#Self harm whump

[whumperofworlds]

anyway hello! I'm back!

Thinking about a marked Whumpee managing to escape, whatever happend they're not in danger anymore. but the mark is still there, somwhere they keep seeing, somewhere visible.

So they just.. burn that mark using boiling water. that's it that's the ask-

- Teeth anon

DAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN. That's awesome, holy shit. And Whumpee ends up hurting themself, and the mark is STILL THERE. Bonus, Caretaker comes in when Whumpee burned themself with the water, and panics.

Thanks Teeth Anon, I love this prompt 👀

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

whump prompt 195

Whumper providing Whumpee with the means to hurt themselves, and waiting for them to do it.

[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.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 30 @augusnippets - prompt : self injury.

Asset 84 is struggling with their identiy and the concept of humanity.

CW: self harm, blood, death, grief, identiy crisis.

Asset 84 masterlist.

It began with Sam's death. Or perhaps it was the branding that marked the start. Or maybe it was that moment of hesitation during a mission. 84 couldn’t pinpoint the exact beginning; all they knew was that something was profoundly wrong. Their body and mind were in rebellion, with an insistent, nagging voice growing louder in the recesses of their consciousness. The mantra they once relied on was fraying and fading, no longer providing the solace it once had.

The nights were the worst. The nightmares had become relentless, each one a vivid replay of Sam’s death. They would wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, with the haunting images of a life being extinguished. In those moments, the mantra—once a steady anchor—felt like a mockery. “I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure.” The words echoed hollowly in the dark, failing to quell the storm of emotions that surged within.

During the day, 84’s performance remained impeccable. They executed their missions with a cold efficiency that only seemed to intensify, they had felt oddly detached for week now, and it only seemed to be growing. The Colonel’s approval and the decrease in the Sergeant's need for punishment were outward signs of success, but, inwardly, 84 was unraveling. The occasional twitching of their hands and the increasing frequency of distractions; signs of a growing instability that could no longer be entirely suppressed.

84 stared at the crimson river slowly running down their arm, a fascinating reminder that there was still a human locked inside them. 84 was a ruthless, emotionless killing machine, but Alex… Alex was a human. With a grim sense of defiance, 84 - or were they Alex now? They were not entirely sure - took a blade and traced another red line across their shoulder. Each new mark was a silent protest against their dehumanizing existence.

They knew well the peril of their actions - if the handlers discovered this self-inflicted damage, 84 would undoubtedly be deemed defective, possibly meeting the same grim fate as Sam. But the fear of consequence barely registered. The impulse to see their own blood, to have tangible evidence that they were both alive and human, was too great.

As the blade sliced through their skin, the sharp pain cut through the fog of their detachment, offering a fleeting sense of reality. This raw, immediate sensation was a stark contrast to the emotional numbness that had been creeping over them. The act of drawing blood, though fraught with risk, provided a semblance of control and clarity amidst the chaos of their mind.

"I am 84," they whispered hoarsely, their gaze locked on the fresh blood glistening in the harsh fluorescent light. The crimson streaks on their skin seemed almost to mock their assertion, a vivid reminder of their internal conflict. "I am Alex," they added, their voice trembling as if trying to grasp at a fleeting memory or a lost identity.

Neither statement felt true.

84's memories of being Alex were like fragmented pieces of a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a life that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. They remembered a time before the cold, clinical environment of their training facility—a time when they had a family, friends, and dreams that extended beyond mere survival and obedience. Alex had been curious, compassionate, and full of hope. In stark contrast, 84 was a tool of destruction, molded by years of relentless conditioning and psychological manipulation.

Sam had seen the cracks in their facade and had begun to help them piece together the remnants of their former self. With Sam's guidance, 84 had started to question their purpose, their identity, and the mantra that had been drilled into their psyche. But Sam was gone now.

Alex was alone.

[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.

[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.

