Syncope3d

Hello, I'm Vaughn! I like whump (hurt/comfort, usually whumperless but not always), monsters, and occasionally Warhammer 40k. Any pronouns, est. 1981.

[syncopein3d]

Syncope's Writing Masterpost

Hi, I'm Sync, and I write!

My non-writing account for memes and queer and autistic content is @spiderace.

HERE ARE MY PUBLISHED NOVELS ON ITCH. The first one is free!

AND ON KINDLE

I like angst, loss of consciousness and hurt/comfort, emphasis on comfort. I don't care about the gender of participants, so different ones will occur. I'll tag.

Always feel free to ask me about my characters or stories, anonymously or not. :)

If you like consensual BDSM with male subs there's a fair amount of porn with plot on my AO3.

Broken World

(Cometverse. Villain rescues minor villain, hero whumpers, superhero OCs, agender caretaker and male whumpee; complete)

1. Rescue

2. Bathtub

3. I Trust You

4. Bad Night

5. The Unlikely Truth

Broken World II

(Cometverse. Villain rescues minor villain, supervillain OCs, agender caretaker and male whumpee, used as bait; complete) 1. Changed

2. Bait

3. Hurts

MT and The Rat

(Cometverse. Villain caretaker rescues pathetic minor hero, superhero OCs; currently one-shot, might continue later)

The Rat Finds A Prize

Dead By Daylight Fics

A Nurse's Calling 1: Trapper

A Nurse's Calling 2: Legion

A Nurse's Calling 3: The Mastermind

Left Alone

(Trifold Balance universe. male vampire whumpee, non-binary caretaker, trapped in a small room, morbid vampire stuff; in progress)

1. Abandoned

2. Discovery

3. Bereft

4. Smallest Consolation

5. Bearing Gifts

6. Regeneration

7. Riddles

8. Faint

9. Silencers 1

10. Silencers 2

11. Silencers 3

12. Drive

13. Cabin

14. His Eyes Have All The Seeming

15. Glass of Water

16. The First Lesson

17. Painmother

18. Weight of Dawn

Trifold Balance, Other

Necessary Intervention (Jack Ford, Hunter, hospitalization and involuntary sedation, convalescence)

The Warm One

(Synchronium universe. Magic living weapon, female whumpee, male whumper and caretaker; complete)

Part 1: Velvet

Part 2: Stay

Part 3: Discipline

Part 4: Silk

Part 5: Would You Say No

Part 6: Spring Campaign

Part 7: Wrath

Part 8: All Things End

Synchronium Universe

By the Lake (currently one-shot, hurt/comfort with female whumpee/male caretaker, rescue from icy water)

Friendly Reviews

I review completed hurt/comfort stories that I enjoyed and do some light analysis of why I enjoyed them so readers can get an idea if they might also want to read one.

Smoke, Salt and Asbestos

Cheap Shot

Shun the Light

Trope posts

Decompensation

Fainting/loss of consciousness

Cold hands on a fever

Nonlethal Takedowns

Belated Explanations

Helpers who have been through it themselves

Very Tired

Moments of Relief

Comfort

Heated Blanket

Drabbles

Female caretaker and vampire whumpee

Lone survivor (magic, noncon sleep spell, male whumpee, female caretaker)

The Regulator (AO3 link, OC, superheroes, male whumpee and male caretaker)

Oh, It's You (hero x villain reblog)

Vitrified (vampire lady with 'trophies' preserved in glass)

Warhammer 40,000 Misc

Astartes Husbandry 1

Astartes Husbandry 2

Astartes Husbandry 3

Astartes Husbandry 4

Deathwatch Aftercare

Astartes Hypno-Con And Medical Care

A Young Rationalist And An Old Chaotician

Some Measure Of Peace

Impostor Iron Warrior

Gagged

Warhammer 40,000 Kill Team Audax

(Astartes space marine whump, Deathwatch kill team, military whump, harsh training, recovery)

1. Kill Team Audax: Run

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PIPLUP!!!! 🫂🩷🩷🩷

I hope you get to do something fun and special!!! 🎂🎁 I even got Leighus to bring you some more water to stay hydrated! 🥤 I hope you have the best day friend!!! 🩷

AW HALO-

Thank you so much!!!!!😭😭😭😭🩵🩵🩵🩵

[riflebrass]

My friend showed me a video that's "painfully German" where a German man cuts a slice of bread by hand then measures the thickness in various points with calipers to see how consistent the cut was. He keeps a log of every day's slice to keep track of his technique.

This has convinced me autism isn't real. All those traits? You're just German.

[riflebrass]

I was talking to a Mexican woman earlier who thinks her kids are on the spectrum but they're too young to get tested. I asked about her husband. She said he's full 100% German.

[recoiloperated]

A rigorous diagnostic. 15 questions. One uncomfortable truth.

[the-davest-of-uncles]

For the record, I have no German ancestry I'm aware of.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

I've got German ancestry on my dad's side and this is the closest one of these tests has ever come to actually describing me, XD

[bourbonandcinnamon]

This is both accurate and the best response I could have gotten.

[prolifeproliberty]

[syncopein3d]

I got 53% Autistic 22% German. I am about 10% German genetically and have been diagnosed with autism, so I guess that checks out.

Most of the questions focus on whether you want things to be extremely precise or you are instead uncomfortable with social ambiguity. I don't think this is entirely helpful because, while I do not know many actual German people, I do know a lot of autistic people and a lot of us have both of those characteristics.

