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drabbles-mc · 2 years

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You Ever Get Nightmares?

Happy Lowman & Daughter!OFC (Diedra Lowman)

Whumptober 2022: No.5 Every Whumpee’s Needs- Running Out Of Air

Warnings: 18+, language, angst, mentions of past trauma/physical assault

Word Count: 2k

A/N: This is a day late and a loose interpretation of the prompt, but I was really excited to write for Di again. I’ve had her whole backstory in my head and it was nice to scratch the surface of it a little bit. Plus, it’s nice to see Happy doing the dad thing.

SOA/Mayans Taglist: @garbinge @espieviolet99 @mijop @chibsytelford @thanossexual @anditsmywholeheart @i-just-read-stuff @be-my-dear @bport76 @withmyteeth @unicornucopia-fuckers @buckybarneshairpullingkink @shadow-of-wonder @punkgoddess-98 @paintballkid711 @black-repunzel99 @lexondeck @jitterbugs927 @fanfic-n-tabulous @mijagif @frattsparty @winchestershiresauce @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @beardburnsupersoldiers @mveggieburger @choochoo284 @littlekittymeow @beardsanddetectives @i-love-scott-mccall @queenbeered @gemini0410 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @lakamaa12 @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

She jolted awake, gasping for air like her body hadn’t recognized the difference between her reality and the nightmare that she had just been trapped in. She sat upright, immediately bringing her hand up to her throat as though she had to touch it to confirm that there really wasn’t anything there. Her chest was heaving as she tried to swallow, tried to get herself under control again. Her hand shook as she reached to switch on her bedside lamp.

The light cast off from the lamp wasn’t much. It didn’t feel warm or comforting in the moment. Her breaths were shaky as she aggressively kicked the blanket off. The thing wasn’t even that heavy, didn’t trap or create much heat, but it might as well have been made of lead with the way that it felt against her skin.

Bending her legs, she pressed her elbows against her thighs and dropped her face into her hands. Her breaths were shuddered, and she hated how intensely she could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. All these years later and she was still fucked up. All the things that she had done to be stronger, harder, smarter, colder, and it didn’t even fucking matter. One bad dream and she was just a scared little teenage girl all over again. She hated it.

The second she felt the tears stinging her eyes, she knew that she had to get the hell out of her room. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t the room that was the problem. It wasn’t her bed, wasn’t her apartment, wasn’t even the town—it was just her. But she couldn’t fix that. So, instead, she forced herself off of her mattress. Putting one foot in front of the other, she fought for each step that she took towards her dresser. Her legs felt like they were locked up, stiff in a way that not even her toughest workouts left her. Each breath she took was calculated as she grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a flimsy tank top.

She slowly opened her bedroom door, poking her head out into the dark hallway. The entire apartment was pitch black except for the soft pink light coming from the crack at the bottom of her sister’s bedroom door. Walking closer, she was about to knock when she heard the sound of her sister’s laughter on the other side. She waited for another moment, but when she heard the muffled sound of the television and Juice’s laughter too, Diedra immediately crept past the door without interrupting them.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure what she really expected Dakota to be able to do for her. She loved her younger sister more than anything, but this was one thing that she didn’t think the two of them would ever talk about. Diedra made the decision years ago that she was better off not knowing about it. It’d been a long time since then and she had yet to go back on that decision. She wasn’t going to break that streak tonight because of a nightmare, no matter how real it felt.

She moved quietly across the apartment, grabbing the bare minimum of things as she went along. She shoved her phone and keys into her pockets as she shoved her feet into her boots, not bothering to tie them before slipping out of the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind her once she was out.

The house was pitch black when she rolled into the driveway, but she knew that he was home. His bike was there, along with his car. There was no way that he had gone somewhere without either of those. She turned her car off, hesitating for a moment and wondering if it was too late to turn around and head back to her apartment. She didn’t exactly know what she wanted from him, either. He’d get it a little more, maybe, but it wasn’t like the two of them ever talked about it.

She lost any opportunity she had to turn around and bail when lights started to shine through one of the windows. Seconds later, the front door opened, and all she could see was his silhouette in the doorway, shadow against the weak, yellow light coming from inside. She saw the brief shadow of the gun in his hand before he tucked it back into his waistband, realizing that it wasn’t a threat rolling into his driveway in the small hours of the morning, it was just Diedra.

Swinging the car door open, she slowly made her way out. She gently pushed the door shut behind her, feet practically dragging as she walked towards his front door. She didn’t regret it, per se, but it felt much more daunting now than it had when she was frozen on her mattress at home.

Once she was close enough to see it clearly, she saw that his expression wasn’t really conveying much one way or the other. She let out a deep, quiet sigh. “Hey, Dad.”

“What happened?” he cut right to the chase.

She raked her hands back through her hair. “Can I stay here for the night?”

He nodded, not asking anything else as he opened the door a little wider. Diedra slipped underneath his arm and into his house. She dropped her phone and keys on the counter as she made her way through the kitchen and towards the living room. She flicked on the lamp there just seconds before Happy turned off the lights in the front of the house. It wasn’t long after that he materialized, sitting next to her on the couch.

After another minute of silence, Happy repeated himself. “What happened?”

She shook her head, feeling so small, weak, feelings that she worked tirelessly to avoid. “It’s stupid.”

“So? Tell me.”

