#Forced feeding tw

[saintshigaraki]

me, at any given moment: how can i add forced hand-feeding into this....

[rie-092]

FATHER, CAN I DIE?

✶﹒ platonic yandere! manhwa fathers x suicidal/overworked daughter! reader

summary : maybe they should just lock you in your room to make sure that you won't do something dangerous.

a.n : i plan to make this a series, what do you think?

abel heilon

let's start with the most chill platonic yandere! out of the guys that i will feature in this post! abel heilon, the duke of the north with a simple mindset of 'if you mess with me then i'll mess with ya' we all know how protective he is with fiona and siegren. but just imagine, what if— just what if he has an illegitimate child who's related to him by blood that he hid from the public's eyes.

anyways, the first time he met you. he became sure of one thing. damn, you were indeed his child. with that silver hair, blue eyes and personality of yours— you were indeed his child. he can't deny that because you looked like a kid version of him. well, it's not like he is denying it tho— but what the fuck is wrong with your brain anyways?!

he doesn't know if you were abused before he met you. but why in the hell are you so obsessed with suicide anyways?! why the fuck are you even throwing yourself in battles when you were a support mage?! for the fuck sake! stop! yes, you have above average amount of mana! but the hell?! you're not as strong as fiona nor siegren! stop it!

if it's not for siegren then he wouldn't know the fact that you happily greeted the assassin that was sent by the imperial family. according to him, before siegren saved you from the assassin you even have the guts to propose to that damn assassin about committing suicide together since according to you, you have fallen in love with him— hearing that story, abel couldn't help but facepalm. (first name), you're thirteen! and that assassin is already thirty-six or worse, older!

maybe because of the stress of managing the north and keeping you safe from your suicide attempts. abel finally snapped.

look, abel likes watching you enjoying your freedom. but damn, if he doesn't do anything about this— he might end up burying you before you even reach the age of 18. he won't hurt you, he swears. that was the last thing that he will do to you. but that doesn't mean that he can't take preventive measures to make sure that you were safe.

platonic yandere! abel heilon was one of the chillest platonic yandere that existed. he will let you do anything that you want, he won't take away your freedom nor hurt you. he isn't also overbearing to the point that it was suffocating. but don't make him snap, because he can be the most suffocating and controlling parent existed.

now, on your sixteenth birthday— to celebrate it. you decided to jump onto the freezing river near the manor. you expected that you'll wake up inside your room— but no. when you opened your eyes, you were inside an unfamiliar room that has no windows. seeing that you can't use your magic, you were sure that there's a magic restricting device placed around here. what the hell is happening?

the door had opened, you looked at who it was and saw abel looking at you with a smug grin. you tried to ask him what is going on but instead of replying— abel only ruffled your hair saying that it will be only him and you from now on. and that was when you realized one thing— abel had taken your freedom away from you.

but abel didn't care. cry until you have no tears left, he doesn't care. the only thing that he cared about was keeping you alive. and this is the only thing that he know to achieve his goal. but don't worry, he will visit you everyday and give you books to make sure that you won't get bored. so, can you stop being a btch and appreciate his efforts?

he doesn't care if your eyes lost its usual enthusiasm and spark. he doesn't care if you stop eating at some point— because abel can shove the food inside your mouth to make sure that you stay alive.

oh, by the way— fiona was the one who made the room where you were staying now. she just wanted to make sure that you were safe! and the only place where you can be safe is the place where you can't use magic! so, forgive them, will ya?

“should i just cut off your arms? so that you won't be able to use your magic again?”

gallahan lombardy

okay, as far as you know— you are not really a suicidal type of person. but for your father, gallahan lombardy you are. because for gallahan, overworking is another way to try to kill yourself after all.

gallahan is a sweet person, i swear. he won't hurt you at all and isolating you? no, no, no, gallahan won't do that! but he still couldn't help but become paranoid when it came to you. you were way too focused on studying— maybe because of the pressure that you were getting from the other people.

your sleep only lasted for two or four hours, you always isolate yourself inside the library. and gallahan didn't like it at all— look, you need to take it easy and rest. the only time you leave the library was when gallahan and tia drag you outside to eat in a cafe or buy new clothes.

platonic yandere! gallahan loves to spoil you. you wanted to buy books? here you go. want to try home-cooked foods? sure, he'll cook it for you. do you want to go to the festival with tia? alright! as long as he will go with you two.

but then, a certain event made gallahan snap. it was a normal day and gallahan entered the library to drag you outside so that you could socialize with the family. but then, he saw you unconscious on the floor, buried in the books and your nose was bleeding. gallahan was panicking, he didn't know what to do. what if you don't wake up? what if something bad happens to you? or worse— what if you die? if it wasn't for shananet who saw her younger brother's panicked face and her niece's condition. then gallahan won't be able to calm down and call the family doctor.

and what is the doctor's diagnosis? you were overworked. and after hearing that, rulac lombardi, your grandfather along with your auntie and uncles saw how your father's face darkened while looking at you who was peacefully sleeping on the bed.

and then, after that incident. you couldn't help but become confused when gallahan didn't scold you— instead, when you woke up. you saw him smiling softly at you. he didn't even ask you to take it easy. he just lets you do what you want.

but what you found odd was your father started giving you foods and drinks everytime and after consuming those things. you started feeling tired and before you knew it, you always ends up asleep. and once you woken up, you were already on your room. with tia cuddling with you while your father was asleep while sitting on the chair next to your bed also asleep.

knowing how innocent your father was, you never suspect a thing. you just kept on eating and drinking the things that he was giving to you. and you never questioned why you always get tired after it. your father loves you so much, so he wouldn't do anything— right?

plot twist, gallahan actually puts drug on your food and drinks to make sure that you will take a rest and never overwork yourself again. but a year later, you started losing your sense of sight because of it. but gallahan and tia don't care when you have them? oh, just thinking about their sweet (first name) being dependent on them was enough to make them very happy.

“sorry, honey! this is just a precaution, okay?”

[littledemonlorne]

Chapters: 7/15 Fandom: Original Work Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character Characters: Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character(s) of Color, Original Non-Human Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Original Trans Character(s), Original Cat Character(s) Additional Tags: Native American Character(s), Trans Male Character, Cannibalism, Mountains, Cabins, Winter, Birthday Party, birthday week, Creature Fic, goes from bad to worse to sort of bittersweet, Self-Discovery, Fear of Discovery, Forced Cannibalism, Forced Kissing, French Kissing, Forced Feeding Summary:

How could it have gone like this? Why did it have to be them? Just why in the world did it have to be him? And just what did it want from him? Truly want from him?

[skumhuu]

🩸💜🍏 Nightmare feeds his fledgling 🍎💛🩸

[yanderemommabean]

Down Bad Alpha Best friend

tw-blood mention, general disgusting creepy actions, be warned

Something something Yandere Alpha best friend being just a general creep, stealing your used and dirty underwear to jerk off into and spill their load into, slipping you muscle relaxers so they can just slide between your legs and sniff your underwear as they jerk off by humping the bed/couch, getting off when they see a bit of blood on you and wanting to lick any small wound you have, getting rock solid when they feed you by hand and wanting to see if they can force feed you more-

Just a very creepy and perverted down bad BFF in the Omegaverse

-Mommabean

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SAUSAGE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, force feeding, nausea

Read after the cut

---

Will and Hannibal stay up late into the wind brushed night, communing on the merits of art, of cities far they yearn to see and to absorb into themselves like scent into a rag.

“And her?” asks Hannibal; this, kneeling behind a door, you hear, a question as to the enigma of fate.

