#Self harm whump

[off-brand-likes]

Psychological

I am borrowing halibellecter 's super awesome neuroactive ammo, however: Force users don't need ammo.

Kallus straightened his ISB uniform as he walked to the Dome's conference suite reserved for the Inquisitors' use, wishing he had an excuse to wear his armor. Something about his latest failure to capture Garazeb's rebels had drawn the Inquisitors' attention. Although he'd reviewed the incident over and over since receiving his summons to the Inquisitors' suite, he still couldn't think what he'd done to draw their ire. Aside from losing track of the Ghost, of course, which he did not remotely regret.

A Togruta with green and white marking on gray-blue skin paced in the suite entryway. The dark robes and the cold eyes he turned on Kallus as he let himself in left no question as to whether this person were the Inquisitor who'd summoned him.

"Reporting as ordered, Third Brother." Kallus stood at attention and stopped himself from flinching when the door slid shut behind him.

"Why did you fail to bring the rebels you hunted, 'as ordered?'" The Inquisitor's voice was as cold as his eyes.

"The rebels were jamming my communications. It took time to get the TIEs their order to launch, during which the Ghost escaped to hyperspace."

It hadn't hurt that Kallus had spent the past few weeks cultivating a deeply unpleasant animosity with the local squadron commanders, ensuring that none of them would rush to follow his orders. What he sacrificed in control he made up for in plausible excuses like this one.

The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed. "There's more to this. What aren't you saying?"

In Kallus's mind, ocean waves rolled onto a shore near the Academy's field training facility. He focused on the rising and retreating rush of water on sand. "As I said in my report, we first received word of the rebels--"

Something shifted in Kallus's chest. It felt foreign, not any muscle or organ of his. He coughed. He hoped he was imagining something pressing on his left lung.

"We received word of them through our port security liaison," which was true, "but their ship had already gotten take-off clearance. I contacted Captain--"

The thing in Kallus's chest ignited into blazing, writhing agony.

He clawed his uniform jacket open. Propriety didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting this thing out of him before it squirmed its way to his heart.

Low groans fell from his lips with every breath. The Inquisitor hadn't said anything as Kallus got a hand under his shirt and felt for whatever was moving under his skin. Did the Inquisitor not realize something was wrong?

Kallus risked a glance up and found the Third Brother watching him claw at his own skin. The Inquisitor didn't look alarmed. More like... amused.

The thing in Kallus's chest flailed, and this time it drew a scream from him. It was under the muscle, burning like a living blaster bolt. Kallus raked his nails across his chest. Torn skin wedged itself under his fingernails. Blood ran down his stomach and stained his uniform pants.

"Help me," he groaned at the watching Inquisitor, in case the Third Brother hadn't activated the kriffing thing inside Kallus, somehow.

The Third Brother just bared his sharp teeth in a grin.

Kallus's nails slipped in blood and raw skin. Why hadn't the thing burned its way through him by now? Clawing at it wouldn't work, he couldn't get through the slick muscles over his ribs. He drew his vibroblade from its sheath.

In his panic and overwhelming pain, clawing at his skin hadn't really hurt. Digging the vibroblade's tip into the muscle near where the thing continued to writhe and burn inside him, though... That did. Blood sheeted over his abdomen.

"Hm. You went to that rather quickly." The Third Brother waved his hand.

The writhing pressure against Kallus's lung disappeared. The burning pain vanished like it had never been there. The only pain he felt now was the urgent throb where four centimeters of vibroblade were still buried in his chest muscles.

Gasping, Kallus pulled the blade free. More blood ran down his front. His balance wavered. Kallus dropped his shirt over the mess of his torso, so he didn't have to look at it.

"What..." Kallus swallowed, desperate to get his cracking voice under control. "What did I..."

"What have you been leaving out of these reports, Agent Kallus?"

The sea, the sea on the shore, the sea and the blood running down his chest and gods, what a scar that desperate digging would leave... "I've been having some difficulty with the local TIE squadron commanders. Nothing... Nothing I felt the need to report. It is my problem to solve. But." Kallus wished he had something other than seawater to drink. His mouth felt so dry. "Those difficulties... contributed to the delay... In following the rebels."

That was the truth, that was the truth, he was going to pass out in a moment and that was truth too.

The Inquisitor sighed in obvious disappointment. "Solve it, then. See that they don't slow you down again. On my authority, if yours is insufficient." Kallus should not be pleased at that sneer, he should be terrified, he was terrified, what had been done to him... "Begin now." The Third Brother pointed sternly toward the door.

Kallus staggered out the suite door. He was lucky it closed itself behind him. If he turned around now, he really would pass out.

A squad of Stormtroopers in the hall outside the Inquisitor's suite stared at Kallus, their faces unreadable in their helmets. "As you were," Kallus croaked at them. Only once they moved on did he begin the long, slow walk to the medbay.

#star wars #swr #whump #yes him again shush #No Effort Whumptober #no.19 #Psychological #so many textures! #text #I am so glad they left me an undescribed Inquisitor to play with #Although this might be that guy in Ahsoka who is very much not a Togruta #Self harm whump

[whump-cravings]

The Harem - Snap

Masterlist

1.5k words | The Harem - AU of The Royal Three (original work) - this is pretty far into Hakon's imprisonment at the Vusen palace as a member of the royal harem. He was recently subject to a vicious gang-rape and has gone mute and compliant.

Content: public self genital mutilation, heavily referenced noncon, long-term captivity, forced surgery

taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @i-can-even-burn-salad @mylifeisonthebookshelf @thecyrulik @honey-is-mesi @spookyceph @melennui

Hakon was thinner.

Out the corner of his eye, Sevae watched the man docilely refill empty cups, drifting around the table. He never sought out Sevae's eyes anymore. The bruises, previously a constant, had all but faded, which Sevae supposed was... good.

Except it meant he wasn't fighting back anymore.

"I humbly ask again for custody of the foreign prince," Sevae had said, kneeling before his queen.

"We settled this matter months ago, lieutenant general," Queen Hemuh said. "Why now? Naetehu's finally reformed him into a model citizen."

"Forgive me for impertinence, my queen, but his altered behavior is the cause of my concern. A prisoner subject to extreme stress over a prolonged period is—"

The queen gave a dismissive scoff. "An outlet for manly urges and moderate correction is hardly 'extreme stress.'"

Sevae bit his cheek to keep anger contained, eyes trained on the steps to the throne. What callous words, what casual cruelty. Had he truly once admired these people?

"Be as that may, your majesty," he tried once more, for Hakon, "I expect that this is but a precursor to far more worrisome behavior."

"Perhaps," she said dubiously. "But for now, you may bring your concerns to my son. It is not befitting for a man of your station to subvert the proper channels of authority."

Bitter frustration on his tongue, Sevae bowed his head further at the chastising dismissal.

Sevae stabbed at a cut of boar, hand tightening at the memory. Prince Naetehu would not so much as grant him an audience since that first time Sevae had approached him with 'concerns.' It was hard enough to secure time with Hakon, who didn't have the power to turn him away.

"Your mind seems elsewhere today," Ebaeru commented.

Realizing the woman had been speaking for the last minute or so, Sevae grimaced. "Apologies. You were saying?" This was hardly the time to allow alliances to dwindle from inattention.

"No worries, friend," his dinner companion said. "Could your distraction have something to do with your recent audience with the queen?"

Sevae shifted with a tilting acknowledgment of his head and a tight smile. "You read my mind, madam. It is not a subject for polite conversation, I'm afraid."

"Ah, I see," she said. "Perhaps you can—"

A scream set Sevae's blood pumping, his shield bumping up against others as the war mages in attendance instinctively threw up protection. Already on his feet, Sevae looked towards the source. Nobles were backing up from a scene, which Sevae was only able to glimpse.

Hakon laid on the ground in a fetal position, blood pooling out below him.

Sevae's heart bottomed out in his stomach. Taking up a silver knife, he used his chair as step a to leap onto and over the table. As he encountered resistance from another's shield, he slashed through it with his knife, driving a wedge of magic into the opening to allow him passage.

He fell to his knees while running, sliding the remaining distance to Hakon's side. "What happened?!" He directed this question upward at the table of pale-faced nobles as he grabbed Hakon's shoulder to lay him flat.

"He just—he cut it off," Lord Rethu exclaimed.

Hakon gave a weak laugh as his body unfolded, a knife slipping from his hand. The blood was concentrated about his groin. Sevae severed the waistband of the soaked harem skirt, finding only gore where Hakon's manhood ought to be.

"Put your shields down," Doctor Cecel called. "Let me through!"

Horror rose up and Sevae shoved it aside, forcing himself into a clinical mindset as he spread a barrier across the gaping wound. Contouring to the body slowed him down, but he swiftly ensured the entire injury was covered, keeping the blood contained much like skin.

"Where is it?" Naetehu's voice rose above everything else. "Find it!"

Sevae wanted to shake Hakon, to ask what on earth he was thinking, but that was obvious, wasn't it? He shrugged out of his jacket to lay it upon Hakon, both for the man's dignity—whatever was left of it—and to keep him warm in light of the blood loss and shock.

"Prince Hakon," Sevae said, grasping the man's shoulder.

The foreign prince looked at him, mouth twisted in some mockery of a smile. "Hurts more than I expected," he remarked deliriously.

Words of comfort settled on the front of Sevae's tongue, but what could he say that would truly bring hope? I am working towards your freedom, I swear. Hang on.

But his efforts could never have come to fruition soon enough to spare Hakon from hell.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered as the doctor finally made it to Hakon's side. The woman knelt as well, flipping back the now-bloodied jacket to examine the injury, stone-faced.

"Good work," she said to Sevae. "You may have saved his life."

For what good that does him.

"There it is," someone cried, and Sevae lifted his head to see Naetehu marching to retrieve the severed part.

Rage surged through him, heat burning in his chest and pressure constricting his head. Hakon had wounded himself, had almost bled out, and Naetehu's greatest concern was having him in one piece.

Seldom did Sevae find himself so overcome, but he found himself shaking from the force of his fury, jaw creaking. What he wouldn't give to switch which prince laid on the ground, to take Hakon from this place, to tear down this corrupt nation.

"Friend," Ebaeru's voice commented, hand settling cautiously on Sevae's shoulder. "You've done what you can." Her tone conveyed an unsaid message: it's not the time.

The much-needed anchor to reality let Sevae breathe and loosen his fists, nodding as he stood and stepped back. Two people arrived with a stretcher, perhaps having been sent by the doctor as soon as she saw the commotion. With minimal resistance, Hakon was loaded onto it, along with his manhood wrapped in a napkin.

