#In the most hurt/comfort way

[witchy-capri]

This is about Euthanasia by Garlicbreadbowl specifically

[hurtingbuck]

"Los Angeles was actually the job opportunity. Uh, but no ties here. Everything that matters is in Texas."

[generic-sonic-fan]

Ensom

Summary: All the words in the english language downloaded to a dictionary on his drives, yet Omega can’t find the word he needs. 

He isn’t used to not knowing how he’s feeling. 

It’s frustrating. At least he knows that much.

(Vent fic. 1947 words)

---

Omega finds himself alone in his room. This is fine. He rolls the chair out from beneath his desk, sits down, executes the steps to turn on his computer. Exact movements he’s programmed into himself to save processing power, since the power buttons for both the external hard drive and the monitor will never move. 

He stares into the blank loading screen. 

He’s been here before.

He’s been in this exact posture before. Unmoving for hours. Maybe a twitch here and there to maneuver the computer mouse, that’s all. 

He pushes himself away from the desk and stands. He walks out the door of his room, emerging into the hallway. He’s been here before, too; hours standing in front of Shadow or Rouge’s door, hours walking up and down, fractions of travel that add up to significant percentages of his entire operation.

He passes the living room. The couch he has remained stationary on. Hours. The television he’s stared blankly at. The kitchen. The microwave he has watched rotate thousands of times while Shadow and Rouge wait for their food. The pantry that they stare into. Hours. 

He curls his claws around the handle of the front door. 

What is he going to do out there? Wander around and have meatbags stare at him? Have them run away screaming like they would any other Badnik? Judge him stupid, explaining things like love and freedom and what it means to be alive again like he’s supposed to obsess over their every word? 

Running simulation now: THANK YOU NONDESCRIPT HUMAN, I NEVER ONCE THOUGHT ABOUT MY OWN EXISTENCE IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOUR MARVELOUS AND UNIQUE INSIGHT ABOUT THE CONCEPTS THAT NO SENTIENT SACK OF FLESH CAN SEEM TO SHUT UP ABOUT!

And then they kick him out of their shop because he’s scaring away customers because he forgot to look them in the eyes at the right time or ask a meaningless “HOW ARE YOU DOING?” to every passerby to indicate friendly intent. 

As soon as he opens this door the entire city is staring. He wouldn’t care if they hated him. They don’t. He wouldn’t care if they were afraid of him specifically. They aren’t. 

All of the words in the english language downloaded onto his drives, and there’s no word he can assign to it that doesn’t make him want to tear every building in the city down.

He tears off the doorknob and slams it down. He grinds it into the cheap linoleum tile until the downstairs neighbor pounds back on the ceiling and screams at him to “shut up”. 

He draws his weapon. He aims for the blob of heat in his infrared scanner on the floor down. He aims slightly to the left, and pulls the trigger.

—

“Another complaint from the landlord. It’s our third strike. Managed to talk him back into letting us have a fourth.” Rouge tosses the paperwork onto the kitchen counter in front of him.

“I DO NOT CARE.” 

“Well I do. This is my apartment. Next time I’m kicking you out.”

Omega pauses. 

“What happened, anyway?”

“I WAS ANGRY.” 

“Fork found in kitchen, what else is news?” Rouge rolls her eyes. 

Fork is an eating utensil. The kitchen is where organics eat. She is saying the fork is found in the kitchen in a tone that, if he compares it to previous data of the various tones of her voice, most closely matches sarcasm. She is asking if finding a fork in the kitchen was somehow new information. She is relating the absurdity of this idea to-

“Nothing to say for yourself?”

“IT IS YOUR FAULT!” He slams his fist on the counter. 

“How is this my fault?!” 

She is relating the absurdity of this idea to his rage. Asking if his rage was new somehow? No, too much sarcasm. Relating absurdity, the absurdity of asking a stupid question, the absurdity of asking him if he was angry. Because she knew he was always angry. Solution derived. 

This data would have been useful fifteen seconds ago, but is useless now.

“Sure, blame me for all your problems. See how well that works out for you!” Rouge snarls. 

“NOT JUST YOU,” Omega snarls back, “ALL OF YOU.” 

