#panic attack Whump

[jordanstrophe]

Obsessed with the scenario of whumpee being told news (whumper's alive, escaped, ect) as their response is a calm "Okay," before quickly exiting the room.

Caretaker follows them, knowing despite their demeanor, they didn't take the news well. It didn't take long to find whumpee had only made it ten yards and was clinging to the wall in a panic attack.

Caretaker skids across the floor on their knees and scoops them up, quickly carrying them to a quiet room to calm down.  

[cicutagreninja]

a imprisoned (possibly feral?) whumpee having a panic attack after waking up in the cell. Thrashing around in a blind panic, maybe hitting their head if in a tiny space. Maybe screaming for help. Caretaker finally being allowed to come in and calm them down.

“Hey, hey look at me. You’re okay, it’s okay. We’re gonna be okay. J-just breathe for me for a second, okay?”

[whump-or-whatever]

This is a reminder to leave your whumpee absolutely ruined.

Leave them shaking like a leaf, hardly able to draw a breath.

Leave them covered in so many bruises they can barely move without wincing.

Leave them absolutely blanketed in scars that will never fade.

Leave them rocking back and forth, tears streaming down their face in the midst of a panic attack.

Leave them unable to be near another person without eyeing them warily and flinching every time they move.

Leave them so out of it they can’t see, can’t hear, can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think.

Leave them stumbling and tripping over their own feet, scrambling to get back up each time as they try to escape.

Leave them struggling against the encroaching darkness as they bleed out.

Leave them half-drowned, soaked to the bone, clothes clinging to them as they sputter and gasp on the floor.

Leave them shivering, teeth chattering, trying to rub warmth back into their body.

Leave them delirious with fever, head lolling, eyes unfocused, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Leave them begging for mercy, promising to do anything just to make it stop.

Leave them exhausted, barely able to keep their eyes open let alone put one foot in front of the other.

Leave them so broken they can’t bring themself to care about anyone or anything.

Leave them a blubbering mess, stumbling over their words trying to say the right thing to please whumper.

Leave them so mortified by everything that’s happened to them that they don’t even want to be found anymore because they don’t want people to know.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

I need Santino x John for my soul to heal

More hurt/comfort with them because YES, something I had in mind... what do you think? 👀

Santino got hurt but it like brought him a flashback of his childhood of how his father hurt him in a very similar way. So, not only he has a panic attack, but he cries. Like actually he is experiencing this on such an emotional level that he can't even process anything that's happening around him. And John tries to talk to him, wanting to hold him but he can clearly see Santino is just... not here with him. And he feels so bad, and all he can do is make soothing noises and kiss his forehead trying to get him to snap back out of it and to calm down. Plus Santino is hurt, he has to try and help him with that too :(

WOAH okay, more childhood trauma for Santino, I feel so bad for putting him through stuff like this but, John is here for him 😭

Aaaaaaaaa I liked this ask so much I wrote it immediately. Can you tell I like it when Santino is totally broken hahaaaa...and put back together again by John 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

This is about to be really dark and sad!!

TW: panic attack, crying, concussion, vomiting, discussion of past physical and emotional abuse by a parent

●・○・●・○・●

The sky was a slate gray expanse over the empty dirt lot where John Wick and his husband were locked in battle with a group of Tarasovs. They were mid-fight when John looked over to see Santino pinned face down. The man on top of him, much bigger and stronger than Santino, had his hand on the back of his head and was deliberately smashing his face into the ground. He brought it up and then down again, hard, and rubbed his nose right into the dirt and rocks so he almost couldn't breathe. It wasn't the most painful position - certainly not more so than being shot or stabbed, which Santino had dealt with before. But it looked fucking humiliating, and he made a sound that told John he had to do something immediately. Not the normal grunts of battle, but something desperate and high pitched. John saw red.

Enough messing around. He snapped the neck of the woman he was wrestling and charged him, knocking him off Santino's back and giving him two swift shots to the chest, point blank, then one straight into the skull. John slowly straightened up, panting, and glanced around at the bodies fallen on all sides. That was the last of them, and he was dead for sure. Good riddance.

Santino was still on the ground. He'd curled his legs up under him and was doubled over, his eyes hidden behind his curls. He was rocking back and forth and just…sobbing. Panicking, yes, but far worse than usual. Taking huge, heaving gasps of air with his hands clutching at his chest like he was having a heart attack.

"Hey, hey, hey!" John dropped to his knees next to him and rested an arm around his shoulders. "He's dead. You're safe." But he barely responded. He was really rattled this time, almost hysterical. "You've gotta calm down, love. Breathe."

His answer was barely directed at John. He just seemed far away, gasping out words to no one in particular. "No…lo so…io…no no no no per favore… [No…I know…I…no no no no please…]" If he said anything else, it was incoherent with sobbing.

John couldn't tell if it was from the dirt in his mouth or another wave of fear but he suddenly turned away and started vomiting.

"Shit! Santino! What's happening? How bad did he hurt you?" He rubbed his back. Why was this happening? Did he have organ damage?

As soon as he could talk, he snapped at John in response. "He didn't, okay!? I'm not hurt. I'm - " Santino shuddered violently and hid his head in his hands. Whatever was wrong, he really didn't want to say it.

John took no offense. He just pulled Santino's head into his lap, petting his hair and wiping dirt off his forehead before leaning down to plant kisses on it in the hope of consoling him. He was hurt, to some extend - there were cuts on his cheeks from being smashed against bits of gravel. But there was clearly more going on. "Take your time. I'm here. Whatever's wrong, I'll help you, okay?" But he just kept crying. "Was there…was there something about getting pushed into the ground like that…?"

