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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 day

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Febuwhump Day 28 - ALT PROMPT - Human Weapon

You can also view this on Ao3, here. This took us long enough to post that we feel fully justified in getting it beta read and such before posting. This work is a ship of Theseus compared to the original we had done in February because we kept revising the outline for the main work this is based off of. At the very least, we think it's solid now.

Thanks to @wormlette for beta reading this for us, and we hope you enjoy.

In the first few hours after getting the tattoos, he isn't thinking.

There are more things to worry about than what the things stabbed into his skin mean, at that point. He's stuck in the back room of a place he doesn't know, shaking with the remnants of a paralytic he can't identify and grappling with the aftershocks of the most pain he's ever felt in his life, with an ominous list of instructions rattling around his head and no idea if he'll even be capable of leaving.

He's not thinking straight, and he knows it, but he's too thoroughly in shock to do much about it, so he doesn't. He sits on the dingy bench in the back of the room, and he stares at the lines inked into his hands, and he listens to the tallman tell him care instructions as he tries not to think about the way a single slip of a sleeve could get him jailed for life.

There are runes etched into his skin. There's dark magic inked into his flesh. There's a person talking just over his shoulder who tells him that he'll need to pay her back for the procedure, because even if his friend vouched for him, her expertise doesn't come cheap - and he's stuck with a bill he needs to pay, for a procedure he never wanted, and the creeping awareness that the sounds of beasts fighting from just beyond the wall are just a bit too human for it to be just normal monsters.

The tallman that she called his friend walks in, and the moment that he recognizes him the blood roars in his ears with the bitter, bitter memories of betrayal.

And then he's trapped in a room, with a curse inked into his skin, and a man who tried to feed him to monsters barely a few feet away.

It is a very, very small mercy that Laios manages to find him here. He's astounded that he even managed to find him, honestly - tracking things on cobblestone is difficult enough with half-foot senses, let alone tallman senses. Still, presence is one thing, and actually helping is another - and Laios merely being there does nothing to stop the tallman in the room with him from picking him up by the ankle and holding a jack-knife to his throat.

The pulse of magic that runs through his body is new. The pain flooding his senses is not.

Something in his body shifts, joints pulling out of alignment in a way that sets off alarm bells in the back of his head. He dangles, abruptly, a few inches lower, his spine crackling and popping like sand in the delicate gears of golden machinery, and every inch of the runic tattoos spread over his skin lights up with the sensation of being stabbed with thousands of needles. He thrashes, some instinct in him saying to kick out, and-

When the pain clears, he's toppled over on the floor, every inch of his body itching with something new and wrong. The tallman who signed him up for this is dead on the floor, his head nearly three metres away from his body in a quickly-spreading pool of blood, and Laios is staring at him as if he's never seen him before.

His hands are covered with deep brown fur. His stomach feels like it's been abruptly overrun by starving beasts. When he looks down at his feet, he finds himself looking at an entirely too long set of rabbit's paws.

It takes him a bit longer than he's comfortable admitting to realize what it is that's been done to him. Laios reaches out to help him up, tentative in a way that he's never really seen from him before - there's a snide remark welling on his tongue about it, something barbed and bitter and colored by years of being manhandled before then this is what finally makes someone think twice about hauling him around as they please - but the words die on his tongue, caught in a throat that can no longer form words and drowned in the overwhelming pain that flares the moment he tries to pick himself up.

His body aches.

Searing pain rolls through his muscles every time he moves, like he's been boiled in oil again and somehow left alive. Every motion he makes only seems to make it worse - the burning rolls along any limb he tries to move, searing deep into muscle and bone. The first hint of weight on his feet erodes his nerves as if they've been dipped in acid, and even just trying to walk is, if anything, worse - like trying to walk with red-hot spikes imbedded into his soles.

This form feels alien, strange, wrong- and it takes all too long before he figures out how to make himself turn back.

The rabbit form withdraws back under his skin, bones shifting and flesh warping in a halting, agonizingly slow display he has to force himself to keep going through. The magic subsides. The pain does not.

Muscling through the sort of soul-deep agony that the transformation inflicts is far, far easier said than done. Thinking coherently, when he's grappling with consciousness through a haze of pain that makes it feel like he's dying every time he moves an arm, is even more so. Knowing this doesn't make it easier to think, nor does it make it less horribly, horribly embarrassing when he realizes that he's got nothing on but the thin, flimsy, tallman-sized dressing gown he was wearing when he first woke up.

The realization that he's been trotting around in a bathrobe so oversized that it makes him look like an actual child would, in any other circumstances, be just about the worst part of his day. This situation is already far past horrible on so many levels that at this point, it barely registers.

At the immediate moment of time that he notices it, it's also largely overpowered by the realization that there are slits in the back of the dressing gown, and the fact that he's horribly, horribly humiliated himself in front of a party member, badly enough that his most remote chances of it being forgotten are as good as dead.

It's a unique kind of awful, even without the curse bands on his wrist, to realize just how much of himself might've been bared against his will. It's even worse when he thinks of how the other races tend to view half-foots, and the way that rumors tend to proliferate between adventurers, and the fact that it's Laios, of all people, who came across him. Laios, who couldn't keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it, who talks about monsters like no one else he's ever known, who's just seen him turn into a monster-

Chilchuck takes all of five seconds before his pain-wracked brain finally catches up with the facts enough to foretell the imminent end of his adventuring career, at which point his joints finally decide to give up the ghost, and he narrowly stops himself from falling face-first into cobblestone, just to put the cherry on top of the entire awful ordeal.

He's about five steps past even being capable of dragging his thoughts together enough to try and think of some way out of this horrible situation, to the awful modifications stabbed right into his body, to the idea that whatever's been done to him has run deeply enough to behead a tallman without even consciously trying, when Laios offers him one of his spare shirts and he's forced to come to terms with the realization that the world has simply decided to stop making sense entirely.

He's battered, exhausted, and grappling with enough awful revelations to choke a nightmare to death on the bad dreams alone. He's on his hands and knees in a room that belongs to someone he doesn't know with arterial spray spattered on his skin and a soldier's strength curse stabbed into his body. He's too far past done to try for more than the barest hint of dignity, still stuck in a dressing gown so fine it's nearly transparent, and...

Well. He's not really sure he even has enough left in his brain to try and get himself together.

He takes the shirt.

He tries not to speak, while he shuffles it on. He's painfully aware of just how bad the situation is, and every movement he makes feels like he's exposing himself all the more. The way his skin burns every time something so much as brushes the new-laid tattoos doesn't help in the slightest, and the slide of coarse fabric over skin is almost more painful than the idea of leaving himself bare - but he's not willing to go that far, not yet.

The blood on his skin makes the fabric stick uncomfortably. Every movement makes it cling different, prickling at his whiskers and pulling at the tender lines of ink that make up most of his abdomen by now, glued to his sides in disgustingly tacky red. He doesn't think he's ever felt so humiliated before in his life.

When the woman who stabbed the curse into his skin in the first place comes back, it just feels like the punchline to the overly long joke that's become his life.

