#tw: asphixiation

[allie-writes]

pressure and the deep sea

Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Relationships: None Other relevant tags: Character Study, Nightmares, Panic Attacks Word count: 509 Language: English Read on: AO3 | Fanfiction.net

When he dreams, he is suffocating at first.

CWs: asphixiation, drowning, death-imagery, blood and injury (canon-compliant and non-graphic), past trauma, panic attacks

When he dreams, he is suffocating at first.

It is pitch dark, and there is blood in his eye. The air is thick and stifling; his lungs burn with the effort it takes to continue breathing. In and out, in and out, through the pressure on his chest. In and out, in and out, despite the walls closing in on him. In and out, in and out.

From above him, a rhythmic tchk-tchk-tchk cuts through the roar of blood in his ears. Digging: above him, inside him, shovel into dirt, dirt into body, body into dust, and ashes to ashes. The walls tremble and come ever closer before the ceiling begins to sink as well and his breaths grow shorter with it. Anything to force the dwindling amount of air into his lungs, anything to keep on living, anything to remain defiant.

Aspiration passes his lips in hot and moist and disgusting bursts. It condenses, right in front of his face; then, it begins to drip. Water dribbles onto his cheeks like somebody else’s teardrops, fat and heavy and salty. It burns where it gathers in his empty eye-socket, stings in the bruises littering his body, and eventually, it drowns his rasping, desperate breaths.

There is still air, somewhere, but he can’t seem to find it. His lungs are already waterlogged.

He chokes on the river that pours into his mouth, then coughs around the waves that are forcing themselves out of his respiratory system. His bones feel hollow and brittle where they rattle inside his clammy, soapy skin—a water corpse in the making, trapped inside a pretty, shrinking aquarium.

He is not yet submerged, and still, he drowns. Above him, muffled, rain hits the ground. No one is coming for him; he cannot remember much of anything, but this, he knows for a fact. This is the last stage of abandonment, of being discarded.

(Sometimes, he will dimly remember that someone did come, back then. But in his dreams, they don’t.) He grows delirious as his lungs begin to give in. It’s a losing battle now: no space, no air, only water and dirt and blood, and pain, and he drowns, he drowns—

And Qifrey sits up.

The room around him is dark (like the inside of a coffin—), his shirt soaked in cold sweat (like rainwater—) and he can’t seem to recall how to breathe normally for a few seconds (because he is still being suffocated, because he is still drowning—). His fingers are numb.

He is safe. He is home.

The girls are sleeping just down the hall, tucked into their soft beds. Olruggio is probably awake in his own rooms, tinkering the night away. The blankets pooled in his lap are warm and sweat-damp and heavy, and the air in his room is fragrant and plentiful. In the morning, they will have a breakfast of bread with jam and hot tea.

His entire body trembles as he wraps his arms around himself. Tears prickle behind his eye.

Breathe. In and out.

In and out.

[cats-and-confusion]

This might be weird to some people but I just love the whump trope of a character being forced unconscious (in a safe environment with a happy ending).

Characters getting asphyxiated, characters getting sedated, characters falling victim to sleeping gas, characters getting chloroformed by well intentioned people, characters that protest because they don't want to go to sleep yet they have JOBS to do, characters that relax in someone's hold because they trust they'll be taken care of while unconscious, characters that thrash around because oh god everything hurts, characters that pass out from pain once they're finally safe. Characters that are villains getting drugged by hero doctors and taken care of is a personal favorite of mine that I don't see enough of.

The idea of being forcefully unconscious in the presence of people who have honestly good intentions, respect boundaries, and will take care of you, but you have to be asleep for your own good, is the best thing ever.

[randomwriteronline]

Klavier Gavin has his eyes on the man and a smile on his lips.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he smiles and it looks sweet and nice and fake beyond recognition but he is honest when he speaks. “I thought you were busy defending every single accused of an entire country.”

Apollo Justice has his eyes on the man and does not smile.

His shoulders shift in some kind of uncoordinated shrug, he avoids the other’s gaze for a moment: “Law schools are booming,” he explains in that way that he speaks, so matter-of-factly and dry. “I’ve gotten some time off to come back.”

