#non con drugging

[sufrimientilia]

Choices

drugging | poisoning | cannibalism @augusnippets Day 13

cw: non-consensual drug use, addiction, IV drugs, see above

The lighter flicked once, twice, three times. It finally sparked to life with one final kiss against metal and lingered there for a long moment. Saline bubbled and boiled. Powder dissolved in one ugly dirty cloud.

“Do you remember the last time I shot you up?” the motherfucker asked. Like they were having a regular fucking conversation. “You were just begging for it. Tears, snot, and all.”

He shoved hard at the hands grappling him from behind. He already had half of the fight beaten out of him, and now the rest of his submission came from just sheer numbers. Maybe a gun or two pointed in his face.

Maybe a gun or two pointed at her.

“I guess back then you’d do anything for it.” A pinch of cotton thickened and thickened. The gentle slip of a plunger, fingers so practiced they might as well have done it hundreds of times. Golden amber started filling the syringe. “Simpler times, huh?”

“F-ffuck you! Motherfucker!” All those hands slammed him against the table at the start of his outburst and could barely contain him by the end of it. He grit his teeth and struggled, hard enough to be defiant but not hard enough to get himself shot. Sometimes it was a tricky balance.

“I’ll give you a choice. Just like always.” They were undeterred by his violent struggle, just like always. Nothing if not consistent. “This is for you, or it’s for her. You decide.”

The syringe glistened and gleamed, warm and vibrant. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even had a bump of the stuff.

The choice was an obvious one, because it always was. Always forced to make the hard choice, the obvious choice, the one they really wanted. Every single time. “Me, me—” he breathed out, the desperation coming a lot easier than he’d meant. “Give it to me. I want it. Please.”

Pleasepleaseplease. Burning on his tongue, burning on his skin.

He looked right at her. Wide eyes, pale skin, too many guns and too many men. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

He never had a choice.

The same blue rubber tourniquet, the same unnecessary flick against his bulging veins. All of them were scarred over by now. "So damn predictable. I know it's what you really want." Even the acrid breath at his ear tasted the same. "At least you have an enemy out of me, hmm? An easy excuse."

All those damn goons kept him pinned flat against the table as the needle went in. He watched it with a cruel sort of familiarity: his arm stretched before him, straight metal digging under flesh, the flush of blood drawing back into the syringe. Red sprouted and spiraled. And then the gentle push into his vein gave way to warmth, warmth, warmth, and he slipped melted and sunk all at once.

Oh. He’d be a liar if he said it didn’t feel good.

“No…” He could hear her begging and pleading for him. Maybe to him.

He wanted to tell her it was okay, it wasn’t a big deal. He was used to it. Something like ’mnnghghhh’ escaped him instead. It felt nice, too nice, and after a certain point even that was wrong. “No-…, ‘s too much,” he tried, nausea thickening and churning. But the plunger kept pushing. Pushing and pushing and pushing. “S…”

Too much, too much, too much. Twisting and spinning and spiraling until the pleasure turned sick. Too heavy, too violent. The goons let go, let him flatten against the table, left him limp and useless at the whim of one silly syringe left dangling from his forearm. The sight of it just thickened and blurred until it was one ugly blot of color.

“I thought your tolerance was better than that,” a voice said from somewhere far away. Far, far away.

Apparently not.

[tropesaregoodsoup]

Hidden

snippet from a larger story. It's fun to see how the writing has to change when you take out the context.

Whumper pulled Whumpee’s drink toward her and dumped a powdery substance into the glass. 

“What-”

Whumpee was cut off by Whumper pushing the glass back across that table. There was a pause as Whumpee just stared.

“Oh. Did they not tell you?” Whumper’s tone was amused. Whumpee felt their heart jump.

“I- Um-” Their head was spinning like they had already ingested whatever drug Whumper had. “Th-they said you just wanted to talk.”

“Well not here.” Whumper chuckled lightly as she said it, as if it were obvious.

So that’s what the team had been hiding, what they chose not to tell Whumpee. They were right not to, Whumpee never would have come if they knew, even with everyone’s lives depending on it. They hated not knowing what was going to happen. Just being groggy in the moments between sleep and fully awake had caused them to panic on more than one occasion. Drinking was out of the question, not to mention whatever Whumper had put in the glass.

“You know, “ Whumpee’s voice came out shaky. “I’ll just go with you, wherever you want, I won’t fight or anything… I promise. You don’t have to do… this.” They gestured to the drink, not daring to even touch the glass.

“Oh, I know.” There had been a calm, amused smile on Whumper’s face until now. Now it was replaced with a sadistic line only resembling a smile 

“But this is much more fun.”

[fadingdreamscape]

@whumpmasinjuly-archive day 27 - delirious

CW - non-con drugging

Character - whumper and whumpee

Whumper stood in the shadows, watching with a sinister satisfaction as Whumpee's head lolled forward, then snapped back up in a desperate bid for consciousness. "You're still fighting," Whumper's voice was a low, mocking drawl that cut through the fog in Whumpee's brain like a serrated knife.

"I... I can see them," Whumpee murmured, eyes wide and glassy.

Whumper stepped closer, the dim light casting a menacing glow on their face. "See what?" they asked, feigning curiosity. "What do you see, Whumpee?"

Whumpee's breath hitched, their vision blurring with spectral shapes that twisted and writhed in the corners of their eyes. "Shapes... shadows... they're everywhere."

Whumper's smile widened, a cruel glint in their eyes. "Hallucinations. How delightful." They reached out, gripping Whumpee's chin and forcing their gaze upward, staring intently into their unfocused eyes.

Whumpee shuddered as Whumper's cold fingers traced their jawline, a shiver running down their spine. "Please... make it stop," they whispered.

Whumper's grip tightened, their nails digging into Whumpee's flesh. "Oh, but we're just getting started," they crooned, leaning in close, "now, time to take your medication," they purred as they pulled a small vial it of their pocket and forced whumpees mouth open.

Whumpee tried to resist, but their limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive. The bitter liquid from the vial burned as it slid down their throat, and they coughed, spluttering as they struggled to breathe.

Whumper's laughter echoed through the dimly lit room, a sound devoid of warmth or humanity. "There, there," they cooed mockingly, patting Whumpee's cheek with false gentleness. "You’ll feel better soon enough. Or perhaps worse... Depends if you're ready to embrace it yet."

Whumpee's vision swam, the room around them warping and twisting.

"You see them, don't you?" Whumper whispered, leaning down, their mouth next to Whumpees ear.

The shapes in Whumpee's vision shifted, the very air seemed to shimmer and dance.

"That's right," Whumper said, their voice now a soothing purr. "You're almost there."

The room twisted and pulsed in whumpees vision, their body slowly began to feel warm and weightless.

"You look so lost," Whumper mused, circling around Whumpee like a predator. "Does it feel good?"

Whumpee's breathing became ragged, their heart pounding erratically in their chest. "I don't... I can't..." They stammered, struggling to form coherent thoughts as the world around them dissolved into a kaleidoscope of course and shapes.

Whumper chuckled, a sound that dripped with malice. "Oh, but you can. You're just resisting. Let go, Whumpee. Let the delirium take you."

Whumper released their grip, shifting to run their fingers gently through whumpees hair, "You're so close now," they said, their tone a sick parody of encouragement.

The room seemed to spin gently, the walls melted as whumpees thoughts seemed to disintegrate. Trying to think felt like grasping smoke.

"Look at you," Whumper murmured, almost to themselves, "teetering on the edge. Isn't it beautiful?" They continued to gently stroke whumpees hair, encouraging them to no longer fight.

Whumpee's lips parted, but no sound emerged. The spectral shapes in their vision danced with a macabre elegance, and somewhere in the distance, a voice—a memory perhaps—whispered words they couldn't quite understand.

Whumpee's head lolled to the side, their eyes losing focus, the figures in their vision danced and twisted, pulling them deeper into the abyss.

Whumper's hand continued its slow, rhythmic motion through Whumpee's hair, a grotesque parody of comfort. "That's it," they crooned. "Just let go."

Whumpee's lips moved soundlessly, their mind fracturing under the relentless assault. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of disjointed voices that spoke in a language they couldn't comprehend, but which filled them with a deep, primal dread.

Whumper leaned closer, their breath hot against Whumpee's ear. "You see, this is freedom," they murmured. "No more pain, no more fear. Just... surrender." Their fingers traced lazy patterns across Whumpee's scalp, "You're almost there," they whispered.

Whumpee's eyes fluttered, half-lidded and unseeing. The world around them had become an undulating sea of colors and shadows, the once familiar shapes now alien and terrifying. Each breath felt like a struggle against the current, pulling them deeper into the chaotic abyss.

Whumpee's head lolled back, their eyes flickering with fleeting lucidity. They tried to grasp onto a memory, a sliver of who they were, they grasped onto Whumpers words, onto the sensation of their hand in their hair, unsure whatelse was real.

Whumpee's head lolled forward, their eyes glazing over as they teetered on the edge of consciousness.

Whumper smiled, pulling whumpee forwards into an embrace, letting their head rest on their shoulder, "well done Whumpee," they murmured.

Whumpee's body went limp in Whumper's arms, the fight draining out of them entirely. They hung there, suspended between wakefulness and oblivion, the phantom shapes in their vision dancing a sinister ballet.

Whumper's fingers continued to stroke Whumpee's hair, their touch deceptively gentle. "That's it," they whispered, their voice a silken thread weaving through Whumpee's fractured thoughts. "No more resistance. Just let go."

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Murdoc + Bazooka

Mac wakes up with a runny nose, a dry mouth, and someone’s boot in his side.

“Oh. So you are alive. I thought I’d killed you for sure.”

Despite everything, this is possibly the worst case scenario. The middle of nowhere. Injured. Alone- well, actually, he’s not alone. God, Mac wishes he was. After all, it’s much easier to survive when Murdoc isn’t pointing a gun in your face.

---

“Damn. You’d think it'd be easier to find a pharmacy around here. Where are we? Do they have pharmacies?”

Mac lifts his head from the cool glass of the car window. “We're in Vermont,” he mutters, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. “Of course they have pharmacies.”

“Yeah, tell that to Google Maps,” Jack gripes, tossing his phone Mac’s way.

“You don't have reception. Google Maps thinks we've fallen off the face of the Earth.”

Jack groans. “We’ve been driving through the woods for ages. This is like, the perfect place for a serial killer to hide out.”

“We’re still pretty far out from the nearest city,” Mac says regretfully. “Just keep going.”

“Only you would get a cold after the mission is done. Why can't you be a normal person and get it before the mission? Then you can't go on the mission, which means I can't go on the mission. I would kill for a break, Mac.”

But Mac doesn't have the energy to argue. He waves Jack off, slumping against the window again.

“You better be grateful.” True to form, Jack continues the argument alone. “Nobody else on this team would drive your sick ass through serial killer woods to get you cough drops. I want you to remember this when you're picking out my birthday present-”

BAM!

There's fire. The Jeep rolls. Glass shatters everywhere, metal bending and screeching.

And then, there's nothing at all.

---

The world is hazy when Mac opens his eyes. Frost coats the frozen earth and tinges the underbrush. Cold, dry air fills his lungs and a wheeze escapes them.

“Oh. So you are alive.”

“What-?”

Dirt, too dry to be mud, but only barely, presses into the side of his face and brushes his ear. He tries to lift his head, but the effort it takes only makes his face plant that much harder when his head drops again.