“You ever get nightmares?” she asked.

He paused, thinking about it for a moment before he shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“About real stuff? Like, flashbacks?”

His brows drew together. “What is it?”

She huffed, shaking her head. It suddenly felt much more difficult to look Happy in the eyes. Which was stupid, and she knew it, because he was the only other person on the face of the planet who knew what was eating away at her. But she also knew the things he’d done, the things he was still doing, and it felt silly to come to him on the brink of a breakdown over things that had happened so long ago.

“Just, uh,” she shrugged, twisting her hands in a vain attempt to hide their shaking, “all the shit that happened with…you know…”

“Say it,” he nodded encouragingly, face still nearly blank.

“Dad—”

“Stop choking that shit down.” He rested his hand in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades. “Say it.”

She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to figure out if she was going to pluck up the courage to really talk it out for once, or if she was just going to deflect and try to bail. She took a deep breath. “Sometimes…sometimes I can still, just, feel,” she gestured vaguely in the air before lightly dragging her fingertips down the column of her neck, “like it’s fucking happening…” She laugh she let out was hollow, one that was trying to drown out the urge to cry. “God, it sounds so stupid saying it out loud. It happened so long ago and we’ve both got so much—”

“Hey,” he cut her off, “Don’t do that.” He waited for her to look at him, “Talk to me.”

“It’s not like it happens all the time. But sometimes…sometimes it feels like it’s still happening to me. And I can’t…control it. I can feel myself not being able to breathe and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s that same fucking,” she clenched her fists tight, not even noticing the tears that were on her cheeks now, “crushing feeling. I can fucking feel it, Dad. It hurts even though it’s not happening to me.”

“It did happen.”

“Yea,” she scoffed, wiping at her face, “like almost fifteen years ago.”

“It still happened.” He paused. “You stopped him, though.”

“I never seem to make it that far in my dreams.”

“You remember it?”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “Did you really just fucking ask me—”

“Then say it.”

Her breath got caught in her throat. All the years of the both of them expertly maneuvering around the topic, and now Happy was placing her directly in front of the oncoming train. She wanted to run, but she felt frozen. If there was a guarantee that this would fix her, she’d spill her guts to the goddamn world. But there was no guarantee, and forcing herself to say things that Happy already knew to be true felt nearly impossible.

Her voice, one that was usually so strong and sharp, sounded fragile, “I killed him.”

“Yes you did,” he sounded to matter-of-fact, “He fucked up. You didn’t, though.”

“But I still feel like this.”

“You were fifteen.”

“So?” She shook her head, blinking away the lingering tears. “You’ve done that kind of shit your whole—”

“That’s different.” He shook his head at her. “You’re good, Di.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You don’t feel it, you try not to act like it, but you’re good.”

She leaned back against the sofa. Her eyes were locked on the ceiling about them as she spoke. “You say that. But I just, I look at myself, then I look at Kota, and…I don’t know…”

“You’re not like your sister,” Happy shook his head, “but you’re still good.”

“Kota never—”

“She never had to,” he didn’t let her finish the thought. A few beats of silence went by before he asked, “Why didn’t you ever say any of this before?”

“We all deal with our own shit, Dad. And you and I don’t really…you know…we don’t really talk about shit.”

“But you can. I’m here. Always.”

Some of the tension disappeared from her shoulders and she nodded, tears springing into her eyes again. “I know,” she hadn’t meant to whisper but she did. “I guess I just hope that if I don’t talk about it, try not to think about it, that maybe it’ll go away.”

“Has it?”

She managed a tiny chuckle, “Clearly not.” She took a deep breath trying to get herself together, the first deep breath she’d been able to take comfortably all night, “Thank you.”

“I love you,” he draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in so that he could kiss the side of her head, “a lot.”

She smiled her first real smile of the night as she leaned into him, “I love you too. A lot.”

“Do you wanna stay up? Or try to go back to sleep?”

She looked up at him, and she knew for a fact that if she said that she wanted to stay up, that he would spend the rest of the night sitting on the couch with her, awake, most likely in complete silence. Because there wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for his daughters. He proved it time and time again. He’d been proving it to Diedra since she was fifteen, and it was one of the few things that had never changed.

“I think I’m gonna try and get some sleep.” She paused. “Can I sleep out here?”

He didn’t even bat an eye as he nodded. “Yea, I’ll grab your pillow from your room.”

“Thank you,” she said as she folded her hands in her lap.

When Happy came back a few minutes later, he had two pillows and two blankets bundled up in his arms. He tossed one of each onto the couch for Diedra, lightly hitting her in the chest with the pillow and getting her to laugh quietly. Then, he walked over to the recliner. Propping the pillow behind his head and draping the blanket over his legs, he pulled the lever on the side that made the footrest kick out. He didn’t say anything as he waited for Diedra to get situated.

“Night,” he said as he reached for the lamp and switching it off.

She sunk down into the comfort of the thick blanket he’d given her, eyes closing as she focused on the reality of the fact that she was safe and sound at Happy’s house. “Night.”

#whumptober2022 #no.5 #running out of air #sons of anarchy #soa #happy lowman #oc #oc diedra #oc diedra lowman #fic #trauma #assault #happy lowman x oc #sons of anarchy imagine #soa imagine #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc #mayans mc

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reds-whump-prompts · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 5 - Running Out of Air

Whumper is keeping Whumpee prisoner on a boat. When Caretaker comes searching, Whumper straps Whumpee into a diving suit. Then they chain them to the anchor and drop them in the water. They’ll only let them up after Caretaker has given up searching.

