#drugging whump

[whumporama]

Defiant Whumpee who has been fighting Whumper at every possible moment, and Whumper who has been trying everything to get them to break. Hurting them didn't work, if the pain became too much Whumpee just shut down, but would be right back up when they had a break. Restraining them didn't work, Whumpee still mouthed them off and spat at them. Starvation didn't work, Whumpee seemed to just accept it. Blindfolding did nothing. The gag did nothing.

Whumper tried so much, and Whumpee's reactions were different and they did get weaker, but they still wouldn't. give. in. Wouldn't show weakness, wouldn't beg or plead, wouldn't do anything what Whumper wanted to see.

Until Whumper tried drugging them. They gave them something that leaves Whumpee dazed, making their body heavy and unresponsive, and their mind foggy.

They untie Whumpee, letting them fall to the floor, and mock them. Telling them that this is their chance, come on, fight me, isn't this what you want?

But Whumpee can't do anything. They try, but their body won't obey them, their mind slips away from them. And it terrifies them. Anything else they can take. External things? They will fight. But they've never experienced this before. Their body completely giving up on them.

And that, that, finally does something. The next time Whumper drugs them, Whumpee doesn't say anything. It's the same the third time. But the fourth... Whumpee flinches back, and chokes out a soft "please". They instantly shut their mouth, as if they didn't mean to say it, but it's too late.

Whumper finally found something that will break them.

[den-of-whump]

Whumpee is hallucinating their greatest fear (either through magic or drugs) and Caretaker find them screaming/crying/curled up on the ground and desperately tries to help them through it (Bonus points if the greatest fear includes Caretaker in some capacity)

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets, Day 13: Drugging

cw: dub/noncon drugging, referenced broken bones, implied substance dependency, dissociation

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 472

=~=~=

They bring him water, and he drinks.

It's tainted. Spiked with something; he could tell from the first sip, yet accepted it anyway.

He knows he needs it. Without it, he'll die.

People who weren't his team dragged him screaming from the rubble, tossed him in the trunk of a car with no regard for his damaged leg, left him to drown in the pain. They gave him a water bottle when they tossed him in a cell, and at the time, he was stupidly grateful for the numbing substance it was laced with. Dulling the world, granting him distance from the agony that wanted to devour him.

But now he's lying on the same concrete, and he doesn't know how long it's been. He hasn't had the mental presence to remember to check his leg, to set it and bind it with a makeshift splint. He hasn't had the capacity to plan, or pay attention to where he is, how many there are, when they change shifts.

They bring him water, and he drinks, wits too sluggish to let him stop himself, head growing fuzzy as the substance pulls him down, down, down.

Deep below the muddled surface, the spy wants to move, to deny himself the tainted food and water so he can think again. But the creature the substance turns him into only wants to sleep. To hide from the world, from the hurting. It only wants to drink, and when the fuzziness starts to fade, it wants more. 

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle. Head throbbing, body shivering with the chill of the room, leg on fire. (It's splinted? When did that happ–)

The creature whimpers when it sees the bottle, extended out as if the guard is giving it a gift. Takes it with trembling hands, heart beating faster and faster as it struggles to unscrew the cap. Relief is so close, so close. It spills some of the water when the cap at last comes loose, but doesn't care, holding the bottle to its mouth and drinking deeply. (No no no stop, stop—)

The fog wafts up, and the creature slips into it. Down, down, down.

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle, but it's when the spy can nearly think.

He and the creature share a goal. Escape. 

His method is nearly impossible. Full of pain, but permanent. Needed.

Its method is easy, soft, painless. Slip away, let it all go. Forget it all. Every loss, every pain, every person he does and doesn't miss.

Every time, the spy resolves to fight, even as he's sweating and shivering from pain, from need.

Every time, he falls short. It knows it needs it. Without it, it will die.

They bring him water, and he drinks.

[whumpy-galaxy]

That “Shh, dont fight it” when whumpee is being drugged is. Perfect.

[montammil]

Forever Be Mine, part 3

Masterlist here!

CW: Yandere/creepy whumper, branding, vomiting, murder (not sawyer or rowan), degradation, failed escape, guns, drugging, noncon touching (nothing sexual but still creepy)

...

Four whole days passed by and Sawyer was miserable. Rowan hadn't untied him from the bed once during that time, except to use the restroom and shower every other day. He spent most of his time reading aloud to Sawyer, ranging from classic literature to collections of poetry, almost all about love and romance. Sometimes he'd even read him things he wrote for him, which just made it all the more disturbing.

In return, Sawyer would pretend to be interested in what he was saying.

He was careful not to give into his delusion too much out of fear of getting caught onto, or even worse, encourage him to take it further. It was already torture enough dealing with Rowan's constant cuddles and kisses.

The fifth day arrived, and Sawyer was ready for another dreadful day. He kept his neutral frown when he felt a familiar weight on the bed.

Rowan kissed his cheek. "Good morning, my love," he whispered into his ear. Sawyer's skin crawled at his words and the warm breath ghosting over him. "Sleep well?"

He nodded in response and stretched his legs out as much as they'd allow, flexing his wrists in hopes that Rowan would get the message and untie him already.

The ropes weren't getting any looser after all this time and his hands were starting to go numb. He wouldn't be surprised if he came out with nerve damage from how tight they were tied.

The taller man noticed what he was doing and frowned. "If I untie you, will you behave yourself?"

"Of course," Sawyer assured him sweetly, mustering up a small smile for emphasis.

Rowan eyed him before reaching over to untie his wrists from the bedframe above him. He rubbed his wrists with his thumbs and massaged each of Sawyer's fingers. It felt nice having the blood flowing properly through them again, but the contact made him want to recoil from his touch. He stayed still instead, letting Rowan dote on him as usual.

He remained still while Rowan untied the rest of his bindings. Once all of his limbs were free, Sawyer sat up slowly and stretched out his legs again, letting the muscles relax after being confined for so long.

Rowan watched him intently as he did so, not taking his eyes off of him for even a second.

Sawyer suppressed a shudder of disgust and smiled up at him. "Thank you," he said. 

Apparently, Rowan didn't know him as well as he thought, if he fell for that act.

Sawyer slid out of bed and stood up on unsteady legs. It was the first time he'd been out of bed in a while and he felt dizzy and disoriented.

Rowan placed a hand on his waist to steady him and helped him walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Sawyer stumbled around a bit, but Rowan kept him upright with his grip on his hip.

He sat down at the small round table and watched Rowan make breakfast for them both. They ate together in silence, though Sawyer barely touched his food. He couldn't be hungry even if he wanted to, being so inactive these past few days.

After breakfast, Rowan cleaned up and then walked Sawyer over to the couch in the living room. He sat down and patted the space beside him, motioning for him to sit next to him. Sawyer reluctantly obeyed and plopped down beside him. He immediately pulled him close, wrapping an arm around him and nuzzling his head into his neck.

"I'm so glad we're finally together," Rowan muttered into his skin. "I've dreamed of this moment for months now."

"I'm glad too," Sawyer forced himself to say. Rowan kissed along his throat and sucked gently at his pulse point.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the sensation of lips against his throat. The hairs on his neck stood up at the touch and goosebumps covered his arms and legs.

