#“like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

In The Depths

new take on an old concept but i <3 s5 so i will never stop writing about that

ao3

Prompt: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” / Solitary confinement

Fandom: Ninjago

Characters: Lloyd Garmadon, Morro (mentioned), Kai (mentioned)

Summary: Lloyd is alone. He thinks?

Trigger Warnings: blood, possession, self-harm

436 words

There was gunk building under his fingernails. He didn’t know where it was coming from — maybe it was connected to the intense itch of the bones in his forearms. Like his skin was pulled too tight over them. Like whatever was inside of him was taking up too much space. 

He looked down at himself, realizing what exactly it was. Something different. Rough, gritty liquid that was — it was — vibrant and hot and what was the word — what was it…?

He searched his mind, but it felt about as empty as this place. Huge, blank, and nothing else. 

Color, his inner dialogue said helpfully. Red.

Color. He barely remembered what color even was. But it was different. It was beautiful. And he needed more.

He raked his nails across his arms, desperate now, not only to get the squirming itching creature beneath out, but to see more of that color.

Red was something. It was something… something important. It brought to mind a face and a voice he couldn’t remember quite right, but they were there anyway. It was good. Red was good. He needed more of it.

Pricks of it beaded along his skin, angry itching underneath. The red under his nails continued to increase. It smeared over his fingertips, over his palms. Sticky, wet, warm, like fire…

Whatever vague recognition that may have been there was chased away by It. His arms were forced apart from each other, stuck behind his back by some unseen force. The red was fading, like it had never really been there at all. 

“...oyd please, I know you’re still in there, you can fight him!”

That was… oh. Oh. He snapped awake, fighting to the surface of his mind, shoving on the barrier that kept him isolated. The world snapped into vibrant clarity.

“Kai—” he gasped, actually seeing for the first time in — he didn’t know how long. Where were they? Why was everything still white, still cold, still — snow. They were in the snow.

His brother’s face softened, letting down his guard. “Lloyd? Is that really you?” he asked, lowering his weapon.

His body reacted against his control, drawing his own sword in an effort to strike Kai down. Lloyd couldn’t stop it before he was being dragged back down, kicking and screaming as he was drowned out of his own head.

He landed somewhere deeper than before, colorless, lightless, and stuck in a straitjacket that left him unable to move an inch. His life faded from memory, trickling away like a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

The world was empty, just like this place.

[foreverchangingfandomsao3]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Alpha-17 (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Boil (Star Wars), Clone Trooper Waxer (Star Wars), CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, Clone Trooper Trapper (Star Wars) Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Whump, CC-2224 | Cody Needs a Hug, CC-2224 | Cody Gets A Hug, Hallucinations, Solitary Confinement, Happy Ending Series: Part 3 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Cody wakes up in a room with no way out and no one else. How long does it take until he cracks?

My fill for Whumptober day 3: No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

[sometimesraven]

A Deep Bruise You Can't See

Whumptober No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” Journal |

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisiton POV Character: Female Lavellan Whumpee: Lavellan

Now that she can no longer rely on Solas to save her from her nightmares, Lavellan is having to find alternative, healthier methods to cope with the PTSD she received from her time as Inquisitor.

AO3 Link

The sensation of falling. Stone and snow and debris raining down like the sky was collapsing in on her. Radiating pain as the ground rose to meet her; cuts and bruises and fractured bones so sudden she could barely pinpoint where they were through the pain.

Limping across endless frozen ground. Only cold, empty remains of campfires to guide her. Unless it was the same fire? Only the Gods knew at this point. The chill was so deep in her bones that it numbed the pain of her struggling limbs as they trembled and dragged. Still no sign of her fellows. Of anyone.

Exhaustion settling in her chest. Only the snow and moonlight illuminated the darkness around her. This was it. She would never find her way. The darkness would swallow her and she would remain as bones in the mountains; lost for eternity.

Cold sweat coated Miriel's forehead as she slowly awoke, the fear and cold chasing her into the waking world like it was clinging with clawed hands to her shoulders. She groaned, disoriented -- her heart beat like war drums in her ears, body still trembling; the comfort and warmth of her bedclothes following sluggishly behind the ghostly sensations of her dream.

Automatically, she reached out beside her. Her hand rested only on empty space, disappointment squeezing her chest tight enough to steal her breath as she realised nobody was there. Nobody would ever be there again. No dreamwalking ancient elf would pull her from her nightmares and into his arms. She was alone with her memories and the demons that haunted her sleep.

So, with a groan, she wiped the sweat from her scarred face and pushed herself out of bed. Padding groggily to her nightstand, the cool satin of her chair pillow against her bare buttocks provided the grounding sensation she came to rely upon as she sat and opened her journal.

