#intimate complex | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

victimeyez · 1 year ago

Text

Private Lessons - Sarge (pt. 2)

Caius realizes he has made a dangerous mistake.

Masterlist Prev Next

New chapter every saturday!

See tags for content warnings

Special thanks to @suspicious-whumping-egg, @sunshiline-writes, and @killorbekillian for edits and inputs!

Sarge’s mouth was cold pressed against his, and then pulled away. A pause, and then he leaned in and did it again, curious. Whatever it was, it did not feel like a kiss, but Tommy wasn’t sure he was relieved. Sarge’s breath stank and he pressed his lips to Tommy’s face over and over, showering him in weak, awkward kisses. In spite of Sarge’s best imitation, it felt entirely devoid of affection.

He just wants to know what it feels like. But this isn’t what he wants.

Each kiss left the slightest touch of moisture, and he could feel it chill on his skin. Miserably, he almost wanted to lean into Sarge, just because his body was warm. This whole underground lair bullshit was cold. His clothes were still soaked, his hair starting to curl around his face as it began to dry.

He closed his eyes. Pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, pushing where his gums were still numb from the coke Caius fed him at the door. The warmth and weight in his lap disturbed him, but he tried to let in some miniscule sense of comfort from it. Peeling his shame and disgust away from the thread of warmth. Peel it away. Separate.

He was already pretty sure it wasn’t working by the time Sarge bit down.

He tested the skin and the muscle between his teeth and chewed, making Tommy seize with pain. It felt like the nerves under his skin there were being caressed with a cheesegrater. Then he stopped, moved up to a fresh part of his neck and bit down slowly. Sarge reached out with greedy hands and tugged Tommy’s uniform shirt down, then clumsily began to unbutton it, revealing more skin to his ministrations. He buried his blunt canines into his chest as deeply as he could and then released, moving onto the next patch of unblemished flesh. He worked his way across every exposed inch of Tommy’s skin, leaving wide, angry bite marks carved like a signature in his wake. The first few glittered slightly in the light as blood lazily began to pool in their wells.

So far, this wasn’t what Caius had expected. Watching the disheveled man sit on his ward’s lap, curling in on Tommy to ravage his collarbones with his teeth, it didn’t match the picture he had imagined when he read the request form. This mock display of intimacy felt unbecoming of him, though the way Tommy keened and shivered underneath him in pain stirred something pleasing in Caius.

He hadn’t expected the bunker, either. He hoped the military fetish gear came with ebay receipts. The amount of it, though…even the banality of some of the items… it itched in his brain, like there was something he was missing. He just couldn’t place it.

Joey. It reminded him of Joey, when they were kids. His dad had kept all this junk from Vietnam, they wanted to look through it but he wouldn’t let them touch it. Joey’s dad, who just sat around in his boxers and drank. He’d just take out this old cigar box full of empty shells and count them on the kitchen table, FOX news blaring from the grainy screen of a heavy box TV. Finish off another bottle of malt liquor. Count them again, or maybe just feel them in his hands. Sometimes he would forget how many there were and would accuse Joey of taking them, that’s why he was chasing them with the belt.

They had gone for the front door when they heard him yelling, and they ran out to the park across the road. His dad came out with his belt in his hands and his pants falling down, screaming at them to come back. They waited across the street, waiting for him to go back inside. That’s why they saw it, when he hesitated by the road. He and Joey saw that he waited just that one extra moment before he stepped out right in front of a truck, and that was it. The life insurance policy took years to get, the company insisted it was suicide, but Joey and his mom got it in the end. Every cent of it went to cleaning out all the shit his dad had hoarded in his house for 30 years.

Tommy whimpered at a hard bite along his jaw. Caius watched. He thought about the sound it made when Joey’s dad went under the wheels. His mind wandered, taking in the old flags pinned to the walls. A large monochrome banner featuring a black silhouette, a tower in the distance. POW MIA - YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN. An American flag done up in dull green shades to mimic camo. Shadow boxes everywhere there wasn’t a shelf. One held a purple heart, next to another with an iron cross. Badges of honor, monogrammed caps, ribbons, pins, crucifixes, grenades, GI Joe figurines. Slowly, his eyes wander down the room to the wall nearest to him, where a stained american flag proudly bore the addition of the Mason’s golden symbol.

There was a large square, printed on the wall beneath where the dust hadn’t built up. A smashed frame and shattered pieces of glass were all that remained of the display.

It finally clicked, and when it clicked, he felt ludicrous for how long it had taken him to put it together.

This wasn’t just Sarge’s fetish - this bunker was a testament to a military family, one that stretched back many generations. Each one bearing more and more weight on Sarge’s shoulders.

A military family.

With this kind of wealth...

Without a shadow of a doubt, they had to be politically connected.

And here he was, generously providing a home delivery scandal.

A feeling Caius hadn’t felt for a while twinged deep in his gut.

Fuck.

He tried to wash his anxiety from his face, applying a fine mask that bore a thin, cool smile.

Tommy moaned in pain as Sarge sank his teeth in, catching the corner of his chew toy’s mouth and spanning onto his cheek. When he released this time he finally leaned back to study the imprinted marks up Tommy’s throat. Angry red crescents mirrored each other in pairs along his collarbone where Sarge had pulled his shirt away. His face was vflushed and pink, eyes wide and wet. His lips were slightly swollen, jagged toothy marks now bisecting his smile at the corner of his lip. Its mirror image was bruising up on the apple of his cheek.

Say it, He wants to hear it.