“She’d come with us,” Will answers. “Wouldn’t she?”

For a beat Hannibal entertains a silence sopped with threat. In spite of his forgiveness you have, through strident disruption of his party, trespassed upon good taste; he has no reason to think you would not humiliate him in less private spaces, may even consider a further blunder cause to discommunicate you from the family.

“If she is well enough, she’ll accompany us on all our ventures,” he says, at last. “It would be a pity if she couldn’t enjoy the food and with it boundless new experiences.”

You wilt against the doorframe in relief. No matter how many countless promises as to your permanence in their company are made you’ll never trust their word.

“Will she always be like she is now?” asks Will.

“A little girl? Not always. In phases, and behind closed doors, she'll revert to that state, however. Does fatherhood weary you already, Will?”

Again you stiffen.

Will says, “The taste hasn’t soured just yet.”

“You find that the flavour doesn’t quite compliment the other features of the menu, then," Hannibal suggests.

“I’m developing my palate. She’s still bitter.”

“But not without occasional sweetness.”

“Could do with a little more.”

Hannibal produces a quiet laugh.

“You surprise me, Will. In spite of her stubbornness to admit it, I find that it’s clear she cares for you. Considering the circumstances and your previous hostility I’m satisfied with her progress in that regard. In others less so.”

“She asked you to stop sleeping with Alana,” Will says, flippantly. “That’s progress. And the other day she asked me if you love her.”

Your mouth wraps around a knuckle to restrain a cry of angered embarrassment.

“She craves desire even from those she loathes,” says Hannibal, with a dismissive air. “I must renew my attempts to woo her. Only then will she begin to love.”

As quietly as you’re able you rise from the floor and take the stairs on slippered feet, fleeing the horror that is to be romanced by a murderer, sex surely the alembic with which he’ll distil your loyalty to his reign.

*

The next day begins with another breakfast, carried out with the performatory illusion that nothing whatever has happened at all between you three, or beyond.

You scrutinise your egg and sausage, chewing at your inner lip until your fore teeth unbutton blood from within.

What is this Hannibal’s served to you? A morsel from a previous kill, minced and made into three cylinders for your morning plate— this you believe, suddenly and entirely.

What would it mean to bury the flesh of those other girls in the earth of you, to grow fat off their death, to thrive like a maggot in this warm house as they degrade? Their breasts, their flanks served up in spiced pieces like any dish— you’d come to crave them, you fear, think deliciously of their flavour even as your soul writhed within the filth and heathen animal you'd be.

For if Lecter is the Copycat he’s surely served human meat to you before. The Chesapeake Ripper had once murdered a man named Mortem Briggs, had hung him from a fir tree, his limbs spread through the pines; Briggs’ left breast had been taken, may well have been frozen and unthawed later to convert into any feast you've partaken of in captivity.

To have eaten it unknowingly— by the skin of your teeth you can cling to the fact that it was forced on you. But to gnaw on human flesh aware like a witch of Homeric origin would stir your brains insensible until you'd be as your keepers would have you: a cannibal's love, and a cannibal yourself, complicit in their malign.

Ridiculously you think of the calories, how rich in fat such meat would be. Like pork, you’d heard, somewhere, although Hannibal has the skill to disguise it as other animals.

Why does he kill? For the pleasure alone, or some other purpose? To test Will Graham, perhaps, or merely to discard the unworthy from his world; he is cruel and aesthetically driven enough.

If you—gauche, unpleasant, ignorant to the names of painters and intellects, verging on uninterested in such facts—cannot learn to accept the beast he is will he reverse his word and put you to his table?

A flare of dread dispatches your hunger, and you sway in your chair, groaning under your breath.

The men talk, oblivious to your battle.

“The cooling periods between the Lover’s kills are getting shorter,” says Will, wiping butter from his lip. “On average they last around three months, maybe one month minimum. They're starting to fall. There’s a direct correlation between those figures and our investigation. The Lover's following us as closely as we’re watching him.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal. “He’s frustrated by the notion that you and Jack may thwart his grand romance before it’s truly begun.”

“There’s certainly an anger in his recent activity. Sloppiness. He sees us as an obstacle, but he still doesn’t think we’ll close in before he achieves his life’s work.”

You notice a humour in Hannibal’s otherwise neutral expression, a creasing about the eye only one as close as a lover would see.

“You disagree with the killer's belief,” he comments.

Will shrugs.

“If he made a mistake this time then he’ll do it again. He left a partial boot print in Amy’s hallway. He was wearing Timberland boots that night; forensics picked that up right away. He wears a size 10: the typical American male. That fits the profile we have of him— average height and weight, maybe a little muscle from handiwork.

“He’s in his mid to late fifties, estimated from the age of his victims, which have risen every year since he started killing so that his targets continue to resemble his doll. He could be any working class guy in America."

“His mediocrity is as much a mask as the most elaborate disguise," says Hannibal. "His aberrant heart will reveal him."

You feel that both men are holding back from one another, a shift from the previous night.

“He’s somebody who isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” says Will. “There was grass and dirt in the tread of his sole. We analysed it. The soil came from three separate locations. While that could have been picked up from general wear, the remote nature of those places suggests he’s been keeping his victims in different hiding spots each cycle to avoid detection.

“We’ve got officers looking into small buildings in those areas. There could be evidence that would close the case.”

“And other unknown victims,” says Hannibal.

Will nods.

“The Lover chooses troubled women. High school dropouts, runways, previous mental health patients. He might have abducted any number of Jane Does that just haven’t been reported missing.”

That they hold this conversation without a glance in your direction makes you feel less than invisible, a non-entity only summoned when the need for your existence arises. The space for a third party to cohabit with Will and Hannibal is slender, and you cannot fathom that you are so wanted, and yet as seemingly incorporeal as the air.

“Amy was a bad choice for the Lover,” says Will. “She was on her guard when she opened the door to him that night, almost as if she was anticipating some sort of negative attention. If Freddie Lounds is telling the truth and Amy did reach out over an article then she may have expected a visit. She just couldn’t have known who exactly it would come from.

“Amy’s tall, stronger than she looks. When the Lover struck she pulled him down with her into the house, bumping into a table in the hallway and smashing a lamp. From the damage it’s obvious that she nearly overpowered him before he knocked her unconscious.

“From there the Lover got her out of the house and into the back of a truck. The neighbours report having seen one in the area, though we don’t have a model, and nobody saw the driver’s face.

“The Lover was injured, under stress. Turned off. He dumped Amy in the shack where he planned to carry out her rape and murder sometime later that week, only that didn’t go to plan, either. He was interrupted.”

“The Person from Porlock,” says Hannibal, enigmatically. “An innocent wanderer, or an accomplice?”

“The Lover works alone,” says Will, bluntly. “He doesn’t want romantic competition. If he did accept any kind of help it would be like members of some fringe group tipping each other off out of goodwill.”

You watch, grimly fascinated as Hannibal collects dirtied cutlery and plates without the merest suggestion of alarm.

“You suspect the Copycat,” he says.

Rather than answer directly Will looks in your direction.

“Your patient needs your assistance, Dr Lecter,” he says, gesturing to the sausage you’re attempting to sneak under a napkin.

Hannibal turns, his face brightening with open interest.

“Breakfast is always a hurdle for you,” he says. “What is it this time, Little One?”

“I don’t want to eat meat anymore,” you say, at a frayed, childish pitch. “It’s cruel. I... care about animals.”

Will’s eyes—tools of blue mercury—analyse the climate of your answer.

