Hey, I'm Electron! (god, that sounds like a bot, I swear I'm not a bot lmao)
This blog is used to write fics, take fic requests, and basically other fic stuff I don't want to do on my main
I mainly write for My Chemical Romance, but some other fandoms I'll write for are Fall Out Boy, Panic! At The Disco, The Maze Runner, Teen Wolf, the Umbrella Academy, All For the Game, and the Outsiders.
What I will write: Whump (within reason), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Angst
What I will not write: NSFW, smut, rape/noncon, Waycest, crazy age gaps, really kinky stuff
(I just don't feel comfortable writing that type of thing)
The lists will expand as I think of more tags, let me know if I missed anything.
Also, I BLOCK FREELY. DO NOT BE A CREEP, DO NOT SEND REPEATED SUGGESTIONS OF DISGUSTING THINGS. THESE ARE THE RULES OF THIS BLOG, AND I WILL NEVER WRITE OR POST ANYTHING I AM NOT COMFORTABLE WITH.
I'm echoed_electron on ao3 as well, if you prefer to read fics over there!
Febuwhump 2026 Masterpost
So yup, that's my blog. You send requests, I write fics.
Sure, they were hurt. Horrifically, even. There's no denying the scars. But the things they describe? There's just no way someone could do such horrific things to a person, and there's no way a person could walk away from that. There must be embellishments, hyperbole, some misremembering.
whumper who is also a whumpee. they act all haughty and throw their weight around but it's all weight given to them by the one pulling the strings. they have a reputation to maintain, so they force whumperee(???? i guess) to do the dirty work. to be hated in their stead. nobody will know they're suffering too
Sorry for how little I've been writing, I gotta come clean about something.
This is not the only ao3 account that I have. At the moment I have another longfic going on my other one, an anonymous longfic, and an anonymous series of hurt/comfort oneshots. I unintentionally set myself up for some pretty bad burnout.
I promise, I WILL get to your asks. I just felt that I owed you guys an explanation for how long it's taking lol
"hey, are you alright? you look a little pale." caretaker puts a hand on whumpee's shoulder.
"i'm- i don't know." whumpee's words melt together as they lean heavily on caretaker. "i feel like i might need to sit-" they fall completely against caretaker and then quickly slide to the floor, "sit down."
whumpee who gets their drink spiked by someone they trust. they don't realise it at first, until suddenly the room is spinning and they are too delirious to form a coherent thought.
the whumper who did it guides them through the room while being too touchy, even to the dazed whumpee. they meet some of their mutual friends along the way.
"don't worry, whumpee went a little overboard with the alcohol," whumper laughs it off and everyone believes them, because whumper is a great friend and an even better liar, "i'll take care of them."
whumpee cant protest, their mouth not forming the right words. even if they could speak, it'd sound like mindless rambling. whumper wouldnt do something like that
and so whumpee can do nothing as they are led away exactly where whumper wants them.
love it when whumpee is high as a kite on painkillers. their brain-to-mouth filter becomes non-existent.
caretaker is by their side, taking care of them as they babble and giggle and cry. caretaker tries not to let the things whumpee says get to them. a more honest idea of what happened to them is horrifying and heart-wrenching.
"oh, this doesn't hurt—" a little giggle, "Before, I had to stay still and. there were, veryyy big needles, and it would make me cry. but then I'd get hurt. more."
"blankets? for me? why? but I won't die if I'm not warm!"
"no, no, let me stay on the floor! please don't hurt me, please, I'll be good, don't tell—" choking on whumper's name, "—please. I'll do anything."
"hey, do you think I'm broken?"
"c'n sl'p?" mumbling drowsily, "y'u c'n thr'w me o'ts'd aft'r!"
caretaker has to endeavour to make their voice gentle and unassuming, their responses soothing. they can't let their anger or their sadness show. they can't.
Prompt: Character who struggles with SH accidentally hurts themselves too badly to handle on their own, receives help/treatment from another character- despite how angry and ashamed they feel. Other character is trying their best but is just so frustrated and can't understand why the other would do something like this. -🏁
Tags: SELF HARM AND LOTS OF DISCUSSION ABOUT IT!! PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS WILL BE TRIGGERING TO YOU!!, Funpoison fighting, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Self-Destructive Behavior
Summary: Party Poison has been cutting for years. It's an old habit of his, something he does to relieve his stress and anxiety and the constant pressure he feels. He should have known not to cut so deep, should have known the wouldn't couldn't take any strain, but how could he could have predicated to Draculoid attack that gave everything away?