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Giving cold juice to a feverish character who's blood sugar tanked when they fainted 👏👏👏👏

[whumppromptoftheday]

villain, newly reformed and backed against the wall by hero, sighs and inhales deeply, "sometimes i look at you and think that you want to kill me."

"sometimes," hero says, taking another step toward them, "i look at you and think you want me to."

[annaoi]

All the trauma just came crashing down on them after Raccoon City.

---

I swear I planned something fluffy but I read @silvercap's fic and I was inspired to do some angst and whump instead.

As always, special thanks to @loveiscosmicsin and @theycallmedarling for the support and for patiently checking my grammar.

[living-weapons-blr]

Living weapon mission ideas:

(Tw mentions of murder, torture and the like)

Assassinating an enemy of their organization

"Wiping out" a faction that opposes their organization

Killing someone "as a warning"

Stalking a person of interest in order to gather intel

Breaking into a secure location to retrieve files or another valuable item for their organization

Keep a close eye on a prisoner to ensure they stay in line (like a jail guard)

Undercover missuon: Let themself be captured by the enemy in order to gather information

Bodyguarding a person of interest

Bodyguarding a person of interest from afar and without their knowledge, like a guardian angel

Accompanying a superior when they wouldn't usually be requested, merely as a display of power

Training/tutoring other living weapons in the organization

In settings where it's appliable: Being sent out to help take down a powerful monster for public safety/the safety of their own organization

Murdering an enemy organization's own living weapon

Retrieving someone in a hostaage exchange

Stealing something valuable from someone, perhaps as a display of power; a warning

Kidnapping someone important for a person of interest to use as a hostage

Feel free to add more!

[sickfictropes]

whumpee who is still convalescent. the worst of their suffering is over, but they're not in top form yet. there are lots of delicious scenarios here: overbearing caretaker, whumpee who miscalculated their limits and paid the price...

yes! also a bit specific but I'm a big fan of "recovering whumpee is still learning the extent of their chronic pain/injuries/unwellness then they get sick and attribute it to new chronic issues until it gets really bad" :)

[sickfictropes]

Whumpee not realising they're overtired/dehydrated/malnourished/sick until they try something normal and nearly faint. It could be anything, from a tiny part of their daily routine to something they expected to do without issue because they didn't know their health would impact it.

Bonus points if whumpee brushes it off because they didn't actually faint, so all they have to do is be careful.

Bonus bonus points if caretaker saw this, questioned whumpee, and asked if they're okay, so now whumpee has to find a way to reassure caretaker

YES omg. especially when caretaker finds out this is not the first time this has happened to them in the past few days and their worry is suddenly mixed with frustration at how STUPID WHUMPEE IS BEING

[sickfictropes]

Rivals/former friends on a last name basis. Stoic/cold caretaker gets concerned about snarky/deflecting whumpee and uses his first name in the confrontation trying to figure out what's bothering whumpee/whumpee is breaking down or having a panic attack set in from a recent ordeal they went through. Oh there's so many whumpfics on narumitsu ace attorney I could never starve <3

such a good trope!

[sickfictropes]

i see the widely loved "stoic whumpee gets sick and becomes less stoic as a result" and raise "stoic whumpee gets sick and becomes even more stoic as a result"

CHARACTER DOUBLING DOWN ON THEIR WORST PERSONALITY TRAITS WHEN THEY'RE SICK MY BELOVEDDDDDDD. becoming more crabby, ruder, more aloof, more standoffish, lying more, being manipulative, being clingy, etc. >:)

[boomer-mythology-destroyer]

[memento-morri-whumps]

whump prompt that came to me in the shower:

An exhausted character is stopping to rest (returning after a battle, pausing on a long and difficult journey, etc.) after they were hurt. They arrive at [home, an inn, etc.] filthy and bone-tired.

Someone hurries to draw them a warm bath, then leaves them to their privacy. They undress, stiff with exhaustion and wincing as the dried-blood-soaked clothing pulls at their skin.

But it's worth it when they're able to sink into the tub. The warm water immediately helps with their aching muscles. It's been so long since they've felt this warm, this comfortable.

At some point they notice that the water, already a disgusting red-brown from the blood and dirt caked on them, is turning a bit more red. They realize that as they undressed they ended up removing their very makeshift bandages, which caused their wounds to start bleeding again. And the warm water made their blood vessels expand and made them bleed more.

Now they've been sitting in the bath, bleeding, for who knows how long. They know they should get out, dry themselves off, and see to those wounds (surely someone will have some spare rags. They can handle the rest themselves.), but they're just so tired. And the water is so warm...

(Later, someone comes in to check on them, only to find them passed out from exhaustion in (quite literally) a bath of their own blood.)

[gr8writingtips]

writing tip #4194:

writing during a heatwave is easy if you (i melt into a big puddle before i can finish this post)

[cosmonautroger]

Jane Morelli, Lacoste x Bialetti

[whumpbug]

i promised two fics and i am nothing if not a bug of my word

enjoy simon suffering for the 1249304232987932th time!!!! this is one of my all time favorite tropes so this was a blast to write

whumpee: all of them

caretaker: simon (but its all of them)

cw: mentions of vomiting + character vomiting but no graphic descriptions or really any description at all. youll see what i mean

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

DAY ONE

“I’m not hungry.”

“Archie, you have to eat.” Simon pressed the bowl of soup against his chest. “Come on.”

“Noooo…” He whined, turning his face away and shuddering.

“You’re sick. You need to get your strength up. You haven’t eaten at all today, dude.”

“I don’t feel good…”

“Yes. Hence the caldo de pollo.”

