#pliers to the rescue

[ratstuckinamarble]

Introducing you all to my endless well of joy, made possible thanks to the pattern by @itsthebeastpeddler (whose blog you should check out cause she makes some really lovely things ^-^)

It's a slug!!! Fully hand-sewn cause doing so seemed easier than learning how to use our sewing machine... I'll do so eventually XD But it was actually fairly therapeutic.

Oh! Looks like they're friends now.

Camouflage slug... With a "snail" (he's in denial) friend I made some time ago >:) Dang she's making connections left and right :0

He's a big fan of strawberries, can't blame her. And as per the peddler's suggestion, I used a pipe cleaner for the eye stems! Now they're bendyyy

I knew keeping these suckers around for over a decade would be worth it... Also, the single progress photo I took.

This is my first time sewing a plushie, and I had a grand time. Learned a lot along the way, and the ladder stitch that always intimated me is actually super easy XD Wanna know what the best thing about making such a slug is though? The way the eye stalks wiggle about if you shake him sjshsj

A little slug kiss on your forehead for good luck <3

[playbucky]

Little Piggy.

You’re a news reporter who has been kidnapped due to a story she was working on. After an unknown amount of time spent in a dark room, task force 141 come and rescue you.  Word Count – 1,7k.  Characters – Reader, Ghost, Price, Kyle, Soap.  Warnings – torture, game canon violence, kidnapping. 

‘You with me?’ He asked, you remained silent, his rough hand snapped out and grabbed your cheeks. His broken nails cut into the soft skin.   ‘I need you with me sweet thing, I want the world to see your pretty face as I remove your finger.’ He said, you blinked a few times before you focused on him.   ‘There they are.’  ‘Smile.’ He said, the camera was shoved in your face, you exhaled through your lips which caused saliva to spray at him.  ‘Tell your audience your name.’ The man said, you ran your tongue over your lips as you gaze flickered between the man and the camera that was focused on him.  ‘Tell them.’ He growled, his palm collided with your cheek.  ‘My name is Y/N Y/L/N.’ You said, you looked past the camera to focus on him.  ‘And your job.’  ‘I am a reporter with New Times.’  ‘I want everyone to know that within twenty-four hours your lovely reporter will be dead.’ He grumbled, you narrowed your eyes at him.  ‘Fuck you.’ You spat, you cleared your throat and sent it towards him, satisfied when it landed on his chest.   Your head collided with the rough wall as your cheek stung, his hand dropped as the group chuckled and you ran your tongue over your teeth. He was quick to step forward, one of his men moved to switch the camera off but he extended a finger to them.  ‘Keep the camera rolling.’ He growled, his hand jerked forward and wrapped tightly around your hand, ‘How about we play little piggy.’ He commented, your eyes widened as he spread your fingers and smirked.   You tried to pull away from him but the wall behind you didn’t help and a second pair of hands reached out of the darkness. They wrapped around your arm and held it still. The man reached behind him, a pair of sharp pliers were placed into his hand. He opened and closed them as your breathing quickened up, a deep chuckle seeped from the back of his throat.   He moved his fingers, so he was holding onto your pinky, you clenched your jaw and exhaled through your nose. He glanced at you through his eyelashes and his smirk grew into a wide smile as he opened the pliers and rested your finger between the sharp blades. Your breathing quickened as he looked at you face on.  ‘This little piggy went to market.’ He snapped the pliers shut, your stomach flipped when the loud crack filled the quiet room before you screamed.  You managed to pull your arm and hand away from the men and clutched it to your chest as the searing pain continued to spread, you exhaled heavily through your teeth. The men tried to grab a hold of your arm again before you hissed and lunged forward, your forehead collided with the man to the side of you. He yelped and moved back before you were pushed against the wall, a rough hand wrapped around your throat as it tightened. Your eyes snapped to him before you tapped his forearm with your bloody hand.  ‘Not that strong, are you?’ He quizzed as you continued to cough, you welcomed the musky air.  ‘You wouldn’t kill me just now, not enough audience.’ You rasped out, chin jutted towards the camera that was still rolling. He turned and motioned to end the film.  

Ghost and the rest of the Task Force watched the video that had been played over and over, the news picked it up and ran with the headlines. He knew that by tomorrow morning your face would be plastered all over the papers and everyone would be talking about how you had been captured. Price looked at him, his gloved hands tightened into fists, his eyes darted to him before Price pushed out his seat. The video was paused before it disappeared and your id was displayed on the screen, you smile a contrast to your tired and pained face.  ‘As seen in the video, Y/N Y/L/N, a news reporter who was captured two days ago.’ Price said, Laswell clicked the computer and more information about you appeared on the screen.  ‘Looks like they’ve got a history with dangerous places.’ Kyle commented, Ghost had to tuck his hands into his armpits and leaned back into his seat.  ‘They are used to it, yeah, they volunteer to go into these danger zones.’ Laswell stated, she noticed Ghost’s demeanour change.  ‘We leave tomorrow at sunrise and arrive at sunset there, that night we will get them out of the compound they are being held in.’ Price explained, the lay out of the buildings popped onto the screen. 

‘Y/N?’ The deep voice called out, you tried to lift your head but it weighed down, your arms had gone numb from being held above your head  ‘Hey, you with us?’ A gloved hand cupped your neck, you watched through heavy eyelids as he slid his gun back into his holster, his second hand cupped the other side and carefully tilted your head back.  ‘Ghost?’ You quizzed, your brows furrowed.  ‘Yeah, it’s me.’ He replied, you slurred as you tried to think of something.  ‘Why?’ You grunted out.  ‘We need to get you out.’ He said, you shook your head and refused to move from your spot.  ‘No, no, how did you find my location?’ You asked, you gaze was focused on the mask covered face of Ghost.  ‘Your phone pinged.’ Soap said, you looked at him then back to Ghost, you noticed his brows furrow.  ‘What?’ He asked.  ‘They took everything off me.’ You informed him, he stiffened.  ‘Shit.’ Ghost hissed, you placed a hand on Ghost’s elbow and leaned out the side, your eyes searched around the room, the camera wasn’t there.  ‘Leave me and go.’ You told him quickly, you looked around the room as your hands moved to his shoulders.  ‘No.’ He shook his head.  ‘Ghost, go.’ You almost shouted.  ‘Y/N, we could take you.’ He said, you looked to the others that stood behind him, your eyes pleaded them.  ‘They’ll be watching, they want to create the most damage or newsworthy story,’ you explained, ‘what better than killing two people that shouldn’t be here.’ You said, Soap looked at you as you turned back and made eye contact with Ghost.   ‘Go, I’ll be fine.’ You quickly reached up and touched his cheeks, the mask rough under your bloody hands. 

‘How’d you know the reporter?’ Soap asked when he lowered himself into the seat.  ‘Friends.’ He grunted, his cracked his knuckles and straightened his back.  ‘Is that all?’ He quizzed him.  ‘What else would there be?’ Ghost asked, his dark gaze moved to Soap.  ‘Dunno, seemed close to be friends.’ He commented but didn’t want to push him too far, Ghost remained silent.  ‘I don’t want to push you Lieu but we need to be informed off all the information that will help us with this mission.’ Soap said, Ghost’s jaw clenched as he moved in his seat.  ‘You should tell him.’ Price said, Soap and Kyle looked at the Captain before Ghost rolled his neck, it popped loudly.  ‘Y/N and I grew up together occasionally we’d have a fling or what not -,’ Ghost reluctantly gave up.  ‘You’re lovers?’ Soap asked confused.  ‘No, it was just convenient for the pair of us.’ He said with a shake of his head.  ‘Could they be doing this to get to us?’ Kyle suggested, Ghost immediately went to say no but stopped himself.  ‘There’s a chance.’ Price said, Ghost slid his eyes to you.  ‘Is it known that you two have a thing?’ Gaz questioned, Ghost shook his head.  ‘No, not unless they’ve been planning it for years.’ Ghost said, he rolled his shoulders, ‘I haven’t saw Y/N for two years.’ 

'Ghost.’ You said, the gun lowered as he approached you, two other men stepped into the small room, guns aimed at the entrance.  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’  ‘We’re fine, we got them.’ He said, you leaned your head back to make eye contact.  ‘All of them?’ You quizzed, he nodded.  ‘The ones that didn’t run, yeah.’ He said, the corner of your lips pulled up.  ‘Why’d they kidnap me?’ You asked, the dull pain spread up and across your head.  ‘Publicity.’ He grumbled, the wraps removed from your wrists, slowly you dropped your hands, Ghost carefully looked them over.  ‘I’m not famous.’ You said, you looked at the other two that had came in with him.  ‘No, but it seems the arms dealer case you reported last month was a part of their organisation.’ The Scot told you, you looked at him, your eyebrows pinched together.  ‘Why was someone here working with an English businessman?’ You asked, Ghost chuckled next to you.  ‘Now isn’t the time to be asking questions.’   ‘What do I always say?’ You asked him, he dropped the rope from your wrists.  ‘Nows always the time.’ He grumbled, you arched an eyebrow as he offered you a hand to guide yourself up.  ‘Maybe you should wait till your checked out before you ask the questions.’ Ghost suggested, you glared at him but nodded. 

‘You good?’  ‘I’m good.’ You replied, he sighed, shoulders dropped before he yanked you forward.  A large arm wrapped around your waist, the second one over your shoulders as his hands held the back of your head. You reacted quickly and wrapped your arms around his wide back, your bandage hand rested between his shoulders.  ‘Scared the shit out of me.’ He mumbled into your ear, you exhaled as you pulled back from him, your hands stopped on his face.  ‘Gotta keep you on your toes.’ You commented, with the crinkles around the side of his eyes you knew he was smiling.  ‘Yeah, you do.’ He breathed out.  ‘I want you to meet my team.’ Simon said, you tilted your head but nodded as he moved to your side, arm still wrapped around you.  ‘Soap, Kyle or Gaz and of course you know Price.’ He introduced them to you, you gave them a polite smile as they waved at you.  ‘Nice to see you kid.’ Price said, he stepped closer and you moved from Simon’s arm and wrapped him up in a hug.  ‘You as well old man, been awhile.’  ‘That it has.’ He agreed before he pulled you tighter to his chest. 

[after-witch]

The Touch of Your Lips Dear [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Title: The Touch of Your Lips Dear [Yandere Feitan x Reader]

Synopsis: You ache in ways you didn’t know it was possible to ache. All because of Feitan. 

Word count: 9262

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, torture, violence, dubcon sex/NSFW, reader has a fucked up mindset by the end

You ache. You ache in ways you didn’t know it was possible to ache. You ache in ways you’d previously feared aching, hearing Feitan work on his victims time and time again.

He never let you into the basement where he kept them, so you never actually saw what he did to them, and you were grateful for that. But you could still hear their screams. 

And sometimes, if you listened carefully enough, like a child pressing their ear to the door of their parent’s room to catch forbidden grown-up secrets, you could hear the scraping of tools down there. High, silvery sounds punctuated by moans of pain that gave you goosebumps. Slicing. And pinching. And ripping.

You’re the one doing the screaming now. 

The silvery sounds are not faint and haunting, but right in front of you. You can’t see them--a blindfold--but you hear them and you feel them. Oh, you feel them.

You felt the coldness of a knife as it cut into your cheek, slicing the soft flesh so deep you thought through your bright pain that he might have cut all the way through. But your desperate, probing tongue hit only solid flesh, and it was a terrible relief, despite the searing pain.

Your cheek aches, now. It was a deep cut. It’s still seeping. You should get stitches. But he won’t give them to you.

You felt the heat of the brand as he pressed it into your thigh. Not just once, but several times over. On the thick of it, close to your hips; on the inside, far too close to your sex; and most horribly, on the back, on sensitive skin that was unused to anything but the lightest of touches.

The branding was punishment for being a whore--that is what he told you after he heated the metal up on the coals, as he kept it hovering above your bare skin. You could feel the pain of the heat even before he pressed the metal brand down, and the pain was genuinely shocking. So was the smell of your own cooked flesh.

Your thigh aches, now. The burns hurt continually, like there’s still residual heat searing onto your skin. Especially the burn on the back of your thigh, which chafes against the chair you’re sitting on. You can’t even lift it up for proper relief. You long for something cold to press on the burns--but you get no such mercy.

You felt the solid firmness of the pliers on your fingernail, hard and gripping and horrifying in their implication, before they twisted and ripped the nail right off. It was another shock. A horrible, burning pain to an area that felt ten times more sensitive than you ever imagined. 

He did it to four of them. He waited a few minutes in between, so you could feel each one individually. He’s not done, he said, the rest will come later. He doesn’t want you to get used to the pain. He wants to space ever-y-thing out.

Your fingers ache. You want to wrap them in cloth, press down on them, soothe the pain and calm the throbbing. But your hands are cuffed tight against the arms of the chair and you can do nothing but flex your fingers uselessly. An errant draft blows against the raw skin and you whimper.

Your wounds ache. Your body aches, shoulders stiff, throat sore, muscles cramping.

And your mind is not spared. Your mind aches, too. For freedom. For mercy.

But most of all, you ache for Feitan.  You ache for Feitan’s voice and face and hands. You ache for Feitan to make all of this go away.

You ache for Feitan to rescue you.

You hope, no, more than that; you pray to a God who hasn’t listened to you in ages, that Feitan will save you from the man who kidnapped you from Feitan’s hideout. He brought you here as some twisted act of vengeance.. Maybe Feitan had killed this man’s lover, or child, or parent. Probably in a gruesome way, if the people you heard down in the basement were any indication. He hasn’t told you what Feitan did to him, and you don’t know if he will.

But it doesn’t matter. Any pity you had for this man disappeared the moment he cuffed you to the chair and told you with thick glee in his voice all the things he was going to do to you. You told him that Feitan had kidnapped you, that you weren’t with Feitan willingly, but the man didn’t listen and didn’t care. No. He said he was going to hurt you, make you scream, make you beg for death just like Feitan did to so many others.

And you have screamed, and you have begged and yes, you hurt. You hurt so much that tears no longer come to your eyes. But you don’t want to die. No. You want to live. And the only way you’ll do that is if Feitan finds you.

So you cling to that thought: Feitan finding you. Feitan saving you. You keep your eyes open behind the blindfold, trying to catch what little you can see towards the bottom of the fabric, where it doesn’t quite meet flush with your nose. You strain your ears and listen for something other than the sounds of the man who took you. His husky voice and the way he breathes through his nose sometimes, making a faint whistling sound.

You listen and hope for one thing and one thing only.

What little hope still flutters in your chest rests on Feitan rescuing you, and can you help it if that realization makes your stomach churn? Feitan kidnapped you. He took you away from your life, your family, your friends. He took away your future and replaced it with a grey, oppressive existence that left you constantly on edge.

No, you can’t help the way your stomach rebels at the way you keep praying for Feitan to find you. If you hadn’t already thrown up all the contents of your stomach down to bitter thick bile, maybe you would throw up again.

