#poor whumpee. desperately hoping to please and only making everything worse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 3 years

Text

Brody in the Machine - AU

I woke up this morning and truly chose violence lmao

CW: The Machine (forced intubation, restraints, loss of bodily autonomy, medical torture), collar mention, touch deprivation, touch starved whumpee, self hate, sadistic whumper, lightly referenced human trafficking (kinda), choking mention,

As with all Machine pieces, please heed the warnings. This is just an AU and is not important to either Tool's or Brody's stories.

[Tool Masterlist (more Machine, no Brody]

[Brody Masterlist (more Brody, no Machine lol]

The Mechanic examined the blond young man that had been left for him. He was a bit short, small and already very timid. Honestly, Nigel wasn’t sure why he had been brought here but that was not his concern. He reached a hand out to touch the boy’s hair.

Brody was trembling, but trying to hide it. Things looked bad, they looked so so bad here, but! Just when it looked like pain and torture - the man reached out to pet him! He pressed his head against the hand, showing that he was good and sweet and friendly. That he didn’t need to be hurt.

And the man smiled! Brody’s heart lifted and he slipped closer to his side, leaning up against it. If the man liked it, liked him, there was a good chance he wouldn’t hurt him. He might get some mercy, maybe some comfort. He just had to make the man like him.

“Well aren’t you a cute little thing,” the Mechanic mused, bringing his hand to cup the back of the boy’s neck. The submission that rolled off him was wonderful, pure and unresisting. A collar was wrapped around the boy’s neck and it caught his attention for a moment. Absently, he glanced up to his assistant who was hovering by the door and considered them. The thought was tempting, to mark them and make them wear a symbol of their submission. That would take more thought.

Brody nuzzled in closer and the Mechanic chuckled. Sweet, but not why he was here.

“Fetch me the catch pole, Tool.”

Brody’s eyes went wide from where he was curled into the man’s side. No, no no no no that’s not, he didn’t, that-

“W-Wait, sir. Sir, I-”

The man hushed him, pushing him an arm length away with a tight grip on his collar. The other person - Tool? Were they called Tool? - came back with a long rod and obediently handed it over to the Mechanic. Easily and practiced, he slipped the wire loop around Brody’s head and cinched it tight around his neck. He cried out, hands flying up to try and release the pressure.

Tool’s eyes met the young man’s panicked ones and he had to look away. They hated this, hated themself. Hated how it never seemed to get easier.

The Mechanic pushed Brody forward and down the hall, not even needing to remind Tool to follow by now. He knew they would. Tears streamed down Brody’s cheeks as he stumbled along, mind going wild.

He whimpered when the door opened, not even understanding what was in front of him.

The Mechanic pushed him forward to the Machine table, adjusting the angle of the catch pole until Brody was forced to bed over, head pressed against the padding.

“Tool, ready the equipment.”

“Sir? Sir, please. I can be good. I, I, I promise, I can - I am! If, if if if, if you give me the chance to prove it-” He stopped as he felt the wire cinch tighter. Not tight enough to keep him from breathing but enough for him to get the hint.

Tool shuddered to themself but of course they obeyed. His hands were buzzing with anxiety as they picked up the components, having to take a deep breath to calm their pulse. Not for them, not for them, they hadn’t done anything to deserve it. The boy made another sad whine and Tool’s eyes fell closed. He hadn’t either.

But Tool didn’t have a choice.

The Mechanic grabbed the back of Brody’s shirt and manhandled him onto the table. “Stay.”

Brody nodded, shaking horribly but eyes locked on him. He could do that, he could stay. He would! He would be good and show him that he didn’t need this, that, that no one had to…

The Mechanic chuckled and turned away to prepare something else. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Tool walking up to the table. “No skin contact, Tool. Understand?”

Tool’s head snapped up, hand inches from Brody’s wrist. He nodded in understanding, worry plastered on his face. Brody whimpered, understanding the implications and Tool’s heart felt like it was going to break. With a tightly clenched jaw, they secured the straps around his wrists and ankles without touching him. The entire time, Tool’s mind was berating them over and over. They were weak and pathetic and despicable. They were just as bad as he was, maybe even worse because some part of them wanted to help and didn’t. Pathetic. Tool was pathetic.

Brody sobbed as he was restrained to the table. He still didn’t know what was going to happen, didn’t know what was going one, but it would hurt. It would be pain and punishment and terrible terrible terrible and there was nothing he could ever do to make it better. This man didn’t want him to be good, didn’t want him to do anything. He wanted him to suffer, and Brody didn’t know how to handle that.

Yet.

The man came back into his view and Brody shut his eyes. He had been told to stay. Stay - that was all he had to go off. He could, well no; he wanted to run. He wanted to be far, far, from here. But he didn’t even have the choice anymore.

Something cloth was laid on his forehead, making him wrinkle his brow in confusion. What? A moment later, there was a heavy pressure over it, holding his head down without touching him. He opened his eyes, looking for him to ask why. Before he could, he saw the Mechanic reaching down for him, thin tube in one hand.

He yelped when it entered his nose, crying out louder when it kept going into his head. He gagged and cried as it hit the back of his throat, feeling like he might throw up.

Down, down, down. Through his throat and farther, hitting nerves and places he never thought he’d feel. Tears were streaming down his face now, squirming desperately even with the tight restraints.

Finally it stopped and he sobbed. The Mechanic turned away and Brody’s head lolled to the side. That had to be it. It had to be over, right?

The assistant wouldn’t look at him.

Even from where his head was laid on its side, something plastic and large was shoved into his mouth and righted his head. He nearly choked on it. By now, his pulse was so loud in his ears he couldn’t be certain if they were speaking above him, if he was crying, if it was silent.