“Pleeeaaase, don’t hurt me,” Tommy cried.

Lips parted, pouted, eyes wide, soft moaning whimpers on every exhale. Pain nearly indistinguishable from pleasure. Don’t look like you’re enjoying it too much, it’s a turn off.

He just did it for him, without even thinking.

The look Sarge gave him was so hungry, he wondered for a moment if he would be eaten alive. He might just lean in and pull away with a mouthful of him this time.

But instead his face changed to something more…confused. He suddenly looked surprised and frowned, pushing a hand between his legs to feel himself through his pants for a moment. Tommy immediately wanted to retch, but Sarge mercifully stopped after only a second and began a clumsy dismount.

What the fuck is this guy’s deal.

Tommy was tuning into him, picking up some faint frequency he’d tapped into that told him what these sick fucks wanted. Still, he couldn’t place him, couldn’t understand. He could sense some desire there, but what exactly it was he wanted, Tommy couldn’t tell. It was an unfamiliar bitterness on the back of his tongue.

Something like iron, rusted to ash.

He swallowed it down.

Sarge was towards the back corner, out of his line of sight, struggling with something that made a metal clanking sound. Not exactly promising. Caius was watching Sarge - or at least, Tommy was pretty sure he was, the light reflected in his glasses again. Caius had this look on his face though, where his lips were pressed thin together but quirked at the edges. Struggling not to laugh. Tommy couldn’t quite find his sense of humor at the moment - it must have been washed away, down the stinking drain drilled into the cement floor beneath them.

Sarge stepped just close enough to be a dark figure in the corner of Tommy’s eye, rummaging through another drawer. He returned to Tommy’s side, letting out a sigh of relief as he shrugged off the heavy wool coat that he had covered his wet uniform with. He had really started to sweat underneath, and a rich smell of body odor accompanied the removal. Tommy scrunched his nose up and turned his face away, forcing his breath out through his nose as if to dispel it.

When Sarge began to unbuckle him, Tommy ground his teeth. He hated these parts, where he felt like he was complicit in it all if he didn’t fight back. Fighting back didn’t get anywhere though, especially not in a damn bunker.

Caius flanked him as the last of the bindings came off, both men looming over Tommy in the chair, readied for some resistance.

He felt small. Tiny in this big chair, four hands immediately catching his arms and dragging him off. The coke Caius had prepared him with had left him feeling wired, but he was also exhausted. It felt like his eyes were looking out at the world from deep holes bored into his skull.

I’m so tired. I’m so tired I can’t fight back. I can barely walk. I can’t possibly fight back.

Tommy repeated it in his head in as many different ways as he could think of, and it helped it feel true. His limbs felt so heavy, he focused on the feeling and disconnected himself. Of course he was too tired to fight. Of course there was nothing he could do.

A sliver of guilt still poked its way through. If you don’t fight it’s all your fault.

He imagined pulling that thought like a worm from his ear and grinding it under these stupid fucking boots.

I’m helpless. I’m helpless. At least I can say I was helpless-

It wasn’t a comforting thought. Yet, it was a balm to his self pity, creating a terrible feeling to soothe another one in some odd way. Caius always said that Tommy struggled with acceptance - well, this felt something akin to it, somehow.

No big deal. Just a rope. Taut on a… pulley? He looked up and saw the heavy wheel anchored into the metal ceiling by a silver hook.

The hook looked bright and clean, even in the dim light. New, then, the juncture out of place connecting the dull green ceiling to the dull green pulley. The thick paint on the wheel casing had long since started to chip away, exposing a more aged steel beneath, dark and curdling with rust. He must have some kind of fetish for these fucking antiques - maybe Sarge and Darwin would be the best of friends, if they met. They could compare notes over tea and fuck on their old crusty furniture and die of tetanus. The idea of it brought a gruesome smile to his face.

You’re fucking twisted, man. You’re losing it.

Caius stood in front of him, his hands on his shoulders holding him in place. Caius, ever so helpful. Heavy hands secured him while Sarge started twisting the rope around his wrists behind his back. Tommy failed to hide his sick grin before Caius saw it and raised an eyebrow.

“Enjoying yourself?” Caius murmured, and his lips parted on a broad smile. His face suddenly felt far too close. Tommy wanted to step back away from him. No, he wanted to lean in closer, just to slam the thick of his skull into Caius’s neat white teeth. But his rage was impotent, rising as if only out of habit. He couldn’t summon the energy to back up the anger. He felt cold and scared and small, and it drained him.

His arms were bound together from his wrists to his elbows. His shoulders were already beginning to cramp from being pulled back.

Sarge fussed with the bindings at his wrists for another moment. When the pulley made a clunk Tommy didn’t have to look. He could hear the whir of the rope being pulled through, and suddenly his wrists were being pulled upwards behind him.

“Caius,” he gasped, leaning forwards in spite of himself. He pressed his face to Caius’s chest without a thought, and arms wrapped around him without hesitation. A hand carded fingers into his hair, stroking it softly.

“You’re doing so well.”

Tommy shivered in terror as the rope slowly tightened, dragging his bound arms up behind his back. He bent forwards to try to relieve the pressure, but it just pushed him to bury his face in the soft fabric of his handler’s shirt until his nose pressed against his sternum.

The rope climbed, dragging him with it, until it finally pulled him off of his feet. His stomach dropped as there was suddenly a violent pull from deep in his shoulders, and with a blinding pain, his body suddenly sagged a few inches further down. There was a breathtaking pain radiating from his back and his shoulders, but his arms felt swollen and numb.

