#Brief emeto mention

[angelphone1]

Hi-lo! I saw your request for requests so I figured I'd send something :D

Maybe whumper and whumpee are partners and whumpee is dealing with an addiction. They tell whumper that they've stopped but now they're just doing it in secret. When whumper catches whumpee they 'punish' whumpee with their addiction somehow.

Feel free to do whatever you want with this prompt!

hiii thank you so much for requesting! i honestly wasn't sure what to do with this prompt but after some deliberation i think maybe i figured out something good? i hope you enjoy :)

WHUMPEE grimaces as the needle goes in. They should be fine; WHUMPER shouldn't be back for another few days at the very least. Enough time for just one needle. Just one little taste. Just one. They said they're off the stuff now, and that's true. This is WHUMPEE's decision; it's not something they need.

WHUMPEE sighs in relief as, blessedly, it kicks in, nearly knocking WHUMPEE unconscious in the process. Like they're floating. Like they're made of warm, warm light. Like nothing else ever matters. It's just presence. Bliss. Pureness.

The high lasts for a while. It's so nice. It's wonderful. It's transcendent. Here, WHUMPEE doesn't have to worry. About anything. If you ask WHUMPEE, right now, if this was worth it, they would say, "Absolutely fucking yes." Absolutely, it was worth it, going behind WHUMPER's back, getting back in touch with DEALER, giving themselves some time to relax. Nothing to worry about. Everything to feel good about. Just bliss.

And then the crash comes; and WHUMPEE is suddenly nothing more than a filthy wretch in filthy clothes, in an apartment that smells like vinegar and vomit, unbelievably thirsty and needing to piss, and dear God, when did they last eat? When did the sky get so dark? When did ---

The door clicks. A key turns. It pushes open, revealing WHUMPER, sighing heavily at the mess and the smell.

WHUMPER: "Whumpee."

WHUMPEE, stammering: "Wh --- wh --- you weren't --- "

WHUMPER: "I'm not supposed to be here. I am supposed to be on vacation right now, with Friend. Yes."

WHUMPEE panics, barely able to form coherent thoughts from their place on the floor.

WHUMPER, pinching the bridge of their nose: "I lied. Just like you lied about quitting." They sigh. "How long has this been going on, Whumpee?"

WHUMPEE: "It was ---"

WHUMPER: "Don't answer that. I already know. You never really quit... God, you're fucking pathetic. I tied myself to a piece of shit, and this is what I get."

WHUMPEE: "I'm not --- just --- "

WHUMPER, exasperated: "Just what? What possible excuse could you have to explain.. this?"

WHUMPEE: "It was --- I only did it just once, just this one time, just because --- it was my choice, it wasn't --- "

WHUMPER, under their breath: "God, I'm just like my fucking mother."

Now, if you had asked WHUMPEE whether or not the high was worth it, they would have said, "Absolutely fucking no." Because it really wasn't. Absolutely not.

WHUMPER walks forward. WHUMPEE scrambles backward, messy and uncoordinated, feeling as if they can feel themselves spilling all over the carpet. WHUMPER picks up the used needle, a small bit of blood on the tip from where it had pierced a vein, the plunger pushed down all the way, a few traces of residue still inside.

WHUMPER: "Fucking incredible. Just fantastic. This is worth more to you than I am, huh? A little bag of black fucking bullshit over me." They mutter more profanities under their breath, continuing to march towards WHUMPEE, who is staring up at them, wide-eyed. Their headache makes it impossible to think straight. Surely WHUMPER isn't going to hurt them, right? There is a cold, cold anger in WHUMPER's eyes, something that must have been building up for a long time now.

WHUMPER grabs WHUMPEE's arm, and stabs the needle in with no regard for location. WHUMPEE cries out, unable to rip their arm out of WHUMPER's cold, hard grip. WHUMPER rips it out and stabs it back in. And again. And again.

WHUMPER, punctating each word with another stab: "Fucking. Useless. Fucking. Bitch." The words devolve into just angry shouting, as WHUMPEE is crying and sobbing from the searing, searing pain. Eventually, the needle breaks, and then the glass shatters, and WHUMPER doesn't stop, until WHUMPEE's arm is absolutely mangled. WHUMPER tosses the remnants aside, wiping their now-bloody hand on their shirt.

WHUMPEE screams, the inferno in their arm a far cry from the sharp prick of the injection, pushing away at WHUMPER with their good arm, left to curl up mewling on the floor, their voice raw and incoherent, disoriented and heavy-headed, like their whole body is made from lead.

In the far, far distance, a phone ringing.

OPERATOR: "911, what is your emergency?"

WHUMPER, out of breath: "Yeah, so, my partner.. nearly overdosed, and we got in a fight, and they.. tore their whole arm to shreds. They.. need an ambulance. It's really bad. Yeah, our address is ... "

WHUMPEE's vision slowly, slowly fades to black.

[almostfini]

My disability story pt 1/?

Check out the CWs in the tags

I was born with problems. Some of it comes down to genetics. It probably didn't help that my mother's only prenatal care was from an untrained midwife. I had problems with my lungs when I was born but my parents waited 3 days to take me to a doctor.

I always say I was one of those sickly Dickensian children. I caught certain respiratory viruses easily and older than most children. When I was 4 I was hospitalized for dehydration following a stomach bug. I have a clear memory of being rushed into my pediatrician's office while vomiting over my father’s shoulder, seeing my sippy cup fall to the pavement as my grip became too weak. My mother told me years later that they catheterized me in the hospital and I screamed in pain.

A few months later I started having agonizing pains in my legs. I remember repeated visits to the children's hospital for testing. I was so small they had a hard time finding a vein for the dye for my bone scan, leading to multiple sessions of sobbing while a nurse jammed a butterfly needle into my wrist. Then I had to lie still in a machine by myself for an eternity. Or at least long enough to watch most of the Monsters Inc tape we brought each time and played on a tiny box TV in the corner.

In the end they concluded it was just growing pains. I gained a ton of medical trauma and my parents decided this was proof I was just overdramatic. They would bring it up the rest of my life with them as a reason to deny me medical care or as evidence I was too fragile to do something (like attend school). My asthma, which was beginning to show symptoms, wouldn't be diagnosed until I was 13 because my parents believed I was faking for attention.

Sometime that same year when I was 4 (probably after all the tests) I broke my collarbone falling off a bouncy horse onto concrete. My mother didn't believe I was truly injured until the next morning when I refused to lift my arm to get dressed. She only took it seriously after she forced my arm up and I screamed.

[ginger-and-mint]

11 & 12, 16 & 17 for the belly ask game please!

11. Do you have any favorite words or phrases relating to the belly?

The word "stomach" itself kinda wrecks me tbh. ^^ "Swollen" is probably my favorite adjective, and "bulging" and "aching" and probably my favorite verbs hehe. And even though they're pretty basic, the phrases "so full" and "very full" can be really really good.

12. Do you like upset tummies? What kinds of scenarios are your favorites?

I would say upset tummies are an Interest-Adjacent Enjoyable Thing, but not actually kinky in and of themselves to me! Like, if a character has an upset tummy from eating too much, that adds the appeal of a kinky scenario for me. But if a character has an upset tummy for other reasons, the vibe is more hurt/comfort or whumpy. Which I still enjoy! but not in a kinky way, y'feel?

16. Are there any guilty pleasures that you don't tend to share as much?

My guiltiest pleasure is emeto as a result of eating too much. ^^' I tend not to explore it as much 'cause I'm still a bit shy about it, but uh. somebody struggling to keep a very large meal down or just feeling sick from how they've eaten is Big Fire.

17. What's something you wish you saw more of?

Is it cheating if I answer Stuffing Content In General? ^^' I feel like the scene is a lot slower than it used to be.

To answer seriously though -- I wish I could find stories with intentional feeding that isn't tied to a dom/sub dynamic. Dom/sub just isn't my thing, but it's pretty much impossible to find any feeding fics that don't frame the act through that lens or use associated tropes and dialogue. My ideal dynamic is more like a collaboration -- the Eating Character wants to eat, the Feeding Character wants to help them. That's basically why I have the Soothing Room in ginger & mint, I'm realizing!

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 102: Kindness

TWs in the tags

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Puppy leaves reality the second she leaves the house.

Not literally, of course, but she knows this walk well enough that she doesn't have to pay much attention, so after dropping the food and water Bunny gave her for the trip, she mentally retreats into her daydreams.

Puppy is a well-off author who wants to put more good into the world, so she decides to adopt a child, eventually settling on a 12-year-old girl named Ma– Jane.

Jane is a very traumatized child, and she often lashes out violently, both towards herself and others, which is difficult to deal with. Puppy can overpower Jane, obviously, she's just a 12-year-old girl, but she tries to avoid that as much as possible, to avoid traumatizing her further.

Puppy has to lock away everything that could be conceivably used as a weapon, and even then Jane is good enough at lock-picking that she can't ever be left unsupervised. It's a good thing Puppy doesn't need a job.

Jane claims to not feel anything or care about anyone, and sometimes that seems true, but other times it is painfully obvious that pretending to not care about anything is just a coping mechanism.

The first month of her living with Puppy is hell for both of them, but Puppy never even considers giving up on Jane. She doesn't know if she can help Jane with her violent outbursts and manipulative behaviors, but she knows she can be there for her even when no one else will. Every time Puppy thinks she's made a breakthrough, Jane mocks her for thinking that she could ever help Jane and believing her tears are genuine. It's rough. It's really rough. But Puppy doesn't give up on her.

Jane's behaviors get more and more extreme the longer she stays with Puppy, until she realizes nothing she does will make Puppy leave her. Then, she mellows out a little. Not a lot, but she's stopped trying to kill Puppy in her sleep, so she sees that as a success.

Jane's a very smart kid. For a long time, she uses that intelligence exclusively to destroy things and hurt people, but eventually Puppy is able to redirect her to books and puzzles. She reads far beyond her grade level, eventually getting to the point where she reads scientific studies for fun and writes letters to the authors asking questions or complaining about flaws in their methodologies. She takes online courses in all sorts of things. The school she goes to is more tailored to behavioral difficulties than the actual learning that she enjoys, so they eventually end up deciding that she can be homeschooled, so long as Jane stays out of trouble.

Jane starts to ask for things instead of trying to steal them. She starts to draw violent scenes instead of hurting herself or other people. She joins a soccer team, which seems to help her get her energy out in less violent ways, even if there are a few incidents of her playing too roughly.

By the time her 13th birthday rolls around, she's made incredible progress. She doesn't have any friends to invite to a party, but she seems more than fine with that. She begs to be allowed to make her own birthday cake, so Puppy lets her, and she seems to have a lot of fun. She doesn't even use any of the cooking utensils to hurt people or break things!

She asks for a banjo for her birthday and starts teaching herself to play. It's amazing how well she's able to teach herself stuff like that– she really is so intelligent, and Puppy is the one who helped her direct that in a productive way.

Things aren't perfect. She has breakdowns about once a month, screaming and crying and slamming her head against things until she starts bleeding or Puppy restrains her in a hug. She makes extremely violent threats any time things don't go her way and keeps a journal full of the 'weaknesses' of everyone she knows. But she's doing so much better than she was when Puppy first adopted her.

Jane enjoys styling Puppy’s hair, so Puppy lets her. She could say no at any time, it's not a weird power play. Just mother-daughter bonding.

Puppy takes a moment to reorient herself once she gets to the town. There are plenty of people who offered her help should she ever need it, since Master enjoys– enjoyed making people uncomfortable too much to do business with people who were okay with human pets. The harder part will probably be actually finding them, but she thinks if she waits in the alley where they usually did exchanges someone will come by eventually. They're actually probably more likely to be there at night… but she told Bunny and Kitty she'd be back by sundown. She can always go back to let them know she's okay and then head out again, though.

While she waits in the alley, she drifts away again.

Charlie and Liam live a wonderfully happy life. Charlie has a game company where they sell their board and card games for a nice profit, and Liam is… Liam is a lawyer. A prosecutor. He fights to protect people and prevent dangerous people from doing more damage, even if that means people he convicts get the death penalty. He doesn't feel guilty about it, because the people he gets killed deserve it and make the world better by dying.

The two of them are close friends. They love their respective careers and make enough money to live very comfortably. They aren't burdened with love for anyone who's hurt them, or crying over how someone they care about needs to be coerced into doing the bare minimum of taking care of herself. They're okay. They're happy and safe. No one hurts them by incorrectly assuming there's no other way. No one hurts them at all.

They eat their favorite foods every day. They make the world a better place. They get everything they could ever want.

"...Puppy?"

Puppy starts. There's a man she knows at the entry of the alley– Arnold. He's one of the ones who offered to help her. That was faster than she expected… or she's been spending hours looping over scenes of Liam and Charlie happy without noticing time passing. The sun definitely seems to have made it farther across the sky since the last she checked…

She takes a deep breath. This is going to be rough, but she doesn't have another choice. This is how she can get Bunny and Kitty the life they deserve.

She clears her throat and looks Arnold in the eyes. "I need help." One more thing she'll be punished for later.

Arnold's eyes widen. A few other familiar people filter in behind him– of course, there would be no reason for him to come here alone. Not all of them have offered her help, but none of them seem the type to actively prevent her from getting it. Things are going perfectly.

"Ma– Jane is… dead." She's going to get punished she's going to get the others hurt she's going to–  "I'm not–" deep breath "the only one. Now that she's gone… we need money. She left a lot behind. We don't have access to most of her fortune, but… we have the stuff in her house. Furniture. Jewelry. Weapons. Selling to the general public would… raise questions. I need help finding buyers. You would get a cut of the profits."

She feels phantom barbs digging into her skin. It's not real, she knows it's not real, but that doesn't make it any less painful. At least she can make her throat work. She can do it for this but not to apologize or comfort her friends… They'll be so much better off when she's gone.

"We can do that!" Arnold sounds excited. "We can even just buy the stuff off you ourselves and then sell it, you probably don't wanna wait around while we search for buyers. Do you need anything else? I know a guy that can forge paperwork for you, and I know a place that doesn't ask questions if you need medical attention."

"...just the money stuff, for now. Thank you."

Arnold was pretty young when Puppy first met him. She probably pitied him just as much as he pitied her, he seemed pretty in over his head. He always offered her food when he could and tried to make conversation with her. He seemed guilty that he couldn't do more, but Master had  made some examples of people who tried to mess with her already and he was smart enough to keep his head down. Even offering her food was risky, though, and he did it anyway, even though Puppy refused every time. Even as he moved up the ranks, he never lost that gentleness towards her.

"Whatever you want." He seems so genuinely happy to see her free. "So, how do you want this to work? If there's furniture we'll probably have to come by her base and get stuff ourselves– Dave, you still got that moving truck?"

"Sure do," one of the men behind Arnold says.

"Oh– it's in the woods. Her house. Can it get through there?"

"Hmm… well, we'll figure it out. The furniture had to get there in the first place, right? If we have to we can take it apart and carry stuff back through the woods in several trips."

Puppy nods. "When… works for you? I can give you directions, and you can come when you're ready." 

Giving instructions of where she's staying to a bunch of people she knows are criminals isn't the best idea she's ever had… she'll probably have to move Kitty and Bunny out beforehand, just to be safe. Without the risk of them dying, though, what's there even to be afraid of? Nothing they could do could be any worse than Master.

"That sounds perfect. We'll come by tomorrow to get an idea of everything and negotiate payment. Even if we have to take all the furniture apart and carry it to wherever we end up putting the moving van. We might not be able to get everything out in a day, but I’ll make sure you have the money tomorrow. Do you know where you're going to stay, once you have money?"

Puppy nods. No matter how much she trusts Arnold, she's not giving him more information than that. She quickly gives directions to the house. "I should… get going."

"Of course. See you tomorrow. Oh, and let us know tomorrow if there's anything else we can do, too."

Puppy nods. By then she'll have asked Bunny and Kitty, so she'll have an answer. She slips out of the alleyway and heads home.

Taking off the collar. Taking off the muzzle. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Speaking. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Writing. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Drinking water. Not throwing up the water. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Drinking water again. Not throwing up the water. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Not throwing up the water. Writing again. Not putting the collar back on. Not putting the muzzle back on. Not throwing up the water. Speaking without permission again–

The loop is difficult to ignore, no matter what she tries to daydream about.

~~

You've been trying to avoid worrying about Puppy while she's gone. You never really worried when Jane sent her out grocery shopping before, so why would you be worried now?

Well, you know the answer to that. As awful as Jane was, you know she wouldn't have let anyone touch Puppy without her permission. She wasn't in danger of anyone but Jane hurting her while she was out. Now…

But you can't really do anything about that until sunset, when she said you could go looking for her if she wasn't back yet. So you try to avoid the worry.

You pack the clothes you want to keep and some packaged foods into a garbage bag. You don't even really want to keep the clothes, but buying a new set of clothes when it's not necessary would waste money that could be spent keeping a roof over your heads. And you'd much rather leave the house and spend money on a new place than stay and get new clothes.

