dead dove: do not eat is in full effect here.

//this is going to be pretty heavy, and also stupid long. feel free to click if you're okay with handling that.

Carmine's listlessness has only grown as the days have worn on, she's finding. It doesn't help that her knuckles are still raw from punching her wall a day prior--she's thankful it seems like the wall fix went off without a hitch, and all she got was a rather stern talking to about making noise so late at night before the teacher that spoke with her went off. Cardigan's been sticking close to her side since Leavanny elected to stay near Kieran at least for a time, but even now, she feels pathetic for it.

Pathetic that she can't help her brother. Pathetic that she can't help her girlfriend, who simply wants to make sure that the whole club that they built together and maintained isn't destroyed because of Drayton's boneheaded move. If Carmine looked deep within herself, she'd be looking at Kiki's actions too, that he allowed this, that he's possibly setting himself up to lose everything. That Drayton's encouraging it, and she's been more on edge than ever and ready to tear someone apart for it. If she doesn't wind up punching him out when all is said and done, she's going to be very surprised.

Cardigan trills a bit from beside her, and she looks down to the flower-less Lilligant, pausing a bit as she looks down. She recognizes that trill, and knows that she's probably being concerning right now. Emotional regulation is still something that Carmine struggles with, even now, knowing that she can't and she shouldn't scream her feelings out to try and get people to understand, that yelling doesn't help, that you have to see other's perspectives. Even if sometimes, they trounce all over your own. Carmine looks down to Cardigan, giving the Lilligant a tired smile.

"...Sorry, Cardi. I know I'm probably not making your job very easy." It's soft in a way Carmine never usually is. In a way that Carmine never allows herself to be--she's all bravado and arrogance because for years, that's what kept her safe. That's what kept her and her brother safe, even if it clipped his wings and made everyone around her hesitant to approach either of them. It was safety, the thorns and briars that she metaphorically planted around herself, letting them spread where she walked and lashing them out at anyone who would even for a second think of hurting her. It was safety, it was lonely, but it was home.

...It's no wonder she likes grass types so much. The Lilligant's gaze only seems to get sadder when she says that much, gentle, leafy hands going to take one of her own as Cardigan stares up at her, as if trying to communicate something with those amber eyes that almost seem pleading. Carmine's hand trembles a bit, because once again she doesn't understand, she can't understand, why can't she--

Carmine hears footsteps, and immediately, her guard is up. She's immediately ready to go on the attack, in case anyone saw her, in case she has to defend being out for a walk in the Canyon Biome with her therapy Pokemon, something she's already received plenty of jabs about--but no. There's a familiar mop of blue hair, and that silly, dorky looking Orthworm is following them and waving with them, as Terry and Mio seem to take over where they left off. Ren's an idiot, in the bluntest of terms, but there's a sense of safety that comes with them. That they can see her, at her worst and most cruel, and laugh and let it slide off their back so easily. Because they were her age once. Her gender once, even, though that's largely irrelevant. They always seem so certain and keep their spirits so high, even if she's the only one they've trusted with some of their worries. And Carmine in turn, has trusted Ren with some of hers.

...They're about as disconnected from this entire situation as they can be, even though they met during that trip. It's as Carmine is contemplating going up to them and being a bother and just turning heel and walking away that the choice is made for her, as they turn around, start walking and see her--

"Oh! Miss Carmine, hey!"

She could walk away. She could just tell them to piss off and lash out, and destroy one of the few unconnected relationships she has with this entire mess, one of the few things that's genuinely hers. She could recede inside herself, lock herself away like she did after she reached her breaking point, when she nearly...

"Hey, Ren. Finally getting your nose out of those cameras?"

The barb is light, half-hearted at best, and could probably make someone deeply passionate a little upset at being teased. And yet Ren takes it in stride, laughing easily as they walk up, Lulu going to Cardigan and just kind of talking with the Lilligant for a moment. "You know it, girlie! Arc, all of these worms are doin' so well, they ain't overwhelmin' the environment nor gettin' overwhelmed themselves--everything's so perfect right now, it's really amazing! Ohh, I gotta tell you about some of the babies, they're just--"

For a brief moment, Carmine thinks she can just get away with Ren going on a hyperfixation ramble and forgetting her own worries in favor of focusing on the things her rival has accomplished. Because it is quite the accomplishment, even if Carmine's definitely harped on them for trying to downplay it before. But their gaze goes to Cardigan and Lulu, falling quickly and their words fading off as Carmine looks, and now everyone looks concerned.

