#brief emeto mention in tags ! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cherryauts · 2 years

Text

Acquired Taste | Murdock x gn!reader

Summary: “You really think you can say no to me?” Murdock grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the wall behind me. Even through his dark glasses, I felt him stare deep into me.

Word Count: 1236

Tags/Warnings: First Person, Oral(giving), mentions of murder, mentions of gore/blood, partners in crime, deepthroat emeto(vomit), very mild blood play

Blood slowly dripped down my hand. It covered the 8 inch dagger I gripped onto. My chest rose and dropped. I stared down at the body below me. I really had just killed someone. His chest was torn open messily. His heart lay between his broken ribs and organs, tattered and crushed. No longer able to beat, damaged beyond repair.

“You did well, doll.” Murdock spoke, walking beside me to look further at the man below. He smirked, seeing what I had done.

“I did..?” I huffed out a bit, finally speaking as my throat was tight.

He hummed in agreement. “I’m surprised for your first time. You seemed to enjoy it.” He let out a chuckle.

I soft smile spreads across my face as the adrenaline slowly leaves my system. Murdock moved a hand to my chin, turning me to face him. Pressing his lips into mine for a deep kiss. I melted into it, my body relaxing and no longer tense.

“Someone riled up?” I pull from his lips with a purr. His hand came up to grab at my throat, pushing me back into a wall.

“What about it? Are you wanting to fix it yourself, kitten?” He tilted his head as he spoke. My face scrunched up, hating the nickname. Only earning a chuckle from his lips.

“Not anymore with that name brought up.” I scoff. A pout spread across his face. He moved his hand from my throat up to my chin. Moving a thumb to my lips and pushing between them, pushing down roughly on my tongue. I grunt, moving a hand up to grab his wrist.

“You really think you can say no to me?” Murdock grabbed my wrist, pinning it to the wall behind me. Even through his dark glasses, I felt him stare deep into me. He massaged his thumb into my tongue before pulling it back to let me speak.

“Bite me.” I grinned. A huff of air passed his lips as he grabbed my shirt collar. Forcing me down onto my knees in front of him. He grabbed onto both my wrists and pinned them above me to the wall, despite my physical struggle.

“Well, you’re no fun.” I pout. Before I could say anymore he delivered a harsh smack to my cheek.

“And you listen to me. Got it?” He grabbed my jaw. His fingers digging into my skin.

I sank back onto my knees, slowly nodding.

“Use your words.”

“I understand.” I look back up to him, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“Good.” He let go of my jaw, but kept my wrists pinned with one hand. His free hand moved to his pants. Struggling a bit, he managed to unbuckle his belt, pulling it from the loops of his jeans. I watched his movements intently. He unzipped his pants. Without any hesitation, he reached into his pants and, through the hole of his briefs, pulled his partially hard cock out.

I grunt in response, looking away and tugging at his hands that pinned mine.

“What?” Murdock chuckled. “You wanted this, right?”

“I did.” I mumbled, finally admitting. With that, he let go of my hands.

I repositioned myself in front of him. I moved the still bloodied hand to his cock, taking it in my hand and stroking him up and down. Blood lightly smeared along his skin as he grew hard.

He only grunts in response, watching me with curiosity. I held his cock up more, leaning in. I let my tongue hang from my mouth, running it along the underside of his cock. His body shudders, moving a hand down to my hair.

I glance up at him as I lick up to his tip, cleaning up some of the blood off him. My lips wrap around his sensitive tip and I suck softly, earning a groan of delight from Murdock.

I let go of his base, taking more into my mouth. My lips sliding with ease along his skin. I push my tongue up against the underside of his cock. Taking a second to breathe through my nose, I allow my throat to relax. I push my head down further on him, slowly taking him into my throat.

Murdock let out small huffs of breaths and a few groans. “You look so good on your knees like that.. But you’re taking too long.” He warns.

I look back up at him, narrowing my eyes into a glare. I purposely went slower, wanting to waste his time.

He carded his fingers through my hair, entangling them before grabbing a fistful. I growl in response, giving a quick nip to his cock.

“You’re just begging for it at this point.” He growled back, his voice low. Without another word, he forced my head back down onto his cock. My hands shot up to his thighs, gripping hard as my throat tightened around him. I gagged hard, trying to push back instinctively.

“Come on, take it all on your own like a good little pet.” He chuckled. Keeping my head on him, I couldn’t push back, his strength overbearing me. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears pricked my eyes. I could only gag, my throat not able to relax no matter how hard I tried.

With another gag, a rush of watery bile shot up my throat. It spilled over his cock and out the side of my mouth.

Murdock let out a laugh. “Can’t even handle a cock down your throat, thought I trained this out of you.” He finally let go of my head. I sent my head back, leaving a mess of watery vomit on his cock and pants.

I gasp and choke, spitting up what was left in my mouth. He grabbed onto my hair again, yanking it back so I looked up at him. I watched as he quickly stroked at his cock, using the previous fluids as lube.

I let myself take the time to breathe, knowing I only had a limited time. Once I was calm enough, he guided my mouth back to him. Pushing me down his length without much time to adjust. I close my eyes, just trying to force my throat to relax. Holding my head in place, he thrusted quick into my mouth. I breathe through my nose, holding onto his thighs as I take his rough pace.

He thrust deeper and deeper every few strokes. My nose pressed up into his skin. His moans grew louder and his breath grew heavy. The thrust of his hips turned sloppy, and I knew he was close to his edge.

I was suddenly pushed back off his cock. He held a tight grip onto my hair, keeping my head back. I looked up at him with half-lidded eyes. My tongue slipped out of my mouth, hanging with my mouth wide open for him.

Grunts and groans escaped his mouth as he stroked his cock quickly. And not long after, streams of cum shot from his tip. I closed my eyes, feeling bits of his cum spread over my face, some hitting my tongue. Once his grip loosened from my hair, I opened my eyes. I pull my tongue back into my mouth, swallowing down his cum.

“Feel better?” I say with a purr, looking up at him.

“Keep running your mouth and your throat won’t be the only thing I ruin.”

#markiplier egos #iswm murdock #iswm fanfiction #murdock x reader #markiplier #markiplier smut #murdock smut #oneshot #x reader

163 notes · View notes

wounds-seen-and-unseen · 3 months

Text

Vagdhandaja-Prologue

The actual fic scenes will be under the cut. This is world building of a sorts before the cut.

Arjun’s character here is very, very removed from canon (obviously, seeing that canon is an epic that is more than a 1000 years old) so I am only going to explain whatever is relevant to this story.

The milieu I am going for is an alternate universe of Delhi (India’s capital, in case anyone does not know) where the Kauraveya family are quite influential politicians for the most part. Arjun is the cherished youngest son of the family, very close to his mother, having lost his father as a child. He is a decorated war hero, known for both his battle prowess and his gallantry. He is an old school gentleman, so to speak. He values all human life, he prefers to avoid loss of life as much as possible. He married his wife, Subhadra, for love. Her brother, Krishn is his best friend. At the beginning of this story, he is escaping from a place he barely remembers.

Satyaka, the PoV for the prologue, is distantly related to Krishn, and by extension, Arjun’s mother Pritha, (Krishn is canonically Arjun’s first cousin, in this story, their blood relationship may be a little more removed). His son, Yuyudhana, not mentioned in this chapter by name, is Subhadra and Krishn’s friend here. I think that’s all the background needed for this story for now, but if something is unclear, please feel free to DM or ask me!

Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, discussion of intravenous drug use, disoriented character, brief emeto mention, distressed character.

Tagging @blue-lotus333 and @whither-wander-whump

Please ask or message if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list!

There are a few Sanskrit terms used here, meanings given below:

1. Pitr-shraadh: Shraadh is a Hindu ritual, in which one honours the dead. Pitr-shraadh specifically, as far as I know, is a ritual in which one honours their ancestors.

2. Pooja: Prayer ritual

3. Mata: Mother (respectful)

Prologue

Satyaka Varshney, on the way to the capital

I click the ignition off, glancing cursorily by my side at my son, fast asleep. I suppose a small break wouldn’t hurt.

Cracking my aching knuckles, I open the car door, sliding out and stretching. The wind is rustling through crowded forest greenery, fresh and clean. An unfamiliar thump directs my gaze to my son once more, still peacefully sleeping in the car. Keeping him in the line of my sight, I edge forward.

That doesn’t turn out to be a very wise thing to do in the pitch black of the depth of night, as I knock into something. Blindly reaching out, my hand hits solid flesh.

I can feel the flinch beneath my fingers, hear the faintly clicking, chattering teeth.

‘S-so-sorry. Plea-please don’t-don’t-they-I’- I blink. In front of me is a young man, hardly visible in the dark.

Whatever little I can see of him, he is obviously scared, shaking, streaks of mud on his torn shirt, what once used to probably be military camouflage. ‘I’m sorry, s-sir.’ He says, cringing away from me. ‘Hey there, young man,’ I whisper, the boy putting in my mind a spooked horse. ‘It’s alright. I’m not going to turn you in. You on the run from those outlaws down there?’ ‘Out-outlaws? Sir?’ The frank confusion in his voice has me backtrack. What the hell has happened to this young man?

‘Never mind that. Where are you coming from? Do you have anywhere to go to?’

He blinks. Looks pensive for a moment, then, face tight and eyes on the floor, he whispers, voice hoarse, ‘I…I am not sure, sir. I don’t-I don’t know what this place is. Where are we?’ I sigh. ‘Are you alright?’ The boy seems disoriented enough to warrant that insipid question. He looks down at himself, then musters a smile as he looks back up, still not meeting my eyes. ‘I think so, sir? I will be.’

‘You sure don’t look it,’ I mutter, shucking off my coat, looking critically at him, the ceaseless shivering, the remnants of bloodstains on his face. I hand the coat over to him. ‘Here. You look like you need it. And this place isn’t safe. Would you like to come with me?’ His gaze skitters away from me. ‘I-thank you sir, but I’m dirty. I wouldn’t want to be a burden.’ He’s clearly making effort to pronounce his words right. ‘And you aren’t. I have a son your age. I’d want him to be safe, just like I’m sure your family wants you safe and sound.’ I wrap the coat around his shaking shoulders. ‘There.’ He flinches away from my touch. ‘Easy. It’s alright. Can you walk?’ He nods. ‘Yes. I will. Where’- ‘I’ll tell you. Follow me.’ He does that obediently enough, although he looks over his shoulder for every step he takes. From what I can understand of his situation, I don’t blame him for the same.

Once we are leaning against the hood of my car, I probe gently. ‘Look, kid, I want to help you. Honestly. But I can’t do that if you don’t tell me anything.’ Frustration echoes in his voice as he replies ‘I am grateful, sir, but I really don’t-I remember, I had been on duty. I had asked leave from my senior so that I could do the pitr shraadh. I finished the pooja. I drank some water that was in my canteen, and then…then my head spun. Some people were trying to-to drag me off. I don’t know why, I’d never seen them before. I fought as best as I could. But I lost. That’s all I know. Then I woke up shaking on some unknown floor. I escaped as soon as I could. Honestly, sir, I’m not-I don’t lie. I don’t. You’ve done so much…I wouldn’t.’ His shivering increases as he finishes his speech, and he stumbles. ‘Whoa!’ ‘I…sorry, sir. I’m dizzy.’ ‘I can see that, kid. How long has it been since you ate?’ I ask, keeping a firm hold of his hand. He shakes his head. ‘Okay. Okay. I think these outlaws did you in. We’re at the edge of their outpost. You seem to be real lucky that they haven’t caught you yet. Tell me where you want to go, ‘kay? I’ll see if I can help you there.’ ‘To the capital. The Kauraveya Mansion.’ ‘You’re one of ‘em, huh? Some distant coz of mine married into that family. The younger son, the legitimate one, that is. I remember attending her wedding, barely married myself, too besotted by my own wife, with eyes for nought but the food. I hear the lady is mighty beautiful, though.’ He smiles, I can see the flash of teeth in the dark, feel the tense pull of his shoulder relax slightly under my hand.

‘The most beautiful in the world,’ he says, softly. ‘She is my mother. I’ll tell her that I heard the food in her wedding was really nice.’ I laugh. ‘You’re one of the Vrishni clan, then, sir? Krishn said that his clan is huge.’ ‘Aye. So you’re one of us, too, in a way.’ He shrugs. ‘I suppose so?’ ‘Of course you are. However distant, ain’t a matter. Once a connection is established, it’s there forever. You know Krishn?’ I shake my head. ‘Course you do. Never mind that, come in,’ I open the door of my car. ‘Get a bit warm, have somethin’ to drink. Wouldn’t want you to collapse like that again. Should coz find out her kiddo fainted on my watch, I’m sure she’d have my head.’ He laughs, soft and sincere. ‘Her name is Pritha. I’m Arjun. And you’re probably right, mata is very…protective.’ ‘As she very well should be, a handsome young lad like you.’ He looks down. ‘Is that a blush? I see you aren’t used to teasing yet.’

He peeks into the car. ‘Careful there. My young bison is snoring in here.’ ‘Dad. ‘M not a bison of any sort! And who’s this?’ ‘Cousin o’ yours. Arjun Kauraveya, I take it?’ He nods. My son starts upright. ‘Krishn’s brother-in-law? His best friend? Whoa. I met their family a few days ago. Both the ladies were…pretty distraught.’

The boy at my side closes his eyes, obviously affected. ‘My fault,’ he whispers. I cuff my idiot of a kid. ‘Motor mouth, can’t you think of what you speak?’ I hiss at him, jerking my chin at the distraught younger man.

‘And you.’ I turn to Arjun. ‘None of that, kid. You didn’t ask to be captured like that.’ ‘No, but’- ‘Hey, you’re gonna go home, alright? They’re yours to take care of.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ my son murmurs. Arjun shakes his head. ‘It’s alright…you were honest, thank you for that.’ My son shakes his head in return. ‘No. It’s not like you ran off on your own. You were on duty, right?’ Neither I nor Arjun correct him, leaving him to his ignorance. ‘You’re doing your best, that’s all you can do.’ The other man doesn’t look very convinced but nods his head.

I hand him a bottle of water. ‘There you go. Drink up.’ His hand shakes as he takes the bottle. I drank the water in my canteen, I remember him saying. And then my head spun. Small wonder he is scared. I take it back, drinking a gulp myself. ‘There. It’s safe, son.’ His gaze flies to mine, finding the floor again in a flash. ‘I’m’- I cut him off. ‘Nothin’ to say sorry for. Given what you’re comin’ from, it’s perfectly understandable.’

Once he’s had the water, I gesture to a sandwich. ‘Get some food inside ya, ‘kay? I can drive you to the capital, sure, we gotta go there, too. Not your house, of course not, but Lutyen’s street should work? He’s wide-eyed, staring at me as if afraid to believe. ‘Sir..I can’t ask that’- ‘Nah, you ain’t askin’. Don’t worry about it. Go on, eat the thing.’

He tries. A bite later, he stops. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he says, sounding guilty. ‘What’s the matter, kiddo?’ ‘I might be si’- he’s cut off as he gags, shoving his head out of the window. ‘Whoa. Okay. Want me to stop the car?’ He shakes his head jerkily. ‘N-no. It’s ‘kay.’

‘Wait.’ My son’s voice is cool. ‘Yeah?’ Arjun asks. ‘Those marks on your arm…did you do that? Are you an IV user? Is that why you’re confused?’ ‘W-what?’ ‘Hey!’ I interject, the kid clearly struggling to understand the pointed question. ‘He was kidnapped, bud, he didn’t’- ‘No!’ It’s the loudest I’ve heard his voice. ‘No, I wouldn’t. Mata hates that kinda stuff, I don’t even drink.’ He shakes his head. ‘I didn’t do this, please believe me.’

I glare at my son. ‘Apologize. Seriously, is this the kind of question you ask?’ Arjun blanches. ‘I-I didn’t, but…they held me down, I’m-I’m remembering.’ His voice is blank. His eyes are flaring wide as they turn to me. ‘Could they have drugged…’ he trails off. ‘They might have,’ he answers himself. ‘Maybe that’s why I feel sick. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I fought, I did, I did, I’-

‘Hey.’ My son intercedes as the younger man’s breathing quickens. ‘I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t know. If what you say is true, and I believe it is, you are not to blame. Take a breath, okay?’ He does. ‘Good. Now, just get it out, what you remember. Maybe we can help you piece it together.’ ‘Yeah…’ he murmurs, shaky. ‘Okay. I…oh. Oh, no. No, no, no. No…’ His voice falters and breaks as he repeats a frantic denial. ‘What happened?’ I ask, trying to break him out. ‘I-I broke my vow, I broke it!’ He’s vitriolic, sheer loathing in his voice. ‘God, I broke it…How could I have done it?’ ‘You did what you had to survive, kid, it’s-you can make it better, okay?’ ‘No,’ he says, his voice a knell of grief. ‘What I did…it’s unforgivable.’