It all only took a moment. The tips of his boots had only just left the floor, and he shuddered as his shoulders gave out.

In the space of three pounding heartbeats, he was eye to eye with Caius. His captor’s arms had slipped away to let him go, but delicate hands framed his face again just long enough to lean in for a kiss. It lingered for another beat, Caius’s lips parted, Tommy’s still open in a gasp as Caius sighed softly into his mouth. Then, just as quickly, he was gone.

His head buzzed and began to pound, blood rushing to his face. He couldn’t process all the sensations. He was a good few feet from the floor when it stopped rising.

His legs kicked out frantically, pointing his feet, desperate for even the tips of his toes to graze the floor. If he could make the slightest contact, he would do anything to relieve the ache even the smallest bit. Sarge laughed in a jarring, harsh outburst, watching as Tommy wiggled like a worm skewered on a hook.

It hurt to struggle. It hurt not to struggle, too, but it felt too much like giving up. He sobbed and struggled until it all hurt too much, his muscles on fire from the strain.

The paralyzing effect of the pain finally started to kick in, and his impotent resistance slowed to a halt. Tommy’s breathing was shallow, fast, scared. A rabbit in a snare.

Sarge watched. He liked to watch. It was so different up close, personal. Even when that man— the handler, when he kissed his rope bunny, it sent a little thrill through him.

The boy in the ropes was flushed pink and breathless, trembling from the strain. Instinctively, he was leaning as far forwards as he could. They always did in the drawings, too. He found the drawings and then he learned the terms and then he found the videos. They all leaned forwards. The closest someone could get to comfort in this position.

He looked to Caius without moving his head. The other man seemed to appreciate the view of his captive. Sarge wondered how Caius would do if he was strung up, too. If that self satisfying grin would leave his face. Sometimes Sarge like to watch videos of guys like him being done in. They’d always start off angry, yelling, cursing, threatening. Every time, they’d whimper and cry like lambs when it came down to it.

Tommy stopped struggling. He was breathing shallowly. His hands were turning purple. Sarge knew that if held long enough, the tissue in his fingers would begin to die. If left too long, his hands would have to be amputated-

The thought aroused him. He would love to watch him slowly die on the rope. But there was so much he still wanted to do, and so little time.

Tommy stopped struggling, and Sarge knew just how to fix that.

Caius surveyed Tommy like an art student at a sculpture - delighted, curious, imagining his own process to form such an exquisite state of being with his own hands. Still, his better judgment burned the back of his neck. Coming here was a mistake.

Honestly, the pain was not the worst part.

Tommy had been dealt more than his fair share of agonies. He never got used to it, per se, but it didn’t pack the same punch as it did the first few times.

Discomfort, however, rarely relented.

His hands were going numb. Hands and feet were usually the first to go. His feet were fine, hanging uselessly underneath him, unable to touch the ground. The tension in his shoulders, the pull of muscle and ligaments, it all pushed on the ropes binding his arms together. He tried to lean forwards, relieve the ache somewhat, but his movements were limited at best.

Breathing in and out gently tugged his shoulders, and every breath stroked his pain with loving hands. Being immobilized was nothing new to him nowadays, but it was shocking how utterly helpless he felt with only one tie. He hung from a strand, a twitching toy dangled between two cats.

At a lazy pace, he began to turn like a mobile, unable to control it as the rope twisted above him. It slowly rotated him towards the wall. Sarge stepped out of the corner of his peripheral vision. He refused to turn his head, stilling any movement he didn’t have to make to spare himself the pain.

It made him uncomfortable to not be able to see them. He did not look.

It doesn’t matter if you see it coming. Maybe it’s better if you don’t. It doesn’t matter if you can see what they’re going to do because - because - because there's nothing you can do to stop it.

It would not have mattered if Tommy could see Sarge when a hand gripped his ankle, long yellowed fingernails catching in the stiff laces of his boot. His feet were yanked violently back and his stomach jumped as he was pulled back. For just a second there was a slight ease, where he was able to bend forwards, only to feel his full weight slam down on his shoulders. He gasped, granted no respite before he was abruptly shoved, swinging like a pendulum above his audience. Another push and he spun around, slowing after a few rotations to face Sarge.

The look on Sarge’s face was disturbingly out of place. He was absolutely gleeful, breathing hard with excitement. Tommy wasn’t sure if he was still spinning, or if the rest of the world was turning beneath him.

Sarge’s hands trembled around another bucket he had prepared. From his vantage point slightly above him, Tommy could see it was filled with water. Sarge grunted with effort as he raised the bucket above his head, his arms trembling. Tommy cringed away from it, but couldn’t move away any meaningful amount. As it loomed closer to him though, he was hit with a strong smell, musty. It reminded him of…a moldy basement. No, a farm, maybe the manure they put on the crops? It didn’t have the faint metallic scent the water had. His stomach turned as the sharp smell began to overwhelm his sinuses. Turning his face to the side offered little relief, and he wheezed as the burning musk reached his lungs.

“TO THE MOOOOOOOOOON!” Sarge howled, and he tipped the bucket forwards, upending it as he slammed it down onto Tommy’s head.

The momentum forced it up his nose. It was acid in his eyes. He choked and spluttered, huffing and spitting to get it out of his nose and his mouth. Everywhere it touched, it started to burn. Acidic drops oozed down his body and he immediately jolted into a fit, his struggles renewed with fresh urgency. There was already a fire stoked in his head, infecting his sinuses, his throat. Thick drops clumped in his eyelashes, and he blinked hard to push the stinging tears of pain out. He could hear his own desperate panting reflecting back to his ears from the plastic bucket that still hooded him. Rivulets of fire trickled down his body and soaked into his clothes.