Carmine's posture tightens as she realizes she can't get away with this so easily. She feels their gaze dart back to her, and she's already sure her expression is stormy, and...

"...I think that's enough about me." Fuck. Their voice has softened considerably, and she knows she's done for. "Miss Carmine, are you--"

"I'm fine, Ren." It comes out too sharp, too defensive, and there's a brief moment where she's hoping Ren will just walk away at that. She's shaking, she knows she is, and her gaze averts a bit only to feel not just Cardigan, but Lulu--that stupid, brainless worm--take her hands, wrapping them both in leaves and tendrils, and it feels disgusting and bitter and she wants to run and hide, she wants to tear her hands away--

"...Miss Carmine." Ren's voice sounds so soft, so...sad for a moment, and there's a pause as more footsteps can be heard--Carmine doesn't even bother to flinch, but she feels a tug on both of her hands as she opens her eyes, seeing Ren nod at both Pokemon before looking to her with a smile that's both soft and sad.

"Come on, Miss Carmine. Let's go somewhere else to talk, okay?"

---------------------------------------------

The trip back to her room is arduous, even though it barely takes more than fifteen minutes. Every agonizing second feels like a walk of shame, but she realizes something along the way. It's only so long because Ren knows their way around here like the back of their hand now; they know where people aren't, because they aren't some social butterfly who likes to help in every club. They take her through an easy but arduous path that leaves her alone in her head, and it takes a couple of second after Ren's stopped for her to stop too.

"...You must have a lot on yer mind to be makin' mistakes like this, Miss Carmine." Ren's voice is soft, non-judgemental, and they don't even flinch when she turns back to face them with something of a severe expression. It's the kind of care and kindness she doesn't deserve, she's sure, but as she unlocks the door to her room and ushers Ren and their Pokemon inside, it's something she finds herself internally thankful for.

Carmine's room is a mess, perhaps moreso than usual. Stress eating will do that, bags of chips and other sweet and savory alike strewn about. Cardigan doesn't even seem surprised, but Lulu, bless his stupid little soul, seems taken aback by it as he draws himself inside. She hears Ren's footsteps as they close the door behind them, a small sound escaping them as they walk in front of Carmine.

"You want some help cleanin' off that bed of yours?" Carmine looks over at her messy, disheveled bed, and it's many snacks and wrappers as well. It's an absolute Tepigsty, more than she'd ever allow anyone to see. She feels herself listlessly nod her head as she looks over to Ren, who's concern hasn't dampened even an inch as they move to help in an instant. She's thankful she's got a vacuum and that it's early enough in the afternoon that nobody's likely around the dorms; Cardigan and Lulu both assist as well as they help clear it off, at least enough to let Carmine sit down on it once they're all done.

Cardigan hops on the bed with Carmine as she sits down, and Lulu rests his head near Ren's feet as he gets himself comfortable on the floor, and Ren looks to her, finally broaching the topic, "Ya look like you got a lot on yer mind, Miss Carmine. You sure everything's okay?"

It takes Carmine a lot longer than she'd like to respond. Cardigan gently takes hold of one of Carmine's hands, gently petting it with her own leafy appendage. The eventual response she settles on is a bitter laugh.

"...I don't know." It comes out so soft and uncertain, it feels like she's a different person entirely when she says it. "I thought everything was fine. I thought...I don't know, I thought that everything would be okay. I really let myself believe that now that I made up with my brother, that everything would go back to some sort of normal, but..."

Carmine's voice pitches higher and higher with every word, and she finds herself shaking a bit. She can't even look at her rival right now, how pathetic can she even get?

"Oh, Carmine..." There's not even that weirdly respectful 'Miss' at the beginning of her name, and a part of her hates that, that she's being seen as sympathetic for even a moment when she doesn't deserve it, she doesn't deserve this, if she'd just trusted Kiki-- "Nothin' is ever that easy, but I remember how relieved ya were when Kiki actually bothered to respond."

"Yeah." Carmine confirms that much, listlessly, but a ghost of a smile traces her face. "...It really filled me with hope, for a second. That maybe things could go back to some sort of normal, that I could really see Kiki for all he is. It wanted to be seen and come into it's own, and I...I didn't know how to do that, but..."

"...But you wanted to try." Ren's words softly intervene. Carmine nods shortly after.