As it is, the bitter bile rests in your throat and on your tongue, along with the iron of your own blood from gnawing relentlessly on the inside of your cheek. The pain is nothing compared to the knife gash on your face, or the burns on  your thighs, or the rawness of your fingernails.

The pain is nothing compared to the fear of your tormentor coming back after his rest to continue the job. It was going to get worse. So much worse. This was just a little warm up. His own words. A warm up to get himself used to hurting you.

You hear footsteps and it’s like someone runs a cold knife up your spine. You straighten. He’s back. He’s back and this time he’ll hurt you so much worse. Maybe after a while he’ll start to panic, thinking Feitan might find him soon, and he’ll start to hack away at your limbs with a saw or even the knife he used earlier. He could--

The steps are light. Too light. They’re quicker, too, hurried. There’s an almost anxious pace to them.

It’s not the man. It’s not the man, and if it’s not the man, it can be only one person--

You hear the door open and you barely register the sound of the quick steps that pause right in front of you. Assessing. In the small gap near your nose, you can see familiar black pants.

In the silence, you find you can cry again. Hot tears sink into the blindfold.

“Feitan,” you say, and even through your pain and swirling mind,  you recognize that your voice sounds relieved. It’s the first time you’ve said his name with anything resembling happiness.

The blindfold is lifted off and it’s too bright, you shut your eyes, only letting them open bit by bit as you desperately try to get used to the light again.

Feitan is staring down at you. He’s blurry, at first, but as the moments slide by he begins to come into clearer view. His eyes are not focused on yours; instead, they flit around your body, taking note. The cut on your cheek is first, then your shaking hands. You look down with him, and see the red, bloodied splotches where your nails should be. Your bottom lip curls in a sob that doesn’t make it out of your mouth.

You hear the jingle of keys and watch, mind bleary, as he uncuffs you from the chair. Your hands, then your ankles. You don’t move. You get the feeling he doesn’t want you to move, and your mind rushes to obey. Your body doesn’t quite get the memo--you’re trembling now, the complete rush of anxiety and relief overwhelming your ability to control yourself. If he’s annoyed by it, he says nothing.

His silence is surprising. If you could register anything more than pain and relief right now, you might wonder at it. No passive insults, no annoyed hums at your pathetic state. Nothing but silence and his eyes on  you--and now his touch.

His hands come down, light, assessing just as much as his eyes. He turns your arms over, noticing the skin rubbed raw where you pulled on the cuffs in your desperate agony. There’s a few finger-shaped bruises on your arm--the man must have gripped you hard. You didn’t even feel them, not with your other wounds to worry about.

Then he pushes up your skirt and sees the burns. He pauses completely when he turns your leg a little and sees the weeping burn on your inner thigh, red and blistered and shiny. You look up at him because the sight of the burn makes you feel sick. And the sight of his face is confirmation that he’s really here, and the man won’t be back to hurt you. He’s dead… well, maybe not. He’s only dead if he’s lucky, and not a lot of people are lucky around Feitan.

Feitan’s eyes finally do meet yours.

“There’s… there’s another on the back.” Your voice is hoarse from all the screaming.

You lift up your trembling leg as much as you can, and Feitan crouches down, fingers pressing into your thighs as he holds it above the chair. The sudden release of pressure and cold air on your burned flesh makes you hiss, and the sob does come out, this time.

He slowly lowers your shaking leg back down, and it hurts to rest it against the chair, but there’s nothing to be done about that here, so you endure.

He’s still crouched when he speaks. His voice only serves to ground you further, the fluttering anxiety about what the man was going to do to you later ebbing away bit by bit.

“You can walk on your own?”

You shake your head without even trying to see if you might be able to do so, as you might have done in normal circumstances. As though being held captive by Feitan in a dimly lit house before this second man kidnapped you was anything close to normal. But it’s your normal, and you’ve learned to live with it the best you can.

And you know that Feitan hates it when you’re so pathetically weak, hates it when you don’t try to do things yourself. But all of your energy and bravado and self-preservation has been drained out of you now.  This was not one of Feitan’s creative punishments, horrible as they were; this was real torture by someone who wanted to cause you the utmost agony before killing you.

Feitan stands, and sighs. It’s an annoyance to carry you. But he doesn’t insult you for your weakness--for once. Instead, he wordlessly leans down and wraps his arms underneath your legs, avoiding the spot on the back of your thigh where you were burned. It hurts to be moved, and you can’t help but cry out as he lifts you up. Your arms go around his neck without being told, and in that moment your head turns toward where the man had kept returning during your torture.

There’s a table there, filled with tools--some already tinged with your dried blood--that were sure to hurt you in ways you had never dreamed of. Knives, needles, pliers, a wire gag--you run your tongue instinctively over your teeth. Next to it is a hammer, shiny and waiting.

There’s a twisted comfort that comes when you bury your face into Feitan’s shoulder to block out the sight.

You let him carry you until he sets you down into the passenger seat of a car you’ve never seen before.

He doesn’t say anything, and you keep the silence between you as something to grip onto. Nothing can go wrong in silence.

The car ride is long. The man had knocked you out with some drug, so you didn’t notice it the first time around. Your body aches, the pain in your face and thigh sharper now that you’ve been moved, now that there has been time for your mind to relax from its heightened state of anxiety.

Above the pain, though, is simply the repeating, tired thought: I want to go home. I want to go home.

And in that weary thought is something which sends a little electric spike of terror down your spine: you’re not thinking of the apartment where you lived before you ever met Feitan. No. The home you’re thinking of is the house where Feitan keeps you.

**

In the end, Feitan takes you (where else?) back to the house in the middle of nowhere. Home.

He carries you through the threshold and then sets you down. He watches as you stand, wobbling and unsure, but steady enough to avoid falling flat on your face.

You can walk now, after all. Your limbs are weak, and you hurt, but you take slow, halting steps as Feitan locks everything behind you.

The house is familiar by now. Not just the house itself but how you feel in it. You start to feel that familiar edge of anxiety creep its way back under your skin. Anxiety of the unknown. Before, it was always worries about making Feitan… happy wasn’t the right word. Making Feitan not-pissed-off-with-you was a better fit.

But now you don’t know what he’ll do with you. Is he mad that you let yourself get kidnapped? Would he punish you for leaving the house, even if it was unwillingly? Will he get stricter with you now? And what about your wounds--will he take you to a doctor?

That particular thought seems silly and flimsy even as you think it. Feitan knows how to keep people alive. You’re no exception.

This is proven quickly as he guides you into the bathroom and orders you to sit down on the closed toilet lid.  You do, keeping yourself on the edge so that the cool porcelain doesn’t rub up against your burn. You close your eyes and listen while he gathers supplies from underneath the sink. Bottles of various liquids and bandages and, you open your eyes to confirm it, a needle and surgical thread.

Your breaths are shaky. You know it will hurt. But Feitan has patched you up before, though it’s never been anything as bad as this. Cuts and scrapes, a dislocated shoulder, but never quite like this. He’s always been efficient and quick about it; the fixing-up is never part of the punishment, after all.

He’s methodical and quiet. He doesn’t speak except to give you orders in a tone that betrays nothing about what he’s feeling. Anger that you were taken from him? Annoyance that he’s having to waste his time doing this? Or maybe… and the thought is twisted, you know… but maybe happiness, at you being safe and alive?

You’ve always wondered how Feitan really feels about you. He kidnapped you, he won’t let you leave, he makes you be in his presence… but he’s never touched you, except to punish you or give you the occasional smack on the head for saying something dumb. Once you thought he might kiss you, but he just pursed his lips tighter and told you to stop looking at him. He’s certainly never said that he loves you. So then why did he keep you at all?

Your mind is too occupied to ponder these things too deeply. The stinging pain of antiseptics and ointments, the bizarre feeling of your skin being tugged back together, reopening a flood of pain in  your cheek, overtake your thoughts. You let yourself be carried away in them.

When it’s done, he sits you down on the kitchen table. You scoot forward again without being told, keeping your now-bandaged thigh wounds free from pressure as much as you can. He gives you a glass of water and a plate. There’s plain toast and a few strawberries, still wet from being run under the sink.

You start to protest--your stomach is beyond empty--but he shakes his head.

“Eating too much… you’ll throw up.” There’s a tinge of annoyance in his voice. You can’t quite blame him. You know the drill when it comes to this--it’s not the first time you’ve been deprived of food for a while. Just the first time that someone other than Feitan has done it.

So, you don’t argue.  You drink your water and nibble your food and while you’re not even close to feeling full, the edge is taken off, and the taste of bile is gone, replaced with the mild aftertaste of strawberries.

Then, he leads you back to where it all began: into the little bedroom where you slept.

When he first tossed you in here--however long ago it was now--it was nothing but a bare room with a bucket and a blanket on the floor. But it’s nothing so bad now. You’ve earned privileges over time. Or he’s eased up on you. Or some indeterminable mixture of both.

There’s a twin bed and a little shelf for your books and a rug so your feet don’t freeze at night. You have a warm blanket and a pillow. A dresser for your clothes. You’re allowed to roam the rest of the house (except of course, the basement) as you please now,  so there’s no need for the awful bucket anymore.

Feitan turns on the light--it’s night time now, bedtime, actually--and that sense of relief claws itself back up again as you take halting steps back into your room. It’s familiar. It’s yours. You sit down on the edge of your bed and fix your pillow. You don’t even bother with pajamas (all white night gowns, Feitan’s choice) as you pull the blanket around you, curling up on your side, feeling sleepy already.

If Feitan cares that you’re deviating from the bedtime routine, he says nothing. It’s been a long day, after all.

He only watches you, hands in his pockets, eyes curious and assessing. You wonder how long he’ll keep that expression, which seemed to begin as soon as he saved you from the man.

You don’t want to go to sleep. Not just yet. You look around the room that’s become your bedroom and take it all in.

The little night light plugged into the wall--he teased you horribly about it, but the comforting light in the dark was worth the humiliation. The books in alphabetical order on your short bookshelf. The warm rug, placed closer to your bed, so you won’t have freezing feet if you have to get up and go pee in the middle of the night.

Seeing all of your things in their place means something. It means that you’re here, not with that man. You’re in your bed, not cuffed to a chair. Feitan is right there, and not gone from view while a man  you never saw from beneath your blindfold hurt you with sharp, horrible things.

And then Feitan turns, flicking off the light, preparing to walk through your open doorway.

You don’t plan it. It seems to come out of something deep inside. 

“Feitan,” you whimper out his name. A soft, pleading sound that you’ve never made before.

He turns, but you can’t quite see his expression with only your night light on.

“What?” He’s not annoyed, no, you don’t think so. He sounds curious.

You sit up in bed and your hands fidget, playing with the edges of your blanket. You know what you want. You know what you want him to do. The thought of asking it of him makes you feel a little dizzy. Or maybe that’s the lack of food and the result of being tortured over the past 24 hours. Doesn’t matter, because the effect is the same.

You’re scared he’ll say no. But you have to ask it, or the answer will be no by default.

Your words come out soft, the lingering hoarseness in your voice giving way to a pathetic, childlike tone; a tone that begs for parents to read them one more story to keep them longer, out of that dreadful fear of what might come in the dark.

“Could… could you stay here?” Your heart hammers in your chest. He’ll say no. He’ll say no. “Just until I fall asleep?”

For a few moments, you hear only the low buzz of the house. The thrum of the fridge, a creaking pipe, some insects chirping in the unkempt grass outside.

And then Feitan scoffs, a low sound in his throat that hits you as well as any verbal jab. Your chest feels like it freezes as your hands clench the blanket tightly, preparing to deal with the onslaught of fears that come flooding in.

Of course he won’t stay, what are you, a child? But--what if the man comes back, what if he’s not dead, what if he has friends and there’s more of them this time and they get you and keep you and hurt you SO BAD--

But then Feitan is approaching your bed, and all thoughts cease like the a plug being pulled on an electrical cord. You watch as his shadowy figure, lit almost eerily by the softness of your night light, sits down on the rug by your bed. He’s here. He’s going to stay until you’re asleep, safe in your dreams.

Your mouth closes and opens.  Should you thank him? Or would acknowledging it make it worse? It’s a coin toss that you’re too confused to make. The words, whatever you might want to say here, don’t come.

“Well?” He says, head turned towards you. “Sleep.” It’s a command, given softly but with no room for disobedience in it. You’re well attuned to these commands of his by now, and your body reacts accordingly. You slide back down on your pillow and curl up, keeping your eyes on Feitan, making sure he’s still there.

As your body begins to feel heavy and your mind slips into the confusing thoughts of sleepiness, you reach your arm out in a gesture that comes from the fear of an unknown man barging into your cozy, curated bedroom. Your bandaged fingers grip the edge of his sleeve tightly, clenching, grounding you to his presence. There’s the almost undetectable sound of an intake of breath. But he does nothing more than that.

Feitan doesn’t move at all  as you fall asleep, fingers still gripping the fabric of his shirt like a security blanket.

Soon enough, the heavy greyness of sleep overtakes you.

**

You wake up to the sound of horrible screaming. A jagged, raw, naked sound that pierces right down to your bones.

For a brief moment, you think it’s your own scream. You think you’ve bolted upright in bed, screaming out nightmares that you can’t recall. Your heartbeat thuds in  your chest as you realize that you didn’t make a sound, save for a gasp as you were torn out of sleep too quickly.

Feitan is gone. Your bedroom door is open a crack, letting in a sliver of light from the lamp that he sometimes keeps on in the living room. Maybe he left it open in case you got scared, you think, and then you get the urge to pinch yourself for the strange hypothetical altruism you’re applying to him. But why not? He did stay with you until you slept, after all, even though he had no reason to do so. So why not leave you a little more light, when he knows you’re on edge.

Your thoughts are interrupted by another sound. It’s low and rumbling. Like a drill. There’s another ragged scream, and the sound is muffled, but you know exactly where all these sounds are coming from without even peeking out the door: the basement.

You shouldn’t get out of bed. Really,  you shouldn’t. You should shut your bedroom door and curl up under your blanket and press your pillow around your ears, quietly pitying whoever it is Feitan has down in his torture chamber, until you drift off again.

But you don’t.

Because whoever it is is almost certainly not some stranger. Because whoever it is might be the man. You have to make sure, don’t you? You have to make sure it’s the man, because otherwise you’ll always be afraid that he’ll come barging in again, tearing you from your dreams.  You’ll always be afraid that he’ll find you and hurt you again.

Assurances have to be made.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and place them on the warm rug. There’s a horrible muffled wailing noise.

You stand up and walk to your door, holding onto the cool silver handle for a moment before you pull it open. The screams are a little louder now.

You walk towards the foreboding basement door. You’re not allowed to go into the basement. You’re not even supposed to touch the door.

