BLOW TO THE HEAD: Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."
CW: Interrogation, head wounds, concussions
Whumper loves to use their most reliable interrogation method on a particularly stubborn Whumpee. Everytime Whumpee gives them a "wrong" answer to their question, they slam their head down into the cold interrogation table. How many questions can Whumpee get through before they start seeing stars?
"Whumpee, for the love of god, do not try and bullshit me with that "I'm fine" business again!" "But... 've gotta..." "You literally can't even form a proper sentence!"
A concussed Whumpee that is forced to stay awake for their own good by Caretaker. Their ears are ringing and their hair feels sticky with blood and Caretaker keeps asking them confusing questions that they just can't focus on and all they want to do is go to sleep.
How did Whumpee get a concussion in the first place? Were they pistol-whipped? Were they hit with the hilt of a sword? Were they given a drug that caused symptoms of a concussion? Were they given a knockout punch to the jaw?
Trope of the day: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
_
The ringing in their ears gets louder and louder. Voices come through the various noises, unfiltered and loud. A grunt that sounds far too loud in whumpee's head escapes their lips as their eyes flutter open, everything around them blurry.
"Oi! Wake up, kid," they hear as someone softly slaps their cheek to which they try to blink their sight a little bit clearer. They finally make out the shapes in front of them, some moving, some staying still.
Pain makes them whimper as something touches their abdomen, someone slightly moves their head. Whumpee feels their heart stutter as panic takes them with a surprise, closes its fist around them.
"Don't worry, it's us," the voice says and whumpee tries to focus on the still figure in front of them. "They got you good ... Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?" Whumpee squints at the shape they finally identify as a hand, but more seems to be impossible.
A soft grunt escapes them as they squeeze their eyes close, hoping the nausea doesn't get worse. "Too many," whumpee finally rasps and whimpers when the figures around them move their body.
“I won’t leave you here”
Desperate measures | Fireman's carry | Head lolling
This is a sequel to THIS post. Reading the previous post isn’t necessary, but it will add some useful context. This fic takes place immediately afterwards.
It felt like time was frozen, and Whumpee found themself frozen alongside it. They stood still, a deer in the headlights, watching that monster stare Caretaker down.
Whumper had backed Caretaker into a wall, one palm flat against the wall beside Caretaker’s head, and the other an ironclad grip on Caretaker’s arm. Caretaker’s eyes were wide, fear beginning to bleed through for the first time since their arrival. Neither of them moved.
Whumpee stood in the livingroom, watching. A spell had befallen the three of them, trapping them in an infinite second. If Whumpee moved, if they so much as twitched, time would continue.
Caretaker and Whumpee's eyes met, and the fear in Caretaker's eyes was quickly smothered by a glint of determination. The spell shattered. Caretaker turned a glare Whumper's way."I don't know who you think you are, but you're going to get the hell out of my house," Caretaker hissed.
Whumper only smiled at their words. “Oh kitten,” they purred, eyes alight with intrigue, like a predator enjoying the hunt. It made Whumpee’s blood freeze. “You really have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”
Whumper moved before Caretaker could respond. They rammed a fist into Caretaker’s stomach, forcing Caretaker into the wall with a thud. Caretaker gasped in pain, doubling over on instinct. Whumper didn’t hesitate; they grabbed Whumpee shoulder, effortlessly spinning them around to slam their face into the wall.
Whumpee knew Caretaker would be no match for Whumper. You couldn’t fight Whumper, you simply couldn’t. Still, Caretaker tried. They stumbled, leaving a smear of blood on the wall as their nose began to bleed. They threw a punch, but it was sloppy at best. Whumper caught the fist with ease, simply throwing Caretaker aside
Cakertaker scrambled to stand, a string of curses on their lips. Whumper kicked a booted foot into their side before they could, sending them sprawling onto their back. The breath left Caretaker’s lungs with a pained wheeze. Before they could recover, Whumper’s foot was slammed directly onto their neck and held there. Whumpee watched as their hands flew to Whumper’s foot, struggling with a furious, desperate urgency.
Whumper didn’t budge. They squinted down at Caretaker, face considering. They shifted their body weight, pressing harder.
It was Caretaker’s pained face, mouth agape to capture air they couldn’t reach, that broke Whumpee from their stupor. “Stop it!” They screamed, dread forcing them to speak. Whumpee took a step closer–
Whumper’s eyes, cold and angry and painfully familiar, turned to stare at Whumpee. "If you take another goddamn step I swear to god I will break their neck right here, right now."
