#its not entirely whumpy but it has moments

[whumpflash]

(This is one of the first Actual Whump scenes I wrote. Literally just this. I added context and plot way after. It's not the whumpiest thing in the world, but it's a required pre-chorus to this scene)

cw: violence, some lady whump but it's not the focus

I wish he'd shut up for once.

But Nick has never known when to quit. Not when he's caught in a lie, not when he's in too deep with a damn crime lord, and certainly not when he's managed to piss off a man who's got at least fifty pounds on him.

He and Aaron were supposed to be partners. Neither of them liked it, but their boss--our boss--had the final say, and no one had the balls to question Armitage.

But even when they hated each other's guts, partners weren't supposed to throw each other under the bus, whether it was for the greater good or not.

Even though I've known Aaron was an asshole from the start, and even though I can't fault Nick for what he did, I at least understand Aaron's anger. Nick betrayed him, plain and simple. An apology isn't going to cut it, and we all know it.

Nick doesn't try to fight. He probably knows that would make things worse, but somehow he doesn't seem to realize that spitting out insults has the same effect. I'm slow to react, at first not comprehending the full weight of the situation, or I might've been able to stop him. To at least put a band aid on the whole thing long enough for both of us to run far far away from the empty parking lot and the pissed off dude standing in it.

But unfortunately, I'm not that lucky.

So I can only shout for Aaron to stop as he seized Nick by the shoulders and throws him backwards.

Nick collides with the concrete base of a lamppost, sinking to the ground. A splotch of blood grows at the corner of his mouth, turned black by the streetlight. Aaron stalks towards him and I run to intercept. I can see his eyes. He's mad, but not so far gone that he can't be talked out of it. Yet.

So I take a deep breath and step in front of him, blocking the path to Nick. “That's enough. He's learned his lesson."

“You know that's a fucking lie,” he snaps. He tries to sidestep me, but I mirror him.

“Aaron. Please. Just leave him alone.”

“Move."

I stand my ground. “It's late. We should all be getting home.”

“Clara.”

It's Nick now. I turn around. He's still sitting in the same spot, sprawled on the ground with the lamppost to his back. He's not smiling when he talks to me.

“Just go home. We're just... Talking it out.”

I shake my head. “Talking it out?”

“For once he's right,” Aaron says. “This has nothing to do with you. Now get out of my way.”

“No.”

Once again, he sidesteps and I block him.

“Clara, move.”

“This has to stop. What happens if Armitage hears you've been fighting? He won't like that.”

I can see a flash of hesitation cross his face when I mention our boss, but it vanishes as quickly as it came.

"Armitage isn't here." He takes a step forwards, I stay still, trying to appear calm though my heart is pounding.

"I get it," I say, looking up at him, unmoving. "It was a dick move on his part, but it won't happen again, okay?"

"No," Aaron replies. "You don't get it."

I glance at Nick. Aaron takes another step forward, and without thinking, I try to push him away. When I look back at him, I can see the change in his eyes. Like a fire inside him is about to bloom. I only have a second to feel afraid before he shoves me, and suddenly I'm hurtling backwards, skidding to a stop in the middle of a puddle. My elbows burn and I feel the water seeping through my shirt as Aaron turns away from his original target and moves on me. I hastily get to my feet, holding my hands out in surrender.

“Aaron, don't--”

He backhands me across the face, and suddenly I'm back on the ground, a flash of red behind my eyes. I try to blink away the pain and sit up, but I can't tell if I'm looking at the sky or the pavement right now. I feel him standing over me, and tense for the next blow.

“Hey!”

I push myself up somewhat, and see a blurry Nick on his feet, facing Aaron.

“I knew you were scared of me, Aaron, but I didn't think you were such a wuss that you'd rather fight her.”

There's a terrible moment of nothing, and then everything seems to happen at once.

Aaron runs at Nick. I somehow get to my feet and run to stop him but get thrown to the side like a rag doll. I hit the ground hard, cracking my head on the street. Before everything goes black, I see Nick land a blow on Aaron's nose.

Then for a moment, nothing. Then I see Nick dodge a kick, take a hit, stumble back. The rage radiates off of Aaron.

And so it goes, fading in and out as I gasp like a fish on the ground and try to find the willpower to get back up.

He's going to kill him.

Nick goes down. I can't even shout his name. My sight is failing around the corners, as if my vision is a peephole that keeps getting smaller and smaller.

Aaron kicks Nick in the side. And does it again. And again. At some point, Nick stops trying to get up. And I think I'm crying but I can't be sure because my head hurts too much to think about anything else, really, and suddenly everything is just dark.

Then, inexplicably, there's a flash of blue. In my head, behind my eyes, all around me.

You know what to do, a voice whispers.

I really don't, I whisper back.

You know.

And I reach for the light. Not with my hands, but with my mind. And slowly, slowly, I feel the blackness slip away, and the pain along with it. My head clears, my eyes open, my elbows even stop stinging.

I don't take the time to question it. I run silently up to Aaron and throw myself onto his back, wrapping both arms around his neck and squeezing with all my strength. He lets out a choked sound and reels backwards. I don't let go. Normally this wouldn't work. Normally, I might not stand a chance. But miraculously healing yourself after a K'O has its advantages, apparently.

Aaron tries to punch me, tries to pull me off, but I bury my face into his back and hold on all the tighter. He stumbles, falling to his knees. His blows start to weaken, until they stop coming altogether and he crashes onto the pavement. I wait a few more seconds before releasing him, maybe for security, maybe due to nerves. Then I run to Nick's side.

He's barely conscious, trying to get up but not doing a very good job of it. I kneel next to him and help him into a sitting position.

“Clara..?” His gaze is too distant. “Clara, are you okay?”

“Am I okay? You should see yourself.”

He shakes his head, and winces. “I... how did you do that?”

“I took him by surprise.”

“You know what I mean.”

I look down. “I don't know. Don't worry about it. We need to get you to a hospital.”

His eyes drift shut for a second, and he gives a little nod. “Tha's probably a good idea.”

I shake his shoulder. “Hey. Stay awake.”

“Nnh, not right now.” His eyes start to close.

“Nick!”

“Hmm?”

I look up at the sky, trying to think. I doubt I could drag him, and I don't have a comm to call an ambulance. Aaron could wake up at any second...

Nick starts to flop to the side, and I throw an arm around him, pulling him to lean against me. Dammit.

The blue light. I'm gonna need that back.

Hey, you know that thing you did?

No response.

Hey, I'm gonna need that again. I hold Nick tighter. Now. I bite my lip. Please.

Nothing. For what seems like forever, it's nothing but my own heartbeat and Nick's shallow breaths.

Are you sure?

My heart leaps. Yes! Yes, I need it.

Alright. Your choice, I suppose.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and the blue light is there again. I reach for it eagerly, this time focusing all my being on Nick. Save Nick. Make him better.

He seems to jolt in my arms, and I feel my headache begin to return, the pain trickling into me like ink onto paper. The sting comes back to my elbows and once again, my vision is tinged with black. Nick sits up suddenly. We meet eyes for all of a second before I crumple, hitting the ground before he can even call my name.

[tabswrites]

ToL Rewrite Excerpt (Ch. 4)

I love this scene too much not to share it, so I’m going to combine some tags: @lychhiker-writes here and @ahordeofwasps here.

This interrogation scene takes place in Ch. 4 (formerly Ch. 2) of ToL, after Oliver has been arrested for treason. It was originally meant to be kind of whumpy but this dialogue really swept me away.

WC: 752 (feel no need to read the entire thing)

CW: Very mild violence.

Captain Hollowar stepped forward, revealing his scabbard being cradled by her wiry arms. 

“You foolish boy,” she spat. “So spoiled.” The hilt of his sword glistened beneath the dim light. She rested the scabbard on the floor and leaned against it as she glowered at him. “I put this sword in your hands. I trained you to wield it. That uniform you wear–I put you in it. I made you.”

Her hand reached for the edge of his cape and pulled it hard, until the silk ties were tight against his throat. She let the scabbard fall and loosened the cape. It fell to the ground, and she turned her attention to his armor. “All you ever had to do was obey me!”

With each shrill word, she tore more from him until he was stripped of protection and left shivering. The armor lay at his feet, taunting him. Her eyes twitched as he raised his head.

“Come off it, Moire. Whose name do we all swear fealty to–yours, or mine?”

She chuckled through a mask of cool indifference. “A rather shrewd observation, coming from you. And…” She let the word dangle from her lips, drawing him in. “You have identified the poison that has been rotting this city’s roots for decades.”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall to his chest, hoping she would cease her rambling.

“Legacy,” she continued. “And never the ones that deserve to be eternal.”

His eyes opened. “Are you testing me?”

She strode forward and gripped his chin. Her nails, cracked and brittle, dug into him with their uneven edges.

“Did you let the exile back into our city?” 

“No.”

“Did you give her access to the archives?”

“No.”

Her nails dug in deeper. “What caused you to commit treason? What use do you have for forbidden knowledge?” The stoic expression on her face did not change–only her voice betrayed her rage. 

He raised a brow as he met her beady gaze. “Ennui, mead, morbid curiosity–you tell me.”

She had indulged his blitheness once, but no more. A fist rammed into his stomach, and as his lungs gasped for their stolen air, she looked deep into his eyes. She waited patiently for him to find his words.

“I wanted to know what I was expected to kill for.”

Her upper lip curled. “You know what you have been told. The elders-”

“Those old bastards didn’t decide a thing,” he snorted. “They’re forcing the same tired ideas down our throats because they can’t figure out how to move forward. They’re pathetic.” It amused him to watch spots of his saliva settle on her face.

She let her nails slice a jagged line along his cheek before dropping her hand. Her boots scuffed the dirt floor as she turned on her heel. 

“Words you say with such passion, as if they are your own. We both know who said them first.” Her hands came together behind her back and she spun to face him again. “Was it all an act, then? Miss Wilkes, safely exiled to the villages to gather allies while you rotted our city from within?”

He tilted his head to the side and considered the thought. “Honestly, no. That would have been a brilliant strategy, though. Wish I had thought of it.”

“Do you know what it is you risk with your arrogance, boy?” She shook her head. “Of course not. I am the first to teach you of consequence, and like everyone else in your sorry life, I was far too lenient.”

“Then do what I couldn’t three years ago,” he suggested. “Let me bleed.”

At last, he seemed to have stunned her into silence. She turned to watch the lantern for a moment, as if the answers were at the center of its orange flame. He watched her instead, fascinated by the way the shadows settled around her sharp features. The pain in his wrists cried for acknowledgement, and his thoughts turned inward, to Mara. Were the words of a dead man enough to comfort her, or was she in her own cell, weeping? The journals that he had pored through, desperate for insight into her labyrinthian mind, were filled with nonsense. Notions of colorful trees, talking creatures–madness, and it drove him mad too, as he wondered why Mara could trust that but not him.

“Tell me,” Hollowar whispered, breaking the silence. “Was she worth it?”

“She would have been,” he replied with a sour grin. “If you let her live.”

Tagging: @winterandwords @revenantlore @theprissythumbelina @oh-no-another-idea @acertainmoshke @sarahlizziewrites if any of want to share any snippets/excerpts.

ToL tag list: @outpost51 @writernopal @avrablake @writingrosesonneptune @theroseempress (please ask to be +/-)

[moons-cozy-corner]

Bodyswap Whump CYOA Part 1

Since I’ve ended my ‘rescued’ series, I’d like to jump on the CYOA whump thing that some other writers are doing! This is the main intro, the actual whumpy part will be in the next part, promise!

I got the idea of doing a CYOA by @snakebites-and-ink but I know others have been doing it as well, so here I am!

Part 2

You feel like you’ve been hit by a train.

The figure in the glass mimics your movements, mocking your shock, hands hovered over your mouth. All you can do is stare at it, wondering who this person is that you’re staring at.

Because it sure as hell isn’t you.

They have soft features that meld together less than gently, as if this person has spent their entire life with their nose scrunched in the air. The shocked expression staring back at you looks eery on their face. It doesn’t look like anything could surprise them, or catch them off guard. Very unlike you at this very moment.

You reach up to touch your hair, watching as the mirror copies you, because of course it is - it’s a goddamn mirror! Your hand lands on a mop of messy hair that doesn’t belong to you, on a scalp that isn’t yours, in a body that you don’t belong in! 

With shaking hands you walk closer to the mirror and turn it towards the wall. Maybe if you don’t have to look at it, it doesn’t exist. Then you turn around, facing the rest of the room. It’s neat and bland, white walls and dark wood and black and gray decor.

The room itself is big, but mostly empty. It had its necessities; bed, desk, dresser, shelves, vanity. The computer that sat atop the desk looked expensive and new, unused. The utter spotlessness of the room was eerie, it seemed unlived in, soulless. The only thing that looked the least bit normal was the bed you woke in is the only thing disturbed in the still room, the comforter half on the floor from your panic.

