#suicide attempt whump

[auroragehenna]

"Torture, watching stuff, singing" X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*

CW/TW: Sui^ide attempt (briefly and failed), creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, creepy comfort, non-con drugging Word count: 1'393

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Lyra wakes up laying on something…soft, something not stable. She tries to move and register that she’s tied up. Arms tied behind her back and legs are bound together. She start to tense up and shake, even though she’s trying her best to suppress it. Yeah, I’m doing a glorious job at that…, she thinks.

“Well, well, well. Looks who’s finally awake.”, says Adam’s voice as he come up to the edge of the pool and into Lyra’s field of vision. A triumphant smile lays on his face as they muster Lyra.

Lyra meanwhile cautiously attempts to get into a sitting position without capsizing the air mattress. Eventually, she succeed and met Adam’s gaze, head held high.

“So? How do you like it?” He asks, opening his arms to the room.

Lyra looks around, it looks like he brought her into an abandoned pool building. The windows are overgrown and only the lights in the pool are enlightened. The water is approximately her height, a bit more. “Very clever. Looks like you made the water slightly higher than I am tall. So should I end up in the water I would of course be able to swim or jump but not for long. Therefore, I can’t really do much.”

“Told you. And as I see you haven’t lost your know-how, how delightful.”

“Of course not, takes more than you to robme of my expertise.”

Adam grins, even though it resembles more bared teeth.

“That so? Well, I guess we’ll see about that won’t we.”

Lyra looks Adam in the eyes, exhales and drops to the side. Falling into the water but not even attempting to reach the surface again.

Adam’s eyes get wide, and he dives into the pool, grabs Lyra, and gets her to the edge of the pool. He shoves her up the edge and then climbs up themselves.

She coughs out water but doesn’t seem gravely injured.

Adam gets back on his feet and approaches Lyra, who immediately starts to shake. He walks up to her and then bends down to her tied-up form. Adam supports her while she coughs out the water. After a few moments the coughing stops, but not the shaking and Adam knows exactly that it doesn’t come from the temperature. He puts a hand behind Lyra’s neck to lift her into a more upright position.

“What was that, my dear?”

“I had two options. I chose the better one.”

Adam laughs dark. “Death was never an option for you. Or did you really think I would just let my plaything die? No…You’re not getting away from me that easily. We’re going to have so much fun together, don’t you think?” He shifts his hand a bit on her throat and then squeezes and after a few seconds her body goes limp and the fear-filled eyes close. Adam smiles as Lyra passes out, leaving herself completely vulnerable to him. He remove the bindings and prepares a new cloth with chemicals to put over her nose to prevent Lyra from waking up too fast. Afterwards, he went into the control room and drained the waterfrom the basin. While the pool was drying out, he removed the cloth from her face and as soon as she started to show signs of waking up, he picked her up and jumped into the now-emptied basin with her. He did remove all the stairs before all this started, what kind of prison would this pool be if Lyra could just climb out after all?

When Lyra wakes up she is completely disoriented. What’s going on? Where am I? Somebody’s talking to me, I know the voice, but I can’t classify it. I’m being held in somebody’s arms. “[Caretaker’s name]?“ Now somebody’s playing with my hair-She manage to smile-“I love you too, but can you please put me down, I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

“That’s a step in the right direction, sweetheart.”

Finally, Lyra’s brain can connect the voice to a certain emotion and the rush of adrenaline brings her back completely. She understands just how wrong she was. How very, very mistaken. She tries to get out of the Adam’s arms but fails to do so.

“Oh no, no, by all means, keep going. Your love is already a step in the right direction.” He gently strokes her hair “And so much more comfortable than your sacred defiance, isn’t it?”

Lyra shivers under Adam’s touch. Then she takes a deep breath and meets his gaze.

He just laughs: “How long…will it take for you to lose control? What will I be able to do to strip you of your self-control?”

Lyra angrily grinds her teeth, but then gave him a confident smile “You won’t find out.”

“Sure will.”, Adam replied, and then put her down and got up. He sticks his hand out to Lyra, offering to help her up.

She suspiciously inspects his hand and then gets up by herself.

“I’m terribly hurt.”, He jokes.

She visibly tries her best not to smile.

Suddenly Adam attacks her, but she jumps back and yanks her arms up in a defensive position.

“Pity, I was hoping your guard was down.”, He said with a mischievous grin.

“Because you cracked one joke?”, She said, croaking an eyebrow.

“Eh.”, he shrugged his shoulders. “Aren’t you hungry? I’m starving.”

Lyra stayed silent, obviously not trusting the situation.

He climbed out of the pool and returned with a basket after some time. Adam puts the basket in front of her and takes a few steps back.

She stares at the basket, then cautiously approaches it, and looks inside. It contains…Food.

“Is it poisoned? Drugged? Filled with sedatives? Rotten?”, she asks.

“It’s clean.”, he replies, “I can taste it before you if that helps.

“You could have consumed the antidote already.”

“Wow, aren’t I the one with the trust issues?”

Now Lyra does laugh: “Oh yeah, I’m terribly sorry. Should I rather be extremely oblivious, while literally being held captive?”

“I mean, it would be funnier.”, Adam smirks.

Her smile dries out and her eyes get serious again.

Adam chuckles but then also gets serious again. “No, but really, it’s just food.”