Whumpee froze. They stared at Caretaker, watching with mounting terror as their face grew pale, as their anger dissolved into terror as they realized just what type of monster had entered into their home. Caretaker opened their mouth, but they didn’t speak. They couldn’t.
They could see Caretaker’s struggles slow, drool beginning to fall from the corner of their mouth as their eyes grew more distant. Their fingers still pulled at Whumper’s hold. Their struggles were weakening.
Whumper was going to kill them. The thought sent a bolt of terror through Whumpee. They were going to watch Caretaker die; they’d led Whumper into their home, and now Caretaker was going to die right in front of them–
“Please!” Whumpee nearly fell to their knees in their terror, vision swimming with tears. “Please, just let them go!”
“Why should I?” That cruel smile was on Whumper’s face again. They stared at Whumpee, barely paying attention to the person dying at their feet. Whumpee wasn’t sure if Caretaker was still moving. “I didn’t come here for them, so I can’t say I care what happens to them. What do I get out of it?”
There was only one answer. “Anything, anything at all! I’ll go willingly, I won’t run, I swear! I’d do anything, so please–” Panic choked Whumpee’s words, the beginning of a sob rattling their body. “Please don’t kill them!”
There was a long moment of silence. Whumper stared at them, not moving an inch. After an eternity, they chucked, lifting their foot. Whumpee and Caretaker both gasped, one out of relief, the other out of desperation. Caretaker laid coughing on the ground, curling protectively around themselves. Whumpee desperately hoped they wouldn’t attempt to stand.
Whumpee barely noticed when they fell to their knees. “Thank you–god, thank–”
“Here,” Whumpee flinched when something hit their head, landing before their eyes. They forced their eyes to focus, finding a pair of car keys before them. “My car’s out front. Open the trunk and bring me the bag of zip ties. If you try to run, I’ll kill them before you make it off the property, okay?”
Whumpee could only nod, scrabbling to obey. They all but ran out of the house, stumbling down their steps of the porch and bee-lining for the car parked outside. The vehicle was painfully mundane, identical to hundreds of others Whumpee saw daily. Dinstantly, they wondered how long Whumper had been watching them before deciding to visit. They’d been stupid for thinking they’d ever actually escaped.
Whumpee’s hands shook as they popped the trunk, but they didn't hesitate to do as they were told. They couldn’t, not when Caretaker’s life was on the line. Whatever Whumper was about to do, it had to be better than Caretaker dying. They dug around the trunk, movements becoming increasingly frantic as they searched. It took them several minutes to find what they were looking for, and they practically sprinted back to the house once they’d done so.
Whumper was kneeling over Caretaker when Whumpee returned. They had their hand over Caretaker’s mouth, and their fingers pinched against their nose. Whumpee could see Caretaker’s throat move as they were forced to swallow, and only then did Whumper let them breathe. Sat beside the two of them was a bottle of sleeping pills and a nearly empty bottle of scotch.
When Whumper saw Whumpee's look, they chuckled. "You're so good for me, I didn't come prepared," they batted Caretaker's weak hands away, not looking down. "I'm not dealing with a fighter in my car, so I had to improvise."
Whumper finally stepped away from Caretaker, seemingly satisfied. Caretaker groaned, weakly rolling on their side, but not attempting to stand. Whumpee wasn’t sure they could, not after all they’d just gone through.
The thought of Caretaker in that state, utterly defenseless against whatever Whumper wanted to do to them, terrified Whumpee, but they knew it was for the best. Whumper would do whatever they wanted regardless; fighting would’ve only made it worse. Caretaker didn’t understand that yet.
"Come here," Whumper called, and Whumpee flinched into motion, happy for an excuse to be near Caretaker. Whumper snatched the zip ties from Whumpee's hands, ripping open the package and making quick work of binding Caretaker's limbs. Caretaker gave a low whine, but did little else. They were still gasping for air.
When they were satisfied, Whumper grabbed Caretaker’s limp body, easily lifting them into their arms. Caretaker’s head lolled onto Whumper’s shoulder, eyes distant. Whumpee shivered at the sight. “I could carry them–”
Whumper rolled their eyes. “No you can’t. You’ll try to run, I’ll catch you, and then I’ll end up carrying the both of you back to the car. Get in the backseat,” their voice left no room for argument. Whumpee didn’t dare disobey, even when every cell of their body protested leaving Caretaker alone.
Whumpee got into the car. They watched through the window as Whumper carried Caretaker’s limp body to the trunk. They stared until Caretaker left their view, the trunk shutting like a sealed tomb.
