#emesis cw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaeyleo · 1 year ago

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LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 7

YOU CHOSE: REACH OUT FOR CHASE- “Why did you make me do that?”

Your decisions leave Pink at the forefront of the mind. Chase tugs at the strings left behind, but your past obedience leaves him wondering if being dormant is safer. You’ve left your character confused, and searching for a guide.

cws: non human whumper, captive whumpee, brainwashing, dehumanization, whumpee forced to drink soap water, whumpee forced to drink whumpers blood, emesis, descriptions of emesis, descriptions of blood, descriptions of self made wound (just a small cut on the finger), implications of whumper bathing whumpee (platonic), delirium, hallucinations, sickness, descriptions of dismembered human body parts

Link to part six.

. . .

Chase is quiet for a few more moments, mindlessly scrubbing a plate with a soapy rag. He finds the strength to speak his mind.

“Why did you make me do that?”

Pseudo doesn’t stop washing his dish. Nothing about his countenance changes. “Make you do what?”

“W.. what you did in the cellar yesterday.”

“You chose to come downstairs with me, Pink. I didn’t make you do anything.”

Chase stops washing his dish, heart turning inside his chest. He feels like he should keep his mouth shut, like he should accept the truth, that Pseudo is always right, but something else tells him to speak up. He deserves to speak up.

“You could’ve just told me to go inside, I- I wasn’t in my right mind…! You hypnotized me!”

The monster rinses the soap from the plate, and sets it on the dish rack to dry.

“Watch your tone, pet,” he warns, grabbing a glass to wash next.

“But-“ Chase turns to look at Pseudo, bewilderment and hurt spreading from his brows to his breaking heart. How can he really be in this situation? How is this his life??

Inside his head, he feels a shift. Pink takes a step back, and in turn, Chase takes a step forward. The man cannot balance between the two for long, so he must shift to the weight of whoever is stronger in that moment. For the time being, Chase is allowed to take control.

“NO!” he yells. His entire body faces his monster now, and Pseudo gives him the courtesy of eye contact. “You had me hypnotized! I wasn’t in my right mind to make a decision- you never let me make a decision, and the first time I’m allowed to in months is when I was in a state so mentally fucked that I couldn’t even put two and two together that I was helping you lead an innocent man to the cellar! And instead of telling me to go inside and wait for you, you let me walk down those stairs and sit through three! Fucking! Hours! Of torture! You made me stay because I can’t fucking think on my own when I’m in that state, you- why can’t you just answer me!! Why did you make me do that!!?”

At his last two words, Chase slams the plate and soapy rag against the ground. Glass flies across the kitchen floor, and water splatters and puddles at their feet. Pseudo stares at the mess, and slowly rakes his eyes up the body of his captive puppet. When their eyes meet, Chase knows he’s gone too far. There’s no going back now.

“Pick it up.” says Pseudo.

Chase is motionless. Every inch of his body screams to obey, but he must stand his ground. He’s waited too long to be heard like this.

“Pick. It. Up.”

While he cannot muster the courage to say it, an unspoken “no” lays between the two bodies. Chase’s breath is at a stand- still, and his disobedience comes with his frozen body.

Pseudo turns his attention to the sink again, filling the glass about half way up while the remaining space is taken up by soap bubbles from the rag. Once full, he sets the glass on the counter.

“Statue, Pink.”

And against his will, Chase is left without the ability to move.

“I’m not sure where this little outburst came from,” the monster crouches to roll up the legs of Chase's pants, just above his knees. “But I wont tolerate it.”

He stands back up, placing both hands on Chase’s shoulders. With a hearty shove, the puppet’s bare knees come colliding with shards of glass. He hollers as the pain of it shoots up to his hips, and his blood doesn’t hesitate to taste the sweet freedom of air outside the skin. He wants nothing more than to fall to his side and rip the glass out, but he must stay still.

Pseudo presents the glass of soap water Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”

Chase clamps his jaw down, eyes wandering up to meet his monster’s. He shakes his head. How stupid.

