#noncon nudity tw

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 5 ~ Version 1: Bleeding out

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next

AU of AU (V.2 Game Over)

Genre: Fantasy whump

CWs: This one's also a dead dove. Specifically for gore and character death (whumper), but we also have all these other lovely things: noncon nudity, noncon touch, captivity, creepy/intimate whumper, lady whump, forced to watch, restraints, muzzled/gagged whumpee, knife whump, stabbing, lots of blood, shoulder dislocation, attempted rape/rape- could be viewed either way (not explicit), slit throat, amputation(s)- say goodbye to an important male appendage and a hand Marcus >:), gutted, more blood, all the blood, soooo much blood, uh, choking (on said appendage), asphyxiation, doing whatever it takes to get free of restraints :D

WC: 1748

Taglist: @kixngiggles

A/N: My first post of the new year, and it features a mutilated corpse. Sweet! :D

As a reward for enduring the game over version of this chapter, I present to you this wonderfully gory mess-enjoy!

Resh

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. From the moment Marcus attacked Carr after she broke his nose to now, with Carr crumpled on the floor a few inches in front of Resh. With a fucking knife handle sticking out of her back. 

Resh blinked, hoping he was hallucinating. Unfortunately, it seemed he was not. The pain in his shoulders was very real, as was the motionless figure of the girl he… gods, the girl he loved… fuck. Fuck! 

“Carr, get up,” he begged. Tears slipped down his cheeks when she still didn’t move. The fractures in his heart cracked open a little wider. Gods, no, she couldn’t be dead, she couldn’t be... “Please, Carr, you have to get up. Get up, get up, get up.” 

“Fucking pits, I thought you’d never stop. If I’d known, I’d’ve just stabbed you to begin with,” Marcus said, swiping his sleeve across his nose. He leaned over and plucked the knife from Carr’s body, resheathing it at his waist. 

She didn’t so much as twitch, even though blood pooled in the hole left behind before spilling down her side. Godsdamn, half her body was coated in fresh and dried blood; how much did she have left to lose?  

When Marcus stared down at her body, Resh hoped he was finished with her. That he would finally turn his attention to Resh and give Carr some room to recover. Because she wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead. 

Marcus didn’t do that, though. Because why would he when he could be a sadistic bastard? Instead, he smirked and delivered a vicious kick to Carr’s side. She curled around herself, which was at least a sign of life. 

If she cried out, Resh couldn’t hear it through the muzzle. 

Resh wanted to scream for her, but he held it in. Barely. He yanked against the chains instead, just to feel the strain on his shoulders, the metal cutting into his wrists. He deserved the pain. It should be him lying on the floor half-dead, not her. She should’ve left him behind, escaped, but she hadn’t. And now Resh could do nothing. 

He was so close; if even one hand had been free, he could’ve touched her. Instead, he was reduced to begging. Useless fucking begging, which Marcus ignored like he had every other word Resh had uttered. 

Marcus kicked Carr again, flipping her onto her back. He straddled her hips. Pinned her hands above her head. 

Her whole body stiffened. The faint whimper she released, along with the tears trickling down her temple into her hair, stabbed deep into Resh’s already fractured heart. 

“Carr, I’m here,” Resh said brokenly. A weight descended on him, seeming to crush his chest and stall his breath in his lungs as Marcus reached down to loosen the ties on his pants. “I’m here, I’m here.” 

She went limp at the sound of his voice, and Marcus laughed.

“How sweet,” Marcus said. “Your lover is here for you, to watch you get fucked by another, better man. How do you feel about that, Carr? Oh wait, I don’t care.” He raised his hips slightly to adjust himself. 

Carr immediately took advantage of the lack of weight pinning her down, the leverage Marcus conveniently provided by pinning her wrists. Resh had no clue how, but somehow she pulled her body back enough to get her knee up. She slammed it into Marcus’ groin. 

Marcus reared back, a high-pitched squeak emerging from his lips. 

Now that her hands were free, Carr wriggled, trying to pull away. But before she could get far, Marcus unsheathed the dagger at his waist and plunged it through Carr’s shoulder, pinning her to the floor. 

“No!” Resh shouted, shuddering as the knife tip scraped against stone. Something broke apart inside him at the sound of her muffled scream. 

“Bitch,” Marcus growled, grabbing her hair to slam her head against the stone. Again and again, until her body went limp. 

Resh could barely see through his tears. He would give anything for this not to be happening. Would trade places with her in a heartbeat. But when Carr’s dazed eyes met his, he forced himself to blink them away. All he could do was give her some kind of anchor while Marcus climbed back up her battered and bruised body. 

Resh spoke to her, but he didn’t understand the words coming from his own mouth. He pulled and tugged against his chains, trying to slip his hands through the manacles. His skin tore, and more blood dripped down his arms. There was a pop and flare of red-hot pain in his right shoulder. He barely felt any of it. 

He deserved it, for failing to get her out. For not being able to help. 

For allowing this to happen. 

For, for… 

A waterfall of red splattered across Carr’s chest. 

Resh blinked. 

Carr wasn’t laying on the ground anymore. Marcus was. 

Marcus was lying on the ground, clutching at his throat. Droplets of crimson seeped out from between his fingers. 

Had she… had Carr ripped the dagger from her own shoulder? She must have. Resh sagged in his chains, trying to catch up mentally. 

But he couldn’t catch up because Carr was on Marcus now, and he was suddenly minus an appendage. His scream was garbled as he choked on his own blood. 

Well, not for long. Soon he was choking on something else, a piece of himself that was shoved down his throat, exactly as Carr had promised. 

Despite her injuries–probably in spite of them, knowing Carr–she moved fucking fast. Resh imagined that Marcus wouldn’t live much longer with a slit throat, never mind the blood soaking through his breeches. But she clearly wasn’t done with him yet. 

Resh felt a savage satisfaction that she wanted to inflict as much suffering on the prince as possible before he choked to death on his own blood. Err, dick. Before he choked to death on his own dick. Resh swallowed back the hysterical laugh that tried to break free. 

Almost faster than he could follow, she moved on. Carr pried Marcus’ right hand away from his throat and pinned it to his stomach, driving the dagger through his wrist. 

Marcus writhed, a disturbing wet whistle emerging from his throat with his groans while Carr quickly sawed through the joint. When she was done, she took his severed hand and shoved it inside his pants. 

Resh would’ve cringed at the statement she was making, but he was so angry and heartbroken that he would’ve helped her do it if he wasn’t chained to the godsdamned fucking wall. 

Then she gutted him. Ripped out his fucking insides and threw them over his face. The wet slap of pink, glistening intestine hitting the stone by Marcus’ head was… 

Holy fuck. Resh wasn’t sure his eyes could get any wider. He could only imagine what Carr would say if she wasn’t muzzled. 

Fuckin’ promised I would do this, didn’t I. Should’ve listened, but you’re a dumb fuck with nothin’ but shit for brains. Your loss.

Actually, Resh was pretty sure her language would be more inventive than that, but that was the best his traumatized mind could come up with at the moment.

He smiled when he realized Marcus wasn’t screaming anymore. Marcus’ body spasmed in increasingly weak motions while the stone beneath him greedily drank his blood, the bright red becoming nothing more than a rusty stain that spread in an ever-widening circle. 

The next length of gut Carr threw knocked Marcus’ limp hand from his torn throat. His wide, sightless eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and what could be seen of his face was frozen in a horrified grimace. The whole thing couldn’t have taken much more than a minute, but holy gods, had it been a satisfying death to witness.   

Carr reached the end of her excavation and hunched over Marcus' body, painted in blood from head to toe. Her shoulders shook. 

“Carr,” Resh attempted, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, blinking back tears. “Carr, you did good. It’s over. I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

Slowly, she looked up at him. Her hazel eyes appeared shockingly green within the red mask that covered her face.  

“Does he have the key, Carr? I need to take care of you, but I can’t unless…” 

Achingly slowly, looking on the verge of collapse at any second, Carr searched Marcus’ mutilated body. She pulled out a tiny silver key, barely visible in her shaking hand when she held it up to show him. 

“Good! That’s good, Carr,” Resh said. It felt like he was coaxing her, which thoroughly disgusted him, but she was clearly in shock. He needed to keep her moving. If she collapsed, she could very well die of blood loss before anyone ever found them. Someone finding them would be another disaster in itself, but one he could worry about later. For now… 

“Can you bring it over?” Gods, he hated asking her to move, but she was out of reach, several handspans from where he kneeled. And he was fucking helpless. Helpless to help her when she most needed it. 

She did as he asked. Tears fell down her face while she dragged herself over to him, leaving trails of pink in the drying blood coating her. They were eerily similar to the rusty blood stains that sank into the stone behind her. 

Resh couldn’t tell if the tears were from pain or something else. Either way, they shattered what was left of his heart. 

It wasn’t until she reached him that Resh realized she was still holding the dagger. She rested her head on his thighs and brought the dagger to her cheek. 

“Carr, no, stop. What are you doing?” Resh asked, frantic when she began to saw at the vines that made up the muzzle. “I can help when I’m free… stop it, Carr!” 

She was slicing into her cheek along with the vine, but she didn’t seem to notice. And this time, she didn’t listen. Fresh crimson trickled over the dried, flaking blood coating her cheek. 

The vine eventually snapped, and the dagger fell to the floor. Carr peeled the remnants off her face and pried the strip of fabric from her mouth. When she was done, she curled around Resh’s legs and closed her eyes. 

And no amount of coaxing from him could get her to move again.

Next

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a sepia-colored version of the original blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths AU are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

[holidayinhell]

The Laundry Room

Characters: creepy/intimate Whumper, captive Whumpee CWs: captivity, noncon (mostly implied but eh), sexual/noncon nudity, food denial, discussion of amputation, classic whump shiz

In the early days of his captivity, Whumpee was allowed to sleep on the couch in the basement. Now he spent his days chained up on the floor of the wash room, tethered to the column in the center of the laundry room with a radius of no more than twenty feet to roam about. The cold of the cellar was inescapable. Sometimes, late at night, he would secretly turn on the dryer on its lowest setting and press his face to its warmth. It was one of the only good things left in his life anymore. Now all he had to look forward to was the sweet release of sleep and laundry day once a week.

“Whuuuum-peeeee!” Called a singsong voice from the top of the steps.

Whumpee swallowed. No matter how many times this happened, he was never prepared for it.

The wooden steps creaked in protest under Whumper’s heavy boots. The tall man rounded the corner of the basement into the subterranean laundry room, where he found his favorite captive chained to the central support beam, exactly where he’d left him.

“Got a little something to keep you busy.” Whumper grinned, dumping the contents of the laundry basket he was holding onto the floor. “Turn around.”

Before he finished giving the command, Whumpee had already presented his captor with the zip ties securing his wrists behind his back. Normally Whumper would remove the binds the moment he got home, but he'd had already been back for hours. Maybe he was busy with something else. Or maybe he did it on purpose.

Whumper retrieved his switchblade from his pocked and flipped it open.

“So I saw something on the news again today.” Whumper informed his captive, snapping the plastic ties with his knife.

“Apparently someone found an old hat in the woods. They think that it’s one of yours. It started another search for you, if you can goddamn believe it, and it’s even bigger than before. There’s helicopters and scent tracing dogs and all.”

Whumper unbuckled his belt, sliding the leather strap through the loops of his pants. “That’s some crazy persistence, all for one person. Like, move on with your lives, people. What’s it been, a whole year now?”

“Ten months.” Whumpee replied weakly, rubbing the red marks on his wrists.

“Shietttt, has it really been that long? I was just kidding.” Whumper said playfully, his voice laced with something sinister. “Well, you know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun.”

Fun. Is that what this was?

“I’m just glad they haven’t given up hope yet.”

Whumpee knew he’d misspoke the second the words left his mouth.

“Wrong, Whumpee.” The air went heavy. Whumper shot a disdainful glance at Whumpee, his eyes narrowing with contempt. “People need to stop searching. They need to give up already.”

Whumper was still clutching his leather belt in his hands. For the sake of his physical wellbeing, Whumpee decided to ignore the comment completely.

“Uh, so separate these by color, then?” Whumpee asked as he pawed through the dirty laundry on the floor, desperate to change the subject.

Whumper’s mind was still on the search. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, like usual. Remember to run the sheets—“

“On delicate mode?” Whumpee finished his thought. “Mhmm. Got it.”

Whumpee busied himself by sorting through the dirty laundry pile while Whumper loomed by the room’s entrance. Whumpee watched him cautiously from the corner of his eye. The sociopath was silently brooding, his eyes fixed on Whumpee’s form.

He wished Whumper would fuck off and go back upstairs.

Doing laundry once a week was one of the only tasks he was allowed to do, and as depressing as it was, he actually looked forward to it. It was one of the only things he had to keep himself entertained with. 

In the early days of his captivity, Whumper had allowed him to watch the small tv in the basement living room and provided him with an endless supply of magazines and books. And to think, Whumpee thought he was a prisoner back then. Like most everything in Whumpee’s life, his privileges had been taken away one by one. 

Whumper removed the tv within the first month. He never gave Whumpee a reason why. Next were the books. Then the couch. And soon enough, Whumpee found himself chained to a pole with his wrists zip-tied behind him for ten hours at a time, praying that his captor would at least remember to feed him that day.

Whumpee started a pile of lights, darks, and colors, sorting each garment into its designated pile. Whumper remained in the doorway and watching his captive intently, his presence entirely unwelcome.

“So, um. Did you make something good for dinner?” Whumpee piped up, breaking the tension of the silence.

Ever since he’d been captured all his brain would fixate on was food, and the only thing he could think about currently was the sumptuous meaty smell that had been tantalizing his tastebuds for the past hour.

“Mmm.” Whumper nodded, crossing his arms and stepping into the room. “Roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Garlic bread too, just from the store.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened hungrily.

“No leftovers I’m afraid.” He added.

“Oh.” 

Whumpee crumbled in on himself. That meant no dinner tonight.

Whumpee opened the cabinet above the sink to retrieve a box of detergent. He popped off the lid and scooped the plastic measuring cup into the powder, leveling the mountain of excess with a swipe of his finger.

“You should wash your clothes as well, Whumpee.” The tall man remarked from across the room.

“Uh, yeah. I will.” Whumpee agreed, continuing to avoid eye contact. He placed the pre-measured cup of detergent on the counter, turning to gather up the sorted pile of white clothes from the floor. He chucked them into the washing machine, sprinkled the soap crystals on top, and closed the lid.

He really wished Whumper would go away now, but the tall man stood firmly in place. Whumpee knew where this was going.

“I said you should wash them, Whumpee. That means to take them off.” 

Whumpee stiffened. God fucking damn it. 

Not right now. Not that he wanted to go through this shit ever, but Whumper seemed to be in an especially odd mood this evening.

Whumpee did as he was commanded. It wasn’t worth the fight. He lifted his pale blue button-up over his head, not bothering to unclasp the buttons, and tossed it into the pile of colors. He removed his socks and pants and did the same. Finally he stood in nothing but his white boxer-briefs, awkwardly shimmying them down his thighs until they slid down his legs and hung at his ankles. Blushing, he stepped out of them and walked over to the washing machine, chucking the underwear into the load of whites as it filled with water. 

A chill rocked his body when Whumper approached from behind.

The larger man pushed his hips into Whumpee’s back, pinning him squarely against the machine as it hummed to life. “Mmm. I should make you walk around naked all the time. Don’t you think?”

“It, uh… it gets really cold down here.”

“Psht.” Whumper draped his arms around Whumpee’s neck. “So I’ll buy you an electric blanket. That’d be nice, right?”

“Sure. But, please, I really do need my clothes.”

Whumper’s arms traveled down the sides of Whumpee’s torso and trailed inwards to find his ass. One hand delivered a crisp smack, which immediately left behind a glowing red mark. He smiled, scooping a buttcheek into each palm, jiggling what little flesh was there.

“Your ass is so tiny.” Whumpee quipped.

Yeah, that’s what happens when you average 400 calories a day for nearly a year.

“Yeah. I’m pretty skinny now.”

“You look good like this.” Whumper purred into his ear as he delicately stroked the length of Whumpee’s back. “But I do miss the ass.”

Time to go away now, Whumpee thought. Please, please just go the fuck away.

Whumper smacked Whumpee’s ass again, scooping it up and grinding the denim fabric on his crotch against the thin man’s perfect, bare skin while caressing his neck with his hot, wet tongue. He took Whumpee’s earlobe into his mouth and suckled it lightly, biting down on the soft flesh with only a tiny amount of pressure.

“Mm, you have goosebumps.” Whumper murmured with a self-satisfied grin. “Did that turn you on?”

Two of Whumper’s fingers traced the curvature of his ass and found Whumpee’s entrance. The digits dabbed at the hole gently, teasing and prodding the skin but never pushing inside. The firm touch sent an involuntary shiver up Whumpee’s spine. Whumper smirked at his reaction and nibbled at the side of Whumpee’s neck.

He was so cold, the warmth on his neck felt good. But nothing else did.

“I keep thinking,” Whumper cooed, Whumpee melting into him for heat. “Maybe it’s finally time to give your friends closure. Feels cruel to keep dragging things out like this. They need to stop looking for you.”

For the first time in months, Whumpee felt a vague twinge of hope. 

“What? You mean that you’ll--?”

“What I mean is, they’ll be looking for a body.”

Oh. Oh no.

“W-what?” Whumpee stammered. He twisted out from under Whumper, his chain rattling against the floor as he side-stepped his captor. “What does that mean?”

“I feel a little guilty about it. The search for you has been going on for ages, and now they’re bringing out helicopters and shit? That’s a waste of taxpayer money. The cops could be out there doing real good.”