Hannibal says, “While I admire your interest in vegetarianism, I can’t allow you to restrict your eating any longer. We must return to the old rules, I’m afraid. Will and I agree that's best.”

“I can’t eat this,” you insist. “I’ll throw up. I swear I will. I’ll make a mess.”

At this Hannibal appears to lose something of his sympathy, his stare gaining an iron edge.

Will says, “Couldn’t she have double helpings of everything else to make up for it?”

“It was you that suggested I should tighten her reigns, Will,” says Hannibal, coolly. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

With a taut patience he leans across the table to cut your sausages into fractions. You haven’t even touched them with your cutlery, not wanting the juice of fattening mortality to taint the remainder of your meal.

“She’s been through a lot lately,” says Will. “Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

“It’s a sensible hill. The food she will eat lessens by the day. If we remove such a significant category from her diet she’ll merely find excuses to deplete it further. She’ll suffer from a lack of nutrients that supplements will not fully replace.”

It is not an argument, exactly, but you sense a challenge between them, nevertheless, the testing of loyalties.

“A lot of people are vegan and vegetarian and they’re just fine,” you pipe up, nervously. “Tell him, Will.”

“I’m not clued-in on the statistics,” he says, holding up his hands. “But if this is what you really want, maybe we can figure something out further down the line.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal, with a near imperceptible relief. “I’m not unwilling to compromise. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve served a vegetarian at my table. But at the present you’ll eat what I deign acceptable for you. I hope that you can understand, my darling.”

You stare at him, astonished that he can be so cruel and still, with cloying sympathy, claim to care and to adore you. In a book long ago you’d read of diseases passed from human flesh to its eaters that drove them mad; you’d think him such a sufferer were he not so controlled, nor so sane.

“You know why I can’t eat it,” you whisper. “You know. Dad, please.”

“Know what, Little One?” asks Hannibal, casually.

He's quite aware that you don’t dare speak before his friend of such secrets as even he has not admitted aloud. 

Trapped by your fear of Hannibal’s wrath should you do so, you only mutter, “You hunt your own meat. I don’t want something you killed.”

Will says your name sharply, and you realise you’ve made a mistake in directing anything even remotely resembling an insult in Hannibal’s direction. Yet in the younger man’s tone there is also an interest in the undercurrent of secrecy at this table of whose scent he’s caught.

“What would it matter who slaughtered the meat?” Will asks. “You’ve never taken an interest before. Why now?”

You glance down at the tablecloth in helpless silence

“It’s as I feared,” says Hannibal; so much for wooing, you think. “She’s set against me.”

“I’m not!” you snap. “If he was the butcher I’d feel just the same way.”

This said with a glance at Will, who folds his arms, disapproving.

“This is starting to feel a little personal. I can’t let you act out like this. You know that, right?”

“I’m not acting out!"

“You’re being argumentative,” says Hannibal. “If you cannot eat then you must be assisted to do so. Will, if you’d be so kind...”

You watch a look of incredulous realisation pass across Will’s face.

“You want me to feed her?”

“Yes. I’ve done it myself many times. Your turn to carry out the role, I think.”

Will turns you a sidelong glance.

“You don’t need me to do that, do you?”

There’s no declining the meal; Hannibal will force the point till you are full, no matter the method. Yet if Will holds the fork then it is at least his choice for you to gain weight from the unknown dead, another imposition of many.

So you nod, an infant not yet canny enough to brook the use of any adult tongue.

Will laughs, a guise for his discomfort.

“That isn’t the answer I expected from you.”

“It’s a good thing that she’s asked for help,” says Hannibal, kissing the top of your head as he walks by to take the empty plates to be washed. “We mustn’t discourage her growth.”

Picking up your fork, Will holds it awkwardly aloft. In his grey suit and checkered shirt he appears very much a young father with the care of a pouting stepchild foisted upon him. The bustling inconvenience of the early hour, the brimming stormcloud of the Lover's case: Will has neither the time nor interest in the role to truly engage.

Still, you are wounded by the sense of casual rejection: he wouldn't pause his world for the worship of you as he would for Hannibal.

“Fine,” Will says. “Open up.”

As he tips the fork you imagine a gobbet of minced labia rolling upon your tongue, a strip of shoulder meat, a plush cut of cheek.

Your hand goes up to your greasy lips at once.

“No spitting,” says Will, and the firmness of his voice grounds you in your nausea. “I’m supposed to be meeting Jack in half an hour. Can’t exactly do that with your breakfast all over me.”

If Will is offering up a person to you then surely he does not know it, or he would not seat himself so readily to his own meal. Yet by now he is wilfully ignorant of the reality before him, a little boy covering his eyes against the atrocities he finds a friend capable of.

Suddenly you feel imperious, advanced, cleverer than Will in that you’re unclouded by the love of Dr Lecter.

You eat almost to spite him, then, so that when he learns what he has done he might grovel for your forgiveness. That he will think of this morning, of the Chesapeake Ripper’s trail of death, and shudder that he had gorged so hungrily on those for whom he sought justice.

“You know I can’t do this every time, right?” asks Will, misinterpreting your obedience. “This might be more fun for you, but you’ve got to learn to do this on your own.”

“Yeah,” you say, sweetly, having done away with the last lump of ambiguous sausage. “I know, Daddy.”

You kneel up on your seat and lean in to kiss him, but Will turns his head away, likely thinking of the pleasure you’d had him taste in your last caress.

“Mean,” you say, but he only scoffs before he, too, leaves the table.

*

In the afternoon Will returns to the house from his work unexpectedly, white as a cave etching, his balance precarious.

“Go to bed,” says Hannibal firmly as he puts a hand to Will’s brow to take his temperature. “You’re pushing yourself too hard with this case. You need rest.”

Thinking of the night of Will’s seizure— the night Hannibal suggested that food may well be its trigger—you gain a new suspicion. You wait an hour before slipping into Will’s room, taking advantage of your older captor writing a new piece of music in absorbed concentration to do so.

You look at the sleeping young man, so pampered and petted by the doctor as to have been tucked in under luxurious sheets, and feel a white wing of jealousy beat across your vision.

Yanking back the coverlet you climb into bed and crawl atop Will to shake him rudely awake, too intent on the confrontation to look to the dangers of it.

His eyes start open, and one of his large hands wraps around your mouth to stop you screaming out at the look in them, a blue-bladed killing rage.

“Again?” he says, lowering his arm. “What did I tell you? You shouldn’t wake me up like that. The dreams I’ve been having, the blackouts, the seizures— it’s not safe. You could get hurt.”

You feel the thud of Will’s crazed heart beneath you, like the pendulum of the devil’s clock at work.

“I want to talk to you,” you say. “You’ll always take Hannibal’s side over mine, even when you know he’s just being petty for the fun of it. Why? You’ll do anything he says. If he decided to kill me and serve me up to one of his stupid party guests I swear you’d help him!”

Will screws his eyes shut and opens them again, attempting to rally his cognition from the peat of slumber.

“You think Hannibal’s the Copycat,” he says, softly. “So this is what’s been going on with you.”

You pause, aware that you must be careful what you divulge from here. Certainly nothing Hannibal has suggested to you in confidence is safe.

“Don’t you think he could be the Copycat?” you ask. “It makes sense, right?”

Will sits up slightly against his pillows, his hands going to your hips almost by instinct to prevent you from slipping.

“Careful,” he says. “You know that I need proof for an allegation like that.”

“But if you doubt him even a little bit then why are you here?” you cry, in exasperation. “Why are you with him? How can you say you give a damn about the murders? What’s with you?”

You punch at Will’s shoulder for emphasis, and he looks at your balled hand with such amazement that he doesn’t immediately respond, merely tolerating the blow.