They forced themselves to face forward as Whumpee opened the driver’s door. From the grin on Whumper’s face, Whumpee knew they’d been caught watching.
“You know, I really am glad you decided to run off,” Whumper said, eyes predatory. “I think we’re going to have much more fun now.”
What was the concussion evaluation process like? Did you black out even momentarily? What did they do/say to do to treat it?
So, here's the story.
(Also, thanks for taking me up on this!)
The last thing I remember before starting to become aware I was in a hospital waiting room was leaving for home from the last place I stopped that day.
I, apparently, called a friend after I was (presumably) hit from behind and ran into another car in front of me. There was conversation had and I said I felt like I was going to pass out.
I'm telling you this because I don't recall the accident at all. I don't recall being transported to the hospital. I don't recall the initial evaluation. I do recall vaguely giving a nurse? my friend's number.
It felt like I was sort of in a dream up until a certain point where I wasn't. I came to in the ER waiting room slowly and in stages. The first thing I noticed was a small wound on my hand. I recall I kept coming back to it as if rediscovering it. I heard my name called but couldn't really understand what was going on.
I also kept an eye on the oxygen tank that was attached to the wheelchair I was in as it assured me it wasn't a dream because the words on it never changed. (I wasn't on any oxygen, it was just attached to the wheelchair.)
So the initial process for concussion checking I don't know. But I did get a CT scan. I actually ended up getting 2 because I have rheumatoid arthritis and they failed to do a cervical scan of my neck. I was diagnosed as having a concussion due to the growing lump and bruise on my head that swelled my eye and eyelid and the fact that I had amnesia and, now that I think about it, I recall someone calling out that as one of the symptoms to another medical team person. Something like "patient presenting with amnesia after a car accident"
When I initially learned the date (the 22nd) I couldn't recall most of the month. I couldn't believe it was already the 22nd! When did that happen?
At this current point I still have no recollection of the accident, but I at least remember that day up until a certain point. One thing that also affected my mental clarity was that I was without my glasses which essentially meant I was blind. Everything seemed dreamlike no matter what.
The process of getting a CT scan took a really long time. I was wheeled into a hallway and left, parallel parked, between other patients both times for a good while. I was also given a chest x-ray and an EKG. I was medicated with muscle relaxers given with an antacid (as well as some pills to make up for low levels on some blood-work that had nothing to do with the accident, apparently).
I'm a wordy son-of-a-bitch, but I hoped that helped! I ended up with quite a shiner on my eye. It's now faded into rainbow colors across both eyes, but I still have a place on the eyebrow of that eye that is numb to the touch put painful to the poke. And I am, a week after, still hella disconnected. Oh, and my guts are all kinds of messed up.
Good luck on your wonderful whumpee stories! Thanks for querying!
There’s nothing quite like a good old-fashioned beat down. A bloodied nose, black eye, and with the way they’re wheezing something must be broken. bruises, cuts, and more bruises for good measure. When your victim is beyond concussed and they’re too hurt to move, and can only hope for mercy. When it comes to inflicting pain, there’s nothing quite like beating the shit out of someone.
Sickeningly so, in a way that made him sway as the world around him spun.
Nox reached to touch his head, that bright flash of pain that was now fading into a dull ache within his skull. Stablizing himself against the wall did nothing to help, but the movement made everything worse.
He just- wished he could stop being so dizzy.
He didn’t see the second blow coming, or maybe it was the third. Either way the hit knocked his head against the wall in the same way, made his head spin and his skull crack with that loud overwhelming agony that stayed until a dull ache replaced it.
And just like that he was back to reeling, back to staring uncomprehending at the red on his hand. In the back of his mind he knew something was wrong, something with where he was being hit, but he didn’t have the faintest idea why.
AU where the Avengers don’t know that Spider-Man is Peter Parker just cuz
inspired by a fantastic ask about concussions from @carley-carley-carley (hope it’s okay that I tagged you!)
“Young man? Young man, are you alright?”
Grunting, Peter drags his head away from the insistent tapping against his cheek, an almost rhythmic, steady pressure that jerks up his temple to spread across his forehead. The pressure isolates to the base of his skull, where the pounding seems to be at it’s worst, and it holds ground there, pulsing uncomfortably.
“Young man, you fell from a four-story apartment building.”
