#summerofwhump25

[sideblogformindtrash]

SUMMER OF WHUMP - DAY 25 - ISOLATION

BBs tragic tale continues

CW: nudity (non sexual), pet whump, claustrophobia, abusive relationship, hair grabbing, human trafficking, environmental, gag

Oreos was happy. They had been for a while, living with their face glued to the truck's windows, always mesmerized with how… big the world actually was, as they passed through endless roads, surrounded by mountains, forests and fields. Oreos had never seen more than a couple of streets and most of their life had been inside a couple of rooms.

It was a bit lonely. The world was immense, and knowing that, made Oreos feel so small. Especially the way they crossed so many other people, never really talking to any of them. They weren't surprised the Master had decided to get a pet to accompany them on their journey. It must have been lonely, all the nights sleeping on that truck alone, only the vast, vast sky above them.

Master seemed more than content to have Oreos to cuddle with. And, sometimes, he'd let Oreos talk on the radio. Oreos was kind of famous even among Master's friends! They all thought it was adorable when Oreos was on the radio. Adorable!!

And Master had teached Oreos how to help, too. Oreos could help him with repairs and refill, and even unload the cargo, when it wasn't too heavy. Oreos liked that, as they got to go outside for a bit.

They'd also stop at places to get gas and supplies. Oreos loved those stops. Sometimes, the places had showers so Oreos could get clean. They were timed, but usually warm. And Master always, always let Oreos pick one item from the shop. Usually, this ended up being a snack. After all… Oreos loved that they could eat, again. They loved not having to struggle for food, and getting extra snacks was a fantastic luxury the pet would never have hoped for. But sometimes, Oreos risked other things, like colorful magazines, small toys, and even a pair of star shaped glasses. Master never questioned, as long as it was just one item.

The only thing Oreos didn't like…Was when Master went home.

When Master took Oreos to his home, he was happy to show them to his family but… They didn't react well. They got angry that Master had made this purchase, spouse didn't want Oreos on their home, they despised the very idea of pets.

And so, Oreos was confined to the truck, when Master was home. Sometimes, that was only one day or two. Other times… Oreos had to wait for weeks. The truck was fine, when the world outside was beautiful and big and ever changing, but it was small and claustrophobic when it was always parked on that same street, nothing ever changing.

It got very hot there, sometimes. And Oreos only got to go out once a day, after spouse and kids were asleep, and Master would sneak them into the bathroom for cleaning while he replenish their supplies.

It was only a couple of minutes, and then, Oreos would be locked away again. Still, they knew how lucky they were for having all they had in there: a bed, comfy clothes, as much food as they wanted and a Master that was kind enough to visit them for a few minutes most days.

Some others… there was fighting. A lot of shouting from inside the house. Sometimes spouse would wake up while Oreos showered, and all hell would break loose.

Oreos was even pushed out of the house once, naked and still dripping soapy water from the shower, while the spouse threatened Master with "divorce" if they helped the pet again.

Lucky for Oreos, Master ended up sneaking them in a few hours later, so they could clean the soap and go back to the truck safely before morning.

Yet, one day… it wasn't the Master that appeared to take Oreos. It was the spouse, smiling with contempt. Oreos tried to protest, because they didn't want to go with spouse. They would obey Master, only Master…

But spouse shoved a gag on Oreos, and dragged them to the car, having little difficulty despite their struggling. They drove away from the house, the truck, the Master and life Oreos loved.

...The spouse sold Oreos for a thin, tall man that smelled like cigarettes and had a cold, harsh stare. They grabbed a fistful of Oreos hair, so hard it hurt, while Oreos still fought to get back to the car, to go back to Master.

...They fought until the car disappeared in the distance, and heavy tears fell through Oreos face, as they saw the only happy part of their life be taken away. They… They didn’t even get to say goodbye.

They turned to face the new Master, letting their body limp and calming their breath. Now… All they could do was be good. Accept that their life had changed yet again. Maybe this one would be nice, too. If not… that’s okay.

"...You have a name, pet?"

"Oreos, sir"

...A harsh slap.

"...Not anymore. You are just Pet. And it's not ‘sir’, I'm your Master, now, and you'll address me as such" they smiled, and pointed at a big luggage bag "Now… get in there, love"

tagging:  @summer-of-whump @pinkraindropsfell

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 25: Isolation

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi & Umino Iruka, pre-relationship

WC: ~2000

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Depression. Self-isolation.

A/N: This is sad, but it's also oddly sweet in the end?

~

Naruto leaves to train with Jiraiya and Iruka is happy for him, he really is. He’s happy that he’s with one of the strongest shinobi of their time, that Jiraiya-sama is going to keep them moving and keep Naruto safe from the Akatsuki. He’s happy that Naruto made time to see him before they left, and that he promised to write as much as Jiraiya deems it to be safe.

Really, he’s happy.

That doesn’t mean that he’s not…

Upset? No, that’s not right.

Within two weeks, Iruka stops going out after work. He packs up his bag and locks up his classroom, and when the other teachers wave him down and ask if he’d like to join them for drinks he says something like, “I appreciate the offer, but I have a lot of grading. Maybe next time?” And then next time comes around and he shakes them off again. After five or six attempts, his co-workers stop asking. Iruka’s not sure if he’s relieved or not.

Anko tries to invite herself over, but Iruka denies her entry, stating that he hasn’t cleaned.

“What? That’s never stopped us hanging out before! C’mon, Ruka, I’ve got beer and bad movies! It’s Friday night!”

