#painful shapeshifting

[whumpacabra]

Chapter 6. Othered

Past self harm, dissociation, knife wound, hand trauma, implied painful shapeshifting, whump of a minor [11], implied past abuse, past trauma, implied fantasy racism

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“How is he?” Kell was practically on the verge of tears themself. They didn’t know how Misha could smile and joke while bandaging Finn’s bloodied hand. Even less so since Finn hadn’t squeaked, hadn’t mumbled or so much as looked at anyone since Kell found the boy cutting himself to pieces in the kitchen.

“…I’m not sure. His - his other hand. Never seen anything like it.” Misha’s smile dropped the second he turned away from the lad, still listless and hollowed out where he sat on the floor of the bunk area. The medic had never looked so unsure, so shaken. “The captain - “

“No.” Kell had been adamant when they first flagged down the medic and begged for his discrete assistance. They knew too well Flint’s past to trust him with Finn’s future, not when he was - well, when the boy wasn’t human.

At first glance Kell thoughts it was burns, the bleaching of White Fire or eel spit, the way Finn’s recently sun tanned hands were a shock of white. But the webbing, the curl of blunt, black claws where his chipped and bitten fingernails once resided - that was beyond human injury. Human anatomy.

And Finn had tried to hide it from them.

To the point of cutting it away himself.

“I cannot - I cannot treat him if I don’t know what - what to do about - about this.” Misha splayed his own hand for emphasis, trying to keep his voice quiet as though Finn couldn’t hear them at this proximity. (He probably couldn’t - eyes empty and expression slack.)

“The captain - do not tell the captain about this. You - Finn’s terrified - was terrified we would see whatever this is. The captain won’t… Sweet Marie. We can ask her.”

“You fetch her. I…don’t think he should be alone right now.” Misha said with a nod, turning back to Finn and crouching in front of the shivering child, whispering comforts that fell on unhearing ears.

Kell swallowed their fear and put on a brave face, tossing their locs over their shoulder. Keeping secrets from each other was almost impossible - and strictly against the code. Keeping this secret from the captain… Kell wasn’t sure how long they could do it, but for Finn’s sake, they hoped it was long enough to figure out what to do with him.

Marie was above, scouring the decks with sharp eyes from the helm. Finn was supposed to be learning the wind patterns with her… She caught sight of Kell where they emerged from the hold, the pair locking eyes for a brief moment. She could see that something was wrong, immediately stepping away from her post and descending with them to the bunks.

“What happened?” There was an uncharacteristic anxiety in her husky voice. She noticed that Kell didn’t go straight to Flint.

“It’s - here, Misha.” Kell took a lantern from the wall, the dim light illuminating Finn’s tear stained face and the fresh blood stains on his borrowed shirt. Sweet Marie’s breathing stuttered, a flash of grief and fear across her face as she looked between the boy and Misha, who sat next to him with a protective arm over his shaking shoulders.

“Kell found him in the kitchen. Cut - cut his left hand. Much the way they were the first night.” Misha gingerly held up Finn’s freshly bandaged hand, red already leaking through the bandages. (Kell could almost swear the white blotches around his wrist had faded closer to his natural color in the past few minutes.)

“Finn hurt himself?” Marie’s worry was boiling over to anger - not at the boy, of course. Kell shrank with an apologetic grimace. It had been their duty to keep an eye on him, it was their fault he slipped away -

“He didn’t want us to see this.” Misha continued, gesturing Marie crouch as he tentatively lifted Finn’s other hand.

Kell was right - the blotches had faded, at least from their pure white glow to a more natural if still too-pale hue. But the webbing remained, thick and purposeful between his fingers, black claws shining in the lamplight as Misha splayed the boy’s hand. Sweet Marie inhaled sharply, but the glint in her eyes wasn’t fear or disgust. Curiosity tinged with compassion, the same as that welling in Kell’s heart.

“Flint?”

“Doesn’t know.” They assured her, her face hardening as she nodded. “Do…do you know - ?”

“Nothing I’ve ever seen before.” She muttered, cautiously taking Finn’s hand from Misha, running her fingers over the discolored skin. “Finn, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

He flinched at his name, but didn’t raise his head. For a few grim moments, Kell worried whatever goodwill and rapport the crew had built with the boy had been completely shattered. But, head wobbling on an unsteady neck, he slowly raised his dim, blood shoot eyes to Marie’s face. She gave his hand, inhuman but unharmed, a gentle squeeze.