He thought of himself back in his apartment, curled up on the couch watching movies with a blanket wrapped tightly around himself. Or dancing alone in the dark room with the rain pouring outside. He'd never feel that kind of comfort ever again.

Not until he escaped from Rowan's clutches. It was hard to focus on escape when Rowan kept distracting him, however.

Rowan paused his movements. "Sorry, I'm moving too fast, aren't I?"

At least he had some kind of self-aware bone in his body. "A little bit," Sawyer bleated.

He sighed and pulled away from him. "I just get so excited when I think about us finally being together forever, I can't help myself." He placed a hand on Sawyer's cheek and smiled down at him. "But we have all the time in the world, so there's no need to rush. And since you've been so good for me, I don't mind being a little extra patient." He pressed their foreheads together, "I love you."

No matter what, Sawyer couldn't force himself to say those words. So he remained silent instead. Rowan didn't seem to mind thankfully, he just kissed Sawyer's forehead and pulled him into his lap.

"Let's watch a movie together," Rowan suggested. "How does Double Indemnity sound? It's one of my favorite films, I'm sure you've seen it before."

He was right. Sawyer had watched it hundreds of times, but he liked the thrill of it. From what he knew about Rowan, he probably liked it for the twisted romance.

The movie started playing and Sawyer didn't pay attention to it at all. Instead, he focused on trying to think of ways to escape from his captor. But even after five days, nothing had come to mind yet.

The rest of the day was boring. Rowan would make him more food, then they'd lie on the couch, and sometimes he'd watch him work on his laptop, pausing every once in a while to peck the top of his head.

Sawyer was feeling pretty useless. All he could do was lay around and pretend he enjoyed the attention.

Something changed the next morning. Rowan was in the living room, on a phone call to a client. Sawyer, however, was in the kitchen, looking through the drawers for anything he could use to defend himself with, having told Rowan he was simply going to make them both tea. He didn't want to use any knives because that was too risky, and Rowan had proven to be much stronger than him.

He was about to give up when he opened the medicine cabinet to see something familiar: Flunitrazepam. He remembered hearing about it once on a news article.

The very drug Rowan had slipped into his drinks in the first place, he figured. This would work better than a knife. Rowan was an idiot from what Sawyer knew, so quickly believing in his compliance meant he wouldn't expect this at all.

Rowan was still on the phone when Sawyer returned to the living room with Earl Grey tea for both of them.

"...Alright, that sounds good. I'll start working on your policy. Talk soon," he said, proceeding to hang up. He accepted the cup and took a sip. "Mm, thank you, my dear. I hope you didn't microwave it." His tone was playful, despite his humorously skeptical look.

It became easier throughout his kidnapping to fake a smile. "It literally tastes the same either way."

"No, it doesn't," Rowan complained. "The water should always be heated over a stove. But I forgive you since you're so lovely otherwise."

Sawyer sat down next to him on the couch, with his mug in hand. His palms were clammy with sweat, and he was having trouble keeping his breathing steady.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he raised the cup to his lips and took a sip, trying to steady himself before the inevitable. He glanced over at Rowan who was sitting beside him, enjoying his drink as if nothing was wrong.

Rowan gulped down the rest of his tea, not seeming to notice anything unusual about it. Sawyer was relieved that he hadn't suspected anything yet, but it was only a matter of time before he did.

Hoping to speed up the process, Sawyer put down his tea cup and massaged Rowan's shoulder, doing his best impression of an affectionate touch.

"Mmm," Rowan sighed, "your hands feel amazing."

He continued massaging his shoulders and arms for a few minutes until he felt Rowan start to slump against him. Sawyer stood up and helped lower him to the couch. He grabbed the phone out of his pocket, groaning when it required a passcode. He tried pressing the home button against Rowan's thumb, but it did nothing, much to his disappointment. 

Sawyer searched for his keys next but found nothing on him besides his wallet. Damn it. He looked back at Rowan's sleeping figure, weighing his options carefully. He wished he could find his phone, but he had no time to waste.

Pure panic took over his mind, and he threw a chair through the window.

Shards of glass fell onto the ground beneath them as Sawyer climbed out the window. He ignored the sharp sting in his palm as he pulled himself up, feeling glass dig into his skin.

Blood dripped onto the grass below, but he paid no attention to it. His mind was on nothing but running, so that's what he did.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had no idea where he was going or where he would end up, but that didn't matter right now.

The important thing was getting away from Rowan, putting as much distance between them as possible. Sawyer had no idea how long it'd be before Rowan woke up and realized that he had escaped. 

Running was harder than he imagined it would be, especially since he hadn't exercised much at all while trapped in that lake house. Sawyer was already winded after about fifteen minutes of sprinting through the woods and had to slow down to catch his breath.

Sawyer wasn't the most outdoorsy person, but even he knew better than to head deeper into the woods when he had no idea where he was going. So instead, he veered off to the left and began following the lake shore, hoping it would eventually lead him somewhere populated. The sun was already starting to set and the sky was beginning to grow dark. Sawyer pulled his sweater tighter around him in an attempt to stay warm.

He couldn't stop, no matter how painfully irritating the wounds in his feet felt.

...

Rowan woke up groggily, feeling nauseous and disoriented. His head throbbed painfully and he struggled to sit up, still half asleep.

His heart nearly stopped when he noticed Sawyer was no longer beside him on the couch, and even more when he realized that the window had been smashed in.

Rowan's hand instinctively went to his pocket to check for his phone, relieved to find it still there, but that didn't change much.

He scrambled to his feet, nearly falling over from the sudden wave of vertigo that hit him.

Sawyer must've drugged him and escaped somehow. He should've known that Sawyer wouldn't have accepted their love so easily, but he was so desperately hopeful that he believed his lies. And now Sawyer was out there, potentially hurt or lost.

Rowan grabbed his keys and darted out the door.

...

Sawyer finally had to stop when he couldn't run anymore due to exhaustion. His body felt like it was on fire, burning up from exertion and fear. Sweat trickled down his forehead and his breaths came in short gasps.

He was about to take a break when he noticed something in the distance.

It was a blue truck coming across a dirt path. Sawyer waved his arms and limped as quickly as he could to it. "Hey!" he shouted hoarsely. "Please help!"

The car slowed to a stop and Sawyer collapsed while trying to rush to it. A man with blond hair and glasses stepped out and knelt beside him. "Are you okay?"

"Some guy kidnapped me and I escaped but I don't know where I am," Sawyer blurted out in a hurry. The stranger looked unsure of what to do, but Sawyer couldn't blame him for that. It was a pretty ridiculous situation and even Sawyer didn't know how he'd react if the roles were reversed. "Please, just let me borrow a phone, or take me to the nearest town--anything."

"Alright." The man helped him to his feet.

As he was being led to the car, he heard another car skid to a halt, just a couple of feet away. He turned around and his blood ran cold when he saw Rowan stepping out of his vehicle.

"Sawyer," he said, breathless.

The man stepped in front of Sawyer. "Is this the guy you were talking about?" He heard Sawyer mumble a shaky affirmative. "Sir, I think you should leave," the stranger spoke.