Once you're done with that, you help Kitty get some stuff packed. They want to avoid moving as much as possible, since it makes some of their withdrawal symptoms worse, so you bring all the clothes from their room out to the living room and ask Kitty which ones they want to keep one by one. It takes a long time, but there's not much else to do.

All of the pockets on their clothes are sewn shut. You’re not sure when that happened.

“Hey, do you want me to see if I can cut these pockets open? I think the only sharp thing we have is a kitchen knife, so there would be a risk of ruining your clothes.”

“Um… you can try…”

You go get a kitchen knife and try to cut the thread holding the pockets closed on a pair of pants. You finally get the knife under one of the stitches— and immediately cut your hand when the knife gets through the stitch.

“Fuck!” You quickly clean the wound and bandage it. Stupid Bunny. You put the pair of pants back in the bag (luckily you didn’t get any blood on it) and explain to Kitty that you’ll have to wait until you have access to scissors or something.

Once you're done with that, you put the clothes they didn't want to keep back in their room (mostly ripped and bloodstained clothes, like the ones you didn't want to keep, so selling them probably won't be an option). Then you ask Kitty what kinds of the packaged foods in the house they like and toss those in their bag as well.

Puppy still isn't back, and it takes you a minute to remember that you can make yourself and Kitty a meal without her. Jane usually didn't allow Puppy to have help with her 'chores,' so you've gotten in the habit of never fixing anything bigger than a snack for yourself. But Jane's gone now.

Of course, being able to cook without being punished and being able to cook are two different things. It's not like you had a lot of practice while you were homeless. You eventually decide to make some ramen noodles and hope you don't burn the house down.

Besides it taking you a while to figure out how to turn on the stove (haven’t you seen people do this before???), the process goes smoothly, and you end up with two bowls of ramen and some leftovers. You can’t find any containers to put the leftovers in, so you put that in a bowl of its own and put that in the fridge. Hopefully Puppy will eat it…

“Think you can keep down some noodles?” You ask Kitty.

They groan and drag themself to a sitting position with a lot of effort. “I’ll try.”

You hand them their bowl. “Are you… feeling any better?”

“I don’t want to make conversation with you.”

“Oh. Okay.” They’re still mad, then. You eat in awkward silence. They struggle to eat with all their shaking, but you get the feeling they wouldn’t be happy with you offering to help. You both manage to finish your bowls without incident.

Just as you’re finishing washing the dishes (another thing that you have to remind yourself you’re allowed to do now) you hear the door open.

“Puppy?”

You hear a hum of confirmation.

“How’d it go?” You put the dishes away and go to meet her in the living room.

She finds her paper and pencil and starts writing.

“I made ramen. There’s some in the fridge for you.”

She hums in acknowledgment again, then passes you the paper.

It went well. They’ll come here to figure out prices and transporting the stuff tomorrow. They said they’ll get us the money tomorrow even if they still need a few days for transportation, and we’ll be free to go once we have the money.

You pass the paper back. “That’s great! Kitty, Puppy says we’ll have the money and be able to leave tomorrow.”

Puppy writes something else and passes it to you.

I’d appreciate if you two could be out of the house when they come. I trust them, but I’d like to minimize risk.

You pass it back. “What? Wouldn’t having multiple people here minimize risk more?” You don’t want to be waiting and worrying for so long again.

She frowns, but doesn’t answer otherwise.

“Do you think that they’re only trustworthy towards you specifically? Or do you just want to make sure that anything that could go wrong only happens to you?” 

She winces, then sighs and shrugs.

“We’re going to stay. I mean, I’m going to stay. What do you think, Kitty?”

“I’m not moving unless I absolutely have to.”

Puppy writes something else and passes it to you.

Okay, you can stay. I probably wouldn't let one of you do this alone, so that's fair. 

They offered to help us forge documents and get medical care from people who won't ask questions. What do you think about that?

You read it aloud for Kitty and then pass it back. "I… we haven't done anything wrong."

Kitty laughs weakly.

"I mean, we shouldn't need to pretend to be other people. Right? We just need an explanation that leaves out the magic stuff. And maybe some of the stuff we were forced to do, I don't know if we're legally innocent if it was under the threat of violence… I just– after all this, I… want to be the person I used to be. As much as possible. I don't want someone else to pick a name for me again. Maybe that's not how it works, I don't know."

Puppy writes and passes the paper to you. It would make it easier to get an apartment, I think. No one's going to be especially eager to rent a place to people with no jobs or rental history in the past few years. But we would also have to worry about making sure we don't get caught. It just depends on what worry you'd prefer.

You read it aloud to Kitty and pass it back. "I… I've survived being homeless before. I feel like, in the worst case scenario, I'd still know what to do if we couldn't find somewhere permanent to stay. But having forged documents… I don't know."

"I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not." Kitty adds.

Puppy nods and sets her stuff down.

"So… now we just wait for tomorrow?"

Puppy nods again.

"Me and Kitty packed up the stuff we want to take while you were gone, do you want help packing your stuff? I thought about doing it for you, but I didn't know what you'd want to take."

Puppy shakes her head and goes to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag. You're kinda glad she didn't ask for help, because your head is starting to hurt.

"I think… I'm just going to go to bed, then. Oh, Kitty, should I get you some pillows and blankets to make the couch more comfortable?" You should've done that sooner, why didn't you think to do that sooner? Stupid Bunny.

"...yes."

You get some blankets and pillows from their room (maybe you should've packed blankets and pillows? Most of them are bloodstained, though…) and help them get comfortable on the bed. Then you go to your room and crumple into your bed.

This is the last night you'll spend in this house. The hard part is finally over.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list! This was released exactly on time what are you talking about

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

@fuckcapitalismasshole

[fuckin-sick-bih]

i don't usually write the style of sick fics of like... stomach aches/emeto area, but like... my brain cannot stop thinking about the fact that Mobius M. Mobius probably only knows how to make horrifying 60's 70's foods that he wants to cook for Loki. and Loki at first is says "absolutely not" only to find Mobius later picking at a piece of it by himself. so Loki sits down and has a slice of... whatever monstrosity it is with him and it's not terrible. but it definitely doesn't like Loki. cue guilt from Mobius about "poisoning" a god and a little panic about not knowing how to take care of him in this sense because he's studied Loki! he knows Loki! but this? this is new! so Loki just requests to be held for a while, touch starved trickster he is.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 11: Breaking the Conditioning - Keegan

This fic occurs during Keegan, Alix, and Jayden's teen years, when they are in Grade 11; Keegan and Alix are 16, Jayden is 17. Mentions of abuse

------

Keegan finishes throwing up, spitting into the water one last time, and flushes the toilet. He keeps a hand on his stomach, which is sore and cramping from the strain of vomiting for the past few hours.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a a flash of movement... a hand moving towards him, and he can’t stop himself from flinching away. He presses his back into the wall behind him, and turns his head away from the person crouching in front of him.

After a moment, his brain quiets, when the expected pain doesn’t come, and he frowns in confusion. Surely throwing up all night would be enough motivation for Paul to… Oh, right, he’s at Jayden’s.

Crap, he thinks, slowly looking over at Jayden, who meets him with an expression of mixed worry and pain.

“Sorry,” he whispers dejectedly, and Jayden vehemently shakes his head. He hears a wounded sound, from the doorway of the room, and he notices Alix standing there, watching their interaction. Alix sends him a half smile. The haunted look in his eyes reminds Keegan that it’s not the first time this has happened, and that, out of everyone, Alix best understands how he's feeling in that moment.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Key, this just makes me hate Paul all the more.” He practically spits Paul's name out, as though its poisonous.

Keegan giggles, sounding on the verge of tears even through his laughter.

“Come on,” Jayden prompts, gesturing for Keegan to follow him. He knows better than to touch him again, even as he stumbles drunkenly after him.

When Keegan turns towards the living room, he finds the couch piled with so many blankets you can barely see it. He settles on the end of the couch, and snuggles into the blankets, curling into a ball.

When he glances over at his friends, a few minutes later, they’re having a silent conversation, a mix of expressions, and the few ASL signs they know.

Keegan sighs in exasperation, attracting their attention, as he asks “What?”

“Uh, nothing, it’s okay,” deflects Jayden.

“You clearly have something to say,” Keegan argues.

“You’re sick, we’ll talk about it later,” Alix interjects softly.

Keegan glares at them, unimpressed, until even stubborn Jayden rolls his eyes and says, “Fine, jeez.” He hesitates for a moment, before continuing, “It’s just… you know you can trust us, right? We wouldn't hurt you,” he says carefully, with real fear coating his words.

Keegan’s heart sinks, and he sighs, trying to put words to the many things he’s feeling.

“Yes, I know I can trust you, and I do. I just…” he trails off, having caught Jayden’s skeptical look before he could hide it. “I do trust you Jayden, that’s not the problem,” he emphasizes.

“Well then wh-” Jayden starts loudly, but he stops when Alix puts a hand on his arm, and mutters “Let him talk Jay.”

Keegan closes his eyes, remembering the other night, how it felt to walk into his own house. The dread that accompanies his walk home, and the absolute pain that he associates with Paul’s touch. He flinches from the memories alone, the hidden marks on his body stinging with not-so-phantom pain. He opens his eyes, ready to start explaining what he can.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Obsolete

cw: nsfw themes/implications, abuse, manipulation, fear, brief emeto mention, choking. (this chapter can be skipped without losing out on plot, it's a bit heavy)

previous // T$$ Masterlist

~ ~ ~

Sahota slouches on the bed, both feet planted firmly on the tile floor as if that’s enough to keep him tethered, keep his thoughts from drifting too far. He holds the gag in both hands, turning it over and over and over, watching the metal sections that make up most of its structure catch the light. 

He doesn't know long Harbor had been there when he arrived, already shaking from the stress on his body, tension to his shoulders and core brought on by the heavy leather cuffs that secured him to the foot of the bed.

He'd tried to pull away when Sahota knelt to remove the gag.

“F-fuck off.”

“This isn't what you want, Harbor.”

“It's what Vic wants.”

He'd cursed and insulted and tried to elicit a reaction that wasn't get out from him, but in the end he'd left.

“You're jealous,” he'd spat as Sahota closed the door behind him. There was something desperate in his tone, like he hoped if he said it with enough fervor he'd believe it, like he wished a rivalry was the only thing to worry about.

Like he was willing to thrust his hand into a fire just to feel the warmth. 

“You're just fucking jealous.”

He isn't. Is he? Jealous is too simple a way of putting it. He wants Vic's gaze to linger on him the way it does Harbor, he wants the idle touches as they pass in the hall, the I'm proud of you's and I know you can do it's.

He needs his attention as much as he loathes it.

Shouldn't he be grateful his master's lust is being directed elsewhere? 

Doesn't it mean he isn't enough anymore? What then? If Vic is finally tired of him, what does that mean? Will he be thrown out, abandoned? Or will he become another loose end that needs to be tied up?

It felt like that during their mock interrogation. It's been months since he's seen Vic that angry, much less at him, he's been far too careful for that. He never should've tried, never should've given the others the hope that they could take an alternate path. He's the reason they're trying to salvage control, he's the reason Vic’s tightening his fist around them.

If he hadn't gone behind his back with the challenge, would they have been allowed to to go after Manak?

Would Manak even be lost in the first place?

Sahota can't fight a grimace. He's learned this lesson a thousand times over already; he should know better. 

You can't say no to Vic.

He knows that, knows the consequences, and yet here he is. He can only hope it won't be Harbor that suffers for it.

The handle turns. Sahota half expects it to be the belligerent trainee, back with more choice words and arguments. When the door reveals Vic, a part of him wants to curl up and hide, reduced once again to a terrified kid who should fucking know better.

He wants to shrink under Vic’s gaze as they meet eyes, silence drawing out between them, but he doesn’t, instead stiffening his spine against the fear that curdles in his stomach, instead daring to open his mouth.

“How long would you have left him here?” A safe enough place to start. Not an accusation, He lets his hands fall into his lap, the gag still held between them. 

Vic leans against the doorframe, arms crossing his chest. “Would've been going on six hours now, if you hadn't cut him loose.”

“Six hours,” Sahota repeats flatly.

“I've kept you for thrice that.”

“He isn't me.”

“And you hate that, don't you?” He pushes himself up from the wall, moving into the room, closing in. “Why? I know you don't care for him.”

Because Vic always knows everything, because Sahota can never hide things from him. He doesn’t care for Harbor. He doesn’t let himself care for anyone these days. Still, under the envy and the fear there’s a stark horror at the thought that someone else will take his place, will suffer as Vic's plaything, will render him pointless.

“Am I not enough for you?” he says.

Vic clicks his tongue, cupping Sahota’s cheek with a warm hand. “Is that what you're afraid of, little spy? Being replaced?”

Yes. No. “Why do you want him?”

“He's a flashy thing. Caught my eye.” Vic chuckles. “So desperate for any human interaction he'd disembowel himself for a pat on the head.”

Is that what it comes down to? Another person for Vic to hurt, another body in his control. He shakes his head. “Vic—”

He's silenced with a kiss. There's something foreign in it. A new excitement, amusement that he cares about this, that he's scared.

“He won't replace you. He'd make a good dog though, don't you think?” He nuzzles into Sahota's neck. “Once you warm up to the idea, maybe I'll even let you play with him.”

Sahota jerks away, a breath lodging in his throat. He couldn't, he couldn’t. The idea of Vic dragging Harbor into this stings enough. The thought of playing along—of holding the younger man down, hurting him, controlling him—is too much to hold. He wants to throw up.

“Is that a no?”

“Whatever you want to do to him, you know I can take,” Sahota says, his voice low and insistent. He’s nearly pleading. He doesn’t know why he’s pleading for this.

It should feel good, shouldn't it? To know he may never again take the brunt of Vic's affections, to be elevated to a place of control.

It doesn't. It burns like bile.

“I know.” Vic’s hand strokes his cheek, thumb coming to rest on his lower lip. “When's the last time you cried for me?” It seems more a musing than a question he wants answered, but even if it were, Sahota doesn’t think he can speak to it.

He can’t remember the last time himself.

No, that's not true. Just days ago, he was crying, but not for Vic. It feels like such a potent secret he’s nearly purged it from his mind, and now he's afraid his master will see it on his face, the weakness he dared to show to these outsiders.

Ander, my name is Ander.

His own words echo back to him in a way that makes him shudder. By some stroke of luck, Vic doesn't notice, his eyes on the gag in Sahota's lap.

His hand falls away from his face, and he fixes him with a searching gaze. “Are you afraid he makes you obsolete?”

Sahota drops his eyes. “I… Yes.” It seems too simple an answer, but it’s the easiest explanation. One that might satisfy Vic.

“And you’d prefer it if I left him alone?” He tips his chin up with a finger. “If it stays just you and me?”

“Yes.” His answer is quieter this time. Vic hmms, and the silence seems to stretch for a long moment, every wordless breath drawing more fear into Sahota, pulling tension into his body. Then, Vic suddenly pushes him back onto the mattress, one hand curling in his hair, the other cupping his chin as he kisses him, hot and fierce. Sahota returns the kiss until he’s breathless.

“Hands behind your back.”

He obeys without much thought. It’s been a while since Vic’s tied him up for this. Months, at least. Silky rope winds around his wrists, and then he’s rolled onto his back, heart hammering with anticipation. There’s fear there too, but he tries to shove it down. Isn’t this what he wants? Isn’t this what he just begged for?

He opens his mouth to say something, but Vic’s hands shoot out, locking around his throat, squeezing, cutting off air. Panic floods through him, but he has Vic's touch memorized. His body knows not to respond, to take it, no matter how much his mind wants to rebel.

“What if I did want to replace you, Ander?”

Sahota’s eyes widen at the words, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. His body spasms from the lack of air, heels digging into the mattress, but Vic doesn't let up.

“What if I am tired of you, hm? What can you do about it?”

His wrists burn, the rope digging into them as his arms shake involuntarily, reaching to remove the pressure. No… No, he can’t mean it, Vic can’t mean it, he’s his. He’s been his for twelve years, he can’t just be replaced, he can’t just let the fucking cycle start all over again. Tears sting his eyes but refuse to shed, his mouth opening wide, making soundless pleas.

It can’t end this way, it can’t end this way, Vic, sir, Shepard, please—

“You are everything I made you. Without me, you'd be nothing. If I want someone new, you'd better just be fucking grateful you still have a seat at the table.”

His lungs burn, body shuddering, vision blackening at the corners, closing in—

—And then Vic’s hands relax, slipping away from his throat. The spy gasps for breath, rolling onto his side and curling his knees in, unsure whether he’s shaking from the lack of air or the sheer fear, the knowledge that Vic could’ve done it, would've done it. He would’ve done it and not even batted an eye.

He's not allowed to hold the thought for long before Vic seizes him by the hair, jerking him into a half-sitting position, his face stony and empty when the spy looks up at him through blurring vision.

Something almost like satisfaction crosses his master’s face.