“We won’t tell the captain. But…do you know why this happened?”

(Did the boy even know what he was?)

Finn’s eyes fled her face, but he nodded, biting the inside of his cheek surely hard enough to draw blood. Kell crouched, hoping their presence added to this circle of safety instead of detracting from it. Finn glanced at them, eyes apologetic.

“Was it the sea water?” They prompted, knowing how rarely Finn spoke even when completely comfortable. The boy’s eyes flashed to them, wide and brimming with tears of fear. Another nod. “Okay. It’s okay, Finn, we just - we’re trying to figure out how to help you.”

The lad’s expression crumbled, a pillar worn away by the tide finally collapsing into the sea. The distinctly inhuman chirp of a whine in Finn’s throat dissolved into a sob, and he let Misha cradle him onto his lap. Kell took a steadying breath and met Marie’s pensive eyes.

Figuring out how to help him was going to be difficult, if they didn’t even know what he was.

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Taglist: @bloodredfountainpen

[softersynths]

what’s shiftys reaction to ford coming back?

[bittybatarts]

been in a ref mood. I guess I can have a humanoid sona too, sometimes. They're not just human though, that'd be boring.

[blackhholes]

teen wolf meme: [5/5] motifs -> pain

It still hurt! And that's what keeps you human- pain.

[collgeruledzebra]

now that im writing this it's occuring that i don't think this was ever actually mentioned or implied in game but the idea of the service weapon following the director around has been in my head rent free for a few days

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Nimona shapeshifted into a Dalmatian and convinced her adopted Dalmatian mom to stop feeding the oldest sibling. I also fought the Statue of Liberty who cut my foot and it hurt really bad.

[bugtastic-bug]

aching

[whumpypepsigal]

Nancy Drew s04e10: “I will find a way to fix it. Come hell or high water.”

[mxmorbidmidnight]

Steady Now (an original poem about chronic pain, fatigue and mobility issues)

[kurithedweeb]

“You have to deal with it eventually.” Travis flipped the knife around and held it out to Laurance, hilt-first. “In my experience, it’s better to take the edge off than let it simmer up until it boils you alive.”

Laurance stared at the knife. He had a strange look on his face, one Travis couldn’t read. It was usually easier to read Laurance than most other people, he was usually a very expressive man, but this expression was a small one. One where all the nuance was bunched in the low angle of his brows and the slight part of his lips. 

His eyes were on the sharp edge of the blade, where it pressed against the bare skin of Travis’s forearm. He did not take the knife. There was a tremble in Laurance’s fingers as they dragged through the sand, closing into a fist.

Travis stabbed the knife into the sand between them. Sunlight bounced off the blade, painting each of their hands in slivers of shining color.

He looked back out over the water. He said, “For when you need it most.”

For a long time, neither of them said a word. Travis watched the water ebb and flow. It splashed against the sole of Laurance’s boot. Warlock Valkrum grinned up at Travis from his reflection, twisting away as the waves receded.

Laurance took the knife with him when he left.

[boyybites]

Finished this monster of a ref today and because of this one I'm reworking reference sheet prices so you can pick and choose/build your own for what you need, so if you want a headshot you can add it if ya don't ya don't need one.

Iseul Phan belongs to @faywildimaginal

[whumpacabra]

Chapter 5. Clipped

Intentional self harm, knife wound, hand trauma, implied painful shapeshifting, whump of a minor [11], internalized fantasy racism, past abuse, past trauma

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Finn…Finn was okay. He was living in a constant state of confusion, just trying to get from one minute to the next now that he wasn’t safe in the captain’s quarters. (The trust was shaky at best, constant doubt poisoning every soft smile and gentle hand. Was it a joke? A trick? Bait to lure him to make a mistake?)

He at least expected the ship to make sense, to be predictable the way this captain wasn’t. It was, to an extent. Words and shouts and rigging he recognized and could understand. Chores and menial labor that felt safer than anything else this ship carried.

(Save for that pelt, in the cargo hold, so close - )

“Your hands start bothering you, we can find Misha. But I’m not getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the deck under the stairs - glad we have a shrimp like you around for this.”

This one was called Kell. Dark skinned with long, goldthreaded braids. Finn was proud of himself for remembering so many names and faces. The uniforms on the Lieutenant’s ship made everyone blur together, but the crew here all dressed distinctly.