[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

[please-be-mine-forever]

I've been through something lately.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Fly by Moonlight

CW: Vaguely fantasy, hunting, possessive whumper referenced, bullet wound, guns, blood, makeshift surgery, implied dehumanization, scarring

Chapter One

-

The sky above them was an explosion of stars. With her head tilted back until it tipped against the sleeping bag, providing her the barest protection from simple dirt, she could see the Milky Way itself, winding its ghostly way from one horizon to the other. It was funny, to think that she was a part of that winding, sinuous length of endless light. 

The people who think they came from stars, she thought, must have been people who thought highly of themselves. There was nothing more incredible than this, and it seemed impossible to understand how something as amazing as stardust could coalesce into the reality of wind rushing through leaves around their campsite, the simple beauty of her own heartbeat and blood.

Alongside the universes she could imagine above her, the moon hung heavy and full. Supermoon time, it was so much larger than usual, blocking some of the stars when Anaya tried to find them. 

The moon, she thought, felt like what it was - a piece of earth thrown into space by asteroid impact. Like a mother who loses the grip of her child’s hand, and all of history had been the story of their slow reconciliation. Or maybe of the child running, always staying just ahead of her mother’s reach.

Anaya Cross laced her fingers together behind her head, her heavy, dark hair providing as much softness as any pillow. Beside her, in another sleeping bag, her boyfriend Eden had long since fallen asleep. His heavy, soft breathing and the sight of his ash-blond hair falling over his forehead was another kind of peace. Eden only slept well in the wilderness, and Anaya never slept well at all. 

Even if she didn’t sleep much, here, she could rest by watching the stars. Her eyes traced a constellation, catching on the edge of the corona borealis and following its C-shaped swing from one end to the other. 

Then, she heard a sound.

It was a faded sort of boom, as if someone in the park had set off a huge firework, one of those big mortar kinds Anaya had been terrified of as a child and still avoided today. She frowned, shifting uneasily and pushing herself up a little onto her elbows.

At first all she heard was the wind, the soft whispering of the leaves.

Then it happened again.

Boom.

Anaya took in a quick breath and sat up fully, head tipped to one side. This time, the sound was followed by a high-pitched squeal, almost a scream, but totally inhuman. Anaya’s breath caught, and she scrambled to push herself out of the sleeping bag, leaning on her knees over to shake Eden’s shoulder. “Eden-... Eden! Wake up!”

Eden groaned, slapping ineffectually at her hand, before his eyes finally blinked slowly open. They looked fogged over, still half-asleep, but he moved to sit as Anaya popped up to standing. “Wh-... what’sit?” It was all one run-on sound, hardly language. “Naya? What’ss… what time’sit?”

“I don’t know,” She answered, shifting forward slowly. Between the stars and the moon, the night around them was nearly as bright as daylight, only with a cool, almost blue tint to everything around them. “I heard something. Like a-... like a gunshot. I think. From a really fucking big gun.”

“You heard-...” Eden’s brain was still struggling to come online. He raked a hand back through his hair, leaving it standing up in wild chunks all over his head, before he started wiggling his way out of his sleeping bag, too. He stood, scratching at his stomach underneath his ratty old t-shirt, gray sweatpants hanging low on narrow hips. “A gunshot? Here? But-”

“Protected reserve, I know. But I definitely heard it. Do you think…” She trailed off. All she heard now was the wind, rushing through the trees. Only-... was it only the wind? Or was there a discordant note, crashing of something desperate running for its life?

Boom.

This time she could see Eden heard it too, his eyes widening. The sound was closer, louder, more immediate. Anaya and Eden’s gazes met, and then without a word spoken the two of them half-ran, half-walked as one to the edge of the clearing and away from the obviousness of their campsite. Eden’s car was parked at the camp lot a three-hour hike away, and they were deep within a part of the reserve no one was supposed to go to. It had seemed romantic, when they came here and chose this space, carefully marking their trail to ensure they could make it back. It had seemed like a way to get away from it all and really find peace, let Eden get some real sleep.

Now, though, it seemed to hit Anaya all at once that coming out here - alone, with only her boyfriend, with no one really aware of where they’d gone other than ‘camping’ - had been monumentally, impossibly stupid.

Anaya crouched down behind a tree, keeping the campsite in view. Woods like these could get you lost within a few feet of where you’d been, the trees so close together that they hid you from your own trail unless it was well-marked. Eden moved to be just slightly in front of her, shielding her a little.

