#referenced emeto tw

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I Knew Finn Schneider

For @whumptober 2022, day 31: “You can rest now.”

CW: Referenced noncon, pet whump, beating, blood, brief emeto, murder… the works. But this, my friends, is the light at the end of Finn’s tunnel.

Death Valley | Lüge | Welcome Home | Didn’t Make It | Dead Body | Why Me? | The Next One | That Was All | I Knew Finn Schneider |

-

Somewhere near Highland Peak in California, 2005

"Checking in?"

The young woman sitting at the desk was bright and cheerful, her voice more chirping than speech. Her thick black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a plain navy sweater with a layered necklace made of brightly colorful beads and she had a pink glitter barrette at one temple, with some rhinestone stickers. 

She must have caught Finn looking, because she gave him a slight smile. "My little sister helped me get dressed today," She offered, and he tried to smile back. What did a normal smile look like? He wasn't sure if his was right. 

She didn't change expression, so he must have managed it. 

"Kids are great," Noah said, matching her cheer as he leaned forward on his elbows, carefully taking back her full attention. "I called and made a reservation this morning? Under Ransom?"

"Ransom, Ransom… that's some last name." She had an accent, Finn thought, her consonants soft, faintly rolling her r’s.

"Yeah, we like to joke my grandpa made it up." Noah grinned, sunny and shining. Charming. Finn watched them, distantly wondering if he would smile like that ever again. “He was maybe a little bit of a criminal.”

"Nice. You're Noah?"

"That's me."

"All right, room for two, got it." She stood up, humming to herself as she fiddled with the hotel keys. "Hope you don't mind, we still do things the old way. The owner just wants to keep it all historic, you know?" 

"Yeah, sure." Noah glanced sideways at Finn, who looked away. Afraid if he made eye contact, all of this would start to melt and he would wake up naked on Robert's bedroom floor. Or in his basement.

The movement made a paper on the check-in desk flutter and it caught his eye, freezing him in his tracks. 

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

It was a blurry printed out still from a security video, a man walking with hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. 

It was Robert Weber. 

Even with his head ducked and a ball cap pulled low over his face - even with the photo so blurry Finn could see individual pixels - Finn knew the clothes he'd been wearing at the motel before he tied Finn up and went for breakfast, that first morning he’d been in hell. This looked like they had caught him leaving the restaurant, heading back for his truck. 

Heading back to murder the hotel worker while Finn watched, leave him bleeding on the floor while Robert dragged a weeping, dripping Finn to his truck. Robert was smiling in the photo - the edge of his turned-up lips just peeked out from beneath the brim of his cap. 

Excited, Finn thought with a flip of his stomach, knowing what he had waiting for him in the hotel.

Highland Peak Police, California State Police, and the FBI are looking for more information on a person of interest in the attempted murder of Kent Reyes on October 15th, 2003. A reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest is being offered by the Mountain Motel's owner, Charles Reston, with another $100,000 from Reston's company WRU. 

The individual stayed at Mountain Motel from October 14th, 2003, through October 15th. He is described as a white male, with a slim build, approximately 5'10", with dark hair and dark brown eyes, between the ages of 45 - 55. 

He drove a blue and white Ford F150 with the license plate V5G667R. 

Donations are being accepted for Kent Reyes's family. Ask at the desk about donating or mail checks to-

The words blurred as tears suddenly burned Finn's eyes. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat. 

"Are you okay, man?" The desk worker looked concerned, but Finn's throat had closed, his heart pounding. He tried to open his mouth. No sound came out. 

I’m sorry, it’s my fault, it’s my fault-

"Oh, man. Hey." Noah's sympathy was perfect, smoothly focused, and he turned to put a hand on Finn's shoulder, leaning in. Finn knew not to flinch, meeting Noah’s gaze through a blur of sudden tears. "Let’s get into our room, yeah? Sorry," He repeated over his shoulder to the woman. "I'm actually driving my friend home for a funeral. It’s rough.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry. We lost one of our staff recently-“

Finn nearly choked on his guilt. 

"My mother… my mother, actually. I mean, she had been sick for a long-… never mind, you don’t need to hear about my family problems.” She waved her hand, and Finn wondered with a jolt that felt like a blade in his ribs if his own mother was still healthy, if she had gotten sick and he hadn’t been there for her.

The desk worker was still talking.

“-plus, we had another just barely survive being attacked before that. I feel you.” She looked up at Finn – she was so short – and gave him a slight smile. “You be upset if you need to. It's just us, right? No problem. I’m right there with you some days. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets… it gets less heavy.”

What if the person who died is me? Does it get less heavy to mourn my own death?

"We appreciate that." Noah spoke before Finn could and squeezed Finn's shoulder once, hard, before he mercifully released his grip. He leaned over to look at the paper, briefly stilling at the image of Robert. Almost immediately, his friendly smile was back - never left, even - and he leaned over at her. "What's this about? Person of interest?”

She craned her neck, then sat back with a sigh. "Oh. That… our hotel manager, Kent. One of our staff… well. It's a hell of a story, but Kent was attacked and shot. He survived, barely, but he's still recovering."

Finn looked up sharply. "He survived?"

Noah shifted, and his fingers closed around Finn's wrist, not quite tight enough to hurt. Just a reminder that he wasn't supposed to talk unless he had to, to keep people from hearing his accent. He had to remind himself that Noah had promised that it would not be like it was with Robert, that he would live a different life now.

But the grip on his wrist made it hard to believe.

The desk worker's smile widened, a little. "He did. He's a hell of a fighter. He's doing physical therapy learning to walk again, he had to relearn… just everything. He has this goal of getting back to hiking by next winter, rock climbing the year after. He's amazing. The medical bills, though… well. I don't suppose you'd like to donate to help his family with the costs?"

Noah looked over at Finn. “What do you think? Should we donate?”

Finn thought of the hotel manager who had looked so worried for him, who had been about to go get him some help. Who, with a few more minutes, might have been able to save him. He gave the slightest, smallest nod, trying to plead with his eyes alone. 

Noah sighed, then turned back with his charming smile back in place. "Sure. Add fifty dollars? Will that do any good?"

"Every dollar helps, every single one. Thank you so much." She ran Noah's credit card and then handed over the little key dangling off a piece of plastic with a room number. The sound of metal made Finn a little sick, remembering it in Robert's hand. "Here you go. Room 14, ground floor. You'll get your printed final receipt under your door in the morning. Check-out is at 11, breakfast options are available beginning at 7 am but we clear them out around 10. If you need anything, just pick up your room phone and hit 0, it'll go straight to me." She pointed at her name tag. "I'm Martina Ramirez, you can call me Marty. The night manager will be in around six, her name is Melinda."

"Got it. Thanks!" Noah jerked his head at the door, and Finn started to move, automatically following orders, taking slow, careful steps to minimize his limp. 

"By the way-" Marty called out. Finn looked back, heart briefly in his throat. He felt Noah tense slightly beside him.

Marty gave him a soft, sympathizing smile. "I really am sorry for your loss. I’ve been missing my mom a lot these days, she loved this time of year up here.”

His mouth opened, closed again. He managed a half-whispered, "Thank you, I’m sure she’s proud of you," before following Noah the rest of the way out the door. 

He appreciated the sympathy, but she didn't know she was sympathizing with the death of Finn. 

They stepped back out into the warmth, and Noah took a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me I stopped at the same goddamn hotel. How the absolute hell did I manage that?”

It was the same one. Finn had known from the moment they came up the drive, the long and winding road. But it was… so hard to remember he had a voice. He kept feeling the straps of the muzzle, the pressure over his nose, as if it had never been removed. He hadn’t remembered how to speak in time to say anything about it. "Yeah," He tried, then winced as it came out like yah, unintentionally heavy with his accent. "You did."

"Fuck. Okay. Uh, well." Noah looked over at him, fiddling with the hotel key in his hands. The clinking metal and plastic would drive Finn crazy if it didn’t stop soon. "Can you handle it? We can keep going for a while?"

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"I want you to feel safe. Can you feel safe here?" 

The words were all words he knew, but the combination baffled him. "You are… asking me?"

"Yeah. I am. Hey." Noah turned to look at him, and Finn went still, waiting for the screaming, the spit in his face, the terror. Instead, Noah paused, and then said in a low voice, "I promise you, this is not to hurt you. I am not going to hurt you."

"Yes… yes, sir." Finn didn't believe him, but Noah only sighed, glancing at the window to see if the hotel worker was watching them. Marty was on the phone, and it made Finn’s heart go cold. What if she knew, somehow? What if she was calling someone?

What if-

"You know what?” Noah sighed. “Let's just go to our room. We can talk more there." Noah walked to his truck, pulling two duffel bags out of the back, tossing one to Finn, who just barely caught it. He limped more with it in his arms throwing off his balance, but Noah didn't seem to notice. Finn trailed him to the fourteenth door, painted green with gold numbers. With a turn of the key, they stepped inside. 

Finn felt his stomach twist at the familiar scent of lemon cleaning products – the same ones Robert used – closing his eyes and swallowing back the pile that threatened to rise even as a cold shiver went down his back. Still… there was no smell of decay and death beneath, and it helped him take one deep breath and then another, through his mouth, stepping into the dim space. 

Two queen beds, side by side with a small cheap table between them. A phone, a lamp, a TV on a low dresser and the door to a bathroom at the end. Basic, comfortable, and clean. Finn's hands shook and he dug them into the sides of the black leather duffel bag to hide it. 

"You can have the first shower, I'll go later." Noah set his bag on the bedspread and unzipped it, pulling out a thin t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, red and black against the cool pine green comforter. He glanced up at Finn still standing in the open doorway, staring inside "Listen… if this is too hard for you, we can still go somewhere else-"

"It is fine." Finn stepped forward and shut the door with one foot, pretending he didn’t almost lose his balance doing it. He shuddered as the room went dim, goosebumps rising on his arms, the outside light blocked by heavy curtains. Noah flicked on the little table lamp, adding an eerie yellow definition to everything, like a horror movie from decades ago, when everything felt like it had a film of grime over the lens. Finn dropped his bag on the other bed, hoping against hope that he was making the right decision to do so. "Do I… sleep on my own?"

"Yeah, you do. From here on out, man." Noah paused in the midst of pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, giving Finn a long, searching look. "Okay, listen. Now that we're alone, I have to admit-"

Finn tensed. 

"-you aren't what I expected."

"I-... what?"

"Well, you were supposed to be-... I didn’t expect you to be… you."

Finn felt like he had forgotten every word of English he'd ever learned. He swam in confusion. "To be me?" He looked down at the blue-tinged veins under the thin skin just near his palms. Scarred from cheap scratchy rope but otherwise unmarked. “What did you expect?”

"Well, look. This is kind of a thing I do for work. But it’s all under the table, we don’t make a big deal out of it. Usually I pick up people who… you know what, I'll just tell you. I work with some people who buy or trade trafficking victims we find online and then free them. Usually, we get people who, you know, they got caught up in some bad shit and ended up stuck, they know the people who are hurting them. We can get them into rehab, or whatever, if they still have their passports we can just slip people out of the whole… all of it. Stranger abductions are literally less common than a one in a million chance. Plus... the news.”

“The... news?”

“You’re pretty famous, Finn. There was a nationwide manhunt when you first disappeared. It would compromise our security. You know? If I just go to the cops. Too much attention, too much scrutiny. The only way what we do works is if no one knows what we’re doing.”

Finn swallowed. His heart felt cold. Everything did. "I don't understand."

"No. Probably not, it's… a lot to explain and I’m used to not being able to, I don’t exactly have a speech ready. Just… let's get through the night. Then you and I can talk about what comes next. I'll find you someplace where you can go to the cops yourself, for home, or… whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about me, okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay… okay, good, that simplifies a lot-“

“No, I mean… I don’t want to go home.”

Noah blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. My mother… my mother would have to know he-... She would… that… Ich wurde vergewaltigt. I don't want anyone to know what he did t-to me. I don't want to g-go home." His voice shook so hard he was nearly indecipherable, but Noah didn't interrupt or tell him to shut up, quit whining, to go back in his cage and be silent. "I don't want-... I cannot."

"I understand. I get it, I do… Just… nobody has to make any choices now. It's not going to happen anymore, okay?”

Finn didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

Noah exhaled, roughly. “Okay. Take a shower, I'll head down the road for some pizza or something, and then… you can get some sleep after we eat. You can rest, now, Finn. But… I think you probably want to be clean, first.”

He would never be clean again, but he nodded, throat tight and nearly closed with something between dread and relief. He leaned over and picked out a shirt and pants from inside the bag, travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush, and went into the bathroom. The light was bright compared to the dim yellow in the room itself, painting everything with unflattering overdone contrast. The lemon smell was stronger in here.

When he saw the tub with its familiar shower head, for a second he felt the water, cold as ice, as it had hit his skin like a thousand knives while Robert laughed. Then he realized that it was a cold sweat breaking out over his skin, trickling down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt stretched too thin underneath his skin, heart pounding with a dull violence. Terror washed cold down his back, and Finn knew all over again that he was about to die.