Santino went very still and finally nodded, very slowly. The crying stopped, but John was pretty sure it was because he was holding his breath. After a minute, he exhaled and managed to talk, still gasping. "That was something - that my father used to do. When I was - very little. He'd shove my face - in the ground. And slam my head - " Tears cut him off again and he couldn't continue.

John squeezed his hand involuntarily, overcome with rage for a moment. "Fucking bastard," he muttered, almost too low to hear.

Santino gave a choked little laugh. That was the first thing that seemed to make him feel any better. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. It was just, you know. To make me feel like - dirt." His face twisted up again and he hid it in his hands. "I'm so sorry. I'm really losing it. I don't know why that hit me so hard…"

"No." John's voice was hard, protective. "Not your fault. I just want to help you feel better." John pulled him up into his arms, embracing him completely. "You're here with me, okay? You're safe. I won't ever let him hurt you again."

Santino's hands grabbed fistfuls of John's coat, overcome with indignance and shame. "I AM dirt. I'm worthless. All these years later and I still get pinned like that and can't fight back! And I made a mess…"

"You're NOT worthless. You're my wonderful husband. The best man I've ever known. You're so brave. It's not your fault other people have hurt you." John was crying too now, into his hair, just petting him and holding him. The compassion he felt was too deep to contain. "I'm so sorry. You should never have had to go through that."

It seemed to get through to him. His grip relaxed and he buried his head into John neck, sighing and sniffling. "I made you cry too…I'm sorry…"

Just, "No. No apologies. I love you."

"I love you too." After a long moment, he spoke again. "...John?"

"Yeah?"

"My head really hurts. I'm pretty sure...I have a concussion. I - I can tell what this feels like..."

John fought down more fury. He didn't miss the fact that Santino recognized the feeling. Had probably felt it before... He had to take a few deep breaths to calm the blind rage that was making him grip Santino almost too tightly. "We'll get you to a doctor, okay?"

"Thank you. I don't deserve you, John." He sounded miserable but at least the tears were starting to subside.

"You do." One day he would make him believe it.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee dropping a dish and breaking it by accident. They have a panic attack, afraid that Whumper will hurt them.

Cue comfort from Caretaker ❤️

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Ugh I love how the Streetkid Chris AU shows his parallels and differences to Kauri so well.

I wonder if Jake may be expecting Chris to be a little more like Kauri, and how that preconception alongside Chris being a little older and having his pill dependency vs seeing the "statue boy" in the rain will change things. Jake is very nonjudgmental so I think he'd quickly adjust to taking him how he comes, but this is a much more guarded Chris than he's used to. Plus Antoni is clearly worried about him being in the home.

Also, from Anon: please forgive me for storming into your asks so soon after you've posted already. but i am sobbing please write a continuation for streetkid chris (if you want to)

Streetkid Chris AU: One | Two | Three | Four

-

CW: Brief references to dubcon, heavily internalized ableism, conditioned fear response, panic attack, meltdown with stimming that causes injury, head banging

The pills kick back in about halfway through Baldur fumbling through helping Kauri to create a bed from a pullout couch. He's had some water and a handful of crackers, in the kitchen. Kauri had pulled him into the living room and moved around the space like it was his own, pulling sheets out of a closet door Baldur hadn't even noticed yet, along with pillows that he dropped unceremoniously onto the floor before he told Baldur how to take off the couch cushions and then pull the folded-up mattress on its metal frame out. Like watching paper, he thought, that you've made snowflakes out of when you open it up.

The twinge of pain he feels when the thought comes to him makes him wince. He keeps smelling something in the oven that makes his mouth water for a familiar taste he can't remember. It's locked tight back behind the white lights in his mind, and Baldur tells his thoughts to swerve away as fast as they can, to make the pain stop threatening to take over.

He's lucky.

The pills are working.

His mind is moving slow, but it's listening to him at least. It's like syrup pouring out of a bottle onto a stack of pancakes, so slow your hand is shaking with impatience, waiting for the promised sweetness that doesn't come. He feels clouded over, wading through fog, but it's a comfortable way to be. It's being good, to be like this.

Like mornings spent lying in Sir's bed, staring upwards at the ceiling or maybe beyond it, without thinking anything at all.

It's easier, this way.

Safer.

"So, there you go," Kauri says, standing back with his hands on his hips. The couch has become a cozy bed, with a half-dozen pillows and four blankets piled up high. Baldur could sleep there for days, and as long as the pills kept coming, he wouldn't even notice he wasn't moving. "Will that work? We'll have to share, though, is that okay?"

Baldur swallows. "I-I don't, um-" No. No no no. Statue boy, he reminds himself. Good boys are statue boys. Silence is better than stammering, stillness is better than what I do. His fingers twitch, just once, and then the fog of the pills smothers his fears and presses them down. The prickling energy that bursts out of him when he's sober is safely held back. He pictures his racing mind running out of air, limbs slowing, lungs expanding just once more and then no longer. "I don't mind. I... don't like to sleep alone."

"Yeah." Kauri's face briefly goes strange, like it's been emptied-out of feeling. "Me neither. Never have. Alone is-"

"-bad," Baldur finishes, in a whisper. "No one wants you."

"Right. Yeah. They taught you that, too, huh?"

"No one wants you... then you're not real," Baldur says. He can feel his handler's hand heavy on the back of his neck, like a ghost breathing against his ear.

"... Shit. I guess even the worst shit was just part of the program, huh?" Kauri stares down at the couch-bed for one long moment of heavy silence, then he inhales sharply and laughs, empty and hollow. "We're just fucking dolls in the toy store for rich idiots to pull the legs off of, aren't we? All the same, come in the same boxes-... never mind. I'm having a weird day." He shakes himself like a dog shaking off water. "Just ignore me being weird, it happens sometimes."