At least you hadn’t been kidnapped, right?

Maybe in that situation you would have some idea of what to do, but you can’t just leave - the police will think you’re crazy, and where are you even? You could be miles away from your home, in a different state, a different country, even.

Try to calm down. Baby steps, right? If you just get yourself grounded, maybe you can figure out what's going on - or at least stop panicking about it.

Another sweep of the room and you see a phone on the nightstand, you see some clothes folded on the dresser to your right, and three different doors, all closed. One is probably to the bathroom, and the other is probably to a closet.

Taglist: @bleeding_letters @nicopascaline @whumped_inc @subval01 @whumpkinz @littlespacecastle @hollowgast1 @aswallowimprisoned @edkore @vermillion-emerald

Im pretty sure the above taglist is my general taglist (which I realized I had been neglecting Im so sorry!) Let me know if you want off of it, thankyou!!

[autisticempathydaemon]

Ohmygod I love matchups

What song are you fixated on at the moment? What lyric or verse, and why?

Too sweet by Hozier ofc ofcm I looove Hozier and the way he sings about relationships 😭 Im like not fixated on a specific lyric, I'm fixated on the wedding bells in the background of the chorus

What is your Enneagram type?

Okay it has been a FUCKTON of time since I looked at that stuff but iirc it was 2? Me being an infp is literally the only thing I can consistently remember bc ADHD brain

Do you love gargantuan Youtube video essays, and if so, which is your favorite and why?

YESS I listen to them whenever I'm playing Sims or working on something. Any of Jenny Nicholson or Li Speaks’ videos are common for that Nostalgic Essay Stuff. SPECIFICALLY Jenny Nicholson’s jeff the killer fanfiction book video because I OWNED THAT BOOK. I WROTE CREEPYPASTA FANFICTION AND I OWNED THAT BOOK

Tell me about your childhood imaginary friend.

I did not have one and I pretended to because everyone else did and I felt weird for not having one

What is your go-to way to fall asleep?

Imagining being loved and cared for 😭 or whumpy fanfiction scenarios no in-between. But they usually overlap

If you had to change your name, what would it be, and why? (In tandem, if you have changed your name, why did you pick that one?)

I named myself after a character cause I relate ofc but I also named myself echo because it was another birth name in consideration for me and it feels like… whimsical

What is your favorite of Redacted’s audios, and why?

ITS STILL “FLIRTY VAMPIRE LOSES CONTROL” BECAUSE IM OBSESSED WITH SCENES WHERE THE HUMAN PARTNER OF A “MONSTER” CHARACTER IS DIRECTLY CONFRONTED WITH THEIR MONSTROUS TRAITS AND LOVES THEM ANYWAY.

What Redacted boy holds no appeal to you, and why? Like, not the one you hate but the one who you don’t get the hype for. (I won’t judge, I promise.)

Gavin </3 I am simply not a sexual person and it puts me off a bit lol

Tell me about that one book/movie/tv show you know all the words to.

This spectacular show called dramaworld about a girl whos obsessed with kdramas and gets sucked into the world of them, but not in a “the events are real” way, in a “the entire world is a setup for the same characters to go through various plots, forgetting and falling in love over and over again” and it's hilarious and it's such a comfort show even though I can't watch it anywhere anymore I don't think. The main romance is top tier. It's so funny. And the stakes and plot twists are actually pretty good

Which Redacted boy are you platonically attracted to? Like- forget dating, which dude do you want to be your best friend?

Probably Sam? I want him to be my dad. I have issues.

Do you have a go-to thing you ramble about when you’re tired, and if so, what is it? (For example, my boyfriend knows I’m ready to sleep when I start talking about space.)

Apparently when I'm half asleep I start talking about horses? But when I'm still conscious, I mostly talk about like. Vampires mostly.

Tell me your go-to gas station and drink combo.

doritos dinamita and mountain dew yes I am basic

Tell me about your favorite playlist at the moment.

I don't have favorite playlists so much as I play 4-6 songs over and over on repeat until I'm sick of them. Currently, those songs are too sweet by Hozier, no more birthdays by sophie may, and Every Chappelle Roan Song.

What’s your guilty pleasure media, and why?

I love bad romance novels the more ridiculous and bad, the better. kresley cole's immortals after dark are fun to make fun of (no. Hate if you like them)

And whatever else you think tells me about who you are!

Uhhh my favorite form of interaction is parallel play. irl or digital, in a digital sense it means “we're liveblogging two separate things we're doing at the same time” lmao

- Asher-Echo/vampire-bite

Ooh, there’s a lot of good info to consider here. Initially, it was hard because I find Type Two’s easily compatible with most of the Redacted bois, but what said about “not being a sexual person” made it easy to choose Ollie for you.

Because he has never and will never get a BA, I love to headcanon Ollie as either asexual, low-libido, or both, so that’s one reason I think he’d be a good match for you. I also love that y’all would like so many of the same things like open-world games, bad/silly romance novels, and spending time with one another without the pressure to actively interact or engage with each other. (Also creepypastas. I love to headcanon Ollie as a horror, creepypasta fiend, given he grew up on the internet around when Jeff the Killer came to be.)

Every day with Ollie would be so comfortable and domestic, so sweet. Like, on a long weekend like this one if you’re American, I can see y’all spending it at home, a little staycation. He’d be in the other room or one end of the couch reading, and you’d be on the other reading one of your romance novels. Cattywumpus would be on your lap, because you’re his favorite. Your music is playing in the background, and you both stop what you’re doing to dance to “Hot to Go!”, because Ollie would totes love Chappell Roan.

Song:

Spillin' wine and homemade drinks/ We throw a cheers, the worries sink/ Damnit, it's so good to be alive/ We know that we don't got much/ But, then again, it's just enough/ To always find a way for a good time

Ollie strikes me as the type of guy who loves simple, feel-good, folk-esque music, someone being honest and emotional with a guitar. That’s one reason I like this song for y’all and can imagine it shuffled with yours as y’all hang out. The other is that this love song is sweet, catchy, simple just like Ollie~

Runner-ups:

Your love of the Sims and cheesy paranormal romance novels compels me to give you Elliott as a runner-up, because he could bring the things you read and create to life in your dreams, and that’d be so fun! In contrast, your Enneagram type and identifying yourself as nonsexual makes me want to pair you with Cam who gives me an asexual, easily affectionate vibe.

Read this post and send me an ask if you’d like a match-up of your own! 💌

[smolghostbot]

GT July: AU / Thief

Fun fact, when Melody was first imagined, they were a somewhat threatening nature spirit before turning into the awkward AuDHD human dork they are nowadays. I thought it would be fun to remix that version, and that makes this… almost an AU, right? An alternate timeline kinda?

Today's Writing Challenge™️ was to do the entire piece without any proper nouns, but still try to make it clear what was happening... complicated as Patch uses they/them here and Spirit!Melody uses they/it.

Word Count: 1k (Had some fun with this one) Non-AU Character bios in my pinned post ⚠️CWs⚠️: Vague mention of ableism, typical "first meeting" Borrower fear, as well as proper fearplay with a vore-adjacent threat. The vibes are definitely whumpy, and it has a purposely ambiguous ending that is adjacent to kidnapping.

========

Finally, the sprite had arrived at the grove. They had only heard rumors of it, but here it was! The mushrooms in this grove, when soaked in the nearby mineral springs, were said to be able to cure any illness. Though they didn't know for sure if the magic would count their disability as an illness, they had to try, even if they had to venture to a forbidden part of the forest to do it. They couldn't stand the judgment, the whispers about their silence behind their back. Rumors abound of a ferocious guardian spirit who lived nearby, but the grove seemed clear, if a bit quiet.

As the sprite made their way to one of the smaller mushrooms, only a few inches taller than their two-inch frame, they removed their trusty mushroom-cutting ax from their bag and began to chop it at the base. It was after only a single swing that they felt something was very, very wrong.

In an instant, they felt something wrap around them, as if it rose from the ground itself, the texture of skin but the neutral coldness of wood. They didn't even get a chance to struggle before being yanked up into the air. As soon as it registered in their brain, they desperately struggled to free themself, to get to their backpack and get away. But they were already staring down a creature that could only be the guardian spirit the legends had spoken of. Its pale skin the color of a light wood, complete with soft darker ring lines going horizontally across the center of its face. The wood lacked the subtle reds of human skin, and it seemed that all of the extra red was stored in their eyes, the color of a dark red amber, with lighter orange sclera. Their hair seemed to be a radiant blueish green, the color seeming to shift as the sprite looked at it, as if an energy flowed through it. On the creature's forehead was a pair of horns, or antlers perhaps based on their shape, which looked as if they were also made of wood in a browner shade.

After they stared at the giant, taking in the details and realizing it had been doing the same to them, it spoke, in a deep, but distinctly feminine voice, as it stared at the little sprite with clear disdain. "A child of the Light Forest, I see. It's rare that we see your kind this far into my territory… You're quite small."

The sprite was terrified, but couldn't escape from the giant hand grabbing them if they wanted to as the giant being continued to speak. "Tell me, little creature, do you know what happens to those who harm the residents of this grove?"

The little captive's eyes begin to widen, their pointed ears involuntarily pulling back against their head in fear.

"Well, no answer? I'll assume you didn't know then…"

As the giant creature spoke, their hand lowered down a bit, such that the sprite was looking directly at the giant's mouth. "Anybody who steals from this grove… ends up a part of it. And not in a way that most wish."

As the gigantic lips moved, showing off the sharp teeth within, the captured sprite became terrified, understanding the threat well. The hand holding the terrified sprite was moved back up to eye level. There was a moment of silence, them both staring at each other, before the guardian spoke again, seeming confused. "... Are you not afraid?"

The sprite shook their head no, before thinking, then nodding yes, before finally resorting to just doing an exaggerated wince. Stupid negatives in questions, they make it so hard to respond correctly.

"You're not one for words, are you? Just like the plants… You've captured my interest, an uncommon feat. Why are you here?"

The sprite was gently placed on the ground, staring up at the massive creature that had grabbed them, looking somewhere between a woman and a tree. Leaves flowed down its torso, as if they were a robe of some sort. The sprite hardly reached the ankles of the massive creature. Thinking quickly, they pointed to their backpack, which was discarded near where they were lifted. The giant spirit nodded.

"You may, but I wouldn't try to make a run for it if I were you."

After retrieving their bag, the sprite took out the bottle of spring water. They began to pantomime cooking a mushroom, and then an eating motion. Finally, they held their hand high in an exaggerated operatic singing motion, mouth open but completely silent.

"... I see. Well, I have unfortunate news for you, little forest child."

The sprite's expression dropped, fearing they had offended the giant. They mentally cursed themself. Shouldn't have mentioned eating the mushroom, shouldn't have mentioned eating the mushroom,why did I do that?!

"Calm yourself, that wasn't a threat… yet. It's true that this forest has healing powers, although, you could have simply asked me rather than harm my children. However… I sense no illness that I can cure. Even if you succeeded in your little quest, nothing would happen."

The sprite looked at the giant in disappointment as they continued to speak. "So… your little quest was a fool's errand. And now you're here, having both met me and harmed one of the grove's mushrooms… you understand what this means, yes?"

Legs wobbling, the sprite fell to their knees, hanging their head.

"I see, you do… But you know, I am feeling generous today, and the poor mushroom was not slain by your weapon, merely injured. How about I make a little deal with you? I'll spare you, but in exchange, you keep me, the trees, and the mushrooms company… For the rest of your days."

The sprite stopped to think, although there wasn't really a choice to be made. They could either perish, or live here forever. And… though they feared the giant's wrath, an escape from the rest of their kind… may not be too bad. The forest guardian smiled approvingly as the new resident of the grove slowly nodded their head.

"Very good, small one. Welcome to our little family."

[secretwhumplair]

Reunion

1,401 words | Royal arms (sequel to The proposal, p.2)

Content | Injury, captivity, mention of: forced marriage, gender dysphoria

Notes | I didn't know when to end this, so I'll just post it like this.

Exactly what it says on the tin - Arracen gets to see his beloveds again! Featuring a guest appearance by the healer who cannot pronounce ? who apparently after being conquered continued their career with minimal interruption :D

Taglist | @whumpy-writings @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @newbornwhumperfly @nicolepascaline @thegreatwhodini @wolfeyedwitch @onlybadendings @quietshae @whumpcreations @whumpydaydreams @whumpsy-daisy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @kixngiggles @tears-and-lilies @melancholy-in-the-morning @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whump-cravings @annablogsposts

Having a decent meal had soothed Arracen more than he’d have liked to admit. Yet, as he was escorted upstairs, he couldn’t stop the nerves clawing up his throat. He had been far too wrapped up in his worries for Nelisa and Arracen to let go of them on the word of a man who had held a sword to his throat.