Rowan paid him no attention whatsoever, looking directly at Sawyer with pleading eyes. "Sawyer, come on. We can go back home now, just please come here." When Sawyer only remained silent, he dragged out a long sigh. "Sir, I know what it looks like, but my husband here has memory loss. I'm just trying to take him home. He does this all the time."

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe that. You can follow us to the hospital if you're so worried, but that's all."

For a split moment, Rowan snarled but gained his composure. "Sorry, you're... you're right. Thank you." He returned to his car, and the stranger urged Sawyer back into the truck.

"Thank you so much," Sawyer sighed in relief. The man nodded and shut the passenger door to approach the driver's side. 

Just as he pulled the door open, he fell to the ground, followed by screaming from Sawyer. He was still alive, but not for long because Rowan shot him three more times in the head. 

Sawyer opened the door to run away, but Rowan caught him by the back of his shirt collar and pinned him against the truck. He wailed into cold steel.

"Look what you made me do," he snarled. That was the first time Sawyer heard him use such a venomous tone. He slammed the barrel of the gun against Sawyer's skull and he fell unconscious instantly.

...

When Sawyer woke up, his surroundings were dark. There was a dim, flickering light bulb in the center of the ceiling and concrete walls around him. He was on the floor, lying on a mattress that wasn't all too comfortable. His leg was chained to the wall so he couldn't escape again. The image of Rowan murdering someone in cold blood flashed through his mind. The memories made him throw up onto the cold ground next to him.

It took him a few seconds to process what had happened earlier that day. The shock made him retch again, which turned into hyperventilating. He couldn't even focus on his hurt.

He got an innocent person killed. An innocent person trying to help him.

And it was all his fault.

Sawyer knew Rowan was crazy, but he didn't consider he'd go that far. He thought Rowan would be too cowardly to actually kill someone else. He'd been so incredibly wrong about him.

If Rowan wasn't afraid to kill someone, what else was he not afraid to do? What did Rowan have in store for him next? Would he kill him too? 

It wasn't long before he heard footsteps approaching the basement. Sawyer clenched his restrained fists. Keys jangled before a lock clicked. The door swung open and Rowan made his way downstairs, taking his sweet time.

He didn't look angry, not exactly. It was more like his calm demeanor was a facade that would crack any moment.

"You killed him," Sawyer spat out first. His voice trembled. "You murdered him. He did nothing wrong."

"He was stopping you from coming home." Rowan squatted down to meet Sawyer's eye level and grabbed a handful of his hair. "He was going to take you away from me." Sawyer gasped out of pain. Rowan forced his head back and met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "And I can't let that happen. I've waited too long for this just for you to be an ungrateful brat about it."

Tears pricked at his eyes. "You kidnapped me! If you weren't expecting this, you're fucking stupid!"

Rowan's expression darkened. His hand left his hair to clutch his jaw. "You really think you can talk back to me after you pulled that shit earlier?" Sawyer spat in his face in response. "Fine, that's how you want to play, huh? Since you're so insistent on being difficult."

Next thing Sawyer knew, Rowan had left him.

Sawyer thought he could be left alone again, but unfortunately, luck was never on his side, as Rowan came back down just a few minutes later with a metal skewer.

It looked pretty non-threatening on its own, but the glint in Rowan's eyes told him it was not going to be pleasant at all.

"I was going to spare you this, but you pissed me off."

Rowan walked over and yanked him upright by the chains on his wrists. The force on them hurt like hell, but he refused to scream in front of him.

He was suspended in midair, hanging from the wall from a hook, the chain from the cuffs keeping him up. The metal dug painfully into his wrists and his shoulders ached from being stretched out.

A pocket knife came into view and it grazed along his shirt until it ripped through the fabric. A warm hand caressed his skin and moved lower to his abdomen, rubbing his thumb over his right side, just above his hip.

He pulled away and dug into his pocket, pulling out a match. He lit it and placed it over the skewer, waiting until it was red hot. 

Sawyer was surprised his heart was still in its chest. "What are you doing?" He struggled further against the cuffs, but they wouldn't budge at all. "Rowan, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I've been too easy on you," Rowan said. "You're right, I was stupid for expecting this to be easy." He smiled wide at him, and never had Sawyer seen something so crazed in his life. "But I suppose this is just a lesson we both need to learn, hm?"

Before Sawyer could even fathom what that meant, Rowan had stabbed the skewer through his skin.

There was no sound from Sawyer's lips, his voice caught in his throat. The pain was unreal, searing into his flesh, tearing through skin and tissue and muscle. It burned and throbbed and felt like every nerve in his body was on fire. Every cell screamed at him to pull away, but all he could do was hang there uselessly, watching in horror as his skin sizzled around the metal rod prodding his abdomen.

After what felt like an eternity, Rowan finally pulled the skewer away and tossed it aside carelessly. Sawyer would've thrown up a second time if not for his stomach being empty. Instead, he gasped for air, choking and coughing on bile and saliva.

He didn't realize Rowan had unfastened him from the chain until he collapsed onto the floor below, landing hard on his side with a pained groan.

"Are you sorry?"

Sawyer only panted.

His hand snaked around the shorter man's neck, only lightly squeezing, but the threat was still there. "I asked you a question."

"Y-yes," Sawyer stammered. "I'm sorry."

Rowan ran his thumb over his Adam's apple. "Good," he murmured, smiling. "Can you tell me what you're sorry for?"

"For running away," he whispered shakily.

"And?"

"Drugging you, and... lying to you."

His smile widened as he nodded approvingly. "I'm glad you're starting to understand how this works, my love." He scooped him up in his arms with a soft grunt. "Let's get you a nice long bath."

[whumppromptoftheday]

whumper keeping whumpee on the brink of passing out and punishing them if they end up falling asleep (see: whumpee being so scared to fall asleep after they get away from whumper that they stay awake for days at a time)

[whumplump]

Day 13 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: drugging / poisoning

Not used: cannibalism (although I had an idea for this one too)

CW: sadistic whumper, drugging, poisoning (obviously), betrayal, blood, unclear character status

After several days of just vowing to make an appointment and never actually meeting up, Whumpee and Caretaker made room in their schedules and went to Whumper's house for dinner. With the cold at night, the main dish took a little longer in the oven. Whumpee and Caretaker talked freely, like friends. Whumper was also relaxed, but at certain times, he was silent, without letting on what was going on in his head.

When the dish was ready, Whumper served his friends first. He made sure to pour both of their drinks too. Whumpee noticed a certain whiteness on the walls of the glasses, as if it were a film of thin powder, but decided not to comment. It must be the cold.

The three ate while catching up. Caretaker drank from their glass and felt a slight burning sensation in their throat, causing them to cough. Whumpee started to ask if they were okay, but Whumper just watched, feigning concern.

"It was nothing... I choked, that's all”, Caretaker assured.

After a while, the topic of conversation became more morbid. Caretaker began talking about a family member they lost. Whumpee listened with compassion and empathy in their eyes. Whumper, for his part, looked bored.

Caretaker got carried away by the feeling and ended up talking a little too much. They had already gone through the whole process of their family member's death, lamenting how painful it must have been, when Whumper interrupted them.

"They were already dead. They didn't feel anything."