"Yeah," Baldur murmurs. "Me, too. Happens... to me, too." Baldur hears an echo of someone screaming in his mind - maybe himself - but the stab of pain doesn't come. He manages to smother the memory before it can come together enough to hurt him.

Kauri takes a deep breath. "Okay, so. Weirdness steadfastly ignored, we'll just settle in and then when dinner is ready-"

The front door opens, and Baldur spins on his heels, hands slipping behind his back. Position One is thoughtless, effortless, instinctive. He always met Sir in Position One or Position Two, depending on the day. Kauri, though, doesn't slip into any position - he just smiles, wide blue eyes sparkling with a warmth Baldur has never seen in him before.

The man who walks inside isn't that much older than Baldur, but he's huge. Tall, and heavily muscled, built like the handlers who could pick Baldur up like a child and force him back against the wall or onto a table no matter how he kicked or fought, until he learned not to fight any longer. He has close-cropped ashy blond hair trending towards light brown, pale skin, and his own face lights up as soon as he sees Kauri, returning the sunshine looks they give each other.

It hurts.

Baldur's never had anyone look at him like that.

"Hey, Kauri," The man says, in a deep voice that sounds like the warm summer nights when Baldur sleeps out in the park and doesn't get cold at all. Then he looks over to Baldur, still standing in careful position, and some of the warmth fades. "Woah. Who's this?"

"Friend of mine," Kauri says, and he grabs Baldur by one arm and pulls him closer, careless of how he stumbles. Once they get close enough, Baldur can smell the tall man's cologne. It's a good smell, kind of woodsy. Not at all like Sir's, which would feel like it stuck inside of Baldur until it was all he could smell. "This is Chris."

"Hey, Chris," Jake says. His smile is back in place, but it's more polite. He holds out a hand, and after a delay, Baldur realizes he's supposed to shake and sticks his hand out. "I'm Jake Stanton."

Baldur catches the way his eyes drop, seeing the barcode on the inside of Baldur's left wrist. Nothing in his expression changes at all, but something of the fizzing tension in the air does. Baldur swallows around a tightness in his throat.

Those eyes are back on him-

Oh. Jake's eyes are blue, too. Like Kauri's but not like his at all.

"WRU, Facility 001, Designation Romantic 223499," Baldur says automatically, to the unspoken question he thinks he sees there.

"You don't have to do that here," Kauri says in a rush, putting a hand on Baldur's back. "It's not like that."

"It's... always like that," Baldur says. He thinks he sees interest in Jake's face, curiosity, and maybe that's who he'll have to give his body to, to earn dinner and the couch bed to sleep on. He can do that. As long as he keeps his mind untethered from his body, he can move his hips and arch his back and make all the sounds and drift inside of himself until it's over.

"Not here," Jake says, voice deep and gentle. He won't be so bad, Baldur thinks. He'll be slow about it, not like the ones who don't care if it hurts. He won't have to lie as hard to make it believable that he enjoys it. "You don't do that here." He turns back to Kauri, and it feels like light moves behind a cloud when his eyes are off of Baldur. "Where's Nat?"

"Up in her room," Kauri says, shrugging. "And Antoni-"

"Is here," The feline-eyed man says from the bottom of the stairs. Baldur blinks, then jumps - a half-second delayed. He hadn't even heard him come down, even though the stairs are creaky in such old houses. "I can talk to you about something?" Those dark eyes briefly rest on Baldur.

There's no warmth in them.

"Huh? What's up?"

Antoni pauses. "In my room, please, Jasha."

Baldur's heart chills. Even through the pleasant fog of pills, he can hear the coldness there. And he knows it's about him, he knows it. He's done something wrong, wrong enough to be talked about. Like handlers outside his door, talking about what he did wrong and what they'll do to make him sorry. He chokes on the fear of it - consequences hurt so much. He must have been caught swaying, or touching, or making sounds that are against his rules.

"... sure, Ant. Just a sec." Jake frowns. He leaves his sneakers on a mat by the door and follows Antoni up - the stairs creak when he walks up them. They're already talking in low voices that don't quite travel.

He hears Antoni's voice, a soft, Not sure it is a good idea for him to be here.

He did something wrong.

Suddenly, Baldur can barely breathe. His vision is blurs of color, shadow and light. His fingers twitch again, and this time they don't stop. His head is full of a crashing noise that even the pills can't hold back.

He's in trouble. He did something wrong. He's in trouble, and they'll come back down and ask, Do you know what you did, darlin'? And he'll have to guess, and he always guesses wrong.

The games are always rigged for him to lose.

You don't learn any other way, sweetheart.

His breath gets halfway down his throat and stops there. It's stuck, and he wishes he was so drunk he blacked out, or so high he slept for the next few days, until whatever he's done wrong blows over and they forget to punish him, or maybe just punish him but he doesn't remember it.

His heart beats so loud inside of him, blood rushing in his ears. His eyes go to the wall, and he can quiet the chaos inside him if he can get to it, but his feet are stuck right here to the floor. He can't. He can't, it's against his rules, he has to be good, be a statue boy, be silent be still but being still hurts so fucking much when he's scared-

Kauri isn't looking at him. He watches the two men go, thick eyebrows a little furrowed. "I wonder what that's about. Antoni can be so weird, sometimes, I swear-" He breaks off and turns, looking at Baldur. He must see something there. He must see the terror in wide green eyes, the white showing all around, in the way his fingers are shaking, how he can't quite stop bouncing on the balls of his feet with the need to get to a place he can curl up and hide, or hit his head on the wall, until the chaos quiets and he can think again.

The pills are supposed to stop this.

They don't.

"Chris?"

