Earthquake in an unstable tunnel, bunch of low life, conniving–
“Please! Please Emmet!”
Excadrill clawed at the veritable mountain of rubble between them and please, Arceus above, an open space on the other side containing his younger brother and enough oxygen–
“No!” Ingo wiped the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of a dirty and torn glove, blinking when it came away damp with bright crimson. This was getting them nowhere. They couldn’t risk another collapse and that’s exactly what they were doing, digging haphazardly like this. In his head, Ingo followed the tracks, in service, out of service, closed for repairs, any that would circle around and get him closer and into a more stable area, one they could excavate safely.
Choking on a deep lungful of grit and dust after attempting a calming breath, Ingo recalled Excadrill before running headlong into the dim, taking twists and turns on instinct, pushing himself until his lungs burned and his legs ached and he heard his pounding heartbeat echo like a drumbeat in his ears.
Ingo moved with such single-minded focus he nearly collided with the Plasma grunt standing directly in his route forward. He slid to a stop, chest heaving with deep frantic breaths, eyes wide in the dark. Sweat, blood? slipped down his chin, into the dust at his feet with a soft pitter-patter like rain. This time he didn’t bother to wipe it away, instead glaring daggers at the impudent intruder squaring up in front of him.
Earthquake in an unstable tunnel, bunch of low life, conniving–
“Please! Please Emmet!”
Excadrill clawed at the veritable mountain of rubble between them and please, Arceus above, an open space on the other side containing his younger brother and enough oxygen–
“No!” Ingo wiped the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of a dirty and torn glove, blinking when it came away damp with bright crimson. This was getting them nowhere. They couldn’t risk another collapse and that’s exactly what they were doing, digging haphazardly like this. In his head, Ingo followed the tracks, in service, out of service, closed for repairs, any that would circle around and get him closer and into a more stable area, one they could excavate safely.
Choking on a deep lungful of grit and dust after attempting a calming breath, Ingo recalled Excadrill before running headlong into the dim, taking twists and turns on instinct, pushing himself until his lungs burned and his legs ached and he heard his pounding heartbeat echo like a drumbeat in his ears.
Ingo moved with such single-minded focus he nearly collided with the Plasma grunt standing directly in his route forward. He slid to a stop, chest heaving with deep frantic breaths, eyes wide in the dark. Sweat, blood? slipped down his chin, into the dust at his feet with a soft pitter-patter like rain. This time he didn’t bother to wipe it away, instead glaring daggers at the impudent intruder squaring up in front of him.
“I do not have the time to deal with you.”
“That’s just too bad, isn’t it?” A flash of blinding light heralded the release of a Crobat and Ingo very nearly threw himself at the pair of them in a rage. There wasn’t time for this. He needed to get to Emmet. Snarling, teeth bared, he reached for his ace, already shouting for a devastating Psychic blow before Chandelure even fully materialized, shouldering the trespasser into the wall, hard, before her Pokemon could finish fainting.
Left, left, right, left, straight.
Into more of them.
Chandelure screeched, flames erupting, casting eerie shadows, incensed by the panic and anger radiating from her partner. She would consume their souls, blacken and burn beyond recognition for making Ingo feel this way. Let them wander these subway tunnels forever lost and she would gloat over their sorrow.
“STOP!” The sharp command halted her in her tracks. “We. We cannot.” It pained her to hear the strain in his voice. She would do this for him if only he would let her.
She would enjoy it.
His arms came around her, gentle fingers smearing so much claret across her banded surface.
Okay.
Okay.
Explosive, the trio of humans who dared enter their domain gasped desperately for the stale air of the tunnels, trembling from a supernatural chill. They would recover.
Eventually.
Ingo tugged gently on one of her slender arms and she followed reluctantly, but not before letting loose one more harrowing and shrill howl, taking much joy in their cowering.
“Leave them. Not worth it. Have to. Have to find him.” Ingo shook his head as if to clear it and staggered into the wall only to push off with both hands, using the momentum to launch back into a run. She could sense her trainer’s brother. They were close, getting swiftly closer, their twin spirits so similar and yet so unique. “Should be close by.” Her trainer stumbled to a halt, crooked fingers skimming the rough hewn surface of the wall and she tugged him to the appropriate place.
Here. Emmet is here.
“Heard Chandelure. Loud and clear. Excadrill!” Trembling, Ingo framed the digger’s face. “Carefully. He, he could be hurt. We do not know how much space–” Ingo choked before schooling his expression into one of determination, but tunneling came naturally to Excadrill and with Ingo by his side helping shift the debris, they made quick work of the stone barrier keeping the pair apart.
“Emmet!” Ingo squeezed through the gap, sinking to his knees at his brother’s side with hands fluttering like twin Butterfree. He didn’t know where it was safe to touch. Not with his uniform stained with blood, torn and dirtied and half buried in the rubble. “Chandelure, I cannot see. I need to see!” And assess. And plan. And save. “Emmet. Emmet. Wake up!” He clawed at the rock and dirt, hacking around the clot of mud and muck in his throat.
Not pinned. Not crushed. Still.
Still.
“S’loud…nngh’Ingo.” He hissed between clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut against the soft purple glow.
“Your leg!” Broken very badly if the odd angle was any indication.