Klavier Gavin hums and nods: “A little vacation must be nice.”

Apollo Justice is not in his screaming red suit, which is jarring but makes sense since he is not working. It’s still an insane amount of whiplash, because they are colleagues so to speak, and it feels like he is either naked or a completely different person who was mistaken for the screaming attorney. It feels like it’s not a state a colleague is supposed to see him in.

Apollo Justice looks back at Klavier Gavin in the eyes.

“How are you?”

Klavier Gavin turns his smile bitter and tilts his head.

“You know I do not like this game of yours, Herr Justice.”

Before Apollo Justice can unfurl from his own shoulders where he has recoiled defensively and argue about the statement, Klavier Gavin gives a vague wave at the large golden bracelet on his wrist.

“I cannot be honest with you and I cannot lie to you. So when you decide you want to play your little spot-the-differences game you get me in a nice little cage where no matter what I do you get your pie and you eat it too, and I don’t like that in the slightest.” he says.

“It’s not a game,” Apollo Justice replies.

“And what is it then, worry? Concern? I know you’re a clever boy who reads his news of the legal world, you know enough. Didn’t you even call me? Yes you did, I remember that.”

Klavier Gavin has a voice like ice and a stare that’s like slowly pushing nails into the hands of his interlocutor. He wants him to feel uncomfortable.

He wants him to leave.

“It’s been a while since then,” Apollo Justice mutters.

“And what do you care?” Klavier Gavin gives him the most beautiful smile he’s ever given a man and tilts his head to the other side with a practiced airy laugh, looking as charming as a prince. “What have we got in common, hm? Aside from a few cases? Verdammtes Nichts, as far as I remember. Oh, but you are sweet.”

Now the words drip molasses, but Klavier Gavin doesn’t bend down teasingly.

“Getting worried for me. Is it Fraulein Wright who sent you? Is it Herr Edgeworth? Is it Herr Wright? Is it that friend of your co-worker, that judge-in-training? Woods, was it?”

“I came here by my own volition.”

“Of course you did.”

Apollo Justice glares at him angrily.

“Would it kill you to believe I really did come just to check on you?”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Apollo Justice bites his tongue and glares harder.

“I’m fine,” Klavier Gavin laughs, hands in the air, “I’m not fine at all, but considering I used to think of killing myself thrice a day I suppose that just once weekly is far better, ja? Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Don’t say things like that,” Apollo Justice mutters.

“Why not? Is it not the truth? What does your bracelet say, am I lying? Will you have to press on and cross-examine me?”

The bracelet is perfectly unresponsive.

Klavier Gavin smiles.

Apollo Justice glares.

“I don’t like you at all, you know,” Klavier says suddenly.

His smile drops.

“I don’t like you in the slightest. I truly cannot stand you.”

Now he looks at Apollo like he’s some kind of specimen to study, with a face like death, and the younger man seems to make himself smaller.

“I have nothing against you and I don’t like you at all,” Klavier continues remaining perfectly still.

Apollo doesn’t reply.

“Did you know I tried to kill myself four times?” Klavier asks. Of course he doesn’t know. Even Herr Edgeworth only knows of one. “The first time I wanted to bleed out in a bathtub after Kristoph got convicted.”

Apollo sinks in his shoulders, uncomfortable.

“The second I tried to defenestrate myself,” Klavier continues, looking at him to see how far he can go to make him shrivel and leave. “For Daryan. Because I couldn’t stand getting reminded of all that. You remember Daryan, don’t you. Don’t you? You were right there. I bet you remember him.”

Apollo does but says nothing.

“The third time I tried to… Well, the third time was pathetic.” Klavier notes. “Hanging myself with a tie. Not even hanging. I tried choking myself with a tie. Can you believe that I thought tying the loose ends to a door handle and kicking the door away from me would have just snapped my neck in half?”

Apollo recoils.

“I was so certain of that. But it came undone and I just knocked myself out on the floor. Must have been hilarious to look at. Absolutely pathetic. It was Miss Corte’s tie, my teacher, the one who got murdered? She got it for me. You can piece this one together yourself, can’t you? You’re so clever. So verdammt clever. Ein verdammt klug Kaninchen, bist du nicht, Herr Justice. Doch du bist.”