Not that it would matter against a gun that could make a sound like that.

“Poacher?” She whispered. 

“Probably,” He whispered back. Now the crashing seemed close, and Eden’s body was warm against hers even as both of them were shivering. “But what is there even to hunt here? You can find deer anywhere in this stupid state, you don’t need-”

The answer to his question came flying out of the woods in front of them.

A huge wolf that somehow still looked half-grown and spindly, with too-long legs and giant paws, flashed through their campsite in a reddish-gray gleam lit by moonlight. Until it tripped over Anaya’s cooler full of beer and went tumbling, high-pitched whimpers and whines filling the air. Anaya jerked forward when she realized the cooler now had a red smear along the white lid, but Eden grabbed her arm to pull her back out of sight. 

“It’s bleeding!” Anaya hissed. “That poacher shot it! We should go help!”

Eden’s grip only tightened. “It’s not a dog,” He hissed back. “It’ll just attack you. Not to mention the poacher will shoot you, too. Just stay here, Naya!”

The wolf stood on shaking legs, a low soft whine in its throat. The light of the moon seemed to turn the tips of its red fur to silver, reflected in its strangely human-looking eyes. Anaya blinked at the sight of scarring around its snout, like something had been wrapped there at some point until it dug in. It limped to the edge of the clearing, tumbling hard to one side before righting itself. Blood streamed from one back leg, clumping the fur and leaving a dark stain. 

The wolf’s tongue hung from its mouth and it panted heavily even as it tried to lick at the blood and the wound beneath it, ears pricked and moving constantly. Its tail was tucked between its legs. Its nose went to the ground, picking up the scents of Anaya and Eden probably, and Anaya shivered when it growled.

The low rumble was more frightening than the sound of the gun.

At least the gunshots hadn’t been about her.

After a long pause, the wolf’s growl ended. It did what Anaya could only call taking a deep breath to steady itself, and then limped heavily away, out of the clearing in the general direction of the main hiking trails where Anaya and Eden had started their hike out here. Its nose stayed low, and Anaya heard Eden let out a breath in a rush once it was out of sight.

“Uh… what do we do now-”

Anaya clapped her hand over Eden’s mouth, shushing him and yanking him further back around the tree trunk.

The man with the gun - and holy shit, Anaya didn’t even know they made guns that big - stepped into the clearing, taking in the sight of the destroyed campsite smeared with wolf blood with a baffled, incredulous expression. He wasn’t too much older than them, maybe in his thirties, but he had a hardness to his jaw that said whatever his age, the years had definitely sucked the life out of him.

“Well… shit.” The man huffed, moving forward and using the muzzle of his gun to nudge the blood-stained cooler, lifting up the sleeping bag Eden had been in only a few moments ago. He ran a hand back over his crew cut, looking around. “Hey! Is anyone here? Anyone hurt?” The sound of concern in his voice seemed real. 

But Anaya and Eden were alone, in the woods, in the middle of nowhere. And this guy had an enormous fucking gun. They stayed silent, in the dark.

“God damn it.” The poacher sighed, looking down at the sleeping bags. “Shit shit shit. If he killed somebody… that little shit. Fucking campers on our land. Bet he chased them off. I’ll have to call Bill and report it. He’s gonna kill me when he sees Rusty got out, let alone that he made a mess out of campers… if they find bodies on our land again, we are going to have the government up our fucking ass…”

He pulled out a compass and looked at it, then looked ahead, eyes scanning the ground. He must have seen some of the wolf’s blood on a leaf in some underbrush, because he moved forward confidently then. He went through the clearing, from one side to the other, and then was gone. 

Anaya and Eden waited until the sound of the man moving through the forest had faded into the distance, and then looked at each other. 

“... Did we go too far and end up on private land?” Anaya asked.

At the same time, Eden said, “Did he say ‘if they find bodies on our land again?’”