“I…I am Emmet.” The slur in his words frightened Ingo and even likely concussed his brother noticed, “…n’I am…m’fine…” Lashes fluttering, Emmet fought to stay awake, paling suddenly and losing the battle when Ingo pulled him upright.
It was a long way to the appropriate exit and now with his younger brother on his back Ingo was feeling the strain of the last several…
Hours?
However long it’d been.
Aches and pains, likely from being pummeled with rock in the collapse following Team Plasma’s Earthquake, bloomed in a painful garden across his shoulders, arms, back, and a headache burst to life behind his eyes as though granted permission by the relief of finding Emmet–
Of finding him.
He was a warm, solid weight and more than worth the pain it caused Ingo to carry him.
Ingo dragged himself onto the platform, following the familiar route via muscle memory and wading through pools of yellow emergency lighting. He carried Emmet to the ambulance, coughing harshly, painfully, in the cool night air, ignoring how unsteady he’d become in these last few steps and allowing the emergency responders to take him. To settle him on the gurney. To push him out of the way and right into a depo agent.
“Boss Ingo?!”
“I, I am f’fine. My brother. Emmet. See to, to Emmet.” He wobbled one step, two, on legs made of water. Dizzy, it hurt to breathe too deeply, vision darkening at the edges. He’d be fine. Was fine. The city and all its bright lights, flashing lights, tilted sickeningly sideways.
“Catch him!”
Catch who?
Ingo turned to look, or tried to, to help, to make certain their subway was safe, and knew nothing else.
Incandescence burst like light through the battle subway windows.
Murmuring like a train car full of passengers rose in a tide over a high pitched keening. Whining. Screaming.
Shouting.
NO!
Hands. Too many hands, paws, claws, holding him down. Pinning him under loose rock. Burying him until the light was gone. Until there was no room, no air. But he had to.
Had to, had to get to–
”Emmet!”
Dark. Endlessly dark and dim. Shadows leaping from tunnel to tunnel to tunnel contorting and grotesque and promising ruination.
”Where are you?”
Ingo reached for his Pokemon and found his belt empty. He was alone.
And Emmet was gone.
He was too late.
Too late.
Too late.
Ingo shot forward with a cry, regretting it immediately when his vision reeled, and fell back into the pillows, heaving for oxygen through a straw like he’d just run a marathon. His stomach twisted, his mouth flooded with salt. His heart hammered behind his ribcage, a terrified Pidove trying to escape the confines of its too-small prison.
“Ingo. I am Emmet. You are alright.”
“E’Emmet.”
“I am alright.” Ingo was already moving, throwing back the hospital sheets and sliding off the mattress, ignoring the brief sting and subsequent blood pooling in the crook of his elbow. “No! Stay in bed!” But he wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t listen as he tore the offending tube from his face. He needed to see, to touch. To know for sure this wasn’t some cruel nightmare. Barely making it one complete step, Ingo slammed to his knees, barely registering the pain, reaching forward with splinted, bandaged fingers that ached with a dull agony. “Ingo, no, your hands.” They wouldn’t move when he tried to force them, to hold Emmet’s, to grab his gown and pull him closer.
“Emmet. Emmet.”
“Yes, that is me. I am Emmet.” He turned as best he could, wrapping himself around him and shutting out even the dim light of the room. “You are Ingo. We are okay. Promise!”
“You were. The tunnel, it. You.”
“Shh, Ingo. You are not feeling well. You have been asleep for a verrry long time.” It didn’t feel like it. If anything, he was more exhausted than before now that the renewed panic was ebbing and its borrowed energy fading. Breathing far too fast, too shallow. It hurt.
“I, I…”
“Come here.” Ingo shook his head, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes and words stuck somewhere he could no longer reach. But he would injure Emmet if he wasn’t careful and he had to keep him safe. That was his most important job and he’d failed in it before. He couldn’t fail again. “Do not argue.” With that firm command, the heavy, cloying weariness threatened to drag him down to the floor and, uncoordinated, Ingo nodded, climbing into the space Emmet made for him and cradling his hands close. “From digging,” he explained. “You need to be more careful. You did not even notice.” His little brother touched his bandaged forehead to his own. “You are a hero.” No. No. Only desperate. “The way the agents described you!” Emmet guided his head down to rest just below his collarbone where the strong beat of his heart worked its way into his pulse. “Close your eyes.”
“Mm.” Emmet’s palm slid steady over his back, soothing and real and warm.
Earthquake in an unstable tunnel, bunch of low life, conniving–
“Please! Please Emmet!”
Excadrill clawed at the veritable mountain of rubble between them and please, Arceus above, an open space on the other side containing his younger brother and enough oxygen–
“No!” Ingo wiped the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of a dirty and torn glove, blinking when it came away damp with bright crimson. This was getting them nowhere. They couldn’t risk another collapse and that’s exactly what they were doing, digging haphazardly like this. In his head, Ingo followed the tracks, in service, out of service, closed for repairs, any that would circle around and get him closer and into a more stable area, one they could excavate safely.
Choking on a deep lungful of grit and dust after attempting a calming breath, Ingo recalled Excadrill before running headlong into the dim, taking twists and turns on instinct, pushing himself until his lungs burned and his legs ached and he heard his pounding heartbeat echo like a drumbeat in his ears.