“You’re obsessed with each other,” you hiss. “Why don’t you both just kill me, eat me like he made us eat Savannah—”

“Stop it.”

There is authority in Will’s voice, now, cold confidence you’ve seen only in flashes, and always before some shameless feat of violence upon you. You cease fighting at once, wary of provoking him into lashing you as he would have done in your early days together.

“You’re going to let me work and navigate this situation in my own time without throwing a tantrum,” says Will, through his teeth. “And if you still think I’d stand by and let Hannibal kill you then I don’t know what to say to you. You belong to both of us. You’re mine, too, Little One.”

You don’t let yourself fold to that statement, give in to butterflies and flattery in the romantic language of possession.

“I know what I see,” you say. “The only reason you don’t want to believe Hannibal’s the Copycat is because you’d be hurt that he didn’t let you in on all his dirty little secrets right away. And if he’s caught then you’ll be all alone with your thoughts.”

Will’s hand returns to your lips again, pressing down until you’re forced to huff through your nose for breath.

“How is it you think you have everything about me all figured out?” says Will. “You’re no psychiatrist. You just throw guesswork at the wall to see which theory sticks. Aren’t you afraid of what'll happen if one does?”

With a hysterical jolt you see that you comprehend this man the least of your fathers, cannot when he knows not from one minute to the next who he is or what he truly wants.

The agent of order set on catching a murderer, the diabolical, petulant abuser, as aroused by your pain as by your whimpering ecstasy— are they at civil war, or are they the same entity in co-existing halves?

Chilled, you attempt to clamber away again only for Will to haul you back to him, settling your thighs on either side of his stirring groin.

“Um,” you say, in bashful affront. “What are you doing? I didn’t come here so that you could—"

"Don't give me that," says Will. "You woke me up by climbing on top of me. Seems like a pointed decision."

You gulp at the verge of him under you, at the olfactory concoction of masculinity, hot skin, hair oil, sick breath, and cologne.

"I wanted to strangle you, Dad,” you say. “Don't make this something it's not."

Will smirks, a harsh, pitying look.

"What do you gain from lying to yourself? You flirt with me at any opportunity you get. And when I touch you I know exactly what you feel. Don’t forget what I heard out of your mouth when Hannibal asked you about me. You said I was handsome.”

You recall that moment, your breathy little ‘yes’, and wriggle in humiliation.

“I was high.”

“But you meant it,” says Will. “Still mean it now.”

He’s merely trying to grasp his dignity back, you tell yourself, wearing his ability to empathise like the garb of some sneering god. Yet as he moves you against the quill of his instinct he brushes up the skirt of your dress to unveil miles of cold-pebbled skin, the deltoid of silk at your labia made black by your response to him.

“It helps you to say no,” he says— his voice is husky, coaxing now, almost kind. “To fight back the way you never could, all those years ago. So let me help you.”

You shake your head.

"Why not?"

You want to say, "it's wrong" but both of you are aware of that. Only Will strains at the possibility that this indulgence will save you, and half-heartedly, at that.

You say, "Let me go downstairs already."

Will touches a finger to your philtrum.

"Shh. Do you want Dr Lecter to come up here and join us?"

"Do you?" you return.

In the mid dark Will smiles nastily.

"While I appreciate my time with Hannibal, solo dining has its own appeal. And I’m in the mood for that."

He kisses you, a display of dominance flailing amidst uncertainty, and you find him more pitiable than ever, groping at you as though expecting you to return his passion. For it is his will—his, and Hannibal’s—for you to convert to the religion of violence.

You let Will touch you only so that you must tolerate him alone, barricading yourself against the whimpers that agitate your throat as he uses the wet of your betrayer cunt to please you.

You behold his face in its innocence, like a doe run from a thicket. His hunter's eyes.

He thrills and ignites you, invokes an obsessive desire to glimpse how deeply his attraction to evil goes. There is a mine of it in Will, the plenty that has him wrapping your underwear about his fingers to tighten the seam at your clitoris, that gathers the diamond strand of slick and smears it across your sulking tongue.

He kisses you to share in it, holding your rudely shoving hands from him by the wrists.

"How do you like it?" he says, with a crafty grin. "You ought to think twice before you act like such a wiseass."

Will’s left hand opens the damp buttonhole of his boxers and brings out his cock, stroking it as you wrestle in obstinate controversion to what he means to demonstrate.

Your blood is up, as frenzied by this struggle as by your dreams of death.

He's talking to you, touching you not as a father, nor as the cajoled colleague of Dr Lecter, but only as himself, and that frightens you, for without the layers of acting and the unsaid you are alone here with a man.

The Man lifts you at the waist, and as his erection intrudes that unwilling territory you squeak, and are silenced by his palm upon your mouth once more.

Guilty, guilty, the chant of a jury as Will grinds you atop him. Though he lies under you he is far from lazy, his right hand quick between your bodies.

You bat at his wrist. He shakes his head.

"You deny yourself every good thing life throws your way," he says. "And I know that this feels good. I've had enough practice to know how you look—how you behave—when it does. I can hear it."

Wetness in the curtained gloom, the sound of teeth in a tangerine.

You can't bear that he holds your attraction to him so easily over your head, the knowledge that had you met him elsewhere you would have hoped he'd fuck you like this.

With hands bunched in Will’s t-shirt you come, his hand quieting your whines as he holds you down to the root of his cock.

He's fed you in two ways, now; how could you ever say he does not care for you? This question you see in his cynical eyes, in the cycle of his pelvis into you. This conjugal act is just one brick in the cathedral of a burgeoning fascination between you.

In that moment you truly believe that Hannibal's blade in you would contort the older man into something like Will's enemy. That you cannot die with him beside you is both shield and weapon, not some curse you must bemoan.

“I need you,” you say, aloud, and Will chuckles huskily, the sound washing like foam through your loins.

"I know,” says Will, and he kisses you as he comes.

You kiss him back, and he cradles you against him, the anger gone out of you both like a wind dropped at sea.

“If Hannibal is the Copycat and the Ripper,” says Will, at length, “haven’t you thought about what would happen to you if he’s caught?”

“You’d take me home,” you say. “Right?”

Will shakes his head.

“I’d never send you back there while Leland Frost still has access to you.”

You wonder why Will hasn’t reported him and guess that he’s waiting on your word.

“But you’d keep me here with Hannibal,” you say.

“And with me.”

Sitting up again, you say, “Take me to your house, then. I’ll live with you and all your dogs. I’ll take care of them while you’re at work. I’ll do whatever you want. I could be your girlfriend for real.”

Will gives a short exhale.

“That can’t happen.”

Stung, you ask, “Is it because you don’t think I’m adult enough? Because you’re ashamed of me?”

“No,” says Will. “Of course not.”

“Then it’s because you can’t do it without him,” you snipe, getting down from the bed. “Or you just don’t want to do it without him. You want this to work so badly that not even the idea of him being a cannibal really bothers you.”

“That’s enough,” says Will, turning away. “Go to your room. I’m tired, One.”

You linger to stare at him, disturbed by your own revelations.

While Will might be your strongest chance of escape, he’s apprentice to the lord of this household, and can be influenced to follow Hannibal into his own Nyx. You must devise a second plan, one without any exterior aid required to run.

Open doors are there for you yet: you must believe this or perish, a star put out like a cigar, light gone into dust.

“Okay, Daddy,” you say, at last. “I’ll go. But you really should go get a brain scan or something. What’s making you sick isn’t just gonna go away. And watch what you eat, too. It’s making you worse.”