Were they really okay? Where were they?

He couldn’t decide whether to feel more relieved or confused when he was led to the consort’s quarters. Exactly where he had left them.

»I was too busy to think of what to do with them, so I just left them where they were,« Idalis explained, then smiled too smugly for comfort. »I guess you can stay here with them. Since you’re considering.« His smile slipped when his eyes flickered to Arracen’s arm. »And I will make sure a doctor will see you. I expect you to recover well.«

Arracen couldn’t decide whether that was an order, a threat, or a simple statement - it was all a bit too much to keep up. He decided to take it at face value. »Thank you.«

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile flicker over Idalis’ face.

The door opened, and Arracen’s anxiety reached its peak. Were they-?

»Arracen!« Nelisa rushed towards the door, her voice catching in her throat, then she stopped and, uncertainly, bowed to Idalis, who had stayed behind him. »Your Majesty.«

»Nelisa.« Arracen all but fell into her arms, pulling her close, only opening one arm to also pull in Lint when he approached a little more cautiously. He had done his best to keep his composure the entire evening, but it was gone now, he couldn’t wait a moment more.

It was all he could do not to ask whether they were okay while Idalis was right there, after he had already told him so, as if he doubted his word.

They seemed alright, at least in bodily condition.

»I suppose I will leave you, then.« He looked around to see Idalis smile, and again, it appeared strangely genuine. »I expect your decision in the morning.«

In the morning.

Not all that much time to consider, then. But at least he would have opportunity to consult with his lovers. Not his advisors, but then, it was only too easy to imagine why Idalis wouldn’t want him to.

»I understand,« he said quietly.

»Good night,« Idalis said to him, still smiling, before he turned deadly serious with startling suddenness. »For the sake of all of us, don’t try to leave the castle grounds, will you?«

As soon as the door fell closed behind him, Arracen, Nelisa, and Lint all started talking at once.

»Are you alright?«

»You’re injured!«

»Where have you been?«

»What has he done to you?«

»It’s so good to see you again!«

»I was so worried!«

Even Arracen himself wasn’t sure later who had said what in that flurry of love and worry, but it was Nelisa, ever practical, who put an end to it with a soft laugh, the most comforting sound Arracen thought he’d ever heard. »Enough, enough! Let’s take turns.«

None of them were quite willing to let go of one another, so it was a bit of a challenge to maneuver to sit on the bed. Arracen held them close on either side, their arms wrapped around him, the burning in his arm, having been jostled in all the huggery, negligible compared to the warmth and relief seeping into him.

»Are you okay?« Lint began, looking up at him wide-eyed. »You’re injured.«

»It’s not - it’s just a scratch, I’ll be alright.« Arracen swallowed. He barely knew how to begin telling them about what had happened, so he jumped right in. »He wants to marry me.«

Nelisa gasped. »And-?«

»Are you two alright?« Arracen felt bad brushing over Nelisa, but he had to know. »I didn’t - didn’t know what had happened - what he’d done to you-«

»We’re alright, we’ve just been in here.«

»He thought I was a pet,« Lint said quietly.

»He - he said something like that, that he thought I kept a pet.« Arracen studied Lint’s face - it must have hurt, after struggling so hard not to be one. »But you’re not,« he reiterated what he had told Lint a thousand times, and would tell him a thousand more if that was what it took to make him sure of it.

Lint nodded, and whispered, still spooked at the memory, »I told him that.«

Arracen beamed at him. For Lint to tell that a total stranger - a very powerful stranger at that; being the best thing Arracen had heard in weeks was an insultingly low bar for that. He kissed the top of Lint’s head. »I’m glad you did. And not just for your sake,« he added. »He was… he kind of implied he was upset with me because of - because he thought that.«

»Did he hurt you?« Nelisa almost shouted.

»No, I - he put me in the dungeons but nothing worse than that.« It was bad enough, by far. Maybe they would talk about it later, what it had been like, to sit there alone and frightened and desperate without knowing what would become of them. But not now. Now they were all safe.

Nelisa eyed him a moment, as if she knew there was something he wasn’t telling them, but then picked up the other subject he had so unceremoniously dropped. »And now he wants to marry you?«

Arracen nodded wearily. »He… wants to gain the people’s support.« It felt all wrong. Wasn’t he betraying them, then, by seemingly endorsing that man? But then - if it would gain him the right to rule again, be a protective layer between them and Idalis - wasn’t it the right thing to do?

»And we both need an heir sooner or later,« he continued, quietly. This one seemed awfully right, an inescapable truth.

»And you?« Nelisa asked quietly. »Do you want a child by him?«

He hadn’t even looked at it this way, he realized. He had been too caught up in worry about the immediate consequences to consider that heir they had talked about as his child. With Idalis sharing fatherhood, would he be able to raise them to be a good, responsible, caring monarch to his people? Or would they become a glory-hungry conqueror like Idalis? How much say would Idalis even leave him in the matter?

Would either of them be a good father?

»I don’t want a child at all,« he muttered, but shook his head as soon as the words came out. No, that wasn’t quite right - he very much did want to raise a child, he always had. Children, even. »No, I mean, I just… I don’t want to…«

He had resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t have one without going through the ordeal most fit to remind him of his bodily condition. Sure, he could adopt all the wards he wanted, but he would have to bear an heir anyway. His plan had been - when he couldn’t put the thought out of his mind - to find some nobleman, or perhaps, if he dreamed boldly, a noblewoman sharing his situation and understanding all the better, whom he could grow fond of and who would respect him for what he was outside of King. Then get it over with with the least suffering possible.

It still seemed a lot. And now… he didn’t know how Idalis would treat him, and he certainly didn’t like the man; the fact he barely even had a choice in the matter was just the icing on the cake.

He couldn’t leave his people to whatever ruler Idalis saw fit.

He buried his face in Nelisa’s shoulder, wishing he could just stay there, safe between them, forever.

But he couldn’t, because there was a knock at the door.

He could feel Nelisa straighten up, and he was confused himself for a moment before he remembered. »Oh! He said he’d send a doctor. Come in,« he called, getting up; there was no way around it.

The doctor entered, their medic bag in hand, their eyes flickering curiously across them bfore they settled on Arracen. It wasn’t anyone Arracen recognized - someone from Idalis’ entourage, then. They gave him a bow. »Good evening, your Highness. I was sent to look at your arm, right.«

[thesandsofelsweyr]

(Whumpy) WIP Wednesday

Here are 3 snippets from some stories I'm working on. If you see this post, consider yourself tagged (and be sure to tag me if you share your WIPs!)

From Chapter 3 of The Climb (ao3):

Jason stops dead, paralyzed by the fear that cuts through him like the Clown’s scalpel. That wasn’t the voice of another ghost. That was real. He’d been so lost in his delusions that he hadn’t heard the makeshift trap door creak open or the heavy boot-steps descending the unfinished concrete staircase, approaching him. The ringing in his ears grows louder, and his head hurts so much that he thinks he’s gonna pass out. Two bright beams of light pierce the darkness, falling on him, illuminating him like a deer in headlights, knocking the wind out of him like a punch to the gut.

“No…” His whimper catches in his throat. Any courage he had regained from facing certain death was sucked out of him and terror bubbled up in its place. How could he have been so careless? This is why I was left here to rot. This is why I was replaced. He should’ve known the Clown would never let him creep through these halls unprotected. He’d never let his prized plaything slip from his grip. You fucking dumbass. His partner would make him suffer for this.

He throws up a scrawny arm over his face to shield his stinging eyes from the flashlights that are pointed at him. His heart is galloping in his chest, racing toward that trap door that is now blocked by the pair of shadowy figures. He tightens his grip on the wall to keep himself from collapsing and begging these flesh-and-blood specters for mercy.

A really rough excerpt from probably the worst / most twisted moment of Jay's torture at the hands of Joker 🤡 (part of my Ruined series):

(cw: torture for the two snippets under the cut)

“Really, Jason. All this fuss over an ice pack?”

“Oh, the hammer? (chuckles) I just wanted to see your face.”

“Now you hold that there. Good. And let’s get these back on.”

“It’s ok, buddy. Your punishment is over. All is forgiven.”

“Calm down, little bird. Deep breaths. (Inhale , exhale.) Good. That’s my good boy.”

Strokes his sweat-soaked hair. 

“Kill me,” Jason begs through tears, through clenched teeth. “Kill me. Please. Sir. Kill me.”

“Nonsense. We still have work to do, partner.”

“Please,” he sobs, defeated. Can barely get the words out thru his clenched broken teeth. “It hurts so much.” (In a tiny voice)

“You’ll feel better soon, I promise. I’ll even let you rest for a few days before we resume our training. You’ll feel as good as new.”

He just sobs. There is nothing he can do or say. 

After the Clown leaves him: (eerie silence, like a tomb. Never felt so alone in his entire life.)

“Why?” He asks the man who he thought was his father. Sobs. “Why? It hurts. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

From a ficlet tentatively titled "An Apple a Day" (another part of my Ruined series):

When the pliers clamp down around his front tooth, Jason shatters.

“Thank you sir! THANK YOU SIR!” he screams, a blood-sputtering scream, his words slurring around the cold, pitiless metal that’s shoved into his pried-open jaws. He prays that’s enough as he shakes like a puppy on the fourth of July. He gave the psycho what he wanted—he called the man “sir,” like some fucked up sex roleplay. 

Joker has been punishing him for running his mouth. Again. For laughing in his pasty white face when the Party City Clown informed him that he’d be calling the man “sir” from now on. “You can take your ‘sir’ and shove it up your fucking ass,” were his exact words. The old Jason may not have regretted those words. That boy probably would’ve thought this agony was worth it. But that boy’s gone now; murdered by a photo. Batman had bitched at him many times for running his mouth while on patrol. Probably yet another reason why Batman picked a new kid for the job, why the old, rejected kid now has eight throbbing holes in his swollen gums.

Warm, coppery blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth, coating his busted lower lip in crimson gore. His breath’s coming in frantic pants, on the edge of hyperventilating. His armored chest full of broken ribs heaves beneath the heavy braided ropes that bind him to the wooden chair, ropes that squeeze his lungs like a giant’s fist. Nailless fingers dig into the material of his gloved palms as he balls his fists behind his back. No more, he silently prays yet another useless prayer as tears roll down his scarred cheeks. Please no more…

He’s a dumbass for holding out so long. Ten teeth—at least—gone from his mouth now. Two from the fucking crowbar, eight from the Clown’s pliers. And for what? To impress the man who’d left him here to rot? The man he considered his father; his partner who picked a new kid rather than bother finding the old one.

The gloved fist twisted into his matted black hair tightens, tearing at his scalp, and wrenches his head back even further. “Be more specific,” Joker says casually, as if they were discussing the weather over a cup of coffee and not the eight bloody teeth scattered on the table in front of him.

“Thank you for…” His mind races in circles, groping through the immense pain for the right words. (through the pain that shattered his thoughts)

“I think the patient needs another extraction, Dr. J.”

Joker sighs. “Excellent diagnosis, Nurse.”

[butcharondir]

for the violence meme (and you can choose whichever fandom you like):

12, 16 & 18

okay this will once again be fandom soup because that's just how i roll but

12. the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

i have always and forever loved nate shelley, yes, even in season two, yes even before he was "redeemed" or whatever because if i had to deal with ted's emotionally lazy hunky dory white man bullshit all the time i too would have a villain origin story. but whatever i guess

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

oooof its gotta be people shipping M/F couples in this super heteronormative wish fulfillment Boyfriend GoalsTM domestic fluff and babies way oh my GOD. Listen, I write almost entirely "soft" ships, it's my thing, my writerly kink is negotiating intimacy where one partner (usually female) has trauma/repression and can finally express themself sexually with a safe but equally weird (usually male) partner. I write this trope over and over again (nothing personal to see here, moving right along) and because of the sorts of ships I write and the sorts of angles I take with it, there are probably people who think my fic falls into that domestic fluff category but it DOESn'T, its nOT, i spend TIME on emotional COnFLICT and AWKWARDnESS and why things DOnT work and why the relationship ISnT perfect, and I just wish there was more content like that for so-called "soft" ships because conflict-free domestic fluff is SO FUCKInG BORInG also y'all are making soft ships look so fucking bad.

18. it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

i guess in conjunction with the above answer, and i mean this generally for all my "soft" ship fandoms: domestic ANGST. I feel like fic for these ships will often fall into either the domestic fluff category or a very plot-driven, whumpy style where they SHOULD be in marital bliss but are torn apart by increasingly dramatic war and rape and kidnapping events a la Diana Gabaldon, and i'm not really interested in either. give me the angst of the mundane, show me the peacetime blues, explore how these people miscommunicate and make up and struggle and succeed in loving each other in the day-to-day moments. that's generally what i want from fic, and why i write it.