He checks out through the bulk of the speech she makes the moment that he registers she's retreading the same treatment instructions that she gave to him. Nothing makes sense and everything is wrong. He stares at the brilliant red lines on his arms, his ears flattened to his head, and he barely registers it when whatever conversation Laios has with the tallman woman putters out.

His legs dangle entirely too far above the ground when Laios picks him up, but his complaints sound dull and useless, even to his ears. After tonight, he has very little in the way of dignity left to lean on. He and Laios both know that he won't be walking out of here, anyways. Not when trying to put weight on his feet makes them hurt so much he threatens to pass out.

Somehow, knowing that he'll have to submit to being carried for as long as this takes to heal makes him dread the coming days more than anything else.

His clothes, thankfully, are still intact. There's running water somewhere in the cranny of the dungeon they're in, but the tallman doesn't acknowledge it, simply directing them back the way they came. He doesn't want to stick around long enough for one of the resurrectionists he spots on the way out to get to his old "friend", anyways. At this point in the night, he's too burnt out on everything to bother getting blood out of multiple items of clothing.

Tallmen have a lot more gore in them than any reasonable creature should.

The lines on his palms burn with every bit of contact they make. He shouldn't be surprised that the ones up his back are the same. Laios carries his pack, and he's trapped between being grateful for it and hating his own lack of ability more than he hates nearly anything else that's happened since he woke up on a damn table.

There's a lot going on in his head. He struggles to work through the pain enough to make it make sense.

At some point between the arena and the campsite, he passes out.

Considering the circumstances, it shouldn't have been possible to hide it. Considering every prior encounter he'd had with Laios, he shouldn't have been capable of keeping it a secret for an hour, let alone a day, let alone the rest of his life-

But in the morning, Chilchuck wakes up in his bedroll, bandages wrapped around nearly every square inch of skin he has, to an elf fussing over his bedside, a plate of dry rations set just within his arm's length, and, though some unbelievable stroke of luck, no sign that they even know what happened on a single party member's face.

He's still alive. The world doesn't end. He hasn't been submitted to the canaries.

Somehow, that feels worse than if he had been sent off for dark magic.

At least, when Laios corners him to ask if he can tell Falin about his new condition, it feels more like normal than anything else in his life right now.

For all that means, anyways.

The tattoos spread over his back. There are rings inked into his skin, cuffs of ancient runes like shackles around his wrists and ankles, circles of runes on his heels that sting like the devil every time he sets a foot down just slightly too hard. He washes them every day that he can, unwilling to deal with either infection or whatever consequences that fucking with the magic in it might bring. He's lost enough weight from the initial spellcasting that he's not allowed to skip meals anymore, even if they buy his excuse that half-foots simply need to eat less. All of the padding over his ribs is simply gone, everything standing between him and his own organs thinned to near-nonexistence - he doesn't have enough body mass for a healing, let alone a resurrection, and it shows.

He looks like he's been starved halfway to death in the space of a single evening.

It's the least dramatic change in his body in the past forty-eight hours. It's the only change that his party's been able to see.

He's not sure he wants to know what they think of him. But he can't stay ignorant without blinding himself to nearly everything they do.

Marcille sneaks him extra rations, and Namari asks after hauling his bow, and Shuro makes pointed comments about how close they still are to the surface, and all he can think of is how frail they must see him, now that he's forced to rely on them for everything.

He hopes that they won't think less of him. He's not naive enough to really believe it.

Three weeks to fully heal, according to the arena tallman. At least a week before he can try walking on it, according to Falin. Laios asks if he wants to turn back now, but he refuses - they may be only a few days from the surface, but that's still a few days from the surface, on an expedition where their party still hasn't found anything of note - leaving now would just waste their progress and leave them all off worse for it.

They have the supplies they need to delve deeper. They just need to find the guts to do it.

Chilchuck might be dead weight, but he's less weight than if it happened to anyone else, and he, at least, can try to do his job even when he's stuck being carried.

Being stuck in a dungeon without working legs is a death sentence, but a dungeon has less people willing to question a mysterious injury, and his chances of being able to get by on the surface without someone poking too far into his cover are so small they might as well be nonexistent. Half-foots have only survived as long as they have through community, but there's no such thing as privacy in a half-foot den, and he fears the death he'll face at the hands of the Canaries more than he fears the death he'll face at the hands of the dungeon.

He doesn't mention the latter half of his reasoning. No one knows what's inked into his skin yet, not besides the Toudens. His party doesn't need to know how likely he is to wind up as one of the criminals who treat the dungeon as their home, and so he's not about to tell them. He still has eyes and ears and expertise, and they're all blind and deaf by his standards anyways. He can survive a week, as long as they can work like a proper troupe for seven days.

And if he dies, then it'll be quicker than old age.

Laios agrees to the plan surprisingly fast, for all the concern he's directed Chilchuck's way since the day in the arena. Suspiciously so, even. Falin's willingness to back his decision is, Chilchuck thinks, the only reason the other party members don't veto it on the spot - he's infirm and unstable right now, and as far as all of them are concerned, he might keel over at any minute. He's hardly dungeon-delving material right now, and all of them know it, but Falin is the most accomplished healer out of them, and most of the party has enough affection for her that they'll bend over backwards to fit her word.

The door they need to map is on the sixth floor, more than a month deep. If Chilchuck were at his best, he'd be able to shave weeks off that time. As he is now, all he can do is offer insight from above and pray that his party won't be stupid enough to get themselves killed anyways.

The decision goes through, and everyone looks at Laios like he's lost whatever few screws kept his head on previously, but they let the decision slide.

Objectively, it's a stupid choice to make. His party must think he's gone mad. Right now, Laios is the only thing standing between him and a lifetime behind elven bars, and he knows he should be grateful for him for listening to his pleas, but-

He doesn't voice the suspicions he has.

He knows the way that Laios looked at the fighters in that ring, even in passing. The love that the tallman has for monsters is so poorly-veiled it barely even counts as a secret - he's surprised it hasn't come up more often, now that he's part monster himself, but he's not blind enough to think that Laios's pet obsession doesn't have a part in this - he wants more time to examine the monstrous rabbit half stitched onto his bones, and he's so bad at hiding it he might as well not be trying at all.

He's... not sure how he feels about it.

He knows, already, that Laios is... odd. Strange. Out of place. His habits are an anomaly even among other tallmen. He can speak for hours upon hours on monsters that no one else would spare a second glance to, dedicating endless time and energy to fields of study so niche that Chilchuck could swear he's the only person he's ever seen show the slightest interest.

He's oblivious to social mores, more interested in rambling on about living armor or kelpies than the tired expressions of his peers. He's unable to go a single day without talking of some obscure beast from the depths of the dungeon, yammering about its biology with more enthusiasm than some people announce their engagements. He cares for the beasts more than he cares for his own teammates, Chilchuck thinks.

He understands monsters more than he does the people he interacts with every day of his life.

And now Chilchuck is one of those.

Chilchuck doesn't have much more to do than watch, while he's stuck being lugged around like a sack of flour. Laios notices... more, now. He's more attentive. More careful. When his carrying abrades more than usual, he readjusts at the slightest hint of discomfort, sometimes before Chilchuck notices himself - he doesn't realize how unnerving it is to not have his feet on a solid surface now until he spends an hour being hauled around by Namari and has to pull himself off halfway through. Walking makes the scabbing on his feet burn like fire, but it's easier to tolerate than the awful fear that rises in his chest with every second he spends with his legs dangling in the air.