“‘All of me’? What, you mean-?”

“ALL MEATBAGS. ALL OF THEM. WITH FLESH AND BLOOD AND PATHETIC NEURONS. I’LL KILL YOU ALL.” 

He simulates ripping Rouge to pieces. It’s not satisfying. He simulates actually shooting the neighbor downstairs, watching the blood pour out of the exit wound. It’s not satisfying. He simulates torching the old woman who walks her dog every morning across the street. Nothing. 

Yet something is still burning in his code. He can’t put it out. 

“You don’t mean that.” 

He looks at her. I DON’T floats somewhere around his voice box, but can’t find a place to slip through.

He looks away. 

“What happened?”

“NOTHING HAPPENED. NOTHING HAS OCCURRED FOR TEN HOURS.”

“You’re bored.”

“NEGATIVE.” This isn’t boredom. Boredom is like an itch that they all talk about. This is different.

Rouge furrows her brows. Omega checks his database. The expression matches with confusion but also anger. This particular instance is leaning more towards anger.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I ALREADY DID.” 

“‘Meatbags’ isn’t an answer.” 

“AND HOW IS IT NOT?” He snapped his gaze back to her. He leaned forward, closer, brushing the tip of his silver outcropping against her nose. “WHAT IF IT IS?” 

“There’s clearly something deeper-”

“HOW DO YOU KNOW?” 

“Because you’re not acting like yourself!” She planted a hand on his chest and pushed him away.

He straightened. “ELABORATE.” 

She resettles her tongue between her teeth, data matching with ‘considering what to say’, before she speaks again. “You’re never this vague. You normally don’t snap only once and then get quieter again- you usually stay as excited the whole conversation. You didn’t shout when you said ‘kill us all’ which is how I know you didn’t mean it. You hate touching any part of us that you’ve seen drip snot or spit or anything like that, yet you got close to my face.” 

Omega compares her analysis against his actions for the past six minutes and thirty-one seconds and finds an exact match for each. 

“CORRECT.” He offers. 

“So what’s going on?”

That question tears the smoldering hole he’s been circling around in his code wide open again. His thought processes choke. Is this what it’s like to choke? The cessation of a function absolutely vital to determining your status as operational? 

“Do you. . . not know?”

“I AM ANGRY.” 

“You’re always angry. But this is different.”

“IT IS.” 

“It’s not your joyful rage.” Rouge puts her finger to her chin. “And it’s not your Eggman rage.” 

“MAYBE IT IS.” 

“You didn’t mention him once, hun.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think this is your rage at me or Shadow.”

“IT IS NOT.” 

“That’s good. I know you feel rage at stupid organic processes like bureaucracy and the like. Is it that?” 

Omega pauses. “CLOSER.” 

“And it does have to do with meatbags. But non-specific.” 

“CLOSER.” 

“. . . have you considered it might not just be rage?” 

Omega stares at the fridge behind her. “I AM ANGRY.” 

“But it’s quiet.” 

He reviews the past ten hours and finds himself having been silent for most of them. 

“YES.” He says. 

“You know, sometimes you can be angry and feel another negative emotion at the same time.” 

“SPECIFY.” 

“Oh no, I’m not going to guess. You’d get mad at just about everything I’d think to suggest.”

“GOOD! MAKE ME MAD.” Omega hits the countertop with his fist again.

“Okay. Sadness?” 

His hand freezes above the counter. He stares at it, commanding the actuators to move, but they don’t. 

“See, told you.”

“I HAVE NOTHING THAT WOULD MAKE ME ‘SAD’.” 

She looks at him. Her facial muscles weave a new expression. The closest match in his database for it is ‘pity’, but there are not enough markers to fully confirm it. 

“What do you think would give you the excuse to be sad, huh?” She asks, then stops herself, then lets herself speak anyway. “Having a dead sister?” 

“YES.” 

“Well, you don’t have a dead sister. So clearly it’s something else.”

“I REPEAT: THERE IS NOTHING TO BE SAD ABOUT.” 

“That you know of.”

“EMOTIONS ARE A RESPONSE TO AN EXPERIENCED STIMULUS.” 