But your hand grips the knob and you swallow down the fear of what Feitan might do, because there’s a sick curiosity growing in your gut. It’s not just the need to make sure it’s the man who took you, but… the desire to see him down there, under Feitan’s cruel touch.

It’s desire that compels you to open the basement door.

You make it down a few steps, the sound of wailing and the clinking of silver tools now penetrating and unburdened by walls and doors, before you hear the firm clang of something heavy dropping on a table.

There’s nothing now but moaning, ragged breathing.

And then, footsteps. Light ones that you know and recognize so well.

In a few moments, Feitan stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching as you force yourself to take a step down, then another, then another. His expression is shadowy, lit by the light from upstairs and the hanging lamps towards the center of the basement. But he doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t seem angry, either.

Instead, he looks pensive. Worried. But about what?

You’re very familiar with wariness by now, but it’s usually your own. Wondering if something he’s doing is a trick or trying to decide if doing a certain thing is what he really wants. But on Feitan, the expression is entirely new. He looks concerned in an intimate, exposed way. He looks like you’ve stumbled onto something you shouldn’t have. It reminds you of a teenager wanting to hide their latest passion project from a disapproving parent, worried that they’ll shoot it down in the cutting way only parents can do.

He waits until you’re at the bottom step to speak. His face becomes clearer the farther down you go, and you can see tension in his body language, like a spring waiting to snap.

“What?” It’s all he asks, and in his tone you sense that wariness crystal clear. It seems to ask--are you going to tell him he’s disgusting? Are you going to tell him to stop torturing the man?

You peer around him and look at the man on the table. He’s strapped down, arms above his head, legs splayed out and cuffed to the sides. He’s bruised and bleeding, of course, but--there. There. There’s a jagged cut on his cheek and your hand instinctively rushes up to touch the bandage covering your own. Feitan did that… because of how he hurt you? Why does that make you feel so good?

“Is that…” You swallow. “Is that the man who kidnapped me?” You know it is, of course it is. But you need to hear it from Feitan’s mouth most of all.

“Yes.”

Feitan glances back at the man, and then at you.

A silence stretches between you.  Your hand grips the bannister so hard that your fingers begin to ache again. Curiosity. Desire. All of these feelings swirl in your stomach and force the words out before you even know you wanted to say them.

“Can I watch?”

Feitan’s eyes widen, just a little, his eyebrows raising as they do. You’ve never seen him look surprised before. It looks nicer on him than it should.

He doesn’t say anything, but you see the tension melt from his shoulders as he retreats to a far corner of the room, pulling out a folding chair. He sets it down close to the table and gestures to it.

You’ve never watched Feitan work before. You’ve never wanted to; why would you, when the people down here were, for all you knew, as innocent as yourself?

But this is not an innocent stranger, it’s someone who hurt you and hurt you and it’s that knowledge that pushes you down from that last step, guiding you over to the chair, though you don’t sit down yet. Instead, you have your first look at Feitan’s handwork, lit by the bright overhead lamps that hang above the table.

It’s like a scene from a movie at first. Something slick and unreal. And then inch by inch, reality sets in. This is a real man and real gore, not a movie scene. The blood doesn’t spatter in a carefully planned aesthetic way and the scene doesn’t cut to black at just the right time, shielding your eyes from the most visceral of moments.

It’s all here to take it at once, an overwhelming tableau of work-in-progress violence.

The man is half-naked, his chest bared and heaving. There’s a puncture wound on his side that seeps thick blood, slow and oozing. He moves his head from side to side, wordlessly groaning in pain. Up close, you can see that Feitan has actually cut all the way through the man’s cheek. There’s a little hole that opens up just enough when he turns the right away. His face is bruised--one of his eyes is rimmed in dark purple mottling. It’s terrible, yes, but you can tell Feitan has just barely started.

And then the man notices the addition of a second person in the room, and he meets your gaze. His bleary eyes go wide in recognition and fright. He mumbles something, shaking his head--no, no, no. Blood dribbles from his mouth as he talks. There’s that familiar whistling noise as he breathes through his nose.

It’s that noise that finally brings tears to your eyes. The memory of that noise he made, breathing, while you sat crying and begging in that chair. You couldn’t even see him. All you could do was hear him shuffling, hear him picking up tools and considering them. Hear him breathe through his nose, a soft, high sound.

Tears spill down your cheeks and you wipe at them, childishly. You don’t want this man to see you cry ever again.

Taking a deep breath, you lower yourself down to perch on the edge of the chair. Feitan walks back to the other side of the table, where he keeps his array of tools. But instead of thumbing through them, he looks at you. And you look back.

With the crying, bleeding man between you, you and Feitan stare at each other with something you’ve seen several times over tonight. Curiosity.

And then you break the spell. You look back at the man, who seems to recognize something going on between you before he begins incoherent pleading. You recognize the sound as your own from hours before.

You stare down at this man, this wounded, helpless man. This man who pressed a brand into your skin and seemed to relish your screams. This man who said the pain was just beginning, that he was going to do to you what Feitan did to so many others--and worse, besides. This man who told you he was going to cut out one of your eyeballs and shove it in your mouth before he was done. This bleeding, crying man.

Then you turn your eyes toward Feitan, who is watching you mutely.

And you smile.

“Don’t forget his fingernails.”

**

It’s hours and hours, and the man is still not dead. His skin is slick with his own blood. A few of his fingernails are missing--not all, and Feitan murmured that the man did get something right, that you never take them all out in quick succession. Feitan also burned the raw skin of the fingernails afterward. You shivered as you watched. It was not a terrified shiver, but something akin to pleasure. It felt good to see him get what he deserved. It felt better that Feitan was doing it because of you.

 It went on and on. The human body is a marvel--it is amazing, the things one can experience and not die. You watched as Feitan work and something else was at work, too; something seemed to knit itself together as the two of you watched over this man’s suffering. A web that weaved in and out of his screams, tightening around both of you, pulling you closer. Was it only in your imagination?

You only know when that so much time has passed because Feitan glances at the clock on the wall and clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“3 AM,” he says, though his words are heard through the gagging, choked moans of the man before you. Feitan got tired of his pleading and cut out his tongue. Every once in a while, he grasps a lever on the bottom of the table and flips it, bringing the head of the table up; this is so the man doesn’t choke to death on his own blood before Feitan decides it is suitable for him to die.

He won’t die tonight. Feitan hasn’t said as much, but he doesn’t have to; it’s clear that he intends to enact a slow revenge, a slow death.

And it’s… it doesn’t feel good. You won’t lie to yourself and claim that it feels nice. But you can’t forget that initial shocked feeling of seeing the wound on the man’s cheek, the way Feitan gave your torturer a taste of his own medicine. The way it made you feel--God help you--flattered in some dark way. Flattered and avenged, and that feeling only grew as you watched Feitan work, your knuckles curling tight on the edge of the chair. 

It was a way for Feitan to show that he cared about you, and until tonight, until he silently sat next to your bed, until he cut this man’s cheek, you weren’t entirely sure that was something he could feel.

And wasn’t that just fucked up beyond all belief?

Of course. But you’ve been sitting in a basement watching a man be methodically tortured for hours. It’s not the most fucked up thing in the world, is it, that you can take something positive out of the trauma you’ve just been through? It’s not fair that you’re never allowed to feel good, to feel wanted. So you are taking what you can get, even if other people might raise an eyebrow (or two) at the notion.

Feitan pulls the head of the table up so the man won’t choke to death in the night. If he’s lucky (but he isn’t, is he?) he might get a few hours of blackout sleep to reprieve him from his pain.

He beckons and you stand, legs wobbly. He watches for a moment, perhaps wondering if you can make it up the stairs on your own, but you feel the sudden urge to show him that you have the strength and energy. There’s a renewed humming underneath your skin.  It’s a strange, nervous feeling that congeals in your stomach, but it keeps you going. Like a jolt of caffeine.

Away from the table, it’s easier to see Feitan as his own entity, rather than the figure exacting revenge on the man that hurt you. His clothes have splotches of blood and bits of skin--the drill made quite the mess. There’s a red smear on his forehead, from when he pushed his hair out of his face. But he looks relaxed, less tense than he did earlier in the evening.

He looks every part a killer, covered in blood and bits of gore, but after what you’ve seen--what you’ve been through--it doesn’t bother you like it should.

He gestures slightly with his chin towards the staircase, and you go up without any complaint. You’re slow, still, holding onto the railing. But you make it up without issue and take a few steps toward the kitchen, turning and waiting for Feitan. He probably wants you to go right to bed.

There’s that strange humming feeling again, forming a pit in your stomach. It’s not anxiety, exactly, but a peculiar kind of nervousness. Yes, that’s it--a fluttery nervousness. It’s not unlike--you flinch at the comparison as soon as you think it, but it’s what comes to mind--how you used to feel before a first date. You’re anxious to see him, because there’s something more you want to do tonight. You realized it before you even went up the stairs. That something is what makes a nervous ball weigh down your stomach, what’s making your skin feel all light and tingly.

For the first time, you can see Feitan in a different light. A green room light, maybe, one designed to blur and flatter. Because now you can see him as more than simply your kidnapper, someone who kept you locked up like some sort of bizarre prize. You can see him as something more… intimate. A partner, no, maybe a co-conspirator. Something that brings you closer to equal footing, even though if you dared to think more on that, you would remember that you’re not anywhere near equal to him.

When he emerges from the basement, he waves his hand toward your bedroom.

“Go to bed,” he says. But--you could swear it, yes, you would swear on it--it lacks his normal command and conviction. As if perhaps he’s feeling the same strange sort of connection, that buzzing humming urge to keep the night going somehow.

He doesn’t wait to see if you obey. Instead, he heads for the bathroom. You hear the shower turn on moments later.

Your feet don’t move. You stand there, staring at the closed bathroom door, listening to the sounds of running water.

You should go to bed. Really, you should. You’re tired. You’ve been through something traumatic, on top of your already traumatic existence. You’re not thinking straight.

Clearly, you’re not thinking properly at all, because what you’re thinking about is Feitan stripping off his clothes. What did he look like underneath them? What would he look like, with water running down his body, glistening, washing away the blood of the man who hurt you?

What would he look like if you kissed him?

Your hand goes to your mouth, almost a slap.

That’s what has been humming under your surface for a few hours now, as you watched Feitan enact his own form of retribution against the man who took you. That’s what has been building all night. Perhaps from the moment Feitan took off your blindfold, surely, it was there as you drifted off into a hazy sleep.

And wasn’t it desire that urged you down the stairs? You thought it was desire to see that man bleed, perhaps it was, but it was also desire for something else. Something forbidden and fucked up but God help you, something that felt inexplicably good and nice. Didn’t you deserve that, for once in your miserable life? Didn’t you?

You answer your own question by taking hesitant steps towards Feitan’s bedroom. Another area of the house you never set foot in, though, technically speaking he’d never said you couldn’t go inside. You’d already broken a rule today anyway. He couldn’t be mad at you for this.  He wouldn’t be. You were sure of it, somehow.

His room is shrouded in darkness, and you fumble for the light switch before entering. It’s plain and unassuming, much like your own. There’s a bed--larger than yours--and a nightstand, a dresser, a shelf with books. A desk and some papers. They would be boring, if you didn’t know who slept in this room.

There’s nothing to do but wait on the edge of his bed and ruminate on your decision. Your thoughts are cloudy, muddled. You’re tired, in pain, not thinking clearly. You know all of these things, and you know that you should be questioning your choices right now.

But there is that overwhelming sense of unfairness that keeps you planted firmly on the edge of his mattress. You deserve something that makes you feel good. It’s not your fault that the only thing making you feel good is a perverted sense of flattery brought on by your first kidnapper tormenting your second one, is it? No, you’re helpless in all this. Blameless. You can’t be hard on yourself for seeking something that makes your stomach flutter in a way that’s not associated with terror.

When the water stops running, every muscle in your body tenses. He’ll be coming in soon. He’ll be coming in the room, and see you, and then you’ll have to find out if you’ve truly lost your mind or if there really was something different between the two of you tonight. Maybe it will be better if he rebuffs you, maybe it will be better if he sends you to bed like some scolded child.

Maybe-maybe-maybes are all you can think of while you watch, frozen, as he walks through the bedroom door.

“What are you doing?”

Wariness has crept back into his voice, back into his expression. You don’t know that you can blame him.

He’s half-naked, shirtless. He’s toned, though you had no reason to doubt that notion based on his strength. Something low in you twists at the sight of his bare chest. There’s a slight sheen to his skin, as if he didn’t bother to dry himself off all the way. His hair looks damp.

Your body trembles. Your conviction wavers. That little something hard and dark that urged you down the stairs seems to grasp you from underneath the armpits and haul you to your feet.

As you stand, you think, if my legs give out, then I know this was the wrong idea. If my legs give out, I’ll say I was confused, and go to bed, and never think about this again.

But your legs don’t give out as you take a few halting steps toward him.

When you’re close enough, you lean in--and you kiss him. It’s a desperate, pathetic little gesture. Chaste, really.

His hands immediately grip your shoulders, tight, unyielding, pulling you backward and revealing the strength behind them that could snap your bones in an instant.

His gaze turns sharp and pointed. You half-expect him to be angry, half-expect to be slapped to the ground, but no--it’s not anger in his eyes. He’s assessing you, figuring out what you’re doing and why you’re doing it and if he wants to do it, too. The penetrating nature of his gaze makes you feel naked and it’s thrilling to be seen in such a way after all you’ve been through.

Your lips part a little and there’s a slight pant in your breath.

”Feitan,” you say, and that’s all you get to say, because this time he’s the one kissing you. One of his hands grips the back of your hair and pushes you closer. This second kiss is hard, insistent, and oh, your lips might just bruise. You part your mouth and let his tongue inside. It’s wet and sinful and sparks shoot down your stomach at the feel of it.

He pulls you back by your hair when he’s done, and you realize that you’re out of breath, panting softly. Tingles fill your lips and you want more, so much more than a kiss.

Your lips part and your eyes close a little, half-lidded. You want more, yes, but you don’t want to ask directly. Somehow, saying it out loud so explicitly will break this spell that you’re under.

As if he can read your mind, Feitan does the talking for you. His other hand trails down your neck, and goosebumps follow his fingers as it travels down, curling into the waistband of your skirt. You lift up on your toes, and his fingers slide inside your skirt, just a little.

Feitan’s eyebrows raise at the gesture. But it’s enough to get your point across, because then his hand does slip fully inside. Fingers trail on one of your bandages--you gasp--before resting on the top of your underwear.

“You want this?” He says.

You shouldn’t. God, you shouldn’t. If you were thinking straight, you wouldn’t, never never. But your body feels electric and this is the first time you’ve felt anything resembling real pleasure since Feitan took you away. It’s like everything else is blurred out by the man in front of you, the way his lips feel on yours, the thought of him inside you.

“Yes,” you whisper. And it’s enough.