Word Count: 1,620
Fic under the cut!
The Dracs had the Killjoys surrounded, pressing in on them from all sides. Party Poison was doing his best to hold them back, to keep them far away, but every time he moved the cuts on his arm would send new bursts of pain dancing across his skin, and his hands would shake too hard to make a good shot.
A blast from a ray gun shot past his ear and he flinched, heart stuttering in his chest as he realized just how close he had just come to death. How easily he could have lost his life in that moment.
In reality, Party didn't want to die. Sure, he'd cut himself, but not with the hopes of death. That was just the only method he'd been able to find that could quiet his thoughts whenever they got too loud.
And he especially didn't want to die by a Draculoid's hand.
He breathed deeply, steadying his hand and making shot after shot until the crowd finally thinned. Ghoul caught the last Drac in the chest, sending it tumbling backwards as it breathed its last breath.
The four stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, adrenaline still coursing heavily through their veins. The burned bodies of Draculoids scattered the ground around them, lives they had taken, and Party's stomach turned. His arms were aching and his head hurt.
"Wait…" Jet's voice sounded from behind the redhead. "Pois, are you bleeding?"
Oh, fuck.
Now he could feel it, the familiar sting on his upper arm and a chilling wetness soaking his sleeve. He brought a hand up to touch the spot, and his fingers came away red.
"But your sleeve isn't damaged…" Kobra said, reaching out but freezing just inches away from making contact. "Were you shot?"
Party opened his mouth, wanting to reply, to push the worry off of himself, but his throat had gone dry. He couldn't speak. What was he meant to say, anyways? There was no way to answer the question without giving himself away.
"I'm sure it's nothing," he muttered, hoping they'd leave it alone. His head was spinning; he still felt sick looking at the Dracs and nauseous at the thought of his friends finding out what he'd been doing to himself. It took every bone in his body not to bend over and upheave the contents of his stomach all over the hot sand.
Ghoul's brow was creased in worry, and Party couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't think-
Witch, he'd cut deep, too. He should have known the wound couldn't handle any stress, but how could he have predicted the spontaneous Draculoid attack? They'd come out of nowhere, and oh, fuck...
"We… we should get back to the car," Party mumbled, stumbling over his words. He pressed his hand to the cut again, trying to stop the bleeding, but whatever he'd managed to do seemed to have restarted the healing process entirely.
The others nodded, but nobody moved. They all had their eyes fixed on him- Destroya, there were too many eyes- and he knew he had to move or no one else would. His stomach was churning, and he could barely see straight from the pain in his head, but still, he forced himself to take a step. Then another. Then-
His knees caved, and the ground rushed up to meet him. He was shaking, and despite every effort, he could feel his eyelids beginning to close. His vision became mixed with flashes of darkness, and when he could see, everything was fuzzed over around the corners.
Party could hear the Killjoys around him, talking, shouting, and he tried to hold on. For them, and for himself.
Still, his last thread of consciousness slipped from his grasp, sending him plunging into black.
------
When Party Poison blinked awake, the first thing he registered was the lack of the comforting familiarity of his jacket. He blearily turned to the side and saw…
Saw himself.
Saw his skin, mottled and marred and twisted with marks he'd loved in private but were sickening to see on display. Saw deep gashes where he'd sunk his freshly sharpened blade into, his moment of quiet that helped, really truly helped. Saw blood, bright and crimson and awfully reminiscent of his hair, drying on his hot skin.
Saw Ghoul, sitting a few feet away, face expressionless, holding Party's stained jacket.
The black-haired man's eyes flicked upward quickly, a mere glance, but they quickly shot upwards again once he realized Party was awake. He half-stood, hovering, unsure whether he should be sitting or standing for the conversation that was to come.
Ghoul settled on sitting, sinking back into the chairs and holding out the electric blue jacket, a silent question that he voiced anyways.
"Pois, what…?" He couldn't seem to find any more words that suited what he wanted to ask.
The redhead firmly remained silent, looking away and glaring at the opposite wall. He didn't want to have this conversation now. He didn't want to have this conversation ever.
"Please, you have to answer me," the man insisted, but Party kept his lips decisively closed. He didn't owe anyone any explanation. They just needed to leave him alone.
Ghoul was getting fed up quickly, though. The floor creaked as he stood, walking over and grabbing Party Poison roughly by the shoulder. He rolled the older man over, and the redhead couldn't help but let out a quiet cry as his wounds rubbed against the rough fabric of the couch.