Both of them stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Then, as if they’d come to some agreement that didn’t need words, they moved out to the wreckage of the campsite. Anaya rolled up the sleeping bags while Eden checked on the small cooler, wiped the rest of the blood off of it with a shudder, and then shifted it back into the heavy pack he’d carried out here. Anaya felt the tension rising between them, until it was tight enough it might snap. Her heart pounded so hard it found its way up her throat, making her occasionally stop to catch her breath. The two of them pulled their socks on and then laced up their hiking boots after. Neither even bothered to dress in daytime clothing. Their sweatpants and t-shirts seemed like enough, for now. 

The hike back was silent and slow.

They put one foot carefully in front of the other, following the markings Anaya had left wrapped around trees in non-obvious places. She undid each and every colorful ribbon, packing them back away. Taking back everything they’d brought with them. No sign they’d ever been here at all, ideally.

She found herself wondering where the park ended and private land began. There’d been no signs, no warnings. Not any that they saw, anyway. Then again, it’s not like you could mark every square inch of a wild forest like this one.

Above them, the moon hung heavy. When its light cut through the canopy overhead, it made everything otherworldly and beautiful.

If only Anaya could appreciate it, and not take every quiet step sure she’d see the end of a gun between her eyes the moment she looked up.

At some point, they got close enough to the trail for cell phone signal to come back, and her phone buzzed with a handful of missed messages. Nothing that suggested anything big had happened while they were out of reach. She didn’t dare check it - not yet. Not until she felt sure that the light from her screen wouldn’t draw in either an injured, probably hostile wolf and a healthy, definitely hostile guy with a gun.

She kept cycling her thoughts back to the sight of the thing. Something had been off about it, but she didn’t know enough about guns to even begin to know what. Hell, she didn’t know enough about guns to even know if anything was actually off, or if she was just thinking of movie-guns and not understanding that the real thing was different.

Exhaustion dragged at the edges of her mind, even as adrenaline kept her so wired that she knew she couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep even if they simply laid down right here. Hours passed, Eden and Anaya saying little to each other. They heard the boom just once more, far enough away that they felt themselves finally able to relax.

Wherever the guy had tracked the injured wolf, it wasn’t in the direction they were going. 

Finally, they stumbled back out onto the trail. 

Anaya checked her phone, as surreptitiously as she could.

It was almost three in the morning, and they had another good two hours of hiking on the trail before they got to the parking lot. 

“I say we sleep in the car,” Eden said, voice heavy and husky. When Anaya glanced over at him, his half-lidded eyes reminded her of a sleepy kitten, and she found herself smiling, briefly overwhelmed with love for him. He frowned back at her. “What?”

“You’re cute,” She said. He shook his head and started walking again, but she caught the edge of his smile before he turned to hide it from her.

“Pretty sure the T was supposed to make me handsome, not cute,” He said over his shoulder as he started walking again.

Anaya had to stifle a laugh - talking might be okay, might be safe, but laughter carried further. Especially Anaya’s laughter, which had a tendency to be too loud, according to her mother. Too loud, attention-taking. Just like all her emotions. “Well, you’re definitely handsome,” Anaya said brightly, falling in behind him. “You’re just also cute. You were handsome before the T, too, by the way.”

He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders straightened a little, and she caught the edge of a flush to his cheeks.

Her feet ached by the time they had Eden’s car in view, the ancient Subaru with its huge trunk thanks to the removed backseat a white gleam in the pinkish light of early dawn. The moon was still visible, just now beginning to fade as sunlight overtook it, wiped it out. Each throb was in time with her pulse, and Anaya’s brain seemed to have become mush at some point.

They could sleep in the back of Eden’s car, if they made it to a safe parking lot or something in town. Maybe the diner where they had parked before they came up here, those people had seemed pretty cool about it. 

Eden came to a sudden stop, and Anaya walked into him so hard the two of them both stumbled, Eden with a huffed breath, an oof that any other day would have been funny. But now Anaya just groaned. It better not be the poacher having found them. She was too damn tired to deal with that, or even be scared of it anymore.

At least if he shoots me I can get some damn rest, she thought.

Out loud, she only mumbled, “What?”