She sighs and sits in front of the basket. My manners tell me to give them my gratitude but damn I will. I remember a sentence from a book I read, «I’m not obligated to be polite to somebody who sees me as their (next) victim». She longs in the basket and takes out a closed bowl. She sees cut strawberries in a red-ish juice as I open it, just like we ate them at home. She stares at them in disbelief, then looks up at Adam. Tries to read into their face, what’s the catch? Where’s the trap? But he has put on a poker face that gives away nothing. He only hands her a plastic fork.

“After what you did in the beginning, I thought it’d be best to let you eat with plastic cutlery.”

“How thoughtful.”, she retorts sarcastically. She took the fork and yet still tested the sharpness of the points before piercing one of the strawberry pieces. She smelled it but then decided to eat it. Her whole face lightens up in pure enjoyment as she continues to eat the strawberries. Then she hesitates, looks up and asks: “Do you also want some?”

Adam, up to now standing a few steps away, watching her, comes closer and sits on the opposite side of the basket. He takes out something wrapped in aluminium and unwraps it, holds a sandwich with-what looks like meat. Showing Whumpee that they’re served. He watches the whole scenery with amusement. Whenever he makes a sudden movement Lyra looks ready to jump up and go fight or flight. Even if, of course, escape is impossible. The fear in her eyes and her expression is, although she tries to hide it, completely obvious to him. She looked so puzzled about the food, about being given the strawberries she loves so much and not dead rats or whatnot. No, no, no, can’t have my property die so fast, so for now there will be food, healthy food. She’ll find out the catch soon enough… Lyra finishes her strawberries and a banana, while Whumper eats one more sandwich. Then Adam disappears with the basket, leaving her alone again.

Taglist: @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, @imnotamurdereripromise

[cuteguywhump]

Casualty - 38x30 - The Last Post

[whumpetywhump]

Begins ≠ Youth - Ep. 9 & 10

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 19, 27, 28, 29

Sobbing | Dissociation | Stairs | Display | Last Resort | Numb | Gag | “I’m so cold.”

Please heed the warnings. Dead dove: do not eat.

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Contains: lady whump, aftermath of noncon/SA, dissociation, helplessness, hopelessness, restraints, gag, suicide attempt

WC: 950

Wet-paper petals

The body on the bed was still. It could move, but moving hurt. Moving dragged skin, reddened and burned by friction, over wool and cotton that mercilessly scratched. Moving shifted the light, illuminating blossoming bruises.

Bruises—broken blood vessels—temporary, violent purple in their prime, but not eternal.

Involuntary shivers wracked the body, however: the tiny tremors of limp, exhausted limbs. Bluish lips formed soundless pleas to no one: Please. I’m so cold. Please.

If there was only stillness, then there was no pain. Frigid numbness, perhaps, but numbness was bearable.

It was a body on garish display: arms spread wide and bound in place, showing off tender skin now marked. Adorned. Pink and abraded beneath the ties.

A body, and nothing else.

A door crashed open, casting a resounding clang throughout the room, and the illusion was shattered.

The maidservant stirred, bringing her knees as close to her chest as she could, her eyes squeezed shut. Please. No more. No more.

Footsteps slowly approached.

She tried to hold back a sob and failed, mewling into the leather tied around her mouth. It tasted foul: dust, sweat, oil. She couldn’t remember when it had wound up there, or where it had come from. A belt from a uniform, perhaps? It didn’t matter. It had served its purpose, stifling her frantic cries when her enemies decided they’d had enough of her tongue being free—after it, too, had served its purpose.

The footsteps halted, and her eyes flew open.

The soldier. He’d promised to kill her one day. He’d dragged her before the prince. He’d kept his distance, he hadn’t touched her. But he’d stayed silent.

He’d done nothing.

He reached toward her now, and she flinched, unable to disguise how she wept, condemned again to the indignity of freely flowing tears while he stood by and watched.

“No,” she begged. Some dried substance at the corner of her mouth cracked with the movement of her lips. “Please.”

He didn’t answer, but simply reached for her bound hands again; silently, he untied them. Torn strips of red fabric, ripped from a mass that had once been a gown, fell away. The soldier stepped back.

The maidservant fumbled with frozen, clumsy fingers and found she could not untie the leather belt. She pulled it from her mouth instead, letting it hang slick and dripping around her neck.

“Get dressed.”

Two words, a simple command, brimming with unbridled disgust.

She coaxed her unwilling limbs off the bed, stumbling toward the heap of once-ravishing silk, now ruined, stinking of pond-water and sweat. She struggled into it anyway, hungry for the scant warmth and comfort it would bring.

Her arms screamed, as unhappy free as they had been restrained. Her legs ached. Trembled. Burned.

The soldier said nothing, offering no release from . . . wherever she was. A dungeon cell? Perhaps. Likely. She dimly recalled stairs and windowless corridors. She’d fought and screamed and cried. Earned welts and bruises for her efforts.

Efforts ultimately in vain, like everything else she’d ever done.

An unexpected weight, hidden in the depths of the dress, bumped against her leg.

“Come here,” the soldier said. She looked up to find him watching her with narrowed eyes. The scratches on his face had clotted to perfect, parallel scabs, muddy brown in the poor light. “Move.”

She obeyed.

“Give me your hands.”

She did.

He tied them together in front of her, not torturously tight but securely enough that she could not wriggle free. She watched numbly, pretending those dirt-and-blood-stained fingers belonged to someone else. He thought he was being clever and cruel, lording his power and control over her yet again, protecting himself from another attack.