But, no, he really hasn’t cleaned in… How long has it been since Naruto left? He closes the door, begging off that he just doesn’t feel up to it tonight. “Maybe next week?”

Anko tries again for the next three weeks. Iruka changes the wards and locks after she breaks in when he denies her the fourth time. She doesn’t try again after that.

And then the Academy goes on a month-long break. He sees Izumo and Kotetsu at the Desk, where he assists four afternoons each week. They talk over him and try to pull him into their conversations, but he does his work and then goes home without exchanging a word with either of them. He gets enough socialization from yelling at the shinobi who think that because he’s… low… means his standards for accepting mission reports have also dropped.

They haven’t. That news gets around quickly enough.

Tsunade-sama asks if he’d like to take on extra shifts or duties. He tells her he doesn’t have the time. It’s not wrong; but also, it’s not time he’s missing, not really. She looks at him oddly, but accepts his answer. Shizune gives him a folder of paperwork to peruse at home, just in case he changes his mind?

(She lied. The “paperwork” is informational pamphlets on empty nest syndrome, depression, and self-isolating. Iruka burns them all. He doesn’t leave himself in a room with just the two of them again.)

He’s only working enough to keep the lights on and put rice in the pantry. The rest of his time is spent curled up on his bed, staring into the abyss of his bedroom. Over the next week he uses up every other bit of food in his home, even the emergency ration bars in his closet. Anything to not have to leave the house unnecessarily and see everyone’s pity.

He’s not…

He’s happy for Naruto.

He’s not even related to Naruto. He can’t have empty nest syndrome because Naruto never lived with him!

Iruka absolutely doesn’t cry himself to sleep. Because he’s happy, damnit.

~

Iruka stops going to work. He can hardly make himself get out of bed anymore. He uses the toilet and makes a pot of rice once every other day, eating it cold between fresh pots. Tea is too much work, even though a niggling part of him that sounds like Sandaime-sama says that fresh, hot tea would do wonders for his mood. Instead he’s drinking only water from the tap and barely remembering to wash his cup afterwards.

Izumo and Kotetsu come over and knock repetitively on both his front door and his bedroom window. Iruka stays in bed and ignores them. He can’t take their pity anymore.

He wants desperately to be with his friends, but more than that he wants to want to be with them.

There’s laundry all over his bedroom floor, and he’s not sure how that happened because he’s been wearing the same uniform for—days? Weeks? The apartment is a mess, but how because he stays in bed all day except to eat or use the toilet.

His body aches.

He stares at a picture taken of him and Naruto after his back injury had healed. It has a place of honor on his nightstand, next to his perpetually empty rice bowl and glass of room-temperature water.

Maybe… maybe, in the solitude of his own home, he can admit that he’s a little bit sad that Naruto’s gone.

~

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember waking up.

He exists in an odd between-state; the worst part is that he exists.

Every breath hurts. Naruto’s smile lights up his room from his nightstand, but it’s the only beacon he has left.

The knocking starts up again an hour before he’s supposed to report to the Desk. It continues, again, six hours later. Both times, he tunes it out. He’s not ready.

~

Kakashi clutches the letter in his hand and looks up at the apartment complex. Naruto had been gone just over a month and already sent a letter trying to hide how much he misses everyone. But in his very last post-script, he asked Kakashi to do something…

Please check in on Iruka-sensei for me. He’s really good at hiding how he’s feeling, even if it includes hiding himself away.

And, well, Naruto can’t have known about the tiny crush Kakashi’s been harboring for Iruka since he stood up to him at the chūnin exam nominations almost a year ago. But he can do this for his student.

So he steps up to Iruka’s door and knocks. And instead of the door he knocked on opening, the neighbor’s does.

“What’s all this again—oh, you’re new,” the woman says.

“Ah, yes, I suppose,” Kakashi stammers. “I’ve been off on a mission and just got back. Do you know if he’s home?”

She scoffs. “He doesn’t leave anymore.”

Shit.

“His friends stopped trying to get him to open the door three days ago. Blessed silence, for once.”

“My apologies, for disturbing you,” he says. He places a hand on the door and gently tugs at the wards. They’re strong—stronger than what a chūnin schoolteacher should bother having, but not strong enough that he can’t break through. “I’ll be only a minute longer.”

“See that you are,” the woman shuffles back inside. “It’s been wonderful since Umino stopped bringing the Fox around. No screeching.”

Kakashi wills himself to ignore her and turn back to Iruka’s door. The neighbor’s door clicks shut, and so he pulls up his hitai-ate and looks at the wards with the sharingan. It takes him a careful three minutes of chakra manipulation to undo them, but soon the wards fall and Kakashi turns the handle.

Unlocked.

The apartment is… cluttered? It could use a quick clean-up, definitely. There’s this layer of dust on many of the hard surfaces, and the floors could use a mop. But at first glance, it doesn’t look like some homes he’s stepped into holding depressed people.

A quick look in the kitchen shows much more evidence of Iruka hiding something. Dishes overflow the sink, the stove top has burned grains of rice stuck in places, and an overwhelming bland smell permeates the air. He steps in quickly and checks the fridge, sighing. There’s a few condiment bottles, but other than that there was only a container of rice in the middle shelf.

He’s torturing himself. Kakashi wonders if he’s aware of this.

There are three doors at the end of a short hallway outside of the living room. One, on the right, is a bathroom. The other, the left one, he can tell is the “spare” room Naruto claims is his—there’s a ramen poster pinned to the door, and while he remembers that Iruka is also very fond of ramen, he feels he can say with surety that Iruka wouldn’t decorate with ramen-themed posters.