Ingo moved with such single-minded focus he nearly collided with the Plasma grunt standing directly in his route forward. He slid to a stop, chest heaving with deep frantic breaths, eyes wide in the dark. Sweat, blood? slipped down his chin, into the dust at his feet with a soft pitter-patter like rain. This time he didn’t bother to wipe it away, instead glaring daggers at the impudent intruder squaring up in front of him.
It wasn’t the small space Amira minded, it was the damned curtains everywhere.
“They’re for privacy” the workers had explained when she first arrived, clutching her shattered arm to her chest. But didn’t everyone already know that privacy was a lost cause here? The smells of shit and vomit didn’t care about a few strips of fabric, and nor did the screams of the soon-to-be-dead.
And those workers, had placed her in the middle of the compound - no sightlines, no exits. The cot was too low to stand on and try to see over the curtains.
“It’s safe here.” the workers had explained. But she had seen the tension between the less-broken patients. The way they held the tension in their bodies, had tracked each others movements - hers too - and how they angled themselves into easy reaching distance of heavier objects.
Amira knew full well that anyone could barrel through the curtains separating off her “room” at any time. From any direction. And while there was a little she could do with the woven food tray, she’d still be fucked.
She’d walk out if it wasn’t against direct orders and doing so would involve her not unlikely aggressive arrest. On the bright side, it meant that no one was going to attack her. Probably a lie.
She’d named all of the round objects in the space, then the white ones, then the ones that had come from natural means. She’d counted backward from 200 by sevens. She’d completed forty rounds of her inhale-pause-exhale-pause pattern.
She was out of ways to ignore the tension growing in her arms and legs, the pain in her chest, the way her breath was coming in shallower.
The doors somewhere at the front of the compound swung open loudly - Amira started.
Pain screeched up her arm, and she hissed.
It wouldn’t be a problem if she could just see the damned exits for fuck’s sake. But no. This is how it was going to be.
She let out a short, cynical laugh - the kind of angry amusement that only rose up when things were screwed and utterly out of her control.
Amira was like this a lot she realized. Not that it made a kind of difference. If it could keep her alive, she’d take it.
Now she just had to wait it out, the pain in her arm, the racing heart, the brain the kept fucking her over and keeping her not dead yet in that vicious cycle.
Amira shook her head. This wasn’t going to go away for at least the next few hours, so she might as well get comfy.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, selective mutism, stalking, creepy/intimate whumper, choking, broken ribs, burns
.
.
It’s been a week since Devin’s birthday party. Six days since she received the texted photo from Oliver. She hasn’t gotten anything else from him, but she’s barely been able to touch her phone all week for fear that she would.
It took her a couple of days before she could speak at all, and even now the ability comes and goes seemingly at random. Today, the very first day that she’s ventured out of the house since the party, she managed to force out enough words to order her favorite mocha at the coffee shop where she does a large portion of her illustrating. Now she stands close to the pick-up counter, carefully angled where she can see the door without looking like she’s staring at everyone who walks in.
“Caddy!” The baristas here are about fifty/fifty on getting the pronunciation of her name right, but she doesn’t ever correct them. She waits until they’ve walked away from the counter before sliding in and picking up her drink, then weaves through the tables to one of her usual spots in the back corner.
It takes her a while to be able to focus on the sketches on her tablet. She keeps glancing up every few seconds, watching the door, checking all the tables to make sure she hasn’t missed anyone new coming in and that everyone is involved in their own work and conversations rather than paying attention to her.
Eventually, though, an idea sparks, and she lets the soothing rhythm of drawing pull her in. Her stylus strokes out black lines, and for a moment, she doesn’t have to think. She can just be.
“Cadence!”
Her hand jerks across the screen, leaving a bold streak behind it, as her whole body seizes up. It’s not you it’s not you it’s not you it’s not you. Her old name is unusual, yes, but she’s not the only one in the world who has it. It takes every bit of will she can muster to not turn around and see who is picking up the drink, forcing herself instead to tap the ‘undo’ button and erase her mistake.
“Oliver!”
All of the sounds of the café become muted around her. She can’t breathe. It’s like he’s already here, his hand clamped around her throat.
There’s no way those two names, that close together, are a coincidence.
She knows it, but that doesn’t mean she quite believes her eyes when he slides onto the bench across from her, a pleasant smile on his face as if meeting an old friend, and sets one cup in front of her while taking a sip from the other.
“Toasted White Chocolate Mocha. I thought yours might be running low by now.”
He can’t be here. He can’t be here. This is her spot, her safe place.
But he is.
“Personally I prefer a little less sweet, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’re the type who doesn’t like to taste the coffee in their coffee.” He takes another drink, grey-blue eyes always boring into her.
She’s not sure whether her stylus is still in her hand or not. Everything feels both far away and too close at the same time.
Are people staring at them? She feels like everyone in the room should be noticing that something is extremely, terribly wrong at the little booth in the corner, but logically she knows that they just look like two ordinary people, catching up over coffee. There’s no way of telling that one is a sadistic maniac and the other, his victim.
“You’ve been hiding this week. I almost thought I was going to have to find a way to coax you out of the house.” He leans forward a little, eyes finally dropping from her face to glance at her tablet. “Been busy with the McIntyre project, I see.”
