#fear of death

[bigassmoonchild]

Tears

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: You'd never seen Simon cry. He was the scary Ghost, and Ghosts didn't cry. Maybe he had just grown too comfortable with you, because it didn't take long to be pushed back an arms length.

Content Tags: Fluff, Simon Simping, Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Reader Simping, Crying, Senseless Worry, Fear, Fear of Death, Thoughts of Death (NOT suicidal ideation), Hurt/No Comfort, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No Use of Y/N

A/N: I am so sorry about being awol this week, my heart condition and migraines have whooped my ass. I wasn't expecting how this would turn out, but I enjoy it a lot. Mostly internal thoughts, some interactions here and there. Anyways, here's part 15!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

The few days you spent back home, it was slowly getting better. Your father had accepted Simon, your mother was spending a lot of her time doting on you and Simon, but Clint was still gone. Nowhere to be seen, no one had heard from him.

Arthur still stayed quiet, but you remembered him as the gentle boy he once was. He'd always been that way, especially after everything your father had done when he presented. No one talked about it anymore, but your brother still stepped on eggshells around everyone.

Simon had grown to enjoy spending time with the pack pups, reminiscing on his time with Price's own. Even then, he'd never considered that he would have any of his own. It was terrifying. Clair had pulled him away, baring her teeth and threatening a few different deaths if he'd so much as hurt you.

How dead he'd be if she knew.

And that's all he could think about, watching as Clair doted on her own Omega. Watching as she loved and cared for her pups. Seeing her act like an amazing Alpha, one he'd never thought he would be. Him? Someone's Alpha? It scared him, even so long after it had occurred.

His mind was constantly warring with itself, the old him trying to get him to run, dump his savings onto you and disappear into the wilderness. The other part of him, though, saw you as you existed. In the mornings, hair a mess and eyes still tired. After sex, your eyes slightly glazed over and skin heated.

He could see you, puffy eyed as you admitted your fears to him that first night back. He heard the sobs you gave him, oh so many time.

Simon saw the fire in your eyes as you snapped on him.

And he loved you all the more for it. You were his Omega, his precious mate. What he could consider the love of his life. And yet he looked at you, admiring your older sister with a look in your eye that seemed almost... regretful.

It was then that he really thought. Deeply, on all the past conversations. He had seen a similar regret in your face while driving back to the hotel, eyes still puffy from the crying.

Price, speaking with him one night. "How many people would wish to be mated like that?" Price had once asked him. "She is living, breathing and eating with a man she does not know. You can't make this any more difficult than it is," but this had been the first few weeks of your mating.

Were the two of you still strangers? Or acquaintances now? He didn't even know your favorite color, let alone simple facts about you. And now, as he lay next to you, he feared that perhaps everything had gone too quickly.

Even as he felt your fingers grasping at his sleep shirt, feeling the press of your swollen belly against his side. Everything had happened so quickly, and he hadn't been there for the first, what? Six months? He knew, almost inherently, that it was a poor representation of him.

His Alpha groaned, baring it's teeth at the thought that he was a bad Alpha. Even as he stared at the ceiling, eyes cast over, thoughts prickling over everything. The distaste at the back of Simons throat was strange. His eyes burned, and he blinked his eyes clear.

What the hell? Tears?

Simon was able to get your hands untangled from his shirt, shifting out of bed carefully and finding his way to the bathroom. Shutting the door carefully, he flicked on the light and found his reflection staring at him.

The vision blurred, staring through himself rather than at. He couldn't see himself. Not Simon, barely Ghost, but rather the monster he often thought of in the midst of missions. A killer, someone who took lives, not create. He was a monster, claiming you without permission, and he could feel the heat of his tears pouring down his cheek.s

The door opened, and he couldn't think. Barely heard your voice, calling out, wondering why the hell Alpha smelled sour and was crying. Your arms wrapped around him, pressing a gentle kiss against his back.

You could feel the hiccupped breaths he was taking, you could see the distant look in his eyes through the mirror and his scent was horrid. It smelled purely of distress, pain, even hints of anger. Not the scent of Simon.

Grasping his hand, he followed mindlessly as you dragged him back into the main room, gently pushing him onto the bed. Standing between his legs, you ran your fingers through his hair.

"Simon," you whispered, carefully. "Love, what's wrong? Your scent is so strong, but it isn't you. What's wrong? Please, Simon," and you whispers continued. His eyes remained blank, gone. Even as thoroughly exhausted as you were, you could feel fear twinging in your gut.

You'd never seen Simon like this, but you'd seen soldiers coming back from intense battles who looked like this. Not your Simon, not him. No, maybe there'd be days that he would grow quiet and slightly distant, but he never looked like this.

Even as your hands found his cheeks, your lips pressing against his head, you heard nothing from him. You moved, reaching for the phone you'd tucked somewhere before collapsing into bed, and felt his hands grasp for yours.

His fingers entwined with yours, tugging you closer to him once more. Simons arms wrapped around you, his head resting against your chest. You could hear his sobs, muffled by your body, but you could feel his shoulders shaking.

Pressing your lips to the top of his head, you slowly rocked the two of you side to side. You stayed there, listened, held him. His sobs hurt you, nearly scared you. Such a strong man, an amazing Alpha, broken down into tears. And from what?

You thought, and thought, and thought. There was nothing, you realized, that you could think would cause this. You couldn't remember a thing that happened today that would make him break down. Maybe it had been Clint? Your family initially not accepting him, hurting him?

No. He wouldn't even think about that kind of thing. Sure, he'd had a reddened cheek for some time afterwards, but nothing that would cause him to cry this hard.

Your lips pressed against his head once more, squeezing your arms around him tighter. He sniffled, sobs breaking down into just some hiccups. You could feel your shirt wet, from his tears. You could see your silhouette from the light in the bathroom. The darkness wasn't all encompassing, not in the little hotel room you had.

It was like a gentle blanket, hiding the two of you from the rest of the world. You could feel Simon pull his head up, resting his chin against you while looking up. His eyes blinked long and slow, they were reddened and puffy. His skin was slightly blotchy, but pale from the near hyperventilation.

Neither of you spoke, your fingers brushing the stray tears away before cupping his cheeks. Pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, you gave him a little smile.

"What's wrong, Si?" You broke the silence and he shook his head. His eyes had closed, some more tears breaking free. He tried tugging you closer, your belly stopping you from getting as close as the two of you wanted.

It seemed funny to you. The pup, now seemingly forever separating the two of you just a little. More than you'd been prior to it's conception, it had now separated you. The closest you'd ever get to him would be looking in the same direction, just a step ahead of him. The pup would separate the two of you forever, maybe never gaining that distance back.

But you'd do it all for the loving smiles and little touches you got from him. You'd do it all again if it meant you'd stand right where you were, and you would never change your path. You'd take the same steps every single time if it meant you'd be standing where you were.

And you hoped he could feel it in the way you pressed your lips to his head, squeezed him a little tighter. You hoped he could feel it in the way your fingers ran through his hair, the way you'd always be right by his side.

Maybe he would never know. Even as he tugged you into bed, pulling your back to his chest and burying his face into the nape of your neck. Even while his fingers intertwined with yours, cupping the little pup resting just inches from your hands.

You could only hope, as the two of you woke, he understood how much you truly loved him as you helped clean his face up. Dried tears were a bitch, you knew. You could see the pain in the way his eyes shut a little tighter when the sun rose just a little more. You truly could only hope he would understand how much you loved him as you shut the curtains and curled back up into bed with him.

Maybe, just maybe he would realize how much you loved him while watching his interactions with the family pack pups. Seeing him allowing the little girls and boys paint his nails or play fight with him. Seeing how he treated your mother with such respect, allowing your siblings to do as they pleased to him.

And on the plane home, you could feel him squeeze your hand gently. "I truly love you, Simon," you whispered. "I wouldn't give up a single decision I've made," and he rested his head on yours. "If I had to do it all over, I don't think I'd do anything different," and you could feel his cheek shifting against your head.

"I love you, sweet Omega," he whispered in turn. "With all my heart, I truly mean it when I say I would do anything to make you happy," and his lips pressed against your head. You sighed deeply, allowing sleep to take over you.

Simons fingers brushed along your back, gently shaking you awake. You didn't want to go back, you realized. You wanted Simon all to yourself, maybe have a nice little home in the country. Maybe watch your pups just exist out where they wouldn't have to fear anything.

Keeping Simon to yourself, he would never almost die again. You would never lose each other to the trivial ideations of war. You'd never be given subsidies for his death, and you would never have to plan a funeral for the man you loved.

You wouldn't have to worry about anything if you were able to get him to retire. Maybe the two of you could open a shop, or a little clinic. Help people who needed it the most, ensure everyone was taken care of.