Underneath the searing burn, there was a maddening itch. Fuck, fuck, he could take all the pain in the goddamn world if he could just scratch, he’d do anything. Caius could whip him in the air like a goddamned pinata if it would scratch the itch for even a moment - It felt like- like-

He’s looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. Twenty years old, back in his first trailer’s bathroom. His skin fucking hurts, it hurts so much but he can’t stop tearing into himself with his fingernails. Intense, painful prickles of irritation, sparking up everywhere at once, underneath the worst sunburn of his life. He struggles to get his shirt off without breaking from clawing at himself.

His skin was already red and stiff, hot to the touch, even pulling the soft cloth over his shoulders made him hiss in pain. That’s why he’d tried the lidocaine spray, Kevin said it would take care of the soreness. The spray Tommy had bought had menthol in it, even better.

Two things he learned later: Lidocaine is not supposed to be used on injured skin, and Tommy is allergic to menthol.

He wants to crawl out of his skin, scratching only makes it hurt more but he could NOT stop slapping and itching. It was like some kind of involuntary whack-a-mole response. He lurched over to the tub and ran the water ice cold, shucking his clothes to desperately try to rinse himself in the bathtub.

Tommy was cute, fighting it. He was already clearly fatigued with pain, but he began to thrash more desperately than ever as the chemical set upon his flesh.

Caius admired the scene, sure, but he winced a little when the bucket doused Tommy. He thought it would be more water, but judging by the smell and the way Tommy reacted, it must have been something much worse.

Sarge coughed and backed away, his hacking turning into a laugh as soon as he started to catch his breath. The smell burned in Caius’s nose, too, and he quickly backed away to escape it, covering his nose with his hands.

“What is that?!” He demanded from Sarge.

The anxiety in his gut boiled into a frenzy. I am not in control. I am not in control.

Sarged giggled and clapped his hands like Caius had told a sordid joke.

“It’s the special sauce!”

“Tell me what it is.”

“Technically, it’s an herbicide.” He pronounced it with a hard C, like he’d only ever read the word. He had to raise his voice to answer Caius as Tommy screamed and struggled in his bonds.

Caius stalked closer, and saw Sarge’s eyes widen — good.

“Either tell me exactly what this shit is, or you’ll be swimming in it next.”

Sarge looked a little startled, and oddly, a little hurt.

“Agent Orange. Like in Vietnam? That’s like — it’s kind of the theme. For the night.”

Agent fucking orange. Joey’s dad hobbling after them. Weak from the chemo, brandishing his cane, his pocked and rashy face twisted in anger. He found out later he was already dying, mutilated beyond repair from what he referred to as “the OJ”.

Tommy was soaked in it, it was poured into his eyes, and they were both standing so near. An unfamiliar alarm gripped Caius’s throat, an urgent fear rising inside.

Caius shoved Sarge, catching him slightly to the side and off-guard. He stumbled back and fell, smashing his head against a metal locker before sliding the rest of the way to the floor. Caius followed him, wedging the tip of his shoe in between Sarge’s ribs as he kicked him for good measure. Sarge wheezed and tried to shuffle away on his hands, failing to block his ribs with one shaky hand extended. Caius leaned in, crouching to get in Sarge’s face.

“You fucking pathetic fr-” Caius was interrupted by the crack of his skull, a blistering pain surprising him. Sarge kicked him in the stomach, and as he shoved him back, he brought the baton down on Caius’s head again. The second hit blinded him, and when his head hit the floor, he plummeted into unconsciousness.

The sound of plastic hitting the floor startled Sarge, and he turned to see Tommy’s bucket rolling away. Tommy had managed to shake it off his head at the last second, and stared with horror at his handler’s limp body on the floor.

“Well,” Sarge said, standing and dusting his uniform off.

“Looks like we finally get a little alone time, you and I.”

taglist: please let me know if you would like to be added or removed.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@thembology @2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio

#professional//victim #intimate whumper #captive whumpee #torture whump #chemical torture #military industrial complex horseshit #whumper trivializes and romanticizes the vietnam war #rope suspension #stress positions #strapado

58 notes · View notes

superstar-nan · 1 year ago

Text

Fight Tooth and Nail

Night 3: Part 1

Summary: Springtrap finally gets some action, and it only took 8 chapters.

Words: 4,869

Fun stuff: Gore, violence, and blood. Descriptions of undead bodies. Swearing. Toxic relationships. This one's heavy on the toxicity, but it's mutual toxicness.

First ♡ Prev ♡ Next

───── (\ /) ─────

Something cold and spongy stroked your head. The touch was slow and tender; you were warmed. You stirred just slightly, leaning into the gentle touch, but that stopped it. It withdrew from you and you sighed against the pillow.

After a few moments, a weight left your side. You didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was dark when your eyes fluttered open.

You were better rested than you thought you’d be. You sat up in Michael’s dark room. The bathroom and the living room were obscured by shadow, and Michael was nowhere to be seen. You checked the time.

1:37 AM

That bastard left you.

You bolted up with life, stumbling into your shoes and snagging your cell phone. You rushed into the living room and swung your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. You checked your pockets and bag for your keys. You flipped on the light, shielding your eyes from the brightness for a moment, before checking the counter. No keys.

You opened the door. Your car was gone. That bastard left you and took your car.