He's picking up habits that he didn't have before, and they fit in so seamlessly that he barely even realizes until someone points it out.

Too much meat turns his stomach. He can hear better, whispers that he once could have tuned out now louder in his ears than even a normal conversation would. His heart beats faster than before, nearly two hundred and fifty beats in a minute - he worries, when he notices, that it'll give him away, and it only beats faster at the thought. He nearly forgets how little the other races can hear. It's only hours later that he puts real thought to how little it took to nearly drive him to a panic.

There's a stranger in his skin who isn't him, who isn't even human - something etched into him in bone-needle pricks and searing, boiling-oil agony - and he's the only one who knows that it's anything more than just a few odd habits.

He, and Laios.

And isn't it strange, to be sharing something so delicate with someone so indelicate?

Laios, he thinks, still probably knows more about his new monstrous biology than Chilchuck himself does. He can't say that his feelings on it are anything less than... mixed.

Chilchuck doesn't know much about artificial beastkin. It's forbidden to know about, illegal to even try and research - he's not stupid enough to go poking at things better left buried, much less to put himself in the line of fire for long-lived races who'll put him in jail for the rest of his natural life. Still, he's heard gossip.

He knows, if faintly, that the spell was created for the sake of enhancing soldiers. He doesn't remember where he first heard it - some bar somewhere, maybe, or an offhand comment from a former teammate - but the fact floats in the back of his mind when he thinks of it, faint and damning. He can see its echo in the spurs sprouting from his heels, in the leg muscle he's never worked to get, in the speed and acrobatics that come horribly naturally to him, in the thump of rabbit's legs against a neck-

The first thing that he ever did with this new form was take a man's head off. And all he can think of, when he looks back at it, is how easy it was to do it.

Chilchuck never would have gone anywhere near the arena, if he had a choice in the matter. He wouldn't have paid for the spell inked around his wrists, much less be put into an unknown amount of debt over it. He doesn't need a body made for fighting - he doesn't need a body so obviously inhuman, so easy to dismiss and dispose of. Half-foot tails are cropped for a reason - he doesn't need to be farther from the other races, doesn't need to be even more of an other.

Laios carries him from place to place, unfalteringly attentive to whims he didn't even know that he had as the soles of Chilchuck's feet heal from the tattoo needle. Laios tells him about monsters, and animals, and rabbits, more than he ever thought was possible to know. Laios... looks at the curse etched into his skin with a sort of longing that he doesn't know how to put words to.

He wonders, as he washes the still-healing ink by the river, if Laios wishes that he were the one with black magic forced under his skin.

Chilchuck isn't perfectly observant, not with people, but he knows how to interpret at least some of it. He might've been half-conscious at the area, but he's not blind enough to not see how Laios looked at those beastkin fighters, and he's not blind enough that he can't see the way that the tallman looks at his curse marks. It's a strange mix of emotions, something like flattery curled around something slimy and squirming in the pit of his stomach. He's got a spell etched into his body that'd get him thrown into an elven jail to rot for the rest of his life, and Laios...

Laios, he's beginning to think, would have wanted this body. Would have wanted to have someone stab a soldier's supplement written in a curse tongue into his shoulders. He cares for monsters more than humans, beast body language more than simple common - hell, Chilchuck's seen first-hand how massive of a gap there is between his common communication and whatever he has with monsters.

Laios is an actual combatant, the kind of person who signed up to swing a sword - sturdy enough to take a few knocks, chubby enough that transforming probably wouldn't make his stomach scream like it's trying to eat itself, knowledgeable enough that he wouldn't be struggling to figure out a whole new set of rules from first principles. Chilchuck has spent so long being himself that trying to adjust to a whole new body this late in life is being thrown into the deep end without a paddle - but Laios, he suspects, knows monsters' bodies better than he knows his own hands.

...if their positions were different, he thinks, then Laios would have handled this far, far easier than him. And he's not sure how to handle it, when Laios seems to envy him for a curse that was forced on him against his will.

Chilchuck is a locksmith. Chilchuck makes his living in traps. Chilchuck is a noncombatant, who has never really wanted to become a combatant, who was stuck with this body against his will, who'll have to scrounge up the money to pay for it, who has no need to behead a man in a single kick, no need to cut through flesh like butter, no need to leap with enough strength that he knocks Laios stumbling just from using his pauldrons as a kick-off.

The body he's been given is made for spectacle. For loss of humanity. For violence. It's modified for death, for flashy sprays of arterial blood in the coliseum. Rabbits don't have spurs on their feet, don't have a kick that decapitates - don't dent armor from lashing out on instinct, let alone have instinct to go for someone's neck when threatened. Rabbits don't have legs strong enough to break solid oak to pieces - half-foots might not keep them as livestock, but he's lived in mixed-race settlements for years, and Laios has been murmuring facts about them into the backs of his ears for nearly two weeks now-

Rabbits can break their own spines with the force of their kicks.

And he didn't know, before now, but he has to know now, because he might be the same way - and that makes it feel all the worse when he has to find it out from an offhand comment from Falin, because it's something that she knows that he doesn't, because it's another reminder of the landscape full of landmines he's struggling to navigate, because it's yet another thing that the Touden siblings seem to know like the back of their hands where he-

He doesn't know the slightest thing about this.

About what he is now. About what he's supposed to be. He doesn't know anything, and every time he speaks with them, it gets hammered in more and more. There's a gap of knowledge so wide that it might as well be unbridgeable between him and them, because there's half a world of difference between him and tallman farmers who've dedicated half their lives to farming an animal that he only knew by tangential proximity before it was stabbed into his soul.

And that's the problem, isn't it? His own shortcomings, in the face of people who feel so much younger than him, who he has to rely on for his own well-being. Who he has to lean on, if he wants to get anywhere, and who he's becoming more and more aware are more suited to bearing this sort of thing than Chilchuck ever has been.

This has never been a life that Chilchuck wants. If there isn't a way to break the chains shackling magic to his body, then he'll be stuck hiding parts of himself for life - either forced to hide the spell well enough to pretend it doesn't exist, or locked away in some elven prison somewhere until he forgets his own name. He doesn't want to be a monster, he doesn't want to be a tool, he doesn't want to give another excuse to treat him like he's disposable-

But Laios, he's beginning to think, would rather be a monster than human.

He can't claim to understand it. He's spent too long watching what people do to beast-men for that, too long watching how people act with anything they think they can mistreat - beast-men are a level below the rest of humanity, and he doesn't even want to think how something like him might rank. They're inhuman, illegal - he's seen half-foots taken away for as little as looking into the wrong books, he has no doubt that it would be worse if the elves caught wind of someone altering their body with magic. Who would want an enchantment that guarantees they'll need to spend their life hiding?

Laios would, apparently. And he hasn't the slightest idea how he's meant to handle that sort of want turned towards him, towards something he had no choice with.

He has the rest of this dive to avoid answering it. After that... he doesn't know.

