#cw implied emeto | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

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

weltato · 5 months

Text

Rating: Teen and Up Category: F/M, Gen Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins, Paul Matthews & Ted Spankoffski, Paul Matthews & Peter Spankoffski | Hot Chocolate Boy, Peter Spankoffski | Hot Chocolate Boy & Ted Spankoffski, Paul Matthews & Bill Woodward, Paul Matthews & Alice Woodward Characters: Paul Matthews, Emma Perkins, Peter Spankoffski | Hot Chocolate Boy, Ted Spankoffski, Melissa (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Bill Woodward, Alice Woodward

Additional Tags: round 2 electric boogaloo here we go!, Nightmare Time: Hey Melissa!, Fix-It of Sorts, Paul Matthews Needs a Hug, He needs so many hugs, Paul Matthews Loves Emma Perkins, Emma Perkins Loves Paul Matthews, Paulkins - Freeform, how is that not a tag yet? they're the absolute best for each other, the next two need to be tags too, Dead Ted Spankoffski, Traumatized Paul Matthews, Angst, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Nightmares, paul's nightmare is the hey melissa ending, POV Alternating, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, he's still having problems with eating but there's a bit of progress, please stay safe everyone!!, Food Issues, Vomiting, mentions of vomiting, Hurt/Comfort, But also, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore, (Ish) - Freeform, without the fic this was inspired by this fic wouldn't be as in-depth as it is, so go read that one it's so good!!, Break Up, BUT NOT REALLY. EMMA IS JUST OVERWHELMED AND PAUL IS CATASTROPHIZING, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, i think i've tagged everything but if not pls let me know and i'll add it :)

Series: Part 1 of 'The 12 Fics of The Holidays (2023)'

Summary: Paul sees Ted's little brother at Beanie's and suddenly he's consumed with thoughts of what Peter knows and if he knows that it's all Paul's fault. Seeing 'Little Petey' ties Paul's stomach up in knots, and nightmares reign supreme.

[A semi-continuation of 'My Home, My Saviour, My Firefighter', but can be read as a standalone.]

PLEASE READ THE TAGS

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

For @lilacthebooklover <3 We just keep running into each other :)

INSPIRED IN PART BY LILAC'S FIC 'Punishment' SO GO READ IT IT'S AMAZING!!

Paul is our traumatized little blorbo and either we heal him or keep him that way >:)

tws/cws also in the Tumblr tags, pls let me know if I've missed any <3

5 notes · View notes

fowlofprey · 2 years

Text

//i was just Very Sick:tm: for some reason and i have no idea what caused it, so i think i will spend some time lying down for a while. maybe get some gatorade and soup via doordash if it's not too expensive. so if i am offline for a while it is because i am having a Bad Time.

#ooc text #emeto cw #well implied #GOD that sucked

2 notes · View notes

befuddled-calico-whump · 4 months

Text

Total $hit$how: A Subtle Threat

in which Kaius begins to understand who he's working with

cw: violence/beating, adult language, brief emeto mention, implied/referenced torture

previous ///// masterlist ///// next

×~×~×

“I didn't even get to help.”

“Sure you did! You said the drone chassis was like a combo lock—”

“A master brand combo lock yes, but those are child's play.”

The team was gathered in the dining hall for the evening meal; platters of tasteless chicken, rice, and some unidentified green vegetable. Kaius assumed it was as nutritious as it was bland, and mindlessly forked small bites into his mouth as the others chattered. Vic’s test had been as challenging as he’d anticipated, and though they’d technically failed it, the trial had given him a better perspective on the team. Cavan was fearless and determined; Ruebin was fearful but willing to run into danger all the same; and Davis… Jericho’s heart got in the way of his brain. Even Harbor had his uses, when he proved willing to cooperate.

He was nearly finished with his meal when Vic strolled into the room, something unreadable on his face. Cavan and Ruebin fell silent, and Jericho straightened in his chair. Shockingly, even Harbor sat up straight for once, looking like he may actually be paying attention. Strange to see him go from a slouching mess to someone who looked like he almost cared about this mission in the span of a few weeks.

Kaius had paid enough attention to know he and Vic had been spending time alone, but he was uncertain if it was for behavioral correction, additional training, or something else, and he didn’t care enough to speculate.

“I hate to interrupt your dinners,” Vic began. His tone was rife with his usual friendliness, though it seemed off, somehow. Like his voice was wearing a mask.

“I’ve just received an encrypted transmission from a source I believe is connected to Rotorworx.”

Interesting. If the transmission was anything pertinent, it could be the first new development in their intelligence collection. Kaius wondered if this would turn out to be something negative, and that was the explanation behind the shift in Vic. Was their handler concerned about something?

Unsurprisingly, Cavan raised her hand. “So does that mean they know who we are? Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“It’s nothing to be worried about,” Vic replied. “They reached me using a phantom frequency. One-time use. Untraceable.”

Jericho frowned. “How did they get the frequency?”

At this, Vic sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I want all of you to come with me to the briefing room. I’ll answer further questions there.”

Kaius pushed himself up from the table without hesitation. If they were being directed to the briefing room, this was certainly a more serious matter. The rest of the group trailed behind, filing into the room and taking their seats. A projector screen had been set up against one wall, and the lights were dimmed. Vic closed the door behind them and typed something into the keyboard of an open laptop. The screen flickered to life, a gray stone wall frozen on the frame.

Vic pressed a button, and the video began to play.

“If you’re seeing this, you fucked up,” came a voice, made tinny and small by the laptop audio. It was that of a man, low and hoarse, and as he spoke, he angled the camera down, catching his black lace-up boots for an instant. “We caught your little spy.”

Caught their..? Kaius’s breath stuck in his throat as the camera spun around, landing on a figure tied to a chair. He was slouched forward as if unconscious and stripped to the waist, revealing scarred skin and a heavily bruised torso. Curly, sweat-damp hair hung in his face, obscuring it, but Kaius knew who it was.

“Sahota,” Jericho whispered.

A second figure moved into frame, masked and clad in black. They seized a fistful of Sahota’s hair with a gloved hand, forcing his head up. His face was just as bruised as the rest of him, his eyes unfocused and glaring, blood streaming from his nose.

“If you want him to stay in one piece, you’ll need to take it up with our boss,” said the man behind the camera. “If you don’t, it’s no skin off my back. I’m sure we’ll crack him eventually.” At that, the second figure let Sahota’s head drop, moving around to drive their fist into their captive’s stomach. The camera lingered in place as the beating continued, blow following blow until Sahota was retching up bile.

Every moment of impact sent a small jolt through Kaius—a memory of a nightmare that might’ve not been a nightmare after all—but he couldn’t make himself look away.

“What?” said the cameraman. “Nothing to say to that? Nothing?” He punctuated the question with a blow that sent Sahota’s head snapping to the side, but didn’t draw out much more than a gasp in way of sound. The cameraman let out a breathy laugh.

“Guess if we can’t crack him, we’ll just kill him and find you anyway.” The camera dropped, lens facing the ground once more. “Your choice.”

Vic turned it off. In the absence of the video's sound---the blows and threats and ragged breaths---the silence was very, very loud

“Following this, there’s a black screen with instructions to contact,” Vic said simply, like he was just listing the day’s training exercises.

“What are they? How do we start?”

“We aren’t going to start, Miss Cavan.”

Kaius felt frozen in his seat, unable to look away from the now-blank screen, unable to stop seeing Sahota’s bloodied face. He couldn’t steer his thoughts from his childhood home, the grand estate and all the secrets within it, the secrets he’d worked so hard to uncover but found only regret when they’d come to light. Blood and stone and chains, his mother telling him to come sit in the drawing room and they’d talk about it, and I promise this all has a perfectly sane explanation—

“Then what is your proposed course of action?” Kaius spat out, the words coming out too harsh. No matter, he just needed to curb his thoughts, and there was nothing for that like a good plan. Now that he’d torn himself free of the screen, he could see he wasn’t the only one the video had affected. Across the table, Ruebin was still and teary-eyed, and Jericho seemed rigid beside him.

“Action?” Vic repeated. “I don’t plan on taking action.”

“What?” Joy said. “What do you mean, you’re not taking action? Isn’t he your partner?”

“Sahota is perfectly capable—”

“Sahota is tied to a fucking chair getting the shit beat out of him,” Cavan protested. “Why would you show us this if you don’t want us doing anything about it?”