Didn’t he realize? She was done fighting.

Another tear slid down her cheek, splashing against his hands as he tied the final knot.

With a scowl, he shoved her away from him, back onto the cot with its mattress still damp. She caught herself clumsily, whimpering in pain. “Sit still and stay quiet while I find out what to do with you.”

He turned away.

When the lock clicked, that means of escape barred—not that it had ever been within her grasp—the maidservant felt for the makeshift pocket she had made what seemed like lifetimes ago.

I’m sorry.

She’d whispered those words to the food taster, and she’d meant them. What had become of him? Had the prince found him? Was he dead? Imprisoned? Coerced into bending to the prince’s darkest whims?

I’m sorry.

If only she’d had the chance to say those same pitiful, inadequate words to her brother.

Her stiff fingers struggled with the knots in her skirt. She wept, forcing them to keep working until, at long last, the knots came free.

She laid out the crushed flowers methodically, inspecting each. They were beautiful, even in death: wet-paper petals of soft yellow, like summer sun dimmed by mist. That colour, warm and lovely, hearkened back to golden days of long, long ago—before her life had been upended, ravaged, and utterly destroyed.

Back when her life was worth something.

She found two flowers with their poisonous spines intact and lifted them reverently from among their fellows.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but there was no one to hear, no one to see, and no one to mourn.

She sank the two sharp, spindle-like thorns into her fingertip; a cool sense of numbness spread outward. One prick, he’d promised, and you’ll be on the floor. What about two?

She fell, matted hair fanning out over the soiled mattress, poison coursing through exhausted veins.

A body, still living, but only just.

A broken heart, pulsing with strength enough to decorate her finger with a single, welling drop of blood.

June of Doom Masterlist

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@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Under a Different Moon

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 11: Loneliness

tw for homesickness, existentialism, depression, past suicide attempts

Maddie jolted awake.  The loud bump that had woke her was followed by a series of heavy thumps coming down the attic steps.  She sighed.  Knuckles liked to check the premises during the night.  This was nothing new.  Neither was the amount of noise he made when doing it.  Knuckles could move silently when he was stalking prey or imaginary enemies, but when he was walking around above their heads?  It was like they had an elephant living up there.

Maddie rolled over, determined to go back to sleep.  She lay there for a minute.  Opened her eyes and checked the time.  Nope, way too early to get up.  She rolled over the other way and breathed deeply like she did during yoga.  The breathing was enough to lull her into a doze.  It was not the fulfilling sleep she wanted.  She fluttered in and out of full wakefulness until finally she groaned softly and rolled over.

Jeez it had only been ten minutes.

She hadn’t heard Knuckles come back.  Maybe he wasn’t checking the house then.  He might’ve gone all the way outside to ‘patrol the perimeter’.  She wasn’t especially worried, he could more than handle himself out there.  Hopefully he’d taken a jacket.

Realizing that she wasn’t just going to fall back asleep nicely, Maddie got up.  Maybe she would read for a little bit.

She grabbed her newest library book from the bedside table and crawled out of her nice, warm bed.  It would wake Tom if she turned on the light, so she slid on her slippers and crept out of the room.

She instantly wished she’d grabbed her bathrobe too.  It was chilly in the house.  Fall was coming and the Montana nights were getting cold.  Tomorrow, she’d have to check in with the boys and make sure the attic wasn’t getting too chilly.  For now, she made a beeline for the living room and the basket of spare blankets that lived there.

She was so focused on her goal she didn’t notice Knuckles until she’d grabbed a blanket and started to unfold it.

Her eldest was sitting outside on the back porch.  That wasn’t unusual.  Except that it was the middle of the night.  And he wasn’t wearing a jacket.

Maddie sighed.  Knuckles was a big boy and an echidna warrior; he could sit outside at night if he really wanted.  If any danger found him, he had super strength.  But he didn’t have super fur.  She dropped the blanket and padded to the door, intending to tell him to come inside, or at least put on a jacket if he was going to sit out there.

Knuckles started when she opened the door.  He turned to look at her then looked away immediately.  Maddie opened her mouth to speak and froze.  Knuckles was trying to hide the motion, but it was clear: he was wiping his eyes.

Maddie stared, mouth still hanging open.  Had Knuckles been crying?

He sniffed and tried to cover it by clearing his throat.  “Wha-what is it?”  He didn’t look at her.

Oh God, he’d definitely been crying.  Maddie was stunned.  Knuckles was stoic and stubborn, ferocious and frustrating, unafraid and unrepentant.  He tackled any problem head on even when everyone urged him not to and he wasn’t sorry for the mess he made afterward.  He was not the child she ever expected to find crying.  Caught unawares, she froze.  Any of her other kids she’d know just what to do, but Knuckles she needed a moment to process her shock.  

“Uh…” Smooth Maddie.  “It’s cold out!”  Smoother!  “Do you want to come inside?  I can make you some tea.”

“I’m fine.”  Knuckles said it the same way you’d say ‘go away’.  It was strange to hear his voice warbled by a stuffy nose and a choked throat.

Maddie’s heart said to wrap him in a blanket and ask what was wrong.  Her head said that Knuckles was sending ‘go away now’ signals.  Knuckles was proud and stubborn and wouldn’t talk to her anyway.  She knew which one she had to listen to.

She went back inside.  The blanket lay on the couch where she’d left it.