Your arms wrap around Feitan’s waist, and you take a step backward. He lets you, removing his hand from your skirt but keeping a firm grip on your hair, matching you step for step until you get to the bed and sit down.

The sudden pressure on the back of your thigh makes you hiss, and your eyes clench shut. You scramble backwards as Feitan releases your hair, leaning up on your elbows so that your thigh isn’t pressed down against the bed.

You feel Feitan crawl onto the bed, hear the rustle of his pants as he undoes them and shifts them aside. Then you feel his hands on your skirt, and you lift your hips to make the job easier as he slides it off.

The air of the bedroom feels cool against your panties; even cooler still when Feitan wastes no time in tugging them down, revealing your bare sex. They land softly somewhere on the floor, and you finally open your eyes.

Feitan is above you, naked and waiting. He’s looking down at you with lust and there’s something low and dark in his gaze. It should make you frightened, but instead you find yourself hoping to match it, wanting the dark desire under your skin to seep out and envelop the both of you.

You can’t help but look down, getting your first view of his cock. It’s short and thick, and you’re thankful that this is not your first time having sex, that you aren’t naively gazing down at the girth and wondering how the hell it will fit inside.

He catches your chin in one hand, holding it tight, and tilts your head up until you’re meeting his gaze. You feel goosebumps rising on your arms as he stares.

“Spread your legs,” he says. There’s an almost purring quality to his commands now, and you’re ashamed at the way it seems to shoot pleasure down your stomach.

You obey as you’ve taught yourself to do, and if you felt naked under his gaze before, actually being naked is a million times more illuminating. And why does your heart clench when you see him looking at you down there? There’s a sense of familiar embarrassment, the type of intimate worries that always come with having sex for the first time. Will he like what he sees?

You watch as Feitan slides a thumb in between your folds, before bringing it up to nudge your clit. You’re already a little wet, and the firm touch of his thumb makes you gasp.

He begins to rub your clit in circles, varying the pressure as you start to rock against him. There’s a jolting pleasure in it, but pain, too, from the various wounds on your body. Your thigh aches when you accidentally push it closer, rubbing against him, but it’s all mingled with the pleasure sparking down in your clit.

It’s all just so much, pain and pleasure and shame and indulgence, all at once. Tears prick at your eyes and you rock your hips against Feitan, wanting him to touch you harder and faster, to take away everything but the pleasure in your clit.

“More,” you gasp out, and you almost don’t recognize the neediness in your voice. “Please don’t stop, Feitan, I’m just--I’m so close--”

He doesn’t stop, and it feels so fucking good when you come, legs trembling, hands gripping the comforter underneath you in desperation. You buck your hips until the pleasure begins to recede.

Feitan brings his fingers to your lips. You open your mouth before he can even give the command, and you feel almost delirious with a sticky sinful feeling as you taste yourself on his fingers. There’s a slight copper taste underneath it all, and you wonder sickly if it’s remnants of that man’s blood. The thought makes you groan around the digits.

He pulls them out of your mouth without fanfare, and then that same hand is on his cock. You lean yourself up more on your elbows, wanting to see him touch himself. There’s a strange pride as you realize that he’s watching you as he strokes himself, getting hard because of you--your face and your body and the way your clit twitched under his fingers.

“A virgin?” He asks, suddenly. For the first time since you kissed him, you feel uneasy. Should you lie? Does he want you to be a virgin? But he can always tell if you lie--you learned that the hard way. So you swallow down your fear, chest tight, and give him the truth.

You shake your head, unable to meet his gaze. “No. I’m… I’ve done it a few times.” You don’t reveal further details. He probably doesn’t want them. You keep your eyes averted until he speaks.

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers, and you feel your chest relax at the ease in his tone. You can look at him now, and find that dark gleam in his eyes again. There’s lust, yes, and something else. Assurance. Possession.

“You’re mine now,” he says, a little gruffness in his voice as he positions himself between your legs.  Your heart feels like it’s hammering as he pushes inside. It’s been a while. There’s discomfort--he’s thick--but he doesn’t move just yet. Whether he’s letting you get used to him or simply waiting until he’s ready is something you don’t dare to guess.

Your breath hitches when he finally begins to thrust inside you, quick and powerful. It’s too much, even from the start.

“You’re only mine.” He reaches back down with one hand, and you practically jolt as his fingers begin manipulating your over-sensitive clit. “Mine.”

He’s rough, pulling out almost entirely and then slamming back in over and over, fast and unrelenting. There’s pleasure in it, in the way you feel that he can’t help but seek out his own orgasm now that he’s inside you.  

It’s what you need right now. Fast and intense and dark and mean, possessive and all-encompassing, taking away everything but you and Feitan and the pleasure between your legs. You don’t want something soft and sweet, that might make you remember where you are and who he is and why this is so wrong.

His fingers continue their manipulation of your clit, pressing harder, firmer, and you’re dragged to the peak of another orgasm, this one prickling with over-stimulation. You make a keening sound, whining, and you hear him snort out a chuckle above you.

“Go on,” he says, “Come.” And you want to obey--but you can’t, oh fuck. You can’t-you-can’t-you-can’t. You’re too sensitive and it’s too much and you just can’t--but in the end you do, of course you do, with Feitan’s fingers refusing to give up.

There’s an overwhelming crescendo over the peak of your orgasm, and you come around his cock. Your legs shake and there’s an almost throbbing pain in your burns as your overstimulated nerves shoot pleasure through your core.

You clench around him as you ride out your second orgasm, and soon enough he begins to thrust even harder; the room is filled with a wet rhythmic slapping as he fucks you into his own orgasm. He groans, the sound so close to your ears, and there’s damp warmth inside you as he finishes, thrusting until he’s spent.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he looks down at you, eyes lidded, gaze hazy. For a few moments, there’s nothing in his expression but contentment. Tears come to your eyes at the unusual sight and you want to wipe them away, but he does it for you, a single finger catching your tears before they soak into the bandage on your cheek.

He pulls out, slowly, and coolness sets in even as you feel some of his come trickling out of you. He stays above you on the bed, leaning down on his elbows. Your chests are almost touching.

But now that own pleasure has faded into a pleasant afterglow, the low, dark hold that the past day or so has had on your mind begins to loosen. And with that comes a clearer head. You just… with Feitan… and you wanted it, and you’re in his bed, what the hell is wrong with you, you sick, fucked up--

Your chest heaves. No no no. Not yet. You don’t want to go back to reality yet. You want to stay here for a little while longer, in his arms, forgetting everything else.

So you lean forward, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, and you pull him closer to you.

You kiss him, and there’s a moment of hesitation on his part, as if he’s wondering why you kissed him the second time around. But then he relents, and you’re pressed firmly into the bed as he pushes you down against the bed, returning your kiss with fervor. His teeth nip at your lip and you groan at the sting, at the taste of fresh blood in your mouth. The back of your thigh hurts and your lips are sore but it doesn’t matter.

Feitan’s hands begin to fiddle with the buttons on your shirt, and you don’t resist as he opens it entirely. You don’t know if he’ll fuck you again, if he’ll be rougher, if he’ll leave you bruised and sore and wanting--but it doesn’t matter. There will be pleasure and there will be pain, and it will be enough. 

You can go back to being terrified later on. For now, you’ll let yourself feel something good.

You deserve that much at least--don’t you?

[hadesstan]

June of Doom Day 20

"That's gonna be one hell of a scar"

| Cage | Pliers | Scrape |

Cw: The prompts above, rescue, implied abuse/ torture, self-sacrifice.

I'm actually really proud of myself for keeping at this so long. I fully expected to fail before day 15. I'm thinking I might start posting snippets from my whumpy novel once I get through this shitshow of a month. Anyway, enjoy some more hero/villain whump!

...

Villain sat in the cage, bleeding all over, but refusing to cower. They didn't huddle or hide in the corners of the cage, they sat, dead centre, and glared at the door, waiting for Supervillain to return.

But when the the click of the lock echoed through the room and the scrape of the dopr opening grated their ears, it wasn't Supervillain coming through the door. It was Sidekick. The very last person they'd ever expect to be here.

"Sidekick?"

Sidekick raised a finger to their lips. "Shush". Villain understood the message and chose to watch out the door as Sidekick pulled a pair of large pliers from their jacket and began to cut the wires on the cage. One by one. Snip snip snip. It took way longer than was comfortable for Villain, and they grew more paranoid with every snip of a wire that Supervillain would arrive.

But they never did, and soon, there was a hole large enough for Villain to crawl out.

As soon as they were out though, they couldn't stand straight. The cuts crisscrossing their legs made it impossible to rest their weight on their legs.

Sidekick hissed when they saw the wounds.

"That's gonna be one hell of a scar," they muttered. The first thing they'd said since they arrived. They didn't say another word as they looped Villain's arm over their shoulder and carried most of their weight as the pair limped out the door.

They approached the front door but Villain began to panic. Where was Supervillain? They must have heard them. Why hadn't they showed up?

"They're distracted right now," Sidekick whispered, reading their thoughts. Villain wanted to question it, but at that moment they heard the loud crash as someone fell through a window somewhere out of sight.

They heard the tell-tale voices of Supervillain and Hero arguing and suddenly they understood. Hero was distracting Supervillain, hence why Sidekick was here.

Sidekick didn't seem fazed in the slightest and continued carrying Villain out the car outside, loading them into the back seat.

"Hero-" Villain started, but Sidekick cut them off.

"They'll be fine. My orders are to get you out of here."

"But-"

They didn't get to finish their complaint as the car jerked forward, shooting out into the road, just as Supervillain came crashing out onto the road behind them, bruised and battered, followed by a furious Hero.

[juneofdoom]

June of Doom 2023 Prompt List

A text list for easier crossings-off for the challenge!

“You don’t want to do that.”  | Collapse | Locked Door | Fear |

“Get in.”  | Sobbing | Survivor’s Guilt | Salve |

“I can handle it.”   | Kidnapping | Fracture | Struggle |

“Does that hurt?” | Delirium | Hypothermia | Stabilization |

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”  | Handcuffs | Swelling | Flinch |

“You’re doing great.” | Injection | Nightmare | Duct Tape |

“What’s the bad news?”   | Disoriented | Bite | Chainsaw |

“Breathe, damn you!”   | Shock | Amputation | Infection |

“I should have listened to you.”           | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke |

“Can you hear me?”                   | Starvation | Shackle | Hiding |

“We’re out of time.”                           | Firearm | Backseat | Self-defense |

“It’s no use.”                                   | Explosion | Fainting | Trembling |

“Say something.”                         | Rescue | Broken Promise | Weak |

“What were you thinking?”                  | Slurred Speech | Impalement | Fight |

“Please.”                                          | Blindfold | Pressure Points | Scream |

“At least it can’t get any worse.”           | Stairs | Concussion | Hammer |

“Don’t lie to me.”                               | Accident | Doubt | Gaslighting |

“How long have you been like this?”     | Fall | Sleep Deprivation | Blankets |

“I’m not going anywhere.”                   | Wound Cleaning | Guilt | Chair |

“That’s going to be one hell of a scar.” | Cage | Pliers | Scrape |

“On three.”                                       | Dehydration | Memory Loss | Choke |

“I’m trying!”                                      | Humiliation | Crutches | Rage |

“How many fingers am I holding up?”    | Poison | Rash | Double Cross |

“I think I’m going to be sick.”               | Bleeding Out | Illness | Cold Sweat |

“Don’t move!”                                   | Natural Disaster | Drowning | Stranded |

“I made a mistake.”                            | Ambulance | Hopelessness | Numb |

“I’m so sorry.”                                   | Sacrifice | Obsession | Display |

“You’ll get used to it.”                         | Knife | Hostage | Surrender |

“It’s really not that big of a deal.”         | Bruises | Secret | Acceptance |

“Are you scared yet?”                         | Buried Alive | Failed Escape | Denial |

ALTERNATE PROMPTS

“Somebody had to do it.”

“Give me another chance.”

“I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“It didn’t have to be this way.”

Succumb

Nails

Murder

Disfiguration

Abandoned

Straitjacket

[arian-velikan]

Sweet dawn

Pairing: Male!reader x Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Part 1 of 2

(Requests are still open)

Genre: fluff

Warning: slight angst, mentions of innards, blood, violence, swearing and a whole lot of sweetness! (There is also the self insert of my OC here but not too much for plot reasons, DONT WORRY you are mentioned as {Male!Reader}. Another important note is that for the Afghan name and some words I used a translator so they MAY be incorrect)

Story is under the cut in case because it may trigger sensitive audience :)

@the-whispers-of-death

It was supposed to be a quick mission, go down the heli, sneaking into the Afghan drug dealing base, do damage, arrest the boss called "Malik Almal" "(King of Money. I swear to god it sounded better in my native language) and go back to England...But here you were, in the med evac sitting in a corner while the medic of the team, Arian, was tending to your injuries.

"For fucks sake, are you trying to rip me out alive???" {Male!Reader} said arshly while looking at the broken bulletproof vest near his stomach. It was crimson red and that red eye was releasing warm streaks of blood.

"I am trying to take that metal shard out of your guts, shut the fuck up." The medic replied in a hoarse tone given that he was battling with the metal pieces in your intestines to try and stop the flod.

Your (hair/color) was stuck on your sweaty forehead and you were feeling lightheaded, though you couldnt tell if it was for the temporary morphine or the continue loss of blood. The low rumbling of the plane's engines was making you sleepy like a child that was told their favourite bed time story. Your M4 was laying near you and by instinct you put a hand on the area near the trigger as you were falling asleep.

There was silence, a dead silence between the teammates, only Price spoke after 20 minutes.

'You were a reckless piece of dogshit for going like a battering ram..**alone** inside the main headquarters. I should tear the fuck out of your brain for being like this...' He was holding onto a heandler near his seat at the left of the plane's cargo entrance and was simultaneosly looking at the red sunset peeking outside the small reinforced windows. His tone was angry but a small hint of worry betrayed his expression.

{Male!Reader} was an important member of the Task Force, intellingent and loyal, specialized in stealth missions and hostage rescue. On that mission he managed to take out the four guards that were outside the quarters of the boss but a reckless mistake betrayed him. Engulfed by the adrenaline, he broke inside and took down the majority of the guards but he was taken aback by the bullet shot by the gun of Almal. Nonetheless, he managed to shoot him down and arrest him before loosing his senses and waking up on the evac.

'Merda.' Hiroshi muttered. 'Uhhh....I forgot the small pliers..., Ghost how much till we get to base?'

'Around 20 minutes' the response came without hesitation

Arian looked down then had an idea before looking at the half lidded eyes of {Male!Reader} and then at Gaz.

'Kyle, since you and this imbecile are friends, I advise you take a look at him after the surgery, since it's worse than expected' The medic sighed as he looked at other

Gaz only nodded as he looked at the one crouched on the ground before laying his eyes on the pained expression of the injured, who had his eyes closed.