Apollo doesn’t even look at him in the eyes anymore.

Klavier wants to kick him in the stomach and ask him what is taking so long for him to fucking leave.

“Do you know for who I wanted to kill myself the fourth time?” Klavier asks. Apollo shakes his head slowly. “Guess. Come on, guess. I bet you can’t. Guess.”

Apollo doesn’t guess. Klavier keeps himself from slamming his fist against his shoulder with all his might.

”Guess, I said. We did your little bracelet game, now do mine. Guess.”

Apollo doesn’t guess.

Klavier takes one step forward, watches him close a little tighter in his shoulders.

“For you.”

Neither speak. Both just wait.

“For you,” Klavier repeats slowly. “I tried to kill myself for you.”

Apollo looks at his own feet. He can catch the tip of another pair of shoes about to enter his field of vision.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” Klavier muses. “That all these people I loved couldn’t get me to die, but you almost did?”

Apollo bites his lower lip.

“It might have been the time it happened, du wisst. I would have split my head right open, the ambulance would have been there in fifteen minutes to get me to the morgue… All nice and clean. My only mistake was calling Herr Edgeworth to send the ambulance instead of my manager, or the Paynes. Or Blackquill, even. They don’t have the same power over me that the chief does, you understand…”

Klavier trails a moment. Takes him in.

“And I would have died because you were never coming back.”

He listens to his own words as they leave him slowly.

Apollo listens to them as well.

He looks back up, eyes pointed directly into the ones before him.

Klavier looks so fucking tired.

“You wanna sit for a while?” Apollo just says, also suddenly tired. He gestures vaguely to a nearby wall, to the pavement near it.

Klavier follows his hand with his gaze: he leans against the wall and drops so heavily there’s no way he didn’t get hurt. Apollo crouches before sitting next to him, elbows on his knees, and looks far away from him.

For a minute or so they don’t speak.

“Who gave you the right,” Klavier says, toneless. “Who gave you the right to do that to me. To make me like that.”

Apollo knows he turned his face to look at his, but holds his stare away onto the end of the corridor.

“I don’t even like you.”

Well.

“I think you’re fine.” Apollo says. “As a person.”

Klavier still looks at him: “Was ist das,” he mutters, “Ein Lob? Eine Art Liebeserklärung? Tu mir ein Gefallen und geh dich ficken. Ich habe keine Lust, diese Scheisse zu hören. Du denkst sowieso das nichts.”

“I think you’re fine.” Apollo repeats a little louder. “As a person.”

“Ja, sag das.” Klavier hisses. “Sag das lauter. Dann können alles hören, wie echt das ist. Bessischene Kaninchen vom meinem Arsch.”

“I think you’re fine,” Apollo says much louder over his insult. “As a person.”

Klavier desists and looks into nothingness with him.

They don’t talk.

For a long, long while, they don’t talk.

Thank anything and everything that those who do see them sitting miserably like that make no comment or barely even register them.

Klavier slams a fist into the wall.

“Why you?” he croaks. “Why was it you?”

He sounds in pain.

Apollo thinks it’s pretty clear. He convicted his brother; he convicted his friend.

He didn’t kill his teacher, but he was there for the trial and for the investigation, and he played courthouse with him in the same school the body had been found, with the same fucking script, forcing him to feel everything longer.

Somehow, if something horrendous happens to Klavier Gavin’s social sphere, Apollo Justice is always there.

“Did you talk to anybody?” Apollo asks. “About… The people?”

“No,” Klavier answers.

Ah.

That explains it.

Apollo Justice is the only person who knows Klavier Gavin barely has a social sphere anymore.

And once Apollo Justice flies to a fuck-off country on the literal other side of the world and just does not come back, Klavier Gavin feels the weight tenfold and lets his knees buckle horrendously and cracks his head open on the cement.

And you don’t call some guy who has worked with you a couple times for help with something like whatever all of that can be called.

