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Hazy Afternoon
Word count: 505
Tw: medical abuse, drugging
Looking around is like trying to look through a fogged up window. The world is a blurry haze, but you can still make out the familiar messy, curly hair in front of you. There's an odd sound, you realize suddenly, and it's only after a long, sloooow blink that you realize it's Grey's voice. He must be gushing over you again.
He never seems to shut up about how much he loves you and your voice and interests and fashion sense and how he adores every little thing about you. Even the way you just... sit there, strapped down like a feral animal that would lash out the first chance it got.
(For once he's not wrong. Grey isn't particularly muscular, you could probably take him. What you'd give for the chance to try...)
He's literally crazy about you, and god it shows. He brings you anything you ask for, endlessly patient about your demands, and they're always delivered with that same ridiculously bashful grin. As if he's a hand wringing middle schooler talking to their first crush and not the bastard holding you hostage.
If it weren't for times like now, it would be hard to hate just how much he waits on you hand and foot. Hard. Not impossible.
But now, with.... something... running through your veins, that's one of the only thoughts that still manages to crawl through the mush that is your brain. You hate him. Right?
Every little thing seems to send your thoughts scattering. He plants a kiss on your forehead. You hate him!
It's... it's getting harder to remember why.
There's a weird feeling. A.... pressure? on your head. What.... oh. He's petting you. Running his fingers over your scalp and through your hair. He sounds closer now, right in your ear. His breath burns against your skin.
Something cold blooms from the crook of your arm, snaking its way through your veins and....
Ugh. A fresh wave of fog descends over your mind. Did he up the dose? Your vision is flashing a bit. The corners are darkening. Where...?
There's a gloved hand stroking your face. How long has it been there? A glacial blink later it's hovering over you, dripping.
Dripping?
What is he holding?
".............heart........ "
What did he say?
You're sick of being unable to process what's going on. Your brain
(He's peppering your face with kisses you can't quite feel.)
stutters like a broken engine, struggling
to hold on to the few bits and
".......comfortable?"
(You're being adjusted, the needle in your arm stings at even the slightest movement.)
pieces of lucidity that manage
to slip through the cracks.
You're aware of just enough to know
that for once,
(He's moving methodically. In your addled state it looks almost like a video edited by an overzealous wannabe influencer- filled with too many sudden cuts, and some portions speeding up while others are in slow motion. What is he holding? His hands are still dripping.
Dripping.
Dripping.)
it's a good thing he's keeping you drugged.
Watch.
Word Count: 891
Tw: noncon surgery, drugging (mild)
"No." A nitrile gloved hand (did he seriously custom order hot pink gloves or do they actually make them in that color?) grabs your face. Grey's scalpel had been mere inches away from your chest when a combination of nausea and fear forced your neck in the opposite direction, but the press of his blade never came.
You looked at him, eyes desperately searching his body language for a hint at what you did wrong this time. You tried to please him. You did! Everything was easier when he thought you were happy. Happy being with him. Still, no matter how well you played along with his little game, there came times when his easy going temperament felt more like a distant dream than reality.
But he stood still. A heavy lidded statue. Was he hoping you'd somehow figure out the final piece to another one of his impossible puzzles? His stone hand pressed in your cheeks, but you didn't dare pull away. You'd learned better. The rock around his face crumbled, allowing hoarse words to break free.
"I want you to watch. This isn't something I'm doing to you," with each word more of that stone mask fell away. He was growing too animated, leaving no time for relief that he was solving the puzzle for you. "This is something I'm doing for us. I've bared my soul completely to you, but you've been-" he froze, once again overtaken by a prison of stone, save for his eyes which fell up and to the right.
Over time you'd come to affectionately regard this as his "buffering gaze." Glassy eyed yet angry, as though he were shrinking within himself to personally force the sharp metal gears of his brain to work harder. It was almost laughable the way he walked on eggshells when he spoke about the abuse he was putting you through. Maybe those eggshells were for preserving his own delusions.
"-stubborn. And if you won't work with me, then it's up to someone who cares deeply for you to help speed up that process."