The scabs, he knows, will heal eventually. Will set into his skin, like any other tattoo, probably settled to the same rusty red that the tallman who gave them to him had, if the way they've been healing is any indication, and then... well, he doesn't know.

He can't be seen with them by anyone, not if he wants to keep himself from going to jail for the rest of his short life. He can't ever take off his gloves in someone's company again, can't wear his hair short - the length it's grown out to now only barely hides the diamond-shaped rune that caps the array on his scalp, and it's a small miracle that no one's looked too close at the outsides of his ears yet. He can't hide these, not like he can hide anything else about this.

Paranoia's had him double-looping his cowl around his neck to hide the markings, and he's seen the other party members look twice at it, heard them absently discuss it even through the walls. His hearing's never been sharper, and they're far from oblivious - discussion of just what he's doing with the Touden siblings, discussion of what he's doing with Laios, makes up more dinner talk than he'd prefer under any circumstances.

He's not entirely sure what to make of the fact that something like half of the party appears to have jumped directly to the hare-brained idea that they've been having relations, even after Chilchuck set down the very clear base rule of no inter-party romance.

He's not sure if it's better or worse that the idea seems to be working to get them off his trail.

It'd be a decent cover, for someone else. Plausible, especially in parties with similar no-relationship clauses - when you're skirting the rules, you tend to dance around your other party members. But it's a wrong impression, directed to the one member of the party he's least likely to fall for - and worse, it makes him seem flaky and ingenuine, going back on his own rules the second he sees a pretty tallman. It stings to know they think so little of his self-control, and it stings more to know he can't say anything against it without incriminating himself in an entirely different way.

He hates the situation he's found himself in. He hates it with every ounce of his body, every bit of his breath - but he can't do anything about it, and that just makes it worse, if anything.

Maybe, at the end of this, he'll be able to go back to normal. He'll be able to cover up the tattoos crawling over his skin and brush off the allegations of a relationship with Laios. He'll be able to go home to the guild and make believe that he's fine even to a room with dozens of pairs of listening ears pricked for gossip. He'll be able to pretend nothing has changed.

But he won't be able to make things be the same.

There's a second body bound to his, made of muscle and bone and blades. There's a living weapon lurking just under his skin, waiting to be used, and he can't make it go away no matter how much he wants to - and that scares him, maybe even more than everything else does.

Because the rumors, no matter how bad for his career, are temporary. Because talk can be forgotten about, or fade into obscurity, or fail to take off the ground more than a handful of whispers. Because even if laws have been changed or forgiven before, if the laws around artificial beastkin were lifted today, he still wouldn't be able to be the same-

Because this, whatever it'll wind up meaning to him, is permanent. And it's that permanency, more than anything, that terrifies him.

He washes the tattoos. He rewraps the wounds. He returns to camp like nothing's ever changed, even though the rabbit's soul still itches under his skin.

He's been changed. He's not wholly human anymore. He'll never be the same again, and the proof of that is seeping into his very soul with every moment that passes, no matter how much he tries to dig his heels in. His body isn't wholly his own, and the only person who even knows is a freak who wouldn't understand social graces if they bit him on the ass, and-

Everything's different. And yet, almost nothing's changed.

A human weapon sits at a campfire. His party sits around him.

One more job. One more floor. Just one drawing of the runes on the door, then a return trip to the surface. Just a bit more time to let his wounds heal.

He won't be able to hide this forever. If things keep getting worse, then he probably won't be able to even keep it subtle for much longer.

But for now, he can play at normalcy, and given the givens, that's more than he ever expected to get.

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 4 days

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small appreciation post for collapsing while still conscious

ok as much as i love a good faint im also a huge sucker for when a character collapses but is still conscious, maybe just dizzy or weak

stumbling or tripping on something and falling to their knees, too weak to stand up again

weak from fever or low blood sugar and failing to get out of a chair, lying on their back or side while the dizziness subsides (i actually had a fic planned for this at one point)

slumping into a chair because they cant stand anymore

reaching out to a table or wall for support and sliding to the floor (!!!)

sitting on the floor already but they slump to the side out of exhaustion

that thing where they throw their arm across their eyes out of exhaustion or dizziness (honestly one of my favorites)

there are probably a lot more im missing rn so feel free to add on!!

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 9 days

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 14 days

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A whumpee who was turned into a dangerous monster after being forced to transform. Their body warps and transforms painfully into a mindless beast that can only heed the words of their captor.

Until one day, when the Whumpee's fighting a group of people, the caretaker uses some magic on the whumpee, thinking that it's just another being made of darkness; when surprise, surprise. The whumpee shrieks out in pain as they painfully turn back to their human form and collapse to the grass beneath them, passing out as their world grows black before their eyes again.

The caretaker rushes over, picking up the whumpee, seeing the poor state that they were in; half conscious and covered in bruises and cuts. The whumpee's carried off somewhere safe where they can maybe fully heal from the extent of their injuries.

#rebagel

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 21 days

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Thought of the day: the heaviness that comes with illness.

When the person is hit full force by their illness in the morning. They can barely open their eyes, alarm clock blearing next to them on the nightstand, but even opening one eye a crack costs so much effort. The lids feel leaden and swollen, and the mere thought of having to lift an arm to silence the alarm is pure agony.

When a person crashes after an entire day of muddling through their work despite coming down with a nasty cold, so as soon as they reach the sanctuary of their home, they collapse under the weight of their illness, barely able to make it to the sofa or the bed. They all but manage to kick off their shoes and jacket before they flop down, pulling a blanket halfway over themselves with heavy arms as they start to shiver from fever, falling asleep with the lights still on a mere minute after they lay down.

When a person has not managed to get up from their sickbed unattended for days. Their bones feel as heavy as stones, each movement costs them so much energy that it leaves them a panting, sweaty mess. Needing their SO/ friend to help them sit up whenever it is time for food or medicine. Having to be guided to the toilet, their SO's / friend's arm tightly wrapped around their waist to support them, while they lean heavily onto them.

Just a poor, sick person suffering under the weight of their illness.

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 22 days

Text

Jack Frost

Warnings: drugging, unconsciousness, captivity, creepy/intimate whumper

Everything was soft. And warm. And Whumpee didn't want to open their eyes. They were so comfortable. So peaceful. Caretaker snuggled them from behind and they couldn't be happier.

Whumpee didn't remember falling asleep. But that didn't matter. They were so happy. Sleep made everything hazy. Whumpee tried to rouse themself, to chase the haze of slumber away.

But they couldn't.

And that is what made Whumpee's heart pound. Why couldn't they wake? Why couldn't they move? What had happened?

"Shhh, shhh, my sweets," Whumper purred in Whumpee's ear. "It's all going to be fine. I've got you, my sweet. You are so beautiful when you sleep."

Whumpee tried to pull away from Whumper, but Whumper gripped them tighter. "NNNNNNN--"

"Shhhhh, shhhh. Rest. You need rest, sweets. You've had a big day. You need your rest."

But Whumpee couldn't calm themself. They had to get away from Whumper! They tried to pull away. Tried to wrench their eyes open and get away. The sharp sting of the needle had them freezing.