Caretaker and Whumpee looked at them strangely.

"How do you know that?"

Whumper smiled.

“...Because I killed them."

Caretaker's cough came back stronger. They felt a bubbling in their stomach, a pressure. They spat blood onto the empty plate. Whumpee backed away in despair.

"Are you going to stand there and watch? Help me take them to..."

They stopped as they felt a strong wave of dizziness. So strong that it almost knocked them off their chair.

“I want to do the same thing to you, Whumpee." Whumper said. "But to do that, I first need to get this idiot out of my way," he continued, casting a glance at Caretaker, who was already lying on the ground, writhing in pain, in spasms from coughing up blood.

It didn't take long for Caretaker to stop twitching and lay lifeless on the ground. Then it was Whumpee's turn, who tried to say something more, but couldn't resist and passed out with their head on the table. Unconscious.

Whumper took a generous sip from his clean glass and smiled, satisfied.

[abhainnwhump]

Prompt: Killer says he will let them leave if Cross will hang out with him again.

Cross realizes this could be an attempt to drug him, but Killer reassures him that he finds no fun in easy prey.

Context

"You want me to what?"

"Spend a night with me. Nothing serious." Killer played with his knife, admiring himself in the reflection. He looked up at Cross, sending a shiver down his spine. "Pretty good deal if you ask me. We hang out, binge watch that show we used to like, I still like it, talk for a while, and you don't get stuck in the dungeon with a shock collar around your neck. Oh, and I need that syringe for boss, but that's it. No promises on your little friend there." He gestured to Epic like it wasn't worth even saying his name.

"Don't trust him, bruh." Epic urged. He looked around for another possible way out. He squeezed his rubber chicken and stared daggers at Killer, locking the two in a cruel contest.

Cross took a step forward, hiding the syringe behind his back. He didn't know what was in it, but he'd be damned if he was just going to hand it over. "No. How do I know I can trust you?"

Killer scowled, but then he covered it with a sly grin. "'Cause we were friends, Crossy. More than that if you asked me. If I wanted to fight, I would've done it already. I don't like easy prey and you're practically on a silver platter."

He held out his hand. "Now give me that little serum and come with me. That, or I'm going to get a promotion when I have your heads. Your choice."

[whump-or-whatever]

You know what I love? Those made up magical drug concoctions that somehow manage to cause a hundred different symptoms in an exact sequence which occur at specific times down to the second regardless of who they’re used on.

Honestly, screw believability. The people who wrote those things into shows and movies were whumpers at heart. They can cause whatever sort of ailment you want, when you want, on the timeline you want. What more could you ask for?

[den-of-whump]

Whumpee can't face the things they see in their dreams, so they refuse to sleep. Caretaker tries everything to get them to rest for once, but nothing works. So they make them a cup of tea and add a bit too much Benadryl to it without telling them.

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 1 - Limp

Hehehe I've threatened this idea before c:<

TWs: Drugging, collapse, poisoning

"I thought I said I didn't need a smoothie?" Mariano grinned despite his questioning protest as Dimitri slid into his passenger seat. He held two cups, one a brilliant pink and the other a rich purple, and didn't hesitate to shove the purple one towards Mariano.

"Don't think about it, stupid, it was free. They fucked up the previous person's order and the guy threw a fit and left." Dimitri said, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his own. "The barista stormed out and everything too, the person who made mine had to stop their shit to take over. So they offered it to me."

"Oh?" Mariano took a sip from his before setting it in his cup holder so that he could drive. "Guess we were lucky, you got a show and I got a surprise blueberry smoothie."

"And Rat got a free pup cup, too, so both of my favorite dogs got something." Dimitri laughed as Mariano swatted at his shoulder, settling his little hairless dog's carrier onto the floor board. "C'mon, stop pouting and drive, Laredo's wanting me to join him on his stream in half an hour."

Mariano laughed, putting his car into gear. "Alright, alright. Roll down your window, too. I haven't gotten around to recharging my AC yet and she doesn't need to cook."

The drive was quick, just a ten minute jaunt back to the house that the other war mages shared on the edge of town. Dimitri waved to Mariano as he sat down on the couch with his laptop and smoothie, smiling as Mariano settled in to start going through manager applications for the coffee shop. It was about time--the circles under his eyes were getting to be too permanent for Dimitri’s liking. "Text if you need anything, I'll have my notifications on."

Mariano waved in return, giving him a quick smile as he took another long drink. Dimitri slipped into Laredo’s room, donning the pair of headphones with a unicorn horn and horse ears–Laredo was fiercely insistent that he always got the cat ear headphones. It was “part of his brand.”

Dimitri just thought he looked cute in them.

They were half an hour into “two people control one character in Bornsouls 2” when Dimitri’s phone lit up with a message from Mariano.

soemthing is worng dimirti

Dimitri froze up, frowning as he looked down. “I…am going to check on our boyfriend.” Dimitri stood, snatching his phone up and setting the headphones down on their stand. He had just gotten his fingers around the doorknob when it sounded like someone dropped one of Laredo’s weights in the hallway. 

When he ripped open the door, ice filled his veins. Mariano was sprawled on the floor of the hallway, facedown on the carpet and looking like he hadn’t even tried to catch himself. In an instant, Dimitri was on the stairway of the infiltration drill building, with the dawning realization that he’d poisoned the new kid far, far past what he’d intended.

There was no Manuel this time, though, no Izan. They were both at work. There was no medical backup to call for. No one would be there in forty-five seconds. “Laredo!” He shouted, urgency pulling his voice tight as he sprinted to Mariano’s side and pulled him into his arms. 

Mariano was completely limp as Dimitri manhandled him and pressed his ear to Mariano’s chest. He could feel him breathing, shallow and too-quick. He could hear his heartbeat, just as fast. His expression was entirely neutral, with an awful paleness starting to creep into his lips and cheeks. “Call emergency services! He’s breathing but he’s not waking up.” 

“I am!” Laredo shouted back, appearing in the doorway with his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes–yes, that’s our address. My boyfriend just collapsed–yes. He is, and we know first aid. Okay, you–ten minutes?”

Dimitri growled as he shifted Mariano in his arms again, moving Mariano’s head to rest on his shoulder. He could smell the blueberries on his breath. Was this what Manuel experienced back then? It made his stomach churn. “Ten fucking minutes? They’d better be speeding or–”

“They’re going as fast as they can, Dimitri–yeah, no, no, it wasn’t a fight, we were playing a video game and heard him hit the floor. Dimitri’s just worried–the…the victim’s name is Mariano. Yeah, I’m Laredo. Dimitri’s the one keeping an eye on him. No, he didn’t choke, we don’t know what happened, he was okay earlier.”

Dimitri remembered something, then. The barista, the one who made the drink, the one who’d stormed off; he hadn’t ever seen them before. He always went to this smoothie place. The employees all knew him. They all liked him. 

That new barista had added a packet of something into the smoothie. He hadn’t heard the man’s order. He’d just assumed it was some artificial sweetener, or other flavoring.

“The smoothie was poisoned.” Dimitri blurted out. 

Laredo froze, cutting himself off. “The what?”