#my writing #nila writes #fic: vagdhandaja #arjun kauraveya #arjun #satyaka #prologue #tw panic attacks #tw iv drug use #tw disorientation #tw vomiting #archer writes

10 notes · View notes

circusgoth-dotcom · 6 months

Text

Meeting Death in The Middle

Ship: Ghrian x Hades

Word Count: 2039

Summary: When a farmboy fearing his first winter alone seeks the mercy of the God of The Underworld, he takes on more than he accounted for. Prologue. Epilogue. CWs for themes of death/the afterlife, brief smoking mention, argument/relationship struggle mentions, Hades' rage, brief emeto mention.

Tag List: @canongf @futurewife @rexscanonwife @dudefrommywesterns

The sun had sunk low in the sky, almost kissing the horizon, by the time Ghrian made it to the mouth of the cave rumoured to be the exact one Orpheus had escaped out of while trying to rescue his dear Euridyce. Standing at the edge of the opening, he instantly felt much colder, as if the cave itself was producing a breeze. He swallowed, clutching his cloak tighter to his chest before ducking his head and pressing into the darkness.

The path inside the cave was just as long and winding as the one he had taken to get to it, with the added hindrance of a lack of light.

It was also startlingly quiet in the cave. Outside, Ghrian would’ve heard any matter of nature, from trees swaying in the breeze to deer bounding away from his approach. In here, it was just his footsteps, heartbeat, and thoughts to keep him company. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be walking, but as the path gradually began to slope down, the cool breeze he had felt began to diminish. A few more feet and the air around him began to warm noticeably, and as he continued walking, he was beginning to regret wearing his cloak.

By the time the path began to plateau again, he was damp with sweat and his hair was beginning to stick to his forehead. Unable to cope with his cloak any longer, he paused and stood near the wall, setting down his bag. He unclasped and removed his cloak and tied it around his waist, gaining little relief from the sudden heat as he picked up his bag again and trudged forward. His stomach growled and he wondered what time it was. Just as he was debating if he should just turn back around and find a nearby town to crash in, he spotted light up ahead and could hear the faint sounds of water.

Picking up the pace, Ghrian eagerly chased the light until the tunnel began to open up into a vast cavern. By the smell of sulphur, the view of a deep and winding river, and the blue flames that filled the sconces along the walls, Ghrian knew he had reached his destination. Now was the trouble of actually finding the reigning God. He cautiously approached the edge of the river and gasped as he looked into it. It was filled with ghostly pale bodies, floating by into oblivion. There were many ideas about Hades’ domain, but few could say they had made a round trip from the land of the living, to the Underworld, and back again, so nothing could be confirmed. Still, Ghrian had to believe this was the River Styx that some had theorized existed.

Looking around, his eyes eventually landed on a dock off in the distance. He made his way over and found a gondola, in which a skeletal figure sat, smoking from a pipe and reading a newspaper. Ghrian cleared his throat.

“I’d like to speak with Hades, please.”

The ferryman looked up from his paper. He regarded Ghrian silently before standing, setting aside his paper and holding out his hand.

“Oh, right, the fee…” They dug around in their pockets briefly before producing the change needed to cross. “You must be Charon.”

The ferryman didn’t respond, taking his change and allowing Ghrian onto the boat. Discomforted by the lack of greeting, Ghrian sat and Charon set off. Below them, thousands of souls moaned and sloshed about as the gondola caused ripples across the surface of the “river.” They didn’t dare to look, keeping their gaze trained on the back of Charon’s head. The only time he looked away was when they passed a large, sleeping dog with three heads. Their hair stood on end.

When they reached the opposite bank, he was staring up at a great, skull-shaped tower. Ghrian opened his mouth to thank Charon as he stepped off of the boat, then decided it would be better to get on with his business and leave as quickly as possible. He ascended the stairs two at a time until he was entering the top of the tower.

He hesitantly called out, as the place seemed strangely empty. “Hello??”

He then heard what sounded like muffled arguing and crashing before a door opened to his right and two imps tumbled into the room. One was red and pot-bellied, while the other was lean and blue. Neither of them came up farther than just above Ghrian’s knees.

“Halt, trespasser!” The red one grunted, holding out his hand as if it would stop Ghrian from bowling him over if he had really wanted to.

“That’s right!” The blue one added, anxiously wringing his hands. “Do you have an appointment??”

“Well, I, er… no,” Ghrian scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I guess he wouldn’t know I was coming, since I’m not dead… but I really need to talk to your boss, assuming you work for Hades.”

“A mortal?!” The blue imp squeaked, turning to his companion for assistance.

“How did you get in here?”

Unable to help himself, Ghrian gestured over his shoulder. “The stairs. Well, technically a boat, then the stairs.”

“Oh yeah, that’d make sense.” The imps nodded at each other in agreement for a second before the red one jumped angrily in realization. “Don’t get smart with us! Hades is not going to be happy that a mortal got in here…”

“Not to mention he’s already in a sour mood from his usual argument with Persephone--”

The red imp slapped his hand over his companion’s mouth. “Shhhh-shhhhh-shh!!! We’re not supposed to tell anybody about that!!”

Ghrian cocked his head curiously. “Marriage troubles??”

“It’s none of your business!”

“But maybe I could help!”

They scoffed. “What would a mortal know about the relationships between Gods??”

He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a large boom. The imps began running around in an aimless panic.

“Oh no, oh no!!”

“If you value your life-- which, who knows, since you came here of your own accord-- for the love of the Gods, run!!”

Instead of heeding the warning, Ghrian stood his ground, though he did duck and back up slightly when a hulking figure burst into the room. Peering through his fingers, he saw a tall, grey man with flaming hair, flickering between orange and blue. Hades himself.

“What are you two doing in here??” The God growled. The imps began to stammer uselessly, making Hades pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance before snatching them up from the ground and holding them at eye level. Whimpering, they pointed toward Ghrian. Hades dropped his minions and turned toward the slowly straightening-up mortal. His expression became one of curiosity as the orange finally faded from his flames.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Ghrian took a breath, attempting to appear confident. “Ghrian, sir.”

“Ghrian? Hmm…” The God summoned a scroll, unravelling it and revealing an impossible length. He muttered to himself as he scanned it before looking back at the man before him. “I’m not seeing any ‘Ghrians’ here that passed away recently, unless of course your mortal body’s still in the process of dying and your soul just got here a little early. And if that’s the case, please make yourself comfortable until I have the proper information to judge your soul fairly.” He gave them a toothy grin that made their insides do flip-flops.

“Actually, sir, I haven’t died at all yet. I’m still mortal.”

Hades’ brow rose in surprise before coming down angrily. “How did you get in here?”

This time, Ghrian spoke more genuinely, recounting the man he met in the market, the journey, the cave, all of it. “So, I’ve come to negotiate with you, if you’ll allow me,” he concluded.

“Negotiate what??” The God picked at his teeth in boredom as he summoned a charred black throne and settled into it.

“This is going to be my first winter after tending to a farm alone for most of the year. I’m afraid my harvest won’t be bountiful enough. I just need a little more time… if I can’t stop winter from coming, at least would you consider letting Persephone go home early so that we can have a less harsh season this year?”

Hades stared at Ghrian briefly before cackling, slamming his fist against the arm of his chair in mirth. “Oh, you mortals! Wow, that is… really something, HA!” He wiped away a tear as Ghrian frowned. Suddenly Hades stood, towering over them. “What makes you think you can just waltz right into the Underworld and ask me for whatever you want, huh?? I swear you people get more entitled every day… this isn’t how the game is played, sunshine. Persephone stays here for six months, every year, because she decided to eat the pomegranate seeds. I didn’t even make her eat them, that was all her choice! No more, no less, and certainly no negotiating it. But if you’re so worried about starving to death,” he grabbed them by the front of their shirt, “Why don’t I just save you the trouble and have you join the lovely souls here in damnation right now?”

Ghrian yelped as he was yanked off of the floor and carried to the window of the tower, out of which he was dangled.

“Wait, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound entitled!”

“Yes, for a farmboy it was very surprising, frankly.”

“I heard you’re having trouble with Persephone!”

The blue flames turned orange, bordering on red, in a flash. Hades yanked them back inside. “Where did you--” His wild eyes then darted toward his minions, who were now cowering in a corner. Hades placed Ghrian back on the floor, whipping around. “Pain. Panic. What was the tiny, little, simple task, so simple even a baby could do it, that I gave you this morning?”

“To not let slip that anything was out of the ordinary between you and Miss Persephone?” Panic whimpered.

“Exactly. And what did you do??”

“It’s all his fault!” Pain yelped, gesturing to Panic. “He was the one who blurted it out!”

“IDIOTS!” Hades roared, flames bursting from his hands and scorching his minions, who howled in pain as he threw them down the stairs. He growled to himself, running his hands stressfully over his long face before turning to Ghrian, glaring down at him. “So, you thought maybe I’d be more complacent to let her go since we aren’t exactly feeling so chummy toward each other at the moment, is that it?”

“Well, don’t you think it might improve your relationship some if you gave her a little more freedom?”

Hades rolled his eyes. “Listen, babe, we aren’t compatible and that’s that. I thought she was attractive, but things aren’t working out and unfortunately, I’m stuck with her. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

Without thinking, Ghrian blurt out, “What if we were to swap places? Persephone and I, I mean.”

Hades paused, the gears turning in his head. “Why… would you want to do that??? I thought you mortals loved your freedom and your lives…”

“From where I’m standing, it looks like Gods feel the same. If we swap places, it’s not about me anymore. It improves the quality of people’s lives.”

“Eugh, I think I just threw up a little. You’re making a terrible argument for yourself, let’s ask a different question, why should I want to keep you here?”

“I imagine being the sole ruler of the Underworld can get busy, no? Especially with military conflicts and plagues, lots of souls will come through here… I could assist you with the judging and such. All I ask for in return is Persephone to walk free, all days of the year.”

Hades began to pace as he considered the possible outcomes of this trade. Eventually, he sighed and turned to Ghrian. “Fine. You’re too selfless. The world needs less people like you.” He summoned a contract and a charcoal pencil, handing them to him. “Just sign this and Sepphie’s off the hook.”

And so, he signed away his soul, completely unaware of what this would entail.

#self shipping #self shipping community #self insert #self insert x canon #self x canon #self insert oc #oc x canon #gay self ship #trans self ship #circus scripts #💀O Thánatos Kai O Ílios☀️#☀️🍇.s/i

9 notes · View notes

angstyaches · 1 year

Note

If you’re still taking prompts, would you write something with Donnacha looking after Henry? Maybe since Henry doesn’t want to go out and hasn’t been shopping, he eats something that’s gone off and it makes him really sick

CW: depression, anxiety around social cues, idk how to tag this but Henry is repeatedly triggered by things he knows are unreasonable but is triggered nonetheless, food mention, food poisoning, chronic pain mentioned, spicy times (hinted at; happening in another room), stomach ache, nausea, emeto, platonic cuddling, platonic kissing, platonic caretaking, brief mention of break-up (Donnacha and Autumn).

Word Count: 4,500 (yeah)

___

Henry slowly moved the fork towards his mouth, barely able to convince his lips to come apart long enough to place a scrap of spaghetti Bolognese inside. Then, it was just a case of convincing his jaws to work so that he could chew. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work, he reckoned.

He’d cooked this three days ago, when he’d been hit by a sudden wave of inspiration regarding taking care of his own basic needs. (Bolognese was one of the only things he knew how to make.) He’d also had an exceptionally long shower and shaved his neck that night. Stubble had already found its way back to him, and he hadn’t felt the urge to cook anything else.

He made a face as he chewed. Had his cooking always been this bland, or were his tastebuds checking out as punishment for the lack of variety he’d been offering them? Or maybe he’d blasted them to hell with the microwaved leftovers without realising it? It wasn’t unheard of for Henry to accidentally damage himself and not realise it until hours later.

Still, the food itself couldn’t be too bad, since he hadn’t automatically retched after taking the first bite. His body just liked to complain.

He glimpsed over a couple of pages of The Catcher in the Rye while he ate. The book was one of the oldest things he still owned, gifted to (stolen for?) him by his secondary school English teacher when the school had downsized their library. It still had a list of names glued to the title page, all of them students who had graduated long before he’d even started at the school.

He looked up as he heard the front door click, eyeing the space in the hall that was visible from the living room table.

A low, tittering giggle made his ears tingle. It didn’t match up with the sounds of anybody who usually came through here.

“Don’t worry!” Lucy. “I would’ve tripped, too, but I’m weirdly well-coordinated. I’m like a mountain goat.”

Henry raised an eyebrow, for no one’s benefit in particular. Lucy was so loud when she was tipsy. And such a liar, too. He’d seen her trip over empty air more times than he could count.

She popped into view, tipping her pink-haired head forward and looking into the living room out of habit. All of the flatmates usually did this, sussing out who was already home and occupying the common space.

She had a ‘friend’ with her. The giggler. She was a good half-foot taller than Lucy, helped by a pair of patent black platform sandals.

“Hi, Henry.” Lucy stood with her shoulders pulled back further than normal, with her hands held behind her back. It always amused Henry, just how differently she acted while she was in the middle of seducing someone. Like him, she was a bit of a social shapeshifter. “This is Cassidy.”

“Hi, Cassidy.” Henry was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was a) wearing a tattered wool sweater on top of yet another wool sweater and b) holding a steaming spoonful of spaghetti Bolognese halfway up to his mouth. “Nice shoes.”

“Thanks,” Cassidy grinned. “They tripped me up on the stairs.”

Henry had guessed as much. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Cassidy took hold of Lucy’s arm. “Ooh, what are you reading there?”

Henry lifted his book to show her the cover.

“Salinger, nice,” Cassidy smiled. Henry didn’t have a good enough grasp on her personality to know if she was being sarcastic or genuine, but what he did know was that she’d just pronounced the ‘g’ in ‘Salinger’ as though it should made a ‘guh’ sound.

He opened his mouth to correct her. “Actually, it’s –”

“We’re going to my room now,” Lucy interrupted. She sounded like a six-year-old bragging about their action figure collection.

Henry nodded sardonically. “Happy for you, hon.”

This was… partly true. He was about five percent happy for his bestie, while ninety percent of his emotional capacity was leaning towards envy and self-hatred. Henry hadn’t brought anyone home in so long that, out of sheer pity, Lucy had stopped outwardly teasing him about it.

The remaining five percent? It was burning with dissatisfaction at not being able to correct Cassidy’s pronunciation of ‘Salinger’.

The two girls continued down the hall, and Henry finally finished bringing his fork to his mouth. His chewing grew a bit more aggressive, and he scooped up some more Bolognese before he’d even swallowed.

His last attempted hook-up had spooked him a little bit, but that had been months ago. Maybe it was time to get back on the apps. Maybe he’d do it tonight. Maybe he’d stay up late, make himself look pretty, take a few new selfies to post –

No. Henry scowled, taking another flavourless bite. No procrastinating. He had a few pretty big commissions on his plate right now, and one of them in particular needed at least a few hours of his attention tonight. And it was already nearing 11pm, as the cat-shaped pendulum clock on the wall informed him.

Shit. Where is the name of all that was holy had the evening gone?

With his stomach relatively full, and his deadline anxiety spiking, Henry started to get up from the table. He grabbed his plate with one hand and his cane with the other, and brought his leftovers (left-leftovers?) to the kitchen.

___

As he settled into his desk chair, Henry pulled on some noise-cancelling headphones to drown out the sounds of t.A.T.u. that were drifting through the wall he shared with Lucy’s room. He didn’t object to Lucy’s music choices in the slightest, but he preferred to block everything out with white noise when he had work to do.

“It’s Salinger,” he grumbled under his breath, knowing Cassidy wouldn’t hear him, but needing to say it in order to move on to the next tasks at hand.

Less than two minutes after he’d pulled up his most pressing project, Henry could feel a steady stream of vibrations beginning just below his ribcage. He briefly pressed a hand against his side, feeling a ripple under his fingers. He didn’t think much of the mild discomfort. Besides a banana and a cup of tea, the leftover Bolognese had been the only thing he’d eaten all day.

He’d have to order groceries soon. He hated how much he dreaded it; he knew he was privileged to live in an age where he didn’t have to drag himself out to the supermarket, but somehow, the mental toll of shopping online was almost as hefty as the physical toll of leaving the apartment.

Maybe he should open a new internet tab and get it over with right now, while he had a vague sort of motivation to do it –

No. Henry gritted his teeth. That was just the urge to procrastinate again. And it was far too late in the day for that.

A streak of light sat across his computer screen, drifting in from the hallway. He always left the door ajar unless he was sleeping. The light hitting the screen swelled now, indicating that someone was opening the door further.