Eden swallowed. Anaya could hear it. Something about that woke her back up all at once, sent brand new adrenaline flooding through her. Her head began to pound in time with her feet and her heart. Would anything not hurt by the end of today?

“There’s something under our car,” Eden said, voice hushed. 

Anaya stiffened. “The wolf?”

Eden took one step forward, and then another. He squinted. “... No. I think it’s… a person.”

“A what?”

Who would be out here? Thanks to flooding on the more well-known trails, this park had been more or less empty of tourists. It was one of the reasons Eden and Anaya had chosen this for their off-trail campsite. Eden moved slowly forward, and Anaya followed him. Once she got closer, though, she moved more quickly, dropping her bag next to the car and moving into a crouch.

The sound of her pack hitting the pavement made the boy curled up under the car flinch, his arms jerking to cover his head with his hands, knees nearly to his chin. Anaya caught a glimpse of reddish-brown hair through his fingers, a swath of pale skin marked with brown freckles at the shoulders, the tip of his nose.

“Hello?” Anaya whispered, reaching slowly out. Her fingertips just touched the boy when his eyes snapped open and he looked at her with wild, animal terror.

His eyes were the same color as the wolf’s. 

His hair was the same color as the wolf’s fur had been, reddish brown, maybe tipped with some gray.

His left leg had a wound blown right through it - bullet wound, Anaya thought a little wildly, I’m looking at the entrance and the exit’s at the back, he’s lucky it didn’t hit the artery there - and the blood was… everywhere.

The boy’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a useless snarl. His teeth were flat, human, except for maybe his incisors being a little too long, a little too sharp. He had scars marked across his face, around his neck, all over his arms. Some old, simply silk-soft skin marked in risen lines, some fresher, still bright red. A couple even looked like they’d been bleeding recently, too. He made a sound that Anaya only realized after a beat was an attempt to growl.

“... This is the wolf,” Anaya said, voice low. “Eden… Eden, this is the wolf.”

“What? No. That’s clearly a dude. The poacher must have seen him and shot him.”

“No, this is-... his eyes Eden-”

“That’s not a wolf, Naya. End of story. That is a dumbass teenager who did dumbass things. Somebody’s probably looking for him.”

Anaya thought of the poacher’s confusion, his angry concern. “... Yeah, somebody probably is.”

Eden dropped into a crouch beside her, casually pulling out the knife he always had on him, flicking it so the blade showed. “Naya, something’s wrong with this kid.”

The boy’s eyes went to the gleam of sharp metal and he whined, curling up tighter. Anaya frowned, looking at his leg. The blood. The wound. The way the boy’s skin was ash-pale under his freckles. The scars, half of them rough but the other half precise.

Knife-blade scars. She had some old ones herself, although hers had been self-inflicted.

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm, felt it trembling under her touch. She could barely reach him, he was so far under the car. “Hey.” She gentled her voice as much as she could, rubbing lightly. Goosebumps rose where her fingertips went, but the trembling seemed to settle a little. “Hey, kid. You’re… you’re really hurt. We’re gonna call someone-”

The boy scrambled backwards away. “No!” His voice came out hoarse, as if he wasn’t used to speaking - or speaking with a human mouth, anyway. “No! Don’t! Don’t call!” He made it to the other side of the car, scrambling to his feet. Anaya went to chase him, but in the end she didn’t have to - as soon as he tried to put weight on his leg, he went down hard, scraping the palms of his hands on the pavement and letting out a pained cry.

Anaya swallowed. “Eden-”

“I’ll call 911-”

“No,” she whispered. “He’s scared of that. Let’s just… let’s just put him in the back of the car, yeah?”

Eden paused. “Naya, are you fucking out of your mind? Where are we gonna take him? He needs a hospital.”

“Or a vet clinic,” She muttered, ignoring the look Eden gave her at the dark joke. “No, let’s just. Okay, let’s just… we have our first aid kit. You know how to do stitches-”

“Stitches, sure, but I’m not exactly qualified to treat wounds like that.”