Ghoul's face went white; clearly, he hadn't thought through his actions before executing them. Still, he didn't apologize, instead staring down at the other man and awaiting an answer.
"Won't you leave me the fuck alone?" Party rasped, his throat alerting him of its pain as soon as he spoke. He felt a dull headache beginning to throb behind his eyes again.
Party Poison knew Ghoul wanted to help, he really did. But he couldn't bring himself to care. This wasn't a problem to be dealt with, it was just a thing Party did, and he wished it could be treated as such.
It didn't matter that he cut himself. It brought him relief, and it wasn't a problem.
"No, I won't!" Ghoul shouted. "I care about you, I don't want you to keep doing this! If… if I understood why you did it, maybe I could help! Maybe I could try to stop it!"
"I don't want to stop it!" Party yelled back, ignoring the pain that was plaguing him from all over his body. "It's not a fucking problem, you're just treating it like it is!"
"You passed out in the middle of the desert, Party, that sounds like a problem to me!" The younger man's voice was rising as his anxiety and anger with the redhead's stubbornness mixed together. "And look at yourself! You're covered in cuts and scars and blood! You'd have to be a fucking imbecile to think that's not a problem!"
"Stop acting like you know jack shit, Ghoul! It's not you I'm hurting, it's just how I… I cope! It helps, and I'm used to it. So stop trying to insert yourself somewhere you don't belong and leave me the fuck alone!"
"But…" Fun Ghoul's voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. "You are hurting me. Seeing you.. seeing you just drop like that, and then finding out that you did it to yourself…" He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. "I hate it, Pois. I hate that you think you need to do that to feel better." His face crumbled as a tear slid down his cheek, and Party felt all the anger he'd felt towards the other Killjoy flood out of his body in an instant.
"I am sorry," Party said softly. "There was a reason I kept it hidden, you know? I didn't want you guys to see it, I didn't want to scare you. I just want you to accept that I have to do it, can't you do that?"
"I can't." Ghoul's answer was firm. Not angry, just direct. "I can't because I couldn't live with myself if I let you continue on living like this. Please, let me try to help you, let me find other methods for you to deal with everything, just give me a chance. Please."
Party could feel himself caving, the earnestness in Ghoul's voice sending tendrils of shame deep into his heart.
But he couldn't make promises he couldn't keep.
"I can try, Ghoulie. But I don't know how well I'll do, it's how I've coped for years now. I don't think I can't just… stop."
Ghoul nodded. "I get it, and I'm not trying to force you to go all cold-turkey out of nowhere and everything. But I do want you to be able to live without cutting someday, so maybe whenever you feel the urge, you could come talk to me? Even if you still feel like it after, maybe I could help enough so you don't feel like you're carrying everything alone. So you don't feel like you have to cut so deep.
Oh.
That sounded… nice.
Party felt a tear sliding down his cheek, and he sniffed before giving a whispered reply. "I can do that, Ghoul. I can do that."
Ghoul nodded, bottom lip trembling, and he lowered himself to the ground, wrapping his arms around the redhead's midsection. He was more careful this time, avoiding any wounded areas. "Thank you. I just want you to be okay, okay?" "Okay," Party replied softly, and he hugged the other man back. His headache had faded and for the first time in what felt like forever, Party felt happy.
I love a dazed, out-of-it, purely broken whumpee. One who is so gone and dead to the real world, they don’t notice a single thing going on. Perhaps it’s a learned coping mechanism to get through the torture. Whumpee, who is pliant to whumper’s will and clocked out to the pain not because they want to, but because it’s the only way they get through it all. Perhaps it’s what whumper was waiting for—finally breaking them into an impossible, unrecognizable shred of a being doing barely more than living despite it all.
Whumpee, so mentally broken and having physically given up so completely that they are numb to anything happening to or around them. They see and hear and feel nothing.
Not whumper.
Not whumper’s continued torture.
Not even caretaker who’d only just rushed in, ready to fight for whumpee, hoping and praying that whumpee hadn’t yet perished, only to see them doing little more than staring up at nothing, eyes dull and unseeing, with their head rolled back, barely reacting more than the involuntary flinches of their body’s nervous system and not because the feel anything happening to them. Looking more dead than caretaker ever thought a still living being could be.
Dazed. Unresponsive. Gone.
And make sure a friend or loved one sees how broken they’ve become.