"Haven again," she spoke aloud, part of the routine she developed for pulling her mind out of the dream entirely. She focused on the scratch of her quill on the page as she continued. "I can scarcely understand the purpose of these dreams. Given perspective, Haven's loss was the least of the terrors I experienced as the unwilling leader of this Inquisition. Perhaps it is the loneliness. That was, after all, the last time I felt truly alone until now. I know I should not think of him, gentle spirit of my page. I know he is long gone. But his absence haunts my every moment. I foolishly came to rely upon him to save me from my own mind. What now do I do when the demons come? How am I to survive the torment of my own history, knowing the weight of my ancestors' fate now lies within me also?"

Lavellan fell silent, reading and re-reading her own words as she always did, until an answer fell upon her mind -- the answers she had come to believe came from the page itself, no matter how false a children's tale that was. At the bottom of the page, she silently scratched five extra words.

One Day At A Time.

[its-my-whump]

Whumptober 03

“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

You don't need to read the whole story. Everyday can stand for its own. And that poor soul has to suffer through every single one of them, I promise!

Hummingbird 03

(Story starts here) previous

Just blackness.

Breathing was uncomfortable. Warm wet air was all that got into his nose. It tasted used. It tasted old, it tasted like there was not enough oxygen in it.

The next sense awakening was his hearing. Or more hearing his own desperate short breaths. But they were muffed. He could feel himself breathing, but it sounded far away or at least like it was muted by a blanket or something. 'Maybe he was laying under a blanket. That would explain the warm air, he was pulling into his lungs."

He was defenitely laying down. Not only the hard surface his shoulder and hipbone were pressed against, but also the certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stand on his own two feet, reassured him.

Sam was pretty sure he had opened his eyes, but everything was still dark. Maybe it was still night.

He had been to the club, the restroom. A car?

He had bumped his head. 'Maybe, he was temporarly blinded.' The headache was back.

'Where was he? Why couldn't he see anything?' His heartrate picked up. 'There was something on his head. A blanket?'

Out of reflex, Sam wanted to pull away, whatever it was, that forced him to breath his own air. His muscles were still so heavy. A metallic sound and his moving arms were stopped. He had them on his back, while he was laying on his right side. The sound was from some handcuffs restricting his attempt to bring his arms to the front and to free his face. 'He had a hood over his head. That's why the air tasted used. Because it was. That's why, he couldn't hear properly.'

More fabric was wrapped around his eyes and the back of his head. It was slightly warmer and tighter in these places. So his eyes were externally blinded in addition. That's why, he couldn't see nothing at all.'

His heart was hammering almost painfully hard and frantic inside his chest by now. The stomach pain was there again too or was he just panicking too much? His breathing had picked up even more in the meanwhile, he hadn't noticed at first.

In an attempt to get more, so desperately needed air in, he tried to breath through his mouth. Also to fight down the bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Horrified Sam realised, that there was ducktape over his mouth. 'He would suffocate!'

A whimper escaped him. Tears started streaming in desperating. The fabric around his eyes took them without objection. He struggled against his cuffed hands and weak muscles, just to realise, that his feet were restrained too.

Another whimper blocked by the ducktape over his mouth. A though jumped into his head. 'Crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.' It wasn't only the situation, but this random lyric from a classmate years ago letting his panic rise. 'Why was he remembering it now and why this one in particular?' He couldn't make heads or tails of his brain overloading.

Loneliness and fear overtook him completely. But he couldn't surrender to these overwhelming feelings. The urge to throw up was rising every second he was hopelessly fighting. He had to swallow hard, his Adam's apple moved painfully, trying to keep down what was about to rise. His heart wanted to escape his chest and was hammering painfully hard against the inside of his ribs. But it seemed every attempt of it pounding away for more space was futile.

'He would die here. He would suffocate on his own vomit! He needed to calm down!'

Breathing was so hard, there was just not enough air. His head was pounding mercilessly in the rhythym of his heartbeat. He tried to force himself to calm down. 'Make it stop! Just make it stop!' But not being able to breath was shutting down every other unnessessary function in his body and brain. The immobile metalrings around his wrists were drawing blood by now. His feet scrapped over the cool concrete ineffectively. The panic was surpressing any pain.

His own muffed whimpers, between frantic breaths through his nose, were the only sounds.

His stomach cramped, his gullet protested. The strap around his eyes was soaked by his own salty tears. He had hit his head numoures times against the concrete in his desperate fight for survival. Dizzyness was getting worse. 'He was going to die!'

His muted scream was interruped by acid shooting up his tube. But he couldn't open up. Bitterly burning stuff summoned inside his mouth, blocking his airsupport while making its way up his nose. He tried to swallow.

'He couldn't breath. He was going to die now!'

His body violently protested against missing vital support, but his struggle died with every breath he couldn't take.