"I wanted to try. I still do. But it's...that big fight happened, and now everything's just...it feels like we're right back where we started."

Carmine's voice breaks a little bit, and try as she might to rein it in, it's harder to get back on track. At this point, she feels, she might as well just give up.

"...I don't know what to do."

Carmine's gaze stays down, because she can't look at Ren, she can't, she just can't. But Ren's words; soft, steady words, a contrast to the cold steel they loved so dearly, pour out none the less.

"...It's a tough position to be in, Carmine. Ya got your brother and it's undyin' need to win on one side, and ya got Miss Amarys tryin' her damnedest to hold everyone together on the other, yeah?"

"Yeah. And it's like--I don't want to destroy the relationship I have with my brother. I want to rebuild it, to let it come into it's own. But I...my beloved is right, even if I worry about saying it. She tries so hard to uphold the rules of the club, of this school, and these--these jerks keep sending her horrible, disgusting things for it. And for what?"

A quiet settles over the room, and she's sure Ren expects her to elaborate, but she doesn't. Not even she knows what, and she's sure Ren gets it by the time they speak up next.

"...I ain't gonna go makin' any assumptions, but...I don't even think I know the answer to that, Carmine."

It's soft, when Ren admits it. Sad, even. She can only imagine what their face is doing right now, and it gets Carmine to laugh a bit. Bitterly, wretchedly.

"Neither do--neither do I, Ren. And do you know how much that kills me?"

Carmine's voice pitch rises, and she feels her free hand drawing into her hair, Cardigan's trills of concern becoming more apparent as she tries to hop over and dislodge it--

"I love Kiki! I love Amarys! I love them both more than life itself and I--if I say anything at all, I'm going to hurt one of them. Both of them, even, maybe, whether I intend it or not! And the little Mandibuzzes on here, flying around and trying to hurt everyone in this school, they'll be on it in an instant, they'll--they'll hurt them both, they'll turn them both against each other, and I--if I do anything, they already know it's my fault from the start, that all of this is, that I was stupid and boneheaded and lied to my brother because I was scared it could've gotten hurt--"

"Miss Carmine."

"--and I told Juliana to lie, yes, I got so worried that Kiki would just get so excited and that Ogerpon could've hurt or done something worse to it, but then my grandfather told me to keep my mouth shut about helping Ogerpon and I--I didn't--"

"Miss Carmine."

"--And then it--it stole her mask, and I've never been more angry in my life at it, and it just--it keeps stomping on others feelings, and it won't believe anyone, and I don't know what I can actually do--"

"Miss Carmine, please--!"

"WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

Carmine's shriek practically causes her to lunge at her friend, the firm tone in that moment making her see someone else. Wide yellow eyes fiercely stare at bright blue ones, as Ren startles a bit at the ferocity in her tone. The quiet over the room is tense and uneasy, and Ren already sees a few strands got torn out because of it. They take a gentle breath in as realization hits Carmine, but she's still for a moment. Still as Cardigan trills with concern, as Lulu looks up with even more concern on his dopey little face, though he looks ready to hold Carmine back more than anything.

Ren's surprisingly quick on the uptake, at least, and they speak up again before Carmine can.

"Isn't that somethin' you should be askin' of yourself?"

Ren's words are confusing, and the confusion must be apparent on her face as they reach her ears. Ren gently breathes, and continues, "I mean it. You've been talkin' this entire time about Kiki this, Amarys that, and I ain't gonna disparage you for that. Sure puts any rumors of ya bein' self centered to bed, not that I believed 'em anyway. But..."

"What is it that ya want, at the end of it all? Isn't that a question that's come up even once for ya...?"

Carmine can't even believe what she's hearing.

"Why does that matter? I've taken what I wanted for years, I--"

"Okay, you hold on a second here." Ren's words are still soft, but there's a firmness to them now that cuts through her words like butter. "When did that stop bein' a question you asked yerself?"

"It doesn't matter--"

"It absolutely does matter? Girl, yer gettin' tugged in two different directions and ya sound like yer long past the end of yer rope."

"Why does it matter when I've been nothing but a selfish bitch this entire time?!"

And that startles Ren enough to actually get them to stop for a second, completely taken aback. Carmine's gaze goes downward, and she's shaking, horribly.