The heavy scent of blood and gunpowder surrounded him, his own muffled cries around the terrible gag as the hotel manager had jolted to the side and then collapsed, like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child. He hadn’t moved, after that.

Finn had been sure he was dead.

Robert had been sure he was dead.

Finn had been certain he’d die, too, when Robert had turned to look at him. Somehow, he hadn’t. Somehow, he had survived to be here almost two years later, looking down into the same kind of bathtub, the same shower head, and the same little bottles of travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the same bar of soap.

He wanted to scream. It tired to tear its way up his throat to escape him, and he couldn’t quite force it back down. Finn swallowed, once and then again, but his heart felt like it would beat itself bloodily out of his chest. His stomach flipped and he turned, throwing himself towards the toilet and slamming the lid up so hard it bounced off the tank and almost hit him in the head as he dropped to his knees.

He leaned his head over and lost everything he had eaten during the drive. He threw up over and over again, until all that happened was his stomach clenching, sour spit and bile and nothing at all left beyond that.

It… helped, a little. 

He was shivering by the time he could stop, but his heart had stopped pounding.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah called, voice faint and muffled.

“I am fine!” Finn yelled back, voice ragged and hoarse. “I get carsick!”

It was a patently ridiculous excuse, but Noah didn’t try to ask him to open the door, and Finn had never been so grateful to have someone be silent. He took deep breaths of the little soap in the package on the sink until the fake lavender smell overrode his memories. At least they had changed the scent of soap they used. Eventually, the lavender smell started to make him feel sick, too.

He turned on the shower and locked the bathroom door, shivering under the cold spray until it began to warm. When it was scalding, he scrubbed himself raw, washed his hair with cheap hotel shampoo.

When he came out, hair still dripping and dressed in the new, loose clean clothing with that thrift store smell, the room was empty.

Noah had left a note that said gone for pizza, watch whatever you want while I’m gone.

Finn looked through the curtains to see the truck was indeed no longer in its parking spot.

He could walk right to the desk if he wanted.

My name is Finn Schneider. I was abducted in 2003. My abductor is the one who tried to kill Kent Reyes. Call my mother or the German embassy. Call someone. Call anyone.

I'm not dead. 

But in his heart, he knew better.

I knew Finn Schneider. Tell her her son died in October 2003.

His mother’s son never made it out of the house. Whoever he was now, whatever Robert had left after he had scraped Finn clean… he didn't want anyone to see what Robert had made of him. 

So instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed into one of the beds. He was already crying by the time his head touched the too-soft pillow, nearly flattening to the mattress at the slightest weight.

He wept, hands over his face, in the silent way he had taught himself to cry inside the cage, until he had no more tears left. Then he took the remote and turned on the television just to have some noise, shivering as he changed channels until he found something other than the news or the sitcoms that Robert loved.

He settled on a cooking show, the voices a dull and comforting nonsense. The bed warmed around him, and he felt his muscles beginning to relax, one by one, against his will. By the time Noah came back with the pizza, Finn Schneider was fast asleep.

He was curled up in a ball, his hands pressed to the lower half of his face, pressing just a little, covering his nose, mouth, and chin.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep until it felt like he was wearing his muzzle. 

-

For whumptober: @whumpworld

Finn tag list:   @astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whumperfully @pigeonwhumps  @squishablesunbeam  @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot  @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature  @d-cs @honey-is-mesi @whump-queen @sowhumpful ask if you want to be added to the taglist    

#whump #whumptober2022 #no. 31 #you can rest now #rescued whumpee #recovering whumpee #trauma recovery #ptsd tw #brief emeto #referenced noncon #referenced murder #referenced beating #traumatized whumpee #muzzles #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #horror writing #original horror #original writing #horror fiction #captivity

[softsnzstuff]

Here’s something I’ve thought about for 11 years that no one asked for 💁🏻‍♀️

In S/upernatural when Sam and Dean get physically close to locating Pestilence (one of the four horsemen), they start getting sicker the closer they get. I think this scene tells a lot about how they are if they get sick.

Like for example - Dean gets more fatigued, feverish and has the sort of desperate dry cough. In the episode Faith, Deans the same way. More quiet/tired/feverish.

And then Sam! - He seems to get more congested. In this scene and in the episodes in season 8 for his trials, he’s got the more chesty cough but also in one of the later seasons when he has a cold he sneezes a lot??

Idk why it’s so intriguing to me that J2 seems to have made character choices early on and stuck with them but I appreciate it.

Scene I’m referencing linked here - TW: mess ((skip to 1:52 to bypass)), brief emeto (not Sam or Dean), blood

#s/upernatural #s/am w/inchester #d/ean w/inchester #whump #illness #snzblr #contagion

[straight-to-the-pain]

Tagging

Since I started this blog, I've tried to tag my content by trope and type because it's a helpful way of finding content I want to see, and for others, a good way of avoiding content they don't. I've tried to standardise my tags so that they can easily be searched (tumblr permitting).

However, there are inevitably going to be things that slip past me and tropes that I forget to tag. You are welcome to ask me to tag something, and I will tell you if there is a reason why I specifically chose not to.

I will not be tagging gender in whump, just as I wouldn't tag the race or sexuality of my characters, but I will try to tag for gendered or discriminatory violence if it comes up.

I've also chosen not to use the term 'tw' when tagging my content. Any of my tags could be a trigger for someone, and a promise of good whump for someone else. In my own writing, I try to give a brief summary of tropes and content under the header, both to warn and to entice.

I tag explicit sexual content with #nsft and suggestive but not explicit content with #spicy content. My tag for spicy content that's relatable to me personally is #s is a mess and a masochist.

I tag by oc with the tag #oc: [insert name here], my own writing with #my writing, original content with #my stuff, and asks I answer with #asks answered. I also tag posts that I've been tagged in with #tagged for me and my asks answered by other people with #my asks answered. My personal posts tag is #s talks and I tag complimentary asks with #nice stuff. I also try to tag by fandom.

Here is a list of common tags you might find on my blog:

By post type: #tropes and prompts #whump #whump meta #whump community #whumpy lyrics #art #whump art #whump gifs #whump video #whump audio #whump memes #laugh tag (anything funny) #s talks #asks answered #my asks answered #my stuff #my writing #my OCs #ask game #tag game By whump genre: #spy whump #military whump #sci-fi whump #fantasy whump #vampire whump #pet whump #box boy universe #superhero whump #minor whump (for characters under 18) #emotional whump #medical whump

By whump trope: #torture #public torture #captivity #kidnapping #electricity torture #water torture #solitary isolation #restrained #blindfolded #gagged #collared #dehumanisation #intimate whumper #forced to watch #implied/referenced torture #noncon #implied/referenced noncon #drugging #burning #branding #whipping #punishment #failed escape #gore #fingore #hand whump #eye gore #tooth gore #knives #held at knifepoint #held at gunpoint #self sacrifice

#grabbed by the hair

#manhandling

#defiance #needles

By comfort trope: #aftermath of torture #past trauma #painful wound cleaning #recovery #caretaking #comfort #rescue #hospital whump

Others: #alcohol #emeto (vomit) #politics #religion #abuse #child abuse #animal death #death #murder #nsft #spicy content #s is a mess and a masochist #tagged for me

#my stuff #tagging #I like to organise stuff okay #remembering that yelling at someone for not tagging something isn't going to make them want to tag stuff in the future #i like to tag so I can quickly and easily find my own stuff later #and if that can come in handy for someone else then great #but it's not an obligation #blogs are not obligated to tag things for you #please remember that #if someone doesn't tag the way you want them to after you've asked politely you are welcome to unfollow them

[endless-whump]

Simon/Oliver: Broken

CW: triggered whumpee, food trigger, referenced emeto, references to box boy whump, creepy whumper, ptsd, self blaming, self deprecating thoughts, panic attack, conditioning

Masterlist

y'all getting TWO WHOLE FICS TONIGHT 

Note: Takes place right before Trust, a crossover between Simon/Oliver and Marcus/Luca

----

Broken

That's the best word Oliver could seem to come up with to describe himself.  Even after he was home, he was safe, he was confident Simon wasn’t leaving him, he couldn’t stop himself from cracking and crumbling into a million pieces, unable to let himself surface.  

He felt like he was drowning, falling into depths he couldn’t even see, unable to reach out and grasp hold of anything for support.  He could barely close his eyes without seeing him, seeing sir.  

He felt sick whenever they tried to get him to take the medicine, images burned into his mind of men holding him down and forcing him to take pills, keeping him docile when Cedric wanted to bring him out for some fun.  They made him barely cogerient, and by the time they put him back in the dark room he didn’t even remember leaving in the first place.  Maybe it was better that way, though.  Maybe it was best if he didn’t remember what happened outside that room.

He clung to Simon whenever he could, glued to his side in fear of being pulled away.  He never, never wanted to be pulled away like that again.  He didn’t even care if Simon hurt him again.  As long as he didn’t have to go back.

Simon seemed to accept it, and seemed to be comfortable with Oliver becoming his shadow again after that night they confronted in the hallway.  Everyone in the house seemed to come to a silent agreement that they wouldn’t talk about Simon's outburst, or anything spoken that night, and Oliver was completely ok with that.

“Peach or lemon?”  Simon asked softly, metal spoon clinking against the mug on the counter.

Oliver stood by his side, a thin finger hooked on Simon's shirt as they stood in the kitchen.  It was early, Oliver had woken up with nightmares again.  Simon had brought him downstairs as quietly as he could, murmuring reassurances and moving to make him something that would calm him down.

“Lemon.”  He replied softly, resting his head against the other's shoulder.  Simon hummed in acknowledgment, grabbing the box and rummaging through it for the right kind, and Oliver couldn’t help but notice his hands shaking.

“I’ll take care of it.”  Marie offered softly, moving to take the mug from Simons shaking hands. Oliver hadn’t even noticed her in the kitchen, flinching a little at the sudden voice beside them.

Simon didn’t even argue, letting her pry the mug away from him. He was tired too, and they all knew it. Oliver felt guilt twist inside him at the thought, knowing he was the cause.

Simon muttered his thanks, guiding Oliver to sit at the table with him, resting his forehead on his arms crossed on the table.  Oliver watched him intently, fingers tapping at his leg nervously. Simon was spending all his time taking care of him, staying up when he couldn’t sleep, there when he woke up yelling.  He was always there, and Oliver was starting to wonder if that was a good thing.

He reached a hand out hesitantly, setting it on Simon's arm. He startled a little, blinking as he looked up, worried.

“Sorry- did you need something, Ollie?”

Oliver retracted his hand immediately, face falling.  He felt like he was shriveling up, cracked pieces falling from where he’d clumsily tried to put them back together.

“I..no..no sorry, was trying to..nevermind, sorry.”

He was trying to be comforting.

Instead he just bothered Simon more.  Maybe it would be best if he just didn’t try at all.

If Simon noticed anything wrong he didn’t mention it, dropping his head back down in his arms.  Oliver bit his lip, resolving to leave him alone.  He needed the rest and the break from taking care of him.

“Here you go, Oliver.”  Marie said kindly, setting the finished mug in front of him.  “Make sure you and Simon have something to eat later, I’m going back to bed.”   He blinked, looking up at her and forcing a small smile.

“Thanks.”  he murmured, picking it up and bringing it to his lips to sip at it as she ruffled his hair, making her way back towards the stairs with a yawn.  It was warm, the sweet tanginess of lemon flavor being the first thing to hit him.  The second thing to hit him almost made him gag.

Oliver froze, stomach twisting as the taste hit him, disgust and terror seizing him and making him go still.

Honey.

She’d put honey in it.

Simon knew not to put honey in it, he knew- but Simon hadn’t made it.  Marie did.  Marie didn’t know.

His hands shook slightly as his eyes went blank, breaths coming in quiet, pained gasps.

He wasn’t with sir, he tried reminding himself, failing.  He could almost still feel the hand on the back of his neck, sliding across his throat and up to tilt his chin, delicate china forced to his lips.  He could feel the hand on his leg, the collar tightened around his throat, the pleased hum right next to his ear.

He wanted nothing more than to hurl the mug across the room, watch it shatter against the wall.  He wanted it as far away from him as possible, wanted to disobey, to say no.

He knew he couldn’t, though.  He couldn’t force himself to throw the mug even if it was what he wanted most in this god forsaken world.  He couldn’t, he couldn’t, unable to even bring it away from his lips or even make a sound, Simon falling asleep next to him, oblivious.

There was only one thing he coulddo in that moment, and that was obey.

So he drank the whole thing.

He drank it silently, tears running down his face as he tried to hold back sobs, using two hands to make sure he didn’t drop the mug as it shook in his hands.  He drank the entire fucking thing, and then stumbled to the bathroom to throw it all up.

---

Simon groaned, looking up from where he’d dozed off at the table.  How long had he been asleep?  It was lighter outside, sunlight illuminating the kitchen through the blinds on the windows.

The first thing he noticed was that Oliver was gone.  His brain seemed to be processing everything too slowly, it taking a second to even register that the younger boy wasn’t next to him.

He stood quickly, blinking away the remaining sleep and scanning the room.  Oliver’s mug of tea was at the table where he’d been sitting, empty.  The kitchen was quiet, no sign of him anywhere. Simon was moving past the counter to check the living room when he spotted the small, plastic container of honey next to the box of tea packets, and his heart sank.