[enemy-to-the-state]

Ok I’m about to go on a little rant, but bear with me.

Something I’ve noticed about tv shows (and movies, but let’s just focus on tv shows for the moment) is the annoying lack of realistic injuries/illness.

Look, I know whump isn’t for everyone, but even from a non-whump perspective, someone getting right back up from an injury breaks a lot of realism that the tv show would have been conveying.

For example, I will cite one of my favorite shows (and hyperfixation) Ben 10. Though this show’s lack of realistic whump is forgivable since it is meant for a younger audience, the themes of its whump are things I’ve noticed in shows for older audiences so hear me out haha.

We’ll start with the classic series.

Anyone who’s ever watched Ben 10 Classic probably remembers the episode “Side Effects” which is an episode in the first season of the show. The basic premise is that Ben gets sick, and the sickness spreads to his alien forms, giving them all different side effects leading Ben to have to adapt to a new unexpected handicap.

And though the main premise of this episode literally revolves around Ben being sick, the problem is treated very nonchalantly.

Grandpa Max literally knows that Ben has a fever “101 degrees. Sorry, Ben. It’s official. You’ve got a summer cold.” but still drags him along to the market and into the face of danger.

This boy is ten, Max, ten. A responsible grandparent would tell him to rest in the RV, not pull along the fever-addled kid throughout the city.

It doesn’t help that by the end of the episode (which canonically doesn’t last over even a whole day) Ben is already cured of his cold. At least attribute it to the Omnitrix healing him faster or something.

My next example comes from the Ben 10 Classic movie “Secret of the Omnitrix”. I don’t have any pictures for this one bc the movie is near impossible to find online. Sorry y’all.

If you’re unfamiliar with the premise, Ben accidentally activates the Omnitrix’s self destruct protocol which, once set off, would have the power to destroy the entire universe. To stop this from happening, Ben has to find the Omnitrix’s creator before it’s too late.

During this, Ben’s watch occasionally gives off discharges of electricity (which get worse if he uses the watch as well as speeds up the self destruct protocol) that hurt him. At first they’re not too bad, but there is one that goes off at a prison station that manages to knock him out completely.

Gwen actually does get worried about him this time unlike in “Side Effects” where she basically nags him the whole time, but the problem ends up being not that serious because a moment later, Ben is fine.

This is a trend for the rest of the series and it’s so so frustrating.

In Ben 10: Alien Force, there’s an episode called “Plumbers Helpers”. In the episode, at some point, a rock hits Ben on the head, knocking him out cold.

Though Gwen seems understandably worried, it’s basically for only a second because, once again, by the end of the episode a few minutes later, Ben is fine again even though it was implied that he had some sort of concussion.

In Omniverse, we get more of the same problem.

In the episode “Max’s Monster” from Season 4, Phil, a villain from the classic series, returns from a dimension known as the Null Void and repeatedly attacks Ben.

Ben gets beat up a lot in this episode, but one of the most notable times is when he’s electrocuted and drained so bad that he passes out.

However, this only lasts for a few moments before he’s back on the job again. He barely gets a chance to breathe.

This whole episode is chock full of Ben getting beat down, drained, and electrocuted, but barely anyone bats an eye. (I’d go so far as to say this is as whumpy as the show gets, but there’s absolutely no payoff as everyone around him treats the situation like it’s no big deal)

Another Omniverse scene where Ben is hurt is in the episode “Showdown Part 2” where Ben is knocked out by Malware.

Though there is now an appropriate amount of worry from his friends and family, there is once again no point as Ben ends up being, you guessed it, totally fine.

It’s a frustrating battle of nonchalance when something is actually wrong, and appropriate worry when things aren’t that serious.

The only time in Ben 10 that I can say they did it somewhat right is in the Ultimate Alien episode “Catch a Falling Star” where Ben is shot in the shoulder.

Though they obviously don’t show gore as this is a kids show, they do show the appropriate amount of care and pain (for an animated series that is) for his injury. Ben does not immediately recover, not even by the end of the episode, and he’s handicapped the entire time as well, not being able to fight to his full ability while in alien form and having to be careful in his human form.

This made the series more real to me.

Even as a kid, the lack of care confused me in those early Ben 10 episodes. It was either the correct amount of concern over nothing, or no concern over something that needed attention.

It’s almost like they didn’t want to commit to the fact that Ben was really hurt/sick and tried to compensate by pretending it wasn’t a big deal or literally making the injury a “no biggie”.

Though, for me, this doesn’t work in any media because now you’ve broken any sort of realism your audience had for the show before. And yeah, Ben 10 isn’t a very realistic show, but that’s why it matters to have those moments of realism. To make the fantastical and impossible almost seem possible.

I’ve noticed this in shows all over the place from Stargate to 21 Jump Street. Just once, I’d like to not have my suspension of belief broken by something as seemingly simple as tending to an injury.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk

[stupidcanofpeaches]

i ran across your "whumpy five-centric plot bunnies and unfinished projects" master post, and the sleepwalking one will not leave me alone! I was wondering if you had any more snippets of that you'd be willing to share? regardless, very much enjoyed the new heart heart head chapter and hope you have a good day <3

hi and thank you so much! i'm happy you like it haha and yeah i do actually have a couple more snippets of that! i did some research, like i actually went through quite a few articles on sleepwalking and its relation to trauma and i decided to base the fic on that

here's a couple of interesting articles on the subject btw: Is there a dissociative process in sleepwalking and night terrors? Sleepwalking and the traumatic experience PTSD's impact on sleep and sleep disorders

also this one, though be careful, it does talk about CSA: My Inner Child Expresses Her Trauma Through Sleepwalking

the bottom line is that sleepwalking can be directly caused by PTSD and sometimes is a physical expression of the stress that caused the trauma and the sleepwalking episodes can be a way for your brain to interact with the flashbacks and nightmares caused by PTSD

so yeah basically in this one five's actively reliving and subconsciously trying to fix the initial traumatic event.

and here's the snippet for you!

They watch him quietly as he slowly makes his way into the dining area - precariously sways in one place - then takes a few more steps and stops completely.

"Is that it?" Klaus whispers, and Luther just sort of shrugs.

He has no idea.

"I guess," he finally mumbles when Five still makes no move to go any further.

"What kinda trauma could he possibly have here," Diego asks, his tone also carefully subdued, eyes sharp as he stares at Five - looking ready to dart forward and catch him in case anything goes wrong and he decides to fall over.

Nothing happens. Five stands still, shoulders slumped, head slightly lowered, eyes blankly directed at the carpeted floor - he looks like a little boy being told off by his teacher.

"Dunno," Luther says again, and they all stare at Five for a moment more, before Klaus clears his throat.

"We should probably get him back into bed," he offers when they look over at him, "you know, it looks like the show's over. I don't know about you guys but my bed is calling to me. We should all go back to bed, in fact."

"Yeah," Luther breathes out, "we should. Okay..."

"Just don't wake him up," Diego tells him warily and completely unhelpfully, "remember, Vik said not to wake him when he's sleepwalking."

Luther gives him a half-irritated look: of course he remembers. He's not stupid.

Instead of fighting with Diego, he makes his way over to Five, debating on what exactly he should do before finally settling a hand carefully over Five's shoulder. He expects some sort of resistance, some sort of reaction - but Five turns the way Luther directs him easily, head still low, movements syropy slow. "There we go," Luther says in a low murmur, "there we go."

They're almost out of the room when Five slows down - and stops entirely. It's not entirely unexpected, with his already sluggish coordination, Luther could predict his movements from a mile away with how slow he is like this - it's still a little eerie, the way he moves when he's asleep - but Luther still almost pushes him over. He inhales sharply, holding his breath, half-expecting for his brother to snap awake.

"Five," he says, carefully, and sees Five pick his head up.

Five says one single word.

"Sorry," he mumbles, the word soft and half-slurred, and they all just stop.

Five's eyes are still vacant, half-lidded.

He's still asleep.

"What is he sorry for?" Luther muses, bewildered, and Klaus gives a wavy shrug.

"I think," he says, "that the important question is who he's apologizing to."

[fairieboywhump]

Evidence

listen i dont have a good title for this its just a short something random i came up with that has 0 plot relevance :3c. takes place a few months after this tho