This leaves the center door at the very end. He knocks twice before opening the door slowly.

Here is where the depression has settled, clearly.

Here is where Iruka is laid out on his side, curled slightly towards his nightstand. His hair is down, streaming across his pillow in clumps. There are clothes all over the floor; Kakashi wonders if any of them are clean. Probably not; he’ll assume not. There are ration bar wrappers near the bedside and empty dishes scattered around.

He’s torn. Should he clean up and then rouse Iruka; or talk to Iruka and then ask if he wants help cleaning up?

Kakashi tries to remember what he was like after losing… but it’s not the same, is it? It’s never the same. Every loss, every kind of loss, hits differently.

He steps over dirty clothes and kicks aside food wrappers. He kneels down beside Iruka’s nightstand and pushes aside a clump of hair that had fallen over his face. Iruka’s eyes are red-rimmed, sunken, and worst of all, cold.

“Naruto sent me,” he starts with, hoping it will get a reaction. It doesn’t. He follows Iruka’s gaze to a picture of the two of them, taken a week or so after Naruto became genin. How had he never noticed that Iruka and Naruto have the same wide smile? Naruto must have picked it up from Iruka.

“He was worried that you would hide away how you’re feeling,” Kakashi continues. “I suppose he was right to worry.”

No response.

“You can’t keep isolating yourself, sensei,” he says. “It’s not healthy.”

An answer, finally, comes softly. “Okay.”

Kakashi narrows his eye. “Okay?”

Iruka shrugs.

“Iruka, do you even know what day it is?”

Iruka shrugs again.

Kakashi carefully reaches out to touch him. Iruka flinches at the contact, but allows it. He pleads, “You need to go outside.”

“People stare,” he mutters. “Don’t want their pity.”

“I’ll keep them from looking at you,” Kakashi says.

“How?”

“I can be fairly intimidating when I want to be.” Kakashi puts his hand on top of Iruka’s. His skin is dry and cracked on his fingertips. “Will you come with me?” he asks.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

Iruka blushes. “I... I don’t have anything clean to wear.”

Kakashi smiles. “That’s an easy fix. We’ll make a plan and do it later, after the laundry is done.”

“I don’t have the energy to—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he waves his other hand. “Why don’t you go clean up?”

Iruka squeezes his eyes shut tight and his shoulders shake minutely. “I think my hair’s a loss,” he sniffs. “I’d have to cut it off and I—”

“Iruka, please,” Kakashi interrupts. He leans in and presses his masked lips to the back of Iruka’s hand. “No more excuses. Please, try for me? For Naruto? He’d hate to see you like this. I hate to see you like this. If you need your hair cut, I’ll cut it. If you need fresh clothes, I’ll wash them. If you need groceries, I’ll buy them. I want to help you. Please let me help you.”

Iruka doesn’t open his eyes for a long time, but he also doesn’t pull away. Kakashi waits. And when the nod comes, small and hesitantly, he can’t help but kiss Iruka’s hand again.

“I’m sorry,” Iruka whispers. “I shouldn’t—it’s—I’m being such a burden and I’m sorry.”

“You’re worth it,” Kakashi shakes his head. “Whatever burden you are, I’m willing to carry it if it comes with you.”

Iruka blushes. “That’s… don’t use your Icha Icha lines on me, please.”

“It’s not a line,” Kakashi says. “Come on, you need a shower, a shave, and some real food—not just rice. I’ll start a load of laundry while you’re cleaning up, and order in.”

“What about outside…?”

“We’ll do that tomorrow.”

[set-phasers-to-whump]

you’re safe now

prompt: hallucination

whumpee: eddie diaz

fandom: 911

hi! here is some eddie and hen content bc i love these 2 so much... i hope you like it! (also sorry about the title i hate it so much but i cannot think lmao)

Eddie is acting off. Sort of spacey and out of it and generally just very much not himself. It’s weirding Hen out, and she can tell by the looks she and the rest of the 118 are sharing that it’s weirding them out too. 

Nobody has said anything to him yet. Bobby had told them that, “he’ll tell us what’s wrong if he feels ready,” and “as long as it’s not affecting his job, I’m not going to pry.” Which Hen gets. She knows how Eddie is. It’s just that she also really wants to know, wants to help, if she can. But she isn’t sure that she should ask in the first place. And Buck (who would absolutely ask, and in fact, probably would have already) is off today, so he’s not talking to Eddie about it either. 

“Do you think we should talk to him?” she asks Chim, in a quiet moment when the both of them are sitting together on the couch. She glances pointedly at Eddie, who is sitting at the counter, staring off into space with a blank look on his face. 

“Do I want to? Hell yes. Do I think we should? Probably not. You know Eddie.”

That she does. But still. She has a feeling this is more than an off day, more than just being a little out of it. 

Her concern for her friend outweighing her respect of his privacy, Hen gets up from the couch, determined to sit down next to Eddie and gently pry until he tells her what’s wrong. 

She doesn’t get the chance. She’s halfway to the stool next to Eddie when he shoves himself up and stumbles backwards from the counter. Hen hurries to steady him, but he’s already moving away, backing up until his back hits the wall. 

“Eddie?”

He sinks down, scooching himself sideways and into the corner. He looks like he’s shaking. The color has drained from his face and his eyes are wide and he looks afraid. It’s a look Hen has rarely seen on him, and now she knows something is really, seriously wrong. 

She approaches him slowly, carefully, narrating what she’s doing until she’s crouched in front of him. Eddie shows no signs of even being aware of her presence. 