Vic calmly closed the laptop screen, then moved to turn the lights back on. “I prefer to keep my operatives in the know if the situation pertains to them. The video explains the potential prolonged absence of your trainer better than words could, as well as providing justification for any adjusted security measures on my part.”

Cavan stood. “So what, that was an infographic?” she snarled. “Is he just a fucking visual aid to you?”

“Miss Cavan—”

“I don’t give a fuck what your plan is, I’m not just going to sit here while your second-in-command is tortured.”

“He can take it,” Vic snapped, and his voice seemed to echo in the silence it caused. Cavan’s mouth fell open, but she said nothing.

“Take your seat.”

She did, the room quiet and waiting around her. Vic let the air still for a long moment, as if daring the room to cause another interruption.

“I’d thank all of you to maintain a respectful tone,” he said at last, his voice stony and cool. “Remember that you only have this opportunity because of me, and that I can take it away as easily as I granted it.”

The muscles in Cavan’s jaw tightened.

“Sahota is a trained agent. I know him better than anyone, and I know what he can handle,” Vic continued. “The goons currently in possession of him don’t know what they’re dealing with. Should I give in to their demands and contact their boss, I would be lighting a beacon. They would locate me, locate every one of you, and come down with everything they had. You all would return to whatever sub-ideal situation I rescued you from, and the mission would be a bust. In a few weeks’ time, the Reality Cage would conduct its test, and untold destruction would fall onto the city, potentially the world.” He paused, tugging down the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “And all this for the sake of sparing Sahota a little pain.”

Kaius swallowed, his palms flat on the table though he couldn’t seem to feel its surface. Logically, doing nothing seemed to be the correct move, but the way Vic said it, cold and uncaring, only filled him with a sense of wrongness.

“Is there a third option?” he asked. “You have resources. Is a rescue attempt out of the question?”

“It would be a waste of time and energy,” Vic replied.

“Would it?” Jericho said. “What if they get something out of him? Wouldn’t the mission be a bust anyway?”

At that, Vic actually smiled. “They don’t have what it takes to break Sahota.”

“They said they’d kill him then,” Ruebin spoke at last, his voice wavering. “We—We have to try—”

“They won’t get a chance,” Vic said. Some of his usual jovial tone was beginning to creep back into his voice, and Kaius wondered if the initial shift he’d detected wasn’t worry at all, but frustration at a minor setback. The way he was speaking, it appeared that was all this was to him. Could the same be said for Sahota?

Kaius had a sort of admiration for their trainer. Cold though he was, he was efficient and competent, and didn’t waste words. Having seen him in action, Kaius did not doubt Vic’s claims that he could hold out. But that didn’t mean he should have to.

“I didn’t realize you would all be so distressed over this,” Vic continued. “Rest assured, Sahota will be fine. He will escape, and he will complete his mission. If you don’t believe me, you don’t know him at all. You saw it yourselves. He was hardly shaken by their threats.”

The bruises, the glazed look in his eyes like he was distancing himself from the moment…

Kaius clenched his jaw. “You don’t think it will be a detriment to our training when he returns injured?”

Vic let out a dry chuckle. “You’d be surprised what he can walk off. I don’t think he feels pain at all, not anymore.”

“I still think we should try—”

“I see now that I made a mistake showing this to you,” Vic interrupted. “I can only blame myself. I keep forgetting you’re not accustomed to our lifestyle.” He let out a loud sigh. “But if it gives you peace of mind, I suppose I’ll allow you to attempt a rescue mission.”

“Allow… us?” Ruebin said.

“Yes. I can promise you, you are the only ones with any concern for Sahota’s well-being. I can’t spare the manpower, but if it’ll put your hearts at ease, I can spare you. If you five unanimously agree to it, I’ll temporarily release you from the facility for that purpose.” He held out his hands, palms up, an eyebrow raised. “So what say you? Who wants to rescue Sahota?”

Immediately, Cavan’s hand shot up, closely followed by Jericho. Kaius raised his own hand with a grimace. They’d need someone to keep them on track.

Across from him, Ruebin closed his eyes, let out a breath, and thrust his own arm up. Almost surprising. Kaius knew he’d never volunteer on his own, but the man seemed more confident in a pack. There was only one vote left to count.

Truthfully, Kaius was surprised Harbor’s hand hadn’t gone up sooner. The often-disheveled man was certainly reckless enough, and if anything, Kaius at least expected him to volunteer out of boredom. But when he glanced over, Harbor was still, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, his eyes fixed on Vic.

Cavan let out a huff. “Harbor, it’s on you. Do you really not want to—”

“I think Vic is right,” he mumbled. “It’d just be a waste of time. Sahota’ll get out soon anyway.”

Before she could protest, Vic clapped his hands together.

“It’s settled then. I suppose I should let you all get back to your dinner.” He unlocked the door and opened it with a shove. “Dismissed.”

It was clear that was the end of the conversation. Kaius was slow to stand, but the others were slower, shuffling out into the hall like undead. It felt surreal, to be called in to witness brutality against an ally only to be told they could do nothing about it. Almost like it wasn’t the explanation Vic had claimed it was, but a warning. ‘Should you stumble on your quest, this will be you, and no one is coming to save you.’

Jericho and Cavan were whispering behind him, and Kaius turned his breathing shallow to pick up on their voices.

“...really stop us? If we can find out where he is—”

“Dangerous, but I like our odds.”

Hmm. Kaius slowed his stride until the pair were a scant few feet behind him. “Planning an illicit rescue?” he said, not turning around.

“Maybe,” Cavan whispered. “Want in?”

To disobey orders was to put himself against Vic, a scenario he was liking less and less. But to turn his back on Sahota’s predicament completely was no different from participating in his torture, and Kaius had sworn to himself years ago it would never come to that. If you had to become the thing you ran from in order to escape it, what was the point of running at all?

“Both captors were dressed in low-grade tactical gear,” Kaius said. “They’re likely mercenaries hired by Rotorworx, and likely don’t have an excess of weapons or backup. The location they had him in in the video is walled by a very distinct type of stonemasonry, indicating one of the city’s older buildings, likely the basement of a repurposed church or courthouse.” He cast a half-glance over his shoulder. “Which should bring us down to a dozen or so potential targets, if we’re lucky.”

“Shit,” said Cavan.

“We need to get out of here first. Without Vic knowing,” Jericho said.

“Better get Benji onboard.”

“What about Harbor?”

“He’s made his choice,” Kaius said. “Meet in the kitchen at midnight. If we can make it out of the facility undetected, I’ll have a plan at the ready.”

Perhaps it was stupid, but to stay his hand would be to betray himself. Even without his usual resources, Kaius was confident he could come up with something substantial.

He kept careful watch of the time and sat in his room, lights off, mentally recovering everything he knew about the city. To reach it on foot would take too long; they’d need to commandeer some sort of vehicle. Then once they located Sahota, they’d need to deal with his captors. If they were incredibly lucky, it would only be the pair that had shown up in the video, but even if they weren’t, Kaius was willing to bet there were no more than five men. The team had no access to weapons, but he supposed he could leave it to Cavan to improvise something.

The clock struck eleven fifty five, and Kaius made his silent journey to the kitchen.

Jericho was already there when he arrived, Cavan and Ruebin stepping in a shade before midnight.

“The path outside is likely alarmed. Ruebin?”

“Yup. I’ll handle that.” Ruebin seemed tense. They all did, really. Even Kaius was feeling the fear of potential failure, of what could happen if Vic caught wind of it and they couldn’t sway him to their favor.

“You take point, Manak,” Cavan whispered. “Signal us to stop if you see anything.”

Kaius nodded, motioning them to follow him out of the kitchen. As painful as it was to move slow, caution was key; he had no idea what Vic got up to in the later hours. He halted at every corner, every open doorway, just to make absolutely certain. His nerves buzzed with uncertainty at every step, his own body questioning the will of his mind. He ignored it, peering around the next corner.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up when he caught a silhouette, moving towards them. Kaius held up his hand for the group to halt, moving back a pace. Was it Vic? If their handler caught them at this point, what could they say to dampen his suspicions?

He silently waved the group backwards, gesturing to an open doorway. The library, its lights darkened. The group rushed inside, and Kaius lay down with his body parallel to the room’s inner wall, angled so he could just barely see out into the hallway.