He flinches violently backwards when he realizes Kauri is right in front of him, has somehow moved without him seeing. Those long-fingered hands are warm, palms on either side of his face. Those big blue eyes are looking right at his, reflecting him there in Kauri's pupils. When he flinches, Kauri pulls away, and Baldur misses the warmth of touch the way he used to miss darkness when he lived always under white lights.

"Hey." Kauri's voice is soft, slow and gentle. "Hey. Chris, what's wrong? Talk to me?"

There aren't words. He can feel them, there are words, but they're trapped behind teeth on top of tongue. They shift, dipping beneath the surface before he can get his mouth around them. He can't use any of them at all. His hands move, shaking, to twist and pull at the hem of his shirt, but-

No-

Have to be still-

He can't.

He can't be still. He can't be the statue boy, the fear is too strong. And if he can't be still, he'll be in even worse trouble. It's a cycle, a loop of warm ocean water sucked up into the hurricane. It's ash blocking out the sun, killing all the dinosaurs. He remembers the dinosaurs. He remembers the asteroid hit the earth, and the planet was swept by fire burning everything that survived the strike. He remembers that his mind moves like objects in space, impossibly fast and dangerous, because it isn't allowed.

"Chris?" Kauri's swimming in and out of his awareness. He knows there are hands on him, leading him to the couch bed. He feels, distantly, the softness of pillows as his back rests against them. He knows as if staring from the top of a mountain that Kauri is speaking to him in a voice like the clouds rolling in far below.

He can hear other voices, too, but they don't make it through the haze of panic. It's derailed everything. The pills aren't helping, they're making it worse. He can sense the comforting warm blanket of being high just out of reach, and instead it's all terror, overwhelming, flooding the plain.

He knows his mouth is moving.

He can hear himself, tinny and small and from a distance too far to cover, saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't be mad, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to I didn't mean to I'm sorry, please don't be mad over and over again. He tries to be still. He hits his head on Kauri's shoulder and that strikes new terror, so he hits his head harder, then he bites - he buries teeth into skin that he only belatedly realizes isn't his when Kauri makes a sound of pain.

It's a cycle.

He's circling, he's a hurricane, his mind is dangerous and his body is wrong and it has to be stopped.

He can't stop.

He wails, half a scream that he tries to catch and pull back. The sound dips and drops, it becomes a low, wordless moan, over and over and over again. It rises from the person inside of him who used to exist before he signed his life away and they wrote a new him onto the body of the old one.

He used to be someone else.

He used to be someone better.

He used to make noises like this, before they made him stop. Before they made sure he knew that rocking - he's rocking, he feels himself sway forward and back, his fingers twisting and pulling at fabric, moving and moving to calm the rising chaos and violence inside of him - would lead to pain and fear. Before they taught him to take every pill he was given until his body was quiet and still and good for them, for the handlers for Sir for anyone who wants to fuck him or put a hand on his head and make him choke.

The thick clay shell they made him build up around himself, though, has gone brittle.

It shatters.

He rocks and rocks. He hears the sounds he is making like they belong to someone else. He feels tears, hot and burning as they track down his cheeks, cooling rapidly to drip onto his shirt, onto Kauri's shirt and neck when his face buries itself there. His sounds vibrate against Kauri's scarred collarbone. His fingers are gripped into Kauri's shirt now, holding so tight the threadbare fabric rips and his fingertips brush the heat of skin beneath. There are other voices besides Kauri's, but he doesn't listen to them, he can't listen to them or the fear will rise again.

Kauri is talking to him.

His chin is on Baldur's head, and he's talking, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you, honey, it's okay," over and over and over again. One hand is on the back of his neck, a gentle weight that starts him falling back down to earth.

He rocks with Baldur.

The hurricane starts to wear itself out, spinning and spinning but the wind dies down. He's falling out of the eye onto the ground. The noise inside his head is agony but it's agony he can hear over and around. He doesn't know how long it's been. The rocking is gentle, endless and soothing, and Kauri's other hand rubs up and down his back like-

His mother-

Someone he can't remember used to do when he did this, a long time ago.

"It's okay. You're okay. You're okay," Kauri whispers.

There are other voices, but Baldur can't hear them or he'll be a hurricane again. He keeps his thoughts on Kauri, on the rock of their bodies together, on the weight and warmth of someone holding on to him until he can come back down to earth.

The eruption stops, the flow of rivers bright orange and red and white with heat cooling to dark, solid, safe.

His bones stop burning, his head stops pounding with the noise inside of it.

Kauri is still rocking.

"I've got you," His low voice whispers, too deep for his delicate shape and size. "I've got you, Chris. Let it out, you're okay, I've got you. I've got you."

He struggles to remember how to make the feeling inside him into words, manages to whisper, " Don't-... don't go-"

"I won't," Kauri promises. His arms are tight and strong around Baldur's shaking, skinny body. "I won't. I'm right here. I'm right here."

"What the hell-" Jake's voice interrupts. "What the hell happened?"

"Why... why is he-" That's Antoni, who wanted to talk, who was talking to Jake about him. His voice is shaking, though, his accent thick and heavy. "Why he is yelling so loud-... you can make it stop? The-... screaming-"

Baldur stiffens.

Stop.

Silent.

Still.

Be good.

Good boys are statue boys, good boys-

The thought breaks apart when he hears Kauri's voice crack loud like a whip against the tile floor. "Probably because the two of you decided to go goddamn gossip. Get the fuck out of this room before I take a cast iron to your faces, you assholes."

"Shit." That's Jake, he thinks. Baldur hides against Kauri's neck until he can't possibly see their faces. The anger, the hate, how they'll be planning his punishment.

But then... footsteps.

They leave.

