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suspicious-whumping-egg · 1 year ago

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Collector’s Bounty: Part 3

Masterlist here. Enjoy!!

Splitting, blinding agony yanked Jackson back to reality. It felt like he’d been shot in the side, sixteen rounds of lead all rapid-fired into one throbbing nightmare. He gasped for breath, but his chest seized in protest as he choked on a mouthful of plastic. A massive tube had been forced down his throat, protruding deep into his chest and scratching at his lungs, which were forced full of air just seconds later. He gagged, thrashing helplessly against the restraints and letting out a strangled cry at the fresh stabs of pain the movement sent through his body.

“More propofol,” he heard Aris order sharply, and he was dimly aware of a blunt pain in his arm, a thick substance forced through an IV. His head swam. The air was sucked from his lungs, and he coughed so hard his head began to pound.

“At least while we extubate him. Don’t want him damaging those lungs, especially if we decide to take one later…”

The words slid into each other, fuzzy and distant as the drugs overcame him once more. But this time, he was glad for it.

He faded back into consciousness, the next time, rather than the sharp, sudden lucidity of the hour before. His side pulsed uncomfortably, but the sensation lacked the agony of before, dulled to a slight ache. And the tube was gone from his throat. He could breathe. He sucked in a greedy lungful of air, even as the breath burned his sore throat, and tried to sit up. His head spun from the mere effort, and the wound protested fiercely, its dull ache turning into a throb, and he was forced to slump back down. But he could move his shoulders now, at least, push himself up on his elbows even while his wrists remained immobile— although now he was handcuffed to the bedrails of a cot, instead of strapped to the operating table.

He took a wary glance around, relieved to find he was alone in a small cell. It was bare but for the cot, the IV stand next to him, and the monitor beeping steadily as his vitals flashed across its screen. A sensor was clipped to his finger, a few layers of tape wound around it. As if he’d try to take off the only thing that would make sure his captors kept him, at the bare minimum, alive. An IV protruded from his opposite arm, likely providing whatever pain medication was taking the edge off the horror he’d woken up to the first time. It, too, was taped. As if he’d want to rip out the only thing keeping him from utter agony.

The flimsy white blanket covering him, however, was not taped onto him. And it was also the only thing Jackson wanted off. Some part of him needed to see the incision, in its fresh, ugly red glory. He needed to know it had all been real. Because until the blanket came off, he could hold onto the last shred of hope that Aris or Ryder had possessed the tiniest scrap of decency that prevented them from finishing the job.

He kicked uselessly at the thin cotton, only succeeding in getting the fabric tangled in his legs. A sob wrenched from his chest, and with it, a fresh stab of pain shocked itself down his side. The dam had broken and he cried with reckless abandon, tears streaming from his eyes down the sides of his face. His head began to pound in unison with the raw wound in his side, and all he could do was sob harder, until he was gasping for breath amidst dry, helpless cries. His tears had half-dried in a sticky film on his cheeks, and he couldn’t even lift a hand to wipe them away. Couldn’t even move enough to elbow the stupid fucking blanket across his face.

He heard the sound of a latch and flinched, furiously blinking away the last of his tears even though he knew nothing could hide his red-rimmed eyes and tearstained face.

“Aww, you’re really that upset to see me?” Aris smirked. “I’m flattered.”

“Fuck off,” Jackson mumbled halfheartedly, wishing he could at least pull the flimsy blanket over his face to demonstrate his disinterest.

“No can do,” Aris interjected cheerily, spinning a small keyring around a finger and bending down to unlock his handcuffs. “I gotta make sure you get up and walk around a bit.”

“It’s literally been— what, two hours?” Jackson protested. “Why do you care, you got what you wanted anyway…”

Aris shrugged. “Longer than that. We kept you in a drugged little stupor— and keep in mind, that comes out of my paycheck— for a bit so you wouldn’t be screaming those expensive lungs out. Maybe 12 hours? A little less? And even after we took you off, you slept maybe another eight. And the rest is doctor’s orders, love, I don’t make the rules. Ryder’s in charge of the med stuff, not me, and he told me to take you for a walk.”