“Mmmgh…”

Simon sighed, setting the bowl down on the nightstand. “Fine. You win. For now. We’ll try again in a couple of hours.”

Archie let out a soft breath through his nose and flopped back on the pillows, satisfied for the time being.

Simon pressed the back of his hand to Archie’s cheek and clicked his tongue at the heat he found.

“That fever’s stubborn,” He mumbled to himself. “You sure you can’t handle more medicine?”

“Simon, I already told you I’m nauseous… I just wanna sleep…”

Simon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop bothering you. Get some rest, okay?”

Archie nodded and wrapped the thin blanket Simon gave him tighter around himself.

Simon leaned down and pressed a kiss to his warm brow, and patted his shoulder as he collected the bowl of soup, shut out the lights, and closed the door behind him.

Flu season.

So many of Simon’s coworkers were already taken out by the beast that is influenza, and Simon figured maybe, just maybe his personal life wouldn’t be affected this year.

Of course, with his luck, he was very wrong.

This flu hit Archie like a truck. No gradual descent into madness, no, he was completely fine one minute and the next he was shivering under ten blankets barely able to remember his name.

By the grace of god, he was already staying over at Simon’s place so there was no need to wrestle him to the apartment. Still, Simon was a little worried.

Archie was a big boy. It was just your standard flu and he’d be fine, of course, but Simon knew that Archie had been overworking himself yet again the weeks prior. He was hoping this is the worst the flu would get, but then again, who knew?

He was just about to begin packing away the soup in the fridge when he heard a soft knock on the door.

With a raised eyebrow, set the bowl down, wiped off his hands and swung open the door.

“Vivian?” He tilted his head. “What’s wrong?”

Lord, she was in a state. Her hair was sticking up in places he didn’t think were possible and her cheeks were alarmingly flushed. Her arms were wrapped around her despite it barely being under seventy degrees out. Simon had a feeling he knew what was going on.

“I’m sorry.. I didn’t call ‘cause my phone’s dead and I can’t find my charger. I just came to ask if… um… you have any medicine? I have a cold. I ran out,” She murmured, holding herself a little tighter.

Simon clicked his tongue. “Vivian, come in. You look like shit.”

She just scoffed playfully but she didn’t try to deny it. She knew as well as Simon that this was a far cry from her usual energetic affect.

Simon guided her to the couch and went to fetch the thermometer, a glass of water, and some NyQuil.

“Talk to me. What are your symptoms?”

Vivian just pulled her knees up to her chest and groaned. “Headache. Chills. Sore throat. Nausea. Haven’t been able to stomach anything.”

“Open up,” He said, placing the thermometer under her tongue. A few moments passed before it beeped, and Simon looked at it with a heavy sigh.

“You’re burning, Viv. This isn’t a cold. It’s probably the flu. It’s going around.”

“You can’t be serious.” She buried her face in her knees and pulled tighter. “I still have classes tomorrow. I have to go grocery shopping too, I genuinely have nothing in my dorm right now, and my roommate has finals so I don’t want to disturb her and—”

“Viv, hey, calm down. Okay?” Simon put a steadying hand on her shoulder and sat next to her, pulling her into a side hug. “You can stay here. Archie’s also sick, he’s sleeping in my bed right now. It’ll be good to have you both under one roof.”

Vivan sniffled and leaned her head on her cousin’s shoulder. “You’re sure? I don’t wanna intrude”

“I’m sure. Promise. Is there anything you need that you left at your dorm?”

Vivian shook her head. “No. I always keep a change of clothes in my car. S’all I really need.”

She trailed off with a jaw-cracking, eye watering yawn and Simon smiled fondly at the sight.

“Alrighty then. I’ll get the air mattress set up in the office for you again. Take a little cup of medicine, then to bed with you, okay?”

Vivian nodded. She didn’t need to be told twice.

DAY TWO

Caring for two sick, delirious, fever-ridden people is a lot like working in the hospital, Simon found.

Well, not actually of course, but some of the similarities were uncanny.

For one, he felt like his presence was being summoned about every half a second.

“Simon? Can I please have another blanket?”

“No, Archie. I already told you. Your fever is way too high.”

Tears welled in the blond’s eyes and he buried it into his nest of pillows. “Why do you hate me?”

Simon sighed, exasperated, but he was cut off by the sound of clattering, banging, and rustling.

“Shit.”

He raced over to Vivian’s current room and dropped to his knees in front of her. 

“Hey, hey, what was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m so sorry… I was just trying to get more medicine.”

Simon followed her gaze to the horizontal bottle of NyQuil on the desk that was slowly dripping onto the nightstand, and bit back a curse as he swiftly righted it.

“Shit…” That was the last bottle he had in the house. Inconvenient? Yes. End of the world? Nah, he would figure it out.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can leave if you want, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh, no, it’s okay Vivian. You didn’t mean to. It’s okay. We still have a little left, see?”

Vivian took a couple of steadying breaths and wiped stray tears away from her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I promise. Just try to go back to sleep while I clean it up and get you more medicine.”

Vivian nodded solemnly and disappeared into her blanket.

“Simon!” Archie called from down the hall. “I’m too cold to sleep!”

Simon closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

DAY THREE

The house had descended into madness.

Sleep was a concept so foreign to Simon, it’s possible he forgot about its existence.

After all, it’s hard to sleep when you have two walking germs that require attention every five minutes minimum.

Simon shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face.

Okay, so maybe the lack of sleep was making him cranky. Sue him.

“Archie, please. You have to eat. The three spoonfuls of broth you had last night do not count.”