This close, she can hear his erratic breathing, and she can feel heat radiating off of his skin. He has a fever, and a bad one at that. Hen’s about to call for help when Eddie sort of eliminates the need by screaming. It’s raw and terrified and loud and so completely unlike him that it makes her jump. 

“Eddie!” Hen says, trying desperately to get his attention. He stops screaming but then just sits there, panting and shaking and making these soft and scared noises that tear at her heart. 

“What’s going on?” Bobby is running up the stairs to the loft, Chim and Probie close behind him. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Hen says. “He’s got a fever and he’s panicking but -”

Wait a minute. It’s much more common in children and the elderly, but…

“He could be hallucinating, if his fever’s high enough.”

“Eddie? Can you see me?” Bobby asks, stepping in closer.

No answer. Eddie pushes himself further into the corner, like he’s trying to get away from Bobby, who takes a few steps back.

“Can you hear me?” Hen tries.

Nothing. 

But Eddie doesn’t back away from her, so Hen reaches out a careful hand and touches the inside of his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. 

As she’d expected, his pulse is racing. She counts the beats. “His BPM is at least 180, but it’s increasing. Cap, we might need to get him to the hospital. Especially if he is hallucinating.”

Bobby nods. “Chim, go prep the ambulance. Hen, try and calm him down so we can actually get him into it.”

Chim nods and hurries down the stairs, with Ravi following behind him. Bobby stays, but positions himself further away from Eddie and Hen. 

“Eddie?” Hen tries, again. “Eddie, can you look at me?”

She carefully places a hand on his cheek. His skin is blistering to the touch and he unconsciously leans into her cool hand. Hen wonders how exactly they missed this all morning. Then again, Eddie’s always been good at hiding things. 

“Eddie? Please look at me. I promise you, whatever you’re seeing, whatever’s scaring you, it’s not going to hurt you. You’re safe. You’re safe, Eddie. You’re at the 118. You’re with me, and you know I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re safe.”

Finally, Eddie looks at her. The eye contact is unnerving and frankly heartbreaking. There’s a mixture of fear and grief and pain in Eddie’s eyes, and Hen doesn’t think she has ever seen him this vulnerable. 

“Hen?” Eddie’s voice is low and unsure and fragile, but it’s there. Hen sighs in relief. 

“That’s right,” she says. “It’s me.”

“I saw...there was…” She can hear the panic in his voice, which has just confirmed her suspicions - hallucinations. He doesn’t need to talk about them right now, though. That is certainly not going to help him relax.

“Shh, it’s okay. It wasn’t real, it was just a hallucination. Whatever you saw, you’re safe now.”

A look of confusion briefly crosses Eddie’s face, but it’s quickly replaced with one of exhaustion. 

“I don’t feel good,” he says, and some of the fear is now bleeding out of his voice and his face. Hen relaxes slightly - he seems to have stopped hallucinating, at least for the time being. And he’s now able to focus on how bad this fever must feel.

“I bet you don’t,” she says, sympathetically. “You’ve got a pretty high fever.”

Eddie hums in response, leaning his head back against the wall and letting his eyes flutter closed. Hen taps his cheek lightly. 

“None of that,” she says sternly. “You’re going to the hospital.”

That catches his attention. “Why?”

“Because you have a fever high enough to cause hallucinations. You need medical attention, and before you say it, I don’t count yet. You need a doctor, and that’s what you’re getting.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees. Hen takes that as an indication of how bad he must feel - normally, she imagines he’d be fighting tooth and nail to avoid going. 

“Okay?” Hen asks, and he gives a small nod. She stands, then, and reaches her hands down to pull Eddie to his feet. 

He leans heavily into her when they stand up together, his body heat soaking right through her uniform. His fever is probably at least 104, and the fact that he is standing at all is a miracle. 

“Let’s get you taken care of, okay?” Hen asks, beginning their slow, awkward walk down to the ambulance. 

“Okay,” Eddie agrees, doing his best to walk along but mostly just hanging onto Hen as she walks for the both of them. He stumbles a bit as they hit the stairs, and Hen pulls him closer, not letting him fall. 

“I’ve got you,” she promises, as his hands cling even more tightly onto her shirt. “I’ve got you.”

thanks for reading this! i hope it wasn’t too bad :)

[getyourwhumphere]

Summer of Whump: Day 25-Isolation

CW: claustrophobia

Whumpee couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t see or hear anything. Every time they tried to scream, they didn’t know if anyone could hear them. Anyone could do anything to them right now, and their heart raced at the thought.

Whumper had promised to put them through hell, and they had finally managed to.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Summer of Whump 25: Isolation

Featuring my oc Eli from Experiment 13.

@whumping-out-of-time @forthetaintedsorrow-whump

CW: referenced human experimentation, isolation, fear, brief death ideation, feeling trapped

Locked in the iron casket from the neck down, I could do nothing but listen to the ringing silence and my own distorted heartbeat. I had disappointed Dr. Steele yet again, and now he was punishing me. The isolation chamber had grown familiar in the past few weeks, and that familiarity had congealed into a knot of fear in my throat. I swallowed hard. Everything would be fine. I could do this. I wouldn’t fail.

But my aching body said otherwise. The effects of the most recent serum injection hadn’t yet worn off, and my limbs tingled with a strange, indescribable pain. My chest felt like it had been crushed, turning the simple act of breathing into a Sisyphean task. Each exhale was followed by a moment of immense relief that it was over, before I realized I had to do it all over again.