“There's the tears.”

~

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden ,

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes ,

@clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000 , @neverthelass

[takami-takami]

Masterlist

(Order: newest top –> oldest bottom)

Writings

🪽 sugar confectionary

You Keep Sawdust for Starlight. || gn!reader. comfort.

Anew. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. angst. loss of wings and regrowth. nightmares. keigo tends to your wounds. blood description.

Like Idiots. || gn!reader. fluff. pining like idiots. keigo is a pain in the ass. the reader is worse. i had fun with this.

A Dog Unfed. || gn!reader. angst. hurt/comfort. animal abuse analogy. discussion of drugs and cravings. be warned and avoid this if you need. sorry for spoiling the subtext lol, but it needs a tw. though, i encourage you to apply this however you feel it apply. perhaps we all have a dog.

Happy Birthday. || hawks. severe angst. hurt/no comfort. very grotesque trauma reaction. emeto. blood. ptsd. i cannot stress enough to be careful and avoid this if it's triggering.

Roost and Repair. || gn!reader. comfort. anxiety (could be from anything). keigo taking care of you.

Father. || gn!reader. angst. reverse hurt/comfort. past abuse. substance use. trauma.

Pet Shop. || gn!reader. fluff. you and keigo visit a pet shelter to adopt! so cute!

I Think I Love You. || gn!reader. fluff. keigo is in denial. tooth rotting fluff.

Sanctuary. || gn!reader. comfort/fluff. stressed reader. long days and loving arms. keigo is good at massages.

Alley Cat. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. ptsd. trauma. panic. abuse. breathing exercises. genuinely be careful.

Stray Dogs Will Crawl Home. || gn!reader. angst (with a happy ending). breakups. keigo's trauma because i can't give this man a break and he needs to heal.

Nightmares. || gn!reader. angst. reverse hurt/comfort. ptsd. trauma. self harm. nightmares. touch starved!keigo. be careful and know your limits!

Let Me Take Care of You. || gn!reader. hurt/comfort. brief unhappy childhood/life mention. keigo making you feel safe if you'd just let him :(

🪽 spice cabinet

Like a Candle at Both Ends. || gn!reader, but they use a strap. sub!keigo. double penetration with a twist. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. dacryphilia. cum as lube. slight feminization (of keigo). slight degradation. some brattiness. face-sitting mentioned.

Fixation. || afab!reader. sub!keigo. reader uses a strap. gratuitous oral. hazy under the pulls of subspace, a needy keigo makes a show of drooling on the strap.

How To Fix the Ache. || gn!reader. virgin!keigo. masturbation. slight primal play. a sexually frustrated keigo goes home to jerk off after your dates, and he's real cute about it. he tries so hard to be a good boy.

Sweet, Sweet Indulgence. || gn!reader. sub!keigo. corrupting the sweet boy till he's addicted to edging himself <3. hand jobs. masturbation. edging. desperation. brief mention of oral.

Crybaby. || gn!reader. dom!keigo. orgasm denial. edging. subspace. dacryphilia. dumbification. some degradation. keigo being mean. chewtoy reader.

Pretty Predictable. || f!reader. dom!keigo. dumbification. degradation. keigo loves you so bad.

Best In Show. || masc petnames. dom!keigo. heavy petplay. puppy play. collaring. oral.

Baby, I'm All You Need. || f!reader. a bit toxic!keigo. he's clingy. <3. a smidge of yandere. dirty talk. abandonment issues. rough sex. degradation. mirror sex. reader is way too into it.

Accidents. || gn!reader. daddy kink. predator/prey undertones. keigo being a meanie.

Can't Help Myself. || gn!reader. rut. breeding kink. biting. keigo getting lost in the sauce and trying (failing) to be nice. he can't help himself :(

Mine, Now. || fem petnames. cuckholdry. steal your girl. hawks is a lovesick puppy and not very nice here but i think that makes him cuter.

Pretty Boy, Pretty Hands. || afab!reader. fingering. excessive hand kink. hint of dumbification.

Thoughts

comfort + angst + fluff drabbles

Cute Things Hawks Does || gn

Hawks Unknowingly Pining || gn

Hawks and Snuggling || gn

Hawks and Sexual Trauma Support || HEED THE TAGS, TW

Hawks Spoils You || gn

Hawks and His Babies || gn

Kei and Makeup || gn, reader uses makeup

This One Is Just Mentally Ill || gn

Caregiver Hawks and Age Regression || gn

Hawks and Paternal Trauma Support || gn

Hawks and Substance Use Support || gn

Hawks and Father's Day Struggles || gn

Hawks Is Patient With Trauma || gn

Hawks Can't Help But Give Kisses || gn

Tell Hawks You Love Him || gn

Hawks Taking Care of You || masc petnames

Hawks Marriage Essay || gn

Sleepy Nights With Hawks || gn

Hawks Alpha Headcanons || gn

Hawks is a Good Alpha || gn

Drying Hawks' Wings || gn

Hawks and His Child Self || gn

Thirsts

smut + suggestive drabbles

Vash

Vash Says Marry Me || fem petnames

Hawks

Hawks Losing It Over You || gn

Hawks and Cock Humiliation || gn

Gentle Sadist!Hawks || gn

Happy Daddy's Day! || afab

Masochist!Hawks || gn

Hawks NSFW Alphabet || gn

Hawks Being a Menace || gn

Hawks Losing His Virginity Thoughts || gn

Even More Post Nut Clarity || gn

Hawks' Hands Are... || gn

Infecting Hawks With Kinks || gn

Hawks Has A Big Cock, Sorry || gn

Hawks and Scent Kink || fem clothes

Puppyboy!Hawks || gn

Hawks and His Pretty Boy || masc petnames

Bottom!Hawks/Pegging || gn

Hawks and Baby Fever || gn?

Hawks and Vibrators || gn?

Meanie!Hawks || gn

Moving On From Yan!Hawks || gn

Hawks and Edging || gn

Hawks and Snowballing || gn

How Hawks Eats Pussy Pt 2 || afab

Hawks' Chewtoy || gn

Hawks and His Bunny || afab

Hawks and Marking || gn

Hawks and Praise Kink || gn

Random Smut Headcanons || afab

Hawks and Post-Nut Clarity || fem, afab

Bully!Hawks Being Mean || gn

What Hawks Is Like as a Yandere || gn

How Hawks Eats Pussy || afab

Not a drabble but here's a penis essay! Yay!

Events

Hawkstober 2023

Masterlist Here!

Hawks Drabble Event

Masterlist Here!

Opinion Corner

He's So Pretty...

What He Calls His Parents

Hawks' Home

Hawks and Loneliness

Hawks Isn't Lying to Twice

Food and Cooking

Concentrated Comfort

On His Playfulness

Hawks is Not Selfish

On the Commission

Hawks is Misunderstood

Go Be Nice To Him Right Now

He Puts His Job First

Why I Like Him

quips i like (mix of sugar/spice)

Post Here

dark content banishment corner

Dark Content Masterlist

[snakebites-and-ink]

Augusnippets Day 25: Intimate whumper / Sadistic whumper / Reluctant whumper

CW: Forced to hurt, torture, brief emeto mention, vague self-hatred

“Are you ready to cooperate?” Whumper asked yet again. They were sick of asking it. Probably not as sick as Whumpee was of hearing it. 

Whumpee shook their head, still holding on to defiance. They were brave. Brave than Whumper. 

Forcing a falsely impassive look on their face, Whumper walked over to the selection of tools available to them. They were allowed only the illusion of choice. If they tried to go easy on Whumpee, they'd have to do the whole session over right, then face a punishment of their own. 

They made their choice then got to work. 

Whumper tried to force their feelings away as they did so; they could process it later. Right now they couldn't give Whumpee any hint of their true feelings; Whumper had to keep them convinced that they wanted to do it. As refusals turned to grunts turned to screams, Whumper still thought Whumpee was stronger than them. They might not be able to help but respond to the pain, but they didn't truly break under it. They didn't give in. Not like Whumper had. 

When finally the session was over, Whumper immediately got out of whumpee's sight and shuddered, their knees going weak and their hands shaking. They started to cry, but couldn't do it for long before they had to throw up. They didn't know how long they could keep this up. Yet they didn't really have a choice. The alternative was worse.

[sicknessbysalem]

Two for One Special | Sicktember 2024

ended up sort of combining ‘day five: rogue organ’ (which i didn’t think i was going to write so i subbed it) and ‘day sixteen: toxin/poison’ (to the extent of mentioning both)

in honor of the professional football season starting this weekend and my favorite team absolutely FUCKING EVERYTHING UP… i decided to write.

I’m sure my other works are long but this bad boy is 5.6k words because i had way too much fun writing college (so, baby) novak + appendicitis. So buckle up best friends.

if you have any requests, comments, questions, etc., send them my way!

tw emeto, fever, rapid sickness, life threatening sickness, hospitalization, fainting

Novak stood on the field, his broad shoulders squared against the weight of the game ahead. The air was electric, charged with the shouts and cheers of thousands of fans filling the stadium. His teammates were hyped, adrenaline coursing through them as they prepared for the biggest game of the season—the championship. But Novak... he wasn't feeling the same rush. Not entirely.

His stomach, twisted tight in knots since the morning, was gnawing at him more fiercely now. The nausea had started creeping in during the bus ride to the stadium, a subtle churning that he tried to write off as pre-game jitters. But now, standing in full gear with his helmet tucked under one arm, the sensation refused to fade. The queasiness simmered low in his gut, nagging at him as the countdown to kickoff drew closer.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to ease the discomfort, but it didn’t help. Novak had been through enough rough games and tough hits to know that something wasn’t quite right with him today. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried to focus on the game plan.

From the sidelines, his eyes flicked toward the stands. Somewhere in that sea of faces was his mother, Marina. She had flown in to watch him play, and it was the first time in months he’d get to see her in person. That alone should have fueled him, but even thinking about her being there wasn’t enough to settle his queasy stomach.

The coach blew the whistle, calling them into the huddle. Novak tugged his helmet on, pushing away the swirling discomfort. He was Novak Daskalov, the linebacker who never missed a snap. He wasn��t about to let some stomach bug—or whatever this was—ruin his shot at a championship ring. Not to mention how many professional coaches were probably here, scouting draft picks. Sure, Novak had another year. But at least if he did well here, he'd be on the radar.

The game kicked off, and for a while, Novak managed to push the gnawing nausea aside. The thud of shoulder pads colliding, the roar of the crowd, the thrill of chasing down the opposing quarterback—all of it distracted him. But in the quieter moments, in those brief pauses between plays, the unsettling churn in his stomach would return, more persistent each time.

By the time halftime rolled around, Novak was drenched in sweat, but not from exertion. He pulled his helmet off as he jogged toward the sidelines, each step making his stomach lurch dangerously. His head was starting to pound too, a dull throb at the base of his skull, but he could handle a headache. It was the nausea that was beginning to get the better of him.

Novak made a quick decision. As soon as the team broke for halftime, he beelined for the athletic trainer's tent, keeping his head low so none of his teammates would ask questions. His vision blurred slightly from the discomfort, but he made it to the tent without drawing attention. Inside, the trainer, a seasoned woman who’d seen more than her fair share of sick and injured players, took one look at him and raised an eyebrow.

"You alright, Daskalov?" she asked, her tone more knowing than concerned.

He swallowed hard, wincing at the way his stomach protested the motion. “Yeah… just need a minute,” he muttered, his voice tight.

She nodded, not pushing him for more. Athletes had a certain pride, especially guys like Novak, and she’d learned when to give them space.

Novak barely made it to the trash can in the corner of the tent before the nausea took over. He doubled over, clutching the edge of the can as his stomach finally gave in to the relentless churning. His body heaved painfully, forcing out what little he had in his system. The retching was violent, his whole body tensing as he tried to keep quiet, embarrassed by the display of weakness. He gasped, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, the sour taste lingering in his throat.

The trainer was there with a water bottle, but she didn’t say a word, just handed it to him with a quiet understanding. He accepted it gratefully, taking a sip to rinse the awful taste from his mouth. His face felt flushed, and he could feel the dull ache behind his eyes intensifying.

"Look," the trainer said softly, "if you're not up for the second half—"

"I’m fine," Novak interrupted, his voice more forceful than he intended. His heart was still racing, but he wasn’t about to let this stop him. Not now. His team needed him. And more than that, he couldn’t afford to let his mom down. Marina was in those stands, expecting to see him walk off that field as a champion.

The trainer gave him a long, hard look before finally nodding. “Alright. Just… if you need to come back, don’t wait.”

Novak nodded, trying to force his body back into action mode. He wiped his face with a towel, took a few deep breaths, and left the tent. The second half was about to start.

Despite the queasiness that still lingered in his stomach, Novak jogged back onto the field, the roar of the crowd hitting him like a wave. His vision tunneled for a moment, the noise and lights blurring together, but he blinked hard, grounding himself. There were two more quarters to get through, and no matter how bad he felt, Novak was going to power through it.

By some miracle, he did. Each snap, each tackle, felt like a monumental effort, but he gave it his all. His teammates had no idea anything was wrong—he wouldn’t let them see it. Every hit sent a fresh wave of nausea through him, but Novak buried it down, forcing his body to obey his mind. He had to finish this game.

And when the final whistle blew, signaling their victory, Novak stood tall, his chest heaving with exhaustion and relief. They’d done it. They’d won the championship.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Novak let himself feel a small burst of pride, even as his stomach threatened to rebel again. His teammates crowded around him, all celebrating, slapping his back, pulling him into the joy of the moment. Novak smiled, doing his best to join in, but the trainer’s tent still loomed in his mind. He could still taste the sour remnants of his halftime struggle, and his body felt far weaker than it should have after a win like this.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Marina standing in the stands, beaming with pride. Novak’s heart swelled with emotion—he had done this for her. Despite everything, he had made it through.

-

Novak had barely slept.

The championship victory that had felt monumental the night before had lost its luster in the haze of sickness that followed. As soon as the adrenaline had worn off and he’d gotten back to his dorm, the nausea that had plagued him during the game came back with a vengeance. He’d hoped it would fade once the excitement was over, but instead, it had grown worse. Novak had spent most of the night in the bathroom, doubled over the sink or clutching the sides of the toilet, his stomach rejecting everything he had eaten—or tried to eat.

Now, standing in front of his mirror, he hardly recognized his reflection. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, his skin pale, the usual sharp angles of his jawline softened by the toll his body was taking. His right side ached, a persistent throb that flared whenever he twisted the wrong way, but Novak had chalked it up to the brutal tackles from the game. He had taken more hits than usual, and it was no surprise something was sore.

His phone buzzed on the dresser next to him—a message from Benji, his roommate.

You good? You were up a lot last night.

Novak stared at the screen for a second before replying: Fine. Just post-game stuff.

He left it vague on purpose. Benji had already expressed concern earlier in the morning, catching Novak pacing outside the bathroom after another bout of nausea, waiting out to see if there was more to come up or if he was fine for now.

Benji wasn’t stupid—he’d noticed how Novak had barely touched his breakfast or how he’d clutched his side a little too tightly when he thought no one was looking. But Novak couldn’t deal with worrying Benji right now, not when his head was already swimming with everything else.

Besides, he had to go to class. He couldn’t afford to miss a day, not with the semester well underway. Professors always gave athletes that sideways glance if they skipped right after a big win, as if the victory was an excuse to slack off. Novak wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of thinking that. He had worked too hard to be dismissed as someone who was only there for the game.

Still, walking to class felt like an impossible task. The cold, early morning air should have woken him up, but it only served to make the nausea worse. Every step sent an unpleasant jolt through his stomach, and by the time he reached the first lecture hall, he felt like he was going to be sick all over again. He kept his head down as he entered, choosing a seat near the back, away from the more crowded rows in the middle. Plus, he was close to a doorway. Just in case.

As the lecture began, Novak tried to focus, but the professor’s voice sounded far away, like he was speaking underwater. His notes were a mess of half-written lines, his mind too foggy to keep up. The nausea pulsed in waves, and at one point, Novak had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek just to keep himself from bolting out of the room.

Halfway through the class, he broke.

The professor had been droning on about market analysis in sports industries when Novak felt the unmistakable rise of bile in his throat. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, as his body tensed in protest. He couldn’t let himself get sick here, not in front of everyone.

With barely a second to spare, Novak grabbed his bag and slipped out of the classroom. He walked as calmly as he could, but the second he was in the hall, he bolted to the nearest bathroom. The door swung open with a slam, and Novak fell against the sink, gripping the porcelain edges until his knuckles turned white. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, the nausea overwhelming. But just like before, nothing came of it—his stomach twisted and churned, but refused to rid itself of the poison building inside him.

He braced himself against the sink, breathing hard, willing the nausea to pass. For a moment, he stayed like that, head hanging low, the cool air of the bathroom a slight relief against his flushed skin. But the reprieve was temporary. Novak splashed some cold water on his face and stared at his reflection again, the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom doing nothing to hide how awful he looked.