“Aww,” Pseudo coos. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”

The monster shifts his hand so his pointer finger is above the liquid. Then, he reaches to the set of knives placed nearby and cuts a small knick in his finger. Thick black poison drips into the glass, eating the soap bubbles like candy as it passes through. The water turns to look like a cloudy sky, ready to tear apart whatever it comes into contact with.

Chase’s jaw tightens up further. Pseudo's blood is a thick and awful poison, not meant for human consumption. Even a few drops can make him sick for days on end. The monster lets five globs hit the drink before bringing the wound to his mouth, licking the blood clean. What remains drips down the side of the cup.

“If I have to say it again-“ Pseudo starts to chuckle, amused and annoyed at the puppet’s resilience. “I’ll make you drink your vomit, too.”

“I—,” Chase whines, shame heating up his face. “I’m sorry, I-“

“Stop it.”

Pseudo pushes the glass to Chase’s lips, tilting up his chin with his other hand. In turn, he tilts his own head downward, reinforcing a stronger path of eye contact. He waits, giving the toy a chance to redeem his disobedience.

Chase turns his attention to the cloudy mess inside the glass. There's no point in fighting. There never was.

The water is warm when it enters his mouth.

A sour sting takes up every space it can. His face scrunches up in disgust, and a pathetic little noise escapes his throat before being drowned by the dirty water. Once the soap has passed and the blood reaches his tongue, he recoils, but Pseudo is quick to catch him. The hand on the puppet’s chin darts to grip his hair instead, forcing him to keep contact with the glass. It stings his tongue and makes his teeth rattle and chatter, while everything inside him screams to spit it out.

Gulp after shivering gulp, the contents of the glass are emptied. Pseudo sets it in the sink and covers the toy’s mouth with his hand. Trembling, Chase forces himself to swallow the ick, and his monster sets him free.

With no water to wash it down, it’s a heavy thing burrowing down his throat, like a slug squirming its way through his esophagus. Chase gags, slamming his head into Pseudo’s thigh and curling his fingers into his pant leg.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads, tears burning his eyes. He can feel the blood almost eating him inside. Fire ants. “I’m stupid and clueless and you know what’s best, you didn’t m- mm- make me do anything, anything, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry..!”

Pseudo reaches a hand to pet his toys hair, hearing glass crunch under its knees as its weight shifts back and forth. “You’re only sorry because I punished you,” he says cooly. “I know you, Pink.”

The man gags again, feeling his stomach bubble and churn with the poisonous blood. He buries his face inside his monster’s leg, regretting every decision he made in the past ten minutes. He is a weak, pathetic puppet, and he needs to start acting like one.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I’m sorry, I’m-“

Chase gags once more, feeling bile rise up into his chest. Instinctively he covers his mouth, shaking as he feels his insides writhe.

“Sorry?” Pseudo finishes for him.

Pink opens his mouth to respond, but pukes into his hand instead.

The monster watches the mess grow and grow, vomit now covering his socks and pant leg. He does nothing to comfort the doll, instead leaving him to heave and choke on his own. Glass has wormed its way deep inside his knees, and now, on all fours, it has made a home inside Chase’s palms as well.

Once his breakfast and punishments are painted across the ground, Pseudo perches on the balls of his feet as he crouches to get a better look at his puppet. He takes the doll’s chin in his hand once more, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“Pick it up.”

The monster lingers in his gaze for a moment, making sure the command is understood, before letting go to change his own clothes. He takes off his soiled socks before stepping into the other room, leaving his puppet to obey in solitude. Perhaps some time alone will help him think about what he did.

. . .

Staring at the mess in front of himself, Chase can’t help but vomit even more. He is a shaking, disgusting mess by the time he’s just dry heaving, and he cries like a child while he tears glass from his bloody knees and hands. His composure is yet to come, but there is no room to wallow and feel sorry for himself. He must do as he’s told, and prove to Pseudo that he deserves no more than what he’s already been given.

