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hold-him-down · 6 months ago

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Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.

Otto nods.

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

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@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter

@darkthingshappen

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

#Med Whump #Gratuitous Med Whump #Medical Restraints #Chemical Restraints #Noncon Touch #Referenced Noncon #Parker Destin #Institutionalized Slavery #Noncon Drugging #Conditioning #Referenced Food/Water Restriction #Referenced/Described STI testing #Referenced/Described Shock Collar #Whumper POV #literally over 4k words wtf #get leo a pet fish and warm hug when?

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serickswrites · 11 months ago

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Little Thing

Warnings: captivity, chemical restraints, drugging, implied noncon, creepy/intimate whumper

"Oh you sweet, precious, little thing," Whumper cooed as they cupped Whumpee's cheek. "I am going to enjoy taking my time with you." They kissed Whumpee on the lips.

Whumpee couldn't move. They could barely breathe. It took everything in them to keep their eyes open, and even then, they could feel their grip on the consciousness slipping. They weren't sure what Whumper had injected them with. All they knew was that they could barely move and the moment their world began to grow hazy, Whumper began to touch them.

"You are such a lovely, little thing," Whumper kissed down Whumpee's neck. "I just had to make you mine. So lovely, so perfect."

Whumpee blinked back tears as Whumper kissed down their exposed chest. This was unspeakably evil. This was something they did not want to be awake for. This was the worst thing Whumpee had experienced.

"Don't worry, little thing," Whumper looked up at Whumpee across their body, "I'll be gentle with you. I want you to last longer than some of the others."

Whumpee closed their eyes, allowing themself to drift closer to unconsciousness. They didn't want to be awake for the next part. Mercifully, the waiting dark consumed them.

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw captivity #tw drugging #tw chemical restraints #tw implied noncon #creepy/intimate whumper #whumpcember #whumpcember 2023 #day 20 #prompt: drugging #queue

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bandomwhumptoberfestexchange · 5 months ago

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It's finally here! The Bandom Whumptoberfest Fic Exchange right on your dash!

Our event runs from June 23rd to October 31st and we're open to whatever bandoms you'd like to enter with and anyone 18 years of age or older.

For more details, visit our Rules and Schedule page or our FAQ.

Our current schedule is as follows:

Sign-ups Open: June 23rd

Sign-ups Close: July 14th

Assignment Matches: July 15th

Assignments Due: October 20th

Assignment Deadline: October 30th

Gifts Revealed: October 31st

And now that you're all caught up, why don't you check out our Ao3 Collection page and join us in our whumptastic festivities?

Sign-up here.

Enter additional sign-up tags here.

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whumpster-dumpster · 1 year ago

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One thing I'd like to see more is utilization of smells in whump. There isn't much mention of it but when you think about the scenarios these whumpees are in, it adds another layer. Whumpees who haven't been able to wash in who knows how long, living with their body odor and sweat and oils. Whumpees who have been ill, unable to escape that stuffy sick smell of vomit and artificially sweet cough syrup. The stinging, clinical, chemical smells of a lab or medical facility. The metallic tang of blood. And on the other hand, comforting smells too. The smell of warm soup, of freshly laundered blankets, of their familiar caretaker when they give them a hug. Let's use all of the senses here!

#whump #whump aesthetic #smells #sweat #blood #vomiting #emeto #medicine #chemicals #food #hug #caretaking

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victimeyez · 1 year ago

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I know I brought up chemical torture but now there’s a scene I can’t get out of my head

Like I have some ideas but I was thinking about capsaicin cream…

Certain plants put out a chemical that deters mammals from eating them, but allows birds to, because they need the birds to spread the seeds. The chemical creates a burning feeling, and is what makes things taste “spicy” to us. Take that, plants, humans are into that shit. Birds cannot taste capsaicin and are unaffected by it. This chemical is capsaicin.

Capsaicin in plants can be so volatile that they are dangerous to be in contact with - for example, you can get actual chemical burns from cutting and handling jalapeños with your bare hands.

Capsaicin can be put safely into a cream that people will apply to sore parts of their body. On normal, unbroken skin, this creates a nice warming feeling that can help you relax.

However, the second that capsaicin cream get into a wound, or any sensitive skin, you are in for a world of hurt. As someone who has, sadly, had experience with it, the pain is incredible. It just keeps hurting more and more with seemingly no end. If you get even the absolute tiniest spec in the wrong place, you are likely to be incapacitated.