Another, thicker tube was pushed down and that he did choke on. He whimpered and whined and gagged as loudly as he could, eyes begging the man for this nightmare to stop.

It did not.

The Mechanic finished up the last few steps, letting Tool add the IV and electrodes, and stepped back to watch. The patient was shaking so badly he thought he might see the table shake. It was stronger than that, but the boy’s blond hair was trembling with him.

It was satisfying to watch.

Tool thought they were going to throw up. How, how was this just getting worse? He liked to do little things to help the victims. Lightly holding a hand here, brushing through their hair there. Little things, things that he had craved when he was in the machine. Had the Mechanic seen? Had he noticed what his assistant was doing and was bringing a stop to it? They didn’t know. The Mechanic had taken steps to not touch the boy either, so it was probably part of the process.

It made them sick.

~~~

There was something about this one. It stuck in the back of Nigel’s mind, drawing him back to the Machine room when he had other things to do. A dark curiosity was twisting inside of him. The subject had been so docile before he was put into the Machine, already so submissive and pliant. He was torn with taking him out immediately to see the results, and leaving him in for weeks to see the most extreme end. How would he be different? How far could he push the young man? How long would it take to make him functional to the point of useful if he left him for weeks at a time?

In the end, he only had a week with this subject. The Client wasn’t interested in the extremes, wasn’t curious about the breaking edge of human psychology. That limited the boy’s time to five days, the extra time necessary for re-acclimating him to self-sufficiency.

Pity.

Tool followed the Mechanic dutifully back to the Machine room. He had thought about coming back to the room alone to comfort the poor thing who hadn’t stopped shivering and crying. More than once during their duties, Tool had been tempted to give him just the slightest bit of comfort or touch. But there were cameras, cameras that the Mechanic could watch.

And as much as it pained him, as it ate at his soul and consciousness and stomach every night as he tried to sleep, Tool just couldn’t do it. They couldn’t risk going back in the Machine. They struggled to sleep, struggled to carry around the guilt that every new victim piled on their back, but he couldn’t risk the very real, ever present danger.

Pathetic, their mind whispered to him.

Brody didn’t look at them when they entered, didn’t have the energy to. Not physical energy; emotional energy. The shorter one, Tool, had been in and out regularly, and he couldn’t keep letting his hopes be raised and dashed like this. That was the real torture. The tubes, the electricity, the ache from the restraints was pain. Pain that he hated and wanted out of deeply, put it was just pain.

But being ignored? Being pushed aside and left with no recognition of his existence?

That was torture to his very being. It struck so much deeper, into the parts of himself that were the truest parts of him. Things he couldn’t control, couldn’t change. Things he never questioned, even when everything was strange and unknown around him, he could rely on what he knew of himself. Rather than his mind or his physical body, it was like his soul was dying, strapped there on that table.

The Mechanic hovered above him and smiled at the glossy look of his eyes. With a quick motion, he added a soft dose of sedative to the boy’s IV to make the transition a bit smoother. Suffering was over, time to revive him in the way the Mechanic wanted. Distant blue eyes fluttered closed.

When Brody awoke next, he was laying in a cot. No restraints, no tubes or wire poking from under his skin. He shuddered and tried to sit up, gasping and holding onto the cot side for dear life. Was it real? Was this a nightmare? Was that a nightmare? Where, when-

His head wheeled quickly to the sound of footsteps on the other side of the room. He had to blink hard to clear his eyes, the figure walking towards him blurry.

“You’re awake,” the Mechanic mused as he crouched down by the cot. The boy was wavering, adrenaline quickly leaving him weak and wobbly. Grinning, he reached out a bare hand to steady the boy by the side of his neck.

Brody melted into his hand with a broken whimper. Tears burned at his eyes and he would have sobbed if he had enough control over his lungs to do so. He didn’t have the strength to keep sitting up, but the man was more than able to hold. Brody’s eyes slipped closed, only able to think about the point of warmth from the man’s skin.

The angle of the hand changed slightly, like the man was moving and Brody whined urgently. One hand tried to raise up to stop him. No, no no no he couldn’t leave, not yet! Brody needed him, needed to know he was still real, still there. There was an amused laugh and the cot dipped as the Mechanic sat next to him.

Nigel leaned the boy against his side, enthralled by how he relaxed bonelessly into him. The little thing was so open, so willing for any contact after only five days. He carded a hand through the boy’s greasy hair and felt the shudder that went through him.

Absently, he looked up to see where Tool had been restrained casually. He wondered how long in the Machine it would take to make his assistant just as receptive.

tagging the Tool Crew only because this is not Brody's regular thing and I'm not just surprising the Machine on people. @unicornscotty @as-a-matter-of-whump @starnight-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @whump-it @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @valkyrie-whump @cupcakes-and-pain @whole-and-apart-and-between @misspelledwitch @fanmanga1357-blog @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @just-a-raccoon-in-a-party-hat @blackrosesandwhump @panic-and-chaos @savemycrustysoul @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

94 notes · View notes

whumpingcrow · 3 years

Text

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 7

Fire and Ice

CW: bbu and everything that relates to that, discussion of noncon drugging, drugs/alcohol, injury description, blood mention, hypothermia/frostbite/basically whumpee left in the cold for too long, whumper playing caretaker, intimate whumper, noncon/dubcon kiss, general noncon/dubcon discussion and themes, sick whumpee, ptsd flashbacks/nightmares (let me know if i missed anything!)

"Jesus Christ, were you trying to kill him?"

"Shut up. Come here, help me keep him up so I can take the belt off."

Hands, warm hands on Gio, grabbing, taking, hurting. He shrinks away from them, he cries out, it hurts, everything hurts, his world is painted bright red with pain all the time, breathing is painful, moving is painful, existing is painful.