They go.

Because Kauri told them to.

"Let it out," Kauri murmurs, once they're alone again. "Let it out. Whatever you gotta do, you do it. I'm staying right here."

Baldur tightens his grip on Kauri's torn shirt and starts, finally, to cry. The last of the hurricane falls as tears when the wind dies, draining the terror from him to soak into Kauri's shirt.

"I, I bit you," He whispers, when the words are there. When throat and teeth and tongue work together, finally, to form them. "I'm sorry. I... I, I bit you-"

"No worries," Kauri says, right against his ear. "Didn't even draw blood. Trust me, you're not the first guy to bite - probably not even the tenth - and you won't be the last. But, just between us... I think you're probably my favorite."

Baldur starts to cry again.

This time, it's not a hurricane at all. It's summer showers, welcome warm rain soaking into a thirsty dried-out earth. He cries until he's emptied-out of the fear, until all that's left is hollow like cracked clay warming in the sun.

Like grass growing between dinosaur bones.

He used to know about that.

Someone who lived in his head did, anyway.

But he knows about it, too.

Baldur didn't.

But... Chris does.

-

[rosetyler42]

Some angst that wouldn't get out of my head with the idea of Ericka+Ford+McGucket in Bendy's game.

Ericka isn't scared of the machine or the ink the way some might be, but she does recognize it's dangerous and the source of the whole mess Joey created....which is why it's important to learn as much about it as possible, but it's not something to be taken lightly...

Ford is fascinated by this anomalous supernatural machine. A machine that creates living creatures out of souls and ink??? Of course he also realizes there's danger in it, but...after he's done geeking out about it.

But Fiddleford has a hard time even LOOKING at it. There's just something WRONG with that machine to him...something that reminds him of a certain traumatizing incident years ago...

It's a good thing Ericka has experience with panic attacks.

Or in other words:

Ford: Autism and/Or ADHD, possibly NPD

Ericka: AuDHD, CPTSD, and Anxiety

Fidds: Anxiety, PTSD, + Alzheimers.

(NONE of these Blorbos are Neurotypical!)

Also: I don't think I'm drawing the machine again. That thing was a PAIN to draw. XD

@lovelylivelyv @black-ak9 @hotelt-resurrection @serial-serializednovelreader @deathfangirl9 @heartsong1994 @howling-nightmare @thedobermutt @thedemonsurfer @thedopedemon @nerdalmighty @dorykinny @royaledevil @monstetransylvaniasstuff

[inky-here]

cw: panic attack mentioned, hurt/comfort, recovery

a small whumpee huddled in a tight space when having a panic attack or being overwhelmed

and a bigger caretaker who wants to comfort them somehow managing to squeeze themselves in too, making whumpee laugh because of how comically they had to fold their limbs

[whumpschild]

Naruto shippuden ep 209 capter (idk)

The last picture is my own additive.

[kabie-whump]

❆ Whumpcember Day 6: "Please stop." ❆

Dasher's under a lot of pressure as the team's leader, and she has a panic attack.

⋆❅*𖢔𐂂꙳

Dasher leans heavily against a tree, her breaths coming sharp and short. Her chest aches, tight like it’s being crushed in a vice. Her heart hammers in her chest so hard that she could swear it’s about to burst from her chest. Nearby she can hear the faint laughter of Donner, Comet, and Dancer chasing each other around, their skates scraping on smooth ice. 

She’s supposed to join them. This is supposed to be fun. But she just got finished talking with Santa and while the big man acted like everything is fine she can see through it and she knows he’s stressed, knows that it’s because the team can’t pull his sleigh anymore and what if Christmas doesn’t even happen this year and it’s all because of her team?

Dasher bites her lip hard, shaking the thought out of her head. She can’t focus on that right now, not when she’s supposed to be keeping an eye on her team and making sure that they don’t fall through the ice or get dismenbered by wolves or something. 

The voices of her friends sound distant, like they’re underwater, and Dasher’s chest aches.

Something’s wrong. This isn’t normal.

She stumbles back towards the village, making her way inside and heading for the infirmary. Donner, her unofficial second-in-command, can keep an eye on them. She needs to make sure she’s not having a heart attack. 

Dasher finds Cupid sitting at a desk in the infirmary, writing something on a long sheet of parchment. He looks up as Dasher enters, his expression jumping into one of concern.

“Dash? What’s wrong?”

Dasher tries to answer but no words come out - just a shallow gasp. She clutches at her chest, leaning heavily on the wall behind her.

Cupid is on his feet in an instant, guiding Dasher over to a cot and helping her fall onto it as her legs wobble dangerously. “Sit,” he commands gently. “What happened? Where does it hurt?”

Dasher shakes her head hard, still unable to piece together an answer. “I- I can’t- breathe-”

“What happened?” Cupid asks again, looking her over. He takes her pulse with two cold fingers on her wrist, his brow pinched with confusion.

“Nothing happened,” Dasher pants. “I just- can’t breathe- I’m dying.”

Frowning, Cupid continues to check her over. “You’re… You’re not dying, Dash.”

Dasher looks up at him sharply, disbelief written across her face. 

“I promise,” he reassures her, “you’re not dying. I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Dasher freezes at those words. “What? No,” she gasps, shaking her head again. “It’s not- it’s not just in my head…”

“It’s not just in your head,” Cupid agrees, his voice taking on a low, soothing tone. “Your body is having a very real reaction to a perceived theat. But you’re safe, Dash. You’re safe. Look at me.”

Dasher hesitates but forces herself to meet Cupid’s warm brown eyes. His gaze is grounding, steady, and for a moment it cuts through the haze of panic Dasher’s been lost in.