-----------------❤️-------------------

His vision came back slowly: first, it was blurred, then it was accompanied by an annoying whistle of hear before it was replaced by the beeping of the machines and heart monitor. Groaning, he looked around and felt a weight on his right side.

'Gaz? What are you doing here?' he said while gently putting a hand on the shoulder of the sitting man and carefully shaking him awake.

'5 more minutes...please' he said in a vain attempt of gaining that prize even when he was waking up.

The seargent looked at him sleepily before his look was repleaced by a happy expressions by seeing that {Male!Reader} woke up. 'Well good morning Sleeping Beauty! How was the little nap lasted 18 hours?' He chuckled under his breath before getting up.

'18?!! What the hell??' He tried to sit up but, while doing so, he saw white and fucking howled in pain. 'Arhhhh the hell is this pain about??' He shoved away the thin white blankets and looked at his naked torso. It was covered in stiches, bandages and, most importantly, a 10 cm suture on his left lower side covered in bloody bandages. A blank expression formed on his face as it stared at him.

'Its pretty isnt it?' He smirked.

{Male!Reader} moved his eyes to his face and mentally said "Fuck you".

'What, (nickname he gave you. You choose it), you dont like it? I think it suits you even tho it's ugly' he laughed

'Why dont you kiss it better Kyle?' He spoke in a sarcastic tone as he tried to get up but failing miserably and ending up on the other instead who lifted him and put a hand around his waist.

There was a long silence broken only by {Male!Reader} who look at his face

'Thank you for caring for me, even if I am an asshole..' He looked away in a slight expression of shame

'Dont worry about it Asshole, I know you too well to care' Gaz said with a sigh of relief while helping him stand up on his feet

'I'll make it up to you. And I have an idea'

Gaz tilted his head to the side and looked at the door before looking at him again with a questioning expression

'Not that idea,' 'sigh' 'Since ill be on temporary medical leave, and you are my caretaker, why dont we finally spend some time...together?'

Gaz didnt respond, he just took the new clothes from the bag near the right foot at the end of the bed and shoved them on his face. 'Ill give you 10 minutes to change.' and without hesitation he stormed out only by colliding with Arian and Ghost

'Shit man, you good? I am sorry' he helped the other stand up

'Nah its fine, before you go you are-' Gaz interrupted him by talking fast and putting his hands up on Hiroshi's shoulders since he was taller

'Can I be {Male!Reader}'s caretaker?!' That response took off the medic that only nodded since he wanted to say the same and wanted to discharge {Male!Reader}.

After a minute he came out of the room and the two, without a word, stormed in the corridor, took the door to the left and left.

'.....' Hiroshi looked at Ghost. 'You owe me a coffee and a beer'

'Why?' The gruff voice responded while looking 2 centimeters down to the other's height

'Told you these two are dating~' He slyly responded and smirked before he tugged the end on the right sleeve of Ghost and dragged him away to the main bar.

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

I have spend the past few days dying because of severe acute tooth pain. Legitimately convinced that this shit would be an extremely effective easy torture method, I'd rather break a bone over this shit ngl. That said what type of whump senerios do you think could come out with teeth as the focus?

Teef!! TEEF!!!!

We have the classic, the holy grail, of Whumper using pliers to pull out Whumpee's teeth for a myriad of reasons. Talking back? Biting? Making room for tubes to be shoved down their throat? The possibilities are truly endless, and of course, bonus points if the pliers are rusty <3

Whumpee losing a tooth from some kind of mouth trauma (a punch, a boot to the face, etc) is one thing. But what if that tooth only cracked? What if it chipped? Not only are they going to have to deal with the pain of an exposed nerve and jagged edge constantly being touched by their tongue, but literally anything is going to aggravate it. Food and water included. Yikes.

I've mentioned it before in my "gross and messy" whump post, but just general neglect would be enough of a catalyst for tooth pain. Months without brushing and constant vomiting can lead to rot and decay, which can lead to a further infection of the entire mouth. Whumpee practically feeling certain teeth disintegrate, spitting out blood and pus until finally they can pull out a blackened dead tooth from their inflamed gum for relief.

Got a vampire Whumpee? Why don't you just file those pointy chompers down, just in case :)

After Whumpee is rescued (or if...) and they finally get the care they need, they'll have to make peace with the fact their mouth is full of gaps that would cost a fortune in dental work to repair. And maybe they do and get the crowns or dentures they need. And maybe they don't. The one constant being they have to live with being self conscious over an imperfect smile. Not that they have much to smile about anymore to begin with.

This is purely aesthetic but I love the idea of a Whumper purposely replacing their own canine teeth with gold incisors to look extra menacing when they grin. Do as you will with that.

More aesthetic style, less scenario-based but:

Whumper with a mouth full of fangs that love to dig into Whumpee's skin

Teeth indentations all over Whumpee's body

Whumpee snarling with their teeth stained red from the blood pooling in their mouth

Spitting a tooth out, unperturbed by the hit

Open mouth gags being used on Whumpee that show their teeth on full display

Feral/Traumatized/Rescued Whumpee absolutely using biting as a defense on anyone that comes near them, including Caretaker

Whumpee with arms and hands full of scarred over bitemarks from where they've had to chomp down on their own skin to muffle their cries

[polarspaz]

WolfSteve AU and SCPSteve AU.

The upper left shows some of the scars Steve has gained since being taken by the SCP organization. Despite being there for only 3 years, Steve has seen some shit. His ability often has him being sent on rescue missions, which means he’s often sent into very dangerous situations, a lot.

By the time Steve is assigned to Hawkins, he feels raw and weary, like he’s lived a hundred lifetimes, but Seeing everyone again makes him feel happier than he’s been in years. In the beginning his positive attitude irritated some of the group. Like they would be freaking out about the Demogorgon's and Steve is just like, “Nah man we’ll be fine. Hey you guys wanna watch Die Hard later?”

Later on that attitude becomes a comfort to them when they realize Steve’s confidence is not bullshit and Steve actually, for some insane reason, has the situation under control.

--------

The one on the bottom with Steve on top of the cloths is the WolfSteve AU. The army attacks the cabin and Steve takes several bullets meant for the kids. After they get rid of their attackers, Steve is in pain and can’t shift back fully to human. Hopper realizes they need to get the bullets out, and poor Steve has to sit while Hopper digs into his back with small pliers, struggling against Steve’s healing factor the whole time. 

Its the one of the worst moments in Steve life as the pain is nearly unbearable, but somehow Hopper manages to get him to laugh a few times, which is better than the inhuman screaming he’s been doing.

When it’s over he sees that everyone has gathered a pile of their clothes for him to sleep with as he recovers. It’s embarrassing but Dustin found out that Steve slept better with stuff that smelled like his friends and family. Steve hated how he was so focused on scent sometimes, but he doesn’t complain this time and sleeps for a solid 2 and half days straight.

Next time he’s saving the kids and dodging the bullets.

[endless-ineffabilities]

Ineffable (Dream of the Endless x f!Reader) - Chapter 4: Delicate

Also with Corinthian x f!Reader

Masterlist - Playlist

Lord Morpheus comes to the rescue, and they find out the truth behind The Handyman's methods. Morpheus makes sure that he is dealt with, and he also has something to say about how close Corinthian and y/n had gotten as of late.

Warnings: cursing, mentions of violence

The dream ends as quickly as it had started. I almost feel it before I awake, the little grains of sand touching my face, jolting me back into reality.

He stands in front of me, stance vigilant and ready. He has his fists bunched up on his sides, and he is looking warily at me.

"How do you feel?"

"Like a million bucks." my voice sounds hoarse, and I feel as though I've just been hit by a truck.

"I've had to force you awake, so you still have some remnants of the drug inside of you. Can you stand?"

"Hmm?... oh, yeah. Yes, just give me a second."

He kneels and helps me up from my not-so-cozy position on the concrete floor. I realize that we're in a basement, pipes running up the sides of the walls, a staircase nested against one. On the far end lies an array of tools propped up on the wall - hammers, pliers, saws, the like - a true handyman's arsenal of weaponry.

But there was something else there. Symbols carved out of metal, misshapen stick figurines on a bed of charred wood, candles illuminating the space. Even with my limited experience facing things like this, I recognized it for what it was.

Our Handyman here has been consorting with the devil.

Or dealing in the dark arts. Or perhaps he's just a vessel, but what I'm seeing here now confirms that he may have been meddling with a bit more than any other Collector.

"I know what you're thinking." Morpheus says, noticing that I've started to walk closer to the scene, "and for the life of me, I don't understand how you possibly could have thought it smart to come to a place like this. You would have been badly hurt, and I..."

His words cut off, and I want to be more consoling, I do, but I also can't help the next words that come out of my mouth.

"What, you don't think I can handle it? I'm not some helpless creature, you know. If only you could see me for all I can do. And...and... my friend needed me. Needed my help. And I was not going to let him down."

He moves closer, preparing to square off with me, but I continue my tirade.

"I appreciate you coming to help us. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't? But Cor had only good intentions, and he was looking out for me, and.... wait..." I freeze. Damn it, now is not the time for this! I double down and ask, "Where is he?"

"Cor," he says, distaste palpable in his tone, "is upstairs. He may be tied up, but I don't think The Handyman will get to do anything drastic to him, so don't you worry. We'll get to them in time. Follow me."

He starts walking up the stairs, and I get the feeling I may have been too callous with my words. He is here to save us, upon my pleading, after all. I walk after him, and I want to attempt an apology, but I'm not sure just how stealth we should be at the moment.

"Morpheus," I start to whisper, but he interrupts me as we make it out of that stuffy basement.

"They're in the attic. You can wait here."

"I'm not just gonna wait here! I can help," My voice rises in protest yet again.

His eyes meet mine, and I am taken aback by the sheer emotion in them. I can tell that he wants to contradict me, but something holds him back.

"I don't suppose that danger is going to stop you from coming with me, now will it?" He whispers rushedly, as if he already knows my answer, and has resigned himself to it.

He means well. I know he does, and I have to remind myself of this before I run my mouth again. I know now that he will let me come with him, even as his eyes still plead otherwise. I feel his breath on my face, and I realize just how close he hovers over me.

"It won't," I manage to say, "I'll be fine."

I feel it necessary to add that last bit, wanting him not to worry. I don't want him to think of me as some delicate creature, and I know he doesn't. But in this moment, I can see how he worries. I don't think I've seen him this worked up over anyone's safety.

And over me?

"Then let's go."

We reach the next floor, and I can now hear Cor's disgruntled voice from above, most of the calm bravado stripped away.

"I'm going to fuckin' rip your eyes out, you insignificant little weasel."

"Tsk...tsk," a nasal, almost honeyed voice echoes, "Not exactly something you'd say to someone who clearly has the upper hand, Corinthian."

"If you lay one finger on her, you'll regret ever thinking you could take on me and live." He responds through gritted teeth, voice laced with pure venom, and I shiver at the intensity of his threat. This no longer sounded like my Cor - this was the Corinthian, a Nightmare unhinged.

"Oh, now, don't you worry about your pretty friend. She's happily dozed off downstairs," the voice says giddily, "and I can't wait to have my share of fun with her..."

He pauses, and I could tell Cor had attempted to reach him then, as it seems like he jumped away. He continues, "As I'm sure you have, Corinthian. We all have to share."

Morpheus stills beside me. On this floor, only a handful of steps separated us from the attic, and the door to it lay slightly open at the end.

He walks up the steps, careful to make no sound. I try to take after him, but then I hear the slightest squeak beneath my shoes.

Oh, shit.

"Who goes there?" The voice calls out.

Morpheus pushes the door wide open. He crowds the doorframe, keeping me behind him, and I could barely make out the scene in the attic. Cor had been bound by thick metal bindings with a symbol etched upon it in red, several times. His hands were twisted behind him in the chair, his legs bound together, and a heavy chain rested tight around his torso. The Handyman was a squat, hunched man in overalls, and he was not immediately sinister-looking, but one of his hands tightly held a black pendant in the shape of the symbol on Cor's bindings.

It must have been what he had used to ward off our attempts to locate him, and to disarm Cor with debilitating pain. Judging by how firmly he held it in hands, this was his dark totem. Mortals continue to attempt requesting such items from demons, for the paltry price of their soul. They usually serve a specific purpose upon the whims of their owner.

"Your time of play is over, Harold Evers," he says ominously, using the Handyman's true name against him like a curse. The air shifts inside the room, as if Morpheus' presence cast everything in shadow.

"How did you know my name? And who might you be?" Harold says warily, though he still does not show the fear that he should probably have, faced with the Lord of Nightmares himself.

"I am your reckoning." The lights flickered in the room, and I suddenly feel cold.

"Are you a Nightmare too?" His hand looks as if it started shaking, the dark totem blurring away.

"No." Morpheus walks closer, and Harold's eyes dart over to me, realizing that I am no longer subdued. I run over to Cor to try to dismantle the binds, but I recoil as the metal burns my skin.

"Wait," Morpheus gestures to me.

"Then who...what..." Harold starts to ask.

"But I will be your nightmare."

"You can't harm me! I have this," He waves the totem in Morpheus' face. "Once I received word of what happened at the last Cereal Convention, I knew I needed some protection. Collectors don't just turn themselves in, they don't just develop a conscience out of the blue!"

"No, unfortunately they do not. But I was there." Morpheus speaks with such gravity, and I feel that it's only a matter of time before he deals the final blow.

"No matter," he spits in disdain, "Whoever you are, this totem is meant to protect me from the Corinthian and his associates. Whomever is like him, fellow Nightmares, any friends of his... they cannot... touch... me."

Harold seems gleeful. He believes that he is immune to Morpheus as well, and I start to wonder if he is, but one glance at Morpheus' dark and composed expression dispels any of my doubts. Harold doesn't stand a chance.

"Go ahead then." Morpheus threatens him. "Use your weapon against me."

Harold looks taken aback. This clearly was not the reaction he wished to elicit from Morpheus. His face then contorts into outrage, and I could tell that this little man was even more little inside. He needs to control others, he needs to always have the upper hand.

Harold begins chanting, low and quick, and I can barely make out his words but it was not of any worldly language. He directs the totem towards Morpheus, wrist twisting and untwisting in a practiced manner, and the totem starts to emit a heavy, tar-like smoke. It engulfs Morpheus, and I cry out.

"No! Stop!" Just as I was about to leap for the totem, Cor whispers croakily in my ear.

"Hey, don't. Just wait."

The smoke dissipates. My eyes strain, trying to make out the shape of Morpheus.

He stands there, the smoke having no visible effect on him. He smirks, and raises an eyebrow, as if to say, is that it?

I turn to the Handyman with a renewed sense of vigour. He now looks afraid, as he should have always been.

"But this was meant to protect me, I gave everything for this," he cries in desperation.