As Hakon was carried away, Sevae mustered strength to go before his monarchs. He sank to his blood-soaked knees, raising his eyes to meet the king's. He needed not speak his request again; they knew his desire well enough.

Gazing with displeasure at the scene and his son, King Aeret gave a sigh as he met Sevae's gaze. He glanced to his wife, whose expression was similarly displeased. She dropped her napkin across her plate before standing.

"Your petition is granted, Sir Sevae," she said. "You are entrusted with the custody and well-being of Prince Hakon of Ironda."

"What?" Naetehu said. "He's mine! You can't—" The prince flinched as Aeret pierced him with a look. Frustration flashed on his face, mouth twisting, before he stormed out the doors.

"What a mess," the queen muttered as she turned away from the table.

King Aeret picked up his utensils. Glancing at Sevae, his voice spoke to the lieutenant general's mind before he went on to finish his meal. - See to it that this does not happen again.

Sevae bowed his head before taking his leave.

***

"How is he?" Sevae asked, standing as Doctor Cecel stepped into the waiting room.

"It's reattached," Doctor Cecel said, wiping her hands on a cloth, smock spattered with blood. "We'll know with certainty within a few days whether the stitching took, though who knows about functionality. He's still sedated."

Relief rushed through Sevae. "May I see him?"

"Elme and Cudul are about to trundle him back to the harem, so—"

"Not the harem," Sevae said. Never again. "My quarters. I've been granted custody."

"Oh?" Doctor Cecel gave him an appraising look. "Good." She sighed, tucking the rag into the pocket of her smock. "That's good." She folded her arms as she looked at the floor, lips pressed thin, and silence hung in the air.

"It's too little too late, isn't it?" Sevae said softly.

She nodded. "I've seen this sort of thing in veterans before, and it usually isn't a one-time occurrence. You'll need to monitor him closely."

Her two assistants appeared then with a sleeping Hakon on a stretcher, and Cecel said, "Right. Well, the boys will let you know how to tend to him for the next few days, and of course I'll be by daily to check on him. Off you go."

After Sevae and the assistants got Hakon set up in Sevae's bed and Elme and Cudul delivered care instructions, Sevae thanked them and sent them on their way. Finally, quiet descended.

He took the chair from his desk, carrying it to the bedside. Hakon looked... so peaceful in his sleep. Sevae reached out, intending to brush a lock of hair from his face, but hesitated before he could make contact. Hakon had been touched so much against his will.

Sevae dropped his hand. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into the silence. "Had I known it would turn out this way, I would have..." Leaning forward, he cradled his head in his hands.

I would have never taken you alive.

You were right. I regret it.

#whump writing #royalty whump #self harm whump #harem!hakon #TR3 au #forced surgery whump #referenced noncon

[haro-whumps]

@much-ado-about-whumping Thanks for voting!

CW: graphic depiction of self harm

Whumpee's breath came out shaky and arrhythmic. She gripped her own wrist like it might steady her, somehow. Like it might stop her vertigo from spinning 'round inside her head, like it might force the bathroom tile level beneath her feet. Like it might change anything at all. She was so sick of feeling unmoored.

Everything here made her feel like a ship cast out at sea. Adrift, lost, unfamiliar stars unable to act as guides. Desperate for a port. For something she could recognize. If she only had an anchor.

If she only had something familiar to ground herself on... Her eyes landed on the razor. It was simple. Clean. Unpackaged recently. Her... friend, he bought the cheap disposable kind, but he was also unable to grow much more than patchy scruff. Didn't need them for much. She knew where he kept the extras. She couldn't imagine he'd notice if only one went missing... And it would be familiar. It would be something she was used to, pain to ground herself, a sharp line of heat to center her swirling thoughts and unsteady (dirty, worthless now) body. She wouldn't go far. Just enough to make her feel something she knew.

The shitty plastic snapped easily beneath her fingers. The metal was cool in her grip. The pain gave her everything she needed, everything she realized she'd been craving. Liquid dripped slow and warm into the kinda cruddy basin beneath her wrist. She could clean it. Scrub the soap scum from the bowl. Cleaning the bathroom was as good an excuse as any to keep him from finding out. He wouldn't be mad, she was sure. He'd just look at her with big sad eyes and touch her as little as possible and ask her pitying questions because all she was worth anymore was fucking pity--

It wasn't fair to him. She cleaned the bathroom. She wasn't fair to him. She took the trash out, glinting metal buried under empty toilet paper rolls and floss. She really wasn't good enough for him, that she had these unmoored and ungrateful thoughts. She wore her sleeves long. Floppy. "Cozy." She didn't offer any explanations for when she crawled into his lap, that night. She'd given herself what she wanted, right? (Why did it feel so shitty, then). He was too good for her. He just started petting her back, made murmuring sounds, and didn't ask why, when she started crying.

#self harm tw #writing #mine #whump #self harm whump #self harm #tw self harm #razors #bad headspace #much-ado-about-whumping

[whump-or-whatever]

Tw: sh

Whumpee is in so much pain/distress that they have to do something physical to deal with it. Punch something, stomp their foot, bang their head, pull their hair, scratch their skin, etc.

#whump idea #whump #whumpee #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump tropes #whump scenario #self harm whump

[theminecraftbee]

hermit horror week day 1: season 8 or game mechanics

His teeth still taste like blood.

He's locked inside the belly of the Octagon. He doesn't know when he got there, but whoever wrestled him into it was smarter than Ren. They realized the full moon's light didn't reach the wiring. They realized it would give him time to down wolfsbane and silver nitrate. It also gave him time to throw it all up in the corner. If Doc were here, he'd be scolding Ren on the fact that silver nitrate is still a toxin and a disinfectant, and he should still be taking it in small doses, no matter how badly he wants to poison the wolf.

He curls up, shuddering, against the wires and pipes that power the shop. He feels thin and gaunt. He hopes he has not had much to eat. He doesn't have a phone or communicator on him. He doesn't know the day. It doesn't matter what the day is. The moon's visible during the daytime, too. It may have only been a night. It may have been weeks. It's probably at least been days.

He throws up again, because wolfsbane is poisonous too.

Most things that can keep a wolf down are poisonous. Ren doesn't have to take them often. He's normally... controlled. A tamed wolf on the full moon. He has a pack to run with. He doesn't need to poison himself to keep the wolf at bay. He doesn't need to take silver nitrate like it's a medicine and not a reagent.

But none of this is making his teeth stop tasting like blood. His shirt is covered in it, too. His legs. His face, he thinks--he can't see his reflection in here. He wouldn't know. But it would have to be. There's so much blood on him.

He doesn't have a scratch on him.

The only thing that stops him, then, from taking more silver nitrate is that if he respawns from the poison damage, he'll respawn out under the moon. He'll respawn back out there. And then--

He shudders. He folds himself into a tighter ball against the belly of the Octagon. In a shaking voice, he cries out for Doc again. Doc has to be nearby. Doc has to be nearby. Because if he isn't--

No one answers. Ren doesn't know who locked him in here. He wonders if it was a struggle.

He's covered in blood.

It smells horribly good. Ren feels dizzy. He's gaunt. He's so hungry. He'll hold that to his chest. He's hungry and sick, not simply sick. If he weren't hungry--if he weren't hungry--

But he's not as hungry as he should be, if it's been days, and he's covered in blood, and he resists the urge to howl, a long, mournful thing. He doesn't want to howl, or bark, or anything else right now.

Instead he cries, a human thing, and holds onto it tightly while he waits for the pain in his stomach and the shudders over his skin and the grey stains where he'd grabbed the bottle and the vomiting to end, so he can take another dose, and force the wolf further down. Down enough to be safe.

Down enough that he didn't maul his friends to death.

Down enough that he can know if he did.

Down enough that he won't try to leave again, as he knows he will, as the moon shines outside, and as soon as someone tries to open the door to rescue him, letting that light back in.

#hermithorrorweek2023 #a bee fic #hermitcraft #rendog #okay so if i'm gonna do a prompt week apparently i have to ease into it gently. by going back to my horror wheelhouse #and simply doing Weird Big Moon Stuff #i fought for TOO LONG to come up with game mechanics as a prompt when season eight was RIGHT THERE #anyway. more stories where the horror of the werewolf isn't that there is a wolf. #but that you are a wolf. and you do not know what you have done. #anyway. ren the werewolf during big moon huh. #gore #horror #emetophobia #self harm #...this is basically just whump more than horror but LETS GO I NEEDED TO WRITE THAT TOO #moon's big #ask to tag

[justbreakonme]

I know magical/instant healing can be unsatisfying, but:

-instant healing superhero whumpee forced to constantly reinjure themselves to keep their cover.

-magical whumpee forced to do the same/unable to use magic around others, so even though they know relief is millimeters away, they can’t get it.

-a whumpee who loses their healing powers, facing pain of intensity that they’ve never dealt with before.

-whumpee falling into the wrong hands, being experimented on to see exactly how far their power goes.

-whumpee being picked up by a crime syndicate as a spy, trained to endure torture because, well, they can be.

-the whumpee confesses their power to the wrong person, and suddenly their trapped in a sort of organ farm, harvested for organs that grow back overnight, blood that regenerated in minutes, limbs that will be fully fleshed in a week. The whumper assures them that they’re saving lives, don’t be selfish.

-whumpee with survivors guilt, even though they knew they shouldn’t have survived.

#whump #whumpee #whump prompts #magical healing #healing powers #whump prompt #tw self harm #tw self injury

[much-ado-about-whumping]

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 [phone]), 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 [phone], 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!)

--------

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

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 131

Write something inspired by this scene:

As caretaker rushes into the lab, the sight of whumpee laid out on the table stops them cold.

A large scalpel hovers over whumpee's chest, held in his own shaking hands.

"How--how did you get out of your cell?"

"I picked the lock." The tip of the scalpel lowers slightly, almost scraping his skin.

"You picked the... " caretaker repeats, disbelieving.

The blade lowers further, touching whumpee's bare chest. He leans his head back against the metal surface, face etched with desperation. A bead of blood grows and trickles down his ribs.

"I have to do this. Whumper won't want to experiment on me if I'm ruined."