"Those anons were right, okay?! I ruined Kiki's one good friendship because I'm a bonehead, I'm a failure of a girlfriend who can't even help the girl I love so much with her anger and problems other than just being there like a useless cardboard cutout, I deserve this, all of it, even all of the hateful words and it would've just been so much easier if I had--"

Something stops Carmine in her tracks from speaking. Multiple of them, really. Cardigan's hands, for starters, wrapped firmly around one of her own hands; two of Lulu's tendrils wrap around the other, and even Carmine has to admit that she's surprised by how little an Orthworm's head seems to weigh as he rests his head on one of her legs with concern.

The final thing, that she didn't even hear, is Ren getting up and putting a firm, supportive hand on her shoulder, tiny as said hand is. When she actually gets a look at their face, they look like they're about to cry, and for a brief moment she wonders if she's just gone and ruined another friendship.

"Don't--don't you dare talk about yerself like that again, you hear me?"

Oh. That's not what she expected at all; Ren's voice practically trembles as they say that, and it hits something in her. Carmine's eyes well up with tears of her own, and she can practically hear herself sniffling.

"...I'm sorry, Ren." Her voice is so soft, so delicate, so fragile in the moment that she wonders if it's her own. "I'm...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

"I know you are." Ren's voice softens from that point on, and their grip becomes a little easier. A little more slack, but still there. "When did ya stop seein' yerself as someone not worth considerin' the feelin's of, girl...?"

"...I don't know. It was...before that. Maybe when Amarys and Kiki fought that one time. I--I don't know." Carmine's voice is shaky as she struggles to keep herself together, and she feels Cardigan shift and pull her arm into a hug, and the tears start pouring down at that. She can't stop them, even if she's not a sobbing wreck with no dignity. Yet, at least. "...I don't want to lose anything else."

That gets a pause from Ren, who does their best to calm themself down. "Anything else...?"

"...My parents are divorced. My dad was...he was awful. Just a screaming, bumbling oaf who went from job to job while my mom stayed home and took care of us. Though she was...she was way more focused on Kiki..."

Ren listens carefully, nodding their head as Carmine continues.

"I haven't seen either of them in...years. We usually live with our grandparents, when we're not here. Last time I saw my mom, we got into an argument. I asked her why she stopped caring for me. Why she just...tried to leave me with him--"

"...She what?"

Carmine spares a quick glance at Ren's face, when they say that--practically seething with an anger they don't usually express. "...Yeah. She--she said she could only handle one of us, and that I was Dad's favorite, so..."

"Girl." Ren's doing their best to keep their tone level, but the anger doesn't leave. Hell, if anything, it mixes with the sheer unholy audacity of what they heard, leaving them flabberghasted-- "What the fuck is wrong with your mom?"

Carmine laughs, and while it sounds bitter, there's almost some mirth to it. "Yeah. Like I said. We got into an argument last time I talked to her. I told her I wanted an apology for her trying to abandon me, before Dad went and ran away. I...haven't spoken to her since."

"Carmine...what the fuck, that's so..."

A silence hangs over the room as Ren trails off, but Carmine breaks the silence after a few moments.

"...Between this, and the rest of the shit I dealt with at school...I...I didn't want Kiki to turn out like me." Carmine sniffles, tears still coming unbidden. "I thought you had to be tough and mean to make it, but I just...I wanted Kiki to grow up happy. I wanted it to have a better life than me. I was this bitter, mean girl, but I thought I could at least make it so my little brother--it'd have a chance at growing up to be a gentle hearted little dork who had something happy in it's life. But all I did...it all just amounted to...to..."

There's a few seconds more of sniffling before the dam finally breaks, and Carmine just starts to sob without an end. She's pretty sure her makeup is running down her face, if it hasn't been already; she finally just breaks, her tears pouring and pouring down as she sobs wretchedly and loudly, her hands finally being relinquished so she can try, in vain, to wipe those tears off. But still they come; the pain of so much more than a simple inciting incident, but still mostly that.

Ren uses their own free hand to wipe away the tears falling from their own eyes, as they just let her for a bit.

"...I want to stop hurting." Carmine speaks up, and Ren starts for a moment as they listen. "I want to stop feeling like the evil person that everyone thinks I am. But what if I'm just born evil, and there's no changing that...?"

"That's--" Ren speaks up, briefly, but Carmine speaks again and they let her get it out of her system.