Knuckles tensed when she opened the door again.

“I brought you a blanket!”

Knuckles kept angling his face away from her as she approached.  She draped the blanket over him, half covering his bowed head.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?  I woke up and can’t get back to sleep.”

Knuckles sniffed surreptitiously and pulled the blanket a little more over his face.  “Do what you like.”

Maddie sat beside him.  The deck was freezing cold, but she couldn’t go inside and read her parenting book and leave Knuckles out in the cold to cry.  If Knuckles was the sort of kid to hide away when he was upset, she wanted to be the kind of mom who made an effort to draw him out.

They sat in silence for a moment while Maddie gathered her thoughts and Knuckles occasionally sniffed.

“It’s a beautiful night, huh?” she said.

It was true.  It was a clear night and the moon was full.  Maddie spotted Orion, the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper— the only constellations she knew.  The moon threw silvery illumination across the deck and yard.  The forest beyond was dark.  Even this late in the season with no insects or frogs singing, the woods were still full of noise.  Branches creaked, leaves rustled, night birds cried out.  The wind blew gently and scattered leaves across the yard.

Maddie rubbed her arms.  “Pretty chilly though.”

“You can go back inside.”

“Nah,” she said.  “I want to stay out here with you.”

Knuckles had nothing to say to this.

“So uh… what brought you out here?”  She asked.  “Just admiring the view?”

“No.  I came out here to be alone… And think.”

If that was a barb to tell Maddie to go away, she was going to ignore it.  She’d leave if he told her straight out, but until then, she would keep trying:  “What were you thinking about?” 

Knuckles looked around, subtly wiping at his face again.  “Uh…”  He looked up.  “The moon?”

“The moon?”  Maddie looked up at it.  It was pretty but what could he be thinking about it?

“My people have many stories about the moon.”

“Oh, really?”  Knuckles talked about his people even less than Sonic talked about Longclaw.

He seemed to warm to her interest.  “Yes.  The shape of the moon when you hatch—it means something.  It tells you when good things will happen.”

So the echidnas had their own form of astrology?  That was interesting enough to temporarily distract her.  “That’s cool.  What’s your moon sign?”

“A waxing crescent.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It is the most auspicious moon shape,” Knuckles said.  “It means I was destined for greatness.”

“Really?”  She would have thought a full moon would be the best since it was… well, full.  “Why is that?”

“It is the mark of the echidna.”  He shifted the blanket, looking down at himself.  He moved one of his dreads out of the way so she could see the white mark on his chest.  In the light of the moon the white spot nearly glowed.

“Huh…” She’d noticed the white patch of course, but she just thought it was a cute fur pattern.  It hadn’t clicked that it looked like a crescent moon until just then.  She imagined echidnas hundreds of years ago looking up into the sky and seeing a part of themself.  It was charming, but she didn’t think Knuckles would appreciate that descriptor.  “That is auspicious,” she said instead.

She looked up at the full moon overhead and pointed.  “What does it mean right now?”

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice suddenly soft.  “This is a different planet.  That is not the moon my people knew.”  He rubbed his nose to hide another sniff.

Was it homesickness?  Was that what had driven him out here?  Maybe she just needed to cut to the chase.  “Did you…”  ‘Want to talk about it?’ Was what she wanted to ask, but she chickened out. “... have a bad dream?”

“No?”  Knuckles looked at her, confused.  Looking at him head-on at last she could see where the fur had matted down on his cheeks.  He seemed to notice her gaze and looked away.  “I had a pleasant dream.”

“Oh?  What was it about?”

Knuckles shrugged and tugged the blanket closed around his shoulders.  “I dreamt I went ho–to my old village.  Everyone was ali–there.  And I showed them the Master Emerald and they were…” He paused to clear his throat.  “They were pleased,” he said in a carefully even voice.  “It was a silly dream.”

“How is that silly?”

“It’s not real,” Knuckles was looking off to the side now, face hidden completely from her.  “I was foolish for dreaming of what cannot be.  I woke up, alone again and came out here to… think.”

“You’re not foolish,” Maddie said.  “And you’re not alone.”

Knuckles let out a mirthless laugh.  “Of course I’m alone.  That is why it was foolish.”

“You're not,” Maddie insisted.  “You have all of us.”

“I am the last of my kind,” Knuckles turned to look at her, his eyes bright with a challenge.  “It doesn’t matter how many are at my side.  I am alone.  Forever.”

Oh.

It was Maddie’s turn to look away.

She liked to think that if she was the only human in existence, her family would be enough of a comfort to make up for it.  But the truth was, she didn’t know.  There’d been plenty of times–in vet school especially–where no one else looked like her. But that wasn’t quite the same.  She’d always had her own species around her.  And if she wanted to see someone who looked like her, she could visit friends, Facetime her family, heck, she could look at old photos.  Knuckles had none of that.

“I’m sorry, Knuckles,” she said.  “I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

Knuckles didn’t look at her, but she saw his shoulders bow slightly.  “It is… a heavy burden.”

He sounded so young when he said it.  He was so young.  “… You’re a very strong person.”

He turned to look at her then, but his expression was confused.  “Of course?  They don’t call me the Most Dangerous Warrior in the Galaxy for nothing, you know.”

“No, I meant…  Strong in spirit,” Maddie rubbed her shoulders.  “I don’t know if I’d be as strong as you.”