With a deep breath, he forced himself back to class.

By the time he returned, the lecture was nearly over, but Novak didn’t care. He slid back into his seat, ignoring the few glances that followed him. His right side throbbed again, but he pushed it aside, just like the nausea. There was only one more class before lunch, and if he could just make it through the morning, he’d be fine.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

The next class was worse. Novak could barely keep up with the lecture, the words from his textbook blurring in front of his eyes. He tried to take notes, but his hand felt heavy, his mind too slow to process what was being said. His stomach flipped dangerously more than once, and by the end of class, he had to stifle a groan as the pain in his side grew sharper.

Once the class ended, Novak bolted from the room again. The thought of lunch made his stomach turn, so instead of heading to the cafeteria, he found the nearest bathroom—one he knew would be less crowded—and sat down on the cold tile floor, his back against the wall. He could tell he would be sick again.

For a long while, Novak just sat there, knees drawn up to his chest as he leaned his head back against the stall door. His stomach felt like it was trying to tie itself into knots, the nausea worse than before, and his side throbbed with each breath. He wasn’t sure if he could make it through the rest of the day at this rate.

He didn’t want to worry Marina. She had come all this way to watch him play, and she was supposed to stay in town for a few days—probably to catch up, maybe even celebrate his win. But Novak couldn’t face her, not like this. He didn’t want her to know how bad he felt. She had enough to worry about with everything back home. He could handle this on his own.

But as the minutes ticked by, Novak felt the telltale signs that his body was ready to revolt again. His stomach lurched, and he barely had time to lean over the toilet before the nausea overwhelmed him, forcing up whatever little was left inside him. He gagged, his entire body heaving with the force of it, his throat burning as he tried to keep himself steady.

When it was over, Novak slumped back against the wall, breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath. He'd head to his next class soon. He just couldn't. Not right now.

-

Novak’s next class was a blur of half-formed thoughts and a dull, persistent ache in his right side. But for the first time since waking up that morning, the nausea seemed to ebb slightly. It wasn’t a full reprieve—his stomach still felt unsettled, but at least it wasn’t twisting with the same violent intensity. He sat at the back of the room, his notebook open, though his pen hadn’t moved in nearly twenty minutes.

Maybe this was it, he thought. Maybe the worst had passed.

With cautious optimism, Novak fished out a granola bar from his backpack. His stomach growled—not in hunger, but in protest—but he knew he had to eat something. He hadn’t had more than a sip of water all day, and if he was going to make it through this class, he needed some energy.

He unwrapped the bar slowly, as if the sound itself might trigger the nausea again. With a hesitant bite, he tested the waters, chewing slowly. His stomach stayed quiet. Encouraged, Novak took another small bite, then a sip of water. It wasn’t much, but it felt like progress. For the first time in hours, he allowed himself to believe he might actually make it through the day without completely falling apart.

But by the time the class was winding down, Novak realized his small victory had been short-lived.

As the professor wrapped up the lecture, Novak felt the familiar heaviness settling back into his gut, slow and insidious. The nausea returned, creeping in like a shadow, bringing with it a fresh wave of discomfort. He shifted in his seat, trying to stretch his back and alleviate the pressure on his side, but it only made things worse. The ache had sharpened, and now, every breath felt like it tugged at something deep within his body.

Novak gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay seated until the end of the lecture. He glanced at the clock—five more minutes. He could handle five minutes. But with each passing second, the nausea intensified, his stomach rolling with every breath. The water he had sipped earlier sloshed unpleasantly inside him, and Novak could feel his body threatening to rebel again.

Finally, the professor dismissed the class, and Novak was out of his seat in an instant, clutching his bag as he bolted for the door. He needed air—anything to keep from being sick in front of everyone again. But just as he was about to head toward the nearest exit, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Marina Daskalova.

He paused, dread pooling in his stomach. He wasn’t ready to talk to her, not like this. Not when he felt like opening his mouth would make him puke. But he knew if he ignored the call, it would raise suspicion. With a resigned sigh, Novak answered, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

“Hey, mamon.”

“Novak! I was thinking, since you’re done with classes soon, do you want to grab dinner tonight? I’m still in town, and I’d love to catch up properly.” She sounded so excited, eager even. "Plus, I want to celebrate your win."

Novak’s heart sank. Dinner was the last thing he wanted to think about, especially with the way his stomach was churning. But how could he say no? His mom had come all this way to see him play, and the least he could do was spend some time with her. Besides, if he admitted to feeling sick, she’d worry, and he didn’t want that.

He forced a smile into his voice. “Yeah, that sounds great. I, uh, I still have one more class, but it should be over soon. I’ll meet you after.”

The lie slipped out easily, and even as the words left his mouth, Novak felt a pang of guilt. His last class had been canceled—he should have just told her the truth. But then he’d have to explain why he wasn’t feeling up to dinner, and that was a conversation he wasn’t ready to have. He’d rest for a bit back at the dorm, clean himself up, and hopefully feel better by the time they met up.

Marina sounded pleased. “Perfect. Just let me know when you’re free.”

“I will. See you soon.”

As soon as he hung up, Novak leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. The thought of food made his stomach churn violently, but he couldn’t back out now. He just had to make it through dinner—after that, he could collapse in bed and forget the whole day had happened.

He dragged himself back to the dorm, each step feeling heavier than the last. His body felt sluggish, the pain in his side a dull throb that refused to fade, and his nausea had only worsened since leaving the classroom. By the time he reached his dorm room, Novak was exhausted, his skin clammy with sweat. He fumbled with the key, pushing the door open and stepping into the familiar space with a sigh of relief.

Benji wasn’t there, which was a small blessing. Novak didn’t want to answer any more concerned questions right now. He needed to focus on getting himself together before dinner. He tossed his bag onto the floor and headed straight for the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to shake the fatigue clinging to him. His reflection stared back at him, pale and drawn, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He couldn’t show up to dinner looking like this.

Novak peeled off his shirt, wincing as the motion sent a sharp pain through his side. He gingerly touched the spot, half-expecting to find a bruise, but there was nothing visible. Maybe he’d pulled something during the game, or maybe it was just his body’s way of retaliating after all the stress it had been through. Either way, he couldn’t focus on that now.

After changing into a fresh shirt and brushing his teeth to rid himself of the lingering bitterness of nausea, Novak collapsed onto his bed. The soft mattress welcomed him, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax. He stretched out, closing his eyes, hoping the rest would calm his stomach and ease the throbbing in his side.

But the relief was fleeting. His stomach twisted again, a tight, uncomfortable knot that made him curl in on himself, pressing a hand to his abdomen in a vain attempt to soothe it. The ache in his side flared up again, sharper this time, and Novak clenched his jaw, breathing through the pain.

This wasn’t just the aftermath of the game. Something was wrong.

He could feel his body screaming for rest, for food, for anything other than the constant pushing he’d put it through. But he couldn’t stop now. He’d already promised his mom dinner, and if he canceled, she’d know something was up. So instead, Novak stayed there, eyes shut, breathing slowly as he tried to push the nausea and pain down.

He just needed to make it through a few hours. After that, he could deal with whatever this was.

-

Novak had hoped that resting for a while and eating something light would help steady him before meeting up with his mom. He’d managed to choke down a small meal and drink some water, and for a brief moment, it had seemed like things were going to be alright. The pain in his side had dulled, the nausea had lessened, and while he still felt off, he figured he could make it through the evening without issue.

But now, as he stood in front of his mom’s hotel room door, that tentative calm was unraveling.

His stomach had begun to twist again, a familiar and unwelcome sensation building deep in his gut. He shifted uneasily on his feet, swallowing back the rising discomfort as he knocked lightly on the door. His hand instinctively drifted to his side, pressing against the ache that hadn’t fully gone away.

The door opened, and Marina’s warm smile greeted him. “Novak! Come in, come in,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.

He smiled back, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him as he stepped inside. The smell of her perfume—soft, floral, comforting—washed over him, but it only served to heighten the queasiness he’d been fighting all day. Novak’s steps faltered as he moved toward the small sitting area in her room, his stomach roiling violently.

“You look tired, sweetie,” Marina commented, eyeing him with concern as she closed the door. “Did you sleep at all after the game?”

“A little,” Novak lied, his voice strained. He dropped his bag onto a chair, trying to appear casual as he settled down. The effort it took just to sit upright sent a spike of pain through his side, and he grimaced, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “I’m fine, though. How was your day?”

Marina crossed the room, sitting across from him, but her eyes were sharp, studying him in that way only a mother could. “My day was fine, but you don’t look so fine,” she said gently. “You sure you’re feeling alright?”

Novak nodded too quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.” The nausea surged, and he shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that wouldn’t make the sensation worse. But the queasiness was growing stronger, his stomach twisting tighter with each passing second.

He glanced toward the bathroom, his heart pounding as the familiar pressure built at the back of his throat. “Uh, mamón—excuse me for a second. I… I’m… sorry.”

Without waiting for her reply, Novak bolted from the chair and made a beeline for the bathroom. The second he shut the door behind him, his stomach gave up the fight. He barely made it to the toilet before the nausea overwhelmed him, and he started to vomit, violently, painfully.

His body heaved, his stomach emptying itself in harsh, agonizing waves. The retching was brutal, each convulsion leaving him gasping for breath. Novak clung to the edge of the toilet, his knuckles white as his body betrayed him again. And worse, the pain in his side flared with each round, sharp and excruciating, until it felt like a hot knife was being twisted inside him.

“Novak?” Marina’s voice came from the other side of the door, muffled by concern.

He couldn’t answer. His body was too busy convulsing, too wrapped up in the vicious cycle of sickness. The pain in his side was unbearable now, radiating from his lower abdomen up through his ribcage, each heave making it worse. His vision blurred with tears from the strain, and he clenched his teeth, trying to hold himself together, but it felt like his body was being torn apart from the inside.

The door creaked open, and Marina rushed in, her face pale with worry. “Oh, sweetie…”

She knelt beside him, pulling his long hair away from his face and holding it gently as another round of vomiting racked his body. Novak could only gasp between heaves, his entire body trembling from the effort. The pain in his side was so intense now that it took all his strength just to stay conscious.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Marina whispered, her voice soft and soothing as she rubbed his back. But Novak couldn’t find any relief. His stomach kept rebelling, and the pain… it was too much.

“Hurts…” he managed to choke out between retches, his voice barely above a whisper. He pressed a trembling hand to his right side, hoping to ease the pain somehow, but it only made things worse. “Fuck.”

Marina’s eyes widened as she watched him clutch his side, her concern deepening. “How long have you been sick like this?”

Novak shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. His throat burned from the acid, and his stomach was still convulsing painfully. The pain in his side was now a constant, searing agony that left him breathless. He reached down, grabbing it. But that hurt. It was almost blinding. It made him retch harder and he was sure the pain in his side was an outward injury about to split him apart.

“Novak, look at me.” Marina’s voice was firm now, a mother’s tone when she knew something was wrong. “How long has your side been hurting like that?”

He managed to lift his head slightly, his vision swimming. “Since… since last night. I thought… it’d go away.”

Marina’s brow furrowed in concern, her hands still holding his hair back as he lurched forward again, his body wracked with another wave of vomiting. This time, it felt like the pain in his side was going to split him in two. Novak groaned, the sound low and desperate, and when it finally stopped, he slumped forward, his forehead resting on his arm.

Marina’s hands tightened slightly as she shifted into what Novak recognized as emergency mode. Even more so the way she saw Novak clench his jaw to muffle a sound of discomfort when her hand lightly rested on his side.

“I think your appendix is causing this,” she said, her voice urgent but calm. “We need to get you to the hospital, Novak. This isn’t something you can push through.”

“I just… need a minute…” Novak rasped, his breaths shallow. He tried to push himself up, to stand, but the pain was so intense it made his legs feel like jelly.

“Sweetie, no.” Marina’s voice was firmer now, as she tried to help him up. “We need to go. Now.”

But as Novak rose to his feet, the room spun violently around him. His stomach twisted, the nausea coming back full force, and the pain in his side flared so sharply that it took his breath away. His vision tunneled, and for a second, he thought he could fight it off, but then the darkness closed in.

“Novak!” he heard his mom shout, her voice distant and echoing as his legs gave out beneath him. The world went black as the pain overtook him completely.

-

Novak drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind foggy, the edges of his awareness blurred by the lingering effects of anesthesia. He couldn’t remember much—just flashes of things. His mom’s worried voice, the sharp pain in his side, the frantic rush of nurses. It all blended together in a haze, and for a while, he let himself float in that strange, detached space.

But as he began to wake, one thing became clear: he was nauseous.

The rolling in his stomach was unmistakable, a dull churn that twisted uncomfortably as he tried to shift on the bed. He groaned softly, trying to push the sensation down, but it refused to fade. His head felt heavy, and everything seemed distant and muted, but the nausea was stubborn, gnawing at him with each shallow breath.

He blinked slowly, his vision blurry as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The sterile smell of the hospital hit him first, clean and cold. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines, and a dim light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the floor.

His throat felt dry, his body sluggish, and the nausea swelled again, sharper this time, pulling him back into reality. Novak swallowed hard, trying to push it back down, but his stomach rebelled almost immediately. He tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his side—only to find the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as before. The sharp, stabbing agony was gone, replaced by a dull, residual ache that lingered beneath his ribs.

“Easy, sweetie,” came a familiar voice beside him. Novak turned his head slightly, spotting his mom, Marina, sitting at his bedside. She leaned forward, her face lined with concern, and gently helped him sit up a bit. “I’ve got you.”

The movement made his stomach churn violently, and Novak’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. He gagged, the nausea surging forward with brutal force, and Marina quickly grabbed the basin from the bedside table, holding it close as Novak heaved. His body wasn’t done yet, apparently.

The retching wasn’t as violent as before, but it was enough to leave him shaking, his muscles weak from the strain. Marina stayed close, her hand gently rubbing his back as he slumped over the basin, his breath ragged. The bitter taste of bile lingered in his mouth, and his throat burned, but at least the pain in his side wasn’t as excruciating.

When it was over, Novak collapsed back against the pillows, utterly drained. His head spun, the nausea still swirling in his gut, but the worst of it seemed to have passed—for now. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, and felt his mom’s hand smoothing over his arm, a comforting touch in the middle of the chaos.

“You’re alright,” Marina murmured, her voice soft and soothing. “I’m here. They said the anesthesia might do that…”

Novak swallowed, his throat raw, and opened his eyes again, blinking against the bright lights. “What… happened?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Marina sighed, her expression a mixture of relief and concern. “Your appendix, sweetheart. It was acting up, and by the time we got you into surgery, it had already been close to bursting. It might have even burst right before they got in there, they couldn’t really tell but it was pretty bad.”

Novak’s mind struggled to piece together the information. He remembered the pain, how it had grown unbearable, but everything after that was a blur. He pressed a hand gingerly to his side, where a bandage now covered the incision. It was sore, a deep, dull ache, but it was nothing like the agony he’d felt before.

Marina leaned closer, wrapping an arm around him as she continued. It was then he noticed she was sitting on the edge of the bed, so he moved slightly over.

She kept her arm around him, reaching around and brushing his hair off his face. The same hold and rhythmic motion she always did to comfort him. Stomach flu, food poisoning, when Nikolai died and Novak came home. This was her comfort.

“You’ll feel pretty rough for a few days. They said it’ll take time for your body to flush out the toxins. Plus apparently you aren’t reacting well to the anesthesia….” Marina informed him, “But you’re going to be fine. You made it through surgery, and that’s what matters.”

Novak let out a slow breath, the reality of it sinking in. His appendix had nearly burst, and he’d been so focused on powering through that he hadn’t even realized how serious it was. He leaned into his mom’s touch, grateful for the warmth of her arm around him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice weak. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Marina’s grip on him tightened slightly, her hand still rubbing soothing circles on his arm. “Oh, Novak. Don’t apologize. I’m just glad I was here. If we hadn’t gone to the hospital when we did…” She trailed off, her voice thick with emotion.

Novak’s heart clenched. He could hear the worry in her tone, the relief barely masking the fear she must have felt. He turned his head to look at her, his gaze softening as he met her eyes. “Thanks,

mamòn. For everything.”

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll always be here when you need me.”

He nodded, letting his eyes flutter shut again as exhaustion settled over him. The nausea still lingered, but the pain was manageable now, and the warmth of his mom’s presence helped soothe the rest of his frayed nerves. He didn’t have to fight anymore—at least not tonight.

For the first time in what felt like days, Novak let himself relax, sinking into the comfort of the moment. He knew the next few days would be rough, but for now, he was safe. And that was enough.

[fairyniceyeah]

💎Day 14: "What were you thinking?"

Surrender/Human Shield/Outmatched

@juneofdoom

Day 13: "Wait!"

Summary: As SEVENTEEN are mobbed at the airport Seokmin is helpless to watch his members get hurt.