You dart from the room, shutting the door upon Will’s bewildered beginning of a question.

[absolute-flaming-trash]

Mahito would be absolutely horrendous if you had any dietary restrictions.

He'd provide the bear minimum best case scenario, so if he ever found out you couldn't consume something he got you, for whatever reason, the confusion would be brief but it would quickly give way to some of the worst mocking you'd ever experience.

Undoubtedly he'd make you eat it just to see what happens to you.

Do you get sick? Do you have an allergic reaction? If so, how bad?

He won't know until he sees, and you know how he is about his experiments.

[eroslove88]

"Happy Birthday, Коханий"

Yan. Nikolai x Reader

Warnings: Implied kidnapping, some restraints and force feeding

Notes: Can't wait until my birthday- 😍. Need someone like him Fr.

Despite Nikolai's adoration for you, you couldn't help but shake in your binds. Small whimpers leave your mouth as small tears stream down your face. The door open and you hear footsteps behind you, "N-Nikolai?" you call out with a small gasp, "Is that-that you?" you eyes were covered with some thick, black cloth. You sniffled, your heart beating fast as his hands grab your shoulders, "What gave it away?" he asked kissing your forehead.

You chuckled forcefully lightly, "Wha-" you began to ask before he shushed you. Slowly his hands leave your slightly trembling shoulders, you take in a sharp inhale as he undoes the blindfold.

Slowly you open your eyes to see a beautiful cake with a single flickering candle on it. "Happy birthday, Коханий" he cranes his neck to kiss your lips, you don't kiss him back. "Nikolai, this..." your heart still beating quickly, you look back up at him, "this is very lovely." a small smile on your face. "Thank you..." you blow out your candles before opening your mouth to say something else but he hold his up to your mouth, "Open you mouth for me"

You turn to look up at him confused but he holds your head still, "Shhh, trust me." Begrudgingly you obliged. You close your eyes hearing small squishing noises before tasting the sweet frosting, you open your eyes and a chuck of the cake was gone but in his hand, right in your mouth, "That's it, lick my fingers любий" slowly your began licking his fingers with small chunks of cake in your mouth, frosting smudged on your cheeks.

He began humming as your chewed and gulped the pieces he forced into your mouth. Adoring the way your tongue swirled around his gloved fingers in an attempt to lick the frosting off completely. In all honesty you weren't really hungry, but something about saying "No" to Nikolai was... scary. He always ended up doing it anyways, there was no way out. His pinky dipped itself into the cake before placing a small white dot of frosting on your nose and squishing your cheeks together you face him.

"я тебе люблю" your mouth still full of cake he kisses you passionately as you softly kiss him back. It could be worse. Instead of sharing the cake like this and being fed it, he could've just forced you to it off the ground. Like he did on your first birthday with him. Really you should be grateful he's being so caring.

[dionysianchub]

I've had this ongoing fantasy of being my office's communal pet pig. Everyone's blubbered up little toy to fatten, play with, and abuse to get their stress out and get through the day.

In the mornings come the sweets. Donuts, muffins, scones, and every sticky, sugary breakfast treat that can be carried in those familiar pink boxes gets delivered to my desk. People take turns shoving a few pastries in my mouth before wiping the sticky mess from their fingers onto my too-tight shirt, a couple of them give my belly a few firm slaps before heading to their desk to work. A few stay behind to watch me paw through the pastries, gorging myself as my chair creaks weakly as it struggles to support my growing weight. They have a betting pool going to see how much longer it can hold out.

At lunch time they come by with the unwanted scraps of their own meals, a few committed individuals packing full lunches just for the office pig. They marvel at my gluttony, treating me like the human garbage disposal I am, and watching in mixed pleasure and disgust as I eat everything they give me through heavy breaths and muffled burps. "Good job, fatass." they say, grabbing and shaking one of my overflowing rolls and watching my fat body ripple from the motion. A stray button flies off my shirt, and the person feeding me starts fingering the newly exposed gap in the fabric, prodding my plush blubber as they shove another large bite of food down my throat.

At the end of the day I'm waddling to get to my car, painfully stuffed and aroused from being used as everyone's tubby stress ball all day long, clothing barely hanging on, stretched over the too-full belly now hanging out the bottom of my shrinking shirt. And it's only Wednesday.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🥄 Force-feeding for Ryan or Danny please

CW: Not-exactly-human whumpee, iron burns, mouth whump, intimate/creepy whumper, dehumanization

Every bite burns.

His palms press into the uneven old floor, fingers scraping along the stained, ancient tile. He has to lower himself down, lapping up the broth with his tongue, holding back a whimper as it tingles, burns, throbs. His gums ache, his teeth hurt, as he forces himself to chew a bit of beef, swallowing only with effort.

Ryan closes his eyes against the sting of tears.

"Good," Abraham says, voice low and husky. "Again."

He swallows, tasting iron and copper. The corners of his mouth are torn and bleeding, his lips roughly chapped. As the liquid coats his mouth, the skin pulls apart, reopening tender spots that had only just begun to heal. Blood mixes with the seasoning.

Tastebuds slough away as the iron Abraham has mixed into the stew moves over his tongue, leaving tender, unready tissue to burn ever deeper.

He has to take another bite.

Ryan forces himself to lean down, trying to focus on the burn of the muscles in his arms as they stretch to hold his weight, and laps up a little cooked carrot.

His mouth flashes in terrible pain.

He coughs, fighting the urge to spit it out, feeling the weight of Abraham's eyes on him. Ryan and Danny kneel side by side on the floor, and Ryan doesn't dare look at his brother.

Not because of what Abraham might do.

But because he's not sure if he looks into Danny's eyes, that there will be anything there in the blue eyes that look back. Sometimes, Danny just... isn't there, anymore.

Ryan isn't convinced he will always come back.

Ryan breathes, saltwater dripping into the stew. The iron in it burns all the way down his throat. A bright, hot ache grows in his chest and even down to his stomach.

There's only a few bites left.

He can't do this.

"Please," He whispers. "Please, I can't."

"Of course you can," Abraham coos, syrupy-sweet, leaning over to run his fingers through Ryan's tangled hair, scratching along his scalp. It sends goosebumps up and down Ryan's arms, and he fights the urge to jerk backwards.

Never pull away from Abraham's touch.

"You said you were hungry," Abraham continues, falsely sympathetic, petting Ryan like a frightened dog. White hair falls against his cheek as he looks down. "Didn't you? So finish your food, Faerie Boy. Neither of you gets up until it's gone."

"Nnn-" He catches himself.

Never say no.

Ryan groans instead of answering, staring down at what's left in the bowl. It's not that much-

It's too much.

It's so, so much.

It's going to hurt so much.

"Y-yes, Abraham," He whispers, because always answer Abraham, never hesitate when he speaks to you. The rules burn nearly as badly as the iron. The rules... and the fact that he knows every single one, now.

It's just a few more bites.

He can't do this-

He has to do this.

The iron collar around his throat burns on the outside, and every single bite burns all the way down within.

Abraham makes him lick up the blood that drips from his tongue, too.

[itsabouttimex2]

Sable Arms, Sable Heart

Macaque stands at the entrance of the cavern, his expression unreadably blank. Still, his eyes never leave the Monkey King’s face. He steps forward, carrying two cloth bundles under one of his arms, one of them outright bulging.

Sun Wukong snarls at the sight of pitch fur, shaking his head. “You’ve finally come back. To mock me, right?” The Great Sage glares and performs a rude gesture with his hands, one little act of rebellion still available to him.