“… I am not always strong,” Knuckles admitted.  He stared down at his mitts in his lap.  “I have given in to despair before.  Tried to join my tribe in the great battleground in the sky. I only live because my body is strong when my mind is not.”

He shook his head, unaware of the creeping cold stealing through Maddie’s body that had nothing to do with the temperature.  Her heart quickened and her breathing grew shallow as she processed what his words implied.  She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was dry.  It was just as well, she didn’t know what to say.  Pausing to wet her lips gave her a moment to process further.

Knuckles had made attempts on his life.  Just the thought made her hands shake.

Knuckles misinterpreted her silence.  “I have shamed myself,” he said.  He shrugged off the blanket and drew in his legs as though to stand.

“No, wait!”  Maddie tensed, ready to go after him, but he paused when she asked.  “You haven’t shamed yourself Knuckles.  You’re right, that’s… it’s a heavy burden.  Anyone in your position would be tempted to give in.  I’m just…”  Now she felt like she was going to cry.  “I’m so glad you’re still here.  I’m glad you’re part of our tribe now… And I know we can’t stop you from feeling alone but… we’re here.  Tom and Sonic and Tails and I, we’re all here for you.”

Knuckles said nothing.  He wouldn’t look at her.  Was she getting through to him at all?  Could she get through to him?

“I…I want you to do something for me Knuckles.  Call it… a mission.”

‘Mission’ had him lifting his head.  A sense of purpose always perked him up.  Was that why he always kept himself so busy?

“If you ever feel yourself despairing like that again–like you’d rather hurt yourself and rejoin your tribe than keep going.  Just… let one of us know?”

“That is not a mission.  That is… like a vow.”

“Then I want you to make a vow: Tell someone the next time you feel that way.”

Knuckles hesitated long enough to make her nervous.  Was he thinking he wouldn’t feel that way again? …Or did he not want to be held to such a promise in the event he did want to take his own life?

He sighed.  “Okay.”  He held out his fist.  A power bump.  It was a sacred vow to him, and good enough for Maddie, even if she couldn’t shake the cold fear from her bones.

She pressed her fist to his, then drew her hand back to wrap around her shoulders.

He watched the motion.  “You are cold.”  He picked up the blanket off the ground, then stared at it a moment.  “We should go inside,” he said.  “You said you could make tea?”  He looked up at her, a little hopeful.  She could still see the tear stains in his fur.

“Of course,” she said like a promise.

She wanted to make everything alright for him.  To make it so he’d never feel lonely or depressed again.  But she couldn’t.   He was right.  He was the last of his kind.  Forever.  She couldn’t carry that for him.  But she could bring him blankets and listen.  And she could make him some tea.

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumptober No.20

Emotional angst

Shoulder to Cry On // Giving Permission to Die // “It's not your fault.”

Omg I am so behind whumptober so get ready for whump drabble dumps over the next two days

TW: suicide, suicidal whumper, suicidal ideation, suicidal ideation, aftermath of whump, bad caretaker, emotional whumpee,

*~*~*~*~*

Caretaker slammed on the brakes of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition as he ran to the edge of the bridge.

“Whumpee!” He cried.

Whumpee looked over her shoulder at him, and it almost stopped him in his tracks. Her face was grey and papery, her eyes dead, lifeless. Hopeless. “Don’t… don’t try and stop me, Caretaker.”

“Whumpee, please. Please don’t do this. If you do this Whumper wins!”

“I don’t care about Whumper,” Whumpee said, her voice surprisingly calm and steady. “I don’t care about your revenge. I don’t care about any of your plans for me, using me. Get your revenge on your own. I can’t do it anymore.”

Whumpee turned her head to the icy black waters crashing five hundred feet below. She didn’t want to continue living anymore, she didn’t want to be haunted by the memories. She was sick of Caretaker only caring about her for what she could do for him. He was just like Whumper.

Hell, maybe he’s worse.

It didn’t matter now.

She didn’t have anyone other than Caretaker left in her life. What did that say about her? That nobody would care if she actually died except maybe Caretaker, he would have to rethink his revenge, and… god, Whumper would probably care too and it made her sick.

“Whumpee, don’t. Wait, it’s not your fault!”

Whumpee let out a sharp, cutting laugh into the night air. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling at the strands. She was staring so long at the waters that it felt like the distance was shorter, moving in and out, longer then closer like an accordion drawing in and out.

How was her balance so good? How was she not falling from the railing right now? Why hadn’t she jumped already?

“Whumpee… please. Please, you don’t want to do this.”

Whumpee scoffed, glaring at the sky instead. Then with the feline grace of a cat she turned 180 degrees in place to face Caretaker.

“WHUMPEE!” Caretaker screamed when Whumpee tipped back, her knees bent as she flapped her arms to keep herself up. He was closer now, a hair’s breath away but Whumpee saved herself, like she always did. Her eyes burned now with something so like a wrathful god’s ire, something that stilled Caretaker and made him pause.

“Be fucking honest for once in your life, Caretaker!” Whumpee spat. Caretaker straightened, his chest heaving, his hands still outstretched but no longer reaching, now they were cajoling, trying to calm the beast that he woke in Whumpee. “You don’t give a shit about me. The only reason you’re here right now is because you need me to hurt Whumper for you.”

Caretaker swallowed. “Yes,” he said and Whumpee suppressed the flinch at the confirmation of their worst fears. “At first you were just a means to an end, Whumpee. Someone I could use to destroy Whumper once and for all, but then, I don’t know when, but something— something changed between us.”