“No. What did you mean by ‘body’?”

“I was thinking we could chop off one of your legs or something. Maybe just a foot.” 

“No!” Whumpee shrieked. “You can’t!” He delivered a feeble push against Whumper’s chest, pivoting out from underneath him. His heart was pounding in his ears so loud, he pressed his hands to cover them and doubled over in fear.

The reaction took Whumper by surprise. “Bad joke.” he offered, placing a calming hand on the other’s shoulders. 

It wasn’t a joke.

The tall man rubbed his captive’s back until Whumpee’s breath finally evened out. It felt like a betrayal, the way his body responded so well to Whumper’s comforting touch. He jerked away from the sociopath’s reach.

Whumpee blinked incredulously at the man, his cheeks burning with anger. “Don’t.” he spat.

“What?”

“Don’t you fucking dare--”

“Excuse me? Don’t I fucking dare do what?”

“Don’t fucking joke about mutilating me!” Whumpee shouted.

“Hey.” Whumper cautioned. “You’re being too goddamn loud right now.”

Whumpee was frenzied, his chain skittered around as he paced around in a tight circle, pulling at chunks of his hair.

“How long are you going to keep me here?!” Whumpee demanded. “How much fucking longer!?”

“As long as I goddamn like.”

“Just let me go. Just please…” Whumpee pled tearfully, his emotions see-sawing violently between anger and complete despair. “You got what you wanted from me. Why won’t you let me leave…?”

Whumper shrugged. “It never was a part of the plan.”

“Fuck you!” The captive yelled. “I fucking hate you!”

“Whumpee.” Whumper warned with a stern finger, “it’s time to shut the fuck up.”

“I HATE Y—!”

Whumper grabbed a length of chain from the floor and yanked it towards him, forcing Whumpee to the ground by the shackle around his ankle.

Whumper continued pulling the chain into himself, dragging Whumpee’s body across the cold cement floor with every tug. It all happened too quickly for Whumpee to process.

“I should bash your face into the concrete again.” He growled, standing over his collapsed body. Whumpee could taste blood in his mouth. “But I’ll give you one last chance. I guess I didn’t say it explicitly enough last time, so hopefully this time it fucking sinks in: you are here to stay. There will be no more talk of kidnapping, or rescue, or freedom, or fucking escaping. No more of that. You’re here. You’re mine. This house--no--this room, is your whole fucking world, and I am your god. Get used to it.”

Whumpee lifted his head slightly and shot a fiery glance in Whumper’s direction.

“You better wipe that look off your pathetic face while you’ve still got one.” Whumper flicked his switchblade open.

He lifted one of his boots and rested its rubber sole on Whumpee’s back, pressing him into the floor. Brandishing the knife overhead, he commanded Whumpee: “Show me why I choose to keep you around. Remind me that you haven’t fucking forgotten your sole purpose in life, or I’ll saw your leg off right fucking now.”

Face-down on the floor, Whumpee let out a sigh so small only he could hear it.

He knew what he had to do. He didn’t have any other options. Silent tears rushed down his cheeks and fell soundlessly to the floor.

And so out of self-preservation, Whumpee thrust his hips into the air and pushed his face to the floor, his bare ass on full display. He shifted weight into his palms and spread his legs out, his dick and balls tumbled forward, swaying slightly while he found his balance. His hands reached back behind him, blindly tracing the outsides of his thighs, following a line up and over to the round cleft of his butt cheeks.

Choking down a sob, he forced his ass apart. He disgracefully presented his hole before Whumper’s shining, ravenous eyes.

The captor’s jeans fell to the ground. The man dropped to his knees, settling himself in the space between Whumpee’s open legs. 

“When I’m done with you, you are going to fucking thank me like your life depends on it.”

The sudden, high-pitched beep of the washing machine pierced the quiet of the room, signalling that the washing was done. 

Whumpee didn’t dare move an inch.

“And after I’ve filled you up,” Whumper’s hot breath hit his ear. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly which limb to cut off.”

[mynahx3]

One Moment Was All It Took Part 5

Hello lovelies!!! I am sooo sorry!!! Almost two month later but Part 5 is herrreee. It is a bit longer so hopefully that makes up for it a bit lolol. Part 6 is getting worked on rn, prob the last chapter, max with have 7 parts. Then I'm onto other stories! Warnings!!! Dubcon/ noncon, previous noncon implied, captivity, kidnapping, stokholm syndrome brewing, panic attacks, reader gets into a bad mental space yall Hope everyone enjoys! Inspired by @envy-of-the-apple Soulmate HC

Darkness was all around you.

It was cold and unfeeling; it felt as if you were in an abyss with no end in sight. Falling down forever, the feeling of weightlessness overwhelms your senses. The only sound you could hear was the rushing wind in your ears as you were plummeting through an endless void.

At first, you tried to scream for help, clawing your hands for anything to grab onto, but you soon realized it was pointless. Resignation at your fate settled in, and you closed your eyes, accepting the inevitable. The darkness enveloped you completely, wrapping you in its suffocating embrace.

Just as your body went limp, you felt hands gripping you tightly. You felt them everywhere.

Opening your eyes, you saw nothing still; the feeling of nails digging into your body was overwhelming. The sensation of being pulled in all directions was disorienting, and you couldn't make sense of what was happening. Panic set in as you struggled against the invisible force that seemed to be controlling your every movement.

Nails dug into the flesh of your thighs, your arms, and your chest, leaving painful marks in their wake. You screamed for help, but no sound escaped your lips as you were dragged further into the darkness. Blood seeped from the scratches, hands tearing more at you, as if trying to crawl into your skin. Screams of pain erupted from your lips, hands fighting at the unseen force, but nothing helped.

Losing strength in your body, you began to give in, the unseen force now gentle with your fighting now gone. It gave soft caresses over your skin, almost comforting in its touch. The darkness still enveloped you completely, leaving you feeling both terrified and strangely comforted at the same time. In the distance, you saw two orbs of light approaching. Upon closer inspection, they looked like they were two sapphires, glowing in the darkness with a bright blue hue.

In your weakened state, you reached out to touch them, hearing a voice call out your name as it gradually got louder.

Jolting awake from the nightmare, you felt two hands holding your shoulders, shaking you lightly. Opening your eyes while you sat up, you saw the very cause of your torment.

Satoru sat beside you in bed, the moonlight casting his body in a white glow. Snowy white hair tousled, and his blue eyes filled with worry. Even in the middle of the night, he was breathtaking. You never understood how one human could be so beautiful, especially one so rotten. One who did cruel things to you with a smile on his face.

He looked at you with such softness, his hands cupping your face as tears went down your cheeks. An attempt to comfort you from your nightmares, which have been happening nearly every night. The cold nipped at your bare shoulders, and the nightgown you had on did nothing to help.

"Shh, it's okay." He assured you, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. "You're okay."

His voice was thick with sleep and concern. Sniffing, you only nodded to him, not being able to talk because of the tight feeling in your throat. Your head rested on his bare chest as you allowed him to pull you close, arms tight around your waist.

When this all began, you never would have thought you'd find comfort in your captor. You'd laugh at the irony of it all if the situation weren't so dire. But here you were, finding solace in the arms of the man who held you captive, feeling a strange sense of warmth beside him as much as you tried to fight it. Your isolation and stress only made matters worse.

You were only human, after all.

Weeks, or months, you didn't know, of fighting him with no escape in sight brought down your walls of resistance. It was as if your attempts were child's play to him, with him always being one step ahead at all times. Now all you could do was cling to him for support. The Stockholm syndrome was real, and you were living proof of its power.

You held on to him tighter, desperate for a sense of security after your nightmare. He gladly accepted your affections, a hand rubbing on your back as he whispered soothing words into your ears.

Satoru's determination to break you slowly chipped at your resolve to the point he now let you roam the penthouse freely, of course under strict lock and key. He didn't yet trust you fully enough to let you back into the public. The penthouse was sleek and massive, a testament to the amount of wealth he had, with more rooms than you knew what to do with . It overlooked Tokyo, sitting high in the sky, with breathtaking views of the city. Your favorite was at night, when the lights of the city sparkled below. Every door leading outside was secured with a padlock, which only he knew the code for. He and he alone opened the front door or left it.

Even with the added freedom, you felt the solitude getting to you. It took a toll on your mental and physical health, apparent in the lack of sleep and constant anxiety that plagued your every waking moment. The only solace you found was in the moments of kindness Satoru showed, leaving you conflicted and unsure of your own feelings towards him.

Silence enveloped the room as you calmed down, your cries now replaced with sniffles. Sensing your calmer state, he pulled away from the embrace, a hand cupping your cheek. His eyes always seemed to glow, especially at night.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, concern evident in his voice.

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread through you at his touch as he wiped your cheeks. The silence between you felt comfortable, like a safe haven in the midst of chaos. Of course, he had to ruin it by talking.

"Just a bad dream." You dismiss him, avoiding eye contact and pushing his hands away. Immediately, you distanced yourself from him on the bed, leaving his hand to reach out for you.

He only observed you as you tried to settle back down, his hand clenching on his lap and his fingers twitching to feel you again. After any nightmare or panic attack, you always clammed back up. Your walls were back up once you had a moment of clarity.

It was frustrating for the sorcerer. You were so close to letting him in; he could see it, but you always retreated away just when he thought he had made progress. Constantly, he had to chase after you, hoping to get a glimpse of the vulnerability you rarely showed. But he knew that breaking down those walls would take time and patience.

He was only doing this because he had to.

The next morning, you woke before he did, like always.

Sunrays barely began to peek through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. Slowly, your mind fully woke up, with small yawns coming from your mouth. While your eyes adjusted, you watched him sleep beside you, tilting your head at the sight of him so peaceful. He lays there without a care in the world, an arm still around you, snoring lightly as he drooled onto his pillow. Fingers reached out to trace over his features lightly, his eyes twitching a little as he dreamed.

Shaking your head at your actions, you went back to getting out of bed, trying to wiggle out of his hold. Groans of protest escaped his lips, his brow furrowing at the loss of heat, his hand reaching for you on the bed, but he quickly fell asleep again. Putting the comforter over his shoulder, you quietly slipped out of bed and made your way to the kitchen to start making breakfast. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room as you moved about.

It wasn't that you necessarily wanted to cook for him. Satoru couldn't cook to save his life, and you found it helpful to have a routine to stick to; the consistency brought you some sense of stability. Going through the motions, you whipped together a simple breakfast. For moments like these, you could almost believe things were normal. Almost.

You were so focused that you didn't notice a certain white-haired man walking into the kitchen; he always managed to sneak up on you despite being so loud. His arms wrapped around your waist as you stirred the eggs in the pan, startling you with a jump.

"Morning." His breath fanned over your ear, and his head went to the crook of your neck. He was a bit groggy, his larger body leaning over yours as he kissed your shoulder. "You need help?"

"No, I've got it here," you replied, your voice calm as your heart beat in your chest frantically.

The forced intimacy was something you should be well used to, with how often he pulled you into his arms, but there was still a shiver down your spine at the contact. His large hands wandered over your stomach lazily, a natural response for the clingy man, as he always craved your touch.

You just let him do as he wished. The scar on your left hand is a reminder of what would happen if you pushed him too far. Looking at it, memories of trying to fight him flood your mind. In your rage, you tried to hit him over the head with a glass vase. To your surprise, it only broke just before making contact, with a large shard imbedding itself in your palm and traveling all the way to the other side.

Satoru laughed like it was a joke as you screamed, collapsing to the tile with your bloody hand clutched to your chest. He warned you that next time, he wouldn't be so forgiving. In your pain, he made sure to patch you up gently and clean up the mess. Acting as if it were a simple accident.

He always talked about possessing abilities—ones he couldn't show you because of the "soumate" bond. Ranting on about stories of curses and the rare people that were able to exorcise them, keeping sweet cilvians like yourself safe, as he said. Naturally, you thought it was more of his delusional thoughts.

That day, you were proven wrong. The sight of the vase shattering against an invisible force between the two of you was enough to dampen the fire inside of you. He wasn't human; that much is clear to you now.

Coming back to reality, you felt his hands hiking up your nightgown. His fingers were cold as they traversed underneath. The touch sent shivers down your spine, a stark contrast to the warmth you once felt from him. As his hands continued to explore, you resisted the urge to fight him.

His kisses along your neck and shoulders are harsher, leaving marks in their wake. Marks that would last for days to come. When they finally fade, it will serve as a reminder to make more.

"You'll be late." You remind him, inhaling a sharp breath as his grip tightens on your waist. You tried to reason with him now instead of fighting him, knowing it would be useless. A few times, you've been able to dissuade him, but you knew it would be a matter of time before he took you again.

The urgency of his movements made you uneasy. His hips are moving into yours from behind with a need, making you feel each inch of his hardening cock. Satoru simply ignores you, a hand pulling at your chest, knowing it was a sensitive spot. His actions were becoming more forceful, causing a mix of pleasure and discomfort to surge through you.

Staying strong, you put down your spatula and turn off the fire, putting a hand over his to stop his movements. Eyes looking over at him with a small frown to show how serious you were. He had a pout on his lips, his eye twitching at the interruption. He hated being told no and being denied.

"I'll be fine. I called off today." He explains, focusing back on the skin on your neck. "I figured we should spend more time together since I've been gone a lot lately; I want to get to know you more."

His considerate words were a contrast to his actions. Ignoring your attempts to push him away, he did what he wanted. Both of his hands are on your chest, twisting and pulling at your nipples harshly. Your attempts to stop him and to talk reason to him were futile.

Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around you and picked you up, dropping you onto the counter behind him. He kneeled and slid your legs onto his shoulders in one swift motion, his head disappearing beneath your nightgown. Often, he liked to do this, being between your legs until your essence dripped down his chin and onto the bed. Once, he'd spend hours there, pleasuring you like it was his only purpose in life, not leaving until he had nearly made you pass out.

He couldn't get enough of you.

"Satoru!" You cried out, hands tangling in his hair as his tongue went in circles on your clit. "Satoru, please, not now."

Moans slipped past your lips, feeling the tension building in your core as he continued his skilled movements. The pleasure was overwhelming, and you knew you wouldn't be able to hold back much longer. He had a firm hold on your ass, nail digging in as he kept you in place when you tried to squirm away.

He had gone deaf to your pleas, lost in your taste and the way your body responded to his touch. He loved every second of it. Satoru was only focused on your pleasure, determined to bring you to the edge and beyond. With each flick of his tongue, you felt yourself teetering closer to the release you felt incoming.

Going between licks at your clit to tongue fucking you with a rhythm that had you gasping for air. The intensity of his actions sent shivers down your spine, making you arch your back in ecstasy. Your thighs squeezed around his head in an attempt to get him to stop his actions, but he only laughed, sending vibrations through your body that only heightened your arousal. His skilled touch was driving you wild, sending every nerve ablaze inside you.

With a final flick of his tongue, you reached your peak, crying out his name as waves of pleasure washed over you. He licked you clean, savoring each drop from you. Satoru finally released you, a satisfied smirk on his face as he looked up at you with dark eyes filled with desire. His chin dripped with your release, a smile on his face as he gazed up at you, his gaze filled with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. Turning his head, he laid kisses on your inner thigh, and one of his hands rubbed your leg as you calmed down from your high. Your chest is heaving, with a layer of sweat on it. The fabric of the nightgown stuck to your skin.

"Such a good girl."

Smiling still, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. As he did, he began to pull his sweats down and let his cock free. It stood hard and erect, pre-dripping from the pink head.

Shame filled you, making you avert your eyes from his gaze.

In response, he only kissed your temple, letting you look away from him as he began. Guiding his member to your sopping entrance, he began to push in with no warning. The pain shot through you as he entered you roughly, causing tears to well up in your eyes. You tried to push him away, but his grip on your hips was too strong. Hands went on his shoulders, but he only tightened his grip on you, whispering in your ear that everything would be okay.

"Almost there, baby." He groaned into your neck while he stayed still, letting you adjust to his size.

No matter how many times you've been intimate with him, there was still a small amount of pain felt. You sobbed into his chest, hiccuping at the violation, with your arms moving around his neck. He held you close, comforting you with small kisses as the pain slowly subsided.

Felling you begin to relax, he experimentally thrust, gaining a small moan from you. His movements were slow and gentle, showing care and consideration for your comfort. As he found a rhythm, the initial discomfort faded away, replaced by a growing sense of pleasure.

The kitchen was filled with his loud moans and yours, even as you tried to muffle them to the best of your ability. His onslaught was relentless, the pace quickening as he became more consumed by desire, and the grip on your hips was near painful.

Opening your eyes, you looked past Satoru, your eyes blank as he continued to thrust. The eggs continued to cook with the left-over heat. Dust was on the cabinets; you'd be sure to clean them today. You noticed the clock on the wall stopped moving; you'd have to replace the batteries. The aroma of breakfast filled the room, mixing with the scent of sweat and desire.

You often let your mind wander during these moments, focusing on the sensations rather than the reality of the situation. Imagining yourself in your fiance's arms was one distraction you welcomed, but it was a dangerous game if you ever slipped his name. Your imagination could never mask what was happening, but it helped.

His noises filled your ears, as if to be a constant reminder of what you did to him. Grabbing your face harshly, he focused your eyes back on him. It's like he knew what you were doing—an emotion in his eyes you couldn't describe.

The varying blues of his eyes mesmerized you each time you saw them so close. It was like gazing into a stormy sea, both beautiful and terrifying. The intensity of his gaze made it impossible to look away, drawing you in despite the fear that lingered beneath the surface.

"You're mine," he growled, his grip tightening on your cheeks. The fear in your eyes mirrored the reality of the situation—no longer being able to hide behind daydreams.