To his surprise, it wasn’t Vic who rounded the corner. It was Sahota.

Kaius had to hold his breath to keep from making a sound as the other man passed by. His cheekbone was darkly bruised, his lips swollen, dried blood still crusted at the corner of his mouth. One finger was wrapped in a crude bandage. Despite this, he walked with his usual grace, though Kaius knew the layers of bruising hidden under his shirt.

Vic… Vic had been right, hadn’t he?

Kaius kept silent until Sahota had disappeared, then slowly pushed himself to his feet.

“Is he gone?” Ruebin whispered.

“He’s back,” Kaius answered. “Sahota is back.”

“No shit,” Cavan muttered.

“We ought to go to bed.”

“Is he okay?”

“He's on his feet.” As bad as his injuries had looked on camera, he seemed unbothered by them. Jericho stood up and began to move towards the hall.

“I'm going to check on him—”

“Don't,” Kaius said. “We can consider our mission complete, and I imagine he'd prefer rest to conversation.” Truth be told, he felt his own plan-oriented nature scrambling at this development, his mind searching for the next step now that everything had so abruptly changed. The only solution he could find was getting to bed; collecting what rest they could before a new training day began. As he left the library and made his way back to the sleeping quarters, the other three followed, albeit reluctantly.

“It was a good plan,” Jericho offered as they walked. “They really can’t get anything past your notice, huh?”

Kaius nodded at the perceived compliment, though he was becoming more and more uncertain of that fact. With every new development, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was getting past him, something that could well be dangling right in front of his nose, but he couldn’t so much as point in the direction of what that something might be.

Whatever it was, perhaps it would only take a more critical eye. Whatever it was, he’d need to unravel it.

Before it was too late.

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations

#:)#total$hit$how #stoic whumpee #spy whump #beating #recorded torture #hostage whump #interrogation #whump writing

47 notes · View notes

pigeonwhumps · 3 months

Text

Friend, lost

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @den-of-whump @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @febuwhump

Febuwhump alt 7: last words

Sarita has a nightmare.

713 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, death, grief, manslaughter, nightmare, emeto, implied food deprivation

"No. Please no. Don't die, please don't die."

Her friend coughs, wracking her body, hacking up blood.

"We knew it'd happen," she whispers. "Once they start to use you as bait and employee training you don't last long."

"But you– you can't leave me, please. I can't lose you, Six."

"Sarita."

"What?"

She coughs violently. "It's my name. Sarita. It's all I remember. Can we talk about something better?"

"Okay. Okay. What would you like to..."

"Tell me your ideal holiday?"

They've done this oh so many times. All either of them have are dreams, things they've heard handlers mention. But anything is better than here.

"A beach. A very sunny beach, and it's warm, and we can hear seagulls. We're eating ice creams, but I don't know what flavour because I don't know what flavours exist. We have large floppy hats on. You have ice cream on your nose, and we're laughing and happy and... and..."

She trails off. Her friend's body is still, her eyes blank and staring.

She bends over and kisses Sarita's bloody forehead. "No. I can't go on those holidays without you. Please come back. Please, come on, I can't do this without you."

There's no answer. Of course there isn't. She tightens her grip on Sarita's body, buries her face in her still-warm chest, and screams.

It takes five handlers to prise her away.

Sarita wakes up, heart pounding, tears streaming down her cheeks. It takes her a minute to realise she's not there, she's at Alix's, that was a long time ago. It feels like she was just there.

She can't hear anyone else so she doesn't think she actually screamed. But she can't stay here. The bed's sweaty and she can feel the cold light of their room, her friend's body, the blood on her hands.

She throws the covers off and lurches out of bed, just making it to the toilet before throwing up.

Not again. Not again. She can't keep doing this.

She stumbles into the front room, vision blurred with tears. There's a nice, soft couch there and she can just see through the light of the sodium-yellow streetlamp and she curls up in the corner, grabbing a pen and paper on the way.

She thinks vaguely that it's a nice coloured biro.

Then she starts to draw. Not the blood-covered face, not the one that was still and blank and staring. It's the good one. The one from when they were first put in a room together, and her friend offered half her meagre portion of food and a small smile that had tugged at the corner of her mouth as the only attempt at comforting the new trainee available to her.

One sharing of food too many was the final infraction that made her disposable. Sarita still doesn't understand why that was an infraction, or why rooms were shared in that training facility when nowhere else seems to do it.

Sarita uses half the pad before she's happy with the sketch. And then she moves onto one of her friend's dreams, the two of them in the forest together, eating a picnic and enjoying a waterfall.

It's not fair. It's not right. She shouldn't be dead, she should be alive and here and smiling shyly and able to go on all their dreamed-up holidays.

Sarita notices movement out of the corner of her eye as Oscar places a mug of chamomile tea down in front of her and sits far enough way that it doesn't feel like an intrusion, sipping at faer coffee. She should've noticed fae earlier.

"I'll change your bed," fae murmurs after a while. How many nightmares has fae heard that fae knows to do that? How many of hers?

How many of faer own?

She nods tearfully, not trusting herself to speak. Oscar is... fae's not in charge as much as Alix and Jane, she doesn't think. But she likes fae all the more for it.

She doesn't move for hours, until the sun starts filtering through the gap in the blinds and she realises she needs to move before anyone else appears. So she heads back to her bedroom, curls up under the pile of blankets with an electric candle lantern, and carries on drawing.

#whump #whump writing #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpalt7 #bbu #pet whump #box babe #whumpee and caretaker #multiple whumpees #tw death #lady whump

14 notes · View notes

steddiemicrofic · 8 months

Text

Steddie Microfic August 21st-31st Masterlist

A great last week and a half of posts to finish up the cake prompt!

...Buttercream Frosting by @heartscoops | Rated E | cw: slight emeto warning (gagging), food play | tags: oral sex, face fucking, established relationship

Untitled by @wingedquill | Rated T | cw: angst, temporary character death

The Waiting (Room) by @acasualcrossfade | Rated M | cw: mentions of graphic violence, blood, injuries, small mention of self harm

my birthday too by @cranberrymoons | Rated E | cw: sex toys, bondage, general d/s stuff

Anniversary by @call-me-eds | Rated G | no cw

climb the hill by @cranberrymoons | Rated T | no cw

Untitled by @steventhusiast | Rated G | cw: referenced implied past abuse | tags: slightly angsty, established relationship, babies' first row

It's a boy! by @atimeofyourlife | Rated T | no cw | tags: trans Steve Harrington

(tirami)sue me, i forgot a spoon by @cranberrymoons | Rated G | no cw

Cake by @redlegumes | Rated T | no cw | tags: twerk

Happy? Anniversary by @atimeofyourlife | Rated T | cw: cheating | tags: angst

a three-layered chocolate cake with raspberry jam by @lingeringmirth | Rated T | no cw | tags: fluff

Happy Birthday by @totallynotawes | Rated T | no cw

Upside-down is a pecan cake by @lorifragolina | Rated G | no cw | tags: established relationship

Bizcocho by @redlegumes | Rated G | no cw | tags: Latino/bilingual Steve Harrington, OC daughter, Steve Harrington has bad parents, Married domestic

Stuck by @itcanbepalped | Rated G | no cw

on a september sunday night by @cranberrymoons | Rated G | no cw

Chocolate Chip Pancakes by @pizzaqueen | Rated G | no cw

#steddie #steddiemicrofic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddiemicroficaugust #masterlist

28 notes · View notes

i-eat-worlds · 1 year

Text

The Subject Part 5

B127 does not have a good time in this one

CW: pet whump, medical whump, emeto, B127 has a flashback, implied abuse, implied forced feeding, fear of punishment, character with stutter, self dehumanizing

B127 lay in bed, tucked under a mound of blankets, trying to sleep like he was supposed to. It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was. He could spread out, instead of having to sleep cramped in a cage. The mattress was soft, and the pervasive chill of the lab was nally gone, banished by the soft blankets that Dr. Brenner had graciously provided.

But it didn’t seem to help. No matter how many times the subject tried to sink into the softness of the bed and float away, he was always yanked back to reality by the painful throb inside him. At least now it was only the inside that hurt. Dr. Brenner was very into giving his subjects luxuries, B127 had found. He could feel the soft white bandage gently tapped around his abdomen, the soreness of his ribs finally subsiding thanks to the painkillers he had so been graciously gifted. He should be able to fall asleep, but he just sat there worrying about what the next day would bring.