And the doctor knew. He knew how I felt, and he still punished me for disappointing him. He punished me with isolation. I was completely alone here, alone with no sense of time passing. For all I knew, days had gone by since he locked me in. The only noises were the sound of my own labored breathing and the inner throb of my racing pulse. I tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but the casket—the casket rendered my body useless, and the iron collar around my neck pressed into my skin. I heaved in a painful breath. Maybe it would be easier to just stop breathing altogether. But that would mean I had failed, and failure wasn’t an option.

I shut my eyes. Another chance. There would be another chance. I just needed to survive this punishment, survive the silence and isolation and pain until Dr. Steele let me out. Whenever that was.

[hale-13]

Detached

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 25 Prompt - Isolation

Truth is, Peter didn’t do the best alone. He was an extrovert at heart and probably had some repressed abandonment issues he’d rather not think about right now but this was fine. He was fine.

Words: 3213, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, May Parker, Tony Stark

TW: Depression, Delirium, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Descent into Madness

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Peter groaned, squinting his eyes shut further instead of trying to open them. His head was throbbing and his thoughts were sluggish and dizzy. He could tell he was lying down but everything seemed to be spinning around him making him feel nauseous – he swallowed down the bile attempting to rise in his throat and took deep breaths through his nose. Mind over matter and all that. Once he felt a little more steady, Peter took stock.

The floor he was lying on was hard and cold and he was positioned awkwardly with his arms folded under him, tingles running through them painfully from the compression of veins and arteries. Carefully, Peter cracked his eyes open. The room he was in was dark and the air had the damp quality of somewhere underground and Peter blinked his eyes shut again. Yeah he had no idea where he was or how he got here.

With effort, he rolled over to lie flat on his back but made no attempt to try and sit up yet. The last thing he remembered was getting up for school. It was Friday and he was looking forward to going to Ned’s after school and spending the weekend having movie marathons and building the newest Star Wars Lego kit Ned had picked up with his birthday money. He remembered getting ready to leave, pulling his Spider-Man suit from his bag and hiding it in his closet (he had promised to take a break since he had been overdoing just a little over the last few weeks), he thumbed past a text from Mr. Stark – he didn’t want to read anything from him right now, fighting stressed him out and he didn’t want to deal with it…

He left his apartment. He was going to walk to school instead of taking the subway because it was hot out and he was feeling a little sensitive today and he wasn’t sure he could handle the smell. His Spidey sense had been tingling since he had gotten up that morning but it had been doing that off and on for days since his fight with…

He was walking to school. Everything was fine.

But now he’s here? How did it happen? Peter’s head throbbed lowly and threateningly as he tried to wrack his memory for the answer so he stopped and tried to make himself relax. He was probably kidnapped right? He had been kidnapped a couple times before and he knew how this worked. Once his assailants realized he was awake and semi-aware they would come in to highlight their terms, probably rough him up a bit and then Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes would track him down and break him out.

But… would Mr. Stark really come to get him now? After everything.

‘Don’t think about that Peter,’ he told himself. He was already about five seconds from a panic attack and that just wouldn’t do. He needed to keep it together. If his captors thought he was breaking so early things could get so much worse. He was fine. Just some deep breaths.

Peter opened his eyes again. The room was almost too dark to see anything, lit only by a small red emergency light in one corner that left strange shadows and distorted shapes and colors. The room was small – maybe ten feet by ten feet if he was lucky – and mostly empty. There were three large cases with water bottles and a few boxes of crackers in one corner and a metal toilet was in the other. A haphazard pile of ratty looking blankets that smelled like mildew were a few feet away from Peter.

This was new. He was almost never provided water or food in the few times he had been taken before, not that he was gone long enough to need anything.

Something felt off.

Using every bit of strength he had left, Peter levered himself up and leaned heavily against the wall while his vision span in circles and nausea crept back up his throat. Whatever he had been dosed with must have been pretty potent to leave him feeling like this. So plans. He would wait to see what the people who took him wanted. He would let his metabolism work off the drugs. Maybe he would crawl over and grab a bottle of water once he felt a little more steady and hope that they hadn’t been tampered with.

It was all a waiting game.

————————————————

Okay so this was weird.

Peter took another sip of his - up tampered thank god – water and swirled it around in his mouth. It had easily been at least a few hours since he had woken up and no one had come through the solid metal door that Perter had yet been able to break through. Someone always came in to monologue.

And it just proved that whoever took him knew he was Spider-Man since he wasn’t able to break out.

“This is fine,” Peter said out loud just to hear something. “They’re just working on a longer timeline is all.”

Truth is, Peter didn’t do the best alone. He was an extrovert at heart and probably had some repressed abandonment issues he’d rather not think about right now but this was fine. He was fine.

More time passed.

And more time.

Pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders and wedging himself into a corner Peter curled tightly around his legs. He was tired and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs or if it had been that long he had been trapped here. Regardless he figured he may as well take a nap. Hopefully it would encourage some asshole into bursting into the room to wake him up and, if it didn’t, maybe sleeping would help clear the remaining fog from Peter’s head.

His sleep was anything but easy though. He woke up continuously as if startled and it took forever to relax enough again to doze. He had nightmares; little nebulous things that made little sense and faded the second he woke up but left his respiratory rate elevated and his heart thudding in his chest. It took time but he eventually was tired enough to sleep deep enough not to dream.

When he woke up the room was completely unchanged and Peter gulped. His mind was spiraling and taking him to dark places and it wasn’t the time to go there yet. He hadn’t even been here for that long he didn’t think. Maybe not even a full day. It wasn’t time to freak out yet.