You slammed the door shut, the force shaking the whole living room. You ground your teeth as you pulled out your phone. If Michael thought for a single second that he could dissuade you from facing Springtrap by stealing your car , he had no idea how stubborn you were.

Or how easy it was to call for an Uber.

───── (\ /) ─────

You were still seething in the back of the Uber by the time it pulled up to Fazbear’s Fright. Your arms were crossed as you glared out the window.

“...This is where you want to be dropped off?” The driver said, tentatively.

“Yeah.”

She looked at your mysterious heavy duffle bag through the rear view mirror, then to the abandoned building, “Okay...”

You made sure to tip her very well.

You stood in front of the building with your duffle bag over your shoulder as you waited for the Uber to drive out of sight. It was as unexceptional as ever, lights flickering with a dull buzz. You couldn’t stroll through the front door. It was locked and you doubted Michael could abandon the panels long enough to let you in without Springtrap murdering him. And that would be if he’d let you in at all.

Though, while Michael couldn’t let you in, you knew who would.

You unzipped your duffle bag and pulled out your axe as you made your way to the back door. You were as still as a statue as you stared at the entrance. It was only your third night at Fazbear’s Fright (which was already shocking, it felt like your eighth night at least!), but with each night your apprehension waned. Instead, something strange was slowly replacing it: a dark and grim excitement. That in and of itself stalled you.

However, your feelings were never the forerunner of your actions. If they were, you would have never returned to this place.

You knocked on the door.

You held your breath.

The dull buzz seemed quiet compared to the pounding in your chest.

The lights flickered just a touch too long.

The door clicked.

Your stomach flipped. You would be a fool to rush for the door now, and yet you wanted to. You were being hunted again —you knew this. But this time, for some unknown ungodly reason, it felt like a game. You looked at your tote bag, filled with all kinds of traps and tricks to hurt him, and you knew it was a game. A deranged, dangerous, sure-to-end-in-someone-dying game, but still a game. Maybe it was always a game for Springtrap. Now, it was your game as much as it was its.

And it wanted to play even more than you did.

You pulled out your best friend’s phone out of your pocket. Your resolve hardened when your eyes landed on the shattered background of the two of you. You tapped on the tracking app and hovered your thumb over the earbuds icon.

It was still here at Fazbear’s Fright... The audio would likely attract Springtrap to it—the killer or the robot. As much as you’d love to plunge your hand into his chest again (and you really would love to do that), you didn’t imagine you could pull that off a second time without getting caught by someone at the attraction or Springtrap’s deadly claws. You would have to start and stop the audio as you approached it, estimating where to find it... and maybe where you’d find your...

You swallowed, thickly. You tapped on the earbuds icon. You grabbed the door’s handle and pulled it open in one quick, wide swing.

There was no sound.

You used your hand to soften the noise of the door closing behind you and then checked your best friend’s phone again. A small picture of earbuds hovered over Fazbear’s Fright, and a little audio que was right next to it? There should have been a noise playing, but you were only met with the static buzz of the poor ventilation system.

You quickly and quietly moved away from the exit. You knew how the game was played. You played it before. You set down one of your toys, silently, as you moved deeper into the attraction.

Listen, scan, step, listen, scan, step—

Your heart beat was drumming wildly against your chest. Where was the sound? Could the animatronic have already found it? No, that wasn’t right. Even if it had, you would have been able to hear it in his chest.

You gently put down another toy— Listen, scan, step .

The app showed that it was here . It was here, somewhere in the building. It just... It just had to be too quiet. That was the only explanation that you could think of: it was too quiet and was drowned by the buzz of the ventilation.

Listen, scan, step, listen— Speaking of too quiet...

You weren’t far into the attraction, but you already felt like you were losing. You were too distracted. Too comfortable , if that was possible. Sweat dripped from your face. Every shadow was a monster and every sound was a threat.

The pressure was heavy. Your breathing, no matter how much you slowed it, felt too fast. You swallowed, dry as sandpaper, to calm your nerves. And then you remembered your toys.

Even if you didn’t know where he was, you still wanted to try them out. Oh, how you wished you could be there to see him fall for it, but even your bravery had its limits. You slowly pulled out the remote of the first toy you set down.

Just like the night before, a childlike song played, muffled with distance. You didn’t hear mechanical steps trudging toward it, no matter how you strained. Fear struck like a spear in your heart, but then you heard heavy movement in the vents, slowly dragging toward the song. Still, your brow furrowed. The song shouldn’t have been much louder than the noise from the earbuds. Where was it?

You were startled by a distant but loud SNAP , then immediately a striking ZAP . Your smile widened.

Even as you passed the Chica head, the presents, the arcade machines, the dangling stars, the Bonnie torso , you heard only the droning of the ventilation. And when the ventilation turned off, you heard nothing. Each step you could feel yourself losing focus for panic. It didn’t make any sense! It couldn’t have been in the vents, you would’ve heard it echoing across the walls and floors and-

... Inside the walls was somewhere you hadn’t checked. They looked thick. Maybe thick enough to hide noise. It didn’t make too much sense, how could something get in the walls in the first place? Wouldn’t an employee notice a hole in the wall? Though, a spark of hope lit in your chest. Your best friend, clever and quick, could have hidden in the walls to escape the animatronic, and their earbuds just slipped out while they were hiding. Or, they could still be there , trapped somehow behind a soundproof barrier. That would explain their disappearance. That would-

You were grabbed, violently . Pain burned against your neck and your arm from behind you. You swung your axe with everything you had with your free arm, burying it into a rotten, metal foot. Something vicious and rasping hissed behind you, and you were let go.