The fact that he knows not only the name of her client, but also recognizes the work she’s doing for them, doesn’t even surprise her at this point. She accepted long ago, the first time he had her, that he knew every detail about her life, and the past weekend made it pretty clear that he still does.
What do you want? she longs to scream, but even in a public space he’ll find some way to punish her for speaking. All she can do is sit, frozen, eyes drying out from not blinking enough, waiting for what he’s going to do to torment her next.
“I’ve missed you.”
His voice makes her want to shake apart into a million pieces.
“You know, it’s a little warm in here. Don’t you want to take off that scarf?” His smile grows wider, as if he’s made a hilarious joke.
It feels like it’s choking her all of a sudden. The bruises underneath have faded significantly, but there are still yellow and green streaks standing out from her skin. She assumes he’s being sarcastic, pointing out that he knows the reason she’s wearing it, but then he shifts positions and something touches her knee, making her jolt. It’s his shoe, and he’s applying pressure, crushing her knee back into the bench.
It takes her a second to figure out what he wants. Once she does, she quickly reaches up with numb fingers and loosens the scarf, tugging at the knot until it opens up and exposes her throat. He leans in with a little hum, studying it.
“Beautiful.” His shoe finally relents from her knee, the bones protesting as they relax back into place. That will likely be sore tomorrow. Another reminder of him she can wear on her body.
Leaning back again, he twists his cup on the table. “You’re not drinking your mocha.”
Immediately she picks it up and takes a sip. Despite being fresher and hotter than the last, it tastes like ash in her mouth.
What do you want? She knows the answer already. He wants to torment her, to make sure she knows that he still owns her, even in her daily routine. As if she could ever forget.
“Pack up your tablet and go to the restroom.”
It takes the words a moment to compute, but she obeys quickly, sliding the tablet into its case with trembling hands, tucking it back into her shoulder bag, then standing on weak legs. She leaves both coffee cups sitting there, only intent on getting to the restroom as ordered.
There are no stalls, only a single room, so she slips inside and tentatively locks the door behind her. She isn’t sure if she’s supposed to or not. She has no idea what his plan is, but she knows he has one. Every single inch of her body is alert, waiting, moments from panicking, her breaths coming far too quickly and her heart pounding. Is she supposed to be actually using the bathroom? She can’t make herself do it. Instead she just stands, stuck, in the middle of the small room, unable to figure out what to do next.
The minutes that she waits feel like hours. Eventually, there’s a knock on the door, sharp and demanding. She knows it’s him. She prays it’s not.
She unlocks the door and he immediately pushes it open, making her stumble backwards, and walks in carrying a single coffee cup, which he sets on the counter. Then he turns to face her, looking her up and down. Burning her with just his gaze. A hand comes out toward her, and she flinches. He slaps her across the face for it with the other hand, the first removing her bag from her shoulder and dropping it carelessly to the floor.
“These need refreshing.” It’s the only warning she gets before his hand is around her throat, for real this time. He backs her into the wall before beginning to slowly, steadily cut off more of her air.
It starts hurting quicker this time. Her already abused windpipe groans underneath the pressure of his hand, and tears automatically prick her eyes. He smiles when he sees them.
Just as she starts to get too dizzy to see anything, he releases just enough that she can suck in a painful gulp of air. He watches her struggle and choke for a moment, thumb stroking across her throat.
“Lift your shirt.”
It takes her a second longer than it should to comprehend the order, her mind still swirling from the lack of oxygen. She fumbles for the hem of her shirt and quickly pulls it up past his brand, knowing that’s what he wants to see.
Without letting go of her throat, he rips off the gauze that she’d taped over it, dropping them to the floor and running his fingers across the marks. “Mm. It’s healing well.” His hand slides over a bit, icy trails following it. “This still looks painful, though.”
The hand on her throat begins to tighten again as the one on her broken rib presses in. Pain shoots through her chest, but she can’t gasp or even whine with her air stolen away.
It goes on, for a few minutes or an eternity, she’ll never know. The ability to breathe comes and goes, she coughs and whimpers when she can, and tries not to pass out when she can’t. All the while, he pokes and prods at her broken rib. She can feel the bone moving. When coherent thoughts are even possible, she’s panicking about the possibility of a punctured lung, wondering if he actually knows how to not kill her.
At last he lets go, with one last stroke of his fingers down her throat, and steps back. She somehow manages to not fall down.
“I’ve got one more gift for you before I go.” He steps backwards, toward the sink. “Come here.”
It takes her a couple of tries to push herself up off the wall. The bathroom spins around her as she walks, making her stumble and have to pause a few times to keep from face planting.
As soon as she’s close enough, he grabs onto her right wrist and yanks her forward. Her hip bone slams into the countertop. He doesn’t have to hold her as tightly as he does, she wouldn’t try to get away, but she knows he enjoys trying to create as many bruises as possible.
“Got a fresh cup just for you.” He’s reaching for the coffee he left here earlier. She knows what’s coming, tears are already starting to stream down her cheeks, but there’s absolutely nothing she can do to stop it. Even if she could get out of his grasp and make it to the door before he caught her, which would never happen, she knows him. He’s rich, influential. No one would ever believe her over him, she’d be dragged through an ordeal where he’d do everything possible to humiliate her, then they’d go right back to where they are now, but with her friends involved because of her failure to remain silent and obedient.