“It’s okay,” the voice says. “It’s just me.”

Mac can’t place the voice. It’s familiar. Chillingly familiar. It makes Mac’s stomach clench. But he can’t recall why.

“I’ll be honest,” the voice continues. “At first, I really thought I killed you. I mean, you weren’t moving, and head wounds just bleed so damn much. You know how it is.” Footsteps circle around Mac, light and even.

Even surface distribution, Mac notes. Large surface area. Men’s size 10, maybe 11. Wide foot. And the dissonance from the toe means it’s a stiff shoe. Either new or rarely used.

And then a pair of black dress shoes, far too shiny for a dirt trail in the middle of the woods, steps into view. Mac rolls onto his back, shoulders and leg and head aching from the movement, and finds himself staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle.

“Stay right there, MacGyver,” the voice coos, and Mac doesn’t need to look past the gun to know who’s holding it.

“Murdoc.”

“Oh, good. I didn’t shake your brain up too bad then. That bazooka can be a real doozy on the noggin.”

Bazooka?

“What did you-? Why are you-?”

“Ah, ah.” Murdoc tuts reproachfully. He squats down, slinging the rifle onto his pack and aiming a pistol at Mac’s forehead. “I know your mind is inquisitive to its own detriment, but you’ll need to have a bit of patience today.”

Mac groans, wincing against a killer headache. He can’t be sure if it’s from the car crash or his cold. Or maybe it’s both.

“You're a tough man to track down, MacGyver,” Murdoc says, standing again and planting his boot on Mac’s chest, gun still at the ready. “Fortunately for me, I have this nifty little program. Lets me know any time the Phoenix assigns a case to one Angus MacGyver. And since you were in the remote edges of Vermont and I was in the remote edges of Vermont, I figured I’d stop by. Say hello.”

For a moment, Mac drowns out Murdoc, trying to assess his situation.

In the middle of the woods. Trees. Maple, birch, spruce, pine. Northeast US, maybe still Vermont, though all bets are off with Murdoc.

On his back. Hands bound. Rope and duct tape. Feet are free.

Injuries. Head wound, concussion probable. Arms are okay. Pain and swelling in his left leg. Suspected femur fracture. Right leg is normal. And something about the abdomen. Something’s wrong…

Wait. Where’s-

Mac coughs, trying and failing to push Murdoc’s foot off. “Where's Jack?”

“Hm… Jack? I don't know if we've met.”

“You-” Mac coughs again, this time succeeding to push Murdoc away. He sits up slowly, head pounding. “You blew him up.”

“Ugh, Mac, you know you need to be more specific. I’ve blown up so many people that they've started to blend together.”

“He was in the car with me,” Mac growls. “Where is he?”

“I imagine he's still in the car.” Murdoc studies his nails, gun still trained on Mac.

Mac swallows hard. Jack must have survived. There's no alternative.

“Oh, don’t look so sad, MacGyver! Come on! I’ve got some fun things planned today, so why don’t you-” He jerks his head to the side. “Up, on your feet! There’s a good soldier.”

But Mac doesn’t stay on his feet for long, falling with his first step.

“I will admit,” Murdoc sighs, squatting down beside Mac again. “I wasn’t sure the bazooka was the best idea. Too many variables. But I also couldn’t not take the risk. I mean, I’ve been trying to kill you for years. When would I get a better opportunity?”

Mac groans. Pushes himself up on his hands.

“It does increase the risk of leg injuries, which makes moving you around a real pain in the ass. But there are ways.”

Well, if Mac’s heart wasn’t racing before, it definitely is now.

“This will be easier if you don’t fight me. Trust me; this is a mercy.”

And then the pistol cracks against Mac’s head, and everything goes dark.

---

“Så flådde han kråka og lema ho sund, hei fara og lema ho sund- oh.”

Mac frowns against a stabbing headache and a leg burning in agony. He’s not as cold as before, and the ground is drier. Wood.

“Forgive me,” Murdoc says airily. “I was workshopping lullabies. Still new to this parenting thing.” He sighs. “My mother used to sing me to sleep with that one: kråkevisa. It’s about a man who thinks a crow is out to kill him, so he kills the crow first. Then he makes shoes out of its skin and hangs the crow’s neck in the church. I suppose it’s her own fault that I tried to emulate the man. And there were no crows near my home, so I made do. Mother did make a lovely pair of shoes.”

This is far too much information. Mac can’t even process it. All he can do is look around, searching for threats.

“Where are we?” he murmurs.

“This is where I come to get away from it all,” Murdoc explains. “Cozy place, isn’t it?”

Mac sits up slowly, hands (still tied together, regretfully) immediately going to the dark red drenching his shirt. “Wh-?” He lifts the hem, finding a metal shard sticking out of his side. The wound was clotted, but sitting up tears it open again, bright red flowing over deep maroon.

Murdoc hums. “Car accident, I suspect. Not important, really. Just don't pull it out.” He shrugs. “Really, MacGyver, we have bigger fish to fry here.”

“Like what?” Mac grits out, holding pressure against the wound.

“You really have no sense of drama. But that’s okay. I like that about you.” He paces to a table. Mac can’t see what he’s doing. “So I’ll throw you a bone, just this once.

“You, my friend, have been an insufferable presence in my life since the day I was hired to kill you. I planned everything perfectly. I was stronger than you, more prepared than you, faster than you.” He picks up a tray and returns to Mac’s side, kneeling to look at Mac properly. “But you still managed to-” He sets the tray down with a sharp clatter. “-slip through my fingers.” His voice remains even, rhythm never faltering. “You were the one who got away. And ever since, I’ve been chasing you like a dog, trying to rectify that.”

Murdoc hums. Puts on a pair of white rubber gloves. “I think enough is enough, don’t you?”

Mac can’t stand up. Not with his leg swollen and (most likely) broken to hell. There’s no getting out of here. He sees two options:

He stalls long enough for someone to find him. But this requires someone to realize he’s missing. Even if Jack survived (and he must have survived, because Mac can’t live in a world without him), he’s probably just as lost as Mac is. Their best bet is that Riley or Bozer notice they’re missing. That will take a minimum of three hours, maybe four.

Or,

2. He incapacitates Murdoc and uses the items at his disposal to contact help.

It’s not a difficult choice.

“Remember, back in LA? When we had that little chat over nightshade and handcuffs?” He smiles, and it’s scarier than when he’s angry. “That was a good day.” And then his voice hardens to steel. “But you cut it short. I never got to pry Cassian’s location out of you.” He sighs. “I don't need his location anymore - obviously - but wouldn't it be a treat to have you give it up anyway? A nice dose of humiliation before I kill you.”

Mac glares up. He's not sure how effective it is when he's on the ground and bleeding. “So what? If I don't talk, I get to live?”

“Of course not,” Murdoc scoffs, screwing a needle to a syringe and stabbing a vial with it. “Living was never on the table. You either talk and die or get tortured for nothing and die. Your call.”

Mac shifts backwards. He can't help it. With Murdoc leering over him, needle glinting and malice-driven eyes gleaming, Mac’s every cell is screaming at him to get away. But in his state, moving just jars his leg, pain choking the breath from his lungs.

Murdoc is less than enthused. “You should leave the torturing to the expert.” And then he stabs Mac in the arm with the needle and depresses the plunger.

At first, Mac feels nothing at all. Just that absent but nagging concern about the mystery drug in his body. And then, things start to sink. The pain doesn’t go away - if anything, it’s worse - but his awareness is fluttery. Sounds are muffled at first and then ring for eons in his ears. The world is filtered with a blurry blue haze. Murdoc’s face comes in and out of focus.

“The belladonna clearly wasn’t enough last time. So I made my own… adjustments. But I’m sure you figured that out by now.”

Yeah. Mac definitely does not remember the sewers being like this.

“So I’ll ask nicely. Once. Where were you hiding my son?”

Mac coughs. Maybe it’s his cold. Maybe he’s about to vomit. He can’t decide. “I didn’t… I never knew… I didn’t even know he-”

Murdoc’s ring cuts Mac’s face as he backhands him. “Liar! You knew, and you kept it from me! You took a son away from his father, all under the guise of ‘protecting’ him.”

“No one… ever told me,” Mac swears.

And Murdoc nods once, expression stony. “You made me do this.”

Shiny. Cool steel. Brand new. Long and sharp and strong. Clamping. Pulling. Pressure. And then-

Mac can’t help it. He screams.

“Oh, come now, MacGyver,” Murdoc chides. “What’s one fingernail between friends? A ring fingernail, no less. Hardly important. Though the index nail is looking awfully tempting.”

“I…” His voice shakes so badly, he can barely speak. “I told you all I… all I know.”

“I doubt that.”

And then the middle and index nails are gone.

“Okay, so fingernails aren’t your kryptonite,” Murdoc says, barely sparing the writhing figure on the floor a second glance. “That’s fine. We can move on.” He hums, scanning his tray of tools, and then sighs. “I’m not feeling it. Nothing’s speaking to me. I’m going to have to get creative.”

Mac thinks, for only a moment, that perhaps this will be his reprieve. Maybe he’ll have a few seconds to breathe. But then there’s a sharp, twisting, cutting agony, ripping his insides to shreds.

“Funny thing about the human body: it will do anything to stop the bleeding. Even if there’s a foreign object in the wound, the body will still try its damnedest to heal around the sucker. So before you know it, that thing is basically melded into the skin. And even the slightest movement-” and here he twists the metal shrapnel viciously “-will tear the skin open all over again. Hurts so good, huh?”

Mac is leaning more towards “hurts” than “good,” but Murdoc doesn’t really want Mac’s opinion. He just wants to hear himself talk.

“So what do you say? Want to tell me now? I already have him, so it’s not like you’re hurting anyone. Barring yourself, of course.”

Mac doesn’t have the air to defend himself. But Murdoc interprets this as defiance. And in his own act of defiance, he rips the shrapnel from Mac’s side.

“Ooo, that must’ve hurt.”

But Mac can’t hear him over his own screams.

Murdoc drops the metal, returning to his tray. “How’s that leg feeling?”

Oh god. Not his leg. The leg that’s still throbbing, even under the agony of his side. Mac has a plan - thinks he has a plan - but if he wants it to work, he needs to act now.

Murdoc grabs a hammer and turns it in his hands. Then he shakes his head and grabs a meat mallet instead.

Mac has his hands on the shrapnel now, cutting away at the ropes. Murdoc doesn’t notice, though it’s only a matter of time before he does.

“So, tongue feeling looser yet?” Murdoc hasn’t looked up yet. He hasn’t looked up yet. He hasn’t-

“What are you doing?” Murdoc hisses, reaching out to snatch the metal away. But Mac is in pain and drugged and still has his stupid head cold, and his survival instincts are far past active. With a sudden burst of adrenaline-powered strength, Mac rips the last of the ropes and tape away and swipes out with the shrapnel. He catches Murdoc in the hand, but this only seems to make him angry.

Murdoc holds his injured hand to his chest and pulls out his pistol.

Mac doesn’t waste another moment, kicking out with his good leg and hitting Murdoc’s head. As he jerks to the side, Murdoc hits his head against the corner of the table and falls still. Later, Mac will look back with horror at how ridiculously lucky he was, but in the moment, Mac is just desperate to escape.