You grabbed the axe with two hands and pulled, tumbling forward. You whipped around. You weren’t paying attention! You should’ve listened closer! You should have set another toy off! You should have been more alert, how could you be so stupid! You should have-

Springtrap, rotten and evil , was holding your tote bag. Your face paled. Your palms tightened around the axe in your hands. It was your last defense.

He dumped the toys, remotes, and tools out on the ground. His grin never moved—it couldn’t—but Springtrap’s silver eyes bore sharp and annoyed daggers into you, if being annoyed could be so cold. It was fantastic .

A bitter grin stretched across your face, “What? Were my toys too shocking ?” God, you were hilarious. You looked at the toys you rigged to electrify scattered across the floor, and your grin turned into a vicious grimace, “I hope it hurt. ”

You wanted to see it furious. You didn’t care how dangerous it was, you wanted to see rage in those too-human eyes, not just cold annoyance. You wanted to provoke its anger, but you hadn’t. Instead, robotic eyes scanned you soullessly. Subtle clicks of metal ticked behind its silver eyes. Your breath quickened. The longer it looked at you—burying its unrelenting and vile eyes into you—the more difficult it was to hold onto your rage in place of fear.

And then it took one loud , mechanical step. You couldn’t stop yourself from startling. Your warmth and bravery drained from you. You stepped back. You could’ve sworn the thing’s grin widened somehow. Fear crashed through your veins. You tightened your grip on your axe.

Another loud mechanical step. You stumbled back again. Your face grew hot. Silver eyes looked pleased . That was the last thing you wanted. It wasn’t fair the fear this thing instilled in you. It wasn’t fair that your anger couldn’t overpower your fear. It wasn’t fair that with all your hatred and fury, you couldn’t weaponize it.

One last mechanical step, and you bolted. You pushed off the floor as fast as you could away from Springtrap. You weren’t fast enough. It grabbed your arm and threw you against the wall. You slammed against it hard , breath forced out of your lungs. At the first sight of dingy green, you used both arms to swing your axe downward. A sharp, piercing hiss stung your ears.

Somehow, you cut something—his arm. You didn’t get a moment to celebrate. You lifted the axe again, and he grabbed your arm. Suddenly, the world spun around and you felt nauseous. Your arm was twisted painfully behind you. Your axe clattered to the floor. Your back was to Springtrap. You were kicking and clawing at him to let you go, twisting madly to loosen his grip. You vaguely heard an artificial child’s laughter in another room, but that didn’t matter. You were making too much noise. Even if you weren’t, now that Springtrap had you it could just drag you with it.

Your struggling all stopped when a large, rotten set of claws lightly grazed the sensitive skin of your collar. You froze, deathly still. You stopped breathing. Your heart hammered wildly in your ears. You were certain he could feel it, too. You heard the whirring of machinery behind you. It was worse that you couldn’t see him.

Metal nails like daggers trailed up your jaw. You tilted your head up, conceding to the claws so close to puncturing your skin. You shuddered against its touch; too light to give you the reprieve of pain but too heavy to let you forget. The mechanisms in the suit behind you clicked and burred. You slammed your eyes shut as you swallowed against his claws.

Two sharp clicks sounded beside you. A strange, crackling and vintage noise came and then fizzled out beside your ear. You furrowed your brow. It was only when it came and failed a second time that you realized it was Springtrap’s voice box.

The grip on your arm tightened, and you winced. Instead of trying to speak a third time, sharpened claws idly and softly drew something onto your skin. You didn’t respond after he finished—how could you? You were too busy puzzling out what he was doing—and that was a mistake. He twisted your arm painfully behind you. You inhaled sharply against the bend and strain, contorting your back in a strange arc to alleviate the pain. You felt your bones creak under your flesh. You went pale at that.

The animatronic didn’t slacken his iron and immovable grip or move to give you any relief. Instead, it slowly began drawing again. The threat was clear: pay attention or he will snap your arm in half. You paid very close attention this time.

Its “drawings” were letters:

“ Beg? ” You said, and your breath was gaining weight. Subtle gear clicks came from the animatronic behind you. He didn’t make any move to lessen the pressure on your twisted arm, but it didn’t matter. The pain was completely lost to you. You were no longer pale, you were hot. You saw red . You could have laughed—as if you would ever beg! As if he could EVER do ANYTHING to make you beg for HIM! But you were too angry. You couldn’t even let out a chuckle.

You tilted your head completely up to where you could look the animatronic in those cruel, vile, silver eyes of his. At least seven feet tall, Springtrap towered over you. Its eyes looked expectant. Impatient even, like you had taken too long already. You felt venom on your tongue.

“You’ll see hell before you ever hear me beg.” You hissed between your teeth.

The animatronic didn’t look angry or surprised. Instead, there was a pretend disappointment—lidded eyes slanted in faux sympathy, a slight tilt to his head, gentle clicks of metal mimicking tuts . He was a parent scolding a child instead of a monster terrorizing victims. His mockery made your blood run hot.

Suddenly, he forcefully tilted your head to the left, a sharp pain shooting along your jaw. Cold, putrid, impossible breath tickled your exposed neck. There was no way it needed to breathe. He was trying to scare you.

It worked.

You started to thrash against him, renewed urgency fueling your fire. But no matter how much you kicked and scratched and twisted and fought, you couldn’t shake its iron grip. You heard more whirring machinery, and then a strong, loud click.