“Ollie?”

He went straight to the bathroom, testing the handle and thankfully finding it unlocked.  He gently pushed the door open, being met with exactly what he was expecting. Oliver was hunched over, shaking with sobs as he pressed his forehead against the edge of the bathtub.

He felt guilty as he moved to crouch beside him, setting a hand carefully on his back.  He should have been paying attention, he let Marie make the tea without it even crossing his mind to let her know.

Oliver flinched away, curling in on himself at the touch and close to hyperventilating.

“Hey, it's me.”  Simon soothed.  “I’m so sorry, Oliver.  I was tired and got careless-”

“I,I,I’m sorry.” Oliver choked out, surprising Simon. “M,Msorry for waking you up, I, I’m sorry..”

Simon blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. He grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink, wiping the sweat from his forehead and setting it around the back of his neck to soothe him.

“Ollie, you didn’t do anything wrong- here, let's get you to the couch.”

Oliver braced himself against the side of the tub and tried to stand but Simon didn’t let him, knowing better than to let him try to walk and end up passing out after working himself up this bad.  He picked him up as carefully as he could, the boy light enough to be carried with ease even in Simon’s tired state.

“N,No-”  He protested weakly, shaking his head even as his eyes struggled to stay open. “You..you were asleep, didn’t mean to, to wake you up..mfine..”

Simon sighed, holding him close as he walked to the living room.  There were two new rescues curled up on the armchair together, sound asleep.  Mia and Marie had picked them up over an hour away, something about the police being involved.  He couldn’t imagine how, the two looking so young.  

“You didn’t wake me up, I did on my own.  Didn’t even hear you until I went looking.”  Simon reassured.  He grabbed a water bottle, sitting down on the couch and offering it to him.  “Drink some, you’ll feel better.  Promise.”

Oliver took the water without question, shakily opening it and lifting it to his lips, drinking desperately.  He looked pale, and Simon didn’t have to think hard about it to guess he’d gotten sick.  He finally handed it back once it was half empty, and Simon set it aside.

“Look, if you’re worried about me getting sleep, we can go right back to sleep here.”

He laid down on his back, settling Oliver on top of him as he pulled a large blanket over the both of them.  He rubbed circles against his back comfortingly, coaxing him to relax, head resting by his collarbone.

“Just let yourself calm down, ok?  You’re right here, you’re safe.”

The last thing Simon needed was Oliver working himself up over him of all things.  He didn’t deserve that kind of guilt for being taken care of.

“You deserve to feel safe, Oliver.”  He hummed, staring up at the ceiling.  “You deserve to be taken care of.  You’re not a burden to take care of.”

He wasn’t sure if the words meant anything, but he needed to say them.  He needed Oliver to know he wasn’t a burden.

“I’m ok, Oliver.  I get tired sometimes, but that's not your fault.  None of this is your fault.”

He ran his fingers through Oliver’s hair, feeling tears soaking through his shirt but not commenting on it.  He was very, very familiar with the kind of guilt weighing down on you when you felt weak, when you felt like you were just dragging people down.  The kind of guilt that made you suffer in silence, a scream for help never being allowed to reach your lips as you try to make yourself as unnoticeable as possible.

Oliver was the last person on earth who deserved that.

Simon pressed a kiss to his dark hair, repeating it over and over.

“You deserve to feel loved,”

After months of darkness and pain and fear, that's all he deserved

“You deserve to feel safe and protected,”

After he failed Oliver again and again and again, Simon owed that to him

“You aren’t bothering me,”

Never.  He’d go to the moon and back for him

“I love you so, so much, Ollie, and you deserve every bit of it.”

Every single bit, and he meant it with everything he had

----

Taglist

@insanitywishes @18-toe-beans @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @simplygrimly @cinnamonflavoredhugs @finder-of-rings @deluxewhump @ashintheairlikesnow @briars7 @albino-whumpee @thatsthewhump

#whump #angst #box boy universe #panic attack #conditioning #hurt/comfort #ptsd #food trigger #Marie is trying her best ok #creepy whumper #flashbacks #referenced emeto tw #Simon/Oliver #my oc's #my writing #box boy #I need to get better at tagging

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

back at it again with the chaos posts. takes place before ashley moves in.

CWs: 17yo whumpee, slavery whump, tooth whump, blood, choking on blood, brief emeto, sadistic whumper, referenced self amputation, claustrophobia

Masterlist

-----------------------------------

He took the lock off the bathroom door.

He’d heard Kensington crying and tried to get in, and was pissed when he found it was locked. Kensington had unlocked it immediately, but he’d still been hit because of it. Leaving Kensington injured on the floor, Master went out and bought a new doorknob without a lock, saying that Kensington didn’t need or deserve any privacy in this house.

He held back all his tears until night now. And even then he cried with his hand over his mouth, his breaths short and shallow so Master didn’t hear him.

Things just kept getting worse. Kensington spent every second Master was home in constant fear. He never knew when he would mess up or say the wrong thing or breathe the wrong way. Honestly, it seemed like Grays-- … Master got pissed at every little thing Kensington did now. Kensington could go days without saying a single word or leaving his bedroom when he wasn’t needed, and Master would still scream at and hit him.

It left Kensington feeling exhausted. Worn out. Nerves shot. At the end of his rope, and every other word or phrase in existence for being real freakin’ tired. He lived in the same house as someone who hated him, someone who he was absolutely terrified of. Every day was spent just trying to survive without getting hurt too badly. It wasn’t even spent trying to not get hurt, now it just not too badly.

There was nowhere to be safe. He wasn’t allowed outside. His bedroom didn’t have a door, and the window was bolted shut. Master’s bedroom was strictly off limits, not that he’d really want to go in there anyway. And now the bathroom didn’t have a lock.

At least it still has a door, Kensi, he told himself, shutting it behind him. Be grateful for that much.

It was kind of hard to be.

Kensington took a breath and looked at himself in the mirror. The scar on his face was healing well, now just a raised pink line. The bags under his eyes from lack of sleep were worse. He was paler. His hair didn’t curl quite as much as it used to. He looked like the tossed out slaves he’d see on the side of road and give his extra food to because he felt bad for them. Kensington’s eyes filled with tears. He looked awful. He looked like he never wanted to see himself again.

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Knock it off. Master’s only in the living room, he’ll hear you if you cry. Don’t be a baby. He took a steadying breath, ignored the tightness in his throat, and got on with what he came to do.

He opened his mouth and pulled back his cheek, looking inside. There, on a tooth in the back of his top row of teeth, was a painful black spot that had been bothering him for days. It hurt to eat hot food and drink cold water. He couldn’t chew on that side. He apparently ground his teeth in his sleep last night, because he woke up with his whole jaw throbbing in pain.

It was a cavity, he thought. Those have to be fixed, don’t they? Yeah, a slave a couple houses ago had one and it got infected really bad. He was taken to the dentist and came back with his face swollen and numb, blood falling from the corners of his mouth. That master had been livid about the money he’d had to spend.

Kensington’s heart fell. What would his master do? He sure wouldn’t want to help him, he knew that much. Would he take him to the dentist? Master had taken him to the clinic when his eye was hurt, so maybe…

“Kensington!”

He cringed at the sound of his master’s voice, but hurried out of the bathroom to him nonetheless. What other choice did he have?

-----------------------------------

Kensington winced, chewing slower. He sat on the floor of the living room, Master on the couch behind him, but sitting where Kensington could see him. He had hardly eaten any of his dinner even though he was starving. Every bite hurt.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He froze, glancing up at Master. “Hmm?”

“You’re hardly eating. You always eat. So what’s wrong with you?”

Kensington hesitated. Should he tell him what’s really wrong? He might help, but he also might just make it worse… But there was also no chance it would get better on it’s own. “Uh, it’s my tooth. It… hurts.”

Master raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of food. “Your tooth hurts?” he asked, mouth open while he chewed. Kensington swallowed back his annoyance and disgust and nodded. “Hmm. Show me.”

Kensington set his plate on the coffee table and crawled over to his master, flinching when he took him by the jaw and forced his mouth open.

“Left or right?”

“Left. On the top.”

He shined the light of his phone and looked for a few tense moments before letting go. “Looks like a nasty cavity. Don’t you brush your teeth?”

Kensington didn’t answer as Master fell into silence, thinking. Hopefully thinking about when to take him to the dentist, but in the back of his mind he really didn’t think that would happen.

“Alright. Stay here.” He got up and headed to the garage, leaving his nervous slave behind.

Nothing good ever came from the garage. Every time Master went there, he only brought back pain. Kensington should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Compared to other things he’s felt, this really wasn’t that bad. He would’ve survived just fine with the pain but now Master was going to come back with something awful and hurt him. His heart pounded in chest as he heard Master rifling through the garage.

He came back soon… with pliers in hand.

Kensington exhaled hard, like all is air was stolen at once. “Oh. Um, Master, I don’t think--”

“Then stop thinking.”

“You really don’t need to pull my tooth, sir,” Kensington said quietly. Just the thought of anything touching it made the pain worse, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Master wouldn’t even pull it quickly, like you would with a loose tooth. He’d probably stretch it out, listening to Kensington’s screams and tears and not even caring at all.

Master’s eyes widened in faux shock. “What? No! No, I wouldn’t do that. You will.”

Really, all Kensington could do was stare at him as the words settled in his mind, louder and scarier than anything he’s heard in a while. You will. “What?” he asked, lips barely moving.

Master held out the pliers, handle first. “Pull out your tooth.”

His mouth opened and closed with no words coming out. Not again, he thought miserably. Don’t make my hurt myself again. “Master…”

“Either you do it or I will.” He took another bite of food. “In three days. Want it to stop hurting now? You do it tonight.”

Now that Master knew it hurt, he’d probably make it the worst three days ever. Not to mention him actually pulling it out… Kensington felt tears sting the back of his eyes but he pushed them away. It would be much worse if he cried beforehand.

With a sickening sense of deja-vu, he took the pliers and followed Master to the kitchen sink. He looked at him one last time, pleading with his eyes to make this stop, but all he got in return was a horribly familiar look of expectation.

The faster he did it the faster it would end, and maybe then he could beg Master for some painkillers… He also tended to back off a bit after a big punishment so hopefully Kensington could have a few days to himself to heal.

Okay… just get it over with.

But as he opened his mouth and lightly gripped his tooth with the pliers, his hands began to shake. His breaths came short and heavy as a sweat broke out on his forehead. His limbs froze up. He looked desperately to his master, but all he did was cross his arms over his chest and lean lazily against the counter.

“I don’t have all night, Kensington,” he said. “I’m not going to help you this time, either, so you better get going.”

The longer it took, the more impatient Master would get. The longer he would hurt. The longer it would be until he could go to his room and cry himself to sleep. If he could cut off his own finger, he could pull out his own tooth. It should be easier, right? People get teeth pulled all the time. It would be fine. He just had to do it.

But the last time he was forced to do something like this he was blinded by panic and adrenaline. He had no other choice. Tonight was just a regular night until now, and Kensington was clear-headed despite his pain, which allowed all the fear and unwillingness to get in his head and freeze his body. He could really stop and think about what he was doing and how badly it would hurt. And he didn’t want to do it.

“You’re pissing me off, Kensington,” Master said after a minute or two. “I could give you worse options, you know.” Kensington’s eyes shut. He knew. “Tell you what. If you do it within the next two minutes, I’ll even give you one of my good painkillers before you go to sleep.”

That did it. Kensington opened his eyes and leaned over the sink, taking one deep breath in before pulling hard.

He let out a groan that turned into a breathy scream as the pain intensified, spreading throughout his whole head and making white spots appear in front of his eye. Blood filled his mouth and spilled onto his chin, dripping steadily into the pristine steel sink. Nausea overcame him suddenly and he gagged on the taste of the blood, leaning forward so none of it slid down his throat.

Kensington ignored the overwhelming urge to drop the pliers and stop the pain he was inflicting upon himself, taking another quick breath through his nose and pulling again, this time with much less resolve. Tears mixed with blood as he screamed again, his other hand gripping the counter to hold himself up, legs shaking. Kensington whimpered as he gripped the pliers tighter, squeezed his eyes shut, and finally yanked the tooth free.

He collapsed to his knees, sobbing as the pain receded a small amount. Blood and drool continued to poor from his mouth, staining his shirt red. He opened his eyes as Master knelt by him, his face unreadable and blurry through the tears.

“See, Kensington?” he said. “That wasn’t too hard, now, was it?”

Kensington froze, mouth open and still drooling blood. Wasn’t too hard? Wasn’t too hard? He just lost another part of himself. He was forced to make himself suffer through pointless pain again just because Master wanted him to! Living here every day was ‘too hard’! Kensington was suddenly overcome with a rage so fierce he wanted to scream. Instead, he did something he knew he would regret from the moment it crossed his mind. He tilted his head up, glared at his master, and spit blood directly in his face.

Master reached up slowly, wiping the blood off his face and staring at Kensington with shock-filled eyes that Kensington returned. They stayed like that for a long moment as they both fully realized what he had just done.