#based on a dream #whump #experiment whump #human experimentation #lab whump #lab rat whumpee #test subject #whumpee and caretaker #self harm #scalpel #blood #blackroseswrites #whump prompt #writing prompt #whump inspiration #whump scene #whump idea #experimentation #laboratory #self destruction

[chaotic-orphan]

INTOXICATING FEAR — PART IX

Read part one here

Continued from here

TW: overall content warning, very uncomfortable, forced self-harm, self-harm, mentions of self-harm, explicit self harm, gory self harm, blood, cuts, knives, cutting, explicit detail of blood/wounds, gross depictions of blood, torture, threats of violence, hopelessness, sadistic whumper

This one is even a bit squidgy for me at parts so take care of the warnings and of yourselves! Enjoy!

*~*~*~*~*

“Wakey wakey, Hero,” Villain sang. That was their only warning before a slap echoed around the room and Hero’s eyes shot open in shock. Villain was crouching in front of Hero, red lips tilted up into a half smile as Hero jerked forward. They didn’t get very far though.

Hero’s arms were kept restrained awkwardly behind them, bound tightly wrist to wrist. Hero frowned at Villain in question.

“Where’s Superhero?” Hero asked, voice erring on cautious. If Villain had managed to subdue or god forbid kidnap Superhero and use them as their own little puppet toy play thing then there really was no hope for either of them.

“Oh don’t worry your pretty little head about Superhero, Hero. They had to nip out on an errand which gives us some much needed alone time,” Villain said, their voice too high and pleased with themselves as they spoke, but their eyes… Hero swallowed the lump in their throat at the pain they promised. “Ah, there you are. There’s my scared, timid little Hero. You forgot yourself before, it’s okay. You can admit it, it’s only the two of us here after all.”

“I didn’t forget myself,” Hero snarled, bearing their teeth at Villain and jerking forward in the chair as far as they were able to. “I am done playing by the rules of your sick twisted games.”

Villain tilted their head to the side, dark eyes drinking in Hero’s threat. “Did seeing Superhero make you brave, Hero?”

“They’re going to see right through you,” Hero sneered, “and when they do I’ll be there. Watching as they beat the—”

Villain jumped at Hero, one hand going to their throat while the other pressed a knife against Hero’s cheek. Villain wrenched Hero’s head up so they were staring directly into Villain’s eyes with that cute little defiant look. Villain revelled at how still Hero went once Villain introduced the knife to their face.

“You won’t be able to watch if I pluck out those pretty little eyes, Hero, would you?” Villain mused. Hero struggled to free their head from Villain’s grip but Villain tightened their hold and pressed the knife in deeper until Hero stopped. “Ah, ah, ah, Hero. Play nice or my hand might just slip.”

“Take my eyes!” Hero spat, their voice taking on a feral growl to it, as they struggled furiously at their restraints. “Take whatever the fuck you want because you will fuck up sooner or later and it’s only a matter of time until Superhero finds out who you really are! So go ahead!”

Hero craned their neck up further, pressing into the knife that Villain held. Daring.

Bold.

Villain pulled away, dropping all contact from Hero. Hero let out a scoff as they dropped their head and rolled their shoulders.

“Yeah, thought so.”

“You know, Hero,” Villain said with a sigh, pressing the tip of the knife against their index finger and twirling it thoughtfully. They turned their back to Hero, walking towards the front door.

“You’re right. I didn’t really think the whole sickness thing through, if Superhero comes back and you’re still as feverish as you were, well,” Villain said inclining their head, with a wan smile: “they’d probably recommend a hospital or a healer… both of which I have no need of.”

Hero remained silent, they just glared at Villain as they continued.

“So, while you were out of it I was trying to think of a way to get Superhero off our backs and I had a little lightbulb moment, Hero,” Villain said, and looked over their shoulder at Hero with a grin, “you wanna know what it was?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”

“You’re so un-fun, but I will,” said Villain, turning to face Hero now. “Sometimes stress manifests itself as illness, Hero.”

“Well I am sick of you, so that makes sense,” Hero grumbled and Villain laughed.

“And sometimes, it manifests as mental illness.”

Hero’s brows furrowed in question. Villain smiled. “Don’t you want to have a guess at what I mean by that?”

“Not particularly.”

Villain shrugged. “Good. So we can begin then.”

Hero tensed in the chair as Villain walked purposefully towards them, and then around the chair out of sight. Hero turned their head, but Villain pushed it back so Hero was forced to stare forward.

“Hey! Hey! What’re you—”

“Oh, not so brave now are we?” Villain asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

When the cool metal pressed against Hero’s wrist they jerked forward, trying to get away but Villain said: “stay still,” and the sludge like command melted Hero’s brain until they were forced to remain completely still.

The metal pressed against Hero’s wrist again and to Hero’s surprise, Villain cut them free of the ropes or whatever was tying them to the chair. They still couldn’t move but for some reason being free didn’t exactly make Hero’s heart sing with joy. Something like dread settled at the bottom of their gut instead as Villain walked around the chair again.

“Now, Hero, illness… sickness, physical sickness can be treated by a healer or a doctor but mental illness? Especially from stress, perhaps… oh I don’t know, work related stress of being a Hero, for example. That is treated by time away from the stressors.”

Villain paused just to let their words properly sink into Hero brain. Villain didn’t speak again until Hero’s wide eyes met Villain’s with a panicked kind of hatred.

“No,” Hero said. “No! You can’t—”

“Oh, yes, Hero. Yes I can.”

“Superhero would never… they wouldn’t—“” Hero blubbered before furious eyes met Villain’s dark ones. “They would check on me everyday—”

“Would they? A good soul like Superhero? Or would the guilt of having maybe pushed you too hard, or not seen the signs earlier prevent them from coming regularly?”

“Wait, Villain. You can’t do this!”

“Oh I can,” Villain chuckled.

Hero’s mouth screwed up desperately, their breathing coming out a bit faster than necessary. “But— but, I won’t be as fun if you can’t fuck with me when I’m at the Hero tower, and you won’t learn about anything or be able to take down the Heroes from within, or— or—”

“Oh relax,” Villain said with a wave of their hand. “This isn’t going to be permanent, Hero. Just a long enough break away from the stressful environment of being a Hero. Some good old fashioned R&R with yours truly will set you right.”

Villain bit back a grin when they saw tears gather behind Hero’s eyes as they struggled to try and fight Villain’s compulsion.

“Please, Villain. Please! Anything but that, please. I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want. Please, I’ll stop fighting you. Please just don’t— don’t—” Hero cried, cutting themselves off with a heartfelt sob, sniffing as the tears started falling down their cheeks.

Villain moved closer then, cooing at Hero’s pathetic display of desperation. Villain pressed a cold hand against Hero’s cheek, and brushed the tear streaks away with the coarse pad of their thumb. A sympathetic smile on their stupidly too-red lips.

“It’s okay, Hero. Everything will be fine. Come on, walk with me to the bathroom. The blood will be easier to clean off there.”

To Hero’s horror their body obeyed Villain’s command. Every neuron in Hero’s brain was firing at them to stop, to not go with Villain, to fight, to regain control over their own body but it was all in vain.

Hero stood from the chair and followed Villain across their living room into their bathroom. Villain turned on the light, and turned to grin at Hero, holding out a hand.

“What?!” Hero barked, wiping the angry tears from their eyes.

“Well you have two choices Hero, you either; step into the bath or hold your arms over it,” Villain said, leaning their lower back against the sink and crossing their long legs. “The choice is yours, it doesn’t really affect me.”

“Is it?” Hero asked, coming to stand in front of Villain, their heart thundering against their ears. If they could stall for time and wait for Superhero to come back, they could catch Villain in the act. They’d know that Hero was suffering at the hands of a fucking tyrant.

The corner of Villain’s lips quipped up. “Knock yourself out, Hero. Enjoy the freedom.”

“Except it’s not freedom cause either way you’re going to make me do one of them, aren’t you?”

“Well obviously,” Villain blinked, then smiled wide, “but I can wait if you want. We can wait until your precious Superhero comes back and instead of hurting yourself you can hurt them too. Would you like that, Hero?”

Hero swallowed, eyes narrowing into the points of a sharp dagger. “You said you wouldn’t read my mind anymore. Takes the fun out of it, have you changed your tune?”

Villain rolled their eyes and stood to their full height, stepping forward and knocking Hero back a step with their shoulder. Hero’s eyebrows rose in surprise as they stumbled back, forgetting that Villain was taller than them.

“Honestly Hero, I try,” Villain said with another step. Hero matched it with one backwards, still glaring up at them. “But sometimes it’s so rare that you think anything in that little noodle of yours that the thoughts are too loud for me to ignore.”

Villain pressed a finger into Hero’s forehead and tipped them back another step before Hero batted their hand away.

“Real funny, Villain. Hah-hah!”

“I try,” Villain said, flashing a charming smile. “But you’re right. I have decided. In the bath is better than out.”

Without pausing Villain pressed their palm flat on Hero’s chest, fingers spread and shoved Hero backwards. Hero hadn’t realised how close they were to the bath and with the hard push Hero was forced back, their thigh hitting the edge and they reached out to steady themselves but fell off balance. Villain getting further away as Hero fell, their head smacking off the tiles as they landed awkwardly in the tub.

“Motherfucker!” Hero cried, rubbing their head with a scowl as it pounded from the whack.

Villain shrugged leaning back against the sink again, arms folded across their chest. “I did give you the choice to get in the bath of your own accord. This one’s on you.”

“Maybe I want to lean over it,” Hero grumbled, fumbling to right themselves. When they settled Hero glared up at Villain from the tub. “Well we don’t have all day. Force me to do whatever you want, I don’t care anymore.”

“Hero,” Villain chided. “Don’t have that attitude, come on. Make it fun for me. Struggle a bit.”

“What’s the point? You’ll just use your powers on me and get what you want eventually. Let’s just cut through the bullshit.”

Villain shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Villain leaned off the sink and handed Hero the knife in their hand. “Hero, I want you to take the knife and roll up your sleeves and cut your wrists.”

Hero felt the blood drain from their face.

“What?” Hero whispered as their hand reached for the knife against their own wants. “Wait! Villain, you can’t want to kill me I thought—”

“Oh hush, Hero. Don’t be dramatic. Make the cuts horizontal. Not deep enough to bleed out or need stitches but enough to leave scars.”

Hero was rolling up their sleeves as Villain spoke. “Villain, wait please. Please! Wait! Stop! Why can’t you do this to me? Cut me? Make them believable? Please?! Villain please I don’t want to do this.”

Villain crouched so they were eye level with Hero, looking into Hero’s too bright eyes that were already tearing up at the mere thought of Villain’s command.

“What makes you think I care about what you want, Hero?”

