#retching
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Tagging@ouatwinterwhump,@killian-whump,@sancocnutclub,@killianjonesownsmyheart1,@courtorderedcake,@facesiousbutton82<3
***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38HEREandHERE!!!!!!!!!*************
***Chapter 12 animationandart that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********
***LETHALChapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************
**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**
****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!! CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********
*CH 34 ART! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*
***CH 36 ART! DETECTIVE JONES BOWS BEFORE HIS NEW MASTER!!!!!!***
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
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Present (Saturday)…
In the presence of his Master, Killian lay inert.
There was no escape. Not ever.
No immunity, not in the end. He had resisted as long as he could. But now, he no longer had any control over his body. He could do nothing but lie helpless, paralyzed and at the mercy of the creature endlessly circling. Tapping that eerie cadence around and around, stopping only to prod at him, squeeze and pinch and crush. His ankle. His hand. His ribs.
Killian could not even scream anymore. Sometimes he felt on the verge of knowing why. The tentacle snaking down his throat did not truly hurt, though on occasion it inspired such panic that he would rather be dead than endure its presence any longer. Then the moment would pass, he would lose concentration and forget the invader, and try to beg an instant’s peace, and wonder why even the smallest hint of his pathetic pleas would not come forth.
YOU CAN NEVER BE FREE OF ME. I SHALL HAVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Yes, Master.
Had there truly been a time when that commanding voice held no sway? The mantra scripted, the despair half-pretend?
NO MATTER. SAY IT FOR ME AGAIN. FEED ME YOUR MISERY.
No hope.
IT IS REAL THIS TIME.
No hope.
THE BATTLE IS LOST.
No hope.
NO HOPE. NO HOPE, TRIPOD. NO HOPE FOR ANY OF YOU. KILLIAN.
Killian?
*****
Emma burst into the waiting lounge, cursing, her heart pounding as if she’d just sprinted up to the top of the clock tower. Of course they would page her as soon as she ran down to the cafeteria for five minutes; she should never have let her dad talk her into taking a snack break.
“Whale?” she called urgently even as she spotted the physician’s distinctive shock of bleached hair across the room. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked even more haggard than before; apparently, the past 30 hours had been rough on him, as well. He did not get up when he heard his name, opting to merely wait until Emma had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Dr. Whale gave her a reserved smile before speaking.
“He’s out of surgery.”
For an instant, Emma thought she might black out from the relief. Whale rubbed at bloodshot eyes, continuing,
“We did everything we could for him, for now. His lung has been repaired, his shoulder reduced, and temporary closures provided for his other injuries; they’ll have to be addressed at a later date, when he’s stronger. He’s had probably a dozen units of blood and may require more over the coming days.”
Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and realized that her father must have cleared up quickly downstairs in order to be able to be with her, and then snuck in while her attention had been riveted on the physician’s words.
Whale sighed and stretched his neck.
“I’m not going to lie, Emma; he’s not out of the woods yet. He’ll need constant supervision in the Intensive Care Unit until we’re sure he won’t crash on us at any second. The biggest complication that we’re dealing with right now is the neurological condition which, I can’t even remember if I told you, has gotten exponentially worse since Wednesday.”
“The brain shriveling?” clarified David, and Whale nodded.
“The best thing for thatwould have been to keep him sedated while we work on a therapy, like we did for the others, but for some unknown reason, every sedative we’ve tried has only made everything worse. His blood pressure will fall, or he’ll develop an arrhythmia or respiratory depression or something else equally as dangerous. It’s totally bizarre, and none of the other slaves have reacted this way. Bottom line is, I don’t think it’s safe to keep throwing different sedatives at him and hoping one will stick. We’ll allow him to wake up and just try to keep him comfortable with painkillers.”
Around a lump in her throat, Emma managed to ask,
“But didn’t you say the brain condition is slowed down when they’re sedated?”
“I did,” shrugged Whale. “But faster brain deterioration will kill him slower than a clot caused by low BP would.”
Emma nodded slowly, the long list of threats to her husband’s life squeezing at her heart until she could not speak. Behind her, David quietly asked,
“What about something like total anesthesia? Would that slow the condition?”