Whumpee glared as he stepped closer but she didn’t say anything, the wind pulling and yanking at her dark hair.

“I know you felt it too, right? That’s why this hurts so much. You think I betrayed you like Whumper did.”

“No! Not like her.” Whumpee said, and her voice sounded strangely emotional to her ears, or maybe it was the wind. “I always knew she was a monster, but you? I trusted you.”

“I know.”

“And all this time I find out that I’m just a pawn in your game.”

“Whumpee, you don’t understand. That was the old plan, before I—”

“Oh, so you were going to tell me in this new plan, were you?” Caretaker hesitated. Whumpee scoffed, throwing her hands up. “I knew it. You’re so full of shit. I won’t be Whumper bait, Caretaker, and it is disgusting that you would consider asking that of me.”

“Please, Whumpee, please get off the railings and we can talk, please. We can talk like we did before, okay? I’ll be your shoulder to cry on and I’ll tell you everything from here on out, just please,” he pleaded, his voice breaking, “get off the rail.”

Whumpee shook her head. “You’re just saying that because—”

“I’d rather you be alive than get my revenge on Whumper, Whumpee,” Caretaker cut in, his voice hard, brokering no argument. The words pulled at Whumpee’s chest. “Please, please get down. We can talk about this, Whumpee, I promise you. I’d give up the idea of revenge before I ever considered giving you up. Please, please don’t go.”

Caretaker was below her now, stretching his hand up for her to take, and— oh, Caretaker was tearing up. The tears not quite falling yet, and Whumpee sniffed and took his hand. He gently set her down on the ground and immediately wrapped her in his arms.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Caretaker said. Whumpee rest her forehead against his shoulder and slowly, terribly slow, she raised her arms and wrapped them around his waist. She didn’t say anything, because she didn’t have to. They both stayed there for how long she didn’t know or care. She could hear his heartbeat against her ear and that was enough for now.

It had to be enough.

[whumpypepsigal]

The Last of Us s01e09: “There's no story. Sarah died... and I couldn't see the point anymore. Simple as that. And I wasn't scared either. I was ready. I couldn't have been more ready.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Overdose

Sanctuary masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @mirasmirages @flowersarefreetherapy @whumpinggrounds @cepheusgalaxy

@painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @augusnippets

Augusnippets day 30: self-harm | addiction | overdose

Anita overdoses.

469 words

CW: minor whump (Anita's 15), medication (tablets), overdose, suicide attempt, past rape (not explicitly mentioned but this takes place in the aftermath), transphobia, PTSD, Anita's pov which I think needs warning for here

Anita pops the pills out of the foil one by one, dropping them into the little cup beside her on her bed. She doesn't like taking pills. But after today, she won't have to again.

She won't have to do anything again. Or feel anything ever again.

Her heart will no longer pound every time she catches a glimpse of school uniform. Her stomach will no longer threaten to exit her body at the sound of raucous laughter. She won't have to take the long route to the park if she's ever brave enough to go because the normal route passes the alley where–

Well.

She can't take this anymore, she can barely leave the house, can barely breathe even on good days. Every time she looks at herself she hears the words of her– the others. She's not a proper girl because she can't take it, and she looks like this, but she isn't anything else either so what is she? Not human? Not worth anything?

Will she even bother to defend herself if they come back? They could, they're not in jail, maybe not ever. They could attack her any time she leaves the house. And everyone knows, they could hurt her too.

Not that it doesn't all hurt, inside her head, all the time. And her injuries haven't healed yet either.

She just needs everything to stop.

That's all the pills ready. The whole packet. That should be enough.

It has to be enough.

Anita takes a swig of grapefruit juice and holds it in her mouth, then sits a few pills on top and swallows it all down with some more juice.

And then she does it again. And again. Until all that's left are two empty cups.

That's it, then.

She leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes, drifting for a little bit. She wonders how long this'll take to work.

There's a soft, "Mrrp," and she opens her eyes, frowning.

"I thought I shut the door."

Mittens jumps on the bed and brushes up against her, headbutting her side with a more insistent, "Mrrp."

She chokes on a sob as she scratches the old cat. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. It's–"

"Fine" is what she means to say, but she can't. She can't. It's not fine. And she's not sure she's as ready to leave as she thought she was before Mittens came in.

She's so tired.

She doesn't want to stop petting Mittens. Ever.

She reaches out her free hand for her phone and dials three numbers, strength waning.

"Emergency services, what service do you require?"

"Ambulance," she slurs, eyes slipping shut.

"What's your emergency?"

"Overdose. Address is 2B Crescent Building, SE6 5SG."

When did it go dark? She doesn't remember it going dark.

And then she doesn't remember anything at all.

[whumpetywhump]

The King And The Clown (2005)

[lifblogs]

Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: Explicit Pairings: Royce Hemlock/Tech (Non-Consensual Pairing), Tech/Phee, Tech & Crosshair & Wrecker & Hunter & Omega & Echo Word Count: 3632 Summary: Tech is facing his first mission since Tantiss with trepidation. A word said to him in comfort is enough to bring repressed and forgotten memories to the surface, and he feels like he's being torn apart inside. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, PTSD, Flashbacks, Attempted Self-Harm, Near-Attempted Murder-Suicide, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Author's Note: I'm so sorry.