To treat this, you need to do a chemical shower - rinsing the effected area under running water for a while. Depending on how much, probably at least 20-30 minutes. Serious stuff. Worst bath time ever.

Caius has to manage Tommy even when he’s on his recovery breaks, but he has to be careful about hurting him. Punishments that injure him further delay his healing, which is more time where he’s not “working” and earning them money. Caius needs to indulge in his violent urges without setting back business, which he likes to pretend he’s too civil to do.

Utilizing something like capsaicin cream becomes a good option, as it can cause a lot of pain without doing any real damage beyond temporary irritation.

But when I try to think of if there was a way I could write that. It’s fucking ointment, you know! And it’s so hard. I just.

Fucking Caius like “COME GET YER PUNISHMENT CREAM, BOY” and I CAN’T move past that thought.

Punishment cream. Punishment creams!!!

#punishment cream #captive whumpee #professional//victim #professional victim #whump #chemical whump

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firapolemos05 · 1 year ago

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Have I mentioned that I love Gajeel whump? Yes? Good.

"Damn beast nearly bit my arm off!"

"I'm surprised the legal guilds even allow monsters like that into their cities."

"Well if he's going to act like an animal, might as well treat him like one."

Whumptober 2023

Day 24

"A mouth full of ridicule."

(In which I am very mean to my favorite blorbo.)

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waywardsou2 · 1 month ago

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Whumptober 2024: Multiple Whumpees

Just a one shot because I am going to do a full-length series for Bucky at some point and I have way to many more prompts to do

Summary: "I'm not the only Winter Soldier"

Word Count: 1k+

Tags: multiple whumpee, medical abuse, chemical torture, experimentation, trauma, nightmares, memories

"Because I'm not the only Winter Soldier"

He told Steve that when they had saved him from Zemo.

But it wasn't just him and the five others. Before that, before everything. Before the war had even ended, there had been others. Three more alongside him after he was retaken in Austria.

He remembers their faces so vividly, they haunted his waking moments and interrupted his nightmares, like everyone he's ever known. Puncturing the memories with horrible sounds and sights that didn't make sense but that he remembered too well.

After he had been retaken in Austria, they had given him back his arm and they had begun the tests on him. Over and over again using him like a pin cushion taking blood from his body and putting any number of chemicals into his system.

And for so long he was alone, alone and afraid and trapped.

Until he wasn't, and then he wished he was

There was one experiment conducted on him and the others. That's where he had met them

He had been taken to a different lab than the one he was graced with every day. It was bigger, clearer and with more benches. This one however had upright restrain tables. Bucky was first, he hadn't noticed the line of other people behind him until he had been turned around and man handled into the restraints.

He watched with limited movment as the same thing was done to them. There was a girl, with long blonde hair and hazel eyes. She was shorter than he was and had a hard set to her jaw. Unlike him she was wearing a barely modest top that they had supplied to her.

The next was a man who looked older than him, his hair was black and matted in places, he had grey eyes, sunken eyes. Bucky guessed he had fought harder than he had or been in the war longer. Either way, he looked like he was dancing with death

And the last man looked like a boy, smaller than Steve had been before the serum. He was harder to see as he was further away but Bucky thinks he had his head shaved. Other than that, he couldn't make out any features except for the tattoo on his arm.

The three of them were all attached to vital monitors, the girl to his left trying to bite her doctor against the restraints but not being able to do any damage.

She mustn't have been here that long

The four of them sat in the room, the buzzing of the machines all around them being the only sound that filled the room.

Bucky didn't do anything but wait, he didn't speculate, didn't bother to try and talk to the others. He simply waited, to tired and to broken to use what energy he had left. At some point he believed he would run out of energy and his body would simply give out from the stress but he didn't hope to hard for that. He was a fighter at heart, but his spirit was being broken over and over again every day. And sometimes he wondered if there was really any fight left.

And when the wait was over, the machines whirred louder, as the monitor that was watching his heart rate, and the heart rate of others spiked. You could hear it in the shrill beeping as the doctors approached them all holding obnoxiously large syringes. Bucky's eyes widened as fear flooded his gut, like someone had poured ice water over his body sending shivers down every limb.

He winced when the jab came and squirmed when he felt the liquid entering his bloodstream. The girl beside him snarled at the doctor and he backed away quickly.

