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heliophxle · 1 month ago

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ooh if you're doing fic prompts.

allow me to introduce. when smosh did the just dance stream you know how hard trevor went on rasputin.

like 2 songs later someone volunteers him as a joke and he just goes "no, my chest hurts."

uh, mildly concerning? but you as the trevor whump author might be able to play with that :P

also idek why i go on anon for this shit, i'm the self proclaimed CHAMPION of whumpfic in this fandom

I hope I do this justice haha been very busy with exams (philosophy is going to kill me i stg)

• 2k words•

Trevors' chest was tight. Tight enough that his breath caught in his throat and he wheezed slightly, hunching forward, hands pressing into his thighs as if grounding himself that way might bring some relief. His head dropped between his knees, his vision dotted with stars at the edges. He knew, deep down, that bending over would probably make it harder to breathe, but the thought of anyone seeing him gasping, of letting them witness his throat close up, was unbearable. more below the cut

He finally managed to draw some air in but then he had trouble getting air out, and he was starting to panic a little bit. He tried to cough, just enough to clear his throat, but it came out thin and weakly brittle, barely a sound at all. Still, it was ordinary enough that he might get away with it.

His mind was racing, flipping through excuses he could give if anyone saw him like this. Just tired from dancing, a little lightheaded, no big deal. But his chest didn’t loosen, the grip on his lungs only worsening, and he pressed his fists into his thighs to stop them from trembling. Just breathe, he told himself, hearing his own words in that strained, raspy way that made it feel like his voice wasn’t even his.

He was still catching his breath when someone called his name, laughter ringing through the room.

“Trevor! You’re up next!” Ian teased, shooting him a mischievous grin from across the room.

A chorus of laughter and cheers erupted from the crew. Trevor managed a laugh, trying to play it cool, but he could feel the tightness in his chest again. He put a hand over his heart, hoping to steady himself. “Nah, I’m good, actually—think I’ll sit this one out.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t wimp out!” someone else yelled, egging him on.

He tried to shake his head and brush them off with a smile, but the pressure in his chest was climbing. Each breath felt thinner, his pulse pounding against his ribs. He forced himself to look up, to act unfazed, but someone behind him—maybe Shayne or Damien—gave him a light shove toward the center of the room.

Trevor managed a forced grin, trying to turn the whole thing into a joke. “Yeah, about that,” he started, his voice coming out strained and breathless. “My chest kinda hurts.”

The laughter died down, a few faces turning from amused to mildly concerned. Trevor’s gaze dropped as the attention shifted from playful to questioning. He regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth, but it was the truth—his chest did hurt, and just standing here felt like an effort. His knees wobbled, and he took a slow, unsteady breath, hoping it would pass.

He could hear the concerned voices, but he forced himself to straighten up a little, forcing a sheepish grin onto his face. “it’s alright, guys. Guess I’m just a little out of breath from Rasputin. You know how that song is,” Trevor said, his voice light, trying to push past the discomfort. He leaned forward and wiped his forehead, exaggerating the movement like it was no big deal. “I’m fine. Just, uh... need a minute to catch my breath.”

The chat was full of concerned messages, people asking if he was okay, if he needed to stop. But Trevor gave a thumbs-up, smiling as best as he could, even though his chest still ached with every shallow breath. “We’re gonna wrap this up soon anyway,” he added, hoping to ease the tension. “Nothing serious, don’t worry about me.”

“Yeah, guys, I think we’re gonna call it for today, we’re all a bit tired,” Ian said into the mic, clearly trying to wrap things up quickly. “Thanks for hanging out and donating. We’ll see you next time!”

The screen flickered as the livestream cut off, the chat’s frantic messages lingering in the background, but as soon as the feed ended, the room shifted. The crew didn’t immediately leave. There was a quiet undercurrent of worry, and Trevor could feel it pressing down on him, despite his attempt to downplay it.

As the others started gathering their things, Trevor took a breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. “I’m really fine, guys,” he repeated, though the words felt hollow. Shayne didn’t look convinced.

“Trevor,” Shayne started, voice low and firm. “Let’s get you to the couch, yeah? I don’t think you’re fine.”

Trevor tried to argue, but the last of his energy had already drained away. Instead, he let Shayne guide him to the couch, his mind already full of that gnawing panic, even as he tried to ignore it.

Once they were seated, the others began to hover, exchanging worried glances, their voices low. Trevor leaned back, closing his eyes, trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest. His chest felt like it was caving in, each breath shallow and ragged, like his lungs were barely big enough to hold the air he needed. It wasn’t a pain so much as a pressure, pressing down from inside, from the very center of his ribcage. It started as a subtle tightness, but it grew worse with each minute, slowly stealing his ability to breathe normally. His ribs ached, sore in ways that made him feel fragile, like the smallest movement might crack him open.

He could feel his pulse thumping in his throat, every beat a reminder of how tightly his chest was squeezed. The air in the room felt heavy, thicker than it should’ve been, and he fought to draw in more of it—just enough to make the panic recede. His throat constricted, though, and no matter how hard he tried, the air seemed to get stuck, leaving him gasping, his breath hitching with every failed attempt to take a full inhale.