With Dr. Glassener, he’d at least always know what the day would entail-surgeries, and tests, and afterward, he would get food, and maybe even medicine and bandages if he had been good. But Dr. Brenner could do anything tomorrow. He almost wished the doctor would have told him what was happening tomorrow, but he could guess. At the old facility, first days always involved lots of measurements, tests, and examinations so the doctor could see what they had to work with. It would probably be the same here. B127 forced himself to take a breath-there wasn’t any point in being nervous, he already knew what would happen. He’d done it many, many times. Clinging onto the thought, he slowly drifted off to sleep.

*******************

Alica Perry, night nurse on ward C at the Rory Friedman Memorial Recovery Center was seated at the nurses' station, charting busily, when her attention was drawn by the sound of belching, and then a thump coming from room C6. She stood up, surprised at the fact that the call button hadn’t gone off when she remembered who was in C6.

New patients never dared to touch the call button, and this wasn't going to be any different. His worryingly thin file said that he had spent the last three years bouncing around Hemlock. Most that came in from Hemlock got sent because they were in a coma, three inches from death. The nurse was surprised that he had survived at all. She pulled a pair of purple nitrile gloves on as she entered the darkened hospital room, preparing herself for the smell of bodily fluids.

It was somehow worse than she could have imagined. B127 was rocking back and forth in the far corner of the room, crying and uttering nonsensical phrases to himself. A trail of vomit followed him from the bed to the corner, trailing down his face, and soaking the paper hospital gown. His eyes were dazed, clearly in another place. When she knelt down next to him, she could make out what he was saying. She wished she couldn’t.

“P…please doctor,” He begged, “It is s…sorry. It is so s…sorry for being so bad and v…vomiting. It k…knows it isn’t s…supposed to, please, please don’t make it t…take it back.” B127 was forced to stop by another wave of bile coming up his throat. The extra vomiting caused him to cry harder. “P…please don’t make it eat it, it will do anything else. Please.”

Alica swallowed as she gently placed her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, B127? B127?” She said softly. “B127 can you look at me?”

His gaze immediately fixed on her, before he dropped it, bowing his head a little. The faraway gaze still clouded his eyes. “Please, doctor. It is sorry. It is sorry. It is so so sorry.” He snied loudly. “Don’t make it…it eat it please!”

“I’m not going to, B127.” She gently tapped his shoulder again. “B127 can you look at me? B127?”

This time it worked, the cloudiness gone from his eyes, replaced with fear. “M…ma’am.” He said, quickly rolling into a kneeling position, head down low. “It…It is s…sorry.”

Alica stayed squatting down, not wanting to loom over him. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your fault, you couldn’t control it. I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked like he didn’t believe her. “Can you stand up for me, B127?” The skinny man slowly rose to his feet, wobbly and unstable. He had to lean on the nurse to stay upright as she helped him over to bed. “Just sit down.” She guided him to a non-vomit covered corner of the bed.

“W…What are you gonna do to it?.” B127’s voice shook as he spoke. “Please, it is s…sorry, Please.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, okay.” Alica kept her voice calm and steady. “Hey, can you look at me?”

“Y…yes Ma’am.” He stuttered. “It’s s..sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not mad.” He sniffled again, a tremor racking his body. “I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen. If there is any part that you don’t like or want to do, then tell me, okay?”

“Yes m..ma’am.” He nervously rubbed his hands together.

“Good.” Alica said, then started the explanation. “First, I’m to clean you up, and I’ll get you a new gown so you can change out of the dirty one…”

“It is sorry it ruined the gown.” B127 interjected.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Then, I’m going to change the sheets. Finally, I’m going to look at your bandages, and make sure that it’s still clean. None of this is going to hurt, and if you want me to stop, tell me, okay? I won’t be mad.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” B127 sounded like a broken record. “T..thank you.”

“No problem,” She said as she went to fetch the wipes. “I don’t mind.”

Taglist: @stabby-nunchucks @rainbows-and-whumperflies @wolfeyedwitch @pigeonwhumps

#whump #pet whump #medical whump #emeto cw #vomit mention #caretaker new master #caretaker #medic caretaker #nurse caretaker #hospital setting #conditioned whumpee #whump writing #the subject #b127oc #worlds writing #worlds babbles #alicaperryoc #fear of punishment

31 notes · View notes

angstyaches · 1 year

Note

couldn't resist sending you a few prompts from that list, what yummy dialogue!! i'd love to see some sick Donnacha and caretaker Henry (i adore their dynamic, it soothes my soul) maybe using "you're still alive, right?" and "shit, i've never been this sick in my life." i'm also fond of "i hid the car keys. you're. staying. home." but tbh flick everything you write is pure gold so please go for whatever prompts tickle your fancy <3

Anon asked:

yay! i wasn’t sure if you were so i didn’t want to make a request without checking first. from the question ideas #15 post that you reblogged, would you be interested in writing something for donnacha around the “bad day?” prompt? i’m kinda obsessed with the platonic caretaking between him and henry. i’m also really interested to know if donnacha will continue to explore his sexuality beyond his kiss with henry (without actually involving henry in the experimentation) and how any potential realizations will make him feel

Quotes are from this prompt list.

Thank you for the opportunity to expand upon Donnacha's bisexual journey because I've actually wanted to do that for ages.

CW: anxiety, slight (bisexual) panic, coming out, nausea, stomach ache, emeto, platonic caretaking, implied potential sc*t,

Word Length: fucking long.

___

11:36pm

When he walked through the hallway and into the living room at this hour, he didn’t expect to find the room filled with basically everybody he knew – besides his family and his rugby mates.

Donnacha froze, feeling like he’d just stepped off a plane. Or a merry-go-round. Somewhere he didn’t quite feel like himself, where the rules of life sort of went out the window, and existence itself shifted a little bit.

All the nerves and adrenaline and sparkly feelings that had filled his night all left him at the same time, dumping him right back in the thick of reality.

His stomach took a particularly low dip as he noticed Payton on the couch, their arm draped around Autumn’s shoulders. They both stiffened when they saw him, but they didn’t disentangle from each other.

“Hi,” Autumn said. Her hair was longer than the last time he’d seen her.

“Hiya,” Donnacha mumbled.

Payton didn’t greet him. He’d been cold with them for so long now that they barely bothered anymore. Donnacha’s stomach twisted with guilt, as well as a hint of victory. An empty sort of victory, but still.

Lucy was sitting on the couch too, in pyjama bottoms and a hoodie, one knee pulled to her chest. She looked up briefly from her phone. “Oh, hey, Donnacha.”

And then Henry fixed him with a look, and Donnacha felt like he could breathe again. He was sitting at the dining table, with his worn copy The Catcher in the Rye and a cup of tea.

Tea sounded fucking lovely, actually. The cocktails had been yummy while he’d been drinking them, but he would appreciate something to wash the sickly-sweet aftertaste out of his mouth and settle the burning upset in his belly.

“How was it?” Henry asked him, ever straight to the point.

That snagged everybody else’s attention more than Donnacha’s initial arrival had.

God, he loved Henry, but he could kill him sometimes.

“Oh, shit,” Lucy exclaimed, eyeing Donnacha’s jeans – his nice jeans, not his everyday jeans – and shirt. She let her phone rest on her knee. “Did you have another date tonight?”

“Yeah, I did,” he responded weakly, focusing on her rather than letting his eyes trail towards Autumn. “It was kind of a... last-minute thing.”

“Another date,” Autumn repeated. She was braver than him. Always had been. Ran headlong into things with a smile on her face.

Donnacha gritted his teeth and tried his best to look casual as he met her gaze.

“I didn’t know you were dating someone.” She looked genuinely happy for him, which Donnacha silently resented, and resented himself for resenting. Payton shifted their weight, and for once, Donnacha couldn’t even bask in their discomfort, because this was extremely uncomfortable for him, too.

“Two someones, actually,” he blurted out. The words immediately tasted horrible in his mouth. He had no desire to make Autumn jealous, so what was this burning need to prove something? What was he even trying to prove?

“Two?” Henry’s interest was renewed. “You weren’t out with the same person as yesterday?”

Donnacha forced a smile, promising himself he wouldn’t get mad at Henry. But Christ, he just wanted a cup of tea, not an inquisition.