Jackson’s head still pounded from the force of his earlier sobbing, but he gave a resigned nod, even as a shudder wracked his body at the thought of how much else they could have done to him in twelve hours. What else they could have taken. “Can I at least have something to put on then?” He managed weakly.

At that request, Aris raised his eyebrows with a smirk. “There’s no reason for me to not keep you naked now… but I’m feeling nice. So only if you beg for it.”

“What?” Jackson sputtered before he could help it. “I— I mean please. Please let me have clothes…”

Even saying the words drew burning red humiliation to his face, and he could barely suppress a twisted huff of laughter as the beeping on the monitor grew faster and faster with his panicked heart rate. Here he was, thinking begging would really make a difference. He’d seen how Aris had looked at him. How he enjoyed his power over him and nothing else. There was no use playing along.

But Aris’s grin only widened.

“Oh come on, if you say it like that, it’s like you don’t even really want it. And you do, don’t you?”

“I— I— no— I do— please just— please— aah—” Jackson stammered incomprehensibly, a fresh stab of pain in his side and his dizzying embarrassment clouding any rational thought he might have been able to force out.

Aris surveyed his flushed face, the way his eyes squinted at the pain from the incision, and he nodded. “I suppose I can reward effort, even for as terrible of a job you’ve done,” he digressed. “I’ll be back.”

As soon as the door’s lock slid into place, Jackson ripped the blanket off with his newly freed hands, eyes squeezed shut. He had to look, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear to.

Fuck it.

He wrenched his eyes open to find a swath of bandages around his torso, a bit above his left hip, and two smaller bandages scattered between his chest and stomach. He sat up, a wave of vertigo swimming through his head, and leaned over to grip the edge of the largest bandage. He took in a shaky breath, tensing on instinct, and ripped.

A thick, ugly cut marred his skin, haphazardly stitched together with black thread. Nausea gripped his gut, and he slapped the bandage back on, a weak cry escaping his lips as pain stabbed over the wound once more. Fuck.

He grabbed the thin pillow off the cot, pressed it to his face, and screamed, side throbbing from the effort, until his throat was ragged. The scream tapered off into a fresh wave of sobs, even as he tried to choke back the tears. He had to make a break for it while he was unrestrained. Before they took anything else. But he could barely sit up, let alone stand.

“Yeah, yeah, scar’s gonna be pretty bad,” Aris mocked, voice cutting nonchalantly through his cries. “What, did you think we’d change our minds?”

Jackson flinched, the pillow slipping from his fingers as he backed against one corner of the cot, curled against a bedrail. He wiped his face on the threadbare blanket and didn’t dare say a word— he didn’t trust himself not to start sobbing all over again.

Aris shrugged. “Well, not my problem. Think you can dress yourself?”

He nodded shakily, even though he doubted it. Even if he could manage to pull on a pair of pants, managing to get a shirt on while the IV was in would likely be an impossible task.

A soft bundle hit him square in the chest, and he unraveled it to find boxers, a pair of black sweatpants, and a ripped undershirt. He couldn’t help but be disappointed he hadn’t been given his old clothes back, but mostly, he was just glad to have anything at all. He waited for the dizziness to abate before slowly rising to his feet, legs buckling under his weight. He gripped the bedrail like a lifeline while he tugged on the boxers one-handed, relief washing over him with just the one bit of dignity.

“Yeah, yeah, Ryder didn’t want me to give your old clothes back ‘cause of germs or evidence or fingerprints or some shit, I don’t know,” Aris added with a shrug at his disappointed expression, eyes annoyingly fixed on Jackson’s body. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

Jackson grit his teeth, swaying dangerously as he struggled with the sweatpants.

“I’ve got it,” he bit out, even as his vision edged with black from the effort of standing. The second he finished tying the waistband, he collapsed back onto the bed, feeling just as exhausted but a little more human. He reached for the shirt with shaking hands, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to get it on. Not by himself. He’d either have to ask for help getting the IV out, forgoing the only medication he might be given at all, or withstand going shirtless.

He sighed. “I’d rather keep the IV in.”

Aris smirked. “I don’t mind getting a better view if you insist,” he teased, stepping towards the cot and holding out his arm.

“Now, up you go. Come on.”