You froze at the sound of decayed flesh against metal. You were so close to him. You could hear the corpse inside the suit. Sticky, wet peeling and squelching with mechanical ticks. You felt sick.

And then you felt pain.

You screamed. Lacerations like fire made you lose your mind. From your arm to your neck, pain stabbed into you. It throbbed in a shredded anguish. You convulsed against it, but that only deepened the piercing pain. Tears rolled down your cheeks as your scream crumpled into a weak cry. You opened your eyes. The rotten rabbit’s head was beside yours. Blood soaked your chest.

He bit you. He bit you .

The pain numbed and burned, and you were crying and you hated that you were crying. When your body stopped twitching, its teeth released you in a wet, slick squelch. It hurt sharp and quick. You swallowed a sob.

...He bit you, so why were you not dead?

Your head was lowered as the animatronic supported your weight. In the blinding pain, he had let go of your twisted arm, now his large metal claws keeping you upright by your waist. His other hand was gently holding your arm, the arm he bit that burned and throbbed . The way he held you was strange. Before, he was clutching you like an animal to be slaughtered. Now, he was soft in a facsimile of affection; your body a fragile doll to be handled with care.

As if to mock the point forward, he caught your tears with soothing, rotten fingertips. Even as tiny sobs left your lips, he wiped the tears away soft enough to be caring—or rather, a twisted imitation of caring.

You leaned into the touch, and the animatronic froze.

You let out a soft, shaken sigh against his fingertips. You caressed his hand in turn, your fingers so small compared to his giant rotten claws. You let your breath warm the cold of his metal and rot, gently rubbing the tears from your cheek on his slitten, soiled palm. You leaned softly into his grip on your waist. In your weakness, you melted into the false affection from the terrible, vile creature.

Machinery clicked and ticked in a way that seemed stunted. His body didn’t move, only letting you lean into him as invisible mechanisms maneuvered beneath his second skin. You vaguely heard the crackling of his voice box, popping as though it was short circuiting.

You surprised him. Good. You would surprise him again.

You slammed your jaw down as hard as you could around his fingers.

After spending so much time with Michael, you were used to the rancid smell of decomposing flesh. What you were not used to was the taste. Putrid and foul, mold seeped onto your tongue and you were tasting disease incarnate...with a hint of iron. It was so awful, you started to retch against your bite. However, when Springtrap flinched, he became the best thing you ever tasted.

Springtrap grabbed your arm and threw you to the floor. Your teeth were sore from being ripped away so forcefully. You scrambled back, kicking one of your toys so that it slid across the floor far away from you. You didn’t dart off the floor in a sprint, no matter how much your legs begged you to. Instead you kept your eyes trained on Springtrap—tall, rotting, and terrifying—as he stalked toward you, one loud mechanical stomp after the next.

You didn’t make any effort to hide the fear in your expression as you backed away from him, as silent as you could. As much as you wished it were an act, it wasn’t. He truly terrified you. Of course he did, and he wanted that. You knew he needed your fear. He was entranced by it; drunk off it. You didn’t think you would ever see so much desire in someone as you did Springtrap when you were afraid. You didn’t think anyone could want you as much as Springtrap did when you were covered in blood, cowering from him.

And so he took his time, his jaw dripping in your blood and hanging low, hinting at the corpse beneath the suit. He was drawing out your fear with each anticipatory step just like he had your first night at the attraction. Your back hit a wall and you pressed against it; it was a support to you. From the moment he slowed his steps that first night, slamming against arcade cabinets to taste your fear, you hated him. Now, you still hated him, but his slow steps weren’t frightening you. They were buying you time.

His fingers were inches from your face when you pressed the remote in your hand.

Springtrap froze when the toy you kicked away lit up in bright colors and loud music. A grin stretched across your face, your fear giving way to smug satisfaction. Even the throbbing of your bloodied neck and arm couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, and it only widened when his fingers shook—desperate to stay in control.

You weren’t safe. William could somehow wrestle enough control to grab you. He was holding out pretty well, struggling to remain in place despite the music loudly singing behind him. That couldn’t stop you from gloating. You feigned surprise at the noise, a hand coming to your silent gasp. You overacted a pout, as if you were so sad to see him go, waving him goodbye.

Silver eyes were livid . Rage emanated off of him like smoke . You could see how desperately he wanted to bury his hands into your organs—to soak in your blood.

It was incredible . Your head felt light from his madness, and you would have laughed if you could. If your fear made him drunk, his anger was your drug.

An audio cue from Michael in the same direction as your toy was Springtrap’s turning point. Human eyes became robotic ones; anger ceded to coding. Curiously, the robotic eyes scanned you once over, and it was enough to wake you from your satisfaction. You furrowed your brow as eyes that held nothing human stared at you intently. Why wasn’t it moving? You hadn’t made any noise. Was there something else in its coding that you didn’t know about, or...?

You got a weird feeling.

Finally, it turned, forced and unnatural. Its eyes stayed on you as you slipped away quietly, using the animatronics loud steps to mask your own.

Your steps were nothing more than quiet taps against tiled floor as you hurried to the front office. As much as you wished you could continue the search for your best friend, your wound began to burn fiercely without the adrenaline of fear and excitement. You needed to assess the damage in a safe place.

You tried not to think about Spring Bonnie’s bizarre pause, but you couldn’t help how nervous it made you. You shouldn’t have been separating Spring Bonnie and William in the first place; they had been fused together so long they were a new creature. But it made dissecting Springtrap’s behavior easy, so you did.