Apollo Justice has people he can talk to about losses.

Klavier Gavin doesn’t, and he goes to therapy, and it’s not working that well it would seem. Or maybe he never got to consider the possibility of the last person because of whom he tried to die coming back and so his first response was vitriol and anger and some kind of something else that Athena Cykes would pick up in a moment if she could just hear him speak now once.

(Apollo might ask her if she wants to check on Klavier. She could help.)

“We can be friends,” Apollo says gently.

Klavier doesn’t look at him: “So I have a better reason to kill myself?”

“So you can call someone who cares about you to say ‘hey I feel like fucking garbage do you want to talk about how you’re the only person who knows I’m completely alone in this bitch of a world’ instead of just some fucker from work,” Apollo snaps. “And next time you say that I’ll beat you in the head. Don’t even joke about that.”

Klavier pulls his upper lip up in a snarl until his face doesn’t even look like it’s his anymore, like any moment he will turn around and tear him apart with his teeth, make him a bloody mess of gore, cannibalize his corpse.

“I hate you,” he says, and the bracelet tightens.

“That’s a strong word.”

Apollo watches him huff and bare his teeth first, then hide them.

“It is.” Klavier concedes.

Now Klavier fidgets. It’s not something visible like a physical tell or other stuff like that. There’s just a tension about him that fucks him up, it’s plain to see.

“I don’t like you,” he repeats. “I don’t even like you.”

He yields; his body leans to the side heavily, his head falls to rest on brown hair.

“I don’t even like you,” he sobs.

Apollo listens to him breathe.

He leans into him as well.

God.

“Do you want to be friends?” he asks like he’s fucking three years old and they’re kindergartners at the park or something.

The answer comes weak and honest and frankly tearful: “Yes please.”

Apollo swings an arm behind the tanned neck and over the shoulders and gives him a half hug, tugging a couple times to get him a little closer, to make him feel welcome and held enough. His mouth presses flat on blond hair and neither of them makes a deal out of it or out of the fingers combing through the wires of gold, not even a sound or a strangled cry.

“I’ve got you,” he just says against the prosecutor’s head.

Klavier believes him and feels like puking his guts out on the floor.

[themaybewoman]

Whumptober2020: Day 13 – Chemical Pneumonia

Fandom: Psych Characters: Shawn Spencer, Calton Lassiter, Juliet O’Hara Universe: Sometime late Season7 maybe Summary: When your suspect has a degree in chemical engineering, you should expect them to know how to weaponise the household cleaning products. (tw: chlorine gas, asphixiation)

[Read on AO3 here.]

One could say there were little to no thoughts in his head as Shawn raced inside the front door. His motivator was the case itself, as it always was. Things usually panned out for the better. He’d been shot, tied up, and caught in a burning building among other things, and every escape only stoked his confidence.

He didn’t expect to barely make back to the outdoors, coughing to diminish the wildfire in his lungs. Police sirens blared, blue light spiralling around the house and the surrounding trees. But he found only a margin of relief in their presence. Every breath he took whistled. The harder he gasped, the less air he captured. And the less he captured, the shakier his legs became. He collapsed into the porch railing, the smell of peppers and pineapple lingering in his nose. He broke into another round of coughs, as the weight in his chest increased.

His feet slipped down the stairs, missing the last one entirely, and pivoting straight for the brick walk. Until he was not. He crashed into a lanky beanpole of a man. Hands were suddenly upon his arms, holding him upright and at bay.

“Jesus, Spencer!”

Even in his disoriented state, he knew immediately who he’d crashed into.

“Lass–” he rasped. “Gas! Lots of– can’t–” As far as the other words of his sentence went, they never made it out of his head.

He was being steered away. By now, Shawn was barely processing what he was seeing. He continuously searched for definition, for the details, but his eyes could only circle ambiguously. And his chest burned hotter by the minute.