"He doesn't look so good, Nicko, I think we gotta go to the hospital-"

"He's fine. Here, hold this."

The world spins and jostles Gio around, and then he's off of the burning cold of the ground, enveloped in heat that's almost too much. It makes all of the dull aching that seems to have frozen overtime thaw out, and he begins to sob, chest heaving, gnawing pain clawing up his throat, and he can't even stop himself. He can't open his eyes, can't move at all, he's only able to cry, and it's just like the first round of training. He thinks, for probably the thousandth time, "I'm really going to die this time, this is really it for me, I'll never heal, it's over it's all over" and he cries and cries and cries.

"It's ok, Gio. You're alright now."

Now he's somewhere else, he doesn't remember leaving the freezing cold nightmare of outside, where he was lonely and shaking until his muscles felt like they were gonna give out and his skin felt like it was falling off. He must be in a bed, now, wrapped up in thick, warm blankets, laying on something sinfully soft. Panic rips through him, but everything is muted just slightly and all he can do to communicate his fear is a measly whine. He can't even open his eyes, they're held shut with a velvety exhaustion, the same one that holds him to the bed that he knows he's not worthy of. He wants to sit up, be awake, but trying to move is too hard, his skin feels like it's all shredded up where it brushes against the sheets. He wants to wake up, he hates to be asleep, he doesn't want to have any more bad dreams. He whimpers again.

"Giovanni, I'm here. I'm right here." He flinches when fingertips trace against his temple, then they are in his hair and he moans miserably. It hurts to be touched, mostly because it isn't enough. Life is agony and he feels like he's dying, he needs more than just a gentle hand in his hair. He needs a hug. He doesn't know if he remembers how to ask for that without sounding pathetically broken, so he doesn't try. He feels scalding hot tears streaming down his cheeks and falling into his hair. "Ugh, I'm so sorry, darling. I went way too far."

Gio doesn't understand. Too far? No, no this is about customary. Text book. Whatever he did, he can't remember now, was bad, bad enough to leave him in this condition, and so that means it was justified. He's never been told sorry before, he's never heard anyone who's hurt him admitting that they went overboard.

"Oh, please stop crying, Gio, you're breaking my heart." The hand is away from his hair, and Giovanni wills the tears to stop. He doesn't want anymore pain.

It takes all of his remaining energy to take in a shaking breath and force himself to whisper "I'm s-sorry, sir." It's rehearsed, even if it's broken up and weak, and he hopes that he says it good enough.

He hears a sigh, then the mattress sinks down a little next to him and the blankets are moved around a little. The cool air of the room slips under the sheets and it makes him shiver. That hurts, too, and he holds his breath until his lungs are tight so that he doesn't cry anymore. Then, strong arms are wrapping around him, drawing him against a body, warm and breathing and surprisingly gentle. He knows that this isn't right, it's not normal for an idiot boxie like him to be held, to be pressed up close against another person underneath covers for no other reason then to be held. Still, it's all he can do to not start bawling in relief as he buries his face against the chest in front of him.

He falls asleep again, nightmares full of blanked out faces and pain he doesn't ever think he'll forget plague his sleep, and every time that he starts to tremble or whine softly, Nicko pulls his wiry frame closer and pets through his hair and whispers that he's ok. He should have been doing this the entire time, he thinks, every time he heard Gio crying in his sleep or waking himself up to gasp and sniffle softly, he should have pulled him up into the bed and held him like this all those times. Now, as he's holding Gio's battered, frostbitten body against his own, he can't believe he was making them both miss out on the comfort. All it takes to calm Gio down enough to sink back into silent sleep is for Nicko to remind him that he's in harmless (for the moment, at least) arms, and then he whispers "you're ok, Gio, I've got you" into his tangled, blood soaked hair, and then he settles back into Nicko's grip and his breathing evens out. Nicko is baffled that it's that easy. He's also shocked at how, even though he hated Gio with everything that was in him hours ago, now he finds himself wanting to never let him go, to be this comfort to him forever.

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

Nicko was inconsolable when he came back inside. Rory was the first person to try and talk him down, try to convince him that it wasn't Gio's fault and to let him back inside, but he wanted to listen to her least of all. Instead, he took a few more shots of burning tequila and yelled at her, told her to get out of his house. At first she didn't take him seriously, only grabbed onto him and pulled hard at his clothes, insistent that he "just calm down" because "it wasn't that big of a deal", but once he grabbed her shoulders and told her to get the fuck out of his face, she left in a hurry.

After that, his roommate, Ben, who he'd barely noticed when they passed him in the hallway, came out to the kitchen and sat next to him, pretending he wasn't trying to find Gio out in the dark, snowy backyard as they talked. It took about thirty minutes of Ben trying to timidly suggest that maybe it wasn't entirely Gio's fault before Nicko calmed down. Then, there was another long stretch of time where he carefully made Nicko feel like shit for hurting Gio in the first place, and hours after he tied Gio up there, Ben and Nicko went outside to retrieve him.

He was in much worse condition than Nicko thought he left him in, and he was a little afraid at how not aware he had been. Giovanni had been bleeding from his nose and mouth for who knows how long, and now dark marroon blood was cracked and dried and probably fucking frozen on his face and down his entire front. Even Nicko's belt, that was much too tight around Gio's frail neck, to the point it was bruising him, was covered in blood. His ears were a burning, bright red from the bitter cold, so were his cheeks and the tips of his fingers and toes. other than that, he was ghostly pale. More so than usual, which was concerning. But the most concerning thing of all was that he was passed out, head tipped back against the post and face blank and just unmoving. Nicko wondered if he passed out from the belt, he had thought that he would reach up and take it off himself once Nicko was inside, and he was disappointed in himself for doubting Gio's obedience. He was suddenly all to aware that this kid would do anything he thought Nicko wanted, or at the very least try with everything he has before exhausting himself. Rory, too, but only because he thinks he owes it to Nicko to listen to her as well. And here he is, soaked in his own blood and no doubt bruised from where Nicko kicked him right in his stomach, and he'll be sick from the cold, and he was so high before hand he probably had no idea what was going on.