Henry almost screamed at the sudden interruption. Sure, not everybody in the world knew he had just sat down to get some work done, but… they should have!

“What?” he snapped, a little harsher than intended. He spun his chair to face the door as it opened the rest of the way, pulling off his headphones.

Donnacha’s hair was sticking up in the back and sides as he stood there, in light grey tracksuit pants and a Rick and Morty hoodie. He grimaced at Henry’s tone.

“Do you have any spare headphones?”

Henry frowned, his brain still struggling to switch gears. “Uh… yes? My old ones. Why?”

“Well, I left my ear buds at the gym, and… Lucy’s got her ‘getting lucky’ playlist on.” Donnacha grimaced widely and pointed in the general direction of Lucy’s room. “And I’d rather not be hearing it, to be honest.”

“Oh. Well, they’re not noise-cancelling –”

“That’s absolutely grand. I would go and hang out in the living room instead, but it’s freezing out there.” Donnacha pointedly rubbed at his arms, despite looking like a big, comfy marshmallow in his hoodie. “I’d rather be in bed.”

“Mmm.” Henry unplugged his extra set of headphones and extended them towards Donnacha.

“You’re a lifesaver, Hen.”

“Don’t get the cord tangled,” Henry said, eyeing the way Donnacha immediately began to twirl said cord around his fingers.

“Who, me?” Donnacha grinned pointedly. His eyes flicked towards Henry’s computer screen. “What are you working on?”

“Just… work.” Henry had no desire to elaborate further. One of the most unfair things about social interaction, he’d always thought, was that there was no such thing as a neutral, concise answer. Concise answers were always misinterpreted, either as annoyed, disinterested, or simply rude.

“It’s kinda late to still be working.”

“I suppose it is.”

“’Kay,” Donnacha mumbled. He held the headphones up a little higher, as though waving goodbye with them. “’Night, then. Thanks.”

“Night.”

Henry turned back to his computer, pulled his headphones back on, and slipped back into his work.

___

The stomach ache crept up on him while he was in a fog of concentration, brows in a semi-permanent frown and eyes straining to keep digital lines and text from blurring. It only occurred to him that he should take a short break when a soft belch rumbled up from the pit of his belly and he tasted the tomato and basil from his dinner – much more clearly now than he had when he was actually eating it.

With his headphones blocking all outside noise, he wondered just how loud the belch had just been. Perhaps Lucy and Cassidy had just had their good time interrupted by an eruption from the depths of Henry’s stomach, and he was none the wiser.

He only worried about that for a nanosecond, though.

“Oh – Jesus, really?” Henry whispered to himself as he sat back in his desk chair.

He cradled his belly lightly with one hand. The pain seemed to slam into him all at once. As someone whose body tended to let him down at the most inopportune moments, Henry wasn’t all that surprised or concerned about the appearance of a stomach ache – but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel severely inconvenienced.

Henry snatched his glasses from his face and rubbed at his forehead, too. He wasn’t sure how massaging his head would help his stomach, but it comforted him a little bit. He glanced up in time to see the streak of light spreading across his computer screen again.

He groaned and ripped off his headphones. “Yeah, what?”

“Uh, thanks for the headphones, but they aren’t enough,” Donnacha declared. “I’m enacting Plan B. Retreating to the living room. Do you want to come watch something, seeing as you’re up, too?”

“Donnacha, I’m working, hon.”

“It’s almost one in the morning!” Donnacha chuckled. He tossed the borrowed headphones onto the bed; Henry couldn’t help but glare at the way the cord was wrapped around the top of the headset, and dread the thought of prising it off. “Come on. We can cuddle for warmth.”

“You want to cuddle me for warmth?” While they were roughly of the same height and general build, Donnacha had considerably more padding for combatting the elements than Henry did.

“Offer’s there,” Donnacha shrugged, shivering openly. “I’ll be out here, turning to ice, if you decide to take me up on it.”

Henry sighed. Why not? Lucy was getting some action; a little bit of human contact – even platonic – might ease the sting of jealousy a bit.

Besides, his stomach was bothering him enough that he knew getting back into any kind of flow would be almost impossible. And getting to sleep with Rita Ora lyrics rumbling through the wall didn’t seem very likely, either.

“Fine,” he mumbled, slipping his glasses back on and reaching for his cane. “But not Top Gun.”

“No?” Donnacha exclaimed unceremoniously. “What about Top Gun: Maverick?”

Henry groaned as the effort of standing up not only made his hip protest, but also sent a vice-grip pain through his abdomen.

Donnacha took the noise as one of protest, though. “Hey, I sat through three of your gibbly films –”

“Ghibli,” Henry murmured. What was up with the people in this household refusing to uphold the sanctity of guhs and juhs? How would Donnacha have liked it if Henry had started calling him precious Tom Hanks movie ‘Top Jun’?

“– So, now, you can whisht up and watch something I like.”

“Okay.” Henry didn’t have the capacity to argue, or to make his Top Jun remark. He was barely even sure he had enough energy to get to the living room without needing to stop and curl up in a ball on the floor. His stomach felt like it’d twisted itself up like Donnacha twisted up headphone cords.

He wasn’t getting up any slower than he usually did when his hip flared up, which meant that Donnacha didn’t notice anything was off. Henry was confused at the mild feeling of disappointment this brought on.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” Donnacha decided, turning to make his way towards the kitchen.

___

Henry declined the tea when Donnacha offered to make him some, unsure of how well it would settle in his stomach at this point. The effort of walking from his desk to the living room sofa had shoved the taste of his dinner back up into his mouth again.

He also decided to forgo any further protest regarding Donnacha’s choice of movie; the boy had made a fair (albeit poorly pronounced) point about allowing Henry to choose the movie three times in a row. Plus, maybe Top Gun would finally help Henry understand the appeal that Donnacha saw in piloting.

Three minutes in, Henry knew he’d made the right decision. (Not regarding the movie; it was already as pompous and self-indulgent as he’d predicted it would be.)

But he’d almost... forgotten how nice it was to cuddle, and he wanted to kick himself for not availing of Donnacha’s company more often during the winter months.

Playing rugby and working out meant that his muscles were taut, but his penchant for comfort foods and snacks kept him somewhat soft. His body was in a perfect state of balance. Just like his ability to juggle his career and his hobbies. His city life and his country soul. His athletic side and his intellectual side.

His willingness to watch Studio Ghibli (subbed, not dubbed, as it should be), and his insistence on making Henry sit through Top Gun.

Henry paid as much attention as he could, but it was hard not to let his mind wander in opposite-extreme directions; he was either distracted by the spate of unfinished work that was still waiting for him in his room, or by the fabric-softener scent of Donnacha’s hoodie.

Donnacha was sitting somewhat crookedly with his back against the arm of the couch, with Henry slotted into the space between the cushions and Donnacha’s torso. One arm was locked all the way around Henry’s shoulders, hand resting near Henry’s elbow. Henry had tentatively rested his hand on Donnacha’s stomach at first, but as he curled in closer, he’d reached across and held him by the waist.

With his free arm, Donnacha sipped on his tea, and Henry was almost convinced his stomach was giving off more and more warmth as he drank, even though he knew that was physically impossible.

He had rubbed Donnacha’s stomach once, when it’d been hurting. Looking back, it was definitely one of those times where Henry’s straightforwardness had, perhaps, made the situation more awkward than it needed to be, but Donnacha had seemed to be okay with it.

Would he do the same for Henry now, if he asked?

His closest – scratch that, only – friend growing up had been Lucy, and while they were always there for one another, she had never exactly been the touchy-feely type. They hugged on occasion, but never spontaneously or for an extended amount of time. And as a kid, Henry had had too many experiences of getting something ‘wrong’ – like taking something they weren’t using right out of someone’s hand, or trying to kiss his friends the way his aunts would kiss him on his cheek, or telling someone he loved them… Doing these things meant that he was rude, weird, creepy.

Since last year, it felt like they had started rewriting all of those ‘rules’, just between the two of them.

Henry swallowed and looked up at Donnacha’s clean-shaven jawline. A familiar, yet unpredictable, pang of guilt rippled through his belly. Since he’d been part of the reason for Donnacha ending his previous relationship, Henry couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility towards him. He wondered if that was all this was. Duty. Compensation. Here I am, a consolation prize.

“You okay?” Donnacha asked, noticing his gaze as he took a slurp of his tea.

Henry held his breath and considered telling Donnacha about feeling sick to his stomach. His mouth made a decision before his brain could.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Donnacha smiled, “Good!” and turned his attention back to the movie.

Henry shifted a couple of times during the next hour, adjusting the pressure on his stomach. There was less of a pain there now, which was a small relief until he forced himself to watch the TV screen. The rotating planes and whizzing backgrounds became a little much for Henry’s eyes to cope with.

Henry turned his head as far into Donnacha’s chest as he could without knocking his glasses from his face. Maybe – maybe he could just fall asleep? He found himself wondering if Donnacha would try to carry him back to bed if that happened. The image of his own lanky form being scooped into a bridal carry should have made him snort in derision, but it actually made a lump rise in his throat.

A lump, or... something a little more acidic.

Henry’s eyes shot open. His head felt like it was being swallowed up by the stinging, mouth-watering certainty that things were not okay. A knot of pressure sank to the bottom of his stomach and then took a sharp, upward turn – like water trying to flow down a drain and finding itself being forced back to the surface.

“Donnacha.”

“Yep?”

“I’m going to be sick?”

Henry must have sounded extremely surprised and confused himself, because Donnacha didn’t seem to understand what he’d said at first.

“Something… something I ate is not – hmrph.” Henry shot forward and gagged, almost puking straight onto his pyjama bottoms.

“Shite, where’s the bin?” Donnacha stood up and idly glanced around, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Through teeth that suddenly ground together in annoyance, he muttered, “Payton’s always taking it into their room –”

Henry whimpered as his belly cramped, sending a surge of gurgling, bubbling heat towards his throat. The sound seemed to fill in for the urgency missing in his tone, since it was then that Donnacha truly sprang into action.

“Right – here. Aim onto the blanket for now,” he instructed, grabbing the couch throw and tossing it towards Henry’s lap. He chuckled nervously. “That can go in the washing machine more easily than the carpet.”

Henry nodded, though he had no intention of letting himself vomit onto something that was communal property. Other people used this blanket. He was fairly sure Lucy had paid for it, along with the other random assortment of IKEA pieces in the living room.

Donnacha ran off to the kitchen and immediately started clattering around under the sink. By the time he emerged – mere seconds later – Henry’s chin was streaked with drool from fighting the urge to puke on the throw.

“Here you –”

Henry was already gagging while still in the process of taking the bucket into his hands. He belched forcefully, eyes watering as his pathetic dinner splattered all along the inside of the bucket. There were still lumps of meat, strands of spaghetti, none of it digested beyond Henry’s disinterested chewing.

He tried to draw a ragged breath in between retches, and almost choked for having the audacity. This bucket was used on the rare occasion that someone decided to mop the kitchen and bathroom floors, and it reeked like a pile of old, musty towels.

Henry heaved again.

He was certain his eyes rolled back in his head and that he moaned at one point, as his body curled further and further forward on the edge of the sofa. Like a toothpaste tube being squeezed within an inch of its existence.

And then it stopped, as suddenly as it had started. The relief was so intense that it was almost its own form of pleasure. Henry grimaced at the tickle of laughter that crept up through his chest and throat. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been that violently ill before, and he was so, so glad that it seemed to be over.

For now.

“Hen,” Donnacha said in disbelief, as though he had been waiting for Henry to stop puking before scolding him about it. He handed Henry a tissue that he’d apparently been holding in anticipation. “Your poor belly. What’d you eat?”

Henry dabbed his chin clean, hand trembling horribly. His stomach muscles burned as though he’d just attempted a hundred push-ups. “Just some leftovers.”

“Left over from when? The Last Supper?”

Henry groaned in a feeble attempt to show his dislike for the joke.

“Anyway.” Donnacha rubbed a hand over the bumps in Henry’s spine with one hand, and took hold of the bucket with the other. “We can talk about your bad life choices another time. Try to catch your breath, yeah?”

“Um,” said a voice that wasn’t Lucy’s or Payton’s. “Hi?”

Henry glanced up to see Cassidy standing in the hallway and peering in. She was wearing a plaid shirt of Lucy’s which was not long enough for someone of Cassidy’s height to wear as a nightie.

Shit. Lucy.

Guilt sank its teeth into Henry’s nerve endings. He’d been so distracted, and feeling so god-damn sorry for himself, that he’d almost forgotten Lucy was only a few doors down, likely hearing him purge his guts.

He knew what Cassidy was going to say before she even tried.

“Um,” she mumbled again, tugging the shirt down at the front as though she’d suddenly become conscious of its length. “Lucy is very distressed, and she sent me to ask you if someone is… vomiting?”

From the way she scrunched up her nose and eyed the mop bucket, it seemed as though Cassidy already had her answer.

“Food poisoning!” Donnacha sounded like he was shouting out an answer on Family Fortune. “Tell her it’s – it’s food poisoning. Not contagious in the slightest. That’ll make her feel… well, a smidge better about it.”

Cassidy nodded slowly, as though she understood but… didn’t fully understand.

“Donnacha, by the way. My pronouns are he/him.”

“Hi. Cassidy. She/her.” Cassidy shook herself. “Anyway. Bye, guys.”

“Bye, Cassidy,” Henry and Donnacha both droned, Henry mumbling it miserably through a mouthful of watery spit, Donnacha furrowing his brow and returning to rubbing Henry’s back.

“Are ya alright?”

Henry shrugged. He slowly began to sit back. The thought of letting himself sink into the sofa cushions was pure bliss. How food poisoning managed to affect every inch of the human body – not just the digestive tract, as predicted – he would never know.

“Your poor belly,” Donnacha said again, though his tone wasn’t as interrogative this time. He clicked his tongue sympathetically, and slid a little closer.

He then seemed to realise that Top Gun was still playing on the screen, and he reached for his phone to turn it off.

“Sorry,” he laughed softly.

Henry’s heart skipped a beat when a warm hand slid across his stomach, rubbing back and forth over his bubbling insides. The gesture was so sudden and so casual that Henry barely registered the shift in Donnacha’s actions. It was as natural as a hug, seemingly.

“’Glad you got some of it up,” Donnacha said. “'Least it’s a little bit emptier in there now.”

Henry nodded weakly, entranced by the warmth that Donnacha’s hand seemed to be injecting directly into his organs as he massaged his stomach. He found himself desperately wondering what was going through Donnacha’s head right now, but unable to find the words to find out.

“So…” Donnacha cleared his throat. “Please don’t tell me you ate that dodgy-looking pasta that was sitting in the fridge earlier? Because I swear to the Lord and back, Henry – if you thought that was okay to eat, you are taking the piss, and you need to go back to the optician’s and demand a refund on those new lenses.”

“I was just being lazy,” Henry murmured. “That’s all. Won’t…” He winced, feeling Donnacha’s hand automatically shift across his stomach in response to a sharp cramp. “Won’t happen again. Believe me.”

Donnacha made a noise in his throat – a hum of concern, perhaps, with a healthy dose of scepticism thrown in. He seemed to hesitate for a second before moving his face closer to Henry’s head and pressing a loud kiss into a clump of his hair.

“Hey, listen,” he whispered, stilling his hand on Henry’s belly.

Henry did, holding his breath.

Donnacha raised his free hand to point. “Since they’re not… playing music anymore,” he said, “I guess it means you and me can get some sleep now.”

While Henry had to admit that sleeping off the stomach cramps in his own bed sounded like heaven, ruining his best friend’s night and causing her to have a mild-to-severe panic response seemed like an unfair cost.

“You’re an awful human,” he muttered.

“What?” Donnacha exclaimed. “They’ve had their fun. Hours of it. It’s bed time now.”

Henry reluctantly nodded. His arm automatically lifted as Donnacha shifted his weight and made to put his arm around Henry’s back and help him up. It was a rare feeling, for him to relinquish control of his limbs, even for just a few seconds until he was on his feet and his cane was within reaching distance.

“I’ll give the bucket a rinse-out in the bath,” Donnacha said as soon as Henry was upright and established.

“Hopefully I won’t need it again.” It was a hollow hope, given the rumbling feeling that pressed against the base of Henry’s ribcage. He took a few measured steps in the direction of his bedroom, conscious of the fact that his posture was more curved than usual.

“If you do, I’ll bring Lucy your noise-cancelling headphones.”

A shudder rippled up Henry’s spine at the thought of Donnacha getting his twisty, wrap-happy hands on his good headphones.

“I know you’re joking,” he huffed, “but please don’t touch those. Ever.”

#emeto #sickfic #food poisoning #food poisoning fic #OC sickfic #OC emeto #stomach ache fic #emetophilia #platonic caretaking #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort #angst #Lucyverse #Lucyverse Henry

39 notes · View notes

whumpcereal · 1 year

Text

I posted 614 times in 2022

That's 614 more posts than 2021!