“Try. Let’s get him into the car. Hey, kid? Kid, hey.” Anaya went to the crumpled heap of teenager, grasping onto his arm. He shivered and tried weakly to pull away, but between the pain and the blood loss, he wasn’t exactly able to put up much of a fight. Eden opened the trunk of the car and threw in their packs while Anaya helped the boy to stand. She could hear Eden laying down the towels and sleeping bags, opening up the first aid kit.

That’s why she loved him. He might think she’d lost her mind on this, but he’d still follow her lead.

The injured boy gripped onto her once he was upright, his eyes dancing in terror from Eden to Anaya and back again.

“Don’t,” He whispered. “Don’t.”

“We’re just going to get you bandaged up and something to eat,” Anaya said, voice soothing, easing him into the trunk until he could lay down in there. “Then we can talk, okay? First off, we need to stop the bleeding.”

Those odd eyes stared at her, but he laid down on his side slowly. Anaya had been vaguely aware the boy was naked, but only now did it hit her that the boy didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. 

“I’m Anaya,” She said, softly, taking his hand and holding it while Eden took a wet cloth and began to wipe away the blood to try and get a better look at the wound. “I’m Anaya Cross, and this is my boyfriend Eden Yarrow. We’re going to help you.”

“There’s no exit wound,” Eden muttered, looking at the backside of the boy’s thigh. “He needs a surgeon, Naya-”

“Well, good thing you trained to be one, huh?"

"Yeah, before I quit residency-"

"Eden, just... can you get the bullet out?”

Eden exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Probably. It's a pretty clean wound. I definitely shouldn’t, but…”

“Well, try.” She turned back to the boy, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. The kid stared at her like she’d grown a second head, but he didn’t pull his hand back. He just… watched her, with those strange canine eyes. “Hey. We’re gonna get the bullet out of you, and then we’ll help you get somewhere with people.”

“No,” He said again. His eyes moved from one to the other. “No… people.”

Eden’s eyes closed. He muttered something under his breath that Anaya didn’t quite hear. Then he moved to dig around in the first aid kit again. 

“Okay. Well, we’ll figure that bit out as we go, then. Can you tell us your name?”

She thought of the poacher mentioning Rusty.

The boy was quiet for a long, drawn-out silence broken only by a hiss when Eden used a sanitizing wipe on the wound, cleaning it out again as best he could. Finally, almost under his breath, he whispered, “Misae.”

“Missy?” Eden said, nose wrinkling. “Your name is Missy?”

The boy’s odd eyes narrowed. “Misae,” He repeated, a little louder. Mih-say-eh. Some of the gravelly hoarseness was leaving his voice, the more he spoke. Anaya wondered if he didn’t speak often. 

“That man with the gun called you Rusty, I think,” Anaya said, keeping her own voice gentle.

“... their name for me.” Misae hissed through his teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl again as Eden began to probe into the wound, eyes closing tightly. Tears leaked fro the corners of his eyes. Anaya gave him both her hands and he gripped on tight enough to hurt, making a sound that was clearly meant to be a canine whine. “Not… my name.”

“But Misae is your name.”

“Y… Yes.” His head lowered until the top of it, the shaggy reddish hair, pressed against her. He kept pushing against her, until she twisted one hand free and laid it there, scratching her fingers against his scalp. His whining softened, then. It was all so terribly… doglike.

No.

Wolf.

Anaya tried not to look as his leg twitched and oozed blood even as Eden carefully worked one of the tools he kept on hand into the wound, searching for the bullet. Misae didn’t answer at first. She leaned over, hoping her voice could carry through the pain. “It’s okay, honey. You’re going to be okay.”

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Misae groaned, finally laying his head directly in her lap. She could feel his tears soaking into her sweatpants, the hitching of his breath as he fought not to sob. His voice was a whisper she barely heard, twisted around his pained, frightened whimpers.

“Th-thank… thank you…”

“Found it!” Eden shouted, triumphant. He might have been reluctant to do this, but there was a reason he’d worked so hard to fill his first aid kit with anything you might need to stay alive in the wilderness when medical care was too far to get to in time. There was a reason he’d trained as a surgeon. He was good at this, he always had been. He wiggled the little tool, making Misae cry harder, but then something bloody and shimmering beneath the red came out, and Eden dropped it on a towel beside Misae. “Intact, even. Nice.”