He was probably so scared. He probably always is. That hadn't even occured to Nicko before, he was seeing him only on the surface, as the boxie he got for cheap to fuck around with, not as a human, not as something so broken and so easily frightened. He felt an overwhelming surge of guilt right then and there, especially when Ben said:

"Jesus Christ were you trying to kill him?"

I don't remember. Maybe I was.

"Shut up. Come here, help me keep him up so I can take the belt off." He had to keep his cool, he had to act calm and unbothered, couldn't let it show how much this shook him up.

Giovanni sounded just pathetic when they tried to situate him, even though they were both incredibly careful. Nicko was thrown off, he'd only heard Gio make noise when he was absolutely out of control with panic, horrified or when something had been hurting him for a long time, and even then it was quite. Well, except the time the Giovanni begged him with such desperation to stop touching him, horrified by his hands on him, the implication of him touching him somewhere else entirely. Nicko had been angry with him too, then, and he was starting to really feel the weight of his remorse.

"He doesn't look so good, Nicko, I think we gotta go to the hospital-"

Oh God, do you think he needs that? Oh fuck, I messed up.

"He's fine." Nicko insisted, mostly because he was horrified of what people would think of him if he brought Giovanni into the emergency room in this condition. They would know he did it, his knuckles were bruised and covered in Gio's dark, dried blood. He hadn't had time to wash it off in between his need to get more fucked up, yelling at Rory, and trying to allow himself to be calmed down. But he had to worry about getting Gio inside first, try to gauge just how bad the damage was. He slipped the belt off from around Giovanni's poor, bruised throat, he gasped feebly in response. Nicko barely caught him with a hand on his shoulder as he collapsed to his side in exhaustion. "Here, hold this."

The belt was passed off, like a baton in a race, and Nicko wasted no time gathering Gio's small, trembling frame against his chest and standing upright with him in his arms.

He didn't bother cleaning either of them off, Gio was much too exhausted for that. It was probably a better idea to get him warm first anyways.

Nicko's heart aches for him as he fades in and out of his dazed, disconnected state, crying when he's present enough to feel his pain.

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

Rory doesn't come back after that. Giovanni is sick for the next few days, he barely leaves Nicko's bed the entire time, Nicko works on bringing him back to health, he only drinks a little in the evening, just to be relaxed with Gio while he holds him and tries to sooth him enough to sleep. He's got a fever, hot to the touch and shivering all the damn time. It feels like the cold from outside has buried itself under his skin.

Except for when he's asleep.

When he sleeps, he's burning from the inside out. The mixture of his fever and coming off of the drug that had made him feel so fantastically far away, he remembers the nightmares. Sometimes he wakes up gasping, Shooting up in bed, shoving the too heavy blankets and Nicko's suffocating arms off of him with desperation to get away from the heat, in his dreams he's surrounded by bodies, too close and too hot and hands touching and taking and torturing. Other times, the burning inside is different, it's from dreams where he's all alone, everyone is leaving him, they don't want him he's just not good enough for them. Then, he wakes up and he's grabbing fistfuls of Nicko's clothes, pressing himself closer, closer, begging in a watery, wobbling voice, "Nicko please, please stay. Please don't go. Hold me, don't let go of me please."

So Nicko pulls him closer, and through the drunken, heavy veil of sleep, he finds himself placing soft kisses in Gio's hair, stroking little circles against his ribs, over his sharp shoulder blades, shaking with each gasping breaths.

Nicko misses Rory. He doesn't feel that bad about making her leave, not as awful as he feels for what he did to Gio, but he misses her, nonetheless. He misses a warm body, a touch more than panicked desperation. He finds himself wanting to touch Gio all the time, wants to tattoo him again, or toy around with him while he's completely there, when he can look sort of apprehensive and bothered and mouth-wateringly flustered. He's easy, and Nicko adores it.

When Gio starts to get better, it's relieving to everyone. He had said he didn't want to see Salem, not in this disgustingly sick and disoriented way. Once he gets a little more clearheaded, Salem is glad to see him in the kitchen when he gets home from school. Much too his- and surprisingly Nicko's -disdain, he's usually spending his time out of bed cleaning. He goes until someone insists he stops. They get worried when he gets pale and sways in front of the sink where he's been trying to wash the dishes. Salem often takes him to his room, which Nicko allows, and lays down on the floor with him, music playing softly through his speakers. Nicko, when he finds him in worrying pallor like that, takes him to his bed and asks him to lay down, to rest for a little while. Sometimes he joins him, sometimes he doesn't.

Gio starts to miss Rory when he feels better. He doesn't like how he feels with her drugs out of his system, for no one around to playfully treat him how he deserves; less than a person, more of a toy. Nicko is suddenly too nice and gentle, and Gio doesn't know if he likes it that much. He really doesn't like sleeping in his bed every night, he's too frightened now, especially when he's sober. He misses that amazing feeling he had the last time he saw Rory, even though the high and the new concussion and the fever made him forget almost everything that happened before Nicko came in and hurt him. He knew it was something bad, he was glad he wasn't really there to experience it.