As gently as he can manage, Mac drags himself across the floor, grabbing Murdoc’s gun and pocketing the cartridge. Best to keep Murdoc away from loaded weapons.

Then, Mac grabs the rope hanging from the table (excess from the rope used to tie him up, no doubt), and secures Murdoc’s wrists and ankles. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a temporary fix until Mac can find something stronger.

After a moment to brace himself, Mac slowly, painfully slides himself around the room, trying to get a lay of the land. There are a multitude of torture weapons on the tray, of course, though few look like promising supplies. (Mac does grab the meat tenderizer though. Just in case Murdoc gets loose.) There’s an alarm clock on the table, which Mac manages to knock to the floor. There’s probably more up there, but Mac can’t see much past the table’s edge. Mac himself has a few paperclips and a stick of chewing gum. (Something about that feels cliche, though he has no idea why.)

The best find, however, is a drawer in the kitchenette. The moment Mac opens it, despite it being above his line of view, he instantly knows what it is: a junk drawer. Lord bless the person who invented junk drawers. They’ve saved Mac’s life on more than one occasion.

Feeling around, Mac procures a few tubes of used lip balm, more bullets, a pair of scissors, and a small coil of wire.

And Mac has all the makings of a quick and dirty spark-gap transmitter.

With shaky hands (and three fewer fingernails than usual), Mac removes the battery from the alarm clock. Then he connects it with the wire, leaving the rest of the coil to act as an electromagnet. Then he adds a paperclip across from a nail in the floorboards, forming a spark gap. Now Mac just needs a second battery.

Mac searches the junk drawer and the lower cabinets, coming across a forgotten smoke detector. It’s perfect. Just one problem though:

Mac can’t get the smoke detector open. He tugs and pries at the battery door, injured fingers curled into his palm. He uses the wires and the tenderizer and everything he can find, but nothing will open it. He hangs his head before trying to pry it open with his fingers again. He’s so close. He can’t lose now. One more battery  - just one thing to complete the circuit - and he’ll have his transmitter. He’ll be able to signal for help. He’ll get out of here alive.

There’s a crash. Mac jumps, sending shockwaves of pain up his leg and through his abdomen. There’s clattering around the room. Cursing and rustling. Yelling and breaking glass and gun safeties. And then, footsteps approach Mac. Someone is trying to talk to him.

“Get… get away…” he pants, refusing to look up. “Back off.”

“Whoa, hey,” the voice says, and it’s that awful Texan drawl that makes Mac’s spirit soar. “It’s just me, hoss. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Jack,” Mac breathes, allowing Jack to help him sit up. “I thought you were…”

“Yeah. Well. I’m not.” He jerks his head to the side. “No thanks to Jerkwad von Bazookaface over there.”

Murdoc is still bleary-eyed, surrounded by at least four SWAT officers.

“How did you…?” Mac looks at the nail on the floor, then back at Jack. “I didn’t finish the radio.”

“I don’t need a radio to find you.” It’s almost sweet, in a weirdly them type of way. “You left blood all over the place. Followed it like breadcrumbs to the witch’s candy house.”

Mac blinks. “You and I remember that fairytale very differently.”

“No, you just lack imagination.”

Mac sighs, sagging against Jack’s steady hand. “I am too high for this.”

Jack pats him reassuringly. “Definitely, buddy. Now, let’s get you outta here. There’s a bag of cough drops with your name on it on the plane.”

Mac doesn’t reply right away. He’s overwhelmed by a strange sense of… safety. “Hey, uh, Jack?”

“Hey, uh, what?”

“Thanks.”

Jack just smiles. “S’what brothers are for.”

[hurtthemgently]

Drugged whumpees being dragged down hallways by a pair of goons holding onto their arms

[mr-business-whump]

Day 21: Stalked

Sometimes, Hiccup felt like he was being watched.

He wasn't, he couldn't be.... but when he'd see a flash of light as he walked at night sometimes, when he saw a flash of red hair disappearing behind something every time he turned around, the way he'd get letters in his mailbox with no stamps, no address, just his name with all sorts of horrible, obsessive things said about him... it made him wonder what exactly was going on.

read it here!

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 4 @ailesswhumptober - prompt : non-consensual body modifications

Jane grapples with her identity as she faces non-consensual body modifications imposed by the Facility

CW: body dysmorphia, loss of identity, non-con drugging.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

Jane sat on the edge of the metal cot in the sterile white room, her fingers absentmindedly tracing her jawline. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, amplifying the hollow ache in her chest. She stared at her reflection in the polished glass across from her, confronted by a face she barely recognized as her own.

Every minor modification served a chilling purpose: a delicate chin, high cheekbones, eyes widened just enough to seem innocently alluring, all tools designed for seduction and manipulation.

She hated it.

They had decided it all for her - her body, her face - tools for them to mold, to perfect, to weaponise. They claimed it was necessary for her role as a honeytrap, an essential part of the "investment."

She was an asset, after all. A tool stripped of agency.

It had started when she was a teenager. It had seemed innocent enough back then, straightening the natural curls of her hair, forcing her into corsets every day, the punishments used to teach her how to walk, how to speak, how to act. Her diet was strictly regulated to preserve her figure, her hair and makeup meticulously crafted to align with their ideals of beauty. It had felt harmless, normal.

But then the surgeries stared.

Jane clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Each glance in a  mirror became a brutal reminder that she was a product, her beauty calculated and manufactured to meet their ruthless standards.

The girl who once looked back at her was gone, replaced by a stranger - a projection of someone else’s twisted vision of utility.

Slowly, she raised her hand to her face, tracing the unfamiliar lines of her cheekbones, her jaw, her lips. It was strange how foreign it all felt, as if she were wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit. She could feel the skin and bone beneath, but it didn't resonate with her identity. It felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the autonomy that had been stripped away.

Closing her eyes, she desperately tried to summon the memory of her original face. The one that belonged to her, not to the Facility. But the image was blurred and fading, obscured by the haze of surgeries that had changed her a little more each time.

What if this was all she would ever be? A polished doll in a world that valued her only for her looks? The thought was suffocating, a weight pressing down on her chest until it felt difficult to breathe. She had trained for deception and manipulation, but there was a profound difference between behaving as a weapon and physically becoming one. Being reduced to nothing but a piece of meat, an allure, a temptation. Did anyone even see her skills, her training? Or was this all she was now—a pretty puppet, dancing on strings that someone else controlled?

What would they change this time?

She had stopped asking years ago. Her knowing wasn’t going to change the inevitable.

A shudder ran through her as a haunting thought settled deep in her chest: they hadn’t touched her eyes yet. But the dread gnawed at her, relentless. *What if they did?* What if the last piece of her—the only thing she still recognized in the mirror—was stripped away like everything else?

She opened her eyes, staring back at the stranger in the glass. The face that had been carved and molded so meticulously had been designed to charm and disarm, a mask of superficial beauty that obscured the turmoil raging within. She felt like an intruder in her own skin, a ghost haunting a body that had never truly belonged to her.

The door opened with a clang, allowing several faceless figures to enter. Facility staff. Jane’s heart raced, a familiar knot tightening in her stomach. She knew what their presence meant - another evaluation, another round of modifications.

“Asset 43,” one of them called, a voice devoid of warmth, echoing off the cold walls as they looked at the TaskSlate in their hands, "Your previous modifications have proven effective. However, we believe that your effectiveness can be enhanced further."

She forced herself to remain still, biting her lip to suppress the flood of panic as the figures circles her like vultures. She couldn’t make out all their the words, as they murmured, debated, discussed her like a living doll. She inhaled sharply, fighting back the urge to scream, to lash out, to remind them she was more than just a collection of features designed for seduction.

She understood the reality.

She was merely a specimen under a microscope to them. Not a human. Not even an asset.

A mere object for them to mold.

“No,” she managed, her voice stronger than she felt. “You can’t. I refuse.” It was a futile protest, she knew, but it was all she had left—her voice, her defiance, however small it might be.

The figures exchanged glances, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of surprise. “Refusal is not an option, Asset 43,” the tall figure replied, his tone devoid of emotion, "You belong to the facility."

Jane's heart raced as she processed their words, the meaning of the tall figure’s voice echoing like a death knell. The sterile room seemed to constrict around her, the air thickening with dread. She was trapped in a body that felt foreign, being evaluated and dissected by people who saw her as nothing more than a tool for their twisted agenda.

“No,” she repeated, more quietly this time. Fighting was futile, she knew this really. Fighting would only lead to punishment, 'correction', and inevitably the modifications would occur regardless. She wasn't a person, she was an asset, a honeytrap, her appearance was her role.

“We don’t need your consent,” another figure stated, their voice as sterile as the room. “We cannot have you functioning at less than optimal capacity.”

A sick feeling curled in her stomach, twisting tighter with each word. Adapting. What did that even mean for her? Another round of surgeries? Another version of herself? With every procedure, they chipped away at her individuality, and she feared the day would come when even her memories would be gone, replaced by the sterile echoes of their expectations.

“Please,” she whispered, desperation leaking into her voice. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to change anymore.”

“Your desires are irrelevant,” the tall figure replied coldly. “Prepare her for the procedure,” they commanded, turning away from her and addressing the other staff members.

Before she could protest further, Jane felt strong hands on her shoulders, puller her further onto the cot as a mask was roughly pushed over her face, the faint metallic sent of aesthetic invading her senses. Her breaths quickened as the faceless figured began to blur. She struggled against the firm grip on her shoulders, but the staff's hold was unyielding, practiced. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat echoing the realization that there was no escape.

"Hold her still."

The hands tightened on her shoulders, Jane’s mind raced. She had to hold on to something—anything - that remained of the girl she once was. Panic surged within her, but it felt distant now, blurred, fading, dissolving as quickly as the world around her.

“Just let go,” another voice whispered, a soothing tone that felt wrong, “This is for your own good.”

For her own good? The phrase echoed mockingly in her mind.

As the darkness swallowed her whole, Jane’s mind screamed in protest.

Please, not again.

[scratchandplaster]

Aftermath of Drugging

CW: discussions of non-con drugging, spiking food, medical whump, overdosing, drug abuse, addiction, death, brief BBU-mention

Using drugs as a whump method is pretty common, and rightly so! As one of my favorite tropes, it was interesting to think about how they could affect the Whumpee after the act itself, be it physical or mental.

That's why I made a little compilation (for me and you), if you feel like agonizing your Whumpee even further. There are also some examples in between, for your entertainment!

The research is mostly relating to any downers, meaning any drug that makes you calm or fall asleep, so anesthetics, hypnotics or sedatives. Examples include ketamine, Rohypnol, GBL, propofol and heroin.

Uppers on the other hand have the opposite effect in stimulating the human nervous system. Some of the effects that are noted below are applicable to both kinds of drugs, but keep in mind that stimulants are more of an afterthought in this list. I'm going to recap the effects of both at the end.

I'm not a pharmacist by any means, but as far as reliable research for creative writing goes, this should suffice. No one is going to fact-check your whump fic, bestie 🤍

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

By method:

Ingestion (forcing them to take pills, spiking their food)

→ General indigestion, nausea, dry mouth

Injections via syringe or continuous administration through an IV drip (e.g. in medical settings)

-> Swelling/tenderness/infection/bruising of the injection side

-> High fever (even days after the injection)

→ Anaphylaxis: skin rash, chest tightness, dizziness, nausea, facial swelling

Anaphylaxis is an all-body allergic reaction that can cause mild to severe and even deadly symptoms (shock or coma). It can escalate and should be immediately treated with a shot of adrenaline. This kind of reaction could be detrimental to Whumper's plans, especially if they intend to keep Whumpee alive for the foreseeable future. So it would be helpful for them to always carry an EpiPen, just in case...