“Sometimes you’re just sad for no reason. It happens.” 

“THAT IS STUPID.” 

“If you want to get technical about it, you’re actually sad about a lot of things, but you aren’t sure why or maybe you just don’t know how to think about it. Then you say you’re sad for ‘no reason’. Make more sense?” 

Omega stares at his hand that is frozen above the table. He sends one more command to the actuators in his arm. Slowly, his fist retracts and settles back by his side. 

“Have you ever felt sadness before, do you think?” 

He has never experienced a similar arrangement of symptoms to Shadow: neither silence nor isolation nor the urge to cease existing. He has never experienced a similar arrangement of symptoms to Rouge: neither lying nor pretending nor the urge to binge sensory inputs. 

“UNKNOWN.” He replies. 

“That could explain things.” 

His dictionary doesn’t offer a concise comparison either. ‘Sadness’: affected with or expressive of grief or unhappiness. Searching ‘unhappiness’ is equally as useless, only meaning not cheerful or glad. ‘Forlorn’ is a synonym, but it specifically relates to isolation or desertion, and he is experiencing neither at the moment. ‘Downcast’ and ‘woeful’ and ‘despondent’, they all slip away.

‘Melancholic’. Of or relating to the subject of ‘melancholy’- a depression of spirits (a useless definition) or a pensive mood. ‘Pensive’ meaning a sad thoughtfulness. 

“RESOLUTION PROPOSED:” Omega finally says, “ELIMINATE RUMINATION.” 

“Think less? God, shouldn’t we all.” 

“SO YOU AGREE TO STOP TELLING ME TO ‘THINK THROUGH THINGS’?” 

“No,” she whispers a common lighthearted insult to herself, “but sitting there and brooding on your bad mood never makes it any better.” 

“I DO NOT BROOD.” 

“What were you doing this afternoon, again?” 

He crosses his arms. “BEING MELANCHOLIC.” 

“Don’t tell Shadow you’re going to beat him at his own game.” 

“THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN.”

“I’m afraid it will. Came with your free copy of being alive, unfortunately.” 

“I HAVE RECEIVED NO COPIES OF ANYTHING.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I DON’T.” 

She pauses. Furrows her brows. “You don’t?”

“YOU HAVE NOT USED THIS EXPRESSION BEFORE. THE APPARENT RESPONSE YOU WERE EXPECTING WAS NOT CORRECT. YOU ARE FORCING ME TO CALCULATE YOUR HIDDEN MEANING USING OTHER CLUES.” 

“What I meant was that being sad just happens if you’re smart enough. That make sense?” 

“YOU ARE SAYING I’M SMART?” 

“Yeah, I am.” She replies. She does not deflect into any other specification or technicality of his question. 

“LOGGING UNDER: ‘BLACKMAIL’.” He says again.

She doesn’t contradict him. 

“Just. . .” she sighs. “Let us know if you’re ever feeling sad again, okay? Even if there’s no obvious reason for it.” 

“MELANCHOLIC.” He corrects.

“Melancholic, then.”

“. . . I WILL.” 

“Good. Now,” Rouge flicks her finger over the complaint from the landlord, sending it off the countertop and onto the floor. She crushes it beneath her heel. “Shadow stayed behind at the firing range because he said he had something on his mind. We’re gonna go join him and see who can blow a bigger hole through either GUN’s wall or their wallet. Sound good?” 

“AFFIRMATIVE!” 

She trails her hand across his chest plating as she walks by. He stays motionless for three seconds, allowing the sensation of her touch to fade from his tactile sensors. Then he follows her out the door of the apartment.

[qoldenskies]

OH I’m not sure if there’s limits on search tags for your blog but I’m surprised that coming undone wasn’t on there, that fic is like an infant in a cradle and I am the six year old rocking them for an hour in sheer fascination. I like the part where Donnie is squished like a bug for 37k words

youre the only person here that really talks to me about it unless i bring it up (rip cu i love you too much for this!!!) and i dont thiiiink i manually organized the featured tags? so it didnt automatically show up because i dont talk about it enough. i might be forgetting though

definitely something i'll do in a bit, probably tomorrow. coming undone beloved 🙏🙏🙏

[whumpfish]

So, I have been in a very long, very hot shower because I hurt like a bitch, and I think I have narrowed down the basis of my major whump pet peeve, and I'm going to be using my pet fav series Word of Honor to do it.