He looks much different than the last time Macaque saw him. Even the way he holds himself is different. Exhausted, weary, jumpy- a sign that he’s been left alone for too long, spent a little too much time ruminating. Regret writes itself across his face in the form of a deep-set frown and tired eyes.

Had no one else visited him?

“Shady coward,” he snaps, crossing his arms with a glare shot to his former sworn brother. The words snaps Macaque out of his thoughts, causing the ebon demon to grow closer. A flicker of anger and irritation crosses his narrowed golden eyes. Even after spending several cold, lonely months under this mountain, the Great Sage that Macaque so adored was still defiant and rude… not that he didn’t have a solution for such unloving ungrateful behavior.

He slowly walks closer, carrying a bundle of cloth under a toned arm. “Don’t be so rude. I’ve been thinking about you lately.” That’s a lie. Wukong is all he ever thinks about- even more now than ever before.

The Monkey King raises his eyebrow at that half-true statement, still glaring as his old friend approached him. “And what were you thinking about, huh? How else to ditch a friend?”

“…I let you make a lot of decisions for me, didn’t I? We were best friends, Wukong.” A pause, and his eyes narrow to glittering slits. ‘Were’ is a word that drops bitterly from his lips, the memory of such a close relationship being tarnished weighing heavily on Macaque.

“But the light I admired in you is running low. Like a fire left unfed, you’re burning out.”

“Don’t you dare say-“

Macaque cuts his old friend off by unrolling the cloth bundle, revealing a dozen hand-made dumplings. “You can’t survive here on your own,” the demon says, a strange note of warmth in his voice.

The Monkey King eyes the gift from Macaque cautiously, suspicious of his former best friend’s sudden bout of kind behavior.

“You need me, Sun Wukong.”

And all the grace and patience drains from the Great Sage, pulling his lips back to reveal snarling teeth.

“No, I don’t- mmph!” All his angry protests are cut off by the forced entrance of a dumpling, the entire pastry stuffed into his mouth. Macaque’s clawed hands clasp over his lower face, preventing the Great Sage from rejecting the ‘offering’.

Like he had rejected the peach. Like he had rejected the six-eared demon. Allowing Wukong a chance to make his own decisions had clearly been a mistake- so Macaque would not give him the chance to reject this.

The dumpling’s skin is savory, rich. The butter and milk used were clearly of high quality, resulting in a light and fluffy dough. And there’s a mild kick, too- the result of adding five-spice powder, a great way to warm the mouth and leave the stomach satisfied.

Reluctantly, Wukong is won over by the taste of the wrapping, biting into the steamed pastry locked inside his mouth.

Immediately, he gags in revulsion, eyes widening. The dough might’ve been nice, but the filling- it’s pure liquid, metallic and warm.

Blood, thick and red.

Nausea overcomes the demon, leaving him to futilely try and spit out the blood-soaked pastry. Instead, Macaque pulls his hands away for the sole purpose of stuffing in a second dumpling when Wukong opens his mouth.

“This is proof,” Macaque says, clasping his hands over his old friend’s mouth again. “That you need me. And I’m going to give you everything that I am until you understand that I am the only thing you need!”

His passionate speech grows faster and sloppier, words spilling out one after they other.

“I made them with all of me. My blood. My fur. My tears. My fangs. And once I stuff you full of everything that I am- you’ll remember how much you love me.”

The Monkey King tries to break free in some way, attempting to punch or bite Macaque to no avail. Forced to swallow the dumplings, he glares at his former friend with burning anger in his eyes. He grits his teeth, fury boiling on his tongue.

“I never asked you for this! I never asked for you to do anything! I don’t need you!”

It feels good for just a split second, right before the many-eared demon rounds on him. The side of Wukong’s face is struck harshly, leaving an imprint across the skin of his cheek. Before he can speak or respond, the sable simian swings on him again, deepening the bruise.

Macaque stands there in seething fury, swinging his powerful hand like a pendulum, sharply cracking against both sides of Wukong’s face. The vicious impacts whip the king’s head back and forth, the demon incapable of defending himself.

The assault lasts for nearly a minute, only ending when Macaque snags his clawed hands deep into Wukong’s chin, forcing his bruised face upwards.

“Apologize. Now.”

The Monkey King looks unsteadily up at Macaque, his abused jaw quivering like a young child about to cry. He swallows a couple of times, trying to calm himself down before he finally speaks.

“I… I’m s–sorry…”

A switch flips, it seems. Macaque comes down from his blind fury, gently cupping Wukong’s face to rub at the spot he struck. “That’s better.”

His clawed thumb runs circles around one of the bruises left by his unforgiving palm, mildly soothing the sting. “You don’t yell at your best friend,” he dissonantly scolds, eyes no longer burning with golden rage.

The Monkey King lowers his gaze, feeling the almost soothing touches on his cheek. He gulps again as his emotions threaten to overtake him, continuing to suppress the urge to cry.

“I… I know… I’m sorry…”, he chokes out, tears brimming in his eyes at the loss of pride and dignity, at the assault and subsequent ‘forgiveness’. This causes the faintest hint of a smile, and Macaque pulls away.

“You have more dumplings to eat,” he says, his smile growing wider. Carefully, he brushes away the brimming tears- why would Wukong need to cry when he had his best friend right here?.“And then I’ve got something special for you.”

He unfolds the second roll of cloth, revealing a small ceramic bowl. There’s a peach in it, carved into chunks and drenched with honey.

He would’ve jumped at the opportunity to indulge in such a saccharine delight before. But right now, all he can think of is the first peach he was offered.

The soft, sweet fruit that was consigned to the floor, left to rot and mold over the course of weeks.

And he finally breaks and begins to cry, thinking of the trouble he could have avoided by just eating it in the first place.

[loonybun]

since i just answered an ask abt cannibalism on one of my oc blogs, i bring to you one of my favorite underused and yet so so so fucked up tropes: forced cannibalism. specifically used on a whumpee who’s been starved for days. you see the vision right

[saintshigaraki]

i’ve said before and i stand by it that sukuna is not actually a strict yandere ! he enjoys a feral stray esque darling but the quickest way to really truly anger him is to go on a hunger strike. he will force the food down your throat by any means necessary and it will most definitely not be an enjoyable experience for you

[serickswrites]

'Til I Drown

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, forced to watch, water torture, drowning, potential to drown

"Just hold on, Whumpee. Just a bit longer," Caretaker called as they tried to slip their fingers through the cuffs once more. They had to do so very carefully--they needed full function of their hands to free Whumpee from the tank.

The tank Whumpee was locked in was rapidly filling with water. Caretaker had thought they would have more time when Whumper slammed the lid shut, engaging the lock, and turning on the water hose.

Caretaker was wrong.

Whumpee was already forced to swim, their head slipping under the water every so often. "'s 'kay," they huffed as the spat out more water.

Caretaker knew that Whumpee had inhaled a lot of water. Knew that Whumpee was doing everything they could to keep from drowning. And they knew that unless something changed drastically, they were going to cut it close.

"I'm almost free. Just hold on, Whumpee. The team's on the way, they know where we are."

"Yes," Whumpee hissed as they struggled to keep their head above water. They weren't the strongest of swimmers and this was a test of their strength.

"I'm almost there. Hold on, Whumpee. Hold on." Caretaker repeated the mantra over again. Repeated it over the sound of the blood rushing in their ears. Repeated it over the sound of the sloshing water in the tank. And they repeated over the sound of Whumpee's frantic gasps for breath.

"Got it!" Caretaker shouted triumphantly as their hands slipped free through the cuffs. They stood up, heart hammering in their chest. They did it! "Whumpee?"