209 posts created (34%)

405 posts reblogged (66%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@darkthingshappen

@oddsconvert

@whumpcereal

@hold-him-down

@peachy-panic

I tagged 594 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#behavior modification - 144 posts

#jack kenyon oc - 117 posts

#joe prescott oc - 94 posts

#ivan peters oc - 63 posts

#i love asks - 54 posts

#whump writing - 53 posts

#whump - 40 posts

#poor sweet baby ben - 37 posts

#the kennel - 33 posts

#tw noncon - 33 posts

Longest Tag: 122 characters

#jake also needs to realize that he's human and that he couldn't have stopped any of what happened to benny that first time

My Top Posts in 2022:

Joe giving Jack a bath, and Jack thinks Joe is going to hurt/violate him (early rescue).

content warnings for: bbu/bbu-adjacent content (including the actual unboxing), creepy/intimate whumper, vague references to past noncon and trauma, dubcon nudity, conditioned whumpee, brief emeto mention

Jack sits in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chest. He doesn’t like this bathroom. The lights are too bright, and it’s too small. From his place in the bath, Jack can see veins of yellow-orange cigarette residue poking through the cheap paint on the walls. The tub is shoved in the rear of the little room, bordered by a shower curtain that Jack doesn’t recognize. The toilet and vanity are crammed in practically on top of one another; there’s barely enough space on the floor in front of them for the pilly bathroom rug.

It shouldn’t feel claustrophobic–Jack’s spent enough time in the leather sack to know it–but it does.

This isn’t home. He’s supposed to be home. But maybe Joe wants to keep him separate. Maybe they aren’t going to live together anymore. He’ll keep Jack locked up here, so that he can use him whenever he wants. Until Jack’s proven himself. That’s why Joe brought him here.

No. Joe didn’t bring him here. Jack was sent. Shipped, like they promised he would be. That’s why he’s in the bath.

He hadn’t meant to make a mess. But he didn’t know how long he’d been in the box. It was too hot, and he’d been so dizzy. He didn’t mean to do it.

That’s probably why Joe’s face looked the way it had when he pried off the box’s wooden lid. He thought Joe would be happy to see him, that Joe would be proud to see how good Jack learned to be–but he wasn’t. Joe hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t said anything. He’d just frozen, his face twisted into an expression that Jack didn’t know how to read.

That’s when Jack realized he was covered in his own sick.

“I’m s-sorry,” he’d said immediately. And then he remembered. “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice had sounded funny and far away, like he was hearing it from the next room.

He had the distant feeling that he should have felt something, like he should have been excited to see Joe after the months apart. But he didn’t feel it. He was too disoriented. Too frightened.

He didn’t think Joe felt it either.

“Jesus Christ,” Joe had murmured. He’d barely even looked at Jack. “Jackie–oh, Jackie, no–”

Joe broke to his knees then, and Jack knew: he’d fucked up. He hadn’t worked hard enough. He hadn’t done enough to change.

It was all for nothing.

Jack is nothing.

Joe took Jack out of the box and carried him straight to the bathroom. Joe left, but Jack waits in the tub because Joe told him to stay there, and Jack will do whatever Joe says. He has to. Maybe it won’t make things right, but it can’t make anything worse. He can show Joe what a good boy he is now.

The water plops into the bathtub, splashing as it collects on itself. It’s warm, and the feeling isn’t unpleasant. Ivan only ever hosed him down in the shower stall, and he never cared much if Jack was comfortable or all that clean. It was more about what he could reach when Jack was tethered to the shower floor. What he could do. What he always did. What Jack was meant for. Is meant for.

Joe must want that too. He does. Jack knows it. Ivan told him so.

Jack hears something crash in a room he can’t identify, and Joe curses. Jack uncoils and lets his hands drop into the shallow water. He hitches his thumbs into his soggy boxer-briefs. They’re heavy with water when he pushes them away, a black wad in the corner of the dingy tub. Jack is heavy too. But still, he presses onto his hands and knees. Position ten. That’s Ivan’s favorite.

Maybe Joe will like it too. He’s never had Jack this way before.

Beneath the water, Jack’s wrists are shrunken and white without their leather cuffs. His joints tremble and his ears are warm, but he knows what he’s supposed to do. The skin on his fingers and toes starts to prune, and the water keeps pouring from the tap.

Joe rounds the corner, and Jack closes his eyes. He can do this. He’s been selfish long enough. Joe deserves to have what he wants, and Jack can give it to him.

“Okay. Okay, baby–Jack. Jackie. I’ve got–” There’s a soft thump as something hits the floor. “What–what are you doing?”

It’s a direct question. Jack can answer. But he doesn’t. The tub’s non-slip bottom bites into his knees. He’s shaking. He can’t look. He can’t.

He thought he could do this. He wanted to be good for Joe.

He isn’t good. He is only afraid.

But he doesn’t show it. He stays still, and he waits.

Joe must turn off the water, because Jack doesn’t hear it anymore.

“Jackie–”

See the full post

104 notes - Posted September 1, 2022

behavior modification

WRU has hired renowned behaviorist Dr. Ivan Peters to refine their training protocol for Romantic acquisitions. When Jack Kenyon--the brilliant young partner of one of Ivan’s med school rivals--applies to be Dr. Peters’ research assistant, he has no idea what he’s signing on for. Maybe reblog or leave a note if you feel so inclined? This is my first real whump offering, and I’m excited!

part one: jack and ivan at dinner

content warnings for creepy whumper, implied future captivity and noncon, dehumanization, and vague references to childhood trauma and specific psychiatric disorders

The restaurant is crowded, but not too loud. It isn’t the sort of place that ever gets out of hand. White linen table cloths, soft lighting, a gentle undercurrent of piano, polished stemware—everything exudes taste and class. Ivan knows it’s impressive; doing business here always gives him immediate caché with his potential interns. They want to be what he is. They want what he has.

Jack Kenyon is no different. At least, in theory. He is young and eager. He is looking to improve his resumé before applying to doctoral programs. He’s heard of Ivan’s work and wants to be a part of it.

But Jack Kenyon doesn’t know that he’s already been handpicked for a very special project.

Jack says all the right things, of course, and as he talks, Ivan lets his eyes move over the boy’s face, his body. Darling Jack takes pride in his appearance, that much is clear. Straight shoulders, lean jaw. Dark hair, thick, but neatly trimmed. Big blue eyes beneath a fringe of black lashes, the kind people always say are wasted on boys. Lips, sweet and pink; one corner lifts higher than the other when he speaks.

Ivan’s fly is tight just imagining what he’ll be able to do with those lips, the way those eyes will look up at him when sweet little Jack is on his knees where he belongs.

Ivan smiles at the thought and takes a careful sip of wine. “So, you’d want to focus on trauma work?”

“I do.” Jack nods eagerly. “I—it’s very important to me.”

He looks at Ivan for approval. It’s cute, Ivan thinks, how badly Jack already wants to please him. That will be useful. But Ivan will not tip his hand. Not yet.

“And why is it so important?”

It is a pointless question. Ivan already knows the answer. He’s done his research. But Ivan enjoys seeing the sudden alarm in Jack’s eyes anyway; it suits him. It is an animal’s unconditioned response.

“Oh, uh—”

“You don’t have to say, Jack. Not if you don’t want to.”

But darling Jack knows better. If he wants this position, he has to answer. And Jack wants this position.

At least, he thinks he does.

“No. It’s fine. I—well, I was in the system when I was a kid.”

“Foster care?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you saw a lot of things.”

“I did,” Jack says softly. “I was a really angry kid. Oppositional-defiant disorder, intermittent explosive disorder—”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

Jack nods, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Ivan’s seen the boy’s records, of course. Seven foster care placements before he was twelve, then a series of halfway houses and group homes until seventeen. And a stint in juvenile detention at thirteen, for attacking his foster father. The man had gone after Jack, and not for a beating. And Jack, sweet little Jack—he’d fought back.

Ivan hopes Jack still has some fight left in him. It’ll keep things interesting.

“But I got help,” Jack is saying. “There was—one of the group homes, it was actually run by someone who gave a shit—” he winces, and it’s adorable, “I’m sorry—someone who knew what they were doing. They hooked me up—connected me with my first counselor, and it was maybe the first time in my life I didn’t feel like what had happened to me was my fault. I—I’d like to do that for other kids—other people like me.”

Ivan nods. Jack will never do any of that, of course. But that doesn’t mean he won’t have his uses. Ivan will make sure of it.

“That’s a noble goal, Jack. To be of service.”

See the full post

109 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

behavior modification, part eleven

<previous, masterlist here

content warnings: EXPLICIT NONCON (touch & forced orgasm), adult language, creepy/intimate whumper, forced nudity, muzzles, restraints, stress positions, shock collars, dehumanization, humiliation, emotional manipulation, noncon kissing, implied future noncon

Thanks to @darkthingshappen for letting me run a few things by her!

part eleven, jack's consequences

“Now, you’ll stay this way until I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

Fuck. Jack tries to shake his head, but the distended heft makes his neck feel like it’s going to snap. He can’t stay this way. He can’t. Jack may not be a doctor, but he’s damn sure that people aren’t supposed to be left upside-down. Ivan has to know that. Doesn’t he? He tries to look at Ivan, but he can’t get his eyes to focus. Too many shocks.

Ivan’s phone rings.

Please! Jack shrieks. The word rockets up his throat, but it doesn’t make it any further, because there’s a fucking metal plate trapping his tongue. The only sound that comes out is an animal’s groan. But they have to hear him! They have to!

Jack tries again to raise his head, but he can’t. It weighs a fucking ton, and with his arms wrenched back the way they are, he has no way to brace himself–his entire body shakes with the effort. Of course, Ivan designed it that way.

The thought traps Jack’s breath.

He tugs at his cuffs, but the movement burns all the way down to his calves. Jesus. He’s trussed like game, for Ivan’s pleasure. He’s mute, for Ivan’s pleasure. He’s burnt and sick and so fucking tired, for Ivan’s pleasure. And he can’t even scream.

He tries to wrench his mouth open, but the bit stays in place, and the leather of his muzzle glues itself to his sweaty skin. For the millionth time in the last forty-eight hours, his eyes sting with tears–only this time, they run up instead of down.

The phone rings again, and Ivan glares down at him.

“Don’t. Make. A. Sound. Or I’ll push this button until you have more in common with a potato than a man.”

The thing is, Jack knows he will. He’s already seen the way Ivan’s eyes light up in the split second before the collar throws him to the floor.

But what Jack didn’t realize is that he already thinks it might be a relief. To disappear. To not feel everything that’s happening to him–or everything that will happen to him.

Jack doesn’t know if he can take it. Not again. And he doesn’t know if it’s better to be good or bad.

He swallows his whimper and lets his body go slack. The blood rushes to his head, but this time, he doesn’t fight it.

Ivan nods at him and taps his screen. “Dr. Ivan Peters?”

For a moment, the only thing Jack hears is the roar of the blood in his ears–and then Ivan’s breath hitches.

“Oh, uh, hello, Sergeant.”

Sergeant.

It’s the police. The police are looking for him. Joe is looking for him and–

“Would you mind holding for just a moment, Sergeant Wade? I’m in the middle of some work, and I’d like to keep my hands free.”

The police sergeant must assent, because Ivan lays his phone down on the floor next to Jack’s chair. He kneels down and cups the back of Jack’s head in his hand, raising it so that Jack can’t help but look into Ivan’s steely blue eyes.

“Are you there, Sergeant?”

Jack knows Ivan’s speaking to the person on the phone, but his gaze is for Jack alone. Don’t make a sound, Ivan mouths again.

“Yes, doctor.” It’s a woman. The sergeant is a woman. Her voice is kind, Jack thinks. She’ll help him. He knows it. “Sorry to interrupt your morning,” she says. “I’m calling in regards to a missing persons report on a Mr. Jack Kenyon.”

Jack’s tears cut a salty path into his hair, but he manages to keep himself still. He squeezes his eyes shut. Joe knows–he knows Jack wouldn’t run off. Joe knows Jack. Joe loves him. Maybe–

See the full post

116 notes - Posted June 9, 2022

Obligatory Intro Post

I’m Kay, and after lurking around whumblr for the past year or so, I decided to make my own discreet side-blog so that I could join in the fun too. Even though I didn’t know what “whump” was until very recently, I’ve been digging on whumperflies my whole life. You know that scene in Aladdin where Jasmine gets imprisoned in the giant hourglass? Yeah. It probably started there. The whump community seems pretty supportive of one another and enthusiastic about each other’s content, so I thought I’d give it a try.

Favorite Whump Tropes: Thanks to tumblr, I’ve found that I like captivity whump, pet whump, intimate/creepy whumpers, psychological whump, and a lot of the nsfwhump content that bounces around out there. (My writing will include all of that and may also include some non/dub-con elements--heads up!).

Things I’m Not Into: I’m not super into high fantasy stuff, but I’ll give anything a try if I like the writer. Generally, I’m not aware of my hard “no”s until I accidentally stumble onto them, so I suppose I’ll update that as I figure it out.

Favorite Whump Blogs: Absolutely loving @darkthingshappen‘s “Brother’s Keeper” series right now. Fell deep in love with @ashintheairlikesnow‘s Daniel Michaelson months ago. Have reread @card-games-and-pain‘s “Lonely Barricade” and assorted sundries more times than is appropriate. Binged @deluxewhump‘s Zee stories and loved them all.

I’ve got the first bits of my own saga outlined, and I’m looking forward to sharing them (soonish?). Until then, maybe I’ll post a random whump drabble to help introduce myself.

Greetings, whumblr!

121 notes - Posted May 1, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

behavior modification master list

WRU has hired renowned behaviorist Dr. Ivan Peters to refine their training protocol for Romantic acquisitions. When Jack Kenyon–the brilliant young partner of one of Ivan’s med school rivals–applies to be Dr. Peters’ research assistant, he has no idea what he’s signing on for.

Please see individual chapters for detailed and specific content warnings. This story will contain noncon elements [*]; proceed with caution!

behavior modification pre-timeline content: organized in rough chronological order

past snippet: jack's fourteenth birthday

-/-/-

part one: jack and ivan at dinner

part two: jack and joe, before captivity

part three: jack's abduction

part four: ivan welcomes to jack to captivity

part five: worries for joe, bath time for jack

part six: jack's intake interview (part one)

part seven: jack's intake interview (part two)

part eight: past, present, and future

part nine: breakfast time

part ten: jack learns his positions

part eleven: jack's consequences*

part twelve: ivan's apology

part thirteen: jack's last chance to feel*

part fourteen: joe and his mother

part fifteen: prelude to punishment

part sixteen: jack's first treatment*

part seventeen: deprivation

part eighteen: jack loses joe

part nineteen: case notes*

part twenty: yes, sir*

drabble: statue*

drabble: bravo*

drabble: good boy, sweet boy*

-/-/-

See the full post

193 notes - Posted May 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #i love that I reblog myself so often it showed up on this nonsense

9 notes · View notes

ffxvficrec · 1 month

Link

by dollgutzz Ignis is very proud of a new recipe he’d come up with. He makes an excess of the food, causing Noctis to feel obligated to eat as much as possible. This results in a pretty painful stomachache. Thankfully, he has Prompto with him. Words: 3028, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Final Fantasy XV Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum , Prompto Argentum , Gladiolus Amicitia , Ignis Scientia Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum Additional Tags: Sickfic , Emetophilia , Stomach Ache , Overeating , overstuffing , Vomiting , Hurt/Comfort , Belly Rubs , Sick Noctis Lucis Caelum , SUPER brief blink and you’ll miss it mentions of past eating disorders , not inherently sexual but if you’re into emeto like me…

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fic rec #final fantasy xv fic rec

0 notes

coelakanths · 3 years

Text

me this morning: wow today is gonna be such a good day! hell yea!!

me now: I Am Going To Die Of Soap Poisoning

#brief emeto mention in tags !#HELP!!! WE ARE FEELING IT!!!!!!!#this is genuine i have a party to go to later and it’s FANCY what if i start showing signs of soap poisoning. what if i pass out #i got some soap in my water n ive been drinking some of it all day and am just now realizing i might be tucked!#fucked*#THIS ISNT EVEN A HAHA FUNNY JOKE. I MIGJT BE SOAP POISONED.#what am i supposed to tell my partner. hey dear if i start vomiting blood at ur birthday party don’t worry! i drank soap today!#no big deal!! it’s fine!! HAHA!!!!!!!#it’s like the tiniest bit of soap ok. i washed my water bottle this morning #and i think a little got caught in the tube #so? not too much #BUT.#i think im just anxious abt the party. but like. how embarrassing would it be if i died of soap poisoning at a birthday party #god fucking . help #q dicit #will update once im back from the party. hopefully not dead #ask to tag

12 notes · View notes

whumpering-heights · 1 year

Text

Waking Nightmare pt 4: Ray

CWs: mentioned nonhuman whumpee, it as a pronoun, guilt, brief emeto, implied child abuse/minor whumpee

MASTERLIST

Tagging: @pumpkin-spice-whump @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question

Ray felt as though his heart was going to give out.