Then Master moved all at once, taking Kensington by his blood-soaked shirt and hauling him down the hall.

“W-wait,” Kensington begged uselessly, knowing that there was nothing he could say, “wait Master I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to--”

“When will you learn that I don’t care what you want?” Master opened the door to the garage and tossed Kensington inside, his knees hitting the cement floor as he scrambled to sit up before Master could kick him.

But Master only stood there, smiling smugly and looking behind Kensington, like he was waiting for him to turn around. Hesitantly, he did, and his whole face paled.

There, in the middle of the garage, was a wooden chest, a lock hanging innocently off the latch. It looked sturdy and modern. And just big enough for an underfed teenage boy to fit inside.

Kensington swallowed, then gagged at the taste of blood. More tears gathered in his eyes at the fear gripping his heart.

“Wh… what is that?” he whispered.

“It’s just a little something I picked up for you.” Master rested a hand on Kensington’s head, gripping his hair. Not pulling. Not yet.

“For… for me?” Kensington’s jaw trembled, his head still pulsing with pain.

“Mmhmm. Let’s go.” Master gripped his hair, pulling him up and hauling him towards the chest.

Kensington wished he still had that foolish anger he possessed only a couple of minutes ago. Now he could only watch in paralyzed terror as he was dragged harshly towards one of his worst fears. He didn’t fight Grays-- Master as he opened the lid and pushed his slave onto his back inside this new torture.

Only once the lid closed and Kensington was blanketed in suffocating darkness did he unfreeze. He sobbed forcefully, his legs kicking out but immediately hitting the rough wooden lid of the chest. He couldn’t even move his arms at all, stuck with them crossed overtop of him. Tears fell and gathered in his ears, his chest heaving for breath. He sobbed again at the sound of the lock clicking shut, sealing him in hell.

“Master!” Kensington cried, the sound echoing back around him. “Master I’m sorry! I’m -- I’m so sorry just pl-please let me out! Please!” He coughed as blood ran down his throat, his dread taking a new form. He kicked out again, horrible, panicked sounds coming from deep inside himself. “Master please! Please don’t leave me here!” He screamed and coughed, the blood pooling inside his mouth. “Please I can’t -- I can’t breathe! Please I can’t breathe!”

Oh this was so so much worse than being tied up in the hall closet. At least there he could see light under the bottom of the door and he could stand and hold himself as he cried but he was just trapped with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait until he ran out of air and passed out or worse --

“MASTER!” Kensington screamed, his throat burning as blood kept going down. “Please! I don’t --” he coughed again, “I don’t want to die here! Please please! I don’t want to die here! Just let me -- let me out! Please why are you doing this?! Just let me go! I’m sorry!”

Kensington coughed on the blood again, but this time he couldn’t get in another breath. His eyes widened as he gasped in vain, kicking out at the lid. His chest heaved uselessly, gargling the blood caught in his throat.

I’m dying, he thought. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die locked in this stupid box and no one’s even going to care. He killed me.

He started to get lightheaded, his incessant kicking slowing down as his eyes slid shut.

Grayson killed me.

-----------------------------------

A firm hit to his back woke Kensington up. He coughed hard, gasping for air and crying when he realized he could actually breathe it in this time. Kensington took a few deep breaths, eyes tightly shut, before leaning over and expelling all the blood he’d swallowed.

“You’ll have to clean that up, you know.”

He flinched back at the sound of Grayson’s voice, opening his eyes. He was sitting not even a foot away, the lock hanging off the chest behind him. Kensington’s chest and head ached, and he could already feel the bruises forming on his knees.

Grayson stood, making Kensington flinch again. “There’s blood on the kitchen floor,” he said, heading to the door. “I want it cleaned before you go to bed.” He opened the door and paused, turning back. “We’re not done here, Kensington. You have something else coming.” He slammed the door behind him.

Kensington waited until he heard the distant sound of his bedroom door closing before he exhaled in relief.

It wasn’t over. Grayson had said he had something else coming, and that thought alone made him want to break down into tears again. But now, behind his abject fear and conditioned respect for Grayson, there was a deep hatred growing. Kensington didn’t quite know what to do with it, but he knew he wanted it to stay, and grow, for as long as he was forced to live in that house.

-----------------------------------

Taglist: @batfacedliar-yetagain @haro-whumps

#my boy kensi #the horrible grayson wayne #i gotta write why hes so claustrophobic sometime #its actually not something grayson did to instill that fear! #he just exploits the heck out of it #poor kensington #oh well #whump #slavery whump #minor whumpee #sadistic whumper #claustrophobia tw #tooth whump #brief emeto tw #blood tw #choking on blood tw #referenced self amputation

[actress4him]

12 Days of Whumpmas - Day 5

Fandom/universe: Original fiction - Obsession

Timeline notes: This takes place before chapter 1 of Obsession, during Cadence’s first captivity

Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, creepy/possessive/intimate whumper, captivity, restraints, partial nudity, referenced torture, fear of noncon, muzzle, branding, burns, brief emeto mention

.

.

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Oliver strokes a hand down Cadence’s bare stomach, drawing little swirls with his fingers. “I think I want to give you something. A gift, to always remember me by.”

Cadence blinks back tears as she stares up at the pipes and ducts above her. She can’t answer, not around the muzzle she’s been wearing for days, and if she could she’s figured out by now that she’d be punished for doing so.

She also can’t get away from his warm, intrusive touches. He’s always touching. If he’s not cutting and whipping and hitting and otherwise hurting her, he’s touching and petting. Her skin crawls underneath his ministrations. Sometimes she thinks if she has to take another touch, she’ll simply scream and scream and never stop.

But he likes it when she screams. So she won’t.

Instead she lies there, hands and feet both cuffed to the rusty metal bed frame, and tries to take herself far away, somewhere where she’s alone and warm and there are no hands to touch her.

“What do you think about that, dove? A little gift, just for you? I think you’ve been good enough lately to deserve it.” Standing, Oliver crosses to his toolbox, always kept handy nearby, and rummages until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s some kind of tool that looks a bit like a pen, but has a cord attached to it. She doesn’t recognize it, but that doesn’t stop her from flinching when he points it in her direction.

Returning to the bed, he climbs up, straddling her hips and smiling down at her. A chill runs down her body that has nothing to do with the low temperature of the room. He has yet to do anything that this position would suggest, but it doesn’t make her stop fearing it. Not when he keeps hinting at it with so many words and gestures.

He bends down, plugs the cord into the wall, and sits back up to study the tool, his smile growing. Please, she wants to beg. Please, please, I can’t take anymore, please don’t do this. Tears slide down her cheeks, collecting along the edges of the muzzle. She has no idea what he has in mind, but she doesn’t have to know. Pain has become her entire life.

“Now hold still, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to mess this up.” His tone says that if he does, she’ll be paying for it dearly.

The tool comes down toward her slowly, and she can’t help but tremble from head to toe, no matter how much she tries to be still. The first touch is nothing compared to how the rest of her body hurts, but it quickly grows as he drags it downward.

It burns.

He’s charring her skin, drawing elaborate loops and lines into her stomach as if she’s a piece of leather or wood.

And it keeps going.

And going.

All thoughts of not satisfying him by screaming go out the window. She can’t stop it. The sound rips out of her throat as her back arches up off the mattress. He responds by pressing down harder with his free hand, holding her in place and crushing her ribs at the same time. Her scream chokes off into broken sobs.

Finally, finally, it ends. Only it doesn’t really, because even without the tool pressed into her skin the burning continues, eating into her, lighting her entire torso on fire.

“Perfect,” he purrs, sitting back and setting the tool aside. He runs a finger across the brand and she jolts and cries out again as the pain skyrockets, handcuffs cutting into her wrists with the motion.

“Here, you need to see this.” His phone comes out of his pocket, not for the first time. She tries not to look as he lines up his shot and captures her humiliation. But only seconds later he’s shoving the screen up to her face, forcing her to see, making sure she can’t miss his ‘gift’.

At first she can’t make anything out but an inflamed red mess that’s weeping blood and blackened around the edges. It makes her stomach churn, but the good thing about not being fed is that there’s no way she can throw up.

Then she sees it. It’s not just random swirls, it’s his name.

He must see the realization on her face, because a smile breaks out on his. “What do you think, princess?” His thumb strokes underneath the words. “Now you’ll never forget who you belong to.”

Cadence squeezes her eyes shut, but it’s too late. The image is burned into her memory just like his name on her skin. Permanent. Even if she someday gets out of this place, she’ll never, ever escape Oliver Benton.

.

.

@justplainwhump

#amow twelve days of whumpmas #branding #obsessive whumper #gift giving #lady whumpee #lady whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #captivity whump #restraints tw #partial nudity tw #referenced torture #fear of noncon #muzzle tw #branding tw #burns tw #emeto mention #obsession fic #cadence the whumpee #Oliver the stalker #whump writing

[sadistgalore]

Harper and Killian: Please Don't Go

huge trigger warning for self-harm here. if you are in any way affected by this, i beg you, do not read this for the sake of your mental health. harper’s had a rough life, and she heals in unhealthy ways. again, do not read if you are sensitive to this topic.

Taglist: @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams, @whumptakesthecake, @all-whumped-out, @distinctlywhumpthing, @painsandconfusionfornow

CW: depression, bad coping mechanisms, referenced noncon/torture, abusive relationships, self-harm (cutting), emeto, hallucinations, stockholm syndrome, insults, implied drug abuse, near death, passing out from loss of blood, suicidal thoughts

Something was wrong.

Harper had felt it all day. It was like an itch that she couldn’t scratch. But she wasn’t sick, she wasn’t even that moody. She just felt depressed, and like she was doing something…wrong.

It wasn’t until late that evening when the feeling got worse, and the anxiety of feeling she messed up almost made her want to throw up. Jake broke up with her last week, but it was only a matter of time where he call again and she would run to him- like she does with every other guy. But being single like this made her feel so empty. Empty in a sense that she was expecting for something to happen. Phantom touches were scattered all around her body, and would flare up whenever she would fuck up. She needed something to get rid of those itches.

Soon after, Harper found herself hanging over the toilet bowl, dry heaving as heavy tears streamed down her face and sobs wracked her body. She felt absolutely fucking horrible, but she found out what was wrong with her. She had gone too long without being hit, or backhanded, or kicked in the gut, or pinned up against the wall as bruises were bitten into her neck.

Harper gripped the edges of the toilet bowl and screamed. She screamed and sobbed and yelled as her body just couldn't handle the feeling of being safe. She could’ve laughed if she wanted to, she was finally free from the abuse but she was so fucked up that she needed- no, wanted to be hurt.

“You’re pathetic.”

She looked up with shock, knowing she was alone in the apartment since Killian was getting high at the nearest dive bar. No one should be here, where did that voice come from? She flung her head back down as another dry heave came.

“Stop crying, it makes you look ugly.”

The voice was closer now, almost as if the source was just beside her. It was familiar, the disgust that lined its tone was something she remembered from before.

“Hello?” She whispered, too scared to even look up from the head of the bowl. Harper was shaking terribly, and she felt her head grow heavy.

“Get up. Stop being weak.”

She whimpered as she gripped the bowl tighter, and her tears splashed loudly when they hit the water. The itch grew worse and worse, and it finally spread to her arms, making them feel as if they were on fire.

“Harper.”

The girl finally looked up, seeing her ex-captor standing just in front of the door.

“Master,” she gasped, body automatically responding with his title.

Dark looked utterly disgusted as he stared down at his former pet, mouth turned down into a grimace. “You’ve been gone from me too long, my pet. You’re fallen out of your place.”

“Please,” Harper pleaded, not exactly sure for what as her head fell back down again. It really hurt now. Dark was the last person she wanted to see, but she couldn’t go on not being punished.

“I’m not going to do it for you, Harper,” he stated plainly and when she looked up again, he was gone.

She took a shaky breath as she rose from the toilet bowl, the itching in her arms unbearable. She opened the medicine cabinet, trying to ignore her pathetic ugly slutty face when she met her reflection in the mirror. With shaky hands, she grabbed Killian’s face razor and made her way back to the corner to the bathroom.

I need this, I need this, I’ve been bad I deserve this.

She held the razor to the wrist of her left arm, and didn’t stop to the think about the consequences once the red liquid flowed down her limb. But the itching didn’t stop, she needed more pain.

So she cut. And cut. And cut.

——

Killian came back to their apartment around two in the morning, stumbling as he struggled to lock the door. He slipped off his shoes, trying to be quiet for the sleeping Harper, and made his way to the bathroom to piss.

He opened the door, and almost fainted at the sight. Harper was hunched over, arms bloody and pooling down into a large puddle around her. She still had the razor gripped in her hand. There was so much, too much, red.

“Harper!” He screamed, running towards her and roughly threw his shaving razor out of her hand. “What the fuck did you do?!”

Harper slowly woke up after she had passed out, and the itching came back, stronger than ever. “No!” She screamed after seeing the razor on the other side of the bathroom. “No, give it back!”

Killian quickly grabbed her hands when she flung herself at him, but the force sent them both crashing down to the floor. Harper was on top, but she couldn’t get away due to Killian’s tight grip.

“Let me the fuck go!”

