#fucking nauseating having someone take a taste of you..chew for a bit...then spit you out

[ickyuggy]

I am so fucking distressed I fucking hate this

I literally cant think about anything else

I miss him so bad and it makes me sick how desperately I'm praying that it isnt over

[shythesheep]

29 days whump challenge

challenge by @yuckwhump

Day 9: Car wreck II Starvation. CW: starvation, vomit, manipulation, creepy whumper, captive. 

Previous II Next

Dayle was drenched in sweat, and his breath is coated in a thick layer of foul-tasting spit. Has he been vomiting? There are no memories in his mind from yesterday’s banquet, well he does remember drinking cup of wine, but that is it. His head is hurting, and clutches him, turning onto his side to crumble into a small ball. He wants to kick the blanket off, it is warm and scratches his bare legs. He has never experienced this nauseating feeling before, it’s absolutely horrific, he prays to the gods that the king won’t want him playing today, the idea of him so much as putting the flute to his mouth makes him wince. Suddenly he feels a pull and his body heaves as liquid is forced up his throat and vomit splutters onto the side of the small cot, he his laying on. He takes a deep breath, still feeling as if some vomit might come up again, and it does. This time he expected the pain from the acid liquid burning his throat and nose, but none the less it made him shudder.

“A goddamn mut you are. I put a damn bucket on the other side but you still barfed all over the floor.” A guard without his amour is standing at the door, holding decanter with water and small clay mug. He sets it down quickly on a small stool before leaving the room. Dayle just looks at the direction he left with lazy eyes and his tongue slightly sticking out of his mouth. It tastes nasty. He glances over at the decanter, and makes a reach for it, but his arms are as heavy as stone and as soon as he has lifted the arm it plops down again by his side.

“Shit.” He mumbles and rubs his temples. He wriggles his body slightly, so he is turned to the other side, and the blanket ties itself tightly around his legs. He sees the bucket that the guard was talking about, he feels slightly bad about using the floor instead of it. But then he remembers his times in the warm chamber and all the times the guards would beat him senseless. Let him clean my vomit, he thinks, with all the intentions of not using the bucket.

“You look like a mess.” The guard grumbles as he enters the room with a bucket of soap water and a cloth. When he passes Dayle he scrunches his nose. “And you smell like it too.”

“Why thank you.” Whispers Dayle weakly, closing his eyes with a sigh.

The guard either didn’t hear him or chose not to reply. He is quick to wash the floor and as he gets up, he takes the bucket filled with now dirty water and puts it under Dayle’s head, which is laying a bit over the cot’s side.

“Oh, for gods’ sake.” Dayle screeches and flails to get away from the smell.

“Only fair that you smell it too.” Laughs the guard and removes the bucket, he places it in the corner of the small room and then he goes to fill the mug with water from the decanter. “Here, you need to drink.” The guard holds the mug out for Dayle to take. Dayle just stares at it, making no attempt at reaching for it. The guard's mouths twisted. “Listen, you need to drink. Otherwise you’ll dehydrate.”

“I don't think I can hold it without dropping it.” Dayle bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes never leaving the mug. The guard shook his head and open his mouth as if to say something but stopped. Dayle looks absolutely pitiful, his dark curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his blue eyes are distant and foggy. He is too pale for it to be healthy, and thin as well. The guard grunts before sitting down beside Dayle's body on the cot. Dayle attempts at getting further away but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his mouth drawn in a thin line of anticipation. Recognition dawns on the guard's face, he has seen that expression of Dayle’s on many new recruits, after they have been roughhoused by older guards or knights. Why does a personal servant of the king expect a hit from a guard who just cleaned up his vomit?

“I'm not going to hit you, but you need water, so let me help you.”

“How can I be sure. You are a guard...”

“More the reason for you to believe me.”

“I think we have very different opinions on that.” Dayle snaps but turns pale as soon as the words left his mouth, he tries to hide his fear by scowling at guard.

“Gods be damned. Just let me help you drink the water.”

“It’s not poisoned or something, right?”

“Oh, for fucks sake. Just drink.” The guard reaches his hand behind Dayle’s head to help him lift his head and then tilts the mug slightly, and Dayle lets him, too thirsty to struggle, vivid memories of his dry throat in the warm room is still present in his mind.

“Thanks.” He says out of habit. The guard simply nods and then turns to leave.

“Someone will come and check on you in an hour so, get some shut eye.” He says and the bids his farewell.