CW: mentions of panic, mobs, blood, injuries, emeto

Whumpee: Whole group

Caretaker: Whole group

Seokmin felt his skin crawl as they stepped out of the plane into a private area of the Incheon Airport. It was supposed to be a happy return, a celebration of a successful Japan schedule. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.

“That’s a lot of fans”, Vernon whispered next to him, nervously looking through the glass wall that separated them from the rest of the airport. While it was supposed to be a private area, the airport did benefit more from the see-through wall with fans milling about in hopes of catching glimpses of their favorite idols and basically keeping the airport afloat just with their expenses in food and drinks. The youngest rapper had never been a fan of crowds, easily feeling overwhelmed and claustrophobic. 

Jihoon hummed in agreement, subconsciously sticking closer to Mingyu as he always did in these situations. It was his height, Seokmin supposed, that made him feel vulnerable as he - unlike their tallest - could barely see over the heads of the fans if that. 

As Seokmin turned around to search for the 95 liners to alert them to the distressed members he found them already deep in conversation. Seungcheol looked worried but had a comforting hand on Jeonghan’s arm. Joshua was frowning, gesturing. Seeing they were preoccupied with something, Seokmin decided to stick close to Vernon himself, seeing that Mingyu was with Jihoon.

The leader of the hired bodyguards gave the signal to move and that was when Seokmin realized what had the hyungs so concerned. There was only one bodyguard for two members, if that. All their managers were there, too, of course and they all trusted them but their job was not necessarily crowd control or bodily force. 

“Hold up”, Seungcheol called quietly from the back and they all turned to stop to look at him. “Since the bodyguard and member ratio is reduced today due to illness, I want us to keep close. Everybody, walk together with another member, build rows of two. Watch out for your partner and if anything is amiss, let us know immediately. Jeonghan and Joshua will go in the front. I’ll stay in the back.”

The members did as Seungcheol suggested and the bodyguards seemed to appreciate his intervention, nodding at the leader. Jeonghan and Joshua passed the group to stand at the front. Seokmin offered his own hand to Vernon who - very grateful for it - pressed it tightly. 

Somehow the two of them ended up at the back of the group, just before Seungcheol standing alone. From there they could see the other pairs Joshua and Jeonghan, Hoshi and Seungkwan, Dino and Wonwoo, Mingyu and (likely, they couldn’t see) Woozi, Jun and Minghao. 

“Who will look out for you, hyung?”, Seokmin asked, mustering Seungcheol.

“Don’t worry about me, Min-ah”, the leader said in what sounded like it was supposed to be a reassuring voice. It didn’t help calm Seokmin’s bad feeling at all. 

Deafening screams greeted them as soon as they walked out of the private area. Vernon had been right. It was a lot of fans. Much more than they had expected and were usual. Way too many for the area and especially with so few guards. They were easily outmatched.

“Hyung”, Vernon whispered, pressing himself tighter to Seokmin.

“It’s okay”, Seokmin tried to set his mind at rest. He might have succeeded more if he hadn’t doubted his own words. 

“Don’t worry, you two”, Seungcheol said from behind them, his hand coming to rest on Vernon’s back for a brief second. “Hyung won’t let any harm come to you.”

They made it maybe halfway to the safety of the cars when all hell broke loose. It had been a tense atmosphere and Seokmin had never before been so bothered by the flashes and clicks of phones so close to his face. The bodyguards and their managers did their best to keep the fans away. But the area was just too small.

Every fan just wanting to get a glimpse of their idol, was pushed back into the crowd as the front guards made them part like the red sea. But that pushing turned into more pushing from fans behind. And more pushing from the fans further behind. 

Seokmin wanted to do something, be able to beam them to the cars already, when out of a sudden Vernon’s hand was violently pulled out of his grip. Both of them yelled - Seokmin in shock and Vernon in absolute terror. A fan had grabbed onto him, having found an opening between the barrier and using the opportunity to pull the idol into the maelstrom of panicked crowd. A crowd that suddenly had the opportunity to touch and be close to a SEVENTEEN member.

All Seokmin could do was scream again as Vernon was dragged into the hungry sea and a manager wrapped his arms around the vocalist’s middle to stop him from following. The last thing he saw before the crowd close into itself, more interested in vulnerable rapper than the protected members, was Seungcheol diving behind the terrified maknae-line member.

“Let me go”, Seokmin yelled at the manager, fighting against him with all his strength, scratching and kicking as hard as he could, “let me go to him.” The manager just held him tighter, pressing onwards to the VIP entrance area and away from his brothers.

“Seokmin-ah, Seokmin-ah”, somebody called. Joshua. The manager pushed him into the arms of the third oldest before gripping onto the hands of the other managers building a protective circle around the members and pushing them further into the VIP entrance area. 

“Hyung”, Seokmin cried, clutching at the older, “Hansol-ah and Cheollie-hyung…”

“They will be fine”, Joshua said, his voice trembling and betraying his own fears even as he pulled Seokmin along further. 

It took a few more overwhelming minutes before they were huddled together in the VIP section, separated from the fans. In that time Seokmin hadn’t been able to catch a glimpse of the other members, his face buried in Joshua’s chest but now he stepped back. They had ended up at the far right of the group.

Behind him and Joshua, Jeonghan was yelling at a manager, arguing, and trying to push back into the crowd to their missing members.

On their left Mingyu was holding back a totally distraught Seungkwan, crying for his best friend and their leader. It was clear as day that both of them were terrified but the older rapper held the vocalist tight so he had no chance to run back into the fray.

Jun was whispering to a crying Minghao, trying to calm him down amidst his own fear. 

Hoshi, while crying like there was no tomorrow himself, was guiding a shaking and ashen gray Jihoon through breathing exercises. 

Then his heart stopped. Counting the members in his head, Seokmin realized that even - including Vernon and Seungcheol - he only got to eleven.

Dino was missing. So was Wonwoo

“Hyung”, he called to Jeonghan, “where are Dino-yah and Won…?”

He interrupted himself as two managers parted from their defense line and … Dino and Wonwoo came stumbling through, collapsing on the ground together. Dino had his arms wrapped around his hyung, acting more like the protector than the protegée. Curious, Wonwoo was seriously whipped for their maknae, his biggest protector, and he never lost his cool as long as no blood was involved.

As Seungkwan and Mingyu threw themselves at the new arrivals, crying and checking them over, Seokmin realized the issue. 

Wonwoo’s glasses were missing, likely knocked off in the crowd. He didn’t want to imagine how the rapper must have felt - probably terrified, surrounded by panicked people and unable to see. Chan, now that he understood they were safe, burst into panicked tears as he clutched at Seungkwan’s shirt. He seemed otherwise uninjured - unlike Wonwoo who now pointed Mingyu’s hands that were hovering over him, and unsure if he was allowed to touch, to his ankle. He probably had tripped.

Jeonghan gave up the discussion with the manager and fell to his knees beside the two maknaes sorely missing their third and held onto them tightly. 

“Move to the cars”, a manager ordered. A few members - like Hoshi and Woozi and Joshua - seemed relieved to get out of the sight of the crowd, while others - Jeonghan, Dino and Seungkwan - protested loudly, wanting to wait for the missing members.

“Seokmin, get them up”, Jun called and nodded at the others. Seokmin was confused for a moment why he was burdened with such a task - he was a maknae line member himself and the hyungs did their best to leave them out of stuff like this. But then he understood - he wasn’t crying or shaking or injured. He was just numb, now that the crowd had no hold over him anymore, well enough to help the incapacitated members.

While Jun helped Minghao to his feet and guided out a limping Wonwoo with Mingyu’s help, Seokmin knelt down by the terrified trio. “Hannie-hyung. Kwan-ah. Dino-yah”, he called to them, “we need to go.”

“Not without Cheollie-hyung and Hansol-ah”, Seungkwan yelled, causing Seokmin to flinch. But he pressed on. 

“Seungcheol and Vernon would want us to be safe”, he said, not realizing how awful, how final those words sounded. Seungkwan whimpered but Jeonghan nodded, understanding that Seokmin was at his wits end. 

“Let’s go”, he said and together they walked out, leaving without being thirteen. 

Outside of the airport it was a totally different atmosphere. The air was crisp and fresh, no bodies around them fighting. There was so much space. Seokmin helped usher the others into the cars. They had three vans booked, all eight-seaters so members and staff could comfortably be transported. A few body guards stood around, watching the area.

“Come on, get in”, Seokmin said gently and pushed the three into the van already containing Minghao. “Try to breathe.”

When he checked the other vans, he found the second one empty and only Joshua, Wonwoo and Mingyu in the third. Joshua had Wonwoo’s ankle in his lap, looking at the swollen appendage with worry. Mingyu was wiping away the steady tears dripping from Wonwoo’s lashes, occasionally pressing the tissue to his own eyes. Seokmin smiled tightly at them and then turned around to look for the missing members.

Jun, Hoshi and Woozi stood a little further away, likely trying to find some place to breathe easier and understand they were safe for now. Seokmin was about to approach them, coax them into the cars too, when Jihoon suddenly bent forward, retching into a gutter below him. Despite his own distaste for vomit and his usual need to stay far, far away, today he couldn’t be bothered to care. Instead he approached them, watching as Hoshi gently held Jihoon’s hair at the base of his neck and soothed him. In his backpack, he surprisingly hadn’t lost, Seokmin found a water bottle which he handed over to Jun. The chinese member nodded at him in thanks but shooed him away, likely not wanting to deal with the moment Seokmin’s brain caught up to his usual fear.

“Let’s go”, a loud voice called, “everybody to the cars now.”

As he whirled around, Seokmin saw the most beautiful sight in his life. There was Seungcheol, limping badly and his face bruised and in his arms he carried Hansol, who was clutching his hyung so tightly that even from the distance Seokmin could see that he was conscious, body tense in a way it wouldn’t be if he wasn’t.

Seungcheol ignored the worried calls coming from the cars, just walking on like a man on a mission. 

“I want every member that needs to be in the hospital in the van Wonwoo is already in”, a manager called. “Who needs to go beside him, Seungcheol and Vernon?”

“Jihoon-hyung, I think”, Seokmin said, looking back over his shoulder to where Jihoon was still hyperventilating and obviously nauseous. “I don’t know if he got injured but he’s been panicking and was just sick. Dino-yah maybe too.”

“I don’t need to go”, Dino called, “I didn’t get hurt.”

“Alright, Mingyu, please go to one of the other vans, so we have some space”, the manager said. Seokmin frowned. Between Joshua, Mingyu and Wonwoo, there were four spaces left. Enough for Seungcheol, Vernon, Jihoon and a manager, not including the driver.

“Hyung?”, Seokimn asked, frowning. Maybe he had miscounted? Or did he want Hoshi or Jun to go with Jihoon?

“You’re going too, Min-ah”, the manager replied. Before Seokmin could tell him he was fine - how had he even come to such a conclusion - his vision swam and he felt his knees buckle.

“That’s why”, the manager said as he caught him against his chest and lifted him to his chest, “you’re hurt, even if you haven’t noticed yet. I bet you don’t even feel the bruises on your face or your split lip?”

Bruises? But as the manager said the words, Seokmin did become aware of how much his head was throbbing and he could taste the blood on his teeth now. 

“Oh”, he whispered.

Hours later, all thirteen of them - after much begging on the members side and then much begging on the managers side to convince the hospital staff - were they all gathered in the hospital room Wonwoo, Seungcheol and Vernon shared.

Wonwoo was to be released in the evening, after the swelling in his foot came down and they were able to wrap the ankle in bandages. Mingyu had even remembered to bring his back-up pair of glasses with him. The tallest member was sitting on the bed next to Wonwoo, the older leaning sideways onto him. 

Seungcheol with his face bruised and scratched, as well as having a hairline fracture in his cheekbones and a broken toe was to stay the night for observation. The leader hadn’t protested and they all could tell how much the day had drained him. He kept falling asleep on Jeonghan’s shoulder, Joshua asleep on Jeonghan’s lap in turn.

Vernon, by far, was the worst off. He’d been stepped on, his whole abdomen a littering of bruises, a grotesque painting. Even his face hadn’t been spared scratched by a high-heel. He had a slight concussion and was very, very high on pain meds - on one hand - and anti-anxiety medication -on the other. So far, as soon as the dose was starting to wear off did he slip into panic again, just like when Seungkwan left his side. He’d done that exactly once to use the bathroom and the panic it had caused had not been pretty. So he had stayed sitting up on the bed, Vernon’s head in his lap and running lazy fingers through his hair. Chan was sitting beside them and Jun and Minghao had somehow also curled up on the bed, not having let go of one another since they had arrived.

Woozi was curled up on a chair by the window, a breathing mask still over his face. He had started to hyperventilate on and off - every time somebody came too close to him - so to be safe he was still hooked up to the machine. He hadn’t gotten sick since the airport, unlike Dino - who had after it had finally really hit him what happened - rushed off multiple times to throw up, Jun or Joshua hot on his heels to comfort him.

Hoshi was sitting on a small table in the corner, close to Jihoon but also far away enough to give him the space he had requested, looking exhausted and also half-asleep.

Seokmin himself had been declared fine by the doctors - the feared concussion had not been proven by an MRI. His eye was slightly swollen shut from where he apparently had received an elbow to the face and his lip had been stitched but he was also high on pain meds, so he didn’t care much. 

The TV was on, volume low enough for members to sleep but loud enough for other members to distract themselves with it. Seokmin lazily looked up from his seat at Mingyu’s feet as the news started. 

Maybe they should have realized that it wasn’t the smartest idea. 

“After arriving from an overseas schedule the K-Pop group Seventeen has been mobbed at the Incheon Airport”, the reporter said in a monotone voice. A shaky video was blended in, obviously taken by smartphones. By fans, Seokmin realized with horror. People had filmed while they were so terrified for one another.

His heart stuttered in his chest as he saw the scenes he hadn’t been able to see earlier. The fan must have stood on the second floor and had zoomed in on the video, able to overview the crowd. 

There Seungcheol was, standing protectively over a curled up figure - Vernon - helplessly on the ground. His face was littered with the same injuries that had been treated but even on the video, even knowing he was fine, it looked terrifying. He never wanted to imagine how Seungcheol felt at that moment - literally the only shield, a very human shield between his member and a mob of scared, panicked fans. His mind circled back to the same question over and over again: What were you thinking, hyung?

He knew that Seungcheol would always do his best to protect his members but this visible sign that he’d rather get hurt than let his members come to harm, it shook Seokmin to the core. He’d never seen anything like that before, such a raw promise. You really love us with all your heart, don’t you, hyung?

The vocalist hadn’t even noticed how hard he was shaking nor had he noticed Seungcheol waking up until the husky voice of the leader called: “It’s alright, Seokmin-ah. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. It’s in the past.” 

Tears in his eyes and whine in his throat, Seokmin threw himself over to the other bed, careful not to jostle Wonwoo’s foot or hit an injured part of Seungcheol, and fell into his leader’s arms.

“I was so scared, hyung”, he whispered as Seungcheol held him tightly, rocking them side to side with the leader’s shoulder lightly touching Jeonghan’s every time he moved to the left.

“I know, baby”, Seungcheol said, “but we’re safe now. Everything is fine.”

It wasn’t not yet, with so many of them injured and scared. Meetings for safety briefings laid before them and Seokmin felt terrible for wherever would have to face Seungcheol’s wrath for not sending enough guards. But as thirteen together? They were fine.

ATEEZ’s perspective: Day 3: "Please don’t leave me" - Alternate

Day 15: "Get me out of here!"

Masterlist link: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's June of Doom 2024

Notes: Wow, this turned out longer than expected. I have never been to Incheon Airport so this is my own creativity.

[writingforfishes]

Otto and Atticus Lore 1: Mark's Hangover

The inspiration for this story came at the most inconvenient time. I was at work and as the images and sounds came to me, I had to fight hard to make it appear like I was actually present. The drive home was only successful because I had taken the way home so many times before as I was still stuck in the headspace. I mad-dashed this story when I got to my computer and ended up staying awake way too long to complete it. I edited it and changed it this morning.

This was NOT the story I was intending to create next! I hope it holds up tomorrow when I read over it after I've posted it!

I was also not intending on making a separate series on the lore of these two characters, but the asks in my inbox made me think about their pasts and inspired some deeper consideration on the plots and thoughts I already had in mind.

Disclaimers: This is a work of FANTASY. Otto and Atticus are such a good couple because I need them to be a good couple. This is not, for the most part, realistic. (Also, I don't even have a tambour style mantel clock, nor did anyone in my family.)

I don't know anyone who has a kink specifically for watching someone get aroused. If that kink does exist (or is just a normal way of people reacting), I'm completely unfamiliar with it and have created a possible fictional representation of a kink. Thus, any of Otto's thoughts are extrapolated from ideas I thought would be plausible. (I am very asexual.)

If anyone is familiar with the series Otto's character was based on, this is basically a rewrite of similar character dynamics. I give real-world reasons for the fantasy content in the series to have happened. I know nothing of police procedure or detective procedure.

