Mickey
Title: Mickey
Author: rpssock
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Richard/OMC
Warnings: Rape, drugs
Word Count:3410
Notes/Prompts: for spnkink: Misha, Jensen and Jared invite Richard to accompany him to a bar. They have a great time and although they try to be nice to Richard it's obvious that he's more or less the odd man out. So no-one notices when he goes missing after a trip to the bathroom. Several days later he turns up on set, bloodied, beaten and raped.
There's a lull in the conversation, so Jensen's all for waving up another round; he looks around though, first, frowns when he sees the half-drunk glass on the far corner of the table. "Hey, where'd Richard go?" he asks, and Jared shrugs.
"Said he was feeling a bit off, went to the bathroom."
Maybe Jensen's a bit drunk, because-"Wasn't that a while ago? Thought he'd be back by now."
They're all staring with varying degrees of interest at the solitary glass. "He mentioned a headache," Misha says, "maybe he called a taxi. Did you want to call him?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps it on and fiddles around. "I've got his number."
Jensen shakes his head. "Nah. He's an adult, he can take care of himself," so when the next round comes the glass is swept away.
Two hours later, Jensen watches from the cab as Misha slouches against the wall of building, phone to his ear. "Hey," he tells Richard's voicemail, "We figured you'd left, but call me back, okay? Hope you're feeling better," and he clicks it off, slides into the seat by Jensen.
The cab drives off.
Eighty miles away, a phone vibrates, lights up white and blue in the trunk of a car, but not even its insistent buzzing wakes up the man beside it, and fifteen minutes later when the trunk is opened it's as still and silent as he.
-
His head is pounding. There's drool on his pillow. His back hurts. He wrinkles up his nose and presses his forehead down, not ready to get up quite yet. What the hell, it's Saturday, and they've got the whole weekend off-he can be lazy.
He must have drunk a lot more than he'd thought, because for the life of him he can't remember anything past the first hour. Maybe it'd gotten better; he can't remember drinking himself into a coma since college. Maybe it'd gotten worse, and he'd fallen into drinking too much to avoid the awkwardness of not knowing any of their inside jokes, of wishing he'd politely declined their invitation, been a boring old man and turned in early.
At least they'd gotten him to a bed. Stripped him down naked and everything, which is actually a bit odd but maybe he's the reticent one, maybe they consider themselves to be good enough friends to do stuff like that. They'd tucked him in, even.
Strange that he doesn't remember the bed smelling like this. Must be at one of their places.
He sighs, and rolls slowly over to face the ceiling.
He doesn't make it that far. Actually, he makes it about two inches before registering that there's something around his right wrist, rattling, matched by the same on his left. Through the cloud around his brain cold sinks down into his consciousness as he realizes his arms are wide apart and he can't move them together. He snaps his head up, regrets it immediately as a sharp, hollow pain punches into his skull and his gorge rises, acid bubbling up into his dry throat. He shuts his eyes, breathes slowly, and reopens them to see, in the dim light, cuffs linking his hands firmly to a wrought-iron headboard.
He tries to shift his legs, finds them splayed out behind him, just as closely tied down. His breath comes a little faster. His heart pounds along with it. Sweat beads along his forehead. "Guys," he tries to say, "this isn't funny," but his tongue is thick and fuzzy and it comes out slurred and confused.
He hears a door swing open behind him with a creak, and brilliant light suddenly floods his vision. He flinches, sinks his head back down into the pillow, growling. "Get me out of this," and it comes out slightly better than before.
Each footstep's a little too loud, sending dull shocks through his head, and someone settles onto the edge of the bed, running a hand down his back. "I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"
He doesn't recognize the voice. The hand strokes him through the thin sheet covering him, trailing down his spine and back up to caress his shoulder blades, and he shivers. "Awful," he grunts, and he makes to turn his head to see whoever it is but the hand lifts off his back and pushes his head down.
"I'm sorry," the man says, "I had to do it. Relax. I'm sure you're still hungover. You can go back to sleep," and he doesn't leave Richard any choice, just presses his face down until he can't breathe right and his eyes slip shut and he dreams about nothing.