The little boy at the other end of the hall began to cry faintly, the soft sound reaching him even through the thunderous beeping.

Bucky looked around the room as he waited for something to happen, he knew it was coming. The way his heart thrummed in his chest and the way his veins began to pop in his skin. He frantically looked around the room as if it would hold the answers

And then finally the screaming came. It came from the little boy first. His sobs growing louder and louder as whatever they had given him started to work. He writhed around and banged against the metal of the table, he could hear the way his head hit the metal as he thrashed arond.

Next was the woman, who tried to lunge forward and break the restraints, who was grunting and groaning and fighting with all her energy. Her teeth were clenched and she hissed at the doctor's watching them from the other side of the room. Her lips were curled back and her yellow teeth were showing in a display of aggression. If she were an animal, he would have called her a hyena. Like the ones he had seen in his school textbook.

Next was the other man, who kicked more than he struggled, slamming his foot into the platform they were standing on, banging against the metal with a force that he knew would leave dents after a few attempts.

And finally it was his turn. Underneath his skin he felt like someone was running a fire poker along the course of his veins. The blood inside boiling as the chemical worked it's magic. He arched his back against the restraints, leaning forward as his insides began to light up, a fire raging uncontrolled inside of him that made his body ache and burn. Make his skin crawl and his mind swim. He squeezed his eyes shut, the pain reaching higher and higher levels as his tolerance sunk lower and lower and soon, he was screaming too. His mouth opened in a pained shout as he spat. His body sweating and spit building up in his mouth as it tried to overcompensate for the immense heat.

He screamed and screamed and screamed and so did the others, a cocphany of horrible sounds that echoed pain and suffering into the very walls of this base. He imagined people before him feeling this same pain.

Only the walls remembered those sounds, only the walls had traces of what pain had occurred here, and just like the doctors around them they didn't care. Because the walls were his cage, and they aided in his suffering as much as any other person here.

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athymelyreply · 4 months ago

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i have had a horrid work day and also got medical news that is going to make my life miserable. Shoutout to all the ao3 writers whose fics are gettin me through this

#The angst and whump is helping me let all the stress out and the fluff is giving me the brain chemicals and emotional patch up I need #to keep going #Seriously I can’t thank yall enough #I need a talking tag #Seriously though. FUCK.#I can’t believe I’ve got fucking insulin resistance and I can’t have my sugar and carbs and things that bring me joy.#What do you MEAN I can’t house a loaf of challah in half an hour flat? This is some sort of cruelty. I’m so unhappyyyyyyyyyyyy

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ro-sham-no · 8 months ago

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lines from "chemical kids and mechanical brides" - pierce the veil

I’m a chemical kid, you’re a mechanical bride

Sam about Dean, whom John treats like his obligatory bride, like Mary, raising his son for him, cleaning up his messes.

“Chemical kid,” the perfect term for how Sam sees himself compared to Dean, the mechanical bride, the perfect soldier. Dean, who effortlessly falls in line with their father’s orders, tends to his wants and needs as part of the harmony of a nuclear marriage. All the while Sam stumbles along, never quite understanding the mission, the goal. Always a half-step out of place, always questioning things in a way he can’t help, left at a disadvantage without the coercive devotion of a father-husband to guide his hand.

Just a chemical kid left in the back seat, left in the dark; a rough acid mixture scrambled together from a vat of molecules, all collectively disjointed and not quite right. Sam, the chemical kid who has a brother and a drill sergeant posing as his mother and father together in the front seat.

I held a diamond to the sun, to count the moments on account of the way you smile for me.

Oh, we’re in slow motion when you smile, for me.

As a kid, Sam falls in puppy love with Dean, not yet disillusioned to big brother’s imperfections. As far as Sam is concerned, Dean is the perfect, all-American boy next door. Sam doesn’t see him smoking, doesn’t see big brother make pretty, too-young girls squirm from his attention, at their father’s behest. Can’t yet recognize the smell of spirits on his breath, doesn’t know what that means.

I still hold your breath so you won’t leave

Then comes the break, the beginning of the end. Sam starts to make the connection between the smell on Dean’s breath and the sloppy way he talks when that smell is around. Connecting it to the same smell that’s sometimes on John’s breath - usually better hidden, he learns - and to the always too-quickly diminishing supply of “disinfectant” in the med kit.