“Nope,” he said.

“Okay, so, how was it tonight?” Lucy wanted to know. She propped her fist under her chin and leaned onto her knees. “Was she pretty? Nice?”

“Um...” Donnacha felt a tickle of a laugh rise in his chest, despite everything. His hands and his voice were trembling, which was mildly ridiculous. “Actually, he was... cute.”

The room fell silent, and his unsettled belly was suddenly flooded with an anxious buzzing. This wasn’t the fluttery anticipation he’d felt at the start of the night, like he was a teenager about to step onto the field for his first under-20s game. This was despair, like fumbling the ball and costing his team the winning try during his first under-20s game.

It sank in all at once, what he had just done. Jesus, what a way to come out to two of his roommates and his ex-girlfriend as... whatever he was. He probably should have at least waited until he had a word for it.

“He was a polite sort of lad. Pulled my chair out for me, which has never happened to me before, actually,” Donnacha chuckled, mainly because nobody else was saying anything. The only person whose gaze he could bear to meet was Henry’s, and when he did, Henry gave him a little wink of approval.

And then Donnacha got his breath back.

He could kill Henry sometimes, but he loved him.

Lucy looked the least surprised out of the other three, but she still squinted at him like he was a maths test and she’d slept through the last ten lessons. “Okay, sorry, but... yesterday, it was a girl, right? You showed me a picture. She had long, brown hair, a tattoo on her neck –”

“That was, um, a genderqueer person, actually.” Donnacha rubbed the back of his neck. He wished he could stop saying ‘actually’ so much; he butchered it with his accent every time, and it made him feel like he was being insincere when he wasn’t. “Not a ‘she’.”

“Oh,” Lucy exclaimed. “Oh, sorry.”

“And... how did that one go?” Payton’s voice was low and somewhat deliberate. It was probably the first time they’d spoken directly to him in a week.

“Ve was very nice.”

Even Henry looked shocked and impressed this time; he’d surely assumed that someone like Donnacha wouldn’t even know what neopronouns were, let alone manage to use them in a sentence. It seemed like a silly thing to feel smug about, but Donnacha couldn’t help it. He barely recognised himself these days; it almost felt necessary to let some other people in on the craziness.

“But m-maybe a bit too intellectual,” Donnacha went on, despite the swelling discomfort in his stomach. He was over-sharing. He had never been like this. Maybe he’d always talked things out with Autumn one-on-one, and now his ramblings needed other outlets. “I think ve would get, um, bored of me very quickly.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Lucy frowned.

Donnacha shivered, breathing hard against a wave of nausea. What the hell was wrong with him? Henry and Lucy were both gay, Payton was nonbinary, and Autumn was... well, he wasn’t entirely sure, but she was clearly attracted to someone who wasn’t a man, so not necessarily straight. This was the safest room of people he could be in.

So why did he feel like he was going to faint, or throw up, or both?

“Anyway. Cuppa?” He skimmed his gaze over Payton, Autumn, and Lucy. “No? Hen?”

Henry shook his head. “No, thanks, hon, I’m still nursing mine.”

“So you are.” Donnacha snapped his fingers in the direction of Henry’s mug. He’d never snapped his fingers before pointing at anything before in his life.

Before he could do or say anything else weird, he turned towards the kitchen. His knees threatened to sag while he was putting water in the kettle, ears straining towards the living room. It felt like he’d just let off a slew of random fireworks and then left. He wondered if they would talk about him now, while he was out of sight.

Sweat crackled on his forehead. What whispers would Autumn and Payton be sharing? Donnacha wondered – again – why he even cared. His feelings for Autumn were in the past. If she broke up with Payton and asked Donnacha to take her back tomorrow, he would say no. He knew that, as certainly as he knew Henry’s favourite chocolate was 70% cocoa with sea salt. His feelings for her had changed. That was what his kiss with Henry had taught him.

He slapped a dry teabag against the back of his hand while he waited for the kettle to finish boiling. His cheeks puffed out under the force of a slow, lazy belch that crept up from his gut. God, those cocktails were not sitting great. Donnacha’s throat felt sticky, as though he was still sipping one. Now that his mood was dipping, he couldn’t help thinking that the fried chicken they had ordered to the table had been a little hard to choke down. He wasn’t used to deep-fried food, and he could feel how his belly was gurgling away trying to digest the greasy coating and the stringy meat.

At this point in time, he remembered the unpleasantness of the food, and the shifting of his stomach, more than he remembered the face of the man that he’d shared it with. Although, that might have had to do with the fact that he felt like he was suffocating right now.

Do you know what? Tea, be damned. Who could be arsed standing around, waiting for a kettle to boil, when they were embarrassed and not feeling well?

Donnacha skulked back through the living area, slowing down but not stopping.

“I’m off to bed, actually,” he said. Actually. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze this time. “I’m wrecked. I’ll see yous tomorrow, or...” He broke himself off with a nod as he ducked through the archway and bolted for his bedroom.

11:58pm

He sat and fidgeted with his phone for a couple of minutes. He had texts from both Josh and Willow, but every time he thought about composing a reply to either of them, it felt like they were both in the room, standing over him with their shoes pressed against his chest. Josh with his brogues, Willow with ver knee-high boots. Josh, smelling like musk and molasses; Willow, smelling like an ocean breeze. Both of them fantastic and gorgeous and, apparently, waiting for texts back from him because they liked him.

So why couldn't he stop focusing on the looks he might get if he walked about town with either one of them on his arm? Why, instead of giddy and excited, did he only feel this sickening dread?

“Donnacha!” Henry’s voice said sharply on the other side of the door, as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation and Donnacha had said something outrageous.

His skin prickled, hot then cold. He got up, stomped over, and opened the door. “What?”

Henry made a face and shut his eyes, like he was rebooting himself. When he spoke again, there was something a little more fragile about his voice.

“Bad day, was it?”

“No! It was fine! I told you.” Donnacha sat down on his bed again. Standing was doing his stomach no favours.

Henry paced in behind him.

“Maybe our personalities didn’t click very well,” Donnacha shrugged. “Maybe he reminded me a bit too much of myself. And I might now know who or what I’m interested in, but I know for a fact I’m not interested in going out with myself.”

Henry nodded as though what he was hearing wasn’t the ramblings of a slightly drunk man having a crisis.

“And, of course, I was nervous,” Donnacha murmured, lowering his chin slightly. “You know? I’m twenty-five and casually dating for the first time ever. And it was a lad, hen. And this... the lads thing, it – it still feels weird, actually.” Actually. “But I was... no, I was the normal amount of nervous. It was a normal kind of date. Just normal.”

Henry shifted his weight from one leg to the other, cane tilting with his hips. “Donnacha, I... asked if you had a bad day. Not a bad date.”

Donnacha swallowed, this time tasting the chicken grease right in the back of his throat. He folded his arms over his middle and leaned forward, testing how the pressure felt against his stomach. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Misheard ya, then.” Donnacha sniffed and cleared his throat. And then words came out of his mouth in a dizzying rush. "Bad days, I-I've had any amount of those recently."

"What?" Henry asked hoarsely. "And... you didn't think to say anything?"

Donnacha shrugged. He noticed that Henry’s glasses were slipping down his nose, just a bit, but he was eyeing the way Donnacha was sitting, hugging his belly.

“Are... you feeling sick?”

Instead of a verbal reply, Donnacha hiccupped, the pain cutting so deeply through his chest that he made a choking sound like he’d been punched.

“You gonna be sick?” Henry asked, casting a glance towards the hallway as an afterthought, presumably wondering if Lucy’s ears had pricked up at his words.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Hen!” Donnacha was raising his voice now, and he either didn’t care, or cared immensely. “I – I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Donnacha’s face burned as the words escaped him.

Jesus Christ.

He’d never been this moody and self-indulgent, but it felt as though he’d stumbled across this beautiful, yet painfully delicate, thing inside of him, and the thought of exposing it – allowing it to be observed, critiqued, potentially broken – to the world made him want to scream.

Back home, he’d have sent his old man into absolute uproar if he’d come out with a line like that, accusing him of having too much time on his hands. His secondary school coach would have asked him if he’d rather join the drama society (ironically, of course, since his school hadn’t had a drama society). Even the lads on the current team would probably chuckle at him, or, at best, nudge him in the direction of a counsellor rather than have him bang on like this in front of them.