I do not have alcoholism. I know a few people who are alcoholics, but I don't have personal experience with the feeling of being an alcoholic and the emotions that surround the disease. If I'm misrepresenting something here, I apologize.

CW (there will probably be quite a few in this one):

Representation of a hangover from an emotional drinking binge.

Allusion to Otto's past as an alcoholic and reflection as a recovering alcoholic.

Allusion to Otto's falling off the wagon at one point. (very brief)

Mention of Jana's addiction to prescription drugs and alcohol.

Mention of Jana and Mark's break up.

Uncomfortable hiccups that concern Otto.

Mention of throwing up and retching.

Hiccups that Otto thinks are suggestive of needing to throw up.

No depiction of emeto. Discussion of previous purge (very brief).

Verbal description of the sound of Mark's hiccups by Otto to Atticus.

Verbal description of Otto's hiccups from Atticus to Otto.

Arousal mention.

Arousal and follow through implication.

A small hiccup battle.

Otto being extremely patient and understanding.

Otto also being the Felix to Mark's Oscar.

I STG, children, just look up The Odd Couple.

Atticus being embarrassed.

Mark being embarrassed.

Otto being a well-adjusted bi.

Mark being a disaster straight.

Jana is not a bad person. I intend to prove this in future stories.

Alice is also not a bad person. Etc. Etc.

Realizing how much I do lean heavily in a masc cast. I don't know why that is. Ah well, it's my fantasy anyway.

Mention of Atticus' parents both no longer existing.

Long moments in the story where no hiccups occur.

Lots of exposition surrounding past events. (I know, I know. Show, don't tell. But I had a need to write it out.

Um, if there's other stuff please tell me?

Finally! The story!

It was 6:30am and Otto was just about to have his first cup of coffee for the day when he heard the stairs from the loft bed creaking with heavy, ambling footsteps. Otto watched with attentive curiosity as Mark lumbered into the kitchen in boxers and a white shirt.

“Hey HNGK’UH!…” the younger man muttered as he sat down heavily across from Otto and shielded his eyes from the lights.

Otto wordlessly got up, sitting his unsipped coffee on the table, and turned off the overhead light while drawing the shades of the small window over the sink to let in a softer natural light into the kitchen.

“HUNGK!”

Poor guy had a wicked case of hiccups, it sounded like, and Otto knew a bad case of hiccups. A few weeks ago, Mark had been on the witnessing side of a 5-hour case of hiccups to which Otto had been victim.

But Otto knew good and well this wasn’t just about a case of the hiccups. The hiccups were a consequence of Mark’s actions. Mark’s actions were a consequence of an exorbitant amount of alcohol had the night before at a bar after work. The alcohol binge was a consequence of the fact that the future life he’d been planning with Jana had been crumbling slowly around him after a whole bunch of unpleasantness and drama that proceeded the breakup.

Mark had been staying with Otto for a few months as Jana and his relationship started to disintegrate. Yesterday Mark had told Otto that Jana had come by the police station, where he worked, to retrieve the spare key to their previously shared house from him and give him some stuff that he’d found of his that she thought he might want back.

Otto figured the finality of it all probably hit Mark pretty hard when he got a call at around 1am. Mark was slurring into his phone so much Otto could barely understand him. He had Mark hand the phone to the bartender, and he was able to get the address and head over to retrieve the wayward detective. The bartender, consequentially, was Margie.

Margie did a very good job of taking care of Mark before Otto arrived. Otto was very appreciative of the gesture. She kept his friend safe. The next week he’d visit the bar again during the daytime and would be lucky enough for her to be working so he could give her more thanks. They would start to talk, and a friendship would form quickly, thereafter.

Like clockwork, a customary pun for a clock maker, Otto awoke at 6am despite the late night. He didn’t expect Mark to be awake until much later that day.

“Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Otto said. He kept his voice soft and tried to minimize the sounds of his shuffling through cabinets. “How’re you holding up?”

“HNGK! I’m okay. Hiccups woke me. Could-HINGK!-couldn’t get back to sleep,” Mark replied in a hoarse voice just above a whisper.

Mark lifted his hand away from his face a little when he realized the lights weren’t as bright as they had seemed before. He squinted his dark blue eyes in Otto’s direction as he watched the taller man walk back and forth. He had to look away when he found himself getting dizzy while trying to follow Otto’s path. The dull ache of pain behind his eyes and sinuses made him squeeze his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Mark wondered if Ralph would’ve been as respectful of his current condition as Otto seemed. Ralph would have, no doubt, treated his hangover with some humor. Maybe he would’ve spoken a little loud or turned on all the lights. Ralph might’ve been sensitive later to Mark’s plight, but his friend and work partner seemed the type to shock someone in his sad, hungover state with tough love.

Mark wondered if Otto might have had a little more experience with being in the detective’s similar situation than Ralph. Mark was not wrong in his thought process, impressive as it for his brain to have formed the thought in such a dehydrated and painful state.

Otto had taken the time, when he’d settled his friend down enough that he knew he wouldn’t wake and was safe from further purging, to silence all of the chimes and striking clocks he owned. Otto had, indeed, been in Mark’s shoes and physical state more times and to a greater degree than it was likely Mark had. One thing Otto remembered viscerally about those times is that he could’ve done with a little understanding and kindness despite the bad decisions that lead him to the consequences of his self-destructive behavior.

“Here,” Otto said as he sat a glass of orange-hued liquid beside Mark’s elbow. “It’s Emergen-C. Electrolytes and vitamins. You’re really dehydrated, man, and this is a quicker way to replenish that. Tastes like orange. This,” Otto held up a small pocket of wax paper folded over a small amount of powder, “is BC powder. Powdered Aspirin and caffeine. Quickest way to get some pain relief from that headache. You gonna puke? Those hiccups sound suspicious…”

Mark took a while to respond, his brain working on reserves with all of the pressure and pounding in his head. Right. The hiccups.

“Naw. Did all of that HNK!-that last night. HMGK! I always get these after a nigh-HNGK’M!-night like...like last night. Usually takes a HNK-UH! a while to stop. Nothing helps. Kinda like you-HNGK!-yours. Thanks,” Mark said as he took a swig of the glass. The Emergen-C’s light fizz felt refreshing even though the artificialness of the orange flavor was a little offensive.

Mark felt Otto’s warm hand on his shoulder before the older man crossed back to where he was sitting before.

Otto sat down and observed his friend’s pallor and slow movements. He had memories of his own struggles with hangovers. He also had memories of squelching those hangovers with more drinking. It was less ‘hair of the dog’ and more the whole damn canine. To be fair, it was an effective method for a while. Not really something that, Otto discovered, was sustainable.

“Yeah, just pour that powder in your mouth and wash it down really quick with the water. Trust me, you don’t want that taste to linger any longer than it has to,” Otto said as he watched Mark’s cautious handling of the wax paper.

Otto watched him make a face from the bitterness of the powder before the detective quickly gulped the Emergen-C flavored water as a chaser. Otto couldn’t help but give a little chuckle.

“You good?” the clock maker asked.

“Y-HUNGK!-Yeah. Ugh!” Mark exclaimed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’ll help, I promise. I know you feel like crap right now. No real shortcut to a hangover, man, but you can treat the symptoms. If you’re feeling like it, I can fix us both some breakfast after I finish my coffee,” Otto said.

“Thanks. That might b-HINGK!-might be good,” Mark said sheepishly. He jerked with another hiccup and tossed his head to clear his dark hair from in front of his eyes. He regretted the motion almost immediately as he winced.

Just as Otto was finally starting to take a sip of his still steaming coffee, Mark spoke up again and Otto met his tired eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Otto lowered the mug again, shaking his head.

“Dude, you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he said with a sad smile. “Listen, man, you are going through some tough shit right now. I mean, I’m really glad Jana’s finally getting the treatment she needs. And you were a big part of that. And, well, you know, the whole malpractice lawsuit with that bitch blonde lawyer, Alice...whatshername moved that recovery along legally, but you were a part of it, too!”

Mark snorted at the cavalier summation Otto gave of his ex’s journey from addiction to almost losing her veterinarian license, to starting in a recovery program, to Jana realizing that she couldn’t hold up a relationship with Mark and recover at the same time. While he knew it wasn’t a personal attack, Mark couldn’t help but feel supreme grief in knowing that the person he fell in love with was going through something that, not only could he not help with, but that he was a hindrance in overcoming.

Not to mention he had purchased an engagement ring he had planned on unveiling at the right moment, which seemed perpetually postponed by upticks in crime and cases he couldn’t ignore. So, did he really blame her for not feeling safe in the relationship?

Otto was speaking again, and Mark looked up from his thoughts to listen. His body jolted again, and he was reminded that his hangover was still actively punishing him for his choices. The hiccups didn’t hurt, per se, but they were definitely hard, loud, and sounded pretty terrible.

“I mean, you know I’ve been in your place before. I mean, not exactly, but similar. No one would blame you for having a little self-destructive pity party. Just...not too many of them. Cause then you end up in the hospital 15-some-odd years later being told that your pancreas is on its last legs and one more drink could send you into a fatal situation. That’s...obviously specific to my experience, but you get it. Anyway, you got wasted cause you were grieving, and you asked your amazing friend who came to pick you up if he thought you were good-looking because for some reason none of the girls at the bar wanted to go home with the shit-faced drunk guy.

“And I meant what I said. You’re extremely hot and it’s so depressing that you’re completely so heterosexual. Like...painfully straight. Ugh!” Otto said, rolling his eyes dramatically.

Mark’s eyes had gotten so comically wide that Otto could see the bloodshot veins in the whites of them and the pink inflammation lining his eyelids.

“I HNGK-KUH!-I didn’t say all that, did I? HU’NGK!” Mark asked aghast as he rubbed his chest.

“You really did. Then you suggested we try being in a relationship because, and I quote, ‘you do guys sometimes, right?’ As if I haven’t explicitly told you my preferences. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered. But I just don’t think we’d make a good match.

“We have a dishwasher, Mark. We have a machine that does the dishes for us. In the kitchen. Next to the sink that has a garbage disposal. Why do we have piles of dirty dishes? Not to mention if I find your boxers in a load of my clothes one more time I...sneaky bastard. Like a thief except instead of stealing things you invade my loads of laundry, so you don’t have to do your own. Like that bird. What’s that bird? That bird who lays its eggs in the other bird’s nest and has them raise their babies, so they don’t have to? Fuck! Cuckoo bird! How the hell does a clock maker forget that?!” Otto exclaimed. “You’re like a damn laundry cuckoo bird forcing me to wash your underwear!”

Mark was having a struggle trying to coordinate his silent laughter with his forceful hiccups. His body jolted against the back of the chair again as Otto seemed to wind down.

“I swear, man H’UNGK!, I don’t remember any HNGK!-any of that. Seriously, I’m NGK!-I’m really sorry you had to deal with—ugh!” the silent hiccup thumped hard in his chest as it choked his words, “deal with me. Damn, these things are an-HNGK!-annoying!” Mark said, rubbing his chest again.

The detective did notice, though, that his headache had already started to fade. He still felt a little foggy and unsettled in his stomach, but he was already feeling better. He wasn’t sure it was Otto’s humorous distraction or the Emergen-C and BC powder. Perhaps it was a combination.

“You sure you’re good with the stomach stuff? Cause those things sound like little retches…” Otto said, still suspicious.

“Well, if you keep t-ANGK!-talking about the stomach stuff I might HNGK!-might start feeling sick, so…” Mark said, crossing his arms as he winced at another silent bodily jerk.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop,” Otto said, holding up his hands.

“You’re not one t-HINGK!-to hiccup-shame. Mr. Five H-HUMPK!-Hours of Scary Ass Hiccups!” Mark exclaimed.

“Touché!” Otto said at the reference to the time the clock maker developed a case of hiccups that persisted for most of the day. When Mark suggested holding his breath, Otto’s body rejected the cure and gave him the fastest hiccups he’d ever had. Otto was sore for days after that night.

Otto finally touched his lips to his mug of coffee that was still quite warm. Mark chuckled before another hiccup hit him. As Otto swallowed, he gave his friend a questioning look.

“Ass hiccups,” Mark explained with a smirk. Otto would wonder later if Mark still wasn’t a little drunk.

Otto inhaled the coffee with a surprised laugh and started coughing violently. His coughing was interspersed with...well...hiccups.

“Shit! HUCK!” Otto exclaimed between coughing.

He looked up to find Mark covering his mouth, but mirth in his eyes, as he watched Otto’s struggles.

“No HNGK!-no way. Dude, do we seriously HNGKL!-have the hiccups at the same UNGK!-same time?” Mark guffawed.

“This is HULP!HMK!-this is all y-HMK!-your fault, man. HLMK! Dammit!” Otto said.

Mark just laughed again, another hard hiccup smacking into his chest and throat.

After a while, they both calmed down. For the next few minutes, it was quiet save for the call and response their hiccups played with each other. Otto continued to sip his coffee, stubborn to drink the warm beverage he was so looking forward to. Mark nursed the rest of the Emergen-C, energy that he had regained from before having dissipated as he stared into the residue on the inside of his glass.

Though Otto’s hiccups were still rapid they had decreased in strength while Mark’s stayed forceful and deep.

“HNGK!” Mark’s hiccups said.

“Hlp!Hip!” said Otto’s.

“HUNGK!…HMP’K!”

“Huck!-himp!mp!”

“HU’NGK!...UCK!...HMMNGK!”

“Huck!Huck’l!Hmpk!Mp!” Otto sighed at the fast cluster and patted his chest, muffling another hiccup behind his hand.

“Stop that!” Mark suddenly exclaimed.

Otto looked up from a paper he had begun to do the crossword on with confusion.

“You can’t t-HNGK!-tell me you’re not d-UMPK!-doing that on purpose,” Mark said.

Otto frowned, head jerking in more hiccups.

“You’re out hi-HILMK!-out hiccuping me. You’re doing one-HNGK!-one more hiccup each time,” Mark complained, grumpily sipping the last of his enhanced water. Most of it was, of course, put on. But he had genuinely wondered if somehow Otto was doing it on purpose, too.

Otto, for his part, had been oblivious to the hiccup war that Mark had been forging. But he smiled now, taking a haughty tone.

“Well…I am the hmpk!hip!-the sup—superior hic-hu’up!-hiccuper,” he said, battling through another cluster and putting a fist over his mouth as three more hit him in a row.

A beat past before they both erupted into giggling laughter at the ridiculousness. The laughter ended in both of them letting out a hiccup simultaneously, Mark’s “HINGK!” to Otto’s “Hi’ilp!” which sent them into another roll of laughter that perpetuated itself for a while before they both got tired and winded.

Otto’s hiccups ended before Mark’s and the detective ended up hiccuping for about an hour in total which left him feeling sore and tired. But Otto’s breakfast and subsequent lunch and pressuring his friend to drink more water helped Mark feel much better by the end of the day.

***

To be honest, Otto had been terrified that night when he got the call from Mark. Mark was a rational person who didn’t often let vices lead his actions. He had a very clear and logical leaning and seeing the man so out of character and destroyed shook Otto’s core. In addition, having to enter a bar again and seeing representations of himself in his worst times all around him being unnerving and unsettling in and of itself.

The main reason Mark and him had become the unlikely friends they were was due to a case of mistaken identity where Otto lived one street away from a man guilty of kidnapping and murder. Otto also fit the physical description of the man in question, which wasn’t much: a tall man with a beard and wild curly hair.

After Otto’s innocence was proven, he was still getting harassed by his neighbors who hadn’t gotten the news that the actual murderer had been caught and was being prosecuted. Otto had stormed into the police station with the dark-haired, blue-eyed detective in his sights. Before the police there could usher him out (forcefully) Mark stopped them and let Otto have his say.

Otto demanded that some representative of the police go around his neighborhood and clarify that Otto was, in fact, innocent. Additionally, someone had thrown a brick through his window, and he held Mark personally responsible for paying for said window’s replacement. Also, he hadn’t spent this many years getting his life back together as a recovering alcoholic to now be chased out of his home because of a crime he actually didn’t commit!

To Otto’s surprise, it was the lead detectives, Mark and his partner Ralph themselves who went around to every one of his neighbors and explained Otto’s innocence. They ended at Otto’s door with sincere apologies, especially Mark. He was, after all, the one who had tackled Otto to the front steps of his own house in the first place.

He was further surprised to see Mark at his door again a few days later. He gave him a check to reimburse the window and had another request for Otto. His girlfriend, he suspected, was abusing her prescription drugs and alcohol and did Otto know of any programs that could be of use. And could Otto, perhaps, be willing to help Mark understand some of what she was going through from a place of having gone through something similar? Mark didn’t understand addiction from a personal standpoint, and it was causing a rift between he and Jana that he feared was irreparable.

The request was incredibly personal and bordered on inappropriate and offensive, but something about Mark’s countenance endeared him to Otto. Otto could tell Mark was coming from a place of wanting to learn and though it was a heavy burden to share his vulnerability with a man who accused him from murder, he felt compelled to try and help.