Jackson couldn’t help but groan.

“I’m not gonna make it very far,” he protested weakly. “And aren’t you supposed to rest after surgery?”

“If it’s a nephrectomy, nope,” Aris said cheerfully. “Unless you wanna get blood clots and die after all this. I don’t really care, at least then I get the extra cash from selling a fresh heart.”

Jackson grimaced just at the idea, ignoring Aris’s outstretched arm and stabilizing himself on the bedrail as he forced himself back upright. “Fine,” he grumbled, legs wobbling beneath him.

“Ya gotta let go of the bed,” Aris added. “Not much of a walk if you stay in the same place now, is it?” He held out his arm again, a hawk waiting patiently to strike.

And Jackson could do nothing but take the bait. He took a shaky step, half-falling into Aris’s shoulder as he grasped his wrist with the last reserves of his strength.

And out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the grin that spilled over Aris’s face.

Taglist: @burntcoffeewhump @onlywhump @whumplr-reader @gala1981 @its-my-primary-whump @andithewhumper

#collector’s bounty #blue writes #aris #jackson hawthorne #organ harvesting whump #medical whump #whump writing #carewhumper

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suspicious-whumping-egg · 1 year ago

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Collector's Bounty: Part 2

Welcome to Part 2! This is a hefty chapter, sitting just under 4,000 words, I'm warning you now. Enjoy!!