And in the car, you finally spoke up. "Will you stay in the military once the pup is born?" You asked, voice growing quiet. His eyes flashed over to you, his brows furrowed under the balaclava.

"What d'you mean?" He asked. "Obviously I'll get leave to be with the two of you, but I can't just leave my job," he spoke, carefully. You hummed, staring through the windshield.

You didn't look at him. "What if you die? The pup will never know you, it'd be safer to-"

"To what? Go work an office job?" He sounded surprised. "Lovie, working in the military gives me the money we'd need to take care of the pup. This is my life, I can't just drop it all of a sudden. Price is able to balance it all, I can't see why I won't," you looked at your hands, playing with your fingers.

"I'm just worried, s'all," you whispered and you could see him shake his head from your peripheral.

"You needn't worry, I've survived this long. I'm not leaving my job, not for..." he trailed off, not finishing his sentence. You could feel your chest tightening, the dream of the nice little home in the country vanishing just as quick as it had come.

He wouldn't give up his job. Not for you, not for a pup. You were dumb for even thinking it. The car was silent the rest of the drive, you had grabbed your bag as soon as he'd parked and walked yourself back onto the compound.

You would have a lot of work to catch up on, and Simon left you to be. You had entered your office, just staring at the sad little desk and papers stacked on it. You truly were stuck in this life, and you slowly grew to realize you didn't want to be just a doctor.

You'd signed up to be a combat medic, not sit safe and sound in the compound. Had you truly given up your dream? Just for an Alpha, and now his pup? Was this what it meant to be an Omega?

There was no one you would tell that you sat at your desk, door locked and quietly sobbing. You were just so tired, and you wanted to be heard. You knew, unconsciously, it was a big ask of him but you'd hoped, genuinely, that he might hear you out and understand.

Taglist: (Please send an ask/DM to be added)

@sae1kie @shinebright2000 @zechie-spams @itsmadamehydra @smiley-roos @enrapturedbythemoon @stargatenovus @cowboydisaster @josieguts @the-queen-of-england183 @littlelovebug98 @cringeycookies @averytiredfanfictionwriter @kariiiel @http-paprika @snorklingfae @lukneetoonz @wise-owl @waves-against-a-cliff @megkviss @ducks118 @404lunar @zoom-zoom77 @hollowmasque @bootabo2000 @ducks118 @bunnyvs @perfectus-in-morte @itsmytimetoodream @the-occasional-artist1125 @teddywebby

#simon riley x reader #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #hurt/no comfort #crying #simp simon riley #simp reader #fear #fear of death #thoughts of death #cod mw2 #task force 141 #modern warfare ii #call of duty #call of duty x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #no use of y/n

[whumpshaped]

love the idea of multiple whumpees, but whumpee A has been there much longer than whumpee B, and is pretty much already a broken husk by the time B even gets there.

A just sort of stares vacantly ahead whenever whumper isn't directly demanding their attention, so lifeless that B would have thought they were dead if they couldn't see them blinking and breathing.

initially, B keeps their distance from A, unnerved by how completely and utterly broken they seemed. but as their captivity continues, they become so desperate for the touch of someone who won't harm them that they snuggle up to A whenever they can, and talk to them about all their worries and idle thoughts, even though they never say anything back and B wonders if they even hear them at all.

maybe B's company starts to bring A back to reality, ever so slowly. or maybe B is just clinging for emotional support to someone who's well and truly gone.

(these are just placeholder names not real ocs. arin and bee are stand ins for character a and b)

tw multiple whumpees, lady whumpee, fear of death, captivity, past trauma, beating, conditioning, dehumanisation, attacked by animals (referenced)

“I thought they’d never stop,” Bee whispered, hugging her only friend tighter. “They were so angry. They said they’d kill me, and… and I believed them. I thought I was done for. I thought that was the end of the rope for me.”

As usual, Arin didn’t respond. She stared at the ceiling, looking like she hadn’t even heard her. The only reason Bee was sure Arin could hear at all was because she responded to commands from their captor. 

Bee knew all that she knew about Arin through their captor, actually. The poor thing had never spoken a word in her presence before, not to introduce herself, not to protest when she hugged her, nothing. She never even responded to Darian, and they didn’t seem to mind or be disturbed by it, so maybe this was normal. Maybe it wasn’t the trauma that stole her voice away. Bee would never know, it seemed like, unless she felt suicidal enough to question Darian about it.

“I don’t know what made them change their mind in the end… Maybe they just got tired of hitting me. I don’t know. I scurried out of there as soon as they left an opening, and they just didn’t follow.” 

Sometimes she felt bad for dumping all this on Arin. She’d clearly gone through a lot to have ended up so… hollow. So utterly unresponsive, even to slapping and kicking. Darian barely even punished her, probably because there was no sign of it changing anything. Arin never apologised, never made a sound, and never changed her behaviour. She was perfectly obedient to begin with, and any mistake she made that was worthy of a punishment was the result of nothing but accidents. There was nothing to change.

And the thing was — Bee had no one else. Arin was her only companion, the only one to talk to who didn’t hurt her for it. It was a little like talking to her favourite plush toy, as mean as that sounded. It brought her immense comfort in a place where she knew nothing but suffering.

“I… Maybe I’m dumb for running back here instead of trying the front door. It could’ve been unlocked this time, and I’d never know.” She nuzzled against Arin, tears pricking her eyes. “But I thought— I thought, ‘I have to protect Arin. I can’t just try to leave, and, and leave her with this angry monster’. So I ran back here.” 

Honestly, Bee knew there was nothing for her outside. There were fields, woods… Darian’s hunting dogs. She’d tried to run before; the bites had left some nasty scars on her legs, not to mention the pain that she’d learned to live with since then.

She sighed and pulled away. “You know—” She stopped in her tracks, eyes widening. “Arin?”

Arin was looking straight at her, big, usually empty eyes now filled with tears and sorrow beyond measure. She looked… touched. Was it the story? Was it that she’d come back, trying to protect her?

“Oh, sweetheart.” Bee pulled her right back into an embrace, not even bothering with questions. Arin looking at her might’ve been the biggest step she’d taken towards interacting with her so far, but Bee had no illusions about the future of their relationship. Arin wasn’t just going to start monologuing. “Of course I came back. Of course. I’ll always come back for you.”

#asks #whump #whump drabble #multiple whumpees #lady whumpee #fear of death #captivity #past trauma #beating #conditioning #dehumanisation #attacked by animals #comfort

[curious-trickster]

Please help a Reader find new content!

Hey there. I recently finished reading 'for the want of a jewel', an original work written by @formlessvoidbeast and I absolutely loved it!

Just like I loved the 'Accidental Warlord' series, a AU based on the Witcher, by @inexplicifics.

Those fics are both an absolute delight to read and they have a few things in common which kind of caused a want of more in me.

Please help me find fics/original work/books/shows... with these tropes (they do not have all the things I mentioned but it would be nice to have them meet several):

Character gets traded for peace to a most likely hostile party (warlord, king, pirates, bandits, just something they expect to be bad or different)

The trade-in-character expects to be hurt/killed/abused/hated/...

The second party they are given too is not aware of the circumstances of the way the trade-in-character had to leave their home

The second party which the trade-in-character expects to be hostile turns out to be not so bad

The trade-in-character finds true home with the party they were given to

The trade-in-character finds true friends/family not made by blood/love/their way of life/... with the people they were given too

Shenanigans (optional as the rest of them, but they would be greatly appreciated)

If you can think of something which has some or even better all of these tropes, pls comment/send a message! I would be very grateful and you'd help my adhd brain by feeding it with its new hyperfixation!

Feel free to drop the number of the trope(s) your recommendation has, or don't it's up to you!

A big thanks to @formlessvoidbeast and @inexplicifics for writing these amazing stories and allowing me to mention you in this post!

#Help wanted #Fic recommendations #book recommendations #media recommendations #Traded for piece trope #Sold out to hostile party #fear of death #The accidental warlord @inexplicifics #for the want of a jewel #For the want of a jewel @formlessvoidbeast #accidental warlord au #Finding home #finding freedom #finding friends #finding family #hurt/comfort #pirates #Enemy Kingdom #pls recommend #Being treated right #Warlord au #Slavery #kinda? #Expected slavery? #I am open to these tropes as long as the character is freed again i guess #But i will try reading anything because I am always surprised by books i didn't think I'd enjoy #Original work recommendation #fic tropes #fic talk #Bamf character

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"As long as a population can be induced to believe in a supernatural hereafter, it can be oppressed and controlled. People will put up with all sorts of tyranny, poverty and painful treatment if they're convinced that they'll eventually escape to some resort in the sky where lifeguards are superfluous and the pool never closes." -- Tom Robbins

#Tom Robbins #myth of an afterlife #afterlife #fear of death #tyranny #religion #religion is a mental illness

[furiousgoldfish]

If you fear this for other reasons please mention in the comments/tags/replies!