“That would be even more risky than sedation,” explained Whale. “With general anesthesia, you always want to use the smallest dose for the shortest amount of time, otherwise all sorts of bad things can happen, from respiratory arrest to brain damage.”
A moment of heavy silence filled the room, uninterrupted by the background noises of the busy hospital. Then Emma squared her shoulders.
“So when can I see him?”
With great reluctance, Whale stood up, unfolding slowly like a man many years his senior.
“Let’s go,” he groaned. “He’s going to be disoriented at first; hopefully you can help with that.” He glanced at David, then back at Emma as he added,
“Only you, though. For the time being, at least.”
David caught Emma’s hand in a quick squeeze. “Give him our best.”
*****
His Master had its clawed hand around his arm, squeezing without involving any of its nails. It hurt the stake driven through his wrist. But that was, after all, its privilege.
Harder, Master. Take what you will. I am yours.
“Killian.”
Bloody hell. Swan was in the church. He could hear her. He could almost see her, if he tried hard enough to open his eyes and focus. Impossible!
I SHALL HAVE HER TOO.
No!
A piercing pinch. A whimper without sound.
Yes… Master…
*****
It could only be an extension of his Master’s recording experiment, but how it was supposed to succeed was utterly mystifying. Any little sound stalled before it even started, not just the screams he wanted to unleash. So how would his Master glean any sort of energy from him this way?
THAT IS NOT YOUR CONCERN.
Killian’s elbow twitched and he felt an immediate jolt of stiff pain in his shoulder. He could not say when he’d been torn loose from his imprisonment, what almost certainly should have been the structure against which he’d breathed his last and surrendered his soul. The figment Emma was back, or perhaps had never left, though their Master had yet to make good on its threats against her. It must wish to drain the last remaining drops of scream energy from him first, wringing him out like a filthy, useless rag, scraping him down to the rind and then beyond.
She called to him. He could not acknowledge.
I AM HERE, insisted his Master. He felt it. Its marks of possession carved into his flesh. Unyielding limbs pinning him, holding him still.
Which of its appendages was slender enough to slip inside a nostril? Killian had no recollection of that particular trick.
“Hold still–”
DO NOT MOVE, TRIPOD.
Something twitched deep down inside his chest, sparking a powerful urge to retch. The Master’s device between his teeth confirmed itself as not-tentacle by its texture and flaccid presence, no roiling, pulsating muscle beneath its rubbery exterior, and yet it began moving again, this time sliding up his throat and exiting in one long, slippery slither, its tip scraping irritated muscle as it went.
Gagging hurt, but coughing was worse.
“Breathe,” urged many voices, Emma’s and at least one other. Z, if she weren’t dead and could speak. Or maybe it was only after death that she would.
FILL THOSE LUNGS WITH SCREAMS.
*****
When Dr. Whale had first led Emma inside, she would have sworn it was the wrong room. Her emaciated husband was simply unrecognizable, even compared to what she’d seen of him the day before. Discolored, withered, and limp, taped and wrapped, sickly pale skin free of dirt but painted with a sheen of sweat. After so many situations just like this, she probably should be at least somewhat accustomed to all of the gadgets necessary for life support, but they shocked her every time. Whale’s team had at least traded the I/O line for a more long-term central line, which she knew would cut down on the number of needle sticks necessary for blood sampling and the like.
Emma sighed. He was going to hate this. He always did, but now the parallels to his time as the Vocivore’s slave–not in control of much of anything, feeling trapped and helpless–would make it that much worse. Not to mention the damage to his hand that would take away all autonomy.
Well, she told herself, it was a miracle he was even around to hate it. And besides, it would be different this time. Magic would return soon; it had to. And then, even if she couldn’t heal everything completely, she might be able to shorten his length of stay in his least favorite place.
No, she realized. She now knew of several places that would rank lower than this.
“Killian?” she called again, tenderly stroking his bony arm. In the 15 minutes she had been with him, he had showed some brief flashes of near-awareness: slight limb movements, fluttering of his eyelids, minute grimaces eliciting pangs of sympathy within her. In response to her voice, his heart rate would pick up momentarily, though it was difficult to tell whether that was from glad recognition or startled anxiety. In between, however, he would settle back into a frightening stillness that only the monitors proved could not be death.