Peter’s brows furrow at this. He wants to object because he’s Spider-Man, and a fall like that is minor compared to the novel of inuries he’s suffered alongside the Avengers. He opens his mouth to do just that, to explain to this woman that this is nothing, that he’ll walk it off, but a pricking senstation hot against the back of his neck hotwires to his eyelids, forcing them open.
He’s aware of two things: One, the woman leaning over him is far too close, and she’s doubling and tripling before him, going in out of focus against his blurry eyes. Despite hazy around the edges, she looks concerned, if the deep-set wrinkles etched into her forehead are anything to go by. Two, there’s a small crowd surrounding him, and while Peter’s not particularly claustrophobic, right now, it feels like each body is pushing against his lungs, and his stomach. When the hell did he start feeling so nauseous?
“Young man, do you know what day it is?”
No, Peter thinks flatly to himself. He really doesn’t. He could dig through his mind, eager to push out logic, work through his mental calendar that operates soley around when homework assignments are due, but there’s a solid rock of pulsing pain blocking all normal, brain functioning. “Monday?” he tries weakly. He’s faintly aware that his own voice sounds hollow and distant, but more so, he’s distinctly aware of the saliva pooling in his mouth, a copper taste that coats against his tongue.
Peter didn’t think it was possible, but the woman somehow frowns deeper at him, and she climbs to her feet, body rigid. He supposes it’s not Monday after all.
“Call an ambulance! He’s concussed.”
Peter shoots forward into a sitting position, and the pain in his head bursts like a balloon. The redistributed pressure is blinding, and Peter drops his face into his cupped hands with a low groan that threatens to bring more than just air up his throat.
He wants to assure them that a hospital isn’t necessary, that his enhanced healing defies medical science, but when the white light coating his vision dies down to an unsteady sway of darker, blurring colors, he only sees scraped up palms before him, not gloves. He rips his hands away, and one, quick look down shows that he’s sporting a blue NASA hoodie and blue jeans and that he’s definitely not wearing his signature red and blue Spider-Man suit he thought he had on.
The hell?
He glances to see his backpack beside him, thankfully still zipped up and intact. He tries to wrack his brain, briefly craning his neck up toward the rooftop he assumes he fell from, only to quickly jerk his gaze back down when the setting sun seems to shine past his eyes to burn at his skull. He can’t remember why he was up there in the first place, especially since he’s in civilian clothing. He can’t remember much of anything, now that he dwells on it.
“Young man, by all accounts, you should be dead.”
Peter makes to reply, his clenched jaw unhinging almost painfully, but a different, probing jolt sparks up his spine to the back of his neck, and he’s climbing to his feet, pale, wobbly, just as two, new voices somehow carry over the wall of chatter around him.
“What’s going on?”
“Make way. Crowds typically mean one of two things: some weird alien contraption that equals bad news or a dead body, either of which I can’t really fit into today’s schedule.”
Even if Peter didn’t have the two voices memorized, down to the timbre, the sudden, loud squealing from the crowd of “Tony Stark!” and “Captain America!” is enough to have him eyeing for a quick exit, determining if he can duck his way through the pressing bodies.
“This young man fell from the roof!”
“So,” Tony draws out, his voice growing closer. “Dead body it...” He trails off as he nudges around a few people until he’s breaking into the center of the circle with Steve hot on his heels.
“Well, hello there, not dead person.”
Peter wants to shrink away from Tony’s gaze. He wants the ground to crumble and break and swallow him hole, to rid himself of the awkward fear and warm embarrasment that flushes his cheeks. He can feel a thick, lukewarm liquid dripping down his neck, and he doesn’t want to look down to see the concerning pool of blood at his feet.
“Son, are you alright?” Steve shoves forward, and on instinct, Peter backs away and brings a hand to the back of his neck, a nervous tick, but he pulls it back almost immediately, faintly frowning at the splattered red coloring his palm.
“You fell,” Tony starts, and Peter knows this tone well as it’s Tony’s signature speculation tone, where he dissects the situation around clipped, short sentences.
“From up there?”
Leveling his gaze, Peter huffs out a shaky sigh, wincing slightly as Steve prods lightly at the back of his head.
“Um, yeah. I guess?”
“You guess?”
“I don’t really remember,” Peter laughs awkwardly, clears his throat. He can sense the tension that builds behind him, can almost feel the way Steve’s muslces grow rigid.
“He’s concussed, Tony. Maybe save the interrogation for another time?”
“Sure,” Tony says, and he steps forward, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood. “But, you can’t blame me for finding this entire situation unsettling, Steve. This kid fell from the roof of a four-story building, landed on his back, and now he’s standing, and aside from the fact that he looks a tad worse for wear, he’s alive?”