"I had thought you would sleep longer. My mistake, my sweets," Whumper cooed in Whumpee's ear as they injected the sedative. "Rest. I love to watch you rest."

And though Whumpee fought against the darkness, fought against sleep, they were powerless to the sedative. They once more fell into a deep sleep in Whumper's arms. "So beautiful," Whumper whispered as they stroked Whumpee's cheek. "And so mine."

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 23 days

Text

CW: Recapturing, creepy Whumper, drugging, noncon touching

…

Whumpee has been alone in the house for a few days, and slowly their paranoia has gone down. They always felt nervous being away from Caretaker for too long, but it’s been almost two months since their return, so they understand Caretaker isn’t willing to risk their job and not go on that business trip.

As Whumpee takes another sip of their water, however, they begin to feel dizzy. They feel sick at the familiar feeling, remembering how Whumper used to drug them and they’d…

…feel exactly like this.

They try to stand and grab their phone on their bed, but only make it two steps before falling to the floor. They open their eyes to see expensive shoes striding their way, they don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

“I’m offended, in all honesty. Did you really think you could get away from me? Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

“Please, don’t do this,” Whumpee begs. “Please.”

A smirk rises to Whumper’s lips. “Poor thing. You’ve grown so spoiled, you forgot your place. That’s okay, because you know what? I’m here now, and I’m never letting you leave me again.”

Whumpee goes deadweight when their captor picks them up, cradling them like Caretaker would. They cry and try to keep pleading, but each plead comes out as a pained moan.

As Whumper carries them out, they notice a framed picture on the wall. They stare at it, saying amusedly, “You look so happy in this picture, darling.” They snatch the picture and throw it to the ground, crushing it beneath their shoe. “Happiness isn’t a pretty look on you. I think I like these more.” They thumb away their tears.

“Pl– pleas–”

“Shh…” Whumper drags their thumb from their cheek to their lips. “Save those pretty pleads for later. You’ll need them.”

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 24 days

Text

Tw: drug abuse mentions.

Whumpee shyly walked into the pharmacy and wandered around a little before they got brave enough to go to the counter.

"HI, uhm, I'm here to pick up my script", Whumpee tried to hide their shaking. Why couldn't the normal pharmacist be here, the one that knew them. Not this new person.

"Name?", the pharmacist grunted.

"Whumpee", they were quick to answer.

"Ah yes, you have a flag on your account for drug abuse. I'm not able to give these to you", they looked up.

"But I have a text they are ready. I need those", Whumpee pleaded, "please, I-I have someone who keeps me on track, and my Doctor checks on me regularly. I'm getting better."

"No", came the reply, "I'm not given these out to you."

"Okay", Whumpee whispered, they looked down to hide their quivering lip.

Whumpee left the pharmacy and waited outside for a few minutes wondering what they should do.

They only had one more pill left for tomorrow. Caretaker was out of town for today and wouldn't be back until way after the pharmacy closed.

"Should I call Doctor", they looked at their phone.

"I don't know what else to do."

Whumpee dialed the office number.

"Hello this is Triage, how can I help you?", someone answered.

"HI, uhm I'm Whumpee. I really need to talk to Doctor. I'm having a problem", Whumpee's lip quivered again.

"Yep, they're right here, give me one second", the Triage person heard Whumpee's voice break.

"Whumpee?", a concerned voice came on a few seconds later, "are you okay? What's going on?"

Whumpee started to cry, and talk really fast, "I'm at the pharmacist... it's a new person.... they won't let me g-get my script bec-because of my past w-with drug abuse. And I told them I needed it.... I only have one more."

"Okay Whumpee take a deep breath for me" Doctor requested, "it's okay, where is Caretaker at?"

"They are out of town for a meeting", Whumpee mumbled, "please help me, I only have one more pill left", Whumpee's voice broke again, "I don't want the voices to come back. Please help me."

"Okay", Doctor sighed, "it's okay, I'm annoyed at the pharmacy not at you. Are you okay if I put you on hold and call them to straighten this out."

"Yes", Whumpee shook, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'll get this all straightened out for you, just stay on the line for me okay", Doctor waited for Whumpee to agree, then put them on hold.

"These freaken pharmacist", Doctor grumbled as they looked through Whumpee's chart to find the phone number, "always getting in my way, and messing with my patient's care."

"Hello, Pharmacy, how can I help you today", someone answered.

"Hello, this is Doctor. I just received a call from one of my patients. Are you withholding their medication?", Doctor frowned, "I would hope not, they do in fact need that medication to stay on track with their mental health. It is also highly illegal to withhold medication without cause."

"I believe you are speaking of Whumpee, they were just in here. They have a flag on their account for drug abuse. This script is a fairly addictive controlled substance", the pharmacist explained.

"Yes, it's a controlled substance.... that's why I control it. They get a certain amount for a certain amount of time, and then they get a refill. They come in and see me every few weeks for a follow-up. They also have someone who monitors their medication for them."

"You are not helping them at all right now withholding their medication. They are terrified right now that they won't get it, and they will regress again. They literally called me crying", Doctor continued, "I am reporting you for harassment as well. That alert isn't there for you to play drug monitor, unless they are trying to get extra pills or showing signs of active addiction. I am going to send Whumpee back in, and I will remain on the line with them during their transaction. If you still withhold that script, you will have serious problems with me and law enforcement. Am I clear?"

"Yes", the pharmacist gulped, then heard the click of the phone being hung up.

"Whumpee?", Doctor came back on.

"I just spoke with the pharmacist. Everything should be straightened out for you. Please keep me on the line, though, so I can listen in. I don't want you to get hassled by them", Doctor's voice had gone back to their nice patient care voice.

"Yes Doctor, thankyou so much", Whumpee cautiously went inside and to the counter.

"Pi-pick up for Whumpee please", Whumpee was too scared to look at the person again.

The pharmacist gruffly handed over the script and took the payment.

Whumpee thanked them, then quickly left.

"They didn't seem friendly", Whumpee whispered to Doctor.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, hopefully next time the normal person will be there so you won't have any issues", Doctor stated.

"Thankyou for helping me Doctor, I'm sorry that I bothered you though", Whumpee sighed.

"Don't worry about it", Doctor smiled, "I'm here to take care of you...even if that means keeping the pharmacist in line. What are you up to now? Do you feel okay mentally, or should I call a police officer to come get you and bring you here?"

"No Doctor, I'm okay, I'm just going to walk home right now. I may stop and get some food though", Whumpee started to walk. They hid the medicine in a bag.

"Okay that sounds good", Doctor grinned, "let us know if you need anything else, I've got a few patients to see. I'll see you next week."

"Okay thankyou so much", Whumpee quickly thanked them before they hung up with each other.

A bit later Whumpee heard Caretaker come into the house.

"I'm home Whumpee", Caretaker called, "I heard you had a problem at the pharmacy today."

Whumpee peaked out from the kitchen and frowned.

"I did. It was embarrassing, demeaning, and unfair", Whumpee's lip started to quiver again, "and... and.. and... I didn't ask for these problems", Whumpee looked at Caretaker when tears started to fall, "I-I just want to be okay", they pleaded, "why do I have to beg to be okay?"