It took every ounce of your remaining willpower to bite your tongue; a lecture about the literal versus metaphorical implication of "opening yourself up" to someone would fall on deaf ears, even in the best of circumstances. There was no reasoning with Grey, not when he was so stuck in his own mind. Whatever he wanted to do to you, there was no doubt it'd be unfathomably worse if you tried to reject his advances.
His hand at last fell away- slowly, almost painfully so. That damned scalpel crept forward again, and along with it your nausea.
"Please," you managed to say. You sounded so weak, so pitiful. As sick as the notion made you, there was a hint of relief that it only made you sound more convincing. He paused, stare burning in the way a parent's does before doling out a punishment.
"I-I don't feel well. If you make me watch I'm going to be sick." Grey's gaze melted. A sharp CLANG as the scalpel clattered to the metal bedside tray made you jolt.
"I'm sorry sweetheart, I never meant to upset you like this," his tone was so soft, so wrong. He planted a kiss on your forehead, mentally noting that you'd broken into a cold sweat. It felt like he saw you more as a complicated list of symptoms, a problem to be solved, than an actual person.
"Here, this should help, okay?" He dribbled something into the IV that had been attached to your arm since day 1. A wave of panic drained into your veins. What was that!?
"Wh-what was that?"
"Shh, it's just an anti-emetic. Nothing dangerous, I promise. Remember, I'm not here to hurt you, love." His saccharine lies were quickly replacing your fear with rage.
"Thank you." The gratitude wasn't for show, you were genuinely feeling better, but that meant it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the facade of someone weak and in need of care. You could hear it in your own voice, and it was clear he could too. Shit.
"Now, where were we?" He ensured there was no more time for excuses; the scalpel seemed to leap directly from the tray into your flesh. Grey didn't truly care about your well-being, nothing could convince you of that anymore. Not his words, not the way he listened to you complain, not the way he doted on you hand and foot, not the way he always made your favorite foods, not the way he bought you anything he could feasibly afford, and not even the way he never hesitated to do literally anything in his power to brighten your day.
As he dug into your chest (what the hell kind of painkiller did he use that you can still move and think without feeling his touch?), plucking tendons and caressing bones while his cheeks warmed to match his now red spattered gloves, you knew that this disgusting creature was the real man who had kidnapped you.
"You're so beautiful, love." He muttered to the chasm he'd created. You could distantly feel the pressure of his hand on your heart, lingering, savouring the nervous thump tha-thump tha-thump. No, he didn't care about anything at all but breaking you down one. blood cell. at. a time.
The Button | Word Count 850
Tw: self harm, drugging, implied kidnapping
It was easy money! The man had offered you $50 for participating in a research study. All he asked was an hour of your time (though admittedly the paperwork itself added an extra fifteen minutes on top of that). You joined him in the building and he left you alone in the room with nothing but a chair, a side table, and on top of the table a bright red button.
He'd said it was a study about boredom, and you were no stranger to those articles about people who'd been locked in a room with nothing but a button that would shock them. He hadn't said what this button did, but you had to assume it did the same.
Time ticked away slowly; slower than you'd expected. You tapped your legs, hummed, picked at the dead skin at the edges of your nails, and soon turned to restless pacing. He'd only said an hour, right? Without a clock it was hard to say how long it had really been. The silence of the room was beginning to get to you, and you returned to your seat to click your nails against the wood. It wasn't enough. It was just... so quiet.
Your hands grew tired, and in your stillness you became aware of a whooshing sound. Soft at first, but it was quickly growing louder. You straightened up to the sound of footsteps, was the man finally coming back? But no, the footsteps paradoxically seemed to be constantly growing closer, closer, without ever truly signally anyone's arrival. It wasn't until panic began to set in when you realized that thump thump thump was the sound of your own beating heart.
An orchestra of visceral sounds followed. Each breath brought on onslaught of the indescribable. Your head pulsed to the sound of your ever growing fear that this had all been a trick. Desperate for some quick cash, you'd been awfully quick to trust a complete stranger, and admittedly you'd only skimmed the last several pages of paperwork. You hadn't even gotten the man's name!