Hero let out a sharp hiss as the blade sliced through their skin. Hero didn’t look down. They didn’t want to see what their body was doing to itself. Instead they stared at Villain as they cut and Villain stared at Hero, never dropping eye contact for a second.

That was until the third cut which hurt like a bitch. Hero sucked in a sharp breath as they banged their leg against the wall of the bath, wrenching their head up to stare at the ceiling and breathing slowly out through their mouth with a pained hum.

“Alright there, Hero?”

“Never bett— AGH! Fuck!”

This time Hero looked and they wished they didn’t. Sticky blood surrounded their wrist, thick and dark and gloopy looking. Hero couldn’t even tell where the cuts were because the blood from the last cut had washed over them all and left streams of blood racing down Hero’s palm. Splashing down onto the white floor of the tub.

Hero was going to be sick, but there was no time as their arm mechanically moved back to slice again. Hero looked up pleadingly into Villain’s dark eyes and found nothing but their own pathetic reflection staring back at them. Hero bit their lip to stop crying out on the last cut before Villain moved.

“Okay, Hero. That arm has enough. Mo—”

“Wait,” Hero croaked, licking their lips. “Waitwaitwaitwait, wait…”

Villain paused, tilting their head, eyebrows arching at interruption. They didn’t punish Hero though, or chastise them so Hero took that as an opportunity to continue.

“The… the blood— my knife will slip. I need to—”

“Okay Hero,” Villain said softly. “We can wait while you fix yourself.”

“Thank you,” Hero breathed, dropping the knife onto the tub floor with a clatter. Hero’s hands were shaking violently as they wiped the blood on their tracksuit bottoms, biting their lip to quiet the pained whimpers.

Villain clicked their tongue and said, “Hero stop. You’ll ruin them. Use the water.”

Hero blinked up owlishly at Villain, eyes glazed over as if the thought of using the bath hadn’t occurred to them. Hero nodded dumbly and reached over to the tab at the end of the bath and turned on the cold tap. The water was freezing. Before Hero could talk themselves out of it they grit their teeth and plunged their arm under the tap.

Hero let out a startled gasp of pain, making their other hand a fist and beating it off the side of the bath because the cuts stung under the icy water. Hero bit their lip and rubbed the sticky coagulated strings of blood from their arm and hand. They did their best to not watch them slither down the drain and instead focused on turning the tap off.

Hero looked down at their arm to see fresh bright red blood surface in their cuts. None of them too deep. Just exactly what Villain wanted.

Hero pushed themselves back to the middle of the bath, their tracksuit bottoms wet as they scooted across. Hero found Villain’s eyes with their own as they wiped the fresh streams of blood on their tracksuit, half to dry their hands, half to fuck with Villain just because.

Hero grabbed the knife and got comfortable, balancing their knees against the inside of the bath, feet planted on the bottom of the tub. They cocked a brow at Villain, as if to say I’m waiting and Villain had to laugh inwardly at the gall.

Villain’s lips quipped up at the simple defiance. “Okay, Hero. Now cut your other arm.”

Villain relished Hero’s shaking hand as they drew the knife over their skin. They wanted to record all of Hero’s micro reactions in their brain just so they can think on it whenever they’re feeling down. It was intoxicating.

To watch Hero’s hand shake, their body fight against Villain’s power and not be able to do a single thing to stop them. They could feel Hero’s mental resistance trying to fight Villain’s compulsion off them as they made the second cut. Villain drank in their expressions, every muted wince that they tried so hard not to show Villain.

It was pure turmoil they put Hero in, and it was addicting to watch. They could watch it all day, and never get bored but that was just with Hero.

Most of their other victims had a weak constitution and gave in a few days into Villain’s mental assault, in hopes that Villain would get bored and let them go, or maybe out of sheer weakness but not Hero. How long had it been now? Weeks? Months? And Hero was still fighting them.

Even if it wasn’t fighting Villain’s powers mentally it was their little looks of defiance, their unwillingness to concede even if it would make life easier on them. No… Hero was a fighter and Villain couldn’t get enough of them.

Their favourite part was coming up now… ah yes. After the third cut, Hero bit their lip to stop the sudden cry. A deeper cut. They brought their head up and stared Villain directly in the eyes, that defiance still evident through their pain filled, glassy eyes on the verge of tears.

It felt like Christmas and Hero was a gift for Villain to toy with, to batter and break and fix and break again, but a toy doesn’t give you that same satisfaction. The euphoria of seeing Hero’s white knuckled grip tight around the handle of the knife as they sliced through their flesh against their will, and tried to hide the pain in their expression. Trying and failing to hide it, but that just made it all the sweeter.

Villain leaned forward. “Two more, Hero. One deep, one shallow.”

“Nn— no,” Hero whispered, their hand shaking harder now. “No…”

“Remember little Hero, what you are. You’re my little puppet. My play thing, you don’t get to say no to me. Now, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough for hospital.”

“Fuck you,” Hero whispered venomously as they sliced through their arm deep. Hero cried out loud this time, craning their neck back to glare at the ceiling and Villain leaned closer. Observing the strain in Hero’s neck, their jaw their voice.

“FUCK! Ughh!” Hero groaned, stamping their foot against the wall of the bath again, trying to exert the pain in their arm and transfer it to the bath.

“Look at it, Hero,” Villain said, and Hero shook their head.

“Go fuck yourself, Villain.”

“Hero. I said, look at the mess you’ve made.”

Hero fought the command like they always did but still their head turned down against their will and their eyes fixed on the massacre of blood on their arm again. Villain watched as Hero visibly paled at the sight with a soft smile.

Hero made another cut while they looked at their arm and then Villain plucked the knife from Hero’s hand. Hero glared up at them. Villain just grinned.

“Clean your arms with the water, then change out of those clothes and put them for the wash. I’ll get the blood out of them, Hero don’t worry.”

“You’re so gracious,” Hero spat. Villain looked over their shoulder at Hero.

“Hero, slap your cuts for me.”

Hero barely registered the command but the sharp sting had them letting out a diminished howl through gritted teeth.

“You fucker!” Hero screamed after Villain, but Villain had already walked out of the bathroom laughing at the good of it. “I hate you!”

“I know, sweet Hero.”

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom

#intoxicating fear #hero villain writing #hero villain snippet #hero villain story #hero #villain #writing #orphan writing #whump writing #writblr #orphan #sad hero #hero captivity #captive hero #captured hero #telepathic villain #scared hero x telepath villain #scared hero #torture #forced self harm #forced sh #forced to cut #self harm #tw self harm #cw self harm #kidnapping cw #cw kidnapping #hero kidnapped #kidnapped hero #IF

[whumpshaped]

hii could you please write something about a whumpee post rescue that is recovering at caretaker's house and is so paranoid

like they heard a sound at night and believe whumper is in the house somehow trying to recapture them, so they hurry to the kitchen to grab a knife to defend themselves

they're very delirious so when someone shows up in the dark they don't think twice before attacking.. only to after realize it's caretaker!! they don't get to seriously hurt caretaker tho, because caretaker defended themselves

comfort afterwards too, everyone loves a whumpee breaking down crying

thx bye I love your stories :D

content: past trauma, paranoia, delusions, knives, recovery, comfort, suicide mention, self harm mention

Whumpee lay rigidly still in their bed, breaths coming quick and shallow, heart and thoughts racing. They couldn't believe it. Or more like, they didn't want to believe it.

They were back. Whumper was back. After months, they'd finally managed to track them down, and now they were here to drag them back into their personal hell.

Whumpee swallowed and forced a cramped, tense leg out from under the covers. Then another. They carefully let the soles of their feet touch the cold, wooden floor, then shifted their weight onto them and stood up. They crept to the door and opened it a crack, listening for Whumper.

Silence.

Of course, whatever noise they'd heard was probably a mistake on Whumper's part. If everything had gone according to their plan, Whumpee probably wouldn't have been given a rare warning like that. It was futile to wait for another. They had to act.

They slowly padded across the hallway and into the kitchen, opting for one of the bigger knives on the counter. Opening a drawer was out of the question, too loud. The lights stayed off as well, for obvious reasons. All they knew was the handle of the knife pressing into their palm as they gripped it firmly, and the rushing of blood in their ear.

They weren't going back. They weren't fucking going back. If push came to shove, they could even slit their own throat instead of Whumper's. Anything to avoid recapture.

Suddenly, Whumpee saw them; the shadowy figure moving towards them. They raised their arm just as Whumper switched on the lights, and they swung— and missed.

"Whumpee!"

They swung again, but this time Whumper — wait, Caretaker? — grabbed their wrist.

"Whumpee! Calm down! It's me! It's me, it's just me, you're not in danger!"

"C-Caretaker...?" The adrenaline was still pumping in their system, and Whumpee yanked their hand out of their friend's grasp. "We have to go! We have to leave! They're here!"

"Who? Whumpee, what do you see? What happened?"

"I'm not— don't treat me like I'm crazy!" they snapped. "I heard them! Whumper! They're here, we have to go!"

"Okay," Caretaker said slowly. "Okay. I'll grab the car keys, grab your shoes and a jacket."

Relief washed over Whumpee at the fact that Caretaker understood. "I just need a second. Please go start the car right now, I'll be out in just a second."

Not two minutes later, they were driving around the city quite aimlessly. Whumpee was still clutching the knife as they told Caretaker everything that had happened. They were sobbing as they told them about the noises and the thoughts— there was really not much evidence apart from that.

Not much at all.

"Whumpee..." Caretaker began slowly.

"Don't," they muttered. "Don't. Please. I... Yeah."

Whumper had never been there at all, most likely. Caretaker sighed.

"Do you think we can go back home?"

Whumpee hesitated. "Y-yeah. I... I'm sorry for making you drive in the middle of the night. This is really embarrassing."

"It's not," they said firmly. "I'm being fully honest when I say this: I understand how terrified you must've been, and not for a moment was I upset with you, or thought you were embarrassing. I love you. I want to help. If you want me to drive around for a bit more, please tell me, and we can do that until you calm down."

Whumpee felt the tears pricking their eyes again. "C-can we drive a bit more, then? Please?"

"Of course. Whatever you need."

~

this is one of my last drabbles here, please feel free to follow me on my new blog @sowhumpshaped

#asks #whump #whump drabble #past trauma #paranoia #delusions #knives #comfort #recovery fic #suicide mention #self harm mention

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 26

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Contents: PTSD, past captivity, references to being unsure of reality, thoughts of murder, self-harm themes, bad reaction to discovering self-harm, harm reduction, recovery

~

Isaac felt better already, knowing there was a locked door between him and the rest of the world. He had locked it behind Vera and Tori as they came in with tonight’s dinner: a hearty shepherd’s pie with rich bites of tender chicken, carrots, and potatoes all in a mouthwatering gravy. Once he had locked the front door, he had walked to the back door and made sure – for the second or third time since he’d gotten home – that it was still locked. It was, but it didn’t hurt to be so sure.