"I know Whumpee, I'm sorry", Caretaker held their arms out, "would a hug help, or would you prefer not to be touched?"

"I would like hug please", Whumpee nodded.

Caretaker smiled as they walked over and wrapped Whumpee in their arms.

"It's okay, I know it's hard right now, but their will come a time when you will be okay. Your drug abuse will be left far in the past. You may have to take the medication still, and that is perfectly fine, but it won't seem as big of a deal as it is right now. You may be able to live on your own even, but if not, I am always here. I will happily take care of you, I promise."

"But what if you get tired of me?", Whumpee rested their head on Caretaker's chest, "what then?"

"Tired of you? I don't think that's possible Whumpee", Caretaker chuckled.

"It is", Whumpee sighed.

"Nah! Not me at least", Caretaker squeezed a little tighter, "how about I get your medicine put away, then we can get started on dinner."

Whumpee nodded, "just a minute more on this hug please."

"Of course Whumpee anything for you", Caretaker chuckled.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots @whumpbump @everythingsscary @skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr @theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee @candleshopmenace @whumpanthems @lavndvrr @ivymyers @starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 month

Note

For the “tropes to rave about” list: When two characters have been whumped and one insists on downplaying their injuries to take care of the other one :D

Oh where to begin???

This trope is so versatile, and the results really depend on the relationship dynamic between characters. The dozens upon dozens of sub-tropes? Are they mutually competent, student and mentor (i.e., parent and adopted child), siblings, lovers, best buddies, strangers, rivals, or (gasp) enemies???

Whatever the case may be, there's a lot of potential here.

Give me suppressed winces and forced smiles. Give me hoarse whispers of "promise you're okay?" and "are you sure?" Give me voluntary starvation and/or dehydration so their companion has the strength to heal. Give me an exhausted caretaker carrying their companion across unknown distances because "it's fine, I'm fine, just keep talking to me," even though each movement is agony. Bloodstained clothes turned sticky and stiff, hidden from view. Powering through the pain because oh God that's too much blood and their companion shouldn't sound like that. Broken bones going unset and grinding painfully with every movement. Give me stiff movements and piss-poor acting, but their companion is so unwell that they just can't see it.

Let's not leave out the lonely parts for our poor caretaker, though. Those moments when their companion is asleep and they try to treat their own injuries as silently as possible - but careful, careful, they need to ration their medical supplies because their companion needs it more than they do. Those moments when they say they're going to find some food or water, knowing there's none, and they just use it as an excuse to let the mask drop - just for a little while. The hours (or days) of silence, broken only by their companion's shuddering breaths. The melancholy of believing rescue is out of reach. The resignation of deciding to rescue themselves and their friend.

Then give me a companion that, once they're starting to improve, sees right through their caretaker's façade. That healthy glow now looks like a feverish flush on the face that's been hovering over them. The caretaker's movements are too sluggish to stop their companion's too-fast hands from grabbing that traitorous, bloodstained article of clothing. Now there's questions, too many of them, and their caretaker can only manage to give mumbled answers to two of them. Righteous anger. The guilt of rifling through their things, only to see that all of the medical supplies had been used on themselves. Hurried movements and oh-damn-that-still-hurts; but their caretaker just doesn't have the strength to stop them from pushing them to lie down and now the roles are reversed until help can arrive or they save themselves.

That, or the caretaker manages to keep up the strong and steady act until rescue finally comes. It's almost eerie, really, how their mind and body are in sync with one another until they're absolutely certain that their companion is in safe hands. Then the exhaustion and pain come crashing down on them all at once. Maybe they stumble. Maybe they collapse. Maybe several sets of hands catch them. Or maybe they go unnoticed until someone turns around and oh - oh that's why they stopped talking.

-Bonus-

Caretaker: You're gonna need a, b, and c. And maybe a crash cart.

Rescue Medic, confused: But... your friend's condition doesn't call for any of that stuff.

Caretaker, actively bleeding out with a completely straight face: It's not for them.

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 month

Text

Whumpril 2024 Day 4: Swaying

@whumpril

Contains: Head injury, concussion, vehicular crash, dizziness, platonic comfort

One second they were driving down the tree-lined road leading back to their hotel. The next second Matago heard a revving engine close behind.

Then he was weightless and everything came in flashes.

The ATV taking a sharp left swerve. Dace crying out and brakes squealing. A blur of green and brown and dust flying into the air.

Finally, a burst of pain as his head slammed against the ground.

Then the movement stopped. Matago sucked in a deep breath, his ribs aching and hopefully not broken. Grass and dirt rubbed against his palms as he struggled to push himself upright.

He was distantly aware of noises and movement around him. A trio of unfamiliar men ran towards the ditch where the transport had crashed, forcing open the back storage compartment and grabbing the bags inside. As fast as they arrived, they charged back up the hill to a van parked on the side of the road and clambered inside. Then the van sped off, leaving everything suddenly quiet.

Matago’s eyes fluttered shut. The flashing images started to connect in his mind – someone had run them off the road and into a ditch.

“Shit…are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes again and slowly turned his throbbing head to the left. To his relief, it was Dace, stumbling past the wrecked transport to greet him. By some miracle the other man appeared mostly unhurt, aside from some rough scrapes and cuts on his left side. He must have been able to hold on to the handlebars enough to avoid getting thrown off the seat.

“Yeah,” Matago replied, his voice quiet and weak. “You good?”

“As far as I know.” Dace crouched down next to him, looking him over for visible injuries. “You?”

It took Matago a moment to piece together the words for an answer. “Head hurts,” he slurred. “Don’t think anything’s broken, though.”

Dace frowned, and even in his disoriented state, Matago knew what he was thinking. That wasn’t just a simple bump on the head, was it?

“Okay…we should be able to walk back to the hotel, it’s not too far. Kalei can call for medical services or rent a transport to get you to a doctor.”

More of the pieces connected in Matago’s mind as he caught a glimpse of the open storage compartment. “They stole the money.”

Fuck. The payment of twenty thousand credits from their last job gone. A colleague of a colleague had apparently warned Kalei about thieves targeting drivers in the area near their hotel, but the three of them had brushed it off as a rumor. Looked like there was truth to it after all.

“We’ll deal with that later. Do you think you can stand?”

“Guess I’ll find out.”

With Dace’s help, Matago managed to slowly push himself upright along the edge of the ditch, eventually straightening to the point that Dace could pull him into a standing position.

Yeah, that definitely wasn’t just a bump on the head.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him, nearly sending him tumbling back to the ground. The uneven dirt beneath his feet only made it harder to keep his balance. He staggered a few steps forward and back, grabbing hold of Dace, the most solid physical anchor he had.

“Whoah, whoah, you okay?” Dace was thankfully strong enough to be able to hold him upright as he stumbled.

“Dizzy,” was all he could say in reply. The ground seemed to rock beneath him no matter where he tried to plant his feet.

“I could try to run back to the hotel and get Kalei first-”

Matago shook his head, then grimaced at another throbbing pulse of pain. “Don’t…don’t wanna be here if those guys come back.”

Dace stood rigid for a moment, weighing the options, while Matago swayed on shaky legs.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “If you think you can make it that far.”