Dimitri repeated himself, more urgently. “Someone didn’t want their smoothie so we got it for free–Laredo, this sounds insane, but I think the smoothie was poisoned. It was a powder. The cup–it should still be on the side table!” 

“Oh–yes, yeah, we think our boyfriend’s drink might’ve been tampered with. No, no allergies, no fainting conditions. Yes, we still have the cup, it hasn’t been washed out.”  

A low groan from Mariano made everything else fall away. Dark eyes fluttered, pact rings just barely peeking out beneath his lashes. “‘Mitri…?” He managed, barely past a whisper. “It's hard to breathe…” 

“Don’t talk right now.” Dimitri said, cradling Mariano’s face with one hand and shifting him in his arms again. “You’ve been poisoned, help is coming.” 

“Y’sir.”

Dimitri felt heat roaring behind his eyes. “Eyes on me.” He could see Mariano struggling to listen, how his lashes fluttered with the effort. Dimitri’s mouth opened again before he could stop it. “I swear Mariano, I didn’t–”

Mariano smiled, his usual faint flicker of an expression. “I know.” He whispered back, turning his face to nuzzle into Dimitri’s palm. “Y’wouldn’t.”

Dimitri sobbed, clutching Mariano close as tears started to fall. They rolled down his face and into Mariano’s hair. Laredo’s voice disappeared as Mariano reached up to hold Dimitri’s hand in return. Only the approaching sirens broke through the rushing chaos in Dimitri’s head. 

All that mattered was that help was on the way, Mariano was awake, holding onto him, and that he still trusted him.

@honeybees-125 @inscrutable-shadow @whumperofworlds @bxtterflystxtches

[shywhumpauthor]

Surveillance Chapter 14

Get Away

Masterlist // prev.

Starts whenever Noah wakes up from All Alone (chap. 13)

Cw: noncon nudity (partly implied, non-specific, nonsexual), restraints, noncon drugging, build up to noncon surgery, mentions of death, noncon touching (nonsexual)

Noah came to slowly. His mind weighed with a heavy fog, it took him a while to open his eyes, and even longer to begin to gain his bearings. When he did, all he was met with was a dull, resounding ache that throbbed through every muscle, every bone, just painful enough to persuade him from moving.

He blinked heavily, willing the fog to clear from his vision, trying to make sense of his situation.

He laid on his stomach on something hard. An unrelenting surface, once cold but warmed by his body heat—he could tell as he twitched his fingers, feeling them touch something cool. Metal, he was able to discern in only a few moments. The stiffness of each joint suggested he’d been there for a long while.

After an attempt to turn to his side, he realized that he was restrained, tied to the table with a limb tethered to each corner by long buckles of stiff leather. The table was taller than he was, but not enough so that his arms could be stretched fully out in front of him and still on the metal, so they were splayed awkwardly at the elbows, makeshift cords digging into his elbows, connecting them to a hook on either side of the table in line with his chest, forcing his arms bent so the cuffs on his wrists would reach right, the two working together to balance his arms in an unyielding limbo where he could move them neither up nor down. In one of his arms, he noticed, blinking heavily, some sort of IV line was taped in place, a long and thin tube connecting that to some hanging fluids from a post to his right.

His legs were spread slightly, similar cuffs fastened around his ankles, connecting them to the bottom corners of the table. A strap that crossed the width of the table was pulled across the back of his thighs, about even between his knees and lower back. A similar one passed below his shoulders, tugged tight over his arms as well, keeping him pressed against the table. Tight enough to force some pressure to his chest, now that he was aware and thinking about it, breathing deeper than he had while asleep.

There was some sort of sheet, thin and stiff, draped up to his shoulders, allowing him a bit of decency. He could tell he didn’t have a shirt on, the way his chest felt against the metal with every slight shift.

Noah tried to reach back into his memory, to string together some possible string of events that led from when he was last aware—left alone for hours in the small, bare room, chained to the floor until Declan had entered, told him that everything and everyone he had cared about was about to be destroyed and bombed, then drugged him. Then he was here.

His stomach cramped uncomfortably, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from the pressure of his position pushing down on his abdomen or hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a full meal, even before the drugging.

He dragged his gaze up, willing his vision to focus across the room. It was a medium sized room, slightly raised ceilings illuminated with industrially fastened lighting beams. From the way his head was turned, he could just see out of the corner of his eye some sort of fixture protruding down, bright light shining down from one of the adjustable lamp heads.

The walls and floor were made of the same tiles, clean and dull. The walls were flanked with various cabinets and counters, a large screen mounted to the center of one, but it was turned off. A vent in the ceiling kept cold air pouring through the room, proving the sheet to be of little function as goosebumps raised all along Noah’s arms.

There were a few machines stationed around him, that he could see. A heart monitor, turned to silent but the screen still depicting every spike with his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, and whatever else. The IV pole, which he had noted before, regulating a steady drip of fluids to the line in his arm. With his increasing consciousness, he could only assume it was something to counter whatever drugs he had been put under. Other than that, he was alone in the room.

At least he had thought so. There was still a good portion behind him that he couldn’t see, unable to turn his head from the side of the room he was facing due to the manner which he was restrained.

He startled when he felt a hand on his back, a firm pressure right against the center. His throat felt raw, too dry to force any sound so that what might have been a scream came out only as a rasp of breath. That drew a chuckle from behind him.

“Oh my friend, it’s about time you woke up. You don’t have any idea how long I’ve been waiting.”

Noah could hear Declan’s grin, the way his words curled with his accent and fell low, menacing even without the intent. The hand on his back rested there for a few seconds, a firm pressure just under his shoulder blades before Declan pulled back.

“I wanted you to be conscious for this,” was all he said, before the sheet was pulled down to Noah’s hips, exposing his entire back to the cold air. A chill jolted up his spine, though he hadn’t felt like the thin covering protected him from anything, in its absence he could certainly feel a difference.

Noah didn’t try to speak. He didn’t bother to worry about what would happen—all he knew was that it would hurt, but that was the usual. He willed the worries that flooded his mind to go quiet. Fear would help him none. His eyes ached to fall shut, but that was the one urge he did not succumb to. He was vulnerable, but he didn’t need to give the single power he had away. He could prepare, at least somewhat.

Helpless. Painfully, pathetically helpless, but there was nothing he could do. Any sort of relief to unconsciousness had abandoned him, he was certain the drugs steadily flooding his system would assure he wouldn’t return anytime soon.

Someone dressed in dark blue scrubs passed in front of him, with them tugging along a rolling tray, setting that up only a foot or so away from the table. It was raised to about the same height as the table he was restrained to, and with a sickening feeling Noah pieced together what was happening.

The scalpels made that glaringly obvious.

Declan walked around to enter Noah’s line of sight, and it was just then that he realized how high off the ground the table was. It wasn’t really an important detail, just strange as he found his head nearly level with the man’s ribs. He was dressed in his usual, formal attire, a pressed shirt tucked into dark dress pants with his typical fitted suit jacket, cuffed neatly at the wrists and completed with a sleek tie. His hair neat, looking like he had just come from a meeting. He probably had.

He wore gloves, sleek white latex. Something small pinched carefully between his thumb, index, and middle finger. He held it out, close to Noah’s face. It took his vision a moment to focus.