Masterlist here.

~~~

At some point, consciousness languidly returned to Jackson amidst the lull of a moving car. He was sprawled across the backseat, hands cuffed together in front of him, covered in a dark fleece blanket. His whole body was heavy, numb, and shivering. His head felt to be stuffed to the brim with cotton. Aris chattered away on the phone he’d squeezed between his head and shoulder, one hand on the bottom of the wheel and the other toying with his favorite knife. Music filled the car, although not loud enough to drown out Aris’s voice. His captor’s words were nothing more than a tangled mess to Jackson’s muddled mind, but the music was vaguely recognizable. Melodic, upbeat but sad, a dreamy voice pouring from the speakers.

“Y’ listen t’ Troye Sivan?” he mumbled, words rolling thickly off his tongue. His head spun just from the effort of trying to speak, but lucidity was already slowly starting to come back to him.

“You should not be awake right now,” Aris remarked. “Hang on, I’ll call you back,” he said quickly into the phone before hanging up and dropping it into a cupholder.

“You have a fast metabolism or something?” he speculated. “The amount of propofol I gave you was enough to last for hours, come on. Now I’m gonna have to pull over.”

He didn’t sound mad, though, just amused. Thankfully.

“No!” Jackson protested before he could stop himself. “I— I don’ know how long I was out, and… and it’s just trees and corn around here, please don’ drug me again…”

Aris shook his head.

“I’m not taking that risk,” he said simply. “How about I give you a choice? Come up to the front seat so I can keep an eye on you, and I’ll blindfold you instead. Or just accept the other dose, forgo the monotony of the long drive, and take a nice nap in the back.”

Jackson fidgeted, his head still spinning.

“Why’d y’ give me a blanket?”

“You really don’t have a filter right now, do you?” Aris laughed. “I mean, that’s technically my fault, I topped off the dose with midazolam once you were out just so you’d be a little easier to deal with when you were up. But that was supposed to be hours from now. As for the blanket, it covered the handcuffs for anyone driving by. That’s all. Don’t think I’m getting soft on you, you’re still losing a kidney, Hawthorne. Unless Seb here changes his mind and gives me the money.”

“We both know tha’s not gonna happen,” Jackson muttered. “Ransoms’re th’ same as giving up… an’ my dad? Giving up?” He shook his head, immediately regretting it for the pounding that shook his skull afterwards.

“If you think a rich kid sob story will earn you any sympathy with me, you’re outta luck,” Aris said shortly. He pulled over and parked the car, turning around to look at Jackson. “Now you’re gonna decide right now, okay? Up with me and blindfolded, or sleeping in the back?”

“It’s not— it’s not like that…” Jackson protested. Some part of him hoped Aris would leave him alone in the back if he refused to answer long enough, but the more likely scenario would be that he’d be drugged and thrown in the trunk.

“An… uh… th’ blindfold?” He regretted his answer as soon as he said it, but he couldn’t stand the thought of just being knocked out and helpless in the back of a kidnapper’s car, even if it’d be the easier option.

Aris shook his head.

“Well I don’t want you eavesdropping on my conversation, so if you come up here, you owe me one.”

“One what?” Jackson muttered. “You’re already takin’ a fuckin’ kidney…”

“Remember the options I discussed before? A lung, some bone marrow… hell, I could cut out your corneas if I really wanted to. One goes for thirty thousand, although your vision would be shit after that. Something about how it focuses the light. And skin can go for around ten bucks per square inch, and that also grows back… point is, I’ve got a lot of options.”

“And here I was, thinkin’ you’d wanna save money not havin’ t’ drug me again…”

A poor attempt at getting out of it, but worth a shot. He couldn’t stomach the thought of getting stabbed with a syringe, expecting to get woken up before the procedure, and waking up one kidney short with a gaping hole in his side.

Aris laughed.

“Nice try, sweetheart. I’d be saving myself the trouble of tying you up again and having to force you down onto the operating table, and that’s worth just as much.”

Jackson sighed, slumping back against the car door. It was obviously locked from the inside, but he couldn’t help but be tempted to jump out. Aris would make a u-turn, drag him back into the car, yell at him for the potential damage he’d caused to his precious, expensive body— he could already see it playing out. But he couldn’t help but cave to the impulse and test the car door, a firm click confirming it was locked.

“You wouldn't survive jumping out,” Aris mused. “It’s not like the movies, love. Jumping out when a car’s going anything over like, thirty miles an hour is basically a death sentence. Your little head would hit the pavement and bust open like an overripe watermelon. And I hate to say it, but what a waste of money that would be. Can’t harvest those beautiful eyes if your head goes splat into pieces, hm?”

The mere visual made Jackson’s stomach turn, an icy stab of fear hurling him back to reality.

“Okay, okay! I get it… I won’t try it,” he relented. “I…” Fuck. The image of his own brains strewn across the highway had firmly seared into the backs of his eyelids, and with it, a wave of nausea roiled at his stomach. “I won’t try anything…”