Dace adjusted them both so Matago could lean on him further, then began to guide him towards a spot further down the ditch where the hill to the road was less steep. Matago stumbled on every third or fourth step even putting all his focus onto keeping his balance.

His mind fogged over as they reached the roadside. Only two thoughts remained clear: the nagging voice that told him he wouldn’t make it back to the hotel this way and the relentless determination trying to silence it.

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 month

Text

The Punishment Frame

For Whumpril 2024.

Theme: “swaying”

The sprints were the hardest part of the training for Phylassa. She wasn’t inferior to any of the other novices in strength or weapons exercise, but each time they crowded out onto the dusty-gold exercise yard and Sgt. Prudentia called them to run, she knew that her body would fail her.

She tried. She watched her portions in the refectory, ate as much fibre as she could get her hands on – all the health advice she remembered from the time before the space marines recruited her –, did breathing exercises that were intended to expand her lungs and let each cell take up oxygen.

Her body had changed during these weeks. The incessant training had sleeked it, hardened it, made her bones stronger and more elastic, all while the sun of the desert world had bleached her hair and darkened her skin. She no longer got a sting in her side while running; her lungs didn’t feel like they were filling up with blood clots. It hurt less, but she still couldn’t keep pace with the other girls. Her speed had reached a limit, as if her legs were shorter than theirs, and it was impossible to increase it beyond that point.

Today was no different. Sweat ran from her bangs – pale brown with wet – and stung her eyes, air rushed in and out of her lungs in time with the pulse in her eardrums, but the great mass of novices was far ahead of her, the distance still increasing as they reached the last leg, towards the site where a steel frame stood anchored in the dusty ground. The first girl or girls had already slowed to a walk in front of the Sergeant.

Phylassa was gasping. Her ankles felt swollen where they pumped up and down; the capillaries couldn’t provide the muscles with the oxygen they needed. She’d given up reaching the cluster; now she just aimed to outrun Aziza, the closest ahead of her, and not be last. She couldn’t even do that. Aziza kept some five-six yards in front, with no sign of faltering. Her long black braid thumped with mechanically identical motions on her back in the white training robe.

Aziza had already saluted Sgt. Prudentia and started shaking her arms out when Phylassa reached the finishing post.

She drew long breaths of the boiled air as she walked the last few steps. The oxygen didn’t reach all extremities.

“Sergeant,” she said, bowing her head.

The sweat ran in rivulets down her upper lip. It didn’t taste of salt, strangely, just bitter.

“At ease,” the Sergeant said.

Phylassa raised her eyes again, but the sunshine was so bright, she couldn’t see anything outside the glare. She had a toxic nausea in the pit of her stomach, and was so dizzy she wasn’t sure whether she was standing up straight.

“You’re last again, Phylassa,” the officer went on. “You know what to do, by now.”

The punishment frame was five yards away, a framework of steel bars, like something she’d wanted to climb when she was little. Its shadow was thread-thin and wavering. She was aware of it as of an ongoing note in some unpleasant register.

She nodded, holding her tongue. She fixed her gaze on the frame. Aziza stood a few steps away, smiling apologetically, but still with her eyes raised.

As Phylassa walked over to the frame, she felt a brief, deep dizziness and flung one arm out to brace herself if she fell. The moment passed, she was still upright, but everyone had seen. They would think she was faltering from fear. She bit her tongue to drive back the tears as she took off her robe and breastband, standing in just her loincloth. She bent forward, grasping the warm steel bar at the end of extended arms. It sang with her touch.

The other girls had gathered around her. Staring into the sand would have been easiest, so she kept her gaze ahead, not focusing on anyone.

“Very good,” Sergeant Prudentia said, unseen. “Do you want the ties?”

Phylassa shook her head. “No, Sergeant.”

She felt the woman nod.

“You weren’t far behind, today. Only five strokes.”

Strands of hair tickled in her eyes when she nodded. She didn’t know whether it would be proper to thank her. Silence was better; words ran the risk of becoming chaotic and wheedling. She was guarding her breath now. If she timed the intake and outtake right, she wouldn’t cry out.

She heard the polycarbonate strap lash the air and dig down in the stretched skin of her back. The sensation was a little delayed after the sound. She gasped, the impact driving all the air out of her lungs, but she hadn’t screamed.

The strap fell again, lodging in its track, pulling scraps of skin with it on the way up. She didn’t scream this time either, but it was purely mechanical: by making sure that her lungs were empty when the strap struck. Her inhalation became high-pitched and sharp, but she was almost halfway through it.

Every time.

THE END

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 month

Text

Whumpril Prompt #4

Swaying

TW: chains, drugs, non consensual drugs, past injuries

Your partner is the most amazing dancer. You are dancing together, swirling around the ballroom. They are beautiful, the way their twirl and spin. You catch them and dip them, then you both slow down and just sway together.

You both slow down and just sway together.

Just sway together.

Just sway…

You wake up. Your hands are chained to the ceiling and your toes are just barely reaching the floor. Turns out you were swaying, just not the way you dreamed. There was a draft coming from somewhere, and with such little footing, you keep slipping and swinging from your wrists.

You don’t know how you ever fell asleep while chained up like this. You stretch your toes to reach the ground and give your wrists a little break- they are completely raw, and much longer hanging from them like this, they will be broken.

Your shoulders are sore too. More than sore. You didn’t realize until just now. In fact, nearly every part of your body is sore; you try to remember why.

You hear someone whistling, coming toward you, and you get a flood of memories. Whumper rounds the corner with a syringe in their hand.

“Tsk tsk, my dear, you were supposed to be asleep for at least 20 more minutes! I guess I’m going to have to up the dosage!” They said. So that’s how you fell asleep. You try to push away, but you literally can’t go anywhere, they reach up and stab the syringe into your forearm, and your eyes start drooping before you can even thing. You head slumps, but you can hear a few slurred words.

“Don’t worry, my dear, you can keep dreaming for now. I have something much better planned soon.”

You try to protest but the drug is coursing through your veins. The draft blows through the room, and you start to sway…

Your partner is the most amazing dancer.

#Drugging #semiconscious #noncon drugging

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a-whumperful-world-indeed · 1 month

Text

Whumpril 2024

Day 1 - Limp

⚠TW⚠

- Swearing

- Descriptive Body Horror

- Self-Harm

- Blood

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

Karyme could hear her heart beating intensely in her ears. Her breaths came out shallow, as if a invisible force was pressing against her chest.

She found herself stumbling, her vision blanking out the more she moved. Her ankle seemed to drag across the grass, holding her back.

She grabbed onto the closest thing she could find, and used it to push herself further up ahead. All around her, tall trees stood, preventing the sun from touching her.

She yearned for the warmth to reach her, her and her cold, frozen body. Even when she could see the sun rays, she still shivered.

She wanted to make it out, so the sun could grace upon her.

In reality, Karyme wasn't even sure where she was trying to go, but she felt the urge to go somewhere else, away from where she was now.

She steadied herself against a tree, stopping to rest. She looked around, until her gaze fell to the floor, where the green grass looked oddly dark.