Maybe the real study was how long you could endure some bizarre psychological torture until you pressed the stupid button? You scanned the room for cameras, but if there were any they were hidden awfully well. You grabbed the cheap looking button and held it up, glaring at nothing. The disgusting pounding and gurgling and whoosh whoosh sloshing radiating through your entire body was becoming unbearable.
"Is this what you wanted?" You yell to the ceiling. Holding it up though, you see a little note attached to the back.
[WHOMEVER PRESSES THIS BUTTON IS DOOMED, THIS PLACE WILL QUICKLY BECOME YOUR TOMB :)]
"What the hell kind of stupid Jigsaw ripoff is this?" Your finger hovers over the red plastic. There doesn't seem to be any sign of getting out of here, but if the man isn't beyond torture, who's to say he isn't willing to kill? The chair groans as you sink down into it. You want to wait it out but God the sounds that are inundating your senses. It isn't a sound so much as a state of being.
Your head is spinning, pounding, throbbing, aching as your own heartbeat sends corresponding twitches down your body and out of every individual finger. It... It actually hurts to feel so much. If a migraine could be a full body sensation, then this is how you'd imagine it. You could barely drag your thoughts into a semblance of coherence as your own insides churned them to sludge.
You banged on the door, screaming to be let out. Enough! Enough already! No money was worth whatever shit you'd been dragged into. It was only when the door grew stained with blood that you realized your fists had turned bloody. Drips caught and pooled in deep scratches within the wood. Had you been clawing at the door as well? How fortunate you were that the pain was muted, barely even noticeable against the BANG BANG BANG of your own bodily functions.
Your eyes glanced to the button again. He wasn't coming back; there was no guarantee he was even watching. Even if the button ensured your death, maybe that was a mercy. You picked it up once more, the crudely drawn smiley face on the note mocking you. Your hand shakes over it, nub of where a nail once stood allowing a trail of blood to dribble onto it. You blinked and it was pressed without you having consciously done so. Perhaps that was for the best. A hiss filled the room and you nearly sobbed with relief at a sound separate from what your own body created. You were free! You drop heavily onto the carpeted floor, making no effort to soften your fall; survival has dropped from a conscious desire to a primal one. You're just... done.
What a shame that he was watching, and he's excited for so much more when you wake up.
A Gross Experiment
Word Count: 1950
Tw: Sexual assault, blood, kidnapping, drugs, medical horror, self harm, non con
The blonde haired woman forced her eyes open, drowsiness quickly dissolving into panic as she realized where she was. White pulled up a stool, shifting his weight so the wheeled legs propelled him forward towards her. He glanced up at the woman he’d strapped to a vintage medical table. Though old, most of the mint green bed was in perfect condition, save for some bits near the edges that had cracked to reveal the foam cushion inside.
“You know, you’re pretty lucky,” he said. She squirmed against the leather restraints holding her arms and legs in place. “Most people don’t get any sort of anesthesia. If I wanted to fuck with a compliant subject, I’d just grab someone from the morgue or something, you know? Why go out of my way to rob someone of life if I just wanted to play with a bunch of lifeless organs? The screams, the fighting, the gaze somewhere between rage and despair, that’s what makes it feel like I’m actually doing something. What can I say, it feels good to make a difference.
But you, you my dear, I’ve got plans for you.” White stood up, peeling tape from the woman's head. She winced as layer after layer ripped the hair from her head; he’d been meticulous in wrapping it around not just her mouth but her neck as well to ensure she couldn’t simply work it off with enough moisture and patience. Her lip quivered.
“W-What are you going to do to me?” She asked. He trailed a finger along the IV connecting her arm to a bag of fluid. He twisted a small clamp at the base free, and the clear liquid dribbled down the thin tube into her vein.
“Assuming my theory is correct, something that’ll feel really, really good.” Too many questions to choose from left her silently incredulous. White smiled. His gloved hand wiped a stray tear from her cheek as he spoke again. “I may have brought you here unwillingly, but I’m not a liar. I’ve been nothing but open with you about my intentions, haven’t I? I’m simply a student studying and working hard to further my own education. Even when we met I said I bet you’d be a fantastic lab partner.” White traced a few of the still healing cuts lining her abdomen- an appetizer he’d selfishly indulged in as she’d slept. “And I was absolutely correct, working with you has been lovely.”