White stars exploded in his vision and were dancing.

He couldn't hear his own animalistic sounds anymore. He couldn't fight anymore. The pressure in his lungs was pulling him apart from the inside out. His head was going to implode. Darkness was reaching for him. His body went limb.

...

Commotion in the background, someone suddenly appraoched. The hood was violently yanked from his head. He was rolled to the side even more. Ducktape ripped apart.

His jaw was spread open and a hand forced itself into his mouth.

Suddenly there was space for air to get in. His body instantly switched into survival mode and sucked in a liftsaving breath.

TBC

Hummingbird masterlist

@whumptober-archive

[storyweaverofgondor]

Summary: Things take a turn for the worse during Jonathan's time at Castle Dracula.

[kalira]

Silent Storm

Written for @whumptober Day 3! (theme: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” prompt 3: “Make it stop.”)

T; 1k Sho (Sho & Toshi, Kei & Sho)

Sho struggles in the wake of Toshi's death, the worst loss he's ever suffered - and for the first time, he struggles in the depths of his sorrow alone.

[getsusun]

The stone is hard, but there is moon

Timeline: approximately a hundred years ago, in the middle of short cut of time when experiments on creating mod-souls were made. One of them, who will later be called Nova, is having his powers awakening and is not a good time for him.

The mod-souls are created deep down under the surface, under one of the Twelfth Division buildings. Well, more likely under the entirety of the Twelfth Division. Giant caves, natural or made by the hand on shinigami, are filled to the brim by laboratories, warehouses, test areas, and, of course, containment units for the various test subjects. The building of different shapes and purposes form an underground city, with streets and blocks and even small park with a tiny river.

So it makes sense that there is a lighting system in place, with hundreds of light sources imitating daylight. During the night on the surface most of these light sources are disabled, making the underground to sank into the twilight.

Red did not know most of it at that time. The attempts the scientists made to create stable mod-souls with useful and effective powers were successful only half of the time, so neither shinigami nor older mod-souls bothered to teach – or to speak more than strictly necessary – with ones who were still defined as “work in progress”. What was the point, if half of freshly-created souls would crumble into pieces anyway, and half of the survivors would not obtain powers, or would be killed by them, or deemed useless by scientists?

So Red is alone, surrounded by stone, with one small barred window under the ceiling and dim light seeping out from under the heavy door locked from the other side. It is darker than usual on the outside, quieter too, and if Red turns his head just right, through the window he can see a lonely light far away, dim but steady. And nothing else. Red does not know if there are no other mod-souls on the other side of the stone walls. May be there are, but they are too tired to make sounds, or are unable to, or a dead. It should not really matter to Red, but it somehow still matters.

While dying generally sucks, dying alone feels much more miserable. Also it makes Red angry. Angry on the world in whole, angry on the scientists who pointed on Red strange devices and discussed the results with indifferent voices, angry for a few other, older mod-souls who Red encountered briefly while being moved around the facility. In contrast with shinigami, the other mod-souls at least looked at Red – but even if disinterest in their eyes was feigned and heavily fixed with tiredness, pain and pity, Red still forces himself to be angry. The anger is better than apathy.

Red decides to call the distant light source in the window the moon. He does have some memories of the real one. Apparently, those are living memories from before Red – or one of the souls from the parts of which he was assembled – died. The older mod-souls did, in fact, explain at least some things when Red did not died or went insane some time after being created. So Red knows that this is a Soul Society, the world where the dead live. Red knows that shinigami are in charge here and that shinigami are creating tools to help them fight monsters, hollows – unlucky souls who did not died right, or something like that. And Red knows that either he lasts the night and surfaces with some sort of strange ability, like jumping ten times higher than usual or smashing the stone with his bare heads, or there will be no tomorrow for him.

And, well, at this point Red kind of starts to dream about being killed by shinigami, because he did already witnessed a couple of fellow lab rats being disposed of, and while it did looked painful and messy, it was pretty fast. On the other hand, agonizing on the cold stone from something new being formed inside your soul was much more time-consuming. Red was currently engaging in this particular activity, and with each passing minute the pain, varying from the dull ache inside of Red’s skull to sharp spikes of what felt like his spine being melted from the inside, seemed only get worse.

The temperature in the room seems to lower too, because while Red was already uncomfortable on the cool stone floor in the beginning of the night, now he is actively freezing. Being dressed only in light shitagi did not helped. Red swallowed a whine after another wave of pain passed through him, and a small huff of his breath became visible for a moment. It really, really should not have been so cold in here. Must have been a part of process of powers awakening – the fever, the temperature rising. ...For some reason Red doubted that human body could heat up to the degree he was currently experienced, but maybe in Soul Society things worked the other way around. Whatever. It was hard to concentrate on one thought for too long.