Edrissa had gotten into the house through the unlocked back door and then held a knife to Gavin’s throat. Isaac would have to be stupid to not check, and recheck, and check again.

Isaac sat on one side of Gavin on the couch, and Gray sat on the other. Vera, Sam, and Tori sat sandwiched on the other couch. Now that everyone was finished with dinner, Gavin leaned against Isaac’s side, and Isaac’s arm was slung over his shoulders. Gavin wasn’t shivering for the first time since they’d left the house that morning. Isaac was sated on two large slices of shepherd’s pie.

And yet, he ached to be holding his gun. The concerned glances Vera was throwing him weren’t helping.

“Thank you so much for bringing dinner,” Gray said, finally breaking the silence. “Did you make the pie, or buy it in town?”

“Bought it,” Vera said with a chuckle. “I appreciate your faith in us, but after everything… um. Recently.” She gave a stiff shrug. “Neither of us have felt like cooking.” She smiled tiredly at Tori over Sam’s head.

Gray let out a huff. “Same here,” they said gently. “But we’ve all been… through a lot. I don’t think anyone’s expecting anyone else to be out there crafting gourmet meals.”

“Except Edrissa,” Vera said tightly. “Apparently she’s been, uh… helping Meredith out. With the pies at the general store. Spending most of her time there, actually.”

“Really,” Gray said. Their tone was perfectly even.

Isaac’s hand tightened into a fist as the image of her flashed through his mind – cowering behind Gavin in that bathroom, eyes wild and streaming, clutching herself, looking terrified, as if she was the fucking victim and not the one pressing a knife to a man’s throat hard enough to draw blood just seconds before.

To Gavin’s throat.

His jaw ached and he swallowed hard. He forced himself to release his fist and brushed his lips to Gavin’s temple instead. He felt Vera’s eyes on him the whole time. He cleared his throat.

Sam wet their lips and leaned forward, seeming to sense the tension. “We’ve been keeping things as calm as possible here,” they said with a glance at Isaac. “Mostly just… sleeping.” They laughed. “All of us. Mostly Gray.”

“I don’t appreciate the accusation,” Gray said good-naturedly. “Although, god, I’ve never slept so much in my life.”

“What about you, Gavin?” Tori said softly. She reached over the back of the couch and rested a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “How are you sleeping?”

Gavin relaxed further against Isaac’s side and drew in a deep breath, thinking. “Well,” he murmured. “Better than in… than with Schiester. That’s definitely for sure. But…” Isaac bit his lip and waited for the second shoe to drop. “…it’s… sometimes hard to tell where I am. When I wake up.”

Isaac’s heart twisted. He knew all too well the things Gavin said, and fucking believed, when he wasn’t sure if he was staring at Isaac himself or merely a figment of his own imagination.

“D-don’t you want to… to punish me? …you want to, right? It’s… Isaac, it’s… it’s okay. It’s not… real, I know that. You can do… whatever you want. I can give that to you… if you want. I know it doesn’t really help you… But it’s what I have. P-please don’t stop touching me. Please… Isaac… please, this… this feels better than… a-anything he does to me.”

Shame clogged Isaac’s throat. His fingers itched for his knife. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Vera was saying. “Yeah, that’s… that’s the hardest part, I think. After. The waking up and not knowing, for a while.”

Isaac’s head snapped up. Vera held Gavin’s gaze, and he stared at her with an understanding that Isaac had never shared. Even though everyone except for Gray had been held captive, tortured, collared – what Gavin and Vera shared now was different. They had both been taken, punished by a sadist, had their minds broken down by pain and time – and drugs, in Gavin’s case. They had been kept in a basement, shackled for use because it brought a madman pleasure.

And they had both been alone.

Isaac’s hand shook as he slid it into Gavin’s and squeezed.

“Does that ever go away?” Gavin murmured, as if he had forgotten anyone else was there. Tears shone in his eyes.

“Yes,” Vera answered immediately. Then, she said, “Mostly. Months or years go by, and then you’ll have a shitty day or a bad nightmare and you’ll wake up not knowing where you are again. But the thing that matters is, it passes. And you’re always, always out once it passes.”

“Unless I get taken again,” Gavin whispered as the tears spilled over. “Like you did. Twice.” He shuddered and muffled a sob against Isaac’s shoulder.

Isaac’s arms wound around him in a trembling embrace, pulling Gavin into his lap. Vera stared at the floor, chewing on her lip.

She was taken again three times, if you count the time she went in to save Tori and killed Joseph Stormbeck to escape.

Isaac bit his tongue and shook his head to clear the thought.

“Alright, scootch over,” Tori mumbled as she crossed the living room to drop into the spot where Gavin had been sitting, gently laying a hand on Gavin where he now sat shivering on Isaac’s lap. She pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it across Gavin’s shoulders. “There, better?”

Gavin nodded with his face pressed to Isaac’s neck. His tears streamed into the neckline of Isaac’s shirt. He wrapped Gavin up again, carefully tucking him in, and glanced at Tori inquisitively.

Tori nodded at Vera. “She’s a lot more sensitive to cold when she’s in the thick of it,” she said gently. “And he’s got goosebumps.”

“No shit?” Vera said. “Is that why you always get a blanket when I’m having a bad day?”

The corner of Tori’s mouth curved up. “Yes, dear, that’s why I always get a blanket when you’re having a bad day.”

Vera raised her eyebrows. “No shit,” she mumbled.

“Schiester k-kept the basement cold,” Gavin muttered into Isaac’s neck. “If I wanted blankets I had to… t-tell him things.”

All the blood drained from Isaac’s face. “What… kinds of things?” he croaked.

“Confessions,” Gavin whimpered. “I… I don’t think most of them were true. I don’t remember. I didn’t care. I was cold. Ziegler told me most of the things I admitted to weren’t true.”

“Who the fuck is Ziegler and are we killing them?” Vera said, sitting up straight and staring at Isaac. “Someone who knew you were down there?”

“Y-yes,” Gavin managed through a particularly violent shudder. “He… he didn’t… hurt me as much. And he… let me go.”

Vera’s eyes went wide. “Like—”

“Not like Ryan,” Isaac said sternly. Tears glittered on Vera’s eyelashes. “Just a guard who decided not to kill me when I was pulling Gavin out.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Gavin said in a small voice. “He… he could have but he… didn’t.”

“But—”

“Fair enough, Gavin,” Vera interrupted. She shot Isaac a glare. “I get it. That can be enough to keep you sane. Just one person who doesn’t want to hurt you as much as the others.”

Gavin nodded weakly against Isaac’s neck. Isaac tried to meet Vera’s glare, but she shot daggers at him and he faltered. Tori’s hand moved in small, gentle circles on Gavin’s back.

“No one’s taking you again,” Isaac whispered against Gavin’s hair. His arms shook with how hard he squeezed Gavin. “No one. You’re safe, alright? You’re… you’re safe.”

As soon as Edrissa is dealt with—

I wonder if I could get to her before anyone realizes what I’ve done—

“You’re okay, Gavin,” Tori said gently, her hair mingling with his as she leaned in close. “We’ve got you.”

“Y-yeah,” Gavin heaved, and shuddered violently. His hand wrapped around Isaac’s wrist. “Yeah. I’m out.”

Edrissa’s the one who last made him question where he was. I’m going to fucking—

“What the fuck is that?” Vera snapped from her place on the couch.

Isaac’s head shot up and he glanced around the room, ready to neutralize the threat. He met Vera’s eyes and realized she was looking at him – no, not at him.

At his arm.

The sleeve was pulled up slightly on his forearm, exposing a scar left by Gavin’s knife – and the cut he himself had made over it, not five days ago. The angry line flared red in the dim light, and it was devastatingly obvious what it was.

Isaac dragged the sleeve down over the cut, obscuring his entire hand. “Nothing,” he growled.

“Isaac, fuck,” Vera breathed. She rose from the couch and stood over Isaac, staring down at him, looking stricken. “That…” Her hand shot out and she grabbed his wrist, pulling the sleeve up to reveal the line of cuts up and down Isaac’s arm.

Isaac yanked his arm out of Vera’s grasp, cringing back into the couch. Gavin slid off his lap and partially onto Tori. Isaac couldn’t even look at Tori; he could barely bring himself to look at Vera, who stared down at him in horror.

“It’s nothing,” Isaac pleaded with a broken voice.

“Vera, let’s respect Isaac’s desire for privacy,” Gray said, a little weakly.

Isaac could feel Gavin’s gaze drilling holes into the side of his head. He blinked back tears and swallowed hard against the shame strangling him. Slowly, he opened his mouth to speak.

Vera beat him to it. “I… told you not to punish yourself,” she said. She held her hands lamely out to her sides. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“No, I didn’t,” Isaac said through his teeth. “I never said that.”

Vera shook her head. “But—”

“I wouldn’t have said that,” Isaac said. His voice was fading, cracking under the pressure of Vera’s gaze. Having Gavin so close to him, feeling all eyes in the room on him, on his arms, safely hidden again under his long sleeves, was too much to bear. He swallowed again, hoping his dinner would stay down. “I never lied to you.”

“I n-never said you did,” Vera croaked. Her hands were in fists at her sides now. “I… how long?”

Isaac shook his head. He glanced at Sam, who stared right back at him. A quiet sort of pain pinched their mouth. “I… would really rather not have this conversation,” he said thickly.

“Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t,” Vera breathed. She sniffed and lifted her chin against the tears that glittered in her eyes. “Isaac… why didn’t you tell me?”

“What, and have you react like this?” He meant to snarl the words, but they came out weak and pathetic sounding.

She nodded slowly. “You’re right,” she murmured. “That’s… that’s fair. I’m sorry, I… This isn’t… how I should be reacting.”

“Let’s everyone take a breath,” Gray said softly. “Vera, do you want to sit down?”

Vera returned to her couch on stiff legs and fell to her seat beside Sam. Isaac could breathe a little easier, without her standing over him. Gavin crawled back onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Isaac’s neck.

“Sorry,” Vera said flatly. She drew in a deep inhale and let it out in a gusty breath. “Sorry. That’s… probably the last fucking thing you needed.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said. He shrank as Gavin laid his head on his shoulder.