“No! You need to calm the fuck down!” Despite his drugged state, he managed to flip himself on top of her and pin her to the ground, wrists above her head.

Harper’s breath stalled as Killian realized the position she put her in, not thinking as he let her go in regret and quickly apologized. The girl stared at him for a moment, and used that advantage to reach beside her and grab the razor. Killian reacted quickly, though, and grabbed her arms when her back was turned to him.

He jumped as she let out a scream that turned into a wail, struggling and not caring the strain on her arms that were tightly gripped by Killian.

“Please,” the young man begged. “Just calm down, don’t do this to yourself!”

Harper continue to struggle and sob against his hold, ignoring his kind words and her mind became clouded.

Pain, pain, need pain can’t be happy I’m always his I’m never free never free

She looked up, and saw that Dark was back . “Always so disgusting,” he commented, making her feel even worse. Her head was pounding and the craving burned.

“Please, Master!” She screamed, startling Killian with her tone. “Please, hurt me!”

Killian looked at her in shock, confusion in his face as he saw no one was in the bathroom with them. He noticed she was staring at something in front of her intently, and realized what this whole thing was for. He had days like these, too.

“Hey, Harper,” he shushed, running his hands through her hair. “You’re okay, he’s not here. It’s just us, he’s just in your imagination.”

Harper blocked him out and just wailed wordlessly, finally resting her head on his shoulder once she ran out of energy. Killian didn’t even the tears notice the tears falling from his own eyes. “Please don’t do this,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Please, Harper, you’re beautiful. I love you, don’t do this, please. I love you.”

“I love you,” Dark said with his usual smug grin, looking down at her.

Harper shook her head and shut her eyes, trying to block him and the pain out. “I hate you,” she whispered. “I fucking hate you, just let me die.”

Killian just shut his eyes and held her tight, hoping she didn’t mean the words she said. She passed out again a minute later, leaving Killian to cry alone and pray that his friend would wake back up.

#whump #whump community #whump blog #whump fic #whump writing #lady whump #lady whumpee #whump recovery #bad coping mechanisms #referenced noncon #referenced torture #self harm tw #cutting tw #emeto tw #suicidal thoughts tw #depression tw #implied drug abuse #abusive relationships #stockholm syndrome #hallucinations #insults #passing out #near death #Harper #Killian #Dark #healing whumpee #original work #my writing #Devil's Playground

[redstainedsocks]

Undecided if this is fully canon or not, but it's just very whumpy and I had to get the scene out of my head. Set early during Zach's captivity.

Masterlist

Warnings: aftermath of noncon, head injury, concussion, emeto, blood, whumper as caretaker, brief victim blaming, vulnerable whumpee, forced nudity, noncon touching, captive whumpee, bad language

He couldn’t… couldn’t move. Couldn’t sit down. His arm. His arm was chained high above him to the pipe that fed the shower head, the way it always was when they let him clean up. But it was different now and he couldn’t get his feet back under him, swaying as he tried to keep his back straight while stuck on his knees. He couldn’t relax or his shoulder would wrench.

Water dripped down into his eye. Except… the shower was off. It wasn’t water, too thick, too red. His head hurt, throbbing with his pulse. He felt sick. Liquid swirled down the drain. Sluicing off him… out of him.

He rested his forehead against the tile and it felt nice. Sort of. A little better, less like the world was spinning. He ached in places he didn’t know he could ache, and was vaguely aware that wasn’t normal, even for here. When did it end? This constant, ever-worsening torture?

Footsteps sounded behind him and he cringed, heart racing. Not again not again, not now go away. He needed time he needed, his shoulder, his arm. There was nothing he could do… he couldn’t move, too weighed down, his head heavy on his neck. He couldn’t be touched again but then, he never had a choice.

Hands lifted his face. His answer whimper was muffled by the thing stuffed in his mouth, he couldn’t make his eyes focus either, nothing was working the way it should.

“Holy fuck, shit.” Mack’s voice was loud. Too loud.

There was clinking and his arm dropped into his lap and he groaned. He curled up, finally sank down and slumped onto the shower floor. Mack forced him around, hands everywhere, taking in every bruise and every violation until he cringed back. Shook his head weakly.

Slowly something was pulled out of his mouth, Mack’s fingers were insistent but gentle where his own had been too clumsy to manage it. Even so, the cloth caught behind his teeth and he gagged, stomach heaving. Mack pulled the cloth gag free and it hit the floor with a horrible wet smack.

Finally able to draw a big breath he gulped air and then leaned over and wretched, heaving up the contents of his stomach.

“Ugh, gross. Fuck.” Mack rubbed circles into his back and then turned the shower back on. Water ran down his body as Mack quickly hosed him off, paying special attention to between his legs, the inside of his thighs, the small of his back. “Who did this?”

Zach shook his head. Didn’t know. Didn’t… there was frantic grappling and pain, and then pressure and more pain in his memory but he didn’t have the details.

“God you’re a mess. I leave you alone for five fucking minutes.”

Zach was fairly sure it was more than five minutes. Much more. He’d been done with his shower long before… and then there was that, and that took time… he moaned again, his tongue too slurred in his mouth.

“Who did it, Griffin? I need to know.”

“D’un remember. Didn’t see.”

The water turned off. Mack had a towel and peered at his head with a wince.

“You must’ve clocked something, were they taller than you? Shorter? Who did it sound like?”

“Hit… hit my head. The wall…” he pointed upwards to a smear of red.

“I can see that,” Mack said, impatiently.

Zach slumped forward and leaned into Mack’s body, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. “Hurts.”

There was a loud sigh, and he winced, knowing pain usually came on the back of irritation. All that happened was

Mack put his arms around him. Which he didn't… didn't want. He flinched, flinging himself back against the wall.

“Fuck's sake, come on. I’m just getting you up, don’t freak.”

When Mack scooped him up and gravity swirled around him, the world dropping away, his body went lax and his eyes fluttered closed. It was over. He’d go back to his room now, and then, and then…

“Nice to know you get clingy afterwards.” Mack chuckled. “But fuck, Decker could have my head for this. This wasn’t supposed to happen yet.”

Not yet. But, eventually. Zach had guessed it would only be a matter of time. Maybe it was a mercy that he could only remember bits and pieces. Maybe it was a mercy that his head hurt so much that he just wanted to sleep.

Mack dumped him unceremoniously back in the small room that counted as his cell these days and he nearly laughed. There was no mercy here.

[Taglist: @haro-whumps @whumpthisway @hurting-fictional-people @lonesome--hunter @crowned-avery @extrabitterbrain @firewheeesky ask to be added or removed!]

#aftermath of noncon #noncon tw #referenced noncon tw #creepy comfort #whumper as caretaker #head injury tw #concussion #emeto tw #victim blaming #forced nudity #intimate whump #captive whumpee #zach and archer #team whump #whump series #OC whump

[myersesque]

Do you have any horror movies to recommend for someone just getting into the genre? I’m down with almost anything as long as it doesn’t take place in a psych ward. If that’s too much work you can totally ignore this!

oh boy do i!!! sorry for this taking so long, i started infodumping a little and i wanted to include, like, a decently-sized list.

general warning tht this is based entirely on my own personal taste, and i tend to like shitty (quality-wise) movies sometimes. i'll try n include whatever trigger warnings i can think of so u can pick n choose what ur willing to sit thru! (general TW for blood/gore, obviously)

the evil dead (1981), evil dead 2 (1987) & army of darkness (1992):

these r all part of one series*, n one of my comfort franchises!! evil dead is notorious for bouncing around genres - the first movie is straight-up horror w some comedy, the 2nd is horror-comedy, and the 3rd is slapsticky action comedy w a bit of horror thrown in. it's got sick low-budget sfx, n was directed by sam raimi! the basic plot synopsis is that a group of college students go to spend a weekend in a cabin in the woods, accidentally discover something called the necronomicon ex mortis, and end up summoning otherworldly demons ("deadites"). ash (one of the characters) is one of my fav horror protags ever, and also definitely trans if u ask me. the entire evil dead franchise is pretty much just bruce campbell being a himbo and everything going wrong, it’s a fun time [TW: demonic possession, brief sexual assault (two scenes, in the 1st n 2nd movies; everyone who worked on it agrees they were done entirely for shock value, and u can probably find an edit that cuts them out, or timestamps to skip them), general vulgarity (deadites have mouths on em), self harm (one scene in the 2nd movie), body horror (deadites aren't pretty), emeto] * the series is continued in the show "ash vs the evil dead", however that contains a brief psych ward subplot in one of the seasons, so i'm not including it in this list. those themes are absent from the movies, though!

the fly (1986):

i never shut up abt this movie, ever. it's absolutely devastating. it's a tragic romance and a scifi horror movie all rolled into one. in the movie, a scientist by the name of seth brundle has invented teleportation, and has enlisted reporter veronica quaife to tell his story. one night, seth is drunk and upset and teleports himself - not noticing that a fly is in the telepod with him. the machine is only programmed to handle 1 thing at once, so it accidentally fuses seth and the fly together, causing him to slowly transform into a half-bug-half-human monster. it's absolutely heartbreaking and also the best thing i've ever seen jeff goldblum in tbh. (it's a remake of an old 50s movie of the same name, though this version is a lot sadder afaik) this isn't rlly a super beginner movie i don't think - as i said, it's got a lot of gross body horror, and it's one of david cronenberg's best works (if not THE best of his works), so it's a bit intense - but i will take literally any opportunity to plug this movie. [TW: major body horror, possible self harm? (not sure if it counts if it's not entirely intentional), animal death, insects, pregnancy (both as a subplot and played on for horror), discussions of abortion, alcohol, emeto]

friday the 13th (1980) & friday the 13th part 2 (1981):

i know everyone knows jason via media osmosis, but i feel like the first 2 movies really don't fit people's knowledge of him as a character - i was definitely a little thrown the first time i saw them! idk how much i can really say without spoiling it, but you probably know the basics: teens and/or young adults go to an old summer camp with the intention of becoming camp counsellors, they get slowly hunted down and killed. [TW: in-world ableism (sort of inherent w jason as a character), animal death (extra icky bc this wasn't sfx), implied/referenced child death, general ableism (in regards to psychosis specifically, i believe), flashing lights, shakycam pov, cultural appropriation (a white character mocking native american culture)]

black christmas (1974):

one of my favourite movies ever! ik i'm saying that a lot, but this one's extra good. black christmas came pretty early on in the invention of slashers, and therefore subverts a lot of slasher tropes simply by being created before they were established. it's the good ol "babysitter and the man upstairs" urban legend mixed around a little bit; a bunch of girls at a sorority christmas party are repeatedly harassed by a man on the phone, and end up mysteriously disappearing one by one. this movie gives me total chills. it isn't super bloody, either - most of the kills happen off-screen. it's a total "sometimes your imagination is scarier than what we could show you" deal. [TW: nsfw dialogue (the killer, billy, is dubbed "the moaner" for a reason), off-screen child death (both strongly implied and directly confirmed), general paranoia-inducing content, lots of loud noises (billy definitely doesn't fit the silent slasher trope), alcohol, shakycam pov]

house of wax (2005):

so admittedly i'm a little biased, bc i have a genuine fear of wax figures, but this movie scares the everloving shit out of me. a group of friends are driving out together somewhere in louisiana, when their cars break down - a nearby trucker offers to drive some of them to the nearest town to find help, which they accept. they end up at the small, quiet town of ambrose, with the main attraction of the house of wax - an art piece featuring an entire building, complete with residents, made of wax. without spoiling all the details: it turns out there's a reason the wax figures look so realistic, and it turns out the artist is looking to add a few new ones. it's also hilariously, painfully 2000s, and has a mcr song as the credits song, so. [TW: general uncanny valley weirdness, torture (both active and passive), child abuse (physical and emotional - both shown on-screen), paranoia-inducing shit, the generally ableist trope of disfigured villains, etc.]

scream 1-4 (1996-2011):