Eden was focused on getting the wound closed up and stitches sewn. Anaya though, watched blood slide along the surface of the bullet, too big, a terrifying size. The gleam of the metal, though, along with the strange runes carved into it, made her eyebrows furrow. “... Eden.”

“Mmmn?” He dipped the needle, pulled it through skin. Anaya knew if she looked she’d faint dead away, so she kept her eyes on the bullet. On the shine. 

“That’s… that hunter shot him with silver.”

Eden stilled and looked up, his eyes catching on the bullet, too. Then shifting over to Misae, who was shaking like a leaf, eyes open now, wide and almost sightless. In shock, Anaya thought, not that she knew for sure or even really understood what being in shock meant. But it reminded her of people going into shock in the movies, on television. Eden’s eyes moved to meet Anaya’s.

“Once I finish stitching him up,” He said, voice low and calm, “We drive this car as far away from here as we can get before we stop.”

“We’re taking him with us.” 

“... Naya-”

Anaya’s jaw set and she raised her chin. “We’re taking Misae.”

Eden looked down at the boy, who didn’t seem to hear or even see the two of them any longer. Then he huffed and went back to what he was doing, sewing slow, careful, precise stitches even as he had to continually wipe away blood, too. “Fine. We go as far as we can with him, and then we… think about what we do next. Figure out how to call his family or something.”

“Fair.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They paused, and smiled at each other.

Then Misae whimpered, and Anaya realized she’d stopped scratching his head. She started up again, and felt some of his shaking settle once more. “Do you have family?” Anaya asked, trying to distract him as Eden finished up. “Someone looking for you?”

Misae was silent for so long that she thought maybe he hadn’t heard her.

Then he answered, voice low, “No family. Not… anymore."

"Did you run away from them?"

"No.” Misae's body shuddered, and Anaya found herself rubbing her thumb in little circles just behind one ear. "No."

"Then-"

"Dead. Everyone... is dead. But me."

-

[whump-galaxy]

The caretaker having to wrap the whumpee’s hands so they don’t scratch their wounds back open.

Add to that a delirious whumpee who doesn’t know they’re doing it + suddenly their hands aren’t working like they’re supposed to, and you’ve got a recipe for a terrified whumpee.

[whumpetywhump]

Begins ≠ Youth

Park Haru's PTSD and mental health decline

[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.

[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.

[fallenwhumpee]

I got a prompt I wanna see!

A whumpee who can shapeshift but it's moreso based on their emotions and mental state. I've been dying to see a caretaker walking in on poor whumpee mentally going through it in a monster like form. Does the caretaker know this about whumpee and calm them? Or get scared seeing a monster in whumpees room?

Hope this is entertaining for you to write! :D

Human

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Transformation, nonhuman whumpee, broken bones, unintentional self harm.

One would think Leader was born without emotions. Be it in a normal day or one spent fighting, that face eerily stayed still, and there was nothing, nothing on that face. Not even a twitch.

It drove Caretaker mad.

But now, Caretaker was ashamed. They had thrown up their anger on Leader when Leader was the only reason they were still alive. But Caretaker had been too focused on the people to realise that they were spitting insults at Leader. Insults that made their face red as they thought about.

And Leader looked hurt, the stone face cracking for the first time in ever.

Caretaker felt more and more guilty as they thought about it. They wanted to believe that Leader knew Caretaker wasn't at the best state of mind when they told about those. Leader would understand Caretaker didn't mean any of it.

It took Caretaker a good while to build up courage and get to Leader's door.

"Leader?" Caretaker asked, muttering curses to their meek tone. They leaned closer to the door, not hearing anything. "Leader." They called again. They didn't want to intrude, but they had to get the guilt out of their chest. It sounded too selfish like that, but Caretaker ignored the thought and turned the round doorknob. It was kind of hard to open and different from the rest of the base.

Caretaker was surprised to meet with the pitch black room, their eyes tricking them to see a monster in the room due to not adjusting yet. They reached the switch blindly, turning on the light and... freezing.

The monster wasn't a trick their eyes played.