-
The next time he wakes up he's much more lucid, and there's no pain when he lifts his head. The room's dark, not because there's no light (as he'd momentarily thought), but because there's a thick, silky material tied over his eyes. He drags his face against the pillow, trying to pull the blindfold down, but it's tied too tightly for the minimal friction to have any effect.
He tugs at the cuffs instead, but they're just tight enough that he can't slip them, and he gives up fairly quickly after testing each one, slumping back down with his face sideways on the pillow. He needs to piss, and he's thirsty, and at this point he's pretty sure it's not any of his coworkers doing this to him.
The door creaks open again, and those same footsteps step quickly over to him. He shies away as a hand settles on his face, but another grips the back of his skull firmly as the first one trails down his chin and neck. "Feeling better?" The voice is smooth, masculine, with a slight accent he can't quite place.
"What do you want?" he asks, "Who are you?"
The man hums. "Are you hungry? Or do you need to relieve yourself? I can help." One hand slips over his shoulder and under the sheet, stroking down his ribs and belly. He jerks away, ineffectually.
"Don't-! What's going on?"
The hand pulls away, settles over the sheet instead and kneads into his back. "You're even better up close, you know that?"
Richard swallows with the bare amount of saliva still in his mouth and tries not to hyperventilate. "Please just tell me what you want," he says, "I'm sure we can work something-"
"I don't want money," the man spits, hands still and mouth very suddenly right next to Richard's ear, "I don't want anything. Just you. You and me, it's going to be wonderful. Are you hungry?"
"Who are you?" There's a whine in his voice that he didn't put there. He clenches his hands into fists.
"You're mine," the man says, "all mine. I've been watching you, and now I get to keep you." The hands move again, one gripping under his chin, the other stroking through his hair, and a pair of dry lips press abruptly and firmly onto his own. He stiffens and clenches his jaw shut.
"Get off me," he whispers as soon as the man pulls away. "Don't do this."
"I don't want to hurt you," the man says, sounding almost hurt himself. "It's okay. Relax. Don't you see? I love you. I've loved you for such a long time. I have all your work, you know, when you came up here I couldn't believe how lucky I was, I've been watching you this whole week, and when those bastards neglected you I knew I could have my chance. We're going to be so happy…"
"You're sick," he snaps, even as he realizes he probably shouldn't bait the crazy stalker, "You can't keep me here. Let me go. I-I have a wife, I have kids…"
"I know. I forgive you. You didn't know I existed, but now you do. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Here." The hard lip of a glass presses into his mouth, but he tilts his head up to look away from it. "It's just water! Would you prefer juice, or milk, or tea? Coffee? I don't think alcohol would be wise. You must still be disoriented."
"Maybe I'd be less disoriented if I could see. Or if you untied me." His voice is raspy, and the drink sounds good, but there's no guarantee it's not drugged.
"…I don't think that would be wise, either. I asked you to come with me, and you didn't want to come with me, and they said you might be reluctant at first. But if you need anything, I can get it for you. Or-you must have to relieve yourself. You had a lot to drink. I'll help you, okay? I'll walk you over to the bathroom."
…Which means that he'll have to be unchained from the bed. He nods, and the man pats him on the back. "Good, good." He hears the jingle of keys, and first his left ankle, then his right is released. He draws his legs up and twists around to lie sideways.
It's when the man leans over him, pressing against his back, that he realizes that the man's a lot bigger than him, able to half-embrace him from behind and unlock the manacles on his wrists at the same time. The man lifts Richard up, sets him on his feet, keeping one arm around the top of his chest uncomfortably close to his neck. "Just walk forward. I'll guide you there." He loops the other arm around Richard's, keeping him effectively bound.
They walk forward, Richard shuffling a little, and the man turns him a little ways to the right. The floor beneath his feet changes from carpet to cold tile, and he trips at the transition. The man holds him up easily, cooing little noises at him. "Here we are," he says, and one of his hands trails down Richard's chest and stomach and brushes against his dick, and Richard tenses and elbows the man in the gut, and he hisses and the arm around his chest tightens up further and presses along his neck. "I'm not going to hurt-"
"I can do it," he says. "Let me do it."