Inhalation (gas or liquid)

→ High risk of choking and (sleep) apnea

-> Irritation of throat, nose and eyes

-> Throat spasms (Laryngospasm)

Includes coughing, difficulty breathing/speaking and the feeling of suffocation. Even though this kind of spasm fades away pretty quickly, they cause severe stress and panic to the aggrieved party, even leading up to lose consciousness again.

Physical side effects:

-> Drowsiness/tiredness, headaches/migraines, tinnitus

-> Dry mouth/throat or excessive drooling

-> Dilated pupils (causing Whumpee to be light-sensitive)

-> Slurred speech

-> Skin rash, itching, hives

-> decreased/increased appetite (give them a little snack...or not)

Motor skills:

-> Muscle relaxation, ataxia (lack of movement control), general weakness

-> Poor coordination

-> Tremors, cramps, spasms

-> Numbness, paralysis of the body or extremities (a local anesthetic would also do that trick)

Vegetative effects:

-> PONV: nausea, vomiting, retching

-> Cold shivers or hot flashes, acute sweating

-> Arrhythmia, low blood pressure and heart rate

-> Labored breathing

-> Vertigo

The physical consequences alone can make the wake-up process a living nightmare for Whumpee. Any after-effects that inhibit them from just getting up and escape are probably the worst in such a situation, making them weak and useless even if no restraints are involved. Imagine Whumpee just breathing heavily and quivering with cold shivers on a basement floor, unable to shake this uncomfortable feeling off. Their whole system is just trying to get the drugs out, but doing more damage than intended. Numb to the world around them, not even feeling if they are hurt or wounded. Or imagine the complete opposite: Them being able to get up and stumble to the exit, only to be overwhelmed by intense dizziness and collapsing back onto their knees. All the while Whumper watches, of course 👀

Did Whumpee eat beforehand?

Prior to any anesthesia, the person has to fast for at least six hours beforehand. Because Whumpees rarely plan their own kidnapping or non-con high, Whumper should wait for the right moment to get it done. Otherwise, they're risking aspiration or choking and therefore dangerous lung damage up to death; surely the most undesired outcome. Who would have thought that drug abuse can be dangerous...

Impure compounds? In my illegal drugs!?!

If your Whumper's stash really was cut with popular diluents e.g. other medication or lactose, the risks are surprisingly low. The threat of overdosing still comes from the main drug agent. However, mixing downers and uppers to cancel each other out can lead to a dangerous cycle, which amplifies the side effects and increases the risk to OD.

Mental side effects:

-> Nightmares, paranoia around food/drinks

-> Depression, anxiety, self-loathing (e.g. for not being careful enough)

-> Psychosis, hallucinations (optic, acoustic, in terms of taste etc.)

-> Dissociation, confusion, disorientation

-> Insomnia

-> Reduced anxiety or inhibitions

Now instead of being afraid, Whumpee could go batshit crazy and make fun of Whumper; spitting, biting and insulting their aggressor. An outburst they will probably regret later, when they're calm again and sober enough to understand the damage they have caused themself.

-> Memory loss/amnesia

Cue intimate Whumper, who just plays the part of a worried friend while keeping their love safe and controlled. Vague recollections of past abuse? No, just take another sip from your tea, it's alright... One could use drugs as a mean of removing memories altogether, I think in the BBU the "drip" is used to erase the whole personality of the Whumpee, making them a blank slate to train however one would like.

Withdrawal:

-> minutes or even days after the initial drugging

-> extreme anxiety up to paranoia

-> nausea, vomiting, indigestion

-> muscle aches

-> flu symptoms like a runny nose, sweating and fever

Depending on the kind of drug and how often it is used, withdrawal can start after just one dosage. "Not even once"-drugs include meth, heroin and crack cocaine. Also, barbiturates have a high risk of dependence. Speaking of it...⬇

Addiction as a long term effect:

-> Organ damage especially of the brain, liver, kidneys and the diseases that follow (including cancer, short weight, heart failure)

-> Loss of interests, behavior/personality change

-> Selling all valuables and ending up in poverty

-> Aggression/violent behavior

-> Shame and guilt

Isolated, financially and mentally unstable, Whumpee's life had been ruined with just a single act. Even Caretaker turned their back on their former friend. But Whumper would love to help Whumpee become sober again, under just a few conditions. On the other side of the spectrum: a Whumpee who finally managed to escape and take revenge on their abuser, they slowly but surely make Whumper ruin themself through their newly developed little habit...

To sum up:

Downers (decrease bodily functions and calm you down)

→ Unconsciousness, weakness, distortion of perception, failure of motor functions, coma

-> Common examples: Xanax, ketamine, propofol

Vs.

Uppers (stimulate bodily functions and mood)

-> reduced inhibitions, more prone to hallucinations, psychosis, seizures, serotonin syndrome (high heart rate, sweating, twitching, mania)

-> Common examples: meth, ecstasy, cocaine

Bonus: How to store your Whumpee!

The immediate consequence of drugging someone is to figure out how to keep them. Get them secluded and ready for whumping:

-> In the backseat, foot space or trunk of a car (use an ambulance, it's inconspicuous)

-> You know these roof boxes people strap on top of their car? Stuff ´em in there!

-> Put them in a box and ship them overseas

-> Basements are classics, but try the attic for a change

-> Just use a coffin, combined with an old hearse nobody is going to notice

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[auroragehenna]

I'm excited for your OC's Bingo Soup!!!!

Here's my ask : Drugged and ofc with Lyra and Adam

Happy Writing!!!

OC soup Bingo

Calculations

TW/CW: Non-con drugging, threats, non-con touch, maybe a tad tiny bit suggestive language but its SFW, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, non-con kiss Word count: 1'259

Adam clasped the tiny test tube filled with the yellowish powder. It had been a hassle to get it but it would be worth it. He mixed all of it into a tiny water flask and shook it. He would make damn sure of that…

…

„Oh absolutely not!“, Lyra said when she saw Adam approach her with a sadistic grin painted on his face and his hands behind his back.

„Funny how you act like you have a choice in the matter.“, he replies coldly.

Lyra gulps, a hard look in her eyes. „Well at least I’m not gonna let you win without sacrifices.“

Adam scoffs. „See this is exactly the problem.“ Then he suddenly lunges at her. He grapples her to the ground but struggles to restrain her completely. Then he has an idea. He sneaks his hand over her head and manages to cover her eyes and nose. Now shredded in darkness Lyra's trashing slows down a bit.

"What are you doing?", she asks nervously.

"Oh, don't break your little head about it just open up."

Lyra's mouth snapped close.

Adam sighed theatrically, strengehing his graps on her nose. "See where that get's you."

Lyra’s fought to throw him off but without sucsess. And her movements were becoming more and more frantic.

“You think you can fight me but you can’t.”

Lyra’s eyes widened as the need for oxygen got worse and worse.

“So just admit it to yourself.”

Lyra gasped and Adam instantly shoved the flask into her mouth. She coughed but in her desperate gasping for oxygen couldn’t prevent the weird tasting water from going down her throat. Adam still not letting go of her face turned her head around and kissed her. Stealing her only source of oxygen again. Eventually he let go of her and allowed her to sprawl out on the floor.

Adam laughed as she pushed herself away from him fear and disgust. He didn’t say anything only checked his watch.

Lyra breathed heavily. “What did you do to me? What was in there?”

“Just a little funny drug. I think I used way more than what I was instructed to use but ah well. I’m sure you don’t mind, right?”, he grinned.

Lyra opened her mouth but the look on Adam’s face made her close it again.

“Good girl.”, Adam commented smugly.

Lyra grit her teeth in anger and tried to stand up instinctively. But her knees buckled underneath her weight and she fell over again.

Adam walked up to her with slow, deliberate steps. “Now, now. What was that supposed to be?”

“I just wanted to give you a much needed punch in the face!”

“Hmm. No that wasn’t it. Try again.”

“What?”

“Try. Again.”

“I tried to stand up?”

“Yes. And why would you do that?

“Because you were getting on my nerves and being a bastard?!”

“Hmm. And do you see what’s wrong with that behaviour?"

“Your unbelviably fragile ego can’t handle it?”

Adam was now standing right in front of Lyra. He grabbed her jaw with a grip he was sure would bruise and tilted her head up so she would look at him.

“This. Do you see this right here? This is how the power dynamic is.”, he was speaking ever so calmly now, “Over all my little games I allowed you to play and all my generiosity it seems that you forgot who actually has the power here.”

Lyra struggles now to keep her body upright and Adam seems to notice it. Suddenly he let’s go of her jaw and her body betrays her by simply dropping to the floor. She can hear him laugh over her.

“Oh that’s just beautifully pathetic. Here let me help you.”, he adds and crouches down. He grabs her gently by the arms and turns her around so she now lays on her back, looking up at him as he stands up again.

“Now…This is much better…”, he purred.

Lyra can only move her eyes by now, everything else won’t obey her commands.

“What do you think of this change, Thyma?”

She tries to open her mouth-to talk-to give a snarky remark but her tongue felt like it had turned to lead.

“Oh right.”, Adam laughs, “You’re too weak to talk right now.”

“You wanna know what I think about this change?” He sat down again next to the lying Lyra and gently moved a few stray strands of hair out of Lyra‘s face. Seemingly deep in thought. „I think it’s quite charming. You’re so helpless like this. Vulnerable for me to do whatever I want.”, he mused and caressed a nail over the length of her arm.

Lyra would have shivered if she could have.

“But I don’t really need this to make you feel this way, do I? So…Defeated. You’re quite strong minded I will not lie about that. But…If you know where to apply pressure…” He sneaked his hand under her limp body and pressed into the curve of her spine earning him a sharp breath from his plaything. He locked eyes with her. “You crumble like a sand castle. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. As much as you try you can’t eradicate them, can you? Why else would you still be so scared from the same things as four-five years ago?” Adam went back to caressing his nails over every exposed inch of Lyra’s skin. “Why else do you flinch at my touch even if you tell yourself not to? And why do none of your attempts to escape my clutches sucseed? Whatever you do…Whatever you try…You will always end up in the same position as before. At my mercy. Trembling like a deer in headlights but trying to act stoic. And you’re already breaking, can’t you tell?”

Lyra shot him an outraged look, the fear momentarily dissapearing from her eyes.

“No?” Adam chuckled softly. “Poor, sweet, dumb Lyra. Why else did you so eagerly give up names and intel when I caught you again? Only to spare yourself a bit of pain.” He gently cupped her cheek. “I didn’t even torture you that time.”

Lyra felt tears of shame fill her eyes but she mustered up every bit of energy she had to hold them back. He would not see her cry. He couldn’t also take that from her. She wished he would stop touching her, every touch seemed to burn her skin and the nails felt no different than knifes.