Dayle tosses and turns on the cot. His body still exhausted and aching, after yesterday’s punishment and of course the alcohol. But other than his nausea, he is feeling more relaxed than he ever has while staying at the castle. There is still a nagging voice that reminds him that the king could turn up any minute and demand his presence for either showing him off to some noble or to just have him in private play his flute or other activities. Dayle whimpers and turns to hide his face in the pillow. His thoughts drift to Alard and the others, he has long ago come to terms with the fact that they probably aren’t coming for him, for even if they knew of his situation, how would they ever be able to get him out of this mess. A few musicians against a King with knights and guards, sounds like a tragic ballade to tell. Of course, he still has a lingering hope that pulls at him, makes his heart ache for the long travels in their small caravan, with Lily and Tom running beside it, playing tag like any restless kids would, laughing. Alard’s old man would sit in the back with his old mandolin and play for his wife, Freya who would in turn read out stories from the old book she always carries with. He misses Alard’s carefree attitude, how he always had a joke or a song to sing when things got gloom. How his hands would fit so perfectly in Dayle’s own, warm to his cold. Sun kissed to pale. Opposites but compatible. Dayle takes a shuddering breath, he cries.

No one comes to check on him, not that he minds an awfully lot, he is feeling rather vulnerable and his happy that no one is here to exploit it. But he is starting to feel an immense hunger, he can’t remember the last time he has gotten a meal, and his stomach has been emptied a long time ago with all his vomiting. He won’t die, sure, but it doesn’t make his situation any more comfortable. Maybe someone will come soon.

From what he has gathered by seeing the sun rise and fall outside his window, he has been left to his own demise for at least three days, someone has been refilling his water decanter while he has been asleep, but no food has been left behind, and his head is now almost constantly swimming and making him feel as if the world is shaking if he as much as dares to move. On top of that he feels as I his stomach is burning on the inside, as if has started to dissolve itself. At first when these burning sensations started, he also threw up. Only liquid but it still charred the inside of his throat and mouth, and he quickly learned that water doesn’t help erase a bad after taste. The water doesn’t even make him feel full, there is never enough. He has fits now and again, or at least that is what he calls them. It is periods of time where he just feels as if his whole body is vibrating, like he is containing a storm inside, a storm of hunger likely.

 “How are you feeling?” Dayle can barely move, he has a thundering headache and he just manages to moan at the person questioning him. A hand is laid on his stomach, as if is trying to feel how empty he is. No one beside himself can feel that though. “Dearest.” Dayle freezes and fear dawns on him, the man sitting gently on his cot, is his master. His master is here, that can’t bode well. With weak conviction he pushes his left arm on to his master’s arm, to remove it from his person. His master misunderstands the gesture, or maybe he doesn’t, and grabs Dayle’s hand in his. He holds it tightly, gives it a light kiss on the backside.

“Please… s- “

“shushshush. Don’t waste your energy. I brought something for you.” His master slips his hand and turns to the maid standing by the door, she comes over with a plate filled with different kinds of fruits and what looks to be a piece of bread at the size of a fist. Dayle is uncertain of what this is supposed to mean, is the food for him? Is his master going to give him food, or is it once again one of his sick tricks? “Why so glum, Dearest, I have brought you the finest fruit, freshly plucked from my gardens.”

“For me?” Dayle laughs groggily and feels like he is about to cry.

“Of course, it is for you!” his master grabs his head and kisses his forehead, Dayle flinches at the action. The king grabs a few red grapes, and holds them up to Dayle’s mouth, and forces two into it. Dayle scrunches his eyebrows but chews slowly on the juicy fruits. The taste is overwhelming, and he must have made a grimace for the king giggles. “Good boy,” he says and pulls out Dayle’s flute, it had been hiding under the kings red jacket, sitting in his belt. “But now as a good boy, you need to earn your food.” He lays the flute into Dayle’s slack hand and makes Dayle’s fingers close around the instrument. “play me a small tune.” Dayle glares at the wretched thing in his hand but starts playing on it. He chooses to play a short piece, but he is still out of breath when he finishes off. A fog has been laid in his mind, and he grabs at the blanket to stabilize himself. “You truly are a good boy, Dearest, here.” His master takes the flute, and, in its stead, he puts the piece of bread. Dayle is about to bite into the bread, when he has finally gotten his breath back, but a hand clamps down on his mouth.

“You’ve forgotten something Dearest.” With wide round eyes, Dayle looks up at his master and a knot is tied around his throat. What has he forgotten? His muddled mind searches in desperation for something, but he can’t seem to find anything. He played the flute. He ate off of his master’s hand. What could he possibly have forgotten?