“Isaac, can I touch you?” Tori said. Isaac jumped, but relaxed a little when he met her eyes. Her gaze was soft, sad, but not filled with horror. Not like Vera’s. He nodded, and she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’m really sorry,” Vera whispered. “That was… I wish I could take that back.” She wiped her eyes and sat up, taking another deep breath. “That was shitty of me.”

“No,” Isaac grumbled. His arms stung as if all the cuts were brand new. He longed to scratch at the ones that itched, but he couldn’t bear to draw any more attention to them. He swallowed tightly. “I should never have…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No.” Vera held up a shaking hand. “Don’t… don’t do that.” She raked her fingers through her hair and stared at the floor. “Um…”

Isaac couldn’t bring himself to say any of the things that were echoing through his head:

I know this hurts you. I know I did it because I’m weak. I know I would never have had to do it if I had just kept my family safe in the first place. I know…

He knew right where his knife was, too. Gray had taken the one he usually used, but he had another in his pack. All he would have to do is—

“Boy I wish someone else would say something,” Vera said with a broken laugh.

Gray leaned forward with a warm glance toward Isaac. “Did you hear Sam is going to be staying with us?” they said, without missing a beat. Isaac could have cried with gratitude at no longer being the subject of discussion.

Tori beamed and glanced at Sam. “I didn’t hear that! That’s so great.” Her voice was tighter than Gray’s, but it was still light. Isaac felt a wash of gratitude for her, too.

“Yeah,” Sam said. They sounded so tired. But happy, too. “Yeah, I talked to Zachariah about it and… I’m going to be staying here for a while.” They grinned at Isaac. “The foreseeable future.”

“That’s awesome,” Vera said, with only a little flatness to her voice.

“We’re definitely happy about it,” Gray said with a smile.

“It’ll be really nice to… to have you here, Sam,” Isaac croaked. He rearranged his face into what was probably a smile and willed the darkness in his chest to dissipate. “It’ll be nice to be together.” His arms tightened around Gavin as he said it.

Sam nodded, their expression brightening further. “We were worried about where I was going to sleep, but…” They patted the couch cushion next to them. “Turns out this couch is extremely comfortable. After how long we spent on the road, just about anything feels good.”

“You slept on my floor on an air mattress for months,” Tori said with a laugh. “Anything is better than that.”

“Even sleeping on the ground during winter?” Sam said with a mischievous smile. All at once, the exhaustion around their eyes faded away, and they looked like themself again. They looked like the Sam Isaac had always known.

“Depends on the winter,” Tori said. “In the south it wasn’t bad.”

“I’ll take the air mattress,” Vera interjected, raising her hand. “If I get a say.”

“Yeah, because it was on my floor,” Tori shot back with a conspiratory grin.

Everyone laughed at that, even Isaac. He felt the cold fist around his heart loosen a bit, then fall away entirely. As he looked around at the people he loved, feeling Gavin’s warm weight in his lap and Gray’s shoulder brushing his, he could breathe a little easier. He could survive another few minutes without his knife.

Perhaps he could go without it entirely, tonight. It would still be there in the morning if he needed it, and he figured he would. But… maybe then he could just hold some ice instead, if he didn’t need it too badly. What he knew for sure, though, was that he didn’t need the knife tonight.

With his family around him, alive, safe… he could go without the knife for a little longer.

Continued here

@womping-grounds ​, @free-2bmee ​, @quirkykayleetam ​, @walkingchemicalfire ​, @inpainandsuffering ​, @redwingedwhump ​, @burtlederp ​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog ​ , @whatwhumpcomments ​, @whumpywhumper ​, @stxck-fxck ​, @whumps-the-word ​, @justplainwhump ​, @finder-of-rings ​, @inky-whump ​, @orchidscript ​, @inkyinsanity ​, @this-mightaswell-happen ​, @newandfiguringitout ​, @whumpkitty ​, @pretty-face-breaker ​, @pebbledriscoll ​, @im-just-here-for-the-whump ​, @endless-whump ​, @grizzlie70 ​, @oops-its-whump ​, @kixngiggles​, @1phoenixfeather ​ , @butwhatifyouwrite ​, @carnagecardinal , @whumpifi , @squishablesunbeam

#honor bound 6 #hurt/comfort #angst #whump #Isaac/Gavin #HMS ToriVera #PTSD #past captivity #unsure of reality #thoughts of murder #self-harm #harm reduction #recovery

[painsandconfusion]

Off Guard

Whumping the Whumpers - Part Thirty-eight

(tw: electrocution, escape attempt, concussion, torture, death mention, murder mention, plotting murder, handcuffs, stun gun, blood, beating, unintentional self harm (bloody knuckles)) [Previous | Masterpost | Next]

Ethan’s fingers tingled as he walked, flicking them against each other by his side to stave off the sensation as he moved down the hall. 

He didn’t want to be too loud. Not tonight. The light was off in Nate’s room, so the bastard must finally be getting some half decent sleep. No reason to wake him and have the idiot trying to take over the scene. Again.

He shoved open the workshop doors, ignoring the slight grinding whine the hinges gave off - though still subconciously noting to add some kind of oil or whatever the fuck you do with hinges later. As the lights snapped on, the pitiful lump of a man in the middle of the room curled into his chains, a small sound of displeasure coming off of him.

“What, were you sleeping? I’m sorry-” Ethan stepped up to him, almost delicately pressing a foot down onto a dried slurry of blood that gashed over Crawford’s thigh. 

“Hnn-stopstto-”

“Hmm… I dunno, maybe beg a little more and see if it puts me in a good mood?” The edges of his mouth seemed to shift, tugging like curtains pulled by a string on the other side of the room to coax a smile out of him. 

Getting there, at least.

It was an almost completely forgotten sensation. Smiling without meaning to. It pulled an entirely different set of muscles than the simple, polite curve he gave to people he wanted to shut up or leave him alone. Different than the ruse he put on or the sarcastic toothy grin he threw in Nate’s direction in place of a verbal response. This was something different entirely. Like a little parasite had carved up inside his cheek and gnawed at the thin strands of muscle until they tightened like strings of a violin, ready for the steady screech of rosin to truly set them alight.

“Y’mdnr-”

“Hmm~?” Ethan’s foot ground in further, leaning in to see Crawford’s face as the man squished it against the cement. 

Another incoherent slurry of sound pressed from the man’s throat, still curled into a ball around the spot where the shackle lashed him to the ground. 

Ethan rolled his eyes, pushing off the man with a small kicking shove before crouching down and squirming his hand into the knotted ball of a man to grab his jaw. Twist him round. Hear his neck crackle with the fresh movement after nights sleeping on cement.

“Use your words,” he prompted, forefinger alone relenting the grip to taptaptap on Crawford’s jaw.

.PaiN.

Pain.

Ethan knew pain.

Close friends as they were for so many years, it was strange he found himself at a loss for its name when it reared its ugly head once more, overwhelming his mind in a single snap of blank, processing emptiness.

Ethan felt the echoing crack as his head hit the concrete, remnants of what he was finally recognizing as electricity buzzing down his twitching legs.

Some strangled growl ripped up his throat as he tried to right himself enough to grab for the man who was shoving on top of him, but his arms were slow - groggy from sleeplessness, shock and lost, aimless electrons trying to find their way underground. 

He shoved at Crawford only to feel the prongs of the stun gun shoved hard into his collarbone, burning agony through the skin and crackling as if eating through the bone itself as he thrashed to shove the searing pain away.

My name is Ethan Scott. The mantra lit up the back of his skull without prompt or ask. It was just there.

It begged him to fall stoic. To sit still and take it. Be tough. Be a good b-

No.

No-

NO.

My name is Ethan Scott and you cannot break me.

He won’t sit still- he can’t. Taking it isn’t strength right now, taking it is defeat.

Crawford was the one in chains today. 

Ethan’s hands scrabbled for Crawford’s arm, finally knocking the thing off of his flesh with a roaring gasp, shoving the other man off of him as best he could. 

Knuckles snapped against his nose, crunching it back. Some dull part of his mind calculated that that wasn’t even half the force of Crawford’s normal blows, but it locked up his mind anyway, pushing his gaze hazy and blurred as heat snapped across his sinuses and exploded behind his eyes. 

There was blood. He could taste it.

Shoving numbly, he was barely keeping up enough to track the bastard’s fingers knotting into his hair and slamming his head into the ground. Again. Again. Again-

And it stopped.

The weight lifted off of him in a blur of white and charcoal grey, sound muffling to the side. 

Ethan shoved back, hand moving to his face to press against the bleeding and squeeze his eyes shut to will vision to return to him. His head was spinning, like he was about to tip over and crack against the ground again. 

He shoved it back. Forced his eyes open and made them focus on the sounds and movement to his left as he shoved himself up on an elbow to squint at the unknown blur.

It took a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. 

Nate was a cheerful kind of bitch. The asshole whose smirk you could never wipe off. The life of the party. Class clown. Charmer. No matter how many screams he ripped out of Ethan, he did it with a gentle, almost seductive tone, grinning, smirking, or smiling almost fondly. He’d only seen Nate angry the once. When they’d met for the second time. 

But this savage blur in front of Ethan’s bleary eyes had him wondering if he was knocked into a dream. Blood splattered up Nate’s face from the sheer force of his hits as he drove his fist into Crawford’s face again and again, snapping it back and forth against the unforgiving cement. He didn’t even have to pin the man down - the welp on the floor couldn’t do anything but try to throw his arms up in front of the blows, shielding his face. 

Nate didn’t seem to care. He hit them too. Silent yet somehow screaming a rage tha echoed through Ethan’s skull.

Ethan sat there for several long seconds, trying to blink away the mirage in front of him before it slowly sharperned into clarity. It was really happening. 

A dull thought finally graced his addled mind. He’s going to kill him.

Immediately a panic pressed up through Ethan’s veins like acid, snapping him to attention and the closest thing to lucidity his star-studded mind could handle. He shoved up to his knees and flopped forward to tackled Nate off of the man. “St- sstop- STOP!”

Nate shoves at Ethan, trying to throw him off enough to get back to Crawford. Ethan could practically see the red smeared over Nate’s eyes as he shoved the man’s hands away, fogged body easily ignoring the nails slicing blood from his arms in their desperation to return to their proper target.

“NATE STOP.” Ethan finally just grabbed Nate’s face, forcing it toward him. 

Nate’s eyes stayed on Crawford, but he did slow, chest heaving and teeth barred like some kind of animal.

“..that’s enough-!”