Roughly, his lips met yours as if to claim you completely. His tongue explored every crevice of your mouth, leaving you breathless. Your legs tightened around him, nails sinking into his back, in response to a certain movement that hit a spot inside you. He finally broke from the kiss, returning his attention to your eyes. He could see from the look in your eyes and your drooling mouth that you were close, your body trembling in pleasure.

This urged him to move faster, with one of his hands moving between the two of you to rub at your clit. His fingers are rubbing in fast circles, the movement sending you closer to the edge. With each thrust, the pleasure intensified, building towards an inevitable climax.

The feeling of you around him was pure bliss, a sensation he would never grow tired of. The slaps of his hips on yours became more forceful, matching the urgency of your moans and the increasing pace of his movements. You clenched around him, your eyes rolling back as you felt your end coming closer. Satoru was not far behind, his face a bright red and his movements sloppy.

With a final push, he buried himself deep inside you, releasing a guttural groan as you both reached the peak of pleasure together. His cum filled you as your insides milked him for all his worth as his cock twitched inside you.

Panting for air, you held him close, legs shaking on either side of him from overstimulation. You felt his warmth fill you to the brim, spilling onto the countertops. As you both came down from the intense high, you shared a moment of silence.

He spent it in glee, and you spent it in contempt. You hated yourself for giving in. For not fighting harder. For succumbing to his touches. The fear and instinct to survive overpowered any sense of dignity or self-respect you had left. More tears silently went down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat and other fluids that coated your skin.

Giving you a softer kiss on the lips, he pulled back with a soft smile. With eyes filled with tenderness, you often thought he truly believed his delusions. His hands still rubbed along your body to massage the soreness that would come shortly; he was always too rough with you.

"Come on. We'll take a shower together." He said, he looked content with himself as he pulled out, earning a whimper from you. His shoulders were relaxed, and a sense of satisfaction was evident in his expression. He breathed slowly and deeply while he waited for a response, his fingers still trailing along your thighs.

You got the feeling it was more of an order than a suggestion; he did like the intimacy bathing together brought.

"You'll feel better."

Nodding to him quietly, you let him help you off the counter. Standing on shaky legs as you tried to walk to the bathroom. He only laughed at the sight, letting you continue to try and walk. Your legs only shook more with each step; you looked like a deer learning to walk for the first time.

For awhile, he let you keep trying to walk, only stepping in once you had nothing to support yourself with anymore. With ease, he picked you up bridal style, making jokes at your expense. He laughed when he saw the embarrassed expression on your face, digging in more.

The bath was relaxing, as much as you hated to admit it.

With plenty of soap filling the large tub, Satoru sat across from you. He talked on and on, focused on plans for the day as you wash yourself. Only humming in response to all of his questions and obviously avoiding speaking to him.

He noticed when you answered a question with another hum. With a roll of his eyes, he splashed you with water to catch your attention. Jumping in response, you splashed him back on habit, only for the water to slide down that damn force field of his as he smiled at you with a shit eating grin.

"As I was saying, babe, I think we should have a marathon. I saw a series you like has a new season out."

You can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes at his persistence, hands raised to scrub the shampoo into your hair. Eyes looking to the side of the tube to distract yourself, you still haven't gotten used to him trying to be so domestic.

"Fine, but only if we get the snacks I want," you retort, a little part of you looking forward to it.

You froze at the realization, frowning as to why you thought that. You hated him. Despised what he did to you and what he continued to do. Deep, deep down, despite how much you buried it, you felt a small connection forming with him.

Focusing again, you saw his gaze on you. You slapped his arm; your physical attacks always made contact, after all, when you saw where they were directed. He had been shamlessly oogling your wet, soapy breasts.

"Stop being a creep," you scolded, feeling a mix of annoyance and discomfort. You quickly covered yourself with one arm, hoping to put some distance between yourself and him as you scooted away.

"Stop being so hot then."

Slapping his arm again, just as hard, he gasped in shock, pretending to look heartbroken, his hand clutching his chest. He had red spots forming on his biceps from your hits against his pale skin.

"You're impossible," you muttered, glaring at his wide grin. Despite his inappropriate behavior, there was a part of you that couldn't help but find him charming in a twisted sort of way. If you had met under different circumstances, there might have been a chance you could have been friends.

"What?" He challenged, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, clearly enjoying the banter between the two of you. "Gonna do something to make me stop?"

To further his point, his eyes focused down once more and then back up at your face, his eyebrows wiggling playfully. Lifting your hands up, you covered his eyes with your hands, blocking his view, much to his mock protest. Your palms were flat up against his eyes, not letting anything slip by .

"Not cool." His lips pouted, but he made no attempt to escape your grasp. If anything, he leaned into your touch, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. To your surprise, his hands sprang up over yours when you began to move them in an attempt to take them back. He pleaded with you for them to stay.

"Can… Can we stay like this for a bit longer?"

His voice was the softest you have ever heard, and the vulnerability in his tone caught you off guard. He'd always been playful and carefree, but in this moment, he seemed fragile and in need of comfort. It tugged at your heartstrings, and you couldn't help but oblige his request.

You don't know what came over you, but you found yourself moving closer to him in the tub. Continuing to offer him support as you both sat in comfortable silence, his hands still resting on yours.

The rest of the day went by peacefully. You'd even go so far as to say it was nice.

As he promised, the two of you relaxed on the couch to watch the show after breakfast and changed into comfortable clothing. He currently held you next to him, a blanket over the both of you. Regardless of your best efforts to avoid it, his arm was wrapped around your shoulder. You caved in after he persisted.

"I told you they would go that route; it only made sense!"

"You don't need to rub it in." He said it with a defeated tone, popping another piece of candy into his mouth.

The two of you had a debate about which direction the show would go when you saw the warning signs. It was obvious to you that the best friend would betray the main character in the end. You were just hoping you were wrong.

Sighing like a child, Satoru moved to get up; his phone had chimed with a notification. He glanced down at the screen, his expression turning grim as he read the message.

"Gotta take this, babe; keep watching."

You only shrugged at him in response, picking up the remote to switch to live TV as he left the room. Both of you had already finished the newest season; the sun is long set now. Browsing through the channels, you only saw a few reruns of old movies, the midnight crime shows you used to watch, and a late-night talk show discussing the latest celebrity gossip from a couple years ago. The room was filled with the soft glow of the TV screen, casting shadows across the walls as you settled in for another night of mindless entertainment.

Picking a random channel since nothing caught your interest, you moved to pick up a book you'd left on the stand beside the couch, turning on the small lamp to read instead. As you flipped through the pages, the sound of laughter from the TV faded into the background, replaced by the quiet rustling of paper. The familiar smell of the book brought a sense of comfort; books were often your only source of entertainment here since Satoru only let you use the TV when he was with you.

Minutes went by as you read to yourself; Satoru was still down the hall on the phone. You often saw him pacing the halls, shooting you a look to check in at times. Immersed in the book, you didn't pay him any mind; you were used to him constantly checking in on you.

Just as you began to relax, you heard the voice of someone familiar. Someone you thought you'd never hear or see again.

Looking up at the TV in shock, you saw the news station was on, showing an interview with your family. You'd forgotten Satoru didn't like you watching live TV, always mentioning he meant to cancel it. Now you knew why.

On the large LED screen, you saw your loved ones in tears, crying out over your disappearance. They looked devastated, pleading for your safe return. Your heart sank, seeing how distraught they were. Tears began to well in your eyes, your emotions overwhelming you.

A tight feeling in your chest made it harder to breathe; your breaths came in short bursts. Panic began to fill your veins, the book dropping beside you as you stood up. Your fiancé was now on screen. He appeared worn, exhausted, and shattered. A shadow of the man he once was, he gazed directly into the camera, his eyes filled with desperation as he whispered, "Please come back to me."

Your hands trembled as you reached out towards the screen, wishing to be with him. It had been almost five months since you'd disappeared; the only thing left of you was a ransacked apartment. Five months were spent alone with this man. This monster.

More panic filled you as your thoughts raced and your heart beat frantically in your chest. Your hands began to shake as you realized how long it had been. A strangled cry escaped your lips as you collapsed to the floor, arms wrapped around yourself, in a desperate attempt to calm your racing heart. The weight of the situation finally hit you, and tears began to stream down your face. You made sounds you never would have imagined—sounds that were hurting and broken.

Satoru ran back into the room once he heard your cries, coming back to find you shattered in pieces. It was easy for him to figure out what happened. He kneeled down beside you, gently pulling you into his arms and whispering soothing words in your ear. His presence did nothing to soothe you, only causing you to fight in his arms more. Pushing on him to get away from him, you felt like the room was caving in on you. His suffocating presence only made things worse. You needed space to process your emotions, but Satoru refused to let you go, holding you tighter. The more he tried to comfort you, the more you felt like you were drowning in your own despair.

Eventually, like always, you tired yourself out. Crying softly as he cradled you in his arms. Your chest still hiccupped, but you no longer screamed like you did before. Vocal cords are raw now and in pain. Your eyes are red and puffy from your tears.

"Why?" you whispered, the word barely audible through your hoarse voice. Satoru held you closer, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears of his own. You'd never seen him cry before; the hold on you is tighter than before.

"I love you."

His declaration only served to make you cry more.

Shaking your head, you continued to try and push away from him. You pleaded with him to let you go through your tears. The entire time, he peppered your face with kisses, declaring his love in between each one. He is desperate to get you to see through his words and actions. It was suffocating—his so called love, the look in his eyes he held for you, the intensity of his emotions palpable in the air around you.

"I can't let you go… Not ever…"

Hugging you close, he made you rest your head on his shoulder, his hand caressing your hair. Even now, he was rough. His hand gripped your hair a little too tightly, making you wince in pain. The position on the floor was uncomfortable for the both of you, but he didn't seem to notice or care. Too engrossed in his own emotions, he seemed blind to your discomfort.

Laying limp in his arms, your tired eyes wandered back to the screen where the interview continued. Seeing your loved ones, you felt that spark in you return—that will to fight— even as small as it was. 

OOOhhh what will happennnn??~~~ I hope you guys liked this chapter. You saw how the dynamic worked with him now since it's months down the line. Will he fully break her? Will she try to escape despite her fears?? We'll findd outt

[neetdogboy]

(Said like a game show host) Violate! That! Priest!

uncropped bc this site is scared of priest pussy

If you recognize my art style no you don’t <3

[montammil]

June of Doom Day 25 - "I should have listened to you."

| Guilt | Backseat | Failure |

Characters: Rowan, Sawyer

Also kind of rushed and stuff, but I keep reminding myself this is a challenge, not something I need to be ultra perfectionist about lol.

Anyway, I thought it'd be fun if I showed Sawyer having a bit of stockholm syndrome since I usually give that to Marshall XD

CW: Yandere/creepy whumper, stockholm syndrome, dubcon touching (nothing inherently sexual), non-sexual nudity, mentioned branding

...

Sawyer didn't want to admit it, but after just two months of freedom, he was starting to regret his actions.

Rowan had been the source of most of his trauma, both physically and psychologically, and it was obvious that Rowan was as deranged as deranged got... but he didn't understand what he was doing was wrong. Rowan just needed help, and Sawyer learnt that his family had installed the idea in his mind that therapy would be a bad look on the Burnett name.

Each day, questions ran through his head. Would Rowan finally get the help he needs? Would Rowan continue searching for him until the day he's dead?

Would Rowan just find another person to replace Sawyer with?

As guilty as Sawyer felt for it, that question made him more upset than it should have, and for the wrong reasons. He was aware perhaps he had gotten a little stockholm syndrome during his time with Rowan, but he didn't think it was that bad.

Sometimes he felt comfort around Rowan... as long as he didn't get on his bad side, he could be such a nice guy. He'd bring him flowers, cook for him, spend a lot of time talking and laughing. He even played the piano for him.

At the same time, Sawyer couldn't let go of the fact that Rowan stalked him for god knows how long before he finally snatched him. Rowan burnt a brand into his flesh and held him hostage for four months.

The guilt was eating him alive. Guilt over something he knew he shouldn't feel.

It didn't help that he didn't even have a place to stay. His savings were almost depleted, and he knew he was close to getting kicked out of his apartment.

He was relying on his job at a fast food restaurant to support himself, but that didn't pay him enough to afford more than a week of groceries.

He wasn't thinking logically when he was fired for snapping at a rude customer. Sawyer never let his emotions get the best of him, but he was so tired and in a terrible mood that he let his filter go. He ended up getting into a screaming match, and was kicked out of the establishment.

Now, he had no idea what to do. He knew it was only a matter of days before he'd be out on the streets.

He couldn't exactly go back to his parents or sister. He didn't want to explain to them why he was in his situation. Plus, he would have to travel for days to even get back to the town he used to live in.

There was only one option he could see. He was depressed, about to be homeless, with no one who loves him.

Except Rowan.

Sawyer didn't realize how long he'd been sitting at the bus stop. It was late, past midnight. The streetlights were the only source of light in the pitch black of the night. He kept zoning in and out, unable to concentrate on anything. It felt like he was moving in slow motion.

He searched in Rowan's name, wondering if it'd come up. To his surprise, it did.

Rowan Burnett: Insurance Agent, 31, Oregon City. It was surreal seeing Rowan's name there on the screen, like he was just another ordinary person, leading an ordinary life.

He had no idea he was so successful, but that must've been due to his family's wealth. He clicked on his profile to see pictures of Rowan in suits, smiling for the camera, holding business meetings, attending charity events.

They were all from a year ago at latest. He hadn't updated since he met Sawyer.

The bus pulled up, breaking Sawyer out of his trance. He stepped on, shoving his wallet back in his pocket after handing the cash to the driver. He slumped down at a seat near the back.

He didn't know what he was thinking. Rowan was probably so furious with him, he was probably waiting for the opportunity to take Sawyer back and never let him go.

Yet in Rowan's absence, Sawyer learnt to miss his possessiveness. It was something he'd take to the grave, but he truly missed having someone who cared about him, someone who loved him, even if it was under the guise of obsession.

He remembered how to get there from his stop, his feet bringing him to the location instinctively. His memory still recalled the layout. He was thankful he remembered his escape route, which wasn't far away from Salem and another national forest.

It felt like a blur. Almost in a blink of an eye, he was outside the lake house. The lights were on, so it seemed Rowan was still up.

Sawyer hesitated. This was his last chance to turn back. And maybe Rowan wasn't even at the lake house. Maybe he was in his house in Oregon City, or even looking for him right now...

But his car was parked out front. Sawyer heard his heartbeat in his ears. This was stupid. He should've turned back, but he spent almost an hour walking all the way here. If he wanted to escape again, at least he now knew the way out.

That is, if Rowan ever gave him the opportunity to escape again.

He felt his hands reaching up to knock. Before he could stop himself, he was already rapping his knuckles against the oak door.

The sound resounded throughout the area. Sawyer held his breath, he didn't know what to expect. He hoped for the best, but that seemed too optimistic for him.

He heard the locks turning, and then the door cracked open. A familiar pair of lavender eyes appeared, widening when they saw him. It was silent.

The tension was so thick, he felt like he was going to suffocate.

"Sawyer...?" Rowan whispered. He let the door swing open, his mouth parted in shock. His hair was a mess, and his outfit was wrinkled. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. It was all an unusual look on him. He stepped forwards, and Sawyer noticed how his hand twitched. Rowan looked like he was unsure if Sawyer was really there.

Sawyer nodded, biting his lip. He let out a shaky breath. "I..." He looked away. "I shouldn't have run. I'm sorry." He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "You were right. No one cares about me, no one wants me. I should have listened to you."

He was expecting Rowan to yell, to scream, to even slap him. When Rowan raised his hand, he braced himself. Instead, Rowan gently cupped his cheek, lifting his gaze up.

His eyes were still wide, like he couldn't believe Sawyer was back in his arms. Sawyer hadn't once seen such a vulnerable look in his eyes. He was only gone for two months. He felt so ashamed. He had no real reason to return, yet here he was. He was pathetic.

Rowan pulled him into a hug. "My love," he exhaled. He hugged him tighter, as if Sawyer was going to disappear if he let go. "You came back to me. You really came back to me." He pushed Sawyer's bangs out of his face and looked down at him with an adoring smile.

Sawyer melted. He didn't know why, but it felt nice. He didn't have to hide anything, and he didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't.

Rowan guided him inside. He was still trembling, like he was holding himself back from touching Sawyer all over. Rowan shut the door behind them and locked it.

"I missed you," Sawyer admitted. He didn't know why he said that. It just slipped out, and he couldn't take it back now.

Rowan breathed out a sigh of relief. "I missed you so much, my darling. You don't know how hard it was to fall asleep without you beside me. I don't know how I managed it."

Sawyer normally would have rolled his eyes at how dramatic he was, but he found himself relating to the statement. The bed always felt so empty and cold without Rowan, he had gotten so used to sleeping by his side.

"But it doesn't matter anymore," he continued. "I have you, and you're staying. Right?"

"Yes," Sawyer replied. He didn't believe in his statement, not completely, but he knew Rowan wouldn't take no for an answer. "I want to stay with you. I'm yours."

Rowan grinned and kissed him roughly. "All mine." He kissed him again, his hands roaming over Sawyer's body. He kissed along his jaw and neck, humming against his skin.

Sawyer's heart was racing. He missed the way Rowan touched him. It wasn't a romantic touch, it was rough, dominating, and maybe that was the way he preferred it.

He let Rowan touch all over his body, only managing to ask, "Are you mad at me?"