Adam saw how her eyes practically pleaded with him to understand that that was not how it was. And a sadistic grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You from a few years ago would never have done that...I mean, I expected some changes after your short vacation but…You surprised even my with that. By obeying so…easily. So you see, you understood it before, so I’m sure you can do it again. Right?” He brushed his thumb over her lips before removing his hands and standing up. “You’re lucky that I am… mericful no he’s not patient. For now. But understand that in here I am what counts. I am your government. Your religion. Your…rules. And you will obey or I will stop playing games and get serious with you. Do we understand each other?”

Lyra couldn’t speak.

“Come on, you have other ways of showing me you understood your place.”

They were both just staring at each other, holding stubborn eye contact until Lyra broke it and lowerded her gaze below Adams eyes.

“Good bunny.”

Taglist: @yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud, @bisexuawolfsalt, @imnotamurdereripromise

[whump-a-la-mode]

Caretaker mixes pills into Whumpee's food. They feel horrible, but Whumpee won't take pills any other way, not after what Whumper did to them...

[songbird-in-hell]

Casually, I pull a syringe out of my pocket and inject you with it, then pick you up and start heading to my front door.

It’s a sedative. I hold you tightly while I wait for it to kick in. “Sounds like this’ll be the best for both of us, then! Your life is dates abandoning you and you having no one to call who you actually trust. It’ll be much better for you to be my toy, my pet. We’ll have so much fun!”

-🐚

My eyes widen at the pinprick and I take steps back, but you manage to grab me anyway. I shout and struggle the whole way, until the drug starts to take me.

“What the fuck! Are you some kind of sick freak? What was that? Let me go you creep!”

My tail flicks wildly, wrapping around your arm as I push and struggle. I’m fading though. I snarl, my teeth bared, but I’m getting weak.

“I’m not… some toy. I’m not a pet… you’ll fucking regret this…”

The drug takes me, and my expression softens, my tail going limp.

[whumpcateyes]

The Grave Robbers

Chapter 1: A Nice Little Funeral Afterparty!

(masterpost)

warnings: buried alive, grave robbing, attempted murder, non-con drugging, hallucination

In which Charlotte and Maude are a bit early for their normal work, and discover something they kinda wish they didn't

----------------------------------------

It was rotten work. Quite literally rotten, considering the materials Charlotte Kirk and her colleague, Maude Weaver, generally worked with. The wealthy dead wouldn’t miss their fancy jewels and a good haul would keep the pair in their shabby flat for a few months. Charlotte didn’t particularly enjoy groping corpses to find rings and other valuables, but her buyers paid well and something about getting away with grave robbing was rather satisfying.

Tonight, she was snapping the lock off the gate into the Burnsworth Family Private Cemetery, which, not only was on the Manor grounds themselves, but was neatly placed at the top of a tall hill with only two real ways up, the steep path from the house, and the even steeper way up from the woods surrounding the property. Charlotte was going to host a nice little funeral after party for the late Atticus Burnsworth, youngest heir to the Burnsworth’s vast fortune. Charlotte felt no sympathy for The Burnsworth’s loss. They were snobbish, private, assholes, who cared more about boosting their image than actually doing good in the city they claimed to support. Charlotte had actually done work for them in the past, when the patriarch of the family wanted her to find a horrifically garish necklace that he claimed to have been stolen from their vault. Of course, it was all anonymous. Charlotte would be completely fucked if her clients could report her to the police after the job and get their money back. She held no loyalty to previous clients, if you could pay for someone to steal from graves, then you probably deserved to be stolen from, yourself. That’s how Charlotte rationalized the ethics of her jobs, she just tried not to think about her un-contracted work, it was easier that way.

Charlotte didn’t know much about her current mark, only that a fresh body would be well embalmed, and well dressed. Atticus’s funeral had been only yesterday, so the items he had been buried with would be blissfully free of the corpse smell that followed Charlotte around like a curse. She walked almost casually up to the most recent tombstone, dragging her little cart of tools, she had no fear of being caught thanks to the small fire The Burnsworth’s would be discovering on the drive up to the manor(courtesy of Maude) right about now. It shouldn’t be anything too dangerous, about the size of a campfire, and because the ground was frosty and wet, it wouldn’t be able to spread. 

A small smile crossed her lips as distant shouting from the manor drifted over the grounds. Hopefully Maude would get out unscathed and manage to make it to the cemetery unfollowed. Even if she did get caught, which had never happened in the three years the two had been partners in crime, arresting an arsonist caught in the house would probably throw the family off actual the crime. Charlotte knelt down in front of the grave and lit her small hooded lantern, which casted a flickering light across the engraved words of the stone, “Atticus Burnsworth, Beloved son, taken far too soon, [year-year]”.  It was a little sad, Atticus was barely 20 years old, one year younger than Charlotte, which was an unfriendly reminder about how easily one’s life can be cut short, especially in her line of business. 

Charlotte turned the lantern back off, no sense wasting precious oil on the first part, the moonlight would be enough to dig a big hole in the ground. She stood and lifted her “trusty” shovel out of the cart, it was old, it was rusty, and it spent as much time broken as it did being used. But it was, for all intents and purposes, still usable, so Charlotte had resolved to keep using it until the time it took to repair outweighed the cost of just getting a new one. Charlotte made her first jab at the ground, then stomped on the back of the shovel, pushing it to the base with a satisfying ‘Scraaaaaape’ and ‘Thud’. She tilted her foot backwards and pulled, taking a neat shovelful of dirt and plopping it behind her. “One.” She thought. It was a bit of a game she played to pass the time, counting the number of shovelfuls of earth it took to uncover the casket beneath. 

It took time, too long for Charlotte’s comfort, considering her distraction came and went while she only got about halfway down, and Maude was nowhere to be seen. She could only hope that trying to discover the source of the fire occupied everyone long enough that they wouldn’t look her way, or that they’d all go to sleep before she was done. She could feel her hands blistering against the rough metal of her shovel, and the way the handle wobbled with each stab wasn’t helping her progress. But the dirt was still fairly soft and light from being recently dug, so it wasn’t the most exerting dig she had experienced(that honor went to the time an entire burial site was discovered to be mostly clay underneath, but her client had still wanted their great grandmother’s wedding ring). Despite the cool night air, Charlotte was sweating through her coat, and eventually took it off and tossed it into the cart.

Shortly after, however, Charlotte’s coat came flapping back into the hole, getting caught around her head and causing her to blindly scramble around with a panicked squak to get away from whoever had thrown it at her. After a moment of hopelessly scraping at the sides of the grave, she threw off the coat once more and turned to see her attacker. Maude sat, relaxed, on the edge of the cart. And even in the dark, Charlotte could tell she was smirking. Charlotte opened her mouth to give an indignant speech about scaring her, but Maude beat her to the punch, holding a finger to her lips and quietly saying in her usual sarcastic monotone “shhh, no time for that now, Charlie.” Charlotte stared back with a comically offended glare and a quiet “Hmph!” as she returned to her digging. They had a system, Maude would create a distraction if one was needed, then if it was safe to, she would loop back around and stand watch for Charlotte while she dug. They tried not to talk unless absolutely necessary, to keep noise levels low, and keep Charlotte focused on the dig. Sometimes Charlotte wished that they could trade roles, let her keep watch while Maude dug, but she liked the hard work and Maude had great eyes, which was good for seeing any movement in the dark.

It grew later and later, she knew they had gotten to the manor grounds at around 9pm, it was too hard to read her pocket watch, but Charlotte guessed it was approaching 2 am when she heard the telltale Clank of metal hitting fancy wood. She was so startled by the noise, that she almost lost count. Charlotte pulled a pen out of her pocket and wrote “one-hundred and eight” on her arm to put down in her ever growing journal when she got back home. Or, at least she hoped she had written “108”, with the lack of lighting and the way her hands shook from exhaustion, it was hard to tell what the ink actually looked like. She held the shovel up, and Maude took it, then handed her the lantern, her crowbar, a pair of gloves, and a small metal stake from the cart. She pushed the stake into the wall of the grave, then hung and lit the hooded lantern. The dim light seemed almost too bright for Charlotte’s eyes when compared to the previous darkness. She put the crowbar aside and slipped on the gloves, then brushed the remaining earth off the top of the casket. Charlotte dug her heels into the grave walls and straddled above the casket. She bent at the waist and grabbed her crowbar, then leveraged it against the opening of the casket and pulled. The wood creaked and Charlotte’s boots dug deeper into the walls as she pulled and pulled and pulled until-

CRACK!

The lid lurched open and caught the back of Charlotte’s knee, buckling it and sending her crashing face first into the open box. She failed to stifle a surprised “GAHPmph!!” as she faceplanted into Atticus’s chest, then spent a few embarrassing moments scrambling like scared raccoon to pull her face off the corpse and get her leg unstuck from behind the casket lid. As soon as her leg was free Charlotte clambered to the back of the hole and instinctively curled into somewhat of a ball until the alarm bells and the “OH MY GOD I’M ON A CORPSE OH SHIT OH FUCK ITS A DEAD BODY RIGHT THERE AAAAAAAAGH!!!!!!”  thoughts faded. When she stopped tunnel-visioning, Charlotte saw that Maude was leaning over the hole with a hand over her mouth, visibly stifling giggles. She once again stared daggers at her friend until her nerves sufficiently settled from the shock and caught her breath. Maude gave Charlotte a look, and waited until she gave a shaky thumbs up before returning to keeping watch.

Charlotte relaxed and crawled forward, with one knee and one hand on each side of the box to stay above the corpse. Atticus Burnsworth lay below her, his arms crossed over his chest. Charlotte studied the man in the dim lantern light, he had short curly brown hair, which was brushed forward to make it look poofier and had a spattering of freckles across his face. He wore a black tailcoat, dark blue waistcoat, with a lighter, almost pastel shade of blue for his straight cut pants and ascot. [anything else about his outfit]. Like most corpses, Atticus had a peaceful look to him, that sort of slacked, sleeping expression where in the low light you could almost see the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, but strangely, he looked battered, deep purple bruises on his eye and a busted lip were poorly hidden with makeup. Glancing further down, Charlotte could see more bruising near his neckline. She lifted up his head, and felt his hair which was matted in the back, brownish-red stains on the casket lining told her it was dried blood. She placed his head back down, wondering if that’s what had killed him, “but why? And if it was a murder, why was it never reported?”. Setting her curiosity aside, Charlotte reached a gloved hand down and picked up Atticus’s wrist, examining his silver cufflinks; they were beautiful. His hands were similarly bruised to the rest of his body, Charlotte tried to put her growing suspicions to the back of her mind. The outfit as a whole would fetch them an excellent price at her favorite pawnshop, possibly even enough to cover rent for the rest of the year along with new equipment that she wouldn’t have to fix every week. 

Charlotte gently pulled the body higher in the casket, then bent his knees so that she could kneel down in the casket opposite from him. She then gently removed his shoes and socks, carefully handing each piece up to Maude, who would put them in a bag for safe keeping. They’d wash what they needed to if anything got dirty, but Charlotte would rather risk as little damage to the items as was possible. She leaned over Atticus once more and spoke quietly “Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Burnsworth.” as she placed her hands on his waist and followed his belt to the front, the buckle was a matching silver to the cufflinks, engraved with lovely patterns to give it a little more depth. Charlotte unbuckled the belt, then moved to unbutton his trousers. Stealing the clothes off a corpse’s back was uncomfortable enough, but Atticus wasn’t rotting yet, he looked more asleep, rather than dead, which made Charlotte feel particularly gross. They were going to leave his undergarments, so he wouldn’t be fully naked, but something about this robbery felt more intrusive and intimate than she was used to. With a grimace, she gently slid Atticus’s pants down, then took each foot out and handed the pieces up to Maude once more. Continuing its worrying pattern, she spotted more bruises and scrapes on his ankles, a few small bloodstains dotted his drawers, going all the way up to his thighs. “What happened to you?” she whispered, hoping that the corpse would not, in fact, respond. Charlotte tried not to look at the corpse’s face as she tilted him forward and removed his black tailcoat, then unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat and ascot. Finally, she fumbled with the buttons on his baggy, white shirt and gently removed it leaving the man in just his undergarments, his undershirt was similarly stained to his drawers. Charlotte somewhat neatly folded the clothes, then wrapped them in the coat, and handed the final bundle up to Maude. 