Peter distracts himself by grabbing another water bottle and a pack of the peanut butter crackers. He eats three of them and saves the rest of the pack for later. Washes it down with a few sips of water and tries to ignore the aching and cramping in his stomach as it growls. Something is telling him to ration his food and water. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be stuck here after all but it can’t be that much longer right? Mr. Stark will come to get him. He wouldn’t leave him here.

The ‘day’ passes slowly. Peter paces the full length of the room, he searches every nook and cranny for cameras or microphones. He tries to take apart the emergency light but its completely sealed and he doesn’t want to tamper with it and potentially leave himself in complete darkness. He counts his water bottles (one hundred forty-eight since he already drank two) and his crackers (forty-nine and a half packs) and organizes and reorganizes them. He paces some more and practices his breathing exercises.

He falls into an uneasy sleep.

“Okay time to come up with a plan,” Peter tells himself the next day. “A feasible plan.”

He comes up with nothing. He likes brainstorming but he’s always needed to write things down to properly organize anything and he has nothing to write with but blood and nothing to write on but the wall. He’s not desperate enough to do that.

Instead he does fifty push up and sit ups. It feels good to do something physical so he jogs around the room for what’s probably a few hours. He stops when he drains a full bottle of water in a second and he can’t do that. He doesn’t know how long he’s here and he has to ration and what if no one comes to get him and he’s stuck here forever and he runs out of food and water a human can only go without water for a few days and…

Peter gasps and collapses to his knees, bowing his face down to rest his forehead on the cool stone floor as the room spins from lack of oxygen and he tries to control his breathing. Four-Seven-Eight. He remembers that from his, very few, therapy appointments after Ben. Four-Seven-Eight. Four-Seven-Eight.

It’s not working.

Peter sobs brokenly and his throat feels like its closing, his vision is spinning and dimming his muscles are weak and-

He wakes up with a gasp and a cough some untold amount of time later. His head hurts from the panic attack and he lets himself cry quietly for a few minutes. He’s alone. He hates being alone.

How long has he been here?

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is a little unhinged and that just won’t do. Peter needs to lock it down and get his shit together because he can’t just sit here and lose it because that is flat out unacceptable.

So he gets up and walks around the bare room. He does some yoga that he had been learning from Pepper and May and focuses on his breathing since breathing is important in yoga. When he’s done he does some cool down stretches and feels a lot better. More steady. He eats the other three crackers in the pack he opened up and drinks some water. He’s tired so he curls back up in the corner with his blanket and pillows his head on his arm.

He wakes up and the room is unchanged.

Again.

How long has he been here?

Peter’s stomach feels like its actually eating itself so he eats a couple crackers and indulges in half a bottle of water. It does nothing to make him more full but he pretends it does. He feels a little weak and out of it this ‘morning’ and he stumbles as he walks laps around the room. He hasn’t gone this long without a decent meal since he was bitten and its freaking him out a little.

The yoga worked yesterday. He’s going to do more of that he thinks.

His limbs are shakier than yesterday and he gets out of breath on some of the more advanced poses so he slows down and really takes the time to work through each new position and hold it before slowly transitioning to the next. He’s exhausted when he finishes and can barely do a short cool down due to his painful muscles so he just lies flat on his back for a while and breathes through it.

His head itches from the sweat he’s worked up and when he scratches at his scalp his fingernails come away with little balls of dead skin and blood under them and he crinkles his nose. He hasn’t gone this long without a proper shower in… a long time and he hates it. He wants to be clean. His hair is greasy and flat and flopping into his face.

He could use some of the water. He doesn’t have soap and its not the same as a shower but…

No. He needs to save the water. He can handle being dirty for a few more days. A week tops. He’ll be out of here soon. Maybe he should take a nap to pass the time? He is kinda sleepy from his workout, a nap would be nice.

When he wakes up again he doesn’t bother moving. He’s really tired and its not like he has anywhere to be so what’s the point?

He closes his eyes again.

He’s only eaten two full packs of crackers since he got here so Peter decides to gorge himself and eat a full pack of six and drink a full bottle of water. His throat is dry and his tongue is sticky and tacky in his mouth from dehydration so the food and water are like nectar and ambrosia to him. But…

He had more water right?

Peter counts the bottles and comes up two short. That’s impossible, he’s alone and he didn’t drink two extra bottles so where did they go? His breath is coming out in hasty pumps as he panics and counts again. No! He’s missing three bottles! How is this happening?

Peter stumbles up and goes to the door. Someone has to have come in while he was asleep and taken the water so that means the door was opened. He scrabbles at the edges, tearing his nails to shreds and smearing blood everywhere as he tears at the hinges to try to get it opened. It has to open!

His breath is coming too fast and his lungs are burning and his eyes are burning and he’s choking and falling to the floor and-

He wakes up curled in a ball by the door feeling out of it but more in control. He drags himself back to his pile of water bottles and, very carefully, counts them again.

And once more.

He isn’t missing any after all, he just didn’t count correctly. Peter wants to laugh. Peter wants to cry. He does neither. His muscles are tight and on the verge of cramping so he does some light stretches to try to work everything out. It helps a little but he feels too tired and out of it to do laps around the room or yoga and he’s afraid to meditate so he curls back up in the corner again. He’s hungry but he doesn’t dare eat anymore crackers since he had a full pack already today.

Or was it yesterday?

He decides it doesn’t matter – he can’t eat them right now. What he can do is sleep so he does.

His dream is about May. About sitting in the kitchen and listening to classic rock and pretending to do his homework but really gossiping about his classmates and her about her coworkers while she burns pork chops in the oven. They laugh while they fan the smoke away from the blaring fire alarm and out the open window and pull out a take out menu at random from the drawer. They aren’t picky eaters and they’re curled up on the couch watching Stranger Things with tacos. May jumps and launches her taco toward the ceiling and they spend the rest of the night cleaning avocado off the popcorn ceiling.