He contemplated his words. "If I had to hunt you down--which I have tried-- I would've had you tied outside like a dog by now." Sawyer shivered at the thought. "But you willingly came back, and for that, I am beyond pleased. But if you dare even think about leaving again," he continued, voice dipping to a growl. He licked along his Adam's apple, sucking a bruise on it. "I'll have to get creative with my punishments. I don't need to do that, do I?"

Sawyer shook his head. "No, Rowan."

"Good. Now let's get you a bath, you smell like you haven't had one in months." He reached down to intertwine their fingers, leading him down the hall. "This is why you need me to take care of you, you never take care of yourself." He ushered Sawyer into the bathroom.

He waited patiently for him to finish drawing a bath, dumping soap and oils in it. He was soaking up the feeling of being back, Sawyer felt at peace. It felt wrong to feel that way, but he couldn't stop the thoughts.

Rowan began undressing Sawyer, kissing him every few seconds. He couldn't stop touching him. Given how lonely he imagined Rowan must've been without him, it made sense.

Sawyer subconsciously ran his fingers through Rowan's hair, and it caused him to grin ear to ear. Sawyer had never seen him look so blissful.

He entered the tub, watching Rowan get undressed as well. It wasn't the first time, and it definitely wouldn't be the last. He had no issues with it anymore. This was the routine he had gotten used to for several months, and it felt right. He sighed when he felt the warm water soak into his sore muscles. It was nice.

Rowan slid in the tub as well, pulling Sawyer in his lap. He wrapped his arms around him, peppering his shoulders and the back of his neck with kisses.

"You have a lot of freckles," Sawyer muttered. He ran his fingertips over his skin, tracing a few of the prominent ones.

"Do I? I never paid much attention to them." Rowan dipped his hand in the water. He reached over to grab a loofah, using it to wipe down Sawyer's back. "I was a mess when you were gone. It's funny, I even called in some family friends to look for you." He chuckled.

Sawyer tensed. "What?"

"It's okay, you don't have to worry your pretty little head about it," he assured. "I mean, you're so small. It was hard to imagine you managed to survive all by yourself. It's only reasonable I'd get worried for my soulmate's safety, right? It's such a cruel world, even you admitted that yourself." He set the loofah aside to grab shampoo and conditioner.

He decided to just ignore Rowan's earlier statement. He knew it was dangerous to prod for answers, especially with the topic of Rowan's hired men. It made him wonder what kind of family he had.

"Tilt your head back for me, please." Sawyer followed his command. Rowan poured water over his head.

He put shampoo in his palms and began scrubbing at Sawyer's scalp. He worked through his hair until it was free of knots, and then added conditioner. He made sure to get his body clean as well, washing the dirt off and admiring his handiwork.

"There. All clean." Rowan pulled him back against him again, resting his head on his shoulder.

Sawyer's eyelids felt heavy. He leaned into Rowan, already feeling drowsy. He closed his eyes and just focused on the feeling of the water surrounding him.

Next thing he knew, he was dressed in silk pajamas and being carried to bed. He was half awake, but couldn't manage to open his eyes. Rowan placed him on the mattress, but Sawyer refused to let him go. He hugged him around his waist. "Stay with me."

If he could see Rowan's expression, he knew it'd be on the verge of tears. The bed dipped, and Sawyer was wrapped in a firm embrace. He nuzzled his face in the crook of his captor's neck. He'd regret this, but that was an issue for tomorrow.

For tonight, he just wanted to get lost in Rowan's affections. He didn't feel so alone when he was with Rowan.

"I love you," Rowan breathed out. His grip tightened. "I love you so much."

"I know. I love you too."

And maybe, if only just for this one night, he really did mean it.

[i-eat-worlds]

Starcross Chapter 2

Unboxing time!

Content: aftermath of abuse, descriptions of injuries, medical whump, past non-con body mod, broken bones, brief mentions of fictional politics, brief dehumanization, non-sexual nudity, brief mentions of urinary catheters

Free Space, AFS Starcross, 4/5/4763 Ziar peered down into the species containment unit, eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the person confined inside. She turned to her captain. “I’m going to need you to leave, Veya.”

The person was entirely nude, and their body was covered with a seemingly endless number of big, dark bruises. Several tubes protruded from their body, attached to reservoirs of nourishment, fluids, and oxygen, as well as another to remove waste, all responsible for keeping them alive in the tiny chamber. It would be an involved process to get them detached and woken up, and neither of them needed an audience for that.

Behind her, Veya shifted. Ziar could tell she was uncomfortable with the idea of a stranger aboard the ship, but she’d live. The infirmary was her domain, and no one else’s. “I’ll keep you updated. Promise. If there’s some sort of fun new novel parasite, I’ll let it eat me first.”

“Alright.” She chuckled a little bit, turning on her heel to leave. Ziar heard her stop to grab her weapon before thumbing up the stairs to the third level.

“Let’s get you out of there.” Her eyes flicked back over to the display panel, checking their vital signs once more. It gave their species as Human. They were one of the rarer species of the galaxy, and Ziar wasn’t overly familiar with them. However, their vitals seemed to be within normal limits, and the SCU wasn’t screaming loudly at her, so they were probably not awful.

It had been nearly a decade since she had last dealt with stasis units, but waking someone was a hell of a lot easier to manage than induction, so she wasn’t going to complain. She disconnected the feeding and hydration lines, though she left the port connecting device alone. The catheter also stayed in place, though she unattached the collection bag. It was mostly full, and Ziar was glad that they’d gotten to them when they did.

She looked at the panel again, and was surprised to find that Yera had splurged and bought an automatic transfer. All it took was pressing a few buttons to have the levitators float the person from the unit up to a bed. She still had to lug the ventilator around, but that was much preferred to having to carry a person. If Ziar was being honest, though, the person didn’t look like they weighed all that much.

The infirmary’s harsh lighting left nothing hidden as she methodically worked her way down from their head. Their hair had been completely shaved, only a thin layer of fuzz left behind. A dark, bruised ring rimmed their left eye, but the orbit seemed intact. On the right side of their neck, several Yeran letters and numerals were etched into their skin. KM-4682, if she was reading them correctly. Her stomach dropped as she moved on to examining the front side of their chest and abdomen. Their ribs crunched beneath her hands as he felt them, but their chest rose and fell as a single unit and their lungs sounded clear. Shallow cuts and old scars flecked their chest, along with several small bruises. Their left ankle was swollen concerningly, and Ziar was worried it was broken. Blood flow was good, but it should’ve been immobilized before the put into stasis.

On their frontside, that was the most severe injury she could find, but obvious evidence of mistreatment was overwhelming. The skin around their wrists was chapped from over-tight restraints, same as their ankles. And, combined with the electrowhip burns on their thighs, it reminded her of Adaxia in all the wrong ways.

She took a deep breath in, rolling her shoulders back before queueing the bed to roll them onto their side. The electrowhip scars were thicker here, criss-crossing over each other like a knot, but they were much more faded than the ones on their thighs.

Closer inspection soon revealed why.

A thin line of metal protruded from the back of their neck, terminating in some sort of cable port. Further down, on their lower back, was the same device, though a little more robust. They were spinal implants.

What the actual fuck?

Yera was screwing around with some poor soul's nerves. Sure prosthetic technology had advanced, but that had to be absolutely angonzing. What purpose was it even supposed to serve? Had they just done it to see if they could?

Then again, she shouldn’t have expected better from Yera. Or anything Gralla in general.

Furthermore, it was obvious that they hadn’t been taken care of properly. The skin around both was red and puffy, though she didn’t see any discharge. Yet. The implants should’ve been covered with another layer of medical grade, antiseptic dermafibran. It wasn’t like it was too early. She could see where the other incisions had healed completely. Leaving them open like that was unbelievably negligent. She forced herself to take another breath. Anger was not the ally she needed right now.

Just as she laid the person back down at, the intercom beeped. “There's a cruiser approaching us. We need to punch it.” Veya’s voice was steel, despite the stress she had to be under. “You’ve got two minutes while we charge to get stuff tied down.”

Great.

She had just gotten the straps across over their abdomen when the ship’s lightspeed engines revved, and Starcross flung itself off into space.

***

Free Space, YSS Victory, 4/5/4763

Anodyn tisked, hissing at the secretary on the other end of the communicator. “What do you mean it went down?”

The secretary tried to respond, but she cut them off. “I don’t care for whatever excuses he told you to give. I want it made very clear to him that if the asset is not returned, he will pay for his mistakes.”

“Yes Ma’am,” They said, discomfort edging its way into their voice despite their attempts to hide it.

She cut the connection without another word, frustration rolling off her in waves. The program was months behind schedule due to technical issues, and now this. While KM-4682’s implants had been a failure, there was still much to learn from its body. She couldn’t afford this, not if she wanted to keep the program up and running.

Her hand slammed into the lightweight metal of her desk, pain radiating up from her knuckles. This was not how her life’s work was going to be remembered, as a failure. She would bring Yera mech technology, and nothing would stop her. Not the imbeciles she was forced to work with, not time, not money, not the incomprehensible distances between the stars. Nothing.

Smiling, she stood up, straightening her uniform jacket. The door to her office wirred as she left, heading towards the bridge. She would hunt down KM-4682 herself.

And she would not fail, no matter the price.

Taglist: @whump-snob @whump-kia @itsoundslikeafury @emmettland @blackberry-bloody

@whumpacabra @cepheusgalaxy @softvampirewhump @my-little-versaille @pigeonwhumps

@whumped-by-glitter @snaillamp @rainydaywhump @platysaurus @whumpy-daydreams

@whiskygoldwings

[3-2-whump]

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 11

Part 1 Next

Notice the content warnings pls

Content: on-screen rape, whipping, forced to watch, multiple whumpers, noncon nudity

"Please--" Michael wriggled back as grips shifted and the gangsters struggled to roll him onto his chest.

As his chest smacked into the floor for like, the fourth time that week, he sobbed harder. His back was still bruised, too. This was going to be too much.

Jordie accepted the cord from Pete. Someone pulled Michael's shirt up all the way to his shoulders.

"I--I had no fucking choice!" Michael roared through his gritted teeth, keeping his head off the ground to watch Jordie's dreaded approach.

Jordie gave him an unassuming glance and twirled the cord, measuring his distance as the gangsters holding Michael down readjusted their grips to keep from accidentally getting hit.

Don't scream. Michael told himself. You're a grownup, you can't scream.

Then there was a woosh as Jordie brought the stiff cord down on Michael's back.

A grunt came through Michael's throat, despite him holding his breath, even as he felt one of the stripped wires prodruding from the end of the cord zip into his flesh, adding a cutting sting to the heavy impact.

He jerked involuntarily, choking himself off so he didn't scream.

Two hit across his hips, eliciting a choked gasp from his throat. The fourth burst the scream out of his chest. He could hardly take three of these, let alone twenty.

"Please, no, no, please!" He screamed as the cord struck again. And again.

His screams for mercy did nothing. They never did in the past either.

He'd lost count somewhere around nine, writhing and muddled and trying pointlessly to kick away the powerful hands holding him.

Woosh. Split. Blood trickled down his ribcage and thighs as he jerked, wailing after every lash. No more words ame to his mind. Just relentless agony over his entire body.

It felt like forever, like it was never done.

And then suddenly it stopped.

He glanced back at Jordie, then he felt a twisted relief as the man tossed the bloody cord over to Pete, who picked it up distastefully.

Michael rolled onto his side with another wail as the stinging, bruising bites all over his back and legs started to fully register. There was no energy to sob. Just the breathy whinies that didn't express even a tenth of the pain.

"Alright," Michael heard Pyscho walk closer. "Now strip him."

Michael tried to get up, cursed, and moaned as he barely moved an arm and leg. He wanted to at least crawl away, get his back to that wall of crates behind him.

They were already pulling off his shirt, despite his weak resistance and wordless cries. Someone's fingers hooked into his underwear, scraping down his butt as they pulled his pants don. The cloth had been stuck into the wounds on his legs, and it burned and stung even more as they ripped it off.

The pain didn't take away the humiliation and horror of being stripped naked in front of these monsters. And his scars down his arms burned so much they almost echoed hte bleeding rips down his back.

He could see drips of his red blood on the seasoned pine floor.

"Start the call," The boss said. "And who's up for this?" He gestured at Michael, still moaning on the ground. "Somebody oughta make use of him. It's our last chance to lure 'em out before the Huers are too strong."

Michael rolled onto his knees with a gasp of anguish, old tears dripping off his nose as he tried to crawl away from the man behind him.

A hand landed on his naked leg, slipping in blood as Michael jerked it away.

Then Jordie's boot came down on his back. He screamed as the wounds lit up again.

The other guy walked up behind him.

He heard him kneel, unzip his jeans, and touch his butt, running his fingers up form his balls to between his cheeks.

Chills ran up Michael's spine as he gulped back nausea and shame.

"You don't have to." He choked out. "I can sell it for you."

The guy behind him chuckled.

"I know," He said, "but I want to."

He felt it twitching between his cheeks and gritted his teeth as the man spread him, then pushed inside slowly. It ripped, and ripped, wider and wider, and Michael screamed and lurched, but the nails of the rapist dug under his hips and pinned him as he drove in.

"Hold still, or I won't be so gentle."

Michael cursed and cried, trying not to buck again as the man rhythmically ripped him apart inside.

"So what you're telling me is no one from Columbus answered." Morgan paced backand forth, intermittently raking his nails over his scalp until it burned.

"It's not like there's a time constraint, is there sir?" Al answered.

Morgan ground his teeth. Of course there wasn't. Acting like there was a time constraint would be walking straight into the Westsiders' trap.

"Alright, fine, then." Morgan said. "We're going in with who we have."

"Sir, uh..."

"Are you questioning me?"

"No sir, no." Al replied hastily. "But... if you could tell me why you're in such a hurry, we could put our heads together.."

Morgan moved over to his laptop.

"Yeah, you're right. See... They've got Huer property." He opened up the email, frowning at the icon of the video. "And they're rubbing it in my face." He clicked his tongue. "I'm sending this to you. I want you to show the others. I'll call a meeting in a couple days or so and see what friends we can rustle up."

"Days? That's not going to be--sir..."

"Did I stutter?"

Morgan's irritable orders were cut short by the sound of a Skype call notification.

Immediately he hung up. it was the 0605 number. He recognized it from last time.

He stared at the screen, then noticed the messages they'd been sending him.

"Come and get him if you still want him."

"He's really getting it."

"You might want to hurry."

Morgan rolled his eyes and growled a curse. Then he hit the green icon and put his thumb over his camera while he tried to figure out how to turn it off.

The screen lit up and Michael's weakened screams filled the room.

"N--no don't, please!" His trembling vioce pitched upward into a whine of agony. His grimacing face was barely visible in the corner of the screen, the rest being filled with a mass of red and orange blur. For a second Morgan couldn't process what he was looking at.

Then it registered.

Michael was naked. He aws crying. Actually crying. He was covered in bruises, dripping blood down the back and legs. Morgan had a sickened feeling as he recognized the effects of a flogging. Narrow fingers curled around his brother's bloody hips, starting to thrust in rhythm. Rape. They were raping him.

Morgan hissed and turned away, rage heating up his hands, balled up into fists.

He tried not to hear the pained grunts and whines coming from michael. He shouldn't be reacting like that. That wasn't how Michael was. If it wasn't enough to make him scream, Michael would be begging, reasoning... And with what was happening, screaming in pain for sure. The man was being cruelly rough. But even though Michael's mouth opened as if to yell, all that came out were unbelievably high-pitched sobs.

His hoarse voice sounded broken. And the tears and blood. Fuck.

"You want us to stop?"

Morgan recognized the voice as Psycho, the self-proclaimed leader of the Westsiders.

"You gonna let us keep raping the Huer property--"

"No!" Morgan's shout erupted from his chest without warning.

Then he shot a hand out and slammed the laptop shut.

Fuck it, they were going in now.

Taglist:

@fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whump-writings @mimostic @tildeathiwillwrite

Whumped-by-glitter thank you for the writing assistance for the first half of this chapter!

[the-whumpening]

The Pet Tiger, #10 [nsfwhump AU]

Prev | Masterpost | Next

CW: nsfwhump, emetophobia, drunk/hungover against will, choking till passing out, medical inaccuracies, GRAPHIC EXPLICIT NON-CON, explicit scene of and reference to r*pe and uncensored use of the word, victim blaming, dehumanization, gags, restraints, branding, treated as a pet/sex slave, violence and threats, pet whump, forced use of buttplug, forced (ruined?) orgasm, forced chastity device, blood, magic whump, AGAIN: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

(Another extremely long chapter, around 4.5k! This is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC. Please heed this warning: if you do not want to read a scene mostly focused on a detailed description of an assault, close this and move on. The next chapter won't be nearly as brutal but there will likely be similar chapters in the future, so I understand if anyone wants to drop off reading this series. No hard feelings! If I've missed tagging something important, please let me know so I can fix it.)

-

10: His

As the heavy doors of Ozmund’s chambers slam closed behind Ash, his knees thud to the hard wooden floor. His head spins—he’s not sure he’s ever been this drunk before, and certainly never so fast. He tries to steady himself on his hands and catch his breath, but Ozmund yanks him by his leash back to attention.

During the silent march away from the party, Ash had imagined Ozmund was fuming, just waiting to be alone before lashing out at him. But now, as he drunkenly dodges Ozmund’s scowl, it seems Ozmund has once again composed himself. He slips a finger through Ash’s collar and bends to meet his face, his breath cool on Ash’s flushed cheeks.

“She got you drunk, didn’t she? Stupid little cat,” he snarls, his low voice warping in the fun-house-mirror of Ash’s intoxicated brain. It takes all Ash’s concentration to nod, though the movement only makes his dizziness worse. Ozmund sighs through his nose and narrows his eyes. With a blink, they begin to glow a rich emerald green, and he jams his palm to Ash’s forehead.