(scream 5 is only not included bc it's not out yet and therefore i haven't seen it) scream is one of my favourite movies ever!! it's pretty much what jumpstarted my slasher fixation. it's half a parody and half a genuine slasher movie - it's meta and self-referential and so, so smart at what it does. the basic plot, without spoiling too much, is that, on the 1 year anniversary of the town's biggest court case, the small town of woodsboro is tormented by a serial killer, disguised by a cheap halloween costume, who calls his victims on the phone and asks them for their favourite scary movie. he then has a fun little trivia game with them, and any small mistake they make when answering will lead to their death. it's funny and creepy and so very very gay (seriously - there's a whole lot of strong lgbtq+ implications, and i'm pretty sure the writer has outright stated that certain scenes are full-on gay metaphors between characters). the sequels vary in quality (2 is the best and 3 is the worst imo), but they're all pretty damn fun. i wouldn't recommend jumping into it as your first horror movie, since it references a lot of well-known horror flicks and spoils the endings for a few, but if you're fine with that, it holds up even without the satirical context imo. the first movie is one of few slasher movies where i care about every single character, they’re all so charismatic and memorable (and sid is one of the best protags ever, don’t @ me)! [TW: mentions of off-screen rape (past), manipulative relationships, very mild sexual content (characters talking about sex, sexual innuendos, etc), alcohol, child death (characters in the first movie range from about 17 to 19), casual ableism (e.g. killers being referred to as "psychotic")]

saw (2004):

ok hear me out here: saw gets a bad rep. like, a REALLY bad rep. it's often dismissed as just flat out torture porn, but i'd argue the first movie isn't even close to that - it's a thriller, with some gorey scenes thrown in. the basic plot is that a serial killer by the name of jigsaw kidnaps people who he sees as morally impure and forces them into life-or-death traps, the idea being that if they survive they'll see how easily their lives could end and become better people. he sees it as doing the world a service. the movie itself follows 2 intertwined plotlines: a group of detectives trying to identify the jigsaw killer, and 2 men (dr lawrence gordon, a surgeon, and adam faulkner-stanheight, a photographer) who are trapped together, with the instructions to murder the other man to escape. the entire movie rotates around the identity of the jigsaw killer, and the 2 men trying to find a way of escaping without killing each other. it's a lot of fun, incredibly impressive given the budget, and the ending made me audibly gasp. it's incredible. (also, for bonus points: there's a clip somewhere online called "saw 0", which is the short film that they used to pitch the movie. it's a funky lil extra.) [TW: self harm (on and off screen), torture (it's... it's a saw movie), kidnapping, threats towards children, flashing lights, general trauma]

the texas chainsaw massacre (1974) & the texas chainsaw massacre 2 (1986):

for the sake of transparency, i'm not a super mega texas chainsaw fan. it was one of those movies that was hyped up so much to me that i wasn't as scared as i thought i'd be by it - i remember as a little kid i thought it was real, bc i mentioned the title once and my whole family tensed up and told me not to talk about it. but anyway, general plot synopsis: a group of people are driving through texas, run out of fuel, and end up wandering into the home of the sawyer family, a bunch of chainsaw-wielding cannibals. one of the sons, bubba, makes masks out of the skin of his victims, earning the nickname leatherface. it's a lot of intense, loud noises and long tense scenes and genuinely revolting moments. the sequel is a bit more comedic and slashery in comparison. [TW: cannibalism, mutilation, self harm (brief), kidnapping, slaughterhouse noises are used in replacement of a soundtrack, real human bones were used as props, shit like that]

a nightmare on elm street (1984):

another certified classic! freddy kreuger isn't my favourite slasher, but this movie's pretty damn scary. basically, a group of teens are discussing their dreams and figure out they've had the same nightmare - a man with knives for fingers hunting them down and trying to kill them. it becomes clear to them that if they die in the dream, they'll die in real life too, and the killer they face in their dreams is somehow relevant to their pasts in a way they don't remember. [TW: child death (the main cast are teens), lots of unreality (in dream sequences), implied p^dophilia, repressed childhood trauma]

behind the mask: the rise of leslie vernon (2006):

another comedic one! this is a comedic mockumentary set in a world where slashers are real, and following the story of leslie vernon, a young man who wants to become one. he enlists a news team to make a documentary about his uprising, and along the way ends up legitimately becoming close w them and enjoying their company - which is a bit of an issue, bc leslie still plans on killing people. it sorta seamlessly shifts between comedic mockumentary and genuine slasher movie, and has some moments that genuinely break my heart. (also, if you like leslie and want more of him, he has his own comic series!) ((also also!! one of the side characters is strongly implied to be billy, the killer from black christmas!!)) [TW: there's a discussion at some point about leslie being mentally ill and having been treated for it in the past, though i can't remember the specifics of that reveal super clearly. fire.]

us (2019):

holy shit this movie. i cannot recommend this movie enough. if you choose only 1 movie to watch from this whole list, i hope it's us, bc Holy Fucking Shit this movie is underrated. basically, it comes from the idea that our shadows are their own sentient people, who are mirror images of us and yet forced to live beneath us; this movie is what happens when they get tired of that, and try to take our place. it's a worldwide uprising of people's shadows trying to kill them, and it's fucking badass as all hell - it even has some rlly strong comedic moments mixed in w all the family feels and horror! it's also directed by jordan peele, an amazing black director, and the main characters are primarily black (which i think is worth mentioning, bc i rarely see horror movies fronted by poc!!). [TW: kidnapping, child endangerment, general eerie uncanny-valley kinda situations, child death, paranoia-inducing shit, slight unreality]

warm bodies (2013):

this is a weird one so bare with me: horror romcom. romeo and juliet, except romeo's a zombie. i'm not kidding. that's the plot of the movie. it's fun YA teen romcom bullshit, but the protagonist is a sentient zombie man who regularly eats people's brains. it's not exactly scary imo, but it's still classed as horror and i love it dearly, so i'm including it anyway. [TW: sorta-cannibalism? (he's a zombie sooo) - i can't remember anything else tbh!]

sweeney todd: the demon barber of fleet street (2007):

musical movie!!! benjamin barker comes back to london after years in prison under the new alias "sweeney todd", in order to seek revenge on the man who got him wrongfully arrested in a ploy to steal his wife and daughter away from him. he ends up working as a barber above mrs lovett's pie shop and, in a fit of rage, murders one of his customers. he and mrs lovett figure out a deal: he kills any customers whom he thinks deserve it, and mrs lovett uses their meat in her pies. complete with spooky murder duets and ballads about classism! [TW: cannibalism, implied p^dophilia, mentions of rape, attempted suicide, fire, classism, manipulative relationships]

shawn of the dead (2004):

another horror comedy one!! may or may not be a dawn of the dead parody, but i've still never seen dawn of the dead and i understood it perfectly, so. very british, sorta buddycop-esque comedy set in a zombie apocalypse, with the occasional heartbreaking scene. the main characters are completely normal people and also not smart. it's a fun time. [TW: parental death (it took me 10 tries to get through this movie as a kid), alcohol]

thir13en ghosts (2001):

a family inherit an artistic glass house from their eccentric uncle. upon arriving, it turns out he's been using the house to trap vengeful spirits in the basement, which are only visible when wearing special glasses to see them. it's got tons of cool ghosts, a pretty unique concept, and matthew lillard covered in blood: what more could you ever need? [TW: lots of flashing lights, nudity (non-sexual), child death, i know i put a general gore warning but this movie has A Lot Of Gore iirc so it's worth saying again]

jennifer's body (2009):

local wlw teen is turned into a demon and spends her time having sex with and consequently killing her male classmates, all whilst having a flirtatious relationship w her best friend. lots of megan fox being cool as fuck [TW: ok admittedly it's been a long time since i've seen this movie, so i don't remember a lot, but off the top of my head: emeto, vague (off-screen) nsfw, demonic possession]

(honourable mention to the chucky franchise, bc i never shut up abt it, but child's play and cult of chucky both include a lot of psych ward shit off the top of my head, so if ur interested in that franchise at all, i'd skip those 2 and/or read a plot synopsis instead)

#THANK U FOR ASKING feel free to talk to me abt horror movies literally any time #if i think of any more later i'll reblog this n add em but i've been typing this answer for long enough now bvhcjcbvh #ask #horror tag #genderfluidsheik #HOPEFULLY I INCLUDED THE RIGHT WARNINGS FOR EVERYTHING;;; #if anyone knows any i missed pls lmk

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Christmas Specials: Fishcake

CW: Some hint of dehumanization and references to Bahram’s depression/past breakdown at the end, some brief emeto references, but really this is just fluff. Oh, also brief unintentional ableism that Miah calls out.

Introduction | Siren Song | Cries | Here | Not Sure | Draw Blood | Fish | Signs | Stop | Something New | Help | Please Don’t Let Me Drown  | Fish Food | Squeaky Toy | Fading | Fishcake

---

BAHRAM’S NOTES

December 24th, 20XX 11:15 pm Mer in Residence: 71 Days

Miah showed up tonight with a Christmas present for me, and now I feel like a giant dick for not having anything to give her. 

Christmas just isn’t a thing in my family. I mean, I have cousins who go overboard with it, kind of a fitting in thing, but my family never did. Baba does some kind of fast, but for Maman it’s just another day and for me it’s always meant mostly a day where I played video games all day because I didn’t have to be at school or work. 

Oh, I need to call Baba and Maman tomorrow, note to self. She always gets worried about me right around the end of the year, what with how they figured out I was quitting school and everything.

I guess getting a phone call from a hospital leaves a bloody impression.

Anyway, Miah comes in with this big shopping bag in her hand, waving at me all bright and sunny and cheerful. She set the bag down long enough to berate me for - she assumed - having not taken my medicine on time. 

For the record, she was right, but I didn’t tell her that.

Nearly drowning in saltwater made my lungs apparently terribly angry with me, so for the next eight days I’m on a run of antibiotics to handle a lovely case of bacterial pneumonia. Would’ve been far handier to get pneumonia right away, but instead I ended up in Urgent Care yesterday, paying 200 dollars and waiting two hours to see a doctor for less than ten minutes. 

Dr. L says she’ll reimburse me the cost, but still. 

Miah asked me how I was feeling, I said I felt fine, really, and then of course I had an awful coughing fit just to prove myself a wonderful liar. The coughing’s the worst part - every time I really get going, it’s like being underwater all over again. I can feel my lungs fighting to inflate, to take the air in, and I can hear how hard I’m working to get enough air to stop coughing at all. Miah can’t hear it, but she can see it all right, and she looked worried.

I signed, “I’m fine, it’ll stop, the doctor says it will,” and she frowned at me, but let it go, I guess. While she had her face turned away to greet the mer, I opened the pill bottle and dry-swallowed the meds really fast. Sometimes there are benefits to Miah not being able to hear things.

The mer - Kima, I can call him by his name in these notes, the ones only I see - was already at the side of the tank, watching us. He’s perked up a bit lately, since I started giving him live fish on the days Dr. L isn’t around and Miah brought him all these enrichment things. We’re doing what we can, but I know it’s still not enough.

Enough would be figuring out where his bloody family is and getting him back to them, but I just… I can’t even begin to explain, even to myself, the logistical nightmare of hauling a six-foot-long mer back to the ocean and finding someone who would take him back up north where his family likely is in the middle of bloody fucking December.

It’s the right thing to do, yeah.

But it’d just be too hard to pull off, not without losing… my whole taped-together life, yeah? Plus I’m still dealing with trying to figure out who exactly is my real employer at this point - who’s paying Dr. L - and what they want from the mer’s… thing he can do.

Miah glanced over at him and signed, “Don’t worry, I have something for you, too,” and Kima just looked back at her, head cocked to the side. She looked over at me and signed, “It’s a fish-cake.”

I have to admit, it took me a second to even begin to respond. My hands just… hung in mid-air, before finally I asked, “A what?”

“A fishcake. It’s like a fruitcake, but so much worse.” She leaned down to dig around in the big bag and pulled out a box, pausing to add, “I had to wrap it and box it or the car would have smelled horrible for days,” before she picked up and laid the box on my desk, opened it, took out something wrapped in layers of plastic, and unwrapped that, painstakingly slowly.

I glanced over at the mer, who watched with total fascination. Maybe he’d caught the sign for fish, he’s incredibly food-motivated. Which makes sense, of course, probably with his pod he’d spend a lot of his day eating and hunting for more, but

Bahram. Focus.

She was right - as soon as the plastic came off, I could smell it. 

“How can you handle that? Isn’t your sense of smell… really good?” Ah, yes, I am always so proud of myself when I forget a sign for a word I want to say and have to sort of cobble together the spirit of it with other signs.

She looked at me with this sort of dry are you kidding me expression, then signed, “I’m deaf, B, not a superhero,” in a way that made me feel about ten inches tall.

“Sorry. That’s an awful smell, though.”

And it was. I like fish as much as the next man, but this was foul. She grinned at me and picked up the tupperware the fishcake was in using towels to protect her hands from picking the smell up too, I guess, and went over to the ladder up to the platform. Her back was already to me, so I couldn’t ask her the question I had, or tell her not to do that one-handed. Instead, I just sort of… got up and hovered uselessly while she climbed up without looking back, and then followed her up there.

The platform makes me… nervous, now. I stay closer to the ladder, farther from the water. I hope the mer, that Kima doesn’t think I don’t want to be close to him or something.

Miah took the lid off the tupperware and waited. Soon enough the mer popped up near us, interested in what we were doing on the platform. 

I watched those nasal slits open wide when he smelled the fish. And I watched how his eyes went big and shiny with excitement. Whatever Miah had put in the foul thing, he wanted it.

She dumped it into the water - I didn’t see much, other than a sort of loaf-shape and a sense of texture I never want to think about again - and Kima tore into it. It was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen, and I have actually watched Kima eat raw fish that was living seconds before. I had to look away - and so did Miah, but she was laughing. She can’t hear herself, only feel the vibration in her own throat. Her laughs kind of sound almost honking, choked-off, just totally un-self-conscious noises she’s barely aware of.

I should tell her that I like the way she laughs.

Oh, I absolutely should not do that.

Maybe I should, though.

She grinned at me, still laughing, and signed, “This is disgusting!”

“It is,” I signed back, “And it’s your fault, don’t forget that!”