Now that there a sent any wall blocking the sounds, Caretaker could hear bones breaking.

"Get away," a growl disturbed the sounds, coming out more like a murter than actual words. The pain in the voice shook Caretaker, but Caretaker couldn't answer. Not when they could see Leader on the floor, their hands holding their neck as claws threatened to grow from their hands and digging into their skin.

Caretaker opened their mouth to speak but a weak stutter was all they could get out.

Leader’s body shuddered, muscles expanding with sounds of rubber bands snapping and a thick, white fur growing and disappearing as their skin resisted the change. The growls filled wkth pain were primal, each one causing Caretaker to flinch. They couldn’t move, their legs rooted to the spot by pure fear. The scene was surreal, like something out of a nightmare.

Caretaker now understood why Leader always took the enemy alone.

“Get away!” Leader’s voice was a desperate cry. Their eyes, usually so cold and reserved, now flashed with a mix of fear and anger.

Caretaker forced themselves to breathe, to think. They knew they couldn’t just stand there. Finding logic among their thoughts, they forced themselves to think how they could help. But what could they do against... this?

But Caretaker couldn't back down. “I’m not leaving you,” they said, voice trembling, not even convincing themselves.

The air got thick with the scent of blood and sweat as Leader tried to resist. Their eyes, now a fierce, glowing amber, locked onto Caretaker’s.

“Leave,” Leader howled through gritted teeth, fighting to retain a sliver of humanity. “I can’t…control…”

"No. You won't hurt me," Caretaker muttered as they stepped closer.

Leader's breath hitched, tensing. "It was so close. I could've lost the team."

"But you didn't," Caretaker said as they kneeled in front of Leader. They reached to the big claws and gently removed them from Leader's neck.

"I... I was going to lose the only thing that kept me sane. That kept me... human. You... you were right. I-"

"No, I was wrong, and you did your best."

Leader shuddered, bones beginning to break again as their form began to get more humanoid. "But it was so close. They could have died there and I was useles, weak!" Leader breathed, each word a struggle as they fought against themselves. The raw

“Listen to me, Leader,” Caretaker said, their voice steadier now, despite the fear throttling them. “You’re stronger than this. You’re the reason we’re all still here. And we need you to calm down.”

Leader’s amber eyes blinked, the human behind the beast slowly crawling up to the resurface. “I’m… I’m a danger,” Leader rasped. “I can’t… not after... I'll lose it once I see Whumper."

“Yes, you can,” Caretaker insisted. They tightened their grip on Leader’s clawed hands, refusing to let go. “You won't give them the satisfaction.”

Leader’s growls softened, and the monstrous form slowly gave way to the human figure Caretaker knew so well. Leader’s body trembled violently with the effort, but Caretaker stayed where they were.

Minutes felt like hours, but finally, Leader slowly slumped against the wall, drenched in sweat, entirely human again. Their eyes were closed, their face contorted in pain and exhaustion. Blood was dripping slowly from their neck, but the claw mark was small, as if it was from a cat.

Caretaker let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. They gently brushed the damp hair from Leader’s forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Leader’s eyes fluttered open, the usual stoic mask shattered and replaced by vulnerability. “I’m… sorry,” they whispered, voice hoarse. “I never wanted you to see this. Pain is usually enough to anchor me, but this time, I lost my control.”

"Usually?" Caretaker almost shouted.

"Just... just not now, Caretaker," Leader sighed and closed their eyes again.

Caretaker had to bite their lips to stop themselves from asking. "Okay. Okay, not now. But... but I'm having you in infirmary as motivation to the team, and you are going to give me a lecture about insulting a higher up and acting too emotional. I was scared, and I took my anger out of you. It was wrong and this... is my fault, in a sense."

Leader stood up slowly, their every joint popping. "I'm sure I can do something about that," they said and offered a small smile.

Caretaker decided that they would give world's just to see that smile again.

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

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

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

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

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

Call Blackline:

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

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

From their website:

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

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

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

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

C. For folks processing bad psychedelic trips:

Fireside Project:

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

7. A soothing distraction:

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

--------

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-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