Red slowly moved his limbs in attempt to find an at least a little more painless position, but bare floor did not give a lot of choises. At least Red was small enough to not feel being squashed by the walls and the ceiling. Well, almost all mod-souls the Red caught the glance of were little compared with shinigami, and also young – like, really young, Red was pretty sure half of them would have counted like literal children, not fighters – but Red was smaller then others, compensating by being twice as loud and active.

There is a tingling in Red’s fingertips, and it is not quite painful, but disturbing nonetheless. The sparks buzz under his skin, traveling from the base of Red’s skull down to fingers. These sparks are neither hot nor cold but sharp, as a barely noticeable needle prick. Not a problem yet, but the pain in Red’s spine is hard to ignore, and it also started from a small ache.

It was easy to not be as quiet and passive as others. Yeah, Red was scared too – of scientists and tests and blood being taken – but he coped by attracting attention, and by shifting the focus from others on himself. Even if it got him the lion’s share of additional punishments and harsh threats, the more to Red’s meant the less to others. Fair trade.

Another wave of pain crushes through, and this time Red can’t refrain from making a sound. He immediately shuts his mouth and clenches teeth, but the pain increases and increases, not leaving much place for thinking. Soon Red screams, and his throat hurts, but his back hurts worse, and there is nothing Red can do about it.

There is still no sound from the outside, no voices of other mod-souls or steps of scientists. Only artificial moon, and Red briefly laughs with the irony of this – artificial moon for artificial soul. His laugh is hoarse and a little wild, and Red has nothing worth of laughing, but he laughs nonetheless. And then screams again, this time not even trying to hold back. It feels like his spine is growing new ribs, both between already existing one and outwards, like false wings. There is nothing of such gruesomeness happening, Red knows (after checking his chest and his back, wherever he can reach with joints stiff from pain). Nothing moves under his skin. But it certainly feels this way.

He is a mess, Red knows. Ready to plead for someone to make it stop, to knock him unconsciousness, to do something. But there is no one around. Only the moon.

Fucking scientists and their experiments.

The room is shifting now, the walls wobbling and the floor shaking, and after a while Red feels like the world itself is stretching and shrinking simultaneously. Something is wrong with Red’s sense of distance and direction. The light from the moon warps, and every couple of breathes it feels like the window and the door change places. The ceiling is suddenly so close that Red knows that he can touch it without standing and even sitting up, but Red can’t move, can’t even close his eyes to shut away the insanity the world around is becoming.

For some reason Red is sure that if he closes his eyes he may not open them in the same scenery of bare stone walls again. Or he may not open them at all. So Red forces his eyelids to stay out of the way and watches, stares on the stone like if something could change in addition to wobbling distortion of dimensions.

The pain shifts from Red’s spine to one spot inside his chest. Red’s heart is beating so loud that it should be audible from the outside, and it is faster than it has any right to be, frantic pounding leaving Red breathless. Red blinks away tears, and his own screams sound muted to him, and the pain is tearing his body from the inside while the world dances around.

Red feels like something inside his head clicks, loudly and inescapably, and the world turns crimson. Red feels the spasm forcing itself through his body, the sharp pain of his tongue being bitten through, and then there is nothing, an empty blackness without any sounds.

...

Red wakes up and there is something wrong with the world, something missing. It takes time to figure it out, but finally Red grasps – there is almost no pain. Yeah, Red is not sure of how much tongue he got left, because it may be half-bitten with how it aches, and Red’s throat is also really sore, but the rest – the rest is just the dull background feeling comparing from the last night.

- You awake?

Red twitches and the world around shatters for a brief moment, and then there is a sharp flash of pain and everything is back to normal. The only addition is a sudden hunger cramp. Red blinks the crimson spots away and turns his head to look at his new neighbor. Judging by the similar, even if a little more clean and less torn shitagi, it is another mod-soul. He… Or she, but Red leans towards he, is definitely from the older bunch of mods, looking like a young man – or woman – not far away, but still away from adolescense. The other mod-soul has long white hair, white skin and warm blue eyes. They also have the cup of water which is currently being held to Red.

Red suddenly realizes his thirst and takes the cup, but the other mod-soul does not let go of it, instead helping Red to move it to his mouth. Not without reason, Red’s hands feel like a jelly. Red sips cool water, and it tastes like blood.

- So. - the other mod-soul patiently waits while Red drinks and then places the cup on the floor. - I am Kurodo. Got a name?

Red glances with suspicion, since no one before bothered to ask, but this guy – Kurodo – this actually sounds like a real name, must be cool to remember something from the past life – looks genuinely interested in answer. And also Red for some reason likes him. So Red points to his head – the tangled mess of dirty hair – and it seems like Kurodo gets the hint.