#fear of death #poll #escaping trauma #instilled fear of death #lack of resources #low possibility of survival #trauma

[steviewashere]

No One You Can Save That Can't Be Saved (Love)

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Lots of talk around death, Vague suicidal thoughts (seriously very vague) Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington has Nightmares, Panic Attack, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling & Snuggling, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Introspective, Fear of Death

I don't know what this is. I wrote the opening poem and then wrote the rest. Enjoy, I guess? Title is from "All You Need is Love" by The Beatles.

This is also on ao3, but it's not showing up currently in the Steddie tag. If you'd like to read this in full on ao3 instead, Here's the Link!

💕—————💕 I’ve had no desire to die. None in my body. But if you told me to die, I’d ask: Who for? Where should I lay my body? Like this? I’d perfect it. I’d make a gala out of it. I’d win. Blood on my hands and flesh between my teeth; I am not dead. But— Death is intimate with me. I have no desire to die.

——— The grass pearls with early morning dew. Tacky soil shapes to the bottom of his left sneaker. He takes a step forward, the imprint of his posture a temporary fixture in the lawn. If it rains again, the divots of his soles will collect water like cupped palms. Though the day will surely pass while he stays inside, working the nightmare from his musk scented skin, and he’ll return home dead on his feet. Ready to lay himself bare to a cooling bedsheet.

Tapping his sneakers on the doorway of his vehicle is the first thing he does fresh from his house. Shake the dew from his feet, shuffle inside until his legs are tucked gently under the steering wheel, slam the door shut, turn the engine over, and wait for the radio to croon. If he had the time, he’d pick a tape. But on mornings like these, he backs out of the driveway. One arm on the headrest of the passenger seat. Head peering over his shoulder.

One time he hit the neighbor’s mailbox. His cheeks remember the anger radiating from his father. If even one tire begins to turn incorrectly, he pulls back in and tries again.

Desolate roads are his favorite bit of scenery. Morning drives where people are between waking up and already at work. Long stretches of asphalt against his tires and breeze icing his cheek. It’s the quiet, too. Silences in lulls. Reaching out and holding him.

Today is different. His sneakers are wiped and his legs are burrowed and the cold air reaches his cheek. But today is like no other. Heart racing, blood chilling in his wrists, fingers going numb. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapping around his brain like thorned vines on dungeon walls. He is a prisoner to himself and his surroundings. And he can’t take a deep breath. It’s like drowning, but nothing is like drowning. Drowning is death. This isn’t death. Everything is death.

It’s death in the way his breath tastes like finality. Mouth dry of saliva and teeth as specters, rotting and decaying before he has time to fully swallow. The heave before the storm. Before the vomit goes beige on his thighs and chunky to the floor of his car. And it’s death in the sense there’s blood every time he blinks. He’s reminded of the way he played role as emergency room technician. Two hands on a slim chest, ribs crackling under his palms—the sounds similar to that of heavy tree branches downed in an Indiana snow storm. He is numb in the fingers, but cold on the palms. And it’s the darting in his eyes, sign of life somewhere, sign of life nowhere. The road stretches forever this morning.

It’s death in the harrowing way. A car beelining for the side of a road. Parked in the means to brake, but not to settle. He is thirty seconds away from a crash. Turbulent planes flying overhead, he is an unsuspecting tree. The cat between his front two tires. Mushed traces of squirrel guts half a foot from the base of a robin’s nest; crushed eggs fallen to the floor. It’s death because there is the phantom tail of a bat pinning him to the headrest of his seat. Wrapped to the two metal bars below the bottom of his skull. And his hands are tingling, heavy on his lap. Kicking his legs, feet lurching into the brake, a squeal when his car takes the movement as instruction. He’s not ready to go.

But he can’t escape. And he can’t move. Can’t blink unless the road crumbles below him.

He is trapped. This is death because he’s dying and he’s got the black spots in his vision to prove it, but there is an overbearing glow of a white light like a cone on his peripheral. He is trapped—a dog free from the vet.

Clinking on his window draws him to look left. Blearily. The slow drag of his eyeballs. Two weather vanes in stilted, hazy, sticky summer stillness. Muffled. This is death because he’s forgotten what urgent care sounds like, but this is a near thing.

He’s not ready to go.

It’s death because there is warmth and gentleness. He cries—though it isn’t felt—because there is love. And while love is not absent, he had been chasing it. Longing and yearning. Giving himself in ways not even God would approve of. This time, though, it makes sense he had to die for it.

“You’re not dying, sweetheart,” a pleasant voice says. If Death is speaking, then he is listening. Death has two hands and warm breath and a husk gargled in his throat like sucking down cigarettes on and off for four hours. The stale smell of one smoked swirls in his nostrils. “Not dying, you’re just far away. And scared,” Pleasant Voice speaks again. It’s accompanied by a faint tickle under his eye. He closes up, lost in the sensation.

It’s death because he doesn’t desire, but he is persuaded. God, it’s sweet.

He takes a deep breath. The hurt is temporary as it seems like shards shed from his lungs. Nosing at his headrest, the perfumed scent of floral shampoo and fragrant salty sweat and those cigarettes. It relaxes him slightly, the tail away from his throat. The breathing comes easier and the black spots begin to dissipate. He’s reminded of the aftermath of torture, sleeping fitfully in bed, but alive. And he chases his nose to the left, body twisting around on his seat, hands limp on his legs still.

Pleasant Voice seems to hum. Murmuring low, raspier than before, “Easy, you’ll be okay. Doing a good job relaxing. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Another careful pet to underneath his eye. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” And a caress through his hair, two hands cupping him like water. He ripples with contentment. Crumpling against the pleather seat. He swallows. An uneasy emotion, a vapor, noxious poison billowing through his nose.

His eyes flutter open again. In front of him, two brown irises. Both gentle and concerned, deathly afraid and lowering their haunches. He blinks. Clarity. And he had expected to die, but it’s like drinking ice cold water, coming back to life from the warmth of an early summer’s day. “Eddie?” Steve chokes. “What’re—Eddie?”

Eddie—not Death—smiles a sad thing. Two frowning corners, but the gentle uptick of his lips. His eyes don’t crinkle. And his nose remains stagnant. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I was on my way into town from the trailer and I saw you on the side of the road. Looked like—Thought you were—I was half expecting your skin to be green when I came closer.”

“What does that—“

“I thought you were dead, Steve,” he answers bluntly. His hand tightens on Steve’s jaw, the other pressing closer to his scalp. “Baby, that was horrifying. I wasn’t ready—Why are you out here driving?”

Steve shakes his head. The low ruffle of his hair like two pieces of paper being scrubbed together. “I don’t remember,” he mutters, “I woke up and—My throat was aching and I thought that—Woke up with blood behind my eyelids, Eds.” He tries to swallow again, but the emotion rises. Bile. Pleasantly like bile. Then, he bursts. Crying and keening. Hiccuping through his gasps and breathing as if there are rocks on his tongue. And he isn’t sure where to put his hands, but the rest of his body falls forward into Eddie’s. Though, maybe it was on purpose. An expectancy. Because Eddie wraps back fiercely, tugging, half-climbing inside of Steve’s car. Making the room for this coagulated form of welling fear and quelled calm, the body shivers and sudden blood to his cheeks, a cough caught somewhere between a sob and an expel. It’s death because he’s frightened, Eddie is in there somewhere, too.

Eddie keeps tugging until they’re comfortable in the back of his van. Him on his lap, curled inwards in the fetal position, secured warmly between Eddie’s lithe arms. Somehow containing him. He’s not strong, he’s not weak, but he’s enough to keep Steve’s pieces all mushed in together. Not completely whole, but not spiraling like thread between lengths of road.

He’s worn when he pulls back. Eyes as two cement blocks taped above his cheeks. “Thought I was dying,” he finally croaks.

With a somber gentleness, Eddie pushes back strings of his hair. Whispers, “I know, baby. You kept telling me in your car.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know, baby.”

“I think a part of me thought you were dying, too.”

Eddie hums. “Did you have a nightmare about…About having to save me?” He quietly asks. He’s never breeched the subject before, but it’s different. Today’s different. It’s death because he has to answer.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. Sniffles noisily. The carnage stuffed high between his brain and sinus cavity. “I couldn’t feel my hands. Back in the car. They were completely numb. But—No, that’s not right. My palms were cold like your skin. And I couldn’t hear you at first, just your ribs. And then I—“ He stops to shake his head. Tilting it down towards his chest. Plucking at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt. He’s fully dressed in casual wear in comparison to Steve’s outfit. Still worn down to his stained Hawkins High gym shirt from early last year, the fall of his senior year, and his red tartan fleece pajama pants. “Think I was searching for you and just didn’t make it.”