“I’m right here,” Peter mutters under his breath, and Tony nods and crowds too close to him.
“You are. Standing. Speaking. Alive. Three things that don’t exactly pair well with falling off a roof.”
Peter’s head hurts, bad. Deflect, he thinks. But how? “I’ve always been told I come from a family of hard heads,” he mumbles around a hollow laugh, and, he thinks, it definitely sounds as stupid out loud as it did in his head.
Tony’s gaze, in response, his sharp, and narrow, and Peter unconsciously closes his eyes. He can feel the ground rippling below his feet, and he sways, steadying only when Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders.
“Enough, Tony.”
“How much would it take to get you to come back to our labs so I can run some tests-”
“-Enough, Tony.”
Steve’s voice vibrates all across Peter’s body. It’s a powerful yet familiar feeling that makes him shudder slightly.
“What’s your name, son?”
Peter contemplates lying, maybe even using Ned’s name. But, he’s been careful as Spider-Man thus far, so, he thinks, he’s not at risk by sharing his real name. Besides, it’s not like it’s uncommon. “Peter,” he says after a moment.
He could hear Steve talking beside him, but an unannounced rush of blood in his ears begisn to drown out close sounds. He grows hot suddenly, or maybe, he’s been getting steadily hotter this entire time and he couldn’t fully realize. His body’s shaking a little harder now, inconsistent trembles jerking his limbs. His throat’s tightening, and when he realizes what the hell is happening, he’s shoving away from Steve and hunching over to vomit.
He feels worse when he finishes. He’s exhausted, and his head is positively throbbing. Yet, there’s a color of clarity flicking across his mind. Through the thick pain, he can think a little clearer, see a little clearer.
“Peter?”
“Gross, kid. Time to go to the hospital.”
“No!” Peter whips around, staggers, and unconsciously reaches out to Steve’s arm for support. “I mean, that’s not necessary,” he clarifies at the two, wide expressions looking at him expectantly. “Really. I’m already feeling better.” To punctuate his point, he lets go of Steve’s arm and bends down to snag his backpack, clutching it close to his chest. “See, totally fine. No passing out or anything.”
On the back of his head, he can already feel his broken skin moving, closing torn gaps, slowing the bloodflow. He figures he’s got about an hour until it’s completely healed, and he’d rather not be around two Avengers when it happens.
“I’ll just go home and... rest! I’ll rest. Scout’s honor.” He mock salutes, and then he spins on his heel and starts pushing his way out of the crowd, missing the furrowed gaze from Tony. He swallows thickly when he hears two sets of heavy footsteps behind him.
“Peter, wait!”
“I’m with Steve on this one, kid. I can’t, in good conscience, let you disappear in this condition. I can see the headlines now. Iron Man Abandons Helpless Teen.”
“Tony...”
Peter keeps walking ahead, keeps his gaze locked to the sidewalk below him as Tony and Steve take either side of him. “My apartment’s just a few blocks from here,” he mumbles, focusing on the rhythmic pound of his shoes on concrete and not on the hot pain pushing all across his head or on the fact that he can’t shake a couple of Avengers, something he’d never consider as Spider-Man.
“Do you not like hospitals, Peter?”
Steve’s question is a gentle prod, and Peter goes with it, shrugging.
“Not really,” he offers, keeping his voice low, indicating he doesn’t want to pursue the conversation, and luckily, Steve takes the bait and drops it. At least, Peter thinks, they’ll stop insisting he seek out medical assistance now. Though, he does feel a little bad lying to Steve; he doesn’t like lying, unless it’s to egg on Tony’s nerves as Spider-Man. But to Steve? It feels morally wrong, and he thinks he should seek out a confessional for his sins later.
“Not interested in having a bunch of doctors deem you a medical miracle?”
“Definitely not,” Peter groans, finally dragging his gaze up until he’s looking forward and not at the scuff marks on his shoes. His memories, though fuzzy, are filtering through cracks in the thick mud that’s currently his mind. He can remember standing atop the roof, maybe a little too close to the edge. He was getting ready to rip open his backpack for his suit, and then he remembers losing his footing. He remembers the back of his foot hitting the edge of the roof, and everything goes dark after that.
Embarrassing, he thinks. He’s the only super hero he knows clumsier than a newborn deer. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize he’s reached his apartment until his leg muscles are dragging to a stop on habit. He looks up, craning his neck, and sighs. “Well, this is me. I appreciate the escort, but I’m good now.” He starts up the steps, sighing louder when he hears the two follow.