Henry didn’t ridicule him. He didn’t accuse him of being soft.

Instead, Henry hobbled forward to stand next to him, combed his fingers through Donnacha’s hair, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Donnacha sighed – or was it a little sob? – and tilted his head against Henry’s stomach. It felt good to have a body so close to him. This was more physical contact than he had experienced on either of his two dates, and that thought was so confusing that it made the knots in his stomach pull even tighter.

“You don’t have to know,” Henry whispered. “You don’t have to know anything. Your story belongs to you, and no one else.”

Bile rose in Donnacha’s throat. “Bit late for that now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I... made a show of myself, didn’t I?” Donnacha flicked a hand in the general direction of the living area, as though the scene where he’d announced his sexual fluidity was still taking place out there, in open defiance of him and his current feelings about it.

“You didn’t make a show of yourself. Donnacha, what are you on about?” Henry tilted his head and brushed a tear away from Donnacha’s cheek with his thumb. His hand was a little cold, thanks to his bad circulation, “Exactly what do you think you did wrong?”

“I... I don’t know. I thought talking about it would be easier, is all,” Donnacha said on a trembling sigh. His stomach cramped, but the pain felt secondary to the panic that had wound its way around his chest. “It felt weird, a-and... it felt like stripping down to the nip and waving my arse in the air, with all of you watching me.”

“That’s...” A smile, both wry and fond, crept through the lines in Henry’s features. “Unfortunately, that’s what coming out often feels like. I mean, maybe it was too soon for you, and you took yourself by surprise. You sure as fuck took me by surprise.”

Donnacha chuckled drily, and Henry kissed his head again.

“But I was so proud of you, hon.”

A spark of warmth circled Donnacha’s heart.

“Hope you know that.”

Donnacha tried to swallow around a hiccup, not wanting to ruin what felt like a tender moment, but he failed spectacularly and ended up belching instead.

“Thank you," he mumbled. "‘Scuse me.”

"We'll chat more tomorrow. I think you should try to get some sleep.”

“I will, if you get out of my room, you weirdo,” Donnacha mumbled. He reached up to squeeze Henry’s arm before sinking back a little on the bed.

“Rude.” Henry finally adjusted his glasses. He glanced towards Donnacha’s bedside cabinet. “You never made that cup of tea, by the way. Do you want me to bring you one?”

Donnacha curled his lip, rubbing one hand over his middle. “Nah, my stomach really doesn’t feel great.”

Henry nodded, eyeing him warily again. “Well, I’ve been having atrocious insomnia, so let me know if you need anything.”

12:21am

Jesus, but these cramps were getting brutal now.

Donnacha was relieved that Henry hadn’t decided to spend the night in his room, because as soon as he had laid down, it sounded like a lawnmower engine had started up in his belly.

He had resigned himself to sleeping on his back, which he didn’t usually do. Acid sloshed into the base of his oesophagus, thanks to the heartless bitch called gravity, but it was the only position he could find where he could cradle his sore, gurgling stomach with both hands. He woke a few times to find his hands had slid to his sides and had to readjust them.

4:07am

A car horn blasted him fully from his sleep.

Donnacha groaned in pain (Oh, sweet Jesus, my belly hurts) and confusion (who the hell is sitting on their horn at this hour?!). He was starting to think he’d never get used to living in the town. Back home, the most he’d ever be woken up by was a crying fox, and even that used to be an exciting affair that he’d share with his parents and sisters over breakfast. (Did any of yous hear the fox last night?!)

He sat up in bed, and as he did, his belly growled like he was starving, when he was in fact the opposite. Its contents went tumbling over into a heavy pile. Donnacha let out a hiccup-belch, his throat too tight to release enough air to relieve any of the pain.

He planted a hand on his stomach, flinching when the pressure stirred up more pain than he’d expected. His belly was pushing out, taking up more space inside his old jersey than it usually did, and the surface of it felt stretched and tight. He frowned. He hadn’t exactly gone overboard last night, and none of his drinks had been carbonated.

Must’ve been that chicken, he thought. Saliva flooded his cheeks even as he recalled it. A gurgle wove its way through his gut, accompanied by a clenching, slithering pain.

A bead of sweat chased another bead of sweat down his back.

He shot to his feet and moved as fast as he could without bouncing himself up and down. His stomach was jostled nonetheless, and he burped and hiccupped and gulped convulsively all the way to the bathroom.

When he reached the toilet, he was drooling and gagging, ready to get this over with. Donnacha cringed and braced himself, but it wasn’t enough to lessen the unpleasantness of experiencing that sticky, greasy chicken in his mouth all over again, this time mixed with acidic juices.

All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and look forward to the relief he knew he’d feel later, when the food was unable to torment his stomach anymore.

He retched hard, throat constricting around strangled groans.

It was down his shirt, he realised when the retching slowed down and he opened his eyes. One of the hiccups in the hallway must have brought something up with it.

Shit. He needed to go check that he hadn’t left any on the floor. If Lucy saw that, she’d –

“Urrgggghhh,” Donnach moaned as sharp pains wracked his belly. He’d made a bit of a mess on the floor, too, somehow, but he’d had to deal with that later.

The next wave was coursing up his throat, filling his mouth all the way to the backs of his teeth, before spilling into the toilet bowl. He couldn’t remember throwing up this thickly, this immensely, since he’d been little. He could almost feel the chill of the farmhouse bathroom – which was very different and much fresher than the chill that plagued apartment blocks. He pictured his mother fussing over him, checking his forehead with her hand, tutting as she went looking for the cordless landline so she could call his school. He could almost taste the 7Up that she would stir the bubbles out of, because flat 7Up was the cure for everything in those days.

As he choked up a mouthful of yellow fluid that stuck to his lips on the way out, Donnacha couldn’t remember if stomach acid and flat 7Up tasted much different.

Ew.

He retched again.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent in front of the toilet, but eventually, Donnacha noted that he needed to pee. Too exhausted and nauseous to stand, he peeled himself up off the floor and sat on the toilet seat. He couldn’t have said how long he spent like that, hunched over so that his head nearly touched his knees, arms gripping his cramping belly. All in all, this was a relatively safe spot for him to be in, especially if things went south. Well, further south. Based on how things were progressing, he wouldn’t have been surprised...

Donnacha sat up, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands.

5:27am

The front door slammed.

Donnacha jumped. Shivered. He was still sitting on the toilet, and he felt dizzy. Had he dozed off? Or just spaced out for a second? He blinked and glanced over at the thin light white streaming through the bathroom window.

It had probably been Lucy, he thought blearily, leaving for classes a lot earlier than usual. Made sense that she’d want to get out of the house, if she’d caught wind of any of Donnacha’s troubles in the night.

Donnacha would probably feel bad about setting off her phobia later, but right now, he didn’t have the energy to feel any worse than he already did.

5:38am

Whether he’d beaten his insomnia or not, the front door slamming must have gotten Henry out of bed. He must have seen Donnacha’s bedroom door swinging open, and his empty bed, because Donnacha’s ears were suddenly prickling from the gentle taps of his cane as he came down the hallway towards the bathroom door.

He didn’t knock. He just gently called out, “Donnacha?”

Donnacha squeezed his eyes shut. Bad idea. His head immediately started to spin and his upper body started to sway.

“Hey, hon?” Henry called out a little more sharply. “Still alive in there, aren’t you?”

“Just about,” he croaked.

“Want me to come in?”

Donnacha looked down at his sick-stained jersey. He was still sitting on the toilet. He and Henry might have been close, but… not this close. Donnacha wasn’t sure he ever wanted to be this close to anybody.

“No,” he muttered.

“You coming out soon?”

Donnacha groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Just go away and give me a few minutes.”

“Alright.”

5:45am

“Jesus…”

“Come on,” Donnacha murmured, reaching for Henry’s hand and attempting to turn him around. “You don’t want to be near that bathroom for a while.”

Henry was inclined to believe him.

“How did... I didn’t think you were that drunk last night.” Henry frowned. If he’d known this was going to happen, he could have left a bucket in Donnacha’s room. He’d seemed upset after talking to everyone in the living room, but Henry hadn’t thought he’d been hammered. Who got drunk enough to make themselves puke on a first date?