"I want to make things better. I want to just know if it's all my fault, I want to know if I'm just--if I'm justified, in being unable to forgive Kiki for some of the stuff it did." Carmine sniffles again, wretched sobs still escaping her. "...I want to be able to be happy again, without feeling like I'm walking on eggshells. I want to make my girlfriend's pain go away--I want to make Kiki's pain go away, and fuck, maybe even Atlas' and some of the others. I want the world to just stop for a bit, at least so I can stop aching like this. I...I think I just want, more than anything, for someone to tell me I've suffered enough for this, or at the very least, that I just haven't grown up to become a little clone of Dad."

"...Is that so much to ask?"

The question is soft, full of despair, but it at least feels...somewhat good, to try and dislodge some of the thorns in her. It's painful and it feels dizzying, but Ren's hand remains steady, even if their own tears come down hard.

"...You're a teenager. A teenager shouldn't--you shouldn't ever have to ask that kind of shit of yourself." Ren's words are soft, with an empathy forged in the same shit they went through. Just without a depressive spiral and a shut-in phase. "You deserve to be happy, Carmine. You made a dumb, boneheaded mistake, but that doesn't mean you're evil. And it sure as fuck don't mean that you've gone and become your Dad."

Carmine pauses a bit, her sobs coming slower as she tries to listen.

"None of that shit yer askin' about, none of it's too much. But how's anyone else gonna be happy--how can ya share happiness with others if ya ain't gettin' happiness for yerself, y'know?"

"Because ya do deserve it. Whether ya want to admit it or not. Yer not evil, yer not your dad, you're literally a confused sixteen year old girl who should've never been made to feel like that."

It's shocking to hear, really. All of it is. Ren says it with so much conviction that Carmine almost believes it.

"...I don't want to talk anymore. I...I think I just want to...cry..."

"...Cry as much as you need, girl. I'll be here as long as you need."

"Don't--don't tell anyone about this, Ren. Please. Everyone has enough to worry about, and I...I don't want to put more on them. Please, I already feel bad enough burdening you..."

Ren manages something of a soft, warm chuckle at that. "...No worries, girl. What we talked about is stayin' in here, I swear on my life."

"...Thank you, Ren."

Carmine cries herself out eventually; by the time she's done, the two of them have shifted from the bed to the floor, bringing Carmine's mattress down to floor level so they could distract themselves until Carmine fell asleep. It's no easy fix, listening to a friend, but...if it makes the burden lighter, then Ren has no problem with it.

They were in a similar place many years ago with no one to help them, after all. It's the least they can do.

#carmine talks #pokemon irl #pkmn irl #pokeblogging #rotomblr #long post #pokeirl fanfic #drama stakes pokereality #cw suicidal ideation #cw self harm #cw abusive parents #cw emotional abuse #cw bullying #cw mention of attempted child abandonment #cw child abandonment #ask to tag #//that SHOULD encompass everything #//but if i have missed anything at all. please let me know and i will tag #//this is a long and very difficult ride i worked very hard on

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whump-card · 6 months

Text

This Death That I Chose: Chapter 6

1171 words

CW: past abuse, implied past noncon, conditioning, self harm, pet whump, negative self-talk

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~~~

Tao and Marina raided Faye’s kitchen and made themselves chamomile tea; Marina’s idea, she was desperate to calm her nerves. They sat at the kitchen counter – meticulously clean, like all the spaces Faye occupied – and sipped their steaming mugs in silence.

Tao wouldn’t talk – couldn’t talk – because his head was full of the worst-case scenario. If the community voted to trade Karlo, Tao would have to get him out himself. Marina would have to come with, obviously, and maybe the three of them could make a run for Canada – but Karlo wouldn’t want to go, he would still believe he was putting Tao and his mother in danger. What would Tao have to do to force him to come with? How -

His thoughts were interrupted by the front door opening, and two sets of footsteps coming in through the waiting room. Becca and Faye were back. Marina and Tao exchanged a nervous glance, and rose to meet them.

The four of them convened at the bottom of the stairs. Becca wasted no time.

“We voted to protect him.”

All the air rushed out of Tao.

“Oh, thank God!”

Becca scoffed.

“It was fucking unanimous, Tao, did you really have that little faith in our people?”

“So what happens now?” asked Marina.

“Well, given that we learned from Lark – sorry, Karlo – that the Commander more than likely knows our location,” Becca’s eyes met Tao’s, “We’ve decided to give this place up and make our final push for Canada.”

They’d been nested in their current location for years, striking out and bringing home survivors and defectors. The little neighborhood had become their home, and Tao couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow at the prospect of leaving it. Making a final exodus northward had always been the end game, but the hope of finding more people to join them had kept them in place for a long time.