One night, after waking up from another awful, empty and lonely dream, he turned over on the mattress, trying to find Nicko in the dark by dragging his hands across the sheets. He found his warm body, he shivered at how he was slightly overheated from his panic and his need to be close to someone in the obedient way he was supposed to, to be good for Nicko. He pressed himself close, timidly pressing his lips against Nicko's throat until it pulled him back into consciousness. He didn't seem upset about being woken up, simply finding Gio's thigh under the blankets and wrapping his sometimes threatening fingers around it and squeezing it with a pleased hum. Giovanni had tears on his face, they got onto Nicko's neck where Gio was getting closer and closer to Nicko with need and aching and yearning.

"What are you doing, Gio?" He asked. His voice was a hoarse rumble through his chest, Giovanni ran his hand over Nicko's bare chest, and he panted against Nicko's skin. Suddenly Nicko was aware of how bothered and worked up Gio was, and he pulled away from him. His eyes took a second to adjust, and from the streetlight outside, he could vaguely see his darkened, bruised eyes, shining with tears, staring at him wide eyed.

"You're my favorite person, Nicko." Gio was whispering, almost afraid to be admitting it. "I... I want to be close to you all the time. I don't want to bother you but it hu-hurts when I can't be."

He was so earnest when he said it, Nicko didn't think he was lying. He had no reason to, really. Nicko could see through the dark that his wide, permanently panicked eyes were flicking back and forth from Nicko's eyes to his mouth.

"Rory was right," Nicko started, his voice low and gravelly, "you're so cute. Especially when you say things like that."

Giovanni flushed at the words, and he was glad that it was dark enough that Nicko probably couldn't see him blushing hard. "You really think so?" He asked, voice wavering, like he was expecting Nicko to say "no you fucking worthless idiot. Not even a little bit do I think that".

Instead, he reached out and ran his thumb over Gio's cheek, across his jaw, and finally over his bottom lip. He smiled when Gio began to tremble at the touch, breath hitching in a beautiful way that was almost unnoticeable. "Yeah, Gio," he answered, "yeah, I do."

And then, before either of them changed their minds, Nicko pulled him close and kissed him.

Gio melted right into it, pressing his body flush against Nicko's, opening his mouth just a little as an invitation. He was perfect, he was made for this, for kissing and touching this way. But then Nicko felt guilty for thinking that. He had to remind himself constantly, every single time that Giovanni was looking irresistably adorable, that he was trained into being this way. Nicko couldn't even be sure that Gio really wanted it, or if he just thought he did because he knew it was what Nicko wanted. He was reminded again of what he'd realized when he saw Giovanni outside, saw that he hadn't even tried to get the belt off of his neck: Gio would do anything for Nicko. He had just admitted that Nicko was his favorite person, after all. Guilt started eating away at him yet again, so he pulled away from Gio.

"It's late." He mumbled, turning away from Gio altogether. "You need to get your rest so you can feel better."

He was answered by silence, and it made him sigh heavily. He didn't want to upset Gio, but even more he didn't want to use him, not when it didn't mean the same thing to him. "G'night, Giovanni."

Again, Gio was perfectly still and perfectly quiet. When he thought Nicko was asleep, he started to cry softly. He let his tears slide down his cheeks and wet his hair and the pillow. His fingers were pressed tightly to his lips. He wanted the ghost of Nicko's mouth on his to stay there forever. Eventually he exhausted himself, falling asleep crying, aching and burning for Nicko.

11 notes · View notes

whumpingcrow · 3 years

Text

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 9

"Giovanni, Redacted."

Short Authors note: Please head the CW and read this chapter with discretion! It has very heavy themes and wording that discuss drug use/mental health in a very raw and uncomfortable way. I really advise this to be read by mature (18+) audience because of these themes. Thank you :) -Crow

CW: bbu and everything that goes with that, very poor mental health/slight suicidal language and themes, noncon drugging/drugs and alcohol (EXPLICIT), overdose mention, noncon/dubcon (EXPLICIT), multiple whumpers, lady whumper, dehumanizing language/themes, PTSD/nightmares, conditioned/trained whumpee, intimate whumper, death mention (let me know if i missed anything!)

Giovanni gets sick again. It's not like any ailment or injury he's ever experienced, it isn't like the bone chilling sickness he got from being outside for too long, it isn't like the exhausting nausea he used to get after long days of punishment and failure and violence. It's something altogether different, and in many ways so much worse. Nothing feels good anymore. Actually, he doesn't really feel anything, most of the time.

Besides fear. Fear is more of his way of existing than a feeling to him, now, sometimes it seems like the closest thing to home he has.

And so, the fear and the drugs and the confusing sickness all overshadow the things he really should be feeling. He doesn't even realize it when he begins to hate Rory, so he doesn't admit to himself or anyone else. He only really gets as far as telling himself he resents her, although he doesn't know how he remembers that word. But it wasn't resentment, he hated her. Almost as much as he hated his old master. Sometimes even more. It started out as a small burning anger toward her after she traded his body for drugs at Oscar's. Even then, he could convince himself not to be upset, that he was trained for that, that it was his purpose and he just had to get used to it. He could forgive Rory, even if she never apologized or even acknowledged what happened after, because at that point he really did still like her. Or was loyal to her. Or whatever.

But it just kept getting worse after that day. Rory had promised that after Gio did that awful thing for her, they would have fun. Gio soon found out that either Rory had a very different idea of fun than he did, or she had lied to him. She was able to keep them both high all the time, the backpack that Oscar had given her was filled to the brim. Every time Gio saw Rory digging through the bag to offer up his next dose, he couldn't help but think about the fact that he was seeing a visual of what he was worth: one huge sack of numbness in the form of pills. And to make it all worse, he was only half of the payment. Fitting enough. Still, he got tired of all of the bad trips and highs and lows, and he started to get mad at her again. Did it not feel horrible for Rory, too? She looked horrible, they both did, pale and borderline emaciated.