“Do you know what this is, Noah?” Declan asked, twisting the piece between his fingers. Noah knew it was more of a taunt than a question. Preying on his vulnerability, another straw of insecurity to the ever-growing stack of not knowing. He knew Declan’s tactics by now.

It was metal, no bigger than a thumbnail. At first he thought it was round, but when Declan moved it a little closer he could see it was an odd shape, rounded edges into some sort of a rectangle. It was a dynamic piece, not flat but not evenly filled. There was a shallowly raised portion, with a small blue piece in the center. With the lighting, Noah couldn’t quite tell, but he could’ve sworn it was blinking, pulsing blue, ever so slightly.

Declan pulled it back after another moment, accepting his silence as enough of an answer. He carefully set the piece on the tray, his fingers dancing as he picked up one of the scalpels.

Something in Noah’s stomach twisted as Declan moved to the side of the table, his heart nearly stopping cold when he felt the tip of the blade press against the top of his spine. The disorientation from the drug clearing more by the second, it only took him a moment to understand.

“Let’s just say, my friend, that you will not be getting away from me anytime soon.”

———————————————————

Tag list: @pickleking8 @blood-enthusiast @t0rture-me @sparrowsage @enigmawritesstuff @whump-me (thanks for inspiring me to write the last few paragraphs and post this)

[justbreakonme]

Household items for your Whumper to use:

-Whumpee has ten fingernails, and Whumper has ten questions and a pair of pliers.

-Many household cleaners can be used to make highly corrosive or poisonous concoctions, and Whumpee is about to find out exactly how that works.

-Whumper always said that beauty was pain, and, with their curling iron in hand, Whumpee was about to find out exactly how accurate that was.

-Whumper takes a trip to the pet store, and finds the perfect thing to keep a mouthy Whumpee under control. A shock collar, that’s set of by the vibration of Whumpees vocal cords. Hopefully Whumpee doesn’t have a cough, and that they can keep quiet when it goes off.

-kitchen knives. Enough said.

-stove burner. Also enough said.

-zip ties make excellent restraints and are much less bulky and suspicious looking than rope or handcuffs.

-many medications can be used improperly, especially to put someone to sleep, and if the whumper really wants to do some heavy duty damage, well… if they have no moral qualms about what they would do to the whumpee, what’s to stop them from getting prescription or illegal stuff too?

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 10

Part 1 Next

Content: flashback to child abuse, cutting, escape attempt, forced drug use

"Hold still, Michael." Mr. Huer gripped the base of his head so tightly he could feel his heartbeat around the fingers. "Now tell me what you did."

"I... made a friend?" Michael's fifteen-year-old voice was timid and shaky.

Mr. Huer's response was to bang his head against the wall of the telephone booth.

"No." He said. "Try again."

Michael's ears rang with the harshness of the impact.

"I... talked to someone outside the family?"

"You did more than that."

Michael heard the click of a knife being opened behind him.

"Please, sir, please, I don't know what I did," He stammered. "Just talk to me, sir, I'll be better, I promise."

The sharp metal pressed against the nape of his neck.

Michael stared through the blurry glass, hoping against hope that someone would come into the street and stop Mr. Huer. But there was a Huer "uncle" watching that street.

"You talked." Mr. Huer growled. The knife split his skin open and Michael hissed in pain, pushing against the glass. "What did you tell her about us?"

"Nothing, sir, I--ah!" Michael winced as the knife dragged and twisted at the nape of his neck, bringing tears to his eyes.

"You're only making this worse for yourself."

"Sir, please, promise me you won't kill me." Michael begged. His stomachalways turned at how easily he'd betrayed himself that day.

Point still at his neck, Mr. Huer simply waited.

Maybe if he told him, it would stop.

Blood trickled and itched down his neck and back, and the wound stretched a little when he spoke.

"I just... All I said was that I was scared of you sometimes."

Mr. Huer inhaled and Michael braced himself against the glass.

"Michael?" He said into the boy's ear. "You're not scared of me. Why did you lie to her?"

A shiver ran down Michael's spine at that low, gravelly tone.

"But I wasn't--" Michael broke off into a cry as the knife cut him again and he clenched his teeth hard.

"I lied, because I..."

"You wanted to leave the family?"

Michael trembled.

"I would never want to leave this family, sir." He whispered. "It's good. You're a good man. I guess I just..."

Slice.

"Aah!" Michael's breath frosted the window a little as he cried. "Please sir, I'm sorry," he sobbed.

Slice.

"Never forget whose property you are, son. I never want you to forget that you have a family."

After the wounds becaem scars, Michael traced them with his finger, and his eyes widened. They weren't just mindless cuts.

They were the initials, J.H.

"It's nothing." Michael told Chris, and adjusted his ponytail to cover it more completely.

[Note: I don't smoke so if this is inaccurate, please let me know because I'd like to be accurate.]

The pain was subtle by the time Chris left, bearable as long as Michael didn't move a muscle.

That was hard to do when Jordie blustered in, clomping up to the bed and taking Michael by the wrist.

"That was some fucking display," Jordie maneuvered the cuff around Michael's wrist.

Michael looked away to wince as it clamped down.

"Ey." Jordie slapped the bruised side of his face with a backhand. "Ey, look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Michael hunched his shoulders and looked cautiously at Jordie.

"You cried like a little bitch!" Jordie said. "You miss wittle charmander, don't you."

Michael shook his head.

"What?" Jordie laughed. "Embarrassed of your 'ashtray' arms?"

Michael lurched forward and jumped out of bed toward Jordie, who caught his other wrist, and seeing Michael's flinch, squeezed it hard.

"Ugh--" Michael cringed, trying to keep his weight off his shot leg, realizing how stupid and worthless he looked.

I have my shirt on, He reminded himself.

"Oh, what's this?" Jordie yanked at the cuff of the oversized shirt he'd been given, revealing a dozen or so scars marking up his arm there.

"Oh, it's missing one. That needs to be remedied. There's this, empty space," He was jerking Michael's arm in response to his struggles, touching the burning marks.

Fighting didn't work with Jordie. What had worked? Michael thought carefully. Yes.

He lowered his head and stopped struggling, masking his enraged heavy breaths with a pretense of fear. The shame was real.

"That's right." Jordie said. "Now climb into bed like a good little kid while I light up."

Michael's hard work exploded in an instant.

"I'm not a kid." He snapped. "Stop calling me that!"

The last word was muffled by Jordie's hand over his mouth and the other hand on his balls. When he reached to stop him, Jordie twitched his hand tighter.

"Uh-uh-uh." He said. "Or I crush the grapes."

Michael ground his teeth and put his hand on the bed. Jordie's thick fingers pressed just tight enough to hurt.

"Sit." Jordie said.

Michael did very slowly, trying to hide all of his rage under a stony poker face. But he never was a good actor.

"Look at you," Jordie said. "All tragically fucked up and angry. You and your collection of scars, each with their own moment of agony. I would now." He added. "The difference is, I was being abused. I have no shame about it. You... that's just who you are."

Maybe once Michael would've felt that, and taken it in. But he'd had years of therapy.

The words now finally said out loud--the exact words he'd been thinking for years--now sounded crazy.