He went to one conference, count em, one! And in his singular day of absence, everything turned upside down.

It was like there wasn't enough oxygen in the plane. He bounced his leg and looked out the window. Logically, he knew he was in a marvel of technology that was moving the fastest that commercial travel could go. And yet, he wished he could walk up to the cockpit and demand they pump the gas. Didn't they understand he had a child to get to?

Well, he possibly did. Leonard had insisted nothing was proven until he got there and gave his sample. The creature was a shapeshifter, after all. But Ray's partner was rational to the point of stubbornness, and Ray’s head would not stop spinning.

A child... With Rebecca Morgan, of all people! The kid would be.. 20 now? Had it already been so long since she'd left?

All those years, he'd stayed away from the city Blackgate like a soul that’d escaped Hell. He had been happy to help fight other-dimensional beings someplace else, there were plenty of portals to keep an eye on. It was only recently he and Leonard moved back, with fresh reluctance on his part. No fancy facility job was worth revisiting those memories, in his humble opinion. But now he wished he’d never left that awful place. There, monsters and horrid creatures still wrecked havoc, but there had appeared one shapeshifter in particular, about half a decade ago. It had the tendency to steal people who were then never seen again. That is, with the exception of two people, who helpfully gave a horrifying account of what had become of Becca. One succumbed to his injuries later, but one was able to give more details.

Ray felt sick. God... Becca had even called herself Mother. Granted, they assumed it was just part of her sanity slippage, but it turned out to be true. If Ray had stayed in Blackgate, would their child have found him sooner?

Did he doom his own child to years of being unnecessarily trapped with her?

Ray felt a rush of nausea and only just managed to grab his seat's sick bag before emptying his dinner into it. He sheepishly handed it to an attendant with a muttered apology, and she passed him an airsickness tablet. He didn't have the energy to explain the real reason his stomach was tied in knots, so he just accepted it shakily.

-------

As soon as his plane landed, he sprinted to the terminal, bumping into some very annoyed people on his way there. As he waited for his bags to appear on the baggage carousel, he wished he could just forget it and pick it up later. Thankfully, they didn’t lose his stuff, and it appeared not too much later.

He made a beeline for the exit, hauled a taxi, and only called Leonard when he was seated.

“Hey,” he said out of breath, “I’m on my way. How are things?”

His partner sounded stable and unflappable as ever.

“We’re in the containment lab, third floor. Derringer is trying to get a sample of its human form. She knows I wasn't lying, which is good.”

Ray nodded, impatient. “Right, right, but how is the creature? You said it got shot? They can regenerate, can't they?”

There was a pause.

“..If its internal anatomy resembles a humans, it should be fine.”

“Wow, aren't you a beacon of reassurance!” groaned Ray.

“I told you it'd be fine, didn’t I? Relax, it's safely contained. We'll figure out whether it was even speaking the truth when you get here.”

Ray rubbed his face. He wished he had time to cry, or at least have a proper freakout.

“Lenny, I’ve wanted to ask you something, but it didn't occur to me until I was on the plane.”

“What is it?”

Ray swallowed. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

There was a pauze, even longer now. When Leonard finally spoke, it was hesitant.

“I... really don’t think you should see it as human, dear.”

“Yes, I know, it might not even be mine, but if it is-”

“Even if it is, Ray. Even if Morgan... Used your, uhm. Genetic code, in its creation. It's not really human anymore.”

Ray’s gaze turned cold. “Who are you to say that- ”

For once, Leonard managed to put some sympathy in his voice.

“You haven’t seen it up close, Ray. I’m not saying this to be cruel. I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

Ray was still for a moment, his face solemn.

“...It's not like I want it to be mine,” he confessed. “I preferred when it was a monster I could shoot. But if I’m its father-”

He could feel Leonard cringe on the other end of the line.

“I think ‘father’ is a bit of an overstatement-”

“Fine, if I ‘supplied its genetic code’, however you want to call it. It makes me responsible for them, doesn’t it? If it's not human anymore, that's not their fault.”

Leonard sighed. “It isn't yours, either. We couldn't have stopped Rebecca if we tried.”

Ray picked at the seat's covers. “Did we try? As much as we could-”

Leonard interrupted him briskly, as Ray suspected he would. “I don't want to talk about this, you know that. Especially not on the phone. Are you almost here?”

Ray peered out the car window.

“I’ll be there in 5.”

“Okay, good. Let's just take this one step at a time. No need to get your head in a knot over something that might not be true.”

Ray hummed, sullen.

“I know.”

He was just about to hang up, when Leonard spoke again.

“It... It's monster form appears to be male, as did the human appearance that resembled you. So I'd say it defaults to that.”

Ray smiled. For as stubborn as his boyfriend was, he could also surprise him.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

#waking nightmare #whump #whump writing #my stuff #my writing #ray grayson #leonard allen #monster whumpee #guilt #emeto cw #implied child abuse #i didn't expect this story to go this smoothly! but im on a roll now lol #also wow look at this! my characters have names! the city has a name!#now to keep track of it lol

23 notes · View notes

ocean-blue-whump · 2 years

Text

The Rookie

Takes place two hours after this.

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow Let me know if you want to be added/removed.

CW: general BBU warning, referenced pet whump, referenced facility whump, internal monologue of reluctant whumper, implied noncon, implied dissociation, brief emeto/vomiting, brief suicidal thoughts, panic attack, referenced caning, mention of bonded whumpees

Leo Finch clutches his car keys close to his chest as he shuffles across the parking lot. His briefcase digs into his shoulder, his tie feels like it’s choking him. He makes it to his car and gets in, slamming the doors and locking them.

He’s shaking. He can barely lift the keys to the ignition, can barely start his car. But not here. Not now.

Leo starts the car and peels out of the parking lot after looking around to make sure no one’s following him.

He makes it a mile and a half down the road before pulling into an empty parking lot. He turns the car off and stares at his steering wheel. Chest heaving, face burning. He checks his surroundings again to make sure there’s no one around.

Leo slumps forward and bursts into tears.

He’s been on this job all of four weeks, and Leo doesn’t think he can take anymore. No, fuck that, he can’t say that. He’s not the one suffering here.

Leo’s lungs are burning and he can’t catch his breath, he can’t do this, he’s going to die from the guilt and the sadness tangling in his gut—

This isn’t him. This isn’t who he is, this isn’t who his mom taught him to be.

He started this job with boundaries. And then he had to shock 501. And then he had to hit her. And then he had to—

Leo sticks his head out of the window and throws up.

He’s not going to be able to get that out of her head. Part of him wants to hate 501 for choosing him. The rest of him...the rest of him has seen how James treats the trainees, especially 501. How rough he is with her. Leo sees all of it, he has to patch her up afterwards. He watches both of them, barely able to walk after James is done with them. 236, walking because he’s so good. 501, walking so 236 won’t be hurt any more. Both, limping and uncomfortable after James has violated them on the deepest level. Both, trying to hide the fact that they hated it.

Don’t get too attached, the recruiter told him. At the end of the day, they’re pets. They’re trained to beg real pretty and make you love them. But you’re not their owner.

Even if Leo did own 501 and 236, he couldn’t do that to them.

But he just did. 501 didn’t beg him to stop. She didn’t scream, she didn’t cry, she just...took it. Got this faraway look in her eyes like she was trying to be somewhere else. Occasionally there was a faint noise from her, a conditioned response. That was worse than screaming, worse than nothing. James was in his ear the whole time, telling him how to make her hurt just right, just enough to get the right response.

When Leo was done and he had gotten dressed again, James had 501 tied to the dental chair in the middle of the room. Her eyes were still glossed over. His were ravenous. “She went away. Bad mutt,” he said. He picked up a cane, slapping it against his palm. “Gotta make her pay. In a way she won’t like.”

Leo turns his head to throw up again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach. He hasn’t been eating much since he took this job.

He’s still shaking and crying when he looks up again to make sure there’s no one following him.

Handlers that want to leave, that think bad things about WRU, get turned into pets too. He could end up there, on the other end of a baton, a shock collar, a needle.

Wouldn’t he deserve it, after what he’s done?

He’s no better than James Hanford, or his friend Patrick Dennison. He’s no better than any of those bastards in the Romantic division.

He’s the exact same.

Maybe he didn’t want to do it. Doesn’t change anything. He has a position of power over 501 and he hurt her.

Leo was a good kid, never hurt a fly, just couldn’t afford college. WRU offers a hefty paycheck, but why he thought this was a good idea eludes him. He wasn’t made to hurt people. He doesn’t like it. Leo was always the fun kid, got overenthusiastic about dodgeball, climbed trees and dangled upside down from the branches, let butterflies land on his head. Carefree, happy, full of laughter. For the past four weeks he’s been a shell. Never sleeping, never eating, barely showering. Paranoid, depressed, hollow.

He can’t run. WRU would find him, and the guilt he’d feel over leaving 501 and 236 alone with James would crush him. But he’s already damaged that bond, maybe beyond the point of repair so what does it matter?

He could end it. End it all. Wouldn’t be hard, he sleeps with a gun on his bedside table.

Leo can’t do it. He can’t kill himself. He can’t leave 501 and 236 in there alone. So he’ll stick it out as long as he can.

He deserves worse.

Leo can’t stop thinking about 501’s eyes. Thousand yard stare. Completely gone. Not the first time he’s seen her like that. First time he’s caused it. Those dissociative episodes don’t happen to 501 much, so when they do...that’s how Leo can tell it’s bad.

She didn’t come back to herself at all during her punishment, not even when she started bleeding and James started screaming in her face.

Maybe she came back. Maybe she didn’t. Leo doesn’t know, he left her alone with the wolves. Even brainwashed, even without a name or any sense of autonomy or a bed or food or safety, 501 fights. She protects 236, she hurls insults and holds onto her humanity.

She’s a pet, but she’s more human than James is.

Leo’s had a glimpse of her paperwork, but not enough to remember her name. Hot shame floods him. He’s...done things to her but he doesn’t know her real name.

They’re not just pets. It’s not that easy.

Once Leo makes sure no one’s following, he pulls out of the parking lot and starts driving home.

#bbu #box boy universe #pet whump #facility whump #reluctant whumper #implied noncon #dissociation #implied but still #brief emeto #suicidal thoughts tw #briefly mentioned but just in case #panic attack #caning #handler-in-training finch #blue's words

34 notes · View notes

cowboy-anon · 3 years

Text

Whumpmas in July - Day 15

Prompt - “Stop”

Yes, this is ages late lol but BEHOLD. THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF “Bust Your Kneecaps” WHUMP. I think this story is more so going to be an excuse to write my favorite whump tropes than anything, but honestly I’m cool with that. XDD The Wilsons do go through a lot of whumpees after all, so. It works. :)

Anyway, welcome to my first crack at mouth whump, This piece doesn’t have too much of that in it, not like the second piece will, but it’s definitely whumpy. :) These two pieces can definitely read as a standalone, because Austin, our recently kidnapped whumpee, is just one of the dozens of victims the Wilsons have accumulated so. Yeah.

I don’t think this piece is as bad as the huge CW makes it seem, BUT please note this is one of the darker pieces I’ve written. Please proceed with caution.

CW: Amputation mention, begging, beginnings of mouth whump, blood, brief nausea (no actual emeto), broken bones, crying, cursing, death mention (no one actually dies), drool, gag, gangrene caused by infection (mentioned smell of rot), gore (?), food mention, hand whump (mentioned pulling fingernails, smashed, stabbed with fork), implied kidnapping, knife, mentioned unconsciousness, mutilation (hand), !!non-con kiss with a minor (minor is 17 and is the one doing the kissing)!!, non-con touching (non-sexual), referenced past torture, sadistic whumpers, tied with rope, torture

Tagging: @whump-it, @abitefullofwhump (Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist!)

Austin’s First Tooth - Part 1

Austin has been stuck sitting in his own blood and filth for three days. He knows this because he’s watched those days go by through the drawn living room curtains in the form of golden sunlight and milky moonlight. It’s been wildly helpful in determining how long he’d been passed out from the pain.

Of course, the cheery “Good morning!” the Wilsons always start their days with is a pretty solid indicator.

His wrist gives an involuntary twitch against the rope binding his wrists, and Austin lets out a muffled wail—way too loud for the early dawn sunlight filtering into the room. His hand, his completely smashed, mutilated hand. He can’t see it, but he remembers it.

He gags at the memory, tastes burning bile on the back of his throat. Behind his eyes he sees his hand last night on the kitchen table, oozing blood and what can only be described as looking of macerated strawberries. They started in on his nails after that.

All for refusing a second helping of Valerie Wilson’s casserole.

Austin turns his head against the memories, like looking away will help, when he’s met with something far worse. A smell. A horrible one, like something well and truly died beside him.

Truthfully, he wouldn’t be surprised if something did, but the smell of rot is so pungent he can taste it. He wishes the horrible whirl of rose pink stepping down the stairs is shocking enough to take his mind off of it. Instead, Austin settles on breathing small, shallow breaths around the gag over his mouth.

“Good morning, Austin!” Valerie coos when she reaches the bottom of the stairs, sickly sweet.

Austin doesn’t look at her straight on. He keeps his eyes on the too-perfect living room in front of him, knowing full well Valerie spins around the banister and steps into the kitchen.

“Well, a bit of an earlier morning than usual.” From the corner of his eye, Austin sees Valerie dip into the cupboards beneath the countertop and come up with a bowl. In the sink behind her is a rolling pin. The rolling pin. “You did wake us up with your crying, darling.”

Before he can think, Austin spits back “If you hadn’t smashed my fucking hand...” into his gag.

He hears the barely audible venom, too muffled to make out the words, and still he whips around to face Valerie and freezes. His breath catches. Did she hear him? She couldn’t have. His eyes widen on their own accord when she turns to look at him.

But all she does is smile. “What do you think, Austin? Pancakes or French toast?”

Austin stares and slowly, oxygen snakes its way back into his lungs. “F-French toast,” he mutters weakly into his gag. Valerie points to the loaf of white bread on the counter and he nods.

Valerie’s heels click against the tile as she sweeps through the kitchen, pulling eggs from the fridge and vanilla from a cupboard, never spending a moment too long in one place. And her dress. Coming down from his fear-fueled adrenaline high, Austin finds himself entranced by the way the bottom of her pink skirts brush against her calves and spin when she turns to the stove. She's fluid right now—in her element. Beautiful really.

Then again, she held that same gorgeous air when she and Jude went to work on his hand. Like she was a blood-spattered, murderous ballerina.

There’s a heavy creak at the top of the stairs, and Austin finds himself staring at Lillian, Sunny, and Jude himself. Just like that, his stomach drops.

Lillian skips cheerfully down the steps, adjusting the sweet lavender bow in her hair when she reaches the bottom. She turns to Austin and flashes him a perfect smile. “Good morning, Austin!”

Austin doesn’t take his eyes off her until she reaches the far end of the kitchen.

Today, she’s a total sweetheart. Last night, she tortured him. “Quiet, Austin,” she’d whispered to him, and then she dug her fingers into the bloody pulp of his hand. Just to see how he bleeds, she said.

Austin had whined and tried to pull away, but she was behind him and so were his hands, and when she tugged at his ring finger, his whining turned to frantic, barely thought out pleas. “Nonono, stop, stop, stop it!” Lillian could hear him, not his words but those incoherent, desperate sounds the gag created. The way she continued, more enthusiastically shoving splintered bones apart, Austin could tell she loved to hear them.

Against his will, the pleas turned to cries. Lillian hummed to herself and dug her nails particularly deep into the skin around his thumb. Getting a grip, Austin realized helplessly.

Without warning, she wrenched his finger, and pulling his thumb farther than it was ever meant to go, he screamed. He could barely feel the rush of fresh blood down his digits over the tearing of his own flesh.

Lillian slapped a blood-slick hand over his covered mouth and his nose and hissed at him again, “Quiet, Austin.” His scream withered back into whimpers when she added, “You don’t want to wake Daddy. If he comes down here, he’ll hurt you worse.” So Austin swallowed his cries—for the most part, because when your bones and the horrible tendons attached to them move in ways they shouldn’t, can you really stay silent?

Which is why Austin is staring at her, even though he knows full well that she’s only barely worse than the others.

Sunny comes stepping down the stairs after her. Austin watches his delicate hands dance over the banister. The two meet eyes, and when Sunny reaches the ground floor, he offers Austin a polite, “Good morning, Austin.” Austin turns back to the living room and flushes pink.