So, Otto, who had been living a pretty secluded life up until that point, reticently decided to be of service to Mark’s questions. The friendship ended up being mutually beneficial. Otto hadn’t realized how his reclusive life had been gnawing at his mental health. It had gotten to the point where he was scared to do anything social for fear of losing control of his desires. Mark ended up being the soft introduction to an unexpectedly functional, safe friendship. It was something he’d never experienced before.

It took a while for Otto not to see Mark as some twenty-something cop made detective before they were mature enough to handle it when he couldn’t even handle his private life. And the clock maker was more than full of opinions about those facts that he didn’t at all hide from the detective during their friendship. But Otto’s gruffness was chipped away by Mark’s eagerness to learn and try to help his girlfriend, Jana. And perhaps if Mark had been more forward with Jana about that learning process and his intentions things might’ve ended differently. Finding out your boyfriend was talking about your most intimate personal struggles with a stranger was distressing and Jana was quickly losing trust in Mark and their relationship.

All said, Jana still remained part of their social circle throughout her recovery. And, of course, the story of the lawyer who led Jana’s prosecution which almost led to her losing her license and livelihood was a whole other story. Alice and Mark together. No one saw that coming.

***

Atticus continued to stroke and massage Otto’s scalp as he finished the recollection. Somehow, the clock maker’s head had ended up on Atticus’ lap while they both reclined in bed as he spoke. The writer often wondered if Otto was part dog with the way he’d flop on them at times and how much he appreciated his head massaged.

The story had started only because Atticus mentioned how they had a fantasy of Otto and another one of their friends having hiccups simultaneously. But, they were quick to caveat, if that actually happened, they wouldn’t know how they’d contain themselves. The fantasy was still a thought that gave them some arousal, though.

The fantasy reminded Otto of the one time both he and Mark had them simultaneously and his mouth ran away with the story.

“Wow. That definitely helps fill some gaps,” Atticus said. Learning more about the history of Otto’s friendships was enlightening.

Jana had moved a few hours away by the time Atticus had met Otto. She stopped by every now and then to reconnect, but Atty hadn’t been available for those sessions. After all this time, they still hadn’t met the person who’d, in many ways, triggered the events that led Otto to meeting them.

If Otto hadn’t been such good friends with Mark, and if Atticus hadn’t been a victim of a serial robbery in their old apartment complex, then Mark wouldn’t have known to suggest Otto to them after the thief had knocked an old clock Atticus had inherited from its shelf. That clock still existed and ran perfectly after Otto had repaired it. It was in the loft bedroom where Atty found themselves often to write or decompress. It was a tambour style mantel clock. Atty had it in their house growing up. Atticus didn’t even know which side of the family it was from. With both of their parents gone, they probably never would.

Clocks aside, Mark needing Otto’s guidance on Jana, in some twisted way, made it possible for Atticus and Otto to find each other. So, Atticus might owe Jana as much gratitude for them being together as Mark.

“Yeah, I forget you don’t know all of this stuff,” Otto admitted. Atticus seemed so integrated into his life that it didn’t occur to him to tell them how everyone connected.

All of Atticus’ friends were in their home state (or were relationships they’d made online). Once they’d moved, they had to make new connections. It just so happened, timewise, that Otto was one of those first connections.

“Mark was lucky to have you,” Atty said.

“Yeah, well, he saw me a lot worse than that later that year when I fell off the whole sobriety wagon. So…” Otto trailed off and seemed to snuggle his head further into the softness of Atticus’ thighs.

Atticus sighed. That story they’d heard. It wasn’t a pleasant one.

“You don’t have to do that,” they said. “Qualify your good deeds with having been more of a challenge to deal with at some other point in time. You’re a good person and you’re good at taking care of people. It’s okay to admit that.” Atticus scratched their short nails along the back of Otto’s head when they felt his neck tense.

“I know,” he finally said, breathing warmth onto Atticus’ legs in a huff. “I just wasn’t for so long...but...yeah, I know.”

“All I know is who I see, and who I see is amazing,” Atty said. They smiled as Otto turned on his back to look at them.

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty amazing, too,” Otto said, lips pulling back in a smile showing just a little bit of teeth, but it was a smile that met his eyes. “And that thing you said about not qualifying your positive traits? You’re gonna, like, do that too, right? Maybe give that one a place in the old self-talk dialogue?”

Otto’s finger reached up to tap Atticus’ temple as the writer glared at him.

“See? This is why I don’t give you compliments. Always got to turn them back on me. Like weaponized kindness. Smug bastard,” Atticus muttered.

Otto laughed.

“So what did they sound like?” Atty asked sheepishly.

“What?” Otto asked with a frown as he led one of Atticus’ hands to the middle of his chest and rubbed his hand over theirs. Atty had yet to figure out why Otto preferred their hand in that spot, but they felt honored, for some reason, to be led there.

“Mark’s…” they stuttered and stopped, then they tried again, “Mark’s hiccups.”

“Oh!” Otto said in understanding. Then he scrunched his brows again while thinking. Mark’s hiccups were so distinctive, and he was trying to figure out how to word the description accurately.

“They were kind of, um, gulpy? They seemed really powerful. Like each hiccup really rocked his body back. Um. Kind of wet, too? Not sure if that’s the right way to describe it, but it was like there was wetness in the back of his throat whenever he hiccuped that sort of...sounded...I dunno…” he struggled to find the word before he gave up and shrugged “...wet!”

“You said you kind of thought he was going to throw up at first?” Atticus asked.

“Well, I mean, yeah. But he didn’t. They were just really powerful and sort of...liquidy,” Otto said, still shaking his head with the inaccurate description.

“So, wet,” Atticus confirmed lamely.

“Yeah. Like the sound of someone who just drank something when they swallow. That sticky sound in the back of their throat, you know?”

“Oh yeah! Yeah, I know what you’re talking about! Okay...wow...actually that sounds kind of hot,” Atty said.

“Yeah?” Otto asked, grinning.

“Shaddup,” they responded grumpily.

“No, I think it’s cute. What do you like about mine?” Otto fished.

“You know, I like that yours are fast. As long as they don’t bother you too much.”

“Do I have any...hot sounding hiccups?” he asked. He was rubbing Atticus’ hand again.

“It’s just the variety,” Atticus said after a while. “Each hiccup is different. Each one is a surprise. I like when you muffle them and they get louder, and harder, and longer, one after the other, until you sound hoarse and have to open your mouth to let sharper ones out. I-I like what they do to your body. Gawd, Otto, your body moves with every hiccup. Your cute, soft belly jumps and jiggles so much and you do that thing where when your head is jerked back you blink like you’re surprised. And, just, the way you react, man. How you’re so casual with them but also trying to be considerate about them with other people or when you get a little annoyed that they’re interrupting you when you’re trying to say something it’s all just so...hot. Guh…”

Atticus could feel heat crawling up their neck in both arousal and embarrassment.

“Well damn,” Otto whispered.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I mean, when you say it like that, it does sound kind of hot,” Otto admitted. He put his fingers up to his mouth and started subconsciously nibbling at his cuticles in thought. “So, it’s not just hiccups but all the stuff around hiccups. I mean obviously it’s the body movements and the sound, but it’s more. It’s how I interact with my hiccups that’s some of what turns you on. The unexpectedness of them. Is it, maybe...Is it because I’m flustered by them?”

“Sometimes,” Atty admitted.

Otto nodded, squinting in more thought.

“I think...that’s sort of why I get turned on by seeing people aroused. They aren’t completely in control, so they just react without...being able to help it. And if they’re trying to hide it and I know it? That’s so hot. Seeing them interact with people and me knowing how hard they’re trying to keep control. Not exactly something we can ever roleplay, but it doesn’t take much when I notice that anyway. My favorite part is...well...watching them relieve the feeling. The myriad of emotion. Jeez. I dunno. My body just—and nothing else really triggers that arousal for me. Doesn’t matter how attractive someone is. It’s that. And I’m there in an instant,” Otto said.

“I can definitely understand that. Damn. It’s bedtime and I am so charged right now,” Atticus admitted.

“Me, too. You...you wanna watch one of those files I made for you? While-while I watch you?” Otto asked in a small voice.

Atticus gasped.

“Oh, gawd, can we? I didn’t even...I’ll get my ear buds. You probably don’t wanna hear yourself. Gawd, I want this so much!” Atty said.

That night as Atty watched the first video where Otto made his hiccups faster by holding his breath (recommended by Otto, himself) and Otto watched Atticus, the writer couldn’t be more grateful to Jana and Mark for their involvement in getting the two of them together. Never would Atticus had ever thought that a relationship could be this symbiotic and honest, that kindness battles were the worst of their spats, and that their most serious moments came from wanting to take care of each other and expressing their gratitude for each other.

[thedramasummer]

Tagged by the lovely @msmarvelouswinchester for WIP Wednesday! This one is from my fic of Witness Protection AU. Basic summary is Alex ends up in WitSec after being a whistleblower after finding out creepy behavior from a senator by using is charm and dealing with all that follows after

Tagging the wonderful @anincompletelist @firenati0n @emmalostinwonderland @cactusdragon517 @jackzimmermemes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @cheesecurdsgravyandfries

Putting the snippet under the cut because it contains some gross behavior from said senator that involves inappropriate flirting if that is not your jam. Also brief mention of emeto

Senator Pollack has said some things to Alex that make him take a step back. It started off weird, but benign. You look young for your age, sport or if you’re not careful, I’ll steal you away from Luna. Alex should probably tell someone, but he isn’t going to snitch if it isn’t relevant.

So he decides he’ll figure out if it is something that’s a significant concern. He plays the game, leans into the shoulder rubs, laughs at creepy jokes that make him vomit in the toilet in his dorm when he’s alone.

Unfortunately it isn’t enough. He’ll have to raise the stakes. He won’t go too far, but he needs to prove this bastard is doing something.

Pollack brings him to the bar. He might be 21 in a few months, but he’s still technically underage. But Pollack talks his way into making sure the bouncer avoids looking too closely.

He offers to buy Alex a beer. Strike two. Alex politely declines, blinking his eyelashes. “I don’t drink on school nights, Senator.”

Pollack puts a hand on his knee, moving up his thigh. “You’re a good boy, Alex. You’ll make a fine senator one day.”

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.” He prays the mic under his collar is picking this drivel up.

“You know, I’ve been able to help ambitious young people like you out. I like teaching them how to walk the walk and talk the talk. I like seeing them grow.”

Alex blinks owlishly. “And what would I have to do to learn from you? I’m learning so much from Senator Luna already.”

Pollack laughs. “That upstart? He’s young, Alex. You need someone with experience. You need someone who really understands how the political circles work. What people really want.” His hand creeps up again, and Alex twitches. This is bad. So fucking bad.

“Thank you for the offer, Senator. I really appreciate your insight, but I’m fine with my current position. And thank you for offering me a drink, but I should really go.” He’s trying to play it cool, but his brain is on overdrive.

“You should stay, sweetheart.”

[ready-for-take-off]

Responsible Adult (NCT Jisung)

(Crossposted to AO3 here)

Request: Maybe Jisung sick with stomach pain but he hides it from the members because he thinks that not being the maknae he needs to behave like a responsible adult. But in the end his pain is very intense and he gets sick in his room and on himself, so his hyungs take care of him and pamper him, especially Taeyong and Chenle.

Summary: Jisung wakes up feeling off. When his stomach starts to hurt during a full-group dance practice, he tries his best to hide how he’s feeling from the members, afraid that he’s going to get coddled. He ends up getting sick at home, but Chenle comes to his rescue and even calls Taeyong for backup. The day ends with lots of comfort and an important lesson learned.

A/N: I couldn’t quite bring myself to write the part where he gets sick on himself—emeto is chill to me until it gets to the loss of control part. Nevertheless, hope you enjoy! Jisung and Taeyong are definitely the best sickie and caretaker in NCT respectively imo. SIDE NOTE—check out NCT Dream’s new comeback Dream()Scape, Jisung stands out so much in it!

Jisung was an adult.

No matter how much his members, his fans, heck , even his family liked to treat him like he’d exited the womb two second ago, he was a full-grown adult, dammit. It was harmless fun most of the time, until he realized that he couldn’t mention feeling even the slightest bit unwell out of fear that his members would start coddling him again. Last time he’d been injured, his members treated him like he was made of glass even months after he’d recovered. He shuddered just thinking about it. Never again, especially now that there were even younger members who looked up to him as a seasoned idol and not a cute baby.

But today, he had a small dilemma. He’d woken up the slightest bit groggy—no big deal, he could handle it. Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t felt very hungry at breakfast, but he hadn’t thought anything of that either. It didn’t matter if he would have to go the whole day feeling dizzy and weak—it wasn’t like he had anything important to do, aside from a brief dance run-through. It was hardly a practice, and not to brag, but he’d nailed the choreography ages ago. It was no big deal, right? He’d just act okay for half an hour and then resign to his room for the rest of the day. He was a responsible adult, the least he could do was show up.

Jisung regretted that decision when he entered the practice room and was immediately reminded that oh , this was nineteen other guys in the same practice room. Nineteen extremely loud guys. He could hardly keep his thoughts in order when there were at least five different conversations going on at any given time, punctuated by hysterical laughter and occasional screeches (whatever that was for, he didn’t really want to know), and suddenly he felt like the most mature person in the room.

“Jisungie, you okay?” Chenle asked casually, patting Jisung on the back. He’d somehow snuck up behind Jisung and he hadn’t heard it because of the sheer noise echoing in the room.

Truth was, he didn’t feel particularly great. On top of general malaise, his stomach was beginning to hurt, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint if it was due to hunger, stress, or sickness. The latter of which he pushed to the back of his mind—if he didn’t think he was sick, he couldn’t really be sick, right?

“Uh. I’m fine, I guess?” Jisung replied hesitantly, stiffening a little. He didn’t want anyone to find out he wasn’t feeling well, no, not when everyone was there.

“If you say so,” Chenle shrugged. Jisung was taken aback when the older boy squinted and made the “I’m watching you” motion with his hands as he walked to his position. What could he possibly have meant by that? Honestly, his members showed concern in the weirdest of ways sometimes.

Jisung didn’t utter a single word for the rest of that dance practice, channeling his energy into staying upright and passing off as okay. It was a hard job as the small ache in his stomach slowly turned into a full-blown fire.

When the run-through was finally over, Jisung begged his legs to keep him standing upright as he wanted nothing more than to just collapse on the floor (and writhe around, but maybe that was a bit dramatic). It wasn’t unusual for the members to sit down after an intense dance practice, but he couldn’t afford to do so today, not when it would provoke even more concern. Well, it seemed that he was provoking concern either way.

“You feeling alright, maknae?” Taeyong had approached him almost the exact same way Chenle had earlier, only with a bit more formality, and Jisung almost jumped as the leader’s firm hand landed on his shoulder. It was beginning to grow scary at this point—either his members had incredible intuition or he was terrible at hiding how he felt. Probably a mix of the two.

“…yes?” Jisung responded, voice coming out much smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat and responded properly. “Yes, hyung.”

Taeyong smiled, patting the younger’s shoulder. “Great, but I just wanted to check because you seemed a little down today,” he explained. “How’s life been treating you lately? I know we’ve all been so busy.”

“It’s been fine, I guess,” Jisung mumbled behind his mask. “Thank you, hyung. By the way. For asking,” he added out of respect, stuttering slightly.

“You don’t have to thank me, Jisungie. And that’s great to hear,” Taeyong chuckled. “Just tell me or one of the Dreamies if something is wrong, okay?” He held up his hand for a fistbump of agreement, which Jisung accepted.

“Oh, and if Mark and Haechan bother you too much, let me know,” Taeyong added, winking and poking Jisung’s shoulder playfully.

As Jisung smiled and turned away to grab his bag, he nearly keeled over as his stomach made itself known once again with a harsh cramp. He bent over, disguising it as reaching for his bag, and let his face scrunch up in pain for a second as he breathed through it. This was certainly something not to be ignored.

By the time he reached home, Jisung was hardly functioning. He felt like he could drift off any second but was kept awake by the agonizing twisting of his stomach, and the conflicting signals only served to make him feel sicker.

Deciding to take charge for himself, Jisung gathered what energy he had to grab himself a glass of water which he brought to his room and promptly forgot about as he curled up in bed. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes as he gritted his teeth and clutched his stomach tightly. It hurt so much, and he just wanted someone to be there, to know that he wasn’t feeling well, and for a second he regretted keeping quiet.

Jisung almost gave in and reached for his phone to text someone to come over, until he reminded himself that the whole reason he was alone was because he wasn’t a baby. Oh well. Most grown adults could handle a little stomach ache on their own anyways.

This was hardly a little stomach ache, though. He could physically feel the pain twisting deep in his core, and it hurt like nothing else he’d ever felt before. Curling up with his knees to his chest seemed to be the only thing that relieved some of the pressure, along with keeping both hands wrapped around his middle. An intense cramp finally sent Jisung over the edge, and he had to reach up and wipe away the tears that had slid across his face.