She studied the patch of grass closely, watching as drops of red dripped from somewhere, staining the grass further.

Her eyes traveled further, landing on herself.

She could see her torso, the black fabric of her turtleneck appearing darker near the middle.

Karyme goes to touch it, only for a stinging pain to travel through her body quickly. She hunches forward, grabbing onto the tree to keep herself up right.

Disoriented, she looks at her hand. Her skin tone pales in contrast to the dark red blood that thickly coated her fingers.

Then it hit her.

The blood.. this forest..

She had been here earlier, hiding from.. someone..

She didn't succeed.

She was found.

She remembered being backed up against a tree, looking into the eyes of.. someone..

Then pain. Searing, hot pain.

Then blood.

A hole. A gaping hole that was in her. Blood seeping through it, like a waterfall.

Her limp ankle dragging behind her, broken beyond repair.

Little cuts running up and down her arms, both of them, some not deep enough to bleed, others deep gashes, causing pain.

A pounding in her head, blood escaping from somewhere, blinding her.

Karyme remembered.

“..Karyme..?”

A voice rang out.

A familiar voice.

She let go of the tree.

And she collapsed.

~~~~~~~~~

Kaiden was panicking, plain and simple.

I mean, who wouldn’t be panicking in this kind of situation? Leony had freaked out, claiming that Karyme was in danger, and couldn’t give more than the name to the supposed place she was in.

La Immort. The biggest, and most dangerous forest in Eris.

Why would Karyme be there, well, Kaiden had no idea. He had no idea about anything that was happening. He could hardly remember the past few weeks, not to mention what caused Karyme to leave without a word.

Nonetheless, Leony’s persistence was enough for him to go searching for answers.

That’s where he was now, searching in La Immort.

Every sound made him jump, hoping to see Karyme, only to be met with nothing. It didn’t help that it was windy either. The cold air sunk into his bones, making an already unpleasant situation even more unpleasant.

He wasn’t even sure he should be here. Even when his heart pushed him forward, his mind screamed at him to turn around.

Kaiden was a mess, completely conflicted.

Until he heard it.

A sound clear as day, unlike everything else he heard in these woods.

A scream.

It was loud enough to make every hair on his body stand up rigidly. Alarms went off in his head, but yet, he didn’t move.

He should run, run and escape whatever the hell caused that kind of a scream from someone.

But something was stopping him.

Someone.

No, he had never heard Karyme scream.. or do anything for that matter.

But what if it was her? He couldn’t just leave her..

It was risky to keep going, but he had to.

So with a shaky breath, he trudges on.

His eyes are tightly shut, as if that will keep him safe.

He stops once again at the sound of something else.

It’s heavy.. wheezy even, like a whistle..

He takes a step forward.

He hears something else take a step.

It goes that way for a bit, step by step, each one approaching each other unknowingly. Invisible strings seems to tug at them, pulling them ever so close..

Finally, Kaiden takes the last step.

A scent is carried through the wind, a metallic one..

The smell is overwhelming, overpowering even..

His eyes scan the area.

Then he sees it.

Clear as day.

He wishes he couldn't see.

There's so much.. blood. Just, everywhere.. it.. this can't be happening, no, this has to be fake..

A pair, no, a single, red eyes looks back at him. There's nothing behind her gaze. Not pain, not.. anger, just, nothing.. numbness..

His voice is stolen away from him.

He can't say anything, fuck, why can't he speak!

Say something..

Say something!

His mouth opens slightly, a small breath of air coming out.

"..Karyme..?"

She blinks.

Then she falls.

It happens in a spilt second, Kaiden can't even react, but his body can. He's at her side in seconds, just as fast as she fell.

He grabs her, trying to help, his ears ringing.

She gasps, her hands pushing at his chest.

Even with a huge wound going across her torso, she has enough strength to try and push him away. She cries as she fights against him. Kaiden just grabs onto her wrists, holding her still as she thrashes and cries.

Kaiden doesn't know what to do, fuck, he doesn't know what to do! Think, for the love of Selyna please think..

911. An ambulance, he needs an ambulance.

He scrambles with his phone, somehow managing to dial the number despite the blood coating his fingers.

He talks to someone, a lady. He can't make out what she's saying, but he responds.

At some point, she tells him to try and stop the bleeding.

Kaiden is shaking, yet composes himself enough to coordinate his movements.

He has a jacket, a old one, he can use it, it won't matter, it's not important.

Kaiden holds the jacket up, and closes his eyes, mumbling a quick prayer before pushing it down onto the wound.

Karyme reacts, a short cry escaping her throat as she clutches onto Kaiden's shirt, letting the blood smudge onto it.

Kaiden's ears finally stop ringing, and he hears himself speaking quickly. He can feels tears in his eyes. They're blurring his vision, he blinks them away, they come back.

"-okay, your okay, dear Selyna please be okay.." He says quickly, feeling out of breath despite his limited movement.

Karyme lets out a choked sob, gripping onto him even harder, scrunching up his shirt in her grip.

The jacket made a sacrifice, but the bleeding won't stop. He can't make it stop, why don't it stop.

Kaiden keeps applying pressure, letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. He takes her frail body into his lap, while still talking.

"Stay with me, stay with me, you gotta stay, okay, no leaving, you need to stay here, with me, yeah-?" He stammers, his breaths short and rigid.

Karyme's still conscious, by some miracle. Her breaths are just as short as his own, maybe even shorter. They end with a bit of a wheeze.

Kaiden's eyes wander over her, spotting so many different injuries, even her ankle which seems to be fractured, maybe even broken.

Kaiden just keeps listing the same things in his mind.

"Broken ankle, punctured lung, head injury, impaled.. broken ankle, punctured lung, head injury, impaled.."

He can't fathom how she's still breathing, nor how she got this way in the first place.

All he knows is that no average person did.. this.

It was something else.

Something bigger..

..someone more powerful..

Kaiden snaps out of his thoughts as he feels Karyme's grip loosen a bit.

He looks back down at her.

She's gone dangerously pale. Her eyes seem darker than they were just moments before..

"Hey, no, Karyme, stay here, stay with me, don't go anywhere, you need to be strong, help is almost here-" He begins to stammer again as the faint sound of sirens approach.

He only stops when Karyme's hand reaches up, slightly cupping his face. Her lips part slightly, a bit of air escaping through them.

"..baby..?" He mumbles, eyes widening a bit.

Her hand stops.

And it falls.

Kaiden grabs her hand in his, clutching it as to keep her here with him.

"..shit..! No no no no no.. Hey, stay with me, please just stay-!" He begs, tears finally falling.

Her other hand, still gripping his shirt, loosens before falling as well.

"Fuck, Karyme-!" Kaiden cries. "Don't do this to me-!"

Her eyes remain open, blinking slightly.

Then the curtain falls, and they close.

"Karyme, Karyme, baby, please wake up-! I-I need you, please don't die, oh Selyna don't let her die-!" Kaiden begs helplessly to no avail.

Even as the sirens finally are near, and the sound of many footsteps and voices are heard, something isn't around.

The beating of a heart, the sound of breathing.

Some of it is missing.

And it may never be found.

~~~~~~~~~~

#Collapse #blood loss

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