He wakes up with silent tears leaking down his face and a feeling of desolation eating up his insides. It feels like his heart is clenching and like his chest is closing in painfully and his stomach doesn’t ache from hunger for once but feels like a tightly clenched back hole instead. Peter doesn’t bother wiping his face, just turns over to face the wall and curls up even tighter. It’s too hard to move.

It’s a few days later that his legs start cramping whenever he moves them too suddenly and he feels like screaming from the resisting burning pain. He isn’t really hungry anymore but he forces down a couple of crackers everyday and tries to drink at least half a bottle of water. He’s losing weight as his metabolism eats at his minimal fat stores before starting on his muscles and he panics again when he notices his stomach is starting to become concave.

How long has he been here?

Peter supposes it makes sense though. Why would Mr. Stark come for him now? After what he did? His mentor may be the very definition of a helicopter parent but he wasn’t strict and if Peter would have just listened to him… but now he’s alone.

Peter sniffs loudly. He’s cried a few times since he’s been here but he hasn’t let himself break down. He’s tried to keep it together but is it really worth it? He’s alone. No one’s coming for him.

He’s going to die here. Alone.

He sobs. He wants to cry but the tears won’t come so all that’s left are painful, hitching breaths and horrible whining sounds. He doesn’t think he even sounds human anymore and maybe he isn’t. He doesn’t feel human.

He doesn’t make the effort to eat or drink that day and the next time he wakes up he’s too weak to even crawl over to the pile of water bottles and crackers. He decides that it’s a good thing. He can feel himself losing it, can feel himself falling apart and at least this way he’ll go quicker. He can’t stand this. He can’t stand being alone. He wants May. He wants Ned and MJ. He wants Mr. Stark. He doesn’t want to die and he really doesn’t want to die alone.

This isn’t fair.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t-

He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. He hadn’t seen May in two days before he was taken due to her schedule and now he’d never see her again. He was the last of her family and he was being selfish and leaving her alone. He’d already taken away he husband and now look at him? He breaks everything he touches.

He’s tired. He’s so tired. Peter lets his eyes close. He’s just going to nap.

“Kiddo? Rhodey he’s not responding he looks… fuck Rhodey clear me a path I’ve got to get him out of here! Peter, its me kid. You’re okay I’m going to take care of everything now so you just relax alright? Rhodes I swear to god if you don’t handle it.”

Peter frowns in his delirium. That voice sounds like Mr. Stark but that’s impossible. Peter’s dead. He was dying. He gave up right?

“I’ve got you buddy you’re going to be just fine,” the voice says again and it sounds a little robotic – just like Mr. Stark does in the Iron Man armor actually. He feels like he’s floating. “You’re aunt and I have been worried sick Petey, you didn’t even send a postcard!” The voice is trying to be humorous but is falling flat. It’s nice though. It’s been a long time since Peter has heard anything but his own thoughts.

“Just a quick little flight Webs,” he’s told, the ground rocking under him. It almost feels like being carried and it warms him just a little. His brain has been sabotaging him at every turn but at least its making his death peaceful.

“No no buddy,” the voice sounds a little frantic but its like listening through a pool of water. “Stay with me Peter, you’re going to be okay just stay with me.”

He hates disappointing the voice but he’s tired.

So tired.

Peter drifts.

[carnagecardinal]

SOW # 25 - isolation @summer-of-whump

Content warning: bbu, punishment via solitary confinement, mention of noncon.

There’s no warmth to the room. No furnishings, no color. Only barren white walls and a hard tile floor, and an unyielding door that desperate hands have explored again and again.

The air is cold. Grey vents set in the ceiling pouring winter down on him, and no amount of bodily shivering is enough to chase it from his bones. The shorts he’s been given are a size too small and protect only his modesty, and that only just.

Memories skitter at the perimeter of his thoughts. Like bits of broken glass, glittering and lost, unable to return to make up a whole. Sun on his skin, the sharp crack of a baton, a flashing arc of lightning across a night dark sky, calloused hands gripping his hips.

Some are false. They told him so. But the attempt of differentiating them blooms pain behind his eyes each time he tries, so he leaves them be. Lets them ghost around the outer edge of his awareness. Untouched. Unreal.

Focus goes instead to the murmur of his body. The goosebumps that make a perpetual march across his skin. The dull ache of muscles too long positioned against the floor, at the junction of where two walls meet.

There’s bruises on knees unaccustomed to being floorbound, and his fingers tremble as he runs them over the discoloration. Something in his throat thickens against the unbidden memory, one that’s real, of kneeling before a handler, eyes following the movements of hands until the press of something unwanted to his lips made him close them.

It would be without complaint that he would take it now. Without reluctance, without defiance. Without the necessity of being placed in the solitary confinement of white walls and a white floor for having resisted.

If it means earning a touch soft with praise, a pleasure laced smile, a voice not his own saying something, anything, to break the silence of the sterile room.

He could be good for them. Can be good for them. And he’ll prove it when they come for him. When they give him another chance to learn, to obey, to please. If it means not being alone with the fragments of false memories that confuse, that hurt, he will do anything.

Until then, he waits. Tries not to think. Puts his focus on his body, on the way it hurts from sitting too long, on the way it trembles from the cold.

There’s no warmth to the room.

[morgana-greenleaf]

Summer of Whump Day 25: isolation/hallucination

@summer-of-whump

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

There is nothing but his cold, grey cell, the manacles shackling him to the wall, and the thin tube in his right wrist.