Charlotte didn’t stop to admire her handiwork, instead, she handed the rest of her tools up, then climbed out of the hole herself. She tried to brush some dirt off of her 2-sizes-too-large coveralls, but it didn’t do much. Charlotte then silently helped Maude organize everything back into the cart, picked up her shovel and crouched back over the grave to close the lid of Atticus’s casket. It made a clack as she dropped the lid, a little too loud for comfort. Charlotte was just standing up to start filling back in the grave when a sound made her freeze. It was incredibly quiet, a shift of fabric and an almost indiscernible creak of wood. She glanced at Maude, who had frozen too. Neither of them moved, but they looked around the graveyard for witnesses, as if they didn’t know exactly where the noise had come from. Maude took a knife from her boot, then made some sort of hand gesture at Charlotte, when Charlotte didn’t react she followed it up with a whispered “you, check.” 

Charlotte did not want to check. Charlotte wanted to pretend that they had heard nothing and leave. She wanted to sell off the clothes and forget that they had come. In one short moment, she had gone from business as usual, to absolutely terrified. Even so, her curiosity was more powerful and she leaned back over the hole, shut her eyes and with a trembling hand, she slowly lifted the lid. She swallowed down her dread and opened her eyes. 

--

Atticus was not in his bed.

He found he couldn’t move, his body wouldn’t respond to his desperate attempts to open his eyes, all he could do was stay limp as a pair of hands moved up and down his body, removing his clothes and letting a cold breeze drift across him. He was trapped in his own limp corpse, he couldn’t breathe, and his head ached trying to process the textures and shapes around him. He was terrified, pieces were missing from his mind, the voids they left were white spots that drifted across the inside of his eyelids. It was like the stars were close enough to touch, and the only thing stopping him were the thick iron chains that held him to the hard ground. The hands moved away, and the presence receded, their body heat replaced with frigid air. A clack!  Made him reflexively jolt, and his eyes flew open. He tried to gasp, but couldn’t produce more than a pitiful twitch. 

It was more than simply dark in this tight void. It was like there was simply nothing to see, an unnerving bout of claustrophobia made him shiver. He could feel a hard surface on his sides and back, it felt like he thought a coffin would. But it couldn’t be a coffin, he wasn’t dead. He was-

There was a pair of eyes staring down at him. Every part of Atticus went stiff, his newly returned breath hitched in his throat. Starlight silhouetted the figure, but he could still make out his observer’s shock. He opened his mouth, trying to get any information about what was going on, his jaw trembled and he could feel tears welling in the corner of his eyes. With tremendous effort, he managed to squeak out a pitiful “hhh…e p-” That small motion was more than enough to send waves of exhaustion throughout his body, his vision started to swim, his observer doubled and the ringing that started in his ears silenced everything else around him. Atticus heard something through the din, but it sounded distant and garbled as if he was underwater. He tried to make another sound, to tell the now four observers to call for a doctor, or maybe to plead for his life, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t make out what came out of his mouth, he barely felt the vibration in his adams apple. 

The observers were moving now, two dancers, two mirrors to mimic them. Performing some sort of interpretive dance above, their arms were leafless branches in the wind. The ringing hurt his ears, he thought it was a strange choice of music for the admittedly abstract performance he seemed to be witnessing. He wished they would help him. He imagined reaching out a hand for them. He felt tears slide down his temples from his eyes, was this hell? Purgatory? He didn’t know what he had done to upset The Lord, but pleaded for His mercy anyway. 

“Good Lord, please spare me this torment, I will do whatever you wish, I will be your greatest servant. Just please, grant me your unending mercy.” That’s what Atticus tried to say anyway, he didn’t know how it would be heard by his strange torturers or whatever higher power cared to listen. “Please. Please. Please. Please. Plea-’

--

“Oh God, Charlie… He- He’s still Alive….” Maude placed a horrified hand over her mouth, a visceral nausea building in her throat. Charlie probably had a similar expression to her own, disgust, confusion, and pity for the poor man. Then she shook her head and turned away from the horrorshow beneath them, “Come on Maude, we have to leave.”

Maude stared at her friend with shock, “Charlie- We can’t! We can’t just leave him here, he’ll die!!” she blanched. Charlie turned again and gestured at the grave, “What the hell  are we supposed to do with him? Take him home? He’ll die there too and we don’t have the money for medicine or even another mouth to feed!”

“We can take him to the doctor, or- or-- I don’t know but he’s still Alive!! “ 

“Not for long he’s not! There’s nothing we can do for him. And we need to leave before--” Charlie’s rationalizing was cut short by Atticus’s second attempt at speech, still not words, but more of a garbled “hurglurgle………” Maude thought it sounded like a frog bleeding to death, then tried to shake the very sad image out of her head. Charlie poked her head back over the grave, and Maude pleaded “Please, Charlie, his eyes are open, we could save him…” Charlie groaned and started to pace back and forth between the cart and the grave, holding the sides of her head. “We can’t save him. There’s nothing we can do and besides, we need to get out of here. His one life that should already be gone is not worth risking both of ours.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than Maude. Maude looked back down at Atticus, he was crying now, and his jaw twitched slightly open and closed, like he was still trying to speak. She thought he could see her though, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, but she could swear he was trying to make eye contact. “He’s looking at us.” She thought, an idea forming to convince Charlie he was worth saving “He can see us. He might be able to identify us…” 

She waited a few more seconds, letting Charlie pace and argue with herself, then, when there was a moment of pause, Maude took her chance and spoke bluntly “He’s a witness.”

“What?” Charlie stopped mid-step and looked at Maude, she took the chance to continue her argument, “He can see us, if we leave him, and by some miracle he survives, he might be able to identify and report us to the cops. He witnessed the crime, Charlie. If we leave him, there’s a chance he’ll get us caught, and if he thinks somehow we’re responsible for all these injuries? We could be hanged for this.”

Charlie scoffed, “There is no way in Hell  he’ll be able to tell someone what happened, he’s barely conscious and I’d bet you that he won’t see the sunrise!” as if he was cued, Atticus spoke a third time, and this time Maude could actually make out a few words “lord… please…. m-m- mercy….” Something about his tone made a lump form in Maude’s throat, there was no way this was accidental, someone had tried to kill him, and they would succeed if Maude didn’t do anything about it. “Charlie… Please…” Maude reached down and picked up Atticus’s arm, pulling him enough to grab the underside of his shoulders. He was a little too heavy for her, but with a lot of grunting she got the top half of his body above the grave.

“What in God’s name are you doing??” Charlie sounded baffled.

“I’m! H- Helping! Him!” Maude punctuated each word with a yank on Atticus, who made a sort of pathetic pained yelp as Maude pulled the last of his weight over the lip of the hole.

“Maude this is ridiculous, put him down, let's just leave. There’s nothing we can do for him.” Maude continued to drag Atticus towards the cart, though he wasn’t really helping her progress.

“Put him down!” Charlie repeated, stepping to Maude and her cargo and pulling Atticus’s arm to make her drop him. “No!” Maude continued to struggle, joining the high stakes game of tug-of-war. 

They continued to bicker as they pulled until Maude could see lamp lights and shouting moving up the hill, across the grounds towards the cemetery. Charlie froze, and Maude yanked Atticus out of her grip, tumbling backwards into the cart with a clatter. Charlie turned her gaze on Maude and Atticus, Maude could hear Charlie grinding her teeth in frustration. “Come on, Charlie…” Maude said quietly, in a final attempt to convince her to save him. “He knows what we did.” The lights and sounds were getting closer, adrenaline slowly starting to creep into her body. Charlie was silent for several tense moments then hissed “UGH! FINE!  But we leave, and you’re dragging the cart, Now!!” To Maude's surprise, Charlie lifted Atticus’s limp frame off of her, tossing him over her shoulder with a grunt, like a wet towel, his weight apparently meaning almost nothing to her. “Right!” Maude bolted to her feet and grabbed the cart by its handle and quickly followed Charlie, who had started to jog towards the gate.

They had gotten about just 50 feet outside the cemetery when someone yelled “HEY! YOU, THERE!! STOP!!” Neither Maude, nor Charlie listened to the order, instead, they ran faster towards the treeline that marked the end of the Burnsworth property, and was the start of a thick wall of fog. The people on the hill were turning, running diagonally at the pair of criminals instead of straight up to the cemetery. The hill started to become steeper, and the cart threatened to bowl Maude over from behind. The hooded lantern bounced out and rolled away, Maude didn’t try to go back for it. She was almost sliding down the frosted grass now, she could see Charlie stumble a few times with the extra weight of Atticus dragging her forward.

About halfway to the woods, the cart’s handle decided it would be the perfect time to snap, letting its full weight barrel into the back of Maude’s knees. She let out a startled ‘HUHAH!” as she buckled, falling into the cart, which continued to build up speed. Maude barely managed to yell “LOOK OUT!!!” as the cart caught up with Charlie who only managed to turn to Maude to go “WHAT?!” before the cart slammed into her gut, sending her toppling forward into Atticus and Maude. All three of them rocketed down the hill, Maude and Charlie screamed, and she saw Atticus’s eyes roll up into his head, the stress apparently knocking him back into unconsciousness. Charlie, spreadeagled like a tarp over the cart’s opening, grabbed hold of the sides, and hooked her feet through the slatted walls to make sure no living beings flew out while they were still moving.

Maude squeezed her eyes shut as they closed in on the treeline at a scarily rapid rate. Wind whipped her long black hair around, and over the clattering of the cart’s uneven wheels Maude could hear Charlie’s crazed laughter. The only part of her brain that wasn’t going “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” thought that Charlie was insane for enjoying this. The CRACK! The cart running over a fallen branch made Maude jump. The cart began to spin, its wheels losing grip on the slippery ground as they sailed into the thick fog that was supposed to be their safety during the escape but was now turning into another hazard. They spiraled uncontrollably for far too long, Maude white-knuckled the side of the cart with one hand to keep herself inside, while the other tightly gripped her mouth for the third time, hopefully stopping the rapidly growing motion sickness that threatened to make this terrible ride even worse. 

Maude could feel the force of their spinning threatening to pull her out and send her to the ground, she was slowly sliding up the side when -

CRASH!! BANG!! CLATTER!! CLATTERCLATTER!! The corner of the cart clipped a tree, flipping it on its side and scattering the three unwilling occupants as well as several large metal tools across the forest floor, it happened so fast, Maude didn’t even have time to catch how she sailed through the air before hitting the ground and tumbling to a stop, scraped up by the sticks and leaves all over. Maude ended up on her back, with a bag of stolen aristocratic clothes underneath her back. She lay there for a moment, dazed and trying to remember what was happening, then she scrambled to all fours and vomited everything her body could onto the ground, as the motion sickness decided that she had enough. Maude could swear she must’ve purged the last two or three meals she had, the nausea was so bad. But she eventually got control of her organs and stumbled away from the disgusting puddle to find Charlie. 