A few minutes ago, a couple of nurses had removed the endotracheal tube from his throat after Whale had declared him stable enough to breathe on his own. The bout of choking that followed was painful to watch, but Killian still seemed mostly out of it as they attached an oxygen mask to his battered face. His eyes fluttered briefly open but did not focus before slipping closed. Since then, it was back to nothing again.
Whale appeared beside her and leaned over Killian in order to have a listen to both lungs.
“He’ll come around in his own time,” he assured Emma. “This is not unusual after such extensive surgery.”
*****
Something had changed.
The paving stone had warmed, softening into something almost comfortable, a concept so unfamiliar as to be suspicious. The persistent cooing from up above mingled with an utter cacophony of bewildering sounds, none of which belonged to any reality within the horribly familiar confines of the sanctuary. And the light touch on his arm, the gentle stroking along intact flesh… for the first time, it was not altogether unpleasant. Which would only confirm what he no longer feared: total, unreserved surrender.
Does it please you, my Master?
The end of the deception and the fight.
IT IS GOOD.
He could feel it prodding at his chest with its cold, unyielding legs. He did not pull away. No horror stirred his heart, though he knew it wanted something of him.
WAKE UP.
More places were being petted, encircled, or invaded than his Master had limbs to account for; nothing made sense. And why was it insisting he wake up when he was already awake? Perhaps he could appease it with a groan.
Killian coughed. His whole throat felt raw as if acid slime had eroded all the tissue away.
I may no longer have any screams to give.
His ankle spasmed. Stabbing, burning cramps spread up his wrist from an oddly immobile hand. But his Master seemed unfazed by the revelation and continued its touching.
“Please–OPEN YOUR EYES–Killian. It’s time–YOU MUST WAKE–wake up now.”
The babbling had returned, voices on top of voices, all begging to be heard amidst the rolling of whitecaps pitching the floor into sudden, violent motion, squashing him down as though he weighed a thousand pounds, and in an instant, Killian was retching like the greenest of new recruits on their first day at sea.
If he’d thought coughing hurt, his stomach trying to eject what wasn’t there took that pain and magnified it a hundredfold.
“…Pretty common, too, after anesthesia…”
Shut the hell up, Whale, and let a man die in agonized peace.
HE WON’T ASPIRATE WITH THE NG TUBE CLEARING HIS STOMACH.
“Trust me.”
His Master’s suit had turned white.
The bucking slowed, gravity returning to normal from his feet upwards. Killian’s eyes were watering in lights far too bright and colorless, lacking any hint of refracted hue.
It wasn’t a white suit. A white coat.
“Killian?”
Tilting his neck even the slightest degree seemed to drive iron stakes all around its perimeter. Killian blinked away the tears into which his Master’s image had dissolved, leaving behind only smeared shapes and hazy colors as it bellowed a whisper,
I REMAIN.
His first in-focus sight had to be of bloody Whale, leaning over him in professional study. But the physician’s voice hadn’t been the only one to blend with the Vocivore’s menace.
“Swan?” he mumbled, almost noiseless, and promptly gagged. What he’d taken for a tentacle tightened on his arm in trembling reassurance.
“I’m here, Killian.” She moved into his field of vision and his weary eyes looked into her face, desperate for the calm that only she could provide. “You’re safe; you’re at the hospital. You made it.”
Though his vision remained blurred and unsteady, there was no mistaking the relief on her face, nor the steady stream of tears coursing down her cheeks as she tried to smile.
Sudden, paralyzing panic overtook him; he could not remember… his Master, it was there, always there, but beyond its looming presence… only fragments. A life. Such a precious life… and a corpse…
“Wh…” he tried, then, “H…”
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” interjected the bothersome physician. “You had a tube down your throat to help you breathe, and there still a smaller one going down into your stomach to help with nausea and for feeding later.”
The majority of Whale’s words got lost in the storm clouds of confusion and worry, and Killian chose to ignore the rest. But moving to keep Emma in view brought a wave of such intense pain that the room lights went out and a high-pitched, pressurized buzzing filled his ears.