A ding resounded from Jisung’s phone and he hesitantly picked it up, sniffling. The text gracing the top of the screen was from Chenle, notifying Jisung that he would be coming over in a minute for “no particular reason”. At that moment, it turned out that Chenle’s weird habit of always being strangely available for strange reasons came in luck, and Jisung took a moment to mentally thank the elder for being his savior. Sure, it meant he would get babied, but if it didn’t happen by his own volition then it practically didn’t count.

Jisung almost wanted to relax because the notification settled his mind so much, but there was another problem. His stomach now felt like it was in his throat, and he couldn’t move out of fear it would end badly. But he knew it would also end badly if he didn’t move, now .

He propped himself up as slowly as he could, hand sinking into his bed as his elbow straightened shakily. His other hand, which was starting to shake too, was pressed tightly against his mouth as his mind raced, saying no, it won’t happen when it definitely would.

He gagged slightly into his palm and immediately his eyes widened— this really was happening. His legs, trained by a lifetime of dancing, propelled him across the room so he could fling open the bathroom door just in time to cough and retch up what little he had eaten into the toilet. “ Help,” he choked out between retches, to no one in particular, as he cried from both the pain and the fear that this was really happening to him, that he was losing control of himself just like that.

The timing proved itself even more impeccable as Jisung’s ears were met with the squeal of a door and a certain hyung’s screeching voice, which was the sound of an angel descended from heaven to Jisung right now.

“Jisungie, you seemed really off earlier today and wouldn’t tell me what was wrong so I came ‘cause why not,“ Chenle blabbered as his footsteps approached Jisung’s room, pattering around to search for the maknae. Jisung groaned to signify his location, which Chenle heard and promptly found.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Chenle gasped, kneeling down beside the younger and rubbing circles on his back. “What happened?”

“M’ stomach hurts so much,” Jisung cried, hiccuping and sniffling, which only served to set off his stomach more as more liquid was sent surging up his throat. “H-help me, hyung , m-make it stop!” he sobbed futilely.

“Shhh, you’re okay, I’m here,” Chenle cooed into Jisung’s ear, breath warm against his neck. “Breathe for me, baby.” It was a sweet gesture, but Jisung could hardly focus on the words over the sobs shaking his body and the stabbing pain assaulting his stomach.

Jisung thought he heard the sound of a phone making a call, and he made out snippets of Chenle’s voice over his own crying— “ Jisungie’s sick… come over… okay, see you soon. ”

“Wh-who’s that?” Jisung stuttered between breath hitches.

“Taeyong-hyung is coming to help you, baby,” Chenle reassured. “You aren’t stuck with just me,” he added, chuckling. “I know I’m not much help.”

There was a knock on the door, and Chenle scampered off to answer it. He returned with a very concerned-looking Taeyong in tow.

“Jisungie, baby, how are you feeling?” Taeyong asked sympathetically, kneeling on the floor without hesitation and rubbing the boy’s shoulders gently. “Turns out you really aren’t alright, huh,” he sighed. “I should’ve noticed.”

Jisung tried to respond, but his body didn’t seem capable of forming words at the moment and he only gave a pitiful moan before he was sent back into a fit of sickness.

“Whoa, Jisungie. You’re really sick,” Taeyong grimaced, rubbing the poor maknae’s back as he threw up again. He did so until Jisung’s stomach finally stopped rebelling and he let his head drop, panting.

“Is it just an upset tummy, baby?” Taeyong asked gently, patting the younger’s tight stomach and eliciting a brief wince from Jisung, who nodded shyly in response. He was getting babied again, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good to have someone care from him. Especially if it was the most reliable person he knew.

“My guess is that your body is just trying to get rid of something icky you ate earlier,” Taeyong sighed, standing up with a grunt. “Alright, Jisungie. You feeling ready to get up?”

Jisung hesitantly took the elder’s hand and pulled himself up in a way that took the least effort from his abdominal muscles. He curled up in his bed, whimpering in pain, as Taeyong slipped into the kitchen in search of anything useful.

“Wellll…” Chenle piped up, dragging out the syllable. “I knew I’d be useless at actually taking care of you, so it’s great that Taeyong-hyung could come by,” he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can keep you company,” he added, more softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Tummy hurts,” Jisung murmured quietly, fully aware of how pitiful he looked, curled up in bed with tears streaking his face. “I hate being sick so much.”

“You should’ve said something before it got this bad,” Chenle sighed, plopping down on the bed and stroking Jisung’s stomach gently.

“But you guys would have fussed over me,” Jisung countered defensively. “ Ah - what are you doing-“

Chenle released his fingers from the playful pinch he had on Jisung’s abdomen, snickering shamelessly. “Jisungie, you’re a lot worse at acting fine than you think you are. We would have fussed over you anyways.”

“Fair,” Jisung sighed. “But it just feels weird for me to ask for help now. I mean, I’m supposed to be a responsible adult and I’m technically not even the maknae anymore.”

“Jisungie, asking for help is a part of life. Why do you think I called Taeyong-hyung just now? Because I knew I couldn’t take care of a sick person myself— heck, I don’t even know what he’s looking for in the kitchen. It’s okay to admit that you can’t do something yourself. It doesn’t make you any less of an adult.”

Jisung’s eyes stung at the sound of his hyung’s wise words. “R-really?” he sniffled.

“Yes, baby,” Chenle cooed. “And for the record, you’ll always be the maknae to us. Now come here, you,” he added playfully as he cozied up next to the younger. Jisung couldn’t hold back the soft smile that crept up his face as Chenle ruffled his hair incessantly. Maybe being babied wasn’t so bad after all.

The whole time, Taeyong just stood watching in the doorway, using the hand that wasn’t holding various medications and home remedies to wipe his teary eyes. His kids really had grown up so well.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 5: Feverish Caretaking - Leo

This one doesn't have much illness, but it gives some insight into Leo's life. I know I haven't formally introduced them, mainly because they don't live in the same town as my other OCs, so they're not a huge part of my world yet.

The basics of Leo: Depending on the day, their pronouns are either he/him, or they/them (in this fic, they're using they/them pronouns). They're family is French, so at home they speak French, and they all have French names (their birth name is Léon, but they prefer to be called Leo). Aurélie is their 14 year old sister. They have a chronic illness, which means they are often (almost always) sick to some extent, and it often impacts their mobility.

Ages of the siblings (oldest to youngest): Luc, Nicolas, Leo, Aurélie, Gabriel

------

Leo pulls themself out of their desk chair, bracing for a moment as a headrush sweeps through them, a key feature of the fever they know is present in their body.

They make their way through their house, settling on the couch so they have a good view of the driveway, waiting for their maman’s return.

They frown in worry, as they replay the conversation they just had with their maman, where they learned that Aurélie is sick. Their maman is dropping her off, after picking her up from school.

“Léon, are you sure that you’re okay to look after your sister? You weren’t feeling well this morning.”

Leo sighed gently, before replying, “I’m feeling better Maman, and I can look after her. Have a little faith in me.” They tack on the snarky comment at the end, knowing their maman has good reason to worry about them, but annoyed by her triple checking nonetheless.

Just then, a familiar car pulls up to the house, and Leo waits by the door as their maman leads their younger sister into the house.

Aurélie looks miserable, walking at half her normal pace, slowly coming into the house. She latches onto their maman’s hand, looking like a girl going to school for the first time rather than one spending the afternoon with her sibling. The sight makes Leo’s heart clench, knowing that she’s worried about spending time with them.

Their maman stands in the doorway watching in concern.

“Are you sure yo-” she starts, before Leo interrupts.

“Maman, I know you’re worried, but you told me you have things you need to do.” She frowns at the interruption, but when she gives a slight nod in agreement Leo continues, “If anyone knows how to look after someone, it would be me, don’t you think? I’ll call you if we need you.”

This might be the chance they need to start reconnecting with Aurélie, even if neither of them are feeling or best, or particularly looking forward to the conversation. But fevers have a way of making Leo open up, when other methods would fail, and they feel oddly hopeful today.

And with that, they essentially push their maman out the door, turning their full attention to their sister, who has moved to the couch and curled up, hugging her stomach.

“Aw, Aurélie, I’m sorry you don't feel good,” says Leo, starting to crouch down to her level. When their knees twinge with pain, however, they stand up, sitting next to her instead. They push their momentary discomfort to the side in order to care for her.

“How are you feeling?” they ask tentatively.

“Fucking awful,” she answers, glaring at him.

“Don’t let maman hear you saying that,” they tease with a tentative smile, grinning in full when she smiles back in response. (even if that smile is accompanied by a roll of her eyes, it’s still a win)

They’re quiet for a few moments, as Leo contemplates what to say. If this was Gabe, they would know how to help. Instead, it’s Aurélie, and they haven’t had a proper relationship in years.

Before they can figure out what to say, Aurélie quietly says “I threw up at school. All over the hallway. Everyone saw.” From her voice, they can tell she’s seconds away from crying.

Despite his earlier misgivings, he scooches towards her and wraps her up in a hug.

“Aw, Ray, that’s awful, I’m so sorry that happened,” they murmur in her ear.

She starts full-on sobbing, clutching them in a tight hug, and burying her face in their chest. As her sobs eventually slow down and she starts sniffling, she whispers to him, “You haven’t called me ‘Ray’ in years.”

Leo feels their heart drop, as they realize the truth behind her words and what they say about their relationship.

“I know, ‘Rélie,” they respond, burying their face in her brown hair, hugging her closer still.

“You didn’t need me,” she whispers, sounding so broken, as tears leak from her eyes again.

Leo feels some tears slip down their face too, as they try to formulate their thoughts.

“I don’t think that’s true, Ray. I… I was a mess, I didn’t know what I needed. But I never meant to push you away.”

“But you had Nicolas, and Gabriel! I wasn’t ever part of the conversation.”

“It was a hard situation for everyone. No, listen, ‘Rélie,” they say when she tries to interrupt, “I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t know how to help myself let alone spend energy on others. Nico was the only person who made me feel normal. And Gabe was the only person who made me feel alive. My relationships with them got stronger, and I saw less and less of you, and maman and papa got really over-protective of me, and by the time I started Rainbow Youth it was so busy and I was still figuring everything out and by then it felt too late to try and get to know you again.”

She still has tears sparkling in her big blue eyes, and they know they’ve been crying too, but she looks a little less anguished with the explanation.

“Guess it’s my turn then,” she starts, with only a trace of bitterness in her tone, “I know we were closer when I was little, but when you started disappearing, I… I didn’t know what to think or how to feel. You weren’t talking, I didn’t seem to exist to you. I thought you didn’t care, which I guess was self-centered of me, but I didn’t know what else to think. Gabe and Nico could help you, and I didn’t know how I could, so I guess I felt guilty? And Maman cried all the time, did you know that? I’d never seen her cry before, and… and I was scared. And then there was all that shit-”

“Language,” they chastise gently.

“-with Luc, who was being a complete-” she cuts herself off, cheeks flushing red.

Leo chuckles at her, knowing what she was about to say, “A complete jackass?” they finish her thought.

She grins at him, and nods, then says, with a teasing smirk on her face, “Don’t let maman hear you saying that.”

“But yeah, he was awful, and we used to be pretty close. And I felt so lost, being around you made it worse. Which wasn’t fair to you, obviously, but that’s how I justified it. But I think I really miss you.”

“I miss you too. I feel like I missed so much of you growing up, I don’t even know who you are anymore. But I’m gonna try to do better, I want to know you, Ray.”

“Me too, Leo.” Their eyes fill with tears again, as she uses their proper name.

Maybe it’s a good thing, in a weird convoluted way, that they were both sick on this day, allowing them to reconnect after so many years. No longer distant relatives, but becoming siblings once more.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Appetite

An early timeline piece for Aly, back at the old house before they moved

taglist: @risk606

masterlist

TW: implied kidnapping, starvation, sleep deprivation, emeto mention (doesn't happen), carewhumper, intimate whumper, defiant/stoic whumpee, captivity

It must have been over a week, no way to say it accurately though. Alyssa tried her best to keep up with the sunsets and sunups, as much as it was possible through the little window just below the ceiling. It was facing north, she knew that much, there was never any direct light coming through it, and she saw trees above.

The branches were almost completely stripped of leaves by then, they looked like horribly burnt skeleton hands reaching towards the sky. They were mostly still, eerie, the soft autumn breeze wasn’t strong enough to move them without the foliage to reign in the gently moving wind.

The basement was mostly dark. Although it seemed to never have been finished, the space must have been constructed as a secondary living quarter, or at least it was her best guess. All the way to the left side of the room, the monotony of the brick and concrete of the wall and the floor was broken up by exactly 178 white tiles, surrounding what was supposed to serve as a bathroom. The toilet and sink were mostly decent, the shower looked dark and grimy, not that she could get a close enough look to decide if it was simply dirt or long-dried blood. It was unfinished, there were clear lines on the floor indicating where a wall should have been pulled up. 

The first few days Alyssa found herself barely sleeping, just trying to take the space in. Memorise every detail, so that she can report it when she gets out. She took note of every feature of the two guys whenever they went downstairs to check on her. 

It happened less and less, or time stretched out, as the boredom started to set in. Both of them worked during the day, and whenever the door opened and she heard the stairs creak, she steeled herself to withstand whatever they would throw at her. It wasn’t much. Luke slapped her around for not speaking the first day, but it got old quickly so he gave up, resigned. From then on his visits were brief and uncomfortable at best. He spoke to her, asked questions, and when she didn’t answer he left. 

Alyssa thought if she was boring enough they’d let her leave. Cole told her she was there for entertainment after all. If she could hang on long enough not serving that purpose, they’d surely have no reason to keep her.

Her own boredom was killing her. She started counting the bricks of the wall, after she was sure of the tiles, but the numbers got harder and harder to keep track of. Not sleeping or being fed started getting to her more than she would have liked to admit.

There was no relief to be found on the merciless concrete floor and in metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She was getting colder and colder, and she was still wearing her dress - now dirty and ripped up - from the night of the party, it did nothing to warm her body. When Luke caught her curled up and shivering he asked if she’d like a blanket. All she had to do was ask. Alyssa glared at him, miserable and non-threatening, but it was a glare nonetheless. He found it amusing.

He told her if she wanted to eat she could. He would hand feed her, and she didn’t even have to ask. She wanted to throw up at the thought, retching when she thought about it for more than a fleeting moment, but nothing came out, other than some faint bitterness of her stomach acid.

There was no way in hell she would ever demean herself like that, Alyssa would rather starve. But she needed to consider it, especially when she slumped from her sitting on the floor unable to keep herself upright for a second longer.

“Would you look at that!” She couldn’t lift her head to look up at him. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was gloating over her misery. “I don’t want to starve you to death, you know…” He nudged her ribs with the tip of his shoe, when she didn’t respond. It wasn’t meant to hurt, still she whined, wrecked by the constant ache that radiated through every cell of her body.

“I brought you this” he placed a box next to her head on the floor. She couldn’t help but lock her eyes on it. It smelled heavenly and familiar. He took off the lid and the scent got stronger. “I stopped by that one Chinese place next to your house” 

“...you-” Tears collected quickly in her eyes, she gave up. Her throat hurt. “You s-said we- we’re in a different city” The last part of the sentence was only a whisper.

“We are” he pushed the box closer to her. She still couldn’t move, and even if she could, the chain on her hand would not let her reach it. “You’re worth those extra few miles”

“Fuck you” she whispered. There was a steady stream of tears running across the bridge of her nose and down on the floor. She pulled weakly at the chains.

“This stubbornness gets you nowhere” he sighed and actually sat down next to her. He lifted her upper body in his lap, so she was at least halfway sitting up. It hurt so bad where he grabbed her arms, she was convinced it would bruise.

He took a piece of meat and pressed in against her lips. It was sticky, covered in a honey flavoured, slightly spicy sauce, and it hurt so bad. 

“Come on. Eat” She took a bite. And then another one. She didn’t care anymore that his fingers brushed over her lips, or that his other hand snaked across her torso pulling her up even closer flush against him. His body was warm and soft, and the food was delicious. He grabbed a spoon for the rice and fed her. 

“Say thank you” The words got to her slower than usual. His voice was faint, barely audible. 

Alyssa weighed her options. She could resort to silence again, to become boring, now that she had the energy to do so. His proximity and her body against his only started to register. His warmth was like knives stabbing her skin.

“Thank me, I don’t like to repeat myself” His hold got tighter around her abdomen. Her stomach was uncomfortably full, if he pressed his hand down even just a little more…

“It would be a shame if that meal went to waste” Luke knew it too. His free hand wrapped around her throat.

“Thank you” barely louder than a whisper. 

“You’re so welcome” He let go of her and lowered her back on the floor. She was cold again. 

Luke wiped the tears away from her face, smudging some dirt around, it rubbed at her face painfully. 

“I’ll get you a blanket, if you want one” he taunted with a smile that didn’t fade even when Alyssa steeled herself once again and shook her head.