Caretaker's mouth went dry. Whumpee hadn't been able to keep swimming. Hadn't been able to keep their head above water. They floated in the tank, eyes wide with fear as they saw Caretaker break free.

Caretaker rushed forward. "Hold on! Just hold on, Whumpee! I'm coming!" Caretaker began to try and break the lock with a piece of broken pipe. "Come on," they growled as they beat the lock over and over again. Whumpee didn't have much time.

"Just hold on, Whumpee, almost there," Caretaker muttered as they swung the pipe down once more.

Whumpee watched Caretaker as the world grew hazy around them. Watched Caretaker as the last of their precious air bubbled past their lips. Watched Caretaker as their lungs burned for them to take another breath. Watched Caretaker try valiantly to break the lock as they could not longer fight the urge to breathe and they took a deep inhale. Watched Caretaker as the agony of not breathing air, but water threatened to consume them. And Whumpee watched as their world went dark and Caretaker broke the lock.

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Swipe Right - Part 2

Part 1

CWs: pet whump, medical whump, mentions of kidnapping, drugging, needles, blood draw, stress positions, force feeding solid food

Charlie opened his eyes slowly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to a bright light. His head was pounding.

He slowly opened his eyes, finding himself in an unfamiliar cold white room. He was laying on a medical exam bed.

What had happened? He remembered being on a date.. a woman. Her name was something unusual..

Lacey.

He shot upright. At least, he tried to, before he was jerked back.The movement shot waves of dizziness through him, and he groaned.

"Hello, Charlie." A familiar voice cooed.

He shuddered as he opened his eyes to find Lacey standing over him. She was now wearing a pair of white scrubs, with her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

"What.. where am I?" he stammered, realising his arms were bound at his sides to the operating table he lay on, as were his legs.

"Welcome to HPP - Human Pet Providers. Not the most creative name, but we do as advertised." Lacey gestured around the room. "You have been selected as a good candidate for a companion pet."

Charlie had heard of pets, of course, in this sense, but he thought they were a rare priviledge for the uber-rich, and he thought people were only sold for this sort of thing in far-away cities. He thought he had been safe, but he was instead now trapped in a terrifying, nightmarish-reality. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but no sound came out.

Lacey reached out a hand and placed it on Charlie's jaw, shutting his mouth. She placed a finger over his lips, and leaned in close. "Sh, darling. You don't have to speak anymore. You don't have to think anymore. I will be taking care of everything now on." She murmured.

She drew back, and waved over to someone out of sight. Four figures in white strode over, their expressions cold and uncaring.

"You may begin the examination."

"My name is Doctor Vaughn." A man with almond-brown skin and dark eyes announced, as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and adjusted his white coat.

The doctor cut apart Charlie's clothes, and pulled the shredded garments off him.

"Don't!" Charlie finally found his voice, protesting the removal of the only things he had on his back in this strange place.

"Oh! He talks." Doctor Vaughn laughed. "It's too bad I don't care."

The man's colleagues collected the remnants of Charlie's clothes, whilst Doctor Vaughn began organising instruments on a steel tray. When they were done, one of the assistants picked up a camera and began taking photos, the harsh light from the flash hurting Charlie's eyes. They positioned him, like a doll, turning him this way and that, tilting his chin and closing in on each and every detail of his skin. Lacey merely stood there, observing impassively. Occasionally, she would make a remark, telling him to relax, to 'not worry' because he didn't need worry in his life anymore. It was uneccessary.

They pulled down a device down from the cieling by its handles, then pressed a button, and the device began sliding back and forth across tracks on the cieling, then side to side.

After a few minutes, the device stopped in place, and beeped softly.

Then, Doctor Vaughn began to examine Charlie more closely. He palpated the muscles in his legs, and took his blood pressure with an inflatable cuff. Then, the Doctor began inspecting everry inch of his body, probing and prodding. He took measurements and notes which were spoken aloud and then written down by another of the people jn scrubs onto a tablet. Doctor Vaughn nodded at one of the measurements, then picked up a syringe. Charlie flinched against the restraints, not that that did anything.

"You will learn, soon enough, that there is no point resisting anymore." Lacey tutted, grasping Charlie's arm and forcing it to relax somewhat in the restraints.

Doctor Vaughn wiped the skin of Charlie's arm with an alcohol swab. He then attached a collection tube to the syringe and lined the needle up with a vein in Charlie's arm. In one swift motion, he inserted the needle into the vein and began to draw Charlie's blood into the tube. Charlie squirmed against the needle, ignoring the growing pinch in his arm. When the tube was full with his blood, Doctor Vaughn exchanged the full tube with an empty one. And when that was full, Charlie watched gratefully as the needle was finally removed from his arm. Doctor Vaughn wiped the blood from the wound and placed a bandage over it.

"He's ready for processing." Doctor Vaughn said, stripping off his gloves and disposing of them and the syringe.

"Excellent." Lacey clapped her hands together and moved to the door, gesturing in several guards wheeeling a hospital gurney. "Transfer him onto the gurney and take him to Room 10."

The guards were far from gentle as they undid Charlie's restraints and lifted him onto the gurney, which they proceeded to tie him down to once more.

"This isn't neccessary, let me go!" Charlie pleaded. "I promise  I won't try to escape, I-"

One of the guards slapped him across the face, earning a shocked gasp.

"Hey!" Lacey yelled. "DO NOT damage the merchandise."

She grabbed the guard by his black vest, and easily pinned him against the wall, despite how much smaller she was. "You do that again, I promise you you'll be the next one in my training room. Do you understand me?" She growled, her green eyes glinting with fury.

"I- I understand."

"I understand, ma'am."

"Y- yes, yes, I understand ma'am please let me go-"

With a snarl she dropped the guard and stormed off down the hall, the guards rushing to follow her, two of them pushing Charlie's gurney along beside them.

Charlie felt his heart pound from witnessing what had just happened. It was clear the woman who went by Lacey was just as intimidating as she was beautiful. Charlie shuddered, wondering what she would do to him next. As they rolled him down the endless white hallways, he tried to take a mental note of the path they were taking, but he quickly lost track. All the brightly light paths were the same, with each hall shooting off into more. It was maze-like, and he felt his heart drop as he realised any hope of escape would be slim.

The gurney came to a stop as they arrived at a door marked Room 10. Lacey keyed a code into the door, and the door opened with ease. The guards wheeled his gurney into the room. The room was a wide room, with a padded chair in the centre of the room, which resembled an old dentist's chair Steel trolleys were lined up next to the chair, and white counters lined the walls, with a steel sink and drawers and cabinets.

Lacey helped the guards undo Charlie's restraints, then they grasped his arms and legs and lifted him onto the chair. Immediately, they strapped him down around his middle, wrists, ankles, chest and forehead. As they strapped him down by the wrists, they turned his forearms up to the cieling.

"Please." Charlie tried. "You don't have to do this."

"Oh, I do. And I want to." Lacey grinned.

She picked up a box of nitrile gloves off the counter, and slipped a pair on.

"W've completed the physical exam, now it's time for the next part of your induction." Lacey pottered around the room, picking up and setting out tools as the guards took posts around the corners of the room.

"You will be given your number, and from here on you will only be referred to as your number until you are purchased and named by your buyer." Lacey combed her gloved fingers through Charlie's hair, softly, then she yanked hard, and pulled his chin towards her. "You know, we used to shave the heads of you pets. Or box boys, other companies call them." She mused. "Until I reminded the Director that there's so much more to do with you when you have beautiful long hair."