His arms were starting to tremble, too, the fine tremors almost imperceptible at first but growing, spreading into his fingers until they were stiff, unresponsive. He clenched his fists in his lap, the tightness in his chest almost matching the ache in his hands, as if everything—his heart, his lungs, his limbs—were struggling to work in tandem. His stomach churned, and he fought the wave of nausea that rose with the frustration of not being able to fix it. Not being able to fix himself.

The pressure in his chest seemed to mount, pulling every ounce of energy out of him, until even sitting up straight felt like too much effort. He slumped, shoulders rounded forward, curling in on himself, hoping that somehow it would ease the sensation, but it didn’t. His breath felt too shallow, like it couldn’t get deep enough to fill his lungs, and every exhale seemed weaker than the one before it. The room around him felt distant, his vision blurry at the edges as though the pressure was forcing his mind to slow down, to shut down.

Shayne’s voice cut through the haze, but it felt like it was coming from far away, muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. "Trevor?" It was a whisper, but it felt like it reverberated through him, sharp and insistent, bringing him back to reality with a jolt.

Trevor nodded, or at least, he tried to. His body felt like it was moving through thick water. Every small gesture, every tiny shift, was exhausting. His head felt light, like it was floating just slightly above his shoulders, detached from the rest of him. His stomach twisted again, and the nausea surged, forcing him to swallow hard, but it didn’t help. It only made the tightness in his chest worse.

He felt his body betray him in that moment, felt the weakness spread like a slow fire. The tension in his chest wasn’t just physical anymore—it was all-consuming. It wrapped itself around his mind, making it harder to focus, to think clearly. All he could think about was the next breath, the one he hadn’t quite been able to take yet, the one that was slipping further and further out of reach.

“Just breathe, just breathe,” he whispered to himself, but the words felt foreign on his tongue, hollow, as if the act of breathing itself had become too much to manage.

Shayne’s hand on his shoulder felt like an anchor, steadying him in ways Trevor couldn’t quite process. He wanted to push it away—he could push it away, but the idea of being alone with this suffocating pressure, this overwhelming sensation of not being able to breathe, felt worse than anything else.

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the world, to block out the pulsing pressure in his chest, but the feeling refused to go away. It was like a vise, closing tighter with every second, and no matter how much he willed it to ease, it only grew worse. His lungs burned with the effort of each shallow, trembling inhale. His head felt heavy, spinning in a dull, foggy way, as if everything was moving too fast around him and he couldn’t keep up. The simple act of breathing had become the hardest thing in the world.

A shaky exhale left him, ragged and thin. He wiped his brow, his skin clammy with sweat, and felt his stomach churn again. It took everything not to double over in discomfort, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t show how bad it really was. He forced his gaze back up, blinking through the haze, and caught Shayne’s worried expression. There was no hiding it now; it was all over his face. The worry. The concern. The realization that Trevor wasn’t okay, and had been lying about it for too long.

“Trevor,” Shayne said, his voice softer now, a touch of urgency creeping in. “You don’t have to keep pretending, man. This isn’t just some after-dance thing. You need to let me—”

Trevor shook his head weakly, cutting him off with a soft, hoarse voice. “No, I’m fine. I just need—” He coughed, the dry, brittle sound forcing its way out of his chest, and the ache deepened, a raw kind of sting that made his throat feel even tighter.

Shayne was right beside him now, his hand warm and firm on Trevor’s back, pressing lightly against the tension in his shoulders. “We’re not doing this. Let’s get you checked out, alright?”

Trevor opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat, swallowed by the tightness that had crawled into every corner of his body. It was impossible to ignore now, and it was getting harder to breathe through it, to pretend he was okay.

As they helped him up, the room felt like it was tilting, his vision dimming at the edges. It wasn’t right—none of this was right. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so helpless, so utterly broken. The thought of being seen like this made him want to crawl into a hole, to hide away from the judgment, the questions, the worry. But all he could do was follow Shayne’s gentle pressure, letting him guide him through the haze of discomfort.

The voices around him grew quieter, softer, but Trevor could barely focus on them. His chest was still tight, still aching, and the reality of what was happening began to sink in—this wasn’t just exhaustion. This wasn’t just a joke or something that would go away after a drink of water or a couple of minutes of rest. It was worse than that, and the thought settled heavily in his chest, deeper than the pain.

Shayne’s voice was a steady presence in his ear, urging him to stay with him, to keep going, just a little bit further. Trevor closed his eyes, focusing on his breath, trying to slow it, trying to calm the storm inside him.

“Just stay with me, alright? We’ll figure this out.”

He nodded weakly, even though he wasn’t sure how. Even though his body still ached, his lungs still fought for air, his mind still tangled in panic.

All he could do was try. Try to breathe. Try to hold on.

#smoshblr #smosh #trevor evarts #ian hecox #shayne topp #requested fic

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