All the while, Whumpee watches their oxygen supply slowly deplete.

#whumptober 2022 #day 5 #running out of air #whumper #whumpee #caretaker #whump #whump prompts #underwater #kidnapped whumpee #captive whumpee #failed rescue #chains

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kckenobi · 2 years

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Running Out of Air

Anakin and Obi-Wan are locked in an airtight bunker. (2.5 words, whumptober prompt 5)

The creatures were blind, but they weren’t deaf. They figured that much out very quickly.

Obi-Wan had visited a lot of star systems in his life—more now than ever, during the war—but neither he nor Anakin had been here. Goroth Prime, a planet in the Mid Rim, was better known by the locals as “Wasteland.” And though Obi-Wan wasn’t one to throw insults around, he couldn’t help but agree—the place was dark, and desolate, and unfortunately swampy. There wasn’t much vegetation, and the atmospheric makeup was different enough from Coruscant’s that it left them both a little woozy. Of all the places for their ship to refuel.

And then there were the creatures. Known by the locals as Nightdevils. Which about summed it up.

“Cody must’ve seen us go down,” Anakin said. Sounding confident enough, until he glanced sideways. “Right?”

Obi-Wan nodded. They stood beside the shuttle, which steamed with the heat of a less-than-stellar landing. “I’m sure he did. And they’ll be along soon with fuel,” he said. “In the meantime, let’s take shelter. I don’t like the sound of those."

In the distance, something howled.

“Anakin—”

“Don’t say it,” Anakin said.

"Say what?”

“You have a bad feeling about this.”

Obi-Wan scoffed. “I wasn’t going to say it.”

"Oh, no?”

“Well.” He sniffed. “Maybe I was going to say it.”

There were settlements around—perhaps not active ones, but settlements all the same. Obi-Wan could see the remains of a warehouse or factory up ahead, its transparisteel windows shattered and dirtied, a chainlink fence winding the perimeter. They walked toward it, bundling their singed cloaks tighter in the wind.

When the first creature appeared behind them, Anakin sensed it first.

They turned slowly. The Nightdevil was double Anakin’s height, and walked on two legs with a hunched back and clawed hands. Its skin was gray and leathery, and stunk of acid. But the strangest thing was that it had no eyes. Or nose. Or ears. No face at all.

Only teeth.

Teeth that bared right at them.

“Obi-Wan—”

“It can’t see us,” Obi-Wan says. “Just walk away…slowly.”

“Where?”

"We’ll climb the fence.”

They turned back toward their destination. The fence was high, though not high enough that they couldn’t jump over with the Force and a running start. Anakin kept looking over his shoulder, and begrudgingly, Obi-Wan let himself look too—

Only to see a dozen more creatures emerging from the woods.

“The sound of the crash must’ve summoned them,” Anakin whispered. “Anything in a two-klick radius would’ve heard—”

"Shh. Just jump.”

Anakin leapt over the fence first. Landed safely on the other side.

Obi-Wan’s turn. He leapt into the air, the Force beneath him as his cushion and around him as his guide.

He hit the ground safely.

Then took one step, and all he knew was pain, pain, pain.

“Obi-Wan!”

When he opened his eyes, Anakin was at his side, trying to pry it off his leg—the trap, laid on the other side of the fence, which Obi-Wan’s landing had activated.

But the sound of yelling had caused the Nightdevils to turn. And now—

“We need to go. Get up,” Anakin said.

“I—”

“Now.”

He hauled Obi-Wan to his feet, and half-dragged him across the yard to the warehouse.

They burst through a shattered window. Obi-Wan leaned on him the whole way, breathing tight with pain as both of them tried to keep as quiet as possible. Because—

“We need to stop making sound,” Anakin said. “That’s how they know where we are.”

Obi-Wan sucked in a tight breath. “Or we could just get out of here instead.”

“Down here.” He pulled Obi-Wan toward a heavy, durasteel bunker hatch in the ground. The door creaked open, and Anakin winced at the sound—he could hear the creatures following them into the warehouse, could smell their acidic breath…

He pushed Obi-Wan down into the bunker. Leapt after him.

The door boomed closed behind them.

Silence.

Then, a shaky exhale from Obi-Wan.

Anakin reached for his lightsaber, and ignited it to use for a light source. The bunker was fairly unremarkable—its walls were bare, save for a map of the warehouse that was half torn off the wall. There were a few blankets, and an hourglass timer which had shattered on the top. A few loaded tanks of fuel sat on the floor, though the Force only knew how old they were. There were a few empty oxygen tanks too, though Anakin couldn’t imagine why. Obi-Wan sat on the ground with one leg stretched out in front of him—a leg that was drenched in blood.

Anakin winced. Then, mindful of the sound of the creatures stomping around on top of them, whispered: “How’s it look?”

Obi-Wan pulled off his boot with a grunt, then rolled up his pantleg. The ankle was purple and swollen, with what looked like teeth-marks in the places the trap had closed on it. It was ugly, and certainly painful, but Obi-Wan didn’t make a sound.

Above them, something growled.

“We’ll just have to wait them out,” Anakin whispered again. “As long as they can’t hear us, they’ll assume we’re gone.”