Archie just pouted and leaned his head on Simon’s chest. “I can’t, I feel like I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. You’re hungry. You need the fuel to fight this off.” His expression shifted into something softer. “Please? Just half the bowl. For me?”

Archie sighed heavily and lifted his head from Simon’s sweater’ “Okay. Fine.”

“Good job.” Simon handed Archie the bowl and pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. “Eat as much of it as you can— Vivian?”

Vivian was standing in the doorway, clutching a blanket around her shoulders, swaying. Tears were running down her face.

“¿Dónde está Mamá?” She whispered, wiping at her eyes with a fist.

Shit. Hallucinations? He knew she was doing bad, but he had no idea she was this bad. He needed to get that fever broken fast.

“Okay, you finish eating that,” He said to Archie, pressing a spoon into his hand and rushing to Vivian’s side. Archie’s brows pinched in worry, but he obeyed.

She all but collapsed into him, trembling, and he wasted no time wrapping his arms around her. Her breath hitched with stifled sobs. “I want Mama,” She whispered.

“I know. I know. Can we get you back to bed so I can check your fever again?” He murmured into her hair, rubbing up and down her back.

She nodded pitifully and allowed Simon to guide her to the next room over and onto the mattress. Her eyes were periodically slipping closed at this point.

“Mama’s not here, but I am, okay? I’ll take care of you. I promise.” Simon cleaned the thermometer with his t-shirt and noticed vaguely that his hands were shaking. Huh. Weird.

“Open up.” He placed the metal tip under her tongue and waited for that all too familiar beep.

“103.2. Jeez Vivian, you’re not doing this half-ass, huh?”

She simply sniffled and pulled her blanket tighter.

“Alright, maybe not the time for jokes. That’s on me.” Simon poured another dose of medicine and handed it to her. “Take that and go back to sleep.”

Vivian listened easily, which was a breath of fresh air after Archie insisted on somehow defying everything Simon said.

With one last glance at Vivian before shutting the door, Simon had one blessed second to collect himself.

This had to be the worst of it, right? 

It had been two and a half days straight of pure hell for the patient zeroes, surely there had to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Simon, admittedly, wasn't feeling his best either. Six total hours of sleep and leftover pizza hastily scarfed down as his only sustenance will do that, of course.

He sat on the couch, head hanging, and rubbed at his face. His shoulders gave an involuntary shiver.

Jesus, when did it get so cold? 

Just when he was about to grab a hoodie off the back of the couch, Archie came shuffling out of the room with the empty bowl of soup clutched to his chest.

“You ate it all?” Simon asked, lifting a brow.

Archie nodded. “Realized I was hungrier than I thought. How’s Vivian?”

Simon smiled at that. “She’ll be okay. Leave the dish on the counter and go get some more sleep. I’ll wash it.”

Archie’s brows furrowed in a way that told Simon he wasn’t quite done talking. He placed the bowl on the counter, but then made his way to sit next to Simon on the couch. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve been taking care of me and her so well, but you’re also probably gonna catch this at some point. How’re you feeling? You doing okay? Have you slept at all?”

His words carried a lucidity that Simon hadn’t seen in days and it overwhelmed him with relief. He was so close to the end of this nightmare. He just had to stick it out a little longer. So, he lied.

“I’m totally fine. Promise. I just want you two to feel better.”

“You sure?” Archie spoke through a muffled yawn. 

“Mhm. Medical professional over here. I know how to avoid the plague, unlike you two,” He teased.

“Mmmkay,” Archie sighed, bringing his knees to his chest and weaseling his way into Simon’s arms.

Simon accepted him easily, hugging him and kissing his forehead. It seemed that his fever was lower. That was a good sign, finally. 

Just when he was going to mention it, he heard soft, even breathing and decided against it. Maybe a little cat nap wouldn’t hurt for him, either.

DAY FOUR

Simon startled awake to the front door clicking open, then closed. His heart just about jumped from his chest. He shuddered at the brisk morning air whooshing from the door.

“Sorry. I just went to get my sweater from the car. Didn’t wanna wake you or Archie.”

Simon dizzily brought his gaze down to where Archie was sprawled on the floor, tangled in the throw blanket, and lifted it back to Vivian.

Something was wrong.

Simon felt wrong. The mild discomfort he’d felt the night before had become exponentially worse.

Everything hurt. His head, his stomach, his arms, his legs, his eyes, which he hardly knew was possible— it all became just one giant ache. He felt another shudder wrack his body.

Still, Vivian, who should be in bed, was standing right there, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“Viv… are you— how are you doing?” He stammered, blinking back waves of vertigo. His head was throbbing harder now.

She shrugged, leaning on the doorframe of the hallway. “Better, I guess. Still got a headache, but I’m not hallucinating anymore, thank god. I think the fever finally broke.”

Simon swallowed thickly and nodded. “Good. Tha’s good. Uhm, you take more medicine?”

“Not yet. There's only one dose left, I figured I’d see how Archie’s feeling before I take it for myself.”

Simon didn’t say anything. In fact, he simply could not. His vision was whiting out at an alarming rate and he feared if he opened his mouth, he’d vomit or faint or both.

“Simon, are you okay? You just went, like, deathly pale.”

His body tingled painfully. His head was swimming. All he registered before his muscles gave out and sent him careening to the floor was the chorus of curses leaving his younger cousin’s lips.

DAY ?

Simon was underwater.

Wait, no. That’s wrong. He’s human.

It sure felt like he was though. His eyes stung with tears and his throat felt thick and raw. He was in danger, at the very least.

A distant voice got closer. He couldn’t quite recognize it. Something ,something fever. Something, something medicine.