“Sit,” Lassie grunted. Shawn turned his gaze towards the source. Too slow. Someone shoved him on the shoulders, manually sinking him onto the edge of... something. He caught the beanpole’s commanding bark, and vaguely heard the word ‘hospital’. No, I can help, he thought, struggling to a stand, but there were bounds in the way. Since when had he been laying down? Shawn flipped his head to the other side of the pillow, but a dark grey obscured any figures that might have been around. He heard warped mumbles, a far cry from any actual dialogue, a far cry from anything human at that. All he felt still was the raging fire in his lungs, until he didn’t even have that anymore.

—

Oh, how it was loud. The beeping, incessant beeping. It was assaulting his eardrums. How about that silence, huh? The dark grey he had found himself particularly enjoying began to lighten. Even at its gradual pace, his raw senses recoiled. His ears were too clear. On the other side of his eyelids, he felt a source of pain – bright white pain. His chest smouldered, but it was nothing like whatever was lodged in his throat.

Ow, ow, ow, ow– He couldn’t form the letters to verbalise, let alone muster enough breath to speak. A timid creak was all the sound emitted

Someone must’ve heard Shawn’s grunt, as a hand laid upon his arm. Next he knew, a hushed voice was speaking. It took too much concentration to understand its message, but he got a distinct sensation of colour. Blonde, why was he hearing blonde?

Shawn opened his eyes only to immediately regret it.

Too bright, too bright!

Yet, he longed to see the source of comfort, so her compromised and squinted into the brilliance. The light died enough for him to make it out.

Jules! he wanted to exclaim. And he would have, if it weren’t for the tube tracing his throat. Shawn turned his head as far as allowed, aching to smile. He couldn’t even do that. What could he do?

Hoping she’d notice, he crawled a hand for the edge of the bed. Jules’ head dipped towards Shawn’s side. She must have, he thought in relief, for he felt a soft pressure upon his fingers. He enjoyed this far more than what pressure felt like a rock lodged in his throat. Channeling all his energy into his hand, he pulled back his fingers, lifted them over hers, and squeezed. Perhaps it wasn’t anything substantial, but it was the only form of communication at his fingertips. Literally so.

I’m okay, he said with the squeeze. I’m okay.

[allykatsart]

Because I was bored and needed to practice anatomy, I drew kinda a cover of a Jse fanfic I'm writing.

The poor doctor has no idea what's in store for him.

[howlsnteeth]

[literaphobe]

🥒

think ur stupid? it took me until TODAY to realize that the last line in dream’s cum diss against george in mad verse city (‘i’m not corpse but i’ll leave you choken’) was about george choking on his dick and not… him spontaneously strangling george after getting his dick sucked. i finally understand why the whole thing is sexual

[sadistgalore]

Summer of Whump: #8- Force-Feeding (Killian and Luther)

@summer-of-whump

Fandom: Original Work

WC: 472

CW: Heavy dehumanization, force-feeding, cursing, emetophobia, starvation, manhandling, asphyxiation

“I’m not eating that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Fuck off!”

Luther sighed, placing a hand over his mouth. “Doggie-”

“I’m not a fucking dog!” Killian screamed at the top of his lungs, shaking his chains as he tried to lunge at his captor.

Luther glared, then slapped the boy across the cheek. “You are whatever I goddamn say you are. Now eat this dog food like the good pup you are.”

“I’d rather die!”

Luther stared at him for a moment, then left the room. Killian laughed as he left, finally winning a battle for once. He looked back down at the dog food bowl, it looked fucking disgusting. If it was dry dog food, Killian could maybe get behind it. But it was some mushy shit that made him want to throw up just looking at it.

Unfortunately, Luther returned, this time with two guards following behind him and a tube in his hand. Killian tried to back away, but the guards were faster and held him down.

“Get-get off!”

Luther grabbed his chin. “Last chance. Eat, or I’ll make you eat.”

Killian spit at him.

Luther grabbed the tube, and nodded at the guards to tilt the dog's head up. Killian choked and spasmed as the tube was forced down his throat; tears formed in his eyes from the sheer pressure of it. Once it was well in his throat, Luther grabbed the dog food bowl and dumped it in the funnel.

“There,” Luther said as the mush made its way through the translucent tube.

Killian couldn’t even taste it, but his throat was flaming in pain. He thrashed against the guards, struggling to breathe, but he remained there until the last drop left the tube.