Friar wore a whale leather apron. Sweet Marie her tricorn hat. The captain, his red coat. And so on. Kell wore a purple scarf, wrapped around their head. There were letters on it, embroidered in shiny green thread, but Finn couldn’t look at it long enough to read it.

This - Finn almost felt good doing this. A damp rag in hand, soft wood grain stained green with algae slowly returning to its natural brown hue. It was odd, uncomfortable not having a list hanging over his head, a time limit to finish his chores before the sun set. But, this past week or two was starting to feel…safe. Good.

He was rotating among the crew, working through different aspects of the ship in a circuit. The kitchen with Friar, the bunks with Ainim and Ishvael, the deck maintenance with Kell. He was told he would be at the helm with Marie next - reading the wind maps and current charts.

He never got to do something like that on the Lieutenant’s ship - which was…scary, but, like the sea rocking his hammock at night, didn’t feel as scary as it should have felt.

There was a rhythm as he worked, the pitch and yaw of the ship as it charged over the waves was as steady as his own hands, rinsing the rag in a bucket of clean sea water and returning to work at a particularly bad patch of -

His hands burned.

It wasn’t the burn of fire, or salted flesh - it was the burn that preceded those dreadful sensations. The skin stretching and bones shifting and -

Finn pitched forward, a sharp hiss strangled before it could leave his lips. He dropped the rag, drawing his hands to his chest to furtively look between them and where Kell stood a ways off, chatting with Marie.

His hands, tanned from his recent days in the sun, were now splotched with white, the blotches creeping up his wrists - as deep as his hands had sunk into that bucket of sea water. (How could he have forgotten - ?) If it was discoloration alone, maybe no one would notice - save for Misha, who might check them despite having removed the last of the bandages days ago -

But his hands were changed, even from just a short submergence.

Webbing had crept up from between his fingers, stretching as he flexed his hand and hanging loose between the digits as he curled his hands smaller. His nails too had changed, thick and dark and no longer bitten back to the nailbeds. It hurt - but it would hurt a lot more once someone noticed, when someone told the captain -

He needed to take care of this. Quickly.

Otherwise the captain would cut him - just as the Lieutenant always had - but maybe, just maybe if he did it himself, it wouldn’t hurt so badly. (He couldn’t stomach the thought of Captain Flint, the first soft hands he had known in so long, turning a blade on him. Finding out he was a monster - )

(“Do you really think anyone could love something like you?”)

Finn, for all his newfound confidence, hadn’t lost his skills forged on the Lieutenant’s ship. Kell didn’t even realize he had left, seal skin boots soft and his slight frame easily dipping between the sun glare and shadows to slip below deck. There it was even easier - almost no one was here during the day - and at that thought he paused, eyes drawn to the cargo hold’s door.

(He could almost still smell it, still feel it under his fingers - no. Not yet. He couldn’t get caught stealing. Not without a way to escape - and the sea was not an escape he could risk. Not here, in the open ocean.)

The kitchen was empty, last night’s stew kept at a low simmer over dying coals. The kitchen wouldn’t be empty forever; it was almost time for Friar to make his rounds with water and a midday snack of dried fruit and meat for the crew. Finn had to work quickly.

He pulled a knife from the work table, stumbling back as the ship pitched beneath his feet, but reeling forward to splay a webbed hand on the table. He suddenly realized he was panting, adrenaline rushing into his shaking hands, tears welling in his eyes. No matter how many times the Lieutenant carved away the webbing, it always came back. It always hurt. And it always would. He needed to learn to do this himself, to take care of himself. And that meant making sure no one found out what he really was.

(What was he?)

He could do this.

The first cut, run along his left index finger, bled more than he remembered. The webbing too seemed thicker, more resistant. Or maybe he was just starting to shake, nauseous and lightheaded from pain. He moved the knife to the opposite side of the webbing, along his middle finger. Black spots started to float across his vision, a strangled whine in his throat as tears fell freely. One section was almost done - he just needed to cut the base, the meeting spot between those fingers…

His world flashed white as he finally cut away the last sinews of flesh, the pain exhausting and the thought of cutting another section of webbing away was almost impossible to fathom. But he had to - he had to or else someone would see, someone else would cut him -

And he couldn’t fathom anyone on this ship hurting him the way the Lieutenant hurt him, not without shattering this fragile dream of safety.