"You can't see," the man protests, but lets Richard wrap his own hand around it before gripping around Richard's hand. "There we go, let go." Richard's face burns, and he hesitates. "It's okay," the man says, pats his hip with the other hand. He really does need to piss, though, so he does it, and the man wipes him off before he can do anything about it. He leaves Richard standing there, lets go of him and leans around to flush it, and Richard pushes away and kicks out. He pulls the blindfold off with one hand, stumbles backward and turns to flee out the bathroom door.
The man leaps after him, jumping on his back and gripping him in a tight bear hug. Richard struggles, throws his elbows back into the man's torso and his head up into the man's chin. "Fuck!" He lets go, and Richard stumbles into the bedroom, turns to get out the door, and then he can't breathe.
It's like his whole body is out of his control, like he can feel himself moving without his consent, like a horde of madmen are stamping all around his skin. He goes stiff, arches back, and can dimly hear someone scream before he collapses halfway to the floor. The man catches him on the fall, and suddenly the pain is over.
He gasps for breath, blinks away tears, pushes against the man's chest, and the man lets go of him, pulls back and points a taser directly at Richard's chest. "I'll do it again," he says, "I don't want to hurt you, but I will."
Richard's reclined on the carpet, looking up dazedly at the man. He's a little over six feet, probably, muscled, with limp blond hair and wild blue eyes and ghost-white skin. His arms are shaking. He looks like he's about to cry. "Get up. Get on the bed." When Richard doesn't move, he waves the point of the stun gun at him. "Get up!"
Richard stands, hands up, and inches backwards toward the bed. The man moves with him, and when they reach the bed he shoves Richard down, straddling his legs and pressing his torso onto the mattress. The taser is trembling right by his chin. "You're mine," the man whispers, "mine." He stands there for a long moment, breathing heavily, then backs away. "Lie down. Face up. Hands by the headboard. Slowly, or I'll shoot you again."
He does as the man tells him, and in short order his hands are chained back up. The man drops the taser by the side of the bed and then breaks into sobs.
Richard's head falls back, and he stares at the ceiling, listening to the man cry. His heart's still beating a little too fast, bumping along loudly in his ears. His muscles feel tired and weak. He wants to cry, too.
Eventually the man stops sobbing, wipes his eyes with the back of one hand, and looms over Richard. They stare at each other. "I'm sorry," the man says, "I can't help myself. I have to do it now. You're just-you're perfect. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to," Richard says, "Just calm down, okay? Look-"
The man laughs. "I drugged you and kidnapped you and you're still trying to be nice to me," he says in wonderment, "God, I have to-you're amazing." He leans over, eyes wide, one hand splayed out on Richard's chest. "I have to," he mumbles, and then he's levered himself up onto the bed, laid out along Richard's body, and he's groping at him and kissing him desperately.
Richard bucks up, brings his feet up and kicks at the man's legs, twists back and forth to dislodge him. The man snarls. "No, no, you can't stop me, nobody is going to stop me!" He slams a fist into Richard's face, pounds into him once, twice, three times, then grabs his neck and starts shaking him. "Lie still, for god's sake, don't make me hurt you, I don't want to hurt you," and Richard would laugh hysterically at that if his air weren't all being choked off.
He's let go, and blood drips down his face as he drags in long breaths. The man sits up on his heels, grips Richard's legs hard enough to bruise and wrenches them apart. "I love you," as he sits between Richard's legs and undoes his belt, pulls out his dick, "I love you," he hums as Richard looks away, blinking tears through his swollen eye, "I love you." He pulls Richard's thighs up, and Richard gives one last, useless jerk before he feels the thing pushing into his body.
It's not the same sort of pain as the taser, or even as being punched in the face. It's sharp at the edges and dull in-between, a warm, sick feeling of intrusion. "You feel good," the man mutters as Richard feels himself tear and bleed, "so tight and warm, like you were saving this for me." The press in is slow, careful, as if to prolong the agony. Richard gives a low wail, mouth drooping open, and he's crying with full, gasping sobs.