“I’m here now,” Eddie simply responds. He pets again at Steve’s face. He likes to do that. Never condescending. As if part of him can’t believe he gets to touch. Or another part can read just how much Steve needs it. It’s death because he’s known. “How about I get you home? Back in bed?”

“Don’t think I’ll sleep.”

“Okay,” he mutters, nodding. “Okay, how about you sit with me today back at the trailer? I’ve got to fill out some job applications. It’ll be quiet. You can bring a few tapes from your car, play them if you like. And I’ll make you hot chocolate. Does that sound…?” Steve’s nodding before he can even finish the question. “Alright, baby. You’ll be okay, you know that? I’m here right now. And you’ll be with me.”

“I’ll be with you,” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And if you need a reminder, you can just look at me. Or…Ask me to tell you a story. You like that, don’t you?” Steve nods again. Eddie pets the crest of his head, down to the tuft of hair on the back of his neck, dipping into his t-shirt to settle his palm between his taut shoulder blades. He twitches when he fully sets his palm. “You have your thinking face on. What’s going on up here?” He asks, tapping at Steve’s left temple.

Steve swallows. “I—I’m afraid of death.”

“I know, sweetheart. That’s okay, you—“

“But I’m more afraid of everybody else dying,” he admits. “I’d die for you. I’d…I think part of me died for you.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Baby, I don’t like that.”

“I don’t like it either. But it’s true. Feels like…I feel like a lot of me has died. For everybody around me.” His voice is shameful, but flat. Tepid and shaking. “But I let it happen. I wasn’t fighting against the urge. It just—I allowed myself to experience death. Either it was my own or somebody else’s. At every turn, I was expecting to be incinerated. Dissolved. Turned over in the ground like recycled soil. I don’t—“ He sighs through his nose. Confesses, “I’d do it again.”

“I really don’t like that, Steve. Is this—Are you asking for help? What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s not sure what Eddie’s eyes look like right now. There’s an infliction, though. A steady storm of concern and mild trepidation. Hands flat and pressing as if he’s willing them to stay rooted to their spots in the back of his van.

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. Blinking and exhaling and shoving the images that haunted him into early morning to just…die, oddly. Allowing Eddie’s gentle touch to soothe his frayed nerves. He collapses further in the lap underneath him. “Don’t go. I’m not ready for you to go.” 

He toys his hands in his lap now. Fingers picking and prodding at healed scabs. Hangnails that were chewed short by his fingernails. Knuckles that have scarred over and over, time and time again. “Don’t go,” he reiterates, whispering. His voice is keening. And he knows that it’s sort of childish, what he’s requesting. Tugging on Eddie’s pant let and wrapping his limbs around his ankle. Thumb in cheek and eyes wet. But though the events of the last few years have manhandled him and stretched him thin like a mushed ball of murky colored Play-Doh, he is immature still. He can beg if he wants to.

And thankfully, Eddie appeases. Pressing again into Steve. In a way, he’s afraid, too. “I won’t, Steve. I promise that I won’t go willingly. But you have to promise me back.”

“I promise,” he immediately mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie says. A default in conversations like these. 

‘I have a migraine.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Just need silent company.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Don’t die again.’ ‘Okay.’ 

He holds Steve tighter. Bending in a prairie dog way to kiss his forehead. Murmuring sticky wet against the skin, “Love you, sweetheart.”

Steve sighs through his nose. This is all going to come up again and again. He’s sure of it. Later today, he’s sure. When he’s half there and half in the dark crevices, the depths of his brain, caverns without crystals. And Eddie will be there, too. As a rescue team, sent far down with nothing but a pickaxe and harsh, yellow rope. They’ll have to talk about it. What he means about doing it again, even though he didn’t die. That significant emptiness that shapes itself like craters in his chest. Or how it all coincides with facing so much with such little time, his self worth and respect like forks in a garbage disposal; clinking and whirring and dancing, then shredding and grating and screeching, and so irreversibly broken, they can’t be eaten off of anymore. And then he’ll probably have to see a therapist, explain what he told Eddie, and listen to suggestions.

For now, he dips forward until his forehead is on Eddie’s shoulder. Nose crushed against his shirt. He closes his eyes as he takes in the scent of an alive and well Eddie. A part of him wants to apologize for all this mess he’s left construed about. But knows the moment he even tries, he will soothed into much needed silence. “Will you hold my hand while you drive?” He murmurs into the base of Eddie’s neck. He’s still crumpled and misshapen, but somehow also held. Held in a way that reminds him of being a little kid. Cherished through fear in both parties. He supposes that’s what he is. Brain still exploring like he’s seventeen, before the demogorgon. A child in a sense. An overgrown weed.

“I will,” Eddie promises.

And so Steve nods. “I love you, too.” He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, encircling barely, air still able to travel in the gap he creates where his bare skin doesn’t touch the cotton of Eddie’s shirt. Tangling his hands loosely. Not exactly grasping for something, but the suggestion of it. “I love you,” he murmurs once more. The words like white noise, but true.

He’ll say it more later. Curled on one end of Eddie’s couch while he sits on the other side. No space between them because Steve refuses to move his legs, the bottoms of his feet, socked and dry, shaped firmly to the soft give of Eddie’s thigh. In between moments, he’ll whisper the words. As a tape plays and the beats are bright and jingling, while he’s melancholy and still to the soft cushion. When Eddie mutters something indistinguishable, chewing on the end of his ballpoint pen. Over a plain turkey and American cheese sandwich, mayo smeared on his bottom lip, and Eddie wiping away the residue. A reverence focused on him like soft spotlight.

It’s death because he knows they won’t have forever.

He loves, though, and that’s enough to quell the fear that floods him.

He wades in Eddie’s soft touch. In his sticky lips. The lulls.

“I’m going to play my Beatles ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ album,” he tells Eddie. Because, much like the end of the album, love is all you need. He’s afraid. But he can be brave in Eddie’s arms, his warmth, his deserved life.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fanfiction #angst and hurt/comfort #fear of death #but still being a sacrificial bastard #eddie munson takes care of steve harrington

[pigeonwhumps]

Touch-starved

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 1: touchstarved

@febuwhump

MD-264N wakes up.

1.1k

CWs: self-dehumanisation, fear of death, electric shock mention, conditioned whumpee, caretaker new master

MD-264N blinks itself awake. Its systems are not functioning at optimum efficiency but they're close to it, except for its ankle. There's uncomfortable sensation coming from that. But other than that it's much better than before.

Now. Where is it being stored? It has no restraints for… for some reason, and there's a window, so it isn't back at base. How did it get here?

Can it see the sky now?

One thing at a time. What is it wearing? It's far too light. The control harness and mitts are gone, and its clothes are… unusual. They're thick, soft, bright. The weapon looks at its arm, covered in baggy light blue soft fabric. So much brighter than it's allowed.

But it's not at base, so maybe it's what the people here want. That would make sense, right?

Next. This storage room. It's brighter than any at base, walls coloured light blue and pink. There's a wooden cabinet in the corner, a prosthetic forearm lying on it, and a window above the soft cot that MD-264N's on. That's unusual too. The weapon peers out of it as much as it can without moving, just about able to see a grey sky above.

That's its surroundings taken care of then. They don't make sense, but that's what's there. In that case, who brought it here? The last thing it remembers, it was on the street. Why did someone take it and put it in here? What do they want from it? Its hands are free, the only thing that makes sense is they want to use it, but there's no handlers here. This space is too big for the safe storage of weapons anyway.

MD-264N's throat goes tight. What happens if someone finds it out here? It's not safe. It doesn't know if this is what the people who put it here want but surely they want it to be secured safely.

MD-264N's eyes light on the cabinet, and it climbs off the soft cot it's been placed on and starts making its way towards it.

One foot goes on the floor, but when it tries to put its weight on the other foot, its ankle malfunctions and it collapses to the floor.

It attempts to push itself up as it hears footsteps, arms shaking, but it can't move. Aberrant moisture leaks out of the corners of its eyes. These people won't want a faulty weapon. They'll decommission it and then it'll never see the sky again.

The footsteps are very close now. MD-264N tries to kneel instead, desperate to be good enough to see the sky again.

"Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing on the floor? You're supposed to be resting." The voice is soft beside it, and the weapon's not sure who they're talking to. It sounds like they're talking to it but… you don't talk like that to weapons. Gentle, like it's a person. But there's no-one here. "Sit back on the bed, come on. Can you do that for me?"

MD-264N tries, it really does, but it can't move its leg. "This weapon is malfunctioning, sir, it– please." Please, please don't have it decommissioned, not yet.