Gio was so angry with her that she was doing that to him, that she was making him sick and giving him pills so he'd never sleep (he was starting to actually miss sleeping and having bad dreams, because at least those he could escape, he couldn't wake up and leave this nightmare), and giving him pills so he'd be willing to do whatever she wanted and be subdued enough not to fight her or Oscar, or any other freak that she was letting have a turn with him that time, and giving him pills so that when she ran out he felt like he was dying, honest to God seconds away from vomiting out his own empty stomach and biting the dust immediately after. He had to forgive her, still, with no apology from her, every few hours for that.

Then Gio got sick. He didn't tell Rory, he was positive that he was too stupid to communicate the level of pain he was in anyway, and also wasn't sure if she cared. He was worried that one day he would just pass out from exhaustion or over exertion and he wouldn't ever wake up. Or that he would take a few too many pills at one time and his body would just give. That was sort of the easiest thing for him to forgive, as sad as it made him. Maybe it was because by then he was numb enough to not care about his health at all, or maybe he was just too tired to really try to fight anymore. He resolved that he had nothing to look forward to anymore, so why try? He not only forgave Rory for that, he surrendered that part of him to her completely. It was in her hands now, and sometimes it was very obvious that she knew that. And sometimes Gio thought he could see her enjoying it.

And through all of that, through all of the mistreatment and pain, Giovanni still liked her. None of that was what made him hate her. Because really, besides slowly poisoning him and trading him around for all the drugs she couldn't afford, she was nice to him. Or maybe he was just rewired to like anyone in charge of him.

The night he did start hating her, they were just getting back to their shitty motel that she had also managed to keep by letting the owner fool around with Giovanni from Oscar's place. Gio was tired like always, he was buzzing from the small taste of coke Oscar gave him to wake him up a little when he was done with him, he was embarrassed because that time Rory had been in the room with them, and mostly he just wanted to sleep. He was such an idiot for thinking that Rory would allow him to sleep. Probably more of an idiot for thinking he deserved rest. Rory was being nice to him in the car, calling him cute, she was such a fucking liar, telling him he was "a precious puppy", he felt nothing short of a repulsive monster, and petting through his hair, he never wanted anyone to touch him again.

Rory was nice to him when they went inside, too. Her hands were all over him, in all the same places that Oscar's had been, but with their own trademark tenderness along with their trademark perversion. Gio got lost in her movements, he let himself enjoy the gentle, almost teasing, touches. Then he let her push him back onto the bed, he let her crawl on top of him, he let her take his clothes off for a second time that day, he wanted to cry when she kissed him and pushed a pill onto his tongue with her own.

He didn't hate her then, he always enjoyed being used by her more than any of the others, and he felt nearly happy for the first time since he left with her. He was just high and all fucked out from Rory and Oscar. After, she rested her head against his bare chest, holding him close to her.

"You're wonderful, Gio," she told him, "You're the perfect person to do this with."

"To do what with, miss?" He knows he needs to stop asking questions, she doesn't owe him any explanation. But she's murdering him, the least she could do is explain herself.

She sat up to look at him, smiling at him like she always did. She looked beautiful. She looked just as sick as Gio felt. "Do you know about Romeo and Juliet?"

He did, although he didn't know why. "Yeah."

"That's like us, don't you think?" She crawled back on top of him, kissing him all over as she spoke. "Forbidden love, destined to never be fully together, dying in each others arms."

He was silenced for a moment, unsure which part of that he should address first. Did Rory love him? Of course not, he was unlovable, she was just high. They both were. And more than that, did she just confirm the meaning behind all of this: to die? Gio had spent the last few weeks stuck with her trying to convince himself that he was ok with that, that he would let Rory do what she wanted, and if she wanted him dead then he wouldn't protest against her. But hearing her admit it scared him. Maybe it was because he was foolish enough to hold onto a little hope that she wouldn't do something so horrible. She knew what she was doing, this entire time she knew that she was killing them both, and it was romantic to her. He was disgusted. He was horrified. He hated her.

"Rory," he whimpered, trying with his weakened arms to push her off of him. She was persistent, and had it been any other situation, Gio would've given up. He would've been quiet and just lay still and let Rory have her way with him yet again. But he was so scared, he was shaking, and he pushed at her again, harder. He didn't want to die. "Rory I don't want to die!'

She climbed off of him, allowing him to sit up and hide his face in his hands so she wouldn't see him crying. She was frowning at him, like she couldn't comprehend what he was saying. "You...You don't?"

"No! No, I don't want to die!" Gio was surprised in himself for shouting at her, for snapping his head up and looking right at her and yelling. She jumped back like she was afraid of him. She was such an idiot, didn't she know that she was the threat in this situation?

"Gio..." She shook her head to herself, then he could see her looking around the room, probably to locate the drug bag they had just picked up. "I just thought that you...I thought maybe you'd want some sort of escape. I know I would, if I were you."

He cried harder at that, but the tears felt different than usual. They weren't tears of fear or sadness, but tears of boiling anger. Did everyone think that of him? That he was so miserable and pathetic he must want a way out, he was such a hopeless situation he might as well just die? He didn't want to die, he didn't want to have some "forbidden love" with Rory, he didn't want the drugs, he didn't want any of this. "I want to go home. I want to go back with Nicko."

"What? No, Gio! No, come on, we're having a good time. We don't have t-to die, I was just kidding!" She laughed nervously to try and sell her point. He could sense her desperation, only this time he didn't want to help her. "You don't really wanna go back there, Gio-"