Obi-Wan nodded. Anakin scooted closer and took off his outer layer of tunics, then began to clean and wrap the injury with the makeshift bandage. Obi-Wan flinched at the touch.

It was about the time he finished when Anakin started to notice himself feeling a little…dizzy.

He blinked once, and the sight of Obi-Wan blurred before him.

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan whispered.

Anakin nodded. “Yeah. I just feel…a little short of breath or something. Guess I’m out of shape.”

But he could tell Obi-Wan didn’t quite believe him.

“No...I feel it too.”

His heart dropped.

“It’s possible…” he continued, his voice hushed. “That this bunker is airtight.”

Anakin cursed.

His eyes scanned the room again—the hourglass, the oxygen tanks—and this time his mind processed the pieces. Someone had used this bunker before, but they’d brought an air supply with them. Either that, or they’d kept a timer to know when they needed to open the hatch for air. Anakin felt another wave of dizziness, and swallowed.

“Okay,” he said. “No problem. So we just go back up. I’d rather not fight a dozen Nightdevils at once, but it’s better than suffocating.”

He rose to his feet, and pressed upward on the heavy bunker door.

It didn’t budge.

Again—this time, Anakin shoved with the Force.

Nothing.

Dread settled on his shoulders.

“I think…I think it might’ve locked behind us.”

The air felt thinner.

It had been ten minutes.

Anakin had wrapped up Obi-Wan’s injured ankle as best he could, Obi-Wan talking him through it—of the two of them, Obi-Wan was the better healer. It didn’t look great now either, but at least there was something to stop the bleeding. His face was a little less pale. But not much.

They could still hear the creatures above them.

“Do you think we can cut our way out with a lightsaber?” Anakin whispered.

“Shh,” Obi-Wan said.

“It’s a valid question.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that there’s dozens of them. And the locals seem to think they’re blaster resistant. At least according to the records of the planet we saw before we landed.” Obi-Wan whispered back. “But—we need to save our breath. There’s only so much oxygen. We can’t waste it on conversation.”

“Then shut up!”

“Anakin, you’re the one who—”

“Shh! “

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. He was sitting on a pile of discarded netting and metal tubing, leaning against the wall of the bunker. Anakin sat against the opposite wall. Obi-Wan was sweating, both of them sweltering in this tiny room. Anakin was sure he looked just as damp and weary. He tried to take a deep breath, to clear his head, but just chest felt tight. Like the air was so thick and swollen with humidity he couldn’t choke enough down.

“Are we…going to be okay?” Anakin whispered.

Obi-Wan didn’t answer. Whether because of the shortness of air, or something else, he couldn’t say.

Fifteen minutes.

Anakin’s breaths came short and labored. Obi-Wan’s were softer, but just as shallow.

“Should we use it yet?”

Between the two of them, they had one rebreather—a device issued to all Jedi to allow them to breathe underwater or in different atmospheres. Except that Obi-Wan’s was still missing after the Cato Neomoidia situation, and so—only Anakin’s. One rebreather, which would only keep a single person alive for a short time, maybe fifteen minutes or so. Two people, half of that.

Obi-Wan shook his head no.

The room felt warmer by the minute. Up above, they could still hear the creatures stomp about so hard dust from the ceiling rained down, but it felt muted now. Not because they were moving farther away—because Anakin could barely feel anything. His hands felt clumsy as they wiped his brow, his lungs felt stiff as they struggled to bring the air in, then out again.

At twenty minutes, Anakin pulled out his rebreather. His forehead beaded with sweat.

Obi-Wan nodded.

They passed it back and forth. Obi-Wan’s eyes had started to close, opening again only when Anakin elbowed him gently to give him his turn with the rebreather. While he waited for air again, Anakin’s lungs burned, a pins-and-needles feeling that made him want to stand and pace the room, even knowing that would only make it worse. His throat hurt, and it was worse when he tried to swallow.

Obi-Wan’s eyes opened.

“Here,” he said, then coughed. Tried to inhale, but ended up taking a few shallow breaths instead, as if…

As if he couldn’t breathe.

“We need…to get out of here,” Anakin said, pushing out the raspy words. “Going to…suffocate.”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer.

Anakin took one puff of the rebreather before passing it back to Obi-Wan. “It’s time to risk it.”

Anakin was hyperventilating now, vaguely aware of Obi-Wan trying to pass him back the rebreather. He was sweating, the heat seeming to smother him like a pillow to the face, the bunker walls swimming before him. It was like a dream. Nothing looked real.

He couldn’t breathe.

Obi-Wan’s eyes closed again.

Anakin stood up, grabbed the two tanks of fuel with one hand.

And with the other, ignited his lightsaber.

Obi-Wan jolted upright as the sparks rained down. Anakin had driven the lightsaber straight through the bunker ceiling, near the latch that had trapped them inside, and he could smell the metal melting away now. Anakin’s arms shook as much as his labored breath, and for a moment he thought he might pass out before the bunker door would fall away.

But then, slowly, the motion seeming to shiver before his eyes, a piece of metal dropped away, landing with a distant thud in front of Anakin’s face.

Air.

Air, spilling through the open hole of the bunker, filling the space, filling their lungs.

Air.

And then, the monsters.