Yeah, maybe that made sense. 

Oh who was he kidding. Nothing made sense.

He could have sworn he heard his mother down the hall. Or maybe it was his supervisor?

No, wait, it was the shop owner from across Archie’s apartment. Of course.

Suddenly, something sickly and bitter smelling on a spoon was shoved in front of his face.

“Come on, you gotta take it. Just open up.”

He didn’t really know what words came out of his mouth, but whoever was holding this spoon sighed exasperatedly and pressed it closer to his lips.

Simon jerked away and the spoon went flying from the disembodied hand. Red, sticky syrup flew everywhere.

“Shit! That was the last dose.”

Dose? Like a dose of poison? Phew, Simon sure dodged a bullet. Maybe he should get up and call the cops or something.

His eyelids slipped closed despite himself. It would have to wait, he supposed.

DAY ??

Somehow, it was snowing inside.

Nothing else could explain the way every cell in his body seemed to be on the verge of becoming ice.

He shivered and shivered and shivered, but it didn’t help. Nothing did.

Something akin to a plea left his lips.

“No, Simon. I can’t give you another blanket. Your fever’s sky high. Archie will be back soon with more medicine. You’ll feel better then, okay?”

He couldn’t help but cry. He was so cold. His bones somehow felt frozen. He sank deeper into the thin blanket he was subdued with.

The figure in the chair beside him sighed and got closer.

“You can’t make fun of me for this later,” It said.

Next thing Simon knew, a warm body was being pressed against him and almost reflexively, he wrapped every limp around it. Sleep came a bit easier once the trembling subsided.

DAY ???

“There you go, let it out buddy.”

His body was betraying him. It was trying to turn inside out.

Truthfully, he wasn’t quite sure of what was going on. He was vaguely aware of something hollow and plastic against his chest and a cold hand against his forehead, pinning back his bangs.

He lurched suddenly, and his mouth tasted bitter.

DAY ???

There was a dull throb against Simon’s head, almost like an ice pick being driven into it.

He was awake, but something told him opening his eyes would make it exponentially worse. A soft whine escaped his lips.

“Hey, you. You up?” A soft, familiar voice said. Simon knew that voice.

“Archie?” He finally cracked open a lid, squinting at the light.

“In the flesh.” Archie picked up a glass with a straw sticking out and extended it towards Simon. “Drink. You sound horrible.”

Simon didn’t argue. The water was like heaven against the terrible, dry taste in his mouth. He drank until Archie gently pulled the cup away and set it down.

“Slow down. Don’t want you getting sick again.”

Simon paused.

“Again? What time is it?”

The last thing he remembered was getting Vivian settled down and getting Archie to sleep. Maybe he vaguely remembers seeing Vivian coming in through the front door earlier in the morning—

“Two. AM.”

Simon’s heart sank. That didn’t make sense. The last time he checked the clock it was barely nine in the morning. He had just woken up. He still had chores and work to do, not to mention Archie and Vivian. He—

It came back to him. The collapse. The fear. The confusion. The delirium. All of it, all at once.

When he finally got a good, lucid look at Archie, he saw that he wasn’t smiling. His face was carefully neutral.

“I’m not—” He stilled with a breath. “I’m not going to give you the ‘I told you so’ spiel. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. It won’t be the last.”

Simon was like a deer in headlights. With the memories, the shame also came back and he was in no position to say anything.

“We were really worried. Really worried. I mean, I had to practically wrestle the phone out of Vivian’s hand when she was trying to call 911.”

Archie rubbed a hand over his face and in the light, Simon could see how withered he seemed.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I thought— I trusted you to take care of yourself. You said you were fine. I believed you. I thought you’d be, y'know, sensible enough to know your limits.”

Archie let out a heavy, emotional sigh and placed a hand on Simon’s chest. It was shaking.

“If I had known this was going to happen, I would have just gone home and dealt with my flu on my own. I don’t— I, and Vivian too, don't like to be the cause of stuff like this.”

Simon decided to ignore the ‘pot calling the kettle black’ of it all. This sort of thing happened often. Too often to count. He and Archie had talked about it before, but this was the first time he’d ever seen him so severe about it. He figured he must have been in pretty bad shape. It didn't seem to be the time to argue.

“I know. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I thought I could handle it— I just wanted to see you two through the worst of it before I went down, but I guess I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

Simon wasn’t sure what he expected, but Archie’s eyes filling with tears certainly wasn’t it.

“You’ll take better care of yourself?” He whispered. 

Simon nodded. Whether it was a lie or not was between him and whatever deity was still willing to deal with his bullshit. “You want to lay down with me? You’re still sick.”

Archie took the offer easily. He slipped under the covers and rested his head on Simon’s shoulder. His face didn’t have the unnatural warmth from before, but then again, Simon still wasn’t sure if his fever was completely gone or not.

“I’m sorry again,” He whispered into Archie’s curls.

Archie sniffled. “I forgive you.”

There was a short pause and Archie squinted as if he just remembered something.

“Though, I don’t think that’ll cut it for Vivian,” He started. “When she comes back from the store and sees that you’re lucid, she just might kill you.”

Simon sighed. “I don’t doubt it.”

“If you start running now, you might just escape.”

“Mmgh. Too tired. I accept my fate.”

The last thing Simon felt as he let his eyelids slip closed was the soft vibrations of Archie’s laugh in his chest.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[sacredwrath]

Arc 2b Part 3: Feral Dog

Torture, angst, dissociation, dissociative whumpee, memory issues, alcohol, vomit, self hate, death wish

White. 