“Now. If you scream, people are going to ask questions. We don’t want that, do we?” The way her wrist bones creak and grind together make it clear she’s supposed to shake her head in reply.
He pops the lid off, sets it neatly to the side. She can see the steam rising from the black liquid inside. There’s not enough time to fully prepare herself, probably never would be, her hand is already positioned over the sink, and -
It’s quick, at least. He doesn’t drag it out, just dumps the entire contents over the back of her hand. Somehow she doesn’t scream. She does bite a bleeding hole through her lip trying not to, though.
Her whole hand feels like it’s on fire. She chokes out a sob, then another, trembling hard and wishing he’d just let her go, let her turn on some cold water to run over it, the faucet is right there.
But of course he doesn’t. He pulls her hand up higher between them so that they can both admire the bright red skin, the way patches of it are already starting to puff up and pucker.
Then he finally drops it, but she still can’t do anything because he’s holding her face in his hands, brushing her disheveled hair back from her forehead and drawing patterns on her cheeks with her tears that won’t stop flowing. “There you go, my sweet. A little parting gift, to make sure you’ll be thinking about me all week.”
He steps back, picks up the coffee cup and crushes it before throwing it away. Then he smiles at her, eyes sparkling. “I’ll certainly be thinking about you. And I’ll be seeing you again very soon, don’t worry.”
Cadence clutches her injured hand and refuses to watch as he turns his back and leaves the room.
As soon as he’s gone she stumbles to the door and locks it, as if she wouldn’t immediately let him in again if he returned. Then she goes back to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast and shoving her hand underneath. It feels good despite being a few minutes too late. She still can’t stop crying. Her mind is whirling with replays of everything that just happened, with the knowledge that he’ll do this again and she won’t know when it’s coming, with wondering if she has aloe at home and what Janaysia and Devin are going to say about this, with the realization that there’s no possible way she’s going to be able to finish the McIntyre project on time now. She’ll have to call them. No, she won’t be able to call them. Any progress she’d made towards being able to carry on a conversation will be gone again now.
She wants to collapse on the bathroom floor and cry until she can’t cry anymore, but she can’t. She has to get out of here, she has to go home. So she shuts off the water, dries her cheeks, crouches down to clean up the bandages he’d dropped, tries to ignore the renewed pain in her ribs every time she breathes, picks up her bag, and deliberately does not look at herself in the mirror. Whatever anyone sees when she leaves, it doesn’t matter. She won’t be coming back to this coffee shop, anyway.
Whumpee wearing oversized hoodies/sweaters to hide the bandages and wraps covering their chest
White hot pain that explodes through their chest when they cough or sneeze and it makes their eyes burn with tears
They’re reminded how shallowly they’ve been breathing only when they spontaneously take a deep breath and the deep ache flares as they feel the bones shift
It hurts too much to even raise their arms so they’ve been in the same shirt for 3 days before someone notices.
Whumpee walking around with an arm gingerly cradling their side and randomly groaning under their breath
The adrenaline is wearing off, so when their companion playfully hits them in the side they gasp sharply, stop dead in their tracks and grab their friend as they double over in pain
Being forced to go to medical, sitting on the table and scowling at their friend while the nurse gently cuts off their shirt they weren’t able to remove, to expose the profuse bruising all down one side. Their friend’s face goes from peeved to sympathetically horrified in a heartbeat.
Even getting out of bed is a struggle but they’ll be damned if they ask for help for such a simple thing
[CW pet whump kinda, broken bones, vampire whumptaker/carewhumper, conditioning.]
Danny couldn’t sleep. How could he with his wrist throbbing the way it was? Fish was curled by his feet, but he couldn’t bear to move to pet her. That was probably good, though. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Fish moving any closer to him. He couldn’t stop shaking, either. And it hurt. Every tremor jostled his wrist and he couldn’t stop.
He had no idea how long he’d been staring at the wall in front of him. How was he supposed to stay alive here? Both of these people were unpredictable, try as he might, there was no way Danny could make sense of where he was or who he was with. The only thing he could make sense of was the fact that he would die here.
Danny’s shoulders hunched up as he heard footsteps behind him. This was it, wasn’t it? The end… He just hoped that they would take care of Fish once he was gone.
— — —
Marcus had acted unreasonably. He could admit that. He had been upset and had acted rashly and he would pay the price of Danny’s trust for it. He crept down the stairs to the basement, not wanting to worsen the situation between them. Danny had heard him anyway, his shoulders stiffening at the sound of Marcus’ footsteps.
“Danny, I–” Marcus started. He could see Danny shaking from the foot of the stairs. Man, he’d fucked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t give you a chance to explain the situation and I acted off of anger and impulse. You were unfairly hurt and for that I’m sorry.”
“Y-y-y— Y-you br-broke my wrist, and y-you’re sorry?” Danny said quietly, his chin quivering as he said it. “Ah, y-y-yes, that f-fixes everything. My wr-wrist is h-he-healed.”
“Watch it.” Marcus warned.