Anakin was so dizzy that when he pulled himself through the bunker opening, he thought he might fall right back through. Obi-Wan joined him, the Force alone keeping them both on their feet, panting heavily as sweet air poured into their chests and swept through their blood.

Anakin didn’t remember making it back to the ship. He didn’t remember the way the Nightdevils swarmed them, how a lightsaber blade seemed to harm them but never kill them, how his own weakness made him stumble and miss easy strikes. One of his hands was occupied carrying the fuel tanks and threw him off balance.

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded fuzzy, somewhere behind him—he limped along, holding his own with his lightsaber. “There’s more.”

Anakin turned his head, and his eyes felt like they took a second to follow. A dizzying feeling. And Obi-Wan was right. From the woods and behind the warehouse, more of the creatures were emerging. Drawn out by the sound of footsteps and lightsaber strikes.

Anakin was so distracted by it, that he didn’t notice one of the monsters about to rip its claw down his arm.

There was blood before he even registered the pain.

“Anakin!”

The rest was a blur. The running, the trying not to make a sound. Anakin wanted to scream—he needed to scream, could feel the blood soaking his tunic faster than he could move. But he forced himself silent, both of them did. Until they approached the ship, and Anakin dropped to his knees on the side of the ship’s fuel tank.

“I took the fuel from the bunker,” he half-grunted, half-whispered. “Can you hold them off?”

Obi-Wan hesitated before he answered. “Do what you have to,” he whispered back. “Just do it quickly.”

The monsters descended on them. Obi-Wan’s lightsaber was the only sound for miles.

Anakin ripped the fuel cap off the side of the ship and screwed off the lid of the fuel canisters. He didn’t know exactly what kind of fuel it was—there was a chance it wasn’t even compatible with this engine, and they’d be stuck here anyway. But he poured it down the hatch—one canister, then the next one gurgling away.

He slammed the fuel tank shut.

“Let’s go,” he hissed.

Obi-Wan warded off the nearest creature with his lightsaber, and followed Anakin up the boarding ramp.

In space, it was quiet.

There was nothing but the sound of machinery as the ship pulled them from the atmosphere, and the huff of ragged breathing. Obi-Wan had collapsed into the pilot’s seat. Anakin hadn’t even made it that far—he sat at the edge of the closed-up boarding ramp. Quiet. This was a quiet place, and there were no creatures, and they were safe now.

Weren’t they?

Obi-Wan stood. He seemed to sway.

“Let’s take care of your arm.”

They patched each other up, as best they were able. The cut in Anakin’s arm was deep, and likely to be infected. Obi-Wan’s wrapped up leg had begun to bleed again. But for now their field medic training was enough. For most of it.

Except for the fact that their lungs still burned.

“We almost suffocated,” Anakin whispered. Not on purpose—his voice was still too raspy to speak any louder.

“It was…not ideal,” Obi-Wan said. “We’ll need to check in with the Healers when we’re back on Coruscant. Lack of oxygen for so long…well…it can have long term effects. We should stay awake. Try to keep ourselves from…”

But Anakin was sleepy. Disoriented. He knew Obi-Wan was still talking to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond. Just to lay back against the cot in the ship where he and Obi-Wan sat, and to close his eyes…

“Anakin…? Anakin…”

…to close his eyes…

“Stay with me—”

…to close his eyes…

(a/n: this fic is weird but I watched A Quiet Place 2 recently which has a very angsty scene like this and thought it would be fun to mix with sw :) thanks for reading! masterlist of my other fics here!)

#whumptober2022 #no.5 #running out of air #Star Wars #fic #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #my fic #i am no particularly proud of the writing in this BUT I'm working on anti-perfectionism lol so here we are!#*not #blood #injuries

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how-much-for-a-whump · 2 years

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WHUMPTOBER day 25:

Altprompt: "Dazed and Confused"

Slunečná (62)

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sasuga-whump · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022: “Running out of Air” - Mr Brain ep 4 (2009)

Amnesiac boy has a panic attack after playing a piano piece linked to a murder (played by Satoh Takeru)

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echele-78 · 2 years

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"There Ain't No Getting Out Of This Mess"

Written for @whumptober 2022

Summary: When Magnus goes missing, Alec will do almost anything to get him back. What is Magnus' life worth? Is there a price that is too high to pay? And will Alec find out the answers to those questions the hard way?

Notes: Each chapter will fill one or more prompts for the corresponding day. Chapter specific tags will be listed in the notes space on each individual chapter. This will be one continuous story. None of the descriptions of violence, wounds, etc will be extremely graphic in any chapter. Also, it's unspoken but the main characters are all in their mid to late thirties.

Chapter 1 Prompt: Running Out of Air

Rated: Mature, Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings, See Tags/Warnings Below

Read on AO3

#Whumptober2022 #no. 5 #running out of air #Shadowhunters #fic #malec #malec fanfic #malec fanfiction #alec lightwood #magnus bane #human au #angst #hurt/comfort #happy ending #physical violence #kidnapping #injuries

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whumpneto · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 - No. 5 EVERY WHUMPEE’S NEEDS

Blood Loss | Running Out of Air | Hyperthermia

Milo Ventimiglia as Ian Mitchell in Chosen (2013) (S01E01)

#whumptober2022 #no.5 #running out of air #chosen #1x1 #milo ventimiglia #suffocated #suffocation #bonus one because why not #my gifs #queue

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starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 2 years

Text

Chapter 3 ~ Running out of air

Hidden Depths

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Genre: Fantasy whump

Written per Whumptober 2022 prompts

CW's: captivity, mention of depression of a family member, nudity (non-sexual), stabbing, blood, strangling, implied whump of a minor (character isn't really a minor, but they don't know that 😅)

WC: 3267 3295

AN: Well, I'm falling behind lol. Which means I finished/edited/posted this today. Woo!