William was predictable: he wanted to scare you, hurt you, and then kill you in that order. Spring Bonnie wanted to play and to be where the party was, so why did it ignore the party for so long? You knew for a fact that it wasn’t William staring at you; if not by its robotic eyes, then by the lack of sweet rage in its features. Did it... want to keep playing with you? Could the animatronics gain favoritism? You would have to ask Michael when you get the chance.

You held your shoulder. You looked at your hand, coated in blood. God , Springtrap was so disgusting. You would have to dump a bottle of hand sanitizer on your wound just to keep it from getting infected. Hopefully, Michael kept first aid supplies with him and not just by his bedside.

You heard your toy shatter in the distance, but no zap. You ran faster.

You flew past the office window, spying Michael ducked in front of the camera panel. You didn’t realize how tense you were until the relief of seeing him washed over you like cool water. You hurried into the office.

“ What are you doing here?! ” Michael’s harsh whisper stung almost as sharp as the bleeding wound on your chest. So much for relief.

You ignored his venomous whisper as you went to grab the control panel, but just as you were about to take it, Michael snatched it away. You looked at him, offended, but he kicked his backpack to you.

“Bandages. And antiseptic.” He couldn’t take his void eyes off the screens—frantic scanning and stressed swiping.

You grabbed the control panel anyway, and he almost stopped his focus just to grab it back, “I can do both.” You said, and you really could. It wasn’t that hard to tap reboot every couple of seconds, especially when you weren’t concentrating on playing hide-and-seek with a killer.

Michael narrowed those sallow eyes of his, dark and glancing, “You’re covered in blood.”

You sat down by the trash can. You tapped the panel to reboot the audio and then dragged Michael’s backpack to you. “Thanks for the heads up,” you rolled your eyes, your tone a little sharper than you anticipated, but who could blame you. You were bleeding out, afterall. “Also, you stole my car, asshole.”

“You should have stayed home,” He said, eyes darting from camera to camera. For a brief second, you found it odd that he referred to his place as ‘home’ instead of ‘my home’ or ‘my place’ . You didn’t know why that stuck out to you.

You shuffled through Michael’s bag. You pulled out a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton swabs. You didn’t want Michael to know you were glad you came. Yes, you had disgusting, throbbing gashes all along your neck, chest, and arm—that wasn’t great. But you figured out a theory of where your best friend could be, you successfully tested out contraptions that gave you the ability to outmaneuver Springtrap, and—most enthralling and terrible of all—you made Springtrap boil with rage. Besides being bitten into, the night was a success. And even being bitten wasn’t so...

You rebooted the ventilation before inspecting your wound. You hissed when you used your fingers to prod at the gashes. They weren’t that deep, but they were deep enough. You took out your phone and used the reverse camera to get a better view. You were almost startled at what you saw. There wasn’t just one set of teeth marks, but two . One large set of uniform-like marks encircled smaller, jagged and uneven ones right at the crook of your shoulder.

It wasn’t just the animatronic that bit you. The corpse did too.

You waited for the rage to wash over you, the anger to burn like a fire through your veins. It didn’t come, however, and you were beginning to understand why.

“How...” Michael had briefly glanced at you, a slight crease to his dark brow. You looked at him, your expression without cold or heat. You rebooted the audio again, before returning your gaze to encourage him to continue. “ How are you not dead? ”

Your eyes widened slightly. Michael had so many secrets and knew so many mysteries that you were shocked you knew something he didn’t. You dabbed antiseptic on cotton as you said, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Michael shot you a quick, annoyed look. You ignored it as you began to wipe the blood from your shoulder with a hiss of breath. It stung, sharp and sour. It was better that it burned than festered, however.

“I’m fun. He likes me.”

Another sharp glance came from Michael, “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” You could see how your statement sounded like a joke. However, you knew it was true, and you knew it because you weren’t angered by two rows of teeth marks. “Spring Bonnie likes to play and your dad likes to chase. I’m terrified of him, but I still take risks. I wander the attraction like a carrot on a stick, but I keep escaping death just in time. I’m fun . He likes me, so he wants to keep playing the game.”

Michael looked horrified —his brow twisted, his mouth open in shock, and his void eyes blown wide. You had never seen an expression so clearly written on his decayed features, but underneath the horror, you could see understanding in his eyes. He knew his serial killer father, and he knew you were right.

He didn’t know how right you were, however. As you dabbed at your stinging wound, you knew that while everything you said was true, it wasn’t all of it. You were fun to it and he did like you, but there was something more; the reason you weren’t angered by two rows of teeth marks.

There was... a strange intimacy between you and Springtrap, one you were loathsome but compliant to admit. It was an intimacy that replaced romance with hatred and sex with violence, but the desire and elation remained. It was why your head felt light when thinking about him in pain, and why you didn’t hide the scars he left on you. It was why you weren’t acting when you leaned into his touch, caressing his claws as they dabbed at your tears. You believed he wasn’t acting either when he gave you faux tenderness.

And the icing on the twisted, corrupt cake? While you were in deep (too deep for your liking and sanity), Springtrap was in deeper . You knew this because of one simple fact: You were alive . He had the chance to kill you when he took a bite of your neck, and he didn’t . You had no doubt, no hesitation that if you had the chance to kill him, he would be dead where he stood .

That was his weakness. He wanted to keep playing, but you wanted to win.

You knew this ‘intimacy’ was poison. Yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from drinking it. Your anger was a fire, and you would happily be consumed by it if it meant so did he.

62 notes · View notes