[weirdstrangeandawful]

TW: suicide, trauma, survivors guilt

I feel like suicide attempt trauma is an underused concept in whump. I get it's dark but so many other things are too?

Give me more whumpees who tried to escape through death only to be haunted by that attempt after they make a proper escape.

Whumpees with survivors guilt after losing their friends but surviving their own attempt.

Whumpees who don't tell anyone about their trauma because they survived, didn't they?

[whumpdidyasay]

Resident Evil (2002)

[shes-some-other-where]

The Cursebreaker and the Crown (June of Doom 2024) Masterlist

(in progress)

Major content warnings: royalty whump, ladywhump, dudewhump, noncon/SA, suicidal ideation + suicide attempt

The night the royal family fell

A silent scream —Day 1, 2, & 7: “Help me.” | Nightmare

What savagery is this? — Day 3, 6, 13, 22: “Well, well, well…�� | Hiding | Ambushed | Flinch | “Wait!” | Poison | Bedridden

A bitter magic, a curse — Day 6, 13, 22: Broken Promise | Sacrifice | Poison | Bedridden

Trapped — Day 10, 12, 17: Fear | Dehydration | Struggle

Mark my words — Day 10, 12, 17: “Can you hear me?” | Fear | “You don’t want to do that.” | Struggle | Grief

One grievous mistake — Day 9, 12, 25: “I made a mistake.” | Acceptance | “I can’t stand seeing you like this.” | Guilt

To spit on your kindness and mercy — Day 9, 12: “I made a mistake.” | Accident | Acceptance | “I can’t stand seeing you like this.” | Grief

Where does your loyalty lie now? — Day 9, 24, 25: Blame | “Let’s get you cleaned up.” | Guilt | Failure

Five years later

Violet, ochre, and rose — Day 4, 23: “Does that hurt?” | Punishment | Rules

Docile as a lamb — Day 5: “It’s not as bad as it looks.” | Bite

The weight of guilt — Day 16: “At least it can’t get any worse.” (1/3)

The unmistakable sapor of a curse — Day 16: “At least it can’t get any worse.” (2/3)

Blood-red lips and blush-dusted cheeks — Day 16: “At least it can’t get any worse.” (3/3)

A very interesting companion — Day 16, alt prompt: Secret | Setback | “Who did this to you?”

Lurid yellow, sinister black — Day 14, 23: “What were you thinking?” | You’re doing great.”

A wolf in sheep's clothing — Day 14, 23: “What were you thinking?” | Surrender | Outmatched | Trembling | Rules |

Yes, Your Highness — Day 8, 26, alt prompt: “This is your last chance.” | “Don’t lie to me.” | Rage | Choke | “Don’t make me say it again.”

Deadness where there had before been life — Day 6, 11: “We’re out of time.” | Collapse

Light yet glowing in the sky — Day 3, 11, 18, 20: Stalking | “I can handle it.” | Scrape | “I’m fine.” | “We’re out of time.”

Burnt sugar and rotting flesh — Day 3, 10, 18, 19: Ambushed | Self-defence | “This can’t be happening!”

A curse that needs breaking — Day 8, 18, 27, 28, alt prompt: Chair | Headache | “Or what?” | Defiance | Gag | “You poor thing.”

Threads of sorrow and screams —Day 2, 10, 13, 24, 29: Made to Watch | “Can you hear me?” | Fear | Adrenaline | Blankets | Delirium

Wet-paper petals — Day 19, 21, 27, 28, 29: “This can’t be happening!” | Sobbing | Dissociation | Stairs | Display | Last Resort | Numb | Gag | “I’m so cold.”

A man or a monster? — Day 15, 28, 30: Rescue | Presumed Dead | “Say something.” | Shock

Bleeding, fraying edges — Day 15, 28: “Get me out of here!” | Rescue | Gag

title forthcoming — Day 15, 28, 30: Rescue | Presumed Dead | “Say something.” | “Breathe, damn you!” | Shock |

title forthcoming — alt prompts: “Please don’t leave me.” | “I’m not okay.”

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1081

TW: Suicide Attempts

Anon asked: 

How are you with the prompt of a character... almost committing unalive before being stopped by somebody?

I think about this a lot. I’ve for sure written scenes like this (posted under the cut). I sort of live vicariously through it; it’s cathartic almost to receive the non-judgemental help from fictional characters when you yourself aren’t doing too well sometimes. 

So prompts-wise:

Your character is embarrassed when they’re found. They’re so open and vulnerable that they can’ t help but feel awkward and uncomfortable when they’re found. 

Is the caretaker angry? Are they shouting? Does this make your whumpee even more embarrassed?

Is the caretaker quiet - almost too quiet. Are they scared? Does your character feel shame for this? 

Do they pass out before help arrives? How does the caretaker find them? Are they bleeding? Are they seizing? Are they choking? Are they drowning? Does the caretaker administer CPR?

Who sits in the waiting room? Who is kicking themselves thinking: “How the hell did I not see this?” 

Instead of screaming “why did you do this?” your caretaker, with a sad amount of understanding, says “I’m going to help you.” They’re resolute. They don’t want your character to feel even more of a burden.

Does your character leave a note? Or do they just... get up and leave without the intention to harm themselves, but find that that’s where they’ve ended up. 

Write that character spiralling. They go from numb to their skin prickling with overwhelming emotion. 