"I don't want this, Rory!" He pushed himself off of the bed and started to pull his clothes back on. "I don't fucking love you-"

"Gio!"

"And I don't want to kill myself for you! I want to go home, Rory! Take me home!"

The room fell silent after that. Gio wasn't afraid of punishment, he couldn't feel anything past his anger and hatred for Rory. He wiped his tears away, he knew they made him look weak, and he stared Rory down for a few more seconds. Just outside, he could hear two men shouting at each other. He wondered if anyone could hear him yelling at Rory. He wondered if they could tell if it was a box boy speaking out of turn and if they would take matters into their own hands to correct him.

"Fine." Rory spoke through her teeth, yanking her own shirt back on as she did. Gio couldn't believe that it worked so easily. "I'll take you back to Nicko. You ungrateful fuck."

He was ungrateful, he knew that. He didn't care.

Rory played the music louder than she ever had, signifying that she had nothing to say to Gio and didn't want to hear a word out of him. He liked it better that way, anyway, he didn't want to talk to her. She didn't take him all the way back up to Nicko's house, instead stopping down the street so he would have to walk past all of the neighbors houses in the snow to get there. He was more than happy to face the cold again rather than stay around Rory another agonizing second.

When he made it to the front door, something made him freeze. He had convinced himself that Nicko would be angry with him for leaving, and the idea of adding anymore pain to his already mangled body made him feel sick with anxiety. Or what if Nicko replaced him while he was gone? What if the new boxie was better than him? What if Nicko was glad that Gio left and would just send him back to the facility once he came back?

Then he decided that all of that was worth the risk of being inside a warm house, where his favorite person was, where Salem was, where he had a soft pink sweater hidden underneath his beanbag. So, with his last bit of energy, he reached out and knocked against the heavy wooden door.

9 notes · View notes

just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 3 years

Text

Regret - Nik

I feel like I make the joke of “whoa who is this?? every time I post Nik.]

CW: captivity, stress position, intimate whumper, noncon touch (non sexual), possessive language, brief suicidal ideation, death mention, blood, broken whumpee.

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

A sound. It’s so sudden and unknown that Nik tenses. Was it real? There have been sounds creeping around his awareness lately, sounds and lights and shapes in the darkness of the blindfold. He whines slightly, testing to see if the sound responds.

Sometimes they do.

It’s worse when they do.

He swallows thickly, jaw throbbing with the ache of being held open for so long. How long as it even been, locked immobile in the darkness? Nik’s internal clock had been destroyed long ago, smashed to bits by the fake sunrises and tauntingly inconsistent days.

“Feeling remorseful yet?”

A voice. Real voice; he’s sure of it. This one is different, echoing off the stone walls.

The voices from his head can’t replicate that.

A frantic, begging whine. Yes, yes I am. Please, please just let me move. Let me go back to the vivarium. I’ll never disobey you again, I swear. Nik tries to nod, tries to show the Sorcerer that he’s sorry, but he can’t move. The metal around his forehead and neck keep him securely locked onto the wall.

How long has it been since he moved even an inch?

A hmm and Nik stills immediately. His heart is pounding in his throat, threatening to be the end of him he’s sure. He can feel his own trembling, but it’s vaguely distant, separate from him.

Footsteps, there are footsteps. Nik’s breath hitches as he feels tears pricking behind his eyes. Please, please I’ll do anything. I’ll never disobey again.

In one motion, all the cuffs disappear entirely, freeing him from the wall. Nik falls forward, unable to catch himself. Free, but still unable to move his locked joints and muscles. His skull cracks against the hard, stone floor, sending the darkness spinning. He groans brokenly, chest expanding farther than it has in, in… since the darkness. He can feel something warm bubbling up from underneath his skin and drip onto the floor.

The Sorcerer smiles down at him, reveling in the wrecked, thin body that he’s made Nik into. He crouches down, cupping the side of Nik’s neck. The creature shudders as he strokes his thumb across its jaw. He can feel its response, the curling tendrils of violation that course through its blood. He knows the pathetic little thing would try to flee if it could, but it can’t. It can’t – not only because it’s too weak, but because there’s another part of itself that craves the touch. Craves the comfort and stimulation that even this minuscule movement provides.

And wouldn’t it? It hadn’t felt anything in nearly a month.

The Sorcerer admires it for a moment more, before sending a blast of lightning through its body.

Nik screams behind the muzzle, muscles atrophied by stillness now forced to contract, to move by the electricity pumping through him. He can feel his joints creak at the sudden change, a body so frozen in one position now forced into movement.

Muscles tear and he screams.

Sobbing, Nik sprawls limply in a new position but still unable to move. His limbs throb, laying useless at his sides. He still wants to move, he wants to crawl away, to heave his body away from the man that he knows will only bring more pain, but he can’t. Even unrestrained, he can’t move.

“Did you really think I was going to let you off that easy, hm? Just a little time in the dark? Poor stupid thing; you’re not close to done.”

The man’s arms dig around him and lift him bodily from the floor. He can’t help but sob; couldn’t stop even if he tried. He’s aware of every inch of his body, the aches and hurts and deeper pains that radiate from them. His consciousness is a spinning, swirling, intangible thing that Nik couldn’t even hope to grasp. There’s nothing outside of this moment. No understanding that the pain will eventually end, no hope for comfort, no ideals of a better time. Only pain that radiates with each breath and the general motion of being dragged to another room.

To the workshop.

He’s dumped on the floor as the Sorcerer moves to gather the items he needs. Nik’s lungs are burning, his throat feels tight and pained. He tries to heave for another breath, tries to focus on the cold stone here. It’s familiar, having spent so long laying upon it, wishing for death.