Removing the contraption was just as painful as putting it in, but once it was removed, Killian violently heaved air into his lungs.

“So dramatic,” sighed Luther. “We’ll try this again in a few hours, and next time, don’t make me use the tube.”

For some reason, as soon as the bastard said that, Killian vomited up what he was just force fed. The guards released him out of surprise, and Luther stepped back in disgust.

There was silence. Killian was audibly breathing, shaking in fear and exhaustion.

“Ungrateful pet.”

Luther quickly grabbed the boy and slammed his head into the ground, right in his vomit. Killian tried to move away from the disgusting mess coating his face, but the man’s grip was strong.

Finally the grip was released, and the dog scrambled back from his owner.

“That’s your meal for the next three days,” Luther said before turning to leave with the guards.

Killian wiped his own waste from his eyes, and whimpered as his stomach grumbled in hunger.

His eyes slowly made their way towards the food he had just thrown up.

“Fuck.”

[sidthe-id]

best way to die

did you know that most people who are set on fire dont even die from the flames themselves? most of them die from dehydration, suffocation, and heat stroke before the shock knocks them out. although the complete obliteration of every last nerve ending sounds painful- it would be a very good way to get yourself used to it if you where say... pessimistic about your soul’s destination.

even if you dont believe in hell its a very biblical suicide, a second baptism by fire. or a first if youve never been “saved”. even the phantom pains of your long dead nerve endings is a show of the invisible connection between the body and the soul.

i wonder if when you pass out your brain processed that you’ve lost input? would it just be an immediate transition into a nightmare where your body is burning for eternity? would your body ignore the pain or just shut off completely? could you imagine a nightmare where you can never wake up and the only thing you can see is fire? that is hell. 

but to be honest, i love how the worst way to die also has one of the best ways to die rolled up into it. if immolation is crude, archaic, and spiritual - suffocation is clean, clinical, and romantic. their are even layers of intimacy to it.

drowning or having your lungs filled with non-gaseous materials is almost eldritch, being swallowed by what you swallow and feeling your lungs tear and crush. its so immobile and terrible as it takes you and you become a part of the sand, grain, or sea. you become buried in it.

with gas its the opposite; you cant see, feel, or sometimes even sense your death coming. you cant swipe your hand through it or spit it out, its already inside. i imagine it feels almost euphoric, the gradual dip in ability and consciousness while your brain dies of hypoxia. slipping in almost effortlessly in the black out.

the most intimate and real form of suffocation is strangulation. its so fucking close its almost just porn. to strangle someone it takes maybe a minute to lose consciousness with maybe a brain or windpipe injury but it takes up to five minutes to completely suffocate the brain and kill them. thats five minutes of holding someones literal life in your hands. and its only more close for the victim.

for them they can comprehend and fully perceive the scale of the thing strangling them. its not a massive immeasurable ocean or an invisible gas, its another person, another you. it shows you how weak and strong humans are, just by sitting on your chest and pinning your shoulders, holding your neck in their hands or elbow- they can end you so easily. 

it has both of the perfect factors. the pain of your lungs trying to force out its spent air and the struggle to take in new. the quick and drifting sleep only a minute in. and the intimate long wait to die, lying together with your asphyxiate.

of course theirs the romance of crime too. the idea that someone gets of just on squeezing the life out of someone, their life meaning so little but so much to them at the same time. could you imagine someone like that playing with their prey? letting them stumble for a few feet before they choke up gasping all teary eyed, grabbing at their neck. 

i imagine someone like that wouldnt squeeze with that much force, only laying on enough to stop the flow and not break anything. just the sheer intimacy of wrapping your fingers gently around someones neck and watching them submit, even if they struggle it means nothing. feeling their pulse and body go cold in your hands.

i think id go by strangling, its the perfect mix. not too crushing but not to calm. i want to know when im dying. besides, itd be a nice last relationship. i think id love feeling someones hands on my throat and looking into their eyes for the first and last time.

[nachosforfree]

I'm gonna prohibit your breathing if you keep this up!

[milk-carton-whump]

First attempt at a story.