Ash shivers and gasps; shock startles his system as if a bucket of ice-cold water was suddenly dumped over him. His drowsy eyes snap open, and he can suddenly think clearly and control his body once more—he’s immediately sober again. A spike of pain pierces his head, though, and his senses are quickly overwhelmed. Each lamp and candle flame burns his eyes; every slight rustle of his clothes and shift of his body pounds in his eardrums; Ozmund’s heavy fragrance stings his nose and swirls his stomach until—

He retches, spitting up wine-stained bile onto the polished floors.

Ozmund takes half a step back to avoid the mess, dropping Ash’s leash and muttering, “Pathetic.” He nudges Ash’s chest with his boot, pushing him off balance and forcing his gaze upward as he falls onto his back. “And I suppose you want me to clean you up, too, don’t you? Ungrateful beast.” With a wave of his hand, Ash’s sick disappears from the floor and his own face; even his mouth feels clean, though exceptionally dry.

Is this a hangover? Ash wonders as his head continues to throb. He’s never had a hangover before—he’d only ever seen Kane get them, but they’re such a lightweight that it takes very little to send them stumbling and slurring in the first place.

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought; before he can right himself once more, Ozmund drops his shoe down on Ash’s chest. His heel grinds into Ash’s bruised ribs, pressing a breathless howl of pain out of his lungs.

“Quiet,” Ozmund commands, and Ash’s throat cinches closed against his will. He strains to breathe fully, silent whimpers gasping through his lips against the tightness in his throat and the pressure on his chest. “Three times tonight, you’ve failed to uphold your end of our bargain. Three times, you’ve disobeyed or humiliated me.” His foot shifts forward, sliding to lodge the toe of his boot beneath Ash’s chin and hovering just barely above his neck. “I gave you every opportunity to comply. I instructed you perfectly—I even let your poor manners slide earlier today. But clearly, you haven’t learned.”

Ozmund squeezes his fist. As he does, the thin collar around Ash’s neck shrinks tighter and tighter, nearly burrowing itself into his skin. His vision flickers, black flecks of blindness fluttering around his peripherals before blotting out entirely; his hearing, too, fades into a high-pitched ring, soon replaced only with silence. In the dark and silent void, all Ash can take in is the scent of boot polish and leather, before even that disappears as well.

As he slips into the dizzy embrace, an errant thought creeps into his mind: Am I . . . dead?

-

Ash reawakens with a coughing gasp. His arms and shoulders ache, but his hands catch with a metallic clinking when he tries to lower them.

He blinks against the blurriness in his vision and struggles uselessly to move. What—?

“Be still, pet.” Ozmund’s voice startles him, closer than he expects. “You’ll only hurt yourself if you struggle.”

Ash turns his head to the side, relieved to find the collar has once again loosened to its normal size. But as his eyes focus, that relief evaporates as quickly as it came. Finally, he can see his predicament and make sense of the aching in his limbs.

Ozmund stands beside him, securing a length of chain to the headboard of his bed—the same headboard Ash’s manacles have been looped around. Ash tries to feel his surroundings with his body, though every slight twist causes the thin chains to dig into his wrists. Beneath him is soft, plush bedding, propping his hips up in an obscene display. He clenches his legs to cover himself—even the scant, nearly-translucent loincloth is gone—but the chain Ozmund just lashed keeps them lifted and spread around the knee.

He kicks out with his lower legs, trying and failing to wrest himself free of the bindings; his efforts only return an ache in his muscles and dizzy pain in his head. Panic bubbles in his chest and escapes his throat in babbling whimpers. “N-no! No, Ozmund—please! Please!” Sobs shake his wrecked shoulders; his whole body trembles as Ozmund casually disrobes, ignoring his disjointed begging. “I tried! I-I tried to be good! I’m sorry—please don’t do this. Please!”

Ash’s desperation only seems to stoke Ozmund’s desire even further.

In another life—in some strange parallel world—Ash might have found Ozmund handsome. Much like Evius, Ozmund is tall and well-built, with refined elvish features and piercing eyes. His elegant, lithe form moves with perfect grace, his dark silky hair falling over his pale shoulder as he joins Ash on the bed. He settles beside Ash’s head and strokes Ash’s cheek with his long fingers.

“Sweet boy,” he croons, his fingertips dancing over Ash’s cheekbones. “Stupid boy.” He pulls his hand back and slaps Ash hard across the face, pinning his cheeks in his hand to keep his gaze. “As I said before, you disobeyed me. I’ve been lenient and kind to you so far—I know a brainless kitten like you needs more instruction than most. But I grow tired of waiting and tired of your insolence.”

Tears slip easily from Ash’s eyes. Between Ozmund’s fingers, he can only whisper a chant: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please, please.”

Ozmund’s eyes narrow. “You won’t be truly repentant until you’re punished. For three infractions, that’s three punishments.” He directs Ash’s face forward to look at his own exposed and strung-up body. In his blind panic, Ash had barely registered what Ozmund had done; surrounding his cock is a snug metal cage, latched with a small padlock and secured behind his scrotum with a solid metal ring. “First, you rebuffed my gift of blissful forgetfulness. You begged me to let you be awake and alert. You could’ve had been so sweet and pliable tonight and forgotten all about those drunken fools—but you threw it away.” He palms Ash’s caged cock roughly, the heavy contraption tugging at his delicate skin. “So you forfeit your right to pleasure tonight, and every night until I decide you deserve it again.”

Ash whimpers, confused and frightened. He doesn’t want Ozmund’s pleasure; how could this cage be a punishment? Will it shrink or shock him like the collar?

He doesn’t get an answer from Ozmund. Instead, Ash’s head is turned again to face him.

“Second,” Ozmund continues, prodding his thumb into Ash’s mouth and working his jaw open, “you disobeyed and disrespected my guests. We had an agreement, little cat. Do you remember? Do you recall what would happen if you weren’t good for my guests?” His voice is harsh and hard; Ash squeezes his eyes shut against the renewed flow of tears.

“No,” he wails around Ozmund’s thumb—more a protest than a response. “Pleash!”

“You should learn to strike that word from your vocabulary, pet. But I’ll remind you one last time: I promised to be exactly as kind and gentle as you deserved. After tonight’s display”—he pinches Ash’s jaw and gives it a sharp shake—“I should think you don’t deserve it at all.”

Ash jerks his head away from Ozmund’s grasp, scrambling to speak before he’s subdued once more. “You can’t do this!” he yelps, the hoarseness in his voice giving way to desperation. “I am a human being, Ozmund—I am a person, just like you!”

An appeal to Ozmund’s humanity, or whatever may be left of it; Ash knows it’s probably futile, but he has to try. If Ozmund could only see how insane this all was, if only he could see Ash as something other than subhuman, an object to be used and molded to his desires . . . then surely he would make this all stop. Right? Ash holds his breath for a moment as he awaits Ozmund’s response.

For a second, Ozmund’s eyes seem to soften. He smooths Ash’s hair, gently brushing it behind his ear as he murmurs sympathetically, “Oh, Ash . . .” But as Ash traces his face for any hint of remorse—any shred of empathy—Ozmund instead clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You’re not a human—just look at yourself. Would a human have those silly little ears and tail? Would a human be passed around as a party favor? Would a human need restraints to stay human? No. But you do. You do, because you’re just a pathetic. Disobedient. Pet.” His hand on Ash’s hair cinches into a vice-like grip, and his sharp features morph once again into hungry malice. He jerks Ash’s head back by his hair, punctuating each word with stinging pain to Ash’s scalp. “And I am your Master. I can do whatever I want. Right now, I want you to suffer.”

Ash’s heart sinks deep into his gut. There’s nothing he can do to stop this—nothing he can do to make it less awful. Ozmund wants it, and it is so. His desire is law.

A faint, animalistic snarl slips from Ozmund’s hostile smile. “Now, you’re going to take my cock in your mouth and get it nice and wet. That and my cum will be your only lubrication tonight. Be grateful you even get this.”

A wall of protests scream in Ash’s mind, but he nods shakily against Ozmund’s grip on his hair. He sneaks a glance at Ozmund’s lap as he brings it closer to Ash’s lips; like before at the party, Ash convinces himself it will be better to know what to expect. And just like before, he’s wrong.

Ozmund’s cock is long—much longer than his own—and thicker than his as well. Although he’s not quite as big as Evius, it’s still more than Ash has ever taken. The broad head presses against the tight line of Ash’s closed lips.

No! Nonononononono!

Ozmund’s fingers wrap locks of Ash’s hair into snug curls as he offers a last, growled warning. “Open up, pet, or it’s going in dry.”

As his head throbs and his heart squeezes painfully, Ash reluctantly opens his mouth, allowing Ozmund’s thickness to slip in.

“Mmn, that’s it,” Ozmund grunts. “Watch your teeth, little cat—don’t make me pull them out.”

He thrusts slowly in and out of Ash’s dry mouth, holding Ash’s hair to control his every movement. It doesn’t take long for his insistent length to press the back of Ash’s throat, blocking his airway and triggering heaving spasms as Ash gags.

I can’t, I can’t—!

Ash’s empty lungs burn; he gasps and coughs when Ozmund finally retreats from his throat.

“Not very wet, is it?” Ozmund traces his tip against Ash’s swollen lips. It’s true, though. He’s still quite dry, and Ash realizes what that means: if he doesn’t want to suffer, he has to work for it.

Ozmund wants him to be complicit in his own rape.

Lips warbling and throat tightening, Ash opens his mouth once more, working up as much saliva as he can and presenting his tongue. Ozmund smirks.

“Oh, look at you. Such a quick learner. Do you want another try? Is that it?” His voice and smile drop. “Beg for it, pet.”

Sobs crawl up Ash’s chest, swelling his sinuses and stinging his eyes with tears that refuse to overflow. He forces himself to contort his expression into some approximation of desire, his eyes wide and prey-like.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat. “Please let, let me try again . . . Master.”

Ozmund chuckles cruelly, loosing his grip on Ash’s hair to instead cradle his head. “See? Isn’t that easy? Doesn’t that feel right—begging for permission to serve me? Go ahead, pet. I’ll give you till the count of ten to drool over me as much as you’d like. And when you’re done, I’ll fuck you with your own juices.” He snickers sharply through his nose and readjusts, lining himself up with Ash’s mouth once again. “Maybe I’ll even add my own spit to your pitiful ass if you do well enough. Ready?”

Without waiting for Ash to reply, he shoves himself past Ash’s lips.

“One.”

Ash bobs his neck frantically, hollowing his cheeks and summoning as much saliva as his dry mouth will allow.

“Two.”

He sends the spit down his tongue, slavering along Ozmund’s length.

“Three.”

His tongue swirls and swishes. No thoughts can bubble to the surface of Ash’s foggy, aching mind.

“Four.”

He won’t allow it—he can’t. He can’t focus on how he wishes the weight on his tongue was someone else—

“Five.”

Ozmund enters Ash’s throat again; Ash’s panicked breaths come in humiliating snorts and gulps as both his nose and mouth are blocked.

“Six.”

His gag reflex twitches, but he’s held too firmly in place to fight it.

“Seven.”

It doesn’t matter—his tongue keeps working, and his lips push and pull with desperation.

“Eight.”

Allowed to move again, Ash’s jaw burns and his throat is raw.

“Nine.”

Still, he spreads his meager wetness and ignores the salty musk of Ozmund’s skin and dribbling pre-cum. He only hopes it’s enough—

“Ten. Off, pet.”

And then it’s over.

Ozmund pushes Ash’s head away from his lap, patting his cheek in some quasi-affectionate gesture. He strokes his stiff length as he moves from Ash’s side; Ash is both relieved and disgusted to hear the squelching wetness in his hand.

“Mm, what a view,” Ozmund purrs, kneeling between Ash’s suspended and splayed legs. “Such lovely little cheeks. If only they were bright red and bruised . . . Perhaps next time.” With his free hand, Ozmund pokes and tugs at the plug still firmly lodged in Ash’s tight ass.

Ash’s tail limply swishes to cover himself, but the fading magic only allows it to flick anxiously. Renewed panic seizes Ash’s will; in broken, tearful whispers, he continues his chant of, “please, please, please, please—”

Ozmund pulls the plug out, slowly fucking Ash in and out dryly with it. “’Please?’ You want it that badly? Well, then, I shouldn’t hear any complaining, should I?”

He tosses the plug aside and spits on Ash’s exposed asshole. And then, in one smooth motion, he sinks himself firmly into Ash.

Hot, fiery pain pierces Ash as Ozmund’s tip invades his body, pressing an anguished shriek from his chest.

Even with the plug having kept him loosened all day, Ozmund is still far too thick to go in so quickly, so unprepared, and so desperately unwanted. Each inch pushes deeper into Ash, stretching his tight ass to its breaking point; his head shoves past Ash’s defenses, grating like sandpaper past each ridge and ring until it slams into the bend of his colon. Pain radiates through Ash’s belly, and he struggles against his chains.

“No!” he screams hoarsely. “It-it hurts!”

He bucks his hips back, trying and failing to pull himself away from Ozmund’s firm presence inside him. Ozmund merely groans in response, almost laughing at Ash’s protests.

“Oh, please,” Ozmund grunts as he sinks Ash’s hips back down onto his cock, forcing more agonized wails with each thrust. “You’ve taken Evius; you can take me.”

Taken Evius? The most he’d taken of Evius was two of his nimble, slender fingers—nowhere near enough to fit Evius’ enormous cock, much less anyone else’s. Evius wanted to wait until he was sure Ash was ready and able to take him comfortably. He always said it wasn’t supposed to hurt; he said he wanted the first time to be special, and he’d take care of Ash.

“I-I-I,” Ash stammers through rising sobs, “I never have! He n-n-never . . . We didn’t—” Tears choke Ash’s voice before he can continue.

Ozmund stops his hard thrusts for a moment, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “No,” he gasps, his excitement barely contained. He looms over Ash, letting his hands wander and fondle Ash’s body as he teases him. “Am I the first to take this tight, exquisite little ass? Hm? You should’ve told me, darling. That makes tonight so much more special.”

He nearly pulls out of Ash, leaving only the faint curve of his tip inside. The emptiness almost brings tears of relief to Ash’s eyes. But before he has a moment to catch his shuddering breath, Ozmund slams back fully inside him even deeper than before.

“Now, forever and always, I will be your first,” he growls low in Ash’s ear. “You are mine now. Even if you should ever leave, your body will never forget how I molded it, how I trained it. Even if you return to Evius, you will only ever think of me while he’s deep inside of you. Isn’t that special, my love? You will never truly be apart from me.”

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to hurt like this. It’s not supposed to be against his will, trussed and tied like a butchered animal. It’s not supposed to wrench his heart into pieces. And it’s absolutely not supposed to be with Ozmund.

Ozmund resumes his relentless pace, scraping against Ash’s walls and colliding against his furthest reaches over and over again. It never stops hurting—it never gets easier to take. Even as Ash’s body stretches to accommodate the intrusion, he’s already so bruised and damaged that the slightest movement sends shockwaves of pain up his spine and forces whimpers and screams from his lungs.

If anything, the pain only worsens the longer Ozmund fucks him. What little moisture he was able to conjure has long dried up, replaced only with dribbles of his own blood and Ozmund’s pre-cum. His body chafes against Ozmund’s, sweat meeting sweat and skin meeting skin. Before long, the pain becomes overwhelming, and Ash can only let out broken, groaning sobs.

“Yes,” Ozmund purrs in response, “keep crying for me, pet. It makes you clench so—tight—!”

Ash wants to slip away, to let his mind wander to something—anything—other than what’s happening between his legs, but he can’t. The pain pulls him back to his body with every stroke, along with something he didn’t expect. As Ozmund sinks in and out of him with what must be practiced precision, he begins to feel a strange, familiar pressure.

His . . . prostrate? Is that what Evius called it? The tender gland in his ass swells against his will, rubbed and prodded by Ozmund’s cock. It coils tightly in his belly, forcing his own cock to stiffen against the hard metal of his cage. As it grows, the pieces all start to come together: he’s locked in. His cock will outpace the cage, pressing painfully against the tight entrapment until either he begs for mercy . . . or Ozmund forces an orgasm out of him by fucking his sensitive spot over and over.

Ash’s sobbing and begging begins anew; he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want Ozmund to make him cum. He doesn’t want this pain to continue. He doesn’t want this memory burned in his mind forever.

“Oh, is it too much, little cat? Are you getting hard from this?” Ozmund slows his rhythm slightly, still pressing perfectly into Ash. He won’t stop, not even for a second, and pressure continues to build in Ash’s body. “That’s too bad, pet. I’m not quite done.”

As Ozmund picks back up to a breathtaking speed, the coil finally snaps in Ash. He spasms and cries out, dribbles of milky liquid spilling from his strained cock. It doesn’t feel good—there’s no relief or pleasure, only a half-hearted physical reaction. At the same time, his ass becomes even more sensitive, and he wails from the overstimulation of Ozmund’s continued thrusts.

Ozmund laughs at his twitching, sensitive body, pounding harder to force rasping groans from Ash’s throat. Again, Ash tries to pull his hips away—to keep Ozmund’s insistent cock from grinding into that aching, throbbing gland—but Ozmund only sinks deeper to meet him.

“That’s it, pet. The more you struggle—ah, fuck—the better it feels.” He hisses, his movements quickly become jerky and frantic. “I wonder if males of your species can get pregnant; I suppose we’ll find out.”

He reaches out to slap Ash’s softening cock, then shoves the fingers of one hand deep down Ash’s throat.