Last night, Sunny kissed him.

In the dead of night, not too long after Lillian had finished with him, Sunny came creeping down the stairs, his fingers doing that same dance over the stair’s wooden guard rail. Austin watched him approach through teary eyes. His breathing was still shaky, hitching with every twitch of his fingers.

Without warning, Sunny rushed over to him, ripped his gag off his mouth, and sealed their lips in a passionate one-sided kiss.

Austin’s eyes blew wide, and he pushed back against the back of his chair, trying to get away. That is, until he felt the edge of a blade pressing into his neck.

Austin froze, and Sunny deepened the kiss. Finally, after what felt like hours, Sunny pulled away and the pressure on his throat lessened. He must’ve figured the threat was clear enough. It was.

Sunny brought the hand holding the blade around the back of Austin’s neck and pulled him close, careful not to nick him as he pressed Austin’s sweaty forehead to his.

Austin shuddered being so close to him. His stomach flipped when he realized, worse still, that Sunny simply sat back and watched as his parents tortured him, Whatever display this was, it certainly couldn’t have been real.

Of course, it certainly felt real. Austin had never seen him as anything but quiet and polite, and now, well...

“I’ll be eighteen next year,” Sunny whispered breathlessly against Austin’s ear. “Until then I’ll keep you here, with me.” He smiled a genuine smile and pressed their lips together again, in small pecks thankfully more chaste than the first.

In that moment, feeling that shift in his mood, Austin dared to whimper against their joined lips, “P-please stop.”

Sunny froze at that, and then pulled back to look at Austin’s face fully for what felt like the first time.

There was disappointment on his face, yes, but no definite signs of anger Austin realized. Still, the silence hanging in the air was thick and heavy. Austin couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to fix you up,” Sunny said abruptly. He grabbed the cloth hanging around Austin’s neck and pulled it back into his mouth. “ You’ll need me.”

Sunny started back up the steps. Austin finally breathed, and then the dread came back two fold as he pondered exactly what he meant by that.

Now, the look Sunny gives him on his way to the kitchen is back as it usually is; well-mannered, almost respectful. Not the slightest bit worried. Somehow that doesn’t do anything to ease Austin’s nerves.

Because last night, Sunny looked like none of those things, and after a visit from both him and Lillian, Austin had stared at the stairwell until he could barely keep his eyes open anymore. He needed to know who would be coming down those steps next. He needed to know why he’d ever need Sunny to fix him up and why he couldn’t just do it now. But no one came down those stairs, and he eventually fell into a light, dreamless sleep.

Now there is someone at the top of those stairs. Jude, the last Wilson, and there’s something about his manner today that says this is what Sunny was talking about. Austin watches wide-eyed as Jude steps down the stairs, so horribly slow—at least that’s how it feels to him, because while Valerie is elegant and Lillian is sadistic and Sunny is apathetically passionate, he’s come to realize that Jude is raw. He’s made that very clear.

Last night at dinner, with his legs still tied to the chair, Austin had sat at their table and eaten what he was offered. But after the casserole and the veggies and the sheer terror that stole his appetite away the moment his chair was sat down between Lillian and Jude, he wasn’t hungry when seconds started going around.

“Oh, please reconsider, Austin,” Valerie said, holding the casserole dish in the crook of her arm. She walked around Austin and served Lillian with a small smile.

“N-no, really, I’m fine.” Austin nervously fiddled with the fork by his empty plate but managed to shoot Valerie a scared polite smile.

These people were acting so casual, like having your kidnapping victim at your table was normal. News flash, it was not normal.

“Well, that’s quite alright.” Valerie served Sunny and then turned to Jude. “I suppose he just hasn’t been taught too much about etiquette, has he, Jude?”

Jude smiled up at her from his chair, stood, and gave her a soft kiss on the head. Then he’d turned to Austin and taken his glasses off, a seemingly strange thing to do in the moment. But after that, all Austin remembers is blood and pain and panic.

Somewhere along the line, his fork was wrenched from his hand, and Jude returned holding Valerie’s heavy wooden rolling pin.

“Hand flat on the table, dear.” Valerie flashed Austin a winning smile.

Austin looked between them, at Valerie’s smile and Jude’s unadorned face and finally the rolling pin he was holding like a baseball bat. Like hell was he about to do that. He decidedly shook his head and clenched his fingers tight together, clutching his hands to his chest.

Valerie’s smile never faltered as she pulled his right fist from his grasp, spread his fingers wide, and splayed them out on the table, his palm against the tablecloth. Stronger than she looked. Jude pulled his arm back.

“No, no, please, I’m sorry!” He didn’t know what he was sorry for, but he’d say anything to get these sadists away. It didn’t work.

“Don’t, don’t, DON’T—!”

Jude brought the pin down on Austin’s hand with a distinct crack! That’s all it took to get him screaming.

“STOP! NONONO—” Jude hit him again. And again. And again.

And Austin screamed again and again and again. They tore from Austin’s mouth, guttal, animalistic, growing more frantic as the blows quickened their pace. Until Austin wasn’t screaming anymore because he was passing out.

Only whatever sick sense of humor this universe has, its jokes were at his expense. As soon as he was on the edge of numb unconsciousness, he jolted back awake, and the pain in his hand shot back worse.

But he wasn’t bleeding yet, no, even though his hand was a crushed nightmare to look at. That didn’t happen until Jude brought out the fork.

Staring at Jude now, coming down those steps, Austin feels the fork pierce his hand like it’s happening right now. He feels the resistance of his skin against the prongs, then the give of flesh and finally the white hot agony of blunt metal on bone. Again. And again. And again.

Austin gasps when his bound hand twitches again, and that horrible stench of rot overtakes him again.

His hand, Austin realizes, and he chokes. That smell of decay is his hand. The horror sets in sharp and fast, and he has to fight back tears. If he ever gets out of this place—when, he reminds himself harshly, when he gets out of this—they’ll have to cut it off.

They’ll have to cut off his hand.

Jude Wilson’s bleary form reaches the bottom of the stairs, and the first place he goes is the kitchen, where all the other Wilsons are. He gives Valerie a soft kiss on the head, and then Lillian and Sunny. And then he opens a drawer.

Austin hears it, the scrape of kitchen utensils skidding on wood. Jude must find what he’s looking for because the drawer then shuts with a bang.

“Good morning, Austin,” Jude says finally.

Austin blinks back the tears, stowing away his grief for another time, because Jude’s approaching him, and there’s something in his hands.

Tongs? Austin guesses experimentally. Maybe scissors. But as the tears clear his eyes, he realizes—it’s a pair of pliers. Bloody pliers.

“W-What are you doing?” Austin doesn’t take his eyes off the tool.

“We haven’t finished your punishment for last night’s behavior, Austin.” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

But it’s not, and Austin’s eyes widen watching Jude come closer. What they did to his hand wasn’t enough? Now they’re going to add whatever the hell those pliers are for into the mix?

Jude crouches down beside his chair. Austin sends another glance at the tool in his hand and squirms against the ropes binding his wrists and legs. “What are you doing?” he asks warily again.

Jude ignores him and gives the pliers a click.

“Open your mouth, Austin.”

Austin isn’t sure he’s heard him right, but there’s no room for interpretation when Jude digs his fingers into Austin’s jaw and grits out, slower, “Open your mouth, Austin.”

“N-no.” Austin tries to turn his head away against Jude’s bruising grip and presses his lips together.

Jude doesn’t sigh or let out any other sounds of frustration. His fingers just dig deeper into his face and hold him steady, and the other ones, the ones holding the pliers, wriggle between his lips and pry his mouth open.

“Be good and this’ll go fast, Austin. We’ll only take a few.”

A few?! A few teeth? Austin’s eyes sting with fresh tears.

Jude presses the tool into Austin’s mouth. “Stawh,” Austin pleads, trembling. He tries to shake the intrusion from his mouth but Jude holds him fast. His tongue hits the pliers in his mouth and he tastes cold salty metal. “‘Lease. ‘Lease stawh.”

Jude ignores him and the way his drool and tears leak onto his hand. Austin feels Jude’s hand push further into the side of his mouth, and the pliers knock between his molars with a small click.

There’s no way to close his mouth now, not with that tool between his teeth. Satisfied, Jude turns to Valerie in the kitchen with a smile, then to Sunny and Lillian. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Valerie, are you alright to push breakfast back a bit?”

“Of course, darling.” Valerie herds Sunny and Lillian into the living room, and they gather around the bound captive in their living room.

Austin eyes them all with squirrel-like skittishness.

Jude pushes his glasses up on his nose and turns to Austin. He looks excited.

He turns back to his family, his hand still hanging from Austin’s mouth.

“What do you guys think? Should we start with a molar?”

To be continued...

39 notes · View notes

just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 4 years

Text

Mark Davies: BBU Popstar

CW: exercise whump, BBU so the general for those (pet whumpee, collar mention, human trafficking, dehumanization) implied past noncon, vomiting/emeto, electrocution

Brief/vague disordered eating, (Just general bad attitude about the relationship between exercise and food, not by choice)

“You guys have been a great audience! Goodnight everyone!” Mark pumped his arms up, saying goodbye to the screaming crowd one last time before he jogged offstage. The wings were filled with movement as the crew rushed around him. One tech was waiting for him, well, waiting for the mic pack. Mark unclipped it from his back and handed it over.

“Great job, dude,” the tech ventured as he took the mic. Mark smiled at him. It was a blinding white smile that filled his whole face, even his eyes.

The cameras could always tell if the smile didn’t reach your eyes.

“Thanks, what’s your name?” The tech faltered, a little starstruck, but trying his best to hide it.

“Jimmy.” Mark nodded and grabbed his water. Stage lights were hot, and he was sweating hard.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” he corrected himself automatically. Manners and personal touches were the best way to keep up his reputation. People paid attention to the tabloids, but people also paid attention to the twitters of the stage crew. “Tech was perfect tonight. Please tell the rest of the crew ‘thanks’ from me if I don’t get the chance.” Jimmy nodded, looking like there was something else he wanted to ask.

“Hey man, I’m sure you’re sick of this, but my niece would kill me if I met you and didn’t at least get a selfie.” Mark smiled again and put out his hand.

“Sure. What’s your niece’s name?” Jimmy handed his phone over, and Mark slid over the camera quickly.

“Uh, Megan.” Mark nodded, grabbed Jimmy around the shoulder and held the camera up and out for a good angle.

“Hey Megan! I’m just here hanging with your Uncle Jimmy. Next time I come to town, tag along backstage. I’d love to see you in person! Stay positive! Bye Megan!” He added a wink and ended the short video. Videos were easy; say the name, say the connection, hint at meeting in the future, give a positive affirmation, say the name again in closing. Jimmy smiled wide and took the phone back reverently.

“Oh, she’s gonna flip when she sees this. Thanks! I know I already said it, but tonight really was a great show, man.”

Mark smiled again, reaching his eyes a little less. It hadn’t been a good show.

He missed a cue.

Mark gave a lazy salute and started to walk back to his trailer. The trailer he really didn’t want to go back to. He ducked through the crew and arena staff running around, weaving through them until he was at the backdoor. He pushed through and felt the cool air on his flushed skin.

He walked much slower outside. The back lot was empty, save his trailer, so he didn’t need to worry about people for right now. He didn’t have to worry about cameras, or press, or fans, or staff, or his Manager, or his image. For just a moment, he could stop and look up at the sky.

He knew there were stars there, but he couldn’t see them. There was too much light in the city, too many thin, grey clouds in the sky. Even without the stars, the cool breeze was heavenly, even if it would only last a few moments.

If he was any other artist, finishing a show would be exciting, a time to celebrate. A time to sit with his friends or family and decompress after the adrenalin of the lights and the screaming fans. If he was any other artist, his trailer would be a comfortable space for him. A space where he could relax and rest.

If he was any other artist, he could pause under the moon just to look at it.

But he wasn’t any other artist; he was Mark Davies, and he was too well trained to disobey.

The trailer door opened with a squeak and the floor dipped every so slightly as he stepped in. His eyes scanned the room and hallway quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He was alone. Maybe his Manager was busy somewhere else. Maybe he didn’t even catch the show. Maybe he was just feeling generous.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. He was glad Sir wasn’t here, but also a little sad. Sir would always take his collar off before a show, and put it back on after. It had been kind of hard at first, but it was better now.

Collar off, he was Mark Davies; platinum artist and performer. He knew how to charm people, to entertain, to perform, and how to keep everything marketable and acceptable to the widest general audience. He knew how to smile and laugh and wink his way through anything. Which ways to angle himself to the paparazzi, which times to pause for a longer fan interaction, which interviewers he could distract with a bite of his lip and the tilt of his head.

Collar on, he was just another pet. Waiting silently by his Sir’s side, following his orders when he gave them. Behaving. Going to the people Sir told him to go to. He knew how to keep close and not get in the way, how to keep his eyes down and keep quiet. He knew how to be a good pet, and he liked it.

He liked the kind words and soft pats of his head. He liked it when Sir wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to show him off to his friends. He liked it when they were home and he could just sit by his Sir’s chair and watch tv. He liked being a pet, it was calm and simple.

Being Mark Davies was exhausting, and he was ready to go to sleep. He wanted his collar and to curl up with his Sir. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but it was enough to just be close to him. He could only really sleep with another body in the bed, and he really wanted to sleep tonight.

The trailer dipped slightly again, and Mark turned around. His Manager was alone, so he let the smile fade from his face, eyes drifting down submissively.

“You missed a cue.”

Mark swallowed, but he didn’t look up. He had tried, he really had, but it was his third month on the road. The tour was exhausting; eyes on him all the time. It was hours and hours everyday without his collar, and it was starting to get to him. His head hurt almost all the time, and it felt like the skin on his neck crawled. He had asked if he could wear a choker, just to feel a little better, but Sir had shot it down. Said it didn’t fit with the image the stylist created.

Said it was too reminiscent of pets.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Douglass Archer huffed. “Yeah, you should be. Should be sorry, especially with the combination of that and your little fiasco with the interview yesterday. Keep making stupid mistakes like that and people are going to start digging deeper into your past. Do you want them to come and take you away from me?”

Mark’s heart beat faster, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had said he was sorry for forgetting the lines Sir gave him. The interviewer had this symbol on his necklace, it made Mark’s head hurt to look at, and he felt like he had recognized it. He had lost his train of thought and gotten the dates of his next release wrong. He had tried to fix it, and the interviewer didn’t even seem to notice. But Sir had.

“No, Sir.” He didn’t want to be taken away. He really didn’t. Sir wasn’t mean to him, and he let him sing and perform. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but that was okay. He was for Sir, not for his training. He was fine. Besides, Sir gave him to other people sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

“Well then, you need to stop making these stupid mistakes. Shirt off and change out of those jeans,” Douglass ordered, locking the trailer door.

“Yes, Sir.” Mark turned to the side of the trailer and pulled a pair of navy running shorts from the luggage. He slipped off the jeans his stylist had set out for the show and put the shorts on. He pulled off the leather jacket and white t-shirt, hanging the jacket up and putting the sweat-soaked shirt in the laundry. When he came back to his Manager, Douglass was standing next to the treadmill with a thin black belt with little boxes hanging off it in his hand.

“Position 15.”

It felt like Mark’s body was moving automatically, feet planting in the laminate floor, arms raising above his head. Douglass secured the belt with the heartrate monitor around his chest, the prongs of the shock box digging into the skin on his back.

Tears were welling in Mark’s eyes. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep tonight. He was tired, he wouldn’t be able to run and then it would hurt. He didn’t want to hurt, he wanted to sleep. His Sir tightened the band and pushed him up on the treadmill. He whimpered softly as he shifted on the rubber track.

“Oh hush. You’ll be fine. Besides, summer is coming up and we’ve got a couple brands that want to do some photoshoots. Two birds, one stone.” He started it at the third level, but Mark knew he would raise it later. He let Mark run for a few moments before he set the base heartrate with a small remote. Any heartrate lower than that would activate the shock box.

For the first few minutes, it was fine. Sir had set up a fitness plan for Mark, including a personal trainer when they were home, so he was fine to run for a few minutes. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t been touring for three months and just gave a two-hour concert.

A minute passed and Sir reached over and ticked the speed up.

Mark changed his pace, determined. However, his determination had already been undermined by his worn-out body. Too soon, his legs began to ache, and his heart was raging in his throat. Soon, every movement made his stomach roll. He popped his feet up to the plastic sides of the treadmill, trying to catch his breath. His head was down, watching the rubber belt fly underneath him at a concerning rate.

“If you throw up, you won’t get anything else tonight.” Douglass was barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone on the couch across the small room.

“Yes… Sir…” Mark panted. He knew that. He knew, but it was impossible. Sir always made him run so hard that he threw up every time.