His fingers twitch, and he nearly begins to cry a new. They twitched, he moved them. It’s the first inkling of movement, of control that he’s felt in so long. The slightest movement, maybe not even visible to the unknowing observer, has become the only glimmer of light he can even fathom.

Before he can try to move farther, a loop of rope is circled around his neck. It doesn’t cinch, but pulls upwards. He coughs, the rope pressing on his windpipe, and hands come to help guide him to his feet. He’s shocked that he can stand at all, considering the weariness and shaking of his legs. The rope around his neck stops rising, but keeps taunt. He either stands or chokes, and it feels like no matter what he does they will both happen.

After a moment to balance himself, his hands are grabbed and tied in front with yet more rope. They’re pulled down, the rope attaching to the ground and adding more strain around his neck. Breathing is difficult, standing is difficult, everything hurts and is too much - but also there is nothing surrounding him, nothing that he can recognize and use as an anchor. It is too much and not enough, all at once.

The hand lights around his neck again and he whimpers.

”Do you know why I can do this to you? Because you’re mine.”

Nik shuddered. He could feel another hand roaming over his back as the other continues with the horrifically gentle motions on his jawline. No matter what he does, no matter what he tries, he can’t escape. He knows. Knows that there is nothing for him to do now but suffer.

A thought forms on the outside of his awareness, a fleeting bit of logic that tells him he’ll go back, he’ll be returned to the little sprite, that things will get better.

It’s gone before he can really believe it.

The hands retreat and he’s torn. He’s thankful, grateful that they’re no longer on his skin and touching him, but he misses them at the same time. They were grounding – real, when nothing else feels real right now.

The first lash across his shoulder blades shocks him, knees buckling with the surprise and sudden pain. A strangled keen fills the air, but it’s choked off by the loop as it presses into his throat. Hands reposition him, and something else. A clink against his wrist and a faint feeling. So very faint, but noticeable. Just a little more of his magic is accessible, just a fraction more. But it’s enough. It’s enough to give him back a bit of strength and stand.

To continue to be tormented and tortured.

The next lash mirrors the first. The third crosses them both. Another, then another, and another. Nik cries out for each one, but his voice is so broken and rough from unuse that it feels as if there’s glass in his throat. It burns and cuts like the whip, cutting him open.

When the whip does stop, he’s fighting for every breath. He needs the air desperately, but the shift of his back is unthinkable. He needs the air, but the cost is high.

“You’re mine, little forest creature. Only mine. Others may look, might even be allowed to touch, but you’re mine. Your tears are mine, your blood is mine. Your magic, your life is mine.”

Nik’s chin falls to his chest, unable to keep it up any longer. He’s waiting, waiting for the familiar feeling of buzzing under his skin. Of the emptiness that comes with his magic being drained away. The Sorcerer is predictable - is greedy. He wouldn’t leave this opportunity to get such misery tainted blood that he could use on his enemies.

So Nik waits. Wait for the relief that the numbness brings.

He waits, and waits, and breathes and regrets the motion it brings, and waits. But nothing. No relief, no emptiness to take the pain away; even for just a little bit.

“How long do your kind live, I wonder? I’m sure longer than us. Well, normally,” the man chuckles, cupping the boy’s cheek to lift his head. He admires the blood that stains the blindfold, the intricate looking sash that the boy had made. Cute designs.

“How long will you live? Kept in the dark away from your precious trees, your lifeblood being taken from you drip by drip?”

Nik shivered as the man tilted his head side to side. The touch was more invasive than the words. It was nearly impossible to focus, to grasp any information being presented to him. The words themselves didn’t sink in, but the air of possessiveness needed no words.

Nik got the message.

“I’m sure more than long enough. Besides, once I gain more control over these idiots who call themselves Kings I’ll find somewhere better for you. Just as secure, of course. Would you like that? To be kept outside someday?”

The man’s fingers traced the edges of the muzzle and Nik felt himself crumbling. Slowly falling apart; past what he ever thought he could be. Pieces ground into dust under the man’s shoes.

“Who knows; you might even outlive me. Doubtful, but possible. Fear not, little thing, I’d find someone to take you if that happened. There’s power in a weapon that no one else has. Power is using it to keep people in line and fight to get their own hands on it.”

He sighed. “You’ll prolong my life, this I’m sure of. Shame it’ll drain yours, but I’m sure you understand. There’s an order of class, of importance in life. Some things are just not quite as important.”

Nik was crying again. Please. Please take the pain go away. Just for a little bit; please. Please. Take it, take it I don’t want it anymore. Just let me fall asleep, let me escape this if only for a little bit.

The man took no notice of the way the boy in front of him trembled and shook, instead focused on carding through the dark hair. It was dry, graying slowly from the roots. Interesting. Worth getting a sample from later.

He reached back and undid the knot behind the boy’s head, drawing away the blindfold. Nik squeezed his eyes shut in fear. The Sorcerer brushed over his eyes with the pad of his thumb, wiping away the tears and crust that had formed after so long.

“Now, are you ready to behave again?”

Nik whined and nodded the best he could, trying to look up at the man. He didn’t want to see the smirk, the glint of possessiveness in the man’s eyes, but he very much wanted to see something. Anything. Anything at all.

The Sorcerer admired the eyes; a dull yellow instead of the shining, strong gold he saw that first day.

“Good. Then let’s put you back where you belong.”

tagging @welcome-to-the-whumpfest @as-a-matter-of-whump @thehopelessopus @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @pepperonyscience @insanitywishes @redstainedsocks @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @whump-me-all-night-long @susiequaz12 @mnmlover2002 @whumpeesblog

Plz let me know if you wish to be added or removed from the taglist! Also thanks for waiting lol.

#whump #Nik #captivity tw #stress position #intimate whumper #non con touch tw #possessive language tw #suicidal ideation tw #death mention tw #blood tw #broken whumpee

60 notes · View notes