“A polite thank you master would suffice. Don’t you think so dearest?” Dayle nods weakly, and the hand is removed from his mouth.

“I apo- apologize master…” he takes a deep inhale. “Thank y-you for the food, ma…master.” He forces the sentences out, feeling dirty as they are spoken out loud.

“Anything for you Dearest.” His master replies, and as Dayle eats he starts to talk about what have been going on around court, as if Dayle is an equal and not just a toy for his amusement. Dayle listens as he eats, although he isn’t really listening, for he cannot seem to concentrate.

[lusciousbeast-blog]

The Godzilla Show

This pretty much sums up how I felt about the Toronto Bridal show. It’s taken me over a week to post about it because that’s how much time I’ve needed to recover - not at all because I’m inconsistent and procrastinate like crazy.

Deep breath. 

My first experience with The Bridal Show came when I worked at Lonestar. At the time, it was right across the street from the Metro Toronto Convention Centre and usually the first place hordes of women would come, in various states of mood, once they’d been chewed up and spit out by the many wedding related companies hawking their services. 

As staff, it was right up there with the body building show on the loathing scale. Like, one of the most hated weekends of the year to work. Generally, the women who came in were cranky, would order a shitty Lonestar garden salad (vinaigrette on the side of course), and countless vodka sodas or Diet Coke. And who can blame them really? It’s confusing being a bride-to-be at a bridal show! What kind of message are you supposed to get when every booth has a massive fish bowl filled with chocolate and/or candy, while simultaneously trying to sell you liposuction, so you can look “flawless” on your big day and fit into the monstrosity of a dress you spent thousands of dollars on, without feeling like your spanks have given you three extra ass lines. 

Needless to say, I was feeling more than a little bit nauseated at the idea of going. 

Upon arrival, I immediately felt like I didn’t belong. For one, most women in attendance had at least one other person with them, but in many cases, their entire bridal party, mother, aunt, and...and....I’d opted to go solo because a) my sister wouldn't be caught dead at such an event, and b) dragging someone else along felt like something only a bad friend would do. 

My first sucker stop was at the LipSense table - a lipstick brand that claims “LipColor that lasts, until you take it off.” Truer words have never been spoken. I hesitantly applied the required three coats of lip colour, followed by the gloss that you have to let fully dry before touching your lips together (because why, I was to afraid to ask), and then asked the brand rep if the product would come off with any old make up remover. Without much confidence she replied “Yes, but we strongly recommend you use our special brand of remover.” I quickly understood why. Turns out to get the kiss proof/smudge proof poison off my lips, you needed something akin to paint thinner. Thankfully, I decided to stop by the booth again before leaving the show. Even their “special” remover took longer than made me comfortable to get my lips back to normal, on top of making my kisser feel like it was slowly being eaten away by acid. The best part? You could buy the gloss AND the lip colour for the low low “Bridal Show” special price of $65 plus tax.

Fuck off LipSense. Fuck. Right. Off. 

I’ll happily re-apply something more natural on my big day 20 times over, if it means I don’t have to feel like I dunked my lips in a vat of industrial lye, even it means Craig looks like he got attacked by a pack of hormone ravaged 20 yr olds. 

Other observations? A jewelry stand that had so much tacky bling it could probably blind you, tables of cake samples that tasted like they'd been defrosted only hours earlier, whose moisture wasn’t so much from the cake itself, but the melted freezer burn, and lastly, one too many cheesy DJ services playing terrible remixes of great 80′s tunes. To top it all off, while a few of the higher end bridal shops had stands with a selection of lovely gowns, for the most part, the dresses on display looked like some version of this little gem, that someone was ACTUALLY paid to design. Oh please, please, PLEASE can I look like a mermaid covered in taffeta on my wedding day?! 

After a failed attempt at finding the station that was sampling wine, in a little under an hour and a half, and one too many mediocre cake samples later, I decided to call it quits. Thankfully, the price of admission was made up for by the fact that I walked away with two new bridal magazines, bringing my total count to six. Six more than I ever thought I would ever own in my lifetime. The little planning guide will definitely come in useful, because as it turns out, this whole ordeal is all consuming. 

On a more positive note, entering all the free vacation giveaways was made much easier by the fact that every bridal show attendee had to make and wear, an ID badge that allowed all vendors to simply scan a barcode and BOOM, you’re entered into a contest to win a luxury honeymoon to somewhere tropical at the same time as giving away all your personal information and your freedom. I have yet to receive a call informing me that I’ve won. Till the next time. 

xo

LB