I'm not sure if the sentence starters are still open but how about "Wake up, please wake up!"
CW: Restraints, drugging, implied violence, intimate whumper
“Wake up.”
Hand to his face, light against his cheek. Smack.
He can’t lift his head. Can’t seem to show he’s awake. It’s all a fog, a swirling dizziness. The room spins around him even in the darkness behind his eyelids.
He can’t move, his hands feel like lead, numb lumps at the end of his wrists. There’s something... cutting into them? Some constriction. He tries to move them and can’t - they pull against the thing wrapped around them and hold still. The air is cold against his shoulders, his arms, and he thinks he was wearing a shirt and where did his shirt go?
Hard to breathe. Neck hurts. Why does his neck hurt?
“Come on, come on, come on,” The voice whispers, frantic and worried. “Come on, please wake up. I didn’t give you that much, Vince, I know I didn’t, come on... what are you, a goddamn lightweight? Come on, wake up...”
Another smack to the side of his face - hard, a full on slap. His head snaps to the side this time, and he groans.
“Yes, yes, okay, there you go, there you go...” The hand that slapped him is back, and it strokes the side of his face, thumb rubbing his cheekbone. Vince tries to lift his head, and he can’t, and his mouth feels strange. Tongue is too big, thick, dry like he has a mouth full of cotton.
“O... Owen...” His voice trails off, hoarse and his breathing seems to whistle. His throat hurts so much. What happened? “Whass… Owen, whasss goin’...”
“Ssssshhh, it’s okay,” Owen whispers, and Vince feels so cold suddenly. Colder where Owen is touching him, and to his face. Stroking his cheek. His eyes open, finally, feeling gummed-together, and when he looks, he realizes Owen is less than three inches from his face.
He tries to jump. Nothing happens.
“It’s okay, Vince,” Owen says, urgently, insistently. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to talk about it, okay? Just, just talk for a while.” The hand moving on his face is gone, and slips up into his hair, the curly black he grew out a little for his last film. Owen grips on tight, so tight there’s a sudden flash of pain and Vince winces against it, whining low in his throat. His head is jerked up, and he stares into Owen’s wide green eyes.
“Owen, are y’... are you high...?”
“No,” Owen whispers, and his pupils are like tiny pinpricks swimming in a sea of brilliant green. “But you are. You were gonna leave, Vince, and, and you always leave... but don’t worry. Don’t worry, it’s okay, because you’re not going to leave anymore... not ever again. You’re not going to leave me.”
Fear, finally, begins to break through the haze like a trickle of water slowly carving a canyon. Vince swallows, hard, and tries to focus his eyes, realizing dimly that he’s in Owen’s bedroom, in his apartment. In his bed.
He pulls at his hands again, and whimpers, a little, as he realizes he’s tied, naked, to Owen Grant’s bed.
“Sssshhh, no fear, don’t be scared,” Owen says softly, and kisses Vince’s forehead, holding his head still for it. Tears start to prick at the back of Vince’s eyes. “Don’t be scared of me, Vince. It’s okay.”
A kiss to each side of his face. A press of hot lips against his, and when Vince tries to pull away, Owen’s grip tightens in his hair to hold him there.
“Don’t you pull away from me. You’re not going anywhere, Vince.” Owen pulls back, drops the grip on his hair, and he picks up a glass off the side table. Vince stares dully as he drops something into the clear liquid in there that dissolves and disappears.
He turns back to look at Vince, and lays a hand to his collarbone. His skin feels so warm, and Vince is so cold, and he whines, softly, half-wanting to chase the warmth, half-terrified of it.
“You won’t leave me, Vince,” Owen says softly. “Because I love you.”