Everything is white 

Bright, illuminated white walls, white grout, a white drain in the center of the white tile floor. Even the hard points positioned strategically around the room are painted a brilliant white. Too bright fluorescents burn into Adrian's eyes twisting his already aching head into two tight knots of pain behind his eyes.

The only break in theme is the far wall, where an easy-clean glass partition protects Gould's collection. Adrian doesn't look at it. He knows what hangs there. He's seen it enough times that his mind conjures the image anyway. 

Gould’s tools polished and displayed in neat rows. Blades, canes, pliers, whips- anything and everything he can use to pull a person apart

Don't think about it-

He fixates on the white drain instead. Focusing his attention so intensely that everything else fades out of focus. Not smear of dirt or flake of grime mars in pristine surface. How does it stay so clean?

He remembers being a kid, scrubbing brown stains from the drains in the prison's concrete cells. Using a toothbrush to make sure the metal would shine. Brown stains turning the water a mucky yellow, pink bubbles if it was fresh. He wonders if later some kid will scrub away his own pink bubbles

Stop-

He blanks his mind, the alcohol making it easier than usual. He dissolves each thought as it forms leaving nothing but the feeling of falling and a slight ringing in his ears. Only the drain is real. 

Footsteps behind him try to drag him back to himself but he keeps back, the sound filtering down to him through layers of quiet numbing. They echo from far off like he's in a dream

“Strip” 

His fingers are clumsy, body far away but he still removes his shirt in a clean practiced motion. It knows how to obey even without his presence 

“Pants too unless you want blood all over them” 

He folds his clothing robotically. Making his pile neat and tidy, neat and tiny, pile by the door. Gould likes his pile to be neat by the door. Tidy. His fingertips notice every fiber magnifying the texture through to his floating mind. He lets the pile go reluctantly. Letting go of a lifeline to be sucked back to the drain. Like water down the drain, he thinks, almost giddily 

He locks onto it again, body kneeling without instruction. It knows how to do this too

Boots tap tap tap on the tile behind him. around him. In circles around him they tap tap. Each brittle sound ripples through him like rocks dropped in water. His hair stands on end. The man passes behind him and he catches a small terrified whimper of breath in his throat. He strangles it, forcing his mind to focus on the drain. Focus. Calm. Relax

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump

Weak-

It traces over his skin 

“I forgot about these.” Fingers too gentle- down his back. Slowly, deliberately, nails catch on each ridge in the dense mass of scar tissue. “Do they still hurt you?” fingers press down lightly, just enough to burn

"Always." The word doesn't want to be spoken. It sticks in his dry throat like a confession too shameful to admit

“Good.” Gould pats his back roughly, getting to his feet. “It's important to have reminders. If you were a smarter man you might have learned by now, but somehow you still don't know how to follow orders.” 

“Yes Sir” no thought, the response is automatic. He's grateful his body can do so many things without him

“So?" Gould prompts. "What happened? What did you do this time?” 

Again, he lets his lips repeat the words spoken to him. “I disobeyed you Sir." Meek deference, soothing to an old man's ego. "I thought I knew better than you, ignored your orders and went easy on a prisoner. I let my arrogance get the best of me and was too weak to do what was necessary. It lost you a valuable asset. I refused to do as I was told. I'm sorry Sir. I should have followed your orders.”

Fight back you pathetic shit

“Accountabilty, honesty, apology. You're getting better at this." But he doesn't really sound pleased. "What punishment do you deserve?”

An image of the weapons arrayed behind him flashes in his head and his mind goes blank. 

“Morgan” a sharp slap to the back of his head 

Gould asked him a question. He can't  remember 

Panic. He tries to reconstruct the conversation. Shame, apology then punishment. Gould asked him what punishment he deserves. He can't-

Blank 

Gould hits him again. He's trembling now, Gould asked him a question didn't he? He tries to still his hands in his lap but he can't stop them shaking 

“I don't know” he manages to force out between chattering teeth. Mistake. Not an acceptable answer. Knows better than that. Weak. “I'm sorry” he stammers, trying to back track “I'm sorry, I…” there's nothing he can say to fix it and he still can't remember the question “sorry” barely a whisper. 

Pathetic!

For a split second, rage hits him so hard he thinks Gould has struck the first blow. Its heat shatters any remnant of his dreamy dissociation, locking him back into the room with his tormenter. He wants to tear his skin off 

Pathetic cringing rat! Whining, stammering out apologies. Too weak. It fucking deserves this. Deserves every second of what's coming for it. Punishment. Disgusting, pathetic- fight back you fucking worthless dog!

A whip cracks next to his head and the rage is gone as fast as it appeared, replaced with simple terror. No, no nonono-escape, run, but he can't move. His limbs are liquid, his whole body; he can't hold together. It's falling apart. He is falling apart. Everything spins around him but the drain. He needs to stick to it, keep it together. Keep focused on something stable. 

His ears ring too loudly for him to hear anything but his racing heart. Can't run. Running will make it worse. Doesn't matter, it's going to get worse anyway- get worse from here. This is still the easy part. It will only get worse from here, worse from here worse from here his mind cackles back at him.

Stop stop it stop it! It's too early to be breaking down like this. He tries to regain his calm. Let himself dissolve back into dreamy dissociation, but his control is shattered, lost somewhere in the spinning white tiles

“-know you have a history with whips, but this is just…” He chuckles. “look at your face.” 