She was still laughing when Kima looked back up at us, fish bits smeared around his mouth, and she signed, “Merry Christmas, K-I-M-A,” to him. He stared back, signed yes, and then dove back under the water, present utterly devoured, leaving only gross little particles I will probably have to hose off the sides of the tank on cleaning day when the filters can’t quite pick them up.

Miah looked at me, and I just thought, you know, she’s really pretty even under the sun lamps, and nobody is pretty in that light. Then she signed, after this moment of stillness, “I bought you a present, too.”

“Me?” I pointed back at myself, blinking, surprised. “I don’t do Christmas, M, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I know. But I still bought a present. Can I show you?”

“Um, sure.” I get nauseous when I’m nervous. For a second, climbing back down the ladder, I thought I’d just get sick all over myself. I was badly designed, my defense mechanism is just to vomit on myself to scare predators away, clearly my body thinks pretty women are dangerous and I have to embarrass myself until they stop looking at me.

Finally, though, we were back at my desk. The smell… lingered. I’ve since burned the candle Miah got me, and the sulfur from the matches and the scent of the candle itself have largely done away with it, but when we got back, it was still powerful. 

She didn’t pull anything out of the bag, instead she just took a small card out of her back pocket and handed it to me. 

I looked down at it. “Alborz?” I realized I’d spoken out loud, looking down, and looked back up quickly so I could repeat it in sign, so she could see. “A-L-B-O-R-Z? A gift card to a restaurant?”

She nodded, quickly, signing so fast I was having trouble keeping up. I guess… was she nervous, too? “It’s food like you grew up with, yes?”

“Yeah, more or less. I mean nothing is better than my mother’s food. But why-”

She reached out and grabbed my arm with one hand to stop me, leaned in so close that the smell of this super subtle perfume she wears was stronger, for a second, than the smell of fish. “B,” She signed, with heavy, slow emphasis, “Think about why I bought you this.”

I just looked at her. I didn’t get it at all, and told her so.

I’m so bloody dense.

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air with an eye-roll and a smile, and then signed, “When are you taking me there?”

She had to repeat the signs three times before I realized she was asking me on a date.

So anyway, I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight, and also I think I celebrate Christmas now.

Date-mas.

That was an awful joke. I’m leaving it there just to properly shame myself if I ever reread this.

---

@astrobly  @burtlederp   @finder-of-rings   @slaintetowhump   @moose-teeth   @misspelledwitch   @whumpfigure   @whumptywhumpdump   @boxboysandotherwhump   @whumpywhumpwhump   @yet-another-heathen   @fanmanga1357-blog @justabitofwhump  

#mer whump #christmas specials #signs of the sea #depression tw #breakdown mention tw #emeto references #mer whumpee #fluff #angst and fluff #all comfort no hurt #referenced drowning #bahram anvari #miah kirsse

[hold-me-sickfics]

Okay y’all chapter 2 is up😊💙

I loved writing this chapter and I want to thank @thatoneemokpop-02 for being there to bounce ideas off of 😊 chapter 3 coming soon!

TW: emeto, censored swearing, mention of food (kinda) (if y’all see any I missed, let me know💙)

Chapter 2

By the time class ended, Namjoon had most of the class on the edge of their seats.

“Okay, we’re gonna stop here for today, everyone read section one if you can. We’ll discuss it tomorrow when we come in.”

The bell rang, allowing the students in Jimin’s class to go to break. Jimin had planned to stay for a minute and talk to Namjoon, but Namjoon had gotten a phone call from his husband, Jin, last minute. He decided to just pack up and head on to his locker after giving a quick wave to the professor. Namjoon returned it.

Jimin got to the hallway, finding his new locker relatively quickly. He put in the combination for the lock, and then opened it to begin switching things around that should or shouldn’t go with him to his next class.

“H-hey Jimin.”

Jimin turned around quickly to see a guy who was nearly his height. He had blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and a rather shy smile. Jimin had seen him before, but it had been years since they’d spoken. The most recent time was in sixth grade when Jimin was in desperate need of a pencil and this boy happened to have a spare.

“Hi!” Jimin was really mad at himself for forgetting the boy’s name.

The boy looked bashful, and then spoke.

“I think we have the same music class. Have you had Mr. Richards before?”

“No, not yet. I��ve heard he’s a tough grader.” Jimin smiled, and the boy did as well.

“I’ve heard the same thing. I’m hoping it’s more writing music than studying Mozart and the rest of them.” He laughed nervously. “I’ve never been that into studying.”

“Me either.” Jimin felt a little common ground with this new boy. He’d much rather be writing than studying, even if it was for Namjoon’s class.

“Well, I’m gonna go grab some breakfast… I’ll see you in music?” The boy spoke shyly.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jimin smiled back, watching as the boy walked toward the cafeteria. He seemed to be a nice guy, but much more awkward than Jimin typically went for.

When the bell finally rang, Jimin headed down to the music room. He was one of the first to sit down, so he was able to watch everyone come in. He loved observing everyone. After meeting the boy from earlier, he had to admit that he paid special attention to where he sat.

He ended up choosing a seat at another table. Jimin was honestly a little disappointed.

“Okay class, we are going to start out with roll call…”

Jimin hated this part of class. Having to raise his hand in front of everyone and hope his “here” fit in with the rest of society’s. It was just… no. Thankfully, he made it through, and managed to sound decently okay.

“Min Yoongi?” The teacher called out, and the boy from the hallway raised his hand and replied in a tiny “here.”

Jimin felt his entire body electrified in shock. How on earth had he came up with that name when he hadn’t heard it in so long?

“That should be everyone. Now, I’m going to start us off by doing a project. I’ve pre chosen your partners. You should see your name along with your partner’s name on the whiteboard in the back of the room. Find each other. And chop chop, I don’t have a lot of time to get all our material in.”

As fate would have it, Yoongi and Jimin’s names were together. Jimin couldn’t help but smile a little. After having talked to him a bit and seeing him in class, he had taken a tiny liking to the guy. He was cute, in a small, nerdy, awkward sort of way.

By the time Jimin and Yoongi had met in the middle of the crowd, the teacher had already started on the directions for the project. It was some sort of definition-teamwork thing he’d put on a worksheet.

Yoongi smiled, blushing a bit behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

“I guess we’re in for more studying then?” Jimin joked, referencing their discussion from earlier.

“Sadly.” He laughed. “Need to borrow a pencil?” Yoongi’s eyebrow raised just a smidge, revealing his cute smirk.

“Actually, I think I do.” Jimin had left his bookbag on the other side of the room.

Right before they started their sheet, two students on the other side of the room got into an argument. Turns out (based on their yelling) they were exes.

“Yoongi,” the teacher called. “Switch over here. Jimin, you stay where you are.”

Yoongi and Jimin’s smiles both faded quickly. Jimin went to return the pencil, before Yoongi told him to “Keep it, he might need it later.” Yoongi gave a sad smile, and then went to the other side of the room.

Jimin glared at his new partner.

Things moved along after that. Periodic glances at Yoongi were definitely taking place. But for some reason, Yoongi looked different. More pale perhaps? And he could have sworn he saw him holding his stomach through his jacket.

“Dude are you even paying attention?”

Jimin turned back to his partner. He wished he could trade back more than anything.

“I have literally done 3/4ths of this page. If you can’t suck it up and finish at least one definition by yourself, then i think I see why she dumped your dumba**.”

The boy looked angry, but continued to finish the page. Meanwhile, Jimin kept a close eye on Yoongi. He hoped he was alright.

By the time class was over, Yoongi was looking a lot worse. He was sweating profusely, his skin almost ghostly white, and his grip on his desk was white-knuckled. Jimin, and anyone else who could see him, could tell he was in pain. Everyone except the teacher that is.

The second the class was actually dismissed, Jimin went over to Yoongi, stooping down beside him.

“Hey, you okay? You don’t look like you feel good.” Jimin saw him shiver.

All Yoongi could do was shake his head, before a soft gag had him curled to the side away from Jimin. The teacher was now on the way over with a wastebin.

“Is he sick?” the man’s voice did nothing but make Yoongi feel rushed and uncomfortable. Jimin took the bin, holding it under Yoongi’s chin.

“I just came over here because he looked pale and then he got worse.”

“Well, I’ve got another class coming in so I’ll write you a late note for your next class just see to it that he gets to the nurse’s office.”

Jimin nodded, and watched the professor walk to his desk.

Yoongi whimpered, gagging again, then just panting heavily over the container.

Jimin didn’t know how to help. In his fanfictions, handling a sick character was easy. They always wanted you to help and they always accepted whatever you did. What if what he normally did made Yoongi worse? Or even worse than that… what if he rejected it altogether?

“P-Please j-just d-do it J-Jimin…” Yoongi whimpered, holding his stomach tight.

Jimin’s eyes widened. This was the second time this guy had known what he was thinking… it had gone from coincidental to… whatever word you wanna use. Still, he had no time to think.

This was when he had to use his “fanfic experience” and just hope for the best...

#emeto #tw food #Yoonmin Vampire #chapter 3 coming soon! #🖤🖤🖤 #tw censored swearing

[ao3feed-danganronpa]

but the rain never ricochets

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2I8hqdm

by sunflower_8

KOMAEDA NAGITO smiles bitterly. “you really are nothing like my family.”

and both think, for a moment, maybe we can form a new one.

but that’s all idealistic bullshit, isn’t it?

(a nonlinear fic centered on how komaeda and hinata, in a small frame of time, cope with grief.)

Words: 2838, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Komaeda Nagito, Hinata Hajime, Komaeda Nagito's Parents (referenced)

Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito

Additional Tags: Terminal Illnesses, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Memory Loss, In a sense, Suicidal Thoughts, brief suicide imagery, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Self-Hatred, Nightmares, tw emeto, Non-Linear Narrative, vent - Freeform

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2I8hqdm

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #dangan ronpa #danganronpa #dr

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Definitely do *not* write a drabble about Chris being triggered into thinking Jake is sending him back, with Jake having to comfort him. Do not do it, Ash. I demand it.

While I couldn't quite bring myself to hit the request exactly, I did think of something that might actually give Chris a very similar reaction... sorry I sat on this so long, I couldn’t make the words do for a while, but here they FINALLY are

CW: Referenced beating/injuries, emeto mentions, bruising, pressing on a bruised rib, trauma response, some discussion of PTSD/conditioned responses, discussion of noncon touching, noncon in memories + discussion (warning: Jake speaks very plainly about what it was, so cw for use of the word r*pe, I know that can be difficult), referenced violent reaction to stimming

TIMELINE: Immediately post-Safehouse Raid/Interrogation series

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump

Dr. Masood’s touch is gentle, and light, and Jake can see why the rescues like him so much. The safehouse’s doctor - a man who could lose his license to practice if anyone finds out that he provides healthcare to illegal runaway pets on nights and weekends - hums to himself, cheerfully, as his thumbs and fingers graze along the edge of Jake’s black eye, take in the bruising on his face, the swollen lower lip. 

His touch is so deft around the dark purple-black bruise on Jake’s head that he barely winces at the pressure, quick, barely-there and then gone, as Dr. Masood checks the spot where that asshole Everly bashed Jake’s head into the table again and again.

“My apologies,” Dr. Masood says gently, his accent warming his voice, making every word slightly musical. “You have quite a few bruises, some surface lacerations, but I’m not seeing anything that won’t heal with a little rest and regular at-home care. How are you sleeping?”

Jake swallows, feeling himself tense a little. He hasn’t slept, not really, in the three days since he’d come back from the police station. That first day after his return he had passed out, had laid on the bed with Chris beside him, safe in his arms, and slept like a log for nearly twelve hours, woken to eat, and then gone right back to sleep until the next day all over again. 

Ever since then... he can’t. He can doze, off and on, as long as Chris is inside the house where he can see him or by him. But he can’t-... he can’t stay asleep, he wakes at every noise, heart pounding, ready to hide Chris again, get Antoni and Leila back down to the basement. Has to be ready to open the front door himself this time, not let Nat take hits herself just to buy them time.

The deep bruising on Nat’s face, the cut across her cheekbone, the way that she moves with care and grits her teeth every time she has to stand up, the way she keeps describing herself as doing fine and powering through and making it through the day, her dry Midwestern drawl when she says she’s livin’ the dream, Jake, that’s all... it’s new wounds, layered under his skin instead of over it. It should have been him to answer the door, put up the fight, make himself the more important target.

Next time, Jake has to be the one to open the door to weapons in his face and spitting hate for his decision to protect the people who need protecting, he has to... he has to be ready.

He can’t be ready if he’s sleeping.

“I’m not,” He answers, finally. “Not much.”

Dr. Masood’s lips thin, just slightly, but he nods, looking over Jake’s torso now. Speckled with bruising, and Jake hisses in a harsh breath when Dr. Masood presses on his bruised rib, only to pull back quickly with a low apology. “I could give you something to help you sleep, Jake.”

“I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t take it,” Jake says. He could lie, but what’s the point?

“I see.” The doctor pauses. “Jake-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake says gruffly. “Every time I sleep, I-”

see myself begging for it to stop saying I’ll do anything give up anyone they want just let me sleep just give me something to eat just one small thing anything I’ll do anything

Jesus, how little it took to get him saying please and thank you - who knew how much it would have taken for him to give away even more?