Nicholas belongs to @spookyboywhump

TWs: mentions of nsfw/noncon (literally one sentence its not explicit at all), pet whump, photos of abuse (nicky likes keepsakes okay i didnt create this man bring that up with allen) uhhhh thats it its not really whumpy theyre just looking at photos

~~~~~~~~

"You're such a pretty thing, little one." Nicholas chuckled, carding a hand through Cathal's hair and scratching behind his ear. Cathal hummed softly, almost a purr. He warily eyed the photographs spread across the coffee table, dozens of images of himself in dirty, degrading positions. 

Many of them involved weapons, injuries, fingers prodding open wounds or squeezing his face to show off his tears. His heart jumped into his throat as his eyes landed on a particularly vulgar image, his legs tied open with Nicholas' hand between them, tears painting his cheeks and his humiliation apparent. "I missed you," Nicholas continued, "you really are such a good boy. My favourite puppy." 

Cathal whined in the back of his throat, shoving down his undesirable feelings, thoughts of how Nicholas didn't need to leave, didn't need to disappear and leave him tamped down firmly in the hopes that he can ignore them entirely and focus on now. He tapped his fingers against the inside of his own thigh, hoping also to expel the nervous energy he felt at the way Nicholas spoke to him. 

Something was off. 

Clearly, it was. He had been gone for so long. He hadn't announced himself, he hadn't said goodbye, just dropped Cathal off back at Teddy’s door and left. After Cathal had taken care of him. For weeks. And now he was back, and he was there. Cathal was back at his side, back as his favourite. Aside from the change in location, there wasn't a single difference. So why did it feel so wrong? 

Nicholas stood up, smiling at Cathal almost fondly for a moment before walking away to another room. A few seconds passed, Cathal's eyes fell on a photo and he smiled sadly. 

They had all been taken before Nicholas left, to go wherever he had gone. In this particular image, the two of them seemed… content. Like perhaps, Nicholas really did care about him. It was softer, more tame than the others. He had Cathal sat in his lap, one gloved hand on the pet's thigh to keep him close and the other in his hair. Cathal gazed longingly into Nicholas' eyes, an abundance of cuts and bruises and other wounds scattered across his body; exposed by the skimpy outfit he had been dressed in. His collar was different, even. A delicate pink thing with a little bow and a bell, handpicked for him by Nicholas. He thought it was sweet, then. A mark of his obedience. He didn't need to be restrained by his throat, by thick leather and a padlock. Just a strip of ribbon to show that he was, in fact, owned.

He had never expected to wish for leather and a padlock. 

The photo evoked a litany of emotions within him, and he glanced around to be sure Nicholas wasn't watching before he pulled it off the table and folded it up, slipping the paper into the bottom of his sock to be sure it would go unnoticed on his person. Who ever looked at his socked feet anyways?

The sound of approaching footsteps startled Cathal back into reality and he scrambled back into proper kneeling position. Nicholas eyed him slyly as he walked back to his chair, like a predator to his prey, amused at the way Cathal squirmed under his gaze. He ignored the reactions, the frightened look on his sweet little puppy face, and sat down to gather the photographs across the table together into one stack. Cathal’s breath caught in his throat as he did, and Nicholas took note, beginning to flip through the photos while keeping an eye on the puppy's reactions. 

Nicholas had seen all of the pictures before. He had likely flipped through them dozens of times, simply entertained by how easy it always was to convince the pet that he really, truly loved him. No matter what he did, how many times he broke him, Cathal would come crawling back, begging to be forgiven as if it really was all his fault, all the pain and misery and torture he was put through brought to right some karmic injustice. As if the entire point of him wasn't to be hurt and degraded as such a pathetic, broken little thing. Really, how could he not be amused? How could he not capture every moment of it to revisit? 

He paused as he flipped through the stack of photographs, reaching the one he had placed on top again without a particular image coming up. As he did, he noticed Cathal's breathing pick up, and the boy stared at his hands and the photos he held with such an intensity - it wasn't a difficult conclusion in the slightest, although he did wonder where on the puppy the photo was hidden. Nicholas placed them back on the table, turning to look at Cathal and raising a brow. 

"What's got you so interested in these all of a sudden, puppy?" He asked, playing like he was genuinely intrigued and unknowing. "You seemed so shy when they were taken, little one, I thought you hated to look at them. What's changed in the two minutes I was gone?" 

Cathal's face reddened as he looked away from the table, eyes on his own lap. Nicholas laughed quietly and brought a hand to Cathal's chin, forcing his gaze up and placing a kiss on his lips. Cathal sighed and let his eyes flutter shut, leaning in for more before Nicholas pulled away and smirked at him. "You really are so sweet, little one. Such a shame I couldn't take you with me. I know your owner doesn't appreciate what an obedient little toy you are."

[touchmycoat]

Are there any media or books that do good whump? I know you said you were not satisfied with the level in 成化。I feel spoiled by fanfic, especially if the whump cones with plenty of comfort, since pro media doesn't spend much time on comfort. Are there any novels or dramas that you think does a good job of whump?

oh boy yeah, I keep the last arc of 無雙 open in a phone tab for easy access at any moment specifically for whump food lmfao. I know what you mean, fic does such a phenomenal job of really indulging in both sides of the h/c. Yeah my primary complaint with 成化 was that it 1) didn't have enough whump, but 2) for the whump it did have it never leaned into it in a satisfying enough way.

But Peerless does!!! And Thousand Autumns for sure. The stabbing scene in Peerless is also really fucking good (with the escape-from-the-cave followup), so is the FX-tries-to-White-Fang-CBQ arm breaking scene. Thousand Autumns' whump is more specifically flavored with rapey vibes which I also appreciate a lot lmao. I know I reread the Mu Tipo bit, the Yu Ai reunion bit, the [REDACTED] bit, and all the noncon kissing a lot. All these specifically felt like Meng Xi Shi handfeeding me good food and winking, ykwim?

Along those lines, SQ's VA in the Thousand Autumns audio drama famously got lightheaded at the end of filming every day for the first good bit because he had to do so much breathless panting and noises of pain. So I highly recommend that too lmfao.

水千丞 is pretty famous for having 渣攻 characters, if you're into the emotional "he's into me but he's a dick to me" whump. I gave 娘娘腔 a try once upon a time but it wasn't really my thing. My mom recommends it tho!

OH OH OH NOT A DANMEI REC but one of my fav whumpy female lead romance hijinks novels is 桃花折江山 by 白鷺成雙. It's hot and sexy and I cried at the end. Novel begins with MC realizing ML is trying to kill her and it's about how she repeatedly survives his attempts by figuring out all the political impetus behind them and resolving it. 春日宴 is another really good novel by the same author, also whumpy and hilarious in the same way. 桃花折江山 is conniving man falls for clever woman, 春日宴 is grumpy babyboy has misunderstood his sexy indulgent jiejie this whole time. There is also ofc 春閨夢裏人 with its I'm-supposed-to-hate-you-but-you're-so-politically-savvy-and-capable-that-you've-become-the-only-one-I-trust-to-survive-my-love story. Also whump, but a lot more of it is the MC bearing it herself (though husband does try to repent for this for the entire last arc). Choose your fighter.

薄霧 has arcs that are whumpier than others (the world-falling-apart-running-on-the-train bit and the rubik's cube puzzle come to mind) bc the MC's got a special ability that pains him.

劍名不奈何 also definitely has a 好可憐的男主啊 plot, plenty of physical and emotional whump, and canon comfort!! (funny enough, I think canon kind of went to excess on the comfort, where it kind of felt like the MC just stopped doing anything after the ML realized the extent of MC's hurt. But it's still a good read!)

I NEARLY FORGOT 天涯客 but ig it's pretty well-known now 'cause of WOH. I reread the Puppet Manor scene where they sleep in the same bed and WKX realizes for the first time just how punishing nights are for ZZS. But also it has my favorite vibe when it comes to whumpees. My favorite passage:

那日周子舒在溫客行懷裡縮了半宿，以至於溫客行第二日都有些誠惶誠恐——他知道身上有傷肯定要受罪，卻不知道要受這麼大的罪，這一心疼起來，便將周子舒當成個瓷人似的，再不敢動手動腳地跟他瞎鬧了。

可誰知他誠惶誠恐地觀察了兩天，發現這周瓷人簡直沒心沒肺到了一定的境界，是個記吃不記打的，每天破曉，疼勁過去了，他就也好像撂爪就忘一般，該打趣打趣，該罵娘罵娘，洗把臉便能洗去一臉憔悴，早飯的時候繼續下箸如飛神采奕奕，絲毫不客氣，發揮完全正常。

心裡就明白，有些人天生不是嬌貴的命，憐惜他還不如去憐惜頭豬，真是浪費感情。

My coworker sent me this thread for physical whump reference hahahah. There's a handful of recs on there too.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Hi! Sorry to be annoying but its been a worm in my brain about what's going to happen to the nauseous villain. Whats going to be their reaction with the villains? Are they going to just insist that they want to go home and the villains won't understand that they want to go to the facility they were trained into nauseousness in? Again sorry for being annoying!

Sorry this took so long! I tried a little bit of a new storytelling device in here-- a frame story. I really hope you enjoy! This series is so so fun, and so very whumpy.

Continued from here, first part can be found here.

CW//Emetophobia, restraints, sedation, insults and swearing, mentions of poisoning, muzzles

“They’re sleeping.”

Doctor’s tone was quiet enough to nearly be described as a whisper, words barely audible above the background noise of the base’s medical wing. Based simply upon their facial expression, it seemed as though they, too, would very much like to be asleep as well-- lines of fatigue were carved deep under their eyes, showing that they’d been awake for far, far too long.

The bandage wrapped tightly about their forearm displayed an entirely different issue, but it seemed to be one that they were far too exhausted to pay much mind to.

“They’re sleeping?” Supervillain echoed. Fatigue crept, too, at their bones, yet it was not an exhaustion wrought by work. Rather, it had been brought on by worry.

“Mhm.” The doctor spoke with a nod. “For now.”

“They’re... They’re okay, then?”

“They’re...” They bit their lower lip. “They’ve calmed down.”

“Are they themself again?” Supervillain’s voice turned to the epitome of eagerness, almost childish in their excitement. “Are they acting- They’re acting normal?”

A moment of tense, sorrowful silence.

“No.” Doctor shook their head after a long pause. “No, they aren’t. I’m sorry. We had to sedate them.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.” They repeated. “They were getting worse.”

“It’s okay. I trust your judgement. You did what you had to.” The supervillain murmured in a low voice. “Can I see them? Is... Is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Supervillain couldn’t ignore the way that sickness threatened to boil within their chest at the words. They could see them. They could see their friend, their ward, their kid. And, now that they were asleep, they couldn’t be terrified.

They couldn’t be terrified of their own friend. Not while they were unconscious.

There was a horribly sorrowful air to the way that Doctor moved, turning back towards the hospital room door, as though they were leading their boss to a morgue. The knob clicked as it was turned, and the room beyond was unveiled.

Villain was sleeping. At long last, their eyes were closed-- the slightest peace visible there, even as it was buried beneath tension and twitching eyelids.

And, yet, the remnants of their terror could be seen clear as day. The restraints made sure of that. There was almost more leather, metal, and fabric upon their body than there was skin.

The muzzle was what drew their attention the quickest. A contraption of black mesh, held in place by leather straps-- straps that danced in tandem with those holding an oversized pair of headphones to their skull. Similar lines of leather criss-crossed the rest of their body in an elaborate pattern, holding down their wrists, their ankles, their midsection, their limbs, and even their head, eliminating all by the slightest of movements. Odd, leather pieces had been fastened over their hands: Mitt cuffs, keeping their fingers curled and hands useless.

A particularly odd restraint had been placed upon their upper arm and wrist-- a sort of flat, plastic, white-stained board, with straps to hold their wrist and elbow in place. Between the straps, an IV line ran, fastened down with all manner of surgical tape.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed as though Doctor couldn’t stop themself from repeating the phrase. “I’m so sorry. I know they’re- They’re our friend. I didn’t want to have to tie them down like this...”

Supervillain understood. They did, really, even as they felt as though their heartstrings were being played with a violin’s bow. Villain was their friend, they saw them as almost their child, in some ways, even as they would never admit to. They had once been the kindest, the youngest among them, and now...

“I trust your judgement.” They spoke, voice nearly quivering with a whimper. “I know you would only do what you have to.”

Doctor nodded somberly.

“They... They were really scared. We don’t know what was wrong with them. We still don’t.”

“Are you they going to be okay?” Supervillain couldn’t help themself from wandering nearer to the bedside. Staring down at their friend, shackled like a wild beast. “They look...” They trailed off.

“We’re doing everything we can.” Of course they were, but would it be enough? “We don’t know what’s wrong. I’m really sorry.”

“You did what you had to.” They truly wished that the medic would cease their apologies. They had only helped.  They had spent so long in their own quarters, worrying and pacing until they wore through their socks.

“Do you know what happened? Before we arrived? No one has had a clear story.”

“Well...”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“They’re going to be scared.” Supervillain’s voice was marked by the slightest of nervous prickles as they moved around their vehicle, from driver’s seat to rear doors. It was a van of considerable size and white bulk. They had taken it for a reason, had intended for Villain to ride in the back, since the beginning. For their own safety. So they wouldn’t be seen. As it had turned out, however, there was another benefit to that fact.

So it seemed, every villain in the base had gathered in the underground garage. Some of them, they noted, didn’t even live within its walls-- someone had invited friends for this occasion. They had specifically been told not to do that.

But, they were here, now, and there was little to be done about that fact. A crowd of twenty-five, bustling with excitement like grade schoolers.

“Everybody back up!” The supervillain called, order ringing out in concrete walls. With just how uncommon their use of commands was, those they spoke to followed their words in an instant, spreading out into a sort of semi-circle formation. “Villain is terrified, right now. Give them space. They’re going right to the medical wing.”

Words in a half-dozen languages buzzed through the gathered crowd.

“Do you get that? Are you guys going to be chill?”

Twenty-five pairs of eyes shot to them, and twenty-five heads nodded.

“Okay. Try to- Just try not to scare them, okay? Please.”

With a nervous gait, Supervillain turned towards their vehicle. Why were they so frightened? This was their friend, after all. Their teammate. They weren’t dangerous-- of course they weren’t, even though the bar holding the van’s rear doors closed may have indicated otherwise to some. It was only for safety reasons, that was all.