Nate tried to shove off the words along with his hands. “He w-”

“I get to kill him. Me. Not you. Me.” 

Nate’s breath stuttered off its ragged rhythm, and his jaw set, lips pinched tight as a glare snapped to Ethan’s eyes at last. 

In a surrendering kind of huff, he shoved Ethan off of him again. This time Ethan let himself roll to the side, lying with shallow, echoing breath on the ground as Nate shoved out the workshop doors at a brisk walk, sticky hand leaving a smear of blood like claw marks over the edge of the door.

[Previous | Masterpost | Next]

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @wormwriting @distinctlywhumpthing @whump-cafe @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @azayta  @batfacedliar-yetagain @there-will-always-be-blood @siren-of-agony @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions-deactiva @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @pickywhumpreader @whumpberry-cookie @morning-star-whump @nailevislev @throwawaywhumper @the-mourning-star @d-cs @pigeonwhumps @suspicious-whumping-egg @snakebites-and-ink @whumpedydump @orphans-parent @whumplr-reader @rainbowsandwhumperflies @starfields08000 @sunnyesunny @crystallizedme @lumpofsand @taterswhump)

As always, lmk if you want to be added to the tag list!

#electrocution #escape attempt #concussion #torture #death mention #murder mention #plotting murder #handcuffs #stun gun #blood #beating #unintentional self harm #bloody knuckles #whumping the whumpers #nate #ethan #crawford #crawford and ethan #nate and ethan #nate and crawford

[whump-cravings]

Usurper AU - Monster

TR3 Masterlist

~750 words | Original work: TR3 AU.

Content: disassociation, self-loathing, self-blame, self-harm, heavily referenced mutual noncon

Upon his return to the palace with Baltar in his arms, Hakon was directed to a bathing chamber on the lower level. Hakon had never been to this part of the palace before, but recognized it as the servants' quarters. Whispers of "brother-fucker" followed him from every corner, people averting their eyes when they saw him.

Hakon blocked the voices and eyes out, solely focused on Baltar's care. With the respite from new pain or torment, his brother had fallen unconscious. He stirred, whimpering as Hakon lowered him into warm water, and then again as soap stung open wounds. Hakon kept Baltar's head on his shoulder or cradled in his hands as he helped a servant clean the younger prince up.

An unfamiliar healer tended to Baltar's wounds directly after, magically stitching some shut, bandaging others, and spreading salves on many. They gave Hakon a jar of cream to reapply daily, and dressed Baltar in lightweight clothes.

Then Hakon, carrying Baltar again, was led to a tiny room. Literally a closet, he was sure. Whatever it contained before, it now held a thin cot and some blankets and a chamber pot. That was all there was space for. Either light had been forgotten, or purposefully withheld, so as the door shut on them, their only illumination came from the cracks around the door. It locked loudly behind them.

Hakon gently laid Baltar on the cot, bundling up one of the blankets to serve as a pillow and tucking the others around his form. He allowed himself to stroke Baltar's crown—just once. He knew he didn't deserve even that much, not anymore.

He stared down in the darkness at Baltar's form and listened to his little brother breathe.

How could I do that to you?

The dam constructed in his mind snapped now, and he doubled over with an arm around his midsection, body flushing hot and clammy.

He tried to stop me.

Shaking violently, Hakon fell away from Baltar, dragging himself to the opposite wall and chamber pot. Spasms wracked his stomach, forcing a thin, burning bile up his throat. He heaved several times more, but there was nothing more to eject. Hot tears seared down his skin, dripping from his nose.

I should have offered him a choice. What if Baltar would rather have died by his hand? What if Baltar would have preferred to keep being tortured? I didn't even ask.

Involuntarily, he recalled Baltar's high-pitched whine as his finger went in, how Baltar had begged him to stop. How Baltar had begged for Hakon to even look at him.

How it felt to push into his brother, the heat of their bodies together, their sweat mingling.

Hakon heaved again, a sob catching in his throat. He crawled into the corner opposite Baltar, twisting his hands in his too-short hair. His teeth creaked in his mouth as another sob bubbled out, his heart feeling like it had been stabbed through.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He yanked on his hair. I wanted to protect you. I failed you. I failed everyone.

He had ripped Baltar's last dignity away in front of the eyes of their country. What kind of fucking monster would do that? Hakon would only ever be a brother-fucker, and Baltar was the one that got fucked.

Hakon's head felt fit to explode. He let out the breath he'd been holding in shuddering waves, sucking in another quickly. Truly, selfishness had led to this, had it not? It was he who could no longer take the sight of Baltar's pain, he who made the decision to debase the two of them so. Baltar had had no say in it. And if he hadn't resisted for so long, Baltar might have suffered far less. If he had only done as Peraja commanded immediately.

His scalp ached with how hard he was pulling, and it wasn't grounding enough. He needed something to latch onto, to—to hurt. But the only one that deserved to be hurt here was himself, which is how he found himself viciously sinking his teeth down on his own arm.

Pain, sharp and bright, demanded his attention. He cracked open his jaw and moved position slightly, chomping down again. The motion became repetitive, soothing, even as his weeping peaked and began to subside. He didn't know how long he kept biting himself until exhaustion set in, and he found himself curled up in front of the door, reality fading.

taglist: @nabanna @emcscared-whumps @highprofilerichkid

#nsfwhump #self harm whump #self loathing #self blame #disassociation #sibling whump #tr3 au #vile au

[whumpwillow]

Hello, Willow! I’ve recently found your blog, and I really liked your stories, especially Hazeshift one :)

So, I have a request for you (Warning! It contains self-harm and mentions of suicidal tendencies):

We have a defiant villain whumpee, who is injured and alone, left without home after a fight with heroes that ended up with an explosion, destroying villain’s lair. Eventually the villain is found by the same heroes who take pity on them and take them to their HQ (Of course Villain is a criminal, but they aren’t as dangerous as Supervillain and they are in need of medical attention, it’s just unfair to leave them alone).

The thing is, Villain isn’t having it. They are sure it’s some kind of a sick plan of heroes: treating Villain nicely, giving them food and medication just to drug and brainwash them. So Villain starts a hunger strike, refusing any food they are given. They are also aggressive towards anyone who approaches them, to the point of biting doctors and nurses.

Of course, the hunger strike eventually comes to an end, so now Villain, weakened from days without food and hooked on IVs must think of something else. They tried escaping once by the way, to no avail. Finally, Villain makes a decision: If they can’t leave this place alive, then death will be their only way of getting free. They considered starving again, but decided it takes too much time. Cut veins, on the other side, are much faster. How Villain managed to find a shard of class is a mystery to everyone. The main problem is, they are ready to use it.

Will anyone stop them, or will they finally find freedom in death in up to you :))

P. S. Please ignore this ask if you don’t want to answer it or if the topic is a trigger for you

ooh, this is a good "whumpee thinks caretaker is new master" scenario! thanks for sharing

#willow answers #answered asks #whump #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump scenario #villain whump #villain whumpee #suicidal ideation tw #suicide tw #self harm tw #ed tw

[whump-or-whatever]

Whumptober Day 24

Prompts: Fight, flight or freeze - blood covered hands | “I don’t want to do this anymore” | catatonic

Tw: burns, flashbacks, self-harm (punching cement)

Fandom: Person of Interest

Context: Dakota Walker is an OC of mine in the POI universe who was rescued from a human trafficking organization by John, and then became part of the crew. They were tortured and conditioned pretty badly during their captivity.

Summary: While out on a walk with John, Harold, and Bear, Dakota sees something that triggers memories of their captivity.

• • •

They walked without any major issue for some time. As they traversed one quiet street in particular, however, a pay phone began to ring almost directly beside them. Dakota jumped quite badly, but calmed quickly once they realized what it was. John put a steadying hand on their shoulder. “You good?”

They nodded, swallowing roughly as they tried to calm their racing heart.

“Sorry, I’ve got to get this,” Harold said, and moved to pick up the phone. John faced the street, scanning the rooftops with vague interest. Dakota, meanwhile, turned to look down the alleyway they had stopped in front of, still trying to hide how shaken they were.

It was there, however, that something caught their eye. At the far end of the alley orange flames licked up out of a barrel. A person stood at the edge of it holding a stick in the flames, likely cooking something. At least this is what the common observer would have seen.

To Dakota, however, all they saw was a dark burly figure and fire.

They froze like a statue, every muscle growing painfully rigid. Their hand reached out instinctively to grasp John’s arm.

The man turned to them in surprise and confusion. They were gripping his arm so hard it was painful, and he was sure he would have bruises in the morning. “Dakota?” He asked quietly, placing his free hand over theirs.

They made no response, eyes locked off in the distance. In their mind, images flashed of a large burly man dressed in a black coat, wielding a blowtorch. The man’s gleeful laughter rang through their head, mixed with the muffled sounds of their own screams as the man had held the blowtorch to their leg. The sickening smell of burnt flesh, the tears streaming down their face, arms and legs straining against the restraints holding them to the wooden chair. The absolute agony and the confusion of slipping in and out of consciousness.

John watched Dakota as their jaw worked and their face twitched. Straining his neck, John looked back over his shoulder to see what they were looking at. As the bright glow of fire caught his eye, realization hit him like a ton of bricks, images of the healed burn on Dakota’s leg and the smaller ones strewn across their body flashing in his mind.

John softened his voice. “Hey, Dakota, look at me.”

Their grip on his arm got impossibly tighter, causing John to wince, and they made a choking noise in their throat.

Dakota felt the pain as clearly as the day it happened. They could feel their throat screamed raw, the horrendous sensation of the man blowing over the still-searing flesh after he had turned the blow-torch off, how their heart fluttered with palpitations so forcefully they thought they were going to die right then and there.

As Harold finished receiving the next number and turned back to his associates, he found a disturbing scene. Dakota staring unseeingly into the distance, gripping John’s arm like a lifeline, swaying dangerously. John leaned back trying to get their attention, clearly to no avail, worry masking his features. Finch hurried over to them. “What’s going on?”

“I think they’re having a flashback or something,” John responded, gesturing down the alley towards the fire with his head.

Harold looked and quickly came to the same conclusion John had. “Oh dear. Let’s get them out of here,” Harold suggested hurriedly.

Dakota’s mind supplied memories of attempting to walk for the first time. The first step had sent them plummeting to the ground face-first, so overwhelmed by the sheer agony of putting pressure on their leg that they weren’t able to break their fall. They remembered slamming their fist into the cement floor until their knuckles bled in an attempt to drown out the pain.