Aris grinned. “That’s what I thought,” he nodded satisfactorily, leaning around the driver’s seat and easing on the brakes so the car began rolling to a stop. “Now be a good boy and hold still. Just a little pinch.”

Aris turned around and reached towards him, and a needle entered the corner of Jackson’s vision. He had to force himself from lashing out, throwing fists at his captor until the threat went away. But that was likely to just lose him a lung or worse. And before he could calculate a decision any further, a sharp pain stabbed at his neck once again, and he was out.

He woke up to the feeling of being carried. Limbs jostling in another’s arms, his body resting against someone’s chest. And for a second, he felt at peace. Kept his eyes shut, let the lull of the stranger’s steps send him right back into the fog still clouding his brain.

And then he remembered.

He flinched instinctively, arms flailing as he desperately shoved himself away from Aris, and hit the ground with a painful thud. The world tilted in every direction when he opened his eyes, and he groaned, pushing himself up to sit on the grass beneath him. Aris stood on a narrow gravel path beside him, drumming his fingers together.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” he huffed. “I’m starting to think they’ve cut my supply with saline or something. Have you had, like, a bunch of surgeries or whatever? Developed a tolerance?”

Jackson shook his head blearily.

“You gonna let me carry you again, or will I have to drag you?”

“I won’ fight?” he offered pathetically. And with that, he was scooped into a bridal carry once more, as if he weighed nothing at all.

“Alright, then. Now what’s your medical history? Something’s going on with how fast this shit is wearing off on you. And if you don’t tell me the truth, you might just happen to wake up while we’re still cutting you open.”

Jackson shifted in Aris’s hold without any real effort to escape, his heart tightening in his chest.

“I don’ know, I’ve always been healthy,” he offered. “Never got sick more than a few days at a time…”

“The helpful side effects of having millions to spend on top-of-the-line medical care, huh,” Aris said drily. “But really, nothing weird? Weren’t like, shipped off to the psych ward or anything where your behavior gained you an impressive tolerance for sedatives? No car crash that had you on a cocktail of drugs that you all got used to? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he said unhelpfully. Maybe he needed to stop telling the truth, or Aris would decide he’d need to take a few more impressively healthy organs while he was at it.

Aris rolled his eyes.

“Sure. Not my fault, then, if you wake up and the paralytic hasn’t worn off. Just gonna have to lay there, helpless, and watch us finish cutting you open. I mean, you’ll feel it all, too. We’re not giving you pain meds when you’re supposed to be knocked out, yknow?”

Jackson flinched, tensing in his captor’s grip.

“I— I don’t know why they’re wearing off so fast, I swear… I—”

“Well, pretty boy, looks like that means you won’t be able to do anything about it anyway, hm? Just gonna have to hope you get lucky.”

And his words were enough to scare Jackson into dropping the subject.

They approached a small, battered house. Its white paint was peeling and stained a dusty brown, one of the shutters hung off a window by a corner, and a stair to the porch was caved in. Aris skipped over the broken stair without a beat, the rotting wood straining and creaking beneath the weight of the two of them.

“Couldn’t’ve picked a shadier spot, huh?” Jackson muttered, eyeing the wasp nest teeming in a corner of the porch overhead.

Aris scoffed, tugging the screen door open with a dubious creak and fumbling for his keys until he found the right one to stick in the door’s lock.

“You’ll see,” he murmured amusedly.

As soon as the door opened, the two faced a sleek steel elevator with a digital keypad next to it. Aris shifted Jackson in his arms, tapped in a code, then pressed his hand to the screen. A quiet beep rang out as the elevator doors slid open, and Aris carried Jackson inside.

Part of him still wanted to bolt before the doors slammed shut, the part that was all racing heart and fear stabbing through his spine like a freezing knife. But he knew too well what would happen. Aris would whip out a tranq gun or a taser, have him eating dirt in mere seconds, and he’d be dragged back into the elevator to face his fate. Yet his body still tensed, preparing to thrash out of Aris’s grip even as steel met steel and his hope of running vanished as quickly as it had come.

They plummeted deep underground, and with every passing second, Jackson wished he’d taken the impulse to run. The elevator was locked, and if he managed to break free in the operating room, he wouldn’t have the time or strength to run around looking for a flight of stairs, not with the last dregs of the sedatives still running through his system.

Yet his body betrayed him, and he flinched, seizing in Aris’s arms.

“You wanna be a good boy or not, Hawthorne?” Aris mused as the elevator doors opened with a hiss. He stepped out into a long hallway lined with identical white doors. “I still have time to truss you up like a runaway lamb and haul you to the slaughter.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing already?” he muttered sourly. But despite his words, his heart skipped a beat at the threat, and he forced himself pliant in his captor’s grip.