Resh

Hands folded on his stomach, Resh lay on a tiny cot in an even tinier room, trying not to move. To distract himself, he started counting the red bricks lining the walls of his cell. No wait, he wanted to count the knots in the beams of wood supporting the ceiling this morning. It was an intensely fascinating endeavor, especially since he seemed to come up with a different number every time he counted.

As much of a joy as it was to lie on his shredded back, it was even more fun trying to lie on his side. Why couldn't he have broken limbs on the same side of his body, for fuck's sake? And forget trying to lie on his stomach—it was next to impossible to get up from the cot when he did. That was a mistake he wouldn't be making again.

Resh also tried not to breathe too deeply. For one, it smelled fucking weird in this underground complex. Musty, stale air barely circulated down here, because when the prince had used his innate elemental ability to carve the space out, he either hadn't had the brains to include adequate ventilation, or he just hadn't cared.

Secondly, his ribs fucking ached. The godsdamn guard fetching the prisoners from their cells had the patience of an amnesiac squirrel trying to find the food it'd buried. When Resh hadn't been able to get off the cot—lying on his stomach was to blame, of course—the guard had 'helped' by pulling him off and then kicking him for good measure.

Because adding yet another injury to the mix made it so much easier to get up in a timely manner. Resh made a rude gesture towards the row of metal bars that served as his door.

Lesson learned. Painfully, but learned nonetheless. Now he used lifesense to watch for the guard coming down the hall, so he could take his time maneuvering his splinted limbs off the cot.

It had been a long week, but hey, at least Marcus hadn't been here. Apparently, he'd taken a trip back to the city. Resh hoped the prince got drunk, took a wrong turn in the city streets, and ended up beaten and left for dead in one of the poorer sections. Bonus points if someone got feisty and stabbed him a few times for good measure.

If only. Resh scratched at his neck, which felt swollen and a little hot. He didn't know what Marcus had done with this godsdamned thorn collar, but no matter how hard Resh tried, he couldn't get it off, and now it was irritated as fuck. But Mother, did it ever itch.

His sister could've removed it for him. Orla had elemental earth, and while hers wasn't as strong as a royal's ability, she could manipulate earth and plants and some of the more porous stones.

Blinking rapidly, Resh took a few slow, not quite deep enough breaths. As a servant at the manor, he had been given one day off a week, which he used to make the three-hour walk back to the city to check on his sister. And his mother, he supposed—not that she cared much. Now that Orla had her medicine and didn't need as much help, his mother had sunk back into her despondency. Resh supposed he should be grateful she had risen from it to help care for Orla at all.

Still, Orla was only twelve. She wouldn't understand why Resh hadn't made it home today to see her. If the cheap boarding house the Crown was allowing his family to stay in could be considered home. But it was better than where they had been living after his father died, when they could no longer afford the upkeep of the townhome in the merchant's quarter of the city.

Most of all, Resh hated that his sister was alone. He forgot himself for a moment and clenched his hand into a fist, his right one, which sent shooting pains through his arm. Fucking pits.

A new golden light appeared in his mind's eye at the end of the hall, one that was moving instead of the stationary lights of the other prisoners in their cells. Resh stopped massaging the pins and needles from his swollen fingers and began the painstaking process of getting up. Once sitting, he positioned the ratty piece of cloth used to support his right arm around his neck and found the staff he'd been given to help keep the weight off his left leg.

The morning passed as usual. Gray, lumpy, lukewarm oatmeal served with the weakest tea Resh had ever had the pleasure of drinking in the dining hall. It was a treat carrying his food to a table, considering his good arm had to hold onto his staff. Afterward, he endured the jostling, the elbows, and the occasional outright assault while they were ushered to the common room to receive their assignments for the day.

Although room sizes varied, they all looked the same. Red bricks lined the walls, curving into a domed ceiling spanned by wooden beams. The floor on this level was just plain dirt, although it was packed so hard it was hardly distinguishable from stone.

Especially when one met the floor in a violent fashion—a flurry of motion across the room caught Resh’s attention. A large man with a potbelly that Resh knew had menaced the poorer sections of the city shoved one of the few women in the center out of his way. She fell hard, head cracking audibly against the floor.

Resh winced but was reassured when she curled into a ball, probably praying Potbelly didn't decide to take further offense and kick the shit out of her before the guards intervened.

This was the Reconditioning Center, where the crown prince magnanimously oversaw the rehabilitation of repeat offenders and lowlifes not awful enough to be executed outright. Resh had traded away two years of his life, promising to serve as the prince’s personal assistant in exchange for the medicine his sister needed.

Now, he’d won the ultimate prize of becoming a prisoner instead of a member of the staff. It would probably be the highlight of his life. If he survived his time here, of course.

"Check in with Mieste," the guard at the entrance of the common room instructed.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Resh hobbled his way over to the corner the herbalist occupied for his daily wound clinic. It was a busy wound clinic and always had been, even before Resh had needed to stand its line.