I wanted to contract you, but I was overruled.

He shudders, then winces as the motion sends pain out in a nauseating wave from his ribcage, lifting a hand to put a bit of pressure there. 

How long was Chris held, before he gave them whatever they wanted, gave them whoever he used to be, just to get a little sleep?

“You are having nightmares,” Dr. Masood finishes for him. They’re sitting in the den, a small room behind the living room, where they have their one-on-ones with the therapist, where they have an occasional group meeting. Jake nods, leaning over despite the new throb of pain, and closes his eyes, rubbing his hand over his mouth, over the stubble he hasn’t shaved. Nearly a week of growth, between interrogation and the first few days back home.

“Bet your ass I am,” Jake muttered. The scratch of the hair on his jaw against his thumb and fingers was another reminder of how fucked up the past week of his life had been. 

“About being arrested?” Dr. Masood handed Jake his shirt - a button-up, Jake was struggling to pull shirts on over his head when it meant lifting his arms and pulling on bruised muscles and aching bones. 

“Not really. That’s I’m not the one who gets hauled off this time.”

“You are seeing Chris in your place.” It’s not a question.

Jake blinks up at the doctor and then just laughs, shaking his head, ignoring the pulse of ache at the motion. It’s not like he doesn’t just hurt all of the time no matter what he does, what’s the point of pretending otherwise? “Yeah. Or... back there in that place.”

Now he’s seen Chris - or who he was before he was Chris or even the rescue wrapped in his blanket in the rain. Now he’s seen the hunched-over shoulders, the attempts to rock and tap and do the things he did to keep himself calm met with implacable, awful violence. 

He understands the way Chris never moved at first, would just stay in one spot for hours in perfect silence, so much better now.

He dreams of Chris there again, the dull terror in wide green eyes. 

Worse, he dreams he’s the one who put him there. Sees himself in the shitty fucking uniforms those assholes wear, shoving Chris ahead of him down the hallway while he begs and pleads for Jake to remember himself, to save him, but Jake can’t save him from them because Jake is them...

Sees himself making the same sick jokes Everly made to him, touching Chris’s face, treating him like an object, like a fucking toy to be used, to be-

Jake’s stomach heaves and he leans over as saliva floods his mouth, breathing carefully, waiting for the nausea, the need to throw up the bit of tea and toast he had for breakfast, to pass. 

Dr. Masood watches him with care in those dark eyes, his hands folded in front of him. “You have undergone a trauma, Jake. It’s common to have nightmares afterward as your mind attempts to process that trauma-”

“I haven’t gone through shit,” Jake spits with sudden anger. “I got roughed up, that’s all. That’s not-... that isn’t shit compared to-”

“How old are you, trainee?” The handler asks the question heavy with loaded double-meanings, obvious enough Jake can read them. Give the right answer or get hurt.

“Eighteen,” Chris whispers, with wide scared eyes. Everyone in the room seems satisfied with the blatant, obvious lie.

“Good. And is that the legal consenting age?”

“… yes.”

“Good boy.” The handler pets heavily through Chris’s hair, and the boy shudders in disgust - Jake has never seen him react to touch like that, not from anyone. Just one more sign of a person that’s been totally erased.

“Pl-please, please don’t, please don’t-don’t, don’t touch me-”

“That’s not an option available to you any longer.”

“-compared to what they’ve all lived through,” Jake finishes, trying to close his eyes against the thoughts but he can see it in his mind, now, the way the person who wasn’t yet Chris had shuddered and tried to turn away from touch only to have it forced on him again and again and again.

He feels the nausea again, and this time it takes everything in him not to throw up all over the floor. They hurt Chris, in that place. The touch he seeks out from Jake comes from being forced to accept touch until he wanted it, until he doesn’t know any other way to be. Doesn’t it?

Doesn’t that make needing to hold Chris in the night to know he’s safe, carrying him around, the hugs he’s offered so freely... doesn’t that make all of that no different than assault?

Jake has always thought he was helping, by giving open and easy affection. But... what if he’s only reinforcing what Chris shouldn’t want? Maybe doesn’t, deep down? Chris is an open book but even open books can have things hidden in the margins.

It’s not like Chris could ever tell him if he didn’t want to be touched, is it? They can’t say no, can’t even begin to process the word without fear of punishment. Jake knows that as well as anyone, it’s why he’s so careful with the rescues, but they need touch so badly. All of them, even Antoni, lean heavily into physical reassurance and affection, seem to recover faster and more easily if they can seek it out when they need it, but... 

Jesus, what if Chris is shuddering and shaking and disgusted and only pretending that it feels nice to be hugged? What if-

What if Jake really isn’t any better than Grant Everly, anyway?

Pull yourself together. This doesn’t make sense. But his brain won’t stop spitting the certainty back at him. The image of that asshole - whoever it was, Chris’s fucking actual handler, that stupid fucking word they use instead of abuser, instead of abductor, instead of son of a bitch who deserves to die-

“Jake, trauma doesn’t work that way,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “There is no trauma Olympics. There is no competition to see whose is worse and caused by what. You were subjected to sleep deprivation, purposeful withholding of food and water, physical assault... Natalie tells me you were forced to watch some of the trauma young Chris was put through as well, and understand, what you are feeling is normal and nothing to be ashamed of-”

“It’s not shit, it’s nothing, I’m supposed to be able to take it, it’s not like I haven’t had the shit kicked out of me before and I was a lot younger then,” Jake snaps, pushing himself to his feet. The woozy burst of pain behind his eyes and in his ribs nearly stops him, but not quite. “This isn’t anything. Fucking black eye and a bruised rib and I turn into a little kid scared of the fucking dark.”

“That’s not what this is,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is common even in situations in which outright danger to your physical self is not present. You kept Chris hidden.” He puts his hand on Jake’s shoulder, squeezes lightly, in support. “There is something to have pride in, there. You put your body between Chris and danger, Jake. You are a stalwart certainty in his life, when he very much needs one. I’ve known you since you first came here to work for Natalie, and I am-” Dr. Masood pauses, clears his throat. “I am always amazed by your dedication to doing what is best for them all. And I think Chris would still be... quieter... if it weren’t for you specifically.”

Jake can hear the words but they don’t settle, they don’t mean anything. Just buzzing bees trying to distract him from the realization that he can’t protect Chris, because doing that means protecting Chris from himself.

“I can’t-... I can’t do this.”

“Jake?” Dr. Masood’s voice is quiet. “We can end the appointment now, if you wish, but I hope you will at least take the medication I brought with me to help manage your pain-”

“I can’t do this,” Jake groans, hot angry tears building behind closed eyes. “I can’t be this, I can’t do this, I can’t live like this. I can’t keep being around him if this is what it means, you know? I can’t keep spending time with Chris, or keeping him near me, or-... I can’t touch him. I don’t want to touch him if this is... if this is the result. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, if...”

He trails off, trying to imagine how to say if being near him means i’m only hurting him, slowing his recovery, making him dependent on me where he used to be dependent on that motherfucking pervert son of a bitch who raped him, who paid for him to be trained to be raped and pretend it was something else, if this isn’t helping him I’d rather die than make someone like him hurt any worse...

He can’t figure out how to phrase it, how to even begin. It feels good just to say it, just to let it out, and maybe... maybe it isn’t what he thinks it is, really. Maybe he’s not so bad, though, because the rescues do need solid, positive touch, they do, they just-

But how can you fucking tell? How can he tell if what he provides Chris is helping or hurting him?

“Jake, you need to speak with Dr. Berger. These thoughts suggest to me that your trauma is internalizing because you lack an external outlet. You are not-”

“I don’t want to fucking be around him if this is what happens!”

Jake means if I only hurt him worse, but the sound of sudden footsteps, nearly silent, breaks in before he can clarify, before he even realizes he should have.

Jake’s heart drops to his knees. He knows those footsteps, he knows them deep within himself with perfect muscle-memory born of every night Chris has moved nearly-silent to his bedside and whispered, Jake, Jake, can I-I, can, can I sleep with you?

All at once, Jake knows that what he said out loud and what he thought were two different things, and Chris only heard the one.

“Oh, fuck,” He says out loud.

No, no, no no no-

It hurts but Jake puts the pain aside - he’s done it before, after all, washing dishes after dinner with bruises all over his chest and back where they hide easily under his school clothes and his father’s glare burning holes in his back while his mother puts ice on her own bruises upstairs - and moves, with uncommon speed for a man of his size and his injuries.

It doesn’t matter.

Chris is already gone, the back door in the kitchen smacking shut even as Jake moves through the living room. Antoni, in the middle of chopping vegetables for dinner, has frozen and looked up, his eyes meeting Jake’s. Antoni doesn’t ask - only drops the knife and moves for the door, the two of them calling Chris’s name nearly simultaneously. 

He’s not in the backyard, not in the shed or the little planter-garden, not shimmying up a tree, not sitting on the back fence, not here.

There’s no redhead anywhere to be seen. Even when they move to the front yard and look back and forth, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” Antoni asks, softly, as the two of them stare at the space where Chris should be, and isn’t.

“I fucked up,” Jake says, heavily.

What else is fucking new?

“... what do we do?” Antoni rakes a hand back through thick dark hair. “Where did he go?”

Jake closes his eyes, tries to think over the pounding guilt and fury, aimed now entirely at himself.

“I don’t know.”

#whump #whumped caretaker #angry caretaker #caretaker whumpee #bruising tw #bruised rib #jake the shelter guy #survivor guilt #ptsd tw #referenced noncon #use of the word rape #referenced torture #caretaking #heavy angst #runaway whumpee #box boy #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #emeto mention #pain #conditioning #trauma response #intrusive thoughts tw #trauma induced rage #self-loathing tw

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Capernoited - Slightly intoxicated or tipsy. (With college Chris if u feeling it c: )

CW: Alcohol use, drunkenness. Sorry Chris wanted to rocket right past tipsy! Angsty boy hours. Referenced emeto + character death mention.

The drinks taste like chocolate or strawberries or cherry or lemon and sugar and they don’t taste like the liquor inside them at all. Chris does a shot called a Panty Dropper which is a stupid name for a drink and kind of a mean one and all the guys make fun of him for it but he doesn’t care, he downs it anyway, and it doesn’t taste like alcohol either.

Nothing tastes like what it is, just like Chris doesn’t look like what he is, just like everyone wears masks over their faces and Chris can only sometimes see through them. 

His phone buzzes and he answers texts with increasingly garbled letters and thoughts, letting the world spin around him. If he dances for a while the world slows again, but he chases that feeling back with another drink, another sip, another shot.

Don’t stop.

“Dude, slow down.” Will is at his shoulder, clapping him on the back, and Chris gives him a sweaty, hazy smile back in return. He could slide his arms so easily around Will, surprise him, maybe scare him. “You’re drinking like they’re starting Prohibition again, what’s the occasion?”

“No, no, no no no... no reason,” Chris says, and his phone buzzes again. He ignores it this time. Swallows back the twist and lurch of nausea in his stomach at what he’s going to do. But he’s coated his tongue with candy liquor and the world feels softer at the edges than it has in weeks.

I want this.

Slow down the circling train tracks in his mind, let the world smooth. He doesn’t have to filter all the things around him so much when he’s drunk, and he can see why people turn into drunks, on a night like this.

Another buzz. Another.

He sighs and looks down at his phone, squinting to focus on the letters. He feels the headache coming, and goes still, surprised. He hasn’t had a headache while reading texts in years.

chris are you drunk? your texts look super drunk tonight

yeah little bit drunk yeah

thank god for autocorrect there’s no way you typed that right. Can I come get you?

no thanks want to be by mself tonight

why?

Chris doesn’t answer them. Just slides his phone back in his pocket and lets it be and orders the drink.

Leaning over the bar, giving a dizzy-drunk smile just like Kauri’s to the bartender. Kauri’s gone home with this bartender before, before Kauri stopped going home with new people all the time, before he started going home with just the one.

“Hey, I, I, I-I-I need a another drink,” He shouts to be heard over the crowd, tilts his head and bites his lip. The bartender is interested, instantly interested. It always works, if they don’t know what you are.

Were.

If the mask holds.

I want you.

“Fine,” The bartender says, giving him a one-sided grin. Chris doesn’t want him but it doesn’t matter, does it? “What’ll it be?”

“Dirty martini,” Chris says, and his stomach flips and he ignores it. “Extra, um, extra ol-olives, please. Many as you’ll, you’ll give me.”

“Not your usual drink,” The bartender comments, already working. Chris watches him with eyes that still have an expert knowledge of what he should be doing and when and how. It’s going to be a good drink, but not as good as Chris could make it. “What’s up?”

I hate you.

Chris slides him a twenty, tells him to keep it, takes the drink without answering the question. He slips through the crowd to avoid Will, to lose him, to find a dark corner where he can curl around the martini and drink it and then go to the bathroom and throw it all back up again.

He holds the martini up in a pointless toast to no direction in particular.

It’s as good a way as any to celebrate the anniversary of a man’s death.

I miss you.

#chris the strawberry blond romantic #referenced character death #emeto mention #alcohol use tw #alcohol use #drinking tw #trauma recovery #ptsd tw