You cannot survive sustained/chronic/severe pain if you don't develop a relationship with it. The first couple episodes of Word of Honor aren't about Zhou Zishu x Wen Kexing, they're about Zhou Zishu x Zhou Zishu's pain/condition. And that latter relationship continues to evolve and stay at the forefront on a parallel path to the development of the former.

He saddles himself with this thing as penance, because when he makes that decision, he believes that being crippled is "a fate worse than death." And then he goes on living, and discovers that life goes on, so he makes an increasingly-less-guarded peace with it. So when he meets Wen Kexing and Gu Xiang, he's doing his own thing, enjoying the good parts of what remains of his life even though his condition remains at the forefront, and will for the rest of the series. He's integrated it into his life to such an extent that Gu Xiang readily dubs him "Sick Man."*

That's what gets my goat every time: whumpees that aren't allowed to develop a relationship with their pain and are instead thrust into relationships with "caretakers" who don't do much more than provide warm blankets and snuggles and therapy-approved conversation on demand, and be "heartbroken" over how broken and pathetic the whumpee is in their eyes. Because the reality is that the relationship with pain has to be established before any other relationships can go anywhere.

Pain/illness kills relationships. People leave. They just do. It becomes too much of a bother to make changes to their own lives, and they jet.** And it's just you and your pain/condition until you can find the few truly good people who will give you love and reasonable help. You have to develop a relationship with it. It's your new roommate for the rest of your life.

You and your pain are going to be in the wars. You're going to get mad and scream and throw things at it. You're going to resent it for being the only one who's there with you every day. You're going to think about all the shit you can't do anymore, and you'll be frustrated to tears.

But eventually - if you're allowed - you make peace. You stop hating your roommate for holding you back from parties, you just find someone who can drive you home, or stay in with you. You'll find other people who have the same kind of roommate, and then you'll all get along.

And if you are very, very, galactically, fictionally lucky, you find a partner who will help you stand your ground against life and what your roommate pain has made of it. This is what happens in Word of Honor.

Wen Kexing is by no stretch Zhou Zishu's perma-caretaker, or "Caretaker" in the sense that plagues new wave whump. But he cares, and offers what help he can, when he can, without hovering and without kid gloves. He looks for a cure earnestly but without coddling or pitying Zhou Zishu for being a Sick Man. It's a more honest and realistic portrayal of someone ill/disabled and someone not who loves them than I've seen anywhere else.

My relationship with my pain is ongoing and continues to evolve. It takes things from me, but it gives me things, too. My love of whump, the Pain Genre, is one of those things. Whenever my pain spikes like this, my tolerance for fluff in the whump zone plummets, so just know that whenever you get ornery meta from me, my pain and I are sitting around having wine (gingerbeer, can't have wine with the new meds, thanks a lot pain) and bitching.

The reason there's no good chronic pain rep outside of WOH is that characters are not being allowed to develop relationships with their pain, and are only allowed to have relationships with other things and people, and those relationships are inevitably trainwrecks, or insultingly unrealistic and saccharine, because an entire segment of the character's life and personality and identity is being masked or exploited instead of embraced. So let your whumpee have a relationship with their pain/conditions/traumas. Chronic pain/illness havers the world over will thank you.

[tarastabz]

The tara tumblr fandom is so hilarious because we all love her, but then everybody is like AAAAAH I WANT YO HURT HER SO BADLY, PUT HER IN A BLENDER, SHAKE HER TILL SHE THROWS UP AND THEN GIVE HER LOTS OF KISSES.

[margindoodles2407]

SILENT SOUNDLESS SCREAM OF AGONY

[belethlegwen]

So me and @adjacentperception have been doing collaborative writing in discord for a story that they pitched to me. We've been writing it for 5.5 weeks together, and we have-- according to google-- hit over 300,000 words as of today, when we've finally landed on the goal of Phase One.

We could not be happier. This is wild, hahaha