“For the love of God, Hook,” Dr. Whale was saying, muffled at first but slowly clearer as Killian’s senses returned. “Hold still; there’s about 101 places you could tear open and we just finished putting you back together.”
Killian could only gulp unsatisfying breaths under the weight of the several cannonballs that seemed to be piled on his chest. In a much more patient tone, Emma pleaded,
“Try and relax, Killian; everything is fine. Hope is fine. The monster is dead. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
Hope. It was Hope, the corpse. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead. Emma was saying one thing, but he saw another. Hope dead. Maybe Emma didn’t know. So many terrifying scenes jumbled in his head. So much screaming and pain and despair. And Hope’s corpse, there among the flashes. The wounds were real. The Master was real. But Hope dead was not?
How would he ever be certain?
Emma’s touch; that felt real. Whale and his lackeys, as they performed their checks and asked questions he could not possibly comprehend… less so, but then again, their knowledge struck him as far beyond anything he could ever conjure.
Whence came the corpses?
I HAVE CONSUMED THEIR SCREAMS. THEY ARE DEPLETED.
His Master once again circled his bed. And Killian closed his eyes. Resigned to the torture.
*****
Emma watched her husband slip back into a troubled slumber and scrubbed at her face. The brief moment of clarity had been equally as encouraging as heartbreaking. He knew her; that was certain, and momentarily seemed to soothe at her touch, but the long periods of terrified delirium before and after had been difficult to stomach. Not to mention the apparent anguish that any small movement caused him.
Whale finished scribbling a progress note and pursed his lips. “Well, that went about as well as could have been expected. His neuro scores are encouraging, so we don’t have to be as concerned about hypoxic brain injury.”
Clearing her throat, Emma resumed resting her hand on Killian’s arm. Whether or not he consciously felt her presence, subconsciously she had to believe that she could provide a bit of a buffer between him and his nightmares. “Sure didn’t last long.”
“Combination of post-anesthesia and his pain meds. Really, sleep is the best thing for him, as long as it stays peaceful like this.” He checked a readout on the complicated IV pump and made a quick adjustment. “It’ll probably be like this the first few times. You may have to keep reminding him where he is and all that; he might not remember each time he wakes up. By tomorrow morning, I’d expect him to seem more alert and possibly stay awake for longer periods of time.”
The physician yawned and did not even seem sorry. “It’s going to be another long night, Emma. People in and out frequently. You’re welcome to stay, but no one would be surprised if you decided to go home for a couple hours’ sleep.”
Emma shook her head. “I need to be here for him.”
“Your choice.” He headed for the door. “Don’t hesitate to call someone if you have any questions or concerns.”
After he left, Emma watched Killian breathe, reassured by the small cloud of condensation that formed on the inside of his mask each time he exhaled. Then she composed a quick update to her father; she knew he would take care of spreading the word to everyone else waiting for news. That accomplished, she settled in for her lonely vigil.
Killian had endured a month’s worth of little to no rest, and low-quality sleep when he could get it. Compared to that, three or four nights of watching at his bedside was nothing.
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Hubba Hubba
pukey gifs that I find rather sexy.
A gif of an old video I used to like from a few years back. It used to do the job for me, but now I’m more into chicks who make a mess when they vomit.
hiii lol
The idea of telltale signs for someone that they ARE about to puke and there’s nothing they can do to stop it are… just so nice to think about. There’s of course the classic “mouth filling up with that weird thick saliva” but I’m talking about whole body sensations too. For someone the signal might be a wave of hot flashes, for someone else it might be sudden cold sweats or chills. It might also be more localized. Maybe their heart starts hammering, or they feel a lump in their throat, or their stomach feels unbearably full out of nowhere. It’s no longer just nausea - it’s their body letting them know that yeah, they are about to puke their guts out.
Usually when you’re about to puke, the saliva that coats your teeth is very thin. The fact that that’s what happens when you’re about to puke is just delicious. You could aliken it to pussy. They both become so uncontrollably wet and drippy as it’s leading up to a climax.