She wasn’t hard to find, even with the darkness and fog. Using trees to keep her upright on her still unsteady legs, Maude simply followed the sound of deranged giggling to where Charlie was collapsed in a heap, shaking with adrenaline fueled laughter. “Y-you,” Maude Maude put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder to at least try to calm her down, “are insane…”

“Pffff HAHA- Ahahaha OhMyGod How the Did We live Holy SHIT ahaHAHAhHahhaa!!!!!” Was Charlie’s only response. 

“Hey! Charlie!” Maude shook her manic friend’s shoulders and Charlie yelped, all giggles ceasing as she winced grabbed her left arm “owowowow fuck..”

“Oh crap, you okay!” Maude hurriedly let go and looked at Charlie’s arm. Charlie snorted and with a pained tone said “Yep. Fine! Ough-ow- ow- nevermind. Hah- I think- i think its broken. gah-..” She gestured to her elbow, which upon examination, looked slightly crooked.

“Oh No! Charlie I’m so sorry! The cart broke and, and it knocked me over I wasn’t holding the handle right and-” Charlie put her hand over Maude’s mouth and went “shush. Shh. shhhh.” to stop the rambling worry, then gestured around and went “find the dead guy. I’m fine.” though the tightness of her voice begged to differ.

“Oh Crap! Atticus!” Maude shot to her feet and looked around, the fog was so thick now, she could barely see ten feet in any direction. She almost called for the missing man, then remembered he was in no state to play marco-polo. She started to search around the crash site, and heard Charlie standing up with more grunts of pain to help. Charlie apparently did not remember that Atticus was probably unconscious and called out, “Mr. Burnsworth!!! Hey! Where’d you Fall!?” 

“He can’t hear you…” Maude grumbled, then spotted a piece of torn silk on a log that had appeared at her feet. “Oh! Wait? I might’ve-” as she stumbled around the log, Atticus appeared on the ground, his face was in the dirt, legs bent to the side, and a long tear cut down the back of his undershirt, like he had skidded on the log before flipping over into the frosty mud. “Found him!” she called, As she bent down to check him out. He was still breathing when she pulled him up, though it was ragged, and the cut on the back of his head had started to bleed again. His once nicely styled hair was full of twigs and dirt, and the curls stuck out at weird angles, which Maude would’ve found funny, if it wasn’t for the fact that they didn’t know if he would even survive at this point. Charlie limped over to her and questioned, “He alive?” Maude nodded.

“Siiigh, good, I guess.” with her good arm, Charlie once again slung Atticus over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes and said, defeatedly “ooookay. Let’s get going. Maude, grab the clothes, we need to get to the flat.” she shifted her weight to leave her broken arm as free as possible. 

“But, What about all our stuff?”

“Leave the tools, we need new ones anyway. If we’re saving this flapdoodle, the least we can get is the money from his clothes.” No more discussion was needed. Maude grabbed the clothing bag and the pair returned to the trek home. 

They couldn’t really run with their injuries, but they tried to move quickly. The sounds of their pursuers had long since faded into the night, but Maude still kept her eyes peeled for movement, and every small sound made her jump. They crunched through the woods for maybe half an hour, before the trees became scarce and various dark buildings appeared out of the fog. A little while longer and they found a road. Charlie knew the city better than anyone, so with the help of a few street signs, they made it into the city proper and, making sure that there was no one around, slipped into the network of alleyways that would hopefully keep them safe.

They tried not to take breaks, even though at this point both of them could simply fall asleep on the cold, wet bricks. It would be too dangerous to keep Atticus waiting for medical attention any longer than he already had, and getting found with a bag full of stolen clothes and a body would look incredibly suspicious to anyone who crossed their path at this time of night. Despite everything that had happened prior, the walk home was surprisingly uneventful. The only thing of real note was when Maude pulled Charlie around a corner as a police carriage rolled in the opposite direction, probably heading to the Burnsworth manor to find them. Maude breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone. She really needed to get to bed.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The Owl's Test: Jason's Version

Red Hood is trapped in the Court of Owls' not-so-fun house.

A Gotham Knights choose-your-own-adventure. Pick your favorite character to get whumped, or watch them all suffer :)

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

---

The entire world is covered in a haze. A persistent buzzing underlies the chamber’s ambiance, and the Earth tips slightly as Jason levers himself up.

God, does he hurt. His neck, his shoulders, his back. He supposes that might have something to do with the granite mattress he’s sitting on. If humans were made with stick straight spines, Jason imagines that this would be the ideal bed. As it is, a bona fide sacrificial altar makes for poor lumbar support.

Jason’s vision is still a bit fuzzy when he pushes himself off the altar, and a momentary head rush makes him lean back on the stone. Every joint in his body aches. Every muscle under his skin throbs. You’d think he’d just gone three days without sleep, but he just woke up from a nap that was long enough for someone to move him from the floor of the Penguin’s office to an altar in what appears to be a massive, underground cavern.

Jason isn’t old - not by a long shot - but this is what he imagines it feels like. Like an old, hungover man at a rock concert.

As he stumbles to his feet, he scans the walls. They rise up to oblivion, so high that Jason can’t see the ceiling. The whole place is covered with a chilly fog, and frost crunches under his boots.

“Well, if you weren’t before,” Jason gripes, “you’re on my shit list now, Cobblepot.” The world spins a bit, and Jason has to hold out his arms to stay upright. “The hell is this place, anyway? And what’s that smell?” He scowls. The mask covers smells pretty well, but there’s a distinct odor leaking past its filter. Like must and rotten meat.

“Belfry, do you read?” Jason calls. “Hood to Belfry.”

Nothing.

“Great,” he mutters. “I’m cut off.”

With no path forward except… well, forward, Jason staggers ahead. His vision is still blurry, the world is still spinning, and to top it all off, his helmet is malfunctioning, the edges of his vision fuzzy with static.

“The hell is wrong with this thing?”

Jason continues on. As time passes, the drug (or whatever the hell the Penguin gassed him with) wears off. His vertigo is abating. It gets easier to see. And it’s a damn good thing too, because he quite nearly charges into an obvious booby trap. The holes in the wall are a dead giveaway for killer spikes, which would have shish-kebabed him in a second. So instead he ducks and crawls past in the space between the floor and the lowest spikes.

“Inside of Gotham’s walls…” a sinister, echoing voice croons. Clear of the spikes, Jason jumps to his feet, but the speaker is nowhere to be found.

“Rule you one and all…” another voice calls.

There’s an inhuman hiss, like a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth. And then a dark shadow darts across the path and scurries up the wall like a squirrel. Except it’s far too big to be a squirrel. Far, far too big.

“What the hell?” Jason tries to keep it together, but he’s drugged up in some underground maze. It’s getting very difficult to stay calm.

Jason turns the corner, just stopping himself in time to avoid being skewered. The spikes slam into the wall, grinding sparks against the cement. Jason takes a deep, shaky breath, crawling under this trap too.

There’s a light up ahead. Jason almost gets excited. The exit must be close. But the thrill instantly sours into disappointment. The light is too warm in color. It must be a candle, not sunlight.

And candle is putting it mildly. The next room is rife with flame traps, just waiting for Jason to step on the pressure plate and get charred to a crisp. He finds a path through, but it requires a significant amount of trial and error.  He weaves between pillars, jumping over dangerous tiles until he’s made it to the next corridor.

“Give up,” a voice orders from above. “It would be so much easier.”

And it’s tempting. Because Jason is drained. He was aching to begin with, and now, navigating this endless maze, he can feel fatigue creep up, threatening to overtake him.

But he keeps going, because when people say to give up, it's just further motivation to keep at it. And he keeps at it right until he smacks into a wall.

“Wh-?” It hadn’t been a dead end. Just five seconds ago, it had clearly been a hallway. But now it’s a wall, and Jason just rammed his body into it. “Oh, screw this!” he groans, standing up and turning back.

The next path makes Jason wonder if maybe it would have been better to have just fallen for the first spike trap. Because now he’s staring at a less hidden - but far more elaborate - trap. Saws and rods of spikes rotate from the ceiling to the floor. There’s a way through (there always is), but it will require a dangerous amount of precision.

Fortunately, the Bat trained him enough to know how to survive a simple spinning death trap. All he has to do is stay low, stay alert, and be patient. It’s annoying but effective.

And then Jason is back to running. Running down halls, making sharp turns, hoping and praying that the next corner is his way out.

But then his head gets floaty again. The lights are brighter, the sounds more muffled.

“I tried to teach you what I knew, but you were hopeless.” It’s not the voices from before. It’s angrier. It’s more…

It’s more familiar.

“Why did I ever believe you could be anything more than a disgrace?”

It’s Bruce.

Colors are blurring now, and Jason’s legs slow. It feels like he’s wading through concrete. He stumbles forward to a crossroads, devious laughter ringing in his ears.

Left? Right? Does it matter?

Jason doesn’t know which way he goes. He just keeps moving.

A dark figure - himself? - drops from the ceiling before being yanked back up by the throat. It’s shadowy and vague and obviously not-quite-right, but Jason isn’t sure where it’s coming from.

“That’s messed up,” he comments, immediately turning and heading back to the alternate path. He won’t waste his time on things that may not even be real threats.

But it’s no good. A similar figure appears, and a spike trap lies beyond it. There’s no space to crawl under this one. Jason groans in frustration, turning back again. He’s long since lost track of where he’s been.

Two armchairs and a gramophone are waiting in the next antechamber. The music is distorted, but if Jason concentrates (but damn, is it hard to concentrate), he can place the song. He doesn’t know its name or the artist, but he does know where and when he heard it last.

Bruce’s office. The week Jason was adopted. Bruce was busy, but Jason had felt so isolated and threatened by the giant, ominous manor that he knocked on the door anyway. And Bruce had dropped a record on the gramophone and sat with Jason in the armchairs by the fire. And it was warm and safe and-

Jason keeps going.

“Face it! You can’t save anyone, and you never will.”

Fake Bruce. That’s not the real Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t say that. Bruce can’t say that, because he’s-

“Alfred!” Jason is running before he realizes what’s happening, darting up to the figure slumped in the Batcomputer’s command chair. Alfred's neck is tilted at a ninety degree angle. The monitors behind him glow bright red, with smooth, faceless figures staring out at him.

“No,” Jason says, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s dealt with enough flashbacks - with enough trauma - to know how to assess reality. He fills his lungs. Wiggles his toes. Thinks back through his actions. How nothing really has made sense since Cobblepot’s betrayal. And then Jason makes up his mind. “No. This can’t be real.”

Alfred explodes into ash and drifts to the ground. It only confirms Jason’s conclusion.

Fatigue is creeping up his spine now, invading his every cell. But even still, he marches forward. He turns corridor after corridor before the shadowy figure returns. But this time, it’s close enough to identify.

The shadowy figure is holding a gun to its head. The shadowy figure is him.

Something disturbingly familiar ripples through Jason’s muscles. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. He knows it’s fake. He knows it’s not real, but… “Goddamn, it,” he hisses. It feels real enough.