You never knew what kind of… enticement to behave Marcus would order or, even better, deliver himself. The variety of pain was endless. Resh had witnessed it.

Now he knew firsthand. He traced the scabbed-over slice on his cheek, suppressing a shudder. He'd woken in a cold sweat every night over the last week, convinced his eye had actually been carved out.

"Move along, Josian," Mieste ordered the man in front of Resh.

The herbalist rinsed his hands in a bowl of water, then wiped them dry on his black shirt. Resh wasn't too sure that was the most sanitary of hand-drying options. Every medical person Resh had ever seen wore black to hide stains from the various bodily fluids of their patients. But who was he to say?

"Can't I have one of the elixirs?" Josian whined, his voice unusually nasally.

Resh really hoped Josian was enjoying his broken nose.

"You should know by now that pain relief is something earned," Mieste said, glaring over the rim of his glasses.

The back of Josian's gray uniform was spotted with blood from a recent whipping. Resh almost felt bad for him as the man sniffed and walked away.

Almost.

Except Josian had earned that whipping for attacking Resh a couple days ago. Resh could still barely see out of his left eye, but at least he had been able to fight back a little this time.

He couldn't even blame Josian. Resh had strapped him down a few weeks ago for Marcus to play with, after all. The man had a raised red scar running from the right side of his forehead through the bridge of his nose to prove it, along with some others hiding under his uniform. He winced at the memory of that session. Josian wasn't very friendly, to say the least.

"Resh, take off your clothes and have a seat." Mieste directed him to a rickety-looking stool, then turned back to his table, pulling out an assortment of jars, vials, and bandages.

Take off his clothes? Resh couldn't imagine why he'd need to take off all of his clothes. Based on the supplies Mieste was pulling out, it appeared he was going to change his bandages, but surely he could keep his pants for that.

Gingerly, Resh sat on the stool, praying the flimsy thing wouldn't collapse as it creaked under his weight. He wasn't even that big, so he couldn't imagine how any of the larger men managed to sit on this thing.

There was nowhere to put his staff, so he let it drop to the ground and then began removing his shirt, wrinkling his nose as he did. He hadn't been provided with a new uniform since he'd been… relocated, and his ability to wash was a little hampered by the bandages wrapped around his torso, not to mention his splinted limbs. Cheeks heating, he folded the shirt across his lap and waited for Mieste to finish up.

When the herbalist turned around, the lines on his face deepened dramatically as he scowled. "Was I not clear enough? Take off those filthy clothes. You get a new uniform today with your bandage change."

Resh's eyes darted around the room, from the other prisoners milling about waiting for their work assignments to the people still waiting in line to be looked over. "Here?" he asked, desperately hoping otherwise.

Mieste raised his eyebrows. "Where else? Do you think this place gives a shit about your modesty?" Shoving back his thinning gray hair, Mieste crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed.

While Resh would've loved to pretend he didn't give a shit, he was pretty sure the heat creeping down his neck was giving him away. He cleared his throat and awkwardly pulled his pants off. Resh held his clothes in his lap as he sat back down, studiously refusing to look at anyone. He couldn't hear those snickers from the ones in line who'd heard that exchange, either. Nope.

Mieste checked Resh's arm and leg, changing the wrappings holding the splints in place. Resh tried not to move too much while Mieste did so; it would be just his luck to get a splinter in his bare ass.

The bandages around Resh's torso were not replaced. Something something about the wounds needing air. Resh didn't care; he was just happy he could wash a little better now. His cheek, neck, wrists, and calf had all scabbed over and no longer needed medical attention. Mieste clucked his tongue at the state of Resh's irritated throat, smeared some salve around the thorn collar, and sternly told him to leave it alone.

Easier said than done. Resh would like to see how Mieste reacted to having thorns digging into his throat for a week straight. They fucking burned, and the itching was driving him mad. Thankfully, the salve cooled his irritated skin, dampening the itch for now.

He was beyond grateful to pull on his clean uniform when Mieste finished, not even caring that the rough fibers caught on the healing wounds on his back. He moved away from Mieste's corner. Passing by the entrance to the room, on his way to receive his work assignment for the day, he heard a raised voice echoing down the hall.

"Getcha hands offa me, you fuckin creeps! I know how'ta walk, for fuck's sake.”

A truly concerning noise, sounding like some kind of wild animal caught in a trap and utterly pissed about it, emerged from the tunnel.

“Gods! I said lemme go, you dumbfucks. You even listenin t’ me, or are you deaf as well as shitbrained?"

Eyes widening, Resh stopped and turned toward the entrance. The voice had a higher pitch than anyone currently residing here, so it seemed they were getting a new prisoner. His heart sank—that probably meant Marcus was back.

Two guards emerged from the hall, half-carrying a… wait, was that a kid? Marcus followed behind them, looking highly irritated, and wasn't that a great sign. Resh began to sidle backward, trying not to draw attention to himself. Why did he have to be so close to the entrance right now?

The guards released the kid, who ran inside. The kid didn’t go far, though, turning on their heel right in front of Resh, godsdamnit, to spit more curses at the guards. And at Marcus, who pushed past the guards with a thunderous expression.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Resh tried to back up faster, but it was a little hard to back up when you had a broken leg. It was much easier to go forwards. He was a little confused why a kid would be sentenced to this godsforsaken place, but he sure as fuck wished they would stop throwing such a fit, and so close to him at that.