He only stops when you vomit. He wants you to.

Mark pushed the thoughts out of his head and pressed his sweaty hair out of his face. No, no that wasn’t right. He hated throwing up because Sir was so thoughtful to keep him on a strict meal plan. He was so thoughtful to keep him healthy and in shape. He was thoughtful and Mark was grateful. He had to be grateful.

He had to start running again. If he let his heartrate get too low, it would hurt. It would hurt, and he would hurt, and Sir would just make him get back on. Maybe if he just pushed through Sir would let him stop, just tonight. Maybe. Mark took a last breath and started again.

It was even shorter this time, stopping about a minute after he started. Sweat was dripping off his brow, itching on his nose and lips. His legs burned and his chest felt tight. His stomach - no he couldn’t think about that. Not now. He closed his eyes and held onto the bar as he felt his balance wane.

Closing his eyes was a bad idea. Just the thought of sleep clung onto him strongly, too strongly. He focused on his breathing, on calming the fire raging in his chest, trying to make the room stop swaying. Finally, he got a proper breath, letting it out slowly.

Then his back lit up. Electricity stabbed through his muscles, convulsing and locking them tight. He let out a cry as his legs gave out from under him. His shoulder hit the belt of the treadmill hard, but he was only there for a moment before it flung him into the cabinet behind him.

He hit it with his back and his head. His vision blurred and the room tilted even farther. Mark’s neck went weak, and his temple dropped to the ground. There was a sharp pain in his side, and vaguely he guessed he must have hit one of the cabinet’s handles. His back was already starting to feel sore from the shock, muscles screaming at him in despair. His chest heaved, trying desperately to make up for pain of the shock and the exercise.

Douglass grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him on his stomach. Mark groaned at the movement but went pliant.

“Idiot. That’s gonna bruise. Thankfully it’s just on your back.” He pressed down on the red mark, a perfect imprint of the handle, and Mark cried out.

“S-sor-rry, Sir-r” he mumbled, fighting his own mouth to make the sounds.

“Sorry isn’t good enough kid. What even was that? I spend all this money on a personal trainer, and you can’t go ten minutes?” He crouched down next to Mark’s head before he hit the button on the remote. Pain shot through his back again, stabbing under his sin. Mark cried out, back arching. He kept crying even when jolt stopped. He curled in on himself, arms tucked into his chest.

“I-I’m-m-m so-r-rry, Sir. P-l-lease, I’ll, I’ll do be-e-etter,” he stuttered. His breath came in short gasps, never enough oxygen to stop his fully body shakes.

“Yeah, you will. Get up.” Mark wanted to, he really did, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. All he could do was curl tighter and cry. Douglass rolled his eyes and grabbed Mark’s forearm, hauling him up and back to the treadmill. It was still running at the same speed, so he turned if off and pulled Mark onto it.

Mark kept his arms tucked into his chest, tears streaming down his face, not daring to look any higher than Sir’s belt.

“Do I have to tie you to the bar? Hmm?”

Mark shook his head desperately. He didn’t want to be dragged against the belt as it moved under him. Sir wouldn’t like the marks it left either, and he just wanted his Sir to be happy. He tried to make him happy, every day, but he could never do enough. He had to be perfect, he knew that Sir had paid a lot of money for him to be perfect, but he couldn’t do it. Not all the time, every day.

“Good. Go.” Douglass turned the machine on again, and Mark let it move him for a moment before he started walking. Sir was being kind, he put it on a lower setting this time around. Even after Mark had messed up and damaged himself, Sir was still being kind. Mark wanted to do better, to make Sir happy, to be good, but he couldn’t. But he had to try.

Douglass turned the speed up again until Mark was running and stood back. Less than a minute later, Mark nearly dove off the side, making it to the small trash time in time before he threw up. Internally, Douglass was impressed. He had made if farther than he though he would, especially tonight. Still not far enough, but the progress was clear. He would let his trainer know.

Mark lifted his head from the trashcan and rolled over onto his back, ignoring the pressure it put one the box and how it dug into this ribs. He had tried, and he had failed. Again. Like he always did. His mouth felt acidic and bitter, nose stuffy, tears running down his temples. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Whether Sir liked it or not, Mark was going to pass out any minute.

Douglass crouched next to him and loosened the band around his chest. He took it in one hand and grabbed a blanket. He balled it up and threw it at Mark where he lay on the ground, landing on and around his face.

“If you can get up, clean yourself up before you go to sleep. We’re rolling out at 6:00 am tomorrow morning, and I expect you to be ready.” He turned off the lamp in the hallway and left, locking the door behind him.

Mark wanted to sob, to curl up in a ball and never come out, but he was too tired, too sore, too miserable to even move. He reached up slowly and pulled the fabric off his face. His fingers curled around the blanket, but that was as far as he got. He was too hot and sweaty to put it over himself, but he would still grab onto it. It was all the comfort he was going to get tonight.

No collar, no body to lay with, no bed. Just the cold floor and his overwhelming sense of failure. Even then, he was asleep in minutes.

64 notes · View notes

whumptopia · 4 years

Text

Superhero Interrogated

my hero academia oc whump commissioned by @everythingbaku

content warnings: torture, drugging, captivity, blood, very brief emeto mention

—

Waking is slow. Ren—bouncy, energetic, excitable Ren—is normally the first one up, rising with the sun while his husband grumbles about needing more sleep. Now, though, he feels sluggish and discombobulated, his eyelids impossibly heavy. Either he’s hungover from partying hard at a rager (unlikely, getting blackout drunk isn’t really his scene), or… something’s wrong with him.

Groaning, he cracks his eyes open. His vision is blurry, and the world is cast in black and white. Wincing, he turns his cheek away from the too-bright light, squinting at his surroundings. His tongue is dry, and he feels… off. It takes a moment for him to process the sensation, but when he does, his heart spikes.

He’s been drugged.

His awareness is quickly returning, and he realizes he’s not lying in his bed. No, he’s sitting in a chair, his wrists bound to the wooden arms, his ankles tied to the legs. His neck aches from his head being tipped back for however long he was out. When he lifts his head, the room spins and makes him woozy. He slams his eyes shut and takes several deep breaths until the feeling passes. When he no longer feels faint, he opens his eyes again to assess his situation.

Ren has been kidnapped. That much is obvious. He’s wearing his civilian clothes, so maybe whoever captured him doesn’t know he’s a hero. He’s a shapeshifter, so stealth is his trademark, but his inability to alter the color of his eyes (violet) and his hair (steel blue) sometimes makes him easy to detect. He’s been wearing colored contacts and a baseball cap to compensate, but… hopefully his cover hasn’t been blown.

He looks around the small concrete room, empty except for the chair he’s tied to and the led-lights shining overhead. He’s facing the door. It’s made out of heavy metal and doesn’t have a handle. The room he’s trapped in is more of a cell, really, and definitely not some amatuer goon’s basement.

“Shit,” Ren whispers to himself. He’s really gotten himself into trouble this time.

He perks up at the sound of footsteps, much more alert now. Someone’s just outside the door—multiple people, if his hearing is right. There’s the sound of multiple bolts being unlatched, and then the door swings open.

Three large, burly men shuffle into the cell, all of them wearing masks, effectively concealing their identities. They’re decked out in protective gear, and Ren notes the weapons strapped to their belts. They must be professionals. Ren swallows.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” one of them says, “Thought you might’ve overdosed. Hard to figure out how much to give you since you’re so tiny.”

Ren doesn’t validate the remark with a reply. Yeah, they’re not wrong. He’s not even five feet tall, and it sucks, but he can’t exactly help it, can he?

The cell is quiet for a minute or so. They seem to be waiting for him to speak, but he isn’t going to risk revealing anything incriminating. Finally, the goon who entered the room first, the tallest of them all, crosses his arms, taking a step toward him.

“Nekozawa,” he says slowly, and Ren stiffens. So they do know who he is. He changed his surname to Bakugou after he got married, but he and Katsuki have kept their relationship under wraps to avoid public outcry. Nekozawa is his father’s name and the name everyone knows him by.

He blows a strand of long blue hair out of his eyes. So much for undercover.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he replies snippily, tugging on his wrists to test his restraints. No give. It doesn’t look like he’s gonna be escaping anytime soon.

“You know who we are.” The man moves closer, lifting one booted foot and planting it on the space between his legs—not on his crotch but on the seat of the chair. Close enough to be intimidating (and probably a shitty political statement), but Ren isn’t easily cowed.

Sure, he can be gentle, caring, and loving. He has a soft spot for sweets and pastel t-shirts. His husband sometimes likens him to a kitten, simultaneously teasing and flirting with him. All of these things are true, but he’s still a superhero. He’s a badass, and he’s going to make sure these guys know it.

“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs in disinterest. “I don’t think I’d want to know you, anyway. You guys apparently don’t know a thing about hospitality.”

The man’s lip curls in distaste. “You have infiltrated our organization and have been collecting intel for months. You know more than we can allow.”

“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your bosses, right? If they’re so concerned, why don’t they come talk to me themselves?” Ren suggests. He doubts he’ll get the chance to land his eyes on the higher-ups of the criminal organization he’s currently trying to take down, but he might as well give it a shot, right?

Before Ren can blink, the man’s fist collides with his face. His head is whipped to the side, and he sucks in a breath as his punched cheek throbs in pain.

“Our superiors don’t have time to deal with the likes of you,” the man hisses, kicking the chair back. Ren falls hard, knocking the base of his skull on the floor. Stars dance across his eyes, and he groans, his head pounding. Fuck.

He must lose track of time for a moment because the next time he can see properly, his chair has been picked back up and he’s facing the goons once more.

“What do you want?” Ren asks gruffly. He’s not going to give them anything, not in a million years, but it might do him some good to figure out their agenda. They’re all so… composed, despite their violence. They’re clearly used to dealing with prisoners. No tricking them into letting him go, then.

“You’re going to tell us what you know,” the man who punched him demands, “and who you work for.”

Ren rolls his eyes, and the goon steps forward, fist clenched.

“I work for myself, thank you very much,” Ren quips, “Oh, and I’m not telling you shit.”

The hit comes, but he’s expecting it this time. Still, the blow to his already bruised cheek hurts twice as much as the first punch did. Stifling a noise of pain, he drops his chin to his chest. The coppery taste of blood quickly fills his mouth, and his tongue aches. He must’ve bit it.

A hand grabs a fistful of his long hair and yanks, forcing him to look up. The goon’s expression is unreadable, hidden behind his mask. “Will you cooperate or not?”

Ren grins, flashing his blood-stained teeth. “What do you think?”

The man lets go of his hair and steps away. Ren tips his head back, breathing heavily through his nose. He’s not as tough as he likes to pretend to be. Those closest to him know he’s a brave fighter who’s willing to die to protect his loved ones, and he has a public reputation as an advocate for civil rights. Still, he isn’t exactly eager to sacrifice himself or get hurt in any way. Living is pretty sweet—so is not being tortured, but it looks like it’s a little late for that now.

There’s an audible shuffle of heavy footsteps as the goons exit his cell, and the coor creaks as it swings shut. With a sigh of relief, Ren looks up—and he’s greeted by the sight of one lone man. Not everyone left the room, it seems. It’s the guy who didn’t speak earlier. He’s standing too close to Ren, his hands clasped behind his back.

Without a second of hesitation, Ren spits at him. The bloody projectile only makes it far enough to land on his shirt, unfortunately. Ren was aiming for his face.

The man doesn’t flinch.

“Cute,” he drawls, not even glancing down to examine the stain. “But you don’t have to pretend anymore, Ren Nekozawa. It’s just you and me now.”

Ren arches an eyebrow. “What, are you supposed to be good cop or something?”

The man chuckles, a hint of smile curling his lips. “I’m not good cop.”

Unease washes over Ren like an uncomfortable sprinkle of rain, damp and chilling. He tries not to let it show. “Bad cop, then? You gonna hit me some more?”

The man looks up at the ceiling as if talking to himself. “My associate was simply the prelude. Most people break from just the threat of violence. We figured you’d be a little less forthcoming, so I tagged along. I guess you could say I’m the main course.”

Ren pulls on his bound arms reflexively, just a little, and laughs humorlessly. “You gonna tear off my fingernails?”

“Maybe,” the man muses, “but probably not. I doubt you’ll need that much coaxing. You’re not as defiant as you pretend to be.”

Insulted, Ren scowls. “You don’t know me.”

The man nods in concession and begins to circle him like a shark. Ren doesn’t follow his path of travel, simply continuing to glare straight ahead.

“It’s true we’ve never met, but I know people, and you’re easy to read.” He cards a hand through Ren’s hair and twirls a blue strand with his finger. “You’re compensating for your size and apparent vulnerability. It must be difficult, being such a weak hero.”

Ren twists his neck around, dislodging the man’s grip, and tries to bite at his fingers. His teeth clamp around empty air, but his attempt does get the man to back off. Much to his dismay, the guy doesn’t appear threatened in the slightest.

“You’re not even good at using your powers. You stick out like a sore thumb with your height, your hair, and those eyes,” he continues, standing directly in front of Ren now. He plucks a small, thin knife from his belt. “So vibrant. I could help you, y’know. Cut them out, and you’ll be much less identifiable.” He positions the point of the blade just above his pupil, so close that Ren doesn’t even dare to breathe.

“Then again, a boy with two missing eyes might be hard to miss.” With a flick of his wrist, the man cuts a shallow line right underneath his eye. Ren gasps, gritting his teeth. Blood streams down his cheek like a river of tears.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, trying to maintain his bravado. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, and he’s gripping the arms of the chair with white knuckles. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. He wishes Katsuki was here to protect him. So much for being a badass superhero.

The man hums, wiping the blood off the blade using the collar of Ren’s shirt.

“There are two ways this can go,” he begins, retracting the knife and replacing it with a much larger one. Ren eyes the jagged blade warily. “You can drop the tough-guy façade and answer every question I ask you—”

“Fat fucking chance!” Ren interjects, snarling. The man raises one unimpressed brow. His mask only covers his eyes, leaving the rest of his face on display. Ren briefly wonders if his lack of concern for his identity is supposed to be an intimidation tactic.

“Or,” the man continues, splaying one palm over Ren’s collarbones and pressing him flat against the chair’s back. With his other hand gripping the knife, he slashes down the front of Ren’s shirt, cutting open the fabric and the skin of his chest. Ren yelps. “I can make you talk.”

Panting, Ren looks down at the gash. Blood oozes from the wound, dripping down his sternum to his stomach. His insides churn at the sight.

“So, Nekozawa,” he says amicably, as if he isn’t threatening to torture him, “What will it be?”

Ren squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. The work he’s been doing for the past couple months is important. The criminal organization he’s been spying on is guilty of abhorrent crimes and needs to be brought to justice. He thinks of the victims, past, present, and future. He thinks of his fellow heroes, all of whom are undoubtedly braver than him. He thinks of Katsuki, the love of his life. Katsuki would never surrender.

Ren opens his eyes and shoots his interrogator a defiant grin. “I’m not talking. You can try and make me, but it won’t work.”

The man smiles, as if that’s the answer he wanted to hear. “We’ll see, Nekozawa. We’ll see.”

—

Four hours later, Ren cracks.

It’s the knife in his shoulder that finally does it. The man digs the blade past muscle, all the way to bone, and twists. Ren screams, tears flowing freely.

“Who do you work for, Ren?” the interrogator asks for the upteenth time, calm as ever.

“I, I told you, I work a—” Ren begins, but then the knife twists again, and he shrieks: “Ah, Deku! Deku!”

The blade stills.

“I work, I don’t, I don’t report to anybody,” Ren continues, unbearably ashamed of himself for the name drop. He held out for hours only to break now. “We sometimes work together. He’s not my boss or anything.”

“Not good enough, Nekozawa,” the man sighs, ripping the knife out of his shoulder. Ren yells, his expression contorted in anguish. Yanking the blade out hurt almost as much as the initial stab.

Groaning, he slumps in his chair. His entire body is covered in cuts, some shallow and some deep. His pale skin is coated in sticky blood, and he emptied his stomach a while ago. Drenched in sweat, exhausted and dehydrated, Ren is pushed past his limits. He never thought he would surrender even the tiniest bit of information, but here he is, giving in like a coward. Fresh tears leak from his eyes.

The man sheaths his blade and takes Ren’s chin in hand. “Does Deku know of your current operation?”

Ren exhales shakily and lies: “No.”

Deku is an incredibly powerful superhero. He went to school with Ren’s husband, Katsuki, and they were rivals for some time. Deku is too well known for undercover work and is much more suited for direct attacks. He’s taken out several outposts after Ren gave him names and locations. They’re not working together directly, but they both know of the danger said criminal organization poses.