“Breathe with me,” Cupid says slowly. He demonstrates, taking even, exaggerated, breaths. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Match me.”

“I can’t,” Dasher says, still clutching her chest. “It’s too much. Please stop - I can’t-”

Cupid’s hand rests on her shoulder firmly. “You don’t have to be okay right now, but you do have to breathe. Just take it one breath at a time, okay? I promise you can do this.”

Dasher squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus on Cupid’s voice, on the slow pace of his breaths. It’s not easy at first, but she wills herself to copy him until her own breathing finally evens out and the fog finally clears.

Her voice shakes when she finally speaks. “I’m supposed to be better than this. I’m-”

“Don’t,” Cupid interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize. Being our leader doesn’t mean you have to be invincible all the time.”

Dasher lets out a broken, shaky laugh, wiping at her damp cheeks. “I’m falling apart. If the others see me like this…”

“They won’t. Not if you don’t let them. But Dash, I think maybe you should.”

Dasher glances up at Cupid, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Cupid nods. “You’re our leader. You’re always there for us when we need help, but we never see you struggle. It’s inspiring to see that someone as strong as you needs support too, y’know?”

Dasher nods, tears spilling freely, and when Cupid pulls her into a hug she doesn’t push him away.

⋆❅*𖢔𐂂꙳

Tags: @whumpcember@sapphicccici

list

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 7: Hyperventilating

(can you believe we've gone through a whole week of this?)

TW: nightmares, hyperventilating, panic attack

Whumpee snapped awake, blood pounding in their ears. Their breathing came in gasping, wheezing spurts as they struggled to draw air. Panicking, they clawed at the blankets that tried to constrict around their throat, only to find that they’d kicked off the blankets in the throes of the nightmare.

Their fingers fumbled at their throat, finding nothing there. 

Theycouldn’tbreathetheycouldn’tbreathethey—

“Whumpee?”

Whumpee flinched back, tears streaming down their face as Caretaker rapped softly on the door. 

Their chest was hurting. 

Why was their chest hurting? 

They pressed their hands to their chest, feeling the hard bone of their ribs.

Is this a heart attack?

Is this what a heart attack feels like?

The door swung open, and Caretaker poked their head inside. “I thought I heard screaming, are you—”

Whumpee shook their head violently. “I—I—can’t—” The dark room spun around them. The bed swayed beneath them like a ship in stormy ocean waters.

“Oh shit!” Caretaker swore, flicking the lights on and blinding Whumpee. They squeezed their eyes shut, still struggling to draw breath.

Caretaker’s weight settled next to them. “Shit!” they muttered, “Uh… it’s okay, I’m right here, frantically Googling what the hell this is.” 

A brief pause. “Okay, it says to breathe in through your nose and… slowly breathe out through your mouth, okay? Here, do it with me: in through your nose…” they inhaled slowly. Whumpee copied them as best they could. 

“Good. Now, out through your mouth…” Caretaker exhaled, and Whumpee did as they were told.

For a few minutes, they sat there in silence, just breathing. Finally, Whumpee realized their chest had stopped hurting, and it wasn’t a struggle to draw breath anymore. They opened their eyes and wiped away the tears on their cheeks.

“Better?” Caretaker asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Was it nightmares again?”

“...yeah…”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Whumpee glanced at Caretaker. “...I dunno.”

Caretaker shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“...promise?”

Caretaker smiled softly. “Yeah. Promise.”

[jordanstrophe]

When whumpee was rescued, caretaker was the one who had nightmares and panic attacks.

Waking up in the middle of the night in a cold-sweat thinking whumpee's been taken again; running to their room to make sure they were still safe and asleep in their bed for the third time that night.

[sacredwrath]

P3. Are you ok?

Panic attack, paranoia, ptsd, referenced past torture, comfort!!

Jesse lays awake on their favorite overstuffed yellow sofa, staring out the large floor to ceiling windows in their living room. They couldn't face their old bedroom. At least not yet, but even here, they're still struggling to calm down enough to sleep.

They know if they let their eyes close, they'll be back in their cell, Morgan standing over them, kicking them awake from this impossible, perfect dream. They can almost hear his voice in their head.

"Thought you escaped me, Jes? Thought you were home safe with your family? How sad. Poor Jesse. You really are losing it, aren't you?"

They shake their head, violently ridding themself of his voice before they start to panic.

Outside, trees sway in a gentle breeze. Beams of moonlight stream in illuminating the living room and Isa's familiar form curled on the next sofa. They watch her easy breathing.

She is real. She is here. They are here. They are home.

The gentle rhythm of her breathing relaxes them and their eyelids droop.

"There you are."

Their eyes fly open, heart stuttering in their chest. That was him. His voice, clear as day. Sitting up in a panic they search the room, too terrified to look towards the window. They know they'll see him standing there. Grin on his face, knife in hand. Their heart races

Just look. He's not here, he can't be here. It's just your mind playing tricks. It's fine.

They force a peek.

Nothing, but swaying pines.

They try to relax, breathing deeply, their heart begins to slow.

A soft click at the door obliterates their calm. They're on their feet, falling, crawling somewhere safe. Anywhere.

Maybe they imagined it.

But then they hear the soft creek of old hinges as the heavy door is eased open as quietly as he can manage.

He's here, he's really here! He's going to take me again

They drag themself across the floor to the kitchen, only a few steps away around a long breakfast bar. They reach the sink just as the door clicks shut.

He will not take me again, he will not take me again, he will not take me again, he will-

Their fingertips scrabble across the counter trying to find the knife block.

Quiet footsteps in the hall.

They spin, knife clenched in trembling hands.

"Woah" the word is a startled breath. Moonlight shimmers off golden hair not dark and his hands are raised, but in surrender not attack.