Since Resh had such a close view, he supposed maybe the kid wasn't exactly a kid, although it was hard to tell their age or gender. They had the kind of delicate features that could go either way and that bespoke youth for a long time. They were at least a head shorter than him, which was saying something since Resh wasn’t all that tall himself. The kid was thin, too thin, with short reddish-blond hair that looked as if it had been hacked off with a knife. So, probably a kid off the streets, then.

Marcus' eyes flicked over to Resh, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly before he returned his attention to the kid. Resh grimaced, moving back one more step to be sure he was out of the way, and then stood still. Marcus had noticed him, so it wouldn't do him any good to try and vanish now.

The kid darted away as Marcus advanced. "I don't belong in your perverted hole of horrors," they hissed. "Bring me back."

Marcus sighed heavily, turning to Resh. "Carr is here for stealing, caught multiple times by multiple people. Resh, you can tell him how it goes here since you know how it works both ways now. You were on the street for a bit, perhaps you can teach him some manners while you're at it."

Not for the first time, Resh hated that he'd had to relate his godsdamned life story during his petition to the Crown. The prince knew entirely too much about Resh's life for him to be comfortable with.

The kid turned, shooting a baleful hazel glare Resh's way.

Great, that was just fucking great. It looked like even the newbies were going to be informed that Resh had been on the other side of this arrangement. Resh nodded anyway, because what else could he do?

Marcus' eyes darkened, and Resh knew he'd made a mistake. He opened his mouth, suddenly remembering that Marcus liked verbal responses, but nothing came out as the thorn collar around his throat tightened, choking him. Resh's left hand shot up, scrabbling at the branch, his breath wheezing in and out while the thorns dug deeper into his skin.

"Yes, my lord," Resh forced the words from his constricted throat, hoping it wasn't too late. Tears sprang to Resh's eyes when Marcus stepped closer, interest lighting his eyes as he watched Resh gasp for breath.

"Oh, Resh," Marcus said. "I see you haven't learned your lesson yet. Perhaps this will serve as a lesson for your new friend here as well." Marcus turned to the guards who had walked in with him. "Bring him."

Resh's eyes darted around the room while he tried to get some purchase on the collar, slip a finger underneath, something. His efforts were rewarded with splinters of bark painfully shoving up under his fingernails, but he couldn't stop trying.

Everyone still in the room was staring, watching the spectacle. The guards moved towards the kid, whose wide eyes were panicked as his gaze flicked from Resh to Marcus, then back to the approaching guards.

Couldn't the kid see nothing good came of defiance in this place? Resh would've tried to shake his head in warning or something, but his vision was spotting, too little air getting in, and it was all he could do to focus on breathing.

Resh sank to his knees at the same time the kid moved, his speed astonishing to even Resh's air-deprived brain.

Carr's small hands wrapped around the handle of the dagger Marcus wore strapped to his belt, tore it free from the sheath.

"What the—" Marcus shouted, grabbing for the kid, who ducked away, slashing with the blade. He reared back, a line of red appearing across his ribs beneath the sliced open fabric of his cream tunic.

The kid wasted no time. Taking advantage of Marcus' shock, he dashed in, slammed the dagger into Marcus' thigh, then ran. Marcus looked down at the handle protruding from his leg, then slowly back up, his head turning to follow the kid's progress.

The collar around Resh's neck loosened, and he eagerly sucked in air. His attention was drawn to the bloodstain spreading on Marcus' pantleg, but he wrenched his eyes up to see what was happening. Resh had never heard of someone attacking the prince before. He was a little scared this would be the last time he saw the kid alive.

Carr dodged the guards and ran straight for the entrance, obviously trying to escape, although Resh couldn't imagine how the kid thought he would get away.

Sure enough, Marcus moved his hand, and the ground beneath the kid softened, causing him to stumble, then sink into the earth. Carr's face turned red as he struggled to get free, but the earth hardened around him, leaving only his head and shoulders above ground.

"Gag him," Marcus ordered as Carr started screaming obscenities. "I'll deal with him in a bit."

Resh gasped as the collar tightened around his neck once more. Why? Fuck, what had he done?

Marcus knelt in front of Resh, seemingly unconcerned about the fucking dagger sticking out of his thigh. "Now see, this wouldn't have happened if you had just answered me appropriately in the first place." He plucked Resh's hand away from the collar, then tucked a stray piece of hair behind Resh's ear, uncovering his face.

Resh reached out to the prince instead, silently begging him to stop. At the same time, his mind grappled with stupid questions like: Did the prince have no pain receptors? How could he not care that he'd been sliced open and stabbed? Why was the prince doing this? Why?

Please, Resh mouthed to the prince. Please, stop.

Marcus took Resh's offered hand, patting it gently. "What's that?" The prince tilted his head. "It seems I can't hear you."

Tears fell down Resh's face, his chest heaving with the need to breathe. Please. Surely Marcus knew the shape of that word by now. Please.

Marcus just smiled as Resh continued to plead soundlessly.

Please. It was doing Resh no good, but he kept saying it, even while he slumped to the floor, his vision tunneling.

Please. The thorns hurt.

Please. His chest hurt.

Then darkness closed in, and nothing hurt at all.

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

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