Michael felt a chuckle start deep iin his chest as he slowly looked up at Jordie.

"Who I am?" He siad. "Do I actually look like a literal ashtray to you?"

Jordie considered a moment, looking at Michael's body.

"No," He said. "You look more like a punching bag."

He crushed in and Michael gasped, clutching reflexively at Jordie's hand as if to tear it away from his crotch.

"Jordie don't." He wheezed, looking up at him pleadingly.

Jordie let go, grabbed his left wrist, and fished around in his pocket for a smoke.

Michael's heart started to pound and tighten as Jordie backed up, lit the cigarette, and watched as if he expected Michael to squirm.

"Camel greens, huh." Michael said softly.

Jordie exhaled slowly, raising his eyebrows at Michael.

"I prefer the red." Michael breathed in deep, feeling a mixture of anxiety and bliss at the familiar smell.

"You smoke?" Jordie's eyebrows raised a little higher.

"Well..." Michael shrugged. "I've been clean for two years."

Jordie laughed, looking at the ceiling.

"Clean?" He said. "We'll have to fix that."

Michael licked his lips. He wanted one. Very much.

"Here." Jordie tumbled one out for him. "Come on. No such thing as quitting. You want it or not?"

No, Michael thought. I've been clean for two years, and I am not going to ruin that just because I--

He had looked up resolutely into Jordie's face, ready to refuse, but when he saw Jordie's expression, he clenched his teeth and hesitated. There was a dangerous calm glitter in his eyes.

"Go ahead." Jordie shook it a little, not smiling. "Take one."

Michael's breath shook on the way out.

"...Thank you." He said. He took the cigarette and let Jordie light it for him.

The taste was bitter, familiar, and slightly disappointing. And then his eyes closed as he savored that calm euphoria. For a moment he wondered why he'd ever quit.

Because COPD, you fucking idiot. His mind responded.

A bit of nausea came up in his gut. Maybe it was because he hadn't eaten, not to mention the injuries.

He held the cigarette in his fingers, watching two years' work vaporize in his hand.

It was a bad day.

And Jordie was laughing a little.

"You should see your face," He chuckled. "It's like a gave you your pet's eyeballs or something."

Chills ran over Michael's arms again as he watched Jordie's own cigarette dwindling up toward the filter.

The two of them smoked quietly for a minute. It was almost a nice, conversational silence, with the edge of dread that always came when Michael watched someone else smoking.

Michael watched Jordie draw another puff, and his own fingers trembled as he saw how close Jordie's coal was to the filter.

Jordie smirked.

"So, which are you, an ashtray or a punching bag?"

Michael grimaced, putting his own cigarette out on the bedframe and tossing it away. Clearly he had no good option here.

Another beating would cause damage his body may not be able to handle. If his internals were already damaged, this could make htat damage irreversible.

But... His mind raced him through the process of the cigarette pressing into his skin and the pain, but most of all, the shame of every other time being reinforced right now, after all that work, after all that therapy...

"I provide the shirt on your back," Mr. Huer had said. "I wouldn't want to have to take it, and let the world know what you are. I'd rather protect you from that, son. Come here, roll up your sleeve."

Michael, every time, had told himself it wasn't that bad, it was just a cigarette, at least he wasn't putting out his cigar on him again. He'd tug up his sleeve and turn away his face as he acted as his father's "ashtray".

"I don't want you to forget your place in this family." Mr. Huer had said.

Michael clenched his teeth and raised his eyes from the glowing cigarette to Jordie's expectant smirk.

He couldn't take another beating.

He swallowed, eyes on his lap, and held out his wrist.

Jordie grabbed his hand to keep him from flinching away. Michael grunted through his teeth as the coal pressed into his skin with a little hiss, and he tugged at his arm, groaning through his teeth. His hand shook in Jordie's grasp.

"Who's my little ashtray?" Jordie grinned.

Michael gave one last yank and got his arm back, covered the wound loosely with his sleeve, and then gripped the wrist just below it and huddled over it.

"It's gonna be fun having you around." Jordie said, standing up.

"Tasteless." Michael hissed.

"Wait till you see my next one." Jordie scoffed, and left.

It had been five horrible days. It wasn't that Jordie bothered him that much or that Chris kept freaking him out--he would've preferred that.

He'd entertained himself to disgust.

He'd bitten his nails down till they bled, three times. He'd bitten the skin off from around the nails. He'd picked off every piece of lint from the blanket. He'd spent three hours pretending the toilet in the corner was a shrine to the toilet paper god. And speaking of that, he'd run out of the hand sanitizer Chris had given him by trying to clean every stain off his bed frame and mattress. He was going out of his mind.

He was hardly sleeping, in constant increasing pain from not being able to stretch and exercise, and he'd started hearing voices. Like Morgan's voice, instead of just mouthing the word, actually saying, "Sorry, Michael."

The charmanders on his pj bottoms had started talking to each other as well.

By the time Chris came in with his dinner on the fourth day, he was literally in tears begging him to let him out to see the others.

"But Jordie's out there, man." Chris had said. "You don't want to go out there."

"I have ADHD, man, this is killing me, please," Michael had begged, almost in tears.

Chris' eyes had narrowed with suspicion--as if he didn't believe that someone could go insane with boredom--and had left with a muttered apology.

And the whole time, there were increasing sounds of construction and people outside.

It was on the fifth day that Michael, dissociating as he stared at a hole on the ceiling that looked like a spider if he blurred his vision a little, heard the door open and vaguely felt someone walk in.

"...Hey..." He said his programmed response.

And then a punch hit him.

"Ghuh--" He gasped, coming back to the present. "Oh, fuck, it's nice to see another face."

Jordie's response was to slap him harder in the cheek.

Michael, slow on the uptake this morning, only managed to barely block a second slap.

"Have--have I done anything in particular to--"

He had to block another slap, at which Jordie growled and grabbed his forearm. The scars burned at the touch. They might be years old, but somehow his arms still remembered every single mark.

"Jordie, man, come on."

The left-handed slap hit this time, bringing tears to Michael's eyes.

"...Whatever I did, I'm sorry." He blinked, feeling his cheek begin to puff up and redden.

Jordie took him by the chin, fingers squeezing into his forearm in a vice grip, slamming his head back into the metal bedframe bar.

"Do you ever shut up?"

Michael winced and gritted his teeth. He hated that a sense of rejection was twisting with the nausea in his stomach. Shutting up wasn't too hard for Michael. After all, he'd had an instinctive freeze response for years.

Having to do it again was like going back to that old, haunted identity.

The one before he made himself. Before he became the unfairly-promoted, lowest-performing detective in Cleveland.

Sinking into that self without the defense of "worrying" about everyone else was crushing.

It was worse than the physical pain. But there was only so much he could take before his body made the choice for him.

Just coming down from an injury-induced fever, Michael was weak and vulnerable.

"That's better." Jordie said, surveying his face. "Nice and scared and quiet. Now if I take you to sit out with the others, will you be good?"

Michael closed his eyes, trying not to be irritated at the condescension, and nodded.

It was nearly night when Pete came back.

He was not alone.