The woman opened her mouth, but no words came out. Whatever was being fed into her veins was making her limbs feel heavy. No, not just heavy, they didn’t feel at all. A violent tingling washed down her body, leaving pure nothingness in its place. She may as well have been a consciousness capable only of sight and hearing. She managed to squeak out a confused gasp just before the paralytic stole that from her as well. White perked up.
“Ah, I was wondering how long it would take for the anesthesia to kick in. Like I said, it’s not often I use it, so I wasn’t entirely sure just how long it would take.” He scribbled down a few notes. “I’ve put a lot of work into ensuring what I use is as fast acting as possible, though I have to sacrifice some degree of speed or else it’s far too volatile. I don’t need you dropping dead on me before we’re done, it’d be such a waste!”
The woman couldn’t decide whether his rambling was making the situation better or worse. It humanized him, somewhat, a bit like when a doctor explains everything going on to a nervous patient. But on the other hand, he had obviously drugged her at some point to kidnap her, and now he was not so much speaking to her as he was speaking at her with the same calm disconnect as a mortician referring to a cadaver.
“I’ve always had a soft spot for bugs. They’re so often misunderstood, and people generally make assumptions about them without putting in any real effort to understand them.” White rifled through a set of medical instruments he kept under the table. Every so often he placed one onto a nearby metal shelf, making clear his enthusiasm whenever fear broke through the anesthesia and caused her breath to hitch.
“Take slugs, for instance. They’ve got no shell to hide in like snails do, but this allows them to hide and squeeze through much smaller spaces, getting away from predators with much more ease than just hiding in a flimsy shell. And their slime, it’s actually so thick and viscous that they could slide over a razor blade without taking any damage, isn’t that cool?”
She stared at him.
“That’s actually what made me think about this. People create a fluid that smooths over the friction involved in sex. Sure we can stretch, but that can only go so far, especially with an unwilling participant.” He nonchalantly pressed a hand against her bare crotch, pausing for a moment before giving it a few gentle strokes.
“I just want to know how far that extends. If a pussy can accommodate a dick, then what else can it take? Sure, I could probably just collect a sample, figure out its structural integrity, blah blah blah and call it a day, but-” White pulled a syringe and a little bottle from the shelf, making a show of loading it and flicking away the air bubbles. “-but I’m really more of a hands-on learner.” He finished, sliding the needle into her mons pubis. Within moments the nothingness was replaced with a burning ache localized specifically to the surrounding area of the injection.
White nodded excitedly as her face, though numb, still reddened. “I’m actually really proud of this one. Stumbled across it by accident awhile ago when I was still using myself to experiment on. See?” he interrupted himself. “I’m nothing if not fair. I am more than willing to take the pain I dish out if it’s in the name of science.
Though,” he chuckled sheepishly. “I admit I was a bit too squeamish to do this one. That’s where you came in! I’ve given you a drug that actually coats the veins in a kind of shield that blocks the effects of the anesthetic within a very small area. That way you’ll stay nice and still for me while I, to put it crudely, fuck around and find out.” He laughed at his own dry humor for a moment before placing his hand back into her folds.
Furrowed, concentrated brows replaced his smile as he rubbed her clit in soft, patient circles. By all accounts it should have been at best ineffective and at worst uncomfortable. The assault, the drugs, the way he tried to eke arousal from her in an unnervingly clinical, mechanical way, nothing about this was anywhere near putting her in the mood. But seeing as her entire sense of touch both started and ended where his fingers danced over her skin, the woman found herself relieved that the paralytic was stopping her from pressing even harder into his hand. She tried to think of something, anything else that would take her out of this moment. As he slipped a finger into her ready opening, she felt guilty wishing he would have added even more.
“You’re really red, y’know. Feels good, huh.”