It takes them a moment to register what they're seeing. Then their eyes dart around the room, scanning every corner and shadow.

Slowly they lower the knife a fraction.

Logan takes a tentative step closer.

"Hey, it's ok Jes, just me... I'm sorry I scared you."

"Logan?" The terror still lingers, but they feel their rational mind trying to reassert itself.

"Logan" they repeat more confidently "I- shit, I'm sorry!" They look down at themself, huddled trembling against the cabinets, large kitchen knife in hand. How did they even get here? "I- I don't know what happened, I was on the couch and..."

"Hey it's ok, don't worry about it." He comes closer, seating himself in front of them, reaching out to take the knife.

Instinctively they jerk it away, clutching it close to their chest

"Woah, ok, be careful, I won't take it."

Their breath is still coming too fast adrenaline zinging through them like rocket fuel.

"Here, come on, let's just take a couple deep breaths ok?"

They nod

"Ok, close your eyes-"

"No, no I can't, I can't!"

"Ok, ok, that's alright, that's even better, just watch me then."

Their eyes roam the corners, again looking for any sign of that telltale silhouette, dark hair, the scent of clove and cedar always just failing to mask the sour, metallic tang of blood.

"Jesse?"

They snap back to Logan, crouching on the floor in front of them. Logan.

"It's ok, just follow my breathing, in..."

Air doesn't want to fill their lungs.

"...and out..."

They force it out anyways.

"...in..."

More air this time.

"...and out..."

It's Logan sitting in front of them.

"...in..."

Logan is safe.

“...and out…”

They are safe with Logan.

“...in…”

They lose themself in the rhythm of his words.

"...and out..."

Focusing entirely on the feeling of their lungs contracting and expanding.

"...in..."

They don't know how long it goes on, but eventually, they feel the panic releasing them. Each breath loosening its hold a little more. Tears well in their eyes. Noticing, Logan cuts off his chant.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better..." the word sounds weak and uncertain, their eyes are drawn back to the corners

"Can I get closer to you?"

They nod.

"Is this ok?" Logan wraps an arm gently around their shoulders pulling them in close.

Another nod

"Good, I've got you. You're safe now" his hand rubs slow circles on their back, careful to avoid their injuries. "I locked the door behind me. No one's here, but you and I... well, and Isa on the couch." His lips quirk against their hair. "You're safe."

"I-" They stop, not wanting to fall apart again, but the words feel like fire in their throat, now that they've come they'll burn a hole through their windpipe to be spoken. "I haven't felt safe in so long I can't... I can't even remember what it feels like." He grips them tighter, so tight it hurts, a good kind of hurt.

"You're safe now. You're home. Nothing and no one on earth will hurt you like that ever again." The words are good, but Jesse doesn't believe them, after all, how can Logan stop someone like Morgan? Someone who's ripped out parts of their soul and left them bleeding on the floor of that cell. They feel like a rag that's been worn down to nothing but a tangled, dirty pile of thread.

“Logan” they whisper. More words they don't want to speak. “I think… I don't think… what if… what if I can't fix it?”

“Fix what?”

“What he did to me. What if I'm- broken…” they trail off again “permanently damaged.” they whisper.

“That's not- Jesse. You aren't broken. You are still the same person, You're still-”

“Stop!” They snap, pulling away from him. “You don't understand. Logan. You don't know what he did-” they stop. “He changed me.” They watch him intently, looking for any sign of misgiving. He swallows.

“I know Jes.” He takes their hands, gentle fingers carefully avoiding their crooked fingers. “It doesn't feel right to tell you everythings going to be ok, at least not now, not right away, but…” he meets their eyes. “But Jesse, I promise you. I’ll do everything in my power to help you feel ok again. No matter how long it takes, no matter what he changed, no matter what. You are the strongest person I know, and you are surrounded by the other strongest people I know. You will be ok again, and we’ll all be here to help support you till then.”

His words bring more tears to their tired eyes and they let themself be soothed. They don't know if they believe him, but as they lean into his arms, feeling ok again doesn't seem impossible.

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Tag list:) @whumpacabra

[soapy-soartp]

Day 5 of @whumperless-whump-event

Im so sorry Lan Zhan but these prompts just fit you

Day: 5 - STEALING THE BREATH FROM MY LUNGS (GIVE IT BACK)

Prompt: Wheezing / Light-headed / "I'll count, you just breathe."

Fandom: MDZS

Characters: Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Backround/Mentioned: Lan Sizhui and Wei Wuxian

“Wangji…” Lan Xichen starts, trying to reason with his younger brother.

Who was once again kneeling by a closed door, desperately waiting for it to open once again for the people inside to let him in.

Even all these years it’s still a painful sight to see, and even more painful to remember. Lan Wangji’s grief and desperation, his own grief and sadness, all far too overwhelming for two young children. But no one around could- no, would help them. The only one who was willing and happy to guide them was gone.

“...” As expected he got silence in return, but he can tell now that his brother’s word may fail him, his eyes don’t.

Those eyes are glassy and far away. So he does what he can as he holds over the umbrella he had over them both.

“…Let’s go inside, hm?” He tries to coax, it was raining instead of snowing but that's to be expected in Lotus pier, where the weather was much warmer than that of Gusu.

“Wangji… They’ll be ok…” He tries to reassure but it falls on seemingly deaf ears.

He can't even imagine what's going through his didi’s head right now, not only was his husband hurt, he couldn't even see him and the scene was far too similar to the one from their childhood.

–

It all happened so fast. At least that’s what was reported, Wei Ying and A-Yuan got hurt.

And he wasn’t there to help them.

“Move! get out the way!”