The figure disappears in a cloud of smoke, and Bruce speaks again.

“I should never have recruited you!”

And then the world turns green. Jason feels like his head is being crushed. He slows, heart in his throat. He recognizes the sight before him.

“Oh, god,” he breathes. “Not a Lazarus Pit. Not again.”

The crowbar is solid in his hands. Heavier than it should be, but it feels right.

“You were the worst Robin.” Bruce’s loathsome baritone is mocking and cruel. It only makes Jason’s swing more satisfying.

Green drips from his hair. Rolls down his face.

“On your best day, you were nothing but a killer.”

Thump. Thwack. Thud.

The crowbar cuts across Batman’s cowl. Cracks a hole in his skull. Shatters his ribs. Punctures his lungs. Batman collapses, and Jason.

Keeps.

Going.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD-

“Kill… kill… kill…”

Jason drags Batman up, just to hit his limp form again. Into the neck. Across the face. Between the shoulder blades.

“We are the same…”

“NO!” Jason drops the crowbar. It clatters cheerfully on the stone floor. Batman falls in an ungainly heap beside it.

Jason presses his palms to his eyes. “That’s not who I am!” he tells the voices. “Not anymore!”

Batman disappears in smoke. The Lazarus green fades, and the crowbar melts into the ground.

Jason starts running.

“No escape…”

There’s a door ahead. He can see the door ahead. But it just gets further and further the faster he runs.

“No escape…”

Jason catches up. Grabs the handle and tries to open the door. But the door is wrenched from his grip, flying down the hall.

“Accept your fate…”

Jason has to sprint to catch up. He doesn’t waste time pushing open the door. Frantically, desperately, he rams his shoulder once, twice into the door. It gives way, and he spills out of the labyrinth. The door slams shut behind him.

“Is it over? Am I out?”

The comm still fizzles in his ear, and he’s still inside an underground lair. His vision is clearer though. The world isn’t spinning. The lights are warmer, and the room is less confined.

Jason isn’t safe. Not yet. But he’s out. He doesn’t hear the voices anymore. Shadows don’t warp into the past. And Jason considers that a win.

Barbara's Version

Tim's Version

Dick's Version

[hurtthemgently]

Hangovers are underutilized as a whump trope

Mess with your whumpees while they’ve got a headache and nausea. Purposely get them drunk just to play with them in the morning

[envy-of-the-apple]

ive been really obsessed with your gojo/geto naga oneshots and asks lately it feels like literal brain rot at this point its so good. ive reread it 6 times lol

i was wondering though, what would Geto do if Gojo was just a little bit too heavy handed with you? to the point of a sprained or broken arm or leg. Would he get mad at Gojo or just mad in general that reader was hurt? Also how would they act in response to the injured reader who can't do basic tasks themselves, I personally think they would enjoy the fact she relied on them even more to even move now.

Reminder requests are still closed!!!! I just love this idea so so much holdon lemme-

Part one Part three

(Yandere, dark, implied forced relationships, noncon touching, biting, language barriers, drugging(?))

Top of the Food Chain pt2

Dark!Naga!SatoSugu x reader

Two days later, Satoru still wasn't allowed inside the cave.

You can hear him, hissing and clicking, right outside, hovering just behind the invisible line Suguru refused to let him pass. If you weren't already in so much pain, you would have found pity on the poor thing. He wasn't allowed in his own home, even though the incident wasn't entirely his fault.

Technically, Satoru saved you. It was yet again another escape attempt. Something you'd been doing a lot these days once you've figured out these beings' intentions with you. You'd gotten past the rock quarry this time, a new record. Your plan was filled with holes: there was no way to truly escape the island. You had no boat, no way to call for help. Still, you ran, forgetting that there were more dangerous things on this island other than two territorial serpent men.

It was a monster. There was no other way to describe it. Big, ugly, shiny spikes and sharp teeth, eyes dripping with bloodlust. You would have been eaten, killed, maimed, if Satoru hadn't caught up with you in time.

The only collateral was the loss of nearby plant life and your broken wrist.

That had been Satoru's fault. He'd pulled at you too hard at the hand. The remnants of adrenaline from the fight, his anger, anger made him too rough on your fragile body. He froze at the wet snap, and then you started screaming. That was how Suguru had found you. Despite how much Satoru clicked and hummed and tittered, from his mate's look, you doubted it helped his case.

Another lonely coo made you wince. Suguru only huffed, wrapping you tighter in his coils. They were already warm from your body heat. The numerous animal pelts helped your comfort too.

"Make him stop," you beg, "he's been going on for hours."

At that, Suguru lifts his head from the base of your neck. He tilts his head as he surveys you, and you can't help but think how awful you must look. Sickly-looking from the pain, clammy skin. He can't do much about your appearance, but the least he could do was shut Satoru up.

"What want?" Suguru asks, "water?"

At that, he picks up a sack filled with sea-smelling water. You wrinkle your nose, turning away, cocooning yourself within his coils. With the increased pain, your appetite has decreased, as well as your thirst. The stress of being trapped like this along with your broken wrist was starting to take its toll on your body.

Suguru makes a sound of disapproval, shuffling around behind you. You know he's still mad about the escape attempt, but he's concerned enough for your well-being to put his anger to the side for now. He'd helped wrap your wrist, using something stretchy and soft.

You raise your wrist up, inspecting the thin material wrapped around your wrist. You're not sure what it is, it's too silky to resemble cotton. It must be from the foliage around the island. Yet, another strange thing you'd never find the answer to.

There's another rumble coming from the Naga's chest. He wraps a hand around your chin, bringing your face closer. In his other, he holds the dripping sack.

"Suguru," it's too soft to be anything more than a whine, "it hurts too much to take anything right now. Stop."

"Hurt?" he asks.

To that, you gesture to your broken wrist. It may not have been broken, you were no doctor, so you couldn't say for certain. But considering you'd been in the same amount of pain for two days, it really didn't matter to you.

A click, before he's tossing a glare at the entrance of the cave. He'd already given Satoru a beating right before coming to coddle you. Despite being bigger than his mate, Satoru is docile enough to take them. Suguru had been acting more aggressive lately. You had a feeling it was your fault.

He'd been inspecting your wrist every so often, but you see a different look within his brown eyes now as he takes your injured hand. He carefully turns your palm over, pressing slightly into your wrist. When you yelp, he retracts.

"Hurt." Suguru confirms. You can only nod.

"Hurt. No drink? No eat?" You don't like the way he's talking. As if he's putting a puzzle piece together. Coming to a solution you won't like.

When you go to pull away, his grip only tightens.

"No hurt," he says it like a promise, as though you're a toddler and he's coaxing you into drinking a sour-tasting medicine. His lips part, revealing the fangs you've often seen him use on meat, on Satoru.

Never did you think he'd ever use them on you.

"Suguru," you're pleading, trying to move away when he bends down, his hair brushing your sweaty forehead. You can feel his breath on your neck.

"No hurt," he repeats, and then he bites down.

He lied, of course, he did. His teeth puncture your skin, tearing through like paper. You think you screamed, or maybe it was more akin to a pitiful whimper. In the background, you can hear someone hiss, Satoru maybe?

For a second, you feel everything, the pain, the puncture wound, Suguru lightly licking your neck.

And then, you feel weightless.

It's hard to describe, but your brain feels like it's turned to mush. Your body feels like you're on a soft cloud, just there, floating. In the back of your mind, you remember how dazed Satoru would get whenever Suguru bit him. At the time, you just thought he was lovestruck.

When Suguru pulls away, he's smiling. A trail of blood, your blood goes down his lip. You can barely keep your eyes on him, close to falling asleep.

"No hurt," he says. When he leans down to kiss you, you accept without a single fuss.

You don't remember much after that, but you remember accepting whatever Suguru put in your mouth. The panic in your body was non-existent as he held the water-sack above your lips, watching as your throat bobbed. You think he kissed you a few more times, but you're not too sure. You were a lot more averse to kissing before. It'd make sense he'd take advantage of it.

When you wake up again, you're in between two bodies. The pain in your wrist is still there, but not as horrible as before. You're still groggy, mind fuzzy. Whatever Suguru had given you was still in effect.

Satoru is the first to notice you're awake. Suguru and him must have made up during the time you were unconscious. He props himself up, peering down at you. With how dim the cave is, you can barely make out his features. He looks just as guilty as he had two days ago.

"Sorry," he mutters, "is sorry."

If you weren't still high, you might have laughed. When you continue to stare, he takes it in stride, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, then your lips. You wince in distaste, leaning back.

"Stop," you say but don't fight when he licks at your jaw. You can barely move your fingers.

Panic is still far away, a distant call than anything alarming. It should worry you, but you still can't feel anything.

Suguru is at your back. You can hear his scales move across the cavern floor. He gives a hum, content as he curls himself around you. He doesn't seem to mind Satoru's touches. Your theory that they must have made up is unfortunately starting to strengthen.

You could barely manage Suguru's coddlings. You don't think you'll survive Satoru's.

"Sorry," he mouths into your neck. You can feel the grip on your waist starting to tighten. He stops, rising up to stare at you.

Blue, almost glowing.

"But no more leave."

You're coherent enough to piece together what he means. You can't escape Satoru. You can't escape Suguru. You can't leave this island. Running away is useless.

The nagas understood it. It's time you did too.

"Yes," you finally say, "no more leave."

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 15 @whumpmasinjuly-archive : Prompt: a soft reprieve

CW: non-con drugging, captive whumpee

Whumpee lay on the bed, every breath a laborious effort. Their body ached with the memory of days filled with torture and relentless beatings. Each bruise and cut told a story of cruelty and suffering, and their mind swam in a haze of pain. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and sweat, a constant reminder of their torment.

Whumper stood nearby, a syringe in hand, watching with a twisted sense of satisfaction. "Don't worry, you'll feel better soon," Whumper murmured with a grin, the syringe's needle gleaming in the dim light.

Whumpee's eyes fluttered open at the sound of Whumper's voice, fear mixing with the ever-present pain. They tried to muster the strength to protest, but only a weak whimper escaped their lips.

Whumper approached the bed and sat, their grin widening. Taking Whumpee's arm, finding a vein, and injected the cocktail of drugs.

Almost immediately, Whumpee felt the effects. The intense pain that had been their constant companion began to dull, replaced by a sudden rush of euphoria and warmth. Their mind, once clouded by agony, now floated on a surreal wave of bliss. The room seemed to shift and blur, the harsh reality of their situation melting away into a dreamlike haze.

Whumper watched intently as Whumpee's expression changed, the lines of pain softening, replaced by a look of almost serene calm. "See? Isn't that better?" Whumper's voice was a mixture of mock concern and genuine enjoyment at the sight.

Whumpee's head lolled to the side, their eyes half-closed, a weak smile playing on their lips. The room around them seemed to shimmer and dance. Colors blurred, shapes distorted, and the boundaries of the world dissolved into a mesmerizing, almost beautiful chaos. Whumpee's breathing steadied, the tightness in their chest easing. They felt as if they were floating, weightless and free, despite the heavy chains of reality that still bound them.

Whumper traced a finger down Whumpee's cheek, enjoying the way they leaned into the touch, their senses heightened and yet dulled all at once. "You deserved a little reprieve," they cooed, the mockery in their voice barely concealed. "Just relax and enjoy it."

Whumpmas In July 2024 posts