They knocked on the doors once, then twice, then slowly, ever so slowly, slid the bar away.

From the back of the van, Villain erupted, as though a wild animal. Had they been waiting at the doors? Struggling at them? Fighting? Certainly they had been, or there would have been no way that they could have leapt with such speed.

The villain crashed to the ground, onto their knees. In an instant, every single person under Supervillain’s orders immediately violated everything they had told them.

‘Swarming’ was the only verb that would be accurate to what occurred in that moment. Nearly every single member of the crowd rushed forth. Some kept at least a foot or two of distance, while more than one crashed right into their toppled-over comrade.

“Villain!”

“You’re okay!”

“I missed you so much!”

“What happened?”

“Where were you?”

“What did they do to you?”

“Are you alright?”

All the concerns, the joys, and the cries raised in volume until they could be described only as a cacophony, a cluster of noise.

The voices were broken only by a scream. A pained scream, and a flash of red. Villain moved nigh-impossibly quickly, teeth gripping around the arm of one who had once been their friend. They tore, leaving great, bloody marks in their wake, as they reared back their head to scream:

“You fucking pieces of shit! Scum! I hate you all! Get away from me, get away from me! I’ll kill you all, I hate-”

Their tirade was ceased only as their body heaved forward, a dribble of bile exploding from their lips, dripping to the floor.

In an instant, the excitement of the scene was gone. The heaving continued, dry gagging spitting out less and less green each time Villain’s body was wracked. By the end, they could only expel air.

When at last they ceased, once more they struck out, teeth hardly missing the neck of another target who seemed to have been selected at random.

“Hold them down. Hold them down!” The cry came from someone in the crowd, someone Supervillain couldn’t identify in their panic. Yet, it was echoed, rippling through those who seemed as though they had been stricken by an odd sort of grief.

“Hold them down!”

“Hold them down!”

And such was done. Four villains moved to hold their hands against Villain’s back, keeping them against the floor, even as they writhed and spat like a beast.

It was then that the medical team arrived. It was then that Supervillain watched their friend, their ward, dragged away, all the while spitting their name as though it was an obscenity.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“We thought they were sick.” Doctor admitted with a bowed head. “Their behavior seemed consistent with delirium, or some kind of hallucinogen. Between vomiting and confused behavior...”

“Did you find it?” Somehow, the words brought a burgeoning hope to Supervillain’s chest, replacing, in some capacity, the dread that their own story had brought on. “The drug? The- The poison? Or is it a disease? A fever?”

The silence that hung between the two was heavier than lead. At last, the doctor shook their head.

“We don’t know what’s wrong. We did everything we could. The symptoms were consistent with poisoning, and there was no time to test for that, so we acted as though it was.”

“Did you ask them?”

“We did but... They seemed a lot more intent on insulting us than answering any questions.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. We pumped their stomach, and flushed it with charcoal, just for good measure. But... It didn’t help.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if it was a poison, it wasn’t one that was ingested by mouth.”

“But it was a poison?”

“We don’t know that. I’m sorry. A certain time after ingestion, it’s hard to tell. We- We drew some blood. It tested negative for all common narcotics and poisons, but it could be something less common. It’s in the lab, now.”

“When will we know? A few hours?”

“A few weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“I’m sorry. It’s slow, I’m so sorry. Until then...”

“What?”

“Until then we’ll manage them, as best as we can. It was like a game of cat and mouse, Supervillain. I’m really sorry. We had to muzzle them. They bit me.” The doctor raised a hand, showing off the bandage they now wore.

“But what if they wanted to talk?”

“It’s only mesh. Stops biting, but not talking. Then, they tried to scratch at us, so we cuffed them. That made them scratch at themself, so, the mitts.”

“And you had to strap them down?”

“When we put in the IV, yes. There was no other way. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s just... Weird.”

“To see them tied up like this?”

“Yeah.”

“It is for me, too. I know. But it’s not them.” Doctor looked up, meeting the eyes of their commander. “You need to remember that, yeah? We all do. It’s not really Villain. Whatever is doing this to them, it’s not them.”

“I know. I- I just need to convince myself that that’s true.” Supervillain straightened themself, standing up taller. “What do you recommend? For their care going forward?”

The doctor seemed to sense the change in professionalism, and assumed a similar stance.

“We’ll continue to look into what’s causing their sickness. Until we can find a source, I’m advising nothing ingested by mouth, except for moderate amounts of water.”

“But- What if they get hungry?” And there went all that posturing, gone in an instant. “Won’t they get hungry?”

“We’re already giving them fluids and nutrients by IV. They’ll have all they need to survive.”

“But what if they get hungry?”

“We can give appetite suppressants if needed.” Doctor conceded. “Alongside fluids, I’m advising a constant drip of anti-nausea medication. With how much they were vomiting, choking is a real risk.”

“Okay. Granted, for both. What about... You said they were sedated?”

“That’s your choice, Sir. We sedated them in order to take samples. It’s less distressing for them, to take blood and the like while they’re asleep. The current dosage should wear off in four or so hours, giving them at least some sleep.”

“They need it.”

“They do. They may be unable to fall asleep at night on their own, and we may need to use sedatives to allow them to rest. As for during the day... That’s up to you.”

“What are my options?”

“We can forgo sedation altogether. It isn’t necessary medically, especially now that they have an IV placed. But in that case, they’re likely to be aggressive, and I can’t guarantee that they won’t present harm to themself or to others.

Or, we can provide a small, consistent level of sedative through an IV drip. Enough to keep them calm, and hopefully to quell any aggression. But that may also cause them some distress.”

“I don’t want to sedate them.” Supervillain admitted, after a terribly long pause. “No sedatives. Please.”

“Okay.”

They moved to the bedside, gripping the bedrails with their hands until their knuckles turned white. They were crying, oh, god, they were crying in front of their own medical staff.

“Villain.” They whispered. “Villain, I’m so, so sorry.”

And, in their sleep, Villain begun to dry heave.

[narwhalsarefalling]

bnha fic recs!

a wound that never heals (always leaves a scar)- midoriya is assigned a group project to research quirkless discrimination. has the b plot of bakugou realizing he fucked up and some very good iida moments! (gen) 

Miruko Dunks on the Doctor for Eight Pages Straight- manga spoilers and canon fix it featuring the most recent arc of mikuro being absolutely badass (gen) 

You know that thing where an orchestra swaps instruments, and like, some of them get it right away, but others have no clue what they're doing? This is that but with quirks, two unwilling participants, and also Emotions- this is a super cool fic that goes into the intricacies of sweating a dangerous and votile chemical out of your hands at all times. quirk swap between momo and bakugou. also features bakugou petting a bunny (gen) 

Learning Curve- a super duper whumpy fic going into quirk science (slight manga spoilers too) and aaaaa its one of my favorites. just read it, especially if you liked s4 (dadzawa) (gen)

the storm comes quietly before it shakes the entire world- pokemon au that i really recommend if you need a quick laugh (gen) (1k words)

Honesty’s The (Best?) Policy - truth quirk but it made midoriya drunk, featuring sero as the designated driver (take the tags seriously) (gen, midoriya and sero friendship)

i'm having a secret conversation about you with the tiny stars in the pitch-black sky- some eri and deku family fluff! bonus shindeku in the last two parts as well, along with dadzawa!

Baby Steps (series)- bakugou redemption arc that actually makes sense (gen) 

A Study in Firsts- worldbuilding one shots and stuff also featuring aizawa admitting his last kiss was giving a squirrel cpr. dorm shenanigans, quirk science, and fun troupes!

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

another tiny fic? yeah actually another tiny fic!!!

so when the dark takes over (Loki & Sylvie, 596 words, end of episode 4) Rating: T Warnings: canon temporary character death, minor references to Bad Stuff With Thanos Summary: Loki never seems to have the right words, not when it really matters, not until it’s too late, and he can’t find the right words for Sylvie now. (Loki at the end of episode 4--you know, that scene. Spoilers for the whole episode, obviously.) 

He never seems to have the right words, not when it really matters, not until it’s too late, and he can’t find the right words now. Loki hesitates, rests his hands on Sylvie’s shoulders—she’s real and alive and grounding, somehow, so sharp and sure even now when she’s lost her purpose too, and it’s with a stab of something like grief that he wonders: who could she have been if the TVA had just let her be, if she hadn’t spent her whole life fighting to survive?

Who might he have been, for that matter, if he’d known from the beginning that he wasn’t an Odinson by blood but they’d chosen him anyway, if that revelation hadn’t shattered his identity at its foundations? Who might he have been, if he hadn’t fallen from the Bifrost and into the Mad Titan’s clutches?

He might have variants who could answer those questions—or might have had, once, until the TVA pruned them because they wouldn’t allow him to be anything else. And he isn’t sure, in all honesty, if he’s relieved he’ll never know what sort of life he never got the chance to have, or if it’s just more grief on the pile for himself and all those other variants alike.

But those variants and those possibilities are all gone, and nothing matters except this moment and what they do with it—because he thinks, if he can find the words, they can do something with it.

He never gets the chance. A horrific blazing pain erupts from a point between his shoulder blades, first ripping away his breath and then blasting outward to devour his lungs entirely. The horrified shock on Sylvie’s face and the sparks bursting from his chest tell the same story.

It burns and he can’t breathe without lungs and he has fractions of a second before the rest of his body disintegrates—and if he is still touching Sylvie when the reset charge eats away his hands, then—

 You were born to cause pain and suffering and death. That’s how it is, that’s how it was, that’s how it will be

 No, not this time, not this time—

He never had the right words for Odin or Frigga or Thor, for all of Asgard, never knew it until it was too late, and he can’t speak now with his lungs gone and the sparks chewing their way toward his throat, but in the last instant that any part of his body remains under his control, he drags his hands away from Sylvie’s shoulders so at least he won’t take her down with him, and it hurts—

And then there is nothing.

***

He wakes up. That’s…unexpected. He wakes up gasping, flat on his back on something hard, which is at least a solid indication that his body is intact in one form or another. The gray sky stretching endlessly overhead means it can’t be Sanctuary, so if this is Hel, it’s…at least potentially better than the last place he woke up after dying.

It isn’t Hel. It’s somewhere much stranger. Loki stares at what he can only assume are three (four?) more variants of himself and finds their existence far easier to believe than the impossible idea that the Norns, or the universe, or something, is offering him another chance.

Then again, he’s seen a great many impossible things recently, even if most of them have been objectively terrible. Maybe, if he is very clever or very lucky, or a bit of both, he can make something of this one.

***

[me?? posting two short fics in one night?? it's...exactly as likely as you think, which is to say not at all, which is why this is kind of a big deal to me despite the extremely small word count! if nothing else, the Loki show has been great for my attempts to dash off quick little "I noticed a thing and I wrote a little meta about it and then I made a tiny fic out of it" fics without them always becoming some kind of huge production. in this case, the thing I noticed was that Loki pulled his hands away from Sylvie's shoulders at the last second before he disintegrated, and I have a lot of feelings about that, so: tiny whumpy fic. I also really wanted to get this posted before episode 5 drops (in...an hour), mostly because having another episode to think about would almost certainly complicate things. I mean for one thing I might know what he actually meant to say, and it makes this a lot easier to just refuse to speculate on that bit! again, AO3 link in the notes.]

[fancifulwhump]

so, the bad news is, i’ve fallen completely in love with a show about a band full of ghost boys??  julie and the phantoms is such a fun show  ---  the characters are incredible, the music is brilliant, and it has some unexpected whumpy gem moments, too!!   

this idea has been a worm in my brain since the first episode   ;   basically, the band has a habit of eating questionable food from alleys and out of the back of trucks, which comes back to bite them big time.    i figured, there’s no way that’s the first time they’ve ever gotten food poisoning... so, this fic was born.   i really had to get it out of my system, y’all.

if anyone wants more j.atp whump content in the future, i’ll happily provide!

a case of food poisoning  :  reggie, alex, luke, and bobby  /  j.atp   ;    6000+ words     ( nausea, vomiting, emeto )

Things don’t start feeling weird — for Reggie, at least — until they’re all piled into Bobby’s beat-up van, on their way back from a gig.

Those tacos aren’t sitting right. That’s all he can think, because they really haven’t settled since they went down. It’s been an hour since the four of them crowded around that alleyway food truck, shelling out a fraction of their latest pay for the nearest thing that could be called dinner. No one’s accusing street food of being gourmet... but for four kids living on band wages, plus what little Bobby and Alex made from their part-time jobs, it’s a godsend. Cheap, tasty, and usually not poisonous. Who could ask for anything more?

Tacos have always been Reggie’s favorite... but as the van rattles down the road, jostling its occupants with every pothole, he’s starting to regret going in for that second helping. Or the third.

Or, let’s be honest, the fourth. The fourth might’ve done him in.

Still, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. His friends tease him all the time — for such a skinny guy, Reggie can finish a whole pizza by himself, and put away a steak in under five minutes. It’s a talent, really. He’s always been able to eat without having to worry about the consequences — eating itself is its own pleasure, when dinners at home consist of “whatever’s left over” way too frequently. He doesn’t really... get full.

The longer the tacos sit inside of him, though, the heavier he feels. His stomach is tight against his belt, swelling out slightly beneath his dark t-shirt. If unbuttoning his pants were an option, he’d probably do it, just to have some room to breathe. Doing it here isn’t an option, though — not with Luke pressed up next to him, and Bobby and Alex in the front seats. He’d elbow his best friend in the face if he tried, and probably be noticed before then.