Masterlist

Content warning for difficult breathing

Impact

The ice was freezing cold as his head made contact with it. Sharp blades were near his face, he knew that much and he tried to hide his face behind his hands. If only to protect himself from further injury.

Even a small movement was hard to accomplish since he was frantically trying to gasp for air. He knew the other players were trying to give him room to breathe but it felt like they were all closing in on him, squeezing what small bit of air was around him away. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to desperately take a breath to fill his lungs but there was no relief. His vision was blurred with tears as he panicked on the ice.

Just moments ago he had been trying to follow the small rubber puck as it slid effortlessly across the ice. Then the other team's captain had slammed him into the boards with all his weight and force. The captain had come out of nowhere and caught him off guard. The boards were unforgiving and the full impact of this guy had forced all the air from Brody's lungs. 

Finally after an uncomfortably long and agonizing few minutes, air rushed back into his body. His eyes refocused on the scene above him. His coach and captain were hovering over him with a worried look that softened to relief once they saw him take a breath. He inhaled deeply to savor the cold air that was filling his lungs. 

A minute more and he was hoisted up by the two and slowly helped back to the bench. The cheer of fans filled his ears as they were relieved to see he was back up.. He would be back in the next play but for now he needed to just catch his breath. 

[whump-queen]

🌹

[Seven Series Masterlist]

WIP Preview #3 (ask game)

From Seven: Corset Part 2

He’s so dizzy. 

He stretches upward and the corset digs into his ribs, clenches around his lungs, and his breathing is forced even shallower. 

 He thinks of all the unfinished chores he’s been ordered to complete, of his Mistress’ anger should he fail her. 

[snapsicle]

[lexpxrdus]

@motleyscrew​ asked “please don’t go.” to hold steeb while he dies :) - 

it’s hard to breathe, like trying to suck air through a wet sponge. still, jess is here and if steve’s going to go - if it’s finally his time to rest - she’s definitely one of the last people he’d like to see before he dies. he smiles at her weakly, one hand grasping at his chest reflexively, as if pulling at his tac suit is going to do anything to aid his lungs in their desperate plea for oxygen.

it wasn’t going to help - not with a hole from a stray shot through his left side.

“I’m trying-” it comes out in a wheeze, his words cut off as he turns his face to the side in order to cough wetly. it’s also a lie - this chest ( his whole body, really ) hurts too much to do much more than wait for everything to shut down, to stop working. it’s already happening; he can feel it, freezing cold beneath his tac suit, his legs having gone to sleep moments before. 

still, he has his small smile, and he squeezes jess’ hand with everything he has left in him to give. “love you.”

[pafsplayground]

I came here to talk about Miku but got distracted by y'all being KINKY MOTHER FUCKERS

WHY

[lackofoxxygen]

Let me set things straight, guy. You and your friends? No good for Isola. Angus might be the only redeemable one. Maybe. Mae could explode at any second and beat your skull in with a pipe. Bea is cold and is only playing to your emotions. I don't even know why you want your thieving friend Gregg to come and cause more trouble. Casey should've stayed in the hole. And you? You're a disgusting asshole.

Steve stays silent for a little bit, hands in his pockets. He’s dangerously silent. He’s letting the words rattle around in his brain so he can get properly angry.

He turns slowly, and a hand comes out of his pocket and swings low, almost a blur, gaining momentum as it slams into the grey-face’s chin at full force. There’s the sound of a jaw fracturing as the anon is lifted just slightly off the ground by the kinetic energy. Steve’s other hand grabs them by the throat and holds them in place as he squeezes. Hard.

“I’ve had enough of you faceless assholes coming and telling me about how my friends shouldn’t be my friends. You can call me all the names you want, and I won’t care. You start calling out my friends? I’ll break your fucking neck. Understand? No. You don’t and you won’t. So you in particular won’t get a second chance.”

There’s a gross crunching noise as he crushes their windpipe with his claws, followed by struggling, followed by Steve slamming them into the ground and spitting on them.

“If I’m a disgusting asshole, you were cheap one ply dollar store toilet paper. Fuck off.”