“I wasn’t,” Donnacha whined. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his belly as they walked towards Donnacha’s room. “I think it was the food at the cocktail bar.”

“Why, what’d you have?”

“Ugh, this horrible, greasy chicken.” Donnacha’s cheeks puffed out a little, and his hand pressed further into his middle, as though his wrung-out stomach could barely take the mention of said chicken. “Ugh. Gave me this fierce belly ache last night.”

“Or,” Henry ventured, “you were coming down with a bug.”

“No. Nope.” Donnacha shook his head and let go of Henry’s arm as they reached his bedroom. “See, I had that one a few months ago. You remember it.”

Henry stood still, frowning as hard as ever, while Donnacha lowered himself onto the bed. The duvet was ruffled from the night before, but he made no effort to pull it up around himself.

Henry blew a gentle raspberry with his lips. “You don’t – you can’t just, like, get one tummy bug and then be immune to all of them. It’s not like the chickenpox –”

Donnacha whined, making a face like a child who was about to be lectured. “Ssshhh, Hen.”

Henry bristled slightly at being told to sshh, but let it slide seeing as Donnacha wasn’t feeling well. He eyed him as he settled down on his side, face pressed into his pillow.

“Going to sleep?”

“I’m actually just... gonna rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Or you could go to sleep.” Henry reached for the duvet and started to pull it up over Donnacha’s side.

“Can’t.” Donnacha's voice sounded ragged. “Training at half eight. Have to shower.”

Henry snort-laughed. Donnacha lifted a hand to try to push the duvet away from his shoulder.

“Match next week,” Donnacha croaked, tucking one arm under his head and curling the other around his belly. For someone who didn’t want to be tucked in, he sure looked like he was getting comfortable. “Can’t skip.”

“Wait, you’re being serious?” Henry froze, still holding the corner of the duvet so that it made a tent shape over Donnacha’s upper body. He didn’t want to laugh again, but one was bubbling in his chest. “You’re hardly going to training, hon.”

“I’m grand,” Donnacha told him. “I’ve got – gotten it all up. And… out. Out of my system. Should be fine now.”

“I thought you might say that, so, actually –” Henry said.

He swore he heard Donnacha mutter under his breath, “Actually.”

“– I’ve taken the liberty of hiding your car keys.”

It seemed to take a few seconds for the words to filter down through Donnacha’s tangled, exhausted thoughts. Henry used that time to lower the duvet and tuck him in, ignoring the twinge in his hip as he leaned.

He hadn’t really hidden Donnacha’s keys – they had probably walked past them in the hallway on the way back from the bathroom – but Henry was relying on the fact that Donnacha seemed way too shattered to get up and investigate.

Donnacha glared up at him from the bed, with all the ferocity of a puppy waking from a nap. “No, you bloody didn’t.”

“Bloody well did. I know, I know.” Henry gestured lightly towards his own collarbone and let his voice drift towards Lavender’s, just for the theatrics. “I always have been a criminal mastermind of the highest order.”

“I can walk,” Donnacha threatened, stifling a yawn, “if I leave right now.”

“Dear boy, you’ll get blown down by the smallest breeze,” Henry relished telling him, “before you even get out of the driveway.”

“You know that I can take you, don’t you, Hen?”

“Oh, yeah?”

Donnacha hummed in the affirmative, wrapping the corner of his duvet around his hand and pulling it in close to his chest. “Yeah. I can make you give me my keys and spill all your secrets.”

“Usually, yes, but you couldn’t even take a bit of tall grass right now. Will you listen and get this through your head?”

Henry leaned forward on his cane, so his face was a little closer to Donnacha’s pillow. His hip twinged a little less this time.

“You’re. Staying. Home," Henry said, his stomach twisting with each word. He hated having to be stern - he had a fundamental aversion to it - but sometimes Donnacha could be so stubborn that he was a hazard to his own health. Henry reckoned he would never understand it himself, the way that Donnacha devoted himself, as well as the majority of his free time, to the rugby team.

Henry righted himself, sighing, when Donnacha's silence indicated that he'd won. “You can beat me up over it when you’re better.”

“Probably a good thing,” Donnacha slurred. Henry was almost sure that he’d just started to drool against his pillow. “My belly hurts something fierce."

Henry raised his eyebrows.

"I don't... mmm." Donnacha gulped, his hand tightening around the corner of his blanket. "Shit. I don't think I've ever been this sick in my life, actually.”

“Donnacha. Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“And... you still needed me to stop you from going to training.”

Donnacha hummed in the affirmative, and Henry wondered hopelessly how someone so consistent could ever feel as though they didn't know who they were.

He reckoned he'd spell it out for him later, though, since Donnacha seemed to have fallen asleep and was - indeed - drooling on his pillow.

#Lucyverse Donnacha #Lucyverse Henry #sickfic #emeto #emeto sickfic #stomach bug fic #stomach ache fic #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort #platonic caretaking #angst fic #angst

40 notes · View notes

cryptidwritings · 2 months

Text

Dark Water

Chapter 38 : The Night

prev | next | masterlist

cw: manhandling, implied future beating, restraining, light stress position, rotten food, description of maggots, accidentally eating maggots, light emeto, description of hunger, flashback of past torture, whipping, description of blood and bleeding.

Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was his father walking away. Isidro hadn’t thought about him in a long time. The pain was already pushing his tolerance, it wasn’t fair that even his memories refused to give him a bit of rest.

The dark of night was made grey with the bit of light of morning. Isidro stood; his knees shaking as he continued to breathe through chapped lips and over his dry tongue. The rope that had been around his ankles fell limp on the ground. It had taken him all night to undo it; his depth perception was shot, and his grip weak from whatever it was still floating around in his system.

He got to the barrel and searched for the cup. He had to turn his head completely around to find it on the ground to his left. He missed it the first time, then adjusted, swiping it from the ground and dunked it in, avoiding his reflection, remembering his bath at the pub. He wanted another one, but he’d be grateful for a dip in the ocean even if the salt would sting like hell.

The water caught in his throat and he spewed it over the ground as he devolved into a coughing fit. Moss raised his head, watching Isidro a moment as he collected himself. His hand was shaking; the water sloshing over his lips as he attempted to swallow without aggravating the rest of his face; like drinking with a terrible cold.

Then he turned back to the barrel and used the cup to clean himself up; scooping the water then pouring it over his head, resting the cup on the barrel's lip to wipe the back of his neck, then gently over his face, and maneuvered his hands to reach his armpits underneath his shirt.

It was a small thing; didn’t help with much except to make him feel a little less dusty. He poured the cup and lightly rubbed the parts of his face that weren’t swollen. Dried blood came off on his fingers, dark then lighter until it was gone.

Isidro’s stomach twisted, then growled. He pushed his hands into his gut, massaging the cramp away with a lean. He caught sight of his face in the water and immediately closed his eye, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t that bad; that swelling always got worse before it got better and that he would be just fine.

“I was wondering...” Moss yawned, then wiped sweat off his upper lip, “why did you tell Reid your name was Duncan?”

Isidro stood, grateful to be pulled away from the barrel. “Didn’t want them knowing my real name.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged and took a deep breath as the pang died down; crawling back into the empty pit.

“I didn’t know them.” He replied.

"You didn’t know me, either."

“I knew enough.”

Moss crossed his arms, skeptical. “Is Isidro your real name?”

“Aye,” Isidro walked back to his spot. “I’m-” he took another breath, feeling like it was never quite enough. “From Windover, actually. Grew up making soap,” he chuckled. “Did you ever see Pulver soap on Holm?”

Moss shook his head.

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to make it again. I still know the recipe,” he tapped his head. “Could never remember the flowers, though...” his voice trailed off, and he touched his face.

“Have you told anyone else?”

“About the soap?”

“No, your name.”

Isidro shook his head and leaned back against the wall. The lad wasn’t even looking at him anymore, instead choosing to focus on his lap. There was something eating at him.

“Would you?” Moss asked him.

He thought a moment. “Aye.”

“Who? Theodora?”

The change in tone wasn’t entirely a surprise. When he didn’t answer, Moss continued.

"Do you like her?"

Much like most of his questions, it landed like a wet mop head. What could he say?

"I find her..." Isidro mused, "intriguing."

Moss’ face twisted, and Isidro sighed.

“Let’s just say,” he pushed his hair back, combing a knot through his fingers. “I... understand her.”