"Stop," he whispers, "stop, stop, stop," but the man doesn't seem to hear him. He's got his eyes closed as he starts to pull back out and push in again, keeping the pace slow, gripping Richard's hips tighter and tighter.
"So good," he says. "So good."
Richard wonders if anyone's even noticed he's gone. If anyone's going to come for him. "Stop," he pleads once more.
"I love you," the man tells him.
-
The man tries to feed him, but he won't eat. The man coos at him, cleans off his face and his bloody thighs and apologizes, over and over. "I couldn't help myself," he says, "I promise I'll make it good for you next time."
"Let me go," Richard says.
"Well, that was always the plan," the man tells him, "But I have to make it up to you, first."
"No," Richard says, "please," as the man maneuvers him so that he's face down once again, but anyone would scoff at his acting skills, because there's no expression on his face as he says it, no emotion in the words, nothing there to show he has any investment in the scene.
"I'm not selfish," the man says, as he spreads Richard's unresisting legs, "I wasn't going to take you away from everyone forever. I just wanted you for a little bit." He rubs at the edge of Richard's hole.
"Don't," Richard says.
"I just couldn't resist, you know. I've worshipped you for so long." A finger, slick with lube, teases around the rim before pushing gently in.
Richard chokes back a sob.
"It feels good. I promise." It still hurts from before, even as the finger searches around, finds a place that sends a cold thrill of unwanted pleasure through his spine.
"Please," Richard says.
The finger disappears, to be replaced by two. The man leans down and presses kisses along Richard's back.
"Stop."
Three fingers stretch him open. He feels greasy and slick, numb. His wrists hurt.
"Stop."
A hand wriggles under his stomach, and gently coaxes his dick to hardness. His belly and thighs tingle, but his chest is tight and his eyes are pinched closed.
"Stop."
Four fingers, briefly, before it's the man again, grunting as he sinks in slowly. "Isn't it better?" he asks as he jerks Richard off, slides in and out with a rhythmic squelch as Richard clutches at the sheets.
"Stop."
The man twists his hand, brushes his thumb against the head of Richard's dick, makes Richard's hips twitch forward. He fucks in deeper, pulls out just so, and that thrill of arousal catches in Richard's throat and makes his whole body shiver.
Richard whimpers.
There's the drag of flesh in flesh, the sting of unhealed rips, the burn of tears in his mouth, the man moaning above him.
"Stop."
"No," the man says, as if he'd finally heard Richard, and then he picks up the pace.
-
He fucks Richard three more times, and then he forces the pills down Richard's throat, and then Richard's dizzy and cold and then he wakes up.
-
"You never heard back from him?"
Misha shrugs, a frown on his face. "Nope. Called him back a couple times, too. I mean, maybe he's just really-"
The yell comes from the motel set, "Somebody call an ambulance, holy shit, the guy's unconscious," and they all look bewildered for a moment before running.
He's naked. The right side of his face is yellow and swollen, and a line of bruises encircles his throat like some sort of awful necklace. His arms are tied behind his back, and he's curled up in a fetal position, so that they can all see the bruises on his hips and the backs of his thighs. Actors and PAs and all sorts of people crowd around, exclaiming, horrified.
Misha's untying him, and someone else is checking his pulse, and Jared's getting something to cover him with, but Jensen stands frozen amid all the action, because the beat-up, motionless figure on the set's bed is Richard, and who knows how long he's been there? Who knows how much they could have saved him by checking on him over the weekend?
"He's alive," someone says, "he's breathing." They have Richard lying on his back now, covered by a blanket. The ambulance is coming; Jensen can hear the sirens. He wants to throw up.
And then Richard wakes up, eyes blinking slowly open. He looks around, brow furrowed, moves his mouth without making a sound. As the EMTs come pushing through the crowd, he curls up around himself and starts to cry.
-
They rearrange the schedule so that they don't have to film Richard's parts for a few more days. Jensen's pretty sure it'll take longer than that.
They visit him in the hospital, and he gives them a fake smile and tells them he'll be alright. He won't tell anyone what happened; he says he told the police.
He insists it wasn't Jensen's fault, or Jared's, or Misha's.
It sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
Author: rpssock
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Richard/OMC
Warnings: Rape, drugs
Word Count:3410
Notes/Prompts: for spnkink: Misha, Jensen and Jared invite Richard to accompany him to a bar. They have a great time and although they try to be nice to Richard it's obvious that he's more or less the odd man out. So no-one notices when he goes missing after a trip to the bathroom. Several days later he turns up on set, bloodied, beaten and raped.
There's a lull in the conversation, so Jensen's all for waving up another round; he looks around though, first, frowns when he sees the half-drunk glass on the far corner of the table. "Hey, where'd Richard go?" he asks, and Jared shrugs.
"Said he was feeling a bit off, went to the bathroom."
Maybe Jensen's a bit drunk, because-"Wasn't that a while ago? Thought he'd be back by now."
They're all staring with varying degrees of interest at the solitary glass. "He mentioned a headache," Misha says, "maybe he called a taxi. Did you want to call him?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps it on and fiddles around. "I've got his number."
Jensen shakes his head. "Nah. He's an adult, he can take care of himself," so when the next round comes the glass is swept away.
Two hours later, Jensen watches from the cab as Misha slouches against the wall of building, phone to his ear. "Hey," he tells Richard's voicemail, "We figured you'd left, but call me back, okay? Hope you're feeling better," and he clicks it off, slides into the seat by Jensen.
The cab drives off.
Eighty miles away, a phone vibrates, lights up white and blue in the trunk of a car, but not even its insistent buzzing wakes up the man beside it, and fifteen minutes later when the trunk is opened it's as still and silent as he.
-
His head is pounding. There's drool on his pillow. His back hurts. He wrinkles up his nose and presses his forehead down, not ready to get up quite yet. What the hell, it's Saturday, and they've got the whole weekend off-he can be lazy.
He must have drunk a lot more than he'd thought, because for the life of him he can't remember anything past the first hour. Maybe it'd gotten better; he can't remember drinking himself into a coma since college. Maybe it'd gotten worse, and he'd fallen into drinking too much to avoid the awkwardness of not knowing any of their inside jokes, of wishing he'd politely declined their invitation, been a boring old man and turned in early.
At least they'd gotten him to a bed. Stripped him down naked and everything, which is actually a bit odd but maybe he's the reticent one, maybe they consider themselves to be good enough friends to do stuff like that. They'd tucked him in, even.
Strange that he doesn't remember the bed smelling like this. Must be at one of their places.
He sighs, and rolls slowly over to face the ceiling.
He doesn't make it that far. Actually, he makes it about two inches before registering that there's something around his right wrist, rattling, matched by the same on his left. Through the cloud around his brain cold sinks down into his consciousness as he realizes his arms are wide apart and he can't move them together. He snaps his head up, regrets it immediately as a sharp, hollow pain punches into his skull and his gorge rises, acid bubbling up into his dry throat. He shuts his eyes, breathes slowly, and reopens them to see, in the dim light, cuffs linking his hands firmly to a wrought-iron headboard.
He tries to shift his legs, finds them splayed out behind him, just as closely tied down. His breath comes a little faster. His heart pounds along with it. Sweat beads along his forehead. "Guys," he tries to say, "this isn't funny," but his tongue is thick and fuzzy and it comes out slurred and confused.
He hears a door swing open behind him with a creak, and brilliant light suddenly floods his vision. He flinches, sinks his head back down into the pillow, growling. "Get me out of this," and it comes out slightly better than before.
Each footstep's a little too loud, sending dull shocks through his head, and someone settles onto the edge of the bed, running a hand down his back. "I'm glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"
He doesn't recognize the voice. The hand strokes him through the thin sheet covering him, trailing down his spine and back up to caress his shoulder blades, and he shivers. "Awful," he grunts, and he makes to turn his head to see whoever it is but the hand lifts off his back and pushes his head down.
"I'm sorry," the man says, "I had to do it. Relax. I'm sure you're still hungover. You can go back to sleep," and he doesn't leave Richard any choice, just presses his face down until he can't breathe right and his eyes slip shut and he dreams about nothing.