Chase takes a deep breath. His body shakes and his teeth chatter again, and he wants nothing more than to lay down on the cold and dirty floor. Sick, sick, sick, he feels. Stupid, puppet, stupid, he knows. He pushes himself up, leaving a dotting trail of blood as he drags the trash can to the mess.

He mops the sick up first, with the rag he tossed carelessly on the floor. Glass is next, threatening his already bloodied hands with sharp edges. He tries to use the rag to keep the smaller shapes from entering his skin, but he can feel the larger ones poking through.

Finally, he uses the clean rag on the counter to get rid of any germs left over. The hot water and soap burn the cuts in his hands, but he has to ignore it.

Another trail of blood follows him as he sweeps the floor. He is clumsy, miserable, sick. His vision blurs and his insides churn, but he hasn’t the strength to let anything come up again. Chase sweeps up as much as he can, before mopping up his blood to finish everything off.

He feels feverish. Sick, sick, sick, sick sick sick sick sick.

Blood clots begin to dry on his skin, stinging in the cool air of the cottage. He lies down on the floor, and although he freezes in the cold, he sweats as though overcome with heatstroke. Chase whimpers like a kicked puppy, waiting for his master to return to the kitchen. He holds his stomach with one arm and his shoulder with the other.

Minutes tick by. The puppet’s eyes close.

Sick, sick, stupid, sick.

. . .

Chase wakes up on the couch, wrapped warm in a heavy blanket. His hair is damp and his entire body feels soft and clean, smelling of vanilla and shea butter. There are bandages on his knees and hands, and Pseudo sits in the chair across from him, reading silently. Chase blinks and squints his eyes, trying desperately to clear the blurs and occasional black splotches in his vision. He sits up-

And falls right back down.

His head swims and he feels a nausea from hell bubble up inside him. Flies and slugs and fire ants swarm inside his stomach, and his whole body cries out in aching bones and wailing muscles. He feels like a popsicle left on the porch in August heat. Cold and melting at the same time.

He groaaaaannnnnss, covering his face with clammy hands. “Pseudooo,” he tries. “Pseudo..”

“Yes, dolly,” replies his monster.

Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

The toy takes his hands away from his face. His shoulders creak and whine, or maybe those noises came from his throat. He can’t quite tell.

“Mhm… you still have to help me in the garden.”

Chase rocks his head to one side, feeling his brain turn a mushy, uncooked pancake. Perhaps shaking his head no is not an option.

“I caaaaaaan’t,” he whines, like a child at the doctor’s. “I can’t, I can’t, I feel sick-“

Pseudo clicks his tongue three times before closing his book. He sets it to the side, stands, and grabs at Chase’s blanket.

“Come now,” he croons. “Up we go.”

Somewhere, he feels it, Chase is lifted up to stand. His body is ten miles behind his head, or maybe his head is ten miles behind his body? He can’t see straight. Sick sick sick, Chase’s stomach threatens violence in the form of a dry heave.

“Please, Pseudo, c- can I lay back down?” He practically hangs off the monster as they walk through the house to the back door.

“Not yet, Pink. Pick up your feet..”

. . .

When they reach the outside, Chase is quick to sit down. He slouches like an old stuffed toy, with his body hanging pathetically over the dirt. Gardening gloves and a sun hat wear him with pride, happy to be placed on such a sick little thing like him.

“Awfully stupid this one,” the sun hat whispers. Her voice is higher pitched and soft, like a bird. “Haven’t you learned by now? Stupid, stupid puppet.”

The gardening gloves giggle.

“Stupid stupid puppet!!” their voice hollers, wiggling sounds sprouting from his fingertips. Their voice is smooth and slimy like worms. “He deserves this, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Chase answers, before the sun hat can.

“Yes, what?” says Pseudo, confused. He has a small bag in his hand. It looks like crushed up candy.

“Yes, Pseudo,” Chase replies, though it’s something automatic. He isn’t sure Pseudo has said a word yet, as it would be rude to interrupt the hat and the gloves. Pseudo isn’t rude.