"Yes, you did." Morpheus says, "It can protect you from Nightmares, such as the Corinthian, and as you mentioned, any who may be alike him or are trying to help him."

Harold starts to back away.

Morpheus continues, "But I am not just his associate, nor am I his friend. I am not just an equal. I am his creator. I am Lord of all Dreams and all Nightmares, and you should fear me."

He walks over to Cor, and places a hand on his bindings, which then melt away into dust.

"Thanks, boss."

"Are you alright?", I ask Cor, looking him over for any bruises.

"Am I alright? He took you away... I tried to get you, I did, but I..."

"It's okay. Tougher than I look, remember?" I appease him with a tiny smile, one which he returns.

"Touching, but let's get this over with first, shall we?" Morpheus says, not even sparing a glance in our direction.

"No, no, no," Harold mumbles, eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape. He moves to a metal table pushed against the wall, and grabs at the array of weapons he had there. One arm raised, he throws a silver knife in mine and Cor's direction. I see it coming closer, as if in slow motion, and my blood runs cold.

I can feel Cor starting to push me out of the way, but I raise my hand, and try to stay put.

The knife hovers, its sharp end a mere few inches from my left eye. I use my powers to keep it still, arrested in the air for a moment.

Harold looks at me as if I've grown two heads, and Morpheus seems proud.

I twist the knife mid-air, and compel it to float towards Harold. In one swift whoosh, the sharp end was now inches away from his eye.

"Well, you're screwed." Cor quips, the cocky inflection in his voice returned.

We all close in on the Handyman, Harold, whatever he is. It doesn't matter. He cowers away.

Let's just say this may be his last moment where he has any control.

-------

We sit in the same booth in the same café, Morpheus sitting across Cor and myself. Oddly enough, Cor opted to drape his arm on the back of the seat this time, but I say nothing. He looks tired, and truthfully, I am too.

Only Morpheus looks exactly as he was, as he always has been, as if he did not just bring a notorious serial killer to justice.

I sigh, looking at him, and I can see his eyes lazily trained on Cor's arm behind me. I lean forward, feeling the need to let him know that there's nothing there, that we're just friends.

And I don't know why. Am I really hoping that Morpheus may be drawn to me in a deeper way? In a way that would be make me more than just a token human with abilities in his group? More than a colleague, a friend?

Deep down, I already know the answer to this, and I feel like the answer has always been the same.

Which is why my heart skips a beat when we lock eyes. Why I feel a rush of adrenaline, and something more, whenever we get into our little arguments, whenever he challenges me.

Which is why, no matter how dense or indifferent he might act sometimes, being around him makes me feel safe.

Like home.

"Well, that was truly something, wasn't it." Cor breaks the silence as he stares out the window.

It was. We had left the Handyman's place only about an hour ago, and I'm sure the police have already found him in his state.

Morpheus had put the Handyman under the curse of Eternal Waking. It had been quick, the dealing of the final blow that secured Harold's eternity. I then left an anonymous tip for the cops afterward. There was enough evidence in that house to at least send him to prison for ten lifetimes, and he might already be under a spell, but bringing him to the authorities would surely give his victims' families some closure.

I'm not exactly sure how the three of us ended up in this café once again, but at least the waitress seems pleased enough to see us.

I make a note of looking at her name tag once she reached our table. Valerie.

"Oh, what a lovely surprise, my loves. Back again! And with another friend now, I see." Valerie's familiar lilting voice feels like a jolt of caffeine, and I for one am glad for the change of tone.

"Why, we just had to come back, darlin'. Lovely service and great food, what's not to like?" says Cor, turning on the charm.

Morpheus remains stoic, watching the conversation unfold, and he seems content to just let us finish our exchange, until Valerie turns her attention to him.

"Say, who's this friend of yours? How are you, love? Hope it's not too lonely being the third wheel here?" she jokes, and I freeze in my seat.

"Third wheel?" Morpheus asks slowly, and I almost laugh at how the phrase sounds so foreign in his mouth.

"Why, yes. I've had the pleasure of serving this lovely couple earlier," Valerie gestures to Cor and myself, cooing "and I was saying what a treat it was to see two young people in love."

Oh no. Morpheus looks confused, and he says nothing in response. He looks at us questioningly, and I hurriedly change the subject.

"So, yeah, I would just like a cappuccino, please, Valerie." I almost beseech her, not wanting her to continue bringing up the concept of Cor and I being a couple. It may have been funny before, but it seems wrong to let it go on in front of Morpheus.

"Same here, darling." Cor smiles at her.

"Me as well." I hear Morpheus say quickly, and I could tell he did not care much about her idling at our table.

"Okay, well, I'll be right back, loves."

"Two young people in love?" Morpheus states incredulously, his eyes not leaving mine.

"That was a joke. It was a little thing that Cor did when we came here earlier. No big deal."

"She seems convinced." Morpheus raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat, and I can sense him doubting me.

"Well, there's a reason for that, I suppose." Cor wraps an arm around me, and I look at him pointedly. He shrugs back at me, nonchalant.

"Friends can have chemistry sometimes, and it may seem like it's more than platonic, but it isn't." I try to explain, pushing Cor's arm off my shoulders. He simply laughs dryly at that, but I notice him hunch over a bit as if disappointed.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me." Morpheus says, like he wants to seem unaffected by the whole thing. But is he?

"I'm not. You asked, so I just clarified it."

"Okay."

"Okay." I reply impatiently. One minute he's all worked up about me, the next he's acting unconcerned.

"Good." He says. Good? Good that we've settled this? Good that Cor and I are just friends?

Morpheus turns to Cor, "I need some time alone with y/n. Perhaps you should return to the Dreaming. Take a break before dealing with the next Collector."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now." Morpheus says curtly, having already made up his mind. "I will speak to you back in the Dreaming."

"Guess I can get a coffee another time." Cor says after a long pause. He makes a move to get out of the booth, but adds to me, "You gonna be okay, doll?"

I hum in agreement, "I know where to find you."

He leaves the café, waving to Valerie who was still making our coffees behind the bar.

The silence was tense, and I wait for Morpheus to speak up but he simply looks at me.

"Go easy on him." I say, "None of this was his fault."

"I never said that it was." he says. Well, maybe not exactly, but it was implied.

"He didn't mean to put me in danger."

"And yet..." He clasps his hands on the table, "...he did."

"You know you have to be fair. He trusts you."

"I know," he allows, "but enough about him. That was impressive, how you exercised control over your powers like that. You're no longer letting it simply take over or suddenly arise."

I'm surprised at the compliment, but hey, I'll take it.

"I've been practicing. I'm not the same erratic girl that you met a while ago, y'know?"

"I know, love."

There was that term again. Love. Call me crazy, but that has to mean something. I haven't heard him use that term of endearment with anyone else. Not around me, at least.

Valerie approaches our table and sets down only two cappuccinos, smiling.

"Oh, I'm sorry that your man had to leave, darling," she says to me, "Is there an emergency or something?"

"Oh, he..."

"Yes, I'm afraid there was." Morpheus interjects, "and I'm afraid that there seems to be a confusion. He's not her man, as you so wrongly assumed."

"Oh, is that so? Why, I'm sorry, darlings, but I just thought...", she stammers an apology.

"That's alright, Valerie. It wouldn't be the first time someone made that connection," I say reassuringly, "Can't blame ya, we have good chemistry, don't we?"

I swear I heard Morpheus mumble under his breath, "I beg to differ."

I ignore him and smile at Valerie conspiratorily, who giggles back.

"Oh, well, alright. Let me know if you need anything else!", she walks away, chipper as ever.

I glare at Morpheus.

"Nicely done. Very subtle."

"You're welcome." He leans forward a little, and pushes my coffee towards me.

"Well, now that you've sorted that out," I say, pouring a packet of sugar into my coffee, "is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"About that mission... we can get it done in a few days. We'd have to travel to Salem for it."

"Massachusetts?", I ask. It's been a while since I've set foot on continental US.

"Yes," he says, "and I would appreciate your discretion, as this can be delicate matter. Who we're going to deal with is a peculiar sort of woman. Formidable, too."

"Why, she sounds just like me," I jest, taking a long sip of coffee, "Who is she?"

"Her name is Amelia." He looks out the window wistfully, "She was my lover."

End of chapter 4.

taglist: @notabotiswear @mischiefmanaged71 @5sosjay @pinkpunkdynamite @lu123sworld @iloveangstposts @shaewithyou @layla2-49 @littleblackspider @fate-huntress @kintsugi-keys

Corinthian will be taking a step back in the next 2 chapters, so they'll be Dream x Reader centered! Also - Amelia? You'll find out who she is!

Again, comment if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist. I hope I didn't leave anyone out!

Next chapter out in around 1 week :)

[just-1-lonely-person]

Hi there! Sorry to bother you

Can you write some hurt/comfort where the hero is held captive/kidnapped by supervillain and villain has to rescue them? Feel free to ignore if this request makes you uncomfortable 🌸

ahh im nervous! I tried my best, i hope this is alright!

Warnings: broken bones, blood

The hero had been stuck in their cell for days. They had stopped counting the minutes a long time ago, not that they would actually be able to determine how long they had been stuck in here anyway.

Their left arm was broken, or at least they thought it was. It had to be. They had heard it crack when they had hit the cells wall.

They should have listened to Superhero. If even the top hero couldn't defeat supervillain, how could they? They weren't weak - far from it, actually - but they weren't the strongest hero either.

They leaned their head against the cold wall, closing their eyes for a second.

They heard the basement door creak open, slowly and loudly. Then, they heard a hiss and the sound of the heavy door carefully being shut.

Hero coughed. "What game are we playing now? Hide and seek?"

"Psssht! I'm risking my life here, so stay quiet, will you?"

Heros eyes shot open. That voice... "Villain?"

"I said shut up!", the criminal whispered angrily, right before looking into the cell. "Can you walk?"

Hero stood up. They could. It was only their arms that had been badly damaged, at least up until now. Supervillain liked chasing them around the basement while playing catch with a crossbow. It was fun to the master criminal, but not to the hero, who could barely move their torso from all the pain.

"My legs are fine. It's just my upper body that seriously hurts." They tried their best to whisper, but they just never been good at that. For some reason, whispering barely worked, especially when their lungs and chest hurt. "I'd prefer not to run a marathon though."

"Funny." Villain deadpanned as they kneeled down to the lock. It took them only a minute before the lock cracked, making a way too loud noise. The criminal hissed again.

Weird tick, but hero wouldn't judge. It just seemed funny to them that villain told them to be quiet, but then hissed at every chance they got.

The cell door swung open. Villains eyes wandered to the basement door. "We're leaving through the back door. It's right around the corner and leads to the garden. After that, we'll escape through the forest." They glanced over at their enemy. "We will have to climb a fence, but maybe I'll be able to cut a hole into it. If not, i guess I'll just have to leave you behind." They shrugged casually.

Hero snarled. "As if you would do that after coming here in the first place."

The villain turned, but hero cought the faint blush on their cheeks. "Come, let's go."

Getting out of the supervillains base turned out to be easier than thought. There were no guards, no security system, nothing. When hero asked, villain only said not to worry about it (which made the hero worry even more), and that they should hurry up a little.

They ran through the forest, arriving at the fence pretty quickly. Villain took out some pliers from their bag. They cut a small hole at the bottom of the fence, crawling through it. "Do you need it a little bigger?"

Hero kneeled down. "A little bit, yeah." After the hole was big enough for them to "crawl" through without damaging their arms, they sat down on the damp ground. They had pushed themselves through the hole on their back, but now their back was burning.

They felt villains warm hand on their arm. "Wait, let me see."

"No, it's fine. Let's go."

"Hm... how about no?"

Hero bit their lip. They wanted to get as far away from this place as possible. They could deal with their injuries later.

But the criminal was already peeling off the shirt off their back. They hissed, as if they were the one in pain. "Looks bad. Let me at least disinfect this before we continue."

"It's okay, really. Shouldn't we get as far away as possible from this place first?" They rubber at their left wrist, where supervillain had scraped them with an arrow a few days ago. It burned up, then they could feel some warm liquid on their fingers.

Suddenly, they felt a pair of arms carefully wrap abound their chest. They felt how something warm - how villain - touched their bare back, resting their head in the crook of the heros neck. They could feel the criminals warm breath and the tickle of their hair. Despite them hugging the crime-fighter from behind, it didn't hurt. It felt nice and warm, a strong contrast to the cold cell floor they had been in about an hour ago.

"I know you want to leave", the villain whispered. "And we're going to, i promise. But i don't want your wounds to get infected, and we need to walk a little back to my car. So please", their breath made the hairs on heros neck stand up. "Let me take care of you, now and when we arrive at my place."

And so, the hero let them treat their wounds.

---

So uhm...i hope this is fine. i wasn't sure how to write this, but I'm so glad i did. I didn't want the hero to be in too much pain, since i find it hard to describe things I've never experienced (and it shows lol), but that's what I opened my requests for in the first place. It's a bit lacking on the comfort...need to work on that.

So yeah, i hope you like this!

[whumpcereal]

the kennel, part fifteen

part of the kennel (masterlist here). follows this piece directly. not copy edited quite as stringently as normal, but i really wanted to put it up before i went out.

content warnings for: aftermath of noncon, references to filmed whump, breeding, mouth whump, human trafficking, and murder, extreme pet whump, extreme dehumanization, forced nudity, brief suicidal ideation

part fifteen, something like relief

The others see when Doc carries the black-collared mutt out of the pole barn. 

Some watch through glassy eyes, and they don’t think anything of it, because months in Doc’s care have silenced their thoughts completely. They might have cared when they were people, but they aren’t people anymore.

Some see the smears of blood on the boy’s naked legs, and they look away, because they remember when it happened to them. They know he’ll get used to it in time. They did. 

Others notice the ways the boy has changed since Doc brought him here. The way his softness has started to give way to hard sinew and bone. The way he has started to disappear. They look down at bodies that used to feel human, and they turn away from the boy’s dangling limbs because it hurts too much to consider all the ways they’ve changed too. 

And then there are those that watch, unflinching. A big man whose teeth have been taken from him one by one, because, when Doc gets around to it, those teeth will be replaced with filed metal implants, so that the newly christened fighter will have an advantage in the ring. A woman in a pink collar with low-hanging dugs, who’s carrying her fifth pup. They were both black collars once too. Collateral who came with merchandise that Doc wanted more. 

A few months ago, the man’s lover was sold to a businessman in Oman; they will never see each other again. The man bit Doc’s leg after, tried to shred the fucker’s Achilles’ tendon; Doc only smiled and went for the pliers. Complimented the man on his fight. 

Years ago, Doc put the woman’s husband down for trying to protect her; he gave her daughter to a man in a blue and white pick-up truck, told the woman it was one of the highest prices he’d ever gotten, that maybe he knew what to do with her after all. She doesn’t look at the babies when she nurses. It doesn’t matter that they’re taken from her so soon; she knows she isn’t really their mother. 