-
The next time he wakes up he's much more lucid, and there's no pain when he lifts his head. The room's dark, not because there's no light (as he'd momentarily thought), but because there's a thick, silky material tied over his eyes. He drags his face against the pillow, trying to pull the blindfold down, but it's tied too tightly for the minimal friction to have any effect.
He tugs at the cuffs instead, but they're just tight enough that he can't slip them, and he gives up fairly quickly after testing each one, slumping back down with his face sideways on the pillow. He needs to piss, and he's thirsty, and at this point he's pretty sure it's not any of his coworkers doing this to him.
The door creaks open again, and those same footsteps step quickly over to him. He shies away as a hand settles on his face, but another grips the back of his skull firmly as the first one trails down his chin and neck. "Feeling better?" The voice is smooth, masculine, with a slight accent he can't quite place.
"What do you want?" he asks, "Who are you?"
The man hums. "Are you hungry? Or do you need to relieve yourself? I can help." One hand slips over his shoulder and under the sheet, stroking down his ribs and belly. He jerks away, ineffectually.
"Don't-! What's going on?"
The hand pulls away, settles over the sheet instead and kneads into his back. "You're even better up close, you know that?"
Richard swallows with the bare amount of saliva still in his mouth and tries not to hyperventilate. "Please just tell me what you want," he says, "I'm sure we can work something-"
"I don't want money," the man spits, hands still and mouth very suddenly right next to Richard's ear, "I don't want anything. Just you. You and me, it's going to be wonderful. Are you hungry?"
"Who are you?" There's a whine in his voice that he didn't put there. He clenches his hands into fists.
"You're mine," the man says, "all mine. I've been watching you, and now I get to keep you." The hands move again, one gripping under his chin, the other stroking through his hair, and a pair of dry lips press abruptly and firmly onto his own. He stiffens and clenches his jaw shut.
"Get off me," he whispers as soon as the man pulls away. "Don't do this."
"I don't want to hurt you," the man says, sounding almost hurt himself. "It's okay. Relax. Don't you see? I love you. I've loved you for such a long time. I have all your work, you know, when you came up here I couldn't believe how lucky I was, I've been watching you this whole week, and when those bastards neglected you I knew I could have my chance. We're going to be so happy…"
"You're sick," he snaps, even as he realizes he probably shouldn't bait the crazy stalker, "You can't keep me here. Let me go. I-I have a wife, I have kids…"
"I know. I forgive you. You didn't know I existed, but now you do. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Here." The hard lip of a glass presses into his mouth, but he tilts his head up to look away from it. "It's just water! Would you prefer juice, or milk, or tea? Coffee? I don't think alcohol would be wise. You must still be disoriented."
"Maybe I'd be less disoriented if I could see. Or if you untied me." His voice is raspy, and the drink sounds good, but there's no guarantee it's not drugged.
"…I don't think that would be wise, either. I asked you to come with me, and you didn't want to come with me, and they said you might be reluctant at first. But if you need anything, I can get it for you. Or-you must have to relieve yourself. You had a lot to drink. I'll help you, okay? I'll walk you over to the bathroom."
…Which means that he'll have to be unchained from the bed. He nods, and the man pats him on the back. "Good, good." He hears the jingle of keys, and first his left ankle, then his right is released. He draws his legs up and twists around to lie sideways.
It's when the man leans over him, pressing against his back, that he realizes that the man's a lot bigger than him, able to half-embrace him from behind and unlock the manacles on his wrists at the same time. The man lifts Richard up, sets him on his feet, keeping one arm around the top of his chest uncomfortably close to his neck. "Just walk forward. I'll guide you there." He loops the other arm around Richard's, keeping him effectively bound.
They walk forward, Richard shuffling a little, and the man turns him a little ways to the right. The floor beneath his feet changes from carpet to cold tile, and he trips at the transition. The man holds him up easily, cooing little noises at him. "Here we are," he says, and one of his hands trails down Richard's chest and stomach and brushes against his dick, and Richard tenses and elbows the man in the gut, and he hisses and the arm around his chest tightens up further and presses along his neck. "I'm not going to hurt-"
"I can do it," he says. "Let me do it."