- Red, right?

Red nods. He is really hungry, much more than he must be after one night, and it does not feels good.

- Not a chatterbox, I see. - Kurodo smiles at him, and Red, pushed by sudden impulse, opens his mouth and sticks out tongue. Kurodo’s face shows a mix of compassion and sadness, and then he softly smiles to Red. - Nasty bite marks you got here. I got some healing salve here, but I have no idea if it would make it better or worse.

Red does not feels like speaking at all, not only because of the sore throat and aching tongue, but also because something has shifted inside him the last night, and Red is not exactly sure what. So he just looks at Kurodo with what Red hopes is a question drawn on his face.

- Right, yes, probably should have started with it. So, I don’t know if it would be good news for you or bad, but the science guys decided that you have the powers. And, since you flickered out of existence for a moment when I startled you, it seems be true.

So he is not being disposed of and neither the power’s awakening had killed him. Red genuinely tries to determine what does he feel about it, but the world is still a little blurry around the edges. Well, thinks Red with bitter amusement, it definitely means that he got more time to thing about it.

Also, what is next?

[whumpsday]

K&J: Kane's Whumptober Bites #3

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, torture, gore, burns, captivity, begging, death wish

@whumptober Day 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” / Solitary Confinement / “Make it stop.”

takes place during section four of chapter 15, Hunger, when the hunters leave Kane outside for a week.

-

The sun finally, finally set. Kane was used to having little idea of how much time was passing, but he was excruciatingly aware of it now. Day two of his punishment done.

See you in a week.

Five more to go.

For now, he had the night. It didn’t help much, not anywhere close to enough time for his broken body to heal the deep burns traversing his whole body, but at least he wasn’t actively burning under the sun anymore. The silver of his restraints barely registered against the giant mass of charred flesh his body had become.

His face melted together, his eyelids and lips each sealed shut. He could not stare wistfully at the night sky offering him a moment of refuge, nor could he cry out for mercy. There was no one he could call out to, anyway.

He’d never hurt more than he hurt right now. They’d never left him out for two days before. Kane had no idea how he was going to survive a whole week. He wished he wouldn’t. He wished he would die, could die.

But he couldn’t. He had to keep going, taking all the pain the hunters decided to hoist onto him, no other option available.

The night felt as short as the day felt long. Kane needed more time than it gave him, but despite his desperation, the sun rose come morning. He tried to scream as it licked his mangled skin once more, the sound caught in his sealed-shut mouth.

Make it stop! Please, please, I’m sorry! I’ll do anything, please let me back inside!

No one came.

[serickswrites]

Except the Moon

Warnings: captivity, torture, touch starved, loneliness, self sacrifice

Whumpee hadn't bothered to get out of the makeshift bed they had made in the room Whumper locked them in for the last several days. And they knew it had been days based on the progression of light and changes in the night. But they couldn't be bothered any longer. They had been here for so long. So terribly, terribly long. And they just couldn't care anymore.

When they had volunteered in Caretaker's stead, begged Whumper to take them instead, that had thought that Whumper would hurt them until they died and that would be it. They didn't think they would be locked in a room, alone, for weeks with no one to talk to, touch, or even see. All they had was the small window near the top of their cell where they could see the sky, the sun, and more often than not, the moon.

They had screamed and hollered the first several days they were there. Beat on the door. Tried to scale to the small window. But it had all been to no avail.

They had thought that Whumper would come for them then. Begin their torture then. But Whumper hadn't. Other than the slat opening in the wall and food appearing at regular intervals, Whumpee had not seen nor heard from Whumper since Whumper threw them in the room.

And they were so terribly lonely. They had nothing. No one. Except the moon. "I wish Caretaker was here. Not here instead. But here with me," they whispered to the moon. In the last few days, they found themself talking to the moon, hoping she would listen, but not daring to hope she would grant their wish.

Whumpee knew all they had to do was beg Whumper to make it stop, to trade places with Caretaker, and they would be free. But they couldn't do that. Though they longed to be seen, to be heard, and most of all to be touched, they couldn't do that. They couldn't let Caretaker be tortured like this. Or like anyway.

And so they would stay. Alone in this room with no company, except the moon.

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2023 | No. 3

“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

1899 s01e02: “You’re not real.”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

[oxideblack]

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober Day 3:

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon." 

Journal | solitary confinement | "make it stop."

Fandom: Voltron

Prompt used: All

Soooo this ones a little intense- at least to me as I write this. Its never specified but Lance is alone for awhile, so tread carefully just in case. I think I may do a continuation on one of the other days for this one so keep a look out if you like this one.

TW for self harm, and Torture

...

There was little light in the room. He'd tried to figure out where it was coming from, scratched at the lips in the walls until his nails were broken and bleeding. He'd decided they simply glowed. 