“I'm sorry, Hanguang Jun but you can't enter while the Jiang healers are in there…”

“They’ll be fine. He’s survived worse and you’ve both raised a tough kid.”

The long engraved need to follow the rules, to keep his composure wars with the anxiety, fear, and dread he feels at this moment.

So he kneels, out in the harsh rain of lotus pier, slightly off to the side from the Jiang sect's healing ward. His brother tries to coax him out of the rain, but he can't hear very well, actually he can’t do anything much more than fixate on the fate of those in the medical ward.

It’s getting harder to think, to breathe. He suddenly feels cold and lightheaded… and his vision starts to swim with dark spots.

Then someone’s (his brother?) is in front of him and there’s hands gripping at his shoulders.

“-ngji?...Snap…it- Breathe!” Is being yelled at him.

Breathe…? Isn’t he breathing? He has to be, why wouldn’t he be… Oh.

He isn’t breathing.

He tries but all he can manage is a wheezing breath, he blinks and his sight fogs over with tears.

“G-ge…?” He manages while struggling for breath.

“Wangji, Didi, it’s alright, you’re alright. Just breathe, ok? Just-” Was the frantic response, he feels himself shift and soon he’s leaning against his brother.

“C-can’t…” He gasps for breath but it ends in a choked wheeze.

“Ah, follow my breathing, hm?”

He feels his brother’s chest rise with a steady breath in and fall with one out. He tries to follow through but his attempts end in staggering wheezes. He feels more dark spots dance in his vision and he, embarrassingly slumps and clings to his brother.

“G-ge…g-ge, can’t. W-wei Yi- Shinz- Shu-” A gasps interrupts his desperate and panicked babbling then he continues on again.

He feels the tears fall as he calls out to the people who he cares for the most.

“Shh… A-zhan, A-zhan. Just breathe.” His brother states firmly, taking his wrists in a firm hold and pulling him in closer to the solid embrace, “I’ll count, just breathe.”

“In for One… Two… Three…” His brother starts, and he tries another breath in.

It was still hard but the solid presence helps, the calming voice and the counting helps. Thankfully after a few rounds of the breathing exercise, his own breathe steadies. But that doesn’t do much for the emotional exhaustion and anxiety he still felt, so he allows himself a moment of vulnerability.

He openly weeps in his brother’s arms, concern for his husband and their child too great to bear. Once he’s truly exhausted himself he slumps fully in the solid hold.

Now they were both soaked and kneeling in a Jiang sect courtyard. He lets out a quiet hum, an apology and thanks to his brother.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

fav kinds of whump + comfort perchance?👉👈 (looking for inspo hehehehehe)

Okay so you probably know my all-time favorite already, because it’s panic attacks, and I put them in everything.

“Always add a pinch of panic attacks, it’s like garlic!” - The Whump Caretaker

Panic attacks are great for three reasons:

Something usually causes them (not always, you can have a character who just has panic disorder, but usually). Which means you end up thinking about what would push a character to their breaking point.

Differently people respond differently to panic, so there’s a huge range of possibilities for symptoms. And those symptoms include a lot of my favorites: self-defensive rage, crying, dissociation, shivering, hyperventilation, shock, and passing out.

And finally (this is where the comfort comes in) even though panic attacks are very physical, they can be resolved through purely emotional means. It’s like real life healing magic - the presence of a loved one just being there and breathing with them can pull them out of it. That’s such an opportunity for bonding!! Even if they’re alone, they can focus on things that matter to them or self-sooth or just find their inner strength and pull through, which is so beautiful. You once mentioned a fic about Vincent dissociating alone and my brain immediately started buzzing about this idea.

But okay, that’s just my top favorite. What are some other great kinds of hurt/comfort?

Consent focused hurt/comfort. Whumpee feels completely backed into a corner in some way. Their wishes are not being respected, maybe even for their own good. We expect Caretaker to force them into doing something they don’t want to do, but surprise! Caretaker doesn’t, because whumpee’s will is more important to Caretaker than anything else. This can look like backing off and giving someone space when they don’t want to be touched, helping them escape forced institutionalization, letting them cope in the way they choose even if it’s not totally healthy, etc. It creates a lot of grey areas and tension too, because Caretaker is forced to hold back.

Humiliation and Praise. One character has either been publicly humiliated or is at risk of that. The other hides them from the public eye, or explains to them why the things people are saying don’t matter at all. The caretaker showers them in praise until they feel better and rages against anyone who would judge them. This seems like it’s purely mental, but it can be even more impactful when it’s combined with physical elements. Like maybe they’ve been branded or tattooed against their will, or physically punished in front of a crowd, or maybe the humiliating thing was physical weakness - passing out in the middle of a meeting from exhaustion was something I included in a previous fic, for example.

Unexpected Rescue. Whumpee has lost all hope of rescue - either they think this is just the way life is, or they think there’s something wrong with them that makes a normal life impossible, or (if they’re actually imprisoned) they think they’ll just never be rescued because it’s been so long. Maybe Caretaker even pretends to be allied with Whumper in order to get close enough to help, so whumpee expects things to get even worse for them. But instead, surprise! They’re taken out of that whole environment and given a safe place to recover, or they’re introduced to a new way of life or a concept that allows them to live differently, without so much pain.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee who had terrible birthdays in the past, and is too scared to celebrate their birthday.

Caretaker, who overhears Whumpee's reason why they don't celebrate their birthday, decides to throw a surprise birthday party to make up for all the bad birthdays! So they gathered the team up to set up the party.

When the surprise is sprung, however, Whumpee began to cry and have a panic attack due to the bad memories flooding from their horrible birthdays. Cue the team glaring at Caretaker, and Caretaker feeling guilty AF for making yet another bad birthday for Whumpee.