Fear and humiliation roiled in Charlie's stomach as Lacey manipulated the arms of the chair so that his arms were spread out, and then pushed a button on the chair which caused it to recline. She slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves and pulled a stool up beside Charlie.

"It's time to mark you as HPP property." She picked up a tattoo gun. The buzzing started before Charlie even registered what was happening.

Charlie's world exploded into pain. Sharp, scratching pain, as though a cat with a particular distaste towards him had been unleashed upon his arm and then decided to tread all over his fresh wounds. His head spun. By the time he cleared his head enough to look down at his arm and the source of the pain, on his pale arm was a barcode with small numbers inscribed below. '05794' it read.

"What the hell.." Charlie gasped weakly.

"You will be referred to by this number until you are purchased and brought to your new owner. I, as your Handler, will be able to access any of your information, including your medical files, through that barcode with a tablet." Lacey explained. "Useful little idea of mine, isn't it?"

Charlie winced as she wrapped up his fresh tattoo.

"Now, the tattoo is only a backup for this." Lacey picked up a metal band, and undid the restraint around his arm so that she could open the cuff and place it around his wrist. As the cuff clicked into place above the tattoo, a fresh pain exploded into his skin as two small needles shot out from the cuff and buried themselves into his skin.

"Ah!" Charlie gasped, trying to yank his arm away, but Lacey was far to quick for him and tied his arm back down to the chair. The cuff had a small screen across it, like a smartwatch.

"The cuff will monitor your vitals as well as being the main access point for your medical data and other information."

"Great. So you can make sure you don't kill me when you torture me." Charlie huffed. "Tell me Lacey, do you kidnap and torture all your dates?"

"Oh, Charlie. You were fished - HPP quite often has their agents use dating apps to select good candidates for their program. You can learn a lot about someone based off their dating profile.." Lacey explained.

"You can't do this, I'm a human being! I'm not your toy!" Charlie protested.

"You will now be known by your number, 05794, until you are purchased and renamed by your owner." Lacey ignored his protests and grasped his chin, her blood-red fingernails just lightly digging into his skin. "You are not a person anymore. You gave over that right when you walked in this door and signed your life away, your home, your individualty, your name, your freedom... everything that made you human."

"But I didn't sign-"

Charlie was cut off by a sharp pain in the muscle of his neck, he gasped in pain and bucked against his restraints, spotting a syringe out of the corner of his eye, from which Lacey was injecting a clear serum into him.

His vision blurred, and his eyelids grew heavy. He could close them, just for a moment..

------

When he opened his eyes, he had been sure he'd just blinked, but he found himself now laying down a small mattress against the back wall of a small room.

Charlie clambered to his feet, finding his legs shaky, but he needed to examine his surroundings. He held out a hand to steady himself, and as he did so his hand brushed against something. It was a metal cuff, hammered into the wall. He shuddered, and subconsioucly his fingers found the cuff around his right wrist. A tattoed barcode, on his left wrist.

He remembered- what did he remember? He remembered the date, the cafe, being drugged, waking up in another room, being clinically examined and 'processed' and then.. nothing.

He was wearing a thin white v-neck shirt and white boxers as he paced around the small, white cell. His bed was nothing but a simple cot on the floor, with a thin, threadbare blanket. In one corner was a very basic bathroom. There was a metal toilet, resembling one of those horrible toilets seen in jails, and a sink. The shower only consisted of a showerhead protruding from the wall and a drain in the floor.  A towel lay folded up on a small table by the shower, with three small bottles, which were labeled 'shampoo', 'conditioner' and 'body wash' respectively.

Across the room were various sets of 3 metal cuffs spread around the walls and the floor. The far wall of the room resembled a large mirror, with a door in the centre of it. The door had a small cutout in the bottom which was currently shut. Charlie assumed that the mirror was one of those two way mirrors. The whole room was painted white and illuminated with cool white lights. He shuddered, and took a step back towards the cot, fear and anxiety manifesting in his stomach as a swirl of nasea. The instant he moved, he was startled by the sound of a voice, coming from the corners of the small room.

"Attention, new pet. Welcome to Human Pet Providers. This room is where your primary room while you are in the facility. Twenty minutes before meal time, a bell will sound two times."              

The automated-sounding female voice paused, and a bell chimed twice.

"At the sound of this bell, you will begin practising various positions with the use of the cuffs around the room. Your Trainer will arrive shortly to demonstrate the positions with you. After the twenty minutes, the bell will sound again, three thrice."

The bell chimed three times.

"Then, your food will be delivered. If you have not completed 20 minutes of positions, you will not recieve any food."

There was silence and Charlie waited for the voice to tell him anything else about his room, or the facility, or how they would know if he did his training. But there was only silence, before the loud chime sounded twice.

A moment later, the door to the rood swung open, allowing Lacey inside.  "It's time for you first training."

She stepped into the room,  striding towards Charlie. She guided him towards a set of chains on one wall.

"Squat with your back against the wall." Lacey ordered.

Not seeing much point in resisting, he did as she said. She cuffed his feet to the wall, then cuffed his arms together above his head. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was fine for the first minute.

"You can pick which positions you do before each meal. You can do four for five minutes each, or spend more or less time as you prefer.

Two minutes in, and his legs were burning as she spoke. His knees trembled, and he felt a sharp tug on his wrists and biceps as his arms were forced to take his weight and were almost yanked from their sockets.

"Grrnnngh- make it- stop-" Charlie ground out, his whole body shaking with pain.

She pressed a button on the metal cuff on his right wrist and his arms were released from their restraints. She pressed a button on each of his ankles, and then he was released at his legs also. His legs, now as wobbly as jello, gave out beneath him and he sank to the floor.

When he had caught his breath, she took him through several more positions  - from ones that forced him to kneel, to more that kept his arms forced into uncomfortable positions. Each one made his limbs burn and his body be exposed to the trainer.

When finally the chime alerted them to meal time, she released the restraints for the last time and he sank to the floor, chest heaving and his cheeks burning. The slot in the door opened, and a tray was slid through, which Lacey picked up and brought over to Charlie. There was a sandwhich, a cup of water and a plastic bowl of broth. The cutlery was plastic too, and the bowl of broth was only luke-warm - likely to stop inmates using anything as a weapon. There was also a paper cup with half a dozen different coloured and sized pills.

"Good pet." Lacey cooed, running a hand through his hair. "Now, eat up. You need your strength."

As he sat, she picked up the bowl of broth and began to spoon-feed him. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his head, locking it in place.

"Shhh, '794. The sooner you accept you no longer have any control, the easier this will all be."

She finished feeding him the broth, then fed him the sandwhich, closing his lips together when he refused to swallow, and finally he gave in. She helped him take a few sips of water, before she held out the pill cup. Charlie made a keening sound - it was embarrasing, and he blushed furiously, but he wasn't strong enough for this. The trainer forced his jaw open, uncaring, and poured the pills into his mouth along with some water, before forcing his lips shut, and massaging his throat. The motion triggered his gag-reflex, and he swallowed, the pills burning his throat. Charlie coughed and spluttered, as Lacey pulled herself off the floor, carrying the tray, as she headed to the door.

"Sleep well, pet. You'll need it. This is just the beginning of your training." Lacey drawled.

With that, she left the room, leaving Charlie behind on the floor of the cell, tears trickling down his cheeks as he curled his body up into a ball for comfort.                                     

Tags: Please ask to be tagged!

[clownfire]

thinking about how in order to set-up the mouse-trap puzzle showfall needed to either

a) force feed charlie the final piece, or b) open his stomach, put it in, and then sew him back shut