“Not quite. Want me to demonstrate for you?” Aris flashed him a wicked grin, leaning Jackson on one shoulder to press his hand to another keypad by one of the doors. At the terse silence he received in reply, his smirk only widened.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Back to being a good boy, then, it seems? Smart choice.”

The smooth white door in front of them slid open, revealing a pristine operating room. Thick straps hung off the operating table, padlocks dangling from each one. A tray of glinting, sharp tools sat next to it, and Jackson couldn’t help but squirm at the sight of them. Imagining the scalpels carving through his own flesh was enough to override all coherent thought, even as Aris’s grip turned to iron, nails digging painfully into Jackson’s trembling body. It was as if a switch had flipped in the man, all signs of sadistic amusement washed away with bitter purpose.

“You keep making this hard for me, and you might not wake up at all,” Aris hissed, suddenly shoving him to the ground in a heap. With his hands still cuffed in front of him, there was little he could do to catch himself, and he hit the cold tile face first.

“Now, you’re going to take off your clothes and be on the operating table by the time my friend gets here, ‘kay? Try anything with those instruments and I’ll break every single one of those delicate fingers, maybe cut one off for good measure. Slice through your Achilles’ tendons, maybe, so you can’t run. Or your vocal cords, so you can’t scream. Got it?”

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to clear his mind of the gruesome images Aris had presented, and nodded shakily. His captor knelt down to unlock the cuffs, angry red marks left in the place of the steel.

“I could just cut your clothes off. Strap you up there, kicking and screaming. This is a test, Hawthorne. How many organs are you willing to lose today? How many extra scars are you willing to earn? I hope, for your sake, you make the right call.”

Jackson’s heart felt like it was going to jump into his throat. His chest ached with terror, his head spinning from the drugs and the fear and the lack of color all around him. And with shaking hands, he reached down to the hem of his sweater. He shivered as he pulled the garment over his head, cold air hitting his bare back in an icy wave. Yet amongst the frigid room, heat and humiliation crept up his cheeks. Aris hadn’t turned around. Jackson didn’t know why he’d expected him to.

Instead, his captor’s gaze flicked over his body, and he let out a low whistle.

“Not bad,” he smirked, the playful tone returning as quickly as it’d fled. “Not bad at all.”

Jackson pressed his lips together in a thin line and struggled to his feet, shoving down the temptation to throw a punch while he had the chance. His legs swayed dangerously under his own weight, how could he possibly fight back? He leaned heavily against the operating table, fumbling with his belt buckle under Aris’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Sh-shouldn’t I be fine keeping my pants on?” He stammered. He was no expert on anatomy, but he knew the kidneys were too far up on the torso to justify needing him naked. Although, of course, that didn’t mean Aris wouldn’t want to toy with him.

Aris laughed. “Like I said. Easy way, hard way. Your choice.”

Begrudgingly, Jackson slid off his shoes and let his pants drop to the floor, blinking back the tears that burned his eyes. This was real, this was happening, and he couldn’t do anything about it. And some deep, disgusted voice inside him wondered if Aris would do anything else to him while he was knocked out. The mere thought made him feel like throwing up.

“Is this good enough?” He spat, gathering his clothes and folding them neatly at his feet— a useless last dash to maintain a scrap of dignity while standing in just his boxers, but it at least kept his hands busy and hid the shaking.

Aris gave his body another hungry glance, stalking behind him to give him a full once-over. Jackson could practically feel the man’s eyes lingering on his ass, and his cheeks flushed an even darker shade of scarlet.

And after an agonizing moment, Aris just shrugged. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to get too distracted helping out with the operation… I could accidentally stab something vital. So you’re off the hook, I guess. Now get on the table.”

With one last desperate glance at the door, Jackson forced himself to sit on the operating table, shuddering as the cold metal met his skin. He couldn’t help but hug his legs to his chest, a last attempt to keep himself distanced from the padlocked straps that would soon render him defenseless.

Aris gave an approving nod.

“Good. Now lie down. I’ll tell my friend you’re ready.”

It was as if Jackson’s lungs had constricted to the size of ping-pong balls. All of a sudden, a rush of dizziness overcame him, and his breathing turned desperate and shallow. His gaze frantically flicked back to the tray of tools, and he had the sudden urge to grab a scalpel and fight back. But he had no way out. No way to unlock the doors, or work the elevator, or even start Aris’s car. Hope had proven itself pointless hours ago. And all there was left to do was make it easier for himself.

With his fists clenched so tight his nails bit his palms, he forced himself flat on the table, his heartbeat a frenzied rush in his chest. And before he had time to flinch, to bolt upright, to change his mind, Aris struck like a viper to secure the first strap tight over his arms, trapping his wrists and torso to the table.