These two watch the mutt with casual interest. Maybe the boy has just secured his place. Good for him. It is easier to accept what’s coming, when you know what it might be. 

No one thinks of the blonde-haired boy who came in with the mutt. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Doc was going to use that one for, and once they go in the pole barn, they don’t usually come out again. Or, when they do, it’s in an airmail crate.

The rescues watch, but they don’t; they remember, but they don’t; they care, but they don’t. They shiver in the cold and wait to be put back in the cages that they never could have anticipated would become theirs.

Annie watches too, from her place at the edge of the yard. Her chest feels tight when she sees the way Will’s head bobbles backward from the crook of her father’s arm. When she sees Doc stalk back to the pole barn a few minutes later, she decides: she will clear the yard, get everyone inside, make sure they’re fed and warm. And then, she will see about Will. She knows that her father will be busy for a while.

- - -

Will is half-conscious when Annie finds him. He’s been half-conscious for a while, actually, though he still isn’t sure exactly what happened. 

Well, that’s not really true. He knows what happened.

Will thinks of the grapefruit spoons that were in the silverware drawer when his mother still lived with them. The bowl of each spoon was lined with razor sharp teeth, so you could dig into the fruit and peel the bitter flesh from the rind. 

She took the spoons with her when she left. Because the fucking spoons were worth keeping. 

Will feels like his insides have been scraped with one of those grapefruit spoons. His flesh has been peeled from its rind and pulled out of him. His insides burn like citrus juice in a cut, sharp and stinging. And he aches. The most remote parts of him ache with a kind of raw pain he didn’t know a person could feel on the inside, at least not literally. A bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise. 

He’s never hurt this way before. And distantly, he knows it could be worse. Because he’s almost certain it was Tommy who—

It was Tommy. Will knows it was. He’s been half-conscious for a while, after all. 

Tommy tried to be gentle. Will knows it. It doesn’t make it better. Nothing will ever make it better. 

When Will hears the door, he opens his eyes. He expects to be spread on the floor of the glass box, Doc leering over him, and Tommy sobbing in the corner. But Will isn’t in the glass box at all. He’s on his back on the wax-papered exam table, and standing over him, a cloth and basin in her arms, is Annie. 

“Hi,” she whispers. He can tell by the look on her face that he is absolute fucking road kill. 

Oh, fucking hell. Will flushes with embarrassment. This is just what he fucking needs. His best friend’s cum on his face and stuck to his thighs, and a beautiful girl right next to him. Fanfuckingtastic. For just a second, he wonders what Jessie would say about him now, but he tries to push the thought away before it can take root. He’ll never see Jessie again. It doesn’t matter what she’d say. 

But Annie’s eyes are heavy on Will’s face, and he wishes they were not. He looks away, trying hard to hide the tears that have crept back into his eyes. It’s only then that he realizes the stupid gag is still in his mouth; a metal piece digs into his cheek when it hits the table. 

That hurts too. His mouth. His jaw. His throat, inside and out. He screamed himself raw, that’s for certain, but the collar–Jesus, he can smell the burnt skin. 

“Will?” Annie’s voice is timid. “I–I’m so sorry.” 

Will doesn’t even pretend he can answer her. He squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing tears out from under his eyelids. They streak down his filthy face. Just one more thing to wipe away. He’s assuming that’s what Annie’s here for. To clean him up and put him back in his cage.

God, Will wouldn’t care if he never leaves the cage again after this. Fucking throw away the key. So long as he never has to do that again. 

There are soft fingers at the clasp of the gag, and even though Will knows they belong to Annie, he jerks away from her touch. He doesn’t mean to–it just happens. He curls onto his side, cradling his mitts to his beating chest. He only just remembers to stifle his whine. He doesn’t want to know what it would feel like to shock the open wounds on his neck. 

Annie pulls away. “I’m sorry! I just–please? Please, let me help you.” 

Will stills, forcing his breath through his nose. He doesn’t move and, for a moment, neither does Annie. Then, she reaches for the buckle at the back of his head, and Will almost sobs when he feels the gag give way. The leather doesn’t fall away–it’s stuck to his skin with Tommy–and Annie gently pries it up. Will doesn’t want to think about what she’s touching, doesn’t want to be touched, but he’s relieved when the pressure on his jaw finally eases. His mouth hangs open, but he isn’t sure he knows how to close it; he’s almost afraid to try. 

“There you go,” Annie murmurs. Her fingertips lightly hover over the shell of Will’s ear, but they do not stay. “Doc’s with your friend. I thought–I thought I’d clean you up. That maybe you’d like it better if I did it than if he did.” 

Like. Will doesn’t like anything about this. And there is no better. There is only just as bad or worse. 

But he supposes she’s right. 

“He’s with your friend now,” Annie says, “so we have time.” 

There’s a stab of panic in Will’s gut. If Doc is with Tommy, then–

Well, they’re even then, aren’t they? 

It’s a horrible thought, because Will is a horrible person. No, not even a person. A mutt. A worthless mutt. If he were a good boy, like Tommy, he wouldn’t think shit like that. He’d know that Tommy didn’t want it to happen, and that Tommy doesn’t deserve to feel the way Will is feeling just now. Tommy is better than he is. Tommy deserves better. 

Will’s the one who’s got no pedigree. He never has. He won’t, now. 

But fuck if it doesn’t seem fair. 

There’s a gentle pitter of water in the basin as Annie wrings out her cloth. When she draws close again, she gasps. 

“Your throat,” she says, her voice trembling. Her touch ghosts just below the collar’s band, and Will hisses through his teeth; it stings like a bitch. “You must have–oh, no. Oh, God.” 

So, it’s not cute, he guesses. 

“We have to get this off.” 

For a second, Will wants to protest. If Annie takes Will’s collar off, Doc will be mad, and he sure as shit isn’t going to punish Annie for that. At least, Will hopes he wouldn’t. He’s not sure why he cares. This girl–she’s part of all of this, isn’t she? 

But she isn’t. Not really. She doesn’t have a choice. Will wouldn’t have chosen the father he got either. And his mother certainly didn’t choose him. Family isn’t a choice at all. 

Annie leaves him, and he stays curled up on the table, because where the fuck else is he going to go? He doesn’t know where she’s gone, but she’s gone for a little while. Will closes his eyes, but still, his eyelids crinkle against the bright overhead light. 

He used to sleep with the light on, after Mom left. Everything was scarier without her, because when she was there, Will wasn’t allowed to be scared. She’d yell at him, tell him he was being a baby, that he was a big boy and he should be braver. So he’d tried. For her. He’d tried to be brave. 

But Will wasn’t brave. He would lie awake in the dark, hot tears squeezing from his eyes as he listened to them fight. Dad would plead, and Mom would scream, and Will would cry, because he wasn’t brave at all. 

When she was gone, Dad never said anything about the light. Dad never said much about anything. 

For just a second, Will wonders what Dad would say about this. But he pushes the thought away just as quickly as it came; he’ll never see his father again, so there’s no point in wondering what he’d think. It’s probably easier if Dad never knows any of this. If he never knows what Will’s been made into. 

Will’s a disappointment, just like his mother.He was never going to be anything else. 

Annie’s steps are so soft when she comes back that Will doesn’t realize she’s there until he feels the cool metal of keys against the back of his neck.

The buckle of his collar opens, and Annie gently pulls the canvas away from Will’s weeping skin. Some of his skin sticks, tearing away with the collar, and out of habit, he grinds his teeth together to keep from crying out.

Well, that’s one way to figure out he can close his mouth.

Annie freezes. “I’m sorry!”

But it doesn’t help. She has to keep going, has to take the collar all the way off, even if his skin comes with it. Who the fuck cares anyway? Just now, Will would shed all his skin if he could. He would let Annie peel it away piece by soiled piece if he thought it would do any good.

But it’s inside him too. The hurt. Tommy. And that, no one can ever strip away. 

“You can cry,” Annie says, and she is crying too. 

But Will doesn’t cry. He forces his tears to stay put, and he doesn’t say a word, even as Annie lays the collar at the end of the table. He won’t give Doc another reason to hurt him. He has to be a good boy. He has to earn his place. 

He has to live, even if he doesn’t want to. He’s not foolish enough to think that Doc would let him die a minute before Doc’s decided he can. No one who traffics in this kind of human suffering is going to be merciful. 

“I didn’t think–” Annie whispers, and even through the blurry pall of his tears, Will can see her hands shaking, “--I didn’t think he would take you out there. The ones in the doghouse, he–well, they’re usually alone. He doesn’t–this isn’t–I don’t–I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Will doesn’t answer. He wants to believe that she is sorry, but all the same, she knows. She knows what goes on out there, what’s been done to people like Tommy for God knows how long, even if she didn’t know it would happen to Will. She knows, and what’s she done about it? Fucking nothing. Nothing at all. 

But she’s here now, and she’s trying, whatever it’s worth. 

She’s trying for him. 

Will closes his eyes. It isn’t true. He’s just so fucking pathetic that even a girl who’s seen shit like this her whole life pities him. And he’s not stupid. He’s ruined. In the unlikely event he’s ever free again, he’ll never be free of what he is now. There won’t be love. Just fucking pity. 

And who cares if she’s trying? Who cares if anyone ever tries? He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be touched again. 

But somehow, even that’s not true. He wants Annie to wrap him in her arms and hold him, even though he doesn’t. 

Christ on a bike. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “Will?” 

Will flinches at the sound of his name. He suddenly wishes Annie didn’t know it at all. He can feel her eyes moving over every inch of his marked-up, soiled, fucking wrecked body, and he doesn’t want her to look. He doesn’t want her to look, and at the same time, he’s glad someone knows. That someone cares. 

“I have to clean you up, okay?” Annie’s little fingers push Will’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. He winces, and Annie withdraws, just as quickly as if she’d been burned. “It might–it might hurt a little.” 

Will huffs out a bitter, noiseless laugh. What the fuck does he care if it hurts? Doesn’t everything? Won’t it always? He squeezes his eyes shut again, and his tears mingle with the sticky remnants of Tommy still pasted to his cheeks. 

“Okay,” Annie whispers. 

Will hears the slosh of the rag in the bucket, and then, Annie’s hand slips beneath his head, lifting it in a gentle cradle. 

The rag is warm against his cheek, and Annie’s touch is sure, even if her hands are shaking. She scrubs soft circles over his face, cleaning his cheeks, his lips, his chin. His skin doesn’t feel quite so tight or sticky, even if it doesn’t really feel clean; he’s not sure he’ll ever feel clean again. 

Annie lays his head back down and drops the rag back in the basin, and then her fingers are at the hinge of his aching jaw, circling, massaging, easing the tension left over from the gag. Will groans before he can stop himself, and he braces for the snap of electricity against his throat. It doesn’t come. 

Of course it doesn’t, because Annie took off the fucking collar. Fucking genius. 

“It’s okay,” she says. Her thumb moves gently over his jawbone. “Just–whatever you want to say–please, say it. You’re safe.” 

He isn’t safe. But he can pretend, just for a little while. Before it happens all over again. Because it will. He knows it will. 

“Th-thank you,” he whispers. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s thanking her for, and his voice sounds like his throat is made of fucking swiss cheese, but it’s there. He’s there. There are still small mercies to be grateful for.

Annie bends down and kisses his forehead, quick as a wink. Her cheeks are red when she snaps up again, and she turns back to the basin before Will can say anything else. “You’re welcome.” 

Even as the rag touches his raw throat, Will thinks it might not hurt so bad. Not just now. 

Or at least, he can pretend that it doesn’t. It’s something like relief. 

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows

[sunshinebingo]

@elorcanweekofficial Day 1 - Tropes

✨ @hlizr50 you are the best. Thanks for managing this event ✨

Synopsis: Elide goes to save Lorcan after he has been captured. The rescue mission leads to some confession between them while they fight their way out.

Alternate Synopsis: 3k worth of them arguing while literally fighting.

Word Count: 3.4k

Tropes included: Gentleman in distress, Rescue, Spy/Mafia (whatever you want to call it), Mutual pining, Grumpy/sunshine but the sunshine is a badass woman (is that a trope??)

Warning: Blood and violence

Read on Ao3

She moved the grid at the end of the air vent aside as slowly as possible to avoid any noise. Unfortunately, she knew that this passage would not be an option once she would manage to get Lorcan due to his size. One of the advantages of being petite was that she could infiltrate very small spaces. That was an especially big advantage when one was a on rescue mission like she was. Being the most petite of her gang, it was an unspoken rule for Elide to take on missions where hiding in unconventional places was required. The smallest place she had probably had to hide in was a luggage. Thankfully, years of rigorous training have kept the cramps at bay once she had to get out of it.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound of the water leaking was now the only thing she could hear. Good. Watching Lorcan being beaten and listening to his grunts and muffled swearing had been a true test of her patience for the last two hours. Since he had been missing for the last thirty hours, who knows for how long they had been at this. Although he was one of the strongest men she knew, Elide still needed to act before the others could come back and finish what they started.

Putting the grid aside, Elide wiggled her way out of the vent, half of her body dangling awkwardly in the air, until enough of her legs were out for her to gracefully flip herself around and land without injuring herself despite the distance of the floor from the vent. Splash. The landing would have been silent if it was not for the pool of water on the floor that had probably accumulated from the broken pipe somewhere in the room.

A quick look around confirmed that all of Maeve’s pawns have left. If the smell of rot, sweat, humidity and blood that had hit her inside the vent had not yet given away the fact that this was one of Maeve’s torture rooms, Elide would have guessed it from the blood-stained walls, the lack of exit except for the heavy iron door and the discarded instruments of torture on a table at the far end of the room; knives of all sizes and shapes, scissors, pliers and more, all rusted and covered in what she assumed was layers of filth and blood from everyone they had been used on.

And of course, the presence of Lorcan, who was tied to a chair in the middle of the small room with his back to her and his head slumped forward. She noticed the blood dripping down his bound hands and his usually long luscious hair, now looking greasy with more traces of blood.

Elide knew he had heard her entrance when he turned his head around to look at the source of the splashing water. ‘’Come to finish what you started?’’ he drawled clearly despite his battered face. Even after hours of being beaten, Lorcan still remained cocky and overconfident. Knowing that he was still breathing after what he had just gone through, Elide knew that he had reasons to. She let out a sigh of relief knowing that they had not broken him yet.

‘’The door was not a dramatic enough entrance, huh?’’ he added, thinking that she was one of those sent by Maeve.

Elide walked towards him. ‘’What kind of spy would I be if I just used the door?’’ His expression instantly changed at the sound of her voice.

‘’What the fuck are you doing here?’’ he hissed. His voice contained a mixture of fear and anger that she had no time to ponder on. She did not know how long they had before someone came in and saw her snatching their prisoner away.