"Okay. It's okay, sweetheart, I'll help you. I'm going to have to touch you, is that alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." The speaker wraps an arm around it and helps it sit down on the cot. The arm is warm and the hand ungloved, and the weapon finds itself leaning into their touch. It stiffens. No, no that's bad, weapons don't need touch. "Hey, you don't need to move away. I bet you're touch-starved, huh?" MD-264N doesn't answer. It doesn't know how. "You don't need to… y'know, act all subservient. You can look at me. And you don't have to address me as sir, Rhian will do. Since it's my name. Do you have one?"

"This weapon has been designated MD-264N," answers the weapon automatically, "designed and programmed for urban use by the Ministry of Defence. Its capabilities are–"

"That's your designation, sweetheart, not your name. I guess that means you don't have one then. Would it be alright if I give you one?"

Why are they asking all these questions? Surely they know it can't refuse anyway.

"Yes, s– Rhian."

"Great! So I was thinking of Morgan, if you like it?"

"Yes, Rhian."

"That's good. You can look at me, sweetheart, you don't have to look at the floor. Why won't you look up?"

MD-264N (no, Morgan, it'd better start using the name its new commander wants) shivers. "This weapon is malfunctioning."

"What do you mean?"

Morgan swallows, preparing to give the information that might get it decommissioned. "Its left ankle is not functioning, and there is aberrant moisture leaking from its eyes. And it keeps having aberrant thoughts."

There's a short pause. "So… you're in pain, you're crying and you're probably scared? You're in a strange place with people you've never met, after being shot in the ankle, I'd be surprised if something wasn't wrong, frankly. I'll get Asha to bring you some more painkillers. It's okay to feel like this, sweetheart, it doesn't mean you can't look at me, or that I don't want to see you. Please, Morgan?"

Morgan can't refuse that, and it raises its head, not making eye contact but looking all the same. Rhian's hair is white dipped in red, and they smile at the weapon, mouth dimpling at the corners.

"There you are. Nice to meet you."

They're so soft, their hand warm on its arm, saying things that don't make sense, not for a weapon, but they're so nice. More moisture leaks from the weapon's eyes at the gentleness. Nobody's ever been this gentle with it.

"Hey, it's okay. Do you want a hug?"

A hug? But it– it's never, no-one's ever– it's just a weapon, why would anyone offer? Morgan nods anyway, and Rhian wraps their arm around it, holding it tight and warm. They don't seem bothered about touching it, like its handlers are, and their fingers almost burn through the fabric of the hoodie. It doesn't remember the last time anyone touched it without gloves.

Its eyes leak even more and it finds itself making sounds along with that, sounds that it would surely be shocked for with anyone else. But Rhian just shushes it gently, and it can't help leaning into their touch.

Of all the people it's met, Rhian is by far the most patient, and it can't help the aberrant and likely futile hope that the gentleness lasts.

#whump #whump writing #living weapon whump #living weapon #self dehumanisation #fear of death #conditioned whumpee #conditioning #caretaker new master #whumpee thinks caretaker is their new master #whumpee and caretaker #morgan the weapon #rhian the fighter #these characters just do their own thing honestly #febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday1 #whoops running late already #md 264n

[flowersarefreetherapy]

The Light at the End

CW: Degrading language, threat of death, fear of death, vaguely implied noncon, pet whump, BBU-typical setting

“Please,” he whispers, clawing weakly at the door. “Please, please don’t . . . I can be good, I can be better, I’m good for you! You said I was good . . .”

Good. Good. Good. Good. 

Good. 

Good.

He’s good. They’ve all told him he’s good. All of them. From the handlers who know just how to push him to the edge, kneeling in a pool of his own blood, to the other trainees with their sharp teeth and even more dangerous hunger that shreds skin from his bones and leaves fuzzy pleasure in its wake. 

He’s good. 

Perfect. Attractive. Handsome. Good. 

Good.

Good.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, please, I was good!”

It’s been days. No one has come to see him. They say his training is done. They say he is good and perfect and there is nothing more to do. They say he is the perfect Romantic. And they whisper under their breath how no one cares about him. No one has even looked at him. No one wants to buy him. 

A Pet without a master. He’s nothing. Stupid. Broken. Useless. 

“. . . Please, please, please, please . . . I can be good, I’m good, I’m not my own, I belong to my master, I’m not my own, I belong to my master.”

He repeats the phrases, the repetition soothing his shattered nerves. No one hears him. No one has heard him before. No one cares about him. 

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, I can be good. Please.”

He’s whining. Like an abandoned dog. He’s seen those before, in the movies they’re allowed to watch. A Romantic, who ran away from his home, huddling in an alleyway with an abandoned dog for company until he goes back to his master. His master who welcomes him in with a hug and a warm bath and reminders of who he belongs to. What he would give to have that same softness directed towards him. 

Welcome home. I want you. Let me take care of you. Good. 

Good. He can be good. 

“Please, I can–”

The door slides open. He’s on his knees instantly, staring up at his handler. The man rolls his gray eyes–such a pretty color and he wonders if his hair is dyed to match or if it’s natural– and ruffles his hair. 

“Hey there, 22,” Handler Jason says. “You alright?”

“Please, handler,” he whispers, scooting closer. “Please, I-I can be good, please, please, just don’t leave-”

“Leave? You silly goose. I’m not going to leave.”

“Please,” he whimpers. “Has-has someone chosen me?”

Handler Jason crouches down and holds out his arms. He crawls into the embrace, curling against his handler’s chest and whimpering. Handler Jason’s hands rest on his arms, warm against his chilled skin, rubbing gently as he fights back tears. 

“You’ve been very good,” Handler Jason softly says. “You’ve been a perfect little pet and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come.”

His next sob is muffled into Handler Jason’s arm, choking as he fights back another one. He’s seen this happen before. The girl down his hall who screamed and cried, begging words he couldn’t hear. She disappeared the next morning. It’s going to happen to him.

“But I won’t be seeing you again. I’ll miss you, 22. You’ve been a perfect boy for me.”

He whines, gripping the handler’s rough jacket as tightly as he can. The light is too bright, the world too loud, everything overwhelming as Handler Jason’s nails brush over his skin. 

They’re going to kill him. They’re going to take him away and kill him because no one wants him. No one wants a pet like him. He’s not pretty enough, not desirable enough, not good enough. Not enough. 

“Because someone bought you!” Handler Jason leans back, beaming at him. “Someone paid a pretty penny for your little ass.”

He stares at him, blinking as his brain struggles to process the words. Someone wants me? Someone wants me? I’m desirable?  

Someone wants me!

“Come on. Smile for me, 22. At least try and look happy. Heard you whining all about it before I came to help you. Such a sad little pet. And think about how happy you’ll be now, having a master.”

“I have a master,” he whispers against his handler’s chest. “I have a master!”

“Yeah, you do, little goofball.” Handler Jason ruffles his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. He melts into the touch, whining low in the back of his throat. “You’ll be going soon. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” he breathes. “I’ll miss, um, your knife.”

Handler Jason chuckles. “I thought you would. No one else makes you feel like I do, do they?”

“No, handler.”

His fingers twist sharply in his hair and he arches his back, a low whine slipping free. His heart races. Is there going to be more? Will he bleed under his handler’s knives as he has time and time before? The very thought has his blood rushing hot through his veins.

“That’s not the correct answer, 22. Your master is going to make you feel the same way, and you’re going to be good for him.”

“Yes,” he gasps, nodding desperately. Doing so pulls his hair tighter and he fights to keep his breathing even. “Yes, handler. I will be very good.”

“I know. I know. You’ve been so good and learned so well. I know you’ll be perfect for your new master.”

He nods, curling as close to his handler as he can. He’s not going to die. He’s loved. Someone chose him. Someone wants him. Someone is going to take care of him and make sure he has a good life. He’s been chosen. 

I’ll be good. I’ll be very good. 

#cameron #degrading language #fear of death #threat of death #implied noncon #pet whump #bbu #bbu universe

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 24 - "I'm doing this because I care about you."

To anyone looking at this from the Dungeon Meshi tag - if you're anime-only, HERE THERE BE SPOILERS! If you've read the manga, the MAJOR spoilers are for Chapter 28 - plus a scattering of spoilers for later. This is a scene rewrite! Like the first time we've posted "just canon but from a different POV" also! We are counting internal monologue for that dialogue, and we are having Fun with it.

Watch your step, and we hope you enjoy.

From the instant that Marcille draws the first line of dragon's blood, she knows that she's gone too far to back out now.