Right. This was torture. Bizarre, sure, but that didn’t change the horror of her predicament. Bodies are made to adapt to bad situations, so of course hers was only responding like this until- Fuck. FUCK! White added several fingers, rubbing against her walls as they trailed closer to her g spot. He inched forward before drawing back and deliberately delaying her gratification. He edged her again and again, making her desperation that much more intense. The woman had become so slick that every thrust, no matter the speed, elicited a thick squelch that was impossible to ignore in the otherwise silent room. His gloved hand as well as the table was more than soaked with her musk. She could smell her own arousal and wanted nothing more than for him to, at the very least, take away the rest of her senses too so she could pretend her body wasn’t so desperately into whatever weird ass experiment he was conducting.
“Hm, I’d say you seem about ready.”
Ready? Her eyes pleaded with morbid intrigue for him to elaborate, but she quickly wished they hadn’t. He pulled out a gruesome looking tool. It had multiple sharp edges lined up so as to form a cylinder of knives. Without skipping a beat, White took the tool to his own arm, looking her dead in the eyes as he peeled off a thin slice of skin. He winced, but remained cool in his composure.
“Do you like it?” He asked genuinely, waving the flap of skin before flicking it out of the way. Beads of blood lazily formed as his body got the message that it had been injured, but he ignored them and allowed them to dribble down as he spoke. “I wouldn’t say I’m a master welder, but I think this turned out pretty cool!” She felt sick; he couldn’t possibly be planning on- her stomach dropped. White lined up the contraption with her entrance, and carefully he began working it into her.
Despite everything in her silently screaming in terror, her pussy hungrily clenched around the tool. There were no words to describe the sensation. Despite him remaining slow and gentle in his movements, it felt like the slowest rough fuck of her life. It was simultaneously maddening, and to her dismay, bliss. Her body craved more, harder. From what she could see, there was now blood pouring alongside her arousal. All she could think was this should hurt so much worse. White climbed up onto the table, straddling her. He placed a hand on her still numb chin as he drove the tool deeper inside.
“There’s one final thing I need you to do for me.” he growled. His hand pistoned steadily, each time pressing right against her g spot. “Cum.” Her desperate pussy more than happily obliged. She throbbed and clenched against the bladed dildo. Each edge sank deeper and deeper into her walls as she rode each wave of euphoria the orgasm forced upon her.
The pleasure dissipated far quicker than it had built up. No sooner had she begun piecing her consciousness back together than when the reality of the situation was finally able to reach the rational part of her brain. It didn’t just hurt, it was agony. The woman’s lower body seized into what felt like the worst cramp of her life. The world began to spin, and she gazed lazily at the blood now covering her legs, the table, White, and a fair portion of the cement floor as well.
“Hey now, finally had enough?” White stroked her face which was now covered in both tears and her own blood. “You did a great job! I’ve never gotten this far into the experiment before a subject gave up on me! I’ll clean you up after I finish writing down my findings, okay? And then if you wake up again, I’ll make this up to you, I promise! I’ll share what conclusions we can draw, and we can-”
The woman’s hearing faded, and her vision followed soon after. With a sick sense of hopelessness, all she could think was I hope I lost enough to kill me. Not only to escape the living Hell White had thrown her into, but to avoid seeing him follow through on his promise.
Morning Routine
Grey x gender neutral mc, ~1000 words, tw: implied drugging?
***
"I don't love you." The words burst from their lips the second Grey sat down.
It was risky saying such a thing to him. Despite insisting he was a benevolent, caring boyfriend, Grey seemed all too happy to dole out punishments like candy. They couldn't leave, of course, but beyond that the rules seemed arbitrary and random. Having too little enthusiasm when they saw him, showing too much enthusiasm (and therefore lying), not trusting the food he so lovingly prepared, mentioning their actual partner (ex, as he demanded they be called), and even just being too standoffish when he wanted to be close.
It would be easier to follow his rules if they were consistent, but he was regularly changing his mind. What would be called still adjusting one day might be petulance the next. Beyond keeping them trapped, Grey couldn't seem to decide exactly what he expected from them.
When he plopped himself onto their bed, as he did every morning to coo over them like a prized pet, the grogginess of waking allowed stress to control their tongue.