"You can't see," the man protests, but lets Richard wrap his own hand around it before gripping around Richard's hand. "There we go, let go." Richard's face burns, and he hesitates. "It's okay," the man says, pats his hip with the other hand. He really does need to piss, though, so he does it, and the man wipes him off before he can do anything about it. He leaves Richard standing there, lets go of him and leans around to flush it, and Richard pushes away and kicks out. He pulls the blindfold off with one hand, stumbles backward and turns to flee out the bathroom door.
The man leaps after him, jumping on his back and gripping him in a tight bear hug. Richard struggles, throws his elbows back into the man's torso and his head up into the man's chin. "Fuck!" He lets go, and Richard stumbles into the bedroom, turns to get out the door, and then he can't breathe.
It's like his whole body is out of his control, like he can feel himself moving without his consent, like a horde of madmen are stamping all around his skin. He goes stiff, arches back, and can dimly hear someone scream before he collapses halfway to the floor. The man catches him on the fall, and suddenly the pain is over.
He gasps for breath, blinks away tears, pushes against the man's chest, and the man lets go of him, pulls back and points a taser directly at Richard's chest. "I'll do it again," he says, "I don't want to hurt you, but I will."
Richard's reclined on the carpet, looking up dazedly at the man. He's a little over six feet, probably, muscled, with limp blond hair and wild blue eyes and ghost-white skin. His arms are shaking. He looks like he's about to cry. "Get up. Get on the bed." When Richard doesn't move, he waves the point of the stun gun at him. "Get up!"
Richard stands, hands up, and inches backwards toward the bed. The man moves with him, and when they reach the bed he shoves Richard down, straddling his legs and pressing his torso onto the mattress. The taser is trembling right by his chin. "You're mine," the man whispers, "mine." He stands there for a long moment, breathing heavily, then backs away. "Lie down. Face up. Hands by the headboard. Slowly, or I'll shoot you again."
He does as the man tells him, and in short order his hands are chained back up. The man drops the taser by the side of the bed and then breaks into sobs.
Richard's head falls back, and he stares at the ceiling, listening to the man cry. His heart's still beating a little too fast, bumping along loudly in his ears. His muscles feel tired and weak. He wants to cry, too.
Eventually the man stops sobbing, wipes his eyes with the back of one hand, and looms over Richard. They stare at each other. "I'm sorry," the man says, "I can't help myself. I have to do it now. You're just-you're perfect. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to," Richard says, "Just calm down, okay? Look-"
The man laughs. "I drugged you and kidnapped you and you're still trying to be nice to me," he says in wonderment, "God, I have to-you're amazing." He leans over, eyes wide, one hand splayed out on Richard's chest. "I have to," he mumbles, and then he's levered himself up onto the bed, laid out along Richard's body, and he's groping at him and kissing him desperately.
Richard bucks up, brings his feet up and kicks at the man's legs, twists back and forth to dislodge him. The man snarls. "No, no, you can't stop me, nobody is going to stop me!" He slams a fist into Richard's face, pounds into him once, twice, three times, then grabs his neck and starts shaking him. "Lie still, for god's sake, don't make me hurt you, I don't want to hurt you," and Richard would laugh hysterically at that if his air weren't all being choked off.
He's let go, and blood drips down his face as he drags in long breaths. The man sits up on his heels, grips Richard's legs hard enough to bruise and wrenches them apart. "I love you," as he sits between Richard's legs and undoes his belt, pulls out his dick, "I love you," he hums as Richard looks away, blinking tears through his swollen eye, "I love you." He pulls Richard's thighs up, and Richard gives one last, useless jerk before he feels the thing pushing into his body.
It's not the same sort of pain as the taser, or even as being punched in the face. It's sharp at the edges and dull in-between, a warm, sick feeling of intrusion. "You feel good," the man mutters as Richard feels himself tear and bleed, "so tight and warm, like you were saving this for me." The press in is slow, careful, as if to prolong the agony. Richard gives a low wail, mouth drooping open, and he's crying with full, gasping sobs.