How scared is your character when they inevitably wake up? Are they confused? Who do they wake up to?

If they’re found before they try anything; perhaps the caretaker takes them to a nearby restaurant; to get them food and out of the cold. Maybe this is where your character finally opens up. 

This is an excerpt from my WIP book Hologram that I wrote a few years ago now. TW again for attempted suicide. 

If anyone’s every interested about my OC’s feel free to ask...

"Is this it?" A voice from beyond the door questioned.

"Yes, but sir..." the doctor hesitated. "Just remember what we told you."

"He's not in his mind. I know."

"Just pretend you know what he's talking about, it'll make the transition smoother. We'll be down the hall if anything happens." A third voice warned, the tone of which Mitchell recognised as his doctor. The door opened and a figure stepped in.

The visitor had been warned about his friend; how he was no longer in his mind, how he'd been kept in a vegetative state for thirteen years... they warned him about how he'd look, and the visitor had steeled himself to stomach the image of his friend laying prone on the bed. At worst he expected a tube to be shoved down his throat: for his body to be corpse like and attached to a range of alien machines... hell he'd even pictured the idea of Mitchell's body carved open and stitched together under bloody bandages, his thin, pale white skin stretched over his skeleton and protesting against every flex of muscle.

Perhaps he anticipated a disturbing stillness that accompanied a person close to death and on the brink of collapsing into their own mind. After the initial explosion; when the visitor had to be hospitalised they told him they never found the body. He begged and cried but they insisted that his friend was gone; well and truly disintegrated into clumps of viscera that were washed away when repairs inevitably began on the building. He cried some more when they lowered an empty casket into his grave, he wasn't there, no, he was still laid up in hospital, but his absence then just sparked the desire for his presence now.

He had to be there for his best friend; he was the last tie to sanity he had.

So when he rounded the door into the private room, anticipating an older, corpse like version of his childhood friend, his heart sank when his expectations weren't met.

Instead, the events before him were so much worse.

See, when the short British man slithered into the room... he did not expect to see his own friend preparing to slice the veins on his wrist with a scalpel.

At his gasp, Mitchell's head swooped up and he faltered, staggering back so his bare skin was touching the plated wall. All wires had been disconnected, and hung loose over the edge of the bed. The scalpel remained firm In his shaking grasp. The Child’s eyes darkened as the visitor spoke, choking on his words at the fragility of the man before him.

"Hey Mitch." He stammered, paused just a few feet from the hunched over frame. Mitchell closed his eyes and huffed through his nose and angling his head away. The blade didn't move from where it was poised over his pulsing, black vein.

"Oh fuck off!" He groaned, "for Christ sake I thought this shit would stop after... for fuck sake, please just go away."

"Good to see you too." The brown haired man swallowed.

"You always see me, you won't leave me alone." Mitchell's sentence gave him pause.

"What do you mean?" He asked cautiously.

"'The fuck d'you think? You're dead and my fucked up brains been manifesting you and whoever else as a way to torture me. We had this conversation before, you dumb fuck!"

"Oh..." the short man sighed, "Oh man..."

He'd been warned about the simulated dreams, though no one knew for sure what occurred in them. Their heart shattered upon the realisation of the emotional torture Mitchell must have suffered as a result. When the fabric of reality is torn from underneath you like a rug... it was no surprise that Mitchell was grasping at threads; desperately trying to tie knots with his shaking hands.

"I just want it to stop." He uttered pitifully, the grip on his knife tightening further as he brought it closer to the blackened vein beneath the pale skin of his wrist.

"I'm sorry, but it all just needs to stop."

Out of options, and knowing Mitch wasn't the negotiating type, he didn't hesitate to dive forward and get a secure grasp on his arm.

And Mitchell stopped.

He stopped moving. He stopped breathing. His blood ran cold and his body turned rigid as though his joints were replaced with concrete. With wide, grey eyes he stared at the intrusive hand as though it had grown more fingers, he exhaled, shaky, as though terrified of moving. His face contorted in an expression of horror and bewilderment.

Mitchell could feel him. He could actually /feel/ him on his skin.

And he wasn't just a mental presence, his calloused fingers added a welcome texture, his skin was clammy with anxiety and uncertainty, and the grip felt tight and reassuring. The blond had to physically force back the tears as this - this was all real. Static crashed against the walls of his skull, sloshing and frothing as though trying to escape but he held on tight. He held on tight to the feeling and the reality he had been presented with. When his mind cleared a little, he uttered the first word that fell onto his tongue, the word that hadn't left him; the name that was always in his mind.

"J-Jack?" He stammered.

"Yeah?" The visitor ventured. "It's me, Mitch."

"You're alive." He stated, bewilderment thoroughly overtaking his grief stricken features.

"Yeah." Jago ‘Jack’ Davis said with a light scoff, his nervous energy forcing him to find the tragic situation humorous. "So are you."

"You're not dead. you're- you're actually real."

"Yeah, mate."

Mitchell launched into a bone crushing hug, scalpel since discarded on the tiled floor. It fell with a clatter that neither man heard.

"You're alive." He continued to babble. "Holy shit you're alive."

"I know, I'm here, god I missed you..." he said into Mitchell's tangled hair, wrapping his arms around his trembling torso.

"I missed you too." Mitchell said, returning the gesture as the floodgates opened and he allowed himself to sob un-apologetically.

"I missed you so fucking much." He hiccuped.

[agonyalley]