As long as he was the one to do this, no one else had to.

He started on the opposite side of his left middle finger, vision blurry with tears and fading gray. Just - just a few more and then he could…find Misha. Tell Misha that he had been clumsy. Careless. Blisters or something. Something - a good excuse -

He was stalling. Finn pressed the blade down and bit his tongue until he tasted blood, but a sob still wracked through him as he continued to cut.

He had almost finished his left hand when footsteps clattered down the ladder, boots against the boards as someone stalked the lower deck.

Already? Friar shouldn’t have come back so soon - he thought he had more time -

“Finn? Finn are you - fucking Blackblood kid, you scared me. Thought you…” Kell’s voice trailed off, and Finn felt his hands go (blessedly) numb, even as he continued to grip the knife. “Finn. Finn, put down the knife. Now.”

He was - he was so close he just - he just needed to finish and - and somehow - somehow cut his right hand and everything would go back to the way it had been. Finn brought the knife down quickly, a flush of nausea heating his cheeks as the last chunk of webbing was severed from between his pink and ring finger. He was shaking too hard, the knife thankfully wedged into the table under his hand - he would have dropped it otherwise.

(“You got a da around?” Friar’s voice from the other day seemed to echo mockingly in his every hollow sob.)

Kell was yelling at him, walking up behind him - surely about to hit him or - or finish the other hand -

(It would be easier if someone helped with his other hand.)

Finn shuddered, knees giving out as the ship crested another wave. The table was slick with blood - his blood, and the adrenaline was still keeping his hands clumsy and numb. Finn sobbed, keeping his cut hand flat on the table and reaching his other up to splay beside it.

He didn’t care if they made it hurt more, or salted, or burned the cuts - he just needed Kell to finish it so he could - so he could stop thinking about how much his hands hurt.

The shock of Kell dropping to their knees and wrapping him in a hug, muttering panicked and desperate comforts, made even that pain far away.

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Taglist: @bloodredfountainpen

[tofu-bento-box]

my mind is a machine that turns superpowers into chronic illnesses

[ladypepperofdavenshire]

Shift was next on the docket for Antihero Week! I decided that the shapeshifters in the Parallelsverse get the short end of the stick with their abilities: sure, they can turn into anyone and anything, but there’s a trade off. Changing forms more often will cause the body to gradually and permanently change. A lot of the shapeshifters have problems like scoliosis due to having to reform their bodies so much, which means that the more deformed ones are in constant pain. Shift was one of the superhumans that Bradley Jade had his scientists experiment on, using her as an agent to infiltrate and assassinate due to her powers. They also kept trying to push her abilities further and further with their testing, hence why she looks less human now even when in her “resting” form 😔

She’s part of a small group of antiheroes who go after people they think deserve their wrath, though she does missions on her own to track down and kill Bradley’s scientists who escaped being arrested,,,

[thatndginger]

The Runaway Snippets

I've decided to say 'fuck it' and start posting little snippets from The Runaway, because I can. And also because Tem and Dean have been taking over my brain as of late. (the Pack trio are still up there too, but they're giving the dramatics a rest for now.)

So have some cute fluff this morning, I guess~

The cabin is on one side of a clearing shaped like a lopsided egg, the bigger house Temperance had only partially paid attention to nestled on the opposite side. And on the far side of the clearing, a coyote is chasing a little girl.

The girl is young, maybe five or seven, with a head of wild dark red hair that flies around her face like a cloud. There’s something odd about her, but from this distance Temperance can’t tell. The coyote looks like a coyote. Bigger than a coyote should be, maybe.

The coyote lunges for the girl.

Temperance jerks forward.

The girl shrieks. And then she laughs.

“The fuck...” Temperance stumbles to a halt near the porch steps, every thought forgotten as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.

The coyote had lunged, but instead of teeth slicing into defenseless flesh, it had simply pressed it’s nose into the girl’s shoulder near the strap of her overalls. Then it had leapt away, dropping into a bow as it’s tail wagged. Now it’s running away from the girl, just slow enough for her to keep up, just quick enough to make catching it a challenge.

They’re playing.

Shapeshifter taglist (if this still applies? let me know?) @sunset-a-story @touloserlautrec @ceph-the-ghost-writer

[wyvernstuff]

🐺🩸Werewolf on its period vibes

inspired by how i woke up at 2am this morning