Jackson struggled on instinct, thrashing before he could help it, but it was too late. Aris locked two more straps over his legs, one at the knees and one at the ankles, and another over his shoulders. The only inch of mobility he had left was that of his head. He squirmed against the restraints, terrified gaze flashing towards Aris and then the door, which had slid open with a hiss.

A man strode through the room’s entrance as he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, the bright blue contrasting with his dark clothing and skin. A medical mask dangled haphazardly from one ear.

And while Jackson had never had surgery before, he knew it wasn’t remotely supposed to look like this. His odds of surviving the next 4 hours were growing slimmer and slimmer by the second.

“There he is, the man of the hour,” Aris teased his friend. “How ya feeling? Jackson, this is Ryder. Better be real nice to him ‘cause he’s gonna have his knives up your guts in… let’s call it five minutes.”

Ryder grinned back at him. “Better than this poor sod is, that’s for sure,” he snorted, haphazardly gesturing to Jackson. “Any medical history I should know? Anemia, that kinda shit?”

Aris interjected before Jackson could get a word in.

“He burned through the shit I gave him like it was nothing. You’re gonna need to increase the frequency and dosage of anesthesia, paralytic, painkillers if you feel like being nice to him, all that. Actually, not the painkillers. A dose of morphine when he wakes up so he doesn’t wail his lungs out, but that’s it. I’m not paying to keep him comfortable.”

Ryder nodded.

“Got ourselves a daddy’s money addict on our hands?” he smirked. “Couldn’t handle drowning in cash so he doped himself out on xannies? What a sob story.” He ran his hand along the tray of tools as if in a trance, eyes lingering on the way the light glinted off the blades. Out of the corner of his vision, Jackson could see him stepping closer to his head, looking down until they were eye to eye. The man glanced him over, the way he shivered against the freezing steel of the table and the way his gaze flicked away the second he was confronted.

He winked, even as his face twisted in disgust. “I’ll make the scar extra ugly.”

Jackson squirmed uselessly against the vice-tight straps, his heart a knife in his chest. His head rushed with vertigo, white walls tilting into white floors. “I’m clean, I— I swear— I don’t— I wouldn’t—“

“Think you’re better than the rest of us, then? Maybe don’t admit that when you’re not the one holding the knife.”

“No! No— I— I just—” He gasped in a tight, elusive lungful of air, words cut off by a desperate draw for breath.

“Hey, hey, easy on the kid’s heart, now,” Aris said teasingly, giving Jackson a condescending pat on the arm. “It’s not worth as much if it’s all worn out. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryder muttered, giving a dramatic roll of his eyes and plucking a sharpie from his pocket. “As if you’d actually risk killing the little whelp.”

He began dragging a rough dotted line just above Jackson’s hip, and Jackson couldn’t help but imagine a scalpel carving over that line just moments later. The way the blade would cleave through flesh, splatter his body with blood. He shuddered.

A few smaller lines were drawn farther up on his torso, then Ryder stuck the marker back in his pocket, stepping out of Jackson’s field of vision before returning with an anesthesia mask, a long tube stretching from it to a tank on a table nearby.

A fresh jolt of fear flashed through his system, and Jackson struggled with renewed vigor against the straps locking him to the table. If he didn’t get out now, there’d be no going back. Ever. They could slip up with the knife, cut something vital, and kill him. All while he’d be powerless to stop them.

His limbs remained secured to the table, skin rubbing raw and red where he tugged and thrashed against the straps. Ryder slammed his head against the table with a painful thud, forcing him still as he wrestled the mask over his mouth and nose to cut off his source of air.

And as he felt the whoosh of foreign chemicals hitting his face, he willed himself not to breathe. Not to stop fighting. His lungs burned, his head spun, his wrists ached from his equally useless and desperate attempts to rip the mask from his face. He wouldn’t give in. He couldn’t.

But of course, he couldn’t think his way out of the spots that threatened to overwhelm his vision, the fire coursing through his lungs. Before he could stop himself, he gasped in an aching, hopeless breath, the drug sickly sweet and mixed with the harsh smell of fresh plastic.

“Finally,” Aris snorted. “You’ve already lost, Hawthorne. Just breathe. Stop being a wimp.”

Tears burned at the corners of Jackson’s eyes, but he knew Aris was right. There was no use prolonging his last few seconds of lucidity. He forced in another breath, the thick gas flowing through his system like poisoned honey, and shuddered.

He felt nothing but the terror racing through his veins, and for a moment, he was almost afraid it wouldn’t work. That Ryder would pick up his scalpels and start carving before he’d been knocked unconscious. Another breath, another dose of nauseating sweetness. Ryder had taken his hand off his head. He realized, dimly, that it was because he’d stopped struggling.

And that realization was his last thought before the world swam away into nothingness.

Taglist: @burntcoffeewhump @onlywhump @whumplr-reader @gala1981 @its-my-primary-whump

#collector's bounty #collectors bounty #jackson hawthorne #aris #ryder #whump writing #whump #organ harvesting #medical whump #noncon drugging

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