There's a dreadful, solid certainty lodged in her chest as she brings her staff down, again and again. An awful sort of knowing, of

It's a unique kind of draining. Mana sickness is one thing, but this is another. Each line draws at something deep, deep inside of her soul, drawing more from her than she ever thought a spell could drain. She wants, so badly that it hurts, a sharp, desperate need for this to work. She dips her staff's handle in dragon's blood again, and she ignored the awful feeling of being bled to the bone. She's only ever theorized about dark magic before, never put it into practice herself - every line feels wrong, sickly, diseased, her staff scraping along the flagstones and funneling awful vibrations into her hands.

Every line she draws feels like a wretched, sickly sort of pain. Like picking at a wound that's only halfway scabbed over, half-clotted blood clinging to her fingernails as she picks at where her skin meets a gash, and scraping off the tiny, disgusting pieces of not-quite-scab onto a piece of paper. It's the worst thing she's ever done, and she hates it, every step of it, with a bubbling sense of revulsion that it feels like she'll never be clean of.

If she doesn't do this, then Falin will be dead. And Marcille doesn't want to live in a world where that's true.

She doesn't know how many runes it'll take, really. She knows the pattern, and that's enough - she just has to finish it. One rune, then another. She doesn't need to know how long.

The world, for what feels like a long time, is just her and the runes.

One, then the next. The future doesn't matter. The past is gone. She inks rune after rune in rotting, thickening blood, pausing to re-ink her staff when it runs dry. The only thing that matters is the next rune in the sequence, and it doesn't matter how long it takes. She has a thousand years to live ahead of her, a thousand years to spend doing anything she wants - she doesn't care how many of them she has to spend doing this, if it gives her Falin back. One rune, then the next.

Marcille reaches to dip her staff in dragon's blood a last time, and stops.

The circle is done.

Marcille is already horribly, horribly tired.

More than tired, really. Exhausted, a bone-deep ache in her chest like she's worked out a muscle she never knew that she had. She feels like she's on the brink of passing out, staring down at a circle of dragonblood runes that she's worn her staff's handle down to fraying roots from. The purpose in her chest that was so strong barely a minute ago is fading, flickering. Fatigue knocks into her like a truck, and she's swaying on her feet, struggling to cling on to consciousness.

She knows, more than she's ever known anything before, that she has to finish this.

She thinks of Falin, and she steels her will to move forward.

Pelvis, femur, humerus. Twelve rib bones, easy to tell apart. The vertebrae, the hands and feet - calcaneus, metatarsal, metacarpal. Eight carpal bones in the wrist, hamate, triquetrum, pisiform, lumate, trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, scaphoid. Falin's wrist bones are shorter than hers, shaped different in a way that's both subtle and the most obvious thing in the world. It's all she can do not to stop and stare at them, hypnotized by the broken remains of her friend - tallman bones, white and clean, so unfamiliar compared to Falin's soft frame, so much like the ones she's already seen buried.

She doesn't know what she'll do if Falin's soul has already left her body. She can't allow herself to entertain the idea of it. Falin will live, because she has to live, because she needs to- because Marcille can't let her die.

She lowers her staff, and she starts to chant.

She's doing this because she cares about her. Because she can't live without her. Because the very idea of trying to go on without Falin, after all this effort to find her, after all this effort to bring her back, is poison on her tongue, fire in her veins, a sickly death in the pit of her stomach. She's doing this because she cares about her, because she wants to talk to her again, because she wants to talk with her, to eat with her, to sit shoulder to shoulder with her as she talks about magic again.

She's doing this because she cares about Falin, so badly that it feels like her heart's started to rip itself apart in her ribcage - because she wants her back, because she wants to talk to her again, because she needs to hold her hand again and press her palm against her cheek and tangle her lanky, bony body around her soft tallman chest and hold her so tight that nothing else exists in the world. She's doing this because she needs Falin, with such strength that it nearly feels like she's drowning in her own skin with every moment she's away from her. She wants, so badly that she can barely keep herself from crumpling on the spot under the sheer weight of it.

Falin. Falin. Falin.

She chants her name in her head with every repetition of the spell, wanting, hoping, begging for this to work. The drain feels like she's cut a hole in her very soul, like she's bleeding out her lips with every word she speaks, like she's slicing holes in the vessel that holds all of her being. Falin, Falin, Falin - her soul to her body, the dragon's flesh to her bones, anything to make her whole again, anything to make her well again, anything.

She draws from the well, again and again, driving herself on sheer, desperate desire. Falin, a silent cry beneath the chorus of the spell. Falin, a desperate wish whispered into the darkness of the dungeon. Falin, Falin, Falin, she cries out, again and again, blind and deaf but for the runes carved into the stone. Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin-

Marcille is more exhausted than she ever has been, more exhausted than she ever knew was possible to be- she tastes bitter blood on her tongue as she chants. She draws from the well deep inside of herself, draws until it's dry and then beyond that, desperation and need driving her on and on and on. Falin, Falin- she digs deeper, deeper, past the well and into the ground beneath. She wants, she wants, she wants-

"Falin..." she starts. The words flicker on her tongue, abruptly uncertain and unclear. She knew what she was saying only a second ago, but now she struggles to put anything to words. The chant fades out, the words leaving her tongue - she can't remember why she was chanting them anymore, can't remember what she was doing. Her limbs feel weak, bowing under her body's weight, her willpower abruptly draining. Her fingers loosen on her staff, suddenly void of all drive they once possessed. She looks down, bleary-eyed, at rusty red runes drawn for a purpose she can't quite remember, and for a moment, there is nothing to her thoughts but the dull echo of a desire nearly entirely devoured.

And then she is unconscious, and she thinks no more.

#whump #my posts #febuwhump #febuwhumpday24 #febuwhump2024 #i'm doing this because i care about you #dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi spoilers #marcille donato #resurruction #fear of death #fatigue #writing #my writing

[whump-about-it]

"I Think I'll Keep My Name"

Febuwhump Day 1: Helpless (alt: Found Footage)

CW: captivity, implied torture, defiant whumpee, forced to watch (sort of), fear of death.

They'd found the tape in the enemy base. One among dozens. The tapes were all marked with names but no dates. Team Leader had started playing them at random. They never finished a single one. Only watching the first few minutes, to see the people's faces and hear them say their own names before turning them off and putting the next one in. If anyone were to ask why, Team Leader would have said it was to save time. They didn't need to see the whole footage; only know who to send it to. But the truth was it was to save their sanity. The prisoners were already beat up by the time they were forced in front of the camera. On some of them a guard would step in from off screen and hit them more before Team Leader could turn them off. They were sure there would be more where that came from if they continued to watch.

They were already on edge when one of their teammates nudged them, causing them to startle. When Team Leader met their teammate's gaze their face was stony. Without a word they held out one of the tapes to Team Leader. When Team Leader looked down at it they understood why their teammate wanted to look at this one specifically. it had Whumpee's name on it.

Wordlessly, the whole team gathered around the screen as Team Leader set up the tape with shaking fingers. It started out like all the rest. An empty concrete interrogation room with a light swinging over head off screen. Whumpee is brought in through the door at the back of the room and forced to kneel in full view of the camera.

The whole team gasped to see them. They were pale and thin. Someone had shaved their head and taken their clothing. The thread bare prison garb they were dressed in did little to hide the cuts and bruises that littered their face and body, and they walked with a limp as they were dragged into the room. Worst of all, their once bright eyes the team remembered them having, were blank and lifeless.

Whumpee had been missing for years. But it was impossible to tell if the video had been taken last week or when they were first captured. They looked so different from the person Team Leader remembered that they doubted they would have recognized them if their name hadn't been on the tape. But they'd seen people devolve like that in less than a week before.

"State your name." Someone off camera said sounding bored.

"You know my name."

Even Whumpee's voice was unrecognizable. Devoid of their usual mirth, or any tone at all for that matter.

"For the record."

Whumpee looked at the floor and shook their head. Their was the sound of movement off camera and some stepped in frame and hit Whumpee across the face.

"State your name!"

"No."

The guard hit Whumpee again, then grabbed them under the chin and forced them to look at the camera to show a new weeping cut on their face, and a bloody nose.

"Don't you dare talk back! State your name."

Whumpee's blank eyes flashed with something. Not emotion necessarily, but something Team Leader recognized. Their heart sank even before Whumpee opened their mouth again.

"Or what?" Their voice was still a monotone. Still low and small. But they had stopped their captors in their tracks. "You'll kill me?"

There was a long pause where nothing happened, on or off the tape. The whole team watched with their hearts in their throats as the guard on camera turned around to look at the person behind it, apparently looking for direction.

"You've taken everything else from me already" Whumpee continued "I think I'll keep my name."

Everything went from zero to one hundred very fast after that. The guard on camera swung back around and hit Whumpee with such force they fell over. Several other guards appeared in frame and began yelling and kicking them as the camera shook as though it had been hit. Many members of the team cried out. Some in shock. Some in anguish.