“You understand?” Moss' face unraveled as his brows raised. “She hit you.”

Isidro shrugged, “She pulled back.”

“So?”

It would be easy to lie; just to shake the lads look off of him and put an end to it, but the motivation to keep it up was gone. Not that he was going to imply anything more serious than attraction—he didn't think anything else would be possible—but Moss didn’t seem concerned about subtle semantics, anyway and no one just stumbles into an interrogation.

So, he took a breath. “You’ve never been attracted to anyone?”

Moss flicked something across the room. A tiny rock. A piece of dust. It didn’t make a noise. Then he rest his hands on his lap again.

“It never made sense.”

“Well, sense has nothing to do with it, so you’re on the right track,” Isidro chuckled, then swallowed it back when Moss’ gaze didn’t let up.

"Alright,” He sighed, and twisted his hands in the rope. “Well... it’s... I don’t know...” he looked around, then touched the wall where puffs of green grew through the cracks. “It’s like moss, the plant, here.”

He picked a piece off the wall and rolled it in his fingertips. “It can lead you to water, keep you warm, make a soft place to lie your head.” He sprinkled it to the ground, “It’s a reminder that life can still exist...” he blinked, feeling the thought sink in like a weight. “In the dark...”

The sailor looked up as Moss knelt in front of him with his hands out.

"Then let's get out of here."

He huffed. “What, it makes sense now?”

“No, I don’t think it ever will,” Moss smiled, his eye casting downward. “But everyone accused me of being insane for wanting to be a sailor.” He looked back up with a little shrug. “I just realized that maybe that was the point.”

Isidro’s stomach twisted again, this time with a more familiar feeling—one he was used to, having experienced it a dozen times and chalked up to pre-mission nerves. It almost made him nauseous, but he bit it down just like he always had, and swiped the remaining plant from his pants as he attempted a smile.

He took Moss' hands in his and shook. Moss smiled then picked at the knot between Isidro's fists.

"I'm sorry for not listening to you sooner," He said. "If I had, maybe we wouldn't be here at all."

"No use thinking of the past, lad. Who knows if anything could have changed this." Isidro replied. The feeling in his stomach grew with urgency as Moss struggled with the tight knot.

“Moss...”

The lad looked at him expectantly—like he had when they were walking the horse—bright eyes set in sun-neglected skin that glowed with naive determination.

“I wanted to...” he swallowed. “I haven’t been very-”

The door opened with a clatterous bang, startling Moss enough that he covered his ears with his hands, contracting his head into his shoulders like a turtle. Isidro dropped his hands to his lap.

“Fish,” Reid held up a plate, his body blocking the spattering of sunlight that leaked in from under the door, then clocked Isidro sitting up against the wall.

“I brought enough for ye, too,” he smiled, revealing a second plate under the first.

Moss didn't hesitate. He sat back and grabbed the plate as Reid outstretched it, maneuvering his tied hands to push the fish into his open mouth while Reid unceremoniously tossed Isidro's plate at his feet.

Isidro pulled the plate around, sticking his finger into the side. It was luke-warm. He pinched a small portion and brought it to his mouth; feeling the cold on his lips and the unique texture of raw fish on his tongue, followed by an assaulting sour taste. He gagged, and spit the piece back out onto the plate with a cough, noticing Reid’s shit-eating grin that made him look closely at the fish again.

He peeled back the skin, directly under his right eye, and noticed hundreds of tiny maggots digging through the flesh.

Isidro dropped the plate, doubled over and retched as if there was anything left in his stomach to evacuate. He looked up at Reid. The movement made his head spin.

“Not hungry?” was the pirate’s response.

“What’s wrong?” Moss asked, looking at his fish, then back to Isidro as he spit again.

“It’s rotten.”

“What?” Reid crouched, poking at the fish haphazardly. "It must’ve snuck by me."

Isidro balled his hand into a fist, and Reid’s eye caught the twitch of his muscle, looking down with a smile.

“What? Ye gonna hit me?” He smiled and snatched Isidro by the collar, “like ye did Kam? Like ye tried to do with that stupid shovel?”

“G-hah!” the wind ejected from Isidro’s lungs as Reid slammed him into the wall, and a hand wrapped around his neck before he was thrown to the ground; the contents of his plate scattered along the dirt. Isidro gasped; the sound rattling in his ears as he took a desperate breath.

“Go ‘head! See if ye can!”

His head flew back against the wall as a kick reverberated throughout his torso. Everything went black for a second—his good eye came back with little pin-pricks of light accompanied by ringing in his ears.

“You think you can act on your own, you ungrateful little prick!”

Chains rattled as Isidro wailed in pain. His screams devolved into panting groans as he blinked the sweat from his eyes; feeling the gashes release his blood down his back.

“Fuck you...” he took a breath. “Fuck all of you!” he stared at the Captain, his face in shadow.

“I’m not doing this anymore! Kill me if you want, but I’m done!”

The Captain took a step back to the small table that was dragged into the room weeks before.

“You think you have a choice?” Matthews picked up a small piece of paper, opening it carefully. “Surely you’re not that deluded.”

He shoved the paper to Isidro’s eyeline. He could barely see it, but he didn’t have to.

“What a beautiful letter... full of hope. They don’t know who you really are, do they?”

Isidro’s breath hitched as he bit his tongue hard to keep his head sharp.

“Should we respond?” Matthews glanced to the corner, then to Isidro again, “Maybe I’ll deliver it personally?

Isidro rattled his chains, “don’t you fucking da- gah! Ah!”

“Oh I dare!” The Captain yelled, “I bet your brother could go for fifty silver on the auction block. And your sister-” he grabbed the chain around Isidro’s neck, pulling him closer, “she’d look pretty with one of these, sitting under my table.”

Isidro’s eyes fell and the Captain let go, gently touching Isidro’s cheek.

“Only you can save them,” Matthews whispered like a snake wrapping around his ear. “Or are you going to keep causing unnecessary trouble?."

Isidro hung his head. “N-no...”

“Louder!”

“No, Sir!” The chain rattled.

“Because you know what will happen, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir... I know...I’m s-orry...”

He came back as Reid swerved, locking eyes with Moss who still had his plate up and gripping it like the hilt of a sword. Isidro pushed himself up on shaking arms, taking another deep breath in an attempt to stand. His body had never felt so weak.

Get up.

He blinked fiercely, but he was still on his hands and knees, taking in lungfulls as a pain appeared in his chest. His lungs were burning and he clenched the ground as he trembled from the helplessness of it all. He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run.

Moss balanced on the balls of his feet—holding the plate high. His eye canvassed the brute as his muscles flexed to strike. Isidro grit his teeth, looking up at the lad amidst the panic.

“Moss! Stop!”

Moss looked at him, and he hated himself. “S-stop. Please. I-it won’t work... stop...”

The lad’s brows furrowed, but he slowly lowered the plate. Isidro breathed a sigh of relief when he heard it fall to the ground.

“Smart choice,” Reid's hand around the rope relaxed, leaving Isidro shaking from the pain as he walked toward the lad.

Moss looked up at the pirate and put his hands up in surrender, but it didn't matter. Reid gripped his shoulder and pummeled him in the stomach, doubling him over with a deep wheeze while he wrapped the rope around his ankles, then fed it between his knees to attach to the one around his wrists.

With a final tug, Moss' legs bent, and Reid shoved him onto his stomach with his boot.

“R-Reid!” he yelled, “gah!” he pulled against the ropes.

Isidro closed his eye as Reid’s footsteps approached.

“Look what ye did!” He grabbed Isidro's face and pointed it towards Moss.

He blinked as he tried to stay upright, focusing on Moss' struggled breathing from the blurry mass on the ground.

“Would it be good of me to let ye get away with that?”

No, it wouldn’t.

He felt a yank on his scalp, forcing his body toward the door until Reid shoved him into the center of the adjacent room. There was a crack, then a sharp cut through the air. Isidro took another breath, rolling to protect his face as Reid approached again.

Suddenly, Isidro’s breathing returned to normal, and the pain in his chest disappeared.

“Wait! D-dammit!” Moss yelled.

Reid did not.

taglist: @sparrowsage @kixngiggles @honey-is-mesi @annablogsposts

#pirate whump #whump series #whump community #whump writing #manhandling #tw restraining #tw emeto #implied past torture #tw threats #tw whipping

3 notes · View notes