‘’Saving your ass clearly,’’ she said as she walked around and finally faced him. He only had his black pants on and his bare chest contained several cuts and bruises. His face was in the same state, though she suspected from experience that none of them would ruin his beautiful face forever. But it still pained her to see Lorcan like this.

‘’I don’t need you to save me,’’ he scowled at her.

Elide stood straight, crossed her arms and looked down at him. It was one of the rare times when she did not feel like a little gnome next to the gigantic man before her.

‘’Really?’’ she deadpanned. ‘’So, being tied up while someone beats your face to a pulp is a kink of yours? Will you use that bar for some pole dance after?’’ she tilted her head, indicating the metal bar near the wall on her left.

Lorcan stuck out his tongue and licked the blood that was running into his mouth. ‘’You think you are funny,’’ he said, though she did not know whether it was a question or a statement.

Elide placed both hands on his shoulders, making sure to avoid the areas where he had been harmed, and leaned down. With her face mere inches from his, she could smell the faint remains of his cologne mixed with the blood and sweat on him. ‘’I wasn’t trying to be funny,’’ she replied.

Lorcan eyes travelled from her eyes to her lips and down her neck. He drank in the sight of her breasts which were now close to his face before trailing his eyes lower. He looked intently at her tight black leather suit and the way it hugged her body, as if he could see every weapon concealed underneath.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but Elide spared him the need for what she imagined would be another retort, when she rolled her eyes and moved to stand behind him again. She removed a hair pin from her low bun, moved it inside the handcuffs at his wrist for a few seconds before Click - they opened and Lorcan could finally move his hands again.

‘’Thank fuck,’’ he breathed out. Since she knew it was the only thanks that she would get for risking her life to save him, she greedily snatched the whispered words and locked them where she kept every crumb that she could get from Lorcan.

As soon as he was up, Lorcan grabbed her arm and made her look up at him. ‘’You shouldn’t have come here,’’ he said through gritted teeth.

Elide pulled hard and he released her. ‘’And yet I did,’’ she said firmly. She pushed a little on his chest and regretted it instantly when he winced. Despite his angry frown, she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. She placed her hands gently across his bare chest and started to apologise. Lorcan looked down where her fingers were gently swiping away a drop of blood that was trickling down from a wound. She did not if the softness that suddenly filled his gaze was due to relief, exhaustion or something else. She wanted it to be something else.

Lorcan closed his eyes and Elide felt him breathe deeply before letting out a long exhale. When he opened his eyes again, his expression was hard again as he moved to the table containing the instruments that they had used on him.  ‘’Now how the hell do we get out of here?’’ Lorcan said as he started inspecting the dirty tools. At least he could still walk properly. Elide took out a small gun from her belt along with two knives from her boots and handed them to him.

‘’I could cut you up into small pieces and carry you out through the vent.’’

Lorcan looked like he wanted to ask again if she thought she was funny. But before he could - Bang - someone hit hard on the iron door from the other side. Elide and Lorcan shared one look. He looked at the chair behind her and tilted his head to indicate the door. She understood.

A series of clicks and clacks sounded from the door as someone took their time to unlock it. Lorcan grabbed the handcuffs from the floor and sat back in the rusty chair while Elide positioned herself behind the door. She pulled out her other gun and waited. 

‘’Are you dead yet?’’ the voice of the burly man who entered echoed in the small room. Elide pressed herself closer against the wall as the door opened. She kept her breathing calm and silent, thankful that she was hidden by the still open door and that no one else was coming in. When the man stopped in front of Lorcan, she immediately recognised him as Cairn, Maeve’s favourite pet. She understood then why he was the only one who had come this time. Cairn grabbed Lorcan’s hair and roughly pulled his head back.

‘’You wish,’’ Lorcan said and Elide heard the smirk in his voice.

‘’Good,’’ Cairn surprisingly replied. ‘’Maeve has plans for you. We don’t want her toy to be damaged beyond repair now, do we?’’

Something burned inside Elide at the mention of the woman who was obsessed with Lorcan. Elide knew that he had had to fake an attraction for Maeve when a few months ago, Lorcan had infiltrated Maeve’s city and her close circle pretending that he was back in Doranelle for good. But she had always feared the possibility that spending time on the other side might sway him there. Especially considering that Lorcan had previously worked for Maeve before his friends and him had all settled in Terrasen to work for Aelin instead. She feared that perhaps, Maeve had convinced him that a life with her in Doranelle was better than in Terrasen with his friends, including the one friend who wished they were more than friends.

Lorcan scoffed. ‘’Her majesty doesn’t find you good enough, huh?’’ he teased him more. ‘’Maybe you should learn how to use your dick better.’’

From where she was peaking, Elide noticed the way that Cairn’s body tensed. But Lorcan’s remarks made her tense also. She hated the way he spoke like he had been intimate with that bitch. She hated that he had ever been close enough to touch her. And she hated the thought that perhaps he had.

Cairn pulled on Lorcan’s hair harder, causing him to groan and Elide chose that moment to pounce. She put her gun back in her belt and grabbed a knife instead. With the disgusting image of Maeve’s hands on Lorcan’s body, Elide jumped on Cairn’s back, placed her small hands on his mouth and dug her blade in his neck. Before he could make any noise, Lorcan stood up and punched Cairn in the face. Elide righted herself behind him before he could fall on her. She removed the knife embedded in the side of his neck and sliced it across his throat. Slowly, Elide placed Cairn on the ground while he still choked on his own blood.

When she looked up, she found Lorcan staring at her with wide eyes. ‘’Are you coming?’’ she stared back at him, ‘’Are would you rather wait for Maeve to come play with you?’’

He frowned but said nothing. They moved to the door and found the corridor outside to be empty. From what she had learned in her thorough research of this house before she embarked on this rescue mission, she had a rough idea of where they were and how to get out. It was risky, but the only option they had.

Lorcan followed close behind without question and Elide was again grateful that he could move on his own. She did not think that she would have been able to support his massive body all the way outside while ensuring that no one noticed them. With their guns in hand, both moved along the dark corridor, passing by several iron doors similar to the one where Lorcan was being kept, until they reached the end. They stopped in front of some stairs that Elide knew from the plan of the house would lead them to the outside of the underground basement they were in. Some hushed voices coming from the top of the stairs made them halt.

Lorcan grabbed Elide’s wrist and pulled her flush against his bare chest. ‘’We’re fucked,’’ he muttered. With nowhere else to go but up these stairs, they had to come up with a plan quickly. But before they could think of anything, two people were walking down the stairs towards them. BANG! Elide shot the first one in the chest.  Another bang, and the woman behind him went down before she could even pull her weapon out. 

‘’Great,’’ Lorcan complained behind her, ‘’Now the others will join too.’’

Elide turned to him and frowned. ‘’Did you have a better idea?’’

He shook his head in exasperation while still frowning. Instead of answering, Lorcan interlaced his free hand in hers. But before he could start pulling her up the stairs, Elide stopped him and walked in front of him again.

‘’You are injured. It’s best if I go first.’’ Without losing another second and with their hands still intertwined, they rushed past the two bodies and towards the exit. Just like Lorcan predicted, more voices were heard upstairs, indicating that more were coming here to investigate the sound of gun shots. Lorcan’s grip on her hand tightened.

‘’Fuck,’’ Lorcan groaned. ‘’Do you have another genius plan that might get us killed?’’

‘’I do,’’ Elide replied, unfazed by Lorcan’s harsh tone. ‘’We fight until we get out.’’ She came here to get him out and that was what she was going to do.

A few more steps and they reached the end of the stairs. The room separating them from the exit looked just like a regular basement where one would keep their useless junk. It was filled with shelves filled with boxes and random things that had seemingly been placed carelessly to hide the fact that this place led to a series of torture chambers. Smash! A vase exploded on the shelf right next to Elide’s head followed by a series of bangs from the five figures that have entered the basement.

Lorcan pulled hard on her hand, dragging her with him behind the highest shelf. He released her hand and adjusted the gun in both of his hands. ‘’This would not have happened if you did not come here,’’ he snapped at her before turning around and shooting at Maeve’s men.

Elide did the same and managed to hit someone in the shoulder. ‘’This would not have happened if you did not decide to come visit your psychotic girlfriend.’’

‘’She is not my girlfriend,’’ he raised his voice so that she could hear her over the bangs and smash and clunks of the flying bullets hitting glass and the stone wall and bouncing against the hard metal of the shelves.

‘’Is that how you ended up down there? Because you came here to dump her?’’

Lorcan threw his knife at someone who had managed to come close to their hiding spot. It hit the man right in the head, causing him to instantly drop dead.

Elide finally killed the man she had managed to injure before, reducing their target to three and her bullets to four. Lorcan was not doing much better with only five bullets left.

‘’You really believe that there was something between Maeve and me?’’ Lorcan asked, looking at Elide instead of his target. Bang! A bullet that nearly grazed his head made him pulled back behind their shelf.

The side look that Elide sent him must have given away her doubts. ‘’You know it was all a ruse Elide,’’ he told her.

‘’Was it?’’ Elide turned around and shot again. Bang and the woman went down with a bullet through the chest.

‘’Yes,’’ Lorcan almost shouted. ‘’All of it.’’

Elide looked at him again, her eyes pleading for the truth to a question she did not dare ask. But he seemed to have read it on her face anyway.

‘’I never had feelings for her,’’ his softer tone contrasted with his previous harsh one. ‘’I left Doranelle because it was becoming a shit hole where Maeve wanted everyone to eat out of her hands like a fucking queen. And I never once regretted walking away.’’

Perhaps it was the way in which he said it that convinced her to believe him. Yet she could not stop herself from asking. ‘’Why did you come back here then?’’

‘’They crashed my car and dragged me here for fuck sake,’’ he gritted out after shooting down another man in the knee before ending him with another bullet through the throat while he crouched in pain. That explained why his location was lost on the road. They had probably gotten rid of his damaged car to conceal the proof. ‘’They know the truth about me now so I guess they will track me everywhere until they kill me.’’

His words brought the same panic she had felt when she had learned that Lorcan had been located here. And just like when it happened then, she converted the fear into rage and determination. She pushed on the boxes on the shelf that they were hiding behind, causing the objects at the other edge to fall down. This distracted the last woman who was still shooting at them. Bang! Elide shot and her last bullet went through the woman’s eye and came out on the other side of her head.

Lorcan whispered a curse behind her. Elide grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the door before they could get ambushed again. They left the basement and quickly find a door nearby that led to the outside without encountering any further obstacle. But as soon they crossed the threshold into broad daylight, a loud bang was heard before Elide fell down holding her stomach. Before she understood where the bullet had come from, Lorcan had already used his last two to bring down a man hiding behind a nearby bush.

Lorcan’s expression was filled with fear when he looked down at her and repeated her name over and over again like a plea. But Elide opened her suit to reveal the bullet-proof vest underneath. ‘’You still think I am not qualified enough for this?’’ she asked as she stood again. His shoulders sagged with relief yet his eyes still contained the same fear.

‘’It has nothing to do with being qualified,’’ he retorted as they started running towards the gate and went through a hole in the concrete wall. After confirming that Lorcan was alright, they ran again to where Elide had left her bike, hidden behind a few trees of the forest surrounding the private estate.

‘’Then what does it have to do with?’’ she asked once they reached the bike.

Lorcan took a few steps towards her and looked straight into her eyes as he said, ‘’It has to do with the fact that I don’t want you to fucking die for me.’’  

‘’Am I dead?’’ she crossed her arms. ‘’No. But you would have if I did not volunteer to come for you.’’

Lorcan crossed his arms too but winced slightly from the movement. It seemed that the adrenaline from their escape was wearing down and his injuries were starting to make themselves known.

‘’Why?’’

“Why what?” she snapped.

Lorcan’s arm fell at his sides when he sighed. “Why did you volunteer?” he asked like the reason was obvious to everyone else but him.

“Because,” she began with growing frustration. Is he that clueless? she thought. “Ugh. You idiot,” Elide whispered more to herself. Then, she threw caution to the wind, raised up until she was standing in the tip of her boots, grabbed his bruised and bloody face between her palms and pressed her lips against his. It was gentle enough to not cause him any further pain. And still –

Of all the scenarios she had made in her mind about kissing him, she had never imagined that it would happen in a situation like this. And she never thought that it would feel like this. Lorcan wrapped his hands around her waist to pull her closer and Elide decided then that she would risk her life a thousand times over for him.

The voices coming from the direction of Maeve’s estate brought her back to reality and forced them to pull apart. The climbed on the bike with Elide at the front and Lorcan holding her tightly at the back. As soon as she started the vehicle, Lorcan leaned even closer to her. ‘’Nice suit by the way,’’ he murmured in her ear.

“You fucking idiot,” she muttered with a smile and they finally left.

[whumpshaped]

Break That Man 2023

collecting these in case i ever wanna look back on it. fond memories of when my pocket friends came to the rescue as i was suffering from "want to write but dont know what"

game intro

electric shock

pliers

hammer

not enough time

teeth pulling

mindfuck

hot iron

give up

eyes yoinked

blow torch

bugs

autocannibalism

needles

drill

acid

salt and ice

salt in wound // end

[mrburnsnuclearpussy]

I heard that Jean Luc Picard had installed a partial unbirthing mod in his Minecraft holodeck program and he had to be rescued with a pair of pliers when it malfunctioned

[reine-du-sourire]

Ansgar's smile flickers in the dying candlelight.

The moon had been eclipsed behind heavy, sullen rainclouds for the past hour, and fat drops now spatter the ground outside like so many tears, the sound almost (but not quite) drowning out the faint snores from the slight figure slumped over the worktable.

Chain links lay scattered across the wooden surface. They mingle with discarded metal scraps and the unkempt curls that keep escaping Jesper's braids no matter how many times he tucks them back in.

"Past bed-time, lad," Ansgar murmurs, reaching out to rescue the pliers dangling from slackened fingers.

He could of course have reminded the boy earlier, but wasn't it a shame that he'd forgotten to, and now it was too dark to allow his half-awake protégé to wander the wet streets.

Ansgar smiles to himself again as he gathers the lad up into his arms and carries him quietly over the the spare cot in the corner, blowing out the candle as he goes.

[biffbulliedmetoo]

PAW au for bttf:

Marty is a kind, energetic, but chill Brittany Spaniel pup. He works with his companion, Doc Emmet L. Brown on science experiments, their science skills help the paw patrol perform rescues around adventure bay!

Catchphrase: This is heavy, it’s time for a rescue!

Pup pack gear: pliers, test tubes, safety goggles. Marty’s safety goggles also have thermal sensor and microscope functionality. He also has a hoverboard.

Mighty power: slowing time down.

Pup house/Vehicle: the DeLorean! Doc made the DeLorean Time Machine into a transformable pup house! When the Mighty Pups are in action, this bad boy can travel into the future or the past to help with mighty rescues!

I’ll update on this au later with info on suberies gear, etc

Lemme know what you think in replies!