He makes it all the way up the steps to his apartment door and unlocks it before he spins on his heel, a second, longer sigh pushing past his lips. “Look, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but don’t you both have... bigger things to do? Iron Man and Captain America things?”
“You busy, Steve?” Tony asks, and Steve mutely shakes his head before following Tony into the apartment.
Groaning, Peter rubs at his forehead and shuffles inside, knowing full and well that both are incredibly busy on an hour-to-hour basis. He’s quick to slip his bacpack into his bedroom and close the door before he steps back out into the living room to see Steve motioning toward the couch with a pack of frozen peas in hand.
“It’s all you had.”
Shrugging, Peter drops down flat onto the couch, sitting up briefly so Steve can slip the bag of frozen peas behind his head. He shivers on contact because shit, it’s freezing, and Steve’s reaching over him to snag the blanket draped behind the couch. He hums absently when Steve tucks it around him, and then he cracks an eye open to see Tony staring down childhood pictures with a familair set of glasses on.
“Mr. Stark?”
“Huh?” Tony whips around, already plucking the glasses from his face.
“Really, Tony? How much info is FRIDAY feeding you right now?”
“What?” Tony drags out, both hands raised in defense. “Kid fell off a roof and walked away. Sue me.”
“I promise, Mr. Stark, I’m not even remotely interesting,” Peter tries, and Tony raises a single brow his way.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Peter’s kept his identity tightly under wraps thus far, and he knows childhood pictures or pictures with May aren’t going to reveal that he’s Spider-Man. Still, it’s annoyingly intrusive, and he sits up with a groan.
“If I swear on my best friend’s lego model death star that I’ll stay put, rest, and wake up every few hours to monitor my condition, will you both please leave? You really don’t need to hang around here; I know you both have to be really busy.”
“Your best friend has a lego model death star?” Tony starts, isolating that one fact. “Is your best friend in second grade?”
Peter clambers to his feet, stalks over to his door, and yanks it open. “We’re the same age, and I happily helped him with it,” he challenges, motioning toward the doorway.
“Easy, champ,” Tony says around a laugh as he and Steve start toward the door. “If you and your friend want to play with legos, that’s none of my business. Just try not to fall off any more roofs because, unfortunately, that is my business.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter says, offering a nod as the two step out.
“Consider going to a hospital, Peter,” Steve adds. “Maybe take your friend with you for comfort.”
Yeah right, Peter thinks. Ned can’t even handle the thought of a needle without feeling faint. Still, he nods, if only to appease Steve, and then he’s closing the door and sinking against it with a low sigh. He listens for a long time until he can no longer make out their footsteps, and then he’s ignoring the pressure in his head and running to his room to don his suit.
Concussion or not, Queens still needs the friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man.
Whumpee’s world swirled around them. Their body was much heavier than before, and that was probably because of the vague memory Whumpee had of Whumper hitting them in the head with something and then everything went a little wonky.
There was a name for what Whumpee was experiencing, but the word escaped them in the swirl of everything.
Their arms were trapped behind their back, bound to their feet and they also had a gag in their mouth to keep them from talking. There was a name for it as well, but the word again escaped Whumpee.
Hogtied.
Ah, that was the word. Why couldn’t they move their arms again? Why were they so heavy? Why did their stomach hurt a lot more than it should?
Suddenly their heavy mind heard something, but it was muddled and for the life of them they couldn’t focus on what it was. What they could focus on was the hand that followed the silence.
Even in Whumpee’s state, they knew touch was bad. Touch was hurt. And Whumpee should never let someone touch them. But they couldn’t escape the touch because of a combination of their oh so heavy body and their restraints- Oh yeah, they were restrained.
Wait. The touching hands had moved and... now Whumpee could move their arms! And legs! But... Whumpee didn’t really feel up to moving them too much, they were just so heavy and tired.
That touch was back, but now it was all over Whumpee. Whumpee sluggishly tried to squirm away, but all at once Whumpee wasn’t on the ground anymore and that was scary.
As their mind drifted from one sluggish though to another, they pressed their face into something soft and warm. It made their eyelids drop almost immediately, but the sound was back and it was almost angry sounding as a hand patted Whumpee’s face.
By now, Whumpee didn’t have the strength to move away. And this insistent hand would probably be upset if they fell asleep, but Whumpee couldn’t resist the call as their mind sunk slowly into peaceful unawareness.