"What?" He frowned.
"I. do not. love you. In fact I... I hate you." Doubling down seemed no worse than lying; they knew he'd heard them the first time. Grey's leg bounced frantically, shaking the entire bed. Sharp nails clicked together as he thought for a moment.
"I'm well aware, hun."
Now it was their turn to ask, "What?" After all this time insisting they were made for each other, that one day they'd realize they loved him, he already knew just how unhappy they were?
Delusion was a sign of hope. Break through his belief that they were lovers and maybe they could buy a way out, whether that be through freedom or the ground, but if he was aware that they resented the situation? Their blood ran cold. Suddenly the bed, even without the usual restraints, felt like a cage.
"I can't imagine many people fall for the captors naturally, and that's only if you count Stockholm Syndrome. But I'm not picky, love; I'd accept even that! Besides," Grey eased himself closer, his weight pulling the blanket off of them. "There's no doubt we define love differently. Everyone does. It's... intangible. But you know what isn't? What I'm doing for you."
They shivered. More like what he was doing to them. Grey ran a bony hand over their arm, eliciting even more goosebumps than the cold air had already. He readjusted, allowing enough slack in the blanket to cover them up again. The warmth was barely a comfort with him this close, but still they offered an appreciative grunt.
"You may define love as a feeling, but those change. Sometimes faster than you could ever anticipate." He paused, getting stuck in his own head for a moment. "To me, though, it's care. I'm keeping you safe and, when I figure out how, I'm going to make you happy."
"That sounds like a threat." Despite their flat tone, Grey laughed- an unnerving thing. It didn't sound genuine, but he wasn't exactly forcing it either.
"Maybe it is. But is that such a bad thing?" He made sure not to give them a chance to answer. "In a way, there isn't any stopping my main goal as of now, which actually isn't your love. That's on the list, of course, but it doesn't happen overnight. Don't get me wrong, I do dream of the day you greet me with a smile, maybe a little kiss. You'll ask me to stay, and we'll hold each other and-"
"If you don't expect me to love you, then what exactly do you want?" They interjected.
"Familiarity."
"Familiarity?"
"It's not exactly comfort, but it leads to it. I want you to get used to being here with me. I'm not perfect with it, but I try to keep something of a daily routine with you. Like now, coming in every morning, bringing you breakfast after we talk, then, since you're always still so sleepy, you lay back down and I get to cuddle you while you rest, whisper sweet nothings in your ear, you know the drill.
Think about it, if you're used to me being here, then like it or not it's going to feel a little weird when I'm not. Even compared to just a few weeks ago, you're so much more tolerant of my presence. You're being so calm right now despite me being just a couple feet away. And my love,"
Grey leaned in, pressing his lips against their forehead before cupping their face with one hand. His thumb gently stroked their cheek in time with his words. "You're familiar with my touch, my affection. It might not feel good yet, but it's becoming something you're used to. We'll work our way up from there, and I'm more than happy to go as slowly as you need."
They stared at him for a second, wanting nothing more than to knock the hopeful smile off his face. But their stomach growled suddenly, reminding them that acting out would result in missing breakfast, even in the best case scenario. Grey patted his lap before standing.
"Someone sounds hungry! I'll be right back with some food, okay? This talk was kind of heavy, so I think today I'll bring something extra special, just for you."
As he bound up the basement steps, their hands curled into fists. They'd show him how they felt about his plan. With a full stomach, they'd be able to think clearly about escaping- it would be easy now that he wasn't regularly drugging them into oblivious compliance. As much as Grey was studying them, they were studying him; they should have no problem catching him off guard. Before leaving once and for all maybe they'd even give him a taste of his own medicine. Literally.
A sense of deja vu washed over them, but they pushed it down. That's what he wanted them to feel. Of course it all felt familiar, but today was the day they broke away from routine and proved his logic was flawed. Sure they were still tired, but it wasn't anything they weren't used to. They'd only pretend to sleep after breakfast this time, then when the time was right...
Grey reentered the basement carrying a tray that admittedly smelled amazing. They mustered up a smile. Today for sure they'd make him pay... after breakfast.