Nothing, for hours and days and weeks and months.

No noise breaks through the thick walls, no light bar the mysterious glow in one corner. Sometimes he writes things on the walls, scoring deep grooves with the metal fingers.

Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038.

Bucky.

Sometimes he uses the metal fingers to pinch his wrist, pinch it hard until bruises form and bones crack and the skin breaks and blood rushes out.

It’s something to keep him busy in the long hours of loneliness.

[caspia-writes]

Summer of Whump #25 — Hallucination

Summary: A veteran deprived of his usual chocolate rations considers revolution.

Content warnings: Implied addiction, homicidal ideation

Everywhere Ruprecht went, he heard them. Those voices that always seemed to come from behind him, no matter where he went. They followed him in the market, in the alleys, in the park. Everywhere. Like someone had put a telephone in his brain, right in the back of his skull, to tell him what to do. Because that was exactly what they had done. Those bastards, the police, they must’ve snuck in one night and done it—put a telephone in his skull. Tried to make him their little puppet, just like everyone else.

But Ruprecht was smarter than that. He knew what they were doing. That voice wasn’t his.

Sometimes it wasn’t so bad. The orders were odd, but nothing Ruprecht could object to. Little things he had to do so they wouldn’t know he knew.

“See that trash can over there? Turn it around.

“Pick up that stick.

“Sit down on that bench.”

Those times weren’t so bad. It was the other times Ruprecht hated. When the police used their telephone to try and get him in trouble.

“That man over there’s with the police. If you don’t kill him, he’ll kill you.

Jump in front of the tram.

Break the windows. Pick up the rock and break the windows.”

They knew he knew they were listening and ordering him around. That was why they wanted him to do something illegal. If he broke the law, they could arrest him, and then they could kill him. He couldn’t tell the others if was dead or in jail. And they couldn’t let him tell everyone else. If he told the others, maybe they’d also stop listening. Enough people, and the puppet-masters wouldn’t have their little game anymore.

Ruprecht wasn’t like the rest of the puppets though. He was going to tell everyone, and then people would start figuring out how to get the telephones out. This enslavement had gone on long enough. The police could call him a communist or a democrat or whatever they wanted, but it was time for people to rise up and pull the cords out of their heads. Ruprecht would lead the revolution to set the people free.

There was just one small problem. Right now he was too lethargic to do much of anything. To start a revolution, he would need to be able to get off this park bench. He'd need to stay awake for more than ten minutes too. No amount of coffee from the men's home had helped. The police probably replaced it all with dirt or something. Not that it mattered; there was one thing Ruprecht knew would perk him up.

Chocolate. Specifically, that brand of chocolate the military dispensed.

Once he had that, he'd feel better. He'd have the energy to stay awake, do things, finish his duty as a soldier to liberate the Großsächsisch people. All Reprecht needed was some of that chocolate.

So, Ruprecht decided, he was going to get some. No matter what he had to do to get it.

[fletcherwilbury]

Summer of Whump Day 25: Hallucinations

Warning: This story contains hallucinations and illness

[blogger360ncislarules]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: When Calls the Heart (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lucas Bouchard/Elizabeth Thatcher Characters: Elizabeth Thatcher, Lucas Bouchard, Jack Thornton Additional Tags: Summer of Whump Prompt Challenge 2022, Bad Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort Summary:

'Please don't leave me, I fear something bad is going to happen to you!' She pleaded.

@summer-of-whump

[sideblogformindtrash]

SUMMER OF WHUMP - DAY 25 - HALLUCINATION

@summer-of-whump , @whumpzone , @cupcakes-and-pain , @twistedcaretaker , @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight , @tears-and-lilies , @pinkraindropsfell

CW: religious themes; bugs, death; trapped; minor whump; religious abuse; institutional abuse; gaslight; claustrophobia; mild oxygen deprivation: deadnaming (a cisgender character).

Little Enoch was a liar, an as a liar he was trapped, were bugs would crawl around its skin, and ghosts would whisper in the dark.

No bugs approached him, of course. They never did, as animals dreaded his very presence. Still the cave like walls of the ossuary towered around him, carved holes on the walls housing bones of holy man, who judged him through the the empty darkness of their skulls.

The critters housed inside those bones weren't just the bugs of this earth. Otherworldly maggots crawled all over the room, gleaming in rainbow colors that constantly shifted and turned, and half dissolved away if you looked at them through the wrong angle, as they carved their paths on unreal geometry, chelipodes and stings breaking the very walls of reality. His reality.

Little Enoch curled against the altar, trying to stay as close to the candles as possible, as if that little circle of light and warmth could protect him from what was inside him. Slowly, those candles burned away the stale air, making him dizzy from the smell of wax, making breathing a challenge.

He deserved to be there of course. A room projected so that one could pray and reflect on their sins, or have revelations from godly words, induced by the lack of oxygen, gloomy shadows and prying eyes of the dead guiding the imagination towards thoughts of the divine.

Little Enoch was there to reflect on his lies. Because Enoch told the priests that he saw a ghost - and ghosts aren't real. Spirits were harvested by god, they were taken into the other world to be judged and sorted into heaven or hell for all eternity.

So, it Enoch so anything, it was a demon, a monster, impure spirit crawling from the abyss to tempt the poor child.

If Enoch saw anything, it was a sign of the times, and the times were closing in.

So, little Enoch told the priests that he had lied. It had been just an hallucination, a trick of the lights and he took it too far.

They accepted his penitence for lying… even if he had told the truth.