“No.” He said, still staring at the wall. He hadn’t moved an inch since he first laid down. “What’s th-the p-p-point? I g-get hurt n-no mat-t-ter what I d-do. I’m g-gonna d-d-d— I’m gonna die h-here. It d-doesn’t mm-matter anym-more.”
Tears fell silently down his face, his voice thick with emotion. He’d been here such a short time and he’d already given up. But he was right. If he was gonna die here, and it could be any day, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he did, or whose good side he was on, because he was always going to be hurt.
“You won’t die here. I promised your mother that much.” Marcus answered. His voice was flat, he glared at the back of Danny. He wasn’t helping his case acting like this with Marcus still a bit mad. “I told her she’d get you back someday.”
“S’not n-nice to l-lie.” He muttered. “You’ll n-never give me b-b-back. Even i-if you d-do, th-there w-won’t be anyth-thing left. J-j-just a br-broke— no, sh-shatteredshhhell.”
Marcus took a deep breath. He needed to calm down before he did another thing he would regret. Of course Danny was acting out now. Marcus figured that at least this once, he was fully in the right, he’d earned it. He finally decided to walk over to the corner and sat down at the end of the mattress. Danny flinched when he felt the bed shift, but other than that he held still.
“I’m sorry. I know I overreacted. I didn’t mean to break your wrist, I mean honestly, why didn’t you fuc–” Marcus stopped himself and sighed, still trying to breathe the anger out of his body. “Why didn’t you tell me it was broken? I hadn’t even realized. Can I see it? I can wrap it up for you so it won’t heal poorly.”
Danny didn’t move. He didn’t trust Marcus. This had to be a trap, he would hurt his wrist more and it already hurt so bad. It was the worst pain he’d felt since being here, worse than the beating, hell, even worse than the whipping. And as far as Danny knew, Marcus just wanted to make it worse.
Marcus, on the other hand, really did want to help. He knew how bad a broken bone hurt, but at least for him it was gone in a day or so. Danny would have this for a few months, maybe. A pang of guilt shot through him when Danny didn’t move. Danny didn’t trust him at all now, and who could blame him? The one person here who was at least kind of on his side was gone.
“Ok… Listen, Danny, I came down here to check on you earlier, of course. When I saw that you weren’t here, I was blinded by anger, by panic. You won’t survive out there. You know that, don’t you? You get outta here and someone else finds you and takes you to a bloodfarm. I got scared for you.”
That was a lie. Said purely out of saving his own skin. How could he win Danny back over if he knew that Marcus was just pissed that a human with the constitution of a wet leaf outsmarted him? No, he couldn’t let Danny know what was really going on in his mind then.
“It’s not a good excuse, I know. But that’s where my head was. I was too mad already that when I saw Ciaran bring you out, I couldn’t think logically. I thought you had gotten out yourself and he had found you upstairs and it didn’t even occur to me that there might be a different reason. Would you tell me what actually happened, at least?”
“W-wanted to use me as a b-body pillow. It was n-nice for once. It w-w-was warm… Did– Didn’t hurt…” He sniffed, longing for the sensation again, despite the person giving him the comfort. “W-wasn’t m-m-my fault. I-I-I did-didn’t deserve th-that. You said th-that you would only hurt me for d-discipline.”
Marcus just sighed. He did say that after all, and now look what he’d done.
“I know… I’m sorry, really.” Danny flinched as Marcus placed a light hand on his leg. “Please let me try to make it better. At least let me take care of your wrist… Please.”
“Pr-promise y-you won’t hurt me m-m-more?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I promise.” Marcus answered. “Go ahead and sit up, and I’ll be right back with the stuff.”
Danny felt the bed shift behind him as Marcus stood up and walked up the stairs. He waited a moment before trying to sit up. He whimpered, as even the slightest movements sent pain and heat radiating down his arm. But eventually, he got himself up. He held his wrist close to his chest protectively, like either of them would appear and break it more. A shaky inhale passed his lips and he reached his good hand to stroke Fish. Her soft fur and quiet purring helped. Just a bit.
Marcus quickly came back to the basement, his arms full of different medical supplies. He sat across from Danny on the mattress, spilling his armful in between them. Danny eyed him warily but eventually held his wrist out to him. It looked awful, bruises spread up his forearm, nearly reaching his elbow. Danny watched as Marcus grabbed a pill bottle and dumped a small capsule into his palm.
“Here. It’ll help you feel better.” He held it out towards Danny, waiting for him to take it from him. Danny looked quickly from the pill to Marcus’ face before hesitantly taking the pill from him and swallowing it. “You’ll probably get sleepy if the side effects listed on the bottle are accurate. That’ll be good, right?”
Danny nodded silently, waiting patiently for Marcus to grab his wrist. It didn’t matter if he was gonna break it more or try to fix it. It would hurt either way. It was all hopeless.
‘Just do anything they want,’ he thought. ‘Just do anything to lessen the amount of pain they put you through.’
Danny held back a pained whimper as Marcus gently grabbed his wrist to assess the damage. The tears came back fresh and hot on his cheeks, the mere act of someone touching it sending arrows through his arm.
Marcus very quickly and effectively wrapped Danny’s wrist tight, setting the bone in place. There was no point in drawing out his pain by going slowly, there simply was no way to do this painlessly. Even with the painkiller he had given him. He ignored the pained sounds coming from Danny, he had to or neither of them would get through this in a timely manner.