"Stop," he whispers, "stop, stop, stop," but the man doesn't seem to hear him. He's got his eyes closed as he starts to pull back out and push in again, keeping the pace slow, gripping Richard's hips tighter and tighter.
"So good," he says. "So good."
Richard wonders if anyone's even noticed he's gone. If anyone's going to come for him. "Stop," he pleads once more.
"I love you," the man tells him.
-
The man tries to feed him, but he won't eat. The man coos at him, cleans off his face and his bloody thighs and apologizes, over and over. "I couldn't help myself," he says, "I promise I'll make it good for you next time."
"Let me go," Richard says.
"Well, that was always the plan," the man tells him, "But I have to make it up to you, first."
"No," Richard says, "please," as the man maneuvers him so that he's face down once again, but anyone would scoff at his acting skills, because there's no expression on his face as he says it, no emotion in the words, nothing there to show he has any investment in the scene.
"I'm not selfish," the man says, as he spreads Richard's unresisting legs, "I wasn't going to take you away from everyone forever. I just wanted you for a little bit." He rubs at the edge of Richard's hole.
"Don't," Richard says.
"I just couldn't resist, you know. I've worshipped you for so long." A finger, slick with lube, teases around the rim before pushing gently in.
Richard chokes back a sob.
"It feels good. I promise." It still hurts from before, even as the finger searches around, finds a place that sends a cold thrill of unwanted pleasure through his spine.
"Please," Richard says.
The finger disappears, to be replaced by two. The man leans down and presses kisses along Richard's back.
"Stop."
Three fingers stretch him open. He feels greasy and slick, numb. His wrists hurt.
"Stop."
A hand wriggles under his stomach, and gently coaxes his dick to hardness. His belly and thighs tingle, but his chest is tight and his eyes are pinched closed.
"Stop."
Four fingers, briefly, before it's the man again, grunting as he sinks in slowly. "Isn't it better?" he asks as he jerks Richard off, slides in and out with a rhythmic squelch as Richard clutches at the sheets.
"Stop."
The man twists his hand, brushes his thumb against the head of Richard's dick, makes Richard's hips twitch forward. He fucks in deeper, pulls out just so, and that thrill of arousal catches in Richard's throat and makes his whole body shiver.
Richard whimpers.
There's the drag of flesh in flesh, the sting of unhealed rips, the burn of tears in his mouth, the man moaning above him.
"Stop."
"No," the man says, as if he'd finally heard Richard, and then he picks up the pace.
-
He fucks Richard three more times, and then he forces the pills down Richard's throat, and then Richard's dizzy and cold and then he wakes up.
-
"You never heard back from him?"
Misha shrugs, a frown on his face. "Nope. Called him back a couple times, too. I mean, maybe he's just really-"
The yell comes from the motel set, "Somebody call an ambulance, holy shit, the guy's unconscious," and they all look bewildered for a moment before running.
He's naked. The right side of his face is yellow and swollen, and a line of bruises encircles his throat like some sort of awful necklace. His arms are tied behind his back, and he's curled up in a fetal position, so that they can all see the bruises on his hips and the backs of his thighs. Actors and PAs and all sorts of people crowd around, exclaiming, horrified.
Misha's untying him, and someone else is checking his pulse, and Jared's getting something to cover him with, but Jensen stands frozen amid all the action, because the beat-up, motionless figure on the set's bed is Richard, and who knows how long he's been there? Who knows how much they could have saved him by checking on him over the weekend?
"He's alive," someone says, "he's breathing." They have Richard lying on his back now, covered by a blanket. The ambulance is coming; Jensen can hear the sirens. He wants to throw up.
And then Richard wakes up, eyes blinking slowly open. He looks around, brow furrowed, moves his mouth without making a sound. As the EMTs come pushing through the crowd, he curls up around himself and starts to cry.
-
They rearrange the schedule so that they don't have to film Richard's parts for a few more days. Jensen's pretty sure it'll take longer than that.
They visit him in the hospital, and he gives them a fake smile and tells them he'll be alright. He won't tell anyone what happened; he says he told the police.
He insists it wasn't Jensen's fault, or Jared's, or Misha's.
It sounds like he's trying to convince himself.