"You told me you'd have him begging. A full week!" --the sound of a blow strikign somewhere hard, through clothes, made Michael's senses pop to full alert and set his heart beating hard and fast-- "A full week! And you don't report this... this failure!"

Michael heard a muffled yelp from Pete as he was dragged into the room, arm twisted over his head at an almost deforming angle.

His eyes darted over to Michael and a dark flush settled over his cool complexion. The man slapped Pete.

Pete blinked, bowing his head in obiescence.

"You think they'll come for the brat like that? They screamed at each other, Pete!"

Pete said nothing, bowing a few times.

Suddenly three more hard punches, which he didn't attempt to block, took his wind, took him to his knees, gasping with a strained mutter of apology, more bowing, face utterly full of shame.

Then the man wheeled on Michael.

"You." He snapped. "Strip this guy. Who's up for a little fun?"

Michael dissociated as they came for him. Pete had, for just a moment, looked exactly like Morgan that day in the rain at the bus station.

Michael had run all the way there, then realized he had no idea where to go, or how, and then leaned forward and idd something he never did–prayed to fate or God or whatever.

"Just get me out of this. If there's any care in you at all. Please."

A sense of his own tinyness in the middle of existence overwhelmed him, and he huddled n against a monstrous cold front of November.

And then he heard it--the skittery footfalls of Morgan Huer.

He flinched and huddled in.

Don't see me, don't see me.

"Michael." Morgan said, and Michael jumped. "Dad knows."

Michael cursed and cringed away from Morgan, expecting to be dragged out of the booth, through the rain, and back to Morgan's father, who would already be waiting with the poker.

Morgan was watching his reaction with what Michael interpreted as sadistic enjoyment.

"Don't torture me, Morgan." Michael said. "Just do it."

"Then come willingly," Morgan said.

"You know I can't do that. I don't know how to be good. I've tried. It's pointless. I just... I can't go back,"

And he watched Morgan's face go from calm, to twisted up and working. Then the shame, the dread, fixed on Michael in a confusing stare.

"I'll... tell him I found you in the yard."

Michael couldnt' believe his ears. Morgan had never offered something like that before.

There was a long pauseas Michael's eyes widened, realizing Morgan was serious.

"You better listen in, so you don't lie wrong if he sees through me." Morgan added. "Come on, let's go."

Morgan got his jaw broken for that.

He never stood up for Michael again.

Michael's brain reeled as he watched hte gang surrounding him. A hundred variations of one idea with no end in sight punched through his brain at once, all-encompassing one idea--stop them.

Every placating response he'd crafted fell to the wayside in a burst of strength as he ducked forward, not even feeling the ripping in his wounded leg as he hit Jordie with a kick to the crotch. He dropped straight ot hte ground with a loud curse. Michael punched, shifted and swung again at anyone who dared grab him, nknocking down three and throwing them behind him, getting closer to the stairwell. Three steps away.

But Pete was in between him and his goal, walking closer and raising a gun with two gangsters at his sides.

Michael roared and ran at him, splitting his lip back open in his desperate attempt to escape or die.

Then a hit from the boss's palm smacked into his forehead in a concussive strike that rattled his brain.

His consciousness blinked out momentarily and he awoke right before his head hit the ground, this time falling on his back.

"Well," Pete's boss smirked grimly as he sauntered toward Michael. "You just had to make this hard on yourself."

That was when Michael recognized the tattoo on his chest under the loose tank top. It was a very stylized version of the word "United". Michael had heard of the guy with this specific tattoo. This was Psycho, leader of the Westside Kids.

Michael blinked at him, trapped on the ground with Jordie's heavy boot on his chest. He was grinding the heel into his bruised ribs for good measure, probably enjoying Michael's winces of pain that he tried not to show.

He could've tried to fight, but that would mean another beat-down. Maybe broken bones this time.

His mind was fuzzy, but he remembered the thought process for tihs. They needed him to genuinely beg Morgan for help.

"Just--just--" Michael tried to speak, but the man carried such a powerful presence that his teeth chattered and he couldn't think, or breathe.

"We could have made this a bit less painful for you if you'd just cooperated, but you had to be a fuckin idiot."

Beg. They wanted him to beg.

Michael grimaced, knowing what that would do to him. Then he took a breath and said,

"Pleaes. Please, guys... I can't... Don't hurt me anymore." His voi e pitched upward.

And there it was--the flashback he knew was coming even as he thumped his aching leg on the ground to try to stay in the moment.

Most of what came back to him was the sound. The thunk of a piece of kindling hitting his legs hard enough to leave blackish bruises.

The words "if you run, you'll only make this worse."

The sound of teenage Michael's screaming, begging, the sound he was making right now as he knew they were going to strip him and do god-knows-what to him.

"Please, no, please, no," He was running his mouth like it would do him any good.

"Hey Pete," Psycho said, "You know that old cord I had you save from the AC?"

"Yeah." Pete's swollen eyes glinted coldly.

He crossed the room to rummage in a pile of junk behind Micael's cell.

"No," Michael's eyes were running freely with tears, equal to the shame he felt for crying in the first place. "Fucking please." His voice was cracking all over the place.

"Hey Jordie?" The boss said.

"Yeah?"

"Give 'im twenty."

Tag list:

@fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whump-writings @mimostic @tildeathiwillwrite

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Content: [Mentioned] drugging, [mentioned/implied] captivity, recovery.

Caretaker jokes about "taking a chill pill" one day when Whumpee gets worked up over something, and the last thing they expect as a response is for Whumpee to get down on their knees and beg them not to drug them.

After what feels like forever of trying to calm them down, Whumpee discloses that it was a phrase Whumper would often use whenever they had plans to sedate them for whatever reason.

[whumplump]

content: alcohol, grief over a character’s death, drugging

The bartender placed another can of beer on the counter. Whumpee didn't have the patience to pour the liquid into the glass and drank straight from the aluminum container.

"Maybe you should stop," the bartender suggested, but Whumpee didn't care.

They drank more than half the can in one gulp. Their face was stained with tears from the several hours they spent crying in the bar, but now, they no longer had the strength to cry. Just to hold the beer and swallow it, until they forgot everything that happened.

Someone came over and sat down next to them, invasively close. Whumpee didn't care to see who it was. They drank the other half of the can. The stranger asked the bartender for a drink, who brought two glasses without delay.

The stranger took a few seconds before handing one of the glasses to Whumpee. Nobody noticed.

Whumpee looked at the drink for a moment, then picked it up and took a small sip, unbothered in their drunk state. The stranger drank their share too.

"I'm so sorry about Caretaker," Whumper said. "I know how much you liked them."

Whumpee half-listened. They only heard the name. Caretaker. They took a large sip of the drink paid for by Whumper.

They turned their head to take a look at Whumper. Their eyes stopped at the stranger's neck. Whumper wore a red beaded necklace.

Caretaker had a similar necklace I gave them for their birthday, Whumpee thought.

No, it wasn't similar. It was the same.

Whumpee started to feel dizzy. The world seemed like a merry-go-round, spinning wildly within the eye sockets.

"How...how did you get...that necklace...?" They slurried, before passing out with their head on the bar counter.

The bartender heard the sound behind, and wasn't surprised. The poor thing must have passed out from drinking so much.

"I warned you," he muttered to himself.