“There…” Marcus said quietly, releasing his grip. “I’m sorry, I know that hurt, but it was better for me to go quickly.”
Danny just silently nodded and wiped the tears from his face, his eyes fixed intently on Fish. He didn’t wanna look at Marcus. He’d trusted him, at least in terms of if and when he would hurt him. Marcus had lied and now Danny only had Fish.
“Would you like me to stay here and read to you until you fall asleep?” Marcus offered.
Danny just shrugged. “D-d-doesn’t mat-ter.” He said softly. It wasn’t that he was saying that because he didn’t care. No, Danny absolutely wanted to be alone. Danny wanted Marcus gone. But he couldn’t say that, could he? Besides, it’s as he’s been told too many times already. It doesn’t matter what he wants, prey doesn’t get to choose.
warnings: conditioning, caretaker accidentally hurting whumpee, past torture, broken bones
—
Eventually, they made their way out of the cave. The first step was always the hardest, but the demon didn’t fall again. Haven could see him clench his jaw tight and his legs wobbled, but he was able to continue. They made slow progress down the narrow path on the side of the cliff. The demon pitched to the side and caused Haven to crash into the stone wall. At least he’d fallen in a direction that hadn’t sent them both tumbling over the edge and into the waves, but her heart still pounded minutes after the encounter. The demon apologized profusely for the whole event.
The sloping hills that lead back to the city were tough on the poor thing. He stumbled over his own feet and gripped her tight when in pain. Well, more pain than usual. Haven could see he was constantly suffering from the extent of his injuries, even if he didn’t say anything to her about it.
His breath came in shallow gasps, hiccupping and unsteady. His broken ribs prevented him from breathing too deeply, and they sure didn’t help him walk. He let out a quiet hiss through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Haven stopped to let him rest, but he insisted they keep going, even as he bit his lip so hard it drew blood.
Through all of this, she had one of his arms over her shoulder and had set her hand atop his. She squeezed it whenever she thought he was having a hard time. The demon didn’t respond, but she could see him turn his head toward her, then quickly away, as if embarrassed. It was…rather cute.
The tension is getting unbearable. Muscles and tendon screaming against the strain, nerves pinched and contorted. Bones bending against each other, teetering on the brink of their breaking point. The knee between their shoulder blades is what keeps them subdued, but what they really want to struggle against is the strong grasp around their hand and wrist. Their arm has been twisted in place, not on their back, but to their side. The torque keeps it outstretched, its impossible to fight against. The whumpee has no solid idea as to what will give first. Maybe their shoulder will pop out of its socket. Maybe the sinew in their elbow will tear.
“I won’t ask again,” the whumper growls.
There’s tears in the whumpee’s eyes, and the pressure on their chest makes it hard for them to breathe deeply enough to talk. “Go to hell,” they gasp. It doesn’t have quite the edge to it they intended; instead, it’s breathless and shaky, and their fear is noticeable.
They feel the whumper’s grasp tightening a little further, and there’s a sudden, final exertion of force. The whumpee gets a split second to grasp that a bone in their forearm has snapped.
CW: tiny whumpee, giant caretaker (compared to Arion anyway- she’s really just your Typical Average Human), implied forced nudity (Arion is found this way and later given something to wrap up in), referenced/implied starvation, hypothermia and general weather whump (snow, rain, cold), blood/gore/broken bones mention, tying/restrained, implied,, fear of death?, knife
She stills. There’s something like a weak, shrill cry. A small animal. A squirrel, or a mouse, or a bird… Hurt, maybe? What kind of a person puts mouse traps out in the woods?
Amber follows the occasional high, pained sounds around bushes and drifts of fallen auburn leaves covered in frost until she swears it has to be right at her feet, but there’s not any movement where she can see. Growing increasingly curious, she ventures a bit further, around the stump of a tree…
This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!
Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.
It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.
Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him.
“Now the passcode.”
He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.
“The passcode.”
They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.
“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.
It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure.
“Very good. See how easy this can be?”
He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.
“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”
No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.
“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.
Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”
And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.
“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”
“Can I have some water?”
There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy–the door, and the man– off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.
“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”
His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?
“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn’t you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.
Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”
“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”
These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”
“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”
He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.
Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”
He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.
“No, the threat of more pain, that’syour motivation.”
“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”
“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger.
“Won’t hold back!”
That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.
“I know,” Blake replies.
His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he’s going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.
The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.
“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.”
That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.
That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.”
CAT NEEDS URGENT SURGERY. PLEASE REBLOG, LIKE, AND DONATE IF YOU CAN!!!
Hey guys, my best friend’s cat was attacked by a dog (who is an untrained hunting dog), broke his leg, and had his rectal sphincter bitten off. He’s in DESPERATE need of financial support to be able to have both surgeries. I’ll put the type of surgeries & the x-rays below as well as where you can donate. Please help if you can, even if it’s just to reblog and share so others can see.
Surgery One (1): Rectal sphincter reconstruction and antibiotics to avoid septicemia
Surgery Two (2): A displaced compound fracture. Bone recovery and reconstruction, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatory medication.
Price of the second surgery is around €1.100 and the first surgery was just discovered so my friend doesn’t know the price yet, but he will update when he knows and once I know I’ll update here as well.