Shame. His guts clench, doubling him over like a kick, accompanied by the urge to beg the man to just get on with it. To do worse. He deserves it. Of course he deserves it. Deserves worse. Has to stop whining 

“Fucking pathetic” 

Disgusting weak sickening 

He knows it

The whip traces across his bare skin and he can't take it anymore. His body rebels. He lurches forward, vomiting alcohol over the drain. It burns his throat, his nose, his eyes. Or maybe he's just crying. pathetic absolutely fucking pathetic 

Gould laughs at him and the voice in his head joins in

Shame

It twists up his insides 

just kill me

He wipes his mouth and tries to sit upright through it- dignity, his body trembles hard enough he has to fight for each movement. Why does Gould have to play with him like this? Just fucking get on with it already

The first strike is a relief. Pain crashing against his self loathing. Finally. He needs this.

Deserves worse-

Punishment-

Has to be better-

The next knocks the air from his lungs

Then another 

He closes his eyes, sinking into the pain. Just a sensation, just another sensation. It's deserved. He needs it needs it

Needs

The strikes come faster, but it's not so bad. Not painful. Important. He can do this it's good, he can-

The next strike breaks skin.

Oh fuck 

Another

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

Please don't panic-

Not yet

Please not yet

But it's too much. Each strike tears into him, searing bolts of pain he can feel through his whole body. The shock of each strike somehow catches him off guard. They overlap each other giving him no time to recover, overwhelming his senses.

He can't do it, can't take it. (Deserves it) Isn't going to make it. It's too much. (Should be worse needs to be worse, so much worse) will get worse 

He's on fire. He writhes away but that's wrong. Not allowed. He's not allowed to run, to resist. Without restraints he has to be the one to hold himself back. Keep still. Don't struggle. He wants this

More tears force their way between his eyelids pathetic blurring his surroundings further past the point of recognition. 

It's too much, too much already too much, he can't do this, he needs to scream- can't do this, needs to cry, to beg weak! force it down, needs to do anything to make it stop- stop, (too weak too weak) too weak to make it stop. Just don't struggle 

Stop 

But he's a child again. Helpless and it won't stop. Weak. Of course it won't stop. Not even close to when it will stop and he deserves it, deserves worse. Has to remember that. Has to hold still. Has to remember but it hurts and he's too weak.  He wants it to stop. Wants to cry. Crying won't stop it. Won't stop. Won't stop now, not even close. Stop stop. Please just stop!

He shoves a fist in his mouth, trying to muffle the screams. To give himself something real, solid to hold on to, hold on just hold on 

But he can't 

-

When it's over he doesn't notice. He just hurts. 

Everything hurts. 

It hurts and everything keeps spinning 

He huddles on the floor trying to ride out the vertigo. Clutching his knees, biting his fist. His body won't stop shaking. Won't for the rest of the night. For the rest of his life maybe. Sour spit fills his mouth and drools down his chin with his whimpering. He tries to stop the noises but it feels like suffocating 

Animals scream to let the others know they're in distress. To warn them something is wrong. If there's no one to warn, eventually it'll stop screaming.

Why is he still screaming?

It's ok. He tries to reassure himself. Put himself back together again. It's alright. Everything is ok now. It's over. He draws in a huge rasping breath just to remind himself he can. The pain fluxes and twists with it, but he can bear it. It's over and now it's just pain. He can deal with pain he reminds himself. It's over now and it wasn't even that bad. 

Cruel laughter in his head 

Be greatful!

A soft whisper above him, like smooth leather unfurling and his attention snaps back to his tormenter towering over him

The monster stands smirking down at him, a different whip, this one sleek and black dangling from its fingers. It wiggles the thing and Andrian’s stomach plummets with horrible recognition

No no no no no-

Fuck no

Please no please anything but this please, but he is too frozen to speak

Gould dangles the tip in front of his stricken face. Making sure he sees what makes this whip special. A fine silver chain hangs from the end, braided securely into the thonging. A simple change from the typical nylon cord but one that shatters every bit of composure he has fought so hard to regain. This whip isn't meant to welt or bruise it's meant to cut into the meat of him

Fresh tears pour from his eyes and he whimpers something unintelligible

He can't do this. He just can't

His body tries to run without his permission. Scrambling backwards on limbs too shaky to hold his weight. He trips over himself, hands slipping on the bloody white tiles. 

“Isn't this the one that gave you all those scars? The same kind at least.” Gould stalks after him not even trying to stop his pitiful retreat 

No no no, not the same kind, the exact same one. One and the same Gould knows. Of course Gould knows. He must've gone looking for the fucking thing, must've gone to the prison, spoken to-

“Please” he whispers (can't stop it) even though he knows it won't help. Won't stop it. Not allowed to beg- not allowed to struggle

“Please, Sir, I can't- anything else, please, I'll be good, please…” he trails off, words smothered by shame closing up his throat. He presses his face into the cold tile trying to show his complete submission. Pathetic

“Look at yourself.” His voice drips with contempt and a sick satisfaction. Using the toe of his boot he pushes Adrian onto his back before planting his boot on his chest. 

“All my effort to try and make you strong and you're just as pathetic as the day I first saw you. Scuttling around on the floor, begging on your face like a fucking animal!” He cracks the whip against the floor, baring his teeth when Adrian cowers, screwing his eyes shut. “You can't even look at it!” He lashes him across the face “open your fucking eyes and kneel!”

Adrian obeys instantly, eyes snapping open despite the sting of the fresh whip cut. Gould releases him and he struggles to shaky knees.  He tries to keep his head up, looking at Gould but every fiber of his being wants to cringe, beg, submit, escape

 “I've given you a job that makes you feel powerful. One that lets you remember what it's like to be in control. And sometimes that game lets you forget what you are. But. Adrian,” he crouches down, strong fingers grasping Adrian's chin and forcing his head up. “Adrian, look at yourself. I need to know you remember what you are.” He squeezes harder, voice getting even softer “You are the feral dog I allow to bite your betters.”