There was no window, and the door disapeared- no it blended in, it had to be there still it had to, it could just be gone that made no sense- after that first day. That first day when he'd woken up, confused and in pain, and had a strange alien come in and speak to him. He couldnt tell you everything they said, broken translator glitching every couple words or other sentence. But it was an experiment, and a punishment. 

Lance wanted to go home.

"Journal entry uh… whatever. The water and bread like stuff appeared when I passed out again, I dont remember falling asleep… It tastes weird, but they got angry when I didnt consume it before… the walls are still glowing… or maybe it is dark and Im going crazy… how many days has it been journal? Why… what did I… its not like your gonna answer anyway…" 

His head hits the wall with a solid thump, the sound better than when all he can hear is bodily functions, so he does it again. And again, until his ears ring and his head aches, and the noise has blended in too much to be different and he stops. His heart and head beat to the same toon, he holds his breath to stop hearing the inflation of his lungs only for the beating to get louder. Frustrated tears come to his eyes as he releases the breath in a shout, which turns into an angry yell as he turns and pounds his tender fists into the wall.

Its not the first time, there are smears of blood- old and new- from his many little moments. He thinks hes allowed such moments after all, locked up for who knows how long with no interaction. He cant even talk to Blue, the thin connection in his soul the only thing telling him shes okay. In the beginning, he equated his moments to Keith, when he went ham on the training gladiatiors. But now… staring at his ruined fists, and wall still intact besides the smears, he feels as pathetic as ever. 

He knows for a fact the rest of the team would have found a way out by now. Pidge's curiousity and spite always leads her to solutions of some kind. Hunk would have found out how this box worked and rebuilt it ten times over. Keith would have samuraied his way out of course, and Shiro would probably find this childs play. But really the main difference… is they arent him. Lance did something wrong. Lance was stupid and weak and easily caught. Lance hasnt been able to find a way out. Lance- is referring to himself in third person. Again. 

He deserves to be here. The team hasnt found him yet, blue is out of range, and Lance is being punished for something. He wouldnt want any of them in his situation anyway, theyre probably off saving the universe still, probably relieved hes gone. He… he hopes theyre getting enough sleep. That Pidge isnt stuck with her face in a screen, refusing to sleep. That Hunk isnt spreading himself thin, and bottling things up. That Allura is recharging her quintessence, and taking care of herself and not pushing too hard on her own mind and the teams. That Coran isnt lonely and doing everything by himself. That Shiro is remembering to laugh and relax and chill. That Keith isnt isolating himself and training to death and… 

He misses them.

Lance thought that… even if he never saw Earth again, never saw his parents again, thatd at least, the last thing he saw would be his friends- his space family- safe and alive. Not some creepy alien, or the four same walls, but the people he cares about. He knows… he knows he wasnt their first choice. That Blue deserves better, the team deserves better. But… he still loves them so much. He just wanted to know they were okay. 

A stinging sensation disrupts the static ache hes fallen into, his motions drag like paper through water and he looks down at his arms. His nails, brittle and broken and cracked, have still managed to drag angry red lines across his arms. Blood and that watery fluid have bubbled to the surface in some areas, and he feels a detached sort of dissapointment. His nose whistles.

The not bread and the ucky water have appeared again. Hes on his side, he doesnt remember falling asleep, from how tired he feels, hes not even sure he can call it that. He knows they get mad when he ignores the susstenance, but he can only stare at it blankly. What was the point anyway? If he was just gonna keep waking up here, he didnt want to anymore. 

He thinks he counts for moment, to determine how long it takes them to get mad, but when he tunes back in to his own brain hes simply repeated the same line of lyrics over and over. He cant recall the song, or any other lyrics, and all its really doing is annoying him, but he cant find the energy to yell at his brain to stop. 

'One. I can count to one. Two. I can count to two. Three. I can count to three. Four. I cant count no more. I can only count to four, I can only count to four, I can only count fooouuuurrrr-'

The room brightens and Lance tenses as a noise fills the room. But the noise was always there, a ringing in his ears, but it grows louder and higher until everything is screaming. He hold his hands over his ears, finds a warm wetness with undertones of crusty, his mouth is open his throat feels shredded, hes curled up as much as his ribs will allow- they poke out, he can see where theyre wrong, they warp as the noise increases. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, tears streak his face, he cant see anything, theres red in his blurred vision before it whites out completely, a warmth below his nose. Shivers wrack his tense body as the cold he'd been trying to ignore sets in bone deep.

"P'ease…m…m-make it… st…stop…" 

He doesnt know when he went limp, eyes open but seeing nothing, the ringing is everywhere, the feeling of liquid drying on his skin makes him itch, but he cant even twitch. 