“So we need to start packing,” said Tao.

“We need to start packing yesterday,” Becca nodded, “We have no idea how much time we have before the Commander runs out of patience and brings down hell on us.”

“How long will it take to prepare?”

“Honestly?” exhaustion flickered across Becca’s face, “I have no idea. We’ve been here so long… It’s going to be hard for people to leave things behind.”

Tao recalled Marina’s home – her afghans, her books, her photos. He glanced at her, and found her looking fiercely determined.

“I can leave anything behind as long as I have Karlo,” she said.

“You gonna tell him?” Faye cut in, “He might make another run for it when he finds out.”

“I’m not lying to him,” Tao said immediately.

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘another run for it?’” Marina asked, frowning.

Tao sucked in a breath and reluctantly explained Karlo’s escape attempt. He left out the young man’s reaction to hearing his mother’s name. Marina listened silently, tears welling up in her eyes.

“He really thinks he has to go back, doesn’t he?” she said when Tao was finished.

“Yeah,” said Tao, “He does.”

~~~

Lark needed to go home.

The longer he stayed with the rebels, the more he was being… corrupted. Lark was a perfect pet. He never spoke about his life before, he was so infallible he never even thought about it. That was how he had survived.

There had been four of them, in the beginning. Four young men, taken from different conquered towns.

There had been four soldiers with cattle prods, there to teach them what the Commander wanted from them.

It took four months, in a little shack on the outskirts of the Capital.

Asked to go home? Shock.

Didn’t obey? Shock.

Called out for their mother? Shock.

Talked amongst themselves? Shock.

Didn’t submit? Shock.

Cried? Shock. Or worse.

In one of the brief moments they were alone, in the dim and grime, Lark had held their hands and told them, “It’s easier if you just don’t think about home. Don’t think about your family. Don’t think about anything.”

They’d looked at him like he was crazy.

Even him.

In the end, Lark was the one who walked out of that building, while the others were carried. But Lark was under no illusions. Karlo was dead, too. Lark was a walking corpse. A beautiful, incorruptible corpse that obeyed every order of its master.

A master he was going to return to, one way or another.

Lark needed to get home before Karlo was resurrected.

As soon as Tao and Marina had left the room – no, as soon as their backs were turned – Lark had started shaking like a leaf. He couldn’t control it. He was supposed to be able to, but he just couldn’t, nor could he stop the sob that bubbled out of him.

I want my mom I want my mom I want -

NOT ALLOWED.

Crying wasn’t allowed. Thinking about her wasn’t allowed. Lark was breaking the Commander’s law, and the rules he had set up for himself in order to function. But there was no one here to punish him.

“What do you do when I’m not around, pet?”

Lark viciously bit his teeth into the pad of his right thumb, drawing blood and nearly separating a chunk of flesh. He froze there for a moment, panting, like an animal making sure its prey was dead. Then he licked away the blood and closed a fist around the thumb to apply pressure. He held the fist in front of him, and it was steady and still. No new tears ran down his cheeks. He breathed, deep and slow.

My name is Lark.

I am a good pet.

I do not cry.

I do not think.

I need to go home.

He sank back into the pillows, rolling the mantra around in his head. He descended into a hypnotic calm, separating himself from the world. Either the rebels would trade him back, or the Commander would come and get him. He was going home either way, and there was nothing more he could do to sway the outcome. He was just a pet, after all.

He was nearly asleep when there was a soft knock on the door. He opened his eyes as Tao entered. The man crossed halfway to the bed before stopping.

“The community voted,” Tao said simply, “We’re going to keep you safe.”

So you’ve chosen to die. Lark almost said it out loud, but caught himself. Good pets aren't opinionated like that. Good pets don’t talk the way he’d been talking to Tao.

I can’t fall out of practice.

(But Mom -)

NOT ALLOWED.

Lark could see it clearly now; he needed to convince these people that he was not worth keeping. They had no idea what he was; once they did, why would they want a disgusting sex toy around?

So he nodded. And he lifted his fist, slowly uncurling it, the dried blood sticky and the re-exposed wound stinging.

“Can you help me, sir?” he asked softly.

~~~

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Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-em, @morning-star-whump, @thecyrulik

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #this death that i chose #pet whump #cw past abuse #cw past noncon #cw conditioning #cw self harm #cw negative self-talk

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