The man’s nails dig into his cheeks. “I don’t believe you.” He digs the thumb of his free hand into a deep gash in his side, and Ren’s mouth falls open in a wordless scream, his eyes rolling back. “Who else is involved?”

Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth from his bit tongue. “M’not… telling.”

The interrogator releases his chin and wraps his broad hand around his throat, squeezing tightly. Ren’s eyes fly open, and he struggles to breathe.

“I’ve been very patient,” the man begins, “And I appreciate what you’ve told me so far, but, frankly, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. Maybe I need to be more persuasive.”

Ren shakes his head a fraction of an inch, gaping like a fish out of water. He isn’t sure how much he can endure. He needs a break before he says something stupid. Black spots dance across his vision, and his lungs burn. Time passes impossibly long, and wet, sputtering gasps escape his lips. Eventually, just when he thinks he’s gonna pass out, the man releases his neck. Ren coughs, gulping down air, his vision blinded by tears. He feels so weak and pathetic. What kind of hero allows themselves to be caught and tortured? He doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself after this. If there even is an after. He doesn’t see any chance of escape, and what if no one rescues him?

Ren clenches his fists and steadies his breathing. He can’t lose hope. Katsuki will come for him. If not Katsuki, someone else. He won’t be left here to die. He just needs to hold out and keep his mouth shut.

The man returns to his side with a syringe in hand. He cocks his head and looks down at him with a faux-sympathetic smile. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Here, I’ve got something that’ll help you take your mind off it—and hopefully loosen your tongue.”

“No, no,” Ren protests, squirming in his bonds. He tries to crane his neck away from the needle, but the man grabs his hair and holds him still. Ren whimpers as the drugs are injected into his system, falling limp almost instantly. Whatever the interrogator has given him works fast, and the room begins to swirl.

“Better, right?”The man pats his cheek, patronizing. “Now, about the data you collected. Mind sharing some names with me?”

Nausea washes over him in waves, and he squints against the lights. The cell is suddenly way too bright, and he moans. A fog settles over him, and he has a hard time remaining focused on his goal.

“What… what?” he mumbles.

The interrogator hums, frowning. “Might’ve given you too much there. It’s hard to determine the correct dose. I’m not used to administering to persons of such short stature.”

Ren isn’t listening, his attention shifting. He’s in so much pain. He just wants to be home with his husband, safe in bed, wrapped in his arms. What he wouldn’t give to see Katsuki’s face right now.

The room rocks, and the interrogator stumbles. At first, Ren thinks it’s the drugs screwing with his vision and playing tricks on him, but then it happens again.

“Explosions…?” the man whispers, brows furrowed in confusion.

Ren barks a laugh. Explosions! He’d recognize the sound anywhere. Katsuki is here!

He smiles at the interrogator, eyes bright. “You’re so fucked.”

#my writting #whump #defiant whumpee #superhero whump #oc whump #my hero academia #my hero academia oc #drugged #torture #pain #fear #blood #choking #hand in hair #beating #rope tied #tied to a chair #crying

79 notes · View notes

angstyaches · 3 years

Text

Drop

Again, this is quite heavy for this blog. Please heed the warnings! DM me for a summary, if you don’t want to actually read it because of any of the tags (I’ll make a post if anyone asks on anon). Stay safe, friends.

CW: disordered eating mention, alcohol, heights (inc. character struggling with fear of heights), angsty and dark thoughts, relationship problems being discussed, very brief but intense death ideation, mention of gore/injury (described by character, not real), danger of falling, mention of broken glass, emeto, food mention, blood mention

___

Shayne had hoped the bad thoughts would take longer to find him, but they were waiting for him just on the other side of his bedroom door in the townhouse. For the past two weeks, he’d eaten three meals a day with Charlie at his parents’ house, even if some of them were small, and he’d been imagining himself keeping it up once he got back, but now that he was alone, the shame and the feeling of helplessness that had always surrounded food came flooding back.

When dinner time rolled around that evening (he knew it was dinner time because his stomach remembered), he felt Madelyn’s phantom breath on his neck and ignored the hunger. He crawled into his bed and tried forcing himself to sleep before his body could realise it was being deprived.

But god, he was just a needy, greedy little black hole of a creature, a sap on the world so long as you’re not fulfilling your duty, an insult to flesh and bone, nothing but darkness and hunger and waste and –

Shayne sat up in bed and squeezed his head between his hands. He’d gotten so used to Charlie’s constant presence and warmth, that he was already feeling unbearably lonely without him.

Stupid Charlie, he thought, feeling a flutter of affection in his chest as he pictured Charlie’s head resting on his shoulder. And then, a sinking feeling.

In the absence of Madelyn’s voice in his head, Shayne realised how… quiet everything else was. Ryan and Nancy were probably still travelling in Europe, but Elliott and Felix should have been here.

He’d half-expected Felix to come pounding on his door around this time, raving about whatever he was cooking and asking questions about Shayne’s Christmas. But the fact that the townhouse was this silent was extremely unpleasant.

Shayne let himself into the hallway, pausing and holding his breath, scanning for any signs of life. He could have done this easily if he’d been in a forest, but houses and urban settings were always trickier. He picked up a flash of something, a thrum of a heartbeat, but it sent his head spinning and he had to stop concentrating. It seemed to be coming from Elliott and Felix’s room, even though he hadn’t heard a single stir in there since he’d gotten home.

“Hello?” he asked softly, pushing the door open slowly.

He wasn’t surprised that it was cold in the bedroom beyond, but a breeze took him right in the face. Papers had been gently blown across the floor, and a vase holding a fake rose had been knocked from the windowsill onto the floor.

Nobody was in here. This wasn’t where he’d sensed somebody.

The view of the town was incredible from this height, four storeys up. It was around dusk, so there were lights blinking to life in houses and office buildings even as Shayne stood by the open window and rested his hands on the sill.

“Elliott?” he called out quietly, leaning his head outside. The distance from his face to the street below was dizzying.

“The fuck do you want?” came a curt reply, which made Shayne look to his right. The moulding on the outside of the building was about a metre wide, enough for Elliott to slump against the brick wall with a glass balanced on his knee and a bottle grasped in the opposite hand.

His hair was loose of its usual ponytail, as well as being greasy and dishevelled from having fingers constantly dragged through it. He was scraping it back with his left hand at that very moment, eyes glazed over as he looked up at the sky.

“When’d you get back?”

“Uh, today. Earlier.” Shayne could hear how high-pitched his voice had gotten, but what could he do about it? He couldn’t stop wondering how Elliott’s weight wasn’t forcing him to slink further down, legs pulling him over the edge. “El, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna see you out there.”

“So?” Elliott shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become a Reddit legend.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Shayne sighed. “What’re you doing out there? Are you okay?”

Elliott blinked, the motion slowed by the darkness and an unknown amount of whisky. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Shayne would have really preferred not to, but it didn’t look like Elliott was coming to him anytime soon. He turned around and sat up into the windowsill, slowly shifting his legs around so his feet touched the moulding. He breathed hard, tried not to look at the fall below, and told himself that if it could hold Elliott’s weight, it could hold his.

“You know, inside, there are floors and – and chairs,” he stammered, edging closer to Elliott before lowering himself to a seated position. He didn’t slump like Elliott though; his hands were pressing the concrete, stiff as pillars. “Lots of nicer and safer places to sit and drink whisky.”

“Mmph.”

The words barely seemed to reach Elliott’s ears.

“So, what’s up?” Shayne asked.

When Elliott smiled, it was a sick thing that twisted the lower half of his face without touching the rest. He looked past the rim of his glass and out across the town. Shayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his glare had caused a sudden flash of lightning to tear through the clouds.

The silence seemed to press in further, the sound of traffic fading away as though a bubble had descended on the rooftop.

“Where’s… Felix?” Shayne already had the feeling that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“I don’t know.” Elliott pursed his lips. “Think he’s left me.”

A cold stone seemed to drop through Shayne’s stomach. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the equivalent of that felt like for Elliott. “What? Why?”

After a slight roll of his eyes, Elliott reached into the pocket of his trousers, fidgeting with something before pulling out a ring. He twirled it between his thumb and his figure, examining it up-close for a second before holding it out.

“Oh.” Shayne eyed the ring for a moment before reluctantly lifting one hand – one of his supportive pillars – and letting Elliott place it in his palm. “I take it he said no?”

“No, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say… anything.”

“Is that – is that better, or worse?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Sorry, El.” Shayne gulped and stared at the ring, only managing to hold onto it for a couple of seconds. Elliott had already taken his eyes off of it, his attention snagged by his drink again. A slight breeze across his skin made Shayne shudder, as though it could possibly throw him off balance. Mostly, it was just cold and unpleasant. “Here, take it back. I’m gonna drop it or something.”

“Why would you drop it?” Elliott asked with a grunt, reaching to pick up the ring. His fingertips lingered a moment as he realised how badly Shayne’s hand was trembling. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne put his hand down next to him again, fingers aching under the pressure he was putting on them.

“What’s up?” Elliott scoffed lightly. “You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe,” Shayne admitted. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

“Jesus, you’re such a drama queen.” Elliott planted a hand down and pushed himself to his feet. His movements were as swift and graceful as a panther, even while drunk, and he seemed to tower unreasonably high over Shayne as he straightened his back and stretched his arms over his head. He almost reached the roof tiles that jutted out over the top floor. A strong gust of wind could probably have toppled him, especially considering how much whisky was probably flooding his system.

Elliott’s feet made a scraping sound on the concrete as he lowered his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Elliott, stop! Just sit the fuck down.”

“Why?” Elliott’s voice was no stronger than a breath. He closed his eyes for a worrying amount of time, his shoulders swaying slightly as his arms hung by his side like weights. “Would you care if I fell?”

Shayne got a sinking feeling, for what seemed like the hundredth time in ten minutes. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think I’d die, actually?” Elliott perked up again, unnervingly so. He opened his eyes and lifted his glass slightly. He craned his neck to look over the edge of the moulding. He hummed, like he was pondering whether he should buy a pair of shoes in black or in brown. “I’m fairly sure that fully-developed vampires can only die if they’re burned alive, but… I wonder how thoroughly that’s been tested.”

“Elliott –”

“I’ve had a decent run. In human years, I’m almost seventy, you know? That’s longer than a lot of people end up with…”

Shayne didn’t know if he should have been trying to grab Elliott to stop him from teetering so close to the edge, or if that would make everything worse. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

“It’d still fucking hurt either way, though.” Elliott threw back the last mouthful of his drink and smacked his lips. “Bones poking up through my organs, probably bits of me exploding on impact –”

“Elliott, seriously, you’re just being an asshole now, just sit down!”

“Would it make him come back, if I was injured like that?” Elliott demanded, his golden eyes piercing and intense. He was beginning to lapse into clumsy arm gestures, his voice rising higher with emotion. “Would it put everything into perspective, Shayne? Would it fix everyone’s problems if I was maimed? Or if I was completely and utterly de–?”

Shayne’s stomach turned, his hands flying to his face, as the whisky glass shuddered and dropped out of Elliott’s hand. It disappeared from view, faster than the sick grin could fall from Elliott’s face.

The shatter was tiny; Shayne had to really strain his ears to hear it. He watched Elliott blink tears down his face and slowly lower himself to his haunches. He opened his mouth wide, like he was going to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Shayne whispered, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stretched out one hand, trying to gently catch Elliott’s attention. “El. Elliott.”

Elliott didn’t move. He stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the moulding, his face hovering over the side. When he blinked, tears fell and missed the building completely, dropping straight to the sidewalk that was four storeys down.

“El, come on.”

All the way down to the sidewalk –

“Elliott.”

He turned his head, swaying a little, and for a moment Shayne thought that was it, that he was gone, he’d lost his balance. Shayne sat forward on his heels, instinctively making an uncalculated grab for his cousin’s hand, but luckily Elliott was reaching back too; two fumbling hands happened to fumble in the right directions at the right time.

“Fuck,” Elliott whimpered, steadying himself on his feet again. Shayne could feel both their pulses in their joined hands, Elliott’s almost explosive. “We should… We should probably get off this thing.”

“Oh, you think?” Shayne snapped, though he clung to Elliott’s hand like a toddler to a parent as the two of them edged back over towards the window. He hopped in through the window first, turning to make sure Elliott was following him. The taller man hit his head on the open window, making the frame shudder as he shut his eyes and winced.

“Shit, are you okay?” Shayne held out a hand to help him make it the rest of the way.

“I’m fine, get off me,” Elliott growled, shoving Shayne away from him and storming over to the bed.

“Fuck heights,” Shayne murmured, pulling the window shut with more force than was probably necessary. It released some of the fear that had been pinching his nerves though, and his head felt clearer. “We should probably go down to the street and clean that glass up before someone –”

“Shut up.”

Shayne shrugged, gazing at Elliott as he sat at the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands. “Is – is your head okay, or –?”

“What’d I just say?”

“You said to shut up, but how the fuck do you expect me not to ask you if you’re okay? You almost fell off the fucking… roof!” Shayne smacked his hand on the bedpost as he walked by, partially on purpose. “Fuck you, Elliott.”

“Calm down, man,” Elliott snarled, his head shooting up from his hands. “Come on, you seriously think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying?”

“You can’t…” Shayne stopped by the door to the hallway, eyes lowered. “You can’t do shit like that, you can’t talk like that. I don’t care if he’s left you, if the world’s falling to shit, if you think nobody cares about you being around, you can’t…”

A sob broke the air, and Shayne froze, turning to watch as Elliott hunched over at the edge of the bed, his head ducking and disappearing from his silhouette.

“I’m… sorry.”

Having never heard such a heart-wrenching sound from Elliott before, Shayne found himself hurrying back to the bed. He sat down next to Elliott and let him sink his head against his shoulder and cry, his body convulsing with what seemed to be days’ worth of pent-up agony and sadness. Shayne felt utterly useless; he couldn’t guarantee that everything would be alright with Felix, because how the hell could he possibly know that?

“Ugh, fuck,” Elliott exclaimed, his shoulders jerking forward with a sob so deep that it sounded more like a hiccup. He clamped a hand over his mouth, the other lifting to tentatively cover the front of his head, where he’d hit it on the window.

“You okay, man?” Shayne asked hoarsely.

Elliott shook his head, face paling even in the dull light.

“You gonna hurl?” Shayne murmured, wondering if the irony would be lost on Elliott in his current state. He was already getting to his feet, remembering that Felix kept a metal bin under his desk.

“Mmmph.” Elliott nodded furiously, only releasing his mouth from his hand once Shayne had thrust the bin at him. Saliva glistened on his lips as he hovered, breathing heavily. His eyes were red and swollen and he was still gently kneading his head.

A deep retch rolled his shoulders and made him duck his head further into the bin. Shayne grimaced and almost put a hand on Elliott’s shoulder before remembering that that would have been a terrible idea. He stood by the desk instead, arms folded around his waist, flinching in time with Elliott’s horrifying gagging.

When Elliott’s face resurfaced, he was gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of thick bile and saliva, tinged only slightly with the golden hue of the heavy liquor.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “How hard did I hit my head?”

After a disbelieving glance towards the window, Shayne scoffed. “Your head? What about the god-knows-how-much whisky in your system right now?”

“Alright, whatever,” Elliott groaned. He pawed at a thick strand of his hair that was stuck to the side of his face and trailing into the bin itself, tossing it over his shoulder. Just in time too, since the next retch was deep and abrupt and dragged a rumbling belch up alongside a gush of foamy alcohol and stomach acid.

Between gags, Elliott let thick liquid drip from his mouth into the bin, body shivering with the effort it took to bring everything up. It went on for so long that Shayne was certain Elliott was going to fall asleep with his head in the bin.

Eventually, Elliott sat upright, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and dragging it across the lower half of his face. He tossed it into the bin and reached for another one.

“Want me to get you some water? Or, like, blood?”

“No.” Elliott sighed deeply, dropping the second tissue into the bin before he began to scoop his hair back from his face and neck. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for two days. I wanna go get chips.”

“Chips?”

“Yes. Can you grab one of Felix’s scrunchies from his side?”

Shayne did as he was asked, mostly in a daze, rounding the bed to get to Felix’s bedside locker. There was a pile of hair ties sitting alongside a handheld cassette player.

“Can you even eat?” Shayne asked, leaning across the bed to hand one of the hair ties to Elliott. “You know, with all of your full-vampire shit going on?”

“Seriously, you little asshole?” Elliott snapped, his voice scratchy and weak. “My life is falling down around me and you’re trying to deny me chips?”

Shayne quickly shook his head, a little bit grateful for the bloodcurdling glare that Elliott was currently treating him to. He got up from the bed again as Elliott tended to his hair. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

#idk how I originally wanted it to end but I can't look at it anymore #Swallow the World #StW Thicker than Blood #vampire emeto #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #angst fic #angst #death mention #death ideation mention #alcohol #alcohol mention

20 notes · View notes