"M'ke it st…stop. Make eh stop… make it stop." A sob from deep in his chest, voice hoarse, everything hurts. "Make it stop please." 

He couldnt even tell you if he'd actually spoken, or if wordless noise escaped a ruined throat. The pounding of his heart, the ringing of his ears, nothing seemed to exist past that. 

Warmth on his cheek, he must be crying again… 

Pressure on his back, his shoulder thanks him for rolling over, he cant recall doing it.

Something touches his neck. 

He flinches violently, surprising himself and whoevers touching him. He throws his arms up, his back now against the stupidly familiar walls.

"Make it stop! I dont want to anymore! Just kill me already, Make it stopmakeitstopmaKEITSTOP!!"

Something rumbles in his mind, loud enough to block all the stupid noises, filled instead with crashing waves and warm sand, foreign yet familair. 

"Lance." He flinches, he can only half hear what was said, head in a fishbowl of water and one ear clogged, but it was definetly his name… 

"Leandro, please look at me hermano." 

Tears bubble in his eyes as he realizes what this is.

Hes lost it completely.

Hes halucinating now. Maybe it really is finally the end-

"Lance please." It sounds so broken, she should never sound like that-

He looks up. 

The door. It did exist, lying in sparking pieces as it is. Shiro is in the doorway, face drawn in concern, galra arm still smoking from whatever he used it for. Behind him Keith is glaring down his sword at something Lance cant see. Infront of him however, curled up in the too small room, knees an inch from his own, back bowed so his head wont hit the ceiling, arm brushing the smaller one next to him. Two sets of warm eyes, wet with tears and dark with bags, look at him with mournful sadness and yet, tentative hope, relief. 

The tears spill over, his lips wobble as he sobs,

"Make it stop please. I cant handle it if youre not really here. Please." 

"We're here buddy. Hermano, we're here. Give me your hand Lance, I promise we're real." Hunks voice wavers with emotion, Lance knows he's seconds from breaking down. 

"We're late, but we're here Lance. Please." Pidges voice is small, hand held out beside Hunks, both tremble. 

Lance is going to regret it. He is. He's gonna regret it. 

His hands- cold, achey, maybe broken, filthy- meet the warm calloused palms of his friends. He slumps forward like his string have been cut, but the two dutifully catch him. Warmth. Not from blood or tears, but from real people. Lances eyes slipped closed, feeling safe for a moment, if he wakes up alone… at least he got to see their faces one last time…

>>next

[lithium223]

[youphoriaot7]

WHUMPTOBER - DAY 3 / DAY 6

— like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon / do or die, you’ll never make me, because the world will never take my heart

[recording, made to watch, journal, solitary confinement | “it should’ve been me,” “make it stop”]

title: i will follow you into the dark characters (pov): mike & pac (& fit) word count: 7,918 relationships: pac & mike, gen. warnings: chose not to use archive warnings. teen & up audiences. anxiety/panic attacks. ptsd.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 3 - Querencia

This takes place during Lili's facility days, somewhere in the midst of chapter 3.

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps , @bookworm2107

Masterlist

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Contains: minor whumpee (16-17) but it's only angst not physical whump, lady whump, implied imprisonment, insomnia

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The moon is bright tonight. It must be full, or close to it. Liliana can’t tell for sure, she can’t ever get the right angle up through the small window at the ceiling to actually see it, but the way it’s lighting up the foot of her bed definitely makes it seem like a full moon.

She sits up, curling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, staring up at the window. It’s probably been at least an hour since the lights turned out and all the doors were locked - by her best guess, she doesn’t have a clock - but she can’t sleep. That’s not unusual. She has a hard time falling asleep most nights, or she’ll wake up randomly in the middle of the night and not be able to go back to sleep. She doesn’t have the option to turn on a lamp or the overhead light to do anything like read, though, so she just stays in bed and stares at the ceiling or the wall…or the dark expanse outside the window.

Tonight, the moonlight spilling across her bed reminds her of being a child. She was always fascinated by the moon. Normally, when she was really young, she’d be tucked into bed before it was dark enough to really see the moon, but sometimes she’d stay awake as long as she could so that she could peek out her curtains and catch a glimpse of it. Her Mamà taught her the little poem one night, when they were coming home from somewhere late and Liliana was enamored by the moon ‘following’ the car. “I see the moon, and the moon sees me…”

Even when she got a bit older, she would sometimes pretend that the moonlight would keep her safe from harm. Whenever the soft white light would come peeking through the blinds onto her bed, she’d crawl to the other end and curl up, letting the lines fall across her face and imagining she could feel its warmth.

Slowly, quietly, she does the same thing now. The battered metal frame of the bed squeaks as her weight transfers. She wiggles around until she can wrap the thin, scratchy sheet around herself in this new position, then settles into place and blinks up at the window once more.