Reggie’s just got to grin and bear it... at least, until they get back to the studio.

“Great work tonight, boys,” Luke declares, leaning towards the front of the van. An arm suddenly loops around Reggie’s shoulders. The impact jars him, sending his stomach into a split-second free fall. If Luke notices the uncharacteristic tension in Reggie’s shoulders, he doesn’t let on, doesn’t even look at him. “I can hear record agents knocking on our door already!”

“You mean, the door to Bobby’s garage, where we all basically live?” Alex replies. “Wow, yeah. They’re going to be impressed.”

“Who gave them our address?” Bobby adds from behind the wheel. “They better not show up on Tuesday, my mom hosts crochet club.”

Luke’s shoulders shake; his smile is so bright, it’s practically luminescent in the dark. Reggie gets sucked into it for a moment before catching himself staring. With a thick swallow, he turns his head away. How can Luke have so much energy, when Reggie feels like he’s been hung out to dry? (Maybe off the back of a pick-up truck, and run over a few times for good measure.)

But silence isn’t like him, and of course Luke notices. He sends an elbow into his ribs — not enough to hurt, but an unpleasant gurgle ripples through his full stomach anyways. Reggie can’t help the arm that comes up to cradle his gut, or the way he hunches over, despite that only making the pressure worse. Anyone looking at him could tell something’s off — and with that realization, can’t worry them, can’t be a downer — he turns with a bright, forced grin.

“Just thinking about how on fire we were! Did you see those babes at the front table? They were checking me out the entire show, I’m telling you.”

Luke chuckles. That’s more like him, and it pushes any suspicion firmly off his shoulders. Able to breathe a sigh of relief, Reggie slowly eases himself back. It does feel a little better to be sitting — and looks less weird, too, even when a hand comes up to massage his stomach.

Yeah, he’s definitely bloated. His gut gurgles uncomfortably beneath his palm, loud enough to fill the rest of the car — but with the radio blasting, it’s mostly drowned out.  The longer he sits back, the more the pressure in his stomach increases. He’s gone from feeling full to swollen. Even as he tries to massage the discomfort out, the heavy feeling only gets worse.

They hit another pothole, jostling the car. Reggie lurches forwards. Unwillingly, a loud burp slips past his lips.

“Dude,” Luke exclaims, smacking him on the back.

“Really, Reggie? In my car?” says Bobby from the front.

Blindsided, Reggie shrinks back in his seat, pressing a fist to his lips. His face feels hot. Actually, every part of him feels hot; suddenly, his trademark leather jacket is heavy, oppressive instead of familiar. His t-shirt clings to his skin — when did he start sweating? — and all the added sensation does absolutely nothing to soothe his swollen stomach. There’s no reason to be embarrassed with his friends, his band, but…

Talk about not sitting right. That burp came out of nowhere, taking him from full to queasy.

“Sorry,” Reggie mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. One hand comes up to cup his stomach again — gently this time, just in case. His stomach flips, and he can’t help wincing. It’s useless to put up any mask, no more pretense that he’s feeling fine… anyone who looks his way could definitely tell something’s up.

Thankfully, his friends aren’t looking. Bobby’s focused on the road, while Luke’s busy chattering to the front seats. Alex’s eyes are closed, forehead pressed against the glass window; no matter how the van rattles, it doesn’t jar him. Reggie admires his fortitude, because every time they hit a pothole, his stomach leaps into his throat.

Maybe… maybe something was wrong with those tacos. The thought occurs to him like a revelation — one of those awful ones you don’t really want to consider, so you put off ‘til the last minute, like we have a pop quiz in calculus today, or that mole probably isn’t normal. There’s just no way all this churning in his gut is just from indigestion, though. Unease nags at him, the heady flavor of the tacos still lingering in his mouth. They haven’t ever tasted like that before.

To be fair, it’s street food. What do you expect? Of course it’s going to taste a little gnarly.

But the tacos — just thinking of them makes his stomach lurch. A low gurgle ripples through his core, and Reggie hunches in on himself, both arms around his stomach. By turning towards the window, he’s able to create a barrier between himself and the rest of the car. No one needs to see the way he’s sweating, or clutching his belly like it’s on fire. No one needs to worry about him.

Another burp forces its way up his throat. Reggie swallows it back, leaning his head against the cool glass window, and just tries to rest.

It’s no use. The longer he puts it off, the more the nausea grows. His stomach does cartwheels with every bump in the road. There are a few scary moments where he’s sure he’ll have to shout for Bobby to pull over… but they pass, and Reggie is left a little paler than before, breathing a little heavier.

By the time they pull into Bobby’s driveway, he could almost cry with relief.

Luke is the first one out, smacking Reggie’s shoulder again on the way out the door. Alex follows at a more sedate pace; his energy always lags late at night, but something about the way he’s moving seems weird. Off somehow… careful. Reggie’s so focused on watching Alex’s stiff descent from the car, that he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t moved at all… until a sudden rap on the window startled him.

Bobby’s peering in at him through the dirty glass. Sheepish, Reggie opens the door, and slides out of the van.

As soon as he’s standing, his stomach protests. A wave of nausea rolls through him, serenaded by another angry gurgle. There’s no missing this one, and no distraction from it. Reggie slumps against the van door with a breathless huff; immediately, Bobby’s at his side, gripping his forearm to keep him upright.

“Whoa, dude — you look awful.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Reggie grits out. “You’re gorgeous as ever.”

Actually, Bobby looks… serious. Dead serious, even more than usual. His eyes are pitch black, taking in Reggie from head to toe; when his brows furrow, he looks worried, but not surprised.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. “It’s your stomach?”

If Reggie opens his mouth, he seriously might hurl; his only reply is a stiff nod.

“Shit.” Bobby drags a hand through his hair, then slams it against the driver’s window. Reggie watches, with a distant sort of fascination, as he walks a full circle around the side of the car, shaking his head. “I knew something was up. Those tacos tasted weird from the start.”

“Maybe we should’ve listened to Luke and gone with street dogs.” Reggie lurches, a sudden hiccup surprising him: hastily, he presses a hand over his mouth, avoiding Bobby’s gaze.

“Alex’s stomach was grumbling like crazy in the car — I could hear it over the music. Over Luke.” When Bobby looks back, his lips are pressed in a grim line. “And I’m not feeling so hot either, man.”

“Great,” mutters Reggie, shaking his head. “Just fantastic.”

Figures, they’d all get hit with something gnarly at the same time — Sunset Curve is a brotherhood, after all. Even if that means puking their guts out in the same tiny garage bathroom —

Well, okay, Bobby lives here. He’s got a whole house, and a bathroom all to himself. Lucky dude.

Reggie doesn’t realize he’s started swaying until Bobby’s suddenly right beside him, instead of a few feet away. This close, Reggie can tell his friend’s a shade paler than normal… but it would be easy to write off, with how concerned Bobby looks. Concerned over what? Over him? Reggie tries to straighten up, but a sudden cramp of his stomach convinces him that’s not a good idea.

“Come on, man,” Bobby says quietly. “Let’s get inside. You need to lie down or something.”

“I need to —“ Reggie cuts himself off with a deep, queasy belch. A fist flies to his mouth automatically; he can’t help moaning. “Shit. Sorry, that’s — gross. I feel really gross. Really weird, Bobby.”

“I know, man.” Bobby tucks an arm around his shoulders; Reggie’s grateful, because suddenly, he’s not sure he could walk on his own. As he slumps into his bandmate, Bobby takes on most of his weight without even a murmur. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

They make it into the garage without incident. It’s no surprise to find Luke and Alex already settled in — as settled as Luke can get after a show, anyways. He rides the adrenaline of a great show until the very end, and can never rest until it’s all burnt out. Usually this means finding him passed out somewhere that isn’t the air mattress, and waking up with a crick in his back the next morning… but Luke is Luke, and he never changes.

Alex is curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow; his head lolls, distant gaze focused on a crack in the wall. Luke, on the other hand, is a ball of energy. He hops around the studio on the balls of his feet, deftly avoiding stray wires and lumps in the carpet. He’s got his songbook in one hand, and a guitar pick in the other. 

“That riff in the middle of Get Lost — where’d you even come up with that, Bobby, it was genius! And, and Alex, when the rhythm picked up —“

“I thought I was a little off in the first number.” Even Alex’s voice sounds listless.

“No, man, you were great.” Luke pauses just long enough to rub a hand over his face, bouncing on his heels like a boxer in the ring. When he drags his hand back through his hair, Reggie notices a sheen of sweat on his brow. The garage is actually pretty chilly in mid-January; there’s no good excuse.

Bobby leads him over to the couch, and Reggie practically collapses onto it. When Alex turns, his dull eyes spark to life with alarm. “God, Reg,” he hisses, immediately pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. “You look like a wreck!”

“We’ve got a problem,” Bobby tells him. 

Alex meets his gaze, and understanding dawns. His face falls, eyes going wide.

Reggie can only contribute a hiccup. 

“Oh, come on,” Alex mutters, pulling his pillow tighter against his stomach. “We had to get food out of a shady cart, couldn’t just stop at a diner or something…”

“The cart was, like, right there.”

“Yeah, sitting there suspiciously!”

A loud, long gurgle emanates from Alex’s side of the couch — yeah, okay, Reggie definitely heard that one. He hunches forward, grimacing; whatever color the revelation leant to his face, it just as quickly drains away.

“Boys,” says Luke, suddenly sounding uneasy. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“There’s no point blaming anyone,” Reggie insists, looking between Alex and Bobby. “Except the guy who sold us the tacos, right?”

“I don’t think we can sue, Reg,” says Bobby.

“He shouldn’t be in business selling stuff that’s literally poisoning people,” insists Alex, burying his face in both hands. “We can definitely report him. That’s got to be an option, right?”

“Oh, sure. If we all make it through the night.”

“You guys…” Luke cuts in again, and there’s a tremor to his voice. 

Finally, Reggie looks up — just in time to see the last bit of color drain from Luke’s cheeks. He’s left chalk-white, a stricken look on his face, caught somewhere between uncertainty and fear. Slowly, a hand drifts to his stomach. “Um,” he says, and sways a little. “You guys don’t —“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. An indescribable sound bursts out of him  —  less a gag, more like choking on his own stomach. Luke lurches forward, a hand clamped to his mouth.

“Shit,” Bobby exclaims, springing to his feet. “Oh, shit!”

Luke stumbles back, waving Bobby off with one hand. The other remains clasped against his lips, holding whatever it can back; for a moment, Luke just sways, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach continues to moan and roil. Each breath comes heavy through his nose; each exhale is perilous. When he finally straightens back up, he’s gone completely colorless, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Ah, man,” he mutters, trembling.

Alex is on his feet now too, and takes a cautious step forward. “Luke,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I was… a minute ago, I was —“ Luke cuts himself off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth again. He swallows something back, then shakes his head. “I’m okay. Gonna be okay.”

Somehow, this isn’t convincing. Alex hesitates, arm still outstretched. “Are you sure?”

Luke opens his mouth to reply; instead, he lurches forward with a strangled noise, and a rush of vomit spills down his shirt.

“Shit!” Bobby exclaims again, emphasizing each syllable.

Luke’s last wave of energy hits him all at once. Suddenly, he’s sprinting; he clears the coffee table like a track-and-fielder in the Olympics, leaps clean over stacks of boxes and duffle bags, before vanishing into the bathroom. The door slams shut being him.

This doesn’t matter; the walls are like paper here. They can still hear the gagging, the cursing, the whimpers — even without the privilege of seeing it.

“Well,” Alex says, glancing between his remaining bandmates with a grim smile. “Looks like we’re in for a fun night.”

From inside the bathroom, a long moan agrees with him.

----------

It’s around midnight by the time Reggie finally loses his dinner. By then, Bobby has retreated to the privacy of his house. Luke is firmly camped out in the bathroom, with no signs of dragging himself out any time soon. Reggie ends up stumbling outside, on his hands and knees in the patch of dirt behind the old garage building; it’s hardly the classiest place to do it, but he can’t just march up to Bobby’s front door, push past his parents, and hurl all over their new porcelain flooring.

Alex lingers nearby, shivering in the chilly night air. He rubs Reggie’s back through the worst of it, muttering the same soothing platitudes all moms like to whip out when their kids are sick; Reggie murmurs something along those lines around a mouthful of acid, and isn’t surprised when Alex cuffs him in the head.

“If I’m your mom, you were an accident.”

Reggie snorts, scrubbing tear-stained cheeks with his flannel’s sleeve. “Pretty sure I actually was.”

Probably too dark, but Alex doesn’t say so; he just helps Reggie stand, a reassuringly steady presence when Reggie can barely find his own feet. Together, they make their way back inside the garage. From the bathroom, Luke’s suffering is still ringing out in vivid technicolor — Reggie’s learned curses tonight his dad doesn’t even know. Alex’s worried gaze flickers across the studio as another moan rings out; he lowers Reggie onto the couch, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before pulling away.

“I gotta go check on Luke.”

Reggie tracks his friend’s movements across the garage, not missing the way Alex stumbles across his own feet. Now that he’s not supporting anyone else’s weight, it’s obvious what a task it is to carry his own. He’s ghost pale, still shivering despite having come in from the cold, half-shrunken into his baggy hoodie. His brows are drawn tight together, the way they tend to when he’s fighting off a wave of worry… but it’s clearly more than that, given the shadow of queasiness haunting his face. He looks like he’s about to fall over… and if he does, he’s screwed, because Reggie doesn’t have the strength to go over there and pick him up.

“You need to rest, Alex,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn.

Alex glances back at him; there’s no life in his dull eyes, no gleam of fondness or frustration. He only looks exhausted.

“I don’t think any of us are getting much rest tonight,” he replies. When his lips twist, it can barely be called a smile. “Try to get some yourself, Reg. It’ll help.”

To his credit, Reggie tries. He leans back against the couch, letting his eyes drift shut. A low knock rings out, followed by Luke’s answering moan; Alex cracks the door open and mutters something too low for Reggie to hear. There’s quiet for a moment, then the sound of another gag. The bathroom door clicks shut; Reggie doesn’t have the energy to look up to see whether Alex is in or out.