Just as John reached out to put a guiding hand on Dakota’s shoulder, their legs gave out. John grabbed them under their arms, supporting their weight. Ducking under their arm, John helped them walk over to the wall of the nearby building, sitting them down so that they faced the open street.

Dakota’a eyes were squeezed shut in a cringe of pain. Their hand reached down to clasp their leg over the burn. They alternated between holding their breath and panting in quick, shaky gasps.

“Dakota?” Harold called, but there was no change.

John took a knee beside Dakota, reaching his arm over their legs to lean on his hand. This put his face pretty much in line with theirs, but also acted as body language that screamed ‘I’m in charge.’ The man schooled his expression into the cold calculated one he often wore. When he spoke, his voice held none of the playfulness it usually did when he spoke with Dakota. Instead, he used the commanding voice of a superior officer. “Open your eyes.”

Dakota did so immediately, sucking in a sharp breath. They made direct eye contact with John, and their eyes held so much desperation that he knew that, in that moment, they would have done anything he told them to. He dreaded to even imagine what Dakota’s captors had done with that sort of power.

Their heart was still beating rapidly and their breathing was quick and shallow, but at least Dakota was now seeing the world around them and not whatever hell they had been reliving moments before.

Subconsciously, their hand slipped from where it held their healed burn, and both their hands came to rest palm down on their thighs. Since they had never been allowed to speak, the organization had trained them to place their palms that way to signal that they were prepared to listen and follow orders. Whether those orders were to clean up a mess, bring water to someone being interrogated, dig a hole for a body, shoot someone who had outlived their usefulness, sit still and act as the knife throwing target, or what have you.

“That’s good,” John praised. “Now tell me, do you remember who I am?”

Dakota’s breathing slightly increased in pace. They were being given a command that contradicted their rules.

John quickly realized that Dakota had reverted to their previous set of rules upon receiving such a direct command. He added hastily, “nod for yes, shake your head for no. Do you remember who I am?”

Dakota nodded, eager to please and happy that the command was rectified.

“Good. Do you remember who he is?” John asked, pointing at Harold.

Dakota looked at the smaller man, who stood a few feet away. They then looked back at John and nodded again.

“Very good. And do you remember who this is?” Reese asked, putting his hand out for Finch to hand him Bear’s leash.

Again, they nodded. “Perfect. Now, you’re going to stand up. We are going to walk back in the direction we came from. You are not to look down this alleyway when we pass. Understood?”

They confirmed their understanding.

“Alright, let’s go.” John said, pushing himself up. Dakota struggled to their feet, but once they were up, their eyes remained fixed firmly on the ground. The men took up either side and they set off back towards the library.

The entire walk, Dakota’s eyes remained downcast. When they finally re-entered the library, Harold heaved a sigh of relief. John let Bear off his leash before falling into a chair. Now, he had to deal with the mess he had made.

• • •

Fin

#whumptober2022 #no.24 #catatonic #person of interest #fic #burns #self harm #flashbacks #whump #conditioned whumpee #recovery whump #self harm whump #emotional whump #whump writing

[feverdreamsanddelusions]

21

inspo by @whumpitlikeyoumeanit

[tw self-harm, self-deprecation, past trauma, implied past captivity, lashing out, anger as a trauma response, rocky recovery, argument between friends]

"This is so stupid," Whumpee muttered. "So fucking stupid. What the fuck is going on with this?"

"Whumpee, it's normal." Caretaker tried to take them by the hands to stop them from picking at their scars, but Whumpee flinched away before they could have. "Hey, it's okay. It's alright."

"It's not! It's so fucking itchy! Like– twice a year it'll get fucking itchy like it's brand new, for, for no reason! It's so annoying!" Whumpee kept scratching it until it hurt, feeling ridiculous that this small thing was making them lash out like that. "It's healed, it's fully healed! And not only is it ugly, it's itchy."

"You're going to make yourself bleed–"

"And? What's it to you? It's my body, isn't it? That's what you always say. Whumper never said that shit. They were upfront, they said 'your body is mine to perfect and mine to ruin.'" They made Whumper sound as stupid as possible just so they wouldn't have to deal with the tears. "But you're different, right? You're telling me my body is actually mine. I can perfect it and ruin it myself, right?"

"Whumpee..."

"No, no! Don't give me that! I can do whatever the fuck I want! I can most definitely scratch a stupid itch!"

Caretaker sighed and sat back, watching with a frown as Whumpee continued to rub their skin raw. It was a matter of principle at this point, and Whumpee was prepared to push it to the limits.

"I can do whatever I want," they repeated, quieter. "My ankle was flaring up earlier too. If I had enough one day and decided to chop it off–"

"Don't say that," Caretaker cut in, increasingly more nervous.

"Oh, now I can't even say shit. I can't do anything, I can't say anything. So much for autonomy. So much for–"

"Whumpee, don't... you're being ridiculous."

"Sure," they spat. "I'm being ridiculous."

"I don't mean that in a– look, I just... I want you to take a deep breath, okay? And just calm down a little. Clearly, you're not having a good day–"

"Yeah, I'm completely unfit to make decisions for myself. Because it's a bad day, and I'm fucking stupid."

Caretaker slammed their hand down on the table in frustration, and Whumpee finally stopped messing with their scars. Their eyes snapped up to their friend, fearful and shocked. They shouldn't have been shocked. They'd wanted to instigate, and now here was the fruit of their labour.

"Stop putting words in my mouth," Caretaker said as calmly as possible. "Yeah?" Whumpee nodded a little, still stiff as a board. "I'm sorry for banging on the table."

A small part of Whumpee wanted to go further. They wanted to make another comparison between their friend and Whumper, they wanted to push it, they wanted to see just how angry Caretaker would get. A much bigger part of them wanted to slip onto their knees and grovel.

They ended up doing neither of those. They stayed seated, unable to do anything but make a nervous attempt at wiping away their tears and shaking their head to signal it wasn't a big deal.

"Fuck, Whumpee..." Caretaker stood up and circled around the table, and Whumpee tried to push them away on instinct. "Whumpee... Hey. I'm sorry." They knelt down and finally took Whumpee by the hands, wincing when their eyes landed on the patch of raw skin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so upset with you. You're safe, I promise. I would never hurt you."

"I don't actually want to chop my leg off," they choked out. They had no idea why that was the first thing they wanted to address out of everything, but it felt like the most urgent matter at hand. Caretaker nodded.

"That's good news."

"I'm not fucking dumb."

"I know you're not. I know."

"You keep treating me like I– I can't even joke about it, or get angry, or– I... I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't... it's... I shouldn't get angry with you. I shouldn't be saying these things."

Caretaker squeezed their hands a little. "I can't really... deny that sometimes it gets scary when you joke about it. Especially when it doesn't sound like a joke, or when you're... already upset and in a bad headspace."

"But I wouldn't do it!" they snapped, then immediately shrank back and murmured an apology.

"I can't read your mind. I just can't. And I know you're more than capable of hurting yourself." They sighed. "Listen... Bodily autonomy, and, and your right to– to hurt yourself if you want to... I... I don't know how to explain..."

"I'll never actually have autonomy."

"Please don't do this. Please don't ask this of me. To– to prove that I mean it by letting you hurt yourself. That's fucked up. Surely, you realise that's fucked up."

Whumpee didn't say a word. Of course they knew. But they felt like a dumb kid, trying to find out where the limits of their freedom were by constantly pushing back against their parents' rules.

"I want you to be safe. Ultimately, I can't stop you from... from doing anything, really. I can't stop you from hurting yourself, not if you really want to. But– but it's not about stripping you of your bodily autonomy. It's about... me, as your friend, wanting you to be safe and healthy. That's all. And it sucks so fucking much that you treat it like I'm– like I'm forcing horrible stuff on you, when I've never done that."

"I know," Whumpee whispered. "I'm sorry."

"It's not about apologies, okay? I know you're in a very tough spot. I know it's difficult. I just want to... I'm trying to explain my reasoning. I want you to understand where I'm coming from, since..."

"Since I'm so fucked in the head."

"Please, stop putting words in my mouth. Whumpee, I'd never think any of these things about you. Please, stop."

Whumpee wanted to curl up and die. They couldn't shut up about it. They couldn't stop putting words in everyone's mouths. All their brain did day after day was supply them with endless amounts of negativity their friends must've been thinking, even if logically, they knew it probably wasn't true. "I'm sorry," they repeated.

Caretaker let go of their hands and placed their own on Whumpee's knees instead. "I want nothing but for you to be happy and healthy. That's all I ever want. And this might sound rude as hell, but when you ask me to let you chop your leg off, it feels like you're a kid asking to eat two tonnes of candy and stay up for three nights in a row. I can't in good conscience agree to that. I know it's a bad idea."

Was that how people perceived them? Like a child, throwing a temper tantrum? They could feel themself checking out entirely, their mind refusing to grapple with all the things that had been said. I told you I didn't actually want to chop my leg off. "Okay."

"Okay?" Caretaker gave them a look of cautious and reluctant hope. "You understand where I'm coming from?"

"Yeah."

"Are you just agreeing because you're overwhelmed?" Whumpee hesitated, and it was enough to make Caretaker's hope shatter. "Well..."

"No! No, that's not... You didn't even let me answer!"

"I guess I didn't. Sorry. I just... I know when you're about to lie about stuff like this." They sighed and stood up. "Whumpee, I love you more than anyone in this world, okay? I hate to make you feel overwhelmed. Or like you have to agree with me. Why don't I get some cotton pads to clean that wound, and then we'll take a break from this conversation?"

The argumentative brat in them wanted to say no just for the sake of it. But they felt so exhausted all of a sudden, they just couldn't. They ended up nodding their agreement wordlessly, and then they sat in silence the whole time Caretaker was tending to them, letting their mind drift.

This was all so stupid. As they looked down at their many scars, they wondered whether they could even chop off a limb on their own. Had they been joking when they said it? Or were they actually considering it?

It didn't matter. As angry as Whumpee had been about restrictions just a couple minutes ago, they were quickly realising they at least made these thoughts kind of meaningless. It didn't matter whether they had it in them, because Caretaker said they weren't allowed do to it anyway.

"All done," Caretaker said all too soon. "Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit? Or do you want me to sit with you?"

"Sit with me," Whumpee said without thinking. The request sparked that sliver of hope in their friend's eyes again as they nodded and walked back to their own chair.

"No talking?" Whumpee shook their head. "Alright. No talking."

#whump #whump drabble #self-harm #self-deprecation #past trauma #implied past captivity #lashing out #anger as a trauma response #rocky recovery #recovery fic #res writes