The youngest member of the team, the only member who hadn't known Whumpee, had the ware-with-all to reach over and stop the tape to spare the others. Everyone else fell into a stunned silence, looking back and forth at each other, waiting for someone to say something.

"I can finish reviewing this one on my own." the youngest member finally offered.

"Back at base." Team Leader agreed. They didn't even try to pretend any of the rest of them would be able to handle what they might see. They were more concerned about trying to hide the frog in their throat. "Collect all of the tapes and any paperwork and lets get back. We need to find out when these interrogations happened. Some of these people might still be alive."

Whumpee might still be alive

They added silently.

I doubt it though. Now more than ever.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday1 #found footage #I think I'll keep my name #tw captivity #tw implied torture #fear of death #defiant whumpee #whump #whump drabble #whumblr #whump writing #sorry this was supposed to be shorter

[harleythewhitepumpkim]

A redraw of one of my favorite scenes

Puss Suffering

"You are no Bounty Hunter, you are...."

"Death."

Based in this image

#drawing #puss in boots #puss in boots spoilers #puss in boots last wish #puss in boots 2 #puss in boots the last wish #i love this #fear of death #puss in boots wolf

[sunshiline-writes]

PART I: DEVOUR ME

Cannibalism | Sliced | Impaled 

CW: gore, cannbalism, impaled with a branch, creepy lady (idk), monsters, non-human monsters, bleeding out, fear of death, forced autocannbalism, nonconsensual turning into a fellow monster thing let me know if I missed anything

--

A cough is what woke him up. His own, spasming, throbbing cough that ripped through him with such intensity he almost passed out again. The man grabbed the piece of bark that was stuck through his stomach. Blood dripped from it. He groaned, trying to sit up, but was hit with another wave of agony as he moved even a little bit. He screamed and the sound echoed in his ears. It may have echoed in the pit that he had fallen into. But that wasn’t how sound worked. As he looked up at the trees, the stars behind them, everything there was a stillness in the world. Like not even the wind dared to sing. The birds were silent, the leaves didn’t even rustle. He thought about how he got here. There was a noise, a deep growl, and he was running so hard and so fast. Then he was falling. Something ripped straight through his gut and he was sure that he was dead. If he didn’t know any better,  he would have said this was a trap. But the hole wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t dug with a shovel, it was almost like a cavern in the ground. The branches of the tree’s overhead must have fallen between the cracks. Now he had also fallen between the cracks and was stuck on one of those branches. Literally impaled on a stick. 

His roommate would have made a kebab joke by now. That was how he felt. Meat on a stick, too weak to pull himself off. He forced himself to look at the piece of bark coming from his body. The dark red that had started to dry, the red creeping around his shirt. There were pieces of flesh and something else, (he prayed that it was not what he thought it was). They dripped from the dark bark, soaking in his blood, drinking it into the wood. He grabbed the bark again, cringing at the stickiness of it. Again he tried to pull himself off it. Groaning and screaming with pain as he managed to get himself halfway up, feeling the pieces of bark ripping through more layers of skin, organ, muscles, everything. He let go and fell back to the ground with a thud and another scream. 

“Need some help there sugar?” came a voice from on top of the place where he fell. Face barely peeking through over the edge. A woman, face pale and gaunt. She looked more fragile than he felt. 

“Call for help!” he cried out, wincing and coughing again, blood spewing from his lips. Dribbling down his chin. “It went straight through me, I think it's the only thing keeping me together.” A slight laugh went through him, making him wince and spasm around the intrusion. When he looked up again, she was standing over him. 

“What’s your name, sugar?” the thick, nasally accent was right above him, staring him in the face. 

“I-I how did..” 

“You don’t look so well. I have to call the police, but I need your name for that, sugar.” 

“Vinnie.. Vincenceo.” 

“Vinnie,” she said, tasting his name on her tongue. She crouched lower to him. Finger touching the bark covered in blood. The blood came away on her finger tip and she slowly licked it away, eyes closed, savoring it. 

“Oh jesus,” he said, shaking his head and groaning. “No no no, I’ve gotta be hallucinating you did not just do that. Jesus christ. What the fuck.”   

“It’s just a little something to keep me going, something to sustain me. I can help you.. I can, I just need,” there was a chunk of something on the bark, she grabbed it between her index finger and thumb, rolling it around a bit before popping it in her mouth. Like it was a piece of popcorn or a normal snack. 

“Oh god. Oh god. Stop. Stop. Just get me out of here! Get me out. Please help me. Stop it please.” 

She continued to wrap her hands on the tree bark, then licking his blood off her hands. Hungry, ravaging, a personification of gluttony. He watched her in horror as she cleaned the bark so much so that he could see the original grey-brown color it was before he was impaled on it. Whimpering and blubbering for this woman, this thing, to stop. It went on forever and he could hear his own blood dripping onto the ground. The world silent except for the sounds of her licking her lips and chewing greedily on what she could. 

She kneeled beside him. “Would you like a taste?” 

Vinnie clamped his mouth firmly shut and shook his head. The woman laughed and sat down on her knees, carding a hand through his hair. Tangled with sweat, sticking to his forehead. “It’s sweet, you’re a sweet person. I can tell from the way you taste. You didn’t deserve this did you? It’s such a shame you’re already dead.” 

“What?” 

“Mmhmm poor thing. You poor, poor thing.” 

Something about this woman had changed since she’d.. indulged. Her face was less pale and gaunt. As if she had gotten healthier just from the small amount of feeding. Vinnie sobbed softly, eyes screwed tightly shut. 

“You’re already dying, sugar,” she said softly, “I can save you. All you have to do have a taste of something. Do you want to taste, sugar?” 

Vinnie thought about it for a moment, sobbing and agony spread through him again as he threw his head back and screamed. She caught his hand on her wrist, grip ice cold. Actually it was more of the grip, she was cold. It went straight through his wrist. Her grip tightened. The woman grinned and her teeth sharpened, her face elongated and everything seemed to warp around him as she bit into his wrist. Pain, agonizing pain spreading through his arm as he felt her teeth crunch into his skin, into tendons, into the veins and pulling away, taking a chunk of him with her. “GOD PLEASE,” he screamed and blood dripped to the ground as she chewed, everything about her changing as she then let his hand go and bit into her own wrist. She pulled away a chunk of her skin as well and began to chew. Vinnie’s world was fading in and out. Too much blood, he’d lost far too much blood, especially with the new wound on his wrist, dripping unceremoniously on the forest floor. 

“Please. Please. Go away. Go aw-” 

Her mouth closed over his and he gasped and his hands were on her shoulders trying to push her away. A mixture of blood, soggy chewed flesh was pushed into his mouth. His hair was gripped and forced his head back, and he was forced to swallow as she only used her tongue to push the mixture further down his throat. He coughed and fought the wave of nausea as he turned his face to the side when she let him go. Then she grinned down at him, moving to stand over him. She moved her hand’s underneath his shoulders and pulled, releasing him from the bark that had went through him and throwing Vinnie roughly on the ground next to the tree. 

His world went white as he screamed, convulsing and pressing his face deeper into the mud that was mixed with his own blood. 

*** 

He should be dead. Bled out, on the floor. Gone. Dead. Those were the words that should have described him. But instead he was sitting upright, the woman had made a fire in this little cavern with the tree that had impaled him. And he was hungry. 

The woman sat across from him on the other side of the fire. A pot of soup hanging over it. How did that even get here? How was he not only.. Not dead but.. There was not a hole through his stomach, there was not a chunk missing from his wrist. He was… alive, and he was so hungry.  

“The soup is ready, sugar,” she said softly. 

“What’s in it?” Vincent asked. 

He was only met with a smile as she poured him a bowl and handed it to him. Vinnie ignored the way the chunks of meat tasted awfully similar to his earlier encounter. He ignored the eyeball that floated to the top when he mixed it. He ignored the way he was still hungry when he finished. 

“More?” 

“Yes please.” 

-- taglist : @coyotehusk @burntcoffeewhump @whumpbees @just-a-silly-little-whumper @lektricwhump ask if you'd like to be added or removed.

#coyotehusks goretober #goretober 2023 #writeblr #horror writing #cannibalism #forced autocannibalism #non-human people #monsters #bleeding out #fear of death #impaled #nonconsensual turning into a monster #gore #cw: gore

[i-eat-worlds]

Roadside Assistance

Sil crashes his motorcycle.

thanks to @snaillamp for helping with the medicine things. Go check out their stuff!

A&F Masterlist

cw: motorcycle crashes, major character injury, medical whump, fear of dying, depictions of pain

Sil felt like he was on fire.

Which was odd, considering it was pouring.

The rain did nothing to cool the hot, burning agony that spread all over his skin, nor the too-bright, buzzing sensation in his head or the sharp, intense pain in his hips and his legs. It was all over him, loud and screaming, and refusing to shut up.