He makes those connections and he panics and starts to grip tighter to his brother-boyfriend, not realizing that his devotion, that his cloying behavior is what’s breaking Dean’s heart in the first place. Doesn’t realize it’s driving him to desperately try and snap Sam out of that puppy-love, entirely sickening in the way it makes Dean feel far too much like their father, like Dean’s husband.

Dean tries wretchedly to keep Sam from the fate of becoming a mechanical bride to his brother, one that Dean never asked for but one that he knows he would selfishly never be able to let go, once it happened, once the marriage vows solidified.

Pastel red and pornstar white,

Ghost on the altar.

We breathe, don’t leave.

The eternal chorus of their combined lives. Breathing to each other in the dark, unacknowledged, “Don’t leave.”

If there’s a God then I’m letting Him go, all for you, you alone.

Raise my hands at the thought of you leaving me alone,

What if I… What if I… What if I, I still care?

All too soon, Sam grows up and realizes that Dean knows, at least a little bit. Realizes that it’s killing him. So Sam tries, for Dean’s sake, to move on, to stop breaking his brother’s heart with the curse of his little brother’s horrific love and affection.

But it doesn’t work.

Sam knows it’s wrong, to love Dean, to love his mother, this way. To crave the taste of his breath in the morning. To yearn for the knowledge of what his name sounds like leaving his brother’s breathless lips in the dark. He knows he needs to let go. He tries praying, tries distancing himself in the exact opposite way to how Dean does it, so they don’t run into each other. He throws himself into a private, secret faith, into schoolwork, into bettering himself - trying to purify his body, trying to cleanse it.

But it doesn’t work, of course. It doesn’t work.

And his efforts make his heart break so violently he’s ill with it, entirely sure in the knowledge that it’s killing him. And he knows that, beyond anything, that would kill Dean, for good, so he knows he has to avoid it at all costs. He tells himself that he’s not biased in that decision.

He keeps up his new habits - because it seems to make Dean secretly happy to see his rebellious normality, and that’s the goal, after all. But privately, in the dark, away from the prying eyes of the divine fraternal, he admits that he’s giving up on stifling his devotion. He stops pretending he doesn’t feel that arm-raising panic every time Dean walks out the door to go to the bar, leaving him all alone, and he stops pretending he doesn’t still care.

And he stops pretending that it doesn’t feel like infidelity when Dean comes home with the drugstore lipstick stains of some two-bit whore all over him. Finally stops pretending that Dean coming home, drunkenly (and mistakenly, surely) falling asleep in Sam’s bed while smelling like whiskey, sweat, and sex doesn’t have Sam jacking off furiously at every opportunity for days afterward.

As you fall fast asleep, it reminds me of the slow symphonies behind me, all the nightmares you’ll see, tomorrow.

Through the trees, I’ll blow.

But then it’s noon, and that means Sam’s inconsolable. It’s noon at midnight, with a Greyhound bus hurtling towards the no-name town they currently reside in, 4 hours out. Sam already bought a ticket.

It’s noon at midnight, and Sam watches as Dean falls fast asleep, reminding Sam of the slow symphonies of love, far behind him now. He thinks of the nightmares he knows Dean will see tomorrow after he wakes up to find all of Sam and all of his stuff missing. He thinks of how Dean will frantically search for him, of how he’ll find the note Sam’s gonna leave on the bathroom mirror.

Thinks of how Dean’s gonna find out about the ultimatum John gave Sam in a fight they had all too recently, on one of the rare afternoons they were both in the motel and Dean wasn’t. Thinks of how John will tell him, once Dean cries hard enough; always a big, tough marine until he sees the teary-eyed likeness of his dead wife pasted onto the face of his eldest son. Crumpling fiercely, fervently in the face of Mary-Dean’s grief, betraying the vow of silence Sam had twisted out of him that afternoon in an instant.

But that’s okay, Sam thinks as Dean’s breaths gently even out. That’s okay because, by the time that coerced vow is broken, Sam will be long gone, less tangible than a wisp of wind blowing through the trees.

#YES i still listen to emo punk #NO i'm not ashamed of it #pierce the veil #my beloved #(#spn #wincest #deanjohn #< barely lol #sam whump #sam winchester #chemical kids and mechanical brides - pierce the veil #with a little #richard siken #reference thrown in there at the end LOL #ro writing tag #)

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