“Suck them while I cum inside you, little cat,” he commands, his hips snapping brutally against Ash’s pelvis. Ash does as instructed, though his body still aches and tears still paint his cheeks.

Hot, thick seed spills unprotected into Ash.

Ozmund groans with feral delight as he softens within Ash and finally pulls out; the relief sends a shudder throughout Ash’s exhausted body. Coming down from his high, Ozmund scoops up a dab of his and Ash’s combined cum and fucks it back into Ash’s mouth.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he teases. “Looks like you enjoyed yourself after all, didn’t you?”

No, I didn’t! I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t. Ash whines beneath him, pleading with his eyes as he fights against the salty taste in his mouth—is it over? Is it finally over?

It’s only a moment before Ozmund collects himself; with a sigh, he smooths his hair with his free hand and resumes his graceful, domineering posture. He scowls in concentration, removing his fingers from Ash’s lips. “Before I forget, there’s one last thing—your third punishment.”

There’s more? Ash struggles against the chains as much as his worn out body will allow, the thin metal biting painfully into his flesh. He pleads and begs, but Ozmund ignores him, instead busying himself with something on the bedside table.

“Calm yourself, pet,” he chastises Ash. “I told you explicitly earlier: three transgressions, three punishments. You’ve only had two so far. Now, for the third: you allowed Lady Nandaar to violate my rules and try to claim my property. This punishment will ensure that never happens again.” He turns back to Ash, wielding a metal object he can’t quite make out. The smell is familiar, though—dangerously familiar. Something Ash knows on instinct he should avoid.

“It seems I must mark you as mine in a more ostentatious way, so there can be no doubt who owns you.” His hand hovers over Ash’s chest, the object finally coming into view. “Now, stay still.”

The silver stamp presses into Ash’s skin, singeing his hair and raising a puffy, red welt above his heart. He yelps and thrashes against the chains; with only a quick, firm touch, the metal brands him as if it were a hot iron. Ozmund, smug with satisfaction, returns the stamper and admires his handiwork.

“There it is,” he murmurs contentedly, stroking the bright pink flesh to follow its shape. A circle, then a zig-zag line within it: OZ. His personal emblem. “Isn’t that better? Don’t you feel good knowing you’ve taken all your punishments? Have you learned your lessons?”

Everything hurts. Ash’s body is sore and tired; not a single inch is without an ache or burn or pin-prick numbness. His eyes struggle to stay open, overflowing at all times with either tears or exhaustion. None of this feels good—least of which his broken, defeated mind.

He nods limply, his eyes stinging with tears both shed and unshed, begging to slip closed. Just let me sleep, he pleads internally. Put me back in the cage. Please.

Finally—finally?—Ozmund strokes Ash’s cheek. Gently. Tenderly. The touch makes Ash’s lip quiver uncontrollably; he leans into the kindness while it lasts, ignoring the shame screeching in his head.

“Yes, that’s a good boy.” Even with the condescending tone, Ash still melts at the praise. The punishments are done—he’s good again. He’ll get soft, pleasant touches again. Maybe he’ll even get real food again. Maybe—

Ash feels Ozmund’s renewed hardness against his leg, brushing up and down the curve of his ass. At the same time, Ozmund lifts Ash’s neck to his lips, sucking and biting greedily at the sensitive flesh.

“W-wait!” Ash whimpers. “I thought—I had all my punishments?”

The caressing hand on Ash’s cheek pulls back and slaps him, hard. “You’re not here to think, pet,” Ozmund replies darkly. “You’re here to be my plaything. Is it a punishment to serve your Master, or is it your purpose? If anything”—he grips Ash’s face tightly and forces him to meet his piercing glare—“you should consider it a privilege, especially now that the only interesting thing about you has worn off.”

With a snap of Ozmund’s fingers, the chains securing Ash shift and morph, tugging him onto his knees and pressing his ass high in the air. Ozmund settles behind him, lubricating himself with the remaining cum dripping from Ash’s hole. Ash tries in vain to use his tail to do something—anything—to push him away, but like Ozmund said . . . It’s gone. The magic has finally faded. And Ash, once again, suddenly feels very alone.

Ozmund holds Ash’s hips close to him, scratching his nails down Ash’s belly. “Did you really think one quick fuck would satisfy me? We’re not done until I say we’re done, little cat. But”—he lifts Ash’s head by his hair—“as fun as your sniveling and sobbing can be, I’m growing tired of hearing it.” Another swirl of magic, and he shoves a wad of fabric into Ash’s mouth, securing it in place with another strip tied behind his head. “Much better. Now I can fuck you in peace.”

By the time Ozmund finally finishes—several hours and loads later—Ash’s screams have long died behind the gag.

-

Taglist:

@scoundrelwithboba @corbytheking @lumpofsand @tired-human09 (I thought you might want to be tagged, lemme know if not and I'll remove you!)

-

A/N: I'm back babey! Well, hopefully. Still slogging through moving, but I have a bit more free time to write at the moment so hopefully I can start getting a chapter a week out again and gradually pick up from there. It's been . . . a lot lately. Thanks for being patient <3

[whump-mania]

Decided to write what happens behind the scenes between Hunter and Vincent in this Dark Leader drabble. This one’s sort of intense!

TWs for mentioned noncon (not explicit), eye whump/light gore, torture, beating, drugging, stripping/non-sexual almost nudity, vomiting, cursing)

previous / next (technically this is a prequel tho)

Hunter had Vincent bound to a chair. The man was very, very difficult to take down at first. He needed several doses of a sedative plunged into him to make him fully pliant. It was annoying, sure, but now, Hunter had him right where he wanted him.

“You’re a…motherfucker…” Vincent slurred, still feeling the effects of the sedative. His limbs were jelly and he could barely keep his eyes open. Still, it wouldn’t stop him from showing his disdain for the man.

Hunter snorted. “Okay, buddy.” He walked around to the front of the chair after securing the barbed wire he used to tie Vincent there, removing the protective gloves he had on. “Now, I want you nice and bruised for when little Quinn gets here…where to start…” Hunter scanned up and down the man’s body.

“I think we should start by giving me a little more skin to work with.” Hunter took the scissors he’d used for the wire out of his back pocket. Vincent tried to struggle at the sight of them, but he could barely move.

When his clothes had been cut away, leaving him in his boxers, Vincent didn’t show any shame. He knew what Hunter was trying to do. He wasn’t strong enough to hurt him at Vincent’s best. He was trying to break down his mind. Humiliate him.

“Not…gonna work,” Vincent mumbled, fighting to stay awake. “…’m not afraid of you.” His long hair fell in front of his face.

“I don’t see why not. Look at your situation here, Vince.” Hunter gestured to him. “Which one of us has the power here? The guy drugged out of his mind in his fucking underwear? Didn’t think so.”

Somehow, Vincent managed to laugh. “You’ll…you’ll never be Daniel,” he said, smiling weakly at Hunter. “Fuckin…knockoff.”

Hunter stopped smiling. He leaned over Vincent and placed a hand on the chair, lifting one of his knees and resting it in the space between Vincent’s legs.

“I live in Quinn’s nightmares. You know how I know that? I tied them to my bed one night and watched their night terrors for hours. I counted twelve times that they said my name.”

Hunter leaned in closer. “Did you know that Daniel never even thought about fucking Quinn until I did it myself?” He gripped Vincent’s hair and leaned in so that their foreheads were touching.

“I am the fucking catalyst. I’ll never be Daniel, huh? Well he’ll never be me.”

With strength that Vincent wasn’t expecting, Hunter threw the chair down. Vincent cried out when his head hit the floor and the barbed wire cut into his bare skin. He felt blood in his mouth, but he barely had time to figure out where it was coming from when a kick landed on his mouth. Hunter kicked him over and over, his position allowing him no protection from the assault.

Vincent vaguely felt himself and the chair being pulled back up into its regular position before being dragged to a corner of the room. It had a dirty mirror there, and Vincent was confused as to why Hunter had moved them there.

Hunter leaned over the back of the chair and ran his fingers through Vincent’s hair, pulling at it or scratching his scalp when he had the chance. “Why do you keep it down to your shoulders like this anyway?” He asked with feigned interest. When Vincent didn’t answer, he took the scissors out of his pocket and held the sharp end at Vincent’s throat.

“None ‘f you’re…fucking business,” Vincent said through gritted teeth.

Hunter hummed and moved the scissors up to Vincent’s hair. He opened the blades and held a fistful of it, making sure Vincent could see what was happening in the mirror.

Vincent’s eyes widened a little bit. “W-Wait—”

Hunter smirked evilly and chopped a large chunk of hair from Vincent’s head. He let it drop in the man’s lap and moved onto another fistful. He cut with no care, gleefully making a mess of Vincent’s head.

Vincent tried struggling at first, but the movement just made his skin rip and the forced haircut worse. He sobbed quietly as he let Hunter cut away at his hair, the hair that he’d promised himself to keep long in honor of his mother.

When Vincent’s hair was an uneven mess, Hunter pocketed the scissors again. “What was that again? You’re not scared of me?” He forced Vincent’s head up to look at himself. “Just now realizing how ugly you are, aren’t you?”

Hunter laughed and left the chair for a moment. Vincent stared back at himself. He was barely recognizable. He hated how he looked.

Vincent flinched when he heard Hunter loudly shuffling around. He narrowed his eyes. No. He hated him.

He timed it out. He was able to watch when Hunter walked back to him with the help of the mirror. When Hunter was close enough, Vincent used all the force he could to push himself backward and knock Hunter to the floor with himself and the chair on top of him.

Hunter screamed when the barbed wire scratched his arms and face. He tried to use his legs to kick the chair off, but Vincent kept all of his weight on him.

Biting the inside of his cheek and squeezing his eyes shut, Hunter let the wire cut his arm and ripped himself from under the chair. He panted and kicked Vincent in the throat where he lied on the floor, still bound. Vincent spat some blood out, but he was proud of how much he’d made Hunter bleed.

He didn’t know that pride would be short-lived.

Hunter returned with a bottle of pills. Unmarked, Vincent noticed. That made him nervous. He tried to bite at Hunter’s fingers when four pills were shoved into his mouth, but he was too quick. Hunter pinched Vincent’s nose shut and massaged down his throat to make him swallow the strange pills. A shot of panic surged through him when he swallowed them. What was going to happen to him?

“Seems like two doses wasn’t enough for you. Go back to sleep, bitch.” Hunter knocked Vincent out cold.

~

When Vincent woke up, all he knew was pain. He immediately started screaming at whatever was hurting him so horribly. It seemed all localized somewhere near his head, but it was so intense that he couldn’t place it.

Hunter watched him squirm on the ground where he’d left him. He didn’t bother with restraints yet. He knew Vincent would be in far too much pain to even think about fighting back. He knelt down next to him and covered his mouth, muffling the man’s screaming.

“You’ll learn not to underestimate me again,” Hunter said darkly. Vincent noticed that he was wearing surgical gloves. They were bloody. What the hell did that mean?

“I was thinking that when Quinn comes by, I can give them a little piece of you,” Hunter continued. He walked to a nearby table and held up a small, clear bag in front of Vincent’s face.

When Vincent saw what was inside, he started shaking. He brought a trembling hand up to his right eye, only to find a thick, blood-soaked bandage there.

He had only just realized that he could only see out of his left.

Hunter sighed when the other man expelled his stomach on the floor next to him from the shock of what had happened. He put the bag back in the icebox he had on the table and removed his bloody gloves. When Vincent had emptied his stomach, Hunter dragged him by his now short hair to another corner of the room. He straddled Vincent and held the man’s wrists over his head, staring down at him. He smiled.

“I had fun. I hope Quinn says something stupid and I get to keep both of you,” he said gleefully. “And imagine how much fun Danny will have with you. He’s becoming a real sadist, thanks to me.”

Vincent sobbed and shut his eyes at the sound of Hunter’s devious laughter.

tag list: @tears-and-lilies @whumpasaurus101 @whmp @freefallingup13 @sadistgalore @firewheeesky @authorofemotion @whatwhumpcomments @wingedwhump @mammonsemptycreditcard @eilarchswhump @whumblrwork @ficklefuddle @mylifeisonthebookshelf @lizzydizzyyo @whump-cravings @whumpcreations

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Chapter 4 ~ The Chase

Hidden Depths AU

Previous ~ Masterlist ~ Next (V.1🙂) ~ Next (V.2 Game Over 😭)

Genre: Fantasy whump

CWs: noncon nudity, noncon touch, captivity, creepy/intimate whumper, lady whump, forced to watch, restraints, muzzled/gagged whumpee, blood, knife whump, stabbing, flashback of prior noncon, panic attack, dissociation... fun times in the torture chamber, indeed :)

WC: 1949

A/N: Switching over to Carr's POV, which does overlap slightly with the last chapter. Poor thing is just not having a good time, not at all. :')

Keep in mind that if you kill me, I can't give you the next chapter 😅 (but maybe that's a good thing... uh, I mean... you love me! Yeah, that's better... *mumbles to self*)

Taglist: @kixngiggles

Carr

“Act like a wild animal, and I’ll muzzle you like one,” Marcus said, taking a step away from her.

Carr could feel herself slipping. The vines digging into her cheeks felt like overly large fingers, ones that took up her entire face. She struggled to draw enough air through her nose–in her mind, that was blocked too. 

A sour, rancid scent permeated her senses, making her gag. She swallowed the reflex back, afraid of what would happen if she threw up. The hand across her face was slippery and slimy and so gross it made her skin crawl about as much as the whispering in her ear.

“Be a good girl now, and everything will be okay.” Hot breath caressed her cheek, and she thought she might die if she didn’t get to breathe. 

Carr squirmed, managing to slip the finger away from her nostrils enough that a thin sliver of blessed air leaked through. 

Not real. Not real! 

Desperately, she struggled to separate herself from her past. There was a trick she’d learned by accident–if she focused on one thing and concentrated on her breathing, reality would settle. It had varying levels of success, but she had to… had to try. Her gaze skidded around the room, searching for something, anything, to use as an anchor. 

She saw a man with sandy blond hair– noooo, not him. 

Her heart thrummed in her chest, the individual beats no longer distinguishable. Black spots dotted her vision. She needed to… find something else. Something–-a rusty stain on the floor. No. An iron-banded door. It taunted her with freedom she had no access to. No no no. Chains–oh gods, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t–-

Dark brown eyes framed by lank curls. Red-rimmed, full of sorrow, and shining with unshed tears. 

Resh. 

His regard–his mere existence brought her back into the now. Not that the now was much better, but still.  

Her next breath came a little easier, the fog of panic easing from her mind. 

What was she supposed to do here? She didn’t look away from Resh, couldn’t look away from him, not while these thoughts raced in her mind. It wasn’t like there were a lot of options, just two, really. Two fucking shitty options. 

Should she endure, let Marcus have his way with her? Hope he got bored and killed her quickly? The thought went against every instinct she had. 

Or–

Resh’s eyes narrowed, sending a bolt of terrified resolve through Carr, jarring her. She closed her eyes. 

Okay, then. 

“Submit, and I might go easy on you,” Marcus said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The vines restraining her began to draw away, slithering against her bare skin. Her eyes snapped back open. When she looked at Marcus, she let everything that made her her slip away. Her sense of self burrowed deep, deep, deep, taking with it the pain, the fear, the vulnerability that accompanied the knowledge of what was to come. 

One of these days, Carr supposed she might never reemerge, and all that would remain was the shell left behind. It was a shell that lashed out, striking like a threatened viper, driving venom deep into people’s veins to keep them away from her. One that felt nothing, nothing but fiery rage or icy calm. 

Before she met Resh, she wouldn’t have cared if she had returned from that state. But now… she gave herself a mental shake. It didn’t matter anymore. 

“Come here,” Marcus said, crooking his finger at her.

Carr said nothing. Did nothing. 

Marcus sneered and shuffled forward. Apparently, he wanted to make the small distance between them last. Fucker. She wasn’t going to complain, though. His intimidation tactic would work in her favor.  

Resh was shouting, and Carr glanced over at him, allowing herself just one moment to take him in for what was likely the last time. Her heart twinged before she ruthlessly shoved that useless feeling back where it belonged. 

Impassive, she stared ahead while Marcus approached, busy assessing her body in the time she had left. The old lash marks on her back ached, and the wounds on her chest were on fire, still sullenly oozing blood. Exhausted already from her use of elemental earth and being awake all night, she’d need to make this fight with Marcus quick before blood loss slowed her even further.

Marcus was only a few inches away when Carr finally darted around him. She kept her flight to short, quick bursts while she crossed the room, aiming to frustrate him into doing something stupid while conserving her own energy. 

But she slowed quicker than she had hoped, and Marcus caught her arm on the next dodge and feint. Before she could free herself, he spun her around and slammed her into the wall, face first.

Carr managed to turn her head in time to avoid a broken nose, which would’ve been a death sentence with the muzzle in place, but the impact still stunned her. Blood trickled down the side of her face. A dull throb took up residence in her head, and the slice on her chest flared with hot pain when Marcus pressed into her from behind.

“How about now?” he asked congenially, dragging his dagger up her bare thigh, deep enough that it was going to fucking hurt to put weight on now. When he was done, he pressed the tip into her side.  

How about you go stick your dick in a rodent trap, Carr wanted to say. Tried to say, but all that came out was mumbled nonsense. 

Marcus’ chest vibrated against her back, and the knife tip dug in a little deeper, breaking the skin. 

Was he fucking laughing? Fuck. This. 

Carr threw her elbow back, hitting something soft and fleshy. Marcus grunted, and she took the opportunity to twist away from his loosened hold and run. 