PayPal: dew.tuiss@gmail[dot]com
And here is his twitter (@ magvritte if the link breaks)
“Have it your way,” the captor smirks. The shackled prisoner is powerless as they are pushed to the floor. They can only scream in horror as the captor takes their wrists, one at a time, twisting them until they break. They can barely breathe through their screams as their captor beats their feet with a metal rod until every bone is broken.
Defeated and sobbing, the prisoner tries to drag themself to their knees.
But their captor won’t let them. “You asked for this,” they seethe, as they drag the prisoner to their feet, attaching their shackles to the wall - arms stretched above their head, feet just touching the floor. The prisoner can only writhe in agony.
“You don’t want to kneel? Then stand.”
And with that, they leave, the door slamming behind them.
1. I have a character who’s caught meningitis but thinks it’s the flu (/sinus issues) for a couple days until he collapses on the third. Is this realistic? Also, when his colleague calls 911 on him, what sort of questions are the EMTs likely to ask him and what sort of immediate treatment would he receive in the ambulance on the way to the hospital? (It’s the 80s, if that makes a difference.)
2. Another character is in severe pain from a cracked shoulder blade, but also has a concussion (from the same accident). What kind of pain meds would they be able to receive, and would those meds actually help with the pain at all? Should I just get them lots of ice and call it (kinda) sorted? Also, how would their doctor differentiate their being semiconscious from the pain vs. being semiconscious from TBI complications?
Hey there! Thanks for your question!
So let’s tackle these in order.
1) Meningitis vs Flu
Meningitis can indeed feel like flu symptoms, with a few significant differences.
First, neck stiffness. Your character won’t be able to bring their chin to their chest; it will be very stiff and painful to do so. This is called nucchal rigidity by those “in the biz.” They’ll also have a fever, vomiting, often a headache, body aches, chills, tiredness, possibly confusion, and sensitivity to light.
It’s kind of like if a flu and a hangover trashed your head’s living room and you found them asleep on the couch and in the bathtub respectively.
The other thing is that meningitis typically(not always) hits like a goddamn freight train. Your character may have had the flu before, but this will be The Worst Flu. I’ve had patients who’ve gone from “I feel fine” to fucking dying in less than six hours. This depends on the type and aggressiveness of the meningitis; bacterial meningitis, particularly meningiococcal meningitis, is a fucking bastard of a disease and is extremely aggressive. VIral meningitis, such as from an Epstein-Barr infection, varicella zoster (our friend chicken pox), mumps, or herpes.
Viral meningitis is more common in little kids, but not unreasonable in an adult.
As for EMS questions, this question is predicated on something I don’t know much about, which is “EMS Before I Was Born for 800, Alex.” They would likely isolate him by wrapping him in sheets even though he has a fever and take him to the hospital, where doctors would give antifever medications like acetaminophen and perform a lumbar punctue, or spinal tap. This is the process of having the character curl up into a ball and sticking a needle into the small of the back to draw out a small vial of cerebrospinal fluid. This hurts and causes massiveheadaches, which, your character is already having a No Fun Day.
They’ll be looking for blood and bacteria in the CSF. If you opted for viral meningitis, they won’t find bacteria in there, or blood. They’ll likely be placed in isolation while they’re sick, meaning all hospital staff will wear gowns and gloves and paper masks to care for them (same for visiting friends/family). If it’s viral, there isn’t a whole lot to do, and I get sketchy about 80s meningitis meds and don’t want to send you down the wrong path. Odds are they could simply rest for a week in the hospital and get better and go home.
2) Car Go Crash
“Crash-o-smash!”
“That’s all I need to know!”
Hey there! There are a few things we need to talk about with this crash.
First, how did they crack their shoulderblade? That’s an unusual injury, to my knowledge. They would have to be thrown back into something, but car seats are padded. What did they hit?
Second, about concussion vs TBI vs pain:
There are a number of clinical assesments that can be used to help determine if the head injury is a concussion or something worse. The most definitive is a CT scan, but they may not actually need one! According to the Canada Head Trauma CT Guidelines, your character only needs a head CT if:
They can’t remember more than 30 minutes before the accident
They have mental status changes (unable to follow commands, don’t open eyes on their own, or are confused about who/where they are)
They’ve vomited more than once
The mechanism was super dangerous (thrown or ejected from the vehicle)
They have a depressed skull fracture. (Simple linear fractures don’t require head CTs.)
They have signs of a basilar skull fracture; search this blog for LeFort fractures.
Shout-out to @cranquis for teaching me about those guidelines, I wasn’t familiar with them before his tender ministrations to my upcoming book :)
They will likely be seen in the ER, have their arm put in a sling to protect the shoulder, and sent home with an appointment to follow up with orthopedics. Someone should be with them and will be asked to wake them up once about 4 hours after they go to sleep to make sure they canwake up, but otherwise, let them rest as long as they need to.
In terms of pain meds, I would expect a three-day course of oral pain meds such as oxycodone/acetaminophen (Oxycontin) or hydrocodone/acetaminophen (Vicodin), in addition to getting similar pain pills while they’re in the ER.
If they need surgery for their shoulder, it will be scheduled with ortho on an outpatient basis unless the scapula is literally poking through the skin.