Shame, terror and fury roil in Adrian's gut with the remainder of the alcohol. He knows it. Of course he knows it. How could he ever fucking forget? In that moment all he wants is to be allowed to be good enough to stop needing to be hurt 

He hates himself, hates his weakness,  his cowardice, his groveling need to submit and the game lets him pretend he's something else. 

Something loud and angry, something that scares people and hurts them more when they hurt him. He loves it. Loves watching Jesse scream and run and hide from Him. Watching them all cower and squirm. Hiding from him. They should be afraid. Should be afraid of him

He isn't good. They always hurt him no matter how good he pretends to be, somehow they can see it. See how badly he wants to make Gould suffer. See the things he would do if he ever got the slightest chance. He wants to break him. Watch him crawl on the ground disfigured and begging for mercy he knows won't come. He wants to ruin him so completely he has to beg permission for every breath he takes. He feels a sneer forming on his lips. 

He can't get more scared. The punishment can't get worse and there's nothing in the world he can do to stop it. Gould should know the danger of backing a feral dog into a corner. His back hits the wall

“I am a dog.” He snarls through clenched teeth, hoping Gould can feel his rage beating against him. “but I'm not your dog. You can suck yourself off all you want but we both know you don't have what it takes to make me into what I am. You can beat me, you can fucking torture me and I'll do what you say. I'll follow every one of your fucking moronic orders. I'll crawl around on the floor and lick your goddamned boots. I'll make you feel like a big man, but we both fucking know why you hate me. We both fucking know I'm better than you.” He laughs, letting it sound as broken and hysterical as he feels “Must suck to get beaten by a dog at your own game. I'm better at your fucking job, your superiors like me more, I keep this entire fucking place running and the most you do is get in my way. You hate that I could replace you and no one would even fucking notice. Without me you're just a sadist wearing your daddy's shoes tripping and falling, too stupid to realize they're too fucking big for you.”

He's breathing hard, a little surprised Gould let him get through the whole thing without smashing his teeth in. 

He watches the man's face contort mirroring back his own fury. It's true. Every year Gould relies on him more. Giving him more responsibilities, making up excuses, but when the bosses actually need something done right Gould isn't the man for the job. And he knows it. The more work Adrian gets the worse Gould punishes him for it. Not for the mistakes, that's just an excuse, but for the pleasure of reminding him he can. 

"You love hurting me because it lets you forget how fucking pathetic you are."

Gould's fist hits him like a truck.

Grabbing his hair, Gould slams his head back into the wall. Once, twice, three times. Stars explode across his vision and by the third hit he's sure his skull is about to break open. 

Gould's forearm is against his windpipe, the man's weight crushing the air from him

“You fucking insolent-” 

-Pathetic piece of shit. Adrian finishes for for him 

You are nothing 

Gould throws him hard to the ground and Adrian tries again to crawl away. The man stomps on his hand then kicks him in the stomach, in the chest. He loses track of the blows. Loses track of his body in the maelstrom. He tries to protect himself but the boots find his every weak spot stomping him into the ground. 

Something in his torso cracks 

Gould is still yelling but Adrian is far past the point of hearing. The man's hands are on him, dragging him to his knees, wrenching his head up forcing him to face the wall. He can't hold himself there so Gould props him up, half leaning against it 

It's too much, he's losing consciousness, but not fast enough. He doesn't know where he is. In a cell he's always in a cell how is he still in a fucking cell? 

The whip splits his back open and his roar of pain sounds closer to a sob. The sound fades out as he watches the body collapse. Gould kicks it onto its face and brings the whip down over and over again

It writhes on the floor twisting around in its pathetic, futile attempts to protect itself. The lash bites into anything exposed. Back, arms hands, chest, shins 

Not even its howls sound human. The torn click and rasp of its overstrained voice breaking- stammering out wordless pleas for mercy

The thing is calling for help

No, no one is coming doesn't it realize that? 

He winces in something like sympathy as one blow rips an especially nasty gash into its shoulderblade. That's gotta hurt. 

It’s stopped struggling, body still save for bloody fingers flexing and clawing into the tiles. Trying to hold onto something? Dig itself free?

Its sobs break off as its voice finally gives out and then there's only the wet smack of the whip against its chewed up back 

Even its fingers go still. They only twitch slightly with each blow

Gould stops. 

He stands over the body breathing hard. He nudges it with his boot and it doesn't react

“Great” he mutters, crouching down to examine his work.

It lays still, eyes wide open but glassy and unseeing, mouth hanging stupidly open in a twisted grimace

It doesn't even look like its breathing 

Gould holds a finger under its nose then feels around its neck for a pulse. 

Apparently satisfied he pulls out his phone and taps in a number 

“I need medical in my office immediately.” 

A pause 

“Went too hard with Morgan again.” 

Another pause

Gould chuckles 

“Yeah. Fucker has a special talent getting under my skin.” He kicks the body, sneering when it doesn't react. 

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“Hurry. I don't want him bleeding out on my floor.” He ends the call 

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[syncopein3d]

This is an excellent example of a scene that simply couldn't be done justice in film or animation. There's so much texture to this horror that I don't think any sound or visual can convey. And then the sharp stop after all this abstraction that comes with that biting prosaic end dialogue.

I don't know if this is still whump but I love it as prose.