It wasn’t until she stopped some distance away and turned to face him that she realized the cost of that maneuver. As she watched, panting, Marcus cleaned his blade on the front of his shirt, leaving a thick streak of her blood behind on the cream cloth. Too much for what he’d done to her thigh. She looked down, only now feeling the sticky warmth of her blood spilling down her side. The slice didn’t even hurt. 

Shit. She pressed her hand against it, trying to stem the blood loss. She wasn’t going to have much longer at this rate. 

“Whatever you do, keep fighting,” Resh whispered harshly from behind her, and Carr started, not having realized she was that close to him. “Make him pay for what he aims to take.”

She was trying, but it was all she could do to stay away from him. It was infuriating, really. In more typical circumstances, she could’ve kicked his ass. Well, really, she would’ve downed him with a thrown blade before it came to that, but still. 

Marcus charged, ending her rest break, and they began the cycle again. Round and round the small room, her dodging and him chasing. Resh shouted in the background, but neither spared him any attention. 

A few times, she dared an attempt to disarm Marcus, to steal that blade, but her efforts were for naught. She didn’t have the energy now for another go. Each breath whistled through her nose, making it harder and harder to fill her lungs. Flashes of light sparked in her vision, ones that didn’t dissipate when she furiously tried to blink them away. Her fingers were slick with blood where she pressed them to her side, and her leg screamed at her each time she put weight on it. 

Her only consolation was that Marcus was working just as hard as she was. He no longer smiled, if that’s what one could call the fugly expression that tended to cross his dipshit face. Instead, his chest heaved with each breath, and he looked pretty irritated. Sweat soaked his shirt, spreading her blood across the individual threads of fabric in a starburst of crimson. 

Marcus advanced again; this time, Carr was just a hair too slow. He slammed the hilt of his dagger into the wound on her thigh. Her admittedly sorry attempt at a dodge turned into a stumble while she shrieked into her gag. Marcus grabbed her, pulling her flush against his body. She sagged in his hold, barely able to keep herself upright. 

It was over. 

“No!” Resh shouted. His chains rattled as he pulled against them. “Don’t give up, Carr. Keep fighting!” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the blood trickling down his arms. Proof of how he’d been struggling to reach her. 

It hurt to see he’d been working so hard to get to her, and here she was, just admitting defeat. So, she tried. She lifted her arms, even though they weighed so much, pressed her hands to Marcus’ chest, and pushed. 

With a hoarse bark of laughter, Marcus roughly spun her around. The dagger went to her throat while his hand splayed across her abdomen. 

Carr froze. Lifting her gaze, she found he had positioned her so that she was face to face with Resh, who was glaring over her shoulder at Marcus. 

“That’s more like it,” Marcus huffed, still sounding out of breath. 

Resh’s face turned to stone when Marcus’ free hand started moving. Carr blanked it out, along with the feeling of him at her back. She had to. While Resh tried to reason with Marcus, she kept completely still, allowing Marcus his fun exploring.

Eventually, the razor-sharp edge of the dagger wasn’t digging into her throat anymore. She kept her mind blank, refusing to acknowledge where that hand was, where it had been. Who was watching. 

Eventually, the muscles in Marcus’ arm relaxed.

The dagger drifted farther away from her throat. 

Farther… 

Farther… 

Now! 

Carr snapped her head back. Something crunched, and Marcus yelped. 

That fucking hand disappeared, along with his presence at her back, and Carr staggered away. 

Sniffing and sniveling sounded behind her. Carr knew she needed to move, but her body was so done. She looked up at Resh, knew he could see it in the way she stood. It felt like exhaustion was seeping from her very pores. 

Then Resh’s gaze sharpened, and he looked over her shoulder. 

“You fucking bitch!” Marcus shouted. His voice was slightly muffled, like she had broken his nose. 

Good. Now, if only she could force herself to move, follow up on the advantage of his shock. 

“Carr. Move! Move now!” Resh yelled. He threw himself forward, only to have the chains cruelly yank him back.    

It took her far too long to understand what Resh was telling her. Move not to attack Marcus, but move because Marcus was attacking her. Carr side-stepped and tried to twist away, but not fast enough. 

Something slammed into her back. 

White-hot pain exploded through her, a firecracker of agony racing through her bloodstream, burning through her nerve endings. 

It was so shocking she couldn’t even cry out. He’d fucking stabbed her, in the fucking back! Cowardly cunting bastard. 

The pain began to subside, slowly replaced by a curious numbness. Distantly, Carr wondered if this was what dying felt like. A sudden stab of fear twisted in her heart, and she tried to catch Resh’s eyes, but–

Marcus threw her to the floor at Resh’s feet. 

She had no chance and even less strength to catch herself, so she landed hard. And as the impact jostled the dagger still in her back, practically paralyzing her with the pain reverberating throughout her body, she discovered she wasn’t that numb after all.

Next V.1 Next V.2 (Game Over)

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a sepia-colored version of the original blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths AU are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

[firapolemos05]

No devil hides beneath my bed

Part 1, Part 2

@whumptober | Ao3

No. 3 "Like crying out in an empty room, and no one's there except the moon."

No. 9 "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days."

CW: NSFW (minors dni), noncon, captivity, pet whump, mind control, forced kiss, forced arousal, past whipping, licking wounds, mentioned death of a minor, multiple whumpers, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, object insertion (used to hurt and punish), spanking, bath scene, nudity, forced stripping, disassociation, restraints, future forced prostitution, whumpee injures whumper, begging, non-human whumpee, 'master' as a title, thoughts of self-harm, muzzles

(This fic is a direct sequel to my other story Still your heart, so much to prove so I recommend reading that before this. And of course Please Mind the Content Warnings.)

Tonight was not a fight night, so the Champion was rather alarmed when the silence of the dark cell was broken by the approaching footsteps of several people. Perhaps there was an event he'd forgotten? Did Master have company tonight, someone she wanted to show him off to? Was she angry?

The notion made him shiver as his blood ran cold. He thought he'd been good since the last time he was punished. Memories flooded back from that horrible night at the fighting pit. A too-young body lying cold. The bite of shackles and Master's whip. The wounds on his back were still sore.

It's why he was here, in a cold, dark stone box rather than his more comfortable quarters. His disobedience had cost him that privilege. He scrambles off the pallet serving as his makeshift bed, pushing himself to his knees as the door begins to open. But it was only a couple servants and one of the manor guards.

"You are being summoned to meet the master’s guest. She has ordered that you be presentable."

Most of the tension and anxiety drains out of the Champion’s shoulders. Ah, so it was just some company for the night. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He wasn't in trouble. Master wasn't angry.

He rises to his feet, following them down the familiar corridor to the baths. If he was being displayed to a guest, then he needed to look his best. He may be a fighter who got himself covered with blood and bruises for other's entertainment, but outside the caged arena, all he was was Master Scarlet's pretty little trophy. And pretty little trophies shouldn't be soiled with dirt, or unkempt hair, or the smell of old stone that enclosed his cell.

None of them speak a word, not during the walk, and not when they enter the bright, cold marble room. The servants because it was unnecessary; they knew the procedure. The Champion because he was not permitted to speak to them. Or at all, and he learned long ago what doing so without permission would get him. The guard takes post at the door while the other two strip the tiefling of the sparse fabric adorning his body. The enchanted gilded gold shackles chaining his wrists, along with his golden collar, are left untouched. 

The hot water is a rare comfort. It chases away the chill of the stone tiles where he kneels, glittering black streaked with bold white. The servants pour the water and lather various scented oils and lotions into his skin and hair. 

There was once chains dangling from the ceiling, forcing him upright as they hosed him down.

He lets his mind drift off. The air smells of roses and apricots.

He'd snap at any hands that drew close, until they forced a muzzle over his head and sedatives into his bloodstream.

Indifferent hands scrub a bit too rough at his still healing back. It hurts, he doesn't dare move.

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It's far from the worst bath the Champion has ever had. He at least now has the privilege of being allowed to clean his lower half on his own.

He buries the memories back down.

One moment the warm steam curls up his skin, and he lets himself get lost in the feeling of being somewhere else. Someplace with no chains, cages, or whips to assault him. Someplace he can finally see the sun as much as he wants.

Then the next moment, he blinks and there's the touch of smooth, cool fabric. The water is gone, and he's standing as the servants dress him. By now he's already accustomed to the disappointment. Pants of sheer black chiffon embroidered with tiny red gemstones secured with laces up his thighs. Opaque black cloth with golden thread hangs from his waist, front and back. And finally a sash of red silk, set across his lower back before looping around to criss-cross his chest. The gold hooks fastened to either end clipping onto his collar.

It's certainly on the more revealing side of outfits Master has made him wear. But if the tiefling's opinions had mattered at all to her, he wouldn't be here.

Then came the jewelry. Dainty gold chains and more red gems. Draped elegantly around his arms, hips, horns, and tail. Tonight's guest must be expensive clientele if Master is decorating him this much. But they're finished with preparing him, so perhaps the Champion can finally get this meeting over with.

A lift brings them up to the main part of the manor, the churning of the mechanisms a pleasant break to the absent voices. Its doors open, and their master is waiting for them. All three kneel upon stepping off the platform.

With the Champion’s head bowed low, he feels his master’s eyes rove over his form, before she gives a pleased hum. "Good work with him, you two," she praises the servants. "You are dismissed. Follow me, my pet."

She leads him down one of many hallways, lined with various artworks and shining sconces. It's unfamiliar, and while he's supposed to keep his eyes cast downward, he can't help but take in the decor. Usually when Master presents him, he's brought to the dining room or the parlor, or some other gathering area for guests.

She stops at a pair of wooden doors, and once opened, gestures for him to enter.

It's one of the guest bedrooms. 

A crackling fireplace bathes the space in a warm glow, colluding with the darkness leaking in from the night outside the windows and balcony doors. The glow lights up the rich browns of the wooden furniture, carved with ornate motifs that must be the bane of whomever was tasked with keeping them polished and free of dust. His eyes are immediately drawn to the large four-poster bed. The columns at its corners taper to spire-like points above the canopy frame, from which hang silk drapes of burgundy. A cushioned bench sits at its foot, and a plush rug of intricate patterns ('looks like Muthamian make,' says a far-off point of his mind) spans the area of dark hardwood surrounding the bed.

"Ah there he is." The voice pulls the Champion’s attention back to the opposite end of the room. A figure rises from an armchair in front of the fireplace, and years of training make the tiefling drop to his knees, eyes down. "My my. You have my compliments, Scarlet. This is quite the ravishing introduction."

Something about the man's tone doesn't sit well. It twists a knot in his stomach. He can't pinpoint exactly why, it's not like this was the first time someone made condescending remarks towards him.

"I figured this would be to your liking," Master replies. One of her fingers strokes the spikes on his horns, flicking a dangling gemstone. "You did mention wanting to see him in red."

Footfalls approach, and black leather shoes with gold buckles enter the Champion’s vision. A snap of fingers tells him he should look up. Pale stockings, slate blue pants rising high on the waist, a white dress shirt frilled at the collar and cuffs, and a smiling face framed in brown hair. In his hand was a wooden cane with a curved ivory handle.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, Champion," the man greets, words rolling with a thick Mężnydzik accent. Short, rounded ears speak human and high-quality clothes plus a well-trimmed beard speak high class. "Ivan Mitreski, I am an associate of your master."

"It's nice to meet you, sir." The Champion’s reply is automatic.

"Ivan here is rather new to the business with the fighting ring. He was witness to some of your most recent matches."

"Indeed, I was quite impressed. Though it's a shame you weren't able to handle killing that last dark elf fighter."

The comment feels like a slap to the face. Why did he have to remind him of such a failure, a horrible act he was forced to commit?

"His disobedience did come as a surprise," Master states, the coldness of her words further chilling his nerves. "But he won't be foolish enough to repeat such an offense, isn't that right, pet?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why don't you show Ivan what happens when you disobey." She snaps her fingers again and points down.

The tiefling bites his lip and quiets the part of his mind that bristles with humiliation. He hated this command. Lowering his chest to the floor, he crosses his shackled wrists to rest his head on, then raises his hips with an arch of his back. With nothing but a single sash of silk over his torso, there was barely anything to hide the tender stripes now on full display.

He awaits Ivan to make some sort of remark, relieved that he at least didn't have to see the man's face. But instead he was nearly jolted out of his skin as Ivan touched one of the wounds.

"So sensitive."

He wishes he could bite him. Touch still stings.

"If there’s anything else you find yourself desiring, feel free to ring one of the servants. Though come straight to me if he gives you trouble."

'Wait, what?'

"Of course, Scarlet. Again you have my sincerest gratitude for this."

And without a single regard for her pet's confusion, Master turns and departs the room. The Champion was left breaking position to stare at the closed door in bewilderment. 

Master never left him alone with a guest.

'What's going on?'

"Your master has allowed me to spend time with you for a little while." Ivan sits on the bench in front of the bed, cane to the side, and gestures for him to come closer. "Don't be shy now, I'd like to talk with you."

The expression was soft, inviting. A warmth washes over him, easing his nervousness and tension, and he crawls over to kneel in front of the man. Ivan just wants to talk with him, almost no one ever wanted to make conversation with a slave. This would be a nice break from the norm.

"What would you like to talk about, sir?"

"I'd love to hear more about you. Tell me, how did you come to be Scarlet's fighter?"

He usually didn't like to think about this, the memories were often unclear, but with clarity began tragedy. But Ivan wanted to hear what he had to say, so it'd be rude to not answer his questions. "I don't remember everything, sir, but I did something unlawful and got caught. Master says she brought me here as punishment."

"I see, I see," the man nods, no judgment in his tone. "And how long have you been here?"

Another one he didn't know for sure. Prior to the fighting ring, Master had him held under some sort of spell that left him nothing more than a feral animal. Time and language meant nothing. He had no idea how long she kept him like that. "A few years. Sorry I don't know the exact number. But I do know I've been brought to the fights for about four years."

"And from what your master tells me, you became the Champion not too long after joining. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir."

Simple questions like that Ivan asks him. Back and forth they went. The man asked him his age (Master says he's in his early 20s), if he had any family (not anymore), where he grew up (the outskirts of Altruek Atea). The question if he'd ever been in a relationship before seemed a bit off, but when he answered in the negative, Ivan didn't press further, so it was probably harmless.

"Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are?"

That catches him off guard. Without thinking, he looks up and Ivan is leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, leveling the tiefling with a strange smile. He doesn't scold the Champion for making eye contact.

It was a compliment, right?

"N-not really. Master sometimes calls me that, but not in a serious way."

"Well that's a shame." His hand reaches over and brushes a lock of black hair behind a pointed ear. "I'm positive you'd be quite popular, little devil."

The touch was gentle, affectionate even. He should’ve detested it. He always did when Master touched him like that, a controlling caress meant to remind him of his place. But somehow this felt different. This stranger . . .no, Ivan's hand and words didn't frighten him. This was the first normal conversation he's had with another person in years.

"Thank you," he replies, as that was the polite thing to say.

Ivan smiles some more, then pats his thigh. "Why don't you come sit with me here?"

He . . .he wanted him to sit on his lap?

"Master says I'm not allowed to sit on the furniture."

"Oh I'm sure she won't mind as long as I'm allowing it, right? Plus she's not here right now, isn't she?"

That did make sense. If Ivan is requesting him to sit with him, it must be okay in this case. And yes, Master had left them alone, with the order to call her only if her pet was being disobedient.

He doesn't want to disobey Ivan.

Rising to his feet, he walks closer. He'd been expecting to simply sit on the man's leg, so he jolts in surprise when Ivan takes hold of his arm and waist and pulls the tiefling onto himself.

"Relax, Champion."

That was a little hard to do now when he was straddling the man. This seemed too close, too . . . intimate. "Is. . .is this what you wanted?"

"Yes, you're being very good, Champion."

Good, Ivan had said. That was reassuring. He wants to be good. So he continues to be good and not move when an arm wraps around his waist. When a hand cups his chin.

When Ivan purses his lips and angles his face towards his. The pressure of the hands holding him told the Champion he should allow himself to-

'What are you DOING?!'

A bubble bursts. A sudden brick shatters the veil that was the charm spell from his mind. Just in time for his wits to scream at him to get away and his body to respond.

It was a trick. A cruel lie.

He shoves at Ivan's chest, pushing the two of them apart. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact as he fell, but that hardly mattered now. Putting distance between them, the tiefling scrambles back, then faces the man with a snarl.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The moment those words leave his mouth, he realizes he'll be made to regret it.

Ivan's face holds no trace of that once kind smile. Only cold disappointment. 

"Well then," he begins, standing up and dusting off his shirt, as if the Champion pushing him somehow dirtied it, "I had thought you would've liked to have this the easy way but it appears that isn't the case."

His hand traces a sigil in the air, one all too familiar, and for the second time that week, the Champion feels his mind shut off.

The average charm spell is valued for its subtlety. It falls over the mind like a friendly embrace, the warmth of an inn, a pair of rose tinted glasses. Most people won't even recognize the change until the spell lifts, and certain mages could make it so that their victims won't find out at all.

But a dominate spell holds no such features. It does not need to be subtle. It forces itself onto the mind like a muzzle and cage, locking down the conscious so that the body is a pliant little puppet.

So the Champion can't question it, can't fight back, when Ivan orders him to crawl forward. A hand grasps his jaw and the tiefling is incapable of resisting when Ivan leans in and presses into him with a possessive kiss, devoid of the faux affection. A tongue worms into his mouth, and even through the spell he tenses with revulsion, a small whimper escaping.

Ivan purrs into his ear when he withdraws. "Oh I'm definitely going to enjoy you tonight.” He turns away to drag the bench away from the bed before facing him again. “Be a good boy and kneel right here for me, facing the wall. Arms raised."