She can just see the bottom portion of the moon. She’s bathed in its light, much more so than when it was shining through her blinds, but…she doesn’t feel anything. 

There’s no warmth. There’s no protection. The moon isn’t magical, it’s just a cold, unfeeling light, looking down at her struggles and heartache with apathy. Back when she was a child, pretending it was something more, she was already safe. She had nothing to worry about. She was lying in her cozy bed on top of soft blankets, surrounded by her beloved plushies with a family who loved her just down the hall.

But the moon didn’t keep her safe, and neither did anything else. And trying to bring back a little bit of that lost childhood while lying on a rock hard mattress in a cold room locked from the outside feels completely ridiculous.

Sitting up abruptly, Liliana moves back to her pillow, curling on her side with the sheet pulled up to her chin and her back facing the window.

[starliight-whump]

Solitude

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

Contains: Solitary confinement, psychological torture, hallucinations. Self inflicted injuries, captivity, female whumpee, blood, vauge reference to past trauma/abuse.

Amara hated white. It had never been one of her favorite colors, but now she fucking despised it. Here, in her cell, it was the only color her world consisted of. The walls, floor and ceiling were white, and so were the mattress with suffocation proof sheets on the floor, as well as her clothes. Hell, even the food she got was more or less white. A gross white mush, or white nutrition shake, served on white plates or in white mugs. It was always the same, and without windows not even the light changed, making it impossible to tell the passing of time. Had she been here a few days, or a week already? More? Felt like a long time, at least. The minutes and hours seemed to stretch out into an eternity.

She had tried to escape at first, of course she had, but with the power dampeners around her wrists she was not nearly as strong as she usually was and the attempt had ended in frustration. Amara had been determined to not let it get to her, to prove to her captors that they wouldn’t be able to crack her, that she wasn’t something to be broken, but it was getting to her. The neverending whiteness, the silence which was just barely broken by the opening of the hatch in her door when she was given food. Even then, no one talked to her, and she didn’t actually see the person slipping the food through the hatch. Hell, for all she knew, it could be a robot delivering her food. The lack of things to look at and things to do was unnerving and maddening, her burning anger had simmered down into an ember, replaced by a restless anxiety. Despite having nothing to do but to lay around and rest, Amara found that she struggled to sleep. 

Heart racing, Amara pushed herself to her feet because she couldn’t stand sitting still a second longer. Too tense, like a bowstring pulled too taut, ready to snap at any second. She began pacing the floor and each of her footsteps were so loud, accompanied by the loud drumming of her heart. How was it so loud? Didn't make sense… As she paced, Amara chewed her bottom lip and fidgeted with her sleeves, white just like everything else.

"Get out, get out, need to get out." Amara mumbled to herself in a quiet, raspy voice. She fucking hated this room. Her skin started crawling and the hair of her neck stood on end as the feeling of being watched washed over her. No. Amara could've sworn she heard a second set of footsteps behind her. Then she caught something in the corner of her eye, the shadow of a person. A whiff of perfume…

Amara whipped around, heart in her throat as she expected to see someone, the enemy. No one was there, yet the scent of perfume persisted. Floral and familiar, like wild roses.

Her wild eyes darted around the empty room. "Where are you?!" She screamed into the white void.

A few seconds of silence, then the void replied. 

"Little Amara, so weak." A cold laugh followed, and the scent of roses overwhelmed her.

Amara's eyes widened and she flinched. That voice…. "N-no, you can't. You're dead!" She stammered, fear entering her voice.

"Such a disappointment. Pathetic."

The coldness of her mentor’s voice still managed to scare Amara, even though she had been dead for five years now. "Nonono, shut up!" Amara shut her eyes and clasped her hands over her ears; fingers tangling in her hair. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" She mumbled desperately as she kept moving, trying to get away. 

But the voice didn't stop. Disappointment, pathetic, weak, it  kept repeating; echoing around the room. Then, it came from behind her.

"You'll always be that weak, pathetic little girl. Good for nothing." 

"Shut up!" Amara whirled around and saw the hazy image of a person, a face she'd seen in her nightmares. Out of pure instinct she lashed out the only way she could; balled her hand into a fist and smashed it hard against the mirage. Then her hand hit something hard and pain flashes through it, but she threw another punch for good measure. The pain intensified and the room went quiet, taking the scent of roses and the shadow with it. Once again, Amara was alone. Or rather, she always had been… Everything was as it had been. Or… not quite.

Amara's eyes fell on the smear of red on the wall, such a stark contrast against the white. She glanced down at her throbbing, bloodied knuckles, then back at the wall. Despite the pain, Amara couldn't help but to smile. Finally some color.

@whumptober-archive