“Idiot, puppet,” the gloves hiss.

The sun hat spits at his shoulder. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Im trying..” Chase rubs at his eyes. Pseudo takes his hands and places the bag of candy inside.

“Spread it across the dirt,” he says, and picks up a bundle of lollipops.

For a moment, the toy thinks its rather odd to spread candies and lollipops across the garden. But he’s learned his lesson on questioning his monster’s authority. The sun hat and gloves approve, whispering sweet praises as he tosses the candy about.

“Ask him what kind of candy it is,” the sun hat requests, and Chase obliges.

“Pseudo? What kind of candy is this?”

“That’s blood meal, Pink.”

“Oh…. Then what kind of candy is that?” He points at the lollipops in his monster’s hands.

“These are Richie’s fingers.”

“Oh.”

Pseudo worms the fingers deep inside the dirt, and plants seeds right above where they lay. Several vegetables and fruits display a proud selection of food across the entire garden, whispering old screams of those lost inside the soil. Richie should be pleased to sprout zucchini.

“Pseudo?”

“Yes, dolly?”

But Chase does not respond. He mutters the name over and over under his breath, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, and nothing more. The sun hat and gardening gloves enjoy singing along.

Chase sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He rests his chin in his hand, yawning.

“Sleepy?”

When the puppet opens his eyes, he finds himself in the kitchen. He is set in his place at the table, with no hat and no gloves to whisper in his ears.

“Hhh-“ Chase sits up, fumbling for his senses. When did they come inside? What time is it?

“How did I get in here??” the puppet asks. His stomach growls, but not with hunger.

“You walked inside,” says Pseudo. He cuts the crusts off a turkey sandwich and pours a glass of homemade strawberry lemonade.

“I don’t remember…”

The monster carries the dishes to the doll, setting them in front of him. The sandwich has tomatoes and lettuce from the garden. The drink has strawberries and lemons from the garden. The garden has victims from the cellar. Chase begins to wonder how many people he has indirectly eaten.

He stares at the glass, watching ice cubes bathe themselves in pink.

“Here, drink,” says Pseudo, presenting the glass to his lips. “I know you’re thirsty.”

The puppet hesitates, but obeys.

Sugary sweet and delicious and cool. The lemonade is easy to drink, sour in the good way. Not the soap way.

He keeps drinking until he feels something warmer and softer than ice hit his top lip. Did Pseudo put fresh strawberries in it?

The puppet opens his eyes to look, and sees one staring right back at him.

“AHG!”

Chase spits the lemonade across the table, shoving the glass as far away from himself as he can. The drink comes pouring onto the sandwich, and the lettuce screams and cries as it is forced into a cold shower.

“Thats cold!!”

“Eye, eye, eye!!!” Chase cries, standing from his chair. Tears stream down his cheeks, stinging his eyes and blurring his sight. He falls dizzy back into his seat.

“You what, Pink?” Pseudo asks, setting the glass on the table in a puddle. He reaches one hand to gently push at the puppet’s arm, watching it struggle to regain its balance.

“Noo, eye!!” Chase points at his own, hyperventilating. His mind is spinning. He vaguely remembers helping Pseudo plant eyeballs in the dirt last year, beneath strawberry seeds. He wasn’t Pink when it happened, he was Chase.

“Oho,” Pseudo chuckles. “Yes, eye. Nowww I’ve got it.”

“I can’t drink that!! I won’t!! I c-“ Chase covers his mouth, screaming into his hands. He rocks softly forward, side, backward, side again, unable to collect a stable posture.

“Shhh,” Pseudo hushes. He tries to pry Chase’s hands away from his face, but they are glued to where they sit.

“Hey, heyyyyy, it’s okay, look at me, Pink..”

Chase shakes his head. He can feel other memories tugging at his mind, but he’s terrified to open those doors. Part of him pleads to keep them shut, to listen to Pseudo’s words and sink back down into the comfort of Pink. Part of him claws at the handles- he’ll wretch those memories from underneath the doors if he has to.

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