His body moves on its own, against his will. He takes his place on the mattress as commanded, lifting his arms over his head without a word. He can only wait in terrible silence as Ivan fixes his shackles to the canopy frame. The man then retrieves several cords of silken rope, tying his ankles to the bed posts. Even his tail was restrained to his leg to keep it out of the way.

The spell goes as easily as it came, allowing the Champion’s awareness of his predicament to set in.

Trapped. Vulnerable. Exposed. 

Too similar to the position he found himself in mere days ago. The ache in his back grew into a throb until he could practically feel the stone pillar against him and smell his own blood.

"Wait." At this point, Master Scarlet usually wouldn't allow him to beg. The damage had been done and he needed to be taught a lesson. But Master wasn't here and maybe Ivan would show mercy. "Sir please, I'm sorry I re-. . . I disobeyed you. Not the whip again, please, anything but that. I can't-"

A hand on his horn pulls his head back, and he cuts himself off to bite back a pathetic sounding mewl as Ivan licks a wet stripe up the shell of his ear. "You beg quite nicely, little devil. Rest assured, I don't intend on lashing you."

The Champion’s thoughts are caught between distrust and relief. He wants to believe him. He can't begin to imagine how painful it would be for his wounds to be assaulted so soon after. That punishment had been agony, he can't handle it again. Is Ivan telling the truth or only trying to lure him into a false sense of secur-?

Something touches his thigh.

His gaze shoots downward and Ivan is undoing the laces in the silk.

"What are you-?" he begins to say, fear tainting his voice, but the man presses a finger to the tiefling's lips and orders him to be quiet. The undone threads bare more skin from thigh to hip, and soon the pants are tossed aside. 

It's when the black cloth is removed, with the red in quick succession before he can protest, that the pieces fall together into a vile puzzle. 

No.

The revealing outfit, Master leaving them alone, the charm spell, the lurid stares and honeyed words on his looks, the kiss, the fact that he is now naked as the day he was born with his legs spread.

No. NO!

"Oh did you figure it out?" The damning chuckle accompanying that question took a sinister tone. A harsh squeeze of his ass shocks the denial right out of him.

The Champion jerks away, body trembling in revulsion and terror. "Don't touch me!" But he can't go far, and the bindings hold tight.

Hands latch onto his hips, and Ivan pressed up against him. To the tiefling's dismay, he can feel the man's hardened member against his thigh. "Let's make something clear, little devil. Your master has given me full permission to use you to my desire. So I have full allowance to touch any part of you I want. Understood? So I have a question for you."

He's prepared to ignore it, or say some lie or refusal depending on what the question is. But then Ivan runs his finger up the length of his tail.

"Is it true tiefling tails are quite sensitive?"

An unfamiliar sensation rushes up his spine. His breath hitches in his chest. A strange heat begins to build up within him.

"Judging by that reaction, I'd say my presumption is correct." And Ivan continues his caresses with a heightened vigor.

What is this?

His tail is sensitive, and each stroke is sending jolts of . . .some feeling throughout his body. It makes him shiver and bite down on his bottom lip, the heat in his face darkening his cheeks and ears. It pools in the region between his legs and he tries to close them to no avail. His toes curl. He can't even thrash his tail to dislodge the offending hand, whose fondling is clouding his mind into fuzz. His brain keeps saying this is wrong, invasive; he doesn't like what this sensation is doing to him.

So why does it feel good?

Each time he tries to pull away, some semblance of his body resists him, tries to lean in for more of this pleasurable touch ('No, this is not pleasurable. You're not enjoying this.') He tries to ignore it. Ignore the touch, ignore the hands and chains. Instead he bites his lips until blood drips down his chin, digs his claws into his palms until they bleed, and focuses on the pain.

And it almost works, if the fingers hadn't been replaced by a tongue.

The Champion's vision floods with blurry stars and the sound he makes is some cross between a gasp and a moan. He would feel ashamed and disgusted with himself if his senses weren't being overwhelmed by his tail being licked and nibbled and dear gods one of you please burn that fucking thing out of Ivan's fucking mouth.

"Oh, you like this don't you? That won't do."

He wishes he could tell the bastard to go fuck himself. This was nothing likable. This was wrong and violating. But unfortunately, he was having a hard time convincing his body of that. He refuses to look down and see how else his body is responding to it. He doesn't even hear the second statement over trying to stop himself from whining and panting like a dog in heat.

When the mouth leaves his tail, it's a breath of relief. Until he lets out a pained yowl as it introduces itself to the wounds on his back.

Saliva stings abused flesh and the Champion writhes in agony. Ivan begins with a stripe across the small of his back and works upward, aiming for all twenty-five. Meanwhile his hands resume their torment of the tiefling's tail, assaulting the poor creature's body and mind with a simultaneous barrage of pleasure and pain.

"S-stop, pl-please!"

"But you taste so good, little devil."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want any of this. But the touch won't stop.

The whip would be preferable to this, and that terrifies him.

Each stinging lick sends him squirming, arching his back desperate to escape. With every movement, the dangling jewels mock him with their chimes. They only entice his assailant on further. Further. A painful stripe running between his shoulder blades. Strokes at the base of his tail that almost make him break. It's maddening. 

And then a single digit slips under to edge the rim of his entrance. 

NO!

The Champion tosses his head back under a surge of panic, and the tip of his horn catches Ivan right in the face.

The hands release his body with a grunt of pain as the man stumbles back. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Ivan hold a hand to his bloodied cheek and lets himself bask in the satisfaction. Serves the bastard right, he wishes he gouged out an eye.

But that vindication soon melts away as reality comes to slap him in the face with the enormity of his actions.

He hurt one of Master's guests.

Oh gods, he hurt one of Master's guests. 

The dread returns in full, and only grew when Ivan composes himself and levels the tiefling with a knowing look.

“I- I didn’t mean-.”

“Save your breath. We both know that’s a lie.” He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the wound. “Now I am going to go fix this little mess you made, and when I return, it will be with your master."

"Wait!"

Ivan exits the room, ignoring the Champion’s protests.

His gut twists into a knot. If he wasn't chained up like this, he would've crawled into the smallest space he could to hide.

It's been years since the last time he lashed out. The last time he'd bitten a woman's hand for yanking on one of his horns. The punishment he received for that kept him from ever repeating that mistake again. Until now.

Master's going to be furious.

Whatever's going to happen next will be horrible.

It's futile to try and break free, but he tries anyway. He yanks at the chains holding up his arms, tries to wriggle his legs free of the ropes. Hopes that something will give.

Nothing.

The dread takes hold, squeezing at his insides like a snake constricting prey. The fireplace continues to crackle, yet soon there's more sounds filling the Champion’s ears. It takes a moment before he realizes what he's hearing is his own hyperventilating breath and the rattling of chains from how violently he's shaking. Terror takes root and his fear and anger feed it.

He doesn't know how long they keep him waiting. It simultaneously feels like both eternity and a brief moment.

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

The Champion’s never been the religious type.

'Dear gods.'

The door opens.

Maybe now's the time to try.

'Please don't let this happen.'

"Did you think that just because I'm absent from the room means you can ignore the rules, pet?"

Ever since Master Scarlet first captured him, her voice always felt like icicles stabbing into him. Sharp and cold. Even her words of praise held an icy undertone he could sense under the mask she placed over her apathy.

Scoldings felt like getting trapped in a blizzard.

"It was an accident-" A force he cannot see slaps him across the face. 

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak."

He snaps his mouth closed, burying the hopeless frustration far down so it wouldn’t show. It was always a gamble with her. Sometimes she would ask the tiefling questions expecting an answer, others were only rhetorical. It was up to him to guess the difference.

"Besides, it doesn't matter if it was an accident or not. You're in no place to strike my guests at all. So you are going to apologize to Ivan, now."

His training egged him to submit. He messed up big time and punishment would be worse if he didn't say he was sorry. But anger clawed up his body like a cornered cat. Why should he have to apologize to the bastard? Ivan stood besides Master, puncture wound nowhere to be found, not even a blemish. That only further boiled his rage. Years have gone by without him managing to lash out, and now that he did, there's nothing to show for it? Ivan's wound is gone without a trace, yet the Champion has scars (from far more painful wounds) that will last the rest of his life.

It's not fair.

Does Master know what Ivan's planning to do? Maybe he should tell her. Perhaps she'll stop Ivan to prevent her pet from getting damaged like-

' "Kill the girl." '

No. She wouldn't care.

She definitely knows already. Ivan no doubt has informed her. She doesn't care. She forced her Champion to kill a little girl, of course she wouldn't have anything against this. She doesn't care.

He forces down the rage. The injustice. Forces it down into the deepest pits of his gut. He can't show it. Getting angry is showing disrespect. Hissing his words is showing disrespect. Giving an apology that doesn't sound genuine is showing disrespect.

He growls with venomous sarcasm, "I'm sorry for hurting your fragile pride, sir."

He's not sure how his grip slipped. 

By the way her eyes narrow and fill with disappointment, Master doesn't find it funny. "So easily you forget your lessons. Did we not just have this discussion the night of your recent fight?"

' "He's forgotten that he is first and foremost a slave." '

It doesn't even target him, but the Champion senses her magic take. The shackles above him unhook from the canopy frame and suddenly he's being pulled forward by an unseen force. He falls onto the mattress, arms outstretched, and is helpless as the chains magically meld into the headboard. The position leaves no doubt as to what is meant to transpire.

He won't let himself feel regret. The bastard doesn't deserve it. But the little voice in his head still yells at him. Calls him an idiot for not obeying. 

The bed is soft. Far more comfortable than anything he remembers sleeping on in his life. It feels nice against his face. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could lose himself in the rare luxury enough to drown out everything else around him. Like with the bath. 

A hand grasps onto his horn and his head is pulled back so he can face his Master standing beside him.

"Let me make this clear, since you're having trouble remembering." Her finger presses into his side and traces a shape. The Champion can't see, but he knows exactly what she's touching. The branded initials of his master’s name seared into his flesh. "What does this mark mean?"

That definitely isn't a rhetorical question. There's an answer that his training won't allow him to forget. "It means I belong to you, Master."

"Good. And given that fact, it should be obvious by now what you are. I own you, pet. You are my slave. You have the title of Champion in the ring because I trained you. You fight for the entertainment of your betters since that's your purpose. To obey your master and entertain however your betters wish you to, whether it be fighting, being a pretty little server, or more private favors. Do you understand?"

His blood runs cold. 'Private favors.' A sugar-coated term for sexual favors. 

Did-

Did that mean this would be a regular thing now? Would there be more people than Ivan who would use and violate him? More pain and more punishments if he refused or didn't satisfy? More-

He feels sick.

In his panic, he forgets to answer Master's question. She snaps her fingers. He senses Ivan behind him again but he can't see what-.

A sharp yelp rips from his throat. 

Something is pushed inside of him. It's cold and hard and covered in some viscous substance. His body instinctively tenses around the foreign object, that strange heat already beginning to sink in.

"If you continue to defy your purpose, expect to receive this punishment more in the future."

This-.

This heat isn't the same as before with his tail. It lingers in the area it started and intensifies. It festers first into a sting, then a burn.

"Take this, Ivan," Master says as she hands over a flexible metal rod, the correction device she often uses on her pet. Said pet barely notices through the tears filling his eyes. He clutches onto the sheets with a desperate but futile wish for escape. 

His insides are on fire.

What the fuck did they put in him?

"Strike him."

The rod cracks across the top of his right thigh, an acute twinge that gets drowned out by the burning spike as he tenses against the fiery intrusion.

It hurts in such an intimate way. He should’ve known; the rod by itself was too easy a punishment. 

"First question: what are you?"

The moment he requires to register the question is taken as hesitation, and upon the next strike, the pain only grows worse and worse until it’s an effort to keep his words coherent. “S-stop!"

Smack!

"What are you?"

"Please, I'm sorry!"

Smack!

"Make it stop! Master, please!"

So this must be what the Infernal Hells are like. How ironic that a being of fiendish blood faces his own hell on the mortal plane. Devils did always like to scope out evil, and Master Scarlet had enough of it to last an immortal life. Hellfire would be a measly candle compared to the sear that tears through him.

"What are you?"

He can't even try to turn onto his side, the way his legs are bound won't allow it. The rod strikes an already tender welt and he howls. 

"A sl- a slave," he finally chokes out, because this is too much. He'll do whatever Master commands to get this to end.

But the rod falls down on him again and Master repeats her question. So the Champion cries out the horrible word again because that is the right answer, isn't it? It has to be, there's nothing else it could-

Oh.

"I-I'm your sl-slave!"

There's a pause as Master acknowledges the correction, and her frown lifts into a pleased grin. "Again, louder."

Tears streaming down his face, he screams as the agony flares once more. "I'M YOUR SLAVE!" He wants this to end, he can't take it anymore. 

Pathetic. Weak.

"Good boy. Second question." 

He hates her. There is not a single fiber of his being that doesn't roar with contempt for this woman. He mentally prays to every god he knows to curse her with an excruciating death.

"What is your purpose?"

A far off point of the tiefling's mind hears this and thinks, 'To rid this world of you someday.' It's a wishful thought, wrapped in a fantasy. It barely registers to him through the fire.

"T-to obey a-and entertain!"

Smack!

All he can focus on right now is the pain and doing what his master wants.

"Say it the right way, pet."

"I'M TO OBEY AND ENTERTAIN!"

His face hits the mattress, and it takes several seconds of heavy, uninterrupted breathing and no more strikes of the rod for him to realize Master finally released him. It's over. His breath is short and ragged, throat full of cotton. He tastes salt and iron from his tears and ruined lip. His wrists probably don't look very good either from how much he tugged on the chains. He doesn't want to know what his ass and thighs look like right now. The rod doesn’t usually draw blood, but there’ll definitely be some nasty marks that’ll swell.

Another sudden touch startles him, and he doesn’t have the energy to stifle the whimpers as that awful whatever-it-was is pulled out of him. He nearly cries again in sheer relief as that burning presence fades. 

"You have thirty more minutes, Ivan."

That picture of relief is shattered. Ivan is still here. Ivan still hasn’t finished with him. This isn’t over yet, they aren’t done hurting him yet. This man is still going to rape him.

"Oh that should be plenty of time," the man replies, unfazed by the tiefling's broken wail.

"I would hope you have some form of covering, or else that cream will give you a bad night as well."

"Worry not, I've come prepared." 

"Good. Have him repeat his rule until he no longer hesitates. Let me know how he performs."

With that final damning note, Master Scarlet made her departure. And Ivan turned to the battered and crying slave before him, cruely brushing his thumb over a welt before unbuttoning his pants. "Well, little devil, it's just you and me. I'm still waiting for that apology."

The Champion buries his sobs into the bedsheets.

----

They chained him up and muzzled him for his second bath.

He didn't want any more hands on him. No more touch.

But since when did the Champion’s desires matter?

The water could wash away tears, blood, and other bodily fluids. It could not wash away bruises and bite marks that were definitely going to scar. Soreness and pain where it shouldn’t be. Nor could it stop making him feel sick, wrong, filthy, disgusting, weak.

He's back in his cell, lying on his palette curled up in a tight ball. Not a scrap of clothing adorns him, only the dainty little jewels that, with his hands bound behind his back, he isn't able to rip off.

He isn't able to rip at his skin either. To tear away soiled flesh and let blood chase away the phantoms that wouldn't cease their tormenting caress.

Master had stopped by minutes ago to tell him the news. She would be hosting a dinner party in a couple nights, and he would be present. 

She informed him of its purpose. 

The events of tonight weren't going to be a one-time occurrence. 

[befuddled-calico-whump]

(remaining panels under the cut for gore + implied noncon)

Test Track AU (T$$ AU Masterlist)

previous /// next (cw: injection)

(suggested by anon! not adding the tag list to this one just in case)

[defensivelee]

ooooh they are so getting married

@unanchored-ship i hope u dont mind that the bruises are not from a (well deserved) beating but james' fun little biting habit... i think he should get his tusks back just for this tbh

[3-2-whump]

You should brand and/or hose down Khaled 🥰🥰

I’ll do both, but just because we’re celebrating 🎉

TW/CW: branding, nonsexual nudity/noncon nudity (but nothing bad happens, aside from, well, the prompt!)

One naturally leads to the other. Gotta cool down that burn somehow!

Prompt list here

(So, how Canon should this be?)

((Also, does anyone have any good dialogue ideas to match the images? I’m grasping at straws here 🙃))

[onlythegoodpretzels]

They don't let him touch the hurting thing in his head. He still hasn't seen it. But he feels it there in his skull, pulsing and aching when they string him up to check it. The metal suture bolts sting and tug and the transplant droops like it's soft, like it's hair.

But it isn't hair. It goes deeper. When Hagar touches it, Shiro thinks he feels fingertips somewhere under the searing pain. Beyond his skin, somewhere his brain doesn't understand how he can perceive it.

It's healing. It's knitting into him. He's starting to know how to move his head so it doesn't hurt, how to protect the surgical site if a sentry takes a swing at him. He can think straight sometimes, enough to worry. What is it for?

What will it do to him?

____________________________________________________________

I always liked the idea of Shiro's white hair being caused by something other than stress. In my Roots/Routes AU, Hagar implanted an Altean root into him as part of her ongoing efforts to reproduce Altean magic users (my Alteans are plant-based organisms).

Over time Shiro learns this gives him a weird mix of Altean and human quintessence use characteristics. He's sort of a hybrid now.

This was for @whumpay day 3: Made into a Lab Rat! Had tons of fun making the scars and the restraint system (I do love restraint systems).