He wanted it to stop. Now.

He didn’t care how.

Moving slowly, he tried to look at what was around him. His bike was tipped over several meters away, lying right in the middle of the road. The team had to be miles ahead of him already, halfway towards the lake. No one was coming. No one was going to find him.

Not unless he made them.

Ignoring the pain that blossomed around his ribs, he raised his arm and started to fumble with the strap of his helmet. It felt like it was suocating him, too tight against his cheeks and his forehead. Trying to keep the discomfort minimal, he knocked at it with his hand, slowly pushing it off his face. Once he’d gotten it past his ears, he dropped his hand back down and started patting for the pocket that held his phone.

A groan escaped his lips when he accidentally brushed the torn flesh off his thigh. He should've worn his leathers. Joseph was going to kill him for that.

The phone’s screen was cracked beyond repair, but it worked well enough. He raised it to his face, only for it to vibrate when it didn’t recognize it. Ugh. His fingers were shaking so much that it took several attempts to get it right.

Joseph was the last person he’d texted, and he quickly tapped the call button, followed by speakerphone. It only took two rings for him to pick up.

“Sil? Watcha’ need?” He said, voice calm, almost bored.

Oh. Joseph didn’t know yet.

“Help,” he choked out. “Fell off ‘m motorcycle.”

There was a beat of silence. “Where are you?”

His voice was still calm, but it was now obviously artificial.

“Green Lane?” It did look familiar, but he wasn’t quite sure where. “It ‘urts, Joseph.”

He could hear the sounds of him rushing to gather the team from the other side of the phone. “We’re on our way, Sil.”

That was good. Joseph would help him.

“Mmm. ‘hank you.” The pain flared, and his vision swam. “Always, Sil.”

His vision narrowed, and then went black.

“Sil? You with us?”

The voice was distant, but familiar. Who?

Someone’s hands were on his head, gripping it tight. There was the sound of Velcro being torn apart. The rain had stopped.

“Sil? C’mon.”

It was American.

Joseph.

Slowly, he pulled his eyelids apart.

Eric was looming over him, hands holding his neck. Joseph was only half visible, kneeling further down by his legs. He couldn’t see the rest of the team, though they had to be here. When he tried to turn his head to look for them, Eric’s grip grew tighter. “Try to keep still. We’ve gotcha.”

“Sil, can you tell me what hurts?” Joseph said, cutting off what was left of his pants.

“…Hips, legs, arms, head.” The list didn’t really cover everything. If Sil was being honest, it hurt everywhere.

“Alright, this is going to suck.” Joseph slid something under his legs. “I’m worried that your pelvis is broken, and this’ll help.”

That was bad, wasn’t it.

Sil caught an flash of bright orange as Joseph pulled it up higher, folded it over, and pressed a weird looking white thing over it. And then he pulled.

He gasped, hands curling up and digging into the still damp pavement. Ow. Fuck. Ow.

“I know, I know,” Joseph said.

It was pressing against the skin that had been scraped away by the road, which was horrible, but the real pain was emanating from the inside.

Joseph grabbed his wrist, eyes scanning him over. “Teri, what’s the ETA on support?”

“They’re saying sixteen forty-ish.” Sil couldn’t see her, but he could see Joseph’s face, and that told him plenty.

“The ambulance?” He pulled something out of his bag.

“Yep. No helimed.”

“Sharp scratch,” he warned, before the needle burrowed into his arm. He looked up to Teri. “Tell them to get the chopper out here.”

Helicopter? How bad was it?

Everything hurt, and he was tired and his heart was going so fast. Was he going to die?

It occurred to him that was not a question he should ask Joseph. Not after Pat. He casted his eyes up to Eric.

“ ‘m I gonna die?” He mumbled, voice practically a whisper.

Eric looked a little surprised. “No. We’ve got you.”

“But the ‘elichopter.”

“It’s to get you more help faster,” Joseph said, voice hard. “It does not mean you’re going to die.” Sil swallowed, and Joseph moved on. “I’m gonna give you something for the pain, and start some fluids, then I’ll look at your leg.”

There was a rush of cool down his arm. After some brief ddling with tubing, Joseph hooked him up to a bag of saline and enlisted Avia as a human IV stand.

Sil had no idea what his leg looked like, though judging from the splintering pain that radiated from his shin, it wasn’t pretty.

Joseph started to work. As it turned out, the drugs only damped pain, not removed it. The world was hazy. His chest hurt.

He blinked, very, very slow.

His eyes slipped closed.

Discomfort flared in his chest.

“Hey, none of that.”

Joseph was leaning over him, eyebrows furrowed. There was a rigid something around his leg. A shiny, metallic blanket was spread over him. It didn’t do much, though it kept the breeze out, which was appreciated.

“But ‘m tired.” Not tired. Exhausted. Like his life force was being drained out of him.

“I know,” Joseph said. “But try and stay awake.”

He grumbled. “Alright.”

Sleeping was so easy. He wanted easy.

Joseph’s fingers pressed into his wrist, and his eyes watched his chest. “You’re doing great, Sil.”

Avia smiled at him. “Yeah. You’ll be back to beating my ass at video games in no time.”

He smiled dumbly. “I will.”

“Or maybe I’ll beat yours?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“I don’t know if I’ll have an ass left after this.” His eyes ickered to Joseph. “Thoughts medic boy?” He snickered.

“I can assure you that you still have an ass, Sil,” he shook his head, “and a concussion.”

Any further conversation was cut out by the roar of a helicopter passing overhead. It was painted bright blue and orange, INSUPA MEDEVAC emblazoned on the side. The helicopter circled, lining itself up to land in a nearby field.

Several minutes later, two orange suited medics came down the road, carrying a bright yellow back board with them. Joseph started his report while they squatted down. Three introduced themselves, and Sil was not paying as much attention as he should’ve been. He was rolled and laid down on the board, strapped down tight, and then blocks were secured around his head.

It was easy to take the backseat as he was moved around like a human doll, positioned and lifted and transported.

He was tired.

He was cold.

It hurt.

He let the dark spots flashing in his vision take him.

He hoped he would wake up.

He didn’t know for sure.

*** His throat hurt.

That was the first thought he had when he returned to his body.

Sure, other things hurt. His leg, his hip, his chest. But that one was new.

He tried to open his eyes, but shut them immediately when the light came flooding in.

“Good morning, Sil.”

American.

Joseph.

He tried again, squinting away from the glowing terror. “Why’s it so bright?”

“Hospital.” Oh. That made sense. “Do you remember what happened?”

Sil huffed. “I crashed. Now my throat ‘urts.”

“That’s one way to put it.” There was the sound of a chair sliding across the tile. “I’m gonna get the doc in here, alright?”

“Can I ‘ave water first?” His throat really hurt.

Joseph paused. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” he said as Joseph put the cup to his lips.

“Always, Sil.”

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @painful-pooch

#worlds babbles #whump #medical whump #injury whump #broken bones #fear of death #joseph oc #sil oc #whump writing #this is fun tho I wished the pelvic fracture played a bigger part #unfortunately #they tend to come along with other things #this is bad but I might be tired. #but I finally got around to throwing Sil of a motorcycle so yay

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"I'm an atheist, and I don't have any belief in an afterlife.

You could say that I'm resigned to the fact that this wonderful life that we get here is it. And having hit 60, it's a good time to get resigned to these things and not be too nervous or upset - and enjoy what great times one can have."

-- David Gilmour

#David Gilmour #Pink Floyd #afterlife #myth of an afterlife #life after death #fear of life #fear of death #religion #one life #religion is a mental illness

[low-cool]

#original photography #original photographers #photographers on tumblr #jtmportland #fear of death

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1112

Anon asked:

Do you have any prompts for a whumpee that’s scared to sleep? 

Boy do I have some experience in this department lol. Your whumpee is scared to sleep because:

They simply do not want the next day to come.

What if the injured whumpee needs them? What if their condition deteriorates?

If your whumpee falls asleep... will they be able to wake up? Will they be able to see their friends/family again?

Another day brings more torture. 

Another day brings more exhaustion and pain/time spent laying in bed. (They’re recovering)

They haven’t achieved enough today, and are worried people will be disappointed in them. (They’re depressed)

Tomorrow they have family/friends visiting... they’re not sure they’re able to welcome them. (They could be scared of them/scared of their interactions with their current friends etc)

Something Really Bad is going to happen - they’re putting it off for as long as possible. 

They just want to spend as much time with their love/friend/family as possible. (They're being shipped out the next day.)

#whump #writing #prompts #scared to sleep #insomnia #anxiety #exhaustion #worry #vigils #fear of death #facing fears #bed bound #depression #tw: depression #projection? #absolutely #shame #unable to sleep #putting off sleep #recovery