His own stomach, at the very least, doesn’t care. It gives a sudden twist, and a low snarling noise rings out; Reggie can feel it, like his stomach’s tying itself in knots inside of him, just expecting him to deal with it. The pain is another thing — probably the worst thing, if the nausea wasn’t so overwhelming. It comes in waves, but when it comes — well —

He’s left doubled in on himself, breath coming in short gasps as he clutches his stomach with both hands. It’s all he can do to breathe; each cramp spasms through him, making his body distort and gut groan with fury. Reggie groans too, from the agony of it all — and the realization that, even having just ditched the remains of the tacos outside, they're not finished with him yet.

What could he have left to throw up? Jesus, it felt like he was coughing up his soul out there.

“I’m okay, I can walk on my own — geez, Alex, really. Don’t…”

“You think I want to get close to you? You smell like something died.”

Luke’s voice is hoarser than the time he blew it out practicing for the school talent show, but he manages a chuckle anyway. “So you wouldn’t kiss me if I asked?”

Alex snorts too. “Not even if you paid me.”

Reggie can’t see them, but he can imagine Luke’s careful, wobbling steps — the way he holds himself up by stubbornness alone, one arm still looped around his stomach. Alex lingers at his side the way he always does, ready to help the second it’s needed… only when the chair springs creak, and Luke lets out a low sigh, does Alex finally let himself sit down as well.

“That took everything outta me,” Luke mutters, voice muffled by the hands pressed to his face, “Literally. I feel dizzy, man.”

“Drink some water.” 

“No way, my stomach…”

“Luke, you need to. You just hurled up all the water in your body.”

“It’s not gonna stay down.”

“Then it comes up. At least it’s something.”

There’s a long moment of silence before a water bottle crackles in Luke’s unsteady grip. He takes a few shallow gulps before setting it aside; leaning his head back, he brings one hand to his stomach, where it hovers uncertainly for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says, and gives a weak hiccup. “I think — I think we’re good.”

“Okay.” Alex heaves a heavy sigh, and settles back, finally. 

For a little while, there’s only silence. Luke’s allowed his eyes to shut, while Alex has slumped against the side of the chair, head pillowed on his arm. They’re all drifting. Every few minutes, the quiet will be broken by someone’s stomach gurgling, or an uncomfortable huff, but for the most part… no one dares break the tenuous peace that’s settled over the garage.

At least, not until his stomach seizes up with another cramp, and Reggie can’t help whimpering.

Alex stirs. His eyes are glassy, face colorless. “Reg?” he mutters. “What’s — what’s wrong?”

Except it’s far beyond Reggie’s ability to answer at this point; the pain is too great to even try. He just curls in on himself, clawing at his stomach with both hands as if that alone can stop the pain. It convulses once, and he sees red; his entire body is on fire, burning him up from the inside out, and he can’t take it anymore, he really can’t…

“Hurts,” he gasps, and a moan follows when another cramp rips through him. “Hurts so bad…”

Alex stares at him for a long moment, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. At what point it sets in, it's impossible to say… but suddenly he’s pushing himself up on unsteady legs, gripping the side of the chair for balance.

Reggie’s eyes widen at the way he sways. For half a second, his own pain is forgotten. “Alex, you —“

Alex just waves him off. Instead of stumbling towards Reggie, he turns on his heel — making his way back, instead, to the mini-fridge plugged in at the back of the room. Another cramp momentarily blinds Reggie, forcing him to curl back in on himself. He can’t follow Alex’s journey, or even worry whether he’ll make it there in one piece. By the time the pain grows dull again, Alex is shuffling back towards him, a fresh water bottle in hand.

“Dude,” Reggie groans. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

“You have to, Reg.” Alex’s voice is small, between labored breaths. “There’s nothing — nothing in your stomach. It’ll help the pain.”

“You don’t know that, it could make it worse —“

“Reggie.” Alex is right by his side now, bent low to look at him… and his eyes are gentle. Soft in that classic Alex way, the trust me way, the it’s going to be okay, I promise way. He’s always the same — always means so well — and he’d do anything for anybody else, if it just meant they didn’t have to suffer. 

Forget mom; sometimes, Reggie looks at Alex and thinks, “Yeah, this is what a big brother’s supposed to be.” Of course, Alex would know. He has a little sister he’s not even allowed to see anymore, not since his parents kicked him out. That’s got to kill him every day... Reggie can’t even imagine.

One thing’s for sure: he trusts Alex more than anyone else in the world (except the rest of the band).

He’d trust him with his life.

And, as Reggie takes the water bottle with shaking hands, he feels like he’s doing exactly that.

One sip goes down, then another — and he’s so thirsty that Alex has to gently guide the bottle away from his lips after the fourth gulp, reminding him not to overdo it. Reggie answers with a sick burp, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. For a moment they wait, anticipation heavy as a curtain over them both… but nothing happens. The water stays down, and by some miracle, Reggie’s stomach doesn’t cramp up again.

He’s too caught up in his own relief. Reggie doesn’t even notice Alex making his way back across the room — until a sudden noise, a wet gurgle, jars his attention up. 

Alex is braced against the ladder leading up to the loft; he’s stopped there, because he can’t take another step. Head bent, his entire body shudders with a suppressed gag; as he chokes on it, the muscles in his arm strain with the force of holding him up. Something gurgles in his throat again, and he lurches forward, nearly hitting his knees on the concrete floor.

“Oh, man,” Reggie mutters, right before Alex loses it.

All over the floor.

Bobby’s gonna kill them, if the food poisoning doesn’t first.

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

They’re all sick, and they’re tired, and then they’re sick again… the cycle becomes predictable after a while. Reggie can’t say how many hours pass, or exactly how many times he has to sprint for the bathroom — only that he’s exhausted by the time dawn begins to break through the garage windows. 

Maybe Reggie dozes for a while... it’s hard to tell. Getting any rest is its own fever dream, when his stomach’s in knots, sending bolts of pain shooting through him every few minutes. Distantly, he hears himself groaning, feels his arms wrap around his own stomach tighter, but he’s too exhausted to care.

He does feel it when another body settles in beside him — feels it clear as day, when a pressure against his spine forces him to ease back, and a set of hands pawing at his middle breaks his vice grip.

“Easy, Reg,” a very familiar voice murmurs, just over his shoulder. “Try to relax a bit.”

“Hurts...” Reggie manages, before another brutal cramp ricochets through his core, sending him curling in on himself all over again. His companion won’t have it, though. They force him to settle, easing him back against their shoulder... and the next thing Reggie knows, there’s a hand on his stomach, pressing into the worst of the pain.

At first, he groans; then, he sighs. It feels good, better than he dared hope for — finally, pressure against the worst cramps, easing them out before they can ripple through him completely. His stomach gives a wet, angry growl, and he can’t help whimpering as it turns over on itself... but the person at his back hushes him. A hand runs through his sweat-damp hair, trimmed fingernails grazing his scalp, and Reggie’s brain almost whites out at how good the tiny bit of comfort feels.

“You need your strength, okay? So you’ve gotta rest.” A pause, and then, from a distance, “He’s really getting hit hard, guys. I think he might have a fever, too.”

“He ate more than us,” someone else says.

“Man, he looks rough...” That sympathetic tone is definitely Luke.

When he forces his eyes open, after what seems like ages, Reggie finds himself surrounded by familiar faces. Their assessment isn’t really fair — none of the boys are looking great tonight. Luke, curled up on the floor, has slumped against the beanbag chair rather than sitting in it. Wisely, he’s lost his ruined shirt; now he sits hunched forward, both arms around his churning stomach. Every now and then, he’ll wince, and breathe out slowly; when his shoulders jolt with a spare hiccup, he presses his lips together until they turn white. Alex, having commandeered the other chair, looks completely washed out. There’s no color in his face, gone gray like sour milk; he’s got a bucket in his lap, wrapped tightly around it, and though he hiccups every so often, doesn’t seem like he’s had to use it. It takes Reggie a moment to realize that whoever’s got his head cradled in their lap smells like cheap mall cologne, and that the hands are calloused in the exact same places Bobby’s are. A low gurgle emanates from close to his ear, drawing his gaze up. Bobby wears a grimace of discomfort, his face nearly as pale as Alex’s... but when he notices Reggie coherent, he looks down, and smiles.

“Hey, man. How you feeling?”

“N- never better.” Reggie tries to return the gesture, but a curdle of his stomach eagerly contradicts him. 

“You’re gonna be fine, okay?” Bobby’s hand runs through his hair again; Reggie’s eyes flutter without his consent. “We've just got to get through the worst of it.”

“Everybody’s sick…” As his brows slowly draw together, Reggie’s attention flickers around the rest of the group. “How’re you guys doing? Alex…”

Alex shakes his head, muffling a hiccup into his fist. “I’m fine, Reg. Don’t even worry.”

“Yeah, we’re breezing through this.” Luke tried to offer him an “ok” gesture — but another cramp sends him leaning back against the chair, one hand pressing hard against his stomach. His face contorts in pain, and Reggie has to turn away, burying his face against Bobby’s leg.

It takes him a moment to find any kind of humor in this situation at all… but, being Reggie, that’s just his way. His shoulders shake with a weak chuckle. “Guess this is… the last time we go for street tacos, huh?”

Alex groans. “Not likely. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna keep eating street food until we make it big, or they literally kill us.”

Reggie scoffs. “Food poisoning’s not gonna take us out.”

“Really? Cause I feel like I’m dying.”

“If we were dying, trust me —“ Luke’s stomach gurgles, tensing his entire body up. “We’d know.”

Even something as simple as talking drains him. Reggie lets his eyes drift shut again, relishing the warmth of Bobby’s lap, and the solidness of his presence. It’s great to have Bobby back. Out of all of them, he’s clearly been hit the lightest… thank god someone’s still standing, otherwise they all might really be down for the count.

When his stomach gurgles again, Reggie tenses up. He jolts with a hiccup, then a tiny moan. As his hands curl into fists, ragged fingernails dig into his palms; he relishes the small amount of pain as a distraction from the overwhelming lion’s share.

“My stomach hurts so bad,” he murmurs. Bobby continues to stroke his head, even as Reggie goes progressively more tense. With his next exhale, a splash of something acidic rushes up his throat. He lurches, and tries to swallow it — but it’s in his nose, he can’t breathe, and the next shudder only brings more of it up. A hand clamps over his mouth as he scrambles into a sitting position, but he only makes it halfway. Utterly drained, he collapses sideways once again, falling in Bobby’s lap as his mouth floods with sick.

There’s only time for Bobby to direct him forward. Reggie lurches over his knees, vomit already spilling past his lips. Rather than hit the floor — or worse, Bobby’s shoes — the bucket is there waiting for him. 

As soon as Reggie gets a hold on the bucket, he doubles forward, practically wrapping himself around it. It rips through every muscle, every nerve. Mouthfuls of acid and bile are forced up with every heave, from the deepest part of his stomach. Reggie shudders. He belches up a splash of something nasty, enduring a spare gag as it ripples through him. When he’s finally able to catch his breath, he knows, just knows, every eye is on him.

“I hate this,” he pants, slowly lifting his head. “This is literally — huUurp — the worst.”

“That sure was,” Luke mutters; based on his offended yelp a second later, someone probably threw a water bottle at him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bobby says again, massaging gentle circles into his back. Alex’s calloused band sweeps across his forehead, brushing back Reggie’s unruly hair. Sweat plasters raven strands to his forehead, but with the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand, a bit of the pain goes with it.

“Yeah,” Alex says after a moment. “He’s definitely got a fever. Should we… be concerned?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby’s voice is hoarse, though that could be from worry or a night spent hurling his guts up — hard to say. “He was keeping water down for a little while, but… if he gets any worse, we might have to take him to the —“

“No hospital!”

It’s the most energy Reggie has had all night, and just about scares the hell out of his friends. His hand suddenly lashes up to grip Bobby’s shoulder in a vice grip; when he lifts his head, his eyes are very wide, very earnest. “Hospital isn’t gonna help. It… costs too much money.”

His parents are already fighting over the bills 24/7 — fighting over everything, fighting over him. The last thing Reggie needs it to give them a reason. He won’t do that, he won’t —

“No hospital,” he says again, and Alex hastily nods.

“Okay, Reg. You got it. No hospitals.”

He’s not sure whether to believe them, when he catches the wary glance Bobby and Alex exchange over his head… but Reggie is eager to chase away the horrible, anxious feeling, in exchange for the warm comfort of moments before. If he could just wrap himself up in that, instead of the thought of his parents screaming at each other over his hospital bed…

Yeah.

He’d like that a lot.

Just… safety, warmth, and quiet.

And maybe some water to wash this taste out of his mouth.

Alex scrambles to oblige him as soon as he asks. Reggie takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, and tentatively swallows it. The water settles — for now — which is the best he can ask for.

“I don’t want to be sick again,” he admits quietly, after a long moment of simply… laying there, staring back and forth.

Luke chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Join the club.”

“I haven’t puked for a few hours now,” says Bobby. “I think… I might be done?”

Alex’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle, and he groans. “Ooh, I’m not.”

It wasn’t the worst night of his life, and that’s really saying something… but as the morning grows brighter, flooding the garage with sunlight, Reggie sighs and curls into his friend’s lap. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse.

At least they’re walking through hell holding hands. Whatever Sunset Curve does, they do together… and that includes food poisoning, apparently.

Reggie can live with that, if it means his friends are with him through it all.

(His fever doesn’t break until that afternoon, and Reggie can still taste rancid taco meat a week later. The band takes days to recover completely. If they could say the experience turned them off street food for life, they’d be better off for it.

A few months later, Reggie finishes the last of his hot dog, and has just enough time to think, that definitely tasted funny, before his stomach twists.

Some people really never learn.)